Out of curiosity, when did the, 'fanfic doesn't need to adhere to canon, everything is valid and good, don't give concrit unless specifically asked for' attitude become the norm? Genuine question.

I was active in fandom back in the LJ days, when sporkings and comms viciously mocking Mary Sues were the norm, but then I sort fell out of fandom spaces for the past (checks notes) fifteen years holy shit. The current attitude seems diametrically opposed to what I remember fandom being like (kinda shitty, it was 'cool' to be an asshole back then), and I'm just curious as to when and how the shift happened. I mean, I assume it was a gradual thing, but is there anything in particular that stick out to you?

(Also, because tone doesn't convey very well through ask, and I don't want to leave you with a poor impression-- this is by no means a defence of the 2000s attitudes, nor an aspersion on the current ones. I'm genuinely only curious about the evolution from one to the other; I hope that comes across.)

Hi anon!

TL;DR because my response got LONG -> Anon this existed before Livejournal as an attitude, in fact modern fandom was literally born out of being not canon compliant (*waves aggressively to Spirk shippers*) and this existed on Livejorunal too and there have always been big pockets of fandom that really frowned on sporking even there, like that was not cool when I was on LJ, unless you were a certain age, or in certain spaces in fandom.

But also AO3 was its kind of final death knell re: making it cool to bully 13-16 yo writers (who were largely the victims of sporking) and killing dreams, which was born out of meta happening on LJ and in other places about like... not trying to make people miserable for writing a free fic out of the love in their heart that someone else didn't like or think was good enough.

Anyway, the longer version of this under the read more!

(For everyone else, welcome to some of the uglier aspects of 00s fandom!)

So there was actually criticism around all the stuff you mention 15-20 years ago as well. I was also on Livejournal during that time and there was a pretty big proportion of people in certain fandoms who recognised even then that like... setting up communities to mock say, Mary Sue writers, was actually a pretty weirdly cruel thing to do to people who were providing free labour and the literal only 'payment' they could get in a kind of energy exchange was people just not being complete dickheads to them.

So things were already changing, especially in many LJ communities and awards communities. There were a lot of big debates over whether concrit should be asked for, and a growing movement of authors who said they welcomed constructive criticism for example, instead of assuming it should automatically apply. There was also a lot of meta around the function of fanfiction and whether it should even be 'good' by published standards if the author was just doing it for themselves, and for fun (esp if they were just going to get punished for it by folks who were elitist, judgemental, grammar purists etc.)

Things really changed around the time of AO3 (2009-2010 - literally around 14~ years ago, you may have just missed the big change anon!), Strikethrough and the Dreamwidth exodus. There was a massive swing away from leaving concrit unless the author specifically asked for it, and fandom became a lot more generally able to recognise that a lot of labour goes into fanart and fanfiction and that paying with public criticism is shitty actually. Also people were just more able to recognise that like most fanfiction writers aren't trying to become professional writers and many don't want to be.

(I would actually say things changed around the time of fanfiction.net too - rude comments there were definitely noticed and could create some pretty forward 'hey why are you doing this on something you literally don't have to read' responses from fellow readers - idk what fic sites you were on. The small indie fic sites where you could often only comment via email for example, definitely drew a lot more critical attention than sites that tended to have public comments).

The 'fanfic doesn't need to adhere to canon' literally exists since the very first Spirk slash fic in modern fanfiction in the last few decades. Literally, as soon as you write Kirk/Spock, you're not adhering to canon. Our fanfiction 'ancestors' literally paved the way for a legacy which is about not adhering to canon in order to see the world/s and thing/s you want to see, be entertained by, by turned on by, or enjoy, from the very beginning. You may not have been in slash circles anon, but the foundation of queer same sex fanfic is in many ways the foundation of fandom. But yeah, this is literally where fanfiction started! As soon as you're shipping characters that aren't canon for fun (or for whatever reason), you're making it pretty clear that you want stories different to canon, and you have to change things to often keep those characters in-character.

So yeah! That's been there for decades. Idk what circles you were in on that front! While it was fairly common for a while to criticise characters for being OOC (Out of Character), imho, a lot of folks started to recognise that they literally weren't paying for what they were criticising, and they could just walk away and potentially not like...blast the fanfic. Some folks started to recognise more that people were writing with ESL, or were teenagers (some 40 yos in fandom realised they were mocking literal 15 year olds in their proto-podcasts and websites and realised actually that's just...mean? Really mean? Not the way to nurture new generations of fanfiction writers. Definitely in no way encouraging), or were writing for themselves, or writing for like one other person, or writing for fun, or writing for free, or writing for personal reasons etc.

'Don't Like Don't Read' wasn't just about political stuff, it was also about just walking away if you feel the urge to slam a fanfic in the comments.

I've been in fandom for around 2.5 decades anon, and there were so many spaces that were not actually as shitty or mean-spirited as the ones you were in? Or ones that at least had a lot of different thoughts etc. Like, sporking (mocking/bullying badfics and sometimes the folks who wrote them) was disapproved of by a lot of people in fandom even while sporking was at the height of its popularity (the Fanlore page goes into more detail about this). It might have just been the fandoms you were in, or the people you were hanging out with (and that might have been dependent on your age or just if you were around people who wanted to be 'cool' back then - in the same way that being an 'anti' is cool among certain crowds today. It's possible to spend years in certain crowds and never get an image of broader fandom for example - we can all end up in spaces like that! I know I have.)

When I started writing fanfiction (which no one will EVER find lmao), generally giving positive comments was normal. Constructive criticism was actually pretty rare and there were already fanfiction aggregate sites that generally disapproved of it in their Rules of Conduct. People were encouraging and polite. And this was around 20 years ago on Livejournal and private indie fanfiction websites.

I would actually say there was never exactly an evolution from 'one to the other' because like thousands of people in fandom already believed this and argued in defense of supporting fanfiction and transformative works via accepting that people are labouring for free and that not everyone wants to become a 'better writer' etc. - the meta was there on Livejournal in the 00s. There were communities where sporking was seen as hip/fun, and communities where it was literally banned or at the very least, super frowned upon.

There were meta fandom communities where sporking was the subject of discussion and you know eventually in a lot of those meta communities, that's where a lot of folks decided actually that calling out the fanfiction of 16 yos as 'cringe' or 'badly done' maybe said more about us as human beings and what we wanted fandom to be, than it did about the actual fanfic itself. By the time AO3 came around, people built it with this in mind.

To this day on AO3 it's mostly considered appropriate to say you want concrit in your author's notes, and to otherwise assume as a reader it's never welcome if it's unsolicited. That started during the LJ era. And it was talked about at great length. There's obviously going to be people who disagree! But for the most part I'm a big believer in compassion and 'not everyone is here for the same reason' and 'they literally gave this to us for free and it's meant to be fun' (like yourself! What we do/think/argue 10 years ago on LJ is sometimes different to what we do 10 years later lol, I used to be against trigger warnings pre-AO3! Times change a lot :D )

So yeah, this was definitely something that was around before you and I came to fandom, and it was something that continued to grow as an attitude during, until finally it kind of won out on AO3. But yeah fandom as we know it was born in people literally not being canon compliant to make some gay dreams come true (Spirk shippers bless them all), at a time when there was no representation.

Even in the earliest days of fandom where comments could only happen via email, one of the earliest phrases authors used were things like 'flames will be used to roast marshmallows.' For those reading who don't know, flames are hate comments, critical 'this fic is bad because' comments etc. Except you emailed them directly to the author, because there was no place for comments on a fic.

And this started because authors in part got death threats for writing gay stuff.

So you know, from the very beginning, authors in fanfic have by and large had a very low tolerance for criticism / hate over something they're doing for free and making no profit out of, when they're changing/altering the canon as they please to create representation (or hotness lmao), that is literally a labour of love in a world of very little representation. From there, things have just grown. The whole 'flames will not be tolerated' existed even before Livejournal did.

Honestly there are still people who love sporking and you could probably find groups and Discords dedicated to that even now (actually you literally can, there's a Dreamwidth group for it), it's kind of wild but it started to get cool again. Just like 90s clothing :D (Which is also wild because I can just take that crap out of my closet and wear it again).

But yeah it also sounds like you may have been in some pretty crappy pockets of fandom! When I was on LJ in the 00s I avoided those places and still got to experience fandom across multiple fandoms (mostly NCIS, Captive Prince, HP, Profiler, The X-Files and some others) and communities.

I was super active in some fandom communities and saw a lot of meta happening, and my view during the early and late 00s was that sporking was largely pretty frowned upon after a very brief (like 3-6 month) era where it was cool for only some folks, and then everyone (including some - but not all - of those folks) was like 'heyyyyyyy hang on a minute.' It was something that the bullies did, and enjoyed, and otherwise folks kind of stayed away from it, especially once they learned people were becoming too scared to write fics, which is the inevitable outcome of mocking/bullying folks and fics that have been made purely out of love for something.

Like, publicly making a spectacle out of what a 13 yo (they were often teens - and it's kind of sad how many 40 yo women were doing the sporking :/ ) wrote out of love, just for fun/clout was not considered cool by everyone even back then, because like, a lot of us saw that as killing new generations of fandom (some folks who sporked considered it a win if a fic or account got deleted, this is not based behaviour), not actually creating good writing, internalised misogyny (Mary Sue hatred and self insert hatred), etc. It's hard to explain because I do really think we were in different corners of fandom at the time, but I don't know anyone personally from my time on Livejournal who actually liked sporking as an idea or enjoyed it or enjoyed listening to it or reading articles mocking fic.

I knew about it from very lively 'is this okay' 'actually no it's not even if it's just for fun this is trying to hurt people and saying 'it's just the fic' is not going to be the bandaid a teenager needs to understand why older folks (generally) in fandom are mocking them for being new at a skill' discussions on LJ in meta fandom communities. So this is how much I could be in fandom and not be a part of it and also have like a wildly different experience to your LJ experience!

I think if I'd been a teenager during that era it would have seemed a lot more appealing (in the same way that many teens are antis now before they grow out of it), and fuck it if I was a more bitter person who was just around people who liked to make fun of what other people created, perhaps I would have enjoyed it too, I can see a lot of reasons why a person would fall into that in LJ -> but I was an adult on LJ trying not to be mean to people or what they were creating, so yeah I was maybe just in very different spaces! (Don't get me wrong, I have my giant fucking character flaws, but I was very scared of people hating me so like I didn't want to do things that would make that happen, lol, and also I was scared to put up fic myself during the era of active sporking. I know for myself that sporkers didn't just scare away writers of 'badfic' - they...intimidated a LOT of people).

Before AO3 I was on FF.net, posting fics on LJ, posting on Schnoogle, gossamer, and a couple of other archives. So I don't think my experience was that 'narrow,' I just think I wasn't around like... anime at that time or other places where it might have been happening. I also avoided like...Draco/Malfoy where CC drama was happening and I know sporking was popular in that specific arena / pairing for a while as well (er, as well as anything to do with Mary Sues).

So yeah! That's about where that is. Generally gatekeeping fandom is just seen as not a great thing to do to people, and that creates other kind of beliefs that are generally upheld as being more inviting/nurturing. After all, if someone truly wants to get better at writing, they can ask, or do courses, but as we all know, everyone has to write some bad stuff to get good at it, but not everyone wants to be good. Folks are in fandom for different reasons. I'm rambling now so I'm going to finish my lunch! :D

I will say, though, people used to be way meaner about fic online when I was a kid. Readers can still be shitty, don't get me wrong, but it was the wild fucking west when I was young and new to fandom.

Sporking communities (communities dedicated to going through fic line-by-line to make fun of it to an audience), homophobic death threats, "constructive criticism" that was really just designed to hurt young writers' feelings... Like this was all considered not just acceptable but fun and fairly normalized. You were considered "butthurt" if this stuff really affected you.

But damn, it was so mean. Like so unnecessarily mean. People were practically hunting fan writers for sport just because they wrote fic/meta/roleplays/etc. that they didn't enjoy. I cannot overemphasize that making fun of writers was considered a viable fandom path at a certain point. Some people got very big followings for sporkings, takedowns, particularly creative flames, etc.

What I'm telling you is that making fun of others' writing was considered a kind of fanwork in and of itself.

Like... I remember writing something online when I was about fourteen and -- I don't even remember what it was, being honest with you. It probably wasn't very good, given my age. But I do remember that someone just replied to it with a link for a website "how to write" and nothing else, and it hurt my feelings so badly that I didn't even want to keep going. That was considered concrit back then, even though it was really just a thinly veiled insult. Pretty sure whoever wrote that comment thought it was hilarious, and others would have agreed with them. I definitely would've been mocked if I'd complained.

And... that was just what you had to put up with if you posted your writing publicly. Some of those old warnings like "flames will be used to make s'mores!" come off as kind of cringe these days, but it really was a coping mechanism that you had to develop if you wanted to get through it at all. It was saying "your words won't hurt me, so don't bother."

Like... I like to believe that I'm a pretty good writer these days, and I can guarantee that not one of those assholes who made fun of me or mocked my work or talked shit about my ideas actually helped to make me what I am today. It was the people who encouraged me to play with a lot of different ideas and forms of writing who really helped me grow. Nothing worked better than just writing and writing and writing without fear that I would be punished for doing so.

So even if you're a garbage person who likes to hurt people because it makes you feel big and strong and important, think about all this pragmatically. Be totally fucking selfish for a minute. Think about all of the good writing you will never, ever get to read if you destroy the writer's self-esteem when they're still learning. Think about all the people who will never grow. All the beautiful flowers that are being nipped in the bud every day by assholes like you.

And even if someone never gets good, even if they just splash around in stupid ideas and awful prose and incoherent characterization... so fucking what? No one owes you beauty. Sometimes the beauty is just in having fun with what you're doing, and sometimes that's enough.

I am actually extremely relieved that fandom isn't quite as cruel as it was when I was a kid, but I won't pretend that things are perfect now. People still have this weird entitlement to them, like other people in fandom only exist to create things that they enjoy. Like other people only have worth, only matter, if their presence gives you exactly what you want when you want it.

You don't have to like everything that other people make! You don't even have to like them. But come on, now. Let people have fun. And don't act like other people's fun is only valid if it's of use to you.

I don't normally do this but I just came across this bio and, my God, it's like walking into a wall face first

I won't link the bio because this person needs friends and exposure to the sun, not harassment, but looking through the blog this doesn't seem to be a parody or anything like that.

I really, really miss the days when lol so random tweens shouting about llamas and sporks and being obsessed with yaoi was the worst the internet got.

Whumptober Day 04: I see the danger, it's written there in your eyes

Shock + "You in there?"

3220 Words; Rewired AU

TW for isolation, memory loss, experimentation, electrical torture

AO3 ver

This sucks.

Dion glared at the locked door, arms crossed. All of his attempts to force it open had proven futile, leaving him nothing to do but lean against the wall and glare at it.

The room he was in—if it could even be called a room, when there was just barely enough space to lie down—was small, four plain stone walls with a single metal door. There was a single… cot was too generous a word, honestly. It was a slab of metal just barely big enough to lie on, held up by two diagonal metal struts braced against the wall underneath it. There was a drain in the center of the floor; Dion refused to touch it if he could help it. By bracing himself against the walls of the corner, he could climb up high enough to get at the ceiling. But the panel over the single small light refused to budge, no matter how hard Dion tried to pry it off. Spots still danced across his eyes from his efforts.

The only ventilation came in the form of four small slits in the door. There was a slot at the bottom of the door, as well, but the panel covering it wouldn’t budge. If Dion were more resourceful, if he had a better idea of what was going on—

But he wasn’t, and he had no idea. He’d been handling groceries out in town, on his way back to camp—

And then he was in here, in this barren room, with no way out. The jacket he’d gotten for his seventeenth birthday was missing, as was his wallet, pocket knife, and compact. Whoever had taken him and put him here had gone through his pockets, and the knowledge left Dion feeling violated.

But there was nothing he could do about it, and that, more than anything, crawled under his skin like so many wriggly spiders. The inaction grated against him, his leg bouncing in agitation. He needed to move, to get up and do something—

But he couldn’t do anything. Not yet. Not until the door opened, or he found out what the hell was going on, or—something, he didn’t know.

This sucked. Dion glared at the door from where he was sitting on the slab.

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

Bright light danced in front of his eyes, and his vision swam worse than it already was.. He didn’t recognize the voice speaking to him, the words spinning through his head uselessly. He swallowed, but the nausea remained.

Still, he spoke. “Dion Aquato.” Son of Donatella and Augustus Aquato. Eldest of five siblings. Dion Aquato. I’m Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

Meals came in through the slot at the bottom of the door—gross. Even if it was on a tray, it was still being slid along a floor that had been exposed to god knew what. Dion didn’t eat, the first few times, fear of poison and disdain for invisible concrete floor grime holding him back.

But the hunger pricked at his stomach. It was impossible to sleep well on the slab or the floor. He needed to keep his strength up however he could, if he ever wanted out of here.

The meals were simple. A plastic spork came on the equally plastic tray. Neither the utensil nor the tray could be used to escape, as far as Dion could tell, so he left them by the slot when he finished. The food was…

He didn’t know how long he’d been in here, but he was already homesick. Truth be told, he’d been homesick the moment he’d finished inspecting the room, but the feeling had only built over time. He missed his mother’s cooking. He missed cooking. He missed food that wasn’t bland unseasoned drivel. He’d had his fill of dry chicken and plain mashed potatoes and sad greens. He wanted to eat food, real food with actual flavor that he wasn’t shoving down his throat just for the nutritional value.

How many days had it been? Three? Four? Dion wondered if his birthday had passed already, if he had turned 18 in this cell, away from his friends and family. It had only been a week off, when he’d found himself in this tiny stone hell.

Ugh. This sucked. The food was awful. He had no idea what he was even here for, or where here even was. He wanted to go home. He wasn’t smart enough or strong enough to figure a way out of this cell.

Dion was clean, at least, his hair hanging loose around his face and on his shoulders. He couldn’t remember when the grease had been rinsed out—but he really didn’t want to think about that. So he didn’t.

“An explanation would be nice.” He grumbled. “Wouldn’t mind some fucking answers.”

The door had no answer for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion woke up to a bright light right in his eyes. Where—

He was lying back on a hard surface, at an angle. There was pressure across his legs and chest. Attempts to move were thwarted—oh. He was strapped down.

Dion turned his head to the side to avoid the light shining down on him, cool metal pressing against his cheek. He scrunched his eyes shut, spots dancing across his vision. His head was pounding—probably because of the light.

He heard footsteps to his left. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

There was a woman standing there with a clipboard in hand, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Dion blinked.

Nope, she was still there, still regarding the clipboard in her hand through cat eye glasses. A pen floated over the clipboard.

Dion turned his head to look to the right. The room he was in had… six walls? No, wait, it was eight, wasn’t it? Yeah. Eight. Eight plain white walls that went up to… he couldn’t tell, with the bright light looming above him. He scrunched his eyes shut and turned his head back to his left, opening them as the woman walked over to a shelf taking up three of the walls.

The room gave him an uneasy feeling. The bright light reminded him of dentists; the lady’s labcoat and the sanitized room reminded him of hospitals. There was even a counter back to his right that took up three of the walls, with a sink and cabinets.

A binder floated off the shelf and opened in front of the woman. She flipped through the pages inside for a moment before the binder returned to the shelf.

Dion opened his mouth. He was so done with his stupid little cell, with this bright light searing down into his eyes—but most of all, he was so done with not knowing what the hell was going on. He wanted answers, dammit, so he opened his mouth and spoke.

“What do you want from me?”

The woman’s head snapped around so fast that Dion almost thought it might fall off. She was regarding him, now, and Dion snapped his mouth shut. He felt like a bug under her gaze, like a number on her clipboard that wasn’t what she expected.

She walked over to him, lips pursed.

“At least say something!” His mouth moved before his brain could process what he was saying. Her brow furrowed, and Dion tensed.

“You,” she loomed over him, close enough that he could see the gold of her eyes, “should not be up.” She held something small in her hands, and Dion strained to make out what was surely going to be used to hurt him—

One click. Two clicks.

Dion never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

His head swam. His mouth opened, then closed. He tried again. “Dion Aquato.” Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion Aquato I’m an acrobat I’m a brother I’m Dion Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

There were holes in his memory.

Dion almost didn’t notice them, at first. Day and night blurred together in his cell, with nothing to mark the passage of time. How long had he been here? How many days? Had he turned 18, here in this cell, away from his friends and family?

All of his street clothes had been missing when he’d woken up here—he was dressed in a simple shirt and pants made of a rough fabric he couldn’t identify, the light gray seeming to melt into the stone around him.

(But hadn’t he searched his pockets when he’d first woken up here? He remembered them being empty of his things—)

That was the first clue. The second was the collection of plastic sporks in the corner of his room—he was sure he’d put them there, but he couldn’t remember eating that many meals. The third clue was that he still didn’t know how he was clean, despite being in his cell long enough to start to smell.

There were holes in his memory. Once he finally realized this, he realized the danger he was in. Panic spiraled in his brain. What if he forgot everything? What if he forgot his family? His home?

But what could he do? He’d never even left this cell.

(Had he?)

Still, he needed to remember. He thought back to his life outside, to home—

He could remember his mother’s face, at least. Could still remember every member of his family, from his parents to his Nona to his siblings. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Raz. Tala. Queepie. Could remember the circus, the blue and green stripes of the Aquatodome.

He glared reproachfully at the door of his cell. His name was Dionysus Aquato. He was the eldest of five. He was 17—no, he was probably 18 already—and he refused to forget his home and family. He’d die before he let that happen.

“You’re not keeping me here forever.” He whispered. “I’ll get out eventually.”

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion woke up strapped to a table.

There was a bright light overhead. His head swam, a pounding headache behind his eyes. His mouth had that awful taste that it always got when he overslept.

This wasn’t his tent or the caravan, though. This was an octagonal room, the ceiling obscured by the light bearing down on him. There was something familiar about the room, but he couldn’t fathom why.

He turned his head to his left. There was a woman standing there, regarding a binder floating in front of her through cat eye glasses, hair pulled back into a bun. There was someone next to her in… a pantsuit? The woman was wearing a lab coat, which some part of Dion felt was far more appropriate for the sterile setting.

Dion didn’t recognize her, though. But hadn’t he seen her before?

And the guy standing next to her—Dion had never seen them before. But he knew their face. Didn’t he? He didn’t know.

“Why is it conscious?” They asked. It took Dion a moment to realize that they were talking about him. That… that didn’t bode well.

Her lips pursed. “Because I’m investigating a problem.” She pressed something—

Pain! Dion yelped, his body jerking against the straps. It arced up his legs and arms, through his chest, into his head—

Just as quick as it came, it was gone. His shoulders heaved.

A problem. She’d called him a problem. That couldn’t be good.

Remember. He needed to remember. His name was Dion, Dion—

Dion Something. He tried to remember, searching his mind—

Another scream was ripped from his throat as a fresh wave of electricity burst through him. He spasmed, the straps pinning him down. His wrists and ankles were starting to ache—were they going to bruise?

The pain left again. Dion’s thoughts chased each other in circles. His head spun. He needed to—he needed to—

Remember. His name was Dion, Dion—

Dion Aquato!

His name was Dion Aquato. He was the eldest of four—no, five. He came from the Aquato family circus.

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie Mom Dad Nona—

He screamed as another wave of pain rushed through him. The electricity didn’t stop, even as his voice cut out, even as he continued to spasm. His head swam, pain pounding his brain to bits—

All at once, the pain stopped. He shook, and turned towards the pair.

The woman’s binder had fallen to the ground. Her nose had bled, a red smear on her upper lip.

“Well.” She said, “That’s… interesting.”

Dion didn’t have the energy to question it. He needed to remember, anyway. Mom Dad Nona Frazie—

Something clicked. Once, twice—

He never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

It sounded disappointed in him. He couldn’t fathom why.

“Dion Aquato.” He was answering the question, right? He was Dion Aquato. It was his name, his identity—he was Dion Aquato eldest son acrobat 17 years old Dion Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

The pile of sporks in the corner was gone. If it had ever been there at all—he had probably just imagined it.

He didn’t know when he’d gotten here. Didn’t know how long he’d been here. Had a week passed? Was he 18, now, had he missed his birthday in this stupid little cell?

His old clothes were gone, replaced with a dull blue shirt and pants the same gray as the stone around him. It was weird, to look down at his legs and see nothing but gray, gray like the walls, gray like he was just another fixture in the room, just another setpiece—

(Hadn’t his shirt been gray? Hadn’t he been wearing his street clothes when he first woke up in this cell?)

His head swam. Lights danced behind his vision.

His name was Dion Aquato. He had a family and a home. His name was Dion Aquato.

(Was it?)

He looked at the door. Metal, like the—well, cot was too generous. More like a slab, really—slab sticking out from the wall, held up by diagonal metal struts. Metal, like the ring around his neck.

(He couldn’t remember when it was put on. He couldn’t get it off. Maybe it had always been there.)

“How much longer?” He asked. How much longer would he be stuck in here? He wanted to go home. He wasn’t even sure where home was.

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

He came to strapped to a chair. The room he was in was familiar, octagonal-shape tickling some corner of his brain. But every attempt to recall if he had been here before resulted in fog filling his head. But he needed to remember, right?

There was a woman standing at a control panel-like structure to his left, her mouth moving. He couldn’t hear what she was saying through the panel of glass between him and her. 

Remember. He needed to remember. His name was Dion Aquato. He was 17 (18? 16?). He didn’t know where he was. Home was Mom Dad Nona Frazie Pooter Tala Queepie, it was blue and green tents and a towering caravan. He needed to remember.

He muttered their names under his breath, pushing at the straps wrapped around his arms and chest. As usual, they refused to yield.

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie

Dion Dion Dion my name is Dion my name is Dion

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie—

Pain shot through him, electricity coursing through his body until his head spun. Even when it stopped, the room continued to spin, the bright light above him leaving spots in his vision.

He needed—he needed—

Remember!

His name was Dion Aquato. Home was green and blue and Mom and Dad and Nona and Raz and Queepie—

He was missing something. He needed to remember it.

“Shut up.”

Another bolt of electricity. Another scream that left his throat raw.

He didn’t even realize he’d been muttering. But he needed to remember, he couldn’t shut up, he needed to hold onto everything that he had for as long as he could, needed to hold himself together no matter what. He mumbled their names, his brain struggling through the haze of pain and light dancing behind his eyes. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Tala. Queepie. Mom. Dad. Raz. Tala. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Mom. Dad. Nona—

“I said shut up.” Something clicked—

Dion’s body convulsed against the straps again. His throat hurt too much to scream, the electricity seizing through him.

The electricity stopped. He twitched. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

Remember. He needed to remember. Mom. Dad. Frazie. Queepie. Mom. Nona. Raz. Queepie. Dad. Nona. Tala. Mom. Dad. Mom—

“Fine, then. If you can’t shut up, then you won’t speak at all.”

Something clicked. Once. Twice—

He never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

He wasn’t sure. “Dion.” That… sounded right.

“Who are you?”

They sounded frustrated. He wasn’t sure why.

“Dion.” He was Dion, wasn’t he?

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

Gray walls stared back at him. He tried to remember any place other than this, tried to remember being anywhere but these walls—

Nothing. Just gray.

He knew he had come from somewhere, though. He had a mother and a father out there, somewhere—somewhere that wasn’t here.

But what did his mother’s face even look like? How did her voice sound? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember, and she seemed all the less real because of it.

How many siblings did he have? Did he even have siblings at all?

His head hurt. Lights danced behind his eyes. He clutched his face in his hands, massaging his temples. Nausea threatened to spill out of his mouth and onto the floor below. He choked it down.

His name was Dion. He had a mother and a father. He couldn’t remember their faces. He needed to remember.

Did he? He couldn’t remember. His head swam.

He pitched forward, his hands hitting the concrete floor as he fell off the slab. His name was—he was—

He retched.

Shoulders shaking, he leaned back. He rubbed his mouth, not caring about the bile and spit on his arm. He looked at the door.

“I’m—” He needed to remember. His head was swimming. “Where am I?” Who am I?

The door had no answers for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Bright light loomed above him, searing his eyes.

Exhaustion weighed him down more than the straps holding him still. A bitter taste lingered in the back of his throat.

A woman’s voice floated over to him. “Shutdown, Test 24-2.” The light was blinding, he couldn’t see where the voice was coming from—

Pain arced through his limbs. Something in him clicked. His head pounded, pressure like a vice—

Something clattered on the floor.

“Stop now.” The pressure receded at the woman’s voice. He couldn’t fathom why. He was too exhausted to care, his eyes slipping closed. Light danced behind them.

Click.

Click.

Click.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

He had no answer.

“Who are you?”

Why were they asking? He wasn’t anybody.

“Who are you?”

The voice was starting to grate against his head. Nausea danced in his throat.

“Who are you?”

“I—” Who was he? Was he anything?

“Who are you?”

Bright light danced in front of his eyes. At once, the answer came to him.

“Who are you?”

“Nobody.”

“Yes, you are.”

The Years When I Wrote Stuff

So it’s the wake of the year 2022 and as of two months from now it will be two years since I spent a significant amount of time writing anything. I watched The Glass Onion last night and I want to write a mystery so badly that my stomach hurts, but also I want to go home and time travel is not an option. Feel free to skip the introspection but I miss Livejournal, and I thought other people also waiting for a dead year to be buried who have also tried to make stuff during the last eternity might find this a little cathartic.

I spent my morning rereading some stuff I previously wrote, back in college, approximately a decade ago, and it’s... good? In ways that I didn’t expect, given a whole host of personal factors like ten years experience, the fact that some of what I wrote then was fanfic for a very small and insular writing and reading community and not actually fanfic of a property that exists*, and that what I remember as communitywide engagement is an average of five unique commenters per chapter. (*People who never lived on Live Journal: there were several of these sorts of emergent meta fandoms, long before Goncharov. I was in a handful of them. One of them was the Sims 2 legacy challenge community, where there is no canon, everyone is trying to win points on a spreadsheet while playing a completely different game, and people just straight up borrowed each other’s characters to write combination screenshot and text stories about. It was considered flattery to do it if you could write your way out of a paper bag. Or if your forum threads / livejournal entries got enough engagement to be equal to or more ‘popular’ than the original author. Other metafandoms involved sporking [critical reading of another work with jokes worked in], and meta-fanfic like protectors of the plot continuum.) So, what did I have in twenty mumbleteen that let me write, and do it pretty well for my level of skill at the time? 

I was not less depressed: the year that I wrote 48k of cathartic mystery investigation that I still like was not a good one, personally, and the year before it was definitely top three worst. I also wasn’t just astronomically talented at the time: I was concurrently writing a non-fanfic attempt at a novel that has fully earned its position in the mental compost bin. (The physical location is somewhere in a folder within a folder on a thumb drive, probably labeled “junk” and “old junk” respectively.) 

I was not less busy: on top of classes I was writing a thesis that was so bad, the singular time any other living human mentioned they’d read it after I graduated, I blurted out “Oh god WHY?” (I got that job anyway.) In contrast since the beginning of the pandemic I have been unemployed off and on and not exactly super busy otherwise. I may have been doing a less overwhelming amount of the work of living, since I was living in dorms at the time, but... (checks my apartment) I think I’d better not investigate how much work of living is technically getting done around here.  I honestly think the major difference has been community. Don’t get me wrong, I like tumblr. I like twitter too. There is not a lack of people joyfully engaged in making stuff and talking to each other about it on either platform. We are (probably, at least in my case) a little cooler about it too: twitter’s villain of the week and the eternal problem of internet harassment aside, the dominance of short form and mostly public posting has made a lot more people than I remember aware that joining secret locked fandom groups devoted to hating specific members of your community is a bad thing and not a badge of acceptance into the Big Name Fan inner circle. Also, the first time Diane Duane turned up to my livejournal I acted like an embarrassingly star-struck teenager. Given that I was an embarrassingly star-struck teenager and have since managed to have actual conversations with published authors, I think I may have matured some. But with shorter, faster posts, and an internet economy that is increasingly about advertising, and single streams of information, we’ve definitely lost an aspect of the previous writing and fannish community. Not just the ability to off topic chat in a forum or a comments section with days or weeks between replies instead of wading through the discord, or community reading lists instead of reblogs and quote tweets, or spending hours uploading photos and gifs to new third party hosting sites and re-linking them every time free hosting got discontinued. From my perspective here on Tumblr we seem to have lost a huge amount of support for each other’s projects. Let me explain: back in the days of Livejournal there was fandom, meta fandoms, and original work. The three nations lived in harmony until - okay, technically they weren’t three nations, because we were a bunch of individual people doing a bunch of different things and even if you didn’t tag for shit, if you stuck around and commented enough you met other people. You would get invested in one of their projects, or they would get invested in yours. Most importantly, you would talk about things in the comments section. If you went looking for book reviews you would go to the comments for more recommendations. You’d also get arguments between people you’d never met, essays written by someone who appeared to be commenting on the mirrorverse version of the post you’d just read, and a decent number of bots. But you would be at the party talking about your favorite movies, the novel you were writing, and your thesis in the corners with photos of someone’s cat, instead of shouting across the width of the internet. You can still DM people, yes I know. You can still, if you’re too experienced to be embarrassed by being perceived like @seeingteacupsindragons and I, have a loud personal conversation in public via reblogs and tagging other people. It can even be a relatively private conversation if you’re deep enough into twitter replies or you’re only notable to a few dozen or few hundred people who only follow you in case you have more confessions to make about your former feral gremlin exploits back in the years when you wrote things. I can’t imagine writing the usual fandom disclaimer of “don’t own: don’t like don’t read” the way I used to during a spork or analysis. I legitimately once advertised the story that kicked off this round of introspection with “I obviously don’t own [book series we were dissecting to see why we hated it] because if I did you guys wouldn’t love me anymore.” Not just because it’s assuming my audience has strong feelings about me (easy to assume when there are seven of them and they loyally keysmash every chapter,) but because the firehose of social media feels very impersonal. Not on a caring about other people personally level, but on a level where, outside of fandoms, which aren’t built as sturdily as they used to be, it seems a little absurd to assume people care about your ongoing projects.  I’m not saying prior fandom iterations were better. Fandom problems and blog and social media problems have always been the same community building problems dressed up in different posting limits. Human nature has always been that of miscommunication, self interest, and sarcastic asides no matter how low you can sink the stakes. People have always struggled to organize community in the face of corporate censorship, societal bigotry, and Russian government takedown bots.** I’m saying that the things that used to go hand in hand with fandom, like your own oc’s and the ability to spend six months in a fandom and come out with a writing group passionately keysmashing over each other’s original characters and original stories are much, much harder to find than they used to be.  (**The bots are not always russian but false DMCA reports and the other apparatus of modern internet bot problems is not by any means new. And the eventual deathblow of Livejournal was struck by Russia. For more information I’m afraid you’ll have to google it all, due to me failing to locate any of the tumblr posts that filled me in on specifics long after the fact, on the very same day I successfully found my old Livejournal story I had forgotten the time of via a string of related tags. Irony, it turns out, cannot die.) AO3 and tumblr have kept fandom going, arguably stronger than ever, and it’s not like metafandom has died, given that it hasn’t even been two months since a critical mass of tumblr users decided to collaboratively write a summary of a movie based on a pair of bootleg shoes. I’m almost guaranteed to get more “interaction” with this post than my average original story in livejournal days.  But goddamn it, I miss the comments section. I miss replying to people demanding to know what was coming next with cutesy replies like “well you see, next chapter, [redacted] will [spoiler].” I miss having to break five thousand word conversations into multiple comments and the accompanying ability to trade theories and refute assumptions point by point without either flooding the dash or having to shove it all behind a readmore. (I miss customizeable readmores and the ability to put up a summary to click on or make a cryptic comment about the plot. Upon reflection, I don’t miss breaking up comments, I miss having collapsible threads to discuss specific points of speculation.) Most of all, I miss the semi-private space where people overwhelmingly were not shy about saying “hey, this reminds me of some things in my original story, you want to read some?” and where the link you received when you said yes ended either with you giving out a polite comment about the similarity to the original conversation and ‘I might not keep up with it, but good luck!’ or falling madly in love with someone else’s blorbo. I’ve tried to recapture the magic here and elsewhere, but as lovely as most people in writeblr are there is just so much advertising that it hasn’t worked for me, as a vehicle of actually talking to people about writing. Without a word written of the actual story there’s a moodboard and a playlist and a near-constant feeling of talking to yourself in front of a microphone. We all might want to publish this some day: have two paragraphs and an entire tag of endlessly recycled promotional material about the aesthetic. Everything is a pitch contest and the rules of engagement are written down in a completely different post: above all else act professional. Well, professional enough. You can be a clown and you can be a jerk but you cannot just hang out and expect that everyone will get their own turn to talk about their OC’s, regardless of whether you’re seriously hoping to publish or not. I’d love to talk about the process and art of writing again with people I only sort of know, instead of only doing it in DM’s with my oldest friends. I’d love to drag my OC’s out of the metaphorical compost bin and tell you that I don’t currently have a WIP that is anything like ready for public consumption, much less publication, but that if you watched Glass Onion last night and cried over the idea that you can’t have justice for the ones you love and you can’t bring them back but you can damn well be sure their work was not in vain, you’d love them. They’re my children and they’re my self, they live in my brain and they’re in love and better yet they’re best friends who will never, ever loose each other. Whether that’s to the slow diaspora of having to move across the country to make a living or finding that a dumbass billionaire pulled the plug on the liminal space where they gather. They’re part of a family of orphans and outcasts and they’re the spiritual descendants of a lot of people who taught me a lot about community. They know way more than me about how to help the friends who are suffering yet another pointless accident and wring some kind of catharsis out of a world that has not stopped ending in a thousand different ways since before any of us were born, and it’s only partly because one of them can literally do magic. Mostly it’s because when you write for five people who all hated the idea that resistance to the cruelties of the world is pointless even in fiction the exact same way you can actually give them a single webpage where justice exists, the people who are supposed to keep people safe care more about that than maintaining their structural power, and rich assholes who ruin people’s lives are the ones who go to jail. Now if only my perfect, (but not too perfect) darling, useless daughters would bring me a plot so I could actually use the sadness and anger for something. Even if no one ever reads it.

I Hope You Don’t Mind

                                  Chapter 5: Check yes

Mia was confused when she woke up the next morning but was back in New York at Callie's house. Mia adored the house, Callie inherited from her grandpa when he passed away shortly after they graduated from high school. The two-story wooden house was set up in a small town, you could watch deer run across your lawn almost every morning. It was settled into the top the hills, the balcony overlooking the perfect view of the forest and all the other houses coming to the river that ran through the area. Mia walked over to the wall of windows overlooking the forest, it was snowing which was odd as she thought it was July but she also wasn't supposed to be in New York. Mia couldn't help but feel sad when the realization hit, of course, Paul didn't exist and it was just her overactive imagination. Letting out a sigh she wrapped her arms around herself as she watched the snowfall slowly. A sense of disappointment overtook her, she was back in the same town doing the same old things. She never made it anywhere.

 "Always so dramatic. Come sit." A voice that turned out to be Callie said, Mia didn't see her enter the room but that didn't mean all to much. Callie always found sneaking into a room unannounced and scaring you a much better way to enter than a normal person. Mia had too many almost heart attacks from her best friend to expect anything less from her. "Sorry. Just a shitty dream, well good dream but shitty I woke up." Mia said curling up to her best friend on the couch and pulling the blanket on top of her, the fireplace was going as Callie turned on some random cooking show on the tv over the fireplace. "Who says you're awake?" Callie asked her giving her a look. Mia returned it, she never had dreams that she was actually aware of what was going on, so of course, she went straight to the fact that Paul and Forks was the dream. Was she really dreaming now? The idea of randomly finding a person who seemed to be completely infatuated with her after being in town for a day sounds like it would be more of a dream than her sitting here with Callie. "Paul is real, Forks and La Push too?" Mia questioned her unsure but real Callie may like messing with her but not normally like this. Could this be the dream? It would explain how it was snowing in July unless she spent a couple of months sleeping. "Yuppp" Callie said popping the p. "Spoons, and knives are also real. They even have these things called sporks which are like spoons and forks together. Strange things. They should come up with a spoon knife and they should call it spife. I think it ....." "Oh my god shut up." Mia laughed cutting her off from her little rant that without a doubt Callie could ramble on for hours starting as something as little as forks. Callie was a person who could get distracted by a fleck of dust in the air and either talk for hours of conversation starting with that or spend hours zoning out. It was a hit and miss. Mia needed a lot of caffeine to keep up with her sometimes, she basically lived off mountain dew when they stayed together. "How does that even go or matter." She still questioned her best friend. "Just saying." Callie said shrugging, pointing to the show where they were using a spork. So at least it wasn't completely random which was a first for her really. "So why am I dreaming? Why are we here and in winter?" Mia asked Callie looking out the window to the white-covered hills, she couldn't complain too much. Her memory did a great job at picking out all the small details from last winter when they came up here for Christmas break. "You want me to analyze your dreams now? You know I don't believe in that shit. You probably just missed me and missed being up here. Answer solved." Callie told her shrugging her shoulders not really caring. "You should come to visit me then." Mia told dream Callie, she did really miss her best friend being around more often but sadly that was part of growing up and having a life. She missed the days when they would sit around and do nothing but watch crappy movies and eat copious amounts of junk food. "I think it's on your places to go to. At least Washington itself is. Your fifty states in a single year plan." Mia tried to con her, tho she didn't see to much of a point knowing it wasn't Callie. She could tell logically that it wasn't her but the dream still told her otherwise. "I don't think she should." A voice said from behind them, Mia turned around to see Paul's figure standing in the doorway blocking almost the whole entranceway. He was in his normal outfit of simple pair of black shorts and a blue tank top, but his body seemed to be shaking against the cold air he was letting in. "Paul!" Mia exclaimed jumping up from the couch and over to him. "Come inside you're..shaking?" Mia stumbled over her words when she touched him to pull him inside. "You must be cold." She said trying to drag him inside the house so she could close the door, but his body was warm like it always was. So why was he shaking so uncontrollably? "You need to leave here, now. " Paul said instead pulling a coat off the rack and handing it to her. "We need to go." Never taking his eyes off Callie while he spoke, almost as if he didn't trust her. "Why? What's wrong?" Mia asked confused as she watched him glare at Callie, who of course was just giving Paul a huge smile knowing that it was annoying him. Sending a small glare to Callie to try and get her to stop which was useless really. "Can't you tell she one of them!" "And he is one of them, duh." Callie sang still smiling as she stretched out on the couch, unfazed by the actually growl that came out of Paul. Mia just stood between them confused about what was going on. This was by far the strangest dream that Mia had and she had no idea what was going on. She couldn't change the dream, she was just stuck in the middle trying to figure out how to take control back. "She is going to hurt you. You need to get away and get to safety." Paul explained in a rush, his hand reaching out for hers. But Mia burst out laughing at that thought, Callie hurting her was comical, Callie was the type of person that would kill if they laid a hand on her in the slightest. Callie once punched a guy twice her size back in freshman year of high school because he said one slightly mean comment to her. "No, she wouldn't." Mia laughed but stopped when she saw the anger in his eyes, even if it was directed at her she didn't like it very much. "Come sit, you guys have to get to know each other eventually." "No we have to go, please trust me on this." Paul begged his shaking getting worse, it has gotten so bad that it was hard to make out the edges of him. "Paul..are you okay? What's going on." Mia asked standing to place a hand on his arm trying to figure out what was wrong. Mia bit her lower lip as she looked up at him, maybe he needed to go see a doctor. Maybe the cold was affecting him and it was some sort of frostbite, does a person feel warm and shake when they start to freeze? "I would step back, he's going to explode." Callie said in a singsong voice, Mia turned to raise an eyebrow at her friend who just shrugged at her. "Woof, woof" Turning back to Paul's shaking had somehow gotten worse, taking a slight step back from him she watched as he turned into a blur of grey before Mia found herself sweating wrapped in the blankets in the motel room. Mia kicked off the blankets shaking off the strange dream, gasping for air, clearly, Mia's mind apparently took the stories a little too far. It was a little under two weeks since the bonfire where she listened to legends and she was amazed by them. To a point, Paul had even taken Mia over to Billy's house to hear new stories and let her ask all the questions she wanted to. But the past few days she was having these strange dreams, she knew better than to obsess over something but she couldn't help it. She knew there was a truth behind the stories, she wasn't sure if humans could shapeshift but she had seen magic. Seen the cold ones, impossible people who made no sense to be alive. It wasn't possible but there was no denying it. The question was how much Paul and the others believe in the stories. She was too scared to ask, so she just reminded silent. She wasn't sure if it made it worse for not but she didn't want people thinking she was crazy. Running her hands through her hair she figured she should take a shower quickly before Paul got out of work. Apparently, it was supposed to be nice out for once and Paul and his friends were going to have a beach day.  Mia could already feel the heat in her room and it was only a quarter to ten. Mia spent the last couple of weeks hanging out with Paul and his friends during the day, unless he had to work then she either hung out with Kim or called up Callie. At night she would come back to the hotel and try to find things to do, It ended up with a lot of movies and binging tv shows but it was a nice break from things. It was the first time she had time off and if she starts school soon it would be the only time off for a while. She had been anxiously waiting to hear back from the school, she didn't know what she would do if she had to wait a year to start school. Would she stay here or end up going back to New York? Taking a year off wasn't in the plan that she made but none of this was in the plan she made. Callie made some calls to help push it through, Mia didn't want them to just accept her because Callie knew people, just for them to look at her application. She knew she was hoping that someone backed out to get her in a spot but she wanted to do it on her skill alone. Shaking off the dream she headed to the shower and started getting ready for the day, she wasn't sure what to make of the dream, part of her felt like there was a seriousness behind yet but she couldn't tell what. It was just a dream tho, though dreams meant nothing. At least they were supposed to, she was probably just overreacting to it but something about the dream just felt like it had some sort of depth beneath it but she couldn't quite figure it out. Shrugging she went over to the shopping bags from her Seattle trip a couple of days ago, she ended up getting Kim to come with her and they had a nice afternoon of it, bringing back far too many bags despite Kim's protest. It was fun hanging with Kim they seemed to get along pretty well, they liked all the same things and didn't care to do to much but relax most times. And Mia ended up with a cute new bikini for today at the beach. She was looking forward to actually being able to go in the water without freezing. It didn't take long to get to the beach, Mia had learned her way around quite easily. Paul and her spent hours just driving around the towns getting to know each other. It seemed like everyone in town had the same idea though as she struggled to find a place to park, grabbing her bag she stood on top of the hill overlooking the beach. It wasn't hard to find the group of giants against everyone else, the guys stood at least a foot taller than everyone around them and it wasn't a tiny group of them. Slowly she made her way over, trying to avoid other people running around. Looking around she saw quite a few people she didn't actually know but honestly, right now she was only looking for one person. Mia saw him eventually behind everyone setting up the play tent for the little ones to play in. It didn't take long for him to notice he was being stared at as he looked up at her and smiled. An instant smile came on Mia's face. She never got butterflies when it came to Paul, it was calm. Paul in such a short little time became her safe space, where she could run to and let out a sigh of relief. She was used to the butterflies and heart racing, it wasn't that she wasn't excited to see him but all her life Mia felt like she was spinning and losing control, and here he was. Strong and steady and in place helping her stand still, taking a deep breath and letting the world fall off. And that feeling terrified her. No one should have that much control over a person. Someone who can simply walk out of her life at any moment. Mia wasn't even sure where they stood, where she even stood being here but she did know being here was home. For the first time in as long as she could remember this was home. Maybe it was Paul, or this town or even this group of people but this was the place where she fit in and belonged. She couldn't leave here, even if things didn't work out she would bring Callie and they could live in town or close by and make this a home. Paul would be a nice bonus if he wanted to be around but Mia felt like she couldn't leave this all behind and go back to how things were before. She was here forever. "You made it love bug!" Paul said breaking her train of thought as he looked up at her,  his brown eyes shining in the sunlight lighting up as he grinned at her. "Of course! I said I would!" Mia told him setting her bag down in the sand and watched him finish putting up the tent and placing the baby's things inside. Standing up he pulled Mia into his arms, trying her best to wrap her arms around Paul as she stared up at him. "I know but still, I'm glad you're here. Everyone invited their families so it's a bit more people than normal, we don't get weather like this often so we all come out of hiding. If your anxiety gets too bad just let me know." Paul explained to her, gently kissing her forehead. Mia couldn't help but smile, he understood and let her explain her anxieties of to many people and since then he always made she had an out when she needed one. It came in handy when they hung out with groups like this, which seemed to be pretty normal. They were more than just a group of friends, all of them seemed to be more of a family then anything else. "This weather is going to suck but I think I could get used to it... After a while" Mia paused. "Maybe... probably not. Lots of complaining." Mia told him as she watched his eyes widen a bit when he got what she was implying. She didn't know how to tell Paul if she decided to stay, she didn't want to force herself onto him or move things too fast for him. Mainly she didn't want to scare him away, she was always fast pace with fast feelings and falling hard for ones who never seemed to fall back. But she didn't think she was reading the signs wrong, Paul seemed to be falling just as fast. Or one could hope. "You're staying?!" He said with excitement and a hint of nervousness like maybe he didn't know if he understood correctly. "Yes or close by. If I get accepted to the school I most likely will be in Port Angeles but that's only an hour away from here." Mia said shrugging as any doubt in his eyes disappeared. Smushing her arms against her torso Paul picked her up and spun her around, a huge smile on his face as Mia laughed at his antics. Finding herself silly that she was nervous telling Paul that she was staying, clearly to him it was a good thing. It was a huge relief that she felt telling him and having him react like that. "Are you trying to kill the poor girl, put her down!" Emily yelled at Paul, Madelyn curled up in her arms as she smiled at the two of them. "Mia isn't going back to New York, she's staying here." Paul told Emily, pulling Mia against his side like he was scared to let go of her as if she would decide to change her mind if he did. Not like she was going to, Callie already supported it and Mia would have to tell her parents and that wouldn't go over too well but it was time that she started her own life. They would never understand it even if she tried. She could hold off and tell them later. Right now she just wanted to focus on the moment. "That's awesome Mia. We're all really happy to hear that, I'm used to having you around already it would be awful to see you go." Emily said giving her a small but genuine smile. "Plus if you leave we would have to get rid of Paul. He is bad enough to be around when he has to go to work, couldn't imagine how annoying he would be if you went back." Jared teased walking over to Paul and hitting him on the shoulder, laughing at his best friend. "I'm not as bad as you." Paul replied as a slight blush came across his cheeks, something that would have never happened before Mia but everything was changed now. She changed everything the day she sat down on the beach and Paul was okay with it. How could he complain when the girl he was infatuated with, seemed to really like him too. For once everything seemed to be looking up and for the better. "Just you wait." Jared said smirking at him. "I did come over to tell you that we are going to start eating, people want to go swimming. So ladies, you first." Jared told them taking the baby from Emily so she could get something to eat. Mia followed Emily to the tables where they laid out all the food, learning well enough that it was better to get more than enough now than after. The boys almost never stopped eating, Mia even had a stash of snacks in the back seat of her car for Paul when they went driving around now. After all if she didn't eat it Paul would have no problem finishing her plate, she teased him about being her own human garbage disposal. A comment Callie made when she told her, luckily Paul found it funny and agreed with her. Finding her way back to the tent Mia sat beside Emily as little Madelyn lay in the bouncer under the shade of the tent. She missed the sun, deciding that every time the sun was out like this they would have to do beach days. Take it all in as much as she could. Paul smiled as he came over and sat beside her, neither speaking just enjoying the company. Mia watched everyone around them. Most were done eating by now and heading out towards the ocean, Quil and Seth seemed to have all the children gathered around them as they tried to make a giant sand castle. Which was going pretty well until Seth tripped falling into the side of the castle. Many of the older people were sitting around talking and catching up with each other. Sam and Emily were sitting close as they watched as Leah and Peter played with Madelyn. Resting her head on Paul's shoulder she smiled softly to herself. Content After a while Paul got up trying their trash in the bin he pulled her along to the part of the beach where only a few people were around, considering the water was deeper on this side parents tried to stay away from it. Mostly it was sunbathers trying to get away from children and some teens further out, it was just Paul and Mia. "Wanna go for a swim honey?" Paul asked her, sticking his feet in the water waiting for her response. "Sure." Mia said making a face at the pet name causing him to chuckle, kicking her flops off and taking off her tank top and shorts leaving her in her simple blue bikini she made her way back to Paul reaching out for his hand. " You're beautiful. and hot." Paul said leaning down to kiss her, her cheeks bright red glad he couldn't see her face right now. She had a nice distraction of his lips on hers though, his hand resting on her hips pulling her close to him. They only pulled away when they had to stop and catch their breath and the teens wolf whistling at them. Paul just rolled his eyes. Slowly they made their way into the water, despite it being a hot day the water was still cold against Mia's skin at first but it didn't take long to get used to it. They decided to not go too deep, finding a sandy spot they sat down in the water and just enjoyed the peace of the waves swaying them back and forth. "I miss swimming!" Mia said floating on her back near Paul, as she grinned up at him. "I don't know if that counts as swimming, more like floating." Paul teased, splashing water at Mia causing her to sit up, pushing her hair out of her face she glared at him. "I'm just trying to live my best life here and you are being very rude!" Mia pouted but the sides of her lips struggled to stay in a pout at Paul's mock-serious face. "Oh no, I'm so sorry my queen. How can I ever make it up to you?" Paul begging. Slowly Mia made her way through the water so she was straddling Paul's hips, her head titled as if she was trying to think of an idea but really she was trying to get a handful of sand. But Paul was easily distracted not noticing until a wet clump of sand was put on his head. Mia just grinned at him, biting her lower lip trying to stop herself from laughing at his facial expression. Paul stared blankly at her as the sand slowly started to drip down his face, eventually wiping it away from him. "Oh, you're going to pay for that."  He wrapped an arm around Mia trapping her on top of him when he pulled handfuls of sand and placed them on her head and shoulders as she laughed at him, squirming trying to get free but there was no way she was stronger than Paul. Realistically she should have seen this coming but it seemed like a great plan at first. Tilting her head causing a clump to fall onto him, she was able to get Paul distracting him enough that she could escape. It turned out to be an all-out battle between the two of them, their laughs echoing across the beach but neither cared all too much. Eventually, Paul called a truce, both of them covered with sand but smiles on their faces. Diving under the water Paul quickly removed all the sand from him, coming up and shaking his head like a dog. "Hey!" Mia exclaimed as he splashed her. "Wait here!" Paul said quickly to Mia before running out of the water. Mia started to say something but Paul was too far away and wouldn't be able to hear her. So instead she tried her best to work the sand out of her hair. She would need a shower or maybe two tonight to get it all removed but it was worth it. It didn't take long for Paul to come back gentle pulling her out of the water and telling her to follow him. He wouldn't look her in the eyes, which was odd. She didn't know exactly why he would switch from amusement to almost nervousness. "I want to show you something." Paul explained as they got to the dry sand of the beach, over away from the people as he pointed to the ground, slightly moving back behind her. Mia gave him a confused face before looking down and bursting out laughing at what Paul wanted to show her. Written in the sand was "Will you go out with me? Check yes or no" and a stick between the boxes. It was sappy and cliche and hopeless romantic. And she hundred percent loved it. She never had someone do anything so sweet as this, turning behind her she gave him a big grin that he didn't seem to see. He was still looking at the ground, twisting his hands around nervously. Walking forward she picked up the stick and without doubt checked the yes box, like there was any doubt. She didn't get a chance to turn around before arms wrapped around her, spinning her in the air. "You have got to stop spinning me!" Mia giggled into his neck, holding tight as if he would ever actually drop her. "Never sugar pie."  Paul exclaimed as he set her down on the ground to kiss her.

Eavesdropping Mishap

Do not plagiarize.

Pairing: Han Jisung x Reader

Synopsis: Your friend's skipping you like the ads on YouTube, and you get to the bottom of it.

Tags: Friends to Lovers, Non-Idol AU, University AU, fluff, slight angst, humour, Jisung being denser than condensed milk, profanity

Word count: 3k

You’re sure Jisung's avoiding you.

Every single time you had greeted him, he only stayed around to stutter out a polite response and then an excuse to scram.

Oh, he’s got this errand to do, he’s gotta run.

Oh, he’s got that person calling him, he’s gotta go.

You couldn’t even roll your eyes enough at the ones he would give you on days, you were sure, he had exhausted his daily quota of intelligence.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I gotta go. I forgot to water my cat!’

He doesn’t even own a fucking cat?!

You tried to confront him about it, keyword being tried. But the most time you got was probably twenty seconds before he scuttered before your flailing hands.

Unbelievable.

Gradually, he started sitting as mortally far from you as possible in class.

He became mute when the group conversation shifted to you. And when you gathered the courage to ask him yourself, he abruptly cut you off and changed the topic.

You huffed at this childish behaviour.

It was hard to miss the concerned looks your friends threw or the way Chan chastised Jisung for interrupting you for the nth time. You always brushed it off with a light laugh, but truthfully, it stung deep down.

Finally on an bright sunny Tuesday, your close friend, Amy, turned to you during lunch break.

“So...what’s up with you and Han?”

You stopped chewing and stared at your chicken nuggets. “What’s up with us?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh please, don’t play dumb with me. You don’t even look at each other anymore!”

“So?”

“So?” Amy’s eyebrows shot up in incredulity. “Are we just going to ignore the fact that the two of you used to be joined at the hip? What happened?!”

You picked at your nuggets. “...I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know.” She frowned.

“I mean, I have no idea what happened with that idiot!” You exclaimed, throwing your hands up. “One day we’re peachy, and the next thing I know, he’s avoiding me like the plague. I thought, maybe it was his male PMS acting up but—” A big sigh escaped you as you thought back to your futile attempts at approaching him. “...I give up.”

Amy regarded you steadily. “That’s it? You’re giving up on your friendship?”

“What no!” You straightened up as you looked at her. “I am just...going to give him some space. It’s clear that he doesn’t want me around.” For whatever god damn reason he’s not man enough to tell me.

You seriously couldn’t understand this sudden development in Jisung. You had always been there for each other, a support beam that never wavered.

Even when you almost lost yourself off of the face of Earth because of an irresponsible drunken spree in the wilderness, while Jisung ran hours looking for you.

Or that time—quite frankly, multiple times—you saved his ass from getting handed to him by his unsupportive parents because he was up late working on his mixtape instead of his thesis.

It made you angry. And hurt. But mostly, angry. Maybe the anger stemmed from that hurt. But anyway!

The point is you were mad at Jisung. It disconcerted you when he didn’t allow you to help resolve whatever was making him blatantly ignore your entire existence.

A dry devilish chuckle made its way out of your throat as you thought of all the ways you were going to strangle the man once he finally came around.

“You might want to go easy on that spork there, sis.” A firm hold on your shoulder startled you out of your dark thoughts. Amy eyed you playfully. “It doesn’t already look like it has a strong will to live.”

You glanced down. The plastic cutlery was almost bent over to its breaking point in the deadly grip of your dominant hand.

“Oops!” You immediately relaxed, gently placing it back on your plate. Get a grip on yourself. “My bad, Mr. Forky.”

“(Y/N).”

Amy’s voice turned unnaturally sombre. The previous glint of playfulness was completely gone from her face.

“What?” You asked, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

She took a moment to look at you from one eye to the other, gingerly taking your hand in hers. Was that a glint of hope budding in her eyes?

“Does this mean I won’t have to put up with you whining about Jisung like a lovesick puppy?”

You gasped, snatching your hand back. “I don’t whine about him!”

“Sure, honey.” Amy drew out the syllables, completely unimpressed as she inspected her nails. “And I’m into men.”

The following night, you stood in front of your bathroom mirror with your toothbrush in your mouth. Your mind had been running on Jisung like a hamster in a wheel the entire day.

Were you being too dismissive by letting him get away with his behaviour? As a good friend, you needed to let him know when he strayed too far. But as a good friend, didn’t you also need to respect his boundaries if he wanted to be left alone? You at least deserved a heads up though, right?

“UGH!” You pulled at your hair in frustration. “Screw you, Han!”

• • •

Today was Rehearsal Day.

And you were sweating bullets the moment you made it to the auditorium.

You positively had a very bad case of stage fright—you still can’t get over the insensitivity of the Class President who assigned you to this thing—but that was hardly the reason why you were wiping your clammy hands on your jeans every other minute.

Your questionnable friend had also been chosen in the cast for the upcoming play your university was hosting. And you were going to do something about it.

Before you knew it, rehearsal ended. Loud chattering filled the air as students and teachers alike filed out the auditorium. Everyone was buzzing with excitement about their final performance the next day. You were nervous too, but mostly because of what you were going to do in the next minutes.

You waited for everyone to exit—everyone except your target, who you knew to be a slow slug. Then, carefully on your tippy toes, bolted the doors.

You heaved a sigh of relief when it didn't arouse his attention.

Aha! How’re you gonna run away now?

You honestly didn’t know how that idiot survived sometimes. What if you had been a serial killer and successfully sneaked in for his blood?

Hold on a second. If everything went well, that wouldn’t be too far from reality. You were planning to strangle him anyway.

With a determined nod to yourself, you strode over to where he was crouched unsuspectingly over his backpack. He didn’t know what—or who—was going to hit him.

“Jisung.”

The boy sputtered at the sound of your voice, nearly lost his balance and stood up facing you with a water bottle in his hand.

His eyes were wide in trepidation as he stammered your name.

It was truly a comical sight. His lips went agape, eyebrows vanishing into his bangs as water dripped down his chin. You cleared your throat in a hasty attempt to hide the laugh that was threatening to bubble out.

“Jisung, we need to talk.” You said, masking your nervousness behind a steely tone.

“Oh. Um.” He gulped. He had not been expecting this straightforward confrontation. “I...I have a class right now? Yeah, a class! So I really need to dash. Chat later?”

You deadpanned. “You don't have any classes after practice.”

“I do now! I signed up for a few, uh, last week, ha-ha.” There was clear perspiration forming on his forehead.

The need to sigh for the umpteenth time grew overwhelmingly strong. But instead, you fixed him with a hard look. “Jisung, I’ve had enough of your excuses.”

He stepped back in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.” You sneered, marching into his bubble. You would be damned if you let him run away again. He gulped for the second time as he instantly retracted.

Unfortunately for him, the soundproof wall stopped his escape.

“Jisung…” You cornered him. “Why are you avoiding me?”

The air grew tense. You’ve been meaning to ask this question for an entire week, and the lack of clarity was close to driving you insane. Jisung’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

“You can drop the act, (Y/N).” He muttered darkly, bangs overshadowing his eyes. “I know how you really feel about me.”

What?

You froze. No. He couldn't have known. Amy would never sell you out like that. And you always made sure you were discreet... Weren’t you?

You breathed. “What?”

“I heard you, okay! Talking shit about how you can’t stand the fucking sight of me,” Jisung ran his fingers through his hair, his eyebrows scrunched in painful anger, completely oblivious to your stumped expression. “I can’t believe you feel that way and didn’t say it to my face. I really thought we were ride or die's, you know?”

You blinked at him. This was a lot to process at one time. What the hell was he talking about? Not only was this phenomenally different from what you were expecting, but those words strung a distinct memory from a few weeks prior.

“Jesus Christ, Amy! I don’t know how long I’ll be able to take it before I practically combust!”

You paced around the empty auditorium, your phone in a tight grip against your ear.

“You know what’s wrong. I can’t stand the sight of him anymore. He's so insufferable!”

“What? Of course I mean Jisung. Yeah, Han Jisung! Are there any other Jisungs I complain to you about?!”

You sighed as you stared ahead into the darkness.

“I just don’t understand why I had to catch feelings for such an idiot like him..”

Your eyes widened in realisation. “You eavesdropped on me?!”

“I didn’t mean to!” There was a hint of guilt strewn across his face but he stood his ground. “I forgot my backpack in the auditorium and came back to fetch it. I didn’t expect to hear you ranting away to your friend about how much you fucking hated me!” His voice raised an octave towards the end.

“Well, you obviously didn’t listen to the entire conversation or else we wouldn’t be here right now!” Your own voice rivalled his, bathed in exasperation.

“What?” Jisung blinked.

“I don’t,” You paused to take in a shaky breath. “I could never hate you, Jisung.”

“What?” There was a significant sag in his posture, but a newfound confusion took over his features. “Then what the hell was that all about?!”

Despite your best efforts at self-control, you couldn’t help the heat that tingled across your cheeks.

“(Y/N)?”

You glanced at him through your lashes. Goddammit. What were you going to say? That you were talking Amy’s ear off because you were head over heels for him? You weren’t emotionally prepared for that just yet!

Jisung stared at you intently, waiting for your response. You could almost see the wheels turning slowly in his head. Before you could come up with something to say, he interjected.

“Hang on—don’t tell me...”

Oh great. This is it. This is where you were going to die of embarrassment. Why couldn’t the ground just swallow you up already?

“It was that new makeup style I was experimenting with, wasn’t it?!” He cried, pointing accusingly with a finger. “(Y/N), when I asked for your opinion, even if you thought I looked like a clown, you should have told me, not your freaking fr—wait, why are you laughing?”

There was no way this guy was real. You burst into cackles. You were cackling so hard, there were tears in your eyes. An array of emotions swarmed through your head; frustration, disbelief, adoration...it was hard to pinpoint.

“I can’t believe,” You blurted between gasping breaths, “that I fell for such an idiot like you!”

“What?” All time stood still for Jisung. His brain ran at the speed of a sloth trying to piece together this new information into coherency.

“I like you, you big dumbass, more than a friend.” You just wiped your tears as you felt a heavy burden lift off of your shoulders. The care for rejection was a faraway thought at this point.

He sputtered. “I-I don’t understand. What does this have to do with that call with Amy?”

You let yourself sigh. The cat was already out of the bag. There was no point in hiding now.

“Amy knows.” You slowly admitted. “I tell her stuff when I get too frustrated about...us...”

You tried to gauge his expression as you spoke. It was hard to tell other than his silence urging you to go on. You averted your eyes. “It drives me insane when I see you everyday, and this feeling in my chest grows. I’d—I’d rather not stand the sight of you, then accept the fact that I can't have you.”

His eyes bore into yours in disbelief. “You’re not shitting me right now, right?”

Now that you had spilled everything from your system, the sass was back in your spirit. You rested your hands defiantly on your hips as you shoot him a look. “Bitch, I just poured my heart out to you. What will it take for you to believe me? A flipping kiss?”

The sound of his breath hitching reached your ears as you watched his deep brown eyes glaze over. He murmured lowly, “Yeah, I think that’d be a good idea.”

You gawked at him. That was not the reaction you were going for. Usually, he’d just make a joke out of everything.

“You’re serious?” You took a small step towards him to get a closer look at his face.

You could swear Jisung’s cheeks were dusted pink under the low light of the auditorium, his chest rising with quick shallow breaths.

You yelped in surprise as he tugged you into him, your hands landing on his pecs to steady yourself. “Just kiss me,” He grumbled huskily, his lips brushing lightly against your ears. The contact sent a rousing bout of electricity down your spine.

Fuck.

Like a plane on autopilot, your fingers slid from his chest onto his neck. Goosebumps formed under the wake of your fingertips. This had to be a dream. You vaguely processed yourself moistening your lips as you leaned in, eyelids fluttering close.

The first contact of his soft lips on yours felt like being touched by a fluffy cloud. Jisung’s erratic heartbeat thrummed against your own, and it gave you a little solace. You weren’t alone.

With a soft press against the warmth of his lips, you pulled yourself back. Jisung still had his eyes closed. You opened your mouth to speak only to shut up at the smoldering gaze he settled on you. Before you knew it, he was pulling you in again, eagerly drawing your lips together. A new fire blazed at the pit of your stomach.

You never imagined he was capable of this. Okay, that’s a lie. You totally imagined him taking you like this. But you needed to pinch yourself really hard to believe he was actually stealing your breath away like there was no tomorrow. The deep sensual pace he set was quickly clouding your mind. All you registered was the heated clash of skin and teeth.

When he finally let go, you were both gasping for air.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that.” He murmured, resting his forehead against yours. Whoop. There goes your heart.

“Couldn’t be as long as me” You simpered, biting your lower lip. “You want to, maybe, continue this conversation in the dorms? It’s getting late.”

“Right. Yeah, you’re right.” He let go of you, although not without a little reluctance. Swinging his backpack up from the floor onto his shoulders, he bowed dramatically. “After you, m’lady.”

You crinkled your nose at him. There was the Jisung you knew. You clasped your arms together and proceeded towards the exit. This was so not how you had expected your night to end. But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

A sudden reminder intruded your train of thought at the sight of the entrance.

Oh.

Your lips stretched into a guilty smile as you slowly reached to unbolt the doors, making Jisung stare at you in bewilderment. “You locked the doors?”

“Hey, a girl's gotta do what she’s gotta do. You kept running away like a little chicken.” You teased.

Jisung gasped at your side, his hand clutching his heart in mock indignation. “I was not!”

He promptly went off into a half-hearted self-defensive monologue, and you giggled at him. You were content to just listen to him drone on. You missed this. However, your smiled dropped in growing dread when you realised something.

“Uh, Jisung... I think the doors are jammed.”

BONUS

“Pay up, Grouchy.”

Minho groaned, but he handed a ten thousand won bill to a smug looking Amy nevertheless.

The performance had been a marvelling success. Your friends were excitedly making their back stage to congratulate you and your team, but stopped short when they caught sight of you engaged intimately in conversation.

You were closely tucked under Jisung’s arm, your own wrapped around his lithe waist, as he ducked down to your ear with a dopey grin stretching his lips. Your eyes sparkled at what he whispered, immediately drawing a flustered laugh out of you.

It wasn't hard to guess what had transpired since the last time they saw you.

Amy turned to Minho with a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows. He instantly pulled a dramatic grimace in response, warning her, “Don’t—”

“I told you so!”

“Look, man. I honestly didn’t think that kid had it in him.”

“Honestly? Me neither.” She snorted. “But you’ve got to admit they’re pretty cute together.”

“...”

“Minho?”

“...Meh. My cats are cuter.”

“Minho!”

Warped Mirror

Decided to write something based vaguely on the “Spork AU” idea. Instead of Episode 1 Danny meeting Episode 50+ Danny, though, I was curious about a Danny who never became Phantom meeting one who had. This first part is just establishing Human!Danny’s world.

I’ll post it to AO3 when I have the rest of it finished.

---

Three kids stood before a giant machine in the shape of a door. It should have been humming along and glowing green, with a great hole to another world in the middle. Instead, it was cold and silent. 

“They spent years working on it,” Danny explained, “and then nothing. Mom and Dad have been moping in their room all day.”

Tucker looked around at the portal and the hodgepodge of computer parts attached to it. “It’s probably a loose wire somewhere. I’m sure they’ll figure it out.”

“In the meantime, this would make for an awesome picture,” Sam said with a smile. She held up her polaroid camera. 

“Oh no, you’re not getting me anywhere near that,” Tucker immediately walked away from the portal.

“Come on! When they get this thing working we’ll never be allowed near it. Besides, it’s not like it’s going to do anything right now.”

“Then why don’t you get over there and let one of us take the picture?” Tucker asked.

“Because neither of you know anything about lighting or framing a shot. Please?” When she saw that Tucker was not going to budge, she looked over at Danny with wide, pleading eyes. 

He looked anxiously at the portal. So far none of his parents’ inventions had really worked, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t dangerous. Still, Sam was right. It was pretty cool, and getting a picture with the thing could be a good way to keep a memory.

“Yeah, okay, let me put on a jumpsuit in case there’s a live wire or something.”

Ten minutes later he was suited up in the white-and-black safety jumpsuit his parents had made for him. It wasn’t really a hazardous materials outfit - there was no full hood or respirator, or even goggles. It was made of something that was supposed to repel ectoplasm and certain chemicals that his parents used and was insulated against minor shocks, so it would have to do. 

“Oh, no no. I’m not taking your picture while you’re wearing that,” Sam announced. Danny was about to argue, but she reached over and pulled the sticker of his dad’s face off of the suit. “Now you’re good.”

Danny laughed. “Good thinking, Sam. Wouldn’t want to be immortalized in your photos with that on me.” He walked up to the portal. It was a massive piece of machinery, nearly six feet in diameter and deep enough to fit a car. He paused at the entrance. It was hard to imagine it as anything other than a creepy machine in the basement. If it had worked, it would have opened into a whole other world. 

Tucker, meanwhile, was watching while anxiously tapping a foot. He had expected Danny to give in to Sam’s pleas. He was so predictable and utterly clueless. One of these days they would both realize that they were both desperately crushing on each other and they’d-

There was something plugged into the wall. Tucker wasn’t sure what it was, but he had a bad feeling about it. 

“Hold up!” he shouted. Tucker went over and unplugged the cord from the wall outlet, and checked around for more outlets just in case. When he didn’t find anything else, he called back, “Okay, I think it’s alright now.”

“Good thinking, Tuck,” Danny’s voice echoed in the portal. “Hey, Sam, is this good?”

Sam set up her shot. “Looks great! Just hold there a second.” She counted down before the flash went off. The camera whirred and produced a polaroid. “Lemme take a couple more,” she said before swiftly doing so from slightly different angles. “That should be good!”

Danny started to walk out of the portal. Something caught his foot. He tripped and fell backwards, flailing his arms wildly in hopes that he would catch something. His right hand hit the side of the portal. It stabilized him for a second, but then the wall clicked. Danny stared down at his hand, a chill lancing up his spine. He hadn’t hit the wall. His hand was resting on a button marked “ON.”

“Oh my god,” he blurted.

“Danny? Are you okay?” Sam called. He could hear them both scrambling toward the portal. 

“I’m good! I just tripped!” Danny got out of the portal as fast as he could. “My parents put the on/off buttons on the inside! If Tucker hadn’t unplugged it…” All three teens stared at the portal. Danny could have died, just for tripping over a stupid wire.

Finally Tucker gulped and broke the silence. “Want to see if your parents can get it to work now?”

Danny shook himself out of it. “Yeah! I’ll go ask if they forgot about that.”

They all but ran out of the lab.

---

The Fenton RV sped down the street, ghost alarms blaring. In the back, Danny got his weapons together as quickly as he could with all the jostling and swerving. They’d let Dad drive; time was of the essence.

“A level six!” Jack crowed from the driver’s seat. “Maybe even a seven! How long’s it been since we saw one like that?”

“About four months,” Danny grumbled. He still vividly remembered when the town had been drawn into the Ghost Zone and besieged with an army of skeleton constructs. He was not looking forward to a repeat of that hell. The Fenton Blaster in his hands whined as he attached the power source. 

“We’ll have to be careful, Jack,” Mom cautioned as she always did. “We don’t have the Ecto-Skeleton this time.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t call in the Guys in White?” Danny asked. They might not be the best ghost hunters, but they did have a lot more firepower.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Danny! I’m sure we can take care of this before they even notice something’s happening. Besides, your mom and I are still dealing with the paperwork from the last time they showed up.”

Danny shuddered. He was extremely glad that he didn’t have to deal with that aspect of ghost hunting. 

His dad pulled up to the mall with a loud honk of the horn and squealing tires. Danny and his mom ran out, blasters held at the ready. Dad backed them up with one of the Fenton Bazookas. 

The mall was already evacuated. Some people milled around outside, anxiously talking amongst themselves. In the year and a half since the ghosts had started attacking the town, people had gotten frustratingly complacent about them. The invasion a few months back had shown most people just how dangerous they could be, but a stubborn few always were more concerned with getting good pictures than their own safety. 

“Make way!” Mom shouted. “We’re here to take care of the ghost!” The crowd at least did part for them. A few people shouted at them. Some of it was words of support. A few tried to describe what they had seen - it was green, it was wearing all white, it was terrifying. Only a few made jokes or jeered at the Fentons as they passed. That was annoying, but it was a hell of a lot better than it had been a year ago. 

The deserted mall was an eerie sight. Everyone had left in a hurry, leaving lights on and store music still echoing through empty halls. The Fentons’ footsteps seemed far too loud. The weirdest part was that everything seemed intact. When the technology ghost raided the mall he usually left trails of rubble and discarded packaging everywhere. The box ghost would leave piles of everything that he dumped out of his beloved boxes. Various other ghosts had attacked the mall in the past, and they almost always left signs of their passing. Why was this one different?

“Come out, ghost!” Dad shouted, his voice easily carrying through the empty mall. “Let’s make this quick!”

“Curious.” The voice was quiet, but had the same unnatural echo of all ghosts. Danny held up his blaster, but he couldn’t tell where the voice had come from. Beside him, his mom turned on her miniature Fenton Finder. It beeped alarmingly quickly. 

“Two o’clock!” Mom shouted as she fired. Danny was only a moment slower, trying to fire a little ahead. The blasts didn’t connect with anything. 

“I mean no harm,” the ghost said. Its voice was way too close for comfort. Danny turned to his right and shot where he thought it was, but he still missed. 

“What do you want?” Danny asked. He didn’t really care. No matter what their obsessions were, ghosts only ever wanted to spread chaos and pain. Still, sometimes he could distract them by talking back. 

The ghost appeared in front of them. It was tall, with dark, green-tinged skin and a lighter beard. Its eyes glowed a soft yellow. A white robe and hood covered most of its body, rippling in a nonexistent breeze. 

A green beam from the Fenton Bazooka blasted towards the ghost. Its torso split apart to allow the beam to go through it. Danny grimaced. It was so gross when they did that. He followed his dad’s lead and started shooting the ghost. The ghost blocked all of his and Mom’s shots with a series of small green shields. 

“This is entirely unnecessary,” the ghost huffed. It had the audacity to look bored. 

“Then why not just go back to the Ghost Zone and leave us alone?” Danny shouted, annoyed. He ran off to the side, flanking the ghost. It finally started dodging the ectoblasts. If anything, though, the ghost just looked amused. 

“Oh, I shall. First, though…” The ghost flung its hand out towards Danny. He winced, anticipating the burn of ectoblasts. He took a step back and his foot sank. With a shout, he fell into the glowing green portal that had opened right behind him.

WIP snippet meme!

@redmyeyes tagged me to share a snippet of my WIP! (Luckily, she didn't specify which one.) I'm going to tag @paperbodiesamongthestars, @twobrokenwyngs, @sirsparklepants, @withoneheadlight, @trashcangimmick, @wendigosam, and @keziahrain—let's see what y'all are working on!

As for me, while I haven't actively worked on Act III of Waters for a while, it's been haunting my ruminations for some time now. So here's an early version of one of the early scenes. It's the week after Billy and Steve got together in secret, and things have been a little rocky between them—and then, of course, there's school...

---

Steve thinks about skipping the lunchroom, maybe going out to his car for a smoke—it’s been a while since he did, Nancy didn’t like it, but Nancy’s in the lunchroom and not out in his car, and frankly that seems like as good a reason as any. But Tommy’ll be there, and Eric, and the rest of the guys, and even if it is unseasonably warm there’s something of an unspoken rule that they all eat together in the lunchroom come December. So he shows up fashionably late, grabs a tray, takes his apportioned apple and slice of pizza and pint of chocolate milk—

A round of applause interrupts his good old fashioned pity party. Sends his attention towards the corner of the cafeteria where the guys from the basketball team are sitting—all clapping, whistling, giving those weird hooting gorilla grunts combined with a spun arm of approval.

All at Billy, standing in the doorway.

Billy’s staring, hostile, mean, but then Tommy runs up to him, slaps him on the back—“hell yeah, stud, like father like son“—and of course he misses the flash of anger this sends across Billy’s face. Steve crosses the room, careful to put a careless saunter in his step, and stands at the end of the table, watches as Billy takes the guys’ semi-sarcastic congratulations. Leans over, where Dan Miller’s sitting, stabbing at his rubbery pizza slice with a plastic spork. “What’s going on?”

“Something about his dad,” Miller responds. “It’s dumb but Tommy got it into his head that it’d be a funny joke.” He looks over at Steve, half surprised. “I would’ve thought you were in on it.”

“What, like Tommy can’t think up unfunny shit on his own?” Steve elbows Dan, gets a half-smiling chuckle in response, straightens. Returns his attention to the drama playing out at the head of the table, hears snatches of conversation. “Lydia Hayes—“ “God, I’ve had a crush on her since middle school—“ “those tits though—“ “shame her daughter didn't get those, huh?”—this last greeted with a round of knowing nods and chuckles.

“Hargrove, what the hell? You weren’t going to tell me it was your bachelorette party today?” Steve bumps his way in through the receiving line, gives Billy an elbow in the ribs.

“Ha ha. Save your congratulations for my asshole father. Apparently he banged some bitch's mom that these idiots have been drooling over for years.” Billy’s eyes slide over the rest of the team with unveiled contempt—most of them have gone back to eating at this point, the joke over.

“Not just some bitch. Lydia fucking Hayes, dude.” Tommy, never one to understand when a joke’s been stretched to its limit, claps Billy on the back. “Loud and proud enough that his wife went nuclear on the Hayes’ holiday decorations over the weekend.”

“It was a public service, really,” one of the guys cracks.

“Jesus, you hicks are hard up for entertainment,” Billy mutters, and stalks off to go grab a tray.

Steve nabs the seat next to Tommy, does his best to change the subject. Remembers his own words to Billy, earlier. “So, what’s your family doing for Christmas?”

“My family? Skiing again. Lame-o.” Tommy gives an exaggerated yawn, stretching one arm up as if flagging for the entertainment. “Luckily, I’ve talked my way out of it. Told the ‘rents I’ve got way too much homework over vacation. Wouldn’t want to risk my GPA, maybe get my college acceptance withdrawn.”

Steve flashes his best Risky Business smile. “So you’re throwing a party?”

“Fuck yeah I’m throwing a party. Friday night. You coming?”

Steve’s smile turns into a grin, all teeth. “I’ll bring the keg.”

“That’s King Steve.” Tommy punches him in the shoulder approvingly. “Wonder if we can set up two. Get you and Hargrove in direct competition—that’d be a hell of a draw. I bet we could sell tickets.”

“Psh, a kegstand’s no draw if you don’t have girls.” A thought occurs to him. “Can we get the girls to hold us up? Like wrestling champions. That would bring in the crowds.”

“What’re we bringing?” Billy’s returned, alotted pizza slice and milk carton and fruit cup all perched on his tray.

“Your A-game!” Tommy, never one to wait for an idea to finish baking, practically crows the words. “This Friday, man. Start-of-Christmas-vacation party! We’re gonna knock the socks off these hicks.”

Steve would swear he could see Billy’s eye twitch at Tommy’s easy appropriation of his personal vocabulary. “I’m not sure I’m really in the mood for partying, Hagan. Besides, didn’t Kristie just throw a kegger last week?”

Tommy scoffs. “Hardly. It was sad, man. There were, like, five people sitting around in ugly Christmas sweaters. Not even enough to play Spin the Bottle.” He shakes his head, expression as tragically pained as someone looking at those pictures of the starving children in Ethiopia. “You going to tell me we can’t do better than that? We’ve got the whole team!” His voice rises on the last note, as if he’s expecting the others to cheer, but he barely garners a couple of glances before the rest of the guys go back to their conversations. Steve can’t blame them—nobody cheers for Tommy other than Tommy.

“So what’re you gonna do if the team’s all who show?” Steve glances over at Billy’s sharp tone, realizes he’s got that look on his face—eyes narrowed, tension across his shoulders, and (Steve would bet) at least one fist balled up beneath the table. “Can’t play Spin the Bottle without girls.”

“Yes! Exactly what Steve here was saying.” Tommy nods, as if he’s some kind of expert on girls and their partygoing habits. “So we were thinking, new idea: two kegs, and we get four of the prettiest girls to assist. Double keg-stand!” He practically crows the words. “King versus king! The ultimate battle for keg supremacy!”

Steve has to give Tommy this much credit for cunning—in the mood for partying or no, there’s no way Billy can turn down an invitation like that. His face goes easy, lazy—the sort of half-smile where you’d never see the knife hidden beneath if you didn’t know to look for it. He turns it on Steve. “Wha’d’ya say, Harrington? Shall we settle the question once and for all?”

The knife is there, Steve knows—always is, with Billy. Even if Steve didn’t know him as well as he does, he’d guess—there’s something a little too clear about the sudden sparkle in Billy’s eyes, something aggressive about the way he suddenly focuses all of his attention on Steve. But frankly, Steve hasn’t gotten where he has by backing down from a challenge.

And it feels good to have Billy’s attention on him again.

“Only if you’re ready to bow before your king.” Steve keeps his voice mild, takes a sip of milk as easily as if it were a longneck. Watches Billy from the corner of his eye.

Billy’s eyes flash, and his voice raises just a hair—nothing obvious, but enough that the whole team’s attention is on them now. “All right. Let’s raise the stakes. Loser crowns the winner, and offers a forfeit.” He takes a sip of his own milk, considering. “We’ll need a crown.”

“And a robe,” Tommy says immediately. “I’m on it. We’re gonna determine this thing right.”

A satisfied nod, Billy turning his smile back on Steve, hitting him with the full wattage. “Don’t worry, Harrington. I’m a generous ruler. I’ll only have you streak around the block once.”

Steve laughs along with the rest of the team. It’s all in good fun, after all. Just guys being bros. “And here I was gonna say, I’ll only make you call me Daddy once.”

Against the backdrop of the team’s ooooos, Billy’s face loses its smile, eyes pale as they look at Steve. “I’m gonna fuckin’ take you apart, Harrington.” He downs the last of his milk, bares his teeth, traces of white still clinging to his gums. “And don’t you forget it.”

Shelbys at Somme: Chapter 4

Thomas X Reader

2306

Summary: Flashbacks and First days.

By: @adventuresintooblivion

[ Nine months before Somme]

“Why are all of the songs you sing happy?” he asked, mouth half full of slimy porridge.

Y/N glanced up from her rations, “What do you mean?”

Thomas shrugged, “You always sing about fighting or beating the odds no matter how bad it seems. Or about how angry everyone is about the war. Why don’t you ever sing anything that’s sad?”

She put her spork down, “You want me to sing a sad song during war?”

He didn’t answer right away, only shoveled a couple more mouthfuls down his gullet. After a swig of stale water he continued.

“I dunno. I feel like we should be allowed to be sad sometimes. Singing all these happy songs feels like we’re pretending that all the bullshit we see everyday isn’t real. Like we didn’t just watch several men lose their legs or that artillery didn’t just rip a man in half.”

Y/N let out a long sigh, “Thomas, I love you, but dear God man I’m eating.”

His heart skipped a beat. This was something he wished more than anything was real. That went beyond the comradery of soldiers. Yet, he schooled his features into something more neutral. Despite the fact that he craved to hear the words again but it was their spontaneity that was precious to him. 

Thomas was barely able to scramble together a reply, “I just want to feel again.” He blinked, not exactly sure where the admission had come from. Though he couldn’t take it back now.

Over the next few days he’d catch her humming a melody he didn’t recognize. Some parts she would work over again and again. Others would be there and gone, carried away on the breeze. When she sang it to them for the first time it was after a rough day. 

They had lost a handful of people to a tunnel collapse in the northeastern sector and all the hard work they’d done over the past six months was completely scrapped. One of the members of that team had been the youngest in their company. He had a fiance with a baby on the way even if he couldn’t yet grow a full beard.

She’d been perched on a piece of rubble that had fallen from a church. Her voice was clear and perfect as crystal. The song was about a soldier going home to find his wife bleeding on the floor. She’d ended her life to be with him after receiving a call that incorrectly informed her that his company had been massacred. 

The men of the 174th wept that night the hardest they had since the war began. All the pent up rage and fear leaking out onto their pillows in the dead of night. For those who couldn’t be silent, they wept with their heads held between their hands in an attempt to muffle the noise. It was the army though and no one ever questioned crying men.

Thomas hadn’t cried. He was more angry about the deaths and couldn’t quite settle down enough to listen to the words. It wasn’t until she’d sung it a second time it had unraveled him. She’d changed the ending. The first time the wife wasn’t saved and the soldier had to move on without her. This time, they lived into their greying years with the knowledge that life was unbearable without the other.

“Why is it the ‘happy’ ending?” she asked him once.

Thomas shrugged, his eyes still swollen. It was one of the few times they were alone and she’d sung it for him. He didn’t mind being the only audience but it had made the unexpected turn in lyrics all the more powerful for him. 

Thomas’ voice cracked as he spoke, “Don’t ever sing that in front of Hopper.” He elaborated when she raised her eyebrow, “If you sing a single note of that in front of him he’ll figure out you’re a woman.”

Y/N froze, “How did you know?”

He smirked, “You never bathe with the other men. Your uniform is always too big. You’re almost a head shorter, to the point I’m surprised no one has said anything. And your face does the thing”

“What thing?”

“That soft thing that everyone thinks is cute.”

He swore he imagined it but her cheeks turned a light pink, “Did you just call me cute Shelby?”

He shrugged, “Just keep the singing away from Hopper.”

〜

[Present Day]

Y/N awoke the next morning to the raucous laughter of dozens of men floating up the stairs. With a bewildered groan she checked the small window to her room to find that it was at least past noon at this point. On Saturday.

She cursed to herself as she quickly dressed in trousers. Her leg almost didn’t lift high enough to get inside without pain shooting up her back. With an audible growl she shoved her limp foot through the hole and grabbed her violin case. A passing glance in the mirror told her that her hair was wildly out of control, but if the singing had already started it was too late to fix it now.

Y/N practically hopped down the stairs on one leg. Twinges still assaulted her with every step, but it was better than just hobbling around on a bum leg. Which she’d have to do anyway on level ground.

Upon descending into the bar, she was confronted not by the milling groups she’d seen at lunch time the previous day but a completely packed room. Fully grown men were pressed shoulder to shoulder all staring up towards the front of the bar. A woman’s voice lulled over some lyrics Y/N recognized as a folk song that had become popular again after the war. Nostalgia always popped up in weird places.

With some luck, and her short stature, Y/N squeezed her way close enough to the bar that she had enough elbow room to play. Standing in front of the bar was the woman she’d seen at the opera...and the restaurant. Once she was done with her current song she waved to grab her attention.

Grace’s eyes practically bulged out of her head when she noticed Y/N, “Uh..Y...Yes? Can I help you?”

“Oh, this is weird,” she mumbled to herself. Speaking louder to be heard over the crowd, she lifted her violin case, “Thomas told me I was supposed to help you out on Saturdays. What would you like me to do?”

Grace’s eye’s cast about wildly. “Did he hire you?”

“In a way. Did you need help or…?”

“Yes. Yes. Set up over at that end of the bar. Do you know Black Velvet Band?”

Y/N nodded as she moved. “I know most of the popular songs. But if I don’t know something I can usually figure it out after the first verse as long as it’s nothing weird.”

For the next several hours, they entertained the patrons of the Garrison Pub. Grace could usually sing several songs in a row, but eventually she needed a break and that’s when Y/N would go from a supporting role to the main role. After Grace had rested and filled orders, she would once again relinquish center stage.

The patrons were eating it up, and at one point Y/N had caught sight of Jerimiah. She waved in a small pause in the music and damn near killed the man. He had turned ashen when he’d registered who she was and had begun to sway only to be caught by Danny, who’d stopped by after an errand. 

He’d quickly left, returning a couple hours later with almost the half the platoon they’d served with. The bar, already almost at max capacity, was now so overflowing with people that the party had begun to spill onto the streets. Someone had gone home and grabbed a portable skillet and had offered to cook anything people brought him. Soon the smell of grilled meats wafted through the slums of Birmingham. And the Garrison Pub was serving every single one of those thirsty people.

At some point a couple of men had constructed a makeshift stage for the women to perform on and had urged them outside. Now the dancing had started as women came to find their husbands up to their ears in drink and food. Children ran amok, mimicking some of the dances with others finding whatever they could to play with as music brought this part of the city to life.

It wasn’t until the sun had begun to set that someone caught sight of Thomas Shelby and his family approaching the Pub. Word spread quickly, and most continued their revelry even if it was subdued. Finally, Thomas made it to the foot of the stage. Everyone waited with baited breath to hear what the gang leader had to say.

“So, allow you two to play music for one day, and it becomes a feast?”

Y/N finally put down her violin after hours of playing. Her back practically screamed at her to sit down, but this was the first time she’d played to a crowd like this in years. She’d missed it.

So she did what she always did. “That’s what you get for sticking us both up here. Hell, between the two of us I’m pretty sure we could play so well the pearly gates themselves would open for us.”

“After all the shit you’ve pulled?” He raised his eyebrow skeptically. A soft murmur went through the crowd as people shared confused glances. She knew Thomas.

Y/N couldn’t help but grin, “Oh, they couldn’t bear not to have us play for the angels themselves. But here we are instead playing for these hard working men and women, and I think we’ve done a good job filling their hearts with hope again.”

He chuckled, “Fine. Just make sure the Garrison stays busy.”

“As you wish.” Y/N shrugged, her arms complaining as she lifted her violin once again.

Grace stared at her new companion with unveiled wonder, “He lets you talk to him like that?”

Y/N flashed Grace with one of her signature wicked smiles, “We were army buddies.”

“But they don’t allow women to fight.”

“Eh, who says they had to know?”

Grace’s mouth fell open as Y/N started up another song, one that Grace didn’t recognize. But the entirety of the 174th sent up cheers, their glasses raised. 

It was a fast paced one that made it hard to sit still. Y/N braced herself before she began to dance on the small stage, tapping her feet in time with the beat as the 174th began to sing. Their voices rose over the general din. There wasn’t much melody in it, but those men sang from somewhere buried deep inside. It was as if the hope that had carried them through the worst days of hell sprang to life to answer the call of music.

At the edge of the crowd in the shroud of darkness, the barest outline of Thomas Shelby could be seen. Even if he didn’t scream the lyrics along with his brothers in arms, he still sang. It was then that Grace understood why Thomas had been so adamant about there being no music in his pub.

If Grace wanted to truly understand Thomas Shelby she’d have to learn about him not as the gang leader, but as the man who survived the worst part of human history. Who was he before and what had happened with this woman that had changed his life forever? It was a way out, another option that didn’t rely on giving herself to the enemy. Holding onto that hope, Grace closed her eyes and tried to decipher the jumbled lyrics.

〜

Finally the Garrison Pub closed. Grace sat slumped against a table as Harry mopped the floor. Y/N curled up on one of the few benches in the corner. After everything was well and tidied up, Grace got up to leave.

“You coming?” she asked.

Y/N shook her head, “Actually I’m staying upstairs.”

Grace’s brow furrowed, “But...why? I mean your dress was lovely, and you were playing in one of the most expensive places in town. Can’t you afford a better place?”

“This suits me just fine. Besides, you of all people should know that a pretty dress is just a costume; at the end of the day it doesn’t mean nothing.”

Grace froze, “What do you mean?”

Y/N fixed Grace with a tired gaze, “It’s just how it’s always been. You may love rolling around in the dirt, but a bath and pretty dress later no one would ever know.”

She let out a deep sigh of relief but just as she was about to leave Y/N stopped her once more, “Hey, since you’ve been in town longer do you know any good music halls? Operas? Theatres? I’m looking for work that isn’t just on Saturdays”

“Oh, I can’t stand Opera so I wouldn’t know about that. But I think there’s a new place opening up on the other side of the river.” Grace waved dismissively then shut and locked the door behind her.

Y/N slowly stood and finally let herself limp over to the bar and poured herself a drink. She mulled over the possibilities of why the hell Grace was at the opera if she hated it and wasn’t dragged there by family. So far none of the possibilities looked good and it was getting to the point she’d have to tell somebody. 

The wad of money Thomas had shoved at her still burned a hole in her pocket; she hadn’t gotten a chance to return it today. A goal for tomorrow then.

Original Character Profile: Hazel-August Primo

Name: Hazel-August Primo

Country of Origin: Italy

Age: 18

Skin: Olive toned, warm undertones.

Hair: A light brown? Taupe? The ends are always dyed though.

Eyes: Blue. Is missing her left eye, has a glass eye. It's an off blue from her other eye.

Fandom, if applicable: Miraculous Ladybug officially, but she's from an au so far removed, it... doesn't really count?

Notable items: Plagg's ring, signature cat paw hairpins, lots of pastels in her clothing. She's also got a pair of shoes for every day of the next 7 years! She made the majority of them herself!

Personality: She's a funky character. She grew up in the Italian mafia (cliche... I know.) She's very strong willed and ferociously independent. She's too stubborn for her own good and doesn't know how to ask for help should she need to. She's bad at peopling though and her understanding of people who genuinely mean her no harm. Hazel is too afraid of people being out to harm her and bring her pain, she shuts down and shuts people out. I think for Hazel, she's just too hesitant given her past. Hazel doesn't hesitate when it comes to fighting or make split decisions though. She's too afraid to find out what happens if she hesitates. She wears a mask of false confidence that's really just hiding her constant state of fear. She tends to blame herself for things that may not even be her fault.

Backstory: Hazel was born into a mafia family. She was born to Adelaide-Giovanna and Aurelio-Carmine Primo and is the youngest sister to two older brothers and an older sibling. Hazel was constantly in their shadows and was always doing wrong by her parents standards. Hazel eventually grew tired of the emotional and physical abuse from her parents and one day, when she was 14, completely snapped and got angry enough she carved? Stabbed? Scooped? her dad's eye out with a spork. Her eldest sibling, Volta-June, called the police and an ambulance. No one in her family had ever believed her about the shit her parents put her through. Hazel was arrested and sent to a juvenile detention centre for the next 4 years. When Hazel returned home, she was met with cold shoulders and anger from her family. She could hardly blame them. She'd done this to herself. What she hadn't been expecting was her father to return the favor she'd done to him, 4 years ago. Her left eye was removed via surgery and Hazel hated her father. She had an old friend remove her ankle monitor and she paid off her parole officer to shut up. Hazel stole about 200 euros and a ring her mother was weirdly defensive of. The money should've been enough for fare out of the city, the ring was to pawn off if she ran out of money. What Hazel hadn't been expecting was a tiny cat-god-person-being to whizz out of the ring the instant she'd put it on after she got into Milan. When asked, Hazel would deny screaming. She's currently on the run from her family and the police. Thankfully, she has now has a goal. find others like Plagg and Pollen and reunite them!

Wanted description: Hazel-August Melodie Primo, 18, born August 12, 2003, about 149 cm, roughly 52 kg; wanted for assault with a deadly weapon, robbery. DO NOT TURN INTO THE POLICE. Return her to her family and they will handle this. Wanted alive. Reward for turning her in is 500,000 Euros.

would you like to ever do a riarkle enemies to lovers fic? because i've seen only like 2 enemies to lovers riarkle fics and i think it'd be really cool to see them in a different dynamic

oh WOULD I 

yes i would and i loved every minute of writing this. it’s based VERY LOOSELY on my experience as a hostess in the popular chain italian restaurant we all know and love

anyway, enjoy!!

ao3 link or read below

//

Riley doesn’t intend on making any enemies when she starts working at the restaurant.

 It just sort of . . . happens.

She’d like to think she has the supposed “Big Five” personality traits on lockdown—she’s a very agreeable person, incredibly open with others, positively extroverted, astute in conscientiousness, and her neuroticism . . .

Well, she could maybe stand to work on it a bit, but can she be calm? Absolutely.

There’s just something about Farkle Minkus that makes her want to drive a spork into her leg, though.

It’s a weird sort of dichotomy they form together, despite not being too different from one another. They hold the same sort of power in the restaurant—she’s a host, he’s a busser, and they both get paid minimum wage. While she guides the guests around the restaurant, he cleans up tables and spills, and there should be no reason for the animosity that they harbor for another.

If you ask Riley, she’d chalk it up to her first busy night at the restaurant. The night had bogged her down as she ran around the restaurant, seating guests and refilling anything they needed if she happened to be passing by them. At one point, she’d been asked to help bus tables—something she knew she’d be awful at—and he’d strolled up to her while she was trying to pick up plates, taking them from her grasp forcefully.

“Look, if you’re going to help, then actually do something useful. You’re moving about as slow as a turtle and it’s infuriating,” he had grumbled to her. “Why don’t you go be a good host and greet people with a fake smile and annoying personality?”

Yeah, that’d cinch the nail in the coffin for anyone, she assumes.

How dare he say she had an annoying personality! She was a freakin’ charm to have around, and most of the people working at the restaurant already got along with her. Why was it so hard for him to accept that fact?

Riley didn’t wish to dwell on it, so she didn’t. But she did make enemies with Farkle that night, point blank.

 //

 “Hey Minkus, mind bussing those tables I asked you to bus twenty minutes ago?” Riley calls into the headset. She’d been fed up with another busy night, and Farkle’s attitude was not cutting it for her. She nearly startled when he rounded the corner, though, his permanent look of disdain greeting her.

“You know, bussers don’t just clean tables. In fact, they actually have to listen when managers ask them to do other tasks around the restaurant,” he says, adjusting the sleeves of his black button-up that he had pushed up his forearms.

“And you know I need tables, yeah? We’re on a wait,” Riley argues back. He gives her one last glare before disappearing back into the dining rooms, and Riley hears someone whistle behind her back.

“You know you egg him on just as much as he does you, right?” Maya, one of the servers who’s quickly become her best friend at the restaurant, tells her, leaning against the host stand. Riley shakes her head.

“Not true. He started it, anyway!”

“And you can’t let bygones be bygones?”

“Why on earth should I do that?” Riley asks, incredulous. Maya shrugs.

“I dunno. Besides the fact that the two of you have undeniable chemistry? Or similar personalities? Or the same friend groups around here?”

“What do you mean ‘undeniable chemistry’? We hate each other!” Riley exclaims.

“We often harbor love under the guise of hatred,” Maya states, earning her a disgusted expression from Riley.

“Don’t you have tables to serve?”

“After your boyfriend cleans them up, yeah.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!!” Riley shouts after her friend as she leaves, the sound of chuckling fading off around the corner.

 //

 “So Zay calls out and you’re the only person who can fill his role as a host tonight?” Riley asks Farkle, exasperated. It’s a little strange to see him sans apron, standing at the host stand like he’s the same level as her.

He’s not.

“Imagine, being ungrateful that someone was able to pick up his shift so you wouldn’t be on your own. Are you always this disagreeable in the morning or is that just how you are normally?” he counters.

Riley moves to continue their argument, but guests wander up to the host stand, so she drops it for the sake of doing the job she’s being paid for. She insists on seating them in the system and then guiding them to their table, sure that Farkle will mess it up somehow. When she returns, he’s got a smug grin on his face that causes her blood to boil.

“What’s the face for?” she prods.

“Well, if I didn’t have one it’d be quite disturbing, frankly,” he snarks back. Riley would throw things at him, if she didn’t have to keep her cool for the sake of the job.

“What’s the face for?” she tries again, this time more forcefully.

“I like that you won’t let me do anything. I could make your job ten times easier by seating tables for you, but you insist on taking care of everything. Are you really that stubborn?”

“Kettle meet pot,” she huffs, turning away from him with arms crossed and nose stuck high in the air. He simply laughs and the two of them return to silence soon after, refusing to engage any further in conversation for the rest of their shifts.

 //

 The restaurant holds a potluck for Thanksgiving two days before the actual holiday. It’s a tradition set by the general manager that a lot of people enjoy engaging in, and after further convincing from Maya, Riley decides to attend. Besides, Lucas is going to be there, and she may have the smallest, tiniest of crushes on him.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

Riley does prepare a dish at the behest of Maya (Maya could probably goad her into anything at this point, really). She wants to do macaroni and cheese, but when she hears that Darby is going to she attempts to figure something else out, but Maya reassures her.

“Darby makes it from the box,” she explains, “And it’s always the worst. I love her, but she finds a way to ruin even the simplest of foods.”

“So it’s really okay if I make macaroni and cheese? My grandma really does have an awesome recipe for it . . .”

“Riley,” Maya says, stern, “I think I speak for everyone when I say please, for the love of god make that mac. We need quality mac this year for once.”

She doesn’t work that day, so Maya tells her she’ll pick her up right before the potluck. Riley sleeps in and then spends the rest of her hours preparing the macaroni and cheese fresh, spending a little bit of the extra time for showering, dressing, and maybe putting on a little bit of makeup.

Riley pulls the dish out of the oven with a minute to spare, grabbing a box to hold it in so it doesn’t burn her and the rest of her things, heading out the door when she receives a message from Maya telling her that she’s waiting outside. She pulls together all her things and makes a mad dash for the door, joining her friend inside the car so that they can drive off to their workplace.

Riley has to admit she’s a bit nervous—she’s been working there only a couple of months, and while she does get along with everyone, she knows she’s still new, still not quite a perfect fit in this little carefully constructed family. She hopes that this will aid to ease her anxiety and make her feel a little more solidified in their group and that she’ll just have a good time in general. This job . . . she’s grown to care for it, more than she’d care to admit.

They pull up outside the restaurant and Riley jumps out once they’ve parked, grabbing her macaroni and cheese and tailing behind Maya once she’s retrieved her own dessert from the back seat of the car. The doors click as they lock and the two of them walk inside, Maya with confidence and Riley a tad skittish behind her. They greet the two hosts manning the front, having to miss out on the celebration for a moment, and then head towards the back dining room where their party is taking place.

“Maya! Riley! Glad you two could join us,” their general manager Jon greets them. “You two can go ahead and set your food down at the tables over there and we’ll get ready to eat in a few minutes.”

They nod and do as they’re told, Riley splitting off from Maya to set her food on the table closest to her while Maya sets her dish down on the dessert table. She waits to take cue from Maya, embarrassed to be tailing her like a dog, but shakes the feeling as Maya takes a seat at one of the booths. Riley joins her, realizing one moment too late that Maya’s chatting up Farkle Minkus of all people.

“You bring anything for us, Minkus?” Maya asks, engaging him in conversation. Farkle snorts.

“God no. The last thing we need is me exploding a kitchen from my poor cooking skills. There’s a reason I’m a busser and not on the line.”

“Don’t you have a cook or something rich people can afford who can do things for you?” Maya snarks.

“Would you laugh if I say yes?” Farkle sighs, earning him a cackle from Maya.

Riley tries to restrain her curiosity, but it’s already been piqued—if Farkle is rich, then why is he working as a busser at a chain restaurant?

Whatever. Riley doesn’t care.

She spends the rest of Maya and Farkle’s conversation on the outside listening in, not really wanting to participate in conversation with Farkle because he’s, well, Farkle. Maya seems to respect her feelings, not pestering her to join, and for that Riley is thankful. She just waits in her seat patiently, ready for the eating portion of their get-together to start. Unfortunately, she has to wait another fifteen minutes for that, but half-way through she gets distracted because of Lucas’ appearance, trying her best to work up the courage to talk to him. He’s still in his work uniform—black button-up and black work pants, the sleeves rolled up mid-forearm—and it shouldn’t work for him but it does.

Right as she finally rises from her seat, deciding that she will talk to him, their general manager announces that it’s time for them to eat. He pulls them all into a quick little prayer before allowing people to start grabbing food, and by then Lucas is caught up in his own conversation with the people he’s friends with at work. Riley sighs, giving up as she joins Maya and Farkle at the buffet line their manager put together. She piles the food on her plate and then sits back down at their little booth, uncharacteristically quiet as Maya and Farkle sit back down.

“Okay, I swear to you that Yogi’s changed the recipe for this green bean casserole. It actually tastes good this year,” Maya says.

“I’ll take your word for it. I don’t do mushrooms,” Farkle tells her, wrinkling his nose at it.

“Do you not like mushrooms either, Riley?” Maya asks her, finally inviting her in to start talking. Riley shakes her head.

“No, I just don’t really like green bean casserole.”

“Holy shit,” Farkle interjects through a mouthful of food, “Darby’s really stepped it up with the macaroni and cheese. This stuff tastes like heaven.”

Riley stops, her mouth dropping open in surprise at his words. Maya’s mouth turns upwards into a brilliant, shit-eating grin that Riley just wants to wipe off her face but knows she can’t. It’s too late; the damage is done.

“That’s because Darby didn’t make it,” Maya tells him, the excitement unrestrained in her voice, “Riley did.”

Farkle registers her words, his chewing slowing down as realization dawns on his face. She half-expects him to spit it out, to retract his statement or do something else drastic, but he doesn’t. He swallows the mouthful of macaroni and cheese, sets his fork down, and meeting Riley’s gaze says, “This is really, really fantastic macaroni and cheese, Riley. Some of the best I’ve ever had. Good job.”

Riley will admit, she didn’t think Farkle would be the one to extend the olive branch between the two of them, but he does it all the same. She recognizes that her response to him will make or break the situation, but she’s not one to drop a compliment, especially one that has her blushing furiously. She can’t control it, not really, and she definitely can’t control the bashful smile that graces her face, so what the hell.

“Thanks, Farkle. I’m glad you enjoy it,” she tells him sincerely, her words startling him, too. But then he beams a grin back and Riley knows she can no longer be mad at him, not after that.

 Damnit.

 //

Friendship with Farkle after Thanksgiving is practically flawless. Riley doesn’t want to tell Maya she’s right because Maya will hold it over her for the rest of forever, but Riley and Farkle really do have a lot in common. He makes it easy to be his friend, so much so that she forgets she was ever mad at him and that she didn’t like him at all. They spend a good portion of their day complaining about someone or something from work and when they aren’t talking about that, they’re talking about outer space or their favorite tv shows or just anything.

It’s kind of ridiculous, but then again, Riley absolutely loves it. It makes working at least ten times easier now that they get along, but if anyone notices it, they don’t mention it aloud. The restaurant moves on with its day as if nothing has changed, but Riley is privy to the shift.

Regardless, their friendship is still brand new, still hanging on by a tumultuous thread. It’s something Riley can’t quite define, but it feels like the foundations are still shaky, like there’s something else that rests in the air between them when their conversations reach a lull during a slow day.

Maya voices her opinion on the subject after Riley mentions it while they’re getting ready for a costume party Sarah’s holding (“Halloween in December,” Sarah tells Riley, “It’s kinda my thing.”) Maya’s finished putting on her sexy ringmaster costume and has moved onto applying her makeup while Riley tries to wrangle and curl her hair into submission.

“It’s because you like him,” Maya tells her, working on her winged eyeliner with Bobby Fisher-like intensity.

“What? No I don’t,” Riley insists. “Farkle and I just became friends.”

“And this is supposed to deter my opinion on that? I already told you before that you had undeniable chemistry. But now you two actually get along, so now you can’t hide it.”

Riley has half a mind to make Maya mess up her eyeliner, but she’s not cruel. She’ll just remain disgruntled about the matter for the rest of the night.

Maya helps Riley with the rest of her angel costume after her hair is curled completely, and once they’ve pulled Riley’s wings on, they grab their things and leave Maya’s house. Maya drives them to the party and when they pull up, Riley has to admit that while she knew a lot of people were going to attend the party, she didn’t know this many people would be here. Cars line the empty space around Sarah’s place and partygoers are already hanging out on the lawn, enjoying themselves as the music blasts from inside the house.

Riley feels a nervous energy course within her as they walk up the sidewalk to the house. She’s excited for the party, she really is, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t anxious about it, too. All of that washes away the moment she and Maya step inside, their friends greeting them happily and complimenting their costumes.

“Oh my god, you guys finally made it!” Zay exclaims, a wide grin on his face. “Those costumes are dope as hell!”

“Thanks, of course they are,” Maya says, winking at him slyly. “But what are you supposed to be?”

Zay flashes his teeth, revealing a set of pointed fangs on the top and bottom.

“Teen Wolf!”

“That is both lame and fantastic,” Maya laughs, then turns to search the room. “Farkle here yet?”

“Yeah, last I saw he was playing beer pong with Lucas and couple of others. Why don’t you two get some drinks and then we’ll head that way,” he suggests. Maya nods and they follow him to what Riley supposes is the kitchen. He mixes them up a couple of drinks and hands them off to them, chuckling when Riley sniffs hers and scrunches her nose in disgust.

“Jeez, how much alcohol did you put in this, Zay?” she asks.

“Enough. Now drink up and let’s go, Matthews!”

She sighs and gives in, stealing a sip as they make their way to where Farkle and Lucas are. She almost gags at the pungent liquor smell again but drinks it anyway. It’s a good thing, too, because when they find the supposed beer pong tournament, it’s not Lucas who has her heart racing.

“Maya,” Farkle greets her when he spots her, but when his gaze lands on Riley, he practically beams. “Riley! I’m so glad you could make it!”

Words seem to fail Riley right now. She’s not sure why she’s feeling so off but seeing Farkle dressed as gladiator has sent her off-kilter. He looks so damn good in his costume and she starts debating whether or not she should abandon the drink Zay gave her altogether if it’s making her act like this.

“Hey, Farkle, good to see you, too,” she finally manages awkwardly, huffing in embarrassment before backing her drink like there’s no tomorrow. So much for abandoning it.

“Whoa,” Maya gasps, rushing over to Riley’s side, “What are you doing?! I thought you told me earlier you were going to take it easy.”

“I lied. Wanna make me another drink? I’m gonna need it,” she insists, ushering Maya back to the kitchen. As soon as they’ve made it, Maya shakes Riley off of her, glaring at her.

“What the hell was that about?!” she yells. Riley opens her mouth to say something, but then closes it again as she goes through the five stages of grief in her mind. After a moment of silence and Maya waving her hand sporadically in Riley’s face to bring her back to earth, she says,

“I couldn’t be there anymore. I need more alcohol if I’m going to get through this night.”

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this? You were fine until we—” Maya pauses, then realization dawns on her face, “Oh!”

“Maya—”

“Holy shit, you don’t wanna go back there because you think Farkle looks hot in his costume. This is hilarious.”

“No it’s not! I don’t have feelings for him, I just think he looks . . . really good,” Riley tries, but Maya’s already grinning like an idiot.

“Now we have to get back there. I’m going to try so hard to set the two of you up it’s not even funny.”

“I don’t need your help! I don’t wanna be set up!” Riley exclaims, but it’s too late. Her decision has been made.

“I’ll make you a drink and then I’m gonna get you alone with Farkle. It’s gonna be fantastic.”

Riley groans, knowing she’s fighting a losing battle.

She does loosen up a bit after she’s finished off the second drink, but that doesn’t mean she’s gonna give into her friend’s plan.

And Maya does follow up on her promise despite Riley’s every effort to make it hard for them to be alone—after many failed attempts, she forces them in a spin the bottle circle. Riley only agrees to it because she’s borderline drunk and doesn’t care about a quick kiss with anyone, but when she finds out that whoever the bottle lands on is sent to the closet for seven minutes in heaven, she tries to run.

But it’s too late.

Maya’s spinning skills are off the charts, the bottle ends landing between Riley and Farkle. Everyone whoops and hollers at them except for Riley and Farkle themselves, but they still go follow the rules begrudgingly, allowing themselves to be shoved into a closet for everyone else’s entertainment.

“Go get ‘em, tiger!” Maya’s muffled yell erupts from beyond the closed door. Riley sighs.

“You know we don’t have to do anything in here, right?” Farkle tells her. “I’m not gonna force you to do something you don’t want to do.”

“Really?” Riley asks, spinning to turn and look at him, but that ends up being a mistake. She’d misjudged just how small the closet was, and she ends up pressed against him, his arms gripping her biceps when she stumbles a bit from the alcohol.

Whatever words Farkle wanted to say have since died on his lips, if his comically large eyes were anything to go by. Riley knows she’s gone though when she finds herself lost in the stormy gray irises of his, her brain actually entertaining the thought of kissing him.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I did, right? her brain asks her.

Right, her heart agrees.

Testing a theory, Riley’s hands rise to rest gently against Farkle’s cheeks. His breath stutters as soon as her fingers grace his skin, and she knows there’s no going back when she glances at his mouth before leaning in.

This is such a bad idea, she tells herself, But I don’t think I care enough to stop it.

Right when mouth is only centimeters away from Farkle’s, close enough that she can feel his breath ghosting her lips, the closet door swings open. Farkle and Riley jump apart, and whatever spell befell her has washed away, leaving confusion in its wake.

“Alright you two, get out so the rest of us can have some fun!” someone shouts. Riley nods and ditches Farkle, grabbing Maya by the arm and tugging her outside urgently.

“What the hell, Riley?” Maya grumbles as soon as they stop in what Riley deems is a quiet area.

“I think I have a crush on Farkle. I have a crush on Farkle, don’t I?” Riley asks.

“No shit,” Maya says, rolling her eyes, “You kind of made that abundantly clear tonight. But after all that hard work I went through you didn’t even follow through!”

“How can you tell?” Riley frowns.

“Because your lipstick is still perfectly fine, red as can be. If you kissed him, it’d be smudged and all over his mouth. Plus, I don’t really think Farkle would’ve survived it. I think he’d probably need to sit down for the next century in order to process it all.”

“You’re the worst,” Riley whines. Maya pats her shoulders sympathetically.

“I know, Sunshine. I know.”

 //

 Riley’s never been one to know how to act around crushes, but her crush on Farkle has rendered her absolutely neurotic. She still talks to him, of course, but she has a harder time starting conversations. What would he even want to talk about? Does he even want to talk with her?

It’s Riley’s favorite pastime, going into the land of overthinking. She excels at it a little too well.

After two weeks of utter turmoil and downright awkward interactions with Farkle, she thinks that maybe she’s just eternally hopeless. Whatever she might feel for Farkle doesn’t matter, because she can’t even figure out how to just be around him. She may as well just quit while she’s ahead and just give up on the hopes of ever being near him again.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t get that option.

Her manager suggests one morning that Farkle help her unload the boxes of wine they just got in, and when Farkle asks if she wants help, she says yes. Normally, she’s used to unloading it all on her own, but the thought of spending quality time with him is just too tempting to pass up and her brain is just dumb dumb dumb.

The restaurant is quiet as they unload each case of wine, save for the never-ending music selection on repeat with eight versions of the same five songs. But it’s nice, sharing a moment with him where they don’t have to talk about anything, just stock wine in the coolers.

Nice, of course, up until their fingers brush up against one another’s, sending electricity coursing straight through Riley’s system. She wonders if he feels it, too, but she doesn’t have to worry any longer when his gaze finally meets hers, the shock apparent on his face. They endure a long moment of silence until Riley can bear it no more, the words falling out of her mouth unbidden.

“Farkle, I really really like you. As in like like you,” Riley blurts.

“Oh thank god,” he breathes before pulling her in for a kiss.

It shouldn’t be great kiss, by all means—they’re both kneeling behind the host stand, the cooler doors open and bottles of wine still waiting to be stocked while a jazzy version of Wonderwall plays in the background. But that doesn’t matter to Riley; she’s with Farkle and they’re kissing and she never wants this moment to end.

It does, though.

“Ahem,” a voice clears their throat, causing Riley and Farkle to split. She has an oh shit moment when she thinks it might be their manager who’s caught them kissing while on the clock, but then it’s even worse when Riley realizes who it is.

“Oh. Hey, Maya,” Farkle greets her sheepishly, earning him a cackle from Maya.

“This is fantastic! I love being right!” she shouts.

Riley buries her head in Farkle’s shoulder in embarrassment, but she smiles secretly—

She loves that Maya was right, too.

What hasn’t already been said: The Spanish Princess 2

Episode 1: CamelNOT

[Lively Music Plays]

I shit you not... that’s what it said in the CCs.

Tower of London (?)

*Catherine looks at the array of crowns like a museum curator and the proceeds to strut down the halls*

Wolsey: *gives her this strange look which is a mixture between damn girl and the eagle is my spirit animal.

Then Catherine gets fake detained and taken to Henry in what must be a strange variation of the whole Robin Hood/Maid Marian roleplay they historically engaged in.

... did she just call his erhm manhood his kingship? Well that’s original, I’ll give them that. Also funny how Bessie Blount initially looks on in fright... don’t worry girl that will be you soon.

———————————————————————

*the four ladies have a brunch friendship moment together*

I see Blount is among them... I see they are setting her up as Catherine’s friend in order to play up the whole betrayal.

Alright. Jokes aside, I realised how much I’ve played myself. I was inspired by @melusineloriginale ‘s sporks (which if all this TSP episode posts got you in the mood for PG show mockery I urge you to check out here - you’ll thank me later). In truth, Henry VIII’s early reign is a bit too late from my main area of focus for me to make intelligent jokes.

I’ll content myself with just bullet-pointing random thoughts that came into my head, and if some intelligent thought gets through, well that would be the pinnacle. In any case I’ll aim to not parrot some of the stuff that’s already been said, repetition can get annoying.

This image embodies this post, but maybe not the show. I’ve noticed those Starz productions get better by the end.

First Scenes:

- The recap just reminded me how much I will miss Margaret Beaufort in the coming episodes. I know her portrayal was innacurate but Harriet Walter just made everything better.

- They are making such a big deal out of this whole ‘we were crowned together, we rule together’ thing in this episode - it makes no sense. Catherine was an influential Queen but she was definitely no more than a consort and never saw herself as more.

- Ruairi’s new haircut is pleasing to my eyes.

- When she says ‘Abuelo’ it’s super adorable awww

The Ferdinand and Charles V scene:

- Bessie Blount looks so much like Ursula Pole lmao. Also they totally got the Pole children’s birth order wrong and UGH WHERE IS GEOFFREY POLE???

- I like Mary Tudor’s actress and her facial expressions. However, this whole polyglot image they are representing is innacurate. I am fairly certain she knew no spanish and I recall reading a contemporary account which said that she was not very learned.

- I’m pretty sure it would be considered bad luck to prematurely crown your son ‘Henry IX’ while you’re still alive.

- I actually like the whole Grape motif in this episode. It’s probably the smartest thing they’ve come up with so far for this episode. I know a lot of you will be all like ‘there’s no record of Ferdinand being abusive’ but this choice sort of makes sense when you recall Joanna’s treatment. Also I appreciate them for not being tacky and showing flashbacks of more overt abuse eg physical. The sugared grape is also fairly symbolic (the sugar is like a gilding, the grape easily crushable)

- OMG the guy from Garrow’s law is playing Thomas More!

- AND PLEASE PLEASE TELL ME IM NOT SEEING THINGS? Margaret Pole x Thomas More is happening?? Please god that is a historical crackship I am getting behind. Yes. This is what I’m most invested about.

Margaret Tudor and Scotland Scene:

- The whole ironic cutaway to Margaret being all depressed after Charles Brandon’s statement about her charming Scottish king is such a cliché movie technique.

- If this were a more artsy film I would think the whole setup resembling a stereotypical middle-class family breakfast was done on purpose for humorous effects or to create a link with the past. But here I don’t have as much trust in the producers. I think they just failed to capture the time period accurately.

- The modernisms continue: ‘Negassi please stop playing’ idk, there just something so modern about this for some reason ahaha

- Also again, I’m getting tired of all this ‘Catherine is basically queen herself’, ‘Catherine is a political genius’, ‘Catherine Catherine Catherine’ ugh. I don’t think the producers understand that Henry VIII was a very autocratic and traditional ruler. He didn’t make any show of joint-rulership (correct me if I’m wrong).

- The teeth thing is funny, smart and I liked it.

Back to Westminster:

- I like Ferdinand’s actor!

- Also Catherine’s response to ‘who are you loyal to?’ was not that smart. I feel like the producers wanted us to be impressed. What if Spain and England’s interests conflict, ey??

The Joust:

- I care too much for the whole Margaret Pole plotline. I’m so invested.

- I could watch a series of More and Pole just exchanging lines. I love the actors too and this is my hope for this series. The whole frustrated parents is SO CUTE.

- I didn’t know More tutored Reggie, I would be curious to know more.

- The way compton says groom to queen’s stool is freaking hilarious. He looks like a pervert.

- Henry Pole is a darling and must be protected at all costs.

- Oh Christ oh Christ that eyeball shot was just... good job on the special effects guys. Don’t know what the point of that choice was.

- I found the whole armour mentions after interesting, it looked so set up as a PR campaign because Stafford speaking about the armour just sounded like a statement agreed on beforehand ‘should have worn the same’ and the Catherine with ‘steel in the bones’ and Ferdinand’s impressed face (it was him playing them?)

- Am I giving this show too much credit?

- Also whats up with “God save the Queen?”

War Counsel:

- Henry VIII’s actor is quite charismatic in this scene. It’s almost as if Catherine is the hothead and Henry the wise one that speaks less but more significantly. It almost feels like they gender-swapped them.

The Bedchamber:

- Did Catherine breastfeed the baby? I thought it was Anne Boleyn. Doubtful... I’m tired of the trope of ‘you’re a good woman if you insist on breastfeeding the child yourself despite social conventions’. For a feminist show, the writers seem very attached to some 1950s perceptions of motherhood.

- I feel like the age difference between Catherine and Henry is well conveyed.

Scotland Again:

- ‘All the sheep were pregnant’ 👀 oh touché Margaret. oh my. Did she just?

- I know they are playing out this disenfranchised Margaret arc to reinforce how great Catherine and Henry are (cheap technique) and to build up to her involvement in Flodden (innacurate historically but I know what the show will do). But I will say this: the humour is pretty good in the Scottish scenes! But I know it’s unintentionally so... (I highly doubt they wanted us to laugh at Margaret hitting James or calling Alexander a pig).

Westminster and the baby chamber:

- What’s are those red splotches on the babies face??

- Oh that shot of Margaret and silent Reginald :((( it makes me sad.

- And now the Poles are at church! I just love the look of them.

- That scene of Maggie and Catherine was needed, as we didn’t get the best friends vibe much in this episode. The whole thing looked a bit pagan though, but it was nice :)

The whole Ferdinand’s betrayal segment:

- The grape motif again was fitting, him snapping the fruit right before she gets to it even despite her knowing what he’s like and what he’ll do, was a good parrallel.

- I’m tired of hearing of this ‘Camelot’. Even in the novel, Camelot was Catherine and Arthur’s dream and... can we just live it up with Arthur?

- Ursula Pole’s, Bessie Blount’s and Mary Boleyn’s actresses look way too similar.

- I fail to see why Catherine thinks she’s turning into her father... she doesn’t strike me as much of a game-player or subtle two-facer.

- I’m intrigued what will happen with Oviedo and Lina... I feel like they won’t stay in England long.

- He was made knight bannaret... nice... but why does he thank Catherine publicly for this? It was in Henry’s gift that he was made a commoner Knight.. if this transpired irl Henry would have been gravely insulter.

Catherine’s Dead Baby and thereafter:

- Guys. In all seriousness, I don’t think the TV series is trying to imply that Catherine killed the baby with her negligence. I mean, they are so bent on us liking her they wouldn’t do that. It would be a bit too ballsy anyway. Remember the red splotches I mentioned earlier? Could those have been a sign that he was already ill but no one noticed/was in denial?

- The pebbles in hands would have had more emotional payoff if it had been established earlier if you know what I mean. Basically, this episode is too fast and entire arcs begin and end within it which extinguished any build-up.

- Oh man Henry is so sweet in this, how will they build him up as the tyrant he was historically if they keep this up?

Scotland Again:

- I must admit, I don’t like all those nicknames they keep using. But somehow James calling Margaret ‘Meg’ is nice and seems fitting.

- What’s a hermana sister?

England Last Mourning Scenes:

- YOU DID NOT BUILD CAMELOT ughhh

- Why is Catherine giving the speech and not Henry?? It turns out Catherine was more emotional historically then the whole perception of ‘perfect queen of stone’ to which some people hold her. However, I doubt it would have been proper of her to give a speech in such a emotional manner.

Conclusion:

6.5/10

Some of the dialogue was stilted, the costumes are confused as to which era they’re supposed to be (aesthetically distracting) and many other characterisation issues.

I don’t have high hopes for this series in terms of cinematography or art but I sure as hell expect it will be entertaining. So far, everything is just getting set up and I find some aspects promising. As you can tell I am truly excited over how the Margaret Pole plotline. I am also interested in how Henry will be portrayed, with Catherine being so OTT and pushy this episode Im starting to Stan him more. In this show he appears sensitive and serene and kinda... adorable. Kind of like a little brother hanging onto his sister’s skirts.

But in a way that is a disservice to the real historical figure which would not tolerate such a representation. I am very irritated by this whole ‘joint-rulers’ thing which is just sooo innacurate. These STARZ shows have an obsession with showing women turn into men for the purposes of feminism - I see.

Catherine overpowers Henry too often and it sometimes feels like he’s HER consort. Of course, the feminism in this show is schizophrenic as we get the overemphasis of Catherine as a 1950s motherly ideal with the whole breastfeeding angle (“you’re better than other noble woman who would find this beneath them”, “they’re not as motherly as you”).

So the relationship dynamic between Henry and Catherine is a bit off at the moment, but oh well.

Mary Tudor is a bit distracting with her dark hair but I find the actress extremely endearing and promising. I know there will be emphasis on her storyline too and I hope they’ll not be clichéd with it.

Session 2 17 Jul 2021

Ed and Matthew are being haylords (literally - they are baling hay), so we start a little late. Also Sophie is away, so someone else will be taking Hilda for her.

Mina has been building Gundams…

We make Nature checks to see if anyone of us remember what we are. Hilda does not make a check as she is still at 0HP. Ren, Marcus and Milo remember that ‘zombies’ are made with weird food; but we can’t be zombies because we know our names. We’re amnesiacs; we’re like characters from Neighbours. Not zombies. Pshhh.

Matthew has bestowed upon us some XP for the last fight, plus some extra for entertaining him so beautifully.

Cora thinks we should try to find a way to preserve our food a bit longer. From the feet up from now on?

We make Investigation checks. Milo notices that although the surrounding area contains weapons and spoiled food (mostly what we made), etc., there isn’t much in the way of bodies. He wants to know what size the food is; he thinks they must be from the same litter. They’re all about the same size; medium. (It goes: small, regular, large, goliath, god.) He looks at his friends; we look wounded, but there are no organs or anything hanging out. Some bandages wouldn’t hurt.

After the fight, we discovered our food was carrying some money. Between us, we scrabbled together 13 gp. We remember that money is useful, so we keep it. (Ren decides to invest his in cryptocurrency.) Hilda is the strongest, so we pile to money on her still unconscious form. We also find 7 gems, and 5 bottles, and a sphere.

Bingo asks if we mind him hanging around; he gets very excited when we tell him he’s welcome to chill with us. He’s excited to get to the horde as well. “Everyone’s friends there, it’s brilliant!” Cora decides it’s a bit like Burning Man. Leslie looks us all over; he does that old people thing when they nod along with the young folk. Let young folk be young folk.

Ed joins us, yay!

It turns out that Leslie has never been to Burning Man. Or the horde. I think? He doesn’t like being around big crowds; he prefers to spend time alone. Somewhere a bit greener. Does he mean over there? (Pointing). No, it turns out he arrived by boat. Hmm. Pilfer gets a sense of salt on the air, and the movement of a ship - for a fraction of a second, and then disappeared. He burps something disgusting; this is not strange to any of us.

Leslie comes from a place what is different to the place what we are standin’ on. ‘E’d love to go ‘ome. (For the sake of argument, and the fact that he can’t keep the accent straight from one week to the next, it’s decided that Leslie doesn’t keep his own accent but takes the one from whatever body he’s inhabiting. He’s gone from West Country to Brizzle. Or it might be the Chezzy Massive.)

This sphere that we found has a smooth surface, and weighs about a pound. Ren rolls a 17 Investigation. (Matthew asks me to roll a d4; “No reason.” Uh oh. I roll a 4. That’s either really good or really bad.) The sphere is made of glass.

Pilfer: “It’s a snow globe!”

DM: “… It’s opaque.”

Pilfer: “It’s not a snow globe!”

Ren blurts out, ‘Driftglobe!” It will light up as if the Daylight spell is cast. He can speak the command word in Friends and it will light up. It works once per day and recharges at dawn. It can also float.

Milo hears some food shout, a sort of sad, whiny sound, but then it’s gone.

What’s in the bottles? They’re glass, reasonably ornate, long necked, with a rich red fluid in them. Not sauce. Ren opens one and gives it a sniff. It smells like the best food in the world. Leslie advises against drinking it, however. Marcus asks him if he knows what it is; it’s a healing potion. Two seem to be in fancier bottles than the rest. We decide to give Hilda one of the fancy ones. (We now have two remaining RHPs.)

We distribute and take various potions, and then set about deciding what to do. Bingo panics when he realises he doesn’t actually know how to find the horde; Cora manages to calm him down, and earns herself Inspiration.

Leslie seems to have more of an idea of what to do and where he’s going, so we decide to go with him and work in a visit to the horde as and when we can. Bingo thinks we might be starting our own horde. Trendsetters!

Matthew does a sound effect and drowns himself out. “Who’s playing Metallica?” “You are!”

We carry on: The battlefield scenery continues for the better portion of the day. Does it bother us that we’re walking on a carpet of the dead? Well - that’s the thing. There’s not many bodies. Sometimes flying food comes and pecks at it, but when we grab at it, it nips out the way real quick. (We know what birds are, but we are aware that these aren’t birds. These are flying food. There’s a difference.) There are weapons on the ground, but not whole corpses. There are bits, sure, and we can hear friends shouting in the distance.

“I’m Bingo!”

“Can I be Bingo too?”

“Sure!”

(Interesting note - they are all Bingo, but they are all aware which Bingo is which.)

The sky begins to clear. The carnage appears to be thinning. There are fewer weapons, less spoiled food. We snack on what bits of food are still dragging themselves along the ground. Ren: “Mmm, trail mix.”

Cora asks Pilfer if he needs his parasol - he belatedly fumbles around for it. (Also DM has added a sketch book to Ren’s inventory for his lyrics and drawings. He knows it’s his, but he doesn’t know why he’s done all those hieroglyph, squiggly weirdness in between the pictures.)

Something hoves into view as the scenery improves:

Bingo: “I know why they do it - it’s for the freshness!”

Pilfer: “Has anyone got a tin opener?”

Ren: “It’s got its own tin opener strapped to the back of it, look.”

We see the canned food shake its head and draw its can opener as it approaches us. And we roll initiative…

The food goes first; it steps forward and prepares itself to be opened. (It holds an action.)

Milo goes next. He moves forward and tries the first of his two can openers, for a dirty 20 with his javelin. Yeah! He pierces the protective container; we will have to eat this meal today, it won’t keep now. The food pulls Milo's opener out of itself, and there is sauce on the end of it. Milo is delighted.

Cora moves forward, and holds an action, as do Hilda and Marcus. (Marcus makes an INT check to see if he’s noticed he has a quarterstaff yet; he has not.) Ren shambles forward as well, and does the same, holding up his second spear. "Kebab."

Pilfer hucks some cutlery at the food, once he’s within range. 19 to hit with his dagger-spoon. Spork? Ed: “I reckon you could do some serious damage with a spork.”

Leslie shambles up and holds back for now, but Bingo can’t contain himself. He uses all of his movement to get right up to the food, and its tin opener. This is not going to go well for Bingo, as he’s now the only one in range of the food. The food now attacks Bingo.

Ren: “Poor Bingo.”

Cora: “Bingo is about to get a lot shorter.”

Matthew finds the right button and hits Bingo with a 21 and a 22, for 11 slashing damage.

Pilfer: “… Bye, Bingo.”

Luckily the food misses its second attack, and Bingo is still up. He’s only cleaved a bit in twain; he’ll probably walk it off.

Cora has a go at tenderising the suit. She swings her mace, but misses. Milo moves up and uses another can opener - but 15 misses. “This food is tricksy.”

Hilda flings her hand axe but it bounces off the can. Marcus runs up and does a Slam but misses. Ren walks up to the food for an attack as well; he pokes it with his spear, two handed. 15 misses.

You know, food can sometimes be quite dangerous. We should have a rule where we can horde up and all attack together (as in, we can flank for advantage.)

Pilfer, having run out of cutlery, hucks a ‘smol hammer’ at the food as an improvised weapon. 21 hits! Right in the noggin! 1 point of damage, awww.

Leslie stays on the outskirts a bit, but he’s making his way round. Bingo’ll have a go. “He’s so excited!” 9 misses, though. He paws ineffectually at the can, frustrated. The food has a go back, but misses Bingo. The second one hits for 7 damage.

Matthew, clicking buttons: “ Poor… old… Bingo.”

We hear Bingo say, “Ow!” He looks poorly now.

Cora is up. Open this can! She has a try at grappling the food to the floor; she makes a STR check for 14. She does not grapple the food. Milo moves up to flank it with Marcus, and does a bite by making a Slam attack with his teeth. 4 Bludgeoning damage!

Hilda moves up but can’t get near the food, so she elbows Marcus and Ren in the back of the knees. Marcus attacks, now that he’s flanking with Milo, and manages a Slam for 6 bludgeoning damage. Yeah!

Ren shuffles around so he’s flanking with Cora, and has a stabby at the unprotected side - but sadly, even with advantage, he misses. His spear skitters across the surface of the can. Pilfer wishes to Slam him. “Slam to your heart’s content.” Sadly he’s so excited he slams the floor instead.

This is standard Friend tactics - surround and overwhelm - we don’t need to change a thing. Leslie has a go as well now. He misses.

Stuff is leaking from Bingo, but he’s still up and for the first time in his career with this new horde, he scores a 20 to hit for 2 bludgeoning damage. We all cheer.

Canned food does some sword work at Bingo, hits him, and Bingo goes down.

“NO BINGO NO!!!!!”

Bingo is not dead, because he’s significant enough to have a name, we are assured. Hooray! The food takes aim at Milo, but only rolls a nine. Phew!

It’s Cora’s turn. The canned food smells worried. She has another go at grappling it, but rolls a 7 - she uses her Inspiration and grapples it.

Milo has a dim memory of catching something like this that had pinchers, so he pokes between the plates with his javelin to get at the good stuff - and gets a Critical Poke! DM: “I’m not gonna lie to you guys, you needed that.”

Does Milo get any nice chewy bits out? He’s pushed his javelin right through the knee joint; he’s separated the bones in there, and it’s all just connected by meat now. If the food survives this, it will never be knight again. He now has a long career as a meme to look forward to.

This food is now much closer to being prepared now. Milo even gets Inspiration for such a wonderfully timed Nat 20. Hilda takes aim at his other knee, cackling all the while, and hits with a 24 for 6 bludgeoning.

Marcus aims a Slam at its head with 23 to hit for 7 damage; canned food is struggling but not down. The only thing holding it up is Cora’s grapple and the fact that we’re standing all around it. (Like when you pass out at a gig.)

Ren remembers food on a stick (hazy memories) and has another poke - and misses. He realises he’s been using the wrong end of his spear, so he turns it around for next time. DM, through tears of laughter, awards Inspiration.

Pilfer takes a swing and a miss.

Duncan, OOC: “Don’t stop me now…”

Ren realises he’s humming under his breath.

This food is smelling pretty ready now. Not perfect! But close. Bingo makes an Undeath save. a 19! Canned food struggles against Cora’s grapple, but fails. DM: “It is weary, and ready for eats.” Cora wants to start sucking the juice out of the eye holes. She makes an attack but a 14 misses; she used her Inspiration last round.

Milo takes aim at the armpit. DM: “Horrible little man! I love it!” He rolls two 8s, sadly.

Hilda has been cackling since last round, and takes aim at the same spot as last time. 21 hits, for 4 bludgeoning damage and with that the meal cracks open. Underneath the can is lots and lots of lovely freshly prepared food!

Pilfer retrieves his hammer and knife, and Hilda picks up her axe. Marcus stops shovelling food into his mouth for long enough to give Bingo a potion.

Milo wants to bend some metal into a sort of cup shape, and try saving some of the food for later. He can add “Some food in home made can” to his character sheet. Matthew adds that he must note: “Not airtight.”

We all get some treats! 116XP! As we consume our meal we find 8 more gp, some more gems. Marcus asks to keep the can's can opener, as he doesn’t have a weapon; Leslie nudges him and says he might have something on his back. Marcus turns around.

We also find two more RHPs, some fancy boots. We don’t know what they are, but Leslie suggests they might be worth taking along. Pilfer claims them, and the food’s hat. The head falls out; Ren starts digging around behind the jaw for the good bits. We also find a fancy stick! Milo knows what it is - and now he has Proficiency in Investigation rolls. He and Ren both know it’s a magic stick. Not just a stick, either - a staff. It’s got a snake’s head on it. He doesn’t know the exact nature of it, due to his own nature. Marcus picks up the tin opener/greatsword.

We have a nice sit down meal. Bingo is so delighted with us and our micro-horde, he’s starting to forget about looking for the main one.

We decide to devote another week to this, as we started late. We finish with a dream for Cora:

She knows she’s asleep. She is in a pretty setting of rolling meadows; she feels at peace. She knows that she knows more now, but can’t grasp what exactly that is. It is the height of summer. A bright red comet races across the sky, and it starts to rain. The sky grows dark, and she feels a sense of melancholy. The rain grows heavier. At a table in the middle of the meadow is an old man, gorging himself on food from silver plates. His eyes turn black, and he smiles. (A midget talks backwards and is gone.) The old man becomes a figure holding a sword and speaking gibberish. A mountain crumbles to dust. The figure advances. It grasps Cora by the throat -

And she wakes up.

HS^2 bloggin’ mainline 2020-05-19

Figured an upd8 was coming, it’s felt like enough time has passed for one.

Huh, looking at my last post I’d completely forgotten I was supposed to play through Pesterquest sometime... work is busy and stressing me out a bit, I’m not sure when I’ll have the energy on the side to do that.  (Maybe I’ll livetweet it like I did Undertale a while ago, but this time not looking at my twitter replies so I don’t get spoiled by One Guy™?)

Also, including bonus commentary on A Threat Sensed.

Okay, going in completely blind.  I’d guessed from context that we’re hopping over to Meat side to get a chapter there before we can come back to actually see Yiffy?

Yep.  Okay, what is this about exactly?

(Agh, dammit, I’ve been copying and pasting so much at work remoting into Windows lately that now I’m automatically trying to hit control-C instead of command-C to copy.)

> CHAPTER 9. How Goes The Eulogizing, Dear?

CONTENT NOTE: This chapter contains Child Abuse.

Which one???

Wait

JANE: (Where is he?) JANE: (It's a question I've found myself asking many times in recent days.)

Holy SHIT we get two Candy chapters in a row???  So we might see her right away??  No, it’s gotta just be another tiny glimpse.

(Has two Candy chapters in a row happened before?  Future Boots, scroll back up and put this here. FUTURE BOOTS: “I forgot to scroll back up and put that here.” EDIT: Also, not the first time with two in a row, but it IS the first time with THREE in a row, huh.)

So Jane has to be talking about either Tavros or Dave.  --Oh, if this was a Candy Side chapter title, I guess Rose or Jade is eulogizing Dave for John?

> (==>)

JANE: (Where now is our merry savior?) JANE: (Where is the horn that was honking?) JANE: (Where is the cape and the codpiece, and the...) JANE: (The...) JANE: (Oh, fiddlesticks.)

What?  Is she reading a childrens’ book?  --Oh.  She’s eulogizing Gamzee.  So that gives us a third option, where the rebellion crashes the funeral somehow, probably audiovisually rather than in person.  (Which would make sense, given Candy practically began with Gamzee crashing Dirk’s funeral.)

> (==>)

Ah never mind, she’s still writing it.

That sure is a single button drama-remote that’s going to be pressed at some point.  Oh, and who the fuck keeps a spork in a pen cup???  --No no, don’t say it’s one of those pens with a spork at the eraser end, either ready-made or rubber-banded to the side.  That would make sense.  You totally know it isn’t that and is just a spork.

JANE: (Okay, poetry is out.) JANE: (What else?) JANE: (Hrm...) JANE: (I've always been pretty good at crying on cue.) JANE: (Could I try staging an emotional breakdown?) JANE: (That could work; playing to people's humanity.)

Why were you crying in Jake’s arms about his death if you didn’t care that much?  Did you just want him to hold you and kinda make him feel in on things again?  Or did you just cry yourself out about him?

JANE: (Or whatever is the more inclusive term.)

I bet the rest of Earth C figured out a more inclusive term millenia ago FUCK I accidentally added millennia to my dictionary misspelled instead of correcting it hold on--

...There, killed the entry for it.  ...Huh.  Take a look at my Chrome dictionary’s custom-added words over the years, apparently:

Caliborn Eridan Kanaya Matriorb Meenah Tavros alchemiter dichotomic nephilim reblogged uncaptchalogues uncaptchaloguing

That’s fun.

Okay back to reading. Millennia.  Phew!  Where was I.

JANE: (One really good and calculated weep could do it, I think.) JANE: (But then there's the danger that I might get carried away and do it for real.) JANE: (And I can't risk that.)

So still feeling something, just too used to calculating over the past years.

JANE: (What can I say about him that will stir up their emotions?) JANE: (Do I mention the stuff about the milk?) JANE: (Think Crocker, think.)

WHY would you-- how much did Gamzee normalize adult breastfeeding?!

JAKE: Ahoy over there!

Not the best time.

(The thing with the divorce papers from the Epilogue and John implying he was planning with Jake to execute something that sounds like a divorce... is that going to be sprung here?  Did her lawyers send the divorce papers way back when she was in a fit of pique, and he just had them available to sign now at the tactical moment? Or... let me pull the exact text...)

JOHN: now, harry anderson, i know that you and tavros haven't always gotten along. JOHN: but i am going to have to ask you to try and look out for him for the time being. JOHN: your uncle jake and i... well, i'll explain later. JOHN: let's just say that gamzee isn't the only family member jane is losing today.

(So is John going to submit the papers? Or did they already go through a while ago and default custody to John or something who’s going to adopt him too or some nonsense?  And did he plan this out with Jake NOW, or a while ago, and if only a while ago, is Jake going to KNOW whatever John’s about to pull in that respect is about to happen??)

> (==>)

Butte

Janepalme

> (==>)

JAKE: Er... how goes the eulogizing, dear?

Gah.  I completely forgot again that capitalized-first-letter chapter names don’t mean KANAYA is saying them.  That probably makes a lot more sense out of my wondering about the chapter title earlier to those of you who didn’t realize I was making that mistake.

JANE: It turns out that it's mighty difficult to find touching things to say about a person, the relationship with whom was predicated on deep-seated mutual loathing.

Hah!

--A loathing you regarded as largely more important to you than Jake ever was, by the way.  You asshole.

JANE: I imagine this is one of the reasons no funerary tradition was ever established on Alternia, besides the barbarism of their culture. DIRK: Jesus christ. JANE: Not only did a significant proportion of their interpersonality depend on romance in the form of hatred, but it was a society based on cruelty and violence. JANE: What reason could they have had to provide for the dead? JANE: What kind of last rites could they have even imagined?

I wondered for a moment why (bg!)Dirk of all people would react to a single line of her starting to bring up prejudices, but then I realized that (1) Brain Ghost Dirk is a little more Jakey, and (2) Dirk knew that more ranting would follow the first line.

JANE: I can't think of anything good to write about him because deep down, I hated his guts. JANE: But he was and is beloved of the multitude, so I have to think of something regardless. JAKE: Im not sure i understand. JANE: Don't worry your pretty little head about it. JANE: This is politics, Jakey. JANE: Lying through your two front teeth about people you hate is about as good a definition as it's possible to get. JANE: But, by gum, is it tiring work.

Mm.  It’s a position Jane put herself in, but it’s still a legitimate position once you’re there.

JANE: The funeral is tomorrow, after all.

Got it.

DIRK: Dude, the bowl. JAKE: Hm? JAKE: Oh, right. JANE: What is it now, Jake. JAKE: I brought something for our guest as well. JANE: You mean the prisoner. JAKE: Y...es.

Wait, bowl?

Oh god damnit which of you had the idea to feed her with a DOG BOWL.  Either of you could have thought of it, and either of you would be horrible for it.

> (==>)

Huh, that outfit on Yiffy looks familiar, like a reference to something.  And a black tail?  This definitely isn’t quite the look I was expecting from Jade Plus Rose, but I suppose the snazzy tie is a Roseish vibe.  Also reminiscent of Jade’s old Dead Shuffle dress.  Formal wear and soccer cleats??

JANE: She's over in the corner. JANE: Don't worry, she won't bite. JANE: I've seen to that already.

WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN.  I don’t see anything over her mouth!  Did she stick something in it, or drug her?  File her fucking teeth???

I mean I did forget the Child Abuse trigger warning to be fair.  Hoping whatever would be on her mouth is just not shown in-panel yet for stylistic reasons.

> (==>)

JAKE: Its only mac and cheese, sorry. JAKE: Its all I know how to make, haha. JAKE: ... JAKE: I um... hope you can safely partake of cheese? JAKE: ... JAKE: Well, JAKE: Bon appetit.

How the fuck did Jake eat on his island then?  --Oh right, preserved food cans that Grandma Jade stored up, I think I remember.  Why would cheese not be a thing for them, if it’s fine for Jade?  I know he’s probably not just worried about lactose intolerance.

Either way, if she’s drugged here, that’ll mean we won’t get a good idea of her for a while, so which is it...

> (==>)

DIRK: Bon appetit. DIRK: Seriously dude? JAKE: (What? Did i pronounce it wrong?) DIRK: Jake. DIRK: You put the food in a fucking dog bowl. JAKE: (It was all there was, ok???) JAKE: (I feel awful enough as it is without you getting on my case about it.)

Ah, missed the bone pun.  AND, yeah, Jake, you’re a fucking idiot, you could have put it in a cup or something.

JAKE: (So far ive yet to see anything come of that brilliant plan of yours.) JAKE: (Are you sure sending that message to the others was enough?)

Okay, so he IS coordinating this slightly.

> (==>)

Horrifying image to contemplate, eh Jane?

Or anger-inducing?

> (==>)

Seems about right!

> (==>)

Oh that’s a GREAT exasperated Jane face.

JANE: I hope you're not expecting dessert, young lady.

I like how Jane didn’t notice, comment on, or care about the bowl.  How can you hate a kid so much??

> (==>)

Oh I know why I felt like I recognized the outfit style, it’s because it’s ANIME AS FUCK.  Feels like some Persona 4 Arena nonsense, and I say that not having played any of those games or even remembering what they looked like.  Also, white hair, black fur’d dog parts?  Nice change of pace.

YIFFY: GRRRRRRRRR... JANE: Oh no you don't.

Red text?  What color exactly... “#D00009”?  Huh.  That’s nowhere near Alt-Callie’s #FF0000, and darker than Dave’s #E00707.  In fact, let me go back and check those spilled color pins the commentary pointed out from an update or two ago...  no, the red pin is #E63225, closer to Dave’s color.  (Also, is Yiffy blocking the doorway out?  That’s a pretty slack chain then.)

Did Jane see to it that she wouldn’t bite with like, a water spray bottle?

(EDIT: Oh my FUCKING GOD, THAT's why it's #D00009...)

> (==>)

FUCK I didn’t notice the shock collar in the Yiffy image!  FUCK YOU, Jane.

> (==>)

Keeping someone in line with collars, especially ones that punish whenever one strays out of line, has always been a decent way for her to mix in some Doomy control of others to show how she’s “grown” to balance her main role and her Tiara-controlled-like inverse for more power.  Doom in part represents boundaries that you can’t cross without getting hurt or punished.

> (==>)

FUCK, those little buck teeth!?  D’:

JANE: That's more like it.

She HAS to have more of a reason for hating her than hating her parents, right?  Like, more than that and general racism applying to partdogfolk?

> (==>)

Hey fuck off with that!

> (==>)

This is a pretty cool ima-- are those piercings on her dog ear?  I didn’t notice that in the first shot, neat.

JANE: You've been a thorn in my side ever since I agreed to enroll you at the academy, little madam. JANE: Back then, I was doing a favor for two old friends who made a disgusting mistake. JANE: I'm no longer going to play nice with you just because of your parents, however. JANE: That truce is over. JANE: Do I make myself understood?

What the fuck?  WHY would you do that?  Why does Jane run "Ms. Paint’s Home for Inconvenient Girls”?  What did Yiffy do to piss her off so much there, how much trouble could she have caused?

I don’t know if she’s referring to the behind-Kanaya’s-back part as disgusting or she’s just being MORE racist.

> (==>)

JANE: We don't want you passing out during the ceremony, do we?

Oh, just showing the hostage off during the clown funeral, huh?  Classy much?

> (==>)

JANE: Now, be a good hostage and get some rest, Yiffany dear. JANE: We've got a big day tomorrow.

For a politician, Jane’s not good at looking at herself in a mirror.

> (==>)

JANE: Night night. JANE: Hoo hoo.

> (Yiffy: Lights out.)

Huh, dream stuff is gonna be relevant out in Candy then? *click*

Okay, dark background all of a sudden.  Properly dramatic?  You even have to highlight the non-link “>” part of the Next link to see it.

> (==>)

-- thespiansGlamor [TG] began pestering adamantGriftress [AG] --

Well, I don’t know WHY it’s happening, but the white-backed pesterlog suddenly on the dark site framing is certainly evocative.  Of like, a mood, or something.

TG: i thought he was pretty quiet down there. TG: we'll make a rebel of him yet! AG: Lol. AG: I think it's more that he can't sleep. AG: I know how he feels. TG: yeah. TG: today was a lot. AG: ... TG: do you wanna talk about it? AG: Ugh, not you as well.

It’s really jarring to transition between Homestuck’s “kids jarringly mentally resistant to freaking out about the end of the world” to HS^2′s more realistic “kids traumatized by their first firefight even though it was an overwhelming victory-escape”.

TG: but seriously, do you? AG: Not really. TG: not even about... you know? TG: her? AG: No. TG: ... are you sure? AG: A8solutely. AG: What are you, my moirail? AG: Just leave it, Harry. TG: ok.

Are they about to have an “I wonder what Yiffy’s like” talk?

> (==>)

Very similar Tav/Vrissy convo to the previous one.

GG: I havent ever shared a bedroom before,,, GG: Not even for a slumber party,,, AG: Tavvy, you are just a8out the saddest person I've ever met.

Well, we have an even better idea how horrible Jane can be with kids, now.  From Nanna to THIS is quite jarring.  I wonder how the double Nannasprites that must still be around here somewhere feel?

> (==>)

TG: nothing about my dad is cute. TG: what are you even saying. AG: Lmao. TG: seriously! TG: i think he has something against that word, even. he gets super weird about it. AG: He's a strange and funny m8n. TG: yeah. TG: ... TG: i think something bad must have happened.

...um.  What?  Why would John have some sort of trauma about the word cute or being called it?

Did John dress up as a hint of his buried June ambitions as a kid and Dad lavish him with “SO CUTE” praise in an epic supportiveness backfire that caused him to shelve the idea of wearing non-masc clothes and being happier on the flipside of gender ever again???  Because if that’s how June gets canonized as promised, it’s a little harsher than the back of my mind was hoping.  I guess it kind of had to be though from the premise of how it was read into his childhood for the original idea, though.  Fuck, I hope this Cute business is about something different from that (like a Terezi reference or such) just to get less John Sads.  (But still June.  Definitely still want to get June.)

> (==>)

Oh, and now Vrissy is doing nothing but talking about what she said she didn’t want to talk about, of course.  (Also I like how JANE’s now being called the Batterwitch.)

AG: And the worst part was they didn't even fight a8out it! AG: That made me madder than 8nything else. AG: It felt like I was the only person who even W8S mad! GG: I dont think thats true,,, AG: What would you know a8out it?! GG: Maybe nothing,,, GG: Sorry,,, GG: Its just,,, GG: To me,,, all the way through the conversation,,, aunt kanaya looked even angrier than you,,, AG: ... AG: Adults are so fucking weird.

Guh, I don’t want to be reminded how hurt a good chunk of the fanbase is by Kanaya getting hurt this badly.

Original Tavros was always SLIGHTLY perceptive of others sometimes, but maybe perceptiveness is being hinted at as a Tavros specialty?  We still don’t know his classpect/hero-title or have any firm guesses based on purely him evidence.  (Also, frightened kids of abusive households tend to learn to get perceptive pretty fucking quickly I hear.)

> (==>)

TG: dad was sitting in the cafeteria with aunt jade and your moms. TG: it looked like they were discussing something important... they were whispering and stuff.

[etc etc] Alright, the what-happened-to-Dave bit.  And I imagine they’re kind of helping John grieve there, since Rose and Jade have talked that out already.

TG: aunt kanaya's was the only face i could see. TG: she was standing next to them, but she wasn't looking at what was going on. TG: almost like she couldn't bear to. AG: I doubt it. Kanaya's got a8out as much Emotivity as a very reclusive stone. TG: ok, i think that is bullshit but whatever. TG: she saw me standing there, but didn't say anything. she just shook her head slightly, and pointed back out into the hallway i came down.

Yep, giving them some space to grieve.  Also-- gosh, shouldn’t Vrissy have the same emotive senses that Aranea implied Vriska shared with her?  Kanaya isn’t that EXPRESSIVE but she’s certainly full of emotion.  Also, I hope part of her not bearing to watch wasn’t lingering anger toward Jade and Rose mixing with that, but there probably was a bit of that too, though Dave being gone is so much harsher than that. --I just realized they might not have broken the news to Karkat yet, either.

AG: I guesadxcxzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz TG: vrissy?

Put to sleep by someone slumping down on your phone keypad, or surprised by something about the other conversation?

Oh shit, “other conversation” reminded me I didn’t look at Tavros’s chumhandle:

glutinousGymnast [GG]

HHHHHhhhhuh.  Hm... huh? hhhh.  huh?  what, but.  Why would.  ?????

I really don’t understand what that chumhandle or any of its entendres should signify in this context.

Also, this means for our new four kids we have TG, GG, AG, and ??.

> (==>)

GG: I think she might have succumbed to sleep quite suddenly,,, GG: It would explain the,,,,,, interesting messages I've been getting for a while,,, TG: hehe. TG: i guess that tracks. TG: she does that from time to time.

That’s... strange.  Homestuck’s taught us to be suspicious of that.

TG: ... TG: tav? GG: Yes,,, harry anderson,,,? TG: what does it feel like to know someone who's died?

Who is Harry referring to? (EDIT: Yes I know Gamzee for Tavros, but I meant Harry talks like he's worried he'll have to feel that way soon?)  Is he just kind of inferring that something bad might have happened to Uncle Dave?  Got that perceptive “parents are about to tell me about a death in the family” vibe?  Or did he overhear more than he let on to Vrissy?

...alright, that’s the last page of this update.  Looks like this chapter is going to continue to have a good bunch of grieving, or talk around it.

---

Now for Bonus Commentary for A Threat, Sensed.  For some reason I have a dim memory of like... reading this myself without commenting on it?  Or skimming it?  But I’m pretty sure I didn’t do that.  Weird.  Must have imagined doing it.

Ah, I think I saw the opening paragraph scrolling Patreon, and my mind kinda filled in the blanks, this is still looking new to me.

Okay, mostly banter and japes in the commentary here.  About Dirk “throwing a huge tantrum in his philosophy cave”.

We’ve had quite a bit of speculation on whether this is “really” Andrew. To that, I think we’d say that it doesn’t “really” matter.

Really?  That was speculated about?  :/

Here we discover that Dirk has not, as some people have speculated, been directly intervening into the Candy timeline, or influencing it in any way. In fact, he has a very hard time seeing anything going on there at all.

Mhmm, and that was a pretty important thing to learn.

A couple of years ago I might have agreed with the take that everything happening in Candy is simply too outlandish to ever happen naturally, without direct, villainous interference, but that was before literally every fucking batshit insane thing that has happened on Real Life Earth started going down, and now I will believe literally anything. 

This is a nice bit of distraction from the idea that at least the opening parts of the Candy story were written/narrated by Original, Alive Calliope over on meat side.  To refresh your memory of what was pointed out to me:

ROXY: back when jade first got all effed up callie saw somethin and it made them freak out ROXY: it took me weeks to convince them that it was safe to come home ROXY: but now we got the opposite problem and they arent leavin the house at all ROXY: they stay home all day with the blinds drawn paintin some weird ass shit on the walls TEREZI: WH4T? ROXY: its not as bad as it sounds i promise ROXY: some of it is like ROXY: weird and violent?? ROXY: like lotsa nasty purple blood and um ROXY: nudity???? TEREZI: >:? ROXY: yeah yikes ROXY: but MOST of it is cute stuff like... various combos of all of us being happy and gettin married and shit ROXY: anyway thats kept callie kinda busy

Which tracks with the initial out-of-character-seemingness of almost everyone at the start of Candy, and how they kind of tried to railroad things back onto the “Happy??” track after Dirk derailed it with his weird self-accumulation suicide, along with some of the flowery-idyllic descriptions of characters seeing each other bathed in a halo of light and such.

Of course, they’re not going to out-and-out STATE that Calliope was at fault for that narration, helping the Candy story not necessarily fall out the way it did “naturally”, until we finally get a glimpse of her on the heroes’ ship in Meat probably still painting the continuing Candy events, inspiring them into the void of the singularity with her latent powers.  Til then, it’s a bit of misdirection whenever the topic is to be brought up.  Along with a mix of Roxy’s late-Candy point to John of more or less “why COULDN’T we have done this naturally? you don’t know”.

He might even think that he has more direct power over the narrative than Hussie does himself. Surprise, motherfucker, you are a fictional character. 

:p

I’ll quote this next part in full:

There’s been talk of whether or not this bonus was written in the two days between its release and the Yiffy reveal chapter. The answer is--no. It was written over a month ago. But I think the things it addresses were not difficult to suss out. Obviously, Dirk is highlighting the issues that the readership are having with Yiffy, in his typical Dirk fashion. If it seems a little defensive, well...I suppose it is. Yiffy is one of the two hard lines drawn in the sand, and all of us love her, and we’re hoping that everyone else will love her too. But more than that, it focuses on the fact that update culture has a rhythm to it--shock, revulsion, acceptance (or not), and then excitement (or not). Will it follow that pattern this time? Who knows. I guess we’ll find out. 

Yeah, given what was going to be dropped on us I expected they would have had exactly this lined up, especially because Andrew specifically mandated Yiffy.  --I wonder why they aren’t mentioning that somewhere in the commentary and only on one of their Twitters?

Also quoting this:

There’s something both incredibly “cringe” and self-indulgent, as well as philosophically intriguing, about the author arguing with his villain, especially since he’s writing both halves of the conversation himself. You are, for all intents and purposes, trying to solve a problem that you have created for yourself. You are looking an aspect of your personality in the eye and asking, hey, what the fuck, man?

But in the end, isn’t that what every story is? Trying to untie knots that you put in the rope yourself?

Since it’s part of the central struggle of this story, and kind of the question Andrew’s tried to imply with every Homestuck work about what right we have to keep these characters trapped in a story, and if they’d be better off escaping it.

I’m really trying to avoid quoting so much of this, since the commentary is paid...  but I think we can make an exception here?  I’ll have only quoted about half of it; just, the really plot-important half.  Plus, I left out a LOOOT of japes.

Dirk has a certain idea of how stories are supposed to go. That’s pretty much what the Epilogues is about. The audience also has a certain expectation of how a story is supposed to go. In a way, the Epilogues were also about that. They were taking a story that had reached the traditionally “acceptable” happily ever after, and saying, wait, no. What happens next? Thinking past happily ever after in any story is a terrifying prospect. Once Cinderella marries the prince, what then? Sure, she got what she wanted, but who knows that it will be everything she dreamt it would? What if she changes her mind, if not today, what about ten years from now? What if the prince dies of malaria? 

And I’m...

Yeah I don’t have anything else to add here, I’m kind of out of brain juice to think about this tonight.  BUSY day I had.  Y’all take care!

short notes - Jan 25th, 2021

-- I’ve been reading sappy romance stories online lately. Some of ‘em a reaaaally good; others are foolish and frustrating. It’s helping me see what I want in a story - defining and refining my tastes - which feels helpful, regarding when I write my own stories.

-- Somehow, I hadn’t been listening to music on youtube for awhile, so I tried that again. Oh god, why is it so beautiful? Maybe it was my particular mood that night, but I just kept crying. It wasn’t even sad songs; they were just really pretty and vibing well with me. Nah, it was my mood, because I didn’t cry at those same songs earlier.

--- Related, I did get my “xmas” wishlist submitted, and my cds are on the way. Sporks will be here Monday (today); acrylic shelves Tues or Wed. One of the cds will be at least another week, but it’s worth the wait.

-- My lower back hurts, because of how I slump over time. I sit criss-cross, but my butt slides under me after awhile, so there’s more pressure on my lower back. I’ve tried putting a pillow behind my back, to help me sit up straighter. I still slump sometimes. The back of this couch isn’t firm enough. Nothing much to do about it; I just wanted to bitch.

-- I am reading more tumblr posts lately, but I don’t entirely feel the impulse to make original posts. This one is here because I wanted to bitch (see above point). And to let friends know I’m doing better while still taking it slow.

-- I weirdly miss typing “2020″. Just 2 keys repeated. Less bran required for that, and then you don’t have to hunt down keys in the dark.