#if I tried to cite everything here it would be a research paper

[harcourtholmesii]

Letters of Thanks

Fandoms: MCU / Avengers

Pairings: Slight / Referenced Thor X Bruce

Warnings: - References to Violence

Words: 2954

Please don’t expect this to be perfect writing. I tried, but as much as I do love the MCU, I am not great at writing their characters.

Enjoy!

Fan mail.

 Care packages.

 Letters of gratitude.

 The penthouse floors of Stark Tower were overrun with them. After the Battle for New York, everyone and their uncle seemed keen to say their piece and write something special to the Avengers.

 Since Bruce, Thor and Steve had nowhere else to go, the general populace had come to the correct conclusion that they could send their letters to Tony Stark’s letterbox. Since his address was public knowledge and since the defeat of the Chitauri, his home had been flooded with paper and cardboard boxes.

 Sorting through it all had been a hassle.

 With Thor off-world, the secret agents off on their respective missions and Rogers having left for his tour of America, it was left up to Tony and Bruce to sort through it all. It was a momentous task, but it was a welcome distraction.

 Over time, the piles continued to grow.

 Seven piles in total.

 Tony had, by far, the largest amount of letters written to him. They created an unsteady mountain range across his personal study, threatening to topple and fall if it weren’t for Tony’s effort to read them all.

 As quickly as they grew, they shrank. Tony read through his mail quickly and with fervour. Some nights, Bruce, Pepper and Happy had been unable to convince him to sleep. Some nights, he would spend researching the person behind the letter, and send care packages of his own to those who had written him.

 Unlike the majority of the other Avengers, Tony managed himself well. Even though most of it was kind or complimentary, there were those that expressed their disdain or their upset. When it got particularly bad, Bruce could see how it all weighed down on the man. He would wave away Pepper’s worry, and Bruce’s own concerns, with his usual snarky attitude, but it was obvious to all of them that he was most affected by those he couldn’t help.

 Steve’s pile was mostly complimentary. The younger authors tended to keep their letters short, with questions about him and where he had been. How was he alive after so long? Did he know about the moon landing? Had he seen Blade Runner? Most of the letters went from serious to curious in the span of a paragraph, but Steve had been no less flattered.

 Some letters were from older veterans or soldiers who cited him as their inspiration for joining the military. There were those that mentioned how their parents or grandparents had met him those seventy years ago, and how it was a piece of family history they loved to share.

 Steve handled them well for the most part, but he rarely went out of his way to answer them all. With his new career path at SHIELD, Steve only narrowed down his responses to those he felt were ‘genuine’. Specifically, those that asked less questions about what he did or did not know about the future, and those that seemed to take the Battle for New York as a serious, potential threat.

 Much like Tony, Thor’s pile was one of the larger ones, and it grew at a rapid pace from the start. A lot of the mail he received were care packages, cardboard boxes filled with everything from chocolates to alcohol, and other tokens of affection. Thor had been astounded when he first returned to Earth; his room, as large and royal as Tony could make it, housed a mountain of parcels and parchment awaiting his notice.

 He had spent overnight opening as many as possible and reading as much as he could. Some of the language and plenty of the references used caused him a great deal of confusion, and he would seek out Bruce for help. Too many of the letters, though very sweet and thankful, contained phone numbers or an Instagram link. Bruce had caught on quickly; a good portion of these were men, women and others of all types, were hopeless romantics, seeking the God of Thunder’s attention.

 No matter the intention or the person who had written the letter, Thor tasked himself with responding to each and every one. However, at the rate the pile was growing, and with Thor’s admittance that he wasn’t much a scholar, Bruce and Tony were roped into helping him in his quest. He wrote back, and had Tony show him how Facebook, Twitter and Instagram worked so he could publish quick responses online.

 Bruce helped him with those that didn’t leave behind online addresses or phone numbers, and wrote back what Thor asked him to write. Though, before each parchment was shipped off, Thor would be sure to sign it himself.

 The fourth and fifth piles were small by comparison; the both of them for Clint and Natasha. Without any idea where else to send them, the majority of these letters were quick and to the point. Short and simple. The writers would express their gratitude, perhaps explain their reasons for sending the letter, and then end the short paragraph.

 To Clint and Natasha, these were perfect. They couldn’t easily respond to them, as much as they wished to, so they kept them close instead. Natasha filed hers away in her room at Stark Tower, and Clint had sent his away. He didn’t mention where, just that they would be safe.

 It was fair that the master assassin wanted to keep it secret.

 Then, there was the general pile for all of the Avengers team. Most of these were sent by families and young children, from crayon sketches to some baked goods. The team, especially Thor and Clint were ecstatic with these ones in particular.

 They came together to read them, as difficult as that was. They would read out a single letter to the rest; they might have a slight chuckle and smiles would light up all their faces as they heard the praise. None of the mail addressed to the Avengers was negative, as it seemed any criticism was left to the specific ‘hero’.

 The smallest pile by far, belonged to Bruce Banner. Only a few letters had been delivered that were addressed specifically to him, and unlike the others, Bruce had avoided opening them. When Natasha asked him about his letters, he would say he would ‘get around to it’, and she would leave it alone for a while, disbelieving his statement.

 Thor asked him about it the most, always curious and always keen to hear what people had to say about the ‘second strongest’ Avenger. Bruce would just smile, already a little bashful under the other’s excitable gaze and warm touches.

 ‘I haven’t read them yet.’

 ‘You should!’ Large hands would take hold of Bruce’s own and he would be spun around so the other could look at him face-to-face. ‘There is much they have to say to you, and I am sure much of it is kind.’

 Bruce would just shrug his words away, very aware that the other would only try to see the best in him. He hadn’t been around when Hulk had first destroyed New York, and what the God had witnessed on the helicarrier had been next to nothing in the amount of damage the Hulk had caused. They had been lucky.

 Unlike the rest, Tony, though encouraging, didn’t pressure him to read the letters. He knew of Bruce’s fear, and though he found a way to bring it up subtly in conversation, he never demanded the meek scientist open his mail.

 Finally, they came up with an idea.

 ‘Big mean and green.’ Where Bruce had been hovering over the coffee pot, he clicked his jaw in annoyance, and turned his tired eyes over to the lounge. His teammates were all sat on the half-circle sofa, with a small pile of recognisable letters in the middle. He swallowed thickly around the nervous lump in his throat, and tried to laugh away his worry.

 ‘What is this? An intervention?’

 ‘Sort of.’ Clint said, offering him a polite smile. It seemed Clint and Steve, in particular, were both nervous about this. Then why participate?

 ‘We just wanna help try and release some tension here.’ Tony stated, gesturing to the pile. ‘It is no surprise to us, Bruce, you can’t stand to look at this. But you don’t have the heart to throw it all away.’

 Bruce’s eyes fell to the coffee he now nursed in his hands.

 ‘We don’t want to make you uncomfortable.’ Steve chimed in. ‘But… Well, we don’t want you to run yourself into the ground because you’re scared of what people have to say.’

 ‘I’m not scared. I just know what I would see, and I do not need more confirmation that I am a monster.’

 ‘No!’ Thor’s voice bellowed, and he was standing in an instant. He was by Bruce’s side in a mere moment and gently nudging him (as gentle as Thor could manage) towards the lounge. ‘You do not understand, Banner! We believe that these are all letters of gratitude towards you, and rather than you think the worst, we want to disprove your claim.’

 ‘Yes… Well…’ Bruce’s eyes landed on the pile in front of him. He didn’t find SHIELD as frightening as he had expected when he had first met Natasha. He had not been as overcome with fear when he had first seen the Chitauri. But this small, seemingly trivial pile of notes… The words of an everyday person that he had hurt scared him more than anything.

 ‘If you don’t mind it, we came up with a simple system. Nothing too bad, we hope, but just so we might ease your fears a little.’ Tony said, reaching and digging around in the pile for a moment.

 After a bit of shuffling about, he pulled out a small, pastel pink card, showing it to Bruce.

 ‘We just want you to know that you don’t have to be worried about this. We came up with this plan-’

 ‘Tony came up with a plan.’ Natasha interrupted.

 ‘- That we will each read out one letter to you. One random letter. And we’ll all be here in case you want to take a break or if you need to just…’

 ‘Talk.’ Steve finished.

 And just like that, Clint, Steve, Natasha and Thor reached into the pile.

 Clint pulled one, exceptionally thick, envelope from the top; perfectly pristine, well-kept, with ‘Bruce Banner’ written in fine, royal blue cursive.

 Natasha dug her hand deep into the pile until she pulled her hand away with a large, but thin, green folder. On the front, it read Bruce’s name in a collage of cut-out, magazine letters.

 Steve removed a small parcel from the pile, wrapped in dirty brown paper with a green ribbon around it. There was the sound of something gently rattling against the inside as Steve moved.

 Thor pulled one letter from the pile which had a large, child’s drawing on the back. Evidently, it was of a large, green figure holding what looked like a yellow car in his hands and roaring. Bruce did not look too keen.

 It was Clint that opened his letter first and had begun to read.

 “Dear Doctor Banner,

 You may not recall me well, but my name is Lucille Davidson. We studied together for a period in college, and I would like to consider us friends, or at the very least, acquaintances.

 You’re work in nuclear physics is astounding, and I have, for years now, have wanted to address your papers and reports of your studies.  I have never had the chance, as I had thought you dead after your disappearance.

 Imagine my surprise and delight when I saw you on the news. Well, not you exactly, but to then have it confirmed to be you in the interview following the events, I was not only relieved but I was over the moon. Hearing you would be staying with Mister Stark for the time being, I wrote to you immediately, and I do hope this has found its way.

 I wanted to just say how I am not only inspired by your work, but I wish that we could sit together for coffee and go over our theories on anti-electron collisions…”

 By this point, Clint started to look a little lost. He raised his eyes from the paper, with an apologetic expression and a half smile.

 ‘Sorry, but I can’t understand this kind of science jargon. I am not an expert on thermonuclear… anything… Whatever this person is attempting to say, it seems…’ He turned the paper over, and glanced at the other papers. ‘Yeah… They appear to have sent you a full thesis on whatever this is…’

 He passed it across to Bruce, who seemed shocked still. The coffee cup was retrieved from his hands by Tony, in case he should drop it, and placed on the coffee table. Bruce took the papers with shaking hands and read over that first part again and again, almost in disbelief. The worry in his face had lessened slightly, as he placed the essay down and looked up when Steve cleared his throat.

 ‘There isn’t, uh… There’s only a small card here, apart from the parcel. And it reads ‘to Bruce Banner and to Hulk. Thank you!” He passed the card and parcel over, so Bruce could open it.

 He did so slowly, hesitantly, with the movements of a man disarming a bomb. Once the ribbon was undone and the tape removed, the brown paper fell apart in his hands, revealing a plastic container. Through the clear plastic there was a small pile of about eight cookies, all of them, though a little smudged, decorated to look like the Hulk’s face.

 There was a chortle from Tony, and a guffaw from Thor as the God landed a hard smack to Bruce’s back. It hurt, but Bruce just smiled down at the strange but lovely gift. There was no return address or signature, which seemed a little disappointing.

 “To Mister Banner.” Tony started, a sly, cattish grin on his face. Bruce could already feel his own face going red. He raised his hands to his face in a terrible attempt to hide his embarrassment as Tony continued to read with some level of theatrical exaggeration.

 “I will admit, I’m a little embarrassed to write this, but I just needed to get my feelings down onto paper. I was working during the Battle for New York and we met very briefly. Well, you were Hulk at the time, but still… You saved my life. I was about to be killed by one of those weird, alien creatures when you crushed them beneath your fists. And I couldn’t help but salivate…” There was a muttered, embarrassed groan from Bruce as he snatched the letter out of Tony’s hand. The billionaire and the others shared a laugh as Bruce continued to read the letter.

 Indeed, it was just a little scandalous, and as flattering as it was… He quietly tucked it away in his pants pocket, not willing to discuss it at this time. That was fair, and none of the other’s held that against him.

 Natasha opened her own folder, her face brighter than Bruce had ever seen it. She showed it off like she was doing a presentation, opening the folder wide and reading it out. There were only two pages to it, the first with an image of a small building with a mural on one of its walls.

 The mural showcased the Hulk with his hands raised as if holding up the roof of the building. Beneath him, as if a shadow that stood before him, was a silhouette of Bruce doing the same pose. Beneath it, written in bright lettering with all kinds of little pictures, was the message:

 ‘To Doctor Banner and the Hulk, the heroes that saved our daycare and the children therein.’ The second page was a collage of parents and staff thanking him and the Hulk alike, with little signatures and drawings from the children.

 Natasha passed it over to him, and Bruce clutched it close, feeling himself near brought to tears.

 Thor didn’t read out the letter he had plucked out of the pile, but passed it to Bruce all the same. It was difficult to read, as it was a scribble of a child’s writing. Only the address was clearly stamped out, presumably by a parent.

 ‘Thank you Mister Hulk. You saved mommy and daddy from the monsters. I want to be a hero like you when I’m grown up. Could you teach me to be strong like you? From Markus’

 Turning the paper over to look over the image again, Bruce could now make out the scratchy faces of two people in the yellow car. At first, he thought they were screaming, but when he was able to make out the black line of a speech bubble amongst the dark blue crayon, he could read they were yelling ‘YAY!’

 ‘How cute.’ Natasha hummed.

 ‘That ought to go onto the fridge.’ Tony agreed.

 Bruce shifted in his seat, wiping beneath his glasses with his sleeve. A hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting, brought his eyes up to look at the Thor.

 ‘Would Banner like some time alone? To read and look through his gifts?’

 Despite what he had read, Bruce did not ask them to leave. In fact, he snuggled deeper into the lounge as he plucked one letter from the pile. The others didn’t mind being asked to stay. In fact, to them, it was a relief to see the doctor express anything other than worry or discomfort, and a joy to watch his face break into a smile.

[5-falsehoods-phonated]

Hey @vindicatedvirgil remember this prompt you sent a while back that was supposed to be Rociet but I changed my mind? I finally finished the original!

At the Last Second

Summary:   Inspired by Snowing in Venice by Elizaveta. In an attempt to get as far away from their hometown as possible, Janus decides to go to college in Venice, Italy. Roman is conflicted over his feelings about it and doesn't know what to say until the last second.

Warnings: asthma mention. Please let me know if there are more

Ships: Janus x Roman, Rociet

WC: 1, 985

General Taglist: (ask to be tagged generally or in specific writing.) @im-an-anxious-wreck @logans-library @janus-is-an-adorable-snek-boi

Maybe my song, isn’t happy enough but I

I see it take flight with the snowflakes above

My coffee gets cold, as I’m staring enthralled 

At the snow that keeps falling outside

-----

Roman snuck another glance at Janus when they thought he wasn’t looking, seeing him still smiling slightly and nodding along to whatever song was on that Roman couldn’t concentrate on right now because they were looking at Janus. It wasn’t as if this was a new occurrence, they looked at Janus all the time. When he took half assed notes during class, pushing his soft, straight hair out from in front of his eyes with practiced impatience. When he glided along beside Roman on his skateboard while they tried desperately to keep their eyes on the sidewalk lest they flip over the handlebars of their bike. When he walked towards them with that signature crookeds smile, straight backed but casual and always ready with some biting quip they would both laugh at. And now- when he was driving to the airport for college, Roman sat beside him destined to waste away in the small town they had grown up in, alone and forgotten.

Admittedly that was dramatic even for them but it felt true all the same. Roman had never really gotten along with Janus until high school hit, when Roman had actually started looking away from their own little bubble and out towards everyone else’s. For the life of them they couldn’t imagine why they had ever been enemies. Janus was smart, scarily so sometimes, often getting into debates (arguments) with Logan and Virgil in any given class and always seeming to have just the right phrase or quote or research paper handy to pull up on his phone that drove his points across. He could sing, though Roman didn’t admit they had heard him while he painted the theater sets one day until many months later; his beautifully haunting baritone filling the theater as if he was the only one ever meant to sing in it. He was also incredibly caring, helping Roman through rough patch after rough patch and letting Roman do the same for him. They had become nearly inseparable from ninth grade on but now-

Janus had always been smart and always wanted to move as far away from their hometown as possibly- namely his family but that was another topic entirely. Roman had helped him research colleges when they were in eleventh grade, jokingly saying that with all his dramatics and flair he should go to Paris to study, citing it as a place to find the romanticism he alway put into everything anyway. Learning he had taken that to heart as a possibility to get even further away, eventually enrolling in and getting accepted not to anywhere in Paris, but instead Venice, Italy had nearly torn Roman in two. They had been so incredibly happy for and proud of their friend but they selfishly wished he had stayed just a little bit closer. Roman dreamed of a teaching job, somewhere they could help out in the creative department helping kids like them come out of their shell and discover new talents and passions. They didn’t need to go overseas for that- they didn’t want to and was in the process of preparing to move a state over to go to a community college to start out that path.

So Janus was moving thousands of miles away for who knew how long (four years at least) and Roman would then only be furthering that gap with his own move, leaving them to letters and skype calls as the primary source of communication rather than their trips to the cake shop or late night talks at the local park. And Roman knew that should be enough, but he was already missing the weight of Janus’ hand in their own and his warmth at their side during movie marathons and their smile and laugh and stupid, sarcastic sense of humor. They snuck  another glance over but realized with a start Janus was looking at them, his hand off the wheel and- when had the car stopped? They couldn’t possibly be there already could they?

But they were, and Janus was looking at them with that all knowing look that always infuriated Roman to no end but he said nothing, instead reaching over and squeezing their hand before moving to get out of the car. The airport wasn’t really that far away from their town, just an hours drive to the edge of the city but Roman still felt they had just wasted it pouting instead of actively being there for their best friend. Janus wouldn’t say anything though, he probably knew how Roman was feeling before they knew themself but the knowing silence was somehow worse, filling the space between them that was about to get so much longer with too many words and not enough time to say them. Nevertheless they grabbed up a bag and smiled at the other, shutting the trunk after him and following to the waiting area. They had made good time, having a little over an hour to waste before Janus would have to board, which Roman had previously been ecstatic about but now it meant they might actually have to talk and they didn’t think they’d have the common sense to keep their mouth shut when it came to how they actually felt about him leaving.

“Roman, did you leave my medical bag in the car?” Janus’ concern pulled them out of their head as they looked around where they had decided to sit, sure it had been among the things they had picked up but they didn’t notice the unmistakable bright orange anywhere.

“I’ll go check, you stay with the bags so they don’t get stolen.” Janus nodding to give them the go-ahead had them turning on their heel and hurrying back towards the parking garage, twirling the keys around their finger as they went.

One thorough search of the car later and Roman was frantically texting Janus that they must have left it at the house, though how either of them had managed it they couldn’t fathom. 

Roman: I’ll just drive back and get it. Text you when I find it.

Janus: Hold on, let me get there since you left me with ALL THE BAGS

Roman: It’ll be faster if I just go. Let me be the dashing prince to rescue your trip!

Roman started the car up and quickly put it into reverse, not really thinking about practically stealing Janus’ car from him. Their phone buzzed from the passenger seat as he glanced in the rear view before pulling out completely, wincing as he saw Janus standing there where the car had just been parked. Several buzzes later and the car fell silent, making them bite back a laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. They had wanted an out from the tense hour that waiting for the flight would have been, they just wished it had been something a bit more low stakes than forgetting a bag with Janus’ epipen and inhaler inside. Settling further down into the seat they concentrated hard on the road, praying there wouldn’t be any traffic.

-----

Ten minutes.

Roman practically face planted on their way out of the car, swinging the bag up in triumph of finding it or fear of breaking it they didn’t know and was too busy to think about at the moment. Tearing through the air port as fast as they possibly could they finally found Janus standing near the line people were in to board the plane, glancing at his phone before looking around for any sign of Roman coming with his bag. In their haste they had forgotten to text him but they were here now- sweaty, gross and aching with all the things they wanted to say but didn't have time to even though they probably wouldn’t have taken the chance when they had it anyway. As much as they so wished this moment to be their happily ever after it was too soon in both of their lives for that and they’d have to come to terms with the fact that long distance anything was hard and they would both be busy with their own lives.

Pushing their bangs away from their face they finally reached Janus and held out the rescued bag, chest heaving from running through a house and then an airport. 

“You truly didn’t have to go all the way back on your own to get this Roman, but thank you.” Janus squinted at him and chuckled. “It’s a good thing I have this, do you need my inhaler?”

“I’d have to keep it since looking at you takes my breath away already.” Roman blurted, opening their mouth before they could think.

Janus blinked, then scowled playfully. “Roman Sanders, was that a pick up line? You waited until I’m about to leave the country to flirt with me?”

“No! ...well, yes but- I’ve flirted with you plenty before!”

“Jokingly!” Janus shoved them before grabbing at the front of their shirt and stepping closer. “You are insufferable.”

Roman hardly dared to breath as Janus leaned in closer, hands fluttering nervously at their sides as they stood still and waited. Smiling, Janus leaned up slightly. “May I have a kiss goodbye then?”

“If you don’t I will scream so loud security will take you and then you’ll have no choice but to stay here longer.”

Chuckling Janus stepped closer, erasing any pretense of space between them. Finally deciding their hands would feel less awkward resting on the others’ hips, they pulled Janus forward gently and tilted their head with his. The general din of the airport faded away as soft strands of feather light hair tickled their nose and Janus’ hands came up to tangle in their own somewhat frizzier hair at the nape of their neck. There was an announcement that vaguely sounded like Janus was being called to board but they were only held tighter as their lips finally, finally met.

And oh.

They almost wished they could sue Disney only on the merit that it had set their expectations for a first kiss entirely too low. There were no fireworks, no choir to set the mood further. It didn’t feel like the climax of their life nor like coming home after a long and tiring journey. It was soft, so very soft. A simple brush against their lips that filled them with an indescribable amount of joy for such a small action; and then they were being pulled and they followed willingly, pressing against the other just a little tighter. Their noses bumped despite the angle and Roman’s hands still felt awkward even if Janus hadn’t brushed them away but it felt like nothing and everything they had always dreamed it would be because it was Janus so it was good and perfect and like nothing they had ever experienced or wanted to experience in their life.

It only lasted a couple seconds, Janus pulling away only to peck their nose and whisper a quiet “see you later” against their lips and he was gone, hurrying towards the plane as the last call for his appearance was announced. Roman stood there, dumbfounded with a burning face but a chest that was burning  ten times hotter, hands still slightly outstretched where Janus’ waist had been moments before. Shaking themself out of it they turned swiftly and made their way over to a bench by the windows to watch the plane take off. Four years in Venice for Janus, four years in Pennsylvania for Roman.

They could do that.

-----

Maybe my song isn’t happy enough but I

I see it take flight with the snowflakes above me

My coffee gets cold as I’m staring enthralled 

This work is also available on AO3!

At the snow the keeps falling outside

If you like this please reblog! Reblogs helps creators get their work seen!

[thinkingisadangerouspastime]

Tell me more about how Po and Shen are narrative foils! Is it because they had different reactions to fame/power, with Po rejecting it once he had it and Shen coveting it?

@cypsiman2: I would definitely like to hear your Po and Shen foil thoughts!

@foxy-knowledgeseeker: Queen, please divulge some thoughts about Po and Shen 👀

I love it when people let me ramble 😭💛

SO. For those who have no idea what a foil is (valid), here is a handy dandy definition:

foil - a literary device designed to illustrate or reveal information, traits, values, or motivations of one character through the comparison and contrast of another character

Essentially, characters are foils when they complement and/or contrast each other. Commonly known Shakespearean foils are Hamlet & Laertes/Hamlet & Fortinbras and Romeo & Mercutio. If you haven’t read either of those plays, no worries! Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are also foils. Foils have similarities (e.g. Hamlet and Laertes have both lost their father and are seeking revenge) but also significant differences (e.g. Hamlet procrastinates while Laertes takes action immediately) that basically help draw attention to the other. Hopefully that gives you an idea of what a foil is if you’d never heard the term before!

But why, you might be wondering, are Po and Shen foils? Well, they complement and contrast each other, obviously, which I will delve into in a moment. The core reason, though, is because they share an inherent connection. Speaking strictly within terms of the second film (since that’s what my paper focuses on), Lord Shen slaughtered all of China’s pandas - including Po’s parents - when Po was a baby; as such, Lord Shen and Po’s stories have been intertwined since the very beginning, technically prior to the film itself. Compare this to the first and third movies: Po has no connection to Tai Lung or Kai (the respective “villains”). That is actually the difference between a foil and an antagonist: Tai Lung and Kai are the “bad guys,” but they aren’t foils to Po because there is no linkage between them. Shen is also a “bad guy,” but the connection he shares with Po in their past (and how that plays out in the present) is what makes them foils.

In my research, I specifically analyzed the application of yin-yang and wuxing philosophies to Po and Shen’s relationship as foils. I will explain why in a moment, but first: what are yin-yang and wuxing?

To keep it simple: yin-yang is a Chinese philosophy where yin and yang are two opposing yet complementary forces that change naturally from one into the other, creating a process of harmonization that ensures balance. Yin is the black swirl, representing qualities that are receptive, passive, and so on. Yang is the white swirl, representing qualities that are prominent, active, and so on.

To continue keeping it simple: wuxing is another Chinese philosophy that loosely translates to mean “five elements,” these elements being wood, fire, water, earth, and metal. The elements have different relationships with one another, either overcoming or generation (e.g. wood generates fire but overcomes earth). One crucial reason I analyzed wuxing alongside yin-yang is because each element is considered predominantly yin or yang, though each element can of course be further divided into yin and yang qualities (e.g. water is a yin element, but a flowing current is yang to still water’s yin).

So now you know the basics of what yin-yang and wuxing are. But why, you may be wondering, did I specifically chose to examine the influence of those two philosophies in particular regarding Po and Shen’s relationship as foils? Pretty simple reasons, actually: the recurring fire/water motifs and yin-yang imagery and thematics in the film. But allow me to get more specific! Let’s start with wuxing, since that’s the order I take in my paper, lmao.

Throughout Kung Fu Panda 2, Shen is consistently associated with fire. Similarly, Po is associated with water. I cite a ton of examples in my paper, but I don’t feel like getting them, so you’re just going to have to believe me, lol. Anyways! In wuxing, fire and water are considered opposite elements, and moreover fire is considered yang while water is considered yin, which develops Po and Shen’s oppositional dynamic as protagonist and antagonist. Not only that, but water overcomes fire in wuxing, which is a direct connection to Po’s eventual defeat of Shen. However, this is only a surface-level glance at the role of wuxing! Going deeper reveals how wuxing is applicable to the core of Po and Shen’s oppositional relationship. Not only does water overcome fire through Po’s defeat of Shen, but Shen loses everything on the water of Gongmen Harbor. His firepower is destroyed and he himself dies, too. Inversely, Po never succumbs to fire, neither as a baby when Shen attacks his village nor later when Shen tries to kill him with his fireworks weapon. Po defeats Shen on the water of Gongmen Harbor.

In sum: the inevitable submission of fire to water as asserted by wuxing is clearly expressed through Po and Shen’s oppositional qualities as foils, namely their dynamic as protagonist and antagonist.

It is also worth noting that Shen’s fire is always yang, i.e. beyond the general association. Shen’s fire is action-based and destructive, namely when he slaughtered the pandas and through his intentions to conquer China with his fireworks weapon. Shen’s yang fire is juxtaposed with Po’s use of yin water to defeat him. To redirect Shen’s fireworks in their penultimate battle, Po visualizes them as a water droplet; in doing so, yin qualities are emphasized: stillness and curvature. Water overcomes fire as yin eases the destructiveness of yang. As a result, the oppositional dynamic of Po and Shen through the fire/water visuals of wuxing comes full circle throughout the film, beginning with Shen destroying Po’s people by yang fire and ending with Po defeating Shen by yin water.

I should also note, however, that while Shen is only associated with yang qualities of fire, Po is associated with both yin and yang aspects of water. There is the yin of the water droplet and of the harbor’s stillness, but there is also the yang of the current that brings him to the soothsayer after he was shot by Shen’s weapon. This association of Po with both yin and yang qualities of water, something Shen never demonstrated with fire, relates to another crucial aspect of Po and Shen’s relationship as foils: inner peace.

As I mentioned earlier, the natural flow of yin and yang ensures balance. I don’t have the quote from Master Shifu on hand lol, but what you need to know is that the concept of inner peace in Kung Fu Panda 2 equates to a harmony of yin and yang (which is already the case in popular culture, anyways). This inner peace aspect of yin-yang philosophy is actually reflected in Po and Shen’s complementary arcs. How? Well, Po and Shen share the same struggle in Kung Fu Panda 2, as both characters have complicated relationships with their past and future. The result is that they both have a dependence on yang, where their first instinct is always to take action. At least initially, they lack the passivity and receptiveness of yin needed for inner peace.

But what do I mean by “complementary arcs”? Well, Shen is obsessed with controlling his future. He took action by killing all the pandas because the soothsayer foretold a warrior of black and white would defeat him. But his obsession with his future is also linked to his inability to let go of the past. Shen still believes his parents wronged him and seeks to right that wrong by taking action to conquer China. Po’s struggle parallels Shen’s. His own dependence on yang is clear in that he seeks answers about his past from everyone except himself for a majority of the film, including asking Shen, his enemy who has no qualms about killing him. Po also actively represses his memories several times about the night his people were killed. Similar to Shen’s need to control the future, Po sought these answers because he believed knowing his past would determine who he was supposed to be.

In sum: Po and Shen’s parallel struggles with the past and future and with yin and yang complement each other, strengthening their relationship as foils. They have too much yang, they need more yin. Decreasing their reliance on yang and embracing the receptiveness of yin would allow them to find inner peace.

That is where Po succeeds and Shen fails, their parallel arcs splitting. During the sequence of “Po Finds the Truth,” Po harnesses the receptiveness of yin by allowing himself to recall his memories of Shen massacring his people instead of fighting them. Through yin, Po is able to accept his memories and recognize that he cannot control his past or his future; only his present. In doing so, he finds inner peace. Shen, on the other hand, is unable to embrace yin, unable to let go of the past and future, and unable to find inner peace. His failure is demonstrated at the end of the film as he asks Po in disbelief how Po was able to find inner peace after having lost everything by Shen’s own hand. That said, while Shen cannot find a harmony of yin and yang, he does demonstrate some of yin’s passivity through his final act in the film: he accepts his death, allowing his weapon to crush him instead of stepping aside.

Ultimately, Po and Shen’s arcs complement each other as foils because they share the same struggle, reflected in how they were both driven by yang and needed more yin to find inner peace. Only one succeeded.

The gist of it: both yin-yang and wuxing philosophies are embedded into the core of Kung Fu Panda 2, that core being Po and Shen’s relationship as foils. Through fire/water motifs, wuxing emphasizes their oppositional dynamic as protagonist and antagonist. Yin-yang strengthens their complementary struggles of relying too much on yang’s action and not harnessing enough of yin’s passivity and receptiveness. The power of water over fire in wuxing marks where their narrative arcs diverge: water overcomes fire, Po defeats Shen, Po finds inner peace where Shen fails.

I actually have MORE thoughts™ about their complementary character designs and how wuxing and yin-yang play into that AS WELL AS the use of stylized yin-yang imagery in the film, but I’m gonna stop here because this is already kinda Long and I don’t know what the legal and/or academic consequences would be of explaining my entire research paper on Tumblr, lmao. As it happens, a lot of this explanation is taken from the script for my presentation djksaksldkas

I hope you enjoyed what is essentially the first half of my analysis of Po and Shen’s relationship as foils! I’m not saying DreamWorks outdid themselves back in 2011, but… well, let’s be real: they haven’t made any foils so compelling since, have they? Take from that what you will. Also, go rewatch Kung Fu Panda 2. It’s so good!! ✨

[the-world-of-jo]

Perseus Gambit - A Lancer TTRPG

A story I wrote for a game I play... It won't make much sense if you don't play, but I am actually proud of this piece, so. (And it's too big to put in our discord, so. >.>)

When you realize how serious things are, you aren’t prepared. As soon as Doc gives you permission, you zip into the medical wing to snag a slate, indicating you’ll be keeping it with you for a couple of days then head to your favorite reading spot in Hydroponics. It’s there the gravity of the situation hits you, and you slump back in your seat, shocked with a feeling of helplessness washing over you.

And then you realize, you’re a geneticist. This is your wheelhouse, you *know* how to repair something like this on a cellular level. And then you’re cancelling your counseling session for that afternoon, promising to circle back with her to reschedule as you head back to the labs.

You manage to avoid her for about a month before Dr. Marchand shows up in front of you. Coincidently, you’re coming out of Noah’s quarters and it’s first thing in the morning, so you have a feeling you’ve been ratted out. You give Sparky a healthy dose of side eye, but you can’t help but spare a bit for Noah as well.

They both look way too innocent for your liking.

*_*_*

You have no fucking idea how to fix this. Not a single one.

Every sim you run comes back not only with bad results, but with *fatal* results. There are over 150,000 genes in a single human, and only 5% of them on average are coded. The Kennedy’s seem to have an additional 3%, all of those enhancing their strength, speed, sight, hearing, smell…

They were also disease resistant, so whatever was affecting Elias was almost absolutely genetic. But Doc had that much figured out.

The jarring ***”BONG”*** of another failed sim is followed in rapid succession by three more, and you sigh and close your eyes for a moment. Then, you get back to work, filing away the results and setting up new sims.

There was still time. Not a lot, but you intended to make the most of it. You ‘steal’ a few other unused computers and begin running sims on those, corralling a few sub alts to move them into what’s been coined as “Lee’s Area”. Someone even made a little paper sign and it made you chuckle.

You sat back and logged into a ninth research station, beginning to look up any new research methods or new genetic information that might have come available since you left Union Space.

It doesn’t surprise you that what you and Doc have been doing is light years beyond anything you find in published works.

*_*_*

The clock in your head is making ‘tick-tock’ noises at random times, and you know it’s an auditory hallucination, but god fucking damnit it needs to quit. You make sure to keep this away from both Drs. Marchand and Lakani, and for the most part, you succeed.

But now, signs of degradation are showing up in Noah. ***Your*** Noah.

You begin snagging more computers as they sit idle. One sub-alt has been stationed near your area for a couple of weeks now since you always seem to request him. Yes, him. You’ve named him Bruce, after Bruce Banner. It’s a nerd joke and it makes you smile, but nobody else seems to understand.

That’s okay though.

Doc tried banning you from the labs until you got some decent rest and food. And you tried, you really did, but.

In less than two hours, you were moving through the ducts, army crawling at times. You pulled a screwdriver out of your back pocket and undid the screws holding a grate in place, and moving it aside you dropped gracefully into the middle of your area.

Right in front of Doc.

Nodding at him in greeting, you pulled a sandwich and a bottle of Galaxy Dew from your backpack and set it at your research desk, then sat your butt down and resumed working. You left your slate on it’s home screen purposefully since your background was a picture of Noah holding Sparky (that you’d taken with permission).

Doc didn’t miss the gesture and instead of ordering you back out, he had Raum lift the restrictions on you and gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

You hear the doors whoosh open and in trots Sparky, a bag of granola and a bag of trailmix held in his mouth. He puts his paws on your knee and looks hopeful that his offering will be accepted. You can’t help but smile and pet him gently. “Thanks for the snacks buddy. I forgot to get dessert.”

Sparky looks quite happy as you add the baggies next to your sandwich.

You do actually eat everything.

*_*_*

Eventually though, one night, while you’re alone in the labs, the last ***”BONG”*** still fresh in your mind, you look up at the ceiling and ask Raum for help. You just need a direction, to know *where* to look. This random shooting in the dark bull shit is getting everyone nowhere and fast.

In your experience, ‘mad scientist’ types have a signature, a way they do things or a way they code things. You’ve been able to figure out which high profile geneticist has written a certain piece in journals, not by their wording but by their projects, and you can’t think of anyone more infamous than Cyrus Jacobi.

Or, as the medical world knew him - Josef Mengele.

If anyone from HA had even mentioned him, and that person had anything to do with their cloning programs, it’d at least, at the ***very least*** point you in a direction, because mad scientist types had a signature, and they liked paying homage to their heroes.

And then one day, Tane asks you “If you could have anything…”

And you tell him. You give him a laundry list of things that could assist you, and you realize if this information ever got into your hands, you’d be very very close to being arrested and tossed in the brig for *life*.

You think *Three squares a day, an actual bed to sleep on...If I handled Milaniko for ten years, I can handle that for life.*

And you wait.

***”BONG, BONG, BONG”***

The sound begins to haunt your dreams.

*_*_*

Noah is the only one who can coax you out, and he does so every day to have dinner with you and make sure you get some rest after.

The guilt gnaws at you when you slip out of bed well before your alarm goes off, and head toward the labs. But time is running out, and that fucking clock is getting louder and louder. It doesn’t matter that people are staring at you, and the fact that your clothes are pretty damn loose doesn’t matter either.

Your nutritional profile has been met each and every day thanks to protein shakes and bars, and Sparky is...suspicious. He’s not advanced enough to know you’re effectively working the system, but he knows *something* is not right. In his view, you should not be losing weight.

Well. You are. But it can be remedied once you figure this shit out.

Doc has been forcing you to take breaks, just for an hour. When your schedules align (and they do at least once a day and you know Doc is doing that on purpose and you love him for it), you spend the time with Noah in his office, grabbing a snack or dozing in one of the extra chairs.

The times you don’t line up with Noah, you head to the mech bay and straight to Beauty, always bringing an offering of donuts or some type of potato dish. Opal is kind enough to not turn you away, Beauty’s hand lowering to lift you up to the cockpit. You’re always sure to thank Beauty, then you sit next to Opal, your offering balancing on both your knee and hers.

She doesn’t question you, doesn’t make you talk, doesn’t comment when you know you’re muttering out loud. Sometimes she leans against you, her shoulder offering quiet support and those are the hardest times, when you have to clench your jaw shut to keep from openly sobbing and admitting how scared you are. How you’re not sure if you can figure this puzzle out, and as a result of your own incompetence you stand to lose not only a dear friend, but the love of your life.

You have a feeling she knows what thoughts run through your head, and you’re grateful that she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even comment on the tears that track down your cheeks only to fall from your chin.

You are so, so grateful for that, and you somehow draw strength from sitting with her.

It’s enough that you can head back into the lab yet again.

*_*_*

The next time the Dvorak drops out of near light, you’ve all but moved into the labs. You don’t notice the whoosh of the doors opening at first, but that’s because you’re all but actually absorbing the data on one of the doctors involved with HA cloning, who did indeed cite Jacobi as an amazing scientist.

When the sub-alt rolls up, you mistake it for Bruce, but then Raum’s voice is piped into your brain via your shunt.

A gift. From Tane.

You look at the isolated slate, then take it from the alt, thanking Raum profusely. You stare at it for a moment, the device seeming so small in your hands.

You rip the privacy screen from your own slate (and you may have actually broken the screen - Marcus will be pissed if he has to replace another one) and slap it onto the new one and begin devouring the information. There’s so much here, too much, enough that you have to ask Raum to help you sift through it all.

But...but...when he flags pages he thinks you need, your heart races.

Schematics. Not of the Kennedys, but of prior models.

Maintenance records, upkeep recommendations. Nutritional requirements, formulae for a metabolic stabilizer…

And then you see it. Written by the doctor who quoted Jacobi.

***Genetic coding information***.

You rip through the document and as you read, you begin to babble.

“Jesus fuck, it’s in the junk. They actually put it in the junk DNA, where nobody would fucking think. We need to change everything, absolutely everything, did he work on the...Ken...He did, he fucking did, he worked on the Kennedys, okay, so if that’s the case I’m betting he put them in the same places but there’s probably different locks, different fail safes but if we find one we can tweak it to fit other locks and we need to rethink everything christ we don’t have enough *time* and -”

Hands on your shoulder make you look up, and instinctively you pull the slate against your chest, protecting it. Raum has gone quiet in your mind.

“My boy,” Doc says. “You’re speaking in tongues.”

“We need to change where we look,” you blurt out. “They put the locks in the junk DNA. We need to change course, we need more computers, we need -”

“What? Brawley…” Doc’s eyes stray to the slate and you pull it closer to your chest. He knows there’s something on there that you shouldn’t have and he’s silent for a moment.

“Are you sure?” he asks, shaking you just a bit for emphasis.

“Yes.” Your voice doesn’t waiver.

He nods, then turns from you and begins barking out orders to other assistants and all the screens go black. It takes but a moment for them to reboot, blank screens ready for new directives.

You log into each one individually and set up sims, directing the machines to paw through almost 125,000 pieces of DNA.

You still need more machines.

*_*_*

A few days later you zip into the lab only to find your area almost empty. Your heart lurches from your chest into your throat, but Doc is there, turning you to the right and giving you a nudge forward.

There’s a new section in the lab. Huge, with bright lights, tons of computer banks, frosted windows and a door with a keypad and retina scanner for entry. And the name plaque reads “Brawley Stonehurst”

You pause only enough to look back at Doc and offer him a grin, but then you’re rushing forward, Sparky right behind you, the door opening with a quiet whoosh. There’re more computers than you’ve ever dared ‘steal’ on the main floor, but you quickly commandeer each and every one, setting them up for various sims.

The grating ***”BONG”*** is still the sound you’re constantly hearing.

*_*_*

It’s been a bad day. There’s talk of ventilation for Elias, and he really needs to come off of active duty, but he’s fighting tooth and nail to remain.

Noah hasn’t been able to really lead his classes, nor has he been able to spar with Masek at the level they’re both used to. Sparky has taken it upon himself to spend most of his time with Noah. When he asks you if this is acceptable, you say it is and rearrange his priorities to put Noah first and yourself second.

Doc finds out and he’s in your office questioning the decision, pointing out that Noah and Elias aren’t the only ones deteriorating, and you’re about to call him out on the pot calling the kettle black, but…

But…

***”BING”***

You both stop, staring at each other, and it takes you almost a solid minute to realize one of the sims has finished.

And the text, it’s not *green*, it’s not a *success*, but it’s...not a critical fail. The text is yellow, telling you that you’re on the right track but you need to tweak things and you can do that, the data is promising and you look at Doc and you can feel yourself grinning and -

***”chime”***

Again, you both stop and you know your eyes are huge, you know this because his are as well. It doesn’t take nearly as long for you to begin looking around frantically -

***”chime”.......”chime”......”chime”***

One by one, five different screens light up with green text.

*_*_*

Dr. Anath Lakani is fucking amazing. There’s a reason you’ve been starry eyed since he said he’d take you on as a resident. Your mind is quick, and you know this, but his…

Christ on a cracker, watching that man work is breathtaking for a science nerd like you.

He takes your findings and spins the results into formulae and then spins those into an actual therapy faster than anything you’ve ever seen. And you watch, because this is porn for you, this creating something to save a life from numbers and codes and this and that. In theory, you can do this as well, but not this quickly.

Doc’s skills come from years of experience, and you are nothing short of a captive audience.

Arrangements are made to have Elias come in the very next morning and he’s agreeable. His words were something along the lines of “What have I got to lose?”, and that just…

Your breath leaves you as if you were punched in the gut, and *gods*...

“Please let this work,” you whisper to yourself as you head home.

To Noah. Who is resting in his quarters and only quirks a brow as he looks up from his slate when you come in, then lean back against the door, just looking at him.

He’s pale, too pale, with shadows under his eyes. And you’re not sure if it’s fact or if it’s your mind playing tricks on you, but his cheekbones seem even more pronounced today than they did yesterday.

“It’s early,” he murmurs, and it is, not even gone 20:00 yet. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” you say, your voice coming out in a whisper. “I wanted...shower,” you finish lamely.

Legally, you can’t tell him. This is Elias’ business, not Noah’s.

But there’s that soft smile, the one that’s just for you. “Go on then,” he says. “I’ll have a sub alt bring something from the mess.”

“You gonna eat too?”

“I’ll have something.”

He knows you’ll pester him. Even though he really doesn’t have much of an appetite.

While in the shower, you think about the sims running for Noah’s treatment. You’re jumping the gun, but Elias’ is almost completely mapped out, with only one part of the therapy being in question. In theory, even if that fails, the results will tell you and Doc where to go next, but that clock is still ticking, loud as ever.

You must have been in there a lot longer than you thought, because the next thing you know Sparky’s sitting outside the shower stall looking up at you. Once he sees he has your attention, he sends a query, checking on you.

*Just lost in thought,* you reply.

*Supper is here! KenKen has lounge coverings waiting for you. They are nice and warm!* And with that, Sparky dashes out of the bathroom.

After drying off, going out to get dressed (and you don’t miss the appraising look Noah gives you, but you ignore it because no, you don’t look your best and you realize this but that’s not what he’s concerned about) and eating, you curl up with him, your head on his shoulder.

It’s quiet in a way that ships are, which is to say it’s not *really* quiet, but there’s no voices, no computers, no bonks or bings or chimes or anything. Just the sound of Noah breathing, and if you hold your breath, his heart beat.

“Elias is starting a new therapy in the morning,” you whisper and you feel Noah go still against you. “The projected success rate of the first two rounds is 98%, but the third is hovering around 80%. Even if the third is a failure, we’ll know by the results which way to go. Doc is prepping the bases tonight and tomorrow, but it’s still going to be close, I think. Depends if it fails if it causes any domino effects.”

He’s staring at you now, so you continue.

“I’m running your sims in my office, and two have finished. They weren’t successful, but they weren’t failures. I’m going off the assumption that since you and Elias are from the same...batch,” (that term burns in your throat) “that you’ll need similar therapies.”

“How,” Noah starts, his voice raspy. He clears his throat, then resumes. “How did you…?’ He can’t finish the question, and you don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t know what to ask or if it’s because he can’t ask, but you look up at him.

“Please don’t ask me that,” you whisper. He’s head of security, and even if this would save his life, he would be duty bound.

His eyes leave you and move to your backpack, the forbidden slate hidden inside. He’d seen it, before, noticed it wasn’t yours or one from medical and asked about it. You’d pretended not to hear him, raising your head and blinking, bleary eyed (that wasn’t a lie, at least).

*Raum,* you send out over the comms and his reply is almost instant.

*Taken care of.*

You know the next time you pick the slate up, it’ll be blank. But that’s okay. You also know the information is someplace safe, and all you have to do is ask Raum in order to access it.

When Noah’s eyes return to you, you’re already asleep, curled protectively around him.

*_*_*

When Elias’s third round fails, it is almost catastrophic and both you and Doc are scrambling to keep him stable until the last formulae can be finished. The two of you work well together, both talking over each other and accessing various machines via your neural connections. Nobody will be able to convince you that was the only reason Elias was stabilized as quickly as he had been - while neither of you is super humanly fast, you’re faster than the average person and with both of you working, it’s...harrowing, but it could have been worse.

Much, much worse.

But, the now fourth round is administered and it works, it works so beautifully. Further degradation is essentially halted, or at the very least slowed to a crawl and not only that, but Elias’ body can begin repairs. His stem cells are fine, and with that vital system working as intended, modern medicine only needs to give his respiratory and cardiac systems a boost to get healing started.

Noah’s therapies go so much smoother, and you feel a little guilty for that. Elias doesn’t give a fuck, and the day he’s taken off his oxygen feed his smile stretches from ear to ear.

Noah wears one similar to it, and you finally know what people mean when they say their hearts are so full that they’re bursting.

Physical therapy is something Elias is eager to start, and you’ve got your hands in that as well because you cannot and will not leave either of these men alone it seems. But in this case, it’s not a bad thing because while you’re in the gym with Elias, you’re working on your own fitness regimen as well.

His upper body strength comes back slowly, but his lower body is a bit slower still, if only because he’d been in a wheelchair for an extended period of time. Hydro therapy was a thing for a while, but eventually, Elias began trying to stand.

You’re hella impressed at his determination, and his positive attitude makes you smile. You’re there with him when he stands on his own for the first time, the sub alt holding his chair steady in case he needs to sit back down quickly. You’re aware Cap is in the room as well, but your attention is solely on Elias. It’s a bit of a struggle, and his face is flushed and his breathing slightly labored (his oxygen saturation is at 98%, so you’re not in the least bit worried), but eventually, he’s standing. He takes a breath, finds his balance, and lets go of the supports.

His legs don’t buckle. He looks down as if he’s having trouble believing it, then he looks up at you and grins that infectious grin and you can’t help but smile back.

Then you notice Cap, who’s watching, and you’re not sure, but his eyes look suspiciously bright. He looks to you and nods with a smile, and you look back to Elias and move to help him sit back down, then step away as father and son have a moment, Cap moving closer and speaking softly to Elias.

*_*_*

You’re sitting with the entire group, including Noah (because you asked him to come have dinner and he said yes because he loves you and he also loves Masek’s cooking because who does NOT love Masek’s cooking???) when the alert chimes at the door. It takes a minute for it to open, but when it does, Elias is standing there, grinning, and he walks in under his own power.

That night, the only sound haunting your dreams is laughter and you’ve never slept better in your life.

[bearsfakedthemoonlanding]

STUDY ADVICE FROM A PRE-MED DROP OUT

1. if you have to write an essay and you don’t know where to start, make either a bullet list or a graphic organizer.  

in the list you’re just gonna start listing things you might say. not even nicely. never phrase it nicely, you’re wasting your own time. 

just throw words on paper, i’m talking:

“here’s where i’ll talk about how sloths don’t have lungs” 

“FIND SOME DATA ABOUT SLOTH LUNGS”

in the graphic organizer take a piece of paper and fold it up into a bunch of squares

each square is a box

each box is a different topic for your essay

throw your thoughts in the squares.

if you have to do a research paper/literature review here’s what you’re gonna do

open a word document

open your PDF files. yep, all of them.

going one file at a time, copy sentences you like from the articles.  

paste them into your word document.

slap some quotation marks around it so you remember to paraphrase later

cite it there and then. if you’re APA just (guy’s name, 2020) right there with the quote. if you’re another style... i dunno how you do things 

now you won’t have to go back and organize later

you can use the boxes/list ideas above to paste those sentences into proper categories. that way you know what you’re talking about when.

build the categories as you go

you’re welcome

2. when you just can’t. focus. 

this advice works specifically for me, and it works extremely well. i don’t know how other people’s brains work, but here’s what ya do:

find a song without words, or at least a song in a language you don’t understand

it’s gotta be high energy

peppy

and catchy as all fuck

put your headphones on 

i like headphones because they hug my skull and make everything feel chill and locked n loaded

don’t know the science behind that one

turn the music the fuck up. not all the way. you don’t want it to be so loud it hurts/is distracting, but you should not be able to hear anything else around you

not your fingers typing

not your roommates/family in the next room

not your roommates/family in the SAME ROOM

no intrusions 

put that song on repeat. endless. repeat. 

this has worked for me a few different ways

1. in undergrad i listened to track 5 from Mulan (the one where she cuts her hair off) and found it so motivational that anytime i snapped outta the focus state and thought about taking a break, my thoughts would go “bring honor to your family, study.” and we’d be right back into it 

2. also in undergrad during an art class that i HATED. i would put on a song i also hated. something so annoying.  classic was “the years start coming and they don’t start comin and they don’t start coming and they--” yknow from shrek? from youtube?  jesus christ. 

the rule was i could turn the song off when i finished the project

i could take all the breaks i wanted, but the song stayed on

hell. absolute hell. but it worked. 

3. brain rot. today i put on “DOTA” and typed for three solid hours. i normally can’t focus for more than twenty minutes. it’s a god send.

i tried super mario music, but there’s this really subtle static noise and some high pitched beeps in the background that make me feel like my brain is getting prodded 

but y’know, you do you.

3. if you have to memorize a lot of information really fast, write it out in a way that you can put a rhythm to and chant the fuck outta that 

i used to memorize 500+ bio notecards the night before the exam

i got A’s in bio. didn’t pay a lick of attention.

do i remember it now? fuck you. of course not. that’s rote memorization babeyyyy

this tip isn’t to learn, it’s to pass.

remember learning occurs in the concept, memorization occurs on the surface

[zeiva]

It has been over 5 years since Area X was released and the story never leaves me. I honestly don't understand how your complex story-lines can be so niche! Now that I'm thinking of being my own otome writer one day, Area X has become one of my inspirations. Do you have any adivce on how to develope these complex points? I know the lore must be alot to keep track of and connecting them together is mind jumbling and tedious. What makes you stay motivated?

Thank you. I’m glad to be your inspiration! ^^

This is how I normally work with my stories: 1) Choose a genre and sub-genre: In the case of Area-X, it’s Otome and time-traveling inspired by Chrono Trigger.

2) Choose a theme: This is especially important in the long run. It’s like the glue that keeps everything together. Without a theme, it’s easy for a story to lose focus. In the case of Area-X, it’s survival and sacrifice.

3) Choose a setting: This is the start of world-building and an aspect that many stories tend to ignore in favor of plot and characters. I personally think that having an interesting world-building is crucial to a good story. In the case of Area-X, I choose a setting that is similar to Chrono Trigger. From there, I build it up to be my own.

4) Write the basic premise: This will be the main plot. In general, I don’t put too much detail, just something simple and straightforward. In the case of Area-X, I want it to have a mysterious dimension that links to Elcia’s past.

5) Create the main characters: Points 3, 4, and 5 can be done at about the same time. With Area-X, I follow Chrono Trigger’s idea of having each character comes from a different time period, and since this is Otome, the main character has to be a girl, and the rest are guys. I asked Nitarou to roughly create some designs, and based on her design, I develop their personalities. At this point, everything is still basic and not in-depth.

6) Write the basic outline: After we roughly have the basic idea, it’s time to put the rough progression of the story on paper. I normally focus more on the beginning and the end and leave the middle part open for changes and expansion.

7) Do research: It’s time to refine the details. I would research on the subjects related to the story. I was intrigued by the idea of an undiscovered continent, so I did plenty of researches on that and discovered its relation to Atlantis. From there I tried to incorporate the ideas I found into the story.

8) Connect and refine the plot: This is a bit like piecing a jigsaw puzzle together. How the story connects, how the character relationship connects.

Spoiler to Area-X (Skip to point 9 if you don’t want to be spoiled) - Rexus was originally meant to just be a Yankee, but I wanted him to be more involved with the main plot, so I made him into the creator of the time machine. - Yuras was originally meant to be a descendant of ORZ corporate just like Belph, but I thought it was redundant, so I made Brash into one instead. - I made Yuras’ story connects to Ferim because he doesn’t have much involvement in the main story.

9) Write the script: When I feel I have a pretty good grasp on the story, I begin writing the script. This is where the final refinement comes in. I’m a pretty spontaneous writer, so every time I have a new idea, I will try to incorporate it into the story. For example, Belph’s original role is supposed to be self-contained in his path, but I ended up giving him a bigger role in Rexus’ path.

10) Edit the script: I do this together while writing, and this is perhaps the hardest part of them all. Editing is extremely important. This is basically where I decide what stays in and what gets cut. Let’s say I wrote 1000 words, you can bet 500 will be cut in the final version. I like my story to be succinct, so I don’t like to add useless details that can harm the pacing.

Generally speaking, I have a rule for this: If it’s not pertinent to the plot, and it’s not funny or interesting, it will be removed.

11) Feedback and final polish: So, after I finished everything, I ask for feedback, usually Nitarou first, and I’ll fix the things that are commonly cited as a problem. For example, Livan’s ending wasn’t that well-liked, so I ended up revising his ending 5 times before I’m satisfied with it.

That’s the rough guide to how I do my stories. Hope that helps you somehow.

Last but not least, in regards to motivation, this is a hard one. Especially if it’s a long story. One thing I usually do every day, like a ritual of some sort, is when I wake up, I told myself “I’m going to finish *insert game here* today!!!” It’s like Luffy keeps telling everyone he’s gonna be a pirate king. Ψ(￣∀￣)Ψ

[amphibious-thing]

The Memoirs of Chevalier d'Eon translated by Antonia White

So lets talk about The Memoirs of Chevalier d'Eon translated by Antonia White. This book is not a translation of d’Eon’s memoirs as you may have assumed from the title. If you want to read a translation of her (uncompleted) memoirs you’re looking for The Maiden of Tonnerre translated by Roland A. Champagne, Nina Ekstein, and Gary Kates. This is a translation of the book Memoires du Chevalier d'Éon by Frédéric Gaillardet.

I’ve alluded to this book in the past but I thought I should write a post on it so people know whats up.

So basically Frédéric Gaillardet was from Tonnerre, the same town d’Eon was from. In 1835 Gaillardet obtained form a family member of d’Eon “manuscripts, printed matter and various papers” as well as her baptismal certificate, death certificate, and papers relating to her autopsy. He also got permission to search the archives of foreign affairs where he found papers relating to d’Eon.

But something surprised him about d’Eon’s papers; the complete lack of evidence that d’Eon had ever sex with, well, anyone. He just couldn’t believe that d’Eon had never had sex, “a fault explained by my youth and the kind of literature in which I had tried myself”, Gaillardet explains “I was twenty-five years old ... I dreamed only of complicated adventures, tragic loves and dark secrets.”

Gaillardet let his imagination get the better of him and became convinced that d’Eon must have had a life full of secret love affairs, and so he decided to add a fictional part to his book consisting of all these sexual encounters he imagined d’Eon must have had. This resulted in a book that “consisted of an authentic part and a romantic part.” And so the mix of fact and fiction that was Memoires du Chevalier d'Éon was published in 1836. Despite the fictional additions, “or perhaps because of it, it sold a lot”.

Gaillardet seems to have believed that it was clear what parts of his book were fact and which were fiction. But then “an unexpected incident” occurred that showed Gaillardet that he had “relied too much on the perspicacity of certain readers.” In 1861 another book about d’Eon Un Hermaphrodite by Louis Jourdan was published. “This publication piqued my curiosity little, because its title was in my eyes a label of pure fantasy” recalls Gaillardet, “having met one day in the offices of the Press with M. Jourdan, whom I had not had the honour to know until then, I approached him, named myself and said to him “I've learned that you have published a book in which you speak of the Chevalier d’Eon. As I myself published two volumes on this character twenty-five years ago, I would be curious to read yours. Send him to me.”

Jourdan surprised and embarrassed responded "I did not know you had returned from the United States, that is why I did not send you my volume, but I will send it to you, if you will give me your address.”

Gaillardet replied that “he could simply have the book dropped off for me at the Press, where I came every day.”

“A week, a month passed, and I received nothing. I said to myself then that my colleague had probably recoiled from an expense of three francs, and I promised myself to buy what he did not believe he should offer me. But I was obliged by my health to leave Paris, and I forgot M. Jourdan and his book.”

However later while in a reading room Gaillardet recalled Un Hermaphrodite and asked for a copy. “I was at first a little surprised, even a little piqued, in my self-esteem, not to see the slightest allusion to the Memoirs published by me and containing so many documents on the same subject.” Recalls Gaillardet “But I consoled myself, thinking that I was certainly going to be taught completely new things about a time that they said to have been studied with a magnifying glass”.

But Gaillardet was surprised to find almost a complete reproduction of his own work “not only in substance, but also in form, not only in their authentic part, but also and especially in their fictitious part.” In fact is was above all what Gaillardet had invented that “seduced the author” of Un Hermaphrodite which reproduced the numerous fictional love affairs from Memoires du Chevalier d'Eon including a love affair with a completely fictitious character of Gaillardet creation.

Upset by this blatant plagiarism Gaillardet determined to do two things; the first was to demand justice for this blatant disregard of his intellectual property. The second was to publish a new edition of his Memoirs on d’Eon this time sticking to the “the strict historical truth”.

Gaillardet brought civil action against Jourdan. In response to this he received a letter from Jourdan containing an unlikely story. A young man had come to him needing money. He advised the young man to research the life of the Chevalière d'Eon, promising to “review his work, correct it and sign it, so that the book could find a publisher.” The young man brought to him “a long manuscript, written entirely in his hand, assuring me that this work, as to form, was his own, that he had done research, etc., etc.”

Jourdan begged Gaillardet for forgiveness and requested that they sort the matter out of court. Gaillardet was at first unconvinced by this story but then the young man who wrote the book stepped forward to take responsibility for his mistake. The young man explained that in taking Gaillardet’s work as historical fact he believed that it was public domain and thus fine for him to reproduce in his own book. Gaillardet ended up forgiving Jourdan and the young man for the whole misunderstanding.

In working on his new book Gaillardet “with a magnifying glass in his hand” as the author of Un Hermaphrodite would say, came to a new conclusion: d’Eon was a virgin.

Gaillardet goes on to cite some of the evidence which lead him to this conclusion which I think is interesting enough to repeat here as it is not only evidence of d’Eon’s virginity but also of her asexuality.

The evidence is “a series of letters from the Marquis de l'Hospital, enamelled with Gallic jokes about the scandalous chastity of his embassy secretary [d’Eon]” and “the repeated confessions” of d’Eon herself “who wrote, in 1763,” to her friend Sainte-Foix that she "has always lived without horses, without a cabriolet, without a dog, without a cat, without a parrot and without a mistress".

And in 1771 d’Eon wrote to the Comte de Broglie:

I am mortified enough to still be as nature made me, and that the calm of my natural temperament never having brought me to pleasures, this resulted in the innocence of my friends to imagine, both in France and Russia and England, I was the female gender; the malice of my enemies has fortified everything.

It’s interesting to note that d’Eon denies being a woman in this letter considering she was telling people as early as 1772 that she was a woman, and evidence suggests is was most likely her that started the rumours in the first place. However this may perhaps be part of her ruse, she may not have wanted to seem too keen to admit she was a woman, as this would not suit the narrative she had created.

Gaillardet ends up publishing his new book Mémoires Sur La Chevalière d'Éon in 1866 this one based strictly on historical fact.

Why the English translation was based on the first (and factually inaccurate) edition I can not tell you. But be aware that The Memoirs of Chevalier d'Eon are not actually her memoirs.

I haven’t actually read either French editions of this book (beyond google translating a few bits and pieces). And I haven’t read the English translation cover to cover, because honestly I have no desire to read a semi-erotic fanfic about d’Eon fucking seemingly every woman she met. However the events talked about in this post are covered by Gaillardet himself in the preface and epilogue of Mémoires Sur La Chevalière d'Éon, as well as in the introduction of the English translation.

All of the quotes in this post are from Mémoires Sur La Chevalière d'Éon and were translated with google translate.

[bittykimmy13]

Best Wishes (GT) ~ 2

A print named Autumn is caught off guard when a human, Tucker, seeks out her help in writing a love letter. Among a slew of problems she has with that, Autumn also has feelings for the target of Tucker's affections.

(( Read from the beginning ))

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Normally, the bike ride home was the reason Autumn didn’t look forward to the end of her shift. Today, she had to worry about a different monster entirely. And then her ride home on top of that. As she dragged herself out of work, she was tempted to skip the library entirely. That might have been a viable option if there was a different route to the print housing district. Plus, there would be nothing stopping Tucker from chasing her down tomorrow if she flaked today.

She made her way to the print entrance of the library and locked up her bike under the canopy near the door. Pausing in front of the glass, she took a steeling breath.

It’s just one stupid letter. It’s good money. Don’t be a wuss.

Pushing past the door, she strode inside. With it being the middle of the summer, the scattered tables were mostly empty. There was a cart of tablets for rent, and it looked like not a single one was checked out. Made sense. There were no school assignments to do verified research for. With no one in need of assistance, the young clerk behind the desk was as out-of-use as the tablets. He was leaning back in his chair, watching a video on his phone without the smallest attempt at discretion.

Autumn glanced at the sets of doors scattered throughout the room. Not quite up to the task of exploring the place, she stopped in front of the desk and cleared her throat. The clerk didn’t look up.

“Excuse me.”

The clerk lifted his eyebrows first, then his gaze. She vaguely recognized him from high school—at least two years behind her. He didn’t seem to know her at all. “Yeah?” he grunted.

“What’s the quickest way to the human section?”

He frowned. “Uh… you mean research on human history? Tablets are right there. Grab one if you want. If you need help citing, it’s pretty straightforward—”

“No, I mean the human section of the building,” Autumn said.

“Oh.” He gave her a strange look. “Why?”

“I guess I’m meeting, uh… a friend.”

It must have looked like the word gave her an ulcer, because the clerk set his phone down and eyed her with concern. “You in some kind of trouble?” he said in a softer voice. “You know, if you’re having human problems, there’s people you can call about that.”

She almost laughed. If the local professional mediators were actually any good at their job, maybe she wouldn’t be so eager for summer to end so she could get the hell out of there.

“I’m making extra money helping some guy with a college admission letter,” she said, her voice tight with impatience. “Are you going to tell me which way to go, or not?”

“Oh, uh…” He pointed to a door on the far right, past the tables. “Go through there and up the stairs. Stick to the walkways to be safe. They go around most of the human section. If you need any help—”

“I don’t.” She walked off, her face burning.

She knew exactly where the clerk was coming from, being so worried. For one thing, she was alone. For another, prints had no reason to go to the human section when there were resources right in their own scaled room. Still, there were walkways for print accessibility in the human section. Some government officials must have pushed for it at some point in the name of unity.

At the top of the stairs, she passed another doorway, which led to the dizzyingly vast main building of the library. The structure of the inside looked older, which made sense. The print section had to have been added on many, many years after the main library was built. Much like the print section, there were tables scattered around, and charging stations for tablets. The most striking difference besides the scale of everything was the glass cases. There were shelves inside of them, stuffed with physical books that no one was allowed to touch. She had never seen anything like it before, outside of movies that showed libraries the way they had once existed.

Another, more troubling difference: there were actually patrons in this section. A few groups of humans chatted at the tables near the cafe. A librarian was reading to some kids on a corner rug. The tables near the shelves were occupied here and there, too. 

Autumn’s eyes landed on the furthest table, and she sighed in disappointment. She had hoped Tucker might forget, or maybe even change his mind. But there he was, hunched over a sheet of paper with a pen in his hand.

Keeping to the print walkway, Autumn rounded the perimeter of the room. The elevation kept her more or less level with human eyes. About halfway to her destination, Tucker lifted his head and looked around. She froze when his overwhelming gaze locked onto her.

A big grin spread across his face. “Autumn Yang! You’re here!”

Although she wasn’t anywhere near him yet, she staggered one step back from sheer surprise. Did he even notice that roughly ten pairs of eyes jerked toward him after his exclamation? She wanted the ground to swallow her whole when all those eyes followed his gaze and consequently settled on her.

Going against her instinct to bolt back to the safety of the print room, she forced herself to walk the rest of the way, getting as close to Tucker’s table as the elevated path would allow her. She stood away from the guardrail and looked down at him, clearing her throat.

“Think you can move over to this table?” she called. “That’ll make it easier.”

She glanced around self-consciously. A couple people were still looking, but thankfully, the rest had lost interest. That was unless the familiar faces by the cafe were murmuring conspiracies about why Tucker West was greeting a print so excitedly.

“Why? I’m already all set up over here.” Tucker stood and came over to the walkway. With him being so freakishly tall even for a human, he was still able to look down at her. Much to her horror, he lifted both hands in her direction. “Come on, I’ll take you over—”

“Stop!” She meant it to come out loudly, but all the breath left her lungs, diminishing her voice to a pathetic squeak. She bumped into the rail behind her.

Tucker frowned, opening and closing his mouth for a few seconds. “Sorry, I mean—I didn’t mean to freak you out. Honest. Look, I’ll be careful. This won’t be like the bike thing, I promise.” 

She tried to gauge his sincerity, wanting so badly to call this whole thing off. But she needed that money, and she wanted to be out of this stupid building as soon as possible. If that meant letting a human pick her up, then fine. There were plenty of witnesses around. There was no way a whole room of humans would simply ignore it if this was all some trick and Tucker was out to hurt her. He couldn’t be that stupid to try something here.

“Okay,” she breathed, white-knuckling the strap of her bag as she inched close to the rails in front of her.

To her surprise, uncertainty overcame Tucker’s face when his hands closed the distance. Which wasn’t exactly reassuring. He roped one hand around her waist, while the other sort of hovered uselessly on the other side of her. All the breath spilled out of her lungs when her feet left the walkway. He wasn’t moving fast or anything—it was just a little terrifying to place her entire literal life in the hands of some jock she barely knew. 

“Okay,” Tucker muttered, seemingly to himself as he pulled her away from the platform and started toward the table. “Okay, okay, this is fine, this is cool. We got this.”

He lowered her to his table. The moment his hand released her, she released her bag strap and gathered herself.

“Wow.” He gave her a crooked smile and took a seat on the chair in front of her. “Never done that before.”

She gave him a flat look. “Could you try not to be so exhilarated?”

“I mean, have you ever been, you know… picked up before?” he asked.

Clenching her jaw, she averted her gaze. “Sure I have. Every print has. Sort of comes with the territory when the world isn’t built for you.”

He cocked his head. “What do you mean? You’ve got walkways and little rooms, don’t you?”

She pursed her lips. As much as she wanted to explode on him, she was not here to talk print hardships with Tucker West, who wouldn’t understand empathy if it bit him on the ass. She turned her attention to the stack of sheets on the table. There were crumpled up wads of paper all around her, too.

“Let’s focus on the letter,” she said. “What do you need me for? Looks like you’re getting plenty of practice on your own.”

Tucker redirected himself like a switch flipping. “It’s not good enough, though. Like I told you, I’m not good with words. But you are, right? I just need some words. Some good ones, so she knows how I feel.”

A pang of regret slithered through Autumn. If it were anyone other than Lacey he was writing to, maybe she wouldn’t be so crabby. Crossing her arms tightly, she stepped closer to the paper and tried to ignore the fact that it meant she was stepping closer to him too. This guy couldn’t be more looming than he already was.

“Read what you’ve got so far,” she said, squinting at his handwriting. “And write slower for the next one. How do you expect her to know how you feel if she can’t even read what you’re saying?”

“Right. My bad.”

He scooted closer and leaned in, prompting Autumn to flinch back from the sudden movement. She kept her eyes on the table’s surface as he read out loud:

Dear Lacey,

I think you’re so beautiful. I bet you hear that a lot, but I really mean it. Not only that, you’re so smart and nice. Like wow. It’s so hard to find girls who are all three. Beautiful, smart, and nice. I mean even if you were just two of those things, I’d still be super into you. But you’re like all three, just to be clear.

Here’s a little about me. I’ve got two brothers and two sisters. I’m the best looking one of all of them, just so you know. I work in my parents’ furniture shop. So like I have money if you want to go do something like grab some food. 

I know a place that has really good milkshakes and fries. I like to dip the fries in the milkshake. Is that weird? I hope you don’t think that’s weird. If that’s weird, then I’ll stop doing it. Anyway, do you want to go out sometime?

Love, 

Tucker

“Oh, my god,” Autumn said slowly. She eyed all the wads of paper on the table and wondered how on earth this could be his best go at it. “That’s your love letter?” She squinted at the page. Even with his handwriting, she could see that roughly every other word was misspelled. 

“I told you I’m not good at this,” he said, his face flushing. “Is it that bad?”

“Get a fresh sheet.”

Tucker did as he was told, grabbing the pen as well. “Is there anything I can keep from mine? The milkshake thing is pretty important.”

“The only part we’re keeping from yours is ‘Dear Lacey’. We’re scrapping everything else.”

He made a dramatically choked noise. “Are you serious?”

“Lacey’s not gonna take that seriously! Trust me. She won’t be very impressed. Now, do you want my help or not?” She started pacing in front of the paper, feeling Tucker’s eyes follow her intensely after he wrote the greeting at the top. “Look, I can tell you you’re not gonna get anywhere with her with the whole ‘you’re not like other girls’ thing. She’ll roll her eyes and toss it in the trash.”

“Oh. For real? Huh. Then what should I write?”

“You said she’s smart and nice. What makes you say that?”

“Well, whenever she would walk into class, you could just feel it, you know?”

Autumn knew. “What else?”

“Uh…” He planted his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, rattling the ground beneath Autumn’s feet. “I dunno, she’s just so pretty.”

“More than that, Tucker.”

“She never makes fun of people! How about that? And like, when she does tease someone, you can tell she’s just goofing around. And she ends up making people feel better instead of worse when she jokes.”

Autumn stopped pacing. Maybe he understood Lacey’s light better than she thought. “Okay, start with this. I wouldn’t consider myself a shy person, yet here I am, writing a letter to tell you the things I’m not brave enough to say aloud. Even if things don’t work out the way I hope…” She swallowed hard, praying that Tucker wouldn’t notice that these words were coming from a much deeper place than her impersonation of him. “Maybe you’ll find some comfort in having all the things that make you brilliant in writing. Because a person as brilliant as you deserves to know just how brilliant she is.”

Tucker said nothing. When Autumn looked up, she found him staring, mouth agape.

“Holy shit,” he said. “How’d you do that?”

“Just write it!”

“Okay, okay.” He was grinning again, his excitement palpable. 

The sound of his pen scratching against the paper drew her eyes down. Just like that, he was stealing her words. No, buying them, she reminded herself.

“Could you repeat all that?” he asked.

She repeated it, and then some. Over the next hour and a half, they traded the way that Lacey was a brilliant person. Autumn kept needing to steer him away from focusing on Lacey’s looks alone, but at least he eagerly agreed with her suggestions.

You light up a room, and you keep that light going, even on your worst days. One of my favorite things was when you would tap on someone and whisper “I thought that too” when they got an answer wrong in class. You’d do it quietly, so you wouldn’t draw attention to how nice you were. But I noticed.

“I didn’t even know she did that,” Tucker said with a sigh, scribbling it down. “Isn’t she awesome?”

“Yeah,” Autumn muttered.

She had him write and rewrite and rearrange and spell-check until the letter was perfect and as legible as it was going to get. Then she had him read it aloud three more times before she decided her work was done. Considering that toothy grin he couldn’t seem to wipe from his face, she had a satisfied customer.

“This is perfect,” he said, hunkering down so that his eyes were nearly level with her. “You’re amazing. Like, a poet. Ever win any guys over with this stuff? I mean, you’d probably have a boyfriend on lock if you wrote someone a letter like this.”

Just like that, her walls went back up. “Oh, no. I’m not talking about my love life with you. Focus on your own, so you don't need anyone helping you flirt.”

He chuckled and straightened back up. No sooner than she had her personal space back, he invaded it again by holding his hand out for a handshake. Or rather, a fingershake. She really wished he’d stop doing that, but at least this time she wasn’t scared for her life that it was some trick.

“Thanks for this,” he said, blessedly pulling his hand back. “Really. I don’t want her to see me as just some dumb jock. I mean… it really sucks sometimes, you know? People expect me to be a certain way because of how I look.”

Autumn stared at him in disbelief. “Yeah, must suck being super ripped and tall and athletic.”

He nodded earnestly. “See, you get it.”

She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but a small laugh escaped anyway. She had to admit—there was a kernel of truth to his statement. He acted a lot nicer than she assumed he would be. 

“Wait, I still gotta sign it, right?” Tucker lifted the pen.

“Hang on. Don’t put Love, Tucker.”

“Why not? I’m in love with her.”

“Yeah, but that’ll scare her off.” She thought on it a moment. “Best wishes. That one. It’s a pretty safe bet, and it matches the rest of the letter pretty well.”

He sighed. “Fine, okay. You’re the love letter expert.” 

“Writing expert.”

“Don’t lie, Autumn Yang. I bet you secretly read a bunch of romance books and just don’t wanna admit it.” Before she had a chance to dispute that, he started to stand. “Okay, so we’re done, right? I just slip it under her door? But first I guess you need a lift back to the walkway.”

“Actually, there’s one more thing.” Autumn pulled out her phone and gave him a serious look despite being caught under his shadow. “Payment. And I think I’ll slap on an extra ten percent for that romance book accusation.”

[here4theheartbreak]

Eat the Rich (Because They're Rotund and Delicious) (JinKook)

AO3 Link Here!

Relationships: Jin x Jungkook Genre(s): Smut, Dark (ish), Dark Humor

Rating: Explicit Tags: smut, dark au, serial killers, cannibalism, vigilantism, serial killer Jungkook, non-graphic violence, dirty talk, bottom!Jungkook, top!Jin, rough sex, bareback, coming untouched

Summary: Jungkook had a mission. That mission may involve killing people and burying the bodies. It's going great... Until the bodies go missing.

Word Count: ~6.5k A/N: Written for @bangtanxm​ ‘s March drabble prompt! If you love mxm bangtan go check us out! We have a discord open as a safe and welcoming community for mxm readers, writers, betas, etc.

From an objective standpoint, most people would say that murder was bad. But on a more broad scale – is anything really objectively bad or good? Could certain things, seen as unlawful and therefore as “bad” by the wider community, be good in some circumstances? Jungkook believed the answer to that was yes. Jungkook was had also killed six people in the last year alone, so he knew his response may have been somewhat biased.

It wasn’t that Jungkook planned to become a serial killer, those he killed just sort of ended up under his knife, so to speak… But that wasn’t entirely true. He planned his kills, down to the finest detail. It was how he escaped notice for so long. The victims deserved their punishment anyway, and it wasn’t as if he enjoyed what he did.

Except the look in their eyes when the pain from his initial slice, always a paper-thin nick between the fingers, almost too shallow to bleed, hit them… That was fun. Or the way they begged for forgiveness as if he were a priest taking last rites. Jungkook was no priest. He was a punisher, some would even call him a devil.

But the devil was the men and women he killed. The lives he snuffed out for the greater good of the community. He wasn’t a serial killer, he was saving people. He never killed an innocent man or woman, he never killed anyone that had a chance of being saved, or even those that would be caught for their crimes. No, he killed the ones that got away with it. The ones that hurt their children and the system turned a blind eye. The ones that rigged ballots and bribed the police. The ones that leered at school girls and boys and kept encrypted files of despicable material on their computers. Jungkook didn’t hurt anyone that didn’t deserve it.

The punishment in today’s world never fit the crime, his adoptive brother always ranted. Really, it was Namjoon that he got the idea from. His brother was a genius, and passionate about justice and the law… But he was soft. He was passive. All bark and no bite. But Jungkook could bite. So, he started listening to his brother’s rants. Memorizing names and researching himself, determining if the person was really as evil as Namjoon had implied. Most of the time the answer was yes. Jungkook drew his first blood when he was sixteen, a porcine lawyer in his forties that had bribed the judge to let a fraudulent business owner off the hook. The man had tried to bribe Jungkook too, saying he would pay for his college, get his family into a nice home, give him any sum of money if he would just let him go. The hot, bitter spray of the man’s punctured carotid artery was sweeter than any bag of Banana Kick he’d ever had. Just over a month later, he sliced the throat of the fraudulent businessman and buried him in the same deep grave as his (now literally) slimy lawyer.

Jungkook had been doing his job for four years when he met Jin. Tall, broad shouldered, an amazing cook, and stunning in both looks and personality (and bed, Jungkook learned a few months after their first date) – Jin was everything he dreamed of in a partner. And what was more, Jin didn’t seem to question his unwillingness to talk about his background before he was adopted by Namjoon’s parents, or his quirks that other partners had found obsessive, clingy, or annoying. Jin also didn’t mind the odd hours he kept, and that was vital. Lover or not, Jungkook wasn’t going to give up on his work. So a year later, when Jin asked him to move into his spacious apartment, Jungkook almost said no. But his affection for Jin, and his trust in him, despite his vow to himself that he would never trust someone outside of his adoptive family, made him say yes.

And things were going splendidly. That was, until Jungkook turned on the news one morning while Jin cooked breakfast only to find out that the location of his dumping grounds for the past twelve months was being dug up and converted into an apartment complex.

He made a point to switch dumping grounds every year so his kills wouldn’t be so overcrowded. He also made a point to clean up his mess to the point of neuroticism… But the risk was always there. His psychiatrist as a young teen had called him obsessive compulsive, and even Namjoon had mentioned it a few times, but Jungkook preferred organized. He needed things done a certain way, that was all. And Jin didn’t seem to mind. If anything, Jin was similar, especially when it came to the industrial style kitchen he used to manage his catering service.

Panic settled in like a heavy stone in the pit of Jungkook’s stomach, ruining his appetite for breakfast and his ability to focus on his work that day. He kept the news on constantly, updates about the building project. What would the headline say, he wondered? Serial killer burial ground discovered? Maniac graveyard unearthed? Six corpses found – serial murderer at large? Getting caught was something Jungkook had frankly never planned for. He was doing a good thing. He was helping. He was careful. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Two days later, the news showed the plot of land. It had been almost entirely dug out. Surely deep enough to uncover the remains of his victims. Panic turned to confusion. Why would the police hide the discovery of the bodies? He’d murdered some wealthy people; their relatives were offering large sums of money for information. This would make headlines. Or it should have, at least.

Finally, the tension got to be too much for Jungkook. Late Saturday night, when he knew the construction site would be shut down, Jungkook donned his hoodie and snuck out of the apartment, citing a need for a jog at Jin’s adorable and questioning glance.

He drove as far as he dared before getting out and walking to the site, pulling up his hood to hide his face from cameras that may be lurking. As he’d suspected, when he shined his flashlight over the dig, it was definitely deep enough to have unearthed every one of his corpses. And not to mention, it was directly over where the majority of them were – at one point – buried. The flashlight swept over the gargantuan yellow machinery before landing on an innocuous spot behind a bulldozer. His newest victim should have been buried right there.

Jungkook skimmed the area for any obvious cameras before grabbing a shovel and pocketing his flashlight. He was used to doing this in the dark. He began to dig, counting his shovelfuls steadily.

When he reached the allotted number of shovelfuls (the burial had to match the crime) he dropped to his knees and pawed at the wet ground, expecting to drive his hand through a liquifying corpse. But he only pulled out fistfuls of wet dirt. Panic bubbled up in Jungkook’s throat and he spun around on his knees, eyes darting over the construction site. He didn’t make a mistake. Jungkook didn’t make mistakes. This was where she was supposed to be. Jungkook pressed his palms against his temples, a low groan vibrating from the pit of his stomach. His breathing increased as he replayed the murder in his mind. How could he be so useless? A mistake like this would cost him everything. His family would hate him, Jin—Oh God, Jin would leave him, he’d end up rotting in jail, he was so fucking stupid.

A voice seemed to whisper through the night, calling his name. If he believed in ghosts, he’d say it was the ghosts of the ones he’d killed, asking where their bodies were? What good was he as a savior if he couldn’t even lay them to rest properly?

The voice echoed again, a little stronger and louder. Jungkook opened his eyes, pulling his flashlight out and flicking it on. The beam darted over the various machinery before landing on a human shaped form a few feet away. Jungkook gasped, jerking backwards. His hand clenched around the shaft of the shovel and lifted it. The person raised their hands in surrender and lifted one hand higher, shoving the black hoodie back from their face.

“Seokjin?” Jungkook hissed.

“Yeah, it’s me, Jungkook. Just me.”

“What are you doing here?”

Jin smiled softly, taking a tentative step toward Jungkook. “You’re not going to find her.”

“Who?”

“The body. Don’t worry. They’re all gone. You won’t be caught.”

Instead of relaxing him, Jin’s words knotted Jungkook’s nerves a hundred times more tightly. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“JK. Come on. I’ve known you for two years. You think I didn’t know? I’ve known since before you moved in.”

Jungkook gripped the shovel tighter, rising to his feet. Jin’s eyes darted down to the shovel and back to Jungkook’s tense face. “Hey… I know you’re scared.”

“You can’t know.”

“I’ve known for a while, baby. Just put the shovel down. I promise, your secret is safe. Nobody will find any traces here. Let’s go home. It’s cold and late.” Jin took a tentative step forward, but stopped when Jungkook raised the shovel a few inches.

“How do you know?” He hissed.

“I will explain it all. I just would prefer to do so at home.”

“No! How! You can’t know! You—You can’t, you wouldn’t understand…” Jungkook began to shake, his vision greying as he gasped for breath. Jin rushed forward and Jungkook tried to swing. He was too slow, and Jin caught his wrist, squeezing and twisting just enough to get him to lose his grip on the shovel. It fell with a thud to the dirt. Jin wrapped his arms around Jungkook, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“I do understand, Jungkookie. I do. I promise, I don’t hate you, I understand. I love you. Please, let’s go home, safe, so I can talk to you, hm?”

Jungkook shivered in Jin’s grip, his mind racing like a rabbit on a track. Jin couldn’t. He had to be hallucinating or worse. Nobody would understand. They’d think he was a monster, they’d hate him and leave him all alone. And maybe he was a monster – he killed people.

Jungkook barely noticed as Jin pulled him forward, keeping a firm arm around his shoulders. He let Jin push him into the passenger seat of the car and buckle him in, his entire body feeling numb and cold. He’d been so careful. There was no way Jin could know. The reality of what Jin said was really hitting him; he knew, he’d known for a while, he didn’t leave. Why didn’t he leave? Nobody wanted to be around a freak that murdered people. Unless he was a freak himself. Jungkook glanced over at Jin. Was he a murderer? Did he kill at random? Would he kill Jungkook now that the secret was out?

Questions circled round and round in Jungkook’s head, each without an answer and each more concerning than the last. Even as they reached the apartment, Jin hadn’t spoken a word. Which was potentially most concerning. Jin was always happily chatting during their car trips, almost to the point that it drove Jungkook crazy at times. The silence was worse.

They entered the apartment Jungkook had called home for a year, and Jin guided him to the couch, sitting him down before disappearing into the kitchen.

What was next? Jungkook wondered as he sat on the couch. Was there any coming back from this? Jin returned shortly, carrying two steaming mugs. He set them on the coffee table and took a seat next to Jungkook.

“Can you look at me, baby?”

“Do you hate me?” Jungkook whispered. His voice sounded hollow to his ears, ragged from stress and fear.

“I love you,” Jin said firmly. He grabbed Jungkook’s chin and tilted his head up, their gazes meeting. “I love you and that’s why I didn’t tell you I knew. I knew it would send you spiraling, just like this, it would make you question yourself and me. I thought it would be better if I helped in silence, instead of risking unsettling your patterns.”

“Where are the bodies?”

Jin’s jaw twitched. He glanced at the couch between their laps and then reached out for his mug, sipping at it. “That’s…. Hard to explain,” he whispered.

“What did you do to them?” Jungkook asked again. “I need to know, you know I have to know.”

“I know. I just… Jungkook, you’re not the only one with secrets like this.”

“What do you mean?”

Jin stayed silent a moment. “The bodies will never be found, I can assure you of that.”

“How, Jin?”

“Well, because we… We’ve eaten them.”

Jungkook reeled back on the couch instantly, barely noticing the way Jin shied away from his abrupt movement.

“I had to have misheard that.”

“I cooked them. And we ate them,” Jin whispered, hanging his head.

“No… You’re… I don’t eat people!” Jungkook cried.

“I do. I have for a very long time. I used to…” Jin shrugged. “I used to just make deals with funeral home directors. Little things here and there. A special treat. But when you and I started dating and I found out your secret, it all seemed like fate. I could get a supply of meat and you’d be safe.”

Jungkook covered his mouth, a sick feeling settling into his stomach. “And you fed them… To me.”

“I’m sorry. I just—Once you moved in, I – I couldn’t make up lies for why you couldn’t eat the food I was eating. I went through great lengths to make sure they were safely prepared, just like any other cut of meat.”

Jungkook rose, turning away from Jin. He was full of nervous energy. A knot of nausea and something else… Some undefinable emotion… Rolled around in his stomach. His hands felt clammy and forehead damp with sweat, his muscles were tense and tight. He began to pace, wringing his hands together. “You eat people!”

“Please, Jungkook, please don’t hate me. It worked so well, I was helping, I thought, I—I wanted you to feel safe and I knew telling you the truth would just scare you and I—”

“Because you eat people, Seokjin!”

“And you murder them!” Jin snapped back, shooting up from the couch. “What’s really worse?!”

Jungkook pulled back, his eyes widening. In all the time they’d been together, Jin had never yelled at him, not like that. A tight fist clamped down on Jungkook’s heart at Jin’s words when they sank in past the anger.

Jin sat down, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you did. I know I’m… Different and… What I do a lot of people would say is evil.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t say you don’t think it, Jin. Please don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t think you’re any worse than me. I truly don’t. I’ve seen the people you murder. They’re not nice.”

“I’ve never hurt someone that didn’t deserve it.”

“I know. I know you haven’t. I didn’t say that to—To imply you’re worse. Just to make you see things my way. I might eat human, and that’s frightening. You kill bad people and that’s also frightening. Why are we saying one is worse than the other?”

Jungkook sank back onto the couch, his brows furrowed together. Jin’s words did make sense. It was… Frightening, looking at the man he thought he knew so well and finding out such a big secret, but he supposed Jin probably dealt with the same when he discovered Jungkook’s secret.

“Have you ever killed, Jin?”

“No. I’ve considered it but you know how squeamish I am.” Jin chuckled a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think I could actually stab someone.”

“But you can cut them up?” Jungkook laughed a little. “Isn’t that just as bad?”

“No way. Once they’re dead it’s just another cut of meat. I’ve butchered animals my whole life. It’s just a matter of knowing where the good meat is and how to prepare it.”

Jungkook picked up the tea Jin had brought him and took a small drink, scowling into the dark depths of it. “You’ve fed me… People. How do you know it won’t make you sick?”

“About the same risk as most other meats, I suppose. I would’ve told you but I was trying to avoid well… This.”

“I get it.” Jungkook frowned a little at his own words. In a weird way, he did get it. He was freaked out by it, but it made sense. And it did help him, in the long run. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“I love you, Jungkook. I really do. All of you, even your darkness.” Jin reached out and took Jungkook’s cup, setting it aside before grabbing his hands. “Are you going to leave me?”

Jungkook looked up, a little surprised. Jin’s gaze was gentle and earnest, his eyes seeming to search Jungkook’s face. In all the time they’d been together, Jungkook had asked regularly if Jin was going to tire of him; it was sort of his thing. But Jin had never asked, never like this.

“You know my secret now,” Jungkook whispered.

“And you know mine. It’s even. We’re bound to silence, in that way I suppose. I’ll never tell. Even if your answer is yes, you want to leave… I’ll keep your secret.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Jungkook admitted. All tension seemed to leave Jin’s body at that.

“You don’t?”

“But there needs to be some rules established,” Jungkook said firmly. Jin nodded.

“I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

“No. I understand why you did it… But I feel violated, Jin. I wish you would have told me you knew, and what you were doing, even if you thought I’d get mad.”

Jin nodded again. Jungkook let go of Jin’s hands and scooted a little closer, holding the back of his neck. “Show me?”

“What?”

“My last kill was just last month… Have we… Eaten… All of her?”

“No.”

“Show me what’s left.”

“Are you sure?”

Jungkook nodded. Jin rose and took his hand, leading him out into their kitchen. Clean and spotless as always; if Jin was obsessive over one thing it was the cleanliness and orderliness of his kitchen. Jungkook was beginning to realize why. He opened the freezer and motioned to the stacks of white wrapped cuts of meat. Some were stained with a brick red, others clean as snow. Jungkook looked over it all, swallowing hard. “I thought this was beef or pork.”

“Not quite.”

“All the meat we’ve eaten in the last year….”

“Mostly human. Some, I mean, of course, some wasn’t. Months you didn’t kill or when we had a dinner party or two, of course the meat would go faster and I’d have to stock up with other animals.”

“You haven’t shopped at the local morgue since we started dating?”

Jin chuckled a little. He reached in and grabbed a couple of packages, putting them into the refrigerator.

“Dinner tomorrow,” he said when Jungkook cocked his head. “And no, I haven’t. Your kills are fresh enough and I’m always able to grab them the night you do them, so they don’t go bad. Then it’s just a matter of butchering it and getting rid of the inedible parts.”

“And what do you do with those?”

Jin grinned. “Not a piece goes to waste. I figured since they were so horrible in life, they may as well be useful in their death. Bones get ground down into fertilizer after I get the marrow out for our own meals or for the food I give some of our friends’ dogs.” He patted his grinder proudly. “The fertilizer goes into the garden, bone dust is a great fertilizer, it’s how my veggies and fruits are always so juicy. I burn the hair – I guess that part goes to waste, and smells something awful. And then the skin either gets added to the dog food or turned into rinds. Brain and a handful of other organs that I just don’t care for get pureed and put in my dehydrator so I can add it to the fertilizer as well. And of course, the meat and organs that are delicious end up in my freezer for our dinners.”

“Those pork rinds! Weren’t pork?” Jungkook spluttered. “I eat like a hundred of those!”

“Delicious, aren’t they? I can’t make them for every person you kill, unfortunately. Only the really girthy ones.”

“So, you’re saying if I kill more overweight criminals, you’ll make me pork rinds more often?”

Jin laughed. “Well, I can’t say that they’ll be pork rinds, but I can make them. But not too often. We only eat so much meat and bigger people usually also give bigger cuts of meat.”

Jungkook nodded. He turned, looking around the kitchen he’d grown so familiar with, seeing it in an entirely new light this evening. Now he could visualize the grinder filled with the bones of his victims, the cutting boards stained rusty with their blood. His stomach twisted in a delightful little knot, surprising him. He’d been doing his work alone for so long. While he was okay with that… Maybe having someone to share it with wasn’t such a bad idea.

Jin’s hands landed on his shoulders, brushing his nose and lips gently over Jungkook’s ear. “You okay?” He asked softly.

Jungkook turned, staying close to Jin. He nodded, brushing their noses together. “You’ve known for a while.”

“I have.” “How did you find out?”

Jin stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Before you moved in. I didn’t mean to… When I was at your place, I accidentally saw one of your victim’s schedules on your computer. It was unlocked and I’d planned on hopping on to check a news article I wanted to show you. But it bugged me, so I researched the man afterward. I didn’t put it together until he went missing the following week. So then I dug on purpose… Just a little. I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. Then one night I followed you. And I saw you.”

“But you didn’t… Run away screaming or tell.”

Jin shook his head. “I’d seen the type of people you were looking into. They were ones the world is better off without. I asked you to move in with me instead… So I could keep you safe.”

Jungkook chuckled a little. “You see a serial killer and ask him to live with you. Aren’t you a little afraid of me?”

“No.”

Jungkook cocked his head, surprised at the answer. “But I kill people.”

“Bad ones. I’m not bad. You love me.”

“You eat people… You’ve never thought about eating me? Even in passing?”

Jin shook his head. “You’re much more fulfilling for me alive. You make me happy and feel complete… The only time I want to eat you is in bed.” Jin winked. A bubble of laughter rumbled out of Jungkook before he could stop it, his face heating up.

“Really?” He cried.

Jin grinned broadly, the stunning smile that had drawn Jungkook in when they first met. “What? Bad timing?”

“Horrible timing,” Jungkook cried with no venom, shoving Jin playfully. Jin laughed and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Jungkook’s middle.

“You’ll really stay?”

“I’ll stay. You were right. We both have secrets… We both have things we hid that we probably shouldn’t have… But I do love you, and I trust you. And I’m willing to work with you on it.”

Jin’s smile softened a little. “Me too… Would it be bad timing to try and kiss you now?”

Hm… Only a quick one. I need a shower. I smell like dirt.”

“Sorta.” Jin brushed their noses gently. “Can I join you?”

Jungkook let his arms rest loosely over Jin’s shoulders. “That just sounds like a proposition.”

“A bit. You’ve been so stressed over the construction work… You realize you’ve barely looked at me, let alone anything else.”

Jungkook scowled. He thought back, trying to come up with some argument to refute Jin’s claim. But he realized that his lover was correct; since the construction news had begun, he’d barely thought of anything else. Especially something intimate.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered instead.

“Don’t be. I knew what was bothering you. I wanted so badly to say something but I knew it wouldn’t… End well. So, I just figured I’d wait until you did the inevitable… Went and looked. And then I would.”

“You can shower with me. I’ll make it up to you.”

Jin shook his head. “You don’t need to. I mostly just want to be close to you. With everything, I guess the prospect of losing you was too real tonight. I’ve never told anyone about what I do and with everything…”

Jungkook silenced Jin with a gentle kiss. Their lips molded perfectly together, the light tickle of Jin’s breath on his cheek as he deepened it, the way their tongues brushed almost instinctively over the connection between their mouths. Jungkook pulled back, nudging Jin’s cheek with his nose.

“I get it. Thank you for sharing with me, no matter how it came out. And thank you for not judging me for my own secrets.”

Jin answered wordlessly, opting instead to kiss Jungkook once more, a deeper, needier one that sent sparks of need down Jungkook’s spine.

“Come shower with me,” Jungkook whispered, letting his arms drop from Jin’s shoulders. He grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the bathroom.

They both stripped wordlessly, sharing quick kisses and soft smiles as they did. Though they had done this about a hundred times in their years together, this felt… New somehow. Jungkook wasn’t sure if it was the knowledge that he wasn’t the only one with such a dark secret, or the weight that was lifted from his shoulders at sharing his secret after so long, but whatever it was, it made everything feel fresh. Jungkook’s heart skipped a beat when Jin’s hands slid down his biceps and across his bare stomach. Jungkook leaned over, slipping out of the back hug to turn on the water. He didn’t bother to hide the little cry of surprise when Jin cupped his ass and squeezed.

He shot upright and Jin wrapped his arms around him, spinning him so they were chest to chest and nearly nose to nose. “I missed this,” Jin whispered. He pressed soft kisses over Jungkook’s cheek and neck, letting his teeth graze his shoulder

Jungkook relaxed into his arms, resting his head on Jin’s shoulder and inhaling. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Fighting you. Scaring you. Hiding this. Thank you for taking care of me.”

“I’ll always take care of you, Jungkook. I love you.”

Jungkook smiled against his skin, sighing contentedly when Jin nipped at his earlobe playfully. “Water’s warm by now. Come on,” he whispered releasing his grip on Jungkook.

The two climbed into the shower and fell into a rhythm learned from their time together, taking turns with the spray of the water, passing bottles and loofas to one another between water wet kisses. Jungkook washed Jin’s back, kissing his shoulders as he did, the hot spray of the water soothing his own muscles. They switched, and Jin did the same. His attention, however, shifted decidedly more to the point quite quickly. He pressed against Jungkook, allowing him to feel his hardness against his ass. Jungkook leaned his head back, shifting his own hips back to tease.

Jin’s breath hitched, and Jungkook smirked. It was his turn to gasp when Jin reached around and palmed his slowly hardening cock. He began to stroke it with a soap slicked hand, placing kisses along Jungkook’s shoulder.

Jungkook giggled, wiggling his hips back against Jin again. “At least let me rinse off,” he whined. Jin grumbled against his skin but stepped back, letting Jungkook step under the warm spray. As soon as the suds had rolled from his body, Jin was pressing him to the wall of the shower, lips warm and wet and desperate. Jungkook buried his fingers in Jin’s hair. Their bodies shifted together, each moving just enough to drag little whines and sighs from the other.

Jungkook pulled back, pushing Jin back a few inches and slapping the shower off. “Bedroom.”

Jin grinned in response, stepping out of the shower. They toweled off haphazardly, and hurried into the bedroom, still sharing quick kisses and needy touches as they did so.

The back of Jungkook’s legs hit the mattress before Jin shoved, sending him onto the bed with a satisfying creak of springs. Jin crawled over him, placing open mouthed kisses up his leg and chest before biting gently on his shoulder. Jungkook chuckled. “Thought you didn’t wanna eat me,” he teased.

Jin laughed, huffing warm breath over his skin. “And I warned you I did when we got into bed.” He flipped on the lamp, casting the room in a comforting orangeish glow. He pushed Jungkook’s legs open with his own thigh. “Now if you don’t mind... I’m starting with dessert.” He moved down and spread Jungkook open, running his tongue over his hole.

Jungkook’s back arched, a groan slipping from his mouth before he could stop it. Jin’s fingers dug into his hips as he held him down. He began to lick, suck, and bite at his hole and the sensitive skin around it, obscene noises filling the air. Jungkook whined, twisting Just hips down. He buried his fingers in Jin’s wet hair, tugging as he struggled for more each time Jin pulled back.

Jin drove two fingers into his spit slicked hole, bordering on painful when he spread them. It faded quickly when Jin’s tongue drove into the gap, teasing the hypersensitive nerves just inside his rim.

Jungkook sobbed his name, writhing on the bed. “Please!” He finally begged.

Jin looked up. His lips were plush, wet, and red, chin damp.

“What?”

“Fuck me, please. Please, I need you,” Jungkook begged. His cock twitched on his stomach, seeming to echo his plea.

Jin pouted. He blew a puff of cool air against Jungkook’s gaped hole, causing goosebumps to erupt over his skin.

“But I was enjoying my meal,” he teased. “I wanted to see if I could make you come just from eating you out.”

Jungkook shivered visibly at that. His cheeks warmed as he imagined it. “As sexy as that sounds... Please, Jin... I’d rather come with your cock fucking me open. I’ll let you eat me until I come another night. When I’m less desperate. Please.”

Jin bit his lip, considering.

Jungkook wet his lips. “I’ll let you try it in the kitchen... You can bend me over the counter and eat my ass until I come all over the floor.”

“Fuck,” Jin hissed. “Deal.” He glanced at Jungkook, shaking his head. “But you’re still so tight. I need to prep you more.”

“Just a bit. I want it tight... Like the night you took my virginity. The way I screamed for you... Tonight feels...”

“New,” Jin finished, nodding. He spat against Jungkook’s hole and added a third finger. He began to twist and stretch quickly, locking gazes with Jungkook as he did.

Jungkook remained quiet, chewing his bottom lip against the sting of the abrupt stretch. He pawed their lube out of the drawer and handed it to Jin, whining when Jin poured a bit into the gap made by his fingers. “It’s cold.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll warm it quick.” Jin slicked himself and lined his cock up.

Jungkook lifted one leg, resting it over Jin’s shoulder. He let the other fall to the side. “I’m ready.”

Jin drove his cock in, both crying out at the tightness of Jungkook’s hole. He arched his back and grabbed Jin’s thighs. Jin held onto his hips, beginning to thrust shallowly almost immediately. Jin pushed his leg off his shoulder and laid over Jungkook, twisting his hips to work him open.

Jungkook held onto him, whining and moaning as his body began to get used to the thick penetration. Jin’s teeth grazed his earlobe.

“Jin—“

“Do you need me to stop?” Jin panted, snapping his hips forward for good measure. Jungkook groaned and shook his head no. “No! Please... Keep going. Harder—“

Jin huffed against Jungkook’s shoulder. He obeyed, snapping his hips forward hard enough to make the bed groan.

Jungkook screamed happily. His rim aches delightfully, stretched to the limit whenever Jin pushed as deep as he could go, and again when his tip caught against that little circle of muscle. He felt delightfully full, each inward pump of Jin’s cock bordering on discomfort as he worked himself deep into Jungkook’s body.

His own cock was pinned between them, achingly hard and leaking against his tense stomach, neglected. He never had to touch himself when Jin was fucking him; Jin knew just how to make him come.

Jin pulled out, making Jungkook shout in annoyance. He flipped him onto his stomach and spread his ass, adding more lube before driving back in and laying himself over Jungkook’s back as he began to pound into him from the new position. Jungkook screamed into the pillow, arching his hips up to give Jin better access. Jin found his hands, gripping the sheet under the pillow; and twined their fingers, kissing his neck almost delicately despite the aggressive pumping of his hips.

“That’s it, JK,” he panted, his tone going straight to Jungkook’s belly.

“You take me so well. Open right up for my cock, huh? You love it.”

Jungkook whined and nodded, baring his neck for Jin to kiss and nibble.

“It’s sexier now, isn’t it?” Jin huffed, vocalizing the echo in Jungkook’s mind all night. “Knowing the truth. Knowing what I do. What you do. What I feed you.”

Jungkook whined, nodding. “It is... Please—“

“I’ve fed you them before. Your male victims.”

Jungkook’s face heated up more than he thought possible. “Did I—“

“You loved them. I was actually jealous.” The snap of his hips was almost painful as he spoke. “The night I fucked your face right at the dinner table... Then bent you over and made you come right there...”

Jungkook moaned, his eyes rolling back at both the pleasure and the memory. “It was so good— Oh God! Please — Fuck— You fucked me so good that night...”

“I had to make you mine again,” Jin growled. His hips were beginning to lose their rhythm.

“I’m always yours!” Jungkook cried. He bit down on the pillow and shouted at a particularly good angle, teetering on the edge. “Please! Fuck me, oh God, Jin please— Make me come, come on me, God don’t stop—“ He knew he was rambling; a side effect of his impending climax. Jin obeyed though, leaning back and pinning his hips down. He began to slam into him hard and fast, pulling almost all the way out before driving in as deep as he could go.

Jungkook screamed until his voice broke, his entire body going rigid. His cock throbbed and twitched against the bed, spilling rope after rope of milky come onto the sheets as Jin ooh fed his ass. Each thrust had his balls clenching, another dribble of come added to the puddle.

Jin groaned his name, his own hips twitching. He stiffened and then shuddered, his thrusts slowing and weakening as he came, still pumping into Jungkook.

Jin pulled out gently and collapsed next to Jungkook, his chest heaving as they came down. Jungkook giggled tiredly . “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” Jin panted, wiping sweat from his brow.

Jungkook rested his head on Jin’s shoulder, letting his breathing normalize. He shivered when Jin began to wipe his sticky body down with a wet wipe, moving only as much as was necessary to be well taken care of his lover. Jin chuckled, making Jungkook crack one eye open.

“What?”

“You’re utterly boneless,” Jin joked.

“Take it as a compliment,” Jungkook grumbled, shifting to let Jin pull the come soiled blanket off the bed. “You fucked me good.”

“Oh I do, trust me.” Jin flopped back into bed, kicking the clean sheet over them. Jungkook tilted his head up, pouting his lips for a kiss. When Jin obliged, he smiled. The two laid in silence for a moment, basking on one another’s company.

“So, I have a couple of targets I’m looking at…” He began, cracking open one eye in time to see Jin smirk.

“Who’s on the chopping block?”

“A slimy vice president of a small company or a cop who took a bribe that got a criminal off… Any special requests?”

Jin chuckled. “Well, do you have any special dinner requests?”

“You know I love everything you cook… I have been craving your stew though, you haven’t made it in forever.”

“Are either of these potential carcasses fit?”

“The cop, actually. About my size.”

“If you want stew, I’ll need to butcher something with well worked muscles so I can slow cook it. We do have that dinner party coming up early next month… I bet my stew would be a hit with our friends.”

“Oh, you know it would – Taehyung would die for it.” Jungkook hesitated. “How often do you serve my kills to our friends?”

“Regularly – but not as often as you and I eat them. I don’t want to risk them asking what meat it is if it’s too gamey or unique tasting.”

Jungkook nodded. “I’ll work on the cop then.”

The silence stretched on. Jungkook was deep in thought, considering what he’d learned about his potential next victim, as well as the realization that he was doing it entirely with Jin’s knowledge. Jin cleared his throat.

“I have a question.”

“Sure.”

“I know you want to do this alone and all of that but… Would it be okay if I picked up the carcass fresh? Rather than you burying it?”

Jungkook looked up at Jin, cocking his head. “Well, I guess that makes more sense… Since you know now… Yeah, I’ll text when I’m done. I’ll give you the address ahead of time.”

Jin nodded, relaxing a bit into the bed.

“Maybe I’ll show you how to butcher them.”

“Can you teach me how to cook it too?” Jungkook asked.

“No way.”

Jungkook scowled. Jin grinned. “If I teach you how to cook it, you might become better than me, then what use would I be for you?”

Jungkook laughed, wrapping an arm tight around Jin’s middle. “You’ll always have a place in my life, no matter what.”

“Promise?”

Jungkook smiled against his shoulder. “Promise. Now let’s go to sleep.”

Jin grunted in response, turning the lamp off and nuzzling deeper under the sheet. Jungkook relaxed into his embrace as easy as breathing, a sense of profound comfort slipping over him as he drifted to sleep.

[prorevenge]

Revenge on a University Teacher

Hello Reddit, I would like to start off with this is my first ever Reddit post, so accept my apologies for poor grammar, or if any etiquette is broken unknowingly. I was reliving this to a few friends who pointed me here to tell this tale. Of course names are changed for privacy reasons etc. If any YouTube videos are made of this story please link them as I love watching Reddit YouTube content. With that out of the way lets begin.

I graduated university a few years ago and this story comes from my first year from my degree. I was in a Business degree course having enjoyed studies of Business in school and enjoying researching business related topics in my own time. Before I go further I should disclaim I am Autistic, this will be important later. It also explains why what I consider an interest in business for me, may be considered an obsession by others. I am considered high functioning, whilst I occasionally struggle in social situations, it mainly comes off as me being rather blunt.

So for the degree we had several classes, every class makes up a portion of the overall grade etc. In the first year we had no choice in regards of classes, the majority of the classes were really fun and engaging. My teachers were very supportive to me and my classmates were too. I felt I belonged at university, whereas I hated school with a passion. At university I could study and argue points beyond a linear construct of a syllabus. Basically I am trying to say so long as you could prove your argument with academic credibility, you could make it and that debates were fruitful. I also had good relationships with my support worker who is there to aid disabled students and my personal teacher, someone every student is assigned who is head of a specific degree/discipline.

One class however was horrid. On the first day of class the teacher, who we will refer to as Mrs. B came into the class and we all had out or laptops or notebooks. She began scrawling what I could only describe as hieroglyphics on a whiteboard. It looked like algebra, only worse. I have never been good at Mathematics, breaking the age old, Autistic=good at math stereotype. I was just typing notes blindly trying to write everything down but it made no sense to me. At the end of the class I introduced myself and explained I had a learning disability and that i might need some help going forward. She seemed dismissive saying "Its okay this stuff is easy you would have learn't in high school" and then abruptly left.

A few weeks past and I was taking down all the notes and still not understanding it. I logged onto the student portal website. It was there all our content was hosted e.g. assignment briefs, reading lists, points of contact etc. I was confused to find her class was the only one with nothing in the reading list. Every other class had several textbooks, journals and other sources students could go to for extra information/clarification.

After a class one day I went to Mrs. B and asked if there was any reading material e.g. textbooks I could read so I could try to understand said theory as there was nothing on the student portal website. She said in a very confident manor "As I said to you before, this is high school level stuff, anyone would be able to do this, simple work". I explained I struggled at math in school and that as a older/mature student my school days were almost a decade ago. She shrugged and left the classroom, and I was feeling very frustrated.

In any other classes if I didn't understand something from a lecture, I could look it up in the textbooks, online etc. to get a different perspective. If I still didn't quite understand I could go to a teacher and ask. They were happy to help me as they could see I had attempted to understand said theory.

During one of the classes I raised a hand and asked a question about a value of a letter 'X' as I didn't understand a certain equation. Mrs B looked at me smirking saying it was "simple" and asked if anyone else in the class was confused. No one else raised a hand or spoke so she continued. At the end of class I went to lots of classmates asking for their help. They confided in me that they also didn't understand that class, but were afraid to speak out.

This carried on for a month or so with me asking for help, writing the notes blindly etc. until we were given our first official assignment. What I did work wise I was not proud of, however in my defense with not understanding the content I was just trying to cobble something together.

I would email Mrs B asking to clarify bits, ask for help, my emails would be read (read receipt) but not replied to. I asked her about office hours, to which she replied "I don't do that". For context office hours are time where teachers allow students to come to them with anything e.g. academic problems, questions, career options etc. All teachers offered them...just not her.

I tried to hand in the work online. Our university has a policy all work must be submitted online for cheat detection software and many other reasons. Mrs B told us she would only accept paper versions and that the online portal was not to be used. When myself and other students questioned her she needed to see the work and its true potential and left it at that. So we complied, printed and handed into Mrs B on time.

A few weeks later in class she calls out students to collect their assignment papers, with grades. The thing is she reads them out not by name, but by grade order. We were all shocked. It meant the sooner your name was called out the higher your grade, and the longer you waited, the lower your grade would be. I waited and waited until I was called forward. I was very anxious and went back to my seat, I tuned out of the class and read over the paper. I had just scored a pass mark, but I was pissed off. Mrs Be had written comments such as "shows no understanding of the content", "no efforts made", "poor aptitude of the relevant theories". At this point I was shaking with anger. I marched out the class she asked "where are you going?" I didn't say anything, I didn't stop. I knew if I did I would have got angry.

I immediately went to see my personal teacher and support worker, it took them a long time to calm me down and said they would look into matters. After that I went to speak to classmates who were read out before me asking if they could explain the theory. All of them explained they had no idea how they even passed, let alone get a high grade. Keep a side note of this.

A week later Mrs B comes into class looking agitated proclaiming a reading list of a single textbook was available on student portal much to the relief of other students. She also exclaimed she would now offer office hours for students with the same level as enthusiasm as someone would have for watching paint dry.

Unfortunately the book was not in our university library and we would have to buy it ourselves, which all students know, textbooks new are very pricey. I bought the book, but it made little difference with my lack of understanding. I spoke to classmates who did the same, they too didn't understand it, it felt like the book and the class were completely different.

The office hours were another thing, I asked when I could see her, she informed me her next available spot was in three months time. I asked a classmate to ask her, she told him she could see him that afternoon, another classmate was told it was a four month wait. Something was a miss.

She also exclaimed some students were struggling with "basic high school math" and she would put some basic math on student portal website. The problem was she photocopied them from a book, the pictures were bury so even if they did have useful content, they were illegible.

Shortly after this we had an exam on the subject, again I was worried I had no idea what to expect. I was in a different exam room to the other students as I get support in exam conditions as I struggle with some aspects of reading (I am also mildly dyslexic) so get a reader support worker. Part way through the test Mrs B comes in and asks if I am okay. I was a bit shocked, I never had teachers in a exam before. But maybe this is how they do tests at university? I stated honestly I understood nothing despite buying the textbook, despite coming to see her, despite seeing my support worker and despite consulting with my classmates. Mrs B then proceeds to tell me the answers. Stunned I say "what". She orders me to write, I look over to the support worker who's jaw has dropped. Mrs B leaves and the support worker stops me and says "I have to report this" I acknowledge and the test is stopped. Afterwards I speak to other students. Other students with special needs she came and told the answers to, but not to other students. I was very concerned and confused and unsure what this meant for my grade.

Months passed again of the same old, I would furiously take down notes blindly, my classmates and I in a state of despair. However, one day I asked another question in class and Mrs B in a very snarky tone said something along the lines of "your the only student who doesn't get this simple equation" she looks out to the rest of the class stating "everyone else gets it". Slowly, one other student says "I don't" then another, and another. I was reminded of the famous 'I am Spartacus' bit. She looked mad as 28 students of a 30 student class raised their hands and objected, saying they didn't get it. Mrs B looking pissed stopped the lecture stating we couldn't behave so she wouldn't teach and left.

A few weeks later Mrs B gave us what would be our final assignment for the class. She explained we had to write a report on a choice of reports as to how they use, whatever algebraic theory we were meant to understand and we had to do this in groups. In the assignment brief we were meant to write the report on the report but we weren't allowed to cite the original report. We asked Mrs B for clarification. She explained it was "academically lazy" to cite any of the reports directly and that instead we had to find the original citation from the report and cite that. Making it a lot more work. We spent the next week just panicking, the reports were so confusing, there was no 'easy' one to chose from.

All of this bubbled up, in all my other classes I was achieving high grades like 80% / 90% average, despite this, this class so far I was barely passing at 40%. The whole thing lead to a very bad mental health crisis, I won't get dark here. It lead to intervention from local government mental health services.

After this myself and classmates arranged a meeting with high ups at the school to discuss our issues. Up till now we had done all informal process of talking to the tutor, reading the textbook and this new assignment was very, very hard.

At this meeting, they asked why we wanted to see them. We explained it was about the class as a whole and the second assignment. They looked confused citing there was no second assignment. We gave them the brief. These higher academics, professors etc eyes widened. They told us there was to be one assignment and one exam. They asked to see the reports we were to analyse. One of the professors mouths dropped, the suspense and silence was palpable. They explained to us the reports we were to analyse would be set for masters degree or PHD students, and that 1st year undergraduates were not expected to meet this level of work. They told us to cease the work immediately. They told us to put together a formal complaint and showed us the paperwork (single A4 sheet) to submit.

Moments after leaving the meeting a email went out to the whole year group from one of these professors citing work on that assignment was to stop immediately. Mrs B replied all stating students could still do it for extra credit. The professor replied to all students stating that was false, and that she needed to meet him immediately. To any other student they must have thought what the hell was going on, to me though I was just singing internally, but I was not done.

The complaint, I went to homework on. I filled in all my academic notes, all the emails I ever sent her in this report. I went to classmates for witness testimonials for what she did in class. I approached and got a statement from my exam support worker, and a copy of some classmates exams who got a high grades. Reading the tests I noticed we had similar answers to my work and that of other students. The grading was sporadic and random to be polite.

For example one of the answers to a question was 4X. I wrote 4X and got 1 point, my classmate wrote 4X and they scored 3 points.

I then discovered something very interesting.

When searching her name online, I found she was being paid by our university to do research into methods of using mathematics to make relative decision processes in a business environment. I decided to look into some of the aspects of that particular research grant and noticed they were very, VERY similar to the work she had assigned us in our unapproved assignment 2. With this I added this into my complaint report and decided to copy into my report the contact details of the funding bodies included (mainly European Union grant sources due to my country) which included what repercussions would come about if funds were used improperly.

Over a week I collated my masterpiece, what should have been at most a 3 page report was now a fully bound 120 page complaint report with an appendix, contents etc. in full academic report style.

I had some friends in a law degree go over it and advised me to seek compensation of some sort due to my mental health crisis as a result of Mrs B. So I enclosed my request for some gesture of good will to be made by the university, I was not specific as although I was high on the adrenaline of getting back at Mrs B, I was still battling with newly diagnosed depression (thanks Mrs B). I submitted it, having it bound specially for the occasion.

Two weeks later all classes with her were cancelled. Not just for our classes, but University wide.

It turned out she broke a lot of academic rules. Mrs B had forged exam results, bullied an international student (or as I thought, was being racist) and many other things.

It was revealed she was using students to aid her in research she was being paid to conduct, which was the nail in her coffin. In other words, she was being paid to do research, and passing said work onto her students, without disclosure, consent, compensation (as she was being paid to do it) etc. It was a massive no no in not only our student body but other teachers as well.

She was dismissed/fired with all professional accreditation lost. In other words, no way of coming back to the field of teaching/academia.

All students got a automatic pass and a portion of our student loans repaid as compensation.

We lost many battles, but we won the war.

I still battle with the depression to this day, but I graduated with first class honors. So I guess I wasn't that stupid after all. I am fine now, happily in a great job, with a great wife and kids.

(source) story by (/u/SWBuilder12)

[tinyshe]

The Fauci Files

At 79 years  old, Dr. Anthony Fauci — who has served as the director of the National  Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases (NIAID) since 1984 — has yet to  come out with the “Big One” — a vaccine or infectious disease treatment that  will allow him to retire with a victory under his belt.

He failed to  create a successful vaccine for AIDS, SARS, MERS and Ebola. A COVID-19 vaccine  is essentially his last chance to go out in a blaze of glory. As evidenced by  his history, he will stop at nothing to protect Moderna’s COVID-19 vaccine and  Gilead’s antiviral Remdesivir.

He even threw  tried and true pandemic protocols out the window when COVID-19 hit, turning  into an unquestioning spokesman for draconian liberty-stripping measures  instead. To echo a question asked by Dr. Sal Martingano in his article,1 “Dr. Fauci: ‘Expert’ or Co-Conspirator,” why are we not questioning this  so-called expert?

Fauci ‘Has Been Wrong About Everything’

The risk we  take when listening to Fauci is that, so far, he’s been wrong about most  things. In a July 14, 2020, “Opposing View” editorial in USA Today, White House  adviser Peter Navarro, director of the Office of Trade  and Manufacturing Policy, stated that  Fauci “has been wrong about everything that I have interacted with him on.”2 According to  Navarro, Fauci’s errors in judgment include:3

• Opposing  the ban on incoming flights from China in late January 2020.

• Telling  the American people the novel virus outbreak was nothing to worry about well  into February.

• Flip-flopping  on the use of masks — first mocking people for wearing them, and then insisting  they should. In fact, mid-July, he suddenly urged governments to “be as  forceful as possible” on mask rules.4

• Claiming  there was only anecdotal evidence supporting the use of hydroxychloroquine,  when the scientific grounds for it go as far back as 2005, when the study,5 “Chloroquine Is a Potent Inhibitor of SARS Coronavirus Infection and Spread,”  was published in the Virology Journal.

Fauci should have been well aware of this publication. According to that study,6 “Chloroquine has strong antiviral  effects on SARS-CoV infection of primate cells. These  inhibitory effects are observed when the cells are treated with the drug either  before or after exposure to the virus, suggesting both prophylactic and  therapeutic advantage,” the study authors  said. In other words, the drug worked both for prevention and treatment.

As noted by Navarro, more recent research found hydroxychloroquine reduced the  mortality rate among COVID-19 patients by 50% when used early.

Interestingly, in a March 24, 2020, interview7 with  Chris Stigall, Fauci did say that — were he to speak strictly as a doctor  treating patients — he would certainly  prescribe chloroquine to COVID-19 patients, particularly if there were no  other options.

Then, in August, he  flipped back to insisting hydroxychloroquine doesn’t work,8 even though by that time, there were several studies demonstrating its effectiveness  against COVID-19 specifically.

So, it appears Fauci has had a hard time making up his mind on this issue as  well, on the one hand dismissing the drug as either untested or ineffective  against COVID-19, and on the other admitting it would be wise to use, seeing  how the options are so limited.

Navarro continues:9

“Now Fauci says a falling mortality rate doesn’t matter when it is the single  most important statistic to help guide the pace of our economic reopening. The  lower the mortality rate, the faster and more we can open. So when you ask me whether I listen to Dr. Fauci’s advice,  my answer is: only with skepticism and caution.”

Fauci Has Done  Nothing to Help Unite the Country

While Fauci claims to be exasperated by how political the  pandemic has become,10 Robert F. Kennedy Jr. pointed out in an August 2, 2020, Instagram post11 that Fauci himself is, at least in part, part of the problem, as his double  standards on hydroxychloroquine have done much to polarize and divide the  nation:

“Fauci insists he will not  approve HCQ for COVID until its efficacy is proven in ‘randomized, double blind  placebo studies.’ To date, Dr. Fauci has never advocated such studies for any  of the 72 vaccine doses added to the mandatory childhood schedule since he took   over NIAID in 1984. Nor is he requiring them for the COVID vaccines currently  racing for approval.

Why should chloroquine be  the only remedy required to cross this high hurdle? HCQ is less in need of  randomized placebo studies than any of these vaccines since its safety is well  established after 60 years of use and decades on WHO’s listed of ‘essential  medicines.’

Fauci’s peculiar hostility  towards HCQ is consistent with his half century bias favoring vaccines and  patent medicines. Dr. Fauci’s double standards create confusion, mistrust and  polarization.”

In a June 10, 2020, article,12 Global  Research also questioned Fauci’s many attempts to disparage the drug for no  apparently valid reason; even promoting the fake (and ultimately retracted) Lancet  study that claimed to show hydroxychloroquine was dangerous.  At the end of the day, who benefits? Well, certainly it benefits the drug and  vaccine industries, which seems to be where Fauci’s loyalties lie.  

Fauci’s Bias Is Hard to Miss

While Fauci is  not named on the patents of either Moderna’s vaccine or Remdesivir, the NIH  does have a 50% stake in Moderna’s vaccine,13 and the recognition that would come with a successful vaccine launch would  certainly include Fauci.

He also has  lots to lose — if nothing else, his pride — if Remdesivir doesn’t become a  blockbuster, as his NIAID is sponsoring the clinical trials.14 The NIAID also supported the original research into Remdesivir, when it was  aimed at treating Ebola.15

His bias here  is clear for anyone to see. April 29, 2020, he stated16 Remdesivir "has a clear-cut and  significant positive effect in diminishing the time to recovery." How good  is that? Patients on the drug recovered in 11 days, on average, compared to 15  days among those receiving a placebo. Overall, the improvement rate for the  drug was 31%.

Meanwhile, research17 now shows hydroxychloroquine reduced mortality by 50% when given early, and  many doctors anecdotally claim survival rates close to 100%. This still isn’t  good enough for Fauci, who continues insisting hydroxychloroquine is a bust.18

His stance on these two drugs certainly  doesn’t make sense based on the data alone. But it does make sense if he wants  (or has been instructed) to protect the profits of Remdesivir.

As director of NIAID, which has  been part of Remdesivir’s development from the start, why wouldn’t he want to  see it become a moneymaker for the agency he dedicated his career to? It also  makes sense when you consider his primary job is to raise funds for biodefense research,  primarily vaccines but also diagnostics and drug therapies.19,20

Fauci Doubts Safety of Russian Vaccine

Early in August  2020, Russia announced they would begin vaccinating citizens with its own  COVID-19 vaccine, despite not finishing large-scale human trials.21 The announcement drew skepticism from American infectious disease specialists,  including Fauci, who said he has “serious doubts” that Russia’s COVID-19  vaccine is actually safe and effective.22

Fauci  conveniently ignores the many failed attempts to create other coronavirus  vaccines over the past two decades, including vaccines against SARS and MERS.

He’s probably  right on that point. It’s hard to imagine you can prove safety and  effectiveness in a mere two months of trials. But the fast-tracked vaccine efforts of the U.S. and EU are hardly bound to  be significantly better, considering the many shortcuts that are being taken.

Fauci Ignores Two Decades of Failed Coronavirus Vaccines

Despite being in a position to know better, Fauci  conveniently ignores the many failed attempts to create other coronavirus  vaccines over the past two decades, including vaccines against SARS and MERS. A   paper23 by Eriko Padron-Regalado, “Vaccines for SARS-CoV-2: Lessons From Other Coronavirus Strains” reviews some of these past experiences. As noted in the  Conservative Review:24

“Since  their emergence in 2003 and 2012 respectively, no safe and efficacious human  vaccines for either SARS-Cov1 or MERS have been developed.

Moreover,  experimental non-human (animal model) evaluations of four SARS-Cov1 candidate  vaccine types, revealed that despite conferring some protection against  infection with SARS-Cov1, each also caused serious lung injury,  caused by an overreaction of the immune system, upon viral challenge.25

Identical  ‘hypersensitive-type’ lung injury occurred26 when mice were administered a  candidate MERS-Cov vaccine, then challenged with infectious virus, negating the  ostensible benefit achieved by their development of promising … ‘antibodies’ …  which might have provided immunity to MERS-Cov.

These  disappointing experimental observations must serve as a cautionary tale for  SARS-Cov2 vaccination programs to control epidemic COVID-19 disease.”

NIAID Safety Controversies and Ethics Violations

When recently asked  for a rebuttal to criticism of his leadership during the pandemic, Fauci replied,  “I think you can trust me,” citing his long record of service in government  medicine. However, that long service record is fraught with ethics and safety  lapses.

For example, in  2005, NPR reported27 the NIH tested novel AIDS drugs on hundreds of HIV-positive children in state  foster care during the late 1980s and90s without assigning patient advocates to  monitor the children’s health, as is required by law in most states.

Fauci was appointed director of the NIAID in 1984. The  AIDS research was part of his research portfolio, and the AIDS research  division reported directly to him, so these violations occurred on his watch.28 In  2008, two NIH biomedical  ethicists published a paper on the controversial practice of using wards of the  state as guinea pigs, noting:29

"Enrolling wards of the  state in research raises two major concerns: the possibility that an unfair  share of the burdens of research might fall on wards, and the need to ensure  interests of individual wards are accounted for ... Having special protections  only for some categories is misguided. Furthermore, some of the existing   protections ought to be strengthened."

Under Fauci, the NIAID became the largest funder of  HIV/AIDS in the world.30 Despite  that, numerous articles over the years have discussed how AIDS activists have  been less than satisfied with Fauci and the NIAID.31,32,33 A  1986 article stated:34

“If  Fauci were less intent on amassing power within the federal health bureaucracy  … he would have left AIDS treatment research with the NCI, where it began,  relying on that institute's proven expertise in organizing large, multisite  clinical trials for cancer therapies."

A July 23, 2020, article in Just the News lists several  other safety and ethics problems that Fauci has been involved in through the  years, including conflict of interest violations in vaccine research.35

Just the News also interviewed NIAID chief of ethics and  regulatory compliance Dr. Jonathan Fishbein, whom the NIAID was  forced to reinstate in 2005 after it was determined that Fishbein had been   wrongly fired in retaliation for raising concerns about lack of safety in some  of the agency’s research:36

“Fishbein said … Fauci failed to take responsibility for the   managers and researchers working below him when signs of trouble emerged,  allowing problems to persist until others intervened. ‘Fauci is all about  Fauci,’ Fishbein said. ‘He loves being the headline. It’s his ego.’”

Fauci’s Connections  to Wuhan Lab

By now, you  probably also know that the NIAID funded gain-of-function research on  coronaviruses at the Wuhan Institute of Virology. As reported by Newsweek:37

“In 2019, with the backing of NIAID, the National  Institutes of Health committed $3.7 million over six years for research that  included some gain-of-function work. The program followed another $3.7 million, 5-year project for collecting and studying bat coronaviruses, which ended in  2019, bringing the total to $7.4 million.”

This money was  not given directly, but rather funneled to the Wuhan lab via the EcoHealth  Alliance. According to a recent report by The Wall Street Journal,38 the NIH is now insisting EcoHealth Alliance submit all information and materials from the Wuhan lab before it’s allowed to resume funding.

Fauci is a  longtime proponent of dangerous gain-of-function research. In 2003, he wrote an  article39 published in the journal Nature on how “the world needs new and creative ways  to counter bioterrorism.”

“We will  pursue innovative approaches for modulating innate immunity to induce and  enhance protection against many biological pathogens, as well as simple and  rapid molecularly based diagnostics to detect, characterize and quantify  infectious threats,” Fauci wrote.

“These are lofty goals  that may take many years to accomplish — but we must aspire to them. Third, we  must enormously strengthen our interactions with the private sector, including  biotechnology companies and large pharmaceutical corporations.

Many biodefence-related  products that we are pursuing do not provide sufficient incentives for industry  — the potential profit margin for companies is tenuous, and there is no  guarantee that products would be used.

Therefore, we will seek non-traditional  collaborations with industry, for example guaranteeing that products will be  purchased if companies sign up … so that we can quickly make available  effective vaccines and treatments …”

With that, there can be little question about which team  Fauci is on. He’s on the side of drug and vaccine makers, and has been for   decades. There’s no money to be made by either the agency or its private  collaborators from natural products such as vitamin D, vitamin C, quercetin or  its drug equivalent, hydroxychloroquine. All of these are dirt-cheap and off  patent.

Prediction Track Record = Null

Fauci’s  predictions for COVID-19 mortality have also turned out to be as inaccurate as  all of his previous predictions. In 1987, he predicted heterosexual infection  of HIV/AIDS would rise to 10% by 1991. It never rose above 4%.

He predicted  the bird flu would result in 2 million to 7 million deaths. In the end, the  avian H5N1 flu killed 440 worldwide. He sought billions of dollars to combat  the threat of Zika, a virus that fizzled without making much of an impact anywhere.40

When you look  at his track record, you realize he’s predicted “nightmare” scenarios for  decades, none of which have materialized.   Last but not least, Dr. Fauci serves on Bill Gates leadership council.

[fresh-outta-jams]

Plastic Heart - Part 8

Namjoon x Reader Author: Mo Summary: When you get the highly-anticipated BTS dolls for Christmas, your life takes a turn in a way you never could have expected. Note: Double update today because I looooooove you <3 Warnings: None? Word Count: 1.8k

Prologue, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

God, how you loathed writing papers. You hated outlining them. You hated researching for them. You hated citing references in them. But most of all, you hated the writing process. It was exhausting, trying to keep an academic tone, using words you would never dream of using in some vain attempt to impress you professor. It was awful, really.

So, because you had left so much of the paper until the night before it was due, you were sitting at your desk, sipping on your third cup of iced chai of the evening, praying to the caffeine gods above that you could stay up late enough to finish.

“Is that...healthy?” Yoongi asked, watching you from your shelf amused.

“Probably not. What are we talking about?” You asked, looking at him as you typed.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’re consuming your third cup of caffeinated beverage at--” he looked at the clock, “midnight.”

“It is not midnight, it is eleven-thirty.” You protested, stirring your straw around your drink before setting it on your BTS coaster. “And I am writing a paper, so it’s excused.”

“How’s it going?” Namjoon asked, hopping from your dresser onto your desk and walking in front of your computer screen. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“If I think of something, I’ll let you know, but for now, your company is appreciated. Writing papers suuuuuucks.” You whined, leaning back in your chair.

“I thought you LIKED writing!” Jungkook piped up from his spot on your bed. He and some of the others were playing games on your DS.

“Papers are different. Believe me, I’d much rather be writing fanfiction right about now.”

“You write fanfiction?” Namjoon asked, amused. “What about?”

Your cheeks burned bright red. You weren’t about to tell him, or any of them, really, that you had...dabbled in writing (and reading) some BTS fanfictions from time to time. So instead, you bullshitted. “Oh, you know...Astro. They’re adorable.”

“Astro?”

“Really? Astro? I thought BTS was your bias group!”

“Traitor!”

“What can I say? They’re cuties.” You shrugged, smirking. You took another sip from your tea.

“You’re a liar! There was not a single Astro fic on your AO3 page!” Hoseok accused, pointing a little plastic finger at you.

“You stalked my AO3 page?” You gasped, whipping around to look at him. “I thought you were watching dance practices!”

“You left it open!” He defended. “But may I just say, your fic about RM and the novelist was superb.”

“Hoseok, what the fuck.” Yoongi scrunched his eyebrows while you hid your reddening cheeks.

“Is it my fault our girl writes remarkable literature?”

“And with that, I leave to make my fourth tea of the evening. Would anyone like to accompany me to the kitchen?”

“Me!” Namjoon volunteered immediately, wanting to get away from that conversation as fast as possible. You scooped him up and set him on your shoulder, picking up your cup before starting to walk to the kitchen.

In all honesty, Namjoon was kind of in a daze. He supposed he should have kind of known that you wrote and/or read fanfiction about him--no, about RM, not about him. But he was still a little flustered. Okay, a lot flustered. The fact of the matter was: he was a little plastic carbon copy of your bias, the man you held above all men, the one who sung--well, rapped--you to sleep, whose mixtape soothed your anxiety, and whose Tweets never failed to bring a smile to your face no matter how upset you were. Namjoon looked just like...Namjoon. And yet, he wasn’t.

He knew in his heart it was silly. He knew Yoongi was right, that his crush was impossible and unattainable, that it would only hurt him in the end, once you finally figured out just how you made him feel, but he couldn’t shake his feelings. They’d wrapped themselves too tight around his soul. And that only broke his heart more.

He wanted to feel things, like properly FEEL them. He wanted to know the difference between warm and cold. He wanted to know how soft your sweaters and blankets were. He wanted to feel the softness of your skin under his fingertips. He wanted to taste salty buttery popcorn and chocolatey sweet M&Ms. God, he wanted to kiss you. Everything would be so much easier if he was just--

That was it. That was what he wanted. Namjoon wanted to be human.

“Joonie, is everything alright?” You asked gently, getting your vanilla soymilk and chai latte mix out of the fridge. “You look really sad.”

“I’m okay.” He nodded, but he wasn’t very convincing.

You tilted your head, pouting slightly. “You can tell me anything, Joon. Is something bothering you?”

“Really, (Y/N). I’m fine...I just...it’s kind of hard to explain.” He admitted, looking up at you from his spot on the counter while you poured yourself some more tea, stirring it together with your straw. “Do you ever...wish things were different? Even though you know you have it great, there’s just...one thing you would change.”

“I get what you’re saying, yeah.” You nodded. You had some idea what he was talking about.

“I don’t know...I just wish things were different, you know?”

“Different how?”

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head, “Well for starters, I wouldn’t be made of plastic, that’s for sure.”

“Mmm.” You hummed, smiling softly at him. “The universe is cruel like that sometimes. I’m really sorry. I don’t know how to help you, but...I’m here for you, alright? If you need to talk about it. I know it can’t be easy.”

“Thank you. Really. From the bottom of my heart...or, well, lack thereof.” He laughed a little. If you’d told him a few months ago that he’d not only be TALKING to his human, but that he was actually FRIENDS with her, he’d probably laugh in your face. And yet, here he was, having a full heart-to-heart with you. “You’ve done so much for us since you found out about us. We were all kind of afraid you’d give us to your little cousins.”

“It might have crossed my mind during my post-Tae-sneeze anxiety attack, but, having seven little roommates running around has been fun, too.” You helped Namjoon back onto your shoulder, taking a sip of tea. “And besides, I was so lonely before I started talking to you guys.”

“Well, we’re glad you’re not lonely anymore.” He grinned, hugging your neck as best as he could given the current circumstances. You smiled and used your free hand to give his back a gentle little rub.

The two of you returned to your bedroom. You got back to work on your paper while Namjoon read one of your giant books and the rest of the boys entertained themselves. You were blissfully unaware, mostly because of the curtains in your kitchen window, that while Namjoon was unpacking his emotional load, something a little out of the ordinary had happened.

This something was a shooting star zipping across the sky.

So, once you had finished your paper, brushed your teeth, and crawled into bed, you went to sleep. By now, you’d made beds for each of the boys, some of them bunkbeds, some of them solo, differing by request. Namjoon was laying in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure why, but something felt...off, deep in his chest.

Not thinking much of it, he rolled over, closed his eyes, and tried to fall asleep. And yet, he couldn’t. Something was definitely wrong. It wasn’t an emotion, really. At least, he didn’t THINK so. But it was there, hovering, lingering inside of him. Strange, he decided.

He laid there for a while, maybe a few hours or so before he felt it again, that strange feeling bubbling up in his chest. Swelling and festering until he couldn’t ignore it anymore. He swung his legs out of the little bed you’d made for him and sat there for a second, waiting a few seconds to see if anything changed. Something was happening, and he wasn’t sure what.

A few more minutes ticked by and the feeling evolved from a faint murmur to a deafening sting, bright and decidedly hot. He stood up from his bed, stumbling, and carefully used your desk chair to get down onto the floor. It was then that things started to get even stranger.

Slowly, not all that noticeably at first, but moreso as the process continued, your room started to get...smaller. He stared at the chair he’d just had to use as a firepole. After a few moments, the seat was at eye level, and then the top of the back was at eye level, and then it only stood as high as his shoulders. He looked at your desk, which now only reached his hips. What was happening to him?

Namjoon was all but convinced he had fallen asleep and that this was some insane dream, especially when the shrinking stopped and he looked around at his new, much smaller surroundings. He took a few tentative steps, flinching when the plastic stars you had hanging from your ceiling fan hit him in the face.

That was weird. They had always seemed hundreds of feet above him, and now, he was too tall to walk under them.

He stopped in place, frozen as he felt something else in his chest. He put a hand there, feeling as whatever was inside him moved. It was like someone was knocking on a door, trying to get out of him. What the fuck.

Slowly, quietly, Namjoon walked out of your bedroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom. He felt the wall for a light switch and flicked it on, stumbling back away from the mirror at the sight of the guy standing in his reflection. He slipped and fell on his ass, sitting there for a few seconds in shock.

“Ow…” He mumbled, pain blossoming from what would surely become a bruise. Pain. He’d actually FELT pain. That was...new. While he was sitting there, he took some time to look at his hands. He had fingernails, knuckles, veins beneath his skin. He used his right thumb to pinch some of this new body of his, feeling how his skin moved.

Shaking, he used the bathroom counter to get up off of the floor. He locked eyes with the man standing in the mirror. He had detailed brown irises, and upon further inspection, eyelashes. Namjoon blinked a few times, watching as the man blinked too. Maybe it was the shock of it all, but it took him a few moments to realize that this reflection was his own. This was what he looked like, and if he remembered correctly, he looked exactly like RM, dimples and all.

“Holy fuck.” He swore softly, hands rising to his cheeks to feel the soft skin there. That knocking feeling had returned to his chest, and maybe it made too much sense, but he realized it must be a heartbeat. Holy fuck, he had a heartbeat. And that meant one thing, and one thing alone.

“Oh my God, I’m human…”

Tagged: @iie-wakarimasen, @lilgaga98, @catbugsugarpea, @demonic-meatball, @backtonormalthings, @kbowen9, @honig-bienchen, @coolcat494, @ffantasylandd, @feed-my-geek-soul, @ayoo-bangtan, @xxqueenwxtchxx, @cap-lu20, @finninpoposu, @coldbookworm, @sitkafay, @daniawinchesters21, @okaysoplshelpme 

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 4

Ok, but actually, just..............this.  Just..............get in on this

Ao3

Hiccup and Heather found the Johann connection while she was helping him research his book.  It started, like most of his best ideas, as a joke while he was sifting through Sergeant Johanssen’s notes on the Grimborn case.  Johann was by all metrics, insufferable and attention-seeking, and as hard as it is to define the character of people who’ve been dead over a hundred years, the sheer number of mostly useless anecdotes he made officers sit through speaks for itself.  It was late in his Dad’s office when Hiccup flopped back and griped that if Johann was sadistic enough to make the Sergeant sit through one more tale about morality and cattle, maybe he was sadistic enough to murder and mutilate a series of prostitutes.  

Heather laughed, but something about it stuck with both of them because they kept looking into it anyway, as silly as it was, pulling the string to see what was there.  There are no shortage of primary sources citing Johann using the murders to sell more bibles, aiming to cleanse the streets of moral filth by educating them about the might of the lord.  

As a theory, it holds out further than most.  In fact, there’s nothing to disprove it.  Johann was in Berk during all of the Grimborn murders.  A couple of the Grimborn letters even have phrases in common with notes taken on Johann’s witness accounts.  It’s entirely plausible that a bible salesman in the late eighteen eighties killed a string of loose women in a violent campaign to impose morality on Downtown Berk, but there’s absolutely no way to prove it.  

That’s where Hiccup and Heather started fighting about it, she couldn’t take the open end.  She found random slayings in downtown Outcast Island, no mutilation, not even all prostitutes or obviously morally destitute people, and tried to start pinning them on Johann based on the fact he wasn’t noted to be in Berk that month.  She was ready to pull the trigger on something definitive and she started pushing it in tours, adding in leading pauses in front of the church, where Reverend Svenson encouraged Johann to lower prices as a form of aid, rather than expanding efforts to feed the poor.  

Just because there’s nothing wrong with the Johann theory doesn’t mean there’s anything right. Knowing things too well gets in the way of learning more about them, and Hiccup is in this to learn, not know.  

At least, that’s a very polite and summarized version of what he yelled at Heather and quit, calling her tour a stolen heap of sensationalist garbage that warps the facts for her own vanity.  

It’s ironic now that he’s approaching her out of his own vanity.  After a night of bugging Snotlout about how Astrid possibly could have known about Johann and getting nothing more than grumbling, it occurred to him that maybe she took Heather’s tour to have something new to shout down at him.  And well, since she already made it clear how she feels about him looking in her apartment, asking about her whereabouts in reference to Heather’s tour seems like a good way to press that harassment charge.  

He gets to the Ripped Tavern a bit early a couple days after Astrid’s Johann revelation and looks for Heather.  She’s at the bar, talking to her brother, and Dagur steps away when he sees Hiccup approaching, presumably warning Heather, because she turns and raises an eyebrow.

“Can I do something for you, Hiccup?”  She cocks her head, “I thought I was too sensationalized for a rational person like you to need anything from me.”

“I just wanted to ask if you’re still talking about Johann.”  He adjusts his bag on his shoulder, fidgeting with his laser pointer in his pocket.  

“Why wouldn’t I?”  She sets her jaw, “since we discovered the idea together—”

“Has anyone been particularly curious about it lately?”  He cuts her off, uninterested in rehashing the fight.  As long as she doesn’t publish anything without his notes, he’s content to trim the sides of Berserker tours’ profits as long as she holds out.

“Why?  Did you tell someone who wanted to finish figuring it out?” She rolls her eyes and Hiccup sighs.

“She’d be about our age, blonde, moved into Elizabeth Smith’s apartment and umm, well, she’s not a fan of my tour route—”

“No blonde women have asked me about Johann while complaining about your trespassing habits,” Heather shakes her head, “I swear, if Snotlout wasn’t looking out for you—”

“Well, he is.”  He doesn’t need this lecture from Heather, of all people.  Back before she took herself so seriously, she’s the one who dropped through the boarded-up window at Number 31, Harbor Road to examine the third site before it got torn down to make room for condos.  “And I was just wondering if anyone asked, but it sounds like no, so…thanks, have a sensational tour.”  His fake bitterness doesn’t do much to her and he wishes he hadn’t said anything at all when she frowns, concerned.  Hopeful. “Don’t even—”

“What if someone else figured it out?  I’m not the one being too petty to publish anything, I still have all my notes.”  

“Yeah and mine, how do they fit into the version of reality you tour?”  He doesn’t expect an answer to that and he doesn’t get one.  Letting Heather keep the notes is letting her have the last word without having a verbal WWE match in Victorian Garb, and his hat has been through enough lately already.  

Heather’s tour leaves on time and Hiccup’s slips out the side door fifteen minutes after.  It’s a foggy night and the girl on the spot where Mary Johnson was found squeaks and jumps into her boyfriend’s arms when she realizes.  He’s a little ahead of schedule when he approaches the first site, talking a little too fast and trying not to hope that Astrid will have something to say today.  Maybe something that reveals her methods or reasons.

Maybe she’ll lean out the window again and argue with him, shivering in her pajamas.  He shouldn’t have noticed, and he definitely shouldn’t have remembered, especially given he had to spend the rest of that tour fending off someone asking after her theories.  That should have been annoying enough for him to wish she’d stayed inside, but well, he didn’t.  

It’s worse that she’s pretty in a way that makes looking directly at her difficult.  Funnier for Snotlout, but worse for him.  

The lights are out in her apartment though, like she’d rather find somewhere else to be than argue with him, and he steps to the side of the sandstone wall, rubbing his hand over it and remembering the first time he came here.  It was the first place he stood that he knew that at some point, Viggo Grimborn stood in the exact same spot.  

“Before we get a little closer to the site of the first Grimborn murder,” he pauses when he looks at the group and sees Astrid at the back of it, arms crossed and keys dangling from her hand, like she caught him on her way home.  “Where we won’t enter or peek in at all, because that would be creepy.”  He gives her a thumbs up and she shrugs.  

“You’re talking about the ‘All Safe’ message, right?”  

“Well, I was going to,” he pats the wall, focusing back on the group and remembering where he was, “right, this wall, on the morning that Elizabeth Smith’s body was found, there was a message on it, presumably left by the murderer.  The officer on his morning patrol assumed it was meant for him from the officer on watch the night before, but when questioned, the night officer didn’t know anything about it.”  

“And because there were no pictures taken of it, because of a rainstorm later that afternoon, the main source for the message has always been the notes from the officer who was called by a witness to discover Elizabeth Smith’s body.”  Astrid excuses herself unnecessarily because the group is already splitting to look back at her, confused but used to being talked at by this point in the tour.  She could thank him for the warm up, maybe, but he doesn’t think he’ll be that lucky. “So, the message, ‘All Safe’ has always been understood to be a statement, as in, behind this wall, everything is safe.”  She steps up next to Hiccup, in front of the wall, fiddling with her keys like she’s nervous even as she gestures at the bricks.  

“Oh, are you going to give my tour?”  He doesn’t mean for the sarcasm to shut her down, necessarily, but he doesn’t expect her to shove it off, standing up straighter and looking between him and the tour group.  

“I was going to fix it, if that’s ok with you.”  

“Fix it?”  

“The ‘All Safe’ message was not officially photographed as part of the crime scene on the morning that Elizabeth Smith was discovered murdered,” she reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a piece of paper that unfolds to an eight and a half by eleven, slightly smeared, freshly printed scan of the Berk Enquirer. Judging by the font, it’s copied from a paper issued in the late eighteen hundreds, but Hiccup doesn’t recognize it.  He tends to stay away from the Enquirer, because he got done with stories about Viggo Grimborn running away with the Loch Ness monster.  “But, a back-page story broke in the Enquirer on the same day as the investigation began, and the ‘All Safe’ message is clear in the background.”

“What?”  Hiccup stops short, reaching reflexively for the paper, but she holds it over her head away from him, eyes flicking between his and his hat.  

“Well, if you didn’t know about this, I guess I am going to have to give the tour.”  She offers him the picture and when he takes it, snatches his hat off of his head and puts it on herself.  “Which means I need the stupid tour outfit.”  

“Hey!”  Hiccup reaches for his hat back but looks at the picture at the same time, his indignance and his hand pausing in unison when he angles the grainy image under the street lamp and clearly sees the chalk text of ‘All Safe’ written on the wall where they’re standing.  “Oh my God.”  

“As I was saying, when you actually see the famous ‘All Safe’ message, it’s obvious that it’s something else entirely.”  She nods decisively, the too big top hat tilting forward over her forehead, “it doesn’t say ‘All’, it says Al, I. It’s a signature.”  

“How did you find this?” He traces it with a fingertip.  

“Aren’t you going to pass it around to the group?”  She adjusts his hat, and he swallows hard, nodding a little too quickly and exhaling a suddenly obvious puff of steam into the cold air.  

“Sure, yeah.”  

“Anyway, as I was saying, presumably it’s a signature apparently announcing that one Al, last name starting with I, was safe at the wall the morning of November eleventh, eighteen eighty-three.  And the assumption has always been that it was connected with the Grimborn murders, because Elizabeth Smith was automatically considered the first Grimborn victim.”  She starts pacing a couple of steps back and forth, hands clasped behind her back, and she’s mocking him, sure, but she’s teasing him too.  

And she brought him new Grimborn evidence and it makes him wonder if she figured out about Johann herself, and that thought makes it kind of hard to breathe.

“But, I’d like to present an alternate hypothesis,” she turns to Hiccup, in particular, blue eyes on fire and he feels like he can’t move.  Not his foot, not his expression, which is somewhere between rejected, stunned, and thrilled.  “The same night that Elizabeth Smith was killed, there was a robbery in the downstairs of 324 Harbor Road.  It’s glossed over, because of the murder, but all signs point to it being a two-man job. One lookout, one person casing the basement apartment belonging to Elizabeth Smith’s brother-in-law, who she could have easily been visiting.  A week later, one Alfred Ireland was caught with that brother-in-law’s monogrammed knife and arrested for breaking and entering.”  

“What are you saying?” Hiccup passes the picture to the nearly forgotten tour group and the first girl looks at it with only casual interest.  

“I’m saying that a man, whose name could easily be abbreviated to ‘All’ was caught after stealing a knife the very night that Elizabeth Smith was stabbed, in the upstairs of the house where her brother-in-law lived.  I’m proposing that she’s not a Grimborn victim at all, but a casualty of a robbery that wasn’t meant to be anything more.”  Astrid reaches up for his hat, taking it deftly off of her head and setting it back on his.  Her thumb grazes his ear and he swallows hard.  “So, my apartment was just unfortunate enough to be the location of some casual, run of the mill violence, and does not belong on a Grimborn tour.” She exhales and nods, obviously pleased with herself as points at the circulating picture.  “You can keep that.”  

“Thanks,” Hiccup’s voice cracks and he clears his throat, “thank you, umm, but—”

“Don’t you have an actual tour to start?”  She waves him off as she walks to the front door of the building and lets herself in, “since this isn’t a location on it, I mean.”  

“I’m confused,” a guy in the tour group cuts across Hiccup’s thoughts, “is this a location of a Grimborn murder or not.”  

“I don’t—Ok, I don’t know why you guys chose my tour.”  Hiccup scratches his face, feeling flushed and off kilter again, brain flitting between Astrid and Johann and evidence he’s never imagined actually seeing.  “Or I do, it’s because it’s cheaper, but I like to pretend it’s because it’s less sensationalized and less…like I’m trying to spoon-feed you my own opinion of who Viggo Grimborn was or might have been.”

“It’s also longer,” a woman offers helpfully, “longer and cheaper.”  

“Great.  Thanks,” he laughs, “longer and cheaper, I’ll add that to the website.”  He looks up at Astrid’s apartment, the light turning on behind closed blinds, her shadow moving in front of it like she’s pacing.  “I’ve been studying Viggo Grimborn for about five years, I’ve read police notes and fictionalized accounts and theories that the murder was committed by anyone from the crown prince of a now defunct Scandanavian monarchy to a gang of rogue Free Masons.  Most sources point to one person, most likely a man, committing at least four murders, starting in that apartment with Elizabeth Smith in November eighteen eighty-three.”  He resists the urge to snatch the picture back and stare at it, to run home and compare it to his scans of letters and detectives’ writing.  

“But you don’t know?” Someone else asks and Hiccup shrugs.

“I don’t, and no one ever will.  There’s nothing in my knowledge saying what she just said isn’t correct, but there’s no DNA, there’s very little evidence left.  Sure, the case was foundational to modern forensics, but like all foundational things, the police work was flawed and riddled with mistakes.”  He gestures down the road, “let’s go to the second site, maybe the Grimborn fairy will come inform me that it was actually committed by…I don’t know, an escaped circus dragon.”  

Hiccup is a little surprised that anyone follows him, but then again, he is giving them a real bang for their ten bucks.  He manages to find his rhythm again at the second site, showing the gruesome pictures people love to cringe at, and walking too fast to illustrate the complicated timeline of the proposed double event.  But he’s glad when it starts raining, a veritable deluge cutting off the last ten minutes of the tour and sogging the brim of his hat by the time he gets home.  Usually, he hates cancelling, but tonight he’s fumbling his phone out of his pocket to update weather concerns on his site before he’s even up the stairs to his apartment.  

“I thought I smelled wet goat,” Snotlout catches him in the entry way, shrugging into his uniform jacket and zipping it up.  

“Good to see you too.”

“You know, because your coat is made of old goat fur or whatever.”  

“Wool,” Hiccup takes off the offending coat, hoping that Snotlout doesn’t notice him sniffing it. It doesn’t smell great, he could dry clean more often, but Astrid would have assumed that’s just the smell of murder sites, right?  “You’re looking for wool.”  

“Whatever,” Snotlout pats his holster and checks how secure his badge is, “are you in for the night?”

“Probably,” Hiccup shrugs, “Astrid actually umm…delivered some new evidence to me, I’ve got a lot to dig into.”  

“She seemed so normal, I can’t believe she’s shouting weird shit out the window at you.”  

“Grimborn-ology is cool,” Hiccup dodges when Snotlout tries to put him into a headlock, laughing and shuffling backwards towards his dad’s old office, “I always told you.”  

“Yeah, but I never thought it would start attracting hot girls,” he says goodnight and leaves and Hiccup lays the photo Astrid gave him out on his desk, next to his most recent, half full notebook.  

The fact is he’s not good with data he didn’t find himself, he always wants to see the paper it came from or the notes themselves.  The obsessive double checking of everything Heather found drove her crazy, but when he was having to back track from theories to the facts themselves, it was even more necessary.  He drums his fingers on the desk for a minute and his eyes dart to an old book on the shelf, the only one he has duplicates of.  

He still doesn’t know how Astrid found out about Johann.  Or the chalk message.  

She hasn’t come through on the harassment threat yet, and now she’s researching.  And Snotlout isn’t here to tell him that going to see her is a horrible idea, and maybe it’s not, they have a shared interest.  

He grabs a copy of the book, second edition, the one he found first, on the way out of the office and changes into an actual raincoat before heading out, hood pulled low over his forehead against the rain.  It’s a Saturday night, chances are she won’t even be home.  Maybe he could leave the book with a  note in it.  His number maybe, that would be a better way of communicating than her occasionally taking over his tour or shouting out windows.  That’s a good way to phrase it, not too presumptive, just as a way of sharing evidence.  

He’s so busy thinking through what he’s going to say and the rain is loud enough on his hood that he almost runs into two people on the sidewalk, one in an official looking black uniform that he’s really learning to hate and the other huddled under an umbrella with a heavy looking backpack.  

“It’s past curfew,” the man in the uniform says, blocking an alley that the woman with the umbrella is apparently trying to walk through, “the courtyard is closed to everyone but residents.”  

“I’m not trying to go through the courtyard, I’m just cutting through to the shelter.”  The woman shivers, “please, it closes in ten minutes.”  

“The courtyard—”

“Hi, what seems to be the problem here?”  Hiccup cuts in, doing his best Snotlout’s-cop-voice impression and standing up straight.  

“Neighborhood Watch Force concern,” the man in the uniform tries to brush him off, showing a pseudo-official badge that Hiccup knows to mean nothing.  Snotlout complains about these guys enough, the private security employed by the condo developers to keep the streets a certain brand of clean are really starting to think they’re cops.  

“I live in the neighborhood.”  Hiccup points over his shoulder, “one of the brownstones back there, what’s the neighborhood concern?”  

“The other side of this building is visible from The Docks,” he uses the pretentious name of the ugly condos he apparently works for, “I’ve been instructed to keep the streets empty past curfew for the safety of the neighborhood.”  

“Well, I feel safe,” Hiccup turns to the woman, who’s scared and probably homeless, “I’ll walk her to the shelter, I know the guy who runs it, I can get him to open the door even if we go the long way.”  

“Good, you’ll have to,” the uniform brings gravitas that doesn’t hold water and if Hiccup weren’t worried about scaring the woman further, he’d point it out.  

The woman’s name is Jennifer and it sounds like she’s trying to navigate a difficult divorce, but Hiccup doesn’t pry.  He delivers her to the back door of the shelter, texting Gobber to open up.  His usual lecture about being late ends abruptly when Hiccup mentions his conversation with the NWF.  

“No one will tell me what those pushy bastards are supposed to be allowed to do,” he shakes his head.

“They’ve been driving Snotlout crazy too,” Hiccup shrugs, “I just thought you’d want to know they’re blocking people crossing town, you might want to loosen up when you close the doors.”  

“Right, like I’m not already up against their curfew laws,” Gobber rolls his eyes, “thanks lad, great advice.  Oh, and by the way, speaking of driving people crazy, are you still harassing my tenants?”  

“You say harassing, I say stimulating their curiosity,” Hiccup grins, “it seems I have a new source of Grimborn info.  I’m heading over to talk to Astrid now.”  

“She invited you?”  

“She stimulated my curiosity,” he winces, stepping backwards out of the range where Gobber could cuff his ear with a cold, metal hook.  

“I’m sure she did,” Gobber shakes his head, “you know, maybe I could get that NWF to keep my tenants safe too.  Keep the riff-raff out of my courtyard.”  

“Hey, that’s what I’m for, you want me out of a job?”  

“Maybe then you’d be into a real one,” Gobber grumbles as he goes back inside and Hiccup yanks his hood back up, heading towards Astrid’s apartment the back way to avoid any more run ins.  He cuts across the street at the second murder site, patting the book in his inner pocket to make sure it’s still dry and ringing the visitor bell on the front door of Astrid’s building to get temporary access.  

It gives five minutes for an interior door to open, and if none do, Gobber is alerted and tonight, would know to call Snotlout, so keeping this under five minutes if necessary is probably for the best.  He really just wants to drop off the book and ask Astrid a few questions, if she seems receptive.  If not, there has to be another way to track down her sources, there are only so many collections with hundred year plus old Berk Enquirers.  

He knocks on the door and takes a step back so that she can see him clearly through the peephole, checking his watch and vowing to leave in three minutes, no matter what.  She opens the door almost immediately, wearing sweatpants with her hair braided over her shoulder and the suspicious glare he’s starting to think of as typical on her face.  

“What do you want?”  

“Hi,” he brushes beaded up water off of the front of his coat before unzipping it to get out the book.

“Hi, what are you doing here?”  She blocks the doorway with a confidence that shows she’s not really worried about him fighting his way through, and looking at her, that’s probably fair.  “You don’t have a troupe of people who want to see my living room with you, right?”  

“No, I cancelled my last two tours,” he shakes his head, wet hair dripping onto the floor, “weather.”

“But you couldn’t skip your pilgrimage?”  She steps back, gesturing at her mostly empty living room.  

Hiccup can’t help but impose the tenant house walls over it, the pre-remodel door about six feet behind her, eternally immortalized in those first crime scene photos.  There were three apartments on this floor then instead of two, and the kitchen plumbing had to go through an external add on that made the window on the far wall wider.  

“I brought you a book,” he holds it out to her and she stares at it, suspect.  

“Viggo Grimborn Solved: The Admiral Haddock Connection.”  She reads the title and her hand twitches towards it, curious even as her face betrays nothing.  

“You asked a couple weeks ago what my theory was.  I told you I liked the mystery, and that’s true, but this is my favorite theory.” He waits a beat and almost pulls his hand back, but she takes the book and starts flipping through it, leaning her shoulder on the door frame.  

“Admiral Hiccup Haddock?” She raises an eyebrow, “so that’s not your real name?  It’s an alias or something?”  

“No, it’s my real name, I’m named after him.  He’s my great-great-great-great grand uncle or something, I’m not exactly sure what you call your great-great-great-great-grandfather’s brother, I probably miscounted greats—”

“Did he do it?”  She frowns, looking at the publishing information. Second edition, nineteen forty-five underlined.  

“Oh God no,” he laughs, “his dad had been the crown prince before the republic and then raised a son who had an esteemed navy career and retired to police work, but this guy, A. M. Mildew was absolutely sure that he spent the summer he was twenty-four murdering prostitutes in Downtown Berk.  Absolutely none of it makes sense, there’s a whole passage hinting at a victory song at The Academy actually referring to this complicated web of forbidden, gay, masonic relationships.”  

She raises an eyebrow and flips through, skimming his notes in the margins, “so it’s bullshit.”  

“An utter, steaming pile of it.”  He nods, “my favorite theory, it has my name all over it.”  

“Funny,” she snorts, a dry little laugh that reaches her eyes more than the rest of her expression. “Why are you telling me this?”  

“You showed me a picture I’ve been wanting to see for about five years, a picture I didn’t think existed.” He tucks his hands in his pockets, his jeans damp almost through from the rainy walk over.  “And Johann was kind of my pet theory, for a while, I didn’t tell anyone but my old partner.  At first, I thought you must have talked to her, but she said no.  And well, it seems like you’ve been doing your own research, I was guessing—hoping, maybe—that you were curious.”  

“I work part time at the archives at the university,” she sets the book inside on a shelf or table he can’t see, and it feels like a win, if not a definitive victory.  “If it was all about the mystery, I thought maybe if I solved it, I could diminish some of the allure.”  

“But then I come here and tell you that my favorite theory is the absolute nonsense one that I happen to be named after…”

“Any chance we could compromise on you buying me soundproof curtains?”  She smiles then, not quite friendly, a mischievous glint in her blue eyes as she takes half a step forward, almost into the hallway.  

“Let me give you a private tour,” he blurts, gesturing at her living room and down the stairs beside him in a combination that’s probably more jazz hands than anything else.  “The real tour, the three in the morning tour, with the good stuff I leave out most of the time.”  

Her brows knit together as she stands up straight, arms crossed and instantly closed off again, “no, I don’t think so.”  

“Oh,” he flushes, “I thought you were maybe umm, warming up to me a little there, guess I misread that. I’ll go—”

“No, as in ‘no, I’m not going on a serial killer memorabilia tour at three in the morning with a guy I don’t know’.  That sounds like a really good way to get murdered.”  

“When you put it that way, that makes sense,” he looks at his shoes for a second, “you have a gift for framing things.”  Which is the lamest compliment that anyone has ever given anyone and he winces.  

“You keep needing me to remind you of really obvious things.”  She looks like she might be about to smile again, and Hiccup can’t help but push his luck, tapping at his watch.  

“Let me try, you know how time is circular?”  

She frowns, “I’d say time is linear, last time I checked.”  

“Ok, sure, but our understanding of a repeating twenty-four-hour day is circular.”  He waits for her to nod, one shoulder shrugging slightly, “so if we follow that theory, at some point, really late becomes early.  So, while staying up to meet someone to go on a Grimborn tour with some guy you barely know at three in the morning might be creepy, starting your day outlandishly early by meeting a guy who gave you a book on his family’s fake sordid history for a Grimborn tour might be totally fine.”  

“Oh, so mornings I have to be at work at four-thirty, you’re saying it’s normal to add a Grimborn murder tour detour to my morning commute?”  

“Four-thirty?  The private tour is at least two hours.”  He assures her, “and by that point it’s getting light out, which makes it even harder for it to be creepy.”  He can see her thinking about it, biting her lip and looking over her shoulder at the book.  “And if worse comes to worst and I default to my obviously genetic tendencies towards murder, I bet you can totally take me.”  He flexes, “noodle arms.”  

“I’ll…” she sighs, “I’ll let you know if I ever have a morning that early.  Give me your number?”  

“Yeah, sure, that’s—here,” he hands her his phone, “put yours in, I’ll text you.”  

“One condition,” she passes the phone back and forth between her hands, “you aren’t going to start a daily Grimborn facts text service, are you?”  

“Not until you ask me to,” he nods, “which you will, after my private tour.”  

“Sure.”  She hands his phone back and stares at him another second, taking a slow step backwards into her apartment.  “So, I’ll let you know.”  

“Right.”  He nods, rezipping his jacket and steeling himself to go back into the rain, even though he doesn’t think keeping warm will be a problem this time.  “Looking forward to it.”  

[carmenlire]

Days Turn Into Night

Prompt: Phone

read on ao3

Magnus has just slipped under the covers when his phone rings. Immediately, he turns over and reaches for the lit up cell on his nightstand.

It’s almost midnight and there’s only one person who would call him so late-- only one person that he would answer the phone for at this hour.

As he picks up the phone, he sees the outrageously cute picture he’d taken of Alec a few months ago, when he’d last been in the city. It’s in direct contrast to the image he likes to propagate-- he’s in their bed, wearing one of Magnus’s hoodies with his face half concealed by the pillow. He looks soft and adorable and Magnus hadn’t been able to resist sneaking the picture when he’d woken to such a lovely sight.

Swiping to accept the call, Magnus brings the phone up to his ear. “Alexander?”

“Hey, baby. I hope I didn’t wake you up.” Alec’s voice is delightfully raspy the way it only is late at night or when he’s on stage. Magnus is struck with a sudden pang of longing. It’s not surprising but it is visceral, the ache in his chest that only comes when Alec’s been on the road so long.

Turning on the bedside lamp, Magnus sits up, resting against the headboard. “Don’t worry, darling. I had just settled into bed. What are you doing? I didn’t expect a call today.”

Magnus hears Alec hum through the line and his eyes slip close, all the better to hear Alec. If he tries really hard, he can almost pretend that Alec’s next to him.

Internally, Magnus sighs. Only one more month and then Alec would be back in New York, after finishing his latest sold out tour, to work on his band’s next album.

“Today was eventful,” Alec says wryly. “Jace came down with a vicious case of food poisoning, so we had to cancel tonight’s gig.”

Magnus laughs, though he does wince in sympathy. “You are always telling him to stay away from the gas station hot dogs.”

Alec snorts. “Maybe this’ll teach him. What about you, babe? How was your day? Did you help any college kids with their last minute research papers?”

Smiling, Magnus replies, “Wouldn’t you know, midterm week is upon us and I did have several students obviously visit the library for the first time, desperately wanting to meet with me to learn about our available databases and how to cite those sources in their paper.”

“Well, if you were my subject librarian, I definitely would have used you as a campus resource.”

“I seem to remember spending a lot of time in the stacks our freshman year, Alexander,” Magnus muses.

They’d been friends since high school and had chosen to go to NYU together before Alec’s band had been discovered and signed the summer after their freshman year of college. They’ve known each other for over ten years and been dating since their freshman year, almost six years ago now.

Sometimes it feels like forever, Magnus reflects, but then other times it’s like a blink of an eye.

He’s broken out of his thoughts by a loud knock at the front door.

“What on earth,” he mutters.

“What’s up,” Alec asks.

“Someone just knocked at the door.” Magnus debates, but ultimately climbs out of bed to answer, holding his phone between his cheek and shoulder as he throws a robe on, tying it hastily.

“Isn’t it a little late for a visitor,” Alec asks idly.

A little too casual.

Magnus freezes as an absurd thoughts leaps to mind, though he tries in vain to squash the sudden hope that’s flooded his chest.

“Alexander, I swear,” Magnus breathes, quickening his pace to the front door. He reaches it just as he hears Alec’s warm laugh in his ear. Fumbling for the lock, he finally swings the door open and the breath is knocked out of his chest as he sees his love, his heart, in the hallway.

Alec has shadows under his eyes and looks like he hasn’t slept in days, a few day's worth of stubble covering his jaw.

He’s wearing the hoodie of Magnus’s he’d taken on the road for this domestic leg of his latest tour and he’s smiling. It’s his real one, the one that’s always reserved for Magnus.

And his eyes. His eyes are full of everything Magnus has ever dreamed of.

Magnus tosses his phone onto the entry way table, not bothering to hang up, and then he’s diving forward, right into Alec’s open arms.

He wraps his arms around Alec’s middle and rests his head on his shoulder and for the first time in four months, he feels like he takes a deep breath.

He feels like he’s finally home after so long away. It’s ridiculous, Alec’s the one who’s been away, but it’s true nonetheless.

Alec, for his part, squeezes Magnus close and rubs his cheek over Magnus’s hair, swaying them gently side to side.

“I missed you,” Alec whispers, voice hoarse.

“Oh, Alexander, I missed you too.”

Magnus has no idea how long they stand in the foyer, holding each other, soaking each other up for the first time in much too long, before they finally break away, though they still keep each other close.

“What a surprise,” Magnus says softly, bringing a hand up and cupping Alec’s face.

Nuzzling into Magnus’s palm, Alec’s lashes sweep low as he murmurs, “That was the goal, babe.”

Chuckling, Magnus asks, “How long are you here for? I wasn’t expecting to see you until your New York show next month.”

Alec’s smile widens. “Well, Jace has food poisoning so we had to cancel the next few shows. They’ll be rescheduled but for right now, I’m all yours for five days.”

Magnus smiles as he shifts closer. “Five whole days, huh? We better make the most of it.”

“Yeah,” Alec breathes. “And then starting next month I’m back for at least a year, Magnus.” He laughs a little. “Truthfully, I’m excited to stay in one place for the first time since college. It’s getting damned hard to keep leaving you.”

Magnus’s heart softens even as he says, “This is your dream, Alec. You know I understand and support you.”

“Yeah,” Alec says, lips turning up faintly. “But you’re my dream too.”

Magnus steps forward, kissing Alec for all he’s worth. It settles something in both of them even as it leaves them breathless.

“We have the rest of our lives, darling.” He steps away, still holding Alec’s hand as he pulls him gently in the direction of their bedroom. “For now, let’s go to bed.”

“Sounds great. I’m exhausted and it’s been too goddamned long since I last held you.”

Alec follows Magnus to their bedroom and collapses between the sheets.

Magnus tries to stay awake, to imprint the feeling of Alec beside him, around him, but he drifts away seconds later, content in a way he hadn’t been in too long.

[pendesvoyage]

Paint with all the Colors

The coffee cup was white, that much he knew. His fingers were wrapped around it like it was a vaccine to this frigid, winter day. It didn’t do much to soothe his shaking hands or his curiosity. He’d seen the color of this cup almost every day, and he has decided that white wasn’t that stunning of a color. When he reached into his pocket for his wallet, the denim bled dark blue before he pulled out his money and it faded back to grey. The wallet was black now that he was holding it, but now he had to put down his coffee to slip a few bills from the folds, and it turned back to grey as well. The money was a faded green, the barista’s fingertips were mocha colored, and the receipt had red lettering scrawled across the top, but they all turned to grey as soon as he wasn’t touching them anymore.        He used to, when he was younger, go around trying to touch everything in sight. Now, though, he has realized it a bit of a fruitless task. Even if he could hold on to the color of the things he held forever, they wouldn’t be nearly as brilliant as they would be after he met his painter, so aptly named for the way they paint your life with color permanently. From what he’s heard- stories passed down from his parents and grandparents- your painter will crash into your life when you least expect it. One touch, and suddenly the world would be splashed with every shade you could imagine, a Picasso right before your eyes. Not that he’d ever gotten to touch a Picasso so he wouldn’t know.        Waiting was the hardest part. He swore that he’d find his painter in high school. That was when his mom met his dad, when their worlds bled into rainbow. Then, he swore he’d find them in college. Where else would he meet the person of his dreams, the one to spend the rest of his days seeing color with? Two degrees and a stressful job as a marketing analyst later, and he was no closer to knowing what color the sky actually was.        It wasn’t really fair. No one could touch the sky, not even pilots. How was he supposed to know what color it was? Blue, apparently, but what kind of blue? The blue of the swimming pool on Memorial Day. The blue of the Royals jersey his dad got for him when they went on that family trip to the stadium as a kid. The blue of his cousin’s hair when she'd turned seventeen. He felt like he’d never know.        Even the color of his own skin, hair, and eyes were a mystery to him. The universe was a jerk in that regard. You couldn’t know your own true colors until someone came along and painted the picture for you. A bit overly dependent for Garret’s taste, but he was willing to deal with it if he got to see what his mom meant by sort of a goldeny, cream color, baby. It’s very lovely. You don’t even need to worry about tanning.        “Sir?”        Garret’s head popped up from where he’d been staring at the few inches of bronze counter he could see next to his hand. “Sorry, what?”        “There’s a line,” the barista insisted cautiously. Garret looked behind himself to see that, indeed, there was a handful of people waiting for him to get himself together and move out of the way.        “Yeah, um, sorry,” he murmured and grabbed his coffee again. The white blip was the only color in his vision until the cracked wood brown of the door, and then his entire world was back to grey by the time he got to the office, coffee long trashed.        “Good morning, Mr. Plier. You’ve got a meeting with the team from TeachYoung in about fifteen minutes,” his assistant, Beverly, spouted before he could fully step out of the elevator. “Have you eaten breakfast? I left a blueberry muffin on your desk just in case. Here are the reports from the Frizzle study.” Garret was handed a decently sized manila folder that came alive with it’s weird banana pudding coloring.        “Thanks, Bev. No calls until after lunch, okay?”        “Yes, sir. Got it.” Garret gave her a thankful smile and pushed the slick, metal door to his office open and let it sink shut behind him. He shrugged off his light coat, the lapels fizzing green as he did, and went to the wall behind his desk. On it was mounted the only painting he’d ever owned in his life. Art wasn't cheap, actually it was one of the most expensive commodities in the world. They say artwork was a substitute for love to the lonely, that it was cherished cheat of what could be. Garret couldn’t find it in him to care, especially when he ran his fingers across the face of the framed panel and the trickle of colors followed him. The mountains were a faded purple, like the color of a little girl’s Easter dress. He thumbed over the winding river, the exact color of the spring back home that he and his sister used to drink from on hot summer days.        He let the art slip from under his fingers and slunk back to his desk, slumping into the large, stuffed chair. He swiveled around to face the sturdy wood surface, his hands suspended in the air. The choices were to either place them on the desk and see the same chocolate brown he saw every day, or place them on his lap and see his trouser for the dark charcoal grey they were already without touching them. None of it was satisfying. Garret always prided himself as an independent lad, but lately he’d become so desperate to know the whole world that he was tempted to go around touching everyone in the city, which, worst case scenario, would land him in a holding cell for a few hours.        A long time ago, they installed a set of rules on the proper etiquette of touching other people. Not laws exactly, but reason enough to put someone in a secluded room until they got their shit together if they went too far. Some were so desperate to see color that they would slide a hand inside other’s clothing to get that skin on skin contact that was necessary to gain the world unknown to them. Garret had never- but he was considering the insanity of it as of late. He could handle a rest in a jail cell if it meant he found his painter.        There was a knock on the door. “Come in.” After two years, his assistant still seemed skittish in his presence. He was pretty sure it had something to do with the crush she had on him. Unfortunately for her, they’ve touched many times before and…nothing.        “Your nine o’clock is waiting in the small conference room for you.”        “Thanks, Bev.” She nodded and swiftly left while he gathered his preparations from the mess atop his desk, knocking his breakfast muffin aside as he did. He almost slid his fingers along the wall like a child as he walked down the hall, just to see something other than the bland white of the papers in his hand, clipped together by a black piece of metal. He stamped that down and entered the meeting room, the grey scale of faces greeting him in various stages of excitement- that was, from nonplussed to tolerant. “Afremov, ladies and gentlemen," he greeted, "Let’s go ahead and get started.”        The meeting was tedious, to say the least. He’d over prepared and then had to catch everyone else in the room up on the plan. It was like when he tried to explain the rules of football to his sister when they were young. Turned out not to be worth the effort. They scrapped the plan at the end of the meeting, citing confusion, and wanted Garret to steer the research in another direction. Whatever, he was going out for lunch. Had to get out of that office, those same pea green walls that surrounded his daily life.       He brought the car door to life, followed by the seat belt, and then the steering wheel. The radio delivered some top 40’s pop song, and Garret couldn’t tell if it was being sung by a boy or a girl. He drove until the traffic of the city fell away and was replaced by a bland screen of tree after tree. The road turned from a four lane to a two, and he took a side road off to the right. He'd stumbled upon this place one night when he and some friends got high and heard about this really great café that was sure to cure the munchies. Now, he came here when he was antsy, jittery, and needed some place that held colors he wasn’t quite used to seeing every day. Parking just left of the door, he walked up to the diner with a content smile on his face.       “Garret!” The smile spread until he was sure the white of his teeth stood out against the grey of his face.       “Nancy,” he greeted fondly. “How are you?”        The well-rounded, middle-aged woman came around the bar to the hostess stand and took Garret’s hand. He looked down at see the milky white of her fingers wrapped around his. “Give it here,” she encouraged and brought his hand up to her face. The gesture was one of trust, not one extended often to someone you saw less than once a month, but he was glad for it. The rose of her cheeks contrasted with the pale, icy green of her eyes. He took it all in, trying to memorize every detail before she dropped his hand and asked, “Usual?”       Swallowing down the sharp loss at missing the color of her lips, he nodded. “A coffee as well. Lots of-”       “Creamer, I know, love. Take a seat, and I’ll have it right out.” Garret extended his gratitude and wandered over to his usual booth, sliding into the tacky red seat that swiped to life under his palm as he situated himself. He picked up the menu from the end of the table and let his eyes rake over it. One of his favorite things about this place was that the menu was ever-changing, which meant different pictures every time he came. Currently, they had a bright green slice of key lime on the back. He brushed his fingers over the lunch choices, a multi-layered pile of nachos pulsing with a myriad of colors under his fingertips.      “Alright, babe. The usual.” She set down a plate of chicken-fried steak with mash potatoes and corn on the cob. The coffee splashed over the edge of the mug, onto the saucer, and trickled a transparent mud over his fingers when he reached out to settle it. “Oops, sorry, love. Napkins for ya.” She reached in her apron and pulled out some extra ones, but Garret was slow to clean up the mess, loving the reprieve of color that would last as long as it stayed on his skin.       “No problem, Nancy. Thank you.” He went right in on his food, the fork and knife a shiny, scratched silver. He was a grown ass man, and he knew better than to play with his food, but if his fingers slipped lower on his silverware and swiped across the tops of his lunch, just for a glimpse, then so be it. The gravy was that brothy brown and the corn was grilled, black on the edge of some of the kernels. He licked the remnants off his finger, letting himself enjoy that one small act of indulgence.      “Nance!” The door to the small café opened with a bang, the windows rattling. Garret turned to see a thin man with dark grey hair (brunet, at least; black hair, maybe) dressed in clothing too heavy for this breezy, fall day: zipped up leather jacket, gloves, beanie. He was panting and looking around wildly for the said hostess. When she peaked around the corner of the kitchen, the man breathed out a sigh of relief and rushed to her. “Nance, help me. They’re coming.” Slightly sketchy. Garret wasn’t averse to a little adventure, but that did not sound like his type of fun.      “Honey, Marcus, slow down. What did you do?”       The man scoffed. “Why is it always me that-” He broke off when Nancy raised a knowing brow. “Right, well. I might have…stolen a little something from Mariposa’s warehouse. “Marcus!”      “A tiny something. I didn’t even think they’d notice.” Nancy slapped him across the chest and scolded, “You’ll get yourself killed one day, and for what? Huh, what was it?”       The new stranger shifted his eyes guilty around the room while he unzipped his jacket and pulled out a small framed artwork of some sort, Garret couldn’t really see from his seat. “It’s beautiful right? Tell me it’s beautiful, or I stole it for nothing.”       The older woman sighed and looked up from the art to the nervous man’s face. “It’s lovely, Marcus.” He breathed out in relief. “But,” she emphasized, “you stole it. And I’m not having stolen merch in my diner. You’ve got to go.” As she started pushing him towards the door, Marcus pleaded with her.       “No, please, Nancy. Just let me hide out here for a few hours. I just need to let them calm down a bit, so they’re not so let’s find him and skin him alive when I see them again.”       Nancy’s jaw was set, eyes stern. “No way. I’ve got a business to run, and you’re disrupting my customers.” Like he’d just been reminded of where he'd ran to for cover, he looked around the eatery and scanned over the half dozen patrons that were staring at him with everything from distaste to disbelief.        He nodded to a young lady with a high bun. “Hey, Stella.”        She rolled her eyes. “Get out, Marcus.”        The thief sighed like her greeting taxed him in some personal way. “Listen, Nance-” he tried, turning back to the woman, but she cut him off.        “I want you out in ten seconds or I call the cops.”        Garret nearly stood up at that. He felt the need to tug the man further from the door, push him under a table, and reason with Nancy to give him a chance. He was a thief, but he just wanted to hold a piece of beauty in his hands for a little bit. Garret could understand that. Just when he was about to protest Nancy’s decisive action, a company of rumbling trucks plowed through the parking lots and idled in front of the glass windows of the café.        “Oh, shit,” the thin man cursed and ducked behind the nearest booth. He tucked the painting back into his jacket, safely zipping it into place. “Pretend I’m not here,” he urged as he crept backwards, further into the diner.        “Marcus Leland, get your butt out here now,” Nancy ordered, but he shook his head frantically. He kept slowly moving backwards until his back hit an obstacle and he startled, hand flailing out to catch himself and instead caught someone else’s hand that kept him from landing on his butt. He looked up to see Garret’s worried face hovering over him.        “What’s up?” the criminal asked casually.        “Um, not your luck,” Garret answered without thinking, but the other man just laughed easily and nodded.        “Too true. Hey, uh,” he shimmied under the table and tipped his head out to talk, “would you mind not mentioning I’m under here?”        Garret’s eyebrows furrowed as he shrugged. “I guess, yeah.”        “Thanks, man. Really.” Marcus curled up into a ball and settled in, and Garret sat back up to look behind him to the door as a small gang of men in well-fitting suits entered the diner like they had something to prove. A point, most likely. They sauntered up to Nancy’s considerably smaller form and one leaned on the hostess stand.        “Hi there, Nancy. How are you?” She leveled them with a cold look. “You can just turn right back around and leave. I have no business with Mariposa.        The group exchanged glances before the supposed leader pushed off the podium and stepped up close to the middle-aged lady. “We know he’s here, Nancy. He ditched his car just a couple blocks away, and who could refuse your great cooking.”        Garret was gripping the top of his booth so hard the red seemed to burn a brighter candy apple. His eyes flicked back and forth between the large man and the small woman. Like he was some sort of beacon, the man’s eyes swept sideways to meet his, and Garret froze. “Got yourself a decent crowd for a Thursday. Enough people to make me nervous for what might happen.”        “Don’t you threaten me,” she snarled, making the man- thankfully- look back to her.        If Marcus’ opening statement a few minutes ago didn’t sound like fun, that sounded like a really bad time. Garret ducked under the booth and whispered urgently. “Do something. They’re going to hurt people unless you go out there.”        The wiry man shook his head with a disapproving tilt to his mouth. “They’d never. They talk all big and bad, but that’s all they are. Just talk,” he explained as he tugged off his beanie, the hint of dark bangs that Garret got before turning into a head full of thick, almost wild, hair, that the thief ran his hands through anxiously. “They’ll just grumble while Nancy refuses to back down, and then, leave and tear up my place as repayment.” He wiggled the gloves off and let them fall to the floor before unzipping his jacket and pulling the small frame from under it.        “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”        Marcus shrugged while his fingers grazed the art piece. “Those pricks don’t deserve to hold all of the beautiful things in the world.”        “You take what doesn’t belong to you, endanger innocent people, and get your home torn apart. For what?”        At that, Marcus turned the piece of art around so show it off to his current protector. “For this,” he reasoned. “It’s beautiful right?” Garret couldn’t see the colors of it without reaching out and brushing his fingers across it, and that didn’t seem appropriate just then. But the picture of it was really something. It was a scene of a gorgeous garden pixie wrapped up in the arms of a well-dressed man. She was laid out in his hold, head thrown back with a look of desperation etched across her face.        “It is.”       Marcus seemed relieved by Garret’s answer. “I just wish I could see all the colors at once you know. I was hoping that, if I got one small enough, I could light up the whole thing, but…” He cast his eyes down to the painting. “Still,” he nodded surely, “it’s really something.”       “Nancy, you’ve got one more chance to tell me where he’s at before we start tearing this place apart.”       Garret sat back up, turning to see that things hadn’t escalated so much as intensified. Bulky mob guy was encroaching on the lobby and Nancy had backed up a step or two towards the counter. He ducked back under the seat with a, “Do something.”      “Trust me,” Marcus urged. “Nothing is going to-” A gun shot went off and both men ducked for cover, Garret joining Marcus under the booth and curling up across from him on the floor. “Shit, no, shit. They never.”      “Marcus,” the boss man taunted. “Come out, come out. We’d hate to hurt your favorite little cook.”      “Dicks, the whole lot, I swear,” he cursed under his breath. “Now, I’ll have to…” He waved his hands around the small space and groaned quietly.      “Don’t touch me! Let me go!” Nancy’s voice rang out in the still café.     “Go find him,” the leader ordered. Marcus hung his head and sighed in resignation at the declaration. He gripped both hands around the painting in his lap, and looked up to Garret.      “Take care of it for me. Don’t let them have it,” he requested severely. The steps of the men were coming closer. Garret nodded frantically and held his hands out as Marcus regretfully passed the artwork to him. Their hands brushed and, in that moment, the waves of color actually hurt to take. It started at the connection of their hands, washing over the painting and making both men lose their breath. The technicolor spread outward from there, filling the booths and the underside of the table with realistic hue.     Marcus’ hair was black like Garret had thought, but not black like it was in grey scale. There were these highlights that reminded Garret of the way the night got lighter around the moon. And his eyes. They were like a mix of green and brown. He grit his teeth in frustration when he couldn’t remember that name of that color. He didn’t know anyone that he was close enough to to touch that had eyes that color. The thief, his painter, blinked slowly, shock obvious on his features.      “Do you?” he asked.      “Yeah,” Garret huffed out, lost for words. “Your eyes, they’re…”      “What?”      “I don’t know the word for-” He cut off when Marcus was yanked out from under the booth, the painting slipping from his fingers and into Garret’s lap.      “We found him, sir,” the man announced.      “Don’t get handsy, pal. I’m a taken man!” He sounded giddy with it, the news, and, when Garret set the painting down behind him and looked out from under the booth, Marcus was smiling down at him with sparkling white teeth and petal pink lips. His skin was tan, almost the color of the caramels Garret liked to pick up around Christmas time. He couldn’t even enjoy that he finally knew that Nancy’s hair was a dingy, dirty yellow or that the tile of the floor was dark blue speckled with random cream splatters. It all faded into the background of Marcus’ struggling.      Garret started to crawl out from underneath, had to help him, but Marcus blurted a scared No! and he froze. A sharp warning shake of his head and Garret was slinking back onto his hind legs and just watching as Marcus was dragged over to the front doors of the diner and presented to the boss. He could see the pink spread across Marcus’ cheeks feet away, from that moment of vulnerability, and it felt amazing. 

     Too bad that was overshadowed when Nancy was released and, instead, his painter was being held up by a tight hand around his throat, the pink flushing his cheeks turning into a bright red from lack of oxygen. Garret’s fingers pressed into the old tile, but he didn't even look down to see the color of his skin going pale around the tips. He was too afraid this would be the last time he’d see the one who had given him color.

     One of the sidekick’s hand padded over Marcus' body and grumbled he came up empty. “He doesn't have it, boss.”      Scary boss man tugged Marcus closer by his neck, making Marcus gasp and Garret lurch forward. That earned him another warning glare from the thief to stay right where he was. It took him a moment longer to obey, sitting back again.      “Where is it?” The brute demanded.      Marcus scoffed as best he could. “I'm not sure what you mean.”      “Don't play with me,” he warned. “I have orders to do what it takes to get that painting back.” The thief scratched at the fingers surely leaving bruises on his neck, asking for a reprieve. The grip loosened just enough for him to say,         “Why is it so important?”      Caveman mobster laughed haughtily. “You just happened to steal-”      “Allegedly stole,” Marcus interrupted, making Garret swallow his laugh, but his grin was enough to make the threatened man’s eyes light up, that mellow brown turning a bit greener.      “You stole,” scary guy insisted, “Mariposa’s two-year anniversary gift to his painter.”      “Two years?” Marcus crowed in disbelief. “If she’s dumb enough to stay with that nitwit for,” his eyes cheated to the ceiling, “730 days, she’s not going to enjoy some tiny painting that I apparently took.” The grip on his neck went tight again, and Marcus cut off with a gurgle.       “You should watch what you say, Marcy. I wasn’t told to leave you alive.”      “Excuse you?” Nancy piped up. “You’re not killing anyone in my diner.” Boss man pulled a gun from his waistband and pointed it at Nancy’s suddenly cautious face. The patrons let out collective murmurs of fear. “Sure about that?”       “Woah, now, okay,” Marcus choked out and the grip loosen the tiniest bit again. “No need to go shooting the only woman within a thirty-mile radius that knows how to make a proper pot pie. Keep the focus where it belongs, yeah?”      “Alright,” the leader agreed easily and pointed the gun at Marcus, the barrel a shining dark grey in Garret’s eyes.      If the analyst hadn’t memorized every inch of Marcus’ face, he probably would’ve missed the drain of color from his skin. As it was, Marcus’ now ghostly lips pressed firm, but Garret could see the trepidation in his eyes. Marcus had just realized he might not make it out of this alive. Garret reached for the painting sitting on the diner floor behind him, and brought it close, half-hidden under his leg, to run his fingers across the now smudged glass front. He didn’t need to touch to really see it anymore, but the connection made him feel as if he had more control over this situation than he actually did. In reality, he’d just met his painter, the one he was supposedly meant to spend the rest of his colorful life with, but today, he just might lose him.     “Why don’t you tell me where it’s at, and I won’t make a mess in your favorite lunch spot?”     Marcus looked caught, pulled between refusing to give in and sparing these people, Garret and Nancy, of what they might see. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah, alright.” Garret’s face must have been one of shock, because Marcus’ own face went soft. He held his new partner’s gaze, furiously trying to get the thief out of this while simultaneously memorizing every hitch and detail of his face just in case.      “They’re hazel, by the way,” Marcus spoke slowly, deliberately. The mob men looked confused, and so did Garret, until Marcus fluttered his lashes dramatically and Garret’s face broke into a barely contained grin. Hazel. His eyes were hazel. That was the name of that color. Hazel.      “Thank you for that piece of information, Marcus, but no one cares,” the big man with the big ego lamented.      Marcus scoffed. “Mind your business here, slick. I’m trying to be charming.” Garret was going to watch his painter die, but he couldn’t stop smiling.     “Why don’t you worry about charming me, instead?” The threat came with a shove of the gun into Marcus’ temple, reminding him of his current situation. “Right, yeah. Um, well if I stole it, I didn’t bring it in here,” he decided quickly. “If I stole it,” he repeated, “I probably put it in my car.” Garret was shaking his head. He didn’t want Marcus to leave, be taken away so he couldn’t see his midnight colored brows crinkle up in worry.      What if they didn’t bring him back? What if they never let him go? But Marcus was nodding back to him. “Yes, I think I put it way back there, in my car.”      “To your car, then,” the leader decided, and the entire cafe let out a breath of relief.      “No, no, wait,” Garret mumbled, not nearly loud enough to matter as the men started shoving Marcus towards the door. “No,” he said again, more firmly, as he stood up from under the booth. “Wait,” he finally called out, and everybody, including Marcus, froze and turned. With all eyes on him, he lost all his confidence and gripped the painting tightly in his hand.      “Don’t do-” Marcus started, voice shaky, but was cut off by the head mobster’s, “What have you got there, big man?”      “I have it,” Garret admitted, painting nearly trembling in his grip. “You can have it if you let him go.”      Marcus rolled his eyes, but then, his face melted as Garret set his jaw and rolled his shoulders back. Mob man was not nearly as impressed. “That’s not how it works, bud.” His barely-there blond lashes fell slowly into a blink, like he couldn’t be bothered to move too quickly. This was his last chance to save his new found partner.      “No, you listen to me, bud,” Garret quipped back. “Let. Him. Go, and I’ll give you the-” The gun shot off and before Garret could blink his entire world went grey again. The color didn’t drain, or melt away, just vanished. The walls were a medium grey again, the booths a deep grey. The lifeless body of his painter a bunch of different greys crumbled on the floor. The blood pooling under his head a dark, rich grey. He’d only seen the color of blood when he’d scraped a knee or cut his finger on a kitchen knife, but he knew exactly what the mass puddle of heavy liquid was. “No!” he shouted and sprinted forward, dropping the forgotten painting on the floor. He fell to his knees beside the man he’d only just met and placed careful hands on either side of his face.      Nothing. Not even the few inches around his finger were lighting up with the deep tan that Garret knew Marcus’ skin to be. He raked his hand through the thief’s hair, brushing it off his face, but the black didn’t swirl with highlights and lowlights. He couldn’t see the color he was touching anymore. He’d heard that you lost all ability for color after your painter died, but that was when you were seventy and in a nursing home and you’d had years to memorize all the colors of the world. Not now. Not just twenty minutes after gaining the privilege.      There were heavy footsteps around them, but Garret couldn’t bring himself to look away from the droop of Marcus’ mouth. Then, a low, hissing voice was right next to his ear. “Don’t feel bad, bud. I was going to off him either way. But thanks for the painting.” Then the gang of men exited out of the diner, the front door bell dinging on the way out, and Garret was left seeing the world through wet, grey eyes.

[freedom-of-fanfic]

I'm kind of torn on the Mary Sue issue. On one hand, I don't care what anyone writes for their own amusement, but writing is still an art that does and should have standards for professionals. As someone who has degrees in writing and does it as a profession, it's a little insulting to be told that the work your poured tons of research and time into is on the same level as amateur self-insert fic. That's why I advocate for different standards for fandom vs pro work.

I feel you, anon. and I have a lot of respect for people like you who got degrees and write professionally, because words are held rather cheap with the internet being around and anyone who can get paid to write words impresses me to some degree. but:

 I’ve always felt like comparing fanfic and original fiction to be not exactly congruous? and 

I think Mary Sue suffers from maligning because she’s disproportionately evoked by the youngest/least experienced of writers.

this got … pretty long … so i’m dividing it up a little for ease.

the concept of ‘standards’

first of all, I also advocate for different standards between published/professional/marketed works and fan works, but I do so because of 1)potential spread and 2)they aren’t accomplishing the same thing.

In general, a fanwork will have limited appeal outside of the fans of the canon the work is based in; they cannot stand on their own without some additional effort. Further, fandom has its own language to some degree or another, and fanworks are frequently best understood in the context of other fanworks, like scientific papers citing other scientific papers in passing because the audience is expected to be other scientists in the field who have read it. In other words: the audience is probably fairly niche and in on the ‘lingo’. its potential damage circle is therefore relatively small. if somebody fucks up their research for a fic, it’s nbd, for instance.

On the other hand, an original work with a professional marketing team will certainly reach a much more diverse audience and probably a much larger one. It’s therefore responsible, imo, to be proportionately aware of the potential impact of the subject material and approach it accordingly (though true fiction will always have an unpredictable effect on any given individual, so there’s only so much the creator can do). I’d expect accuracy where research was done, if for no other reason than to avoid spreading false information to such a big potential audience.

and of course I’d hope that if somebody is being paid to write, their grammar/prose/proofreading will meet a certain standard of readability. (the same cannot be expected of free works done for fun that take a few minutes to post on the internet.)

having said that: standards for quality fiction writing will always be subjective. I’m always going to have questions about why The Sound and the Fury is an American classic (I couldn’t make sense of it no matter how hard I tried).  What gets published can be as simple as having good luck with the slush pile reader that day. I’ve seen fanfiction complimented with incredible research: there’s a Tokyo Babylon work-in-progress with an author who has traveled to fic-relevant locales to nail story and character details. I feel the line is blurring these days, especially because there are people who make a living off writing commissioned fanfiction now (too small-scale to be an IP concern, of course).

I think the fundamental difference between fanworks and original works is not quality of the work itself or effort expended.  It’s related to structure and aim. 

Fanworks, even AU fanworks, are like interior decoration. A 'good fanwork’, even an AU fanwork, works within a pre-built framework to elaborate on or add to or evoke what drew its audience to the framework in the first place. 

Original works build a whole new house, creating a new framework from bare construction materials to draw in and house the emotions of its readers. (and then maybe its readers decorate the house with their own fanfic.)

tl;dr: if an AU fanfic was so different from canon and the characters were so OOC that the author can shave the serial numbers off and repurpose it as an original story, it might be a great original work. But it wasn’t a very good fanfic, was it?

why is mary sue so offensive to us?

I don’t know if you’ve ever read the post Mary Sue, What Are You?, but what I keep coming back to is its iconic opening. the author describes an OC at length: orphaned as a child when her parents were killed in front of her, she decided she would dedicate her life to fighting for justice. She grew up to be rich, athletic, beautiful, sexy, angsty, a genius, undefeatable in a battle of wits and agility, and everyone who meets her is instantly lovestruck. In other words, a classic Mary Sue …

but also Batman with female pronouns.

I think one could argue that Batman is not always well-written, but the relevant point here is that Batman - and Mary Sue - might be 99.9% perfection in the shape of a human around whom the universe revolves, but if its their own canon and the universe doesn’t recognize their perfection the way the reader/writer does, it’s not really 'bad’. (And there’s something to be said about why giving this power fantasy male pronouns seems to render it so much more palatable than female pronouns, but for more on that I point you to the referenced essay.)

Your ask is worded to suggest that Mary Sue is synonymous with unprofessional writing. I … kind of agree? Mary Sue is frequently the main character of Baby’s First Fanfic, and let’s be real: Baby’s First Fanfic is often being written by somebody who might be as young (or younger than) 12-13 years old, with all the inexperience, grammar mistakes, and lack of training that suggests. and as far as characterization goes, I think that anyone who takes decent writing classes will be discouraged from writing a Mary Sue. But like Batman, Mary Sue can be a perfect princess and get away with it under certain circumstances.

I posit that Mary Sue characters (or Gary Stus) - whom I will call Flawless OCs from here - are not really a problem on their own. Further, Flawless OC is more agregious in fanfic than original works. Because what makes the Flawless OC so irritating isn’t their perfection, really: it’s what the character’s presence must do to the universe (which is, in the case of fanfic, the universe the reader came to experience in the first place) that’s the real problem.

To show what a good fighter Flawless OC is, they defeat the best canon fighter.

Flawless OC has a backstory more tragic and painful than the most tragic canon backstory, and they cope with the trauma of it better.

There’s no room for Flawless OC because canon wasn’t holding a spot open for a self-insert, so now there’s a 6th Lion or a 10th Fellowship member or a Second Child Who Survived Voldemort.

The entire universe bends to ensure Flawless OC has perfect luck; their enemies are helpless before them. Everything seems to go their way except in the chapter where the their love interest is supposed to rescue them from danger. (the rescue goes flawlessly, of course.)

Depending on the author wish that Flawless OC is meant to fulfill, Flawless OC will defeat any undefeatable enemy, solve the unsolveable problem, be the envy or lust object of any character, etc etc, often without regard for the original context of the enemy/problem or the canon personality of the character.

In short, Flawless OC usually have two major issues: 

they render canon irrelevant to glorify Flawless OC, and 

the universe constantly validates their choices to a degree that wrecks narrative suspense. 

what makes each of these things 'bad writing’ is different.

The first problem I mentioned - warping of mythos, plot, and characters to accomodate the Flawless OC - is a fanfic problem.  Canon-warping absolutely allowed, but what makes it fanfic - the canon source that acts as our shared experience and usually our main reason for being a potential audience to the fic - is almost always nigh-unrecognizable. That makes for bad fanfiction, but it doesn’t always make for bad fiction. Change all the parts of canon enough and you’ve arguably got an original work. It might even be a good original work if the author has writing skill.

The second problem - the validation of the universe - is what makes Flawless OC a dull read in any context. If Flawless OC wants something, you know they’ll get it. If Flawless OC hates someone, you know they’re going to catch hell. If Flawless OC needs to be vulnerable for their love interest, something just bad enough to make them vulnerable will befall them. The perfection of the OC is less of an issue than the lack of meaningful conflict. (A character can have no faults and still be interesting to follow if they must struggle against a universe that doesn’t care.)

to wit:

there’s a fantasy book by David and Leigh Eddings - The Redemption of Althalus - that I read long ago. it stuck with me to a peculiar degree because for a book with such a unique conceit, it was incredibly boring. This is published fiction: it had editors, a marketing team, and was written by professionals with lots of experience! But looking back, none of this saved the story from featuring Gary Stu in a universe that catered to his every need.

The main character, Althalus, is ostensibly a person in need of redemption for being such a bad person all his life and never punished for it, but he’s a loveable, quick-witted rogue almost from the start. To 'redeem’ himself, he’s tasked with saving the world from Enemies (we’re told they’re evil, but I don’t think we see them more than once or twice).  Protected by the Goddess of Luck - literally - for the entire novel, there’s never a single moment where Althalus’ victory over the Enemy is in question. He never does anything really awful that would explain his need to be redeemed (in fact, it turns out the Luck Goddess is the one who protected him from punishment all his life). The enemy is weak, forgettable, and constantly outwitted, and the protagonists, supposedly people of gray morality, never did anything worse than be snarky.

The unique conceit that kept me reading was the House at the End of the World. Being the home of the Goddess, it had doors that opened to anywhere on the planet. but for an idea with such double-edged possibilities, it turned out to be an impregnable fortress of Good. The House and its owner were the forces that bent the whole book’s universe to the inevitable triumph of the main character and his companions.

A counter-example might be Miraculous Ladybug. I’ve often wondered if Mary Sue could be written well and be likeable, and Marinette - the titular Ladybug - is probably close. She’s good at almost everything and always outwits her enemies; even when she seems confident to the point of arrogance, it’s justified by her endless successes. (Her only real flaw is being clumsy when she’s distracted, and it only happens when it’s conveniently cute. this is a walking Mary Sue cliche.) Her power is to be lucky, after all.  

However: even though everything ends up right for Marinette at the end of every episode, she’s not rewarded when she acts poorly towards others. She causes herself problems when she does. Her luck powers give her the ability to bend the universe a little, but the universe is otherwise unforgiving; she’s subjected to the same banalities as everyone else and learns to be a better person along the way.

OTOH if you put Ladybug in another canon with a makeover to recast her as Flawless OC, changing everything so she could occupy a central role like the one she has in her own series, she’d be insufferable: hence Ladybug is a solid example of how a Mary Sue can prosper provided she’s in a universe designed to both feature her and contain her powers for the sake of Good.

I apologize for how long a reply this is. Still: I hope it successfully illustrates for you that:

though original writing and fanfic writing use the same tool (words), and both can use them masterfully, what original writers like you do and what fic writers do are, in general, very different things.

And Mary Sue is what you make of her. In the right universe, she’s just a very lucky person. :)