#it's just something i think about every time the twitter mill finds a new old problematic tweet to pounce on

[panic-attack-imminent]

Maybe I'm alone in this, but I think a change of bad behavior into a pattern of good behavior over a sustained period of time is a good enough apology, and I don't think a literal "I'm sorry" is necessary.

This is why when people discover something ""problematic"" (and I mean this in the Twitter way; it does not include something actually egregiously fucked up) in someone's past, something they've not done since or made a pattern of, I just simply don't care. I don't understand the urge to make people apologize for years-old mistakes.

All it does is make you feel placated for hearing them explicitly apologize but it's hollow and meaningless stacked up against years of actionable growth and good will.

[redgoldsparks]

I wrote a 12 page epilogue to my 2019 comic "Harry Potter and The Problematic Author" because I found, in 2023, that I had more to say. You can also find this comic on my website, and I have PDF copies available on etsy. I may sell print copies at some point in the future.

instagram / patreon / portfolio / etsy / my book / redbubble

Full transcript below the cut.

PAGE 1

Part one: Ruddy Owls!

I was in fourth grade when the first Harry Potter Book was released in the US.

Panel 1: Sometimes our teacher would read it aloud in class. “Mr and Mrs Dursley of number 4 Privat Drive were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much…”

Panel 2: I was 11 years old when Harry Potter finally broke through my dyslexia and turned me into a reader.

Panel 3: Every night in the summer before sixth grade I waited for the owl carrying my Hogwarts Letter. I cried when it didn’t come. “I have to go to Muggle school!”

PAGE 2

Part Two: Hats

I dedicated myself to being a fan.

Panel 1: I began collecting Harry Potter News article.

Panel 2: I asked my relatives to mail me ones from their local papers. I filled a thick binder with clippings.

Panel 3: I wrote my own trivia quiz

Panel 4: and participated in the one held annually at the county fair. “Next contestant!”

Panel 5: I usually got into one of. the top five spots. I won boxes of candy, posters, stationary, and once a baseball cap. (Hat reads: I survived the battle of Hogwarts).

Panel 6: In high school I sewed a black velvet cape and knitted many stripped scarves.

PAGE 3

Part Three: Double Trouble

Watching the last film in 2011 felt like the final note of my childhood. 

Panel 1: I remember driving home from the midnight showing thinking about the end of 13 years of waiting; wondering what would define the next chapter of my life. 

Panel 2: That same month I heard of something called Pottermore. “Okay, so there’s a sorting quiz… I already know my house! Patronus assignment? Mine’s a barn owl. Duh!" 

Panel 3: You can read the books again but with GIFs? Why? 

Panel 4: I lived in a place with very slow and limited internet at the time. Pottermore sounded inaccessible, but also boring. I never joined. 

Panel 5: "I’ll just read the actual books again, thanks." 

PAGE 4

Part Four: Sweets

In 2016, a series of short stories titled "History of Magic in North America” were released on Pottermore to pave the way for the first Fantastic Beasts Film. These stories display an extreme ignorance of American history, culture, and geography, but the worst parts are the casual misuse of indigenous beliefs and stories. Fans and critics immediately spoke up against this appropriation. Some of the most quoted voices included Nambe Pueblo scholar Dr. Debbie Reese who runs the site “American Indians In Children’s Literature”; Navajo writer Brian Young; Johnnie Jae (Otoe-Missouria and Choctaw), founder of A Tribe Called Geek; Dr Adrienne Keene (Cherokee Nation), a Professor at Brown University who runs the blog “Native Appropriations”, and writers N.K. Jemison and Paula Young Lee.

PAGE 5

Rowling is famous for responding to fans directly on twitter, yet she did not respond to anyone calling out the damaging aspects of “Magic in North America.” Her representatives refused to comment for March 9 2016 article in the Guardian. She has never apologized. All of this, plus the casting of Johnny Depp and the specific declarations of support by JKR, Warner Brothers, and director David Yates left a sour taste in my mouth.

For further thoughts on the new films read The Crimes of Grindelwald is a Mess by Alanna Bennett for Buzzfeed News, November 16, 2018.

PAGE 6

Excerpt from Colonialism in Wizarding American: JK Rowling’s History of Magic in North America Through an Indigenous Lens by Allison Mills, MFA, MAS/MLIS (Cree and Settler French Canadian)

Although Rowling is certainly not the first white author to misstep in her treatment of Indigenous cultures, she has an unprecedented level of visibility and fame, […] One of the most glaring problems with Rowling’s story is her treatment of the many Indigenous nations in North America as one monolithic group. […It] flattens out the diversity of languages, belief systems, and cultures that exist in Indigenous communities, allowing stereotyping to persist. […] It continues a long history of colonial texts which ignore that Indigenous peoples still exist. […] In the Wizarding world, as in the real world, Indigenous histories have been over-written and our cultures erased.

from The Looking Glass: New Perspectives in Children’s Literature Volumn 19, Issue 1

PAGE 7

Part 5: Music

Panel 1: Also in 2016 I discovered two podcasts which radically altered my experience of being an HP fan. The first was Witch Please created by two Canadian feminist literary scholars Hannah McGregor and Marcelle Kosman.

Panel 2: “If it’s not in the text it doesn’t count!” “Close reading ONLY!”

Panel 3: They talk about Harry Potter at the level you’d expect in a college class with particular focus on gender, race, class, and the troubling fatphobia, fear of othered and queer coded bodies, violence against women, white feminism, gaslighting and failed pedagogy in the books. They bring up these issues not because they hate the series, but because they LOVE it.

PAGE 8

These passionate, joyful conversations went off like fireworks in my mind. I had never taken a feminist class before. I gained a whole new vocabulary to talk about the books- and the world.

PAGE 9

Panel 1: The second podcast I started that year was Harry Potter and the Sacred Text, created by two graduates of the Harvard Divinity School, Vanessa Zoltan and Casper Ter Kuile.

Panel 2: They read one chapter per episode through a theme such as love, control, curiosity, shame, responsibility, hospitality, destruction, or mystery. Like Witch Please, they are interested only in the information on the page, not thoughts from the author. The delights and failures of the text are examined in the context of the present day, and new meanings constantly arise.

PAGE 10

What does it mean to treat a text as sacred?

Trusting that the more time we give to it, the more blessings it has to give us.

Reading the text repeatedly with concentrated attention. Our effort is part of what makes it sacred. The text is not in and of itself sacred, but is made so by rigorously engaging in the ritual of reading.

Experiencing it in community.

“To me, the goal of treating the text as sacred is that we learn to treat each other as sacred.” -Vanessa Zoltan

PAGE 11

Part 6: Tooth and Claw

In October 2017, Rowling liked a tweet linking to an article arguing that trans women should be kept out of women’s bathrooms because of cisgender women’s fears. In March 2018, she liked a tweet about the problem of misogyny in the UK Labour Party which included the line “Men in dresses get brosocialist solidarity I never had.” The author of the tweet had previously posted many blatantly anti-trans statements.

Rowlings publicist claimed she had liked the posted by accident in a “clumsy and middle-aged moment.” Yet, in September 2018 she liked a link posted by Janice Turner to her column in the Times UK titled “Trans Rapists Are A Danger In Women’s Jails.”

Screencaps of these tweets can be found in the article “The Mysterious Case of JK Rowling and her Transphobic Twitter History”, January 10 2019 by Gwendolyn Smith (a trans journalist), LGBTQNation.com

PAGE 12

Excerpt from: Is JK Rowling Transphobic? A Trans Woman Investigates by Katelyn Burns

Ultimately, the answer is yes, she is transphobic […] I think it’s fair that she receives criticism from trans people, especially given her advocacy on behalf of queer people in general, but also because she has a huge platform. Many people look up to her for creating a singular piece of popular culture that holds deep meaning for fans from different walks of life, and she has a responsibility to handle that platform wisely. (Published on them.us March 28, 2018)

PAGE 13

Part 7: Home

At age 30, I’m still not over Harry Potter.

Panel 1: I’ve recently found a local bar that does HP trivia nights. “Poppy or Pomona?” “Poppy!”

Panel 2: I currently own an annual pass to Universal Studios so I can visit Hogsmeade.

Panel 3: I love talking to kids who are reading the books for the first time. “Who’s your favorite character?” “Ginny!”

Panel 4: And I’m planning a relisten to the audio books to next year to help me get through the election cycle. “Jim Dale, I’m going to need you more than ever…”

Spoiler from 2023: I did not do this. By mid-2020 JKR had posted her transphobic essay; we were in covid; I never visited Universal Studios again.

PAGE 14

But I do want to learn from her mistakes. I never want to repeat “Magic in North America.” As I write, I will do my research. I will consult experts and compensate them. If a reader from a different culture/background than me speaks up about my work, I will listen and apologize. I KNOW I WILL MAKE MISTAKES. But I will own up to them and I will do better.

PAGE 15

Excerpt from Diversity Is Not Enough: Race, Power and Publishing by Daniel José Older

We can love a thing and still critique it. In fact, that’s the only way to really love a thing. Let’s be critical lovers and loving critics and open ourselves to the truth about where we are and where we’ve been. Instead of holding tight to the same old, failed patriarchies, let’s walk a new road, speak new languages. Today, let’s imagine a literature, a literary world, that carries this struggle for equity in its very essence, so that tomorrow it can cease to be necessary, and disappear. (Buzzfeed, April 14, 2017) 

PAGE 16

Harry Potter is flawed, & JK Rowling is problematic. But the books helped me learn a lot: 

*One of the greatest dangers facing the modern world is the rise of fascism 

*The government cannot be trusted 

*Read and think critically

*Question the news: who paid the journalist? Who owns the paper? 

*Trust and support your friends through good times and bad

*Organize for resistance

*Educate and share resources with peers

*The revolution must be diverse and intersectional

* We are only as strong as we are united

*The weapon we have is love 

MK 2019

PAGE 17

PART 8: EPILOGUE

In 2021 I removed a Harry Potter patch I sewed to my book bag over a decade ago. I took 15 pieces of Harry Potter fanart off my walls. I got rid of my paperback book set, 2 board games, and 8 t-shirt. [images: a Hogwarts a patch with loose threads, a pair of scissors and a seam ripper]

Panel 1: Maia holding up a shirt with the Deathly Hallows logo on it. Maia thinks: “Damn, this really used to be my entire personality.”

Panel 2: The t-shirt gets thrown into the Goodwill box.

PAGE 18

I wrote my zine wrestling with JKR’s legacy in 2019, after her dismissive and racist reaction to indigenous fans and critics of “Magic in North America” and after she had liked a couple transphobic tweets. Since then, she has gotten so much worse.

A Brief Timeline (mostly from this Vox article)

June 2020- JKR posts a 3600 word essay making her anti-trans position clear

August 2020- The Robert F Kennedy Human Rights Org issues a statement about her transphobia, JKR doubles down on her position and returns an award they gave her

December 2020- JKR claims 90% of HP fans secretly agree with her anti-trans views

December 2021- JKR mocks Scottish Police for recognizing transgender identities

March 2022- JKR criticizes gender-inclusive language and legislation

December 2022- JKR retweets trans youtuber Jessie Earl’s critical review of Hogwarts Legacy, starting an onslaught of transphobic harassment towards Earl

December 2022- JKR removes her support from an Edinburgh center for survivors of sexual violence with a trans-inclusive policy and funds her own center which explicitly excludes trans sexual assault survivors

January 2023- JKR tweets “Deeply amused by those telling me I’ve lost their admiration due to disrespect I show violent, duplicitous rapists.” It got nearly 300K likes

March 2023- One the podcast “The Witch Trials of JK Rowling”, hosted by a former Westboro Baptist Church Member, JKR compares the trans rights movement to Death Eaters.

PAGE 19

What are The Witch Trials of JK Rowling?

Panel 1: Maia speaking. “It’s a 7 episode documentary style podcast hosted by Megan Phelps-Roper. Nearly every episode contains interviews with JKR as well as critics, journalists, historians, protestors and fans.

Panel 2: Maia speaking. “In episode 1, JKR speaks more candidly than she has previously about being in an abusive marriage. Her ex-husband hit her, stalked her, broke into her house overlapping with the time she was writing the first three HP books.”

Panel 3: Maia speaking. “What she went through genuinely sounds horrific. I have a lot of sympathy for the kind of life-long traumas those experiences leave.”

PAGE 20

HOWEVER.

It is clear from reading the June 2020 essay on her blog and listening to the podcast, that JKR still to this day feels unsafe. Despite her wealth and privilege she moves through the world with the mindset of a victim. And the group of people she finds most threatening are trans women.

Or rather, she is afraid that allowing trans women in women’s spaces invites the possibility of male predators entering those spaces.

Here’s a direct quote: The problem is male violence. All a predator wants is access and to open the doors of changing rooms, rape centers, domestic violence centers [...] to any male who says “I’m a woman and I have a right to be here” will constitute a risk to women and girls. - from The Witch Trials episode 4 as transcribed by therowlinglibrary.com, March 2023

Image: A stem of Belladonna with flowers and berries.

PAGE 21

Let me introduce here the term: TRANSMISOGYNY. The intersection of transphobia and misogyny, this term was coined by Julia Serano in 2007. Scout Tran, on tiktok as Queersneverdie said: “Transmisogyny occurs in people who have been previously hurt by traditional misogyny. Who have been driven to hate men or at the very least to be scared of men. They will sometimes take out that rage on trans women. (March 2023)

JKR claims to care for trans women and understand they are extremely vulnerable to assault and violence. In her 2020 Essay she wrote: “I want trans women to be safe. At the same time, I do not want to make natal girls and women less safe.”

So she cares about trans women… just less than cis women, and she’s willing to throw all trans women under the bus because of her unfounded, prejudice fears.

PAGE 22

Panel 1: Maia speaking. “JKR claims to have seen data that proves trans women have presented physical threats to other women in intimate spaces, but never cites sources. She also uses “producer of the large gametes” as a definition of “woman”.

What about transmen and nonbinary folks?

Panel 2: Maia leaning on a stack of all seven HP books, the first four Cormorant Strike books and The Casual Vacancy, gesturing to a series of quotes with a tired and disgusted expression.

I’m concerned about the huge explosion of young women wishing to transition and also about the increasing numbers who seem to be detransitioning. * [...] If I’d been born 30 years later, I too might have tried to transition. The allure of escaping womanhood would have been huge. -June 10 2020 essay

I don’t believe a 14 year old can truly understand what the loss of their fertility is.

-Witch Trials episode 4

I haven’t yet found a study that hasn’t found that the majority of young people experiencing gender dysphoria grow out of it*. -Witch Trials episode 7

*No sources cited

PAGE 23

It’s hard to over emphasize how fixated JKR has become on these topics. As of the date I’m writing this, 14 out of her 20 most recent tweets (70%) are in some way anti-trans. She tweets against Mermaids (a UK based trans youth charity), against trans athletes, against gender neutral bathrooms, and in support of LBG Alliance- a UK org that denies trans rights while upholding gay rights. Here are some gems from her archive:

“People who menstruate.” I’m sure there used to be a word for those people. Someone help me out. Wumben? Wimpund? Woomud? -June 2020

War is Peace. Freedom is Slavery. Ignorance is Strength. The Penised Individual Who Raped You Is a Woman. - December 2021

And in response to someone asking “How do you sleep at night knowing you lost a whole audience?”

I read my most recent royalty cheques and find the pain goes away pretty quickly. -October 2022

PAGE 24

Hashtag Ruthless Productions a queer nerd podcast company created a great guide on ethical engagement with HP. Image: the two hosts of Hashtag Ruthless productions, Jessie (They/she) and Lark (he/him).

Stop buying all official HP Products: books, movies, games, toys, etc, Universal Studios tickets, food, merch.* Boycott any new TV series or movies. Instead: buy the books and DVDs used. If you still want to wear HP merch, buy fan-made. Engage only with fan content: fic, podcasts, fanart, wizard rock, etc. Show transphobia is bad for business. None of this will change JKR’s mind. But the Fantastic Beast series was canceled and after record Pottermore sales in 2020, they fell in 2022 by 40%.

*She gets a portion of ALL tickets. In 2019, this was her largest income source. Read the full guide: hashtagruthless.com/resourceguide

PAGE 25

As late as 2019, I was still reading JKR’s murder mystery series. But by the fourth book my experience began to sour.

Panel 1: Maia holding a copy of Lethal White. “The only gay character in this book is a government official who gropes his staff?”

Panel 2: “The only genderqueer character is misgendered and portrayed as a whiny faker?”

Panel 3: “The only Muslim character is disowned by his family over gay rumors?”

Panel 4: “Even the women aren’t portrayed very well…”

Panel 5: “Why is the main female character defined by the rape in her past?”

Panel 6: “Wait, what happens in the rest of this series…?” Maia scrolls on eir phone.

Panel 7: “Is the series heading towards an employee/boss relationship?”

Panel 8: “And has a man wearing women’s clothes to commit assault?”

Panel 9: “Yeah, I’m done. I’m never reading a new JKR book ever again.”

PAGE 26

And as for JKR herself?

As tempting as it might be to tweet your frustrations at her, I don’t recommend it. In 2021, she tweeted, “Hundreds of trans activists have threatened to beat, rape, assassinate and bomb me.” Getting hate online feeds her sense of victimhood and she waves it as proof of her moral high ground. Instead I suggest you block her on twitter, then delete twitter, go to the library and try to find a new book that feels magical.

Stack of books: In Other Lands by Sarah Rees Brennan, The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater, Gifts by Ursula K Le Guin, Deep Wizardry by Diane Duane, A Deadly Education by Naomi Novik and Gideon the Ninth by Tamsin Muir.

PAGE 27

In “Emergent Strategy” adrienne maree brown writes: You do not have the right to traumatize abusive people, to attack them, personally or publicly, or to sabotage anyone else’s health. The behaviors of abuse are also survival-based, learned behaviors rooted in pain. If you can look through the lens of compassion, you will find hurt and trauma there. If you are the abused party, healing that hurt is not your responsibility and exacerbating that pain is not your justified right.

PAGE 28

Seeing anyone over age 12 wearing HP merch now makes me uncomfortable. Are they ignorant or actively a TERF? I hate wondering how much money JKR has probably poured into anti-trans legislation… This zine is a culmination of my slow breakup with a story that once brought me joy. Now it just makes me angry, tired and sad.

Image: Candle in a fancy holder burned down to less than an inch.

Maia Kobabe, 2023

[killjoyhistoryarchive]

Fan Interview

Weren’t around for the Twitter frenzy in 2010? No problem! In this interview, @highkingkitten–who was a fan at the time–gives us insight into what it was like to interact with these exciting characters.

What was it like being an MCR fan on Twitter in 2010?

I remember how exciting it was when they first showed up and then we kept finding more! If I remember right, Dr. Death Defying, Party Poison, and Cherri Cola were the ones who replied back to people the most. Every day it seemed like there was another one popping up, or a fake one that we had to discredit. You could tell the real ones because they would all follow each other. The whole fandom started roleplaying at them, because we got replies better if we did. Then the Killjoysonas popped up–again, all at once it seemed. The flurry of excitement and activity from the band and the fandom was honestly one of the best things I’ve ever been a part of.

Can you go into more detail about the fakes?

I remember at least 4 or 5, although the names at this point I can’t remember specifically. They were your run-of-the-mill Killjoy lingo. They mostly sprung up before we had a lexicon of Killjoy lingo, so it was kind of easy to fake at first. I remember Agent Cherry Cola, because that one was the first(?) I think. Another was like…wasteddestroyer? I think? as soon as people realized they were fakes we all unfollowed and forgot about them for the most part. Agent Cherry Cola actually followed me, haha. My handle was KidKilljoy as soon as the term “Killjoy” was dropped, so lots of people thought I was an official account at first too.

What was it like whenever a new official account went live? How did you guys react?

It was…chaotic, honestly, lmao. Everyone rushed to follow it, then verify, then @ it with all kinds of things, hoping to get a reply. We had guessed out rather quickly who was running each account, and a lot of people wanted them to break character, but just as many just wanted to play along. The part of Twitter I was in instantly loved everything about it. I got most of my information from places like #MCRchat, @cassiethevenomous, and @mcrwtfisgoingon, who collected info while we in unfortunate time zones slept and put it all together for us.

This is an old screenshot from 2010, where Dr. Death Defying retweeted me.

And this is from Party Poison, and what I said first.

Who did you think was behind each character?

If I remember correctly, we instantly pegged Gerard as Party Poison. I think we got told who Dr. Death Defying was by someone official. I remember there being a theory that Mikey was Cherri Cola, but I can’t remember if it was very popular or not. I myself can’t remember who NewsAGoGo was.

[Ed. note: Shaun Simon stated on Twitter that he ran most of the accounts, while Gerard and Jon Rivera ran DrDeathDefying.]

What did you guys think of the characters themselves?

From what I remember, I don’t really think there were too many strong opinions either way about them. Someone else might tell you different, though. I mostly was part of the RP ring on twitter. I think we just kind of thought they were characters in the world. Even though people figured they would be main characters, I don’t think we expected them to be as important as they were, in the beginning at least.

What was the roleplaying scene like at the time?

I think it might have been the biggest after the “Na Na Na” video came out (?? I might be mixing up my timelines here, though.) Everyone was making them, or at the least their own custom ray gun. it was very free because it didn’t have to be paragraphs and paragraphs. On Twitter, you could take something mundane in your life, add in “shiny” or “motorbaby,” mix in some cursing for good measure, and you have something your OC might complain about! There were plenty of people who did RP seriously though, they were the ones with the forums. I joined one, but lost my reliable internet connection shortly after, so I stayed on Twitter. I wish I remembered the name. I think about it a lot, haha.

There was a couple who lived a few hours from me who roleplayed and used their car knowledge and living in a rural area for survival tips in the Zones. It was such a rad experience, looking back.

What was it like when an official account replied to/retweeted you? I’m guessing it was pretty exciting!

I was a very, very excitable young adult, yes. I am pretty sure I vibrated for several hours from the adrenaline of being the one they decided to interact with. The sheer amount of people who Instantly replied as soon as one of them said something made it so surprising! Plus, I’ve never been good at coming up with things on the spot. I honestly couldn’t believe how lucky I was, lol.

[Originally published on 28.02.2017]

[lilydalexf]

Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Elizabeth Rowandale

Elizabeth Rowandale has 16 stories at Gossamer spanning from 1995 to 2012, plus she has more at AO3 (other fandoms too). She's been giftng the fandom with stories for a long time! I've talked about some of my favorites of her stories before, including Hallways and Water's Edge. Big thanks to Elizabeth for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

Yes and no.  When I find myself suddenly caught up in a fandom that has already lived its glory days (which happens a lot, I'm habitually late to the party), I am always ravenous for fic written during the original run - it always has a different perspective and voice and it's like a little bit of the experience captured in time -- so I can understand how others would be interested in my past.  That said, some of my early stuff is pretty awful. LOL.  I have left it online for two reasons: 1. Nostalgia, 2. I know there are some fics I've read in my life that may not have been the best written in a literary sense, but just had something magical about them that fed exactly what I needed.  And I would hate it if the author took down that work and I could never find it again (which has happened).  So I try to respect that same sentiment should it appear in one of my readers.  I'd say by about 6th or 7th season of the original run, my work became presentable. :)  My largest X-Files work ("Water's Edge") was begun during the original run and completed about a year after the show ended.  That one I definitely still claim as my work, even though there's certainly stuff I would fix if I were writing it now.

What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it?

So many things!  Let's start with my husband. :D  I met the love of my life on the X-Files newsgroup in spring of 1995.  We were married a year later, and we are still married 24 years later and have a 20 year old daughter.  One of the most important friendships of my life came from being part of this fandom - she began as an "Edgehead" during the original posting of "Water's Edge". The fandom brought me my family, friends, and made me believe in myself as a writer and, in some ways, as a person worth being friends with, for the first time in my life.  It's kind of crazy, really, how different my life would be without it.  The experience was not without its flaws.  There was a lot of judgementalism, a lot of cliquishness, a lot of snobbery.  I was condemned almost as much as I was welcomed.  But in the end it was all worth the life experience.

As far as the fic itself, X-Files was my first real experience with fanfic, and it thoroughly spoiled me for all other fandoms forever, because the sheer VOLUME of professional quality work being put out there was mind-boggling.  I expected all fandoms to be like this, and the fact is this is extremely rare and precious.  I think I could read X-Files fic for the rest of my life and never run out of pieces worth reading.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

I started out primarily on a.t.x.c..  Then progressed to mailing lists (especially Scullyfic/E-muse!), and later was very involved on The Haven.  The Haven was quite a magical experience.

What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

I think I answered this by over-babbling on the question above. :D  But ultimately, I think I would have to say my belief in literature as a tool to connect people on an intimate level that almost nothing else can.  To give people a brief moment of sharing their precious internal worlds and inviting someone else to step into it with them.

What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show?

Really, it was inevitable.  It has all the classic tropes that have always spoken to me - Supernatural horror, law enforcement partners, partner UST, misfits as heroes, haunting soundtrack.  But amusingly enough, my first impression of it was negative.  My mother and I had been religiously watching "Sightings", a FOX reality show (before "reality shows" were a thing) on the supernatural.  Then that got cancelled and they replaced it with some show that was about fictionalized encounters with and investigations of the paranormal.  And we were like WTF we don't want that, we want real investigations and evidence!  So I didn't watch it out of protest. :D  Then one night I stumbled upon it when I had nothing to do and watched "Lazarus".  I thought the show was okay, but that I could never really get invested in it because there was no real chemistry between Mulder and Scully (yes, you can laugh me out of the room now :D).  But the thing is, you can't FIND the significant moments in that episode unless you're already embroiled in their world.  Like when Mulder calls her "Dana" on the phone and we all know he's panicking big time -- this was my first episode, so I assumed he always called her Dana, no big.  Some time passed, then I saw Conduit.  And Tooms.  And I started to get really sucked in.  Then I saw Genderbender.  Now, if you know me at all, you know since I was about 6 years old, my life has revolved around my current muse.  I get obsessed with a certain actress/performer/character, and that becomes my lens for the whole world (yes, at 6 it was Lynda Carter as Diana Prince).  I have always moved from one Muse to the next, and the few times I've been without a focus person I'm very untethered and unproductive.  So, I'd been in one of my longest dry spells following my Madonna and Vivien Leigh obsessions, mostly focusing on reading Dean Koontz books, when X-Files came along.  And this obsession was unique in that I can actually pinpoint the moment I fell.  I was sitting in my bedroom watching Genderbender, and they were outside the general store and Scully had just been touched by Brother Andrew and was a little tripped out and staring after the horse and cart when Mulder stepped up to see if she was okay, and...I actually felt myself falling for Gillian Anderson.  And there was this moment of both elation and bittersweetness, because I knew how all-consuming my obsessions could be and the emotional rollercoaster they could entail (especially when I was younger, I'm a little better armored now :)).  But I have no control over when and where they hit.  But I knew by the end of that episode that I was off on another wild ride of the muse. :)

So, the short answer is -- Gillian Anderson. :D

What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

Truthfully, I can't experience anything without writing fanfic in my head.  I've been doing it in one form or another my whole life, I just didn't know until the X-Files (and the internet) how many other people were like me!!  I started writing X-Files fic before I was even online.  In fact, The X-Files was the reason I got my first internet service - because the fandom was moving online and I didn't want to miss out.  I read my first fanfic in the Unofficial X-Files Fanclub monthly zine and it fascinated me.  I wrote my first X-Files fic, a first season story called "Silent Lines", before I had ever been on the internet, and I had it published in that same fanclub newsletter.  (I was already writing original fiction, hoping to make writing my career).  Later, after I had joined the internet XF community, I wrote a post-ep to "Irresistible" that I posted online.  That was my first online fic.  Some time after (and a few more fics down the road) when all the rights to "Silent Lines" had reverted to me, I posted that online as well.

What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom?

I dabble now and then. :)  When the reboot came about, I came back to the old stomping grounds and reconnected with some of the Old Guard.  I still have a fair amount of pretty Mulder and Scully on my Twitter feed, and I continue to follow all Gillian Anderson's new projects.  But it's not my primary focus at the moment.  (My serial monogamist muse has another lover this year. :))

Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

Several (Stargate, Sanctuary, Xena, Battlestar Galactica, Once Upon a Time, etc.).  As I mentioned before, almost none of them had anywhere NEAR the quality and quantity of fanfic The X-Files has to offer.  The closest I experienced was the Xena fandom.  There are some AMAZING Uber fics and Conqueror fics, many of which went on to be published as original novels.  Some fandoms were colder and more cruel than The X-Files.  Some were warmer and more generous.  I was most prolific during my years in the Stargate fandom.  I wrote something like 80 fics.  It was crazy.  I don't think I'll ever be that prolific again.

Who are some of your favorite fictional characters? Why?

Just from anything?  From television Dana Scully, Stella Gibson, Laura Roslin, Sharon Raydor, Regina Mills.  I love powerful women with scars.  Kind women at heart who will fight for what they believe in and whom they love.  Mothers - whether in actuality or at heart.  I love women who prove strength and power can be completely synonymous with femininity.

Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

A couple of months ago my husband and daughter and I finished a complete X-Files rewatch (original series and movies), taking our daughter through it for the first time.  It was awesome to re-experience it all through her eyes.  She grew up hearing about it, but had never seen more than a handful of episodes (and, sadly, the reboot LOL).

Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

Every now and then I indulge in X-Files fic, yes.  Sometimes new stuff, most often revisiting old favorites.

I definitely read in my current fandoms.  For a few years I didn't, but lately I've been at it again.  Right now my primary muse is Mary McDonnell, so I'm obsessing over her various roles through the years.  Been reading fic for "Major Crimes", "Dances with Wolves", "Battlstar Galactica", "Passion Fish", and "ER" (specifically pertaining to Eleanor Carter).

Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

Of course. :)  Mish's "No Quarter Given" will always own my soul. [Lilydale note: It’s a 3-part story: 1, 2, 3.] "Black Hole Season" by Penumbra, "Above Rubies" by Rachel Howard, "Blinded by White Light" by DashaK, "Sounds of Silence" by GirlGone, "Blood Oranges" by Syntax6, "Absolute Zero" and "Never Enough" by August.  So many more.

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

From X-Files, I can't really choose between "Water's Edge" which took the most out of me) and "Bridges" (which I wrote just a couple of year ago).   I wrote them from very different places and I am proud of what I accomplished in each case. YMMV.

Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

Never say never? :D  I still feel badly that I left the sequel to "Water's Edge", "High Tide", hanging after posting just a few chapters. I never should have started it. My muse jumped ship to another fandom, and there was really nothing I could do.  And I'm such a different person now, I don't know if what I would write now is what people who loved the first book would actually want to hear.  I came back with the reboot and wrote "Bridges" and that largely said everything I needed to say about what happened to Mulder and Scully after "I Want to Believe".  So, realistically, that was probably my XF writing swan song.  But I would never say I won't ever post another fic.  As the saying goes, "It all comes back to the X-Files".  (And, yes, there's PLENTY of half-finished fic on my hard drive. LOL)

Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work?

I do.  Now that my kid is grown, I'm trying to seriously pursue a professional writing career from here forward.  And I do still dabble writing fic in my current fandoms.  Right now there is a Major Crimes fic sitting on my hard drive waiting for me to work up the nerve to post it.;)

Where do you get ideas for stories?

Once I'm inside my POV character's head, the narrative in my brain won't shut up.  I flesh out and what-if everything.  I fill in every moment that doesn't appear on screen.  I talk to myself a lot and live in my head and sometimes scare family members.  I get some sort of orgasmic high from things like seeing Laura Roslin grasp and tuck into her own hair when she's crying while my inner voice screams "OMG IT'S CANON SHE SELF-SOOTHES WITH HER HAIR!!!!!"  I maintain a surprisingly sane outer presentation for the crazy obsessed artist I am within.

What's the story behind your pen name?

When I began removing my real name from the internet (for you young folks, we all started out using our Real Names and building our virtual houses on Geocities, then got warned from everywhere of the scary scary place that is cyberspace and started NEVER EVER using our real names, then Facebook came along and now everyone and their dog is out there with their real names, and Gen X is still going WTF ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!??), I simply chose what I found to be a pretty last name (Rowandale).  Elizabeth is my real name.  Along the way, when I had started to feel confined by expectations for my writing based on my reputation, I challenged myself to be more honest in what I wanted to write by using the mental trick of a pen name no one knew was actually me, and invented "Rowan Darkstar" (the darker "edgier" side of Elizabeth Rowandale).  "Rowan" was taken from Rowan Mayfair in Anne Rice's "The Witching Hour", my favorite novel at the time.  Later, I went public with the fact I was Rowan Darkstar, and when I moved into my next fandom, I did so with that as my primary name.  I have written in most of my fandoms as either Rowan Darkstar or LadyRowan with the exception of anything else Gillian Anderson related wherein I carried over the Elizabeth Rowandale since there were many crossover readers from X-Files.

Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

Many of them do, yes.  For many years my mother was my primary beta reader!!  Sadly, she now suffers from dementia and can no longer fill that role.  My best friend came into my life through my Stargate and Sanctuary fic, so there's no hiding from her, and she is now my beta.:)  My husband met me in the fandom.  So...yeah, most of my close friends know.:)  In my 'other life' as an Army wife (now retired) and suburban Mom not so much.

Is there a place online (tumblr, twitter, AO3, etc.) where people can find you and/or your stories now?

The most reliable place is probably AO3.  It doesn't have much of my older stuff, but I generally post anything new there.  I'm Rowan_D on Twitter.

Is there anything else you'd like to share with fans of X-Files?

No, you can't be red/green colorblind and be a field agent for the FBI.  No, soul groups don't work that way, Scully would have been his lover in some lifetimes, too.  Yes, someone with Scully's education and deliberate precision of language WOULD say "for whom?" and not "for who?", you are quite right to cringe.  No, you can't drive to Quantico and back to downtown DC and have it still be morning.  And lastly -- The Kansas town after which they modeled "The Rain King" is NOT brown, it is NOT flat, it HAS a regional airport, and the residents are educated and intelligent.  I lived there at the time -- There was a whole layout in the local paper about the crew visiting for "authenticity."  I still marvel at how that is even possible.

(Posted by Lilydale on August 25, 2020)

[redbeardace]

Between Panic and Indifference

Okay, serious post time.

As you may know, I live near Seattle.  And if you’ve been paying attention to the news (in between the politics), you’ll know that we’re currently going through a bit of something.  I’ve been making jokes about it, but I sort of want to talk seriously about some of what it’s like here right now.

Quick recap:  About a month ago, it was announced that the first case of COVID-19/coronavirus had popped up in Everett, Washington.  Everett’s one of the larger suburbs of Seattle, home to a Boeing airplane factory, FunkoPop HQ, and Half-Price Books that I go to once in a while.  It was someone who’d been to Wuhan in China and got sick after returning to the US.  He went to the doctor, got quarantined, and that was it.  The system worked, the disease was contained, the guy got better.  And that was it.

Until last week.  Last week, they closed Bothell High School “out of an abundance of caution” in order to clean it, because a family member of someone who works at the school had gotten sick after returning from overseas travel.  Bothell is a smaller suburb than Everett.  It’s largely unremarkable, one of those places that takes up three exits on the freeway, but no one really understands why.  It’s also where I live, so hearing that the high school was closed was a bit unnerving, but also a bit ridiculous because it was all speculation.  It was a family member of a school worker, and that employee was staying home.  And it turned out that there was nothing to it, that family member did not have COVID-19.  But at least the high school got cleaned.

False alarm, back to your regularly scheduled--

Scoop Jackson High School in Mill Creek is closed on Friday, this time for a confirmed case.  Mill Creek is an even smaller suburb, sandwiched between Bothell and Everett, and it’s where my post office and a grocery store I go to is. A student had the “flu” earlier in the week, went to the doctor, the doctor said go home, get better.  So the student did that.  They got better and went back to school on Friday.  Unbeknownst to them, their doctor had performed a coronavirus test.  The student hadn’t been out of the country, hadn’t been around anyone who’d been out of the country, so they shouldn’t have had it, the doctor was just performing the test as part of some study.

It was positive.

They hadn’t been out of the country.  They hadn’t been around anyone who had been.  The only known case in the area had been contained.  There were a few cases in California that were mysterious, but at least those were linked to a possibly mismanaged quarantine situation.  But in Mill Creek, there wasn’t any of that.  Sure, it’s next to Everett where the first case was, but that was contained.  So what the hell?

Later that night, there was another case of “possible coronavirus” in Bellevue, the city where I work.

Then Saturday happened.  The first confirmed death, in Kirkland, Washington.  You know Kirkland as the Kirkland from “Kirkland Brand” at Costco.  I know Kirkland as the place I drive through on my commute that’s between Bothell and Bellevue.  Several more hospitalizations.  A news conference talks about the death and the hospitalizations and, almost as a side note, mentions 50+ people connected to a nursing home, also in Kirkland, as showing symptoms.  Fifty people.  I’m going to come back to that.  None of these people had been to China or Italy and I don’t think any of them knew anyone who had.  So what the hell?

Later that night, a scientist from a local research facility posts a short Twitter thread that potentially could have gone unnoticed.  It’s a Twitter thread for crying out loud, who knows what kind of crackpot this could be?  But it’s not a crackpot.  It actually is a local research scientist.  The thread kinda gets right to the point.  An analysis of a sample of the virus from the first patient genetically matches a sample of virus from the Mill Creek student, therefore it is highly likely that the virus has been circulating around the area, on the loose, for six weeks.

Oh.

That deadly disease that we’ve been watching cripple other parts of the world, killing thousands.  That’s here.  Now.  And it’s been here for weeks.

And by here, I mean HERE.  You may have noticed that all those cities I mentioned are places that I go regularly.  “Here” is literally right outside my door.  I am in the bright red bullseye of the hot zone, as this virus swirls around me.

After Saturday, it’s a bit of a blur what happened when, but the specifics really don’t matter.  More cases, more deaths, a Seattle skyscraper closes, Amazon closes, Microsoft closes, more schools close, including the entire Northshore School District (the district I live in), which closed today for the next two weeks.

--

So that’s the recap.  That brings us up to now.  But you could’ve gotten all that by watching the news.  I’m really writing this post to talk about what it’s like here at the moment.

I think the scariest thing about it all is that we don’t know how scared to be.  We’re used to thinking of disasters in terms of a concrete event.  Something happened, you can see the impact.  An earthquake, a school shooting, a hurricane, a terrorist attack, a volcanic eruption, a nuclear meltdown.  Most of the time, it ends, you can count the bodies, tally up the damage, and that’s that.  Even in a longer term event, you can see the lava coming and get out of the way or look at a map of the Chernobyl or Fukushima exclusion zones and avoid those places.

But this is an invisible disaster.  It’s literally in the air around us.  It’s on door handles and shopping carts and library books.  Your coworker or neighbor or roommate could be The Thing, and you have no way of knowing.  We’re playing a dangerous game of tag against an invisible opponent, and you have no idea you’re it until way too late.  

Even worse, we have absolutely no idea whatsoever how bad it actually is.  The latest official number I can find as of this writing is that there are 39 confirmed cases, and ten of those have died.  A significant number of those cases are associated with that nursing home I mentioned earlier.  So 39 isn’t bad at all, out of a couple million people in this region.  Even if you limit it to just the “bright red bullseye of the hotzone”, that’s several hundred thousand people.  So 39 out of that is nothing.  But you’ll remember that I mentioned that there were 50+ people connected to that nursing home that were sick, and only some of them are counted in that 39 number.  Then there’s a bunch of firefighters in the area who went to that nursing home, who are sick.  Family members who are sick.  And that student in Mill Creek and the first guy who died got it from somewhere...  And other random people just popping up here and there who had to get it from somewhere.  You add those all up, and it’s probably 100+ cases, but for some reason, they’re not yet confirmed (or even tested), so they don’t show up in the official counts yet.

They weren’t really testing people who hadn’t been overseas or been in contact with someone who had been, until this week.  It’s been here, on the loose, for six weeks.  There are probably thousands of cases that have gone undiagnosed.  For most people, it’s like the flu.  So how many cases of the “flu” were really COVID-19?  They’re retroactively discovering people who died prior to Saturday who had it.  Their deaths had been chalked up to some other respiratory disease.

So it’s here and it’s killing people.  But...  It’s been here for six weeks and we’re not all dead yet.  So what does that mean?  Is the disease not actually as bad as people feared?  Sure, it sucks if you get it and it’s really bad if you’re old or already sick, but so’s the flu, and we haven’t panicked about that since Seattle made it to the Stanley Cup.  If that’s the case then maybe this is as bad as it gets, which, frankly, isn’t that bad at all and we’re all overreacting.  Or are we just at the start of the spread and it’s about to go Beast Mode on us and lay us flat for two years?  We don’t know.

Everything’s shutting down except huge gatherings like ECCC and the Sounders games.  King County just bought a motel to use as a quarantine site.  Stay in your car on the ferry.  Awkwardly jab elbows instead of shaking hands.  But only ten people have died out of 4 million, and all of those ten had “underlying conditions”, and it hasn’t been bad enough for anyone to notice until now, so...

So what are we supposed to do about all this?  Raid every store for every last bottle of Purell and every last roll of toilet paper and hunker down in our homes like it’s the end of days?  Or do nothing in particular because enh no biggie?

It’s like we’re standing on a beach and we’ve been told that maybe a tsunami is coming.  We’ve been standing here for a month and a half, and the water is up to our ankles and we’ve just noticed our feet are wet.  Is the tsunami still coming?  Is this the tsunami?  Or is this just the tide?

It’s weird living like this.  You find yourself doing things in different ways, noticing things you never noticed.  Every morning now, I’m checking my work email before driving in, just in case we’ve been told to work from home “out of an abundance of caution”, or worse, told that we need to self-quarantine because someone in the office tested positive.  Every night, I bring my laptop home in case this is the last day I’m in the office for a while.  Everyone’s telling a lot of morbid jokes.  Traffic is amazing.  There are even spots on the second level of the parking garage and there are NEVER spots on the second level when I get in.  Every cough is treated with suspicion, and your coworkers cough a lot.  Every door handle is treated with suspicion, and there are a lot of door handles. No one from the other offices is allowed to travel to our office and we’re not allowed to go elsewhere.  I’m getting targeted ads for hand sanitizer and Windex. I had a slight tickle in my throat that might just be allergies, but I started mentally doing contact tracing of everywhere I’d been and everyone I’d talked to over the past two weeks.  I’ve never even considered that I might have allergies before.  I have a day off tomorrow, so do I risk going to the store to make sure I have at least three weeks of supplies, instead of only the two weeks I currently have, just in case?  Or do I go to the store just to see the circus of empty shelves?  Or do I go to the store to buy an Xbox One X so if I do get quarantined, at least I can be quarantined with True 4K Gaming?

--

I was listening to the radio this morning, and they were interviewing musician Dave Matthews about the coronavirus.  He was talking about touring while this is going on, and how he might come home to Seattle between the legs of his tour, and he said something like “We’ve got to find a balance between panic and indifference”.  And I just felt like that’s the best possible way to describe where we are right now.

Seattle:  Somewhere between panic and indifference.

[nothingunrealistic]

71, tayston?

71. “You’ve been drinking tonight, haven’t you?”

When Mase Cap was first forcibly relocated to Axe Capital’s empty side office, Winston had gotten the second choice of where to sit at their new trading desk. (First pick was Mafee’s; with private offices in short supply, one went to Taylor and the other got split between Sara and Lauren.) He’d elected to sit at the end furthest from the door, the better to avoid Axe Cappers with, for all the good that strategy’s done him. And he’d picked the seat that faced Taylor’s office — which, in this glass monolith, means a seat looking directly into Taylor’s office, and at this particular moment, means a clear view of Taylor themself, the only other person left in Mase Cap’s fraction of the building, sitting unmoving at their desk and staring at their open laptop. 

Winston gets up from that carefully selected seat to cross the floor. Knocking on their door strikes him as a bit pointless when Taylor could easily see him standing here, and could have watched his every step from point A to point B, but he knocks nonetheless, and their faint surprise when they look up and give him the nod to enter makes him glad he didn’t try to exercise walk-in privileges.

They don’t speak as he sits; he has to fumble for a way into his pitch without them asking him what’s on his mind. “You know sentiment analysis?”

“Yes,” Taylor says. “NLP application. Pull attitudinal keywords from unstructured text to gauge the emotions expressed in Yelp reviews or Twitter blowback.”

“Those are the typical uses, yeah,” Winston says. “One modality — text. But multimodal sentiment analysis is gaining traction. Works on images, audio, video — it processes visual and acoustic cues in conjunction with breaking down the accompanying text, so you get a complete emotional picture.”

“What’s the relevance of this?”

Winston blinks, thrown. “I’m getting to it.”

“Please do.”

This brusqueness isn’t like them. Not in their better interactions with him, at least, which leaves Winston wondering where he’s misstepped. The MSA toolset he’s been running tests with is pretty damn sophisticated, but even if it could detect the signs of taut exhaustion under Taylor’s terseness — audio extraction picking out the low volume and narrow pitch range of their voice, expression recognition spotting their lips pressed tight — it couldn’t tell him the cause.

“Did something happen today?” he ventures, and Taylor looks away, swallowing hard.

“You know I went to Mike Prince’s conference to speak with Oscar,” they say. “As he’d been failing to respond to me in any of our other channels of communication.”

“I’d heard.” If the first-name basis is any indication, whatever they discussed wasn’t just business. “How much of a shitshow was it?”

“He did everything but answer my question of whether or not he was going to pull his money. And today, he pulled it. A loss of half a billion on Mase Cap’s balance sheet.”

“Fuck.” The fund’s taken bigger losses, back when Axe Cap was beating on them rather than bolstering them, but this one feels worse. Maybe because he knows it’s personal for Taylor, or maybe it’s that this time he’s in the room to see them grapple with it, rather than finding out secondhand when it’s already been solved. “Why’d he redeem?”

“He doesn’t want to be tied to Axe. Unsurprisingly. And, to use his words —” Taylor unfolds their hands and slackens their jaw, eyes going exaggeratedly wide. “‘If you are, I don’t want to be associated with you.’”

They say it in a condescending singsong unmistakably like Langstraat’s lilt (and Winston’s only met the guy once), shot through start to finish with surprising bitterness. “You’ve been drinking tonight, haven’t you?”

“Not yet,” Taylor says darkly, posture tightening again. That doesn’t bode well for… anything, really.

“Spot-on imitation of him, though. Academy Award-worthy. An Oscar for an Oscar.”

Taylor’s mouth twitches in some attempt at a smile. Encouragement enough for him. “Thank you.”

“And if you’re looking for a win,” Winston adds, hoping to steer away from dangerous territory and back toward his reason for intruding on Taylor’s ennui, “I’ve found one. Or at least figured out where to look.”

“Let me guess. It’s related to multimodal sentiment analysis.”

“Yes and no. The typical training and testing datasets for these tools are pulled from product and media reviews, where people are giving their honest opinions.” Winston leans in, daring to set his hands on the edge of Taylor’s desk. “But I ran tests on some videos where opinions aren’t right at the surface — press conferences, scripted speeches, anything with a speaker who’s trying to balance what they need their audience to think and what they really believe. And those tests drew interesting conclusions about a certain university with an endowment that’s coming under fire and a chancellor who’s trying to defend it.”

“Interesting, as in potentially profitable?”

“Interesting like Sutter’s Mill was interesting.”

Taylor stands. “Show me.”

There’s a light in their eyes now that Winston knows he’s seen before but can’t remember when, and that he sure doesn’t recall seeing in this building; it fuels him as he gets up from his own chair and heads back to his desk, Taylor only a step behind.

“Lawrenceburg,” he says, shaking the mouse by his Bloomberg and tapping the space bar on his laptop until both screens light up. “Students are pushing for them to ditch fossil fuels and take their endowment somewhere else. And their chancellor’s giving all the usual speeches about why they can’t do that, telling protestors to shove it with a smile. But MSA suggests even if he does want to tell the kids to fuck off, he doesn’t think they’re wrong.”

He pulls up the program and hits replay on the last video he’d tested. Taylor leans in to see the live analysis running, watching the bit-by-bit breakdown of the chancellor’s word choice and tone and syntax over Winston’s shoulder, and the source of his déjà vu finally springs to mind — this reminds him of the earliest days, when Mase Cap was just a name and a logo in a few empty floors of an old warehouse, when he and Taylor huddled over glowing monitors in a dark office and both knew they were standing on the precipice of something that would change the game.

“How many of the chancellor’s speeches have you analyzed with this?”

“Four or five, maybe, going back a couple years.”

Taylor nods, half-present, half-focused on the screen still. He can tell their mind’s already whirring, deciphering the deeper patterns that the program can only scratch the surface of, lightyears ahead of him. “Run these tests on as many of his statements as you can find, over the broadest range of time possible, and note the dates. If we compare any shifts in sentiment with the timeline of collegiate fossil fuel divestment, we might find that he’s reacting to external pressure as well as internal protests.”

“Got it.” Winston drops into his swivel chair, but he’s barely taken the mouse back before there’s a touch on his shoulder, there and gone.

“Starting tomorrow, I think,” Taylor says. “It’s late. And this will be just as valuable a play in a day’s time.”

[secretgamergirl]

“What can I do to help?”

As I’m writing this, I’m dealing with a rather astounding amount of vicious harassment which is taking a very serious toll on me. Usually when this is happening, I try not to talk about it publicly, because the sort of people who do this love nothing more than seeing evidence that it’s working, but sometimes, exceptions need to be made. And more to the point, as someone who deals with these sort of attacks as a constant presence in my own life, as well as helping others deal with the same in what is arguably a professional capacity, it seems to me the state of things today is at a point where we need a fresh round of public education on how these sorts of attack play out, and what any given person can do to actually help people deal with them in a meaningful way.

Predators and Herds

As a basic fundamental primer here, I’m going to need everyone to start looking at things from the perspective of a herd animal, because not only is it a pretty clear metaphor for a lot of this, I honestly think this is literally the sort of ancestral memory/instinct that drives this sort of thing. Plus there’s an amusing irony in telling people dealing with these sorts of predatory scumbags that they aren’t acting ENOUGH like sheep.

Some animals are predators. In order to survive, they have to stalk/chase/pin down other animals and kill them in order to eat. Invariably, the animals they target are those that are the most vulnerable. It’s the easiest way to go, and the one with the least risk of anything going wrong. If you’re a hungry wolf, you’re not going to mess with the big beefy ram who can headbutt you and break some ribs, or the really fit sheep you’d have to chase for an hour and still might never catch up with. You’re just going to go for the one with the broken leg, or the little defenseless baby lamb. Those ones you can definitely pick off without much effort at all, and they can’t really fight back in any meaningful way.

Some animals deal with predators by just focusing single-mindedly on defending themselves. If you can outrun the predators, and never let them get the drop on you, or you hide well enough they can’t ever find you, or you know how to really fight back and hurt them badly enough they know not to mess with you, then cool, you aren’t going to get eaten. At least until you let your guard down at the wrong time, or you get injured, or age starts taking its toll. Plus with all of these you’re just living your whole life in this constant state of fear, actively aware that death lurks just around the corner, and you can’t really form any real attachments with anyone else or protect them. It’s no way to live your life, and all of these require you to be able to outperform any predator who comes at you.

The other way to survive with predators wanting you dead is to be part of a herd. If everyone the predators want to prey on are in a big group, there’s inherent safety in numbers there. Not, to be clear, simply because having so many potential meals to choose from means the odds of you being chosen drop. Predators have to weigh the risks now of coordinated defenses. That big tough ram they’d rather not tackle for fear of getting hurt is right there next to that shaky-legged little lamb that would otherwise be the easiest meal to snag there is.

Herds cause a whole lot of headaches for predators, so when they’re a factor, the first step is pretty much always going to be to scatter the herd in some fashion, so all the prey that would be a pain to deal with leave, and the easily picked off targets are left behind to move in on. There’s a lot of ways to do this, and I don’t want to get into too much detail because the metaphor would get too strained, but the real key counter-strategy is to keep the herd from scattering.

Wolves are going to show up, they’re going to show up in packs, they’re going to start snarling and howling and all that, and some sheep are always going to run when that happens, and some sheep aren’t going to be able to. The trick is to have as many sheep as possible stand their ground. If there’s only a couple who do, they’re just going to get picked off along with the ones who can’t run or fight back. But if enough sheep stand their ground to keep those intimidating numbers, nobody’s getting eaten.

There’s our big framework for looking at this, don’t ever let it drop.

How Predators Attack

Now, the next thing to keep in mind here is that people who haven’t been really hit hard by the sort of attacks I’m talking about here tend to be totally clueless about what they actually involve, and even those who have been targeted tend to be really bad at recognizing when other people are being put through the same.

What people imagine to be a “really devastating attack” is when, say, 2000 different twitter accounts all coordinate to hurl violent threats and horrible slurs at a single person over a single one-hour period or something. Don’t get me wrong here. That does happen, regularly, and that’s never a fun thing to deal with, if only because it essentially serves as a DDoS attack, rendering you unable to see any messages from people you want to see things from, but at the end of the day, it does no more harm than having your router go down for a few hours, maybe a day or two in the most extreme cases. It’s also not something that ever really gets sustained in the long term. It’s more like the predators are just holding a pep rally and testing how many accounts they can direct at once.

The really devastating attacks are the effort to drive herds away. They’re a hell of a lot less flashy, generally. They’re hard to point out to others. When really well executed, the target doesn’t even necessarily see anything happening. And what’s happening is elaborately orchestrated character assassination.

I can’t really convey the seriousness of this without some very specific examples. I may follow this up with a roundup of every attack I’ve personally had launched against me, but for now, let me present a very old and famous example, along with the one I’m most recently dealing with.

The classic, of course, from way back in 2014- “Zoe Quinn slept with five guys from various publications in exchange for good reviews of a game.” If this were the first time you encountered this statement, odds are good your personal reaction would be along the lines of “who?” or “who cares?” The goal here isn’t to make everyone hate Zoe Quinn though, just people immediately around Zoe Quinn. The premise of trading favors for good press is something anyone involved in the press is going to take quite seriously, with even baseless claims having an extreme chilling effect. For another crowd, promiscuity is considered a crime worthy of stoning someone to death (and it’s rather telling that the most commonly repeated version of this attack shortens it to simply “Zoe Quinn slept with five guys”). Much more to the point though, the premise that anyone reading this hasn’t previously encountered this line. That message was shouted from the rooftops all over the world for five straight years, over every possible channel.

More recently, I’ve been dealing with... this incoherent mess. This is much less coordinated, with just a handful of people in the think tank, testing every attack live on the fly. You can watch, more or less in real time, as this predator tosses out a variety of defamatory attacks, switching to a new one every time one falls flat. I’m friends with Graham, then I’m business partners, then I’m either paying him or maybe sleeping with him in exchange for promoting some website. I’m a professional journalist (which is a rather weird angle to press as an attack). Then suddenly I’m a “pedophile defender.” A new attack every day.

Now, in both these cases, there’s no truth at all behind any of these attacks. None of these are even stories with two sides to consider. Zoe Quinn’s game was a little choose your own adventure story comprised of a few simple HTML pages linking to each other. No one ever reviewed it to begin with, so the whole thing falls apart. Graham Linehan is a disgusting crusader who attacks children’s charities for daring to provide support to trans children, and quite famously has some weird fixation on publicly attacking me, and I’m a trans woman who hasn’t had any real luck finding work of any kind since coming out half a decade ago. I’ve never run any website that wasn’t a simple blog like this one, or this one which I think puts that last claim to bed well enough.

But again, the idea with attacks like this isn’t to be credible, or even plausible. People don’t make these sorts of attacks based on anything the target has done, it’s all about what will do the most harm if even one person actually buys into it. You want to hurt an indie game dev? Get people to believe they have to bribe people with sex to get any positive mention of their output. You want to hurt a trans woman? Get people to believe she’s friends with and/or sold everyone else out to the king of the transphobes. Someone who does real work to shut down child porn sites? Secretly a pedophile. Etc. Etc. And the success rate of attacks like this is never zero. No matter how transparently false the claim is, shout it at enough people and SOMEONE is going to treat it as ironclad fact, spreading it around in turn and coming off more credible because they’re quoting someone.These rumors spread like wildfire since, let’s be honest, social media sites are all just glorified gossip mills at the end of the day, and all those laughable details from the original lie drop away, replaced with lists of all the very credible people who always know what they’re talking about these scathing claims have been filtered through.

In my experience, honestly it’s the all the most pathetic claims that do the most damage. “Slept with five guys” sticks more than “in exchange for reviews” because it’s such a non-crime that people default to “let’s say that’s true - who even cares?” rather than question the veracity. And I swear all the most damaging attacks I’ve ever suffered really just boil down to baseless claims that I really just don’t like some arbitrary collection of mostly women (a mix of strangers and people I generally view in a positive light).

Having established all of that, we can finally get around to the big question found in the title of this post:

What can I do to help?

Really, the most meaningful and impactful thing you can ever do when someone is being attacked like this is just to do whatever you can to get in front of it. If you know someone has some predator out there trying to convince people she eats puppies, broadcast a big announcement about how that’s happening, along with how and why you’re as confident as you are that she doesn’t, and it’s a baseless hit job. If you have media connections, try to get a story printed about the whole mess, or set up an interview where the victim can talk about how surreal the experience is. If you don’t, just shout about it where you can, so people know not to trust it when word eventually reaches them of all the depraved puppy feasts.

Past that, just be an active support. Tell the alleged puppy eater how you have her back. Ask how she’s holding up. Offer to talk for a bit, or watch a movie. More often than not, attacks like this cost people career contacts and close friends, and cause a lot of trauma. Whatever you can do to help beat the encroaching darkness back helps.

Also? Don’t fall into that trap of granting these sort of BS claims are true to argue the point that they’re stupid reasons to attack someone. They’re always going to be a big deal to someone, and your hypothetical just makes it seem more factual.

Do keep in mind though that these sorts of solidarity moves are going to make the predators real mad. They want to drive you away, and failing that, they’re going to want to take you down too for not running off with the rest of the herd. If we can establish these sorts of defenses as a cultural norm, or you’re personally the sort of person it’s too risky to go after, this is a total non-issue, but if you’re also particularly vulnerable, and nobody else is following suit, be aware of the risks you’re taking.

Finally, make sure you don’t fall into the trap of becoming a predator yourself. So many people get this idea in their heads that the best defense is a good offense, and set out to “turn the tables,” but frankly it just doesn’t work. When you go on the offense, you can’t help but take on those predatory instincts. You end up targeting the most vulnerable people you can find and convince yourself are “the enemy.” I mean that’s almost certainly how the batch of predators you’re trying to fight got started in the first place.

So just... try to be kind. Be supportive. Get out in front of life-ruining rumors. And don’t just do it for people you know and trust. Do it for strangers who are plainly being preyed on. Look for people who just live to tear into people, especially when they keep tearing into the super marginalized. Object to that on principle. And remember anyone can fall into doing it, no matter how long you’ve known and trusted them, or what their politics are.

And some more thoughts on this topic.

[thatsparrow]

(alan grant/ellie sattler • post-fallen kingdom • read on ao3)

"Goddamn Hammond," Alan says when he sees the push alert from the New York Times. Then, "Ellie, wake up." It's somewhere near 2 A.M. but Nublar and Sorna had turned him into a light sleeper and that particular nervous habit has proved harder to kill than a genetically engineered raptor. His glasses are still sitting on the nightstand and so he has to squint a little at the screen to read it properly—Ellie and the kids gave him hell for weeks when he finally caved and increased the font size—but his eyes aren't so bad that he can't recognize the earth-shaking magnitude of the situation spelled out by the headline.  

LIVE: Seven different species of dinosaurs have been spotted in and around the Northern California town of Mendocino. They are believed to have originated from the closed Costa Rican theme park, Jurassic World.

"Alan?" Ellie asks, half asleep and eyes blinking shut against the light off the screen. "What is it?" He offers the phone in lieu of an answer, waits as her vision adjusts enough for her to read it, knows she's finished when her whole body goes fossil-still.

"Goddamn Hammond," Alan says again, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "I don't care that he's dead. Damn him for his recklessness, damn him for the parks, and damn him for every act of foolishness that's followed." He lets out a slow sigh, rubs at his eyes. "I'd never admit it to the bastard, but Ian was right. It was only a matter of time until something like this happened."

Ellie has the full article open now, but it's no more than a short paragraph, this story is developing at the bottom. "We don't know what this is, yet. Maybe it's just another San Diego."

"A half-dozen people dead plus some kid's labrador?"

"Short term," Ellie says. "Containable. It sounds like whatever species have been seen so far are all herbivorous."

"You trust the people of Mendocino to know the difference?"

"I trust them to recognize sharp teeth." She sighs, pulls her thumb across the screen to refresh the article even though it's been no more than a minute. "What a mess. What an absolute mess." She hands the phone back to him, lets out a tired exhale. "What I wouldn't give to put Hammond's genie back in the bottle."

"What should we do?"

"Sell any remaining stock in InGen?" He raises an eyebrow at her and she smiles a little, but there's no humor in it. "That was a joke. I don't know, Alan—what can we do? We're academics, not dinosaur hunters. Our only relevant experience here is not having died twenty-five years ago. We could offer ourselves up in an advisory capacity, I guess, but even then, there are plenty of people out there who have done hands-on work with them. Whatever insight we may have had is outdated by over a decade at this point. Comparatively, we're like—"

"Dinosaurs?"

"Exactly."

Alan exhales, considering. "You're right, I know that, but I just—" he breaks off, turning over the phone in his hand. There's a video embedded in the article, a grainy thumbnail of what looks like the back of a Stegosaurus. The way the image is frozen, it looks like the Stego's tail is in mid-motion, suspended on an arc that would take it through the wall of a garden shed. With any luck, Ellie is right, and all the theropods were killed by the eruption on Nublar. Then again, if luck was playing any role here, Hammond's experiments should have failed at the start. "It feels like we should be doing something, doesn't it?"

"It does."

"What if we drove up there?"

"To Mendocino?" Ellie asks, and he nods. "Tonight?"

"I was thinking first thing in the morning, maybe. Wait until more reports come in. Who knows—maybe this will all have been cleared up by then, anyway."

"You think?"

"No, but I've never tried being an optimist before."

Alan refreshes the article again and sees a new paragraph of text, bare bones information that mentions three additional species—including a suspected Allosaurus—have been spotted near I-20 heading east. Life finding a way. Goddamn Malcolm. Goddamn Hammond. Goddamn it all.

—

The next day does bring more news, and none of it good. The current theory is that Hammond's former partner, Benjamin Lockwood, funded some sort of rescue operation to Nublar, retrieved an unknown number of species that were brought to his Northern California estate for a black market auction, and at some point during this process—predictably, Alan thinks—the dinosaurs escaped and bedlam ensued. Further details include: Lockwood's body in an upstairs bedroom, his death attributed (surprisingly) to natural causes; correspondence between Lockwood's assistant, Eli Mills, and an auctioneer, both of whom are still missing, though suspected dead (and, Alan presumes, suspected eaten); and an unknown theropod body in Lockwood's front hall, impaled on the horns of an Agujaceratops skull. Most of the servers in the lab below the estate were blown skyward, but of the data that's been recovered, it seems to be another genetic experiment, a cross-breeding of the Indominus with a Velociraptor.

("They never fucking learn," Alan says when he gets to that section of the report, hands white-knuckled around his coffee cup. "This has Wu's fingerprints all over it. Not enough to put raptor and rex DNA in a blender with whatever else they could get their hands on—no, he had to scale it down and make it twice as clever. If this wasn't intended for military application, I'll eat my hat, then buy another one and eat that, too.")

Though the article leaves a good number of questions unanswered, it does make clear that Hammond's follies have again found their way to the mainland, and with a sense of permanency this time. New sightings are reported with alarming frequency as the morning goes on, increasing in both the number of different species and the distance they've traveled from Lockwood's estate. Tracking efforts have been mobilized, but it's all too little, too late—not to mention the public debate that sparks up again over the question of recapturing or killing.

"Okay," Ellie says once they've read through the reports, putting her phone face-down on the kitchen table and burying her face in her hands. "It's a mess. Officially. This makes what happened in San Diego look like an incident at a petting zoo. We've got at least twenty species running loose—including, so far, a T. rex, a Baryonyx, and an Allosaurus—that are all spreading further apart by the moment, and as of now, the best method of tracking them is to wait for someone standing by to post about it to Twitter."  

"I hate Twitter," Alan says, reflexive.

"I know you do." Ellie smiles at him a little, then lets out a slow breath. "So what should we do? We know more than we did last night, but really it's just enough to tell us that this situation is worse than we could have imagined. I'm ready to jump in the car and start driving if you are, but at this point, I'm not sure what good that would do."

"Might feel better than just sitting here," Alan says, lacing his hands behind his neck to keep them from reaching for his phone again. "But no, you're right, I'm not sure what it would actually accomplish."

Ellie's quiet for a moment, fingers drumming an absent rhythm on the table. They weren't exactly young when Hammond first brought them to Nublar, but looking now at the ridged veins on the back of her hands—thinking of the new wrinkles across his own forehead and his hair that's gone grey-white in recent years—it strikes Alan how much older they've both become. Maybe too old to be playing games like this.

"Can I ask you something?" Ellie says.

"Always."

"Imagine that we did have a plan, and we knew exactly what was needed to make a difference here—what side of the debate would we be on?"

"What do you mean?"

Her hands are still restless, index finger tapping lightly against the wood. "Half the world seems to think they should be shot down as they're spotted, and the other wants to see them safely rounded up and brought to some sort of preserve. We never talked about it much when it was a question of the eruption on Nublar, but now I'm curious"

Alan frowns a little, brows pulling together. "They're dangerous, Ellie. That's more true than ever with no fences or open ocean between them and the rest of the world."

"The sauropods aren't."

"They're megafauna that belong to a different age. They can still do damage on a scale that society isn't ready for." He looks at Ellie, a little surprised. "You think they should be kept alive? After everything that's happened?"

"Don't get me wrong, I'll be the first to agree that everyone would be better off if all of the raptors had died before they'd hatched, but—" she breaks off, smiling at him a little helplessly. "I don't know, Alan. I think back to when Hammond first drove us around in that Jeep and you turned my head to look out the window and it—it was all of my childhood dreams come to life. Nothing could compare to seeing the bones that I'd spent my life studying brought to life in front of me and standing sixty feet tall, and I know you felt that, too. Look, say what you will about Hammond—and God knows that I have—but whatever may have been the end result, you can't deny that there was something noble in his intentions."

"I seem to remember another saying that has to do with 'good intentions'."

"Alan—"

"They're not real, Ellie. You know that. They are, at best, distantly removed cousins of the dinosaurs that really lived, and probably more closely resemble whatever amphibian DNA that Wu mixed into the fossilized blood. Whatever you felt—whatever we felt—on Nublar after seeing them for the first time, it was just a fantasy."

Ellie's smile turns a little sad. "It was a pretty spectacular fantasy." She pauses, then reaches out to take one of Alan's hands, both of them weathered and older, palms still a little callused from years spent in the field. Ellie's thumb runs a gentle pattern over his skin. "I'm going to ask you for a favor now, alright? For me, and for the sake of your younger self, I want you to imagine a world where it's not all or nothing. Where kids can grow up learning that raptors actually had feathers, and where they can visit a preserve and see the drawings from their picture books come to life. You don't have to remind me of all the bad that's come from the parks and Hammond's efforts, but you can't lie to me and pretend that there wasn't some good in there, too."

Alan makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat—which is as close as he's willing to get to a yes—but then he does let his mouth twitch towards a smile, lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to her knuckles. As if he could ever say no to anything she asked of him.

Ellie gets up and moves to take their emptied mugs to the sink, and as she starts to run the water, Alan does as she's requested, allowing himself to remember the bright moments among the bad. Weighs the terror he'd felt at seeing the T. rex chewing through the Jeep's roof towards Lex and Tim against the moment of resting his palm against the gentle curve of the Brachiosaur's nose. Watching the Spino's hungry jaws carve through the hull of the Kirbys' chartered plane with all the ease of crushing a soda can. Leaning his body on the belly of the Triceratops and feeling its breath thrumming all the way through his chest.

No, Ellie's not wrong—for all his flaws and his arrogance, Hammond had managed to build something beautiful. Still, it's just as much a lie to pretend that the near-death experiences shouldn't weigh heavier than the rest. Were those brief moments of splendor really worth Muldoon or Arnold or any of the others who'd lost their lives for the sake of Hammond's hubris? Not to mention whatever poor civilians might now stumble into the path of the wandering Allosaurus or Baryonyx or any other not-yet-identified theropods who have found their way to the mainland. It's too much cost with not enough reward. Would it be worth it if the carnivores were gone? You can't play that game when the technology is already there; someone is always going to get ambitious and want something with more teeth.

It's a question that keeps him up at night, even after he and Ellie have decided that there's nothing for them to do at the moment—other than keep an eye on their phones and wait for a call from the government or InGen. So they wait, and Alan wonders, and meanwhile news reports still surface with regular frequency of sightings. It's a disaster with no obvious answer, and he's no closer to coming up with any sort of solution—but at least if there's a decision to be made, it won't be coming from him.

And then the presumed-dead Claire Dearing calls Ellie about a potential rescue mission for the last remaining Velociraptor and the whole question suddenly stops being so theoretical.

Goddamn it.

[lwjstiletto]

wangxian au where lwj is a popular hand model and wwx is an independent jewellery maker [Part 1]

[Twitter thread version]

wwx is a go-getter kind of guy. he likes pretty things and pretty people. so his job is a win-win in that he makes pretty things for pretty people— well mostly

lately all his brain has churned out is designs that only the very nice old ladies in his neighbourhood indulgently buy from him

he’s grateful for it but nevertheless it’s been disheartening looking for the elusive muse for his next project

jiang cheng only sighs whenever he mentions this and rants about how if wwx just LISTENED to him and actually put effort into commercialising his bestsellers instead of hyperfocusing on one body part/gem/technique and hopping from one product to the next; and in general just making his business a chaotic mess where clients couldn’t guess what he would put out next, that he would have a better shot

but ofc wwx sighs even more at this and just goes ‘but jiang cheng~’

what kind of argument even is that? but jc lets it go bc wwx supplies him with endless half-finished projects that are complicated-looking enough to give his students a good challenge when drawing still life

so anyways, wwx is still making old lady jewellery and being generally pitiful when he stumbles across an intriguing article on twitter

—•—

lwj on the other hand has been fastening and unfastening his cufflinks for an hour straight. that’s pretty much status quo for hand models who have to spend hours on end either doing repetitive gestures or holding completely still

lwj doesn’t mind though, he has always had steady hands and dextrous fingers, practically an advertiser’s ‘wet dream’ as his agent, nhs, puts it

said agent pulls him aside when it’s finally time for his break. nhs looks harried, which isn’t out of the ordinary, but he’s also not meeting lwj’s eyes which sets of alarm bells in his head

“okay before i tell you,” nhs starts without prompting, “promise not to fire me.”

lwj doesn’t narrow his eyes, but the twitch of his eyebrow is close enough, “i will be fair.”

“that’s not a-“ nhs sighs, “good enough i guess. do you remember that photoshoot you did with da-ge a few months back?”

lwj nods. how could he forget? it had been... an experience for sure. it was a photoshoot for a book cover for a popular teen novel

and while lwj didn’t meet fellow hand models often, he had come across other ‘parts models’ as they were called

spending the better part of two days caressing nmj’s abs was... by far not the most unpleasant job he’d had as a hand model

nhs holds out a copy of the novel for him to see. the cover they used is from the second half of the photoshoot where they took a few wider shots

lwj sees nothing wrong with it. it’s a standard cover, if a bit lewd due to all the... ab touching. in fact the entire cover is just nmj’s abs and wide shoulders

lwj doesn’t think his hands serve any other purpose than obstructing the view in the poorest attempt to keep it pg. still he fails to see the problem

nhs wrings his hands together, “there was a blog post about it. do you know anyone named su she?”

lwj thinks for a moment, then vaguely recalls the name with a sinking realisation

—•—

wwx is still thinking about the article when jin zixuan comes to drop jin ling off at his apartment. unprompted, wwx asks him, “do you think i could sell feet pics?”

he can see jzx’s soul leave his body as he drops jin ling’s overnight bag on the pavement. wwx’s favourite new hobby is dropping these bombs on jzx and watching him dissociate from reality as he tries to answer wwx’s insane questions with logic

being a father has changed him. a few years ago he would have just slammed the nearest door in wwx’s face

“why... do you want to sell feet pics? is your business not going well?” jzx asks, and actually looks concerned. well, now wwx feels bad

“my business is just fine.” wwx says grumpily

“really? jiang cheng and yanli seem to think otherwise.”

“you eavesdropped on them didn’t you?”

jzx is entirely unashamed, “i’m just concerned.”

“again, my business is fine!”

“you know if you ever needed money-“

wwx turns jzx around and pushes him towards his car, “don’t you have things to do? get jin ling out of the car seat, it’s getting late.”

since the peacock has acquired immunity to his teasing by straight up being ~nice~ to him, it’s only fair that wwx sends jin ling back with so many new toys that they will take up at least a whole corner in his unnecessarily gigantic home

—•—

lwj meets his brother for iced tea at a cafe near huaisang’s office. lwj does not like iced tea but has deliberately kept this from his brother because lxc loves it and has made it his personal mission to try every iced tea flavour he can get his hands on

it is also the easiest way to lure his brother out of his busy schedule. lwj knows lxc would take time to meet him anyway, but he wants lxc to indulge in something he likes once in a while

“wangji, you seem restless.” lxc says, concerned

lwj takes a tentative sip of his black currant iced tea. it’s abhorrent

“do you remember su she?” lwj asks

lxc, “the one from your cello class?”

lwj nods

“the one who broke his string and his bow in the same day?” lxc asks, almost looking amused

lwj winces, “yes.”

“did he ever come back to the class after that?” lxc asks

lwj shakes his head, then taps the glass with a gloved finger

“has he been bothering you again?” lxc asks seriously, “if he has-“

“it’s-“ lwj sighs, “complicated.”

before lxc can make assumptions, lwj unlocks his phone and shows it to lxc

lxc reads silently for a minute or two, then his eyes widen. “he posted this on the novel’s discussion forum?”

lwj nods

“how did he even-“ lxc says, then pauses in thought, “is it because of the cello class?”

“mn, perhaps.” lwj says, “he saw the book cover i did with huaisang’s brother. he is a fan of the novel.”

“so he went and researched the models who were on the cover?” lxc frowns, “how did he even find that?”

“my name is public information.” lwj says, “it would certainly be hard to find, but it is available nonetheless.”

“are you going to be okay?” lxc asks.

“i am worried it will impact your reputation. my job is not... conventional.” lwj doesn’t meet his brother’s gaze

“wangji, that is the least of my concerns. you did not want to do conventional modelling by choice.” lxc says

he isn’t wrong, lwj hadn’t wanted to have his face photographed, it had never appealed to him. no matter how many compliments he received on his looks

his popularity started and ended within the advertising circle and nhs never offered him jobs he didn’t want. putting a face to his popular hand modelling career was not an ideal situation

especially since it had reached a lot of the novel’s fans who’d begun discussing him on other social media platforms

“i will handle this.” lxc says, “this is not right. you especially drew up contracts with advertisers to avoid this situation.”

“brother-“ lwj starts

“he should not have posted pictures of you.” lxc isn’t even drinking his iced tea, lwj notes

“it is already out. there is not much we can do.” lwj says reasonably

lxc doesn’t quite seethe but he doesn’t touch his iced coffee again

—•—

wwx finally admits to himself that he may be experiencing a slump. he hasn’t touched his tools in two months and his work bench has acquired a thick layer of dust on which jin ling drew a frowny face with his fingers then immediately tried to lick them

and what does one do when lacking motivation? harrass his brother in his cushy office at the university of course

to his credit, jc lets him prace around and poke at his things for a solid ten seconds before snapping at him. which means he and jyl must actually be worried about him

“wei wuxian” jc says through clenched teeth when wwx has pushed the paperweight on his desk to the very edge, trying to see how far jc would let him take it

ah, so not worried enough to break into his house at night, wwx notes

“so, do you think i could sell foot pics?” wwx uses his favourite new icebreaker

jc puts his head in his hands like wwx put the worlds’ weight on his shoulders. if he listens closely, he’s sure he can hear a repetition of ‘why why why why’ in jc’s head

“why...” jc forces himself to say

wwx shurgs with a grin, “i read an article about it. apparently a lot of people are into feet.”

“into... feet...” jc says

“yeah like they get off-“

jc holds up a hand to stop him, “i get it. did you come all the way across the city to ask me this?”

“yes and no.” wwx says, “i wanted to ask if you could draw me some.”

“some... feet...?” jc is going to kick him out soon, wwx can feel it

wwx places his chin in both his hands and tries to look pitiful, “isn’t it better than me buying foot pics? think of how that would reflect on you if anyone found out.”

jc feels a headache coming on, “please tell me you’re using them as reference to design anklets or something.”

wwx laughs, “of course! what did you think?”

jc glares at him, “i will ban you from campus.”

wwx bothers him a bit more and then gets thrown out more gently than he has come to expect from jc, still not sure if jc will actually fulfill his request

and maybe it’s because his luck has been down for too long that life took pity and decided to throw something good at him, he turns the corner to see one of the most beautiful men he has laid his eyes on

his attention is focused on the folder in his hands, and it’s late enough that there are no students milling the corridors. this is probably why the aforementioned beautiful, stunning, abolutely breathtaki- man manages to walk straight into wwx

several things happen at once. wwx sees it coming unlike the other person, so he reaches out to steady him. turns out there isn’t much need of that because the man gets his bearings back alarmingly fast for someone caught by surprise

the folder in his hands does not have similar balance though, and falls to the floor, splattering it’s contents halfway across the hallway

the man looks... well neutral, but the speed at which he drops to his knees lets wwx know that it’s not something he wants wwx to see

which, of course has the opposite effect. when wwx looks down to see the photographs that have not yet been put back into the folder- he is left speechless for once

the immediate and most obvious explanation is that this guy is an art student who is using these pictures as reference... but of course wwx’s first thought is Oh mY gOd this guy has a hand fetish because his talk with jc is still fresh in his head

once that thought is in his head, wwx notices a number of things in quick sequence

this dude looks uncharacteristically nervous for an innocent art student, and he’s wearing GLOVES like a CRIMINAL who’s STEALING pictures of those pretty hands from an art class for his own pleasure

art students don’t wear gloves, especially not in the middle of summer! and no one can possibly require that many pictures for just one body part

satisfied with his reasonable conclusion, wwx opens his mouth to accuse the man only to realise that he is upright once again with all his stolen pictures securely in his folder

“are you stealing those?” wwx asks straightforwardly

the man actually does seem to be caught off-guard for longer than two seconds this time

then he proceeds to walk past wwx

“hey wait!” wwx blocks his path again, “i get it, you know? we all have needs and i’m totally not judging you for it. but there are sites for this stuff.”

the man finally looks at him, and wow he’s even more attractive than wwx first thought and his eyes are so pretty and- he walks past wwx again

wwx, yet again, catches up to him and decides that walking beside him is more effective. “good quality photography like that is usually quite expensive you know?”

the man continues to ignore him so wwx grabs the folder in his hands and gives it a good yank

“what are you doing?” the man finally speaks. even his voice is nice. wwx is sure people would send him hand pics for free if he asked

“returning this to the rightful owner.” wwx holds the folder out of his reach

the man takes a deep breath, then pulls at one of his satin gloves- SATIN, how did wwx not notice that- and holds his beautiful hand up to wwx’s face

wwx’s brain immediately short circuits as he thinks ‘maybe ~I~ am the one with a hand fetish’ because that’s... one pretty hand

one... familiar hand. the same even tone, smooth skin and long, elegant fingers with perfectly manicured nails...

while he stands there, gaping like a fish, the man snatches the folder out of his hand and starts walking away with quicker strides

by the time wwx’s brain reboots and the realisation finally sinks in- he has finally found the muse he has been looking for- the man is already gone

—•—

lwj admits that he is... slightly stressed out, and is definitely showing enough signs of it that nhs has caught on

“you went to visit wen qing yesterday.” it’s not a question so lwj doesn’t answer. “did you perhaps run into an old acquaintance?”

lwj shakes his head, “it is not what you think.”

this sparks curiosity in nhs which is a toss up between better and worse than the implication that lwj’s stress stems from accidentally meeting su she at the university

“did you run into a fan?” nhs asks and it’s actually a reasonable concern since lwj wants to avoid even being /known/ at all costs

lwj shakes his head. he trusts nhs which isn’t as surprising now as it had been to him years ago when he had agreed to give nhs free reign over the work he chose for lwj

“somebody from the university knows of my identity.” lwj says finally.

nhs seems to think it over, “it was inevitable. even after taking down the blog post, people are still curious about you.”

lwj wants to tell him that it’s actually his fault but he stays silent as nhs continues his train of thought.

“you’re exciting because people have seen you without actually seeing you. you’ve worked with big brands and celebrities and it normally wouldn’t spark interest-

- but unfortunately for you, you are attractive. it will die down after a while, we just have to ride it out for now.” nhs concludes.

lwj nods, feeling reassured. nhs is usually right about these things, which is why lwj regards him so highly

he has a video shoot for some fancy kitchen installation company after that, and he tries not to think about the man who accused him of stealing his own pictures while he very slowly chops a mango on the surely unsanitary granite counter

he’s working with a photographer he knows well, one of the best in his line of work. song lan has a good eye for what would look enticing in an advert and doesn’t make him do weird, suggestive things like kneading dough in slow motion. lwj suppresses a shudder at the thought

after cutting enough magoes to feed ten people, the shoot finally wraps up and one of the PAs on the set holds out a basin for him to wash his hands in

the warm water is soothing to his aching fingers and he lets his hands soak but not for longer than a few seconds to prevent his skin from pruning. he then rubs the special concoction that is his version of the best moisturiser and puts his hands in soft cotton gloves

song lan comes to greet him after and expresses his sympathies about his pictures making rounds on the internet

lwj’s eyes widen ever so slightly, “you know of it?”

“my boyfriend is a fan.” he says with a fond shake of his head, “otherwise i’d have no idea.”

luckily before lwj can start to panic, nhs trots up to them and the conversation ends there as he’s dragged to his next shoot

—•—

“for the last time, i don’t know your ‘guy with pretty hands’.” jc says, exasperated. “what’s with you and body parts nowadays? if it’s a kink thing.. please rethink your life.”

wwx sighs. he knew going to jc was useless, but at least it confirmed his suspicion that the guy isn’t an art student

however, that makes the task of finding him and then begging him to model wwx’s jewellery harder. because yes, wwx has spent the last five days cooped up in his workshop making complex hand chains

now if he only had more than a memory to draw inspiration from...

it’s frustrating. wwx should have at least asked for his name and number. how can he be this stupid?

“very easily.” is jc’s reply to this

“jiang chengggg.” wwx whines, “i have to find him or my creativity will die a horrible death.”

jc looks like he is ageing before his eyes. “if i ask around the staff will you promise to only come to my office during emergencies? you’re freaking my students out.”

“yes!” wwx agrees enthusiastically, then frowns. “freaking them out? i’m so nice to everyone!”

“you tried to get at least five of my students to draw your pretty boy from description.” jc deadpans, “they think he’s a criminal.”

“a criminal after my heart, aha!” wwx says with finger guns.. and gets thrown out by jc for his efforts. it’s less gentle this time

a few days later, jc calls him, “apparently ‘his identity needs to be protected’. is he actually a criminal?”

“he was wearing gloves...” wwx mutters, “i’m kidding! not about the gloves, but i don’t think he’s a criminal.”

jc makes a doubtful noise on the other end. “well, whatever. so yeah, anyway, i can’t get wen qing to tell me anything. you can come bully her yourself if you dare to.”

“why does it have to be wen qing?” wwx groans, “she’ll roast me on low flame before she tells me anything. why couldn’t it be wen ning— wait. wen ning probably knows him too. jiang cheng i’m a genius!”

jc hangs up on him but it doesn’t dampen his spirits at all. he’s so close to finding him.

—•—

shoots where he has to hold objects for an extended period of time are already unkind to his muscles, but holding objects with /postures/ is even worse. his fingers are so stiff after his seven hour shoot with swarovski that when one of the assistants on set hands him a cup of warm tea, it slips right through his grip and shatters on the ground unceremoniously

everyone freezes, and then start to buzz around him, asking if he is feeling unwell or if he needs to sit down. because lwj never drops /anything/. it’s in his job description NOT to drop anything

god, lwj hates jewellery shoots the most

nhs hears about this, ofc. lwj suspects he can be at multiple places at a time. so lwj is neatly packed into a SUV and sent away to get a relaxing massage and manicure

lwj would usually put up a fight but his muscles have been aching for days and nhs has theatened to text his brother at least three times this week. he doesn’t want to risk a fourth

wen ning, the meek but kind masseuse greets him with a bow, “lan er-gongzi, are you well?”

lwj nods, and is about to ask about wn as well when he hears the door of the masseuse parlour bang open behind him

“you!” comes a shout and lwj turns around, alarmed

the man who accused him of stealing his own pictures is standing there, pointing a finger at him

“if i was unclear the last time, i did not steal those photographs.” lwj says

the man seems stunned for two seconds, then frowns. “steal.. i know that you didn’t steal them.”

lwj nods, then starts to walk further into the parlour- except for the hand that grips and brings him to a stop. lwj would usually rip his hand away, but the slight pressure sends pain shooting up his arm

and lwj definitely didn’t realise how stiff his muscles were until then. he must have made a noise, a mixture between surprise and a wince, because the man lets go immediately

“are you okay?” he asks, looking alarmed

lwj closes his eyes to compose himself

“wei-gongzi, what are you doing here?” lwj hears wen ning ask

“i came to find him.” the man replies

lwj’s eyes open in shock. find him? does he know of lwj’s identity? is he a fan of the novel? this has gotten way bigger than either lwj or nhs predicted if people are actively seeking him out

“i think you have misunderstood.” lwj says, projecting a calm exterior even though he’s feeling a little cornered. cornered.. by a single person... what has his life come to?

but today it’s one person, next... he doesn’t even want to think about it. he has never wanted to be in the public light and does not want the /crowd/ and god forbid- the /noise/ that comes with it

he had gotten comfortable in the happy equilibrium of popularity and anonymity- the only thing which had lured him into accepting this job and has kept him in it thus far

... and it seems to be crumbling right before his eyes

“what? no i haven’t. i wouldn’t forget your face.” the man says, “hey stop running away-“

but lwj is already walking past him to exit the massage parlour. he needs to call someone. nhs most probably. or a cab.

the other man is speedy though, and blocks him right at the door, extending his arms and legs to cover the width of the opening as if lwj was thinking of sneaking around him. (he was, but that’s not the point)

“okay maybe i’ve come across as creepier than expected.” the man says, “but i swear i just want your hands!”

[wen ning shakes his head furiously in the background]

the panic lwj feels must be enough to be showing on his usually blank face, because the man backtracks

“i mean- no- that came off as even creepier oh my god. i’m not a serial killer, i promise.”

[wen ning makes a big X over his head with his arms]

the man takes a deep breath and actually seems to think before speaking this time, “hi, my name is wei ying. i’m a jeweller by profession. what’s your name?”

“move aside.” lwj says.

“do you promise not to run and actually hear me out? because it was so hard to track you down, god, it took me a week!”

[wn texting nhs: pls come and save lwj i think he’s about to faint]

“a week...” lwj says, “you tracked me down for a week?”

“no! i mean yes but not in a stalker way!” wwx seems to be having a mini meltdown, “you know just nice good ol’ asking around about the cute guy i saw at the uni... not... stalking...”

luckily lwj’s phone begins to ring, cutting wwx off. [wen ning is very thankful for this. he doesn’t think having the police here would be good for business]

“brother.” lwj says, still a little strung up

“wangji, i’m almost there.”

“what?”

“huaisang told me you were ill,” lxc says, “and i was in the area so i told him i’d take you to the doctor.”

lwj turns to give wen ning a scathing look. “he exaggerated. i’m fine. you don’t have to come here.”

lwj doesn’t think his brother will take the fact that he has acquired a stalker well

“i’m outside.” lxc says

lwj resists the urge to sigh. he’s going to strangle everyone in this room, then himself

“i’ll be there in a minute then.” lwj says.

“i’m making my way to the parlour.” lxc says, disregarding him completely

“brother i can walk.” lwj says calmly. murder is on his mind.

lxc hangs up on him. lwj actually sighs this time.

“if you don’t want my brother to report you, you need to move aside.” lwj says to wwx.

wwx opens his mouth as if he wants to continue to dig himself into a hole, but then moves aside degectedly

then he removes a business card from his wallet and puts it in lwj’s shirt pocket.

“you can look me up, i’m not lying. i really am a jeweller and i’d like to work with you.” he says

before lwj can protest, lxc is already at the entrance, carrying what looks like half the pharmacy in a paperbag

“wangji.” he greets, and then pauses to nod politely at the other men, “let’s go.”

lwj follows him silently

—•—

wen ning sighs and flips the sign on the door to ‘closed’ resigning to the fact that wwx will remain a permanent fixture on his floor for a while

“so you thought he was a creepy thief and now he thinks you’re a creepy stalker?” wn asks.

wwx, who has told him all of this between groans, groans again.

“do you... want a free massage?” wn offers

“yes.”

lwj fights the urge to touch his shirt pocket while in the car with lxc.

“you need to go to the hospital wangji, you don’t look well.” lxc insists

“i will eat every medicine in that bag if you drop me off at huaisang’s office.” lwj replies

lxc looks alarmed, “you’ll definitely need to go to the hospital then.”

“i will eat every medicine in that bag if you /don’t/ drop me off at huaisang’s office.” lwj amends, neatly closing all the loopholes

“at least let me come with you.” lxc says in his last ditch attempt to find out exactly what has left his brother so rattled

“i will eat-“

“fine okay. i just worry about you, you know? you never tell me when something is bothering you anymore.” lxc says

“if it is important, i will tell you.” lwj says. he doesn’t want lxc to worry but also doesn’t want to lie.

lxc nods, accepting this, then turns the car around

—•—

“wei wuxian.” nhs raises an eyebrow at the card lwj has placed on his table. “this is the man who has been stalking you?”

lwj nods.

“are you certain?” nhs asks, looking conflicted.

lwj gives him a look.

“okay, okay! just making sure!” nhs says, raising his palms in defence.

“you know of him.” lwj states.

“well,” nhs says, “he didn’t lie to you, he really is a jeweller. he is very elusive though. he tends to drop these groundbreaking collections every fall and then disappears.”

lwj tries to align the man he met today with this talented, cryptic jeweller persona. if they really are the same person, then perhaps unhinged genius fits him better.

“if he’s serious about working with you...” nhs gets a gleam in his eyes that lwj doesn’t like. this is /not/ how he pictured this conversation going. he’s slowly but surely developing a migrane

“look, i’m never going to force you to do anything.” nhs says, “but will you let me speak to him first? i want to know if this he’s the real deal of if we need a restraining order.”

restraining order. this is escalating way past lwj’s mental capacity at the moment.

nhs seems to see that, “you need to go home and rest. i’ll have a masseuse meet you there. let me handle this.”

he says it with such firm conviction that lwj has no choice but to trust him, so he nods.

[Part 2] [Part 3]

[queenmorgawse]

dead and gone so long (seventeen’s so gone)

for #sangchengweek2019 on twitter, day 6 : jazz/noir, ft. detective jc and speakeasy singer nhs in 20s new york city. some soundtrack if that’s your thing! read on ao3 for end notes.

The Nightless City is as Jiang Cheng remembers it : loud and gaudy, its red silks smelling of expensive alcohol and tobacco and perfume.

Some of the patrons throw him suspicious glances as he elbows his way through the crowd. Even dressed like any of the undercover businessmen who usually frequent this place, he must look too much like a cop for their liking. Jiang Cheng pays them no mind, instead making a beeline for one of the few seats left unoccupied on this Saturday night. It’s tucked into a corner, a bit too close to the stage for the view to be all that great, but he’s in no condition to be picky.

So he does as he’s always done in these kinds of places ⎯ he plops down on the chair, pushes down his hat to cast a shadow over his eyes, and tries to look mean enough that no one will bother to come over and try to start a conversation. ( Sure enough, a few flappers throw interested glances at him through their mascaraed lashes, but a glare or two sends them scurrying off in a flurry of glittering skirts, chirping indignantly among themselves. )

The crowd oohs and aahs when the lights start to dim, bathing the speakeasy in soft hues of red and pink. Jiang Cheng feels like he’s sitting in the heart of a rose, his surroundings turning hazy and faraway.  

Heels click on the polished wood of the platform at the same time the orchestra plays its very first chords, now in absolute silence. Limelight flashes bright as the sun, and by the time Jiang Cheng finishes blinking white spots out of his eyes, a silhouette is standing in the middle of the stage, as poised as if they were there all along.

Nie Huaisang is a vision in gold, the dramatic shadow he casts on the wall behind him making him look larger than life. The lustrous fabric flows down his sides like water, outlining his waist and thighs and oh, that is definitely a corset under there, Jiang Cheng notes, his mouth suddenly dry. His amber eyes are lined in kohl, even sharper and deeper than they usually are. When his gaze sweeps across the room, Jiang Cheng could swear something smolders in his clear irises, and it takes his breath away. Everything is too loud, too much, his own heartbeat a war drum in his ears.  

Then Nie Huaisang smiles at the patrons, wraps a gloved hand around the stand of his microphone and starts to sing.

His voice rings through the speakeasy, soft and husky, heady as honeyed wine. It folds around the audience like a silk scarf, drawing them close until each spectator feels like he’s singing for them and them alone.

With a jolt, Jiang Cheng realizes how much he’s forgotten in just a handful of years, and how much is coming back in waves, nestling back into place in the hollow spaces between his ribs. He sits still, so mesmerized by the shape of Nie Huaisang’s mouth, red as sin, that he almost misses the moment when their gazes meet.

To his credit, Nie Huaisang doesn’t waver. From an onlooker’s point of view, nothing truly changes, but Jiang Cheng sees the singer’s eyes widen ever so slightly, the smallest flicker of his easy confidence. He holds on, staring back with growing determination. Nie Huaisang is the first to look away, nonchalant as ever, as if nothing happened at all.

-

As it is, Jiang Cheng quickly confirms that confidence was mostly fake when Nie Huaisang marches up to him a few minutes after stepping off the stage to thunderous applause and countless bouquets of flowers. The other grabs him by the collar with surprising strength, dragging him down to face level. “What the hell are you doing here?” he hisses into Jiang Cheng’s ear. “I thought we agreed to stay out of each other’s lanes.”

To be fair, there was no such agreement, since it would imply they spoke even once after that last fateful argument ⎯ only the implication that things didn’t need to get uglier than they already were, and thus they’d better keep to their own parts of the city. Jiang Cheng would point it out, except he’s not here to pick a fight. Instead, he says : “I’ve got a lead on what happened to your brother.”

In the moment that follows, he knows he’s won. Nie Huaisang’s death grip slackens, his hand dropping from Jiang Cheng’s neck. “...What about my brother?”

Jiang Cheng readjusts his tie, smooths out an non-existent crease on his coat to keep his hands busy, and nods toward the door that leads backstage. “I’m not having this conversation out here. Can we go somewhere more private?”

Nie Huaisang looks him up and down, as if deciding whether it’s worth the trouble to stab through Jiang Cheng’s foot with his high heels and call it a night. He seems to settle on no, though by an unfortunately narrow margin. “Fine. You better make it worth my time, Jiang Cheng.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Jiang Cheng mutters as he follows suit, ignoring the curious glances of party-goers. “It’s a real page-turner.”

-

Nie Huaisang’s dressing room is very him. As the Nightless City’s star singer, he gets one all to himself, but the illegal status of his workplace means it is still very much cramped, and made even smaller by the sheer number of clothes scattered about on every available surface. Everywhere Jiang Cheng looks, he sees sequins and glitter and gossamer, draped over one another like some crazy fairy godmother’s lair.

Nie Huaisang closes the door behind them with perhaps a little more force than necessary, then all but pushes him towards the brightly lit vanity and the plush little stool sitting in front of it. “Stay put. I need to change out of these.”

As he disappears behind a folding screen adorned with cranes in flight - oddly clashing with the rest of the room’s style -, Jiang Cheng stifles a sigh and decidedly stares into the mirror, ignoring the rustle of fabric a few feet away. The reflection looking back seems older than his thirty-three years, sporting pronounced shadows under his eyes and a general air of exhaustion about him. While time has been kind to Nie Huaisang, letting him seem barely a couple of years older than when they parted, Jiang Cheng feels like each of his own has been etched into his skin.

Payback’s a bitch, after all. Even if saying it aloud would mean swallowing his pride, the fact they parted in the first place was his fault to begin with. Dwelling on past dalliances does nothing but waste time and taunt the Prohibition, but here, surrounded by Nie Huaisang’s things and the life he stormed out of, Jiang Cheng allows himself to feel a pang of regret.  

He’s distracted from this downward spiral when the other emerges, wrapped in a bottle-green satin dressing gown. He must have wiped his face behind the screen, because though his lashes are still unnaturally dark, his lips have returned to their usual pale pink. With a pointed look from him, Jiang Cheng wordlessly gets up and returns the stool to him.

Devoid of makeup, the singer’s features do look a little more worn. Worry must have aged him a little more than Jiang Cheng expected. “Start talking, Detective Jiang,” Nie Huaisang demands, unfolding one of his many (familiar) fans. Whether it’s meant to clear the room’s stuffy atmosphere or hide his face is unclear.

“I assume you know it’s a series of cases rather than an isolated one,” Jiang Cheng begins. The space around him doesn’t leave much room for pacing, but he turns on his heels anyway, feeling restless energy creep up his legs again.

Nie Huaisang gives a sharp nod. “I heard. It has been selling headlines like hot cakes, you know.”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. For an instant, it’s like they’re back to their usual banter-slash-flirting, though he quickly shakes the thought off. “The police hasn’t found any convincing lead. They’re filling up the news with some useless babble so civilians don’t start a riot, but they’re as clueless as the rest of you.”

To be fair, he cannot really blame them. It’s a mystifying case to say the least : normal citizens, who were living their lives without a hitch, inexplicably lost control of themselves and went on a rampage. If some were restrained before they could do much damage, others had gone mad in public spaces, and injured or killed many before they were either subdued or put down.

Nie Huaisang’s brother belongs, fortunately enough, to the former. Jiang Cheng assumes it isn’t much of a reassurance to have him locked in an asylum in the meantime, still out of his mind and frothing at the mouth with rage, but better that than the morgue.

“The problem was,” Nie Huaisang says slowly, “that they didn’t find any common point among the victims, wasn’t it? Old and young, rich and poor, living all over New York City. You’d think there would be a pattern.”

“Right.” Such is the biggest problem, in Jiang Cheng’s opinion. Putting aside the wounded and the death, the unpredictability of these attacks means it’s easy to suspect one’s neighbour, even one’s friends and family, when the attacker doesn’t seem to even acknowledge reality after the deed is done. Toss in paranoia, officials’ inability to come up with a decent explanation and the rumor mill turning a hundred miles an hour, and you have a recipe for chaos, Jiang Cheng thinks wryly. Whoever is behind this must have their reasons.

Nie Huaisang’s voice snaps him out of his musings. “So what’s your great breakthrough, then?” Although he delivers the line as sarcastically as ever, Jiang Cheng could swear he heard the faint tremor of hope in his words.

“Of course the coppers ran background checks,” he explains, his steps slowly coming to a standstill. “They found wildly different jobs, no common origin or education. But I don’t think they went as far as to check for hobbies. Wouldn’t have found out either if it wasn’t some theater critic’s wife who hired me. Her husband’s one of the more recent madmen. I was going through his papers, right, as I do, and I found this.”

Nie Huaisang accepts the notebook Jiang Cheng hands him, eyes moving across the pages. Jiang Cheng can deeply relate to the furrow of his brows at the sight of the man’s...say, questionable handwriting. “Play notes? Oh, right, he’s a critic. The Patriarch,” he reads, then pauses and looks up at the private eye. “What does this have to do with anything? It’s his job, he probably attends dozens of plays like this one every year.”

“Here.” He leans over Nie Huaisang’s shoulder, tapping at a margin. “Despite the actors’ stellar performance, I left the theater with a sense of unease, as if I’d just witnessed something out of this world. However, I believe Nettie Cavanaugh… Well, that bit doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have paid attention to it either if this wasn’t the play the latest case recorded attended just the day before she attacked and gravely injured two of the friends she was out with.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes narrow, a spark of understanding shining behind his pensive gaze. “So the others…”

“All thirteen of them went to see The Patriarch sometime these past few months. It’s rather popular, I heard, so it’s not like no one ever saw it, but it could mean something.” As he speaks, Jiang Cheng realizes part of it is waiting for Nie Huaisang’s approval, for him to say you’re right, I think something’s off there. He could just as well dismiss him as a lunatic, reaching for straws where there is none. “Even your brother. He and Lan Xichen went to see it almost two months ago.”

“Xichen-ge wouldn’t have anything to do with this,” Nie Huaisang says immediately, reverting back to Chinese. “It’s a coincidence.” Even so, Jiang Cheng can almost see a seedling of doubt take root, insidious.

“I’ll have to talk to him again after I get a clearer idea of what the hell’s going on.” He pushes away the thought of soothing Nie Huaisang, tell him I’m sure he’s not involved. This is an investigation, not an attempt to get back with an old lover.

To his surprise, Nie Huaisang says, “I want in on it.”

Jiang Cheng stares at him, incredulous. “It’s going to be dangerous. If there’s someone behind this, they’ve been planning it for months.”

“And da-ge would do the same for me if I was the one targeted! Besides, if...when he recovers, he’s going to need something to prove his innocence. That he’s not the one responsible for these people he hurt,” Nie Huaisang insists. His amber eyes have turned to gold. “If you don’t take me with you, I’ll investigate on my own.”

“Fine!” Jiang Cheng snaps. He is, to his irritation, less annoyed by this turn of events than he should be. “But you’ve got to promise me you’ll drop out of it if things get too messy. This isn’t your job, it’s mine. Got it?” Silently, he adds, I don’t want to see you hurt. ( One could argue it’s already too late for that. )

“Fine!” Nie Huaisang echoes. He sounds...for lack of a better word, relieved. “So what’s our plan, partner?”

If Jiang Cheng didn’t know better, he’d call his tone teasing, almost flirty. “First of all, we’re not partners, I’m only bringing you along and you can fend for yourself. Second…” He shoves a hand into one of the inner pockets of his coat and fumbles around until his fingers close around two small scraps of yellow paper. He pulls them out and holds them up to the light.

“Wanna go see a play?”

[land-of-brains-and-chocolate]

god it WILL NOT stop bothering me until i talk about it. the way we got here. it’s not just about the book anymore, not at all, and it’s certainly never been about “shipping”, at this point it’s how helpless the tactics of the guy make me feel.

step one: refer to people who have read previous venom books and noticed the trend throughout the nineties to portray eddie and the symbiote as a man and an agender alien in an ambiguously or not-so-ambiguously romantic relationship, which was picked up on and completely unambiguously canonised in the very last run, consistently refer to these people as “shippers”, lovingly condescend to them, do not ever treat “the ship” as existing beyond their imagination

[I LOVE THAT YOU GUYS EXIST]

result: make people forget that this is a complete misrepresentation and he has received no criticism whatsoever for “not making a ship canon” because that is not what he did, he decanonised it and then denied doing so and painted everyone it ever meant something to as essentially deluded - and, considering that that’s all they are, he’s being awfully kind and accommodating, isn’t he?

evaluation: a reason to harass him? no! really kind of manipulative? yes!

step two: actively seek out these no-good shippers on tumblr! tell them that you’re watching them! read their detailed posts in which they express their grievances about your comic book to their friends and misrepresent their points on your twitter so your bajillion followers can affirm that Those People are categorically wrong about everything!

[EDDIE IS CODEPENDENT]

people are mad at him because he said eddie was codependent! not because he’s reframing the extremely rare story of a troubled queer relationship that was ultimately still a redemptive force in these characters’ lives as an unhealthy compulsion that corrupts, hm, what a fresh and unfamiliar take, no reason why this would strike a nerve - and, recently, of course, as something inherently abusive, every bit of hope and change for the better vile and fake.

literally just start vaguing about people’s personal tumblr blogs on your professional twitter account with the little, little blue checkmark and everything, use that to make passive-aggressive references to people’s posts! why not!

[LOVE EACH OTHER]

people talk about how they like a symbiote and its host getting along (and they did, that very night, talk quite a lot about ngozi)? that is so dumb and lame.

[EVERYTHING IS AWESOME]

people get sick of edgy shock factor writing that throws one dark theme after another at them without treating any of them with the consideration they deserve? people expect some moments of levity in a venom book?

they’re asking for stories with no conflict where nothing bad ever happens! but it’s okay, he knows better, he knows you just don’t know what you want! it’s not like endless sadness is just as likely to be dreadfully boring or unintentionally hilarious as endless happiness!

result: o w n e d god he sure is shutting down every point no one has ever made

evaluation: a reason to harass him? no! really kind of manipulative? yes!

step three: literally get so mad at people on tumblr talking about your comic that you not only boil their opinions down to THE SHIIIIP but literally say that their opinions don’t matter because they literally would never say it “to your face” literally because it’s “easy to be brave on tumblr”

literally

say these words

[IT’S EASY TO BE BRAVE ON TUMBLR]

call people chicken shits for NOT talking to you directly! and then! BLOCK everybody who talks to you directly! or quote retweet them so your followers can descend like vultures! actually acknowledge that it takes bravery to interact with you if you’re in the Tumblr Demographic, you know, one of Those People, and frame yourself as in the right for it???

am i losing my mind???

[SIX PEOPLE ON TUMBLR]

get so mad at people on tumblr talking about your comic that you not only claim they’re the only people ever to talk badly of it but imply that you’re one step away from namedropping the specific perpetrators. that’s not ominous at all!

it’s an age-old question: how many times does one of marvel’s top writers with legions of fans have to imply his antagonistic awareness of your specific existence before you’re on a first name basis? and also paranoid?

result: stir shit. be a shit stirrer. faint when your shit stirring does in fact stir shit. you can’t go “you would never” and be surprised when people do, you... can’t...

evaluation: a reason to harass him? no! really kind of manipulative? yes!

step four: whip out your ally card... to whip the people you’re supposed to be allied to with it. try to use your knowledge of queer issues to shut down actual queer people.

[I DON’T THINK IT’S APPROPRIATE TO ASSUME GENDER]

either that, or straight-up make a “did you just assume my gender” joke. i can’t find the original tweet anymore, so it’s possible it was that and he deleted it because it was too blatant, lol.

result: MAYBE YOU GUYS WERE THE PROBLEMATIC ONES ALL ALONG

evaluation: a reason to harass him? no! really kind of manipulative? yes!

step five: remember that interview where he outright stated that he just wants to, just to be the definite venom run? just to put the biggest dent in canon he can? just to break everybody’s toys and emerge victorious as the one person with the valid take on venom?

yeah, those things become more noticeable in the actual book, over time, and acceptance of that is, uh, not universal? not everybody’s up for him spending several issues in a row on e s t a b l i s h i n g  d o m i n a n c e by having eddie sit around as other characters tell him that a ton of stuff other writers from michelinie to thompson to costa to kaminski to slott to jenkins have done actually sucked and was wrong and fake and never happened? through retcons that make no sense, like, factually don’t fit?

people don’t like you walking back character and relationship development to further your end goal of recasting the symbiote as the personification of addiction and abuse instead of itself a survivor of extreme abuse who has been constantly denied personhood in a way that is frighteningly resonant and who has been going through a genuine redemption arc for years now?

people don’t like you acting like eddie never had a reason for being who he is before and you had to make one up? one that doesn’t fit the character at all, which you didn’t realise because you apparently thought the character had no characterisation before you came along?

you can imagine how these things might spark nerd rage?

and you can probably imagine who this nerd rage was blamed on, yeah?

these criticisms inherently require knowledge of venom canon, because they’re largely about disrespect for it, these criticisms are not related to shipping of any kind - but of course the only thing people could possibly be mad about is the "ship", the only ones making a fuss are those “shippers”, those casuals, Those People who only care about One Thing and don’t understand the real gritty reality of the, god you get it i’m making fun

[I KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT]

you’re the only one, don. it’s true.

and i know, i know for a fact, that he’s been aware of criticism from other groups all along, that he was, for example, witness to this livestream that spends like a solid hour a month mercilessly dragging him through the dirt, and you know what the extent of his response was?

thanks for checking the book out.

that’s it. that’s all. this guy hasn’t gotten any less loud about criticising him, either. wishing for his book’s cancellation and retconning. but nothing more. he gets to keep to himself. he is #valid.

people have been taking the piss out of him on youtube, on reddit. only tumblr ever earned his ire. only tumblr gets namedropped at convention panels.

and now, now more than ever? you better believe your regular run-of-the-mill nerds, straight, male, utterly uninterested in the icky stuff, everything, are mad. almost everyone who’s truly tits deep in venom lore is mad.

and so he’s said he’s received threats. and i’m sure he has. i’ve received threats. you’ve received threats. it’s never okay. it sure as shit never helps to send them.

he’s gotten a lot of fucking inappropriate personal vitriol! lots of it actually “ship”-related! i’m categorically against contacting the guy for any reason!

but who is to blame? who do people accept as being to blame? who do news outlets report on as being to blame? when, i presume, not every single one of them actually went “i’m doing this specifically because i’m a (thunder clap) shipper”? when large-scale retcons are literally always met with nerd rage? when a shipper-less fandom probably still would’ve had threats?

[THIS IS INSANE]

[IT’S THE SHIPPERS]

result: if all criticism = “shippers”, and “shippers” = harassment, then everyone who has no actual idea of what’s going on but who doesn’t like “shippers” is automatically on his side and nobody who isn’t a “shipper” wants to risk the association by criticising him.

get this stuff out to his followers, to news outlets, to people completely uninvolved and contextless, and watch the bile run over everywhere because lots of people are ready to accept this narrative in comic book spaces.

have people in the replies and comments eagerly discussing how this is more proof that c+o+m+i+c+s+gate was right and they’re the only reasonable ones. how disgusting and crazy "shippers” are. how donny should keep doing his best to trigger the gays. there’s no pushback against these ideas.

and i’m so fucking stuck between wanting to defend the man, wring my hands and apologise on behalf of the other These People, because i don’t see anything justifiable in their actions, and in being... just... just so frustrated... with everything... with throwing everyone out to the dogs... and claiming that he doesn’t mean to... when he has this whole history of belittling "shippers” specifically... of making sure their public image is that of people who just don’t know what they’re talking about and are in no way worth empathising with... of only drawing attention to the aggressive ones and blocking the reasonable ones

when he literally only stands to benefit from doing all this. 

this is massive amounts of free positive pr.

this makes him essentially immune to criticism of any kind.

evaluation: a reason to harass him? no! really kind of manipulative? yes! 

i forgot! somewhere along the line, he did do something very good and disavowed association with co/mics/ga/te!

[C0M1C5G8]

why the fuck am i censoring? tumblr search stopped working decades ago.

anyway, it should come as no particular surprise why these people assumed he would side with them. not that any high profile writer who values his standing would, really. are there any? maybe there are, i’m not up to date on this drama.

i just think it’s funny - genuinely not his fault, but hilarious - that this was apparently enough to inspire a “boycott”? and it was a fart in the wind?

which is the least surprising thing ever because there is actually nothing whatsoever to hold these people’s ire to be found in venom? excluding aliens, there has been one real and present character who isn’t a white guy in 11 issues? it is actively less queer than it was before? donny has never caved to the essjaywoo pressure in any way, shape or form? what were they... thinking? it’s almost like these people are dumb?

all they've done is ensure that, without it actually doing anything, venom gets the commendation for being A Comic The Gators Don't Like?

anyway.

what do we do moving forward? i don’t know. nothing. not harassing anyone. keep being salty on tumblr. do not engage him. i think i’m more about stalling the chain reaction he’s caused than the man himself. if you’re not a “shipper”, of course, keep posting your criticism, maybe stand up for “shippers” who are being dogpiled over genuine criticism, don’t let people say This Is All Proof Of How You Can’t Have Queer Content Because Queers Are Crazy.

and be nice to mike costa.

[redgoldsparks]

Harry Potter and the Problematic Author, a fanzine by Maia Kobabe. You can find a print version of this zine in my etsy shop. 50% of print proceeds are donated to the Native American Rights Fund. This zine was made possible by my wonderful patreon backers. 

instagram / patreon / portfolio

Full transcript below the cut: 

Part one: Ruddy Owls!

I was in fourth grade when the first Harry Potter Book was released in the US.

Panel 1: Sometimes our teacher would read it aloud in class. "Mr and Mrs Dursley of number 4 Privat Drive were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much..."

Panel 2: I was 11 years old when Harry Potter finally broke through my dyslexia and turned me into a reader.

Panel 3: Every night in the summer before sixth grade I waited for the owl carrying my Hogwarts Letter. I cried when it didn't come. "I have to go to Muggle school!"

Part Two: Hats

I dedicated myself to being a fan.

Panel 1: I began collecting Harry Potter News article.

Panel 2: I asked my relatives to mail me ones from their local papers. I filled a thick binder with clippings.

Panel 3: I wrote my own trivia quiz

Panel 4: and participated in the one held annually at the county fair. "Next contestant!"

Panel 5: I usually got into one of. the top five spots. I won boxes of candy, posters, stationary, and once a baseball cap. (Hat reads: I survived the battle of Hogwarts).

Panel 6: In high school I sewed a black velvet cape and knitted many stripped scarves.

Part Three: Double Trouble

Watching the last film in 2011 felt like the final note of my childhood. 

Panel 1: I remember driving home from the midnight showing thinking about the end of 13 years of waiting; wondering what would define the next chapter of my life. 

Panel 2: That same month I heard of something called Pottermore. "Okay, so there's a sorting quiz... I already know my house! Patronus assignment? Mine's a barn owl. Duh!" 

Panel 3: You can read the books again but with GIFs? Why? 

Panel 4: I lived in a place with very slow and limited internet at the time. Pottermore sounded inaccessible, but also boring. I never joined. 

Panel 5: "I'll just read the actual books again, thanks." 

Part Four: Sweets

In 2016, a series of short stories titled "History of Magic in North America" were released on Pottermore to pave the way for the first Fantastic Beasts Film. These stories display an extreme ignorance of American history, culture, and geography, but the worst parts are the casual misuse of indigenous beliefs and stories. Fans and critics immediately spoke up against this appropriation. Some of the most quoted voices included Nambe Pueblo scholar Dr. Debbie Reese who runs the site "American Indians In Children's Literature"; Navajo writer Brian Young; Johnnie Jae (Otoe-Missouria and Choctaw), founder of A Tribe Called Geek; Dr Adrienne Keene (Cherokee Nation), a Professor at Brown University who runs the blog "Native Appropriations", and writers N.K. Jemison and Paula Young Lee.

Rowling is famous for responding to fans directly on twitter, yet she did not respond to anyone calling out the damaging aspects of "Magic in North America." Her representatives refused to comment for March 9 2016 article in the Guardian. She has never apologized. All of this, plus the casting of Johnny Depp and the specific declarations of support by JKR, Warner Brothers, and director David Yates left a sour taste in my mouth.

For further thoughts on the new films read The Crimes of Grindelwald is a Mess by Alanna Bennett for Buzzfeed News, November 16, 2018.

Excerpt from Colonialism in Wizarding American: JK Rowling's History of Magic in North America Through an Indigenous Lens by Allison Mills, MFA, MAS/MLIS (Cree and Settler French Canadian)

Although Rowling is certainly not the first white author to misstep in her treatment of Indigenous cultures, she has an unprecedented level of visibility and fame, [...] One of the most glaring problems with Rowling’s story is her treatment of the many Indigenous nations in North America as one monolithic group. [...It] flattens out the diversity of languages, belief systems, and cultures that exist in Indigenous communities, allowing stereotyping to persist. [...] It continues a long history of colonial texts which ignore that Indigenous peoples still exist. [...] In the Wizarding world, as in the real world, Indigenous histories have been over-written and our cultures erased.

from The Looking Glass: New Perspectives in Children's Literature Volumn 19, Issue 1

Part 5: Music

Panel 1: Also in 2016 I discovered two podcasts which radically altered my experience of being an HP fan. The first was Witch Please created by two Canadian feminist literary scholars Hannah McGregor and Marcelle Kosman.

Panel 2: "If it's not in the text it doesn't count!" "Close reading ONLY!"

Panel 3: They talk about Harry Potter at the level you'd expect in a college class with particular focus on gender, race, class, and the troubling fatphobia, fear of othered and queer coded bodies, violence against women, white feminism, gaslighting and failed pedagogy in the books. They bring up these issues not because they hate the series, but because they LOVE it.

These passionate, joyful conversations went off like fireworks in my mind. I had never taken a feminist class before. I gained a whole new vocabulary to talk about the books- and the world.

Panel 1: The second podcast I started that year was Harry Potter and the Sacred Text, created by two graduates of the Harvard Divinity School, Vanessa Zoltan and Casper Ter Kuile.

Panel 2: They read one chapter per episode through a theme such as love, control, curiosity, shame, responsibility, hospitality, destruction, or mystery. Like Witch Please, they are interested only in the information on the page, not thoughts from the author. The delights and failures of the text are examined in the context of the present day, and new meanings constantly arise.

What does it mean to treat a text as sacred?

Trusting that the more time we give to it, the more blessings it has to give us.

Reading the text repeatedly with concentrated attention. Our effort is part of what makes it sacred. The text is not in and of itself sacred, but is made so by rigorously engaging in the ritual of reading.

Experiencing it in community.

"To me, the goal of treating the text as sacred is that we learn to treat each other as sacred." -Vanessa Zoltan

Part 6: Tooth and Claw

In October 2017, Rowling liked a tweet linking to an article arguing that trans women should be kept out of women's bathrooms because of cisgender women's fears. In March 2018, she liked a tweet about the problem of misogyny in the UK Labour Party which included the line "Men in dresses get brosocialist solidarity I never had." The author of the tweet had previously posted many blatantly anti-trans statements.

Rowlings publicist claimed she had liked the posted by accident in a "clumsy and middle-aged moment." Yet, in September 2018 she liked a link posted by Janice Turner to her column in the Times UK titled "Trans Rapists Are A Danger In Women's Jails."

Screencaps of these tweets can be found in the article "The Mysterious Case of JK Rowling and her Transphobic Twitter History", January 10 2019 by Gwendolyn Smith (a trans journalist), LGBTQNation.com

Excerpt from: Is JK Rowling Transphobic? A Trans Woman Investigates by Katelyn Burns

Ultimately, the answer is yes, she is transphobic [...] I think it’s fair that she receives criticism from trans people, especially given her advocacy on behalf of queer people in general, but also because she has a huge platform. Many people look up to her for creating a singular piece of popular culture that holds deep meaning for fans from different walks of life, and she has a responsibility to handle that platform wisely. (Published on them.us March 28, 2018)

Part 7: Home

At age 30, I'm still not over Harry Potter.

Panel 1: I've recently found a local bar that does HP trivia nights. "Poppy or Pomona?" "Poppy!"

Panel 2: I currently own an annual pass to Universal Studios so I can visit Hogsmeade regularly.

Panel 3: I love talking to kids who are reading the books for the first time. "Who's your favorite character?" "Ginny!"

Panel 4: And I'm planning a relisten to the audio books to next year to help me get through the election cycle. "Jim Dale, I'm going to need you more than ever..."

Despite what I know about JK Rowling, I don't want to give up something that brings me so much joy.

But I do want to learn from her mistakes. I never want to repeat "Magic in North America." As I write, I will do my research. I will consult experts and compensate them. If a reader from a different culture/background than me speaks up about my work, I will listen and apologize. I KNOW I WILL MAKE MISTAKES. But I will own up to them and I will do better.

Excerpt from Diversity Is Not Enough: Race, Power and Publishing by Daniel José Older

We can love a thing and still critique it. In fact, that's the only way to really love a thing. Let's be critical lovers and loving critics and open ourselves to the truth about where we are and where we've been. Instead of holding tight to the same old, failed patriarchies, let's walk a new road, speak new languages. Today, let's imagine a literature, a literary world, that carries this struggle for equity in its very essence, so that tomorrow it can cease to be necessary, and disappear. (Buzzfeed, April 14, 2017) 

Harry Potter is flawed, & JK Rowling is problematic. But the books helped me learn a lot: 

*One of the greatest dangers facing the modern world is the rise of fascism 

*The government cannot be trusted 

*Read and think critically

*Question the news: who paid the journalist? Who owns the paper? 

*Trust and support your friends through good times and bad

*Organize for resistance

*Educate and share resources with peers

*The revolution must be diverse and intersectional

* We are only as strong as we are united

*The weapon we have is love 

MK 2019

[psycho-slytherin]

Strangers ch. 26

You see Xiumin again, and the drama is off to an interesting start.

Pairing: Yoongi x (female) Reader

Word count: 2.4k

Genre: Fluff

|mlist|

<–– Prev   Next ––>

Yoongi freezes. “Wh-what?”

His bewilderment is so adorable that you can’t possibly keep from laughing. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, oh my god.”

Yoongi exhales loudly, as though he had been holding his breath. “Dumbass, you scared me.”

You pout. “Is the idea of kissing me that terrifying?” You’re joking, of course.

When Yoongi speaks his voice is low, half strangled.

“I mean, we’ll both only be acting, right?”

You blink once, twice. “Right, only acting...” you scratch your head, chuckling weakly. His flat tone is off-putting somehow. “Man, once this drama starts your fans are gonna keep going off–”

“Keep?”

Uh-oh. You instantly realize your mistake, backpedaling clumsily.

“I mean, I just meant, uh... you know, I guess ARMYs can be kind of... harsh? I’m only assuming,” you rush to add.

“Y/n... have you been getting hate from our fans?”

You gulp. Yoongi doesn’t follow you on Twitter, since he’s only online with the BTS account. If he hears the type of comments you’ve been receiving, he’ll worry, and his dorky ass might actually try to do something about it.

“Are you kidding? Of course not. I’d tell you if anything was bothering me,” you laugh, booping his nose playfully. The falsehood tugs at you, wrestling with your conscience, but you refuse to let it get to you. Of every lie you’ve told, this one isn’t bad.

“Anyways, I have hella homework and now that I have, you know, my own bed again...” you shift your weight from side to side. “Thanks again for letting me stay with you by the way.” I was in a bad place, the worst place, and you gave me everything. “I really appreciate it.”

Yoongi reaches out and rubs his thumb against the Starry Night bead resting at the hollow of your throat. “Of course, y/n, what are friends for?”

“Nerd.” You smile widely before shoving your hands in your coat pockets. “I’ll see you later then?”

“Yeah.”

Too jittery to ask for a ride, you turn and begin walking the familiar road back home.

“Y/n, wait!” You feel Yoongi grip your elbow and when you turn around, you very suddenly find your face an inch from his, his eyes devouring you, and his lips so, so, close...

Yoongi smirks. “Kidding. Catch you later, y/n.”

You swallow. “Right. Later.”

You spin on your heel and hightail it back to your apartment. What was that? Did he try to kiss you? Was he getting you back for teasing him earlier? And why, oh why did some very small part of you really want to kiss him, want to press your lips against his and–

Idiot. No. No no no no. If anyone in the whole wide world is off limits, then it’s him. Yoongi. The man with the big “DO NOT TOUCH” on his heart, so to speak. You can’t like him, never ever, and certainly not now, at the peak of his career.

Besides, you only felt that way because he was an idol, right? Right? Up until you met the guy, all you wanted was to marry him. And, of course, after acting out that scene for the audition– it’s only natural.

You shake your head, remembering the shiver that ran down your spine when his lips neared yours. What was happening to you? As you lie in bed, half asleep, your thoughts drift to what your life has become.

“Bitch.”

“Slut.”

“Whore.”

“Talentless, worthless, pathetic.”

The voices swirl around you, the insults flying like gusts of wind, and they tear at your frame, shoving you, forcing you to your knees and when you try to speak it feels like your words are sucked straight out of your lungs.

“Stop it!” You try to scream, but no noise leaves your mouth. “I didn’t do anything wrong! Stop it!”

“You touched him.”

“You talked to him.”

“You kissed him.”

“He’s ours!”

“Ours, ours, ours, ours, o-”

“Fame, flashlight– gi-give it to me!”

“Aah!” You bolt upwards, chest heaving, your forehead damp with sweat. You reach for your phone to shut off the alarm– your neighbors probably hate you by now.

Ugh, you’re sleepy, but you’ve got things to do. What else is new? It’s been... what, the third day in a row that you’ve gotten four hours of sleep? As you stand up, you feel a sudden dizziness. A few seconds later it passes, and you can go about your day.

And by day, you mean coffee. After you quit working at the cafe, your daily dose of caffeine had become more expensive– to the point where you finally gave in and bought a cheap coffee machine. Which, of course, has suddenly decided to stop working.

You watch the machine sputter and gasp, resulting in two drops of coffee and one headache. Great. You start filming for Moon Over the Sea today and you really can’t afford any mishaps. Especially if you’re filming with Yoongi. 

No mishaps means caffeine. Caffeine means cafe. Cafe means...

Xiumin.

You shake your head and breathe deeply– you’re going to have to see your ex eventually, and your old cafe is on the way to the studio. It’s the only place you can stop if you want to get there on time.

The familiar bell jingles and you’re once more drawn into your old life– a life before you met Min Yoongi; a life when your love of BTS stemmed from music videos and interviews, not games and banter; a life when you were only an overworked acting student and not despised by thousands of ARMYs. A life when Xiumin was nothing more than a friendly coworker.

You walk to the counter, where a painfully familiar head of hair is making a drink.

“Hi, can I help y- oh.” His voice makes your heart stutter, because it’s Xiumin, he made you breakfast and visited you in the hospital and cheated on you with a girl he called beautiful...

In your head you’re punching him. Out loud, you merely steel yourself– “Hi, can I get a double espresso?” No please. He doesn’t deserve a please.

“Uh...” Xiumin swallows nervously, and you feel a small rush of satisfaction. “Yeah. It’s been a while, huh?”

Your smile remains frozen on your face. “My double espresso?”

Xiumin doesn’t move. “Y/n, come on, talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. My espresso would be nice though.”

“I miss you.”

At his words you expect pain, you expect longing– you expect to want him back. And yet...

Your mind wanders to Yoongi. When you told him what happened with Xiumin, you saw his face: pure rage was reflected in those dark eyes.

“You deserve better,” he’d said during one of your long winded, alcohol-fueled rants.

He was right; you did deserve better. Is that why, now, you don’t feel a twinge in your heart on seeing your ex?

“Y/n, please, come back to me. Things can be just like how they were.”

His voice shakes you from your stupor, and your careful grip on your emotions loosens.

“How they were? Tell me, Xiumin, how exactly were things? Because I seem to recall a supposedly monogamous relationship in which we told each other everything, and I’m guessing you only recall how desperate you were to get your dick wet.”

Xiumin opens his mouth and you raise your eyebrows in response. “Answer me, I dare you.”

“You know, I could sue you for my birds,” he growls finally. “And my car. That’s property damage. I could sue you for every penny you’ve made from those ads, and that music video.”

You pause. What is he talking about? “Property damage?”

He scoffs. “Don’t act like you don’t know. You ruined my car!”

Delusional. “Whatever you say, Xiumin. Can you actually do your job and give me my coffee now?”

With an icy glare, he thrusts your espresso into your hands. As you saunter out, you turn and call to him: “Enjoy losing the one person in your life who could actually remember your name!”

He flips you off in response and, with that weight off your shoulders, your gait turns sprightly as you make your way to the studio. You arrive at 8am on the dot, and spy a familiar figure among the many milling around and awaiting direction.

You approach and tap him on the shoulder. “Yoongles~”

“Huh?” He turns around and it’s not him, it’s a face that’s very much not your Yoongi, it’s someone else, and you called him Yoongles–

“Oh! I’m, uh, sorry!” You turn and scuttle, cheeks flaming; you just bothered what must have been Yoongi’s body double, you’re such an idiot.

“You too, hm?” You hear a low chuckle and notice the real Yoongi leaning against a wall. “You’re the fifth person who thought he was me. Shit, I was confused when I saw the guy!”

You laugh with embarrassment. “Some friend I am.”

“Hey,” Yoongi leans forward and boops your nose. “You’re a good friend. Really.”

You blush. A world famous idol thinks you’re a good friend, even when all you’ve done is lie and pretend. How did you get so lucky? “Shut your face hole, nerd,” you reply, poking him before you get too sappy.

Yoongi opens his mouth to reply when you hear two loud claps echoing through the loud studio.

“Okay! Hello, cast and crew of Moon Over the Sea! I’m your director, Avery.” An elegant women with a curious accent speaks over the general chatter.

“You may notice I have an accent– that’s because I was raised in America. Now, we’re on a tight schedule so I expect all of you to work hard and productively for the next for months to make this drama the best it can be!”

The present company claps politely. “She seems nice,” you whisper.

“Here’s to hoping,” Yoongi murmurs in reply.

Avery consults a clipboard. “Now, for the scenes today I will need the following actors.” She reads aloud a list of names and you only tune in at “...Min Yoongi, and l/n y/n. The rest of the cast may go home– we’ll need everyone tomorrow, so be here bright and early.”

The studio empties out and the hair and makeup crews retreat to their respective areas. There are several extras and about a dozen named actors left after the movement ceases. Some of them you even recognize. You feel more than a little starstruck– you’re definitely the least attractive person here.

“As you know, this drama is inspired by the time-honored classic of Pride and Prejudice,” Avery continues. “Our leads will be played by Park Bo-young and Park Hyung-sik–” she nods at the familiar-looking actors and you blink hard, half blinded by the physical perfection. “– but the rest of you still have important stories to tell.”

You nod along, enraptured, and you see Yoongi smirk at you. He’s probably used to all the glitz and glam, but you’re savoring it– who knows how long it’ll last?

“For that reason, we’re filming Kim Ji-woo and Moon Sung-min first.” You jump at the summons of your character. “The scene is set for their first meeting, at the Sung family ball. I expect all actors and extras to be in costume and in character in the next half-hour. Go!”

Half an hour later you find yourself well dressed and slightly out of breath in a very realistic studio ballroom. Yoongi, infinitely more well dressed and not at all out of breath, nudges you.

“You look pretty,” he whispers.

“Not in comparison to literally everyone else,” you reply.

Yoongi looks like he’s about to say something  when Avery approaches, barking orders at extras. “You and you, there. You, go there. Bo-young, you play Hyeon, and you’re y/n’s younger sister, so stand a bit behind her. You know your lines, yes? Good. Let’s start with Bo-young’s line. Ready, and... action!”

There’s a clap and the cameras begin rolling. In the grandly decorated ballroom, the extras talk quietly amongst themselves. You and Bo-young stand tall in your dresses.

“I do believe Moon Sung-min is looking at you, sister,” Bo-young says teasingly.

You glance up momentarily and catch Yoongi’s eye. He’s gazing at you intensely, eyes alight with interest. 

You quickly blush and look away. “You’re mistaken. He’s far above us–”

“Which is why you should talk to him. Imagine the look on Mother’s face when she sees you with one of the wealthiest men here.”

“Hyeon!” you laugh. “Please, I could never!”

“Doesn’t seem like you’re going to have a choice, Ji-woo. He’s coming over~” Bo-young sings. “I’m going to go dance with the others. Have fun!”

“Sister–”

It’s too late, the fake crowd has swallowed her whole, and suddenly Yoongi is right in front of you and every cell in your body feels tense, nervous, as if it really is your first time meeting him.

“Hello. Miss Kim, yes?”

You feel your cheeks heat up at his voice.

“Y-yes,” you reply, sweeping your skirts in a deep curtsy. “And you must be Mr. Moon Sung-min. Are you enjoying the ball?”

Yoongi’s voice dips low, laced with longing. “Much more now, I think.”

“Cut! Great, guys.” Avery’s voice draws you back to reality, back to a world where the man in front of you isn’t meant for you. “Let’s take it from the top– that chemistry was crackling. I’m sure we’ll get it perfect in the next few takes.”

Suddenly an assistant holding a buzzing phone scurries up to Avery and hands it to her. With a nod of apology to the cast, she answers.

“Hello? Yes, this is she... What? Hang on, we have that area scheduled for filming on those dates. Who–” Avery’s voice turns icy. “I understand. What other times are available...? Oh, you’re kidding. Okay. Okay. Yes, crystal clear. Thank you, goodbye.”

As she hangs up she sighs deeply. “This is gonna mean a lot of emails.”

“What happened?” You ask.

“We have a number of outdoor scenes scheduled in a few weeks and we reserved an area for filming, but someone bought out the space. They can move our time, but... it’s a pain. We’ll have to redraw the filming schedule and move those scenes forward.”

“How forward?”

Avery grimaces. “Starting tomorrow. Congrats, Yoongi, y/n– we’re filming your first kiss tomorrow. Alright everyone, let’s get back to work!”

[oftripps]

“ –– wow. ”  it’s not so much a critique as it is a g-rated expletive. tripp forces a smile mid-chew and blinks. “ my tastebuds are screaming. gah–– uh, singing. singing. ”  he avoids swallowing and as ring-decorated fingers snag a napkin, wide eyes drifting to the tabletop as a small jingle breezes past tensed lips. “ ~ allergic to mushrooms ~ ”

or, alternatively: this is somethin’ new! the caspar slide pt. 2 !! & this time, it’s ‘bout to get funky !!  so i’m linc and this is tripp and he’s........ a trip, honestly, so let’s just... yeet on into this ––

( joe keery + 22 + muse 12 ) isn’t that phillip joel “tripp” goodman over there? i heard he joined faction: one after they got back to west ham. it’s funny, ‘cause they were only on the service trip because HIS BANDMATES DUPED HIM INTO THINKING THE SIGN-UP WAS FOR A WOODS-THEMED OPEN MIC GIG. hopefully they fit in there – they’re JAUNTY but also OUTRÉ. oh, i’m sure they’ll be fine.

out the door !  ( tripp goodman: a roadmap )

look up townie family in the dictionary and you’ll find a portrait of the goodmans directly beside. these folks have a looooong flippin’ legacy here in lil’ ole west ham, kansas. it all started with montgomery goodman, a good man, who helped west ham’s founders break ground on this midwestern charmer several centuries ago. and now, the goodmans still live on the same property –– a refurbished farmhouse ( now closer to mcmansion ) surrounded by five acres of roooooollin’ hills. once upon a time, they were farming folk. now, theresa and joel goodman run the town’s one and only veterinary clinic. 

honestly, growing up? tripp was a problematic kid. he’d take in frogs from the woods and start his own frog hotels. he’d sneak pets from the clinic to school who “ needed help learning their numbers ”. in class, he’d flick sunflower seeds at the backs of his peers’ heads and, when threatened with discipline, claim he simply “ wanted to see if they’d grow  ” .  so no, to answer your question–– tripp never really saw the real wrath warranted by his rulebreaking.

in fourth grade, he chose the saxophone as his required instrument. he caused such a commotion in his house, that his parents asked his teachers to suggest something quieter. the viola. the flute. the clarinet. the piano. instruments came and went,;instruments were quickly mastered and abandoned. because dear lord, how many times could they listen to the spongebob theme song played on woodwind ?!  on strings ?!  once middle school rolled around, little phillip joel knew his way around a whopping total of six instruments, a tally that would only grow in the coming years. eventually, his parents caved and allowed him to keep playing, so long as he respected instrument curfews. they gave song requests to avoid hearing the same pieces on repeat: the goodman household was probably the only one blessed with an oboe-and-beatbox rendition of under the sea. young phillip joel’s take on the issue was simple: not all heroes wore capes.

( tw: domestic unrest, mentions of violence ) theresa and joel split when tripp was 9. just seven months later, tripp’s mother moved in with her girlfriend: tripp’s guitar teacher, ms. lillith. tripp didn’t mind ms. lillith. she was chill. he came to find out she could knock back a chocolate milk almost as fast as he could, and she liked her grilled cheeses with swiss only. his best friend became a thirty-six year old woman who happened to be his mother’s girlfriend. and that was fine. he could dig it. but joel goodman? oh no. his family name was tarnished. the scandal was too much to bear. joel sued for full custody and nearly made it, thanks to hometown politics and loyalties. but then he made one fatal mistake: he crossed his own son.

at 10 years old, fifth grade phillip joel returned home to his father’s after school with three fingernails painted effervescent blue. sidney frasier made me so cool, he gushed as he put his colored nails on proud display. dad, aren’t i so cool?  the next day, his dad enrolled him in the town’s peewee football program. he returned home from his first practice with a black eye and a split lip. from a ball, the coach insisted. hit the poor fella square in the face, real strong. phillip joel put up a fight against football; it wasn’t for him. it conflicted with music practice. couldn’t he just play music with ms. lillith instead?

the custody battle persisted. they settled on a parenting schedule. joel contested, consistently, months later. and so the cycle persisted up until phillip joel’s 12th year, when he was knocked out cold on the football field. the broken ribs came from hefty tackles. bruises from the fall. concussion from the impact. but theresa spun it to her advantage: joel had since started coaching the middle school team. this was an instance of parental neglect. and, when the courts didn’t comply, she instructed her son to jump down the stairs. one broken ankle later, and joel goodman was accused of child abuse. his word against his injured son’s. the maneuver won theresa full custody. phillip joel has yet to forgive himself.

after the custody battle’s conclusion, joel stayed in town: but phillip joel didn’t want a thing to do with sharing his name. his mother still scolds him as phillip joel, but to everyone else, he became tripp –– inspired by his knack for, you guessed it!, tumbling over his own two feet.

in high school, tripp was the class clown. always smirking, always grinning, always ready to catch someone off guard. he became a pivotal part of west ham high’s jazz band, and even formed a small group with a few buds: face. they played some school events: homecoming, pep rallies, prom. garage-baked young rock, their songs often preached meetings under bleachers and high school never ending. 

in senior year, the band saw a reboot: and after assuming a more indie, spacey sound and a nifty new name –– 1757. –– they saw a rise in local celebrity. coffee shops commissioned them for jam nights. they played on the local radio. so they collectively decided to stick around and see how far they could ride this west ham fame train. with tripp as their frontman, they always leave a memorable impression: he’s not exactly the most run-of-the-mill performer.

1757.’s sound is reminiscent of LANY: i’ve reblogged a few tunes onto tripp’s blog for reference. he’s v much a paul klein / matty healy vibe. big into music. big into losing himself in it.

so what was he up to before the service trip? playin’ tunes. working part-time as a waiter. and brainstorming ways to get out of going on this trip, as soon as he realized his stupid bandmates lied about the form he signed. an open mic in the woods ! pah !  he should have known. but the concept sounded pretty flippin’ cool.

wear our shades on our nose, 'cause we're cool like that ( tripp goodman: the man, the myth, the ledge )

oh god, he’s  w e i r d .  he believes in goblins and ghosts and aliens ( oh my )!

still VERY VERY close with his mother. v broken up about not being able to get through to her, because it was about to be his parents’ wedding anniversary and they were going to anti-celebrate it with big slices of oreo cheesecake and setting things on fire.

how he feels about coming home to west ham: post apocalyptic version.

uhhhh... can he please get a waffle? specifically a cinnamon raisin waffle with extra cinnamon and a shit ton of syrup? actually. syrup with a side of waffles?

why he was banned from his personal twitter.

“ do you even lift, bruv? ”  * proceeds to pick up a teacup & lift his pinkie like a true knock-off british monarch, shitty accent included *

listens to wham! and glam rock. unironically.bluetooth speaker mounted on his bike. no helmet! like an absolute boss. he knows!! wild!! shades on. it’s 2am. it’s dark. but true swag obeys no clock.

catch him biking everywhere stranger things style, actually. his bike’s name is milo because he can roll on for miles. mess with milo and he’ll fuck u up. aka find out if you’re lactose intolerant and slip heavy cream into your meal.

has a strong vendetta against blue doritos. which might take root in some horrific experiences involving cheez wiz, cool ranch, weed, and the new york subway system at 4am on a tuesday. spring break freshman year of college. oof.

he has a lil drawwwwl. tease him about it. he’ll probably blush.

stress-hums chili’s babyback ribs without realizing. catch him singin’ that about to be murdered.

weapon of choice: kindness.

actual weapon of choice: baseball bat.

he will write little jingles to keep morale up. “ so we’re trapped / cash us inside / how bou’ dat ? ”

has a passion for introspective literary quotes. but... has somehow managed to learn each and every one wrong.

friggin’ loves superheroes even though he can’t be bothered to watch the films? he just… always used to get made fun of for liking comic books even though he never read them? “ arachnid man is uh...  heh. he’s pretty dope, huh? ” he embraces the falsehood. someone call him on it.

9/10 times if he’s in the gym, it’s just to eat his donut and watch pay-per-view movies on the bike for free.

apple pie can absolutely be breakfast if you try hard enough. jeez. get with the times, man!

he had a legitimate pet rock before going on this service trip. but has no idea where that bugger’s gone. probably got fed up with tripp serenading him with “ we will rock you ” at all hours of the night.

lawful good. will wave other drivers on forever.

got into an accident on his bike once. bitch broke his arm and he just kept on smiling.  “ no you have a nice day! and uh.... hey. mind if we like... call an ambulance? ”

low key feels like he’s the reason his parents’ marriage crumbled. low key guilty about it. low key wonders if maybe he lived up to his father’s expectations, he might have saved them a lot of grief.

give benny goodman by saint motel a listen and tell me that’s not his soul in audio form.

known for slightly hyperbolic storytelling.

pansexual as heck. falls in love. hard. it’s a mess. he can’t hide it. hence the shades.

he has brilliant hair. and it’s immortalized in his high school yearbook.

is hellbent on being a source of positivity in this terrible situation. can he interest you in a meme in these trying times? how ‘bout a granola bar? maybe a good ole game of mash?

he’s convinced this is an elaborate prank. or a social experiment. maybe aliens. but let’s not question it too much, let’s just.... have a good time? hakuna matata? no worries? lol where the twizzlers at?!

leaves a voicemail for his mother every morning and every night. maybe he cries. maybe.

he has one ear pierced because like.......... senior year of high school, he wanted to feel more cool.

allergic to mushrooms, shellfish, eggs, and harbingers of doom.

he truly boggles minds. just.... v out there? v spacey. he closes his eyes and drifts about on stage, fingers dancing on the keys, body moving in eclectic ways. he says “groovy” and fuckin’ means it. he dresses in prints inspired by grandma’s carpet. lots of half-buttoned flowy shirts, boots, tailored statement pants, dangly necklaces. he’s got his hands full of rings –– they symbolize milestones. and some are just, like... pretty. and one’s his mother’s old wedding band.

where the hell are my friends !  ( wanted connectz. )

i was gonna do a whole section on this and got lazy but like.... anything. all the things. good, bad, ugly, beautiful. hurt him. make him suffer. but also support him a bit.

i imagine he’s got a solid squad goin’. he’s in faction one too, so... hmu for those.

i feel like he’d be pretty chill with the greeks? yeah bro, he parties. he’ll chill. he’ll crack open a cold one and pretend to understand what those letters on your jacket mean! pie-apple-fate-uh? cool stuff !

ride or dies. pls.

he needs someone to like....... melt his heart. maybe someone unexpected.

thisssss got long & disorganized but yes! let’s plot! let’s do this thang! #hype!!

[justanoutlawfic]

Rewrite The Stars: An Outlaw Queen/Hood Mills Family Fic

Summary: Resurrected Remix. Regina could never return. The story of their lives in the before and after.

I got the idea for this angsty bugger based on a prompt tweet by @queen-of-the-merry-men who wanted Roland to learn how to do makeup from Regina...but then Regina died, so he did it for Peanut when she went to her first dance.

Now, I could never actually kill Regina Mills, BUT, I can make her family think she's dead. So, here's an AU of probably my most popular OQ verse. It'll flash around to show why she left (it's different this time) and why she can't come back. It'll show their lives before & after. It's angsty, it's got fluff, it's got family, it's got everything. Please don't hate me. I'm fragile. Send prompts, questions and other things to my Twitter/CuriousCat: justanoutlawfic or my Tumblr: findingtallahassee.

Also on AO3

To Roland, there was nothing his mother couldn’t do. She could tend to his scrapes and made them feel all better in just a few minutes, save an action figure from losing its leg, always knew how to make him and Henry were happy with the movie night and somehow, always knew exactly what his baby sister needed to calm down. Yes, to Roland, his mom was truly like a superhero from one of the comic books that Henry would read to him, Wonder Woman or Captain Marvel. She could always save the day and not even break a nail while doing it.

 One night, he sat on the floor playing with some toys while his parents got ready for date night. His uncle Will would be by soon to watch them and had made promises of pizza, movies and wrestling. It was going to be so much fun, he could hardly wait.

 Regina exited the walk-in closet, wearing a navy-blue dress, her hair curled. She stood at her vanity, opening up a box. Roland didn’t pay much attention at first, until he got a good glimpse of her putting on her makeup. She made it look so easy. He moved closer as she moved onto her eyes, managing to not poke herself with any of the tiny brushes or sticks. Roland watched in awe, his mouth agape.

 “How do you do that?” He asked, in wonder.

Regina arched an eyebrow, looking at him in the mirror. “What do you mean?”

“The paint.”

Regina continued to look puzzled and then the realization washed over. “Oh, my makeup.” She smiled and finished up her eye makeup. “Here.” She placed hand on her padded stool, so the 5-year-old knew it was okay to jump up. “I’ll show you.”

 She did her blush, explaining exactly where to put it and how she blended it. Then, she found the shades that would be best on him and taught him how to apply it on himself. She did some light lip gloss next, followed by some eye shadow, explaining it every step of the way.

 “Why do people wear makeup?” Roland asked as she went to dip the brush in for his second eyelid.

Regina paused. “I guess it’s just something that was always a part of growing up for me. I watched my mother do it, my aunts and cousins after she passed away. But people wear makeup for a bunch of different reasons, just as they do everything. Some do it to cover up things, other do it to for work. Just know, that you never have to do it to improve how you look. Makeup doesn’t make you anymore beautiful than you already are.”

 Roland grinned and then watched her select her jewelry. He found a bulky bangle.

 “Can I wear this? It looks like treasure.”

“Of course you can.” Regina kissed his nose and Roland beamed brighter, sliding it onto his wrist. Neither noticed Robin standing in the doorway of the bathroom, grinning from ear to ear. “Just make sure you wipe that off before bed, or your face will get infected. I can teach you how to do more as you get older.”

 There would be a few more lessons after that. She taught him about looks for different times of the day or occasions. Overall, she taught him that makeup was there to supplement beauty and that it was there to define it. He’d sit by her and watch her do her makeup when he’d catch her doing it, but there’d be a time when he’d wish he had done it more often.

 Only six months after the lessons began, Roland was told that his mother had passed away in a car accident. He had no way of knowing the truth, that she had to be sent away for their own protection. If he had known the truth, it probably wouldn’t have changed the pain that it caused their family. It wasn’t hard not to see the change it brought about their dad. He wasn’t the same bright, goofy person he had been for Roland’s whole life. Robin snapped easier and the boys knew that he waited until he thought they were asleep to cry. Henry wasn’t around much; he would skip school or leave the house at night. Even Bryony, as young as she was, seemed to be acting differently. Roland felt sad too, all the time, and he couldn’t laugh. He felt like no one understood how he felt. He couldn’t even talk about his mom without wanting to cry.

 Eventually, they fell into their new normal. It took time-and lots of therapy-but they did. Henry slowly stopped running away and his grades picked back up in school. He even made the honor roll. His dad was back to telling jokes and smiling again. There were times he still got a wave of sadness over him, but it was clear that he was a much happier person. Bryony was growing and Roland found that telling his baby sister about her made things a lot better for him. Despite their 5-year age gap, they ended up very close.

 Which is why it wasn’t a surprise that Henry texted him an “SOS Peanut” text, when their little sister was 12 years old.

 Peanut was the nickname they had coined for Bryony when she was just a baby. She was so small and Bryony seemed like such a mouthful to say for a 5 and 8-year-old respectively, so they came up with that. Now that she was getting older, she tried to argue it, but she would always be that to them-especially when they wanted to get a fun rise out of her.

 Roland was already on his way home when he received the text and he figured that his dad wasn’t there, Henry probably would’ve gone to him if he were. Robin and Bryony had a pretty close bond, so there was pretty much no problem that he couldn’t solve. However, their father was probably at work. It wasn’t that Henry and Bryony didn’t get along, but he was 8 years older, home from college for spring break and they were just so different. He was better for playing video games or ice cream rushes. Roland and Robin were the ones Henry texted when she had a crisis.

 He pulled into the driveway and headed into the house, finding his older brother sitting at the bottom of the stairs. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. She came back from the mall and went straight up to her room, she’s acting weird.”

“And that got an SOS text?”

“She just seemed really upset, alright? I tried knocking on her door, but she told me to get lost. Maybe you’ll have more luck.”

 Roland nodded, wanting to appease his worrywart of a brother. He definitely got that from their mother. She had been so overprotective; he could remember thinking that at even 5-years-old. He walked up the stairs and knocked on his sister’s door, which had donned a “Keep Out” sign since she turned 10 years old.

 “I said go away Henry!”

“It’s not Henry.”

There was a moment of silence. “Roland?”

“You know anyone else this cool?”

 Some shuffling, followed by the door clicking and unlocking. While Henry looked more like a mixture of both of their parents (Regina’s dark hair, hazel eyes that were a mix of both of them and Robin’s pale skin) and Roland was pretty much a carbon copy of his mother outside the dimples from his father (thick, curls, eyes the same color as chocolate and Regina’s coloring), Bryony had been the one sibling to inherit the most looks from their father. Her blonde hair fanned out at her shoulders and her arms were crossed over her Storybrooke Junior High Track & Field t-shirt.

 “You’re not at all cool,” she told him, matter of fact.

Roland rolled his eyes. “Henry said you were bummed out. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Henry needs to mind his own business.”

“We live under one roof, and he cares about you.” She didn’t budge. “I mean, if you wanna wait until Dad gets home…”

 Bryony huffed, but stepped aside. Roland walked into her room and noticed the transparent garment bag on her closet, containing a purple dress. He tilted his head.

 “What’s that for?”

“The school’s having some stupid dance.”

“Oh, you don’t really want to go?”

“I do, it’s just,” Bryony sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “Aunt Mulan took us. She’s going to be helping Greer get ready, all the girls will have their moms to.”

Roland didn’t need her to stay anything else. “And you don’t have a mom to help you.”

Bryony shrugged. “There’s a lot Dad can do, but there’s a lot he doesn’t know too. I just wish I could have Mom here to help me get ready.” She pointed to a shopping bag on her bed. “I mean, I had the sales lady help me find the perfect makeup and I don’t even know how to put it on.”

 A small smile poked on the edges of Roland’s mouth. It had been 12 years since his mother’s “passing”, but he could remember her tips like the back of his hand. They had come in handy as he entered middle school, where he ended up having more girl friends than guys anyway and would help them out. He had even looked into YouTube tutorials about hair, so he could be of more assistance in that department.

 “Well, I may not know much about dresses or shoes,” he said. “But makeup is my specialty.”

“Huh?”

“Just sit down, I’ll teach you everything I know.”

 Bryony skeptically sat down at her desk, which had a mirror on it. Roland grabbed the bag and unpacked the supplies. Luckily, she was right, the sales lady had steered her in the right direction for someone of her complexion and age. There was nothing too extreme about any of it. He started just how his mom had with him, the cheeks.

 “You want to spread it out, then blend it,” he explained, as he moved the brush. “The more natural it looks, the better.”

“I was afraid I’d look like a circus clown.”

“It’s common for first time users to make that mistake, but it gets easier with use or if you have a good teacher.” Roland gave her a wink.

 Next, he did the lipstick, choosing the more subtle shade of the two. It was then he realized that perhaps he should’ve asked if his dad was okay with sister wearing makeup, but they could cross that bridge later. For the moment, it was important to teach her how to wear it without looking ridiculous. He had seen far too many people make that mistake and he was not about to have his mom haunt his ass. Like Regina had with him, he spoke every step of the way, explaining his process, so she could easily do it again.

 As he was getting the eyeshadow ready, Bryony finally spoke up herself. “Where did you learn all of this?”

“From Mom.”

“Seriously?”

Roland nodded, dipping the brush into palette. “When I was 5, I was watching her do her makeup and I was completely mesmerized. It was like…witchcraft or something. I asked her how she did it and Mom just decided to show me.”

“Wow. Most moms probably wouldn’t have done that with their sons.”

“Mom wasn’t most moms,” Roland pointed out. “She really didn’t care what we did or wore.”

“So, like Dad, she wouldn’t have cared about you being bi?”

“I highly doubt it. One year, I wanted to be an angel for Halloween and someone made fun of me. She told me that in the Bible, angels were both male and female.”

The smile on Bryony’s face wouldn’t disappear. “She sounds like quite a lady.”

“She really was, close your eyes,” Roland instructed, feeling himself getting choked up.

He applied the eye shadow, thinking back to those days. What he wouldn’t get for another one of those talks, his then-pudgy hand on her cheek, her warm smile looking down on him. There were days it felt like just yesterday and others, that it felt like a whole other lifetime ago.

 When Bryony’s eyes opened again, Roland found himself thinking of Regina’s words from that night. “You know, Mom once told me that makeup isn’t what makes someone beautiful. It doesn’t improve how you look. Beauty is more than the surface. And I want you to remember that, even if you start wearing it now.”

“That’s really cheesy, Roland,” Bryony told him with an eye roll. “Though, I do appreciate it.”

 A few finishing touches and the job was done. Roland did a quick simple braid to show her what he could possibly do the night of and then suddenly got an idea. He rushed down the hall to his room, going through the top drawer of his nightstand. He found what he desired and returned to his sister’s room, handing over the bangle.

 “What’s this?”

“It belonged to, Mom,” he explained. “I borrowed it the same night she taught me how to do makeup. When Dad decided to clean out her side of the closet a few years back, I asked him if I could have it. I figured you could wear it to the dance.”

The bangle was bulky, flashy and didn’t at all go with the flowery purple dress that hung on the closet door behind them. Yet, Bryony looked from it, back up to her brother and said, “Of course I will.”

[poeticandvaguelysweet]

Jurassic World

Summary: She was small, helpless and unable to voice her decision in the matter when Claire plucked the baby from her crib and fled Lockwood Manor without looking back. 

Can they make things work for their relationship and the two-month-old they kidnapped? Will they crack under pressure or flourish in newfound roles?

Part: 1/?

The people have spoken. I asked a twitter poll if I should just post the first chapter or work on the fic more. 63% told me to post. Here you have it. 

No one really asked for this. There were a few people on twitter who finally encouraged me to work on it and push through my guilt for not spending time on prompts. 

It is nowhere near finished so please be patient. I am so excited to share Maisie Grady with you all. I’m scared I haven’t worked out all the knots but y’all are usually pretty open-minded when I throw peculiar things at you.

As always, I want to know what you think! What’s going to happen? How’re things going to go?! Bonus love to those of you who know the title reference. 

AO3

LITTLE NUTBROWN HARE

They had escaped. The Stygimoloch travelling in the opposite direction as Claire and Owen took to the stairs. They climbed their way to the second level of the holding bay, reaching rows of glass that served to separate the lab equipment from the cells.

There were was no one. The space desolate of human life as noise seemed to cluster in a different part of the manor’s basement. Owen and Claire crept down hallways not encountering a single soul as noise ricocheted off the walls, nothing but mumbles the further they got away from it. Owen decided it was a bad idea to move towards whatever was happening. Eli Mills and Ken Wheatley had left them for dead and locked them up more than he was happy with for a 48 hour period.

She followed, the two of them silent as their boots moved across the floor. Owen picked a door to his left, leading them both into another empty lab. The air was still while she waited for him to move, the sweat on their bodies lingering under her nose as Owen extended an arm in front of her. For a long while, her breathing was all she could hear, tangling with Owen’s just a step in front of her while Claire’s ears prickled to noticed what he had. For a beat, nothing stepped forward, growled, clicked or spoke.

Claire was about to hiss ‘what?’ at him, leaning into his shoulder when she heard it. A cry. Definitely human but not adult. The sound was strangled, tested out on new lungs, only small and still forming. Her eyes darted around the space, absorbing the lab, looking for the similarities between this one and the others they had seen. She just wanted it to be the same, another dinosaur incubation lab, breeding a cloned life where it shouldn’t be.

Owen took a small step forward, and Claire followed, matching each move with one of her own, respecting the silent rule that she had to stay behind him.

Standing in the centre of the room, blue light their only guidance as it radiated off sleeping monitors with bubbles rolling across their screens. A few were on, globes embedded in the shelves, ice blue and clinical. More for decoration than what they were a practical purpose. It hadn’t mattered. Claire’s eyes settled on a corner of the room, where the small cry had come from. Sitting there was a crib. ‘Owen …?’ She whispered.

Owen kept his distance. Claire losing visual track of him as she stepped closer. He wanted to leave. She could feel it. There was something about this whole thing that made him antsy. He didn’t want to step closer to that crib, didn’t want to tangle their lives with whatever lay on the other side of the side panel. If he saw, he would be compelled to do something, and Owen wasn’t sure he was ready for that. He just wanted to turn a blind eye and not get involved any further.

‘C’mon, this ain’t none of our business. We need to keep moving.’ He reached for her, fingers grazing the tacky material of her shirt, salt dried into the threads, making it stiff. ‘Claire.’ He said her name when his touch didn’t get her attention. His head ached, whole body exhausted from the day they had. This was their opportunity to get out, find safety and let their bodies collapse in a heap on the floor. He just wanted to put his guard down and not have to pick it back up again at least for twenty-four hours.

She wasn’t listening.

Instead, Claire had inched close enough to peer into the crib in the corner. The cry sounded a second time, looking for something but unable to communicate as Claire laid eyes on the baby within. ‘It’s a baby.’ She told him, voice hollow as her brows knitted together in concern. She looked for him over her shoulder, finding his back to her as she turned back to the tiny life they had uncovered.

The baby was small. Blanket loose around their little body as arms and legs slowly managed to wiggle free. Claire watched, caught in the movement of the child, head tilted towards the wall of the crib, mouth open and searching. She was drawn in and unable to pull herself away as she watched the baby move, another cry falling from its small lips. The little body rocked with a cry, an instinct flaring in Claire as she reached down to pick the baby up, blanket and all.

She could have sworn it was instinct, a need to protect as she reached in, fingers itching to set themselves against the warm body and soothe the baby’s upset. It had been years since her nephews were little and even then, Zach had been the only she had experience with during infancy. Claire was sure she could remember how to hold a child that small, it hummed within her along with the need in her chest begging her to move.

Her movements were slow, hands gentle under neck and back as inch by inch the baby rose out of the crib. When Claire turned, infant snug in the crook of her arm Owen had his head down, hands flicking through a folder.

‘Maisie.’ Claire and Owen said at the same time. Her fingers had found a small name tag around the child’s ankle just as Owen lifted his head from the papers he was reading. He finished the name, sounds drifting off into the quiet lab as she stared. It wasn’t every day that he saw Claire Dearing standing in front of him, holding a baby, blankets dangling from her arms. If it weren’t for the state of her clothes and the scratch on her chin, that vision would have fit perfectly into a daydream he would have denied ever having.

On the counter in the centre of the room sat the folder Owen had been leafing through. There was a picture of the baby stuck to the cover, her name written in thick sharpie underneath it along with a series of numbers neither Owen or Claire knew what to do with.

‘Why is she in here all alone?’ Claire asked, wide eyes fixing on Owen before they drifted to the grizzling girl in her arms, body so unbelievably light but stable in her grasp.  

What could Owen say? He didn’t have the answers to that question, only a shrug. Claire wasn’t buying it. ‘Says in here she’s only a few months old.’ Two to be exact, as two of his large fingers tapped on the cover. ‘Put her down.’ It was more of a demand than a request, ‘We need to get out of here’. Her feet were glued to the floor, Claire unable to move despite knowing that she needed to turn around and put the baby back where she had pulled her from. She shouldn’t have picked her up in the first place, but something told her too, the exact same thought that suggested the baby go with them.

‘I can’t.’ She admitted, arms tightening on the baby.

Owen turned back to her, ‘Claire, we really need to go’.

She shook her head. ‘I can’t put her down.’ She wanted to. Claire needed to do as Owen said, follow his lead, find their friends and get the hell out of Lockwood Manor before one species or the other managed to break out and wreak havoc on the house. ‘Why is she in here alone … in a lab?’ She asked a second time, Owen just as short of answers as he had been earlier. ‘There are dinosaurs out there,’ only a floor or two below them, ‘We can’t leave her.’ She wouldn’t. ‘She’s in here crying, all by herself … she’s too young to be alone.’ He saw the way her grip tightened, her eyes pleading with him to do something. He could nod his head and agree that she come with them, or he could physically take that baby out of her arms.

Something was stopping Owen too, a softness settling over his features as worry stirred in his gut. No baby that small with a loving mother and father, in a safe home environment, would be left on their own … in a lab … with a folder that had her name and picture on it.

Claire stood in the one spot, rocking the infant she held. The cries quietened, and Owen felt his heart crack at the sight of Claire watching that little girl. ‘I swear to God, Claire, do not make me put that baby’s life above your own.’ He knew it would happen, the need to choose between her or a two-month-old defenceless life. Just like she was making him approve of leaving or taking the baby. Something would happen. Something was bound to happen in this haunted mansion esque building filled with prehistoric creatures that weren’t even supposed to be there, to begin with. It was destined to go wrong.

But this changed everything. Owen wouldn’t put a baby at risk just so he could find Blue nor would he venture further into the manor to locate Zia and Franklin. They would have to make do on their own because his priorities had just been changed dramatically.

She nodded, short and sharp, a small smile pulling at her lips as she stepped into line behind him. He had a hand on the handle, ready to lead them back into the hallway when Owen stopped, turned, retrieved the file he had briefly glanced at and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans.

‘You need to keep her quiet.’ Owen warned, door peeling away from the jamb as he stepped out, checking the coast was clear before he motioned for Claire to follow.

Of all things, Claire Dearing didn’t know how to keep a baby quiet. Nevertheless, she nodded, looking down at Maisie as if to put the promise on the child herself. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

[…]

It didn’t hit her until they were standing in a Walmart a few hours South-East of Lockwood Manor. They took a baby. Kidnapped her. Stole the child right from her crib. A baby that probably had a mother. And yet, Claire couldn’t seem to find any remorse as Owen drove a stolen car, Claire sitting beside him, holding onto the baby tightly as they travelled without a car seat.

Owen had a buddy who lived nearby, the kind of friend he gained in the NAVY that owed him a favour. He knew the address, pulled up in a driveway, told Claire to wait in the car. His friend gave them keys to another vehicle, one not stolen, promising to get rid of the one they had parked in his driveway. He also handed Owen a stack of cash that, if spent wisely, could last them a couple of weeks. Neither of them had their wallets, the realisation dawning on Claire that her phone was gone too.

She felt like they were breaking the law, holding a baby that wasn’t hers on a strangers property as Owen exchanged quiet details. He wanted to leave her there, thirty minutes max while he ventured out to the nearest department store and purchased a car seat. Claire insisted that Owen didn’t know what he was doing before she climbed into the car and buckled herself in.

If she was completely sincere, Claire didn’t know what she was looking for in car seats either as they stood in the empty store during the graveyard shift. Owen had to hunt down a college student that worked there, someone who directed him to another staff member able to assist. The girl that helped was too chipper for 11PM after the last few days they had. She was a sight for sore eyes nonetheless as she cooed at the baby Claire held, promising to take the car seat up to the registers but not before she helped them with anything else.

Claire hated feeling useless. She shooed the girl away despite needing extra assistance as they wandered towards baby bottles, pacifiers, toys and formula. ‘How do you know what to get?’ Owen asked, feeling a little baffled as they stood in front of a row of bottles. All of them promising to be ‘no nipple confusion’, ’95% baby acceptance’ that also promote ‘healthy oral development’ along with other things that were making him uncomfortable and confused.

She shrugged, ‘Karen had these when Zach was a baby,’ or at least the brand looked familiar. She threw a box into their shopping cart before reaching for a pack of pacifiers. ‘We need to feed her, soothe her, entertain her — diapers!’ She was counting things off in her head, a mental checklist with her arms full, Owen pushing the cart behind her.

‘It’s only for a few days, Claire.’ They needed to lay low. Not bring attention to themselves, and then he would take Maisie into a police station, her file in hand and tell them where to look for her parents. A week max but no longer than that. They couldn’t raise a baby … not a stolen one at least.

Something slid across her face, a wall or sliding glass door as she turned back to him, a tin of formula slipping from her hands and into the cart. ‘Babies need a lot of things, Owen.’ He was learning that she wasn’t wrong in that regard.

‘But, you agree? We’re not keeping her.’ He stopped Claire’s hip right beside the cart, her back to him as Owen tried to peer around her shoulder. She only sidestepped the cart, turning the corner and disappearing until he followed.

‘I need you to pick one of these up.’ Boxes of diapers were stacked in six rows each of them one box too high above her head. Claire tapped on the appropriately sized box before she walked away from him, dancing a small sensory teddy over the baby’s head.

‘I need to know we’re on the same page.’ He followed her, Claire stopping at the baby clothes, her hand dusting over a few items before she picked them up. She was ignoring him, and that alone told Owen there was too much on her mind. He couldn’t tell if she was using the baby to divert other trauma’s in her mind or if something else was happening.

‘She looks too small for this.’ The tag read 0-3 Months but held up in the air it looked bigger than what would be comfortable on the small girl. He hummed, agreeing but unable to reach a solution. ‘I understand.’ Claire admitted with a sigh. ‘I just don’t know how comfortable I feel with sending her back there.’ Back to the lab. He let go of their shopping cart to reach over and squeeze her arm. Owen felt the exact same, but maybe there was something in her file that would get the girl adopted instead of sent back to her parents. ‘I knew Benjamin Lockwood. Had met him briefly,’ Owen already knew, they had discussed it a little in the car when she came to recruit him for the return mission to Isla Nublar. ‘He was a nice man. He told me only a few months ago that he wanted to save the dinosaurs, to clear both of our names from the disasters that had been Jurassic Park and World. I believed him, but I was also misled.’

‘I don’t think it had anything to do with Lockwood, Claire. I think it was all that fucker who was with Wheatley — I really wish you let me break his arm.’

She saw his fists clench and shook her head; ‘Wouldn’t have been worth it’.  

‘Was breaking his nose worth it?’ He asked, a smile pulling at his lips as he watched a flush colour her cheeks.

‘Definitely.’ Owen whispered a quiet ‘good’ in return, his lips lowering to meet her cheek on reflex. It wasn’t until he made contact with her skin that he realised they didn’t do that anymore. Claire didn’t pull away. In fact, a breathless sound drifted past her lips, her eyes fluttering closed on contact. ‘I just, I hope Lockwood had nothing to do with this.’ Her eyes were on the baby again, the same full look in chartreuse he saw earlier. He couldn’t call her on it, wouldn’t, for fear that it would push her away. Owen saw then that it was going to be hard letting going of this baby when the time came.

‘It was a big house. I’m sure there were lots of things going on that he wasn’t aware of.’ He reassured before picking up a smaller size in the exact same onesie and lying it out across the girl in her arms. ‘I think this one will fit better.’ He saw her dazzled eyes, confusion mixing in those perfect depths. ‘I have a nephew too, you know.’ He shrugged, wandering off with the trolley as Claire continued her shop.

She wasn’t looking when he added a small pack of baby socks to the cart, little animal faces sitting on top of the knee. She would have rolled her eyes if she saw them, gaze softening as she realised everything they had just done … taking a baby … he wouldn’t have changed a single thing if given the opportunity.

[…]

Owen didn’t want to stop the car, Claire situated in the back with the baby in her brand new car seat. He wanted to drive until he physically couldn’t, but it was Maisie crying in the backseat that made him stop a few hours before the sun rose.

The motel was small, nondescript and unmemorable. It was suitable enough to stop. They needed to shower, sleep and eat something outside of the moving vehicle. The baby needed it too.

‘Do you think she’s okay?’ Claire asked, the baby stretched out on the centre of the bed, lying on the blanket they had stolen her in. She had her small arms curled up by her ears, fingers rolled into fists as her little body stretched, mouth opening wide before she closed it and resumed sleeping. Claire was exhausted, her whole body ready to give in and collapse. She couldn’t take her eyes off the girl. Couldn’t move to disturb her, only watch the baby closely as her chest rose and fell and her bowed legs twitched.

Owen hummed, towel shaking water from his hair as he sat on the edge of the small breakfast table. ‘She looks fine.’ He offered, looking up from the ground. ‘Go take a shower.’ They had a big thirty-six hours, Claire still wearing the same thing, dirt caked onto her jeans and her skin tacky with sweat. ‘I’ll watch her.’ He promised, shoo-ing her off.

He felt lost when the bathroom door shut behind Claire. A baby was sleeping in the middle of their hotel bed. It had been too long since he had seen a kid this small. He didn’t know what to do with her other than watch mildly until he found the energy to stand, drop the towel around his waist and pull on a new pair of underwear.

The pipes in the walls rattled when Claire turned the shower on, something about the wheeze and whistle disturbed the baby who started to cry. He looked at her, watching her small face screw up as her mouth rattled and her arms shook. Temporarily he forgot what to do. He could read her cries like a new parent could. He had no connection to her beyond allowing Claire to pluck her out of a laboratory crib purely because he would have done the same. Something in her cry broke through to him alongside the want to soothe her before Claire came barrelling out of the shower. He reached down, large hands sliding under her too small body. It came back to him, the first time he held his brother’s son, supporting the head in the curve of his hand as he brought the baby to his chest.

In the bathroom, Claire heard Maisie crying just as she began to lather her hair with motel grade shampoo. She hesitated, fingers caught in red strands as she strained her ears to listen into the other room. Momentarily, she wondered if it would be worth washing the product out of her hair and rushing in to rescue Owen. But, by the time the suds were gone from her strands, Maisie had stopped. She told herself she needed to breathe. In a matter of six hours, that baby had become her sole focus, Claire almost losing sight of herself and the importance of keeping her hair clean (on her own personal scale of needs). She built up a second shampoo lather, deciding that if there was silence than Owen and Maisie were secure in the company of the other while she basked in the warm water soothing the aches of her body.

With the dirt scrubbed from her skin thanks to a questionable bar of soap, Claire deemed herself acceptable enough to step out of the shower. She had the forethought to take her new clothing with her, changing quickly with anxiousness to return to the girl and man she had left alone.

When the bathroom door opened, steam rolling out with her, Claire was met with the sight of Owen stretched out in the middle of the hotel bed. He was lying on his back, one hand sitting on his chest, anchoring the small bundle that was Maisie, almost shrinking under his palm. Claire stopped in her tracks caught by the vision of them, his chest rising the baby with every deep breath he took.

‘You okay?’ She asked, creeping across the room and gently crawling onto the bed. She was careful not to disturb the baby who was sleeping again, lips pursed, her cheek heavy against his bare chest.

His hand readjusted its grip on Maisie’s back, Owen giving Claire a nod in answer to her question. Something was twisting in her gut, making her cheeks warm and her vision blur as she watched him hold the baby. Maybe it was a bad idea taking the girl. Her appearance in their lives was suddenly trying to convince Claire that they could have this life, that they should have had this life if she didn’t tell him to walk away.

‘I think she needs a bottle before she goes to sleep’ She suggested, lip between her teeth being worried with uncertainty as Claire questioned the basic knowledge she had.

Owen raised his arm, taking his hand to the back of her head as he patted her damp hair. ‘Claire,’ He hummed, waiting for her to respond. She nodded, finding his eyes in the waking light of their motel room. ‘Just get some sleep.’ Claire lowered her head to the pillow beside him, trying not to overthink the fact that they were sharing a bed again. Instead, she focused on Maisie, one of her hands joining his on her back.

There was no way she could sleep safely like that on Owen’s chest. He would have to move her before he fell asleep but Claire didn’t have the energy to raise her head again to tell him. She fell asleep with the feeling of his fingers in her hair, the warmth of a baby under her fingertips and the smell of Owen so close to her nose it was almost the sole thing that knocked her out.

[…]

She woke to the sound of quiet cries, the baby already ingraining herself into the back of Claire’s mind. Her eyes snapped open, searching the empty bed in front of her, her body lacking the warmth of her sleeping partner. Her heart started to hammer beneath her ribs as she slowly sat finding the room empty but the sound of the baby still ringing in her ears.

It hadn’t been a dream. Claire knew that much. Jurassic World. Lockwood Manor. Owen. Maisie. It was all real. She could still smell the baby in her nose and feel the press of his lips against her cheek. She could remember the burn of saltwater in her lungs and the dusty smell of the old gyrosphere.

Trying to catch her breath, Claire pulled herself out of the old bed, feet hesitating against the rough motel carpet as she followed the sounds of the baby she stole. Owen was sitting outside their motel room, propped up in a wooden rocker that was stationed between every two doors. He had Maisie tucked into his arm, the dark hair on her head appearing beyond the bend in his elbow as his other hand held a bottle.

‘Sorry.’ He apologised, head lifting from the infant to catch Claire closing their motel door behind her quietly. ‘I was trying to keep her quiet.’ Owen explained, wanting Claire to get more than a few hours of shut-eye before the baby started to grizzle. ‘She doesn’t like the bottle much.’ The look on his face was pained as he returned his eyes to the baby, rubbing the teat of her bottle against her bottom lip, trying to encourage her to take it. It was making the process difficult because she wouldn’t take it but there was nothing more that Owen could do. Claire was awake, he had already failed in that regard

‘Maybe she was exclusively breastfed?’ Claire shrugged her shoulders, a single finger stretching out to stroke the soft hair on Maisie’s scalp.

Owen hummed. ‘She doesn’t have a mother.’

‘I mean, sure, we found her alone, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a woman out there missing her child right now.’ He could only hope no one had noticed she was missing or at least had taken them some time.

‘She doesn’t have a mother.’ Owen repeated, his face drawn in contemplation as he lifted it to face her once again. Claire blinked at him, mouth open and puzzled. He rested the baby’s bottle on her chest, freeing his hand to pluck the folder he had tucked between his thigh and the arm of the chair out from its place. ‘They … ah, they were using her? She’s some kind of project.’ He told her, offering the folder in explanation.

Claire shook her head. She didn’t want to know. Her eyes darted from the folder to the baby. She reached for her, both arms extended, fingers itching. ‘Can I have her?’ She asked when he didn’t move, stepping in front of him and bending to collect the girl without even waiting for his nod and breathless, ‘of course’.    

Maisie cried in Claire’s arms, just as she had with Owen. She rocked her, swaying her hips and bouncing in her step as she accepted the warm bottle he held out for her. The baby begrudgingly allowed it this time, face turned towards Claire’s chest as she grunted against the plastic. Claire grinned at him, a little triumphant that she could get the baby to do what he couldn’t.

‘I don’t think we can take her back to Lockwood Manor. She isn’t safe there.’

‘What should we do?’ Owen watched her, fighting back the small smile that was trying to poke through. It was mid-morning, Claire standing in front of him barefoot in pyjamas rocking a baby like she was made to do it. ‘We can’t just leave her somewhere.’ She worried about the option of turning her little life into the police and asking them to deal with it. ‘She’s only going to end up back where she came from.’ That was if they were looking for her. There was a chance if no one stepped forward the baby would end up in the system and at two-months-old Claire was sure she could find herself a friendly home.

They were quiet, nothing but Maisie’s suckles in the air around them. Owen was the first to sigh, hand scrubbing over his face as he shielded his eyes. ‘I don’t know, Claire.’ He breathed, trying to think about it and the things he had seen. She didn’t want to know. Had shaken her head at the chance when he offered. And yet, it sat in his lap answers trying to reach for her.

‘Did they hurt her?’ She asked, voice low and scared, arms tightening their hold on the baby.

Owen moved his hand, green eyes meeting hers. ‘I don’t know. There’s a flash drive I can’t look at just yet.’ From what he had read they mostly deprived her of contact. Left her to lie on her own and self-soothe since she was born.

‘We can’t send her back.’ She told him, urgently like he didn’t already think the place was a bad idea. ‘No wonder she’s so small.’ He answered with something from Maisie’s file a dislike in bottles. ‘They were treating her like an animal, Owen.’ Tears were burning in her eyes as he rattled off this and that from her file. ‘Is there something wrong with her? Is she sick? Contagious?’ Her lip curled, almost disgusted but her grip on the baby didn’t weaken. She was holding on tight with no intention to let go.

‘Not from what I read. Maisie would have been better secluded if she was contagious.’ A room in the middle of an empty hallway three floors below ground was pretty secluded if he had to think of a definition. ‘We need to take …’ he stopped, watching a hot tear slip down Claire’s cheek. She was shaking her head, backing away with two steps. ‘Claire, what?’ He softened, catching her guard up, eyes wide and scared. ‘Hey, calm down.’ He stood, hands up by his chest approaching her like a frightened animal.

She shook her head, taking her eyes off him to watch the baby in her arms. Owen wasn’t the threat. He wouldn’t hurt her. She would have time to run if she needed it. ‘Can’t we keep her?’ She didn’t look at him, tears rolling down her cheeks and landing in dark spots on the baby’s onesie. ‘If she has nowhere to go? Nowhere safe … can’t we try to do something right by her? I can do a better by her. Better than what she had.’

Owen shook his head. ‘We don’t know the first thing about raising a kid. We ain’t even together.’ He didn’t have a single worry that she wouldn’t be a good mom, because he knew she would outshine so many others. Owen just knew she couldn’t do this alone, would need support and strength. They weren’t a couple anymore. What would happen if they imploded again?

‘But we can try! We got through the night. She’s eating now.’ She gestured, raising the baby in her arms, eyes closed, mouth still moving around the teat of the bottle. ‘Please, Owen, I won’t be able to forgive myself if something happens to her.’ Her grip tightened, finger pushing into the blanket by the baby’s small thigh. ‘I can’t willingly let her go back to being a guinea pig.’ She hissed, making Owen flinch.

‘I wasn’t suggesting that.’ He was just trying to think logically.

Determination burned in her eyes, contrasting the tears on her cheeks. ‘Can you take us to Karen’s?’ That was it. She didn’t have the money or the confidence to put herself and the baby on a plane. Karen and her boys were still living in Madison, Wisconsin and where that was an easy forty hour drive from California, Owen and Claire were already sitting on the Nevada state line. It was still a big drive, but they had already started. Owen was the one who suggested they needed to lay low. A road trip with nothing but cash and a car they traded would make them virtually untraceable.

He nodded, hesitantly. It was a big task to get them that far. He could do it, but it would take them time. ‘Yeah.’ He cleared his throat, trying for a stronger sound. ‘Yeah, I can do that.’