#might actually post it on ao3 or something

[the-fab-fox]

Okay so this has been something I've been chewing on for a long while. About making this post I mean.

This one is to those who actively ingest fanfiction but seem to think it's okay to just read free fiction that people have put time and thought and crafted prose for your enjoyment and do nothing in return.

All we ever ask for and all we ever want is for y'all to AT THE VERY LEAST hit that kudos button if you like the work. That is the BARE MINIMUM of what you SHOULD be doing. Especially all of you who say you're too nervous to comment or don't wish to be perceived. And if you don't want your account on the list, you can log out and send a guest kudos.

But as I said, BARE MINIMUM. If you loved the fic, if you got something out of it that left you feeling good and energized (or whatever angst does for y'all) then I want to take a moment and strongly urge you to comment, subscribe (if a wip), and bookmark those works. Did you know there's an option to even mark it as a Fic Recommendation? You can put notes in to and say why you liked it and things like that (DO NOT DO A RATING IN PUBLIC BOOKMARKS HOWEVER). And, you can indeed make them private! The writer still gets the number added to their stats but your bookmark we won't see.

Anyway, I now wanna turn your attention to Exhibit A:

This is a list of my best performing fics. Do you see the problem with this? The green highlights are the hits I've received for those fics. The red is the Kudos and comment threads. Now the kudos is obviously right?

Let's look at my number one fic right now, Accidentally in Love (a Malleyuu fic from Twisted Wonderland fandom). It's the seventh fic in a romance series. As you can see, it's doing great as far as hits, right? And I know it's an amazing fic from the comments I have received and just from rereading it myself. Note, I am probably the biggest bully to myself as @sunshineandteddybears and @mellosdrawings and @romantichopelessly can tell you in great detail. So when I am saying it's really damn good, you can probably trust it's gonna be pretty damn good. And yet, a fic that has 4K hits only has 119 kudos. And now to bring your attention to the comment threads. So honestly with how bad readers are on actually commenting (which by the way if you log off you can send anonymously as a guest—you'll have to put in your email address but we authors won't see that)... 107 seems pretty good right? But you guys don't see that. You see what's on the info for the story. Unfortunately, on the fic info at the top of the story, it counts every single comment (including the Author's). (The comment threads is just every single starting comment, i.e. the first comment received from each commenter.)

The thing is, I—and probably quite a few other writers—do respond to every single comment.

So that means where the info on my fic itself says 230 comments, in reality, I'm at half that when I subtract my half of the comments. So that's actually 115 comments from other people. So some people might see that 230 and think oh they got a lot of comments so I don't think they want to hear from me or I can't be fucked and they're already doing good so.

NO. NO. NO. Do not look at the numbers as a guide if a fic is good or not. Do not look at the numbers and think that we don't need or deserve to get any more. And finally WE WANT TO HEAR FROM Y'ALL.

Excuses need to stop.

Speaking of numbers. Here's my over all stats current on AO3.

In the 3 years on this AO3 account (I've had others in the past and accounts on ff.net and live journal. I'm an oldie fanfic writer lol. 21 years of fanfic. My gods. 🤣) It didn't used to be like this guys. Back in the day I'd get 12 plus comments on a chapter and this is on stuff a teenager wrote.

We have got to get back to the point of supporting each other and building each other up. Also while I'm at it, I have a huge beef with the fact that fanartists get so much more positive feedback and replies and comments, but the thing is, even their numbers are skewed. You can go into the notes of a fanart on here that has 10k notes to see they have maybe 100-1K reblogs (if that, I'm being generous) and maybe 10 or so replies (if turned on) and the rest are all likes. EVERYONE has been on here long enough by now to know that likes do nothing to get a post in the algorithm and tags only do so much. Reblogs are the only way their art (or our fanfictions for people who post them on here) gets seen! By sharing!

So y'all gotta get better. Yes, we write for ourselves first, but ultimately a story is meant to be shared with everyone and feedback should not be optional if you're actively reading the fics or viewing the art for free and enjoyed it!

TLDR:

IF YOU FUCKING LIKE A FANFIC. KUDOS AT THE VERY LEAST BUT BE BETTER. COMMENT. BOOKMARK. SUBSCRIBE IF IT'S A WIP YOU LOVE. (Like, comment and reblog if on Tumblr)

IF YOU FUCKING LIKE A FANART ON TUMBLR. COMMENT. LIKE. REBLOG.

DO BETTER AS READERS AND US WRITERS AND ARTISTS WILL GIVE YOU THE WORLD (AND MANY OTHER WORLDS TO BOOT)

That is all. Please reblog the fuck out of this if you agree.

(and tagging my current and last fandoms so this can get in fandom spaces where it needs to be.)

[kenziebluex]

The Broken Heart That Makes Us

Happy Friday! Comment to be added to the taglist ☺️

Story Description: 

Your arranged marriage is on its last legs. After making an agreement with your step son, Megumi, you are puzzled when you are faced with finally making a decision.

Your whole life so far has been planned for you, leading you to struggle with the idea of moving on and finding something stable…someone stable.  

Will you finally be able to let go of the life that was made for you? Will there be others out there willing to pick up the pieces?

(18+) Pairings: Toji, Goji, Geto, Nanami, & Choso.

Read on ao3: TBHTMU

Chapter 3:

You turned around and posed in the mirror to get a better look at how the latex stretch black pants hugged your backside and your matching black strapless lace up corset gave you a nice shape. Even though you were only 26, you noticed the difference in how you dressed compared to the other parents that came to pick up their kids from the dojo. 

“Finding the sweet spot between acting like a mom and acting my age is….a task.” You groaned at your reflection, debating whether to find a nice jacket to use as a cover up.

‘Mmm… I am meeting my son’s teacher after all…’  You started to regret your choice of clothing. To be fair, you weren’t sure what Gojo’s intentions were when he invited you out. But dammit when was the last time you actually went out to have fun?! You felt the fruits of your youth slowly spoil as your whole life became just working, stressing and taking care of a 16 year old. 

You decided that you deserved to be daring today and donned a pair of lace up black sandal heels and a contrasting blood red mini purse to throw over your shoulder. 

Before stepping out of your new 3 bedroom condo, you passed by Megumi’s room and took a small peek through his bedroom doorway. You watched as he diligently did his homework while bopping to the music in his headset. You thought to yourself that this is the type of comfort he deserves. Lost in his own world while he chases his dreams. You just hope you’re doing enough to get him there. 

You tapped your phone on to remind yourself of the time as you stepped out of your front door. You rode the elevator down to the lobby and exited the condominium. It was dark and a shadowy figure lingered outside. You wondered if Gojo had arrived and you picked up your pace to exit the lobby.

“Oh great. You saved me so much time knocking on every door.” Your breath hitched and you clutched your purse as the man emerged from the shadows and into the dim lamp post. You eyed the double doors back into the lobby and debated whether you should make a run for it. Instead, you swallowed thickly and erased any emotion on your face.

“Are you y/n Fushiguro?” The man asked. His hair shielded by a black beanie that looks like it transitions to a shiesty and all black clothes. It only took one glance for you to notice that he might be carrying a weapon in his back pocket as you noticed he kept patting for it.

“I don’t go by that name anymore. That means that nothing associated with that name has any business with me.” You explained begging internally the man will just bow out and let you go. A million thoughts bulldozed through your mind, starting with how he found out where you lived in the first place.

“Tsss…look. I know this must be realllly awkward but your ex husband owes us some money and sold your name as collateral. That slippery bastard looks like he’s on the run but you were much easier to find.” You started to see stars. You held onto the wall to prevent yourself from fainting. It became clear to you that whether you were associated with Toji or not didn’t matter because he just sold you out to some loan sharks.

‘In the end, I still can’t escape his bullshit.’

“How much does he owe you?” You bit out clutching your fist. After everything started falling into place, something comes to fuck it all up. 

“Probably around 10 of those condos your pretty little ass just skipped out of.” He laughed lazily. Fury built up in your belly.

“Can you cover it?” He eyes you mockingly and his gaze trailed disgustingly lower.

“Fuck no!” You hissed and attempted to cover yourself. You looked around for anything that could fight him off and any neighbors that could be stumbling by. But before you could call out to someone he approached you and palmed his back packet.

The man yelped as a sleek blue biker helmet collided with the back of his head. He collapsed on the ground, limp and lifeless. You looked up at his attacker.

Exhaling as if he was holding in his breath, Gojo eyed the loan shark’s motionless body. Worry, anxiety and fear exited your body all at once as you felt your legs lose strength. 

Gojo was quick and caught you against his firm hand while you stumbled into his chest. You allowed his gentle hand to calm your nerves as he stroked your head similarly to how he stroked your back yesterday. You attempted to bury yourself in Gojo’s white shirt and black bomber jacket and trying not to get your makeup on it. But he pushed your head in anyway, not caring whether your makeup will leave a stain. 

“Do you want to live with me?” You heard Gojo whisper almost thoughtlessly. Your head fell backwards and your confused expression met his embarrassed one. Almost like he didn’t mean to say that out loud. 

He gently pushed you back and shoved his helmet into your chest. You took the helmet but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from his face.

He was red. Beating red. And looked to the side trying to avoid eye contact with you. His eyebrows furrowed almost like he was scolding himself for saying that outloud. You looked down at the helmet in your hands and chuckled inwardly at his cute reaction. 

“Put that on.” He took the helmet back and fastened it on your head.

“A smile a day keeps the therapist away.” He laughed to himself while buckling the safety strap under your chin. He took your hand and mounted his sleek blue Ducati motorcycle and guided you to board behind him. He fastened the extra helmet that hung on the handlebars of his bike on his head and turned the bike on. He paused before doing anything more.

“I won’t ask about the problems you’re going through. But seeing him corner you like that made me want to do more than just knock his lights out.” He twisted his wrist and revved up his motorcycle with a loud growl. 

“I can’t promise that I’ll stop there next time.” He continued. With Gojo, you felt a cloud of safety and protection. You wrapped your arms around his torso and squeezed.

“…I’ve never had anyone other than Megumi protect me like that…Thank you.” You weren’t sure if you were loud enough over the rumbling of his bike but he seemed to have heard you and took a deep breath. You felt his back expand and then recede against you as he hauled up his foot on his back. You two disappeared into the darkness. 

✿❀○❀✿

“Shitttt I hope it’s not closed.” Gojo droned as you arrived at a dimly lit skyscraper. He put the stopper on his bike and took your hand to help you dismount. He hung the helmets on the handlebars of the bike.  

While entering the luxurious skyscraper, you advanced towards the entrance while taking in the posh surroundings. The host at the door recognized Gojo immediately and sprinted to take his jacket from him. 

“Welcome back, sir!” The host greeted Gojo formally and you turned towards him marred by confusion.

“Who the hell even are you?!” You spoke with your eyes. He erupted in an amused bellow and he took your waist and pulled you flushed against his side. 

“I didn’t come alone tonight. Show us a good spot.” Gojo ordered casually. You tried to fix your face to copy his nonchalant one but quickly failed when you entered the restaurant- no…specialty cafe as it seems that the restaurant only served expensive desserts.

“Are you sure you should be eating here? You know, since you also have to practice martial arts.” You joked low enough for only Gojo to hear. He clicked his tongue.

“A sweet treat every now and then doesn’t hurt.” Gojo paused and looked down at you. Lustful sky blue eyes bore into yours. “Everyone gives into their urges eventually.” He stated with a deeper meaning attached. 

You felt your cheeks warm but then the host spoke you out of your trance. 

“We always leave the balcony open to the Gojo clan.” The host beamed. You felt Gojo himself tense but when you looked up at him,  his face remained expressionless. 

“Enjoy.” The host bowed and broke away to signal a waiter.

You broke away from Gojo to bathe in the sea of lights in the city as you relaxed against the railing to the balcony. You thought back to the dinner parties your dad had you attend while wooing investors. You internally shivered. 

“If I knew you were a trust fund baby, I would’ve seduced you months ago, Gojo-sensei.” You jested while resting on your elbows. Large pale palms rested on either side of you as Gojo hovered from behind you. You stretched your head back and he peered down at you. 

“Call me Satoru.” He said softly. You shook your head and broke eye contact, directing your gaze forward again. 

“Unlike you, I know boundaries.” You sighed. Without wasting a beat, he gripped your bicep and spun you around to face him. He pinched your chin and forced your gaze to connect with his again.

“It didn’t seem like that when you were holding me nice and tight earlier.” He hovered his face just centimeters above your lips. You gripped his shirt as his body heat flooded your palms. 

“Close your eyes.” He whispered. Your eyes fluttered closed.

“Have you had time to look at our menu?” You and Gojo broke apart in response to the waitress arriving. It didn’t seem like she was aware that she was breaking a moment but the racing of your heart thanked her. 

You approached the table and Gojo pulled out your chair for you to sit. As you looked at the menu, each dessert looked like it would make your wallet cry. 

“P-Please give me a minute.” You laughed nervously as you scrunch your eyebrows to focus. The only thing you can afford here is the water and maybe an espresso shot. 

“There are just soooo many nice things here. I literally can’t decide. ” You spoke through your teeth, clearly feeling pressure over the menu. 

Gojo snapped his menu closed.

“We’ll just go with one of everything.” Gojo answered while you were mentally lashing out at him.

You closed the menu and gave the waitress a strained but polite smile while she took the menus. 

“I say I’m taking you out and you are still eyeballing the price.” Gojo scoffs while taking a sip of the water left on the table.

“I never trust a man who says he’ll foot the bill. I’d rather at least order something I can afford.” Toji absolutely killed that idea for you and you haven’t trusted a man for funds since. You crossed your arms and sat back comfortably on your chair. The wispy light from the candle reflected on Gojo’s cheek and made his glassy eyes contrast the dark sky behind him. 

“Fair enough.” He tilted his head voicing his response and took another sip of water. You traced your finger on the mouth of the tall glass of water standing next to you. You couldn’t help but focus on his lips as they touched his glass. The way his tongue wets his lips sends your mind into a spiral. He notices you gawking and a small chuckle escapes his lips. You rolled your eyes to the side innocently and struck up conversation.

“So other than training students at the dojo, what else do you do?” You huffed, swiftly pulling your own water glass to your lips. The relaxed grin on his face fell. You felt the atmosphere shift a little.

“You said it yourself didn’t you? I’m a ‘trust fund baby.’ Beloved son of one of the number 1 richest clans in the city.” He responded with heavy sarcasm.  You drew your lips together tightly. You gathered that family was a triggering subject. Well, it’s not like you are daughter to father of the year either. But even though Gojo seems to wear his heart on his sleeve, it seems that it’s just armor to hide his true feelings. 

“Eh. I don‘t know. Blood relatives suck sometimes.” You snapped back. Your elbows rested on the table and your chin fell comfortably onto your palms. For a second you saw Gojo’s eyes go wide, lost looking at you but he then quickly regained his composure.

“I’d rather form my own family. Like me and Meg. There’s something about loving someone and them loving you back just because of the person you are and not because you’re related.” You continued. Gojo lowered his glass and listened to you intently. You smiled down at the fire that danced on the candle and allowed one of your hands to rest on the table. 

“I’ve seen family members treat their own children like pawns and burdens to be neglected…” Gojo flinched at your statement and his hand rested on the table as well. You rested your palm on top of his and gazed at him softly.

“But blood doesn’t make it an obligation to love people like that.” Gojo intertwined his fingers in yours and scanned you curiously. He gently rubbed his thumb against the back of your hand.

“Hmmm? You sound like you had a tough love life.” He mocked and you choked out your water. You rolled your eyes as the tone of the date returned to being playful. 

“Don’t mind me. I’m just thinking out loud.” You retook your hand and folded it into your lap. Gojo pouted at the lack of touch. 

“Here you are! We pulled up another table to make room for all of the other desserts. Is there any flavor you would like to try first?” The waitress accompanied by 2 assistants rolled in the entire catalog of sweets. Gojo shook his head.

“We’ll figure it out.” He stood up and started making room for various desserts on the table. One particular dessert caught your eye.

“Hey. Pass me the (insert flavor) parfait.” You pointed at the neatly decorated yogurt. Gojo picked it up and inspected it curiously. He stalked to the other side of the table and knelt down to your level. Taking the long spoon out the dish, he lathered some whip cream on top of it. 

“Open wide~.” He cooed while floating the spoon towards your lips. Your brows twisted and you leaned your head back in rejection.

“You’re fucking joking.” You answered dryly. Gojo shrugged and turned the spoon towards himself and prepared to take a bite. 

“Hey-!” Your mouth hung open in protest and Gojo used the opportunity to sneak the spoon into your mouth. The parfait was heavenly and the flavors melted the tension in your body. You finished enjoying the taste and you took another glance at a satisfied Gojo, unsure whether to protest some more or to let him continue. 

You felt a hand rake the back of your head as Gojo’s lips advanced towards yours. However, he teased you and instead tongued the corner of your lip where whipped cream was left. You froze in your chair.

“Damn good. Should I eat the rest of the desserts like this?” Gojo taunted and then traced his tongue on your bottom lip.

 A pleased sigh fell from your lips as your tongue met his, battling for dominance. Your lips touched and it felt like electricity ignited throughout your body. You closed your eyes to soak up his taste and you heard him place the parfait glass and spoon on the table.  

With free hands, Gojo gripped both your thighs and glided them up and down your legs, barely ghosting your core with his thumbs. He pressed his lips against you punishingly and parted your legs to situate himself in between them.

You gripped his shirt to prevent yourself from falling backwards. One hand dragged up your body and he teased your hardened nipple under your black corset. Gojo released your lips and then proceeded to leave trails of kisses down your neck.

He moved his hand from your chest to your clothed cunt and pressured his grip against it. You bit your bottom lip.

“Gojo…the waiters could come in.” You panted trying to keep your fevered voice as low as possible. He smirked against your collarbone as his teeth grazed your shoulder.

“I’m not doing anything wrong. Just enjoying dessert.” He quipped while peppering more kisses up your neck and started massaging you gently. You felt yourself becoming soaked in his clutch. Your thighs closed around his wrist. You cupped his chin and turned him up to face you.

“You’re really not funny.” You whispered while he looked up at you with fire pooling his irises. He released you and shoved his hands in his pockets to shuffle his way back into his seat. You shifted your knees back under the table while trying to regain your composure. 

Gojo took a small dish of elegantly dressed mochi and took a bite while holding contact with you. He allowed two fingers to linger in his mouth while he licked off the flavor. He slowly sucked the flavor off of the long digits and then reached for another piece. 

You tried to avoid eye contact while you took another spoonful of parfait. The rest of the evening was quiet but the haze of desire still remained.

taglist: @beetusbritt ❤ @nousija ❤ @notleclerc divider by @cafekitsune

❀ follow for more ❀ ao3: kenzieblue❀

-kenzie & des

[foursaints]

regarding your post about people feeling uncomfortable with reading certain topics i think its quite the opposite of them not realizing its not a material reality. it actually feels too close to home, a bit too real (considering we hear and read about cases every day) and you are aware that it happen to you everyday so it makes you feel uncomfortable to think about. on the other hand topics like murder, war crimes, etc. most people are alienated from them feeling safe that it wont happen to them (now thats a thing that happens only in stories) and reading about doesn't spark the same type of panic.

but also even if that wasn't the case.. what do you think its supposed to happen when somone is uncomfortable? just keep reading, shoving discomfort down their throat because of other people? Yes i understand that there are victims who have survived it and i will try my best to accommodate them and treat them in the way they want to and i will even swallow my discomfort down and read about the experience but that wont change anything. i will still be afraid of the possibility that will happen to me, i will still squirm when i hear about another case and then try to avoid in the places where i go to enjoy myself (like ao3)

also in terms of victims i imagine that as much as there are some who would like to read and write about their experience there are other who would want to distance themselves from the memory. Isn't it just preference at the end of day. why do people must be guilt tripped to to read something they dont want to.

😭 this is of the most braindead annoying messages i’ve ever received on here i’m actually almost impressed. fucking obviously i am not suggesting that CSA victims read triggering material on purpose that would be insane (💀). but my post wasn’t about victims! i was in fact complaining about emptyhead non-survivors who say things precisely like this!

1. describing murder and war crimes as literally “now that’s something that only happens in stories!” is such a glaring indictment of your worldview… these things are realities for everyone living outside of the imperial core. even within the west, if you’re a transwoman of color, if you’re a DV victim, an addict, an unhoused person, or poc and interacting with police– you are not alienated from extreme violence! it’s very real & present experience! for you to say that reading about systematized violence is “safer” because it’s “less real” especially when we are in the middle of a genocide is literally stomach churning 😭. you should go donate to winter relief for gaza and never speak up again

2. not everything is about you! perhaps this is harsh but i do believe that if you haven’t experienced csa/sa (or been close to the issue), then reading about it cannot be “triggering” to you in the same way it would be for, say, someone with actual csa ptsd. you might feel uncomfortable, but you are not in danger of having a trauma response. sensitivity is beautiful, but i think in moments like these you could stand to be a little bit braver, and a little bit more sturdy. nothing fictional can hurt you. feeling discomfort and fear at the contents of a story is not the same as real pain- it is healthy to practice experiencing these emotions through the safe medium of fiction.

so much of this ask is painfully egotistic… but in a naive, almost endearing sort of way? you dismiss others experiences with the wave of a hand: “yes victims but what about my SQUIRMING”, “but what about the mere possibility it might happen to ME”! i want to remind you that i am a csa survivor complaining about the difficulty of discussing these subjects with non-survivors, and you are a non-survivor inserting yourself into this space to ask “what about MY discomfort?”…. well! terrible, violent, undoingly horrific events happen every day! it is not helpful to act like victims of SA are somehow uniquely traumatized in some special, singularly awful way. no “type” of trauma is inherently worse than any another. people survive and recover from all kinds of experiences, and i find this beautiful & empowering, and frequently the subject of great art. it is worth confronting your own personal discomfort (💀) with that art in order to sit with and face the lived reality of those experiences. doing so will help you develop a more complex and empathetic worldview.

not everything is about you! 🙂‍↕️ the imagined possibility of your own pain should not be worth more to you than the lived reality of someone else’s. this ask was exhausting let’s all read averno by louise gluck to calm down

[chrisrin]

re-discovered an old homeschool project i did with my mom when i was 10 years old where we wrote a full on 3-act story script for the second season of my littlest pet shop series "Sun Pack" aka warrior cats but with wolves.

i re-read it and it actually genuinely fucks still. here are some guys from it <3

[mycherrycola]

to be honest I want to write Dante and Virgil fanfiction. Nothing good can come from this I fear

[human-encounters-diary]

Day 14

I have received…indifferent news about the human‘s state, by which I mean, I cannot describe her current state, as I have not received any actually comprehensible further information.

Wrin has decided to pay the human a visit at the beginning of this cycle. After they returned, they sought me out to report back, despite not single word about my task being uttered in their proximity.

They leaned against the wall next to me without a word, so after a few moments, I spoke up: "How is she?"

"She seems alright, at least she‘s most definitely not about to die.", Wrin responded, taking a swig of the bottle in their gloved hand.

"Would you be more specific?", I requested.

"Well, I don‘t know, I asked her how she was doin‘ and she said she was 'peachy keen'."

My front pliers uttered a rattling sound. "And…what does that mean?"

"If I knew", Wrin said, taking another sip. "I haven‘t known her for that long either, and I don‘t know anything about humans. She does that weird thing sometimes though, when you‘re talking to her, and she says something that is true but kind of sounds like a lie? I dunno, might be that."

"Would you care to elaborate?", I repeated, slightly suspecting that Wrin was already too intoxicated to form coherent thoughts.

"Kind of like…y‘know, sometimes it‘s also the other way around, and she tells a lie, but kind of in a mocking tone? I don‘t really get it either. Must be a 'human' thing."

Telling lies mockingly? Perhaps Wrin was simply not eludicating well enough, but I would have to investigate this claim further. Perhaps I would pay the human a visit myself, if I was permitted.

Unfortunately, before I could act any further, another technician rather desperately retrieved me to assist in the main control center, as they were, apparently, understaffed for the circumstances we are currently situated in.

Resulting in this, I did not face the human at all during this cycle, but I have received news that she has been discharged from the medical quarters, while the medicals further analyze the test results they recorded.

Furthermore, we are set to enter Fendaar‘s athmosphere in 2-3 cycles, so we will be able to let the SIIR Noxos get mended properly and stock up on necessities.

[sasanka-27]

It’s real

| Fandom: supernatural | Pairing: Dean/Castiel | Words: 7k+

| Type: oneshot | Rating: Teen and up | Author: Sasanka27

Summary: Morning of his birthday Dean wakes up alone doubting if he hadn’t dream the good parts of his life.

Link:

[themoonking]

when people bring up the racism, homophobia, transphobia, romanticization of domestic abuse / rape / pedophilia / incest, literal actual written porn of literal actual real life flesh and blood children, et cetera et cetera on archive of our own, one of the ao3 stannies’ main defenses is “you can just filter out the tags if you don’t want to see that!” when that defense has no fucking legs to stand on.

ao3 is not an archive, it is barely even a website: a rant <3 (very long)

ignoring the fact that it’s a problem that all of that is permitted on the site in the first place (i guess child porn and racism are fine, and the people who allow it on their platform are fine, as long as i, personally, do not see it), that defense literally means nothing. it’s assuming that every little thing on ao3 is tagged properly and it absolutely is not, and if you think it is you are dumber than rocks. i mean for fuck’s sake, just touching on archive warnings and not tags, “creator chose not to use archive warnings” is literally a valid option for fic authors to use when it should fucking not be.

if someone is a freak who thinks that pedo shit is hot, they might not tag it as “rape” (archive warnings OR tags). i’ve literally seen underage father/son rape porn with no trigger warning tags but “child abuse if you squint”. IF YOU SQUINT. if someone thinks that domestic abuse is actually cool and sexy when attractive people do it, they might not tag it as “abuse”. if someone is a freak who likes incest, but bends over backwards to justify it by only shipping adopted family members, then they tell themselves that they don’t view it as incest, and might not tag it as “incest”. if someone is a racist, a homophobe, a transphobe, et cetera and they wrote bigotry into their fic (or else wrote a deliberate troll fic to trigger people on purpose), do you really think they’re going to tag it as racism / homophobia / transphobia / et cetera? and some people get kicks out of writing purposefully triggering content and either leaving it untagged or mistagging it so that people will read it unsuspectingly.

even for just general content tags, it’s a mess. people just forget to tag things all the time. people deliberately won’t tag the endgame ship of their fic because “it’s a spoiler heehee”. people use the romantic or sexual “x / y” tag instead of the platonic or otherwise “x & y” tag, sometimes by mistake sometimes on purpose. it’s a joked about issue how people will tag characters or ships that appear in their fic for two sentences.

there’s no standardization of tags, which is a pretty obvious problem. what first comes to mind is the “dead dove: do not eat” tag which should just not be a tag at all because it just has no meaning. depending on the individual fic writer using it, it could mean anything from “literally the most sickening and depraved thing you’ve ever read in your life” to “horror w/ gore”. but it applies to other vague tags too - different fic writers will have different ideas of what the tag means.

in addition to that, what is and isn’t made a filterable tag, what tags are made synonymous, et cetera, is entirely up to the whims of the site staff. as an example, if you’re trying to look for fanfiction of a singular animated disney movie, the infinite crossovers with other disney movies will not actually be counted as crossovers (which they are) because they’re classified as the “disney theatrical animated universe” (which isn’t a fucking thing), so you can’t filter them out the “exclude crossovers” way. if you try to filter out the fandom tag “disney theatrical animated universe”, it’ll show up with zero fics because that tag is synonymous with every disney animated film (regardless of if the fic author actually used the tag “disney theatrical animated universe” or not), thus also filtering out the one you actually wanted to find.

and do not get me fucking started on the “all media types tags”, which also just shouldn’t be a thing because it makes it fucking impossible to find the specific fics you’re looking for. some people use it in place of tagging a specific canon / adaptation when their fic very clearly draws from one specific canon / adaptation, and you can’t filter it out because it’s synonymous with every fandom tag under its umbrella.

as an example of the issues of both the “all media types” tag and mistagging in general: as a fan of the witcher books, it used to be a fucking ordeal to find fanfiction specifically for the books (post netflix show release). some show fans would, for whatever reason, tag their fics with the book fandom tag in addition to (or even in place of!!) the show fandom tag when their fics were unquestionably show-specific, meaning i could not simply search only in the book fandom tag. i could not simply filter out the show tag, because some show fans would, for whatever reason, tag as fucking “all media types”, when their fics were unquestionably show-specific. and alas, i could not filter out “all media types” and the show tag, so that i see only those fics which have been deliberately and exclusively tagged as the book, not only because as mentioned some show fans would tag their show fics with only the book tag, but also because the fucking all media types tag filters out the book tag as well, leaving me with zero fucking fics REGARDLESS of if the author actually used the “all media types” tag. now, thankfully, i’ve thankfully seen this issue in this specific fandom lessen, but it still occurs in other fandoms and i guarantee that it didn’t lessen in the witcher fandom because of any fixing of the site on the part of ao3 staff.

another common defense of ao3 freaks is that it’s an “archive”, and therefore can’t get rid of anything anyone posts, and disregarding the fact that that is not how archives fucking work, they don’t just allow anything and also ao3 DOES get rid of fics... when they say that they don’t like proshippers, apparently, archives have... you know... archivists. they have someone or a team of someones making sure that everything in the archive is *properly fucking categorized*. they have someone or multiple someones making sure that everything they recieve (1) belongs there and (2) is properly labeled and organized. same for libraries. meaning that if ao3 really were an archive and not a sub par fanfiction website, they’d have something like that in place. something as simple as a report button for fics with a review team that will see if something’s been mis- or untagged. they’d have some kind of standardization of tags (especially the warning / trigger tags) and have proper tagging enforced in some way. and then they could also do something like stop being spineless racists, queerphobes, and pedos have the barest minimum of content guidelines saying that you can’t post fucking hate speech.

if something is mistagged or untagged, the most you can do is leave a comment politely asking that the author fix the issue, and then hope and pray that they do that. and if that person thinks [insert form of abuse] is hot, or if they’re just straight up a bigot that wrote bigotry into their fics to be bigoted, or they’re a troll that gets kick out of deliberately traumatizing people by tricking them into reading their mis/untagged fics, they might not! AND if you see a major tagging issue on an orphaned work, or a work that has an inactive author / hasn’t been updated in forever, good fucking luck getting even a negative response.

you can’t permanently block tags (i mean even tumblr.hell has that), meaning that if you would like to search for fic without coming across something troubling, triggering, or just something you don’t like, you have to either (1) do a work around by having a bookmarked link for every fandom you’re in or every character you like with all of your tags already blocked, (2) download browser extensions that do the work for ao3 because they can’t be bothered themselves, or (3) input every individual tag every time you search ao3 and don’t forget that all of those options only fucking work at all when everything is tagged properly, and we’ve already established its not. you also can’t actually block people (you can only prevent them from commenting) meaning that if there’s a specific person you’d like to stay away from your fics or a specific fic author that you don’t like and would like to stop seeing their fics clogging up the tag, you’re out of luck (though for the latter you could insert “-[username]” into the “search within results” box, but then uh oh we’re right back around to having to input that every time or have a bookmark)

their archive warning system is shit. first of all it’s functionally useless because, as mentioned, “creator chose not to use archive warnings” is an option. what’s the fucking point of special required archive warnings if you’re going to allow people to opt out anyway. second of all, aside from “chose not to use warnings” and “no warnings apply”, the only warnings are “major character death”, “graphic depictions of violence”, “rape/non-con”, and “underage”. disregarding the fact that they shouldn’t be allowing porn of underage characters in the first place (but i’m talking to a brick wall on that issue) and that “non-con” (and “dub-con”) as terminology needs to die, it’s just fucking rape lets not use weasel words... this is a paltry list of possible warnings. there’s no official warnings for depictions of: domestic abuse, animal abuse, depictions of racism / homophobia / transphobia / et cetera, suicide, self harm, et cetera et cetera. and we return to the issue of standardization of tags. in your required archive warnings at very least, there should be a standardization of what these mean, but ao3′s own faq is just like “ehh... you decide. we’ll leave it up to you”. what qualifies as graphic depictions of violence? two people may write the same level of violence, but qualify “graphic” differently, and make different decisions regarding their warnings. and we also return to the issue of: if a freak doesn’t see something that is clearly rape as rape, they might not tag it as such.

this website gets a disgustingly large amount of money every year that it doesn’t fucking do anything with. it’s been over a decade and they’re still in fucking beta. features that would actually be useful, like an actual block system, don’t exist. they technically have a report system for abuse and harassment and such, but apparently what they qualify as abuse and harassment is fickle. ao3 defenders seem to be very proud of the legal work they do for fandom / fanfic authors, but they set aside a very small amount of the money they get every year for legal advocacy, and they actually use even less of that, because it’s not the early 2000s “anne rice hates fanfiction” era anymore - you aren’t going to get fucking sued for writing fanfiction in the first place. based on their own self-reported yearly cost of upkeep, they literally already have enough money to run the site as they are now for the next twenty years.

once again: ao3 is not an archive. it is not a library. it is barely a even a website.

[novorehere]

Bite-Sized Tidbits:

A snapshot/character of what life might look like with the seven avatars of sin. Contains a lot of fluff, a little angst, and soft/safe vore with you and the seven Obey Me! brothers themed around their respective sins. I’ve been working on this on and off for quite a while now, so I hope you enjoy.

Written for Vore Day, 2023

—

—

Pride

“I can give you your punishment now, or we can wait until later.”

The edges of the demon’s lips crept up into the beginnings of a smirk. All without breaking his gaze from the stack of documents which he straightened against his desk with a tap tap tap.

“However, I will be leaving for tea with Lord Diavolo as soon as my work is finished. So unless you’d like to spend the evening with Barbatos’ chiffon cake, I’d recommend making up your mind in a timely manner.”

Both of you knew very well that “punishment” wasn’t the right word. Lucifer’s infrequent office calls were less of a punishment and moreso a game, an unspoken routine in which you continuously tested the Avatar of Pride’s patience by indulging his younger brothers’ schemes.

It was a game that toyed with the balance of power, one where you pretended like he couldn’t just shrink you down whenever he wanted and that you couldn’t order him to stop with a single word. It was a game that indulged his pride, one that Lucifer would always win in the end.

It was only a matter of minutes before you were seated in his gloved palm. His ruby eyes lording over you with a gaze that anyone else would find annoyingly high-handed. But after playing his game for so long, to you the affection hiding behind them was obvious.

“Are you ready then, my Lamb?”

He was the morning star, eldest of the seven rulers of the underworld.

Yet despite all of this, Lucifer knew it was you who had him utterly wrapped around your little finger.

—

Greed

Reclining his head against the arm of his couch, the Avatar of Greed kissed his fingertips in mock satisfaction at the burp that rolled up his throat. A barely audible complaint of “gross” only caused him to chuckle and pat his stomach triumphantly.

“Maybe ya shoulda thought about that before bein’ so damn filling.”

A sound like “Guh” escaped the demon’s mouth as a swift kick to his liver interrupted his musings.

“Oi! The Great Mammon’s gonna start chargin’ 10,000 Grimm for damages every time ya do that!” Ya oughta learn some basic respe-”

And there it was, the familiar flutter of tiny fingers rubbing circles into him from inside. Perhaps it was your way of saying sorry… though more likely you just wanted to shut him up. It was annoying how easily you could reduce him to a blushing mess without uttering a single word.

“Hey… ‘s not fair. You’re playin’ dirty…”

Mammon rolled onto his side in an uncharacteristically gentle motion. He couldn’t help sneaking an indulgent glance at the scene reflected in his mirror. There he was, splayed out amongst piles of his belongings with his shirt ridden up and his belly rounded in his lap. If any of his brothers saw him like this, he would never hear the end of their teasing. But luckily for Mammon, not even you could know the way his face became soft as he teased a finger around his navel too gently for you to feel.

“Why’d ya stop? C’mon, now… keep goin’.”

It didn’t matter how much Mammon gambled away or how many centuries it had been since he’d hit the jackpot at the casino. When he was with you, Mammon felt like the luckiest demon in the three realms.

But sometimes it was hard to put it into words. Which is exactly why he treasured moments like these, the moments where his greed got the better of him. The moments where he could steal you away to be his and his alone.

After all, it was much easier to express how madly in love with you he’d become when he didn’t have to meet you face to face.

—

Envy

“You know, this is just like that one scene in ‘My Life as a Shut-In Reincarnated as a Worker in the Shopping Mall Dimension’ where Prince Alfonso goes to the food court kingdom and-”

Leviathan groaned, burying his face into his body pillow as if that could somehow hide him from the voice in his middle.

“You can’t use my own otaku tactics against me, it’s… *hic-* it’s not fair!!”

Your muffled laughter reverberated off the walls of his bathtub, accompanied by the occasional hiccup and the tip of a serpentine tail nervously thumping against porcelain.

He didn’t mean for his horns to sprout from his head when you tried to leave his room that night. He didn’t mean for a serpentine tail to wrap around your ankle, wordlessly begging you to stay. And he certainly didn’t mean for his stomach to loudly vocalize the thoughts that had been plaguing his mind the entire night. What was this, some sort of tropey romance manga?

But here he was, face as red as a bouquet of queen of jealousy and stuffed to the (decidedly metaphorical) gills in his own bathtub. The Grand Admiral of Hell’s Navy, reduced to a blushing, hiccuping mess. And he had nobody but himself to blame.

But really, how could he have resisted? Especially with the visions of what could have happened instead playing through his head on repeat. Asmo whisking you away to some club filled with normies who could actually hold a real conversation, Mammon snatching you up for an unauthorized night drive in his Demonio 666 Lexura, Beel getting a little too peckish and… he couldn’t bear to think about it.

Leviathan knew wanting to be your one and only was unreasonable. He knew that he was a terrible, horrible friend for thinking these thoughts and becoming so troubled at the prospect of anyone else showing you affection. After all, no one would want to be with a gloomy shut-in that wasn’t worth the scum in Henry’s tank-

But as soon as they had come, the negative thoughts washed away like a speck in the ocean as you snuggled closer to his hand, a muffled voice reassuring him that there was no place you’d rather be tonight.

—

Wrath

“With a flourish the detective tipped his hat to the dame, as he disappeared into the evening fog like the curls of smoke which danced from his pipe…”

The demon’s inner monologue was cut short as a violent squirming sensation roused him from his novel. Your ears detected the unmistakable sound of a huff and a book closing, muffled by layers of flesh and fabric.

“Restless as ever, I see…”

Normally, Satan would be more than offended to have his attention ripped from the pages of a good book. But this time the annoyance that swelled in his chest turned not into rage, but affection as the fire settled in his stomach and melted away… You tended to have that effect on him.

It was a relatively new sensation. Having been birthed from wrath in its purest form, emotions such as happiness had to be taught to him by his brothers. And for that Satan was thankful- he had long since accepted them as family. But as a human, you were a better teacher of peace than any demon could be. Though a cat curled in his lap was a close second.

The blonde sighed fondly, gazing down at the bump in his sweater.

“…Would you like me to read aloud to you? Perhaps that will help you settle some.”

Pulling the covers up a bit higher around his navel, he tucked them in snugly around his sides. A rare smile crossed Satan’s face as he admired his handiwork. The man reached over to his nightstand, finding there exactly what he was looking for in the dim light. A paperback atop the haphazard piles of hardcovers strewn about, placed there with care as not to crease the art on the cover he knew you loved so much.

With both of you tucked in for the night, it was easier than ever to melt into the gentle rumble of his voice.

“Our story begins in a world of monsters…”

—

Lust:

Asmodeus knows that true beauty comes from within. How could it not, when the skin of the human that emerges from his lips always feels so much softer and smoother than before? He makes sure to bring it to your attention every time, doting over how the glow of his inner beauty rubs off on you so easily. Despite everything, he thinks you look so gorgeous lying in his palm. Layers of mucus, tired bags under your eyes, and all.

But sometimes it’s hard to feel beautiful inside or out with wings dyed black and pointed horns replacing the light of your halo.

—

A delicate, painted fingertip wipes a stray bead of drool from your face. The other hand is busy at your head, gently combing the tangles from your still-damp hair with the tiniest heart-shaped hairbrush. Asmodeus had been ecstatic the day it arrived, practically bowling over Levi before snatching the Akuzon package from his arms with a squeal.

It was a ritual at this point, the way he pampered you after letting you out. Swaddling you in a soft, lilac-scented hand towel warmed by the gentle breeze of his hairdryer, wiping you clean as he hummed a familiar tune.

“Baby, you want my love


No matter who you are


I want you to show me


I fell in love with someone


Besides myself for the first time”

He didn’t need to be the “Jewel of the Heavens” with you as his jewel, a precious pearl to tuck away beside his heart where all the things he loves live.

And he had so, so much love to give.

—

Gluttony

Beelzebub was on the verge of snapping when you came to him.

He was breathing heavily when you found his monstrous, horned silhouette hunched over the empty refrigerator. Frightened eyes were glazed over with a hunger that threatened to swallow you up with their very gaze. His mouth opened in a silent plea- perhaps an apology for eating your favorite pudding- but it was drowned out by the roar of his stomach.

Sometimes it felt as if no amount of food could put out the fire that raged within him. The burning sensation could only be briefly dulled by each cooling mouthful that slid down his throat. But then it was gone, claimed by the emptiness inside him that demanded “more.”

But you… you were different.

Simply being around you made him feel full, and for that he was ever grateful. But sometimes he needed more than a feeling. He needed to be sure you were there, to know that you were alive. To feel the weight of that missing piece that left him the day that he fell, your warmth reassuring him that his choices were the right one.

But despite what he needed, he still required your explicit permission to take it.

“Can I…?”

“Of course.”

With your words, Beelzebub gave himself over to his gluttony. He didn’t mind the demon he had become, as long as his strength could help protect you. Or perhaps you were the one protecting him? He wasn’t sure. But one thing was for certain.

No demon in hell could devour you as lovingly as he did that night.

—

Sloth

Beneath the attic room comforter, an incoherent mumble could be heard from a demon-sized lump in the sheets.

Belphegor rolled onto his stomach as he nestled deeper into his nest of blankets. It didn’t take long at all for a lazy smile to crawl across the Avatar of Sloth’s face. Even though you were undoubtedly squashed in this position, he could still feel your tiny hands working their magic just like he had asked.

Oh, how you spoiled him rotten.

It was hard not to with the way Belphegor expressed his desires so plainly. To borrow your jacket to use as a pillow, to keep quiet to Lucifer about skipping classes, to stroke his hair while he lay on your lap. The others weren’t too thrilled with your coddling, but Belphie couldn’t care less.

After all, they had gotten so much more time with you than he had. They got to know you, to love you, to taste you… all before you even knew his name.

Belphegor was the Avatar of Sloth, not envy. But there was once a time when the unmistakable tingling warmth of his twin indulging in you left the bitter aftertaste of jealousy on his tongue. It was a strange feeling, his brother’s affection for a human. One that, until recently, he couldn’t quite understand. And at the time, he had no desire to.

Nowadays the sensation was far from unwelcome. But ever since that night at the castle when he gifted you his pact, Belphegor had found that he much preferred having you all to himself in person. All to himself…

A small yawn escaped the youngest’s mouth as mind wandered to his twin. Could he feel it too, he wondered? The phantom weight of your touch?

…Perhaps he’d ask Beel about it later. But for now, he had a very important nap to get to.

—

Neither of you were conscious enough to know it, but that night as Beelzebub carried his brother down to his own bed and tucked him in, he whispered not one, but two good-nights.

[oneluckygoose]

O'Knutzy Week 2024 Day 2

DAY 2, LETS GO! (Still a scheduled post, I'm getting excited for the future)

As always thanks to @lumosinlove for being amazing, and thanks to @oknutzy-week-2024 for doing all this!

Out comes part 2 of the fic I wrote for the Romance Novels category, this time with all three boys! Enjoy, y'all! (cough cough, I gave Leo a traditional SC/GA accent which is what I grew up around instead of a NOLA accent, cough cough)

Summary: Leo wakes up to find himself on his own, and he decides to spend his morning reading a very specific book that Finn and Logan recognize...

Characters: Leo Knut, Finn O'Hara, Logan Tremblay

Warnings: Implied/referenced sexual content, cursing, they're sad bois for a bit

Word Count: 2,609 (Preview of 352 under cut)

Leo woke up to the sun filtering through Finn’s thin curtains. It must have been later than he was used to waking up, especially with the early days of summer feeling like an endless well of time and… Leo’s arms flailed around, searching for Logan and Finn, finding the bed a vast sea of empty white sheets. Now that Leo’s consciousness returned more, he realized that the bed was cold without two heavy weights next to him. Leo sat up groggily, voice croaking out to call for them, but his words echoed into what felt like void. Panic started to rise in his chest, but he shook himself awake enough to squash it quickly. It had been the first time in almost a month he had woken up alone, and he found himself contemplating if the last year and a half had been a dream. The distinct smell of Logan’s cologne and the sight of Finn’s books piled on the bedside table made Leo groan in relief. It’s not fake, they’re just not here, Leo told himself, pressing his eyes closed tightly. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching blindly for his phone and ended up hitting the books on the bedside table. Leo winced as books tumbled onto the floor, but decided to grab his phone instead of righting them immediately. Leo glanced down, blinking rapidly so his eyes could focus, and saw a text from Finn pop up from almost an hour beforehand at 9:00 AM saying he and Logan were going to go grab bagels and to call when he woke up. Leo stared at his background image for a moment. It was of Finn and Logan in the locker room after they had won the cup, champagne flying around them. They were standing with Finn’s head on Logan’s chest and Logan pressing a hard kiss onto the top of his head. Leo had never told them he’d taken it, but it had been the best moment in Leo’s entire life. Leo smiled and laughed giddily, before clicking open his phone and calling Logan.

[sadiecoocoo]

Mortycest will always be my otp for Rick and Morty… but I also think that Brad/morty deserves some recognition and should get a lot more fan content

[transsexualhamlet]

Hi I made a little thing! For Tolkien gen week! It's writing! for an incredibly obscure character

Day 1- Family, Mentorships, Community / Day 5- Culture, Diversity, Traditions

Tar-Ancalimë- Daughter of Ill-Pairing

@tolkiengenweek :)

(story below cut)

Her father had gone off to sea again for the last time, and her mother thought now of drowning herself in it. Her father had gifted her the sceptre, and she would only say it was a long time coming, for it had been nothing to him but a heavy plaything. Her father gifted her with it the bulk of his life’s dissatisfaction, and now it was hers upon her strong and unhappy hand. She held it well, they said, she held it like a man. She dearly hoped they were wrong.

Tar-Ancalimë fingered again the crown of silver and gold, pondering the slight ache of its wearing, the unforgiving shape of it. She must always wear her hair in tight and thick braids if this was to fit on her, which she did not mind. It was much preferable to the life of decorum and dust that was to be a princess, and she would rather run away into the hills than have her hair arranged like a fruit bowl every day. She was much too old for that, and so long had she waited for it to finally sit on her head that much of the novelty had already worn off.

She took the crown at least in part just for the satisfaction of her ego, and the knowledge that she would be a far better ruler than anyone else in the line of long-lasting childhood. She took the crown for many reasons- and it was another reason perhaps never to return to hateful Emerië. She had tried all other professions, and none suited her. Númenor was just not exceedingly large, and she had remained a princess whether she abided as a shepherdess or a wild thing in the woods, whether she covered her face in dirt or cut her braids and wore men’s clothing. The men saw her, and knew her, and still called her beautiful. Ancalimë did not understand the meaning of the word, and never wished to. Suitors spoke of her long, thick braids and deep olive skin, her dark lips, her long and regal nose, how she glowed when wearing white and gold. In her face, she only saw her mother and father, as everywhere else.

So a queen she would be instead, and here she returned, and knelt like a soldier to receive the crown. As soon as it was upon her head, she told her father to go play off at sea. It was as if she had severed his chains, and he smiled, and was soon gone.

Her rooms were still here, in the palace, and she returned to them now, with a bitter and cloying feeling. When her father had returned the first time, he had been much surprised to realize his child continued to exist in his absence, and had bidden her to Armenelos, away from her home in the country. He had given her everything. The rooms were grand and decorated and filled for her with things she did not like, or at least had not liked since she had been very small. There were useless gifts made of the gold of Middle Earth, gifts of the grey-elven peoples, worthless souvenirs of places she had little interest in. Aldarion thought they would make her happy, in some convoluted way. Aldarion thought perhaps they would make her his daughter, and not the daughter of Erendis. 

Perhaps if she had been raised the son of Aldarion, they might have. If she had grown up at sea in the company of merry and singing men, eating salted crap, waving to foreign forests and elves who had not left them since before the rising of the sun, running from all responsibility- Maybe then she would have been happy, taken up a sword and drawn blood of strangers, and grown to be a senseless king, quickly siring an heir and leaving all care of it and the woman to someone else.

But in this world, she was her terrible mother’s terrible daughter. In this one her father left again, and she was only glad for it. She had explored all other pathways, and all only led again here.

The room had been redecorated long ago, but now the wallpaper began to peel, and beneath it still lay a pattern of twin birds, stained and filled with dust.

Ancalimë turned to the maid beside her, looking upon the rooms. “Now that I am finally queen, I may leave this place for the royal chambers, correct? It is not as if my parents have ever used them.” She surveyed the chamber she had inhabited through her adolescence, and would be glad to leave it, having few happy memories or well-slept nights within. “I would like to enjoy a larger bed and higher view. Those rooms may grant me a far glimpse of my homeland, instead of the sea.”

It was a bittersweet thing, of course. Her father had ruined the sea, her mother had ruined the northwoods, her father had ruined the trees. Everyone upon Númenor had ruined the pastures, but the palace was little better. She could not answer if questioned how this made sense to her. The place where she had power remained the best option, as she had roamed the whole island and found only more of her parents and the endless politics of marriage. Never again to the pastures would she return, nor would she speak to her mother, and she would not learn of her death until far after it had occurred. Neither would she weep, until she had barricaded herself somewhere far away, for her mother would curse her name if she had bent to weeping.

(She would do it anyway, no matter how her mother had ruined her.)

They would return to the sea, and she would stay on land, stubborn and unforgiving. 

The maid pursed her lips, and threaded her hands together. “Oh, well, your highness, not yet, see- the royal chambers are only for a wedded king and queen. Surely you may enjoy them as soon as you have found a suitable man, but until then you will not have need for more than a maiden’s chambers.”

Ancalimë narrowed her eyes. “It’s your majesty.”

The maid looked down. “I am sorry, I am just unused to it is all. We have never had a queen ruler, and I have known you so long.”

Ancalimë seethed and set off down the hall, and the maid followed. “I am not a maiden. I am two hundred years old, and I have waited long enough to have my way. I will not marry. There is no one whom I would marry, and I truly do not expect that to change.”

Her maid was now bent with age, and unmarried as well, for she dismissed any that chose to. But the little lady bowed her head and sighed. “Now surely that is unwise. No one would wish you rule without a king.”

“Well then the land shall be disappointed, for this is my rule, and no one else’s.”

“But do you not wish for love?” the maid asked, grieved. “You are lonely, I know this. You talk to yourself. You wander at night, and never speak to your family except to bid them leave.”

She made her way to the balcony, and wished to be left alone, if nothing else, if somehow the highest office in the land would still not let one live as they wished. When she had been young, Aldarion had once promised she would have everything she had ever wanted. Aldarion appeared to think she wanted different things, for now she was only less free than ever before.

“I am not lonely. You see me talking little because every man who has ever dared to speak with me wishes only to take me as his wife,” she shouted, and kicked open the balcony’s doors. “I do not wish for love, and I do not understand anyone who would. I ask you, for neither are you married. Would you truly wish to give up your autonomy? To share your secrets, your bed, your own body and heart? It seems to me that all lovers have caught a disease I want no part in. I see what it has done to my mother.”

The maid set a hand on her shoulder, and smiled sadly. “I am not married, yes, but I would be if I could. Not all love is as unhappy as that which you come from. I have lived long with my lover, and I would not give her up.”

The queen looked out upon her kingdom, and still did not understand. “I am glad you are happy where my parents were not. But I would not have a woman in my bed either. I enjoy sleeping, and I enjoy being alone. Two things I am already exceptionally deprived of.”

The wind was fair, the sky was clear and the city streets were still decorated for her coronation, though very few were happy to see her take her due, and a thousand relatives and suitors had not yet gotten the order to vacate the palace at once. Far away to the west, Gil-Estel glittered, and was a guide only for those that ventured at sea. It was ever silent to her.

In her hand was a piece of paper now older than half the men in the capitol, and on it was a list, written by her at the tender age of fifteen. She looked down to the maid, who had followed her anyway, and held it up, reading it aloud in a strong and bitter voice.

“Rules I am going to make when I am queen.” She looked down, reading the bulleted list. “Number one, divorce is legal. Number two, my father has to get one. Three, all my servants get free horses and we ride them every day.” Ancalimë turned red, moving on to the next one. “Four, I never have to get married and no one is ever allowed to bother me about it ever again.”

The list went on, for an embarrassingly long while. 

“It appears that most of these things are beyond my reach even now. Already my cousins call me to surrender my crown.” She narrowed her eyes. “But it is mine, and as long as I can I will live how I wish. Tradition means nothing to me, and my father is not here. This is my palace, and I shall sleep in the royal chambers. Alone. You may inform the rest of the staff of this order. I am tired.”

The maid frowned, bowing and hurrying away. Ancalimë threw the list to the wind, and closed the door, walking with head held high, holding still to her dwindling ground, high above all others. 

The weight of the family hung like cobwebs upon her crown. The decisions of Elros were not hers. No legends ever taught made space for such a queen. When she had as a child walked through these massive libraries, all stories of the ancients were love stories.

Her mother had told her when she was young that Númenor was no place for a sane woman, and all was but a collection of the power fantasies, the land of gift to happy men. Her mother told her she would never be happy. But her mother had told her many things, and most were nonsense.

Perhaps the land of gift was not made for her, nor would it remember her well. But she inherited it whether anyone wished her to or not, and Tar-Ancalimë would live as she willed.

Far away on the open sea, Aldarion spent his last days on stormy waters, free as a child, and knew he should never have married. Near enough, on the ports of Rómenna, Erendis stood again as a sailor’s wife, and did not speak nor weep, grey and spent on nothing she had been able to keep. Though free of the house of Elros she would never be, the daughter of the ill-pairing would never suffer from such an affliction, and did not grieve it one bit.

[extrasfromthevoid]

Draxum's Accidental Child Acquisition (part 1/?)

@tmntbestsibscompetiton

Summary: How Milo (though that's not yet her name) found her way into the Hidden City and into the care of the one and only Baron Draxum

OR Draxum's adventures in parenting.

----

In an innermost back alley of New York City, there is a very bored girl.

The plain red ball she’d been given—or found, she doesn’t remember—is nice, but she’s running out of games she can play on her own with it and there’s no one around to play with her.

She picks up the ball once again as it rolls back to her feet from where she kicked it against the brick wall.

The city around her thrums with activity, but the late hour means that there’s no one around.

How did this lone child end up in the depths of New York City alone? Well, even she doesn’t know that. It doesn’t matter to her anyway as the sole thought at the forefront of her mind is that she is incredibly bored.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a curious flicker of light in the corner of her eye. Looking up, a curious orb of light zips over her head.

Mesmerized, the rubber ball drops from her hands as she reaches up for the light. It weaves gracefully through her fingers before darting away, its pale blue light pulsing cheerfully. Without hesitation, she chases after it, heedless of the rubber ball bouncing away behind her, quickly abandoned.

The orb zips around the corner into a nearby alley and—strangely—through the wall behind a dumpster. She—being two and a half by generous estimates—didn’t even notice as she crossed a threshold from the surface city, to the hidden one. — She loses sight of the fun orb pretty quickly, but new wonders catch her attention pretty quickly as what once seemed to her to be a quiet city now explodes with light, life, and color. The toddler twirls around with wide eyes, trying to take in as much of her new environment as possible.

And boy is it a change from before. The surface city was quiet in its own way, save for the sounds of traffic and the occasional dog. She didn’t know, but it was late enough that it was now early, and while the City That Never Sleeps certainly lives up to its name, its comparatively sleepy early morning state can’t hold a candle to the sensory explosion of the underground city.

Giggling, she starts to run down the streets, weaving between the fascinating people walking around. She’s never seen such a fun place before! People walk around with extra sets of arms, horns, tails, wings, and all manner of skin colors and textures, and so much more!

The air smells of hot, spiced food, carts zoom through the air, pulled by creatures she can’t identify. Everything around her hums with life and energy.

It's exciting!

She pushes past two people to reach a balcony over looking a glittering city that follows the curves of the cavern and shining with all the colors of the rainbow.

She stands on the base of the railing though her chin only barely makes it over the top.

“Uh...who’s kid is that…?”

“Dunno. Do you see any panicked parent-looking types around?”

“Nah. Should we bother doing something?”

“Eh…it’ll work itself out. Long as they don’t bug me…”

Heedless, the toddler steps away from the balcony’s railing and continues to wander deeper into this fascinating new environment. — Baron Draxum is all around having a fairly rotten day. The Council of Heads has once again dismissed his concerns about the human threat and Big Mama has once again refused to release Lou Jitsu into his custody. Nothing seems to be going Draxum’s way today and it has left him in a foul mood.

So he’s going to indulge in a little of his favorite vendor food to help soothe his fraying nerves.

Just as he’s about to partake, something thumps into his legs harshly enough for him to stumble, nearly dropping his delectable indulgence and with it, the last shreds of his sanity.

He whips around, teeth bared in a menacing sneer at whoever was foolish enough to run into him. “Watch where you—“

Draxum's rage stutters as his eyes turn down towards the culprit. Sprawled on their back at his hooves is a toddler with two messy buns and a pair of overalls. A human toddler. Draxum wrinkles his nose in disgust as the wretched spawn blinks up at him with wide, dark eyes.

Draxum reaches down and picks the toddler up by the back of their clothes. They weigh very little. “How did you get in here, spawn?” He asks.

To his surprise—and annoyance—the spawn doesn’t answer. Instead, it lets out a shrieking laugh as it dangles from Draxum’s hand, feet kicking out wildly in the open air. It seems to enjoy being held like this, strangely enough.

Curious, Draxum glances around the mulling crowd. Various yokai go about their business, casting occasional curious glances in the direction of him and the human spawn, but none seem eager to claim it for themselves. From where he stands, Draxum spies no other humans in the crowd, and certainly no one that looks frantic enough to have misplaced this little creature.

Did it wander in her all on its own somehow? Draxum wonders.

An idea percolates in Draxum’s mind as he takes a bite of his food, looking over the tiny giggling human in his grasp. Perhaps, this could be an opportunity. After all, how often would Draxum be able to examine and study human behaviors from the outset of their infancy?

And more importantly, shape them. If some disgusting human couldn’t be bothered to keep a better eye on their own spawn, then perhaps it was better off with Draxum anyway.

Curiously, the spawn seems unperturbed by neither Draxum’s appearance nor the general sight of the Hidden City. It continues reaching for Draxum with pudgy hands, repeating the syllable “ba” over and over.

Draxum hums, mind made up. He takes a bite of his treat and then tucks the still giggling human-ling under his arm and walks off in the direction of his home and lab.

Perhaps if he’s lucky, this creature will become an excellent soldier. And wouldn’t it be ironic if the one to lead Draxum’s army to take back the surface world from those disgusting humans was human themself? He smiles a little at the thought. Yes, this may work out nicely.

——— As it turns out, raising a human spawn is harder than Draxum thought. Namely, the specimen—that Draxum has taken to simply calling Spawn—is the most disagreeable and stubborn creature humanity has ever produced. He has determined that Spawn is approximately two and a half years old and biologically of the female variety, but that is about all he was able to discern as Spawn refused to stay still for any further examination and forced Draxum to chase her through the lab, giggling the whole way as if they were playing a game. She may not be very fast on those unsteady legs of hers, but the clutter in Draxum’s lab makes catching her a chore whenever she darts through openings Draxum can’t pass through. Especially since the little creature seems to find Draxum’s frustration with her antics highly amusing.

On top of this, the Spawn refuses to stay in her containment cell during rest hours, either wailing until Draxum comes to quiet her or breaking out herself. Most often the latter.

Spawn spends most of the night crying. Draxum has stayed to observe Spawn as she sleeps to see what exactly causes her such violent distress. So far, he has observed no external stimulus that could be responsible for Spawn’s late night outbursts. His best hypothesis from his observations is that Spawn suffers from nightmares and seeks comfort from him in their aftermath.

Further complicating matters, Spawn is not at point in her development where she is capable of workable speech. The most she is capable of is repeatedly shouting “ba” at him and babbling incoherently as she tries to mimic what Draxum says himself.

Draxum sighs heavily, holding the squirming, giggly human ahead of him from under her arms. “It seems teaching you to speak will have to be our first priority,” he says.

“Prabababe,” she echoes, lightly slapping her hand against Draxum's wrist with her meager baby strength for emphasis.

“That’s right, little Spawn. Priority,” he says, repeating the proper pronunciation of the word the child is mimicking.

“Prabababe!” She cheers loudly.

He sets her down and pats her on her head as he turns to look for a notepad. He’ll have to make a trip to the library and start putting together a lesson plan. Perhaps he should pick up some books on child-rearing while he’s there. Raising a human spawn can’t be much different than raising a young yokai, right? Not that Draxum has experience with either, however.

And then suddenly, there's a cacophonous crash behind him, followed by the piercing sound of crying.

Draxum whips around so fast that his neck muscles cramp painfully. Spawn sits amid a pile of toppled weapons, a rather nasty cut on her right forearm, likely from a wayward blade. Tears leak from her face at an impressive rate as blood wells in the wound and dribbles down her arm, splattering across the floor and soaking into her clothes.

“Ah nuts!” He shouts, diving for the sobbing child.

She curls in on herself, pulling her injured arm close to her chest, further staining her outfit with the blood seeping from the wound, and burying her face into Draxum’s kimono as she wails. Draxum shudders involuntarily as he feels Spawn’s face fluids soak into his clothes.

“Spawn, cease this and let me inspect your injury,” he orders, prying her arm out so he can examine it.

The bad news is that it’s a fairly deep wound. The good news is that it’s also a clean one. While it speaks to the quality of the blade that caused it, it’s deep enough that this will doubtlessly require stitches.

Looks like I’ll need to put those somewhere she can’t reach, Draxum thinks as he digs through a drawer for his medical kit. A little difficult with a child in his arm, but not impossible.

He finds it tucked all the way in the back, of course. Regardless, Draxum retrieves the supplies and sets to work, all while cursing his past self for leaving him so ill-prepared.

Spawn continues to squirm and wail and cry, but Draxum doesn’t let her yank her injured arm away as he expertly stitches the long wound on her forearm closed and wraps it securely with sterile bandages. Fortunately, once Draxum completes the stitches, Spawn’s squirming lessens and her cries quiet down to blissful silence, though one punctuated by an occasional hiccuping sob. Still, it's a great deal better than the shrill wailing Spawn had committed herself to just moments ago.

His work completed and his subject thoroughly exhausted from her emotional display, Draxum sits back in his chair, staring indifferently at the mess of bandages and cleansing solution strewn over his lab table. As if sensing the opening in Draxum's defenses, Spawn wastes no time scooting herself off of the table and plopping gracelessly into Draxum’s lap.

“Hey!” He exclaims indignantly.

Predictably, the little creature pays no heed to Draxum’s protests as she curls up against his chest, gripping his robes with her tiny hands and tucking her wounded arm carefully against her own chest. And she soon falls asleep.

Draxum sighs lightly. “At least she’s finally quiet…” — Draxum swiftly returns a thoroughly exhausted Spawn to her containment cell. Detangling her is a bit of a challenge as her tiny hands are deceptively strong and grip his robes so tightly he’d momentarily feared they’d rip as he dislodged her. Tear tracks dry on her cheeks as she dozes against the pillows, the bandages covering her injury standing out starkly against the dark bedding. Even through the bandages, a faint light shines through, tracing the length of the injury.

The wound has a mystic quality to it that, Draxum concludes. He finds it odd, seeing as the chances of this random human toddler having mystic potential it laughably small. Most likely, that mystic quality came from whatever Spawn cut herself on.

“Still,” he muses quietly to himself. “It may be worth a look. Just in case.”

Packing away his medical supplies, Draxum turns his attention back to the pile of weapons he will need to find a new home for. Preferably out of a certain nosy—and fragile—human’s reach.

Over the course of his long life, Draxum has become steward of many interesting mystic weapons. Some owners return for their stowed weapons, but many never do for one reason or another. Usually it’s because they no longer need it or forget about it, but some are items of terrible power that are better off tucked away and hopefully forgotten by the inevitable march of time. Draxum can only hope that Spawn didn’t cut herself on one such weapon.

Finding the weapon doesn’t take long, as it’s the only one in the pile with bright red blood glistening along its edge.

“Hm. The odachi…,” Draxum muses, picking up the sword in one hand and reaching for the rag with another. “Not the worst possible outcome.”

He’ll have to keep an eye on Spawn for any adverse effects. The blade of this particular odachi is capable of cutting the fabric of space just as easily as it cuts flesh. Draxum can’t rightly say what might happen in this case, if anything at all. It’s doubtful--though not impossible under the right circumstances--that Spawn will gain powers like the odachi’s or lose parts of herself suddenly, but Draxum admittedly hasn’t cleaned the blade in some time, so it is a much greater possibility that Spawn could contract an infection rather than powers.

He’ll have to monitor the wound carefully as it heals. Both for infection and any...peculiarities.

Draxum wipes the blade clean and sets about gathering the weapons around his lab. He rather quickly finds himself eyeing the loose, breakable beakers of caustic chemicals littering the surfaces within reach for the heedless spawn now in his care.

Part of him now regrets his impulsive decision to take in such a small, fragile creature, but…hopefully the results will be worth the present headache.

(Next)

[totheidiot]

yeah just read the egg and like i have been thinking. it's a very half-baked idea but hm. light yagami as that main character man in that story, the man who died from the car accident. like, are you getting me? light is not going to heaven or hell so what if there wasn't heaven and hell to begin with actually? the universe is an egg and he is all of these different reincarnations actually, he was every single human being and the universe was made for him. in the egg, the main character died from a pretty normal car crash, light has his canon death in that staircase and he finds himself wherever the original egg story was set. meets with the narrator who is inexplicably supposed to be God. that back and forth conversation between light and God, where God reveals stuff about reincarnation and how it works, telling him also about he is everyone. a point about if he really was everyone who ever lived, then that means that he was once L or near or misa or mikami or every single person that he has ever written in the death note. it's revealed that he is on the path to becoming God but just not yet. one day he will be but he's still not grown enough. and then, he is sent on his way to his next life. i might write a piece about this, like it's going to be copy paste the egg story but changed up to fit death note and light.

[currycurrie]

Just finished writing a first draft of the first episode of that horror podcast I've been thinking about on and off for a few years now. Sharing here cause fuck it. I have no idea if the subject matter is interesting to anybody but me tbh. Maybe let me know if this is anything if you feel like reading. Script under the cut.

(BEGIN Episode 1)

(Sound of turning off car, car door opens and shuts as someone gets out, fumbling with phone then it starts ringing with an outgoing call.)

(General soundscape: quiet, woods, distant river flowing)

 LAVINIA: (nervous, annoyed): Come on, Mae, ya gonna pick up or what?

(Few more beats of outgoing call ringing)

 MAE: (Sound of call being answered, bright and extremely cheery) Hey! There’s my girl! How’s it going, La? You make it to the site?

LAVINIA: If by site you mean the absolute middle of bumfuck nowhere, yeah I made it.

MAE: Ooh - cheerful as ever, my dear! And - (fake gasp) Lavinia! We’re at work! You better watch your fucking language! (Mae laughs)

LAVINIA: (reluctant chuckle) Okay, yeah, just walk me through this again please. I am feeling wildly underqualified and out of my depth here. 

MAE: Oh it’s stupid easy, you’ll be fine. Okay, you got the bag from the back seat? 

LAVINIA: Yeah, it’s here.

(Sounds of bag unzipping and rummaging around, paper, glass bottles, fabric)

MAE: Well there’s some protective gear in there, you got your hazmat suit, a respirator, some goggles, gloves, your little booties (Mae snickers, Lavinia sighs) and your personal dosimeter, right? Start suiting up. 

LAVINIA: Right, gotcha.

(Sounds of fabric rustling and effort as La puts on the protective gear)

MAE: So, look around, you see those sign posts around the area? 

LAVINIA: Yeah?

MAE: Each one of those is a site where you gotta take some soil or water samples and get a reading with your geiger counter. Label the sample, write down your reading, take some photos, and voila! You’re done! Move on to the next site. 

LAVINIA: Just casually sending your local fuck up to measure some radiation. Right. Excellent. 

MAE: Oh calm down, you’ve got your protective gear, and the clean up of this place was finished years ago. There is nothing here to worry about. I gave you a total softball for your first one!

LAVINIA: (muttering under her breath, annoyed, sound of zipper, voice now slightly muffled by respirator) This hazmat suit was made for giants. I feel like a kid wearing their dad’s clothes or something. 

MAE: Yeah well it was sized for Nathan who called out today. Best we could do on short notice. And ya know, I don’t think they even make suits for pipsqueaks like you. (Mae snickers)

LAVINIA: Ugh. Fine. Just- What’s next?

MAE: Is your personal dosimeter on? 

(Fabric rustling, beep as button is pressed)

MAE: Great! So in the bag you got those papers (bag and papers rustling) And those papers are the form you fill out for the inspection! It’s pretty self explanatory. You got your basic overview of the site, timeline of clean up actions, estimated ranges of radiation to be expected, what to take photos and samples of, etcetera. 

LAVINIA: (papers flipping) Makes sense. 

MAE: And the little glass containers in your bag! (bag rustling, glass clinking) they’ve got blank labels on ‘em to fill out as you take the sample. You with me so far? 

LAVINIA: Yeah, uh, (papers flipping) are you sure this place is safe? Radium? Isn’t that the shit that killed Marie Curie? 

MAE: (long drawn out groan, footsteps through grass as La begins walking) Trust me, you’re fine. This place is already cleaned up, you’re gonna get some radiation levels slightly higher than expected background but nowhere near as bad as like an x-ray or taking a long flight or (pointedly) smoking cigarettes everyday, Lavinia. 

LAVINIA: Fine, fine. Point taken. 

MAE: We just have to do this song and dance every few months cuz the government says so. Between you and me, the property owners are just waiting for the radiation to decay enough so they can build something shitty here like “luxury” apartments or another Walmart or something. 

LAVINIA: Right.

MAE: I know you’re just the shop mechanic, but there really isn’t any special training you need to do this job.

LAVINIA: (footsteps stop) “Just” the shop mechanic? (audible smirk)

MAE: Oh christ, (heavy sarcasm) Lavinia Clarke you are the most glorious and genius mechanic of automobiles this side of the Mississippi. All of the guys’ work trucks would simultaneously implode without your expert guidance. We would be doomed without you! Better?

LAVINIA: (laughing) You were laying it on a little thick. But, better. (Footsteps begin again)

MAE: (also laughing now) Good.

LAVINIA: (Footsteps stop) I’m at the first sign now.

MAE: Great! Just let me know if you need help with anything.

(Various sounds of La getting to work, digging, glass, camera, writing, papers. Notably, sounds of geiger counter turning on and slow clicking begins.)

LAVINIA: So what was this place exactly?

MAE: Well, way back when before the glorious advent of backlit screens, people needed to be able to read certain stuff in the dark, right?

LAVINIA: Okay.

MAE: Like their watch or dials on an airplane. Important shit. So they used radium. Because it glows in the dark and how bad it was for you wasn’t super known at the time. And this place used to be where they painted the radium on that stuff. 

LAVINIA: Oh, yikes.

MAE: No wait it gets worse. 

LAVINIA: (with emphasis) Oh, yikes.

MAE: So they tended to only hire women to do the painting. And, get this, they instructed the women to use their mouths to get their paint brushes to a fine point. 

LAVINIA: No, they were basically eating radioactive paint?! 

MAE: Yep! I did a whole paper on this in my freshman year of college. Basically the only reason we have worker’s compensation laws now is because some of those women who got really sick sued the shit out of their employers.

LAVINIA: Good for them.

MAE: Yeah! I mean they all pretty much died out before or shortly after the cases were settled, but they did win in the end. There’s a whole book about it I have at home if you’re curious. 

LAVINIA: I might actually take you up on that. Okay that’s this site down I think.

MAE: See? You’re a natural! 

LAVINIA: Yeah this is… not terrible. 

(Footsteps begin again, geiger counter clicking very slowly begins to pick up pace as La walks.)

MAE: (with exaggerated customer service voice and intended sarcasm) We here at Aster Remediation Co. take the happiness and welfare of our employees seriously. 

LAVINIA: (laughing) Okay next sign. Looks like it’s in the middle of where a building used to be?

MAE: Yeah, if I’m looking at this right, (papers flipping) you’re in the middle of the old workshop. 

LAVINIA: Oh weird. 

(Repeat sounds of La working)

MAE: Yeah, they had to knock down all the buildings here because they were too contaminated to be repurposed. 

LAVINIA: Is that common? That sounds really bad. 

MAE: Oh no its super common. It’s usually the easier route to just knock it down and remove the debris. Actually scrubbing down a whole building and then managing the waste water and all that is a huge undertaking. 

LAVINIA: Right. Okay. 

MAE: Besides the workshop wasn’t the biggest problem spot here. 

LAVINIA: No?

MAE: Yeah the company went bankrupt and had to close down real quick. But they had all this radioactive material and no money to dispose of it properly. 

LAVINIA: I think I see where this is going. 

MAE: What is a poor corporation to do? The answer was dig a big hole in the backyard and dump everything in it. 

LAVINIA: Right. Of course. We’re literally steps away from the Susquehanna river. 

MAE: Yeeeup. 

LAVINIA: I feel like it would have been better if they just left everything as it was? Instead of going out of their way to hide it. 

MAE: Funnily enough, yeah. Would have made clean up a lot easier. And it wouldn’t have leached radiation into the local water supply via said river. 

LAVINIA: Christ. 

MAE: But don’t worry! It’s all fixed now. Because we cleaned it all up. Now comes the boring stuff that you’re doing. 

LAVINIA: Right. And this couldn’t have waited for Nathan to get back or you to do it why?

MAE: Because today’s the report due date! If we don’t send in everything today we could get in trouble with the EPA or something. I don’t know. I just do what I’m told. 

LAVINIA: And you?

MAE: Pfft. I’m dispatch. I can’t exactly schedule and monitor all our guys from the middle of a field in rural Pennsylvania. 

LAVINIA: I guess. 

MAE: It’s not that deep, and you’re really helping me out of a bind here. 

LAVINIA: True. You and Nathan both owe me one for this. 

MAE: That I can’t deny, but good luck getting that grumpy asshole to buy you a drink or something. 

LAVINIA: Right. That’s it for this one. Last one is… (papers flipping) in the woods behind these buildings. Oh this is the dumping site hell hole you were talking about. 

MAE: Yup! 

LAVINIA: Great. Fantastic. 

MAE: It’s a hole in the ground not Chernobyl. 

LAVINIA: Easy for you to say from your office, and not here in a hazmat suit with a geiger counter. 

(La begins to walk towards the last site, and the geiger counter sharply increases as she draws near.)

(Sudden sounds of someone shouting for Mae in the background of the phone call.)

MAE: Oh shit what now. Okay. I gotta run. I’ll call you when I’m done. Sorry! (call ends)

(La sighs and keeps walking to the site. The quiet of nature interrupted by the geiger counter is deafening and La begins to feel uneasy.)

(La with breathing audible and shaky, begins humming/singing under her breath to help fill the silence Mae left. Song: Science Fiction/Double Feature) 

(La’s personal dosimeter begins to sound an alarm out of nowhere. La begins cursing out of surprise and fumbles with it)

LAVINIA: Error? Stupid piece of shit.

(Sounds of beeping as La begins pressing buttons and then the alarm is silenced. Footsteps continue and La begins humming again.)

(La makes it to the site and the geiger counter is the strongest it's been yet.)

LAVINIA: Okay. Made it. Just gotta-

(Repeat sounds of La working.)

LAVINIA: Right, now just gotta get a sample from the river.

(Footsteps start. Background noise of river becomes louder.)

(Sounds of La crouching down, bag, glass, hand in water etc.)

(There is a sound as if someone stepping on a twig and it snapping uncomfortably close. La makes startled sounds and curses under breath.)

LAVINIA: Hello? (beat) Anyone? (beat) Fuck this. I need to get the fuck out of here. 

(Sounds of La packing up her gear and starting to briskly walk back to the car.)

(Suddenly the geiger counter sounds are maxed out and the personal dosimeter begins to alarm again.)

(inexplicable sound effect, like static, distortion, geiger counter, alarm all blending. La screams but it is cut short.)

(END Episode 1)

[starzdeath]

ahaha guess who found out their notifications have been broken for the past few weeks