JoCarthage

Tracing one warm line

The snow was thickening at the edges of the lake, but still ran in gusty waves across the frozen surface. Just visible across the silver-slicked expanse was the only other occupied home, its flickering fire still visible through its warm kitchen window.

Ilya pulled his scarf more tightly around his mouth and shoved the door to the cottage open, scraping snow back from the freshly cleared porch as he swung out into the frigid cold. He grabbed a fresh, dry cord of firewood from under the tarp and hustled back inside.

“How’s the ice looking?” Shane asked, curled up on their deep brown couch, thick russet blanket slipping down his bare chest.

“Nearly there,” Ilya said, stacking the firewood in basket beside the roaring fire that was their only source of light and heat.

Shane glanced out the window. “The storm should let-up in a few hours, enough to dig out the generator.”

Ilya nodded, hanging his scarf over the hearth before putting the last of the previous cord into the fire. Shane had had to teach him about cycling cold logs in before they were needed, about checking for dampness, about shaking any critters out before they got inside. But this was their third winter at the cabin since retirement and he had it down to a science now.

Ilya dusted off his hands, little flakes of moss and bark and dirt falling onto the raw stone hearth. He’d sweep it into the fire later. He turned to Shane, grin growing wicked as his husband let the blanket slip further down.

“Now,” Ilya said, “remind me,” he sat on the wool carpet to pull off his heavy boots, “what was my reward for being the big, strong man to go out into that fucking blizzard to keep you warm?”

—

Shane narrowed his eyes as the dawn broke over the lake, the rays just skimming the snow-dusted surface of the lake. The winds had pushed the night’s snowfall up against the rocky banks, leaving a silvered plane stretching out to the far flung tree line, shimmering empty in the rising dawnlight.

Empty, except —

“There is a Mountie on ice skates coming towards us,” he said.

“A what?” Ilya asked, turning away from where he was fussing with the fire. He’d rigged up a coffee pot, which Shane was currently enjoying the first pour of, per their long tradition.

“You know what a —“

“Yes, yes, I do, but — what?”

“He has a wolf? Running beside him?”

“You are fucking with me,” Ilya said, abandoning his fire optimization to come stare out the bay windows with Shane. “You are not fucking with me.”

“Nope.”

“How’re our neighbors, Fraser?” Kowalski called out, savoring his coffee at the kitchen island. Fraser was still stomping the snow off his boots from the quick walk down their pier and back inside. Dief had headed right to the den where her puppies were sleeping and lolling around; only 6 weeks old, they could go an hour without their mama without distress, but not much more.

“I am pleased to report they are well-stocked and thoroughly prepared.” Fraser said.

“They didn’t need our oranges to keep them safe from scurvy?” Vecchio asked from the massive, turn of the century iron wood fired cookstove that they’d damn near built the cabin around. He was cooking the week’s thick stew.

“No, they did not,” Fraser said crisply, beginning to strip out of his uniform and hang it up carefully beside the massive hearth on elk horn pegs he’d harvested himself.

“You looked pretty good out there on those skates, Fraser,” Kowalski said with a soft leer.

“Well, I’m no Tessa Virtue, but a Mountie must be a proficient skier, sled-driver, hiker, and skater to competently perform his duties.”

Down to his red long johns, Fraser strode over to the deep leather couch Kowalski had spent two pension checks on, picked up the Le Carré novel with a banknote halfway through, and settled back. Kowalski sidled over, sat down beside him and, without taking his eyes off of the page, Fraser gently tilted his head onto the other man’s shoulder.

Kowalski sipped his coffee again, meeting Vecchio’s eyes with a half-smile.

“Thank you very much for having us over,” Shane said, taking the seat next to Ilya’s.

“Yes, thank you,” Ilya said. He looked over the spread. “It looks delicious.”

“That would be thanks to Ray, he’s the cook in the family,” Fraser said with good cheer.

Vecchio nodded, feeling his cheeks heat even after all of these years.

“Hey, I can cook too!” Kowalski said.

Fraser inclined his head. “My apologies, Ray can also cook, though mixed drinks are his specialty.”

“You’re,” Ilya started, eyes wide with mischief, “you’re both named Ray?”

“He has a type,” Vecchio and Kowalski said at the same time before meeting eyes and cracking up.

“Dinner is served guys, dig in while it’s still hot,” Vecchio said. The dining room was filled with the gentle clinking of plates and spoons and glasses as everyone got started.

“Where is your wolf?” Ilya said after a few bites. “When I first came here, in summer, I heard a loon and I could have sworn it was a wolf.”

“He called it ‘a stupid Canadian wolf bird,’” Shane said around a mouthful of thick, crusty bread.

Vecchio could see Fraser bodily holding himself back from giving them a 10 minute recitation of bird facts, so he jumped in.

On November 24th, 2018, I posted a list of major deletions of sites or of content on sites that stripped fandom of its history. A bunch of pro-shipper blogs had just been deleted, and people were nervous. I suppose I was thinking “All this has happened before…”

On December 3rd, 2018, Tumblr’s Department of Irony announced the NSFW ban. Thanks for providing this salutary lesson to The Youth and a billion reblogs to me, I guess.

Today, we have AO3 for writing. Audio, images, and video are in as much danger as ever, yet fans attack AO3 every donation drive. For those of you who forget our past…

HERE IS WHAT HISTORY HAS TAUGHT US!

1992 - Chelsea Quinn Yarbro forces a zine to be destroyed

1995 - Viacom/Paramount goes after fansites

1995 - Anne Rice gets IWTV fic deleted everywhere

1997 - Fox and Lucasfilm go after fansites

1998 - AOL goes after X-Files fansites

2000 - Warner Brothers goes after Harry Potter fansites

2000 - Anne Rice anne rices again

2001 - Tripod Massacre

2001 - Anne Rice goes after IWTV fic on FFN

2001 - The Bronze shut down as Buffy changes networks

2002 - FFN bans porn

2002 - FFN bans RPF

2003 - Gryffindor Tower implodes

2004 - FFN bans script format

2005 - FFN bans CYOA, Readerfic, 2nd person, Songfic

2005 - Sheezyart bans adult content; y!gallery founded

2005 - Viacom/Paramount goes after fansites again

2006 - Sakura Lemon Archive suddenly closes

2007 - Strikethrough, Boldthrough on Livejournal

2007 - Youtube institutes Content ID, deleting many fanvids

2008 - Slash Cotillion closes, taking much historical m/m with it

2009 - GeoCities shuts down, taking old fannish websites

2009 - Greatestjournal shuts down; RPGs deleted

2009 - Marvel gets scans_daily deleted

2009 - imeem, major vidding hub, closes suddenly

2010 - FFN forums purged for inactivity

2010 - DeviantArt purges adult fanfic

2010 - Literate Union goes after Twilight fandom on FFN

2011 - Delicious destroyed by Yahoo’s incompetence

2011 - China arrests women for writing m/m; destroys danmei.org

2012 - major FFN crackdown on porn

2012 - Megaupload deleted for piracy; also destroys vids, podfic

2013 - Max-Dan-Wiz.com purged of fan-generated content

2014 - Quizilla shuts down

2014 - China purges m/m story websites; arrests female authors

2014 - Blip.tv deletes vids

2014 - Viddler deletes vids

2015 - Journalfen’s servers become fully robust, deleting Fandom Wank

2016 - y!Gallery deleted

2016 - Elfwood goes offline

2016 - Audiofic Archive corrupted; major blow to podfic

2017 - Chinese author jailed after being ratted out over fandom drama

2017 - Parents get queer Warrior Cats fic purged from Wattpad

2018 - Tumblr deletes pro-shipper blogs

2018 - Tumblr announces NSFW ban

2018 - Wattpad deletes accounts/fics without warning

2019 - China purges weibo of m/m; more women jailed

This is only a small taste of the many times that:

Fannish moderators got bored, ran out of money, or had a falling out, deleting a site/list/forum along the way.

Sites got bought out and closed for being unprofitable.

Fandom got hit as governments targeted piracy or political dissidents.

Fans grudge reported each other.

Official forums got deleted when the canon finished.

It’s not always malicious. It’s not always about us. But we lose every time.

Some of these purges hit everyone. Many of them hit m/m content specifically or female gaze-y material in general. This is why antis are dead wrong. This is why anti-fujoshi policies end up being anti-m/m policies. This is why we need clear labeling, not content restrictions.

This is why we need AO3.

#op has an extensive list (2nd person pov there!!!! i was there for that rip)#but it cuts off at 2020 when the xz fans imploded + mass reported fics to the (chinese) government for lgbtq content -> govt ban on ao3#truly a disgraceful moment lol

The original post is from October 15, 2019. I have no doubt that we could fill in every year since then with more of this same bullshit. It never lets up.

On the war of attrition side, some Spanish language sites have disappeared for tired moderator reasons. That one SGA archive never did come back either, did it? On the snitches side, fans continue to grudge report each other, whether that’s low stakes like tumblr or the Chinese government continuing to go after original danmei.

Tracing one warm line

The snow was thickening at the edges of the lake, but still ran in gusty waves across the frozen surface. Just visible across the silver-slicked expanse was the only other occupied home, its flickering fire still visible through its warm kitchen window.

Ilya pulled his scarf more tightly around his mouth and shoved the door to the cottage open, scraping snow back from the freshly cleared porch as he swung out into the frigid cold. He grabbed a fresh, dry cord of firewood from under the tarp and hustled back inside.

“How’s the ice looking?” Shane asked, curled up on their deep brown couch, thick russet blanket slipping down his bare chest.

“Nearly there,” Ilya said, stacking the firewood in basket beside the roaring fire that was their only source of light and heat.

Shane glanced out the window. “The storm should let-up in a few hours, enough to dig out the generator.”

Ilya nodded, hanging his scarf over the hearth before putting the last of the previous cord into the fire. Shane had had to teach him about cycling cold logs in before they were needed, about checking for dampness, about shaking any critters out before they got inside. But this was their third winter at the cabin since retirement and he had it down to a science now.

Ilya dusted off his hands, little flakes of moss and bark and dirt falling onto the raw stone hearth. He’d sweep it into the fire later. He turned to Shane, grin growing wicked as his husband let the blanket slip further down.

“Now,” Ilya said, “remind me,” he sat on the wool carpet to pull off his heavy boots, “what was my reward for being the big, strong man to go out into that fucking blizzard to keep you warm?”

—

Shane narrowed his eyes as the dawn broke over the lake, the rays just skimming the snow-dusted surface of the lake. The winds had pushed the night’s snowfall up against the rocky banks, leaving a silvered plane stretching out to the far flung tree line, shimmering empty in the rising dawnlight.

Empty, except —

“There is a Mountie on ice skates coming towards us,” he said.

“A what?” Ilya asked, turning away from where he was fussing with the fire. He’d rigged up a coffee pot, which Shane was currently enjoying the first pour of, per their long tradition.

“You know what a —“

“Yes, yes, I do, but — what?”

“He has a wolf? Running beside him?”

“You are fucking with me,” Ilya said, abandoning his fire optimization to come stare out the bay windows with Shane. “You are not fucking with me.”

“Nope.”

“How’re our neighbors, Fraser?” Kowalski called out, savoring his coffee at the kitchen island. Fraser was still stomping the snow off his boots from the quick walk down their pier and back inside. Dief had headed right to the den where her puppies were sleeping and lolling around; only 6 weeks old, they could go an hour without their mama without distress, but not much more.

“I am pleased to report they are well-stocked and thoroughly prepared.” Fraser said.

“They didn’t need our oranges to keep them safe from scurvy?” Vecchio asked from the massive, turn of the century iron wood fired cookstove that they’d damn near built the cabin around. He was cooking the week’s thick stew.

“No, they did not,” Fraser said crisply, beginning to strip out of his uniform and hang it up carefully beside the massive hearth on elk horn pegs he’d harvested himself.

“You looked pretty good out there on those skates, Fraser,” Kowalski said with a soft leer.

“Well, I’m no Tessa Virtue, but a Mountie must be a proficient skier, sled-driver, hiker, and skater to competently perform his duties.”

Down to his red long johns, Fraser strode over to the deep leather couch Kowalski had spent two pension checks on, picked up the Le Carré novel with a banknote halfway through, and settled back. Kowalski sidled over, sat down beside him and, without taking his eyes off of the page, Fraser gently tilted his head onto the other man’s shoulder.

Kowalski sipped his coffee again, meeting Vecchio’s eyes with a half-smile.

“Thank you very much for having us over,” Shane said, taking the seat next to Ilya’s.

“Yes, thank you,” Ilya said. He looked over the spread. “It looks delicious.”

“That would be thanks to Ray, he’s the cook in the family,” Fraser said with good cheer.

Vecchio nodded, feeling his cheeks heat even after all of these years.

“Hey, I can cook too!” Kowalski said.

Fraser inclined his head. “My apologies, Ray can also cook, though mixed drinks are his specialty.”

“You’re,” Ilya started, eyes wide with mischief, “you’re both named Ray?”

“He has a type,” Vecchio and Kowalski said at the same time before meeting eyes and cracking up.

“Dinner is served guys, dig in while it’s still hot,” Vecchio said. The dining room was filled with the gentle clinking of plates and spoons and glasses as everyone got started.

“Where is your wolf?” Ilya said after a few bites. “When I first came here, in summer, I heard a loon and I could have sworn it was a wolf.”

“He called it ‘a stupid Canadian wolf bird,’” Shane said around a mouthful of thick, crusty bread.

Vecchio could see Fraser bodily holding himself back from giving them a 10 minute recitation of bird facts, so he jumped in.

this is NOT because of blocking screenshots, it's because of HOW streaming sites use your computer's hardware to optimise performance, which means the thing rendering the video and the thing capturing your screen aren't the SAME thing. so they can't talk together.

…Bucky blew out a cloud of smoke, unwinding, and said, “fuck, I missed you.“

for @cesperanza <3 and Coming and Going

Tracing one warm line

The snow was thickening at the edges of the lake, but still ran in gusty waves across the frozen surface. Just visible across the silver-slicked expanse was the only other occupied home, its flickering fire still visible through its warm kitchen window.

Ilya pulled his scarf more tightly around his mouth and shoved the door to the cottage open, scraping snow back from the freshly cleared porch as he swung out into the frigid cold. He grabbed a fresh, dry cord of firewood from under the tarp and hustled back inside.

“How’s the ice looking?” Shane asked, curled up on their deep brown couch, thick russet blanket slipping down his bare chest.

“Nearly there,” Ilya said, stacking the firewood in basket beside the roaring fire that was their only source of light and heat.

Shane glanced out the window. “The storm should let-up in a few hours, enough to dig out the generator.”

Ilya nodded, hanging his scarf over the hearth before putting the last of the previous cord into the fire. Shane had had to teach him about cycling cold logs in before they were needed, about checking for dampness, about shaking any critters out before they got inside. But this was their third winter at the cabin since retirement and he had it down to a science now.

Ilya dusted off his hands, little flakes of moss and bark and dirt falling onto the raw stone hearth. He’d sweep it into the fire later. He turned to Shane, grin growing wicked as his husband let the blanket slip further down.

“Now,” Ilya said, “remind me,” he sat on the wool carpet to pull off his heavy boots, “what was my reward for being the big, strong man to go out into that fucking blizzard to keep you warm?”

—

Shane narrowed his eyes as the dawn broke over the lake, the rays just skimming the snow-dusted surface of the lake. The winds had pushed the night’s snowfall up against the rocky banks, leaving a silvered plane stretching out to the far flung tree line, shimmering empty in the rising dawnlight.

Empty, except —

“There is a Mountie on ice skates coming towards us,” he said.

“A what?” Ilya asked, turning away from where he was fussing with the fire. He’d rigged up a coffee pot, which Shane was currently enjoying the first pour of, per their long tradition.

“You know what a —“

“Yes, yes, I do, but — what?”

“He has a wolf? Running beside him?”

“You are fucking with me,” Ilya said, abandoning his fire optimization to come stare out the bay windows with Shane. “You are not fucking with me.”

“Nope.”

“How’re our neighbors, Fraser?” Kowalski called out, savoring his coffee at the kitchen island. Fraser was still stomping the snow off his boots from the quick walk down their pier and back inside. Dief had headed right to the den where her puppies were sleeping and lolling around; only 6 weeks old, they could go an hour without their mama without distress, but not much more.

“I am pleased to report they are well-stocked and thoroughly prepared.” Fraser said.

“They didn’t need our oranges to keep them safe from scurvy?” Vecchio asked from the massive, turn of the century iron wood fired cookstove that they’d damn near built the cabin around. He was cooking the week’s thick stew.

“No, they did not,” Fraser said crisply, beginning to strip out of his uniform and hang it up carefully beside the massive hearth on elk horn pegs he’d harvested himself.

“You looked pretty good out there on those skates, Fraser,” Kowalski said with a soft leer.

“Well, I’m no Tessa Virtue, but a Mountie must be a proficient skier, sled-driver, hiker, and skater to competently perform his duties.”

Down to his red long johns, Fraser strode over to the deep leather couch Kowalski had spent two pension checks on, picked up the Le Carré novel with a banknote halfway through, and settled back. Kowalski sidled over, sat down beside him and, without taking his eyes off of the page, Fraser gently tilted his head onto the other man’s shoulder.

Kowalski sipped his coffee again, meeting Vecchio’s eyes with a half-smile.

Tracing one warm line

The snow was thickening at the edges of the lake, but still ran in gusty waves across the frozen surface. Just visible across the silver-slicked expanse was the only other occupied home, its flickering fire still visible through its warm kitchen window.

Ilya pulled his scarf more tightly around his mouth and shoved the door to the cottage open, scraping snow back from the freshly cleared porch as he swung out into the frigid cold. He grabbed a fresh, dry cord of firewood from under the tarp and hustled back inside.

“How’s the ice looking?” Shane asked, curled up on their deep brown couch, thick russet blanket slipping down his bare chest.

“Nearly there,” Ilya said, stacking the firewood in basket beside the roaring fire that was their only source of light and heat.

Shane glanced out the window. “The storm should let-up in a few hours, enough to dig out the generator.”

Ilya nodded, hanging his scarf over the hearth before putting the last of the previous cord into the fire. Shane had had to teach him about cycling cold logs in before they were needed, about checking for dampness, about shaking any critters out before they got inside. But this was their third winter at the cabin since retirement and he had it down to a science now.

Ilya dusted off his hands, little flakes of moss and bark and dirt falling onto the raw stone hearth. He’d sweep it into the fire later. He turned to Shane, grin growing wicked as his husband let the blanket slip further down.

“Now,” Ilya said, “remind me,” he sat on the wool carpet to pull off his heavy boots, “what was my reward for being the big, strong man to go out into that fucking blizzard to keep you warm?”

—

Shane narrowed his eyes as the dawn broke over the lake, the rays just skimming the snow-dusted surface of the lake. The winds had pushed the night’s snowfall up against the rocky banks, leaving a silvered plane stretching out to the far flung tree line, shimmering empty in the rising dawnlight.

Empty, except —

“There is a Mountie on ice skates coming towards us,” he said.

“A what?” Ilya asked, turning away from where he was fussing with the fire. He’d rigged up a coffee pot, which Shane was currently enjoying the first pour of, per their long tradition.

“You know what a —“

“Yes, yes, I do, but — what?”

“He has a wolf? Running beside him?”

“You are fucking with me,” Ilya said, abandoning his fire optimization to come stare out the bay windows with Shane. “You are not fucking with me.”

“Nope.”

Tracing one warm line

The snow was thickening at the edges of the lake, but still ran in gusty waves across the frozen surface. Just visible across the silver-slicked expanse was the only other occupied home, its flickering fire still visible through its warm kitchen window.

Ilya pulled his scarf more tightly around his mouth and shoved the door to the cottage open, scraping snow back from the freshly cleared porch as he swung out into the frigid cold. He grabbed a fresh, dry cord of firewood from under the tarp and hustled back inside.

“How’s the ice looking?” Shane asked, curled up on their deep brown couch, thick russet blanket slipping down his bare chest.

“Nearly there,” Ilya said, stacking the firewood in basket beside the roaring fire that was their only source of light and heat.

Shane glanced out the window. “The storm should let-up in a few hours, enough to dig out the generator.”

Ilya nodded, hanging his scarf over the hearth before putting the last of the previous cord into the fire. Shane had had to teach him about cycling cold logs in before they were needed, about checking for dampness, about shaking any critters out before they got inside. But this was their third winter at the cabin since retirement and he had it down to a science now.

Ilya dusted off his hands, little flakes of moss and bark and dirt falling onto the raw stone hearth. He’d sweep it into the fire later. He turned to Shane, grin growing wicked as his husband let the blanket slip further down.

“Now,” Ilya said, “remind me,” he sat on the wool carpet to pull off his heavy boots, “what was my reward for being the big, strong man to go out into that fucking blizzard to keep you warm?”

—

Shane narrowed his eyes as the dawn broke over the lake, the rays just skimming the snow-dusted surface of the lake. The winds had pushed the night’s snowfall up against the rocky banks, leaving a silvered plane stretching out to the far flung tree line, shimmering empty in the rising dawnlight.

Empty, except —

“There is a Mountie on ice skates coming towards us,” he said.

“A what?” Ilya asked, turning away from where he was fussing with the fire. He’d rigged up a coffee pot, which Shane was currently enjoying the first pour of, per their long tradition.

“You know what a —“

“Yes, yes, I do, but — what?”

“He has a wolf? Running beside him?”

“You are fucking with me,” Ilya said, abandoning his fire optimization to come stare out the bay windows with Shane. “You are not fucking with me.”

“Nope.”