#but it's still much better than the void of nothing we have for the fandom right now

[idaten-jump]

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[wixxid]

IVORY  · PART V

Fandom: Dune

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Female OC

Words: 2,238

Warnings: dark themes, violence, death and mention of cannibalism

Summary: Your pride and loneliness gets the better, as you choose to pry in what you should avoid.

Desecrated.

It's tender to the touch. Bruised. The simple trace of your finger is enough to draw a frown. The mottled skin of your throat is obvious. A terrible site to bare witness, but there's more; a scattered mess mares your body.

The powders have no affect in hiding their existence, and so you resorted to covering them with fabric. It's better the people don't see. It's better your father and kin don't realise the damage of only one night. If they did, they might not leave you here, and the point of all this would be for nothing.

A waste.

You've come this far and you've survived. It's not for anyone else but for you to decide when it ends. It could be weeks, years or even decades, but you know this marriage is worth more than your life. It means a future for thousands of others, if not millions.

Turning from the mirror, you nod for the servants to continue dressing you. The early morning marks the hour of your fathers return to Caladan. He and the others are set to leave this planet, and you want them to leave with hope and pride.

Honour.

You aren't going to dress like your new people, nor will you ever behave like them. The void of their culture won't ever touch your soul. Instead, the servants prepare you in one of the gowns bought from home. A statement both daring and bold.

"Is it time?" you question, to which the servant nods. She's the very same to whom had once adorned the bruises you do now. For reasons unknown, you had taken a liking to the woman. "Good."

Taking a deep breath as you left your chamber, you couldn't help but yearn for what freedom you might find outside these walls; if for only a short time. If only to see your father depart this abysmal world. Gathering yourself, it was only your lone servant who guided you through the palace and up to the hithe.

The dark star that cloaks this planet bore light, and you wince as it floods your gentle eyes; having been weeks since you'd taken in anything other than the artificial. Even the air is harder to breath despite being outside; far too poisoned with fumes.

In the distance you see the great ship to which you'd arrived in, still gleaming unlike anything you'd ever seen. A beacon. There's very few in the galaxy who have or ever will travel the vastness of space. In fact, the first time you'd ever done so was to bring yourself here.

"I didn't think you would come," spoke your father. Standing in uniform, he greets you well kept but with a face of despair. The loom that surrounds him is heartbreaking. "I didn't think you would want to see me."

"Then you think too much," you replied with a faint smile. "You're my father - my duke. You're an honorable man who deserves to be farewelled."

"An honorable man wouldn't trade his daughter to the enemy."

His words hit you like a bullet. Painful. The surrounding noise grows overwhelming to the senses. Hypersensitive. You can hear the ships, the soldiers and even the planet itself resonating from all-round. Even the wind across your face feels strange.

But as you look at your fathers rugged face, see his familiar eyes and features, you feel the noise fade away. You can see the burden he's carrying. You know this was as difficult for him as it is for you. It isn't fair or right for him to keep carrying it.

"There is no call we do not answer," you repeat in mantra. "We do what we must for the good of the people." Resting a hand on his shoulder, you give a light squeeze. "We do what we must to survive."

"You're strong, just like your mother," he nods with a chuff. "You always have been."

Stepping forward, he places a soft kiss on your forehead and your eyes close amidst the threat of tears. You want to remember him as he is and as the kind-heartedness that he represents. Steadily breathing, you absorb his gentle touch and scent; to which you won't soon forget.

"We'll see each other again," he promises with a touch of your cheek. "I'll make sure of it."

Nodding your head with a mustered smile, the duke straightens himself before taking a step back. There are no other exchanges as he moves to make way for the ship. It's a quick farewell, anything more would be too difficult; too emotional.

"My lady," utters Gurney. Stepping forward, he takes your hand to lay a quick peck. "As a man of your fathers council, loyal friend and protector, it pains me that my only power now is to wish you well."

"Fate is a complexity, is it not?" you jest upon looking at your retreating fathers form. In all seriousness you added, "You'll protect him, won't you - and Paul?"

He pauses, "With my life."

"Then there's nothing to fear," you mutter beneath your breath. A rush of relief washes your bones, perhaps a premonition. "Thank you, Gurney."

Giving a curt nod, he bid himself goodbye before following suit to board the ship; along with the rest. Watching alongside what few soldiers and groundmen there are, you waited by until the doors ceiled. The tender strings in your heart tug at the site.

Loneliness is cruel.

Yet, a shadow looms on the metal floor of the platform. Piter. The mentat appeared from seemingly nowhere, and to your irritably, is the only one of any importance to see your father and people off on their long voyage.

"Where are they?" you question bluntly, not bothering so much as to look at him. Your eyes are still sharply focused on the starship. "Why didn't they come?"

In truth, it doesn't matter that your new family by law had not shown for the occasion. They hadn't done you the courtesy of it upon arrival, and so what little there is to have changed in their humiliation. You only ask in leu of the open wound it now salts.

"Pressing matters," spoke Piter. "The Baron's time is precious. It's best not to waste what isn't so clearly desired."

"And what of Feyd-Rautha?" you queried whilst turning to face the mentat; heated eyes meeting cold ones. "Is his time as coveted?"

"The answer isn't pleasant."

"I didn't ask if it were pleasant."

"Take the day," retorts Piter as he looks out towards the horizon. "This is your home now - you should see it."

The anger within your veins begins to boil. It vexes you that this twisted man won't simply answer what should be the simplest question. It causes your mind to tick, wondering what it could possibly be to make him so reluctant; secretive.

"Do I have to pry it out of you?"

The threat did nothing to change his monotone demeanor, but you can tell he'd heard you well and clear. A break of silence fills the void between you, until finally there is no more effort for him to conceal the truth. He confesses with a neutral tone.

"Prying only leads you to places you shouldn't be," he states before glancing at your servant. "But this one can show you the way."

Glancing over your shoulder, you eye the woman; head bowed low. Piter stays while you take your leave of the hithe. You'd expected him to be stronger, but his words of warning begin ring. Perhaps he's right to stave you from the trail you now follow.

"This way," utters your servant.

Following her lead, she moves at a slow pace; an evident lack of urgency. The reason is an evident one. Venturing into the palace walls and traversing the halls, the farther you travel, the more you studied the lithe and pale woman.

The muscles in her neck twitch and strain ever so subtly. A sign of distress. The way she grips her hands together, so tightly, as if she were trying to cling on, only makes you all the more intrigued yet disturbed.

"Where are we going?"

Keeping her head bowed she responds, "We're almost there."

The answer is hardly clear enough to process. Empty. The abundance of riddling and vague responses you've received only adds to your tart aggravation. It's baneful, with how the Harkonnen's have polluted this place with such fear and secrets.

A terrible infestation.

Eventually, the servant stops outside that of a chamber door; similar to your own but far removed. This place is located deeper within the palace, if at all possible. You can see her milky skin prickle and shiver beneath her thin dress.

You order, "Stay close."

Swiping a hand over the console, the door opens wide; revealing a bright illumination as it beams down from the ceiling. As you step forward, your shoes click against the glossy ground whilst the door close from behind; entrapping the two of you.

The channel of light strikes down upon the epicenter of the room, clearly irradiating the psychotic man you'd been seeking; although he's far from alone. As criminal and dangerous as he may be, his blood still belongs to great wealth.

Feyd stands within the down cast of light, muscular arms outreached while servants attend to his requisite. In a warped sense, his marbled pose and aura makes you think of an something akin to ancient; like a god from the old world.

A god of death.

The other servants are quick to stop and turn heads at your unexpected arrival, but Feyd remains unbothered. Evidently, there's not a soul on this planet for him to fear. However, his attendants have paused far too long for his liking.

Feyd turns slowly, clearly agitated at whomever had decided to enter his domain. His sharpened features don't soften upon realising your presence. Instead, he looks you up and down rather analytically.

He rumbles, "What do you want?"

"Respect," you answer simple and low. "Honour."

Feyd's lip twitches in a slight grimace and snarl. It's enough to show blackened teeth, to which you still find utterly unsettling. Feyd waves off a servant, before turning his undivided attention towards you; malicious.

"Honour," he repeats as he stalks towards you; one step at a time. "For who? For you?"

"For us both," you respond as he circles behind you. "The empire watches - waiting to see what will happen next. Now all they see is you - absent from the honour my house was due this morning."

"You Atreides," he drawls with a grumble. A flutter of feminine giggles echo from the far corner of the room. "You're all the same."

Feyd moves from behind you, instead leading himself to a table. It gave you a chance to take in the room. The servants stand predictably petrified, while three others sat lounged on a booth; the strange women are intermingled with one another.

"Would you like some fresh meat my darlings?" he boasted, whilst lifting a knife from the counter. It took you all of a moment to realise he's no longer speaking to you, but to the women on the lounge. "What would you like? A lung? A liver?"

Their own blackened mouths show in a mixture of smiles and grins. Deranged. Their giggles and moans visibly shift the tension. The other servants seem to faulter on the spot; their heads tucking lower and bodies tremoring.

"You," he leers at your own servant. "Come."

"No," you quip without hesitation. The last thing that'll happen in this room will be his hands touching the woman who stands so vulnerably behind your body of protection. "She isn't yours to torment."

"Everything's mine," he replies while approaching his nearest attendant.

You watch the girls lips quiver and eyes widen as his blade thrusts into her abdomen; once, then twice and again. She groans and splutters whilst falling to the ground in a matter of seconds. Butcher.

A pool of blood seeps as he turns to add, "Even you, Atreides."

The violent execution shocks you deep within, and control is hard to fight for as your emotions take hold like a vice. You're trying not to scream. You're trying not to react as to give him satisfaction. Instead, you watch as the girl continues to die, his victim twitching and suffering on the floor; dying then dead.

"There," he gestures matter-of-factly. "My honour."

His reasoning makes no sense. It's all madness to you. Murder. Lifting the dagger, he observes the blood which coats the blade. Transfixed. The gleam in his wicked eyes is unmistakable, but the gravity of it even more so, when his tongue licks a line of blood.

"Because of me," he elaborates. "My darlings are satisfied. Because of me, they're to live another day. There is honour in being master."

Your gaze flickers from him to the three women who sit intertwined on the lounge. It sounds as exactly as he'd announced, but you simply don't want to fathom the truth. These are fowl notions, even for the likes of his kind.

It sickens you more than the memory of his touch.

Listening to the women revel amongst themselves, they seem clearly pleased with their masters slaughter and offering. Feyd gestures and the others are swift to drag the fresh corpse from site; leaving a trail of smeared blood.

Concubines and cannibals.

[utilitycaster]

Wow your Orym tags really are an eye-opener. You are totally right and now I understand the bitterness about this character a little better. I've seen a lot of "...but C3 is supposed to be this and that" takes and I guess a lot of people think they are owed a certain storyline?

Yeah. People feeling as though they're owed a certain storyline is not new nor exclusive to Critical Role; it's been pretty common in fandom for years (see this excellent post that I still think about). But the particular blame being placed on Orym is a fun new twist on this theme.

I'm sure there's people who hate Orym for other reasons; shipping wank is another very common form of entitlement to a particular storyline. I must admit when it comes to Twitter I think some people just yell random lies out into the void to hear their own voice because there is no underlying logic to any of it. But I do think a large number of people who have been blaming Orym for everything for what is now the majority of the campaign are doing so because he has consistetly refused to entertain the idea that Ludinus makes any valid points from the start, and the narrative has pretty much only rewarded him for that.

A lot of people really thought that Campaign 3 "all bets are off" didn't mean like, messing with the narrative structure (they hate when that happens by the way. they acted like Downfall and the Solstice Split and the fact that this has been a very plot-driven campaign rather than one about character backstory are all fucking violations of the Geneva convention the way they carried on, and I say this as a person who can complain) but rather that Critical Role, a D&D-based fantasy, would shed those pesky two previous campaigns of canon (unless of course earlier canon helps them make a point. I truly cannot believe someone made like 5 alts and harassed me and all my mutuals for an entire evening over hypocrisy for...liking one ship more than another when these idiots exist) in order to become some kind of deeply pathetic "French Revolution Except Instead Of Kings It's Gods" historical re-enactment.

We're at the point where like, nothing has validated them and everything they've claimed the gods have done, Ludinus or the Weave Mind have done like, tenfold. As mentioned, the people who were like "oh my god STOP SAYING HUBRIS anyway obviously Bells Hells would NEVER see the gods as relatable" just watched Laudna and Imogen be like "wow, they're flawed and conflicted and a fucked up family just like us." I shit you not, I saw someone criticize FCG's relationship with the Changebringer because "he had to work for it" as if that's not like...how literally all relationships work if you're not an utter black hole of entitled self-absorption. The Kreviris Imperium wants to straight up colonize all of Exandria but they turn a blind eye. There's someone out there talking about putting Rashinna's head on a pike for being willing to endanger the poor Ruidusborn children that...Liliana (probably to some extent coerced by Ludinus to be fair) could have left alone to live out their lives on Exandria. People genuinely channel some anti-abortion "but What About The Disabled Children? Shouldn't Pregnant People Be Forced To Carry And Parent Them" style arguments at Alma's "hey, we have people delay birth for like half an hour so their children don't have The Psychic Migraine Disorder That Made Imogen Possibly Suicidal". The arguments have devolved into "well, canon isn't real" and "but the status quo" as if there aren't ALIENS FROM SPACE SPEAKING AT THE DRAGON VATICAN. How STUPID do you have to be to think that wouldn't change the entire world. Or, to get back to this ask, how desperate are you to maintain the illusion that you are going to get a wish-fulfillment campaign that never once existed? So yeah. They blame Orym because otherwise they have to blame literally the entire cast, and themselves.

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

Radio Silence

@summer-of-bad-batch prompts week 12 Radio Silence & week 10 Hugs

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Hunter, Tech (mentioned), Echo, Omega (mentioned), Crosshair (mentioned) Set from after S2 Episode 'Plan 99' & throughout S3 Word Count: ~4090 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: After Eriadu, Hunter tunes the com to a familiar frequency and sends a message out into the void, hoping beyond hope for an answer.

Partly inspired by @indigofyrebird's request earlier in the event for 'Hunter breaking down, and being comforted by one of his brothers'

Hunter eased himself gingerly into the pilot’s seat of the Marauder, movements stifled by injuries still swathed in bandages.

The pain in his body was nothing compared to the yawning chasm of emptiness in his soul, a dark vortex that threatened to suck him down into suffocating despair without end.

Omega was gone. Taken by Hemlock and his men.

The brave, teary, defiant look on her face as she had given herself up to ensure he and Wrecker were spared was seared into his ragged heart like a brand. It was too much. He couldn’t take it.

After all he’d tried, he couldn’t protect his little sister when she needed him too.

Achingly slowly, he typed out a com code and opened a radio channel. Stiff and uncooperative, his fingers closed clumsily around the commlink and lifted it to his lips.

He was silent for a long time, listening to the crackle of the empty channel. He didn’t know what to say.

Eventually he started, in a voice so thick he barely recognised it as his own.

“Hey, Tech. Thought I’d update you on what happened after…”

The words tangled in his larynx, choking him off.

“After we got separated.”

The sentence was grit out, guttural with a pain that was so much more than his broken ribs.

“We went back to Ord Mantell. Didn’t know where else to go, after…

“Went back to Ord Mantell. Just to regroup. Wrecker and I, we were ready to stop. Said we’d take the kid to Pabu, keep her safe there.

“Couldn’t keep doing it. Trying to fight.

“Couldn’t risk losing anyone else.”

Some aching shudder of grief spasmed against his injured body. With a stubborn growl he dismissed it, forcing himself to continue.

“I let you down, Tech. Cid sold us out.

“Hemlock caught us. All that work to find him and…

“He found us, and he… Hemlock, he…

“He took Omega.”

It was a broken confession, a whispered sin begging for absolution.

“She’s probably in the same place as Crosshair now.”

Another catch to his voice, words choking past sorrow.

“I don’t know…

“I don’t know how to find them.

“Don’t know where to look.

“Tech…”

Hunter bowed his head, fist holding the com pressed to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut against the tears which beaded on his lashes.

“I really wish you were here.”

*

“Hey Tech.”

Hunter ached with missing his brother, but his voice was steady enough, all things considered.

“Just checking in. Updating you on…

“Yeah.”

Hunter chewed on his thoughts for a while, com held loosely in the cage of his hand. His gaze was unfocused, staring at the Marauder’s nav computer without registering the readout as more than flickering light.

“Echo left.”

The words were heavy with finality.

“Not surprised. It’s… best for all of us.

“Can do more this way. Cover more ground.”

His voice rang with hollowness. He wondered how many times he’d have to repeat this same sentiment before he started believing it.

“He went with Rex. Said Rex’s network would have a better chance of finding the intel we need to find Tantiss.

“To find… Omega.”

He kept his head carefully turned straight ahead, rigid above his shoulders. Text danced across the screen, meaningless to him.

Better than looking… there. Omega’s space in the gunner’s mount remained like a shrine, and every time he looked at it he felt nauseous.

“Wish we had you to help us.” Hunter shuddered in a deep sigh, fighting down the wave of emotion that threatened. Better to stay numb.

Easier to stay numb.

“We’d probably have found them by now if we had you.” It was a whisper, Hunter’s voice coarse with damning self-criticism. “Sorry. I keep letting you down.”

He dropped his forehead to his hand, fingers clawing anxiously at his hair, spilling loose over his bandana.

“I got a lead. A crime syndicate.

“Echo and I fought. He said it was too dangerous.

“I… I think we can handle it.

“Wrecker’s asleep. The ship’s on autopilot to the rendezvous.

“I’m… supposed to be sleeping too.

“I… wanted to talk to you.

“Ask your advice.”

He let his gaze drift away from the screen. On top of the console, Tech’s goggles winked back at him, blue-light of the screens gleaming softly in the cracked and dirty lenses.

Hunter squeezed his eyes shut, hissing a breath in through bared teeth as tears beaded on his scrunched-closed lashes.

“I’m sorry, Tech. For all the times I didn’t listen.

“I’m… trying to remember your lessons now.

“Trying to remember your voice.

“I… I’ll let you know how it goes.

“Goodnight… Tech.”

*

Hunter waited until Wrecker had settled the clone cadets in the racks at the back of the Marauder, and he could detect three peaceful heartbeats settled into the steady rhythm of sleep. Wrecker himself was moving quietly round the ship’s tiny galley, cleaning up after the meagre meal they had prepared for the boys. Then he sank into the chair by the com, opening up the silent radio channel.

“Hey Tech. Got some… got some good news, I guess?

“Remember I told you we had a lead on a facility linked to Hemlock? It… wasn’t Tantiss. Was bombed out by the time we got there. Like Kamino.”

A quick glance to the back of the ship. Lula slumped against the edge of the gunner’s mount, her felt face staring mournfully down the ship. The emptiness inside Hunter resonated as achingly as ever, but now he could hear three sets of peaceful teenage breathing, and that filled him with wild, dangerous hope.

“We found three boys. Cadets. Clones. Survived the bombardment.

“They… hadn’t seen Omega. Had seen Hemlock though. Said he transferred his experiments before the base was bombed. So that means…

“Means even if Omega was here, she should have been gone by the time the strikes took out the facility.”

Unbidden, a small, soft smile played across Hunter’s lips as he huffed a laugh into the com.

“You’d have loved the creatures we fought. Sorry you had to miss it. Don’t know anyone else who would have been as interested in the Empire’s experiments as you…”

He sniffed, startled to find dampness on his cheeks, but the tightness in his chest somehow felt good. Relaxing back in the chair, he continued to speak.

“We got the co-ordinates for another sector of space. Haven’t searched there yet. Echo and Rex couldn’t meet us here in time, but hopefully between us we’ll scour that sector and find…

“Find our girl.

“Bring her home.”

*

“Hey Tech.”

Hunter leaned against the side of the Marauder, sheltering under the folded wing. He tapped the com against the thin seam of his lips, pressed tight in consternation. His brows knitted in a deeply furrowed frown, the tension and bright-light flashes of a developing migraine constricting, vice-like, at his temples.

“Mission success.”

He paused again, fighting to untangle the words from where they cloyed to the roof of his mouth.

“We got Omega back.”

It was an understatement. They didn’t get her back. She got herself back, and Hunter was still struggling to wrap his head around how.

“She’s alright. Shaken, maybe.”

He swore softly. He had spent hours hovering near Omega, constantly reaching out to touch, a hand to her shoulder, brushing her elbow, anything to ground himself and prove that she really was there with them.

They had checked her over. She had let them, with an affectionate, long-suffering eye-roll, even though she assured them she was uninjured.

He had left her in the ship now, with Wrecker and…

With Wrecker.

“Shaken, definitely,” he amended his commentary.

He hadn’t thought his heart could break any further than the shattered pieces it had been in since they lost Omega. Having her back was meant to heal him, surely.

But he saw the hollow, hunted look in her, the way her smile stayed painted on her lips and didn’t reach her eyes. His girl had been changed, irrevocably, by six months of something Hunter couldn’t begin to understand.

“And…”

He choked on the words.

“…And…”

Gritting his teeth in a bitter scowl, he hunched over the com and forced them out.

“…Crosshair. We got Crosshair back too.”

He took his thumb off the transmit button, breathed heavily as he listened to the hiss and snap of the unresponsive radio channel. His gaze was long and unfocused, staring off into the distance at nothing whilst he tried to corral his thoughts. All the while, his tongue lay thick and heavy in his mouth; daring him to speak further, unwilling to co-operate.

“Kriff, Tech, I wish you were here. I don’t know what to do.”

His voice was the lowest murmur, lips pressed so close to the com that the metal began to warm from it.

“I can’t…

“Can’t face him.

“Don’t know what to say.”

Something that might have been a laugh bubbled up in his throat, harsh and abrasive, sandpaper inside his throat. He gasped the sound out, braying his displeasure to the dark, empty expanse beyond the Marauder. Then he sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, pressing the com to his forehead as his knuckles massaged the headache there.

“It’s not fair. I don’t…

“Don’t want him back. Should have been you.

“Wish it had been you…

“Who made it back to us.”

Slowly, he slid down the side of the Marauder, fabric of his jacket ruching up uncomfortably at how much weight he leaned there. How much support he needed. Eventually he sat on his heels, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed and hanging between his shoulders.

With a deep breath, and he activated the com again.

“Tech.

“How am I supposed…

“How am I supposed to do this without you?”

His voice was twisted with guilt and grief.

“I don’t know how to handle Crosshair. Not any more.

“I thought…

“Thought when we got him back, I’d have you to help.

“I want to go back inside and see Omega. But I don’t want…

“…Don’t want to see him.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Another deep breath.

“But you’re not here. So I can’t ask you for help. I just…

“…I’ll handle it, Tech. Don’t worry about me.

“Gonna go inside and check on the others.

“………I……………...

“Gonna try and learn to do this stuff myself. Try not to bother you for advice so much.

“Hope…….

“Hope things are going well, wherever you are.”

*

Hunter slouched in the miniscule hold of the unfamiliar ship, unease gnawing in his gut. The bounty hunter was shut in the cockpit, taking them stars knew where for a contract he was sure would be more dangerous than she implied, and he had no recourse to push back against her manipulation. Their position was desperate, and he had nothing to bargain with.

Nothing except himself, and his brother, and their skills.

Wrecker sat opposite him, head lolling as he drowsed on their way to the mark. Better to get some rest now, whilst they could.

Hunter’s vision felt hazy, tiredness prickling at the edges of his consciousness, but the low-grade rush of adrenaline combined with the hollow pit in his stomach kept him from resting.

He needed something, anything, to distract him. A way to sound out his concerns.

He couldn’t help but feel like they were walking into the maw of a trap.

Eventually he raised his wrist-com, tapping in the code he knew by heart. His voice was barely a murmur, words blurred to indistinctness, but it didn’t matter.

“Hey Tech. It’s me again.

“I know it’s been a while.

“A lot has happened.”

He blinked tiredly, looking his slumbering brother. Even in sleep, lines of strain were etched deeply into Wrecker’s broad, tired face. Hunter ached to see his easy-going brother looking so drawn.

“Trying to find out why the Empire is still hunting Omega.

“Feels like…

“Like more than just retrieving an escaped asset.

“Feels different to when we first left Kamino.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tilted his head back, closing his eyes.

“We know they were experimenting on her.

“Different to how…

“Different to how they experimented on Crosshair.”

His voice was a rough whisper, barely able to voice the thought out loud.

“We’re doing better. Him and me. Since Barton IV.

“He still won’t tell me much.

“Wish you were here to help him. He’d open up to you.”

It felt dangerously vulnerable to be whispering these thoughts out loud, knowing that the bounty hunter was just the other side of the locked cockpit door. Hunter wished he was alone.

Completely alone.

Just for a short time.

To hide from the responsibility of trying to take care of them all, in the face of everything.

“Once we’re done with this mission, we’ve been promised the intel on m-count bounties. That’s… that’s why the Empire are after Omega.

“Don’t know what it means yet. But the last hunter who came after us…

“He wasn’t playing games.

“Took out Rex’s base.

“Nearly took out…”

Hunter took a deep breath, surprised to find himself so affected as he forced the words out, breathed past barely-moving lips.

“Nearly killed Crosshair.”

For a time, he simply breathed into the silence of the humming ship. When he felt his eyes prickle, he crawled across the tiny cargo space, settling himself against Wrecker’s side and leaning back against his shoulder.

Wrecker shifted with a snort, but quickly dropped back to sleep again.

Hunter took a deep breath, raising the com to his lips again.

“They’re not messing around. They want Omega alive, but the rest of us are collateral damage. I don’t think they even need her co-operation this time. Not like when Hemlock took her the first time… when he promised her our safety.”

Hunter choked with the memory of Hemlock tossing the shattered pair of goggles so carelessly to the floor. The last remnant of his brother, casually discarded, like he had never mattered.

Presenting them with the goggles had just been a bargaining chip to manipulate them into handing over Omega.

Tech fell. Just fell, fell into endless cloud cover.

The image rose unbidden, his brother’s body lying broken on the ground, defiled by Imperial scavengers who stripped him of the goggles to taunt them, to destroy them–

It was a long span before he was ready to activate the com again, the quiet hiss of the channel like a baseline of finality piercing his soul.

“I’m doing my best. Trying to keep them safe.

“Feels harder every day. They want… Omega wants… for us to be together. All the time.

“I understand. I do.

“We…

“We’ve already lost so much.

“But I don’t want to drag her into danger.

“Got her to stay behind this time. Asked her to keep an eye on Cross.

“Don’t know what I’ll do the next time.”

Another sigh, this one accompanied by a coarse, humourless laugh.

“Wish you were here. I always end up saying that, don’t I?

“It’s true.

“You’d help me think things through.

“Come up with a plan.

“It’s what you always did. What… what we always did.”

He cuts the thought off abruptly, dropping the commlink to his lap and instead burrowing his face into his arms. At his back, his brother’s warm, living, vital presence was a small comfort.

Him and Wrecker are a team. They only had each other for so long. They’ve seen each other through so much.

And Crosshair is back. Whilst it might be tentative for now, he was learning how to trust his brother again.

Echo is out there, only ever a call away. Calm, collected Echo, who Hunter can fall back on when the danger they face is more than he can handle alone.

But none of them are Tech.

*

"Thought I'd find you here."

Echo picked his way through the debris surrounding the burned skeleton of the Marauder, carefully balancing along the remains of a wing strut to approach his former Sergeant.

Hunter sat cross-legged on the floor of what was once the cockpit, gaze empty and desolate as he stared out across the expanse of Pabu's ocean. Flotsam bobbed against the stone docks, oil and chemical slicks dirtying the surface of the water in the troughs of unsettled waves.

"Hunter?" called Echo softly, when he didn't receive a response.

"Yeah," came the reply, little more than a grunt. Hunter's always rough voice sounded even scratchier from tiredness and smoke inhalation. "I'm here."

Now he was closer, Echo could see Hunter's hands folded palms-up in his lap. They cradled a familiar set of goggles, broken amber glass of the lenses glinting in the hazy light.

Echo crouched carefully next to Hunter, at right angles to him, in his peripheral vision but not his direct eyeline.

With his scomp he reached out and nudged the goggles, a flash of sorrow painting his face with a pained grimace. Hunter’s hands tightened round the fragile item, an instinctive convulsion, before relaxing again.

“I thought Omega put these in the Archivum,” said Echo gently. It was neither a question, nor an accusation. Simply an invitation for Hunter to expand.

“She did,” said the Sergeant thickly, the words catching in his throat. “I went and got them. I just…”

He trailed off, looking around him with a despairing gaze.

“Just wanted to sit here with him for a while, you know?”

Echo blinked in surprise to see the usually stoic clone sergeant’s eyes filling with tears. Hunter’s lip wobbled but he resolutely clamped down on the reaction, sniffing hard, dashing his damp eyes against his forearm to sit and stare straight ahead again, stony-faced once more.

“You came.”

“Yeah, I did,” said Echo, still careful to use a gentle tone. “We’re going to have to move quickly to stand the best chance of finding Omega again.”

“Was the intel Crosshair gave us any good?”

“It checks out,” Echo nodded. “Rampart is being held in an Imperial mining prison. If we can get to him, we stand a chance of finally finding Tantiss.”

“That’s good.”

Hunter’s voice was distant and flat. Brows knitting in concern, Echo eased himself down to settle beside Hunter, mimicking his cross-legged position.

“The Remora is too large to evade the detection systems around the planet,” he said, watching Hunter’s face carefully for a reaction as he spoke. “Phee is going to take you in The Providence.”

Hunter nodded. “That makes sense.”

His hand coming to rest on Hunter’s shoulder, Echo’s question was gentle.

“Did you ever really stop to grieve him?”

For a moment Hunter looked nonplussed, before the meaning of the question sunk in and he dropped his head, long hair swinging forwards to hide his expression as his hands tightened round the goggles once more.

“I’ve had too much to do,” he growled, but there was something broken in his voice. “Besides…” He trailed off, blinking hard, mouth twisting into a miserable grimace. “It’s not like it would bring him back.”

“Oh, Hunter…” Echo breathed a sympathetic sigh, fingers going tight over Hunter’s tense muscles. “That’s not the point of it.”

He rubbed a hand along Hunter’s shoulders, feeling the way the Sergeant trembled under his touch. Hunter’s breath hitched erratically, gulping air to try and subsume the tears which threatened.

When he spoke, Hunter’s voice was thick with fought-back emotion.

“Stopping to think about it… wouldn’t have gotten us anywhere. Tech sacrificed himself so we could escape, and the first thing I did was let Omega get captured.” The words rankled with self-loathing, accompanied by a violent shake of his head. “Had to keep going. Get her back. It’s…” He trailed off, lifting his face to gaze desolately at the horizon again. “It’s what Tech would have wanted.”

“Tech wouldn’t have wanted you to beat yourself up like this,” countered Echo softly.

“And now I’ve lost her again,” continued Hunter as though he hadn’t heard him. Unbidden, tears began to track down his cheeks again. Although he rubbed at them, they didn’t stop. “Tech wouldn’t have lost her. If he’d been here, things would have been different–”

“You don’t know that.” Echo’s voice was heavy with sorrow, but the words were spoken with conviction. “Omega gave herself up to save the people of Pabu. Because she learned from Tech. Because she knew what it meant to sacrifice herself to save others. To protect those who can’t protect themselves.”

He leaned into Hunter, nudging their shoulders together.

“Tech wouldn’t have wanted you to live with this guilt for the rest of your life. That’s not why he did what he did,” he said, his voice a murmur.

The first audible sob escaped Hunter, a sound he tried to swallow and couldn’t. He curled in on himself, knees coming up to his chest, head dropping to the cage of his arms. The goggles swung uselessly from one hand.

“I let him down. Let you all down. Wrecker doesn’t smile any more. You left. Crosshair was tortured because I left him behind, and Omega has been captured.”  The words were half-lost, burbled past tears he still fought, into the hollow space he hid his face in. Then his voice dropped to a miserable whisper, wracked with guilt. “Tech died. For nothing. I couldn’t keep the squad together.”

“Hunter.”

Echo draped his arm fully round Hunter’s back now, pulling the unresisting younger clone into a hug. Hunter’s head came to rest on his collar-bone, heavy with grief, and now a howl of despair ripped from him. He didn’t return Echo’s embrace, arms still locked too tightly round his own body as he coiled tight around his sorrow, protecting the jagged edges of it in a way that would only cut him deeper.

Humming a soothing noise, Echo merely rubbed his shoulders, holding him close, letting him break down. His own gaze was distant, past the charred pillars of the harbour and scattered ship debris to watch the waves bob on the horizon.

He was used to this. He had mourned brothers before.

Had mourned Tech, after Eriadu.

Hunter hadn’t.

After a time Hunter’s sobs subsided to hiccoughs, and his weight went heavy against Echo’s side. He still cradled himself, his hand wrapped so tight around the strap of Tech’s goggles that the edges bit into his skin, but inch by inch he uncurled, relaxing into Echo as his breathing became more regular.

“I radioed him,” murmured Hunter unexpectedly, another guilt-wracked confession. “All this time. Kept… kept him updated. Kept hoping that if I sent something out on his frequency, one day I might hear back.”

Echo merely rested his cheek on Hunter’s hair, grimy with sweat and battle smoke, and held him tighter.

“I never did. Never… never heard anything back.”

“I know,” said Echo softly. “It’s not wrong to hope, though.”

Hunter shuddered a sigh, and now his thumb moved absently along the strap of the goggles, feeling the texture beneath his grip.

“How do you move on, Echo?” His voice was thick and anguished. “I feel like… like my life stopped. I don’t know how to go on without him.”

Rubbing between his shoulder-blades, Echo murmured, “There’s no easy way. You just keep going. Like you have been.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I don’t have any better advice than that. You just keep living for them. On their behalf.”

“I wanted us to be safe on Pabu,” Hunter whispered brokenly.

Echo smiled, wan but hopeful.

“I think that sounds like the best way to honour Tech.”

Hunter sniffed as another few tears trickled down his cheeks.

“But they took Omega. Again.”

“We got her back last time,” Echo reminded him, injecting confidence into his voice. “We’ll do it again.”

“She got herself back last time,” Hunter corrected, and now the hint of a grin showed through his sorrow.

Echo chuckled. “That’s right. We should feel sorry for the Empire.”

With a deep breath, Hunter straightened, pulling away from Echo’s embrace. Echo let him go, watchful as Hunter smoothed the glass of the goggles, then tucked them into his jacket.

“We should put these back,” he said carefully, rocking forwards and easing to his feet. He turned and offered a hand to Echo, helping the ARC trooper up too. “Then find Crosshair and Wrecker.”

Although his cheeks were still stained with clear tracks where his tears had cut through the grime, Hunter smiled grimly.

“We have a job to do.”

[spidertroupeart]

Not gonna lie, we need more GOOD UNDERTALE AU outcodes... ya' know, the guys who go around the multiverse doing stuff with their own specific goals

I mean, we definitely have them, but it's sad that the last "Big" outcode to ever reach a greater audience was this sad mistake of an Error clone.

I mean, I'd highly suggest looking into stuff like Stitchau, Poppy's story, the ALIVE AU and No!sansverse (which is basically a take on the sansverse that de-sansifies the OUTCODE sanses, this sad sack of rooftop swordsman brainrot included), but it's unfortunate this guy gets more publicity than these three... we need more input from the community.

I don't want to insult or spread hate about undertale outcodes, AUs, or what have you; a lot of them were made by people who were genuinely trying to do something interesting- and unfortunately, everyone's favourite character at the time (and still the majority of the fandom's, probably) was Sans, so he always got the most attention. I can't complain a lot about that, considering I myself am also incredibly guilty of favouritism.

What I think is that a lot of what people were doing could be better expressed and made more interesting if different characters were used, and it didn't become a confusing mess of "Wait. Who's from where??" for me, personally. My brain is very small and can only handle so much.

But, along those lines, I'll share my thoughts that went into Ink!Chara and Ink!Asriel, to try and better make a point- the void, or anti-void, whatever it may be, is a neat concept, but I never really understood it myself- so I kind of made my own interpretation of it with my minimal knowledge.

The whole thing behind these two was that it's stated in-game that no one knows what would happen if a human and monster soul fused- so for all we know, the fusion could be incredibly unstable. Perhaps game-breaking. And along the lines of not knowing what would happen, it's even less known what would happen upon defeat- considering that a monster soul cannot persist for long after death (provided said monster is a boss monster), and a human's can persist for God knows how long.

What if this contradiction led to a huge bug in the already unstable game, and in order to save itself from a crash, the game just. Completely drops the souls? Shoves them out of the way to get everything working again once they were no longer active. We know for a fact that both Chara and Asriel (now Flowey's) souls are seemingly gone, so why not do something with that?

Ink!Chara and Ink!Asriel are separate entities from basegame Chara and Flowey, in that they are their souls and only their souls. My point is.

There are so many ways to make these outcodes more interesting (at least to me) just by using different characters and throwing things at the wall. Once again, nothing against the originals; without them I wouldn't even be having these ideas.

Apologies for this long and unstructured ramble, I've been wanting to properly talk about my inks for a while now lmao

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024 Day 8: isolation chamber

Fandom: Batman Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson Tags: Child Abuse, Dark Bruce Wayne, Running Away, Protective Dick

Summary:

The car breaks down outside of Metropolis. Bruce arrives only a few hours later.

"There's an inn a few miles down the road," he says, his face impassive. Jason knows him well enough to know he is furious. "You can walk or one of you gets the trunk."

Jason looks at the free, spacious backseats of the car. Before Tim can make a stupid, self-sacrificing decision, Jason pushes forward and in front of him. "We'll walk."

The car breaks down a few hundred kilometres out from Metropolis. It is not the smartest place to go, considering that Superman is based there, but they did not actually plan much beyond the how. When was the best and earliest opportunity. Where was just away. They got farther than Jason would have expected. He has long since given up building on hope.

"What now?" he asks as he opens the door and stretches out his legs. They are all alone out here, having stuck to smaller streets. No one to help get the car running again. No one to helpfully point them in a direction where two runaway kids could disappear to, never to be found again.

Tim is fiddling with the car's cables, fruitlessly trying to get a reaction out of it. Nothing happens. The entire car just shut down on them, leaving them to come to a slow halt by the side of the road, with no clue what, exactly, went wrong, much less how to fix it.

Finally, Tim resurfaces and mulishly packs up his little toolkit. "We should get someone to look at it," he then says, shrugging at their surroundings, void of any life. "There must be a garage around somewhere."

"We don't have that kind of money," Jason says, as if Tim needs the reminder. They have slept in the car instead of getting even a cheap motel room, and lived off junk food to stretch their meagre cash as far as they can. "Aren't you a computer genius, though? Can't you hack a bank and get us some money?"

Tim snorts, not sounding very amused at all. He leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. "I don't think life will get better in prison."

Jason is not so sure about that. It cannot really get worse. "B wouldn't send us to prison," he says anyway, turning the key in the ignition again, as if the twentieth attempt will actually change the outcome. "Too much temptation for us to talk."

"Not if they put us in solitary," Tim points out, voice too quiet for it to be ever mistaken as a joke.

"Tim." Jason reaches out and grips Tim's shoulder like a lifeline. Softer, he adds, "We'll think of something."

It is a lie and they both know it.

Still, Tim manages to smile at him. "Sure."

Bruce arrives a few hours later. That just shows they never quite got out from under his thumb in the first place. He stops the car a few feet in front of them and then gets out. He leans against the hood as he watches them silently. Perhaps they should have taken their chances and gone straight through the fields instead of sticking to the road. It would, at least, have made it harder to find them, even if that would have only delayed the inevitable further. 

"There's an inn a few miles down the road," Bruce finally says. His face is impassive, but Jason knows him well enough to know he is furious. The kind of icy anger that burns everything it touches. "You can walk or one of you gets the trunk."

Before Tim can make a stupid, self-sacrificing decision, Jason pushes forward and in front of him. "We'll walk."

Because there is no question who would be allowed to ride in front and who would get locked up in the dark, cramped space behind. It is one of Bruce's favoured punishments for Tim. And it looks like he chose the car accordingly. Things will be bad, but Jason has not yet learned not to fight.

Bruce nods as if it is all the same to him. "If you make it until sundown, you'll get dinner."

They do not get dinner.

Jason is the one who ruins a perfectly good vigilante and pushes him over a line they did not know was drawn in the sand. He wants to go to the new production of Macbeth. He is the reason they are on the road that night, right in the path of a man driving drunk. He gets Alfred killed. It is all downhill from there.

Tim is also Jason's fault. He saw the kid first, following after them at night with his camera and absolutely no sense of self-preservation. He should have been subtler, should have taken the kid aside and told him to stay away in a way that worked.

Instead, Tim kept following them and, one night, hit with a dose of fear toxin, revealed he knows who Batman is. Tim's parents got served a lawsuit for criminal neglect two days later and Tim officially became part of the Wayne household a week after that.

For days, Jason did not sleep, waiting for the inevitable, wanting to apologize for ruining another life but not knowing how. The first time a bruise darkened Tim's cheek, he knew it would not do any good.

He is still trying to protect Tim as much as he can.

Bruce is waiting for them in front of the inn, drinking from a half-empty water bottle. 

"What exactly was your plan?" he asks calmly. He is his most dangerous when he is calm.

Tim is eyeing the water, his eyes lingering too long before he turns towards Bruce. "We wouldn't tell anyone." He does not clarify what he means. He does not need to, of course. There are a hundred damning things to pick from.

It is still the wrong answer, Jason knows, and winces. Strike one.

Bruce shows no outward sign of what he thinks. "Jason?" he prompts instead.

But Jason is tired, too. Tired and thirsty and on the verge of lying on the dusty ground and just giving up. "What the fuck do you think?" he snaps. 

It is usually not a good idea to make Bruce angry. The thing is, he already is. Now it is all about damage control. About not drawing things out. The longer Bruce has to think about things, the worse it will get. He already had two weeks to simmer. Two weeks of running and they are back to square one.

"Language," Bruce says without inflection. Strike two.

He gets to his feet and picks up the bottle, only to casually empty it out on the ground between them. For a moment, he watches the water sink into the dirt like a declaration of what is to follow.

"Come," he orders. And, like beaten down fools, they do.

Turns out, Bruce does not need a trunk. The closet in the inn is lockable and small enough to be uncomfortable. It is not, however, soundproof like the one in the manor.

Jason tries to keep quiet, but Bruce has both experience and patience. He knows how long he has to hit Jason and where, to make it really count. To make him bite his lip bloody and then cry out anyway.

Tim still does not have a lick of self-preservation, because he hammers against the closet door, drawing attention in a way that is dangerous. Jason does not want him to be locked in, but he wants him to be dragged out and beaten right alongside Jason even less. They all have their roles to fill, and Jason is not as fragile as Tim. He has taken beatings long before Bruce ever took him in. 

Just like Tim knew isolation before Bruce ever built a sensory deprivation chamber just for him.

"Next time, I should send Superman after you," Bruce says the next morning when they are in the car, driving back towards Gotham. "I'm sure he could make the lesson stick."

Jason shudders. He sits primly, careful not to let his bruised skin touch the back of the seat. Of course, Bruce knows to accelerate fast enough to push them all back far enough to count.

He can only imagine the damage Superman could do if he puts his heart in it. The few times they have met, Superman was always genial, careful when handling normal things and people. Bruce is good at keeping up facades, too, though. Jason does not want to find out how Superman gets rid of his frustration.

Tim is friends with Conner and he never let anything slip. Then again, neither do Jason or Tim.

For a man his size, Bruce knows how to move quietly. It only adds to the quiet threat of omnipresence he likes to wield. There is nowhere they can hide without him finding them, nothing they can say without him hearing it. Privacy is nothing more than a pipe dream in the manor, and Jason has learnt to expect that everything he does will be used against him.

Bruce appears in the door to the dining room, where Jason is trying to get caught up with school work. When they arrived back, Jason's work was laid out for him on the table and he was ordered to get started on it immediately. He could only watch helplessly, as Bruce led Tim further into the manor to lock him up for who knows how long.

"Dick will come for dinner. He wants to hear all about your vacation to Metropolis," he says, his tone mocking but not hiding the threat behind the words.

They will have to conjure up stories about a happy trip that never happened. Not that Jason particularly wants to talk about the truth, about failing to run away, about all the reasons why they even felt they needed to in the first place.

Jason has never found out whether Dick knows what is happening in Wayne Manor behind closed doors. He does not think that Bruce ever touched Dick. The first time Bruce hit Jason was after Alfred died, long after Dick had moved out. Also, Jason could never imagine yelling at Bruce the way Dick does. Jason snaps and curses and shows his teeth, but only when he knows punishment is inevitable. The waiting is always the worst thing for him. Dick, on the other hand, often seems to argue just for the sake of arguing. Jason could never. He does not have a death wish.

Jason straightens his shoulders. "Is there anything specific you want us to prepare?"

Sometimes, Bruce gets out Alfred's cookbooks and gives them impossible tasks in some attempt to relive the old days. Or to set them up for failure. He does not need a reason to punish them, but he still likes to make some up.

Bruce shakes his head and says, "Tim can cook. You and I will train."

Jason swallows. They have been back for barely a day and every movement is hell, pulling on the welts littering his back. He merely nods, though. If Tim is to cook, then Bruce will have to let him out of the chamber. That is good. He will gladly take a few more bruises for that.

Dick comes in bright and smiling. He engulfs Jason in a hug that Jason is sure reopens some of the cuts on his back. He does not make a sound.

"Jaybird. I was so jealous when B told me about your vacation." He pouts as he turns to greet Tim, too. "Why didn't you invite me? We could have made a proper outing of it. All us brothers on the road."

Brothers, Jason thinks and almost scoffs. Tim is his brother, cemented in misery and blood and the doomed need to protect each other. Every minute Tim is out of his sights just allows anxiety to grind down Jason's insides further.

Dick, on the other hand, is just the kid Bruce took in before them, who once did not like Jason for taking his place while not bothering to check whether Jason actually still wants to be here. He is an infrequent guest, who puts Bruce in either a worryingly happy mood or a terrible one. Neither of which is actually good for Tim and Jason. A happy Bruce gets creative. An angry Bruce is just cruel.

"We thought summer is a busy time for you. It was rather spontaneous," Tim answers diplomatically. He is wearing a sweater long enough to hide the burns on his arms. Of course, Bruce was not content with just letting him cook. "You know how it is. The lack of homework and exams paired with summer heat? We just wanted to get out for a bit." Or out for good.

Neither Jason nor Tim had to learn how to lie. True, they used to do it under drastically different circumstances, but at least Bruce deemed them both reasonably capable of keeping their mouths shut without doing it for them or locking them up indefinitely.

Dick sits down at Bruce's right hand, leaning into his space like there is nothing to it, like Bruce's hands are not just there, within easy punching distance.

"It's been ages since I took a vacation, though." He is making puppy dog eyes at them, including Bruce, who smiles in return, broad and honest. The sight just makes Jason's stomach churn.

"Next time, we'll take you," Tim says easily.

Next time. Bruce had said that, too. As if there truly would be a next time. They had their chance and blew it.

Tim moves to serve the soup. His hands are not as stable as Alfred's were, once upon a time. Might be that he has not yet shaken off the hours of being locked up. Might be the burns pressing against the hot china.

"Deal," Dick agrees with all the enthusiasm of someone missing any and all signs of the tension around him. "I hope you didn't get into too much trouble."

Tim and Jason share a quick look, brief enough that Dick does not notice. Bruce, of course, does. He always does.

"Trouble?" Jason takes over to allow Tim enough respite to try to serve the soup without spilling any. "You know Timbers. We were going from one museum to the next. No time for fun when there's things to learn."

No time for fun when they were fearing for their lives, either, but that is just another secret tucked away behind high walls and new scars. Trouble, however, they know intimately.

Picking up Tim was a stroke of luck for Bruce. There is no better way to control someone than by threatening someone they care about. Tim and Jason took to that lesson like ducks to water.

Jason would have either given up or done something drastic ages ago if it were just him and the vengeful bat in the manor. Now, if he goes two hours without seeing Tim, he gets nervous. And pliant.

And Tim, well, Tim will never not try to spare Jason, no matter what that means for himself. He has never learned to think of himself as someone worthy of protection, of love. Jason does his best to rectify that, but life is making that very hard, indeed.

The first time Bruce put a gun in Jason's hand, he thought it was a joke. Batman has rules, principles. Not taking lives is one of them. Probably the most important of them. Batman has gotten a lot laxer about his rules, however. And sending others to do his dirty work does not, apparently, count as breaking the rules at all.

He saw potential in Jason and now bleeds him dry using it.

"I can help," Tim insists one night, a secret whispered only once they are sure Bruce is out of the house. They have taken to sleeping in the same room, as if that would actually make them any safer. If he wants to, Bruce comes for them no matter whether the other watches.

"No," Jason denies him immediately. "I will not let you kill someone." Things are bad enough without loading that on Tim's conscience.

"I wouldn't do it myself," Tim argues stubbornly. "But I can arrange it. If you need a break."

And he could do it. Easily.

But Jason says, "No." And that is that. It is enough that his own hands are bloodied.

Tim's talents lie elsewhere, anyway. He is trained to fight like all of them, but the true magic happens when he is put behind a screen. Recon, research, finding patterns, writing up ridiculous complex formulas to predict all kinds of things, hacking anything and anyone he sets his eyes on.

Jason is strong and Tim is smart. Bruce uses them accordingly.

Bruce is restless. They have been back for a few weeks, but he does not seem willing to let it go, watching everything they do, just waiting for the smallest mistake. It is almost as bad as during those weeks after Alfred had just died. It had broken a dam when Bruce had struck Jason for the first time, when he realized how he could lessen his own pain by putting it on another.

"Perhaps we need to switch it up a bit, since you've been feeling so adventurous lately," Bruce says in the middle of dinner. He pushes away his plate, making Tim and Jason scramble to put their cutlery down. It is a principal rule that nobody eats once Bruce is finished. "Tim, go to the gym and wait for me there."

Tim stands up immediately, even though he looks wide-eyed at Jason before he moves to the door. It is not the prospect of a beating that scares him, Jason knows.

As if Bruce read their minds, he continues, "Jason, you know the way to Tim's chamber."

Chamber, of course, is an entirely cruel name for the cramped, dark box Bruce likes to lock Tim into, taking away his senses and freedom in one go.

"No." That is Tim, standing straight, one hand on the doorknob, not moving. He is pale and trembling, but he looks straight at Bruce, refusing to back down.

"What was that?" Bruce smiles and Jason feels a trap snap close around him.

Tim swallows, his knuckles going white around the doorknob. "I said no," he says, anyway, his voice the only thing that does not waver. And then he makes it worse by adding, "Running was my idea."

Jason is on his feet in an instance. "That's not true," he exclaims, almost stumbling over the words. "I stole the car keys. I convinced him to go."

They are left to glare at each other, unwilling to let the other take the fall, even though they know better, even though they know it is never about whose fault it is. They both ran. They both broke the rules.

"It seems we have a bit of a conundrum." Bruce waves Tim back in. "Sit."

He waits just long enough to watch them both do as they are told. Then he gets up himself and leaves the room, knowing they will not move. Not so soon after having been dragged back here.

When he returns, he has a switch in hand, well-used, familiar. He puts it down on the table between Jason and Tim. He has the gall to be still smiling.

"I think twenty strikes each sound fair. Tim will start." It is the calm in his voice that always, always gets Jason's blood boiling. The way he can sit there and just casually order them hurt. The way they always comply.

Tim remains where he is for a long moment, drawing deep breaths. Then he stands and, with entirely too steady hands, begins to pull his shirt off.

"Oh, no," Bruce interrupts, his smile turning into something sharper. "You will do the honours."

Shirt halfway up his torso, Tim freezes, expression filling with horror as realization dawns. Jason knows his face must mirror Tim's. This is not - Bruce hurts them. They do not hurt each other.

"No," Tim says for the third time this night. No one could ever say he is not brave. Bravery is the surest way to get himself hurt here.

"It's twenty if you do it. Of course, you'll have to repeat strikes if I don't think you're taking things seriously," Bruce says easily, looking at both of them in turn, making it clear what Jason will have to do, too. "If you make me do it, we double it."

Double. Forty. Jason swallows.

They look at each other, Jason and Tim, brothers in misery but also something far more precious. Jason loves Tim. Whatever else happens in this house, Tim is family and there are lines he will not cross. From the determination settling over Tim's features, Jason thinks - hopes - he feels the same.

Forty strikes from Bruce will be brutal. Even if they were to do it themselves, though, there is no telling whether Bruce would not have them repeat strikes to reach the same number, because there is no way Jason could hit Tim in a way that could ever satisfy Bruce. And that is not counting the psychological element of it. It is hard enough to be helpless, to watch when Bruce hurts Tim. He will not be complicit. Not any more than he already is.

"No," Jason says, his throat dry. It does not come out as strong as he hoped, but strength has never helped them anyway. "I will not hurt him."

"Is that so?" Bruce cocks his head to the side, sounding curious. "Tim?"

Wordlessly, Tim shakes his head and then finishes to pull his shirt off. He folds it, showing a calm Jason is certain he does not feel. Then he pulls a chair out of the way, braces his arms against the tabletop, and waits, staring unseeingly at the remains of their dinner.

"So obedient, all of a sudden." Bruce hums and just looks for a long minute. "Stay where you are. Jason, we'll begin with you."

That is the obvious choice, of course. The pain is just half the punishment. The rest is having to watch. Tim might not be fully present by the end. Why give him an easy out?

Jason swallows a curse as he gets to his unsteady feet. He does not bother to fold his shirt but simply throws it on the table.

"Count for me, Tim. And do take care. I'd hate to begin again if you miss one."

Every time, Jason thinks the anticipation is worse than the actual hits. Every time, Bruce proves him wrong.

"One."

"We have to do something," Jason says, two nights later. Bruce is out on patrol and Jason has taken a jammer out of the cave. He is not going to let Bruce overhear this.

Tim sits up in bed. "What can we do?" he asks, sounding utterly exhausted, which has little to do with neither of them being unable to sleep. "Do you think the car broke down out of the blue? You know Bruce. He's weird about his cars."

Which means he let them run for two weeks, just waiting for the right time to bring them low. Like a cat playing with its prey.

"It's only going to get worse."

Tim nods in agreement but still scoffs. "And who'd believe us?"

"Look at us," Jason says, pointing at where bandages peek out from under Tim's sleep shirt. "Who wouldn't believe us?"

"Let me rephrase that." Tim rolls his eyes, Jason knows despite the darkness. "Who would believe us that we could actually contact without Bruce knowing and who would do something about it?"

Jason knows exactly what Tim means, of course. They have been adopted by Bruce Wayne. They should count themselves lucky for that privilege. Surely, being slapped around a bit is an adequate payment for a life otherwise lacking nothing. Nothing that Bruce does not withhold from them.

"You're the computer whiz," Jason says, aiming for a lighter tone and falling painfully short. "Don't tell me it's impossible to get a message out. Hell, one picture should be enough." At least until Bruce's money and lawyers make it like no evidence ever existed. That is the oldest story in the book. Money dictates the world.

"It's not impossible." Tim shrugs. He likely has played through all possible scenarios already. "I just don't know how quickly he'll notice. We can't be around when he finds out."

An involuntary shudder runs through Jason. Getting caught at trying to run away again, after the first time went so terribly wrong just a few weeks ago, could just be the thing that tips Bruce entirely off the edge. And he is barely clinging on as it is.

"He hasn't killed us yet. He likes it too much to have his own personal punching bags," Jason says, although it does not come out as convinced as he would hope.

What if Bruce does tire of them? Worse, what if he wants to exchange them for a younger, less troublesome model and Jason has to die knowing he has condemned another person to this hell?

Tim looks at him, too young and too serious. "He also hasn't had us hurt each other before. Things like this always get worse."

The words settle between them, making the air taste bitter. Although that might just be the bile at the back of Jason's throat.

"So what?" he finally asks. What can they do, if staying is not an option but running is hardly feasible either?

"Superman isn't an option. The way Bruce talks about him, he might already know," Tim says, falling into the familiar rhythm of presenting research. "I can try Conner, though. I mean, I can call for him without technology."

Their civilian identities are still a secret, of course, so they cannot know that Conner will answer if it is not Robin calling.

"And then?" Jason asks anyway. "Wonder Woman loves children."

She pretends to, at least. Then again, Bruce likes to get photographs with the babies at orphanages, too, whenever he has to visit for the Maria Wayne Foundation.

Tim smiles bitterly. "I'm not sure the Justice League will forsake their bankrolling member just because of us." There it is again, the problem with the money.

"Gordon?"

But Tim shakes his head before Jason has fully finished saying the name. "He has taken Batman beginning to kill without protest."

True. So much for the only upstanding commissioner of Gotham.

"Dick?"

They look at each other, full of the same gnawing hesitation. This might be their last chance. They cannot botch it up.

"Assuming he doesn't know," Tim picks up the idea as if it is not a giant, uncertain if. "What could Dick do against Batman?"

The mere thought is laughable, so Jason points out, "Nothing. But against Bruce? He could get us out of the house. He will never reveal Batman's identity and he wouldn't let us do it either, Bruce knows that." Allowing himself a moment of weakness, Jason says, "We could just go living with our older brother."

He expects Tim to shoot down such a stupid pipe dream immediately. Instead, Tim studies him, his features somehow sharper than before.

Then, without the slightest trace of hesitation, he says, "We could also kill him."

"Tim," Jason exclaims, immediately looking at the door, half expecting Bruce to appear as if summoned.

"What?" Tim asks dryly. "He must know we'd think of that eventually. We're trained. He's paranoid but he can't be on alert all the time."

It is true and Jason will not lie and say he never thought about it before. Taking a life, now that he has had practice, is not hard at all. They would have to carefully prepare, but it should be doable. It would, however, just get them into a whole new world of trouble.

"We're not killing Batman," Jason decides, sounding more convinced than he feels. "We're not killers. Not when he does not force us to be."

Tim nods and some of the tension bleeds out of him. "All right."

A small part of Jason is disappointed at Tim's quick acquiescence. "Just like that?"

"I just wanted you to know that's an option." Tim reaches out in the dark, finds Jason's hand and squeezes it. "I would - you know. For you."

Jason turns his hand so they are holding each other. "If it ever comes to that, I would, too. For you."

They do not let go of each other until the sun rises outside.

They needle Dick long enough that he agrees to take them to some kind of event in the zoo. Jason has already forgotten what it is about, but it coincides with an important board meeting at Wayne Enterprises, so they are reasonably sure to be free of Bruce for at least a few hours.

On the way to the zoo, Tim, admirably, keeps up with Dick's excited chatter, pretending for all the world to see that nothing is wrong. Nothing at all. Jason grunts out responses when needed and otherwise tries to keep his heartrate under control. He hopes his lack of excitement can be put down as him being a moody teenager and feeling himself too old to go to the zoo with his brothers. He has never had a talent for acting, and he will not start to try with so many things hinging on this going right.

Once at their destination, they make sure to pass at least four security cameras and then dive into a crowd where it is loud enough that their phones will have trouble picking up their conversation if Bruce decides to listen in. They still ditch their bags there for the moment - and Dick's, too - just to be sure. Bruce is not the only one who can be paranoid. Then they drag Dick off into a corner of the zoo with fewer people and, more importantly, no security cameras.

"What's going on?" Dick asks, because he, too, was trained by the greatest detective and, of course, knows that something strange is happening. He does not resist them, however, which has to count for something.

"We need to talk to you," Tim says simply, sounding like he is chewing glass. "Only you."

Dick raises an eyebrow at the implication but nods, tersely.

When they are suitably out of the way, Jason looks at Tim, suddenly breathless. Are they really doing this? Well, it is now or never and Jason has never liked waiting. 

"We noticed you are yelling a lot at Bruce."

That is not exactly how they were going to start the conversation, but Jason needs to know. All of their plan hinges on Dick being clueless as to what is going on in the manor. After how their last plan ended, Jason is not willing to take any chances.

Dick's shoulders slump. "Boys, it's -" He trails off, looking miserable. His face is so open, guileless. "I'm sorry if it's making you uncomfortable. It has nothing -"

Jason cuts him off, not able to stand the uncertainty any longer. "Has Bruce ever hit you?"

Out of the corner of Jason's eye, he sees Tim wince. He shrugs at him. They are on a strict schedule. They cannot be out of sight of cameras and out of the range of their phones for long.

Dick is staring, opening and closing his mouth several times, before he manages to ask, "What are you talking about?"

Jason crosses his arms in front of himself and shifts slightly, just so that he can slip fully in front of Tim if it becomes necessary. "Has he?" he then demands. Before he does not have a satisfying answer, they cannot push further.

"No, of course not," Dick exclaims, entirely too loud before remembering where they are. Much quieter, he continues, "I know it's not good that we keep arguing so much but -" Dick cuts himself off as he takes a closer look at them, at their sombre expressions, at the way Jason's hands are digging into his arms and Tim is standing entirely too straight. "Did something happen?"

In a measured tone, Tim asks, "Would you believe us if we said that Bruce hit us?"

Dick flinches back and stares at Tim, stares like he can open up their heads and find out exactly what is going on. He clears his throat, but his voice still comes out rough. "Us as in both of you?"

Tim turns abruptly and, after a quick glance around, lifts the back of his shirt. Their backs are looking better, the bruising already more green and yellow than angry blue. The places where Bruce drew blood, however, are unmistakable. Fine, parallel lines like a confession.

"Forty strikes," Tim says, voice sharp, clinical. He has no intention of pulling his punches, so to speak. This might be their only chance. "Well, forty-four, because he did Jason first and then had to start over several times with me because Jason was fighting to stay conscious and did not start counting quickly enough."

Jason wants to close his eyes at the memory, but he keeps watching Dick. This is the moment of truth.

Pure horror takes over Dick's face and Jason cannot help his relieved sigh. Dick did not know. Dick does not approve.

Jason reaches out blindly, finds Tim's arm and squeezes. He is not sure he can keep standing on his own. Tim shrugs his shirt back on properly and then moves against Jason's side. They have practice keeping each other up.

"Is this - are you -" Dick takes a deep breath, then tries again. "Was this the first time?"

"No," Tim says and smiles, no trace of humour on his face. "Far from it."

Dick leans back, pressing his hand against his mouth. He does not look away, however, does not hide his terror. "And you both - you - your trip?"

He is smart, quickly connects the dots. Jason tries not to feel bitter about the fact that they might have gotten help earlier, if only Dick had deigned to see them.

"We were running away," Jason admits, shaking off his misgivings. He learned early on in life not to cry over what ifs. "Unsuccessfully, of course."

To give him credit, Dick does not ask why they did not come to him sooner, why he seems to be their last resort. He knows Bruce, perhaps not as well as they do, but well enough.

"We can't get him arrested."

They know that. Bruce has too much money, too many lawyers just waiting to do his bidding. He has the Justice League and Gotham's police. They are just two kids with nowhere else to go.

Jason and Tim stay silent. They both agreed on the importance of this. Dick must want to help them, must offer to help on his own. Otherwise, he will never stare down Bruce for them to tell him he will lose them both. Well, all three of them, at best.

They watch as Dick thinks, fighting to correlate the Bruce he knows with what he has just learned. Then, he sets his jaw. "What can I do?"

Jason feels like he is taking his first real breath since their stolen car broke down. Tim finds his hand and holds on for dear life. They are not alone anymore.

[doonarose]

Right, so here's the thing(s).

I've not been around much... which is probably what I've said the last half-dozen sporadic posts I've made but basically since like July or August I've just kind of fallen out of fandom for a number of complex reasons and also just because it was time for that to happen, I guess?

I would very much not like to have fallen out of fandom and am trying to force my brain back into engaging. But then every time it does and for whatever/whoever reason, it's not fun engagement, off I go again.

This is entirely a me problem.

Work is work and we've had a hectic month. I am somewhat disappointed in two of my research students but somewhat pleased with the other two. The two I am pleased with are very on the fence about whether they will convert into PhDs... which I would like because they're good students and we could actually get something done with three more years. It's a big ask though, with shitty pay and less than ideal conditions. In some ways, I am mentoring them to explore other options because they probably could do better than my dinky little lab and it's story of woe. Their final theses are due in a week... that's something like 30k words I need to comb through and poke at which is just... exhausting... on top of all the other stuff.

And it's my birthday on Tuesday. 37 which is a bit of a nothing year but maybe I can convince myself it's going to be a good/better one... If nothing else I think I've convinced my parents not to drive up and surprise me/take me out for dinner/whatever. Which in itself is a bit pathetic but also, even more pathetic that I've asked them not to which has just pissed them off. They'll come up Friday and we'll do something... And then I'm down there for four or five days the week after to see all of them and some friends for the traditional four day horse racing weekend thingy.

Honestly, the best, easiest way for my birthday to go is for me to do a few hours at work and then go home, drink a bottle of wine and eat some cheesecake and that be that.

Rivals is a nice little treat in all of this. If my math is correct, it'll land this evening and I can, again, drink a bottle of wine and eat some cheesecake, and lose myself in tv and new David Tennant.

I'm gonna power through a few more hours thesis reading and then head home. I do still enjoy my journaling here, even if it is mostly talking into the void. Gosh, maybe I do, finally, need to get a therapist, in this, my 37th year...

[pendragaryen]

Merry christmas, my dear friends, mutuals and followers and all the best wishes for the upcoming new year! 🧡🫶🏻🧡🫶🏻🧡🫶🏻🧡

The last bit of 2022 and the whole of 2023 have not been very kind to my family - and so I'm standing here today, looking back at the past 13 months and finding myself almost back and stuck in the emotional state that I had been in after the separation from my long time boyfriend/life partner in 2009... That was a very dark time. I was trying to live and breathe with a constant black hole in my chest and soul for a couple of years then... I felt so empty and lost. I had a very similar feeling for the span of a couple of months after I had been kicked out of my job in 2017. But nothing, and I mean it, nothing has the rug under my feet pulled away and made me hit rock bottom like the cancer illness of my sister, the death of my grandma and now the fact that my mum is diagnosed with a tumor in her spine, all in the span of just 13 months... Please, we all need some rest in my family so desperately. But now we're all very anxious bc of the surgery my mum has to go through at the 12th of january. It's a difficult surgery. No-one knows for sure at this point what kind of a tumor it is. It causes her legs getting more and more numb and if they don't do anything, the risk of her ending up using a wheelchair rather sooner than later seems very likely. If the tumor should be malignant (please, god, no, NO!) the consequences would be even worse bc it could've spread already... But the fact that the doctors pushed for a fast surgery likely speaks for the possibility that the tumor is benign and seated in just one place... Well you see, this really keeps me busy... We all hope desperately that she will get better after the surgery, and not worse... We have plans! We want to travel together again! To the Netherlands next! Or to Danmark!

Don't get me wrong, there HAD been good things that happened in the last year, not at least the fact that my sister is now considered as cured. We're all so relieved and thankful, I have no words for it! But then... the death of our grandma... and now the tumor and surgery of my mother... I feel like i'm trapped in a constant state of emotional stress, like standing in the dark and screaming into the void with nobody being able to hear me... I can't even begin to imagine how my sister must've felt or how my mum is feeling now. Sometimes I think I'm too empathetic, the way I suffer with and for my beloved ones... that can't be healthy. I'm so tired.

Sorry to bother you with all this. I'm not around here that often anymore. Sadly I have to say I lost joy in many things I once loved or loved to do over the course of the last years. I'm unmotivated most of the time. But now... I have to function, I have to be there for my mum. It'll take half a year at least for her to recover from her surgery (if everything goes well - fingers crossed please!!!) and so I have to be strong - and I WILL be strong! For her! For my family! I hope my sister will support me then... The relationship of her and our mom is a little difficult... Sadly. But she's working on it..

I said I lost the joy in many things I loved once, but one thing I'll never get tired of is, on the rare occasions I visit this site, to read you all at our weekly BFSN, to see the 100 fam still being so creative and devoted, so that our favorite show never really gets forgotten. Thank you so much for that! And please keep tagging me in things! I read you, look at your photos, and I smile, even though I may not answer. This little corner of our fandom is so dear to me, it's almost a little like homecoming when I log in here. A comfort place.

Thank you all for your kind, empathetic, couraging, and motivational words at the last BFSN. I appreciate each and every one of it.

I hope the year has been kind to y'all and that these christmas holidays and the new year will be filled with tons of health, luck and love for you and all of us! Here's to a well deserved rest for us all!

And may we meet again. Here and in words. Maybe one day in person? Who knows?

Always.

Anne

@sunflowerkru: @togetherkru @carrieeve @ninappon @roguetwelve @bellamyblake @jeanie205 @geekyogicheese @natassakar @heartbellamy @okmcintyre @immortalpramheda @igotbellarkeforthat @infp-with-all-the-feelings @isweartobreathe @kizo2703 @travllingbunny @bookwormforalways @lee-em-dee @julibernardo @broashwhat @its-tea-time-darling @delicatebluebirdruins (and each and everyone else I maybe forgot, please excuse me)

[oonajaeadira]

I'll Never Fall In Love Again: Scene 7: The Sex Scene

Fandom: The Bubble

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Warnings: story jumps back and forth in time, playing fast and loose with "how things are done" in the film industry, consensual troublemaking with just a little boundary testing, frottage and thigh-riding (nothing super explicit but still very much a focus of action), messy feelings, indulgent yearning, angst, performance anxiety.

A/N: Thanks for your patience on this. It's nice to get back to these two idiots. I went light on sex and heavy on feelings and I hope that's okay with y'all because you know my kind of porn is feeling porns, right? Right. Okay. Let the disaster continue.

On film, kissing can’t be faked. Sex most certainly can.

When you enter the dim studio, Natalie and Nate, your stand-ins, lay artfully folded around each other in the back seat of a sedan, bared to the world in nothing but nude underwear as the crew work to set proper lighting levels and the DP makes sure this tight shot’s gonna work.

Unlike Natalie, you’re in a skirt and blouse, but only for the time being–it will be Dieter’s task to open that blouse and get that skirt rucked up around your hips soon enough.

Shit. You really should have taken some time to mentally prepare yourself for this. Taken a page out of Dieter’s book and, what? Had a stiff drink? (Heh. Stiff.) The butterflies that are escaping the cage of your stomach and eating at the supports in your knees should have been tended to prior to this shoot–

But then Dieter comes and takes a stand next to you and those nerves just…go away.

Yes, you both had your feelings out the other night, it should be awkward now, but it isn’t. There’s understanding now. Healing is coming. Has started already. And there’s never been anyone you’ve trusted more on set than Dieter fucking Bravo. You know he’s a pro. He’s a mess and a menace. But he’ll take care of you. Still.

“Hey,” he bumps a shoulder into yours. “You wanna have sex with me?”

Smiling down at your feet, you nod. “Yeah, let’s get this over with.”

Maybe not the best choice of words, even jokingly. You can feel his energy droop beside you, almost hear the wattage of his good mood bawooing out. “We okay, Cakes?”

Reaching for his hand, your fingers weaving into his own, you serve him a confident smile. “Of course. I’m glad you’re here.”

Like you have been for so many of my major career firsts.

The frantic kissing and the tussle in the rear car seat goes well; it’s okay to let your character get lost in his, to lean in and borrow from the way you and Dieter claw at each other. He kisses you hungrily, hands grasping your jaw, sucking in any breath you’ll give him, taking control of the kiss so you can concentrate on stripping him of his shirt and pants in the confines of the car seat as parsed out with Annie and the intimacy coordinator. But it's work and it's professional. Mostly.

You’d fall in love with his talent if you actually thought he was acting.

A few takes with resets of hair and makeup, a few different angles and a few shared giggles, and a few hours later you’re moving into the full shot, from the moment of first contact all the way through the deed.

And the kissing continues to go well–easy, pleasing, second nature. You’ve done enough takes to be able to get his clothes peeled away with ease.

But it’s when it comes to exposing you–to his big fingers somehow making short work of your dainty blouse buttons, to his palms sweeping up the sides of your thighs to push your flounces up and away–something yips in you, steps over a line into an unknowing void and you fixate.

It would be the same with any other actor, but it seems so strange here with Dieter–technically your husband–that you’ve never been in this state of undress with each other. With your breasts out, him slotted between your legs in nothing but a genital sock thrusting without actually making contact other then his hot breath in your neck and hands curling under your back and would it be better if he was making contact and you think about that night on the couch and what came after and your head’s not in the game here and Annie makes you take one shot, two, five–

“Cut, please,” Annie begs after take eight. “Take a break you two. Reset. We’re gonna try another angle.”

This isn’t good. Dieter peels himself from you, and you look anywhere but his face–although you have to avoid staring at the cock sock, at his whole bronzy naked body, really.

Something’s not working here.

And you both know it’s you.

A PA approaches Dieter with a robe open to receive him, but before you can ask him for reassurance, he simply snatches the robe as he passes the poor assistant, lazily throwing it on and padding off the set into the darkness of the crew area, covering his naked ass in his own time. “Hey. Annie, can I talk to you?”

Shit. FUCK.

It’s very telling that neither of them are turning to you immediately. Annie giving up on offering direction and Dieter has no encouragement in him anymore. Like they’re gonna huddle up and decide what to do with you. The thought of disappointing not just one but both of them–a director you admire and a friend and fellow actor who you had looked up to not so long ago–is heartbreaking and ego-shattering in so many ways and imposter syndrome shrinkwraps itself around your heart, preserving it in a marinade of cringe.

Why? Why can’t you just portray sexual pleasure? Sex can be faked! Tap into the arc of your character using this man who’s crazy about her to get off? You’ve got real life experience to draw on, and–if you're sly about it–you can play a little of life imitating art here….no. You don't need that. This shouldn’t be hard.

But it is. And you know full well why.

You can just make out Annie’s serious face and Dieter’s waving arms over by the craft table.

Shit. Well, union rules are union rules, and you might as well take advantage of the break. If you make it quick, you can get all the tears out and still swing by makeup to cover it up before anyone misses you.

____________

That summer after Cannes and Seattle was a whirlwind. Fall of Timon had its major release and there were regional premieres and panels, talk shows and interviews, everyone fawning over the director and Davey and Dieter; those few who paid attention to your involvement mainly asking about your experience with those two and then of course your marriage to the latter.

Auditions came hot and heavy. Dieter had some last minute ADR work for Hunger Strike and then took on a voice acting gig for a major video game company, so he rarely allowed himself to speak much after hours in an effort to manage his instrument.

But there were a few nights that hot summer, balcony windows open, curtains billowing and blowing through your room out into the lounge where you and Dieter sweated against the couch, taking turns getting up for cold beer and ice cream, laughing through a classic 80’s romcom. Those were good nights. Happy nights. You-and-your-best-friend nights.

By the end of August he was gone. Venice’s Film Fest first, then Toronto’s to promote Hunger Strike. Straight from there back over the ocean to Jordan for filming a season on a sci-fi series.

He called almost every night. Not long. Just a harried recap of his day–your morning–the shoot, his victories, his irritations, outings with the cast, hot goss. And you fought so hard against your jealousy–of him for his adventure, and of the cast for getting his presence. You found any and every excuse to be out at night with friends rather than streaming tv by yourself in a big, empty house.

But more and more he’d tire of talking and beg you to tell him about your day. Well. Your yesterday. If you didn’t have much to tell, he’d push you for details of a meal you ate or what you wore or even what the weather was like. It became clear that he was growing weary of being away from home and just wanted to hear you chatter, that your voice was his bedtime routine, that he would sleep better just hearing you complain about traffic.

And more and more, you realized your day was better when you could speak to him at the beginning of it.

And soon enough it was Thanksgiving week, Hunger Strike’s Stateside premiere, and Dieter was coming home. His schedule was tight–a mere five days to hit the premiere, the afterparty, the talk shows, a few auditions, and a recording session–and yet, he took you by surprise and reserved an evening just for the two of you.

Dieter new people, like any celebrity might. And one of the people he knew–an old college friend–happened to be working an install at Geffen Contemporary, able to open the gallery after hours for a private walkthrough on the weekend before the exhibit was set to open.

Takashi Murakami–one of your mutual favorites. A surprise for you. And as much as he was happy to get the chance to see the exhibit before he flew back to Jordan, he spent most of the time there just enjoying your delight at all of the bright colors, the insipid smiling flowers, the crazed and euphoric animals, the fountains of anime jizz.

Standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling mural of repeating cartoon faces, you’d turned to him, grinning like an idiot, only to find him regarding you with the same expression.

“This is a nice treat. Thank you, Deets.”

“Happy birthday,” he beamed, severely proud of himself.

You laughed, your nose wrinkling in confusion. “It’s not my birthday.”

“I know,” his smile faded a bit, “but we didn’t do yours properly. So since we’re done here, we’re going to the weiner stand.”

“Is that a metaphor?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Do you want it to be?” But your pseudo-husband granted you mercy, turning to go before your face betrayed the whammy he’d just dealt you, leading the way out of the gallery and into a silent Uber. The trip ended up with the two of you sharing a messy order of Holee Molee Fries with your hands, standing on the sidewalk in front of the hot-dog shaped walk-up eatery under the husky rose and umber L.A. sunset.

He always looked so content and warm and beautiful in the twilight hour.

You weren’t prepared for Hunger Strike. Or rather, how it would make you feel.

The premiere was grand, fun. Davey and half the cast of Timon were there making the occasion a mini-reunion, and Dieter’s stylist had struck up a deal with de la Renta, so you were matched in a tasteful floral cocktail gown from the same series as Dieter’s suit. Which meant plenty of couple photos on the carpet. It wouldn’t have been wrong to slip off and let him take the spotlight alone, except he simply wouldn’t let you, holding tight to your arm and joking that you were his fanciest and most slimming accessory–nobody would notice that he’d gained weight since the filming if they were all drooling over you.

But you weren’t fooled. And he wasn’t trying to fool you. Just trying to keep you beside him because he wanted you there. Simple.

It wasn’t until he found you in a quiet corner of the afterparty that he was able to seek your opinion, your mind whirring with the premiere you’d just witnessed, Dieter’s performance brilliant, unnerving, inspired, breathtaking–leagues more surprising and career-making than his work in Fall of Timon.

“Hey, I wondered where you’d gone,” he breathed, relieved to be away from the crowd for a hot second. “You okay?”

He was quiet while you gathered your thoughts, while you tried to articulate the swirl of emotions after watching your best friend–your mentor, your damned fake husband–fucking kill it on that screen. Finally, all you could manage was to pull him into an embrace that he eagerly returned, to press a kiss into his cheek and tell him, “That was astounding, D. I’m so, so proud of you.”

In those scant seconds after you let him go, he was transformed–haloed in pride, drunk on your praise, even though he’d had more thorough words from the mouths of a hundred guests–you watched the world begin to fall away from him as his eyes held yours, yearned after more. There was something he wanted to say, something that started with, “Yeah? You really think so,” and might have ended in god knows what if he’d been allowed to finish, but a couple of VIP guests had noticed the lack of crowd around you and paid no respect for the private moment, swooping in to take the opportunity to have you both to themselves.

As it was, all you got out of the night were some blisters from your designer heels and a press photo someone had snapped behind your back--your arms around him and your lips to his cheek, his fingers gripping the back of your dress and his face buried against your shoulder, eyes squeezed tight in agonized bliss as if your approval had meant more to him than the whole theater combined.

You refused to entertain the possibility of that being the truth.

You found a printout of the photo hung on the refrigerator after he flew back out to Jordan the next morning. Like a toddler that did a good job on his spelling test and wanted you to remember the best of himself.

You had a suspicion that a twin printout was in a bag on its way to Jordan.

____________

“What’s going on?”

The crew is in a flurry, doing final light checks and adjusting the car set when you’re called back into the soundstage after being redressed and reset again.

Dieter’s back in his full costume as well. Looks like it’s another full take again.

“They’re doing a slight adjustment on the lighting,” he says, watching them. “Talked to Annie. We’re gonna try something different.”

“Uh…what?” You’d just gotten used to the fact that this scene was happening and now they’re changing it? “Does the I.C. know?”

He shrugs. “She’s not here. What she doesn’t know won’t get her buttplug all twisted ‘round.”

“And were you two going to clue me into these changes or…..?”

Here’s where he finally turns to you, but can’t seem to meet your warning gaze for long, chewing on the inside of his cheek. God, he’s pretty when he drops all his swagger. If only Dieter knew how good vulnerability looked on him….“You trust me, ‘Cakes, yeah?”

An old warmth returns, melting you like the earth turning back towards the sun in spring. It’s an instant recognition that whatever he said to Annie was about you–and in your best interest–and just like he did during Timon, he wants to help you again.

“‘Course I do.”

One of the assistants calls over to the two of you, ready for you to return to the set, and you follow close to Dieter as he whispers, “Listen. You’re just wearing a snatch patch, right?”

“W-what? Yes?”

“Good. A full genital guard would have been rough."

The assistant dressers crowd you, doing a last minute swat for lint, trapping fly-aways, fixing your waistline. “Um, okay, why–”

“Alright, you two,” Annie appears beside you, all smiles, her tiny frame belying the big sass that you know lurks underneath. “So Dieter and I talked and he made me see the very rare error of my ways and here’s the deal.”

Your director goes on to explain that Dieter alerted her to the fact that this is an escalation point for your character, that little by little you’ve been taking control of your situation and this is the moment you take control of Dieter’s character. Trapping you under him was cutting you off from options to express that.

“We’re putting you on top,” Annie says to you, continuing when she sees your dropped jaw. “You let Dieter guide. This isn’t about you seducing him or dominating him. It’s about you learning to let go and enjoy him, to own your own sexual freedom. So we’ll start with the buildup as is, disrobing as is, but then let him pull you on top. It’ll give you more opportunity to play.” Pinching your chin and giving it a sisterly shake, she growls, “You got this, kid. Feel free to really give into her wildness. And remember it’s your call if you need to stop at any time. Dieter leads, but you’re in control here? Okay? Now. If you want to rehearse a take, that’s your right, but I’d like to roll for spontaneity’s sake.”

Looking away from her glittering, black eyes, to Dieter–standing there like a taught rubber band, his arms hanging but his twitchy fingers betraying his trapped kinetics–and back to Annie, you give her a nod. “Let’s do it.”

A shake of the shoulders, a fist bump with your scene partner. A silent commitment to do better for both of them.

And while Annie gets situated behind the monitor and the DP synchs, you keep Dieter’s focus, allowing yourself just for the moment–for the hour, the day–to fall back in love with him.

You wonder if he senses this change. You’re certainly sensing one in him, his fidgets melting, his jaw unclenching.

You both know what to do.

His kissing has improved since……well. Perhaps he’s more confident when he’s acting rather than being drunk or jet-lagged. But right now…now he’s intoxicating. Traces your jaw and ears with the soft bend of his nose and plush of his lips, taking care not to let his scruff tear you up too much. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to devour your breath, keep your tongue dancing tempo with his, put his big hands in all the right places to press out all your tension.

It’s not even whispered, just mouthed against your lips: “That’s good.”

His shirt comes off first, and you take the lead in stripping away his jeans, but then the choreography changes as he slows you, brings your focus to him, pushing up your skirt in order to hold your hips and guide you to his lap, pulling you into a straddle, watching your expression as you land.

Only the thin fabrics of his genital sock and your modesty patch separate your softer sections from his harder ones.

And he drags you against him.

And you gasp.

There’s a moment where you pause with your eyes and mouth wide in surprise, his air trapped within him as he waits to make sure he hasn’t crossed the line.

He has.

But your skirt covers things. And what Annie and the crew don’t know can’t hurt them.

Suddenly you’re in the mood to match his trouble.

And you begin to slowly ride.

And in his escaping breath, there’s a “Yeah.”

His hands give you a gentle pull and leave you with the subtle direction to keep rocking while he takes his time working his way through your blouse buttons, pushing the fabric down over your shoulders but not your arms, leaving it to drape artfully from elbow to elbow across your back, giving you a little more cover, a little more security, allowing his naked character to be the vulnerable one.

And as you roll against him, wetting your breath-dried lips, he watches you, checks in with you.

You okay with this?

Yeah.

A rise of his hips. I’m gonna pick it up.

Please.

That’s good, Babycakes. Just like this.

And all of a sudden, it clicks. It doesn’t matter that the set is full of people, doesn’t matter that Annie is hoping for a saving take, doesn’t matter that millions of people will watch this intimate moment between the two of you.

All that matters is that you get to have it with him.

As he rocks you closer to breaking, your lips part, your eyes close, and your forehead lands upon his.

“That’s it, Baby,” he breathes, his words just hurried shapes and pops, “I want you to feel it this time. I want you to have this. I’m here. Use it. I want you to have it.”

Later, Annie will tell you what a perfect arch your back makes when your character finally lets go.

____________

After the Hunger Strike premiere, he called less often. He was bouncing around Europe, shooting a commercial, visiting friends, auditioning a few treatments, and when he was back in Jordan, he was far enough off the grid that he’d have to use the production’s satellite phone to call and that was getting governmental aerospace involved, so communication slowed to a crawl.

You’d had an unsent message sitting in your drafts for weeks and was just about to delete it one dreary January morning as you lazed in bed. Alone. In a big, empty house.

But then the phone rang in your hands and you dropped it on your face with a loud curse, fumbling and snatching it back with the hope that the call was coming from the person your message was addressed to so you wouldn’t have to say it–

“SWEETHEART!”

No such luck. “Heyyy Morgan.”

“Well, you did it, kitten,” your agent’s bangles rang over the phone as you imagined her clutching her fists and doing a little shimmy, “congratulations!!!”

“Huh?”

“Wait. Are you kidding me? The nominations dropped today. Don’t tell me you slept in.”

And all of a sudden you were a windmill of arms and legs and flying sheets, a shrieking and thudding mess across the carpet as you ran to the desk to open a laptop. “Shit! Tell me!!!”

“Supporting actress, hon. I TOLD YOU.” Morgan knew you’d be sitting there in a permanent gasp, so she took the opportunity to spill. “Fall of Timon is one of the big takers; film, director, special effects, supporting actress, lead actor–”

“Dieter?” you squealed. “Oh shit, he’s going to be so excited–!”

“Ah, no. I mean, yes, but Davey’s been nominated for Timon. Dieter did receive a lead nom, but it’s for Hunger Strike.” As if she could feel the turmoil in your silence, Morgan laced her voice with a smile pushed forward. “And this is marvelous; the press will be all over you two, the power couple who have to war with rooting for their spouse or their project. Good visibility.”

“Well,” you force a chuckle, “I mean, yeah. Davey’s my costar. But of course I’ll pull for Dieter because I know he’ll be pulling for me.”

“Yes. Although. He’s going to have to support Chelsea as well.”

“Chelsea? What? …Oh.” Chelsea Seagate. His nemesis in Hunger Strike. “But…that’s easy, right? She would be up for leading actress, so–”

“The studio thought she’d have a better chance at taking supporting, so that’s where they championed her.”

“Oh.” Direct competition.

Somehow you’d made it through the rest of the conversation. Somehow you’d managed to fake full enthusiasm for Morgan’s sake while you were sitting stunned on the edge of your bed. Somehow you’d let her congratulations sink in.

But you’d also fallen back onto the mattress, all fetal position and stunned silence.

It wasn’t anything to cry over. But your adrenaline was running high off your own nomination and you were stupidly excited for Dieter of course.

If he had been there, it wouldn’t have been an issue. You would have hugged and jumped up and down and called in a mess of takeout and downed some edibles and just been happy for each other.

But he wasn’t there. And you felt it. Had been feeling it for weeks and living in denial that it meant anything. The year was close to being over and there was no need to complicate things. Catching feelings wasn’t part of the deal and the logistics of being tied to Dieter Bravo for a long haul just weren’t built on solid enough ground.

Especially since he’d been calling less. Being out of country meant he could probably mess around easier without anyone finding out. He was doing his best, keeping his promise, slowly repairing his image and not making you look foolish for marrying a–well, a bit of a slut, really, if reputation served. And if he was getting his dick on, well, he’d been discreet and you could appreciate that.

You told yourself he was having his fun but being discreet for you. There was no way you’d believe he was denying himself for your sake. Not Dieter. Entertaining that thought would be like admitting that…

That you didn’t want him to.

Shit.

Laying with your cheek to the sheets, squinting in the cold January sun, a thumb-drag across your phone opened it to your messages. It was easy enough at first to avoid the unsent one.

--Congratulations, D!

Still skipping past the unsent text.

--I’m so proud of you!

You should have closed the phone, but your heart teetered on the edge of a gulf, hovering over the send icon.

There had to be a different way to say it.

--If you were here, I’d take you out to celebrate.

It was the wrong thing to say, because it was true.

And it hurt. And the realization of what you were then admitting to yourself pulled the tears out even faster. All the times you almost told him out of some nagging need, and then, as if he knew you needed to hear from him he’d call and then it just lived there in your drafts, but oh god, this was a big twist of the knife, and it hurt, and you just thought, fuck it, and hit send.

--I miss you so much, Dieter.

____________

Silence.

Stupid. For the next week you tried to push the mental groan of anguish out of your head. This is why you should never text when you’re emotional, you big dummy. He might have been too far out on location. Or trying to text and it didn’t come through. There was no reason to believe he was ignoring you or you’d overstepped. After all, it was text and didn’t have intonation behind it. You could still be his best friend and miss him. That was allowed.

No need to fret.

Anything would be preferable to silence though.

What was going to buoy you was a celebratory get together at Davey’s place that weekend. An invite went out to cast and crew of Timon, and Saturday night saw old friends converging in Beverly Hills, Davey and his partner Mark’s mid-century home still lit up from Christmas.

It was exactly what you needed to relax and find your smile, to be among friends, and, of course, proceed to get just a bit more than tipsy thanks to the catered bartender.

Davey mentioned that he’d gotten into pinball lately and at one point in the evening a friend asked to see his collection, so the whole party took a detour to the outbuilding that he’d turned into a throwback dive-bar setup with nine vintage pinball machines.

Everyone was crowded around Mark, watching him play for the high score on the very suggestive cowboy machine that would trip the bucking bronco. He’d just missed, and there was a loud, raucous groan, that ended in Davey cheering, “Well fuck you, you son-of-a-bitch Oscar-traitor! Aren’t you supposed to be in Egypt or some such shit?”

The group spun as a messy whole to find Dieter standing in the doorway, offering up a dumb grin and a wave, causing everyone to whoop.

You were too drunk to feel anything but delight and shock, and it must have shown, because once he saw you in the crowd–saw you gasping smile and brimming eyes–he came straight at you, bowling you backward in a sloppy embrace, growling contentment as everyone else slapped and patted his back in welcome.

“I missed you too,” he mumbled against your shoulder. “Surprise!”

And everything that felt broken in you found its way back into place.

He made the rounds at the party, said his hellos to friends, but kept you close by until it was just the two of you creating your own little bubble, both leaning head and shoulder against a wall in the hallway–you a little overwhelmed with drink and him jet-lagged–explaining that he’d hoped to be here a day or two sooner, but there were re-routes and delays and he’d be flying back as soon as he could guarantee a stand-by. He’d literally been traveling over 24 hours just to surprise everyone and come celebrate.

And you’d stood there, asking him questions about the location and the shoot, listening, laughing a little too hard, hanging on every word, holding his hand as if he’d fly away the second you weren’t tying him to you. But he wasn’t going anywhere at that moment. He was as grounded to the moment as you were.

Maybe an hour? Two? Another drink? An Uber ride home. Laughter. You almost dropped your keys on the doorstop trying to unlock the door.

“You wanna see my house? It’s really big and I live here all alone,” you joked, chuckling as you kicked off your shoes and stumbled into the dark living room, your oncoming headache keeping you from turning on the light.

Dieter followed, but didn’t join you in the merriment.

“I’m sorry for not calling more, Cakes. We’re literally staying with the Bedouins, there’s nothing out there–”

“Hey. You don’t have to apologize to me. If I need company I know where to find it.”

That made him smirk. “Yeah? You’d cuck me in my own house?”

“Ah–” stammering, you tried to make light of what you assumed was a joke. “That’s not the kind of company I meant. Besides, you’re the one out there away from prying eyes with the desert roses, Mr. Bravo. So. No pointing fingers at me.”

“That’s what you think?” You couldn’t see his face in the dim light, but his voice told a story of quiet disappointment. Oh. So not a joke then. “I flew back here to surprise you.”

You had to put some mental distance between what he was saying and what you hoped it meant. “And to go to the party.”

“Because I knew you’d be there. I wanted to get home earlier so we could go together. Like we're meant to.”

You wished a lot of things in that moment, the main one being that you were more sober.

You didn’t get that wish. But you did get another one.

Because he didn’t pull back when you crashed your mouth into his. He didn’t push you away when you wrapped your arms around him. And even when the momentum of a few kisses pushed his calves against the couch and he lost balance and fell onto it, he was the one who reached up and pulled you onto his lap and kept begging you silently not to stop.

Delirium. Bliss. You were both sloppy, but equally present and willing. “Holy shit your lips are soft. Like pillows or some shit,” he mumbled, unable to help himself.

At one point you felt the evening dragging you down and you could sense yourself slipping into fatigue, threatening to steal precious hours with him away from you, but you fought it, trying to crank it back up by reaching for his belt.

He laughed softly against your lips as he gently moved your hand away. “Mmmmnnnope. You’re drunk, ladybug.”

“All the easier for you to take advantage.”

“I know,” he groaned, just a shadow of regret coloring it. “Another time maybe.”

“But you came all this way,” you whined, reaching again for his buckle and then switching to a purr. “Don’t you want to sleep with your wife?”

That made him stop. “Fuck, you’re making this hard on me.” He pulled your hand away again, this time guiding it up to receive a kiss to the knuckle. “No means no, missus.”

Oh shit. Thinking you’d really gone too far, misread the situation–how?--you shifted backward, moving to get up.

“No, no. Wait. C’mere.” Hands on your hips guided you back and he put a thigh between yours. Urging you to sit, he pulled you back to his mouth as he whispered, “Just. I can’t… Not me. Let me help you.”

And he did. Although he denied you any payback. He simply held you, gave you his kisses and his thigh, and your head swam and your desire glowed. But each sigh got longer, longer, longer…

Until you woke up the next morning on the couch, covered with a blanket, a glass of water on the coffee table in front of you twinkling in the cold wintry morning sun, the spike of pain in your head matching the one of complete mortification in your heart.

____________

I want you to feel it this time. I want you to have this. I’m here. Use it. I want you to have it.

Standing in the trailer at the end of the day, you flip through the divorce papers absently, unfocused, not really seeing anything but a word here and there; “differences,” “lack,” “unable,” “resolve.” Yours is the only signature. It’s inelegant–either your pen didn’t have enough ink at first or you hesitated–

“Hey.” Dieter stands in the doorway, confused, not expecting to find you in his trailer. As you turn toward him, he notices the papers in your hand and cringes in recognition, sucking in a rallying breath as he enters and pulls the door closed behind him. “That mad, huh. Listen, Cakes–”

But his jaw drops as you grip the top of the small packet….

…and give it all a neat tear down the middle.

Dropping each half to your sides, it signals an end to something between you that isn’t your marriage.

He waits for you. A little bit anxious. A little bit hopeful. Expectant and quiet.

And you make him wait.

Then you simply place what’s now garbage in the bin.

“I see you’re still in your robe.”

“I see you’re still in yours.”

“That was some trick you pulled, Mr. Bravo.”

“I can’t tell if you’re mad.”

“I’m not.”

He’s still not sure where this is going, keeps watching you with those same puppy eyes, Fight sitting on one shoulder, Flight on the other, waiting for a million shoes to drop.

“You didn’t finish during the scene.” You say, pointing to a shape that’s hiding under his robe. “How very professional of you. I suppose you came in here to take care of it.”

He swallows, nods eagerly, his hope utterly, adorably transparent.

You take a step toward the back where the crash bed is. Jerk a thumb back over your shoulder in its direction. Cock an eyebrow. “Well? I’m sober this time. You wanna consummate this thing or not?”

It’s not his birthday, but you might as well have just told Dieter you were taking him out to the wiener stand.

And this time, it would most definitely be a metaphor.

____________

NEXT

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

[i-only-know-fandoms]

Carlos's mention in the wedding special and how they handled it was disappointing and vague and, in my opinion, leaves the door open to either fate

Context

So I took a peak at the Barnes & Noble bonus chapter of Melissa de la Cruz's Beyond the Isle of the Lost and Mal and Evie and Jay and Ben and even Doug are there but there's no mention of Carlos, and I don't know, that really upsets me. The Core Four aren't going to be in the movies anymore, (Disney, though intent on making more movie, at least hasn't sunken as low to recast Cameron, and Dove, Sofia, and Booboo won't return without him) they still exist in the universe (Mal's portrait, this bonus chapter, etc). And it just seems to me, as long as it's not on screen and they're continuing the franchise, Disney should include Carlos in any future books they might appear in

(Which I also believe they should do to continue Mal, Evie, Carlos, and Jay's story. They're intent on continuing the franchise, they've made that clear, and so tossing aside the characters that created it seems callous. Obviously there can be no more movies with them, thus, books. Also, these theoretical books could be for the YA fans of the original trilogy and thus get into the grittier details of the Isle, not the watered down happy ending that made no sense canonically in D3. As many are pointing out, Rise of Red will be for a new generation of fans)

I, personally, think that if they're set on continuing the franchise they should honor they characters should still be used (again, offscreen in books) to continue their stories and the legacies of the characters and the actors who created them, especially Cameron, as this is really his only legacy character. It also gives another way of keeping his memory alive, if they dedicate the books to him, and raise awareness for his foundation by including an page promoting it in the books.

It also seems callous to me to just toss all the work of those characters to the side, like they don't mean anything now that they can't be used in movies.

But, I am also worried want wanting this (or even asking Disney this, though I doubt they'd pay attention) that I am also just using Cameron? I just, I miss him so much, and this would keep him alive (similar to Chadwick Boseman through T'Challa. Like, they had him die in the movies as to not recast him, but there's still all the Black Panther comics and merchandise that he lives through. Yes, it's not necessarily his iteration of the character, since it did exist before him, but he's still connected with it). But should this stay in the fandom through fanfics and fanart, and not touched by Disney? But they're continuing the universe, so feels like this is just forcing him to disappear? Idk, I did another post about this after the Wedding Special, because I don't know if I'm being insensitive by wanting this. I don't think I am, I don't mean to be, but that doesn't mean I'm not.

So I set up this poll, (and set it before my rambling since who wants to read all this, lol) to get some wider perspective. Should I keep asking Disney to try and get the Core four's stories continued in books (if you're on Instagram, yup this is me) or am I being insensitive towards as them by asking for this

(The utter hopelessness of asking Disney and if I should give up because of it isn't in question, I have nothing better to do with my life than scream into the void. But if it's morally wrong.... I trust the fandom for an honest opinion on this and tumblr is the best place. And now we have polls, so......)

[morganandtheemorgana]

Just so you know I’m not good with this one as I get anxiety when writing Tiffany especially since she’s an iconic character who got wrecked for nothing but for shock value. I’m not fan of how the show handle her character being it just painfully wasted my time for nothing and hard to watch especially as someone who grew up with Bride. So as a treat, here’s a small context of Tiffany in the AU.

Context of Tiffany In The Rem AU Part I

-Still goth even if not goth-goth but you can best say it’s the vibe in Curse but with better hair. I love Curse okay

-Your typical femme fatale who’s also living a double life as an actress and someone who wishes for a normal life or as the tinman puts a heart to which it’s meant on her wish to be “human” metaphorically. However at the same time, she’s aware she trapped herself in that killing cycle and her own selfishness which she later accepts if hinted to when talking to Junior.

-Has a mysterious past that only those of a few close to her with Chucky knowing her past. She’s really tight lipped with her past and doesn’t like talking much about it.

-Does begin to face the consequences of her actions especially her double life as Delia Grace, an actress who’s known to be not much into the spotlight even if proficient and a mom who’s trying to not let her children know the ugly truth of their origins while facing the consequences. It’s not like S2 I swear to god but it’s more on her realizing the consequences of her actions as she later regrets out of remorse but at the same time the damage is done.

-Despises Nica in a way that kinda makes sense as there was quote I remember Jen saying that in Cult or something that hinted on it that feels way better than some obsession that doesn’t make sense. So it’s not shocking kinda not fond of the two being trapped in shitty writing.

-Yes, she takes Junior along with them having a toxic codependency as in both want to fill in the void of something they lost. Still trying to decide whether or not I should have Tiffany be a foil to either Nica or Junior in context to make sense then what the damn show is going for alongside psychological elements mainly the light and dark reflection to one another.

-Wants to love and be loved which we see that with Chucky even if both are polar opposites with their pasts, traumas and their different backgrounds.

-She’s not an unhinged dumbass as shown in the canon which I don’t want to get into that talk being honest mainly I get migraines from overthinking how they handle Tiffany in the show but let’s just say I’m not fan of how they did it to the point I’m willing to stand what people have interpret her that’s better than the show’s mess even in their own way just as long as it’s not Don’s. I just want her to be a confident calculative complex villain like how she was in Bride but later on the road we get a darker side to her that isn’t an unhinged mess, something interesting that makes sense. I don’t know as I said Tiffany is that one character I don’t touch with a 10 ft pole since the fandom is attached to her and respect that.

NOTES

-No JT is not in the AU but instead an idea I had for a while is there so kill me if I said I didn’t like the meta jokes in Seed and in the show as it’s not my cup. Maybe it’s because I watched CP2 before Bride so do apologize if that’s what makes me disconnected from a few.

-Her love for Chucky is an interesting concept which I like be explored more in later concepts as I do feel like it’s the show’s loss on exploring them and their destructiveness to one another with their hint of friendship and love.

I might be able to do Tiffany’s backstory at some point as well as how Chiffany came to be and the chain of consequences that arose in 1984 but the same time if honest I’m more hesitant since I’m not good at stronger paragraph ideas nutshell wise but willing will let anyone borrow concepts from me as long as you do it better than me.

While I do want a backstory I don’t want the show to give Tiffany a backstory mainly out of anxiety and also knowing the show, it just would just border on to trashy camp territory or just be something fans would just debate over like with Charles/Chucky’s backstory

[firecrackerhh]

If the writing in HB is such a disappoint for you I suggest you quit while you’re ahead and just not bother watching Hazbin Hotel at all, obviously your standards are way too fucking high. I suggest finding something you actually like and blogging about that instead.

Also the way some “fans” talk about Vivziepop is frankly really disrespectful. It’s irrelevant that she’s a creator online and thus should expect pushback on everything she says or does, some of you go way too fucking far with it. She is still a human being who deserves respect, if you can’t give the CREATOR of a show you actively choose to watch any respect because of insignificant bullshit reasons like “they made something that personally disappointed/offended me” or because of accusations made against said creator with flimsy evidence at best, then those same people who claim the fandom is full of immature children are the most hypocritical jackasses I’ve ever seen in my life.

You want to criticize? Fine, but do not act like you’re morally above any of us who like the show when you actively choose to treat not only the creator like shit, but the fans as well. Hell I’ll be honest, if you don’t like Viv, I can’t say it bothers me that much, these idiots just shout into the void more often than not and their bitching amounts to nothing in the end anyway. But to treat the fans of HH and HB like we’re fucking idiots all because we have committed the horrible sin that is…liking something and not wanting to be bombarded with ever constant negative bullshit about it? That isn’t any more mature. That’s toddler behavior, crybully behavior even, and I don’t respect that shit whatsoever. “Waaaah these people don’t agree with my opinion on a cartoon so they’re all retarded and delusional and mentally ill I’m totally not projecting you guys waaaah!”

I do not deny that some fans go overboard with defending their favorite show, but notice how it’s all defensive, not offensive. We don’t start this shit, they bully us first, and then have the nerve to cry when we rightfully tell them how full of shit they are? What are you, a fucking baby? If you can’t handle other peoples opinions about a cartoon maybe you should fucking touch grass my dudes.

How’s that shoe feeling on the other foot? Not so nice when those criticisms are laid at your feet huh?

If you think you can do better, fucking do it then. Use your ever constant burning contempt for something useful and productive instead of sounding like a fucking whiny loser online, cuz that’s what you people sound like.

Speaking of disrespecting others…

I never want to hear any of you motherfuckers bitch about ableism ever fucking again. Retard is the nicest word I could use to refer to you fucking troglodytes. You deserve to get called that shit and worse.

Also for the love of god that’s not what gaslight fucking means you mentally challenged amoeba. Pick up a fucking dictionary.

🔥🧨~Firecracker out~🔥🧨

[lightburnsyou]

respond to the following prompts out of character, then tag others you'd like to get to know a little bit better.

roleplayer name: sky!

roleplayer pronouns: she/her

muse name: anakin skywalker

preferred communication: tumblr dms or discord!

experience: over fifteen years! i started on neopets (doing "gifted vs government" rps if you remember those. it was basically just x-men ocs lmao) and started on tumblr doing groups when i was about 14? discovered indie rp around a year or so later. moved to discord and wrote 1x1s sometime during lockdown. rped exclusively with one friend for like three years. (still write the same two rp threads w her!) recently came back to tumblr with this blog! have been in many many fandoms.

preferred roleplay type: as long as there's something to work with, i am content. i'm very story focused. i don't care much for threads where it's just two characters chatting about nothing, unless it's giving us juicy character exploration. i prefer threads with some kind of conflict, whether it be internal, between two characters, or a third party/impending doom/secret/whatever. it doesn't have to be action based, but i think all stories do need something going on. as long as there's something, i'm happy. i'm not very good at this, but i also really like threads with strong environments! i suck at remembering to describe places, but i like a nice setting. i think it makes it more fun and vivid, and you can do cool symbolism and metaphors with a good setting. trying to get better at this bc sometimes i feel like i write characters in a void rather than a solid, grounded place. so if my partner is good at establishing setting, it makes me happy bc i feel like i'm learning lmao

pet peeves & dealbreakers: ooc dramaaaa. it is my biggest dealbreaker. also this is a minor pet peeve and hasn't really come up here, but i must warn you all that i am not a hayden simp. please don't assume i am just bc i write anakin. love him as anakin! great actor! but idrk him and i don't want to talk for hours about how hot he is. i'm a lesbian, and i'm just not interested in talking about the hotness of men really at all, let alone in excess. i won't stop you from talking about it, but i just can't sometimes. a boundary i have. i'll talk about my love for anakin all day any day tho.

plot or memes: both! i will say that memes can sometimes get the ball rolling faster, especially if the characters have an established dynamic or common setting! that being said, i do love plotting just as much! never feel scared to reach out to me to discuss a plot or dynamic! i'm down. and unless otherwise specified, you're more than welcome to continue any meme without asking! i try to write them with potential continuation in mind

long replies or short replies: i don't really mind length, but i do gravitate to multi-para. one-liners are great starting points, but i naturally expand. i don't vibe with blabbing just for the sake of matching length, though. anakin is a talker, so a lot of my replies do have a bit of dialogue! however, whatever i feel the reply needs is what the reply gets, and i hope my partners do the same! there's no pressure to match length, as long as there's something to work with, yk?

best time to write: it really depends! my work schedule fluctuates quite a bit. for me, as long as im (a) not tired, (b) have a quiet environment, and (c) am in a somewhat good mood, i can write something. the thing that hinders my writing most frequently is stress or sleepiness.

are you like your muse?: i think we all are in some ways. there is a reason we chose to write or create the characters we did. my writing is obviously rooted in how i see the world, and through that, how i see ani. there will always be a part of me in the way i write anakin. we have very different life experiences, reactions, and perspectives on things, but i love that boy.

tagged: @petitsdieu

tagging: anyone who sees this and wishes to fill it out! tag me! it's good to get to know one another

[lonely-shine]

Plagued by Thoughts of You

[Read on AO3]

*Fandom: The Arcana *Rating: Mature *Relationships: Asra/Julian *Characters: Asra, Julian, Mentioned Apprentice *Chapters: 1/1 (one shot) *Wordcount: 2.700~ *Additional tags: Red Plague, unhealthy relationship, unhealthy coping mechanisms, hurt no comfort, grieving/mourning, non-explicit sex

*Summary: The death of apprentice Shell left a gaping void in both Asra's and Julian's hearts, which they try to ignore with single-minded focus to their goal (one bringing her back, the other curing the plague) and looking for something they know they can't have in the other.

********

It was late when Asra got back to the shop, the sky dark and cloudy overhead, the streets cold and quiet. He sighed when he finally stepped in and closed the door behind him, tired; it had been a long day at the Palace.

"Finally alone..." he muttered, mostly to himself.

Faust slithered out of his sash and flickered her tongue at him.

"He is so annoying, isn't he?" Asra said, smiling and giving Faust some scritches. He didn't dislike Ilya, and hadn't minded when Countess Nadia asked them to work together, but he was so tiring to deal with. "So clingy and so needy and..." And he's not her, he thought, frowning, but didn't voice this aloud.

He was not her. He was not her and would never be. How could he even think of being with him when Shell was dead? How could he be so preoccupied with the cure when that wouldn't bring her back? She was his apprentice too. He knew her, he knew her and still did nothing to—

Asra took in a deep breath as he braced on the shop's counter, his knuckles becoming white from the force of it. His vision blurred and he saw his own hands in different times and places: cupping Shell's face as she lovingly gazed at him, covered in blood as he retrieved her ashes and charred bones from the grounds of the Lazaret.

'If I can't convince you to stay and you can't convince me to go, maybe we should split up,' she had said, and he had agreed, feeling hurt and betrayed, and left. Left her behind. Left her to die alone and...

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the feeling and redirecting his thoughts to anger instead. "He's not her," he said, aloud this time. Anger and hate felt better than guilt and grieving, made him feel more in control, and he needed that feeling of control. "And he's impossible."

Faust wrapped warmly around his shoulders in a gesture of comfort, and he let out a shaky breath he didn't quite realize he was holding. "You miss her too, don't you?" he said, then stepped away from the counter and towards the shelves, all stuffed to the brim with books and magical items. "Soon enough. I will bring you back, Shell," he said, taking one of the heavy tomes in his hands. "I will fix this."

********

By the time Julian finished his shift it was well past midnight. He crammed into the nook that functioned as his office in the medical dungeons and lit a candle for light.

He rubbed at his face, sighing, and slumped into the chair at the narrow desk —ridden with scattered books, papers, and medical tools— that took one of the walls of the tiny space.

The days at the Palace were long, and the nights were even longer. So much death, so much suffering... How many victims had he seen? Strangers, acquaintances, his own colleagues once they succumbed to the disease...

And then there was her, he thought as he unlocked the desk's drawer and took out Shell's last record to him. He hadn't seen her body —she had been directly cremated at the Lazaret, he later found out— yet he could still picture her dead on his arms, on Valdemar's table during their demonstrations...

Julian shivered. Valdemar always made the fine hairs on his nape stand on end. There was something... off about them. Just as well that Shell's body never entered the Palace. He couldn't have borne to see her in that state.

The paper page of the record crumpled as his fingers reflexively clutched at it, his eyes fixed on Shell's signature at the bottom corner.

How could have he missed her death? She was his apprentice, his responsibility, and he didn't even know she was sick until after her death. How could have he been so careless? He should have kept a better eye on her. Should have protected her. Now all that remained to remind him of her was that record...

The record, and Asra.

He was a little surprised, when Countess Nadia introduced him to them. Shell had talked about Asra with him —and from what he'd gathered, they had been very close indeed— but he never thought he'd meet them.

Asra was... a little odd. So carefree and with his head always on the cloud, even in the midst of a plague. Were all magicians like that?

Belatedly, Julian remembered Shell was a magician too —she hadn't talked that much about it, while they'd worked together. Oh, but she made it sound so different! More coherent and less hocus pocus. Almost more like engineering than magic. Almost.

No, it must be something about Asra himself then, and not his profession. But he must be a good one, even so. Shell had spoken fondly of him, and she had been so kind and brave and... Well, she must have had good taste.

Or, well, she usually must have. She must not have been at her best when she answered to Julian's half-hearted flirting. Probably was just humouring him anyway. Or just being kind. He shouldn't assume.

But, ahh, how had she made his heart sore! Should he have confessed his feelings to her? Maybe not, considering how it all had ended up. What kind of man would he be, to confess his love and then forget about her until after her death? Better he had kept it to himself.

Julian sighed and put the report back on its place in the drawer.

He couldn't save Shell, it was far too late for that, he knew, but he could find a cure. He could prevent more deaths. Shell had wanted to help the people of Vesuvia; he had a small hope that in finding a cure he would earn her forgiveness, if only a little, for being too busy to notice it when she was gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

That thought spiralled inside his head enough that it made him dizzy. He got up from the chair and almost hit his head on the ceiling.

He had to get out. The air down in the dungeons was always so thick and oppressive, he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, not with the thoughts and smell of sickness in and around him.

Julian left the Palace at a brisk pace, and soon he could feel the cobbled streets of the city under the soles of his boots. The air was misty, and cold enough that it hurt his lungs when he breathed, which felt right.

He told himself he didn't know where he was going, that he was just wandering, as he walked down the streets. Just a stroll to clear up his mind.

However, his mind was too full of concern for a certain magician for him to believe his own lie, his steps clearly leading to the Centre City.

He was just checking on them, Julian tried to convince himself of on the way. He couldn't let harm come their way. They were the last connection he had to Shell. If they died...

No, he wouldn't let that happen. He couldn't keep Shell safe, but the same wouldn't happen with Asra.

Giving up on the pretense of a random stroll, Julian turned his heel and took the shortest route to the magic shop. It was late, but Asra was a nocturnal creature too. With any luck, he'd find him awake.

********

Herbs, magical tools, and heavy tomes were scattered on the backroom’s floor as Asra tried another spell, the air filling with a thick, purplish mist as their power manifested.

They had consulted every book they could get their hands on during their research. Books about the Arcana, curses, healing, forbidden spells, necromancy… The latter ones always required a body to work with, which was useless when they hadn't found but charred bones and ash of Shell.

None of the books gave them the information that they wanted, that they needed. They’d have to figure a way out themself.

A sudden, insistent knock on the door distracted them from their musings, making them turn their gaze away from the book they were holding. Who could it be at that hour? With a sigh, they went to answer.

When they opened the door, Asra found the lanky, nervous figure he knew well waiting outside. "Ilya?" They couldn't help but frown, not that Ilya dropping by was rare, but the hour definitely was. "What are you doing here? I told you I'd be fine."

"Yeah, I know, I just—" Ilya tiptoed his way around them to get inside, then snuffled his nose at the thick, purplish streams of mist coming out of the backroom. "Wait, what— What are you doing here?" He started coughing, doubling over at the power of the spell in the air.

"Can't you tell?" Asra said, letting the door close and grabbing Ilya by the chin to make him look at them. "Just a magic trick."

"Ah, something from one of those ridiculous tomes?" Ilya asked, breathing heavily.

They sighed, letting go of him. "Something from one of those ridiculous tomes." They took a long look at him then. Ilya was... He was a lot of things, but he held an imprint of Shell in him. It was not strong, but it was proof of her existence. Maybe... "If you'd like to help, I'm sure I could find a use for you."

"I—" He swallowed audibly. "Will it help? If I do it, will it change anything?"

Asra's gaze darkened as they turned away. "I hope so," they said, voice low and dangerous, drawing the curtains to the backroom open.

Ilya followed them inside, giving a wary look to the scattered books and the magic circle drawn onto the small, round table at the centre of the room.

Asra gestured to the circle, serious and looking directly at Ilya's eyes. "Blood. Bone. Sweat and tears. All powerful catalysts for these spells," they explained, carefully regarding Ilya. They knew perfectly well how squeamish he was about magic, how superstitious. How far was he willing to go? How committed was he to Shell? He couldn't know the spell was for her. Would he help them anyway? "I wonder... How much are you willing to give up, Ilya?"

"I— Uhm, well, that is to say— You know—" He gulped, visibly straining against the force of the spell permeating the room, then bit his lip as he looked at them. "I'll give you all of me, if that's what you need," he finally said, blushing.

So loyal. So eager. A lopsided smile twitched Asra's lips up, despite themself. They shook their head. "For now, I just need your hand."

Ilya immediately extended his arm over the table, no hesitation. Asra raised an eyebrow, half amused, half surprised by this. They hadn't expected such willingness, given his dislike for magic... Then again, maybe he was just trying to gain their favour.

No matter, a willing offering was a willing offering. They took out an ornate dagger from the pile of objects scattered around the tiny room and, holding his wrist firmly with their free hand, sliced Ilya's palm open.

Blood sluggishly came out from the shallow wound, trickling down his skin and dripping onto the table.

Asra held their breath when the magic circle started glowing upon coming in contact with Ilya's blood, daring to hope it might be enough... Then deflated when the glow quickly faded away.

"Is, er, is that it?" Ilya asked, sounding uncertain.

They let go of his wrist, turning away from the now-dark circle, feeling tired once again. Another one that did nothing. "That's all I need from you, Ilya."

"Now, hold on, what kind of magic was that? What did that do?" He stepped around the table, towards them, his voice equal parts curious and concerned.

Asra shrugged. They didn’t feel like explaining. "I'm not sure. I won't know until it happens. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps..."

"Are you putting yourself in dange—"

Asra sighed and turned around sharply, shutting him up by grabbing his wrist. "You talk too much, Ilya," they said, their eyes fixed in his.

Ilya looked back at him, blushing up mightily. "Th-then just tell me what to do instead."

Asra felt themself smiling, their anger now faded. Ilya wasn’t always easy to deal with, but then again, he wasn’t always difficult either. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" they said, taking a step forward, forcing him to take one back.

"Y-you— Oh my god, yes." He managed to blush even more deeply as they slid one of their legs between his. "I'll do anything you want, anything at all, whatever you need."

Asra sobered down somewhat at the look of hunger and longing from Ilya. Longing felt too close to love. "You know I can't give you everything you want, Ilya."

He slid down to his knees, not taking his eyes off them. "I'll take what I can get."

They placed a hand on Ilya’s throat, not as much grabbing it as just resting their fingers there, for the moment. Still, they could feel his pulse jumping as they leaned down to whisper on his ear. "And when it hurts you?"

This close, they could hear him gulp. "I can take it."

Asra laughed, with no real mirth nor malice behind it. They pushed Ilya down on the floor, hand on his chest, and leaned down to breathe on his neck. "Then let it be. Just stop me if you need it."

********

'Just stop me if you need it,' Asra had said.

But he wouldn’t. Need it, that was. He wanted the pain. And Asra being the one delivering it felt right.

Julian could feel Asra’s hands sliding under his clothes, griping, scratching, pulling moans and groans from him. He held onto their hips with urgency, pulling them closer.

"Hands to yourself, Ilya," Asra said, their voice firm, snapping like a whip.

He obediently let go, putting his arms above his head, submissive.

"That’s better." Asra smirked and resumed his handling, expert and teasing.

The magic in the air was gone, but Julian’s shortness of breath was not, even if for fully different reasons now. He pleaded, he begged, and wherever Asra touched him, he felt his skin burn in a way that only left him wanting for more.

He could feel the tension increasingly building up inside him as Asra traced paths on his skin with hands, teeth, and tongue, marking their way and making his head spin. He arced his back towards Asra, struggling against their grip and calling their name when it finally released.

Asra looked at him from above, a lopsided smile on his lips. He seemed pleased, but he wasn’t done yet.

"Ah," Julian breathed. "Let me hel—"

"Don’t," Asra said, a hand pressed to Julian's chest while keeping the other on himself. "Stay down."

He nodded, obedient, his heartbeat fast against Asra’s palm as he worked himself up on top of him, sweaty, struggling, and so freaking beautiful Julian couldn’t help but stare as he too found release.

Still panting , Asra stayed still for a moment , catching his breath, then combed a hand through the mess of his white curls, pulling them back and away from his face. He smiled, c heeky , looking at him from above. " I hope that wasn’t too much? "

Julian bit his lip, holding a groan back . " Not at all. "

Then Asra got off him , standing up, and started fixing himself and his clothes back together. " Well, it got rather late to keep at this, " he said, moving away and disappearing from his view.

Julian wasn’t sure if they were talking about the sex or the magic. When he sat up to take look at them, Asra had produced a pitcher of water and a glass from somewhere in the room, and was offering the latter to him.

" O-oh! Thank you,” he mumbled, taking the glass. The water was pleasantly cold.

Asra nodded and leaned against the small, round table, leaving the pitcher on it. "You should get some sleep, Ilya. You start early tomorrow." He paused for a long second, looking away, then got up and away from the table. "You can take the couch in the shop, if you need." He said, finally looking back at him with an expression Julian couldn’t read. "Goodnight, Ilya."

[fouroddapples]

I've had some thoughts, and with tumblr not having a character limit, I wanted to throw them out into the void.

I think we could all stand to think of HCs more as sandcastles.

Fandom is an infinitely huge playground, with more than enough space for everyone to build their own the way they want to. That person having one does not affect your having one. What theirs looks like does not affect what yours looks like. Yours can be objectively better in every way and that still does not mean you're right to kick theirs down, because that still makes you an asshole. The very action of kicking down a sandcastle is inherently an asshole thing to do, regardless of what it looked like.

That person's incredibly stupid, incredibly ugly sandcastle that makes zero sense and should not bother the world with its existence has 1 positive effect on the world (that person is happy) and 0 negative effects. And if you feel negatively affected by an opinion you scroll past that you disagree with, that's the equivalent of saying "that sandcastle was SO ugly it offended my eyes, and therefore I HAD to kick it down to protect myself!"

And listen, I too am autistic and spend every waking moment thinking about these characters, I get you. I get how annoying it can be for others to interpret our favourite characters in a way that we feel is wrong. (I am not talking about "media literacy" because I absolutely hate the weaponisation of this term and how it's become nothing but a thinly veiled "this person is simply too stupid to understand MY media correctly", but I digress.)

Point being, it doesn't matter how strong your negative feelings are at the ugliness and absolute stupidity of that person's sandcastle. It's still an asshole thing to do to kick it down when it would cost you nothing to simply avert your eyes and go back to playing with your own much cooler one, and let that person have their fun.

Enjoy your sandcastles, let other people enjoy theirs, and if you have nothing nice to say, you don't have to say anything at all. It doesn't affect you. This kind of thing can drive people completely out of fandoms for things that they love just as much as you love it.

Fandom's whole entire purpose is to have fun, and I think we could all stand to remember that fun is not a finite resource, and someone else having theirs does not impact yours. Good old live and let live. 💕

[candycandy00]

So this might seem like a controversial opinion, and please keep in mind that this only applies to me personally, but I don’t mind at all when someone Likes a bunch of my fanfics without reblogging them. 

Let me be clear, of course I prefer reblogs or comments. Of freaking course. But if you just click Like on my post? That’s great! I’m flattered and I’m happy you enjoyed my writing enough to click that little heart. I honestly can’t imagine not being happy with a large number of Likes. 

So I’ll explain why I feel this way, and bear with me because I have to delve into a bit of my history as a writer. 

I started writing fanfiction in my early teen years. When the internet was still young. When fan-run forums were a great place to post them. When we all had “shrines” to our favorite characters hosted on Geocities, joined thirty web rings, nervously posted our first lemons, and fought off flamers. 

I wrote fanfiction for many years, for lots of different fandoms. And I loved doing it. I loved the feeling of being part of a community of fans. I loved being creative with the stories I enjoyed. But most of all I loved the feedback, the engagement. Regardless of the quality of my work (and let’s be real, those early fics were super cringe), I got reviews, comments, people telling me to continue. And the feedback came almost immediately. Within hours of posting something, there would be at least a few comments or reviews. These pushed me to keep writing, because I wanted more. More reviews. More encouragement. More reactions. Feedback and engagement are the most addictive drugs to a writer. Knowing someone read your words, and even better, knowing they enjoyed them? Instant high. 

However, my true passion has always been original fiction. I’ve been making stories since I was a small child. I’ve had “novels” in progress since I was ten years old. And at some point, after basking in the feedback of fanfiction, I decided to focus more on my original work. My dream was always to be a published novelist, after all. So after many many years as a fanfiction author, I left fanfiction behind. I returned to it very briefly a few years later, wrote exactly two fics, then left it again. 

I worked on my original fiction. I wrote and actually finished multiple novels. I edited, rewrote, etc. Then I excitedly began querying literary agents. And the result? Form rejection after form rejection. Not a single request for the full manuscript or even a partial manuscript. Not a single word of feedback. And this repeated with each novel I wrote. 

Desperate for feedback, I started posting my stories on various places online. Wattpad. Here on tumblr. Various forums and other websites for posting original work. I even joined Facebook groups specifically for sharing your unpublished novels to get feedback. The result was still a resounding “nothing”. No comments. No likes or votes or reviews or reblogs. A small handful of views on Wattpad was all I got. And I’m talking small. Like less than 20 per chapter. On some stories, less than 5. It was like my work was invisible. No one would give it a second glance. 

After all of this I started to question myself. Was I actually any good at writing to begin with? Had I just deluded myself into thinking I had any talent whatsoever? Getting zero feedback or engagement on all of it was crushing. I would much rather get negative feedback than none at all. It was like screaming into the void, to keep posting work that would be totally ignored.  

At some point I remembered how wonderful it felt to get feedback on my fanfiction. And I craved that again. I’d been following a few blogs on here that took requests (blogs like this one I’m currently running). I actually sent a few anon requests into them. And at the same time I was thinking of how much I missed writing fanfics, I got a few ideas for fics that just would not leave my brain. So I wrote my first BNHA fanfic, and my first fanfic in general in many years. That was Break Time, a Shigaraki x Reader fic. It was my first x Reader fic as well, and it took me a bit of effort to get used to the format. But I did it. I wrote it. And then, I nervously posted it to this blog, and waited to see if anyone would spare it a glance. 

When those Likes started coming in, I literally teared up. It was like, “Oh so I can still entertain people with my writing. People still like my work.” Coming from the barren wasteland of zero feedback, those dozens of Likes early on were like an oasis. Each one meant more to me than you can ever imagine. 

So for me, it absolutely boggles my mind that anyone could actively hate getting Likes. I get it, reblogs and comments are so much better. But are Likes that terrible? 

To me, it’s like this: Likes are like small pieces of candy. Reblogs and comments are like big strawberry parfaits. Do I prefer a big strawberry parfait to a piece of candy? Of course I do. But if someone walks up to me and gives me a piece of candy, I’m not gonna be mad at that person. I still like candy, even if I get way more excited about the parfait. And when you spend several years getting no candy whatsoever, you definitely appreciate it when people start giving you some. 

And yeah, it’s definitely frustrating to see other people getting strawberry parfaits and all you ever get is candy, but does that make it alright to be a total jerk to the next person who gives you candy? To angrily scream that you’re not accepting candy because people aren’t giving you enough parfaits? Honestly, it just makes you seem petty to me. 

(And to clarify, saying you’re frustrated about not getting parfaits is not what I’m talking about, yelling at the people giving you candy and being super rude about it is what I’m talking about.)

If you’re someone who is getting genuinely angry at people for Liking your stuff, I invite you to try a little experiment. Write an original piece of fiction. Just a short story, but put a lot of effort into it. Then post it. Literally anywhere. I can guarantee you that the next time you get a bunch of Likes on your fanfics, you’ll appreciate them. 

All this to say, feel free to Like my stuff! Spam Like my stuff! I’m cool with it. Will I get all squishy and blushy if you reblog or comment? Yes. I most definitely will. But if for some reason you only feel comfortable Liking it, it still makes me smile. 

Also, end note here, but I don’t reblog fanfic. I reblog art, gif sets, etc. but not fanfic. That’s because this is my fanfic writing blog and I have this fear that people will confuse the reblogged fanfic for being my work, and I hate the idea of getting credit for someone else’s work. I know this might be an irrational fear. I am planning to make a secondary blog just for reblogging fics I enjoy. I’ll link it when I do in case anyone wants to follow it for a curated list of really great fics!