#i miss them from the livejournal days...

[what-have-i-unleashed]

does utmv/utdr fandom have a prompt meme challenge kind of thing?

[olderthannetfic]

I always see people reminiscing about the Good Ole Days and about how antis are a new thing but. . .is that really true? Or am I just being autistic and taking things too literally, and they just mean it's way more of a common debate now than it used to be before, and that the landscape of shipwank has changed?

Idk, it's like I constantly hear about fandom wank and shipwars and censorship from decades ago, and yes I know "shipping/doxxing/censorship has always existed" can co exist with "antis are new" but I think there's still a bit of a comprehension gap on my end.

am i just dumb? What am I missing here? FWIW - I do feel like the context of "anti" has definitely changed. Back in early 2010s tumblr (I cannot speak of other website/platforms) I remember that tagging something as #Anti Donkey Kong didn't mean you think DK is an evil abusive monster and that everyone who likes him/mains him is also an evil abusive monster and that Nintendo is pushing the evil abusive monster agenda. #Anti Donkey Kong would just be character bashing, wank, letting out your grievances about how ugly DK is, etc, but it was really just a tag used for your own personal opinions (and for DK fans to filter out). Whereas now #Anti Donkey Kong would mean please go die and delete all your accounts if you support DK.

So I definitely know that "anti" has a way more intense definition now than it used to - but for some reason I find it a bit hard to grasp just how new this whole anti thing even is in the firstplace. It honestly makes me sad that I've never seen a pre-anti internet, assuming there really was a time before antis.

--

Antis are new. Specifically, the "Conservative Protestantism in a gay hat" thing that that one tumblr post pointed out is new.

We had doxxing in the past. We had masses of shipwank. We also had "How dare you write that m/m ship. It's bad!"

The key is that the "Your m/m ship is bad" crowd used to openly be conservative Christian homophobes who objected to homosexuality itself. Nowadays, they're queer 20-somethings who like m/m ships but object to gay sex.

It's the anti-kink, anti-fantasy brigade coming from "our side" instead of the outside, essentially. It's respectability politics about "Sempai will love me if I just sanitize The Community and kick out the icky weirdos". It's personal disgust masquerading as morality where once it would have been masquerading as intellectual superiority.

It's a product of queerness being more public and tolerated overall. In the past, a lot of spaces devoted to m/m shipping had to be aggressively in favor of contentious fiction because the existence of anything m/m was itself contentious. There was plenty of "Well, my gay best friend said ___ is unrealistic, and my slash is good, unlike that of you plebes!" There was much less "Fujoshi means fetishizer".

Of course, I'm comparing the 90s internet to now or the mid 00s Livejournal fandom to Tumblr of this past decade. It really depends on whether Ye Olden Times was five years ago or twenty five.

The modern use of the term 'anti' did indeed grow out of the old habit of tagging your hate. As the default cultural mode shifted from "My NOTP is dumb" to "My NOTP is problematic", the usage changed. At some point, antis started getting offended by their self-applied term and pretending that the other side inflicted it on them. This is revisionism. Fiction-is-not-reality had some writeups with citations in the past.

The big shifts were happening around 2012-2016. The long slide into puritywankers being everywhere has only continued since then, but that's where the tipping point seems to have been. TikTok exacerbates this nonsense, and there are clearly plenty of people who are anti-queer and only weaponizing clueless queer youth.

The big shift is that liking m/m used to weed out most of the worst people, and now it attracts lots of them who will not fucking go away because they like the same ship, just the hand-holdy, no dicks can touch ever version.

They spend their time bleating about how AO3 should have been built for them and how anti-censorship activism doesn't matter... because they've grown up in a fandom world dominated by AO3, which shelters them from the reality that the "Ewww, all m/m sucks!" crowd is everywhere on other sites to this day.

That's probably why the shift is when it is. Certain aspects of mainstream queer acceptance were on the rise just as AO3 was getting big. But at the same time, the world is shit and everyone has anxiety they self-medicate through rage and security theater around sniffing out The Bad People.

[iheartsparklingwater]

What your favourite season of house says about you

Season 1:

You like a medical procedural and there’s nothing wrong with that!

Often, you try and guess what the final diagnosis of the episode will be.

You watch house as a comfort show.

The un-self-aware charm of early 2000s television appeals to you.

I feel like you own a dvd player and/or an oversized blazer.

You watch 2002 interviews with Hugh Laurie on youtube.

Season 2:

“This is when the show really hits it stride”

Love an ethical argument, you’re the type of person who brings up the Trolley Problem in casual conversation.

You’d never say “I told you so,” but you’d think it.

You will defend Cameron with your whole chest (As you should)

LOVE clinic duty scenes.

The ducklings>

Love how the Stacy arc gives more context to what House was like before the infarction.

Meta girlies!

Season 3:

Camchase <3

You have indulged in livejournal and tv board posts from 2006.

You have a Tumblr tag called something like “difficult people I love.”

You have a complicated relationship with justice and probably don’t think Tritter was entirely wrong.

You believe that the depiction of House’s Vicodin addiction is the most nuanced and realistic in s3.

You psychoanalyse everyone in your life.

One day one room is a masterpiece.

Season 4:

You crave structural disruption.

New team > old team and you’ll die on this hill.

You’ve reblogged the “what is my necklace made of?” gifset more than once

Forever mourning the 8 episodes cut due to the writer’s strike

You think Kutner and Taub are more emotionally complex than they get credit for, and you're mad about what happens next.

Bawled your eyes out to House’s head/ Wilson’s heart.

You can write 3k words on the use of the bus as metaphor.

You are deeply loyal to underdog characters and niche side ships.

Justice for Amber.

Season 5:

You think season 5 is objectively the best season.

Thirteen is one of your favourite characters and you love her dynamic with House.

You would defend your favourite episode in a PowerPoint presentation and close with a quote that makes everyone cry.

The thought of hallucination Amber crosses your mind constantly.

Thinks that Birthmarks is very underrated.

Season 6:

“Broken 1&2 are the best episodes of television ever made”

You have a complicated relationship with hope.

You would watch an Alvie spinoff.

Dr Nolan>

You think the show should’ve ended at s6.

House with short hair is hot.

Season 7:

You have read the thunder mountain 7x01 pdf.

You vibe with Rachel Cuddy.

You have multiple theories about narrative sabotage and have used the phrase “narrative whiplash” in earnest.

THE ACTING IN AFTER HOURS DESERVES EVERY AWARD EVER MADE!!!!!!

We don’t talk about bombshells.

Possibly an editor? I feel like there’s a lot of s7 scene packs.

You believe fanfiction can fix what the writers ruined.

The bathtub scene.

Can't justify the car 'incident', and consequently miss Cuddy deeply in s8.

Season 8:

You’re a contrarian

Emotional truth can justify tonal inconsistency.

“The last 5 minutes were perfection”

You think the 8x01, twenty vicodin is overlooked.

You love Park. You defend Adams. You ship them if you’re feeling brave.

You feel excluded from the fandom

Love Chase (He has an entire episode named after him in s8!!)

You think House and Wilson’s relationship is the show’s real love story and this season finally acknowledged it.

[cyanide-e-pistachio]

Shuake Fics from 2024 that Give Bonafide ✨SHUAKE CLASSICS ENERGY✨🙏🏻

I've been seeing the frankly untrue sentiment that there are "no good Shuake fics out there right now". The purpose of this post is to not only provide evidence against that sentiment, but uplift fics from this year that, in my opinion, are just as good as any of the Shuake classic fics we might find at the top of AO3.

DISCLAIMER: I have not read every shuake fic in 2024, nor did I suggest fics that are currently ongoing (with one exception). If you feel like I missed a Bonafide Shuake Classic(tm) from this year, FEEL FREE to rb with your suggestion!!! This is all about uplifting the wonderful authors in the shuake community who deserve more love!!!!! xoxo

Rebellious Birds by @sixteen-juniper

A post-canon fic where Akiren and Akechi explore a new and deadly Mementos, and an encounter gone wrong forces the tension between them to the surface. I have always loved this author's writing style. Their prose and technique is 10/10.

crowded rooms and highways i call home by sailboating

Rahhhhhh I just finished this one so it is extremely on my mind but holy shit!!! What a classic!!! A early 2000s Band AU in which Akiren and Akechi discover their ship tag on Livejournal. Full of fun LJ references and callbacks to the fandom scene of the time. It was such a fun ride with incredibly engaging prose from the author.

true blue by campanellaes

Listen man, campanellaes is one of those authors where every work of theirs is gonna be a banger. True blue is no different. A very unique post-canon story where Akiren and Akechi are in the Shadow Ops together and we watch as their relationship slowly develops. If you're looking for a sweet yet hilariously chaotic shuake dynamic this is the one for you.

finger twist & split by nexxis

Oh my god NEXXIS is on a roll this year and this is not the last time you'll see this author on the list. Essentially Akiren jokingly mentions to Akechi that he'll finger him and Akechi devolves into gay panic for 6,000+ words. It's so incredibly delightful, hot, and full of fun introspection that I just adore.

Closed For Renovation by @chaoticconstellation

My god, what a wholesome fic AAHHHHH ok ok so basically it's a found family fic in which Sojiro and Akechi scheme with his friends to renovate Akiren's attic bedroom. It's incredibly sweet and just downright adorable at times. Definitely the Feel Good Fic of the Year(tm) for me.

A first spring with you by @manibarilo

A post-canon reunion longfic that just OOZES Shuake Classic energy. Five years after P5R, Akiren and Akechi reunite after Akechi is released from prison. Lots of fluff, wholesomeness, and healing ensue.

we apologize for our streamer by sailboating

This author is truly the master at writing engaging Shuake fics. A Twitch streamer AU in which a glitch streamer Akiren finds a chess streamer with zero viewers and simps. Hard lol. A great ride from start to finish, and despite being 35,000+ words it feels like it ends too quickly!

sweetness by nexxis

Another banger from nexxis. An ABO fic in which Akiren accidentally discovers Akechi is an omega. I just love the way their dynamic is written here, and it's also incredibly :fire: :fire: :fire:

But Live Another Day by @tomiokajen

This is the one exception to the completed fic rule because I've beta'ed it lol. However I think it deserves to be on this list as, much like a first spring, it oozes Shuake classic energy. A post-canon reunion fic that explores Akechi as a wildcard. The way Akechi is characterized in this fic is masterclass, and truly shows that the author has a very good understanding of him. I also love the OC links in this fic. Has classic energy through and though and I can't recommend it enough.

Old Habits Die Loved by @malevolentmango

Technically written in 2023 but I read it in 2024. I love fics where Akiren is in need and Akechi has to step up to help him, and this one does that in spades. An established relationship fic in which Akechi has to do some Scooby-doo style detective work to figure out what's been going on with Akiren. Lots of delicious hurt/comfort involved.

Valerie by bisexualbluesargent

Listen guys I KNOW this was technically posted in 2023 but this was literally posted A DAY before January 1st 2024 so I'll give it to them. A protagonist Palace Fic AU that SCREAMS classic Shuake Fic energy. Honestly I won't say much more than that because half the fun of this fic is piecing together the story, so please give it a read!

Alright, that's all I have for now! Again, if I missed anything please feel free to contribute! Have a lovely day! 💚

[rageprufrock]

A director's cut on Wayfinding would be amazing. I'm living in eternal hope, that it will be updated some day.

I literally say this all the time and literally nobody believes me, so you know what, here, let's all have a little treat -- 3/4 of Ch 2 of Wayfinding, some of which has been posted before during the LIVEJOURNAL days and a lot of which has never been posted at all.

Happy reading!

Your sons and daughters will be given to another nation, and you will wear out your eyes watching for them day after day, powerless to lift a hand.

—Deuteronomy 28:41

JOHN

Dee, at three, is the most beautiful girl alive. She has dark blond hair and mossy green eyes, and when she laughs John feels his knees go weak, like he wants to drop down and pick her up and clutch her in his arms, like that's why little girls laugh to begin with: to get out of walking to the playground. 

Mary's out talking to adults, people who converse in full and complete sentences, she says, but John likes Deanna better. They get each other, they always have, and they talk in the secret language of favored fathers and daughters, instantly fluent in each other. She talks by waving her chubby hands, by tugging at his jeans, by crawling up into his lap in their living room, by touching his face, and when he smiles at her, she beams back and John feels his heart clutch in his chest because he loves her so much. She babbles at him about her day, and what sandwiches she and Mommy made, about the songs they sang, and how much she missed Daddy. 

John never know he could love anyone this much. It scares him how much he loves her. 

He takes her to the playground, pushes her on the swings, wants her to go as high as she wants, as fast as she likes, anywhere she seeks. At night, he thinks about when she gets older, about having to share her with the teachers at school, with the little brother or sister he and Mary have been thinking about having one day. He worries she might fall down, that people will disappoint her, that her life will be hard. He worries that nobody will understand how amazing she is, about if she'll know how to do her own taxes, and if she'll get mad if he tries to do them for her. He worries about her SAT scores, and if she'll be embarrassed that he's a mechanic and not a doctor or lawyer; he looks up law schools. He thinks about what he'll do if she ever stops loving him the way she does, if she stops looking at him like he's a giant who can fix anything, the way it makes him feel shit-scared and like Superman all at once. He gets sick thinking about boys making her cry, about one day when he has to let go of her hand in a church and give her over to someone else, and how he might not live through it, giving up his perfect girl.

John knows it's a dream, because it's been a long time since Deanna's hair curled like that, since she wore green t-shirts and pink shorts, tiny yellow sneakers and looped her arms around Dad's shoulders. 

More than that, he remembers, like the first burn of Alistair's knife into the flesh of his thigh in hell, the day Deanna stopped looking at him like that, when he'd looked at her heartbreakingly beautiful face and all he'd seen was how tired and hurt she was, and knew he couldn't do fucking shit about it. For all the boys he'd been scared would hurt her feelings, John knows he's done the worst, that he's left the deepest scars. Sometimes he thinks that if only his handlers in hell had known how much that had hurt him, and how long, how deep, they wouldn't have bothered with knives, with fire, with peeling off the individual fibers of his muscles at all. 

But right now, right here, in this haze of sleep he doesn't deserve, it's Lawrence and Dee's three; they are walking home from the playground at six o'clock. He hasn't failed her yet, and all Dee knows is that he's her daddy, and that her momma's waiting at home, and that when she wakes up tomorrow there will be pancake men on the griddle and that life is good. It's all John's ever wanted her to know, and the one fucking thing he couldn't leave her. Even this is all his. He doubts Deanna remembers. 

"John."

He blinks. It's Lawrence. It's 1982.

"John. You must wake up."

He gasps, and his heart roars into his throat.

John blinks again, and it's Chapel Hill. It's 2008. 

"John. Wake up."

"Jesus fucking Christ," he chokes out, and pushes himself up. His whole body hurts. He's 54 years-old and he feels every fucking year; he's 54 years-old plus 200-odd years in hell, and feels those, too, the memory of pain, too fierce for all the human words he knows, and too small, now, for all the demonology he learned in the pit.

At the foot of his fucking bed, Castiel is staring at him, crazy-eyed.

"What the fuck do you want?" he growls, and rolls over onto his side, swinging his legs off the edge of the mattress. He hears his spine creak, his knees protest. He's too old for this, and it's still raining, the wetness seeping into his joints and making them hurt.

"Deanna is gone," Castiel tells him, short like a gunshot.

John freezes. "What do you — ?" 

"I cannot find her," Castiel says, and he looks away from John, stares out the window into the rain. "She's not here."

John already feels sick, nauseated, but he says, "Hell, look, she might like you, but that doesn't give you leave to follow her around, you feathery fuck."

"She's not here," Cas says again, precise, and this time, when he meet's John's gaze, his eyes are blazing. 

John swallows. "Maybe she's at work," he says. 

"Her car is here," Cas rejoins. "She told her coworkers yesterday she was quitting her job. I heard her on her telephone. I didn't know what it meant, at the time."

John hears himself say, "Fuck," and then he's out of bed, all the pain subsumed into something bigger, dizzying fear that claws at him like the hellhounds had, and he barrels out of his room and down the hall, shouting for Sam.

In Deanna's bedroom, they find letters. She wrote one to Sam, one to Bobby, to Missouri and Ellen and Jo and hell, Ash. There's a letter to John, one to fucking Castiel. On the dresser, near her piles of unworn earrings and an origami crane, there are her car keys, and a Post-It saying: FOR SAM. DAD, DON'T LET HIM FUCK UP MY BABY.

"God damn it," John yells, and whirls around on Castiel. "How can you not find her? You're — you're a fucking angel."

"I recognize souls," Castiel growls. "And Deanna's is — "

He cuts himself off, looking away again, and John's grateful for that, at least. He's already busted his hands on Castiel's face once, he doesn't need to do it again. 

" — And I cannot find Deanna's," Castiel finishes, selecting his words carefully.

They toss the house. They search it from the corners of the attic into the basement, and Castiel flits from corner to corner, there and gone again in a heartbeat, and John almost drives Sam's fucking car into a tree when Castiel pops up in the God damn passenger seat as John's driving through campus, looking for any sign of her.

"You're wasting time," Castiel grinds out. 

"She can't have gotten far by foot," John snarls. He fucking hates angels.

"She's not a child," Castiel retorts. "She didn't run away."

"It's been eight hours — she could be entire states away," John says, clutching at the steering wheel, because she could be, and he has to believe it.

"She's not in any state," Castiel says, impatient. "She is not in North America. She is not in the Western Hemisphere and she is not on Earth. I looked for her from the top of Everest and I dove past the continental shelf and there's no sign of her — not a trace."

John would throw up if there was anything in his belly to throw up.

"Well, what the hell does that mean?" he asks, his voice is breaking and pitchy with panic. "What — does that mean she's dead?"

Castiel is quiet for a long time, too long, before he murmurs, "It means someone, or something, strong enough to disguise her from me has her."

John slants him a look. "Maybe you're not looking hard enough."

And when Castiel's eyes meet John's, John thinks he remembers — against the unrelenting red of hell, like a gash mid-putrefaction, endlessly dying — beyond the blue irises and black pupils and all the human trappings that John sees now, something terrible and beautiful and so huge John can never know it in complete. 

"I have always known where Deanna is — I did not lose her, she was taken," Castiel tells him — the "from me" is silent. His voice sounds like the endless, hollow spaces of a library, the air filling up a basilica: old and huge and knowing. 

"Jesus fucking Christ," John says, and turns back toward the house, where the car pulls into the driveway just in time for to hear Sam screaming, for John to throw the car into park, tear out of the side door. 

He follows the sound of Sam shouting — for help, for anyone, oh God, please, no, no — his voice getting hoarser and thinner, and when John gets into the barn, Castiel's already there, filling the air with something that sounds like a fucking siren on mute, just the press and urgency and terror of it, getting louder by the fucking minute.

John's about to ask, "Sam, what — ?" when he sees it.

***

In hell, there are stages. 

In the early days, John was too busy reeling from the horribleness, the sheer and terrible evil of the place to process anything, and the soul is strangely cerebral in the way it shuts down for preservation, he thought, watching demons scrape his skin from his muscle, peel him apart like an onion oozing blood. 

The nerves wear away and at some point it's just nausea, awareness, that hurts, and not the way the guts of you feel any physical pain. It's when they run out of skin to cut and things to rape and nerves to twist and blood to drain and the agony of your physical body vanishes into nerveless oblivion that it all gets dicey, that it gets worse, that it gets into the territory of things John Winchester doesn't know how to describe, can barely remember accurately, just feels like a physical lurch through spaces his body occupies that he doesn't know how to name. But he knows this: for the first year after the pain stopped terrifying him, when the easy kick of horror wore off, a demon named Alistair had dragged Deanna onto the rack. 

It wasn't Deanna, but it was, and John will never forget her shaking lower lip, her cheeks, dirty and wet with tears, what Alistair did to her, or how the last breaths of her rattled out of her chest over and over again, every day, and how he always screamed, even when his lungs had been clawed out of his chest. They brought her in when she was a grown woman, beautiful like his last clear memories of her; they dragged her down as a gangly limbed girl; they strapped her onto the rack when she was ten and screaming, turning her face toward him and shouting for help; they carried her over, frozen, green eyes swimming with tears, when she was five, when she was brand new. 

When he was numb to that, too, to watching his baby girl die over and over again, when he was too tired of being ripped up — and that had been terrible in its own way — they'd brought out Sam.

***

Sam's hunched over, on the floor, making hurt, animal noises in the dirt, his body a broken arch over where Deanna's on the floor, her hair a dark gold spill across the floor.

Her eyes are glassy and open and dead, one hand flung out, fingers curled delicately, and from the neck down she's been ripped to pieces. There're long gashes down her chest and belly, blood soaking dark and day-old into the dirt, a messy spatter of gore on her bleached and blue-white skin, on the curve of her chin. Her UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA-CHAPEL HILL SCHOOL OF NURSING t-shirt is shredded, and John can see the ghastly white of a bone in all the blood and he thinks, no, no. 

Her hair is dirty, matted, and getting worse from where Sam is brushing her bangs back away from her face, he keeps gasping, "No, Dee, no, please, no, Deanna." John doesn't know it until he hits the dirt that his knees are giving out, that he's falling to them, and then he's crawling forward on all fours to Sam, to Deanna, to where Sam's face is slick-wet with tears and he's run out of words.

John pulls Deanna's head into his lap — hands shaking — and when he tries to suck in a breath it hurts like a knife in the gut. He palms her cheeks. He touches Deanna's mouth. He brushes the corners of her eyes, her throat — the white skin of it, too still — and he strokes her arm, the long muscle and the dip of her elbow, down to her wrist and John closes his fingers there, ignores the way blood is slicking his palm. He thinks about the first time he ever touched Deanna's wrist, when it was small and chubby and the first time she closed her fingers around his thumb; he thinks about holding her hand when she was a baby, when she was small, when she got so big, and then he has to stop thinking about it before he throws up. He's looking for a pulse even though he knows there's no way there is one — the ground underneath her is soaked dark red, soaking into John's pants now, too, too much for one person, for one girl, and John knows, he knows, he knows but — but he can't stop looking, can't stop running his hands over her.

"No," he's saying, "no," because he died for her, he sold his soul for her, he went to hell for her, and whenever he'd watched her die there, he'd known it was bullshit, that Deanna was upstairs calling Sam a motherfucker and taking care of him and breathing and — he turns to Castiel.

"Fix her," he says. "Fix her."

Castiel doesn't look at John, can't take his eyes away from Deanna — her body, what's left of her, Jesus Christ — and he just says, "I don't know how this happened."

"Fuck how, who cares about how?" Sam snarls, and he gets to his feet, he grabs at Castiel's trench, hands smearing dirt and Deanna's blood, and when Sam shakes Castiel, Castiel actually shakes. "Just fix her — bring her back — "

"I can't," Castiel tells him, distracted, and he's not looking at Sam, he's looking over Sam's shoulder, looking at Deanna like something stuck a fist into his chest.

Sam's face crumbles again, like even his muscles and bones hurt to much to hold it up, to keep it together, and he just keeps clawing at Castiel's coat, keeps saying, "Please — please, it's — she's my sister, please."

"I can't," Castiel says again, a crack of lightning in the heavy air. And softer, creaking, hurt in a way John would have sworn the unbending edifice of Castiel, angel of the Lord, couldn't be, he closes his eyes, he murmurs, "It's beyond my powers."

"You — you pulled Dad out of hell," Sam says, wild. "You're an angel."

"And I knew then where your father was," Castiel hisses at Sam, eyes blazing, "where his soul was, who had it, and I had heaven's fiercest garrisons at my back when we stormed the gates of hell for him — for Deanna, I know none of these things, and — " and his voice cracks here, his voice a whisper " — and I know no one, no demon, who could have taken her, stolen her from under my protection."

And that's when Sam starts yelling, starts hollering, that familiar note of total batshit crazy-would-do-anything-no-questions-asked that John knows has led to at least one dead body before. 

"No!" Sam's screaming, "no! She's — no! You bring her back, you fix this, you — " with Castiel growling over him, and Sam's voice getting pitchier and more desperate and less coherent, guttural and begging, with all the syllables and words melting away.

John loses track of the argument, he stops listening, and he runs his fingers over Deanna's face, closes her eyes, puts his hands over her ears, because he knows she hates it when they fight, when Sam's yelling. He curls over her, he pulls her up, he presses her face into his neck and he breathes through the gold floss of her hair and he tries to wake up. He rocks himself back and forth, he threads his fingers into Deanna's, he pulls her hand up to his mouth, and he kisses the unbroken pink skin of her knuckles, sobs into her fist and prays, and prays, and prays.

***

They put her in the library.

John doesn't bother suggesting a pyre. He thinks about picking her up, about carrying her inside, but when he tries to move her, Sam goes postal. John gets the blanket from the hayloft instead and hands it to Sam, lets him wrap it around her, face gray and terrifyingly blank. He doesn't fight it. John's always known that Sam and Deanna orbited each other, that he's always watched from a distance. Sam wraps her up like a baby, picks her up like one, like she weighs nothing, and he carries her into the house, her head against his shoulder, and he hushes her like she can hear him when he puts her down, lays her across the rug in front of the fireplace.

Castiel has followed them like a ghost, just flashes from the corner of John's eyes, but John can feel him, the hugeness of Castiel's presence like an electrified blanket, muting out all the ambient noise. It kills the sound of cars on the road, the rustle of the trees, the silence is so complete and unbroken it's swallowing, it eats up everything, and John just sits in the armchair in the library and lets it eat him, too.

He watches Sam kneel over his sister, over their shared heart, and John's still because he doesn't know what else to be, what else to feel, anything to do, and Castiel flutters like a shadow, flickering in and out, and nobody says anything, everything in slow motion.

The sky goes from the swollen, overcast morning to dense heat by mid-day, and John just sits and sweats ice, hurts. God apparently hates a vacuum, and in the absence of Deanna — Jesus Christ — to lock it down and get shit done, apparently it's Sam's job, and John ain't moving anywhere, doing anything, anytime soon. So Sam gets a wet cloth, washes the blood off of Deanna's face and fingers, pats her hair clean and brushes it out. He calls Bobby and says, "Bobby, we need your help," and "Deanna's — Bobby, something got her." He calls Ellen. He calls Missouri, and John can hear her already crying when she picks up the phone, murmuring, "Oh Jesus, that poor girl, oh Jesus," and Sam just tells her, something brittle in his voice, "Don't worry, we'll get her back."

Sam stays long after it gets dark and cool, long after Deanna's gone stiff, and John wants to ask what the hell they're doing here, what the hell either of them are doing there, but then Castiel appears, a darker shadow among many, and says, looming over Sam and looming over Deanna:

"It's hellhounds."

John freezes.

Sam croaks, "What?"

Castiel drops down on his haunches, balancing on the balls of his feet, the trenchcoat pooling around him, and he reaches one hand over, hovering it over Deanna's body. Sam goes to snatch it away, but his fingers freeze midair, suspended like he can't move, and Castiel ignores him, just says, "Hellhounds — I knew I recognized her wounds."

John has never seen a hellhound. Not even in hell did he see one with his eyes, but he knows them, the way they fill up empty spaces, the way their teeth rip on his skin, through his bones, into the matter of the soul, tore at the viscera of what made him, seen their victims littering the long basalt walkways of hell. Alistair had kept a pack of them, and when hell was particularly busy, and he was particularly occupied with trying to break John, he would dispatch the dogs to do his business on the other souls in his charge. 

"Why would hellhounds — " Sam starts.

"It's also why I haven't been able to locate her soul," Cas murmurs. "My sight doesn't extend to hell when its gates are sealed."

"Oh my God," Sam croaks. "Deanna's in hell."

Castiel's eyes shutter, and his palm drops, tired, closing over the wings of her collar bones, his thumb in the divot between, like he, too, is looking for a pulse but he doesn't know how.

"Most likely," Castiel rasps. "I'm sorry."

And it surprises John more than anybody, probably, when he asks, "Why?"

Castiel's eyes, when John catches them, are cold fire. 

"I don't know," he admits. Unfolding himself, Castiel says, "But I will find out," and before he's fully standing, the space he occupied is empty again — and when John looks down, Deanna's wounds are closed over, the skin closed and unbroken, just blood smeared across white, all knitted together.

***

It's horribly fitting, in a way, that it's Sam and John who bury her. 

They pick a spot behind the house, away from the barn, where it's green and lush and the trees bow into a heart across the Carolina blue sky and dig in unbroken silence. Deanna never got to be a little girl or a young lady or anything other than the fulcrum on which Sam and John tilted, and she'd loved them anyway for it, and John feels sick, and selfish, and numb, and when they put her down into the earth — in a pine box, dressed in a pale yellow sundress she swore she didn't like that much — Sam cries the entire time, hurt, his voice cracking so badly and his knees so weak John finishes the job himself, hiding his baby girl away under six feet of reddish-brown dirt.

The next three days John drinks a lot and remembers very little. He thinks there's a fight, somewhere in the middle, where he calls Sam an ungrateful, selfish little shit and where Sam yells back that he wished Castiel was Deanna's angel, that Dad being dead was a fucking blessing and his coming back was the curse. It's shortly after that that Bobby arrives, and hell, John barely remembers any of this, just has the vague impression of Bobby dumping him into his bed, saying, "You poor, sorry son of a bitch," and taking off his boots.

He dreams about hell, dreams about Deanna on the rack, and when he wakes up to go hug the toilet he doesn't know if it's the bourbon or the fear. 

It's almost a week later by the time he comes out of it, shaken awake by Bobby, who slaps him — furious — across the face, and when John's cussing, "Jesus fucking Christ, you — " he cuts in, saying:

"Fuck your self pity, Winchester."

"Jesus, Singer," John gasps, dazed, tasting blood on the corner of his mouth. Bobby looks red-eyed, tired, and John doesn't remember him staying. He'll add it to the list with all the other things. 

He points toward the bathroom door. 

"Go get showered and brush up. It's past noon."

He does, but only because the prospect of fighting with him is more energy than it's worth, and when he staggers out of the shower, Bobby's sitting at the foot of his bed whittling a fucking stick. He tilts his head toward a stack of clothes. 

"Get dressed," Bobby tells him. "Work to do."

"Bobby, get the fuck out of my bedroom," John tells him. "If you wanna baby someone, Sam's down the hall and — "

"Sam," Bobby snarls, "has been doing some fucked up shit in your cellar, and is not down the hall." He picks up John's pants and throws them at him. "Now, as I said: get dressed — there's work to do."

***

The cellar, when John gets down there, is covered in runes, in Enochian, in sanskrit, in Latin. It's covered in Gaelic and there are, John recognizes, symbols, painstakingly copied from the old tortoise shell relics of pre-dynastic China. There're candles burning, a gas lamp humming, flashlights all over the place, a scrying dish. John tastes brittany and lavender and witch hazel burning, the smoke from rosemary, and he sees bone ash in a bowl and says, "Jesus, Sam, what the hell are you doing down here?"

"Something," Sam growls at him, and when he looks up, his face is thin with grief. None of it's in his eyes. He's always been able to shut it down, lock it away, close the door on it better than Deanna, in a way John couldn't do it at all. "Anything to figure out what did this to her."

John picks up the scrying dish. There's dredges of what he bets is grave dirt and blood in there, and he sets it back down. Somewhere in Lawrence, Missouri Moseley is writing his ass a pissed off as shit letter, John just knows it. 

"That angel said it was hellhounds," John says, and he can't keep himself from remembering the way Deanna looked, dead on the barn floor, a flash before his eyes and gut-wrenching, unforgiving, as sharp and nauseating a pain today as it was before.

Sam turns back to his book, hands preternaturally calm, but John sees the way all the knives on the tables are shifting, uneasy, and he presses his hand down on the handle of one to still its rattling. 

"Hellhounds don't act of their own volition," Sam lectures. "They always move on orders, and they don't just wander out of hell, either, someone — "

"Someone sent them after her," Castiel interrupts, there suddenly and leaning over Sam's book, his fingers trailing across the page. "This is the right summoning."

Sam swallows hard. "Yeah?" he croaks.

Castiel tilts his head, and John can't see the look that's exchanged, but hell, he can guess. The angel says, "It's not necessarily going to yield results, but it's worth a try." 

"Good to know," Sam says, mostly to himself.

"Is that why you prayed for me?" Castiel asks, brisk and barely civil, like he wants to be anywhere but this house, and John can understand that feeling, he knows it in his gut. "To check your spellwork?"

"And to see if you found anything," Sam says, hasty.

Castiel's face darkens. "I haven't."

"And to give you this," Sam says, voice strange. For a beat, John wants to ask what the hell Sam thinks he's doing, but then he sees the letter, Deanna's familiar handwriting tiny across the front, spelling out, Cas, and Sam says, "She — she left it for you."

Before John has an opportunity process whatever the fuck that means, Cas is taking the letter, and John doesn't know that he's ever seen a solemn hand before now, but Castiel's hands are solemn, and he and stares and stares at the envelope, his mouth going slack with something John knows intimately is loss. 

"Thank you, Sam," Castiel says, finally, tracing a thumb over his name.

Sam's flat-lipped smile is brittle and he nods. "Let us know if you find something."

Cas doesn't look away from the letter, but he does say, "I will," the last syllable of his words still lingering long after he's gone.

John clears his throat. "What summoning was he talking about?"

Sam shows him a book. "Here," he says.

***

John hears Sam and Bobby on the phone with Rufus, with Ellen, with a half-dozen other hunters scattered around the country. There are signs, they're saying; something's not right, something making the sky heavier and everyone nervous. Ellen says she's got a kid named Ash — "Hell of a haircut to go with that brain of his." — is finding the beginnings of a pattern in supernatural events. They've got compounding questions and no answers, and Bobby and Sam take notes and keep digging and John spends hours sitting in Deanna's room. The first time he lost one of his girls he'd been so busy trying to avenge her he hadn't grieved; this time, it's all he can do. 

His letter had said:

Daddy — 

I'm sure by now you're all trying to figure out what happened, or why I did it, or how, and I know telling you all to leave well enough alone is pointless. But I do want to say that I'm sorry for upsetting you, probably upsetting Sam. I know you probably won't believe me (and that's okay, too) but I had to do this; it was my problem, I caused it, it's my responsibility to deal with the consequences. 

I know you and Sam will fight like idiots, but please take care of each other for me.

Love, Deanna.

John's read it so many times, folded and unfolded it until the paper was soft. He keeps it tucked in his wallet, he folds it up in the pocket of his shirt. He keeps it nearby all the time. He keeps trying to find if there's a message in the words, some clue left behind, but it's just blue ballpoint pen ink and yellow legal pad paper, Deanna's familiar, crushed-tight handwriting crawling across the lines like a line of ants. He wonders what she wrote Sam, if his letter was longer, if she told him any more than she'd written to John — and Jesus Christ, John knows he's a jealous shit when he comes to Deanna — and he wonders what she had to say to Bobby, to Ellen — to fucking Castiel.

It's better than the other stuff he thinks about.

But he still thinks about it, the memory of Sam begging, his ugly, desperate crying, and Deanna small and bloody in his arms, guts spilling out, vivid and hypsersaturated. It's worse than the dreams of hell because the only thing that had kept him going, for time that seemed to arc out into eternity, was knowing that Deanna was aboveground, that she'd forget him, forgive him, eventually, because that's what Deanna does.

He can barely close his eyes before he starts remember: the rack, the screams, the peeling skin, the fire and the way after a while the coppery warm smell of blood had been good and rich, and luxurious in his mouth. But it always circles back around to Sam's face, Deanna's slack and bloody mouth, and he wakes up gasping, heart trying to tear its way out of his chest. He's back to drinking himself to sleep, and without Deanna to shuffle everything under any convenient rugs, there're empty bottles of fuck knows what bottom-shelf liquor littering his bedroom floor, hiding away in the corners of the library, where the rug now wears a dark-red stain, too, like the rest of them.

***

The forensics of the supernatural are complicated, arcane, rooted in gossip and ashes, and it takes a week and a half to get everything just right. They gather a sage stick and a dozen white candles; Sam breaks a thermometer, mixes mercury and acid and a scrap of Sam's t-shirt, stiff with Deanna's blood, in the silver cup with its grotesques along the base rolling forked tongues at John like a threat. 

When they do, they do the ritual in the library, because he can't go into the fucking barn without being wrenched by it, without still smelling the blood, feeling the dizzying vertigo. 

"You're sure this will work?" he asks, but there's no fire behind it, he can barely keep himself standing, leaning against a wall and hoping it's enough to keep him upright.

Sam, across the room, nods. "Yeah — it should summon whatever demon..." he trails off, because Sam can't bear to say it either, say, dragged her off, stole her from us.

"Most demons would leave some residue," Castiel growls, there suddenly and occupying a once-empty space by the fireplace, comprehensive in his stillness. 

John asks, "Most?"

Castiel looks wrecked, wild, and he has dark circles under his eyes, like he's losing his veneer of angelic distance. Castiel is an asshole and useless but he's an angel, for fuck's sake, he shouldn't look thinner and crazy and like he's falling apart, like he's been pulled inside out, but he does, and when he turns to look at John, he says:

"Ones that won't would be beyond summoning, anyway."

"Nice of you to finally fucking show up," Bobby spits at him, and the glance Castiel gives him could flay a man.

"Did you find anything?" Sam asks, before Castiel can do it, rip Bobby from stem to sternum, and John thinks Castiel would do it, too, just to get it out from underneath his skin. They're all particularly dangerous recently, and John tries not to think about how it might have been for his baby girl, always being everybody's emergency handbrake.

Castiel shakes his head and looks toward the windows of the library, where the leaves are rustling, lazy, on the summer-heavy trees, blanketing the ground in pale green light. 

"The gates of hell are still closed to me, and my superiors haven't answered any of my questions," he says, and he runs his hand along the edge of a bookshelf, fingers touching the spines of Deanna's Little House on the Prairie books. "I have felt no indication of her on Earth, either, in the course of my other duties."

John barks out, "Other duties? What the hell other duties do you have that — " are more important than getting Deanna out of hell, John means to say, but Castiel cuts him off, interrupts and grinds out:

"We're wasting time." He nods at Sam. "Do the ritual."

Sam does. 

They stand, all of them, in a half-moon around the arc of a devil's trap, and Bobby and John hold shotguns and holy water and Sam is holding a book — old vellum, rumored to be human skin — chanting Latin until the walls shake, the lights flicker, the daylight goes prematurely gray outside the windows. 

The space inside the house and around it shake, overfull, filled up to the brim with the heavy, dusty sweep of magic, and it always feels like someone's tickling fingers up John's spine when it happens: invasive, unexpected, unwanted, cold. Castiel just leans against the bookshelf — still tracing a copy of Little House in the Big Woods with his fingertip — and watches, utterly untouched by it, his trenchcoat and hair and everything perfectly still, the moving eye to a coming storm. 

The wind kicks up, and all the papers in the room are swirling like a hurricane, pens and glasses rattling off desks, and it's like a storm trapped inside a house except that all of a sudden everything goes quiet, goes still, and John has just enough time to ask, "Was that it?" before a sonic boom swallows all the questions in the room in a column of blue flame and something ugly and skeletal gets spat into the room, sucked out of nowhere and sprawled in the devil's trap now.

Bobby says, "What in the hell — ?"

"Stay still," Castiel hisses at all of them. "Don't move — any of you."

And they don't, any of them, because John doesn't believe in Castiel's God or any of the work that Castiel says they have for him, but there is something in his voice that is old like water in stone, like the darkest, oldest parts of a forest, the black corners of oceans no one has ever seen. When he talks, the room shakes, too, and John watches Sam freeze and Bobby freeze and watches whatever the hell it is they've summoned freeze, watches Castiel take easy, unhurried steps closer to it, his long legs eating up the length of the library floor.

John looks at the thing instead, and he stares and stares and stares until it resolves into something that looks human, a little. Hell is vivid, but hell is vast, and he doesn't remember this, whatever it was, that is bringing itself onto spindly knees, with cracking wrists and razor-sharp shoulders, skin that wraps possessively around the bone and green-gray with rot, dark, tired blood in the deep hollows between the ribs, in the well of its throat, where there should be stomach and muscle or sinew. But reflexive, John still freezes, he still feels his spine curl, he wants to look away when it looks up. He thinks, do it for Deanna, and meets its eyes only to find it doesn't have any: just black holes in a dried-out skull that seems to glow. In the yellowy light of late afternoon it looks small, unremarkable, and the whispery voice that comes out of its rattling throat hisses:

"Angel."

Castiel crosses into the devil's trap, and the thing flinches away, shuffles back on its creaking knees. The Daddy Long Legs fingers of it clicking across the library floor, nails scraping wood, catching the cheap rug fibers, dragging as it moved to get away.

"Deanna Winchester," Castiel spits at him, still advancing. "I can smell her on you."

The demon — it has to be a demon — grins, wavering, and it's a mouthful of rotted out teeth that John sees behind his shriveled lips. 

"Oh, her. She came to me special delivery, all I had to do was pick her up." He makes a wheezing noise, like a whine of regret. "Didn't even get to keep her long."

"Who?" Castiel asks, and his voice sounds like the first tremor of an earthquake. "Who sent her to you?"

"Above my pay grade," the thing hisses back.

"Where is she now?" Castiel says.

The thing laughs. "Sweetheart, I think that's above your pay grade, but oh — " it shudders, the hollows of its eyes crunching together in delight, shivers rattling its bones " — oh she's so good, angel, all the guts of her are good, and her skin, that delicious, white, wet silk on the inside of her thigh — "

The only thing that keeps John from leaping into the devil's trap, too, is Bobby's hand like an iron vice on his arm, holding him in place, hissing, "Don't you fucking think about it, Winchester."

" — and when they took her away, they took her even deeper," it hisses. "Somebody else's turn, I guess."

Castiel is unblinking, his eyes as still as the locked-tight angles of his shoulders.

"Did she make a deal?" he asks. "Did she sell her soul?"

The thing makes s spitting noise, like a cat gone feral. "Why should I — " the rest of its protest is swallowed up in a shriek, unearthly, and John can't see what Castiel did, but he's done something, because the demon on the ground has folded even more tightly into himself, its body like origami, and it huffs for breath like it needs oxygen, gasps in between saying, "No — no."

"Then how," Castiel asks, very quiet and very dangerous, advancing again, just half-steps, the creak of his cheap shoes on the floorboards and carpet a menace like John's never known something made up of so many ordinary sounds could be, "did she end up on your rack?"

The demon stops, just a beat, and in an outward gush of suicidal delight, it shrieks, its bones rattle, its skin tears, it shouts, "Oh, it was you — it's your sticky fingerprints I recognized all over her, isn't it? I knew there was something familiar about you, angel."

John freezes.

"How?" Castiel demands again. "Answer the question."

"Your little princess was a gift, angel," the demon coos at him, still rapturous. "Someone cracked the Gate. I just followed the hounds up, found her soul wandering around, beaming like a lighthouse." It rasps a laugh, and asks, commiserating, "She's awfully skittish, isn't she?"

Castiel is reaching a hand to it, eyes blazing — and John's never seen a demon scared, before, but he's seen it now, watching it shake and look like it wants to plead — when Sam cuts in, shouts out:

"Wait — how do we get her out?"

The thing on the floor flicks its eyes over, to Sam, to the source of the sound — John could beat Sam to death for being completely unable to follow simple God damn directions, ever — except the demon's mouth is going manic with a smile, and like it forgets who's in front of him, what it's stuck inside, it sways, wanting, purring:

"Oh, Allistair loves her, he'd never give her up without a fight."

John feels something hemorrhage and break in two in his chest.

He'd spent 200 hundred years in the Pit, 100 on the rack, unbroken, because he had people to live for upstairs, something to clutch at.

But John had also spent 100 years at Allistair's side, stringing people up when he'd just gotten tired of fighting, when he'd climbed off the rack and picked up the knife, and the honey sweetness of it, the dizzying pleasure of it, the memory of Allistair as he'd picked up a blade is bright and visceral and inescapable in his mind. 

"You're Castiel, right?" the thing hisses, turning back to the angel, tongue curling out of its withered mouth, and John watches Castiel tense up, his arm stretch outward and fingers freeze, just long enough for the demon to add, "She dreamt about you."

And then Castiel closes the heel of his palm over the thing's forehead and turns it to dust in a blaze of light.

***

After that, there's nothing. 

There's nothing long into that night, after Sam's exhausted himself trying to discern answers in the ashes. Nothing after they all go through all the lore again. Nothing after Sam goes hoarse and terrifies the neighbors standing in the backyard, yelling at the sky for Castiel, who doesn't darken their doorstep for days that stretch into weeks. 

There're no signs, there's nothing. Everything's quiet, so quiet it doesn't make sense, and there're no answers, still, nothing to cling to and no one to ask and John's collection of newspaper clippings turns psychotic while Sam's stack of spellbooks gets darker and blacker at the edges.

After a month, Bobby goes back to South Dakota, hushing something into Sam's ear when he hugs the boy goodbye, as Sam clutches at him too closely, hollow eyed. Two days later, Jo and Ellen roll into town, and John could kill Singer, for being a crazy old fucker, yes, but for dispatching the Harvelles, too. Ellen's hated John ever since he got her husband killed, and he understands that, but maybe she doesn't hate him that much after all, because she picks her way up the stairs and sits next to him on his bed late the first night they're at the house.

"Ellen," John says to her.

She plucks the SoCo out of his hands and looks at it, assessing. "This doesn't work."

He laughs. "No. Sure doesn't."

Ellen puts it down, far away from their feet, closes one of John's hands into her own — and his fingers feel stiff, numb, the skin wrapped around them papery and strange against his own touch — and she puts the other on John's neck. She says, "John — I'm so sorry." He tries to shove her away, but he's too God damn drunk; he hasn't slept in weeks; he's half dead, all sick, completely spent, he's got nothing left, flat out and run down, and he can't even move fucking Ellen Harvelle when she drags him into a hug.

"We'll get her back," he tries to tell her, but he's not sure all the words come out right, because Ellen just ignores him, cards her fingers in his hair, and chokes out:

"John, I'm so sorry."

He tries to blubber something at her, about how Deanna's strong, how she'll make it, how she'll be okay until they figure out how to break her out. But he doesn't mean any of it. He doesn't even really believe any of it, and at its heart none of it matters, because his baby girl is six feet under and a million miles away; her Dad and her brother can't save her; hell, an angel can't save her, and she's strapped down on a rack under Allistair's knife, and it doesn't matter if John gets her out, it doesn't matter if they do it tomorrow, in the next minute, five hours ago — it will never be okay. She will never be fine. John will never be able to save her when she's already lost, and he's not sure how it happens, but he's thinking this and thinking this and ends up on his knees in front of the upstairs toilet, sobbing and throwing up and letting it all hit him, Ellen rubbing his back.

The next morning John packs up his truck.

"Where the hell are you going?" Sam asks. "We haven't — "

John closes his eyes. "I can't just sit here," he says, and it feels funny to be talking again after so long being silent. "I've gotta do something — maybe I'll pick something up along the way."

Sam stares at him, and John knows that look on his face. That's his, Don't You Dare Make Us Move Again face. That's his, I'm Gonna Be A Lawyer face. That's his, I Hate You Because Deanna Listens To You face.

"So you're just leaving," Sam says, dully.

"I'll have my phone," John tells him. "I'll check in — "

"Fuck you," Sam interrupts, and John can tell he's been dismissed. "Just — go. Leave."

He clutches at the truck, tries to dredge up any patience, or hell, any of the anger Sam used to light in him, how the way his son tilted his head and rolled his eyes could make him furious, incandescent. He can't find any of it. John just says, "Sam, I'll call."

"Forget it, Dad," Sam tells him, flat and already disengaged. "You never did anything to deserve her before, I don't know why I thought you'd shape the fuck up now."

That doesn't stop hurting until John's already back in Kansas, parking the car in front of Missouri's house. He calls Bobby to let him know he's back on the grid, dials the first digits of Sam's number a half-dozen times before he throws the phone into the backseat.

"He doesn't mean it," John mumbles, when Missouri makes him a coffee and sits him down at the kitchen table, frowning at him.

"Oh sweetheart, you know he did," she confides, and gives him a cookie. "That's okay, we both know it's not true."

Since John doesn't know it's not true, he'll let Missouri know it for both of them, and he eats the cookie and sleeps for 12 hours before he gets back on the road.

The hunting community at large responds to John's miraculous resurfacing on the circuit with disdain and suspicion; he hadn't expected anything less, but it does make him wonder about the number of times someone sneers at him and says, "I fucking knew it," like he'd called in stuck in hell to get out of God damn work or something.

He stays in Kansas for two weeks, hoovering up three small-fry ghosts and offing one poltergeist, rapidly becoming a hazard at the local bar, before he goes west, into California, where he loiters around Napa exorcising minor demons out of winery basements and drives in the cool early mornings. When he calls Bobby, all he gets is that they haven't found anything; when he calls Sam, Sam doesn't pick up the phone. So basically, everything is pretty much the same as always, with Sam righteously furious and Bobby barely tolerant and Deanna dead and John good for fuck-all.

John's never been good at taking care of Deanna, not the way he should have been. He taught her to shoot a gun and throw a punch, how to salt and burn a ghost and take out a witch, but none of it ever helped. All the people who've really hurt her are immune to rock salt and prayer. 

Sam hates the fact that John thinks they're doing the right thing, that he won't bend enough to consider there's another way; John's never fucking thought he was doing the right thing — he's always just been doing whatever he can to try and keep his family safe, to protect Deanna, to teach Sam how to protect himself, to look after his sister the way she always looked after him: unwavering.

He's in some nowhere town in Washington state when fate comes for him again. 

John's packed it in at a run-down Motel 6 with a faulty air conditioning unit, sleeping hot and having nightmares about Deanna, four years-old, tears streaking her smokey face and their house in Kansas ever-burning. He's driven across so many states and for so many days; no matter where he goes there he is, waking up with a silent scream filling the space behind his gritted, grinding teeth. 

It's through a hot sting of tears, gathering in his eyes, that he sees Castiel in the corner of the motel room, pacing the space in supernatural silence — barely disturbing the air. 

“They are making plans,” Castiel says, his voice raked gravel.

John just blinks at him, tries to get his bearings. He feels the fibers of the shitty motel coverlet under his bruised knuckles, can taste sour mash in his mouth. “Jesus — what? Who?” he asks once he can.

Castiel stares the way John thinks cemetery statues would, if they had real eyes: accusing, unblinking, fucking terrifying. 

“The host,” he says, and without waiting for another dumb question, he adds, “I sought and was denied revelation for a second time, after I left you. I…resorted to alternative channels for information.” 

John scrubs at his face. “The hell does that mean?” 

“It means I believe that the host are making plans,” comes the retort. “And from the signs and wonders I believe they are trying to trigger the last battle.”

John hears himself repeat, “Last battle.”

“The apocalypse,” Castiel goes on, freezing now at the laminate table in the room, where John had thrown his keys and his EMF meter, dumped his wallet late last night, when the liquor had started dragging him into sleep and his hands were shaking. 

“What does that have to do with Deanna?” John asks. He remembers justifying to himself that this ghost, or this striga, or this poltergeist was more important than his daughter long ago. Now Castiel says “apocalypse” and all he can think of his little girl. 

Castiel doesn’t look up at John, he keeps staring at the table — and it takes a beat before John realizes Castiel is staring at the photo in John's wallet, spilled open: yellowed plastic over an image of Deanna at 4 years old, in jean shorts and a green t-shirt the color of her eyes. Her hair's nearly white blonde from the sun, her eyes squeezed shut from her laughter, barefoot in the grass, happy and safe and new. It's the last photo Mary had taken, a lazy afternoon picnic in the impatient days before she went into labor with Sam. In the hazy light of the room, John can see Castiel skim his fingers over the wallet, over the little plastic photo sleeve, as if he can absorb the moment by touch. 

“Over the years, our Father has anointed prophets among humankind,” Castiel tells him, never looking away from John's history, from all that they've both lost. “And a portion of their words have been collected into your holy texts — the Torah, the New Testament, the Quran, the Bhagavad Gita, the Gathas, among many others. But they are not comprehensive of the full prophecy of the end of the days.”

John rolls himself off the couch, more or less onto his feet. He swears some, and once his back and all his joints stop cracking, he asks, “And, what? She’s tied to this prophecy?”

Castiel looks away from the photograph now. He looks back up at John, and whatever tenderness had been on his face is gone.

“You know the story of the four horsemen and the tribulation days, and your human storytellers elaborated on it with visions of resurrection and peace at the other end,” Castiel says. “The version I hear whispered among the host goes differently — it ends with the peace of all humanity wiped off of the face of Earth, and it begins when the righteous man, sent unjustly to hell, gets off the rack and picks up the knife.”

John’s stomach roils, his blood rushes, and he remembers Alistair and his hounds, the endlessness of hell, the way it breathed and throbbed like an exposed organ, gore seeping into every chamber — dripping off the ceilings and into John’s flayed-open guts.

“If it was you, the apocalypse would have started already. There are 666 seals, each monitored by one of my brethren, and we would have seen them begin to break,” Cas says, impatient, interrupting. “But there's been nothing, no movement, no change — and I believe now that’s why Deanna was taken.”

“To — lure the righteous man?” John asks.

Since his resurrection, John's guardian angel has spent shockingly little time perched on his shoulder. Castiel lacks the forgiveness, the soft edges of what John's been taught about mercy, been told about faith. He's terrifying, infinite in a way that's as alien as hell had been; John's literal demons had feared Castiel — John can do no better.

So it's no shock that he finds himself shaking, finds himself cold through, when Castiel turns to pin him with his borrowed eyes, stars burning from behind the thin bone mask. 

The size and shape of Castiel's anger fills the room like it had filled that barn so many weeks ago: cosmic and limitless — the ceaseless consuming at the heart of a black hole. 

“She is the righteous man,” Castiel replies, disgusted.

He comes away from the dresser, he comes toward John, and it's with two fingers outstretched and a gutted, gutting voice, that Castiel says, "It's only her — her goodness, that once broken is a deep enough sin to trigger the end — " 

The bare touch of the angel's fingers land with the weight of an asteroid between John's eyes as Castiel tells him, voice bending the way time is bending, the way light is bending, the way fate is shattering around them: 

" — it was folly for anyone to ever believe your soul could serve as substitute." 

***

John screams and he's in hell. He breathes and he's in Chapel Hill. He blinks, and he's in Bobby's basement, his molecules still out of alignment, none of his synapses fully reconnected. It smells like sweetgrass; it's smokey like a prairie fire, and gaunt, hunched over a silver bowl filled with the deep red of old blood, Sam sits on the floor at the edge of a summoning, eyes wide as silver dollars as he stares up at John.

"I — was not trying to call you," Sam tells him, slow.

From over his shoulder, Castiel says, "Your Enochian pronunciation called for no one," and appears from nowhere with a gleaming blade in his hand, luminous and otherworldly, and says, "Move — I'll do it."

[justleaveacommentfest]

SO I am a fandom Old. I remember the days of message boards, FF.net and actual websites and of course, LiveJournal.

The thing I have missed the most about fandom since the move from LJ and rise of AO3 has been the community! I miss my LJ FRIENDS, who I got to know… THROUGH COMMENTS!!!

My point is that this tumblr reminded me that I should take the time and effort to leave comments if I like a fic, so I have been! AND YOU KNOW WHAT IS HAPPENING?!!! Some authors are REPLYING to my comments! I’ve even found some authors here on tumblr and sent them asks or messages here! I AM FINDING FRIENDS AND COMMUNITY AGAIN! It’s a beautiful feeling!!

So thank you Skelly! ❤️

OMG YESSS!!! THAT IS OUR WHOLE THEME HERE!!!

COMMENTS BUILD COMMUNITY!!!

[sindirimba]

okay here we go. in my current ongoing effort to support off the wall creativity in fandom, i've compiled a list of book of nile fics with unusual premises. by that i mean tropes and plots and things that aren't common, or that used to be popular but aren't any more, or that are just, to put it briefly, weird. gloriously weird.

i didn't want to spend days on this so i am sure i'm missing things. i had 35 pages on ao3 to go through so i did have to skim. if you think something's missing from this list please add it, i'm not the QUEEN.

okay, below the cut: /livejournal refugee dialect

🖤 🖤 🖤

as usual i tried to find people's tumblrs but that's not always easy. some of these have additional content warnings that aren't included here, so pay attention.

🐺 A Little Nudge - @whumpedup - werewolves and everyone's in wolf form

🏚️ The Veiled Hollow - @winterequinoxx - halloween town

📚 A General Librarian - @sweetlyenchains - fairy tale, sentient castle, arranged marriage

📰 Rhymes with Shook Her - @lady-writes - booker the hooker

🥽 Here with Me - semi-anonymous sex

💉 if we’re honest with each other - @nevermindirah - kozaks made them do it

🦭 For I Am Bound and You Are Free - selkies

🪢 Make a Haven of Me - arranged marriage / marriage of convenience

👻 I’ll Find You - ghost fic, reincarnation

🥣 Eye Candy vs Soul Food - @lady-writes - reincarnation

🪿 Announcing Your Place in the World of Things - @mprosperossprite - soulmate geese

🐙 Wrap - tentacles

👑 At Your Service - royalty/commoner(ambassador)

🕳️ Summon The Pearl Rosary And Relax (Catch This Manic Rhapsody) - @lady-writes - gloryhole

💤 Yawn - somnophilia

🎭 052. Role Playing - @aimmyarrowshigh - fake relationship

📽️ This ain't no never-neverland - @energievie & @nevermindirah - pinup/nude modeling

💥 It is only the heart that can see rightly - soulmate spark

🐁 grow how you want to - @gaal-dornick - daemons

🧿 to have and to hold; - royalty/evil queen nile

🔥 The Missing Hours - @mprosperossprite - missing scene sex

👣 leave no man behind - @ungefug - drug fic, foot job, watersports

🔥 like a charm (that fits you perfectly) - @gaal-dornick - missing scene sex

🐝 The Gift of the Body - post apocalypse fantasy

‼️ Just to please you - omegaverse but hear me out

🌌 Counting Up, Counting Down - @phatburd - future, space travel

🐙 003. Tentacles - @aimmyarrowshigh - well,

🍄 Wouf Wouf: an unredacted fairy tale - @nevermindirah - animal transformation

🚪 only have you in my dreams - @gaal-dornick - accidental voyeurism, pegging desire from guy’s POV

🦁 hey there Mr. Lion - @sweetlyenchains - werelion

🎡 Your Heart is Unbreakable - @mongoose-bite - sex work

🪦 Child of Night - @mongoose-bite - psychopomp nile

🖌️ A Ready Heart - @what-alchemy - soulmate mark

👸🏿 wonder if better now having survived - @upinyourcortex - death by sex

🖤 🖤 🖤

and hey..... what about some self-indulgence. leave me alone. i'm self-reccing:

🩸 You Come Through - period sex

🥀 You’re not my eater - sex pollen

⚉ French Knot - clones

🐈‍⬛ Don’t babysit that - burglar/homeowner, california weed

➡️ Xyzzy - interactive fiction themed

🍑 À quoi bon se bousculer? - anal sex, woman receiving

and i have to mention the venom AU that @nevermindirah and i wrote : Quit your job and become a monsterfucker. it is a WIP, i'm so sorry. but there's some fun stuff in there, so i have to 👽

from my kinktogber collection:

🧊 Creampie

🍆 Size Kink

🔫 Fuck or Die

🤰🏿 Pregnancy

📌 Monsterfucking

okay i'm done

ps: if you're like, (trope here) isn't unusual i see it everywhere! well this is all inherently subjective. but please tell me about your magical fandom land where there's a plethora of fic where a m/f couple engage in anal sex with the woman receiving. please.

[hanckocks-dagger]

Red Nightgown Blues

masterlist

John Hancock x afab!reader

Description: After a medical emergency, you realize the only thing you really need is Hancock by your side.

Fill for a truly ancient LiveJournal prompt from the Fallout Kink Meme

Tags: Established relationship, hurt/comfort, angst, reader is SoSu, no y/n

Warnings: Miscarriage, blood, medical exams/procedures, worries about terminal illness. (I don't go into much detail and none of it is all that explicit, but please skip out on this one if you feel it would be triggering to you <3 )

Word count: 3.1K

Crossposted on my ao3

The bed was wet. Not in a damp, sweaty naked bodies way, but like someone had dumped an entire bucket of water onto your legs. Distantly, you thought back to your dreams, wondering if you'd gotten too high last night and managed to wet the bed. Ugh. Not the most respectable thing for the general of the Minutemen, but god knows you'd pulled Hancock out of enough puddles of his own vomit for it to be your turn.

Speaking of. You twisted in the bed to check the other side of the bed, wincing when your stomach cramped at the movement, muscles sore beyond belief. What the fuck?

The bed was empty, Hancock's hat and coat missing from where he'd tossed them the night before. He didn't tend to wake up before you, but maybe Fahrenheit had dragged him off for some mayoring business.

The front of your shirt and your underwear were uncomfortably sticky, glued to your skin, so you decided it would be best to rip the band-aid off, go strip the sheets and wallow in embarrassment for a while. You raised the sheets slowly, expecting to find a damp spot on the bed, maybe some moisture on the skin, but paled at the sight that greeted you. Blood. Way, way too much blood.

You inhaled shakily, pulling yourself into a sitting position, sending another stab of pain through your abdomen as you did. You shoved the sheets to the side, taking in the wet puddle of blood in the bed, more crusted onto your thighs, your underwear unrecognizable, dyed red.

"Shit," You whimpered, mind already reeling. God, you wished John hadn't left, his disposition much less prone to panic than you were, wanted him to be your voice of reason as your mind spun with possibilities. Was it the sex? You were usually pretty careful, taking your RadX first and finishing off with RadAway. Hell, you couldn't even name the last time he'd finished inside of you. But... maybe your body was tired of it, rebelling. Or maybe you'd had internal bleeding from your last fight, but didn't that usually show up in your vomit?

You rose to your feet, legs shaky, and stripped the bed, using a corner of the sheet to wipe off your thighs, wincing as the blood smeared over your skin. It didn't exactly look fresh, it wasn't like someone had stabbed you in the middle of the night, it looked more like the darker, browner color of your period, but this was... way too much blood.

You balled up the sheets in your hands, leaving them on the floor as you struggled to get your pants on. You needed a doctor. Amari was fine for patching up scrapes, and had even reattached some of Hancock's fingers when they got bitten off by a rabid dog once, but she specialized in brains, not whatever this was.

You pulled a piece of paper from the desk, scribbling out a quick explanation to John so he wouldn't be liable to lose his mind when he couldn't find you skulking around.

Popped over to Diamond City for the day, back before dark <3

On a normal day you would've tracked him down, gotten him to kiss you stupid before letting you leave, but you were shaking, pale and very clearly panicking, and you didn't want him to worry, or insist on following you. You weren't sure you had it in you to keep him from threatening to bite whoever badmouthed him, not today.

You pulled on your shirt, ignoring the way your blood covered hands left streaks on the fabric, shouldered your gun and tucked some caps into your pockets. If you moved slowly, kept out of sight and didn't run into any problems on the way, the walk shouldn't be more than an hour.

Downtown Boston was light and quiet, lit by noon sun bright enough that you wished you could've had John's hat to shade your eyes. Your fingers itched to have his hand to hold, and your fraying nerves had you wishing for his voice to calm you. Your ideas were spinning rapidly out of control: This was cancer, or some other equally incurable illness. You were dying. How could you possibly go home and face John to have to tell him that your time together was coming to an end, that you were abandoning him?

You steadied yourself on a rusted mailbox, forcing a few deep breaths before you lost your mind completely. You'd already passed the first sign for Diamond City, it was just a couple of blocks and you'd be inside the city walls. You’d go talk to Doctor Sun, end your panic. No matter the outcome, knowing was better than this pointless speculation.

You were more lightheaded than you were comfortable being, but kept walking, regretting not having brought water with you in your hurry to get out without Hancock spotting you. You regretted not going to him, either. Sure, you were strong, capable, got through more than most, but wasn’t this the sort of thing partners were for? Shouldering the heavy burdens with you, providing comfort. 

As the gates of Diamond City approached, you considered turning around, trekking back and just falling into his arms, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to make the journey twice in one day, not the way your vision was starting to swim. So, instead, you walked into the gates alone, emerging into the bustling Diamond City, and headed towards the Doctor’s. 

Doctor Sun frowned as you whispered your symptoms to him, putting down his clipboard when you spoke of the cramps in your abdomen, quickly ushering you inside his house.

"Are you sexually active?"

You bit your lip, pausing to consider how to answer. Would he deny you medical service if you admitted to shacking up with a Ghoul? Sure, he was a doctor, but Diamond City's distrust of Ghouls had deep roots. You weren't willing to risk it, kept it to a clipped, "Yes."

He nodded, instructing you to pull your pants down and lie down on the table. You hesitated, the memory of the mess with Doc Crocker fresh in your mind. Still, your gun was leant against the table, and though Doctor Sun wasn't a small guy, you spent your time flitting about the wastes. If the worst happened, you’d be able to fight him off.

The inspection was quick, invasive and painful. Doctor Sun was professional the whole way through, and pointedly did not look at you as you redressed, tears stinging at your eyes.

"I'm sorry to say, but your cervix is dilated, indicating a miscarriage."

You blinked at him, having been bracing for news of your inevitable death. You were pregnant?

"But–" You cut yourself off. Couldn't tell him that that would be impossible. "That's... that's it? It's not... uterine cancer? Or like... cysts on the ovaries or something? A miscarriage?"

"All indications point to that, yes. Otherwise, you seem healthy. Again, I'm very sorry."

The shock of the news left you numb to anything else, no feelings attached to the thing itself. "Uhm, okay. Thank you. Should I... do anything?"

"Well, you've probably lost a substantial amount of blood, so I'm going to administer a blood pack. You should try to keep your diet rich in iron for the next few days, and spend the day resting."

"Thank you," You said blankly, as the doctor went about searching for blood, gave you a glass of water, and took his payment.

When he told you it was safe to leave, you stepped into the market in a daze. How would you have gotten pregnant? Ghouls were sterile, it was one of the few facts that almost everyone seemed to know about them.

You bought some meat, which you ate without tasting it, then walked over to Sheng's for some cold water. The boy looked at you strangely as you passed over the caps, but kept his mouth shut.

The thought briefly crossed your mind that it could have been someone else, as you wracked your mind for any missing memories, any nights with strangers, but besides that time last month when you'd gone with John up to Tenpines to help with some electrical failure, there was nothing. He'd been by your side every night and almost every day.

Again, you felt the sting of tears, confusion overwhelming you. You thought about renting a room to get some privacy, but you desperately wanted company, someone to pull you out of your thoughts. You thought about calling on Nick, but somehow it didn't feel right, so you ended up at Publick Occurrences, saying hi to a distracted Nat before sneaking in through the door.

Piper's house was calm, warm, smelled of ink and dusty books. Piper herself was upstairs, calling down a hello as you entered. "I'm working on an article, come up and keep me company!"

You collapsed onto her bed, watching as she typed at her terminal, hunched over with the world's worst posture, occasionally mumbling to herself as she picked through notes in her little notepad.

"I just had a misscarriage." The words tumbled out without permission, needing to exist out in the open, to be shared with someone.

Piper froze, hands hovering above the keys, before she spun in her seat, eyes wide.

"What?"

You nodded, surprised to find tears dripping down your face.

"Who's... was it?" Her words were indelicate, wincing to herself as she spoke.

"John's."

"But..."

"I know," You used the back of your hand to wipe away the wetness on your cheeks, sniffling. "But I haven't been with anyone else. And Doctor Sun seemed pretty sure."

Piper leant over to pat you on the shoulder, and you caught her hand, giving it a soft squeeze.

"D'you mind if I crash here tonight? He told me to take it easy today, so I probably shouldn't walk back."

"Yeah, of course, Blue. Anything you need."

It wasn't far after dusk when the guilt set in, and you found yourself wishing for a functional telephone. Hancock knew you could take care of yourself, but he also worried for you more than just about anything in the world. If you told him you were feeling depressed while dumping his whole stash of drugs out the window, you were reasonably sure he'd ask after you first. Or, at least very quickly afterwards. 

After keeping you company for a couple of peaceful hours, Piper vanished to go get some dinner for the three of you, leaving you to try to occupy yourself with one of her ancient novels.

Still, you didn't get to wallow very long, a crash from downstairs with the panicked call of your name drew your eyes from the book you'd been reading, a screeching Nat appearing in the stairway, single-handedly holding back a panicked Hancock with her fists raised.

"I told you, you can't come in here, Ghoul!"

"It's alright, Nat," You said, clambering off the bed to reach them. Your steps were slow, the pain in your stomach having died down from occasional cramps to a constant low ache. The second you were down from the stairs, John was pulling you into his arms, peppering your face with kisses, "Where the fuck did you go? What happened? I was–" He caught himself, jaw tensing as he pulled back to stare at you, eyes crinkled in concern. "Are you okay?" He asked, finally, and you didn't miss the quiver in his voice.

"I'm fine," You said, and were surprised to find that it was the truth. Clutched in his arms, the world felt right again, "C'mon, let's go talk in private."

Nat was still staring at John like she planned on kicking his ass, and with as wiry as he was, you weren't totally sure she couldn't. You guided him gently up the stairs, through the room and out onto the roof access. You didn't mind the rowdy nature of Goodneighbor nights, drunken laughter, fistfights and arguments, but there was something about the calm of Diamond City evenings that you appreciated just as much. There were even crickets in the grass, chirping their hearts away over the gentle murmur of people at the bars, bots in the markets.

You led Hancock towards the couch Piper had forced you to help her drag up here some months ago, watching him collapse with unusual gravity onto the cushions, half pulling you onto his chest with him. You relished the warmth of him, the familiar softness of his coat, the ever present smell of cigarettes and Jet that clung to his skin.

"What happened, love?"

You hadn't actually given all that much thought to how you would explain yourself, simply appreciating the relief of not having to tell him you were dying. After some thought, though, you figured the simple truth would be best.

"I came to see the doctor." His grip tightened, already inhaling to ask what had happened, what was wrong, but you cut him off. "I woke up covered in blood. I got scared, figured it would be best to go in on my own and see what was wrong right away." John's fingers found your hand, clutching it tight, and you squeezed him right back.

"I uhm–" God, why was it so hard now? "I had a miscarriage."

The hand you were holding tensed, minutely, then pulled away, John shifting away from your body so he could turn his face to look you in the eyes. He looked... miserable.

"Are–" He had to clear his throat, voice even more gravelly than usual, "Are you okay?"

You nodded, bunching your hands in your shirt, desperate to hold something, "Yeah, the doctor said I should be fine. Just some rest, he gave me some blood."

"And who's– who's the father?" The words seemed to pain him, eyes slipping away from yours to look up at the sky, stars reflected in his eyes. He looked like he was about to cry.

"John," You breathed, hands sliding over to take his hands again, squeezing hard so he couldn't pull away, "You are. Of course you are. I wouldn't– I haven't cheated."

His eyes flickered downwards, just for a moment, but you hoped he could sense the earnestness in your expression.

"John," You repeated, firmly, "I love you. No one else. Hell, we've been attached at the hip the last two months, when would I have even had the chance to run off and get knocked up?"

He considered this, Adam's apple bobbing, "Yes, but, baby, you know I'm sterile, right?"

"I know. I don't–" You had to pause, swallow a lump in your throat, "I don't get it, but that's probably why I miscarried, anyway. Just a– a fluke."

"A fluke," He repeated, then his chest heaved, and suddenly he was curling into you, face buried in your shoulder, arms wrapped around you as he sobbed into your skin. You'd never seen him cry before.

You wrapped your arms around him, only taking a moment to pluck his hat off and toss it to the side, so you could tuck a hand around the back of his head, hold him closer. He had to trust you on this, seeing as you were the only one who could reasonably know if you'd actually slept with anyone else, and even then, you hadn't been completely sure at first.

You kissed the top of his head, whatever skin you could reach, as his hands clutched at the back of your shirt, almost like he expected you to vanish if he let go. You held him back just as tight. Your relationship wasn't new, by this point, but it hadn't been so long that it was unreasonable to assume it wouldn't last the rest of your lives. But now, you felt something shift, maybe just in you, maybe in this thing between the two of you. You loved him and you didn't want to lose him, not for anything, not even a baby.

Eventually, his sobs faded, only the occasional tear spilling onto your skin. His grip loosened, second by second, until he righted himself, cleared his throat, put his hat back on his head. You reached out for him again, though, cupping his face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the tears on his cheeks. You gave him a weak little smile, not sure exactly what was going through his head. Sometimes, his mind worked a little too fast for you to follow, thoughts too warped by his own insecurities for you to understand.

"What are you thinking?" You whispered, fingers still ghosting over his cheeks.

"Are you– Would you have wanted to keep it?"

You thought about it. Raised the way you were, a family was considered the end goal of a relationship, along with marriage and all that other nonsense.

"No," You decided on, "Not right now, anyway. I'm still getting to know this world, still finding my purpose in it."

He nodded into your palms, turning to press a kiss to the inside of one of them. It sent a wave of soft heat through you, the gesture so achingly intimate.

"What about you?" You asked, realizing that it wasn't something the two of you had ever really addressed. By the time you'd started sleeping together, you'd already known that ghouls were infertile, and had just figured that was that, no need to worry about any accidental pregnancies. Of course, he still pulled out a majority of the time, seeing as it burned like a motherfucker, still setting off the Geiger counter on your pip-boy, but it was just one less thing to worry about.

"I'm not..." He trailed off, "I didn't think it was an option. Just sort of put it out of my mind."

You nodded, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Well, if we ever get to that point, we'll deal with it then, okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

You pressed your forehead to his, shutting your eyes, "I'm sorry for not coming for you. I regretted it the second I was gone. Just got scared."

The brush of lips over yours, "I'm always here for you, love, no matter what it is."

"I know." You did, believed it with every fiber of your being. Knew that no matter what, in Goodneighbor or out in the wasteland, John had your back.

"Now, come on, it's getting cold," You opened your eyes, stood up, pulling him up with you, "Let's go bully Nick into lending us his bed for the night, it's not like he's using it."

Hancock grinned, "Lead the way."

Notes: Bit heavier than my usual stuff, but I was just scrolling though the kink meme prompts and this just popped fully formed into my head... I am always a sucker for some good hurt/comfort tho. And this is my first fic where Hancock cries! Usually I'm more masochistic towards my blorbos than that....

[sykosixx]

july 9th 2005

(via pete wentz livejournal)

-typed out below the cut + my thoughts

i think the motto of my life could be "think negatively, when has thinking the worst ever lead to a disappointment?" late nights and even later kisses. i'm throwing writers blocks hoping to break down the wall between us just to get a word in, but inspiration has ran drier in my throat and bloodstream than the air we try to breathe in every day. in a room we decorated with "could haves" and "wanted to's", i'm with you and we're alone, but it feels like it's just me. maybe i'm just pretending you're here, it's how i get to sleep when i do get to sleep. sleep is a bad habit i'm dying to try. i don't like guessing once let alone second guessing myself. you're inches away and still out of reach. we're not even on the same page. i suddenly wish i could have been a brain surgeon just to figure out what was going on in your head. or a psychologist, just to get a glimpse.

when i can't see (through) you it drives me insane and i break at every light of your cigarette, i wanna know what you're thinking but bad news is old news. now i don't know what's thicker, the tension or my skull... but i've still memorized every possible sound you make while breathing out. i seriously can't breathe so i'll let you do it for me - a new meaning to 'you take my breath away', i don't know why it was given to me in the first place. our eyes meet and i remember and kick myself for forgetting at/it all. i'm making things up just to have more guests at my pityparty. pretending i'd be given a chance when boys like me lose them anyway. yet here i am. and there you are.

people try to figure me/you/us out, but we don't even have it down yet. they can spend hours writing up all my mistakes but the pen couldn't touch you. so you can calculate how this is all adding up and subtracting years off my life. i'm more worried about how it's dividing us apart. girls are harder to figure out than algebra - yet people still try to do it. the one thing i've found is i don't want to lose her. i'm tripping over words and falling in love. i told her i would have bought her the prettiest flowers but she'd make them look ugly in comparison. she laughed and probably figured i was just being cheap again, but i was being serious.

as far as anything else goes, i'll definitely update about it later, but this one is definitely for you. if you ever question my love i'll answer it, i love you.

xxoo

NOTE FROM AL: i think it's funny how often i see this entry overlooked. obviously it's not the iconic Fourth of July 2005 one (god even in your songs, could you be more obvious) (follow up, while looking back through PW old livejournal, i saw "i miss when people didnt know who i was posting abt in erly 2006),, ANYWAYS july 9th! 5 days after 04/07/2005, aka hes gotta still be talking about the same person ie; mikey fuckin way. "you're inches away and still out of reach." oh god the pining after this emotionally unavailable man. the "girl" stuff comes so late and looks too forced imo- anyways, you get the point, petekey 4 lyfe and better off as lover. NOT the other way around or whatever the summer of like insinuates.

idk dawgz, maybe ya boi needs 2 go 2 bed. feel free 2 refute me im too tired 4 this shit. oh yeah + i made a livejournal if any1 still uses that- it was just 2 sketch out emo losers cryptic + painfully obvioous messages but yahoo! mayb ill actually do smth w it.

[conundrumoftime]

My Haladriel fics

I haven't grouped all these together before, so here's a collection of all the complete Haladriel fics I've written so far since October '22. Cannot believe it's been almost two years!

(Some of these fics also feature Celeborn/Galadriel, Celeborn/Sauron or all of them together, because I like a) Celeborn b) multishipping and c) mess. I'll make it clear here which stories those are, so if Celeborn is not your guy or if multishipping confuses or distresses you then that's! fine! just please don't read those ones and then be weird to me about it in the comments.)

Multi-chapter fics

Shadow-Bride (E, 265k words): This is my long long longfic, started in December of '22 and now complete after 43 chapters. Canon-divergence from the middle of s1.

Banquets have burned for you (M, 24k words): Written for eastwynds for the spring '23 Haladriel fic exchange, where the prompt was "one thing happens differently on Númenor, and everything changes." Went heavy on the Greek tragedy influence for this one because it felt fitting for Númenor.

A man is a god in ruins (E, 21k words): At the time this was the longest story I'd ever written and the first multi-chapter story I'd finished since the LiveJournal days. How things change! Canon-divergence from the very end of s1; what if Halbrand decided to leave Eregion before Galadriel got suspicious?

All the kinds of alive you can be (E, 13k words, also Celeborn/Galadriel, also Celeborn/Sauron/Galadriel): so loads of us have written "what if Sauron shapechanged into Celeborn to seduce Galadriel"; this is "what if Sauron shapechanged into Galadriel to seduce Celeborn, because he's furious with her and obsessed with her and sort of wants to be her all at the same time"?

So Wide a Sea (E, 6k words, also Galadriel/Celeborn): After Sauron's final defeat in the War of the Ring Galadriel remembers a long-ago day on Númenor.

One-shot fics

Five times Halbrand's secret got revealed (T, 6000 words): the first Haladriel fic I ever wrote, of five scenarios of Galadriel learning his name. 'Shadow-Bride' is a continuation of one of these five; 'A man is a god in ruins' is the '...and one time it didn't.'

Tar-Mairon of the Shire (G, 3000 words): entire fix-it fluff, probably more '&' than '/', Hobbits make everything better including Dark Lords.

Tempered (M, 3600 words): written for @thecoziestbean for the spring '24 Haladriel fic exchange.

And white winter, on its knees (M, 1800 words): written for the Haladriel Winter Solstice '23, a what-if Galadriel said yes to Sauron's offer story.

Weakened like Achilles, with you always at my heels (M, 4000 words): written for Haladriel Week '24. A little moment after the Tirharad battle and before the volcano.

I have loved flowers that fade (M, 1700 words): they deserved to have at least one nice time in Eregion before she found out who he was!

Weighed Against Our Future (T, 1800 words): A delirious (or is he?) Halbrand on the road to Eregion.

Shine (T, 3300 words) and its sequel Lady of the Seas (E, 3700 words): Halbrand makes Galadriel's armour on Númenor.

Silver Queen (M, 3600 words): my first 'what if Celebrían was Sauron's daughter?' story, sort of a Haladriel fic and sort of a fix-it for Celebrían.

Civil Twilight (M, 10k words, also Celeborn/Galadriel): for Haladriel Week '23. A 'what if Celebrían was Sauron's daughter?' and 'what if Galadriel finds her missing husband?' story combined.

The turn of the tide (T, 1700 words): For Haladriel Week '23. In the Fourth Age after travelling back to Valinor, Galadriel still feels called to the sea.

Though I sang in my chains like the sea (T, 3000 words): For Haladriel Week '23. They were on that ep2 raft for a while; so this is a gapfiller of them getting to know each other better. Or not.

Blood Sugar (M, 7000 words): the only time I've ever done a modern AU, and even then it doesn't really count because he's still literal Sauron in it. Anyway: Glasgow, professional disillusionment, and difficult relationships with your history.

Ficlets under 1000 words

You built a nest inside my soul, you rest your head on leaves of gold (M, 800 words); Numenor alleyway smut.

How shall summer's honey breath hold out (M, 600 words): and why shouldn't Galadriel get to command an army and have a nice time with the enemy general while heavily pregnant.

Gilded (G, 550 words): another 'what if she said yes on the raft' fic

Not for all my little words (T, 775 words) s1 ep8, Elrond-POV on Galadriel and her weird new friend in Eregion.

Miscellaneous fics:

Half-Maia Celebrían short fics: Suo Gân (G, 1000 words), Arda Sahta (G, 1100 words), As Little Might Be Thought (T, 2600 words). All these are Galadriel/Celeborn (and the last one is also Celebrían/Elrond) and Sauron isn't really in them, but they're all about the impact of that being his child.

To hold all the promise of blue-velvet dark (T, 1700 words) - another 'what if Sauron impersonates Galadriel?' fic, this time featuring baby half-Maia Amroth.

Silmarillion rather than TROP: As certain dark things are loved (M, 8000 words, also Galadriel/Celeborn, also Galadriel/Celeborn/Sauron), for @softlighter for the Sufficiently Advanced '24 exchange. Annatar in 2nd Age Ost-in-Edhil.

[olderthannetfic]

hi, as someone who is tragically gen Z and only ever read AO3, can I ask: what was so great about LiveJournal? Like, I know that there were fics posted there (and I've even read about the "purge", so I get why it isn't used anymore) and that it was sort of a forum-type thing. But what I don't understand, wouldn't Tumblr fill in the latter function? How was that site any different? I see a lot of people reminiscing about it and I'm confused

--

A big factor in LJ's greatness is timing and nostalgia.

It was genuinely great, but it wasn't quite as great as all of the Lo, shall the Golden Age ne'er come again? posts suggest.

LJ arrived at a pivotal time in the development of the internet both in terms of technical stuff and how many people had access. Many fans who are now in their thirties to fifties first discovered fandom through LJ and many were at a time in their lives when they were feeling energetic and up to making lots of new friends—and to figuring out how to make a site work for them.

I got on LJ in 2002 when it required invites. Fandom arrived in droves in 2003, first via coordinated campaigns to get invites to key people and then when LJ opened up free account creation to everyone. Back then, LJ's features sucked. It was impossible to search properly, among other things. At its height (2005-7, let's say), there was a reasonable site search, and fans had developed all sorts of community resources for finding each other.

People often remember this phase but not the early days of suckitude.

This development parallels how Tumblr used to not have that private chat feature and how a lot of fuckyeah[whatever] type tumblrs have helped curate the site and make it much more usable for fans. Fandom draining away from LJ after strikethrough also parallels people draining away from Tumblr after the purge.

There are people who talk about Tumblr the way my cohort talks about LJ...

And to the shock of no one, they are people who came of age on Tumblr, who found fandom via Tumblr, who were on Tumblr during pivotal times in their lives and ones when they had energy to make friends and figure out how a site worked.

Those same Tumblrites are now making all the same geriatric-sounding posts we LJers do about how other sites lack the required features to be good for fandom while missing that 90% of tumblr's "features" at its height (2012-2016, let's say) were actually fan-created and were basically the same as any fandom newsletter or links page or all the versions of this kind of personal curation stretching back to long before the internet existed.

What life phase you hit a site at matters.

--

With all of that said, no, LJ was not a forum. It was a blogging site with threaded comments.

The key point to understand is that conversation was always happening in a specific person's space. Unlike on a true forum, people were in the comments on a particular post in a journal owned by another fan. (On a forum, there's the first post in a thread, but it's still more of a communal space with less of a hierarchy.)

Overall, the LJ format can have a feeling a bit like you're over at someone's house for tea. There's more of a sense of intimacy and also behaving yourself in front of community members.

Tumblr being obscure and impossible to find anything in does give it some of the same vibe relative to Twitter, but it's still part of modern social media that tries to shove every rando into the face of every other rando.

But it wasn't just vibes: LJ also had robust privacy features where you could lock a post to this or that group of friends. You could moderate your comments section properly. Tumblr has far fewer controls to force people to behave or leave on a technical level.

--

The biggest thing many people miss about LJ is the threaded comments. At least by late LJ and on Dreamwidth, you can expand and collapse threads, making it far easier to deal with a massive comments section. But more than that, things are properly threaded with multiple levels of hierarchy that are all easily visible in the same place.

On Tumblr, it used to be extremely difficult to find all of the actual commentary on a post. Nowadays, it's far easier, but you still have to scroll chronologically, and multiple versions of a post with a long chain of commentary may be much more divorced from each other than what would happen in a LJ comments section.

--

But could we use Tumblr pretty much how we used LJ?

We could.

I do.

--

The key things that people tend to miss about LJ, aside from the younger and more excited version of themselves or the friends they've lost since then, are:

Heavily text-based

It may sound odd on the modern internet, but there are a lot of people whose brains don't like or handle an image-heavy site well. They were everywhere in SF book fandom. They were everywhere on the early internet. Today, they're hanging out on Dreamwidth and still going to their SF cons. They're usually not on Tumblr.

You could follow the discussion

Threaded comments help, but a lot of it is about having some place you can check for updates. It wasn't actually that easy to follow big LJ discussions unless you were subscribed to comments and reading along as things were happening instead of coming along after the entire mass of comments had been left.

The tone of the discussion is intellectual and one's enemies are "idiots", not "problematic"

All this requires is a penchant for longwindedness and an itchy blocking finger to remove anyone slinging ad hominems from the comments section.

On tumblr, it's as simple as conversations happening in the replies on a popular account and that person not tolerating suibaiting and threats.

(And make no mistake, a lot of LJ discussion was in the comments on popular accounts, not spread equally between everyone's.)

It does require that multiple people like that tone and want to engage in that way, but lots of people do want to.

--

These days, I interact with tumblr by checking my askbox and reading my activity page. The vast, vast majority of my posts are ones where I'm the OP, so if I block someone, they're booted from the discussion entirely.

For me... yeah, Tumblr functions almost exactly like LJ.

Also like LJ, while I'm hosting the conversation, if you hang around, you'll see the same people again and again in the comments. They may or may not also host that kind of conversation in their space, and there's a larger pool of lurkers who have some notion of which people count as regulars. Other people are watching from the shadows, enjoying or deriding the takes of the usual crowd.

People presumably do like reading my lengthy commentary or they wouldn't be here, but my tumblr wouldn't be popular like this without a healthy pool of other people who chime in regularly. It's not just that there are more people: it's that you see the same people over time. There's a bit more sense of place and community than on some parts of the internet.

--

So, in my opinion, the failure to just recreate LJ fandom on Tumblr was a skill issue.

Threaded comments were great, but LJ culture came from mailing lists, and mailing lists had the same issue as tumblr with the diverging threads.

We solved that back then by clipping out only the parts we wanted to respond to (you'd write "snip" around the quotation to show it was incomplete). We solved the smaller LJ issue by linking to other posts we were referencing and doing discussion link roundups. We solve it on tumblr by, again, linking to what we're talking about and even quoting multiple reblog chains in our own reblog of just one chain.

--

Tumblr's technical features and even general crap-ness aren't really the problem. 90s and early 00s sites regularly went down for periods of time unthinkable today.

The missing piece is people.

When one is in an active fandom with others who curate or with friends who let one know what's up, a site with imperfect features is easy to figure out and retrofit for fandom's needs. When one already feels out of touch and is between fannish passions—or at least fannish passions anyone else cares about—seeing the potential in a new site is hard.

--

Threaded comments are different and better.

LJ's built-in way to see everyone's blog in your own style was better. The automatic timestamps and the ease of seeing a paginated archive of an entire blog was better than tumblr's endless scroll and lack of clear date labeling. But some of that can be fixed with xkit or knowing your way around tumblr well.

A lot of it is nostalgia for the lj era and a refusal to take the time to figure out how to use tumblr in an oldschool internet way.

--

So by all means, people, weigh in about what made LJ great or how the culture felt at the time...

But if I see one more god damn response going "You can't have a conversation on tumblr!" in reply to my tumblr, which contains nothing but conversation, I am coming for you.

[cloislibrary]

The Library

A curated collection of Smallville fanfiction centered on Lois & Clark. Occasionally may include Clois fic that leans into “Superman - all media types”.

Updated Daily, Monday through Saturday.

The Criteria

All stories shared here are ones I have read and enjoyed myself. I will mostly only share completed stories, but if one has not been updated in a long enough time and I believe it is abandoned, if I like it enough I will share it here with an “Incomplete” tag.

Stories will not be posted in any particular order, just as I read/discover them, or if specific types of stories are requested.

All stories posted here will be Clois endgame, pro-Clois, focused on Clois, and will be tagged accordingly if they start with another relationship (such as Clark/Lana, Clark/Chloe, Clark/Alicia, Lois/Oliver, etc).

Please feel free to ask me any questions regarding how to access a story, if I can recommend stories of a specific caliber, or if you would like to recommend me a good story/author.

The reason I am starting this blog in the first place is to bring better awareness to the large (but unfortunately scattered and hard to find) catalog of fic of this pairing. Since the show aired pre-AO3, stories are hidden away in older communities, some password protected. As a new fan, it has taken me months to figure out how to navigate multiple fan sites to try and access much of the work about these characters. I want to help more people find these wonderful works I have discovered. I also hope that sharing love and attention to some authors of yesteryear might bring some of the greats back into the fandom fold, or inspire them to share their works on AO3 for better access.

I will be sharing fics from the following sites and communities: Archives of our Own, Fanfiction.net, Divine Intervention, Red Haze, LiveJournal, and KryptonSite. If you know of any other communities with Clois fic, let me know so I can add it to my list.

Posting Rules

Schedule:

For the most part, I will post as I read a story and make a write up on it. For these first few weeks, I may post more than what will be usual to create a bit of a backlog, but on average I plan to post a fic daily Monday-Saturday, and then on some Sundays have an Author Spotlight where I write up a masterpost of a single author’s works or a requested Masterpost where I link fics of a requested theme/trope (just send an ask!). For this, I will mostly focus on older authors whose work is harder to find, as a way to bring readers back to their wonderful catalog (and maybe encourage a few talented writers to come back into the fandom).

Browse by:

Length: Short Story (<10k) Novella (10-40k) Novel (>40k)

Season: Pre Canon | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 (Comics) | Post Canon

Era: High School Years | Young Adult “College” Years (Seasons 5-7) | Metropolis Years (8-10) | Married Years

Storylines: The Blur | Daily Planet | Red Kryptonite | Time Travel

Genre: Action | Angst | Comedy | Drama | Fluff | Horror | Mystery | Smut

Tropes: Fake Relationship | First Time | Kid Fic | Love Potion | Missing Scene | Only One Bed | Pregnancy | Slow Burn | Jealousy

Holiday Themes: Christmas | Birthday | Halloween | New Year’s | Thanksgiving | Valentine’s Day

Setting: Prime Universe | Earth-2 | Alternative Universe | Canon Compliant | Canon Divergent |

For specific episodes: Search by episode number or title. Ex: “9x18” or “Charade”

You can search for a specific type of story by combining tags and adding "from:cloislibrary" to your Tumblr search. For example, if you wanted to find a fic that is action centered, novel length, and taking place during the Metropolis Years:

#action #novel #Metropolis Years from:cloislibrary

Also, I will use tags in “AO3 fashion” even for stories that were not tagged accordingly by the author. So if you are looking for something that you assume would be tagged for the type of story you are looking for, go ahead and search it.

Cataloguing

I will post all fic with the following entries:

Link

Title

Author(s)

Publication Year (Last Updated)

Genre(s)

Word Count (Short Story, Novella, or Novel)

Rating

Season/Era

Setting(s)

Other Important Characters/Relationships

Summary (as provided by the author if possible)

Librarian Notes (if needed)*

If not otherwise stated, fic is completed.

If I find that a story is posted in multiple locations, I will provide all links for ease of access for everyone. If you know that a story is posted somewhere I do not have listed, maybe under a different author name or title, let me know in a comment.

The Librarian

I’m new to the fandom, as I just started watching the show in late January of this year, and finished it this month after about 4 months. Before I’d even finished the show, I’d already began looking for fanfiction of our favorite comic book couple, but found AO3 pretty bare in comparison of the fandom size from the time the show was airing into today. This lead me to going down many a rabbit holes to find the stories I was looking for.

While doing so, I realized most people wouldn’t be going to the same lengths I was for the vast amount of fic hidden right outside the “mainstream” (if that word should ever be used in reference to fic) channels for fanfic we have today.

I started the show for a few reasons, 1) I caught a glimpse of Tom Welling and 2) it’s right up my alley with shows like Roswell and Buffy being some of my favorites. From what I’ve gathered while entering the fandom, is that there seems to be a bit of a renaissance happening in regards to the show, likely thanks to streaming, Talkville, and social media/edits. Knowing I was not the only one who is likely delving into the lavish and somewhat confusing land of Clois fic, made me want to start this in the first place.

Hopefully this blog can be a way we can all discover hidden gems, as well as old and new classics alike.

Since this is a secondary blog, I can’t follow/message anyone from this blog name. My personal account is @kcchameleon17 so if you see that address that’s me!

If anyone having trouble viewing a fic shared from on some of the “locked” forums, send me an ask for an explanation. (Hopefully I have one). Most only require you to make an account with an email if you hit a password wall.

Sources & Additional Resources

I will be sharing works found on Archives of Our Own, Fanfiction.net, as well as from forums/collections:

Divine Intervention: A Lois and Clark Forum

Red Haze - Clois NC-17 Fanfic Board

KryptoSite

Cloisverse - Lois & Clark Multiverse Community (LiveJournal)

Cloisfic - destinies are more entwined than they realize (LiveJournal)

Clois Fest (LiveJournal)

Iconic Lois Lane (LiveJournal)

If you are to join, comment, or interact in anyway on any of these sites, please read and follow the Rules and Guidelines section, remaining respectful at all times. Many of these are inactive communities, or ones that have a long standing culture— please be careful to be respectful if you are coming into a new space.

The Credits

All stories will be credited to their creators in each entry. I am not claiming any of the featured stories as products of my own. I’m simply acting as a fan of these works to help them reach more likeminded fans.

If you are an author whose work I’ve included in this collection and wish for it not to be so, let me know and I will remove it.

I encourage everyone to leave comments of encouragement and appreciation, kudos, etc. on the works you find through this blog, regardless of when the story was last updated or where it is located. Of course I can’t make anyone do so, but I definitely hope it happens!

Finally, thank you to all the Clois writers, past and present, who have added to the adventures of Lois and Clark.

[yummysake-saucegay]

Jayvik ramblings

There was once a livejournal where you could compile shipping manifestos, and I wrote one about Zoro/Sanji that had 6000+ words lol. Ngl, Jayvik makes me want to do the same these days, but for now I just need to compile a few thoughts, feel free to gush with me or add to that or correct me.

In every timeline & possibility Viktor chose to save Jayce ("only you can show me this"), even when it meant that they would create hextech and doom the world. And only Jayce can ultimately save Viktor from himself. In the timeline Ekko was sent to where hextech doesn't exist Jayce and Viktor are very possibly dead (suicide / disease), since Jayce was already on the verge of killing himself in the base timeline when his dream was shattered, even without a teenager that died in his lab, and Viktor (who wouldn't have sought out Jayce without his speech about creating magic) would later be dying and wouldn't have shimmer/the hexcore.

There are multiple scenes where Viktor gives Jayce the rune, like when he stops him from killing himself he picks up his bracelet, and he also hands him the crystal when they're trying to stabilize hextech for the first time (just found the imagery symbolic). In their final scene, Jayce gives it back to him (and it looks so gentle for once how he can just remove the rune and carefully hand it to him)

Jayce was always adamant about seeing Viktor as an equal partner from the very beginning ("your hextech dream" "OUR hextech dream" Mel: "you're the dean's assistant" "no, he is my new partner")

In the "this isn't my bedroom" scene Viktor looks displeased when Jayce looks taken by Mel (only noticed that recently!)

Viktor either never noticed or ignored Sky's affections and even after he got to know them after her death, he did not reciprocate and still calls her Ms Young in the astral plane. She can even tell it's not true when he says he will miss their talks. I just saw a clip where Christian Linke even claims that that wasn't actually Sky, but the hexcore pretending to be Sky (which is so dark and twisted IMO). Apparently, Amanda Overton also stated that Sky on the astral plane was a stand-in for Jayce to Viktor. Although I haven't seen the clip myself where she says it.

The constant juxtaposition between Viktor and Mel, starting by their design (Viktor getting progressively more sick and pale, Mel always glowing and golden) and just base characters (Viktor the poor, disabled Zaun rat who has nothing to his name, lives for science and hates being in the lamplight; Mel the influential and cunning politician who makes them her investments). Jayce even hallucinating first Mel and then Viktor in the flames. The Jayce Mel sex scene while Viktor is almost dying and Jayce returning to Viktor after. Also, him deciding to give up on his council seat and his whole career to return to the lab with Viktor where he feels he belongs after Viktor almost died in the beginning of S2.

Jayce ousting his former mentor to save Viktor's life

Viktor convinced that Jayce would understand after Singed tells him everyone will hate and despise him (and Jayce did!)

The scene on the bridge when Jayce has to pick Viktor up in S1 (after he went to Singed) and the POV changes! Where the angles are first neutral, representing them being equal, but then the camera looks down on Viktor as soon as Jayce talks badly about the Undercity.

Jayce's pure terror when he thinks Viktor is dying after the explosion, just being by Viktor's side, sleeping in the lab etc and them handing him that blanket that Viktor keeps forever. Also, Jayce not even hesitating or judging for a second when he sees Viktor's augmented leg etc. He even recorded everything when he continued and used his notes lol.

allll their quotes "it was affection that kept us together" "I thought you were done with Hextech. And with me", being partners again yadda yadda

Even in the midst of everything and his all out war with Viktor, Jayce speaks for himself and Viktor when he quarrels with Mel ("because you used me, and Viktor, for hextech!") and his anger at her not saving Viktor and the others

And I don't think I even have to elaborate on their ending haha, the beauty in Viktor's imperfections, the promise, the wanting his partner back and finishing it together...

And they were celestial roommates <3

[valyrfia]

RE: This ask on fanfic, fandom, and lestappen

(preface with, I love fanfic and fandom, and I've written for very big and small)

I have never experienced such bad fandom etiquette as I have with 1633. I wrote one multi chapter fic for the ship and 99% of ao3 comments I got were people asking when I'd publish the next chapter, which has always been a big no no in fandom. I deleted the fic because it felt bad that people didn't want to engage with what I had written, but, just ask about my update schedule. Also, people changing the date of their published fic to be more recent, so, it appears at the top of the 'recently updated page'! I have never seen this in any fandom before now! AO3 isn't Instagram! If you tag correctly, people will find your fic if they want to read it.

People are pushing 1633 constantly in very public spaces like Twitter, Insta and TikToK, where we know these drivers have accounts and look at comments/posts about them or on their own posts. Just today on Twitter I see Dan Howell (which what a fucking weird intersection of my past and current interests) being asked at a public panel about lestappen, just because he's mentioned liking F1 in the past. I know it gets easy clicks and engagement because it is popular. But, it's so far removed from behaviour that was ever considered acceptable in fandom.

I remember, back in 2013/14 there was a huge backlash to people bringing up fictional ships to actors/writers. There was discourse after every Supernatural or Teen Wolf fan forum/con panel when someone would inevitably ask about Destiel or Sterek. People would argue whether fanon and ships were appropriate to ask the real people behind the show about.

RPF is fine, I have written, currently write and will continue to engage in RPF spaces. But, there are boundaries that you must keep if you are going to engage with it. Tumblr and AO3 have always been considered locked fandom spaces. If a person goes onto these sites and searches themselves out, that's on them. But, it's implied in fandom that you keep to just these spaces or private chats

(personally, I'm sad I just missed out on the livejournal days... I got into fandom when everything was being moved over from there and fanfic.net onto ao3)

I understand younger social media users are used to an algorithm finding content for them. And on sites like Tumblr where the algorithm sucks or ao3, which doesn't have one. You have to search out the content you want yourself. Liking and kudos isn't enough, you actually have to engage in meaningly conversations and comments if you want to make friends. That can be scary! But, it's a soft skill that is slowly getting lost and with it fandom etiquette is going down the drain.

This is like...one of the last big serious ask I want to reply to on this topic because not everyone agrees with me (which, fine), but OP you put a lot of time into typing this up so I will honour that.

I think fandom, much like a lot of other things nowadays, have become less about fun and more about hitting a certain number of likes and interactions. That's why people push Lestappen on other social media even though most of us have explicitly said "can you not, thanks". The changing the date of the fic to push to an 'algorithm' infuriates me and is a personal pet peeve of mine. There's one that's doing that now on the Lestappen tag and I've point-blanked refused to read it literally BECAUSE of the date changing. People will read your fic if they want to, constantly pushing it to the top of the 'Date Updated' list does nothing except piss people off.

I will say I think the fictional ship discourse of 2014 was maybe driven in part by the fact that being gay was still seen as something much more 'novel' than even now. If we think about when marriage became legal in the US and all that...I still think though that it shows a level of self-awareness and self-regulation that we've lost in fandom. As my partner and I often to lament to each other, we've become so individualistic that people have lost the concept of shame. It's an idea that YOU are the exception and something should cater to YOU, instead of the other way round. In the case of fandom, this comes out as people acknowledging fandom etiquette in an abstract way, but still logging into their twitter account (WITH THEIR FACES ATTACHED! WHICH! THIS IS A TANGENT BUT IT BAFFLES ME! WHAT HAPPENED TO DIGITAL FOOTPRINT!) and posting about RPF. Fandom is not an abstract entity, fandom IS the people that interact with it–from authors to artists all the way to those who consume the content.

Also, I also JUST missed out on the lj days–the great migration was happening just when I was getting involved in fandom and I can't help but feel like I missed out on something special.

[jakowskis]

torchwood resources

just some stuff i've accumulated during this fixation :) hope it proves handy :D

ianto's-desktop (livejournal) - archived most of the things found on the torchwood website during season 1 and season 2; the only thing missing is the videos. / note: click the headers of the posts to see the full thing, or some stuff with appear incomplete. took me a sec to figure out, lol

speaking of the website...

season 1 website (archive.org)

season 2 website (archive.org) - unlike the s1 website, the bulk of the s2 site's content is pretty inaccessible through the wayback machine (at least for me; maybe i'm doing something wrong), so thank g-d for ianto's desktop

there's also a good amount of rebloggable site content in this person's tumblr tag.

season 1 declassified (youtube)

season 2 declassified (youtube)

season 1 commentaries (mega.nz)

torchwood books (google drive) - gonna be honest, i haven't tried to download any of these myself

border princes audiobook (read by eve) + all of the radio plays (archive.org)

torchwood magazines (beta.reddit) - download links for all of them! p fuckin kewl

torchwood official yearbook (archive.org)

herecomesthedrums (youtube) - account that started posting before the show came out and is chock full of promos, trailers, interviews... some real fun goodies in there

torchwood: up close (youtube) - handful of bts videos with the cast + crew

season 1 unreleased tracks (soundcloud) - the end of days ones hrhghgh

out of time unreleased tracks (soundcloud) - i absolutely adore the music in this ep so i was so happy when i found these

the torchwood fanpop - this has sooooooo much content like i scrolled for a loooooong time and never reached the bottom. lotta stuff i hadn't seen before, too. there's fun hd promo pics, pics of the cast, and a lot of extremely early 2010s edits, graphics, and fanvids. / note: i also had this page bookmarked + it's got different content than the main page so i'll link it

aaand under the cut i'm gonna dump some silly stuff i've collected of the cast. but yeah, there ya go :-)

gally 2015: zip files of someone's pictures of eve, naoko, and burn (livejournal)

gally 2015: someone's account of the torchwood panels + meeting the cast (everyone was there but gareth!) - naoko & burn's solo panels / autograph table chats + barrowman photo-op + the naoko&burn&eve group panel / barrowman solo panel + burn&eve joint panel

dragon con 2013 (flickr) - i found two albums: this one, and this one, which has torchwood cast images on the first and second pages.

burn at chicago tardis 2012 (flickr) - ehehe 2012-2013 burn gorman w his classy little outfits my beloved. this is just hq pictures of that event. burn's in a bunch at the top and some at the end of the second page

the hub 2009 (flickr) - some kind of torchwood event. gareth, burn, eve, kai, and tom are all there. i dunno

hvff 2018: 'insights from the whole cast'

hvff 2018: video of everybody goofing off (twitter)

gareth endorsing owandy teehee (twitter) - this is getting dumped here bc im gay

sigh. (blogspot) - pics from that one fuckin 08 panel where gareth & john made out like 5 times + gareth took his jeans off for some reason. i don't even go here but i feel like this is unfortunately historically relevant. also the fujoshis in the comments are really funny

incomplete but sizable lists of cons gareth's been to and john's been to, in case anyone wants to dig around for photos/footage of any of these. the other cast members (excluding burn, for some reason) all have pages on this site as well, but theirs are super incomplete so i won't bother linking

[13eyond13]

I know a lot of people didn't really like the early days of death note fandom, but is there anything from that time that you miss? What was it like?

Hmm, a good question! Heads up that I mostly interacted in the fandom back then exclusively through the internet and through fanfiction.net fic writing/reading/commenting and through reading my DN fandom friend's LiveJournal, since this friend was much more involved in the DN community on there than I was. I never did anything like go to conventions or cosplay or make fanart or anything along those lines. So my impressions are limited to those things only

The truth is that no, I don't think I really prefer how things were back then in comparison to now, other than maybe sometimes I miss feeling like one of the precocious youngsters in the fandom instead of one of the ancient ones, haha 😆

Here are the things I think are better now than they were back then:

-better means of connecting with other fans online (platforms like Tumblr and Discord didn't exist then, and the way I made friends was just commenting on fanfics and then moving to private messaging and emailing them. It was nice in a personal pen pal sort of way, but a lot slower and more individual... still something you could do nowadays, but it's nice to also have other options of connecting that we have now too). I think since it WAS slower and more individual that also made it harder for people to get into serious chronically online dramas or be group bullied and stuff too, which was probably a good thing overall

-WAY more fan content to consume that I think is on average much higher quality than it was back then, much more fic and fanart and memes and meta/analysis etc. The takes on the characters are just better now too.

- I think it's a lot easier for people to access the canon content on their own now and to take in multiple versions of it. Back then you couldn't just watch the series on Netflix or whatever, and some stuff like different dubs still weren't out or easily available and you really had to be resourceful and good at networking with other fans to find things, that kinda stuff

-people seem more chill about stuff now like shipping and more willing to explore rare pairs and stuff since the fandom is so old. I remember a lot of bickering back then about stuff like daring to ship a character with another character, like lawlight shippers acting like imagining one of these two characters with another character is "cheating" or something

SOME THINGS I DO MISS:

- I kinda at times miss how fandom was less serious in certain ways than it can be now? Like people wouldn't be quite so fussed about trying to be fair to characters they didn't care about or whatever, they'd just ignore them or say they didn't like them and then move on. (This can have both pros and cons, as in people also were sometimes more insensitive and ignorant about that stuff on average as well). Online life was a lot more of a separate and less integrated thing into most people's everyday life then, and people were not often trying to make a living from creating fan stuff or whatever either, which I think can sometimes make people treat fandom almost more like corporate networking than genuinely bonding over and enthusing about something they are passionate about

-Some of the early day YouTube stuff was really fun, like the little flash animations and the goofy YouTube poops. But again, I'm sure there's still stuff like that being made now, just on other platforms like TikTok and X that I'm not using very much

P.S.- I tagged a few posts on this subject in the past here with #vintage fandom shit, so feel free to browse it if you want more!