#like i did turn on comment moderation for that fic (for very specific reasons) but that was months after originally publishing it

[theorderofthetriad]

very strange that my fanfic with the least kudos and the second least amount of bookmarks and zero comments has the second most amount of subscriptions of any of my fics.

#it literally has more subscriptions than kudos #idk what's going on with that #like i did turn on comment moderation for that fic (for very specific reasons) but that was months after originally publishing it #and it's got zero comments #(at least on ao3 it does. on ff.net it has like 20 comments but most of them are for the first two chapters i published over 6 years ago) #also i have currently zero intention to update that fic #like the planned narrative DOES still compel me but it's a [REDACTED]xNaruto crossover #and i don't want to touch [REDACTED] fandom with even a thirty foot pole #hence i have comment moderation on #and disclaimer tags. and a disclaimer author's note. to separate Myself from Them as much as possible #santagno

[decepti-thots]

I had no idea that anything was actually happening with otw but thank you I see this as a sign to start downloading all my fav fics lol

On reflection, I suppose I did make that comment offhandedly without thinking that many people have no idea what I'm talking about- it concerns stuff I suppose falls into that "if you're in circles that know it seems obvious, if not you have no idea it exists" valley.

I should probably clarify that that post wasn't me talking about some imminent risk of AO3 as a platform imploding or disappearing or anything, and nobody needs to start panicking in that regard. I was referring to the current boiling over of a lot of very long term (like, back to when it was founded) institutional/structural/operational issues within the OTW as an org that have been coming out over the past week or so. So me looking at being less solely reliant on AO3 was more a matter of longterm "seems a good idea not to be on just this one platform having these issues" planning and not anything anyone needs to be worried about like, right now.

...and because I know folks not as familiar with this same longterm stuff WILL ask, I'll put a brief summary below the cut for if any of you are curious. However, please be aware, this discussion will by necessity include reference to an incident last year in which OTW volunteers were sent CSEM/CSAM materials as part of a horrendous targeted campaign; while nothing graphic regarding CSA itself is discussed, I mention it here for post filtering and general warning purposes.

So these past couple of months there has been a sustained fan organizing action going on under the name #endOTWracism, which is a specific, targeted attempt at pushing for the OTW to make good on promises they made in 2020 to look at improving their response to racism on their platform. There's an FAQ covering the scope of the action (which ended yesterday, and ran through May) here.

I've been following this with very great interest and it's brought a lot of really good focused discussion out in fan communities, bringing back up a lot of talking points which have historically been shouted down re: the OTW and its poor (one might say "nearly entirely negligent") response to racism in fandom over the span of its existence, and the long standing attempts to get them to address this.

Anyway, one of the posts I especially was recommended that looked at it from the perspective of someone with experience in volunteering and organizing was this post, which takes a look specifically at the issues of how the OTW is structured as an org in a practical, real-world sense. I think it's a great post that brings a really good, grounded approach to the whole issue, looking not just at the big ideas but at how to really run a functioning organisation in a way that is able to be e.g. antiracist. A post like that of course brought in a lot of discussion of... how the OTW is structured and functions day-to-day! That being the topic at hand, and folks wanting to bring their own experiences to the table.

Which, both on that post itself and elsewhere, has uh. Brought some stuff to light that makes even the most hardcore OTW skeptic look like maybe they were overly optimistic. To be quite honest

Some highlights:

Last year, there was a horrendous attack in which OTW volunteers were directly emailed and bombarded with high volumes of CSEM. This was of course horrifically traumatising and scary, and even at the time it was noted that the OTW's response to this was wildly negligent in terms of taking action to safeguard and help their volunteers. Well, it turns out that a) this was an escalation of preexisting issues that the OTW knew about and failed to reasonably address, b) they took a HIDEOUSLY unethical approach to how CSEM distribution attempts were moderated on the platform and just dumped it on one unsupported volunteer who was left horribly burned out by the experience. This post has a good summary and roundup. The fallout from this entire debacle is way too much for me to summarize in full but suffice to say: folks are thinking maybe people should consider not continuing to volunteer for an org that is this unethical and exploitative towards its workforce in a way that directly puts that at serious risk! This is a standpoint I would agree with given there's seemingly also been internal retaliation against the person speaking out! This is terrible! I feel so bad for all these poor volunteers! I have been reading about and fuming regards this situation for two days now and it truly is awful.

There has recently been an instance in which Chinese OTW volunteers got hung out to dry regards their specific work with OTW on Weibo, where it was made clear to them that the org really wasn't interested in any of the work they were doing to engage with and support specifically Chinese fandom. Basically, "we don't really think this is worth doing, and noone involved in the board etc even speaks Chinese, so whatever". This follows an observed and longstanding pattern of higher ups at the OTW undervaluing... basically anyone who isn't part of Western anglophone fandom.

In general, just a LOT of current and past OTW volunteers talking on various platforms about the sheer dysfunction that means things at OTW are deeply incapable of getting basic shit done at best and straight up chew well meaning volunteers up and spit them out at worst. This is basically the nth round of this exact cycle since the OTW began, but in conjunction with the above, it seems to be getting a lot more attention than such things usually do.

This is only some of the stuff that's going on right now but basically, every single issue of internal bullshit the OTW has been accruing as an org for the past ~15 years seems to be blowing up at once, and it's really the first time I've considered that this time it might, in the long run, have a serious impact on the viability of the org in the future. (As things stand: it absolutely should do, because any org that so comprehensively fails the human beings working for it in such an immediate, real life sense needs to make huge immediate changes or fuck right off tbh.)

So that's a bad summary of... SOME of the stuff going on right now. It's a lot. Needless to say.

I wanted to make this post for a couple reasons. One: many folks came into fandom well after the AO3 was just this... site that was there, used by default, and which just sort of operates and you don't think about how. Which is understandable. A person coming into fandom in a post-AO3 world will see the site the same way one sees Twitter or Tumblr or Wattpad; a thing too big and too... default to really concern yourself with the details of how it came to be so big, and used by default. I, personally, have been in online spaces since I was very young, and AO3 launched when I was around sixteen, many years into my experiences with the fandom spaces it came out of. I was around at the time that the OTW and AO3 were proposed, developed and began to expand in scope. I was in circles where folks were talking about this stuff in a very direct way, basically. So I think I have a decent enough sense of context to help lift that veil a little for folks who have no such advantage, and also to help highlight that these are issues years and years in the making, not sudden revelations as they sometimes seem.

Two, because I expect to see many, many folks trying to pass this off as "discourse" or "wank" or "purity culture" in the coming weeks as the fallout continues, and I want dig my ankles in and say if you try that shit on with me I will laugh you off my blog. I think this post makes my opinion fairly clear on where I draw the line between "dumb fandom wank" and "this is not dumb fandom wank, this is serious shit"; it is well before this stuff. So.

tl;dr: I don't know what the OTW will look like in a year or two or five, and this shit has reminded me I shouldn't bank on pretending I do. So, I'm mirroring stuff elsewhere, not because I think the org will collapse, but because maybe the centralization of fandom is overall bad, actually. I encourage folks to consider their own feelings on the topic, since this is as good a reason as any to consider for yourself how you feel about this stuff.

[galahadwilder]

Future Perfect

This is my @mlsecretsanta fic for @crispypata! Crispy asked for DJWifi and Bunnyx, so I delivered.

*

It’s been a long week, and Alya is grateful for some alone time. While it’s always nice to have the others around, there’s an unstated pleasure in being the only one of her friends awake this early. Nino and Marinette are always asleep until very shortly before class, and Adrien may be awake, but his driver won’t be here for at least another twenty minutes. That’s a precious twenty minutes away from her sisters, away from anybody else. A precious twenty minutes of quiet.

Normally she’d spend this time updating the Ladyblog, moderating comments, writing posts, but after last night’s battle she just… she needs some time. Time to herself.

She’s shaking, just a little. She’s not even touching her phone. For the first time in a while, she’s actually reading a physical comic book—specifically, The Mighty Majestia Issue #48. Her first comic. A gift from her father when she was a little girl. It used to make her feel better when things were going bad. She needs that, a little bit, today. The feel of the paper under her fingertips.

It wasn’t her first near-death experience—she’s had a lot of those since Hawkmoth appeared in Paris. But Ladybug almost hadn’t made it last night. Alya had gone running after the Akuma, like usual, and…

A body flops down next to her on the bench. The warmth and weight of it—she glances to the side, and meets the familiar warm eyes of Nino.

“You okay?” he asks, laying his hand on top of the comic. “You haven’t read this since before we met.”

Alya nods. “Last night was bad,” she says.

Nino nods. “Yeah,” he responds. “Yeah it was.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Alya is rarely the most perceptive person—more passionate than perceptive, honestly, though not for lack of trying (she tries really hard, it’s just… hard to tell what other people aren’t saying sometimes)—but she cares, and Nino is at school forty minutes before he’s usually awake and he seems unusually tense. She closes her comic. “Babe?”

Nino sighs, looking down as he picks at a hangnail on his thumb. “I can’t keep watching you die, Als.”

Alya’s heart judders. “You’re not okay, then.”

He shakes his head. “I mean Rena Rouge is one thing. I know you can protect yourself, and Ladybug is right there if things go bad. But every time I see you chase after a giant baby with no protection but that sexy plaid shirt...”

“I have a responsibility, Nino!” she says.

“I know,” Nino says quietly. “I can’t really ask you to stop, either.”

Alya swallows. “Are you... breaking up with me?”

Nino looks at her for a moment, then snorts. “Hell no.” He reaches up to Alya’s cheek, brushing her hair away from her ear. “You ain’t getting away from me that easy, girl.”

Alya relaxes, leaning into his palm. “Attaboy,” she says.

Nino grimaces. “I might… need a day or two to process, though.” He swallows. “I’m sorry.”

Alya’s heart falls. “You’re sure.” It’s not a question—Nino doesn’t make decisions half-cocked the way she does. He thinks, and considers, and once his choice is made, he sticks to it. That surety—that stability—is one of the reasons she loves him. Even if right now it’s hurting her.

“I’m sure,” he says. “Just… I need a few days after. You know.” He hangs his head. “Seeing you die again.”

Oh, God, Alya wants to slap him. And maybe a year ago she would have. But today-Alya is not last-year-Alya, and, instead, she just drops her head a little. “It was a bad one, wasn’t it,” she says.

*

Alya trudges out of class, dragging her feet. It’s been a difficult day, to say the least, and Marinette—bless her—may be trying to help, but there’s not all that much to do.

“We could go to my place and stuff ourselves with Beignets,” Marinette offers, with her characteristic hyperenergetic movement. “I know you love the Majestia movie?”

Alya shakes her head. “I relax a bit better when I move,” she says. She looks at the basketball hoops. “Can you stick around for…” She catches a hint of green out of the corner of her eye—a familiar shade, one that she’s seen quite a lot. She blinks. “For a few…” She turns her head, and there—staring down at her from the roof of the school—is Carapace. “Uh.”

Marinette follows her gaze. “What are you—”

Carapace’s head jerks as he seems to realize that he’s been spotted, and he leaps down out of sight.

“What is he doing?” Alya murmurs.

Marinette’s iron fingers wrap around her bicep. “Alya,” she hisses, “that’s not Carapace.”

“What do you mean?” Alya says, turning her head, just in time to catch a glimpse of Nino—as Nino, not as Carapace—walking out of the locker room on the opposite side of the school from where Carapace disappeared. It’s too soon, too fast—there’s no way he could’ve come around the school that quickly.

“Excuse me,” she says, bolting towards her boyfriend. She grabs his arm and yanks him away from Adrien.

“Babe... what?” he says, looking at her like she just grew a second head.

“I just saw Carapace on the roof,” she hisses.

His eyes widen behind his glasses.

*

They didn’t really discuss it, at least not verbally, but they both pretty easily came to the decision that whoever this is, stealing their identities is not something this person gets to get away with. They don’t even talk it through before they’ve agreed to chase this imposter down.

“You’re sure he went this way?” Nino asks as they charge off down the street toward where Alya had last seen the false Carapace.

“Yes, I’m—!” Alya starts to snap, before she catches herself and—stopping her headlong charge by pressing a palm into a nearby wall—breathes in. “Sorry, sorry.” She glances at him. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

“God, I wish I had my shield,” Nino mutters. He grabs her hand and meets her eyes with his characteristic Nino Soft Look. “If this ends up being a bad one, please take cover?”

Alya grimaces. “The Akuma is using your face, Babe,” she says.

“Please.” His voice is calm and soft.

Alya thinks about how distraught he was this morning, how little she wants to do that to him again. “I’ll—I’ll try.”

Nino smiles. “That’s really all I can ask, isn’t it.”

Alya smiles, tugging him along. “You knew I was crazy when I asked you out,” she says, building carefully building back up to a run.

Nino snorts, vaulting over a street barrier. “That I did.”

*

It takes barely a minute before they reach the spot where the false Carapace must’ve gone, leaving them looking down wide avenues packed with people—none of whom are wearing a green hood.

“We lost him,” Nino says, puffing.

“I mean,” Alya gasps, “duh.” She leans onto her knees. “He’s got—powers, and we—we have, what—about eight—months of parkour training?”

A familiar whizz-crack comes from above, as a spotted red figure drops down in front of them. “Alya!” Ladybug says, glancing confusedly at Nino. “Did you see where Carapace went?”

“Nope,” Alya says. She leans in toward Ladybug, carefully eyeing the other people who are watching the exchange. “Definitely an Akuma, then?” she whispers, quietly enough that nobody else is alarmed.

“Maybe?” Ladybug whispers back. “Or a Sentimonster, or. Well. One other thing.”

Alya’s eyebrows narrow. “What other thing?”

Ladybug shakes her head. “Probably not important,” she says. She straightens and backs away, whipping her yo-yo in rapid circles. “Everyone stay calm and quietly evacuate the area,” she says in a clear, authoritative voice. “Calmly, please! Everything is under control.”

There’s a growing undercurrent of panic in the crowd at Ladybug’s words, but there’s a force behind her last sentence, a reassurance, that passes calm through the crowd like a ripple. Much to Alya’s surprise, there’s no stampede, no rush to flee. Everyone actually listens, beginning to carefully file away, emptying out the street.

“Any chance we could get our Miraculi?” Nino asks. “I don’t like this.”

Ladybug glances over her shoulder at him. “Not until Chat gets here,” she says. “I can’t just leave the Akuma without anyone containing it.”

A black blur drops out of the sky, rolling and springing to his feet next to Ladybug. “Good thing I’m here, then!” Chat says, leaning his elbow onto her shoulder.

Ladybug rolls her eyes. “Always so dramatic,” she says, turning to her partner. “Can you hold down the fort for a few while I grab backup?”

Chat eyes Alya and Nino. “So long as the Ladyblogger doesn’t get herself killed, yes.”

*

There’s still been no sighting of the fake Carapace by the time Ladybug returns carrying the bracelet and the necklace. Chat has been running across the rooftops, spying into alleyways, but hasn’t seen scale nor shell of him.

“Alya Césaire and Nino Lahiffe,” Ladybug intones, holding the two Miraculi aloft. “I’m trusting you with the Miraculous of the Fox and Turtle.” She purses her lip. “I’m going to ask you to switch, though. I don’t want us mixing up our Carapi.”

Alya grimaces, but Nino just nods. “Makes sense,” he says, taking the necklace and draping it around his neck. It sparks, and a tiny fox spirals out from it. “Trixx, Let’s Pounce!” Nino calls.

He flashes orange, sparks running across his whole body, and suddenly Nino is gone, replaced by an orange-clad superhero. He still has Carapace’s hood, peaked down over his forehead, with ears poking through holes in the top. Leggings are tucked into combat boots, black gloves cuffed over white-and-orange sleeves. He looks down at his arms, twisting his hands to look at both sides. “Hmm,” he says. “Pretty cool.”

“What should we call you?” Ladybug says.

Nino meets Alya’s eyes. “What about… Reynard?” he says.

“Reynard it is,” Ladybug says. She turns to Alya, handing her the jade bracelet. “You ready?”

“Always,” Alya says, sliding the bracelet onto her wrist. “Wayzz, Shell On!”

She feels her hair lift into a high ponytail as her glasses meld to her face into a domino mask. Unlike the Rena Rouge transformation, which slims her down, she feels herself bulking up. Armor plates slam into place around her chest, shoulders, and thighs. Everything feels heavier, but also stronger, more stable.

Reynard whistles. “Damn, babe,” he says. “Green looks good on you.”

Tortue Verte grins. “You expected anything else?” she ask. She absently lifts the shield. “Damn, this thing is heavy,” she says, looking at Reynard. “How do you even lift it?”

“Practice,” Reynard says, twirling the flute. “This is really light!”

“It’s basically bamboo,” Tortue replies, slinging the shield onto her back. “You ready?”

Reynard sheathes the flute on his own back. “Let’s take this guy down.”

*

Tortue Verte’s super jump is a lot like Rena Rouge’s—though, given the balance between her being slightly stronger with the Turtle and also being heavier, it’s a little weird to balance. She gets more distance but less height with each jump, and since her brain keeps expecting Rena’s jump arc, she keeps misjudging where she’s landing.

She lands hard on the side of her foot, twisting her ankle and stumbling shoulder-first into a chimney with a yelp. Her ankle is struck by stabbing pain, and she immediately collapses onto her side. She lies there on the roof, huffing, feeling desperate and foolish. This is not what she was hoping for.

She carefully drags herself up the chimney into a sitting position, carefully pulling the shield from her back and dialing Reynard.

“Hey babe,” he says, his orange-hooded face filling the screen. “You good?”

She shakes her head. “Landed bad,” she says. “I think I twisted my ankle.”

Reynard’s eyes widen behind his goggles. “Where are you?” he says. “I’ll be there in a—”

“Babe!” she interrupts. “Akuma. I’ll be fine up here.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods. “I’m sure,” she says. “Give that fake hell.” She hangs up, then collapses backward against the chimney with a gasp.

“Sorry I didn’t catch you,” a voice—a familiar one, but one she can’t quite place—says from behind her. “I think you’d have broken a few of my bones.”

She whips her head around to see a red-haired woman dressed in blue and white, bunny ears sprouting from her head, leaning on an umbrella as if it were a cane. Tortue tries to leap to her feet, shield up, but pain spikes through her ankle the second her foot meets shingle. “Augh!”

The woman immediately drops the umbrella, and her arms are around Tortue’s body. “Careful,” she says. “Don’t want to put too much weight on that.”

“Don’t touch me,” Tortue growls.

The woman laughs. “Relax, Foxy. I’m not an Akuma.”

Tortue blinks. Foxy? She’s wearing the Turtle, not the Fox, which means… “You—you know who I am.”

The woman smirks and throws up a peace sign. “The name’s Bunnyx,” she says. “Wielder of the Miraculous of Time, from ten years in the future.”

“Prove it,” Tortue says. “What’s Ladybug’s real name?”

Bunnyx snorts. “You’re not getting it that easily… Alya,” she says. “Also, Nino’s sort of downplaying how worried about you he is. You really should start being more careful before you give him a heart attack.”

Tortue stares at Bunnyx, then blinks. “...Okay, you’re for real,” she says. “What are you doing here? Are you warning us about something?”

Bunnyx shakes her head. “I brought Carapace and Rena back from my time for one reason,” she says. “Future Hawkmoth has discovered Ladybug’s identity, which has put her daughter in danger.”

“Daughter?” Tortue says.

Bunnyx continues as if she hasn’t heard. “Ladybug asked me to bring her back in time to protect her from Future Hawkmoth, but I needed backup just in case she followed us. You and your boyfriend were the obvious choice.”

“Where is she?” Tortue says, trying to work her way to her feet. She hisses as pain lances through her ankle again.

“Jeez, stay down, Tortue!” Bunnyx says, carefully easing her back into a sitting position. “You need to be careful. We need you for this one.”

“Don’t bother,” says a voice that sounds like Tortue’s own as an older, taller Rena Rouge lands in a crouch. “I had absolutely no self-preservation at that age.”

Carapace lands next to her, softer, gentler. “You nearly killed me like eight times,” he says, cradling a baby in his arms. He looks down at Tortue. “Hey, babe.”

Rena rolls her eyes, gently punching Carapace’s shoulder. “Don’t flirt with young me, you butt,” she says.

Tortue stares at the baby, wide-eyed. “Is that…” she murmurs.

Rena nods. “Our god-daughter,” she says.

Carapace smiles. “Do you want to hold her?”

*

“She’s… mine?” Ladybug says, gazing down into her daughter’s emerald-green eyes.

The baby laughs, reaching up toward her mother’s face and pressing her chubby palm into Ladybug’s cheek.

“Who’s the father?” Chat says to Bunnyx, hope shining in his eyes. (Tortue admits to herself that she’s just as interested in finding out.)

Bunnyx smirks. “Oh, Kitty Noir, you know I can’t tell you.”

Chat looks crestfallen. “Not even a hint?”

“She’s so small,” Ladybug whispers, pointing a finger at her daughter’s face. The baby laughs again, gripping her mother’s finger in between her hands.

“You said she’s my—our god-daughter?” Tortue says.

Rena laughs. “My boyfriend has spent more time pampering this little terror than he has me lately,” she says. She turns and pokes Reynard in the chest. “You’ve got some growing to do, babe.”

Carapace rolls his eyes. “Please don’t flirt with the babies, babe,” he says with a smirk.

The laughter that follows seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, and Tortue looks around, unsettled.

“...Wasn’t that funny,” Carapace mutters.

Bunnyx walks toward the edge of the roof, looking down. “Missing the point again, Shelly?” she says, pointing down. “It’s starting.”

“What is?” Chat says.

“ATTENTION PARIS!” a booming, feminine voice echoes deeply through the sky as if it’s rebounding off the very atmosphere, followed by a sudden eruption of Wagnerian opera. “YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED TO JOIN THE RANKS OF ODIN’S MIGHTY WARRIORS IN VALHALLA!”

“Ah,” Chat says, nodding. “Akuma time.”

“Bad one,” Bunnyx agrees, nodding. “We picked today for a reason. Two illusionists needed at minimum.”

Tortue gingerly attempts to stand, only for the pain in her ankle to spike like a jagged piece of bone. “Ah!” she yelps, collapsing backward.

Immediately, two sets of hands are holding her up—Reynard’s and Carapace’s. “You okay?” Reynard says, his eyes soft and concerned.

Carapace swallows. “I’m sorry, babe, but I—” He glances at Rena. “We are going to need you to stay out of this fight. You’re injured.”

“I can help!” Tortue protests.

Carapace shakes his head. “I know how much it means to you to be out there with us, but A—um, sweetie, I need you alive, okay?” He smiles, glancing back at Ladybug. “Besides, um. Someone needs to keep the baby safe.”

Reynard raises an eyebrow. “You are a braver man than I,” he says.

Rena laughs. “Oh, it’s just ‘cause she’s a baby,” she says. “He knows I’d rip his throat out if he tried that.”

“You are also much less suicidally reckless than she is,” Carapace shoots back.

Rena shrugs. “Fair point.”

Ladybug approaches, carefully laying the baby into Tortue’s arms with a look of regret. “Stay safe, okay?” she says. She looks down and presses a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “And keep her safe.”

Tortue swallows, overwhelmed by the—the everything. The trust Ladybug is showing her, the softness of the moment, the sadness in the child’s eyes as her mother goes back off to battle… it’s too much.

“I’ll do my best,” she croaks, trying not to tear up.

*

Carapace had carried her away from the battle. Vilekyrie controlled the sky, making it difficult to keep the baby out of her reach, but he’d found her a little out-of-the-way cubbyhole that nobody would come looking in during the attack. Or, well. Not a cubbyhole, really. More of a luxury suite at the Hotel Gran Paris.

“How did you know nobody would be here?” Tortue had asked him.

He’d only smiled in reply. “Spoilers,” he’d said. “Love you forever, but I gotta get back there.”

“Good luck!”

Now, about forty minutes into the battle, she can hear the clash of swords, the clanking of armor, the screaming of horses as they flew past her shaded window. She’d looked outside earlier, caught a glimpse of the copies of Vilekyrie flashing across the sky—copies of her that kept growing by the moment—and the marching of ghostly Viking soldiers on the ground: the Einherjar she’d selected from Paris’ citizens, transformed into undying warrior spirits. It doesn’t seem to be going well, but then, she doesn’t really have the best vantage point.

The baby is fussy, fussier than she was when Ladybug was around—Tortue can only guess that it’s because she wants her mother. The room has been stocked with formula and fresh diapers, and, thanks to her experience with the twins, Tortue has plenty of experience with taking care of a baby, but the girl just won’t settle down.

There’s a quiet footfall on the balcony—not a Vilekyrie, and the Einherjar can’t seem to climb. Tortue turns around to see the balcony door creek open, followed by a pair of large orange ears. “Hey. Mini-me,” Rena says. “You hanging in there?”

Tortue smiles, rocking the baby gently in her arms. “You didn’t tell me her name,” she says. “Feel weird just calling her ‘baby’.”

Rena ducks around the door, shutting it behind her, then bends down, cooing over the child’s delighted face. “HellooOOOooo!” She tickles the baby’s nose with her finger, and the girl laughs.

Rena looks back up at Tortue with a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” she says. “No names. Spoilers.”

Tortue rolls her eyes. “Am I always this aggravating?”

Rena gently wraps her arms underneath the baby’s back, lifting her from Tortue’s arms. “Pretty much!” She turns back to the baby and blows a raspberry.

“What’s up?” Tortue says. “Why aren’t you with the others?” As if to punctuate her point, an explosion sounds in the distance, and Tortue raises an eyebrow.

“Needed to talk to you,” Rena says, sitting down on the plush velvet bedspread across from her. “Also, I told them you were planning on running into the combat zone, so…”

“I was not!” Tortue yelps, leaping from her desk chair. The baby immediately squeals in distress.

Rena grins. “I know,” she says, gently tickling the child’s nose. “But they believed me when I said it, and by the time they figure it out…”

Tortue sighs. Gods, her older self is annoying. “What do you want, Alya?”

The animation in Rena’s face slackens, and she looks down at her own stomach. “I… want to show you something.” Keeping one hand under the baby, she reaches behind her and unslings the flute, opening the space within. “Take a look.”

Tortue reaches inside the extradimensional storage space inside Rena’s weapon, confused—and then her fingers close around something small, round, and metal, and she understands. “You’re going to propose,” she says, fishing the ring out of the flute. She stares at it, entranced.

“Yep,” Rena agrees with a nod, gently bouncing the baby. “Bought the ring last week.”

Tortue doesn’t even know what to say in this situation. Is it… weird to congratulate herself? Some situations, there aren’t just good responses for.

Rena sees her face and laughs. “Don’t look so shocked, Mini-me,” she says. She carefully rocks Ladybug’s baby, staring into her green eyes. “I mean, you always knew we were gonna do this eventually.”

“Yeah, but… kinda young?” Tortue says, handing the ring back to Rena.

“Ladybug’s younger.” Rena absently places the ring back inside her flute, still bouncing the baby in her other arm. “About a year younger than you, actually.”

Tortue blinks. She’s—well, she figured out a while back that Ladybug wasn’t actually 5,000 years old, but she’d always assumed she was, maybe, Anansi’s age? The thought that Ladybug is younger than she is... “Yikes.”

“Yikes is right,” Rena says. “And she has anxiety. So every time you go running face-first into danger like you’re never gonna die…”

“Is this a lecture?” Tortue says.

“Little bit,” Rena responds.

Oh, great. The last thing she needs right now is a lecture from herself of all people.

Rena rolls her eyes. “Listen, Kit, sometimes—sometimes Ladybug isn’t gonna be there. She doesn’t always show up, you know.”

Tortue narrows her eyebrows. “Yes she does?” That’s, like, the big consistency. Aside from that one time where the Akuma and the Sentimonster were in different cities, Ladybug has shown up for every single Akuma battle.

Rena shakes her head. “She has a life, Alya. And, well, sometimes she needs Chat to cover for her.” She looks toward the curtained window, toward the sounds of the battle still filtering in from outside. “And sometimes, Chat and Viperion get taken out early, and the only person who can use the Ladybug is you.”

A chill runs down Tortue’s entire body. The responsibility of using the Ladybug Miraculous—it’s terrifying. It hadn’t even occurred to her that it might pass down to her, that—oh, no. This is… this is what Ladybug feels all the time, isn’t it?

“Listen, however you feel about Nino now?” Rena says. “It’s nothing compared to what it’s going to be. He and I, we’d do anything for each other.” She breathes in, stroking the baby’s head. “Which means that, well, you and I need to stay alive.”

“The Miraculous Cure—”

Rena shakes her head. “It’s good, but it’s not… 100% reliable. Sometimes, Ladybug can’t be there.”

Tortue’s mouth opens, closes. Opens again. “Oh.”

Rena stands and places a hand on her younger self’s shoulder. “Alya, someday, you’re gonna get hurt. You’re gonna get hurt in a way that Ladybug can’t fix, and you’re going to wonder if you even deserve this Miraculous. If you even deserve Nino.” She looks down at the baby with naked fondness in her eyes. “I’m telling you now—you deserve way more than you realize. But if you want to make it to see our wedding...” She trails off.

Tortue waits for her to finish, but Rena doesn’t say anything else. The implications in Rena’s words are disconcerting, and Tortue asks the question that’s burning inside her chest. “Am I going to die?”

“Of course you are,” Rena replies. “You’re going to die a lot. But some of them are going to be harder to come back from, and Alya.” Rena’s eyes bore into hers. “You need to come back. Okay?”

“Okay,” Tortue whispers.

“Miraculous LADYBUG!” Ladybug calls from outside, and pink insects swarm across the room. There’s a brief moment of pain as Tortue’s ankle snaps back into place, immediately replaced by cool relief as the pressure vanishes.

Rena puts a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell Reynard, okay?” she says. “About the ring.”

Tortue mimes zipping her lip.

Rena nods. “Thanks,” she says. “Oh, and one more thing—you’re also gonna need to be more careful if you want to get into a good journalism school. Nobody wants to be the professor that killed the Ladyblogger.”

Tortue blinks. She… hadn’t even thought of that. “That makes sense, I think?” she says.

The balcony door creaks open and Carapace peeks through. “Hey, guys,” he says. “How’s everything going in here?”

“Really great!” Tortue says. She eyes her older self. Rena is fidgeting, looking away from her boyfriend’s face, and Tortue realizes—if she doesn’t make the push, Rena isn’t going to do it. “I think Rena has something to tell you.”

Rena glares at Tortue. “Betrayal!” she hisses.

Tortue laughs. “You’ll thank me later.”

Carapace glanced between them, confusion written across his face. “Um, what’s going on?”

Rena takes a deep breath, then carefully hands the baby to Tortue. “Hold her for a moment?”

“Of course.”

Rena looks at her boyfriend, then drops to one knee, fishing the ring out of her flute. “Nino Lahiffe. Will—will you, um…”

Carapace gasps and covers his mouth with both hands, his eyes shining wetly. “Alya?” he whispers.

Both of them sit in shocked silence, staring at each other, frozen, and after a moment, Tortue gets fed up. “Babe,” she says. “Say yes.”

Carapace glances at her, then back and his girlfriend... then lifts his fiancée bodily into the air in a crushing, spinning hug.

“Yes, yes, yes!” he crows in delight.

*

The portal closes, leaving just the four of them behind.

Ladybug huffs in relief. “You know, I love Bunnyx, but… every time I see her, it’s a brand new disaster.”

Chat looks at her in confusion. “Every? Isn’t this only the second time?”

Reynard sidles up to Tortue Verte. “So, how was meeting your future self?” he says, as Ladybug and Chat quietly discuss something else off to the side. “Mine was a lot more confident than I expected.”

Tortue snorts. “Kind of a butt,” she says. “But then again, that’s not much of a surprise, is it.”

Reynard coughs. “I invoke my right to not incriminate myself,” he says.

Tortue smacks his shoulder. “You’re such a dork.”

Reynard smiles. “Your dork.” He looks at where the portal vanished. “For quite a while, apparently.” He turns back to Tortue. “She tell you anything interesting?”

Tortue smiles, thinking about the proposal, about how happy she and her Nino were. About all the advice her future self gave. She has a lot of work to do.

“Sorry, babe,” she says. “Spoilers.”

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous #djwifi #original content #my fic #Alya cesaire #Nino lahiffe #ninalya #Rena rouge #carapace #turtle!alya #fox!nino #bunnyx #bunnix #mlsecretsanta 2020 #mlsecretsanta2k20 #emma agreste

[fromthefishbowl]

People who complain about Ao3 don’t remember what sites like ff.net were like

Every few months, a bright-minded Tumblr blogger peeps up with the never-heard-before: “Ao3 is a completely amoral site. If they want to prove to us they have a moral backbone, then they need to purge X, Y, and Z tags, and then create a team of mods who will regularly check the stories that are reported because since now there aren’t tags that tell the readers about X, Y, and Z, these goddamn perverts will slip through the cracks and create toxic environment in which children shouldn’t be” take, and the posts routinely receive thousands of notes.

Well... let me tell you how things actually work on sites that don’t use tags but have a team of mods that checks the authors and stories that are being reported.

I’m a fandom old: even if I’m young, I began reading and writing fanfics back in September/October 2012. I’ve used a site that was basically ff.net’s twin, Wattpad, and then Ao3. I was there, when Wattpad slowly turned into a money-making farm and implemented micro-transactions and ads. I have seen how these platforms evolved and who they were protecting, and it really doesn’t matter how much you whine and complain about Ao3, but it’s the only platform that actually protects both its writers and readers in equal measure.

According to the many theories made by people who have already forgotten how actually lawless fanfiction sites were, having mods would solve all the problems regarding the “moral issues” presented by Ao3. In their opinion, mods would be these perfect creature who never take sides and are always impartial, ready to defend ThE cHiLdReN from the evil, amoral content. They’d scrub the site clean from the “toxic” and “dangerous” content in order to create a wholesome environment where parents and kids alike can happily frolic together.

In truth? Nothing about mods ever worked like that. No one is able to be completely impartial, and some people only need to be given an ounce of power to lose their minds and do as they please.

On the site similar to ff.net, people were encouraged to report all the stories that didn’t strictly follow the rules of the site, including the ones where the spelling wasn’t as great as it should’ve been. It wasn’t rare to find that users had reported an account or a story simply out of revenge, because said author hadn’t commented their work favorably. If you were a fandom favorite with a lot of readers, it was also possible to find in your DM box people asking you to report and ask your readers to report someone, even if you had to make up things in order for the report to go through.

Thankfully, mods were extremely lethargic (I love the idea that people think that they’d act briskly and not sleuth around the site, posting stories with their modding accounts in order to receive a higher number of comments), so most reports ended up in stand-by, catching proverbial dust, for years and years, until everybody forgot about the report itself as well as the story, the author, and whatever had happened there.

But when they acted? Ooooh, and here’s the interesting part, because there were three options!

The story was taken down, the account banned, and the only thing left of them would be a notice from the mods that they had been stricken because they had done this, this, and a little bit of that too. But do you know who was usually hit, by this? Smaller writers, writers whose stories didn’t pull in a lot of views and comments, people who were “forgettable”. It also happened a lot with writers who would put themselves against bigger authors by writing negative reviews for their stories;

The mods closed an eye because the people and storied reported where at the top of their category in a very trafficked fandom. There was a case in which people were so distressed by the presence of a very specific story (Jewish girl falls in love with the Nazi guard that abuses her while she’s in a concentration camp), that the headmistress of the site had to write a special comment that could be viewed by all the people who were going to review that story that said that there was no reason to leave a negative review nor to report it to the mods, as it followed the rules of the site (it didn’t, but it brought in a lot of views and attention to the platform, so... it could stay!);

The mods would hunt the authors on their social medias too and ban them from the site because they’d been rude. It happened more than once, that an author was reported or they were the ones reporting, and have found themselves submersed in insults by members of the mod team on their Facebook page. Two cases:

An author was accused of having plagiarized a story written by another, more famous, user. The author denied, and asked for proof of it. The mod taking care of the case didn’t offer any, but deleted their story and blocked their account until they said they were sorry to the more famous user. In order to have their account back, the author said they were sorry to the famous user, but on their Facebook page wrote that it was a crock of shit: they hadn’t copied from that person, and the fact that the mod hadn’t offered any proof of it was suspicious enough. The mod saw that Facebook post, sent them a DM with nothing but insults, and then banned them permanently because they had been rude to the administration;

An author posted a story, and two other users plagiarized it. The author reported both stories and waited a week for the mods to send them a DM telling them to screenshot all the passages that had been copied and put them all in a document because they didn’t have time to read three different stories. Although the author complied, they wrote a post complaining about this lousy job on Facebook. The post caught the eye of another moderator who blocked their account and told them they wouldn’t have had access to the site unless they apologized to the entire team of mods, to the users they had accused of plagiarizing their story, and took down the Facebook post. In the meanwhile, the first mod was caught chatting with one of the two other users on the forum. The author didn’t back down for another two weeks, when the headmistress of the site herself showed up and told them she would’ve been the one to take care of the question. In the end, although it was clear that the two users had copied the author’s story, the author still received nasty and threatening messages from the entire mod team because of that Facebook post, to the point that they decided to delete their stories and their account altogether and move to another platform.

This is what happens with mods that are always asked to answer to reports and to take care of stories personally: authors are not protected against anything unless they are big enough to be an attraction people subscribe to the platform for. Fics with “moral backbone” issues were left up if they had the views and the comments for it.

And the readers? Well, the readers used to get the short end of the stick too, as those sites didn’t have a tag system and there wasn’t a way for them to know if a story contained something they didn’t like to read about, nor a way for them to “obscure” the ones that did. Finding specific things was a mess too.

This to say: you need to curate your own fandom experience. You are in charge of what you read, and it’s not my place to take care of the children and make sure that everything they put their saintly eyes upon is wholesome. Ao3 is the only platforms that allows the readers to have an absolutely complete control of what they consume and that allows the writers to warn the readers of every single issue their story can contain that might trouble them. Learn to curate your own fandom experience, rather than spending your time whining about “moral issues” and “think of the children”, coming up with ideas that are simply not doable on a massive site like Ao3.

#ao3 #discourse #fandom experience #purity culture

[rainbowbutterfrosting]

The Revived - Chapter 6: A Talk

This is chapter 6 of the dream smp fic @dramaticsnakes and I are writing. Thank you to @r0w3n-1n-d0ugh for beta-reading this chapter!

AO3

Read in order (on Tumblr)

Characters in this chapter: Wilbur, Tubbo, Ranboo, Ghostbur, Phil

Word count: 2,988

Cw:  Eating/food, major angst, loneliness, bottling up emotions, trust issues, fear of abandonment, discussions of betrayal, implied suicidal thoughts, loss of purpose

Fic summary: Wilbur was alive, and it was such a magnificent feeling, that made his mind spark with anticipation. It didn’t take long, however, for Wilbur to realize that this new breath of life, was not just his own. An echo-y voice hides in the back of his mind, and before he knows it, the transparent version of him he saw at the endless train station, is a lot more ingrained than he’d expected him to be.

And Wilbur really shouldn’t care. Because he’d be damned, if he spent the life he’d awaited for so long, babysitting a lost cause of a ghost, stuck in the very same limbo Wilbur spent so long in. It was an even exchange, and one Wilbur wasn’t going to mess with. Why exactly he ends up setting out to get the ghost out of his mind, in order to save the both of them, however, is beyond him. And perhaps Wilbur’s past isn’t as easy to leave behind, as he’d hoped it would be.

The table was already set before they walked down, three chairs and a hightop were around the table. As Michael sprinted towards the dining room, everyone else walked at a moderate pace. Wilbur found himself sitting at the chair furthest away from the little family. While Wilbur didn’t mind imposing on most things, the domestic scene before him appeared private, as Tubbo gently lifted Michael to the highchair. Everyone sat down, and as Wilbur saw the food on the plate, he realized that it had once again been quite a bit since he ate. He looked at the inviting steak, and cut off a piece of it with his knife and fork, shoving it into his mouth, embracing the taste.

“What’s that?” Ghostbur asked in awe, causing Wilbur to feel a little abashed, as he realized what was going on. Wilbur swallowed. “Mm, this steak is really good,” he said in response, and Ghostbur gasped excitedly.

The steak was actually quite delicious. He didn’t remember tasting Tubbo’s cooking in a while, which of course made sense, all the years at a train station considered and all. Though this was clearly food, made by someone who cooked proper meals frequently, which was an interesting change, from their time in the wars. A change that left a strange stinging sensation in Wilbur’s chest that showed up uninvited every once in a while, but was fairly easy to quench. 

“Thank you!” Tubbo said with a cheerful smile.

“There wasn’t much food in limbo, you know.” Wilbur commented, eating a bigger piece, “In fact, there wasn’t anything. I tried to lick the walls once or twice, but they tasted worse than the walls in this world.”

Tubbo’s face turned slightly pale, and he chuckled awkwardly. “How do you know-” he trailed off and shook his head, “Nevermind.”

At that moment, Wilbur realized that all this time being dead, made people look at Wilbur strangely, and treat his comments with a new sort of hesitance. What would usually have been met with laughter, was met with stares and grim silence. 

But Wilbur’s words were just something everyone else would have to get used to eventually.

Ranboo sat next to Michael, cutting the steak on Michael’s plate into tiny pieces. He tried, to little avail, to put a piece into Michael’s mouth, which Michael looked away from quickly. “Come on, Michael, it’s dinner time,” he said gently.

Tubbo turned to his husband and his child- which was a sentence Wilbur still hadn’t gotten quite used to thinking- and tried to assist. He smiled nervously, as he grabbed another little piece. “It’s good for you, Michael. And delicious!” he took a piece from his own place and ate it, followed by an overexaggerated hum of satisfaction. 

Ranboo took the fork and asked Michael, “Do you want it?”

Michael shook his head no, slightly pouting. Ranboo gasped, “But steak is so good! Well…” he aimed the fork for his mouth instead of Michael’s. “I’ll gladly take it, steak is one of the best things ever.” When Ranboo opened his mouth to eat the steak, Michael made grabby hands towards the fork.

Ranboo barely held back a laugh, “But this is my steak isn’t it?”

Michael shook his head again and moved his head towards the fork. Ranboo smiled, his plan working exactly how he expected it to, “Alright, I’ll let you have a bite.”

Ranboo led the fork to Michael’s mouth as the toddler took it gratefully. Michael even dared to make a face towards his father that could only be described as a pure soul attempting to look evil. Ranboo gasped dramatically, “I thought we taught you better than such manners!”

Michael snorted as he opened his mouth for another bite. Ranboo cut up a small piece of steak when he was casually interrupted by a series of knocks on the door. The specific pattern flew by Wilbur, but he felt instinctively that they were a planned order. Tubbo got up at the same time as Ranboo.

“I’ll get it,” Tubbo assured him.

“You already made dinner. I’ll do it,” Ranboo pushed his chair back in.

Tubbo walked towards the door, “I’ve got it, Boo, spend some time with Michael.” Ranboo’s shoulders noticeably relaxed at the nickname.

“Alright,” Ranboo sat back down and picked up Michael’s fork. He led it towards the toddler as routine, occasionally making comments about how he wished for a bite so Michael wouldn’t get suspicious. 

Wilbur took the moment to remember his recent conversation with Ranboo. Why did Ranboo believe Dream was such an antagonist to imply that it was obvious why he held such distaste for him? There wasn’t blood on Dream’s green hoodie, but Ranboo clearly saw it on his hands in a way Wilbur couldn’t understand. “Why do you hate Dream?”

Ranboo tensed, “I- well, hate isn’t the word I would describe it as…” While Michael was chewing he ate a piece for himself. If Ranboo was actually hungry or trying to delay the conversation, Wilbur would never know.

“Then describe it.” Wilbur was tired of the lack of knowledge he knew. Before he was decently satisfied, but his curiosity demanded more when Ranboo mentioned Dream. 

Ranboo chewed on his steak, clearly longer than he needed to. “It’s not really too important on the word choice, it’s just-” Ranboo looked at Michael with a fondness as he slowly got another bite for the boy. “He’s done a lot of things,” Ranboo’s voice was almost a whisper.

Ghostbur hummed, “People don’t really like Dream. I can’t recall much of him, but… he did something bad. No, a lot of things bad. He did some bad stuff to… to Tommy! Made him really sad.”

Wilbur nodded from Ghostbur’s explanation as it was more helpful than Ranboo’s. He was about to ask what Dream did to Tommy, but his thoughts were interrupted when Tubbo spoke, “Guess what, Michael, Grandpa’s here!” Wilbur looked over and saw Phil rolling his eyes at Tubbo’s word choice. 

Wilbur remained quiet as Phil’s eyes lingered on him. 

Phil’s expression was akin to concern, and Wilbur wasn’t that fond of it. Once again, he felt as if he was on display, and as if he’d given something away he should’ve kept to himself. “Techno said you’d be here,” Phil said quietly, and he waited for a few moments as if he wanted a response.

Wilbur didn’t know what satisfying response he could give. “Did he?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light, as he jokingly added, “You know, I almost managed to forget how much of a bastard that guy was.” Ghostbur gasped in a worried kind of way, though he didn’t say a thing out loud.

Phil hummed and walked towards Michael. He gave the toddler a fond pat on the head, a gesture that reminded Wilbur far too much of a less tainted past. Phil looked at Ranboo and Tubbo. “He’s grown a bit since the last time I saw him,” he said.

“He has, hasn’t he?” Tubbo said proudly, “He’s been eating well too, mostly. We had to take away the yellow crayons. He has quite a taste for gold.” he chuckled.

Phil laughed, as he continued to pat Michael, who had excited sparks in his eyes. When Phil turned his face towards Wilbur however, it changed from laughter to a simple smile. Wilbur had the urge to walk away, though he stayed put, taking some more bites of his steak. “Listen…” Phil said, after a few casual greetings to the child and the parents, “Can I talk to you for a second, mate?”

Wilbur tensed up because he knew it was directed at him. The word alone hung in the air as well, implying that this would not be where the conversation took place. In short, that meant this was a serious conversation, and unfortunately, Wilbur had a vague idea of what it was going to be about. He nodded, more sheepishly than he would’ve liked to, and stood up from the table. Phil excused the both of them, and the two of them left the room together.

When Phil opened the door to the outside, Wilbur started to wonder if this was the moment he would be backstabbed, though he knew the reasoning was much more emotional and intangible than something like that. A backstabbing would be easy to tackle. A conversation with a concerned father was a lot less simple.

The two stood outside in the snow, and Wilbur was reminded of their first meeting after his revival. “What is it?” Wilbur said sharply.

“Wil…” Phil said softly, “I uh- I was wondering if you’re doing alright.”

Wilbur scoffed at the question, “I clearly am.”

“Wilbur,” Phil said more sternly, though not out of anger but more so out of concern. “I’m worried about your… safety- that might be the best way to put it.”

Wilbur nodded, but he barely meant it, “Understood, Mr. Minecraft, I’ll make sure to look both ways before crossing the street.” The words meant to come out in a playful way, but they were sharp with edges that hurt himself along with Phil.

“No, I-” Phil closed his eyes, focusing on his word choice. He opened them again with a look that lingered in melancholy but tried to look hopeful for Wilbur’s sake. “Techno told me about… your burns and I…” Phil took a deep breath in to try and address the topic directly, “Why did you go into the nether without any armor?” The words were quiet, but solid by themselves. 

Wilbur couldn’t hold back an eye-roll from how many times he’d been asked that today, Phil slightly frowned at this. “I mean, it doesn’t exactly matter much anymore. I’ll be more careful next time I go.”

Phil pursed his lips, “You don’t understand the point.” Phil sighed, “I’m worried about you.”

Although it shouldn’t have, it caught Wilbur off-guard. He didn’t ask why, because he knew he’d get a default answer about how he was a human being and his son and probably a sob fest that he’d heard before. He wasn’t a child anymore. He knew his place in the world. His place didn’t have any room for his father’s concerns. “I don’t need your pity about how it’s hard for me to get used to living again.” Wilbur didn’t even intend for that to slip out. He didn’t need to tell Phil anything. He didn’t need someone to be against him despite acting like they cared.

A part of him painfully thought how that description didn’t fit only one person.

“I know it takes a bit of practice?” Phil awkwardly laughed before his calm tone returned, “But you can’t get better at being alive by being reckless. It would be like saying you can’t use any measuring spoons while baking. I- We’ve got spoons, there’s no need to go through extra pain.”

“What the fuck does me going into the nether and tripping have to do with spoons?”

Phil’s tone softened, “You know what I mean.”

Wilbur looked at the snow around him, not being able to bear Phil’s sad look anymore. “I frankly don’t.”

Silence lingered in the air. It wasn’t a comfortable silence that made you enjoy the moment. It was harsh and uncomfortable to breathe in.

“Wilbur…” The tone of Phil’s voice tugged on a part of him. It was an idiotic part that needed to acknowledge that he wasn’t going to be Phil’s child again. He was just a disaster of a failed nation that everyone seemed wary of. 

A disaster of a son as well.

“You should go home.” Wilbur refused to meet his father’s eyes. Instead, he stared at his white breaths in the frozen air. 

“I don’t want you to leave again without me knowing when you’re coming back,” Wilbur told himself that he didn’t hear the small crack in Phil’s voice. He wanted to go into his father’s arms and have a moment where the two were together in a warm house in front of the fireplace. Instead, he settled on wrapping his own arms around himself. They weren’t warm to his body. They didn’t provide what he needed. Tears formed in his eyes at the thought of going home with Phil and pretending that things weren’t different now.

But everything was different. He hated that. He hated how the only laugh he would get was a small chuckle as everyone assumed he was a child that didn’t know the dangers of the world. He died three times. He knew danger better than anyone else would. He’d been betrayed more times than he could count on both of his hands. What if Phil got the courage to stab him unprompted? To bring a sword in the night and take care of everyone’s problem? “You should go,” Wilbur’s sobs almost escaped him as tears silently slid down his face. 

Phil sighed. “You know where to go if you… yeah…” Phil’s footsteps moved through the snow behind him, slow at first, only a pause stopping them. Phil wanted Wilbur to ask him to come back. Wilbur knew this. He knew he was an asshole, but he needed independence. It was ironic that he fought for L’Manburg’s, yet, it was still out of reach for him. 

After a few seconds of mutual silence, Phil’s steps continued, fading slowly. When they stopped again, Wilbur turned, perhaps to apologize but saw no one in sight. It took him a moment to realize Phil already went through the nether portal. 

Phil was gone.

He wasn’t coming back. Wilbur put a hand over his mouth, he had learned to cry silently during one of the wars. A quite useful skill if you asked him.

But no one would ask him. He was a fucking idiot that couldn’t hold onto anyone, no matter how much they asked him to stay. Yet, no matter how much he held on, he was always alone. They didn’t even leave on day one or two. No, no, no. They had to leave years after he knew them. They had to make Wilbur think he could actually hold onto them before they left.

Wilbur’s legs collapsed as he sobbed into his hand. He put his other hand on top to make sure he didn’t make a noise. He didn’t need Tubbo nor Ranboo to discover how pathetic he was. They had their family. They were happy. They didn’t need Wilbur. No one did. Tommy held a grudge against him, Technoblade thought of him as an annoying child who couldn’t handle himself, and Tubbo only took him in out of pity. 

And that didn’t even touch on Ranboo. Ranboo must’ve hated him by now. He asked a few too many questions, lingered on topics a little too long. 

He supposed that Michael cared about him. But at such an age, the kid probably cared about every little piece of grass. He wasn’t special. He was just another blade of grass that could barely make an impact. His unfinished symphony was a finished crater covered in glass, his name typically regarded out of spite instead of love. The feeling was mutual. 

“I- why did neither of you say goodbye? I thought after 6 months apart you would be constantly talking, since being in here is really lonely…” Ghostbur’s voice started to crack as small cries escaped from him. “I thought time makes the heart grow fonder, not angry and sad. No, bitter. That's a better word for it.”

Wilbur spluttered slightly, as he scoffed through the sobs. “No no, it’s… Thank you, Ghostbur, but it’s-” he stopped, his eyes widening, and his heart seeming to take a break from beating for one fleeting moment. “Excuse me-” he said, his eyebrows suddenly furrowed, “How long did you say we’d been apart?”

“Half a month. No, wait, half a year but also six months since they’re the same. Well, there’s probably a few more days added-”

Ghostbur was cut off by Wilbur’s astonished words, “I- I wasn’t there six months.”

The disbelief rang through his ears louder than Ghostbur could ever speak. Thirteen years hadn’t passed. Thirteen and a half years hadn’t passed.

Six months.

Just six months.

#dream smp #dream smp fanfic #wilbur soot #ghostbur #tubbo #ranboo #michael #c!michael #c!wilbur #c!tubbo #c!ranboo #philza #c!philza

[technicallyblakebelladonna]

Distance ? 🔦💁🎢

“distance” aka the ldau that, aside from my massage therapist au, is probably my longest running rwby fic!

🔦-Did you learn anything while writing it? About yourself? Writing? 

for this one, big time. though it really has nothing to do with the fic itself and moreso to do with the fact that... well. everything ELSE surrounding the circumstances of this fic. i got hung up on writing it for a l o n g time because there were a lot of personal issues surrounding this fic in particular -- and it took me a long time to detach myself (and my writing) from those interpersonal issues.

this fic very much started out as a labour of love for a couple people whom i used to consider very close friends, but, well, lots of shit happened around about after finishing up the first chapter and i had to put it on the backburner to sort through everything

after that, it was really hard to come back to this fic. it was painful, remembering the people i started it for. but, in time, i did learn to love the story again, if nothing else because *i* enjoyed it and *i* loved it -- and, at the end of the day, that i was the one in control of this story, and i was the one writing it, for myself and no one else. and no one could take that away from me.

it’s an issue that has cropped back up again to a lesser degree, but at the end of the day -- what i fucking create is *mine*. and not a single fucking person can take that away from me. end of.

💁- Did readers influence change any part of this story? 

“readers” did not, no. no one did, in a sense. again like i said earlier, i was inspired by ex-friends and their relationship, but it wasn’t like they directly influenced the story. after things fell out, then it became something i did for myself, and that was all.

🎢- Were there any scenes you were nervous about? For audience reception or otherwise? 

(wow chelsea, it’s like you’re asking these SPECIFIC questions for a reason skfshkshg almost like you knoooow what the history is with this fic XP)

there really wasn’t anything specific that i was nervous about -- but again, with the personal history made me extremely anxious to even post the first chapter. it was the only time i’ve ever turned on comment moderation, so if certain people were going to yell at me in the comments abt nothing that had to do with the story, i could just catch that and delete it.

thankfully, however, A) nothing like that happened (though i got at least one strange comment that i remember that felt like an uncalled for dig at my writing) and B) i havent had to turn comment moderation on since then for my other chapters, and the rest of my fic was well received

#patchodraws #reagan replies #ray writes #fic: distance #fic ask #ask game #random reagan rambles #aNYWAY yep #for anyone who was like Dying to know what juicy backstory there was to the LDAU well #there's a bit more backstory for u #thanks for the ask chels skfhskh #sorry it got out of hand afkhsgkshrg

[xiaq]

Q&A:

Hello! Sorry for the belated question-answering. My concussion symptoms got a lot worse for a hot second, but I’m feeling better now and ready to tackle my inbox. So I have over 30 academic-related questions and they mostly fall into these groups:

Can I read your dissertation/are you going to publish it?

Yes! And hopefully. The plan is to publish it as a book once it is complete, but even if that doesn’t happen I’ll share it (maybe even on AO3) with anyone who wants to read it.

What is your dissertation about?

That is a dangerous question. The shortest possible answer: my dissertation is essentially an ethnographic study of the interconnected online platforms that facilitate transformative digital fan culture and the people that use them. I consider fic literature and fic archives repositories for both this textual literature but also the metatextual and paratextual elements of fan culture. My focus is on the AO3 as a groundbreaking archive that has changed how transformative fandom operates, is treated legally, and is viewed publicly.

How are you getting a PhD in fandom? Is that a thing? Did you take classes for it?

Fandom studies is a thing! When you get an English PhD you specialize in certain things, and fandom studies is one of my specialties. Alas, I did not take classes in it, though I did do a significant amount of directed reading on my own/in preparation for exams. PhD coursework prepares you for the broad range of English classes you may be called upon to teach as a professor. So I took multiple courses in my primary fields (see below) but only took classes for my first two subfields. I also took Victorian lit, British lit, American lit, etc.

What did you take your quals in?

Primary Fields: (these are things that make colleges want to hire you)

Book history/archival (focus movement from print-digital)

Feminist/queer theory

20/21st century lit

Subfields: (these are the things that you think are neat if not included in the things that will make colleges want to hire you)

disability studies

minority literature

comics studies

fandom studies

Where do you go to school?

SMU. In Dallas. We have great libraries and lots of white people who wear Vinyard Vines apparel.

You’re the xiaq that wrote LRPD/AHTU/Strut! Are you going to talk about your own fic in your dissertation? Yes. And yes! I’ll speak as a 3rd party academic observer in chapter 1-3 and 5, but chapter 4 will be a case study/interlude where I speak in depth about my experience writing and posting LRPD (https://archiveofourown.org/works/11304786?view_full_work=true). I’m doing this for 2 reasons: 1. The project asserts that there is nothing shameful about participating in fandom and fan works/archives ought to be shown respect and appreciation. I want both fandom folks and academic folks to know that I’m “all in” as it were. 2. When I sat down with my chair to plan my case study chapter, we decided I needed a “top-ranked” work within any moderate to large fandom with over 50,000 hits and over 5,000 comments, and I needed to ask the author detailed questions about their writing, editing, posting, sharing, and comment-answering/interactive habits. LRPD fits that criteria and I don’t have to ask anyone else invasive questions.

Who all have you interviewed?

Cesperanza/Astolat and a couple other AO3 founding folks. Several people currently volunteering for the OTW, one of the volunteer coordinators, communications staff, and a LOT of fan writers (over 50 at this point)—including BNFs like Kryptaria, Earlgreytea68, Emmagrant01 and (much) more. And then a bunch of academic folks too—Karen Hellekson, Abigail De Kosnik, Francesca Coppa, Rukmini Pande, Suzanne Scott (who is on my committee as an outside reader!) and more. Every single person I’ve spoken to was very kind and generous with their time and I love everyone in this bar.

And these were three specific questions that didn’t fall into those categories:

You look so young—is that just good genetics or did you skip a few grades?

Thank you! Well. I skipped getting my masters. Sort of. Most PhD programs require an undergraduate and a masters degree before you can apply. SMU is one of the few that does not and has an extended program that essentially gives folks straight from undergrad extra intensive coursework and a masters upon completion of 2 yrs in the program. It’s difficult to get accepted without a masters, so consider me an outlier and not the standard. I’m also on course to (hopefully) graduate a year early—which means I’ll have my doctorate before I turn 30! You too can be an overachiever with the help of OCD, anxiety, and sleep deprivation (not an endorsement, tho).

what does otw mean in your ao3 post about academics being assholes

Organization for Transformative Works! The OTW formed before the AO3 did. You can read more about it here: https://fanlore.org/wiki/Organization_for_Transformative_Works

Concerning your post on AO3 and the pettiness of academics - you mentioned the real, serious negative issues concerning AO3. Might you expand more on that? What do you find to be the negative aspects of AO3?

Ah yes. So there is one “big” thing that occasionally came up as a negative in my interviews and research. Fandom has a long and storied history of racism. It’s not isolated to the AO3, but several of the POC I spoke to said they dislike the fact that there’s no way to mark a work as racist, or warn others about it (usually, if an individual points out that, say, an author has treated Finn as a Big Black Dick and not, you know, a human being, the author isn’t particularly interested in noting that their own work is problematic. See also: slave AUs. Where Finn is a slave.Yikes.). While the majority of POC I spoke to didn’t advocate for some sort of censure of these works in the terms of use (some did), what most wanted was a way of being able to warn others, or receive a warning, that a work is racist. Implementing something like that is, obviously, complex (if not impossible) however. Personally? I doubt it will happen. Related, and perhaps more important, when POC tend to speak critically about the erasure or infantilization or animalization of non-white characters, white authors often 1. police tone rather than engage with the criticism, 2. focus more on defending themselves rather than actually examining their, maybe accidental, biases/stereotypes or 3. cry bullying or kinkshaming instead of actually listening to what POC are saying. Again, not an issue isolated to the AO3, but an issue nonetheless that we, as a community, need to recognize (for more on this history, check out, for example, https://fanlore.org/wiki/RaceFail_%2709). There’s also the whole “should illegal sexual things--like underage or pedophilia-- be allowed,” which I don’t have the energy to dissect right now, but the overwhelming majority of folks I spoke to were of the “if you don’t like it, don’t read works with that tag. If it’s not tagged correctly, close the tab” school of thought. The AO3 has always purported itself as a hosting, not a policing, organization, so I doubt that will ever change. 

#q&a #answered asks #fandom studies #AO3 #x wants the (ph)d

[softyoongiionly]

Fear and Dumplings: Chapter Four

Confronting your fears for a final grade sounds unappealing but, with Yoongi as your partner, things might not be so bad.

 Summary: You’re in your final semester at University when your Abnormal Psychology professor assigns you a partnered project surrounding your greatest fears. Lucky for you, your partner just so happens to be a cute boy named Min Yoongi.

 Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

 Genre: College Au, Underground Rapper! Yoongi, Soft!!! Yoongi, Fluff!!!, some moderate angst (later), smut (later later), slow-ish? burn

 Word Count: 3.8k

 A/N: This chapter features a whole lot of our sweet lil Yoongi 😊

 Warnings for this Chapter: mentions of fear, anxiety, Y/N gets a little bit insecure, swearing (of course), suggestive language aka the tension begins!

Warnings for the Fic: mentions characters confronting their fears, characters in uncomfortable situations, emotional moments between characters, mentions of bad parenting, explicit language throughout the fic, moderate angst, and very explicit smut later in the story.

 Chapter 4:  Italian Opera and Platinum Hair Dye

The eye roll that you have just performed could have stopped time and space. You were sat on your couch, cross legged, with your phone in one hand while, your other hand absentmindedly ruffled Marzipans fur. After your classes, you had rushed home to insure that your apartment was in mint condition. The take-out containers were disposed of, the litter box was changed and, you had your favorite coconut scented candle burning in living room. Yoongi hadn’t shown up to class that day but, he was courteous enough to text you and let you know that he was still planning on meeting at your apartment that night. Attempting to be a miraculous host, you decided to text him and ask him what he wanted to eat. Ever the chatterbox, he replies:

Yoongi: Meat

Brilliant. Your eye roll comes to a close as you reply:

You: Will the canned cat food in my pantry work?

The chat bubble appears, signifying that he’s typing while you smirk to yourself.

Yoongi: I’ll bring the food.

You snicker, biting your bottom lip, your fingers hoovering over the keys. The fluffy socks adorning your feet wiggle against the arm of the couch as you respond.

You: If you insist.

Marzipan grumbles slightly as you push yourself off of your sofa. Yoongi wasn’t due at your place for another hour so, you decided to hop in the shower and wash the dust and post-apartment cleaning grime from your skin. Grabbing the towel from behind your bedroom door, you headed into the bathroom and turned the water on. There was an unfortunate bubbling in your stomach that was easily identified as nerves. Why were you nervous? It wasn’t a date or anything. It was purely academic. Yoongi was coming over because, his grade depended on it. You were letting him into your apartment because your grade depended on it. There wasn’t any reason to be nervous and yet, here you were. Despite this being a completely academic endeavor, you still decided to utilize the homemade coffee scrub that Y/F/N made you for your birthday. You never need an excuse to have soft skin. As the water washes down the drain, you towel off and apply some of your thick body butter that smells like cinnamon-sugar. This part was normal for your post-shower routine because, again, you never need an excuse to have soft skin and, you sure as hell never need an excuse to smell like cinnamon. You don’t really fuss with a lot of makeup: just enough to cover the blemish on your chin. After, throwing on a pair of leggings and an oversized t shirt, the clock read 4:45 which means: Yoongi should be about 15 minutes away.

Sure enough, you feel your phone vibrate as Yoongi’s name appears on the screen.

Yoongi: What’s your apartment number? I think I’m close.

You: Floor 22 Apartment 17C

Yoongi: Ok thanks.

That annoying bubbling returns to your stomach and, you breathe out through your nose in an attempt to calm down. This is actually ridiculous, guys don’t normally make you nervous and, Yoongi isn’t the only man that you’ve ever had in your apartment: Jimin is literally there all the time. You decide that plugging in your laptop and straightening up the couch is a good idea as, it will distract you from your stupid unnecessary nerves. There was an idea floating around your head regarding how to approach confronting your first fear. Opera wasn’t completely terrifying but, it did make you incredibly uncomfortable. However, in the spirit of the assignment, you decided to stomach an entire opera video and, attempt to listen and appreciate the music instead of, frantically trying to drown out the sound as you usually did. You weren’t entirely sure how Yoongi was planning to approach his fear of dyeing his hair. Were the two of you just gonna watch hair-dyeing tutorials or was he planning on dyeing his hair green? You giggle at the image of Yoongi with green hair as; you fold one of your throw blankets and place it over the back of your couch. The giggle escaping your mouth is cut short when you hear a gentle knock on your front door. Marzipan scurries off the couch and into your bedroom to avoid any unexpected social interaction, as you make your way towards the noise.

           Swinging the door open, you see Yoongi standing there, wearing a long black hoodie, a black snapback adorned with silver rings on the bill and, some ripped up black jeans. In his hands, he’s gripping what looks like a takeout bag, the scent of which is making your mouth water, and another bag that looks like it came from the drugstore.

“Canned cat food, really?” His doll lips are curved into an incredulous smile, his cat like eyes disapproving.

“Be more specific next time.” You reply simply, taking one of the bags from his grip as you usher him inside. Yoongi slips off his shoes, his eyes peering around your place, almost as if he’s studying his surroundings.

“Nice place.” He comments, his tongue poking against his cheek.

“Thank you,” You smile before gesturing to takeout, trying to contain your excitement. “What are we eating?”

Yoongi sets the food down on your toffee colored coffee table, stretching his arms momentarily before he replies.

“It’s Chinese from that place on 88th street, you know the one with the dragon on the door?” He explains, his murky eyes narrowing slightly at his question.

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen that place before but, I’ve never actually been in. Are they good?” You start pulling the different dishes out of the bags. There’s orange chicken, teriyaki beef, spicy pork, and, absolutely no sides.

Yoongi is nodding vigorously, his mouth already full of his own side of beef. You giggle, shaking your head at the options before you.

“You weren’t lying when you said wanted meat hm?” Your fingers wrap around your chopsticks, as Yoongi finally swallows. He shrugs his shoulders, his chopsticks searching for another bite before settling on a sticky orange piece of chicken.

“I never lie.” He responds before biting into the chicken. “Unless my roommates and I are playing poker, in that case, I lie very well.”

“I can imagine you having a pretty severe poker face.” You concede, smirking slightly. “How much do I owe you by the way, for the food?”

Yoongi’s soft features wrinkle slightly as he shakes his head, waving you off.

“Don’t worry about it”

“No, really, how much? This is a lot of food, plus you had to drive through the city and shit to get here. At least let me pay my half.”

Yoongi rolls eyes, already chewing a new bite.

“Don’t worry about it.” He insists, his gaze pointed and certain as he continues. “You can get the next round if it makes you feel better.”

Sighing and swallowing, you surrender, too hungry and flustered to argue.

“Well, thank you.” The gratitude leaves your lips as, you start on another bite of tangy chicken.

You and Yoongi settle into a comfortable silence, the two of you picking off every last bit of the meal. Your gaze settles on the other mystery bag that Yoongi had brought with him before nodding to it.

“What’s in the other bag?” Your curiosity gets the better of you as you use a wet nap to wipe your hands.

Yoongi’s head turns to where your gaze was directed at before he turns back to you.

“It’s something for the project. I’ll show you in a sec.” You nod before moving to clear the trash from the table. After gathering it into the takeout bag, with Yoongi’s help, you take the empty containers to the kitchen and, throw them in the trash chute.

“Do you want anything to drink?” You call to Yoongi as you peer into your fridge. “I have water, juice, soda, and I think there’s some Soju that my friend left in here.” Jimin had come over the night before to try on his different showcase outfits and, he ended up having to crash on your couch because, he got a little too tipsy.

“Water’s good, thank you.” Yoongi’s soft voice echoes toward you, his gaze fixated on his laptop as he turns it on.

With a bottle of water in each hand, you make your way make to the living room and plop yourself down on the fluffy cushions.

“Ok so, we have Opera and dyeing your hair so, should we just play some Italian opera while we watch a hair dye tutorial or something? You offer, giggling lightly. Yoongi scoffs, his finger stalling on his mouse pad.

“Are you only afraid of Opera if it’s in Italian?” He teases, looking over at you, his expression clearly one of judgement.

“No,” you insist, rolling your eyes. “It’s all horrible. I’m just not totally sure how we should do this.”

“I think we should start by explaining our fears.” Yoongi begins, his chocolate eyes shifting focus. Leaning forward, he sets his laptop back on your coffee table before he looks your way, a smirk starting to form on his lips. “Like, you could start by telling me why you’re afraid of Opera.”

You grumble slightly, biting back a smile, your eyes finding his as you let out a sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” Your posture shifts on the couch so it’s slightly pointed towards Yoongi, your feet tucking up onto the cushion. There was a physical sense of discomfort taking over your body as you prepared to tell this story, regretting slightly that you even put Opera on your list in the first place. It wasn’t exactly a fear; it was an extremely severe aversion. “When I was little, my parents used to work insanely long hours; like 15-16 hour days. So, every day, my grandma would pick me up from preschool and I would stay at her house until my parents were off work.” Another sigh leaves your lips as you push a hand over your face. There’s also an audible groan as you look over at Yoongi for mercy. You conclude that he is, in fact, a cat in human form since he seems to delight in your upcoming misery.

“Mhm, go on.” His tone is encouraging but, his eyes hold all of the sarcasm that they normally do.

“Well, my grandma was sort of, wild. She was really cool and everything but, she didn’t exactly act like a typical grandma. She made me dinner and helped me with my schoolwork but, there were  some nights, after I went to sleep, that she would have a friend over, sometimes, multiple friends.” You can feel yourself wincing, letting out a frustrated groan. Yoongi’s disposition remains the same as he stares at you, stifling a laugh as he waits for you to continue.

“Her and her friends were very loud so, in order to drown out the sound, she would play Opera throughout the whole house. Her bedroom was right next to mine so, the Opera did nothing but, provide background music to the sounds of my grandma getting her rocks off, on the other side of  wall.” You sort of rush out the last part of your explanation, your cheeks flushed with disgust as you flop against the back of the couch. By this time, Yoongi’s rickety laugh has made an appearance, his hand clutching his stomach lightly as he shakes his head.

“So, you’re afraid of Opera because it reminds you of your grandma…” He begins and you find it odd that he’s unable to finish the sentence, his cheeks slightly flushed.

“Having sex?” You finish giggling “Yes. Oh my god it was horrible and, my 3 year old self didn’t realize what was going on. It just sounded like my grandma was like…exercising? Ugh I don’t know.” You and Yoongi are both giggling at this point and, you feel warmth inside of you that you attempt to ignore. “It wasn’t until I was 8 or 9 that I finally realized what she was doing and, by then my parents had started me in daycare.”

“That’s…really gross.”  Yoongi concludes, still chuckling lightly as he takes a sip of his water. You nod in agreement, your body shifting towards him slightly.

“It really is.” You nod to him, your gaze turning slightly mischievous. “Ok I think that’s enough childhood trauma for now, what about you?”

Yoongi simply shrugs, his expression returning to his normal unimpressed disposition.

“Baldness runs in my family.” He responds, deadpanning you.

You roll your eyes, an airy laugh escaping your lips.

“Fair enough. Well, I’m prepared to listen to like…I don’t know…a full opera song? Do you want to…watch hair dye fails or something?” You suggest whilst Yoongi leans over and grabs the bag on the floor. He casually pulls it open and empties the contents onto your couch. You can easily recognize the brushes used for hair dye and a few bottle of pigment tumbling out of the bag.

“Wait, do you actually want to dye your hair?” Disbelief flickers over your face as you stare at the contents on the couch, Yoongi shrugs again, pouting his lips in thought.

“I definitely don’t want to but, we’re supposed to confront out fears so, I figured I’d go all out.” He explains rather casually, picking up the box in front of him. It was then that you noticed Yoongi’s color choice: Platinum Blonde. “Also, my roommate said he’d pay me $50 if I did it.”

“You’re absolutely sure you want to do this?” You had to admit that you were surprised. Yoongi didn’t really strike you as someone who took many risks, as he always seemed rather underwhelmed by everything.

“Well, I’m not doing anything; you’re going to do it.” He explains, eyebrows raised in your direction.

“What if I mess up? I don’t want your hair to fall out?” You counter, eyebrows raised back at him.

He cringes slightly at the thought before shaking his head, a breath escaping his nose.

“My hair won’t fall out, and even if it does, it’s not a big deal, I’ll just hate you forever.” Yoongi’s gaze is playful but, his tone is unchanging as he nudges the supplies towards you.

You roll your eyes, picking up the box, your eyes scanning the instructions. It was a 5 step process that promises to take hair from “the darkest black to the shiniest platinum in under 2 hours!” That sounds incredibly gimmicky and, you feel nervous at the thought of actually messing up Yoongi’s hair. It’s so pretty and soft-looking and you really want to run your fingers through it. And pull it. Hard. You feel your eyes widen at your own inner monologue and Yoongi smirks at you.

“You good?” He inquires, his head tilted, a smirk still playing on his mouth.

“I’ll get some towels.”

A few moments later, Yoongi is sat on a chair in the middle of your living room floor. Earrings have been removed, towels have been laid out and, your laptop is open with a video titled ‘The Best of Opera Masterpieces. 6 Hours of Classical Music Nonstop.’ Who the hell wants to listen to Opera for 6 hours? Your hands were covered on black latex gloves and, you have your hair tied up in a bun on top of your head. In hindsight, confronting your fears at the same time wasn’t the best idea because, you were nervous enough just dyeing Yoongi’s hair but, with Opera music playing in the background, your anxiety level was at 9000. Yoongi however, couldn’t be more unbothered, he’s sat on one of your two dining chair, phone in hand, scrolling through a site that appeared to sell music equipment.

“Ok, I think I have everything set up, are you ready?” You ask him, one of the bottles in your hand.

He nods, eyes still trained on the screen.

“Go for it.”

Your fingers start at his black tresses, moving pieces to the side before squirting some of the purple liquid on his hair. Yoongi leans forward and presses play on the video, Opera music filling the room. You wince at the sound but, you do your best to focus on the task at hand.

“Ooh,  this one is in Italian. Are you sure you’re going to be ok?” Yoongi jests as you continue working on his hair.

“Shut up.”

The rickety laugh finally makes an appearance before, the two of you settle into a comfortable silence. You work through the discomfort radiating throughout your body whilst diligently applying the dye to Yoongi’s raven locks. The task of dyeing his hair is actually helping you focus on something, rather than just cringing at the wailing coming from your screen. Things were going pretty smoothly until you feel Yoongi’s figure shaking lightly. Your eyes scan over him before you realize he was bouncing one of his legs rather vigorously and, it was causing his head to move too much.

“Stop bouncing your leg, I’m going to get dye all over you.” You nudge him lightly, giggling before moving to apply more dye to untouched hair. Yoongi stops for a moment before, immediately starting to bounce his leg again, smirking as he does. Without thinking, you tug on the dry part of his hair lightly and, immediately the room thickens with something you didn’t want to identify. Yoongi makes a sound in the back of throat that sounds like a very faint…whine?

“Oh shit, Yoongi, did I hurt you?” You peer over his shoulder in concern and, see that his cheeks have been decorated with a pretty intense rouge. His dark eyes shoot up to yours for a moment before looking back down at his phone. He scoffs.

“No but, I’d like to keep as much hair as possible so, don’t be ripping it out please.” He doesn’t sound irritated, he sounds, for the first time, like he’s nervous. “Is this song getting to you yet?”

A smooth subject change forces you to ignore the bubbling that returned to your stomach. Although this feeling was slightly different than the one you felt before Yoongi arrived.

“Actually, it’s not that bad. I think dyeing your hair is distracting me from wanting to vomit.” You explain, an airy laugh passing your lips. Your fingers brush over Yoongi’s ear as you smooth his hair into place. The action causes his neck to erupt in goosebumps and, you feel your mouth curve up into a smirk.

“Are you cold or anything?”

“N-no, I’m fine.” Yoongi’s voice sounds shaky but, his focus is zeroed in on his screen so, you can’t tell is he’s lying or just distracted.

After about 30 minutes, Yoongi’s head was covered in purple goop and, the onyx color was already lifting from his locks. He had mercifully stopped the video, deciding that almost an hour worth of Opera was enough. In the bag, there was also a hair cap that you were currently securing to Yoongi’s head. You lean down towards him checking to make sure his hair was completely tucked into the plastic. Yoongi visibly shrinks away from your figure as you near him and you feel a little drop in your stomach. Oh. That’s never a good sign. Quickly leaning away from him, you nod to the clock on his phone.

“What time is it?”

His eyes glance towards the top of his screen before he replies, his voice laced with sleepiness.

“It’s almost 10, how long do I have to keep this stuff in my hair?” His brown eyes look upwards as if the action would allow him to see his scalp.

“The box says 45 minutes.”

He nods before rising from the chair, stretching his limbs as he does so.

“Ok, I’m heading out then.” You sort of flinch at his abruptness, moving to the side as he gathers his belongings.

“Oh, we’re not finishing it here so; I can see how it turns out? I need to know if I should change my major to cosmetology.” The joke passes your lips whilst you force disappointment to the corner of your mind.

Yoongi smirks slightly, packing his laptop in his backpack.

“I’ll text you picture when it washes out.” He promises as slings his bag over his shoulder, fishing his keys out of the front pocket.

You nod, meandering along beside him as he walks toward the door.

“Ok, well, thanks for the food and everything. I’ll see you Tuesday?” You offer, attempting to make your voice sound casual and Yoongi flashes a small smile your way.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Thank you for having me. Have a good night.” He waves, his mouth doing the [: thing again as he steps out of your apartment.

“Yeah, you too, drive safe.”

Yoongi turns back and waves before sticking his headphones in his ears and getting into the elevator.

Stepping back inside your apartment, you couldn’t help but, feeling a little…weird? Like, obviously Yoongi was your classmate and the two of you were only hanging out because, you literally had to but, you had been entertaining the thought that the two of you could at least be friends. However, the way Yoongi behaved towards the end of the night led you to believe that he wasn’t really interested in forming any sort of relationship with you and, that didn’t feel great. You were attracted to him so, maybe you had also thought of other things that slightly stepped over the friendship line but, your mind was quite certain that someone like him wouldn’t be interested in someone like you. It would be nice to be wrong though, for once. At this bit of self-depreciation, you decide to stop yourself. There was no way you were going down that road again. You had spent far too long comparing yourself to others and looking down on yourself and, you weren’t about to fall back into those patterns. You are you and, that’s enough.

Cleaning up your apartment doesn’t take long but, by the time you finish throwing the towels in the hamper, you feel the familiar pull of exhaustion on your body. Marzipan has already perched herself on the towel beside yours and, that confirms that it is in fact, time to sleep. As you lay in bed, pants removed, hair in a newly made bun, you send a few memes to the group chat you share with your best friends, eloquently named, Bros for Life (Jungkook obviously). You giggle to yourself as your friends, mainly Jungkook, start contributing to the conversation with some of their own fresh memes. You fall asleep an hour or so later and, if anyone asks you definitely didn’t dream of Yoongi and his stupid smile.

#min yoongi #yoongi #suga #agust d #min suga #bts suga #bts yoongi #yoongi fics #yoongi fic recs #yoongi fluff #yoongi smut #yoongi writing #suga fic #suga fic recs #suga fluff #suga smut #agust d fics #agust d fic recs #fluff #smut #writing #new author #new writing #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #Fear and Dumplings #softyoongiionly

[seenashwrite]

(see HERE for part one of answer)

Ah, mass appeal, that oft elusive lil' stinker. How to get it is one of those age-old questions for us creator-types. We want it, for personal reasons, for perhaps monetary reasons, and determining what constitutes it and how to tap into it and even if we should try to tap into it are all pickles.

No, not that type, those are fabulous. I mean sticky situations. The non-tempuraish bliss with delusion of "Hey, I'm doing great on my diet, 'cause it's a vegetable!" kind.

Spoiler Alert: I'm not going to tell you not to compare yourself to other people, of course you are, and in many ways this is a good thing, it's called having an ideal to which to aspire, except it shouldn't be rooted in popularity, the admiration should be for their work. . . . Thanks for your question!

I'm kidding, Dean, and you damn well know it. Bite me. And fetch me a whiskey. And some Death pickles. I got talkin’ to do.

Part Two: Water Chumming & How That Shark May Bite Your Ass, So Here’s A Bunch Of Other Stuff That Can Be Done From The Safety Of The Shore

C/P for convenience:

Is it worth trying to please the masses when we can't please ourselves? Am I poking the bear?

Let us recap from Part One:

We talked about how to get from a feeling of ineptitude to - at first - just mild trepidation when it comes time to hit "publish",  and started delving into "but how to get there?" so that the path can lead on to an actual measure of confidence, which brings us to the second part of your question up there - which is, I find, a completely normal thought, stemming from exasperation, when it feels like you're surrounded by a ton of people who are having ungodly amounts of success, and it seems like the biggest mystery in the world. So it's natural to wonder: should I follow their lead? Try to do what they're doing?

Maybe - let's unpack that, dig into what that would entail, the pros-and-cons, what some alternatives may be.

Near the end of Pt. 1, we talked about not understanding why some stories/writers gain traction, while others don't, specifically regarding the quality of their stories. As facetious and jokey and snotty and funny as I made that "rant", and said how you could always use the SSDTs [Same Shit, Different Title] stories as a "How Not To Do It" guide, I also mentioned how they must be doing something right - and they are, the metrics we've got (hearts, notes, feedback, asks r/t stories, followers, reblogs) bear it out. It's right there. There's nothing to interpret. It's there. It's fact.

Not to mention, as much as I've tried to drill down on objective parameters for my rec list, to try and smoosh down subjectivity, both on my part and on the part of people who rec to me, there's still a pretty substantial margin of subjectivity. There just is - a story could be ridiculous in plot, could be littered with reprehensible grammar, could poorly represent Sam/Dean/etc., could have a shallow Y/N. Yet if something within the story, no matter how oblique, speaks to the heart of a reader? In the immortal words of Private Hudson:

Game. Over. They’re in. Case closed.

I also mentioned that little number in the corner, that overall snapshot of how much action a given story/that writer accumulated and pondered - does it indicate how great the story is? Also known as: Does that mean their story/their writing is better than mine?

Well. No. Not necessarily. I suspect that - and this would take a huge data mining mission on every single one of a given writer's high count stories to know - in part, some of the number represents a manifestation of a cult following. I'll save you the trouble of clicking the link:

"A cult following is a group of fans who are highly dedicated to a work of culture. A film, book, musical artist, television series or video game, among other things, will be said to have a cult following when it has a small but very passionate fanbase. A common component of cult followings is the emotional attachment the fans have to the object of the cult following, often identifying themselves and other fans as members of a community. Cult followings are also commonly associated with niche markets."

I've no idea why "musical artist" was the only human example they threw in there, because in my experience/observation over **cough** decades of life on the planet, I see cult followings for humans  more than stuff, and public figures of other areas beyond music (actors, politics, etc.) just as much. There are men-I MEAN-people who will never be socially ostracized no matter how inappropriately they behave, no matter the amount of evidence, doesn't matter - their following will absolutely make preserving the (fake) image that person cultivated their hill to die on.

But we're getting negative, and where I'm going with "cult status" in our context isn't negative. The "cult" mentality aspect to which I refer is about loyalty of followers (specifically reader-followers) in general, and then further, the loyalty of that subset of reader-followers who were early readers. They adored "x" number of that writer's stories in the past, and even if the quality of newer stories has declined, they are still gonna hit that heart and reblog it and say it was great. Do they actually believe it? Some of them, to be sure. Do some of them have on cult following rose-colored glasses? Friggin' of course.

Like I said above the cut - I'm not going to tell you not to compare yourself to other people, of course you are, and in many ways this is a good thing, it's called having an ideal to which to aspire, except it shouldn't be rooted in popularity, the admiration should be for their work. But there's admiration owed to these writers for maintaining their follower base, regardless of whether those follower-readers aren't in the admiring-for-the-work mode. So while you can't admire them for their stories, because you think they blow, there is an ideal, a definite modelling to consider: what are some of these writers who are getting huge numbers doing to maintain what popularity they've accrued?

Let's pause here for a recap of what we know for sure:

1. You won't know if telling stories is legit in your wheelhouse or not until you start getting some feedback from readers, which is going to help get you out of Ineptitudeville;

2. Ideally, this would begin with an honest, straightforward editor who knows how to give constructive critique --> in the meantime, use The Nail's guiding standards to serve as an at-home editor til you feel ready to find such an editor;

3. You can't get feedback for your supplemental self-editing documents of "nailed it" and "Achilles' heels" unless you put yourself out there (which, hopefully chipping away at #1 will get you over the ineptitude hump and into a healthy trepidation territory so you can do);

4. There's potential modelling to be done by observing what the "popular" writers are doing outside of their stories to accrue/maintain followers, and trying to see what their loyal reader-followers see in stories you don't find very good.

Again - assuming you've gotten comfy enough to just feel a normal nervousness vs. ineptitude, it's on to getting an audience. So, what could it be? That these mega-number generators are doing? I think it's two things:

(A) They have broad exposure that brings others into the fold (B) There's more at work than just stories

But Nash, are you not paying attention? I don't have exposure, they've got a bazillionty followers - you may say.

Then let's get you some exposure that has nothing to do with follower counts, nothing *inherently* due to the potentially not-so-robust nature of your stories at present, things that just might get you more followers, hopefully turning a chunk of them into reader-followers somewhere along the way.

.

(A) Exposure that doesn't require "popularity":

1. SPN Fanfic Pond ---> 24/7/365 - join it and submit your stories - never know who'll see it - guaranteed reblog

2. SPN Hiatus Creations ---> specific dates - I don't think many people know that they include fics, since they mostly get submissions of art - weekly topics to choose from - join in, submit your stories - the folks behind it most always put a little comment in their tags, so be on lookout for your feedback doc - guaranteed reblog

3. SPN Family Birthdays ---> 24/7/365 - their kindness gets your name "out there" to more people, both the mods behind-the-scenes, as well as that blog's followers - guaranteed exposure - *mandatory* to reblog this with a thank you and at least one point of feedback about it to whomever created that birthday wish for you

4. Bingos:  SPN Genre Bingo - SPN Fluff Bingo - SPN Kink Bingo - SPN Angst Bingo ---> specific dates - variety of topics - guaranteed reblog - good/decent potential reblog from others via their followers and those who follow the tags

5. Challenges from individuals ---> sporadic dates - variety of topics - follow people who you see hosting them, if they've hosted one they'll likely host more - hosts will typically reblog each fic (good chance with a touch of feedback), and/or put your "@" and link to your fic onto a master post - more popular the blog/higher follower count, the more exposure, so high reblog/new reader potential

6. Seasonal Celebrations ---> specific dates - Secret Valentines, secret Santas, etc. - do it and you're also probably making a friend, maybe gaining a new follower, maybe their followers will come visit your place because your assigned person reblogs what you did for them - moderate-to-high potential for reblog *

(*Should be a guarantee but some people are dicks; my Valentine didn't ever send me shit this year, not even an apology through the organizer, but you know what? I don't care. Legit. I made a friend through it, and really enjoyed making what I did for them.)

7. “Bangs”  ---> sporadic dates - a.k.a. Mini-bangs / Big-bangs - focused on a topic/character - guaranteed reblog

8. Appreciation Days ---> specific dates - Angst, Smut, Fluff appreciation days - you can even submit already written fics/don't necessarily have to whip out something new - specific tags can draw readers - good/decent potential for reblogs

9. Prompts ---> 24/7/365 - imagines, those generic prompt blogs - follow some, keep an eye out for the interesting ones - challenge yourself to crank out one a week, short little 500-ish word blurbs - reblogs, maybe, who cares, this is serving to get you out of the funk and get used to posting your work; it's practice, and if it gets love, then great, if not, you still got stuff to put on a master post - and make a master post and get it in your profile so it's easily find-a-ble

10. Outside of Tumblr * ---> 24/7/365 - Fanfic.net and AO3 - join and put fic there and put your links somewhere on your blog - both have stats - both give opportunity for people to comment and to share direct links to their blogs, which is how this connects to the goal of visibility in the SPN fandom here - also a way to self-reblog your story in a “fresh” way/cuts down on repetition popping up on your followers’ dashes (i.e. - helps cushion the ol’ “Oh they’re posting this again?!” feeling)

[* Note: many of us have great distaste for Wattpad because it is a breeding ground for thieves - people will c/p stories from here and present them as their own, some trying to excuse it by “giving credit” in a blanket manner a la “found at Tumblr” or listing the “@” of the writer. The problem is, Wattpad’s method of reporting leaves much to be desired - like Instagram, they only seem to be interested if a published author takes issue. The only real way to call out these thieves is via an immense amount of pressure from the SPN Family commenting directly at their Wattpad page. My point? Your choice, but if you do join up and post there, proceed with caution.]

.

(B) The stuff that's more than just writing:

1. Reblog interesting things that show who you are - fan art is a great start - shows your tastes and what you like - when feeling confident, host a challenge, as what you choose for the framework (one of mine, for instance, was using lines of dialogue from Archer) will also reflect what you like, what you're into - tag people you're friendly with and say something like "Even if you're not interesting in joining, signal boost, please??? [cute emoticon]"

2. Narrow down focus - if you're multi-fandom, drill down on your favorite - start by building up a solid following in that one fandom - keep a ratio of about 80% primary fandom, 20% to cover the others/personal/non-fandom stuff - use a "Not [fandom]" tag for that 20% so your followers can choose to opt-out - or if you can't manage this, do a side blog or two

3. Set your queue to pop stuff out (at minimum) 2 or 3 times/day - stuff it - start with CanonSPNgifs - keep your blog active - unless something you want to reblog is time-sensitive, chuck it to the queue - a wall of posts from the same person on the dash is off-putting - same for constant reblogs of your own stuff*

(* Which you should do, yes, but have an understanding of time zones, will ya? I swear some people are re-blogging for myriad time zones in Oz and Narnia, as well, I've no idea... I've digressed)

4. Send Asks to people like the "spread the love" stuff - if they post "Ask Me" things, send them one - reblog the answered ask and say what you think about their answer/at minimum say "thanks, this was great" - reblog those ask games posts for your followers so they ask you questions - get engaged

5. Respond to a good portion of the comments people leave for you, whether feedback or just funny things they said - specifically, feedback with reblog deserves reply of thank you, whether in the notes or a fresh post; see my blog for copious examples - make a post that says your tags are open/offer to tag folks - anytime your follower count jumps by, say, 5, reblog it - make an OMG!-type post every time your follower count increases by, say, 10 - you’re telling them you actually give a shit that they follow

6. Keep an eye out for folks (especially those who make rec lists, so always check out rec lists for who did it when you spot them) who have said it's okay to tag them - always tag them, even if they seldom reply/reblog/feature you on their list, as you never know

7. When you read stories by other writers that you love, reblog them *with some feedback* - do unto others, etc., etc. This is in huge headline size for a reason. Take the hint.

ETA - I chimed in and gave some tips since I composed this post, and it may be helpful for you/for people who are shy or intimidated or just not particularly comfortable verbalizing feelings.

...and here’s what I suggested:

If you want to get specific, say what your favorite thing/things is/are; in my mind that could go something like this:

I felt like I was right there with them in the ____ [setting]

I felt like I was right there during ____ [part of the plot]

I felt like I was watching an episode of the show

I could relate so much to ____ [character]

My favorite line(s) was/were ____

___ [character(s)] sounded just like they do on the show

___ [character(s)] acted just like they do on the show

And there’s also more generic things, such as:

This story really touched me, I needed something heartwarming!

This story cracked me up, I needed a good laugh!

This story made me smile, I needed some cheering up!

This story got me crying, I needed a good cry!

This story was really creative, I needed a change of pace!

And if you want to keep it really simple? This can apply to any story:

I enjoyed this more than I can say, thank you so much for writing it

.

Is full-on blind cult following an "ehhhh" thing? Yeah. But the basis of it, the true, legit loyalty part of it, is wonderful. You want that. The more readers know you, the more they'll feel comfortable interacting with you, and the greater their comfort, the more likely they'll give you feedback and, eventually, some constructive critique* 

(*You gotta make it clear you're fine with critique, though, and don't dare say it if you're just gonna pitch a fit when you get some, however poorly phrased the critique may be; but that's another topic, for another day).

Great, Nash, you still haven't answered my question about pleasing the masses - you may say. 

The answer is: that's a call you gotta make for yourself. To hopefully help, I'll tell you two stories about chumming the waters with (what seems to be) the standard wares that get a ton of followers/reader-followers.

Interestingly, I *just* this past week or so had a great discussion with someone (who I won't reveal, of course, because it was PM) on this very topic. You'd recognize their name, if not follow them/have read their stuff, they've got a healthy fanbase, etc., etc., etc. all that jazz. It would surprise you, is my point, to know that they've been pondering on their writing - specifically, the genre in which they feel entrenched. They accrued their popularity (I hate that word, but can't think of a better one) in a certain, ah, niche. You know the holy trifecta: angst, fluff, smut. One of those.

(I am not going to go down the road of how much I loathe the limitations of those, I know myself, this will turn trash fire and neglect you. But they are the cards we've been dealt, there's nothing to be done to change it, we must play our hands. #flames on the side of my face #haaaate #I'm done)

Anyway, they've sat here "x" year/years later and looked back at their pre-SPN fanfic foray (read: how they used to write/what they used to write), and are like - Where'd my voice go? Where'd my style go? Can I get it back? Sure I can get it back, but if I start being "me", what will my reader base do with that? Will they stick around and support me? Will they bail? etc., etc., etc. You get the idea. Reasonable thoughts, all.

I tell you this next bit because while what is going on with above writer is on the side of Got A Wide Reach, like I said in Pt. 1, I am presently on the other side, the Modest-in-Number, Large-in-Loyalty reader collective. And I *have* chummed the waters, though not entirely purposefully. And it didn't work... well, hasn't, I can't predict the future, could blow up tomorrow, but not likely. I suspect I know why. We'll get to that.

I say not entirely purposefully because I stumbled into Fluff and Smut, one of each. (There is a second fluff, but that doesn't count because it was tailored to a very specific person who gave very specific things to include for a Valentine swap thing.) The fluff was via a thing I did, and my dear friend nailed it, gave me three cringy words that were meant to hit the fluff bullseye, and I doubled down. You can see that here, should you care.

People fucking lost their shit. I repackaged it into its own post in case folks didn't like the snark in the one linked above/would rather reblog sans snark. People lost their shit, part deux. Flattering as hell. I appreciated it immensely, truly.

On the smut*, I lost a bet (I can't even recall what it was, maybe I mentioned it somewhere) with the friend that drew me into SPN because they were (are? yeah, still are) frustrated with the show and I needed a writing exercise and I had (at the start time) eleven years of source material, so hells yeah I said yes. The bet was for smut, and I said - Fine, but I can't not plot.  Great, was the answer, but I had to typical it up, this was a punishment, after all. And typical, for me, means so much detail that it made brain cry. Copious detail works my nerves. Copious pondering works my nerves. Any one thing that’s too much will Work. My. Nerves. And I wrote it (it's five parts now, but part one and two was the orig piece and ended open), and said to friend "This won't get shit response" - "You wanna bet?" - me, the idiot: "Yup" - "If it does, you have to finish it out".

(*no link because I don’t know your age, and it’s set to sensitive)

People fucking lost their shit. On FF.net and AO3, that is. Not the numbers some people get, but holy hell. Hence, parts 3 through 5. Far as here, not so much the hit. But the people here who've liked it have REALLY liked it, so there's that, and it's flattering as hell, and I appreciate it immensely, truly.

And yet at the end of the day, hey guess what, say it with me now:

Now, for all my pseudo-fussing, I was cool with doing it, because at heart I'm wired to think about marketing, and I thought - Oooooh. This will bring people to the goods, the stuff I'm *really* proud of, and then and then and then....

Nope. Some yes, mostly nope. Most of my loyal roundtable were brought into the Nashooligan fold by other stories.

Here's why I think writer above got on the other side of the coin and I'm riding the edge - they went down the rabbit hole on a few, got mega results, and it fills the confidence tank, and why not wash-rinse-repeat? Humans are wired that way, we don't do things that we don't get something out of, it's normal. Thing is, they - as they see it - got lost a bit along the way. It worked, though, that squashing of their voice - "worked" in the sense that it drew the masses. Some people would be completely okay with this, would find it a reasonable trade-off; this writer isn't presently thinking so.

And back to me - I think the reason my smut and fluff didn't hit the stratosphere and draw in the masses (ergo, little motivation to do more) is because my style is still in there. The snark, the focus on accurate characterization, and like I say, I can't not plot. I didn't pullout the recipe, same ol' ingredients, mix up some standard shmoop/standard porn, flop it in the cupcake paper, bake it, then smear a thin layer of canned frosting - flavor: "Meh Plot" - around it. I made that junk from scratch, like I do all my other stories, and while I did use some of the same ingredients, I didn't go all-in. Notably, my evergreen stance that Y/N can die in a fire, ceiling optional, I ain't doing it. 

I am not going to insist you read either of them, I'm just gonna ask you to trust me on this: I read quite a bit, and I've yet to see the ingredients of Reader Mommy Married To Dean Have A Baby Sam Has Dogs scenario mixed together like mine, and I've yet to see a Reader Insert Smut With Dean Smut With Sam Inferred Happy Ever After With Dean mixed together like mine. 

Which, like I say, is what I suspect is probs the issue. I didn't get as far down the proverbial hole as my writer friend in terms of Typical'ing Up my stories. Could I un-ring that bell? Better put: could I start ringing bells? And I mean weekly, if not twice a week, quickie ones, throw in a lengthy once a month? Crank out the recipes? Plenty of templates to work from, after all. It would be hard for me in the sense of voice-squashing, but could be done.

So if I had to give you a vote on whether chumming the waters is a strategy to take, given those potential pros-and-cons, here's why I vote "no", both for myself, and for you, and others contemplating such.

It's partly that cautionary tale of my writer friend (and there's gotta be more feeling like her, there's just got to be), and mostly it's because of three writers I can think of off the top of my head. They're all quite talented, they consistently turn out solid, creative pieces that can be differentiated from the rest of the fodder floating around, and all three have substantial reader and/or follower bases. One has less than the other two, but nothing to sneeze at. The second - another person I've had great PMs with on the topic of wide appeal - attributes part of their success numbers-wise to specializing not in a niche genre, but due to specialty in a subset of the fandom (a specific, very popular 'ship).

The third, who has a *massive* reader and follower base, I can't get my head wrapped around, and I don't mean that in the sense of not understanding why people adore them, they deserve every bit of it. We'd have to dig deep into years of works and chart out the numbers (likes and reblogs and comments and followers - again, the only metrics we got) to see if there's a tipping point, but there's no magic bullet, so likely there'd be nothing in that data - or data from any highly successful writer around here - that's gonna reveal some secret. And this is the only writer I can think of that I'd really love to know a tipping point on, because: reason I can't get my head around it is because they don't do typical, ain't even in the ballpark of typical. Now, they do inject smut into much of their work, but plenty of other times it's just inferred. Consistently cheeky, if not snarky, if not balls-out-gut-bust funny. Consistently original, creative plots, even when it starts out purposefully trope-y, there's gonna be a slant on their take. I may not personally like everything they put out, I'm not saying they're perfect, but if we're trying to keep it objective vs. subjective, applied to The Nail framework? They're nailing it easily 80-90% of the time. I've actually got a soft moratorium on them, between stuff I find and noms I get on their stuff, I only include them sporadically on the list or else they'd be everywhere.

That gives me hope. Not-a-one of those three are cranking out stuff religiously on some frequent schedule, they write when the muse hits. Not-a-one of those three are following recipes. Not-a-one of those three are blanketing their voice.

And this goes back to the very first thing you said, about pleasing others when we can't please ourselves. Part of the reason you're not pleased is because on whatever level, your stuff isn't grabbing an audience, however big or small. I know it, because I've been there, as I've told you. The biggest part, though? It's because you know you can do better. Maybe you're cranking it out too fast. Maybe you're not fleshing out a character enough. Maybe you wished you'd taken another run at the plot before you published. I don't know, truly. But you're not digging the end result somehow. When you get there? To legit confidence? You're not going to care as much about pleasing others, you just won't. And that confidence is going to show in how you interact with others, little notes you make on gif sets when you reblog, things you say when you feedback others, all that stuff I said above.

People are attracted to confidence. It may intimidate them at first, they may linger on the periphery, but then once they see it's not arrogance or something, they'll be bees circling closer to the honey, because it... it... how to put... it rubs off. A kind've What Would "x" Do kind've thing. And most people will always welcome having more confidence, I mean, the real genuine confidence. We choose who are friends are - to be cheesy - not just because of who they are, but because of who we are when we’re with them. I think the younger we are, we get the wires crossed of "nastiness" and "straightforward". It's the difference between those folks, for instance, who snap and go all "You cum dumpster!" on Anons who word things poorly (I don't mean the ones who are vitriolic, I mean the ones who use less-than-elegant phrasing), vs. the folks who plainly reply something to the effect of "That's certainly something to consider. Thank you for your input". That they can’t discern the difference between a person dishing out hate - actual hate - and a misstep in phrasing speaks a lot to their confidence, that they’re taking a complete stranger’s words as such a personal affront.

I say all that to say: it's not about just the stories; the stories are a piece of a bigger puzzle. Personally, when I see folks being nasty in that manner? My knee-jerk thought is - They are so quick to lash out and write that stuff, and are so careless with their words, I bet their story-writing follows suit. And guess what? I have been 99.9% correct thus far. There's no OOMPHs in their stories: there's no brain-chewy, no heart-grabbing, no snort-giggles, no soul-touching. It's as typical as that comeback. It's lazy. It's easy. It's eye-rolling. It's expected.

Put another way: their lack of confidence in general is what is infesting other areas, in this instance, their stories. I wonder if - since you said “anything I’ve ever created” - that even if it was a slip-of-the-tongue, it may’ve been a meaningful one. If it’s the case, that there are other areas of life where you feel less-than-ideally-confident (a.k.a. - inept), I think you’re smart to start in this area, with fanfic, because as illustrated there’s lots you can do that’s in your control, that’s not dependent completely on others, and probably have some fun along the way, getting to know folks, getting encouragement, seeing your stuff get circulated, etc.

Do you keep a tiny notepad on you? Do that. Grab one from a dollar bin at Target or get you a Moleskine if you're feeling fancy, doesn't matter, but keep it on you, purse, backpack, jacket, wherever. I don't want you doing what I'm about to say on the notes in your phone, not yet. I want you to physically jot down by hand a word or two or five or whatever, about things you see/encounter, turns-of-phrase you hear, mannerisms you note in others - all that stuff - things that do please you. Those OOMPHs. And now you have some inspirational story points ready to go. Even if you aren’t able/feeling up to doing that other stuff above? This is an easy, small place to start.

Bottom line: this isn't happenstance. 

It's not happenstance for the subpar writers, and it's not happenstance for the exceptional ones. This is work. Getting confidence is work. Style is a great deal inherent, true, but it can - and should be - honed, and will likely evolve in subtle ways as time goes on. Confidence and proficiency in a skill (like writing) are not automatic "things" that come with age, not even necessarily with experience. Dig in. Take some of the actions listed above. Start with the least stressful to you, then pick away at 'em as you get comfortable. If you're already doing some of those? Then, start again fresh mentally, as if you just today started doing them. Bump up your effort. Push yourself. See what happens. Get confident in the little things, and it will start to add up, overflow into the empty places.

Look at the pickle you’re in presently as an opportunity to alter your current methodology - I mean, we know whatever you’ve been doing isn’t working for you, right? So it can’t hurt. Batter it and deep fry it, tweaking the recipe as needed; it’s still you, but you’ve applied a well-thought-out, well-crafted extra tastiness to it. There’s people out there who will love it, and they’ll turn up.

See? 😉

#Dear Nash #NONNERS #Not Tyler Durden #I swear #Writing Tips #Writing Advice #Queueby Dooby Doo #Dad's on a blog post and #he hasn't been queued in a few days

[texanredrose]

Have you always been willing to put your work out there? Or did you do your best to gather the courage to do so? I'm always afraid to post what I write, no matter the platform. Even if I'm also sure no one will find it.

Originally? I was willing- excited, even- to put what I wrote online. I haven’t always been okay talking about it IRL (still kinda iffy on that, ahaha) but I had no trouble using a pseudonym and/or screen name to attach to my work. I’d read all these wonderful stories, and I wanted to contribute to it, too! However, context is important.

I was 12, had just really learned how to type the previous year, and I… had no reason to be afraid. Keep in mind, this was before My Immortal and while FanFiction.Net was still becoming a thing, so most fanfics were hosted on separate sites that have since gone defunct. Basically, it wasn’t exactly easy for people to find the fics if they weren’t part of the community and the communities were more heavily moderated. It wasn’t until FFN started becoming big and reviews could be left without first registering with the site that people became emboldened enough to be jerks without reason (not to say that those types didn’t exist beforehand, but they were far and few between). Those sites are now gone and my original FFN profile got purged for some reason or another, so all that writing is lost to the depths of the internet.

And let me tell you something. I say this with utmost sincerity. My first batch of writings were, objectively, terrible. The ideas behind them were, mostly, bad and I can say that with honesty and a smile, too. It’s part of the writing process! And while I probably wouldn’t repost it in its exact condition (writing style’s changed, and even a bad idea can be enjoyable if executed well), if I had the original documents, I would dress it up a bit and be okay with posting it again, even knowing that it’s pretty bad.

So, when I came back to writing and posting fanfiction in 2010, I still wouldn’t say I needed to gather my courage. Of course, there’s plenty of anxiety in posting anything for others to see! Some people will make it their mission to upset you for really petty reasons and others will be thoughtless in their commentary and those are completely legitimate concerns. But I always looked at it as this: there’s plenty of people out there who turn to fanfic for an escape. If I can give even one person a distraction from what’s going on in their life, then it’s worth it to post. Also the reason I tend to write upbeat and fluffy fics with little drama or with a big payoff. (Downer endings are few and far between. Does that make me predictable? Yes. Do I care? Nope.) Almost always, my goal is to make someone smile, and even though it can be discouraging at times to get little to no feedback, or the host of other things I’ve gotten in reviews, comments, and direct messages, I bounce back pretty quickly. It’s trained me to recognize the difference between artistic expression and actively harming others; artistic expression is up to interpretation, and thus there will always be a myriad of opinions, and some of them might be negative, so it’s up to me, the writer, to take or leave them as I move forward. Some will make me a better writer and some are pedantic nitpicks over nothing that I can ignore; it comes with time and experience, but it’s a gradual thing. Actively harming others, though, is a dick move.

Really, the only time I get super nervous is when either portraying aspects that I have no personal experience with or specific parts of a culture. Fiction- even fanfiction- can be a powerful tool in shaping the minds of others, and that’s a responsibility all content creators share. Like with Broken, where I’m not personally asexual, or when setting events in real world scenarios, a poor attempt to portray everything faithfully can be damaging, and I recognize that. In the former example, I don’t want to perpetuate harmful stereotypes and an outsider’s perspective is bound to harbor a few of those, so I have to reach out for help, and in the latter example, it’s important to set up the cultural context but even that can be misconstrued, also to negative ends and to perpetuate stereotypes. Having the best of intentions when writing/posting doesn’t always prevent one from making a misstep. Ultimately, I feel those are risks that are worth taking, because you will either become more knowledgeable or more discerning in the end. I strongly recommend doing the appropriate amount of research beforehand, of course, to mitigate the ‘dick move’ thing and turning it into a learning moment. And having a beta or just a friend willing to read over your stuff and provide their initial impressions is good, too!

Ultimately, to anyone who aspires to write and feels nervous about it, I’m not going to lie: you’re going to get someone who hates what you write. They don’t like the pairing, they don’t like the genre, they don’t like the pacing, they don’t like the style- there’s a lot that people can complain about! Hell, there’s a lot I complain about in regards to shows and books and games, for reasons that fall into those very categories! You can’t please everyone! But it’s important to know that there’s a difference between those who just want to discourage you for some arbitrary reason and those who are genuinely objecting so that you can learn and grow as an author. If you stay true to the why when you write, it’ll resonate with someone- probably a lot of someones! My why is because we all need an escape, we need to see things go right when everything around us is going so wrong, and it gives me a chance to frame jokes, ideas, and heartfelt sentiments. Really, I write whatever gets my interest, and I will shamelessly admit that I like to reread my own work from time to time because I enjoyed creating it, so why wouldn’t I? But I share what I write because, hey, if it made me happy to write, maybe someone else will be happy to read, and that doubles the happy, yeah? Pretty simply math to me! I’m still growing as an author and this is all for fun, but I’ve learned a ton on this journey and hope to learn more!

That first step might be the hardest to take, but you pick up speed as you go! Start with something small and work your way up! I got a lot of experience from taking challenges and turning a few sentences or a general idea into a short, 2-3k words of something, and that’s more than nothing!

Also, here, a quote I’ve taken to heart. “Better to write for yourself and have no public, than write for the public and have no self.” -Cyril Connolly

I write what makes me happy but I do it with others in mind. Even when I get negative reactions, I remember that and try to do better or shrug it off, depending on the circumstances. I’m not perfect and I’ll make mistakes and everything I’ve ever written or will write could draw heavy criticism… but in the end, it’s worth it. Purely because I have fun.

(Also, Connolly wrote what’s basically official James Bond fanfiction with Ian Flemming’s approval, so… ya know, take that for what it’s worth.)

#TRR asks

[luninosity]

One more thank-you short fic, for @whowaswillbe, who requested “ yoga seb, I'd love to see it being before they get together -- Chris being completely transfixed by this gorgeous creature (and who could blame him?)”. I don’t really know *that* much about yoga, but they are both (relative) beginners here in any case, so...have some first-meeting Evanstan fluff!

##

Chris should be good at yoga. In theory. Given his flexibility.

 He wobbles. Trying to do something called mountain pose. He’s not a good mountain. Or whatever.

 He’s done gymnastics and ballet and improv theater classes. He knows how to move. Or he’s always more or less thought so.

 He’s aware that this is not enough.

 He’s also aware that at least half his problem, if not more, involves the utterly beautiful man just in front and slightly to the right of him. The man has duckling-soft brown hair, infinite legs, and an ass that exists in a state of loveliness which cannot be defined by words.

 He wobbles again. They change poses—the instructor’s nice but relentless, making them keep up, though with consideration for everyone’s introductory level of skill—and get into something called downward dog, which makes Chris think about his own dog and Dodger trying to climb all over him when he’d been doing push-ups a few days ago, and then he wonders if the beautiful man in front of him likes dogs, and if so whether he’d like Chris’s dog specifically, and Chris’s house, and—

 This is almost certainly not a calm and flowing state of mind.

 The beautiful man moves much more easily than Chris; they’re both here in this beginning class, but he’s clearly been coming longer. He knows someone else in the class, and that person knows the instructor; Chris had seen them come in, laughing, teasing each other. He’s got the vague impression that they’re gym buddies who drop into a friend’s session occasionally for some balancing-out of workouts: a need for a type of practice that’s soothing, meditative, revitalizing. The friend’s a personal trainer or something; Chris has seen him around the gym.

 Chris himself is here because he’d thought it might be a helpful idea. His anxiety’s been acting up a bit—first big political initiatives, first year as a congressman, first year trying his hardest to go from being a moderately successful actor-director to a steward of the future. He thinks he’s doing okay sometimes, but then sometimes he panics about his own inexperience and critical comments, which fortunately haven’t been that critical. Mostly the commentators and pundits’re waiting to see how he does with this arts funding program, he guesses.

 He’d thought yoga might soothe jangled nerves. Might get him out of his head and into his body: relaxed but focused, present and grounded.

 He’d been half right. He’s certainly focused on someone’s body.

 They do a few more poses. Bending, stretching. He gets into a kind of rhythm. Good if unfamiliar working of muscles. Contemplation of breath and movement. Occasional glances at the living artwork practicing an inverted pose in front of him. Chris’s brain becomes stuck on that sight, and even though he normally can do a near-flawless handstand—thank you, gymnastics—his mind and desires and instant arousal all collude and collide to make him flop over into an ungainly heap.

 The beautiful man actually turns around. Grey eyes. Grey-blue, like opals, like precious stones framed by tiny laughter-lines and delicious cheekbones. Chris Evans, who hasn’t drawn much lately—no time, no inspiration, too drained at the ends of long meetings—wants to put pencil to paper. Instead he sprawls there on his mat and cannot think of a single thing to say.

 The man smiles at him, not without concern, probably because Chris is still lying in place in an unimpressive pile of limbs.

 Their instructor arrives to help. Chris sighs and pays attention and then applies his skill and kicks his way into a wonderful, stunning, effortless, hopefully dazzling handstand.

 He’s facing the wrong way. He can’t tell whether those jewelry-box eyes are even seeing him.

 They flop down into a closing meditation pose, lying on the floor. The air tastes faintly of spice and afternoon warmth; the music’s not something he knows, but it’s tranquil now. The floor’s hard under his mat, but in a good way: he feels good, he realizes slowly.

 With or without those pretty eyes watching him: he does feel good.

 He’s gotten out of the office. He’s spent an hour not worrying about his political inadequacies or self-doubt. He’s pushed himself to try something new, and his body’s humming in a satisfied kind of way. And he’s seen a lovely person, and that’s a sort of appreciation without pressure: like gazing at a painting, reading a certain line of a poem, knowing the world’s better for that extra bit of beauty in it.

 Of course he’s telling himself that. He does mean it. But he would also like to get to know that particular bit of beauty. Someone who turned around to help him, who smiled at him after clumsiness.

 He opens his eyes and sits up. The class is ending; everyone gathers up things, pauses to chat, mills around. The pretty-eyed man and his personal trainer friend are talking to the instructor. Not looking his way.

 Chris gives a small wistful mental shrug, and takes a step toward the door and his life.

 “Hey.” A footfall, a breathless syllable. Chris turns. Those eyes. Right there. “Hi,” the man says, now blushing a little for no discernable reason. He’s even more adorable up close: somehow shy and sweet and brave simultaneously.

 Chris likes shy and sweet and brave.

 “You, um, you’re actually good at handstands?” the man tries, in a tone that’s already biting its lip at its own awkward determination. “I mean, I saw you—I mean I wouldn’t’ve guessed that you—oh fuck I didn’t mean it like that, just because you’re a politician, I’m sure you can do a lot of physical flexible things too—I did not mean that the way it sounded, I’m so sorry. I just. I don’t know. I wanted to. Say hi.”

 “Hi,” Chris says dazedly. Gorgeous, tripping over words, worried about insulting him, and capable of hearing his own innuendo. Amazing. Wonderful head to toe. “You, um, you know who I am?”

 “I’ve followed your career for ages. As an actor, when you started directing—I love Before We Go, it’s so poignant—and when you started getting more political…” The man’s cheeks are pink but he’s holding Chris’s gaze, not ducking away. “I’m Sebastian. I’m trying not to be weird, I swear. Only I’m a writer so it’s kind of a job description. Being weird. Oh god, sorry again, what are words.”

 “Sebastian,” Chris repeats, an echo because he can barely think of anything else. Only Sebastian. He offers his hand. Sebastian takes it.

 Their fingers meet, in a sunlit yoga studio, surrounded by ebbing students and buoyant exertion.

 “You’re a writer?” Sebastian’s hand’s warm. Long fingers. Graceful in a baby-colt way, matching the endless legs, the exuberant hair. Neither of them has let go. “What do you write?”

 “Um.” Sebastian looks at their hands. This is no longer a handshake by any reasonable definition. Chris has unconsciously begun rubbing a thumb over that soft skin: exploring, gentling, instinctively being an anchor for babbling words. They both seem fine with this. “Technically I’m a professor? Rutgers. Creative writing. But I’m on sabbatical. Working on the next novel. Or completely failing to work on the next novel. I thought yoga might help. It’s about Mars. Science fiction.”

 Sebastian’s some sort of genius novel-writing prodigy of a professor, Chris concludes. Nothing short of a phenomenon. Extraordinary beauty, kindness, intellect, and breathtakingly earnest acquiescence to care. “What do you think about the, um, seven new exoplanets and the possibility of actual water and ocean life?”

 Sebastian’s eyes light up.

 Chris grins. “Same.”

 “Would you…” Sebastian takes a deep breath, glances at their hands again, and goes with, in a nervous endearing rush, “…want to grab Starbucks and talk about, um, handstand technique and space oceans with me?”

 “Sebastian,” Chris says very gravely, answering the sparkle in that joyous grey-blue gaze, “I would absolutely love to buy you Starbucks and talk about handstands and yoga and terraforming and space oceans,” which is true, true like a blinding rush of light, like the first glimpse of the rest of his life, like Sebastian’s smile.

#evanstan #my fic #fic for friends #yay