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submariini · 7 months

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When Finland’s Käärijä took the stage at this year’s Eurovision, a star was instantly, explosively born. With an outrageous energy, infectious presence and that oh-so-catchy hook, the Vantaa-based rapper may not have won the contest but he certainly snatched the hearts of those in his home country and beyond. We ask Käärijä the million dollar question: what next?

[full article under the cut]

Last May, a peculiar frenzy engulfed Finland. Virtually all green foods – cucumbers, especially – were sold out from stores. Buildings across the land were bathed in vivid green lights. Social media brimmed with green-themed parties, while data obtained by Swedish fintech company Klarna showed a 570 per cent increase in the online sales of neon green shirts.

This phenomenon was all thanks to Käärijä, the rapper who represented Finland in the 2023 Eurovision Song Contest. His now-infamous, blazing green puff sleeve bolero – dreamt up by Finnish broadcasting company Yle’s costume design team and which he dons when performing the smash hit track ‘Cha Cha Cha’ – had taken on a life of its own, the lush hue uniting the entire nation amid the competition. “It was incredible to see it happen and so cool being part of it,” Käärijä says. “It wasn’t planned at all – it was the people who created the commotion. I’ll definitely never forget it.”

When we speak over Zoom, Käärijä, whose real name is Jere Pöyhönen, is lounging in his minimal apartment in Vantaa, a city just outside Helsinki. He appears on my screen shirtless, a chunky gold chain dangling on his neck. On his head sits a pastel turquoise cap adorned with little cat ears. As he gestures with his hands, I spot flashes of poison green nail varnish. Pöyhönen’s chosen attire, or lack thereof, is extremely fitting – he typically performs bare-chested (“It gets so hot during my gigs”) and his Instagram handle is @paidatonriehuja, or ‘shirtless rascal’.

Hot off a performance in western Finland, the 29-year-old is enjoying his first days off in a while. It’s been a sweltering summer of non-stop touring, with fans flocking to festivals and concerts nationwide to see his explosive live show. Things are not winding down either, with Käärijä heading off on his first-ever European tour this month. Some of these shows sold out in mere minutes, an indication of his immense international following. “It’s so exciting; I’m definitely jumping into a new territory with that tour,” Pöyhönen says. “But I don’t have any expectations – I’m just going to let everything happen organically rather than stressing about it.”

Although he created one of this year’s buzziest songs, the guy on my screen is humble and, save for his look, almost un assuming. I remark on the stark contrast to his fiery and flamboyant stage presence. “Through Käärijä, I get to channel all the craziness, quirkiness and hyperactivity I’ve had since I was a child,” Pöyhönen says, describing himself offstage as “just this ordinary dude”. Without delving into further details, he tells me that the name Käärijä (translating roughly to moneymaker) stems from a history with gambling. Despite the darkness of its origin, he notes that the moniker is to be taken with a grain of salt.

While it might seem like Käärijä exploded into the public consciousness from obscurity, Pöyhönen has a long journey in music behind him. Born in Helsinki but having spent most of his youth in Vantaa, he started dabbling in the medium at just three years old. Coming from a musical family (“My dad and big brother both play the guitar”), jamming sessions were commonplace in the Pöyhönen household, his instrument of choice being the drums. “I was playing with pots and spoons before I got a set of those plastic kids’ drums,” he says. “When we moved to a bigger house, we built a band room downstairs where me and my brother spent a lot of time practising.”

At that time, rap music hadn’t yet entered Pöyhönen’s life; he was strictly a self-described “metal guy”. His older brother had instilled in him a love for the genre, particularly metal icons Rammstein. Upon starting high school, his musical taste broadened and he began listening to Eminem and popular Finnish rap groups Fintelligens and JVG. “Me and my friends were filming our own music videos to old rap songs, learning the words by heart,” Pöyhönen says. “It [making rap music] pretty much started as this humour thing I did with my mates.”

Encouraged by his loved ones, Pöyhönen began writing his own songs, still playing it for laughs. Turned out he had a knack for it. “Since I was little, I’ve been an avid storyteller – my imagination ran a little wilder than the rest of the kids’ at my school,” he says. “So when I started making music, I didn’t even need inspiration; I was able to whip up the lyrics from my head.”

But then, at 15, an unexpected turning point came by way of a severe sudden illness. Rushed to the hospital with ulcerative colitis, a chronic inflammatory bowel disease, Pöyhönen underwent emergency surgery to remove his colon. Had he not been treated immediately, the complications could have been fatal. “I was writing songs in the hospital – music became a source of strength for me,” he says. “I decided that if I make it through this, I’m going to give my all to music and be serious about it.”

After over a decade of hard work and countless hours in the studio, Käärijä released his first album, Fantastista (Fantastic), in 2020, but it would take three years for him to become a household name in Finland. After snapping up the top prize in Uuden Musiikin Kilpailu (the Finnish contest for new music) with his party anthem ‘Cha Cha Cha’, a song dedicated to a hedonistic night out fusing rap, electronic music and metal, he secured the coveted spot as his country’s entrant for the 2023 Eurovision, held in Liverpool. One of Pöyhönen’s craziest dreams had come true.

For Pöyhönen, Eurovision was “an amazing but immensely tough experience”. The event’s intense schedule and the little time carved out for practising surprised the artist. There was no room for errors or retakes once it was time for rehearsals. “They didn’t give much mercy,” he says. On the bright side, the long days filled with “lots of press conferences and waiting around” gave Pöyhönen a chance to get to know the other artists. “The group we had there was wonderful – there wasn’t a competitive atmosphere at all,” he says. One of the contestants he became especially close with was Sweden’s Loreen, with whom he exchanged numbers and promised to “meet up and talk about everything else but music”.

By the time the grand finale came, Käärijä’s explosive performance and infectious song had made him one of the favourites to win. Ultimately he came second, while Loreen nabbed first place. How did Pöyhönen handle the letdown? “It was a huge disappointment, but in the end, the feeling didn’t last long,” he says. “When I thought about how far I’d gotten, the incredible journey it was and all the new friends I made, I realised that these things are far more meaningful than winning.” Plus, he still achieved something major: ‘Cha Cha Cha’ made history as the first ever Finnish song to reach Spotify’s global most-listened charts. The track’s reach proved to Pöyhönen that language doesn’t matter; it’s all about creating a singular, infectious sound: “The mouth is just as much of an instrument as the piano or the guitar is,” he says.

Having made history, I ask Pöyhönen if he felt any pressure after the Eurovision bubble had burst. “Of course there are the thoughts of ‘what now?’ and ‘is this going to be it, will anyone be interested anymore next year?’ – I’m aware that the hype won’t last forever,” he says. “But I’m onto creating the next thing, trying not to feel any pressure for future releases. I haven’t done that before, so why would I do that now?”

Pöyhönen hints at a new album dropping sometime next year, but in the meantime, he’s enjoying the attention – including his Vogue Scandinavia debut. Shot at the extraordinary home of the late interior architect Antti Nurmesniemi and his wife, textile artist Vuokko Nurmesniemi, we find the space where Pöyhönen and Käärijä meet, the quiet confidence mingling with that more-is-more persona.

And while Käärijä might develop as a character (“I want to show that he’s more than just a bolero chap”), he’s adamant that he will stay true to his music and keep singing in Finnish, despite the sudden international attention. “In the end, I’m doing this for myself,” he says. “Also, why change something that works?”

Photographer: Karoliina Bärlund Stylist: Sanna Silander Talent: Käärijä Hair Stylist and Makeup Artist: Neea Kuurne Photographer Assistant: Milja Laakso Stylist Assistant: Nelli Korhonen

#käärijä #jere pöyhönen #eurovision #the article in full

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mcuamerica · 5 days

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The Shadowsinger: Two

Warnings: 18+. Minors DNI. loss of family, grieveing, heavy spoilers for ACOTAR series. If I forgot anything, please let me know!

Pairings: (Eventual) Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: After Rhys offers you the chance to stay in Velaris, you meet the Inner Circle.

Disclaimer: I do not own SJM’s characters, only the ones I create for the purpose of this story. This is a work of fiction. I do not give permission to repost my work on any other platform or medium. Please be respectful.

My graphics are my own. If you wish to use them, please give credit!

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Prologue - One

Rhysand didn’t bother with introducing you that day. Knowing you needed some time alone before introducing you to his family. Seeing them so happy together wasn’t something you needed. So he ushered you to a free room in the House of Wind. You spent the next week in there, not even having to leave your room as the House had sent food up to you. And the dishes were taken away when you were done.

When you finally decided to leave the room, you made your way to a balcony at the end of the hall. Even though your windows had been open, the light fall breeze soothing you, (and you had your own balcony of your own) you wanted to be outside. Not sequestered in a room anymore. Rhysand didn’t say if you could leave or not. You in no way thought you were a prisoner here, but you didn’t know if he wanted anyone to know about you. You were a Shadowsinger, and one that had killed and spied for Amarantha. From what you knew about the Court of Nightmares, it may be a bad idea to venture out by yourself.

But this wasn’t the Court of Nightmares. Rhys said it was Velaris. He took you to Velaris. And as you looked out from the balcony, you saw what it wasn’t. It wasn’t a city of nightmares. It was a city of dreams.

Your shadows alerted you of his presence before you heard him, too lost in the city that you looked out upon.

“I’m glad you’re out of your room.” He said, hands in his pockets.

You turned around, eyes wide when you saw the strong, large wings towering behind him. “You never said you had wings.” You mentioned.

“I didn’t want them getting ripped off.” He said and you swallowed. If only you had that luxury. These past 50 years would have been easier, you thought, if you could have hidden your wings.

“I knew you were Carynthian… I don’t know why I thought you didn’t have wings.” You said, a light chuckle falling from your lips.

“Because no one but my family and those at Windhaven have seen them.” He said and you nodded.

“Right…” you said and turned back to the view. “This isn’t the Court of Nightmares.” You finally said. "And it certainly isn't the mountain atop Hewn City..." You had seen it before, when Amarantha asked Rhys to show her it again. She had you come along. If you never had to go back there, you would be happy.

“This is the Court of Dreams.” He said and you looked at him as he strolled to your side, a soft smile coming to your lips.

“It’s beautiful.” You said.

“It is…” he said and looked at you. “Are you ready to meet my family?” He asked.

You took a deep breath, nodding your head. “Yeah, I think I am… I think I’m ready to meet the real Rhys, too.” You said and nudged his arm.

Most people feared him. Or hated him. But you knew that there was something more to him than the cold, frightening exterior. Maybe it was because you knew he was protecting this. Or maybe it was because he had never once harmed you while Under the Mountain. But you knew that he wasn’t the typical High Lord of the Night Court that people said he was. He helped you during the past 50 years, and you had a bond that not many people down there came out with. It certainly wasn't a mating bond, but you considered him your brother. Even if he didn't consider you his sister.

You made your way from the balcony to the dining room with him, trailing behind. Your shadows swirled around you, nerves twisting your gut. It shocked you when a couple shadows darted away from you down the stairs into the dining room, without you asking. Then again, you didn't always have the best control of your shadows. Sure, you were a decent spy for Amarantha, but that didn't mean you truly knew how to use them to your advantage.

You remembered what Rhys said while at the Mountain. You were going to meet another Shadowsinger.

You stopped at the last step, listening as your shadows returned. “Safe. It’s safe. Go. Meet him.” They whispered.

Rhys paused and nodded towards the dining room. “They might be a lot, but they won’t hurt you.” He said and you nodded. As if your shadows’ reassurance wasn’t enough.

You took a deep breath as you walked towards the dining room. The glow of the faelight greeted you, and then you stood in front of the Inner Circle. In front of Rhy’s family.

A gorgeous female stood on the right, golden curled hair flowing down her back. An Illyrian male with long, black hair towered beside her. Next to him, was a small female who had glowing silver eyes and a skeptical look on her face. And finally, in the corner, in the shadows, was the other Shadowsinger, another Illyrian male with shorter black hair. But more gorgeous, beautiful than all the others combined. Including Rhys.

“(Y/N), this is my family. My Inner Circle. The Court of Dreams.” He said and smiled. “My third in command and my cousin, Morrigan,” he started and she tsked at him.

“Mor, call me Mor.” she said, a breathtaking smile on her face.

Rhys held back an eye roll as he moved on to the large Illyrian next to her. “Cassian, my brother and the commander of my armies.” The male gave a crooked smile, almost shrinking to make himself less… large. “Amren, my second in command.” He continued, the female narrowing her eyes before giving you a very, very subtle smile. “And my other brother and spymaster… the other Shadowsinger I mentioned, Azriel.”

Your shadows fluttered at his name, swirling around your arms and feet before going towards him. You silently pulled them back, not wanting for them to leave you just yet.

“Hi-“ you said and winced at the timidness of your voice. “Hi,” you said again, this time more firm. “I’m (Y/N)… Vash. But I don’t use my surname often.” You said.

“Vash… isn’t that the name of the prick in Valorworth?” Cassian asked and you went still, your shadows retreating more towards you.

“You- you know my father?” You asked and Cassian shut his mouth from a look from Rhys.

“It’s nice to meet you, (Y/N). We haven’t had any newcomers here in a long time. And none that were females.” Mor chimed in. You glanced over to Amren in response.

“I was here long before her, girl.” Amren said and you felt an unconscious shiver go down your spine.

“It’s nice to meet you all as well.” You said and cleared your through. “I uh… understand if you have questions.”

“Please, Rhys has told us just as much about you as he has about Feyre.” Cassian said and you shifted on my feet, glancing at Rhys. You supposed that made sense. Feyre did save everyone. Freed you to come back here. The tone in which Cassian said Feyre's name, however, seemed like there was more too it than just that.

“I suppose that’s good then,” I said.

“You took care of our brother when he needed it, that’s more than good.” The Shadowsinger, well, the other Shadowsinger, spoke.

As they swirled around you, your shadows gave away the fluster you felt from his words, under his gaze. You didn't know why you reacted that way, but you wouldn't question it.

“Brother?” You managed to ask and looked at Rhys.

“Not by blood, but by bond.” Rhys said and you nodded. “I know the feeling,” you said.

“Mor, though, is actually my cousin. Her father presides over the Court of Nightmares. After her, of course.” He said and smiled at Mor.

You relaxed a bit when Rhys told them to sit, and you tentatively took a seat next to him. You were a bit in shock that he didn’t sit at the head of the table. None of them did. It was set for 6, but had enough chairs for twelve.

You didn’t know where the girl that would tease and laugh with new people went. When you had met Sirona, even though you were hurt, you still brought light into your conversations. Into your life. Now, it was like the shadows that comforted you… devoured you. Like they were your master, not the other way around. It wasn’t so much on the outside, but on the inside. Where there was once a raging fire of happiness and hope, was now dimly lit embers struggling to stay ablaze.

The longer you spent around the Circle, the more you thought maybe one day you could rekindle that fire. Maybe you could be that bright, happy, hopeful female you were back in the village. Before Amarantha. Before you lost your family. You had a tugging feeling in your gut that the other Shadowsinger would help you get there.

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A/N: I hope you all enjoyed! These earlier chapters are shorter, around 1,000 - 1,5000 words. The later ones are about double that. I'm almost done writing the series and I'm very eager to get it out, so I'm going to start posting 3 chapters a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. Around 3PM CDT (Chicago). Let me know if you have suggestions or questions!

Tagging:

@cherry-cin @cleverzonkwombatsludge @nickishadowsinger139 @atomolvnar @complete-randomness-2 @lilah-asteria @tele86

#acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #azriel #azriel spymaster #azriel shadowsinger #the shadowsinger #katie writes #acotar spoilers #azriel x reader

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thornhawthorne · 3 months

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The thing about writing trans characters is that it is 100% guaranteed that at least a few trans people are going to be unhappy with whatever you write — not necessarily through any fault of your own, though that is certainly a possibility, but because there is such a dearth of trans representation in general.

Trans people are hungry and we’ve mostly been getting by on crumbs. I’m not saying that there are NO media with trans characters, but you have to admit that there are not a lot of really good things to read/watch/consume that have trans characters (and this is without getting into the question of whether or not those characters or the media they’re presented in cater to your particular tastes!)

^ This is usually the real problem. Certain genres and mediums have it worse, too! Think about how expensive it is to make movies or TV shows and how many people you have to get approval from and how many people need to be hired and paid to make one that makes it to cable, streaming services, or theaters, as an example.

Books and comics give us more to choose from in part because the barrier to pushing one out into the world is lower, though still not as much as I would like.

Personally, I want to make a TV show, but I can’t. So, I’m making the story into a comic that could maybe get adapted someday. This brings us close to my point:

Two of the protagonists (and many more of the side characters) in my current project are canonically trans. To some people, these two will be refreshing / the representation that they have been waiting to see for AGES. Those people will feel like they are being presented with a feast. To others, it will feel like being handed an empty plate and told to eat up. Those people are not wrong and I will not take it personally. The way that my writing makes them feel will be extremely real and undeniably valid.

What I want fellow writers to understand is that these feelings are not always going to be the fault of the individual author of the individual project that inspired these feelings (with the caveat that it does kind of suck when a new fictional trans person turns out to be exactly like all the other crumbs we’ve been forced to call a feast.) The people you make angry by breaking away from the norm could simply be mad because they’re used to feeling seen rather than because you've done something terrible.

People will be angry if a trans character is conventionally attractive or if they aren’t. They’ll be angry if you make the character pre-everything, non-op, HRT only, 10 years into a “do everything” transition, fat, thin, tall, short, etc. They’ll be angry if you make the character gay, straight, bi, pan, aro, ace -- I could keep going, but I won’t.

My point is that while you should definitely take the reasoning behind the anger your work may inspire into consideration and you should ABSOLUTELY remain critical of your own work if you want it to be the best it could possibly be...

You also have to be aware that you CANNOT please everyone, especially not with a single trans character in isolation, and you should not work yourself half to death trying to meet some imaginary guidelines of what “good” representation is, because it doesn’t exist.

"Good representation" means something different to everyone.

Also, someone already made basically what I was trying to express in this post but better and also in a single image:

#thorn Hawthorne #the comic #blog posts #transgender #oh boo hoo my transgender protagonist might have committted a murder guess you just need to read the whole comic to find out if she did

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sister-lucifer · 1 year

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Inspire Me

Edward Nygma A.K.A. The Riddler x Male Reader

(This was inspired and technically written with The Riddler from Batman: The Audio Adventures in mind, but I feel like any version of Eddie works here)

Genre: Smut

Summary: Edward has caught an unfortunate case of writer’s block, but he can always count on you to inspire him

Content/Warnings: Riding, praise, pet names, Edward cums inside

Like my writing? I take requests! NSFW or SFW for any fandoms in my bio!

Also, please reblog! it’s free, takes two seconds, and really helps me out

Feedback is encouraged and appreciated:)

Not fully proofread! Let me know if you see any errors!

“Nothing, nothing, nothing!”

Edward’s frustrated voice reverberated off the walls, the echoes of his anger ringing in your ears from the other room. You sighed to yourself at the sound.

No matter how smart Edward may be, no one is immune to writers block. It is a terrible plague that befalls evil and innocent alike, an indiscriminate ailment with no real cure, and he’d caught it bad. You could hear him quickly crumple up another few papers and toss them away, groaning loudly when they didn’t make it into the overflowing trashcan.

For days now he had been pondering like this. He didn’t tell you exactly what had happened, but the Batman had done something or other that had gotten under his skin even more than usual. He’d been doing next to nothing but seething and brainstorming, but it seems nothing substantial had come of it.

You always worried about Edward when he became like this. You hated seeing him upset, even if it was over something trivial, but you also knew that his greatest breakthroughs always directly followed his worst struggles. Any time soon now he would have his “eureka” moment, you could feel it.

Of course, that’s not to say he wouldn’t need any help.

“Oh, sweetheeeaaart!” Edward called to you in a sing-song tone. Your heart fluttered at the nickname, and you immediately rushed to him.

“Yes, Mr. Nygma?” You replied, poking your head into the doorway. The sight before you was a bit jarring, but certainly not unexpected.

Edward was sitting on the floor accompanied by mountains of discarded papers, half-done drawings of possible inventions or plans of attack surrounding him on all sides. A few metal knickknacks and machine parts laid scarcely about as well. He quickly brushed some of the discarded items away with his arm upon seeing the face you made, but it did little to help.

You could tell what he was going to ask you from the embarrassed, lopsided smirk on his face alone.

You and Edward had been a team long before you became his “muse.” He had discovered your brilliant ability to inspire him through…intimate means completely by accident, but he was glad he did. He wasn’t sure how it worked—maybe it was the desperately needed stress relief, or the endorphin rush of an orgasm; it didn’t really matter—but it was more effective than anything he’d tried before. He only used it as a last resort of course (he didn’t want you to feel as though he was just using you), but you were more than happy to lend him a hand.

Or a mouth.

Or a hole.

“My darling, my love, the light of my life,” He began, gesturing for you to come closer. He always did enjoy the overuse of pet names. “As I’m sure you can tell my recent attempts at criminal endeavors have not been very…”

He flicked a paper ball away with a bored expression as he blew a lock of hair out of his face.

“…Successful.”

“Yes, Mr. Nygma, I’ve taken note.” You flashed him an understanding smile as you walked towards him, papers crunching loudly beneath your shoes. “Is there any way I can assist you?”

Edward responded by simply patting his lap.

Once you’d planted yourself on top of him he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in close with a sigh.

“Oh, my handsome muse! I’m afraid that my medium has not been kind to me,” He lamented, “Try as I might, no matter how many ideas I conjure nothing is good enough. I’ve exhausted all my resources…”

You hid your face in the crook of his neck, one of your hands sliding down his arm to lace your fingers with his. You gave a playful squeeze, and you could hear the faintest giggle slip past Edward’s lips.

“Eddie…” You whispered. Your warm breath against his ear nearly made him shudder.

“Yes, my love?”

You pulled back, looking him up and down and toying with the collar of his button up.

“There’s no need to beat around the bush, you know. If you need me to inspire you, you only need to ask.”

—————————————————————

“Oh, my inspiration! You beautiful thing, you!” Edward gushed, arms holding you tightly to his chest. The praise encouraged you to bounce faster, craving the feeling of his cock hitting deep inside of you. His restless hands groped and grabbed at every bit of soft flesh you had to offer, leaving no spot on the outside or inside of you untouched.

“Oh, Eddie!” You mewled in return as you leaned in to press desperate kisses to his jawline.

“Faster, sweetheart, please…” Edward pleaded. You could feel each heavy breath he took as his chest rose and fell against your own. Your hands held tightly to his shoulders to keep your balance, nails digging into the wrinkled fabric of his loose button up. “More, my love! I can feel it— I can feel your wonderful inspiration! You are absolute perfection, my muse!”

The best part of his sweet praises was knowing that he meant each and every word.

Edward adored you. You were the very spirit of his creativity, and he was reminded of it every time he turned to you for ideas.

Edward needed you in more ways than one, and he was never ashamed to show it.

“Oh, s-sweetheart—!” He stuttered, an unusual habit for him that only you were ever allowed to witness, “Sweet boy, I-I’m close—!”

He didn’t have to warn you; you’ve done this more than enough times to see all the signs. You felt every little twitch of his cock inside of you, and he felt every subtle quiver of yours in return. The feeling of your leaking member grinding against his stomach as you rode him brought him satisfaction to no end.

“My love, please, will you give me the honor…?” Edward asked, his words soft and sincere against your shoulder.

“Of course, Eddie,” You replied eagerly. You’d never hesitate to let Edward fill you up, just how you both liked. “Anything for you.”

It was clear you were losing your rhythm now, all your focus directed to angling your hips to hit just the right spot. Edward bucked up into you in return, throwing his head back with a drawn out moan as you squeezed around him. Soon he was thrusting into you wildly, desperately chasing his release.

“Yes, yes—! Just a bit more! God, mmph—! Perfection!”

His words of encouragement were sprinkled between frantic calls of your name, which soon took over any attempt at forming a cohesive sentence. He held on to you for dear life, practically screaming for you as he came. The sudden warm rush of him filling you was enough to give you the last extra push you needed.

“Oh, Eddie!”

Your last cry was shrill and broken, barely managed between incessant noises of pleasure. Edward hummed in delight at the feeling of your cum falling across his chest.

Soon you slowed to a stop, both of you going silent as you caught your breath. You rested your forehead on Edward’s chest as he stroked your hair tenderly.

“Oh, my love, that was exactly what I needed…” Edward said through heavy breaths. You couldn’t help but grin at that.

“I can feel the ideas flowing, the perfect plan is in my sights— Oh, yes! That’s it! I’m so glad I have you.” The more he spoke the more giddy with excitement he became, muttering to himself in who knows what languages as you stared up at him dreamily. He was adorable when he was like this. You pressed a sweet kiss to his lips, one you both smiled into.

“You have no idea how much of a help you’ve been, my love. I can’t thank you enough.”

You shifted in Edward’s lap, placing your hand over his where it rested on your side.

“You’re welcome, Eddie. I’ll always be here to inspire you.”

if you like this fic and want to support me, please reblog! its free, takes two seconds, and it’s essential for all creators on tumblr:)!

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vcidgalpin · 1 year

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But I don’t like a gold rush

Tyler Galpin x Reader (Wednesday)

Warnings: Bit of angst but mostly fluff, teasing, jealousy, self-hatred/doubt, not beta read

Based on the song ‘Gold rush’ by Taylor Swift; Y/N sees Tyler as this perfect man, who she wants all to herself. But of course, there’s no way someone so beautiful and kind would choose her. A conversation about a certain other girl causes this sinking feeling to bubble up to the surface.

Tyler Galpin may just be the most beautiful person Y/N has ever seen in her life. And not just because of the golden locks that curl perfectly atop his head, or the long golden lashes that flutter everytime he gets flustered, with a complimentary rose blush painting his cheeks. The real hard hitter his that this golden boy also dons a heart of gold too. To Y/N, this barista is just pure gold. One thing about gold is that you can’t take your eyes off of it, the way it glitters at the slightest sprinkle of light. Unfortunately for her, that means that many others see Tyler in the same way as her. The nagging of her brain calling out ‘everybody wants him’ is something too loud for her to keep drowning out, especially since the arrival of Wednesday Addams.

To Y/N, Wednesday has always been an enigma - a tough one to crack. It makes sense why people instantly seemed to take interest in uncovering what’s underneath the pale skin and dead gazes. Which is why Y/N didn’t think it would be that much of a punch to her gut as it was when Tyler started bringing the girl up in conversations the two had, sitting in their booth at the weathervane.

“Hey, do you know much about that Wednesday girl? She goes to Nevermore with you right?” Tyler asks softly, between quiet sips of his latte. Y/N has to clear her throat after being thrown so off guard at this sudden inquery.

“All I know is that she has a lot of eyes on her right now. Apparently killed a couple kids at her last school or something? I don’t know, but she certainly has a spotlight on her,” Y/N replies, shrugging to emphasize that this isn’t exactly what she had in mind for a conversation topic today.

“I see why. She has an interesting air about her,” Tyler seems to trail off. Y/N takes this bout of silence to admire the boy across the booth. Veiny hands gripping the medium coffee cup - well, it looks more like a small when his hands are holding it. Slight pink on his nose tip, like he’s frostbitten and has entered this café for some shelter. All she can think is ‘what must it be like to grow up that beautiful?’, when Tyler starts to ramble on again, “I mean, I’ve seen her around here with that Xavier guy a couple of times. He’s clearly setting his sights on her. I mean, is that guy trying to get at me or something, it’s like - he sits right in my eyeline and steals glances at me before throwing a weird taunting smile and looking back to Wednesday,”

“God, you sound like a jealous boyfriend or something!” Y/N snaps. A red flush crawls up her neck and face, instantly sitting in a regretful and shocked (on Tyler’s end) silence. Her fists, that she didn’t even know she was clenching, relax and her face wears a mortified expression, “Fuck, I- I’m sorry I didn’t mean… What I meant was-“

“You know… That seems a little hypocritical of you Y/N,” Tyler says, in an unreadable voice. If Y/N wasn’t trying to sink into a pit in the floor, she would see a tugging at the corner of the boy’s lips. As she processes the words her mind starts to race,

“What? The hell does that mean?” Her words seemed as though she wanted them to be delivered with bite, but - as if her outburst has drained all the energy from her body - all she could muster was a quiet mumble.

“It means,” Tyler’s hand reaches over to push up Y/N’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet, his face leaning in closer. His hand and breath both feel warm on her skin, probably due to his choice of drink. “That I think you’re jealous of Wednesday. Is that right, Sweetheart?”

Fuck.

Full body chills go through her like the bite of Winter’s cold air. She can’t even think about answering that question when he calls her such a name.

‘Sweetheart’.

Now his smirk has grown to a full teasing smile, and Y/N knows that he can read her like a book. “Hm? I believe I asked you a question?” He pushes again. ‘As if you need the answer when you can see damn well how you’ve made me.’

“What’s the point, when you’ve made it clear I’ll never be your choice Tyler? Why would I be when you have everyone’s attention all the time and I am just a shade of gray - in the background of this shitty town, of everyone’s life” Her voice wobbles as tears prick her eyes, threatening to fall. Tyler’s smile falls as she talks, his whole face soft and his hand adjusts, cupping the side of her face instead of her chin.

“Why would you think such a thing? You mean the world to me, and to everyone in your life. That whole thing about just being a shade of gray? Y/N, how can you not see that you are golden,” Tyler’s voice a mere whisper, as soft as snow - comforting, calm.

“I love you, Y/N. I kept telling myself I shouldn’t, because you are pure light, and I don’t deserve someone like that, when all my life I’ve been putting on this front of being kind and happy. You’re the only one who ever sees that everything is so much worse under the surface, and don’t run from it. I don’t deserve you,”

“Tyler. You are literally describing me the way that I would describe you. You are pure gold. And the fact that you can’t see that is just insane. I love you so much. Just because you’ve been through bad things, doesn’t make you a bad person. And the fact that you are always there for people, with a comforting smile or embrace, even with all of the pent up emotions you feel, that just makes you even better than simply ‘good’ either. You’re amazing, Ty,”

The boy’s eyes glitter in awe, mouth agape and face burning. He pulls himself out of his frozen state to pull Y/N forward across the table to meet his lips, knocking over what’s left of his coffee, but he’s too focused on kissing her to care. It’s full of love, and warmth, and everything one could dream of. Passionate but soft, Tyler no longer cares for his surroundings, everything is just this girl - the girl he loves. Pulling away after a good while, he finally regains his other senses, hearing the dinging of the bell from the counter.

“Tyler, would you stop with the gross PDA and actually get back to work? Your break finished like 5 minutes ago and I am not dealing with all the Nevermore students that will soon be flooding in for their usuals. I do not get paid enough to deal with the Friday rush,” A groaning voice of a barista Y/N barely recognizes calls out in annoyance. “And clean that drink you just tipped everywhere please?”

“Yeah yeah Becca, one second,” Tyler replies before turning back to plant one more quick kiss on Y/N’s lips. “Me and you, 8’oclock, I’ll pick you up outside the gates. Oh and by the way, jealousy is adorable on you,” He winks, laughing as he slides out of his seat and onto his feet.

“Can’t say the same for you. I like you better when your eyes are on me, Sweetheart”

#tyler galpin #tyler galpin imagine #tyler galpin x y/n #tyler galpin x reader #wednesday #wednesday imagine #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams #xavier thorpe #tyler galpin fanfic #tyler galpin fluff

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twola · 1 year

Text

Seven Deadly Sins - VIII

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Because if one thing is true, it is that Arthur Morgan is a sinner. Pure, organic, non-GMO smut. A continuing series.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Low to Medium Honor Arthur (and all that entails)

Salvation: preservation or deliverance from harm, ruin, or loss.

➵ AO3 Link

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He didn’t sleep a wink, even with how exhausted he was. His blood pumped as if his veins were a livewire, energy surging through his battered and beaten muscles.

It’s hard to wind down after a gunfight. He knows this, he’s known it for years.

It’s even harder to wind down after the ramshackle buildings the gang was holed up in here in the middle of the damn swamp looked like Swiss cheese - riddled with bullet holes.

Arthur flicks a cigarette into the stagnant water as the sun rises, eyeing critically the wagon with the mounted gun that the Pinkertons were forced to abandon after their assault on Lakay.

A Gatling gun, of all damn things. He supposed he should feel tickled that the Pinkertons felt they needed it to take on the gang. They still ended up running with their tails between their legs, but the gang was in bad shape.

He runs a hand down his face, rubbing at his eyes before smoothing down his unruly beard. It’s much longer than he would ever keep it, but Guarma did not give him the luxury of appearances.

Arthur walks sheepishly toward where Tilly sits against a dock post. After scouring the camp this morning, he’s found neither hide nor hair of you.

“Miss Tilly - I, uh..”

Tilly looks at him, and the very hint of a smile curls at the corner of her mouth.

“She’s out by that little church. Left earlier. I’m sure she’s waitin’ for you.” Tilly says knowingly, endeared to the faint blush staining his cheeks.

“Thank ya,” Arthur mutters, nodding his head and stepping away from Tilly’s seat against the old tree.

He walks out of the camp and fortunately is not accosted by anyone on his way out.

Were you mad? Upset? Furious? Christ, he didn’t even get a chance to greet you last night, clumsily rolling into Lakay after surviving hell on earth on that stupid island. The damn Pinkertons had swarmed the swamp outpost within moments of him getting back, and the firefight that ensued certainly didn’t lend itself to any quiet solitude.

By the time the gang was winding down from surviving the attack, the sun was rising in the east, bathing the swamp in golden light.

Arthur can run through several terrible possibilities on his walk down the road to where Tilly said you were - out by that ridiculous tiny church - much too small for any real person to even climb into. Must be some weird swamp thing. Or weird city-slicker art thing.

He finally sees you - sitting on a blanket spread out on the ground near a cypress tree not far away from the small white structure, gazing out to the open marshes and the bayou north of Saint Denis.

Arthur approaches you quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace you’ve managed to find. You’re barefoot on the blanket, your toes peeking out from under your skirts as your legs curl to the side of your hips.

“Sweetheart-”

You look up at him, somehow unsurprised at his approach, even with how quiet he tried to be. His brow furrows as he takes your face in, your eyes bloodshot and glassy, your cheeks tinged red.

“Oh, darlin’, I hope you ain’t wastin’ them tears on the likes of me.”

You frown up at him, “Shut up, idiot.”

A smirk crosses his face as he holds his hand out for you to help you up. You take it, not before rubbing at your eyes, breathing in through your nose.

“C’mere,” Arthur pulls you up and his other arm snakes around your waist, pulling you to him. You immediately bury your head into his chest, muffling the sob that escapes your throat.

“Hey now, gonna take a little more than a sinkin’ boat to get rid of me.”

You pull your head back, arms still locked tightly around his waist, gazing up at him as the veneer of your calmness cracks, tears streaming down your face.

“A-Arthur- '' You hiccup before devolving into sobs. He immediately leans down to press his chapped lips against yours, holding you even tighter against him.

As if he could chase away your fears and demons with his lips, he presses his tongue into your mouth, breathing your breath, holding you, and swearing in his mind to never let you go.

Your mouths move against each other, softly, slowly as first- but the fire between you starts to burn, fed by the little noises that escape your throat as his hands move all over you, a needy rumble escaping his chest. You pull at the collar of his shirt greedily.

“Christ alive, woman-” Arthur pulls back from you, working the buttons of his shirt.

He sheds the shirt, and your tears return with a vengeance as you see what the time away from you has done to him. His pale chest is singed red from the sun, bruises and scrapes litter his arms, and you can see along his side the shadow of his ribcage. Arthur has always been a solid man, hard muscle underneath his pale skin, to see him looking even the slightest bit gaunt, tore at you.

“Oh god, Arthur-” you choke as your hands fly up to cover your mouth.

“Shh, shh, darlin’. ‘M alright. M’ alrigh-”

A wet, hacking cough cuts him off, and he covers his mouth with the back of his hand, turning away from you. You rush in, placing your hands on his arm, “Christ, what happened to you?”

“Just a little waterlogged - on account a’ almost drownin’. I’ll be over it soon enough, now that I’m off that damn island.” He replies, wiping the back of his hand against his dark pants, returning to gaze at you affectionately.

“C’mon now, sweetheart. Don’t look a’ me like that. Came all the way back here f’r you, I don’t want to see you cryin’.” He says as he goes to gather you closer to him.

But alas, his request goes unanswered as tears pour down your face as you sob again, and his hands cup your cheeks as he steps in even closer to you, his rough thumbs swiping over the apples of your cheeks to stem the salty flow of tears.

“I- I thought you died.” You hiccup, you’re shaking hands pressing against his chest, “I… I thought you were g-gone forever.”

“M here, ‘m here. I was always comin’ back to you,” His fingers weave through your unbound hair, pulling you to his lips, where you open your mouth immediately to him.

Your tongues press against each other desperately. He’s gathered you in against him, arms wrapped around your waist, pressed so hard against his frame it’s hard to breathe against the constriction of your ribs.

Your hands land on his elbows, and you pull downward with increasing urgency until he understands, unlacing his arms as you both sink to your knees, somewhat awkwardly trying to keep your mouths on each other. His hands weave through your hair while yours run up and down the broad muscles of his chest and stomach as if you could never touch enough of his skin.

It may be seconds, it may be minutes before the two of you are tangled in each other, laying on the blanket side by side, refusing to breathe anything other than each other’s breath, as if you were drowning in the open sea.

“Jesus - god, I missed you , my girl.” Arthur pants into your neck as he shimmies his pants over his hips, shedding them and tossing them to the edge of the blanket, laying next to you nude as the day he was born, greedy hands pulling at the fabric of your shirt.

You whine in reply, afraid you would start crying again should you need to speak words into life, and allow him to pull your shirt over your head, revealing your breasts to him, which he quickly leans over and presses his mouth to. His hand tugs at the tie keeping your skirt in place around your waist, and you assist him, frantically pulling at fabric and cotton as you whine, his tongue laving over your nipple.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he has stripped you bare under the shadows of the large cypress trees, there on the blanket in the middle of Bayou Nwa, hidden only by some random bushes and distance from the roads carving through the swamp.

He suckles at your breast eagerly, as one of his hands moves from kneading the opposite breast down, down your ribcage, down your belly, down your hips, to where a needy fire smolders between your thighs.

“ Arthur ,” you moan, pushing his hand to cup your damp skin, needing his touch, needing his breath, needing him .

He groans into the skin of your breast, his middle finger sliding between your folds to find you wet and ready for him. But he makes no move to climb atop you, seemingly satisfied with running his finger up and down the seam of your body.

You can’t- you can’t waste this time - the weeks not knowing if he was alive or dead, the nights crying yourself to sleep thinking you’d never feel his touch again, the abject emptiness you felt in your core thinking he’d never press himself inside you and make you feel complete ever again.

You push against his shoulder, and he lets go of your breast and raises his head, a confused, slightly pained expression on his face. You push his shoulder even harder before he has a chance to question you, and to his surprise, you’re able to maneuver him to lay on his back, sprawled out on the blanket.

“Darl-”

Swinging your leg over his pelvis cuts him off, and his hands clamp to your hip magnetically, his eyes wide as you hover your hips over his.

“N-need you-“ You moan, breathless, as you reach down, grasping his length, rock hard as you knew he’d be, and aligning yourself with him, holding his cock as you begin to sink down on him. As the head of his cock presses inside you, your hands find purchase on his shoulders for balance.

Arthur watches your hips as you slowly take him, inch by inch of his cock disappearing into your warm cunt, until the feeling is too much and he throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut as the back of his head hits the ground.

You bottom out, gasping as your body gets used to him, the sweet feeling of being filled, assuaging emptiness - chasing completion.

Arthur’s fingers constrict on your skin as you give a small roll of your hips, the base of his cock leaving your body for a moment before you return. You let out a long, satisfied sigh, your hands moving down to his pectorals before you slowly roll your hips again, loving the near-painful stretch of your body accepting all of him.

“D-didn’t think I’d ever have you again-” You whisper, looking down at his wide eyes, the blue-green pools you never thought you could get lost in again.

Arthur’s eyes flutter closed as you pick up speed over him, hips rolling back and forth atop him as you pant on your knees. His hands guide your movements, splayed wide over your hips.

He grunts, opening his eyes again, “G-god - ain’t no place I’d rather be-” he gasps as you thrust your hips down on him hard, “-than inside you, mmph .”

You rock over him, moaning unabashedly as your knees grind into the ground at either side of his hips. Your head tips backward as you increase your tempo, arching your back as you feel the pressure of him inside you change with the angle.

He’s panting, his hips making little thrusts up to meet yours. Large hands fly back to your waist, clenching hard and aiding the speed of your movements as you roll your hips over him.

Arthur gives a needy groan, his hips leaving the blanket entirely, and the next thing you know, you’re beneath him. He’s flipped you over, on your back under him with a yelp as grabs your legs, slotting his hands underneath the back of your knees, and pushes them back, resting the backs of your thighs on his shoulders.

“ Fuck - ” he groans, managing to keep his cock within you the entire time, and he leans over you, your legs bending to nearly press against your ribcage, “You’re…”

The words fade from his lips as a groan is all he can manage to get out. You mewl beneath him, with your knees over his shoulders, he basically has you bent in half.

He wants to say more, he wants to tell you everything. But as he glides into your impossibly tight warmth, it’s like his voice doesn’t work anymore.

You’re everything, you’re what I needed to come back to, you’re what kept me goin’ on that stupid island…

You whimper, tears leaking from your eyes as you clutch at his forearms desperately, “A-Arthur…”

He pushes deep, deep, within you, as far as he can go, giving you as much of himself as he physically can. Every inch of him, buried within you. His forehead leans on yours, as if he could not fathom being any further from you.

All I can think about at night is bein’ inside you. All I want to do in the mornin’ is wake up with you in my arms.

Your voice cracks with emotion, breathless and thick as tears continue to stream down your face, tinged pink with arousal.

“I l-love you, Arthur-”

I love you, Darlin’.

He comes, his eyes squeezing shut as he feels wave after wave of hot spend leave his cock and paint your insides.

You’re clutching around him, your legs shaking as you pant little needy cries, and he knows your body well enough at this point to recognize that you’re coming too - a drawn-out orgasm that feels like it’s going on forever. Little waves, one after one, caressing him instead of one that he’s apt to drown in.

He slowly lets your legs down from his shoulders, but refuses to move his hips, keeping himself buried inside you.

His large hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb tracing away the tears falling from your glassy eyes.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

The smile you give him is bright enough to rival the sun. He drapes himself over you and finds your lips, and the curve of that smile against his is enough to save a parched man, as if he could drink from your lips forever.

Forever is what it feels like, as unwinding yourselves from each other is an impossible task. A task both you and he absolutely refuse to do after the hell of separation over the last several weeks.

Your tongues pressing against each other, hands trailing over curves and hard planes of muscle, and everywhere, it is only a few minutes before you are gasping into his mouth, and he grunts in return as you feel him stir within you.

His hips press back into yours, and you moan as you hook your ankles over his hips. He buries his head into the curve of your neck, the overstimulation of his cock and the thick wetness of your cunt, covered with his warm spend, he doesn’t know how he could ever leave you.

But the flighty, whimpering, needy noises that you make, it goes straight to his pelvis. Even so soon after you’ve milked him with your sweet warmth, he’s ramrod hard again in moments. He’ll give you anything , everything you ask for. Just tell him. He’ll shoot, kill, steal, ride to the ends of the earth for you.

With a breathless finality, you tell him. Words slip from your mouth like sweet nectar, as one of your hands pulls the long ends of his hair. You tell him all he needs to know in whimpered syllables.

“I l-love you so much, Arthur-”

Christ, he’ll give you everything.

Arthur rolls his hips and gives you himself. Each thrust of his cock hits that sweet spot within you that makes you cry out. Each labored pant in your ear, the movement of each muscle that makes up the mountain of him. He gives you it all.

He knows, deep down, that anything he gives would not be worthy of the love you’re proclaiming into the morning air. He could give you his faithfulness, the word of a robber, a thief, a murderer. He could give you his body, the broken down body of an aging gunslinger, nose misaligned from too many bar fights, scars across his skin like constellations. He could give you his name, which he knows, he knows , means nothing. Mary Gillis had the decency to teach him that when they were young .

So all he can do is try to bring you pleasure, try to assuage the tears that have spilled from your pretty eyes. Try to give you something, anything , that comes close to equaling the peace you have brought to his restless soul.

He comes quickly, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, not enough to hurt, but enough to muffle his groans as he pours himself into you again. A pang of regret courses through his veins, that he was not able to last longer for you.

Arthur slides his softening cock from your body and you whimper needily, he shushes you gently, lips on your forehead, as he lowers himself to his hip beside you.

“I gotchu…I gotchu, sweet girl,” he whispers, his hand trailing down your stomach to brush against your core as his other arm maneuvers beneath your shoulders, pulling you to curl into him. He pulls your leg over his thigh, opening the seam of your body, and wastes no time at all, pressing two fingers into your swollen core, pumping them in and out in a fashion to replicate how he was fucking you before.

You’re crying, panting, nails digging into his forearm as he crooks his fingers within you, his thumb circling your hooded nub. His frame looms over you, muscled arm around your shoulders, drawing your head into the crook of his neck where you whimper.

Arthur whispers huskily into your ear quiet affirmations, good girl, almost there, gimme one more. You squeeze your eyes shut, gritting your teeth as the pleasure he gives you verges on pain, the overstimulation wracking your body with spasms of your hips, one leg thrown over Arthur’s thigh as he works your dripping cunt.

You give a high and flighty cry as your body clenches, and he groans as he feels you squeeze his fingers, pressing his lips against yours desperately as he works you through your orgasm, shuddering and shaking, naked in his arms.

He whispers against your lips as he slows down the movement of his hand, “Christ, I missed hearin’ that.”

Arthur slowly extricates his fingers from your body, the both of you look as they come out covered in the combination of your dripping slick and his milky spend.

He wipes his hands dry on the blanket and almost immediately leans over you, cupping the back of your head with his fingers and deeply kissing you, his warm skin pressed against yours, his weight gently bearing down on you. As starved as you thought he looked before, as you’re wrapped up in his embrace, you’re reminded how large he is - built like a mountain, smothering your entire frame under him.

By the time he pulls away, he leans on his elbow over you, gently laying your head on the blanket underneath you.

“We probably gave half a’ Lemoyne a show there,” you giggle, finding it incredibly endearing to see a blush settle on his cheeks, considering he just had you bent in half fucking you into the ground.

He unwinds his arms from you, as if he just realized the two of you were completely naked in the bayou, and you snicker as he leans over to grope for his clothing that was so hastily shed.

You both shrug your clothes back on in silence. He’s gotten himself dressed completely as you tie your skirts on. He steps closer to help you, taking the strings of your skirts and tying the knot behind your back. He leans over you and kisses the crown of your head as he finishes the knot.

You turn, placing your fingers against his firm chest. His hands move to cup your cheeks as he leans down to press his lips to yours. When he pulls away, he places his forehead against yours and you let out a shaky breath.

“ ‘M always tryin’ to come back to you.”

“Don’t leave me like that again, Arthur.”

He shakes his head, and swipes his thumb across your skin preemptively, “I won’t, I won’t. Ain’t no one…- ain’t nothin’ that’s gonna keep me from bein’ by your side.”

You look up at him with glassy eyes, your fingers clutching at his shirt. His hands smooth down your face, down your shoulders, across your back, until with the slightest pull, he gathers you into his embrace. You let out another long, shuddering breath and relax against him, leaning your cheek against his collarbone.

His chin rests on the top of your head as he gently sways, arms wrapped right around your small frame, engulfing you in all of him.

After it all, the near drowning, the chain gang, the entire goddamn island - it all faded away now that he had you back in his arms. Of this, he knows is true - he would go to the ends of the earth to return to you - to your waiting arms and sly smile and how your voice gets soft when you’re saying something sweet.

He shuts his eyes and relaxes for the first time in weeks.

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead fandom #red dead fanfic #red dead redemption fanfiction #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan smut #red dead smut #ao3 #seven deadly sins #twolafic

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the-bar-sinister · 9 days

Text

In Justice We Trust (144638 words) by thesavagesabretooth

catch up here

With Simon Blackquill and Athena Cykes assigned as their psychologists, the Phantom and Fulbright must grapple with their identity, their deeds, their future, and their love for the twisted samurai whom they betrayed. All the while, Edgeworth and Wright find their relationship tested as they walk the narrow path between pursuing real justice, and the dark age of the law.

December 25, 5:20 pm

So it's real. It's all real. I really am Bobby Fulbright.

It certainly puts a fresh perspective on things.

Halbicht was lost in their own thoughts as they followed Simon, Agent Ash, and Apollo justice out of the room to give Metis Cykes and her daughter a few minutes of privacy.

Agent Ash was fixing her makeup thoughtfully as she walked out of the room.

“...I’d heard about it, I’d always had a little faith in the supernatural, but seeing it firsthand like that…” She whistled. “...We’ll have to have the girl try to channel Kelso, see what happens to our suspect….or at least see if she can recognize a spirit inside someone.”

Simon was still drying his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Robert grabbed his arm to stop him, and pressed the handkerchief from his pocket into Simon's hand.

"Here, Prosecutor Blackquill."

"Thank you, detective," he murmured. He dabbed his eyes with the cloth. "That was… a powerful experience. Ash-dono, I am sure that our young medium will be able to help in some way at least."

"Yeah…." Apollo murmured. He stumbled, and caught himself on the wall. Halblicht watched him closely. He seemed disoriented. "I'm gonna go uh, I gotta– I'll be in the restroom."

As he limped off without waiting for an answer, they followed him with their gaze.

It was a shocking experience for anybody, I guess, Bobby mused.

Perhaps. At least the matter between us is settled. Of your reality at least.“I hope so.” Sheila watched Apollo slip away with a quiet expression of concern, and a murmured “poor kid” before she went back to applying her makeup. A nervous habit, maybe, given the way her smile seemed forced.

“I’m sure she can. The Small Medium at Large has quite the kick.” she looked up at Simon. “...you gonna be okay? Seeing someone you care about back from the dead…it’s..” she went back to applying her lipstick before she murmured “gotta be one hell of a trip.”

"A hell of a trip indeed, Ash-dono!" Simon barked a laugh, and Halblicht found the prosecutor suddenly half draped on their arm. Surprised, they put it around his shoulders to steady him.

"Easy there, sir," Bobby murmured. He was almost overwhelmed himself, tears threatening to spill from his eyes just in sympathy and stress at the whole event, but Robert helped hold on to him.

A regular conga line of emotional support, Robert thought dryly.

“I wouldn’t know. People I watch die? Stay dead.” Ash drawled with a dry laugh and a smirk “...except Kelso, perhaps.”

She snapped her compact shut and shoved it in her pocket. “You look like you’re about to fall over. I could get you a chair…though Detective Prime Time’s doing an admirable job.”

"I'm happy to help in any way that I can, Agent Ash," Bobby promised with a sad smile. "If you'd like to faint, I can happily catch you."

“Very tempting, Prime Time.” She laughed, pushing her hand through her hair with the old wolfish grin “Watch out, I might take you up on it.”

"Thankfully, I have two arms, ma'am!" he saluted with his free one, to demonstrate. Bobby was riding high on the emotional power of his own confirmed reality, and Robert was swimming in the backwash. Too much so to even protest his silly behavior.

Simon came through for him however. "You're ridiculous as always, Fool Bright." He sniffed into the handkerchief. "This is hardly the time for your witless shenanigans."

“Ah, and there goes my classic tv- faint.” Sheila sighed performatively, and instead dropped herself against the wall “I’d say we all earned the right to laugh while we can.”

"Well, our ghost of honor was certainly laughing I suppose," Simon admitted.

"You made it sound like she was always like that," Bobby commented, curious.

"Oh yes. She always had a very dark sense of humor. Perhaps some of it rubbed off on me."

“A woman after my own heart.” Ash put her hand to her chest “she was a big influence on you, Samurai?”

"The biggest of my life," he said. "Especially if you include the film library that she shared with me."

"Ah! So that's where your love of the samurai comes from, Prosecutor Blackquill?" Bobby beamed at him.

"It reinforced the latent urge, I'm sure," he drawled.

“Ahhhh….” Sheila snickered “it awakened the soul of the samurai in yo—-- no I can’t finish that sentence!”

She broke out laughing in another fit as the door to the private room Athena and Metis had entered opened, and a tear-stained but smiling Athena came slowly walking out with the ‘Small Medium at Large’ trailing behind her.

Bobby snapped to a salute. "Ms. Athena! And Ms. Fey– thank you very much for helping us."

"No problem!" Pearl snapped a salute back to him with a little smile, but Bobby could tell that she looked tired.

Do you think channeling a spirit is draining for her, Bobby? I've never noticed a problem like that between you and I– except accounting for the normal level of exhausted you make me.

Aw, Robert! But um, no, it seems like you're right.

"Are the pair of you alright?" Bobby asked.

Athena wiped at her eyes.

“Y-yeah. I just had to get some stuff off my chest. It was nice to speak with her again. She looked over her shoulder. “...thanks Pearl. It meant the world to me.”

"Of course, Miss Athena! Any time!" Pearl chirped out, despite her obvious fatigue.

"We'll have to plan that party for when Aura is out of jail," Simon drawled. He leaned against Bobby's arm, seemingly unconcerned with disentangling himself for now. Bobby certainly wasn't going to push him away.

"So…" the young medium asked. "What's next? Confirming possessions, right?"

“I’d say…” Athena looked at the two of them with a half smile and a wave. She’d gone a little flushed, but seemed, admittedly, happy in their direction.

“That’s right, Small Medium at Large.” Agent Ash purred. “...but you look tired, hon. You think you can push through?”

"I'm okay!" She nodded. "Seeing ghosts doesn't take energy the way that channeling them does. I can just… you know… see them. So as long as you trust my judgment, we're all set!"

Bobby and Robert were not unaware that Pearl had glanced rather significantly in their direction as she spoke.

“After that display? I’ll trust you to the ends of the earth, kid.” Sheila laughed, glancing sidelong at Robert and Bobby. “Do you boys need confirmation? Or should I take Pearl here to lockup?”

“Oh ah…and to Mr. Apollo.” Athena whispered to her– though in the empty hall it was easy to hear.

"Why don't we hear from Ms. Fey– just for the official paperwork, so to speak," Robert said. He glanced between the medium and Simon.

Wait– did she just say Apollo? Bobby blinked internally in surprise– though it may have shown on their face.

So she did.

That's not a joke? But why would he…

"Why not indeed," Simon nodded.

Pearl chewed on her thumb, and nodded. "Uhuh. I can say for sure. I noticed it right away when I came in to breakfast at the hotel this morning. I was gonna ask Miss. Athen about it."

Athena slapped her hands on her cheeks in surprise. “OH! woah, I guess we had the same idea! We were gonna come find you about it…that…”

Simon said nothing, but favored Halblicht with a rather smug smirk

"Thank you for the confirmation, Ms. Fey," Bobby sniffled. "It means a lot."

Athena glanced at them with a muted but genuine smile “...yeah , that makes a lotta sense. And…And for Apollo?”

Pearl chewed on her fingertips.

"Um…Should I wait until–" She paused as Halblicht heard the sound of footsteps coming around the corner.

It was Apollo Justice returning.

His hair's wet, Robert observed.

Maybe staring at his face in the mirror and splashing it, Bobby suggested. I know the feeling.Athena nervously tugged her ponytail with a bright smile his way. “Hey ah…Apollo? Did…did you want to hear what Pearl had to say?”

Apollo shrugged stiffly. His whole body posture was tense. "I already heard the answer from Trucy last night. I don't have any reason to doubt it now."

While Apollo didn't specifically say yes or no, the answer was obvious. If there wasn't a ghost, there was nothing to tell him. But he'd been told. Therefore.

But what ghost?

Robert– it has to be Clay Terran.

Ah.

Halblicht and Apollo's eyes met.

Simon, meanwhile, shifted his posture. "You as well, Mr. Justice?"

Apollo shrugged.

Athena clapped her hands together with a bright smile and an attempt at levity. “Today’s a rare kind of day huh? Possessions popping out of the wordwork, it’s like spirit week! Hah…haha..”

"Yeah, um, it's actually kind of been freaking me out," Pearl murmured, still chewing on her thumb. "It was super weird to see it with Apollo, but then with Mr. Halblicht too? Like, no offense Miss Agent Ash but if I see a third possessed person today, I might do a little scream."

“Whoopsie.” Sheila laughed as she leaned over and rustled Pearl’s hair. “Scream as much as you need to, Small Medium at Large– because I might have a dead agent I need you to ID just over there.” She gestured towards the hall that lead to the holding cells.

Pearl nodded, and rolled up her sleeves. "Lead me to 'em!"

"That does bring up a rather odd question, though," Simon said. "Why so many ghosts? Why these ghosts?"

"Maybe we should confirm Kelso one way or the other before we ask that question," Robert said.

She's got to be possessed though, right? How else would she know all about Kelso?

I have no idea, but I don't like jumping to conclusions.

December 25, 5:45 pm

Only Agent Ash and Pearl went into the cell with the captured asset, and that left Simon standing outside with Athena, Halblicht, and Apollo.

Surrounded by ghosts on all sides. Not what I expected when I started the morning.

He felt a little bad for Athena– he knew his emotions were everywhere, and he was sure that she could sense it. From the joy of the reunion and revelation with Bobby– and Robert– to the accompanying joy and sorrow of the brief reunion with his mentor. To confusion at this newest strange revelation with Apollo.

The girl didn’t look unhappy…she had a small and muted little smile on her face like she’d worn once upon a time…but she did look tired. The emotional bombardment of the day had clearly taken its toll.

She wasn’t projecting as much outward ‘energy’ as she leaned on the wall and watched the door with concern and curiosity.

He couldn't blame her. He didn't know if this day, or the 20th, or that day so many years ago was the most overwhelming day of their lives– but it was a close race no matter which.

They all stood quietly. No one seemed ready to start a conversation, not even Bobby. Perhaps Bobby least of all, for once

There'd be time to talk later. At least Apollo– or Clay, it seemed– hadn't assaulted him again.

Eventually, the cell door opened, and Agent Ash and Pearl Fey emerged.

Pearl held her hands up, and in a very small, deliberately indoor voice, spoke out a scream. "Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!"

“....Oh.” Athena put her hand to her cheek “I guess that answers that question.”

Sheila walked out with a furrowed brow and a forced smile as she let the door slam behind her. She raised her hands up, and echoed the medium’s sentiment with an “Arrrgh’ of her own.

“This is going to be the worst, strangest paperwork of my life…. And I had to write entire fake family trees.”

Simon touched his chin thoughtfully. "Just how does one do the paperwork on this? And I reiterate, why in heaven's name is this happening? Not that I'm complaining."

"I wish I knew," Pearl squeaked.

Athena bit her lip.

“...I can’t speak for Apollo’s situation, but I have a working theory on Halblicht and …ah..” She gestured to the door, “... Kelso24.”

Sheila rubbed her temples. “...whatever’s going on, it’s utter madness. Three ghosts all wrapped up in the same damned interpol investigation. Maybe more! Who knows who else is packing! At least it means Agent Kelso isn’t…gone? But still!”

Pearl nodded. "I'm sorry I don't have much more information. I really only know a lot about ghosts from the perspective of the Kurain tradition. So mostly when it comes to possessed people I only know how to, you know… get rid of them."

"Kindly don't do any of that at this point, Fey-dono," Simon said quickly. He pushed down the sting of panic that accompanied the thought of someone banishing Bobby, now, after everything.

December 25, 5:55 pm

Athena watched Bobby move a reassuring hand to Simon's shoulder as he replied to Pearl.

"Yeah," Apollo murmured in agreement. "Not right now."

“Yeah…” Sheila held her hands up. “I’d rather we don’t. Frankly, I think this whole thing necessitates a change of plans regarding Miss 24.”

Athena bit her lip, her hand going to her chest. She didn’t chime in out loud, but…she couldn’t help but agree with Simon. The thought of banishing the spirits only sent pings of worry and sadness through her muffled emotions.

If nothing else, she was pretty sure the former assets might need them to adapt and heal from their upbringing…and Apollo’s ‘friend’, who she was certain was far closer than that, shouldn’t be parted from him again so soon.

Pearl nodded, dipping into a little bow. "Of course! Um, I get the sense that this isn't your typical case, you know? I just wish I had more insight… if only Mystic Maya were here…."

“Not at all..” Athena gave her a smile. “don’t worry…I think this gave everyone the proof they needed to figure it out, Pearl! You did great!”

“Mystic Maya?” Sheila raised her eyebrow “someone who has more experience with possessions?”

Pearl smiled back at Athena, and answered. "Mystic Maya is my cousin, the future leader of Kurain village and master of the Kurain channeling technique. If anybody would know, she would– but she's in Kura'in finishing her training, so we can't talk to her…."

"That's a shame," Simon murmured. "There isn't anyone else who would know?"

The little medium chewed on her thumb. "Well…"

“Sounds like a real powerhouse…but getting a hold of anyone in Kura’in is a pain. Especially if they’re related to the monastic orders'.' Sheila hummed “there’s someone else?”

Athena gasped, covering her mouth “Woah…and I thought she was just the Boss’ legendary legal aide…the master of a tradition’s a pretty hu–” She cut herself off and looked at Pearl in curiosity.

Pearl poked her fingers together. "I could call your boss' boss, actually, Miss Athena," she murmured. "Miss Mia Fey– Mystic Maya's older sister. I don't know if she would know, because she left the tradition, but it could be worth a try."

"By call– you mean summon, don't you?" Robert asked, raising an eyebrow.

Pearl nodded. "Uhuh."

“Are you feeling well enough to?” Athena asked with genuine concern. “...you seemed pretty worn out after channeling my mom..”

She rubbed the back of her neck, and smiled. "I'm pretty tired, but… if I fall asleep, you'll carry me back to the hotel, right?"

With a salute, Athena flashed a bright smile.

“Promise, Pearly! I’ll carry you right back to your room!” Sheila chuckled “alright. Well, with that settled, let’s meet this Miss Mia Fey, shall we?”

December 25, 5:55 pm

They gathered again in the unfurnished viewing room in a loose circle around Pearl Fey, Simon having suggested that it was perhaps a little too inappropriate to have a seance right out in the middle of the hallway.

Pearl had put her hands together, and once again that strange aura filled the room, challenging Athena's senses.

And then Pearl was gone, and in her place was a tall, handsome woman with a strong face and large, dark eyes. She looked over them each, a catlike smile written on her face, and a sense of deep amusement radiating out from her.

"Well now! This certainly isn't the usual crowd that I play to," she declared. Her gaze lingered on Agent Ash for a long moment.

“Well, well. Today seems to be the day for pretty stiffs. Hello, Miss Fey.” Agent Ash commented with her wolfish grin as she crossed her arms under her chest, and stifled a laugh. “Hope you don’t mind the new audience.”

Athena’s eyes were wide– this was Mia Fey– the woman Phoenix rarely spoke about at the office, but always with hushed reverence. The one who’d told him the very advice that saved her again and again about a lawyer’s smile. Mia Fey, in the borrowed flesh.

“Uhm h-hello, ma’am!” Athena dipped into an awkward bow.

Simon bowed as well, and Bobby saluted.

"The late Ms. Mia Fey, we presume?" Bobby said with a grin,

"In the flesh!" the woman laughed. "Not mine though. Actually– whose flesh am I in? And where's Phoenix Wright? He's in trouble again, isn't he?"

“Oh no, Mr. Birdman is just fine.” Sheila started to cackle again, slapping the wall. “Is he really that accident prone? No wonder the King of Fop’s such an anxious wreck. snrk!!! ” she stifled the laughter and leaned forward. “Miss Fey, you’ve been called for an assessment with your expertise. We have an increasingly unusual situation. So we’ve asked the Small Medium at Large to help.”

Athena rubbed her neck as she attempted to translate for Sheila’s apparent love of snarky nicknames.

“Phoenix is alright, ma’am. We had Pearl summon you ‘cause she didn’t have any experience with the situation at hand…a rash of possessions in a short amount of time…and Mystic Maya is off training in Kura’in. We were hoping that you could explain some of this. Two…four? Of the parties are in this room. The other’s in lockup.”

Mia looked around at the people in the circle, her gaze lingering now on Apollo and on Halblicht. "So I see. Alright, why don't we sit down and you can bring me up to speed."

December 25, 6:10 pm

At the head of the table, Mia Fey had her hands clasped together and her chin rested on them, as everyone had explained the situation. She had been sitting with her eyes closed, taking it all in.

Finally, she opened them and looked around the table. "I see. So there's an international espionage ring that trains its spies through rigorous dehumanization starting in early childhood. We have two of them here– one in this room, and one in lock up– both who have been possessed by the ghosts of the people that they most recently killed. Is that correct so far?"

“That’s right, ma’am.” Athena nodded seriously as she leaned on the table. “Both were possessed, confirmed by Pearl, though I’m not sure the one in lock up realizes it yet. They’re both a little confused from the sound of the interview.”

Sheila tipped her chair back. “...got to love espionage rings.” she said dryly. “fucking people up so hard the dead get involved.”

"I think you'll find that I do not in fact have to love that," Mia murmured.

“Trust me, neither do I."

Mia pointed at Apollo. "And you two aren't part of this spy business, but had known one another for years, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am," Apollo murmured.

"Alright," she nodded. "I think I understand what's going on."

"Pray enlighten the rest of us poor souls," Simon drawled.

Athena leaned forward, listening carefully. She had a theory, herself– and she wondered if perhaps Mia had come to the same conclusion, from the spiritual angle rather than psychological.

The legendary lawyer smiled and shook a finger. "Before I do, do any of the talented problem solvers among you have a guess?"

"The supernatural isn't my forte, unfortunately," Simon confessed. He leaned a little closer to Bobby. "I'll be just as happy to have the mystery revealed for me this time."

Sheila shook her head, hands raised in the air. “I’m not the woman to ask about emotions, spirits, or attachment I’m afraid.”

Athena perked up with a nervous smile, her hand shooting up “I have a guess, ma’am!”

Mia pointed at her. "I like your attitude, red. Give it a shot for me."

“Red???” Athena squeaked “...better than Miss Edutainment at least.”

Sheila began laughing again, slapping the table with her palm, which only made Athena flush more. She pushed her hair out of her face and took a breath before she answered.

“I’m wondering if it’s because of their unique psychological profiles– 24 and Robert, I mean. They’ve had their personalities and emotions crushed since they were children so they could become anyone, anywhere, right? It’s horrible, and it makes me sick, but it also means that they’d be…psychologically and probably spiritually open with enough mental/spiritual real estate for a spirit or personality to take residence. R-right? I’d thought it just meant there was room to create a new personality, but…”

“...What, like they were some kind of spirit-trap?” Sheila asked with a raise of her eyebrow “...that explains why I never got myself possessed, despite factors.”

"Very insightful, Miss Cykes!" Mia clapped. "That's exactly the conclusion that I'd come to. The training they underwent essentially made the soul in their body small enough to accommodate another one no problem, without any of the usual difficulties involved."

Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. "I see… I suppose that does make sense…"

Mia nodded. "If there's a void, a soul can easily rush in to fill it. Especially if there's an intense enough burst of emotions at the time of death."

Athena's eyes widened, and her heart started to race.

“Like a murder-- Kelso’s burst of horror and despair that echoed again when 24 tried to kill herself…and…” She glanced at Bobby and Robert with a bite of her lip. “Thank you, though ma’am. It makes psychological sense, too.”

Sheila whistled “....who knows how many more of your fellows are walking around with confused ghosts in their heads.”

"An interesting possibility," Halblicht murmured, twisting his fingers together. "Both hopeful and grim, too…"

"Indeed," Simon nodded. "What an ironic fate for both parties."

“Very ironic…” Athena chewed her nails. “A killer and a victim sharing a body, and …if Halblicht is any indication, doing all the better for it. I hope…I hope when we find the rest we can help them too. Starting with Kelso and Miss 24.”

Sheila brushed her hair over her ear.

“Sharing space with your victim. Very interesting indeed.” She glanced sidelong at Mia. “You look young. Murder or illness?”

Mia's eyebrows raised. "Murder or illness what, ms. Interpol?"

“Your cause of death, Miss Fey.” Sheila leaned on the back of her hand.

Athena sat up with a start. “Agent Ash! You can’t go around asking people that kind of thing!”

The agent’s gaze turned towards her, the barest note of confusion in her voice. “I’m looking for an opinion from the other side of the veil on the current situation, Miss Edutainment…and I’d like to know if I’m walking into a landmine. So I felt it prudent to ask.”

The deceased lawyer sighed, and fluffed her hair. "I was murdered. But don't worry about it, just say what you want to say or ask what you want to ask."

“I’d thought so,” Ash leaned on her hand. “My question is this– emotionally speaking, do you think Sam Wan Kelso will suffer sharing a body with the woman who killed her? I know it’s seemed to work out for these gentlemen…”

Ash pointed to Bobby and Robert. “But as someone who died at the hands of another, I’m curious about your opinion. And…also, how does possession work? Have you possessed anyone? Can someone possess another down the line, provided they haven’t passed into rebirth?”

Mia pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Oh dear, this is a lot of complicated questions. And I can feel little Pearl getting tuckered out." She sighed and took a breath. "The important question you asked is about Kelso and her killer. I know that I wouldn't have wanted to get stuck in a body with my own killer. But don't worry– possession is voluntary on the part of the spirit. If Kelso doesn't like it, she can leave any time. If you want to learn more about possession in general, there's an excellent library in Kurain village which I am sure you would be welcome to look over."

“...I’ll keep that in mind.” Sheila Ash held her hands up with a smile. “Sorry for overloading you with questions, Miss Fey. Thank you. Knowing Kelso can leave if she’s unhappy does wonders. Last thing I want is to allow someone to be trapped in a situation they can’t escape.”

Athena wondered exactly why Sheila had asked so many questions so quickly– part of it probably had something to do with the rapid fire and complicated emotions that ricocheted through her voice when she’d asked them.

But either way, she shifted nervously on her chair. “Thank you so much for your time, Ma’am! If you’ve gotta rest, we won’t keep you…I know Pearl was worried about falling asleep.”

"Wait just a minute," Apollo– no, it was Clay– said, sitting forward. "That's great for them, but what about us?"

Mia turned toward Athena's fellow lawyer and his spirit companion. She smiled a rather sad smile. "I didn't mean to leave you out. But you've already probably guessed that your situation is different from theirs."

They nodded. "Yeah, I got that sense. So… can you tell me any more about it?"

"Here's the thing. These guys–" she pointed her finger at Bobby and Robert. "These 'assets'-- it seems like they have what you might call 'bonsai' souls. They've been deliberately groomed and cut and shaped so they don't take up much space. That means there's plenty of room for a full sized soul to move in and share space without disrupting the bonsai. But you, Misters, have two regular full sized souls in you right now."

Athena got the sense from Mia's voice that that was going to be a problem.

“...and a container only has so much space.” Athena murmured quietly, her brow furrowed. “...which is why they’ve been so erratic? Maybe?”

Sheila listened with her fingers against her forehead. “...he’s not going to explode like this was some 80’s horror flick, is he?”

"Nothing so dramatic," Mia promised and waved her hand. "Have you ever seen what happens to two trees when you try to grow them in a tight space? Provided there's adequate sustenance for both?"

"They grow together," Simon said.

"They grow together," Mia nodded. "The two plants twist around one another and grow so closely and tightly as to become inseparable– even indistinguishable from one another, as if they had been one all along. And that, my dears, is what will happen to the two of you if you remain as you are."

Apollo and Clay had gone pale. "How long? How much time do I have?"

She shrugged. "It's impossible to say. A year, perhaps. Maybe two."

Athena bit her lip. “...a mingling of spirits into one. I …I guess that makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?”

She glanced at Apollo, her brow furrowed as she thought of him and Clay. A short fuse had been placed on them, a timer ticking down to decide if they had to have their final parting…or…

Sheila brushed her fingers through the strands of her pale hair. “...huh.”

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, hon," Mia said with a sad little smile. "But that's the way it is. There aren't too many ways out there to cheat death, you know."

The two took a breath. "I understand. Thank you for telling me. I–we'll figure it out. That's all we needed to know."

Athena gave them a sympathetic look and a halfhearted smile “I believe in you guys…”

“Not many ways to cheat death…” Sheila laughed, slapping her table. “Yeah, guess not, Miss Faerie Tale. “

"Sorry, Ms. Interpol," Mia chuckled sadly again. "If that's all you needed from me, then I'll say good luck, and get back to my busy schedule."

Halblicht shook his head. "No other questions from us, here."

“Busy Schedule? and here Cykes Sr. Made it sound like death was the waiting room from hell!” Sheila laughed. She saluted Mia with a grin that Athena thought looked rather forced. “Thanks. Good luck to you too, Faerie Tale. No further questions.”

Athena waved quietly at her with a smile.

“It was nice to meet you, ma’am. Phoenix talks about you a lot, so… She bowed her head “I hope I get to speak with you again someday. Good luck.”

"Knowing Phoenix, I'm sure we will, red. Tell him hello for me, will you?" She blew a kiss to the table, and then– was gone.

Pearl Fey slumped exhausted onto her arms against the table. "Oooh….."

Athena’s concern immediately reasserted itself and she hurried over to put her hand on Pearl’s back. “You alright, Pearl? That probably took a lot out of you..”

"I'm okay!" she said, raising her head a little and giving a shaky thumbs up. "Did Miss Mia help?"

Bobby was already out of his chair, and he saluted the little medium. "She helped a great deal, Miss Fey. Is there anything we can do to help you?"

"Oh good! I want some juice," Pearl said. She giggled exhaustively and returned his salute. Athena could feel pride radiating from her. "And a looooong nap."

"You've more than earned both, Fey-dono," Simon nodded.

Athena nodded with a broad grin “the best juice in Cauli, even.” she playfully punched her shoulder “i’ll even carry you if you still want.”

Sheila laughed and slapped the table “bravo, Small Medium. You really were at Large today. Nickname earned. I’ll have Lang grab you an honorary badge for your service to Interpol today.”

Pearl found the strength to sit up at that. "Really? That would be so cool! Ooohg…" With a dizzy look she leaned against Athena's hand.

“Really.” Agent Ash purred, and pulled out her phone. She typed a message and winked “...sent. Stop in before you leave Cauli and I’ll ensure you get it.”

Athena rubbed her back with a chuckle. “Yeah Pearl… I’m definitely gonna carry you.”

#pearl fey #mia fey #apollo justice #athena cykes #bobby fulbright #simon blackquill #ema skye #trucy wright #blackbright #phantomquill #ace attorney #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #archive of our own #ao3 #fic: in justice we trust

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bao3bei4 · 2 years

Text

my very special odyssey through thirty years of gay asian porn

aka me talking about the asian american studies context for white people who are into gay asian porn and the bind that gay asian people who are also into it experience for 5500 words.

i thought i was done writing on/participating in wider fandom after my you know. but actually i have more to say. so here’s something chatty and casual, in which i’d like to bring some theoretical context to what we see today, and make some of my own interventions and commentary. because i don’t think there’s a great sense of how we are situated in this time of… shall we say… extreme interest in america in how and why imagined gay asians have sex with each other.

let’s start with richard fung’s seminal work, “looking for my penis” (1991). it's available online, on his website, so i definitely recommend checking it out if you’re curious. but it’s his analysis of how asian male sexuality is popularly understood, through examination of the few asian men working in gay video porn at the time.

brief background: he begins by recounting how race and sexuality have been constructed in a mutually informing way, contemporaneously with the development of colonialism and slavery. he argues that “asian” emerged as an undersexed category, juxtaposed against “black” as hypersexualized, with of course “white” in the center with its pretensions of racial neutrality. he offers the obvious caveats: this tends to apply to the “oriental” stereotype of asians; nationality affects the sexual stereotypes applied to an individual; and the fetishization of asian women results in different stereotypes than those applied to asian men.

but at any rate, the central assumption remains. and as he puts it, “if asian men have no sexuality, how can we have homosexuality?”

fung recalls his experiences of needing to prove his gayness as an asian man in the 80s, because it was assumed so unthinkable. and he describes his desire to find and build gay asian narratives and community. this is where we arrive at the titular quest for the asian penis. fung mentions one in particular that he’s seen: that of the vietnamese american porn star, sum yung mahn.

now, i should note here that it seems self-evident that thirty years later we exist in a different media landscape. people can name gay asians. like… real ones. celebrities. ones they personally know. and in fact, there’s even a notable amount of thought devoted to the possibility of gay asian life, even from outside the community. lol.

and certainly, this is a different milieu. fandom demographics are different in gender than that of the locations fung describes. and the form this sexual content takes is a different medium from that which he analyzed. [contemporaneous asian american erotica, what little of it existed—i’m thinking here of the 1995 anthology on a bed of rice—tended to be heterosexual.]

but i do think there are important insights we can derive from his work. so let’s jump back into it.

fung is clear that these works weren’t necessarily intended for asian consumption. the distribution company of these tapes reported that “90 percent of the asian tapes are bought by white men, and the remaining 10 percent are purchased by asians. but the number of asian buyers is growing.” so, like… what does that audience want to see?

he starts with the 1985 “below the belt.” it takes place in a karate dojo. two white men are talking, and one recounts his fantasies of being fucked by their white teacher. we see this acted out in dream sequence, as his narration continues. but there’s a reveal onscreen: once his dream self is being fucked, he finally turns and you can see his face. and the man bottoming is actually an asian actor in a matching costume, not the original white narrator. after the scene concludes, the original two men have sex— this time, with the narrator topping.

this work was fascinating to me. first, because it seems that the martial arts context has long been a rich source of erotic pleasure for white audiences. fung speculates it’s because “the hierarchical dojo setting is milked for its evocation of dominance and submission.” this means to me, that in a transnational context, xianxia and wuxia’s erotic appeal feels almost inextricable from everything i’m about to talk about. because i think a lot about how power functions in fandom sexual fantasies. there’s a lot of id-y stuff that, to me, begins to carry a different resonance in a racialized context.

i’m not saying this in a “white people shouldn’t write about different races!!!” way. rather, look at this essay about how juggernaut slash fandom ships are overwhelmingly white. and when they’re not, in stitch’s words, “one of three things happen: white prioritization… racist stereotypes… [or] whitewashing.” (it’s a good read.) these tendencies can and do creep in. that’s all.

in danmei fanfiction, it’s mainly the latter two phenomena. and they intertwine in a really interesting way. things that might be unremarkable in the unrelenting whiteness of mainstream slash fandom begin to be inflected differently, in ways that trouble me because of their omnipresence.

like, take “below the belt” again. it performs a transformation that for me, is echoed enormously by danmei fandom, taken in aggregate. in my view, the tendency to use an asian avatar for white fantasies of passivity is very much alive. this is something i think about a lot in context of the typical fandom refrain that many people explore their gender and sexuality through m/m content. again, like. it’s true, it’s not objectionable, it just is. but it is something that, in this context, is implicitly thoroughly white.

this is something fung actually writes about, incidentally. he critiques the idea “that in gay as opposed to straight porn ‘the spectator's positions in relation to the representations are open and in flux,’” with an amendment that this is only true “when all the participants are white.” while greater identification is possible for gay asian men in gay porn (than in straight for instance), it’s hard to escape the marked position that you occupy.

now, it’s at this point that you might (rightfully) point out that danmei fandom is about two asian men having sex with each other, and i’ve only alluded to interracial relationships thus far.

so let’s move on to the second videotape fung talks about, which is the 1985 “asian knights.” i’m focusing on the first sequence of it, in which two asian men see a white psychiatrist because they can’t manage to have sex with each other. as fung describes, in typical porn fashion, this problem is quickly overcome. what’s interesting is what comes next: the film begins to be edited from the white psychiatrist’s point of view. he eventually joins in, as the new center of the sexual encounter.

fung is clear that the psychiatrist is a stand-in for the viewer at home. and it’s that white observer’s perspective which dominates the video. as he writes, the initial premise was just a “ruse.”

brad and rick’s [the asian couple] temporary mutual absorption really occurs to establish the superior sexual draw of the white psychiatrist, a stand-in for the white male viewer; who is the real sexual subject of the tape. and the question of asian-asian desire, though presented as the main narrative force of the sequence, is deflected, or rather reframed from a white perspective.

i think there are clear parallels in the figure of the often white author, who writes for a presumed white audience. now. i want to be clear—and thank goodness for this—that ummmm. i personally haven’t seen anything quite as literal as asian knights in fandom. you may take this to mean that therefore there isn’t a problem. and to some people who are easily satisfied, this may be the case.

——————–

unfortunately for everyone, i’m a bit pilled by david eng’s 2001 racial castration. wonderful book. changed my brain chemistry when i read it years ago and now i talk about sigmund freud all the time. eng’s simple thesis builds upon what richard fung had written of a decade previous, that “asian and anus are conflated.” he is deeply concerned with how asian american male subjectivity is circumscribed on the psychic and material levels, and how investment in those limits maintains the dominant social order.

like, here’s a silly joke for you. i’ve edited the infamous powerup comics panel on gay marriage to be about critical race theory.

funny stuff, no? that’s racial castration for you.

anyway, the chapter in this book that stuck with me most profoundly is “heterosexuality in the face of whiteness: divided belief in m. butterfly.” (quick note here: if you get into asian american studies, you’re going to hear a lot about that play. for your reference, it’s the 1988 play by david henry hwang, a rewrite of puccini’s opera madama butterfly. it’s actually pretty good. the 2017 update is worse, though.)

anyway, the play takes the real life case of bernard boursicot and shi pei pu, and mashes it up with madama butterfly to make a point about this one white guy’s investment in fantasies about beautiful oriental women. he imagines the relationship between east and west in such strongly heterosexual terms that his colonial fantasy must be maintained, whatever the cost to him. in the end, he dies trying to become the geisha he wanted so badly.

now, eng’s approach to the play is rooted in his background in psychoanalysis. and i try not to psychoanalyze people in fandom because i think that’s a bit rude. but—because there’s always a but—i think that transformation that eng details is useful here. because let’s be real, the ubiquity of the asian bottom in porn isn’t borne out in real life. it’s not as if irl white queer people as a demographic are super invested in exclusively topping queer asian people as a demographic. well, okay, your experience may vary. lol.

my point here is just 1) that no sexual position is a racist/anti-racist one and 2) obviously sexual fantasy (as detailed in fung’s videotapes) and sexual reality (as detailed by umm. going outside?) don’t necessarily have a straightforward relationship.

that is, the pornographic fantasy i see is being the asian hole, not having the asian hole (this, freudpilled readers will note, is a tacky play on lacan’s formulation of the phallus). (of course, since the latter is a bit more true in white men’s heterosexual fantasies about asia, to be unfairly rude, it reads as fetishization of being the abject sexual subject that one’s forefathers invented. )

“below the belt” and the racial transformation it performs on its asian bottom, combined with the use of asian-asian couplings to enhance the white viewer’s primacy as sexual subject in “asian knights” can easily be synthesized into my facetiously named “anus envy” theory. that is, there is a clear pornographic tendency for white fantasies of inhabitation of an imagined abject asian bottom. in this tendency, the orient is just a receptacle for white meaning.

this is something i’ve been on about for literal years. to save myself some time, i’ll refer to my early attempt at theorizing this, although i’m now trying to make a different point here about a different demographic:

it’s really interesting to me how so much of this dynamic of projection is enabled by the fact that they’re asian men. they’re infantilized, feminized vessels; they’re seductive, but childlike, oblivious to their own charms, so nonthreatening; they have uncontrollable desires for sex, they’re scared of sex. and above all else, white women submit themselves to them, insert themselves into them. basically kpop fans tend to rework old school yellow peril and emasculation fantasies to reenact their own desires…

the thing is, in fandom, there’s a lot of projection at play. this isn’t bad and it’s not true for everyone. but like. think of the language and practices that get thrown around—comfort characters, and kinning, and literal self-inserts! but also things as simple as writing your own kinks and drawing from your own experience. again, not bad. it just, again, oftentimes can take on a troubling valence in this transnational context.

in case you can’t tell, right now, i’m running into the same problem as my last essay, where i’m trying to avoid specific examples because i don’t want to get mired in discourse or direct unfair scrutiny to any one individual. it’s tricky to do this publicly. this is why i stopped writing fandom essays!! either you’re beginning to recognize the patterns i’m describing or not.

here, let me try to make it more clear—let’s quote m butterfly instead. gallimard, the french diplomat, concludes the play with his fantasies:

there is a vision of the orient that I have. of slender women in chong sams and kimonos who die for the love of unworthy foreign devils. who are born and raised to be the perfect women. who take whatever punishment we give them, and bounce back, strengthened by love, unconditionally. it is a vision that has become my life.

he then does his level best to project himself into that vision of the orient.

in an unrelated note, did you know people draw shang qinghua blond?

——————–

brief sidebar: i always have a thousand billion caveats when i write things like this. normally i try to edit my hedges and apologies out because i think they look insecure lol. but i’ve already established this piece is kind of silly and chatty. so i’ll clarify here.

for the record, i don’t want to have pessimism about white people writing asians, particularly asians having sex, particularly gay asians having sex. like i legitimately don’t think these dynamics are inevitable. but i think there’s so much defensiveness around these topics that it’s hard to get a conversation about it started in the first place.

that’s why i’m taking this format. i want to make it apparent that this conversation has already been happening for decades, and to make some small parts of it more accessible to people who may be interested in what’s already been said. we, in fact, do have the language and the canon to address this in a gay asian pornographic context. which is incredibly and wonderfully specific!

i think about these problems particularly because i'm a bitter person, and i'm often preoccupied how for white people, harming people of color gets to be a phase. like, remember those quirky years of quarantine when you were briefly super obsessed with fantasies of asian sexual passivity?— people aren’t going to think about it in that light, if they think about it at all.

but being harmed by this is not a phase. and there are like... no consequences. because people of color don't get to humiliate white people as a harmless phase. so the asymmetry of investment in these representations is something i think about.

by the way, this is also why i’m not touching on “having anti asian slurs in your danmei fic is bad!” or “deliberately evoking historical war crimes committed against asians is bad!” or any of the other… more obviously harmful things i’ve seen in fandom. i’m just trying to make visible how “normal” fandom attitudes appear even more white against a background of color, and how they have a connection to these obvious pornographic predecessors. this is the stuff that benefits from theory the most, in my opinion.

——————–

anyway. that’s enough of imagining white people to be mad at.

let’s talk about something a little more productive. if we have these implicitly raced [white] frameworks for fandom, it raises several interconnected questions. what does it mean when a person of color inhabits that white viewpoint? how could a person of color find their own? is it even possible? how do these fanon referenda on desirability and asians as vessels for white meaning seep outside these texts?

because the pervasiveness of the white gaze is something asian american writers have been attentive to. as well as—let’s be real—how sexless and heavy-handed attempts to avoid it can be. take, like, greg pak’s 1999 short film spoof asian pride porn.

so here we arrive at our latest text, nguyen tan hoang’s 2014 a view from the bottom. nguyen takes a different view of things. he’s writing a defense of male effeminacy, of bottomhood as challenge to sexual, gender, and racial norms.

this isn’t necessarily visible because i’ve been working so heavily with queer sources here, but mainstream asian american activists have often been concerned with a “remasculinization” project. think frank chin’s insistence in the 1975 anthology aiiieeeee! (as well as the rest of his career) that asian men can be men. this, of course, combined with his belligerent attitude, led to often bitter debates with asian american feminists over the decades to come regarding what is the asian american place in redblooded american heteromasculinity. this is the context from which queer asian americans began their own theoretical movement in the 90s.

the other intellectual line that nguyen is indebted to is the defense of bottomhood and anality that (white) luminaries in queer theory in the last quarter of the 20th century took part in. nguyen lists off guy hocquenghem, leo bersani, da miller, and lee edelman here. i won’t get into the specifics of their work here, but suffice it to say— there’s a lot of cultural baggage attached to getting fucked in the ass.

nguyen has the sharp insight that there’s an important connection between the attempted remasculinization of asian men and the attempted remasculinization of bottoming in their respective mainstream discourses. both want to fit into an assimilatory schema. nguyen instead argues that there’s got to be a way to talk about how asian men [especially queer asian men] and bottoming function and exist within these matrices of power, without scapegoating femininity.

anyway, back to the original question: so the white gaze is pervasive, especially in porn. what next? darrell hamamoto called for a “joy fuck club,” in a 2000 article. that is, a counterpornography, created by asian americans for asian americans. but nguyen’s objection to this is that “while this point appears self-evident at first glance, a closer reading uncovers the problematic assumption that there exists an authentic, unalienated sexuality prior to racist regulation and discrimination.” or: who’s to say how asian americans necessarily fuck?

but the appeal of hamamoto’s assumption is something i personally struggle with. i think there once was a utopian sentiment among a lot of diaspora asians in fandom (myself included, at various points over the past few years). the idea that look: we can write about asians! like us! we can write about asians who are queer! like us! and the stories we’re inspired by, are like… good to read. and the joy that this can bring is something that, pure and simple, is hard to ignore, even to the most irony-poisoned “i’m over representation as a goal” asian (myself included, at various points over the past few years. lol).

the sentiment is seductive, right? we can write stories about us, for people like us, grounded in the culture we grew up hearing about and/or living in. this is an idea that gets bandied around in fandom at large too—but imagine feeling at times as alienated by white queer fandom as you do from cishet programming.

but there’s two criticisms of this that have long complicated my desire for representation of that “authentic” sexuality. the first one is something that’s become obvious as danmei and c-entertainment fandom has grown. a lot of people are attracted to it because of a toxic idea of who “us” constitutes.

that is, let’s be real—part of the fantasy of it all for some is that these casts consist of pale, skinny, nonblack east asians. like i don’t think it’s an accident that the rush of love for asian media exports rose alongside greater pushes for diversity in american media. this is something that’s much more explicit in anime fandom; but let’s not pretend that the relentless colorism in danmei fandom is an accident, or wholly attributable to the source material. for both a segment of white as well as asian people in fandom—it’s part of the point.

the second criticism is an extension of nguyen’s—namely, that we can’t really pretend that there’s some untouched version of our self and sexuality that exists outside of observers, outside of our experiences with racism, outside of the history and the structures that built our present.

so, let’s take one of his examples: brandon lee. umm not the brandon lee you’re thinking of. the gay porn star with the same name. if we read his oeuvre as a successor to sum yung mahn’s (the porn actor whom fung covered), we can learn some interesting things.

first: back to his name. brandon lee’s name is a reference to that brandon lee, bruce lee’s son. nguyen points out, again, the significance of the martial arts genre. as fung did, nguyen unpacks how martial arts is the one venue in which asian men have ever been portrayed as desirable to american audiences.

now, for the record, i am aware that martial arts-related genres are also popular in asia. mxtx’s novels were runaway successes even before her international popularity became notable. what i’m trying to point out here is the predictability of these fantasies. the eventual international success ought to be tinged with a little “oh of course these would be the type to take off.”

the gay asian porn white people enjoy and make has looked the same for forty years. this is something that all those xianxia explainers in 2020 missed: those arcane oriental rituals of dominance and submission and hierarchy and punishment and violence aren’t a barrier to entry for white audiences—they’re oftentimes the big erotic point.

anyway, nguyen is just pointing out that brandon lee’s porn name is a remasculinization strategy attempting to evoke asian virility rather than any of the other traditional stereotypes.

second, onto his videos themselves. unlike his pornographic predecessors, brandon lee had managed to eke out (or realistically, someone corporate determined it marketable) a distinct asian american masculinity. and it’s like someone tried to sexualize the oft-heard refrain, “too asian for americans, too american for asians.” in his “asian” genre videos, he and he alone gets to be american. nguyen explains this by way of listing some of his professions in these videos:

he is an american real estate agent to the japanese house buyer; he is the new owner of the boy brothel, where other asians are sex workers; he is a porn star, a role model for another asian character’s porn ambition.

a big part of brandon lee’s marketing was this “he’s not like the other asians” appeal. oh, he’s a top, oh his dick is bigger than you’d expect, oh he’s got this babyface but look how he fucks. (note that the actor as a biracial [white] filipino man also enjoyed a level of ethnic ambiguity that many of his costars lacked.) the way we know it worked is he eventually started getting cast as just another white twink top. so he could be the masc asian among classic fobby bottoms, or he became the one guy of color in a video, his difference unremarked upon, even as his body was marked by contrast.

third: you may be going “i thought this book was about BOTTOMS. brandon lee is a top.” yeah hold on. so brandon lee took a break from porn for a couple years. and when he came back in 2004, he was even more masc looking. but by 2005 he was also a bottom. nguyen recounts the whole plot (“plot”) of that comeback, the 2005 wicked.

the whole concept of it was that brandon lee was playing himself… that is, his fictionalized porn persona, diva-fied. the fictional brandon lee has an intense ego, and a refusal to bottom that meant he wasn’t getting the jobs he wanted. he’s visited by the ghosts of porn past and present, who help brandon lee realize that teamwork is magic, or something. with their encouragement, brandon lee finally bottoms… and loves it.

now, as nguyen acknowledges, challenging tops to bottom is like. a common trope in gay porn. this in itself is not notable. what is fascinating is how dramatically his porn persona changes from pre-wicked to post-. wicked retroactively casts his top persona as hysteric and bitchy, with a decidedly affected masculinity—it feminizes it. and the roles brandon lee took afterward aren’t the “all-assimilated, all-american twink” anymore.

he began to inhabit the more “stereotypical” roles that were once reserved for his asian bottom counterparts: think accented english and racialized professions. all of a sudden, he wasn’t the protagonist anymore, but an extremely campy villain.

nguyen is invested in this being not all there is to it—like, forget what white people get out of it for a minute. what would an asian person watching it get? because, as nguyen points out, lee is clearly having fun. and the fakeness of lee’s accent aside for a moment, let’s be real here: even ”inconvenient” or “embarrassing” asians (with regard to the futile assimilatory fantasy) do have sex and feel good doing it.

and there is something to be said for pleasure and sexual agency as goals in themself. stepping aside from the narrative aspect of porn as well, we should be clear that performing bottomhood in porn even logistically doesn’t really resemble bottoming in real life. nguyen recounts lee’s interview about his first time bottoming on camera:

lee replies that unlike in real life, you can always say “cut!” when bottoming in front of the camera. he goes on to say, in real life, “i just take it,” whereas on a video shoot, “i had time to get used to my partner.”

this discrepancy means we can’t just limit our analysis to just “brandon lee got more stereotypical roles, which means he had less agency.” the man does exist outside of the narrative roles he played.

but i do want to be clear here that affecting an asian accent and roleplaying a laundromat owner to have sex, is not like. a liberatory project. let’s not get carried away here. self-orientalization is not going to save us lol.

——————–

to unify these two points, nguyen has a quick reference to yiman wang’s 2005 work on “yellow yellowface” that i think is worth following up on. wang is writing about anna may wong’s legacy. she argues that it’s important to reevaluate it, because a lot of scholarship—and popular opinion of anna may wong—had to do with how she did or didn’t fit into stereotypes like “the dragon lady.” as wang phrases it, “simply fitting them into an a priori asian american cognitive map.”

which for the record, has kind of been my project here with my study of porn. which i won’t apologize for. if we don’t even have the map, it’s easy to get turned around into “everything i like is good, and everything i dislike is bad.”

anyway, wang argues that contemporaraneous reception of wong’s acting, while positive, tended to assume that it was “mimetic instead of performative.” and hollywood at least saw her as unproblematically and authentically chinese—despite being third generation chinese american. i’m cutting out all the orientalist prose but you can imagine what they said about her. and while contemporaneous chinese press also saw her as nonproblematically chinese, they also um. often completely fucking hated her for the roles she took. in response to a photo of her in a feathered headdress:

“the so-called chinese film star wong liu tsong who is traveling in america—how can she represent china in this way?”

this, wang points out, is a two step process on both china and euro-america’s part: 1) “wong was consistently identified and conflated with her roles” and 2) “these roles were seen as directly reflecting the orient.”

it’s fascinating to look at how white actresses could affect her iconic hairstyle and on-screen mannerisms and be praised as performers—the assumption was always, this must be natural for wong, but talent for anyone else. but again, not to shit on third generation chinese americans (am sort of one lol).... but anna may wong was one in a time when information about china in america was mediated by like. fucking. pearl buck. she was making shit up too!!!

and not necessarily in a wholly regressive way—wang offers a really sharp reading of the 1930 piccadilly, the flame of love to make the point that wong deliberately and subversively was able to smuggle her own commentary about her onscreen performance compared to the character she played. so her reenactments take on an ironizing tone to any observer willing to credit her with the ability to do so.

but wang notes that there’s a danger here: what happens if no one realizes? have you just been doing all that for nothing? now, as you may be expecting at this point, wang uses m. butterfly to make a point. look, i’m trying to capture asian american studies to you right now!! it’s not complete unless you get the grasp that this play/movie has on people. anyway, wang’s whole point is that m. butterfly is about how you die if you can’t recognize the counterstrategies deployed by people affected by orientalism lmao.

and wang has a quote from ien ang that i want to close my discussion of her piece with:

in short, if i am inescapably chinese by descent, i am only sometimes chinese by consent. when and how is a matter of politics.

anyway to be clear, wang’s piece isn’t about “therefore you should do this.” her argument is “well i think wong did this.” so i don’t think—as i think she would agree lol—that this yellow yellowface is the answer to our questions, which if you’ll recall thousands of words back basically boil down to “so what asian people supposed to do with all this?”

but analyses like these, and like nguyen’s do kind of coalesce into one thesis. and it’s that there’s a point, they seem to argue, at which you simply just have to take the gay asian subject as he is.

as celine shimizu writes in her iconic 2005 “the bind of representation: performing and consuming hypersexuality in miss saigon,” “it would be futile to speak for the ‘asian american woman spectator’ as there is no single desire, projection, identification, or coping mechanism that can be declared for any ‘us.’” we instead have to talk about the set of relations that form against the backdrop of the pervasive perceptions affecting asian american women. her analysis of the production and the reception of miss saigon is so so so so good. you really should read this one.

she ultimately makes the point that in her framework, any representation “is understood as misrecognition, especially for marginal subjects.” if we understand each and every production as a “site of power relations… as a map of historically situated relations made evident” we’re better able to understand the contested desires and identifications we feel in response to the panoply of imperfect images we receive—and how still others can mis/interpret them.

so yeah. i know that’s not helpful by the way. maybe all this is helpful if you want to know how to write better criticism. but that’s… about it. like, what is anyone supposed to do now?

it’s frustrating because nguyen’s book (while excellent!) sometimes feels too broadly reclamatory. this is something i often struggle with.

we don’t want to relegate the parts of us that are easy to stereotype or denigrate to the uh. proverbial closet. like, we don’t want to live our lives worried about our every desire being good representation.

but we also feel an obligation to ourselves and our communities. at some point we can’t throw up our hands and say “well it’s fine as long as i personally feel good or profit from doing it!” [or to take the bit even farther, “well what if i LIKE being affected by racism? then what?”]

and a lot of times in my essays i end up arriving at the inevitable problem of “well how do we solve racism. how do we feel alright in a racist system.” and it’s like. whoa there. um.

the solution obviously isn’t just capitulating to the white scripts for asian porn i’ve rehashed again and again. it’s not taking refuge in assimilation. it’s certainly not yellow yellowface lol. we’re left with this wiggly handed, we do the things we like and we try not to harm others in the process. i don’t know.

and in this particular instance, we… try to reaffirm the attempts at independent sexual subjectivity of people of color while also acknowledging the white appetites that constrain our imaginations. maybe.

——————–

final note:

i use “asian american” a lot here because i am one and also because it rolls off the tongue a lot faster than “diaspora asian living in a euro-american country,” which is more technically what i mean. i hope everyone can either forgive me or let me know what a catchier phrase is lol. sorry to the canadian (richard fung) and australian (ien ang) i grouped as american in the meantime.

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snailsandpuppy-dogtails · 5 months

Text

Ouija? Oui Oui

Criminal Minds. Garvez 2,220 words, Clean, Ao3 This is a Halloween story that took a while... over a year, in fact. Stranded in a spooky old house on a stormy night, the team become involved in a game of Ouija, and someone is set on calling Luke out. Is it real, or is it some elaborate prank?

“Really? Rain?! It couldn’t have been an overly clear sky and sunny 75 keeping us grounded in Los Angeles?!” Penelope jiggled as she pouted, holding on to the curtain, watching the storm pelt the ground outside.

From the kitchen entry Luke watched on, grinning at her antics.

They weren’t really in Los Angeles, not in the city proper anyway. They were in one of the rapidly disappearing, still out of the way, not-quite booming agricultural towns. It was a town so small and remote there was no cause for lodgings, never had been. The people who came here were family and farm workers. Being here was never an accident, and it was certainly not a vacation. If you were here, there was a purpose.

Their purpose had come to a close with an exceptionally rare “good” ending; no lives lost, all missing found. But a freak storm and the only road out washing away left the team stuck. As a result, they had graciously been put up for the night by the sheriff in the old victorian farmhouse owned by her family.

It was drafty, and creaky, and kind of creepy, but it had enough beds to sleep the whole team and all the comforts of a home, so Penelope couldn’t really complain. Still, she would have liked it better if they’d been tucked up cozy on the jet back to DC rather than stuck there.

Sensing her discomfort, wanting to lighten things up, distract her, Luke did what he seemingly did best and reached to push for her buttons. Calling forth some of his early undermining, he goaded her from across the room, “You think perfect weather would prevent us from getting home, Garcia?” He watched her body perk, biting his cheek, smirking as she rounded.

“Oh what, are you a Meteorologist now?” Penelope shot back, turning to face him.

Sighing, JJ cut them off, “I’m just bummed we don’t have anything to play…it seems like it’s been a lifetime since we were all together for a game night.”

“Come on, we have Scrabble. Don’t think we can play with six people and 34 tiles?” Emily teased.

Spencer’s head cocked considering it, “We could do teams”

A silence fell as everyone looked around noncommittally, not interested in trying, but not wanting to offend him.

After a minute Tara’s eyes lit up, an idea sparking. “It is a perfect night for a seance, you believers could prove us skeptics wrong….Let’s commune.”

“We don’t have a Ouija board and none of us are mediums,” Penelope pointed out. Though she agreed some light (or heavy) messing around would take the creep factor of their current surroundings off her mind, she didn’t mind that they couldn’t play some spooky ghost game, real or fake…

“Ah! But we do have scrabble tiles! We could make one,” suggested Emily. “All we really need are the alphabet and some kind of planchette- we could use an empty glass. When my mom was working in Italy, some friends and I broke into an abandoned villa on the edge of town, we drank stolen wine and one of them made a spirit board from scraps of journal paper and an upside down wine glass; we got tipsy and tried to contact the ghost of a cat.”

Tara grinned, “Sounds settled then, unless you’re all too chicken…”

JJ frowned thoughtfully, considering it, then agreed, “Not the kind of game I was thinking of, but why not.”

“The anecdotal evidence gleaned from the experience could be fun,” said Spencer, “count me in.”

Looking to Luke and Penelope, Tara questioned, “So?”

“Yeah, no, my mother would kill me for ‘intruding on his holy plan.’ ” Luke laughed, walking past the group towards an empty arm chair.

“Aww, I won’t tell mommy if you don’t,“ she teased back.

“Nope. Sorry, Tar. Say what you want, but we deal with the dead too much already, I don’t plan on tempting it. I’ll sit this one out, read a book.”

“Come on, Luke, it’s just a game.” JJ, coaxed.

“Actually, that’s still debatable,” said Spencer, “it had to be “proven” to work at the Patent Office before its patent was allowed to proceed; and today, even psychologists believe that it may offer a link between the known and the unknown.”

“Thank you, Spencer.“

Penelope, who had initially been teetering on the ‘no’ side of the fence as well, suddenly had a do-daring change of heart at Luke’s insistent refusal. Looking between the two men, she smirked as if having won something and announced brightly, “Unlike scaredy-cat Luke, I’m in.”

Luke scoffed, smiling, and shook his head, then put up both hands.“I heard you had been practicing,” wiggling his fingers, and winked at her before turning to unzip his backpack.

Penelope glared, but said nothing, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of cluing the rest of the team in on what he was referring to. “Let’s just start.”

The tiles clattered to the table scattering, deft hands quickly arranging them alphabetically in two arcs of 13. Everyone but Luke having taken a place kneeling around the table, Tara called out one last time, “Last chance Alveeez”

Luke, mind made up, simply held up the book he’d plucked from his bag, “I’m good, have fun.”

For a moment everyone sat, not really sure who or how to get started.

“What’da we ask?”

“Well, we should start with hello, then something simple, like…Is anyone here?” suggested Emily, digging back into her memory.

As the question was stated the lights flickered and the temperature dropped, JJ glanced to Tara, a wry smile exchanging between the two, “Looks like a yes already.”

A light nervous hum pulled from Penelope’s lips, “Jennifer Jareau, Know that if I can’t sleep tonight, you won’t be either-“

Emily rolled her eyes disapprovingly at the pair of instigators, “It’s just the storm, Penelope.”

“She’s right,” agreed Spencer, “A house this old is bound to have some bad or broken wiring. It’s likely faulty and therefore more likely to get a short in inclement weather.”

But as his words were assuaging the creeping feeling growing across her skin, all hands on the base of the glass felt the cup start to glide from letter to letter. Slowly, the cup dragged across the tiles, “H-E-Y”

Stopping, Emily laughed, “Hey? Wouldn’t you know, A modern ghost.”

Just as smooth, “Y-O-U- B-E-T” emerged under the flowing cup.

Suspicious, skeptically amused looks were traded around the table.

“Good or bad?“ “Do we know you?” toppled, one over the other.

The makeshift planchette remained still, as if whoever were in control were thinking, then whipped to L, down horizontally to U, up and over to K, then zipped backward, finishing on E. Reading it, all eyes went to the man sinking into the chair, into the book in his hands.

“Luke?” Spencer stated, perplexed, glancing from face to face around the table. This was undoubtedly a prank. Spencer tried to read their micro-expressions, decide who it could be. Tara had been the one most insistent that Luke join, but Emily was good at covering things up, JJ was a proven good liar, but she was about as likely as Matt to pull someone in to a game they said they didn’t want to play. It obviously wasn’t Penelope unless she was really playing up the misdirection. Everyone’s fingers touched the base of the glass, so he couldn’t rely on proximity to help in deductions.

Barely looking up from the book, Luke called, head inclined, “Look, I told you I’m not-“

Before he finished, all hands on the glass were pulled back in a repeat of the pattern, “L-U-K-E,” this time Tara called out the letters as they covered them. JJ’s mouth dropped open and her fingers briefly lifted. Emily, much like Spencer, was now discretely inspecting her friends.

Closing his book, Luke indulged them, calling over his shoulder, “Ha ha, very funny. Are you all enjoying yourselves?”

Confused, uneasy faces slowly shook their heads, denying they had been the one, “-It’s not me“ Tara insisted, “It’s not us,” repeated JJ.

Penelope, now believing it absolutely was some elaborate prank she wasn’t in on, called out sweetly, continuing, “Do you know Luke?”

“H-E-Y- B- E- A- U- T- I- F- U- L- Y- E- S”

“Ooo, familiar and flirty,” she cooed

“Yeah, too bad he’s dead,” JJ said through a smile.

A huff and the obvious sounds of shifting legs drifted from Luke’s direction. Emily’s brow furrowed, challenging, “Friend or foe?” She still wasn’t sure who it could be; if it was a game, or if this was real. The air in the room felt electric, she was no stranger to some unexplainable things, but Tara was right, this was a perfect opportunity for some spooky fun, something she absolutely did not put past either JJ or Tara indulging in at Luke’s expense.

“N-O-M-A-T-C-H” was smoothly guided as a response.

“Nomatch?” Spencer said to himself, head tilting, puzzled.

“Uh, I think it’s ‘no match?’ ” JJ clarified.

Luke had been trying to ignore them, immersing himself with the Bennet sisters training as Zombie killers (the modern YA takes on classics were a guilty pleasure), but icy air suddenly settled on his shoulder, a hand resting just so.

That was different.

The second the letters were read out it pulled his attention like a string tugging from his ear, the minute the words were spoken Luke’s hair stood on end.

‘No match,’ why did that sound familiar?

The thought was interrupted by Tara, sitting up on her knees, calling over, “Maybe it’s one of your old ranger buddies looking for a light”

In a flurry, their hands ripped back and forth, “N-O- M-A-T-C-H- F-O-R- P-E-N-E-L-O-P-E- H-U-H”

As they reached the L Penelope let go, a sick shiver chasing down her spine. While she didn’t mind helping mess with Luke, she did not appriciate being included this way.

Luke’s head snapped up from the book, his eyes catching hers from across the room.

They were fucking with him, fine, but not Penelope, not-

The corner of his mouth twitched, he remembered exactly why those words were familiar, and seeing her look, though he knew she’d never heard him say it, knew she was looking to him for an answer. If Luke had bothered to look at the other sets of eyes on him, he would have found a similar piqued curiosity coming from around the room, evidence that, no, no one here was doing this.

Emily cut to JJ and then across to Tara, looking for any sign that one of them might be the one pulling something, but there was no tell, faces just as surprised as her own.

Spencer stated with a grin what he felt was the obvious joke the prankster had in mind, “It’s definitely someone very familiar with your relationship with Garcia.”

Smiling briefly, then schooling his features, Luke glanced down, watching as the hands still on the cup moved easily, “N-O- W-O-R-D-S- C-O-M-M-U-N-I-C-A-T-O-R”

He didn’t want to be a part of this. He actively had chosen not to be a part of this. And yet, here he was being dragged in to it. Forced into it. It was just like Phil to put him on the spot and not drop it. Luke heated at the truth to the implied accusation.

Phil knew.

He’d likely known all along. And now, even dead, he was taunting him over it.

Luke’s eyes narrowed, but his mouth quirked, and his head twisted in disbelief, slowly the word falling out on a breath, “-sorry.” But he didn’t say it to her, he didn’t say it to anyone in the room- any body in the room anyway.

“N-O-M-A-T-C-H” Each hand felt the tug and pull, each thinking less and less that it was another leading the message.

His head shook, staring at the tiles, this couldn’t be happening. More importantly, he couldn’t let her know it was happening. “I know-“

“D-O-N-T- B-L-O-W- I-T”

The glass stopped, Penelope tugged her hand away, protectively cupping it to her chest with the other. JJ looked from Emily to Tara, then from Penelope to Luke, “…You…wanna fill us in?”

Penelope looked to JJ, Luke’s gaze cast down then flowed up and over the faces around the table. Slowly, his shoulder raised, “What? I was playing along. Just…messing around, right?”

“So -you- were joking? Even though you refused to join us? I don’t buy it-“

“Yeah, I thought you believed in this whole ghost-afterlife-supernatrual-unexplainable. I mean, you think the BAU is haunted.”

“Okay, 1. the BAU is haunted, Rossi agrees, and 2., what? I’m supposed to accept that the one person you couldn’t con into playing was the one person with a visitor from the other side? I may believe in ghosts, but I’m not that easy.”

He was lying, of course, but none of them needed to know that. As long as he insisted he was playing along, no one could say he wasn’t. As long as it was a game, he wouldn’t have to tell Penelope why he’d lied to her about Phil, he wouldn’t have to admit why he lied to Phil about Penelope, and he wouldn’t have to think about why he didn’t want them together, even back then…

#garvez #criminal minds #fanfiction #penelope garcia #luke alvez #Phil Brooks #tara lewis #spencer reid #emily prentiss #jj #snails tales #ao3

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