#the only reason I bothered to tag it on ao3 is so people could filter it

[burnitalldowndarling]

ajskal tumblr has a (weirdly functional) blacklist for a reason. if someone doesn't tag something you (general) think they should... use the secondary blacklist.

you can put in words that show up in the body of tags. like plantcest. or if you don't want to see them at all? put their url and it'll catch it!

Yep, I've used xkit's blacklist myself for years (not sure if you're saying this for me or for the last anon). There was one word in the fic description that should've been caught by any blacklist of the word "plantcest," but clearly that anon would rather send hate than take responsibility for their own fannish experience.

So I said what I said. If somebody can't handle using a blacklist, then they should block me, because my blog is not a safe place for them. Folks who don't know better than to put their hands on a visibly hot stove need to stay out of the kitchen.

[thatgirlonstage]

Considering the cross section of people who want ao3 to have an algorithm with the painful lack of reading comprehension you see so often on the internet and it occurs to me that part of being able to use a website like ao3 the way it’s intended requires you to… know your own taste.

In order to input the correct filters to find what you’re after, you have to have some sense of what you like and what you don’t like and how those things are described in tags and categories that you can filter on. You have to have the ability to take a fic and parse out which pieces of it you responded to and then figure out how to get more of it. You are, with the aid of a filter system as fantastic as ao3’s, actually more effective than an algorithm at doing that once you know how! You know that the reason you liked this fic was because of the really gooey cuddle scene between A/B, so you know that now you should go look in tags like “Cuddling” or “Hugs” or “Comfort” or “Fluff” or “only one bed + Rated T”. An algorithm can’t tell if you liked the gooey cuddle scene or the fact that it was a steampunk AU or this specific author’s style, it can only make statistical guesses at the fact that a lot of people who liked THIS fic also liked THAT one. It doesn’t know WHY.

But like… that is a skill. It may be a very intuitive skill, especially for people who have been doing it a long time, but if you’re accustomed to being spoonfed suggestions I can guess it wouldn’t be intuitive at all. I can absolutely see how needing to search for your own preferences would stump you if you’ve never had to do it before.

And it is very much an exercise in both literacy and understanding your own taste. If you don’t bother to paint things you read or watch with any more nuanced brush than “I like this” or “I don’t like this”, then you never learn what, exactly, it is that you’re liking or disliking. You’ll never be able to pull a text apart to figure out which strands are compelling and which you could do without. You’ll never be able to tell the difference between what is a generally well-written story and what is tugging at something that you specifically enjoy. Especially in the climate of judging media by its moral correctness, where dislike and especially disgust gets equated to “there is something objectively BadWrong with this art and therefore NO ONE should like ANY part of it,” people are increasingly encouraged to sand away any understanding of their own personal tastes.

Knowing your own taste can be scary. Very seriously, it can be hard to look at yourself and reconcile all the weird, cringe, taboo, silly, gross, embarrassing, or fucked-up stories you might like. It can be easier to just go along with what other people tell you is good or bad, particularly when there is as much pressure as there can be in online spaces—both inadvertent and intentional.

But I promise, I absolutely promise, knowing your taste is the best and fastest way to find more art that you love. Figuring out what it is you like is the route to finding more of it, to finding art that resonates with you, art that bring you joy. Figuring out why you like it can be interesting, but that can be an even bigger and more fraught question to consider. You don’t have to understand the why. Just start with the what. It will unlock so many doors for you.

[autistichalsin]

Okay, I’ve been a bit scared because I’ve been observing from the sidelines, but I do want you to know this isn’t a hateful or troll ask, I’m genuinely asking for clarification.

In my experience, “pro-shipping” has always meant ‘problematic shipping’, and all of the people I’ve talked to about this have said the same thing.

Am I the one who’s misconstrued? I really don’t get it.

Being called “pro-harassment” or “pro-censorship” is hurtful and confusing as all hell.

I don’t harass people for what they create. I don’t care to do that. I block and move on, and warn people if I know they could be upset by the content.

But I also don’t understand how certain things are justified.

I am personally not bothered by much, but I have watched friends and acquaintances go through visceral traumatic reactions because people have decided to air out their coping by sharing it with the public. (I.E, people who write romantic incestual fics, etc)

I don’t give a shit what people write. I really don’t. But it feels harmful to use the excuse of coping when you, in turn, could be hurting dozens of others.

Like I said, I genuinely am not trying to be hateful here. I’m confused, and still distraught that all of this is happening. I don’t think anyone deserves to be harassed. I just also don’t get the logic here.

Pro-shipping never once meant problematic shipping. It meant opposite of "anti" because antis would come and invade the tags and asks, calling them all kinds of names if they found their ships distasteful.

Sorry that being indirectly accused of supporting harassment hurt your feelings. Imagine how I felt, being DIRECTLY accused of supporting rape in real life because of my taste in fiction. You are throwing in your lot with people who can't distinguish fantasy and reality.

I don't like incest fics either, anon. They are triggering for me. So you know what I do? I don't read fics tagged as incest. For that reason, I have never been triggered by an incest fic. I suppose I would be if I read an incest fic that wasn't tagged as much, but you will never find a single pro-shipper who defends posting such content without a tag. You are responsible for your own experience online; it is your job to curate the content.

If it was just seeing that the fic exists that triggered the response, then I'm sorry to say they're still in the wrong. As a survivor, learning that triggers exist and how to navigate those triggers is on you. We are responsible for how we deal with our trauma. Your friends didn't deserve their traumas, and they deserve kindness and support, but requesting that people never be allowed to write distasteful fiction so that they don't have to be upset by the idea that someone somewhere shipped incest is not reasonable. Their feelings are valid; it's totally reasonable to be triggered, to strictly curate your online experience. It's reasonable to block everyone who ships the upsetting incest ships, to put an "incest shippers DNI" on your page, all of it. It's not reasonable to call them supporters of IRL incest or to accuse them of causing your trauma. It isn't hard at all on AO3 or Tumblr; they even give you the option to blacklist/filter out certain tags so you can avoid it without blocking users. There's easily half a dozen safeguards that already exist that are a lot less radical, a lot less likely to be weaponized against queer users, and a lot easier to enforce than trying to remove them.

Me writing fics, such as a character using kink to cope, can only harm a user who doesn't curate their feed (and who reads fics they know will trigger them, which I can only assume would then be a purposeful form of self-harm). Denying other survivors their coping mechanism, though, IS a direct form of harm. Stigmatizing recovery by saying that survivors are in any way akin to abusers for creating fiction is a direct form of harm.

It sounds to me like you've absorbed some very harmful and very narrow ideas of what recovery should and should not look like, and what is and isn't a good/valid survivor. You might want to reflect on why you're turning your attention to policing what survivors do to cope so much.

[enjoythesilentworld]

Simon's Month - Home (Improvement)

day 30 @youngroyals-events one more to go i could cry

Simon owns a home renovation business with his sister. Wille has recently purchased a fixer-upper.

read below or on ao3 (T, 1.3k)

“You have to be nice,” Sara says as they drive down the unassuming backroad, lined with thick vegetation.

Simon scoffs, staring out the window and peeking between the gaps in the trees to get a glimpse of the types of homes around here. That one needs a new roof, but that one's got some good landscaping.  

“I am nice.”

“You’re nice in a special Simon way. Once someone has had time to get to know you.” Sara puts on the blinker, turning up a gravel street. “There’s a reason I usually bring Ayub with me— Get out and open the gate for me, please.”

Rolling his eyes, Simon climbs out of the car and swings open the simple metal gate, which could really use some oil on the hinges. The fence has a few nearly broken posts, too. If this is what the entrance looks like, he can only imagine the actual house. It must be further up the hill, but it’s way too overgrown for Simon to be able to see anything yet.

Usually, Ayub went with Sara on these consultations, because, allegedly, he's the better at talking to the clients. Apparently it didn’t matter that, technically, Simon was in charge of the construction half of his and Sara’s business. Not that it really bothered Simon. At the end of the day, he trusted Ayub to do the initial walkthrough and markup, allowing Simon to focus on getting everything ready to start the actual construction. Today, though, Ayub is busy, so Simon’s been tagged in.

“I’m just honest,” he says, once back in the car. “You are, too, Sara. That’s why people like you as a designer. Because you'll tell them if their shit is ugly.”

She pulls further up the drive and the house comes into view. That is, if it can even be called a house. Simon barely hears Sara’s response, his mind already flitting through the long, long to-do list that will be required to get this pile of wood back to living standards.

“Yes, but I do it in a nice way. This is Felice’s very good friend, okay? She said he’s great. Don’t make him go back to Felice with a bad review.”

“Yeah, yeah, I won’t,” Simon waves her off, stepping out of the car to get a better look at the building. “This place looks like a piece of shit.”

“Hey, that’s my piece of shit you’re talking about.”

Simon turns at the sound of the new voice. In the front doorway of said piece of shit, there’s a tall, handsome man with auburn hair and a crooked smile. It’s quite the paradoxical image, this pretty, clean-cut man walking down the porch steps of such a dirty, overgrown house.

Sara steps up to greet him, apologizing for her brother's snark, while Simon hangs back, still assessing the integrity of the columns holding up the overhang roof. Most of the shingles are in place, at least, and he doesn’t see any sagging that would indicate leakage. Not yet, at least.

“Good to see you again, Wille,” Sara smiles, using that sweet customer-service voice of hers.

“You, too, Sara. Thank you for agreeing to take on this project. I know it’s a bit of a mess.”

“Well,” Simon cuts in without introduction, “she’ll only be able to do her part once we make sure this place won’t blow away in the first storm.”

Wille turns to him and smiles brightly, somehow rivaling even the midmorning sun that shines above them. “You must be Simon.” He extends a hand. “I’m Wille. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Simon takes his hand and shakes it once. They’re bigger than Simon’s, but less calloused. He probably works for some stupid finance company and sits in a fancy ergonomic chair all day, drinking filtered water and fucking off to business lunches with Sweden’s elite.

“Yep. I’ve heard almost nothing about you. Shall we take a look inside?”

If Wille’s surprised by Simon’s attitude, he doesn’t show it. He just nods, still smiling like the sun.  

Sara hisses at him as Wille leads them inside, telling him to cool it. Simon nods distractedly, but he really can’t be bothered to be nice because he’s already annoyed with this rich kid who’s probably bought this house to fix up and turn into a 20,000kr per night rental.

It’s not as bad inside, thankfully. The remaining yellowed wallpaper is peeling, and there's random trash scattered around, but there are no cracks in the walls or water stains on the ceiling. Wille leads them through, pointing out which rooms are which. The whole tour doesn’t last more than ten minutes as it’s only a two-bed, two-bath. The windows are half-boarded, and there are a few unnecessary walls, and Simon is already itching to get started. 

“I want to keep as much of the original structure as possible,” Wille explains when they stop again in the kitchen. He runs a hand over the dusty countertop, looking lovingly around the small, cramped space. “I might want to add an extension in the future, but it’s just me here, so this is definitely plenty of space for now.”

“You’re going to live here?” Simon asks, surprised.

Wille tilts his head at him. “Yes?”

Simon hums, crossing his arms and leaning back on the archway that leads into the living room. “Damn. I would’ve thought you’re more of a city high-rise type. You seem too posh for country living. You know, I don't think take-out drivers come out here. And the nearest Michelin restaurant isn’t for, like, 100 kilometers.”

“Simon!” Sara glares at him.

“It’s okay,” Wille chuckles. “No, I’m not the high rise type. I prefer the quiet of the countryside, and I also prefer to cook my own food. Michelin restaurants are way too overhyped, anyway.”

He’s smirking through his smile and has met Simon’s challenge, and so Simon decides he can let up a bit.

He and Wille spend the next two hours walking through the space again, more slowly this time, while Sara steps outside to make a few calls. She can’t do anything yet, anyway. Not with the house in this state. This part is Simon’s job, his specialty.

“Knocking down this wall will open up the space a lot, especially if you still want to be able to host while in the kitchen. It’ll give you a good view out of the front of the house, too,” Simon rambles, marching through the space and gesturing as he goes. Wille is hot on his heels, nodding along. “I’d put a countertop bar here, though, for some extra seating and to break up the space a bit. We’ll have to rip out all of these cabinets, though. I’ll need to get my plumber out here, too, to check the piping. These old builds are a little iffy sometimes on how well things have held up.”

Simon continues to talk, and endless stream of consciousness and notes about electrical wiring and comments about the state of the hardwood floor. Wille follows him all the way, making notes in a little notebook and asking the occasional question.

They finish just as Sara’s car pulls back up the driveway. Simon hadn’t even realized she’d left.

“I brought lunch,” she tells them, holding up a brown bag. “You two were pretty distracted, so I figured I shouldn’t bother.”

Wille thanks her graciously, and they all sit on the porch together to eat. Simon starts to make notes in his phone, setting reminders to call certain inspectors and logging how many people he’ll need for demo-day.

After lunch, they take a loop around the outside of the house, inspecting the gutters and stonework. Now that the initial tension has faded, he and Wille get distracted a few times by other topics. Simon learns that Wille is actually not an insufferable spoiled brat. In fact, he’s quite nice and quite funny. He keeps up with Simon’s jokes, and when Simon pushes him, he pushes right back.

Simon tells Wille he’ll have to check with his team, but he’s pretty sure most everyone is in between jobs and will be able to start in the next few days. Wille agrees to meet them at the house for the first day of demolition, and Simon and Sara leave for the day.

“You like him,” Sara says once Simon’s back in the car after closing the front gate behind them.

He shrugs, refusing to give her the satisfaction, and casually admits, “He doesn’t totally suck.”

Perhaps, Simon thinks, this renovation job won’t be too bad.

[olderthannetfic]

Escapade Dance Party 2023 Writeup 1/3

Seeing as Escapade Online is coming up this weekend, I suppose I should finally write up some stuff about last in-person con that I never got around to.

I don't usually bother with a full con report, but I do like writing up the dance party. Instead of just playing music, I do a playlist of vids that we project on the wall. It's a small con, somewhere between a hundred and a hundred and thirty, generally, so I don't bother to ask permission. (This is also why we don't broadcast or redistribute the dance party in any way or do one for the online con.)

Escapade is a venerable con. In fact, it's the oldest still-running slash con. Back in the 90s, people would come here to find out what was going on in fandom that year, get pimped into the latest fandoms, find out about new zines. Fandom moves a lot faster now: between when we decide on panels and when the con happens, a whole movie fandom could have risen and fallen. Still, it's as easy as ever to feel out of touch, just for different reasons than in the 90s.

I want people to come away from the dance party feeling like they've heard of some of the Next Hot Things. It's also a great opportunity to cover some of attendees' own fandoms that may not end up in the main vidshow. As a vidder, I despise cons that try to make the main vidshow purely audience-focused and just about whatever ships are big. A con like that sees vidders as providers of entertainment, not fellow fans and attendees. But a con that honors vidders' actual current interests is a con with a vidshow full of weird fandoms of one and glaring gaps in what older fandoms are included. So having another curated show, like this dance party, is a nice way to bridge that gap.

The party is essentially like an enormous mixtape. It's a chance for me to make thematic links between vids and to inflict music I actually want to dance to onto a captive audience. Each discrete vidding community tends to have extremely boring taste in music. Sorry, not sorry. And for dance music, this is even worse. I often can't find what I'm looking for, but I can try.

Every year, I begin by looking at attendees' profiles on the Escapade site, filtering the m/m tag on AO3 for what's been active in the past year, and browsing around until I come up with a list of fandoms of interest. Fandoms that people suggested Escapade panels for also go on the list. These may be the big ones, but there are usually a lot of idiosyncratic options since it's a small con. It doesn't matter if Steve/Bucky is big if nobody at this con is going to care.

I set up my spreadsheet for my epic vid search: This involves not only sheets for my fandom list but vocabulary lists for searching: Слэш, 燃, etc.

After that, I go through the past year of the AO3 'fanvids' tag and maybe the 'amv' one, looking for interesting vids. They need to be at least somewhat danceable and 2-5 minutes without a ton of show audio. That's easier to find on AO3 than Youtube at large, but it still knocks out most vids I open everything, put the playhead to the middle of the vid, and test the sound. If I hear something viable, I go back and watch the vid. But if too many people I know have kudosed, I take it off the list since people have seen it already. For this step, I don't care about fandom, just about the vid being interesting and preferably slashy. (Yes, this is how I fell into Beyond Evil.)

After that, I start looking on Youtube and Bilibili, fandom by fandom, ship by ship. Some fandoms I never do find. They're just too unpopular with vidders. Some I find, but only a ship I have banned. I have a lifetime ban on Klance, for example. Anything too redolent of antis goes on the banned list. Anything with surprise tentacles is a shoo-in.

I also have some other rules for myself that I've developed over the years. I want at least a couple of vids with women, preferably f/f. Escapade is more m/m-focused, but a lot of attendees are queer and/or ship f/f as well. The show must have at least a vid or two that focuses on somebody other than white or East Asian characters. I mostly avoid vidders who are well known to people who attend the US slash/Media Fandom/vidding type cons unless I really cannot fill a particular fandom need elsewhere. I especially try to avoid vids that have already shown at other cons recently, though depending on how they're labeled, I may screw that one up. I've been more and more strict about this over time. I find a lot of vidding communities pretty incestuous, so this is a chance to shake things up.

A big one that surprises some people is that I try to avoid most multifandom vids and many ensemble vids. This one is negotiable depending on the vid, but I find that there's a distasteful pattern where a juggernaut will be deemed worthy of taking up a whole slot for itself with just a focus on the one ship while other things are relegated to an Awesome Ladies compilation. Those vids are fantastic in isolation, but if you play a lot of them together in a vidshow, let alone a vidshow that's a dark, noisy dance party, they all blend together into mush. A great ship vid or single character study, on the other hand, still manages to grab people. If you aren't willing to say "This ship gets the Star Wars/MCU/etc. slot, not that ship", what are you actually saying?

I try to find a fresh choice for any fandom that has been directly requested (so pretty much just Sentinel) and any where I know some attendees are mostly or only in that one fandom (The Professionals).

Of course, I can only play what people have already made, and this is a dance party, so sometimes, there just aren't any choices. I do shoehorn in a couple of not-very danceable vids most years, but they can only go right before or after the intermission or right at the end, so the number has to be limited.

One thing I don't always care about is the strictest standards of "quality" in a snobby vidder sense. Not only do different communities have different standards for what counts, but I'm more interested in novelty or great music. I won't play anything I think is terrible, but I'll take a B+ vid by a rando to an A+ song over an A+ vid that everyone's already seen.

For 2023's con, I decided the party should have a theme of vampires since I had guessed—incorrectly— that the new Interview with the Vampire show would be the latest hot thing everyone was talking about. In retrospect, I should have picked mafia for Kinnporsche and Gonchraov. At least vampires gave me good decorating ideas for cheesy fake candles and black spiderweb-draped tables.

It also sent me looking for goth club music, which I did find to some extent, but between who didn't attend this year and how awesome the cocktail party outside was, we got much less action on the dance floor than usual. (Excuse you! That music is totally danceable! "Drunken tai chi" as we used to say!)

At least my themed cocktail list was a hit. As an annoying cocktail nerd, it infuriates me when people just take a famous drink and slap a fannish name on it, so I insist on making a fannish cocktail list I find respectable.

Playlist in a moment.

[crazy-pages]

Minor fandom gripe turned impassioned speech about AO3

So I saw some people complaining that people tag minor (but present!) ships, so if they want to search for Marcille/Falin they also have to exclude m/m fics to avoid seeing gay fics.

And like...

Okay so first off, sounds like they could still find what they wanted. Second, if seeing m/m fic when looking for f/f fic is such a bother, why not check that box by default on all searches? (There's even add-ons you can find to do that automatically for you.) Third, this sounds like a complaint rooted in the desire to filter out unwanted search materials. Consider then, the fact that other people might want to filter romantic Farcille out when they're looking for m/m ships. (Maybe they like them better as friends, maybe they like the pining and unrequited dynamic, it doesn't matter, the point is that other people have different tastes they might want to filter as well.)

And lastly, but of course most importantly - it's an *archive*. The purpose is maximally searchable metadata! Site policy and norms are always going to be for more detailed tagging (within limits, looking at the thousand tags debacle).

The purpose of archive of our own is not to prioritize any particular fandom experience or desired search criteria mechanically. It is to store as much fanfiction material as possible with as much searchability as possible.

Now this is also normally the point where I would say that AO3 makes all of its code open source so that people can make their own archives which only have f/f dungeon meshi ships, or whatever they want. But to be honest, that would be disingenuous. Because the reality is that that's not going to happen, because AO3 is better.

People have chosen, time and time again, that they prefer a large centralized archive that's more likely to have what they want posted there. Going to the big archive and filtering out a few things you don't like is just a better experience than bouncing between half a dozen smaller sites which cater to more specific tastes and using their specific search idiosyncrasies to find a particular flavor of fic which, because big sites get more attention than small sites, is just more likely to be in the big archive in the first place. The hypothetical f/f only dungeon meshi AO3 clone doesn't exist because the very people who complain about AO3 prefer its experience to the reality of what that site would be provide compared to having a central archive.

And it's a little unsettling because monopolies on anything are always scary, but a) A03 is fully democratic and independent and has managed the test of time wrt to upsets of that process, and b) that's part of why it makes its code open source. So that if it is ever taken over by bad actors and goes to the dark side, or just has a less good user experience, successors will be able spring up for the lowest possible entry cost. It's important to be able to make alternatives easily, but it's not bad that people prefer one big archive over a thousand fractured sites.

AO3 the organization is the living embodiment of the principle that the systems we create as collective, large communities are preferable to the small fractured systems we create as more isolated and exclusionary communities. And yes, that comes with costs. It comes with the minor inconveniences of sharing space with people who aren't there for the same reasons you are.

And if that inconvenience is checking a box each time you search, or downloading an addon to do that for you, I think it's worth it.

[jaelijn]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Was tagged by @quordleona03, thank you! It still blows my mind we're talking, haha.

I'd like to see this spread to the B7 folk, so if you've written for B7, even if you haven't in a while, consider yourself tagged!

How many works do you have on AO3?

227 - though as ever I need to remind people that this is not the total of my fics and certainly not the total of my fanworks (I have none of my art on AO3).

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

985.865 (I always have to do math here because I'm "co-author" on a fic I did the art for. So this is my *actual* words on AO3, not what AO3 says.)

CUT because oops it got long.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

At the moment, Blake's 7 only, unless you count Drake's Venture, but then again I have no active projects on that.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

This is in no way representative because my most kudos-ed fic will probably always be said "I did the art" fic that doesn't count, and my fandoms are vastly disparate in size, so my older SPN stuff is automatically up there. But anyway - Destinies Entwined (SPN), The Kindness of Strangers (SPN), There is no sin except stupidity (Canon Holmes - this one actually crept up there! I archived it, backdating, but people seem to have found and loved it!), Fields of Gold (SPN), and finally, With Every Single Word (B7) - and with the exact same amount of kudos, Bitter Days, and Sweet (B7).

5. Do you respond to comments?

Absolutely! Sometimes it takes me a while, but yes.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

*filters works by MCD warning*... I mean I've written a lot of bleak things, but not every MCD thing is necessarily bleak - on the other hand, I am probably forgetting some angsty ones that have no MCD. Most recently, or most in my memory, are a few of the Whumptobers, which always seem to bring out the darkness: Impending Destiny is up there, as is Bitter Almonds, Death's Kiss, perhaps, though that has some measure of catharsis, A Grave Man, Poisoned Apples. Then there's Earth, Earth Sector, Greyscale... Whatever you consider angstiest, it's probably a B7 fic. If you'd asked me to pick one, it'd probably be Impending Destiny because it hurt me to write and I feel it's underappreciated.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I'm in a similar boat as Quordle - these universes are angsty. Most of SPN ones are just... kind of even, all things considered, nothing to happy and nothing too sad, same with the Holmes stories, as they are all set somewhere in the middle and I can't give an Ending if there is more canon to go (and I rarely write AUs). But when it comes to B7, I've written some incredibly sappy stuff that doesn't really have "happy endings" because it's a fluff one-shot in the first place. Longfic with the happiest ending is probably Bitter Days, and Sweet, if only because it's a happy ending PGP. I do tend to prefer bittersweet endings to "fix everything" endings though.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I've got some... strange comments, but no outright hate, no, not on fic. But I also enable comment moderation on anything that might attract things, as a precaution. It hasn't been necessary, but perhaps people don't bother if they feel they might get moderated anyway. This is not an invitation to start sending me hate!

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Not really. Being ace probably has something to do with that... I've found myself writing some intimacy, non-sexual or bordering on sexual kink or "draw the curtain" sex scenes lately, but I don't really get anything out of sex in fic for smutty reasons (and for a long time disliked pairing fic because it seemed so focussed on sex). I could see myself writing something more explicit if it served a plot point, but mostly I don't feel explicit detail is necessary for character development/plot progression. Intimacy, yes. But who cares who sticks what where and where the body fluids go?

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Yes, though I wouldn't say I do it *often* - I am generally more keen on conceptual mashups (what if B7 characters were in Victorian London) than pure crossover (what if B7 characters met Holmes characters), because I tend to be interested in single fandoms at a time rather than more at once. That said, I have done them. The most out there is probably my Doctor Who / Pirates of the Caribbean crossover, Dancing Star. I vaguely recall it being for a longfic challenge, but don't remember which. I'm still fond of that one and it's not even on AO3 (yet).

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of. (Don't do this.)

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have been asked, and I think I had a Holmes fic translated once back in the LJ days? I'm not generally against translation if it's with my explicit consent, but there are some fics where I don't feel comfortable with it, often long or very personal work or stuff that I'm still working with. It helps if I already know the translator before they come to me with translation requests.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have made attempts, yes - some never worked out, some are yet to be published, others were collabs more in the sense of "let me add a sequel to your thing" rather than true co-writing. I have done a few fic/art collabs, on either side of the line, but I don't think there's anything currently on AO3 that has been co-written, unless you count my meta with @comarum.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

I am not going to make a claim on an "all time" favourite, particularly as I still feel I only found my niche with shipping fairly recently, and there are a few... fan-favourite pairings that I never really shipped but where I'm now wondering whether I would have jumped in more readily if I had been aware that this niche existed. Also is it still a ship if the pairing is canon, or is that just enjoying the original work?

My most long-standing active ship at this point is Avon/Vila, however.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

When someone says "doubt you ever will", I always immediately think of a project or two where I get defensive about the idea that I will never ever, even though I haven't touched them in decades. They are in long-term hibernation, but I balk at the idea of them being abandoned. That said, I have a good number of Red Dwarf fics that I'll probably never polish up. Dimensions was important to me, but this is where it'll probably end. Something about that fandom doesn't work for me.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I like to think: characters, dialogue, angst and long-form fics, though of course the short things will always outnumber the long ones because they take so long to write!

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Finding endings for fics that are supposed to be short. Writing characters that aren't neurodivergent. Writing characters/relationships that aren't ace, though I feel I've been getting better with that. Anything that demands I actually pay attention to the characters' gender. Homonyms.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Depends on the extensiveness. If characters are always speaking a different language, sprinkling single lines in that actual language is weird and having the entire dialogue in a language that isn't the fic's is tedious, but if a few lines of dialogue are in a different language, sure. I feel the same way about strong accents.

Besides, I'd argue that characters in my current fandom aren't speaking English (the language I write in) in the first place, but a future common tongue I call Standard, so unless I want to invent a conlang, I'm not using their actual language anyway. On the other hand, rendering other languages in English can ignore some special characteristics of that language - something I specifically think about when I write about SIGN (my concept of sign language in the B7 universe). In general, I tend to emphasise readability over accuracy.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Depends on what counts. The first things I called fic were for SGA. Never published. The first published stuff was Canon Holmes.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

This changes constantly, and I also feel like I keep developing as a writer, so there are things I was very happy with at the time that I would not write that way now. They still were a favourite once - and in the same vein, if I didn't feel any of my recent stuff were favourites, I'd be doing something wrong with the craft. Consequently, right now I am very fond of Impending Destiny and my current longfic project.

[i-miss-breathing]

So about ao3, love the site, so many people in a community coming together and creating things and showing their work is wonderful. I love the filtering system, it’s very useful, it makes it so much easier to narrow the vast amount of things down to what you’re looking for and what you’re interested in and you can include and exclude so many tags, and the warnings are a nice way people can avoid things they personally find disturbing, obviously it’s not perfect but it’s better than lots of sites.

That being said, I think incest/pseudo-incest should be a warning on ao3 so people can filter it out easier than having to add 15 tags to the other section of the exclude tags filter

Im not judging people who write or read it

It is their choice, and it says nothing about them as a person

Just like anyone who writes graphic violence or major character death or rape/non-con or underage

I just don’t want to fill up my exclude with all the different incest tags writers use when I’m looking through a tag, and some writers forget to put it there at all, which isn’t their fault, people forget things, but this way an archive warning would apply and they could put it there easier

Also I know for a fact I am not the only person bothered or triggered by incest

Idk if there’s any specific reason it’s not a warning, like if there are qualifications a topic has to meet to be put as a warning, and it doesn’t qualify or something similar to that, so if there is I would appreciate the education, other than that I just wanted to say my piece on it.

[kedreeva]

Hello! Im doing some reaserch involving ao3 and the good omens fandom, and i was looking through your ao3 page when i noticed you only have one fic tagged with the fandom tags for both the TV show and the book (it's If We've Got Nothing (We've Got Us)), while all the others are only in the TV show tag. I was wondering if you could tell me if there's a reason for that? No problem if not.

I hope youre having a good day!!

I think I posted that one as my first fic and then I found out that the filtering system treats good omens (tv) and good omens (whatever the book tag is) as a "crossover" even though it's both good omens, so people that don't want to read crossovers with not-good-omens would filter out stories tagged with both good omens tags. So I switched to just 1 tag for the rest and never bothered to go back to fix that one.

[goldenzingy46butwriteblr]

Relatively Decent Tips About Tagging On AO3

By a relatively unknown fanfic author...

1. In the relationships section, tag only the relationships relevant to the plot. Nobody wants to read a 300k Tomarry story if they were looking for Romione you tagged because it’s a minor relationship.

2. If you do want to tag your minor and/or past relationships, you can do this in the ‘Additional Tags’ section. You might’ve noticed that should you add ‘minor’ or ‘past’ in front of a relationship tag, AO3 will mark it as ‘freeform’. This is because the area for ‘minor’ or ‘past’ relationships is in the ‘Additional Tags’ section.

3. Don’t tag every character to appear in the entire fic. Please. All you’re doing is creating a wall of tags it takes ages to scroll past and nobody cares enough to read. Tag only the characters that you’d use the character tag filter to find the fic for. If in doubt, there is a ‘Minor Character(s)’ tag.

4. For that matter, don’t create walls of tags. Not every single thing that happens in the story is needed in the tagging.  Tag ‘fluff’, ‘angst’, ‘crack’, etc., tag the triggers or the squicks, tag the minor relationships, then tag things that are important enough to be searched for. Your tags are a non-spoiling summary, not a plot. Personally, I’m unlikely to read a story with more than twenty ‘Additional Tags’.

5. This is not Wattpad, please put spaces in between your words. It makes my eyes bleed to read ThisCharacterIsAnIdiotILoveHimSoMuch. Please. Just add spaces, it won’t kill you.

6. Don’t be afraid to add personal tags! It gives the readers a taste of what you, the author, is like, and what the story could be like, too. Be careful not to add too many, or it becomes a tag wall. A tasteful joke or commentary is always welcome, though!

7. Don’t try and tag every single variant of that one tag. The chances are that AO3 merges the tags together anyway.

8. Ratings are important. General Audiences is what you would read to children twelve and under, or in film terms, a U. Teen And Up is what I’d call PG, Mature as a 15, and Explicit as 18. More simply: if you wouldn’t read your kissing scene to a nine year old and then look their parents in the eye, it’s not G. Any graphic sex scenes would go under E.

9. Don’t tag as a crossover if you’re writing a fusion. I cannot express my frustration at trying to find a crossover and actually getting what should be tagged as ‘Alternate Universe - [Fandom] Fusion’. If it’s a Hogwarts AU, but uses none of the characters from the Harry Potter ‘verse, tag it as a fusion, not a crossover. If it’s a Hunger Games AU, but uses none of the characters from the Hunger Games ‘verse, tag it as a fusion, not a crossover.

10. Your categories are best left to the relationship tags. For example, a M/M story would have a M/M ship in the relationship tags, not a minor relationship that goes in the ‘Additional Tags’ section.

11. Do not tag the ship name as a fandom. There is a relationship tag section for a reason. ‘Drarry’ is not a fandom, ‘Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling’ is.

12. ‘No Archive Warnings Apply’ and ‘Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings’ are NOT the same and should NOT be used interchangeably. If you don’t know how to use the warning system and aren’t sure if your fic classifies under one of the warnings, use ‘Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings’, not ‘No Archive Warnings Apply’. Without warnings, readers are told that they are going in blind, with no idea of what’s ahead - like being told ‘read at your own risk’. When told that no warnings apply, readers are told that the fic is perfectly safe for them. If this is not the case, they will be mad.

13. Don’t even bother adding more than one oneshot, drabble, or short fic in a single work. It will become a tag dump, it will have relationship tags or character tags that aren’t used for the entire thing, and I guarantee you that people will complain about it. If you’re that desperate to keep them all together, make a series. I can’t stop you from doing this, but I can damn well tell you not to, and I can ask that you at least tag with ‘drabble collection’, ‘fic collection’, or ‘oneshot collection’ so I can filter it out.

14. If there’s a character that you want to keep secret, use the ‘Undisclosed Character(s)’ tag. At least then the readers know, right?

15. Tag ‘Original Character(s)’ rather than their character name. The readers won’t be filtering in/out the character’s name, as they don’t know the character’s name.

16. Tag for reader- or self-inserts. People will be pissed if you don’t.

17. Use ‘&’ for platonic pairings and ‘/’ for romantic pairings. People know this system and how it works, using ‘/’ for platonic pairings will attract the wrong kind of reader, likewise with ‘&’ for romantic pairings. They also probably won’t finish reading once they realise.

18. Only tag for platonic relationships if they are the focus of the fic. Tagging them just because there is a frienship/sibling dynamic within the fic is ridiculous, because people are aware who are friends and who are siblings. Unless the relationship is significant to the story, ditch the tag. There are also additional tags for this sort of thing.

19. Yes, you need to tag for sex scenes, no, these are not the only tags you should have on your fic that is more than just a sex scene. I enjoy a nice sex scene just as much as the next, but if you mark it as explicit, tag for sex, tag the main points of the sex scene, then move on. You do not need to tag every tiny detail. Unless it is of major importance to the scene or fic, don’t bother. Large amounts of sex tags can turn people away from the fic. Your tags are a summary and a warning, not the plot.

20. “But how can I be sure I’m using the right tags, Trixie?” Tag your major tropes, tag the fic’s genre (ie: angst, crack, horror), tag your AU, tag the triggers/squicks, and add those selling point tags. Boom. Done. If there are similar fics out there, check their tags and see if yours look alike. You could even steal some of them.

This is my guide; it might not work for everyone. My thoughts are my own, and you are welcome to disagree or ignore me completely, but hey! I tried.

[cozy-the-overlord]

Just One Last Word

Summary: As children, she swore she'd become the greatest author in all of Asgard. Loki had his doubts.

Word Count: 4,360

Pairing: Loki x OFC

A/N: Look who's back! I got this idea from a made-up fic title sent to me by an anon a while back and I just loved the concept so much I had to write it. What can I say? I’m a glutton for childhood romance and angst

Thanks for reading! :)

Warnings: Implied/referenced domestic violence/child abuse

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @whatafuckingdumbass @the-emo-asgardian

If you want to be tagged, feel free to send an ask/message :)

Read it on Ao3!

The first time Loki heard about Sága’s extraordinary book was the day Lady Gudrun decided that the spring weather was just too lovely to ignore and took her literature students to give them their lessons in the gardens rather than the stuffy palace classrooms. He couldn’t quite recall what year they were—childhood seemed so long ago that all of his primary classes had melted into one amorphous blur—but they had to have been young because Sága hadn’t yet chopped off both her braids in the middle of arithmetic, claiming that they were too heavy to think properly whilst wearing them. No, her braids still hung at her shoulders, and as Lady Gudrun read aloud to them on the lawn, Sága was busy weaving dandelion flowers into their intricate patterns.

“This is going in my book!” she whispered to Loki with a grin. “In my book, all the girls wear dandelions in their hair.”

Loki frowned. “What book?”

“The one I’m writing,” she said, fiddling with another flower stem. “It’s going to be the best book in all of Asgard.”

He had been going to say that there was no way in all the realms she was capable of writing the best book in all of Asgard, but then Lady Gudrun asked them if there was something they wanted to share with the rest of their classmates, since they seemed to be having such an intriguing conversation by themselves, and Loki had shaken his head, blushing. Sága wasn’t bothered. She kept playing with her dandelions and humming softly to herself, some horrifically out of tune melody Loki was almost positive she was just making up as she went along.

Sága Svanhilddottir was a strange girl. One day she had just plopped her bulging crocheted bookbag onto the desk next to his, and she never really went away. There were plenty of whispers about her—her mother was an Asgardian noble who had run away to Alfheim to marry a man in the Elvish court, only to return nine years later with a child in her arms and no husband to be found. At dinner, Loki would overhear the noblewomen’s hushed speculations on what could possessed her to leave in the first place, and what prompted her return. How had the Elf bewitched her so? A love potion? A spell? Had she gotten with child and fled to preserve her dignity? But then why return? Was he unfaithful? Was she unfaithful?

Sága had her own story. She told Loki very seriously before class one day that her mother had come back to Asgard because her father had been turned into a dragon by a wicked witch and now every time he sneezed he spat out enormous balls of fire into the air, and that her mother was afraid that the next time he caught a cold he’d burn the whole apartment down. She pulled down her dress sleeve to show Loki her burn scar, angry red flesh that stretched from her wrist all the way across her shoulders—a scar, she explained, she had gotten when she had tried to give her dragon father a handkerchief.

Loki didn’t believe her.

“Witches don’t turn people into dragons,” he bristled. “My mother’s a witch, and she would never turn anyone into a dragon.”

“That’s because your mother’s a nice witch,” Sága explained impatiently. “This was a mean old witch, with pointy teeth and spiky hair, who hated everybody.” Ruffling her shorn locks (this was after the ill-fated math lesson), she bared her teeth in demonstration. “She was mad at my father because he forgot to bring her mousetail pudding for her birthday like he promised.”

“He—what?”

But Sága only waved him off dismissively. “You’ll have to read my book,” she said. “I explain it all there.”

Oh, that damn book. It seemed like it was the only thing she ever talked about, this stupid, imaginary book. Because it had to be imaginary. Loki had never even seen the girl hold a pen, let alone write a sentence. No, she was too busy prattling on about her wonderous book, this book that would one day become the pinnacle of Asgardian literature.

“Someday, they’ll be making students read my book instead of this nonsense,” she’d whisper to Loki as their teacher read to them in the front of the classroom. “It’ll be much more interesting.”

Or when he ran into her in the library, and she’d drag him to the shelf where they kept all the classics.

“This is where they’ll keep my book!” she’d grin, having the audacity to pat the dusty wood where the great authors of millennia long past rested.

And then there was that one time during one of the feasts, when he turned around to find her staring at him intently from across the ballroom, a studious expression on her face. He shot what he hoped was an intimidating glare at her, but she only skipped across the room to join him.

“What are you doing?” he asked sourly.

“Looking at you,” she said, grinning as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I need to remember how you look like, so I can put you in my book.”

Loki scowled. “I don’t want to be in your book.”

“Well, I want you in it,” Sága retorted. “And, since I’m the author, that’s all that matters.” She grabbed his hand and began pulling him towards the dessert table. “Come on, Prince Loki. Let’s get some cake!”

Thor said that he must be harboring a crush on her, to seemingly hate her so and yet be constantly spending time with her. Loki nearly threw a fit when he accused him of such at the dinner table. He didn’t like Sága. She was strange and irritating and talked far too much and he wanted her to go away. He spent time with her because she followed him around, not because he wanted to! She was annoying. And weird. And …

And yet.

One day she wasn’t in class. Loki thought he’d be relieved—finally, a lesson where he could listen to the teacher without having to filter out her constant chatter. But … it didn’t feel right. It was too quiet—he hated the empty stretches of silence that hung over the classroom every time Lady Gudrun stopped talking. For some reason, it seemed even more difficult to focus without the familiar presence of his deskmate hunched over the table and picking splinters out of the wood with her fingernail.

The library was more of the same. Loki perused the shelves, gaze lingering on the spot Sága had claimed for her own. She was the only person he really talked to, he realized. Without her, the day felt hollow.

She was gone for the rest of the week. Her mother was gone too, and rumors began to fly that she had decided to take her daughter back to Alfheim to rejoin her mysterious husband. Loki couldn’t help but remember her story about her father the dragon.

Just when he was starting to fear she had left for good, one morning a ratty old crotched bag smacked the desk next to his before class started.

He scowled to mask his sigh of relief. “Where have you been?”

But Sága wouldn’t say. She only grinned at him from under her crown of dandelions. “I was working on my book. Why?” she asked. “Did you miss me, Prince Loki?”

Loki flushed bright red.

It was strange to think about now, with everything that had happened. At the time, Loki thought he would have fallen on his sword before he ever referred to Sága as a friend. And yet, she was not only a friend, but the closest one he had. She continued finding ways to spend time with him even after they graduated Lady Gudrun’s class—she’d track him down and ask him for help with her arithmetic, or to wish him luck on an upcoming test, or to tell him about a book she thought he’d like. Thor and his companions drove Loki up the wall with their merciless teasing, but their words couldn’t quell the odd sort of fluttering in his stomach every time she came running up to him clutching some new story against her chest.

“Is it your book?” he’d ask jokingly, even as he took the novel from her hands.

“No,” she laughed. “I’m still working on that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you now?”

Sága patted his shoulder, still grinning. “Don’t worry,” she said. “When I’m done, you’ll be the first to read it.”

She was pretty. Loki wasn’t quite certain when that happened. Sága didn’t really change all that much, even as everyone else grew and morphed into something resembling maturity. She continued cutting her own hair, keeping it messy and uneven and even shorter than his. She’d weave dandelion stalks into the shorn clumps and walk around in gauzy yellow dresses with cuffed sleeves that went past her fingers, looking like one of her fairy-story creatures come to life. It was generally accepted that she looked ridiculous, and Loki didn’t disagree. He just felt that she made ridiculous look good.

He noticed it when she came down to the sparring pit to watch him practice with his daggers. There she was, perched on the railing, beaming like the sun as she waved at him. She was pretty. Very pretty.

Loki turned around without waving back. There was a heat rising in his cheeks that he wasn’t quite sure how to address. He missed the target completely on his next throw.

He wasn’t the only person who noticed. The other boys his age were beginning to be quite drawn to Sága Svanhilddottir as well, although Loki suspected it was less due to actual interest and more because of her proclivity for disregarding traditional decorum. She loved to dance. It seemed every ball she was spinning across the floor in the arms of some new beau, giggling so loudly that her voice echoed down the hall. Loki hated the way they’d hold her, gripping her tightly to their bodies as if she belonged to them, but Sága didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed to enjoy it. She’d laugh and whoop and make a show of it as they twirled through the song.

It might have made her popular with the young men, but older members of the court weren’t as amused. After all, such displays weren’t exactly becoming of an unmarried woman. But Sága didn’t mind that they whispered things like “promiscuous” and “loose” as she walked by. Unlike her fellow ladies, Sága wasn’t particularly interested in catching a husband. In fact, she once told Loki in no uncertain terms that she had no intentions of ever giving her hand in marriage.

“Marriage is horrible,” she said. Loki could barely hear her over the ruckus—it was Thor’s Nameday Feast, and such a raucous celebration was hardly ideal for intimate conversation. He thought Sága might have been enjoying the festivities a bit too much as well—she was swaying on her feet as she leaned in to speak. “You’re tied down forever to some person, and you don’t even know what they’re going to be like! Sure, they might seem nice, but who knows!” She hiccupped, and Loki found himself reaching out to steady her without realizing he was doing it, accidentally grabbing the shoulder he knew to be scarred under her sleeve.

Sága brushed him off. There was a bitterness in her eyes that made his chest ache. “I don’t want to get married,” she said. “I just want to have fun.”

He walked her back to her rooms that night. He had started doing that recently—partially because with the way she was staggering he didn’t trust her to be able to make it herself, and partially because the voracious looks some of her dance partners had been giving her were making the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up.

Sága grinned at him when they made it back to her door. The dandelions in her hair were beginning to wilt. One was nearly falling off her head, held there only by a tangled strand.

“Are you going to kiss me, Prince Loki?” she asked.

Loki started. All at once, the fluttering was back. “What?”

“You’re my prince, aren’t you?” She was swaying quite a bit, but she didn’t look away. Her breath stank of wine. “Aren’t you supposed to kiss the lady goodnight?” She leaned forward as if meaning to demonstrate, but ended up falling right into his chest, giggling all the way. Loki caught her, hoping she couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.

My prince.

“I—I don’t think it would be very princely of me to kiss you right now,” he whispered.

“Maybe not,” she yawned against his armor. “But I’d like it anyways.”

Loki inhaled. I’d like it too. But she was drunk, practically incoherent—she didn’t mean any of the words coming out of her mouth right now, and he knew it.

And so, he helped her back up and through the doorway. “Not tonight.”

Sága perked up. “Tomorrow?”

She looked so childishly excited that Loki couldn’t hold back his chuckle. “Sure. Tomorrow.” Maybe he had had too much wine as well, because the thought of such a silly promise exhilarated him far more than it should have. “You come find me and I’ll kiss you.”

They never spoke about that night again. Sága didn’t seem to remember it—when he ran into her the next day she was nursing a headache and a new idea for her book and wanted to ask him a question about the mechanics of water seidr. Loki didn’t mention it either. The whole thing felt much sillier doused in daylight. What, did he think she was just going to knock on his door and cash in a kiss like a raffle ticket? No, it was better that the whole thing just fade into obscurity. Loki told himself he was relieved that Sága didn’t remember his promise.

It didn’t stop his thoughts from racing every time he saw her.

What would it be like to kiss her, he wondered? Would she let him pull her close? Would she wrap her arms around his neck and run her fingers through his hair? How would it feel to press his lips to hers, to close his eyes and just drink her in as if she were the only thing that existed?

He wished he could find out.

Loki remembered the last time he saw her. Her father had passed away, and she and her mother were returning to Alfheim for his funeral and to clear up several issues regarding his estate. They weren’t sure how long they’d be gone, but Sága predicted that the legal affairs would take years to resolve.

“Is it bad that I don’t want to go?” she asked in a whisper the night before she was set to leave. Loki looked at her, huddled against the balcony railing besides him. Inside, the feast raged on, but in the moonlight the world seemed almost tranquil.

“I don’t think it’s bad,” he said slowly. “Funerals aren’t exactly joyful occasions. I doubt anyone ever wants to go to them.”

She was silent for a moment, staring across the gardens spread beneath them. “I was happy when they told me he was dead,” she said finally, voice hoarse. “That’s bad, isn’t it? You’re not supposed to be happy because your father’s dead.”

Loki wasn’t sure what to say to that. He didn’t know much about Sága’s father—she almost never spoke of him, and Loki never asked—but he never could quite forget the stories she would tell when they were children, about witches and dragons and violent, fiery breath.

He inhaled. “I don’t think that’s bad either.” A part of him wanted to reach out and squeeze her hand, but he wasn’t sure if that was right. “If he was a good father, you’d feel differently. But he wasn’t, and you don’t. That’s all there is to it.”

Sága only nodded.

The next morning was less somber. When Sága came to say goodbye, she seemed her normal, airy self, bouncing and bubbling over every small detail.

“Hopefully, by the time I’m back, I’ll have my book done!” she beamed. “And I’ll bring it back for you to read!”

“Well, in that case, I’ll be counting the seconds,” he drawled. Sága laughed, and he found himself gazing into her eyes. They were lovely, those eyes—warm, like liquid amber, brown and sparkling with mirth. He had never really stopped to think about it before, but she had to have the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.

Perhaps he was staring too intently, because Sága had stopped laughing. Loki felt his cheeks flush. He was about to apologize when she threw her arms around his shoulders.

He was so thrown off by the embrace that he couldn’t really comprehend what had happened until after she had let go. It was a quick hug, spur of the moment and over as soon as it began. It meant nothing.

Still there was something in the air as Sága pulled away, something he didn’t think either of them had the capability to describe. She patted his shoulder, nodding as if in agreement with something neither of them had said.

“Goodbye, Prince Loki,” she said thickly.

He nodded too. ���Goodbye, Sága.”

It was the last time he saw her.

Loki stared at the book on the table. He had told his mother that he didn’t want any more books—he was beginning to feel less like a person and more like a pity case with each shipment she sent in.

Enough with it! Just let me rot in peace.

And she had agreed. The flood of books had ceased.

Except for this one.

He hadn’t heard them come in to drop it off, which was concerning. Loki had always been a light sleeper, and that had increased a hundredfold by the time he had returned to Asgard. He wondered if they were drugging him.

The book itself was crisp and clean—freshly bound. He always used to like those books as a child, so new that the spine let out a satisfying crack as he opened them for the first time. Now, he was almost afraid to touch it.

The mossy green cover was unassuming. No artwork, no patterns, just the title and author in simple gold lettering.

Dandelion

Sága Svanhilddottir

Loki didn’t know how long he stared at it. The dungeons made it hard to keep track of time in general, but in that moment it felt as if everything around him ceased to exist. He couldn’t tear his eyes from it.

Damn. She actually did it.

Sága … when was the last time he thought of Sága? She seemed to exist in a different lifetime, a character in a story that had long since been shelved. He remembered her, though—a scrawny little girl on the grass, weaving yellow flowers through her braids.

In my book, all the girls wear dandelions in their hair.

He picked it up. It wasn’t particularly heavy, nor particularly thick—certainly nothing like the texts of old she had once proclaimed herself equal to. It appeared quite average, really. Maybe he wouldn’t read it. The whole thing was birthed out of a childish fancy, and he no longer held any appreciation for fairy-stories.

But who was he kidding?

The story was about a girl named Dandelion (Loki groaned aloud upon reading it, although such puerility was to be expected from an author who went about her days with weeds dangling from her hair) who lived with her mother and her beast of  a father off in some nonexistent realm, far away from Asgard. While her father had not the form of a dragon, he certainly had the temperament. He spent the days raging about their household, ranting and raving at every little inconvenience until he’d worked himself up into a violent frenzy.

Her mother didn’t know what to do. She was alone in a strange land, having forfeited her freedom to irrevocably tie herself to this monster of a man. She had nowhere to go, no family to turn to. And so she grit her teeth and took the beatings and the curses and prayed for a miracle.

Of course, little Dandelion was too young to understand this. She didn’t know why her mother cried herself to sleep at night, nor could she comprehend the foulness of the words that her father spat into the air. She had never known anything else. And so, every night she sat upon her father’s knee as he brushed out and braided her long, silky hair and read aloud to her from his rotted old storybook. Dandelion loved those stories, of monstrous dragons and evil witches who feasted on rats and tarantulas, fair maidens locked away in towers and dashing princes fighting their way through bramble-choked woods to awaken them with a kiss.

She’d dream about those stories as she lay in bed, writing her own in her head to drown out the crashes and cries ricocheting off the walls on the floor below her. In her mind’s eye, Dandelion could see herself as the maiden, nose pressed against the window as she waited for her prince to scale her tower and carry her to safety.

He never came.

But she was not long for this way of life. One night, during dinner, her father in a fit of anger overturned the candle on the tablecloth. The fabric went up in flames. They spread fast across the table and caught on Dandelion’s cuff, setting her sleeve ablaze. She survived—her father was quick to come to his senses and douse the flames—but her arm was badly burned. It was at that moment that her mother had had enough. She took her daughter and ran for it.

After a long struggle to secure the funds they needed, they were able to book passage back to her mother’s home realm. There, they found sanctuary.

She found something else there too. There, sitting in the very back row of the classroom with his head hidden behind a book, was a real, living, breathing prince. Dandelion was entranced—she had always thought princes to be some mythical creature that existed only within the pages of storybook. And yet, here was one right in front of her, like the most normal thing in the world. He didn’t seem very princely. He just seemed like a boy, a quiet boy who preferred reading to conversation. Dandelion would have never known him to be anything else if her mother hadn’t pointed him out to her.

But she was curious, and so when given the opportunity to choose her spot, she sat down next to him. He was a strange prince. He’d argue with her about the stories she told, but that only meant he was listening to her. He’d say he didn’t want to see her when she bumped into him outside of class, but he’d still follow her down the hall when she turned to leave. He didn’t strike her as the dragon-slaying tower-scaling type, but that was okay. Dandelion liked him just the way he was.

The story went on. Dandelion grew up to the whooshing of letters slipped under the door—her dragon father, asking her mother to come back, to come home, promising that he was different and everything would be all right. There were times when her mother seemed almost swayed by his sweet words—she’d sigh and say that it would be nice to see their family safe and back together again and stare off into the distance as if remembering something other than the screaming or the fighting or the burning, as if she had forgotten the way Dandelion would wake screaming in the night convinced she could smell her flesh burning. It sent cold shivers down Dandelion’s spine. She began tossing the letters into the fire before her mother had the chance to read them.

She’d turn to her prince for comfort. He didn’t know about the letters, but somehow, he made her feel better all the same. He was light and safe and everything she needed—she always seemed to be laughing when she was with him. And when he laughed—something about that laugh made Dandelion’s chest feel awash with a lovely sort of warmth.

She was in love with him.

But Dandelion didn’t say anything about that. She knew he only saw her as a friend—a silly, trivial friend who he could tease and laugh with without having to concern himself with the solemnity of his station. If he knew how she felt … she could lose him entirely. Dandelion couldn’t face such a prospect.

Instead, she danced with everyone but her prince, drowned herself in wine and spent her nights in the arms of any faceless man who wanted her, all in some vain attempt to sway her feelings in another direction. It only made things worse.

But life went on. Another letter came in from the realm of her birth, written in a different hand than usual. Her father had passed in his sleep, it explained. At long last, the dragon had been defeated. Dandelion was to return home immediately. And so, she bid her prince a friendly farewell.

The fallout of her father’s death was horrifically complicated. She was his legal heir, but she had also spent a majority of her life estranged from him and she found his representatives unwilling to hand over control of his estate to her. It was years before she could come back. And when she did—

Loki couldn’t bring himself to finish it. He knew very well what “Dandelion” found when she returned to Asgard—or more aptly, what she didn’t find.

You’re my prince, aren’t you?

He wished he had kissed her.

[sabraeal]

Not Necessarily a Virtue

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki AU Bingo 2021 Practical Magic AU

There hadn’t been a plan when Obi picked up the phone.

All it had taken was one rogue text-- another case assigned to his social worker, one that was enough of an emergency that it his behavioral issues seem tame in comparison. Her chair rattles when she stans, its plastic back hitting the filing cabinets with a metallic tang, but her hands tremble more.

“This will be just a minute,” she says, smile plastered tight to her face. And then she leaves him there alone, his file open on her desk, flaws left out for the world to see.

It doesn’t bothered him. There’s no point, not when he already knows: he’s trouble with a capital-T, each failed family drawing him closer and closer to being unplaceable. Some people have a face only a mother could love, but Obi-- Obi has that for his personality. Though considering how each of his six almost-moms signed him away with a sigh of relief, walking out the plate glass doors without even a glance back, maybe he has the sort of personality that makes people reconsider whether they could be a mother.

So here he is again, freshly abandoned, back in the sterile halls of social services for the seventh time without a place to call home. He’s not even twelve.

Not that these people aren’t trying to change that-- he’s not some cat left at the shelter, free to a good home. Unless Kerry or Janine or the girl at the desk he didn’t get to read the name tag of wanted to sleep on their couch, they have to find someone to take him for the night. And he knows from experience, there’s always a family that believes they can change him. A young couple who thought all problem children needed was just a little extra love. By the time Kerry came back, there’d be good news waiting, a miracle crafted by three people who didn’t want to miss the Masked Singer finale. They’d pack him into the back of a car and ship him off to a new place to fail. Because no matter how many homes they tried to make for him, it’d never change how he felt.

Obi had tried, at first. He was just a little kid, wanting to be loved, but every home he went to itched like hives in his head, a constant buzz that set his teeth on edge and made him do anything, try anything to leave. He belonged somewhere else, somewhere not here, and he knew it like he knew Kerry’s other case had overdosed on a bottle of sleeping pills in his foster mother’s cabinet-- with an inexplicable certainty.

He waits thirty seconds after she leaves before he slides off the the plastic seat she’d put him in. They love these things, oddly shaped and in primary colors that make the little kids giddy, but Obi hates them. He’s undersized, and putting him in these kiddie rooms always makes people treat him like he’s eight instead of eleven, asking him about Blue’s Clues.

But that’s not why he gets up, not entirely. There’s a buzzing in the back of his brain, a knowing, and it makes him stand, his hand straying to the glass door. He can’t see anything outside, at least not anything besides more kiddie chairs and offices, but he steps out nonetheless. He steps out and, unerringly, turns to face the girl waiting for him down the hall.

“It’s you.” Her tawny hair stresses the elastic she’s trapped it in, too thick. It’s not one of those hair ones either, but one of those thick rubber bands they use on the produce in grocery store. It hurts; he knows because it’s common sense, but also because he just...Knows. Their eyes meet, and even though he doesn’t her name, they’ve known each other forever.

His mouth is dry when he asks, “Do you know me?”

“I saw you in a dream.” She takes a step toward him, her sneakers scuffed and worn, just like his. “You’re Obi. I’m Torou.”

He doesn’t know this girl. There’s a hundred ways she could get his name; one of them is sitting on a desk behind him right now. But when she looks up at him with eyes he’s only ever seen in the mirror, he holds out his hand. “Come here.”

His heart pounds with each mincing squeak of her sneakers on the tile. She’s taking too long and she’s coming too fast; each terrible second convinces him he’s making a mistake at the same time he’s doing what he was always meant to do. By the time she slips her hand into his, he’s trembling, but it doesn’t matter because they both are and this--

This is right. And he knows exactly what to do.

It’s holding her hand that he picks up the phone. He fucks it up the first time-- he gets that gross digital buzz before he notices the sticker beneath the speaker, informing him 9 dials out-- but the second one his fingers guide him, releasing the number he has no reason to know. A number he has no reason to believe will work, that could have just come from the weird recesses of his mind but--

But he’s not surprised when a man picks up. “Who is this? Do you know what time--?”

“We’re here,” Obi says, and it shouldn’t be enough, but it is. “Come pick us up.”

A specter arrives on the front walk at noon.

Obi knows by the hush in the office. Or really the weight of it-- it’s been quiet like this since last night, since he and Torou sat down on the big bean bag couch in the waiting room, and Obi announced they wouldn’t be letting go. His case worker had crouched in front of them, that sweet smile plastered to her lips, and told him that they’d only have to be separated for a night. But he’d known-- the way he always did-- that every word was a lie. His fingers tightened in her grip, narrowing his eyes until the woman shivered, and that was that.

Kerry stayed with them, of course; she’d slept in her office, under a blanket it’s clear she’s never used and had only just discovered wasn’t comfortable no matter how many Sesame Street characters were on it. They’d been tucked under another by a younger girl with trembling hands, her eyes darting between them as she smoothed out its edges. He’d heard them through the walls this morning while the rest of the office filtered in-- government buildings like this were always cutting corners, leaving things like this paper thin, stuff that would go up like tissue in a fire.

Do you think they’re twins? one asked. Trembling hands, he guesses, since her voice does as well, like a chihuahua in a sweater. I’ve heard about this happening with twins. They look and just know.

Can’t be, we have their birth certificates, says another. Kerry, probably; she might be a liar, but she’s one of the only people in this place that has her head screwed on right, too. Two different sets of parents.

And the man they called last night? This one is stern; their manager maybe. He’s not really sure how this all works; he’s not even twelve, and he can only just know so much. Who is he?

There’s a heavy pause. I...I don’t know.

So when he arrives, dressed like an undertaker and holding an umbrella beneath the bright New Mexico sky, the whole place goes quiet. When he walks it’s stiff, like it took a hundred volts to get him up off the table and he’s only just gotten used to the idea. Obi casts a look down at Torou, at where her hand is white knuckled in his, and thinks about how he knows things, and wonders just what she might be able to do.

The man enters, umbrella folding in a single neat motion, before he says. “I am Lata Forenzo. I believe you have my...niblings.”

Niblings, Obi learns, is like siblings, only sideways.

“It was a simplification,” Lata says, his voice a deep, hesitant gravel. He casts a speculative look at the taxi driver, adjusting the gloves on his hands. “Niece and nephew is an unwieldy phrase, and time, after all, is of the essence.”

“Is it?” Torou’s eyes are wide, and for the first time since last night, her hand leaves his, gripping on to the cloth at Lata’s knee. “Is there something after us? Those bugs, they’re not--”

“No.” Obi’s known his uncle for barely more than a half hour, but he knows he isn’t a tactile person. Even still, Lata looks down at Torou, his not-gold eyes somehow softer, and puts two fingers over the bones at the back of her hand. “But it is time to bring you home.”

Home is an island. It takes the whole night to fly in, and when they land the sun is just barely scratching the sky. Even still, there’s no stopping; Lata bundles them straight into a cab, shushing them before they can make much more than a peep.

“We’ll be home soon,” he says, and the next time he wakes them, salt stings Obi’s nose, and he’s being carried over a threshold.

“Are we here?” he slurs. The house is weird-- angular, really, with a hall so narrow he could kick out a leg and stop them up like a cork. He nearly does, just to be cussed, but he catches Torou still wrapped up in her blanket, lolling on the couch, and says instead, “Can you let me down?”

Lata hesitates, fingers stiff where they wrap around his knees and shoulders, but he nods.

Obi’s feet-- just wearing socks now, somehow-- press on the floor, and he knows: he’s home.

“Oh,” he breathes, hands flying out to steady himself. “Oh.”

When he looks up, Torou’s eyes meet his, round and wide. “I felt that.”

Her own feet swing down-- bare-- and the moment she touches the wide old planks--

“Oh.” Lata braces himself against the wall, the sound bitter on his lips. “So it’s true. There will always be two.”

They aren’t his words, Obi knows, but they’re important. They’ve got that feel, the same as when Torou said she dreamed of him. The sort that are going to be life-changing, one way or another.

But Obi’s had enough of that today. Enough of it for a lifetime. He glances over at Torou, and she nods. “Can we go outside?”

Lata blinks, eyes pulling from the wallpaper to fix on him. After a long moment, he says, “You know where the door is.”

Obi does, somehow, and when he opens it--

It’s paradise.

Home has rules too, loads of them. It’s quiet time from nine to eight, though Lata doesn’t much care if they’re sleeping, so long as they’re in bed. Teeth have to be brushed twice a day-- he’d glowered when Obi said he had good teeth and only needed the once, standing over him for a week morning and night to see the rule stuck. There’s only one dessert after dinner; Obi balked at that one, until he’d learned that a limit on quantity wasn’t the same thing as size. He and Torou find three old sundae dishes in the cabinet and pile them high with ice cream and every topping they can find, and when they slap Lata’s down in front of him, cheeks bulging with their own towers of sweets, all he’d does is give them that small, reluctant twitch of a smile and dig in.

They have to make their beds and pick up after themselves-- this house has treated us well, Lata tells them, it’s only right we take care of it in return-- and they have to tell him if they plan to play in the yard; but in return their sheets are always clean, and dinner’s promptly at six. When they come back in, sweaty and exhausted from the summer heat, there’s always a bowl of fruit waiting for them and cold drinks.

He’d known, in the way he always does, that this couldn’t last. So when summer’s heat began to cool, he’s not surprised to see Lata waiting on for them on the veranda, mouth pulled into an even grimmer line.

“It’s time,” he says, “for a Family Meeting.”

“School,” Lata says with the sort of relish and derision only a professor like him can summon up, “is starting. Which means there are new rules.”

Fingers brush at Obi’s, and when he reaches out, Torou’s fingers knit in his. He knows what rules these will be-- his parents had them to, the only ones they’d ever made. His mother had gotten down on her knees the night before kindergarten, nails digging into his shoulders, and used a voice so dark, so unlike her, he’d dreamed of button eyes staring into his for a week. His father had tossed out their Coraline DVD after that.

“Forenzos,” Lata starts, already sounding weary, “look after each other. So you’ll walk together, both ways, and if one of you gets into trouble--” he fixes them both with a stern look-- “I expect both of you to run.”

Obi stares. “What?”

“You’ll come back right after school, unless we have previously discussed plans,” Lata continues. “You’re far too young for...cellular phones, so I expect that if you make plans with friends, you will discuss them with me the night previous, or you will come home first and ask permission. Not,” he murmurs, just barely audible, “that I expect you’ll have much trouble with that.”

“Is that...” Obi’s jaw works. “Is that all?”

“I expect you to keep up your grades.” Lata’s brow furrows, taking them in, as if he’d never once questioned whether or not they would be stellar students. As if most people don’t look at the both of them and see future high school flunk outs. “If they are slipping, I’m afraid I’ll have to limit your free time until we are able to bring them back to an acceptable level. Homework is to be done at the table, and once you are done, your time is yours until dinner.”

Torou’s hand squeezes his. “We?”

Lata blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You said ‘we.’“ She clear her throat, eyelashes fluttering with nerves. “If our grades are bad, you said we would, uh, fix them.”

“Of course.” His mouth pulls at the corners, annoyed. “How could I possibly ask you to rectify such a thing on your own? You’re already doing the best you can, if you still struggle, then it’s clearly something we both-- oh my,” he murmurs mildly, ��she’s leaking.”

“Sorry,” she sobs, pink burning on her cheeks, the way it never did on his. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no.” Lata flails out, yanking a tissue from the box, shoving it into her hand. “I just...hope that you find this all fair. I was always quite good at school, but my sisters--” he glances at them, wary-- “varied. I hope I can only...encourage you to your best.”

“But what about...” Obi snaps his teeth around the words. If he doesn’t ask, then it won’t become a rule, and his uncle can’t be disappointed when he breaks it.

The pictures on the wall prove that they’re family, that Lata truly is his mom’s brother, even if they don’t share much more than a hair color. But Obi’s never seen it, the way he does in pictures of Torou’s mom, where there’s a flick of the hand or a cock of a hip that says they spent their childhood together, inextricably intertwined forever in ways they would never understand.

But Lata raises a brow now, and he sees it, that small thread that ties him to his mom, that says brother. “About...?”

“The other stuff,” Torou blurts out, coughing down a sniff. “He wants to know what we...”

Her words peter out too, like she can’t figure out what to do with them. He can’t stop knowing, and she can’t stop dreaming, and the thought of having to pretend they can is...tiring this time, in a way it never was in the system.

His mouth wraps around the words with a curious sort of wonder. “Other stuff?” 

“You know,” she mutters, so small. “The weird stuff.”

Lata jolts in his chair, spine as straight as a poker. His hands press flat against his knees, and when he looks at them, the gray in his eyes in thunderous.

“This is the most important rule,” he tells them, voice oddly resonant, “you must follow it. Promise me.”

Obi’s heart sinks into his stomach, but he nods, fingers squeezing Torou’s tighter.

Lata’s hand presses heavy on his shoulder, leather flexing over cotton. “Don’t ever hide yourselves. Not for anything. Not for anyone.” Obi dares to look up, and Lata’s gaze is waiting to catch him. “Being...normal is not necessarily a virtue. There is no shame in being who you are, none at all.”

Or what you are, he doesn’t say, but his eyes do, loud and clear. He doesn’t say what that is either, but--

Obi knows. Just like he always does.

And if he didn’t, well-- he would have found out soon enough.

It’s a small island; small enough that K-12 are all squeezed into one school, though Lata tells them that by the time they go to senior high, they might have built another. It’s still not small enough for Torou and him to be in the same class, so he drops her off at the door with promises to find her at lunch and moseys down to his own. It puts him a little behind schedule, the school bell ringing on his heels, and when he steps in--

The room goes silent. Twenty pairs of eyes stare at him, round and wide, not a single person daring to do much more than breathe.

“Forenzo,” the teacher says, faint. “You must be...the Forenzo boy.”

“Yeah.” He grips at his shoulder. “Obi.”

“You can take your seat...at the back,” she says, before hurrying to the board, eager to put her back to him.

“I thought my mom said all the Forenzos died,” a boy whispers as he passes. “Except the old man, of course.”

“No, they just left,” says the one next to them. “Chased out. Because they’re, you know...”

Obi does; he always had, even before he had a word for it.

“I don’t think a boy can be a witch,” a girl says, thoughtless and thoughtful at the same time. “They’re wizards, or something.”

“Warlocks,” scoffs another. “Don’t you know anything? And they do blood magic with little girls--”

Obi grits his teeth, eyes forward. There’s two empty chairs in the back, one in the corner by the window, and the other next to it, and he steers toward that one-- window seats always get him in trouble--

And the boy next to it scoots away, fear bright in his eyes. Obi looks back at the teacher, but she’s writing her name on the board real slow, like she’s hoping this might solve itself.

Fine, he can take a hint. He takes the window, sliding in behind the desk. The girl in front of him scoots forward too, making sure her chair doesn’t touch his desktop, and he sighs. At least they’re all getting this out of the way first.

A bag drops, right next to his seat.

“Ms Kino!” There’s a girl there, smaller than everyone else, though her voice makes her twice as tall. In the morning sun, her hair burns bright like the horizon. “Can I change my seat?”

“Shirayuki?” The teacher blinks back at them, and Obi could swear she breaks into a cold sweat. “Shirayuki, I’m not sure that’s--”

“I can’t see the board from over there,” she says, every syllable digging in its heels. “There’s glare. Because I’m so small.”

Ms Kino squints back at her, and really-- there’s no denying how small she is, at least a head below Obi and he’s nothing to write home about either. “If you’re sure...”

“Great.” She drops into her seat with a thump as loud as thunder, setting out her notebook and pencil with the sort of purposeful efficiency that says there’s no doubt she’s here to stay.

Obi slips his out of his backpack too, so quiet so the other kids will stop looking at him like he’s going to set the place on fire, but he hears, “You’re new, right?”

He looks down, and there’s the girl, smiling across the aisle. “Yeah. I’m--”

“Obi, I heard.” She leans toward him. “I’m--”

“Shirayuki.” His mouth twitches. “I also heard.”

Her smile stretches towards a grin. “You know, Ms Kino likes group projects.”

He blinks. “Does she?”

She nods. “Would you like a partner?”

“She hasn’t assigned one yet,” he says, a little lost.

“She will,” this Shirayuki says, confident. The way he is, when he knows.

He nods, slow. “All right, so for the next one.”

“To start.” She fixes him with a look he can’t get out from under. “Are you eating lunch with someone?”

“Ah, yeah.” He feels guilty about it now, for some reason. “My um. Cousin.”

She brightens. “Great. I’ll show you guys the best place to sit.”

He’s been adopted, he realizes, like the way the cats around the house aren’t. And this girl means to keep him.

For once in his very short life, Obi doesn’t mind knowing. Just like he always does.

[nightwingsbf]

I have some things to say if you're interested as an nblm. The Asian ship tag works like this, character who penetrates is the first name and recipient character is second name. If it's sfw, if the creator has only sfw works and they use one tag almost exclusively, assume that it's the dynamic they prefer. Usually one tag is more popular than the other so that becomes general tag. It's not just for ships between penis havers, and some creators prefer switch too. Most creators and fans all over the world do have a preference for their personal reasons. This includes gender identity related reasons so I'd like to see more thoughtful handling of the discussion.

Regarding fem! tag, many people still don't know or understand the difference between trans tag and fem/ male! tags. Here in the west genderbend is a frowned upon trope, it of course is harmful. But in many other countries and cultures and languages you'll find different tags, or it's way worse to be out as trans than being seen as just fans of queer media so it's easier to tag like that or with a gender symbol. There are different words too, gender labels and concept is culturally linguistically different in other cultures. If it's a fic written in English by English speaking creator it's justified to condemn that, but for a fic in another language or an art where being trans is not the focus like showing surgery scar to prove this is a trans character, it's a bit too much expectation.

If the conversation was just about fics on ao3, ignore me. Do look into how the characters are feminized by different subsets of the fandom, it's quite obvious in my eyes and I won't be surprised if many trans and enby fans dislike either styles. The anon who was all about... boobs, was very frank. I feel that some of the cis portrayals are as fetishistic as genderbend and it bothers me quite a lot. It's more difficult to filter as well, and it sounds bad to tag top or bottom but it helps me not accidentally experience dysphoria over feminized portrayal of the pov character. This is a tiresome discourse but I will support tagging top/ bottom characters no matter the gender.

Sorry for the wall of text, I tried being as clear as I could. Have a good day!

Thanks for your insight and for your explanations and reflections. They definitely helped me have a broader perspective on the origin of these tags and their functionality depending on the person and their identity. Truthfully, the conversation went into different directions at some point and then was lost, at least in my part. But at least in terms of what you stated here, you were very clear.

[bitletsanddrabbles]

New Years Resolution: Spend Less Time On This Hell Site

I'm not going away all together.

I couldn't if I wanted to.

I'm not kidding when I say this place is an addiction.

There are so many really great people, with great ideas, people I have no access to anywhere else, really. Ao3 comments, I suppose, but they don't really have a way to ask questions or brainstorm ideas. Admittedly, I've gotten rather picky about who I follow back (mostly because we all tend to reblog from the same sources and I really only need a picture on my dashboard five times at once), but there are people I count as mutuals even if all we do is chat in comments or the occasional ask or IM. I've learned an amazing amount from you all, things that have helped me in ways you really wouldn't have thought, including getting through the day at my job. If someone could explain why no one on the planet, regardless of where they come from, seems to understand the purpose of a trash can, my life would pretty much be complete. There are people on this site who I can pretty firmly say are the reason I survived 2020 with anything resembling sanity. Or, you know, possibly the reason I survived it at all.

On the other hand, I used to do more. Part of that is the pandemic. Local businesses have shortened their hours, so no matter if it's a work day or a day off, I can't arrange my time the way I used to. Still, it's been at least two years since I finished a scarf for the charity Mum and I knit for. My house, never 'neat' is getting to the point even I can't stand it. I want to get far enough in Duolingo's Spanish course that I'll be on par with a five year old Hispanic kid by the time I reach 90. I want to learn to cook and sew so when the glue holding the fifty near independent small countries we call 'states' together finally disintegrates I can survive the resulting economic crash (assuming of course my state isn't immediately absorbed into Canada. I'd be okay with that one too). On the off chance we somehow dodge economic ruin* I'd like to at least be able to make my clothes fit properly some day, and lord knows they'll never do that off the rack.

And there again, there are the wonderful, delightful people I follow who I wouldn't trade for the world, but who are very fond of talking about politics and not so fond of using a #politics tag so I can filter those posts out before I've read enough to figure out I shouldn't be reading them. This means that it's not infrequent for me to come home after eight hours of dealing with thousands of people from every geometrically improbably corner of the globe, picking up the trash they leave in the carts of dropped on the ground, the ice cream they leave on shelves to go to waste, etc., hop on tumblr in hopes of relaxing and find posts casting broad aspersions on my country, what passes for my culture, my skin colour, and the sex/sexuality/gender identity of half of my family and countless of my coworkers. The things that are supposed to support my 'acceptable status' are inevitably things I don't agree with and find hypocritical at best, borderline fascist at worst. I get frequent reminders that I have the worst education anywhere, but that my ignorance is inexcusable because I could easily fix it if I just shelled out the money to get a PhD in everything, or at least moved into a library and read the entire catalog. That the reason I'm continually hacking through language barriers at work is because I've not bothered using Duolingo to gain fluency in every language on earth, including Chamorro and Armenian. And the reason my country, and in fact the whole world, is still having problems is because people like me just don't care enough to figure out how to solve anything.

In short, I spend entirely too much time thinking of the occasion when my father told me that we're hurting people just by living in the country we live in and being the colour we are, and that all we can do is pray the people we're hurting can forgive us. Funny thing, I'm just as convinced now as I was then that if my existence is a problem the contents of my medicine cabinet will solve things a lot better than praying my unseen victims will forgive me for being born. Maybe even more so.

And I've promised Mum I'd not leave her to take care of my cat if I can help it.

So, in 2022, I am giving myself an hour a day, maximum, to be on this hell site. Preferably less. I will spend the rest of the time reading the million books I've gotten for Christmastide, cooking, knitting, cleaning, writing, researching, petting my cat, and anything else I can come up with that is...well. Not this.

Hopefully my mental health will improve, but the way things are going, we'll get a fourth Covid variant and the anti-maskers will storm the state capitol and force the governor to lift all regulations, so we won't even be allowed to hand out masks at the door anymore, forget being cross when people refuse to wear them because mandate? What mandate?

Still, all I can do is try, right?

* given that when one of our local billionaires proposed an income tax for the top 5%  (himself and, like, three other people) the voters turned it down, I've not much hope there.

[olderthannetfic]

LJ is a bit before my time, I was a kid during its heyday, but I still want to help with archiving journals/kinkmemes. Would it be possible to get a bare-bones rundown on journal structures so I don't accidentally miss or skip something?

--

Sure!

There are multiple ways to archive things. It depends on the nature of the content and what you want to do with your preserved copy.

The basic structure of a journal site (LJ, DW, etc.) is blog accounts with posts over time. You can view the blog itself with the most recent posts at the top, or you can look at it in calendar view. Journals also have communities, which also look like a single blog, but all (or many) community members can post to it.

The key difference is that LJ has comments. The comments are threaded, and threads can go hundreds of comments deep sometimes.

The reason this matters is that kinkmemes and serious meta conversation tend to happen in those comments and the wayback machine and such don't always capture them well. They often display collapsed, or only the first page of comments displays by default, and that's the only URL that gets saved.

A lot of fic is in comments, not post bodies.

For a kink meme specifically, a lot of people will choose to take the URL of each comment thread and put it into the wayback machine. They will then take those wayback links and record them somewhere.

Each thread is a prompt, but not all prompts get answered, so one might make an AO3 collection of external bookmarks of just the fills.

Many kinkmemes had a delicious account that organized everything (RIP!), but sometimes, that account moved to pinboard and is still visible. In that case, one could grab those links more conveniently and use those tags to fill out AO3 external works.

--

LJ also offers privacy filters. Many communities are full of locked posts, which operate like locked AO3 works: anyone in the com can see the post; nobody else can. Personal journals also have multiple tiers of filter possible where only set of friends X or list of betas Y can see a post.

I would not generally bother archiving other people's personal journals unless you have some specific personal interest, but I would add your favorite fics from LJ to the wayback machine, and those might exist as posts on personal journals or as posts on communities.

--

The biggest problem is not just saving data but saving it in a way that's useful. So, for example, a links collection of "all the fic ever posted to X" with annotations is super useful. Lists of what once existed with links to AO3 or DW copies where they exist are useful. Getting fans to put their old fic on AO3 is useful. A fanlore article on a famous piece of meta with an explanation of why it mattered and the kinds of things people said about it is useful.

A giant download of coms you never read and don't find interesting that sits on your hard drive is not so useful.

--

My suggestion is to find a fandom or topic you care about and to focus on saving/documenting relevant things from that.

[lightsinthedistancee]

Violation: Poe Dameron x Reader

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: 1k

Summary: “He was drowning and flailing in the whirlpool of his memories. Barely staying above and being forced to surrender to something that he had once controlled.”

Reader comforts Poe through trauma developed during his time within the First Order.

Warnings: mentions of torture

A/N: Hey guys! I know this is super similar to the works I’ve been posting lately (ptsd/trauma and stuff) but I actually wrote this a while ago and have been trying to stop being a lazy bum and finally get all my stuff transferred over from AO3 (which I told myself I’d do a month ago and still haven’t oops).

It was cold. Too cold. Air was drafting in through the open window, running across her skin, caressing her arms in a chill that she yearned to shake. She reached for Poe on the other side of the bed, only finding empty, cold sheets.

“Poe?” she murmured groggily, opening her eyes. He was nowhere to be found, the door ajar, suggesting that he’d left.

She frowned, for she knew he only got up in the middle of the night when he was distracted, and that distractedness was generally the result of a devastating, all-encompassing emotion that he was experiencing.

She had theories of what it was about…well, only one.

Kylo Ren.

She knew that the First Order Commander had done something to Poe, something terrible, something that broke something in him. She’d spent countless nights up, pleading with Poe, begging him to trust her, to confide in her with his pain. Each time had ended in failure, leaving her only with a self-loathing for not being someone that he could trust.

She rolled out of bed, goosebumps dotting her arms as she wrapped a fleece blanket around her shoulders. The apartment was dead silent as she paced down the stairs, the only exception being the sound of the perpetual Coruscanti traffic filtering through the walls. City lights harshly illuminated the rooms, giving them a painfully bright shine. His presence was found in neither the kitchen or the living area, but she spotted him on the balcony, his form a black silhouette against the lights.

He clutched a warm mug of tea between his hands, and the moment she stepped out, she shivered at the breeze. “Poe?” she said quietly. He looked up at her, his eyes sad and empty, seeming to travel for miles into his skull.

She sat beside him, wrapping her blanket around his shoulders too. One of her hands found its way into his curls, running her fingers through them comfortingly.

“Why’re you up?”

“Had a dream,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

“About?”

“You know,” he simply answered. And she did. It was always the same thing nearly every time.

He felt her presence radiating from her center, washing over him, wrapping him in warmth and familiarity.

“Can you tell me what happened?” she questioned tentatively, bracing herself for rejection like all the other times.

He wanted to tell her…he’d never wanted to tell anyone anything more than he wanted to tell her what had happened. But his pride and shame blocked him. It hadn’t been excruciating pain or torture that had broken him. It’d been something else, something seemingly far less sinister.

His thoughts were taunting him, telling him that he was supposed to be stronger than this. That what had happened should have barely fazed him. All of it made him feel overwhelmingly weak, like he was drowning and flailing in the whirlpool of his memories. Barely staying above and being forced to surrender to something that he had once controlled.

And for a reason he didn’t know, he didn’t want her seeing him like this.

“Please….” She was practically begging him, changing positions to sit on her knees, looking at him with acute worry, one stronger than he’d ever seen before. She was scared for him, about to burst into tears.

And that look broke something else inside him. He hated seeing her scared or in pain. It’d always made something in him contort in discomfort, in fear, in uncertainty, for she was the strongest person he knew. And he especially hated it when he knew that he was the very cause of it.

He wanted to embrace her, hug her and love her till her features melted into one of comfort. He wanted to murmur to her that she shouldn’t be worried about him because he wasn’t worth it. But with her sad eyes reflecting the city lights, he had only one option.

“He used a mind probe,” he simply said, taking a deep breath, averting his gaze once more. “He saw everything, Lexi. Every memory I’ve ever had, every experience, every emotion.”

Poe began to shake, his hands trembling to the point that she took the cup of tea away from him.

“He saw every private, intimate, secret thought I’ve had in my life. Every thought I’ve had regarding my mother, my father, my friends, myself, you…”

His eyelids fluttered in quick succession, holding back tears, desperately trying to keep his voice from cracking. She felt her fingers interlace with his, holding him steady in his moment of vulnerability.

“Every aspiration I’ve ever had, every desire, every regret. It was like he reached into my head without permission, and took everything out, examined it, scrutinized it, before shoving it all back in.

“And…and I don’t even know why it bothers me. It shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be this weak.” His voice grew in urgency. His pent-up emotions spiraled out. “I mean…how many others has he done this to? I doubt he even remembers any of the stuff he saw, so…so why does it makes me feel so…violated?”

Poe often imagined people’s minds as walls filled with hundreds, thousands, millions of memories. It felt as if Ren had barged into his and then examined and ripped the memories off one at a time, throwing them to the ground like filth. 

The pilot stared at the ground, his breath coming quicker as he forced it to slow. Before he knew it, she was wrapping her arms around him, cradling his neck beneath her chin. And then he was sobbing, his whole body trembling.

She held him tighter as he shook, painful noises escaping his throat, murmuring things to him. He was physically releasing every anxiety and fear he’d had since his time on the Finalizer.

“You’re okay, baby,” she whispered. “I’m right here.”

He clung to her, breathing her in, feeling her. In his vulnerable state of mind, an overwhelming sense of gratefulness found him.

There were things that were always going to be eternal. War, violence, pain. Patience, honor, and affection. Space. Life. The stars.

And her love. She’d always been there; she always was. And he relished the thought that she would be far into the future. “I love you so much,” he whispered.

...::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

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“Violation” originally posted on AO3 on 11/23/20.