#something something the push for fic to be recognized as a legitimate form of the craft

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

I do think it's funny though that writing isn't really thought of as something that has "sketches" or "warmups". You're either writing a completely fleshed out original story or you're failing at being a writer.

[thedeadflag]

I’m so confused! I know it’s not your responsibility to educate me but in your post bringing awareness to the negative aspects of g!p fanfic you say

“Why do these g!p characters rarely if ever involve experiences reflective of trans/intersex women? Why are they so utterly cis and perisex-washed? Why do nearly all writers have zero idea that tucking is a thing? “

Doesn’t that answer your original question? The reason they don’t reflect those groups of ppl is bc g!p isn’t trying to represent those groups of people or else it WOULD be transphobic to limit them to one specific fetish right? it just refers to a canonically female character with the addition of a penis (I don’t argue the name “g!p” should be changed bc that’s a no brainer why that could be offensive). But the fanfic in general, how could it be harmful? I’ve noticed in my time reading it as a non binary person it’s given me great gender euphoria reading a reader insert where reader has a penis while being a femme representing person just bc that’s a reflection of my personal experience. I don’t see anywhere where g!p fanfic ever references or tries to emulate the experiences of trans or intersex people so how could it be offensive?

Sorry this is way too long I’m just very confused

I'm going to try and lay this out as politely as I can. It's after 3:30 in the morning here, so this could be a bit disjointed and rambling. More under the cut:

In real life, ~99.999999% of women with penises are trans women. Which puts us in a tricky situation of (A) being the only women with penises around for media involving women with penises to reflect back on, and (B) being in the lovely position of precious few people actually having had meaningful real life exposure to trans women, meaning (C.) all those stigmas and all that misinformation are going to purely affect us and it’s going to be uncritically gobbled up by the masses, since they don’t have any meaningful information to fill in the blanks with instead.

When we peer into the depths of femslash fandoms and see all these folks who aren't trans women writing about women with penises, and using cis women’s bodies as platforms for these penises, it’s the simplest thing.

I mean, some of those folks might actually be struggling and confused about why they’re into it, what the real appeal is, why they get off on it, why they might have some feelings about wanting a penis of their own…

…but from our vantage point, it’s really easy to gauge 99.99% of the time. We can generally see valid, legitimate yearning to have a penis pretty damn easily in a piece of art/writing, and we can also see when people who create this media are just hung up on a boatload of baggage and fetishization.

And 99.9% of the time, the creators are just hung up on a boatload of baggage and fetishization, and see trans women’s bodies as a perfect vehicle to tap into that, generally due to deeply held cissexist views that link us and our bodies and genitals directly to cis men, to maleness. As if penises are rooted in maleness and masculinity (which is absolutely not true).

And I have sympathy for NB folks (certainly TME ones who have reached out to me in the past about this) who might be struggling with that, but just because they’re non-binary, it doesn’t mean they get to appropriate our bodies and reproduce transmisogyny and trans fetishization in their attempts at feeling better. Shit doesn't work like that.

Because again, the only women with penises in this world, essentially, are trans women. Meaning any woman with a penis in media is a trans woman, implicitly or explicitly. Meaning that when people who aren’t us want to write us, intent doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter if it’s just the writer’s fantasy, it’s still going to attach a variety of messages directly onto us.

And more often than not, due to cissexism, those messages are linking us to maleness, to toxic masculinity, etc..

While I do want to believe they're a fairly small minority, a lot of NB folks in fandom spaces like g!p characters in part because they see penises as male and the rest of the body as female and think that duality is interesting and would be comfortable, and is a nice balance of “both worlds” or a nice position “between male and female”, but that’s a wholly cissexist, transmisogynistic view to have, and it’s one that absolutely cannot be supported without directing sexual violence against trans women and invalidating our entire existence. Certainly not all NB folks into g!p like it for that reason, but holy shit a fair bit of them do and it’s weird and wrong and fetishistic.

g!p emerged from the idea that women can't have penises, and drew on the transmisogyny and cissexism of tr*nny porn to structure that frame of desire and the core patterns and trends within these works. It's always been trans women's bodies being used as a vehicle, whether or not the writers of these fics are explicitly aware of it, because the trope itself still holds true to its original patterns and cissexism. It's not the name that's the problem, it's the content; changing the name would be a surface level change that wouldn't affect anything.

g!p objectifies women with penises (trans women). A woman with a penis is more than just a woman with a penis, but the use of the term and trope is literally to (A) remind people that women don't have penises, otherwise the g!p term wouldn't be needed if people actually accepted women with penises as women, and that (B) this is a story centered on a scenario where there's a woman with a penis, with key focus on that genitalia specifically. it's the drawing point, it's the lure, it's what everything is centered on. It is a means for folks to write lesbian sex while also writing about penis in vagina and getting off to it. It's also no surprise that the penises so clearly emulate cis men's penises in these works, that is by design.

As I’ve said many times before, if you’re only writing trans women’s bodies to showcase cis men’s penises, you’re not respecting the womanhood of trans women, and this ultimately has nothing inherent to do with penis-owning women, it has to do with (cis) men and their penises, because trans women are just being used as a vehicle to emulate them. When NB folks do the same thing, and imagining themselves as those g!p characters, they are ultimately embodying cis men, their maleness, and often toxic masculinity, in a way that feels safe and distanced enough for them, a shell that they often code as cisnormative due to their own unprocessed cissexism.

And trans women don’t deserve that.

You seem caught in the idea that if something doesn't directly perfectly reflect trans women, that it can't be linked to us., which ignores the long long history of media being used to misrepresent marginalized peoples and cast us in insulting, dehumanizing lights. You show a lack of understanding of the g!p trope and the long history of its usage across a few other names, even if the content and patterns remained the same. It shows a lack of understanding of tr*nny porn and transmisogynistic stigmas, which the trope draws heavily from.

I think we can all recognize that most 'lesbian' prn that's made does not represent actual lesbians, it's overwhelmingly catered to the male gaze. We can also recognize that this category of porn has led to a lot of harassment towards lesbians from cis men who at the very least want to believe lesbians are just like they are in the porn he watches, that lesbians just need the right man. Lesbians are being used as a vehicle for a fantasy that was created externally to them, and doesn't represent their realities.

It's the same kind of situation here. The way g!p fics play out overwhelmingly doesn't reflect trans women's realities, but they are inherently linked to us regardless, as we're the vehicles for those fantasies, as unrealistic and harmful as they may be.

g!p characters are built in our fetishized image that’s based on a deeply cissexist misunderstanding of us, of the gender binary, and of bodies in general.

I mean, when 99% of cis folks don’t understand how trans women tend to be sexually intimate… when they don’t understand what dysphoria is and how it works and how it can affect us physically and emotionally…when they don’t understand almost any of our lived experiences…then they’re not going to be able to accurately portray us even if they wanted to.

And I’ve read enough g!p fics where authors wrote those as a means of trying to add trans rep, but because they didn’t understand us at all, it wasn’t remotely representative, and it was ultimately fetishistic, even if there was an undercurrent of sympathy and a lack of following certain common g!p patterns there that differentiated it from the norm.

If g!p fics were at all about reducing dysphoria or finding euphoria, then it wouldn’t be explicitly tied up in the performance of very specific sex acts, very specific forms of misogyny and toxic masculinity, very specific forms of sexual violence and exertion of sexual power, etc.

But it is.

So the notion that creating g!p fics helps NB folks? Nope. It CAN certainly prevent/delay those folks from facing a whole boatload of shit they’ve internalized, and coddle them at the expense of trans women.

Because if it was really about bodies and dysphoria/euphoria, there would be a considerable push (allying with out own) to end our fetishization and to represent us in and out of sexual contexts with accuracy, respect, and care. Because they wouldn’t care what sex acts were performed and what smut beats were hit, they’d just want to see someone with a body like their ideal being loved, being sexual, connecting, being authentic, etc. Which very much is not the case in the overwhelming majority of g!p fics. That's what we want, and it's not what g!p writers want, it's nothing they give a shit about.

Like, a ways back I started doing random pulls of g!p fics from various fandoms and assessing them for certain elements to provide some quantitative clarity. I started on The 100 here, and did OuaT here. Never finished the 100 one since the results leveled out and stayed pretty consistent as the sample size grew, so I didn't really see the point in continuing any further after about 140 fics when the data wasn't really changing much at all.

Lastly, media influences people. I've read countless posts and comments from people who use fanfiction as a sex ed guide, in essence. Which is ridiculous, but I also know sex ed curricula often isn't very accurate or extensive in a lot of areas, so people take what they can get. Representation in media can be powerful, and when it overwhelmingly misrepresents people, that's also powerful. Just because fandom is a bit smaller than televised media, it doesn't make that impact any lesser, certainly not for those whose primary media intake is within fandom.

Virtually all trans representation in f/f fanfiction is misrepresentative of us. That has a cost in how people understand us, how people react to us, and how people treat us. Not just online, but in physical spaces, and in intimate settings.

I invite you to read that post you referenced again, or perhaps this longer one which is a response to a trans guy who seemed to feel something similar to you with this trope.

All I can do is lay it out there and try to explain this. It's up to you how you handle this. All I know is whenever there's a big surge in g!p in a fandom, trans women generally leave it en masse, because it's a very clear and consistent message that we're not valued, respected, and that people value getting off on us over finding community with us.

[greycappedjester]

Hi I'm so sorry I'm just too shy to ask this on ao3 but I was wondering: how is Slade's relationship with Dick? I don't mind them as a ship in general but in the story sometimes I feel like Slade gets too close to Dick and I thought if there was something platonic on his side? I'm sure you wouldn't do that in the story that's why I'm asking if it's only on Slade's side. Sorry if this is a stupid question lol. Maybe it's just because I've read sl/adedick fics before. ^^D

Nah, I’ve actually been waiting for someone to ask about that. So....it’s complicated and will take awhile to explain so I’m putting it under a Read More before I get too long winded with my character headcanons:

This is going to get soooooo long, lol, so feel free to skim. Warning for Gotham in general and Gotham being naturally a bad place for kid vigilantes to grow up in. Also because this explanation gets somewhat dark in character interpretation....

Bonus short story at the end after a really long post.

-------

Alright, so first, I feel like I should mention again that I never watched the Teen Titans animated show past maybe the first two episodes and the movie my friends wanted me to watch that I don’t really remember. (I meant to watch that show, just never got around to it). I say this because I heard that the Teen Titans TV show portrayed the Dick and Deathstroke relationship much differently in a way that’s cool and fine but not something I can see myself really wanting to write about. I know their relationship more from comics where Dick was already an adult (albeit a young adult) when he first met Slade. 

So. Back to my After the Fall of Olympus universe and yeah, I’m slowly getting to my answer. The thing is....the story is entirely in Dick’s POV right now.

And Dick’s absolutely terrible at reading and picking up any form of affection others have for him. He understands it abstractly (he knows people care) but when assessing, he critically underestimates it if he remembers to account for it at all. This goes even worse with people he’s closer to--which is why it took him forever to realize why Jason actually did want to stay with him at the manor and why he still has no idea Barbara is in love with him. Even Kory who was really, really direct about liking him, it took him years to fully emotionally process and respond to that. He’s getting better...but remembering his own value (in others eyes) isn’t something he’s overwhelming good at doing.

My headcanon, he is abnormally good at reading people and picking up basic sexual attraction. He’s good at telling when he’s being flirted with or when people are attracted to him and, honestly, Dick’s charismatic and instinctively a flirt, too.With that, partly from growing up in Gotham with its weird and supremely dark villains, I think Dick very much divorces the two concepts of romantic attraction and sexual flirting in his mind--he’s aware they can go together, obviously with Kory--but he doesn’t naturally pair them as other people probably would. It’s also part of why he just doesn’t get the level of concern Tim has about Catalina.

Okay, back to my point.

The way I write Slade and Dick’s relationship is actually mostly done off screen. But, I think Slade started with approval of Dick’s skills and potential in a clinical/objective view, growing respect and interest (personal but not at all romantic) in him as a person, and much more recently in the story (as in that last conversation he had in Ch. 18), I think Slade realized he has some legitimate attraction and cares a lot about Dick in a way that’s probably romantic.

Slade also is very, very aware immediately that he’s not going to do anything with that and, in a way, doesn’t want to because Dick ever responding to that would be jeopardizing his relationship with his family, his team, his view of his morals (which are so integral to Dick) in a way that would be exceptionally out of character and concerning coming from Dick. In other words, something happening would be a lot more terrifying than nothing happening and Slade cares.

For Dick, it’s a lot more simple. He does not have any romantic feelings there. He does in a somewhat analytical, unconscious way recognize that Slade’s probably attracted to him (probably before Slade noticed honestly) but he’s....well, kind of used to that at some level. More so, Dick doesn’t connect it to emotional care and--like with everyone else--vastly underestimates that Slade does care about him in a way that’s actually pretty selfless for a mercenary. For a romance, your guess is absolutely right, it’s not going to go anywhere in this series but I wanted the undertones and implications to be there in the final third of the story

....But, that’s also more of a later/recent development in that relationship. For most of the story that’s posted so far, Slade sees his relationship with Dick as a lot of respect and even care but not as romantic in any way. I can promise no romantic undertones at all until Dick was already in his 20s because I really, really am not interested in writing underage. (for those curious about Slade’s age in the story, I think of him as mid-20s in his introduction in Year 3 and pretty early 30s here to Dick’s early 20s)

Above everything, they respect each other and would be almost friends if that were possible.

The team and his family doesn’t know any of this.

Anyway, that was long, so here’s a bonus short story from Slade’s view. I write a lot of After the Fall of Olympus short stories in other charcter’s views that I’m not planning on posting until After the Fall of Olympus.

This one’s between Year 5 and 6 and is titled “October 7th”:

-------

It’s October 7th, almost two in the morning, and Slade’s camped out in a somehow still standing bombed out apartment in a no-name village in the middle of a war-torn country.

He’s not exactly expecting visitors.

There’s a knock on the apartment door.

Slade cocks his gun and puts two rounds in the door before, for good measure, adding matching ones on either side of the frame.

He has two seconds to let himself pretend that’s the end of it before the door knob turns to the unmistakable sound of a skilled lock pick. 

Fuck, he’s too tired for this shit today. 

“Geeze, Slade, what if I’d been an innocent civilian?”

Slade’s hand stills on the gun in surprise then consideration before slowly slipping it back into the holster. 

“Kid,” he greets. “There’s no innocent civilians left around here. ‘Specially ones that can make it to my door without me hearing any footsteps.”

“I’ve been working on that.” Dick says, walking into the apartment. He isn’t even wearing his uniform, just plain black military style clothes with the lower half of his face covered by a piece of cloth. He pushes it down and smiles as he presses the door shut behind him. “You did tell me to get better, after all.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have,” he mutters without much heat. “You getting better almost left me out of a job.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “Please, as if both of us don’t know Luthor could’ve gotten out of those charges in months. If the Light didn’t erase them for him, anyway.”

Slade shrugs. Maybe another time, he’d find the energy to banter back. But not today. Never today.

“Why are you here, Dick? How’d you find me?”

The smile slides off of Dick’s face, leaving behind those far too heavy eyes to belong to an eighteen year old.

“You know I have your file, Slade.” Dick clears his throat. “I know what day it is.”

….Fuck.

It’s not like he expected anything else. Not since the moment he saw the kid. But, still...he doesn’t want to deal with this. Doesn’t want to deal with anything. Today, he just wants to crawl back into the worst, most deserted corner of the world he can find until the hours creep passed and he can find the energy to move.

Instead, he glares. “Good for you. Now get the fuck out, kid.”

Dick grimaces but shakes his head. “Not until you answer a question for me.”

Slade groans and, for a handful of seconds, honestly contemplates just killing him, considers it in a way that he hasn’t since before he even met the kid, back when he was first handed a file by a practically no name organization called H.I.V.E.

He’d regret it later. Sure. He has too much he wants to see out of the kid to kill him in a shitty, dusty apartment. But, that regret would come later. Later, once this day had finally passed.

That alone is almost enough to have him reaching for his gun. Almost

“Grayson,” he finally grounds out, “if you know what day it is, you know I’m not exactly inclined to play our game of hero and villain right now. You want information, find someone else.”

“Good, I’m not here to play either. Only problem is I can’t ask anyone else, you're the only one who knows the answer.” Dick lowers himself to sit on the floor across from him, like a particularly stupid mouse in front of a viper.

And then, he looks up and his eyes are too steady to belong to prey.

“Here’s the question: Do you really want to be alone today, Slade?”

The breath catches in Slade’s`lungs, harsher than if the kid had just punched him.

He pushes the reaction down, already knowing it’s too late, and says in the steadiest voice he can manage, “Yes.”

Dick stares at him, unmoving. “I don’t believe you.”

The air around them is too tight, too burning, and Slade’s being pushed down under it to suffocate. 

He can’t fight it, so he takes it and pushes it back into anger. “The fuck, kid! What do you know?  You said you have my file, yeah? How long have you had it? Because I’m betting you’ve had it since we first met!” He lunges forward. “So, why are you here now, Dick? What makes this year so special? What’s made you decide to pretend to care now? Because whatever it is, kid, I can promise you, I’m not worth it. So, leave!”

By the end, he’s gripping Dick’s shirt, pulling it tighter until the collar has to be digging painfully into his neck. 

Dick doesn’t look away. “No.”

Slade doesn’t look away either. “You know I really think I might kill you right now.”

“You won’t.”

 One of Slade’s hands moves until it’s pressing into the kid’s neck. A single sharp twist and he could snap it. “So sure?”

Dick nods.

“And why’s that?”

“Because I brought your favorite whiskey.”

A brown bag is pressed into Slade’s ribs and the man feels something rising in his chest that could possibly be laughter if it was some other time.

He drops the kid.

He takes the bag.

“Pretty sure heroes aren’t supposed to be contributing to alcoholism, kid.” He gestures to a half empty bottle of much cheaper stuff beside him.

Dick coughs, rubbing at his throat. “Please. With your metahuman metabolism, I bet you can barely feel it for an hour.”

“Depends how much I drink,” Slade counters, eyeing the bottle. “How’d you know my favorite?”

Dick shrugs. “Gotta keep some secrets to myself.”

He fishes out a spare shot glass from somewhere in the black folds of his outfit and pours a small glass for himself. 

Slade raises an eyebrow. “Last time I checked, you’re still 18, kid.”

Dick gives him an incredulous look in return. “Last time I checked, this place doesn’t have a drinking age...or a government, actually.”

Slade hums, amused, using a larger glass for himself. “True, but thought you’d be following the laws of your own birth city a little closer, hero. Gotham’s still at 21...on the record at least.”

“Technically, Gotham’s not my birth city.” Dick snorts and takes the shot. 

Slade tilts his head. “Where were you born?”

Dick pauses, thinking, before offering a sheepish smile. “You know….I actually have no idea. Somewhere in Europe, probably? I came early, the circus was still on tour. One of the lion tamers helped deliver me, used to be a doctor.”

“Always a surprise, kid,” Slade shakes his head, draining his glass. Tasting it in his mouth and pretending it’s enough to wash away the ash.

The next words come before he can stop them.  “...Adeline always wanted two kids.”

Dick goes quiet.

“Of course,” Slade says to his glass and fuck it, just fuck it,  “turns out we didn’t even get the one. Turns out I didn’t get either my wife or my son.”

Fuck, he hates October 7th.

He reaches for the whiskey, ignoring how his hand shakes. “Addy was a soldier, you know? A good one. Of all the stupid fucking ways she could go, I never thought it’d be childbirth. Maybe I should have. Always knew I’d kill her somehow.”

“You didn’t kill her, Slade,” Dick says softly.

“Sure. Whatever,” he agrees, too tired to argue. It’s not as if he hasn’t heard every variation sometime or another. It’s just right now, he can’t quite bring himself to debate about the cause when the end of it’s always going to be the same.

Dick drops the subject and the relief that Slade feels  is immense enough that it’s close to gratitude.

“What was your son’s name?”

“Grant. We were going to name him Grant.” He takes another sip. “If we had another one, we were going to name him Joseph. Or Rose for a girl.”

“Those are good names.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

Slade doesn’t answer, looking up to eye the kid over his drink. Dick sees it, holding up his own glass in acknowledgement before knocking it back.

“Why are you here, kid,” Slade asks again. “We’re not friends, pretty far fucking from it last time I checked.”

“I’ve got my reasons,” he answers calmly.

“If you’re here to make your usual sales pitch about the virtues of heroism, I really will kill you. Whiskey or not.”

Dick shakes his head. “....is it so hard to believe I just didn’t think you should be alone?”

Slade thinks his skepticism is loud enough without him needing the words.

The look Dick gives him is steady in return. “Think what you want to, Slade, I know what grief feels like. It’s a poison. It’ll kill you unless you find a way to drain it.” 

Dick looks down at his own glass and Slade gets the feeling the kid’s no longer talking about just Slade. It’s still a tossup whether he means himself or the Bat.

Either way, Slade makes sure his next smirk is particularly pointed. “And, look at you. Tracking me all the way down here to try and save my tortured soul. Such a hero.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dick says with an eye roll, pouring himself another drink

Slade cocks his head. “Speaking of, don’t all the good little heroes have school right about now.”

Dick looks up, almost sheepish. “I’m ditching my classes. Don’t tell my brothers, I’m still trying to be a good influence.”

Slade snorts and takes a particularly long swig.

A good influence. As if a single one of his stupid, fucking team doesn’t think the fricking sun shines out of the kid’s ass.

Fuck. What is Slade even doing? Sitting in a run down apartment in the middle of a warzone drinking whiskey with a too trusting kid a decade younger and that he probably should have killed years ago.

But, then, it’s always been exceedingly difficult for him to do what he should---what’s the sane and logical thing--when it comes to Dick Grayson. And, one day--when he doesn’t have the burn of booze sitting in his gut and his chest doesn’t ache like he’s been shot--Slade’s going to take a hard look at why that is.

For now, he’ll just leave it like he usually does. The kid’s too interesting to die yet. 

Dick eyes his shot glass, contemplatively. “This whiskey’s way too overpriced, Slade. It’s practically aged vodka.”

Slade finishes his off steadily. “Shows you have little taste, Grayson.”

Dick laughs and slides the bottle over. “I brought another one anyway.”

....Far, far too interesting.

[misssunflowersandsangria]

Stolen

Chapter 1:  The Kiss 

Hello my deers!  I hope that you’re not tired of me!  Lol  I’ve been wanting to push myself as a writer so this a small departure from my usual fluffy fics.  The fluff and romance is still there.  I do hope that you enjoy what I have for you! 

Summary:  It was her wedding day.  For most people that would be a joyous celebration.  In Temari’s case, she was a dethroned Princess forced to marry the man that slaughtered her brothers and took over her homeland.  The day was set. The bride, the groom, and the man that would inevitably steal her heart.

*

**

Temari glanced at her reflection in the dingy mirror. Her once piercing teal eyes were clouded over with a kind of grief that the pounds of makeup couldn’t hide. The crown on her head felt heavy along with the elaborate wedding robes she wore. As a child, she never envisioned her wedding day, but if she had this certainly wasn’t it. 

A dethroned princess set to marry the man that had killed her brothers and claimed her homeland. This marriage was the last step in securing his place as the Kazekage. 

The coup d’etat had caught them by surprise. After Gaara had been installed as the Kazekage they knew that dissent had remained but she and her brothers could have never conceived this. The few people loyal to their side had been slaughtered in the streets.  Despite how valiantly they fought her brothers fell as well.  She squeezed her eyes shut as the memory replayed in her mind.  

She fought as long as she could but was not a match for the cruel military he’d amassed. She was willing to die alongside her countrymen and for her home but in a cruel twist of fate their “leader” had taken an interest in her.  Claiming that he’d done all of this for her. She’d become his sort of sick obsession. He decreed that they were to be married. He claimed it was the way to legitimately take the throne of Kazekage. To show himself the true leader of Suna. It was just another cruel show of power. To prove that he’d destroyed any and all traces of their lineage and authority. 

At first, he tried to “woo” her with gifts and sweet words.  Promises of a beautiful future together. She rebuffed any and all attempts each time sending him into a spiraling rage. 

Each day she tried to escape. Whether that was dead or alive, it didn’t matter. But he was nothing if not smart.  He ensured that she was without a weapon and under constant surveillance. Every time she tried to leave they’d beat her within almost an inch of her life. Shadowy figures that did all they could to break her spirit along with her body.  Despite how broken and bruised they left her she refused to completely give in.  Once she was healed enough she would try again the next day.  She was born a warrior and refused to go down without a fight.  She would only leave this Earth on her terms. 

Even now on the day of her wedding. The day that she would truly be left with nothing. She refused to cry. As cruel as their taunts were and as broken her body was she refused to let them see her sorrow.  She didn’t know if tears were possible in the desert.  

“Princess Temari.”  She stood up with one last glance.  A farewell to who she was at one time unable to avoid her destiny for any longer. 

The hall was filled with people from Suna and beyond. Some familiar faces that she believed at one time to be her friends and allies.  Her fiancé stood at the altar. The familiar cruel smile etched across his face.  The same one that he wore when he callously murdered the people closest to her.

She swallowed back the bile that appeared in her throat pushing her shoulders back.  Her head was held high refusing to shrink under the evil gazes sent her way. She was the last of the Sand Siblings. The last of the family line that had ruled Suna since it’s beginning. He had taken everything from her but her pride still remained. She was meant to survive.  Despite what they believed she was still Suna’s Princess.  She would find a way.

Temari took his clammy claw in her hand.  She was sure that to the crowd watching they were the picture of wedded bliss as the minister began.  She wondered if those who came from far away knew what was actually happening.  If they even cared at all.  

The voice droned on as she imagined a much different life. Perhaps a wedding where she was a willing participant. Her brothers would be there supporting her looking on with joy.  She would be surrounded by her friends and people that loved her.  Her handsome fiancé promising to love her for all their lives. What a beautiful life she could have had.

As the officiant moved into the vows confusion erupted all around her. Shouts rang while weapons whirled through the air as bodies dropped. In the chaos, her ears focused on one voice above all the rest. Soothing and smoky it directed the hidden shinobis.

She glanced down seeing that next to her, her fiancé was paralyzed, wrapped in shadows forced to watch his stolen empire fall.

“You’re not who I was expecting at all.”  That one distinct voice addressed her.

Temari’s eyes met dark ones staring at her with a sort of softness and amusement.  His lips were curved into a smirk and it was the kindest look that she’d received in months.  His hair was pulled to the top of his head while his hands formed the symbols needed to keep up his jutsu.  She peered at him confused recognizing a familiar symbol.

“You’re from the Leaf?”

“Yes.”

This only drew more questions and confusion.  “Why are you here? Who are you?”

“I’m a friend, Princess.”  He assured her while the chaos continued around them.  And she believed him.  Her last glimmer of hope was attached to this unknown ninja from the Leaf.  

“I will fucking kill you!”  She heard her betrothed threaten.

“Shut up, We’re talking.”  The unnamed shinobi demanded. The shadows wrapped around his throat tighter.

“Here, this might convince you.”  Surprising her he handed her a familiar metal item. Her hands lifted to her mouth in shock tears emerging in her eyes.

“Your brothers are alive and they’re waiting for you.”  Her fingers traced over the familiar item. It was a secret between her siblings. They each had a piece of the puzzle that when they all came together formed the symbol of the Kazekage family.  It was something that they had with them since they were children.  Even now she had hers carefully hidden on her.  

They were alive.  

“We need to get out of here but first, let’s deal with your dear fiancé.  I assume you have no attachments to him so you’d have no objections to killing him.” Temari’s eyes gleamed seeing the man that had made her life a living hell for months on his knees begging and pleading for his life. Even as they beat her she never once looked as pathetic as he did.

She grinned cruelly before turning to the Leaf Shinobi.

“What’s your name?”

“Shikamaru Nara.”

“Nice to meet you. Is your jutsu solid?”

“He’s not getting away.  I have shinobi covering this building so no one will be able to get inside either.”

“Good.” Before he could ask any more questions she pulled him into a deep kiss. Her hands ran up through his hair pulling him flush against her body. Shikamaru was frozen in surprise before a hand rubbed up and down her spine falling into the kiss. It felt like being hit by electricity.  A blissful moment in time among dead bodies and carnage.

They vaguely recognized repressed screams and desperate attempts to be freed.

“Shikamaru…” Temari  breathed against his lips her arms wrapped around his neck

“Yes, Princess?”

“Please do the honors.”

Temari held tightly onto Shikamaru as the shadows tightened.  She watched the life fade from her fiancé’s eyes.  The darkness that was drowning her going along with it.  When his body hit the ground the invisible chain around her neck fell too and she could breathe again.  

She breathed in Shikamaru’s comforting scent of pine trees and smoke before resting her face against his neck. He held her silently feeling her warm tears against his skin. They needed to get out of there but she needed his comfort more.  The feeling of her warm lips was still present on his own. Instinctively he pressed a soft kiss against her temple.

“I’m here Princess.  The shadows won’t hurt you anymore.”  Her arms clutched tighter around him as she finally allowed herself a brief moment to fall apart.  Trusting that he’d hold her together.

She took a step back trying to regain her composure and ignore the fact that she missed his comfort and warmth.  Never once had she cried so openly.  

Her shoulders sagged as the weight of what had just occurred in mere minutes set in.  She imagined that the day that his life was taken she would erupt into a joyous dance.  Right now seeing the devastation all around her rained down the enormity of the situation.

“What now?”

Shikamaru took her hand in his squeezing it tightly.  Wanting her to see him as a lifeline to clutch onto for now. “I’m taking you to the Leaf where we’ll meet up with your brothers. We’re going to have to fight our way out of here so this might help.”  

He pulled out a scroll and from it, a familiar weapon came.  The weight of her tessen in her hand was like embracing an old friend.  

She opened it up wide and the wind around her began to swirl. Shikamaru just gazed at her in awe. When he’d first seen her she looked like a broken porcelain doll.  Now she was the vision of ferocity. The famed Princess of Suna and the mistress of the wind.  

“Ready Princess?”  He asked with that now comforting smirk.    

She nodded with a grin.  She was ready. For a new life, new chances and new possibilities.    Her eyes blazed with renewed determination.

“Let’s go.”

*

**

Thanks for reading loves!  I have so many WIPs but sometimes there are stories that grab a hold of you and won’t let you go till you write them.  This is one of them.  I was originally going to keep it to myself but I wanted to share it and hope that you enjoy it as well.

It won’t be too long, I have a general idea where I want it to go.  

I do have the next chapter pretty much done.  I won’t hold it hostage for too long.  So chapter two will be out soon.  I’ve got a bunch of smutty one-shots in the works too for my Lemonade series.  This story will probably have at least one chapter with some fun stuff too.  

Thanks for reading and giving the story a chance.  I appreciate you reading and any kudos/comments!  

Love you all!

[gunnerpalace]

Hi! Same anon as the previous one. Tbh, I agree wholeheartedly with you. Y'see I do ask rhetorically,too but i could really accept and understand how and why ppl can be oblivious to IchiRuki, and somehow felt that the 'canon' should suffice, even the most excruciating of all is the fact a number found the ending even acceptable (ships aside, too). Again, I could respect that. But it's my greatest bane when ppl ask 'why' and not be clear they are asking rhetorically because I literally will

provide you an actual answer. And I get it, it’s the reason why ppl find shipping wars toxic and silly. But then again, as human, conflicts are always part of us (partly because as social psych explains so, we are gravitated to the negative for that allows us to change and survive), and the reason why “logical fallacies” are coined in the first place. Human will always debate, and argue about something; the only thing we could change is how we approach the opposing views.

Again, I dont condone any way, shape or form of abuse and harm. In some certain extent, I could perhaps understand it’s much harder for some IH to approach the actual argument being there’s either too much noise, and trapped in their own island between sea of salt. Thus becoming too acquianted w/ few IH who shared the same thought until it became their views as the only truth (see, that’s why its important to have debates! it is what keep us grounded and fair! Just like you said)

Who am I to speak though? I never ever challenged anyone anyways. And as you said, you just have to understand things in every way you could possibly think of–endless ‘whys’. Which is where I agree in your reply the most–this silly fandom wars is just the black mirror to every truth that lies beneath human psyche–the dark and the grimy. Heck, being a psych major is like staring at dark hole–at times, good, but most just plain confusing, revolting even or just heartbreaking.

Sorry it’s been long, but for the final of this ask: let me tell how glad I was with IchiRuki fandom I found in tumblr. It was the saltiest I’ve ever been (im not generally a fandom person anyways) but it’s the himalayan salt–expensive and actually nutritive it really deepened my desire to become wiser in general. And you for your wonderful essays, critiques and whatnot. I definitively would love to talk with you more not only about IchiRuki but the wonders and nightmare that us humans! Kudos!

I have sitting in my drafts a post spelling out my thoughts on “canon” (and thus, the people who cling to it) in that as a concept it privileges:

officiality over quality when it comes to validity (thus violating Sturgeon’s law)

corporations (intellectual property rights holders) over fans, and thus capitalists over proletarians

hierarchical dominance over mutualist networking within fandom

curative fandom over transformative fandom

genre over literary content

plot over characters

events over emotions

It is notable that (1) generally degrades art as a whole, (2) generally advances the capitalist agenda, and (3–7) generally advances the dominance of men over women (as the genders tend to be instructed by society to view these as A. dichotomies rather than spectrums, and B. to ascribe gender to them and make them polarities). These form the sides of a mutually reinforcing power structure (in the typical “Iron Triangle” fashion) designed to preserve and maintain the status quo.

Who really benefits from say, the policing of what is or is not “canon” in Star Wars? Disney, first and foremost. And then whomever (almost certainly male) decides to dedicate their time to memorizing the minutiae of whatever that corporation has decided is “legitimate.”

One can imagine a universe in which fan fic is recognized by companies for what it is: free advertising. (Much like fan art already is.) Instead, it is specifically targeted by demonetization efforts in a way that fan art isn’t. Why? Because it demonstrates that corporate control and “official” sanction has no bearing on quality, and it is thus viewed as undermining the official products.

In the same way, by demonstrating that most “canonical” works are frankly shit, it undermines the investiture of fans in focusing on details that are ultimately errata (the events, the plot, the genre), which is the core function of curative fandom and the reason for its hierarchical structure. The people who “know the most” are at the top, but what they “know” is basically useless garbage. And those people so-engaged are, of course, usually male.

To “destroy” the basis of their credibility, and indeed the very purpose of their community, is naturally viewed by them as an attack.

(This is not to say that efforts to tear down internal consistency within established cultural properties are good unto themselves, or even desirable. For example, efforts to redefine properties such as Star Wars, Star Trek, Doctor Who, and Ghostbusters, for the sake of a identity-politics agenda have largely A. failed as art, B. failed as entertainment, C. failed to attract the supposedly intended audience, and D. failed to advance the agenda in question. Trying to repurpose extant media in the name of culture wars is essentially always doomed to failure unless it is done deftly and gradually.)

(At the same time, this also shows what I was talking about last time, with regard to people seeing whatever they want to see. You will see people complain that Star Trek and Doctor Who didn’t “used to be so political,” which is obviously nonsense. These shows were always political. What changed was how their politics were presented. For example, Star Trek has, since TNG, always shown a nominally socialist or outright communist future, but was beloved by plenty of conservatives because they could [somehow] ignore that aspect of it.)

Of course, almost no one is seriously suggesting that one side of the spectrums outlined above be destroyed, rather merely that a new balance be struck upon the spectrum. But, as we have seen time and again in society, any threat to the status quo, whether that be 20% of Hugo Awards going to non-white male authors or the top income tax rate in America being increased by a measly 5.3% (from 28.7% to 34%… when the all-time high was 94% and for over 50 years it was above 50%) is a threat. This is why, for example, Republicans are out there branding AOC as a “socialist” when her policies are really no different at all from a 1960 Democrat who believed in FDR’s New Deal. (Which they, of course, have also demonized as “socialism.”)

(As an aside, all this ignores the fact that most of the “literary canon” of Western civilization, or at least English literature… is Biblical or historical fan fic.)

And this is when I finally get to my point.

Those people out there who denigrate and mock shippers and shipping, the people who hurl “it reads like fan fiction” as an insult, and so on, are the people who benefit from and enjoy the extant power structure. You will see the same thing with self-identified “gamers” complaining about “fake girl gamers.” Admitting that the hobby has a lot of women in it, and a lot of “casuals,” and is indeed increasingly dominated by “non-traditional demographics” is an affront to the constructed identity of being a “gamer.” They are “losing control.” And they don’t like it.

This exact same sort of population is what the “fanbase” of Bleach has been largely reduced down to through a slow boiling off of any actual quality. Of course they’re dismissive of people who are looking for anything of substance: their identity, their “personal relationship” with the franchise, is founded on a superficial appreciation of it: things happening, flashy attacks, eye-catching character designs, fights, etc.

(What this really boils down to, at heart, is that society at large has generally told men that emotions are bad, romance and relationships of all kinds are gross, and that thinking and reflecting on things is stupid. So of course they not only don’t care about such things, but actively sneer at them as “girly” or “feminine,” which is again defined by society at large as strictly inferior. And this gender divide and misogyny is of course promulgated and reinforced by the powers that be, the capitalists, to facilitate class divisions just like say racism generally is.)

(The latest trick of these corporate overlords has been the weaponization of “woke” culture to continue to play the people off one another all the time. “If you don’t like this [poorly written, dimensionless Mary Sue] Strong Female Character, then you are a racist misogynist!” They are always only ever playing both sides for profit, not advancing an actual ideological position. It is worth noting that there was a push by IH some years ago to define IR as “anti-feminist” for critiquing Orihime for essentially the exact same reasons [admittedly, not for profit, but still as critical cover].)

Which makes it very curious, therefore, that the most ardent IH supporters tend to be women. (Though there are more than a few men, they seem to tend to support it because it is “canon” and to attack it is to attack “canon” and thus trigger all of the above, rather than out of any real investment.) I think there are a number of reasons for this (which I have detailed before) and at any rate it is not particularly surprising; 53% of white women voted for Trump, after all.

What we are really seeing in fandom, are again the exact same dynamics that we see at larger and larger scales, for the exact same reasons. The stakes are smaller, but the perception of the power struggle is exactly the same.

Of course, the people who are involved in these things rarely think to interrogate themselves as to the true dimensions and root causes of their motivations. People rarely do that in general.

Putting all that aside, I’m glad that you have found a place you enjoy and feel comfortable, and thank you for the kind words, although I am not of the opinion that there is anything poignant about the non-fiction I write. It is, as I keep trying to emphasize, all there to be seen. One just has to open their eyes. So, it’s hard for me to accept appreciation of it.

Anyway, don’t feel shy about coming off of anon rather than continuing to send asks. We don’t really bite.

[ohblackdiamond]

little t&a (paul/gene, nc-17) (part 3 of 29)

          Paul fretted and complained ad-nauseum. He didn’t want to see the psychic this soon; it was too much pressure. He didn’t have any clothes. Or rather, he had clothes, just nothing he wanted to wear. Gene knew he had at least two dresses—the black floral with the bell sleeves from his drag birthday party back in January, and a black polka-dot number from another party—and a substantial assortment of women’s blouses. What he didn’t have, and what Gene knew for a fact he didn’t have, was anything that fit correctly. No pants that would’ve worked. All Paul’s blouses and dresses were cut far too widely at the shoulders for him now. He’d be drowning in them.

           “Look, Paul, you can’t run around in a bathrobe all day,” Gene countered, although he suspected that was what Paul had been doing for most of the last five days. “What did you wear to Peaches?”

           “The dress from my birthday. It’s in the washing machine.”

           “Are you even wearing underwear?”

           At any other time, with a girl that looked like Paul, the question would’ve been a teasing come-on. Right now, it was a serious indictment of his hygiene.

           “I have on boxers.” Paul shot him an aggrieved look as he said it. “What’s it matter to you, anyway?”

           “They’re probably about to fall off, is why it matters.” Gene grunted, trying to think. “What shoes did you wear out?”

           “I stuffed some heels with tissue paper.”

           That was a start, at least. Gene sighed.

           “You’ll feel better with real clothes on. And I’ll feel better when your tits aren’t falling out of your bathrobe.”

           Paul glanced down reflexively and bit his lip, untying and then retying the robe a little more snugly.

           “I’ll get the other dress,” he mumbled, padding out of the kitchen without a backwards glance. Gene watched him retreat, waiting until he heard the bedroom door shut before he got up and opened Paul’s pantry door again, pushing past the groceries he’d already shelved.

           He didn’t really expect to find anything good in there. Paul was almost pathologically afraid of gaining weight. He was always at his worst about it right before tours, too. Gene would catch him at the pool, staring at his chest and stomach like they’d personally offended him just by existing at all. He honestly seemed to think he could starve his way into a set of abs. The burden of being the band’s sex symbol, Gene supposed, pushing aside some packages of instant ramen and TVP (weird, if Paul was trying vegetarianism, that’d just add another expense to their tour budget—not that they’d have a tour if he didn’t get fixed) to find a small, shameful stack of Hershey’s chocolate bars.

           He deserved something after the stress and frustrated arousal of the last hour or so. Gene took the entire stack of candy back to the kitchen island. He hadn’t even sat down before tearing into the first chocolate bar, and he’d only gotten two rows of it down his throat before Paul reemerged, in the black polka-dot dress from the drag party.

           For a minute, Gene forgot he was eating.

           Oh, the dress didn’t fit right. Too baggy in the shoulders, as expected, and the style was frumpy, not really showing off his figure much, besides his chest, still not contained with a bra. But Paul looked… pretty good. Definitely better than he had in the bathrobe. His curly hair was a lot less matted, and it seemed like he was standing a bit straighter.

           “Cute.”

           Paul shifted uncomfortably.

           “I still don’t want to see the psychic today.”

           “I haven’t made an appointment yet. It’s fine.” It was late afternoon, anyway. Gene didn’t know what hours psychics kept—if Ace was their clientele, chances were good they weren’t nine to five—but something kept him from trying Suzie’s number yet. He wasn’t sure if it was just not wanting to put Paul through more discomfort than he had to today, or if it was something else. Something like wanting to spend some time with him.

           “You’re eating my candy.”

           Gene snapped a clean row off the chocolate bar, holding it up to Paul like an offering. Paul shook his head.

          “I’ll pay you back with dinner, then, how’s that?”

           “Will you?”

           “Dinner and a movie.”

           “Oh, come off it, Gene—”

            “Takeout and a movie. How about it?”

           “Only if it’s on Masterpiece Theatre.”

           “No. You’re fucking miserable. I’m getting you out of the house at least for the movie bit.” Gene started to smile, reaching over and sticking the last bit of chocolate in Paul’s mouth on impulse. Paul looked embarrassed, but he took it, licking his lips after he swallowed. It was more distracting than Gene had expected. “Have you seen Smokey and the Bandit yet?”

           “No.”

           “I haven’t, either. C’mon. You can drive us to the movie theater.” In what he hoped might be the clincher, Gene added two words he’d rarely spoken. “I’ll pay.”

           “But it’s like you said. I don’t have a license right now.”

           “You’re also an ex-cabbie. I’m not too concerned.”

           Paul’s brows were still furrowed. But it looked like he was considering it.

           “Then what about getting recognized? Maybe I don’t need to worry about that right now, but you do, and—”

           “So let me worry about that, okay? Just relax.” He was trying too hard, maybe. Shrugging off legitimate concerns. If Paul did get pulled over, chances were pretty good the officer would look the other way at his lack of a matching license. Gene could play the celebrity card if he had to in order to evade any real trouble. He was loath to do that under normal circumstances, and he didn’t enjoy the thought of breaking the law, if only by a supernatural technicality, but if it got Paul out of the house, then he’d go for it.

           Getting recognized at the movie theater was the problem—Gene didn’t know how Paul would react to cameras flashing in his face when he was like this—but he was prepared to risk it anyway. Besides, half of being recognized lay in dressing the part of a rockstar, and that went for whoever he had on his arm, too. The blue jeans and polyester button-down he was wearing right now were toned-down enough from his usual fare, and Paul’s dress was oversized and out of style. Hopefully, all that would let them go to the movies unnoticed.

           “Okay.”

           “You’ll go?”

           “Yeah. I’ll go.”

           “Good.” The corner of Gene’s mouth lifted up. “Cheapest date I’ve had in years, Paul.”

           Paul flipped him off and snatched the rest of the stack of chocolate bars back. It was, Gene thought, a small price to pay to watch Paul flush all the way to his neck.

--

           They didn’t get pulled over, and they didn’t get recognized. Paul opened the door for Gene into the theater, the way he always did, which afforded him some weird looks from the other moviegoers, but that was about it. Smooth sailing.

           Gene got takeout from a Chinese restaurant nearby afterwards. They ended up eating it in the car on the drive back, Paul picking out eggrolls from the boxes and stuffing them in his mouth guilelessly. Gene got the impression he hadn’t eaten all day. He even tried to eat the fried rice while he drove, with the box in his lap, but Gene put a stop to that, and after awhile he started sticking forkfuls of rice in front of Paul’s face as a compromise. Apart from nearly missing a turn a few miles from his house, it didn’t seem like it distracted Paul too badly. If he’d noticed Gene’s pants tenting with every forkful, he never mentioned it.

           In fact, it seemed like Paul was in better shape now. The only time he really faltered was when he turned on the radio, to check on the traffic, only for “Rock and Roll All Nite” to come blaring in. He didn’t say anything, but his shoulders slumped, and he turned it off so quickly, and so hard, Gene was almost afraid he’d broken the radio button.

           “We’ll get you fixed, Paul, I promise.”

           “What if we can’t?”

           “We’ll do it.” Gene didn’t want to think of the alternative. Paul had probably thought enough about it for both of them. They’d never be able to keep the band going with a girl fronting. Their image wasn’t right for that. Maybe Paul could keep writing songs, or Gene could pull some strings and get him signed to Casablanca as a solo act… no, that’d kill him. All of that would just kill him. Despite all the cracks forming in the band, Paul wanted to go solo about as much as Frank Sinatra wanted to join the Beach Boys. “Trust me.”

           Paul nodded dully, before glancing up at the rearview mirror. He seemed to only just then realize he was pulling into his own driveway.

           “Oh, shit. Did you want me to take you home? I forgot.”

           “Nah, it’s fine.”

           “You sure? I don’t mind driving.”

           “I’m sure.”

           “Then use my phone and call your chauffeur.” Paul parked the car, automatically trying to put the keys in a pocket the dress didn’t have. Gene shook his head, getting out of the car.

           “It’s past eleven. I’ll just stay at your place.” That was better for both of them. More convenient than Gene having his driver take him home, and then back the next day. Plus, he figured Paul could use the company. He had the feeling the kid who’d brought his groceries and Peter were the only other people Paul had spoken to since he’d been cursed. “Hell, I’ll even shower.”

           “You’d better.” Paul unlocked the door, letting him in. Gene stepped inside, expecting Paul to point him toward the guest bedroom. Instead, he hesitated, taking off the tissue-stuffed heels and sticking them on a shoe rack without a word.

           “I will.”

           “Would you stay with me?” Paul burst into the words all of a sudden, then added, “Not like that. I don’t wanna fuck you.”

           That made one of them, Gene thought dryly. God. Someone as self-conscious as Paul couldn’t be completely oblivious to the effect his new form was having on Gene. Couldn’t think Gene was just teasing him. Gene wasn’t sure if it was denial on Paul’s part or what. Sleeping in the same bed as Paul, when Paul was a shade under six-foot, hairy-chested, and guaranteed to be prickly-faced by noon had never been an enticing prospect, just something he’d had to deal with every so often over the years. Sleeping in the same bed as Paul now that he was a chick…

           “I’m the same person, you know.” So he wasn’t oblivious. Gene didn’t know if that was reassuring, as he followed Paul into his bedroom. The bed was unmade, and the whole room smelled like Aramis cologne. “Just don’t wake me up with a hard-on. I’ll make it up to you later.”

           “Sounds promising.”

           “Shut up.” Paul opened one of the dresser drawers, thumbing through the contents. “You still sleep in pajamas?”

           “Only if I’m spending the night alone.”

           Paul tossed a pair of pajama bottoms in his face.

           Paul generally slept naked or in boxers, as far as Gene remembered from the times they’d shared a hotel room. Selfishly, he was hoping that wouldn’t have changed. The glances he’d gotten of Paul’s breasts earlier were mostly too brief for proper appreciation.

           Instead, after Gene had showered and put on the borrowed pajama bottoms, Paul got a t-shirt and another pair of boxers out of the dresser and headed off to the bathroom, returning with them on, the hem of the shirt nearly lined up with where the boxers ended. Disappointing, but not surprising.

           “You don’t have to cover up because of me.”

           “If I thought you couldn’t keep your hands off me, I wouldn’t have asked you to stick around.”

           Gene didn’t know how to answer that.

           Paul tossed and turned that night, which wasn’t abnormal for him, but kept Gene up. At one point, the twitchy way he kept moving around made him tempted to ask Paul where his hand was, but he bit back the comment, reaching over instead to find Paul facedown against the mattress. Gene grasped his shoulder.

           “You’re making the bed creak,” he mumbled out, and felt Paul still against him for a few gratifying seconds before he fell asleep.

--

           The truth was, Paul had been trying to get off.

           He had been every night for the last three nights, once the initial horror had worn off enough for him to be dejectedly curious. It hadn’t ever worked, and not just because he’d get spooked before he got very far. Every time he slipped a finger inside—not even a full finger, just barely past the first knuckle—it honestly hurt. Even tracing a finger across his clit wasn’t some quick-trigger to pleasure the way he’d always assumed. Everything just felt sore and tender.

           He knew it couldn’t be a virginity thing. A regular chick could get off on her own without a problem. He’d seen that plenty. He was just stuck. It figured, really, to get trapped in a body that couldn’t even orgasm properly. No distractions from how damn miserable he was, with his life caving in on him, Gene totally unable to hide how much he wanted to fuck him—and the worst part was, Paul couldn’t find the dignity or the self-respect to call him out on it. Some pathetic part of him was actually enjoying the flickers of want that kept crossing Gene’s face. He’d never garnered Gene’s attention as a guy, not that he’d expected to, but—

           He was thinking too much. He hadn’t been able to call up Hilsen since this shit had started, which didn’t help at all. But what could a therapist say to him now, anyway? Could he self-help his way into getting his dick back? With the way things were going, nothing was going to happen. He’d thought Peter’s coke habit was what would put them all out on their asses. But instead it looked like Paul was the one who was about to destroy the band just as they’d gotten a top-ten hit. He’d never get to play for another audience again. In a couple of weeks, he’d have to leave his own house and be assumed missing or dead, with all his assets taken by his parents. Then he’d probably be living on Gene’s dime for as long as it took for Gene to quit feeling pity for him, and that was if he was lucky. That was if Gene and the other guys didn’t take all matters into their own hands and get another frontman. Probably use one of his abandoned makeup designs for him, too. Paul exhaled softly against the pillows, too sickened by the thought to want to pursue it further.

           But something had happened. Just for a little bit, when Gene had touched him. Paul’s hand was between his thighs, furtively searching for a little warmth, and then he’d felt Gene’s fingers curve around his shoulder. Not rough, and not tender, just there, firm and steadying. Paul’s hips twitched almost on their own at the touch, and all of a sudden, something hot burst deep within him, and he felt his own fingers actually sliding briefly against his folds. Just briefly. For the first time, he’d gotten wet.

           He lay there a long time, past when Gene’s hand slipped away as Gene fell asleep, caught between trying to will that feeling back and fearing he’d only wake Gene up in the process. In the end Paul compromised, shamefully, scooting up close enough that he could smell the faint tinges of Chinese food on Gene’s breath as he slept. He’d forgotten to offer him a toothbrush before bed.

           Paul couldn’t remember daring to touch him, but he must have, at least in his sleep, because he woke up early the next morning with his face pressed against Gene’s bare arm, and drool pooling on the sheets.

[atamascolily]

Appointment in Sawarra, 1/?

First scene of a new Inheritance fic set just after the Thrawn trilogy, featuring Luke Skywalker, philosophical musings about the Jedi, and botany. You know, my usual jam.

I had a good experience serializing Desert Places on this site, so perhaps posting things here as I write them will encourage me to keep going instead of stalling out, since the chapters are long, and my need to finish something is strong.

Luke Skywalker leaned against the wrought stone balcony on the rooftop of the Imperial palace, taking in the red-streaked alpenglow of the snow-covered Maranai Mountains fifty klicks to the south. Skyscrapers lapped at the feet of the two peaks, but the mountains themselves were relatively pristine, one of the few vestiges of natural life on the entire planet, and the contrast was striking.

This wasn't to say there wasn't any development--this <i>was</i> Coruscant, after all--but none of the exclusive restaurants or vacation homes were visible at this distance without macrobinoculars. Even as artificial lights winked on and off like flickering stars as the sunlight faded, the mountains themselves plunged into shadow, cool and dark and silent in the approaching night.

Whenever his heart itched for adventure, and he was too busy to get away from Coruscant, Luke would rent a speeder and fly out to the Manarai. He'd zip over the peaks themselves, flying as low as he dared, heady on the adrenaline rush that came from life-or-death decisions and reckless instinct. Sated, he'd ditch the speeder after a few hours, and wander the winding trails through the remnant forests on the lower slopes of the mountains on foot before flying back to the Imperial Palace for yet another round of politics, bureaucracy, or an equally frustrating combination of the two.

The chaos of the last few years hadn't left much time for exploring, but the mountains remained a refuge in his own mind, if nothing else. He'd toyed with the idea of building a private retreat out there someday, but life kept pushing him in other directions, and he'd never gotten around to it.

Luke liked people, but as his rapport with the Force deepened, he found himself craving silence and stillness to fully recharge--both in short supply on the never-sleeping capital world. The Force was present in all the hustle and bustle of the billions of life-forms all going about their business, no less so than anywhere else in the galaxy. Yet sometimes he needed a break from the traffic and the crowds in order to hear <i>himself</i> think, let alone the quiet whisper of the Force's guidance--which was far more elusive than not despite his training.

A retreat in the Manarai would also put him closer to the newly constructed Orowood distric and the apartment Leia and Han had purchased there. It was part of Leia's ambitious vision to create a hub for the Alderaanian diaspora. In addition to the massive Orowood Tower, she'd supervised the planting of thousands of its namesake trees, complete with the famous iridescent lichen on their bark. Luke wasn't sure Leia would ever move out of the Imperial Palace for good, but he was glad for her to have a project to distract her when the Council was too mired in petty arguments and infighting to get anything done.

As far as Luke could tell, the success of the Orowood scheme hinged entirely on his sister's ability to persuade the skittish remaining Alderaanians that Corcuscant was no longer the Empire's target--a hard sell after Grand Admiral Thrawn's recent siege. The peace settlement with Admiral Pellaeon in the aftermath of Thrawn's assassination at the Battle of Bilbringi might yet convince them--if it held. Only time would tell.

To be honest, Luke wouldn't blame the Alderaanians for taking their chances elsewhere skepticism. Three years ago, when the Alliance had first re-taken the planet, he'd argued against setting up the new government here--or at the very least, not in the Imperial Palace. In his mind, the symbolism was all the more reason to start afresh somewhere else.

Since then, however, he'd come to appreciate the virtues of this bustling city-planet and the Palace itself--in large part thanks to the woman he sensed approaching from twenty meters away.

"Hello, Skywalker," Mara Jade said crisply, leaning against the balcony beside him. "I have to sweet-talk yet another government official into listening to the Smuggler's Alliance latest shipping proposal in...." She glanced at the chronometer on her wrist. "Thirty minutes. So make this quick."

Luke managed to hide a grin, but it was difficult. Since he'd persuaded her to accept the position of official liaison between Talon Karrde's new organization and the New Republic three months ago, there had been no shortage of meetings. To be fair, Luke had gone to plenty of those himself, despite having no official position in the New Republic's military or government since he'd resigned his commission after the Mindor campaign. There had been no shortage of press conferences, planning sessions, and mopping-up actions, and everyone wanted the Last Jedi involved, even if his role was more ceremonial than practical.

At least Mara was accomplishing something <i>useful</i> in her meetings. Even in such a short span of time, she'd managed to make quite a name for herself among the New Republic bureaucrats. They might curse her as a hard bargainer, but they respected her as much as they feared her. Both attitudes went a long way towards smoothing out the previously rocky relationship between legitimate and illegitimate--just as Luke had hoped when he nudged Mara into accepting the job.  

Yet somehow the two of them had managed to carve time out to train together at regular intervals--even if she groused about her workload every time they met.  

"Thanks for coming on such short notice," he said, gesturing to the fading sun. "I used to watch the sunset all the time when I was a kid, wishing I was somewhere--anywhere--else. Now here I am decades later, right where I always wanted to be, and I don't know what comes next."

Mara snorted and shifted her weight. The lightsaber clipped to her belt--that had once belonged to Anakin Skywalker--shifted against the balcony as she moved. She had taken to wearing the weapon openly these days, which could only make the bureaucrats even more nervous than they already were. Seeing it visible made Luke's heart beat faster, even if he couldn't articulate why.

Gifting it to her hadn't been Luke's most subtle gesture. But it had been a way for him to honor and thank her for saving his life several times over--as well as an invitation to continue her Jedi training in the future.

Mara Jade's relationship with the Jedi Order--and Luke himself--was... complex, to say the least. She had grown up in the Imperial Palace, trained since childhood to be the Emperor's Hand, the silent, subtle executioner of his will against enemies and traitors alike. Palpatine had channeled her fledgling abilities to mold her into a perfect servant, one who could hear his voice anywhere in the galaxy and respond accordingly. The Emperor's dying wish had been for her to murder the man he'd claimed was responsible for his death--Luke Skywalker, last of the old Jedi and first of the new.

Suffice to say things had not gone according to plan.

"Spare me your existential angst," she said, turning back to the sunset. "As far as I can tell, there's nothing to complain about. C'baoth and Thrawn are gone, and the war is over. The peace treaty with the Empire might actually last. What's left to figure out?"

Luke extracted a black velvet bag hanging from his belt and held it out to her. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

She accepted the offering gingerly. "What is it?"

"You tell me."

She opened the bag and squinted inside before spilling its contents onto her palm. A knobbly brown lump emerged, along with half a dozen smaller black orbs jammed neatly into its indentations.

"It's organic, whatever it is," she said at last, shoving it back into the bag and handing it back to Luke. "Looks a cone off of some sort of tree, but not a species I recognize. And seeds, perhaps?"

"You're right, it <i>is</i> from a tree," Luke said. He carefully re-attached the bag to special pouch across from his own lightsaber. "Are you sure you haven't seen it before?"

"Positive. Why?"

"The Jedi Order planted these trees at all of their temples," Luke said. "As far as I know, they were wiped out along with the Jedi as part of the Emperor's purge. There was at least one here on Coruscant and I thought maybe you--"

Mara shook her head. "Must have been before my time. I never saw or heard anything about them. But Palpatine and Vader must not have been as thorough as they thought if you have seeds. Where did you get them, anyway? "

"There's a tree on Dagobah that Yoda took me to see before he died," Luke said softly. "I went back to visit it again before facing Vader. This time, there were seeds, so I took some. And I promised... I promised to plant these seeds, to bring them back along with the Jedi Order."

His voice trailed off, lost in the memory of that encounter, of all the possible futures he'd witnessed in the moment he'd accepted the seeds.

Mara's voice cut abruptly into his meditation, drawing him back to the present. "I fail to see what the problem is, Skywalker."

Luke gathered himself together. "I grew up on a desert world; I don't know anything about plants. If I screw this up, it might be a long time before I can get seeds again--there can be decades, centuries even, between harvests. I--I was hoping that you might know something that would help me."

A long pause. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I don't know who else to ask," he said at last.

Silence stretched out between them as they pondered this admission and its implications. Finally, Mara stirred. "What about Karrde?"

"I thought he dealt more in people than plants."

"He doesn't know everything, but's worth a shot," Mara said. "Information <i>is</i> his business, after all. He has access to all kinds of sources that you don't get if you follow legal channels. And he's full of surprises."

Luke raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I suppose he might know something about botany--he built his base on Myrkr around a giant tree, after all. But can I afford his services?"

"You get what you pay for with Karrde," she said. "Besides, I think he owes you a favor after you rescued him from Imperial interrogation."

"I had help."

"So let's say you bring the trees back," Mara said, turning away from him. Her role in Karrde's rescue was still a touchy subject, given that she'd been coerced into betraying her boss to the Empire in the first place. "What then? Do the Jedi just start popping out of the woodwork?"

"I don't know," Luke admitted. "The two go together in ways I don't fully understand yet. There's an old saying that when the student is ready, the master appears. But I'm not even close to being a master yet. I don't even know if I'm <i>ready</i> to take on students yet."

She shot him a puzzled look. "You're not such a bad teacher."

From Mara, this was high praise and he took a moment to savor it before plunging ahead. "But you already know so much. In some ways, you have more formal training than I do. It's more like I'm just... reminding you of what you already know than teaching anything new."

Mara winced, and Luke didn't need the Force to know what she was thinking. The four years between Palpatine's death at Endor and joining Karrde's organization had been brutal for her, not in the least because her Force abilities had gone haywire in the trauma. It was only in the last year--the last few months, really, after their victory at Wayland--that she'd been able to find any kind of peace.  

"I think you're getting ahead of yourself," she said at last. "We can keep working until you build your confidence back up--and since I don't see a queue of eager students lining up, you might as well work on this tree business. Take my advice and talk to Karrde. See what he says about it."

"How do I sign up for an appointment? I hear he's pretty busy these days."

"Aren't we all." Mara rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, I'll get you in."

"Thank you," Luke said, and meant it.

"And if you're worried about money, I don't think he'll set too high a price," she added as she turned away, off to the next meeting. "He doesn't even want credits from you, anyway.  More likely he'll ask you for a favor he can call on later the next time he's in a jam, assuming he asks for anything at all."

He winced. Karrde's favors tended to be... interesting. "I was afraid of that."

"Oh, come <i>on</i>. You tried to bargain with him for your freedom back when you had <i>nothing</i> but the clothes on your back and he was contemplating whether to sell you to the Empire. How could this be any more awkward than <i>that</i>?"

Luke had to admit she had a point.

[clarasimone]

Part 1 and 2 of @Wizfrog’s Dany x Jorah fanfic challenge

You recall  @wizfrog‘s fanfic challenge ? The one I foolishly and daringly answered ? Well thanks to a few of you, I’ve found the courage to come up with part 2 of my 3-part wee fanfic.... It’s really not polished at all, and english is still not my first language, argh etc etc...

But to recap @wizfrog prompt:

Small Request

Can anyone write this somewhat crack jorleesi fic for me, pls - Jorah gets concussed, and when he wakes up, he doesn’t remember who Daenerys is or much of the last X years.

Extra special 🙏🏼 if at some point when he and Dany are talking through things, Jorah sees a look in her eyes and asks if they were lovers. 👀

Anyway - would be a fun way to bring her face to face with certain things about her relationship with Jorah.

@lodessa @toas-tea @clarasimone @makimurakaori @sanziene

PART 1 (a did a few corrections)

Her knight was lying in her bedchamber, on her bed that is, where she had asked them to put his bloodied body. Winterfell’s maester had suggested the infirmary but Daenerys wouldn’t hear of it. Ser Jorah had risked his life to bring back a wight, a foolish endeavor if there was ever one, and he had even saved Jon’s life… Therefore there was not one living soul who would have kept her from tending to her general’s wounds herself. It was the least she could do for him. Her brave, foolhardy knight. She knew why he did this of course. She left him no choice really:  what else could he do to prove his valor and devotion and love to her if she kept insisting on this distance between them, if she kept bringing to her bed these younger men, unworthy for the most part, even Jon, a crucial political ally, to be sure, and someone who stirred something deep in her… but a soul mate ? No, of course not. Then again, was there such a thing as soul mates ?  Strange thoughts to entertain but Daenerys found herself unable to focus on anything else while tending to Jorah’s wounds, amidst a whole array of helping hands… until all sounds faded away. Her hand holding a wet cloth to Jorah’s forehead, Daenerys froze for a second, her eyes taking in her knight’s manly form, ensconced in her white sheets, his head resting on her very pillow. He looked like he’d always belonged there. A maid brushed her aside and broke the spell, irritating Daenerys.

“All of you, leave now.”

Secured that Jorah was out of danger, Daenerys wanted to tend to him herself. Alone. It should be just the two of them, the way it had been in the desert. Oh why weren’t they still in Essos ? Daenerys’ thoughts had been tormenting her ever since her arrival in Westeros – was her quest what it should be ? Were her actions legitimate ? Did the people here even want “The Wheel’ to be broken ? etc… and she discovered she only experienced true peace while in the presence of her knight. She would turn to him -he was never far; he belonged at her side- and she’d look into his eyes, and she’d know. She’d know if she was right or foolish, in danger or safe. He simply had to smile at her with his eyes and…

"You came back.”

Daenerys was startled out of her reverie by Jorah’s deep, scorched voice… and there they were, those deep blue eyes looking at her with such… wonder. She would have thought their expression strange, given time to reflect, but seeing as Jorah was trying to raise himself out of bed, she applied herself to setting him back down on her pillows. Which proved to be harder than expected. Even injured, her knight was a force of nature.

“Jorah… please !” Had she often called him by his first name, without referring to him by his title first ? Did it matter ?… “Of course, I did. I would not leave you behind, not when…” 

Jorah lifting his hand to her cheek stopped her mid-sentence. “You are more beautiful than when last I saw you. How is that possible ?”…

She should have gasped, or chastised him, but she did neither. Transfixed by Jorah’s amorous, immodest, completely open glance, all Daenerys found herself able to do was to wet her parched lips. She wasn’t even sure she understood or even recognized her knight. These words. The unguarded expression in his eyes. He’d never dared look at her this way, not even that day in Essos when…. and, oh Gods, now he was caressing her cheek. And before she could stop herself, Daenerys found herself leaning into the caress and putting her own hand lightly over her knight’s, her fingers shaking a bit. Yet she had to find her voice again, her queenly voice with a dash of jest in it, to break this strange spell…

“Jorah, you’re injured and you are speaking nonsense.” Taking Jorah’s hand in hers to squeeze it, Daenerys endeavored to push his frame back down on the bed, but Jorah gently fought her, pulling her hand to his chest to whisper close to her face: “How… How is it that you are here by my side though surely I am still not worthy of your grace ?”

Gods, what is happening ? Fighting the urge to run away, Daenerys found herself whispering to her knight: “I have long forgave you, sweet Ser, you know this. Now lie. Rest. I command it.” But Jorah wouldn't have any of it. “If this is true, if indeed I have redeemed myself in your eyes, then tell me… why ? Why do you continue to break my heart so ?”

W-What ? Daenerys feels her knees buckle from under her and she needs to lean on the bed, her hand reaching for Jorah’s face to search his eyes. Something is amiss. This is not right. But Daenerys can’t fathom what. She can only hear herself answer in a shaky voice: “Jorah, shall I tell you of all the many nights I cursed myself for turning you away, for banishing you…”

“Then take me back !” Oh what fervor in these words as Jorah once more finds the strength to pull himself up on one of his elbow, his face just inches away, his free hand bringing Daenerys’ fingers to his lips to kiss them fervently. “Take me back and let me into our bedchamber.”

And that’s when she finally understands. Ser Jorah, her knight, her forever knight, is not addressing her, but his wife, his long-gone wife Lynesse. And with the reckoning, a searing pain, like a dagger through her heart strikes her where she stands.

PART 2

It takes Daenerys a few seconds to find her bearings and her voice back, and when she manages to raise her eyes to Jorah again, she's unable to hide the hurt in them... though she doubts he can see it: her knight sees past her, her knight doesn't even recognize her. 

And why does this hurt so immensely ?

"Jorah..."

"My love ?"

Gods, please make him stop... Daenerys shuts her eyes and opens them again. She has to find a way to not let this get to her. Jorah is not himself; he's injured. This is a momentary laps. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean that all this time, it was Lynesse that held his secret heart captive. And that she, Daenerys, was but a pale surrogate, a reminder of what he had lost and maybe could taste anew, if she'd let him. But she hadn't. She should be glad she hadn't, then why wasn’t she ?... Stop it. Stop it now, Daenerys is silently screaming to herself.

"My love, what is it ?" These words again. And his voice. Had she really listened to his voice before ?...  If this does not stop, she will go mad. But it doesn't stop because now his hand is moving to her forearm. Daenerys looks at Jorah's bruised hand caressing her skin, and it's giving her goosebumps. His palm is so warm, his whole body radiates warmth. Jorah is so close to her again... Raising her eyes to his, she feels her breath catch: How could Lynesse let go of this man who loved her so ? Who looked at her like this, every day ?

"No one has ever looked at me that way," Daenerys hears herself say out loud, "the way you do now. I wish... I wish I had let you before." 

Confused, something wavers in Jorah who can only smile and... Oh but she knows that smile, the bashful smile he gifts her from time to time, and recognizing her knight in that instant somehow gives Daenerys the strength she needs to navigate through the charade which fate has imposed on them. At least until Jorah falls asleep. She sets both her hands on her knight's naked shoulders, marveling briefly at the sinewed muscles underneath the scars left by the Greyscale, the malady he would not have incurred had she not banished him... and wincing inwardly at the thought, she gently sets Jorah back unto her pillows, fluffing them against the headboard of her bed, all the while feeling her patient's amorous glance following her every move.

"And no one has ever fussed over me the way you do now," Jorah whispers, one of his hand reaching out to brush along the silk of Daenerys' garment.

"Haven't I ?" The question comes out rather abruptly, and Daenerys checks herself. She meant to speak as Lynesse but the question applies to her too, and she finds she despises both Lynesse and herself. She also realizes, with a start, that is jealous. Jealous of the woman she is embodying just now in the eyes of her knight. Her Knight. Hers.  “Have I never fussed over you, my...darling ?” The word makes Daenerys blush. 

"No, and you know so." Now it is Jorah's turn to sound and look hurt. And Daenerys feels it deeply. Moved, and feeling guilty, both as Lynesse and as herself, she reaches out and takes Jorah's hands in hers.

"I have been horrid to you, haven’t I ?" There, she said it. Who knew play-acting could let one completely free to utter the truth ? 

Jorah's face twitches slightly, the hurt there even more visible now, but he doesn't say anything. 

"Jorah, I wish... I wish I could undo everything." And that, again, is the truth. The whole truth. Years and years of unrequited love she wishes she could undo. Nights in Essos they will never get back. What has she done ? Is it too late for them ?... Tears are welling in Daenerys’ eyes. "I have made such a mess of things." She steals a glance towards Jorah and the love she sees again in his eyes just cuts through her, making her ravenous for that very sentiment that is cruelly not directed at her. Love me. Love... 

Daenerys doesn't hear the end of her inner scream because all of a sudden she feels herself engulfed in the warmest embrace possible, her bear's strong arms pulling her to his breast. "Hush, hush... My love..." Holding on for dear life, Daenerys buries her face in the nook of Jorah's shoulder, one of her hand clinging to his neck, her cheeks brushing desperately against the gruff of his beard, to better feel him, to mark her skin with him. She wants to put her open mouth to his skin but if she does, she won't simply kiss him, she'll sink her teeth in his skin so as to never let go. Daenerys never thought possible such an unleashing of emotions. She is crying in her knight's arms and it frightens her. 

"Shhhhh, my love, I am here. There is nothing to forgive." Between every passionate utterance, Jorah kisses a part of Daenerys' face: her eyelids, the tears on her cheeks, her temples, her hair, the line of her jaw, a trail of adoring kisses which makes her breathless. "We shall go back to Bear Island. I will carve us a bed in which I will cherish... and worship... and ravish you... every day... and every night."

"Don't think, just hold on to his words, just get lost in them. Believe them to be meant for you," is all Daenerys can think about, her thoughts as feverish as her skin wherever Jorah kisses her.

"I have seen us in my dreams, in our Keep, your eyes so different from before, like the rarest of gemstones and so bright with laughter... Love, look at me." Shaking, Daenerys raises her eyes to Jorah's who cups her face in his hands to bring her lips next to his, his next words brushing over her panting mouth : "Listen to me. There is only us now. You need but wish it so."

There is only us now. By the Gods, why not ? Why not embrace this folly ? Let this "us" be him and I, right now, before he wakes up, before I am Queen again. Finding all her beautiful, regal strength back, Daenerys shifts in Jorah's arms to be the one embracing him, her face over his, her silky form pressing against his torso, her hands snaking their way to the back of his neck, until with one final look into her knight's adoring, pleading eyes she presses her swollen lips to his, moaning her consent.

(Part 3, if lucky, will be written on the plane tomorrow !)

[duhragonball]

[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (112/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation.   This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: About 1000 years before the events of Dragon Ball Z.

Previous chapters conveniently available here.

[2 March, 233 Before Age.   Nagaoka.]

"Now, let us all give thanks to our leaders."

"Thank you, Trismegistus.  Blessed by the world that was; blessed by the world that is; blessed by the world yet to come."

Initiates into the Jindan Cult were required to complete a intensive orientation course.  It lasted sixteen straight days, with each class lasting sixteen hours.  This had something to do with the number of protons in a sulfur atom, but Lesseri had forgotten this point after the first day.  She was now on Hour Eleven of Day Nine.

Deprivation was part of the coursework.  A Saiyan had to demonstrate her purity and worthiness to receive the Jindan power.  One way of establishing this was to live on low-calorie diets.  Another was to undergo a ki assay with one of the priests.  They would examine the subject and determine ways to purify a person's energy.  The assay took at least three hours to complete, and so this cut into time the initiate could spend on sleep.  Lesseri had undergone several assays recently, because she had been struggling to keep up with the lessons of the First Crucible.      She figured she had averaged about two hours of sleep each night, but it was worth it.  One of her classmates had gotten bad marks, and he had been required to start over from the beginning.  But Lesseri was still hanging in there.  She was tired, but strangely enthusiastic.    In spite of the hunger and exhaustion, she would pass this stage and progress to the next level.  All she had to do was follow the directions, step by step, and the power would be hers.

On the first day, thanking a portrait of Trismegistus had seemed like a waste of time.  Now, she found these moments a welcome diversion from the rigors of study.  It was a chance to explore her gratitude, and to reflect upon the progress she had made.  When they went around the room to thank Trismegistus individually, Lesseri knew exactly what to say.

"Thank you for your spiritual assays," she said when it was her turn.

"I had a feeling you might say that," said the priest who was overseeing the day's lessons.   He had performed some of her assays as well, and he gave her a knowing smile.

They all shared a friendly laugh, and Lesseri smiled back at him.  "It's helped a lot," she said.  "The old Lesseri never would have made it this far on so little sleep."

"You've all grown so much," the priest said.  "I know that some of you have had to repeat the Crucible from the beginning.  It took me thirty-five days to complete it myself.  There is no shame in it."

The priest had said this many times.  Shame was a temporary condition, a price to be paid in exchange for proud nobility.  One of the many exercises in the Crucible involved transmuting base metal into gold.  Lesseri would sit before a pot and focus her ki on a lump of lead inside.  Normally, it was impossible to transform matter in this way.  Even the  alchemical masters, skilled in the ways of transmutation, would consider this supremely difficult, if not impossible.  But Trismegistus knew better.  Lead was cheap and toxic and shameful, but it could be changed into something valuable, beautiful, and perfect.  And once it was had become gold, would anyone care that it had once been something less?  The shame of having been lead was one of the essential ingredients in the process of its refinement.  The old Lesseri was like the lump of lead.  Trismegistus would make her into a better, stronger Lesseri of gold, but only through an arduous process.  When it was complete, the hardship and indignities she now suffered would be irrelevant.

And so, for the next hour, Lesseri concentrated and applied her power on the metal.  The best she could manage was to melt it.  She had the power to vaporize the lead, but the cavern where she studied was poorly ventilated, and the fumes would be very toxic.  Lesseri found molten lead to be very disappointing.    It melted at such a low temperature that it didn't even glow red or yellow before it turned into an ugly stew of grey.  At least iron would look like gold when it was hot enough.

This principle, the priests taught, was why the "Super Saiyan" transformation used by Luffa was heretical.  If Luffa's power had been legitimate, a means of attaining true nobility, then she would remain in that form permanently.  The fact that she constantly shifted back and forth was proof that she was a mere trickster.  Whatever Luffa's power was, the priests taught that it was unearned.  Luffa had not been transformed in the proper way.  Hers was a fool's gold.  Aurifiction instead of aurifaction.

This teaching was immensely satisfying to Lesseri.  She had long resented Luffa's power, but envied it as well.  Now the truth behind that contradiction was clear.  The old, ignoble Lesseri was easily impressed, but she had still instinctively recognized Luffa as a fraud.

"Remember," the priest said as he walked around the room.  "A piece of lead may admire iron, but that does not make iron noble.  Within lead is the fundamental essence of all matter.  Through that, lead knows what it means to be gold, even without ever becoming such.  This yearning is how you can coax lead to become gold."

Lesseri appreciated these words, although they brought her no closer to her goal.  Her pot was no closer to transmuting now than when she had started.  None of her classmates had fared any better.

"Bah!" cried the man at the benchtop beside her.  "This is a waste of time!  I came here to get stronger, not to play with solder!"

Lesseri ignored him, even when he tossed his pot onto the floor, spilling molten lead onto the ground.

"You only waste time with your outbursts, Brother Leik," the priest said.  "If you want to complete the Crucible, you must pass the Crucible.  The ore that shuns the flame will never be refined."

The man was on his third day, at least as far as Lesseri knew.    She shared his frustrations, but she also knew there was no point in expressing them.  The Crucible had to be endured, not resisted.

"What is there to pass?!" Leik growled.  "You have a potion that will make us stronger, so what does that have to do with making us stare at pots and leading us in singalongs?!"

"Leik, you were warned before..." the priest said, but Leik had run out of patience.

"You won't even tell me what you did with my nephew!" he shouted.  "Everyone just says he 'wasn't worthy'.  Why?  Because his mother and grandmother were aliens?  He's stronger than most full-blooded Saiyans I know!"

"Aliens have no place on this world," one of the other students said.  "Trismegistus has no use for dross.  Your nephew is dead, so stop wasting our time worrying about him!"

"Demotion," the priest finally said.  "Both of you."

A chill ran down Lesseri's spine, and she suspected that the rest of the class had the same reaction to that word.  The Crucible was no place for defiance, or for speaking out of turn.  The priests encouraged open discussion, but only when that discussion was productive.    Push them too far, and you would be required to repeat the Crucible from the beginning.

Leik was furious, but he couldn't do anything about it.  Like the rest of the class, he hadn't received the Jindan power, so he was no match for the priests, who already possessed it.  A pair of red-uniformed attendants escorted him out of the room.  Then they returned for the other man.

"But... but I spoke against his outburst!" he protested.

Lesseri might have snorted with contempt for his foolishness, but she didn't want to draw any attention on herself, the way he had done.  The priests hardly needed his help to deal with unruly students.  What could lead offer gold?

They took him away, presumably to join Leik.  Lesseri had no idea what they did to demoted students before making them start over on the Crucible.  She had made it her business to never find out.  Sixteen days was plenty.

And sixteen days worked.  As grueling as it was, Lesseri knew it would be worth it.  The priests had the power, and that was proof enough.  So why punish yourself by making it take longer than absolutely necessary?  Lesseri had spent longer than this training with Luffa, and had gotten nowhere.  Luffa's lessons had been an utter waste, and now she understood why.  How could fraudulent iron teach lead to become gold?

Lesseri understood Leik's sentiments.  She too had come to this planet with an alien.  Treekul had provided the geomantic and alchemical research that had allowed Lesseri to find this place, but they were soon separated.  Lesseri assumed Treekul had been executed.  There was no good reason for her to stay, and she knew too much to be allowed to escape, and so what other option remained?    But there was no point in discussing it.  Asking wouldn't change Treekul's fate, but it could make Lesseri's path more difficult.

And so she focused on the pot of molten lead in front of her, and struggled to imagine some way to will it into gold.

*******

[7 March, 233 Before Age.  Nagaoka.]

On the fourteenth day of the Crucible, Lesseri believed she would fail.  Her pot of lead remained a pot of lead.  The other students had done no better, but Lesseri wasn't worried about them.

Years ago, she had joined a group of Saiyans under the tutelage of Luffa.  The cult had branded Luffa a heretic, and so Lesseri was very careful to a avoid discussing those days.  She had only gotten mixed up with that group in order to kill her own mother.  If Luffa had taught them anything useful during that time, Lesseri might have taken it to heart.  As it was, Lesseri had walked out on them, staying only long enough to make certain her mother was declared dead.

But the cult might not see it that way.  The longer she studied their ways, the more she worried about it.  The priest teaching them today was a thin Saiyan with pale pink skin and a unibrow.  He gave loud, thunderous sermons to the group, speaking of the glories of purity, and the utter destruction of anything tainted by the unholy.  The other students seemed galvanized by his words, but Lesseri wondered how he would react if he knew she had met Luffa face to face, and even sparred with her.

Her only saving grace was that the cult only knew what she had told them, and possibly whatever she had shared with Endive and Guwar.  She hadn't seen either of then since their initiation.  For all she knew they had failed the Crucible and met the same fate as Treekul.  In any case, Lesseri hadn't told either of them that much about her time with Luffa.

It was Treekul that made her worry.  The four of them had come to this planet together, but when Lesseri first began her quest, it was just Lesseri and Treekul.  With no one else to talk to in those days, she had said more than she probably should have.

One of Lesseri's schemes had involved disguising Endive as Luffa to trick certain parties into giving up useful information.  To complete the disguise, she convinced Treekul to dress up as Luffa wife, a blue-skinned, red-haired alien whose name Lesseri had long forgotten.  Most people didn't know that much about Luffa's personal life, so Lesseri had believed it would make Endive's act more convincing.

"How do you know so much about this lady anyway?" Treekul had asked.

"We all lived together on Nat-Chezz II for a while,"  Lesseri had told her.  "The blue lady would hide in the jungle and we had to hunt her down as an exercise."

There were other anecdotes, things that Lesseri had shared with Treekul but not with the cult to which she had pledged her immortal soul.  At first, she hadn't given it a second thought.  Treekul was probably dead by now, and she had no reason to tell them of such things, even if they did interrogate her before her execution.

But fourteen days in the Crucible had taken a mental toll on Lesseri.  The priests had been very cordial and helpful at first, but over time they expected more and more from her, and the disapproving looks they made were impossible to ignore.  Even when they praised her, she sensed an unspoken "but you could have done better."

In the short hours when she should have been sleeping, Lesseri had tossed and turned, racking her brain for something to explain her fears, and then she realized that Treekul was the only explanation.  She had never seen the alien die.  The priests must have questioned Treekul, and learned something about Lesseri's time with Luffa.  They didn't say anything to Lesseri because they were waiting for her to confess it herself.

But she couldn't do that.  If they didn't know, if Treekul had told them nothing, then telling them would be a terrible mistake.  They would punish her, make her repeat the Crucible, or perhaps worse.  

But if they already knew, then lying to them would be an even more terrible mistake.

But if they didn't know, and she told them now, they would ask why she hadn't said anything before.  

But if she could only turn the lead into gold, then none of it would matter.    They would recognize her mastery of the lessons, and her other failings would be forgiven.  

But she couldn't turn the lead into gold.   None of the students could.  Lesseri began to suspect that the point of the exercise was to recognize the futility of the attempt.  The ones who cracked under the pressure to perform were demoted and required to repeat the Crucible from the beginning.  

But Lesseri couldn't endure that.  She was too tired, too hungry, and too frightened to contemplate another sixteen days of this hell.  She had to hold on, and hope that everything would work out if she just held out a little longer.  That was what the other students were doing.  

But none of them harbored a secret like hers.    

Silently, she begged the lump of metal in her pot to suddenly become gold.   It was a stupid thought, but it would solve everything.  It would prove that she was worthy, and nothing else would matter.   Her past, her secrets, her lies, it would all be forgotten.  

But the lead would not cooperate, no matter how badly she wanted it to.  

And then, just as she was about to lose all patience, and throw the pot to the ground and scream at the top of her lungs, the priest rang a small chime, signifying the end of the day's session.   After a brief farewell, they were dismissed.   Lesseri rose from her seat and wandered out of the room in a daze.   The thing she was feeling wasn't exactly relief, for she knew she would face the same turmoil again tomorrow.   But at least she could rest and eat.   There had to be some way for her to ride out these last two days...

"Lesseri, could I speak to you for a moment?"

She turned and saw one of the priests, and forced herself to some semblance of composure.  

"I'm giving instructions to one of the new priests," he explained.   "You've been through the assay several times, and I thought you would make a good subject for a demonstration of the process."

"Of course," Lesseri said, her voice somewhat weaker and more reluctant than she wanted it to sound.   "Whenever you're ready."

"Splendid," he said.  "You know, you're making remarkable progress, Lesseri."

The compliment might have lifted her spirits, until she happened to notice someone out of the corner of her eye, walking along the corridor.   She was clad in the red robes of the priesthood, but her skin was lavender, and her hair was a thin layer of green stubble on her scalp.  But it was only for a moment, and then she was gone, and Lesseri had to wonder if she had imagined it somehow.  

"Is something wrong, Lesseri?" the priest asked.  

"No, sir," Lesseri finally said.  "Nothing at all."

*******

[9 March, 233 Before Age. Nagaoka.]

Day Sixteen of the Crucible.   Lesseri felt like she was about to die.    The contents of her pot had not changed.   Earlier in the day, one of the other students had gone into hysterics, and began raving about how he had "done it", and insisted that his lead had become gold, even though it had not.   Whether he was lying or hallucinating, Lesseri couldn't tell.    She was no longer interested in the fate of the others, or whether she could transmute metals.   Her only focus was on making it through the rest of the day without behind demoted.  

She had not seen Treekul since that moment in the corridor, and yet she couldn't shake the feeling that it had been real.   That made no sense.   Aliens were unworthy.    Only Saiyans could be priests.  Unless Treekul had proven herself useful somehow.   And the only way Lesseri could think of was by revealing the lies and secrets of one of their initiates.  

No!  It couldn't be like that.  If they already knew the truth, then why had they not pulled Lesseri out of the Crucible already?   Why bother letting her finish the course?

Unless the Crucible was considered a fitting punishment for her.   It certainly didn't feel like a reward.   What better torment than to make her endure the entire trial, only to deny her at the very end?  

No.   Lesseri bit her lower lip until she could feel it bleeding.   She had to beat back these waves of paranoia.   This was the only way to receive the Jindan power, and she would not repeat this ordeal, no matter what.    It was all a test of her obedience, like she had said from the beginning.   Just do as you're told, and the rest would take care of itself.   That was all she had to worry about.   It had to be.   It just had to.

And then two more of the priests entered the room.   Lesseri ignored them until she heard one of them speak, and she recognized Treekul's voice.  

"You probably wouldn't even recognize Lesseri after all this time," one of them said to her.   "She's made remarkable progress."

"Yes, of course," Treekul said.  

Lesseri tried to focus on her work, but couldn't help looking up when Treekul approached.   Her blood ran cold when she finally saw her.  It was definitely Treekul.    Her green buzz cut and lavendar skin were conspicuous enough in the outside universe, but here, among an all-Saiyan population, they stood out even more.   Her garments were more revealing than most, but the style made it clear that she was one of the priestesses.

She couldn't stand this any longer.   Had Treekul told them already?   What was she even doing here?   How did this make any sense?   And then, just as she was about to ask, one of the other students beat her to it.  

"Sir, how is an alien allowed to serve in the priesthood? �� I thought only Saiyans were worthy."

Treekul and Lesseri looked at each other while the student waited for his answer.  

"Trismegistus has assayed Sister Treekul," the priest explained.   "And he has made her worthy."

"That's impossible!" protested one of the other students.  

"Is it?" the priest asked.  "You've all been working on those pots for several days now, haven't you?   Has any of you managed to make so much as a sliver of gold?    Anyone at all?   No?   Why do you suppose that is?"

There was a tension behind Lesseri's eyes, and the back of her head felt like the molten lump of metal in her pot.    She felt a shame that she couldn't begin to describe.   She was sure that if she could answer the priest's question, then it would make up for her other failings, in some small way.    And yet she was at a loss.   She couldn't even explain her own failure.   And there was Treekul, a living monument to her imperfection...

"Well, of course they can't do it.    They don't know how," Treekul said, answering for the class.   "Even experienced alchemists struggle to pull off that sort of thing.  So why are you having these initiates try it?   You didn't even give them any reagents or equipment."

Lesseri looked up from her pot.   Was this true?   Had the entire exercise been a complete waste of time?

"We make the initiates perform the impossible," the priest explained, "precisely because it's impossible... for them.   And as they realize the depths of their failure, they must also reflect upon this truth: Our master, Trismegistus, can turn lead into gold.  His power can do what the rest of us call 'impossible'.   That is why we follow him.   Not just because he is our leader, or because of his 'power'.   We follow him because he is holy.   Miraculous.   Without him, the lead is unchanged.  But with his triple blessing, he can turn it into gold.   He can turn make the weak into the strong.   And he can even transmute the alien into the disciple.  Truly, the thrice-blessed is a..."

He suddenly paused his sermon and looked toward the class.   "Excuse me, Lesseri," he said,  "are you crying?"

The entire classroom was astounded by the teachings, but Lesseri was completely awestruck.   It had been an epiphany to her.   Treekul, her own imperfections, the Crucible, and everything else she had worried about, they were all wet clay to be molded by Trismegistus.   None of it mattered.    The crucible, demotion, the assays, Treekul wearing priestly garments, Lesseri's former association with the Super Saiyan.    None of it mattered in the end, because it could all be shaped and reshaped to suit his grand design.    All Lesseri needed to do was to submit and let herself be transformed.  

"I'm all right," she sobbed.   "It's just so... liberating..."

NEXT: Xibuyas waits.

[fountainpenguin]

S and T for the ask

S: Any fandom tropes you can’t resist?

> Bittersweet endings. I don’t like completely perfect or completely depressing ends… I like little nibbles of both.

> Witty banter. Never get tired of it.

> I’m not normally one for AUs, but I love college AUs for worlds that don’t have a college equivalent. What do they study? I must know.

> Fleshing unliked/overlooked side character out with an interesting backstory and cool hobbies.

> We dislike each other but have to keep up appearances.

> Smooth, probably sexually experienced character is easily flustered.

> Alternatively: smooth character flirts with someone, takes it too far, and instantly backpedals while screaming internally.

> Sharing space on a road trip.

> Soft holiday stories! Especially fantasy holidays, because then I’m falling in love with the worldbuilding and pleased that the characters are happy.

> Blind dates.

> Tired but loving single parent who works very hard

> Two tired parents working very hard, so glad they’re in this together

> Someone falls in love with a single parent, asks their kid(s) permission to marry their parent, and lets kid help them pick out a ring and participate in wedding plans.

> HEALTHY!!! STEP-FAMILIES!!!

> Jerk messed with the wrong person and now they’re in for it… We don’t know when… but oh, they’re in for it.

> Petty villains (“Whoa, whoa, whoa! I call in an evil plan, and you send your B squad??? Frankly I’m a little insulted!” -Snaptrap)

> Petty heroes… Read: Randy Disher, a full-grown adult police lieutenant, getting his feelings hurt when the Captain says he’d save Monk, not him, if both were in the water because Monk can’t swim, and Randy persists by asking if his mind would change if Randy was holding an anchor and the Captain asks why he wouldn’t just let go of the anchor and Randy looks him in the eye and says “Family heirloom” and the Captain just >:|

> Gift giving is shown to be a valid form of affection and not played as a greedy, materialistic love language (Related: Character A buys cute little gifts for B sometimes and it doesn’t turn into a story about wasteful spending or needing to shower your partner in gifts or else they’ll freak out).

> Bed sharing / cuddles (As long as it doesn’t progress to sex… I have to be in the right mindset for that and 9.5 times out of 10 I’d rather have snuggles).

> Quick, casual, absentminded kisses. Convince me this character’s instinct is to express affection even when they’re distracted and you have me eating out of your hand.

> Kisses in awkward places… Up against walls, quickly stolen while the third wheel is out of the room, couple trying to hide even though their friends ship them and no one present will judge them for a kiss… Yes. The more uncomfortable the position or time, the better. Love that spontaneous cute.

> Fake dating and in the end they’re still good friends, no push into a romantic relationship just because they were in this situation together.

> Healthy mutual break-ups

> Asexual characters!!! I’m for any story that acknowledges people like me exist and are happy, whether it’s a story about discovery, the difficulties of being ace, or a story where the ace character is just at peace.

> People are close friends and not dating. Both are comfortable with their relationship and no one tries to make them feel bad.

T: Any fandom tropes you can’t stand?

(Below the cut. Keep in mind these are my personal preferences and I’m not attacking anyone who likes tropes I dislike. This isn’t a comprehensive list, just some thoughts about tropes I don’t enjoy reading).

> Redemption through romantic love. So. Much.

> Everybody Lives AUs

> Soulmates

> Forbidden love

> Amnesia

> Coffee Shop AUs (I’m all for “In the future this character gets a job” stories, but I dislike “I’m going to flirt with this person while they’re in a position they can’t leave” stories)

> Psychic powers / Twins can read minds. It’s not an immediate deal-breaker, but my interest will drop sharply.

> Falling in love way too quickly / confusing infatuation with genuine love and the moral of the story is that you should risk your life plans and dive headfirst into relationships with people you don’t know well yet (I didn’t watch The Sun Is Also a Star, but the trailers pushed ALL my wrong buttons).

> Physical touch is the only or most important way to express affection. I’m all for love language miscommunication stories. I don’t like being told those who don’t express physical touch easily are frigid or uncaring.

> Big rescue scenes in romance (Ex: Hero carrying love interest from a burning building… I’d rather see hero helping love interest up a tough patch of the trail they’re hiking, or leaving a party to find their partner a dessert they’re not allergic to, something small and affectionate like that).

> Asexual invalidation/correction stories (Related: Virgin mockery). I don’t mind reading these if the main character is asexual and it’s a story about sexuality exploration or a character facing difficulties because they’re ace (That’s what Origin of the Pixies is, after all), but if the author legitimately believes asexuality needs to be fixed or that ace characters can’t be in fulfilling relationships, that’s what I don’t like.

> Canon: *Characters state they don’t want to be together romantically*  Fanfic: *Makes them romantic*  As a reader, I’m willing to let you take my hand if you show me careful thought processes and honest conversations while the characters work through changes together in early chapters, but if there’s absolutely no explanation (or indication that backstory will be given later) and the story just starts with them together for some reason… I won’t play along.

> When two people in canon are very close but not an official romantic couple and the only ‘fics about them are romantic. I don’t mind some stories being romantic, especially if they’re set in the future of canon, but if I can’t find more than a tiny handful of ‘fics that match their canon relationship, I get frustrated.

> Oh, here’s a trope I despise with the intensity of a thousand suns… Animals that are not dogs behaving like dogs (Ex: Maximus the horse in Tangled). Other animals are interesting too!

> I dislike a lot of angst tropes in general. I like psychological horror, like the slow recognition of your own sins (which is probably why I write villain backstories). A loved one dying in your arms, or trapped inside a burning house, does nothing to me. You could not get farther from affecting me if you tried. My heart will break if someone hesitates in an otherwise cheery story and the other person staggers back, realizing things aren’t as perfect as they thought. I live for moments where the bliss suddenly snaps and in an instant, everything’s changed. But deaths drawn out with gasps and bleeding, or houses going up in flames, don’t really land. Angst has to be fast and hard or I find it tedious.

> Developing a crush on someone before you even see or hear them interact. See also, liking someone you have no business liking when your people raised you to dislike theirs. How do you exist outside your culture? I want reasons.

> Using new pronouns for a character who hasn’t revealed their preferred pronouns to the narrator and/or a character outs someone by using new pronouns without ensuring they’re okay with that. I’m cool with long-established pronouns, but if some characters don’t know yet, they don’t know yet.

> I’m personally not a fan of self-insert stories, especially Self-Insert x Canon. Specifically, I dislike the trope that self-inserts will draw canon character attention and take the focus away from a canon character development story, which is what I prefer to read. Self-inserts who don’t disrupt the status quo are fine by me.

> I can accept OC x Canon if you don’t contradict canon, but the OC has to be well fleshed out with realistic flaws, and if the canon character is completely OOC, I’m backing out (It’s specifically Main Character OC x Canon that I don’t like- I’ll happily dive into “Failed relationships in canon character’s past involving OC exes because canon characters won’t work for this”).

> Timmy wakes up one day and realizes Tootie’s the girl for him. I need a looong slow burn to sell me on that one. I’m happy to see him recognize his own judgmental attitudes and accept her as a friend, but if it moves into romance while they’re still young, I’m out.

> Wanda being pregnant instead of Cosmo… I 100% forgive this for anything written before “Fairly Odd Baby,” but if Wanda’s the pregnant one then I immediately scroll up to check the upload date. If I can’t trust you with that piece of canon, what can I trust you with?

> Wanda confronts Cosmo and argues that he’s being mean to her. That’s a can of worms I’d rather skirt around.

> I’m all for Cosmo and Wanda having a second kid, but NOT while they’re still with Timmy.

> Abusive Juandissimo.

> I also don’t like fluff. I don’t deliberately avoid sweet, plotless stories, but I don’t seek them out. I lose interest in fluff more quickly than anything else.

… I’m realizing now that the reason I don’t like romantic stories is probably because most of them revolve around expressing affection the literal opposite way of how I prefer it (Ex: Way more stories about physical touch and making out until impulsive sex occurs, not enough quick kisses in passing or time spent existing quietly on the same couch enjoying your separate hobbies).

I don’t inherently hate romance, I just have different romantic preferences than the media that usually crosses my path. I’m more about companionate love than fiery passion. It’s hard to convey the comfortable silence I like in words.

Fanfic Ask Meme

[lumosinlove]

Hiii!!❤️can you please write a wolfstar fic where snape gets his revenge on Sirius for the whomping willow incident by using the sectumspempra curse on him and Remus is really worried about Sirius ?? ❤️

Sirius saw the blood before he felt it. It created thin lines of red, like thread wrapping slowly around his chest, his palms, his throat. Thin and thick strips that seeped through his white dress shirt, his black robes. They created new colors as they mixed with his maroon and gold tie.

“I might have been saved.” Sirius stumbled back, at the pain slowly leaking its way into his nerves, at the voice in front of him. Snape slashed his wand once more, and Sirius was on his knees, feeling the skin across his chest spring open with the motion, “But you won’t be.”

There was a hand around his neck, cool and clamming and clenched into his skin, pulling his eyes upwards. Snape leaned over him. His shirt sleeve was stained red, “And they’ll find you like this. The others.” James, Peter, Remus, Remus Remus—

Snape snarled, “They’ll find you right here, right in their reach, dead.”

Sirius, the second Snape had appeared in their dorm and raised his wand, had decided to keep silent. Snape wouldn’t kill him outright, not that he’d really expected to be killed at all. Hurt, yes. Left to hurt, definitely. His wand was across the dorm on Remus’ bed, but he had felt the heavy weight of his and James’ mirror in his pocket. His escape, his call for help. Except now his vision was going blurry. He couldn’t feel his fingers. I’m getting blood on the carpet, he thought. Mum won’t like that.

When Snape let go, Sirius dropped, hands just barely catching himself. The rug was wet from the cut across his chest, and it sponged around his fingers, turning them red too. The door shut, and for a moment all Sirius could do was stare at the steady trickling feeling within him, like he was a cracked ceramic vase that had yet to be mended. When the word smeared across his vision again, he remembered. He reached into his pocket, got blood on the surface, and he thought his lips said James’ name, but he wasn’t entirely sure until James appeared, grinning and then not.

“Sirius.” When James said his name, Sirius allowed himself to close his eyes, “Fuck, what—“ Then there were footsteps, and he heard Remus’ voice, faintly, and in pieces.

James—

wrong—

—Padfoot

where—

—dorm, I think

awake—stay aw—

footsteps footsteps footsteps

Sirius started when the door opened. It banged fiercely against the wall and Sirius’ entire body jerked.

“No—“ He heard himself say, because for a moment the walls weren’t red they were black, and the hands on him were long and manicured, not Remus’. And then he blinked again and absolutely everything was red, even Remus’ hands. Remus hadn’t touched Sirius in weeks. So long, so long, Remus, I’m sorry—

“There’s blood on your cheek.” Sirius mumbled instead when he found Remus’ eyes, and when he reached his arm out to smear it away, he only made it worse, “Shit.“

“Pads.” Remus’ lips trembled around the word as he gathered Sirius’ form against his chest, his eyes darting around his body, “What happened to you? Who—”

Sirius gasped as Remus trailed the tip of his wand along a cut. The healing spell tore the skin apart and Remus—or maybe it was himself—sobbed.

“Merlin, oh god.” Remus threw his wand away as if it had burned him and Sirius, the amount of pain almost numbing, curled further into Remus’ chest and said, “Snape.”

This time it really was Remus who let out a sorrow filled noise, following Sirius’ lead and cradling his head in his arm, bloody fingers in his hair. Sirius closed his eyes at the touch, “Re—“

“No.” Remus’ breath trembled, “No, don’t close your eyes, Pads. Padfoot.” A warm palm pressed to his cheek, “It’s okay. Open your eyes, Sirius, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Even through Sirius’ blood-loss-fog, he knew this was, finally, an acceptation of an apology. He felt lighter because of it, even if the forgiveness probably had a lot to do with the blood they sat in. Sirius tried to do his part, to open his eyes, but they were suddenly heavy, too heavy.

“‘m trying.” He pushed his cheek into Remus’ touch, or rather, let it fall. His words slurred, “I don’t know what he did to me—“

“Where is he?” A new, shriller voice entered the room, followed by a gasp, “Mr. Black…Oh—“ McGonagall knelt, “Poppy, come, bring the stretcher—“

“I can’t stop all the blood.” Remus’ voice again, ripped and torn over the words, “Please—if I let go—“

“Mr. Lupin, you must.”

“Re.” Sirius’ hearing was foggy now. He was warm, he felt light. Remus was holding him, Remus forgave him, “Stay.”

It was the last thing he remembered.

~

He was in the Hospital Wing when he woke. The light coming in from the floor to ceiling windows hurt his head. There was a hand in his and sandy hair resting on his thigh. The weight sent warmth spiraling through him. He reached out almost hesitantly, his arm surprising him with how heavy it felt, and as a result ended up dropping his palm atop Remus’ head with much more momentum than intended. The result was Remus starting upright, gasping his name.

“Sorry.” Sirius rasped, “Sorry.” The word tasted bitter, but he couldn’t stop saying it, “Sorry.”

Remus shook his head, pulling Sirius’ fingers between his own, “I already told you.” He pressed a kiss to Sirius’ knuckles in place of finishing the sentence. It’s okay.

Sirius nods, minutely because it hurts, because everything hurts now that he thinks about it. Remus sees the wince and is instantly on his feet and pressing the mouth of a small bottle to his lips. The pain lessens, but even the dull throb is a reminder that something happened.

When Remus moves to scoot his stool closer and presses his fingers through his hair, Sirius finds his voice again. He loops his fingers around Remus’ elbow, just for the warmth, for the pulse, “Do they know what it was? What’s happened to Snape?”

Remus looks away, and for a second Sirius thinks someone is coming. But then Remus looks down again and he realizes it was to soften the simmering of anger that was at constant threat of boiling over, “He’s probably still in Dumbledore’s office. They picked him up almost immediately after I told them what you said. They checked his wand.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, letting his fingers trail up Remus’ forearm to his hand again, pulling it against his chest, “And?” Remus watched the motion, biting at his cheek and reaching out with his other hand to hold Sirius’ between them, to run his thumb over Sirius’ lip, little touches that Sirius swore he could bask in until the end of time.

“That’s the thing.” Remus shook his head, disbelieving, “They didn’t recognize the spell, or the name. Seprum—I don’t even remember, when they told me you were still bleeding so I was barely even half listening.” Remus swallowed and a corner of his mouth lifted as Sirius pressed a kiss to his palm, “But they cast it. The spell, they cast it on one of the dead rats from Potions.” Remus let out a breath and it shook. His grip tightened on Sirius, “The thing cut itself to fucking ribbons.”

Sirius blinked, remembering watching the lines of blood bloom across his own body, “I…How is that possible?”

“He invented it.” Remus scoffed suddenly, lips twisting in a grimacing smile, “Can you fucking believe that? The little fuck invented something as awful as that. And then—then to use it on—“ Remus shook his head, pressing a hand over his mouth like the thought made him legitimately sick to his stomach.

Sirius felt a little nauseated too, if he was telling the truth, “Merlin.”

They sat in silence for a moment until Remus found it in him to remove his hand, pressing it back warmly to Sirius’ skin, “Anyway, he’s going to be expelled. Maybe even tried at the Ministry. For attempted murder.”

“Merlin.” Sirius said again, then, his his heart stuttered, “Re.”

But Remus was already shaking his head, “He won’t talk about that.” Remus seemed to have read Sirius’ mind. After all, Sirius had brought this on himself. He’d lead Snape to the Shack. He could be tried too.

“How do you know?” Sirius whispered.

Remus was still shaking his head, but he leaned forward and pressed a hard kiss to Sirius’ forehead. Sirius pressed on, “Remus, if he talks about me, he’ll talk about you, he’ll expose—“

“Dumbledore won’t let that happen.”

“How—“

“I don’t.” Remus’ voice shook, “I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about that, the point—“ Remus pressed his palms to Sirius cheeks, “The point is you’re alive. Okay? You’re alive and you didn’t die fighting with me.” Sirius blinked and suddenly there were tears in Remus’ eyes, “You almost died thinking I hated you. I almost lost you having told you I hated you. I swear, Pads, if that had been the last thing I said to you—“

“But it wasn’t.” Sirius struggled for a moment before sitting up on his elbows, ignoring the burn of freshly spelled wounds, “And—“ his voice dropped to a whisper again, “And if you have to leave, Re, I’ll come with you.” He reached out with one bandaged hand, and Remus let with a soft sigh, “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“Even into hiding?” Remus’ voice shook, “Sirius, I don’t want that for you.”

“I want it for me.”

“You want me, maybe—“

“Definitely.”

“—but not the rest of it.” Remus shakes his head, “Not the wolf. Not the, the judgement.”

Sirius leans forward all the way, tugging on Remus’ shirt collar until he gingerly sits on the edge of the hospital bed, “If that’s what comes with you, then yes.” Sirius lets Remus search his eyes for a lie because he won’t find any, “Then yeah, I do. What, you think I can’t handle some judgment? A few fuckers who can’t get their facts straight? Re, I come from a whole family of those.”

He only smiles once, after a few moments, Remus lets out a little watery laugh of his own. Then he wiped at his cheek and nudged his fingers beneath the hem of Sirius pajamas, feeling for warm skin, for comfort, “Well, nothing’s even happened yet, so. So, I don’t even know why we’re talking about it—no, no, no, Pads, I’m going to hurt—“

“No, you won’t.” Sirius finished his sudden attack of pulling Remus’ legs to settle on either side of his hips, smiling and, before Remus can get out another word, pressing their mouths together. He runs his tongue along Remus’ lips and squeezes his waist tighter when Remus lets out a hot breath into his mouth. Sirius only barely breaks away enough to speak, “‘m just gonna kiss you now, okay?”

Remus snorts a little, “Until Madame Pomfrey comes in to stop us?”

The corner of Sirius’ mouth lifts and Remus turns to kiss it, “Exactly.”

[bitchfromtheseventhhell]

hi again. thanks for the quick answer! i'm writing based on the books and set somewhere vaguely post-series' end so any advice for that? also what helps you get in a good mindset for writing these two?

it’s been such a long time since i sat down and wrote them but i guess the advice i’d give is--and this is how i write/headcanon them for post canon, but i think (w/o sources at hand bc it’s thanksgiving and i’m full of pie) that they’re pretty supportable--

they’re a competence couple.  part of what made them respect one another to begin with was that they recognized the competence of the other in a time of terror.  to me this leads to strong communication and strong unspoken communication.  they like and trust one another and have learned, over time, to predict (and annoy) the other.

part of what they both like about one another is the forthrightness.  that means they argue, but arguing is a sign of respect for the other, i think.  they don’t fight to demean; they recognize that the other is pushing and needling based on what they see as something that’s not right and so when they push it’s because they expect more of this competent person they like and trust.

arya has a very complex relationship with her gender that a lot of people either don’t allow the nuance of or get caught up in the #discourse about.  a lot of her issues stem from the bullying she underwent as a girl, but also her parents (both of them) and septa mordane and the way they tried to push her towards being a societally acceptable lady.  i think the most interesting aryas tackle that full on.  she doesn’t hate women, or even necessarily femininity, but she violently hates how women get treated by society, based on how society has and likely will continue to treat her throughout the remainder of her life because she refuses to conform to what has made her routinely miserable.

tricky subpoint: arya is a pretty child and will likely be considered a beautiful woman in the way that lyanna is.  that’s complicated with the way she’s been made to feel about her looks.  don’t shy away from that; it shouldn’t be the main point of her character (she says, loudly, in grrm’s direction, as a warning) but that sort of shit does come up when writing a romantic relationship because if you have issues accepting your own beauty, sometimes it’s hard to accept it when someone you love thinks your pretty.  (not uniformly but it’s there).  

similarly: gendry is walking class confusion and issues.  that’s an important point of tension between him and arya and one that’s unlikely to go away because even if he is legitimized/his knighthood is accepted, that’s still not the same as being born a stark of winterfell, and also his dad wasn’t the one who legitimized him or ever cared about him or tried to treat like anyone well ever.

also: he’s fucking devoted to her.  brienne sees this, even if she doesn’t know it’s what she’s seeing that chapter where she runs into him at the inn is so fucking incredible when it comes to looking at how devestated he is about what might have happened to arya.

for me, i sometimes overanalyze as i write.  but that’s part of what i like about writing fic: it’s a creative form of character analysis.  what happens if i do this.  so the advice i give for my writing style is: analyze.  read things that’ll help you settle yourself in your analysis and go forward.  if that’s not how you write, that’s fine and you should do what works for you.  everyone has different writing styles and writing techniques and what fits for me might not fit for you.  but i feel as though i’m at my most solid when i know how i would analyze and support my analysis of a character.

if that’s not your bag, i’d recommend rereading acok and asos arya chapters with gendry.  (tbh acok has such a fabulous dynamic between the two of them and i think that doesn’t get talked about enough because it’s not the acorn hall book.)  even if it’s just to remind yourself “dang this is how they started” that’s vital for anything, and also if it helps you refresh on how they talk to one another, it’ll be worth the time!

[rueitae]

Frostbite

[Pidge is a renowned super villain. Lance is a hero in training. During their latest encounter, Lance pushes his powers to their limit and Pidge has some soul searching to do.]

A gift for @mbirdarts as she has graciously allowed me to dip my fingers into her details for this AU after I sent many pestering questions asked about it.

You can find the concept art here, here, here, and here.

The outfit inspiration is from @artylovebug here which was in turn inspired by @plancelance initial AU idea here.

This is now fic 2/4 I want to do for plance hero/villain. I am so weak for this trope and needed more. I love you all.

The fic is posted on Ao3 here, but you can read in its entirety below. About 6K words of banter, action, and hurt/comfort. ish.

~~~~~~~~~~

Pidge lets her back hit the brick wall of the alleyway, sliding down to sit on the concrete in relief. She closes her eyes and lets her heart rate slow to a rest. She has a good twenty minutes to spare before the next truck comes by this area and unloads its goods. That’s enough time to deal with her pursuer and escape.

Exhausted, but happy, she examines her latest acquisition. The disc fits perfectly in the palm of her gloved hand. The device is top of the line Galra Corp information storage. It contains hope - more hope than she’s had in a while. The style of code it holds is her father’s; the same he had passed on to her and her brother. The best case scenario is that it holds a message that the two of them were alive and well. Worse case Pidge hopes it would at least prove the Galra were up to no good.

Her lab is only a few warehouses away, further from the pier. As much as she wants to check it out right that minute - she has something more pressing to take care of.

She taps the side of her modified safety glasses and it displays the time for her in 3-D. She grins impishly. “Three… two… one…”

Lance barrels into the alleyway, tripping on Pidge’s carefully placed trap. He yelps as he is pushed into the wall, bounces over to the other end of the alley - only to ram into the dumpster with enough force to spill it, finally falling at her feet and into the pile of trash he unwittingly created.

The trap works perfectly, as Pidge expected it would. The sides of her mouth tug further up her face, thrilled at the accomplishment and seeing Lance on the wrong end of the admittedly childish prank.

To his credit, Lance lifts himself to his hands and knees quickly, glaring. “Real funny, Pidge,” he grumbles. He reaches out with a gloved hand, and judging by the look on his face, he’s just touched something extremely unpleasant. “Urgh...this is going to take forever to clean this off my uniform.”

“I told you not to follow me,” Pidge says, her smile stretching as far as her muscles will allow. Meeting Lance in costume is always a fun treat but today she can’t linger. She needs to examine the disc and can’t do so as Katie. The university computers aren’t compatible, and she doesn’t have the time to make them so, especially not when she has one ready to go in her lab. “At the same time, I’m also glad you did. I wouldn’t have gotten to try my new traps otherwise.”

Lance blinks, eyebrows rising. “Wait - traps?” His tone matches his increasing comprehension. “As in more than one?”

Pidge taps her orange glasses once more and pulls up the command she’s looking for, never taking her eyes off of the rookie hero. “This is the Warflater,” she explains. “I made it just for you.”

Lance scrambles to his feet. “Oh no,” he warns - summoning shards of ice into the palm of his hand. Frost forms up to his wrist in response to the use of his powers. “Not doing that. The last time you made something for me I ended up in the sewer.”

Necessary, Pidge thinks. If she hadn’t dumped him in the sewers a few months back he’d have been caught in crossfire. She bites her lip. Maybe she’ll tell him one day, but until he stops believing the Galra Corporation was a benevolent entity, it’s better this way.

He already knows too much for her liking.

“Pidge, come on,” Lance continues. His determined expression is replaced with one of genuine concern. “Give me the disc so I can give it back to Galra Corp. I promise we’ll find some non-villainous way to get your family back. I’ll even let you go. Please.”

“You? Let me go?” Pidge asks, pointing to herself. Her eyebrows rise in amusement. “I know where you live. I don’t know what kind of superhero decides to not have a secret identity, but you walked right into this one. You are not in a position to be making any demands.”

“Yes I am!” he responds indignantly. He points his ice shards at the ready. “I have - AH!”

The five power nozzles set up across the alley spit scalding water directly at Lance, who continues to yelp and flail in the intersection of the streams. Pidge looks on casually, unconcerned. Lance is one of a handful of people in the city who can come out of this unharmed. His ice core will keep his body temperature regulated so that he won’t get burned. The water will only be disorienting.

She still hates the fact that he can’t ever get sunburn. Some things in life just aren’t fair.

“Okay, that’s it!” Lance sputters, barely yelling words out in the bombardment. “No more mister nice- “ There, this was the moment of realization she had been waiting for. “Pidge! Why are my feet stuck?!”

Pidge slides the disc back into her pouch. A few taps on her glasses and the timer is set for the water to turn off. “New sticky web formula. Thanks for helping me test the waterproofing, Lance. See you next heist!” With Lance successfully off her tail, she turns to walk away.

“Pidge! Pidge turn this thing off!”

“Chill, Lance,” she jokes, pausing briefly in her escape. “It’ll be over in a few minutes and I’ll send Tesla to unstick you later.”

At this point Lance is shielding his face with his arms, which help his words come out more clearly but don’t help his movements at all. “Do NOT send that stupid little robot, it's just going to electrocute me again!”

“Awww, that’s mean, Lance,” Pidge teases. “Tesla really likes you. Don’t hurt her feelings.”

“It’s a robot! It doesn’t have feelings!”

Pidge chuckles to herself, smirking. “That’s what you think. See ya later, hero boy!” she calls out, relishing in the whimsical feeling of the moment.

Only to have it shatter by a laser whizzing just past her face, rooting her to the spot in shock.

It hits one of the hoses, causing a leak with a concentrated and powerful beam. Pidge turns around in horror. Blocking the other end of the alleyway are Galra security agents. She can tell from a glance they are not hired from the hero agency, but rather trained in-house specifically for Galra Corp.

They cock the guns and the largest one comes forward. Pidge’s breath catches as she recognizes Haxus, the most high ranking member of Galra Corp she’s ever seen on the streets. “Hand over the disc, thief.”

Pidge instinctively rests a hand on the pouch that contains the disc and takes a step back. There is no negotiating here. She can’t give it back to them. Even if she does, they’ll kill her or take her away like they had her father and brother.

Fighting back remains her only option.

“I’ll never give up!” She yells back, rage and determination overflowing from her very being. The traps for this alley may be sprung, but the grunts are far enough back that maybe…

Tapping her glasses once more, she enters the command code for the pier. Just off shore, the waters begin to stir

“Stop her!” Haxus snaps at his two subordinates.

Pidge jumps behind the dumpster, kneeling in case she needs to move again at a moments notice. She concentrates on her work despite the barrage of fire, stealing a look whenever she can to see if they are coming.

The Galra Corp flunkies scream as the scalding deluge from the remaining four hoses turn from Lance to them. Pidge grins in triumph as the force pushes them back off of the pier into the whirlpool she’d set into motion with her first action.

“Pidge - what was that?”

Lance is soaked, and clearly not pleased - looking utterly pathetic as he stands still thanks to the webbing all over his boots. His homemade hero costume sags with water seeping out of his pockets.

To Pidge’s flustered horror, it outlines each and every inch of his build. She forgets the situation at hand as her mind freezes as much as his powers.

He crosses his arms, his eyebrows raised. “I’m the wet one, but you look like the fish.” He smirks, as if a lightbulb has gone off in his head. “You like what you see? Not that I blame you,” he finishes smugly.

Pidge becomes acutely aware of the intense warmth has invaded her cheeks. “You look like soggy bologna,” she sputters lamely

Lance bristles indignantly. “I do not!”

Feeling sufficiently redeemed, her confidence returns with Lance once again becoming the flustered one and not her.

His body of all things?! This was worse than she first thought.

It isn’t even the main thing she likes about him. If they were at the university, maybe she could pull it off as a legitimate crush. Lance likes Katie, of that Pidge is nearly positive. Hunk’s questioning gazes and the way he remembers her class schedule, buys her ice cream, or recalls the name of her favorite robot - something she told him only very briefly in passing - is enough for her to get the message.

The only reason she hasn’t done anything about it is due to her commitments as Pidge. She refuses to believe her father and brother are dead, and rather are being held by Galra Corp against their will. She needs to rescue them, no matter what it takes.

Even if she has to break her own heart in the process. Because if she’s honest, she likes him too.

As Pidge, she can at least hang out with him like this and that was a small consolation. Her smart remarks were returned, and she can pretend it isn’t flirting.

She can also enjoy the soft looks he will probably give to Katie later tomorrow after she spends tonight pouring over the information on the disc.

Pidge opens her mouth to enjoy one last quip before leaving him.

The reverie turns out to be her downfall.

“Pidge, look out!”

She only has a split second to notice Lance’s alarmed face before she tumbles across the ground, unable to move her arms and legs. Once she stops, Pidge finds herself bound by a weighted net. Its purple glow gives it away as Galra Corp.

But she’s taken care of Haxus.

Pidge worms herself around to catch a glimpse of her attacker and forgets to breathe.

The massive form of Sendak blocks the opposite exit. The man answers only to Zarkon himself. If he’s here, the information in the disc must be valuable indeed.

Lance stutters as he takes in the scene, settling on addressing Sendak first. “I had it handled!”

You idiot, Pidge thought. Sendak has a nasty reputation and is not above harming heroes. Lance has to know that. Pidge prays he does. If not, he’s in just as much danger as she is.

“My apologies,” Sendak replies coolly. His smile was is not kind. “I had an opportunity, I thought I’d best take it to capture the thief as quickly as possible.”

Lance huffs and crosses his arms. “Thanks for the help, I guess.”

Pidge uses their conversation as time to escape. The net runs on quintessence, as all Galra Corp products do. She feels around for the power source, familiar enough with the tech to disable it with her eyes closed - or hands behind her back in this case.

“You’re the newcomer with ice powers, aren’t you boy?” Sendak flexes his left arm; a weaponized prosthetic.

“I’ve been doing this for almost a whole year,” Lance defends. “I’m not exactly new to this.”

Sendak draws back his clawed arm, and aims at the hero’s feet.

Pidge isn’t sure what comes over her, because screaming “Don’t you touch him!” and drawing Sendak’s attention away from Lance and onto her, deterring her escape attempt, is precisely what she did not need to do.

“Lance, no!” she still screamed his name in horror when Sendak doesn’t stop. Lance braces himself, wide eyed.

He is fine.

Sendak holds the torn pieces of Pidge’s sticky web in his mechanical claws. “She squeals for you more than for herself. I find that fascinating.”

Free, Lance seems to get the hint that he and Sendak are not actually on the same side. “Oh, um, thanks?” he says, taking an unsure step back.

Pidge holds her breath as Sendak does not answer right away. “Mr. Zarkon appreciates your services, but it is no longer needed. I will take charge of the thief’s punishment.”

Desperate, Pidge makes her break for it, rolling as fast as she can manage towards the water before Sendak can make his way towards her. Breath is taken out of her lungs as she is slammed face first into brick. She tries to plant her feet back the ground, but Sendak’s arm holds her dangling against the wall.

“H-hey, I don’t think she’s going anywhere. No need to do anything drastic,” Lance says.

“When dealing with thieves, it is best to add some finality to the approach,” Sendak squeezes and Pidge groans in terror, pain nearing unbearable. “You may report to the hero division that the felon 04032073 is taken care of.”

“Wait, hold it. This is not what I signed up for,” Lance says assertively. “Pidge may be a criminal, but she doesn’t deserve whatever you’re going to do to her.”

“This is a Galra Corp matter,” Sendak interrupts. “Do not make me report you to your supervisor.”

“Shiro would agree with me,” Lance says, standing his metaphorical ground. His voice brims with a confidence Pidge wishes she shares. She knows that Sendak is going to take his annoyance out on Lance before killing her. She closes her eyes in earnest. There is only one way they are getting out of here, and that’s if she uses her powers.

Pidge has been careful about them, never using them since she assumed her alter-ego. With only a quarter of the population born with superpowers, her plants would make her far too identifiable to Katie Holt.

No choice now.

“Then you leave me no choice.” Sendak drops Pidge and she lands on the concrete, breaking her concentration. She looks on in horror as Lance has summoned his own powers to face Sendak. Maybe in the past she might have been flattered that someone outside of her own family would show that much anger and determination for her life. She did not want it to be Lance. Not with Zarkon’s right hand man powering up his gun and pointing it at him.

An explosion of cold stops any other action.

Pidge turns away as sub zero temperatures blast against her body. Once calm, she turns to survey the scene. The cold has made her entrapment brittle, breaking apart without any effort.

Sendak towers above her, frozen stiff, icicles fraying off of him everywhere. He has taken the brunt of Lance’s attack, unintentionally shielding her.

She carefully side-steps the Galra man to look at the rest of the scene. She throws caution to the wind when she sees Lance on the ground, unmoving.

“Lance!” Pidge rushes over to him in concern, sliding onto the ice without a thought that it could break her ankle if she wasn’t careful. Immediately tapping her glasses, she scans his vitals. His heartbeat barely exists.

Pidge finds it a little easier to breathe. Like her own powers had physical consequences, so did his. Still, seeing him like this sends shivers up her spine. Lance is animated and talkative, not silent and still.

Even if this were natural for him, Pidge is sure it isn’t healthy in the long run. She needs to get him to her lab. The same lab where she has prepared for this eventuality, and hates herself for it.

She cares about him too much for her own good.

“I can’t believe you went and did that - you don’t even know its me,” she confesses quietly.

She places a hand over his frost covered body. Even with gloves the ice burn is nearly too much and she backs off momentarily. Pidge steels herself. He saved her. It’s her turn to save him.

~~~~

A few blocks away from the scene of the fight, the upper lefthand corner screen of Pidge’s lens flashes green in sync with the control panel on the side of a warehouse. A task that would have normally taken her seconds seems an eternity with shaky hands. A door opens at her feet and a gated platform rises to fill the space.

She drags Lance onto it, her hands numb after carrying him from the alleyway. Pidge is positive she will have to treat herself for frostbite too.

“Idiot,” Pidge whispers harshly, dropping to her knees once the elevator is safely carrying them underground. Tears stain her eyes and sobs hitch in her throat. “You’re a quiznaking idiot.”

Lance doesn’t respond and Pidge instead focuses on what she can do. She holds onto him tightly, despite the cold screaming at her to let go, trying to transfer her own body heat to his.

The elevator comes to a stuttering stop at the entrance to the underground laboratory. The gate pops down automatically, creating a cagey ramp for the last few inches to the concrete ground.

The lab itself is open, with no walls between the tiny living space or the various experiments that lay in wait on a wide assortment of tables. Miraculously, a tree takes up much of the space, roots making the concrete floor uneven and trunk sitting majestically in the middle. Pidge has her computer set up adjacent to it. From atop one of the monitors, a tiny robot putters down from it’s charging perch.

“Tesla, get the anti-grav table,” Pidge orders, voice still a bit hoarse. “I need to move Lance.”

The small, green robot beeps; the markings under its eyes glowing a cool white in acknowledgment of the order.

Pidge doesn’t have time to waste, her next command comes in quick succession. “Computer, reroute the water from trap number 14 to the sink. Fill the basin.”

Tesla nudges the anti-gravity table towards the ground near Lance. Although not Pidge’s original intent for it, she needs to use it as a gurney. In the background, a faucet opens on the computer’s command and water begins to pour into an antique wash bin - one of many that were long abandoned when the manufacturer moved out of the warehouse above decades ago.

She manually maneuvers the table under Lance, moving his body onto it in short spurts; first a shoulder, then a leg, then midsection - repeat until he’s secure. Pidge is able to lift the table and its weight to her own waist height, she then pushes it forwards towards the water.

“Hang in there, Lance,” she mutters.

Pidge soaks her own hands in the hot water first, feeling relief. Then she takes a cloth, dunks it, and places it on Lance’s forehead without wringing it out.

The basin is too small to immerse him, which is what he really needs. Their respective college apartments are too far away, though, and he needs immediate warmth. She dunks a larger towel into the water and places it along his chest.

She pulls her knitted hat firmly on his head, letting her long hair go free.

Out of towels, now she waits. Pidge hates waiting.

She bites her lip in thought as she examines him from head to toe. His clothes will need to come off once they thaw. Just the thought of it made her blush, but she knows they are doing more harm than good for him right now.

In the meantime, she has to make do. She tugs on his boots, getting them off after some physical effort and throws them to the side. Pidge repeats the process with his socks. All she has left is a thick blanket that she hopes to keep dry for Lance once he recovers enough.

So she wraps her arms around his feet tight, soles up against her chest, using her own body heat as much as she can. Pidge nearly lets go just from the sheer cold, but forces herself to hold on.

“I’m not going to let you down,” she promises, eyes squeezed shut in determination. “I don’t know if you can hear this, but you mean a lot to me - both versions of me.” Pidge opens her eyes mid-reverie and blinks, having spoken herself into a conundrum. “Well, I mean, I’m not two different people, I’m just pretending to be. Pidge is just a nickname my brother gave me. You can call me either one, I don’t care.”

No signs of moment from Lance. The silence from him begins to unnerve her. His vibrant personality is one of his bright spots.

“Don’t think this means I’m going to take it easy on you,” she continues, breaking off that particular train of thought. “I still have to find my family. I can’t let Galra Corp catch onto me more than they already have. I’m just one faceless bad guy in a city full of them.”

No response. Tears well up in her eyes, her heart turning as numb as her hands. “Please wake up. You weren’t supposed to do this for me.”

There is no change in Lance’s condition. Pidge growls. This is taking too long, and it isn’t enough. Pidge anticipated Lance overusing his powers, but berated herself in not preparing for this magnitude.

Lance needs to be in a bathtub. Pidge doesn’t have one.

Angry at herself, Pidge forces herself to watch the ice crystals that methodically form on her arms. They are pretty, in an objective way. She just hates that she hadn’t known the extents of Lance’s ice powers. When they’d first met, he hadn’t even been capable of handling them properly, let alone create a blast large enough to suffer this type of consequence.

She had been so wrapped up in searching for her missing family, she had forgotten to pay attention to her friends’ progress.

And supposedly cares.

Lance is the only one who knows why Pidge really stole from Galra Corp. Even if they stood off against each other time and time again, he never failed to at least try and be on her side in any way he could considering their positions - like today. A gesture she usually rejects.

Up until now.

“...Dad always said his coworkers were like family. You’ve tried to have my back.” Pidge smiles warmly. “It’s about time I had yours, and trusted you to have mine.”

Pidge removes her gloves and rolls up her sleeves. “It’s going to be hot tomorrow. You better appreciate this because I’ll have to wear long sleeves.”

Digging deep, she calls upon powers she hasn’t touched since childhood. Her face twitches as moss and seedlings grow from her skin; the consequences for using her own powers.

Small, but stringy vines extend from her tree. Pidge wills them to snake into the hot water and then wrap themselves around Lance and the table.

With them, she fastens something that resembles a bathtub - funny looking as it still floats in the air. Making sure there are no leaks, she gently raises his head to rest on the edge. Pidge then takes a spare hose and fills the makeshift container. Once all but Lance’s head is below water, she places the smaller cloth on his forehead.

Pidge scratches at her arms, the plantlife making her annoyedly itchy. Ugh, they are on her cheek this time too. No robotics club tomorrow for her. She’ll have to call Hunk to pick up Lance later anyway, might as well apologize for not being able to continue working on Funbot. There is still plenty of time before state competition at least.

Pidge groans. This could take days if it was anything like her plant-skin.

Back to waiting.

~~

Hours later, Lance has visibly improved.

The frost has gone from most of his body, and Pidge has been able to remove his uniform. It currently hangs to dry on old pipes, long since decommissioned and drained. Tesla works hard to blow dry it, moving in a rectangular formation while distributing jets of air from its mouth port.

Pidge refuses to remove his underwear. It’s bad enough having to stare at the rest of his naked body, watching for any sign of infection.

His eyebrows move - scrunched as if not wanting to wake up after a good nap.

“Lance? Lance!” Pidge perks up from her poor seat posture; hunching over the side of the plant tub.

His eyes open slowly, and Pidge makes sure her face is the first he sees. He closes them again and groans before opening them again. “Katie?” he asks softly.

Pidge’s brain freezes for longer than she likes. She seizes her hat from his head and hastily sticks her hair under it - away from his field of vision.

“No, just Pidge,” she tells him coolly. “Katie is your friend from school. I brought you to my lab. How much do you remember?”

Pidge feels unguarded as Lance studies her face, as if looking for something. She doesn’t know why it feels like he sees straight into her soul.

He doesn’t speak immediately, instead observing his surroundings. His mouth parts limply, eyes falling back to Pidge. “Lab? The secret one?” He asks slowly, face seeking comprehension.

Pidge nods. “That’s right. No one will bother us here.” She gives him a stern look. “But you are going have to promise not to tell anyone about it. It’s secret for a reason.”

“What did you do?”

“Huh?” Pidge says intelligently, eyebrows rising.

She notices what seems profound about Lance now. Despite being fully awake, his eyes are dim. They search her heart because they are… soulless; blank.

“Your lab,” Lance continues in near monotone, “did you run experiments on me?”

Pidge flaps her mouth in surprise before she can properly form words. “That was one joke I made months ago, Lance,” she replies earnestly. “I wouldn’t ever do anything to harm you, not for real.”

Lance does not respond, his gaze wandering around the room.

“Lance, what do you remember?” Pidge prompts again.

“Sendak. He was going to kill you,” Lance responds.

Pidge bites her lip. “Yes, he was.”

Silence from Lance again. It feels wrong.

“Is that all you remember?” Pidge asks again.

“Yes,” Lance says, now looking down at the bath he’s in.

“I have plant powers,” Pidge confesses, rolling up her sleeves to show him the small prairie that remains on her arms. “You attacked Sendak with what I’m assuming was your entire power core. Your whole body was covered in frostbite. I made this so I could get you in warm water - to help heal you. I don’t think you’ll need to see a doctor since this is your body’s natural response to your powers, but you probably shouldn’t do any hero work for a while,” she rambles. “It might even be best if you stay here. If it’s anything like my powers it’ll take days for the effects to go away - I have to wear long sleeves on the hottest day of summer thanks to you,” she grumbles.

Now that Lance is awake and on the mend she doesn’t feel too bad quipping with him. Her heart drops when he doesn’t so much as acknowledge it.

It seems his body warms quickly, but his soul takes longer to thaw.

“I think it’s time for you to get out of the water,” Pidge says. “I’ve got a warm blanket and a pretty comfortable couch waiting for you. I know it’s not quite your standard for bed, but it’s let me doze off hundreds of times.”

Lance doesn’t move.

“Lance,” she pleads, heart aching to see him like this. “Get out of the water.”

On that request he does. Pidge assists him by lowering the table and offering herself as support.

“Tesla, get the blanket please.”

The little robot zooms past the humans and flips the blanket onto itself. Pidge grins in pride at the sight. Tesla makes an excellent ghost, Pidge decided, she’s going to rock Halloween this year.

She wraps the blanket around Lance for modesty and warmth, carefully guiding him over to the well loved cushions. Once he lay stretched out, Pidge begins to feel better about the situation as a whole. His body is out of danger and she can relax.

Lance seems to sense this as well. He is sleeping again before Pidge can give Tesla a good pat of thanks for its good work.

She kneels beside him, taking a moment to brush a loose strand of hair from his face. “I meant what I said. From now on I’ll be a better friend as Pidge. No more tricks. I’ll let you help me find my family.”

Reaching over, she wraps her arms around him and rests her head to his chest. “You deserve that and more.”

Time to wait again.

~~

It was the next day before Lance stirs again.

Pidge has spent the hours pouring over the disc she recovered from Galra Corp. It did turn out to be her father’s code. Pidge is convinced there is a message in here for her. She sits in her old office chair, glasses glinting off the computer screen as her own program ran the code through, looking for any familiar patterns.

A thud and a screech of “What the heck?!” reminds her of her guest.

She twirls herself around to face him, relieved to see him up. “Good morning, Lance. Sleep well?” she says cordially.

Lance does not take it that way.

“Pidge? Where - where are we?” he whispers in panic. Pidge can’t help but grin at the sight of a fully recovered Lance flustered and out of sorts.

“My lab,” she answers, intertwining her fingers together. “I told you that yesterday, but you obviously don’t remember waking up.”

Lance gapes, panic growing on his face. “Your - your lab? As in your secret villainous lair?”

Pidge frowns, annoyed. “It’s my lab, and it’s secret, which means you cannot tell anyone about it - including Hunk.”

“I can’t promise that!” Lance exclaims. “Hunk finds out everything eventually. He’s my best friend!”

“He’s also insufferably nosy, which is exactly why he can’t know. Got it?”

Lance nods three times in quick succession, clearly nervous. He gulps. “You’re not going to do any weird experiments on me are you?”

“What is with you thinking I would do something like that?” Pidge wheezes, strained that this of all things is what he’s concerned about.

“Oh I don’t know,” Lance glares, “maybe it’s all the traps I’m lucky enough to test for you. All I ask,” he says much more calmly, holding his hands aloft in surrender and causing the blanket fall to the ground, “is that you do not harm my face.”

Pidge stares incredulously. “You are an idiot.”

“I am not!” Lance says, offended. He pauses before he can begin his rant and make the mistake of looking down. He screams and wraps the blanket hastily around himself again. “What happened to my suit?!”

“It’s drying over there,” Pidge points over to where Tesla is ironing out wrinkles with its laser eyes. “Although I don’t know why you even need it if you don’t bother to hide your identity.”

“A hero has a suit because it’s what heroes do! And I’m a professional!” He pauses, confusion flickering across his face. “Why do I not have it on? Who-?” Lance stops and a light seemed to go off in his brain. He turns a deep shade of red. “Holy crow - you undressed me?”

“I had to,” Pidge says, finally standing. She let the banter and teasing melt away in return for concern. “I don’t know how much you actually remember, but you saved my life by overusing your powers. I had to treat you for frostbite literally everywhere.” She sighs. “You slept for nearly 24 hours.”

Lance falls silent. He stares at her, just as when he first woke, but this time with a mix of concern and admiration.

“I did huh?” His laugh is hollow. “My first major job and I attack a Galra Corp executive, and save a thief. What a hero I am.” He then smiles genuinely. “But I’m glad it was you, Pidge. Sendak was out of line and you’re just trying to find your family.”

Pidge returns his smile, warmth in her heart. “Thank you Lance, for everything.”

“I guess we’re even then.” He scratches his head. “So my ice powers make me freeze up completely huh?”

“That’s right,” Pidge confirms, scientist mode kicked into gear. She whirls around in her chair and brings up Lances stats on her largest monitor. “This is your biorhythm through the last 20 hours,” she explains as Lance stands behind her chair. “As you can see from your heart rate, you were basically in hibernation. The applications to your powers expands two fold if you can use this for infiltration missions.” She grins smugly. “The bad guys won’t pay attention to you if they think you’re dead.”

“I’m a hero Pidge, not a spy,” Lance insists dryly.

“It’s your information,” she shrugs and turns to face him. Pidge sighs. She needs to tell him. “Look, Lance, your heart rate wasn’t the only thing that was affected. Your emotional response was as well. You woke up once and you were not yourself.”

Lance frowns. “I don’t remember anything after Sendak turned to face me.”

“...probably for the better.” Pidge is relieved; her identity is still a secret. She has no intention of telling him that if she can help it.

Lance’s eyes widen. “Oh no. If I’ve been asleep I missed my study date with Katie! She’s not going to be happy.”

Pidge smiles knowingly. “I’m sure she’ll understand. The hero business is pretty unpredictable.” She frowns, running his words through her head once more. “Wait - date?” Her heart beats wildly. “You like this girl, don’t you?” she finishes quietly.

“I might.” He glares, but his blush is unmistakable. “I just - I don’t want to look like too much of a goof. She’s too important. So don’t you dare bring her into this,” he rolls his wrist looking for the proper word, “thing we have going on.”

Pidge makes care to bite the inside of her lip to resist reacting to that particular statement. “Actually, Lance, soon we may not have to fight anymore,” she deflects instead. “This disc I got from Galra Corp hopefully contains a message from my dad, or proof Zarkon is up to no good. If I can get the hero association to buy it, then we’ll finally be on the same side.”

His face is oddly neutral for this type of good news, but he eventually smiles. “It’ll be kind of weird. None of the other bad guys ever monologue or exchange witty banter. I’ll miss it.

“But,” he continues, a sad smile on his face, “it’ll be worth it to find out what happened to your family. I really do hope you find something.”

“Thanks,” Pidge tells him sincerely. She turns back to her computer, not trusting herself to say anything else.

The silence is uncomfortable. Lance breaks it.

“So, I should probably be getting back to my apartment.”

“I already called your friend Hunk to pick you up at the pier in a few hours. He’s taking you out for pizza, you need the calories so eat whatever you want. I need to stay here and study the information on the disc,” Pidge says automatically, busy typing away.

“...How do you know Hunk’s number?”

Pidge stops typing. “I hacked the phone company,” she lies quickly. “I called with Katie’s number to keep this place hidden. Remember,” she swivels around to glare seriously at him, “do not tell Hunk how to get here or I will continue using you to test my traps.”

Lance brightens, his smile wide. “Really? Just like that? No more traps? And you won’t involve Katie in any of your schemes?” he finishes suspiciously.

Pidge nods, equaling his smile. “No more traps. Consider us a tentative working relationship.” No promises on Katie.

“I swear I won’t say a word then,” Lance promises. He pauses and sniffs at the air. “Is that Green Lion body wash?”

Pidge groans. At this rate her double life is definitely doomed to unravel.

[impracticaldemon]

Interesting take and analysis! Does that mean you’re an active shipper now or you just found a new respect for the ship (Okichi)? I’d also like to get your rankings on the ships (I see this thrown out a lot before so thought I’d ask)!

Thank you, Anon!  I appreciate the encouragement.

I’m still not an active OkiChi shipper, but I’m far less ambivalent about it – it feels more real and more plausible to me now.  I’m finally satisfied that I understand how Souji and Chizuru ended up where they did, both physically and emotionally. I know that a lot of the story was there before, but it’s as if some of the gaps have been filled in now. 

I think I’ve always been put off by Souji’s style of put downs, many of which I perceive as too harsh to be called “teasing” when aimed at Chizuru (who was frightened and had no hope of fighting back). I’m just not attracted by that type of character.  KW reduced some of the harshness, and put a little more emphasis on Souji’s interactions with Chizuru; EB put the late-game personal, romantic and sexual aspects of the ship solidly on the map for me. I admire the intensity.  

I feel that OkiChi was unfairly blessed with romantic CGs in EB, but I am pleased on behalf of the many OkiChi shippers I know! (Just envious…)

Ships & Ranking

An acquaintance on Steam (the PC gaming site) commented that she understood where I was coming from with my character/route preferences, but asked “don’t you find them kind of boring?”  I thought it was a legitimate question, in the sense that it highlighted how personal preference and experience can shape your views.

My favourite characters, from a strictly “who is attractive to me” and “which ships strike a chord with me” pov, are Saito, then Harada / Hijikata / Yamazaki (order not clear), then Souma (I’m still thinking about where Souma fits into this).  I find these characters soothing to my jangled hyper-awareness, and I perceive them as a good fit for Chizuru as I perceive Chizuru.  Whether or not that means I’m looking for “boring” is a matter of perspective – but I understand the question!

I’m capable of significant objectivity, but I don’t believe an unbiased ranking is possible for anyone.  Personal attraction or dislike, romantic or otherwise, will always influence your decisions, and we’re all attracted to different things (some more common than others).  So I’m going to rank my favourite ships, and say why, and hope that everyone will take it all with a grain of salt. This is about my perceptions, and doesn’t invalidate anyone else’s.

SaiChi:  My OTP (in the literal sense of the expression).  Saito is calmly protective of Chizuru from the beginning.  He would have killed her under orders, but I’m strongly of the opinion that he didn’t expect Hijikata to give that order.  Saito generally seems to disapprove of making Chizuru any more uncomfortable, embarrassed, or frightened than she already is.  He also tends to treat her as a person, not as “a girl” or “an annoyance”.  He answers her questions, and doesn’t mock or undermine her efforts, although he is blunt when she makes mistakes.  Saito’s direct intervention with Sannan (about Chizuru not being a burden) is one of my favourite scenes. Saito may be reserved to the point of being cold (debatable, especially in KW), but his actions are almost uniformly kind, right from the start.  

There are indications of him caring about Chizuru’s well-being from very early on.  The scenes where he drinks Chizuru’s blood are the only ones in Hakuouki that are both sexy and rather cuddly (and frankly, this says a lot about how he feels).  He also fusses less over the whole thing, despite being apologetic, which I think Chizuru would prefer.

Saito and Chizuru actually talk more than it might seem (especially given that Saito doesn’t talk much in general), and Saito seriously considers and values Chizuru’s input.  I love that EB brought in some of my all-time favourite scenes from Stories of the Shinsengumi. I don’t care if it’s a rather shy, awkward relationship at times, it’s the ultimate slow-burn fic of Hakuouki, for me.

… Okay, better stop before I write (more of) an essay on this topic.  Or a 90-chapter story.

HaraChi / HijiChi / YamaChi / SouChi – Ships I ship

HaraChi:  His very earliest treatment of Chizuru is oddly uneven (a little less so in KW), but my headcanon is that he knows he’s prone to caring too much, and is trying too hard to guard against it.  His route always felt realistic to me, given the time period and Chizuru’s background.  Sano is flawed, but I find him very human, and I think Chizuru finds him both kind and comforting.  Plus, somebody needed to say this:

I’m immensely grateful that EB significantly changed the first part of the HaraChi interactions in Edo. It works SO much better now.  Sano’s a sweetheart, and he makes Chizuru his priority more than most of the others.  This is the route and character that I never expected to love as much as I did (originally); now I love it more. (And he has such awesome banter with Shiranui, and snark for Kazama. ♥)

HijiChi:  Hijikata should never have left Chizuru behind when he went to Ezo. Now that that’s off my chest… I like the ship because it feels realistic given Chizuru’s overall personality. Chizuru’s crush on Hijikata (from the beginning) makes sense to me, and I can see how his charisma, devotion to the Shinsengumi, and obvious disregard for his own needs eventually converts a crush into love.  He’s a difficult man not to admire, if you value the fiercely responsible type (which I do).  I don’t know if EB added as much to this route as to some others, but I definitely enjoyed seeing Hijikata with Souma and Nomura, and I liked the extra historical details.  The main flaw to this ship is Hijikata’s refusal to concede the validity of Chizuru’s feelings and wishes until he is driven to it.  I do appreciate the fact that he didn’t “fall for” Chizuru right away (there’s a big difference between 16 and 28!); on the other hand, he clearly came to care about her from early on.

YamaChi:  I think I enjoyed the KW portion of this story better than the EB portion; something about Yamazaki’s EB route was not quite as satisfying for me – but I’ll be playing the route again for a second impression.  I like the fact that EB established Yamazaki as a superb warrior as well as a caring medic.  The affection in this ship was endearing, and they seemed like a natural fit.  I thought the ending was solid, and the whole demonstrated a deep, ongoing commitment to each other.  It doesn’t hurt that Yamazaki is one of my favourite Hakuouki characters.

SouChi:  Chizuru getting to be a senpai was great.  If you want the wildest roller-coaster of feels and angst from start to finish, this is the route. I think I like this ship because of the honest respect for Chizuru and what she does, and Souma’s commitment to the Shinsengumi.  I’ll save my comments about the route itself for another time (there were aspects of the EB route that I was so-so on).  SouChi, like YamaChi feels like a solid, believable relationship with clear affection and respect on both sides, and the attraction resonates for me.  Also, I adore the Souma / Nomura friendship.  KW & EB did a terrific job with Nomura as a character. [And I can’t get over the way they brought so many of the others into this route – aaaaahhhhhh!!!! so cool!]

Random screencap of some cuties.  (Yes, okay, I put Saito in there – he did give Souma excellent advice, however.  Also, as stern as he was, he took the guys seriously, unlike pretty much everyone else they ran into.)

ShinChi / HeiChi / OkiChi / IbaChi Good points, but I don’t really ship them

ShinChi:  I liked the route concept for EB – Shinpachi having to deal with having been made into a fury, but not wanting to make Chizuru feel awful either.  I felt like poor Shin could have used a friend like Sano around even just to yell at, or drink with, or something. I really liked the idea of trying to fight his final battles without resorting to fury form, and I liked the watchful presence of the Oni.  And Shin finally got properly recognized for being a top-notch swordsman!  Problem is, I’m kind of neutral on the ship.  I never quite got past the brother/sister feel to it.  On the other hand, the epilogue was sweet and I’m glad they got there, so a replay is definitely in order (on Steam, since I’ve played it on my Vita).  I might change my mind on this one.

HeiChi:  I’m “positive-neutral” on HeiChi and always have been.  I don’t find the ship compelling, despite the reasonable argument that it can be seen as healthy and more “equal”. To be honest, I got a strong sense from the beginning of Hakuouki that Chizuru liked Heisuke, and appreciated his cheerfulness, but was *attracted* to Hijikata and the others.  The ship’s probably fine, objectively, although Heisuke does leave Chizuru behind to follow his aspirations with Itou, which always troubled me.  Heisuke’s a sweetie, but I don’t “feel” the romantic ship.  I sympathize with Heisuke, always trying and trying to come into his own, and make the decisions that are right for him, but there’s a sense of immaturity-despite-best-efforts that doesn’t work for me.  I leave HeiChi in the competent hands of those who love it! (And hope that my HeiChi stories make up a little bit for my personal ambivalence.)

OkiChi:  … I’ve said enough about OkiChi.  I leave it to those who love it best and write really cool fanfiction about it.  It’s a big change for me to move OkiChi up this far on my list (partly Shinkai, partly having friends who’ve been working on me with OkiChi!).

IbaChi:  Not a bad ship, or route, but left me neutral.  Having gone down the path with the Demon Arm, and the way it and Iba and then Chizuru were intertwined, I felt like there could have been a bit more to it.  I would have preferred Takeda to be a more well-rounded villain.  I didn’t feel a strong Iba-Chizuru connection in KW; I felt like Iba was pushing Chizuru to feel and remember things.  I kept wanting Iba to be a little more honest and a lot more direct.  There were upsides and downsides to both this ship and this route, and I’m in the middle.  The ending was good, and I liked that final CG (Iba looked really good).  This is another ship I’m going to leave to those who really love Iba as a character – I know you’ll do great with it! :)

KazaChi / SanChi /SakaChi*I don’t ship them, but I can see the possibilities, to a point* except SakaChi which I just don’t ship

KazaChi:  Maybe.  I still can’t wrap my head around the arrogance.  Smug doesn’t work for me, especially when it’s all one-way – it’s part of why I still struggle with OkiChi.  I’ve come to the conclusion that I do better with modern AUs for both OkiChi and KazaChi.  KW and EB provided some good KazaChi moments, and I really, truly feel for Kazama toward the end of EB (which is much more like Movie 2 than the original game or the anime).  @hidetheremote et al, this one’s yours, and I will continue to do my best to contribute from time to time!  I actually do have a soft spot for KazaChi in its end-state – Kazama does start to respect and care about Chizuru for herself, eventually (when is a matter of opinion).  I don’t think loving another person will ever come easy for him, but I have the feeling he’ll try, and he’s a very competent man (Oni).

SanChi:  This is another one where I think I preferred KW to EB, but it requires another play-through.  The route itself was rather fascinating, although I think it over-complicated itself toward the end.  Sannan and Kaoru (and Kodo) in a dismal castle full of furies – this is some serious Gothick.  The atmosphere was very well done.  Sannan as a ship with Chizuru – hard to get my head around.  And yet.  I couldn’t help but feel that tug on my heartstrings that said “Sannan is truly a tragic figure and deserves some happiness.”  Plus, he’s a damn good tactician and devoted to his cause.  Don’t ship SanChi, but still want Sannan to be loved and appreciated.  Hmmm.

SakaChi:  I can’t bring myself to like this ship or find it believable (though definitely more so in EB than in KW).  Everyone has their types, and Sakamoto is the exact opposite of mine.  He set my teeth on edge from (literally) the first time I saw him on-screen.  I know my opinion of this ship is biased, but there are just so many reasons I don’t ship SakaChi.  If you love Sakamoto / SakaChi, then I’m kind of glad, because I like every character to have their fans.  However, there’s probably no point reading my comments below unless you’re honestly curious about my perspective. I’m trying to outline my issues with the ship, not convince others that they’re wrong.  (I mean this – don’t let me upset you.  If you like something, despite seeing some of the flaws, and you respect other people’s preferences without hate, then stick with what you like!)

CG:  one of the scenes that I did like a lot

First, I found the entire development of SakaChi in KW totally unbelievable, and Sakamoto was disrespectful of Chizuru’s personal space to an extent that I’d call harassment.  He made Harada look tame, as far as flirting goes, and I’m firmly of the belief that Harada treated her personal preferences with more respect.  As a specific example (albeit from EB), Sakamoto asked to “borrow” Chizuru’s lap.  When she was taken aback, he settled in anyway, then said “oh come on, it’s not like I’m violating you.”  Just… no.  This excuse is used way too much in the real world for me not to flinch here.  I’ve seen too many women have to deal with this, and I don’t like it.

Second, Chizuru’s loyalty to the Shinsengumi is part of what makes up her character, for me.  So I struggled to understand why she got so involved with Sakamoto in the first place, given his total and complete disdain for the Shinsengumi (not unjustified disdain, but not likely to appeal to Chizuru coming from a guy who’s pretty much a stranger).  Chizuru also seemed too quick to let go of the fact that Sakamoto was a gun smuggler and general arms’ dealer whose weapons killed an awful lot of her friends (although at least she wasn’t altogether happy about it).  

** Must admit that I did better with Sakamoto as a character / person once I went and learned a lot more about him and the situation in Tosa.  I already had some background knowledge, but I definitely improved on it.  Sakamoto’s balancing act between powerful Satsuma and powerful Choshu, while working around Tosa’s locally powerful / abusive daimyo, was fascinating.

Third, although I found Sakamoto much improved in EB, lines like this were a complete “ugh” for me:

Look, buddy, she just told you that she wasn’t ready to sleep with you.  Complaining to her that it would suck if she made you wait until the wedding is not my idea of a good relationship.

What did Sakamoto / Sakamoto’s route do well?  The route presented a good story, told from the opposite side, that didn’t just repeat the basics of the rest of the routes.  Sakamoto is an interesting guy.  If you’re into the brash, self-confident, pirate types (Han Solo comes to mind, although I preferred Han), then Sakamoto’s a good fit for you. Sakamoto does, without question, rock the western look.  Despite my belief in the importance of Chizuru having some agency and self-determination, I think Sakamoto’s absolute refusal to let her go rescue Kondo was both right and appropriate (that’s the CG I picked, above).  To be honest, stern Sakamoto appeals to me far, far more than smarmy smiley Sakamoto, (another clear result of my personal preferences).  The scene out by the dock was good, and I had to appreciate Sakamoto’s directness, in that instance.

Okay, so despite my best efforts, I ended up putting a lot of my route review thoughts into my personal ship ranking list.  AND it’s all way too long again.

I hope that there’s something here of interest.  And – one more time – ship what works for you.  Canon (game-based) ships, “non-canon” ships, semi-canon ships, m/f, f/f, m/m, whatever.  We don’t have to agree for me to respect your preferences.  Otome games are all about so-called “problematic” ships; my preferences tend to be on the “serious and thoughtful”, or at least “responsible and honest”, side (or “boring” depending on perspective!).

~ ImpracticalOni

[hobistagram]

Sweet creature

And oh, we started Two hearts in one home It's hard when we argue We're both stubborn, I know But oh, sweet creature, sweet creature Wherever I go, you bring me home

A/N: brighter than sunshine is by far my most popular fic and while i definitely did not have plans to continue it, i heard sweet creature by harry styles while i was working on (performing) art school!yoongi and it reminded me of that fic so i did a small part 2. this is definitely the end though bc i’m really happy with how it stands right now but i hope you guys enjoy!

wc: ~1.6K

Brighter than sunshine (part 1)

You only had a vague idea of what time it was. The night hadn’t quite drained out of the sky and there were slashes of purple bleeding through the blues. Truth be told you hadn’t been awake this early in years, though you supposed staying up until sunrise wasn’t the same thing as waking up before sunrise.

You had too much on your mind. You’d thought of all the things that you would have to worry about now that classes were out, sleep wouldn’t even be on the list. There was your part time job at the convenience store down the block, the scholarship essay that you had to write but couldn’t figure out how to start, the constant badgering of your newly single friend to ditch everything and take a week-long trip to the beach.

But Jungkook hadn’t spoken to you in a week. His absence should’ve given you freedom to do more things on your own, but it just made you anxious.

This shouldn’t have been a problem. If there was one thing you had known at the outset of your relationship it was that Jungkook was always busy.

Your dates took place after he stumbled out of dance practice or the recording studio well near midnight. More often than not all you had time for was a quick meal or a movie together in your living room before he kissed you goodnight and headed back to his dorm before sunrise.

Still, he made an effort and he was responsive and attentive. You hadn’t really felt lonely, not really. He cared so much about making you feel wanted that you’d never had time to feel lonely.

Until now. They’d left for Japan and he’d promised the minute they got back he would spend a whole day with you. They had a day off, he said, and it was all yours. But they’d been gone only a week already and he’d gone completely MIA.

You refused to panic. He probably had a very good, legitimate reason for not talking to his girlfriend.

Except—was that even what you were?

He’d never said it. He said you were beautiful, he told you how great you were, he laughed his way through the words when he told you he liked you. But you’d never heard him say the word girlfriend. You weren’t even sure he was allowed to call you that.

It did you no good to be anxious, you decided. The sun would rise properly soon and it would be a waste not to wake up and watch it.

You headed out as the light was starting to clear up. A real cup of coffee in a cute café would change your mood, you were certain. At the very least it would give you something positive to say about the day even if everything else went wrong.

The streets were very nearly empty save for the stray runner or two and you relished in the quiet. You were so used to sharing the sidewalk with dozens of people trying to hurry their way through the city that this was a welcome change of pace.

The café was equally empty and your face brightened when you recognized the barista as a boy from one of your smaller classes. He waved hello and took your order and you gave him a friendly smile before taking a seat by one of the big windows overlooking the street.

You wondered what it would be like if Jungkook was this boy. If you had met him in your seminar and gotten put together for a group project. If he had spent weeks working with you and flirting and finally building up the courage to ask you out. You would date and visit each other’s apartments and be inseparable in that lovey dovey way that made everyone who saw you sick and jealous all at once.

It was enough, you told yourself. What you had was enough.

The day unfolded before you. Shades of yellow, orange, and red pierced through the remnants of darkness and washed the city in color. It was calming, even as eerily quiet as it was.

Jungkook would come home in a day. You would be rational, you would not blow up at him in anger, you would listen to his side of the story. He would take you out and you would feel like a couple and it would be enough. You couldn’t hope, you had to be certain.

You awoke to knocking. Rhythmic knocking. If you had been fully awake and could process what the beat was you would’ve known that it was one of the songs Jungkook had been obsessing over lately.

Half asleep and refusing to un-burrito yourself from your blankets, you walked to your door and let in the persistent intruder.

Jungkook stared at you with a laugh already formed on his lips at the sight of your blanket cocoon. “I woke you?”

You turned around and forced your bleary eyes to focus on the clock in the living room. It was almost noon. You rubbed at your face, trying to stretch the muscles into consciousness. “I haven’t been getting too much sleep lately. My sleep cycle’s all messed up.”

He pushed back the hair mussed on your forehead and pressed a small kiss to your skin. “Why haven’t you been sleeping?”

You backed up and let him into the apartment. Your mouth opened to speak but you realized. How were you supposed to tell him that you hadn’t been sleeping because you were anxious about not talking to him? Wouldn’t it seem desperate? What if he thought you were too clingy?

You shrugged.

He pushed a hand into his pocket and handed you a block. You unearthed a hand from your blanket to grab it and realized a beat too late that it was a phone.

“I lost my phone at the airport. I was using Tae’s the whole time but I didn’t have your number memorized. I was going to try to recover everything once I got a new phone but we were so busy I didn’t have a chance until the last day. I’m sorry. Were you worried?”

In your mind you screamed at him. You told him that of course you were worried, you were his girlfriend. You were used to talking to him every day and all of a sudden it’s just radio silence for a week. How did he expect you to be calm? But out loud you smiled sleepily and waved him off. “I knew you had a reason, no worries.”

His face clouded but he gave you a weak smile in return. “Oh, good.”

Your brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

He shrugged. “It’s stupid but I just feel like sometimes I like you more than you like me.” He huffed out a laugh with no humor. “I feel like a little boy whining.”

You mimicked his exhausted chuckled. “I guess I’ve been a little closed off.”

“We don’t have to keep doing this, you know.” He stared down at his feet as if the words were a struggle to say. “I know it’s hard. I know I should be around more.”

You shook your head. “That’s not it. I really like you, Jungkook. And you never make me feel lonely. You try so hard.” You gave him an encouraging smile and you found that at some point your blankets had dropped to your feet. You stepped over them to move closer to him. “I think I’m just scared that’ll change one day.”

He nodded, taking in your words. Then his expression turned serious. “It won’t though.”

You ducked your head. “I know.”

“Yell at me.”

That made you look up. “What?”

“You’re holding back.” Jungkook said and he sounded determined. “I know you’re mad and scared but you just sound like you’re scared of me.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you said and immediately realized you’d never called Jungkook stupid.

“Then yell.”

“I don’t want to! I want to be with you every day and hold your hand in public and go out on dates and have you spend the night at my apartment and I want to call myself your girlfriend and I can’t do any of those things!” You paused, catching your breath and wiping at the tears you hadn’t even known were there. “And I can’t complain about any of those things because I don’t want to seem needy. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

His face softened. “I’m sorry.”

You shrugged, exhaustion flooding you now that your anger was spent. “It’s not your fault.”

“My family knows about you.” He flushed at his own words. “I told them you’re my girlfriend. I know it’s not—it’s not the same but—”

You smiled, small but ecstatic. “That means a lot.”

He stepped closer, toying with the hem on your nightshirt. He tried to hide his face with his bangs but you could still see the deep red in his cheeks. “And I want to spend the night too. We just have to wait until I have a longer break.”

You tried to quash the warmth spreading from your core at his words.

He sighed. “This is hard, right?”

You grinned, placing a hand on his cheek. “I think it’s worth it.”

You could feel it the moment before he did it, the moment before his lips touched yours. He would kiss you and you would feel warm and at home and you would wrap your arms around his middle and he would place his hands on your hips. He would hum against your lips, a habit that you’d found odd enough at first to ask him about it. You’d found it even cuter when he’d responded that he hadn’t realized he was doing it.

He would kiss you and you’d figure it out.

[dynamics-of-an-asteroid]

I really would like to know your opinion about Sherlolly and Molliarty 💕

My opinion on Sherlolly grew as my opinions on fandom politics thankfully matured cause it’s really easy to make assumptions about M/F ships since typically they’re filled with everything Progressive Fandom supposedly hates.

But what I’ve come to realize is that Progressive Fandom is kind of full of shit.

It says one thing (“we want better material for this female character!”), but then proceeds to do the complete opposite (takes a male background character with exceedingly less material and creates mountains of fanworks to the point where even the creators start giving him more screen time over the female character). It’ll come up with all these tl;dr think pieces that seek to blame some other outside sources as to why this keeps happening (“men are just written better!”, “there’s just more male characters to choose from statistically!”, etc.), but there’s really no denying which types of ships and characters and dynamics and narratives it actually values when you see what kind of content dominates creative spaces that no one is controlling except the fans. 

So I realized a lot of my “concerns” were just the result of theoretically wanting the most subversive conceptualization for the ship as any good Progressive Fandom member prides itself on seeking, but then falling in to the same traps that reinforce a very biased hierarchy Progressive Fandom measures everything by and upholding ridiculous standards that I wasn’t holding everyone else to.

For example, I’ve done the typical “pOoR mOlLy :(( sHE dEseRveS bEttEr tHaN sHerLOcK” spiel everyone seems to say after watching ASIB since that scene is meant to elicit a reaction. She very clearly was in love with him and particularly series 1 & 2 Sherlock, despite whatever good he was doing or moments of ~humanity~ he had, was overall a pretty rude, abrasive dick. He wasn’t this way just to her, but Molly is a legitimately decent person on a show full of assholes so there was some part of me that wanted to protect that, you know?

However, my reaction shouldn’t have been “Wow, Molly deserves better than Sherlock”, it should have been “Molly deserved better from Sherlock because she deserves common fucking decency.” Her unwavering love for him is always considered a problem that needs to be either removed entirely or given to someone else more deserving. It’s never Sherlock’s behavior that’s the problem that needs to get checked because Progressive Fandom doesn’t typically criticize male characters for their actions. You excuse, you explain, you apologize, but you don’t with any kind of negative intention seek to frame their reaction in any given situation as the part that’s wrong. The feelings of white dudes are valued over everything and everyone.

So my reaction of “come on, Molly, let’s get out of here and find you someone better” sounds noble, but all I’m really saying is “Well he’s an ass and we can’t do anything about that, but your crush on him is definitely fixable!” Again, she’s not the problem here, her love for him is not the problem here. He is the problem here, his rudeness is the problem here. There’s absolutely something we can do to fix that and we know this because part of his character arc was about becoming warmer and kinder. “Molly deserves better” is such an empty, meaningless statement when you really get in to it and I cringe every time I see it now.

Plus, something I’ve noticed that seems to be exclusive to the ship is most people in fandom ship one of these characters with Sherlock or are invested in a dynamic that includes him in it. And I guarantee you there’s a scene or a moment or a line that Sherlock was the source of that you had to go fix with fic or meta or some AU gif set or something because you wouldn’t still care about it if you didn’t. He’s done some pretty horrendous shit to these characters that far surpasses what he did with Molly at the Christmas party. But we’re not saying poor John he deserves better (hell we’re not even saying poor Sherlock he deserves better), we’re not saying poor Mycroft he deserves better, or that poor little Lestrade deserves better. It’s always poor Molly, specifically, because Progressive Fandom isn’t about to micro-comb through her material like they do with male characters in order to flesh her out more and find ways to make her a person of equally nuanced value to Sherlock. Then it would be easier to see why he’d extend more than just common courtesy to her, which lays the foundation for potentialness (specifically romance cause no one is gonna flip their shit about friendship), and now you’re sighing in agony about having to deal with a love interest - and worst of all - yet another M/F ship existing.

And listen, I get it - M/F ships have everything and it’s obnoxious. They get the coveted title of being “most likely to happen”, they get all the exposure, all the juicy arcs, all the cast conversations when it comes to their expressions of sex and love and romance being treated as completely plausible and entirely normal, etc. But when Progressive Fandom notoriously doesn’t produce nor consume F/F media let alone at the same rates as M/M media, when Progressive Fandom deeming a female character “too awesome/independent for romance” is basically a death sentence in spaces where romance and pairing up characters is the name of the game - what are people supposed to do with Molly that doesn’t decrease her visibility or sideline her entirely in the name of what? Making sure heteronormativity doesn’t happen? Cause looking at tumblr’s most popular M/M ships that are full of exceedingly harmful gendered stereotypes about the characters then being further conceptualized in to gross top/bottom discourse among other issues, that pesky problem of not reinforcing heteronormativity shouldn’t fall solely on M/F ships cause they’re not the only ones perpetuating it.

From what I can tell, Sherlolly shippers are the only people placing her in multiple kinds of dynamics and narratives that seek to explore the depth of her character without treating all of her material with Sherlock like a joke or a predicament that must be changed (which is different from fixing some bumps or gaps or straight up missteps that may be present, and there are some, but no one is denying that). Sometimes it’s a reversal of expectations, sometimes it’s not, and that’s pretty standard summary of any ship in fandom, really. You don’t have to like what they’re doing, but the door is always open for these diverse, inclusive stories Progressive Fandom wants so badly to be brought to the table yet I get the feeling they won’t be walking through it any time soon.

so tl;dr - the ship isn’t bothering me and any faux-criticisms I had about it in the past I can easily say about other ships, including my own, so it’s not fair to condemn one but then bolster another with the same elements.  As long as they aren’t engaging in anything harmful or pushing any Ists, Isms, and Phobias, which they aren’t, I’m cool.

And I’m not even gonna lie, I could not stand Molliarty in the beginning stages of fandom.

I hated how Jim from I.T. was treated as a separate person from Jim Moriarty just to give Molly a cuter and more fun version of him to continue dating (to be fair, this ship isn’t the only one that did this, [don’t even get me started on the Richard Brook\twin thing omfg], but I loathed this trend regardless of who did it more cause particularly with Jim everyone would always push the ‘we don’t know anything about his private life!!’ excuse to justify wildly ooc shit [and still do to this day]).

I hated that narrative of Molly ~softening~ monstrous beast!Jim with her kindness and in return he became obsessed with having her love him, but she couldn’t cause he’s a bad person or whatever, so he’d protect her until his dying days instead (I recognize the trope, I personally can’t stand that trope, but I still don’t understand why it was applied to this dynamic).

I hated all the creepy undertones in a lot of the really early fanworks that were like “come with me little girl and you’ll never be hurt again” (look, MY ships are capable of creepy undertones, but particularly with this ship it felt more like an impending sense of doom that Molly was getting herself in to a really skeevy, fucked p situation which is gross).

I hated with a goddamn passion that still consumes me to this day that Little Red Riding Hood/Big Bad Wolf aesthetic cause it’s just piggybacking off what I just said of this lecherous devil ready to devour this unsuspecting and naive victim (as you can imagine I don’t like imbalanced dynamics so a lot of this one is just personal irritation too, but it still feels like you’re having to compromise their characters by bastardizing the shit out of them in order to get this to work).

I hated how Jim was treated like her sassy gay best friend who’d stay up at night watching Say Yes To The Dress with her and Toby, and gushing about cute boys when someone did a more platonic bff take on the ship (this was the biggest one for me because Andrew was walking a fine enough line as it was with Jim to not have everyone go ahead and throw his character into stereotype hell anyway and I hate most fanworks with Jim for this very reason, so again this problem isn’t exclusive to the ship).

And I hated how Molly tapping in to her inner darkness thanks to Jim awakening it somehow always took the form of her becoming sadistic and murderous to illustrate how strong she really is in an effort to put her on even footing with him so she’d get the love and respect and appreciation she wasn’t getting else where through being his faithful killing babe (besides having problems with women having to become badass and bloodthirsty in order to equal strength of any kind, the implication she can only be treated right through bad people is unsettling).

After making that list, I realized a lot of why I couldn’t stand it was tied to general misinterpretations of their characters that was floating around fandom, so putting those specific versions of them together to make a ship out of it was unforgivable to me. I’m gonna make an assumption here and say I’m willing to bet a lot of their earlier stuff wasn’t made by the shippers themselves and that it was people from other ships making material for it based off what they thought it was. So for all I know a lot of what I hated wasn’t even what the ship was about cause I know that’s the case for old stuff about my ships. None of us really had the numbers to change public opinion about how we perceived it, so there’s a lot of lingering misconceptions thanks to those works and I might have just listed all of them for Molliarty, I don’t know.

But a lot of this seems to have gone away now in any case? Not all of it, but it’s been replaced with lighter, more comical material which is still not the ballpark I’d personally place them in, but I’m not in that inner circle of shipping so I don’t know why it took that turn. They could be trying to counter fanon ideas surrounding the pairing, they could be trying to build up a more diverse selection of fanworks, I have no idea, but the ship doesn’t bother me in the same way it use to mostly because I’ve become too indfferent for most ships to even get a reaction from me anymore tbh