#for legal reasons this isn’t binding

[beepbopitsgt]

Reblog to make him lose another 200 billion, like to make him lose 1 billion

[house-of-lovin]

legally binded - 2

Jenna Ortega x F!Reader

masterlist | series mast. ♣ prev part | next part

Chapter 2: Lakers, Headlines… New York?

Summary: After getting caught in some hot waters with the press, you are forced into an unexpected agreement with America's sweetheart, Jenna Ortega to save your career.

Warnings/Tags: dual pov, famous!reader, actress!reader, mentions of substances, intoxication, mature language, real people. (do not read if any of these make you uncomfortable)

(this is all fiction!)

Note: part 2 of legally binded! I hear yall and I see the comments! This will be a series, got a lot of ideas for this one. But of course, I am open to hearing what you guys think and want to see! A little bonding moment for R and Jenna 😮‍💨

Word Count: 6.3k+ (lol sorry, may have gone overboard!)

“So… what does this mean, exactly?” Jenna asks for both of you.

“We’re gonna make the two of you the talk of the town. And hopefully get people to back off on the allegations that Jenna is difficult to work with and that Y/N is entering her Justin Bieber phase — and not the good one.” Your PR agent, Liv, purses her lips.

Jenna can’t help the snort that leaves her lips, awkwardly coughing to hide it. But you catch it anyway, throwing her a glare.

“Difficult to work with huh?” You speak up — in faux interest. “Not hard to see why.”

This time Jenna is the one glaring at you. “You don’t even know me.”

“You don’t know me either.” You huff.

“Enough!” Jake yells. Anger steadily rose in the man’s bloodstream.

You and Jenna flinch at his loudness. Sliding down the chair, you feel ashamed again; ignoring Jenna’s piercing glare.

Liv is sighing but opts not to add fuel to the fire. “It’s going to take a few hours to get the paperwork and contract drafted —but once it’s done we’ll have it sent over to you. For now, get to know each other, I don’t know.”

You shoot Liv a scowl. She was making this already awkward situation so much worse.

She catches your look, sighing, “Just–pretend this is another job and you’re new castmates. Anything please. ” She rolls her eyes, already fed up with what disaster this morning has been.

“You can do that, right?” Liv crosses her arms, staring at you two in question.

“Yes.” Jenna mumbles.

“Mhmm.” You hum lazily, changing the subject. “Can we tell people? That this isn’t real?”

Liv glances at Jake and Sarah sharing a silent conversation. They nod at each other. “If they sign an NDA. Only family, your team and us. This cannot leave the room.”

You feel pale. You couldn’t even tell the people around you about this fake relationship without binding them to a contract? Suddenly, the situation starts to feel more real; the carpet of delusion being pulled from under you.

You’re standing up, pushing the chair back with a loud scrape that rings terribly against your ears. “I need some air.”

“You’re really leaving in the middle of a meeting?” Jenna questions with a snip, crossing her arms.

“Sorry your highness, I got better places to be. Liv you can send the contract to my assistant. Ortega, wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you… but well.” You trail off, shrugging.

Liv and Jake are fuming red in the face at your words, but you were still hungover and the comedown was begging to wreak havoc – your irritation getting harder to restrain. 

Jenna’s face scrunches, offended. You walk away, not bothering to listen for a response.

“There’s no way I can work with her…” You catch it anyway.

●●●

“I mean can you believe what they’re asking me to do!” You pace up and down your living room.

“Oh come on, I don’t buy the allegations that she’s difficult, you know they love to tear women down when they get their come up.” Link reasons tapping on his phone.

“I mean how can this face be rude?” He holds up a picture of Jenna at the SAG awards and you furrow your brows because you don’t remember seeing her there — you might have been late.

You were just nominated anyway. So you pulled a Beyoncé and only showed up for your category.

“Maybe Jenna’s not so bad?”

“Quit it.”

It was now mid-afternoon and the battering Californian sun was shining bright above clear skies and through your floor-to-ceiling windows. You bought this house in the Palisades for the peace it provided you. Not too far from central L.A. but still tucked away enough for a moment of solitude with a life like yours.

It was your own version of a sanctuary – like a home should be. 

“Okay, that sounds crazy, I agree. But dude, you fucked up. Big time.” Your long-time friend Link said. 

You and Link grew up together and when you got your come up, best believe you took your best friend with you. You offered to help him out while he lives with you as you achieve your dreams but ever the stubborn guy, he refused. Only agreeing to move to Los Angeles with you if he works as your assistant to earn his keep.

He’s a good guy like that. 

Since then, he’s been by your side. Through every disappointment, bad news, great news, red carpets, and movie premieres. You couldn’t do this job without him. 

He’s like your brother.

“I know!” You groan, dropping to the couch. Why the hell did you let your designer choose these couches? They were stiffer than a plank of wood.

“Look at this article online, 2-time Grammy winner and Academy Award Nominee, Y/N L/N’s fall from grace? Sin City indeed! The actress blacks out at a Vegas strip club! Click here to see exclusive mugshots.”

“They’re selling my fucking mugshots?” You lift your head above the headrest horrified, watching Link sit across the room on a bar stool reading his phone. 

“I’m pretty sure they’re public domain.” He refutes.

Falling back, you groan louder – hiding your face behind your palms.

“I don’t see how you have a choice, buddy.” He sighs, placing his phone on the bar top. 

“There has to be another way. Why can’t I just run away? I’ll fly back home for a couple of weeks, and let all of this shit die down. It’s worked before.” 

“Yeah, I told Jake and Liv you’d say that.” He rolls his eyes, walking to you. “I don’t think you can run from this one, Y/N.”

The softness in his voice has you sighing in defeat. He’s right, you know he’s right. This wasn’t just some tiny mistake you can brush under the carpet like all the other ones. This was serious. 

You got arrested. For blacking out with someone who had drugs on them. In a strip club, no less.

What a mess.

Something like this could seriously hurt your career. You could lose roles, relationships, connections, brand deals – the blood, sweat, and tears you poured in; everything you worked so hard for – gone.

“I know… Doesn’t make me wanna do it more though,” You mumble, distantly staring at the high ceiling.

He chuckles, “I know bud. But this is what we signed up for, right?” 

You frown. It’s what we signed up for.

It’s a mantra that you have adopted in all your years as a working performer. It certainly wasn’t the most comforting and loving thing to say, but it works because it’s true and there’s no greater motivator than a slap in the face to reality. 

You much preferred tough love anyway.

“Right.” You mutter.

“Come on, I think Jenna’s manager just sent me the signed contract, they’re just waiting for your signature.” He walks off to his office. 

You close your eyes, letting the sun warm you up through the glass panes. A few moments pass until Link comes back out with a tablet and pen. “Sign here, under Jenna’s signature.”

She has pretty handwriting – you note as you sign the electronic document. 

Call it weird but you had a thing for people with neat handwriting, steady hands and all that. 

But then you remember who the professional signature belonged to and forced yourself to snap out of it.

“Did you even read it?” He arches a brow.

“That’s what lawyers are for.”

He scoffs, “Okay, superstar. It basically says what you and Jenna need to do. Public spottings at first, then dates, appearances at each other's events. Maybe posts on social media, but the idea is to be discreet – we can’t have it seem like we’re using this to scrub away the Vegas incident.”

“But that’s exactly what we’re doing,” You sigh.

“Yeah, but they don’t know that. And it’s your damn job to make sure they don’t ever find out either.”

You rub your forehead; a headache beginning to form. Not sure if it was from the hangover or from all this PR mess.

“Anways,” He takes the tablet out of your hands. “I’ll send these over to Liv. Now as for you. Go upstairs, take a shower because you smell horrendous and then put on what your stylist picked out.”

Wrinkling your nose, you ask, “What, why? I literally just got back, I already have to go out and show my face? The paparazzi will hound me.” 

“We have to beat the Vegas headline with a bigger story, so you need to be seen with Jenna ASAP. That means out for a late lunch at a well-known spot downtown. You have to act like the news doesn’t bother you – like you’re moving past it.”

“Who goes out for late lunch?” 

He sends you a pointed look. 

“I’ll be upstairs…” You mumble, dragging your feet as you ascend the steps.

●●●

You tap your fingers on the steering wheel, glancing up at the modest house through your sunglasses.

A mid-modern century house in Glendale. Not where you pictured her to live but whatever. Her front yard was bare but professionally trimmed. No signs of any plant life that made the space look a little… dull. The only signs of life in the house was the humble SUV that you assumed belonged to the young actress.

Your tapping grows impatient the longer you wait.

As if staring harder at the front door will make the actress come out faster. Another five agonizing minutes pass – you seriously consider pulling away to go home and sleep off this hangover but Link stood a good half-foot taller than you.

He’d lock your ass out of your own home. 

Eventually, the door opens and the short brunette walks down the driveway in confident strides. Dressed in jeans, combat boots and a cardigan; those headphones around her neck, again. Somehow, she looked consistently gothic and you pondered if she really was like her character in real life.

You see her scan your Mercedes-AMG GT3 for a moment before pulling the passenger door open; sliding into the cushy seats. “Nice car.”

You blink, “Thanks… you sure took your time though,”

You couldn’t stop the slight attitude that accompanied your words.

She gives you a sharp glance, “why didn’t you just ring the doorbell?”

“You had to unlock the gate to let me in, you knew I was waiting outside.” You huff, staring at her back. 

“Then would have waited in the living room if you had knocked. What difference does it make?” She shrugs.

“That’s not the poi–” You gruff but stop, inhaling a deep breath. The pounding in your skull was begging for you to cool down. 

“I think I much preferred waiting in the car… alone.” You whisper the last bit then shoot her a sarcastic glance; shifting the gear in reverse.

You don’t bother to check if she had her seatbelt on as you aggressively pull out her driveway; leaving skid marks on the pavement.

She jerks forward at the sudden movement. “Shit– a little warning next time?” She glares bracing herself on the dashboard.

“Hands off the leather,” You bite as you pull off her street and to the restaurant Link sent you the directions to. 

She scoffs. “My driveway!”

●●●

“Table for 2 under Ortega? Please follow me, can I be the first one to say how delighted we are that you two decided to dine here.” The host enthused a little too much.

“It’s our pleasure.” Jenna answers politely.

You plaster a tight-lipped smile keeping quiet; sliding a modest hand on Jenna’s back when he leads you past other patrons and to a secluded table – heads already turning in your direction. Jenna jumps, sending you a menacing glare and for a moment you feel slightly scared by the fire in her eyes – dropping your hand immediately. 

Okay, no touching. Got it.

“Here we are, the best seat in the house. We have complementary champagne on the table to start your evening. We’ll give you a few moments to get settled,” He sends a tight smile causing his wrinkles to show – definitely trying too hard but you’d never say no to free alcohol.

“Thank you,” You bid, pulling a chair out for Jenna.

She walks to claim the opposite chair, assuming you’re taking the one you pulled out. But she stares as you stand behind the open chair, awkwardly. Only then did she seem to realize that the seat was for her.

Raising her brows, she looked a little surprised but wordlessly and a bit awkwardly (she sends a tight-lipped smile) sits over to the chair allowing you to push it in for her, before taking your own seat across.

The first thing you grab is the bottle of champagne and the flute. 

You miss Jenna’s tracking eyes as you pour a hefty glass. “Is that really the best thing for you to have, especially after last night? Also, it’s like 4 PM.”

“I didn’t know you were the alcohol police and it’s 8 PM somewhere.” You take big gulps of the champagne, savouring the way it burned but also felt cool on the way down.

“Trust me, I’m not. But my ass is on the line here too and there are people watching.” She grits out the last part, signalling with her eyes. You glance up catching two girls from another table with their phones up, no doubt taking pictures and recording you and Jenna. 

Looking away, you place the glass flute down, sitting back in your seat with a slump. “Fine…”

“When are you going to take this seriously?” She whispers, tone: sharp.

“I am taking this seriously,” You fight to keep your face impassive knowing there are eyes on you both. 

“No, you’re not. You couldn’t even sit through the meeting this morning and now you’re acting like a child. Might I remind you, we’re in this mess because of you.”

You clench your jaw, trying your hardest not to blow up in this fine establishment. 

“I’m the reaso—“

“Are we ready to order?” The waitress cuts in.

“Yes, we are.” Jenna turns to her with that large, sweet smile that sells millions.

●●●

‘New Gal-Pals in Hollywood, Y/N L/N and Jenna Ortega spotted out for lunch’

It was now the following day after your ‘lunch date’ with Jenna and you wish to say it only got better as time went on but that would be a lie. You two did not get along – at all. How was it possible for your management to find the one person on this planet that you just couldn’t get along with. 

You know difficult, you can handle difficult. You’ve worked with the likes of Shia Lebeouf, Gweneth Paltrow, Michael Bay… just to name a few. You’ve had your fair share of difficult colleagues.

But this girl? She’s something else. 

“Gal pals? Really?” Your nose scrunches in distaste.

“No wait, this one’s better! Wednesday star Jenna Ortega supports new bestie, Y/N L/N amid Vegas arrest.”

“Stop.” But Link’s loud laughter overpowers you.

“Oh! We got one that’s different, Trouble-maker, A-lister, Y/N L/N, will drag down rising-star Jenna Ortega!”

“Okay, that’s just bullshit.” You pique up.

“Rising star?” Jenna voices in disdain.

“Enough!” Liv’s voice echoes from your laptop speaker. “This isn’t the headline we wanted.”

You roll your eyes, scanning the candid photo of you and Jenna sitting at the restaurant.

The images look tame enough and can definitely be interpreted as just two friends out for a bite. News outlets don’t buy it, but the internet is already freaking out; spewing out unsolicited opinions on this new pairing. Some think you two are just friends, some think it’s a date, others think it’s for a movie role.

“I thought I did a good job,” Jenna speaks up on the other line of the Facetime call. 

“Clearly not…” You mumble, but she catches it anyway, rolling her eyes. 

“We need to up the ante, this is not good enough.” Liv sighs and you can hear the trepidation through the call.

“Like what?”

“There’s a Lakers game tonight and you two are making your first official appearance.” She grins with mischief.

“Lakers?” Jenna rouses, sounding excited.

“How would they interpret that differently than before?” Shaking your head.

“I got a plan already, darling. I have a guy in TMZ who’s going to break the first official headline that you two are in the ‘getting to know each other’ stage. Which is where you two come in… after the game headlines of your guys’ date night will be the number one trending topic.” She explains, eyes lighting up in excitement.

Liv loves to lay out her plans to whoever was willing to listen — you’re already tuning her out.

You are sure her plan is genius like she says it is.

“Are they versing someone decent, at least?” You ask tiredly. When were you going to get some time to yourself?

“Celtics.”

“I’m in.”

●●●

“Do you really have to wear sunglasses indoors? Everyone knows we’re here.” Jenna whispers from beside you.

“It’s part of the look.” You retort, sliding down the foldable chair. Why are courtside seats so uncomfortable for all the money I’m paying?

“What look.”

“We got two stars in the Lakers house tonight! Everyone, please give a warm welcome to Y/N L/N and Jenna Ortega!”’ The announcer booms through the stadium speakers. 

Looking up at the jumbotron, you and Jenna are plastered big and bright on the screen. You flash a dazzling smile and force your body to untense – ignoring Jenna’s quip.

You embrace the loud cheers and applauds, waving and sending the camera that dazzling smile you have mastered. Jenna copies your movements.

Eventually, the camera pans away from you two and you finally feel like you can breathe again. 

“God, I think my eardrums ruptured.” She complains, clutching her earring clad-ears painfully.

You laugh, “Oh come on, you don’t have people shouting for your attention at you at every turn?”

She frowns, shaking her head, “Not at this level… I like to think I still have some anonymity.”

Snorting, you say, “Yeah well, just wait. That’ll all be gone — so enjoy it while you can.” 

You don’t see her frown deepen because you spot a familiar face. “Look who’s in the house!”

“Hey!” You stand briskly. Lebron James comes barreling over in large steps; greeting you with a hug and a pat on the back. 

“Feeling ready for tonight?” You ask, smiling up at the athlete. Being a big name in Hollywood definitely came with nice perks like knowing world-renowned athletes.

As much as you complain about your life – this is certainly a perk you can’t deny.

“You know it! We’re gonna mop the floors with your lil Celtics team.” He smirks making you laugh.

“Okay, save the trash-talking for the court... This is Jenna by the way.” You move to the side to reveal Jenna sitting; watching the two of you with a flabbergasted look on her face. 

“Nice to meet you, Jenna. My kids loved Wednesday, I think my daughter might dress up as you this Halloween.” He jokes; shaking her hand. 

It was quite an amusing sight to see Jenna crane her neck to meet the basketball player’s eyes. And you really tried your hardest not to snort when her tiny hands slide into his gigantic palms – her upper arm practically disappearing in his grasp.

They continue talking for a few more moments before the basketball player eventually bids his goodbye to continue warming up. 

“You’re friends with Lebron James?” She asked in disbelief when you sit back down.

“Yeah, is that surprising?” You arch a brow.

“Yes?” She asks like you were stupid for even asking.

You chuckle. “Well, now you know.” 

“Also… a Celtics fan, really? That’s just disgraceful.” She shakes her head.

You scrunch your face in faux annoyance, puffing your chest proudly, “Hell yeah the Celtics! We’re gonna wipe the court with your little Lakers in their own house.” 

“Don’t let people hear you say that, you’ll be stoned,” She laughs heartily. 

For a brief moment, you watch as she shakes in laughter at her own joke – unable to fight the infectiousness of her laugh. Her bangs shake with her movements as she attempts to hide her smile behind her hand.

Were you guys getting along? Nah, impossible. 

“I’ll just use you as a shield.”

“I’m like five-foot, I don’t think I’ll be much help.” She snorts. 

“Pocket-sized shield – makes travelling easier.” You shrug, smirking. 

She shoots you a side-eye but you see the smirk she tries to hide from you. 

Eventually, the national anthem is sung and tip-off begins. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying yourself right now. After the weekend disaster in Vegas, all you wanted to do was sleep away your fuck-ups. But this… isn’t so bad. 

Jenna seems to have loosened up and allowed herself to enjoy the game.

You cheer enthusiastically when the Celtics go on a 12-0 run in the fourth quarter. 

The score is 94 - 90, with the Lakers in the lead. You were standing now, your concession drinks and snacks forgotten under your chair. The energy in the stadium is infectious as everyone cheers for their respective teams.

“This is what I’m talking about, now we got a game!” You clap loudly, yelling.

“$100 Lakers win this one.” The sweet voice shouts over the crowd.

You turn, grinning. “That’s it? $1000, Celtics win.” 

The quiet contemplation is burning bright in her eyes, but eventually, she gives in extending her hand. “You’re on.”

Somehow, your grin stretches wider when she slides her hand in yours to seal the deal. “I can’t wait to be a $1000 richer.”

“In your dreams,” she clicks her tongue, focusing on the court.

“Come on ref, that was a foul!” She shouts at the checkered-shirt man as he runs past you.

She’s not looking at you but you find yourself unable to look away from her. 

Granted, you barely knew anything about Jenna before meeting her yesterday. But you think you like this laid-back version of her more than the one you met at first.

A whistle-blowing breaks your staring before it becomes too obvious.

Eventually, the game goes into overtime with the score being 104 - 104 when the Lakers gets both free throws in. You’re practically shaking in excitement as you watch from courtside.

You are bent over, hands on your knees like a soccer mom watching their kid get a penalty kick. You miss Jenna snapping a photo of the court with you bent over in the corner of the picture.

“Come on, Tatum!” You shout, a vein on your forehead protruding. 

“Did you say a $1000 richer?” She mocks, using your words against you.

“Don’t go on a victory lap yet,” You stand as the last time-out is called, “The score’s even and there’s still 5 seconds on the clock. It’s anybody's game right now.”

When the whistle blows signalling time-out is over, you are tense again. Jenna seems to share your sentiments as she absentmindedly grabs your jacket when the Celtics shooting guard walks behind the line to inbound the ball.

Anticipation getting the best of her.

You ignore the touch – unsure if you wanted to pull away or never move your arm again.

“Shit!” You yell when someone on the Lakers intercepts the Celtics attempt to inbound — sloppily passing it to another player in gold and purple. 

3 seconds remaining on the clock and a fast-break on the Lakers side ensues; green jerseys struggling to keep up.

“Schroder tips the Celtics inbound and manages to pass it off to Thompson, to James! James with a hail mary from half-court with 2 seconds, will he make it!” The announcer exclaims.

It was like the movies when everything goes silent and somehow you see everything in slow motion. You watch as the ball spins high above in the air with the powerful throw from the Laker’s power forward. The only thing you feel is Jenna’s fist gripping your arm, bunching the jacket in her hands. 

You unconsciously lean into her; the intensity of the room bouncing off you. 

The ball continues to spin until it amazingly flies through the basket with a satisfying swoosh and the buzzer rings loudly.

The crowd explodes – bursting into loud cheers. 

“Holy shit!” Jenna jumps, cheering.

“No fucking way.” You groan.

You feel her grab your shoulders to face her, still jumping up and down; a large smile on her face. You find yourself matching her grin despite your team not winning. 

Nodding in defeat, you admit, “Okay, okay… that was a pretty great game.”

“Great?” She shakes you like a rag doll, “That was the best game I’ve ever seen!” 

“Are you turning into a basketball fan, Miss Ortega?” You tease as she pulls away from you.

Still with a grin, she says, “Never… Football will always have my heart.”

“I didn’t peg you for an NFL fan but I guess I’ve heard stranger things.” You tease as she rolls her eyes.

“Soccer, Y/N.”

“Why didn’t you just call it the proper name then?”

“We are not starting this.” She holds a hand up, turning to sit back in her seat. The high of winning the bet, dwindling away.

●●●

“This is me…” Jenna says into the quiet night air. 

You shifted on your feet as you stood by your car. The night had been an unexpected…. success. After the game, you two made sure to stick around to chat and take pictures with fans in the crowd. 

The more eyes that saw you two together, the better. 

“Um… this was nice, I guess.” You mumble, feeling a bit awkward now that it was just you and her. 

She blinks up at you, surprised by your admission. “Uh – yeah, this wasn’t bad. Surprising, but not bad.” 

A small smile creeps on your face, “Okay, well I guess I’ll see you later… or whenever our managers say we need to be seen together again.” 

She laughs, nodding, “Yeah…”

A bright flash from your peripheral has you blinking, unfocused. “What the–”

“Paps…” She sighs. “Kiss my cheek.”

“What?” You asked bewildered.

She sends you a pointed look, turning her back from the direction of the flash so they couldn’t see her face. “Kiss my cheek, they’ll take a picture and then they’ll know we’re not just gal pals.”

Jenna is rolling her eyes but you’re still stuck in your spot. “Y/N.”

Snapping out of your thoughts, you clear your throat, “Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Something indecipherable shines in her eyes, but it disappears as she blinks, “You’re not asking for my hand in marriage, Y/N. Just kiss my cheek.”

Blushing, you lean down. Shyly placing your lips on her soft-dimpled cheek – she leans into the contact, placing a hand on your neck. Immediately, a flurry of bright flashes and sounds of clicking interrupt the moment. 

“Goodnight, Jenna.” You say softly once you pulled away; ignoring the goosebumps that rose on your skin.

“Goodnight.” She takes a moment to look at you before walking to unlock her gate.

You wait until she opens the metal door; not missing the kind eyes she shoots you as she shuts the gate. Only once Jenna’s out of your view did you let out a deep sigh, turning around.

“Y/N! Over here! Did you just kiss Jenna Ortega? What about the singer you were with in Vegas? Are you two over?”

You didn’t want to give the paparazzi lurking on her street more reason to stay, so you keep your head down ignoring their shouting and slip into your car.

●●●

“How was it?” Her sister’s voice can be heard on her phone. 

“Awful – she’s a menace, Mia.” Jenna replies as she opens her fridge, looking for a mid-afternoon snack. 

It was now Sunday afternoon and as predicted – you and Jenna are the top headline of every major news outlet in America. 

“Did you tell her that you loved her in Little Women?” 

“What? No, of course not! I’m not gonna tell her that.”

“Why not? You watched that movie like five times when it came out.” Her sister reminds.

“Shut up, Mia.”

“Okay, anyways…” She trails off, laughing. “I saw the pictures. You’re smiling pretty wide with her. Also the kiss on the cheek when she was dropping you off? Chef’s kiss. Just perfect.”

Jenna rolls her eyes, “It’s all part of the act. Of course, I look happy.”

“There’s videos of you jumping on her. I can barely scroll through my Twitter feed without seeing an edit of you two at the game.”

“Stop. I don’t want to talk about her anymore.” Jenna snaps.

“Okay, okay…” Mia laughs and Jenna can picture her raising her hands in surrender. “Let’s talk about New York, are you excited?’

Jenna lets out a repressed sigh. With all of this PR mess with you, she hasn’t had time to think about how busy her schedule is about to be. The Scream VI premiere and SNL is inching closer and the Coachella native is feeling the familiar phantoms of anxiety rumbling in her chest. 

“Yeah, of course, I am. It’s SNL…”

“But?” Aliyah, her younger sister’s voice comes out of nowhere.

“But it’s SNL!” Jenna exclaims, “It’s a big deal! What if… what if I fuck up? Or I break character?”

“Okay… let’s take a deep breath,” Mia speaks up. She recognizes her sister’s looming anxiety and knew she had to act before the young actress sends herself into a panic. “You will kill it, like you always do and you won’t mess up. It’s okay to be a little nervous.

“Right, right.” Jenna agrees but the weighted pressure in her chest was still to creeping in.

Mia hums over the line unconvinced, “Listen, the whole family is flying in before your premiere. So don’t worry, we’ll be there, cheering you on!” 

Jenna can’t fight the smile that creeps up on her face. The thought of her family being there on one of the most important nights of her career is all she needs. They always had her back, picking her up when she felt like she couldn’t do it anymore. “Thanks, guys. I really appreciate that.”

●●●

“You want me to fly to New York, to what– be her personal cheerleader?” You dead-pan, watching as Link frantically throws clothes and shoes into a suitcase. 

It’s been about a week since the Lakers and Celtics game and news of you and Jenna’s night out in town are still abuzz. The two of you made a couple more subtle appearances over the last couple of days and the media is eating it up shamelessly. Pictures of you and the star are plastered on the front pages; be it grabbing coffee or grocery shopping or walking your dog at the park.

Now, you couldn’t even step outside without someone hurling Jenna’s name at you.

But you couldn’t lie. It was nice to have some company while you run your errands. Only yours though — you hated when you had to do hers. Jenna always thought too hard about which cereal to get, like she’s ever home to eat it.

‘New budding romance in Hollywood? Do we have a new power couple on the rise with Y/N L/N and Jenna Ortega? These two seem to be getting to know each other well… click here to read more’ 

Was the first thing you read when you turned on your phone this morning. 

Of course, it’s never that easy because there are still a handful of nobodies sending hateful messages about your criminal escapades – not everyone was convinced.

Some well-known people on social media – people you personally know are adding fuel to the fire; engaging in discourses of you and Jenna and if you are dragging her down just by being associated with you.

Fake-ass motherfuckers.

“Yes, I think those are the exact words Jake and Liv put in their texts, actually.” He reaches for his phone to read over the message; mocking you. 

“Stop, Link…” You run a hand on your face, “Tell them I’m not going. I have better things to do, Coachella is right around the corner and I literally have a song I need to send to my producer.”

He watches as you childishly cross your arms, scowling. 

If you weren’t his best friend he would’ve said goodbye to the Hollywood life – too rich for his blood. Link wasn’t sure how he still put up with your attitude after all these years. Could you have said those words any more snobbishly?

“Are you done?”

“No.”

“Well you don’t have a damn choice. Now, take a shower – Marcus will be here in an hour to drive us to LAX. And you can record in New York, no one said you had to be attached to Jenna’s hip.”

“What if I don’t want to.” You stand your ground. 

“Don’t do this today, Y/N.” He sighs. 

For a few moments, you hold your ground; contemplating if you should dig a hole and barricade yourself – metaphorically, of course. But never say never. 

Link raises a challenging brow – daring you to try him today. 

Wow, someone must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed…

Knowing what that look meant, you knew when to pick your battles and accepted the loss, trudging over to the master bathroom but not before slamming the door behind you.

“Don’t be slamming doors ‘round here! I don’t care if the house is under your name.” He shouts from the other side. 

“Fuck off!” You yell back, yanking your shirt off as the water turns hot.

He is such a dad.

–

“What are you doing here?”

“Hi to you too, Jenna. How was your day? Mine was great, the flight was a bit bumpy but I can handle a ‘lil turbulence. Thanks for asking.” You reply, ignoring the furrow in her brow hidden behind the silky fringe. 

You wonder what conditioner she uses to get her hair looking that soft.

“Y/N…” Jenna sighs, walking past you to enter your hotel suite. Walking into the living room to place her shoulder bag on the coffee table then she turns to face you, crossing her arms still waiting for an answer. “I’m serious, why are you in New York.”

You lean against a wooden panel, crossing your arms as well. “Didn’t your team tell you?”

Her frown deepens, patience thinning the longer you beat around the bush. “Obviously not or I wouldn’t be here.”

“Okay relax…” You warn not appreciating her tone. You literally just landed an hour ago and it’s almost midnight East Coast time. The timezone switch is fucking with you and her attitude is the last thing you need. 

“Don’t tell me to relax.” She snaps. The young actress hated those words, it always made her more riled up.

You scoff trying your hardest not to snap back but controlling your anger has never been your strong suit. “Why do you think I’m here? Liv told me I had to show face for your premiere and SNL episode. Be your cheerleader or some shit.”

She drops her arms, frown still etched on her soft face. What? Ignore that.

“Shit, I think Sarah might’ve mentioned it but I was just so busy with rehearsal and fittings with Enrique that I didn’t see.” Jenna sighs, rubbing her forehead.

For the first time since she barged into your room – you take a moment to scan her. Her face is bare and makeup free but you can see the dark smudges from her eyeliner earlier today just under the lashline. She was dressed in a large sweater and mismatched sweatpants; the sleeves are so long it covers half her hands and her short wavy locks tied into a messy low bun.

Her clothes practically engulfed her tiny stature. You figure this is a pretty rare sight that most people aren’t privy to and suddenly you’re unsure as to why it’s so hard to look away. 

“I didn’t mean to snap… I’m sorry.” She says quietly, looking at you like she was genuinely apologetic. 

“It’s fine…” You shrug and pushed off the wall to sit on the couch. Everyone has their days, you thought.

“I didn’t mean to ambush you. I really thought you knew I’d be here.” You turn on the TV, not being to stand the silence in the large room.

Jenna sits down beside you, tucking her feet against her chest. When did she take off her shoes? “It’s not your fault.”

The sigh she lets out is heavy and something tells you there’s some meaning behind it too. But you didn’t feel like it was your business so you zip it and continue watching the TV drone on about a program you don’t care about. 

“I saw clips of your SNL promo… I thought it was hilarious – you were great and that reporter outfit? So cool.” You change the subject. It gets her to smile as her dimples poke out, a little shy now. 

“It’s so cringy.” She covers her face. 

“Awh, nah… the internet loved it.” You laugh, a little amused that the actress was all flushed by a single compliment. 

Call it big-headed, call it ego, call it whatever you want but you personally relished it when people fawned over you. 

“Of course they did. They’re the whole reason for the meme.” She rolls her eyes after dropping her hands but she still had a toothy smile. 

“I bet that dance follows you everywhere…” 

“Every. Fucking. Day.” She says then raises a brow at you, “How do you know about the dance, though?’

You send her an affronted look, “I’m not a grandmother, Jenna. I know what’s hip with the kids.”

She snorts, “You’re an idiot – I just mean, I didn’t think you were on TikTok like that with a schedule like yours. Also, that app is toxic.”

“Every social media app can be toxic.” You quip, “But get off your high horse, your majesty. I literally just saw a couple of edits on Twitter of it.”

“Uh huh…” She hums, unconvinced, if the side glance she throws you was any indication. “But yeah the writers wanted to do a bit with Wednesday and this is what we came up with.”

“Well, I think it’s genius… from a business standpoint.” You offer up, nudging her shoulder then turning back to the TV.

You miss Jenna’s bothered frown. “Business standpoint?”

“Yeah,” You say off-handedly, “It’s smart, good for you.”

“Are most things a ‘business standpoint’ for you?” She asks, genuinely curious about what you could mean.

“Hmm. I guess I never thought of it like that but now that I’m saying it out loud, yeah, kinda.” You shrug, thinking about it. 

Most of the interactions in Hollywood that you have had are based on transactions and is usually for your own self-interest.

“...That’s kinda sad.” She says getting you to turn.

“What does that mean?” You frown.

“I’m just saying… there’s more to this industry than business deals and brand offers.” This time Jenna offers up a thought but it sounds a bit judgemental to you, shrugging.

You’re furrowing your brows, sitting up straight. “Look, you don’t even know me. Just forget what I said.”

But the laugh she lets out grinds your gears in the most unpleasant way.

Jenna holds up her hands in surrender but it feels mocking. “Clearly…” She emphasizes. “But I’m just saying, there’s no need to get all defensive.”

“Okay, I don’t know what kind of shit you were dealing with today but don’t take it out on me. Don’t come to my room talking about things you know nothing about.” You glower.

She matches your frown, standing. “It kinda sounds like you’re the one dealing with something, actually.”

“I think you should leave.” Your glare turns sharp and cold, standing too.

“Already on my way out.” She scoffed, snatching her bag aggressively off the coffee table then turns to walk to the front door. 

You follow to make sure the door hits her on the way out but she stops abruptly by the hall causing you to trip on your own feet to not tumble over her. 

“I think you should go back to L.A.” She glares up at you, tightly clutching her shoulder bag.

The laugh you let out is humourless, stepping back to create space between you and the other actress. “And get my ass handed to me by Jake, Liv and Sarah? They’re like four horsemen of the apocalypse – just searching for their last member. No thanks. You got a problem with me here? You deal with it.”

She clenches her jaw, “Done. Leave it to me.” Then turns and leaves making sure to slam the door shut. 

Those hotel doors weigh a fuck ton, how did she do that? And what did she mean leave it to me?

“Can I come out now?” Link peeks his head out from the adjoining room; fear present on his features.

●●●

:)

-

tagging who comment so far:

@alexkolax @ladey @jjsmaybank20 @werewoofrobinbuckley

[bitethedevil]

Tav pressing hot kisses against the base of Raphael's neck before whispering to him, "How about I give you a reason to wear such a high collar?" and teasingly nibbling at the skin there? (I came up with this yesterday before falling asleep, but the second I saw your username I knew I had to send it to you)

Biting the Devil

(Warning: NSFW)

Tav was in his lap, gently kissing his neck. His eyes were closed, and his head was leaned back, resting on the wall behind him. He was tired after a long day, and though he would never admit it, he loved when she gave him attention like this. He was practically purring, as Tav left her soft kisses up and down his neck.

She grazed her teeth over his skin. His grip on her hip tightened in response.

“Ah-ah,” he warned, his eyes still closed. “No biting, dear. It leaves marks.”

“That’s the point,” she said between kisses. “You send me back to my companions with my neck looking like a red and blue painting, but I can’t bite you? That hardly seems fair.”

Tav licked a stripe up his throat, earning her a groan from him.

“Life isn’t fair and there is an important difference, sweet mouse,” Raphael purred. “I am simply marking you as mine for everyone to see, while I am not yours to mark.”

“Is that so?” Tav teased and kissed along his jaw.

“It is,” Raphael affirmed and caressed her thigh with his hand.

“I best leave my marks in places where no one can see them then,” she said.

She was kissing her way to his ear while unbuttoning more of his shirt, to gain better access to his neck.

“How about I give you a reason to wear such a high collar?” she whispered in his ear.

Raphael opened his eyes slightly and a smile tugged on his lips as he looked at her. She took that as her sign to continue.

She bit the bottom of his neck, earning her a pleased groan from him. As she nibbled her way up his neck, she could hear his breathing getting heavier.

“Just know,” he said in an almost breathy voice. “For every mark you leave on me, I will leave five on you in return.”

Tav grinned against his neck and left another bite that would definitely bruise. He groaned again and this time he grabbed her hip and made her grind against his lap. No matter how much he played hard-to-get, the hardness Tav felt through his pants told her that he was enjoying this as much as her.

“Two for every one mark I put on you,” Tav bargained and grinded her hips against him again. Raphael tightened his grip on her, and the desire was clear in his eyes.

“Firstly, I will have to inform you that deals made under duress are not legally binding,” he teased and growled as he received another bite to his neck. “Secondly, you should know better than to try and bargain with a devil.”

In one smooth movement he grabbed both of her arms and held them behind her back as he pulled her closer to him on his lap. He bit down into her neck, causing her to moan.

“Three, then,” Tav said. Her breathing got shallower as his tongue circled the mark he had just made on her neck.

“Persistent little thing, aren't you? Four…and only because you are my favorite client. Final offer, mouse,” he purred in her ear. His hand on her hip slid to her stomach and under her waistband. “Do we have a deal?”

She moaned and grinded her wetness against his fingers.

“Deal,” she said and left one final bite to his neck that was already covered in small bitemarks and hickeys.

(AN: You can't convince me that this nerd would not find a way to bring his deals and infernal law into foreplay somehow. Thank you for thinking of me anon <3 Loved your prompt)

[safination]

Masterlist

|ao3 link here| Taglist|

The universe you will read from Hazbin Hotel/ Helluva Boss all belong to Vivziepop. I have no legal claim over her story. This work of fanfiction will closely follow canon to the best of its ability.

MAINSERIES:

Partners in Death...and Life

Summary: After a seven-year absence, you find the man you were married to in life, not only back in town, but also helping... *checks notes*... the Princess of Hell run a hotel aimed at rehabilitating sinners who were sent to the bad place for a reason.

|Part 1: Radio's Not Deadl |Part 2: Radio Will Be Dead if He Doesn't Explain Himself| |Part 3: Not Everything You Hear From The Radio Should be Trusted| |Part 4: The Radio Stars’ Co-host Just Wants To Do The Dishes| |Part 5: Glimpse of Me and You: Part I| |Part 5: Glimpse of Me and You: Part II| |Part 6: Radio’s Last Broadcast| |Part 7: Me and You in Eternity| |Part 8: The Calm Before the Fall| |Part 9: The Vow That Binds Me| [Finale]|

The Competitors

|The Wrong Competitor|

TLDR: The Hazbin Hotel decides to hold a masquerade party. Despite his better judgment, Alastor sends an invitation to his wife even if he’s aware of Vox’s attendance, who’s keen on competing with Alastor for his wife’s attention….If only Alastor knew how much you and Vox would gag at the idea of him flirting with you. It’s not his wife’s attention that Vox competes for. It’s not even Alastor who he’s competing with. Actually… Alastor isn’t part of the competition.

|The Actual Competitor|

TLDR: Why is Alastor competing with his wife for his best friend’s affection? Actually, why is he competing with his wife? What’s even weirder is that…it seems Alastor will also have to compete with his best friend for his wife’s affection. + A fluffy lazy morning because I say so.

ONE-SHOTS/ SPIN-OFFS |Smell of Rain Through The Window Pane|

TLDR:  Acid rain stings, and destroys everything it touches. Still, Alastor decides that it’s a good day for a walk because fate made him your husband. So, surely fate would find a way for him to hand you this umbrella because you always seem to forget to bring one. Alastor will find a way to hand you an umbrella, even with the deal preventing you from seeing him.

[avocado-writing]

For nightingale, aziraphale, and Crowley, could you write something with them going on holiday or honeymoon to a museum or historical site, and remembering old times together? Maybe they discover one of them in the background of a historic photo or they’re mentioned in a piece of writing or turn up in a painting or a statue? I just need more of those 3 so whatever you feel like, dealers choice <3

aziraphale x reader x crowley (good omens)

third chapter of this. kissing you on the lips anon for requesting it.

rated M for light smut.

1.5k words.

if you like what I do, here’s my ko-fi!

Your marriage is a quiet little affair.

It has to be, really. Can’t have a big crowd wondering how three people are able to all wed each other. It’s hard enough miracling the registrar to not notice anything out of the ordinary, let alone worrying about having a bunch of guests second-guessing the technical legality of the thing. 

Luckily, it all goes reasonably smoothly. The registry office isn’t busy on a Thursday afternoon, it doesn’t take long to get in and out. Yes, all three of you sign these documents, that’s absolutely fine. Congratulations and I hope you have a happy future together.

Rings on fingers, plain gold wedding bands binding the three of you to each other. Chaste, meaningful kisses and wide smiles.

Being married to them doesn’t feel any different, but then again you suppose it wouldn’t. You’ve been together for longer than any human has ever been alive. You were all practically married anyway, getting the paperwork done was just… the cherry on top.

“Well, now what do we do?” you ask, stepping out onto the busy London street. Aziraphale and Crowley take a moment to consider this question, as if they hadn’t really thought about it either.

“Lunch?” the angel says, just as the demon replies “bed?”

You laugh, and the three of you end up doing one and then the other.

Crowley kisses you both hard the moment that the bookshop door shuts, pausing only to flip the sign firmly to ‘very closed’. You trap Aziraphale between your bodies, knowing how much he loves to be showered with attention, and strip off as you retreat through the nonfiction section to the well-loved sofa in the break room.

It feels like there isn’t time to go upstairs. It’s time to consummate this marriage here, now. 

“Come on, angel,” you hum as Crowley sheathes himself inside him, making Aziraphale’s eyes roll in pleasure, “like Geoff wrote, ‘In wyfhode I wol use myn instrument as frely as my Makere hath it sent’.”

Despite the overstimulation as you sink down on him, Aziraphale laughs. Crowley cocks an eyebrow.

“What on earth are you going on about?”

“Inside joke, I suppose,” you reply wickedly, before silencing any further questioning with a kiss across Aziraphale’s shoulder.

When you’re done breaking in the marriage bed - after you finish breaking in the marriage couch and then the marriage kitchen counter - the three of you lie together, limbs tangled, the two of them feeling you breathe. 

“You know what we should do?” you eventually pipe up, lost between twisting your fingers in Aziraphale’s curls and running your hand up the length of Crowley’s thigh.

“Look, I’m happy to go again, just give me ten minutes,” Crowley murmurs. You almost get caught up in it as the angel plants a kiss on your bare shoulder, but snap yourself back to reality before they can delay your train of thought further.

“No! - I mean, yes, but also, we should go on a honeymoon.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, lighting up, “That’s a wonderful idea. I can’t remember the last time the three of us took a holiday together. One where we didn’t have to also do some work, anyway.”

“It was Stockholm, nineteen-seventy-five,” Crowley states without missing a beat. The two of you both look at him, and it clicks.

“Oh god, it was, wasn’t it?” you laugh. Of course. Was it that long ago?

“The Eurovision final! Goodness, how on earth did we forget?”

“Repressing painful memories?” the demon suggests. It was one of those trips he’d clearly not been very pleased about, but insisted his chaperoning was better than the alternative of letting you and Aziraphale run wild around Sweden.

“I can’t believe you had a perm for that whole decade,” you say to Crowley, who just groans and slings his arm over his face to hide.

“I thought it was very fetching,” Aziraphale reassures, squeezing his husband’s - husband’s! - hand. 

“Well, why don’t we go somewhere a bit closer to home?” you suggest. “Somewhere like, I don’t know, Edinburgh?”

“I like Edinburgh. Well, apart from one statue, but we don’t have to go and see it I suppose,” Aziraphale agrees. The two of you look over to Crowley. He lifts his arm just enough for you to see the sparkle in his yellow eyes.

You set off a couple of days later in the Bentley, boot packed up tight with suitcases (none Crowley’s, one belonging to you, the rest Aziraphale’s; he insisted he needed to bring at least twenty books ‘just in case’). With Crowley’s driving the eight hour journey takes about five, and soon you’re at your little bnb planning how you’re going to spend the week.

And it’s lovely. You do all the touristy things, the guided tours, the hidden gems, and slowly making your way around what feels like every pub in the city. You and Aziraphale eat a quite astonishing number of lunchtime finger sandwiches, and Crowley takes you out dancing to a little hole-in-the-wall joint he had a hand in founding a couple of decades ago. Your heart is full and you realise over and over again just how lucky you are to be able to spend your life with the two people you love most in this universe.

On the last day, you finally do the big one: Edinburgh Castle. You’ve been in there but only once, and that was a couple of hundred years ago. It’s changed but not as much as you thought: it’s nice to see the conservation work people are doing in old places like these. Saving little pieces of the past.

You’re walking through one of the little side corridors - a place you’re probably not meant to actually be on the tour, but one of your husbands has a way of making locked doors open and the other is very good at getting people to forgive you if you’re found going through them.

Up ahead they’re bickering. About what you can’t say. You’ve learnt to tune it out unless it’s about something actually important. Despite that you almost miss it, walk right past the bloody thing - but then you catch the flash of paint out of the corner of your eye and do a double-take.

Your mouth drops open.

“Oh my god. You two, come here and take a look at this!”

Aziraphale and Crowley halt their quibbles and double back to stand at your side. They’re both as shocked as you are.

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasps.

“Huh,” Crowley mutters.

“It’s us,” you state.

It is. An oil painting, ancient. The only description is a tiny plaque which sits beneath it in tiny lettering: a portrait of a gentleman and two ladies, c 1665. No more information is given, which is clearly why it’s been delegated to a back room rather than hung in somewhere more important.

But there’s no mistaking it: Aziraphale in his white jerkin and doublet, Crowley in a black dress with his hair down, and you in the middle. Dressed in rich colours, heavy jewellery hanging off you. Your lovers hold either one of your hands in theirs, the three of you looking out serenely towards the viewer.

“We commissioned this for your birthday in sixteen-sixty-five. Do you remember, Nightingale?”

You nod. Yes, you remember the two of them trying to surreptitiously get you to pose while someone caught your likeness in a sketch to transfer later to canvas. Portrait sittings were an exhausting thing and there was no way they were going to trick you into believing anything else was going on.

“I thought it was destroyed,” you whisper, gobsmacked. The three of you had lived in a little London townhouse around the time, when your relationship was still young. And yes, a birthday present it was: right before the great fire of London had broken out. You’d had to evacuate the city as quickly as you could, no time to save anything as unwieldy as a painting.

But clearly it hadn’t burned. Someone had saved it - or nicked it, more likely, before the blaze got to it - and now it ended up here. In this corridor. Where the three of you had just happened to trespass to find it.

“Miraculous,” Aziraphale breathes, and you can only agree.

“Should we try to get it back?” Crowley asks. “I’m sure there’s someone I can blackmail in this castle.”

“No. No, let’s leave it. I quite like it here. A little piece of us somewhere, preserved in time, you know? It’s lovely. Besides,” you turn to your husbands, “I get to have the two of you every day now.”

The three of you take a moment to let the idea soak in; and then you kiss in the quiet of the castle corridor. Happy. Looking forward to the future you’re now allowed to live.

“Now,” you announce after a beat, “I think we’d better get some lunch and then I’m going to go and graffiti that statue of Gabriel. You’re welcome to join me.”

“Oh absolutely,” says Crowley just as Aziraphale tuts “certainly not!”

You talk him round though, and by that evening, he’s doodled a moustache on the smug archangel’s marble face with a sharpie.

[see-arcane]

The Vampyres--The Bones and Blood of the Book

Good news! I’m not dead and the book isn’t either! Just shambling slowly through the wasteland of the publication process. It’s been a bit since I last waved this bloody morsel around. So, consider this a progress report on the state of the novella, the prospective publishing options, and a few other questions that have been bouncing around in the inbox.

EDIT:

I have a website now! For some reason.

It's See Arcane Scribbles.

Smaller Edit:

Got a Spotify too for story soundtrack goodness:

COVERS

First things first—and the first part of a finished book is the cover. Here are some mockups I’ve been juggling, starting with the original placeholder. They’re far from perfect, but I’m proud of what I managed with a fairly skinny graphic art skill set.

FINISHING, FORMAT, AND FINANCE*

*(OR, THE HEADACHENING)

Copyright: Technically speaking, you have the copyright to your own writing once you put it to paper or screen. But this is somehow a different thing from a legally-binding registered copyright, which everyone declares is a must-have if you want your work to be protected with more than a non-textual trust-fall exercise, hoping nobody steals your work and runs.

That said, electronic registration with the copyright office is $65, or $45 to register one work by one author.

ISBN: I only recently learned the words behind this acronym. ‘International Standard Book Number.’ It’s the ID on a book that marks it as unique and helps commercial booksellers and libraries circulate it. Each iteration of a book—paperback, digital, hardcover, new editions, et cetera—has its own ISBN. When you’re publishing on your own, you purchase ISBNs through a service called Bowker.

One book/version’s ISBN costs $125.

There are better bargains the higher the number of books and/or versions you go, starting at a bulk of 10 books for $295. But as I only have the one (1) skinny novella on the table, that’s a no-go. Which begs the question of how many ISBNs are in store for this little monster. It depends on how many formats I go with.

eBook: The quickest and most cost-efficient option across the board for any self-publication service. Short, sweet, no printing pains of trim sizes or distribution costs or formatting, oh my. Nice.

Paperback VS Hardcover: …But I am now and forever a sucker for physical media. Even though it’s a teeny brochure of a thing, I want to hold a physical copy of The Vampyres in my hands! So bad! And every service I’ve looked through has stated the obvious: Hardcover costs more than paperback. My heart won’t break if I have to stick with paperback to spare everyone’s wallets—hardcovers are pricy in both directions!—but I am a little torn. Especially as physical size might affect the price too.

Here we have two of my favorite quick reads, an anthology of Poe stories and Clive Barker’s novella, The Hellbound Heart.

The Poe book is a clothbound hardcover. 6.5 x 4.5 inches, a bit over 120 pages.

The Hellbound Heart is roughly 8 x 5 inches (about standard for a novella), at 164 pages. But unlike Poe, it looks like Barker took some liberties with the spacing and font size.

Standard size dimensions cost less than unique cuts, which means that whether paperback or hardcover, I sadly have to say goodbye to the petite palm-sized edition I was hoping for. On the upside, good news to us crap-vision readers—the font’s going to get H U G E in order to make the book more than a pamphlet with delusions of grandeur.

Audiobook: The fact is, my voice is not up to the task of reciting anything with appropriate gravitas and I think we’ve all been spoiled by @re-dracula and assorted other podcasts’ skill in orating. I don’t have the cash to hire a professional and I’m not about to accept anyone’s freebie offers. I won’t pickpocket friends for their talent. If an audio version ever comes along for any story of mine it’ll be down the road when it proves worth the format’s effort and cost.

REVIEWS (and a Foreword!)

It was the best of times (People reading the thing! Commenting on the thing! Good good good—), it was the worst of times (The Mortifying Ordeal of People Reading and Commenting on the Thing). Time for what every advice site declares a book absolutely must have the moment it’s thrust into the wild.

Reviews, reviews, reviews.

I’ve already bitten several bullets and passed copies out to a handful of fellow scribblers to scrutinize, their reviews destined to be hung up like literary gold stars on their bookselling site of choice, my own included. Now comes my preliminary grovel to readers en masse to please drop a review, a comment, a blurb of any shape or size where you can once The Vampyres drops. I’ve already gotten some early comments that have consisted mostly of screaming. Screams also count as a review.

As an aside, there are two folks in particular who I reached out to who exist in the stratosphere of Coolest People in the Vampiric Lit scene. They promptly exploded me into disbelieving giblets when they told me, yes, they’d be happy to read my little story and offer up a review and a foreword for the book respectively.

I’m not sure what the decorum here is, but for safety (and surprise’s) sake, I’ll not name names. But they are names I’ve been happy to come across for the past two years while neck deep in the undead book club. I’m infinitely grateful to both of them and am waiting on pins, needles, stakes and kukri blades by my inbox so I can pin their words up inside the book itself.

FUTURE SCRIBBLING

To get one of the biggest questions out of the way, let’s talk about Barking Harker.

My very own object lesson on sunk cost fallacy.

I wrote my way through a goddamn cinderblock of text without even grazing the finish line of the first section of the story. A story made of so many convoluted triple-decker layers of subplots and side characters that it had the structural integrity of a monolithic Nature Valley granola bar, just waiting to fall apart under its own weight. Such is the hubris and curse of too-many-words-itis. The Vampyres remains a miraculous fluke, jotted down during an overdue break from BH’s slog. Not just because I tripped and fell into finishing the story, but because it’s comparatively compact! Brevity at last!

For those still craving the assorted gothic and ghoulish promises of the initial novel idea, don’t worry, those aren’t going anywhere. I’ve just crumbled the metaphorical bloodstained granola by my own hand and have done the sane thing of parsing out the various subplots to become the foundations of their own stories. Which they really should have been from the get-go. Insert 100+ clown emojis here.

On that note, I am turning into WIPs Georg over here. Good god.

I hesitate to throw myself all-in again and make promises of X Story that may leave me spinning my mental wheels or ballooning the plot out into a behemoth that can’t be steered back on course. Even so, here’s a peek at a few ideas I currently have on the brain.

So.

Not exactly lacking for stories. It’s just a matter of seeing which of them breaks ahead of the herd and squeezes out into the publication ether first.

LAST BIT  

Blah, blah, requisite reminder that I have a Ko-Fi where you can donate a buck or commission my best attempt at art, blah. Any pennies are a help.

But I’m betting very few of you came around here for my doodles. Somehow, a good amount of people tripped into this pit with me because you enjoy the rambles and horrors I’ve written over the years. Maybe some of you will even buy my book once it’s out. And you, there, on the other side of the screen—you’re reading this right now. You made it all the way to the bottom of this pile of exposition just because you wanted to. So, thank you.

Thank you for reading this far. Thank you for reading before and reading what’s to come. Thank you for giving me the confidence to even consider shouldering my own work out into the wider world.

Thank you.

P.S. If you want to re-read the preview, go here!

[catierambles]

Feral Instincts Ch.26

Pairing: The Rogue’s Gallery (Geralt, Syverson, Mike, August Walker, Walter Marshall) x Stephanie Daniels (OFC)

WC 1130

Warnings: ....*shrug*

Stephanie noticed shady characters hanging out around the apartment building for the next few days and their appearance just screamed "government goons". They felt like wolves, though, so she hazarded a guess they were from the Pack Council. She made sure to give them an emphatic wave whenever she saw them, something Mike found infinitely amusing. She got Albert enrolled in GED classes as he had had to drop out of school when their dad kicked him out of the house and he had three or four years of education to catch up on. He had needed to take a test and explain his situation to the school board in order to even register as he was below the minimum age of eighteen. Simply putting him in high school was out of the question, as he would have been so far behind it would have been nigh on impossible for him to catch up.

There was a wolf on the board who had been incensed at what had happened to him and Stephanie had to make an official statement as his Alpha, and Sy as his older brother. She didn't know if they had contacted the Council about it, but no one came knocking at her door about him, so she brushed it aside.

She lay on the couch in the cabin, scrolling through her phone, Mike laying stretched out on top of her with his head on her chest. Her other hand was down by the floor, her fingers moving through Albert’s fur idly as he lay curled up asleep, his slim black wolf much smaller than the others.

“Hey, doll.” Sy said, coming into the living room and she raised her hand only so long as to put a finger to her lips. “Sorry.” He whispered, “Need to talk to you about somethin’ in the other room.”

“Okay.” She said and patted Mike’s head gently. “I gotta get up.”

“Comfy.” He whined, nuzzling into her chest more and she snorted.

“I know, sweetheart, but Sy needs to talk to me.” She said and he huffed, picking his head up and pressing a quick kiss to her lips before getting off of her carefully, standing from the couch and stretching with his arms above his head. Albert got up when he did, stretching with his front paws out in front of him and his body in a bow. Mike offered her a hand and helped hoist her off the couch, giving her another quick kiss before they headed up the stairs. Stephanie followed Sy into the kitchen at his beckon and she looked around at the serious expressions the others were giving her.

“What’s up?” She asked.

“Council isn’t leaving me alone.” August said simply. “I’ve been ignoring their calls, but they’re getting insistent.”

“He told us Solo came to see you.” Geralt said.

“They need to learn to accept rejection.” She said, crossing her arms over her stomach. “Then again, seeing as they’re all dudes, men have been historically horrible at taking “no” for an answer.”

“I’m worried they may send out another Cleaner.” August said and her brows jumped at him.

“Why would they do that?” She asked.

“So I don’t go public.”

“So don’t go public. They didn’t have you sign a legally binding NDA or something?”

“They didn’t exactly want a paper trail of my activities, Princess.”

“Fair.” She said with a shrug, “Still…”

“And based on what I did for them, I don’t see them just taking my word that I’m going to keep my mouth shut.” He said and she sighed. “I’m also worried they may send one after you.”

“Why me?” She asked.

“Because you’re the reason I stopped, and you know what I was doing.” He said, “They may figure if they take you out of the picture, it’ll get me back in line and keep the others from talking as well.”

“Who would they send?” Walter asked, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“Probably Leon.” August said.

“The mouthpiece?” She asked incredulously.

“Babe, I worked with him in the CIA. He’s also a former Agent.” August said, “He didn’t do what I did, but he was still an Agent so he knows how to kill and has no problem with it.”

“He was…odd.” She said and he arched a brow at her. “When we met he felt like a Beta, but when I shut him down when he tried to talk down to me, he felt like an Alpha.”

“Fuck.” Geralt sighed.

“What?” She asked.

“He’s a Blue Wolf.” Geralt said, “Makes sense why he’s good with politicians and news outlets.”

“A what?” She asked.

“Blue Wolves don’t exist, Geralt.” Sy said, “They’re a myth.”

“They’re rare, but they exist. Maybe one or two in every ten thousand wolves are Blue.” Geralt said.

“Steph, you know how the second full moon in a single month is called a Blue Moon?” Sy asked, catching her confused expression.

“Yeah?”

“Well, a Blue Wolf is a wolf that manifested as two things when they first shifted. An Alpha and Beta, a Beta and Omega, or any combination of the three. If this guy is a Blue Wolf, it would make sense why he felt like a Beta, and then an Alpha. He switched aspects while you were talkin’. First a Beta to put you at ease, then an Alpha when he wanted to throw his weight around.” Sy said, “But you’re a female Alpha so him tryin’ to pull rank, basically, didn’t work because you outrank’im. Female Alphas will always be higher than male Alphas in the peckin’ order. Just how it is.”

“So then why’d he try?” Stephanie asked, “If he knew it wasn’t going to work, why’d he switch?”

“He probably did it without thinking about it.” Geralt said, “Reacting to the situation. Or maybe he just wanted to test it out. Who knows.”

“Point is,” August said, “If they send Leon, we wouldn’t know he was coming because we won’t feel him if he’s not in Alpha aspect, and since he doesn’t belong to Steph like Mike does, she wouldn’t feel him either until it was too late.”

“If they send him.” Walter said and August nodded. “Have you met any other Cleaners?”

“We didn’t exactly have lunch dates, Walter.” August said and he nodded. “We can’t let her out of our sight.”

“Agreed.” Geralt said.

“What about you?” Stephanie asked, “You said they may send one after you, August. If I’m going to be on lock down, so are you.”

“I don’t matter, Princess. You do.”

“Bullshit and if you ever say anything like that again, I’m kicking your ass. Got it?” She said and he stared at her for a moment before huffing a quiet laugh.

“Got it.”

[bijoumikhawal]

Bite the Hand that Starves You: Chapter Five

Fic as of this chapter contains: discussion of abortion, references to drug use, intersex and trans characters, torture/graphic violence, colonialism and its aftermath, implied sexual violence, disassociation

Kardasi: peikirvi- would translate to something like "concubine", specifically refers to an individual that socially presents as male, and was assigned such at birth, but can carry children (and often could impregnate someone else), who is legally bound to someone. Usually this is done with a pre-existing couple who has fertility issues.

Cheoche and cheyeda: could be translated as something like "patron" and "vassal". "Che" in Kardasi refers to charity, which is viewed as a duty to society rather than a choice made of good will. More specifically, a cheoche is a wealthy family/clan who takes on the affairs of a poorer or weaker one (the cheyeda), legally binding the two together for several generations. This can be typified in three ways: the cheyeda being a family who was once great and has become destitute, the family of a beloved artist, or a family of the "service class". For the latter, having a cheoche often provides a stable income, food, housing, and better schooling and training. Some cheyeda even have inheritance rights from their cheoche. However, while the relationship is glorified as going above and beyond ones duty, it is a system rife with abuse. The Tain and Garak families are bound this way.

Kisam- a matchmaker

kashmim- Cardassian time unit roughly equal to nine years

---

“I’ll be just a moment.” Garak said, sensing someone enter the shop and hearing the small noise maker he’d attached to the door be set off by the sliding motion of the door.

He finished the slight adjustment of the clothing in front of him, and turned around. “What can I-“

The words died In his throat when he saw just who had walked into his shop. Suddenly he was both full of white hot anger, and felt like a young, easily manipulated schoolboy again. “What are you doing here, Lokar.” He leaned into the anger. There was no time to question why he was alive, or how. The fact that his punishment had initially been execution still was within reason, given this… sight.

“Lokar? Oh, Elim, we were much closer than that, weren’t we?” Barkan leered at him, his voice, once simply gruff, now like sandpaper over the ears. A lesser man wouldn’t have noticed the hatred burning under his gaze. He looked around. “Charming little shop. I expected you to be up your elbows in soil or circuitry the next time I saw you.”

Garak moved so that the display table in the middle of the room was solidly between the two of them, and his way into his backroom was clear.

Not for the first time, he wished there was more than one entrance and exit to his shop. It had after all, been purposely designed so any proprietor within could be easily cornered by the Cardassian soldiers sent to fetch him. Almost all the shops had similar design features. He simply was unfortunate enough to be more intimately acquainted with them than the other merchants. The only other that had been there in those days was Quark, and his establishment had the privilege of at least one exit on every level.

“There isn’t much soil here I’m afraid, and I doubt Starfleet would allow a random civilian to get his hands in their circuitry.” He quashed the temptation to ask after Paladine and Kel. Barkan would only lie, and mock him all the while.

Barkan tilted his head. “A shame. You looked so at home when you were tending orchids on Romulus.”

Something about that made Garak snap. “You’re begging for an assassination, coming here.” Garak snarled. “The Bajorans did not forget who started ore processing here.”

Barkan sighed. “Such a shift in conversation, and here I was being civil.” He started to stalk in front of the table, not leaving Garak with a clear shot out the door. “And frankly, I’m surprised you’d say such a thing. After all, there are Bajorans that certainly remember you, yet look at you- sitting so nicely in your shop.”

Oh yes, they remembered him- that first morning, after the withdrawal, they certainly remembered him. In his low moments, he used to wish Odo hadn't interfered.

“You're being horribly cold to me, you know.” Barkan chided him. “A good Cardassian would be hospitable, even to a stranger.”

“I could hardly afford the hospitality you're used to.”

Loudly, someone cleared their throat. Garak saw Odo filling the doorway now, and had rarely felt such relief in his life. “Garak, is there a problem here?” He eyed Barkan suspiciously.

“No, constable.” He said in a tone that doubtlessly would only convince Odo that there was, in fact, a problem. “Lokar here was simply lost. He was looking for Del Floria’s, I believe.”

Barkan clearly recognized Odo, eyes flicking down to his Bajoran uniform with distaste. “It's nice seeing you again, Odo.”

Odo crossed his arms. “Del Floria’s is on the other side of the Promenade.”

Barkan smiled. “Thank you. Always helpful, aren't you?” He began walking out. “I’ll be on the station for the next few days, Elim.” He clapped Odo on the chest. “I have a great deal of catching up to do with Dukat, now that I’m returning to public life.”

Odo rubbed his chest, staring after him.

---

One could say Barkan Lokar possessed certain characteristics. Among them, unfortunately, was persistence. Going about his day, Barkan kept appearing just on the edge of his vision. Often, Odo was there as well.

Garak acted as though he hadn't noticed either of them. Things were stabilizing, now. He was able to (mostly) focus on work again. The outbreak of kunowaat- which he'd noticed, but hadn't been able to concern himself with- had no new patients, according to the station rumor mill. A Ferengi festival was upcoming.

It had been three days since Dr. Ammshah left.

Garak had a special delivery to pick up. He'd placed it before this whole mess, knowing it would take awhile back then. He'd almost forgotten it until today- when he got a message from the vendor saying it'd be dropped in corridor J, not too far from where it connected to the promenade. Little foot traffic to worry about, but still accessible.

Unfortunately, that made it an excellent tome for Barkan to be direct in his efforts once more. The seeming lack of presence as he entered the hall gave no comfort. Garak often regretted teaching Barkan what he'd learned from the regnar.

He could delay- his delivery wasn't out in the open- but it wasn't just that.

He had no desire to wait for Barkan to act.

He sensed the shift as the lights changed- they were kept dim here, due to the lack of traffic. It saved a bit of power. He kept walking.

With more time to plan, he could have put himself at great advantage. But then… he'd have to explain himself, after. And no matter what, that would go very poorly for him.

Barkan formally announced himself with a hand on Garak’s wrist.

Garak turned, twisting his way out of the grab. “Rather forward, aren't you?”

“Did you hit your head, Elim? I'm rather curious about where this amnesia of yours has come from.”

“I had hoped for your death. I think you'll find a better answer in that than playing doctor.” Garak said. And yes, he had. He’d felt foul and yet he knew that best outcome would be this man’s blood on his hands.

“You did a lot more than hope.” Barkan stepped forward. Perhaps he was goading Garak to run further down the corridor, away from the promenade.

“And was about as effective, it seems.” Garak didn't give in, standing firm.

“Oh, I wouldn't say that.” Barkan lunged forward him. Garak ducked, punching him in the ribs. Barkan wheezed out a laugh, catching himself. “I've learned my lesson about underestimating you.”

Garak waited. Watched. It was almost like the pit- his energy crashed against Barkan's, even as he stayed against the wall, catching his breath from the blow. Then- his foot came out, catching Garak’s weaker leg, and sending him back against the opposite wall.

Barkan turned, lunging again. He seemed more intent on grappling Garak than striking him. Garak dodged him again, this time not bothering to try and hit him.

That changed things. Garak had expected a fight- a most likely deadly one, yes, but something he could get it over with. Barkan was a hitter when angry, and not especially good with self control in private. He normally had no plan, simply seeking a way to satisfy his anger. Going with a grapple meant he had one.

He had to get out of here.

Barkan had kept him with his back facing more corridor- to get to the promenade, Garak had to get past him.

They both stayed locked in stance. Seeing what move the other would make- had Barkan figured out Garak had switched expectations?

Garak moved first, aiming to hit Barkan on his left arm and get past him.

The blow landed, but Barkan pivoted, turning and slamming them both against the wall.

Barkan’s hand moved to his chest, as though to press his comms for the Cardassian ship docked, when an alarmed voice called out.

“Garak!” Julian was quickly making his way towards the two of them.

Barkan startled at the interruption, and Garak took the opportunity to send him down to the floor by elbowing him in the face. He moved quickly, grabbing the doctor by the arm and steering the both of them to the more populated parts of the station.

“Garak, what was that about? Do you want me to call security? God, you’re bleeding!”

Garak touched his neck. It seemed at some point, Barkan had managed to scratch the unprotected skin in the center. “Doctor, in the future I would advise against you walking around near derelict parts of the station by yourself.” He stole a glance behind them, turning his torso. No sign of Barkan. Unfortunately, he knew Garak’s favorite trick, so that couldn’t be assured.

“Me?! Garak, I came looking for you. It was halfway through our usual lunch appointment, you hadn’t shown up, you weren’t in your shop, you hadn’t messaged me to say you had to miss it this week-“ Julian took a breath. “And I either found you being attacked, or…”

“The first option, I assure you.” It wasn't really soothing, Garak could tell, but it gave Julian more time to breathe instead of talking.

“My question stands about security, then.”

By now there were at least a dozen other people milling about, and Garak allowed himself to relax into his usual state of awareness. “No, I do not want to report this to security.” Dimly, he realized that Barkan had seen Julian with him. If Dukat hadn’t told him about the incident with Rugal, then surely now he would be on Barkan’s radar. “I might perhaps discuss it with constable Odo, off the record.”

Julian stopped him. “I doubt you’ll go to the infirmary with me to get your neck seen to.”

“You would be correct.”

Julian sighed. “Will you wait outside while I grab some equipment and let me do it in your shop, then?”

Garak considered it. “Yes, doctor.”

---

Sisko was going over his weekly communique from Starfleet went Odo came in early. He set aside the padd. "Constable. I've been eager for our daily meeting."

"Did something happen?" Odo tilted his head slightly.

"Dr. Bashir made a report today regarding something he hoped we'd coordinate on."

"A report about Garak." Odo harrumphed. "Coincidentally, that's why I'm here early today. One of Dukat's guests is someone you need to be aware of."

"Sounds like this is going to be a long talk. Take a seat, Constable."

Occasionally, Odo would remark that neither made any difference to him and remain standing, but not today. "Barkan Lokar was murdered close to three years ago. Today I saw him on the promenade."

Sisko sat up a little straighter at that.

Odo took a breath, considering. More out of imitation, Sisko guessed. "Lokar was the mastermind of the mining operation on Terok Nor, though he left the day to day to Dukat. His presence on the station, for that reason alone, is a security threat."

"And then there's the reason Dr. Bashir made his report." Sisko tapped his fingers on this desk. "He said he suspected they knew each other."

"He suspected correctly. Garak was Lokar’s… the closest translation would be concubine, peikirvi. His wife stayed on Prime, but Garak traveled with Lokar while he was on duty. Back then I only knew of Garak as “Elim”."

Sisko didn't hide the displeasure on his face at hearing the closest translation of the word. "I see."

"Garak was also supposed to have killed him. At the beginning of peace talks with the Federation, when the military was starting the evacuation of all non-essential personnel, Lokar stayed to help Dukat close out the mines. I was ordered by both to keep Garak confined to quarters, ostensibly for his own safety. A week later, he was found trying to steal a runabout by a patrol. The officer who found him tried to return him to his quarters, where they found Lokar's body, strangled." Odo paused. "No close examination of the body was allowed. Garak was incredibly agitated and bore injuries. I suspect he may have been intoxicated as well, but no testing was carried out. Dukat decided no further investigation was needed- to him, it was obvious there was a fight, and Garak had gone too far. Something about how the two had known each other since military school, and that Garak must have let old grievances get to him."

"I presume he was more biased than that." Garak at military school… now there was an odd picture.

Odo hmphed. "Of course. Lokar was his closest friend that wasn't a subordinate. He'd requested that the Central Command allow him to handle things personally. Garak was sentenced to labor under military detention after execution was denied for whatever reason, and Dukat assigned him to work as a tailor. Then he was intentionally left behind during the final evacuation."

Sisko gave in to the urge and grabbed his baseball. "So. I have a dead man walking, who happens to be one of the most hated men on the station, if not all of Bajor, and he has a personal violent history with one of our primary informants on Cardassia, who he's harassed today already."

"Twice."

"Twice." Sisko repeated, rubbing his temple. "First, keep an eye on Garak, but be subtle about it. Second, look into Lokar's whereabouts between now and then. Third, keep an eye on him, and don't be subtle. Increase security around the meeting tomorrow. Try to leave any investigation of the murder aside until Lokar is off the station. The rest, I leave to you."

Odo nodded. "As for my usual report…"

---

They'd tentatively resumed lunch. A day off from their usual schedule, unfortunately. There was a relieving quality to it- just like how the ones between the incident with the implant and this one had been, though stained with tension.

Three days worth of meetings... then Barkan would be off the station. He'd still be Garak’s problem... but at a distance.

Garak put that out of his mind. He had a young man to castigate. "As usual, it seems you don't understand your own literature. It's incredibly obvious that-" Garak stopped.

"Garak? Cat got your tongue?" Julian asked, amused.

Garak didn't bother chastising him for using idioms that gave the universal translator trouble. His attention had been pulled away by his parasite. Not only was Barkan around- he was walking toward them, which was what bothered Garak enough to stop.

Was he really going to do this in public?

The look in Barkan's eyes was cold, the way it was the first night Garak had navigated out of the wilderness successfully. Barkan’s gaze somehow became more cruel upon seeing Julian. “Ah. And here I had hoped you had some sense of properity within you.”

Julian tensed, recognizing the voice. "I didn't know Dukat had adopted the policy of giving his crew shore leave while a meeting is currently in progress."

Ignoring Julian, Barkan continued. “I never released you, Elim.”

“Never released me? I wasn’t aware I was a game bird.” Garak didn't deny the implication- the kind of person Barkan was, he'd take that as proof. The best thing to do was step around it, distance yourself from it.

"Game birds are better behaved."

The rest of the replimat was unsubtly looking over at them. Was that his game? After all, there are Bajorans that certainly remember you, yet look at you- sitting so nicely in your shop.

Many of the Bajorans previously on the station had left after withdrawal. Most of the people who associated Garak and Lokar that Garak still had to interact with weren't Bajoran- Odo, Quark and his staff, and so on.

It wasn't that Garak had never been publicly accosted by another Cardassian before. Most ignored him, but a few lacked the self control. What was making this differ was that anyone listening- even if they didn't quite get the implications, and many Bajorans did- could tell this was personal.

It was hard to predict how this would impact him down the road.

"Game birds don't follow orders, Lokar. They fly out of instinct. Perhaps you can relate." Garak turned away from him. "Speaking of, do mind your manners, doctor."

Dr. Bashir had been staring at Barkan the whole time. His attention snapped to Garak once called upon, eyes shifted, but still visibly thinking about how to get rid of Barkan. It was charming.

"I'm sorry, Garak. At my age I should know how to focus on a conversation, and not ignore someone."

Garak didn't laugh, but he did smile a bit. "Being aware of your flaws is good, but you need to act against them." He chided. "What would you do if you were at a medical conference, and ended up snubbing someone important because there was a fight at the snack bar you couldn't ignore?"

"How crass, Ten Lubak." Barkan said, sounding genuinely disappointed as he stalked away. He'd gotten what he wanted, after all- no need to linger.

---

Pay me a visit. And do not dress ostentatiously. The message read.

Garak frowned at it. When he was younger, he would have wondered if being ordered to return to his childhood home was a test, given that he was not to do so unless under specific circumstances. At this point, he knew the summons themselves were not the test.

He had a green outfit that would work well enough. It was a nice day- he might as well walk.

His mother was the one to greet him. "They're in the study." she told him. No recognition beyond what she'd give a normal guest- this was not a personal visit on Tain’s end, then. And, he already had a guest.

He nodded to her. “Thank you.”

Garak had not often gone upstairs when he lived here, and even less often to the study. He opened the door himself- he was allowed to, after all. Tain had his guests escorted if he felt guarded about such a thing as them opening doors by themselves.

He'd already had on a smile, and kept it firm even upon seeing the other guest.

He had expected Barkan would check if his “Elim Vronok” story was true, but this seemed a little much. At least he knew the role to play now; Elim Vronok, disgraced Bamarren washout who found out he was a bastard, changed his name, and now was a service class gardening drone. That still left the test…

“Barkan Lokar. I didn't expect to see you again so soon after our last meeting.” He gave it a formal distance, with a little warmth. He turned to Tain and bowed forward. “Patron.” Most likely, Lokar was here because Tain was officially the Garak family’s cheoche (this branch, anyway).

“You're being terribly formal, Elim. Sit, we have kanar.” Tain gave off the appearance of being relaxed, his presence withdrawn. And he did indeed, have a bottle of Kanar out and open. The two of then had each already poured a glass.

Garak did as he was told (it was never a request) and sat in the spare chair, pouring himself some kanar. Owing to the status of Elim Vronok compared to the room, he poured just half of the usual amount. “Might I ask what the occasion is?”

“How long has it been since Bamarren, Elim?” Barkan asked, looking into his drink.

“About two kashmim.”

“Two kashmim.” Barkan repeated. “As you know, Palandine and I were already betrothed back then. We formalized our relationship after completion of our studies at Bamarren. Two kashmim… and we only have one child.”

Garak bowed his head. “My condolences.” It was terror, to have just one child- that was only one opportunity for your hopes, ambitions, continuation of your name, and of course, only one opportunity for Cardassia. It would weigh especially heavy on Barkan, the man who taught Garak the real meaning of the word opportunity.

Deaths had decreased from what they'd been just before Garak was born, with hunger and illness rampant before the state made reforms. But both still hounded children in particular. And war…

Barkan sighed. “I love Kel dearly. The responsibility of being the only Lokar of her generation would crush her. Seeing you on Romulus reminded me… that I have options.”

The artifacts Tain kept on the walls suddenly made the room feel smaller.

So. That was what he'd come for. A slight panic must have appeared somewhere in him- his eyes, his posture. Barkan set down the glass, making a beseeching gesture. “I've been perfectly formal in discussing the matter before you arrived.”

Of course he had. He was wearing his newfound refinement like a shawl. Garak hadn't even been worried about Tain hearing of his school boy liaisons until it was alluded to.

Garak smiled as though relieved. “As fits the occasion.”

How did Barkan know? Had it come up while he was checking his Vronok story or had it been known at Bamarren and kept quiet as future leverage?

“Why me?” Garak asked, cloaking the question in a blend of bashfulness and humility. “Surely your family could find you a peikirvi, or a kisam could look further afield.”

Barkan smiled- the same smile he'd used on Garak at Bamarren. “I already know you, Elim. I came to like you and respect you during our time at school. I know you and Palandine won't destroy the household with petty strife. Those are guarantees I cannot get, no matter how clever my family or a kisam is, if I am marrying a stranger.”

“Well argued. Don't you agree, Elim?” Tain looked to him.

Barkan was friends with Skrain Dukat. Son of Procal Dukat, the would be coup leader. That was Tain’s angle here. Keep close to Barkan to keep aware of the Dukats.

How funny. Procal would despise his son's friend if he could see this now. An aristocratic military man raising a service class bastard to the honor of his peikirvi- what a fit he and every other member of the True Way would have.

“Very well argued.” How fortunate for Tain, that Barkan had thought of this himself and come to Tain as Garak’s cheoche. The latter was no matter of fortune, of course. Just good planning. As was this: positioning Garak this way had the potential to be very good planning.

Who was Garak to deny the will of his father, patron, head of the Order?

---

Julian knocked on the door frame to alert Sisko of his presence. "I have forms for you to sign." This was the last thing he needed to do- then he was off to bed.

"Oh, wonderful." Sisko lowered the padd he was looking at. "Inventory reports?"

"Among other things." Julian replied. He handed the data rod over to Sisko. "There's also requisition forms and a post-hoc form for that medical consult I had to call in." Normally, Julian would have done that before whoever he'd called in arrived, but Dr. Ammshah had caught him off guard.

"Did that go well?" Sisko connected the rod and the padd.

"Confidential." Julian said.

Sisko's brows raised as he skimmed the papers. Julian could pinch himself- normally, he would at least say if something went well. His knee jerk response gave the opposite impression, and he couldn't correct it. Sisko could probably guess who the consult concerned, and of course, had just reported to Odo the other day...

"This... is a long set of requisition forms." Sisko said after a moment. "Even for how many people have been ill."

"That's just how this disease is. It doesn't help that it's one of those where people tend to catch something else while already sick." Julian leaned on the back of the chair across from Sisko.

"How have you and the infirmary staff been holding up? Anyone giving you trouble?"

"No, no trouble- it's about as you'd expect." Julian replied. "We aren't being pushed to our limits yet, but we'll all be very glad when this is done with."

Sisko's eyes lingered on him, not bothering with subtlety as he squinted at Julian's face, then his uniform. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure. I'm very careful to make sure I don't give anyone more work than they can handle, and we managed to borrow a few nurses from the nearest outpost planetside." This was true- and key to this, just as much as the extra nurses, which of course no one else knew, was that Julian could do the work of two people in the infirmary. He was careful about it. No one noticed anything obviously unusual. "It's under con-"

A yawn rudely interrupted him. Julian felt his face warm slightly.

Sisko sighed. "Don't be over eager, doctor. It's better to ask for help early on if you need it, and to overestimate."

Julian laughed. "Thank you, sir, but I know my limits, and the limits of my staff."

"Good. Keep them in mind, and don't be shy to ask when you need something." Sisko nodded at him and raised the padd in Julian's direction. "I'll send these off once I'm done."

Julan inclined his head. "Thank you again."

[downstarr]

Fanfic and the Right to Be Forgotten

You know that thing that’s been happening where people are binding fic that they didn’t write and selling it for a lot of money? And some people are even selling merch based off of fic without permission?

That speaks to new and/or young people in fandom not realizing how tenuous the existence of fic is and how easily it can and has been taken away. But what’s also contributing to this is the idea that fic exists in some kind of creative common just because it’s fic.

To be clear, you can’t make money off someone else’s intellectual property without permission/paying a licensing fee, full stop. People selling fanart are basically riding off the goodwill of the IP holders not to serve them with a cease and desist. Usually the studios don’t do that because they realize persecuting their biggest fans for making a small amount of money is not a good look. They tend to take a harder line with fic for various legal reasons I won’t get into here. But basically, you cannot in any way, shape or form, make money off fanfic. It is only allowed to exist because the writers are not making money. Even that right was hard-fought and kept in large part because of the work of the nonprofit Organization for Transformative Works who run Ao3. 

Just because an author can’t make money off their fic doesn’t mean that fic belongs to fandom, though. It still belongs to the person who wrote it. It is not free for others to use unless the author explicitly gives permission. 

That means that the author of the fic is allowed to remove it and it should stay removed. The author has the right for their work to be forgotten and to disappear. It doesn’t matter if it’s beloved in the fandom, or if it meant something to people. That doesn't change the fact that it doesn’t belong to fandom. The idea that it does is what leads people to think it’s okay to bind and sell fic they didn’t write. 

Now, if I personally decided to delete a fic, I’d probably give people a head’s up and a chance to download their own copy for personal use. I also wouldn’t mind if they passed a copy off to a friend who wanted to read it. But under no circumstance should you put it up again or put it on a server for others to download to “save” it. Frankly, it isn’t yours to save and fandom should respect the wishes of the author who wrote it and then chose to delete it. 

Why would an author delete a fic? Well, it doesn’t really matter. It’s the author’s work and their choice. But maybe they were getting hate in the comments. Maybe they don’t think the writing was very good. Maybe they aren’t part of that fandom anymore and don’t want to interact with readers. Yes, they could orphan the work but they definitely aren’t obligated to. 

The biggest reason though, is that a lot of fic contains TONS of original elements. Some fic only holds a tangential relationship to canon through archetypes and basic personalities. Those original ideas belong to the writer. This means they have the option to delete the fic version and file the serial numbers off the work and turn it into a wholly original, saleable IP of their own if they want to. Many many published works started off as fic, the most famous of which is, of course, Fifty Shades of Gray which started as Twilight fic. 

If you circumvent an author’s wishes and repost or share their deleted fic widely, you undermine their ability to profit off their original ideas and writing. I get that it’s sad to lose a fic you loved, but it’s very easy to download copies of fic if you want to make sure you can reread it in the future. We also shouldn't guilt authors who choose to delete their fic, especially if they want to remake that work into something original.

Regardless of whether an author can make money off of their writing, it’s still theirs to control. Or at least, it should be. The idea that fanwork belongs to a collective also leads to authors and fanartists being taken for granted, as well as giving people the mistaken idea that they can remix it and sell it. 

This work doesn’t come out of the aether. It comes from talented folks who create transformative works for free. The least we can do is respect their right for that work to be forgotten if they decide to delete it.

[carriesthewind]

Adding to the well-deserved pile of thanks for your detailed posts about the Mata vs. Avianca cases! It provided a lot of legal context I had no idea even existed (like I thought I had a general idea how the Circuit courts and Appeals courts worked, but I had no idea about persuasive vs binding decisions!).

I know the notary issue isn’t particularly interesting at this point, but from a technical perspective (forgive me if someone already has noted this):

1. 99% certain the 25+h thing isn’t a technological error. That’s just a plain old typo. Fanciest thing that could have happened there is someone was trying to use a keyboard shortcut to automatically make the ‘th’ a superscript and messed it up.

2. They would have had to manually fixed it, or Word’s Spelling & Grammar caught it and they just accepted the new suggestion (sometimes Word will autocorrect, but generally that’s only when you’re typing, not after the fact). Guessing why they later fixed it and not the month was because it was pointed out by Word when someone was reviewing it (which means they didn’t spell check their doc before printing it the first time, good job guys).

3. The reason it has a print date before a creation date is most likely because it’s a copy of the original file. The creation date was overwritten when it was made, but the print date field wasn’t overwritten for the new copy. (It could also be a restored copy of an older version; Word saves the data of previous versions, which can be restored as a new document.)

4. Most likely it was copied because they were putting their files in a shared drive for the Professional Responsiblity Laywers. I’d bet money that tempuser1 is one of them, because they’d have to have given them access to the firm’s Microsoft365 instance to collaborate on documents.

[insert ‘that was a mystery that didn’t need solved.jpg’ here]

Thank you again for the coverage and sharing your knowledge! 💜

Oh! Oh! That all makes a lot of sense - especially the autocorrect! I mean, we can't know for sure, but it sounds extremely plausible (based on everything else we've seen from Schwartz) that he just caught the typo because Word pointed out, didn't bother to proofread the month (or anything else) because it wasn't, technically, a typo, and then printed without saving the corrected typo.

That was a mystery that maybe didn't need to be solved, but I'm very glad you did! Thank you!

[dolphin1812]

Cosette is finally free!

The characterization in this chapter is honestly incredible. Unlike her husband, Mme Thénardier has some scruples; while they may be twisted (preferring to marry Louis XVIII over doing something truly awful sounds like a fair comparison until it’s revealed that she means having Cosette around), and while she may still be horrible, she’s not as sneaky as her husband and thus feels uncomfortable with some of his demands because she doesn’t see them the same way he does. She finds it challenging to demand such a large sum from Valjean, for instance, because of his dress. She’s noticed the discrepancy between his appearance and his money as well, but she still fears that he won’t be able to pay. This isn’t really a moral position - she’s still awful - but she does feel awkward because part of her worries that this is too much for him to pay and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if it is. Her husband has picked up on all of this, too, but he also has suspicions about why he’d have to pay.

Thénardier likely suspects Valjean is a criminal. His reasoning on why he can’t be Cosette’s relative is in the text, but his other thoughts are mostly revealed through his questions and attitude. We know Thénardier has associated with convicts before, as he wasn’t afraid to be seen with Boulatruelle when trying to get information out of him. He may have picked up on the similarities between their demeanors: constant caution, subservience to authority beyond what’s expected, a lack of confidence, social isolation, and so on. The gap between this man’s appearance and the amount of money he has is also suspicious, and it may lead him to believe that he looks like this because he didn’t acquire the money through ‘legitimate’ means. This suspicion gives him confidence. A man running from the law can’t be picky about money (we’ve seen this with Valjean accepting lower wages without much of a fight, but overcharging would have worked the same way; complaints would draw legal attention that current criminals and ex-convicts would want to avoid). Therefore, while his wife is nervous about asking for that much money, he knows that this man can’t complain too strongly about the price. When discussing Cosette, he maintains a friendly tone so as not to arouse suspicion, but he does ask Valjean for identifying information, including for a passport (and as we know from Digne, passports were a tricky business). Valjean’s refusal to provide any of those likely solidified his hunch that he’s running from the law.

With Valjean, we see him move from his state of constant anxiety to a form of confidence. When he asks Mme Thénardier about Cosette, his voice trembles; he’s afraid of making any demands, like we’ve seen in all the chapters since he escaped prison again (and in the preceding chapters as well, honestly). Once he’s dealing with M Thénardier, however, his voice is firm. He definitely speaks less and chooses his words and actions carefully. Valjean may have the strength of an action hero, but he’s not just going to burst out of the inn carrying Cosette because he knows that’ll attract too much attention. He knows he has to negotiate with Thénardier in the most discreet way possible. Still, he stands up for himself, refusing to offer him any identification because none of it is necessary. In doing so, he also reveals an understanding of what Cosette’s been through - he’s keeping her abusers from finding her - and implicitly accuses Thénardier of abuse by insisting that she’ll never see him again and referring to him as something that “binds her foot” (he says “thread,” but the image resembles a prison chain). He doesn’t flinch when asked, either, demonstrating that he’s more confident here than before. It’s always been easier for Valjean to demand better treatment for others than for himself, and this is a continuation of that. He likely wouldn’t have stood up for himself at all if this weren’t a way of helping Cosette. Still, this does raise the possibility of some healing for him through Cosette, which is always nice to see.

Cosette is also so cute, I love how she immediately gains a lot of courage from Valjean’s presence (no longer fearing her abusers) and is so happy to leave. The image of her looking up at him in awe from time to time as they walk is so adorable.

[kinfriday]

Savagery

It’s hard to know how to feel as I’ve been going through the history of the Viking age peoples.  

On one hand they were profoundly inclusive, traveling the world, inviting other cultures to trade, and even including some of them. People with Persian DNA have been found in graves, along with rings with Allah inscribed upon them.  

What’s more we have written firsthand accounts, some of the only surviving, of Viking funerary rites from traders, and many historians now believe that the ancient Silk Road had its western terminus in Scandanavia. 

While gender roles seemed to have been strictly enforced, women still had the ability to own property, or serve as warriors. There even seems to be evidence, though it would be easy to read too much into it, that the Vikings were comfortable with a type of non-human identity in some.  

In a vacuum all of this sounds amazing. Here we have a warrior culture, that also traded and welcomed others and had at least some degree of respect for women as they ventured across the world.  

Truly, they must be a model of 9th century progressive values and ideals.  

Not so fast...  

While, to a degree welcoming, worldly, and inclusive, our spiritual ancestors were also, at the very same time, terrible people. A bulk of the slave trading in Europe came from the Viking World. Rape, and the murder of children was an acceptable war tactic, and virtually anything could be done to a person one owned, even up to murder, with little to no consequence.  

Human sacrifice to the Gods was common and means of justice were shockingly brutal.  

None of this existed in a vacuum. The Christian kingdoms of this era were at least as bad, and in some ways worse, as were the Romans. You aren’t going to find a human society that is without its horrors, and if you read the legends, even the Gods do reprehensible things.  

As I’ve grown in my knowledge of the legends, I find it interesting that, from my perspective, Ragnarök was a preventable tragedy. Loki’s three monstrous children are bound, but the why is at best hazy, and with Fenrir it’s an outrage.  

The Gods feared the great wolf, but nothing that survives ever indicates he was a threat. Perhaps we should trust the wisdom of Woden here, perhaps he had some foresight, but all we have from the legends is fear, and it is his binding that sets up the great cascade of events that culminate in the death of the Gods themselves.  

I wonder if one of the reasons Loki went after Baldr, was a result of Woden binding Loki’s son unjustly.  

One might be surprised to see such sentiment from me, but the Gods call me to be honest, and the one thing they never claim to be in all the legends is perfect, nor do they claim to be unchangeable.  

As said, they even face death, which is an ultimate form of change, perhaps the most necessary kind.  

I say this because I realize I am not so different from the ancestors. While many might see my actions as progressive, or even virtuous as a vegan, as someone that strives to go fair trade with her clothing, chocolate and bananas etc. Striving isn’t good enough, is it?  

I’m writing this on a computer that was built with conflict minerals, it’s unavoidable. Most likely some ten year old child working his fingers to the bone mined the cobalt for my fancy electronics.  

Migrants denied any pathway to legal or easy immigration into this country are exploited to grow my food. Some of my clothing was most likely made in sweatshops.  

We like to think that we’ve come far as a society, and we have. We now keep our slave labor, our exploitation of others firmly out of sight while we pat ourselves on the back for wearing hemp and shopping at Whole Foods, judging those that came before us with a type of virtuous horror.  

And it’s not fair to them, and it won’t be fair to us when, five or ten generations down, they look at us as brutal savages either.  

I don’t think anything can make many of the actions of our ancestors right, or understandable, but I think to honor them properly we must look at them with honesty and as lessons of what not to do, how not to be, as much as how to be.  

I see this with the Gods too, and the chronicling of their savagery and past mistakes recorded in the mythology. Woden is not the same God that he was a thousand years ago, he has grown and changed. I am deeply convinced of this. What’s more, the culture that interpreted, or misinterpreted his actions is now gone, and we’re left with our, in some ways, more progressive time where we can forge new relationships with these High Ones.  

Nothing is static, nothing will ever be perfect, but in every era, every time, there were at least a handful, some known, some unknown, that bucked the trend, that sought to be better than the world they were raised in and went beyond what they were given.  

There were people who freed their slaves, fought for justice, or never kept another human being because it just felt wrong. There were noble warriors who never harmed a child or violated a woman in a village.  

They may have been few, they may have done their good deeds under a cloak of eternal anonymity, but we have the same choice.  

I can’t stop it all, but I can stop some. I can’t keep myself from benefiting 100% in the privileged position I exist in, but I can use that privilege to shout from the rooftops and intervene for those that have none.  

We are our deeds, in totality. Much is made of being a warrior in many modern heathen paths. Well, I feel my war is within, and against every systemic cruelty that exists in the world.  

It may be my Jörmungandr, it may be the end of me, but as long as I’m working to do better, and be better, than I feel I am honoring the Ancestors and the Gods.  

[wonkyelk]

As there’s potentially a New Stargate thingy on the horizon and they might be confused how to go about it, here’s a rough template, based on no particular Atlantis’s.

—— ——————-

“Welcome, new characters, to our ensemble space show. We promise to give you all equal screen time and not to focus on two or three characters whom the writers can relate to/ and or want to bone.

(This promise is not legally binding and can be rescinded at any time)

———

“Okay… ah, yes, you’re the token Token character. You won’t get much to do, so just… be there. Here, your welcome pack comes with a set of travel games, cards and dice for the downtime.

There’ll be a lot of downtime.”

———

Hi there, welcome to the world of skimpy outfits and permanent goosebumps. Remember, you will be allowed to kick ass at intervals, but only if you do it in an aesthetically pleasing manner, with lots of leg.

As you are a woman, you are contractually obliged to remain attractive at all times and become exasperated with the menfolk at least once per episode.

No, you are not allowed shenanigans. That’s what you’re there to be exasperated with.”

———

“So, you’ve been with us before I see -  ah, yes the ‘kickable bastard, specifically introduced to make the main character(s) look good”.

But now you’ve been upgraded to… what was it… tart with a heart? Oh, right, still a bastard but with a reluctant soft side and hints of character development, which will ebb and flow like the tides. 

“No, you do not get an option to apply for tart status.”

———

“Ah, yes, we have you down as a ‘Jack O’Neill’ type… heroics, stoicism, deadpan banter… hides intelligence behind food, Ferris Wheels, etc.

“Hmm. Your hair is a little quirky for the part, but we’ll allow it.”

“Stay on script, face rigid, except for the smirk  - we like the smirk - and for Big Drama Wobbles and you’ll be fine.”

———

“So, as the leader of the expedition, you’ll be getting complicated character arcs, investigations into your inner life, some intelligent, in-depth, exploration of the moral dilemmas involved and… oh, hang on, sorry, you’re a woman.

Right then, you get the ‘main character-lite’ version of the above, which half asses all of that, but does come with flattering clothes and make-up. Don’t worry. The standard ‘exasperated with the menfolk’ clause applies to you too, so that should fill out any gaps in your character.”

———

“Exciting news, Token character ! No, sorry, it’s not actual development - you’ll be essentially sleeping through the next three episodes, so you get our complimentary pillow and duvet set. It comes with a free mint!

Please do not soil, we’ll want it back when your character inexplicably disappoints the people who didn’t develop it, by not being developed enough.”

———

“Fake O’Neill, It’s been brought to our attention that you’ve been using your face to directly contradict your strictly heterosexual hero status. Please brush the hearts out of your eyes before engaging in manly banter and for god’s sake be a little less … goofy.”

———

“Good news, Warrior Princess, we’ve been spending a lot of time and thought on your character and we think we’ve finally cracked the most important aspect of it. 

Your new hairstyle debuts next episode. We have high hopes.”

———

“Well, you’ve actually become a loveable and popular character, with great co-star chemistry and a nuanced emotional range. So, where we’d like to move in the future, is to interweave your moments of heroism and emotional development, with making you the city butt monkey for no good reason, except we think its kinda funny. And also, a token girlfriend, because the co-star chemistry thing isn’t actually supposed to be quite that, you-know. Chemical.

We’ve spoken to Fake O’Neill about it as well, of course, but frankly we think he’s started looking at your ass even more since then.

I mean, to be fair, it’s a damn fine ass.”

———

Token character, I’m pleased to announce that we finally have that character development you asked for. 

Your ‘Villain Arc’ pack is on the right chair and your marching orders are on the left. It’s been nondescript working with you.

[rosellerivers19]

My Version of Persephone: Lore Olympus Redesign?

Decided to make my own version of Persephone.

watched a lot of redesigns on Lore Olympus characters and other shows recently and designed to make my own.

I never really completed reading Lore Olympus but I decided to revisit the first few episodes and use my memory to recollect what I liked and didn’t like about it.

I don’t know why but I don’t think I ever liked her short hair and in Greek mythology Long hair symbolizes feminity and purity and Persephone is often associated with Growth and Fertility.

now in the webcomic there’s a reason why Persephone keeps her hair short I think because she wants to see less naive or something.

however I don’t think Long hair is all that bad and is really beautiful and this isn’t just a reimagining of Lore Olympus but if I were to make a ‘modern’ Hades and Persephone story how it would go.

I gave her green hair because ‘spring’ and light pink is what I think is ideal spring.

The outfit she has below is what she wears in the mortal world while she’s still under the eyes of her mother Demeter.

In this world Unlike Lore Olympus the gods don’t wear totally ‘Modern’ Clothes but a mix of Modern and Mythological.

In my AU I want her to meet Hades briefly at a party like in Lore Olympus but then meet Hades again in the Mortal realm share over trauma and slowly fall in love.

Because of Demeter’s overbearing nature Hades offered Persephone a choice which would free her of her mother and legally bind her to him what he didn’t tell her was it would bind them through marriage this was through the infamous pomegranate.

There’s a two tropes included, marriage of convenience and Friends to lovers.

At first Persephone only thought of Hades as a really good friend who was helping her due to their shared trauma of overbearing figures in their life and wanting some freedom.

Persephone loves her mother but due to her mother always being so protective of her and seeing her in a childish light she needed an escape the marriage was the perfect excuse.

For a while Persephone lived permanently in the underworld however later as her mother learned her mistakes and Persephone agreed to a compromise living a few months with her mother in the mortal realm and a the other months in the underworld as their queen.

Persephone was crowned Queen of the underworld after her and Hades found out they truly loved eachother.

Gonna add more details later.

Also decided to redesign her gold dress because that was a monstrosity and sexualization for no clear reason

[bacchant-of-dionysus]

Listen up, anyone considering egg freezing!

As of right now I am curled up with a cup of tea and a heat pack, recovering from surgery. So I thought I’d give you an overview of my experience as a trans man getting my eggs frozen to preserve my fertility before going on testosterone.

Why did I do it?

We never know what the future holds. While I doubt I will detransition, ever want to be pregnant or become infertile, there is a possibility of all three of these things happening. Preserving my eggs means I can still have children, no matter what happens.

I have a beautiful partner who preserved her sperm before starting estrogen three years ago. She only did it at the request of her mother, thinking that being seen as ‘fathering’ her children and watching her partner go through pregnancy instead of her would be too heartbreaking and distressing for her to cope with. She thought she would just adopt. After a couple of years of hormone therapy, she became more comfortable in her body, and is now desiring to have children with a partner - specifically me.

After meeting my girlfriend, I realised it wasn’t that I didn’t want kids; it was that I didn’t want kids alone, and I couldn’t imagine anyone ever loving me enough or loving someone else enough to have children with them. That all changed when I met her. I want to have children with her.

When it comes to adoption, only 1 in every 30 couples looking to adopt gets to adopt a child. This number is even lower for queer couples in my country. It is also now illegal to adopt from many places overseas due to corruption in the adoption industry.

I considered fostering, but after learning about the high rates of Aboriginal children taken from their families and placed in the care of white people, disconnected from culture, country and their people, I was horrified. 2% of the Australian population is Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander, yet over 40% of kids in foster care are Aboriginal. We are not past the Stolen Generations. Every year we apologise for something we are still actively doing to these kids and their families. I will play no role in that.

There is a part of me that wants biological children. It is present in many people and isn’t something to be ashamed of. Adopted children are absolutely their adoptive parents’ children. But I suppose there’s a part of me that wants my kids to inherit some of the things I love about my partner. I know this sounds selfish, but that is what love does to you sometimes.

Even if I did decide to go down the road to adoption, I don’t believe I am qualified to raise a child with severe trauma. All children who are taken from their families, even for the right reasons, are traumatised. Every child who feels abandoned is traumatised. I am disabled as it is and need help myself. Taking on the responsibility of raising a child who needs specialised support is something I would prefer to avoid if I can. Obviously all pregnancy comes with the chance that your child will have extra needs or accomodations, but I want to give myself the best shot at being a good parent that I can. This means waiting until I am absolutely stable and in a position to raise a child, and giving my child the best shot at being healthy.

What made me consider not doing it?

The dysphoria that the process would bring made me reconsider. I knew I would have to have a period first, then go through a series of hormone shots that simulated early pregnancy. I knew my breasts would get sore and that this may prevent me from binding. I knew that I would become bloated and almost look pregnant. I knew I would have extra estrogen, a hormone I did not want a lot of, running through my body.

The general side effects, disregarding gender dysphoria, were not going to be fun either. Bloating, nausea, soreness, mood swings, increased emotional sensitivity etc are not fun to deal with for anyone.

The likelihood of even finding a surrogate was low. Paid surrogacy is not legal in Australia, so it would have to be what is called ‘altruistic surrogacy’, or someone who chooses to carry the baby without being paid (though their hospital bills are covered by the parents). My best shot at a surrogate at the moment is my own mother, but she is turning sixty this month. Many people I know or who are in my family would be at risk of suffering complications from pregnancy and I absolutely do not want any harm to come to the person who chooses to do this for us.

The scans were an inevitable but horrible reality. These scans, as it turns out, can be done trans abdominally if you push enough and go through doctors until you find someone willing. I did not know this. All my scans were trans vaginal. These scans feel invasive and can be painful, especially if you haven’t experienced penetration before.

A timeline of my experience (with the occasional picture):

Day 1: stopping Slinda.

The first day of my treatment I stopped taking my birth control pill. This had been stopping my periods for over a year.

Day 2-30

I felt horrible. It was like my system was being flooded with poison. I cried. I wanted to kill myself. My dysphoria was terrible. Around day 30 my period finally came, but it was weak and there was never a day of full bleeding. So we started toward the end of my very short cycle.

Day 1 of hormone shots:

I went to the pharmacy with my partner and a kind lady explained everything we needed to know about the injections I was going to take. We were given three types of medication: overleap, orgalutran and a trigger shot. The overleap stimulated the follicles, causing them to swell. The orgalutran prevented the eggs from being released. The trigger shot was to release the eggs. I took my first dose of overleap that evening, then again at 10am the next morning. I took overleap at 10am each morning for around 30 days. I started on a dose of 75mls, as I was young, healthy and fertile, and they didn’t want to risk OHSS (ovarian hyper stimulation syndrome).

Day 7:

By now I was feeling pretty awful. The stabs weren’t too bad, but they stung occasionally. My partner injected them for me. I had started the orgalutran by this point. I had my first scan, which I had to travel an hour and a half for. The doctor doing the scan was male and not particularly sensitive to my situation. I shut down and cried afterwards and wouldn’t have sex for a week following due to severe genital dysphoria.

Day 14:

I had my second scan. This time it was with another male doctor who was much more gentle and kinder than the first one. I felt far more comfortable with him. The eggs still weren’t big enough.

Day 18:

I had my third scan, which was with the same nice man as before. I got the bad news via a phone call: my eggs weren’t responding to the medication, and they thought I should call off the shots and start again next cycle. There was no way in hell I was doing that, so I asked for another option. They said they could increase the dose of Overleap to 150mls. I thought about it for a while, and spoke with my mum, dad and partner for their opinions. In the end, I decided to double the dose and push on. They said in that case I would need to come down to be scanned by my main doctor, who worked in a city four hours from my home town.

Day 21:

we drove four hours to the city. By this time I was extremely bloated. We managed to do some nice things, like go out for dinner with my parents and try out a bagel place. I bought myself a new sweater, a wooden vest, and some fun socks.

Day 23:

My doctor scanned me for the fourth time. The eggs were responding well to the medication, but only two were big enough to retrieve. She thought I should wait another week and come down again, and hopefully they should be able to retrieve at least five eggs. She clearly thought we should start the whole thing over again because ‘I can do better than that’, but I was adamant that if this failed, I wasn’t trying again.

Day 27:

I began to question again whether any of this was worth it. I just wanted to end the process and move on with my life. I didn’t realise how close I was to the finish line. Every moment felt like hell. I was bloated and emotional and sore and I just wanted it to end.

Day 29:

We drove to the city again. This time we didn’t do anything fun. My girlfriend had to pull over halfway there and get picked up by my mum. She was exhausted and hadn’t been sleeping well from the whole process.

Day 30:

I was scanned by the doctor again. This time, it was immediately clear that my ovaries looked different. She counted ten on one side and didn’t bother to count the other side. I was ready for surgery the next day.

Day 31:

I went to the day hospital at 7:45am. My girlfriend wasn’t allowed in the waiting room with me due to Covid, so I was alone. As I was filling out my sheet, I noticed my gender had been marked as female. I asked if they needed my biological sex or my gender. As it turns out, it didn’t matter at all. I wondered why they bothered to ask if it was irrelevant.

In the nurse’s notes, a handwritten sentence was bolted with pink highlighter: ‘REFER TO AS MR [surname].’ I was glad they were trying, especially considering how gendered the surgery itself was.

I got changed into my cap and gown and a pair of grippy orange socks that I got to keep.

I then waited until the anaesthetist came to speak with me. He was slightly odd and a little abrasive, but I ignored this and made sure not to mention that my dad was an anaesthetist too. I felt like that would probably get us off on the wrong foot.

In the operating theatre, there was the same pop music playing as everywhere else in the hospital. The anaesthetist put a needle in he vein of my elbow, which I believe contained propofol. This wasn’t a general anaesthetic, just heavy sedation. They put an oxygen mask on my face. The last thing I remember was one of the doctors attaching a brace like prop for my legs to sit on. I don’t remember actually putting my legs on it.

It felt like no time had passed when I woke up. I assumed I was still in theatre until I was told otherwise. I vaguely remember having a weird sex dream. My dad tells me this is the propofol. My nose itched. The nurse laughed and blamed the fentanyl.

I was unusually chatty and bright, but my stomach hurt. They gave me some endone. This took the edge off.

They gave me a large triple choc cookie, some tea, and a glass of water. The first thing they told me was that hey managed to retrieve 28 eggs. I was ecstatic. I texted my girlfriend, mum and dad immediately.

Later, they told me that of those 28 eggs, 15 were mature enough to freeze and 3 more were almost mature enough and had been frozen too. I had essentially done two egg collections in one, and was at risk of OHSS. My girlfriend picked me up and drove us to the accomodation.

Day 31-33

Over these past few days I’ve been sore. It’s difficult to move without hurting my belly and lower abdomen. I’m still very bloated. The surgery itself had consisted of guiding a needle through the vaginal wall and retrieving the follicles from the ovaries, which were drained, and the eggs collected. The actual surgery site didn’t really hurt at all and there was minimal bleeding. The real pain is coming from where my swollen ovaries have been messed around, poked and prodded. They are also pressing on my bladder and uterus, so passing urine, gas and bowel movements can be painful. It also hurts to use my abdominal muscles for adjusting my position, laughing, hiccuping, yawning etc. I have to walk with slow, short steps.

Was it worth it?

Yes. Now that it’s over and i never have to do it again, I can safely say I am relieved to have preserved my fertility. Now I can move forward with my life: I’m seeing my hormone doctor on the 10th of may, who will prescribe me a low dose of testosterone gel. I can’t wait.

I would recommend preserving fertility if you can before medical transition. You never know what your future self might want, and self care is all about having compassion for your future self, even if it means sacrificing your comfort in the present.

Whatever you choose to do or whatever reason you are undergoing egg collection, know that you are doing something harrowing and brave.

After I have had my children (which will be a number of years in the future) I plan to donate the remainder of my eggs to those who need them on their own fertility journey. Knowing I’ve helped another couple or single parent build a family is compensation enough for what I’ve been through.

[ereshkigal0240]

“Why Is Taylor Re-recording Her First Six Albums?” — A Much-Needed Refresher

. 1. The masters of her music were sold — NOT JUST to anyone, but to her NEMESIS. This isn’t a simple “she should’ve read her contract” (when she was 15 y/o) scenario. And this isn’t even some “many artists don’t own their master rights anyway, she isn’t special” thing. We and Taylor are perfectly aware of that. That’s why she had, FOR THE LONGEST TIME, offered to buy the master rights of her first 6 albums from her former label, Big Machine Records (BMR), at reasonable price and conditions. However, BMR repeatedly refused, with their latest “offer” in 2018 requiring her to renew her contract — and with each new album UNDER THEM (i.e., BMR would’ve owned those new albums), only by then would each of her old albums be “set free” (allowed to be bought by Taylor) in exchange. BMR essentially wanted Taylor and her music to be HELD HOSTAGE, with her new albums being the “ransom” — for merely a CHANCE to buy her old albums (something that should’ve been allowed unconditionally) — and thus WOULD’VE chained Taylor into an ENDLESS LOOP/CYCLE. Taylor, like any sane person (especially someone who write every single song in her discography), refused. 2. It was later exposed that, BEHIND HER BACK, her former record label sold her masters (as well as the company) NOT JUST to anyone, but to her absolute nemesis — Scooter Braun (with the notorious Carlyle Group as one of Scooter’s financiers). The man who orchestrated the entire 2016 KimYe debacle, having been Kanye’s former manager (reportedly fired by A.G., D.L., and J.B. very recently). The person who paid countless tabloids before, during, and way after 2016 in an elaborate demolition job to tarnish Taylor’s reputation. 3. Despite Scooter’s lies (of him “offering to sell” Taylor’s masters back to her), it was later exposed that the said offer was ONLY to be allowed to look at BMLG (the record label company)’s financial records, merely the first step in a purchase of this nature — and what did Scooter want in exchange JUST FOR THIS? He wanted *the* Taylor Swift to sign an ironclad NDA stating she would never say another word about Scooter unless it was positive. LMFAO. He really wanted to bind, trap, and silence Taylor forever before even giving her a CHANCE to bid on (not buy) her own work. The songs and albums SHE put her sweat and tears into for over a decade. Her legacy. Her life’s work. Taylor’s high-profile legal team advised that this was NOT normal (and that they’d never seen an NDA like this presented unless it was to silence an assault accuser by paying them off). That NDA that Scooter was demanding (just for Taylor to be given a chance) was THAT vile. Such an exploitative move on so many levels. This, on top of the fact that Scooter wouldn’t even quote Taylor’s team an actual price. 4. Upon seething from the unexpected, unprecedented, against-all-odds success of Taylor’s 1st re-recording, Scooter then “sold” Taylor’s old masters to ANOTHER entity — but NOT fully, though, since he insisted a clause where he would STILL continue to profit from Taylor’s old albums despite him having already sold off the masters. The said new entity/company tried to be in talks with Taylor (again, still NOT to outright sell her the masters nor anything actually good), which she respectfully declined since she couldn’t, in good conscience, agree to something that would indefinitely benefit Scooter — the man who actively and continuously attempted to destroy her character, her reputation, and everything she has worked for (years before, during, and even after this entire issue). 5. EVEN TODAY, Scooter is slowly creeping in, curating and planting seeds of misinformation in his staple tabloids, waiting for the perfect opportunity to claw his way back to the top, reverse the narrative to his favor, and bury the woman who he THOUGHT he could subjugate but then ultimately prevailed over him, as evident now more than ever.