#the host said its fine to post on other platforms too

[nothingenoughao3]

Hi!

I´ve been planning on making a hard cover Reanimator fanfic book for a while and i would like to know if i could include Dreams in the Necromancer House after its finished! It would be just one book (not selling it) and i´ll give the proper credits both on the summary and the beggining of the story. Im also thinking about doing an illustration of each chapter and putting there, so there´s that too. If it ends up really happening i plan on posting the progress on my tumblr!

We can talk a bit more about it if you have any regards about the crediting stuff or anything like it, but its ok if you dont like the idea too!

Hope you have a good day!

Hi @camelosuspeito! I am going to reply to you in particular, but my opening is going to be generic in case anybody else has a similar question. You've kind of triggered an unskippable cutscene, so I'll let you know that the answer is yes ahead of time. I hope that's okay, and that you're having a good night/whatever your local time is!

Generally speaking, I can only support fan binding of my works if they are offered free of charge, or are personal copies not for sale.

My reasons for not supporting fan binding for pay for my works in particular are simple. I offer all of my fanfiction free of charge. That does not mean that they are free of labor. I've been writing fic since I was sixteen; I'm now in my forties. I've put roughly two decades of practice into creating fanworks. This doesn't touch upon the original works I've produced in that same timeframe, nor having to learn basic HTML to create websites back in the day to host fanworks at a time when they were regularly banned from mainstream platforms, etc.

Despite all that, I am giving my writing for free. To me, the point of transformative fanwork is creating, developing, and maintaining the fandom, in joy and in suffering. I could charge people a fee to access my Re-Animator essays on some other site. That would be the smart move and my bills would sure appreciate getting paid. I don't do that because I am also poor and I feel it would be unethical to put a paywall between impoverished fans and transformative works. I'll probably create a tip jar here one of these days, but that's all it would be--a tip jar for people who appreciate what I do.

Accordingly, I see people charging over a hundred euros for binding fanfic, and I get a bad taste in my mouth. As far as I can tell, nobody on Etsy is getting their own fanfic bound, nor are folks offering fan bindings of their own works. They are taking the labor of a third party and making money off it, and it's really not clear whether any of the fanwriters whose works are being sold even know whether or not it's happening or consented to it.

It reminds me of how in the mid-2010s, somebody went through my AO3 profile and uploaded a bunch of my Star Trek and Twin Peaks fics as ebooks for sale. That troubled me. If they sold one of my fics, that's only five dollars--but it's pretty much pure profit for them, and so very worthwhile. It sucks offering something for free and having people take advantage of that in the name of their own profit.

And again, this is all just about me and how I feel about my work. Other folks can and will feel differently and that's okay! I'm not passing judgement.

Soooooo, all of that being said, you're not doing that. You are asking to do a fan binding of "Dreams in the Necromancer House" for you, and as you've described it here, that's fine with me! If you still like it after it's finished and you want to have a personal copy of it, go nuts with that! I think crediting me as the author on the cover or author's page would be more than enough, given that it would just be yours.

I think seeing your process for producing it would be very interesting, and so would the illustrations! Feel free to tag me as much as you like when you're ready to get going.

[90363462]

Elon Musk Suspends Kanye West's Twitter After INSANELY Antisemitic Alex Jones Interview & String Of Violent Tweets

Kanye West has been suspended from Twitter after a shocking day of jaw-dropping comments both on the social media app and in an interview with Alex Jones.

The 45-year-old rapper focused some of his Twitter attentions on its owner, Elon Musk, prior to his account being suspended late on Thursday. And Ye also used the platform to share a disgustingly inappropriate reference to Nazism and its former leader, Adolf Hitler. Get ready, y’all. This is a lot…

Related: Kim Kardashian Is ‘Relieved’ To Be Done With Ye Divorce — Yeah, No Kidding…

During a few-hour period last night, Ye tweeted several erratic messages. One of them included a picture of Elon standing shirtless on a yacht. Ye joked that its message, which painted Musk in an unflattering light, might be his last on the site.

That’s not what drove the Jesus Walks rapper off the app, though. At one point, he also tweeted a photo of a bizarre symbol that combined a Nazi swastika and the Star of David in one. That image went too far — and Ye was removed from the site. While CNN and others report they have been unable to confirm which post exactly was the one that drove Kanye from the bird app, his account is suspended now.

Elon himself even weighed in about that situation. Early on Thursday, he attempted to show Ye some level of patience. Replying to an earlier tweet from the rapper, Elon wrote:

Jesus taught love, kindness and forgiveness.

I used to think that turning the other cheek was weak & foolish, but I was the fool for not appreciating its profound wisdom.

— Elon Musk (@elonmusk) December 1, 2022

But hours later, it all ended.

On Thursday night, Musk re-addressed Ye’s later comments and image posts. Elon first replied “that is fine” in response to Ye’s tweet showing the “chief twit” shirtless on the yacht. But to the tweet containing swastika imagery overlaid on the Jewish religious symbol, Musk simply said “this is not.” Then, when another Twitter user begged Musk to “fix” Ye (?!), the Teslahead gave a deeper explanation:

“I tried my best. Despite that, he again violated our rule against incitement to violence. Account will be suspended.”

The Space X exec then reiterated his stance on Ye’s ouster in another subsequent response to a second user soon after:

“Just clarifying that his account is being suspended for incitement to violence, not an unflattering pic of me being hosed by Ari. Frankly, I found those pics to be helpful motivation to lose weight!”

Related: Kim K’s Famous Fam Hosts An Emergency Meeting Following Kanye Divorce Deal

Wow.

There’s a LOT of other s**t going on in the Ye universe right now, too.

For one, CNBC reported on Friday morning that Parler execs have called off the deal to sell their site to Ye. As Perezcious readers will remember, the right-wing social media app was set to be purchased by the Chicago-born rapper as Candace Owensworked to get Ye in on it following his first Twitter suspension back in October. But that deal is dead now.

Related: Kanye Hits Back Directly At His Former Hero Donald Trump

More critically, there is also still fallout flying from Ye’s otherdisastrous move: openly praising Hitler and Nazism in an interview with conspiracy theorist Alex Jones published on Thursday. The Gold Diggerrapper appeared in person and wore a mask covering his face and head. On set, Ye made a series of incredibly bizarre remarks. Some were so far out there that they appeared to make Jones uncomfortable, which is saying a lot…

At one point, Ye told the controversial host about how much he loves the Nazis’ World War II-era leader:

“Every human being has something of value that they brought to the table, especially Hitler. How about that one?”

Jones was thrown by the remark, and responded how he felt “most Jews are great people.” Alex also said he believed Kim Kardashian‘s ex-husband has “a bit of a Hitler fetish going on.” Ye replied:

“It’s not a fetish. I just like information.”

Unbelievably, Jones kept trying to calm the situation. (Think about that! The situation was so f**ked, it took Alex f**king Jones to try to walk things back?!?!) The conspiracy theorist told Ye:

“You’re not Hitler. You’re not a Nazi. You don’t deserve to be described as that.”

But the rapper doubled down:

“I see good things about Hitler, also.”

Later in the interview, undeterred over being cast out by Jones, Ye added that it was “time to promote love.” The Yeezy brand head’s suggestion for love looked like this:

“I don’t like the word ‘evil’ next to Nazis. I love Jewish people, but I also love Nazis. … I do love Hitler. I do love the Zionists.”

The f**k…?! That’s sick.

Over on Twitter, that s**t show combined with Ye’s suspension from the platform hours later sent users into overdrive. As to be expected, Ye’s name trended worldwide. And there were no shortage of takes and reactions to everything that went down on Thursday afternoon and evening.

Some shared unbelievable snippets of Ye’s disturbing commentary from Jones’ broadcast, like this clip (below) in which the rapper offers a bizarre wild aside on Israeli politician Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu:

kanye west has lost his fucking mind. pic.twitter.com/6JJvPVyL49

— Marisa Kabas (@MarisaKabas) December 1, 2022

Uhhh…

And other users offered up many more of their own opinions on Ye’s behavior:

“You know Kanye has reached a point of no return when he makes Alex Jones look normal.”

“kanye west has had the most severe fall from grace of anyone in history like you couldn’t even dream this up”

“This is Nazism. When are we going to say ENOUGH?”

“Stop blaming mental illness for Kanye West’s anti-Semitic and racist rants. I have mental illness and know a lot of people who do and not once has it caused anyone to cause bigotry. Kanye is just a f**king loser. Period.”

“Kanye West has been suspended from this app. He shouldn’t have been allowed back to begin with and he should never be allowed back again. Period.”

“F**k Kanye. F**k Nazis. F**k Alex Jones. F**k ’em all; especially Hitler.”

Wow. Just wow. Where the f**k does all this go from here? So vile.

[Image via WENN/Avalon]

Sent from my iPhone

[transamorousnetwork]

A Transgender Woman Buys Miss Universe Pageant For $20M?

Holy Smokes! A transgender woman owns the Miss Universe Pageant. I didn’t know this. Did you?

A friend sent a text about the Miss Netherlands pageant naming Rikkie Valerie Kollé, who is trans, its 2023 title holder. While researching that wonderful news I discovered the new Miss Universe Pageant owner, Anne Jakrajutatip, is also trans.

It’s a delicious irony. That’s because Donald Trump owned the pageant before. Jakrajutatip bought it in 2022 for $14 million. But she owns more than Miss Universe. She also owns Miss USA, and the Miss Teen USA beauty pageant. She bought all three for a total of $20 million. Jakrajutatip said she’s committed to advancing Miss Universe as a more inclusive platform as part of her intention to transform the brand for the next generation.

“I don’t call Miss Universe a beauty pageant anymore,” Jakrajutatip told Metro Weekly in January. “I call it a women’s empowerment competition.”

Almost immediately after acquiring the pageants, Jakrajutatip also opened Miss Universe to mothers and married women. Groups unable to compete in prior years. Responding to a question about her declaration Jakrajutatip said, “Whether married or divorced, they [women] can compete, and do you know why? If you’ve had a husband but you’re still beautiful and fabulous, then why not?”

That’s awesome.

So who is this new owner of the biggest pageant in the world?

She’s a remarkable woman

Anne Jakrajutatip is a Thai businesswoman, television host and Chief Executive Officer of JKN Global Group, according to Wikipedia. Forbes says she’s the third richest transgender person in the world. Her estimated wealth exceeds $200 million. That’s impressive.

Other successful transgender business people exist, of course. They include the Wachowski siblings, and Martine Aliana Rothblatt, co-founder of Sirius XM. So I’m not surprised by Jakrajutatip’s wealth and success. Transgender women have it going on! That is, when they know their value, which, it appears Jakrajutatip does.

Jakrajutatip was born in Bangkok. Her parents ran a video rental store and encouraged her to learn English. She has two siblings, attended schools in Thailand and Australia and is 44 years old. She also created and directs “Life Inspired for Transsexual Foundation”. That’s a charity advocating for transgender rights in Thailand.

As for relationships, it’s unclear whether Jakrajutatip has one. Details are sketchy. She claims to have a “soulmate”. But I couldn’t find who that is. Meanwhile, she’s hanging out with young German-Filipino model and actor, Clint Bondad. They sure look like a couple. But she swears they aren’t.

^^Anne Jakrajutatip, (Photo By POPPORY FASHION BLOG, CC BY 3.0)

It’s not about the gossip

So this post seems to be about gossip and tabloid material. It’s not though. Instead, this post is about TREMENDOUS progress happening for transgender folks. All at the hands of successful transgender women!

Successful transgender women are in nearly every profession. All round the globe they’re making an impact. The more boardrooms, seats in congress and director’s chairs they take, the greater influence they’ll have.

So think about this. Many transgender women think GUYS coming out as trans-attracted will take transgender acceptance mainstream. If you ask me, that’s unnecessary. Because transgender women are doing just fine on their own. In other words, transgender women don’t need men to validate their existence.

What they do need is more transgender women living authentically. Moreover, they need more transgender women living successfully. Success can be defined many ways. If transgender women like Jakrajutatip, Sarah McBride, and others can do it, YOU can too, dear transgender reader. All you need is to know what you are. Then put that knowledge into practice.

And when more transgender women live successful lives something remarkable will happen: more men transgender women want will show up.

The men are out there. Your success as a transgender woman will bring you more men than you can handle. So many that, instead of complaining about where they are, you’ll be complaining about having too many!

Every transgender woman can experience this. Whatever your current circumstances, they don’t matter. Circumstances show up as reflections of one’s stories. So changing stories changes circumstances. Want proof? Become the proof you’re wanting to see.

I can help with that.

[alghulnyssa]

ShootWeek20 hosted by @ariyahv on twitter/ao3

[amymel86]

Hello! Do you have any bits of your awesome writing to share for WIP wednesday?😍

I just saw this anon!

And thank you for asking <3

This is a bit more of this as yet untitled 'post-apocalyptic/fertility/modern arranged relationship???' fic. The first bit I posted on tumblr is here and as before, some things are not yet decided (like town names) and things may change...

“Are you sure this is what you want to do, darling?” Her mother’s voice on the telephone was a balm to her soul.

Sansa’s finger brushed the soft vivid petals of the small potted iris she’d bought at the store today. The iris symbolises hope, wisdom and courage among other things and she prays that the pretty purple and yellow bloom will lend her some of those. “I’ve got to try something, Mum,” she says, turning her attention to the two separate bundles of paper in front of her. Two men, two candidates, two different futures. Sansa had filled out all the matching service’s extensive questionnaires and scrutinised all the information she could find on the program. It seemed simple enough – you’re rewarded for helping to repopulate. In turn, the authorities help to pair you with someone who should be a good match dependant on all the information they have about you. The aim is that this new generation of children are raised in the traditional family unit. That had appealed to Sansa. “I can’t seem to find the right guy all on my own anyway,” she said into her phone.

“How do you know it will be safe, though?”

“It says here that my situation will be monitored by my own caseworker. I can call them any time I want. They’re not just going to drop me at the guy’s house and just leave us get on with it.”

“Hmmm... tell me about them? These men that they’ve narrowed down for you.”

“One’s called Waymar, he’s a financial advisor here in the Vale,” Sasna pauses, looking at the man’s photograph on his paperwork before fishing out the other. “And the other is called Jon, he owns a farm in the Reach.”

“None in the north then?” Her mother has been itching to get her back home. “I just wish there was a way to know that either of them were good men, Sansa. That’s all I want for you.”

Sansa put the two photos together. Two possible fathers for her child.

“That’s what I want too.”

***

“Shit! Holy fucking shit!” Jon says to himself, hanging up from his phone-call. “Mance!” he yells, bursting out of his trailer to find the old man. “Mance! It worked! It fucking worked!”

He’d relented. When Mance first put it to him that he should sign up for that weird government breeding program or whatever the fuck it was, he thought the old man’s last brain-cell must’ve fried up in the sun. But if they were going to make it easier for them and it meant Mance could keep the farm (and Jon could carry on living there rent free), then it was worth a shot. So he had relented. He’d filled out what seemed to be a gazillion and one questions about himself, his politics, his views on family and finances and education and fucking... art and shit. These damned government people wanted to know everything about him down to whether he scrunched or folded his toilet paper it seemed. He’d even had to lie. He didn’t like doing it, but there was no way that a fertile was going to pick him if he didn’t. So, he fished out an old photograph – one taken before the bar brawl that lost him his sight in one eye, and he’d also lied his asscheeks off by claiming he had ownership of the farm. He knew – he knew – that these lies are just more things that were going to trip him up one of these days but with Mance urging him on, he’d signed that damn form and offered himself up for the program.

And now a fertile had chosen him.

Him.

Fuck, he might throw up.

This can go one of two ways. Either completely up Shit Creek without a paddle – with his lies and reality crashing down on top of one another, leaving them exposed... or, his fertile somehow looks past his deceits and sticks with him and they-... well, shit, he could actually become a father. No-one becomes parents these days, especially not ‘round here. Fertiles flock to the big cities, to men with bigger pockets, or they work for couples who can afford to pay them off in exchange for a kid or two.

“It worked?” Mance asks, rolling out from under an old Ford pickup that needed a new exhaust. “They sendin’ us a peach?”

Jon shook his head. “They’re not sendin’ you anyone, old man. An’ don’t call her that – they’re-“ Fuck, what did the council call them on all that paperwork? “Reproductively abled.” He’ll have to remember that if he doesn’t want to offend her.

“Well, shit,” Mance grins. “What did I tell ya? Knew your pretty face was good for somethin’!”

Jon frowns. “Ain’t so pretty no more though.” He might have to go get himself a patch to cover his milky, sightless eye. It’s fine most of the time since Mance is the only one he sees unless he’s going to drink at Hobb’s, but he certainly doesn’t want to put off his ferti- reproductively abled friend who’ll be arriving in three weeks.

“She got a name? Your new peach?” Mance asked, earning him a glare.

“Sansa. Sansa Stark.”

Mance grunts and nods. “Sounds fancy.”

Yeah... It did sound kinda fancy he supposes. Jon’s first reaction had been that it was a mighty beautiful name, but now he thinks of it...

“Shame we can’t look her up – see if she’s a beauty or not.”

Jon can’t remember a time when that was an option. He was barely 11 at the highest point of the virus’s hold. Government officials had deemed certain channels on the internet were causing more harm than good by spreading false rumours, incorrect statistics and completely counterintuitive medical advice. The whole thing was shut down, now deemed illegal, only to be reconnected again three years later apparently looking like a foreign landscape from the one before. The internet was no longer a platform to socialise, only government approved informative sites remained. Mance says it’s better this way – that all people used to do was post vain images of themselves for attention anyway.

Jon wouldn’t mind seeing a vain image of Sansa Stark right about now though.

Not that it mattered terribly. As long as they get along and she decides to stick around she could be as ugly as sin. In fact, she probably will be, won’t she? Most pretty ferti- reproductively abled women stick to the cities and its high-fliers.

It doesn’t matter, he told himself. You just gotta keep her happy here and-

“Mance?” he asks, an issue coming to mind. The man grunts in acknowledgement. “Where the fuck is she gonna sleep? She’s not gonna want to stay in my trailer.”

The man grins in response. “I’m glad you asked, boy. I’m glad you asked.”

***

Her caseworker was meant to meet her at the train station. It was quite a drive to the farm and he was meant to pick her up, make sure she’s safe and happy and introduce her to Jon.

That hasn’t happened.

“Please accept my apologies, my dear,” Mr Baelish said down the other end of the phone. “There’s been a mix up with my schedule. We can set you up for the night at a local motel or ask your match to come and get you. Which would you prefer?”

Sansa eyes the dirty looking motel across the street from the train station. Everything here at [[INSERT TOWN NAME]] seems a little on the... rundown side. Maybe the sooner she gets to the farm, the better. Plus, her tummy is all a flutter with anticipation to actually meet Jon. She’d wound up swaying towards Jon as a match due to a few reasons; 1 – he does not live in, around, or anywhere near Harry or his crazy mother. 2 – he owns a farm, and that had conjured up hazy daydreams of idyllic country life. Sansa may enjoy big nights out in the city, drinking her dirty margaritas and feeling her bones vibrate against the base beat in a nightclub, but she knows that’s not what she wants to raise a child around. A child will want to run barefoot through wheat fields and chase chickens and milk cows and –

Let’s just say Sansa has a few ideas and that they all helped to sway her away from city pleasures and towards farmhouse life. And Jon

And last, but not least, reason number 3 – Jon himself. Put side-by-side, his and Waymar’s photographs looked rather similar if truth be told, but Jon won out on something that Sansa just couldn’t describe. Looking at his photograph gave her goosepimples along her forearms because it was like he was looking right back at her. There was something in the depths of his eyes – a kindness? A wit? A strength? She’s not sure, but she couldn’t find the same qualities when she stared at Waymar’s likeness. And his answers too. His questionnaire was full of how he’d like to teach a kid how to walk and ride a bike and fix a... a tractor for heaven’s sake! And so her head was flooded once more of this idyllic life where they got up to watch the dawn stretch over the farmland and they’d grow their own vegetables and she’d bake a pie every day and it would just be perfect.

Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Sansa glances around the near abandoned train station.

This doesn’t look so perfect right now.

“Could you please arrange for Jon to come and get me, Mr Baelish?”

***

It’s been an hour and fifty-six minutes precisely since Sansa last spoke to Mr Baelish to arrange her match coming to get her. An hour and fifty-six minutes of sitting on the curb, waiting, surrounded by her three suitcases. She’d started off by sitting at the nearby bus stop, purely because it was somewhere to sit and she had a clear view of the road, but after the rude bus driver insisted that if she’s sat there, she must be wanting to hop on his bus, Sansa decided to park her butt on the dusty, sun-baked curb instead. Her legs were beginning to numb and she was starting to get a headache from the sun beaming down on her head. The curls she’d styled into her copper locks have likely lost their hold by now. What a waste. Opposite, on the other side of the street, beside the dirty little motel, there was a tiny bar that advertised the fact that it hosted exotic dancers at the weekends with a blinking neon sign. Next to it was a hunting and fishing ‘emporium’ and beside that was a vacant store with an old dirty sign that read ‘Blouses & More!’. Presumably, the ‘& more’ still wasn’t enough to keep that fine establishment in business in this funny little town. At the end of the block was ‘Tarly’s Drugstore’ and Sansa had been debating with herself whether or not she should haul her suitcases over to go buy a drink and a magazine for about the last hour and fifty-five minutes.

But she hadn’t wanted to miss Jon Snow’s arrival.

Jon Snow, who seemed to be pulling up outside Tarly’s Drugstore in a dusty Ford pickup truck right about now. Sansa stood, expecting him to come right on over considering how long she’d been waiting for him, but she found herself wondering if she’d got it all wrong when she hadn’t caught a good enough look at him before he darted straight into the store.

Sansa is done with waiting. She grabs her smallest case and places it on top of her larger one, trying her darnedest to roll all her luggage across the road in a lady-like fashion. She could feel the eyes of several passers-by on her while her stiletto heels clip across the street. In turn, her own gaze fell to Jon’s cream-coloured truck. Its front bumper looked a little rusty and wonky too. There was a big gash in the leather of the bench seating on the passenger side. On the truck bed, there were a number of items, including a rocking chair that seems to have a couple of spindles on the chair-back missing, and a new double bed mattress wrapped in clear plastic. Sansa was almost done frowning at the state of the vehicle when the over-door bell of the drugstore tinkles.

“Holy shit,” he curses. And yes, it definitely was Jon standing right in front of her. Only... well... his hair was tied into a knot at the back of his head and.... and... he was wearing a black eye patch? “Uh,” he stood there, arms laden with bottles from the store as the gaze from his one good eye quickly darted down her frame and back up again. “You’re her, right? You’re Sansa Stark?”

Sansa found she could only nod, looking him up and down, like he was with her. He was in jeans with oil smears, some tough, heavy looking boots, a somehow pristine white vest and flannel shirt with the arms ripped off.

Speaking of arms...

Gods-damn! Sansa’s focus was momentarily derailed...

“Sorry, I-“ Jon starts before his grey eye drops to the floor and then returns to her, looking a little bashful. “I didn’t expect you to be so pretty.”

Oh boy. He may be wearing an eye patch right now but this man could win over a thousand girls with that smile, Sansa’s sure of it. She resists the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. She’s here to find out if they’re well suited enough to start a family together – she needs to keep her head and think rationally, not allow herself to be swayed by his rugged country boy charm. It was Harry’s looks that enticed her in the first place – and look how well that turned out for her?

“Thank you,” Sansa says, blinking back at him before his words truly hit home. “Didn’t they give you my photograph?”

Jon shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

Huh.

“Did they show you mine?”

Sansa bites her lip and gives a nod.

Jon grimaces. “So I guess you weren’t expecting this?” He points to his patch.

Sansa shakes her head. “No... did you... did you do something to injure it?”

Jerking his head, Jon begins rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand. “It’s a long story... but... it ain’t gonna get any better, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

“Oh.”

They stood, staring at one another for a heartbeat or five before Jon sucks in a breath over his teeth and glances down to the bottles he clutched to his chest with one arm. “I tried to get you some things to help you feel at home,” he says, “these are the nicest smellin’ soaps ‘n’ stuff from Tarly’s.”

“Thank you,” Sansa replies, knowing full well that she brought her Highgarden Floral Scents bathroom range with her.

Jon chews on his lip as he eyes her suitcases. “Lemme get those for you,” he offers before dumping the bottles in his arms into the truck bed and reaching for her luggage. Sansa’s heeled shoes seem welded to the spot. Jon notices. Scrubbing both hands down his face in resignation, he takes a step closer to her and Sansa realises for the first time, that he had dirt beneath his fingernails. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “It was a shitty thing for me to do,” he offers, his words low and husky. Sansa feels the timbre of his voice set off a trickle of gooseflesh down her spine. “I’m sorry.”

She blinks at him, momentarily confused.

“About this,” he explains, brows high on his head as he points to his patch. “I shouldn’t have sent that old photo of before this happened, but – fuck – even my ex-girl won’t acknowledge I exist anymore with this and I knew I shoulda been honest about it but-“

“This ex-girl...” Sansa suddenly found herself left with a sour taste in her mouth. “... does she still mean something to you?”

Jon licks at his lips, his eye falling briefly to her own. “No, ma’am,” he shakes his head.

[potteresque-ire]

This post is Part 3 of the five-part meta series on the Zhang Zhehan (張哲瀚) Incident, based on what has transpired up to 2021/08/22.

1) The 2nd Sino-Japanese War (1937-45) & the Yasukuni Shrine 2) Post-War Sino-Japanese Relations; “Every Chinese should visit the Yasukuni Shrine” 3) The Summer of 2021: The Brewing Storms for One 4) My Thoughts on Zhang’s Incident, Part A 5) My Thoughts on Zhang’s Incident, Part B

3) The Summer of 2021: The Brewing Storms for One

Parts 1 and 2 are my very rough, … kindergartenish introduction to the historical background of Zhang’s incident. For the sake of brevity (please don’t laugh), there are so many things I haven’t touched on (such as the role of the U.S., the geopolitics). There are even more things I’ve likely missed from my admitted ignorance (Sorry).

I think a fair summary of what I’ve written so far would be as follows, before we move on to other sociopolitical factors related to Zhang’s incident?

It is true that the Japanese government, while having shown signs of repentance, has yet to truly face its own past. 

It is also true that the Chinese government has been taking advantage of its national tragedy to fuel nationalistic sentiments, to spread hatred for the purpose of propaganda ...

... Propaganda that is highly sensitive to timing, the message the regime wants to send at the moment. 

In August, 2021, Sino-Japanese relations is at a nadir. The brief thaw in early 2020, initiated by the Japanese government donating masks to Wuhan when COVID first broke out, seemed to be as old as the Chinese poem printed on the shipping boxes:  山川異域 風月同天 (“Our mountains and rivers are on different lands, but our winds and moon share the same sky”)—from the 779 BCE work of a Tang dynasty monk who had sailed to Japan as a missionary, affirming the long cultural bond between the two nations. China would give masks back to Japan.

Fast forward eighteen months later, this good will is all but gone in Chinese news, on Chinese social media. The Japanese government had just vowed to join the United States to protect Taiwan, should the Chinese government furthers its military threat towards the island — the People’s Liberation Air Forces had already intruded Taiwan’s air defence zone 393 times between January 1st and August 17th of 2021 — or should the Chinese government attempts to take over the democratic island nation by force. 

Late July came, and the Tokyo Olympics presented the opportunity for the Chinese state to broadcast anti-Japanese sentiments among the general populace. 

Like USSR and the Eastern Bloc before, the Communists-ruled China saw the Olympics medal count as a matter of national pride. After the Games began, the hot search turned immediately from the Henan flood to stories of the Tokyo Games’ subjectively awful organisation, alleged cheatings by the Japanese athletes, and the perceived unfairness of, in particular, Japanese judges towards the Chinese team that cost the latter more and better medals. This fervour cumulated to the cyberbullying of Japanese athletes by high-on-nationalism Chinese netizens, who brought back Japan’s past as a reason why Japan and its people should be universally hated. Reminders of the horrific brutality of the Imperial Japanese Army eighty years before the Games surfaced in Chinese social media posts. The derogatory slangs 小日本 (“Little Japan”), and 鬼子 (Guizi “demons”), the latter harking back to the nickname of the Imperial Japanese Army during World War II, populated online Olympics discussions.

Japanese netizens are aware of the derogatory terms Chinese nationalistic netizens use against them. In 2010, they fought back the 小日本 and 鬼子 insults by designing cute anime characters for these names. (Source1, Source2). 

August, 2021 is not a good time to be accused of liking the Japanese.

August, 2021 is not a good time to be accused of liking the Japanese, especially if the accused is a celebrity in the c-ent industry. The ongoing Clear and Bright Campaign (清朗行動) includes, as its 8th aim, the “regulation of stars and the organisations behind them, internet behaviour of their official fan clubs”. Possibly as a welcome to the summer vacation for the country’s youth, on June 15th, 2021, the Cyberspace Administration of China (CAC) had announced it would spend the next two months focused on rectifying the “chaos caused by fan circles” (‘飯圈’亂象). 

The Kris Wu (吳亦凡) case that had exploded in July then turned the public’s attention (and imagination) squarely on c-ent and the alleged “insanity” of c-ent fandoms, particularly those of idols. Wu’s fans had been met with ridicule and cyberbullying, especially those who had tried to “save” their idol by attempting to perform, when the incident had first broken out, what is customary per Chinese fan circle culture—to drown the criticisms with their supportive messages, their defences of their favourite stars; with their offences towards the accusers and in some cases, who the fans point to as the true culprits accompanied by the necessary “evidences”. Widespread reports of Wu’s fans planning a prison break after Wu’s arrest, propagated by the state media despite the number of such fans could’ve numbered to no more than a handful, further fuelled the narrative that c-ent idol worship has become cult-like, with the fans being so brainwashed that they can no longer distinguish right or wrong. 

This narrative of “fans would say or do anything to defend an idol” means that if or when accusations fall on the latter, little can be said in their defence even if the defence has its merits. Fans who make the defence are accused of being “brain-disabled” (腦殘); non-fans, of being brain-disabled fans in disguise.

Political cartoon from People’s Daily, 2021/08/02, 2 days after Kris Wu’s arrest (English translations by me). The slogan at the bottom says “The Deformed “Fan Circle Culture” has turned cold”. “Turning cold” (涼了) means to lose popularity. (Source) 

Last but not least, in August 2021, the online platforms that host the content of state propaganda, of fandom talk, of c-idols’ works are also in quicksand themselves. Without getting into too much details, since earlier this year, the Chinese government has been targeting the tech giants, once considered untouchable with their significant contributions to the economy. Most international fans of c-ent are likely familiar with Tencent. Alibaba is also a major player in c-ent: it’s the owner of Youku, for example; it is also a major investor of Sina (the company in control of Weibo) and also—a piece of trivia for turtles—of Yuehua (Dd’s management company). These tech companies have been charged with antitrust violations, been the target of cybersecurity probes, accused by the state media of hurting China’s youth with “spiritual opium” in the form of video games etc, and their stock prices have been tumbling as a result. 

The tech giants, and the online platforms under their ownership, have therefore been extra vigilant, extra compliant to messages from the state, in attempts to gain the government’s favour. Just a few days ago (2021/08/21), Tencent vowed to donate 7.7 billion USD to the government, heeding Xi’s call for “common prosperity” (re-distribution of wealth), adding to the 7.7 billion USD it already donated in April for the government’s “sustainable social values” program. While both donations are officially philanthropic, most political and market watchers interpret the donations as Tencent trying to achieve a less-than-philanthropic goal—to get the state regulators off its back.

Following this line of logic then, these tech giants, and their online platforms, have got to be extra quick on their feet in August 2021 to sever ties with anyone perceived to have drawn the displeasure of the government. If that anyone is a c-ent idol, the loss for removing their works and fandom content is nothing compared to the price these companies may pay if the eyes of the state regulators train upon them: the latest fine Alibaba paid for breaking the anti-monopoly law, in April, amounted to 2.8 billion USD.  

All these factors considered, there are better days … far better days than the ones in August 2021, for a c-ent idol to have his Yasukuni Shrine visit become an item on Weibo’s hot search.

===

The Zhang Zhehan Incident Meta Series:

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3  <- YOU ARE HERE PART 4 PART 5

[beyoncesdragon]

title: catch up now? 

× pairing: Idol!Jungkook x Interviewer!Reader, old friends from highschool kinda stuff, abandoned but maybe rediscovered love on both sides. 

× summary: Three years are a long time. In three years, many things can and will change. But three years hadn’t been quite enough to change how two people feel about each other. 

× warnings: a little teeny bit angsty but it’s nothing, really. Mainly fluff, some flustered, overly eager Gguk and old memories coming up. 

× wordcount: 2k

× a/n: Not gonna lie, this might be one of my favourite pieces I've ever written. I really hope you enjoy this too! it’s somehow inspired by ‘Love Maze’ (BTS) and also ‘50 Proof’ (eaJ). Will probably not have a pt.2

main masterlist | bts masterlist

When he had read the name of the interview host - or hostess more like - Jungkook had already felt the familiar tingle in the pit of his stomach that he had thought had disappeared over the course of time. Yet, he wasn’t surprised that it was still there.

He had however not dared to hope that it could actually be you, there sure were other people called (Y/N) (Y/L/N), who has pursued their dream of becoming an interviewer, media person, whatnot. He didn’t even know if you had actually graduated uni and made it in the job, hence he hadn’t seen any of you in about four years of him debuting now. He had occasionally checked out your Instagram or Twitter, yet he shied away from following you on any social media platform. You weren’t really public about your work or personal life on both, you mainly retweeted stuff (he found out about your love for Bingsu and Makgeolli ice cream like that) and posted a few selfies or landscapes. He hoped that you had been able to pursue your dream of traveling around for a bit, in South Korea and outside of it. Though again, he didn’t know.

Jimin was seated right in front of him and Jungkook couldn’t help but nervously play with his hyungs honey blond dyed hair. Jimin chuckled surprised yet amused about his open display of nervousness and turned around slowly.

“Everything okay, Jungkook-ah? You seem more nervous than usually.” He remarked, making Namjoon look over to the maknae in wonder. “He does, right? I thought so too. Did something happen?” Jungkook only shook his head.

Not yet, he thought to himself.

The cameras around them started to blink all at once, the light has been set up correctly and the camera and sound team had settled down around them in the dark. Manager and publicists stood somewhere in the back, swallowed up by the dark. The only person that was missing still, was you. Or the person called (Y/N) (Y/L/N), Jungkook tried to tell himself.

Suddenly there was a soft laugh from somewhere off the scenes and his heart tripped over its own beat and finally, finally, you stepped into the light.

You looked pretty as ever, grown into your features entirely, like a lotus flower finally in full bloom. Jungkook had to swallow dry. The light coral red of your lip balm complimented your skin and the subtle almost invisible make up you wore, accentuated your already beautiful features even more. You hadn’t changed your hair much, but it was a bit longer and looked so soft in the bright light. His eyes almost subconsciously darted to your fingers, searching for evidence of a possible relationship. He was almost ashamed how quickly he ended up thinking about this, his own boldness making him even more flustered. (There was no formal looking ring on your ringfinger though, to his relief.)

There was a warm smile on your lips as you bowed deeply to them all, greeting them respectfully. The boys returned your greeting immediately and a bunch of annyeong haseyo-s sounded through the studio. Jungkook felt Namjoon look over at him again, a piercing gaze Jungkook knew he wouldn’t be able to withstand if he met it. So he just kept looking at everything but Namjoon...not that this was hard to do when you were right in front of him.

“Thank you so much for being here with us.” You said with a smile, looking at everyone with the same look of respect and polite distance. Like you were supposed to, at work, as a professional. Like you didn't know them personally. Everyone, including Jungkook.

He felt his heart drop to his stomach. Could it be that you...forgot about him? It couldn’t really be, right? How would you actually be able to, you really...in this moment your eyes crossed again and something flickered in your eyes, a facade crumbled for a few seconds only. It was an amused twinkle, like a cheeky wink and a minimal curl of your lips. 

Acknowledgement.

And Jungkook’s heart did multiple flips, breath caught in his throat and eyes widened.

You had started with the questions, keeping the conversation light and flowing. The vibe in the room was comfortable and built up on mutual respect - yet Jungkook felt as if he was sitting on red-hot needles. He wanted to talk to you, ask about how you had been, what you were doing (if you had a boyfriend) if you were happy, if you got a cat, how your mother’s little business was going (he’d anonymously purchased countless items, to support your family), if your favourite colour still was cyan blue and your still religiously bought Pajeon and Makgeolli on rainy days, if you ever spent a second of your day thinking of him (because he did).

Him, your somewhat ex-best friend from highschool, him, the one you spent hours talking to in the ungodly hours of the morning, him who you had lost your first kiss to (though lost wasn’t the right word: you gave it to him more like). Him who you had poked fun of when the first girl approached him in his Rookie days and he’d been flustered to no end.

Him, who had promised to you that he wouldn’t abandon your friendship and yet the two of you drifted apart anyways.

Not for the lack of trying on either side though. Jungkook’s schedule had just become even fuller, his nights shorter, training longer and fans more obsessive. And you had seen each other less often, greetings were shorter and late night talks turned into good night wishes over text quicker.

You on your part weren’t mad, a little disappointed maybe. Sad for sure, but not mad. After all, you had expected it to turn out like that. So had the rest of your little circle, Haneul, Hwang, Kyong and Myunghee. Whilst the five of you had supported Jungkook on his journey with all you’ve got, you all tried to overcome the obvious pain of him drifting off.

Some (mainly Hwan and Kyong) with working harder in school for example. You did that too, but sometimes you also partied a little harder, were awake at three AM a little more often, missed him a lot more. It hurt letting someone you love go.

Jungkook and you had always been a bit...closer. Why you didn’t know, how you couldn’t possibly explain. But you were and him rising into the heights and new dimensions of being an idol destroyed this almost completely. This strange world of fame, those walls of flashing cameras, the flow of expensive goods and seas of screaming people, that was his world. He was a star, figuratively and somewhat literally. He shone more radiant, higher, longer, prettier and too bright for an innocent, young love to coexist.

So you stayed behind, soon having lost his number due to him having to change it, his contact information soon had less to say than what you could find on the internet.

His new hair colour? Well, you could google it. Height? Current weight? Several fan sights knew the answer. Achievements? The internet again.

 It was strange, ridiculous to some extent. And it hurt. But you couldn’t blame him, so you never did.

⋄

When you had heard that you would be interviewing BTS last week you could help but feel scared. You hadn’t seen him face to face for three or so years, three years with no FaceTime, texting, three years of not seeing his bunny smile, smiled just for you.

And when you had seen him again, laid eyes on him for the first time in thirty-five months, you realised that nothing you ever felt for him had faded away. It was all the same again, your heart still jumped in your chest and your stomach still fluttered whenever he did as much as breathing. The only thing that had changed was his height and him having had the biggest glow up you had witnessed in your life, yours included – though this Jungkook would disagree vehemently. 

This Jungkook who got pulled out of his thoughts and memories almost violently, as you directed a first question at him only.

“I…” he started, gulping hardly, having forgotten the question already halfway.

“Sorry I can’t – how have you been?” you stopped shortly, stunned and a tad confused at first. You hadn’t expected him to be so bold. Or clumsy, for that matter. Yet you couldn’t help but giggle, and all the unsaid words and ignored truths between the two of you disappeared into smoke, taking all tension with them. Just like that.

“I’ve been fine, Gukie. Busy. Long-time no see, hm. How about you?” somewhere behind the cameras someone dropped a pen and there were multiple gasps being heard. The rest of the bangtan boys didn’t look any better; Jimin had his mouth open, Taehyung was looking back and forth between the two of you, Yoongi just froze, Jin and Hoseok had clasped their hands in front of their mouths and Namjoon just looked like someone poured a bucket of ice water over his head.

But Jungkook? Jungkook was smiling widely, his bunny smile, smiled just for you. 

“Busy too. Yes, very long time no see.” He replied sheepishly, a small laugh escaping his lips as he looked around the dead silent studio. “Why…how do you know each other?” Yoongi finally asked, eyes snapping back and forth between the two of you.

“Well I guess we have to tell them now. We know each other from back in Highschool. We were pretty close friends back then.” You explained softly, giving him a small smile. Jungkook nodded quickly. “My apologies. I didn’t wanted to completely ruin the interview but…I haven’t seen you in three or so years. Sorry.” You waved it off. “It’s okay, Jungkook. We will catch up later, alright?” Jungkook nodded, making the mistake of looking over to Namjoon, who looked like he finally understood everything. “Is that why you were so…never mind.” He ended in a mumble and Jungkook was glad he did.

⋄

The second the interview was officially finished and all the cameras shut off, Jungkook was on his feet and approaching you. He didn’t even care about formalities anymore as he just wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a tight hug.

The first thing he noticed was that he couldn’t nestle his face in the crook of your neck as easy as he had been able to do in high-school. The second thing was that you had changed your perfume into something more flowery and fresh. The third thing he noticed was how much he liked having you in his arms again, especially because he could now rest his head on top of yours.

The first thing you noticed was how broad your Kookie had become. Broad and tall and firm everywhere. The second thing you noticed was how he smelled more expensive, faintly musky but still very much like Jungkook. A scent you could pick out from a thousand, unique and everything you loved. The third thing you noticed was how familiar and how looked after you felt in his arms, how protected from every harm. You had missed this feeling.

“Aigoo, Junkookie!” Jin yelled from behind, causing you to chuckle embarrassed and trying to break the hug. But Jungkook simply tightened his arms around you, having no intentions of letting you go any time soon.

“Just ignore them. They’ll leave, eventually.” His voice was muffled by the skin on your neck, since he had now buried his face there, taking deep breaths.

“And we?” you asked with a small laugh, not moving either. “We stay. We catch up. Got a lot of that to do.” Sounded good enough to you…just that you had expected them to make a bee-line for the exit after the cameras cut due to their busy schedule.

“Catch up now?” you asked after a few seconds of him still having his arms around you, unmoving. The young man shook his head.

“No…not right now.” He took a deep breath, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, mumbling against your skin and the fabric of your blouse. 

“In five minutes. Let me just hold you for a little while, you…you have no idea how much I missed you.” 

If he only knew.

— ✩ thank u for reading ✩ —

[elenamegan14]

Twisted Wonderland: Headcanons for Dorm Haunted Houses Pt.6 - Scarabia

MASTERLIST

Part 5

THE ATTRACTION: 

You wanna see one dorm that goes all out this year? Look no further. Scarabia spared no expenses on making their haunted house looking so EXTRA fine. 

I mean, we’re talking about real gold, jewels, and high definition special effects. Oh, and yeah, Jamil and Kalim made a lot of effort to make those bodies look REAL.  

Scarabia’s haunted house is an Arabian “Cave of Wonders” that leads to a wondrous treasure fault. Legend said it housed a wishing lamp that grants wishes upon its rightful owner. Many had attempted to get the fabled lamp, but those who entered would never come out again. All those who came perished by the traps… or by its guardian itself. 

Merchandises were also made - they got the usual keychains, t-shirts, and even plushies of Kalim and Jamil in their Haunted House outfit. Most of Kalim’s dolls have nearly sold out, which irritates Jamil a bit. 

They got an auction to get the replica of the wishing lamp - it was sold for 993,000 madols. 

When the guests and students first enter the house, what greets them is the sight of a gigantic blue tiger. Jamil and Kalim made it so that the giant tiger head’s eyes could move around and made an illusion with the sand that it could move around as well. They can see blood and corpses littering across the cave entrance. A booming, intimidating voice rang through the gates...

“ONLY ONE MAY ENTER, THE DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH.”

As they entered through the dark and wet cave, the guests and students could see the horrible fates of the tomb robbers. Some are pinned by spikes, some are squashed by rocks and some even got gobbled up by bugs, mummies, and even the monstrous stone statues of snake guardians itself. 

At times, they were scared off by mummies coming out of their coffins, enraged stone statues, and snake guardians slithering out of every hole on the walls, popping as they pleased. MC’s group were wary of every crack and holes and jumpy at every noise. 

They even have an interactive game inside, where they can get small prizes if they win. The game is to put all the jewels evenly within the scales guarded by monstrous stone lizards and snakes. If they won, they got the prize. If not… well, even if it’s not real, they will fire blue flames at the people. It cost 5 madols to play the game. 

Kalim. Sweet precious sunshine Kalim is dressed as a genie. A cute turban rested on top of his head. “Isn't this cool?! I heard that the Sorcerer of the Sand used to have a genie who does his bidding, so I decided to become the genie itself!” Oh, KALIM. 

Like, Kalim is VERY popular with the kids and girls. Why wouldn’t he? Compared to the other scary actors, Kalim is very friendly, immediately drops his character when it gets too intense for the audience, and even helps a lost, crying kid to his parents back. WHAT A SWEETIE. 

Yet, he was scolded by Jamil to get back to his post and character, “There is a reason WHY we have a scream counter!”

Of course, Jamil IS the NAGA. And he was scarily GORGEOUS. Scaly red, black, and gold scales adorned his face, his arms, and his chest. Gold pieces of jewelry with rainbow-colored gems adorned every single bit of his body, making him impossibly alluring. A red veil closed half of the bottom of his face. MC swears that their heart skipped a beat when they saw him - to the point that they almost got distracted when Jamil hypnotized them. 

It’s not only MC. Almost everyone with a naga-fetish kink immediately got lured by Jamil. They don’t care - LET THE SCALEY BASTARD CRUSH THEM WITH THEIR TAIL. 

Ah, but Jamil did not also want to seduce them. The purpose of a haunted house is to SCARE the pants off them, so once he managed to get his victims into his arms… he will reveal his “true” form by extending his jaw like a snake. 

Jamil bragged that he might scare most of the kids… but he got more girls (and a few boys) approaching him than Kalim did. Even if they worked together, Jamil’s competitive streak with Kalim never ends. //sighs

He’s also responsible for scaring most of the guests and students. Jamil will jump out of nowhere, hissing in close-up and sometimes touching people straight on their shoulders then slithers off. It was creepy. 

But as they went deeper to the caves, they noticed that it became more gold and glittery. The guests then went through the treasure vault, where mountains of gold coins, jewels, and even expensive diamonds littered all across the floors and walls. 

Oh, and all those things were real too. (“Kalim, when I said to fill in with gold coins, I didn’t mean for it to be real. People are going to steal it.”)

Of course, some of the opportunistic guests and students tried to steal it.

Which is why Jamil made counter magic so that any guest who tried to touch it would receive a mild electric shock, and for all the poor schmuck students to trigger the traps if they touched the treasure to protect El-Asim's fortune. 

They even put a sign that says: “Warning! Please do not touch it! You’ll be sorry!”

The main centerpiece of Scarabia’s Haunted House is the back chamber where the lamp is hosted. On the center of a beautiful gazebo filled with calm blue colors, lies a golden lamp encrusted with colorful jewels placed inside a plush, velvet pillow. Next to it, there was a snake statue holding a bloody, giant ruby. DO NOT TOUCH IT AT ALL COST. 

Otherwise, Jamil will slither right at you.

Jamil is there, with a giant hourglass, hissing and scaring everyone yet making all the ‘monster lovers’ feel flustered. 

Sometimes he can be seen eating a screaming scare actor, his jaws are wide and splattered with blood, guts everywhere it’s just sausage and ketchup.

Once the hourglass reached the end, the cave was lit up with red lights and flames came bursting out almost near the guests and students. 

Poor MC got a part of their hair singed when they almost came too close. 

THE MISSION: 

Kalim, the guide, is more than happy enough to relay the mission: inside this “Cave of Wonders” is a lamp, which is guarded by the vicious vizier-turned-naga, who greedily tried to covet the lamp for himself only to fall to its curse instead. The charm is inside the lamp, and students must survive the cave of wonders to get to the center of the haunted dorm itself.

To get to the lamp chamber, the students must solve one of the “interactive games” set up for them to get a piece of the puzzle that would open the chamber itself. It was guarded by stone snakes that would eliminate you if you failed to complete it within a limited time. They were given three tries before the statues threw them outside to enter again. 

The students were told that they can’t touch any treasures except for the charm itself. If they do… well, there’s no guarantee they can get out of the cave itself “alive”.

Also, Kalim warned them that if they ever encountered a naga, do not look into their eyes or they’ll hypnotize you to walk straight into their jail or a trap.

They have set up the atmosphere to be glamorous - all jewels and stuff, but when a student foolishly falls into the temptation of stealing a bit of real jewelry, he is immediately caught in a trap: getting pinned on the wall with knives, swords, etc. Don’t worry, he lives. 

He did beg to be let go though. 

The weeping did not help. Everyone almost felt sorry for him, but… THE CHARMS!

Actually, that guy served as an example. The students never thought that they WILL become part of the attraction for the guests if they fail. 

Soon after, more people are falling into traps - turns out, touching the treasures isn’t the only way to set it off - Kalim and Jamil make sure that there are hidden buttons and puzzles that would trigger each different trap. 

So now there are many students who are crushed by oversized styrofoam boulders, stuck inside a mummy casket with a terrifying mummy corpse prop, falls into a trap door, nearly impaled by spikes (they have no idea how Ace got into one, but HE’S FINE), being put to sleep by darts loaded with chloroform, buried underneath a glass case filled with black bugs (Jamil’s idea), and many more that you can think of. 

During the commotion, one of the charms from MC fell off. A student saw it on the ground, shining brightly. He grinned deviously, fingers twiddling to reach the charm. 

“Heh, heh! Today is my lucky day-” He got vibe-checked by the styrofoam/wood Pendulum of Doom(™) out of nowhere. 

As if it’s not enough, Jamil appears out of nowhere to scare the victims before dragging them off course, putting them inside the “Cage of Shame”.

It’s just a jailbox filled with failed students being put outside the haunted house, becoming an attraction for the passersby. They have to be content being laughed at than to go through the haunted house again. 

MC’s group found an interactive game. It took them at least two tries to get it - Ace, Deuce, and Grimm are responsible for most of the failures, the dumbasses - but Jack unexpectedly solved it. Everyone’s jaws had dropped.

“What? This is just a simple scale game. I learned it from my sibling’s video game before.” Jack retorted. It was a children’s math education game. 

After they escaped from more traps, avoid TOUCHING THE GOLD AND JEWELS (“Would it kill you to lay off from the treasure?!” Epel slapped Deuce, Ace and Grimm’s hands so hard that it throbbed) and put the puzzle to open the chamber, they finally saw the lamp. 

Here’s another thing that the guide told them: to get the lamp, they have to watch out from triggering more traps - the platforms are fragile, so there’s a chance they could fall into the water if they do not tread the platforms carefully. Also, please avoid the GIANT RUBY as it will trigger the Naga Guardian to be summoned in place. 

Epel, being athletic, volunteered to get the lamp. 

He managed to avoid the pitfalls, the stones, and even falling spikes. He managed to reach the lamp and get it… except for one problem.

See, that giant Ruby is too much to bear. People want it - in fact, it’s so shiny and red… Ace is drooling. Counting how much he can sell on his head. 

But Grimm, being Grimm, falls into one final temptation. That giant jewel on the snake statue - SO UNBEARINGLY BLOOD RED, AND HUGE, AND ASKING TO BE TOUCHED- congrats Grimm, you’ve become Abu. 

Jamil came out immediately, all scaly and terrifying. He grabbed the screaming Grimm like a ragdoll. 

“INFIDELSSSSSS!!!!” Jamil hissed, “You have touched the forbidden treasure! Come as you may rescue your little friend, but you’ll never see the light of the day... again!”

The Guardian Naga then puts Grimm in a freaking large hourglass, stating that once the last sand falls, they will all be eliminated. 

Where the hell did they get a giant hourglass? Who knows, they have a flying Racoon to save. GDI, Grimm. 

The only way to save Grimm is to steal the key on Jamil’s neck that would open a hatch for Grimm to escape. Ace, Epel, and Jack are in charge of attacking and distracting Jamil. Meanwhile, Deuce will deal with getting the key. MC is told to stay the sidelines to guard ALL the charms (“You’re important to us, kantokusei!” Deuce yelled, avoiding Jamil’s tail. It made MC blushed a bit.)

As Deuce was about to reach the key, Jamil noticed his presence and threw the poor guy right at the attacking trio like a pinball bowling. Jamil then slithered towards the frightened MC. 

Now you see here, Jamil felt he had gone EXTRA mile to make himself monstrously appealing to MC. He does have an interest in them after they defied him when he last Overblotted, so he took this chance to - ahem! - “impress them”. 

“It’s just you and me, Dorm Leader...” Jamil coaxed, using his hypnotizing Unique Magic again, grabbing MC’s chin. “Just relax and… trussssssst in me.” Jamil’s eye seemed to glow as he coaxed MC into his arms. 

MC struggled hard, but they also took this chance to grab a hold of Jamil’s key and pushed him away, much to his surprise. 

They throw the key to the recording Ace, getting Grimm out of the hourglass hatch with barely a moment to spare. Afterward, they immediately book it, leaving behind a grumbled Jamil…

...but not before he gave a final hiss and a lick to MC. They got flustered - the rest of the group weren’t happy. Ace gave Jamil a middle finger before he left. 

So they got a few close calls with the trap, Ace immediately went after Grimm to try and struggle the furball with Grimm only defending himself that the giant ruby calls out to him - don’t tell me you guys don’t feel it too! As usual, these idiots denied it. 

Kalim went after them, congratulating on completing the challenge and getting the charm. "Did you guys like it??? Did you have fun?? =D"

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the best question because it’s their turn trying to get Kalim for putting the REAL jewels and GOLD COINS as a set trap. What was he thinking? 

And then Epel gets depressed. He sighs a lot as they went onto the next haunted house. They only realized it a while later after they got curious at Epel’s sudden demeanor - Epel came from Pomefiore dorm. AND THEIR HAUNTED HOUSE IS NEXT. 

Just like Epel’s immediate annoyance, the smell of aromatic perfumes, iron, and sounds of fangirl squealing echoed as the Pomefiore’s Haunted Dorm looms ahead...

Part 7

[artificialqueens]

The Parent Trap, Chapter 9 (Biadore) - Henny

A/N: Thank you for the comments, Hennies! Y’all are making me feel like Ariel in the beginning of Little Mermaid 2 :> I missed all of you too! Sorry if there was a problem with the formatting of the previous chapter; completely my fault!

OH, and if you’re confused with the timeline, I’ll simplify it for you:

RPDR Season 6 (filming) ended around Mid-July of 2013 (assuming it takes about a year or so before it is released). January 2014; Roy and Danny started dating. 6 months after that, June 2014, a month after Bianca wins, they get married. A year later, the couple gets baby fever, so they start looking for the perfect surrogate and egg donor. This is where I deflect a bit from the prologue, it takes them until May 2016 to conceive.

TLDR; the fic takes place July 2026, and RPDR is currently airing S19 with THE AS:BoTW filming the very same year . If I had said anything contrary to those stated above, disregard it. This is the new timeline I’m going to follow going forward.

All the love, Hennies!

XOXO, Henny

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

“Well, would you be interested in joining the first All-Stars: Battle of the Winners in place of Bianca?”

The way Adore gaped at her phone was almost comedic, mouth opening and closing like a fish. In some way, she’s almost flattered at the fact that Ru called personally instead of a producer. It’s almost very considerate, since the man knew what had gone between Danny and Roy.

“Well, last time I checked, you didn’t crown me, Mama…” Adore adds a teasing tone to her voice, and tries to ignore the nerves that seemed to resurface at the idea of returning back to the competition. It’s been many years since Season 6, and Adore has genuinely forgotten how it feels to be on a platform like that again. Focusing on her music as both Adore and Danny has shifted the focus of her career as a drag queen and performer; and with many seasons passed, she knew her charm has run dry with Drag Race fans.

Ru laughs, the iconic shrill making Adore spiral back into the werkroom. “I didn’t, didn’t I?” He laughs again, and Adore can only imagine him wiping a fake tear. “But, I am planning to release the footage of you and Bianca winning to prove that my decision to invite you has some bearing, at the least.”

Adore inwardly groans again, remembering the night of the finale wherein they filmed the ending of her and Bianca winning together. She feels the ghost of Bianca’s hands squeezing her own as they waved and the sparkly confetti rains and glitters of lights from cameras blinded their eyes; applause and cheers roaring in their ears.

“What will the other queens say? The winners, I mean. It’s not like they’ll consider me a winner, especially the newer queens.” Ever the anxious person that she is, she finds a brush to fiddle with to lessen her anxiety.

“My competition, my rules. Whatever I say goes, Baby. They can say whatever they want, but if they’re smart enough, they’ll pipe up. And, besides…” Ru trails off excitedly, like they were sharing a secret. “Since this is only a Netflix special, I’m only doing the first decade season winners. I’m sure they’ll be nicer to you than recent ones.“

“All of them said yes?”

“All, but one, you already know…”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“So, what do you say?”

“I- I don’t know, Ru. I’ll think about it…”

“Of course, let the producers know soon, alright? Filming starts October! Toodles!”

The call ends, and it takes everything in Adore’s willpower not to throw it to the wall. She looks at her phone’s lock screen and sees the beaming face of Portia, and she manages to calm down. She stands up, grabs a pre-rolled joint in her makeup kit, and heads out of the building after shouting to the manager to inform him about her whereabouts. She normally didn’t do this anymore; smoking, hard liquor, and even hooking up with trades that come her way. Portia had completely turned her life around, and so did Roy and Nerissa. “Fuck,” Tears fill her eyes again at the thought of her daughter who she no longer knew, she sniffles as she takes a long drag of her joint and breathing out harshly.

A tall figure looms over her, and with a tap on her shoulder, she nearly doubled over in fear. “What the fuckkk…” She groans, clutching her heart.

“Oh, sorry… Didn’t mean to scare you.” Adore looks up to meet the steel eyes of a blonde stud with a smug smile on his face.

“Shit, I know you…” Adore murmurs in thought, before she remembers “You’re Brooke, right?”

“Brooke Lynn Hytes, yeah.” He flashes her a beautiful, gorgeous smile, pearly whites and all. “…But right now, uhh,” He looks down to his jeans and plain gray shirt, “You can call me, Brock.”

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

“Okay, give me another one.” Portia looks at her cards, one five of hearts and the other six of spades. It was really late and they just finished washing the dishes of the entire camp after dinner. Not tired from their post-cry-emotional nap earlier, they had decided to play a game of Blackjack. Nerissa deals her another card, and picks one for herself. Portia peaks at the new card, and sees her nine of spades. She joins the cards together, and places them down in triumph.

“20, let’s see yours, Haylock.”

Nerissa drops her cards, a jack of diamonds, two of clubs, and nine of clubs. “Blackjack, bitchh…” She taunts, laughing at Portia’s dismayed face.

“That’s not fucking fair…” Portia drawls, “That’s your 9th time winning, I think you’re cheating…”

“Oh, please. You just play your cards wrong, and sometimes, I’m just really lucky…” Nerissa beams as she watches Portia fix the cards and put it back in their case, murmuring “I don’t want to play anymore.”

“It’s getting pretty late, too. I think we should go to bed.” Nerissa yawns as she grabs her blanket and tries to settle herself in. Portia agrees before standing up to lock their door; to make sure the windows are tightly shut; and to turn off the light. The moon shines at its brightest, a cool silver light shimmers through their window.

“I know it’s late, but I’m not even remotely sleepy.” Portia comments despite the yawn the escapes her.

“Same here,” Nerissa says with droopy eyes.

“Tell me, what’s Bianca like? No… noo…What’s dad like?” Portia asks, adjusting herself so she faces her sister. The mere idea of having a sister and having Roy Haylock AKA Bianca Del Rio, THE Bianca Del Rio is possibly 50% her dad makes her more giddy than anything in the world.

“Dad is probably the most workaholic person you’ll ever meet. He’ll make time for you, yes. But, you can tell that 75% of his mind is just…” Nerissa sighs, “exhausted, if not thinking about work… He really tries though, he hasn’t missed any of my ballet recitals yet nor any PTAs. He’s as active as a busy parent can be.”

“That’s good, I guess…” A hum of agreement, another yawn.

“And not to mention, the free dresses.” She giggles, “How ‘bout our other dad?” Nerissa turns to lie on her back, thinking about her dad who she hasn’t updated in awhile, even though she promised to do so everyday. A sudden urge to hug her dad courses through her body, and subtle pout forms at her lips at the thought of Roy. She missed her dad, she’s still upset about the whole not-telling-her-she-was-a-twin-thing, but she missed him nonetheless.

“He’s pretty chill. I can do anything I want,”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, my dad’s pretty cool. We have the kind of relationship where I can tell him things and… he can tell me things. He’s my best friend, so we just have fun most of the time.” Portia says with mere awe. “But, it wasn’t always like that. There was a time though where he was pretty down in the dumps; he didn’t really have the best mental health back then and his coping mechanism–”

“Hey, this seems kinda personal. You don’t have to tell me this, okay? Only if you’re comfortable doing so.” Nerissa says, her arm crossing its way to pat Portia’s tummy to stop her thought.

“No, no… You’re my sister, and I trust you enough.”

“Okay, if you’re sure… So you were saying?

“Yeah, so, he didn’t have the best coping mechanism. Alcohol is tricky when it gets out of hand. I didn’t mind at first, because I didn’t think it was that bad. I didn’t notice the signs because I was so young. It was only one incident, really, when I understood the gravity of it all. Around June, he nearly drank himself to death. I don’t know why he drank severely that night, but I just found him passed out on his own–” Portia chokes as tears start up with the memory of seeing her dad then. “I was only four then, Riz. I didn’t know what death was, but the minute I saw him– It just rationalized so quickly in my head. I called 911 as fast as I could. I didn’t know what I was saying half the time ‘cuz I was just crying.”

Nerissa places a comforting hand on Portia’s arm as the girl tries to fight the sniffles. When Portia manages to barely win against the tears, she continues, “When we were in the hospital, I was with my Grandma and there was another man, I– I don’t know who, from what I can remember– we didn’t know if my dad was gonna make it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Porsche.”

“No, no… It’s fine. Just sucks to remember it. But, he managed to pull through, obviously. He hasn’t drank alcohol in years. So, I’m really proud of him, especially in his line of work, it must be so hard.”

“Yeah, as his 50%-chance daughter and for what it’s worth, I’m proud of him, too. “

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

When Courtney heard the rumors going around backstage that night, she had about ten shots of tequila before coming to the conclusion that she wouldn’t tell Roy. But, funny how alcohol works out.

“Yanxxxxx” Courtney drawls out on her phone that she’s struggling to hold up to her ear. But the effort was there. She has absolutely no idea where she is as she presses her warm cheek to the cold faux leather seat of a couch.

“Bitch, did you really just– What?” Roy rolls his eyes as he looks at his phone that hosts Courtney’s current call and the said-blonde on his couch, drooling and staring off into space.

“I gotta–” hiccup “tell you a ssssecret.” Courtney angles her phone to her mouth, so she’s directly speaking to the phone’s microphone. Roy walks over to the drunk girl, grabs her phone and throws it in her purse. He ends the call on his phone before slipping to the kitchen, grabbing a towel and soaking it with cold water. He gives it a good squeeze to remove the excess water before going back to Courtney and placing the towel on her forehead.

“You’re so lucky Riz isn’t here or I would’ve left your drunk ass in the club.” He mutters in annoyance, even though everyone knew he wouldn’t really do that. He could never let anything happen to any of his loved ones, and god knows Riz has seen Courtney or Shane pissed drunk since she was a toddler.

“No,” Courtney says abruptly, hand swatting away Roy’s hand. “Nooooo…” She continues to drawl. “The secret is Ado…” She leans in close, way too close. Roy gets a harsh flashback and hastily pushes Courtney away. With the push, Courtney plops on her back and passes out entirely. Roy sighs, both in frustration and exhaustion. He wouldn’t bother removing Courtney’s makeup, but he did give her the courtesy of removing her wig and cap, as well as unlacing her corset. It all feels familiar to him, taking care of someone and helping them de-drag, except of course, back then he had to strip Bianca off himself and help Danny remove his clothes which then would lead to…

Roy shakes his mind, trying to get rid of the idea before it escalated. He leaves the guest bedroom and makes his way to the kitchen for a glass of wine. He’s just going to pretend he doesn’t know that Courtney was about to say something about Adore as he starts up a design for Rupaul on the granite kitchen counter.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

“I can’t believe Biadore was ACTUALLY a thing.”

“How can you not? The tension was so obvious, especially during that one part where Adore said she didn’t want to work with Bianca? The sexual tension was just–” Nerissa fans herself before she receives a slight smack and push on her shoulder.

“Dude, you’re so fucking weird. I don’t wanna think about my dad’s sex life OR YOURS!!”

“I’m just telling the truth! The stare was intense.” Nerissa breaks into a fit of giggles at Portia’s face of slight disgust at the idea. “And speaking of, did your dad date anyone again?” Nerissa asks.

“Never anyone serious enough to introduce to me, no. He’d go on dates, sometimes Adore would go on dates. But, yeah. He never really seemed interested in dating anymore, so he put all his attention to me or his and Adore’s music.”

“Do you call Adore “mom”?”

“No, that’s weird!” Portia snorts, “My dad is, well, my dad. He has his own quirks and personality. And, Adore, to me, is just a whole different person. I can’t explain it. Like, I know he’s Adore Delano through and through. But, my mind just sees Adore like a whole different person.” Portia rolls again to her back, so she’s facing the ceiling like her sister. “How about your dad? Did he date anyone?”

“You know what’s weird? I don’t think he ever did, not even dating or flirting with anyone else. He’s always been so closed off to anyone who showed any particular interest.” Nerissa twiddles with her thumb, before scrunching her nose in distaste. “I mean, in some way, I get it. He’s scared to love again. Uncle Shane always said so. I wish I knew why though.”

Portia hums, thoughtfully. Another pregnant pause looms over their conversation. It has gone on for so long that for a moment Nerissa thought Portia was asleep, until…

“I AM SUCH A FUCKING GENIUS!”

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS:

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight |

[eremiss]

12: Tooth and Nail

(light cw: descriptions of post-fight injuries and being poisoned/drugged. Takes place during Post-HVW MSQ “Consequences”)

Ten minutes, Thancred had said. Ten minutes for Gwen to try and wait out the lingering symptoms of the poison she’d been dosed with, make sure Falcon’s Nest wouldn’t fall apart in their absence, and try to find Honoroit --”If you truly must.”-- then they were heading back to Ishgard to deliver the news of the disastrous Conference. His tone had brooked no room for argument.

She took extra care to mind the time, as being late would likely have Thancred assuming the worst. They’d already had quite enough excitement for one day and she had no desire to add to it, plus his mood was already poor enough.

Ten fruitless minutes later Gwen trudges up the ramp to the landing platform, shoulders hunched and spirits low. The garrison’s morale is understandably poor and there’s naught to be done about it, though it seems her departure isn’t cause for it to deteriorate further. There was no sign of Honoroit anywhere, and the people she’d spoken with hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him.

Her stomach rolls and twists, a weak, nauseous ache permeating her limbs that shivers up her throat whenever she moves too quickly. She’d retched up the tainted wine the moment she was able, but it had plainly been in her system long enough for its effects to linger. 

If I knew what was in it, I could maybe try and counteract it somehow… But she doesn’t, and the woman who does is likely dead.

The landing platform is deserted and quiet, the chocobo stables practically empty compared to when she’d arrived. Apparently she’s the one that has to wait for Thancred for a change.

Whoever is supposed to be on watch has abandoned their duty for the moment, and no one around to see her wander past the gates. The wind is faster and sharper without buildings or mountains to block it, cutting through her outer layers and straight down to her bones. She shivers harshly and crosses her arms tightly across her chest as her bangs whip her face and her ears burn themselves numb, missing the sweltering heat of the barracks. At least the sharp chill doesn’t make her feel ill.

Gwen sweeps her eyes across the empty platform, wondering where Honoroit could have gone, and what he might’ve been thinking. There’s no way he just up and abandoned Emmanellain, surely? He’s stuck to his master’s side like glue through everything until now. He couldn’t possibly…

There’s a lump on the far side of the platform. A small figure with brown hair dressed in familiar blue and white garb. It looks sort of like--

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Honoroit?”

He twitches and raises his head, peering blankly at her as she rushes over to him. “M-Miss Ashe?” he croaks, confused. 

“Hush, hush, don’t talk,” she chides gently, panic and worry tightening like vices around in her chest as she kneels to inspect his wounds. 

Bruises are splattered across every ilm of bare skin, and his clothes are torn and dirtied with patterns that distinctly resemble boot prints. His face is mostly black and blue with a nasty cut over his brow and on his lips, one of his eyes swollen nearly shut. 

Honoroit tries to sit up, slow and careful as he shifts his weight and favors his right side. He only makes it halfway before he grimaces and sinks back to the ground with a pained sound. 

A fresh surge of concern mutes the dismayed, impotent static buzzing through her thoughts. Questions and anger can wait. She lays a light, comforting hand on his arm and hopes she isn’t touching a sore spot. “Be still, Honoroit...”

He needs to get somewhere warm, first of all, as his lips are distressingly blue. Ideally that will be somewhere with a healer, as her initial assessment of his injuries isn’t good. Even natives of Ishgard aren’t immune to the cold, and she has no idea how long he’s been out here lying on frozen stone. But how to move him without worsening his injuries....

“Honoroit!!” Emmanellain’s distraught voice cries from behind her.

She lifts her head as two sets of footsteps rapidly approach, the nobleman making panicked sounds every step of the way with Thancred, expression grim, just behind him. 

When Emmanellain is finally able to see the extent of Honoroit’s injuries his face twists with horror and he drops to his knees by Gwen’s side. “No, no! What have they done to you!?” 

He reaches towards Honoroit, and Gwen puts an arm in his way. He whirls on her, his stricken glare demanding an explanation.

She tries to appear calmer than she feels and makes a mollifying gesture, shaking her head. You shouldn’t move him.

A wash of different emotions twist Emmanellains face one way and then another, and he looks like he has half a mind to shout at her. Instead he makes an aggravated, high-pitched whining sound and slaps his hands down on the stone ground.

“Is that you, my lord?” Honoroit offers a feeble smile and struggles for a light tone, as if making a jest, “You... you seem rather flustered.”

“Because of you, you imbecile!” Emmanellain exclaims, “What in the seven hells happened to you!?” 

“My… my apologies… Some few of the guests expressed a wish to leave...and I implored them to stay.” He makes a weak imitation of a laugh, “It would seem they took issue with my request.”

Rings would explain the small cuts and abrasions in the bruises on his face... 

Gwen’s stomach lurches in a way that has nothing to do with the poison she’d been dosed with. All of her worried thoughts take on a frazzled, angry edge that wears at her already thinned nerves. A twinge in her clenched jaw and a telltale ache shooting from her teeth to her temples signal that she successfully kicked off a headache.

“Gods forgive me…” Emmanellain groans, burying his face in his hands. “If I had only been more careful with my words!”

“Do not blame yourself my lord,” the younger elezen insists. “I know… I know that you and your brother have Ishgard’s best interests at heart. That poor woman… She lives in the past, clinging to memories of the lost.”

He’s admirably composed considering everything that’s happened, even accounting for the fact he’s generally more mature and levelheaded than his master. Empathy for the dissidents and protesters has only made his conviction for Aymeric’s cause that much stronger.  

“But the future holds so much promise. So much joy. And you…” His voice wavers and Gwen tenses, her heart skipping a beat. “You... know that better than any…” His words fade to nothing and his eyes slip closed. Then his head lolls to his chest.

Gwen immediately checks his pulse. It’s steady, thank the Twelve, as is his labored breathing, but his complexion has gone frighteningly pale. 

“Honoroit?!” Emmanellain half rises, panicked. His mouth works uselessly for a moment before he turns his fearful eyes on Gwen, “Gwen, do something!” 

Her chest constricts sharply and she freezes

Ever since the Vault she can’t...

Couldn’t, a small voice corrects. Y’shtola has been tutoring her for more than a moon, and she’s made enough progress that she’s begun regaining the ability to use healing magic. It’s feeble and terribly taxing, a far cry from the white and red magic she used to wield, but she can manage it. As she is now, weakened by that poison and with a fresh host of doubts welling up and knotting in her chest...

But Honoroit needs help. And she can help, at least minorly.

She bites her lip, voices she’ll never hear again murmuring at her in time with her heartbeat. One rings out louder than the others, gentle despite the volume.

For those we have lost. For those we can yet save.

She can’t fully mend his wounds, but she can at least ease his pain. No matter what her clinging doubts try to mutter, she knows she can do something. Not much, maybe, but not nothing, and that’s enough. It has to be. However draining it is on her, she’ll manage. She’s had worse, after all, and she can rest and recover once they’re back in Ishgard. For now... She has to at least try. 

Gwen takes a steadying breath and makes a clear place in her mind before holding a hand over Honoroit’s chest. She closes her eyes and breathes, gathering her focus and recalling Y’shtola’s patient instructions, replaying the simple exercises they’d practiced for bells. When it all feels solid enough to work with, she begins to mumble an incantation.

As the spell takes shape a weak light flickers to life under her hand, drifting over Honoroit like mist. She senses bruises of all shapes and sizes, cuts, cracked bones... no internal bleeding or anything blatantly life-threatening, at least. It’s an issue of quantity, the sheer multitude of otherwise-lesser injuries amounting to something more severe. 

With the injuries assessed, she shifts her intention to healing. Immediately the spell begins to pull at her in earnest, drawing out her energy and replacing it with intangible weight that begins to pile on her shoulders.

Even a layman could tell that her conjury is that of a novice, at best. But, feeble as it is, it’s still enough to slowly mend cracked bones and knit broken skin, and the cuts on his lips and brow gradually close. Hopefully he’ll be able to rest a little easier.

She knows it won’t be long before fatigue settles in, but hopefully Thancred and Duskfeather will make sure she at least gets back to Ishgard before she falls asleep on her feet. Her head is still pounding a dull rhythm, and she’s sure it will likely start to worsen soon, too. It’s fine… So long as the spell is working, it’s fine.

“He’ll live, but it’s imperative we get him inside and into the care of a chirurgeon once he’s stable,” Thancred says calmly. With any luck his steady composure will help Emmanellain pull himself together. “Gwen can only do so much.”

“Only so much?!” Emmanellain demands shrilly.

Gwen winces, squeezing her eyes more tightly shut against the kick of doubt and frustration that tries to crack her barely-solidified concentration. She screws up her mouth and works to ignore that, too.

Thancred’s tone hardens, “It’s a sight more than either of us can offer, unless you have knowledge of conjury that you’ve been keeping secret.”

Emmanellain struggles for a response, half syllables coming out one after another before he settles for an angry hiss. “Gah! We were so close! Why does it all have to fall to pieces!? Don’t they want to live in peace!? Don’t they want to be happy!? We all want the same thing, and still-- STILL it falls to pieces!”

The words buzz in her ears like stinging bugs, the volume piercing her focus. Suddenly she can feel sweat gathering on the back of her neck despite the wintry chill, and the edges of her vision are doing strange things. 

“Tell me, what--what was I supposed to do, hm?!” He demands, a desperate, petulant twinge cracking his voice. 

She can feel the way each throb of her head rattles the focus she’d worked so hard to gather, pain and exertion freely jostling her thoughts. 

He stomps his foot furiously, “Someone, anyone, tell me: what was I supposed to do!?” 

Her vision warps and her headache throbs in her teeth. The spell unravels in her thoughts and on her tongue, and she abandons the incantation with a pained groan. 

It’s hard enough to heal Honoroit between her struggles with conjury, the headache, and the lingering symptoms of poison, and now Emannelain is making it all worse by yelling. 

She drops her head into her hands and gulps steadying breaths, fingers icy and numb against her pounding head. Stop being dizzy, stop being dizzy... She isn’t sure if it’s her numbed fingers or a genuine fever making her skin so hot to the touch, but the sheen of sweat suggests the latter.

His voice cracks with panic when he realizes she’s stopped her healing spell. “What are you doing?! Don’t stop!”

The Banquet, the Vault, Azys Lla, the Antitower, faces she’ll never see again, and too many other godsamned things shove up up against the inside of her skull until her head feels like it’s going to split in two.

All at once her throat itches with a stifled scream, her eyes sting and her chest aches like she sprinted for malms without stopping.

She doesn’t know what she should do, what she wants to do, but her nerves are bristling, her heart is pounding, and her body is thrumming with desperate, impotent fury, and she’s so sick and tired of losing people, of failing, of being so useless-- of-- of--

A hand clamps on her shoulder and gives one firm shake.

Her thoughts upend and crash back to the earth, abruptly deflating and crumbling into splinters and shards.

“Breathe.”

She sucks in a mouthful of wintry air and chokes on the cold. After a few tries she catches her breath enough to loosen some of the knots in her chest. When did she start holding her breath...?

Gwen’s head is still a litlte woozy as she looks up. Thancred is leaning over her, his mouth set in a firm grimace and his expression woodenly calm. He twitches his head towards Honoroit, Focus. Heal him.  

The tide of anger and adrenaline passes as quickly as it came, taking the dizzy spell and a modicum of her headache with it. Gwen wipes the sting out of her eyes in place of shaking her head, pushing away the briars and splinters clinging to the inside of her head. She’s no less overwhelmed than she had been a minute ago, but she’s pushed off the worst of it for the moment. That’s good enough.

Thancred releases her shoulder, straightens and turns to face Emmanellain. The nobleman is being surprisingly quiet, perhaps realizing he’d overstepped.

She counts the breaths hissing between her teeth and grasps for calm, pushing her shoulders down and trying to clear her mind. The sight of Honoroit, battered and unconcious, is sobering enough to quell the last simmering strains of irritation and get her mind back in line again.

She closes her eyes and re-gathers her focus through the haze of her headache, trying to ignore the briefly-forgotten fatigue that’s still hanging on her shoulders. Twelve but white magic is so much more taxing than it had ever been--than it should be.

Gwen rests her hand on Honoroit’s chest to center herself and stubbornly, purposefully mumbles the incantation over and over until the sounds and shapes of the words hollow out a big enough place to hold her concentration. 

Emmanellain speaks, “Well? If you have something to say, say it!”

The spell takes shape again, magic trickling from her into Honoroit and flowing out to the worst injuries yet in need of attention. She can feel that the spell is weaker than before, that it’s working more slowly, but it’s still helping. That’s what matters.  

Thancred’s voice is hard and flat, scolding, “Stop looking to others. You make your choice and you live with the consequences.”

There’s brief sputtering followed by a few harsh, seething breaths.

Suddenly there’s a short, hard impact. Instinct identifies the sound before her mind can: a punch.

“And what would you know about consequences!?” Emmanellain spits bitterly. “You, who always knows just what to say and just what to do! Your every deed is greeted with a round of applause!”

Gwen winces away from the words, bitterly wondering how fate’s timing could be so spectacularly terrible. There couldn’t be a worse time for such perfectly aimed words. Matoya’s cave and the Antitower are scarcely a sennight behind them. People claim fate likes to ‘jest’, and apparently its sense of humor is twisted and cruel. 

All at once the air grows close and heavy, bristling with energy like the calm before a storm. Apprehension tightens across her back and she catches the inside of her cheek in her teeth, worrying thoughtlessly at it. It is much too quiet...

A much louder, harder impact rings out, more like a thunderclap than a drumbeat. 

Emmanellain’s yelp of pain is abruptly cut off by the heavy, metallic thud of a chainmailed body hitting stone ground.

Thancred’s voice is low and furious, the point of a knife sinking home. “You know nothing about me. I have fought tooth and nail for the people I hold dear-- done everything in my power to save them, to protect them...and I have failed.” A beat of silence filled with a harsh breath, “Learn to live with it. I have.”

A heavy feeling settles in her stomach, apprehension morphing into worry that convinces her turn her head. She opens her eyes and peeks over her shoulder, keeping the majority of her focus on her tenuous spell. 

Thancred is standing over Emmanellain with a face like a thunderstorm, fists clenched tight at his sides. Emmanellain stares silently up at him, frozen in shock. 

Thancred seems unharmed, while one side of Emmanellain’s face is rapidly darkening and his jaw is hanging at a slightly awkward angle that suggests it might be broken. 

Gwen has never heard Thancred so furious before. She’s never seen him snap. He spat those words like curses, like they’re a burden he’s suffered and agonized over for ages without reprieve. They speak of a kind of deep ache and near-hateful sort of guilt that Gwen is much too familiar with. 

Thancred turns brusquely on his heel and storms away in silence. 

Gwen avoids Emmanellain’s gaze and turns back to Honoroit. 

She immediately resolves to talk to him, but not until he’s had time to cool off and settle out. She’ll do what she can for Honoroit first, then she’ll go after him.

Gwen is more than a little wobbly on her feet as she staggers back down the ramp into Falcon’s Nest. Her vision is behaving itself, but her head is throbbing, her legs are weak, and her stomach is refusing to settle down. 

Though it took entirely too much effort, she still finds no small amount of satisfaction in successfully managing healing magic again. She’s improving, slowly but surely.

Casting her eyes around the open square turns up nothing, and she rubs at her heavy eyelids with a pout. She’ll have to go searching, then. But where to start? On a whim, she turns for the barracks.

She finds Thancred in an out-of-the way spot a stone’s throw from where she’d hidden earlier to purge the tainted wine from her system and wait for her grasp on conciousness to solidify. He’s leaning against the wall and radiating the air of a man better left alone, arms crossed tightly across his chest and a stony glower on his face. 

He glances up as she approaches, shrewdly scrutinizing the rhythm of her steps and the way she’s carrying herself.

Concern, discomfort and reemourse coil around her chest and tie knots in her head, images of Matoya’s cave flitting past her vision. She takes a slow breath, feeling a bit like she’s readying to try more healing magic.

Mourning and grief do crazy things to people, and no one handles it the same. Gwen knows that. She withdraws, physically and mentally, growing hollow and distant and numb. She wilts and shrinks, always drained and slow as if she’s wrapped in a layer of lead that separates her from the world, trying to insulate and protect herself. She hasn’t yet mastered pulling herself out of it, but she’s always --eventually-- managed it with the help of her friends.

Thancred closes himself off and binds himself to his mistakes, as if not forgiving himself for them means he won’t make them again. He pushes others away and walls himself in with his hurt, treating it as a lesson to be learned rather than a wound to mend. It lies just beneath the surface and drives him to lash out when it grows too painful to hold, like on the landing platform, and over time it sinks into him, a weight he carries that he never speaks of or shows even as it changes him.

But...

It’s not that Gwen thinks he doesn’t have the right to his misery or grief, especially after losing someone so dear as Minfili. The events of the Antitower are barely behind them. Of course he’s still hurting and struggling with all of it. 

It’s how he’s handling it--or rather, not handling it, and what it’s doing to him that she’s worried about. He’s hurting. He’s insisting on struggling alone, on holding everything in and carrying it with him, like he did after being freed from Lahabrea, and refusing to allow it to rest.

It’s too soon to really begin healing, maybe, but not so much that she can’t remind him that he isn’t alone.

Gwen stops in front of him, just out of arm's reach. Her limbs are heavy, her head is throbbing and her stomach is shifting unpleasantly, but she does her best to keep her discomfort to herself. She settles her weight on her feet and regards him with a concerned and placidly questioning look. What was that back there? 

They stand in silence, simply looking at one another and waiting. 

Thancred’s expression loses a smidgen of its harshness, though otherwise remains flat. Gwen loosely folds her arms against the chill, chewing the inside of her lip and worrying the sleeves of her coat between her fingers. She can wait for as long as she needs to.

Thancred shifts against the wall and sharply turns his head, putting the black wrap of cloth towards her. A dismissal, most likely. He doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t want sympathy and, more than that, he doesn’t want her there. It stings, even as she corrects herself that he likely wants to be left alone to brood and doesn’t want anyone around.

Blue and purple are creeping out from beneath the edge of the cloth. The evidence of Emmanellain’s punch.

Gwen shifts her weight, numb fingers prickling as they slowly warm, her teeth sharp against the inside of her cheek. Then she takes one slow, somewhat cautious step forward.

Thancred tenses but doesn’t move, clinging to the hope she’ll go away if he ignores her long enough.

She takes another step and comes to a stop, now well within arm’s reach. She cautiously lifts a hand towards his face.

The motion makes him twitch and he jerks his head back around. She pulls her hand back in time to avoid colliding with his bruised cheek.

His expression is guarded as he glowers at her, a hint of incredulity and impatience tugging at his mouth while his eye is sharp. There’s a feeling tense expectation hanging about him that has a definite, bristling edge to it. He’s braced for a reprimand or a lecture, and is plenty ready to retaliate and start an argument. In fact, he almost looks like he’s hoping for an excuse to do just that.

Gwen gives him nothing of the sort, regarding him with a calm, weary look. She tentatively moves her hand towards his bruised cheek again, carefully studying his reaction.

He allows it, watching her like a hawk.

She stops short of touching his bandana, fingertips hovering just beside his cheek. She focuses on the back of her hand and scrounges up the last onzes of her energy for just one more small conjury spell.  

Thancred’s jaw shifts beneath her hand, his shoulders tightening and lifting like he’s getting his hackles up.

A somewhat tenuous whisper of soothing magic ripples out of her fingers and flows across his skin. The effort leaves her feeling a bit like she stood up too quickly, but she sets her jaw and keeps at it. The fringe of blue and black begins to gradually soften and melt away, shrinking back beneath the edge of his bandana.

After a few slow, drawn out seconds his jaw flexes and he lets out a long, slow exhale that sounds distinctly like resignation. A bit of tension bleeds out of his posture and his shoulders begin to slowly sink back down. 

Thancred’s expression gradually smooths out, angry sparks fading and antagonistic edge dulling. Eventually it settles into the dour, brooding look she’s more accustomed to.

His jaw tenses up, relaxes just enough to shift, then tenses again. She imagines the sound of his teeth grinding.

He turns his head ever so slightly, just enough that his cheek barely connects with the pads of her fingers. He takes a few careful breaths and closes his eye, brow not quite furrowed. There’s an air of resigned expectation to his silence and the passing seconds, as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Gwen doesn’t say a word, maintaining their slight connection and not pushing for more. He’s free to pull away, or to lean in. He’s free to talk, or not. 

At length his eye opens again, and he looks a great deal calmer and more composed. “...I may have overreacted.” His voice is quiet but unapologetic, as flat as his mouth. “But it needed to be done. He was becoming hysterical.” 

Gwen tilts her head a little, acquiescing the point. Thancred’s reaction wasn’t appropriate, no, and it was worryingly unlike him, but it was… understandable. Emmanellain is the one who threw the first punch, in all fairness, and he’d been doing a spectacular job of hitting their sore spots before that. She doesn’t blame the young nobleman for his frustration or whatever else he’s feeling, but that doesn’t mean she’s willing to listen to him rant whilst trying to heal his manservant.

Thancred takes another long breath, gaze drifting slowly over the stones around them. Eventually the silence urges him to speak again, “I understand the desire to look for reasons. For excuses. To convince yourself you had no choice. But the past is the past, and there is naught to be gained from reliving your mistakes.” 

His tone has a heavy undercurrent of repetition to it, as though he was reciting words he was tired of hearing. Yet the words make his frown turn pensive, if a little wrinkled with bitterness, in a way that makes her think he’s yet working to fully process that statement himself. 

Gwen tilts her head the other way, giving him a meaningful look. Are you telling me this? Or yourself?

“I know this,” Thancred insists immediately. “I know this.” His expression tightens, almost slipping into a grimace, and his eye drops back to the ground, “But he…” 

He he huffs a sharp, frustrated breath and shifts moodily against the wall. He makes a point to keep his head still, maintaining their tentative connection.

She wonders how much striking Emmanellain made him realize the extent to which everything is affecting him.

Baby steps. Healing takes time. Understanding and overcoming one’s frustrations with themselves is a long road, and acknowledging them in the first place is the first step. He’s taken a step in the right direction. Hopefully.

Gwen can senses his cheek isn’t quite healed, but reluctantly admits she’s too spent to finish the job. She still has to fly to Ishgard and deliver the report to Aymeric, after all. And with her luck she’ll likely have more to endure after that, too, poison be damned.

She lets the spell peter out with a weary sigh, letting her hand linger for a few more seconds before dropping it back to her side. 

Thancred takes a long moment to look her over again, bluntly studying her face and the way she’s holding herself. "You look hellish.”

Gwen’s lips twitch with a hint of a smile. No one is around, they’re alone and in private for the moment, so she reaches out to brush the tips of her fingers along his knuckles. 

He watches, not quite impassively.

As her hand withdraws his turns, slowly as if it’s half-frozen. He curls his fingers just enough for the tips of hers to catch on his. 

It’s surprising how steadying such a small thing can be. 

Less than a breath later he lets hers drop. He shoulders himself off the wall and straightens up with a bit of muttering, brushing off his clothes. “Get your bird and let us away. We’ve important matters to attend to in Ishgard, and have kept the Lord Commander waiting entirely too long already. The lordling can arrange his return on his own time.”

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

Tooth and nail - adverb with all one's resources or energy; fiercely

Oy vey @_@ this FFXIVWrite is really kicking my butt.

This is the first, and only, idea that sprung to mind when I saw the prompt. This part was so intense, and the conference just felt like the latest thing in the long list of “everything is going wrong fuuuuuu” @_@ I need to write more about this particular time in Post-HVW

[love-yourselves-campaign]

Vivoree Esclito backs ‘no to body shaming’ calls after becoming subject of ‘It’s Showtime’

Jeline Malasig

Actress Vivoree Esclito spoke up against body shaming after being a subject of one of a noontime variety show’s segment.

The 20-year-old former “Pinoy Big Brother” housemate retweeted a 2019 post she wrote on Twitter and shared an Instagram Story which featured a text that reads:

“Don’t you dare make me feel ashamed of my body.”

Two years ago, Esclito tweeted that she was aware of people body shaming her online and appealed for them to stop doing it to others.

“Ok so I’ve seen some comments about some people body shaming me. It’s fine with me po, none taken, but PLEASE do not do it to others. Some people don’t take it the same way I do. Other’s bodies are totally NONE of your business. Be sensitive enough to know that,” she wrote.

The actress retweeted her post as the phrase “NO TO BODY SHAMING” landed on local Twitter’s top trending list Tuesday evening.

A clip from “It’s Showtime” could be seen by clicking the particular trend on the platform.

The clip features a contestant’s picture for the variety show’s “Hide and Sing” segment which acts as a guessing game.

Some of the contestant’s body features are zoomed in to allow viewers to uncover his or her identity.

When the picture of the first contestant called “Tago-Kanta Number 1” was shown, one of the program hosts blurted out Esclito’s name after seeing a portion of an arm with visible hair.

“Si Vivoree ‘yan!” Itchyworms frontman Jugs Jugueta exclaimed with a laugh.

He was immediately called out by fellow host Karylle, who said that she’s also “very hairy.”

Jugueta responded that he was just joking.

“This is not funny, this is the last time you’re gonna make fun of her,” a Twitter user who shared the clip said in response to the host’s reaction.

“I’m with this: NO TO BODY SHAMING. The world is too depressing, yet people are continuing shaming others by weight, height, and for being mabalbon. This Vivoree girl is beautiful. Every girls are beautiful no matter what. Don’t make fun (of) what they have,” another online user wrote.

Esclito likewise shared a graphic of body shaming on her IG Story.

It was not the first time that Esclito’s name was immediately mentioned in the segment as the subject of body hair surfaces.

A fan Twitter account shared another clip that featured a zoomed-in picture of a contestant’s pair of thick eyebrows.

The hosts mentioned the actress’ name without hesitation.

Esclito previously revealed that she was bullied for her appearance, particularly her facial and body hair, since childhood.

“Sobrang insecure ako [dati] sa sarili ko because of the way I look, and [the bullying I went through],” she shared in a 2018 interview with Preview.

“Pero ngayon, mino-motivate ko ‘yung sarili ko na, ‘Kailangan mag-survive ka sa mundong ito, kahit ang dami-daming negativity and ang dami-dami nang dahilan para sumuko, kailangan mo pa ring tumuloy,” Esclito added.

The actress rose to prominence after joining “Pinoy Big Brother: Lucky 7” in 2016, where she was tagged as the “Go Getter Girl of Bohol.”

She has since appeared in films and television series, as well as recorded singles, in her showbiz career.

https://interaksyon.philstar.com/celebrities/2021/02/23/186145/vivoree-esclito-backs-no-to-body-shaming-calls-after-becoming-subject-of-its-showtime-segment/

[dollydeez]

“Summin Strange in Them There Hills” Preview

Chapter One: Two Missing, Presumed Dead

This was supposed to be my time off, but “two missing, presumed dead” isn’t the kind of story I can turn down. I was in my apartment, surrounded by bottles, dirty dishes and cigarette butts, when an envelope slid beneath my front door. “Fuck,” I thought, assuming it to be a bill I had forgotten or the harbinger of trouble. It was the latter. A note from my boss, sparse on the explanation: and old friend of his was running an outpost on the frontier, two boys went out and never came back, leave [the contact’s] last name out of the press. If there are those of faint heart among us, my next series of columns will not be for you. Or maybe they will, I’m scribbling the first draft of this while waiting for the train with no intent of changing it. My job is to see the present and past with clear eyes; the future will always remain shrouded in fog. The only other instruction I was given was to hop on the next train available to Darmatilo. I know nothing about it, beside the fact that it lies in the region first settled by our kind when we moved westward. In my frenzy to get down to the station, I packed lightly and walked fast. It seems the line only runs in that direction twice a day, so I’ve had plenty of time to wander about. The ticket counter had a small display of pamphlets next to it, trying to tempt workers to waste their vacation in an arid wasteland, but I was able to scrounge up some information on my destination. Not directly, it was mostly an ad for the luxurious riverfront city of Ladustri, but there was a passing line about the ‘historic’ settlement of Darmatilo, separated by a small ridge from the mining town of Lagerdient. After eighty years it’s suddenly ‘historic’, the absolute gall. The train should be arriving any minute, and only now am I realizing that I could have gone back home to pack more substantively. I’m not used to last minute trips, nor stories with the possibility of more than a few days work. Maybe I’ll be lucky and head home before I run out of clean clothes, but it feels almost vulgar to suggest. My packing playing a role in the length of my stay is fine in the context of a feel-good story, but heading into something more dramatic… Comfort be damned, I’ll stay however long it takes to finish the piece.

Travel is not an unfamiliar aspect of the job, and it comes with a few perks. I don’t often head out of the city, Our City that is, but when I do I travel well. Private cabin with plenty of space, complimentary food service, and unlimited access to the sleeper cars. I spent most of my time glued to a book, but when the trolleys passed by and roused me from my trance I would glance up at the world dashing by. Trees to mountains to nothing desert. Swear to god my ears popped at least three times. Despite the emptiness stretching out before me, the desert is a relief. Something about the mountains, knowing I was so far above everything else, put me off. No matter how much I ate, nothing felt satisfying. I couldn’t concentrate on my book and even my nocturnal excursions provided little relief in the face of knowing how separated from everything I was. The air is too thin up there, no one wants to man an outpost up there. Despite all the complaints I could have about the desert, moving away from that truly dead region into one that seems that way was a relief. The ground was more even and I actually ended up finishing my book. Tragic, finishing a nonsense book in a single sitting, everything wrong with it jumped out much more ferociously. But I wasn’t reading for the plot, I wanted to see characters wriggle through strange situations. It posed this great question of, beyond all the strangeness in normal life, what if there was much more out there in the stars? Automatons indistinguishable from humans, Earth as our homeworld being a long forgotten relic, ‘star ships’ with the ability to jump great distances across the universe… I can’t tell whether the idea of humanity’s faults existing far beyond the bounds of our world is deeply cynical or a profane kind of optimism. If I’ve been keeping track of the stations correctly, I should be getting off soon. This section of my notes, or article if I decide to publish it as is, might be coming to a premature end but I need the last five minutes of any journey to get ready to transition back into work. I may travel for work, but it’s never felt like work. I can’t think of any other moment where I feel so comfortable and justified to fold into myself.

The whine of the whistle felt louder, knowing that I should start gathering my things. I’m a professional and know what I’m doing, so I hung back while everyone else stood up and huddled around the doors as they waited for them to open. Part of me can understand the impulse to get out as quickly as possible, but pragmatically the best option is to stay comfortable and seated until everyone is moving. Filtering out with the last of the passengers, I glanced along the platform for a figure who seemed to be waiting for someone. A man dressed in jeans and a dirty grey shirt was leaning against one of the pillars supporting the station awning, brim of his black hat pulled over his face and cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He looked over to me and gave a little nod upwards in acknowledgment. “Nic?” “And you must be Marcy, mighty nice to meet you,” he said, sticking his hand out. I nodded and kept moving, hoping the horses weren’t in the opposite direction. I would not describe Nic as loquacious, gregarious, or even a minor form of talkative. He was silent down the boardwalk, and was sparse with his words in identifying the black stallion as his and chestnut horse next to it, with a white streak going from its mouth past its chest, as the one I would be using. He focused on the case on the ride over, along with confirming that his first name was fine to use. Franz and James were the lads missing, the first disappearances in a long line of ‘kids’ finding refuge in the outpost, and… I’ll print it because it’s the truth, but I hate it: I was only there to make the remaining residents feel at ease. Not to say I won’t see this assignment to the conclusion, I am still an investigator, but I wasn’t meant to mention I’d only shown up to write for a paper. Something about wanting to keep the ‘kids’ from the brutal truths of our existence, make them think someone cares enough to look into it. Seems I am that someone who cares, although their understanding of my motivation may be a bit skewed. The ridge was surprisingly verdant, lined with trees on either side which were surrounded by pine needles and shrubbery. How they got into the desert I’ll never know, but squirrels rustled through the branches as we passed, spooked by our presence. Nic spent the gallop from the station shouting over his shoulder to get me up to speed, yet in the craggy path, full of sharp turns forcing us to keep our pace slow, he was silent. Why was that? “I wanted to give you a chance to appreciate the scenery.” And after all that time on the train, surrounded by dirt out to the horizon, I did. It reminded me of a certain part of the park about seven kilometers south of my flat. A straight path, but juxtaposed with everything around them[rephrase] both feel like somewhere you could get lost amongst the trees.

We spent at least half an hour winding through the wilderness until we entered a clearing, at the centre of which was a three story house. The wood was weather-beaten and dark from some impossible rain localized in this little area, and it had a covered porch out front next to the hitching post with chairs and a barrel hosting a crowded ashtray. The sound of hooves below us was muffled by grass as we approached the house. Candlelight flickered in the windows and I concentrated on taking in the moment; getting back into the experience of the first night off in a distant place, settling in so I can better take in what it feels like to be here. Following Nic inside, I got the faint whiff of roast beef. The dining room to our left was set up for dinner, but the room was empty. In the living room to the right a fire was blazing next to a man in a suit, who glanced up at us from his book with a look of anger. “You’re late,” he said, setting his book aside to get up. Despite shaking his head solemnly, his lips trembled, fighting to curl upwards, as he held in laughter. “Marcy’s train was late, and-” “Absolutely no excuse! The food’s gone cold, what am I meant to do? Heat it up in the oven like a commoner?” I said nothing while observing this ritual, as he sidled up to Nic and gave him a kiss on the cheek. They laughed and he turned to me. “Jasper,” he said, sticking his hand out for me shake. I introduced myself and, looking to Nic to confirm that I could speak freely, made sure we were on the same page as to why I was there. He wasn’t entirely comfortable talking about it, something about it making him not want to leave the house, and shifted the conversation to getting me settled in.[Ugh rewrite this] “We can save this for tomorrow, no? You’re probably starving, let me get dinner heated back up.” He gave Nic another peck, then disappeared into the kitchen. I went with Nic and took a seat at the table. It’d been mostly travel, but it was still a long day and I started to feel it as I sunk into my seat. Jasper was dashing between the kitchen, dining room and cellar as he brought out a bottle and poured us all a glass. In the middle of proposing a toast, he excused himself for a moment to check the oven. When he came back, he raised his glass and said, “To new friendships and new beginnings.”

Final Notes: I have a small candle resting on the desk in my room, where I’m scribbling this down before going to bed. It feels like a slow start, with little to no new information coming out (beside the ruse I’m meant to carry on with) and I’m fine with that for the moment. It’ll take some getting used to, being out in the middle of nowhere. The constant sounds of the city have been replaced by the buzz of cicadas and chirp of crickets. I’m in a small room, previously belonging to James, with a twin bed set up with an itchy green blanket. Beside the oak armoire and a painting of a dancer hanging on the wall, the room is bare. Despite how late it is and how tired I feel, the prospect of settling in to a new bed feels draining in its own wicked way. It’s an intersection of the trust needed to fall asleep in a strange place, the adjustment to a new environment, and the threat of restlessness. My job demands that I keep daylight hours, but I’ve always been fond of late nights. Not doing anything, but staying up and feeling like the world is my own. One item of concern I brought up over dinner was the absence of the ‘kids’ (it’s an oft enough used colloquialism in this situation that I’ll be removing the apostrophes from here on out) as the pretense for me coming out was putting their minds at ease. It seems their concern was focused on the idea of an unsolved crime rather than their safety. One of the more troubling manifestations of this was their insistence on abducting locals to interview, undermining the separation between residence and feeding grounds. I haven’t looked into how it’s done in the industrialized setting of the city, but from the price I’m guessing there is an assumption that we’d handle it on the individual end. That’s not an option out here, and to compensate they cross county lines for donors in most cases. Thankfully, most of the abductees were taken from their homes and could simply be bitten and returned with no recollection. But this was a corrective course, and at least one was picked up while in transit. If we are dealing with a hunter, which I doubt, they’ve been tossing rocks at the hornets nest. Even if not, one might have been stirred up in this chaos. We’ll just have to see moving forward.

So that’s the start of the [unedited] second draft of my next novel, Summin Strange in Them There Hills. If you read any of the first draft, there’s been a significant shift in the voice which I’m really happy with! My goal with the novels I have planned is to ground the narration in the world of the story, and this draft feels promising.

[arcticdementor]

Media Twitter does not hate Substack because it’s pretending to be a platform when it’s a publisher; they don’t hate it because it’s filled with anti-woke white guys; they don’t hate it because of harassment or any such thing. I don’t think they really hate it at all. Substack is a small and ultimately not-very-relevant outpost in a vastly larger industry; they may not like it but it’s not important enough for them to hate it. What do they hate? They hate where their industry is and they hate where they are within their industry. But that’s a big problem that they don’t feel like they can solve. If you feel you can’t get mad at the industry that’s impoverishing you, it’s much easier to get mad at the people who you feel are unjustly succeeding in that industry. Trying to cancel Glenn Greenwald (again) because he criticizes the media harshly? Trying to tarnish Substack’s reputation so that cool, paid-up writer types leave it and the bad types like me get kicked off? That they can maybe do. Confronting their industry’s future with open eyes? Too scary, especially for people who were raised to see success as their birthright and have suddenly found that their degrees and their witheringly dry one-liners do not help them when the rent comes due.

…

Life in the “content” industry already sucks. A small handful of people make bank while the vast majority hustle relentlessly just to hold on to the meager pay they already receive. There are staff writers at big-name publications who produce thousands of words every week and who make less than $40,000 a year for their trouble. There are permanent employees of highly prestigious newspapers and magazines who don’t receive health insurance. Venues close all the time. Mourning another huge round of layoffs is a regular bonding experience for people in the industry. Writers have to constantly job hop just to try and grind out an extra $1,500 a year, making their whole lives permanent job interviews where they can’t risk offending their potential bosses and peers. Many of them dream of selling that book to save themselves financially, not seeming to understand that book advances have fallen 40% in 10 years - median figure now $6,080 - and that the odds of actually making back even that meager advance are slim, meaning most authors are making less than minimum wage from their books when you do the math. They have to tweet constantly for the good of their careers, or so they believe, which amounts to hundreds of hours of unpaid work a year. Their publications increasingly strong arm them into churning out pathetic pop-culture ephemera like listicles about the outfits on Wandavision. They live in fear of being the one to lose out when the next layoffs come and the game of media musical chairs spins up once again. They have to pretend to like ghouls like Ezra Klein and Jonah Peretti and make believe that there’s such a thing as “the Daily Beast reputation for excellence.”

I have always felt bad for them, despite our differences, because of these conditions. And they have a right to be angry. But they don’t have much in the way of self-awareness about where their anger really lies. A newsletter company hosting Bari Weiss is why you can’t pay your student loans? You sure?

They’ll tell you about the terrible conditions in their industry themselves, when they’re feeling honest. So what are they really mad about? That I’m making a really-just-decent guaranteed wage for just one year? Or that this decent wage is the kind of money many of them dream of making despite the fact that, in their minds, they’ve done everything right and played by all the rules? Is their anger really about a half-dozen guys whose writing you have to actively seek out to see? (If you click the button and put in your email address, you’ll get these newsletters. If you don’t, you won’t. So if you’re a media type who hates my writing, consider just… not clicking that button.) Or do they need someplace to put the rage and resentment that grows inside them as they realize, no, it’s not getting better, this is all I get?

It’s true that I have, in a very limited way, achieved the new American dream: getting a little bit of VC cash. I’m sorry. But it’s much much less than one half of what Felix Salmon was making in 2017 and again, it’s only for one year.

You think the writers complaining in that piece I linked to at the top wanted to be here, at this place in their career, after all those years of hustling? You think decades into their media career, the writers who decamped to Substack said to themselves “you know, I’d really like to be in my 40s and having to hope that enough people will pitch in $5 a month so I can pay my mortgage”? No. But the industry didn’t give them what they felt they deserved either. So they displace and project. They can hate Jesse Singal, but Jesse Singal isn’t where this burning anger is coming from. Neither am I. They’re so angry because they bought into a notoriously savage industry at the nadir of its labor conditions and were surprised to find that they’re drifting into middle age without anything resembling financial security. I feel for them as I feel for all people living economically precarious lives, but getting rid of Substack or any of its writers will not do anything to fix their industry or their jobs. They wanted more and they got less and it hurts. This isn’t what they dreamed. That’s what this is really about.

…

My own deal here is not mysterious. It’s just based on a fact that the blue checks on Twitter have never wanted to accept. I got offered money to write here for the same reason I got offered to write for The New York Times and Harper’s and The Washington Post and The LA Times, the same reason I’ve gotten a half-dozen invitations to pitch since I started here a few weeks ago, the same reason a literary agent sought me out and asked me to write a book, the same reason I sold that book for a decent advance: because I pull traffic. Though I am a social outcast from professional opinion writing, I have a better freelance publishing history than many, many of my critics who are paid-up, obedient members of the media social scene. Why? Because the editors who hired me thought I was a great guy? No. Because I pull traffic. I always have. That’s why you’re reading this on Substack right now.

…

A really important lesson to learn, in life, is this: your enemies are more honest about you than your friends ever will be. I’ve been telling the blue checks for over a decade that their industry was existentially fucked, that the all-advertising model was broken, that Google and Facebook would inevitably hoover up all the profit, that there are too many affluent kids fresh out of college just looking for a foothold in New York who’ll work for next to nothing and in doing so driving down the wages of everyone else, that their mockery of early subscription programs like Times Select was creating a disastrous industry expectation that asking your readers directly for money was embarrassing. Trump is gone and the news business is cratering. Michael Tracey didn’t make that happen. None of this anger will heal what’s wrong. If you get all of the people you don’t like fired from Substack tomorrow, what will change? How will your life improve? Greenwald will spend more time with his hottie husband and his beloved kids and his 6,000 dogs in his beautiful home in Rio. Glenn will be fine. How do we do the real work of getting you job security and a decent wage?

…

But how do things get better in that way? Only through real self-criticism (which Twitter makes impossible) and by asking hard questions. Questions like one that has not been credibly confronted a single time in this entire media meltdown: why are so many people subscribing to Substacks? What is the traditional media not providing that they’re seeking elsewhere? Why have half a million people signed up as paying subscribers of various Substack newsletters, if the establishment media is providing the diversity of viewpoints that is an absolute market requirement in a country with a vast diversity of opinions? You can try to make an adult determination about that question, to better understand what media is missing, or you can read this and write some shitty joke tweet while your industry burns to the ground around you. It’s your call.

Substack might fold tomorrow, but someone would else sell independent media; there’s a market. Substack might kick me and the rest of the unclean off of their platforms tomorrow, but other critics of social justice politics would pop up here; there’s a market. Establishment media’s takeover by this strange brand of academic identity politics might grow even more powerful, if that’s even possible, but dissenters will find a place to sell alternative opinion; there’s a market. What there might not be much of a market for anymore is, well, you - college educated, urban, upwardly striving if not economically improving, woke, ironic, and selling that wokeness and that irony as your only product. Because you flooded the market. Everyone in your entire industry is selling the exact same thing, tired sarcastic jokes and bleating righteousness about injustices they don’t suffer under themselves, and it’s not good in basic economic terms if you’re selling the same thing as everyone else. You add that on to structural problems within your business model and your utter subservience to a Silicon Valley that increasingly hates you, well…. I get why you’re mad. And I get that you don’t like me. But I’m not what you’re mad about. Not really.

In the span of a decade or so, essentially all professional media not explicitly branded as conservative has been taken over by a school of politics that emerged from humanities departments at elite universities and began colonizing the college educated through social media. Those politics are obscure, they are confusing, they are socially and culturally extreme, they are expressed in a bizarre vocabulary, they are deeply alienating to many, and they are very unpopular by any definition. The vast majority of the country is not woke, including the vast majority of women and people of color. How could it possibly be healthy for the entire media industry to be captured by any single niche political movement, let alone one that nobody likes? Why does no one in media seem willing to have an honest, uncomfortable conversation about the near-total takeover of their industry by a fringe ideology?

And the bizarre assumption of almost everyone in media seems to have been that they could adopt this brand of extreme niche politics, in mass, as an industry, and treat those politics as a crusade that trumps every other journalistic value, with no professional or economic consequences. They seem to have thought that Americans were just going to swallow it; they seem to have thought they could paint most of the country as vicious bigots and that their audiences would just come along for the ride. They haven’t. In fact Republicans are making great hay of the collapse of the media into pure unapologetic advocacy journalism. Some people are turning to alternative media to find options that are neither reactionary ideologues or self-righteous woke yelling. Can you blame them? Substack didn’t create this dynamic, and neither did I. The exact same media people who are so angry about Substack did, when they abandoned any pretense to serving the entire country and decided that their only job was to advance a political cause that most ordinary people, of any gender or race, find alienating and wrong. So maybe try and look at where your problems actually come from. They’re not going away.

Now steel yourselves, media people, take a shot of something strong, look yourself in the eye in the mirror, summon you most honest self, and tell me: am I wrong?

[bltngames]

SAGE 2020: Fan Games

I’d hoped to have this article out a little bit sooner, but I overestimated how long it would take to write about some of these games. Whoops! Like I said when I outlined the posting “schedule” on the first day, we’re playing it fast and loose, so this is just what you get.

Today is the day I talk about fan games! And even though SAGE has “Sonic” right there in the acronym, it’s always hosted fan games from all types, so today we’ve got Mega Man, Mario, Rayman, and even fan games of fan games, if you can believe it.

Sonic Pinball Panic!

Pinball is one of those things where I’ve always been obsessed with it, but never very good at it. And now, with access to digital pinball collections like Pinball Arcade and Pinball FX, I don’t actually find myself playing as much pinball as I thought I would when I was 14 years old. Still, I find myself fascinated by a good pinball table, and this honestly caught me off guard. This could very easily be an official DLC release for one of those aforementioned pinball collections and I wouldn’t even bat an eyelash (in fact, if you ask me, this is better than Pinball FX, which has always had weird ball physics). This looks, sounds, and functions exactly like a real pinball table should. My complaints are minor: for starters, the table feels kind of easy. I’ve never been a pinball wizard, but I was losing balls left and right here and it still took a good 15 minutes before I finally got a game over. Score accumulation is also pretty slow; most pinball tables will dump millions and millions of points on you, but here, it felt like a struggle just to reach the 379k I finished with. Both contribute to the fact that the table feels a little flat, like it’s missing a spark to really put it over the top. And, third, it would be nice if it had controller support. The keyboard works just fine, here (it’s just pinball, after all) but I find that the triggers on a controller feel really good with pinball flippers, and mapping the plunger to the right stick is great, too. This is a Unity game, so I wouldn’t think it’d be that hard to hook it up to the controller mapper. Still, I came away impressed.

Mega Man: Perfect Blue

There are two things out there that always give me pause: fan-made Doom level packs, and Mega Man fan games. Fan made gaming content generally has problems when it comes to difficulty balancing anyway, but these games have earned a certain reputation for their difficulty, which creates a problem when you have content made by fans, for fans. This insularity means these things are usually way too hard for what I would consider “normal” people (read: casual fans and outsiders). Add on to the fact that I’d even say that there are official Mega Man games with bad difficulty balancing, and you have a recipe for frustration. Sadly, this is how I’d characterize Perfect Blue: though this introductory level isn’t impossibly hard, it’s definitely pushing that edge where it’s not very accommodating to someone who hasn’t played and finished every Classic Mega Man game ever made. It almost immediately throws you into scenarios where you have jumps you can barely reach, insta-kill spikes, and enemies that not only actively dodge your shots, but invincible enemies that launch counter attack homing missiles. And then it starts making you juggle all of this stuff, together, at the same time. None of this is insurmountable as long as you’re paying attention, but as a very casual Mega Man fan, it’s an unfriendly first impression and makes me worried about what the rest of the game is going to be like as the challenge naturally ramps up. For those hardcore Mega Man fans among you, the rest of this is solid, at least. The presentation and controls are excellent, and the new sprites are beautiful. It’s a game I’d love to enjoy when it’s done… but I’m assuming I’ll be left out in the cold. A shame, really, because there’s so much promise here.

Sonic and the Mayhem Master

There’s a lot to like about this game, but there’s a part of me that really wonders if this should even be considered a Sonic fan game. Mayhem Master’s depictions of Sonic and Amy Rose are atypical to put it mildly. Here, Sonic seems to be a bookish nerd of sorts, a sidekick to Amy Rose, who has been turned into a burnt out, cigar-smoking detective. Most of the game plays out as half an adventure game, half an RPG, where you roam around the world talking to NPCs and gather clues while being assaulted by random battles. The battle system is super off-the-wall, too, perhaps taking inspirations from games like Mario & Luigi and Undertale. This means that battles aren’t passive -- you spend most of each fight dodging or nullifying incoming attacks with simplistic action-based commands. It’s weird, and different, and occasionally even a little bit overwhelming. That’s kind of the whole game, really. It’s the sort of thing that really doesn’t feel like a Sonic game at all, but it also doesn’t feel bad. The artwork is very charming, I’m interested in seeing the characters develop, and there’s plenty of worldbuilding and mystery. Would this still be as intriguing if you removed the Sonic connection, even if it’s so threadbare? That’s a hard question to answer. I know that some of my interest in this game is seeing how it spins more familiar Sonic elements into something that’s completely different. Worth checking out, for curiosity’s sake if nothing else.

Sonic and the Dreamcatcher

This is a fairly brilliant little game with two unfortunate quirks. If you didn’t know, the special stages in the original Sonic the Hedgehog were inspired by an arcade game of the era called Cameltry, published by Taito in 1989. Now, Sonic’s special stages were different enough from Cameltry that it wasn’t a case of Sega outright stealing the gameplay, but there’s a clear lineage there, and it only becomes clearer when you compare the special stages in Sonic 4 Episode 1 to Cameltry (spoilers: in that game, they’re nearly identical). Dreamcatcher is also from this lineage, but is infinitely more charming than either Sonic 4 and maybe even Cameltry itself. The idea is that you must collect a specific number of blue spheres in order to reveal the Chaos Emerald, after which you have a limited amount of time to find and collect it. It’s very simple, but the presentation really sells the game’s charm. It’s just a game that looks good and sounds good, with an interesting premise executed very well. Also, you get a dedicated “& Knuckles” button to spawn infinite Knuckles to help you collect blue spheres and bash enemies. Being able to have unlimited numbers of these guys sounds like it would break the game, but once that countdown clock begins, the last thing you need is 20+ echidnas clogging up the route back to the emerald. The first quirk this game suffers from is that there’s only two levels. Parts of this have a very “game jam made in a weekend” vibe to it despite the rock-solid music, sound, and gameplay, and only having two levels contributes to that. Hopefully more are coming in the future. The other quirk? You can’t actually download this game -- it’s embedded in a webpage. I’m sure this is to make it easy to play on any platform with a web browser (phones, PCs, etc.) but I find myself greatly desiring a hard copy of this game that can live on my computer forever.

Sonic Galactic

Now here’s just a good old fashioned Sonic fan game. Though it clearly takes inspiration from Sonic Mania’s aesthetics in some places, it’s clearly doing its own thing, featuring not just the core cast of Sonic, Tails, and Knuckles, but also Fang the Sniper, and even a brand new character named Tunnel the Mole. Unlike a lot of Sonic fan games at SAGE, this appears to be using something besides Clickteam Fusion, Game Maker, or Unity. Here, it’s the “Hatch Game Engine,” whatever that is. Whatever the case may be, the game runs very well and is basically indistinguishable from just playing Sonic Mania. Visuals are sharp, music’s good, the two included boss fights are surprisingly fun to fight -- everything seems to be in order. As a result, there’s not really a lot to say. This is just a good, fun game. Anything else I’d say would come off sounding like nitpicks. For example, there’s no way to set graphics options yet, so the game is stuck in 2x Windowed mode. Fang and Tunnel are cute additions, but I wonder how much utility they have as characters. Unless I missed something, Fang’s pop gun is mainly for a weak double-jump ability, and Tunnel’s ability to dig and ricochet off floors, walls and ceilings is cool, but it doesn’t have quite the universal utility of Tails’ flight or Knuckles climbing and gliding. It’ll be interesting to see how or maybe even if their abilities have a chance to grow into something special. Anyway, like I said, those are nitpicks, so try to give this a shot if you can.

Sonic Robo-Blast!

Remasters seem to be a bit of a theme this SAGE, between Sonic Triple Trouble 16-bit, Sonic 2 SMS, Sonic 1 Revisited, but this is perhaps the most surprising of them all: a loving remaster of the original Sonic Robo-Blast. SRB1 was perhaps one of the first true “landmark” fan games, given that it was basically a whole entire game that people could play. It's not a stretch to say that SRB1 probably helped kickstart the fan gaming community that still survives to this day -- I certainly owe my involvement in the community to seeing SRB1 for the first time. The problem is, as historically significant as the game might be, it’s nearly impossible to go back to nowadays -- it’s much, much too dated to be any fun. This remaster completely re-envisions SRB1 as a regular Sonic game, while also pulling in gameplay elements from Sonic Robo-Blast 2. It’s a bit of a time paradox mindwarp, but it helps give it a bit more personality than just making a bog-standard 2D Sonic. It works, aided by the fact the sprites, music and overall presentation are fantastic. The only downside is the Act 2 boss, which commits the cardinal sin of taking away player agency and making you wait around far too much. Here’s hoping this gets finished, because it’s definitely on my radar now.

Super Mario Flashback

This has been floating around for a few years now and I’m glad to see it’s finally starting to get some more substantial content as it moves towards becoming an actual game. That being said, this is also one of those games that’s kind of hard to talk about because it’s just… really polished. The art is incredible, it controls exactly like a Mario game, and there’s already a decent mixture of ideas at play in the demo. Anything else I’d say would sound like nitpicking -- like, for example, the backseat game designer in me wonders if maybe the game is prioritizing aesthetics a little too much. This is a wonderfully animated game, absolutely gorgeous, but some actions, like the butt-stomp and the wall kick, feel a bit sluggish, and I think it’s because they show off fancy animations. Even if it’s a split second, waiting for Mario to attach to a wall to kick off of it feels slow. Really, though, that’s an insignificant complaint. This demo is still well worth checking out.

Sonic Advance 4 Advanced

This game seems like a greatest-hits of Dimps best ideas, spanning the first Sonic Advance all the way to Sonic Rush. There’s just one problem: the game seems broken. Now, my desktop PC is starting to show its age. I built it four and a half years ago, and though it can handle game like Gears of War 5 on high settings at 60fps, slowly, newer games seem to be leaving it behind. That being said, I don’t think a game like Sonic Advance 4 here should be running at what appears to be half its intended speed. It also originally launched in a teeny-tiny window (we’re talking, like, smaller than a postage stamp) and even though the options menu has a toggle for full screen mode, it doesn’t want to work. Something about this game under the hood seems to be struggling very, very, VERY hard. It’s a shame, because if this actually played at the proper speed, it seems like it might actually be an alright game, if a bit complex and busy.

Sonic 2 SMS Remake

Here’s a game I was all buckled in expecting to enjoy. Like it says on the tin, this is a remake of Sonic 2 for the Master System (and Game Gear), but with wide screen visuals and huge expansions to the mechanics, roster of playable characters, and levels. On the outside it seems really impressive, and to a certain degree it is, but something about the controls feel a little off. Sonic’s heavier here than he is on the Master System, perhaps to simulate “real” Sonic physics a little more accurately, but you can also pretty much stop on a dime, and the combination of the two feels awkward. The camera also needs a lot of work, as it’s basic at best and does a poor job of letting you see what’s below (to the dev if you’re reading this: there’s actually video tutorials out there on how 2D scrolling cameras work, it might be worth looking a couple of them up). It also leans into some of the tech limitations of the Master System, like how you aren’t given any rings for boss fights (and even hiding the HUD, a move done to save on resources for the large enemy sprites). I could be picky on a bunch of other little stuff, too, like how the flight mechanics feel, but there are other games to play at SAGE and I’ve got at least two more articles to write. Needless to say, this is a solid (impressive, even) foundation but it’s missing a lot of late-stage polish to clean up the tiny little rough edges.

Rayman Redemption

I tell this story every so often, but it was about three quarters of the way through Rayman 2 on the Sega Dreamcast when it struck me, suddenly: I love this game. I was being chased by a pirate ship through some rickety bridges and even though I was dying over and over and over again, I realized I had been enjoying Rayman 2 enough that I might put it in my top ten Dreamcast games. But that was 2002, and the years haven’t been so kind to ol’ Rayman. From the strangely celebrity-infused Rayman 3, to the tragedy of Rayman 4 (eventually becoming Raving Rabbids) to the endless, careless ports of Rayman 2 to every platform under the sun, one gets the impression Ubisoft maybe didn’t know what to do with Rayman. Especially now, when most of Ubisoft’s games are some form of online live service or cookie cutter open world experience (or increasingly both). But the fans know what they want. Rayman Redemption takes the original 1995 Rayman game and lovingly gives it a fresh coat of paint. The results are akin to what Taxman and Stealth did for Sonic CD in 2011, with wide screen visuals, improved controls, touched up level design, but gameplay that still feels faithful and accurate to the original experience. Except that Sega charged money for that, and here, fans have released this for free. Ubisoft’s loss, I guess. I didn’t play Rayman 1 until well after I’d finished Rayman 2, and I’ll admit, I kind of bounced off of it back then. It felt slow, and awkward, and when the difficulty ramped up, it got very hard, very quickly. Now, admittedly, I’ve only put about 30 minutes into Redemption here, but just the addition of a run button is incredibly welcome, and the retooled level design and powerup mechanics helps the game feel way less obtuse overall. It’s just a cleaner, tighter, more accessible and more polished version of Rayman.

Stay tuned for the next article: Indie games.

[mirceakitsune]

RIP PornHub: #SorryNotSorry

As I'm not into human porn and evolution in this timeline cursed us with just humans reaching sapience, I never used websites like PornHub except rarely to watch some animations. Yesterday's incident was big enough for the news to reach all our ears however. It follows a trend that's been going on for years now and is definitely no surprise to me; If anything I'm surprised the owners and users of that website weren't rounded up and arrested or shot for "immorality" years ago... thank goodness it took them this long to go after them, and that in this case it was banks doing it rather than the "rule of law". For anyone who didn't hear of what took place: PayPal and Mastercard kicked PornHub off their services after NY Times wrote an article claiming they hosted videos of sex trafficking. In response PH deleted some 90% of its users and uploads, pretty much nuking itself out of existence in desperation to appease those payment services; It's said only users with a special verification are still up, others had their uploads deleted most likely forever. The owners probably hope those banks will welcome them back if they do this, which I'm going to bet right now is never going to happen. Obviously I'd go on and on about how not just big companies but also banking services are unofficially becoming the world's parallel government, deciding what people can and cannot think or watch; As much as vanilla government scares me the most, considering those monstrosities can pass actual laws which all people must follow else they may get fined or arrested, there's definitely an issue with powerful entities being able to dictate how the world works as if mini-governments of their own accord... with the media being able to shoo groups against one another however it sees fit. Sure: The principle of free market may not be violated and all, but at this point it's a practical problem worth considering. Especially since people are unwilling or unable to create proper alternatives to those powerful services which can gain as much traction... like how cryptocurrencies don't have a fraction the adoption PayPal does, or decentralized platforms like Mastodon aren't even a decimal the size of ones like Twitter. Now onto everyone's favorite aspect: "Muh moarality"! I will say this: If PornHub users really were posting abuse materials of sex trafficking victims as claimed, I fully agree there was a real reason behind taking action, albeit handled horribly as everything in this world is. Of course I know better than to believe such a thing nowadays: I have little to no doubt this is just another case of moral panic based on nice-sounding assumptions. More specifically this happened because some users uploading videos of themselves were *GASP* not over the precise age of 18! And we all know that if you're under this exact number you aren't a real person with your own thoughts and feelings and wishes and rights, anything you feel that we don't agree with is mental illness and an act of being abused, and you need to be "protected" against yourself by force if necessary. After all we can't have the underageigger getting the idea they have equal rights to be happy like everyone else and not growing up to be a model hard-working servant of society... um, I mean, we can't have them being esoterically abused by an invisible monster in the closet, yeah that's definitely why we police people's lives for them. By the way PornHub, speaking of the devil; Do you remember three years ago when you were working with the British government to implement age verification across the internet, during the Theresa May era delusion of making people use websites with their identity cards and porn passes bought from newspaper stores? I remember you were more than happy giving them a hand (pun intended) in making this dystopian nightmare come to life. There is such a thing known as justice and karma: Enjoy what they have to offer! I do wonder when said karma comes knocking at the door of services like Furaffinity as well. With this in mind I'm going to adopt a change in stance toward what happened: Instead of being outraged at how every aspect of life is being controlled by the most powerful groups in society, I'm going to be happy! Really: I'm so glad the mainstream is finally starting to see what it's like... living in a world where it's evil to enjoy anything and where everyone must be persecuted for not following the proper social etiquette, powered by a panic you and the media appeasing you fueled until it brought the world in this state. I'll work on protecting my furry art sites how I can, but when it comes to mainstream society please: Go on and ban all the porn, make the planet as strict as back in grandpa Hitler's day if possible! I see no problem with this: It's safe, right? That 0.00001% risk of someone getting hurt no longer exists, no one has to go through their feelings being hurt or assumptions proven wrong, and who needs those pesky things that make people happy anyway! What's that? You say you only like controlling others but don't enjoy it when the same thing happens to your privileged ass? As JC Denton would say: "What a shame". Now get back to school or work before we start whipping you for sloth too, foul nave! All in all, the only thing I'm sad about is that upon banning itself from existence PornHub didn't add the following message to its front page: "Please come back in a few years once it's legal for you to be here". I swear that would have been brilliant: It would be a reference the slimy boomers get as well as an epic way to apply salt to the wound! Time to buy more popcorn from the store :)

[rogersbabyyy]

sex, drugs, rock n’roll | roger taylor

author’s note: me? posting a fic? this is much too strange!  i really have no excuse for writing this other than i was horny and just wanted to write some filthy ass 70s sex where everyone’s high and and it’s a lot of fun. but please don’t do drugs it’s not a good idea, this is just for fictional sake and me wishing i was a groupie :) also, i tried to change up my writing style a bit a try and get into the head of someone on cocaine, hence the repetition and somewhat scattered internal monologue. i really hope you enjoy, please reblog! 

summary: you get high and fuck roger at one of freddie’s parties... that’s it.

warnings/tags: this is the most disgusting thing i’ve written. DRUG USE!!, foul language, smut (dom!roger makes an appearance), but mostly heavy drug use (cocaine) so pls pls dont read if u feel uncomfy!

word count: 3.7k

not proofread

Two hours ago, the party had conformed to become a force of life in itself; roaring and fantastical, welcoming and formidable, all at the same time. Nothing less than outrageous, there were naked girls, naked boys, lounging on Freddie Mercury’s grand staircase, snogging and touching and almost fucking right for everyone to see.

The latest disco hit playing through the stereo system was nothing but a pounding heartbeat for the writhing bodies to obey, hands clutching glasses swaying above heads, shoes kicked to the sides of the room, heads unconsciously bobbing to the beat.

It was the quintessential celebration for the release of Queen’s latest album, months and months of hard work, Roger arriving home every night (morning?) at two, and proceeding to wake you up at six o’clock anyway with the crush of his golden cymbals and throb of his bass drum. Not that you minded, but… it was nice to finally have the chance to let loose, and the boys, finally earning a proper wage of their own, had the money for parties like these now.

The host of the evening (and lead singer of the band) adorned in a leotard clinging to every curve of his muscular body and showing off his chest covered in a soft dawn of hair, had been busy all night entertaining his guests, balancing a velvet crown atop his head with one hand, a glass of bubbly champagne in the other (his matching cloak long ago discarded), his booming tenor voice always assuring that more drinks were coming, and oh, come on darling, you must have another.

Brian and John, however, were long gone; as soon as one of Freddie’s friends dumped an assorted mix of drugs onto the table (causing to Brian to choke on his beer, with someone needing to thump him on the back for a solid two minutes before he recovered), he whisked Chrissie out of there, and John was always yearning to be with his little babies these days (they were utterly precious; Freddie constantly demanded that they be brought round to the studio).

So, that left you with the drummer.

Your boyfriend, Roger, was situated firmly at your side, the hand that wasn’t holding an ice cold glass of whiskey thrown around your waist. His shirt was unbuttoned almost to his navel, exposing his toned abdomen shining with sweat (not unlike the little black dress you were wearing, with a neckline that dipped so low it really didn’t leave anything to the imagination), and oh, did he ever look delicious. And, he obviously thought the same of you; for the way his tongue was licking slow, deliberate stripes over your exposed neck, causing you to giggle so hysterically, it probably had something to do with the remnants of fine white powder littering the glass table, on which your nose was pressed up against approximately five seconds ago.

Euphoric was barely a satisfying enough word to describe how you were feeling. You were orgasmic, horny, powerful, high, burning up (God, you were hot); and from the way Roger’s baby blue eyes were fixed on you, dilated and glazed over, he wasn’t feeling all that different. Growling softly against your neck, his head clouded with a high of his own, his lips hot, so hot, burning, exerted to find the words he desired to describe what he wanted to do to you.

“Mhm, lovie,” he moaned, “Want to, want... ” he laughed softly against you, his equilibrium simultaneously failing him, as he lost what little balance he had left and swayed against you, spilling his drink all over his front in the process.

“Ah, fuck,” He discarded the glass by letting it roll out of his hand and onto the beautiful Persian rug below, and you found this unspeakably hilarious, laughing harder until his lips finally found yours in a kiss so filthy it belonged in a porn movie. Open mouths, tongues entwined in a furious dance, he tasted of his whiskey, Benson & Hedges cigarettes, the hor d’oeuvres that had been floating around all night on silver trays, and something else that was just inexplicably him.

“Naughty dress you’re wearin,” he tried again, lips breaking from yours, and then, barely suppressing a grin; “M’ so horny. M’ so horny you don’t even know. Wanna fuck you right here, don’t give a fuck if anyone sees. Need to fuck you, need your cunt, need you, need you,” He repeated the words continuously, his voice ending as a mumble as he went back to press open mouthed kisses against your neck, on which you’d know there’d be countless bruises in the morning.

Your heart throbbed faster, faster, fasterfasterfaster, and it wasn’t even a question in your mind to squeeze the stiffy growing in his too tight jeans; no one was really even looking, too busy dancing and kissing and drinking and smoking and laughing and-

“I swear to God, I will come in my jocks if you keep bloody doing tha’.” He choked, grasping your wrist and squeezing it softly.

“Well, s’much as I wanna fuck here, I don’t think Fred would appreciate seeing your cock, as lovely as it is,” you beamed up at him, and he giggled softly back, brushing your hair to one side.

“Hm, you have a point, kitten,” he peppered your neck with a few more slow kisses, before his lips found your ear to whisper, “Besides, we wouldn’t want everyone seeing your pretty cunt, because that’s all mine.”

Oh, he owned you, he owned you so bad, and you could feel your walls tighten at his words, and oh how you wished they were clenching around him instead.

“Please, Rogie, let’s go, upstairs, somewhere, the bathroom or the car, even-”

“Calm down, lovie, c’mon, let’s go upstairs… Be needin’ some o’ this,” Roger staggered sideways to snatch up one of the last small plastic bags left on the table, bulging almost to the brim with white powder, “Let’s go.”

Your hand in his as was clammy and hot, God it was so hot, as you took a grievous amount of time to scale Freddie’s staircase in platform heels that perhaps maybe possibly you might have stolen from John, it was too long ago to remember. So, you kicked them off, and they clunk clunk clunked as they bumped their way down the stairs; you’d pick them up later, but probably not, because you were so horny and so bloody fucked up that really the only thing you were thinking at that point about was grinding slowly on Roger’s cock.

Your clit throbbed at the thought, and you fell against his side, moaning softly, his arm encircling your waist to keep you upright.

“Here,” Roger grunted, sweeping you up in his arms as if you weighed nothing at all, and you howled gleefully, legs failing as your halfheartedly moaned for him to set you back down.

“Roger, stop!”

He ignored your pleas, a soft, dazed smile on his face, as he pushed open the door to the nearest room with his shoulder; which happened to be a master bedroom with a four-poster bed, surround by a floaty, gauzy fabric.

He set you down gently on the mattress.

“Right,” he smiled, and for as high as he was, he unsealed the small bag and carefully tapped out a short, perfect line of cocaine on the bedside table. “Ladies first, hm?”

Reaching for the five pound note in his outstretched hand, (“Thank you very much, kind sir,”) you rolled it into a tight cylinder with some difficulty, your hands were trembling so much (from the drug, or from the need for more of it?) and hovered over the line, sniffing as hard as you could as the powder rushed its way upward, Roger’s hands carefully holding your hair back in a makeshift ponytail as the stimulant worked its magic.

Within seconds the drug was in your blood, in your brain, sizzling and popping and making you shiver in delight, oh, it felt good, and you sniffed again, your head dizzy and the room whirling around and aroundaroundaround until your eyes came to a focus on Roger right at your side. He seemed ten times more attractive, if possible, and you quite literally drooled at the sight of him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as the room whirled once more.

“Good, huh?” His eyes were excited, as he unbuttoned his shirt completely now and shrugged it off, the fabric landing in a heap on the floor, his hand sliding down the small of your back to squeeze your ass, practically hanging out of your too-tight and much-too-short dress.

“So good,” you said, running your fingers through your hair, your palms coming to rest on his shoulders, “Fuck, I feel like I could do anything. And I’m so horny I could die,”

“Know the fuckin’ feelin’,” he groaned, pushing you backward onto the awaiting bed, his mouth clumsily finding yours in a messy snog, his hands obviously focused on something else;

“Please get those pretty tits out fo’ me,” he growled, his hot hands everywhere all at once, all at once, all at once yesyesyesyes, and God it felt so good, pulling at your dress and squeezing your hips and cradling your pyretic cheeks, “Been teasin’ me all night like the whore you are, mhm, such a little whore, yes,” finally, he managed to rip your pretty black dress right down the middle, your breasts bouncing as they were revealed to him.

His feverish, insistent mouth eagerly found one of your nipples, nipping the soft bud between his teeth. In return, you gasped, thrusting your chest forward ohohohohfuck and yanking on his salty hair. He sucked on it until the bud pebbled, hard against his tongue, and the other breast received the same treatment, Roger always being one for fairness.

“Lay down, c’mon,” his voice was a soft whine, a palm on your shoulder to push you backward onto the luxurious mattress, on which you fell against like one of those rich white girls in chick flicks, collapsing after a long day of retail therapy.

And before your brain could process what he up to, the bag of cocaine was in his hand, and he poured a generous line over the dip in between your breasts, a mischievous grin lighting up his face as he did so.

“Mhm, let’s get it all over, that’s it, all over your pretty tits,” he simpered, his chest heaving with anticipation and arousal, as he tidied up the line with his fingertips, “Always wanted to do this, gettin’ high off your body, mhm…”

“Oh, you’re filthy!” You gasped, as he pressed his soft, upturned nose in the valley, not even bothering with the rolled up fiver. Holding one nostril closed, he snorted the fine powder all in an alarmingly fast fluid motion, your hand entangled in his hair to hold him close to you as he did so, before he shot up like a person possessed.

“Oh, shit!”

He was a flurry of blurry blonde locks as shook his head from side to side, almost violently, his body positively trembling when he was done as he sniffed hard, a final time. His eyes rolled back in his head briefly, before fixating on your lips, and stating in a deadpan voice as clear as day;

“I might die if I don’t fuck you right now.”

You thought it impossible for your heart to race any faster than it was, but your body proved you wrong, your head and the inside of your wrists and every limb pounding hard and fast to the rhythm of the organ, like one of Roger’s particularly fast drum beats that left him panting and shaking from adrenaline (in fact, not so different from his current state).

“Fuck me then, would you? I’m so wet I think I’ve made a mess,” your voice was a soft, hoarse, giggle, as you looked down to find a noticeable dark patch on the white lacy g-string you’d had the foresight to wear.

“See! Oops!” You laughed loudly, slipping your fingers past the material to rub your throbbing clit, throbthrobthrobbing godyouweresowet, and you pouted teasingly when Roger could do nothing but stare. “What, don’t you want me, Rogie?”

His eyes flickered shut as they rolled backward again, showing you the whites as painful, animalistic whimper left his throat. His hands fumbled at a speed you’d never seen before to unbuckle his belt, tugging down his flared denim jeans (that were all the rage at the moment).

While he did so, you removed your fingers from their place over your core, you brought them to your mouth, taking your index and pointer fingers to the knuckle, before dragging them down over your lips.

Finally managing to slide the leader belt through the loops of his jeans, Roger shook his head as you this, his gaze almost becoming furious and disapproving as he leant toward you and nudged your hand away from your mouth, replacing your fingers with his own.

“Uh-uh,” he scolded, “Don’t you dare tease me like that now, lovie.”

You sucked eagerly on his fingers, tongue running thoroughly over the tips of each, kissing and sucking and perhaps wanted them rubbing over your needy clit instead.

As if reading your mind, Roger’s fingers withdrew slicky from your mouth, spanking the sweet bundle of nerves between your legs, just enough that you convulsed, shuddering at his touch; “Fuck!”

“Open your mouth,” he commanded, forcefully taking your face in his hand and squeezing your cheeks until you obeyed, eyes crazed and jubilant.

With a soft hum, he let a single strand of his saliva drip from his mouth to yours, dribbling slowly onto your awaiting tongue, as you swallowed eagerly and jutted your chin out proudly to show him your efforts.

“Tha’s my girl.”

“Can you fuck me now, please?” You moaned, sliding your knickers past your ankles to toss them over Roger’s shoulder, all the while giving him the sexiest puppy dog eyes you were able to muster up.

“Since you asked so nicely.” Yanking his boxer shorts off and kicking them toward the foot of the bed, you finally got to wrap your hand around his length as it bobbed upward to tap against his tummy, beads of precum leaking from the tip, feeling the throb of his erratic drug fuelled heartbeat pulse through his shaft.

“Such a needy boy,” you whispered, legs spreading earnestly as you greedily guided his palpitating member to your core. The cherry coloured blush that was the head of his cock slid past the swollen lips of your cunt, and the both of you shivered in a bout of ecstasy, moaning against each other as Roger clutched you to his chest.

He then slid out of you slowly, before immediately jerking his hips back toward you, making you scream, digging the heel of your foot into his back.

“You’re so bloody wet,” he gasped, collapsing his weight onto his forearms as his thrusts continued the erratic pace he’d established moments before, one slow thrust, and then fastfastfastfaster-

“You’re so fucking huge, oh my God, I love your cock, I love your cock, I love-”

-until he returned to his teasingly slow pace. Whimpering, you hid your face in the crook of your elbow, eyes squeezed shut as you shakily begged your boyfriend to increase his pace.

“I’ll fuck you how I like,” he grunted, angling his cock in a way that it only just nudged your g-spot, making your toes curl as his hips finally found the familiar rhythm that you so adored: fast, steady, and hard.

The room resumed its spinning motion from earlier as his cock sent you into a bout of euphoria, his balls making the filthiest noises you’d ever heard as their momentum caused them to slap against your your dripping pussy.

“You feel so fucking good, holy fuck,”

His cock made a slick, wet sound as he pulled out of you, and you whined, cunt clenching around nothing, so emptyemptyempty.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Get on your hands n’ knees, c’mon love, c’mon, need t’be back in your cunt,” He was panting, his hair soaking with sweat, his palms so warm so hot so boiling, as they found your waist to flip you over, making you titter deliriously as you landed on your front, ass in the air and cheek against the soft dawn of the mattress.

“Pass us the coke, angel,” you felt him smile as he pressed the gentlest of kisses against the back of your shoulder, as you stretched to reach the little bag filled to the brim with euphoria to pass over to your boyfriend.

Catching you by surprise, his palm came down sharply on the supple skin of your ass, as you jolted forward and squealed, clutching the sheets against the sting of your skin that was just the right blend between pleasure and pain.

“You like that, don’t you? Filthy little thing, an absolute slut, horny and dripping, all for who? Hm?”

“For you, for you, only for you, Rog!”

Feeling a tickling sensation between your asscheeks, you knew what Roger was doing immediately, knew he was tapping out what was left of the white powder on the barely-an-inch of skin that separated your two holes.

“Stay still,” he muttered, palms spreading your cheeks apart to bury his face in between them, snorting the powder in a quick, practiced movement.

A slurred jumble of profanities left his mouth as the smaller amount of the drug boosted the euphoria coursing around his system, and he delivered a final spank to your ass, and you yelped and laughed deliriously once more.

“Alright, c’mon, you naughty thing, back up you get,” His staunch arms encircled your waist and lifted you so were you sitting upright.

“Want you t’ride my cock, think you can do that fo’ me?”

“Yes, yes, oh, please, want you back inside me,” you begged, clambering on top of your boyfriend as he settled against the headboard of the bed, his eyes clouded with lust as you rocked desperately against his thigh. “Feel so empty.”

“I can certainly help you with that, darlin’, mhm, oh, oh fuck,” he grunted as you took a hold of his member and settled down onto it, pushing him inside you.

Grinding your hips against him slowly, it was Roger’s turn to whimper, as his hands squeezed your waist to keep you balanced against him.

“Please, love,” his voice was hoarse, “need to you- oh, yes.”

Using your knees as leverage, you re-commenced the steady tempo, except now you were in charge. You bounced on his cock, taking him right to the hilt every time, your breasts bouncing in front of his face, in and out and in and out outandinoutandin…

You went to throw your head back in a wail of pleasure, but Roger’s hand found the back of your neck to stop you, and he growled,

“Watch. Watch yourself bouncin’ on my cock.”

You looked down at the join of your bodies and moaned gutturally at the sigh of his dick soaked in your wetness, his veins pink and throbbing, so pretty, God his cock was gorgeous-

You reached down to rub your stiff, hard, slit, your movement becoming messier and erratic, Roger announcing;

“I’m so close, love, I’m so close-”

“Come inside me, I don’t care, please, want you in my cunt, Rog, please,”

“Bloody fuckin’-”

You didn’t need to tell him twice. Your words alone prompted a callous growl from his diaphragm, his muscles seizing and spasming as his warm seed covered the walls of your pulsing cunt, hips jerking of their own accord as he emptied himself inside you.

The feeling of his cum inside you, paired with the stunning sight of his orgasm, pushed you to your own.

“Roger, Roger, oh my God, Roger-!” The coil in your stomach popped, your eyes rolling backward as they did when you took your first line of the drug, falling into his chest as your trembled.

“Tha’s it pretty girl,” he encouraged, still shaking from his own orgasm and the cocaine and everything was just overwhelming as you came all over his cock, “Tha’s it, come for me, fuck, you’re clenching so hard-”

And that’s when you squirted all over his cock, drenching him with your cum, almost looking like a person having a seizure.

If he had it in him, Roger could have come again right then and there. His ego certainly inflated a solid few degrees (although it was already relatively huge; c’mon, this was the 70s), because he did that to you. He made you squirt all over his cock, and forget the cocaine; that was the most powerful feeling was capable of experiencing.

Rolling off of you in a tangle of limbs, Roger’s breathing was hoarse and loud and rough as he fought to catch his breath.

“Fuck, that was hot.”

Eyes heavily lidded, the tiny floating pinprick sized silver stars still sporadically clouding your vision, you sighed contently, feeling fuzzy and happy and high as a kite and most importantly, in love.

You knew it wouldn’t last long; the inevitable crash would creep up on you out of nowhere and have you reaching for a cigarette or glass of wine, or, most likely, Roger’s arms, where you’d have a good cry for no particular reason.

“Rogie?” You murmured, rolling on your side to rest your head on his shining chest, hearing his turbulent heartbeat thunder against your ear.

“Yes, angel?” His eyes were still bright and misty from the drug, and yet, they surveyed yours carefully, his arm wrapping around you. “That was fun, dontcha think?”

“‘Course,” you smiled, “like having your cum inside me, all dripping out.”

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he kissed you again, “n’ I love marking you up, darlin’, letting everyone know you’re mine, all mine, mine, mine…”

He smiled his perfect little cheeky schoolboy grin, “Love you, angel, you know that? ‘Cos I do, I love you, wanna be yours n’ fuck you forever.”

Your vision was hazy, the last of the cocaine beginning to thin in your blood, the crash creeping up on you as the seconds ticked by-

“I love you, Rog.”

-but, boy, could Freddie throw a party. And Roger: he was worth it.