my tiny contribution

Matt said yes guys, what a surprise, wow.

(Oldest post is here, and here’s the first content for the ship. I don’t know who picked the name “Techienician”, please tell me if you know! I’d love to credit them here :D).


Inspired by and directly referenced from Mina Myoung of 1MILLION Dance Studio and her choreography for “Good Kisser” by Usher.

Dedicated to @thesearchingastronaut, whose many Voltron and Klance drawings brighten my LIFE, to my friends who cheered me on, and to @klancebabes for their very encouraging tag on the WIP.

Our Little Miracle

Author: winchesterr67

Pairing: Daddy!Negan x Reader 

Warnings: Mentions of trouble of conceiving and nightmares. Hinting at sex? Cussing?? (It’s Negan.. What do you expect? Haha)

Word Count: 1014

A/N: After much contemplation and procrastination, here’s my tee tiny contribution to Ash’s 2K Writing Challenge! This is kind of a modern day AU? No zombie apocalypse. Negan and the reader are living the “Apple Pie Life”, so to speak. And it’s Daddy!Negan as in he has a kid. Get you’re mind out of the gutter y’all. 

Originally posted by marythenurse

(I know this gif isn’t Negan and has pretty much nothing to with this fic. But he looks sleepy and cute and?? I love him???)

I jolted awake from a terrible nightmare, where the world had gone to shit and most of the population had became “walkers”. My husband was the leader of some group called “The Saviors”?? I don’t know what it was or what caused it but I’m glad it’s over.

I turned over onto my back staring up at the ceiling, and my hand instinctively went to the straight to the other side of the bed. It was cold. Negan wasn’t in the bed. I starting to wonder where he went when I hear footsteps coming from the bedroom down the hall. Sitting up straight in bed, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Yawning. Shuddering when my feet made contact with the cold floor. Standing still for a minute, hearing an all too familiar voice drifting down the hall.

Starting towards the door of our shared bedroom, reaching for the nob and slowing opening the door just enough to where I can slip through. Slowly treading down the hallway and stopping at the nursery door. There’s a soft glow coming from the lamp in the corner of the room. I reach for the door to open in further when I hear him begin to speak again.

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My tiny contribution to the Rey Hux theory, as well as an excuse to imagine Rey in a First Order uniform (and also an excuse for secret angsty trysts between Rey and Kylo aboard the Finalizer).

“Officer Hux, to the bridge.”

Fingers curve over the button of the collar. Buttoned up. Straightened hem. She brushes stray wisps of her hair from her forehead. The beep of the intercom sounds again.

“Officer Hux, to the bridge,” is the terse command. Her hair is set in a low bun. She swallows, rolls her shoulders free of lingering sleep and turns on her heel. The door to her quarters slides open with a soft hiss. The sounds of engines thrum underneath her feet. She walks the cold wide corridor, every footstep clipped, until she arrives on the bridge.

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A Little Elia Ficlet

AU! Rhaegar and Lyanna are alive and must “face the music” when they return to King’s Landing.

Elia needs more fics where she’s strong and fiery and not a push-over. So here’s my little tiny contribution.


She cringes at the little bundle. The soft cooing reaches her ears and it’s so faint, so melodic that it reminds her of her own babe; Aegon had sounded just as sweet once upon a time. But it’s not so much the tiny child that makes her stomach churn and lurch as it is the image–no, the vision–that holds him.

The girl is dressed in white, her hair falling well past her shoulders like a maid’s; Elia almost laughs at the thought. Lyanna Stark is no maid.

No, she is your husband’s second wife.

The reminder rattles around in her skull like an echo rattles through a canyon. The girl. His girl. The one he ran off with for a year, leaving her to deal with two young children and a madman of a father by law. Elia is glad she is strong in mind and spirit, even if her body likes to betray her. And it’s threatening to betray her now.

“Let me hold him.” The soft voice comes from Lyanna’s side. He stands tall and proud beside her, arms outstretched and hands open wide; big hands with long, slender fingers. Hands that held their children long before they ever held the girl’s child.

“What have you named him?” She’s almost shocked by the sound of her own voice.

His indigo eyes snap up and Elia frowns; he wasn’t paying attention. But the girl smiles and places a hand on his arm, rubbing it gently.

“We call him Jaehaerys,” the girl replies, her gaze flitting to the bundle before looking back at Elia. Elia knows she is probably scared of her, but she doesn’t quite care. Let her be scared. She’s the stranger here.

“Jaehaerys,” she echoes with a tight smile. “May I see him?” It’s Rhaegar who nods that time, walking over to her side with the babe cooing softly at him.

Elia looks down at the child and tries her best not to smile. He’s a handsome little thing, with the Stark look instead of the Targaryen look. His eyes flutter open and big dark grey orbs so dark they’re practically black stare up at Elia, and she imagines the babe gets the dark in his eyes from his father. But there’s nothing of Rhaegar beyond the dark eyes and pouty lips, and Elia takes some comfort from that.

“He seems healthy and happy,” she compliments tensely. “You must be very proud.”

“We hope in time you can come to think of him as a son,” the girl says softly. Elia’s gaze turns on her and she can see the stubborn girl flinch slightly.

“I already have a son.”

I wonder if–when Bilbo and Thorin celebrate the anniversary of their meeting–the company tease them a lot?? After all, it’s the anniversary of Bilbo meeting all the dwarves and on top of that it’s the anniversary of the start of their journey which changed all of their lives??

So while Thorin’s trying his damnedest to impress Bilbo with romantic gestures the rest of the company is outdoing their king in every way, shape, and form to celebrate their fateful introduction to who is now their consort and Bilbo protests that he doesn’t need such a fuss made over him!! Bofur cheerfully pats him on the back and says not to worry, they’re really just celebrating the anniversary of the start of the quest, of course!! (They are most definitely celebrating becoming friends with the hobbit above all else, though.) 

So things like Thorin trying to set up a romantic meal, just the two of them, gets turned into a large feast with the entire company or Thorin trying to impress Bilbo with a spontaneous bouquet of flowers gets blown out of the water with an entire garden that the company put together to give to Bilbo to tend there in Erebor. By the end of the day Thorin’s so defeated about his and Bilbo’s anniversary is not solely theirs and must be shared with the rest of the company, he heads back to their chambers ready to admit defeat, curl up in bed and apologize to Bilbo for not doing anything spectacular compared to everything the company has done in honor of their hobbit.

He returns to their chambers to find a small dining table set up with a beautiful tablecloth and candles lit and Thorin’s measly bouquet sitting in a vase in the middle of the table. Bilbo’s just beginning to plate up a simple meal and Thorin just looks at Bilbo with such awe and Bilbo beckons him to the table and giving Thorin a sweet kiss and wishing him a happy anniversary and, ‘you haven’t forgotten hobbits eat more than three meals a day, have you?’ and Thorin shakes his head, ‘no of course not’ and feels incredibly foolish that he couldn’t manage to do one thing right that day while bilbo had planned this last meal of the day so wonderfully and, ‘…really Bilbo I’m sorry I haven’t done anything very spectacular in honor of the anniversary of our first meeting and know that I will–’ Bilbo quiets him and assures him that everything Thorin had done was wonderful and how much he appreciates it. He tells the dwarf it certainly is not a competition between him and the company about who could do better and that he’s just glad to be with Thorin and that he does appreciate everything the company had done, Thorin’s still the one he married in the end and Thorin probably flushes bright red at that and mutters compliantly as he stares down at the wonderful meal Bilbo has prepared for the two of them and thanks Bilbo profusely for everything. 

My tiny piece of Star Trek history

In honor of Star Trek’s 50th anniversary and ST Mission NY starting tomorrow, I present my own tiny contribution to early Star Trek history. In the Feb. 2, 1976, Village Voice, James Wolcott (who went on to become a famous media and culture critic writing for Vanity Fair) used a ST con I’d attended as an opportunity for a scathing (and sexist) critique of fandom. He wrote stuff like:

The emergence of fandom is breathlessly told in a paperback entitled Star Trek Lives! written by Jacqueline Lichtenberg, Sondra Marshak, and Joan Winston. As we shall see, these women have their libidinal thermostats turned up pretty high, hence their prose squeaks and squeals like the rusty springs in a newlywed’s bed, yet the style of their enthusiasm gives much insight into the Trek fans’ mentality. What one comes to understand is that aside from the show’s superb production values, respectable acting, and intelligent writing, the real basis of Star Trek’s popularity is sex, cool, and technology.


What’s underlying Star Trek’s appeal, what lies beneath the surface of vulgar merchandise and optimism-effect cant, is an inchoate surging of power–technological and sexual–which Trek fans are trying to tap into. 

Read the whole thing here.

Even at 14, I knew that basically what he was saying was, Yeah, Star Trek is pretty good for TV, but these overheated, embarrassingly uncool fans – especially the female ones – don’t really get it. Fandom is just a combination of hormones and adolescent maladjustment. 

These were the days when fandom wasn’t an accepted phenomenon affectionately seen as adorkable. It was considered truly shameful and nerdy in the worst possible way. And female Trekkies, like Beatlemaniacs before them, were worst of all: desperate, sexually frustrated, emotional, and out of control. 

So I took it upon myself to pen a response, and the Voice published it. I’m still pretty proud of this. Today, it would have been an ephemeral post online, one of thousands, but because back then responding meant writing, typing, mailing, waiting, and hoping for publication, I was (I think) the only response to Wolcott’s hatchet job.