#debating whether or not i should post these all as separate works on ao3

[afreakingdork]

By making your tcest fic a part of your 'Villain's Mask' series after the fact that you built up your fanbase is such a slap in the face to them. You could easily explore your trauma under anon, a feature AO3 has, but you instead alienated your fanbase for... what exactly? I'm all for artists expressing themselves, but those 2000+ kudos on Weak Spot can never be taken back. They can't just 'block and move on' when their names are permanently on your work. Did you think about that? In a world where people harass others for simply accidentally following a tcester? Whether people like it or not, they're now associated with someone who wrote tcest with little to no warning. This is incredibly irresponsible of you, and I hope you realize that. AO3 isn't tumblr, it's a no man's land, people know that, and so, so many people hold their kudos back until a fic is finished just in case an author pulls a fast one on them. You bait and switched your audience, plain and simple. You claim it can be skipped, yet it's part of the series you're still actively writing. I'm not here to shame you for your deciding to switch things up or whatever, that's your right, but rather to inform you of the consequences of your actions. I hope those who inevitably get harassed for having their name on your fic is worth it.

First off, thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts.

I hear you.

I will admit that I didn't know that was how kudos worked. I understand why you're upset and I want to address your concerns. When I decided to explore On the Spot, it was not a decision I took lightly. My choices and how they effect others is something I have always been acutely aware of. I considered as many ramifications as I could. I debated posting it anonymously, but I ultimately chose not to for a few reasons.

For one, I believe in being transparent about my work. I have never presented myself as anyone other than me. As such, it was evident that my writing style could not be masked. For another, the work is intrinsically tied to Weak Spot. This is not a story that exists on its own. I have no proclivity for tcest. I have never once before wanted to create tcest content and I have never wanted to since. This story was born from the universe that I created and I only saw this as an avenue related to the versions of the characters that I had crafted within the world of Weak Spot.

This is why, regardless of my knowledge on how the kudos system works, I would have posted On the Spot in the same manner. It was in the examination of possible fall out and consequences that I realized one thing: I cannot control the actions of others. I am widely on the record for loving that about art. You can pour as much intention as you want into something, but you will never be able to control how any one person receives it. No matter how responsible or considerate I was, someone was bound to be effected. I could provide clear warnings and tag appropriately, but at the end of the day, the only way I could have avoided response, negative or otherwise, was by not posting at all.

To what end?

To satisfy some sect that will think the worst of me regardless of how much attention I put into posting something with harmful contents?

You inadvertently prove my decision to share the work under these circumstances. I put as much care possible into posting and yet here you are, claiming you're not here to shame me, yet you imply I'm responsible for any harassment that thousands of others may possibly face. The responsibility for harassment lies with those who choose to engage in that behavior.

Why should those who have read Weak Spot, a work that is devoid of tcest content, be damned simply because the creator and not them chose to delve into painful means in a completely separate story?

Why don't we better use your time to examine the outright lunacy that exists in this fandom because why is it possible that someone would obsessively comb through 2000+ kudos in an attempt to supposedly out users that they think are aiding and abating someone who they have convinced themselves are a tcester?

That is nothing short of unhealthy obsession on one hand or virtue signalling on the other.

Guilt by association is an unfair fallacy.

You can be upset with me for what I have created. I will take the criticism wholeheartedly. I know what I have done. There was no bait and switch. I have never billed myself as one particular type of artist. We have a common enemy you and me. Don't you dare think you can hold me accountable for other individual's actions when it is a fact that I have no control over them. Instead of unfairly attributing guilt, maybe focus your energy into holding those who actually responsible accountable.

[maagi3]

Fandoms and Characters

Because it's so relevant in the purview of my current fandom obsession, I wanted to put my thoughts out on fandoms and the characters that people latch onto.

When someone latches onto a character, there's usually a reason for it. Whether it's their physical appearance, their personality, their aesthetic, their voice, their story -- there are so many ways someone might attach to a character. And the creatives of the fandom will, of course, create.

What I don't get, and something that continues to baffle me especially with characters I like, is how someone can claim to be a fan of a character (or characters) and yet strip every single identifying feature of said character in their creative work. What part of the character do you like if you're going to entirely change their personality and their interactions with other characters? Especially in the written word, what is the point of writing a story if the character no longer resembles their namesake?

It becomes even worse in the shipping part of fandoms. People are, of course, allowed to ship the characters they want to ship. I can happily block or mute the tags associate (which, of course, requires the creative to tag things properly). But that doesn't stop me from questioning how someone can like a ship when they completely change both characters and erase every identifying feature they have from the source material. I suppose the superficial idea of two people that someone likes physically and doesn't care about any other trait could explain it, but it just feels like you should be writing OCs at that point. When the character is tagged as coming from a source material yet doesn't look, act, or sound like said character, why bother tagging them at all? And it isn't necessarily a case of characterization preferences -- many characters have clearly defining features that, when removed, make them seem very unlike the character they're tagged as being.

It's particularly relevant now with my current obsession/ship. Anyone that looks at my blog or my AO3 would, of course, know what I'm talking about, but for the sake of keeping this more general I won't post them here. I simply cannot read almost any fic written about my current obsession because the characterization of these characters is so thoroughly botched that if I see them in the tags, I just assume that they aren't the characters that I'm looking for. And I won't sit here and say that my writing keeps them in character any better than others, but I do actively try. I want them to sound like they're supposed to sound, be who they're supposed to be, not some idealized version of them from a source separate from the canon. Even for AUs, I want the characters to still be recognizable. And regardless of opinion, I like to think that I'm successful.

I don't really have anything else to say, it's just something I wanted to get written out somewhere. It can be cathartic to blog about it somewhere that isn't just private, that is open for others to read, even if I'm not really looking for a debate or responses from anyone. At the end of the day, the only person I can control is myself and the content I create. Which I will happily continue to do.

[clumsyclifford]

75 with jalex?

meghna once again enabling me i will bring about the jalex revolution singlehandedly if that’s what it takes. anyway i hope this satisfies, love you

ETA: ao3 link!

-

Every time Jack walks by, he leaves a kiss on a different part of Alex’s face. It started out cute, but Alex is growing suspicious.

The next time he does it, passing with a can of LaCroix in hand and bending down to kiss Alex’s temple, Alex grabs his arm. “Okay, what are you plotting?”

Jack makes an offended noise. “I’m not plotting anything! Can’t I kiss my boyfriend?”

“Well, can you do it like you mean it? Instead of just being all, like, too-casual about it?” 

“I don’t want to distract you from your writing,” Jack says haughtily, and Alex gets it immediately.

“You so do,” he accuses. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“Never!”

“Game’s up, Barakat, I’ve got your number. What do you want?”

Jack pouts and drops down on the couch next to Alex, setting his drink on the coffee table. “What do I want? I just want to hang out with you.”

“We can hang out,” Alex says, and Jack shakes his head.

“You’re writing, I don’t want to pull you from it. I know you get in this, like, headspace.”

“I’d rather spend time with you,” Alex says, and he means it. Between songwriting by himself and spending even a minute with Jack, it’s not a competition. “I can write later.”

“We can hang out later.”

“Why are you arguing against yourself, babe? I already said we can spend some time together.”

Again, Jack shakes his head. “Nope. I don’t want it like this. I’ll just feel guilty. Finish writing what you’re writing, and then we can do something.”

Alex sighs. “Well — stay here, then.” Jack makes a confused face. “I mean, you don’t have to talk to me, if you really want me to finish this, but I like having you around.”

Jack looks dubious, so Alex rolls his eyes. “Jack, what the fuck do you think I’m writing about? Sitting and songwriting alone?” 

Jack grabs his songwriting notebook, and Alex lets him. Jack’s the only person who can do shit like that, but he knows that, and capitalizes on it. After a moment of skimming, his face softens. “Aw, this is about yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Alex says. “No, I mean. It’s about you. It’s always about you, all the shitty cheesy sappy stuff, it’s you.” He clears his throat; his voice has grown embarrassingly fond. “And if you don’t stick around I’ll have nothing good to write about. Everything will be awful.”

“Oh, it’s not already?” Jack deadpans. Alex snatches his notebook back and whacks him with it. “Joking! Fuck you, that was a joke! Hey, Alex.” Alex raises his eyebrows. Jack looks him in the eye. “I love you. You know that I love you, right?”

It’s stupid that Alex feels giddy whenever he hears it, each time as if it’s the first, but it gets him no matter how often Jack tells him. “I know,” he confirms. “I love you too.”

“Good,” Jack says, seemingly satisfied with that. He leans back on the couch, and after a moment Alex leans back too, leaning into Jack. He loves that they fit like this. Jack kisses the top of his head. “Now I feel bad. You were on a roll if those lyrics were anything to go by.”

“Nah, they were pretty bad,” Alex says. “I don’t know how to write like I’m not stupidly in love, but it would make a pretty boring album if every song was just ‘Jack, you’re the love of my life, the only one for me.’”

Jack is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Is — do you really feel that way?”

That’s a dumb question, in Alex’s opinion. Jack has read the lyrics; Jack’s heard most of the romantic shit Alex comes up with. “Of course I do,” Alex says, pulling a perplexed face even though he knows Jack can’t see his expression. “You must know that.”

“I don’t know,” Jack says. Alex can hear the vibrations from his voice, where Jack’s mouth is pressed against Alex’s hair. “I kind of knew, but you’ve never said to me.”

“I haven’t?”

“Not until right now.”

“Oh,” Alex says. He feels sure he must have said it at some point, but racking his brain he can’t come up with when. “Well, it’s true.” He’s tempted to say, don’t you? But he doesn’t want to bait Jack. If that’s how Jack feels, he’ll say it when he’s ready.

“Oh,” Jack says faintly. He breathes a laugh that doesn’t sound humorous so much as hysterical. “Well, Jesus fuck, Alex. You’re the only one for me too.”

It settles something stirring in Alex’s gut. He’s going to love Jack whether or not Jack loves him back, and even if Jack went and found someone else Alex thinks he couldn’t ever not love Jack, doesn’t even know how to at this point; loving Jack is ingrained in him, as natural as breathing, and Alex can’t fathom ever finding anyone else who fills him up the way Jack does, over and over again, every day. Of course Jack’s the only one for him. It’s just nice to know it goes both ways.

“Well, good,” is what he says. It feels like they’ve just decided something bigger than just the words that have been said. Alex wonders if he should ask Jack to marry him. Maybe another day. “The song can wait, Jack. I’m not gonna love you less if I wait on it.”

Jack chuckles. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Cut the line about me tripping on my feet, though, please. That’s just embarrassing.” 

“That’s the best part!”

“My scraped knee would disagree with you, asshole.”

“Well, your scraped knee isn’t writing the song.”

Alex feels Jack’s rumbling laugh through his back, where it meets Jack’s chest, and he grins. Jack says, “I wish I could write songs. I’d romance the fuck out of you.”

“Ah, it’s not about the song, though, you know?” Alex says. “It’s about the intention. And —” He leans forward so he can turn to look at Jack, and adoration swells in his chest, so much he thinks he could break from the ferocity. “I know you love me. Hearing you say it is music to my ears.”

“God, you’re such a fucking sap,” Jack murmurs, before pulling Alex into a kiss. Alex smiles into it. He is a sap, and a romantic, and he could and would and probably will wax poetic about Jack until the cows come home. But Jack loves him, too, and that’s all that Alex really needs.

[neon-junkie]

Hey everyone,

This will be my final post addressing the fandom conflict that has quite frankly gotten out of hand. Although it’s very likely this post will be picked apart, no matter how well intended it is, I will no longer be addressing, interacting, or responding to any further accusations made against me. Of course, if people have questions from a genuine place of interest, I will be happy to clarify anything for you, either via DM’s or non-anon asks. I will not be answering anonymous asks on this, as I do not want anything else posted on this topic. 

As a side note: For anyone tempted to wade into the debate, I sincerely ask you not to get involved. Do not make yourself a target, do not feel you need to ‘pick a side’, and please do not think you have an obligation to reason with either side. It seems to be well past the point of that, so please find people you get along with in this fandom and curate a space for yourself away from all this conflict.

Warning: This post will contain uncensored slurs, mentions of racism, paedophilia, transphobia, LGBTQ+ phobia, death threats, threats of violence, targeted harassment, and abusive language.

To start off, I want to apologise to everyone who has somehow gotten drawn into this mess by either defending me, following me, or interacting with my content. This whole situation with me began well over a year ago when I wrote a crack-smut fic featuring Javier/Micah, posted back in August 2019. A crack fic is defined as “a work of fan fiction that is absurd, surprising or ridiculous, often intentionally.” It was inspired by a camp interaction between Micah and Javier, and like many other fanfiction writers, I decided to write smut about it. The fic was titled ‘Dirty Fucking Greaser’, and if that shocks you, I’m sure you can imagine how shocked I was to be informed afterwards that ‘Greaser’ was in fact a very serious 19th century slur for a Mexican individual. My first encounter with this word as insult was via RDR2, where it was used like a very casual insult. My only prior knowledge of this term was in regards to the greasers youth subculture, so the severity was lost on me. This obviously does not excuse my ignorance, and I should have researched the term better, but this is just again to apologize for that oversight, the insensitivity, and to highlight that my use of this term was not meant maliciously. Following this being pointed out, I proceeded to make 3 separate apology posts [Unfortunately I can only find the third one: HERE], renamed the fic, and added slur warnings in both the tags and the fic description. When I continued to receive complaints and increasingly aggressive abuse (which included being told my apologies weren’t good enough and I should delete my account and even kill myself), I attempted to delete the fic and mistakenly abandoned it instead. I contacted AO3 to see if it could be removed, but they said there was nothing they could do. I contacted their DMCA takedown team, who also said they couldn't remove it. Please note that all this happened 7-8 months ago, and has been dragged on for almost a year. 

So, from this one unfortunate incident, I’ve been branded a racist, and someone who attacks POC, when all I have done is tried to defend myself and correct my past mistakes. I could have done this more gracefully in the past, but frankly when you’re suddenly the target of unrelenting callout posts and nasty anons, it’s very hard to be open to criticism of this sort, but this is what I’m trying to move past.

Over the course of the year, this one mistake has spiralled, and the crusade against me has somehow coincided with moral conflicts over certain characters and ships. This has devolved into dehumanizing abuse, witch hunts, death threats, doxxing, anon hate, and much more unpleasant behaviour.

I have been in fandom for a very long time, and at the heart of all fandom circles is the fear of censorship and subsequent purges, so the ‘ship and let ship’ mentality was more or less the pinnacle of fandom philosophy. And yes, this can be problematic in some contexts. People have their right to be uncomfortable with content, have a right to be offended by content, but that is not content meant for you. This argument has devolved into ‘what material is morally right to engage with’ and that is a mentality in which fandom will not survive, because for every person who is telling me I’m an awful person for writing about Micah, there are three other people telling me how much they appreciate me making that content. For every fic in which I characterize Javier and Flaco a certain way, some people are made uncomfortable by it and others tell me they enjoy it. And this isn’t just white people, but POC too, which makes it very difficult to know whether I am genuinely in the right or the wrong, especially when it comes to the concept of ‘fetishization’ which I have been made aware I need to educate myself on. I intend to do so, but I disagree with the common accusation that finding non-white men romantically and sexually attractive is inherently fetishistic and makes me racist. It’s pushing a catch-22; don’t find POC sexually attractive? Racist. Find POC sexually attractive? Racist.

I am always willing to be (politely) approached about anything my readers may be concerned about, but if it’s something I’ve specifically tagged for (such as themes, scenarios, etc.) I’m afraid you consented to reading it and with that I cannot help you. You are just as responsible for curating your space and what you see/read just as much as I am responsible for tagging it appropriately.  

On the topic of racism, I want to bring up my prior use of ‘white racism’ which has obviously been a point of contention among both white and people of colour. The (literal) black vs white concept of racism is incredibly American-centric, and as someone from Europe, which has a history of oppression against white cultures and those of people of colour, it feels inaccurate. However, this has recently been discussed with me and I came to the realization that while growing up, especially in the UK, ‘xenophobia’ and ‘racism’ were marketed as one and the same. So, with this little revelation in mind, I will no longer be using ‘white racism’ (Or ‘reverse racism’) to identify the abuse I have been receiving, but will instead call it by what it really is; dehumanizing, debasing, xenophobic, puritanical.   

Very briefly, I will also touch on the NewAustin situation, which has also been dredged into this. I did not ‘chase a POC from tumblr’. NA was a minor who for some reason was on my 18+ blog and took issue with me, likely from the ongoing discourse regarding my fic and initial mistake, as well as my interest in Micah. They were subsequently harassed into deleting their account by anonymous hate following various conflicts with other users for their support of me or their ships in general. I have never encouraged my followers to target anyone, and have always asked to be blocked and blacklisted by those who do not like me or my content. When NewAustin messaged me following the deletion of their blog, I was admittedly indifferent to the point of being unkind, and accused them of sending the hate themselves. This was based on the anon hate being racially-driven without there being any prior knowledge or publication that NA was a person of colour. This aside, I should have at the time, whether I believed it was my followers or not, condemned this behaviour. Regardless of the issues I’ve had with these people, it is never ever ok to send hate to anyone, no matter the motivation behind it, and that should have been stated at the time.

All I can do at this point is acknowledged and apologize for my past mistakes, and try to improve myself going forward.  

It is not my place to dictate the morals of the character/ship-aspect of this argument, and I am not interested in waging a war of opinion. This post is simply to clarify how I am involved in this, and why I am so viscerally targeted. You can draw your own conclusions, but I am no longer interested in this endless back and forth.

To my mutuals/followers, I stand by my request to not interact and to block and move on, as this is what I’ll be doing too.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope it makes things from my perspective a little clearer.

-RAT <3

EDIT: Just after this post was made, the fic in question was finally removed. I had to go through a DMCA take down, which can take months, since I originally abandoned the fic, thinking that meant delete. I explain this in more detail above. Said fic is gone, and has been gone since this post has been around.

[leos-regression-cove]

Nothing in the Parenting Books Prepared Me For This

36. Dr. Strange

(Extended) Synopsis: Once the multiversal drama wrapped up, Loki, Sylvie, and Mobius settled down into an adjacent universe where age regressing is a common and widely accepted.

When Loki realized Thor was missing from his life, Mobius helped him nab his big brother from a recently post-Endgame universe where the God was still mourning, depressed, and debating whether he'd join the Guardians of the Galaxy.

Now, Thor's recovering and kindling a healthier relationship with both Loki and Sylvie being their big brother and secondary caregiver.

Chapter Synopsis: To make sure the multiverse is still in balance, Thor has regular appointments with Dr. Strange-- Well, his home universe's Dr. Strange. However today, Thor needs to take the littles with him.

Word count: 6,144

Stand Alone?: The extended synopsis should give you enough to get the jist. If you'd like more context, chapters 9 through 11 will give you a more detailed idea of what's happening.

Warnings: Diapers/messing, blood, mention of physical abuse/trauma, grief for a dead parent.

Notes: This chapter is NOT compliant with Multiverse of Madness and is lore heavy. You may want to know a little bit of mythology for it.

Read it on AO3!

“Are you sure you can take them today?” Mobius asked as he fixed his tie in the bedroom. 

“Positive,” Thor responded from his spot on the couch, letting Sylvie lay atop his chest and helping Loki nestle into one of his large arms, snuggling his face into his brother’s big, warm hand as he sat criss-crossed on the floor. 

It was a lazy Saturday morning for the two little toddlers and Thor, and they were watching cartoons. As Thor was not up-to-date on his Sofia the First lore, Sylvie had to keep explaining characters to him, and Loki, the ever talky, also interjected with his own opinions and explanations of events. 

“Can you say ‘bye-bye’ to you daddy?” Thor asked as Mobius picked up his briefcase. He paused the tv to give them their moment to say goodbye.

 Loki and Sylvie got up to run to Mobius in their match-y long sleeve pajama sets. Loki’s were yellow while Sylvie’s were green. Both were covered in patterns of cats and balls of yarn. They hugged him and clung, begging to go with him dramatically despite not caring until just now. 

Mobius embraced them back. “Hey, hey, listen, you guys are going to go on an adventure with your big brother today. I’m super jealous, but I gotta go to work.” He grabbed a toy camera out of his pocket, and handed it to Loki, who was especially clingy. “Take some photos for me, alright?” 

Loki nodded tearfully. 

“Alright, go see Thor, he’s going to take good care of you both,” he told them, kissing each of them on the cheek. 

“No! No!” Sylvie yelled burying her face in Mobius’ trouser leg, sitting on his foot, and refusing to get up like a little shackle. 

“You gotta go with him. I’m sorry. Would you rather come to the office and do paperwork for me all day?” 

“No! Daddy stay!” she cried, starting a fussy fit. 

“I know, I know, but it’s just for a few hours. Now, I need to go, but I love you both, alright?” 

Sylvie tried to enchant him, Loki tried to teleport with him, but Thor and Mobius saw through their tricks and brought them back, kicking and screaming, to the main room. 

“I love you,” Mobius reassured them, giving kisses on their cheeks. “I’ll always come back to you both. It’s just until…” he checked his watch, “four. Then I’ll be home. 4PM. Count on it. And I’ll see both of you after work and we can talk about your great adventures then. Sound good? Now, I love you, got that?”

“Love daddy,” they muttered back in reply. 

Mobius smiled, ruffled their hair, and left with his briefcase. 

The littles eventually settled back down, and as the credits rolled on Sylvie’s cartoon, Thor sat up, knocking the littles off him. They squealed and giggled, forgetting their separation anxiety for a moment, as the large god dramatically stretched and yawned, and then scooped them up quickly and without warning. 

He got the two bathed with them giving him pointers and directions during the process: “Wash Sylvie lots! She’s covered in dirt and lake water!” Loki joked. 

“No! Get Loki, he still messes his nappies!” Sylvie said, much more seriously. 

“Why don’t I scrub both of you?” Thor playfully threatened, holding up a soap covered washcloth puppet to the both of them and grabbing Loki to start scrubbing. Thor was rough, but it didn’t hurt or make any of the little’s skin tender, actually it felt quite nice, even though they tried really hard to pretend they hated the bath. 

When all was done, Thor helped dry them off, handing them hooded towels in frog and lion designs before getting both of them changed. Although the two littles insisted they were too big for diapers, Thor knew better. He knew not to trust them on most things. 

There were some things he did trust them to do, though, and one of those things was to pick their clothes. 

Loki and Sylvie sifted through their drawers while Thor told them about the plans for the day; how they were going to go see Dr. Strange and all the boring adult business that needed to be conducted to keep multiversal and intergalactic peace. 

Sylvie, hadn’t listened to a word and flipped through the drawers looking for her fairy wings, and her fairy wings alone. When Thor asked what else she was going to wear with it, she simply shrugged and put on Loki’s overall skirt with a lavender shirt that had subtle ruffles around the sleeves. 

Loki on the other hand, was having a very difficult time looking for something to wear. He went through pretty much the entire dresser looking until Thor stopped him, snapped him into a romper that bunched around the waist to give the illusion of shorts and a shirt, and gave the little his comfy rabbit hoodie to keep him all warm.

Even if Loki didn’t need it, the thing looked adorable on him.

Thor zipped it up for him and then gave him a little pat on the shoulders, “There. How’s that?” 

Loki nodded and smiled. 

Thor let the littles play while he packed them separate backpacks with everything Mobius said they’d need: almost a full pack of diapers, a change of clothes for each of them, bottles, sippy cups, teethers, burp cloths, headphones, and of course, mystery toys Thor selected at random, which he stuffed into the bag, fitting as many as he could.

He then took each little by the wrist, probably a little bit too tightly, as he led them outside. 

Loki hopped up and down, snuggling into his brother’s arms, anticipating the odd sensation of flying. But instead of being shot into the sky in a big Thor hug, an orange circle filled with runes appeared beneath them. 

The littles innocently stomped on it, trying to see if they could cover the glow with dust from the forest floor. 

Thor smiled at Loki’s confusion, silently reminiscing about his first experience with the magic circles and Loki’s. But this Loki did not remember that, and he had only met Dr. Strange once or twice in passing. For both of the littles, this experience was entirely new, and they were not prepared for the floor falling out beneath them. 

Sylvie looked around for roughly 0.2 seconds as soon as they arrived, looking for any immediate danger, and then immediately focused all of her attention towards glaring at Thor for not warning her about the disappearing ground.

Loki, on the other hand, tapped the floor with his foot to make sure it was really there. Then, he clung to Thor’s arm and whipped his head around to observe the dark living room around him. 

“You can set their bags at the bottom of the stairs,” a voice said. 

Sylvie stopped glaring at Thor for a moment to search for the other person, and Loki stepped nervously behind his brother, hiding shyly; this voice was not familiar. 

“You needn’t fear,” Thor whispered. “Wong is a very nice man. He will not hurt you.” 

Wong stepped out of the shadow and the littles peered at him momentarily.

Sylvie still frowned apprehensively at him and Thor. 

Loki waved timidly but continued to cower behind his brother until Thor picked him up, hoisting him onto his back. 

Wong seemed to understand that the littles, although adult sized, were mentally much younger.

In most cases, this wouldn’t be necessary to acknowledge; Loki and Sylvie didn’t think about it much anymore, but it came as a little bit of a surprise to Thor, as this wasn’t even the same universe. Littles weren’t common here, and he knew because he had spent most of his life here, and Loki had, too, but that wasn’t immediately obvious. 

“How old are they?” 

That was always a question with Loki and Sylvie. 

“Uh, four… and two,” Thor guesstimated.

“Keep a close eye on them. We don’t want any incidents,” Wong warned, unhelpfully. The good news was that Thor knew he’d have help today from him, even if he dispensed some slightly redundant advice. 

“You finally showed up,” Strange said from the top of the stairs. 

Loki tried to hide while being held, but Sylvie seemed excited. “Wizard!” she squealed. 

“I’m not a wizard.” 

“She’s merely a child,” Thor justified, protectively taking her hand. 

Sylvie sucked the back of her other hand and stepped closer to Thor. 

“Three,” Thor corrected. “Three and two,” he said to himself, still memorizing how little ages work. 

“Right…” Strange said, hesitantly.

It was extremely obvious that he did not work with littles, ever.

Sylvie got that vibe from the Christmas party, but she had been so fixated on Thor and her daddy and baba, that she hadn’t really noticed. 

Strange brought them to the room where business was expected to be mostly conducted and Thor found an open space to set up a play fence around his little brother and Sylvie.

He handed the littles their toys and sat next to the side railings in an old fashioned office chair, probably THE original rollie chair, in case one of the tots needed something while trying to keep the very official business conversation going. 

Sylvie and Loki remained entertained for a while, and Wong was very helpful, sometimes kneeling by the rails and asking about their toys. “What’s that one’s name?” he’d ask. 

And Loki or Sylvie would answer and ask him a silly question back: “what’s your favorite color?” 

“Have you ever seen a dinosaur in real life?”

“How about a pegasus?” 

Loki paused, “You haven’t?” He turned to Sylvie. 

“No…? I don’t think so,” she replied. 

“They’re very pretty,” he said. 

“Hm.” There was a twang of jealousy in that little hum. 

Wong quickly tried to distract them to discourage any further escalation. However, after getting them settled, his phone rang and he had to step out to take the call. 

Loki and Sylvie went through their backpacks until Thor moved the bags outside the pen where the littles couldn’t reach. He didn’t want them getting into the baby powder, or their snacks, leaving crumbs everywhere. 

Loki and Sylvie quietly played next to each other with noisy toys that lit up and sang songs when buttons were pressed.

At first, Strange did his best to ignore them, continuing the conversation at a slightly louder volume to talk over them. But eventually that didn’t work and Thor had to turn off the noise makers on each toy, individually, if he could.

That didn’t deter Loki though, as the little found non-electronic toys, fitted with rattles and bells, and tried to show Thor. “Tor! Look!” 

“I know, that one’s very nice.” 

Sylvie on the other hand, had gotten the message and was respectfully playing with a small, collapsible, playset of a barn with animals, she had even turned off the sounds. This was one Loki could play with, too, but he seemed much more interested in distracting his brother from work. 

Thor lifted the toddler into his lap and quieted the noisy toy with the palm of his bear-like hand, muffling the sound as he contented the little with lots of attention, while keeping the conversation steady. 

Strange gave him a slightly impressed smile at his ability to hold the 6 foot tall little and not lose any composure, but that’s what comes with dealing with a Loki for a thousand years, little or otherwise. 

Thor pet Loki’s back and curled the black locks around his fingertips. When Loki tried to babble to him, repeating a few of the overheard words, and hoping to join the conversation, Thor at first thought it was quite cute, and tried to include the child, letting him echo the conversation back to them. But as it became a distraction, he ended up having to shove a pacifier into Loki’s mouth and politely ask him to quiet down. 

Utterly offended by this, Loki crossed his arms and whined. 

“Brother needs to get his work done, Loki. Now, be quiet and go play with Sylvie,” Thor instructed. 

Loki made a series of muddled babbles behind his pacifier before being gently lifted off his brother’s lap and back down onto the floor. He huffed and tried to make himself cry to get Thor to pick him back up, but it didn’t work, and Thor saw right through him. 

“You can sit on my lap later.” 

Loki laid down next to Sylvie and tried to join her game of farm animals. 

“You play cow,” Sylvie said, handing him the plastic animal. “And the horse!” she added. 

Loki took them without hesitation and joined in the game, clumsily. He wiggled slightly as he did so. The clicking of rubbery plastic bumping together and whispery babbles were, for a long while, the only noises that they made. 

The adults had a calm conversation about horribly uninteresting topics like flesh eating bacteria and black holes while Strange dumped cream into his white, modern looking, mug of coffee, which looked horribly out of place, with his home’s  old fashioned stylings, and Thor sipped on a large stein of beer, somewhat of a tradition when he went to the house at this point. 

“And you’re happier in this new universe?” Stephen asked.

“Yeah it’s nice…” Thor admitted. “Not in any small part due to these two of course.” He gestured to the toddlers with his foot. 

“Loki, Sylvie, what about you guys. How are you liking the new universe?” 

It was the first time he had even addressed the two littles, and they took a few seconds to register that he was speaking to them.

Thor poked each of the babies in the small of their backs, watching them tense up to get their attention before pointing up at Stephen.

“It’s nice,” Sylvie said. “Relaxed… Quiet, but still fun. I like it,” she added in a grown-up tone. 

“Odd answer coming from a Loki,” Strange observed, jotting something down on a piece of paper. 

“Not a Loki,” Sylvie informed him. 

“You’re the same entity. I’ll call you by the same name,” he condescendingly replied.

“I’m not a Loki!” Sylvie yelled suddenly. 

Maybe Mobius could say that when referring to the two as a pair or a collective, it was especially convenient when one of them was big while the other was little and neither “partners” nor “littles” would suffice, but that was it, the only situation where she’d let it slide. And alone, she was NOT a Loki. 

A little green burst of energy around her knocked over the toys, both in the sense of magical doo-dads Strange kept, and ones that the littles had brought,  and sent a large crack creeping up the glass front a China cabinet closeby.

She had tried to lunge at Strange, too, but Loki held her back, causing her to throw a rather large tantrum, almost biting Loki’s hand if Thor hadn’t pulled her away so quickly. 

“She’s… hostile, still. Are you sure we shouldn’t still consider them threats?” Strange asked as the little tried to get out of Thor’s grip. 

“No, not at all. They’re just as worthy as myself,” Thor said as blood started to drip from his forearm where Sylvie was gnawing. “Heroes, both of them, once treated properly… You just have to get a grasp for it. It’s not simple.”

“Positive?” 

“Absolutely. They’re just… particular. Like, you violated one of their rules very flagrantly.”

“Which is…?”

“You called her ‘a Loki’. You can’t do that. Sylvie’s not male nor neutral, and she doesn’t have the same abilities as my little brother; she is her own being. Perhaps they’re the same person from alternate universes, but they are VERY different. The name doesn’t suit her.” Thor’s speech made him seem like he knew what he was doing very well. So much so that Sylvie stopped aggressively wrestling to get out of his arms. But in reality, he was reciting from the guide book Mobius had created for him.

“My apologies, Sylvie. Do you think you can forgive me?” Strange asked, trying his best to talk as if he were talking with an actual three year old as Sylvie hid her face from view in Thor's neck. 

Both the toddlers gave him a skeptical and slightly pitiful glare. 

“Psst, Sylvie, can you forgive him?” Thor asked, nudging her slightly. 

“Fine,” she spat. 

“Wonderful,” Thor said, beginning to stand up. 

“I can heal that for you,” Strange offered, motioning at Thor’s wounded arm. 

“No, no, it’s alright,” Thor replied with a smile, not wanting to be a bother. “Mobius said she’s just teething.” He got up with both of them in his arms. 

Loki was being uncomfortably held under the ribs, nearly horizontally, in a position that was uncomfortable at least, if not painful, and with Loki’s gangly limbs, it was not very convenient, either. Thor eventually transferred him into a better position, and tossed Sylvie up onto his shoulder, holding her knees with his injured arm so it didn’t have much weight put on it, just enough to keep her in place. 

Thor was led by Strange to a nearby bathroom.

 The tiled floor was cold. And it was one of those bathrooms you wouldn’t want to be stuck in after a bad bowl of curry; the water pressure from the taps was low, and the old door had a lock that wasn’t to be trusted. The bathtub was large, VERY large, big enough to entirely submerge Loki if lying down. 

Thor tried his best to wash off his arm without breaking the tap, as there was only about 3 inches of space between the countertop and the faucet, and bandaged the bite with whatever he could find in the diaper bag’s first aid kit. 

Now that that was taken care of, he decided it would be a good time for a diaper check, and subsequently found that that would actually be diaper changes for both of the littles. Unfortunately, in order to let the tots lie down, he had to open the door. To keep their modesty, Thor kneeled in the doorway, acting as a barrier, shielding them from the rest of the space. 

Loki played with the shut toilet lid, trying to flip it up from where he was laying down until Thor jingled a soft, textured cube for him.

The little took its rubbery attachments into his mouth, shaking it slightly and turning over the softer sides because they felt nicer than the rough cotton. 

Meanwhile, Sylvie waited at the door, sitting with her back against the wall, waiting for her turn. She probably would’ve gotten up if it wasn’t for Thor’s foot resting over her ankle, monitoring her movements. 

When Loki was all clean and dry, Thor got Sylvie down on the mat. 

He knew that his ankle alone wouldn’t keep the illusion-casting little mischief maker at bay, so he set out Sylvie’s pegasus in front of where Loki was expected to stay seated in the hallway. 

“She’s going to watch you and make sure you don’t go anywhere,” Thor warned him. 

“He,” Sylvie corrected. 

“Yeah… Right.” 

Loki nodded and sat still, staring the pegasus down while planning his next means of mischief on the house.

Meanwhile, Sylvie took her change with a grumpy face and furrowed brow. She did not fidget, but didn’t exactly try to make the process easier. 

Thor returned to his business with Strange while also keeping the toddlers comfortable.

Loki tried to go back to his toys, but as they didn’t sing back to him or strobe with unnatural colors, he lost interest nearly immediately, deciding that maybe his environment was more entertaining. 

He stood up, taking both Thor’s and Strange’s attention momentarily, and started to peruse the built-in bookshelf on a wall nearest to him. 

The adults went back to their conversation when Loki didn’t do anything for a moment. 

Then, the little started to pull books off the shelves. He would look at titles, maybe flip through a few pages, and then toss the textbooks, manuscripts, and even photo albums, onto the floor next to Sylvie, occasionally hitting her with one; usually small paperbacks which flew further when he tossed them. 

“Loki, cut that out. Those books are ancient,” Strange said calmly. 

Loki ignored him and continued to rummage through the shelves. 

“Loki… Loki! Stop that!” Thor hissed at his brother. 

Loki turned to look at him and made a pouty face, but then continued until Thor physically pulled him away. 

“Booored!!!” Loki screamed, wiggling out of Thor’s arms and falling backwards onto the floor dramatically. He kicked his legs and pounded his fists, shrieking and crying. It would’ve been pretty obvious to anyone who had ever dealt with a toddler before, that Loki just needed a snack. But no one besides Sylvie knew that, and she was so bored and hungry, too, that she fully welcomed and embraced Loki’s outburst. 

“Perhaps we should extend that break?” Thor suggested.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good idea. Do you need anything?” 

“I don’t think so.”

Sylvie rubbed her belly to give Thor a hint. But when he didn’t catch on, she had to vocalize her needs with a whimper. She then tried making the baby sign for “eat” once she knew his attention was fully given to her.  

Thor picked up his fussy little brother from the stacks of leather bindings and loose papers, as the toddler tried to fight back to the ground. “Hush. Sylvie says she’s hungry. Would you like food, too?” he asked. 

Loki’s breath hitched with sobs as he hiccupped and tried to calm himself back down. He nodded, letting tears finish rolling down his face. 

“Lunch it is, then,” Thor responded, nuzzling Loki’s reddened cheeks and kissing the tot on the forehead. 

Loki sucked on his hand to calm himself as Thor opened up the backpacks and tried to find the snacks he had brought: two bottles of puff snacks (one in cranberry orange and one in beet flavor), a toddler-ish Hello Kitty lunch box filled with a food Mobius had packed, and a jar of banana smoothie baby food. 

“I’m not an expert,” Strange chimed, “but isn’t he a little old for baby food?”

Loki, who had been excitedly trying to take the puffs from Thor’s hand, suddenly froze and shook his head, unsure if he wanted it anymore, leaning away. 

“It’s what we had in the house that was ready to eat without refrigeration,” Thor replied. “They’ll be alright.”

Sylvie was also trying to take the snacks from his hand at this point. When she successfully did so, she fumbled with the lid and accidentally dumped them out onto the floor.  

“I’d prefer you have them eat downstairs,” Strange commented, looking down at the ornate carpeting behind his desk, which was covered with Cheeto crumbs. “They’ll get the room dirty.” He made a little spell which seemed to clean the mess and repackage the can like new for Sylvie. 

Sylvie studied the plastic can curiously. But when she looked back up, she realized she was in a different room. 

A dining room to be exact, with aging wallpaper and ornately carved wooden chairs. Thor had Loki sitting in his lap in an adjacent chair, and Wong and Strange seemed to have joined them. Strange sat at one end of the comically large table while Wong stood nearby, having not sat himself yet. He doted on Thor and the littles, attending to them since Strange had no idea how to be a good host when littles, or children, for that matter, were involved. 

“Do they need highchairs?” 

“Do you have one that’ll fit them?” Thor replied. 

Wong nodded silently. 

“I think Loki would like one. And… uh Sylvie…” Thor studied her for a moment until she gave him an outright head shake. 

The sorcerer scribbled something on a post-it note, and drew a circle with his hand. Orange sparks flew which Loki and Sylvie watched with wide eyes. It looked like the one they had fallen through. 

Wong reached through it, grabbing a highchair and sticking the note on a nearby wall. 

Upon inspection of the note, it said: “Will return in a few minutes. Having little guests over - Wong unv.199999” 

The chair was rickety and creaked slightly. Thor was unsure it would even hold Loki. It was all oak wood stained to look like cherry (except the metal hinges and some gears on the legs) and probably handmade, too. Each piece was carved with intricate designs. It fit with the aesthetic of Strange’s house, and could probably even look at home with Scott and Hope. 

Loki was incredibly excited to be set into it, cooing, babbling, and giggling as Thor sprinkled some snacks onto the tray for him while Sylvie ate her puffs at the table, kicking her legs and watching Loki with great interest. Having a different flavor than him fascinated her. She reached up and set a couple of her cranberry ones on his mostly beet covered tray. 

Loki grabbed at the pieces with uncoordinated hands and dropped a few of his onto Sylvie’s plate for her, too. 

Thor took a quick photo of them and sent it to Mobius with the caption “there sharing” (misspelling included). 

Wong and Strange stayed close to them, eating their own lunches of leftover food from the fridge, but they didn’t take much interest in the littles, obviously just there as supervision for the Asgardians. 

“Okay,” Thor said, getting up. “Shall we begin the main course?” 

Loki clapped and finished the last of his snacks, sticking his fingers in his mouth afterwards. As Thor walked around the table so he wouldn’t have to reach over it, Loki looked down at his big sister’s lunch. She had a nice chicken and veggie wrap, whole grapes, a hard boiled egg, and carrot sticks. 

While Thor tried his best to put a bib on his unruly baby brother, Sylvie did her best to appear as interesting and grown-up as possible in front of Strange and Wong to contrast Loki’s babyish squeaks and screams, using the situation to her advantage to make herself look more mature by sitting up straight as she ate and asking about work and cars, adult things that Mobius talked about with other adults.

Thor finally got a bib on the tot and opened the lid of the jar. 

He spooned out some mushy baby food for Loki. 

The little opened his mouth, taking it. 

Thor was quite good at feeding his little brother; hardly getting any of the banana on his bib and not actually getting any on his face. However, Loki being the talkative baby he was, had a pretty gross, nearly constant dribble of mush on his lower lip and chin. 

Getting bored, he began to play games with Thor, pretending he didn’t want any and then acting sad when Thor tried to close the jar. 

“He wants the jetski! Like daddy does it,” Sylvie realized with her mouth full. 

Thor paused, trying to think of what a jetski sounded like, as he had moved in over winter and hadn’t seen Mobius use it yet, only seeing it out of the water. He tried with a vague engine noise, but Loki didn’t take to that much, especially when the spoon didn’t move right. 

So Sylvie got up and tried making the proper noise by making a sputtering “B” with her lips and making the spoon do little “jumps” as it got to Loki’s mouth. She handed the spoon and jar back to Thor, who scraped out the last of the banana and then tried to mimic her movements and noises, much to Loki’s delight as he finished the jar without a second thought and let Thor clean him and the tray up.

 “Mr. Doctor wizard?” Sylvie asked before the adults could return to being boring with their stupid work. 

“Doctor Strange. I’m not a wizard,” the wizard corrected. 

Sylvie ignored his revision, “can we explore?” 

Strange paused to consider, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea…” 

Getting Thor not to break things was difficult enough, so much so that Strange wouldn’t have been surprised if Thor was a little himself, so he tried to explain lightly that he would very much not like two toddler gods of mischief running around his home, and he was much more at ease knowing they were confined to one or two rooms. 

“Please? I’ll be good!” she pleaded.

Loki, at this point, was invested, as well. “Please? Wanna explore! Look!” 

“What are you showing me?” Strange asked with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms.

“Fancy shoes!” Loki said, kicking out his shoes from the highchair step to show them off. 

“Why?” 

Thor took over, hoping to explain, “They’re his magic shoes. They let him walk on air and water-”

“Um! Goo’ care!” Loki bragged, trying to bring attention to the fact his favorite shoes were in such nice condition. 

“Fine… Fine, fine. I’ll let you see the artifacts. But no touching, got that?” Strange relented, knowing the three gods would not let up until he showed them around the house. 

Thor picked up Loki and stuck around while Wong returned the chair and retrieved his sticky-note with a smile as if it were (and it was) an incredible magic trick. 

As Loki watched with an open mouth face of slight surprise, Thor exaggeratedly mimicked him until the little grabbed his brother’s nose and giggled, a non-verbal subject change. 

“You guys are gonna miss it! Let’s go!” Sylvie demanded, standing by the doorway near Strange. 

Now, Strange didn’t know a lot about littles, but he did know he really saw himself in Sylvie, which only blossomed as he led Thor and the tots through the home museum of artifacts. 

Thor held his baby brother, who, pacifier in mouth, tried to touch everything. Thor batted his hands away continuously, but Loki still got some mischief-making done: magically bonding items to their stands, loosening jar lids just slightly, and the like. 

Sylvie then had a question, for their tour guide, “Um. Doctor Strange?” - the spellcaster smiled when she got his name right - “What’s that thing?” she asked, pointing to a glass case across the room that they had bypassed, something bright gold hung inside it. 

Loki squinted at it from his spot in his brother’s arms trying to get a good look at it. “Mumma cloak!” Loki yelled as he recognized the blanket of feathers. 

“Is that mother’s?” Thor asked, diverging from the path to get closer to it. 

Strange teleported them closer, causing Thor to bonk his nose into the glass and for Loki to hit his head on a low hanging chandelier. 

The toddler wiggled down and pressed his face to the case. “Mumma cloak!” he repeated, this time a bit sadly. 

Sylvie also looked up at it, with big, shiny, eyes. 

Thor touched her shoulder, causing her to flinch slightly before accepting his hand and putting her own over it. 

“Sylvie, when my- (our?) Mother was alive, she wore this cloak to every battle, banquet, and ceremony that she went to-”

“Birfday!” Loki cheered. 

“Yeah, every year on Loki’s birthday she’d wear it in celebration. But she loved this cloak. It could turn her into a falcon.”

“Birdie! Birdie!” Loki shouted eagerly.

“Right, we know, Loki,” Thor responded, beginning to get slightly agitated by his little brother for ruining the somber mood. “Loki got my Mjollnir with that cloak, huh, Loki?”

Loki stiffened in reaction to the comment, not wanting to think about that memory. “Um…” he shifted back and forth, avoiding eye contact.

“She would’ve loved you, Sylvie… She would’ve loved you.”

At that, Sylvie started to cry. Soft, quiet, tears for a nostalgic past she had never known, something that Thor was good at bringing up in her. 

He put his arms around her, setting his head on her shoulder in a gentle hug, swaying her back and forth, after he picked her up. “How’d you get it?” he asked Strange. 

The sorcerer shrugged. “Sometimes magical items just come and go as they please. This one’s probably just in for a visit knowing you three would be here.”

“Try?” Loki asked, pointing at it. 

Strange pondered, but remembering it was their mother’s, he unlocked the display with a sigh for not upholding his own rule, and allowed Loki to snuggle into its warmth.

The feathers, despite appearing to have been dipped in gold leaf, were as soft as cashmere. 

The fabric pooled itself around Loki in a mysteriously sentient way, gathering Sylvie and Thor in its embrace, as well. 

It smelled like her still. It had been roughly twelve years for Thor. For Sylvie it had been a thousand since it filled her lungs. She didn’t even recognize it anymore, and yet it felt like home. But for Loki, the scent had faded so much that it upset him. He had only been gone, what? A year since 2012? And yet things were so different, so changed now. “Wan’ mumma,” he cried, nuzzling it. 

“I know, brother. I miss her, too,” Thor comforted. 

Loki even found his mark on it; a missing chunk in part of the train that he had cut out when he was probably five or six or the Asgardian equivalent. He’d been beaten by his father for it then, but at least he slept easier those next several years knowing he had a piece of her with him, protecting him through everything. 

“Okay, little ones, I think we need to let Dr. Strange get back to his work so we can go have naptime,” Thor suggested after a deep breath that ached with hidden tears. 

Loki kept the cloak wrapped around himself and Sylvie. 

“I know, it’s all very fun, but we need to put it back now,” Thor told them, empathetically. 

Loki tried to put it back silently and maturely, but the item stuck to him as if it were sewn to the collar of his jumpsuit.

Then, Thor tried, almost choking the little.

It just would not come off him.

The side of it reached out for Sylvie, bringing her in close and hugging her into it, protecting her. 

“You guys should keep it,” Strange commented. Normally he wouldn’t with magical items, but this was a special exception. He knew this bond; understood, well, something similar to it. 

And so, as Thor and Dr. Strange finished their business meeting, there was peace. After Loki reshelved the books in the study, the littles found a nice spot to nap, letting the artifact drape over them.

For a long while, there was only noise of the occasional pacifier snuffle or sniffle.

Thor occasionally looked back at them from over his shoulder to make sure they were still there and felt his heart ache slightly every time he did. 

“They’re sweet kids,” Strange said towards the end of the visit as Thor tried to quietly fold up the fence without disturbing the toddler gods. 

Sylvie winked open an eye when Thor unzipped her bag. She kept Loki wrapped in a hug and refused to budge from beneath the cloak but kept watching her big brother and Dr. Strange. 

Loki stirred soon after Sylvie, beginning to play with his pacifier and reach out from under his coverings to try and touch Thor. 

Once finally getting his brother’s attention, Loki made a little babble. To which, Thor responded by stroking the baby’s hair and face which Loki leaned into like a cat.

“Are we ready to go soon?” Thor asked, noticing Sylvie’s gaze, as well. 

Both the littles nodded and let Thor scoop them up. 

He pretended not to notice Loki’s squirming and fidgeting upon being picked up nor the bulge at the back of his diaper, as they said their “thank you”s and “goodbye”s to Wong and Doctor Strange. The cloak floated behind them, much like Strange’s would, and used its corners to “shake hands” with the other magical objects around the sorcerer. 

Strange opened a portal back to their own universe and, instead of falling, Thor and his little siblings merely needed to step through with the cloak wrapping itself around Thor, making his blond hair appear even more radiant as he waved back to his colleagues and the portal closed. 

As soon as they were back home, Loki began to cry and fuss over having a messy diaper which Thor helped him take care of while Sylvie made a spot for the jacket in their master bedroom closet, hugging it and petting the feathers with gentle care. “Love you, mum,” she said quietly with an awkward smile (look at her talking to a piece of clothing. She must look crazy) as she shut the door. 

The feathers moved slightly, as if blown by the gentlest wind. 

[notbecauseofvictories]

oh I'm interested in the tag novel on how fan spaces becoming more meat spacey benefits the producers!! also happy Halloween! 🖤🧡🖤🧡

It’s not a particularly academic argument---I don’t have sources to back this up, I haven’t done research. I’m also wary of painting a picture of “fandom” as anything more than a lot of weasels in a trenchcoat, because that word means a lot of things to a lot of different people, some of whom hate each other. But as long as everybody understands that this is the ethnographical equivalent of drunkenly throwing darts at a copy of the AJS...sure.

[under a cut because it’s long and baseless, and also I had a lot of thoughts and feelings. Sorry.]

My basic premise is that fandom occupies “fanspace.” Fanspace is not solely online, since fanzines and conventions are fanspace too, but since the 90s it has become increasingly and primarily internet based. While some websites are designated fanspace (e.g., AO3, ff.net, stand-alone fansites) fanspace is not necessarily contiguous with a hosting site (e.g., there is fanspace on tumblr, but tumblr is not a fanspace). Fanspace is really just those urls, message boards, threads, blogs, accounts, etc. designated for fandom and/or where fannish activity takes place.

Its deeply-rooted internet presence has allowed fanspace and what I call “meatspace” to operate on different rules. Meatspace has always informed fan spaces, of course---disclaimers on fic to ward off accusations of copyright infringement, for example, or asking readers to attest that they’re over 13 before reading an R-rated fic. But traditionally, fandom has accepted as norm things that don’t apply to meatspace: fake names and anonymous posts, pictures of someone else’s characters, lengthy self-published stories featuring violence, explicit sex, sometimes even gay people. Fanspace is in many ways an artificial carve out from meatspace, where fewer of its rules apply; fanspace supplements these with its own norms.

The division between fanspace and meatspace is not and has never been a clear, settled line, however. Debates on how much meatspace should inform fan spaces have been raging for as long as I’ve been on the internet, and to be fair to meatspace, it has made good points. (I’m not sure if “don’t be racist,” counts as a meatspace rule given...racism, but fandom frequently reacts to it like a meatspace intrusion so I think it should count.)

However, what used to be intra-fandom conversations have become increasingly more public, for a few reasons:

Part of this is just the natural development of the internet---it’s not like fanspace was ever hidden, but there just weren’t as many people online, and stuff was harder to find in a pre-google, pre-algorithmic promotion world.

Part of it is the changing architecture of fanspace---websites shutting down, Strikethrough, and the tumblr porn ban have all, in their own ways, served to alter fanspace and move towards more and more public-facing sites.

But part of it---and this is the biggest factor, I think---is that over the last two decades, we’ve seen content-producers** increasingly willing to engage with fandom. 

On its face, this sounds good! After all, fans like people who make things, people who make things want fans. What could possibly be wrong about both sides recognizing their mutualism?

I think this works when the most interaction you could expect with a creator was showing up a bookstore to ask Tamora Pierce a question, or writing fanmail to Paul Gross. But it falls apart when you consider just how public-facing fanspaces have become, and just how much interest content-producers have taken in cultivating the fannish audience. Content-producers engaging directly with fandom are a thumb on the scales of mutualism, and a heavy one. After all, one side of the relationship is a loosely collected anarchic cult, migrating along a series of websites they mostly don’t control, making do with nothing but ongoing wank and general obsessive tendencies. 

The other side has D*sney, Harper Collins, and Comcast.

That thumb on the scale has paid off, more than I think even the content-producers could have anticipated. Fandom is good at loving what it loves and talking loudly about it, but capitalism is way better at doing what it does---turning everything into profit. So now people pay $100 a pop to go to Harry Potter World. Conventions are well-produced extensions of their parent companies, raking in money and providing a blitz of publicity---directly to the source most likely to take your messaging and amplify it. Make a superhero movie and the minute the trailer drops you conjure up thousands of online fans will be your de facto, unpaid publicists---generating interest via fan art, fic, and controversy with minimal corporate effort.  Of course fic writers who have established online presence are the darlings of the publishing world---what publisher wouldn’t want a built-in hype machine for a new author? 

And, just coincidentally, of course, fanspace and meatspace are drawn closer together, that line further blurred by this new and very, very interested third party.

I’m not saying this is some big conspiracy. No tv exec is out there rubbing their hands together and cackling evilly about how they’re going ruin fandom. But in exchange for meatspace validation and an endless stream of new content, I think fandom has ceded important ground. And I think it’s changing fanspaces, even now:

One of the founding rules of fanspace is that it does not generate money---you risk real copyright infringement that way. (This isn’t to say that money hasn’t been involved in a few massive fandom scandals, but it’s not typical.) Increasingly, however, the grumblings about getting paid for fan art and fic have gotten louder, probably due to meatspace’s general emphasis on the side-hustle, and seeing content-producers churn out more and more fan-like things for a profit.

(It seems unimaginable now, but once upon a time the HP Lexicon was an invaluable resource, a rare unicorn in a pre-wikipedia age. Now, D*sney wouldn’t even think of releasing a tentpole movie without a novelization, a picture dictionary, and a tie-in novel.)

Also, those calls for fan art that “might be featured” by a content-producer are (rightfully) scorned for asking for work pro bono. But the takeaway seems to be “we deserve to be paid for our fan art!” rather than “how dare the content-producer intrude on our fanspace and its activities!”

Fanspaces have never expected or required legal ID, permitting anonymous or pseudonymous activity in order to protect individual privacy. And while there’s still no expectation you link your legal ID with your online/fan ID, the norm has shifted---it’s no longer considered gauche to go by your legal ID, even necessary when turning mutuals and followers into an “audience.” We’re not anonymous fans, engaged in our mutual hobby anymore---some people are doing that, and others are potential content-creators.

I’d argue that even purity wank if an example of this new blurring, classic “don’t like don’t read” arguments taking on new life now that meatspace is so nearby---we wouldn’t want to offend the neighbors!

Even these things benefit the content-producers: the more fan-like stuff they churn out, the less fanspaces will create on their own; the more fanspaces that emphasize linking legal ID to online ID, the less people will be able to engage in fan activities privately; the more meatspace rules assert themselves on fanspaces, the less fanspace we’ll have.

Now, maybe this is just...evolution. As I said before, there is a porous and shifting border between fanspace and meatspace. I remember angry threads about whether m/m fics should be rated higher than a het equivalent; I remember the tagging debates, the incredible resistance to accurately describing what happens in your fic. Maybe in a few years, my longing to return to a more separate fanspace will seem equally as embarrassing, incorrect, and unnecessary. 

But right now, it feels more like an erosion---one fandom is about as willing or able to resist as the tide.

.

** “Content maker” is a term that’s come to mean “anyone who makes something” which is sheer nonsense. There’s a difference between publishers/television producers/movie studios and someone recording a podcast in their bathroom. There’s even a difference between D*sney, a vast undead creative monopoly animated by copyright protections, and someone like James Patterson, who uses a stable of ghostwriters to churn out “his” works. We shouldn’t be scrutinizing all these things them the same way, it’s lazy, and intellectually dishonest.

[theloneliestshipper]

Imagine if you will, post Mando Season 2, Boba took over Jabba's palace and word gets around. Leia comes to see for herself, and hopefully form an alliance, but- and this is crucial- she shows up disguised as Boushh again. It's a test to see if this Boba Fett is the real deal.

AO3 Link

“Look, I don’t know what more I can tell you. He said his name was Boba Fett.” Cara Dune’s voice was soft and a little tense. Leia didn’t blame her for being nervous. An outer rim marshal being summoned to a command ship would normally proceed some kind of disciplinary action.

Leia flipped a switch on the holoprojector and the image of a firespray-class ship appeared. “Yeah,” the marshal confirmed. “That’s the ship.” Another switch revealed an image of a man in battered Mandalorian armor. She leaned closer to the projector. “Nnnh. It’s not the same. Different colors. And he doesn’t wear a flightsuit under it.”

“It can’t be the same Boba Fett,” Luke reasoned. “The sarlacc swallowed him whole.”

“I’m not saying it is or isn’t,” Cara Dune replied evenly. “But I’ve seen this guy with his helmet off, and something terrible happened to him. If you told me he was chewed on by a sarlacc I wouldn’t blink.”

“Thank you, Marshal Dune.” Leia stood as she spoke. “Speak with Commander Elrith outside. He’ll call a shuttle to take you back to Nevarro.”

She hesitated at the door. “I don’t know if he’s the same Boba Fett you knew. But I know Mando trusts him, and that’s worth a lot to me.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Luke assured her. As soon as she was gone he folded his arms, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his long jedi robe. “Is it better or worse for us if it’s the same guy?”

“I don’t know, but Tatooine has become too important. Someone has to go meet with him.”

“What does Han think about all this?”

Leia looked away. “I haven’t spoken with him recently.”

“Sorry.” Luke’s voice dropped low in sympathy. “How’s Ben taking it?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“I’ll go.” He gestured at holo images. “I’m sure this brings back memories.”

“It does.” Leia took a breath. “But I have to go. I know how to find out if he’s the same Boba Fett.”

---

The hardest thing to get used to was the helmet. The other clothing and light armor worn by the Ubanese bounty hunter fit Leia quite well. She could move around comfortably and more importantly, without notice.

The day she wore it to Jabba’s palace was the first time she wanted to be noticed in it. Chewie made sure that she was. It wasn’t until after she put the thermal detonator away that she saw Boba Fett. He tilted his helmet in a slow, deliberate nod and suddenly being noticed seemed like a terrible idea.

The fact that she was 35 thousand credits richer was not lost on anyone in the throne room. She was offered everything under the stars from sex to drugs to part ownership in an aurodium mine. A spice-dealing Dug followed her around for almost an hour no matter how many times she swung her staff at him. He could sell her the best stuff, he claimed. Pure spice. The real deal.

An armored arm entered her peripheral vision and a blast of fire forced the dealer to scramble back, cursing in Huttese. She turned around to face Boba Fett, a walking threat in scarred armor. “He cuts his spice with filanium,” he said matter-of-factly as the dealer scuttled away. “Nothing you can get here is real.”

“What do you want?” She asked, relying on the voice scrambler to make her voice sound like the voice of Boushh.

“I want to know how you caught Chewbacca.”

Her mind raced as she tried to calculate her response. How would Boushh respond? “Why? So you can steal my tricks?”

“You think I need your tricks?” His tone was mocking, even through his helmet. “I brought in Captain Solo. What happened to the princess?”

There was a terrible roar in her ears. She could hardly hear herself speak. “What?”

“The last time I saw the wookiee, Solo told him to take care of the princess. Wookiees take that kind of thing seriously. It must have been difficult to separate them.”

Leia wanted nothing as much as she wanted to be able to see past Fett’s inscrutable visor. “It was not difficult for me.” She added for good measure, “so the princess has lost both of her protectors.”

“Can’t speak for the wookiee, but Solo needs her protection more than she needs his.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She’s too smart for him. Maybe now she’ll realize it.”

As suspicious as she was of Fett’s motivations, she had to fight the urge to defend herself and Han. “Some do not let go so easily.”

Fett snorted. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She’ll be fine without him.” His helmet turned, following Bib Fortuna as the majordomo passed by. “What did he give you? A marker?”

“Yes.”

“I’m still waiting for Jabba to cash out mine. Hang on to that thermal detonator. You might need it.” He took a step to one side and walked past her, leaving her to weigh his words with a hammering pulse.

Soon afterwards she was exposed as a fraud and forced to become a tasteless display for Jabba and his minions. Fett never said a word to her while she was chained to Jabba’s dais, but he also never strayed far.

There were times when the braver creeps would sneak closer. Sometimes they would tug on her chain when Jabba was distracted. But there always came a moment when they looked beyond her and suddenly and swiftly backed away.

Even years later when she thought about their brief exchange in the throne room, she couldn’t say with certainty. Was it a warning? Did he know?

---

It didn’t take long to find him. She caught a glimpse of his dark green armor outside the spaceport in Mos Espa and followed him at a careful distance. Once again in the guise of Boushh, Leia was invisible. The helmet still took some getting used to. She cut through an alley and nearly crashed her head into a rack of metal utensils hanging above a vendor’s stand.

The jetpack certainly looked familiar. It was the same style of Mandalorian armor, but with a darker color scheme. His build was thicker, his gait heavier. He walked like a man with nothing to fear.

How he ended up as the regent of Tatooine was a subject of some debate. There was a power vacuum after Jabba’s death, and portions of the world were held by warring gangs and factions every bit as corrupt as the Hutt cartel. Now a man called Boba Fett controlled it all. The rapid consolidation of power was impossible for the New Republic to ignore. The only question that remained was whether this new leadership would be a friend or a foe.

The suns of Tatooine were beginning to drop low on the horizon, and the citizens of Mos Espa were returning to their homes. That made it more difficult for Leia to hide in the crowd. She kept to the shadows as much as she could, trying to guess where he was headed. Was he bound for Jabba’s palace, or did he have another destination in mind?

He made a sudden turn, down an alley below a flashing sign. Leia paused to work out the Huttese.

A brothel. Interesting.

She turned the corner and there was no sign of him. Maybe there was a side entrance?

A pair of gloved hands caught her bandoleer and nearly lifted her off the ground. She swiftly turned her staff, grasping it both hands and bracing it against the throat of the man who was now holding her against the wall.

“Well look at that,” he said in a raspy voice that, like the rest of him, was both familiar and different. He released her and stepped back as much as the narrow alley will allow. “If it isn’t the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Leia set her staff against the wall and pulled the helmet off her head, drawing in a gulp of unfiltered air before she spoke. “It really is you.”

Boba Fett removed his own helmet. The light was swiftly fading from the sky, but the flashing brothel sign provided enough light for her to see the scars. “What’s left of me.”

Leia had no comparison, having never seen his face before. But even scarred and worn he was a handsome man. “You look pretty good for a dead man.”

“Thank you. You look exactly the same.”

“I’m supposed to be flattering you, not the other way around.”

One hairless brow lifted in a challenge. “Go on, then.”

She leaned back against the wall and pursed her lips in exaggerated thought. “I like your face. It’s nice to be able to finally see it.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Consider me flattered.”

She should turn the conversation to business now. Pleasantry and then diplomacy. But she couldn’t resist. “There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

“In the palace, when you approached me…” she gestured at the helmet in her hand. “Did you know who I was?”

“No.” He said it without hesitation, but with a hint of chagrin. “I felt like a real idiot, in case you were wondering.”

“So you meant what you said. About me. And...Han.”

“Every word. It’s still true, as far as I’m concerned.” He paused, turning his helmet in his hands. “You’re here on business I imagine.”

“Politics. The usual.” Her eyes dropped briefly before returning to his. "I think I will be, you know. Fine without him."

"Good." He held her gaze for a moment before he replaced his helmet. “Business first," he said, motioning for her exit the alley before him. "And then dinner?”

[ayamari-no-goshi]

Verboten 15 | (T)

ff.net | AO3

Fandom: Danny Phantom (DP)

Summary: AU. When Danny was five years old, he went missing for 2 weeks. In the years that follow, his family tried to make sense of what happened, only for the truth to be discovered years later.

Warnings: rated T for violence, mentions of death, language. Be prepared for some very weird things

Parings: Danny/Sam

Notes: originally uploaded to Ff.net. Cross-posted to AO3 and tumblr. This fic is very heavily inspired by folklore surrounding mysterious wilderness disappearances

Chapter 15

It took almost twenty minutes for Danny’s mom to finish her tirade against the police. Watching her flip out on the officers was almost therapeutic, and by the time she was done, he was more amused then terrified. It made the actual interview much easier.

The police were initially skeptical, especially since his dad took the lead on explaining what happened. His childish excitement at getting to chase something made it sound like some made up fantasy, but that changed when Vlad gave his account. With his reputation, they were forced to take it seriously.

The older of the two officers, O’Brian, took the statements as his partner, Kiziah, reviewed the scene for any clues or evidence of how the creature got in the house. Other police offers were on the way to do a proper investigation.

“You’re the one that reported that murder… That was just, I guess it’s two days ago now,” O’Brian mentioned as he glanced at Danny, who nodded. “We chalked up the weirdness of your original statement due to shock, but if you’re telling me this thing is the same perp, I have no idea what we have on our hands.”

“I… I don’t really know if it was the same thing or not, but it looked like it.”

The officer frowned as his partner returned. “No obvious sign of a break in,” Kiziah stated, “but I don’t want to touch anything without an evidence kit. There’s definitely a weird substance in the living room and near the front door that will need analyzed.”

“You didn’t hear anything?” O’Brian looked back towards Danny and his parents.

“To be honest, our family tends to be heavy sleepers,” his mother explained as she gave him a sheepish grin. “Jack can sleep through almost anything, and I tend to wear earplugs.”

“And I am of the opposite,” Vlad stated as he made himself a cup of tea. “However, it wasn’t until I heard Daniel sprint up the stairs and bang on his parents’ door that I awoke.”

“Sorry about that.” Danny winced at he glanced at the man. Vlad didn’t seem as creepy as he had the previous day, but something still seemed off about him.

The man gave him a dismissive wave. “No worries, my dear boy. I believe your actions were more than understandable given the circumstances.”

“Err… I guess you want me to say if I heard anything?” Danny shook his head as the officers stared at him. “I didn’t. It… it was just a feeling, you know? Like when you get a sudden chill.” That statement was true enough. He figured it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to state the more paranormal aspect of it. “I thought I was just being paranoid until I looked down the stairs and that… that thing stared back at me.”

An awkward silence fell as O’Brian took some more notes. It was only broken when Kiziah received some sort of notification and moved to let the investigation team in. They quickly went to work examining the scene and looking for anything out of the ordinary. While they worked, an older man with a scar down the right side of his face took O’Brian and Kiziah aside and spoke with them. Once they finished, the older officer approached Danny and his family.

“I’m Lieutenant Metzger, and I’ve recently been put in charge of the investigation of the recent murders in the city. You’ve probably heard the rumors this is a serial case. Well, that’s true.” A muscle moved in the man’s cheek as he seemed to debate with himself over how much he could tell them. “Due to some of the details, we were under the impression these were ritualistic in nature and called in the FBI for some help.” He sighed before asking, “Is it okay if I sit?”

“Sure,” Danny’s mother shared a confused look with her husband before she asked the officer if he needed some coffee.

When he agreed, he waited until there was a cup in front of him to continue. “Look, I don’t want this being leaked. We don’t need people thinking the police force is wasting money on chasing fairy tales.” Once the Fenton family agreed, he continued, “You aren’t the first one to report something not quite human around the time of the incidences. Due to shock and figuring it was some sort of disguise, we originally disregarded that. However,” he glanced around before he leaned in, “one of my own officers gave a report earlier this week of glancing something inhuman. It actually attacked his patrol car before it vanished. On top of that, I don’t think whatever that thing spilled on your carpet has any sort of mundane explanation behind it.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes, “Mr. and Mrs. Fenton, I’m going to be frank with you. I would like to contract you for some sort of weapon for this thing. From previous experiences, I’m fully aware your… experiments don’t tend to do harm to people, so if… by the off chance, this isn’t something normal, we’ll have a way to stop it.”

Danny’s father immediately lit up in excitement. After rambling some idea, he ran down to the lab to act upon it before anyone could stop him.

“Don’t mind him,” his mother fondly chuckled. “Jack is very enthusiastic about our work.”

“I… uh… take that you’re willing to help us?”

“Oh, absolutely. If this thing is what we think it might possibly be, we were going to do that anyways. But I do need to ask you something. You mentioned you thought the attacks were ritual in nature. I’m not really sure how to ask this, but for those poor people, was there a part of the body missing?”

Metzger’s shoulders tensed at her question as his eyes narrowed. “How did you know about that?”

“Wait… wait, you’re telling me… that thing… what it was holding in its hand…” Danny couldn’t say it. The memory of the blood dripping from that thing’s hand temporarily overwhelmed him. He must have swayed as his mother gently put a hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. If you decide to go help your father, I think he’d gladly welcome the help.”

Danny shook his head at the suggestion. He needed to stay put. It just felt safer with her and the officers around. She must have somehow understood as she gave his shoulder a motherly squeeze.

“You didn’t answer my question.” An irritated edge crept into Metzger’s voice.

His mother calmly turned back to him and returned his gaze. “I didn’t until just now. After Danny relayed his story, it struck a chord with me, and I did some digging. There is folklore in different parts of the US which tells of creatures who steal the life of humans and often a part of the body. If… if that’s what’s happening, then we’re in trouble.”

“What do you think this thing is doing?”

“Nothing good. Throughout history, humankind has offered up blood and other bodily sacrifices to gods, spirits, monsters, and everything in between. While usually the Aztecs come to mind, you can find evidence of this around the world. It’s believed those sacrifices would either strengthen or appease whichever entity was the focus.”

“Maddie, are you suggesting this thing is doing something similar?”

She nodded. “I… We aren’t sure if this thing is trying to strengthen itself or if it’s taking its gains to something else.”

A different memory surfaced in Danny’s mind. “That… when we were being rescued… the… the person that helped us get back… he said the A-listers got targeted for their blood,” he stammered before he could stop himself.

Everyone in the room stared at him. He and his friends really hadn’t talked about Frostbite. They mentioned to the police they thought someone helped them, but purposely left it vague. With how disoriented they were when they were found, the police were under the impression the trauma obscured some of their memories. Well, the cat was out of the bag.

Matzger stared at him. “Are you telling me what happened to your classmates may be related to… to this thing?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? Like I told my mom before you came, the person who grabbed me and my friends isn’t the same… whatever that thing is. But, I don’t know what Dash and them encountered after we got separated.”

“Hmm… what about the person who helped you?”

Danny shook his head. “Not the same person. He called himself Frostbite, and…” How could he even explain Frostbite? He was a ghostly yeti with an ice arm for God’s sake! “I didn’t think he was real,” he eventually stated as he glanced down at his hands. “He was so friendly and helpful. He was so much different than that thing.”

“Honey, you never really talked about this Frostbite person before.” His mother tried to reach out for his hand, but he pulled away.

“I… I thought he was a dream or hallucination or something for a while.” He hoped he sounded sincere. It was somewhat true after all. The fantastical nature of what happen still didn’t seem real to him, but he knew better. “I think he had helpers… there were other voices besides his.”

“That would line up with some of the evidence we have from your case,” Matzger stated as he rubbed his chin. “The injuries of you and your two friends were vastly different than the others who went missing which suggested multiple perpetrators. One of the other boys did mention that he thought they were rescued by a small group of people. I will have to take a closer look at the injuries of your classmates to determine whether or not they match up with our current victims. That should give us an idea if it’s the same thing or something different.”

“Sir,” officer Kiziah interrupted, “we’ve finished our initial sweep. We did have some trouble trying to keep Mr. Fenton out of the way in the basement area, but he’s promised to stay at the one table while we work. He’s apparently drafting some blueprints. Forensics is here and are working on collecting evidence. They’re hoping to talk to you.”

He sighed. “Thank you, Kiziah. Can you explain to them their options during our investigation progress?” After flashing them an apologetic smile which seemed out of place with his features, he told them he would be in touch and excused himself.

After shaking his head at his superior, Kiziah stated while the family could stay in the house during the investigation process, it had the possibility of accidentally contaminating evidence. He recommended for them to stay at a local hotel for a time.

Although his mother seemed hesitant to leave the house, she eventually agreed to head to a hotel after Vlad made a show of being concerned for the family’s safety. It took a bit of time to get his dad to leave the basement, but by the time seven am hit, Danny found himself in the best hotel in Amity Park, per Vlad’s firm recommendations.

After sending his friends a few texts to let them know what happened, that he was fine, and where he was, he told them he’d call them after he got some sleep. Although he wasn’t exactly happy he shared the room with Vlad, the pristine bed ended up being far more important to him than any worries.

…..

Several hours later, Danny woke up to one hundred and three texts, fifty-four missed calls, and eleven voicemails. Sam and Tucker had only one voicemail and call apiece and only a handful of texts. The rest were from his sister. Groaning, he sent Sam and Tucker messages to let them know he’d call them after he contacted his sister.

He really didn’t want to talk to Jazz at the moment. When she was scared, she became spastic, and a spastic Jazz was the last thing he wanted to deal with at the moment. Okay, the third to last think he wanted to deal with. The creepy thing and Plasmius took the top two places.

After taking several minutes to do everything other than call his sister, he finally buckled down and called her. As predicted, she spastically demanded to know if he was okay while berating him for not contacting her sooner. He just let her talk while making the occasional ‘uh huh’, ‘sorry,’ and ‘yeah.’ From experience, he knew it was better to let her get it out of her system.

He put Jazz on speaker while he attempted to find the hotel’s TV remote. Vlad didn’t seem to be in the room which really didn’t bother him. The man didn’t need to listen to Jazz flipping out after all. Eventually, he found the remote next to a message from Vlad stating he and his parents went to discuss something with the police and would be back with food.

“Danny, are you even listening to me?” Jazz demanded. He must have been quiet for too long.

“Uh? Yeah, I just happened to find a note Vlad left. You were saying something about how it was irresponsible for Dad to go running after the thing?”

“Wait, are you telling me you were left alone after everything that happened?”

“Jazz, I’m seventeen. I think I’m perfectly fine being alone for a few hours.”

“You were kidnapped by a crazy man and then were attacked in your own home! Do you really think it’s safe for you to be alone right now?” With that, she flew into a different tirade.

Knowing it would be a while, he decided the TV would be a preferable alternative to his upset sister. He turned it on only to have it immediately turn off. Thinking he accidentally doubled clicked the button, he tried again only to have the same result. Thinking the remote was damaged, he moved to try the button on the machine. Only, it turned on by itself. It and the lights began to dim and flicker, and his breath began to mist.

Glancing around, he watched as a girl emerged from the wall. At first, it seemed she didn’t notice him as she moved towards the opposite wall, but she stopped midway and faced him. She looked human but her entire body seemed insubstantial and almost wispy. Her skin, if it could be called that, was an unearthly white while her blue hair flickered like a flame.

She smirked at him while moving a little closer. “You shouldn’t be here, Baby Pop.” Her sultry and musical voice seemed far away, almost as if it was being broadcasted over an old radio. “Don’t know what you’re doing on this side of the veil, but you shouldn’t stay here.”

“What… what are you talking about? Who are you?” he stammered while vaguely registering Jazz asking him what was wrong.

“I like to slip to this side for some fun, but I might stick around a little longer this time. It’s already chaotic here, and a little more might do me some good. Besides, it seems I need to make a few people remember I still exist.” After appraising him, she gave another smile and headed back towards the wall. “You might want to get out while you can, Baby Pop. Things might get a little hot, and you new guys often aren’t strong enough to deal with the heat.”

“Hey, wait!” He tried to get her to stop, but she just vanished back into the wall. Unsure what to do, he stood in the center of the room dumbfounded until he realized his phone was still on speaker and his sister was calling for him.

“Hey, Jazz, I’m going to have to call you back,” he stated as he moved towards the door. “Something really weird just happened.” He hung up on her as he ran into the hallway looking for some evidence of the ghost.

He barely made it to the elevators when the fire alarm sounded. Not wanting to stick around, he quickly found the stairs and made his way to the lobby as the rest of the guests started to follow suit. By the time he reached the third floor, he began to smell smoke. There had to be a fire. Is that what that ghost meant? Did she somehow set it?

He really hoped that wasn’t the case. He really only needed on potentially supernatural thing causing problems in his life at a time.

[pointlesstrashyexistence]

Every few days I think about how if Supernatural’s writers were just planning on killing of Cas and then never mentioning him again with the original ending involving the possibility of just a brief cameo of him in Heaven weirdly partying with (dead?) Kansas, I probably would’ve preferred it if Cas didn’t have a confession scene.

Ok here me out. Yes I ship DeanCas/Destiel. Yes I loved that there was at least acknowledgment of Cas’ romantic feelings towards Dean. Misha has outright said the confession was romantic and there have already been two official dubs in two different languages where the “I love you” specifically uses phrases that show romantic love. It’s not up for debate anymore if those feelings were romantic.

But if they were just going to throw that in there and get rid of Cas and never mention him again except for two scenes where he doesn’t appear and one that is just Lucifer pretending to be him to gain access to the bunker, I would’ve preferred it if Cas’ true happiness was something that I think would’ve been the ultimate acknowledgement of Cas’ transformation, which I feel would’ve been Jack calling Cas his dad and telling his dad how much he loves him. Of all three members of Team Free Will 1.0, Cas has been the most like a dad to Jack. Cas was the one who eventually helped Kelly hide, prepared a home for Jack and Kelly to live in, for Jack to be raised in safe and loved and cared for. Cas was the one prepared to go down fighting to protect Jack before Jack was even born. Cas is the one who always runs to Jack, to protect Jack, to save Jack, even if it means creating a rift between him, Sam, and Dean.

I love my Sam Winchester is Jack Kline’s Father fics, and my Dean Winchester is Jack Kline’s Father fics, and my Team Free Will 1.0 are Jack Kline’s Fathers fic on ao3 . I do. But if we’re talking about in the show, Cas is the one who is the most like a father to Jack.

Love Dean and wish that man had been given therapy and anger management and AA meetings and working to become a better, less violent person who takes accountability for what he’s done as his finale ending rather than just dying by a fucking nail through the chest, something Cordelia on Buffy The Vampire Slayer survives after like a twenty foot drop from a staircase. But Dean outright hates Jack during his widower arc and makes it known how much of a monster he thinks Jack is to the point where Jack repeatedly tries to commit suicide and then it’s just never really brought up again after Cas comes back and Dean then just goes back and forth on whether he thinks Jack is part of his family or not for the last three seasons. As much as I like the few scenes where Dean is actually bonding with Jack and calls him “their kid” and Jack referring to himself as a Winchester, Dean isn’t really Jack’s dad in the show. Do I think this probably would’ve been a different story if we got baby Jack? Yes, but that’s not what I’m talking about right now

Sam? Sam definitely tries at first. Sam gets what it’s like to feel like a monster and be viewed as one even when your not, and calls out Dean for how he acts and behaves towards Jack. But Dean just as easily calls out Sam for using Jack to try and get their mother back and trying to appear invested in Jack to get what he wants. Sam’s affection for Jack is conditional at first. He gradually grows to be more paternal to Jack but by season 14, it kind of just dwindles away. We got all this buildup of Sam and Jack’s relationship, which yes there should’ve been because here you have someone who was supposed to be the True Vessel of Lucifer, the Boy King of Hell and the Antichrist, the Son of Lucifer, and there’s not really any care given to it afterwards. That season was probably the last time the writers actually did anything interesting with Sam and tried to give him an arc in my opinion.

Cas though? Cas, who was a warrior of God that led garrisons and killed the offspring nephilim of lesser angels? Cas who grows a respect and admiration for humanity, seeing them as complex miraculous beings rather than hairless apes like the majority of the angels? Cas who defends humanity’s existence against other angels even at the cost of his life? Cas who originally thought of the Antichrist as a monster that needed to be killed to protect humanity but heard Kelly talk about how good she believed her child could be despite being the son of the devil and saw a paradise on earth when he actually communicated with Jack in the womb? Cas who separated from the only other two people he has consistently turned to for help and has provided help for in order to try and ensure Jack would be a child safe and loved even if it meant being away from the people he considered family and could die protecting Jack and Kelly? Cas who unconditionally loves and treats Jack as his child throughout the last three season? He is definitely Jack’s father.

I just think there’s something very fitting about the angel who unconditionally loved humanity despite never being able to entirely follow god’s orders raising the supposed antichrist who becomes a god that respects humanity’s free will. And I think that scene would’ve been fantastic in that Cas loves Jack as his child so much that he makes that deal with the Empty in the first place to protect Jack , but Cas loves Jack so much that Jack is the reason the deal is broken. Jack doesn’t realize Cas thinks of him as his child the same way Cas doesn’t think Jack sees him as his dad, and that recognition that they feel the same way is the most bittersweet moment in the world because their first moment where they mutually knowingly recognize each other as parent and child seems like it might be the last one they have together as they hug. Jack sobs while furiously apologizing as he sees black goo come to reach Cas who only has a few more second left to kiss the top of his child’s head and hug him close and say something like “I love you so much my son” before pushing him away while Jack watches, crying as he calls out “Dad don’t leave me” as his father get covered in black goo while smiling with tears streaming down his face before disappearing.

I’m not sure how that situation could’ve occurred. Maybe Jack and Cas are together when people start disappearing, and Jack worries about how if Chuck doesn’t consider him important enough to torment he could also be proofed away, and he wants to tell his dad how much he loves him in that way kids do when they think they might see their parents for the last time and despite being in basically an adult body Jack is still three and not really thinking about what could happen or doesn’t even think this could be Cas’ happiest moment because he always thought Cas knew Jack thought of him as his dad. I don’t know.

But that scene happens and the Empty collects Cas and then when Jack becomes god and brings everyone back, he somehow also brings Cas back from the empty. Look the writers gave absolutely no good reason for why Lucifer somehow came back from the empty in 15x19 when the Empty specifically states that Chuck has no power in her domain so why should I? But I guess if I was going to it would’ve involved Jack finding out how it got loud in the empty and bargaining with the Empty in trading demons, angels, and other nephilim in exchange for making the empty quiet again and managing to deal with what to do with all of these now revived supernatural creatures. Still frustrated that the show made God the enemy and turned Billie into a last minute villain when the Empty was right the, the Enpty was hyped up, and then it just took Cas and Billie and disappeared, and was never heard from again.

Anyways, Jack and Amara separate but they’re still functioning as a unit and are working together to fix the other universes as well as heaven and the systems of who gets sent to heaven, hell, and purgatory in a sort of season 4 of the Good Place style, and Cas takes on a major role as the celestial being with the most interaction with and understanding of humanity, especially with that time he was a homeless human under his belt to provide his own reflection on why certain people may do things that are wrong like stealing in order to provide just a basic need for themselves like stealing food to eat. It’s implied that Rowena’s involved in this too. Cas and Jack say their goodbyes to Sam and Dean. If I had it my way, the finale would end up being like the one I made up in an earlier post where Sam and Dean get their beach day but realize that their relationship isn’t healthy for either of them and separate and the viewer no longer has access to what they do with their lives afterwards because Sam and Dean now have control of their own stories and decide who gets to see it. But I guess what I made up fixes some general overarching complaints about the last three episodes. I still hate that last episode and what I feel is the assassination of 15 years of character development of Sam and Dean in order to go back to S1 with Sam as the main character and Dean as the side character interrupting his life but I just barely acknowledge it as the show’s finale.

I do love the confession scene. I really do. But if it was just going to end with Cas dying a minute after confessing his love and never being seen or acknowledged again, I would’ve much rather preferred it being that his happiest moment was being with his child in the endless feedback loop of familial love.

[labime]

So there is apparently yet another discourse about AO3 donations. It comes back every time like clockwork. The argument against donating—and more specifically about the donors' morals—centers around the global pandemic most of us are living with. Some people claim that we need to reconsider our priorities and privileges and reproach us to give to an archive fanfiction website instead of the various organizations currently asking for donations as well.

Many sentences keep reappearing in their tirades, whether it's a response to someone's post or their own, most of them referencing the content AO3 allows to be hosted on their website in general, their tone suggests strong disapproval—and sometimes outright hate—for the website's lack of censorship when it comes to subjects they oppose the depiction of. Just like with sentences, words and accusations are circulating in their rants; 'abuse', 'incest', 'pedophilia'.

It causes a strong reaction from people reading, including me, because decent people have a visceral repugnance toward the crimes mentioned above and those people are using it, intentionally leaving out the adjective that belongs right before each of their words. Fictional. It's important to note this because it covers those people's strategies to link the content creators' to the works in a way that implies their endorsement for the crimes they write about.

Without the fictional nature of their work—as opposed to autobiographical, in that case the creator, whoever they are and regardless of the quality of their art, deserve to be punished—most of the famous writers we know would be in jail. Vladimir Nabokov would be in jail for grooming, incest, murder, and pedophilia. Thomas Harris would be in jail for cannibalism, torture, mutilation, and murder. Bret Easton Ellis would be in jail for rape, torture, mutilation, and murder (including child murder).

I wanted to make that difference clear before continuing. Fiction and reality, the real and the imaginary, dreaming and being awake… One can influence the other when a person is already predisposed to it, but those are entirely separate entities. The word 'blood' on paper will not bleed on a page. It's a distinction you should be able to make on your own. It's not anyone's else job to limit themselves on account of your failure to do so and certainly not someone's duty to impose censorship on other people because you can't process something as simple as that.

It's something I wanted to make clear because I think it should be pointed out that the pandemic and the anxiety it causes to everyone is serving as a tool to impact people and more precisely people donating to AO3.

This post seeks to address a trend I have seen in debates regarding donations to AO3 in the middle of the pandemic.

They accuse donors of being selfish, of valuing entertainment more than human life, and essentially make them responsible for people dying, sometimes not even subtly. They know it will hit home because many of us are still under lockdown, know people who are sick or even dead, have to worry about our health, our loved one's health, our countries, and also the prospect of losing our jobs and the repercussions of a global economic recession. In one word we are scared. Many are also paranoid about contamination and unsure about the future after the pandemic, supposing the virus goes away at all.

Those people are exploiting this just as they are used to exploiting despicable crimes and use it to further their agenda. Blaming someone for treating themselves to some entertainment is ridiculous. I have noticed that some AO3 donors answer back that they have also donated to charities almost as if to defend themselves. They shouldn't have to do that. It's ridiculous that they have to disclose any information about their expenses because antis feel entitled—with their followers—to tell random people on the internet what giving a few bucks to a fanfiction website mean about their integrity.

I want to stress not only that but also that people deciding to spend their money on entertainment without having donated to anyone else is not unethical or unscrupulous. I saw someone comparing AO3 to Nexflix and I think it is the best analogy regarding that debate.

On Tumblr, surrounded by a cultist and narrow perspective about fiction and money and politics, it's easy to forget that this approach is not normal.

Do you justify yourself when you buy a book on Amazon despite not having donated to the many charities in the world at different times of the year—because there's always a catastrophic event happening in the world, just not of that magnitude—or when you buy that dress you're only going to wear on Christmas for one evening but saved for months to get? Do you defend yourself when you buy a Spotify Premium account because the mobile app has fewer features? Do you explain to the cashier that yes you have donated to impoverished countries and homeless people when you go to the movies with your friends and buy overpriced popcorn that could feed someone in a third world country?

I give to charities and to homeless people and volunteer too and I do it because I want to, not because I am obliged to do it and you are not either. That attitude that dictates that you can't spend and enjoy without giving first or feeling guilt over it if you don't is unhealthy.

[nearlynorth]

we can’t even be in the same room

The breaking of Luke Patterson and Julie Molina.

Or the fic that shows the aftermath of heartbreak.

Notes:

Now you may be thinking, Nicole, you've never been in a relationship or been broken up with, why are you writing a breakup fic? That's a good question that I don't have an answer to. This is the first of a three part series that I'm working on. The next part will be Julie.

I highly recommend listening to Same Room by JP Saxe when you are reading this. I listened to it on repeat while writing this. If anyone wants the playlist that I so creatively titled "Juke Breakup Fic" it's at this link. Link to spotify playlist

This is technically an au because the boys were never ghosts, but that isn't really something that is addressed or is needed to be known.

Also cross-posted on ao3. This is the first in a three part series that I will eventually manage to get the other two saved into a masterlist on here when I write them.

Disclaimer: I don't own any italicized lyrics or the Julie and the Phantoms characters. I'm also not the first person to write a breakup fic.

I watched a TED Talk on heartbreak

He had a smart person accent

He said, "Don't look through the photos"

Then I looked through our photos

Luke doesn't even know how he does it. How he resists looking through the camera gallery on his phone, the memories documented in photos. How when his heart is pulling itself apart he resists looking at the very things that could sew it back and then tear it apart again.

Luke does know a few things.  He knows the post-breakup rules. He's watched a TedTalk, the man speaking with an accent that he knows that she would've loved. And he's already breaking them.

One.

He knows that he isn't supposed to look at the photos. He puts his phone in the car, pretends like it is just a normal day. He lasts two hours. Two hours spent staring blankly at the wall, wondering where they went wrong. He knows, he knows. Two hours and then he breaks. He unlocks his phone and pulls up the photos, the videos, all of what they recorded. Their history was in front of the camera, well-documented and heart-breaking. He lasts two hours and he breaks his first rule.

Two.

He knows that he's not supposed to think about her, to not let himself wallow in his self-pity. But it's hard. It's hard to block her from his mind when their apartment, his apartment, feels like her. Everything reminds her of him.

He will see the wilting dahlias on the counter, their petals falling to the marble. His last-ditch effort, when words failed and he just wasn't enough. Yet he can't bring himself to get rid of them, to finally toss them into the trash. He sees the looks that his friends shoot them when they come over to make sure that he isn't dead. He lets the blossoms rot just like what was supposed to be his great love.

He will see the empty drawers on the other side of their (cross this out) his bedroom and he will remember. It will all come flooding back to him, of how she tore through like a hurricane, pulling clothes out of hidden places and taking it all. She left him nothing, in a million pieces, with nothing left to pull himself together again.

But no, that's not true. He will see a shirt that she forgot, lying alone in a closet. It still smells like her. It's from their first tour, when they were still fumbling teenagers, sneaking glances at each other and pretending like they didn't see the chemistry between them. What he would give to go back to that time, when they were still young. It becomes stained with tears.

He breaks all the rules that he put into place for himself, watching his face in the mirror when he breaks.

I'm tempted to distract myself

I'm trying not to

Cuz I'll make myself feel all of this

If it's all that I got left of you

He debates whether or not he should drown out his sorrows with noise. To fill his days with as many activities as he can, leave no time for his brain to reflect. But his pain is all that he has left of her. All that he has are his wilting memories and his rotting heart.

When the pain goes away she will be gone forever. He will only have half-concocted dreams and plans that have holes as gaping as their bond. He will only have her from the eyes of others, never through the intimate lens of knowing someone so wholly that you know them better than they know themselves.

He will never have a connection that deep, not when they both brought each other back from the brink. He will never love like that again, never be loved like that again. It breaks him.

He takes his pain and he keeps it close to him, his last bitter remnants of something so good.

You came to Portugal in 2014

Just to spend a couple days with me

You flew halfway 'round the world for me

It's a week after she left that he thinks about how they got there. How they got to the point of breaking. He skirts around the bad memories, the ones that he sees now climbing the stairs to the final plateau. He doesn't want to feel the pain but maybe happy memories will make it worse. He doesn't care.

He thinks about a time where everything felt high, long before everything dipped so low. He thinks about a time that he was in Portugal, for a reason that he can't even remember now. He knows what she was doing, shooting her first movie halfway around the world. He remembers how it felt to be apart from her that long, and he remembers how he vowed to never do it again.

She flew half-way around the world just to see him, to make good memories. He remembers the way that her eyes crinkled at the corners when she got off the plane, her smile growing and growing. He remembers the way that he rushed to her, the way that they felt like two puzzle pieces clicking back together as cameras flashed around them.

That separation was only temporary. Now they made the final cut, he broke his promise. They closed the pages of their book, snuffed out their flame. They lost the pieces of their puzzle. He remembers the times when they burned bright, feeling like they would never go down. What he would give to go back.

I swear I'm knocking out the next guy

Who says, "At least you'll get some breakup songs"

'Cause it ain't nearly been enough time

He loves all of the fans. Those that knew him from Sunset Curve and those that found him through Julie and the Phantoms. He loves them, he really does, but sometimes it gets to be too much.

They were public with their relationship, and that only made it so much harder when it came crashing down. Julie and the Phantoms broke up. There was nothing that they could do about that, when it was impossible for the two of them to be in the same place without a shouting match, words being hurled like daggers back and forth. And Reggie didn't need that.

So they had to tell the fans, a bland statement crafted by PR that they posted to Instagram. And then they went silent. They refused to say anything, and the two biggest stars in the music industry dropped off the face of the planet.

Even though he wasn't speaking, it didn't mean that he wasn't listening. He read the comments, saw the direct messages, fans flooding him with praise and support. He appreciated some of it, but some of it only hurt. The messages about songs were his least favorite.

He didn't want to write songs about her, at least not now. Not when the wounds are still bleeding fresh. Not when his heart still beats for her. Not when he hasn't moved on.

They promised each other, when they first started, that they wouldn't write sad songs about each other, at least not at first. They also promised to never leave each other. He is a man of broken promises.

He ignores everyone who says things about breakup songs, even as he listens to a playlist full of them. His Spotify knows him too well. He starts crafting lyrics in his head.

For two weeks, he is silent. No notes slip from his lips, from his fingers. No music comes out of him. He only lasts two weeks. Music comes pouring out of him, lyrics in chicken-scratch inscribed onto paper.

The music is personal, painful, not for him to sing in public. It's not for the band, not for whatever solo album his record label wants him to put out. It's been so long since he's written music just for himself, not because someone told him to. He imagines her doing the same thing, her curls hiding the paper from view. He remembers how she bit her lip while thinking about a song lyric, how she looked up through her eyes lashes when she asked him what he thought.

He remembers it all and he turns it into a song. He sings it to himself and it doesn't make him feel any better, but it's a start.

It's a start down the path of healing, the start of his wounds knitting together. It's a start as he sings himself to sleep, tears collecting in his eyes.

It's hard to summarize three years

More like four years

Depends where you start counting

It don't matter

He doesn't know when they first started. He doubts that she knew either.

If he goes from when they first met, their story starts a lot differently.

She was sixteen, he was seventeen. They were young and naive and bright and starry-eyed. They were two chemicals mixed together in the same beaker, begging to combust. They had a chemistry that they couldn't deny, that everyone could see. They were so high, floating on the clouds. They were performing and they were singing and they were friends.

If he goes from when they became something else, the story changes again.

She was seventeen, he was eighteen. They had been a band for a year, been playing and writing and singing for a year. The time flew by, each day long and full and good. They were so, so good. They finally gave in to the chemistry, let themselves combine and combust.

Their first kiss was electric, the start of something new. Something new grew and twisted between them, green and young and alive.

They lasted for three years like that. For three years, everything was happy. For three years it felt like nothing could ever pull them down from the sky. They were young and they thought that they would be together forever.

She was twenty, he was twenty-one. He could tell that they were heading down the road of breaking. And he knew that she knew and that the band knew.

It was in the glances that used to be light and were now just dark. It was in the songs that used to be perfect harmonies and were now dissonance. It was in the shows that used to be played smoothly and now were peppered with mistakes. They gave each other so many signs.

The signs were what saved them in the end. The signs were what prevented the massive blowout, instead letting them down into a field of heartbreak gently. The signs let them leave each other silently, quiet tears and half-baked apologies.

My friends are making sure I don't see you

I strategize a path to the bathroom

So I don't walk past you

He knows that they put Alex and Reggie in an awkward spot. He knows that they are still friends with her, how could they not be, when she is who she is.

He sees the texts when he takes their phones for some silly reason, feels the pang in his heart when he sees Jules 💗.

It takes seven months until the two of them are in the same place at the same time. It's some awards show, where he can check out and people watch, not up for any trophies or shiny things.

It's all going well until he hears her name be called, sees her walk up onto the stage. It's the first time that he's seen her, really seen her. Whenever she comes up on the tv or his phone he always swipes away, hiding from it. He doesn't know what she's winning (he is a liar) and he doesn't care (liar, liar).

She looks stunning and it hurts because he knows that she isn't thinking about him as much as he is thinking about her. She talks and she smiles and she laughs on stage until he can't take it anymore.

He can't take it and he feels himself spiraling. He plots his way to the restroom, making sure he doesn't pass her or any of their old friends. He knows that the paparazzi are snapping photos of his face, of the way that he flees instead of confronting his emotions. He doesn't care, in the moment, what they get. They will get him, his raw version, not the polished PR perfect version. Good. Let the world see someone in pain.

He hides in the bathroom for the rest of the show, until he can't anymore, and then he leaves. They are screaming out his name, cameras blinding him as he rushes to his car. He ignores them all. He turns his phone off, makes the driver drive in silence, the only sounds his breathing. He almost breaks down there again, not the first time that he would've cried in a car. But he pulls it together, catching the eye of the driver in the mirror.

When he is at his apartment that still feels too big and too quiet, even all these months later, he has texts from Alex and Reggie. He responds and he catches the Daily Mail already reporting on his abrupt exit. They get everything wrong and he's not sure how much more of it he can bear.

You leave before the concert is finished

It takes a year before he is ready to perform again. If he knew that their last performance together was going to be their final goodbye on the stage, he wonders if he would have done it differently. He wonders and it eats at him but he pushes through. He swims through the acid to the other side.

It's not a proper concert, more of an opening act than the main show, but it's something. It's a step in the right direction. And she just happens to be there. He wasn't warned, he wasn't given a sign. He wanted one, so he could have prepared himself to look at her. When she looks so happy, her arm slung around Flynn.

And he knows that she doesn't know that he is here, because otherwise there would be sour lemon puckered lips on what is a sweet lemonade smile. He knows because otherwise, she wouldn't be here.

He only has a few songs, classic covers chosen by his PR team. It feels like they choose everything that he does now, they monitor his every move. He wants to be raw, to be honest. He is not a perfect man.

He gets up on stage. She isn't looking at him, still hasn't glanced his way. Flynn sees him, and she gives him a bittersweet smile.

He starts singing. It feels like him but not, the backing band roaring to life. It's so different from performing with Julie and the Phantoms, as he sees her recognize his voice and turn around. He sees her smile drop and he feels his heart break again. She watches him and he feels like his body is collapsing. But he keeps going, keeps singing, just like she did, just like they did right before the end.

There's one song left when he makes his decision. What comes out of his mouth is not the pop-punk song that his PR picked out for him. It’s a song that he listened to all those months ago, in the aftermath of the tragedy. He watches her face as the lyrics pour out of him, watches her leave before he is finished.

Because they can’t even be in the same room.

[soundwavereporting]

What about the concept of that affection post you reblogged but like with prowl for the prompt thing???? I'm v bad at coming up with stuff so forgive me

i present:

false starts and casual physical contact, starring prowl, cosmos, and a couple of random, very unimaginatively named OCs. technically it’s future!prowlcoswave, but is currently coswave, ft. three emotionally stunted characters. it takes place a couple months after the end of ‘redux’, (which i still haven’t finished.)

unbeta’d save for spellcheck and a repetitive word detector. ao3 link in the source. feedback is always appreciated!

Of all the things Prowl had ever imagined he might end up doing if and when the war ended, reuniting Decepticons with their conjuxes had never been one of them.

“I mean, we’re not technically conjuxes,” Outburst was saying. “After the siege at the Perseus Veil, Sparknote and I were separated before we could complete the fourth step. So we’re technically not conjuxes. Yet.”

Outburst was very obviously an MTO—likely one of the last batches. He had that overeager, slightly desperate look of a mech who didn’t know what to do with himself off the battlefield, and he was gawking at Prowl as though Prowl was a sparkeater who had decided to sit himself behind a desk and devote half a day to locating a long-lost-almost-conjux.

“Uh-huh.”

“We never even discussed the fourth step,” Outburst said. “And even if we had—I still don’t know what I should do! It’s been half a million years since we saw each other. Sparknote’s been traveling the galaxy and I’ve been spinning my wheels patrolling warworlds. All the stuff he’s seen—how can I even compare?”

Prowl looked over the edge of his screen and peered at Outburst.

“It seems Sparknote has been looking for you as well,” Prowl said. “Changing your designation resulted in the queries being erroneously rerouted.”

“I told—I told him I was thinking about changing it,” Outburst said. “Are you sure that’s the right person? Maybe he doesn’t want to see me. Maybe—”

Wordlessly, Prowl pushed the datapad over to Outburst, who took one look at the image of the Deception named Sparknote (third lieutenant, last assigned to the Alpha Exploratory Corps) and let out a sharp, static-laden exhale. His tactical HUD flashed, and Prowl had a microsecond of warning before Outburst leapt over the desk to tackle Prowl in a strut-crushing embrace.

“It’s him,” Outburst said, as Prowl tried to decide whether to shove the Deception away or return the gesture. He wondered if Outburst could hear his processor spinning. “It’s him, it’s him, it’s him.”

Decision made, Prowl stiffened his shoulders and Outburst jumped back as though he’d been shocked. His leg banged the desk and a datapad clattered to the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” Outburst said. “I just—”

Prowl held up a placating hand as his vision slowly returned to normal. “It’s fine. Good luck with your act of devotion, Outburst.”

Outburst beamed.

Within the hour, Prowl’s shift was finished, and sooner rather than later, Prowl set down his datapads and locked the door to his office. The halls were no more crowded than they usually were—most mechs completed their shifts at the same time Prowl had finished his. Prowl made a mental note to adjust his schedule tomorrow in order to accommodate mechs who needed to see him after hours. Carefully, Prowl navigated the throngs of Decepticons as he made his way back to habsuite.

Since accepting the position of deputy security chief two months ago, the rate of glares and side eyes had dropped significantly. His first week on the station, he had received 39 such looks, up to a high of 988 the week he began his job, to a low of 19 this week.

Prowl opened the habsuite door and stepped in.

His plating was warm where Outburst had embraced him. Not overly so, not nearly enough to be irritating. Just warm.

“Hey.” Cosmos said. The Autobot’s frame was relaxed—he had hardly bothered to turn and see if it was actually Prowl entering the habsuite.

Cosmos usually worked the overnight shift at the comms, since it was quieter, and, Prowl knew, gave him ample time to flirt with Soundwave via comlink.

Prowl grabbed a cube from the dispenser and sat beside Cosmos. He tried to peer over the Autobot’s shoulder to see what he was reading, but Cosmos was simply too tall. After a moment, Cosmos tilted the datapad up so Prowl could see.

“Translating again?”

“Yeah.” Cosmos tapped the datapad. “I’m on the classics—but I’ve got circuits older than the ‘classics’.”

“It’s a relative term,” Prowl said neutrally. “Anything interesting?”

“Unless you’re into uncomfortably saccharine, human, descriptions of forbidden love, not really.” Cosmos paused. “D’you think Soundwave’d get it if I sent him some of these?”

Cosmos held up the datapad.

“You’re not experiencing forbidden love.”

“Hah.” Cosmos gave the datapad one last, irritated look and switched it off. “Feels like it, sometimes.”

“If it helps,” Prowl said, entirely unsure whether or not his next words would actually help. “Soundwave feels the same—about the whole ‘forbidden love’, thing, at least.”

“Oh.” Cosmos gesticulated with the datapad, waving it mere inches from Prowl’s face. “I knew it! You two do talk about me.”

“No more than we talk about anyone else,” Prowl lied, and Cosmos scoffed. “He has shown me a few of the exchanges you two engaged in.”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Cosmos mumbled and tossed the datapad onto the table. “I’m really gonna kill him.”

“I was the one who asked,” Prowl offered. “I wanted to know why he was so distracted.”

“He could’ve lied!”

“I would have known.”

Prowl picked up the datapad Cosmos had been translating and studied it for a moment. Saccharine indeed.

Prowl set it down.

“He needed help,” Prowl said, finally. “Sometimes, he doesn’t exactly know how to reply.”

“Primus.” Cosmos said. “Is that why he sometimes takes two hours to respond?”

Prowl nodded, unsure if the level of embarrassment he was feeling was proportionate to the current situation.

“I was the one who suggested comparing you to the green circuit nebula,” Prowl admitted.

“So instead of overworking yourselves in your off duty hours,” Cosmos began. “You overwork yourselves trying to come up with ways to flirt with me.”

“That is only a small fraction of what we do,” Prowl said.

“Figures.”

And that seemed to be that.

Prowl finished his cube and debated getting up for another, then decided against it. Cosmos’s frame was pleasantly warm against his side, and the mech would be leaving for his shift in a few minutes anyway.

“I liked it,” Cosmos said, finally. “What you wrote. Or he wrote. Your collaboration, I guess.”

 “He meant it,” Prowl said, and judging by the tilt of the Autobot’s head, imagined Cosmos was smiling under his battlemask.

“Some forbidden love, “ Cosmos said. “When I’ve got someone helping the guy I’m trying to court. Hey—if I can’t figure out what to tell Soundwave, does that mean I can ask you?”

As if on cue, Cosmos’s comlink chimed.

Cosmos looked at Prowl, then sheepishly looked at his chat log, then equally sheepishly showed Prowl the message.

“Send him a song,” Prowl suggested. “Some of that earth music he likes.”

“Hm.” Cosmos typed his response, and together, they waited.

A moment later, the comlink chimed again.

“He said…” Cosmos trailed off. “To tell you the gesture was appreciated?”

Prowl looked up, half-expecting to see Soundwave emerging from the ceiling.

“Telepath,” Prowl realized. “I told him not to listen to me.”

“You want me to tell him that?”

Prowl shrugged.

“He’s—oh.” This time, Cosmos was the one to look up at the ceiling. “Not listening to you. I’m thinking loudly enough for the both of us, I guess.”

“…ah.” Prowl dared to sneak a glance at Cosmos, who looked like he had just been caught in an uncomfortable, interpersonal crossfire. “You are sitting next to me, Cosmos,” Prowl said. “It’s only natural you would be thinking about me.”

“I know!” Cosmos keyed in his reply and sent it, then turned to face Prowl fully. “It’s just…thinking, y’know?”

“Thinking?”

“Yeah.” Cosmos gestured at the datapad, then at himself. “The way he wrote it, it got me thinking.”

“About?”

Cosmos sighed.

“I think I’m in a little over my head,” Cosmos admitted. “Flirting’s nice and all, but I’ve never been in a serious relationship before. Not one I was really invested in, anyway. It’s never gotten to the point where we actually do anything, and he listens to me, which is fine, so I know he knows I’m thinking about it, but it’s like…I want to, but the concept of it is just so uncomfortable. Does that make sense?”

Prowl thought back to Outburst.

“Yes.”  

“I kinda hoped you wouldn’t,” Cosmos said. “Just so I could ask you what I should do. You know, being an impartial, flirting-assistant and all.”

Prowl remembered how Outburst had so effortlessly cast aside thousands of years of war and hate and trauma in a moment of pure, unfiltered reliefs and joy. Would it be possible to learn to do that? Did he even want to want that?

Prowl wasn’t sure.

But Cosmos did.

“I suppose the first step is to get comfortable with casual physical contact,” Prowl said. “And to define casual physical contact.”

“Makes sense,” Cosmos said. “But, I can’t really go up to a random Deception and go ‘hey I’d like to work up to kissing Soundwave, can I practice by giving you a hug?’” Cosmos looked away, then back at Prowl, and Prowl tensed, instinctively dreading the next question, simply because he didn’t have an answer. “I mean, unless you’re willing to, uh, help? Is that the right way to put it?”

“I don’t mind,” Prowl guessed. “I think. I’d…I’d tell you if I did—or when I do, at least.”

That seemed to be the safest answer—better than I don’t know, at any rate.

Cosmos let out a slow exhale. “Okay. Here goes: Prowl. Can I give you a hug?”

He hadn’t expected Cosmos to ask, but he supposed that was the proper way to do it.

“Yeah,” Prowl said. “I mean, yes.”

“Okay.” Cosmos coughed awkwardly. Prowl hadn’t yet decided if that habit was endearing or annoying. “Okay?”

Moving just quickly enough to make it slightly less awkward than Prowl feared it would be, Cosmos moved forward, arms outstretched, and pulled him into an embrace.

A moment later, Prowl realized that he should probably return the gesture, and he awkwardly lifted his arms up to rest on Cosmos’s back.

“Oh.” Cosmos tensed, and for a microsecond his angles and trajectories shifted, indicating Cosmos was uncomfortable, but they settled back just as quickly, and Cosmos relaxed against Prowl’s frame.

“I guess a good hug is supposed to be two-way, huh?”

“It would seem so.” Prowl said dryly. His plating itched, but not unbearably so. He could stay like this for a while, Prowl thought, and realized with some relief that Cosmos seemed to be indicating he felt the same.

“My shift starts in a few minutes,” Cosmos said. “I should really get going.”

But he made no move to pull away, and Prowl didn’t encourage him.

[qualquercoisa945]

My Heart’s At The Wheel Now (Part 2)- I Know In Due Time Every Right Thing Will Find Its Right Place

AO3 Link

Title Inspiration- Everything Changes from Waitress

Okay so this has been ready for a couple days now but I wanted to wait to post it because it’s incredibly Lizzie centric and today would be her birthday. So, this is, in a way, a bit of a tribute to one of the best monarchs England ever had. I hope she’s happy, wherever she is

Trigger Warnings- brief mentions of death and i think that’s it, but ask me to tag

Anne hadn’t cared much about what Cassandra wanted to tell them at first. When she’d heard she “wanted them to meet someone,” she’d assumed it was just an interviewer or something.

But then a young girl’s voice sounded through the phone, and Anne paused. It sounded oddly familiar, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on it.

And then came Cathy and Kath’s joint comment, the one that made her freeze. She turned around, suddenly very much paying attention to the conversation.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” The girl’s- her girl’s, she reminded herself, a small skip of her heart when she thought those words- voice spoke again, and she found herself taking quiet steps forward, although not enough to be in the camera’s range. “But, uh, yeah. It’s me. It’s been a while, huh?”

She noticed Kath take a step back as Cathy stepped forward, all the tell tale signs of her anxiety showing as she spoke. “Lizzie, I’m so sor-”

“Don’t. I dropped whatever little anger I had over that a long time ago.” Anne just barely bit back the smirk that tried to snake its way to her face- she was right about how her daughter felt about it. She watched as Cathy’s expression turned into shock, and then just gentle fondness.

“It’s very nice to see you again, Lizzie.” She replied softly, an odd tone to hear the usually fierce queen take. There was a moment of silence, and then Lizzie spoke up.

“So, um. I guess I should tell you that, all four of us are back. Me, Mary, Eddie, and… Mae.” At those words, everyone was struck silent, watching Cathy as her eyes widened and her mouth fell slightly open. “Yeah. Do you wanna talk to her?”

Cathy seemed to pause for a moment to think, then speak up. “You’re already here, you might as well talk to your mum first.” Anne froze at that, watching as the others agreed and slipped out of the kitchen to “give them some space”. There was a moment where her and Cathy’s eyes met as the latter gave her the phone, and then Anne took it and sat at the table, waiting for the last queen to leave before setting the phone on the table and facing the camera.

“Hi mama.” Anne felt a lump form in her throat at that word, but she forced herself to stay calm, despite how close she felt to breaking down after finally, finally seeing her little girl again.

“Hey, ma princesse.” She finally replied, giving her daughter the softest smile she could manage.

The pair then fell into silence, silence that was relatively calm, if not slightly tense, before Lizzie spoke up again.

“Um, so you’re telling your stories, huh?” Anne gave a nod, smiling softly. “Through a musical, I assume you’ve been told.”

Lizzie nodded, giving her an amused smirk. “Odd method, but it seems to be working.” The girl paused for a moment, and if the way her arms were positioned and the incredibly soft sound she heard from the other end of the phone were any indication, Anne would guess she was fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

“I’m happy for you all.” She finally spoke up, snapping Anne out of her reverie. “That you’re reclaiming your stories, and separating them from…” She trailed off, but there was no need to actually say his name- they both knew who it was. “You guys have been done enough injustices.”

She shook her head, her expression shifting into a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But enough of that. How is everyone?” For a moment, Anne almost considered going back to the previous subject, to make sure she was alright. But maybe that’d be too much for their first conversation after so long. She understood why Lizzie wanted to keep the mood lighter for now. So she moved on.

“As well as we can be, honestly. We’re all… healing. And having the others there has helped.” She paused for a moment, thinking back to her earlier conversation with Cathy, but made herself go back to the present. “Me and Aragon don’t argue as much anymore. We never argued all that much, honestly, not big arguments anyways. I think that’s good, honestly, it would’ve made things way harder than they need to be.”

“Oh, that’s nice!” Lizzie chirped up, though her expression fell soon after. “Though, I think you’ll have more trouble with Mary. You and Kitty, she doesn’t seem to like either of you much. I’m surprised she doesn’t dislike me, honestly.”

Anne gave her a soft, hopefully comforting smile- she wished she could be there for her daughter, be able to hold her and such, because that would make comforting her much easier, but for now words would have to do. “I’m sure things will work out. It’s alright, ma princesse, don’t worry about it much.” Lizzie nodded, and so Anne continued. “Jane…” She paused when she noticed Lizzie’s lips press into a fine line. “I know, I know. I didn’t trust her in the beginning either. But she’s changed. Truly, she’s worked towards it and still is. It was very tense in the beginning, but we’ve worked past that as best we can, and although there are still some… not as good days, we’ve mostly worked past those issues. She’s changed.” “I’ll believe that when I see it.” Lizzie muttered, and Anne had to bite back a chuckle- Cathy wasn’t joking when she’d said Lizzie was a lot like her, it seemed.

“Moving on, Anna is honestly doing really well. She supports us as best she can, and it seems she doesn’t let whatever scars she has from the past hold her back much.” She left out her suspicions that Anna didn’t let the others see into those scars much- Lizzie had just come back into their lives, she wasn’t going to put that kind of thing on her.

“Good. She always seemed really cool when we met, I’m glad she’s doing well.” Lizzie replied with a kind smile, that quickly faded. “How… how’s Kitty?”

Anne sighed softly, giving her a small, slightly regretful smile. “She’s… healing. It’s tough, but she’s getting there, I’m sure of it. She’s come really far already, and I couldn’t be prouder.” She paused for a moment, debating over whether or not to keep going. “She and Jane think of each other as mother and daughter.” She held a hand up when Lizzie opened her mouth. “I know, I know. But Jane does really care for her. I trust her, and you can too.”

“Again, I’ll believe it when I see it.” Lizzie repeated, and Anne simply nodded in response.

“I can’t blame you for that. But, well, rest assured I wouldn’t be letting her around Kitty if I didn’t think she’d be happy.” When Lizzie nodded in response, Anne continued. “And Cathy…” “As withdrawn as ever, I assume?” Lizzie piped with an amused smirk, and Anne couldn’t help but laugh, nodding. This earned a confident chuckle from Lizzie. “Figures. But I do hope she’s doing well.”

“She’s trying to open up more, I think. I hope you lot coming back, her Mary-”

“Mae.” Anne paused at that, letting out an inelegant “uh?”, earning a soft, slightly nostalgic smirk from Lizzie. “She always said, if she had a girl, she’d name her Mary but call her Mae as a nickname. Figured we should honor that, especially now that she has her back, you know?”

Anne froze for a bit after that, then gave her a soft, proud smile. “That’s very right, Lizzie. ’m proud of you.” She chuckled softly at the way her daughter’s smile widened at that. “But, going back to what I was saying, I hope you lot coming back, Mae especially, will help her to open up more. It’s okay if it doesn’t, though.”

“You gotta heal at your own pace, and all that?” Lizzie piped up, nodding with a smirk when Anne agreed. “And what about you, then?”

Anne gave her a soft smile. “I’m… I’m pretty happy, honestly. I can actually speak my mind now, which is still taking a bit to adjust to, despite having had a whole new life in this time. But I’m getting there. It’s just taking some time.”

“It’s what I just said, right?”

“Indeed it is.” Anne agreed, and then once again they fell into comfortable silence for a few moments. “And you?”

Lizzie shrugged, and for a moment Anne noticed an odd sort of neutrality in her eyes that she couldn’t help but worry about. “Well, I’m 11. I like to draw, paint, I guess I’m what you’d call the artsy kid in school.” She let out an soft giggle, then fell back into that same neutral expression. “No clue who my birth parents are in this life, though. Either they died or they abandoned me. Sucky, but, what’re you gonna do about it, you know?���

Ah. “Oh, sweetness…” Anne murmured softly, her mind freezing up with shock as she tried to figure out what to say.

But then Lizzie shrugged. “It’s whatever. Can’t miss something you never had, right?” She giggled again, but this time it was much emptier, almost anxious. “Though, I’ll admit, once I figured out who I am… Well, I’d always missed you, obviously, and Cathy as well, and just about anyone I actually liked from back then, but knowing…”

“It makes it worse.” Lizzie nodded, and Anne gave her a soft, sympathetic smile. “It sucks, I know, ma princesse. It does get easier with time, though, as cliché as that sounds.”

“I know.” Lizzie replied softly, pausing for a moment before giving Anne an incredibly shaky smile and- were those tears in the corners of her eyes? “‘m glad we get this second chance. To like, be together and crap. It was really sucky that we didn’t get one the first time.”

“Agreed.” Anne murmured, and for the first time she noticed she, too, had tears in the corners of her eyes. She gave Lizzie a soft smile, then heard a knock on the other end. She fell quiet as Lizzie had a conversation with whoever it was- in all fairness, she sort of let her mind wander after the knock, tuning it out. Then Lizzie spoke again, and her tiny smile was gone.

“Eddie wants to talk to his mum. Can you go get Jane?” She kept her tone neutral, probably to try and keep the boy from noticing the dislike for his mother that she previously had no trouble voicing, but Anne didn’t mention it. Instead, she just nodded, giving her another soft smile.

“I love you, ma princesse.” After she got a soft “love you too, mama” in response that had her all but melting- seriously, how was she meant to handle these feelings?- she set the phone down, ignoring the shuffle she heard on the other end as she headed for the living room. There, she found Aragon, with Cathy cuddled up to her and what she was fairly sure were tear stains running down her cheeks, though she couldn’t blame her for it, on one end of the couch, Kitty cuddled up to Jane, who definitely had tear stains on her cheeks, and Anna, who walked over with a soft smile. “How are you feeling?”

Anne paused for a moment before she answered, giving her a lopsided, slightly awkward grin. “I’m feeling a lot of things right now.” She admitted with a laugh, before sobering up slightly as she turned to face the couch. “Jane, it’s your turn.”

[softeddiek]

Political Campaign au

after debating whether or not to finish it all and post it as a oneshot, or post it as four separate chapters, i finally decided to just put the first chapter up, lol

fic to go with this gendrya photoset

read on ao3

August

It’s nearing 3pm, the sun is beating down on her neck, and Arya is ready to finish for the day and head home.

When she had agreed to help out with Margaery’s campaign (or rather, when Sansa had hounded her into helping) she had hoped she wouldn’t have to spend every weekend canvassing, maybe spend some time hitting the phones instead. At least then when people were yelling obscenities at you and questioning how you got their phone number (public record people) it was done in the cool, albeit a bit stale, air conditioning of the office Margaery was renting out. She would admit though, the app that Margaery and her campaign team insisted on them using to keep track of houses they’d stopped at was a lot more efficient than the paper and clipboards they had used for Robb’s last campaign.

Normally she wouldn’t mind canvassing too much. Sure, people could be rude and, sometimes, downright hostile. But, despite all of her grumbling, Arya really believed in Margaery as a candidate and was always pleased to be met with a constituent eager to learn more about her and her platform. Still, Arya had had a long week at work and the last thing she wanted to do today was get up at 8am, drive over to the already hectic office, and be sent out to some neighborhood she wasn’t familiar with in order to convince people that they really ought to be thinking about the midterm election three months from now. Not when she could be home relaxing and catching up on chores around the house.

So, when she looks at her phone and sees she only has one house left on the map to hit before she can head back to where she parked her car, she sends a silent prayer of thanks to the Old Gods. Hoping it’ll be an easy one—older, same party affiliation as Margaery, frequent voter—she clicks on the voter profile.

Gendry Waters (I)

Male, 33 y/o

1712 NW Fleabottom Rd.

No voter history available

She finds herself letting out a sigh at the Independent mark by his name, and yet another one at seeing the man has never voted before.

Margaery’s primary had been a closed one, so only registered members of their party could vote in it. She had easily beaten Albar Royce and her team had immediately gone into overdrive so as to win the general election against that shithead, Joffrey Lannister. She now needed to shift some of her focus to constituents who were registered with the main opposing party, fringe parties, and Independents. Arya had nothing against Independents, per say, she just hated trying to convince them to vote for someone running under a major party. They were just as likely to swing to the other party as they were hers and, with no voter history to look at, this guy could easily be supporting Lannister already. It was never any fun trying to talk to someone, only to realize they were a Lannister supporter, none-to-eager to have you on their doorstep.

Seeing Mr. Waters’ house is only one house over from the one she had just stopped at and gotten no answer from (though she was positive she heard the sound of the tv coming from the inside of the house), she wipes the sweat off her brow, plasters on a smile, and makes her way toward it.

The house is buttery yellow in color, the shutters a sun-bleached red, and the grass is what her mom would describe as ‘a few days past in need of a mowing.’ It’s a cute house really, if looking a little bit like the owner doesn’t have time for the upkeep. Arya isn’t really one to talk though; her job at the local state park keeps her busy and she often finds herself putting off household chores. There’s an old Chevy parked in the driveway so it’s safe to say the owner is home. Whether he’ll actually open the door to her or not is a whole other story. She doesn’t see any Lannister signs in the yard, so at least he doesn’t seem to be a fervent supporter of the opposition.

She’s got the thought of sitting in her car with the AC on high on her mind as she reaches forward and raps twice on the door, taking one step back so as not to crowd the guy. She’s counting the seconds in her head, debating on whether talking to him is worth another knock (Margaery has three months before the election, someone is bound to have to visit this house again if she marks it as a ‘Not Home’) when she hears a muffled voice call out.

“Hang on a second.”

Holding in her groan, she begins rehearsing the script in her head and rifling through the pamphlets she has left to hand out. She’s propping the stack up on one knee, trying to root out the one with Margaery’s amendment recommendations on it, when the door jerks open and startles her, causing her to nearly send the stack to the ground.

Standing in the doorway is a man who very well could be Gendry Waters. He’s tall and broad, with thick black hair and piercing blue eyes. The stubble on his jaw and slight wrinkles around those blue eyes certainly make him look like he could be in his 30s. Arya tends to be too engrossed in her spiel on Margaery to truly take in what the people she’s talking to look like but, frankly, this guy is hot.

And also frowning down at her.

She clears her throat, already worried from the look on his face that this is going to go badly. “Good afternoon sir! My name is Arya and I’m a volunteer for—”

“Look, whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.” He’s moving to shut the door in her face when her sneaker-clad foot darts out, wedging itself between the door and its frame. She cringes internally, knowing her mother would be having a conniption about how unsafe that move just was if she could see her.

Engaging a constituent like this is not a good idea, but she can’t help herself from blurting out, louder than necessary, “I’m not selling anything. Look, are you Gendry Waters or what?”

He eyes her warily. “Who’s asking?”

“If you’d have let me finish,” she grumbles out. His eyebrow raises, an unimpressed look adorning his face. “I’m a volunteer for the Margaery Tyrell campaign. Are you Gendry Waters?”

He looks reluctant to answer. “Yeah. And before you start asking for donations or something, you should know I don’t—”

“Vote. Yeah, I know.”

His forehead scrunches up in confusion. Knowing he’s about to ask how she knows that (they always do) she decides to speak before he can.

Rattling off parts of the script she’s been using the past few weeks, she says, “Margaery Tyrell is running for State Senate this election against Republican incumbent Joffrey Lannister. A former social worker, Margaery feels strongly about the housing crisis plaguing our district. Should she be elected, she looks forward to being sent to our state’s capital to immediately begin working with fellow legislators on ways to provide affordable housing to lower income families in our district and around the state. Margaery is also a staunch advocate for the environment, and supports recently introduced S.B. 4120, the Kingswood Wildlife Preservation Act. Do these seem like qualities in a candidate that interest you?”

The man—Gendry Waters’ forehead is still furrowed, only now there’s a scowl around his mouth. “Tyrell? As in the family that owns that big agricultural company out in the Reach?”

She hesitates. He’s that type of independent then. Arya herself was never too keen on the Tyrell family business, but in all her years as Sansa’s friend, Margaery had proven herself to be down-to-earth and, recently, willing to take on the big corporations by closing legal loopholes that allow them to wreak havoc on the environment. “Margaery’s father and grandmother own shares in Tyrell Farm Corp., yes.” Seeing he’s about to retort back she adds on, “Margaery has, however, asked that her family have little involvement in her campaign, and only make personal donations totaling no more than $100.”

He scoffs. “Right, I’m sure she has.”

If Arya couldn’t feel sweat pooling on the back of her neck and the rumble of hunger that came from only eating an apple on the drive to the office this morning, she might have stayed. She might have set the record straight about Margaery and the donations she was accepting for her campaign. She might have done all in her power to sway this man into voting for Margaery. But honestly, after the attitude he was giving her and all of these other factors, she couldn’t be assed to try. Besides, if he has a problem with Margaery’s background, at least she now knows he won’t be voting for Joffrey. The Lannister family is a terror.

“Okay, I can see I’m not going to be getting anywhere here. Can I just leave some pamphlets with you?”

“Yeah, fine,” he grumbles out. She hands some of the glossy fliers to him, ready for the inevitable slamming of the door.

He’s staring at her pointedly, clearing his throat when all she does is stare at him confused. “Your foot…”

Embarrassed, she pulls her foot back from the doorway it was still sticking out in, turning around to walk the few blocks back to her car. “Have a good day sir,” she calls out behind her sarcastically. She rolls her eyes at the sound of the door slamming.

It takes a lot of restraint to not add “a bit of an asshole” to the notes on his voter profile.

--

Arya’s just washing up the last of the dishes she’d let pile up over the week in her sink when her drier buzzes, signaling the load she’d put in was done. Putting the last plate in the drying rack, she wipes her hands off on a dish towel and heads toward her laundry room.

As soon as she’d gotten home from canvassing, she’d taken a shower, thrown on some comfortable clothes, and started making headway in her list of chores. She’s hoping to get through the last few things by tomorrow morning, so she might have time to get some gardening done. Jon always makes fun of her choosing to spend her Sundays gardening, especially when she spends all of her week outdoors at work, but she’s pretty sure he’s just upset that he can’t keep a plant alive for shit.

She’s just finished putting her clothes away when she enters the living room to see her phone light up with a text. Checking it, she sees it’s from her friend Shireen.

Queen Shireen: Drinks tonight? On me.

Arya: You had me at free drinks, lmao

Queen Shireen: Haha, I thought I would. The Crossroads?

Arya: Ew, no, that gross bartender might be working

Queen Shireen: Tru, tru.

Arya: How about Hot Pie’s place

Queen Shireen: Is he working tonight?

Arya: Idk, maybe

Arya: If he is, we can probably get some free fries from him

Queen Shireen: I’m down.

Arya: 9:30?

Queen Shireen: Lmao bitch, you thought.

Queen Shireen: I have to be up early tomorrow to catch the ferry to Dragonstone. I’m going to visit my father and stepmom.

Arya: Ooh, the wicked witch of Dragonstone herself

Queen Shireen: She wishes.

Queen Shireen: …literally. She wishes she were a witch.

Arya: Don’t we all

Queen Shireen: Lol.

Queen Shireen: 7:30?

Arya: Sounds good! I’ll see you there

--

The bar Hot Pie works at had been an inn before it had been a bar. He’d been the cook there and when it had been bought out by some congressman named Dondarrion from the Marches, they’d kept Hot Pie on. At his insistence, they’d kept much of the inn’s menu when it became the bar, though most people settled for ordering fries and nachos, much to Hot Pie’s chagrin. The outside was just as dingy as it had been when it was an inn—apparently the new owner couldn’t be fucked to clean it up a bit—and the sign on the front was in such disrepair, that nobody knew the actual name of the place. She’d heard some of the bartenders refer to themselves as a brotherhood, but she figured that was just some weird southern thing.

When Arya arrives, she has to muscle her way past a few people before reaching the corner booth Shireen has managed to snag, her purse, coat, and drink spread across the seat and table, an intimidating look on her face. Well, intimidating for Shireen.

“Hey, sorry I’m late, just lost track of time a bit.” She slides some of Shireen’s stuff over and plops down on the sticky vinyl seat.

Shireen rolls her eyes. “’s fine, I got started without ya.”

She sends her friend a grin. “I can tell. So, what’s wrong then, why are you already tipsy at…,” she checks her phone, “8:04?”

Shireen lets out a prolonged sigh, propping her right arm onto the table and resting her face against her hand. “Just not lookin’ forward to going home tomorrow.”

Arya shrugs. “So don’t.”

“That’s the thing. Think I really need to.” She begins twirling around her empty glass, the ice clinking softly. “My dad’s been really moody since he lost his reelection.”

She lets out a scoff. “Stannis hates Dragonstone and the people that live there. He lost that election two years ago. We both know how this works Shireen, he could’ve up and relocated and ran somewhere more conservative. Or, he could’ve run for something at the local level.”

“As if the mighty Stannis Baratheon would deign to go from Senator to…to…to mayor or something. And the way that Red Witch is in his ear all of the time, tellin’ him how he oughta run for President, how he could be more successful than his brother…Yeah, I definitely need to go home for a bit. Just don’t really wanna.” She takes another pull of her drink, frowning when she gets nothing but melted ice. Arya sends a soft look her friend’s way, concerned.

“Okay, so here’s what’s going to happen. I am going to go get one drink for me and a water for you, close out the tab, then we’ll head to your place and watch some trashy tv. You’ll go to sleep, I’ll crash on your couch, and I’ll drive you to catch the ferry tomorrow if, and only if, you still feel up to going, okay?”

“Fine, fine. But you should know, Hot Pie isn’t working tonight so we can’t get free fries,” she pouts.

She chuckles at her friend’s disgruntled expression. “Don’t worry, I’ll buy us some fries.”

After a few minutes she’s managed to flag down a bartender. She’s leaning against the bar, hoping whoever is in the back tonight makes them as crispy as Hot Pie does, when she sees a familiar face under a mop of black hair a few stools down, nursing a beer. It’s the guy from earlier, Gendry. He’s in conversation with someone, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. If he looked good before, frowning at her, he looks even better now; friendlier, more open. Too bad his personality didn’t seem to match. When his eyes drift past the guy he’s talking to, meeting her own, she quickly glances back to behind the bar.

Once she gets her drinks and fries, she maneuvers her way through the thickening crowd back to Shireen, steadfastly ignoring Gendry Waters. She places the fries down in front of Shireen, trying to drag her attention away from the bar.

“What are you looking at?”

Shireen’s forehead is scrunched up in thought. “Why were you glaring at my Uncle Renly?”

“Who?”

“The guy with the black hair and the beer. That’s my uncle.” Maybe Shireen had had more to drink than she originally thought.

“No,” she drags out, “that’s some guy I met canvassing today. His name’s Gendry.”

“Weird. He looks just like my uncle.” She picks up a handful of fries, shoving them in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “Hot Pie’s fries are crispier.”

--

It’s around 9 am when she gets home from taking Shireen to catch the ferry. She hadn’t slept very well on Shireen’s couch, so she’s ready to lay down in her own soft bed to catch a few more hours of sleep, maybe make some pancakes after, then head outside to tend to her garden. She’s just finished changing from her grimy bar clothes into some pajamas when her phone lights up from her nightstand.

Sansa: Emergency

Sansa: We’re phonebanking from 12-4 today and two volunteers said they can’t come in

Sansa: Marge and I really need the extra help and you’re great with the phones

Sansa: Please

Arya: Ok

Arya: You owe me pancakes next weekend

Sansa: Deal! Thanks so much, see you soon

She lets out a sigh, setting an alarm for 11 before settling into bed.

[captainsteelandsunshine]

Not that I’ve changed my opinion on Civil War but you know, I don’t hate anyone, so here I am browsing the ‘Steve Rogers & Tony Stark’ tag on Ao3.

Looking for those awesome fics where these two are hilarious in their compatible inversiveness (is that a word?🤔) in the tag dedicated to their friendship, all I find for the first two pages are ‘not Team Cap friendly’, ‘not Steve Rogers friendly’ fics.

What I also find are ‘James “Bucky” Barnes’ & Tony Stark’, ‘James “Bucky” Barnes/Tony Stark’, ‘Natasha Romanoff & Tony Stark’ and ‘Natasha Romanoff/Tony Stark’.

Now once upon a time, this would make me sad. Not because I don’t want to see any ‘- & Tony Stark’ or ‘- /Tony Stark’ fics, I don’t ship it but whatever floats your boat, but because the amount of anti and hate sentiment is very disheartening. Especially when you have the space to fix things and are not debating canon.

Now? Now this just makes me laugh.

It’s been 3 years since Civil War, 3 years of both teams living separate lives, 3 more years of the SteveNat platonic romance, 3 years of Team Cap being on the run but with support, 3 more years of Tony living his best life with Pepper, Rhodey and Happy (and now Peter and May), 3 more years of Steve & Bucky being best friends, 3 years of T’Challa giving Team Cap a safe place and them being okay with no one having to suffer, but Team Iron Man stans are still not over what happened to an extent that pretty crazy xD

(Now I’m not bashing fans, I specifically only mean stans. None of the teams just ‘got over’ what happened, nor did the fans. But fics represent more than an opinion, they represent what you think could have, can and should happen. It’s not hard to find anti Steve or Tony, or anti anyone, posts on Tumblr but finding anti Tony fics is much harder, especially compared to Anti Team Cap. Trust me, I did the research.)

Like holy hell. I get it. You think Tony was wronged and a victim and blah blah. Cool. Maybe it’s true. It’s all a matter of opinion in some ways (more or less). It’s not like I don’t know the fandom was divided. But what’s hilarious af is when they get in other players who’d either explicitly stated non-allegiance or who would have no idea and won’t care about the Accords.

The funniest scenarios have to be these-

Bucky’s a chill dude who loves Tony, everyone hates Steve - evidently these dumbass stans haven’t watched any of the Cap movies. And yes, I say this knowing they’ve seen Civil War. *stares into the camera Office-style* Forget about who’s right and imagine Bucky choosing anyone over Steve or not being on Steve’s side. Say that with a straight face after watching any movie with Bucky in it. (Let’s not even talk about the comics where Bucky wanted to kill Tony and only stopped because Tony gave him the shield and said Steve wanted him to be Cap.) The height of delusion is just nuts.

Natasha cares about Tony so much she’s gonna kick Steve’s ass - there’s no denying the OG 6 have a bond and the first one we see is Nat and Tony. They’re buddies. But Steve is Nat’s partner. Her best friend. He’s Steve. Have people watched CA: tWS? Let me answer that, no. Also, CA: CW, or IW or Endgame? Like seriously? Nat might not harm Tony for Bucky, she won’t ever want to harm Tony; but she’ll do whatever it takes to keep Steve safe and she’ll go far as she has to to do that.

Bruce would pick Tony’s side - now the dilemma is that of course they’re buddies, science bros ftw, BUT if anyone thinks Bruce would willingly pick a side with General Thaddeus Ross on it, then these kids have no idea what Marvel is about and literally only watch RDJ with brains off.

T’Challa and Shuri kicking Team Cap out - watch IW and see me roll my eyes.

Stephen Strange and Carol Danvers whopping Team Cap’s ass - Strange doesn’t care either way, he won’t sign the Accords and he doesn’t give a shit about either side, and I’m willing to bet that given her history, not only would Carol know of and admire Cap, she won’t be pro Accords either.

Now listen. Tony has his own circle of ridiculously loyal friends. There’s no doubt that Pepper, Rhodey and Happy will always support him and to varying degrees, Vision and Peter will always have his back too (Vision does love Wanda and while Peter adores Tony, he’s a kid and he didn’t actually know about when the Accords during CW).

So when I see a fic that’s very much against Team Cap, while it’s nuts that its in the SteveTony friendship tag, I can take it for what it is when it’s very pro Accords and all of Team Cap goes under.

I see a fic with Rhodey or Pepper or even Peter letting lose on Team Cap, cool, okay.

I see a fic where Tony stops paying for Team Cap and they are taken aback, I’ll even laugh! I’m guessing Steve will have money from back pay and Shield, Sam used to have a job and Nat can get enough money for everyone, but hey, it’s a hilarious premise and one that I actually feel Tony should do. Regardless of whether I agree with him or not, one can’t expect him to fund people against him and it’s very strange when people still expect him to finance Team Cap.

So I’m not unreasonable. And it’s not like I’ve commented on a single fic, because they’re allowed to dream up whatever they want, but the bulleted list of scenarios above make me laugh because damn, there’s fanfiction which works in canon but changes course and then there’s a total dream world that you should call like it is and tag it an AU.

[originallonemagpie]

Has been a busy few days. On Friday we went off to Yule Ball as usual - for the first time in five years, though, I wasn't working in the kitchen and that felt weird. I mean, I found I didn;t really know how to *not* be doing stuff in the kitchen, so on Friday night I felt a bit... bored and irrelevant. But this may also have been because I hadn't slept on Wednesday or Thursday nights, so I took the chance to go to bed about 8pm and finally sleep, for I had a fencing tournament to fight in the morning.

So, yesterday was the Holly Monarch tournament- my last and only chance to take part in a fencing tournament this year.

The format was to be a first-blood tournament, with three points for scoring a wound, and one for a kill - but with the special premise being that Her Majesty's intention is to encourage us to be careful in our aim for limbs, so that those who killed their opponents would, aside from not getting enough points to win, be given marks of a "naughty list", with the person who accrued the most kills being  hauled before Her Majesty for punishment.

Wait - a sort of "anti-prize" secret achievement, you say? Somebody hasn't though this through. Long story short, since Cernac was entering and guaranteed to win, and who wants to wear a green bathrobe anyway, and I wear black and red Sith-coloured gear, and... well, secret naughty list achievement? You know where this is going, right?

Correct. While 15 or 16 fencers are trying to score three points for each limb struck, two - I and, separately, Lady Anjelica - are in a private competition to top the Naughty list by straight-up murdering our way through the field.  (Well, she maintains she was trying to follow the format rule, but I wasn't). I have to say it was quite annoying when somebody managed to stick a hand or arm in the way of my throat-cutting, face-stabbing, and disembowelling. (Way more annoying than those who managed to kill or wound me!)

It was hilarious fun! It's as if the Jedi are having a hand-chopping competition for training purposes, and Count Dooku and Asajj Ventress join in. I actually should write that on AO3 or something.

Anyway, I had started off with rapier and buckler out of concern for any knocks to the injured hand, but since it was doing fine, I switched to rapier and katana, which is the most you can have with bits of metal if you're a homicidal fencing instructor.

In the end we were neck and neck, killing the same numbers, until in my last bout, against Nero, I'd got a cut across his arm and torso (and he had my arm at the same time) which could be interpreted as either a kill or wound, and he debated with himself and the marshal for a moment ver which to call it, but he decided  - I tthink trying to ensure I got the points, and not realising I was after the Naughty mark. And since Anjelica then killed him as well, but not with the bonus limb, She got to top the Naughty list on a technicality.

Which is fine by me, cos aside from it all being hilarious exhilirating, fun, from a Sith POV we both slaughtered our way through the field, but one of us didn't get caught and forced to carry the gift baskets as penance...

I'd *really* hoped for the Naughty List top to remain tied, so that I could try to persuade the powers that be to allow a Sith final during a suitable break in Feast - that would have been awesome.

On a more straightforward note, for those following the injured hand saga over the past quarter of the year, I'd been fencing without the steel gauntlet at practice for a couple of weeks, and I think it went sufficiently fine yesterday that I won't need to wear it for regular SCA (non C&T) fencing again.

Cernac's footwork against Lesley was also hilarious. (And she need to not set up in my distance. She was given advice about the wisdom of limiting time in armour by Vitus last weekend, and has fencing advancement to work on for next year, so...)

The tournament over, there was an elevation, lunch - or was it the other way round? - and Lesley did some fre sparring in armour with a couple of other heavies  - and got a bruise I'll have to post a picture of later - and I seemed to have pulled something or twanged a nerve in my index finger (on the injured hand) while tying her helmet on. I dunno what the hell was up with that.

I wore the Elizabethan garb again for Milada's lovely feast. When choosing from the gift box (and noticing that most labelled items were labelled "for ladies") I noticed a small hempen pouch that jingled. My persona being a Privateer, how could I resist? It contains some shiny cast pewter wheels and shells (and the washers and stuff to secure them) for decorating leatherwork such as belts, and since I have a "blank" if you see what I mean, leather belt in my crafting box, I am well pleased with that! It pays to feel for the quirky mystery objects.

I shall gloss over the next part, cos involves what happens when your other half unlaces you out of fancy Elizabethan gear...

So that's pretty much our SCA year finished - there's one or two, I forget, Wednesday practices, and that's all. Not sure what event I'll be at next. Lesley will be in Coronet, but I don't know whether I'll be attending as I'm neither fighting in it nor on staff. Maybe see what the weather's like - I wouldn't say no to a C&T longsword auth or something like that, either.

This morning we departed the site earlier than ever before in order to get back up here for the Wetherby Lions' Dickensian Christmas Market, and I switched into 1860s gear for that. Got some nice comments on the outfit (It's my own gear and accessories, after all, not rented theatrical costumes. And, yes, cane and Sonic included), and found a stall selling *proper* - I mean, fucking *proper* pretzel, and snagged some with cheese and some with sea salt...

Anyway, longer post than planned. Now to pick the music to score the tournament to in my soundtrack playlist for the year. It'll have to be Sith-ish and actiony...