why fanfiction is taking over the world

Fanfiction is the madwoman in mainstream culture’s attic, but the attic won’t contain it forever. Writing and reading fanfiction isn’t just something you do; it’s a way of thinking critically about the media you consume, of being aware of all the implicit assumptions that a canonical work carries with it, and of considering the possibility that those assumptions might not be the only way things have to be.
—  Anne Jamison, Fic: Why Fan Fiction is Taking Over the World.
Again, it’s not just women, and I really cannot emphasize this enough: fic provides a venue for all kinds of writers who are shut out from official culture, whether by demographic or skill or taste. It makes sense, however, that those who are less shut out from established systems of economic and cultural credit and prestige turn less often to a cultural form that has been not only unpaid, but actively stigmatized. I know many men who write fic, but I know even more men who write fic-like stories, in fic-like ways. When they do it, though, they sell it, get written up in the Times, call it postmodernism or pastiche or simply fiction.
—  from Fic: Why Fanfiction is Taking Over the World by Anne Jamison
Before the modern era of copyright and intellectual property, stories were things held in common, to be passed from hand to hand and narrator to narrator. There’s a reason Virgil was never sued by the estate of Homer for borrowing Aeneas from the Iliad and spinning him off in the Aeneid. Fictional characters and worlds were shared resources. For all its radically new implications and subversions, … fanfiction also represents the swinging back of the pendulum toward that older way of thinking.
—  Lev Grossman, in his forward to Fic: Why Fanfiction is Taking Over the World 
There are several reasons why fans of BBC’s Sherlock are utterly mad, incurably creative, and horny as hell. First and foremost, they are hungry. Devotees of American TV dramas get twenty-two episodes a year. Fans of most British drams enjoy six, eight, maybe a dozen. The Sherlock fandom gets three. The Sherlock fandom gets three television episodes every 18-24 months. The Sherlock fandom is deeply, abidingly, and very inventively starving.
—  Anne Jamison, Fic: Why Fanfiction is Taking Over the World.
Why fic? Fic. Fan writers call it “playing in someone else’s sandbox” or “borrowing someone else’s toys.” I call it “writing.” Opponents call it “stealing” – and I call that bullshit. Whatever else we call it, though, today we largely understand fan fiction as writing that continues, interrupts, reimagines, or just riffs on stories and characters other people have already written about. Fanfiction means writers getting their feet wet, their hands dirty – and if in their stories other body parts are sometimes getting wet and dirty, too, that doesn’t mean those same stories can’t be smart.
—  from Fic: Why Fanfiction is Taking Over the World by Anne Jamison 

anonymous asked:

Good to know you support pedophilia!

Thank you so much for requesting Shance!! I’ve been wanting to write this wonderful (and not pedophilia) relationship for a while!!!

~~

Shiro stepped into the room quietly. He was afraid he would frightened Lance who was already close to the brink of panicking. He watched for a moment as Lance ran a shaky hand through his now wild hair and took a deep breath. 

“I never realized people would make such a big deal about who I loved,” Lance said. Shiro almost didn’t hear him because of how soft he spoke and it broke his heart that Lance, who never bothered to worry about how loud he was before, now seemed to strain to speak. 

Shiro finally sat down next to Lance and put his arm around his shoulders. “I don’t like seeing you hurt. If it bothers you this much maybe we should –”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” Lance turned to Shiro with an intensity in his eyes that Shiro had never seen before. And, yeah, it was pretty hot. “I love you and you love me and there is absolutely no reason why we should be apart from each other.”

Shiro felt relief flood over him. He didn’t want to break up with Lance – not for the world – but if Lance wanted to leave it wasn’t Shiro’s place to stop him. He gave his boyfriend a peck on the forehead. “I love you so, so much.”

“I love you, too, Shiro.” Lance kissed his cheek and then gave him a peck on the lips. “Probably even more than you love me.”

“Oh, hell no. I love you way more!”

anonymous asked:

What do you think would happen in a Different Guardians AU?

(Guardians in this verse:

Storm - Rasiel

Rain - Lal Mirch

Cloud/Mist - Kyouya

Sun - Reborn

Lightning - Hana)

When Tsuna comes back from the future, all he can think about is running away.

It’s an old urge, one he hasn’t felt since his Sun barged into his life with all the grace of a drunken water buffalo. He used it for comfort, a way to escape life when things got too claustrophobic around him. He used to imagine what would happen if he just… left. Just the clothes on his back and whatever money he had, first train out of Namimori.

Of course, he sees now the folly of those ideas. He’s young, and can easily be taken advantage of. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting to just… go.

Tonight Tsuna lays in bed and stares up at the ceiling, disquieted in ways he can’t explain. Doesn’t want to put into words. His mind keeps replaying Byakuran’s death over and over, his final, mocking words.

“So…I lost?”

He closes his eyes, presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. Maybe if he pushes hard enough, he can stop remembering. Maybe his eyeballs will squish and the liquid in them will poison his brain. Maybe he can die if he hurts himself enough.

I need to go. 

And so Tsuna, ignoring the fact that his Guardians won’t be happy with him, goes downstairs and leaves.

He runs. He doesn’t think of any particular location, although several come to mind. Old hiding spots, old places to lick his wounds in peace - none of them will suffice right now. Right now he needs distance, not familiarity. He needs to run until his feet bleed, until he can escape the ghosts whispering reminders in his ears. Maybe if he runs long enough, he can leave the world altogether.

So he runs. And keeps running even when his body sweats and his feet slip against rock and concrete and he’s leaving bloody footprints behind. Even as his sides ache fiercely and every breath comes in a harsh gasp that wrenches something in his chest, even as it begins to feel that he’ll die the moment he runs a second longer.

He keeps running. He loses himself in the easy, repetitive motion, one foot in front of the other, and eventually he slips back into the passenger seat of his own mind, watching from a distance and changing directions as he chooses. When morning comes over the horizon, its a slow creeping thing, and Tsuna finds himself standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the beach. It’s a drop, with nothing but rocks and waves at the bottom.

He stands there, looking out to the horizon, and breaths. 

And then he opens his mouth, and screams.

He screams away his pain, his loss, his agony, his fears. He screams away every emotion that’s haunted his steps these past long days, he screams until his throat is raw and all that’s emerging are rasps that make him ache.

Then he does the only thing left to do; he curls up in a ball there, at the edge of his tiny little world, and waits for his Guardians to find him.

It doesn’t take long. It never does. 

Rasiel leads the charge, his Storm faithfully tracking him down like a bloodhound with a scent. He stands on the rocky outcropping a fair way behind Tsuna, on the tallest spot, and watches him like a vulture. Reborn is the next to arrive, and he comes and sits behind Tsuna, pulling his jacket off, draping it around him before sitting down so their backs are touching, offering a silent support the way he always does.

Kyouya and Lal are the next to show, and they take the middle ground between the two, both clearly understanding why their Sky has taken off in the dead of night like he has. Hana is the last to arrive, dressed in her school blazer and looking furious right up until she sees the way Tsuna’s sitting. Then some of her ire draws back, for all that she sighs loudly and plops down to watch over them all with Rasiel.

And there they all wait, patiently, guarding their Sky until Tsuna’s ready to face the world again.

A Cinderella Story, chapter 1

Maya’s mother had always been her best friend.

Her father left the two of them when Katy Hart was still pregnant with Maya, and from then on it was the two of them against the world. Her mother taught her everything she knew, and her mother bought her her first set of watercolors when she was eight. Everything about her, she got from her mother, with the exception of things she learned from Riley.

Riley was Maya’s best friend since they were five, and she helped her through everything. She was who Maya always had by her side. She was there when Maya’s mother got remarried to a man named Shawn Hunter when Maya was ten. She stood by her side when Maya had two new infuriating step sisters. And she stood by her in the time she needed her the most, when her mother died in a tragic car crash.

Riley was all that got Maya by when this happened, but Shawn was no help. Katy hadn’t left a will, so everything was given to Shawn. The apartment, Katy’s savings, everything. And this changed Shawn. His two daughters stayed the same however, for Chloe and McKenzie were always insufferable, but it changed Shawn. Shawn was never fond of Maya, and it was obvious now. Maya did everything, the cooking, the cleaning, everything. She didn’t have time to care as much as she would like about her school work, which made her chances of going to NYU lesser and lesser every time she got a B- on a test. Not to mention Shawn telling her that she had to earn some of her college tuition money by working at Riley’s mom’s café, Topanga’s, in order for him to contribute at all.

So here Maya finds herself, on her first day of her senior year, pouring coffee at 7:30 am to get a shift in before school. She’s wearing an apron over her ripped jeans and grey tank top, her blonde hair up in a very messy bun. She wipes under her eyes in an attempt to smooth her black eyeliner, which she did sort of sloppily that morning as she rushed out the door.

Maya puts the pot back down and lets out a large yawn, picking up the cup and carrying it to a table.

“Here you are, Mr. Stratford,” Maya says tiredly, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She sets down the coffee for the regular customer, smiling at him faintly.

“Thank you, Maya dear. But shouldn’t you be getting to school?” He says worriedly, looking at his watch.

“Oh, no. I can be a little late.” Maya shrugs, walking back behind the counter before he can say another word.

Maya begins to open the empty biscotti barrel, but she jumps as she hears a jingle of the café’s door followed by the click of heels on the wood floor.

Maya looks up and sees Riley, even more abnormally tall in her wedges, looking like the epitome of sunshine in a yellow summer dress and her short-ish brown hair bobbing with her steps.

“Maya Hart, I should have known you’d be here. You’re coming with me right now if you want to get to school by 8:30!” Riley huffs, stopping at the counter and clicking her white painted nails on the marble.

“Yeah, yeah Riles. It’s only 7:45.” Maya chuckles, turning and taking a tray of biscotti off of it’s rack.

“Yeah, and our school is like in the suburban outskirts of manhattan.” Riley scoffs, following Maya as she walks down to the coffee maker.

“I’d barely call it suburban..” Maya mutters.

“Well it’s suburban enough to have a parking lot and a football field. And we’re currently in Greenwich Village, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get a move on.” Riley says with raised brows, Maya rolling her eyes.

“Fine. But I’m getting less money for NYU because of you. Have that on your conscience.” Maya points a finger at Riley, taking off her apron and letting her blonde locks tumble down from their updo.

Maya begins to fill a plastic cup with iced coffee, putting the top on and getting a straw.

“I’m heading out Topanga!” Maya calls over the counter as she follows Riley out the café.

“You gonna pay for that coffee?” Topanga calls from behind the counter.

“Put it on my paycheck! Bye!” Maya calls as she heads to the door.

“Bye mom!” Riley adds, the two of them walking out the door and to Riley’s car as it’s parked on the curb.

“I still can’t believe your dad got you a car. It’s not fair. I’m not getting a car in a million years.” Maya huffs, opening the door to Riley’s Volvo and plopping down in the passenger seat.

“It’s just a shitty Volvo that can barely start,” Riley says, turning the ignition and raising her eyebrows when her car makes some weird huffing noises before starting, “and also you can get a car in a few years!”

“But I won’t need a car if I’m going to school in the city! I can take the subway and shit. I only want a car for this long ass commute to school.” Maya says the last part flatly, plugging her phone into the aux cord as Riley starts to drive.

They spend the 25 minute drive listening to a bad throwback playlist that Maya found on Spotify, singing along to old Lady Gaga and Rihanna songs. Some of the time was also spent with Maya listening to Riley unintentionally gushing about Farkle, and denying any feelings when Maya confronts her.

“Jesus Christ Riley, you’re so into him. It’s pathetic. Just admit it!” Maya laughs as they pull into the parking lot of John Adams High.

“I do not Maya. He’s my other best friend, just like he is to you.” Riley denies, a small blush creeping up on her face.

“You know I’m right..” Maya says quietly with a smirk, shaking her head and looking at her phone briefly.

Riley scoffs and blushes more, before starting to turn towards an open spot. But she’s abruptly stopped by a jeep speeding up and parking (quite badly) in the spot, taking it from her.

Maya scoffs as none other than Missy Bradford steps out of the driver’s seat, pushing back her long brunette-blonde ombré hair and walking around the car.

And Maya’s scoff is exchanged with a groan as she sees Lucas Friar come from the passenger side of the car.

Maya watches him as he pushes a hand through his messy, short dirty blonde hair. He meets Missy by the trunk of her car and put an arm around her, looking at Maya briefly through the windshield.

Maya can’t help but sink back in her seat when Lucas’s handsome green eyes meet hers briefly.

Maya scoffs as Lucas’s hand slides down to Missy’s lower back, hovering just above her ass. Missy shouldn’t even be called his girlfriend.. she’s just his disposable plaything. That’s what fuckboy Friar does, sleeps with one girl for weeks at a time, dumping them for the next and moving on like they’re used tissues. Maya despises him.

Missy rolls her eyes and looks over to Riley’s car, squinting into the windshield and looking at Riley and Maya.

“Eavesdrop much?” Missy scoffs, taking Lucas’s arm, “c'mon baby. We’ll be late for class.”

Lucas looks back briefly and gives Maya a slightly apologetic look, Maya’s eyes rolling as she sees Lucas and Missy join their squad of equally insufferable popular kids.

Lucas may be a fuckboy, but he’s actually known to also be an okay guy at times. But Maya doesn’t think this makes his behavior even remotely okay, unlike all of the other girls in school.

“I swear to god, one day I’m gonna get suspended for beating the crap out of Lucas Frair and I’m not even gonna feel bad about it.” Maya groans, resting her elbow on the window as Riley drives on.

“Remember Peaches, violence is never the answer.” Riley says promptly, only briefly glancing over at Maya and keeping her eyes on the road.

“Okay, I think that never is an exaggeration.” Maya rolls her eyes, smirking slightly.

“Geez Peaches, what would you do without me?” Riley sighs, pulling into an open spot.

“Probably be in juvi.” Maya nods with a squint, both of them laughing as they get out of the car.

Riley and Maya begin to walk across the parking lot and into the school, Maya taking a sip of her coffee.

“Why do you wear heels Riley? You’re already so tall. It makes me look like even more of a shrimp.” Maya huffs, noticing how Riley is standing an extra two inches tall, most likely making her around 5'9.

“It’s not my fault that you’re five feet tall. At least you have your heels on.” Riley rolls her eyes, motioning to Maya’s black heeled booties.

“Yeah, bringing me up to a whopping 5'3. I sure am tall now!” Maya grins sarcastically, Riley chuckling and shaking her head.

The two of them walk up the stone steps and into the halls, walking up to their lockers, which are only two away from each other.

Maya starts to put in her combo, until she hears a familiar voice.

“Ladies,” Farkle’s voice comes from behind her, the catch-phrase now said more sarcastically than when he was younger.

“Farkle.” Riley and Maya say in sync, Riley turning to him and smiling as Maya shoves her backpack into her locker.

“So, first day of our senior year, and Maya’s still dressing like a hobo.” Farkle says with a nod, Maya turning and glaring at him briefly.

“And what are you going for, wannabe teenage heartthrob meets the school’s biggest nerd? If so, you’re succeeding.” Maya quips at his outfit, looking over his skinny jeans and t-shirt with a space pun on it, a blue flannel on and unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up.

Maya can see some girls (including Riley) giving Farkle some looks. She doesn’t blame them, he has gotten cute over the years. He’s gotten freakishly tall, but he’s still pretty skinny. He has piercing blue-grey eyes and dirty blonde hair, fair skin and a sharp jawline. He looks like he’s bordering looking like one of those teen heartthrobs that are in magazines. It makes Maya almost want to laugh out loud, for she still remembers him with his bowl haircut and neon turtlenecks from the seventh grade.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Maya.” Farkle smiles, Maya not turning and simply flipping him off.

“So anyways, did you guys see Missy and Lucas? Somehow they both got more hot over the summer.” Farkle rolls his eyes, Maya chuckling slightly.

“Well Lucas apparently spent his summer in Texas, so that’s why he’s tanner.. and rumor has it, he was helping his grandpa with work on his ranch and that’s why he has the muscle. Honestly, every girl is drooling over him. It’s depressing.” Riley says the last bit with a scowl, Farkle smirking slightly.

Maya notices Farkle start to say something in response, but she starts to tune him out as she sees Lucas across the hall.

He’s at his locker talking with Missy, a stupid, smug look on his irritatingly handsome face. The school’s buzz seems to be all about how Lucas has gotten incredibly hot over the summer, and even Maya has to admit that he’s walking around looking like sex on two legs. The outline of his muscles showing slightly through his black v-neck, his dirty blonde hair as it’s tousled and messy, his sea foam eyes and how they gaze almost serenely under his thick eyelashes..

“Maya? Hello?” Farkle says, Maya looking away from Lucas and clearing her throat.

Was she just checking out Lucas Frair? God, no. He’s an asshole.

Get it together, Maya.

“Sorry, I was just spacing out.” Maya apologizes, directing her attention back at Farkle.

“Well what I asked while you were busy ‘spacing out’,” Farkle says, using air quotes at the last bit, “was what your first class is. Me and Riley are both in Calculus.”

“Oh, nah I have study hall. I decided to do finance instead of calc.” Maya shakes her head, Farkle rolling his eyes.

“Okay. Well we’ll see you in AP human geo, right?” Riley adds, and Maya nods.

“Okay, see you then. We’re gonna go.” Farkle says, starting to walk off with Riley.

“Kay, bye.” Maya says, slamming her locker shut and walking in the opposite direction.

She starts to walk past Lucas’s locker, only glancing up at him as she walks past. She notices that Missy’s gone, and it’s only him.

She walks past, but soon feels her heart beat quicken as his voice comes from behind her.

“Hey, excuse me?” Lucas catches up with her, stopping her from walking and fiddling with the strap of his messenger bag.

“You’re excused.” Maya says flatly, starting to walk again. Lucas chuckles and starts to walk beside her.

“Look, I just wanted to say sorry about Missy. She can be a piece of work.” Lucas sighs, Maya still walking as if he wasn’t there.

“I honestly don’t care. Your girlfriend is a bitch, I get it. You shouldn’t be apologizing, she should. If anyone. But then again, she’s too fucking proud to apologize, and I still don’t care if she does or not.” Maya says nonchalantly, turning a corner abruptly as Lucas follows, both of them getting some weird looks as to why they’re walking together.

“Wow.. Well no offense, but you’re kinda rude.” Lucas adds, Maya smirking slightly, still not looking up at him.

“Yet again, I don’t care Mr. Cliché. Aren’t you gonna be late for your class?” Maya says after a silence, taking another sip of her coffee as he continues to walk with her.

“Well, I’m going to the library for study hall.” He asks.

“Same.”

“Oh, goody.” He says sarcastically, “Hey, are you new here? I feel like I haven’t seen you before.” Lucas says, the two of them walking into the library.

Maya scoffs and rolls her eyes at this. Yeah, she’ll admit that she’s changed her look. She wears more makeup now, and slightly better clothes. She’s exchanged the leather jackets, striped sweaters and plaid skinny jeans for baggy ripped jeans, simple tank tops, tees and chokers. She also decided to start actually brushing her hair. But he doesn’t recognize her now? And now that she looks cuter, he suddenly want to associate with her? The asshole.

“I’ve been going to your same school since seventh grade.” Maya says with narrowed eyes, going and taking a Chromebook from the cart of laptops.

“Oh. Wait, what’s your name?”

“Maya.”

“Oh. Sounds familiar.. ish.” Lucas nods, taking a computer as well.

“It’s okay, Ranger Rick. I understand that your social class is too far above mine for you to care about me in the slightest. You can go back to not acknowledging my existence now.” Maya says flatly after a silence, Lucas nodding with a sarcastic smile and taking his computer to a separate table with some other meatheads.

Maya opens her computer and googles the anonymous NYU chat room on their website, signing into her user and joining. It seems like the best way to pass time since she has no homework on the first day.

closetpoet: heyyy

brokenhart: closetpoet? Sounds wonderfully angsty

closetpoet: I could say the same to you, brokenhart. You know you misspelled heart, right?

brokenhart: I mean to do that, dumbass. Hart is my last name.

closetpoet: oh, she’s feisty.

brokenhart: how did you know I’m a girl?

closetpoet: wild guess. I had a 50/50 chance, and I was hoping you’d be a girl.

brokenhart: why, because you’re a pervert?

closetpoet: or because every other guy on this chat room is just looking for nudes.

brokenhart: don’t be sexist, girls like nudes too

closetpoet: wait what

brokenhart: I was joking. You’re hilariously gullible

closetpoet: thank god. Well how old are you?

brokenhart: that sounds stalker-y

closetpoet: how could I stalk you based on your age?

brokenhart: fair enough. I’m 17

closetpoet: cool. I’m 18 and a guy.

brokenhart: so you’re interested in NYU, you tortured poet you?

closetpoet: ha ha ha. And yes, I am. My dad has different ideas though. He wants me at UW studying business.

brokenhart: so you’re a tortured poet who just wants to write? You remind me of Troy Bolton, but with poetry.

closetpoet: wow. High school musical references. I’m impressed.

brokenhart: what can I say, I’m an artist

closetpoet: so what’s your name, strange high school musical fan girl?

brokenhart: I’d rather not say, considering you know my last name and you could stalk me easily if you have the full name.

closetpoet: understandable. You seem to have a thing for stalking. How do I know you’re not the stalker?

brokenhart: I hope you can just have faith in me. I bet nobody would want to stalk your weird ass.

closetpoet: my guess is that sardonic humor is just your way of relating to the world. Hence the stalker jokes. And the high school musical ones, because HSM is some pretty grim shit.

brokenhart: you get me, angsty poet boy.

closetpoet: happy to be of service, ma'am.

~

So now you’ve read chapter one of my new fanfic “a cinderella story,” you should go on my wattpad ( @ gilbertswife ) to read the next chapter, which is out! 💞💞💞

Scared of love, Scared of commitment

I was always scared of love. It was just a thing I never could understand. I grew up thinking love was just a word not so much a feeling. That probably has to do with the fact I never truly experienced it before.

Yeah, I had relationships and all of that stuff but they didn’t quite feel right. I was scared of the commitment. The fact that anything I do would affect my partner. Maybe there is something wrong with me. That’s probably it. I thought this for the longest time until I met him.

Daniel James Howell changed my world. He knew about my fear of love, but somehow didn’t care. He believed he could change me since the beginning. He wasn’t wrong.

I remember the day he asked me out. I denied him at first. But he was persistent.

“Hey Y/N.”

“Hey Dan!”

We were having a day out together since Phil was visiting his parents and the both of us never get one on one time.

“Ready to go, you look great by the way” he winked.

I always felt tingly inside when he made tiny flirtatious gestures or comments but I always thought of it as just a friendly thing.

I couldn’t let myself get attached to him. Even if he was flirting, I had to make myself believe he doesn’t like me and stop myself from developing feelings.

“Yep, you look great too.”

Did I lead him on by saying that? Maybe thats why he continued flirting with me the entire day.

After the movie we went to go see, it became dark outside and was time for us to go our seperate ways.

“I think I should walk you home, can’t let a pretty girl/boy go home alone.”

"No thanks I don’t want to waste your time.”

I tried to ignore the fact he called me pretty and try to get him to go. But of course Dan wouldn’t allow that.

"I insist and there is something I want to ask you.”

"Fine.”

He smiled and grabbed my hand leading me towards my house. Somehow I let him lace his fingers with mine. When we arrived I expected him to just drop me off and go, but I was so wrong.

"So Y/N I was wondering if you wanted to go out tomorrow?”

Uh just you and I?”

Like a date, Y/N”

"I can’t.”

Dan looked at me with disappointment. He then shook his head and laughed.

"I’m willing to take it as slow as you want but I want to be able to call you my girlfriend.”

"I can’t.”

"Why, I love you.”

"I’m scared.”

He laughed again.

"I know, but that’s why I’m willing to take it slow.”

I accepted his offer and he was the most patient person in the world. Over time i became less frightened with the idea of commitment and thats how we are here today. Cuddled in bed. We are in love. We are in love because he was willing to be patient. So thank you Dan Howell for making love not so scary.

Submitted by : @octavia705 (if it will tag)

mybrothercomesfirst  asked:

I was wondering, since you set up the automated feed, if you have a favorite kind of fic to read

Honestly, I’ve always been a multishipper, plus I’ve kind of drifted off from Wincest in the last year or so, and haven’t really read anything new in a while. I run the feed because the last person that did it fell off the face of the earth sometime in the middle of 2014, and it just seemed wrong to me not to have a Wincest AO3 feed on tumblr, even if I personally don’t really read the fic any more. But I have a list of my all-time faves that I definitely recommend, although most of them are old and probably considered classics by now

  • The Incestuous Courtship of The Antichrist’s Bride - NC-17, 48,000 words, crack-horror, post Lucifer AU - Summary: Sam is trying to become the Antichrist in order to save the world. He has a small army of angels and demons, he has an adoring cult, he has a work of prophecy by Jack Kerouac, and he has Dean. Things are going pretty well until he accidentally signs Dean up as his Beloved Consort, a role that requires sex with the Antichrist on an altar. And that’s when things stop going pretty well. Also, the soundtrack to the Apocalypse sucks. (LiveJournal)
  • In Medias Res - NC-17, 38,486 words, post-hell AU - Summary: Dean wakes a day after dying with no memories of Hell, and no idea what has happened. His only clues are a catatonic Sam, and whatever his brother was doing when they were separated. (AO3)
  • One Going On Eternity And Counting - NC-17, 24,942 words, dub-con/non-con - Summary: Some boundaries were never meant to be crossed … (AO3)
  • And Other Poison Devils - NC-17, 10,976 words, fuck-or-die/dub-con - Summary: Sam steps in again, buries his face in Dean’s neck and grabs at his back, his ass, torso hot and sweaty against Dean’s. Dean tries to catch his breath, fighting every urge to jump away from Sam; has to save his brother, and there’s only one way, one way and Dean has to fucking let it happen. (AO3)
  • The Last Outpost Of All That Is - R, 59,037 words, post world end AU - Summary: The world begins with the interruption of a sleep. Which is why wakefulness is the only proof of existence. And why the world is fragmented and cannot achieve fullness. And why it constantly seeks to reconstruct fullness. In vain, because the discontinuous will never pass over into the continuous. Mathematics tells us that, last outpost of all that is. – Roberto Calasso, Ka  (AO3)
  • Stranger Than Fiction - NC-17, 50,500 words, meta comedy-drama - Summary: Dean can’t stop wondering why people would write gay porn about him and Sam. Research takes him to interesting places; re-reading novels for subtext, visiting message boards, and a really freaky place called LiveJournal. What he discovers is a sick fascination with fanfiction, more about gay sex than he ever wanted to know, and an even deeper obsession with understanding why people write this stuff. Meanwhile, they’re hunting a mysterious monster that takes the form of a person’s truest love to kill them slowly, the lines between fanfiction and reality are starting to break down, and they still have to stop Lilith and save the world. (LiveJournal)
  • Skin Like Fear - NC-17, 18,762 words, season 7 AU - Summary: It’s not that Dean doesn’t get that Sam doesn’t want to talk about whatever Hell did to him; Dean practically wrote the book on that particular brand of avoidance. Except that Sam doesn’t do this. Dean is supposed to clam up and Sam is supposed to pry and bleat about how “communication is good for the soul” or some shit. Sam is supposed to cry on his shoulder and Dean is supposed to stoically hold him and let him get it out, maybe shedding a manful tear or two in solidarity. Here’s the thing: Sam comes back from Hell with a bubble of space around him. He doesn’t want to be touched, especially by Dean, and he won’t explain. He won’t talk about Hell at all, and Dean’s going crazy. It’s going to take a strange case (and a little magic) in Michigan to break the floodgates, but when Dean finally learns the truth, he might wish that he hadn’t… (AO3)
  • The Partisan - NC-17, 38,638 words, post 9.10 AU Summary: Sam returns to the bunker and Dean before he’s ready; still, he tries to keep it professional. He fails. (AO3)
  • Come Spring - R, 8,726 words, curtain fic AU - Summary: Objectively, he can see that his brother isn’t beautiful. Not like this, stretched out like some humanoid starfish, his hair in his eyes and his mouth a drawbridge open to sleep. No, Sam looks like a naked frat boy who passed out in his little brother’s bed, legs knotted in Spiderman sheets and feet almost touching the floor. He looks oversized, too big for the everyday world they’ve wound up in; but then, he’s always been too much for Dean. (AO3)
  • It’s The Blueprint Of Your Life - NC-17, 38,400 words, Red Sky at Morning AU - Summary: Sam jerks awake in the middle of the night and everything goes to hell. Well, not literally, though Dean is staring down the barrel of less than a year before his deal comes due. In the midst of dealing (or not dealing) with his impending death, a killer ghost ship, and Bela showing up out of the blue, Dean also has to figure out what’s going on in Sam’s head to make him so twitchy, why he’s suddenly breezing through this case while writing endless notes in a notebook he won’t let Dean see. Damn it, Dean thinks, This is gonna take a lot of chickflick moments. (AO3)
  • Monumentally Stupid - NC-17, 5,800 words, hurt!Sam & first time - Summary: Sam’s hurt both hands, so Dean has to shave him. Having Dean that close to him, focused with that little concentrating frown, breath warm on his face, Dean’s competent hands tilting his head and angling him exactly the way he wants him – well, Sam’s not doing too well right now pretending he’s not attracted to his brother. And he’s only wearing boxers, Dean’s bound to notice. Dean’s going to have him all figured out. (LiveJournal)
  • The Truth In A Lie - NC-17, 62,264 words, case!file & first time - Summary: Sam and Dean pretend to be gay lovers while they hunt a monster on a bus tour of Nova Scotia. (AO3)
  • Becomes A Monster - NC-17, 35,800 words, canon divergence with past Dean/Benny warnings & violence and blood!kink - Summary: Sam’s “normal” life dissolves when his brother mysteriously returns from the dead. But when Dean came back, Benny the vampire wasn’t the only thing that came back with him. Now Sam is in a race against time to save his brother. This is one race that Sam refuses to lose. (LiveJournal)

On top of all that I definitely also recommend:

Hope that helps

Issues

Lucifer x Reader / Song fic requested by @countryfire2 / My first song fic, so I hope you enjoy. / This started out as something then took a mind of its own. / Trigger warning: Angst, hella fluff, fighting, jealousy and slight mention of suicide./ Word count 1,523


You were out grocery shopping with your long time boyfriend and soulmate, Lucifer. You started picking out tomatoes to make pasta sauce for dinner. You looked up and eyed the room looking for him only to lock eyes with a familiar face; your old work colleague, Mark. He practically ran over to you, obviously excited to see you.
“Oh, my great stars, (Y/N) is that really you?”
You had to admit, seeing your old friend really made you happy, you never really missed your life before Lucifer and knowing that things really did go bump in the night (and not in a good way)
You stood there with Mark for what felt like hours but in reality was probably only 15 minutes. Catching up and talking about work drama from your old job, Mark’s husband and two kids and how your life was and if anyone special was in it. You kindly left the details of being in love with the Devil himself out.
Eventually, Mark and you said your goodbyes and promised to keep in touch.
Suddenly from behind you, a large hand gripped your shoulder, you almost panicked until you felt the chill run through your body. It was Lucifer
“Who was he?” Lucifer asked more like growled through his teeth.
Noticing the tips of his ears getting redder, you knew he was mad and you knew where this was heading.
“Just an old work friend; ya know pre-falling in love with an angel.”
“Archangel,” he muttered. “Yes, like you’d let me forget.” “I didn’t like how happy he was to see you and how he looked at you.” “Luci, I’ll make note of that and make sure it gets to him and his husband.” Lucifer’s made an ‘o’ shape.
You decided to just change the subject and forget about it, plus you’ve been standing in the same place of the market far too long. “Did you get the bread, babe?” Lucifer looked up and nodded placing the bread in the shopping cart. “Okay, ” you beamed. “Let’s go home.”
The ride home was awkward, to say the least, and you could probably cut the tension with a butter knife. You knew what all of it was about, but decided not to bring it up. Hoping he would let it go and it was dissolving itself.
That proved not to be the case when you started to prepare dinner. As you were cutting up the tomatoes and adding the spices all you could hear from the connected kitchen was Lucifer huffing and puffing like he was trying to blow the house down.
Finally, he got up and walked in the kitchen. Lucifer being well Lucifer got right down to what was bothering him. Finally.
“I’ve been thinking.” he started. “Oh well, that never ends well, honey.” you laughed. He just looked and you and gave you a bitch face that reminded you so much of your friends the Winchester brothers. Even though his bitch face cracked into a small grin before he looked down hoping you didn’t see.
You threw the kitchen towel over your shoulder and leaned against the counter. “What’s bothering you, Luc?” you sighed.
“Like I said, I’ve been thinking and if something did happen between you and your old work friend you can tell me, I wouldn’t judge you it was before you knew me.” he tried so hard to stay calm but you could see how much this bothered him and the slight annoyance written across his face.
You breathed in deeply and locked eyes with the man in front of you, the only man you’ve ever loved. “Lucifer. I swear nothing has happened between us, ever! He’s had a husband and children as long as I’ve known him, he was my best friend. Nothing more or less.” you were growing annoyed. You had a short temper and so did he, which led to a lot of blowouts and bickering; which was what this was about to turn into. “And what was the shit about you wouldn’t judge me? If you did judge me, I would judge you too. You know 'Mr. Apoclyse!’
In the midst of this conversation; you heard the oven beep and turned around to take the bread out before it burned and stirred the sauce and noodles while you were at it before turning back to face Lucifer who hasn’t moved an inch.
"You’re lying to me,stomed,” he said softly but loud enough for you to hear one word, 'lying’. “Excuse me!” you were mad now, you’ve never lied to him and he knew it. This was his go to, a way to make sure his ego wasn’t to busted up but you went along mad as hell every single time stormed over to him now face to face “I’ve never lied to you and you damn well know it.”
Lights crackled and blew out behind you, shattered glass hitting the floor. If looks could kill you’d both be dead. “Really, Lucifer!? Why do I even bother replacing the lights when you do nothing but make the break with your angel mojo!” you stormed off to your shared bedroom and locked the door before slidding down behind it.
You ended up falling asleep because when you woke to the sounds of pots and place clattering together; you were laid in front of the door like how a dog lays on the end of a bed. You sat up groaned, shurgging the kinks and knots out of your neck and back.
You opened the door and walked back to the kitchen, to check in on Lucifer and to get food because you’re pretty sure your rumbling stomach can be heard from heaven and hell at this point.
You turned the corner that lead into the kitchen; slightly smelling pasta sauce and to your surprise you saw the man of your dreams standing at the stove in an apron with a wooden spoon taste testing the sauce. You leaned your head against the side of the entery-way and smiled. He was so cute, past all of his issues and yours who would have thought Lucifer would fall in love? You were broken from your train of thoughts when Lucifer walked over to you and pulled you into a tight hug.
“I’m so sorry, love.” then he planted a kiss on top of your head.
He grabbed your hand and lead you to the kitchen table, you haven’t even noticed that it was beautifuly light with candles and two plates of food.
He pulled your chair out and motioned for you to sit; you sat down and watched Lucifer walked around the kitchen getting out glasses and drink and hanging the apron up before he sat down.
“I’m sorry" you both said at the same time, laughing at how in sycn you two where. One of the perks of being actual soul mates.
"The dinner is beautiful, Luc. Thank you.” “You did the work, I just reheated the sauce and put in on the plates” he replied. “Still, it’s beauiful, thank you.” You got up and gave him a kiss on the lips before heading to the sink to wash dishes. Throwing Lucifer the towel to dry the off.
You spent the rest of that night watching movies and eating endless amounts of popcorn.
“You ready for bed?” he asked softly, noting you’d already been dozzing in and out of sleep. “Yeah” you mumbled and stretched your arms out for him to carry you, to lazy to walk to bed. He didn’t mind, as he scooped you up in his arms and carried you to the bedroom and laying you softly down on the bed before crawling in beside you.
You placed an arm over this stoamch and cuddled into his chest, a huge smile plasterd on your face, a huge smile on his face as well.
You spoke up after a few minuetes of just enjoying the moment, “Luc, you awake?” you whispered. “Always am, babe.” “Right” you giggled and sighed out. “What’s wrong?” he asked while turning your head so he could see your face, lightly lit by the moon outside.
You smiled up looking at his, your hair falling in your face and him pushing it away, “it’s crazy to think we’d end up like this, through all our issues, you and me. The devil himself in love with a human. You saved me, Luc. When you first met me I was a drunk hell bent on finding out what murdered my family and –” he cut you off “a sucicde misson” he added. “–okay yeah that’s true, but that comes in with you saving me, I would be dead without you. Even though I still don’t know why you saved me when you were in the mist of planning the apocolyse.” you grinned. “Because you are my light. The world would be well over if it wasn’t for me saving you that night.”
You smiled and snuggeled back into his chest while he rubbed your back, letting sleep take you over and thanking his dad for putting him in your path. 

anonymous asked:

84 and 38 for the Drabble thing

84.  “Show me what’s behind your back.”

38.  “Why can’t you appreciate my sense of humor?”

**This is Tag Team and no one can stop me**

Pranks was a prankster, duh, and honestly he believed himself to be the best around. I mean, he was clever, he did his best to keep his pranks safe and never harm someone. And really, it was the inconvenient pranks *cough* cover Logic’s desk in tiny plastic army men or changing Anxiety’s tea sugar out with salt (Pranks still had nightmare’s, Anxiety had downed the whole thing in one gulp without even a flinch) *cough* that were the best.

Yet, there were days where Pranks was done. 

Like the day Missy bested him.

Missy knew Pranks in and out, so of course she would know exactly how this prank would turn out.

Pranks had been heading to the kitchen for a snack when Missy approached him, a mischievous smirk on their lips.

“Hey Missy,” He raised an eyebrow curiously, “What’s that behind your back?”

Missy chuckled, “Nothing~”

Pranks wasn’t stupid, and as a master prankster he knew that that was the most conspicuous thing answer he could have been given.

“Missy, show me what’s behind your back.”

Missy only smirked, and in the next moment, Pranks had a long, heavy snake wrapping around his hands.

Missy was incredibly smart and devious- something you wouldn’t guess by looking at them. They looked like the softest person you could ever meet- and this was true until they decided they wanted to be otherwise.

Proof? This prank.

Missy knew that while Pranks loved snakes, he was scared when they came out of nowhere. At the same time, Pranks was a very gentle, kind, and careful person. Therefore if, by some strange chance, a snake came from nowhere and were to randomly fall on or sneak up on him, he wouldn’t throw it, nor drop it, nor do anything that may harm it.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t scream.

So Pranks stood still, rooted to the floor as the most undignified string of incoherent words flooded from his lips.

Missy was on the ground, clutching their sides at the look on Pranks face.

And it wasn’t until Pranks registered that it was a snake, and this snake wouldn’t harm him, that he noticed the second part of this prank- the fake was snake.

Another good thing about Missy- they would not, not for all of the wealth of the world- even remotely take the chance to put a real animal in harms way.

Of course the snake was fake.

“Missy!” Pranks raised his voice, “That was so not funny!”

Missy grinned up at their friend with the biggest grin Pranks had ever seen.

“Ah, why can’t you appreciate my sense of humor?” They pouted.

Pranks placed a hand to his heart, bent over and groaning dramatically.

“How anyone can think your an innocent soul is beyond me.”

Missy giggled.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about~”

There used to be a hard-and-fast rule. There was “them” and then there was “us.” “Them” was made up of artists—the people who created TV shows, books, films, music and visual art. “Us” was the group of people who consumed what they made. “Them” was set apart from “us” because “them” was creating material that was then disseminated, on a larger scale, to “us” out there in the real world. “Us” could enjoy “them” and their work, but “us” could not contribute to the creations we loved in any appreciable fashion.


But then something interesting happened: the Internet took over the world, and this hard-and-fast rule slowly began to disintegrate. All of a sudden, “us” was able to horn in on “them” and their creative process in a vey public way—most notably in the form of fanfiction.


fanfiction


All lowercase letters.


No spaces.


No CAPS.


I have a weird perspective on the subject.


I am an actor, sometimes.


And I once played a character who’s a fanfiction favorite.
I hear she/I does a whole lot of “slash-ing” … wait, that’s not the proper use of the word. This might be better:  I hear there is a lot of slash fanfiction about her/me on the internet. Which is kind of sad because this means the fanfiction version of her/me is getting a lot more action than the real me.


Before I get started, I should clarify exactly who/what I am. If the name in the byline is unfamiliar to you, you might recognize the title of the show I appeared in, or the name of the character I played in that show: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Tara Maclay, respectively.
Just FYI, I had to go online and look up whether or not the “c” in Maclay is capitalized. You would think from the amount of time I spent pretending to be this fictional character (three years), I would know how to spell her last name properly. But the truth is, there are a lot fans out there that know way more about her then I do.


And some of these more knowledgeable fans write fanfiction.


I try not to read fanfiction about her/me. I think it would be awkward and I’d forever be left wondering why she/I am so much cooler on paper/the Internet than I am in real life. I am also leery of reading anything about her/me because I really don’t want to read about my pretend-self doing naughty things with characters/people that I may or may not be attracted to in real life.


When I was on Buffy (this was many, many moons ago), not looking at Buffy fanfiction was another hard-and-fast rule. People are litigious, so anything written by a fan and sent in to the writers/producers was not supposed to be read. I have retrofitted this rule to fit my own needs—mostly because of the not-wanting-to-think-about-me-doing-naughty-things-with-fictional-characters worry—so just know that when I see you at a science fiction convention and you hand me your fanfiction about Tara/me, I will smile and take it, but I am probably not going to read it if Tara/me is being a dirty-birdy.


I have been known to read fanfiction about other things, things I have no creative/personal stake in. I might even read Buffy stuff you write, unless you have Tara Maclay giving cunnilingus to Counselor Troi (who is, by far, my father’s favorite Star Trek Betty). If you hand me something like that then I am probably going to take a pass.


Pause.


I must preface all of this with a disclaimer: I have co-written (along with Christopher Golden) a few Willow/Tara comic books. There is a difference between writing these comics and writing fanfiction and it comes down to two things: the storylines for the comics are carefully vetted by Dark Horse Comics/20th Century Fox, and there is no cunnilingus in them. (Well, at least none that ended up on the page. Maybe some dirty bits were excised before the comics went to print… and now you’ll forever wonder if I was just pulling your leg or if there really was excised cunnilingus in those comic books, right?)


I think we can all agree there’s something meta about my situation, something Adaptation-like about the layer upon layer of weirdness. Well, let me just tell you that, though you may think my creative life is meta, it’s nowhere near as meta as the creative life of my friend, Javier Grillo-Marxuach.


Be prepared. This might knock your meta-socks off.


My friend Javi is truly one of the kindest, most gifted writer/producers I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. And he possesses two qualities I very much value in other creative individuals: He treats the business of show like a team sport, and he has a genuine interest in helping others … unlike a lot of the people I’ve met in Hollywood.


Oh, and there’s a third thing, too.


He’s an honest-to-God Fan.


With a capital “F.”


So, to just point out the blurring lines here, Javi is not just an artist, he is also a fan. Where he is concerned, the words artist and fan are synonymous.


A few years ago, Javi created a brilliant television show for ABC Family called The Middleman.  (To up the meta-quotient, The Middleman was a comic book before it was adapted for television.) The Middleman had (and still has) a dedicated fan following—especially for its plucky, intelligent female heroine, Wendy Watson (played by actress Natalie Morales). So, needless to say, there were a lot of frustrated fans when the show was pulled of the air after only one season.


And one of those fans was Javi himself.


Three years later, he did something about it.


In the ultimate meta-fanfiction crossover, Javi wrote a fanfiction piece about his own show … and Doctor Who.


You can go to The Middle Blog over at LiveJournal and read his fanfiction story in its entirety. I really think you should. It’s quite brilliant, weaving together the best of The Middleman with Javi’s passionate love of Doctor Who—but what was so intriguing to me was not the piece itself (as cool as it is), but what it represented about the blurring of lines.


I realized that as much as we try to put a divide between the two worlds (“them” and “us”), there really isn’t one anymore. Not with the advent of transmedia, the rise of creator-owned content on the Internet, the domination of Twitter and Facebook. Not when Twilight fanfiction becomes a bestselling series of erotica novels. Not when the guy who made The Middleman decides to write a fanfiction piece about the television show he created because he’s still interested in telling stories about his characters.


All of these components have created a perfect storm that will forever knock down the wall of separation between artist and audience.
Would it be crazy to postulate, then, that with the blurring of the lines, the words “artist” and “fan” have become interchangeable in some ways? Just because you created a character, it doesn’t mean you get to tell the whole of their story—especially if you sell your characters to studios/television networks/comic book companies. Suddenly, these conglomerates own your creative content and they get to decide its fate. Making you, for all intents and purposes, just another fan off the thing you happened to create.


This had been going on in the comics world forever.  Poor comic book superheroes get passed around like hookers at a gangbang—they’ve always got someone new writing about them, drawing them, adding to their mythology.


So, by the same token, when a fan writes fanfiction, one might equate them to just another writer for hire on a project—they’re just not getting paid in money for their work. For them, the payment is sheer joy of writing for characters they love. They are no longer just a “fan.” Now they are an “artist.”


I’m going to insert myself here again because I’m still trying to figure out where I fit in all of this.


As an actor, I gave my voice and face to a character that someone else created and wrote the dialogue for. When someone sits down to write fanfiction about my character, they are envisioning and often describing that same face and voice, which happen to belong to me, but which I lent to the character when I played the part.


Working on the Willow/Tara comic books as a writer, I wrote about/for the character I played on Buffy. At that point, I became an artist who was using my own face and voice to give continuing life to a fictional character I played on television, but did not create.


See? It’s all very confusing.


Then add in how accessible everything is via the Internet—which is a huge tool when one wants to go about “blurring the lines”—and it’s even more troubling. On Twitter, am I just me, Amber Benson? Or am I an actor who played a character named Tara Maclay? Or am I only seen as Tara Maclay, the character from that television show you loved to watch, who for unknown reasons likes to go around calling herself Amber Benson?


Also, am I somehow creating fanfiction when I interact with people on the Internet—adding to my real-life, personal continuing storyline and to the now-defunct storyline of the character I played on television? This makes my head spin, and does nothing to answer the real question: If we can’t tell who the “artists” are, and if the “fans” are just as hard to categorize, then where does that leave us?


I actually think that—barring my own existential identity crisis—it leaves us in a very good place. Fanfiction has pried open a door, allowing fans a chance to participate in the continuing storylines of the characters they love. The Internet has given these fans and their fanfiction a high-profile stage so that the world can find and enjoy their artistic endeavors. It has also given “artists” a chance to create outside of the system—like Javi and his Middleman fanfiction—and to address questions, comments, and suggestions from their “fans” directly and in a creative way.


For better or worse, it looks a though the lines have been forever blurred. I just wish this essay had given me a little more personal clarity. Maybe I’ll just follow Javi’s example and go write some fanfiction. Maybe a little Amber/Tara slash fanfiction—so I can really confuse myself.

—  Amber Benson, from Fic: Why Fanfiction Is Taking Over the World, by Anne Jamison.

anonymous asked:

Okay why do I feel like everyone in the Harry potter/marauders writing fanfiction community thing knows you? You just seem to be a staple blog for the marauders. I always see my favorite HP blogs reblogging your stuff and it makes me smile but it's also weirdwhy are you everywhere

ahaha what?? idk am i sort of known in the hp fanfic community? i don’t think so idkkk i’m pretty sure hardly anyone has heard of “wizardwritings” but this is still very nice ty friend ! ☺️🌻💞

RPF has existed for as long as there have been celebrities. Any media ‘based on a true story!’ is RPF. Any historical fiction narrative that co-opts a real person or real group is RPF. Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar is RPF, and reflects reality just as accurately as the better and more lovingly, carefully written internet RPF of today: virtually not at all. The names remain - Julius Caesar, Mark Antony - as do certain simplified traits, the archetypal roles they play. In lieu of Actual Julius Caesar and Actual Mark Antony, we get AU!Caesar and an AU!Antony in a simpler, more dramatic narrative.
—  V. Arrow, “Real Person(a) Fiction,” in Fic: Why Fanfiction is Taking Over the World 
By The Way, Know You've Always Been The One - Gallavich oneshot.

A/N: This is just a little something I had to get off my chest. Based on s6 spoilers. Warning: the ending is not happy. Title is taken from the song Hideaway by Karen O.

“Been a long time, Gallagher.”

“Yeah, three months.” The redhead responds, after putting the phone on his ear.

They stare at each other through the stained glass of the prison. Ian looks down. It takes a while after he decides to speak again.

“Sorry, I just…had a lot on my plate right now. Some stuff I had to figure out.”

Mickey is silent again, those blue eyes locked to Ian’s face like it would bore holes in it from the intensity.

“Don’t worry about it.” The brunet gets silent again, before asking: “you okay?”

It takes a few seconds for Ian to reply, but when he does, his voice is confident.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am, Mick.” He smiles a little.

“Listen-”

“Ian-”

They both laugh.

“You go first” Mickey says.

“It’s just I-I’ve been thinking since the last time I visited you here… about you. About us” He sighs. “You ever think of me, Mick?” The redhead looks at the other boy with a determined face, his eyes hopeful, but if you looked close enough, you could see the fear in them.

It takes a beat for Mickey to answer. Then he laughs. He laughs, but it’s humorless and doesn’t reach his eyes.

“If I think about you? Of cour-Fuck.” He sighs and looks so very tired and small. Ian wishes he could make Mickey smile like he had before. That kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle.

“I-I did something while you were gone. I thought you weren’t coming back, so I didn’t think I would ever have to show you this.” He pulls his shirt down to reveal the words written on the left side of his chest. Right over his heart.

Ian Galager

Mickey doesn’t say he did it because, since he thought he would never see Ian again, that the redhead had given up on them forever, he needed something to prove to him that it was all real. That it wasn’t all in his head, that he had had Ian once and they made each other happy, even if they were miserable half of the time.

“W-what?” Ian is speechless.

Mickey just looks down, his face falling and the shame beginning to creep on his chest.

“I just-I don’t, I’m sorry. But here’s your fucking answer.”

Ian just looks at him. After a while, he looks amused and even smiles a little.

“Who’s Ian Galager?” He asks.

Mickey looks annoyed.

“What the fuck, man? Are you doing this to embarrass me? You’re an asshole.”

Ian laughs. “Mick..”

“What?” The brunet asks, not looking the other boy in the face.

“Gallagher is spelled with two l’s” He says.

Mickey looks down at his chest. “No, it’s fucking not." 

Ian laughs again. Mickey can’t help but join because the redhead’s laugh is contagious and he looks so fucking beautiful when he laughs. 

No, Mickey can’t think like that. He has to do the right thing. Like he had planned. Before he can open his mouth, though, Ian is already speaking.

"I miss you.”

Fuck.

“Ian…Jesus. You can’t just-I don’t, Fuck.” Mickey runs a hand across his face. Then he looks at Ian and says what he has to. “I don’t want you to visit me anymore.”

Ian’s whole face falls.

“What do you mean?” He asks, his voice breaking.

And in that moment, Mickey almost changes his mind, almost allows himself to be selfish and tell Ian that he needs him, that he can’t go away. But he doesn’t.

“I mean…I’m gonna be here for years, Ian. I’m gonna be here and you’re gonna be there. You’ve so much ahead of you. You gotta…” Mickey struggles to say the rest. “You gotta move on and be happy. With somebody else.”

“No!” Ian says almost immediately. “I can’t do this. I want you, Mickey. I love you”.

Mickey’s heart sinks. Holy fuck. He can’t do this.

“I-I love you, too. But I have to do this. You can’t be trapped to me, Ian. You need to be happy.”

Ian stays silent for a while. Then, “is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?”

Mickey almost smiles at the irony of this situation. All Ian had to do was smile and he had almost begged him to wait for him. 

“No.” He lies.

“Okay." 

Mickey swallow his tears.

"Hey, just do me a favor this time? Don’t date some fucking geriatric viagroid again, it’s gotta be bad for your health or something.” He says, but Ian doesn’t even smile.

With a sudden movement, Ian puts his hands on the glass. And suddenly, they are two young boys again, feeling such strong things, but unable to say it out of fear. 

This time, though, Mickey puts his hands over Ian’s.

“I’ve been taking my meds, Mick. I’ve been doing that for you” The redhead says desperately, full on crying now.

The sight is too painful.

“I-”

“Time’s up, Milkovich.” A guard says.

Mickey takes one last look at the love of his life, trying so badly to memorize every single detail, before he stands up and walks away, ignoring Ian’s protest on the way back to his cell.

Only when he arrives there, does he allow himself to break down. 

He brings a hand over his chest, right where his tattoo is. He’s not sure if he’s trying to get some comfort from it or to take away the pain in his heart. Maybe both.

This was the right thing to do. But then, why does it feel like his world is ending?

Amber Benson on fanfiction, from the book Fic: Why Fanfiction is Taking Over the World by Anne Jamison.

There used to be a hard-and-fast rule. There was “them” and then there was “us.” “Them” was made up of artists—the people who created TV shows, books, films, music and visual art. “Us” was the group of people who consumed what they made. “Them” was set apart from “us” because “them” was creating material that was then disseminated, on a larger scale, to “us” out there in the real world. “Us” could enjoy “them” and their work, but “us” could not contribute to the creations we loved in any appreciable fashion.

But then something interesting happened: the Internet took over the world, and this hard-and-fast rule slowly began to desintegrate. All of a sudden, “us” was able to horn in on “them” and their creative process in a vey public way—most notably in the form of fanfiction.

fanfiction

All lowercase letters.

No spaces.

No CAPS.

I have a weird perspective on the subject.

I am an actor, sometimes.

And I once played a character who’s a fanfiction favorite.

I hear she/I does a whole lot of “slash-ing” … wait, that’s not the proper use of the word. This might be better:  I hear there is a lot of slash fanfiction about her/me on the internet. Which is kind of sad because this means the fanfiction version of her/me is getting a lot more action then the real me.

Before I get started, I should clarify exactly who/what I am. If the name in the byline is unfamiliar to you, you might recognize the title of the show I appeared in, or the name of the character I played in that show: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Tara Maclay, respectively.

Just FYI, I had to go online and look up whether or not the “c” in Maclay is capitalized. You would think from the amount of time I spent pretending to be this fictional character (three years), I would know how to spell her last name properly. But the truth is, there are a lot fans out there that know way more about here then I do.

And some of these more knowledgeable fans write fanfiction.

I try not to read fanfiction about her/me. I think it would be awkward and I’d forever be left wondering why she/I am so much cooler on paper/the Internet than I am in real life. I am also leery of reading anything about her/me because I really don’t want to read about my pretend-self doing naughty things with characters/people that I may or may not be attracted to in real life.

When I was on Buffy (this was many, many moons ago), not looking at Buffy fanfiction was another hard-and-fast rule. People are litigious, so anything written by a fan and sent in to the writers/producers  was not supposed to be read. I have retrofitted this rule to fit my own needs—mostly because of the not-wanting-to-think-about-me-doing-naughty-things-with-fictional-characters worry—so just know that when I see you at a science fiction convention and you hand me your fanfiction about Tara/me, I will smile and take it … but I am probably not going to read it if Tare/me is being a dirty birdy.

I have been known to read fanfiction about other things, things I have no creative/personal stake in. I might even read Buffy stuff you write, unless you have Tara Maclay giving cunnilingus to Counselor Troi (who is, by far, my father’s favorite Star Trek Betty). If you hand me something like that then I am probably going to take a pass.

Pause.

I must preface all of this with a disclaimer: I have co-written (along with Christopher Golden) a few Willow/Tara comic books. There is a difference between writing these comic and writing fanfiction and it comes down to two things: the storylines for the comics are carefully vetted by Dark Horse Comics/20th Century Fox, and there is no cunnilingus in them. (Well, at least none that ended up on the page. Maybe some dirty bits were excised before the comics went to print … and now you’ll forever wonder if I was just pulling your leg or if there really was excised cunnilingus in those comic books, right?)

I think we can all agree there’s something meta about my situation, something Adaptation-like about the layer upon layer of weirdness. Well, let me just tell you that, though you may think my creative life is meta, it’s nowhere near as meta as the creative life of my friend, Javier Grillo-Marxuach.

Be prepared. This might knock your meta-socks off.

My friend Javi is truly one of the kindest, most gifted writer/producers I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. And he possesses two qualities I very much value in other creative individuals: He treats the business of show like a team sport, and he has a genuine interest in helping others … unlike a lot of the people I’ve met in Hollywood.

Oh, and there’s a third thing, too.

He’s an honest-to-God Fan.

With a capital “F”.

So, to just point out the blurring lines here, Javi is not just an artist, he is also a fan. Where he is concerned, the words artist and fan are synonymous.

A few years ago, Javi created a brilliant television show for ABC Family called The Middleman.  (To up the meta-quotient, The Middleman was a comic book before it was adapted for television.)

The Middleman had (and still has) a dedicated fan following—especially for its plucky, intelligent femake herione, Wendy Watson (played by actress Natalie Morales). So, needless to say, there were a lot of frustrated fans when the show was pulled of the air after only one season.

And one of those fans was Javi himself.

Three years later, he did something about it.

In the ultimate meta-fanfiction crossover, Javi wrote a fanfiction piece about his own show … and Doctor Who.

You can go to The Middle Blog over at LiveJournal and read his fanfiction story in its entirety. I really think you should. It’s quite brilliant, weaving together the best of The Middleman with Javi’s passionate love of Doctor Who—but what was so intriguing to me was not the piece itself (as cool as it is), but what it represented about the blurring of lines.

I realized that as much as we try to put a divide between the two worlds (“them” and “us”), there really isn’t one anymore. Not with the advent of transmedia, the rise of creator-owned content on the Internet, the domination of Twitter and Facebook. Not when Twilight fanfiction becomes a bestselling series of erotica novels. Not when the guy who made The Middleman decides to write a fanfiction piece about the television show he created because he’s still interested in telling stories about his characters.

All of these components have created a perfect storm that will forever knock down the wall of seperation between artist and audience.

Would it be crazy to postulate, then, that with the blurring of the lines, the words “artist” and “fan” have become interchangeable in some ways? Just because you created a character, it doesn’t mean you get to tell thw whole of their story—especially if you sell your characters to studios/television networks/comic book companies. Suddenly, these conglomerates own your creative content and they get to decide it fate. Making you, for all intents and purposes, just another fan of the thing you happened to create.

This had been going on in the comics world forever.  Poor comic book superheroes get passed around like hookers at a gangbang—they’ve always got someone new writing about them, drawing them, adding to their mythology.

So, by the same token, when a fan writes fanfiction, one might equate them to just another writer for hire on a project—they’re just not getting paid in money for their work. For them, the payment is sheer joy of writing for characters they love. They are no longer just a “fan”. Now they are an “artist.”

I’m goint to insert myself here again because I’m still trying to figure out where I fit in all of this.

As an actor, I gave my voice and face to a character that someone else created and wrote the dialogue for. When someone sits down to write fanfiction about my character, they are envisioning and often describing that same face and voice, which happen to belog to me, but which I lent to the character when I played the part.

Working on the Willow/Tara comic books as a writer, I wrote about/for the character I played on Buffy. At that point, I became an artist who was using my own face and voice to give continuing life to a fictional character I played on television, but did not create.

See? It’s all very confusing.

Then add in how accessible everything is via the Internet—which is huge tool when one wants to go about “blurring the lines”—and it’s even more troubling. On Twitter, am I just me, Amber Benson? Or am I an actor who played a character named Tara Maclay? Or am I only seen as Tara Maclay, the character from that television show you loved to watch, who for unknown reasons likes to go around calling herself Amber Benson?

Also, am I somehow creating fanfiction when I interact with people on the Internet—adding to my real-life, personal continuing storyline and to the now-defunct storyline of the character I played on television? This makes my head spin, and does nothing to answer the real question: If we can’t tell who the “artists” are, and if the ”fans” are just as hard to categorize, then where does that leave us?

I actually think that—barring my own existential identity crisis—it leaves us in a very good place. Fanfiction has pried open a door, allowing fans a chance to participate in the continuing storylines of the characters they love. The Internet has ginven these fans and their fanfiction a high-profile stage so that the world can find and enjoy their artistic endeavors. It has also given “artists” a chance to create outside of the system—like Javi and his Middleman fanfiction—and to address questions, comments, and suggestions from their “fans” directly and in a creative way.

For better or worse, it looks a though the lines have been forever blurred. I just wish this essay had given me a little more personal clarity. Maybe I’ll just follow Javi’s example and go write some fanfiction. Maybe a little Amber/Tara slash fanfiction—so I can really confuse myself …

Fanfiction is the madwoman in mainstream culture’s attic, but the attic won’t contain it forever. Writing and reading fanfiction isn’t just something you do; it’s a way of thinking critically about the media you consume, of being aware of all the implicit assumptions that a canonical work carries with it, and of considering the possibility that those assumptions might not be the only way things have to be.
—  Anne Jamison, Fic: Why Fanfiction is Taking Over the World.

anonymous asked:

Hey I love all your writing I was wondering if I could have "the diamond in your engagement ring is fake" with Matthew Murdock or any of the Inglorious Bastards character you write for Thank you

((I went w/ Inglorious Basterds bc why tf not))

You walked into the room, and almost immediately, your lover Archie strode over to you.

The diamond in your engagement ring is fake,” he said, looking quite worried, you quirked an eyebrow. “It’s fake, (Y/N). I’m so sorry, darling.”

“Why?” You chuckled, taking off the silly ring and tossing it aside without a care in the world.

“Because… Don’t you love him?” Archie furrowed his brows when you shook your head and gave him a nonchalant shrug.

“Not really,” you replied, taking his hands in yours. “Because I love you.”

“Does he know?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“We called the engagement off before I came with you.”

“Darling, why would you do such a thing?”

“My family wanted me to marry him, Archie, but I wanted to marry you.”

“Do you still want to marry me?”

“Will you get me an engagement ring with a real diamond?”

“The biggest.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, darling.”

This Love (came back to me)

Please have some harmless, super Olicity Fluff.

(Word : 888)

There’s a warm feeling enveloping her body and her heart as soon as she walks into her hallway. Not only because it’s really cold outside, but mostly because she’s home and to quote an old saying, this is where her heart is.

That sounds really cliché but she really couldn’t care less at that moment.

After discarding her coat and her shoes, she steps into the living room, smiling at the view. Oliver is settled comfortably on the couch, his feet resting on the coffee table, nursing a drink and watching a football game. He turns his head as he hears her come in.

“Hey,” he greets her in that low voice, the one that still makes her shiver even after 5 years. She sits down on the armrest, leaning to kiss him, tasting the brandy on his lips. She pulls away but his hand cups her cheek, prolonging the kiss.

“Long day?”

She nods, her hand caressing his hair before coming to rest on his stubble. She loves the slightly scratchy feeling on her palm.

“Yes. But that project I was working on ? It’s done. I figured it out.”

“Of course you did,” he says, the hint of pride in his voice matching the love in his eyes. “Did you eat?”

“I had some Chinese leftovers.”

His scowl lets her know what he thinks about her regime and she laughs. She kisses him once more.

“I’ll go take a shower,” she whispers against his mouth, “And then I have a surprise for you.”

He raises an eyebrow, grinning. “What kind of surprise?”

“The kind you absolutely don’t see coming.”

He lets her go with a laugh and she smiles. She’s never tired of hearing it.

Her ablutions don’t take long since she’s eager to join her husband on the couch. She quickly brushes her hair and puts on her pj’s before coming to sit next to him, hiding something in her hand, an impish smile on her face.

Now that Felicity is here the football game doesn’t really hold his attention anymore and he looks at her with a questioning look.

“Ok, what’s going on?”

She takes a deep breath before showing him a pink pregnancy stick.

“What is it…Oh!” his eyes widen and he automatically reaches to take it but she pulls her hand away.

“No, don’t touch it. I peed on that.”

He chuckles. “Well if you don’t let me see it how am I suppose to know if it’s negative or positive?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oliver, why would I show you a negative one?” She puts it right under his nose and he has to squint to see it.

“I’m pregnant,” she announces dramatically and he shakes his head with a tender smile.

“Come here.”

She puts the test on the floor before slipping into his embrace and settling on his lap.

He kisses her before giving her a look of happiness – the kind that she has seen on his face more and more since that beautiful day on the beach when they got married a few years ago.

“A baby,” he whispers with reverence in his voice and his hand comes to rest carefully on her flat stomach. She puts her hand on his.

“And we weren’t even trying,” she replies with awe in her voice.

He gives her a teasing look. “Really? Because I remember a lot of practice.”

She blushes. “Well yeah, but not with that in mind.”

He shrugs. “That makes it a wonderful surprise then.”

“Oh yes,” she sighs, putting her head in the crook of his neck, snuggling against his frame and he grabs the blanket on the backrest of the couch, surrounding them in a warm cocoon.

“No more leftovers at the office from now on,” he tells her in a soft warning tone.

“No. Only healthy meals at home with my hubby, when he’s not chasing bad guys.”

“I like the sound of that.” His arms tighten around her and he puts a kiss on her blond mane.

“You’re going to coddle me like that for the next few months, aren’t you?”

He grins. “What do you think?”

She giggles. The warm of the blanket and Oliver’s body as well as the soothing and steady rise of his chest lull her into a light somnolence.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against her forehead.

She brings her head to his neck, giving it a soft caress. “Hey, I didn’t do it alone. Well technically I could have, I suppose. But fortunately you were there too, which made it much more fun. So thank you too.”

He lets out a gentle laugh. “God, I really hope our kid gets your brain.”

“I hope so too. With your insanely good look and my genius brain she or he will take over the world.”

His fingers softly scratch the skin above her hip and she squeaks.

“You’re supposed to say that my brain is worth something too,” he chastised her.

Her laugh is muffled against his sweater. “Heee. That’s exactly why I didn’t say it.”

He grumbles good-naturedly but nuzzles his nose in her hair, muttering sweet nothings.

“I know, husband. I love you too.”