#UNLESS it's all done on my own space and not like social media or ao3 and then it's like whoopee ding party time!!!!!!!

[ladyswillmart]

I'm glad I wrote such a detailed and thorough bio for my LotRO character because A.) My own memory is very bad and B.) I can go back and read all this again and go "oh what a charming fellow"

[pinkoptics]

Would You Catch Me If I Fall?

aka Cherik Fallen Angel fic

Part 2 of Chapter 2

(Previous parts now on Ao3)

Erik is going to do everything he can to make sure Charles is taken care of. Charles saved his life. That’s why. Right… right???

*

“Mr. Olsen, I believe you will do exactly as I’ve asked.”

Mr. Olsen opened his mouth, to protest most likely, but Erik was well practiced in speaking in a way that left no room for interruption. “You will, because you are aware of the exact amount my firm has donated to your hospital this year and every other before it.”

Mr. Olsen was turning an interesting shade of red. It had nothing on Azazel, but the flush beneath his skin was making a concerted effort.

“You are also aware of what it would do to this hospital’s reputation for being at the forefront of mutant medicine if my firm were to very vocally withdraw its support and place it elsewhere, say... Johns Hopkins?”

“Mr. Lehnsherr—“ Still red, but now also sputtering. “You do not have the authority. Shaw would never—“

Erik smiled in such a way that Olsen cut himself off. Erik’s smile, though the word hardly applied, very early in his career had earned him the nickname ‘The Shark.’ Only used when he knew his prey was very much backed into a corner of their own making and it was time for the kill.

“If The Incident were to suddenly appear on social media again, with a narrative much closer to the truth...”

Red became purple. “We have an NDA! You can’t—“

“When information is out it is out, Mr. Olsen. Non-disclosures only hold weight if the parties involved care about the consequences. I could give a fuck. Besides, whether this hospital is guilty or innocent, reputations once ruined are terribly hard to salvage, aren’t they? Once, tried in the court of public opinion...”

“Shaw would— you’d be—“

Erik simply raised an eyebrow.

Olsen was right. Erik didn’t have the authority to stop donations, Shaw would have his job and his ass if he ever went to the public about any of the firm’s cases. Moreover, he would probably lose his license to practice. None of those things mattered however, not because Erik truly didn’t care, but because Olsen only needed to believe he was serious. If Erik couldn’t sense the man’s weaknesses, and couldn’t exploit them, he would hardly have been the best lawyer at his firm (no matter what Emma said to the contrary). The seed of doubt, once planted in a weak mind, was notoriously difficult to weed out.

“Fine,” Olsen ground out. Looking like he was very much sucking on a lemon.

Erik levitated the paperwork he had prepared by its staple. It was accompanied by one of the disgustingly expensive fountain pens the firm utilized to perpetuate its reputation. It hovered in front of the sour countenance and Erik felt the same sense of satisfaction he did after a particularly shrewd cross examination.

Threatening Olsen in this way was beyond overkill.

However, Erik knew of nothing else that would resolve Charles’ situation as swiftly. As Olsen scratched out his signature nearly hard enough to tear paper, Charles’ need for insurance, identity, and anything else he did not have, vanished.

Besides, he’d never liked this man or this hospital, so if he got to have a little fun while getting Charles what he needed, all the better. The faster he could get Charles out of here unscathed the better. He owed him that much, possibly more. There were few people insane enough, selfless enough, to throw themselves in front of a car for a stranger. Erik had made it his life’s work to protect people who couldn’t protect themselves. Charles had more than earned that same protection until he was back to his former self.

T’s crossed and i’s dotted, Erik left Olsen to fume, so he could share the good news with Charles. The words that had been leaping forward died on his lips when he took in the state of Charles’ room.

“. . . Did you rob a florist?”

Charles graced him with a much less hysterical, much more pleasant sounding laugh than he had any time previously.

“Aren’t people just lovely? This one is from the nurse on call, Ben. He has the most adorable little boy. Teething at the moment, which is trying of course, but he’s so precious one can hardly be cross. I’m sure Ben would be happy to show you the photos too. This one is from Dr. Yousef, whom you’ve already met. She detests flowers, personally, as she’s never home consistently enough to care for them properly. This one is from Saima...”

While Charles no longer appeared to be in a state of hysteria, it appeared to be Erik’s turn, and he became suddenly, hysterically deaf. Had he misplaced a day? Or two? More? Was he the one with the head injury?

“Did you— I mean, do you know them?”

Charles cut off his still in-progress monologue about his sudden and inexplicable well-wishers.

“Oh no. We’ve just met. Nancy would like to get coffee when I’m better though. I believe that is a cultural expression of friendship, is it not? Or does coffee equal sex? It’s so hard to keep track of these things as humans rarely say what they truly mean. Why do you lot insist upon speaking in code? A code that changes every generation no less. Regardless, I’ve never had coffee. Given how utterly obsessed with it you all are I’m rather excited to find out what all the fuss is about.”

Erik didn’t know what part of that to address first, if at all.

Ben, Yousef, Saima... who the fuck was Nancy?

Sex?

Never had coffee?

“Oh Erik, I’m sorry. You look so confused again. I forget myself. I would much rather have coffee for the first time with you of course. At that diner you speak so highly of. I believe diners generally serve coffee.”

Erik blinked. Did that mean Charles wanted to be his friend or have sex with him? Or, did never having had coffee actually mean never having had sex? No. Wait. What in the fuck were they talking about?

What came out was, mercifully, “You make friends quickly.” This was something he and Charles certainly didn’t share.

“Do I?” Charles shrugged. “I love people. All people. They’re so fascinating.” Something else he and Charles certainly didn’t share. In his experience, most people were dull or cruel or both. Except Charles. Charles had been the exact opposite of dull or cruel right from the first. Crashing headfirst into Erik, literally and figuratively, and smashing all his expectations of what people did or didn’t do for one another. It might have also been the head injury/amnesia mitigating the dullness, making him say the most ridiculous things that Erik had ever heard and couldn’t even begin to sort out, but Erik didn’t really think so. He read people extremely well and Charles intrigued him. No one intrigued him.

Shoving the friends/coffee/sex equivalency conversation aside, Erik patted his briefcase. “I’ve sorted out everything with hospital administration. You won’t have to worry about insurance, bills... if there’s anything you need, just ask. They will be sure you get it.”

“I won’t ask how you managed it.” Charles’ look became conspiratorial. Almost as if he did know Erik’s methods. There was no way, of course, that he did unless he was a telepath, which Erik had already briefly mused on. “You really needn’t have troubled yourself, though I appreciate it, you, all the same.”

There it was again. The strange gravity his words seemed to possess. Erik flushed, not something he ever did, feeling that appreciation to his core. Charles’ smile deepened and somehow held the same weight as his words. Looking at it was almost too much, like looking straight at the sun, it warmed parts of Erik he hadn’t even realized were cold.

“You can stay with me,” Erik said, apropos of nothing, then flinched, his own words surprising him. It wasn’t the offer he had intended to make. The Firm put people up all the time for various reasons, and Erik had planned to slip Charles in to one of his current cases with no one the wiser. The doctor felt certain it wouldn’t be long until his memory returned, based on her previous experience of such cases.

Charles’ astonishment seemed to match his own. “Erik, that’s too much. You’ve done so much already.”

Erik rubbed at the back of neck, avoiding Charles’ eyes, which were comically, anime-wide. While he hadn’t meant to make the offer, he also found now that he had, he also had no sense of regret. His flat was large, he practically lived at the firm, so it would hardly be an inconvenience and the less he abused his position, the less tracks he had to cover.

He coughed, “There’s always Nancy.” Erik hoped the joke would break the sudden tension. “You could take her up on her ambiguous offer.” Charles laughed. Success.

“Coffee, and whatever else it may suggest, is a far cry from living together. Besides, I don’t even know Nancy.”

“You don’t know me either. You may have unwittingly saved a sociopath the world would be better without.”

Charles shook his head. “Don’t be absurd. You’re a good man, Erik. Better than you know.”

Everything about this was absurd.

“It’s settled then, when they discharge you, you can stay with me until we figure out who you are.”

Charles’ face, which Erik was already beginning to realize was nakedly expressive, came over suddenly unreadable.

“I—“ Charles hesitated, eyes flicking away from Erik to the window. Erik supposed coming to live with any stranger was enough to give anyone pause, especially someone who was as disoriented as Charles must already be. He was about to shift back to his original, much less awkward, plan when Charles’ gaze focused back on him. “All right. Until... until then.”

“Until then,” Erik echoed and they both fell suddenly silent.

He was inviting someone to live with him when he had never lived with anyone besides his mother his entire life. Roommates? Please. Erik had never had to, but would have rather lived in a squalid apartment than have to share a living space with anyone, even when putting himself through the extraordinary expenditure of american law school. Yet, here he was. Here they were. It felt right. Perhaps he had an overabundance of gratitude and quid pro quo to sate. It was the only thing that made any sense in the face of something that made absolutely no sense.

He’d probably regret it the instant Charles was in his space, but he also wasn’t someone who went back on his word, so he was taking in this stray whether he came to regret it or not.

Mama, at least, would approve.

*

Now on Ao3

Thanks for reading!!

[sprnklersplashes]

stars around my scars

or, the tatto artist!robin au that no-one asked for but everyone gets (ao3)

Ever since he was 11, Theo has wanted a tattoo. He still remembers the day he first asked, if only because of his dad’s expression. He had hurried across the schoolyard, with a cardigan that was slightly too big for him and his backpack hanging off one shoulder, thrown himself into the car, and proudly rolled up his sleeve to show his dad the ‘tattoo’ Sabrina had given him during homeroom. It was simple really, a sword and shield adorned with his initials. His dad had chuckled at it fondly, the way any parent would chuckle at their child’s antics, and started to pull out of the parking space when Theo asked, “so when can I get a real tattoo?”.

He very nearly crashed the truck.

His answer was simply “when you’re older”, and being 11, that felt an age away to Theo, and he felt his chest sink at the idea of waiting for so long.

In the run up to his fourteenth birthday, he tried again, responding with “a tattoo” when his dad asked what he wanted. He sits cross legged on his bed and pretends he cares less than he does, all the while watching his dad out of the corner of his eye. Either he must look sadder than he thinks he does, or he should look out the window and check for flying pigs, because his dad sighs, but then his face softens and he does the impossible; he relents, just a little.

“Maybe when you’re 18,” he says.

His sophomore year of high school is when things start to get really rough. Nearly every day he comes home with bruises and cuts and his dad is less convinced by his excuses each time. He wakes up every morning and wonders what it’ll be; stuffed in a locker, shirt pulled up, pushed down the stairs. Words are used like weapons and hurt just as much, whether they’re spat in his face or written across a locker. Getting up is a constant battle and some days it just feels impossible. The school parking lot feels like No-Man’s Land at the best of times. His dad brings up the idea of transferring to him at dinner one night, but he just raised his chin and reminded him that he’s a Putnam. And Putnam’s don’t run away.

His dad had smiled at that.

There was some good mixed in with the bad though. He found answers to questions that had plagued him for years. He chose a new name, after the greatest woman he never knew, and found the courage to tell his dad who he really is. It hadn’t been easy, he hadn’t expected it to be, but when his dad drove him down to the Greendale barber that day, it had meant more to him than his dad might have understood.

His friends were amazing, which should go without saying. Of course they would be. And he feels good, in some ways he feels better than he’s ever felt about himself. Like he’s stepping into a new part of his life and while he doesn’t know what’s in front of him, he’s excited to see where it goes.

But as happy as he was, not everyone felt the same. Teachers and students alike struggled with his transition, some at least attempting to feign politeness, others not so much. The cruel words don’t stop just because he uses different pronouns now and he still comes home with the occasional bruised knuckles or bloodied nose.

Add on a few stressful long-distance calls with his mother and his high school experience thus far can only be described the same way his English essays are-“Could Be Better”.

Maybe that’s why, a week before his sixteenth birthday, his dad pops his head around his bedroom door and asks him “Do you still want that tattoo?”.

He looks up from his book, almost sure he’d imagined it. His dad may have changed his stance slightly, but if there’s one trait they share more than anything it’s that intense stubbornness. He was prepared to just ride it out and wait until he’s 18, or maybe even until he moves away to college altogether. But no, here he is, age 15, his dad looking at him expectantly.

“Really?” is all he can reply with.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, it’s clearly something you want a lot. And I know you’re sensible enough not to get one of those crazy ones that go all the way across your face.” He giggles at that. “And you’ve waited long enough so I figure… why not just let you?”

His mouth falls open and he blinks, waiting for the catch, only for his father to simply shrug at him, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

“Well if you don’t want to-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because Theo jumps and hugs him before he can.

He enlists Harvey’s help with the design. His drawing skills aren’t bad, but they’re not the best either and if this is going on his body, permanently, he needs to get it right. So he slides up to Harvey on Monday with wide eyes and a smile that’s just the right amount of cute. And if that doesn’t work, he has money in one pocket and a comic book that Harvey really wants in the other.

The other boy looks up with a raised eyebrow and Theo’s glad he brought the back-ups.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Why do you think there is something?” he asks. “Can’t I just be happy to see you? My best friend? My trusted companion I have known since-”

“Oh my God, what did you break?” Sabrina asks. She’s sitting on the desk behind them and her eyes have doubled in size. “Harvey, whatever you do, do not take the fall for him!”

“That was one time, Brina!” he replies. Sabrina bites back a giggle, a twinkle in her eye as she exchanges a look with Roz, and Theo exhales slowly. His cheeks warm, just a little, but he ignores it. Or at least he tries. Same with the nervous prickle of sweat running down his back “Harvey, what I was going to ask was… well, my dad finally said I can get a tattoo, and I was just wondering if maybe you could draw it for me?” His voice gets smaller and smaller as the sentence goes on, and the last word practically limps past his lips. He holds his breath, fingers twitching to grab his two back up plans. But as it turns out, he doesn’t need to, because Harvey bursts into a grin that warms his heart and undoes the knot in his chest.

“Of course I will,” he tells him. “That’s what you were so worried about?”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs. Whatever words he had die on his tongue, and they laugh it off as Sabrina pats the space next to her. He jumps up next to her, their feet bumping against each other, and they take advantage of the few precious moments they have before class begins.

Harvey hunches over his desk, his hands moving as swiftly and carefully as only an artist’s can. It’s kind of amazing watching him, watching him lose himself in his work the same way Theo loses himself on the basketball court. No, it’s not the same and Theo knows it. He’s nevertheless fascinated by Harvey’s process and that’s why he’s hovering the way he is.

No other reason.

The nail chewing is also completely irrelevant. He does this all the time and it’s perfectly normal.

As is the pacing.

Eventually, Harvey just sights and pulls a chair up beside him and lets him sit. He only moves slightly, but Theo takes the hint and sits back, willing his heart to slow down. He does everything he can to pass time; jumps through social media apps on his phone, flips through Harvey’s stack of comics, even doodles something on a spare page. All the time waiting with baited breath and one eye on Harvey’s hand.

“Okay.” Harvey leans back in his chair, his fingers slightly greyed with lead. “I’m done.”

Theo leans forward and immediately a smile forms on his face. It’s exactly what he had in mind, the outline of a small bird sitting on a branch, poised to take flight, but Harvey’s drawing is more carefully and painstakingly structured than he could have hoped to make it. All his attempts somehow look flat, boring, but Harvey’s looks alive and it reminds him why he wants this particular picture on his body.

“Thank you.” He leans against him, cheek smushed against Harvey’s shoulder, and wraps his arms around him. He sings his words a little, bringing a smile to both their faces. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Harvey plays it down, but he hugs him back just as tightly.

Unfortunately, there are no tattoo places in Greenedale. Theo wonders how, in all his fifteen going on sixteen years of living in this town, he never once picked up on this. Especially since he spent most of that time wanting a tattoo. But no, here he is, the White Pages open on his lap and him staring intensely at the page as if the words tattoo parlour are going to magically appear on the page.

He sighs deeply and scratches his cat behind the ears.

“Well, Lila,” he tells her. “Time to go look beyond Greenedale.” Lila lets out a groan, her little ears flopping down as she rests her head against him, and he takes that as her saying she’s with him. He kisses her head, her fur tickling his nose. “Love you too, baby.”

He finds one close enough, in Woodvale, the next town over. It’s pretty decent money-wise, and while it looks pretty small on the Facebook page, it’s close, and more importantly, his dad goes there for business at least twice a month. He tells him that night he has some errands to run there next week, in fact.

“You can go in, get your tattoo done, then maybe we can go for lunch after,” he says. He shrugs awkwardly, wiping his hand on a tea towel. “You know, if you want. Unless you have plans or something.”

“I don’t have any plans, Dad,” he tells him. “I’d love that.”

He doesn’t miss his dad’s bright smile at his answer.

That night, Lila is sitting around his shoulders as he copies the phone number off the Facebook page. Her tail flicks him in the face and he sighs and adjusts her on his shoulders so she’s more comfortable. His dad sometimes calls her The Queen, and for good reason. That damn cat is more pampered than anything he’s ever known. Even if he does love her and thinks she deserves it.

“Don’t suppose you want to take this phone call for me, do you?” he asks her. She meows back at him, which he takes to mean no you weirdo, make your own appointments, you’re an adult now. She’s right, he doesn’t like it, but she’s right, so he kisses her nose and hits the call button.

“Um, hi, Midsummer Night’s, how can I help?”

Theo clears his throat, glad he had the foresight to chug water right before making the call. Social skills aren’t his best in general and they somehow get worse on the phone. Especially with this kind of appointment-booking stuff. He’s made progress, at least. By that he means he doesn’t feel the need to ask his dad any more. Baby steps.

“Hi,” he replies. “I’d like to book a tattoo. For next Saturday?”

“Next Saturday…” Their voice trails off, the sound of stuff being shoved and moved around filling the silence instead. “Sorry, just bear with me for one second.”

“It’s fine.” He turns on his heel and walks the length of his room again, Lila flicking her tail. It takes him a while to recognise the song playing in the background; Kansas. Carry On My Wayward Son. He’s a little embarrassed; he didn’t spend all that time watching Supernatural to not recognise this song instantly.

He catches himself humming just as the second verse hits.

“Okay, here we go,” the other voice says. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” he replies, as though a pink blush isn't colouring his cheeks.

“So that’s next Saturday… what time were you thinking?”

“Is around ten am okay?” he asks. “Sorry, I know it’s like right when you open, but my dad has some business around town that he can’t move and-”

“No, ten’s fine,” they tell him. “And what’s the name?”

“Putnam,” he says, perhaps a little too quickly. “Theo Putnam.”

“Okay, Putnam, Theo Putnam.” It’s a terrible joke, a dad-level terrible joke, but he laughs all the same. “That’s you booked in. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“See you on Saturday,” he replies, and the flutter of excitement in his chest leaves him breathless.

*****

Midsummer Nights' turns out to be a relatively small shop nestled on a street corner, looking only slightly out of place with its dark blue paint job, contrasting with the more pastel colour palette for the rest of the street, and indeed, the rest of the town. He likes it, and he especially likes the shooting stars painted around the door and windows. Twinkling in the mid-morning sun and outlined in thin black lines, trails of gold and silver shooting out from behind them. They’re tiny and probably there as an afterthought, a way to fill space, but Theo is far more enchanted by them than he is the larger pictures of fairies and mermaids that adorn the walls. The care taken alone leaves him breathless. The bigger pictures are impressive, sure, but the care with which the stars have been painted almost takes his breath away. Whoever did them must have the patience of a saint. He’s never really been one for patience, nor for taking his time, instead always running from one thing to the next. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from this person, whoever they are.

“Woah, calm down there,” he tells himself as he turns the handle. “It’s a painting, not a therapy session.”

Inside isn’t entirely what he expected. Well, he’s not completely sure what he expected. Maybe a bunch of hairy biker types, the faint stench of alcohol in the air and a deer head mounted in the wall for good measure. But no, instead he finds white walls decorated with painted trees and vines and as he looks closer, tiny fairies and gnomes poking their heads around them. A smile tugs on his lips as he looks at it. It’s almost magical; a new creature appearing before his eyes the longer he looks. The space is bright, mostly thanks to the large windows, and someone plays folk music softly in the background.

He approaches the front desk, which in actuality looks more like a glorified coffee table and is manned by a girl with blue strands of her hair. She looks up from her book as he approaches and slips a bookmark in without looking. He takes an instant liking to her, or rather she seems like the kind of person he could like.

“Hey,” she greets nonchalantly. “You have an appointment or are you a walk-in?”

“Uh, an appointment,” he replies, scratching behind his ear. “It’s uh-Theo Putnam.”

“Okay, one second.” She flips open a spiral notebook, twiddling a pen between her fingers. Theo takes the opportunity to have another look around, his eyes once again drawn to the walls. He looks up at them, more than happy to wait. There’s something almost tangible yet so surreal about it; like he believes he could find himself here, just not in this reality. And as he cranes his neck, he spies right where the wall meets the ceiling; the stars from the outside.

“Sorry about that,” the girl says, snapping him back to reality. “So yeah, you’re all booked in, if you just want to go down to the back, Robin will take care of you.” Theo nods, a ‘thank you’ on his lips, but before he can say it, the girl turns her head and screams “ROBIN YOUR PERSON’S HERE!”. Theo stumbles backwards, blown away by and also amazed that all the windows are still intact. She simply turns back, her smile sweet, and opens her book again. “He’ll be down in just a second.”

He can’t decide if he likes her more or less after that.

“Jesus Christ Moth, I’m coming,” someone, he presumes Robin, calls from above them, the voice faint. Theo grins as he realises that he probably wasn’t meant to hear that. He wanders past the front desk, but not before catching the small shit-eating grin on Moth’s face.

He likes her.

Robin (he assumes it’s him anyway) emerges on the bottom step, shooting an annoyed look at Moth that disappears immediately once he sees Theo, instead morphing into an apologetic half-smile.

“I’m sorry about her,” he says. “She’s under the impression that she’s cute. And she’s also a middle child.”

“Ah that explains a lot,” Theo chuckles. “Well, it’s fine. I mean, it seemed to be effective anyway.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. Theo’s breath catches in his throat and he can’t work out why. Robin is pretty, but he’s never been the type to lose his words over pretty boys. He’s tall, way taller than Theo, and his short-sleeved black shirt doesn’t leave much to the imagination. His dark hair is streaked with green and falls forwards into dark eyes, causing him to toss his head to push it back. Normally he’d find that kind of look douchey, but it’s not, not on him, it’s actually kind of cute in a punk-rock slash edgy poet kind of way and suddenly he’s aware how neither one of them have said anything yet.

“I’m Theo. We uh, we spoke on the phone.” It comes out as more of a question than a statement, at least in his mind.

“Yeah, I remember,” he says. “Putnam, Theo Putnam.”

“Yep, that’s me,” he replies, caught between laughing and cringing at himself. If he had known it was going to be like this, he’d have tried to make that phone call way less awkward. Robin doesn’t seem to mind though, instead tapping his arm lightly and gesturing with his head.

“Why don’t you come through with me and we can get started?”

“That’s definitely what I came here to do,” he says, and when Robin smiles, his heart melts and he curses silently.

Dimples. Of course he has dimples. The asshole.

He sits up on a leather chair, his backpack and jacket discarded on the floor and his sleeve rolled up. His feet dangle just above the floor and he’s deliberately not looking at the very pointy needles. It’s not like he’s got a phobia or anything, and he definitely knew this would be part of the process. It’s just a little unnerving.

“You got a design?” Robin asks.

“Uh, yeah here.” He holds the paper out to him. “My friend Harvey drew it. He’s really great at the art stuff. But-but the idea was mine and I… dictated it to him.”

“Cool,” he replies. “And where do you want it?” Theo pulls his sleeve up, his fingers gesturing to just below his shoulder. Robin nods, and his eyes darken slightly, as if his focus is shifting entirely to the tattoo and nothing else. He positions himself as close to him as possible, and they sit in silence as he carefully transfers the design onto tattoo paper.

Then Robin’s hand is against his skin, and the needle is barely an inch from it, and goosebumps prickle along there.

He must look as nervous as he feels, because Robin’s grip on his shoulder softens slightly, as does his face, and his voice comes in a careful whisper.

“Hey,” he tells him. “It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt that much. And I promise I’m careful.” Theo nods, even if his nails are digging into the leather beneath him. “Besides, it’s only the first one that really hurts. After that everything’s fine.”

“That’s what she said.” His voice is far weaker than he’d like it, the joke even more so, but Robin busts out laughing and so does he, and he barely realises that he started.

He was right though; while the pain doesn’t necessarily lessen, he gets used to it. If one could ever get used to the feeling of a needle jabbing one’s skin over and over. It kind of helps that he’s got plenty to distract him with the art on the walls and even if he didn’t; Robin is surprisingly easy to talk to.

“So you’re not from around here, are you?” he asks casually. “Sorry, it’s just… here you get to know people pretty quickly. And I’ve never seen you around here.”

“It’s fine,” he replies. He relates of course; small towns are small towns. “I’m from Greenedale. Ever been there?” Robin frowns slightly, his mouth falling half-open as he thinks.

“I think I drove through it once or twice,” he says. “Isn’t that the place that’s obsessed with witches and stuff?”

“That’s the one,” he says. “They’ve got all the spooky sights but unfortunately no tattoo parlours.” He goes to shrug but then remembers one arm is currently being used. “So I had to take a little trip out here.”

“You know when I was driving through I distinctly remember the lack of tattoo parlours,” Robin jokes. “Still. It’s a nice place.”

“I guess,” Theo mumbles. “I was always so focussed on the leaving.” He kicks the ground.  “I’ve never looked around properly.” Greenedale hasn’t exactly been kind to him either. He may love his friends dearly, and it’s not like his memories are all bad, but there are days when the familiar streets are less comforting and more maddening, and the town line feels more like a prison wall. It’s not every day he feels like this, but enough for him to have taken notice.

Robin chuckles beside him, and it’s then he suddenly remembers where he is, and that there is in fact a person beside him. A person he barely knows. And while a blush does creep over his cheeks, he doesn’t feel nearly as embarrassed as he should.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Kind of dumping my tragic backstory on you there.”

“Trust me, you’re not the first,” Robin tells him. “Guess there’s something about a person having a needle shoved into their skin repeatedly that puts them in a sharing mood.” He flips his head, tossing his bangs out of his face. “So what’s the deal with the witch thing?”

“Basically a lot of witches came over from Europe and settled over there,” he explains. “And when it came to picking a town personality trait, it was between either witches or thinly-veiled bigotry.” He goes to shrug, but then remembers the needle against his arm. “I guess ‘we’ll put a spell on you’ is a more catchy slogan than ‘we’re all raging assholes’.”

“Well, that may be true,” Robin says. “Though I’d admire any town with the balls to admit that they’re all assholes.” Theo chuckles again, swinging his feet slightly. Robin must be right; there must be something about getting a tattoo that makes you pretty chatty. That or Robin’s just… easy to talk to. He hasn’t met someone like in a while, not since Sabrina and Roz and Harvey. Something flutters in his chest and he doesn’t quite recognise it. He likes it, though. Even if in the back of his mind he wonders if he should be scared by it.

“Yo.” Moth appears in the doorway, hanging off the wall by her fingertips. She looks over at Theo’s arm, where Robin’s needle is, and a faint smile forms on her lips. “Not bad, Robin.”

“Thanks,” he replies, his eyebrow raised, and he looks up at Theo. “For her ‘not bad’ is possibly the highest praise you can get.”

“Not true. There’s at least two more levels, you just haven’t unlocked them yet,” she adds. “Anywho, I’m going on the coffee run, what do you want?”

“You know my order,” he replies, focussing more on his work than on her.

“So that’s an iced salted caramel latte, then,” she says. Robin’s cheeks turn pink suddenly, his hand slowing but not faltering. Judging by the look on Moth’s face-which can only be described as a shit-eating grin-that was the goal. “Do you want me to ask for whipped cream like last time?”

“No, thank you, Moth,” he mumbles, rolling his eyes. The gesture is equal parts exasperated and fondness, like Moth has been a pain in his ass for so long, and he likes it that way. Theo relates.

“He always pulls that ‘you know my order’ crap when a customer’s here,” she explains. “He’s embarrassed ‘cause his actual order isn’t very macho. Plus he thinks the cool and mysterious vibe impresses clients. Especially around the ones he thinks are cute. Anyway, you want anything?”

Theo freezes, his response-whatever it would be-caught in his throat. Moth seems unaffected, checking her nails like nothing is wrong. Maybe nothing is wrong, and he’s just overthinking. Or misheard her and she didn’t actually imply that Robin might find him cute. Either way, there’s probably no reason his cheeks should be as pink as they are now.

“N-no I’m okay thanks,” he says.

“You sure?” she asks. “No extra charge, just give us a good review.”

“It’s fine,” he says. He clears his throat and hopes his voice doesn’t actually sound that high. “I’m going out with my dad after this anyway.”

“Mm. Suit yourself.” She turns on her heel and flounces off, the sound of jangling keys and her boots on the floor growing fainter. Theo doesn’t dare breathe until she’s gone though-the closing door releasing the tie around his chest. When he turns to Robin, the other boy seems far calmer than he is, already back to work with a bemused grin on his face. His eyes meet Theo’s and he shakes his head lightly, his hair falling in front of his eyes.

“Don’t worry about Moth,” he tells him. “She’s taken it upon herself to try to set me up with every guy that comes in.” He shifts himself slightly. “Trust me, it was nothing.”

“Oh… okay.” The small tug of disappointment comes at a surprise to him, and he searches for a way out. “But was she right about your coffee order though?” Robin chuckles.

“Maybe.”

“Well, you don’t need to worry,” he tells him. “I personally think iced lattes are very macho. Of course we should ask ourselves ‘what is macho’ and then that takes us on a whole lovely journey that you probably don’t want to go through right now.”

“Eh, I might do,” he says. Theo turns to him, and his eyes are the exact mixture of teasing and serious, and the grin on his face widens. “But we can agree that salted caramel lattes rock, right?”

“Absolutely,” he says, and he realises in that moment he really likes this guy.

Which way he likes him though is a question he leaves unanswered.

In what feels like no time at all, Robin is slowly finishing up, an empty coffee cup at his side. At some point, Moth came in and started work on another client, casually talking to Robin above the hum of the tattoo needles. Robin doesn’t stop chatting to him though and they move through things like school (where he learns Robin’s favourite subject is English), music (where Robin actually has to stop and write down Theo’s music recommendations) and pets, where Theo goes on a ten minute rant about Lila and how she’s simultaneously the love of his life and the bane of his existence.

“Your cat sounds amazing,” he says. “Next time you’re in town you should bring her in so I can meet her.”

“You could always come over to Greendale,” he says. It’s so casual he didn’t even think about it before he said it, and he might have freaked himself out. If Robin feels the same, he doesn’t show it, only nodding and saying he might take him up on that.

They turn to talking about Midsummer Nights’ itself; how Robin started working there one summer as a teenager, how only last year he graduated from sweeping floors to taking clients, and how just a few months ago he and Moth (“mostly me,” he added, just loud enough so she could hear) redecorated the entire place, including the outside.

“I did those little stars on the wall outside,” he remarks. “Don’t know if anyone notices them, but they’re my crown jewel as far as I’m concerned.”

“I noticed,” Theo tells him. “I like them.” He doesn’t tell him how entranced he was by his work, but he does notice the softness in Robin’s smile, the pink hue in his cheeks. It makes sense, somehow, that Robin painted those stars. He barely knows him, but he feels like it makes sense.

For the last few minutes, the conversation drops away, and silence falls as all Robin’s focus shifts to his work. It’s a look he recognises from Harvey, an artist’s expression, but it feels deeper with Robin. His movements are so precise, so deliberate, that Theo feels he should hold his breath lest he break his concentration. He imagines him months ago, the same expression on his face as he paints the stars outside, and he’s almost sad he wasn’t there to see it.

Robin groans as he leans back, pushing his hair away from his face, and his eyes light up.

“We’re done,” he says. “You want to see it before we put the bandages on it?”

“Hell yeah I do.” He jumps off the seat and follows Robin, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he goes. Robin leads him to a mirror, his face shining with anxious pride, and Theo gives him a small smile before he turns and his breath is taken away.

“It’s perfect,” he breathes. Perfect as anything could be, really. Clean cut, careful, delicate. There’s so much life in it, even though it’s only ink. The little bird sits perched on its branch, determination strong on its small face. He couldn’t have asked for a better job. It’s everything he dreamed when he was younger, now a physical reality. He takes a deep breath, trying not to be the kind of person that cries after their first tattoo. “Thank you, Robin.”

“No problem,” he says softly and when Theo looks up, he finds Robin’s eyes lingering on him. “Putnam, Theo Putnam.”

                                                                        *****

He and his dad find a little cafe in the middle of town and sit outside, taking advantage of the good weather.

“So was it worth waiting for?” his dad asks. “The tattoo?”

“Yes, it was,” he replies. “Thank you, Dad.” His dad waves his hand dismissively, as though the back-and-forth between them never happened.

“No problem kid,” he says. “It was what you wanted. And the place was good?”

“Yeah.” He pops another French fry in his mouth. “It was really, really good. They were uh… good at their jobs.” His hand moves to where the bandage sits on his arm, the tattoo perfectly preserved beneath it, and yet that’s not what he’s thinking about. Instead his mind drifts back to Robin, with his hair falling into his eyes and his laugh and those damn dimples. He takes a drink just as he feels the heat rush to his cheeks, and his dad eyes him curiously. He sets the glass down, even though his mouth is still dry. “It was great.”

A knowing smile spreads across his dad’s face and he curses under his breath. This is what he gets for having a close relationship with his father. Stupid strong father-son bond.

Theo puts his hand in his pocket and his fingers close around empty fabric, rather than plastic. He hurriedly checks the other pocket, then his jeans, his panic rising each time. His dad turns when he realises Theo is no longer beside him, his feet rooted to the sidewalk instead, and his eyes widen, reflecting Theo’s own alarm back at him.

“Theo?” he asks. “What happened?”

“I-I can’t find my phone!” he sighs. He pulls items out of his pockets one by one, his wallet, his keys, loose change… no phone. He taps every pocket again to make sure, as if it was going to magically appear if he willed it hard enough. No such luck. He mumbles under his breath, a stream of ‘oh shit’ and ‘oh no’ as he tries to fight off the rising panic. He tries to retrace his steps, to remember the last place he had it out, to think of wherever the hell his phone could be in this town-

“Theo!”

Or maybe he doesn’t need to.

“Theo!”

He turns around to see Robin running down the street, skidding to a half just in front of him. His face is bright red, not from teasing his time, his chest heaves and his hair sticks to his face. They look at each other, breathless, and just as Theo opens his mouth to ask what he’s doing, he holds his hand out.

“My phone!” he squeaks.

“Yeah you… you left it in… with me,” he says between gasps. “I was really hoping I’d be able to catch you before you left.”

“Oh God I’m sorry,” he says, taking another look over Robin. The tattoo parlour is far enough from here, and the streets here twist and turn around as they please. And Robin ran through them. For him. In jeans. “Thank you so much, Robin. I-how did you know it was mine?”

“The picture on the lockscreen,” he explains, pointing vaguely. “It was you.” He pushes his hair away from his face. “And… your boyfriend?”

“My boyfriend?” he asks. For a second his mind goes blank, then he realises and it nearly knocks the wind out of him. “Oh God no, Harvey’s…. he’s just my friend. No, no I…” He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes meeting Robin’s and he can’t work out if the hopeful look on his face is real or his imagination. Either way, he ends up saying “I’m completely single.”

“Oh,” he says, about ten times higher than usual. He clears his throat, his hand sliding into his back pocket. “Uh… me too.”

“Seriously? What the whole jacked as hell, dyed hair tattoo artist thing doesn’t attract anyone?”

“Not around here it doesn’t, apparently,” he says, implying that the reason he’s single is beyond no-one wanting to date a tattoo artist. There’s a pause, a brief moment of silence, and Theo goes to say goodbye, to run before it gets awkward, but Robin holds out a small piece of paper.

“What’s this?” he asks as he takes it. Robin ducks his head, his bangs falling in front of his face.

“I hope it’s not too forward,” he begins. “But it-it’s my number.” He shrugs and pushes his hair back. "Just in case you ever want to call me sometime."

“Oh,” he replies. It’s a short, quick word. It hardly means anything. Certainly doesn’t reflect how his stomach as dropped out from under him, or how his brain is vibrating at an insane frequency, or how the unending cry of ‘HE GAVE ME HIS NUMBER’ blasts around his head like a fire alarm. And all the while he just stands there, the paper in his hand, blinking up at Robin like he hasn’t a care in the world. “Um… thanks.”

“Sorry,” he says immediately, his face scrunched up. “I-it was too forward, I didn’t mean like that.”

“No,” Theo says, just as Robin’s hand twitches. He slides the paper into his back pocket with a shaky hand and gives him a small smile. “It’s not… like that at all.” It’s really not. It’s not… He’s not sure what it is. All he knows is that Robin’s not at fault. “It’s okay, really.”

He turns slightly and sees his dad standing at the truck, pretending to be interested in a receipt he pulled out of his pocket. His dad hasn’t pressed and knowing him, he’s probably fully intending on giving the two of them as long as they need to work out… whatever it is they’re working out. Anxiety clutches his chest and he backs up suddenly, his hand still slid into his pocket. He needs time all right, but not here.

“I should go,” he says. “But I’ll...” His voice trails off, his fingers fidgeting in mid-air. The piece of paper burns like a small star in his pocket. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Robin says. He tosses his hair again and damn, he should not find that as cute as it is. “Look us up if you’re ever back in town.”

“I will.” He gives a wave to Robin, who responds with a wave, and Theo responds to that with a small finger gun and screams at himself the minute he turns around. He climbs into the truck beside his dad, who already rolled the windows down. Thank God, Theo thinks, because he feels fit to explode. He leans out as his dad pulls away from the curb, closing his eyes as the air tickles his skin.

“So you made a friend?” his dad asks. He doesn’t need to turn around to see the bemused smile on his face.

“He was the guy who did my tattoo,” is his reply. His dad nods, a soft chuckle escaping him, and goosebumps prickle on his skin.

“He gave you his number,” he points out. “Are you gonna call him?”

Theo sighs, his fingers tracing over the paper in his back pocket.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t call him. At least, not right away. Who he does call is Harvey, Roz and Sabrina, who all stand around his bed with him, the offending phone number sitting in the centre. He filled them in as best he could, although with all his energy being focussed on the decision, he’s only really been able to give them ‘I met a guy, he gave me his number’. And now they’ve been standing there, minutes passing in silence, while Theo stares at it with enough intensity to light it on fire.

“I think you should call him,” Roz says eventually.

“Why?”

“Because he gave you his number for that very purpose,” she tells him slowly. Theo pulls a face at her, but it only lasts for a second because… she’s right. She has an infuriating habit of being right. If she wasn’t so cute and supportive and lovely he’d have stopped hanging out with her long ago for that very reason.

“So why haven’t you?” Sabrina asks. “Called him. I mean his number’s right there. What’s stopping you?”

“What isn’t stopping me?” he mumbles, just loud enough for them to hear, and the three friends share an understanding nod. His experience with romance is extremely limited-his first and only “relationship” was the Valentine’s card that appeared in his backpack in third grade. He never chased them up, and that was the end of it. All other knowledge either comes from his friends or movies. At this moment, he feels like he’s on the edge of the deep end, nothing to help him, and he’s not sure he won’t drown when he jumps.

“Hey.” Sabrina appears at his side, her shoulder bumping against his. “I still think you should do it.” He raises his eyebrow at her. She simply shrugs in response, her eyes flitting over to Harvey as she speaks. “I mean… I know it’s a cliche, but you’ll never know until you try.”

“Yeah,” Harvey adds. “I mean what’s the worst that could happen?”

“So many things,” Theo sighs, raking a hand through his hair. He’s not blessed with what Harvey and Sabrina have-a sweet little romance that’s been blossoming since childhood-nor does he have his pick of suitors like Roz does. As far as he knows, this Robin’s his one chance. He shakes his head, his fingers drumming on his arm. “Maybe I just shouldn’t.”

“I disagree,” Roz pipes up. “I think very hot boys giving you their numbers doesn��t just happen every day and since the universe has presented you with this opportunity, I for one think you’d be an idiot to pass it up.” She delivers everything so quickly that it takes a few seconds for him to register it, and then she comes round to his side and slings her arm around his shoulders, all warm smiles and warm eyes, and he rests her head on her shoulder. “Besides, I know you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

She’s not wrong. Again. If there’s one idea that scares him more than it not going well, it’s never even happening at all.

“And in the event it goes horribly wrong, we’ll all buy ice cream and we can have a good cry session,” she promises, and the other two nod in agreement. Theo closes his eyes and buries his face in Roz’s shoulder so they won’t see his blush.

God damn it, he loves his friends.

It takes a week for him to call him, even with those assurances. One day he feels braver than usual; he chalks it up to a good day at school and an even better one at practice, and so he sits on his bed and punches Robin’s number into his phone, the note sitting on his pillow. Because yes, he kept the note instead of writing it down. Nothing wrong with that.

“Hello?” Robin picks up too suddenly, and Theo bites back a squeak. He jumps off the bed and pulls on his shirt for some reason.

One chance he reminds himself. One chance.

“Hi, Robin?” he asks. “It’s uh, it’s Theo. Theo from Greenedale? You did my tattoo last week.”

“Oh, Theo, hey,” he replies. “Um, hi. H-how’s it turned out? The tattoo I mean?”

“Perfect,” he confesses. “It’s a hit with the guys on my basketball team. You should be expecting an influx of jocks coming round soon.”

“I’ll let Moth know, we’ll stock up on Gatorade.” Theo chuckles and sits on the edge of his bed, the beating of his heart slowing slightly. Maybe this could work. Maybe, if the stars are right, this won’t fall apart.

“Robin,” he begins quietly. “The reason I called was… em… I wanted to ask you-” The words stick in his throat like grains of sand against rocks. So many questions overlap in his head, each drowning the other out and turning into static. He closes his eyes, takes deep breath in, and back out. No need to overthink it, he tells himself. Just jump.

“Do you have plans on Saturday?” he asks.

“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” he replies. “Why do you ask?”

Theo throws himself on the bed, his legs in the air, and is amazed at just how easy this actually is.

                                                                          *****

They have their first date in Greenedale, seeing a movie at the Paramount, followed by a personalised tour. Robin gives Theo his jacket at some point, the sleeves falling past his hands, and Theo’s heart flutters.

They have their first kiss by the Welcome To Greenedale sign, Robin’s hand caressing his arm, right above where his tattoo is.

A year later, he’s laying in Robin’s bed, his boyfriend’s fingers gently caressing his newest tattoo-free of charge this time around. Theo kisses his bare shoulder before Robin goes to sit up, reminding him that he has to be at work in half an hour. Theo just pouts, grabs his arm, and tries to see if he can get five more minutes out of him.

Yeah, life is good.

[olderthannetfic]

Hey, sorry to ask this, but a few days ago I saw a post/discussion about the history of original work on ao3 (i.e. how and when it was allowed). I thought it was in my likes, but it's not, and I thought you had reblogged it recently, but I didn't find it. I was wondering if you have seen this discussion around? Or where I can find more about it? This specific post talked abt how who defended original work on ao3 were not the BNFs, if that helps.

That was me running my mouth in the reblogs of something or other. It’s just the one comment.

But what’s that you say? Some tl;dr about a pet topic? Don’t mind if I do! ;) (To be honest, most of this debate happened years ago, and a lot of the long meta was by me back then too, so…)

Okay, so, the situation with Original Works is actually super interesting and a microcosm of early years OTW wank.

This is going to be even more tl;dr than my usual. To try to summarize very briefly:

There were two big cultural factions. One thought “original” was the opposite of “fan”. That one was in charge of OTW. It was hard to get voices from the other side into the debate because they already felt excluded from OTW.

This divide broke down more or less into Ye Olde Slash Fandom on the “it’s the opposite” side and anime fandom on the “WTF?” side. Americans on one side and a lot of non-US, non-English language fandom on the other.

I. Media Fandom, Anime Fandom, and Early OTW

I went to that first fundraising party that astolat threw in New York City back in… god… 2007? 2008? I wasn’t on the Board or any official position until the committees got started later, but I was around right from the very beginning.

Whether you’re looking at volunteers or at people who commented on astolat’s original post, there were always a variety of fans from a variety of fannish backgrounds. People aren’t absolutely in one camp or another, and fannish interests change over time. If you go dig through Dreamwidth posts to find who was actually participating in this debate at the time, half of them are probably in the other camp now.

If you think like that sounds like a preamble to me making a bunch of offensively sweeping generalizations and divvying fans up into little groups, you’d be right! Haha.

I.a. Ye Olde Media Fandom

There are a lot of camps of people who like fanfic. One of the biggest divisions has been Ye Olde Media Fandom vs. anime fandom. Astolat’s social circle–my LJ social circle–was filled with people with decades of fannish experience and a deep knowledge of the Media Fandom side of things.

Those fandom history treatises that start with K/S zines in Star Trek fandom in the 70s and move on through the mainstream buddy cops like Starsky & Hutch to the more niche, sff buddy cops like Fraser and Ray or Jim and Blair are talking about Media Fandom. I try to always capitalize it because the name is lulzy and bizarre to me unless it’s a proper noun for a specific historical thing. It was coined as a rude term for “mass media” fandom aka dumb people who like, ughhhh, Star Trek, ughhh, instead of books. This is a very ancient slapfight from the type of fandom you find at Worldcon, often called “SF fandom” or plain “fandom”.

(Yes, this leads to mega confusion on the part of some old dudes when they find Fanlore and fail to understand that “fandom” there refers to what these people would call “Media Fandom”. They think only they get the unmarked form. But I digress…)

Media Fandom is a specific flavor of fandom. It’s where the slash zines were. It’s where the fans of live action US TV shows were. It’s the history that acafans have laid out well and that tends to get used to defend the idea of a female subculture writing transgressive and transformative fanfic. On the video side, Media Fandom is where Kandy Fong invented vidding by making Star Trek slideshows.

(Kandy’s still around, BTW. She’s usually at Escapade in L.A. Ask her to tell you about the dancing penises sketch in person. She’s hilarious.)

Astolat and friends had been going to slash cons for years. They founded Vividcon. And Yuletide. That meant that when astolat said “Hey kids, let’s put on a show!” we all jumped to help. This is a lady who gets things done.

From a Worldcon perspective, or even from an older Media Fandom perspective, this group was comparatively young, hip, and welcoming. Their fandom interests were comparatively broad. Just look at Yuletide!

In fact, yes, let us look at Yuletide… [ominous music]

I.b. Yuletide sucks at anime

From the very first year (2003), Yuletide mods have asked for help with anime fandoms, been confused about anime fandoms, or made bad judgment calls about anime fandoms. They’ve fucked up on Superhero comics and plenty of other things over the years, but anime has been the most consistent (well, and JRPGs, but there’s so much overlap in those fic fandoms).

There was already bad feeling about this. There were years of bad feeling about this.

I.c. Where are the historians?

Academic study of fanficcy things pretty much got started with Textual Poachers and Enterprising Women. Other acafans who are well known to LJ and later Tumblr are people like Francesca Coppa who wrote a very nice summary of the history of Media Fandom. These are not the only academics who exist, these academics themselves have written about many other things, and by now, OTW’s own journal has covered a lot of other territory, but to this day I see complaints on Tumblr that “acafans” only care about K/S and oldschool slash fandom.

There were years of bad feeling about this as well.

I.d. What kind of fan was I?

Now, by the time OTW got started, I’d moseyed over to not only a lot of live action US TV but a lot of old-as-fuck US TV that is squarely in the Media Fandom camp. But once upon a time, I was a weeaboo hanging out with my weeaboo friends in college. I learned Japanese (sort of). I moved to Japan. Livin’ the weeaboo dream!

More importantly, I used to be a member of a lot of anime mailing lists back in the Yahoo Groups days. I didn’t realize what a cultural gap that would cause until the original works issue came up on AO3.

I.e. Anime Fandom, German-language Fandom, Original M/M

Once upon a time–namely in that Yahoo Groups era–there was an archive called Boys in Chains. It was where you found The Good Stuff™. Heavy kink and power exchange galore! It was extremely well known in the parts of fandom I was in, even if you weren’t on the associated mailing list. It contained lots of fic, but it also had lots of original work.

Around that same era, I was on a critique list called Crimson Ink, which was mixed fic and original. The “original slash” and “original yaoi” crowds mixed freely and were in fanfic spaces. Remember, this is like 2003. You’re never going to get your gay fantasy novel published in English in the US. A couple of fangirl presses started around then, but they died an ignominious death after their first print run.

Fanfiction.net used to allow original work before it spun that off into FictionPress. We forget this today, but if you were an early FFN person, the separation wasn’t so great either.

Meanwhile, German-language fandom was hanging out on sites like Animexx.de, a big-ass fic archive that prominently mentions also including original work. I have the impression that Spanish-language fandom was similar too.

Shousetsu Bang*Bang was founded in 2005. It was a webzine for original m/m, but it was entirely populated by fanfic fandom types.

In all of those kinds of spaces, there was a lot of “original” work that was kind of slash or BL-ish and seen as fannish if it was posted in the fannish space. These weren’t anime-only spaces. They were multifandom spaces where it was seen as obvious and normal that a couple of huge fandoms like Harry Potter would dominate but that everything else big would naturally be anime.

While fans from every background are everywhere, I found that the concentration of EFL fans living in Continental Europe, South America, and Asia was much higher in this kind of space, even the exclusively English language part of it, than in my US TV fandoms.

II. AO3 Early Adopters

AO3 went into closed beta in 2009. In 2010, it was open to the general public (albeit with the invitation queue it still has). But not everyone was interested yet. Just like fandom is loath to leave the dying, shambling mess of Tumblr, fandom was loath to leave dwindling LJ/DW circles or was happy enough on Fanfiction.net. I used to see a lot of posts like “Why are you guys trying to STEAL fanfic from the original! FFN is enough!”

I literally could not give away the invitations I had. No one wanted them.

So who was on AO3? Obviously enough, it was all of us who built it and our friends. So that means a bunch of oldschool Livejournal slashers coming from fandoms like Due South or Stargate Atlantis.

The queue was open. Anyone could make an account. Everyone was welcome. In theory…

But more and more, there started to be these posts about how “AO3 Hates Anime Fandom” and “FFN is for anime. AO3 is for Western fandoms.” and “If you guys actually wanted anime fandom on there, you’d invite us better and make us more welcome.”

At the time, I found these posts obnoxious. People aren’t purely in one sort of fandom or the other. No one was stopping anime fandom from making accounts. No one was banning anime fandom. If there wasn’t much from old fandoms, that was because old fandoms seldom move.

Things began to change. Trolls on FFN forced the Twilight porn writers out, creating enough fuss and brouhaha to mobilize people who would rather have stayed put. AO3 got big enough that randos found it by accident. Original work started to pop up, posted by people who’d never looked at the rules and had no idea it was not allowed.

III. History of AO3’s Policy

I had argued for allowing “original work” during the initial discussions about the ToS. On one side of this issue was me. On the other, everyone else on the committee.

I was overruled.

Open Door started importing old archives to save them. Boys in Chains was hugely important to fandom history from my point of view. It was slated to be imported… maybe. Except that Boys in Chains is half original. AO3 was happy to grandfather in those stories, but the final archive owner felt, quite rightly, that it would be unfair to tell half of the authors they were welcome in the new space while spitting on the other half.

I was pissed. I had been pissed since being overruled the first time. To me, the fact that it should be allowed was so blatantly obvious that it was hard to even explain why.

(To be honest, this difficulty in explaining why and the even greater difficulty in figuring out the source of that difficulty is what held the discussion back for so long. When every assumption on either side is completely opposite, it’s hard to communicate.)

I felt betrayed. It would be like if you helped build something, and everyone was suddenly like “Well, obviously, we can’t allow m/m. It’s not normal fanfic.”

So we discussed it again and, again, it was me vs. literally everyone else. And still the “AO3 is only for Western slash fandom” bitching rose in volume and more and more people complained of feeling excluded from the new fandom hub. Finally, the committee agreed to open the issue up for public comment and get some more input. I was a fool and neither wrote nor proofread the post. It went out phrasing the question as allowing “non fannish” work or something of that sort.

I was furious. The entire point of the whole debate was that I saw some original work, the original work that belongs on AO3, as inherently fannish. And now this had been presented to the AO3 audience as something completely different. Think pieces were popping up in the journals of everyone I knew about diluting AO3’s mission and how we needed to save AO3 from encroachment. Public opinion was very negative. That’s both because of how the post was phrased and because OTW die hards at the time were mostly from the same fannish background. This tidal wave of negativity meant that there was virtually no chance of changing this poisonous rule. And if the rule didn’t change, the people who wanted the rule change were never going to show up to explain why it mattered.

If you’ve been reading my tumblr, I think you can guess what happened next.

I posted a long post to my Dreamwidth. It was a masterwork of passive aggression. In it, I wrung my hands about how simply tragic it would be if AO3 had to delete all of the original work… like anthropomorfic.

Now, I think anthropomorfic counts as fanfic as much as anything else, but I also knew that it fails most rigorous “based on a canon” type definitions of fic and, more importantly, it’s a favorite Yuletide fandom of many of the people on the side that wanted to ban original work.

That’s a nice fandom of yours. It would be a pity if something happened to it. 

Yup. Passive aggressive blackmail. Go me. Suddenly, there was a lot of awkward backtracking and confused running in circles in various journals. The committee agreed to table the idea for a while but not rule out the idea of allowing original works in the future. We agreed to halt all deletions of original work. If a fan posted it, the Abuse Committee (which I was also head of at the time) would not delete that work even though it was technically against the rules.

Time passed. The people on the negative side got tired. I wanted off that committee and had wanted off for ages, but I was damned if I was going to leave before ramming through this piece of policy. Grudgematch till I die! (Look, I never said I wasn’t a wanker.)

After a while, some other fans came forward with more types of “original work” as evidence that it should be allowed. These were from parts of fandom none of us on the committee knew a damn thing about.

This new evidence combined with the gradual accretion of original stuff on AO3 without the sky falling eventually led us to quietly rule Original Work a valid fandom. There was never even a big announcement post. I slipped a word to the Boys in Chains mod myself.

IV. What Were They So Afraid Of Anyway?

So why were people so resistant? Seems like a dick move, right?

Not exactly.

I mean, I was enraged and waged a one-woman war to change the rules, but the other side wasn’t nuts. The objections were usually the following:

I just don’t get why it would be allowed. It never was in my fannish spaces.

Most of our members don’t want this.

Most of the examples of things that ought to be included are m/m. We are privileging m/m if we allow it, and AO3 already has a m/m-centric reputation that can feel exclusionary to some fans.

AO3 is a young, shaky platform that can barely handle the load and content we already have. If we open to original work, we’ll be opening the floodgates. The volume of posting will be so high, it will drown out the fic we’re actually here to protect.

Protecting stuff that doesn’t need protection because it’s not an IP issue would dilute OTW’s mission.

If we allow it, idiots will try to turn AO3 into advertising space, posting only the first chapter and a link to where you can pay to read the rest.

If we add another category of text before we add fan art, that’s a slap in the face of the fan artists we are already failing.

These arguments all make perfect sense in context.

Obvously, the issue with the first two is that different fannish communities have different norms. I knew that a very large community disagreed with the then current AO3 policy, but since so few of them were around to comment, it seemed like a tiny fringe minority.

The m/m thing is… complex. M/M content with zero IP issues is at risk. It is always at risk in a way that even f/f is not (though f/f is also always at risk). Asking for m/m to be exactly equivalent to f/f or m/f in numbers, tropes, whatever is ignoring the historical realities. In our current moment of queer activism in the West, we treat all types of queerness as part of one community with one set of goals, but once you get to culture and art or even more specific activism, this forced homogenization is neither useful nor healthy.

OTOH, AO3 really did have PR problems related to the perception that we gave m/m fandom the kid glove treatment. That objection wasn’t coming from nowhere.

AO3 was shaky. It was tiny when I first brought up this argument. Hell, it wasn’t even in closed beta the first time we discussed this. Part of what made the quiet rules change possible was AO3 organically getting much bigger and OTW having to buy many more servers for unrelated reasons.

The “floodgates” thing was put to rest by tacitly allowing original work before the rules change. We had a period to study how fans actually behaved, and as I predicted, only a small amount of original work got posted. It was indeed mostly things like original BL-ish stories or original work that had been part of a mixed original/fic fest, exchange, zine, etc. Currently, the “Original Work” fandom on AO3 only has 76,348 works. That’s pretty big compared to individual fandoms but tiny compared to AO3’s current size.

The commercial argument was spurious because commercial spam had been against the rules from the very beginning. OH THE IRONY that nowadays AO3 has all these idiots trying to post the first chapter of their fanfic and then direct you to where you can buy the rest.

AO3 has plenty of fanfic of public domain works. One of the problems with gatekeeping original work is that any way you try to distinguish it (not based on a specific canon, not an IP issue, etc.) will apply to some set of obviously allowable fandoms.

As for fan art… OTW has failed fan artists. They needed protection as much as or even more than fic writers. Just look at Tumblr! If we had succeeded at making DeviantArt but allowing boners, fan art fandom could have been safe all these years. Or when Tumblr inevitably shat the bed, we could have scooped up all those people instead of them scattering to twitter and god knows where.

OTW has failed vidders too, at least in terms of preservation. I know I’m not the only one who thinks this. Other major people from like the first Board and shit have discussed this with me offline. Doing some kind of vidding project, possibly outside of OTW is on a lot of our to-do lists. But at least one of OTW’s biggest victories has been that copyright exemption. OTW has demonstrably done really positive things for vidders that other organizations and sites have not. As a vidder, I never expected to see good hosting for the actual video files, and I’m quite content.

But fan artists… yeah. That argument makes sense at least from a place of frustration.

BTW, for the love of god, if you’re a n00b to OTW stuff, please do not reblog this post excitedly telling me that hosting fan art is on OTW’s road map, so yay, good news. Someone always does that, and it’s so irritating. I haven’t been involved in OTW in years, but I used to be, and I know what is on the roadmap. The couple of you who do heavy lifting on sysadmin and coding and policy things are welcome to weigh in as usual. I know none of us like that we can’t host fan art. It’s not what we intended.

Nonetheless, I found this argument to be the perfect being the enemy of the good. If we can save more text now without losing much of anything, we should do it. The fact that we’re fucking up on the fan art front is not a reason to spread the misery around.

V. Is “Original” the Opposite of “Fanfic”?

Okay, so that tl;dr above is why “BNFs” were on one side and “nobodies” were on the other. BNFs from one cultural background founded OTW. BNFs from the other cultural background weren’t even aware that the debate was going on.

But what was the underlying philosophical problem in even having the conversation?

It took me a long time, but I finally worked it out: We had two completely different ways of categorizing writing, and they were so baked into how we phrased questions that everything ended up being unanswerable to the other side. Here is what I came up with:

Schema 1

Fanfic - based on someone else’s IP

Original Work - the opposite

Schema 2

Non-Fannish Work - School essays, stories you are writing to try to sell to a mainstream publisher

Fannish Work Type 1 - based on other people’s characters directly (i.e. fanfic) Type 2 - based on tropes or whatever (“original slash” and the like)

Now, in the current moment when half of Tumblr just got into Chinese webnovels and the m/m ebook industry is thriving in English, original, tropey, BL-ish work is no longer different from “things I am trying to sell”. But this is how the divide was circa 2005 on fannish websites, and it’s the divide that was driving this internal OTW debate.

VI. Let’s Summarize the Camps One More Time

So, again, the debate makes perfect sense if you understand who was involved.

On the mainstream “But that’s not fanfic? I’m confused?” side:

Big US TV fandoms in English

Fandom historians of K/S–>buddy cop slash–>SGA, etc.

Americans

On the other side:

Anime fandom

“Original slash” fandom that had already been chased off of everywhere

People upset that AO3 wasn’t farther on translating the interface and supporting non-English language fandom.

People upset about US-centrism in fandom

Yes, I am very white, very American, and by now very into old buddy cop shows, but this was basically how the breakdown worked. It meant that something that looked like a minor quibble to one side was really, really not.

[sleepyverstappens]

Your soul and mine

Title: Your soul and mine

Pairing: Charles Leclerc/Lando Norris

Rating: Gen/PG (bar a few curses)

Word Count: 2138

Tags: Charles Leclerc, Lando Norris, Alternate universe - Soulmate, Soulmate Identifying Marks

A/N:  Me writing a fic without Max *gasp!* apparently miracles do happen, because Max is only mentioned once in this one.J prompted me a Charles/Lando meet cute fic on whatsapp and my brain totally skipped over the meet cute part and instead this happened. I guess it's still quite cute though?Anyways hope you enjoy this one :D

Summary: Most people were very private about their marks, if they could hide it they would do so. So unless you were one of the unfortunate souls with a mark stretching over your face the mark would be hidden away from sight until you found your match. People would wear scarves and gloves all year to keep that little piece of them hidden if they needed to. Only openly showing their marks ones they had started moving, once they had met the other half of their soul.

Read on AO3

No, he thought, no it couldn't be, it was supposed to be Carlos. Carlos who's mark he'd seen just a flash of. A glimpse of it caught when he'd walked in on him unannounced as Carlos changed into his fireproofs. The intricate swirl of a tail peeking out on his shoulder before he could cover himself. Carlos’ eyes worried as they met his own, but Lando had somehow managed to play it off as if he hadn’t seen anything, joking about as if nothing had happened. 

Most people were very private about their marks, if they could hide it they would do so. So unless you were one of the unfortunate souls with a mark stretching over your face the mark would be hidden away from sight until you found your match. People would wear scarves and gloves all year to keep that little piece of them hidden if they needed to. Only openly showing their marks ones they had started moving, once they had met the other half of their soul. 

He'd only seen a glimpse of Carlos' mark, but that tail had looked so familiar, like the tail on his right foot. The tail connected to the little monkey that had been there since he was 15. The same monkey that was staring back at him on Twitter now, the intricate details just like his own standing out against the pale skin of Charles Leclerc's stomach.

Charles Leclerc who he had maybe spoken five words with all throughout last season, the Ferrari prodigy not interested in hanging out with the new rookies even though he'd been one himself only a season before. Happy enough to stick to Pierre or Seb’s side whenever they had some free time during the busy weekends. 

“Fuck,” he cursed softly. He knows the universe wouldn't just put him with Charles randomly, but then why did he hate the idea of being his soulmate so much? His mind had been so set on it being his teammate, the teammate who he got along with so well. Who would laugh at his dumb jokes, whose touches he would still feel long after his long fingers had left his body. Yet none of his touches had made his monkey start moving, not even a smidge. He’d held out hope, hope that maybe Carlos’ touches weren’t right, did they ever actually touch skin? His brain was coming with plenty of excuses of how it could still be Carlos, until he’d seen that picture, that undeniable picture. 

It had to be photoshopped right? People did that all the time and it wasn't like Sun of all tabloids was a trustworthy one. But then how could they have gotten it just like his one? This wasn't a random leaf or puzzle piece that anyone could think up, no it actually had the monkey missing one of its toes like his one. Unless the person that wrote the article was his soulmate there was no way someone had faked that soulmark. 

“Fuck,” he cursed once more, a little louder, some curious looks thrown his way from the other people in the hospitality cafeteria. What did people do when they found out who their soulmate was? Movies always made it so romantic, eyes meeting across a crowded room, the soft touch they’d share, eyes widening as their marks started moving, the rest of the world going quiet as they only had eyes for the one that made their soul complete. Yet here was Lando, sat all alone in the middle of a crowded canteen, cutlery clinking loudly through the noise of people chatting. He needed to get away from all the noise, get some fresh air, sort his head out.

The paddock was bustling with people, but the noise felt less crowding than it had done inside. It’s only the second week of testing and people seem a lot more chill than during the race weekends, waiting somewhat patiently for their favourite drivers as they go for their lunch break. He hasn’t driven yet today, Carlos racking up more miles in the morning before he would jump in in an hour or so. 

Charles has though and Lando wonders whether he’s seen the pictures yet. How the scums from the Sun had managed to catch the exact moment Charles’ shirt had lifted he doesn’t know. The picture showed the young man standing on the balcony of his Monaco apartment, hair a mess and eyes squinted closed as he stretched his arms above his head. People would say it was his own fault for not making sure the mark was covered, but he was at home, a space that was supposed to be safe. And he’d clearly only just woken up, his brain not firing on all cylinders yet and somehow the camera had snapped at that exact moment. 

He hadn’t realised how far along the paddock he’d walked, his feet stopping abruptly as his eyes caught the bright red Ferrari hospitality building. A lone figure sat outside on the terrace attached to it, the hood of his jacket up against the cold as he gripped his phone tightly. Lando could see the forlorn expression on Charles’ face, clearly he’d seen the picture, how they had zoomed in on his stomach, broadcasting his mark to the world. Seeing Charles like this made his heart ache, his head and his heart at war on whether or not he should go to Charles and tell him. Tell him that whilst it sucked what they had done it had made Lando find him, find his soulmate. 

He’s about to step forward, let his heart lead the way, when Charles glances up, their eyes meeting and Lando freezes. He can’t do it, he’s not ready, not ready to give up the possibility of someone else. Of brown eyes and a Spanish accent, instead of brown eyes and a French accent. He manages to make a small smile stretch on his lips before he rushes back to the McLaren hospitality, to the safety of his home away from home.   

---

The next two days of testing fly by quickly, they get through their scheduled programming without much trouble and he gets to set the fourth fastest time, just behind Lewis, Max and Sergio, Ferrari still struggling to find the pace even during the second week in Barcelona. He had tried to avoid the team of the prancing horse as much as possible, only catching a glimpse of Charles as he had walked into the paddock on Thursday morning, other than seeing his bright red car out on track.

So it’s a surprise to find himself sat across from Charles in the first class lounge at the airport. He’d been there first, lazily scrolling through the messages on various social media when Charles had let himself fall into the chair across from him. There’s only two other people in the lounge and yet he’d sat there, right across from Lando, the Brit’s eyes widening a little as he’d found Charles staring at him. 

They drag their eyes away from each other in sync, Charles’ eyes now also focussed on the phone in his hand. Lando can’t help but sneak a few glances up at the Monegasque, seeing a deep frown wrinkling up his forehead as he reads whatever is on the phone. Then Charles huffs loudly, his phone clattering onto the table loudly as he pushes it away from him. 

“What’s up?”

And now that frown is directed at Lando, brown eyes piercing into him before he lifts a condescending eyebrow. “Really? Like you don’t know, like the whole fucking world doesn’t know already.”

“Sorry,” Lando murmured, feeling embarrassed for even asking. He’d just wanted to be nice to the guy, maybe get him to open up about how he’s feeling with all the shit that’s going on and then maybe hint at the fact that Lando is his soulmate. But instead he’d already fucked it up, the angry scowl on Charles’ face really making him question the universe right now. Did he have it all wrong? It couldn’t be, he’d stared at that picture for so long, zooming in on every tiny detail to compare it to his own mark and he’d found nothing different. Fuck, how would he tell Charles and actually make him believe Lando. Show him his own mark before Charles could angrily run out of the lounge, thinking Lando was only taking the piss out off him.  

“I need to tell you something,” he murmured just as the tannoy was announcing that the flight to Nice was now boarding, Charles’ flight. 

“That’s me,” Charles shrugged apologetically, rushing to grab his carry on, wrapping his headphones around his neck and starting to leave. And in a moment of panic Lando reached out for him, halfway out of his chair, fingers wrapping around the Monegasque’s wrist. Skin touching skin. And it’s a fucking cliché, it’s a goddamn fucking cliché but at that moment everything seems to go in slow motion. Charles’s wide eyes finding his own as everything but Charles’s face becomes blurry around them.    

He can’t stop the gasp from escaping his lips, mouth falling open as the rushing of his blood becomes deafening to his ears. This was really happening. Charles really was his soulmate, the other half of his soul. Their body and mind connecting from that single touch. His fingers start to tingle where they are still wrapped around Charles’s wrist and he could feel his right foot starting to itch.

“It’s really you,” he finally managed to get out, the words somehow managing to break Charles out of his stupor as well. 

“What?” Charles said voice hoarse, unable to believe what was happening right now, his eyes flicking over Lando’s face to look for the answer to a question he didn’t even know yet. “What the fuck is happening?”

“We’re soulmates. I… I’m your soulmate. I didn’t want to believe it at first, when I saw the picture, but it’s really you,” Lando said overwhelmed. 

“But, wha… how?”

“The fucking universe thinks were meant for each other apparently,” Lando said with a shrug. Now that there was no denying it anymore, that it really was Charles that was his soulmate and not Carlos his brain gave in easily, not fighting this inexplicable force that had brought them together, that connected them. 

His foot really was starting to itch a lot now though, he stomped his left foot on top of the right one trying to stop it from itching, but it didn’t work. His movement had managed to direct Charles’s gaze towards where he was fidgeting though, his eyes focussing in on his right foot. “Is it there? Your mark?”

“Yeah, it’s itching like a bitch dude, how are you not scratching your stomach off right now?” Lando whined, finally giving up on trying to scratch his foot through his shoe and tugging the laces free. 

“Wait, wait Lando you can’t, not right here!”

“There’s no one here Charles, everyone’s gone to their flights.” He let himself fall back into his seat and tugged his shoe free from his foot, sock falling to the floor as well and then he gasped once more. Because where his mark had been stagnant before, the monkey on his foot was now moving its head to stare up at him, tail flicking as it scratched its cheek, before looping back around. The same movements would repeat themself on his skin now permanently, repeating themself until Charles would die breaking their bond. 

“Can I? Can I see yours?” He asked tentatively, fingers itching to reach out for Charles’s white t-shirt, to move it away and see the same pattern on Charles’s skin.   

With one last glance around the empty first class lounge Charles slowly lifted his shirt, gasping softly as he saw his own mark moving on his skin. The monkey moving its head to the side, flicking its tail, before scratching its cheek and on and on again. He gasped again, a little louder as Lando’s fingers touched his skin, tracing around the shape of the mark, following the lines of the delicate tail.

“Shit, sorry!” Lando cursed, drawing his hand back as if it had been burned. 

“It’s okay. Feels nice,” Charles murmured, sounding so in awe of everything that was happening right now. A bright smile was starting to appear on his face though, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Come here,” he beckoned, drawing Lando up from his seat again and pulling him into a tight hug. 

“Last call for Mister Charles Leclerc,” the lady on the tannoy announced loudly, but Charles just tightened his grip around him, not moving away from the hug, perfectly content in the little bubble they were in.    

“C'est vraiment toi.” 

[otp-armada]

A Time Capsule

I’ve been lurking across several fandoms spanning a decade now, since my days of reading “Bones” fanfics on fanfiction.net. Before any inkling of Ao3’s existence. Maybe longer, my memory is murky at times.

I’ve never made a splash in any fandom, so to speak. I’ve always been content to stand shrouded in anonymity, residing on the edges of fandom, never an active participant. Perfectly at peace to never have a voice. Never brave enough to want to be heard. It has only been in the last few years that I discovered Tumblr and felt comfortable enough in taking advantage of its anon feature to interact mostly with The 100/Bellarke crowd, “conversing” with one user in particular. In the instances I chose to speak, there was safety in knowing my words never had an identity attached. A safety that lent itself to sending anon asks a fairly common activity until I wrote one recently sharing a remnant of my “The 100” viewing experience. The warm response from the users who read it left me smiling for the rest of the day. Their reply took a direction I didn’t expect. They encouraged me to take credit for my words under my username, which of course, I didn’t have, not being a Tumblr user.

I was flattered by the response, bolstering me to continue the line of conversation with another ask and was met with reiterated sentiments.

In the wise words of one of those awesome people,

“I was the ultimate lurker for a long, long time. I had a Tumblr account for four years before I ever made a single post, and even then I had to be talked into it. And you know what? When I finally starting “talking,” it was so freeing! Even if no one else was listening, even if I was speaking into the void, I was no longer dependent on anyone else to share my thoughts and opinions. I could do that myself.”

I took the compliment but waived the advice. Tumblr is made of communities built upon sharing and I have always been unto myself an island. It goes against my shy, introverted nature to take part in a community. I have no business pretending I have a place there. None at all.

And yet, despite my misgivings, the idea wouldn’t leave me as I believed it would. I started to genuinely ponder the merits of creating a blog.

There are strong reasons to support the affirmative.

First, the utilitarian benefits. In the absence of a blog, I turned to alternative methods of archiving appealing posts. If by some miracle, the item count of my browser reading list hasn’t yet ascended to the thousands mark, it most assuredly rests in the hundreds. My camera roll queue has indubitably reached the thousands count, currently sitting pretty at 3,300. I shudder to think of the sheer number of my bookmarks. One hundred and eighty notes on my phone. The final frontier has been broken, at last, habitually inundating my laptop with screenshots. Long has it been overdue to clean house.

Second, I find writing to be a herculean undertaking I enjoy in the moments it doesn’t drive me to the brink. A slow-going process, but when I’m able to appreciate the fruits of my labor, marvel at the polished product, I often feel quite proud. Writing is a skill I’ve lost touch with over years of disuse but found incrementally returning while expressing my opinions via Tumblr asks. Like any skill, it can be honed with time and practice. Transferring my streams of consciousness onto written medium challenges me to think critically, ask myself if my POV genuinely holds true or falls apart, requiring further reflection. If nothing else, it’s a good way to process thoughts and emotions. I find it easier than and therefore preferable to oral communication. I am a perpetual editor, always amending my statements which can’t really be done as effectively in speech.

Third, if there was ever a time to join the Tumblr fandom I’ve found a home in for the last three years, why not in time for the show’s last ride? The night I signed up for Tumblr coincided the first day of “The 100” cast and crew filming their 100th and poetically final episode. Around the same space of time, we got a release date and the nostalgic goodbyes of a few cast members rolled in. I know when Bellarke crosses the last threshold, I’d want it plastered all over my dash and I’d be able to make it happen.

But where there are pros, the cons inevitably follow.

Do I really need a further distraction from my responsibilities, spending additional hours and expending more energy I should not spare online? The too easy potential for more hours behind a screen when prone to headaches and horrid habits of not regulating my eating and sleeping schedules? The answer is a clear and resounding “No.” Would maintaining a blog be harmful to my mental and emotional health? Remaining anonymous has historically done a fine job of insulating me from general rebuke, which has mitigated the risk of reproach at least. No corner of the internet can be designated as a safe space. I knew I would in all likelihood have to work diligently to curate and be responsible for my experience, leading me to doubt how the effort could possibly be worth it. How could it be worth feeling exposed, self-conscious? Constantly second-guessing myself, debating whether or not my thoughts are best kept within the privacy of my mind to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes? Combating the periodic skepticism that my thoughts possess value worth writing?

There was always the lingering possibility I was overthinking the decision to my detriment, as is my norm. After all, it seemed silly and dramatic to regard one obscure little blog in a sea of hundreds of millions of social media users as momentous. But I know myself better than that. It is a really fucking big deal for me.

I vacillated between both sides of the argument for days before deciding not to follow through with the venture.

And then one night, a single stray observation ran through my mind. One observation became another, became another and before I knew it, I had formed the grounds for an entire meta post. It didn’t end there. More ideas filtered through. I expanded on those ideas. More traction gained. Another meta formed. More jumping off previous points. Before long, I had mentally written the foundations for four metas. And I was so excited and proud of forming these connections to this puzzle without even trying that I wanted to share it. I sat down to write them in my trusty Notes, outlining, trying to jot the main points down before they fizzled away from memory. I saw how long-winded these spiels had gotten sans the full writeup, subsequently rationalizing…well, not blowing up someone’s inbox is just good manners, isn’t it? And terribly inefficient to boot. More to the point, it seemed a disservice to myself to censor my rumination to fit the small confines of a Tumblr ask box.

The part of me that wanted to push forward envisioned what the future of my blogging efforts may look like. That part knows that this blog is for me and only me. What makes me laugh, what makes me cry. Smile. Rage. Flail. Think. Whatever the hell I want. I get to say what I want, however, I want. It’s incredibly nerve-wracking. It’s also exciting, thrilling, and yes, freeing. The notion of carving out a tiny space for me to fill to the endless brim with whatever brings me joy makes me…really damn happy. It’s not an easy feat to accept and harder to retain. I should be ok, so long as I never forget that I get to be in control of what happens here. It’s within my right to block anyone I don’t want to engage or associate with. It’s my full right to not care what anyone else has to say if I don’t want to. Block out anything negative I don’t want to endure with only a few clicks. If I decide I want to walk away, permanently or otherwise, for any reason, it’s within my right to do that too. It’s comforting.

There was a time when I “knew” I would never sign up for an Ao3 account until one of my favorite authors withdrew the majority of her stories from public consumption. I “knew” I was never going to post commentary until I did. I “knew” my username would never be seen by anyone aside from me, never to be affiliated with my commentary until it was.

I did. Each and every time I thought I would never, I did. I broke my own barriers with patience and some courage. Maybe the most intimidating aspect of something new is simply the beginning. I said earlier that I’ve been an island for nearly as long as I can remember. It’s still true, I don’t expect overnight results. It’s probably going to be true for a long time. Perhaps forever. But maybe it’s all the more reason why I should take this step toward peeking out of my self-imposed shell. Do what scares you, or whatever it is they say.

I wish I could say it was enough to reverse my earlier verdict.

Nope, I had to agonize some more.

What can I say? Fear is a damn powerful inhibitor.

Lo and behold, as if the universe took pity on me, I got the chance to communicate directly with the same awesome lady whom I quoted above and she kindly offered some more merciful wisdom to a truly maddeningly indecisive individual:

“When you create a blog, you are STILL anonymous. You have a username, yes, but it doesn’t lead back to you unless you want it to. You still have your personal privacy. Tumblr isn’t Facebook. If you want to disclose personal information, you can, but you certainly don’t have to.

And second, your blog is for you, not for anyone else. It’s for you to express your own opinions. Or create gifs or other visuals. Or just repost what other people create. You can be on every day, or just once a week. It’s also a great way to save stuff you might want to look at again. And then… and then… when brilliance suddenly hits you, you have somewhere to let it hang out! 😁”

It was much I had already considered, but it helped immeasurably to have my reasoning reaffirmed from an external source I respect. I logged into Tumblr for the first time the very same night.

After much deliberation, an uncharacteristic burst of bravery and a grueling four hours I owe to technological ineptitude, I have, tentatively and cautiously, opted to give this Tumblr thing a go.

With luck, a day will never arrive when I dust this preamble off for a much-needed pep talk. Instead, it is my hope that one day, this memo-to-me will stand as proof that I don’t always need to be afraid of the unknown. Not all endeavors have to be as frightening as they may appear. And if I can apply this attitude to all else suppressing my personal growth, I might just be peachy someday.

Bearing this in mind…

…here we go.

[the-prophet-lemonade]

do you have any advice on getting a story to be seen? i made an ao3 account not too long ago so no one has seen my fic at the moment but i was wondering if you had any tips on that, or would i just have to wait?

hello! i can’t claim to know what makes a fic popular as it’s 99% luck, but i can speak for the remaining 1% that has worked ~reasonably~ well for me in the past. 

i think there are three key elements to getting a fic “seen”: marketing, branding, and presentation, and they’re all very important. this post got very long, so please find everything under the cut! i hope it helps :-) 

i. marketing

fic marketing may seem a bit narcissistic if you haven’t done it before, but trust me on this: it’s the best way to attract readers and you deserve to promoted your story as something you worked hard upon!

drumming up hype for a fic is great. you can do this by posting on social media, providing sneak peaks on your twitter, involving yourself in the fandom community and discussing your wips with other fans, and just generally being excited about what you’re creating. engaging with other people’s writing is also a great method to help boost your own stats … get involved with reading other work and leaving comments for other people, because they will be more likely to return the favour! when someone comments on my fics, i often go and check out their profile and see what they’ve written, as it’s highly likely we enjoy the same things! 

making promos is one of my favourite ways to engage with people about fics. once i post a fic/new chapter to ao3, i also crosspost promo posts with links and graphics to my twitter and tumblr. you will need a good hook to get people interested, but also an eye-catching image that summarises the story pictorially can be a great asset (you don’t even need photoshop, just a nice moodboard will do!). when using images however, it’s always important to think how the image size will appear in tumblr’s dimensions and on your own blog … make sure it’s not stretched or the resolution too low, and create something with a good visual flow i.e. the title appears first, then the necessary information, then any teasers or extracts. you need to make your fic post stand out on someone else’s timeline, which may already be filled with a bunch of other fic posts, jostling for attention. make it neat, clean, informative, and professional.

make sure to use the tagging systems efficiently for your chosen social media platforms: only the first five tags count on a tumblr post, so choose them wisely (i.e. use the key fandom tags first and save your personal blog tags for after), and only two hashtags count on twitter before it’s marked as spam, so go for the ship tag!

creating your own fic tag on twitter can also be fun, and i’ve seen a lot more people doing it lately too. you can encourage people to tweet along with a specialised hashtag and then you can find their reaction and engage with them later, which once again expands your fandom circle and will increase engagement on tweets associated with your fic.  

another trick i’ve learned is utilising time zones and understanding the demographics of the audience you’re trying to reach. i am very careful to post my fics at certain times of day in order to reach key people e.g. i will try to hit either europeans or americans during the evening, as this is when most people are home from work and wanting to read fic. as a european myself, especially involved in fandoms with high levels of european fans, i usually post during the early evening for CET time zones i.e. 7 or 8 pm and i tend to find this works for me. 

with tumblr, i often delay my promo posts so that i post when it’s likely to get maximum interaction (you can see when your blog is most active using your tumblr analytics) … use your queue if need be! 

i also take care in reblogging/retweeting my promo posts at certain times of day too. i will usually bump the post just before i go to bed, so as to grab americans in their early evening, and then i will bump it again in the morning when i wake up, to catch australians and west coast americans still awake. i then usually keep bumping my promos once a day for two or three days on my social media to cast a wide enough net to catch as many people who might be interested, as not everyone checks their timeline every day and social media swallows up posts so quickly, especially tumblr which is not built for original content creators to do well (lol). i will usually bump a promo post 5 - 7 times before retiring it and this is a model that’s worked well for me in the past, especially for droplets, which would get 500+ notes per chapter!  if you’re anxious about this, know that most people will only see your post once or twice because tumblr moves fast and swallows posts up very quickly, and sometimes people need reminders to read if they decide to save things for later when they have more time

ii. branding

the benefits of branding mainly come from experience, so it’s a tricky thing to utilise if you haven’t published fic before … but there are still tricks worth trying! 

certain fic writers will attract readers to new fics just because their name is attached to it, and people know the sort of story they’re getting, they know how it’ll be written, the sort of tropes that will appear, that sort of thing. obviously, building up this sort of brand requires publishing a lot of work, and so it must be said that practice makes perfect: the more you write and publish, the more your fics will be seen and your audience will grow. people will regularly see your username in the tags on ao3 and be more inclined to click on you as someone who reliably produces good content. it’s important to remember that everyone starts from the same place and works hard to improve their craft; success doesn’t just come overnight (unless you’re in the right place at the right time) and any creator will tell you that compliments to their talent aren’t what matters, but instead, it’s compliments to their dedication and hard graft. 

another key thing about branding is how you present yourself online. the most important thing in my opinion is cohesion across your social media platforms e.g. having the same username on ao3 as you do on tumblr/twitter/wherever you promote your fic. having an easily navigatable blog with working hyperlinks and archiving of your fic work is also great. basically, building a clean interface for people to engage with your work is vital! having the same icon and username across all your social media makes it so much easier for readers to navigate between your fics and your promo posts … basically, the easier you can spell something out, the better

branding is mostly to do with how you advertise yourself, rather than the particular fic, although much of it overlaps. get your name out there by engaging with other writers and making friends and appreciating their work! this is often the best way to get inspired, plus you get to meet some amazing people. i recommend trying out for zines and big bangs and writing challenges, as these are good ways to show your work to already-established audiences. also, make yourself available by interacting with commentors or by opening up your inbox on tumblr to anons. try linking your social media and your inbox as hyperlinks in the authors note of your fic

iii. presentation

this is really fundamental and is often the main reason people will close out of your fic and not read to the end. people want to read fics that are easy to digest and have had care put into them. this includes a lot of things:

correct tagging i.e. are the tags coherent and not just rambling? are there appropriate trigger warnings in place? have you unnecessarily tagged every side pairing under the sun, rather than just the main relationship?

grammar and spelling. goes without saying … people are more likely to read things that look professional and have had care poured into their preparation. make sure you know how to use speech punctuation. revise how to use commas. avoid epithets (especially racially-aggravated ones). get yourself a beta if you’re worried, because betas are godsends!

paragraphing. so many people will close out of a fic if it isn’t correctly spaced. double spaced paragraphs look best on ao3 and i often won’t read a fic if the paragraphs are too long because it hurts my eyes to read. make sure you’re starting new speakers in new paragraphs. new ideas deserve new paragraphs. basically, every time the “camera” changes, you should be starting a new paragraph. not just a new line. 

summaries. i see so many fics on ao3 with summaries that are either apologising for being bad at summaries or apologising for a fic being bad/being a first fic, and like … stop this! own what you have written, no-one else will have written it the way you have and you should be proud of it. if you’re saying in your summary that it’s a bad fic, i’m not going to click on it as a reader. instead, utilise your summary to get people hooked … good hooks can be written a load of different ways, but the best ones i see often involved a snippet from the fic as a taster, and then a couple lines of blurb. get people excited! 

titles: i’m personally more likely to click on a fic where the title is either (a) correctly capitalised or (b) is clearly chosen for its aesthetic or meaning (i love long lower case titles with parentheses lol). choosing a memorable title is really helpful, especially one that can be shortened or abbreviated for social media (e.g. for hashtags)!

all this being said, traffic on ao3 is a crytpid at best and obeys little in the way of rhyme or reason. you can put blood, sweat and tears into marketing your fic, but sometimes, just being in the right place at the right time (writing for the right niche) is what does it, so being a fic writer requires a lot of patience. first and foremost, write for yourself. write what you want to read and enjoy doing it, because if you get sucked into obsessively checking stats, it’s only going to disappoint when you don’t achieve what you want to achieve. 

just keep persevering and keep writing and appreciating each and every person who takes time in interact with your fic and its promos … because ultimately, all it takes it that one reader to fall head over heels in love with your fic for everything to change. for now, just be proud of your work and keep writing!

[elfnerdherder]

The Unquiet Grave: Chapter 18

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A special thanks to my patrons: @sylarana @evertonem @starlit-catastrophe @frostylicker, Mendacious Bean, Duhaunt6, Superlurk, and Laura G.!

Chapter 18:

           Will snaps his walls down, sharp. He’s within his garden, and he’s tending it, and isn’t that another row of thyme?

           It is, and he thinks of the walls around his walls, hiding his secrets. The empath can’t get him here. The empath can’t dream himself here.

           “Whenever you’re ready,” the annotator tells him.

           He looks around, and he stares at the sun rising high, arms reaching to brush against a promising sky. He can’t stop staring. Surely Jack and Hannibal can see it, but he can’t bring himself to care in the moment because the scene makes perfect sense. The scene he is currently playing, the victim he portrays so well.

           “He is claiming the victim, that he is being dragged before the FBI with nothing more than false accusations and slander,” he lies, and if there are other empaths around that are trying to sense him, he thinks it’s a damn good lie. It’s easy on the tongue, and there’s a wild streak of memory that darts in front of his eyes in his hiding, in his misdirection; his dream where he kissed Hannibal.

           It wakes him from what the killer implanted for him to find—a cold shock of water to the face. He looks to Jack and pushes the thought from his mind, finding enough sense to pull his gloves back on.

           “He’s…trying to paint a picture,” he explains, and just beside Price, Beverly Katz watches with narrowed eyes. Far behind her, the public gawks behind the police line, uncaring of the snow. News, cameramen, and social media gurus alike are bumping shoulders, waiting for that moment to catch an empath…doing whatever it is empaths do.

           “Is he speaking again?” Beverly asks before the annotator can. The jostling of ceremony, of the process and procedures is irritating to the annotator, and it’s apparent in how they adjust their blazer, a quick tug from the hand also holding the pen. Will hopes it doesn’t stain their jacket.

           “He doesn’t trust you not to be the bad guy,” Will says. Then, wryly, “the FBI, that is. He wasn’t thinking of you specifically, Beverly.”

           “But is he speaking,” she repeats.

           “No.”

           “How are your walls?” the annotator asks, getting control of their crime scene.

           “Sturdy,” Will assures them. It’s a little sobering to think he’s somewhat telling the truth. Walls within walls within walls. Sturdier than the last time he stared at a dead body like this.

           Beverly moves to the body, and the annotator follows to jot down any notes of worth, should they hear them.

           “Did you get any sense of identity?” Jack asks when Will draws close.

           “Whoever they are, they know how to hide themselves. Not only can they manipulate and distort what they leave behind, they can stay under the radar…I don’t have the kind of training to find someone like that.”

           “You can’t break past his memories and find something?”

           “I risk exposure if I dig too far and find his madness. I used my hands, Jack.”

           Just past Jack’s shoulder, Hannibal talks to Beverly beside the bodies, at a distance and in close enough earshot of Price and Zeller. She doesn’t seem upset, merely focused on Hannibal’s words, hands idly resting on her hips.

           “One of these girls was a senator’s daughter,” Jack reveals. “What kind of training do you need?”

           “The kind of training no one can teach, Jack,” Will snaps. A senator’s daughter means nothing to the man that guts people for fun. To think such a position of status would stop him is laughable, but Will is in enough control of himself not to laugh. Something residual from the killer? Maybe, but now’s not the time to show it. “It’s illegal. It’s called weaponizing your gift.”

           “You’re saying you can’t find him?” Jack demands –likely not as harsh as he intends, but still harsh enough to prickle.

           “I mean unless he makes a mistake, I can’t find him. I can’t find an intelligent psychopath like this—they’re not something the Academy thought we’d be up against in my line of work. Minds mended and whole are harder to see inside when they know how not to be found.”

           The lights from the media flash just beyond them. He’s relieved it’s cold enough people may not realize he’s the empath just because he’s got gloves on. He’s relieved they’re far enough away they can’t pick him out of a crowd, can’t see the way he can feel their curiosity. It’s sicker somehow, sicker than the way the scene even happened because this man may have been cruel, but what’s crueler than being in a position enough to watch and take note of the horrors within the comfort of your own living, intact skin? Horror was only loved in safe spaces?

           “And how to you see him, Will? What are we up against?”

           “I…” at that, he falters. What are they up against? What’s he up against? He shrugs, helpless, and he looks to the women that hiss and whisper in the John Doe’s ear –Jack, he can now say with assurance. They’re standing in the middle of an art piece dedicated not only to Will, but to Jack. A show they’re playing out, only Jack doesn’t seem to realize just how well he knows the lines. “I think…we’re dealing with a level of psychopath that can use their empathy as a weapon without being consumed by it. Somehow, they’re able to completely detach themselves from the moment, from the way emotions can overwhelm us as empaths.”

           “How is that possible?” Jack’s voice grows louder the more Will notices the number of flashing lights in the distance.

           He grimaces, but looking away only pulls his gaze to the women hissing in the man’s ear, and that isn’t any prettier to see, easier to feel. “I don’t know, Jack. Do I look like the fucking killer?” he snaps, and at that he does notice Hannibal turning his head to look, just at the same time he notices Jack’s impatient expression twist to a livid disapproval.

           “I didn’t hear that,” he snarls, and he leans in, shoulders squared. It grabs the entirety of Will’s attention, arresting. “Did I, Will?”

           One beat, then two. Will rips his eyes away, to the sunrise where things are terrible because of how beautiful they are in their perfection to the scene set before them. He smiles a little, then rubs his face with his gloved hands.

           “You didn’t, Jack. But I’m just telling you what I know, and this isn’t something I know. I think…he’s’ taunting us. Because he knows how to do something we don’t know how to do, and he knows I can’t do it because it would land me in prison.”

           Or permanent retirement.

           Jack doesn’t want to accept his words. He stews on them as Will makes his way to Hannibal, who’s somehow detached himself from Beverly and is preoccupied with examining one of the marble columns and the way the sunlight hits it. Will notes just how far it is from the actual scene, and he can’t help the twist in his chest at the consideration that’s entirely too obvious.

           “How are you?” Hannibal asks when Will steps up beside him.

           “You surprise me every time you don’t react to some new crime scene thrown at you,” Will says by way of reply. He doesn’t pretend to examine the statue with him, mostly because he’s done studying the scene. He doesn’t want to look back again. The words sit on his back, the ones he spit at Jack. He doesn’t have luxury of pushing Jack. He’s got enough enemies that his own direct boss would be a terrible addition.

           They know.

           “My work before this wasn’t entirely innocent, as I may have mentioned,” says Hannibal, and he looks away from the column. His eyes linger on the picture before them, and Will can’t quite trace the emotion as his lips press down tightly. “Would you like to wait for your session before you discuss anything?”

           “Yes.” Will can’t quite bring himself to stop looking back to the onlookers. Their pale, neurotypical stares. Curious, not at all realizing just what they are witnessing. “What’d Beverly say?”

           “Agent Katz wasn’t quite sure what to think of your revelation. I think she was expecting more, given what you promised her over dinner.”

           “I promised her the truth. Nothing more, nothing less.”

           “Which is all anyone can ask,” Hannibal agrees. “Do you need to leave?”

           Will doesn’t want to look back to the bodies, but he forces himself to. He can’t say if it’s because he needs to prove to himself that he can, or if it’s because there’s something in the way the empath spoke that keeps him looking back. How could a voice sound so familiar yet so utterly unknowable? A voice that could belong to anyone, anything, and he wonders if maybe he knows the Dreamer, otherwise why else would their voice mimic the forgetful nature of a dream?

           “I’d like to leave. I don’t know if there’s anything here for me,” he says, and the annotator lingering nearby nods, pen poised over the paper.

           “Your walls are sturdy today, Agent Graham,” they say.

           It’s not until Will is tucked into an SUV headed towards Wolf Trap that he realizes he’s never once asked the annotator’s name in all of his years working with the FBI.

-

           “I’ve been thinking about Callumny of Apelles,” Will says during his therapy session later that evening.

           Work dragged. No word of Dolarhyde, no word of the Dreamer on the loose. No word on how they’d combat an empath that knew how to weaponize. Knew how to hide. No word on the exact day of Will’s psyche-evaluation. Sometimes they liked to spring it. Sometimes they let a sharp white piece of paper carry the weight for them. It was coming up, though. That much he knows.

           Will wonders how Francis Dolarhyde is doing. If The Great Red Dragon is treating him well.

           “Do you feel particularly accused of something?”

           “Yes,” he says. And then, “no.”

           “What made you think of it?”

           “Because that’s what he painted,” Will replies. He’s standing by the fireplace, the warmth at his back and making his palms hot. Hannibal, still seated at his office chair, had let Will pace some of the emotions off of the soles of his feet and waited until he was ready to speak.

           “So he did speak?”

           “He did,” Will affirms. He looks around the room, thinks of when he’d crept in alone and stole hands along the walls and book bindings. “He’s powerful…he…”

           He doesn’t know how to say it. How can he put to words what he feels when the Dream takes hold? The care, the artfulness in how it feels so utterly real, but there wasn’t anything real to the way that touching the John Doe’s skin hadn’t brought any true pain.

           “How do you see him, Will?” Hannibal asks, echoing Jack from that morning.

           “He’s…intelligent, Hannibal.” He starts slow, trying to gather his thoughts. He can be honest with Hannibal. The thought lends itself some sort of power. He inhales sharply. “He’s an intelligent psychopath whose talent in empathy is such that he has…layers to his Dreams. He can literally dampen the feelings and events of the scene of a crime just by Dreaming over it, and that’s what I feel when I put my hands to it. He’s a sadist, but…but he chooses to remove the agony of a murder to talk to me instead. He finds me useful, then, or at least interesting. Being an E-3 has its drawbacks.

           “I…don’t know what he’s seeing, though, what he’s thinking. If he has the power to distort the space around a real, tangible place for empaths to find later, do I have to sit and watch the bodies stack until he makes a mistake that I can find? How close is he to me that he has such intimate knowledge of what’s going on around the FBI? It could mean he works there, and I’m just not looking hard enough.”

           He pauses and looks towards the far wall where the windows were covered in thick swathes of gold and burgundy. He’d once tried to draw it back, only to find that Hannibal was an old-fashioned sort of person and had several layers to what he referred to as drapes, not curtains. “That lends the question, though…that lends the question at just how powerful he is; that he could fool the FBI for so long and work underneath them? This is a dangerous person. I don’t…know how to find him yet.”

           Hannibal is quiet, watching Will with the same expression he always seems to. Will rubs his mouth, his words unsure on the curl of his lips, and his other palm begins to get too hot.

           “But some part,” he says, and his voice is a little lower. The fire cackles behind him, pops and hisses the last bit of moisture from a branch. “Some part of me…wants to protect him. Because even though I can’t see him, we seem to have a lot in common.”

           Hannibal tilts his head curiously, a small frown at his lips. It’s not disapproving, although it’s not in the least pleasant. He steeples his fingers. “What makes you feel that way?”

           “We’re both willing to break the law to save ourselves. Survival instincts are in our blood.” Will replies. He wanders over to Hannibal’s desk. It’s normal tidiness and strict attention to the spaces between pencil and pen is distorted by the scattering of drawing paper, perhaps something he did between patients that day during his lunch.

           He studies the strict, sharp lines that define what seemed to be an elegant, Tudor-style manor of sorts. Hannibal graciously stands and moves his chair so that Will can study it at a closer angle. “My old boarding school.”

           “You seem the type to have gone to a boarding school,” Will replies, not unkind. Just beside the pencil, he spies a scalpel. He picks it up and holds it to Hannibal, more of a question than an offering.

           Hannibal allows the change of subject, his dark eyes calculating but amiable. Will wonders what he saw at the crime scene, what analysis ran through his mind. The tide shifted once more, and he again resents the lack of ability to simply see.

           The scalpel is accepted, and Hannibal demonstrates sharpening the pencil just beside the paper. “I found during school that a scalpel cuts sharper and better lines for drawing. I prefer a fine edge to my art.”

           “It’s art,” Will agrees readily, looking back to the piece. The boarding school is drawn in what could only be described as a factual way. There was no emotion to it, the sort of thing drawn from a memory but not a particularly poignant one. He wants to press a thumb to it and twist, and there’s a wild moment where he’s not quite sure if that’s residual from the crime scene, or if the ugly thought is his. He wonders what he took from the killer, what the empath dared to leave behind.

           “I believe I have a school book somewhere…” Hannibal walks away from him, and Will is just brave enough to drag a finger along the blank space just beside the trellis. He couldn’t ruin it; he exhales, and the wild thought is abandoned.

           He does move the picture, though, to see the one beneath. There’s the rustling of paper, then quiet. Hannibal’s footsteps along the bookcases make no sound.

           Will’s breath catches, and for a wild moment he can only stare blankly, simply no thought coming to mind as all that he can do is process.

           I’m fond of you.

           Will Graham is not a vain man. He is smart enough to know he can be seen as attractive, but he is humble enough to not suppose himself to be anything remarkably extraordinary.

           The curves of skin, in contrast to the lines of the house, were gentled with reverence. Will glances about, and Hannibal is in the loft, his back turned. Greedily, he tugs a glove from his hand and touches the paper, swallowing down a rush of spit.

           Hannibal’s drawing of Will feels first, gentled in a sort of awe. Then, greedy, wanting. Hungry is the word for it, but the sort of hunger that makes mouths soften. He draws Will with his back turned, although it is bare, and he wonders just what it is he’s hiding that Hannibal feels the need to draw him turned away. It’s Greek in nature, as if Will is made of the same marbled stone as the gazebo that demonstrated Callumny and her cruelty. Maybe no longer the victim, but the one holding the entire play.

           It’s what they know that’s important.

           He’s never thought himself so beautiful as it feels in this moment, bare fingers on the curls of his graphite hair.

           “Oh,” Hannibal says, just behind him.

           Will turns, but he’s caught by the wrist and held fixed, Hannibal’s expression unreadable. He looks to the drawing just behind Will, displayed nakedly with a guilty glove beside it. He looks back, and his politely gloved hand lessens its grip, albeit only slightly.

           Before Will can speak, Hannibal leans in and presses a hungry kiss to his lips.

           Obsession, Alana had warned him of. Obsession, like Will isn’t suddenly arrested by the sharp and delightful way waves of hunger washed over him. Perhaps waves aren’t so right, but ripples, starting where their skin touches and spreading lazily over his skin. Muted, as Hannibal had once described it. Muted, but present, tingles of awareness that make him hungry for so much more, hungry in a way he’s never quite felt before.

He’s not overwhelmed. He presses closer, and his hand is released, to better press fingers to his cheeks. One hand is gloved, but the other feels stubble and the gentled thrum of pleasure.

           And it is coming from Hannibal.

           His mind swims, dizzies with the rush of it. Has he dreamed of it like this? No, no, but it is all the sweeter, and his back is arched over the desk as Hannibal wraps arms around him and tangles fingers into his hair. His skin is his own. His own skin and his own bones.

           He kisses with enough want to bite, to sting a little. Will is buzzed off of just how much he likes it.

           And then they are standing apart, and his hands are by his side. Hannibal is staring at him, simply staring, and Will is just greedy enough off of the endorphins of it that he sets his bare hand on the drawing beside him. He’s feeling something.

           He’s feeling something.

           I’m fond of you.

           “Oh,” Will says. His heart sits at his feet, and it beats in slow, ugly thumps. Hannibal’s hunger sits in his veins, and the memory of how the pencil pressed into the grains of the page sit fat in the whorls of his fingertips.

           “Are you processing?”

           “A little,” Will admits. Before Hannibal can misunderstand, he adds, “I’m not upset.”

           “I’m fond of you,” Hannibal says, and he allows that to show on his face for the briefest of moments. His hair is askew, but only just, and Will has the impulsive urge to fix it. Hannibal glances to the drawing again, then back to Will. His eyes are fixating. “I suppose that was my thought in drawing this.”

           “I can feel it,” Will agrees, and his heart is climbing up, up, and it sits in his throat. “I can…I could feel you, Hannibal.”

           “Do you?” Hannibal wonders, and his eyes fall back to Will, his gaze falling to his lips. “Do you, Will?”

           Can you see?

           Will takes his other glove off, and he cradles them along his jaw as he kisses Hannibal with a hunger, as though they are rolling along the fields within the walls of his slowly strengthening mind, tucked away with a Dream. He wonders if Hannibal, whose own consciousness is powerful enough to resist the power of empaths, can feel anything in the way Will holds onto him, if he can glean insight and awareness in the way Will kisses as though he hasn’t been touched by another human being in a long time.

           But he presses back, just as needful, and Will wonders how long it’s been since Hannibal has felt someone feel just what was behind the mask.

-

           He wakes up the next morning and lays there for a time. His dreams had been quiet, muted. His walls were sturdy, and in the dark space of night when one dances between rest of wakefulness, he had imagined himself tending his walls, both ones with trap doors and the one whose repair mattered most. Monkshood and Thyme grew in the same rows of the garden. The Stag watched from a distance.

           His lips are a little swollen, although it could be argued he picks at them too much to let them heal. Hannibal’s kisses were needing, although there was nothing in the way of complaint. Will scrubs his face with cold water. He wonders if Garrett Jacob Hobbs is still standing in the fields just outside of his walls.

           Jack’s got him on the phone before Hannibal finds him with a second cup of coffee, and he accepts it greedily.

           “Got a tip on the RA,” he says; despite the grim statement, Jack’s positively pleased. It takes Will a second too long to recall the RA is Dolarhyde. If you can’t find the Dreamer, why continue with that investigation?

“He’s been sighted in the Baltimore area,” he adds.

           “What tip?”

           “CCTV outside of a K-mart.”

           “Do you need me there?” Will asks. It’s too hot to sip the coffee, but he blows on it stubbornly to try and speed it up. Hannibal watches intently from his place just across the table.

           “It’s been so long it’s contaminated,” Jack replies sourly. “But now we know he’s keeping tabs on you. I’m thinking of keeping you at HQ.”

           It’s hard to reach the tone of his voice, especially over the phone. Will isn’t sure if he should take it seriously, or if it’s simply another way to trap him in a corner to retire him.

           He sets the phone down and puts it on speaker, for Hannibal’s benefit.

           “Do we know his next target?” Will asks. “Not likely it’d be me.”

           It’s the opening he knows he’ll always give that Jack won’t take the bait for. “Very likely it’d be you.”

           No, no; it meant Slowinski was there, Slowinski was in Baltimore for some stupid reason, otherwise Red Dragon wouldn’t be lurking there.

           But Jack doesn’t Will know Will knows that, does he?

           God, he’d better not.

           “I think there’s something personal to his killing Jack…all of this is personal, but I’m not personal. I’m just the RA-hunter.”

           He takes a sip of coffee, not sure what he’ll do when he has to go back to grinding his own coffee beans. It’s a guilty luxury, but one none-the-less. He wants to touch his lips again, to see if he still Feels it.

           “Yeah, well…Dr. Bloom says she’s gotten word about your six-month-evaluation,” Jack says, and the sudden turn isn’t lost on him in the least because there was something in the randomness of it, how he deliberately made it somehow worse than Dolarhyde potentially hunting him.

           Will stays quiet, and he spares a glance with Hannibal.

           “How are you feeling about it?” Jack asks “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, but don’t think I’ve forgotten everything that’s happened.”

           Don’t forget you’re always being watched.

           “I’m feeling good, Jack. You got a date from her?”

           “I’ll ask her to e-mail you. You’ll have it when you come in.”

           And it’s there, there hidden in his tone that Will hears it. He looks to Hannibal, then looks to the phone, and like before, when Hannibal pressed his palm to Will’s, he sucked down the piping hot cup of coffee and set it down sharply, allowing the sharp sound to linger into a bitter silence.

           You’ll have it when you come in.

           “Thanks, Jack,” he says, sincere. His voice is hoarse and his throat scalds, but he means it. “I’ll see you when I’m in.”

           The line goes dead, and his screen flashes to the call time before going black.

           He accepts a glass of water from Hannibal, the carafe fogged from the ice that clicks and smacks together. He watches the ice bob and sucks the water down quickly, allowing it to both burn and soothe his throat.

           “I’m going to walk into an evaluation,” he says, and it sits fat in the air. Outside, snow stirs. Supposedly, Red Dragon lurks.

           “Do you suppose?” Hannibal wonders, and his hand rests without hesitation on Will’s. Will allows it, although his hands are gloved. He is torn between withdrawing his touch or removing the glove.

           His lips still hummed from the feeling of their kiss.

           “I know him…I know Jack,” says Will. “I know how he sounds when he’s hiding something.

           Hannibal doesn’t push him as he gets ready, doesn’t press when he decides to take his own car in. He needs the reassurance of a getaway, although there’s a detached part of him that is too cool to have accepted what the rest of him is resigned to. Standing on the stoop of Hannibal’s house, he’s kissed once more, and he’s allowed to taste something much like hunger, only it left a sweeter aftertaste of victory.

           Will drives to the FBI, and Garrett Jacob Hobbs sits in the passenger seat beside him.

[darkspellmaster]

How to build a Social Media Site that could work for everyone.

It’s an interesting conundrum that we’re dealing with right now, and something that got me thinking. How do you meet requirements of various platforms, and keep your user base happy and healthy. 

Now I admit my programming skills are old, and I haven’t done a lot of that in a long time. But I started to think, if I could build a SM site out of scratch what would work and what would keep all parties happy. 

The following is my results from mulling over things. 

First I would split this into two sections, why you may ask? Well for two reasons. The first reason is more of a commercial thing regarding cost of keeping up the site, the second is for the access of people and age limitations. 

Section 1 would be all ages. This area of the site would be strictly free (to a certain extent and I will explain that in a minute or two) and open to use by any age group. This means that Grandma could use it just as much as Kaley from down the street could. This area can have art that could be seen in romance comics, or manga. Traditional art like scuptures and the like, refrences, etc, would be fine. Just stuff like...I don’t know...porn gifs and art where you have jizz spray all over the place, would not be allowed in this area. 

Section 2 would be the limited access area, for 18+. Now this area would be blocked off and not accessible to people unless they do a few things. First they would have to register a driver’s license or ID of some sort to verify their age. There would also be a captcha thing and pay a small fee to enter. All NSFW content would go here, no exceptions. 

Here is how this would work. There are three areas of this zone. The first would be for work that would be seen as hard R rated like material. Second would be explicit, and third would be a specialty area for various people who work in certain industries (and again would be monitored for questionable content that could land people in jail). Regarding this last area, this would be monitored and the people involve would have to sign a contract with the site so that they can keep an eye on the activity of those involved in this section. This would be where the major explicit content would go (example would be like extreme BDSM stuff). 

These areas would be locked behind increased paywalls, the first being about 5 dollars at most, second being 10 and third being about 15. You could pay around 20 per month or a one year payment of $240 for a full year subscription. 

This would help with the cost of running the servers. 

Now on top of this the free area, and the not free area, would be allowed to have sub groups. These groups could be made by the user, and the user can invite people in there. Think a mix of the deviant art sub groups and a discord chat server. People would be expected to watch over their own groups, and if things go wrong, it would be shut down. 

Other aspects would include the idea of store fronts. Now these would be a deal with the site. People that wanted to open up a store could chose to do so and after they made around $500 to $1000 dollars yearly with their works, a small fee to the site would be paid every two years for additional stuff for their site. I would say between 15 to 100 depending on the traffic for the store. The site would provide the store owner with forms or other things that they could need to run their shop. 

In addition to that, there would be ads, but not the sort you would think of. All advertisements would be made by artists on the site. Artist could sign up to a board of sorts and then they would be paired with a client that has a store, or business that would pay them for the art, and a small fee to the site for basically running it. This would include all companies (like Disney for example) that wanted to do a blog or page on a movie. 

Of course if you didn’t want to run a store and had your own shop elsewhere you can link that up too. 

Rules would be easy to follow and would be reviewed every three months for all users. A board would be used to handle things, sort of like AO3. Money that was brought into the site would then be distributed to cover, server space, hiring of people to watch over both zones, and Every quarter a video would be posted for the community to ask questions and learn what’s going on. 

Regarding violations of terms of service, you get a warning and then you get banned. Your work is yours to take with you. 

That’s all I  have so far in my head. Any other suggestions?  Wish I knew how to program better. 

[shyanlibrary]

I was scrolling through your blog and you mentioned that faq doesn't work for Android and I have an android so could you please tell me the gist of what I should know? Thanks!!

Okay, so:

~ To know before asking

English is my second lenguage and I’m latina. Sorry for any mistakes I may make with my english and my different time zone.

I have read ALL finished fanfictions tagged under Ry*n B*rg*ra/Shan* M*dej tag at AO3 posted until feb. 14, 2018. I read everything that calls my attention in the tag from that day on.

I have my preferences and I have not read certain fics that may trigger old traumas and etc. Personal preferences are listed here.

Most recs I do are personal and come from my favorite fanfictions in the fandom. I’m a very picky person, so what I may like, you may not. I will not tolerate any kind of hate because of this.

Hate speech of any kind and “anti” sentiments are NOT welcome in this blog. I will never support the bullying and self-righteous feeling some members in certain portions of the fandom may post in the tags.

I only read shyan fanfics and I’m not into polyam. This doesn’t mean these kind of fics aren’t allowed in this blog, just that I won’t be reading them.

This also means platonic stuff will NOT be listed here, since this blog is dedicated to the romantic aspect of this dynamic, as already pointed out by the shipname SHYAN.

I believe all fics deserve exposure, but for safety and the purpose of this blog some may not be listed here.

~ Won’t be on this blog

Contains narrative, dialogues, tropes and speech born from racism, homophobia, transphobia, any kind of hate speech.

Platonic works crosstagged in the Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej tag. Exceptions: Pre-slash and queerplatonic.

Shipping works crosstagged in the Ryan Bergara & Shane Madej tag, since we should not be the problem by invading spaces that does not belong to us.

The author is a known bully, guilt trips other people into doing things for them, is a racist, homophobic, fetishist, abuser, toxic member of the fandom.

Feminization that isn’t born from a kink explored in the story is also not welcomed and will not be encouraged.

Contains queerbaiting.

Fetishises the relationship or one of the boys in any way, especially Ryan.

Abusive relationships that stay that way, especially between the boys.

Contains non-con, underage, pedophilia, necrophilia, bestiality, especially between the couple.

Exposes a kink or dynamic that is not abusive in real life in an abusive way. This applies especially with BDSM fics. Works that expose the dynamics in a negative way without this being part of the story, aka makes believe the reader is a positive rep, are not allowed in this blog.

~ Frequently Asked Questions

Do you know this one fic…?

If you want me to find you a fic you read a long time ago and you can’t remember the name or author, please tell me as much as you can about it and I will try to find out which one is. In case I can’t, I will make you a list with options that may be.

Before sending this, PLEASE, check the finds tag to know if someone else has already asked about it.

I don’t read watpatt fics, only AO3 and tumblr fics.

You think I should post my fic?

DO IT. All authors deserve exposure and I will support you as much as I can. I will read your fic, I will comment it, I will rec it.

You gotta realize that this fandom is small and very nice; people do care about their writers and try their best to leave feedback and is very, very rare that someone would leave a bad comment.

I understand the fear of posting, believe me I do, but I want you to know that you are not alone and you will find your own public, there is always a reader for each author.

What’s the most famous fic in the fandom?

No such thing, to be honest.

But the most hitted and kudoed fanfc in the tag is Foolish Mortal by ghostwheeze, most commented fic is A Ghoul’s Guide to Life, Death & Afterliving by MercurySkies, and most bookmarked fic is two to fall apart by literalmetaphor.

Fics I’ve seen more recommended in lists and so are Foolish Mortal by ghostwheeze (which isn’t actually shyan–  it’s platonic, by the way. But even though the author told this in the story, people still considers it a shyan story, so I’m torn if I should keep including it or not. Let me know what you think), be all my sins remembered by spoopyy (in which Shane is a vampire), Oblivion by InkStainsOnMyHands and contrapposto by spoopyy.

Would you recommend me a fanfic about…?

Here is my personal rec list: post | page. I also check my rec lists masterpost with all the list I’ve made.

Would you read my fanfic?

Please, first read this little page and then, if your fic doesn’t contain any of these things, go ahead, send me a link and I will happily read it.

Can I rec you/your followers a fic?

Sure, submit your fic rec here (and remember to follow the rules). If you don’t know how to submit, visit this page. Do not rec platonic stuff, this is a blog for shyan. Means romantic dynamic.

Allowed kind of platonic: queerplatonic and pre-slash (meaning It is known and obvious they will eventually land into a relationship).

I don’t want my fanfic in your blog.

That’s fine. Just tell me which one is and you won’t see it ever again over here.

Why do you call yourself Nini from Fandom Resources?

My friend, Beru (yaboimadej), always called me Fandom Resources Girl before we became friends while in another fandom. I’m someone who loves to help, and every time someone had a doubt about something in that one old fandom, I tried to help them no matter what.

When I started to do the same in the BFU fandom, she started to call me ‘Nini from BFU Fandom Resources’ and here we are.

Which of the boys is your favorite?

I love both of them, but maybe Ryan is ultimately my “favorite”. Yet, I’m a little more sexually attracted to Shane. Probably because he is the type of man I usually date. My current boyfriend is a 6'4 big guy with sandy blond hair and a devilish smile, so there is that.

What the fuck with the big-dick-Madej thing?

So, abuelas and tías in Mexico say that a man with big hands and big feet have a big dick. In my experience, cocks tend to fit the dude’s body, so me and many other authors came into the conclusion that Shane probably has a fitting cock. And well– he is the Big Guy, you know.

What do you think about their girls?

I respect Sara and whoever Ryan may date in the futre, fanfics that bashes them are not allowed in this blog. I also made a little rant regarding the way outsiders or newies always try to damage our fandom regarding them here.

What else will be in this blog aside from fanfics?

Fanart and edits done for fanfics. In case someone did a fanart and next, an author made a work based on it, it will be reblogged. You will also find prompts, prompts lists, writing memes, writing resources and references that may help for fanfics (aka information about the boys and their work).

Also, I will be reblogging the videos of the episodes and other “official” stuff of BFU and/or the boys.

Can I tag you in my fanfic?

Yes. You can mention the blog or you can tag the blog in your first five (5) tags of your post, and I will reblog it here and (maybe, unless you ask me to) read it.

Tag tag the blog as #shyanlibrary NOT #shyan library, please.

Do you enjoy doing this?

I love it. Please never stop writing and/or supporting fanfiction.

Do you write BFU fanfics?

I do! My AO3 profile is here. Right now, I’m busy with life and other sutff, but I do have plenty of ideas you can check out here.

Other social media I can find you in?

yaboybergara | twitter | letterboxd | instagram

Nina, can you help me with something else?

Fandom related? Of course. Please check this tag with all the thingys I have helped with on my main blog, and if your thingy is not there, send me a message at yaboybergara and I see what I can do.

I help finding information, videos, icons, screencaps, etc.

Writing? Send me a message and let me see what I can do. You can send me your ideas, fic or drafts at the Library’s e-mail. Send me a message for it.

Personal? I’ll try my best.

[zoemurph]

your midnights

posted on ao3 on new year’s eve!! only getting around to posting it here now cause uhhhh ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

on ao3

For flor

I wrote and upLoaded this from my phone. It's surprisingly hard to do. Also I wrote this in a few hours with no editing at all while at a family party so it's a mess but it had to be done

Is alcoholic champagne better than non alcoholic cause uhhhh gross

Will probably be edited when I get back home!! I'm away visiting family and have no wifi so. Wild.

Enjoy~

Evan glances to the clock. It's not even eleven yet, but it feels like they've been waiting for midnight to come for hours. He leans back against the couch and watches Zoe win another round of Bullshit. Jared throws his cards in the air as Zoe laughs and Alana flips the pile of cards in the center over to see how much of it is actually correct.

It's nice.

Evan's never really done anything for New Year's Eve before. There were parties, there are always parties, but he didn't go to the ones that were open to all and he was never invited to smaller ones before.

The last time he did something for New Year's Eve was probably six grade. Back when Jared and him were still close.

Connor drops down next to Evan on the couch. Connor lifts his cup in a toast to Evan and Evan rolls his eyes and knocks his own plastic cup against Connor's. He's only drinking apple juice, but Jared insisted everyone use red solo cups for the party aesthetic. Alana agreed, but only as long as no pictures with red cups end up in the internet.

"Colleges look at the internet," Alana had said seriously.

Evan had swallowed thickly and hoped that they don't read into any of his tweets. He didn't think he'd ever written anything bad but he wasn't not sure.

"Let's hope they don't find Murphy's emo tumblr," Jared had said with a smirk.

Connor had rolled his eyes.

"What are you drinking?" Evan asks Connor.

Connor swirls around whatever in his cup. "The alcohol free champagne Jared brought."

Evan wrinkles his nose. He tried some when Jared pulled it out, but he hated the taste. Jared also brought actual champagne, but they're saving it for after the ball drop. Evan probably won't have any, if it tastes anything like the fake champagne he's perfectly fine without it, but Zoe made everyone promise they wouldn't have any more than two cups.

"We aren't getting champagne drunk in Evan's house," she had said.

"We could," Jared pointed out.

Zoe threw a pillow at his head.

Connor laughs at Evan's expression. "Don't like it?"

"It's gross," Evan says. "How do you stand it?"

Connor shrugs. "It's not that bad."

"You also ate dirt once," Evan remembers, "so I don't know why I'm talking to you."

Connor bumps their shoulders together before he moves his arm to rest on the back of the couch. If Evan was braver, he could grab Connor's hand and pull his arm down around his shoulders.

Jared shouts as Alana beats Zoe and ends her running streak. "I love you, you over organized disaster!" he yells before launching himself at her over the pile of cards.

Zoe snorts and falls backward onto the floor as Alana laughs and tries to shove Jared off him as he smothers her.

Evan smiles and leans a little closer to Connor.

Connor lowers his cup. "He's gonna hurt himself one day."

"You say that like he hasn't."

Connor raises his eyebrows. "Has he?"

Evan shrugs and takes a sip of apple juice. "I love embarrassing Jared, but he'll probably kill me if I tell you the story I'm thinking about."

"Really? I could take him."

Evan shrugs. "Ask him about the biology incident sometime."

Connor narrows his eyes.

"Are you talking about me?" Jared asks, looking up from where he's still flopped on top of Alana.

"Maybe," Connor says. "What is it to you?"

Alana pokes Jared in the side. He yelps and rolls off of her as he curls up in a ball. Zoe takes Alana's hand and pulls her so she's sitting upright as she giggles.

Jared flips Alana off as he gets to his feet. "Don't go and give away my secrets, Hansen."

Evan mimes zipping his lips.

"I can't believe you don't trust me," Connor says. "I thought we were closer than that."

Jared scoffs and grabs his cup off the table. "Keep dreaming, Murph."

"I wasn't talking to you, Kleinman." Connor taps the top of Evan's head with the hand that's been sitting next to his ear. "I was talking to Evan."

"Evan would never betray me."

Evan puts down his cup. "Okay, so we were in seventh grade and we had just started the unit on—"

"We get it!" Jared interrupts.

"No keep going," Zoe says from where she's sitting on the floor. "I wanna hear the rest of this."

Jared carefully puts his cup on the coffee table and backs away from Evan with his hands raised. "Don't hurt me, I won't hurt you."

"Are we done?" Alana asks, gathering up the cards.

"Yes," Jared says immediately. "I'm not losing to Zoe again."

Zoe smiles brightly. "I don't know, I kind of want to kick Jared's ass again."

"Nope!" Jared flops back onto the couch, narrowly avoiding landing on Connor. "Let's do a social media check."

Evan shifts uncomfortably. "Or we could...not?"

"Social media check?" Alana asks. Zoe hands her the last cards and the card box.

"See what the other parties are like," Jared says, pulling out his phone.

"What we're missing," Connor mutters into his alcohol-less alcohol.

"We aren't missing anything," Zoe says sharply. "Unless any of you want music that's too loud and massive hangovers in the morning."

"We can have hangovers here," Jared says. He doesn't look up from his phone, but points in the direction of the kitchen, where there's too much pizza and a bottle of champagne. The twist off kind, not the cork one.

"We aren't getting drunk on champagne," Zoe says. She gets to her feet. "Remote?"

Connor scoots over and pulls it from between the cushions. "Catch." He tosses it to Zoe and she catches it with minimal fumbling.

"What are you putting on?" Alana asks.

"Ball drop?" Jared suggests.

Connor groans. "That's boring as fuck, let's not."

"He's right," Alana agrees. "It's incredibly anticlimactic. It doesn't even drop, it just lowers. I expected more."

"Life motto," Jared mutters.

Zoe flips through a few stations before opening Netflix. "Anyone have any preference?"

"Nothing targeted for children," Alana says.

"Does that mean no Disney?" Zoe asks as she scrolls through movies and tv shows.

Alana fixes her glasses. "No that's okay. I've been spending a lot of time with Theo this week and I'm getting sick of her shows."

"You should've asked me to babysit," Connor says before taking a sip of his drink. "I don't mind watching that shit with her."

"That's because she loves you," Alana says. She holds out her hand and Zoe passes her her cup. "And you don't have to see her every day."

"I could."

"Whipped," Jared stage whispers into his cup.

Connor shrugs. "I won't deny it."

"It's sweet," Zoe says. She crams herself into the space on the couch between Evan and Connor, and Evan regrets not moving closer to Connor before. "I can't believe he spends so much time with a six year old."

"How long until midnight?" Evan asks.

"It's eleven oh three," Alana says.

"And I want pizza," Jared announced. "Anyone want anything from the kitchen?"

Connor holds up his cup as Jared passes by. "Fake champagne."

"Grab me a slice," Zoe says. "It can be cold."

"Sweet." Jared takes the cup from Connor.

"Don't destroy the kitchen," Evan calls out after him. "You had to clean it up if you do."

"You're a bad host, Evan," Jared shouts back.

Evan huffs and leans back on the couch, careful not to pull on Zoe's hair.

Jared comes back with a drink for Connor and two slices of pizza. Jared joins Alana on the floor and Evan grabs them pillows and blankets as Zoe and Connor bicker over what Disney movie is best.

They both turn to Evan.

"Lilo and Stitch," Connor says.

"No, Tangled," Zoe argues.

Evan blinks. "Uh..."

"Treasure Planet is better," Jared counters.

Evan rolls his eyes. "That's because you had a crush on Jim."

"That I did," Jared says with a serious nod.

Alana takes the remote from Zoe as Zoe and Connor go back to their argument.

Zoe slides down off the couch to join Alana and Jared on the phone, effectively ending the argument.

Connor smiles triumphantly at Evan. "I win by default."

Zoe scoffs. "That's not how this works. I'm just trying to enjoy time with my good friends."

"Good friends," Jared echoes sarcastically.

Zoe shoves him away.

Alana ends up putting on Trolls. She admits that she can quote parts of it, which Jared thinks is hilarious and Zoe thinks is incredible. Evan tries to inch closer to Connor without him noticing.

Evan finds himself weirdly invested in the movie and physically a lot closer to Connor than he expected to be when Jared sits up with a jerk.

He leans over Zoe to grab for the remote "Pause it! Five minutes until midnight. We have to find the ball."

Connor knocks the side of Jared's head with his foot. "I thought we greed that it was boring."

Jared shoves Connor's foot away. "Yeah but it's still tradition."

Alana hands over the remote. "We don't have any traditions."

"Well we're making them now." Jared pauses the movie and starts flipping through the channel guide. "If someone wanted to Google the channel number that'd be cool."

"I'll grab the champagne," Connor says, standing up.

Zoe glances up at him. "Not drinking it, right?"

"Nah," Connor stretches his arms up. "I'll stick to the fake stuff."

"Hey, Evan, your mom still have champagne flukes?" Jared asks, not looking away from the screen.

"If you promise not to break them." Connor offers Evan his hand and pulls Evan to his feet.

"Cross my heart, hope to die," Jared promises.

Connor follows Evan into the kitchen. Evan directs him to the top cabinet where they keep wine glasses. They carefully cover the counter in glasses so Connor can pull the champagne flukes from the back.

Connor grabs the two champagne bottles, actual alcohol and fake alcohol, and then starts helping Evan put the glasses away.

Evan finds himself leaning against the counter as Connor reaches up over him. Connor glances down at Evan. Evan feels his face heat up as he hands Connor the last glass.

"Three minutes!" Jared shouts from the living room.

Evan inhales sharply as Connor closes the cabinet. "H-how do you um— do you want to grab both bottles and I take the glasses or do you want me to take one or we could take two trips and—"

"I'm early," Connor says.

Evan blinks at him. "You're...what?"

One of Connor's hands comes up to brush against Evan's cheek. "Like by two minutes."

Evan is about to ask what Connor means like that because he's not making sense when Connor leans forward and presses his lips against Evan's.

It's quick and gentle and leaves Evan breathless when Connor pulls away, gathers up three of the flukes in one hand and a bottle in the other, and disappears back into the living room.

Evan brushes his fingers against his lips.

"Two minutes!" Zoe and Jared shout together. Zoe starts laughing and Alana says something that Evan doesn't hear.

"Took you long enough," Jared says.

"Couldn't find the glasses," Connor explains.

"Evan get in here!" Zoe shouts.

Evan takes a deep breath. He grabs the bottle of champagne that Connor left, the real one with actual alcohol, and the two remaining glasses. He walks into the living room and tries not to look too much at Connor.

Evan puts the glasses on the table with the others and the bottle far away enough from the half finished bottle of nonalcoholic champagne that they shouldn't get mixed up.

"One minute!" Jared yanks Alana to her feet.

She laughs. "Jared it's just another day."

He grabs her face. "Lana, it's the end of another shitty year. And we all made it. Celebrate."

Alana's eyes flick to Connor. He's too busy elbowing Zoe as she tries to put beads over his head — where she got necklaces Evan has no idea but Alana's wearing a golden one and Jared has about six — but Evan notices. Alana and Evan make eye contact and Evan quickly looks away.

"Celebrate," Alana repeats. "One minute till midnight," she says with a gentle smile.

Zoe manages to get a string of purple beads around Connor's neck and hands Evan some blue beads with a smile. Evan dutifully puts them on without a fuss.

"Ten!" the crowd on the television shouts.

Jared throws his arm over Alana's shoulder. "Nine!" he chimes in.

"Eight!"

Zoe laughs and lets Jared wrap his other arm around her waist and pulls her in. "Seven!" she yells.

"Six!"

Jared grins at Evan. "Five!"

Evan smiles weakly and then glances over to Connor.

"Four!"

Jared gives Evan a serious look and nods. Zoe gives him a thumbs up.

"Three!"

Evan inches closer to where Connor is on the other side of the room, watching the television with a weird amount of intensity.

"Two!"

Evan wipes his hands on his pants. They're shaking.

"One!"

He grabs Connor by the collar of his shirt and pulls him down to him and kisses him. Their noses bump and it's kind of messy but Connor's arms wrap around Evan's waist to pull him closer and Evan is kissing Connor and Evan's heart is pounding in his ears, so it's not all bad. There's cheering in the background and Zoe is laughing and Evan just smiles and kisses Connor harder.

When he breaks away, Connor leans back in and kisses the corner of his mouth before pressing their foreheads together.

"Happy New Year," Evan whispers.

Connor is smiling and Evan swears he would do anything to see that smile all the time. "Happy New Year, Ev."

"We did it!" Jared shouts. "We killed 2017!"

Evan turns away from Connor to see Jared twisting open the champagne and pouring it out. He shoves a fluke at Alana as Zoe holds out a glass to Connor.

Connor takes it from her, but keeps his other arm around Evan's waist. "Happy New Year, Zo."

She smiles and hands Evan the other glass. "Happy New Year, guys." She presses a kiss to Evan's cheek and ruffles Connor's hair.

Jared hands her her champagne before lifting his own fluke in the air. "We made it!"

Zoe raises her glass to clink it against Jared's.

"Happy New Year, everyone," Alana says and Evan thinks there might be tears in her eyes.

"We made it," Connor says softly and, Evan thinks, mostly to himself.

Evan smiles and taps his fluke against Connor's. "We made it."

[kriscme]

One Life to Live

Here’s the latest!   Thanks as always to Ronja for allowing me to write fanfic of her Hunger Games fanfic “The Chance You Didn’t Take.”  It can be read on AO3 or Fanfiction.  Chapter 34 The next morning I call in on Haymitch.  He’ll have to be told before the television crew arrives.  We might be able to get away with pretending to the rest of 12 that Peeta and I are back together, but not Haymitch.  I can imagine what he’s going to say.  Probably something about why no one lets me make the plans.  And he’ll be right.  How stupid of me to risk exposure like that.  What was I thinking?  Going into the woods with my famous lover and Plutarch’s own production team.  If I’d listened to my gut and stayed home, it never would have happened.   And now I’m back to owing Peeta.  I guess I should be grateful, and I am. He doesn’t have to do this and he is saving Marcus and me from becoming a national laughing stock. But still, I hate owing.  And how will I ever repay him?   I find Haymitch sprawled on his living room sofa, snoring heavily and with a bottle clutched in one hand and a knife in the other. He’s been on his usual weekend bender by the look of it.  That would explain his absence when Plutarch arrived.  It would take the noise of ten hovercrafts landing to rouse him from it and even that’s doubtful. Before I wake him, I go into the kitchen to make him some strong coffee.  He’s going to need it.  It’s a pigsty in there.  Dirty dishes piled in the sink; moths fluttering from the pantry; blackened saucepans on the stove; the floor so sticky it makes sucking noises when you walk across it.  But after a bit of rummaging, I find the coffee pot, fill it with water and ground coffee and set it on the stove to brew.   Then I return to Haymitch and find that Peeta is there too.  He sets a freshly baked loaf of bread on the table.  

“I saw you leave your house,” he explains at my questioning look.  “I think we should tell him together.” I nod in agreement.  He’s right.  For good or ill, we’re in this together now.  

Peeta gingerly attempts to prise the knife from Haymitch’s hand but without success.  His fingers seem t “I have a better idea.” I go back into the kitchen and return with a basin of cold water. “Stand back,” I warn.  I dump the water over Haymitch’s head and spring out of the way.  He comes to, gasping, swiping at the air with his knife.  He casts bleary eyes in our direction.

“Oh, it’s you two,” he says, as if we’re the biggest drag on his life.  He runs a hand over his head and peers down at his shirt.   “Why am I wet?” “Never mind that,” I say.  “I – that is, Peeta and I, have something to tell you. We need your help.”   Haymitch groans and reaches for his bottle. “I need a drink first.”  He goes to take a swig but the bottle is empty. Disgusted, he throws it to join the pile of discarded food containers and other assorted rubbish by the window. “So, what is it?”  His eyes dart between Peeta and me.  “More boy trouble?” “That’s enough, Haymitch,” says Peeta.  I shoot him a grateful look.  He saved me the bother.  If we have to work together, this show of mutual accord is a good start. “This is serious.  Katniss, I think you should be the one.” Right.  I guess the story does start with me.  I tell Haymitch everything.  My relationship with Marcus.  Being secretly filmed.  Plutarch’s visit and his conditions for not leaking the video.  And then Peeta’s willingness to help me out.  To save time, I hand him the paper Cressida gave me. “This is what they want us to do – to prepare.”

Haymitch takes it over to the window to read.  Not that he can get very close with the rubbish piled beneath it.  After a few moments, he lifts his head to stare out the window.  He appears to be considering something.   “Here,” he says, as he returns the paper to me. “You should get started on it.  You’ve a lot to do before the cameras arrive.” I swap puzzled glances with Peeta. That’s it?  No recriminations for getting myself into this mess?  No anger that the media will be swarming all over the Village and disturb his peace?   We start to leave but Haymitch’s voice calls us back.  “Have you decided on the house?” “Um, mine.”  I turn to Peeta.  “Buttercup,” I say as way of explanation.   He gives a nod.  I don’t think he cares either way.  It’s only temporary.   “You need to move all your things over to Katniss’s, then,” Haymitch tells Peeta.  “A couple living together don’t split their possessions between two residences with hers in one house, and his in the other.  And they should be where you’d expect to find them.  You don’t want any nosey crew member poking around and finding your clothes in the guest room instead of sharing closet space with Katniss’s.  Even the slightest suspicion that it’s an act has to be avoided.  The next person who gets hold of anything incriminating won’t go to Plutarch but to another media outlet.  And then you’ll both be exposed as frauds.” This just keeps getting worse.  We can’t trust anybody with the truth.  Not even the people who work for Plutarch who’ll be producing this travesty.  We have to fool not only the TV audience, but everyone around us.  Any slip-up and we could end up as social pariahs accused of a cynical attempt to cash in on our former fame.  The only consolation is that Plutarch has as much to lose as we have, so at least we don’t have to worry about any leak coming from him.  I take a look at Peeta.  He must be regretting the impulse that had him volunteer for this, but there’s no hint of doubt in his expression.  In fact, it’s the most energized I’ve seen him in a long time. “I’ll get on it right away,” says Peeta. “Apart from clothes, that really leaves only art materials and maybe some specialist baking equipment. They’ll expect to see both.” Yes, Peeta is known Panem-wide for this painting and baking.  And since most of our household goods are duplicated in both households, that cuts out the need for Peeta to take anything other than personal effects.   Haymitch continues.  “You also need to be seen in the town so that it’s established in people’s minds that you’re together before the television crew arrives. Everything a couple does, you must do. That includes eating together and sleeping together.  Starting from now.  It has to be second nature if you’re to pull this off.  You know how intrusive the camera can be.”

I remember.  But share a bed?  That’s going way too far.  Who’s going to know if we share a bed or not?  “Do we really need to sleep together?  It seems to me that – “ Haymitch doesn’t even let me finish.   “Which shouldn’t be a problem.  You’ve done it before, haven’t you?   And you were play acting at being a couple then too.” Yeah, but that was different. We’re adults now, not frightened teenagers seeking comfort.   Besides, I’m not sure how I feel about being so close to him all night.  Not with the way things stand and in a situation that many would consider decidedly sexual.   “It will be all right, Katniss.  I promise not to try anything,” says Peeta, with an infuriating smirk. I scowl at him, embarrassed at his insinuation that I have sex on my mind, which I do, but it’s not the point.  “You won’t unless you want to lose a hand.  Maybe I’ll borrow Haymitch’s knife – “ “Stop it.  Both of you,” admonishes Haymitch.  “You’re supposed to be in love, remember? Start acting like it.” I back down because he’s right, of course. But in this moment, I almost wish I had taken the alternative option.  Especially as Haymitch and Peeta continue to make plans without consultation from me. This is what started the whole star-crossed lovers thing in the first place.  The two of them making decisions that affect me.  They’d argue that it’s for my benefit, but still. “Since I’m apparently not needed, I’ll get started on making room for Peeta’s things at my house,” I say tersely before I stomp out the door.  I’m rewarded by a look of astonishment from both of them.  Maybe now they’ll get the hint.   Fortunately, there’s not a great deal to do from my end.  The master bedroom has a huge walk-in closet and I barely use a quarter of it.  Once I’ve cleared some space in the bathroom, I’m finished in that part of the house.  Peeta will need somewhere to put his art equipment, of course, and it will be expected that he’d have a proper studio.  I guess we could use my mother’s bedroom.  Her home is 4 now and in the unlikely event she comes to visit she can stay in the guest room.  I pack all her things into boxes.  Maybe I’ll ship them to her in 4.  It would serve as a sort of symbolic rejection of her in return for hers of me.   I know it’s not fair but I don’t feel like being fair.  I want to lash out at something or someone and my mother right now is a safe target.   After that, there’s nothing left for me to do but to help carry Peeta’s things from his house to mine.   I show him his new studio.  He’s happy with it.  He says the light is good.  The bedroom furniture we’ll store at his house.  It won’t look odd if it’s discovered since it’s likely that’s what we would have done with it if Peeta really had moved into my house. By early afternoon most of the moving-in is done.  Haymitch suggests our next priority is to be seen in the town together behaving like a couple in the early days of courtship – which we would be if there was anything real about this.   Peeta holds my hand as we walk.  There’s no one about.  The only people who use the road from the Village into the town are us victors but you can never be sure that somebody isn’t watching.  I’ve learned that the hard way.   There hasn’t been a lot of conversation between us that hasn’t centered around moving in.  Peeta seems to sense that I’m not happy with him and has mostly left me to sulk in peace.  But as we near the town he attempts to draw me out of my bad mood with some light-hearted talk to which I respond with yes or no answers or none at all.   “What are you so angry about?” Peeta asks. “Is it because I teased you about the bed sharing?  I’m sorry. I thought you’d laugh about it.” “No,” I say, even though it is part of it.  “It’s a lot of things.  But I’m mostly just sick of you and Haymitch making decisions that affect me without first asking if I’m okay with it.  Like with the star-crossed lovers thing and the fake pregnancy.  You don’t like it when Haymitch and I keep things from you.  I don’t see how this is any different.” “You’re right.  It’s not.  I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought of it that way before. If it involves you, you should be asked first.  I promise not to do it again.  Okay?” “Okay,” I say, mollified.   “Let me make it up to you.  How about I buy you an ice-cream?” Ice-cream?  I’m not sure about ice-cream.  The ice-cream parlor was Peeta and Lace’s favourite hang-out.  I also don’t have good memories of the last time he bought me one.  It was right before he told me I can’t use his guest room at night anymore.  But it is the best place in town to be seen, and it’s consistent in people’s minds with Peeta’s courtship habits.  I guess I can tolerate it just this once.   “Okay, but I’m not licking ice-cream off your face,” I say.   “I should hope not.  That’s disgusting.  Especially in public.” “You liked it well enough when Lace did it,” I point out.   “She didn’t lick it off.  Sometimes she’d kiss it off.  Not that it’s much better.” “Then why did you let her?” He shrugs.  “I guess I liked the attention.” It seems a dumb reason to me.   He must have been pretty desperate for it if that’s the case. The ice-cream parlor is as crowded as I’ve ever seen it.  The store is packed with customers and all the outside tables are taken. “Maybe we could go sit in the football field and eat our ice-cream there,” suggests Peeta. “No!” I burst out before I can stop myself. That’s where he took me to eat our ice-creams that other time.  “I mean, we’re here to be seen, aren’t we?  No one will see us in the middle of a football field.  We’ll find a table.  Look, there’s some people leaving now.” I almost drag Peeta along in my hurry to secure the table.  “I’ll mind the table while you get the ice-cream.” “What flavours do you want?” “Surprise me.  Nothing coffee flavoured though.”   Peeta leans down to give me a light kiss on the lips.  Oh right, the romance thing.  I smile up at him with what I hope is a suitably soppy expression.  “Miss you already,” I say.   “Miss you more,” he says in return and gives me another kiss. “Just go,” I say laughing and I give him a push.   He threads his way through the tables and enters the store.  I do a quick sweep of my surroundings to see if anyone’s watching. And that’s when I see him.   Max, a couple of tables away.  Staring straight at me, a mixture of incredulity and amusement on his face.   He’s with Saffy from the bakery and another couple I don’t recognize.  I give a small wave in acknowledgment.  That’s a mistake, because after a few words to his companions, he heads towards me and takes the seat opposite. “I didn’t give you permission to sit here,” I say. “Don’t need it.  It’s a public space.  So, you and psycho boy, huh?  When did that happen?  Wasn’t he supposed to be married by now?” “It’s new and the wedding was called off, as you well know.  And don’t call him psycho boy.”  Of all people it had to be Max.  Talk about being plunged into the deep end.  He’ll be the hardest to convince.  A natural skeptic and with an uncanny ability to know what I’m thinking before I do. If I can persuade him, then I can persuade anyone.   “Rather sudden, isn’t it?” “No, not really.  Peeta and I have known each other for a long time.   It was more like picking up from where we left off, now that other distractions are out of the way.” “Other distractions being Lace, I presume?” “Lace was a . . . an aberration.”  There, that’s a good way of putting it.  “A symptom of what the hijacking did to him.  But thankfully he’s now fully recovered.  As for me, well, I never really fell out of love with him.  So, when he asked me to give him another chance, I said yes.  And I don’t regret it.  In fact, I’d go so far as to say we’re as much in love as ever.  Maybe even more so.”   “Hmm.  Well, I’m happy for you.   But can I ask you one question?”  He doesn’t wait for an answer but leans over the table, arms crossed in front of him. “Why?” “What do you mean why?” I ask, irritated. “Is it so impossible that he could be in love with me?” “Not him with you.  You with him.  Have you forgotten what this man has put you through?  Not only has he tried to kill you but he’s been parading a girlfriend in front of you for months.  And now you’re letting him back in?  It’s crazy.”

“I’ve told you before.  There are some things that Peeta can’t be held responsible for and trying to kill me is one of them.   As to the rest, well, there’s things you don’t know.  He’s taking a chance with me too.  All I know is that I love him and I have to go where my heart takes me. Whatever happens, happens. You don’t have to worry about me.  I’m strong enough to take it.” Max gives me a searching look.  “Well, if you’re – “ “Everything okay?” asks Peeta.  He puts down a dish of three scoops of ice-cream in front of me.  He’s bought himself a cone but not the usual soft serve.  Strawberry, I think.   “Everything’s fine,” I say, with a reassuring smile.  “Max just dropped by to say hello.  He’s not staying.” Max thankfully takes the hint.   “Yeah, I should be getting back.  My date will be getting restless without me.” Max pushes his chair back from the table. “See you at work tomorrow, Katniss.” I watch him rejoin his group.   As dubious as he is about my reasons for being with Peeta, I don’t think he doubts that my love for him is real.  

Peeta is also watching.  “Saffy is Max’s date?” He seems surprised.   “Yeah, appears so.”  The other couple are cozied up together so it’s not one of them. “Why?  Is something wrong?” “Not really.  It’s just that Saffy told me she likes girls.”   Oh.  Poor Max.  Saffy flirts with everyone.  He probably got the wrong idea and she accepted his invitation as a friend.  Max doesn’t seem to have much luck when it comes to romance.  Which reminds me. “Want a taste?” I ask Peeta, offering him a spoonful of my ice-cream.  “Do you remember in the cave when I fed you broth and mashed berries?” “I do.  One spoon equals one kiss if I recall.” “I don’t remember that part.  But I always insist on paying my debts.”  I put my face forward to be kissed.  Peeta cheats and takes two.  Over his shoulder, I see the people at the next table watching with interest and then turn to each other to gossip among themselves.  At least people are talking about us.  As with Max, I don’t expect that everyone will approve. Some will say I’m a fool for taking him back.  Others, who don’t know that Lace is with Arthur now, might blame me for Peeta and Lace’s breakup.  And yet others, and I’m hoping they’re the majority, will sigh and romantically declare that order has at last been restored to the universe.  But whatever they think, as long as they believe that Peeta and I are genuinely together, that’s all that matters.

I go back to eating my ice-cream.  It really is delicious.  Chocolate, honeycomb, and butter pecan.   “Katniss, can I ask you something?  You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” “Sure.  Go ahead.”  The butter pecan is amazing. “How serious was it with Marcus?” My spoon freezes half-way to my lips, so surprised I am by the question.  Why is he asking me this now?  We’re supposed to be projecting romance, not talking about former lovers.  But then, why shouldn’t he be thinking about it?  It’s because of my indiscretion with Marcus that we’re here in the first place recreating the star-crossed lovers routine.  He deserves an honest answer.   I think about Marcus and the short time we had together.  It wasn’t a great love affair but for a little while it did reach the heights of one – for me, anyway.   There’s no heartbreak or any sense of loss now that it’s ended, but the memories are sweet.  A rebound, Johanna called it.  But I don’t think that really sums up what Marcus was to me.  He was . . . a haven.  That’s it. A haven.  A place in which to shelter and gather strength.  And I think Marcus would like that.  How apt for a man whose life mission is to create safe spaces for nature to thrive.   I so like the notion that I can’t help smiling. And then I become aware that Peeta is watching me, a look of consternation on his face and I realise that I haven’t yet answered him.   I take a breath.  “Well, we had a lot in common and I liked him a lot.  He helped me and he made me feel good about myself again after . . . you know, everything.” I see Peeta wince slightly at the “everything” although it wasn’t my intention to make him feel bad.  “It was intense for a while but we never could have lasted.” No, not with me stuck in 12 and Marcus’s job that takes him all over Panem.  “So, to answer your question as to whether it was serious or not, I guess the answer is, not very.   Does all that make sense to you?”  

“Yeah, it does,” he says, thoughtfully.  “It makes perfect sense.”   For some reason, this rubs me the wrong way. How would he know?  Oh, yes that’s right. It’s how he viewed his relationship with me.  Something that seemed all- consuming at the time but, as it turned out, not serious at all.   An illusion, in fact.   “I don’t have to ask how it was with you and Lace.  I mean, marriage.  You don’t get more serious than that.” I try to keep my tone light, but there’s a bitter edge to it.

His brow furrows in confusion.  “What?  No, Lace is who I meant.  That’s who I wasn’t serious about.” “Peeta, don’t do that.  I saw it all, remember?  You don’t have to try to make me feel better.  I was reconciled to it months ago.” I push the dish of ice-cream from me. It’s half-melted anyway in the hot sun. “Do you think we can go now?  I think we’ve been seen long enough.” I don’t wait for an answer but get up off my chair and start walking.  Peeta has no choice but to follow. “Katniss, wait up.  People are looking.”  He takes my hand and I don’t pull it away.  I might be upset with him but we still have to look as if we’re smitten with each other.  I even manage a fond smile that I hope doesn’t look too much like a grimace. As soon as we’re out of earshot, Peeta tries again.  “This is something we need to talk about.” “We don’t, actually,” I say, wearily.  “Look, isn’t there enough to deal with right now?  Just drop it.  Please.”    

He opens his mouth to argue, but then seems to think better of it.  I don’t want to talk about his relationship with Lace.  It’s still too raw.  And how can I trust Peeta to know his own mind, anyway?   He’d told Lace that I was the one he wasn’t really serious about.  So now Lace is the one?  Peeta can’t keep re-writing history like that.   We spend the remainder of the walk back to the Village mostly in silence.   Any attempt by Peeta to make conversation is wet-blanketed by me. I know I’m being moody and difficult when Peeta is going out of his way to help me but I just can’t seem to shake it off.   This is much harder than I expected.  I’m beginning to understand what it was like for Peeta during the Victory Tour, when he was the one in love and I wasn’t.  Hugs and kisses, so cherished when it comes from someone you love and who loves you back, is torture when you know that the person you love is putting on an act.  Something is not better than nothing.  An honest nothing is far preferable. Haymitch joins us for dinner.  I don’t know if Peeta invited him or Haymitch invited himself but it provides a welcome buffer between Peeta and me.  We tell him about our visit to the ice-cream parlor and make plans for tomorrow before we move on to general conversation.  After we’ve eaten and cleared up, Haymitch and Peeta set up the chess board.  They try to engage me and I watch them for a little while but eventually I move into the sitting room to watch television.  I feel left out of whatever understanding there seems to be between them.  Maybe it’s because I’m not an equal in this. They’re the heroes coming to the rescue and I’m just the idiot who needs rescuing. I flick mindlessly through the channels until I come to a news program.  It’s covering the mayoral elections in 7.  Johanna’s only real competition is this vile looking man with a ridiculous comb-over who is funded by the logging companies.  Referring to Johanna, he says he likes his heroes not to be captured. It doesn’t go down well.  He’s lucky Johanna isn’t there too.  He’d be dead for sure. When it’s time to retire for the night, we politely take turns using the bathroom and then get into bed.  It’s a large bed so there’s plenty of space between us if we keep to the edges which I’m determined to do.  

So ends the first day of the new adventures of the star-crossed lovers.  

[niigoki]

TWICE title: we’re a mess (let’s finish what we started) - Chapter 2 pairing: NaMo, MiMo, Saida, JeongMi, 2yeon, Chaeyu read on Ao3! 

The Drama Club’s building was far away from the main one and double the distance from the dorms. The theatre students had to walk the most to get to their classes, but that meant they could scream their lungs out in the middle of musical performances that no one would be bothered. Being so far from every single living thing in the campus had its perks: like being allowed to throw the loudest, most popular parties.

It also gave Momo and Jeongyeon a lot of time to think about their life choices.

“This was a bad idea.” Momo mumbled as they walked outside, following the illuminated path. It was already really dark out, the only sounds accompanying them being the steps of the other students who had decided to crash the party at the last minute. “It’s cold.”

Jeongyeon was about to take off her jacket and offer, but Momo stopped her with her hand. “I’m being dramatic, keep it.”

“You’re anxious,” Jeongyeon replied, then smirked. “It’s plastered on your whole face.”

“Like you’re one to talk.” Momo nudged her with an elbow. “Seriously, I thought you had to study.”

“I did. I do.”

“Then why are you following my terrible decisions?”

“I don’t know! Impulse, a gut feeling, the fact that I’m an idiot, choose.” Jeongyeon laughed nervously and Momo rolled her eyes.

“The last one, definitely.”

Some girls had been clearly following them from the moment they left the dorm and were now giggling like teenagers. Jeongyeon looked behind her and shot them a grin, and they nearly tripped on each other, blushing furiously. The smaller one waved, and the taller one slapped her shoulder, whispering something. Jeongyeon chuckled, facing forward again. “Dear God.”

“How does it feel to be every lesbian’s dream girl, Yoo Jeongyeon?” Momo looked up at the stars with a lazy smile.

“Pressuring,” She replied, hands behind her head. “I feel like I have to please all the time.”

“You’ve always been like this,” Momo side-eyed her, a reminiscing gleam in her eyes. “Always looking after us, always supporting everyone. Honestly, it’s no wonder everyone just falls for you like that.”

“Aww, are you falling for me, Hirai Momo?”

Momo didn’t answer and widened her smile, closing her eyes and breathing the chilly night air. Jeongyeon decided to let the question float around in the air; she didn’t really want to get into this territory. When it concerned the nine of them, things could get complicated.

The closer they got to the meeting place, he louder the muffled music became. The building was huge, and the students always had the permission to use the theater for the biggest parties, since it was the most spacious place inside. The first time Jeongyeon attended one of the Drama Club’s parties she was really intimidated, she wasn’t going to lie. There were too many people and too much alcohol going around – never a good combo.

She really didn’t know why she decided to come.

(Maybe that was the reason why).

Finally arriving at the building’s steps, Momo and Jeongyeon looked at each other and mentally challenged one another to leave. When none of them did, they just locked arms and climbed the stairs, hearts beating impulsively on their chests.

Here we go.

  --

  Jihyo didn’t dislike parties. She liked being around people, and liked taking care of her friends too, so going with Sana had been truly great. The bubbly girl apparently knew half of the party’s attendees, and the ones she didn’t, at least knew who she was. She was surrounded by friends, new and old, but never once made Jihyo feel awkward or isolated.

“This is my best friend, Jihyo!” Sana pulled her and introduced her to strangers here and there, and Jihyo greeted them with her blinding smile. She was sure she’d have at least ten new stalkers by the time she came back to her dorm and logged into her social media, but that didn’t bother her.

What did bother her was how much Sana was drinking, clearly to get drunk as fast as possible.

“Hey,” Jihyo tapped her shoulder to grab the girl’s attention. “How about you slow down a little bit?”

“Jihyo-ya!” Sana threw her arms around her friend, leaning almost fully against her. “I thought I lost you in the crowd!”

“And I think I’m losing you to vodka!” Jihyo replied in the same hyperactive tone and took Sana’s cup away from her.

“Nooooo…” Sana reached for her cup, a playful smile on her lips. “I need that!”

Jihyo sighed, worried, and forced Sana to stand up straight again. “That’s your third cup in a row and you just got here. Let’s enjoy the music for a bit. Look! Someone’s calling you.”

Apparently distracted, Sana turned around and waved at a group of friends that Jihyo didn’t recognize. She guided the tipsy girl towards them and told her that she’d be right back, then moved to the nearest trashcan to deposit the cup.  Jihyo knew that Sana wanted company for this party for a reason – she planned to get absolutely wasted and needed someone to take care of her. Jihyo didn’t really mind that, though; that was her job in the group. She was worried about the reason, however.

Park Jihyo was like everyone’s mom. While Jeongyeon was more of a princess charming, it was to Jihyo that people came with their worries. She didn’t know if she was easier to talk to than Jeongyeon, or if she had this grown up, more mature vibe, but she honestly felt glad to be the one to carry everyone’s burdens. Her life had been pretty good; no traumatic experiences so far (with the exception of her entrance exam and all that), so she felt this need to make everyone feel better about themselves. Not to say that she didn’t have any insecurities, she just dealt with them better than most.

She did share her feelings with Nayeon from time to time. That girl was a great listener despite everything.

“Found you,” Jihyo whispered to herself, finally finding a trash can, then smiled at a job well done. She turned back to the crowd, but froze. The group of friends had vanished, taking Sana with them, and Jihyo almost growled from the back of her throat. “Goddammit, Sana.”

She needed to find that girl before she did something stupid.

“Coming through!” And with her boisterous voice, she dove into the crowd.

  --

   It was loud.

And dark.

The songs ranged from EDM, to Pop, to Rock.

There were flashing neon lights guiding people’s paths – purple, green, red – but overall it was hard to see unless you were near the stage.

Mina didn’t really enjoy being confined in a dark space full of sweaty bodies pressing into her, so she tried to make her way to through the crowd as fast as possible. She was wearing a black dress and heels, and she immediately regretted her footwear decision; it felt like her feet were about to fall off.

She had no idea what she was doing. First, she’d come to that party alone, despite knowing that Sana was going to be there too. Her own roommate and best friend offered to go with her, but Mina – in a fit of insanity, apparently – lied and told her that she already had company. Sana had eyed her suspiciously, but didn’t ask.

Second, that was probably the third party she’s ever been to, and she could literally feel people’s gazes piercing her body. The usual party goers already had some sort of reputation – they knew each other and recognized the newbies. Mina felt like an easy target and she hated it. She was lost and suffocated, and all she wanted to do was find Sana as quickly as possible. Or Nayeon, that worked too. She just needed to see a familiar face.

It took Mina longer than she expected to reach an empty part of the theater, and when she did, she rapidly touched her back on a wall and just breathed. Eyes closed, loud music blasting in her ears, the hot atmosphere – her feet were definitely going to fall off.

Inhale… exhale.

Thoughts were swirling in her mind and she was too dizzy to dance, so she took a moment to just recompose herself.

“Focus.” She mumbled, then opened her eyes to scan the place. There was a table with snacks and drinks a few meters away, fairly reachable. The crowd was the problem, however; just the thought of going back in there made her stomach turn.

Coming alone was such a stupid idea.

Mina felt like she was on a survival show, and she needed to think about how to make it out of there alive. First, remove your shoes. She reached down and took her heels off, relief immediately spreading through her body. Okay, that’s better. What’s next?

Water. She was terribly thirsty.

There was no way she was going to walk barefooted through the theater – she didn’t want to know what kind of liquids had been spilled on the floor already. Mina threw her head back, bumping it against the wall in frustration, and sighed. She felt utterly lost and alone, and hated every second of her life at that moment.

“Don’t cry,” She bit her lip, frustrated at her weakness. “It’s okay, relax.”

A minute passed, then another, and no one approached her. She could feel them – the eyes on her, questioning, mocking, laughing, pitying. Mina absolutely hated being pitied.

She was about to let out an actual sob when she felt someone touch her arm, gently.

“Mina?”

She turned her head and gaped. That voice gave her lots of conflicted feelings, but right now, she threw her pride out of the window and blinked at her savior. “Momo…” Then she let her forehead fall against Momo’s shoulder, breathing out a broken chuckle. “Thank God.”

Momo was confused, but hugged her best friend’s hair regardless. Things might’ve been awkward between them lately, but it was impossible to distance herself from Mina when she looked this vulnerable. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here.”

They stood there for a moment, Mina’s thoughts clearing out. She finally lifted her head and wiped her eye carefully not to smudge her makeup. “I’m sorry, I—” Then she let out a weak laugh at the whole situation. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. Now that you’re here.”

Momo raised her eyebrows at that, but smiled a little. “What the hell happened? You look exhausted.”

“I just… I did something dumb.” Mina bit her lip, shifting her weight to her left leg. “Before you ask, can you… Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Can you grab me some water?”

“Are you drunk?” Momo stared at her eyes, but Mina shook her head.

“I’m not. I just got here.” Then she turned her attention to her feet. “My heels messed with my feet and I can’t walk properly. I’m really thirsty.”

Momo couldn’t help but to smile at that, and rolled her eyes. “Okay, dumb-dumb. I’ll be back soon, don’t move.”

Once she left, Mina felt her tense muscles relaxing. Now that she was allowed to think, she was really confused; Sana said that Momo wasn’t going to the party – which she honestly saw coming considering how things were between them – so why was she here? It was ironic, too, that out of all people, Momo was the first one to reach her.

I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised, Mina thought. The girl had a knack for knowing when she was in trouble.

Just like Jeongyeon.

A few moments later Momo was back, holding two cups of water. “Here.”

Mina thanked her and drank, taking big gulps. She wanted to postpone their conversation as much as possible, but she was too thirsty to drink slowly.

Momo waited for a while, then finally spoke. “So… care to tell me why you looked so miserable if you just got here?”

Mina didn’t answer for a while, staring down at her cup. She really didn’t want to talk about this to Momo of all people. “I… came alone. The crowd was suffocating, and I got dizzy.”

“You came alone? Why?”

“I just did.”

“Minari.”

“Don’t,” She sighed, swallowing hard. “We’re still avoiding each other, aren’t we?”

“We were,” Momo answered, suddenly tired. She hated to admit it, but she missed talking to Mina normally; they’ve never been this awkward around each other before. “Then I saw you almost crying.”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“‘Almost’ being the imperative word.”

“Imperative. Who taught you that one?” Mina grinned, a reflex of Momo’s expression.

“You did. At high school.” Momo moved to her side, touching her back on the wall as well. “Before our stupid fight.”

“We’re not… fighting.”

“Feels like we are.”

They stood in silence after that, Mina playing with her plastic cup. Momo drank from hers, feeling the beat of the slow music that was now playing, and almost laughed; this was definitely not how she planned to spend this party. She was glad that she had the chance to talk to Mina again, however.

“Why did you come alone, Minari?” Momo tried again, and this time she knew she’d get an answer.

“…I wanted to let myself go.” She closed her eyes, embarrassed of what she was about to say. “Just… I don’t know, go wild for once. Get drunk, dance, do stupid stuff without remembering it the next day. I didn’t want anyone I know to see me like this. So, I came alone.”

Momo stared at her, wide-eyed. That definitely didn’t sound like the Myoui Mina she knew.

But then again, she could sympathize.

“Oh,” Momo bumped shoulders with her, getting closer. “That is dumb.”

Mina scoffed. “Yes. Thank you for agreeing.”

“Especially because you’d bump into someone you know here eventually. It’s the biggest party of the semester, you know.”

“As I said, I wasn’t thinking. I just went with my feelings.”

“You don’t do feelings very well.” Momo teased.

“I know.” It was weird. The two of them haven’t talked like this in ages, and now everything was back to normal just like that. Mina thought that their friendship really was too strong for a petty argument. “Why are you here?”

“Because you were about to cry,” She received a weak punch in return and chuckled. “And because I lost Jeongyeon in the crowd.”

Mina’s heart skipped a beat. “Jeongyeon is here?”

“Somewhere,” Momo knew where this was going. “I really don’t know where she went.”

There was a pause in their conversation, as if Mina’s whole world was put in slow-motion, then things went back to normal. It was ridiculous, really, the effect Jeongyeon had on her.

“I didn’t think she’d come.”

“Apparently, we all came,” Momo replied. “Except for Anxiety Central numbers one and two, Chaeyoung and Tzuyu.”

“You’re standing next to Anxiety Central number three.” Mina retorted with a smirk.

Momo stared at her for a bit and smiled lazily, not really thinking about anything; it just felt nice to let her eyes roam Mina’s features. She’d been doing it forever.

“You look beautiful.” She breathed out honestly, and Mina finally let herself smile sincerely for the first time that night.

“You too.”

“We should go look for the others.”

Mina lifted the heels in her hands, as if asking her ‘how’, and Momo took off her boots. “Wear these, give me your heels.”

They wore the same shoe size, so Mina obliged without thinking much. She mouthed a ‘thank you’, and Momo grabbed her hand, pulling her away from the wall.

Everything finally felt lighter and Mina thought that going to the party hadn’t been so bad after all.

  --

  “God dammit, Momo.” Jeongyeon grunted as she stretched her neck, looking for her partner. She hated being left alone at parties, especially because things that made her uncomfortable tended to happen.

Like being surrounded by a crowd of women that made it impossible for her to move.

“Jeongyeon-ah, you came!”

“How’s it going, superstar?”

“Yo, Jeongyeon! Come here, my friend wants to meet you!”

“You need a drink, Jeong?”

There was one thing Jeongyeon hated about herself, and that was her inability to ignore anyone. She tried to decline everyone politely as she pushed through the wall of people, but every time she paid attention to someone for a millisecond, they thought they’d hooked her.

Then some hands started grabbing, and she felt her stomach turn.

“Guys, please—!”

“Attention, Drama Club!” A loud voice cut through the music on the theater speakers, and everyone stopped what they were doing, turning towards the stage. At the very top of some precarious stairs was no one other than Im Nayeon, with a microphone in hands. “Tequila shots will be served in approximately… Now! Run to one of the four corners of the theater to get yours!”

Then chaos ensued. The circle of people around Jeongyeon dissolved in seconds, and she could finally breathe. She moved towards the center of the place, where people were trying to get away from, just so she could move freely again. With a hand on her chest and a sigh of relief, Jeongyeon finally looked back at the stage and realized that Nayeon was staring right at her.

Come up here, Nayeon mouthed and Jeongyeon couldn’t help but to grin.

This girl.

She walked towards the stairs on the side, finally unbothered, and climbed up the stage; no one seemed to notice, or care. If there was anything college students paid attention to in their lives was the prospect of free booze. The only person on the stage besides Nayeon was the DJ, but he was too preoccupied with his playlist to notice anything happening behind him.

Nayeon walked up to her slowly, still smirking, and Jeongyeon raised an eyebrow. “You always need to make an entrance, don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t,” She eyed the girl from top to bottom and bit her lip. “You have no right to be this attractive, you know.”

Jeongyeon laughed. “If I tell you that your compliments are the only ones I always remember, would you believe me?”

“Smooth. As always.” Nayeon grabbed Jeongyeon’s tie and pulled her to the back for a little bit of privacy – but not much, they were still very much visible. “I still didn’t hear my thanks.”

“For?”

“Getting rid of your fangirls.”

“So you did that on purpose,” Jeongyeon almost shivered. “That’s so you.”

“And?”

The athlete rolled her eyes. “Thank you, my Holy Savior.”

“Hmm. Acceptable.” Nayeon was still looking at Jeongyeon with clouded eyes and she realized soon enough why. With a frown, she moved forward, her face inches apart from the actress’.

“Are you drunk?”

Nayeon backed up, stoic. “No.”

“Oh my God you’re wasted.”

Nayeon finally let out a laugh, almost losing balance. Jeongyeon grabbed her by the arms and let the girl fall on her chest. “I can never fool you, can I?”

“Not me,” Jeongyeon smiled, then remembered what she was doing before this whole mess started. “Have you seen Momo?”

“Hmm, only in my dreams.” She replied giggling like an idiot.

“I’m sure she’ll have a field day with this information.” Jeongyeon mumbled, not really paying attention. She turned her neck to the dance floor and resumed her search for her lost friend, which was a lot easier to do up high in the stage, but to no avail. Then she felt a tug on her tie again, forcing her to look down.

“Why are you looking elsewhere when I’m right here?”

“God, you’re insufferable when you drink.” Jeongyeon replied, but still with tenderness in her voice.

“And you’re insufferable when you don’t push me away.” Nayeon’s tone shifted to something more serious, making Jeongyeon blink. She felt the girl’s breath against her lips, and suddenly felt really exposed on top of the theater stage.

“We should probably—”

“Jeong,” Nayeon’s voice was low and husky and her eyes moved to the athlete’s lips. She brought one hand to the back of Jeongyeon’s neck, fingertips grazing the baby hairs there. “I’m about to do something dumb and you need to stop me.”

But she didn’t. Nayeon gave her every reason to, a second too long, a moment for her to think about this through, and she still didn’t.

The only thing going through her head once their lips touched was how familiar they felt. Jeongyeon’s eyes fluttered shut automatically and she held Nayeon’s waist, fingers curling on the fabric of her glittering dress. It was intense, like always, and their lips danced to a tune long-forgotten. When Nayeon’s tongue brushed against Jeongyeon’s lower lip, she felt helpless to deny her.

She was still a ridiculously good kisser.

  --

   The running crowd was a surprise to everyone, but what shocked Mina and Momo the most was the person making the sudden announcement. Of course Nayeon would show up like this. Momo turned her body to shield Mina from the stampede while chuckling, and the girl grabbed her shirt, questioning.

“What an extra hoe.” Momo simply answered, making Mina laugh with her.

“Honestly, I’m not even surprised.” She spoke, earning a nod from Momo. After everything cleared up, the two girls checked their pockets and purses to see if nothing had been stolen, then let go of each other.

“At least she made this place less claustrophobic.”

“Says you,” Momo looked back at the tequila corners. “I’m glad I despise tequila.”

“I’m glad too, after what happened last Christmas.”

“Listen, we don’t talk about that.” Momo blushed, grabbing Mina’s hand again. The girl just followed her with a giggle, but stopped suddenly.

“Wait, the bar is empty now.”

“You’re going to drink?” Momo sounded surprised.

“I never said I wasn’t,” Mina pulled her away from the stage and Momo groaned; she wanted to see Nayeon, but she couldn’t leave her best friend alone.

“Fine, but make it quick.” Momo whined.

“In a hurry?”

“…No.” Then a pause. “Yes. I want to talk to Nayeon. And find Jeongyeon while we’re at it.”

Mina’s stomach flipped and she felt like pouring a big shot of vodka into her drink all of a sudden. “They’re not leaving. Stay with me for a while.”

With nothing else to add, they reached the bar, and Momo caved as well, grabbing something sweet and alcoholic for herself. She had no idea what Mina had ordered, but she wasn’t really worried about that. Despite not drinking often, Mina had the best endurance when it came to alcohol for some reason – it was way better than Momo and Sana’s at least.

“What’s that?” Mina asked, returning with her beverage.

“A Cosmopolitan.” The ballerina’s drink was way too transparent to be good, but Momo didn’t question her about it. “Cheers?”

Mina smiled and they clinked their cups – and just like that, they made up. They weren’t even mad at each other in the first place, not really, it was just— their lack of communication regarding their feelings towards other people. Momo felt betrayed, and Mina was terrible at emotional conversations, so they had just stopped talking for a bit. The thing was that neither of them knew how to start talking to each other again.

They really were idiots.

The two friends chilled at the bar for a while, then Momo turned her attention back at the stage. What she saw in the distance, however, made her heart drop.

Jeongyeon was there, talking to Nayeon, and they were close. Really close. Nayeon was clinging to her, head hidden on the girl’s chest and swinging side to side. Momo tried to convince herself that her roommate was just taking care of a possibly drunk Nayeon, and that she shouldn’t jump to conclu—

That’s when they kissed.

It was impossible to mistake that for anything else.

Momo felt her throat close and tears prickle behind her eyes. It’d been a while since she’d felt this utterly defeated. Her drink was suddenly disgusting, and she wanted to punch something, anything, everything.

That’s when she remembered Mina.

Her eyes widened, and she turned to her friend in a split second – but it was too late.

Mina’s expression told her everything she needed to know.

“Oh…” Mina let out in a breathless voice. “That’s… new.”

Her knuckles were white from holding her cup too strongly, but instead of wanting to throw her drink into the nearest trashcan, she swallowed everything at once. Momo opened her mouth to scold her, but what right did she have? She knew exactly what Mina was going through at that moment.

The music sounded muffled and far away suddenly, and Momo felt exhausted. Nothing about that party attracted her anymore, and she was enraged, confused and sad all at once. She knew that Mina was too.

So she turned to her friend and did the only possible thing. Grabbing Mina’s arm, Momo tried to speak through the lump in her throat.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Mina didn’t even fight. She just let herself be dragged away.

  --

  Sana was dizzy. Really, really dizzy.

She had no idea who the people she was talking to were, or how she ended up there, but suddenly there was a shot of tequila in her hand, and hell, bottoms up. She drank it all at once, hearing the cheers around her. She loved the attention, and hated it at the same time – she felt loved, but empty. Those strangers weren’t the ones she was supposed to be hanging out with.

There was someone she wanted to see more than anyone.

Where was she?

“Jihyo-ah…” Sana mumbled, her head spinning. She was having a hard time distinguishing up from down, but her body moved automatically. “Have you seen my friend?”

“No… But hey, Sana-ya, this is our song!” A strange girl grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her to the dance floor, and Sana smiled despite her confusion. She did like this song; why was it so familiar? She remembered dancing to it with someone.

Where was she?

Her legs moved to the beat, flawlessly, and she laughed and laughed, twirling around, holding people’s hands, flinging one arm around strangers’ shoulders, making friends wherever she went. Sana was a free spirit, outgoing and with a great personality, and also really smart.

She’s easy.

Her professors complimented her grades often, but that wasn’t what made her stand out in the crowd. Minatozaki Sana was beautiful, elegant, yet remained humble despite everything; every time someone new talked to her, she turned her full attention to this person, remembering every single detail from their face.

Have you heard? She slept with five different girls in a week!

She loved music. Sana’s hobby was to create her own choreographies for random songs she liked, and that’s why the people from the Drama Club loved her so much. Even though she wasn’t officially a member, Sana helped them with their dances for their musical performances, which meant that she spent a fair amount of time with the theater kids.

She’s just a stupid slut who manipulates everyone to get what she wants.

Minatozaki Sana likes to read.

Her reputation is well known around here.

Minatozaki Sana donates to charity every week.

Her neck is always covered in hickeys, and she loves to flaunt them around.

Minatozaki Sana is a good person.

A stupid whore.

Minatozaki Sana is—

A bad person.

She felt her insides turn and that’s when she spotted Dahyun, not far from her. The girl noticed her and smiled, that bright, beautiful smile that made Sana fall head over heels, and started making her way to her.

Oh. There she was.

Panic took over and made Sana desperate. Dahyun was close, too close to her, and she was still smiling, obviously glad to have finally found her.

Stay away from me.

A few more steps and they would be face to face.

I’m bad for you.

So Sana turned to the first person she saw, and crashed their lips together in a heated kiss. She had no idea if it was a man or a woman, and the kiss felt like absolutely nothing – emptiness; that was the word. She kissed the person desperately so, and counted the seconds. It couldn’t be too short, just long enough to do its work.

Once it was over, Sana looked around.

Dahyun was nowhere to be seen.

Thank God.

A wave of relief washed over her, and also something else.

“Sana.” Jihyo’s voice was comforting and right on time.

Then Sana puked.

  --

  They walked back to the dorm in silence, no words needed to be spoken. Momo had given Mina her jacket, even though she hadn’t asked for it, but Mina didn’t argue either. She was too drained to say anything to anyone. Their rooms were close to one another, separated by one floor, and Momo insisted on dropping Mina at her room first. She didn’t know if she just wanted the company, or if she was too tired to make it to the extra floor. Mina didn’t complain.

There were too many things going on in both their heads, and far too little time to process it all. Momo was heartbroken, and Mina was too, but at the same time they couldn’t blame either side of the story – it was impossible to hate Jeongyeon or Nayeon.

Those two had been a thing in high school. It was clear that they still had some sort of feeling for each other, and that proved to be true tonight.

The final steps were the worst, because that meant splitting up. Momo didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, but she knew that Mina was a private person; she’d always liked loneliness when things got rough.

Finally arriving at her doorstep, Mina dropped her shoulders, making Momo’s jacket fall off and returning it to her. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

The silence was killing Momo, but there was really nothing else for them to say.

“Will you be okay?” Momo asked, weakly.

Mina nodded. Then looked down, her lip quivering. “No.” She breathed out a laugh. “Not yet. Eventually, though.”

“Eventually is a long time.” Momo felt helpless. It was funny; she was hurting as much as Mina, but her top priority was still making sure her best friend was taken care of. Maybe Nayeon was right, Jeongyeon was rubbing off on her.

“It’s all the time I have.” Then Mina looked up, her eyes teary. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Being strong for me. Your heart is breaking and you’re still trying to pick up my pieces.”

Momo gave her a ghost of a smile. “I was wired to take care of you, I guess.”

They stared at each other, then Mina tiptoed to place a kiss on the hinge of Momo’s jaw. It was soft and warm, and utterly heart-breaking. “Thank you.”

Momo nodded with a sniffle, leaning in too and placing a kiss of her own on Mina’s cheek. She didn’t pull away, and felt Mina’s lips grazing her skin again, now on her cheek, then her nose. Momo breathed out, eyes fluttering shut, the sensation of Mina being so close to her a relief to her aching heart. She pulled the ballerina closer by her dress, resting her forehead against hers, and they stood there, just breathing and trying to find solace on each other.

Mina’s hands climbed to Momo’s neck and she cupped her jaw. Momo just stared. Mina stared back.

Then she grazed her mouth on Momo’s lips.

It wasn’t exactly just a kiss. It felt like more than that – a desperate search for affection and validation, and Momo happened to be the closest person to dump all of those feelings on. But the brunette reciprocated all the same, moving her mouth against Mina’s, finally pressing them together. Her hand cupped the back of Mina’s neck and it felt comforting. Mina pulled back a bit, slid her nose against Momo’s cheek, then kissed her again.

And again.

They shared whispers of kisses for a long time in front on Mina’s room, and when they pulled back, breathless, Mina just hugged her.

“Stay tonight.” She breathed into Momo’s ear.

And right then, she’d stay forever if she asked her to.