#or explain the intricacies of something i barely understand.

[apocalypticdemon]

I am so beyond ready to quit this job. Wednesday cannot come fast enough.

[ozzgin]

Is it just me or can I imagine a yandere with a darling who’s immune system and possibly everything about them just screams weak and pathetic, BUT their darling is actually very strong mentally and has and will create the most fucked up, batshit crazy inventions from what used to be harmless to something that can help them escape and possibly destroy everything in its path.

But at the end of the day, they become sleepy koalas who hug whoever is near them and fall asleep :)

This could be a request or rant, whatever you can think of! I just wanted to see how different yandere writers would interpret this small imagination of mine <3

But as always, stay safe and take care! everyone needs a break some time to time~

Sorry, but the moment I read the Darling's description, I instantly thought of Dr. Finkelstein from Nightmare Before Christmas. You know, Sally's inventor. 😭 So let me quickly write this down while I'm in my Shelley vibes, because I like the idea a lot. With a little twist, if you don't mind. :)

Yandere! Monster x Inventor! Reader

A frail inventor, and their affectionate rag doll that has been carefully stitched together for the purpose of a caregiver. An artificial existence, trapped within the confines of your lonely tower. Or so you might think.

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, obsessive behavior

"I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel..." [Frankenstein]

You dangle an old, rusty bell for a good minute before leaning back in your chair. The barely audible chimes are quickly swallowed by the loud, mechanical groans of the gears and engines occupying most of this room. No matter, his ears are good. You picked them yourself. And surely enough, within moments, the door to your laboratory opens and someone cautiously walks in.

A tall, slender man. Or rather, something meant to resemble a man. The skin is a clumsy patchwork of blues and grays - you're no talented seamster, sadly - gathering together the body parts in what feels like a parodic attempt at mimicking God and his image. You gaze at the creature approaching you with a tray of tea and sweets. Scarcely your best work, if you must adhere to honesty. Regardless of the quality of your labor at the time of creation, you are proud of the result. How could you not be? You know this man better than you know yourself. Every organ, every artificial nerve cord, every blemish and stitch of his body was placed according to your intentions. A masterfully detailed project that took you years to complete; not an easy feat considering the lamentable state of your health.

"Here's your deadly nightshade tea." The man places a small, porcelain cup on the desk. "Do let me know when I should take you to bed, (Y/N)." You wave your hand dismissively and stretch out your limbs. "Not yet. I am almost finished", you respond, returning to the mound of metal scraps and pipes before you. "Can I ask what you're making?" The pale creature lowers himself to your level, a curious smile plastered on his face. "It's a mechanical heart", you reveal boastfully. "Like the one I have?" You run your hand through the creature's hair affectionately. "Almost. I'm testing out a different way to build the valves, for a more efficient pumping cycle." You continue to explain the intricacies of your novel mechanism, occasionally sipping on your tea. "Who knows, you might have a sibling in the near future."

The man's smile drops in an instant, and his sunken eyes widen at your statement. "What? Am I- am I not enough?" You glance at the creature as he becomes increasingly frantic. "Don't speak nonsense. If it comes out alright, I'll upgrade your own parts as well. I'm a disciple of scientific virtue, of continuous improvement." Nonsense? Vile treachery! You might've chiseled the brain that throbs within the walls of his skull, but his mind is his alone, and you seem to lack a fundamental understanding of his feelings and thoughts. His ardent confessions of love are met with mockingly pitiful grins, in the way a parent soothes a needy child. Even now, your eyes reflect nothing more than sympathy towards his protest. A childish tantrum is what you're most likely thinking. You've no time for emotional bagatelles. He can read you like an open book.

You simply won't understand. There is no place for a stranger in the life he's crafted with his very own hands: you, and him, and the evening tea with a side of butterscotch biscuits, and the bedtime talks, and the stripped branches of the decaying tree that rap at the windows on stormy nights. You might be the Inventor, but he is not just a mere, humble servant, a rag doll to be tossed around or toyed with. As you will soon discover, after all.

You awaken in the midst of night with your temples burning from a much too familiar headache. Although it's not just the pain that has disturbed your slumber. You can hear rattles and thuds coming from the upstairs laboratory. An intruder? Oh, your creations! The sound of glass breaking and metal scraping sends you into spiraling despair. You fumble to reach the nightstand, patting the surface in search for the bell and keys. You shake the handle in a panic, unable to find anything else in the darkness.

The chaotic rustle abruptly stops, followed by descending footsteps. You hold your breath as the chamber door opens, but it's none other than your creature. "Another flare-up? Shall I bring you some medicine?" the man asks with monotonous courtesy. "What have you been doing? What's all that noise?" you demand, agitated, but upon lifting yourself off the mattress you discover your legs are numb and uncooperative. The man hurries to your bed with a worried frown, and you hear the familiar clatter of the keychain coming from one of his pockets. "Have you taken my keys? Cease this foolishness at once!" Indifferent to your reproach, he places a firm hold on your shoulders and forces you back down, tucking you in effortlessly.

"You must forgive my impertinence." he says in a pleading tone. "I do not wish to impede the works of your genius. As your partner, however, it is my duty to prevent you from making mistakes." You furrow your eyebrows at his words. "What mistakes? My invention was flawless!", you argue fervently. "Indeed it was, but not its purpose. What need have you for another being?" It is the creature's turn for a passionate speech. He stands up with a confidence you don't recognize and continues: "You should know by now that I am fit to perform any role. That of your servant, your caregiver, your lover, or anything else you may desire. You can resume your tinkering starting tomorrow, but such blasphemies to our bond as the one today will not be tolerated." He straightens his vest and reaches for the door handle. "I will prepare some tea to help you rest."

Inconceivable. Your own creation, built with your own hands...Has something escaped your attention? His dialogue is deranged, tainted by madness. "Have I done something wrong?" you mumble to yourself, deep in contemplation. "Nonsense." the creature turns to face you briefly. "It was you who created me after all. Everything is perfectly splendid."

[vergilscatgirl]

── .✦  A Gentle Shred of Humanity ♡

𖥻 Pairings ; Vergil/Fem Reader, Vergil/You.

𖥻 Content Warnings ; Explicit sexual content (18+), reader is fem-bodied (though no gendered pronouns are used), porn written with plot, fingering, penetration, creampie, praise, situationship to lovers, partially vocal Vergil, slight obsession if you squint.

𖥻 A/N ; I’m not sure why I wrote this. I had this idea since I began writing “Humanity Isn’t Easy” (A fic I’ve been working on for about a week now), Vergil may be OOC, but I’ll let you all be the judge of that. I haven’t written smut in the longest time, but feedback is greatly appreciated. A big thank you to @dantescatboy and @fragmented-stars for beta reading this for me and providing feedback. ♡

Vergil struggled to navigate humanity and the intricacies it held within. Whether it be socially, romantically, or platonically, little did it matter; for he still found difficulty in truly comprehending its meaning.

Meeting you brought a whole new perspective. It has been weeks since he returned to mankind — despite the icy demeanor he upheld to, you begun to pierce through the defenses he built; albeit, minimal chips at the exterior, it was progress. What you two shared wasn’t a romance, but it wasn’t platonic either. Gentle touches interlaced with dulcet conversations, exchanged fleeting glances at one another during work.

He was uncertain about the emotions he was experiencing towards you, it seemed like a far away concept, baring no sense of familiarity. It was obvious a connection of some form was developing between the two of you, but comprehension failed him. It took time to even acknowledge the probability that he had the capacity to have feelings for someone, especially someone who was human. For most of his life, Vergil denied his own humanity, yet in the time he sought it out, he hesitated when addressing it head on.

Later that evening, when you approached his room, to him it came as a surprise. He hadn’t foreseen your visit to his door at such a late hour in the night. Granting you a silent nod of acknowledgment, the door opened further, welcoming your entry.

And that’s what led to this.

You lay, nestled in his embrace, amongst the dark of the room that encircles you both, with the moonlight above casting the floorboards and walls with a luminescent blue. His grasp on you was gentle, holding onto you as if he never wanted to relinquish you — while he couldn’t explain why. 

“What are we?” You would ask, out of the blue. “We act like lovers, but are we really even that?”

“I have no answer to that,” was his terse response. The uncertainty gnawed at him — beyond his exterior, he was keenly aware you two had a connection of some form, though the prospect of it developing into something more was a thought he dared not address. “Are you wanting a relationship with me?” He found himself inquiring aloud, seeking clarity to calm his ever growing musings.

“That’d be nice, yeah.” 

The silence that lingered between you two felt interminable; as if a century had gone by. He found himself without words, adrift in indecision. For a man who thrived on seeking, knowing, understanding the truth of what he sought after, grappling at the concept of romance in its entirety proved to be an arduous challenge.

“Is there anything in particular you had in mind?” Idle hands remain on your body, cherishing your warmth against his own.

Your face would flush in response to the unexpected  question. “Not..exactly, no.” Your hands explore the texture of his chest, soft traces along the skin.

“I am unable to understand what is included within a relationship — beyond the usual, we already do what contributes to a connection, aside from sex, if that is what you’re implying that you want from me.”

Your face would heat up even more, if that was even possible, face pressing firm into his chest. This was definitely not the implication you intended, however if that were to be the outcome, you wouldn’t deny him.

“If that is what you wanted of me, I’m sure I could provide it for you.” With a gentle glance towards your crimsoned face, hidden within the confines of his body, he almost found a smile gracing his lips, which manifested into a mere tilt at the corner of his mouth. 

“I mean.. I.. don’t really.. well..” You mumble incoherencies, unable to find your wording, arousal clear in your tone, an ache igniting within you; mutters turn into mere, hushed noises. 

“Only if you wanted to, that is. I’m not fully informed on the subject, though that may change.” His voice looms above, hand raising to caress your hair in placid strokes in an attempt to calm your growing nerves.

“I mean..I wouldn’t mind.. if.. we..” You truly were at a loss for words, taken aback by the forwardness of his statements.

It was as if time had come to a standstill; his movements are precise—premeditated, every maneuver found purpose. His grip on you remains as delicate as before as your body lays beneath him, a near yelp escapes your lips. His gaze locks onto you, unwavering as his hands leisurely explore along your body, as if noting every unique detail he could find. 

“I will ask this once, and I want you to be entirely honest with me,” his voice resonates from above, “are you wanting this with me?” 

If you weren’t aroused before, you certainly were now, the pruriency aflame within you formerly boils to a further degree, pooling between your thighs — you stare at him, the moonlight casting a glow on his features. Frigid, azure eyes reflect sincerity, seldom seen beyond his typical austerity, lips compressed into a firm line, awaiting your answer.

“Yes,” your hands raise from your sides, serene in your movements, cupping his face. Butterflies flutter within your entire being, his arms enveloping your body with such admiration, as if you were the most beautiful creation humanity had to offer him. 

Calculated motions, timing stilled in hushed breaths in the fever of the moment — grasps at your shirt, peeling it away from your body with intent. Desperate, tremendously so, though his composure never falters, he endures the ache, testing his displicine; to him, this moment was not about intercourse, it wasn’t an act upon lust, nor passion — a chance to produce a connection anew, restoring the jagged bond between you two, to piece together the sporadic fragments of his humanity. He can feel it in the way you caress his body, lips parting to disperse near discernible whimpers. You were his fortitude, his longing, his humanity. He yearned to discover that exhilaration which intoxicated him so sweetly, something he pursued for so long, now right within his grasp.

Sultry breath fans along your collarbone, leading to your neck. Coarse hands ensnare your frame, treading circles into your skin, seeking out more, sparing no time to ease your shorts down your thighs. Your body radiates heat, sweat glistening along your skin, all you desire is him in the moment, your mind running vacant. “Your body is of God's most divine creations.” His tone rings true, fingers pursuing elsewhere, curling around the waistband of your underwear, to guide it down, slick coating its fabrics. “You poor soul,” he murmurs into the alluring warmth of your skin, inhaling the essence of your scent.

Fingers taunt your skin, earning a gasp from your lips, a singular finger slipping into your silky and soaked heat, your pussy clenches around his digit, enticing him in further. “How I adore hearing you,” he adds another, your hips bucking up to meet his penetrating motions, gliding out, only to plunge right back in. Your breath was caught in your throat, moan after moan rolls off your tongue, the sounds you make urges him further. His thumb strokes your clit, in careful, precise circles. You can sense your climax approaching, deep within your abdomen, a coil burning alight, your cunt gripping his fingers so firm.

 “Vergil, oh god, Vergil,” you weep to him in utter desperation, hand reaching to his hair, tangling your fingers within his unkempt silver strands, slick with sweat. The needs within you boil over, noises falling upon his ears like a graceful song, cunt smearing his hand with your juices, coating the sheets below, and it’s sloppy; and you’re so close, each gasp that leaves your lips, glossy with spit, chest heaving—

His actions halt, fingers slipping out of your pussy, a trail of slick following. A pitiful whine slips from your throat. “Why did you-”

“Quiet,” was the only response he would grant you, his tone carrying the weight of an unspoken command. Rising to his knees before you, his belt unfastening in a brisk manner, his hardened cock finally being freed from the refinements of his pants. Your eyes broaden at the sheer size of it, worrisome that you may be unable to fit it. As if reading your expression, he supplies with, “and you can take it, my love. I am positive you can.”

With his body pressing against yours, you surrender to his touch, fingers finding place in his sweat-coated hair much like before. His own find home on your hips, gentle and light, kneading into the skin.

“You are my everything,” he leaves no time for your response, cock easing into your sopping cunt, ceasing only to watch as your eyes cycle upwards, a soft cry breaking through the air. A kiss brushes your temple, followed by the weight of his own as he respites there. “I have you, my love.” He pulls himself from your heat, only to push himself back in, relishing in the way you clamp around his cock. He stifles a groan, the now harsh thrust of his hips melting away your composure, his right hand leaving its place to begin circular strokes at your clit. The coil burns anew, if your whimpers are any give away to the pleasure capitulating you. You’re so full, and the immense pleasure stirs within your entire body. You can tell by the way his thrusts grow sloppy that he’s close himself. “Vergil, please, I.. I’m so-”

Your words matter not, for his labyrinth of thoughts entraps him, “my everything, my light,” his praises ring in your ears, bringing you closer to your climax, “my own gentle shred of humanity, for you have made me feel alive again.”

You seize, body trembling as your climax washes over you, a loud moan igniting the air, your fingers digging into his hair, whimpering out babbling incoherencies. He continues on, guiding you through your high, before succumbing to his own, a final sharp thrust of his hips as he fills you, his cum flooding within you, a moan finally escaping him. He stays there, noting the heavy rise and fall of your breathing, your body against his. He presses a gentle peck to your forehead, brushing your hair from your eyes. “I love you.”

And you were his; his ever present humanity, a guidance to his troubles, his light in the dark, something to cling to in his journey through life, to never relinquish, to never let go of.

[midnightwind]

I'm making the almost kiss messier, for me (okay technically this is a few days after, but close enough) if you don't like the idea of Spite being into the Rookanis relationship, maybe don't read this lol

Summary: Spite tries to help. Things might be worse now. (just kissing and little touches, very pg, lot of yearning tho)

Word Count: 1705

She stood numbly before the pantry door, her heart in her throat. An air of guilt hung heavy around her shoulders. She had tried to give him space, busying herself by helping Taash and Bellara outside the Lighthouse. Things had felt so fragile and she was almost petrified that she had egged him into doing something he didn't want. But she wanted to visit Treviso and it felt wrong to go without at least inviting him. So she tentatively raised her hand and knocked gingerly on the door.

“Lucanis?”

There was a quiet shuffle from inside, but it was brief. She cracked the door slightly, unsure. If he was properly resting, she didn't want to ruin that. He was perched on the cot, slumped back against the wall. A cup was cradled in his lap, fingers slack. Had he fallen asleep halfway through a cup of coffee? She couldn't help the fond smile that tugged at her lips. He'd make a mess if he startled awake. She slipped silently inside, the door closing quietly behind her. With soft steps, she padded to his side and paused.

She had reasoned the intrusion with the idea of moving the cup then seeing herself out, but now that she was close she seemed to freeze. His shoulders rose with each breath, slow and peaceful. The heavy bags under his eyes were more obvious from this close and even though he was finally, finally sleeping, the exhaustion hung heavily from his features. She wanted to ghost feather touches along his jaw, card her fingers through his hair, press gentle kisses to his skin, anything to coax the stress from him. Her hand started to reach for his cheek, unbidden, before she caught herself. Grinding her teeth in frustration at the desire, she turned the motion to the cup. Her fingers had barely brushed the dish when his hand suddenly wrapped tightly around her wrist. He moved so quickly she almost screamed, her instinct to jump backwards halted only by his iron grip.

“Rook.” Her moniker curled from his mouth with Spite's low voice.

Her heart skipped a beat, wincing as the demon pulled her closer. “Hello Spite.” She smiled nervously. “Your grip hurts a little, could you… be gentler, maybe?”

Their eyes narrowed, mulling over the suggestion just long enough for her to worry he'd leave bruises on her skin. And then the pressure lightened, still firm, but measured now. “Rook is. Trespassing.”

“I…” Her mind raced to find an excuse before she sighed. “Yup. Sure am.”

A wide, toothy grin spread across their lips. “Good. We can talk.” And then he was scowling, an annoyed growl rumbling free. “Lucanis has been. Hiding. Avoiding. Won’t explain anything.”

She could feel heat rushing to her cheeks. “O-oh, I don't know if I…”

“Rook will explain.” 

It didn't sound like a request, but neither did it feel like a demand. It was more just… an expectation. An understanding that she was simply someone who would answer his questions. It left her a little dumbstruck. Explaining to the demon the intricacies of messy mortal relationships didn't thrill her, but it would be a bigger fight to try and escape. And maybe she'd get some answers herself.

“I can try.” She offered slowly. “Emotions are complicated.”

“Rook will know.” His words had more bite to them this time, grip squeezing. “You will. Stay close. Need to show.”

A thrill of alarm shot through her, heart hammering against her ribs. It felt like a bad idea. “Alright, but… let me find something to sit on. Being hunched like this is uncomfortable.” When he didn't move she offered up a wane smile. “I won't run. I promise.”

He let out a displeased hum, but let her go. She did snatch the cup as she stepped back, placing it on the little side table before she turned to assess the pantry. With only a little sigh, she dragged a crate to the cot and sat down primly. Spite closed the distance in an instant, face close and eyes bright. Nerves had set her hands to trembling, unease curling in her stomach, but she kept her face placid. 

“Why does Lucanis. Refuse himself?” He asked suddenly, voice low. When she only offered him baffled blinks he almost snarled, bringing their hand to caress her cheek. “He thinks. Of touching Rook. Like this.” Their thumb traced the line of her jaw, a little rougher than she would have expected, but it set her heart fluttering all the same. “Always wants to touch. So many different ways.” The wandering motion dragged their palm across her cheek, leaving a trail of warmth before their fingers tangled in her hair, holding her in place. “Wants to be close. Thinks of it. Constantly. So why does he not?”

She could feel the flush creeping up to her cheeks. “Only Lucanis can really answer that. I'll only have guesses.”

That did earn her a frustrated growl. Her heart was back in her throat at the noise and Spite was narrowing their eyes again. A dangerous grin slowly crawled across their face. Spite brought their free hand up to tug her hair free from the pins that held it in place. She didn't dare move as it cascaded to her shoulders, barely daring to breathe. He dragged their fingers through her hair, trapping a lock and pulling it to their lips.

“Like fresh blood. Fire dancing in the hearth. Warmth in the bones.” He purred. 

A strangled noise was all she could offer. Both hands cupped her face, trapping her gaze with his purple blaze. They were so, so close again. Her breath hitched.

“Storms at sea. Sun through glass. Sharp edge of knives.”

He bent their face to the crook of her neck, beard ghosting along her skin. She shivered. Their breath was warm and it felt like the ground disappeared from under her feet. The world reduced to the space between them, a sliver of distance barely maintained.

“Red berries and jasmine. Dizzyingly sweet. Smells of desire.”

That sent an electric spark through her veins, her pulse jumping. She shouldn't be hearing this. The urge to run screamed through her, but Spite had placed a hand on the side of her throat. Their fingers were tangled again in her hair, their wrist pressing down on her shoulder, and that single weight felt crushing. She couldn't move. Their free hand traced the pointed edge of her ear.

“Lucanis wants. So does Rook. Can smell it. Hear it. Feel it.” He brought their face back to hers, head tilted, lips hovering over hers. “Yet you both. Refuse. Why?”

She swallowed thickly, her voice hoarse and wavering. “Fear.”

That seemed to give him pause, though he didn't retreat an inch. “Of what?”

“Expectations.” The words fell unbidden, rasping whispers. “Disappointment. Pain. Misunderstanding. There's… so much that surrounds feelings like this.”

Their brow furrowed as he digested the idea. The moment felt like it stretched on forever under their caging grasp. And then she watched as he dismissed the thought. “Needless. Solution is simple.”

The distance disappeared before the alarm could settle in her bones. Spite's kiss was a hungry need, clumsy but forceful. He moved their other hand from her ear to her cheek, trapping her completely. It would have made her laugh if she had been able to form a thought. Part of her was screaming to run, of course, but the other part simply felt relief. A need finally answered, content to exist in the bruising kiss for eternity. She clawed at their chest, grabbing a fistful of their shirt, but wasn't able to bring herself to push them away or pull them closer. The sharp bite of teeth ripped a gasp from her, more surprise than anything, and Spite finally relented. When he leaned back, he had a wolfish grin as he licked blood from their lips.

“Simple.” He purred.

And then his presence vanished like smoke in the wind and she was left being held by a Lucanis who was struggling to take it all in. His eyes staggered over her loose hair, the deep flush to her skin, and her wide eyes. Her breaths were too fast, shoulders shivering. He could taste iron on his tongue and something else, something new. They stared at each other, both petrified, before the curse finally slipped from his lips, quiet and wondering.

“Mierda.”

It seemed to startle them both, his hands leaping away from her as if he had been burned. She stumbled backwards off the crate, pushing her bangs out of her eyes just to have something to do with her hands. Her gaze was focusing anywhere but on him, unwilling to see the look on his face. Would it be horror, or want? It felt like both would break her heart right now.

“Rook,” his voice was staggering, uncertain, “I-”

“Sorry,” she cut in sharply, a nervous laugh coloring her words. “I just- Spite had questions and I- Sorry.” She took a clumsy step towards the door. “I think… I need air.”

It was her turn to run, stumbling past the tables and chairs. She didn't stop until the dining room doors were closed firmly behind her. Pressing her back to them, she slid to a crouch. Head in hands, she took gulping, shivering breaths. There was a knot in her chest, a confusion of emotions. She had wanted that from Lucanis, but she liked it from Spite, too. That caused a worrying flip in her stomach. She did not want to pick that feeling apart right now. Shaking fingers dabbed at her lips, feeling the shallow cut the demon had made. The bastard left a reminder for her. It caused her to groan, pressing her palms against her eyes.

“Rook?”

Her head shot up in alarm at Bellara’s voice. The elf was paused at the bottom of the walkway to Neve’s room, a bundle of papers clutched to her chest. She took a tentative step forward as Rook shot to her feet.

“Are you okay? You look… Did Lucanis do-”

“No!” She cut in sharply, launching herself from the doors and almost running past the Jumper. “That was not Lucanis.”

[cr4yolaas]

blue spring — until we're old and wrinkly

prev: remember to be patient! | masterlist | next: my blue spring

he picks her up from her place, something she isn't accustomed to just yet. the sunlight barely peeks out from behind his figure. it's a warm sight.

kageyama planned the entire day out — she caught a glimpse of it on his notes app, typed out neatly and with little details for him to remember — and she finds it foreign to have someone else handle everything for her. when they stand before the museum, she thanks him quietly by slipping her hand into his and pretends to not notice the perspiration on his palms or the flush of his cheeks. the cues of spring happen to be on full display today, given the vibrant blossoms and the light breeze in the air, despite it already being june.

june, she ponders. spring is no longer with her, gone with the wind. she reminisces over late march, in which she had taken it upon herself to tutor her calculus seatmate, despite the inconvenience it created for her routine. she recalls early may and all of its disruptions, from her stepfather to the exhibit that tore apart pieces of her well-being. her gaze falls to the much rougher hand encapsulating hers, and she hopes that june brings about something better.

they walk around each floor together, their fingers loosely intertwined and their footsteps following the same tempo. he finds himself excited to listen to her ramble about each work that interests her. while he doesn't quite understand her observations about color theorems and medium combinations, he does understand the ardor that drips from each whispered syllable. he understands the complexity of her love for the intricacies that she describes. he understands why he likes her so, so, so much.

"i requested to host an exhibit here before," she mutters while they pause to sit and rest. there's a small bench placed in the center of one of the exhibition rooms beneath a dim light. in truth, kageyama feels like it's just them in the room. "mainly because it was convenient, but also because i dreamed of it when i was a kid." he watches as she scans each work with childlike wonder. the thump, thump, thump of his heart only drums heavier against his chest with every passing second.

his thumb grazes over her skin absentmindedly, as if to soothe himself. "what happened after?" he whispers. he's scared that if he speaks too loud, the delicacy they've constructed around themselves will shatter.

she takes a breath before she responds, and he braces himself for whatever explanation she has. "they didn't accept my work because i was too young, by their standards. something about how they wanted seasoned talent." her thumb copies his, albeit with a little more force. "it was odd. it feels weird to be here now, seeing what they would've wanted up on their walls. but i don't really mind it now."

he can't take his eyes off of her. her words spill from her lips with ease and he soaks it all in, as if it's a healing prayer. the effect she has on him is devastating, he realizes, but he doesn't want it to wither away for a second.

they sit in silence for a while. a handful of old couples shuffle by, their hands interlinked, and he wonders if he'd find himself in that position with her. tourists filter in and out and speak in quiet dialects he can't comprehend, but he enjoys the noise. she does too. it's comfortable, despite how odd it feels on her skin, and she can't find herself fighting it anymore. when he asks if she's ready to leave, she questions the last time she was able to relax. she scavenges through her memories, searching relentlessly for a moment of rest that felt as easy as this, and she finds nothing. so, earnestly, she declines. she asks him to sit with her for a little bit longer. he doesn't complain.

he wants to ask if she'd be content with continuing their routine, where he comes over on thursdays and listens to her explain complicated topics until the sun sets behind the horizon. he wants to ask if he can keep buying her iced coffees with hints of cinnamon and lavender until she grows sick of them. he wants to ask if she's ever envisioned them together, old and wrinkly, walking hand in hand. instead, he asks her if she's truly, genuinely happy.

"of course i am. you're here, after all."

that's more than enough for him, he decides.

--

kageyama doesn’t want to drop her off yet, but with the moon hanging high in the sky and the building lights slowly diminishing, he knows he can’t ask her to stay with him any longer. so, with heavy footsteps and a heavy heart, he walks with her up the stairs and down the hall of her apartment building, and his chest aches more and more with every inch closer to the doorway.

his hand departs from hers, and he feels foolish for being so clingy. she swivels around to face him. his jacket rests on her figure, the result of his overwhelming concern from moments prior. it’s the same one he left at her house weeks and weeks ago. the memory is still fresh in his head.

“i had a lot of fun today,” she muses while fidgeting with the zipper. she doesn’t want to take it off yet, and she reasons with herself that it’s only because the breeze is heavy and the night is cold, but she knows there’s more to it than that. “thank you, tobio.”

at her call of his name, he finds himself hopeless. he can’t stop himself from pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, and he can’t stop the confession that he spills out shortly after.

“i think i’m in love with you,” he whispers against her skin. their noses are barely touching. there’s a minty essence to his breath, a glimmer in his eyes, and in his words, there’s a bountiful amount of raw, unfiltered emotion. she can tell it isn’t a new realization, given by the way he utters it so readily. “so much so that i’d let you tutor me until we’re old and wrinkly.”

“really?” she laughs, the sound light against his ears. “that’s a long, long time.”

“i don’t mind. as long as it’s with you.”

she doesn’t tell him that she shares the sentiment, but she isn’t sure if she really needs to tell him. the small smile she gives him and the soft peck she places on his cheek says everything he needs to know.

𝜗𝜚 next chapter is the last one !! thank u for reading blue spring :)

𝜗𝜚 i hope that this chapter really encapsulated the shift in yn's life from something much more solemn and bitter to something colorful and light since that's really where the title comes from

𝜗𝜚 blue spring was initially just a random title i came up with, but when i searched it up i found out that it means "youth" or a "fresh start." i felt that this fit super well with the general plot as not only did yn lose a lot of her youth to her workaholism, but she also got to experience a fresh start in her life by meeting kageyama

𝜗𝜚 this chapter is super duper cheesy but i feel like kags is a very cheesy guy anyways

𝜗𝜚 also does this count as them being official in ur guys' eyes ? i was very conflicted on whether or not this chapter would be the last one because i felt that i wasn't very sure on how to show the transition from "more than friends less than lovers" to being in a relationship where you can confess your love, so i was about to make this a "time-skip" sort of chapter where it's already out there that they're in love. in a sense this makes this chapter a filler ,, but it felt wrong to not talk about their date </3

𝜗𝜚 also the dog reaction pic is an inside joke that no one else will understand bc none of my irls follow this account (and i hope they never find it </3)

𝜗𝜚 also also i watched wifty while finishing this up bc i miss it sm :( zhangrai my otp

taglist: @mfcherry @eggyrocks @scxrcherr @yuminako @girlkissersco @diorzs @causenessus @kyo-kyo1 @k0z3me @shironagi @lovingvi @bunninio @hisfuture @lilchubbyyy @gsyche @ghostreader0307 @fiannee @minimarkive @aboutkiyoomi

[skywalker1dream]

part of the stuck with stranger series

Navigating Love's Secret Path

part one | part two | part three

note: I will add summary later, I am working on other fics and I'm little lazy but read it and you will find out and it need little editing too. hope you like it, and I hope you are having a goo day or night, drink water and eat healthy. bye ;3

warnings none?

@barcelonaloverf1life @bokutos-babyowl

----------------------

As the revelation hung heavy in the air, tension crackled between you and Carlos like an electric storm brewing on the horizon. His gaze searched yours, seeking answers, understanding, perhaps even forgiveness for not knowing sooner. But the truth remained, casting a stark light on the intricacies of your burgeoning relationship.

Carlos's brow furrowed as he struggled to process the unexpected twist. "Your sister?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "But… but I had no idea… that you….."

You watched as the shock registered on Carlos's face, his features contorting with a mix of disbelief and dawning realization. It was as if the ground had shifted beneath his feet, leaving him adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

In that moment, you knew that nothing would ever be the same again. The revelation had shaken Carlos to his core, casting a shadow over the fragile bond you had built together. And as you stood there, caught between past and present, you couldn't help but wonder what the future held in store for you and Carlos.

Before you could say anything, Lando, oblivious to the bombshell he had dropped, chimed in with his trademark grin, "Yeah, I thought it was time for her to see what all the fuss is about in the paddock."

Carlos's gaze flicked from you to Lando and back again, his expression unreadable. "I… I need a moment," he managed, his voice strained.

You watched as he turned and walked away, his steps heavy with the weight of newfound knowledge. And as you stood there, grappling with the ramifications of the revelation, you couldn't help but wonder how this unexpected turn of events would shape the future of your relationship with Carlos.

As Carlos walked away, his mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Betrayal wasn't a word he associated with himself, yet the revelation had stirred doubts he hadn't anticipated.

He found a quiet corner in the paddock, away from the prying eyes and the cacophony of the racing world. Leaning against a wall, he closed his eyes, trying to make sense of it all.

Did he betray Lando by developing feelings for his sister? The thought gnawed at him, twisting his gut with guilt. Lando had been more than a friend; he was like a brother. And now, here he was, entangled in a romance with someone so closely tied to him.

But then, amidst the guilt, there was a flicker of something else. A warmth in his chest, a longing that refused to be extinguished. His feelings for you were real, undeniable, and he couldn't simply ignore them, no matter how complicated the situation had become.

As he grappled with his conscience, a voice interrupted his thoughts. Lando stood before him, his expression a mix of concern and confusion.

"Carlos, what's going on?" Lando asked, his brow furrowed with worry.

Carlos hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. "I… I didn't know, Lando," he admitted, his voice heavy with regret. "I never meant for things to get so complicated."

Lando's confusion deepened. "What do you mean?"

And as Carlos struggled to find the words to explain, he realized that the path ahead was fraught with uncertainty. Love had thrown him a curveball, and now, he had to navigate the complexities of his feelings while confronting the possibility of losing his best friend in the process.

Certainly! Let's explore another direction:

Carlos took a step back, his mind reeling with the revelation. The thought of betraying his best friend gnawed at him, clouding his judgment with a heavy sense of guilt. He never intended for things to unfold this way, for his feelings to complicate what was once a simple friendship.

"I… I need some time," he finally managed, his voice strained with emotion.

Lando, sensing the tension, nodded solemnly. "I...okay, I understand, Carlos. Take all the time you need, If you want to talk I'm here, mate"

As Carlos retreated to gather his thoughts, he couldn't shake the feeling of remorse that weighed heavily on his heart. He had always prided himself on his loyalty to Lando, but now, he found himself caught in a web of emotions he couldn't untangle.

Hours passed, the buzz of the paddock fading into the background as Carlos grappled with his inner turmoil. Was it worth risking his friendship with Lando for a chance at love? Could he live with the consequences of betraying his best friend?

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice you approaching until you were standing before him, your presence a soothing balm to his troubled mind.

"Carlos," you said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. "We need to talk."

He met your gaze, seeing the concern etched in your eyes, and felt a pang of guilt wash over him. "I'm sorry, (Your Name). I never meant for any of this to happen."

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "It's not your fault, Carlos, its mine . I should have told you sooner but I got scared."

As you spoke, Carlos felt a glimmer of hope stir within him. Perhaps there was a way forward, a way to navigate the complexities of your relationship without sacrificing his friendship with Lando.

Carlos and I exchanged hesitant glances, the weight of the revelation still heavy on our minds. After a moment of tense silence, I took a deep breath, gathering the courage to broach the topic.

"Carlos, I think... I think we need to talk," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his expression serious as he met my gaze. "Yeah, we do."

We moved to a quieter corner of the paddock, away from prying eyes and curious ears, where we could speak freely.

"I know this is... complicated," I began, choosing my words carefully. "But I don't think we should tell Lando just yet. Not until we figure out what this... what we... mean to each other."

Carlos listened intently, his brow furrowed in thought. "You're right," he agreed after a moment. "We need time to sort through our feelings before we involve anyone else."

Relief washed over me at his understanding. "Exactly. I don't want to hurt Lando, but I also don't want to rush into anything and make a mess of everything."

He reached out, gently taking my hand in his, a silent reassurance of his support. "We'll take it slow," he promised. "And when the time is right, we'll find a way to tell him together."

With a shared understanding, we knew the path ahead wouldn't be easy. But as long as we faced it together, with honesty and care, we believed we could navigate the complexities of our relationship and emerge stronger on the other side.

As we stood there, hand in hand, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope amidst the uncertainty. And with Carlos by my side, I knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, we would face them together, united in our love and determination.

In that moment, with you by his side, Carlos knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, he was ready to confront them head-on. For in you, he had found a love worth risking it all for, even if it meant defying the expectations of friendship and loyalty.

------

As I approached Lando in the bustling paddock, he turned towards me with a bright smile. "Hey there! What's on your mind?" he asked, his eyes full of curiosity.

I returned his smile, though my mind was preoccupied with the weight of the conversation I'd just had with Carlos. "Just wanted to catch up with you, Lando," I replied, trying to keep my tone light.

Lando nodded, gesturing for me to join him. "come on, I was just thinking about grabbing a coffee. Care to join me?"

Before I could respond, Carlos appeared beside us, his presence catching me off guard. I tried to hide my surprise, but Lando noticed the brief hesitation.

"Hey, Carlos!" Lando greeted him with a grin. "Perfect timing. We were just about to head for some coffee. Care to join us?"

Carlos glanced at me, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features before he nodded. "Sure, sounds good."

As we walked towards the coffee stand, Lando chattered animatedly about the upcoming race, effortlessly filling the air with his infectious energy. Meanwhile, I stole glances at Carlos, silently communicating the need to tread carefully in front of Lando.

The three of us settled into a cozy corner of the café, sipping our drinks as Lando continued to regale us with stories from past races. Despite the weight of the unspoken truth between Carlos and me, I found myself getting lost in the easy camaraderie of the moment.

"So, what's the plan for later?" Lando asked, turning to Carlos with a grin.

Carlos glanced at me, a silent plea for help in his eyes, before turning back to Lando with a shrug. "Not sure yet. Any suggestions?"

Lando's eyes lit up with excitement as he launched into a myriad of ideas, each more adventurous than the last. And as we laughed and joked together, I couldn't help but marvel at the delicate dance we were performing, keeping our true feelings hidden beneath a facade of friendship and camaraderie.

But deep down, I knew that sooner or later, the truth would have to come out. And when it did, I could only hope that our bond with Lando would be strong enough to weather the storm.

[your-local-simp-writers]

Finding Words

Word Count: 727

Warnings: None

Miles Morales x Fem! Hispanic! Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

(Y/N) had been friends with Miles for quite some time now. Their bond was special, a connection built on shared laughter, inside jokes, and countless moments spent together. Despite their close friendship, there was something unspoken lingering between them, a magnetic pull that neither of them could ignore.

One sunny afternoon, (Y/N) found herself in Miles' room, sitting on the edge of his bed. They were engrossed in a conversation, sharing stories and laughter as the hours ticked by. (Y/N) had always admired Miles' passion and dedication, the way he put others before himself without hesitation. It was a quality that drew her closer to him, making her heart flutter in ways she couldn't fully comprehend.

As they continued talking, (Y/N) couldn't help but bring up her struggle with Spanish. Being Hispanic herself, it had always bothered her that she couldn't speak her native language fluently. Her parents, for reasons unknown, had never prioritized teaching her Spanish. It left her feeling disconnected from her heritage, longing to bridge the gap.

Miles, ever observant, noticed the longing in (Y/N)'s eyes and the slight frown on her face. He knew that he wanted to help her, to make her feel more connected to her roots. With a determined smile, he offered to teach her Spanish, hoping to bring a touch of her culture back into her life.

They sat cross-legged on the floor, a Spanish textbook and a notepad in front of them. Miles patiently guided (Y/N) through basic phrases, pronunciations, and vocabulary. He was surprisingly adept at explaining the intricacies of the language, despite his normally blunt and stone-faced demeanor.

(Y/N) listened attentively, trying her best to mimic the words and phrases. She stumbled over the pronunciations, causing both of them to burst into fits of laughter. It was a lighthearted moment, a testament to their enduring friendship and shared sense of humor.

After a while, Miles paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He leaned closer to (Y/N), his voice soft and low. In a hushed tone, he whispered, "Me gustas, (Y/N)." The words rolled off his tongue, his Spanish accent giving them a unique charm.

(Y/N) blinked, her heart skipping a beat. "What did you say?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity and a hint of nervousness.

Miles chuckled, realizing that he had caught her off guard. She repeated the phrase back to him, "Me gustas," and this time, his eyes locked with hers, brimming with unspoken emotions. He had just confessed his feelings for her in Spanish, hoping that she would understand the depth of his affection.

(Y/N) felt her cheeks flush, a wave of emotions washing over her as it had finally clicked. She took a moment to process what had just transpired. It was a beautiful revelation, one that left her breathless and filled with a mixture of joy and uncertainty. She mustered the courage to speak, her voice soft yet determined.

"I like you too, Miles," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. And with those words, she leaned in and gently pressed a kiss on his cheek, her affection and gratitude mingling in that one tender gesture.

Miles' eyes widened in surprise, a blush spreading across his face. He couldn't contain the joy that swelled within him, knowing that his feelings were reciprocated. He reached up to touch the spot where (Y/N)'s lips had met his skin, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

In that precious moment, they shared a profound connection, transcending language barriers and unlocking a new chapter in their friendship. The room was filled with a sweet, unspoken understanding, as they sat there, basking in the warmth of their feelings for each other.

And as they sat there, side by side, basking in the glow of newfound love, (Y/N) couldn't help but feel grateful for the twists and turns that had led her to this moment. Sometimes, the sweetest surprises were found in the simplest of encounters, and she knew deep in her heart that her journey with Miles was bound to be extraordinary.

[pastanest]

Gale Boetticher x reader

A/N: first thing I’ve ever written for this character/universe but I only recently finishing Breaking Bad (yeah I’m 8 billion years behind Ik) and this man is my mf POOKIE so pls be nice x

warnings: as of writing this I’ve not seen Better Call Saul but I’m aware Gale’s in it so if anything contradicts pieces of his lore found there PLEASE DO NOT SPOIL IT I’ll come back and amend them after I’ve seen that show as well if need be - will be using gifs from bcs tho bc there are barely any gifs from Gale in bb on the internet for some reason

Being Gale’s S/O Would Include

- first of all, Worlds Giddiest Boyfriend™️

- no like actually

- gives very much in-awe-of-everything-his-S/O-is-and-does vibes

- every single thing you tell him you’ve done is a monumental achievement to him, even down to something as simple as going to the grocery store

- LOVES to explain sciencey things to you, regardless of whether you understand the intricacies or not

- in fact, better if you don’t bc he loves going into even more detail just to make it easier for you to wrap your head around

- LEAST condescending person ever, does not believe himself to be smarter than you or anyone else (he is a genius but he’ll only blush and shake his head when you call him that) and is thoroughly impressed by everything you do and know that is outside of his area of expertise

- the king of chivalry

- opening doors for you, pulling a chair out for you, paying the bill at a restaurant, standing up whenever you walk into a room if he’s not already standing, kissing the back of your hand whenever he says goodbye to you; regardless of your gender, Gale Boetticher IS pulling out all the classic romantic stops for you

- is actually a big fan of PDA but not in a making-out-in-public way, more of a will-blush-for-three-business-days-if-you-kiss-his-cheek-in-public-one-time and absolutely loves it

- the fact that you’re proud to be his and proud to love him in front of others makes this man’s heart sing for you

- incapable of giving you anything less than the most heartfelt and expressive compliments you have ever heard in your life

“You are the prettiest star I’ve ever seen.”

“Every atom that makes me the person standing here before you, thanks you for being who you are.”

“If an asteroid hit this exact spot and you, right now, are the last thing I ever see, I will live to be the happiest man there’s ever been.”

- unbeknownst to you he actually has a separate notebook filled with compliments and poetic tidbits that he thinks up whenever he daydreams of you and then saves them up to tell you later

- doesn’t care whether you’re vegan or not obviously but will cook you the most fire vegan dishes ever known to man

- will play records just to slow dance around his apartment with you crying as I type this one fr

- will zone out and smile so fondly, just thinking of you

- the sweetest and most attentive partner in the entire world

- memorizes your every like, dislike, quirk and interest so that he can plan the most perfect dates out for you, surprise you with the most thoughtful gifts and ensure at all costs you avoid things/people/situations that could result in you feeling upset/uncomfortable

- Gale is finely tuned to your emotions and will notice IMMEDIATELY if something’s not quite right with you

“Hey, is everything alright? Actually, don’t answer that; I noticed your hands have clenched marginally more than normal over the past 15 minutes so if you’re comfortable enough to tell me why, I’d love to know, but if not, please just tell me what I can do to make whatever this is better for you.”

- stop it I adore him

[diazfox]

I have a lot of thoughts about Red, White & Royal Blue (both the book and the movie). If you manage to read through the whole thing, I would love to hear your thoughts and feelings! Please feel free to interact. If you don't feel like reading through the brain dump of a random girl from nowhere, here's a summary: movie was great, but the book remains undefeated, plus a pathetic attempt at rallying for a petition to make this into a series.

I first read the book in january 2023 (I was very late to booktok I'm sorry) and have been obsessed since then. I have re-read it multiple times and have pages of annotations in my pdf copy. as a huge literature nerd, thematic expressions, plot and character development mean so much to me. While it's not a crime to interpret this book as an idealistic and purely romantic piece of fiction, I think there is plenty to value in the way family, politics and self-discovery is illustrated in the novel.

To me, it's really the intricacies that give so much to life to many scenes and characters. June standing up for Alex even when he never outright asked for it, staying in the white house for him instead of pursuing her own dreams. June feeling trapped and chained down being born into a life of politics, while Alex, entirely optimistic and determined, revels in it. Nora being introduced as a tech junkie who gives it to him straight while June is the more soft-spoken one, but Nora being the one to deliver the most important cold hard truths that wake Alex up multiple times throughout the book. How Alex is who is because he has these 2 girls who provide him with 2 different support systems - June who understands the struggles of the public eye, the divorce of his parents, being biracial, and Nora who understands the realm of queerness and shares his passion in politics. Rafael Luna's story arc and the triple-crossing. How Alex looked up to him so fervently, how Luna has his own dark past that made him who is today.

and Henry... (cue BIG DREAMY SIGH) The harrowing reality that someone so special not only to him but both Bea and his mom as well left all of them so bereaved that his mom completely shut off and Bea turned to a life of drugs. His father who symbolised everything that the crown frowned upon, and stole his mother's royal-blooded heart anyways. How Henry was probably brought up to be fearless and strong just like his parents but his entire family was snatched from him at such a young age that it left him stranded and lost, leaving him no choice but to follow the path of royal traditions, being pushed and shoved around however they deemed fit. and when he did get older and privy to his sexuality, it was too late to turn back and stand his ground to say "No, I don't want this life." The pills, the insomnia, the piece of himself that's been lost forever, that nothing and nobody will ever be able to replace. Percy being his only escape from the royal lifestyle, how he was willing to share a part of his life's works for Henry to experience outside his mundane royal duties, something Henry chooses to do instead of being forced to. Bea stepping up after realising how she needs to do better not only for herself but for her brother as well, that all they have is each other and she needs to fight for them. Bea being the protective sister who explains to Alex how Henry misses his dad, and that he needs to be comfortable with the fact that there will always be a part of Henry that Alex might never be able to reach. Henry's mom stepping up in the end, not willing to lose her son the way she lost her husband, how Henry is the closest living reminder to the love of her life, born with his heart on his sleeve.

Their emails. Henry and his beautiful monologues depicting grief and love. How he has never bared his heart out like that to anyone, yet when he finally found the right person, everything was leaked to the entire world. The multiple references to historical figureheads and literature that actually give "History, huh? Bet we could make some" all it's meaning.

The tension in the confrontation with the queen. The nervous wreck that election night put me in. The political journey of this book further helped to solidify the idealistic, fairytale-like nature of the novel and its ending. It left me with such an overwhelming sense of comfort, like coming back to my childhood home (quite literally in Alex's case).

Ellen and Zahra's relationship, Oscar and Luna's relationship, Oscar saying Ellen will always be the love of his life... the list is literally endless. I could go on forever. I laughed, I cried, I screamed into my pillow, I stared out my window wistfully, wondering how people can feel so much so deeply.

All these details that bring so much colour and dimension to the plot convinced me that it would be a crime not to make a live action of this book. But that is not to say that the movie was bad. I had already prepared myself beforehand to handle the disappointment of not getting all 500 pages verbatim, and I understand the directional choices made to focus solely on Alex and Henry's relationship, not having the luxury of time. Viewing the movie as something separate from the book, it was beautifully executed and I have already watched it 3 times now.

But... just to put it out there...

Imagine a live action with everything I mentioned above, though. Wouldn't it be lovely to go on all these journeys with all these people together with Alex and Henry? And it's not something completely impossible is it? I think even an animated series would be sublime but is it really too much to ask for the novel to be made into a proper series? I feel like Casey has given us such a wholesome and never-seen-before story that deserves every nook and cranny to be explored and made into film. We have had so many versions of Little Women and Pride & Prejudice, so I'm holding out hope that a rwrb series is not an impossible feat. Taylor and Nick will always be Alex and Henry in my head, but that's something I'm personally willing to trade for a longer series made with even more people and further explorations that the movie couldn't afford to make.

My sister asked me last month why I kept losing my marbles everytime a new photo or clip dropped. Said that "it's just a random book, get over it". I think this book means a lot to many different people from different walks of life. Minority race, being biracial, coming to terms with bisexuality, dealing with divorce, dealing with the public eye, being born into a family that you don't entirely identify with, losing a loved one, dealing with mental illnesses, dealing with grief, standing up to authority, being outed, letting yourself love and be loved. This book encapsulates such a vast array of experiences and emotions that I'm confident that I'm not the only one who feels this strongly about "just a random book".

Casey really did make history, didn't they?

[caeliatus]

A quick preview of a short fic I'm working on about Beatrice and Ava facing the end of the world together. They fly out to Switzerland for their last weeks and find the small things that matter in the time they have left. Mother Superion gets drunk and throws it down on a dance floor. The Universe conspires.

The end of the world breaks on a lazy Friday afternoon as Beatrice directs Ava through the winding roads of town. It’s Ava’s seventh driving lesson, Beatrice’s sixth time instructing–the first time it was Mary, and after that incident the only one brave enough to volunteer was Beatrice–although now, as Ava’s slowly getting a hang of being gentle on the brakes and keeping her hands at the nine and three o’clock positions, Beatrice is more content to sit back and point her way. 

They almost miss it, at first. Ava’s focusing on easing the car forward from a stop, her foot nervously revving the engine as she lets out the clutch. 

“Stop doing that,” Beatrice says, frowning, who seems to never miss any of Ava’s mistakes, no matter how small or inconspicuous–it’d be overbearing if she wasn’t right every time. “You’ll wear out the clutch prematurely. The whole point is to fully engage the clutch in the shortest time possible, by pressing the gas you’re making it harder on the car.”

“But I’m scared of stalling the car,” Ava says. “Plus, I see race car drivers being much harder on the car all the time.” Rally drivers and formula drift were the sort of driving videos she preferred over the dry instructional videos. She’d decided the first time she ever saw a rally driver pinning the gauges at the redline and somehow holding the car at the limit that sport driving was something she wanted to do, and spent hours watching video after video of POV cameras and footcams of championship drivers yanking levers and pumping pedals with the precision and intricacy of a ballet dancer when she should’ve been listening to the more mundane introductory videos Beatrice gave her. Still, when she looks over sheepishly at Beatrice, she’s met with a flat stare and an unimpressed expression. 

“Ava, we’re driving a 2004 Smart Fortwo that’s a hundred miles overdue for inspection. Just keep your foot off the gas and feel out the clutch and engine. Make small adjustments. And stop staring at the tachometer, or else I’ll cover it up with sticky notes so you’ll have to look at the road.”

Ava reluctantly obeys. The car shudders, jerks to a stop. A caution light pops up on the dashboard. 

“Shit,” says Ava. “See?”

Beatrice is used to Ava’s habitual cursing by now. It doesn’t stop her from muttering language under her breath. “Try again. Stop dumping the clutch, it’s engaging too fast and the engine can’t keep up. When you start to feel resistance, slow down and let the clutch bite. You’ll feel it.”

The concept is, at its core, simple enough. Beatrice had explained it for the first time in their shared bed–a tiny twin that barely fit the two of them pressed together side by side–as she dragged her finger lightly over the dips and rises of Ava’s hips. It was the only way she could get Ava to listen, she said, and she was right. A little disconcerting to think that she was being allured into learning about cars in exchange for the mindblowing feeling of Beatrice’s undivided attention on her body, but the orgasms were good and she didn’t really mind, in the end. Tangled in the sheets and wrapped up in Beatrice’s arms, she could listen to anything Beatrice had to say. She doesn’t understand the words but memorizes them along with the curves of Beatrice’s body bathing in the sunlight. Ava focus please, Beatrice will say, and Ava will giggle and reply, How am I supposed to focus when I’m in the arms of such a pretty girl?

Ava turns the key and the car doesn’t start. As Beatrice is reminding her to keep in the clutch, as the engine starts to whine and crank, Ava catches onto the tinny voice coming through the shabby radio that mixes the channels together more often than not. 

“...and indeed scientists around the world are confirming this discovery as politicians and leaders try to contain the panic that is spreading across the globe. This is certainly a very sobering issue, and we advise our listeners to remain calm as the world leaders figure out what our next steps will be.”

Beatrice turns the radio off. “Nonesense,” she says, then points straight ahead. “Alright. Go again. No gas, just clutch.”

“You’re boring,” Ava mutters, but she tries again, this time easing off when the clutch starts to engage, and the car rolls forward.

[hoursofreading]

When I was a little kid, I felt that the adults around me had a thick, rich, complicated understanding of the way the world worked. They knew things – facts, history – and they understood processes and people and the way something like a bond measure or a public authority worked. It was this understanding – which they had, and I didn’t – that made me a child, and them adults. Grownups had an infrastructure of information, truth, and insight that I lacked. As I grew older, I was dismayed to discover that grownups really didn’t know a fraction of what I gave them credit for, and that most of the people ostensibly running the world had no clue how it operated, and my intense disillusionment caused me to lose sight of that adulthood theory for awhile.

But reading this book made me feel like a grownup because it helped me to understand the way the world works as I never had before. This book is about power. It is about politics. It is a history of New York City and New York State. It is an explanation of how public works projects are built. It is about money: public money, private money, and the vast and nasty grey areas where they overlap. This book is about democracy, and the lack thereof. It is about social policy, and economics, and our government, and the press. This book is about urban planning, housing, transportation, and about how a few individuals’ decisions can affect the lives of the masses. It helped explain traffic in the park, and the projects in Brownsville, and a billion other mysteries of New York City life that I'd wondered about. The Power Broker is about ideals, talent, and institutional racism. It is about inequality. It is about genius. It is about hubris. It is the best goddamn book I have ever read in my entire life, hands down, seriously.

Please do not think that it took me five months to read this book because it was dense or slow! This was a savoring, rather than a trudging, situation. Robert Caro is an incredibly engaging writer. One thing that happened to me early on from reading this was that I lost my taste for trashy celebrity gossip. Who CARES about Britney’s breakdown or, for that matter, Spitzer’s prostitute peccadilloes when I could be reading about the shocking intricacies of Robert Moses’ 1925 legislative consolidation and reorganization of New York State’s administrative structure? This book gave me chills – CHILLS! – on nearly every page with descriptions of arcane political maneuvering and fiscal policy so riveting that I lost my previous interest in reading about sex and drugs. Let’s face it: sex and drugs are pretty boring. Political graft, mechanics of influence, the workings of government: now that’s the hot stuff, when it’s presented in an accessible and digestible form. Nothing in the world is more fascinating than power, and Robert Caro writes about power better than anyone I’ve come across. There are no dry chapters in this book; there’s barely a dull page. It is infinitely more readable than Us magazine, and not much more difficult.

Of course The Power Broker is many things, among them a biography. While any one portrait of New York power icons from Al Smith to Nelson Rockefeller is more than worth the price of admission, this book is primarily about Robert Moses. Caro understands and explains the relationship between individual personalities and systems. One of his main theses is that Moses achieved the unchecked and unparalleled levels of power he did because he figured out how to reshape or create systems around himself. The Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority would not have existed without Robert Moses, and Robert Moses would not have been what he was, or accomplished what he did, without the brilliance he had for shaping the very structure of government into conduits for his own purposes. To explain this, Caro needs to convey a profound understanding not only of how these systems worked, but of who this man was. He does so, and the result goes beyond Shakespearean: it is Epic. The Power Broker is the story George Lucas was trying to tell about Anakin Skywalker’s transformation to Darth Vader, only George Lucas is no Robert Caro, and The Power Broker succeeds wildly in the places where Star Wars was just a hack job (of course, Caro wasn’t handicapped by Hadyn Christensen, which does indirectly raise the burning question: WHO’S OPTIONED THIS???).

[bongkillua]

6 tucker and konami 8 konami aaaand 13 konami (today is the day of konamis)

thank god bc i need to work on konami lore more hehehe

6. How does your oc feel about labels? Theirs, or in general?

TUCKER: tucker cared more about labels in the past but has kind of given up on them by the time the wolfsbane narrative is over. he had to be really assertive of his identity when he was younger because he had to defend it a Lot and ur much more believable if you have a Solid Set Of Words u use to define urself. even now though he definitely asserts his masculinity a lot more than jord or xander do and is more picky about the terms you use to refer to him but it’s also like. he thought he was a gay man and then he caught feelings for xander who says a different gender every time you ask so he also recognizes that even the labels he does use are kinda up to interpretation lol. i feel like he still chooses to introduce himself as a gay man when asked even though that’s straight up not how he identifies he just doesn’t feel like explaining everything bc he’s had to defend himself for so long. and if you assume something else before he can explain the stranger-friendly version of himself he’s just going to shrug and go along with it. in terms of like general feelings on labels again he understands the importance of them but is also Definitely going to forget any intricacies you try to explain to him especially if ur a stranger. like he just cannot be bothered to care. like definitely a “just give me your pronouns because i’ll fucking forget everything else sorry.” kind of guy. if someone else tries to start shit though he Will defend the fuck out of someone using Whatever Damn Labels They Please even if he barely knows you.

KONAMI: ok i had to like literally think about konamis entire personality arc for this. so like right after death when he finally starts connecting with people again (tucker and xander), konami thinks labels are really cool even though he doesn’t know what any of them mean. i feel like he likes the idea of being able to explain himself with a Word because they have to relearn themself from the ground up. i think in terms of sexuality he probably re-finds and identifies with “bisexual” pretty quickly bc as much as konami struggles with emotions and how to deal with them he is Very in tune with his preferences especially in regard to people. gender is a whole other can of worms though. pre-death hes very sure of his gender but after dying he forgot his own identity and loses touch with all the stuff he connected with before. he probably spends a lot of time picking people apart about their labels to see if he can Relate To That Too! id imagine it leads to a lot of “i think that’s cool i want to be that too”/“i don’t care about that i would never identity that way.” and very little of it is truly Genuine. over time though as he learns more people’s experiences and understands his own more he starts to genuinely hold some labels close. think a lot of them are related to Concepts like “computer” and “electricity” bc once he realizes that his gender can be Things as opposed to these weird ideas of femininity and masculinity that he just cannot relate to he starts to understand the whole Gender Thing more. BOY though. Boy is his favorite word. that’s their One Gender Word that they relate to so much they don’t want anyone else to have it. He is the Only Boy.

8. Have they had struggles with their identity, be it due to internal or external reasons?

KONAMI: post-death, yeah, but not so much to do with queerness as just identity in general. sorry these answers are gonna be rly similar because it’s hard to explain one without the other. anyways their pre-death life doesn’t feel like theirs to the point where they can’t identify themself in old pictures and obviously that does a lot of weird things to your identity. but for the sake of sticking with queerness he wakes up as a ball of energy in the shape of a body which has been altered (konami got top surgery and was on t pre death and those changes stick upon death) but somehow it still feels… right? and on top of all of that he literally like Can’t grasp the concept of gender because he forgets everything and doesn’t have any frame of reference for like. what gender is. his only frame of reference is Himself which is already gender weird both in presentation and feeling. it’s a really unique experience to have because, like, his struggle doesn’t come from any sort of cishetnormativity being imposed onto him but rather the feeling of Loss from once having an identity and seeing the marks it left behind and no longer being able to understand what got him there. i think it makes him upset because he really Wants to know himself ESPECIALLY when he’s “reintroduced” to who he was before death but he just can’t make the connections. i don’t think he shows it at All though and just sorta avoids the question when it comes up or makes a joke out it/insincerely agrees or disagrees based on how he thinks he Should identify. being surrounded by trans people definitely makes his journey to finding his own identity more Genuine but also makes it a lot longer of a ride. sexuality is a whole different story though LOL as i said before he’s very sure of what he Likes and once someone is like “yeah the word for that is usually bisexual” he’s like cool so i’m DEEEFINITELY bisexual. no struggle there.

13. Would your oc be open to a poly relationship? Why or why not?

KONAMI: i answered this previously but no i think konami is a very monogamous guy. first of all he’s extremely territorial and doesn’t like sharing because he’s been denied connection for so long. this like. is Not the best thing for a relationship but by the time he’s actually to the point where he can connect to people in that way again he’s gotten over it a lot but probably still wouldn’t want to Share a Partner. he’s just very Devoted. even pre-death he was very similar he was a super devoted and loving partner. and a lot of the way that he connects with people is like. one on one experiences and communication and referential stuff so polyamory just wouldn’t make sense to him.

these answers are so damn rambly i’m sorry lol. i like talking about konami though he’s definitely the least fleshed out of the main four at this point. need to fix that.

[existingrentfree]

I sit here once again, grappling with the complexity of my own mind, trying to make sense of the thoughts and emotions that swirl within me. It feels like an unending maze, and the more I try to explain it to others, the more I realize how elusive understanding can be.

Sometimes, it seems that people expect a clear-cut explanation for the chaos that resides within us. But how can I explain something when I am still trying to decipher it myself? It's a battle between my own thoughts, an intricate dance of uncertainty and introspection.

The weight of this burden often goes unnoticed by those around me. They see the smile on my face, the mask I wear to hide the inner turmoil. But beneath it all, there is a constant struggle to articulate the storm that rages within.

It's frustrating, to feel the pressure of explaining something that defies comprehension. It's like attempting to catch smoke with bare hands or grasp at the wind. The more I try to convey the intricacies of my thoughts, the more elusive they become.

Yet, in the midst of this frustration, I find solace in the knowledge that I am not alone. There are others who share this struggle, who also navigate the labyrinth of their own minds. It is in this shared experience that empathy blossoms, and understanding takes root.

Perhaps the truest understanding lies not in finding the perfect words to explain our inner workings but in the compassionate presence of those who listen without judgment. To have someone hold space for our uncertainties and offer support without needing a complete understanding.

So, while the weight of explaining my thoughts may sometimes feel overwhelming, I take comfort in knowing that there are people who genuinely care. And in those moments of vulnerability, I can simply be, without the pressure to dissect and explain every thought that passes through my mind.

As I close this chapter, I remind myself that self-compassion is just as crucial as seeking understanding from others. I will continue to navigate the labyrinth, embracing the journey of self-discovery, and allowing myself the grace to accept that not everything needs to be understood or explained.

For now, I find solace in the words of Rumi, who said, "The wound is the place where the light enters you." And perhaps, in the darkness of my own mind, there lies the potential for growth, healing, and the emergence of a deeper understanding that surpasses words.

Until our next encounter, may I find the courage to embrace the mysterious landscapes within me and find solace in the knowledge that I am not alone.

With introspection and acceptance,

ネジ

[fenharel-is-so-swell]

I’m in the very beginning stages of DAO (I haven’t played it in probably 6-8 years) and oh my gods the way they entice the player to engage in lore. Which is another issue in DAV, they just overwrite it then maybe explain the change away in a throw away codex in a sentence or two. I’m a lore hound and I find myself feeling it’s a chore trying to read DAV codex’s.

For comparison, this is the way lore is framed in DAO:

1. Lore as told by codex, with personal information such as faction of the author included. This provides faction grounding/world building. It often highlights opinion taught to the masses

2. Lore as told be characters. This provides character identity AND indicates dissent from established faction teachings. It adds humanity to the dogmatic writings of Genitivi(sp?) and the like (i.e. Hahrens)

3. Lore as told by the main story—often through the mouths of characters. It provides you enough to follow the world, but if you want the intricacies of faction/sub faction beliefs and how they pertain to past and current politics you are encouraged to delve deeper via avenues 1 and 2 (questions you can ask characters, or going through the codex)

Playing through Veilguard, I’ve realized I have a decent knowledge base for elves, humans (mages, Templars, guilds that include other races), and Qunari but I don’t have much knowledge of the dwarves and I noticed I FEEL like I’m missing info during Harding’s quests. It made me see that while the game spits/ poorly engages with most of the lore it also fails in the face of the number 1 defense of that problem: the devs are introducing new players.

No, they’re not. They’re using hand wavy yada yada and not engaging with/providing info accessible to new players to make the story understandable without established knowledge. It’s incredibly confusing because the overall feel of the game is that it is Exposition+Reboot the video game. Why did they smooth over the differences in the factions and then STILL write a story inaccessible for most people?what new player gives a fuck if that one thing happens to that one guy (spoilers iykyk) because he’s barely involved in the plot?????????? What was the point??? Who is this for?? The game has no audience identity and the writing suffers for it.

Playing through DAO again in between getting tired of Veilguard I’m finding myself even more frustrated because the through lines to DATV are sooooooo there, and I want to feel vindicated and excited but they’re just so poorly explained and sooooo poorly executed.

I was in the camp of retcon (which they absolutely do considering the opinions of Dalish elves v city elves and Qunari culture w/ comments Taash makes that erase the dangerous existence of the Tal vashoth). Now I’m more firmly in the boat of “how did you royally fuck up something with SO much potential”. You had two paths and you took neither of them. You didn’t write this game as though everyone who touched it would be new; and you didn’t write it as through everyone who touched it would be a seasoned DA fan.

It somewhat feels like the devs essentially played up through the joining and meeting Morrigan as a Cousland in DAO, then played trespasser and the other DAI DLCs, and saw fan art of Dorian and Isabella…then just ran with it. Along the way the community council told them “do this thing with this lore” and they did it with no extra thought. Most of it isn’t wrong per se, it’s just so horribly written it loses the plot.

I’m not even a DAO truther. I’m playing with a skip combat mod because I hate the mechanics and don’t love the aesthetic. I’m much more of a DA2/DAI girl but wow, how we have fallen.

I don't want to join the group of fans that reduce Veilguard's issues down just "retconning" because I truly believe it's a far deeper problem as a whole, where there is very little, if any at all really, attempting to engage the player in the lore and changes from that lore ie the Crow's philosophy. So what happens due to that with no acknowledgment of these changes between the previous games and now is old fans use previous knowledge as a framework to apply and when it doesn't match up, it feels wrong and bad and a whole slew of other things.

And knowing this, trying to keep this in mind, any time I think of how the Wardens were written by the narrative I start to whiteknuckle the sink because oh my god what did they DO.

[bao3bei4]

fan language: the victorian imaginary and cnovel fandom

there’s this pinterest image i’ve seen circulating a lot in the past year i’ve been on fandom social media. it’s a drawn infographic of a, i guess, asian-looking woman holding a fan in different places relative to her face to show what the graphic helpfully calls “the language of the fan.”

people like sharing it. they like thinking about what nefarious ancient chinese hanky code shenanigans their favorite fan-toting character might get up to⁠—accidentally or on purpose. and what’s the problem with that?

the problem is that fan language isn’t chinese. it’s victorian. and even then, it’s not really quite victorian at all. 

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fans served a primarily utilitarian purpose throughout chinese history. of course, most of the surviving fans we see⁠—and the types of fans we tend to care about⁠—are closer to art pieces. but realistically speaking, the majority of fans were made of cheaper material for more mundane purposes. in china, just like all around the world, people fanned themselves. it got hot!

so here’s a big tipoff. it would be very difficult to use a fan if you had an elaborate language centered around fanning yourself.

you might argue that fine, everyday working people didn’t have a fan language. but wealthy people might have had one. the problem we encounter here is that fans weren’t really gendered. (caveat here that certain types of fans were more popular with women. however, those tended to be the round silk fans, ones that bear no resemblance to the folding fans in the graphic). no disrespect to the gnc old man fuckers in the crowd, but this language isn’t quite masc enough for a tool that someone’s dad might regularly use.

folding fans, we know, reached europe in the 17th century and gained immense popularity in the 18th. it was there that fans began to take on a gendered quality. ariel beaujot describes in their 2012 victorian fashion accessories how middle class women, in the midst of a top shortage, found themselves clutching fans in hopes of securing a husband.

she quotes an article from the illustrated london news, suggesting “women ‘not only’ used fans to ‘move the air and cool themselves but also to express their sentiments.’” general wisdom was that the movement of the fan was sufficiently expressive that it augmented a woman’s displays of emotion. and of course, the more english audiences became aware that it might do so, the more they might use their fans purposefully in that way.

notice, however, that this is no more codified than body language in general is. it turns out that “the language of the fan” was actually created by fan manufacturers at the turn of the 20th century⁠—hundreds of years after their arrival⁠ in europe—to sell more fans. i’m not even kidding right now. the story goes that it was louis duvelleroy of the maison duvelleroy who decided to include pamphlets on the language with each fan sold.

interestingly enough, beaujot suggests that it didn’t really matter what each particular fan sign meant. gentlemen could tell when they were being flirted with. as it happens, meaningful eye contact and a light flutter near the face may be a lingua franca.

so it seems then, the language of the fan is merely part of this victorian imaginary we collectively have today, which in turn itself was itself captivated by china.

--------------------

victorian references come up perhaps unexpectedly often in cnovel fandom, most often with regards to modesty.

it’s a bit of an awkward reference considering that chinese traditional fashion⁠—and the ambiguous time periods in which these novels are set⁠—far predate victorian england. it is even more awkward considering that victoria and her covered ankles did um. imperialize china.

but nonetheless, it is common. and to make a point about how ubiquitous it is, here is a link to the twitter search for “sqq victorian.” sqq is the fandom abbreviation for shen qingqiu, the main character of the scum villain’s self-saving system, by the way.

this is an awful lot of results for a search involving a chinese man who spends the entire novel in either real modern-day china or fantasy ancient china. that’s all i’m going to say on the matter, without referencing any specific tweet.

i think people are aware of the anachronism. and i think they don’t mind. even the most cursory research reveals that fan language is european and a revisionist fantasy. wikipedia can tell us this⁠—i checked!

but it doesn’t matter to me whether people are trying to make an internally consistent canon compliant claim, or whether they’re just free associating between fan facts they know. it is, instead, more interesting to me that people consistently refer to this particular bit of history. and that’s what i want to talk about today⁠—the relationship of fandom today to this two hundred odd year span of time in england (roughly stuart to victorian times) and england in that time period to its contemporaneous china.

things will slip a little here. victorian has expanded in timeframe, if only because random guys posting online do not care overly much for respect for the intricacies of british history. china has expanded in geographic location, if only because the english of the time themselves conflated china with all of asia.

in addition, note that i am critiquing a certain perspective on the topic. this is why i write about fan as white here⁠—not because all fans are white⁠—but because the tendencies i’m examining have a clear historical antecedent in whiteness that shapes how white fans encounter these novels.

i’m sure some fans of color participate in these practices. however i don’t really care about that. they are not its main perpetrators nor its main beneficiaries. so personally i am minding my own business on that front.

it’s instead important to me to illuminate the linkage between white as subject and chinese as object in history and in the present that i do argue that fannish products today are built upon.

--------------------

it’s not radical, or even new at all, for white audiences to consume⁠—or create their own versions of⁠—chinese art en masse. in many ways the white creators who appear to owe their whole style and aesthetic to their asian peers in turn are just the new chinoiserie.

this is not to say that white people can’t create asian-inspired art. but rather, i am asking you to sit with the discomfort that you may not like the artistic company you keep in the broader view of history, and to consider together what is to be done about that.

now, when i say the new chinoiserie, i first want to establish what the original one is. chinoiserie was a european artistic movement that appeared coincident with the rise in popularity of folding fans that i described above. this is not by coincidence; the european demand for asian imports and the eventual production of lookalikes is the movement itself. so: when we talk about fans, when we talk about china (porcelain), when we talk about tea in england⁠—we are talking about the legacy of chinoiserie.

there are a couple things i want to note here. while english people as a whole had a very tenuous knowledge of what china might be, their appetites for chinoiserie were roughly coincident with national relations with china. as the relationship between england and china moved from trade to out-and-out wars, chinoiserie declined in popularity until china had been safely subjugated once more by the end of the 19th century.

the second thing i want to note on the subject that contrary to what one might think at first, the appeal of chinoiserie was not that it was foreign. eugenia zuroski’s 2013 taste for china examines 18th century english literature and its descriptions of the according material culture with the lens that chinese imports might be formative to english identity, rather than antithetical to it.

beyond that bare thesis, i think it’s also worthwhile to extend her insight that material objects become animated by the literary viewpoints on them. this is true, both in a limited general sense as well as in the sense that english thinkers of the time self-consciously articulated this viewpoint. consider the quote from the illustrated london news above⁠—your fan, that object, says something about you. and not only that, but the objects you surround yourself with ought to.

it’s a bit circular, the idea that written material says that you should allow written material to shape your understanding of physical objects. but it’s both 1) what happened, and 2) integral, i think, to integrating a fannish perspective into the topic.

--------------------

japanning is the name for the popular imitative lacquering that english craftspeople developed in domestic response to the demand for lacquerware imports. in the eighteenth century, japanning became an artform especially suited for young women. manuals were published on the subject, urging young women to learn how to paint furniture and other surfaces, encouraging them to rework the designs provided in the text.

it was considered a beneficial activity for them; zuroski describes how it was “associated with commerce and connoisseurship, practical skill and aesthetic judgment.” a skillful japanner, rather than simply obscuring what lay underneath the lacquer, displayed their superior judgment in how they chose to arrange these new canonical figures and effects in a tasteful way to bring out the best qualities of them.

zuroski quotes the first english-language manual on the subject, written in 1688, which explains how japanning allows one to:

alter and correct, take out a piece from one, add a fragment to the next, and make an entire garment compleat in all its parts, though tis wrought out of never so many disagreeing patterns.

this language evokes a very different, very modern practice. it is this english reworking of an asian artform that i think the parallels are most obvious.

white people, through their artistic investment in chinese material objects and aesthetics, integrated them into their own subjectivity. these practices came to say something about the people who participated in them, in a way that had little to do with the country itself. their relationship changed from being a “consumer” of chinese objects to becoming the proprietor of these new aesthetic signifiers.

--------------------

i want to talk about this through a few pairs of tensions on the subject that i think characterize common attitudes then and now.

first, consider the relationship between the self and the other: the chinese object as something that is very familiar to you, speaking to something about your own self vs. the chinese object as something that is fundamentally different from you and unknowable to you. 

consider: [insert character name] is just like me. he would no doubt like the same things i like, consume the same cultural products. we are the same in some meaningful way vs. the fast standard fic disclaimer that “i tried my best when writing this fic, but i’m a english-speaking westerner, and i’m just writing this for fun so...... [excuses and alterations the person has chosen to make in this light],” going hand-in-hand with a preoccupation with authenticity or even overreliance on the unpaid labor of chinese friends and acquaintances. 

consider: hugh honour when he quotes a man from the 1640s claiming “chinoiserie of this even more hybrid kind had become so far removed from genuine Chinese tradition that it was exported from India to China as a novelty to the Chinese themselves” 

these tensions coexist, and look how they have been resolved.

second, consider what we vest in objects themselves: beaujot explains how the fan became a sexualized, coquettish object in the hands of a british woman, but was used to great effect in gilbert and sullivan’s 1885 mikado to demonstrate the docility of asian women. 

consider: these characters became expressions of your sexual desires and fetishes, even as their 5’10 actors themselves are emasculated.

what is liberating for one necessitates the subjugation and fetishization of the other. 

third, consider reactions to the practice: enjoyment of chinese objects as a sign of your cosmopolitan palate vs “so what’s the hype about those ancient chinese gays” pop culture explainers that addressed the unconvinced mainstream.

consider: zuroski describes how both english consumers purchased china in droves, and contemporary publications reported on them. how: 

It was in the pages of these papers that the growing popularity of Chinese things in the early eighteenth century acquired the reputation of a “craze”; they portrayed china fanatics as flawed, fragile, and unreliable characters, and frequently cast chinoiserie itself in the same light.

referenda on fannish behavior serve as referenda on the objects of their devotion, and vice versa. as the difference between identity and fetish collapses, they come to be treated as one and the same by not just participants but their observers. 

at what point does mxtx fic cease to be chinese? 

--------------------

finally, it seems readily apparent that attitudes towards chinese objects may in fact have something to do with attitudes about china as a country. i do not want to suggest that these literary concerns are primarily motivated and begot by forces entirely divorced from the real mechanics of power. 

here, i want to bring in edward said, and his 1993 culture and imperialism. there, he explains how power and legitimacy go hand in hand. one is direct, and one is purely cultural. he originally wrote this in response to the outsize impact that british novelists have had in the maintenance of empire and throughout decolonization. literature, he argues, gives rise to powerful narratives that constrain our ability to think outside of them.

there’s a little bit of an inversion at play here. these are chinese novels, actually. but they’re being transformed by white narratives and artists. and just as i think the form of the novel is important to said’s critique, i think there’s something to be said about the form that fic takes and how it legitimates itself.

bound up in fandom is the idea that you have a right to create and transform as you please. it is a nice idea, but it is one that is directed towards a certain kind of asymmetry. that is, one where the author has all the power. this is the narrative we hear a lot in the history of fandom⁠—litigious authors and plucky fans, fanspaces always under attack from corporate sanitization.

meanwhile, said builds upon raymond schwab’s narrative of cultural exchange between european writers and cultural products outside the imperial core. said explains that fundamental to these two great borrowings (from greek classics and, in the so-called “oriental renaissance” of the late 18th, early 19th centuries from “india, china, japan, persia, and islam”) is asymmetry. 

he had argued prior, in orientalism, that any “cultural exchange” between “partners conscious of inequality” always results in the suffering of the people. and here, he describes how “texts by dead people were read, appreciated, and appropriated” without the presence of any actual living people in that tradition. 

i will not understate that there is a certain economic dynamic complicating this particular fannish asymmetry. mxtx has profited materially from the success of her works, most fans will not. also secondly, mxtx is um. not dead. LMAO.

but first, the international dynamic of extraction that said described is still present. i do not want to get overly into white attitudes towards china in this post, because i am already thoroughly derailed, but i do believe that they structure how white cnovel fandom encounters this texts.

at any rate, any profit she receives is overwhelmingly due to her domestic popularity, not her international popularity. (i say this because many of her international fans have never given her a cent. in fact, most of them have no real way to.) and moreover, as we talk about the structure of english-language fandom, what does it mean to create chinese cultural products without chinese people? 

as white people take ownership over their versions of stories, do we lose something? what narratives about engagement with cnovels might exist outside of the form of classic fandom?

i think a lot of people get the relationship between ideas (the superstructure) and production (the base) confused. oftentimes they will lob in response to criticism, that look! this fic, this fandom, these people are so niche, and so underrepresented in mainstream culture, that their effects are marginal. i am not arguing that anyone’s cql fic causes imperialism. (unless you’re really annoying. then it’s anyone’s game) 

i’m instead arguing something a little bit different. i think, given similar inputs, you tend to get similar outputs. i think we live in the world that imperialism built, and we have clear historical predecessors in terms of white appetites for creating, consuming, and transforming chinese objects. 

we have already seen, in the case of the fan language meme that began this post, that sometimes we even prefer this white chinoiserie. after all, isn’t it beautiful, too? 

i want to bring discomfort to this topic. i want to reject the paradigm of white subject and chinese object; in fact, here in this essay, i have tried to reverse it.

if you are taken aback by the comparisons i make here, how can you make meaningful changes to your fannish practice to address it? 

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some concluding thoughts on the matter, because i don’t like being misunderstood! 

i am not claiming white fans cannot create fanworks of cnovels or be inspired by asian art or artists. this essay is meant to elaborate on the historical connection between victorian england and cnovel characters and fandom that others have already popularized.

i don’t think people who make victorian jokes are inherently bad or racist. i am encouraging people to think about why we might make them and/or share them

the connections here are meant to be more provocative than strictly literal. (e.g. i don’t literally think writing fanfic is a 1-1 descendant of japanning). these connections are instead meant to 1) make visible the baggage that fans of color often approach fandom with and 2) recontextualize and defamiliarize fannish practice for the purposes of honest critique

please don’t turn this post into being about other different kinds of discourse, or into something that only one “kind” of fan does. please take my words at face value and consider them in good faith. i would really appreciate that.

please feel free to ask me to clarify any statements or supply more in-depth sources :) 

[aysun-demir]

it was her turn to lapse into silence as she listen to him speak, her eyes downcast, staring unseeingly into her cup before she took another long sip. Absently she found herself thinking that she could see how people became addicted to the substance in times of anguish. It did somehow help ease some of the heartache that came with rehashing her past. At the very least, it meant she was more willing to talk about it with a stranger. "You're right," she said after a long moment, her eyes flickering up to his, a fleeting little smile quirking her lips for a brief moment, "I am here...I suppose that's more than some people can say for themselves. We both know how fleeting life can be..." Blowing out a breath, she ran a hand through her hair. "But...thank you for saying that."

She could feel the sincerity all but rolling off him in waves, and it was all the proof she needed to know that the Elders back home weren't completely right about the people of the 'outside world'. Of other Supernaturals. Nico was a clear example that that wasn't the case, and she barely even knew him.

As he began to explain the intricacies of the pack, Aysun listened intently, absorbing all the information like a sponge. She had to admit that, since triggering her wolf, her curiosities about her true self grew exponentially. Obedient as she was, she never questioned the embargo on Supernatural-talk, but now that she was away from all the restrictions...she wanted to know everything.

"That sounds...nice," she found herself saying, almost surprising herself with the choice of words- because it really did sound nice. Like a big family, and honestly Aysun was craving that more than anything lately. "Well, I mean, it's a lot, and some of what you said...I suppose it's something I'd have to experience to truly understand, but...none of that sounds as...daunting as I was led to believe..." Clearing her throat, Aysun chewed at her lip, in clear contemplation. Everything Nico said resonated with her, but it was clear that old habits died hard and she was still a little wary. Even despite his overwhelmingly reassuring presence. She could tell he was a good alpha. And a good friend. "So...what does joining the pack look like?" she asked, "logistically, I mean. Do I need to sign something or...enroll?" Suddenly she paused, a mildly horrified look passing across her features, "...it doesn't involve any blood letting rituals or anything, right...?"

·✥·

As Aysun explained further, he settled back giving her space. The sounds of the party filtered into his awareness, but there was some quiet here, just between the two of them. He could feel the weight in her words, the heartbreak that came with not only leaving people behind, but being pushed out. How it must have felt, to look at her life and not recognize anything in it, not even herself.

He let out a long breath, and just let her story settle into his mind before he said anything. "I can't imagine how devastating that must have been, must still be, to have your whole world shift all at once like that," he said honestly. "The change is never easy, but I think you got the lion's share of challenges." He offered her a rueful smile. "But you're here. You're here, and even if you don't know who you are, or what to believe now, I think it's worth holding on to that fact, because it's no small thing that you're standing here, talking about it. It shows incredible bravery and strength on your part, Aysun." He met her eyes, meaning every word. He had to chuckle a little, with grim humor, shaking his head. "Yeah, it's really not fair at all, it totally sucks. But the pack does help, not just on a physical level but a social one, to not have to go through it alone. So—well, I'll give you a brief rundown now. When someone joins, they gain a psychic connection, called a pack bond,” he explained. “They can communicate with the rest of the pack when they're shifted, or half-shifted. The Alpha—" he gave a gesture towards himself, with a slight cringe, "Looks out for the pack as a whole, and my Second JC does, too. But all the members share that responsibility, we have each other's backs. Technically anyone can take over if they don't like the current leadership, but they can also have it taken from them—so that's why it's often the biggest and strongest who end up leading. Not a perfect system in my opinion, but fairer than some, I guess. What else…" He scanned his memory for only the most vital pieces of information for her. "We've got the Den, a safe space in the woods that only we know about, and designated trails to run on during the full moons. And if you were ever to get in trouble with the town or the law, I'd be the one who steps in on your behalf, with the Council.” He shrugged. “That's kinda the basic package, in a nutshell. Joining is easy enough, but leaving is... hard, emotionally," he added. "I left, for about a decade. Everything in the pack is kinda... built around a pretty fierce social contract, and losing those ties, well... I don't need to tell you, I guess," he finished, with a softer tone. "In my experience no group or leader has all the answers, and I wouldn't trust those that say they do. But I'll always give help to a wolf in need." He scratched at his beard, feeling a little sheepish and self-conscious after saying so many words. "As an Alpha, or just as a friend—if you want."