#otherwise there won't be any real differences between this and the ao3 posting of this fic

[marshmellowtea]

comes out of the wip covered in blood. this was supposed to be a short little tumblr fic what happened omg 😭😭😭

alkdjfklasdfj anyway! as i've teased several times now here's a fic for the munchausen by proxy au, or the love isn't injected with syringes 'verse as it's now dubbed (thank you heresy! ^-^), ft. a fucked up little slice of life scene between a teenage chris and celia. no other cornley members appear cuz it is a backstory fic, i just wanted to write a little thing about what his life was like before he met them and they were able to help him, and it. uh. spiraled lol. i swear it was not supposed to be this long, nor was it supposed to take this long to write, but here we are!

like i said, this was meant to be a shorter fic meant for tumblr, but the intent was always to cross post it to ao3 at some point, so if you'd prefer to read it there i'll have it published tomorrow on my tea_at_twilight_time account. i'll also be reblogging this post with a link for the sake of convenience and also because i love self promo lol :)

warnings for this fic include: implied poisoning and medical malpractice by a parent (cuz uh. munchausen by proxy lol), hurt/little comfort, hurt/manipulative comfort, child abuse (mostly emotional and medical but referenced physical as well. also celia is def starving this kid so references to that too lol), vomiting and semi graphic descriptions thereof, choking as a result of said vomiting, references to body fluids, nightmares, drowning, celia's general hot and cold nature with this poor kid, chris seeming wayyyy younger than he is (agere brain did not turn off while writing this i will not lie to you all lol). if there's anything else please lemme know but this should cover the major things <3 yes this fic is evil don't @ me about it akdjflkds >:3

now, without further ado..........

"I know it's not right to say, but...sometimes, I quite like you like this."

Celia's words come into Chris's ears as a soft croon, her hand stroking his overheated face and sweat soaked hair soothingly. He breathes out shakily, but despite the pain radiating up through his limbs, he finds himself smiling a little, her tone washing over him more than her words.

"Mama," he mumbles, weakly lifting a hand for her. "'m...'m..."

Celia shushes him, her hand trailing down to cup his cheek, her thumb rubbing over his feverish, pallid skin. "My poor darling," she continues, her voice sickeningly sweet. "You're so good for me when you're sick, aren't you?"

Chris hums lowly, tilting his face further into her palm. She doesn't get like this often—sweet and gentle, touching him like he's something to be loved. Normally she's more clinical, her touch impersonal as she checks his temperature, gives him his pills, helps him bathe...he relies on her for quite a bit, really, so it's not surprising she can't always indulge him in affection like this. Still though, it's nice when he gets it, these rare moments where she's more his mother than his nurse.

"You're so weak," she says, soft, like it's a compliment. "So helpless. You're so lucky to have such a loyal mum like me, who's willing to stick it out. Most women would consider you too high maintenance, but not me. I'm willing to sacrifice a lot for you, Chris, don't forget that."

He nods faintly, as best he can with his head feeling so heavy. She'd just given him his medicine, and that always drains him a bit—he doesn't think it's fair that the thing that's supposed to make him better makes him feel so damn tired, but Mama always assures him that that just means it's working. Sometimes, the things that make you feel better make you feel worse for a bit, something she's always quick to remind him of when he complains. He tries not to complain so much nowadays, though. She's only doing what's best for him.

"Anyway," Celia says, bringing him back to the present. "I have some things to do, so I'll be leaving you here for a bit. Can you get some rest for me while I'm gone?"

Chris whimpers before he can stop himself, opening his eyes sluggishly. He knows he's being selfish, but a part of him hates how often she leaves him alone, knowing how much he needs her. He reaches out for her weakly, trying to gently grab onto her arm or even the hem of her blouse, but she grabs his wrist before he can reach her, placing it back against his chest.

"Chris. Don't be difficult," she says, voice still sweet but with an edge of that harshness he so dreads to hear from her. "I'm doing this for you. I have to leave to pick up your new medication."

"I th-thought," he starts, words slurring as his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, "th-thought this was the new medi-medica—"

"It's one of them," Celia says, mercifully cutting him off before he can embarrass himself further. "But with your condition, well...we just need more than one course to make you well again. You're quite sick, you know."

He does know. He whines, but nods again, his head moving helplessly against his pillowcase. "'m s'rry," he mumbles, eyes growing wet with tears. "D-don' mean'ta make it so hard..."

"Oh, I know, I know," Celia soothes, pulling the blanket up to cover his chest. "That's why I need you to sleep for me now. We won't know if this dose is working until you get some rest and let it work, alright?"

Chris breathes out shakily, letting his eyes fall closed. "Mama?" he asks, voice tiny.

"Yes, dear?"

For a long moment, it feels like all he can do is breathe. Finally, he quietly asks, "D-don' wanna be difficul' still, b-but can you stay til..."

He trails off, taken aback by the hand in his hair. "Yes, Chris?" she prompts, soft voice tinged with irritation.

He wilts a little, and shame tinges his voice as he mumbles, "J-jus' til I fall 'sleep..."

Celia's quiet for a long moment, continuing to stroke his hair rhythmically. Eventually, though, she sighs, as though he's asked something truly exhausting of her. Maybe he has, he's not sure.

"Okay, darling," she says, sounding put upon about it. "Just this once. The chemist doesn't stay open all day, you know."

"I-I know," Chris mumbles, a few stray tears escaping. "'m s'rry, Mama."

Celia sighs heavily again, and Chris can see the way she shakes her head, even with his eyes closed. "I suppose you can't help it," she says, her nails digging slightly into his scalp as she continues to stroke his hair. "Being a bit...needy. It's only natural, since you're sick. Still, you really ought to not make it a habit."

"I won't," he whimpers, relaxing a little into the mattress regardless. "'m s'rry Mama."

"Sssshh."

Obediently, he falls quiet at her shushing, letting himself be soothed by her gentle petting. He doesn't deserve it—he doesn't deserve her, and all the things she does for him. She's really too good to him.

Those thoughts carry him to sleep, a thank you and a declaration of love dying on his tongue. He plans only to say the former to her later, knowing she’ll appreciate his gratitude, but the latter will be kept to himself, like a secret. No use in saying that he loves her when she won't say it back, after all.

- -

The ocean out in front of him is vast and choppy, tossing his little ship around helplessly.

Chris's stomach churns with the movement of the sea, a steadily rising nausea coming over him like the waves he's currently sailing on. He's not sure how much of it is seasickness, and how much of it is sheer terror—terror he's struggling to keep under wraps, lest his crew see just how fucked they really are. The faceless men around him shoot him concerned glances with their smooth, eyeless visages, well aware of how dire their plight is, and though he knows this, Chris sends them attempts at reassuring nods anyway, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat.

"Captain," one of them says, sending a nervous glance to the waves in front of them. "The sea—"

He doesn't get to finish before a wave suddenly hits them, tall and unavoidable even if Chris had noticed it before it came. Chris feels himself getting swept away, and he shouts, calling for help he knows won't come. There's no one to help him. Anyone who could, anyone who would've cared enough to, is getting swept away with him, his crew getting carried away alongside him. Tears spring to Chris's eyes as he realizes he's failed them, and the pain in his stomach spikes, a cramp that would make him double over if he was still upright.

He doesn't get to dwell on that long, however, until he's plunging into the jarringly cold water surrounding them. A wail dies in his throat as his mouth fills with water, blocking any further sound from escaping him as he gags and splutters, attempting to clear his airways with each convulsion of his chest. Anything that he manages to cough up is quickly replaced, however, as the sea presses in all around him, the inescapable pressure making his chest tighten around the liquid slowly filling his lungs. Tears sting his eyes, but if any escape, he isn't able to tell as they're quickly lost to the saltwater carrying him.

Mama, he calls out in his mind, as though she'd be able to hear him—as though she'd be able to get to him out here. Still, a hopelessly hopeful part of him can't help but call for her, Mama, come save me!

He coughs again, but it's getting harder to breathe. He's going to die out here, he realizes. He's going to die alone and scared and without his Mama here to hold him and tell him he's going to be an angel in heaven if he dies here and—

—and suddenly there are hands pulling him from the water, warm and solid against his clammy skin. He feels himself get rolled onto his side, somehow on solid ground now, and this time when he coughs, water comes out. He sobs a little once his throat is clear, and then vomits, more water coming out of him, this time accompanied with sea gunk.

"There you go, my angel. Get it all out."

Is that...is that Mama? Chris whimpers, relieved to hear her voice—but how did she get out all the way out here?

"Sssshh," she soothes, her hand feeling real and alive in his hair. "You're alright. Just breathe."

Chris gasps, eyes fluttering open to see Celia hovering over him and a trail of vomit leading from his mouth, yellowish and liquidy from his consistently empty stomach. He whines loudly, and then convulses, another wave of bile pouring out of his mouth and spilling onto the pillow next to him.

"I know, love, I know," Celia croons, brushing back his hair and rubbing his shoulder. "Just let it out, and then we'll get you in the tub again, alright?"

Chris whimpers, but he can't really protest that plan—his pajamas feel a bit damp, and he can't tell what of it is sweat or...other, less desirable fluids. He lets his eyes fall shut and thinks of the sea from his dream again, the way the cold saltwater washed over him, and feels grateful to at least be on dry land as he coughs and sputters his way through his little nausea spell, unfortunately not that uncommon at this point in his life. He doesn't usually choke during them, though, and he can't help but whimper again as his stomach contracts and spews up more acid, the vomit stinging the sores already formed in the back of his throat as it comes up. All the while, Celia murmurs to him, soft words of reassurance as he retches, and he soaks up the affection as much as he can while he's in this state, never knowing when he's going to receive this softness again.

"Mama," he mumbles, once his stomach has finally settled enough for him to speak without bringing more of the sparse fluids in his abdomen up, "don' feel very good..."

"I know, my angel," Celia croons again, now reaching down to help guide him upright. "You'll feel better once we get you in the bath. Oh, and fortunately, I just brought back your new medication, and that'll have you feeling right as rain as well, won't it?"

The idea of putting anything else on his empty, ravaged stomach makes Chris feel lightheaded, mouth watering with the threat of more vomit. Still, he knows better than to argue, especially after the scare he must've given her. He wonders how she deals with it, the constant brushes with death his illnesses give him. She never seems outwardly afraid for him, though he knows she must be, given how much time and effort she puts into keeping him alive. If he had the energy to, he'd feel guilty for it, but right now, he barely has the energy to keep himself sitting, instead leaning heavily against his mother once she's got him upright.

"Mama," he groans, trembling as she starts to pull him to his feet, his legs unwilling to support him. "Mama, don' wanna be sick 'nymore...'m tired..."

"Sssshh, I know," Celia soothes, holding him around the waist as she guides him toward the bathroom, exercising a surprising amount of strength as she holds him upright almost entirely on her own. "Hopefully the pills help this time, but...oh, you've been my sick baby for so long, I just can't imagine you any other way..."

Chris whimpers, legs nearly collapsing beneath him. Baby. He doesn't get dubbed with that title often, but it always makes his chest warm, a weird fuzziness rushing over his head when she says it. He lifts his heavy, trembling arms, hoping to cling to her before they reach the bathroom, but before he can muster up enough strength for it, she's dropping him unceremoniously on the toilet, setting him aside as she preps his bath. A few stray tears escape his eyes at the loss of contact, and he curls around himself with a groan, clutching at his still aching stomach.

"Do try not to vomit again, Chris," Celia says, her voice not cold per se, but losing the warmth it had not even a minute ago. "But if you do, you know where the wastebasket is."

Chris whimpers, less at the nausea rolling over him and more at the clinical neutrality in her tone. Back to business as usual, he supposes. It had been a nice run of her rare gentleness, longer than she normally affords him, but he should've known that it was inevitably going to end. Still, despite his disappointment, he does his best to follow her instructions and not puke again—it's not too hard, even for as nauseous as he is. Anything he could've thrown up has already been expelled, so he just closes his eyes and against the dizziness washing over him, letting the sound of the tub filling keep him distracted. The warm water will feel good on his aches, he knows this from experience.

"Mama," he mumbles, once his mouth is no longer full of saliva, a threat of vomiting his body won't follow through with. "Mama, thank'ou..."

"Don't speak, Chris," Celia chides, not harsh, but not kind either. "Not until we're sure you won't be sick again."

"But 'm...I don' think 'm gonna..."

"Chris."

This time, there is harshness to the words. He's annoyed her again. He slams his mouth shut and whimpers, and then swallows back any other noises, feeling more than seeing her annoyed stare with his eyes still shut. He flinches slightly when he feels her come over—physical punishments aren't common, but he's never sure when he's aggravated her enough to draw one out of her—but she merely starts to help him out of his pajamas, wordlessly pulling the hem of his shirt up. Chris instinctively moves his arms up to help her, the movements routine by now, and in no time at all he's undressed and being guided into the tub.

He doesn't open his eyes again until he feels the water surrounding him, warm and clean and a sharp contrast to the cold salt water from his dream. The memory of it makes him shiver even in the heat surrounding him, and he pulls his legs to his chest and wraps his arms around himself, keeping his eyes on the steam rising up around him rather than on his mother fluttering around him.

After what feels like a long silence, she speaks up again. "Chris. I do appreciate the gratitude."

Chris perks up a little at that, finally looking up at her with round eyes. "Really?"

"Of course," Celia murmurs, crouching down by the tub next to him. "It's rare that a boy understands the sacrifices his mother makes for him. But you...you've always been so obedient for me."

Tears well up in Chris's eyes at the praise, and his breath quickens, squeezing his eyes shut as she runs a damp washcloth over his shoulders. "You do so much for me," he mumbles, and before he can stop himself, before he can remember why it's a bad idea, he finds the words slipping out of his mouth, "I love you, Mama..."

Celia is quiet for a long, terrifying moment, no acknowledgement of the words he's just spoken. She doesn't even stop washing him, but that's a good sign—at least he didn't upset her too badly. Still, she must be a little upset with him given her silence, and the thought makes his stomach start to turn again unpleasantly.

"'m sorry," he mumbles, dropping his face into his knees. "'m sorry...sorry...s—"

"Quiet, now, Chris," Celia interrupts, cutting off his next apology. "Let's just get your bath finished so you can go back to bed, alright?"

Chris whimpers, nodding weakly. He'll probably be moved to the guest room while his sheets are being cleaned, but he doesn't mind too much. It's always nice to have a change of scenery, no matter how brief, though he often does find himself wishing for more sometimes. Maybe if he feels better tomorrow, and if he asks really nicely, he'll get to sit on the couch and watch a little telly. Maybe Mama will even sit with him, and show him one of her old movies. That would be nice. He won't get any of that if he doesn't get better, though, or if he's not good. So far, it feels like he's failing on both fronts.

He tries to push the thought out of his mind—the last thing his mother needs is for him to accidentally induce one of his crying fits—and the rest of the bath passes in a half aware haze, exhaustion taking over once again now that his stomach doesn't hurt so much. The warm water feels really nice, after all, and a few times, Chris nearly finds himself drifting off, though he does his best to fight off the urge, since Mama can't lift him out if he falls asleep. He's not keen on the idea of waking up to a cooled tub of water if she has to leave him in again, nor on the idea of said cooled water making him sicker. It's far too easy to set off his various illnesses, and Mama would be upset if he caused them to get worse by doing something stupid and easily avoidable like falling asleep where he's not supposed to.

He is a bit relieved when she finally pulls the drain, finding it harder and harder to keep his eyes open. He trembles as the water rushes away, leaving him exposed to the cold air around him, but a towel is soon draped over him, soft and fluffy and protecting him against the chill that forever permeates the house. He whines a bit as he's guided up to his feet, but the way he's shushed quickly quiets him, and this time he wastes no time in latching onto his mother as best he can with sore, trembling arms, not wanting to miss his chance to cling to her while it's still acceptable to do so.

"Guest room, Mama?" he asks, voice quiet and a little shaky, matching the way his legs tremble beneath him.

"Yes, Christopher," Celia says, a note of something he can't quite identify in her voice. "Can't exactly have you sleeping in soiled sheets, can we?"

Chris shakes his head, whimpering at the thought. That'd be worse than sleeping in the bathtub, he's sure. The bathtub gets pretty cold, but at least it's clean.

"Exactly, my angel," Celia says in response to his displeased sounds, leading him in the direction of his new sleeping arrangements. "We wouldn't want to undo my hard work of getting you all clean by putting you back in your own mess, would we?"

Oh, he said part of that out loud, hadn't he? Chris flushes a bit at the realization, but he still shakes his head dutifully in response, breathing out shakily as his stomach starts to churn again. Movement always disrupts it when he's already been sick, so he's not going to worry too much about getting sick again unless he feels the saliva start to swarm his mouth or the bile tease at the back of his throat, the tell tale signs that he's going to retch. He knows them all intimately by now, even if the whims of the rest of his body still feel confusing and out of reach.

Thankfully, the trip to the guest room passes by in a half aware haze, most of Chris's focus on his sensitive, flipping stomach. It's a relief once he's sat down on the bed again, and he sighs as he flops onto his side on the mattress, soft and comfortable beneath him.

"Chris," Celia scolds after a long moment, and he looks up through his lashes to see her standing above him, bundle of clothes in arm.

"Sorry Mama," he mumbles, pushing himself upright again on trembling arms. "'m tired..."

"I know, dear, which is why I don't understand why you're making this so much harder on me," she huffs, coaxing a pang of guilt into his ravaged tummy. "I just need you to sit up for a bit longer, are you capable of doing that for me?"

Chris flushes in shame, and he nods shakily, biting his bottom lip nervously. "I can," he says softly. "Sorry, Mama."

Celia huffs, and Chris braces himself, wincing as she starts to guide his tender limbs into a fresh pair of pajamas. It's not like she's trying to cause him pain, of course. She's just trying to get the job done quickly. It's not her fault if it hurts a bit, if every little movement makes his sore limbs ache dully, so he does his best to let her work, trying not to fuss it. The warm water from his bath had helped a bit, but the pain never fully goes away, the aches from his illnesses a constant background noise he can never entirely block out.

It's a relief, then, when he's finally laid back down on the bed, guided by his mother's hand. There's the ghost of affection in the gentleness of the gesture, and it bleeds into the way she tucks him in as well. He soaks it up as best he can, letting out the smallest of whimpers as the blanket is pulled up to his chin.

"There you go," Celia hums, not quite warm, but Chris clings to the vestiges of it in her tone anyway. "Are you going to get some sleep for me, now?"

Chris breathes out shakily, but he nods, his exhaustion and his mother's pointed stare giving him no other choices. "Yes Mama," he breathes, curling up childishly in the sheets. "Um...wait..."

Celia pauses on her way to the door, turning on her heel and looking at Chris with an uncomfortably neutral expression. "Yes, my angel?"

Chris breathes out, fighting the urge to suck at the edge of his blanket, a nervous habit his mother heavily disapproves of. "What if I have another nightmare?" he asks, voice quiet. "O-or I get sick 'n almost choke again?"

"You're not a child Chris, you can handle another nightmare," Celia says sternly, before her voice and face soften just slightly. "But you don't have to worry about choking again. I'll always be here to protect you, to save you. You know that."

Chris nods, feeling oddly cold under the layers of blankets. He wishes his mother would come closer, take him in her arms like he's a kid again and hold him to her chest, but he knows it's a big ask. It's as she's said, he's too old for that kind of thing—he's just turned fourteen, and Mama's made a point to let him know that because he's not a child anymore, he's too old for her to let him curl up in her lap just because he's not feeling well. Not that she held him much when he was younger, of course—she was too busy trying to take care of him, checking his vitals and bringing him water and tea and running to the chemist for his medicine. Still, sometimes, when he was really sick, she used to pull him close, let him lay his head against her shoulder as she held him and rocked him. It hurts to think that he's not going to get those occasional bouts of affection anymore, but he supposes that since he has been sick for so long, he should be able to handle the stress of it on his own now.

Still, he tries not to pout as he cuddles the blanket closer, trying to imagine it as a pair of arms embracing him. "I know Mama," he murmurs, the words a ghost of a breath on his lips. "A-and thank you…you really do so much f'r me..."

"Yes, I do, don't I?" Celia hums, sounding almost pleased—Chris can almost believe she's pleased with him, though he knows it's likely not the case. "And I have more I must do for you. Can you do something for me in turn?"

Chris nods, already knowing what she's going to ask. "Yes Mama," he mumbles in answer, letting his eyes droop closed. "I'll get some sleep f'r you..."

"Good, my angel," Celia says, and he can hear the light switch click as she shrouds him in darkness. "I'll be back for another round of medication later. I would give it to you now, but I have to sort your new pills with the others before I know what to give you...besides, I don't think the painkillers from this morning have quite left your system yet, anyway..."

Chris isn't so sure about that, given the way his aches have only sharpened since his bath. Still, he knows better than to argue with her, especially about his medication. She knows far more than he does about the kind of treatment he needs—Mama knows best, just like she always tells him.

"Okay, Mama," he breathes, clinging to the softness of his pillow. "Thank you. Thank you for takin' care 'f my medicine, Mama."

"Of course, my angel," Celia says, voice so quiet it's barely audible. "Sleep now. I'll be back to take care of you later, like always."

"Like always," Chris repeats faintly, a weird feeling squirming in his chest and tummy at the words. He thinks it's love, maybe, wriggling around, disallowed from escaping him through his throat and tongue—he's certainly not repeating that mistake again so soon.

"Yes, dear," Celia says, still so quiet, yet effectively breaking him out of his thoughts regardless. "Sleep well."

Chris nods, suppressing a whimper as the door clicks shut behind her, a quiet announcement that she's left him alone in the dark room. He curls in tighter on himself, feeling himself tremble slightly. Despite how exhausted he is, sleep suddenly feels far away, the dull ache in his body overwhelming in the darkness of the room. He almost wishes for something to do—a book to read, a show to watch, even something childish like toys to play with would be a welcome distraction. But he knows better than to ask for them, and that it's better if he merely focuses on resting, even if his mind is racing a million miles a minute and making it hard to drift off again.

It feels like ages until his body finally catches up with the situation, his heart rate slowing enough for him to lay under the covers without fidgeting around restlessly. He knows it probably won't be long until his mother wakes him up again for his medicine, given how long he laid there awake, but she asked him to rest for her. He's determined to fulfill that request, even if it's only for a pitifully brief amount of time.

He tries not to feel like a complete failure as he finally nods off again, hoping that the unease won't bring the nightmares back around. Despite his mother's words, he doesn't think that he is equipped to handle another one, and he really doesn't want to disappoint her again. The last thing he ever wants to do is disappoint her, even if it feels harder and harder not to, the older and sicker he gets.

Sorry Mama, he thinks, his last coherent thought before sleep finally takes him again, anxiety lingering at the edges of his subconscious mind. I'm trying to be good. I'm sorry, Mama.

[thetokentrans]

I posted a new fic to AO3. It came to me in a dream. It's one of those "x times ______, x times____" type fics, where 5 times Buck accidentally calls Bobby "Dad, and 1 time Bobby calls Buck his son. AO3 link here

Otherwise, text of the fic under the cut.

The dream wasn't even anything crazy or interesting. It was a school morning in his childhood home, like many he had lived through before. He sat at the kitchen table with Maddie, eating breakfast. Just like they had, countless times before she had graduated and moved out.

Behind him, the wall was covered with the usual family portraits, just like it had been in reality, but instead of Maddie and Buck being with his real, biological parents, the portraits were Maddie, Buck, and Bobby in some of them, and others were Maddie, Buck, Bobby, and Athena. And unlike the real world portraits, where the family looked neutral - at best - these pictures looked… happy. Truly happy. Buck couldn't help but swivel in his seat and take in all his surroundings. Everything was familiar, similar to his childhood home, yet different, as well.

When he turned back to face his breakfast, Maddie was giving him a look. "Why are you having an even harder time sitting still than normal?"

Buck opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Bobby was walking into the kitchen, and immediately speaking to them.

"Morning kids! You all packed and ready for school?" He asked, as he grabbed a mug and started making a cup of coffee before dropping into his usual seat at the head of the table, between Buck and Maddie.

"Sure are, Dad! Don't forget, I have work today after school, so I won't be home for dinner."

Bobby nodded before responding, "Are you going to have time to drop Buck off at home before hand? Coach called today, apparently practice is canceled."

Buck's head whipped up at that. He wasn't involved in any sports at this age. "Practice? What practice?" He asked, mouth full of cereal.

Bobby frowned, looking at him calculatingly. "Hockey, kid. Did you hit your head? Are you feeling alright?" He leaned forward, putting his hand to Buck's forehead, then locked eyes with him for a second, examining his eyes. The intent gaze caused Buck to want to squirm in his seat, an urge he clamped down on.

"No fever or signs of concussion. You good to go to school?" Bobby's tone was warm, and concerned. Something about triggered that recurring feeling of familiar yet different.

"Oh, yeah! I'm fine, maybe I can hang out at the firehouse until you get off of work tonight?"

Bobby shook his head. "Sorry, kiddo. I'm working a 24-hour shift today."

Athena walked into the kitchen, walking to the coffee machine without a word and preparing a cup of coffee. After sitting and inhaling about half her mug of coffee, she finally spoke up. "If he does go to the firehouse after school, I can swing by and get him on my way home from work. It's not like the firehouse is that out of the way on my way home from the station. I don't get off until 6pm, though. You good to hang out that long, Buckaroo?"

Buck nodded enthusiastically. "As long as Bobby - I mean, Dad - is alright with that. I can do my homework."

Bobby's eyes hadn't moved from Buck, the look on his face similar to when they get to a particularly odd call, like he was solving a puzzle.

"Sure, kid. Why not?"

The dream ended with them all filing out of the house, to start their respective days. Buck and Maddie climbed into the Jeep, heading off to school.

*  *  *

Buck woke up in his loft, alone. Feeling oddly hollow and nostalgic for a life he never had. He only gives himself a second to lay in bed and chew on his dream and emotions. He already set his alarm for the latest he could manage and still get to work on time. And then he gets up to start the day, the memory of the dream slipping away but the feelings it dug up settle in his chest and resurface throughout his 24-hour shift.

The first time is during their first call of the shift, when Buck does a good job - without a close call - on a particularly hard maneuver. As they all are putting away the equipment, Bobby slaps his hand on Buck's shoulder.

"Good job, there, kid! You are getting better at that maneuver!"

"Thanks, Dad!" Buck beams back at Bobby, for realizing what he said, then quickly correcting himself. "Cap! I mean thanks Cap!" He turned bright red when he saw Eddie, Hen, and Chim smirking at him, dropping his gaze to his feet.

Bobby grinned while gently shaking Buck, then turned to the rest of the team. "Alright, everyone load up. Let's move out!"

The next time is when Bobby is preparing lunch and asks Buck for help. He's making ham salad from a leftover spiral ham he had made for dinner a week or so ago, and asked for Buck's help chopping onions. Buck was scrolling through reddit, and without looking up, calls back, "Just one sec, Dad!"

He doesn't realize until he was already starting to cut the onions and freezes. "Sorry, Cap."

"Hey, no worries." Bobby smiles gently, before gently slapping a hand to Buck's shoulder and squeezing.

Buck smiles back warily, thankful that somehow, that it was just the two of them upstairs. Everyone else was elsewhere.

He didn't get as lucky with the third time, though. Bobby wanted to test the radio and firehouse inter come systems, and requested Buck's help. 

Into the radio, Bobby asked Buck to use the radio to make an announcement over the intercom, to which Buck responded by yelling cheerily into it, "Can you hear me now, Da - I mean , Cap?" Despite managing to catch himself this time, his face still turned bright red with the slip.

Fortunately, if anyone else caught it, no one commented on it. Bobby, especially, seemed unphased.

The fourth time was because Bobby had been admonishing Buck and Eddie during dinner. They were getting up to their usual BuckandEddie™ antics, and Bobby rolled his eyes before telling them to "stop flirting."

Buck, laughing and unphased by the wording - it wasn't the first time someone called it flirting - responded, snarkily, with a "Sorry, Dad!" before turning away from Eddie on his right and starting to shovel dinner into his mouth.

The fifth time Bobby accidentally calls Bobby "Dad" is out on their last call of the night. It's a pretty bad fire in an old apartment building, an all hands on deck sort of situation, that requires Bobby to go into the blaze along with everyone else. He and Buck are on the same floor searching for stragglers in apartments. As they're both carrying out survivors, Buck leading the charge, a weakened ceiling beam gives way and separates them. Buck doesn't realize until he's already outside and depositing his survivor, an elderly woman, on a stretcher in front of Hen. Buck turns back to the building, ready to walk away, charge back into the building, Hen grabs his arm, looking around before asking, "Hey, wait, where's Bobby?"

Buck turns to look at he, confused. "Huh? H-he was right behind me…." He frowns and activates his radio. "Come in, Captain Nash. What is your location?" He releases the button, waits a solid 30 seconds or so, before speaking into his radio again. "Captain Nash, where are you?"

Nothing. He waits another beat, and then a side door of the apartment building opens and Bobby erupts from it like an action movie hero. He makes it a few steps outside the building before he collapses, releasing the person he saved - a young woman - as gently as he can before he crashes hard to the ground.

Buck hauls ass to Bobby, crying out, "Dad!" as he does so, dropping to his knees once he's within reach of Bobby. He begins looking him over, yelling over his shoulder, "Hen!!!" as he does so.

Bobby reaches up to touch Buck's face. "Kid, kid. I'm alright, I'll be alright. It's okay."

Buck's face is tear stained through the layer of soot on his face, two soot-free streaks on his cheeks.

"I thought you were right behind me. I'm sorry, are you sure you're alright? You should go to the hospital to get checked out." Buck rambles in one breath, taking a deep breath once he finished.

Bobby didn't fight him on that, just acquiesces to being laid on a gurney and then loaded into an ambulance. Buck seriously considers climbing into the ambulance after him, then his training gets the better of him. He knows that there was still work to do at the scene, as well as the firehouse - to close out the shift - and so he tore himself from where he stood watching the ambulance driving away, to help Eddie with the firehose to spray down the fire, and to take care of whatever else he needed to.

Later, he snuck into Bobby's hospital room and sat next to the bed, gently laying his hand on Bobby's while he slept. Athena hadn't gotten off her shift yet, and the idea of Bobby being alone killed Buck, so he Mission Impossible'd his way around the nurses on the floor since he knew that visiting hours were over.

To distract himself, Buck talked to Bobby about Chris' latest hyperfixation - that he had dragged Buck into - as he slept, mostly just wanting to gush about the boy. Buck was halfway through his story when a nurse poked her head into the room, probably to check on Bobby's vitals.

"Excuse me! You can't be in here, visiting hours for non-family members are over!"

Buck opened his mouth to say that Bobby was his dead - or that he'd leave in a minute, Buck wasn't sure which - when a hoarse voice spoke up behind him.

"He's my son. Please don't kick him out." This was punctuated by a squeeze to Buck's hand that he hadn't even realized he hadn't withdrawn from Bobby's.

The nurse nodded, lips pursed, and moved on her way down the hall. Once she was out of earshot, Buck turned back to Bobby, squeezing back before saying, "Bobby, you didn't need to say that, I can come back later…"

"It's true though. May made me realize that when you were in your coma, after you were struck by lightning. She said, 'Mom may have brought two kids to this marriage, but you brought one.' She was talking about you. I should have made it clear it was how I felt, ages ago."

Bobby clapped a hand on Buck's, squeezing again, tighter this time. Not enough to hurt, just for emphasis. "I love you, kid." He smiled at Buck as much as he could, as exhausted as he was. "Despite how shaky our relationship started out, I am so insanely proud of the man you've become. You've really grown. I'm sorry I haven't said it sooner."

Buck, in a rare moment, couldn't speak, so instead he just beamed, eyes filled with tears, and launched himself at Bobby, hugging him as tightly as he could without hurting the man.

[zeroducks-2]

{Commission Info} Closed

Hi, I'm Zero - Welcome to my pond! And if you come from the old blog, nice to see you again ♥

Blog Navigation: My Art - My Fanfiction (includes things I don't post on AO3) You can find my other socials here. I recently made one in hope to escape the rampant censorship, we'll see how it goes.

The posts in which I complain about stuff are tagged #ramblings if you want to avoid them.

I'm currently hyperfixating on DCU/Batman, especially the Sladick niche. I also post/reblog batfamily content (batcest or just wholesome), with a mix of dark/fucked up things & fluff/wholesome things. I love being gross to Dick though no one is safe from me.

I love all DC ships, just not equally! Almost nothing grosses me out and I don't have NOTPs, so know that you can find just about anything here, 90% of which is DC Centered. Feel free to send me prompts, brainworms or ficlets, I love them all and I love your ideas ♥

I am every fucked up character's apologist - they looked great while doing their thing and I stan all the evil queens, kings and monarchs, irredeemable or otherwise.

I post/reblog nsfw, but given that tumblr started trying to kill my previous blog although everything was always tagged & censored properly, the censorship here is going to be more severe. Links will be provided for uncropped/uncensored versions of my art where needed!

I am regardless uncomfortable with minors following me, so please If you're a minor or uncomfortable with kinky stuff, DNF or just block me. Fyi:

I like fucked up shit and I will sometimes post/reblog it

I'm queer, polyamorous, and a bitch who does their own thing & is interacting with fandom stuff cause real life sucks. It is not in my interest to directly engage with fandom discourse, but my stance is that if you can't make a difference between reality and fiction, and you feel the need to personally attack people who dabble in content that makes you uncomfortable, block me because you won't like what I do.

I don't bother writing out under every post the classic "I don't condone this in real life!1" because I feel it's unnecessary - I assume that who follows me has enough critical thinking skills to not need a reminder, but in case you do you can have it here: I don't condone any fucked up fandom thing in real life, this is fiction, no one is getting hurt & we're just having fun. Again if you don't manage to grasp this then please kindly block me.

Last but not least - this blog really hates capitalism, racists, terfs, swerfs, all flavors of queerphobes, ableists and exclusionists of any kind.

Again if any of the aforementioned bothers you on any level, do unfollow/block me and let's all keep conducting our peaceful existences away from each other.

If you decide to stay - feel free to send me asks, whether it's questions, art/fanfiction requests, if you want feedback on something you wrote or if you just wanna chat. I can't guarantee I'll be able to create some art/writing for you, but I really appreciate it 💚 💛 (pro-tip: if it's Sladick it's more likely that I'll do it!). You can also send me hate if that's your thing, I won't kinkshame you I promise.

Stay exceedingly handsome!

[rachelbethhines]

Tangled Salt Marathon - The Way of the Willow

Now here’s a controversial episode from season one. Let’s delve into the discourse, shall we. 

Summary:  It's Queen Arianna's birthday, and she receives an unexpected guest: her estranged sister, Willow. Willow and Rapunzel quickly bond, sharing a lot of the same personality traits (most notably them never wearing shoes), and Arianna feels a bit left out. To add to her aggravation, Willow has given her a pet with an annoying rattle. Eventually, Arianna explodes at her sister, letting her know her irritation with her and throws away the rattle. The pet starts to multiply and rampage over the countryside. Meanwhile, Lance and Eugene  take the King camping. 

More Filler, More Poor Pacing, More Fatigue 

This is yet another episode that was moved around. Noticing a pattern yet? It doesn’t effect the plot much, but it kills the pacing dead. By the time you get to this episode you’re just tired and bored and ready for the show to just get on with things. 

Let's Talk About Representation 

So we have here a show that is marketed towards pre-teen little girls run by two middle aged white guys and written primarily by men. The creators have claimed that female relationships are the focus of the show, but only to give us one female friend for our main hero, no other friendships with women in them, just two sister relationships, and only one mother that is even alive. 

Furthermore they go on to break up that single female friendship, refuse to give any focus to the only mother in the show, and then wrap the plot around the dead abusive mom instead, making her unnecessarily even more horrible than she was in the OG film. (just to make the equally abusive father in the show look better)

Meanwhile we get four father figures, all of whom are just some variant on the ‘overprotective estranged dad’ trope. Even though at least two of them could have been easily written to be mothers instead and it’d not change the plot one bit.   

When women talk about about poor representation in media, it’s things like this we are often complaining about. That’s not to say that men can’t write women.  Miyazaki, of Studio Ghibli fame, has made a lifelong career out writing movies for and starring women. Nor is this a claim that the TTS crew are misogynist. You can be well intentioned and still screw up. As is most often the case in films. 

But nevertheless, if you are writing for a demographic that you are not a part of then you need to either include those voices in the development of your story or reach out and consult people within that demographic. And no, you’re wife/niece/daughter/mother does not count here. You need to go beyond your personal social circle, as people who either don’t know you or have worked in the industry can be more open about what is needed in the writing process.  

Sadly there are rumors, (and please keep in mind this is only rumor, and we’ll never know the actual truth due to the fact that production artists are under contract and can’t share things without fearing for their livelihoods) but there are stories of the head showrunner shutting down the opinions of the female storyboard artists who warned him of some these creative decisions. 

Moreover said creator responded to criticisms of how his female characters were written by claiming he ‘knew strong women in his life’ as if that actually had anything to do with his writing skills. It’s a poor response and smacks of ‘Well I can’t be misogynistic, I love women. See, I married one’. Dear, male creators, please don't ever do this. It makes you look bad. 

So Where are Arianna and Willow From, Again?

The show keeps dropping hints that they’re from Corona itself and are born princesses, but that makes little sense. Because if Arianna was the rightful heir she’d have far more political power then she actually does in the show. If we’re to buy the idea that only Rapunzel will be in charge, and not her and Eugene, or even just Eugene. Then we have to accept that it’s because she’s the rightful heir by birth. If so, then Frederic must also be the blood heir or otherwise he wouldn’t be able to do all the things he does in the show. 

TTS is so determine to not have any real world markers in the show and keeping things a ‘fantasy’ that it winds up swinging too far in the opposite direction. To the point that it undermines its own worldbuilding.     

The Conflict Between Willow and Arianna is Good, but Unnecessary 

I’ve seen some debate over ‘who is right’ here, along with tons of unwarranted shade thrown at Willow, but the truth is, it doesn’t matter. Neither side is right or wrong, and for once the conflict in TTS is real, complex, not easily solvable with a ten minute conversation, and is presented evenly so that you know where each side is coming from. But in the end, it doesn’t add anything to the series. 

Willow is never seen outside of this episode. This is the only story that gives Arianna any kind of focus. Rapunzel learns nothing useful from witnessing their squabbles and it’s all build up to a be bad parable/parallel in the series finale. 

It’s a waste. A waste of conflict. A waste of character. A waste of time. 

Had Arianna been treated as an important character to the narrative, like she should have been, then maybe the episode would have fared better. 

Arianna is Reduced to a Pointless Parallel

We talked about it before but this might be the most grievous example of Tangled’s useless parallels.

Willow and Arianna are meant to be ‘foreshadowing’ (and I use that term loosely) for Rapunzel and Cassandra’s conflict in the finale season. Let me count the ways of how bad this actually is..

For starters Willows and Arianna’s conflit isn’t actually the same as Raps and Cass. There’s some overlap, but ultimately theirs is actually deeper and more complex than the Raps vs Cass stuff. It’s also only between them and does not involve ruining the lives of other people. So it’s a weak comparison to begin with.

Cassandra isn’t even here to make the parallel complete. She barely interacts with Arianna and has never met Willow on screen.

Rapunzel learns the wrong lessons from this. She gets encouragement from her aunt to go traveling and a pep talk from her mom during the show’s finale, but she doesn’t actually apply any of the actual context of the arguments being made to her own life. Making the parallel shallow.

Reducing a character from the original film, one that you did not create and who has reasons to be have more plot importance then they are given, to a mere ‘parallel’ for your favorite OC is just bad fanfiction. This is something that I would expect from a seven year old setting out to write their first ever story. Not from grown adults, who are supposedly professionals, who've worked for years in the industry and are employed by the largest entertainment studio in the world.

Now before you jump down my throat, there’s nothing wrong with fanfiction itself, nor with children exploring their favorite stories in ways they find personally fulfilling. But I happen to hold mass produced media to a different, and ultimately higher standard. As well should we all. A television show made by the mouse has more real world impact than a little girl posting on Ao3.

Critiquing stuff like female representation, the behind the scenes hiring processes that leads to either good or bad rep, and the impression these stories can have on people still developing their worldviews is important. Questioning things are needed in order to make change happen. If you never acknowledge how giving a show targeted to women to a male showrunner can cause problems then you’re never going to push the big companies for more female lead shows. Which means more women are left without work.    

This is Subjective but...

I don’t like the Uumlaut being used as the main conflict. Look, if you like the Gremlins references, good for you, but I was promised sword fights and adventure according to the pilot and all I got was a parody of a 80s horror comedy that decided to skip out on the ‘horror’ part. The Uumlaut isn’t threatening enough to be interesting and the lack of real threats and challenges in this show is really starting to weigh things down. Plus it just distracts from the far more interesting human drama going on with Willow and Arianna. 

Like if you don't want action to be the focus of every episode, that’s fine, but commit to that. Don't just half-ass it because you feel the need to shoehorn in an action sequence where it isn’t needed.    

Conclusion

I like Willow as a character, but not this episode. They needed to do more with her to justify her existence, and they needed to do more with Arianna while at it. Sadly, you won't really miss out on much if you decided to skip this episode and that’s a shame. 

Also... 

I’ll forever headcanon that Willow is the wife that Stan mentioned back in Rapunzel’s Enemy and that she’s his and Pete’s beard. You can’t change my mind. Poly relationships for the win! 

[codename-number3]

Stay, a KuroTsuki fanfic

(I posted this before I posted the story on my ao3 account so if you want to read more click the link for the story https://archiveofourown.org/works/24498505/chapters/59136202)

Chapter 1

A mess. Those were the only two words that were able to wholeheartedly explain the situation. The yelling, the screaming, the tears, the heartbreak. Everything was just a mess. Tsukishima Kei never wanted this, but he knew for weeks that it was coming. He knew what he would see on the other end of the door. He knew of the fight that had brewing for months, and he's known of the cause for much too long. The blond haired middle blocker thought that he was prepared for what he was about to see. But nothing could prepare the nineteen year old boy for the sight of the love of his life, sweaty and panting on top of someone that wasn't him. They didn't notice him at first, well at least, one of them didn't. Kei made eye contact with the brunette with the boobs that were too lopsided to even be remotely real, otherwise known as his boss. And then she gave him a look, a look that conveyed one simple emotion. Pride.

She was proud. She was proud that her own worker caught her underneath his boyfriend. She was proud of what she had been doing with the raven haired boy for months now. There was not an ounce of shame in the older woman. In fact she thought, what was there to be ashamed of? She did no luring, she didn't even try to seduce the man that was pumping into her at this very moment. She only comforted. He arrived at her doorstep late one night, drunk off his ass and mumbling on about how Tsukishima was always at work. To tell the truth, she kept piling work onto the young boy in hopes that his senpai's patience would finally run dry. And one night it did, and she made sure to pick up the pieces. The first time, she was told it would be the last. Then the second, was a "mistake". Soon enough, he stopped giving excuses. Accepting that he found pleasure in his sins. Immediately after they fucked, he got out of bed, put his clothes on, and left without another word. There was an unsaid rule that the brunette was forced to follow, no kissing. None on the neck, chest, cheek, and especially not the lips. She never questioned his reasoning, there was no need to. As long as she still got her pleasure out of it all, it didn't matter.

When she made eye contact with the lanky figure she smirked, licked her lips, and whispered something just loud enough for both boys to hear, "Tetsu, I love you."

The golden orbs widened in shock, his once bright eyes filled with so much hurt and pain, that they overfilled; with fresh tears running down his face the athlete ran. Ignoring the shouts to stop, the pleas to wait, and the guilt ridden apologies, he ran. He wouldn't give Testurou the satisfaction of seeing him cry. So that night, with a trail of tears and broken promises following, Kei ran to Nekoma. It was stupid, he thought. Finding comfort in the place where he had met the person responsible for his broken heart. Kei still remembered the training camp like it was yesterday. He still remembered the hushed whispers, the heated kisses, the late night movies, and most importantly, his laugh. That god forsaken laugh. At first, Kei couldn't stand it. He found it irritating and far too obnoxious. But as time went on, it grew to be the most beautiful melody that tugged at all the right heart strings.

~Flashback~

"Hey, hey, hey!" The voiced roared through Gym 3 as Akaashi followed quietly behind. The two were met with silence as the setter sighed.

"Where the hell are those two this time?"

Little did they know, they were right there. Well, in the storage closet. Kei lightly pushes Tetsurou away to try and meet with their fellow peers but the raven haired boy takes that as a sign to suck harder on the light-toned skin.

"Tetsu, we have to go," Kei quietly moans out, trying to sound stern but not being able to deny himself the pleasure of being claimed by his senpai.

The golden-eyed boy is met with a pair of lustful eyes and in that moment, ignoring all better judgement, he pulls the dominating figure closer and wraps his legs around his waist. The two had been make-out buddies ever since the first night of camp. Both boys with a case of insomnia wandered around the school until their fates collided. And ever since then they've been intoxicated by the simple presence of one another.

Tetsu tugged a bit on the plain white t-shirt, asking for permission from his kohai. This was the first time the pair had ever ventured this far. Everything inside of him was telling him to say no, to reject the middle blocker's advances; but his eyes showed nothing but concern, his touch laced with care and his stance ready to back off if given any sign of discomfort from his partner.

Before Kei was able to give him an answer Tetsurou removed his hand and leaned in. At first the blond thought he was going in for a kiss and was confused on why he stopped when their foreheads met. They stayed like that for a while, neither knowing what to say.

Tetsurou opened his mouth to apologize for his actions but before he could say anything Bokuto kicks open the door, shedding light into the confided space.

"Aha! I knew it, they were fraternizing again," Bokuto exclaims, running away soon after with Tetsurou chasing after him. Leaving Kei leaning against a cart of volleyballs, still trying to comprehend what happened only moments before. After catching his breath he walks onto the volleyball court to see Bokuto on the floor with a cackling raven-haired captain standing over him.

The second that their eyes meet, the older boy turns away. Ashamed of his actions and disappointed in himself for pushing when Kei clearly wasn't ready. It was a simple misunderstanding between the two. The shorter of the pair believing that Tetsurou was frustrated with him for not wanting more. That's how the rest of the day went. Whenever there was the slightest bit of interaction between the two middle blockers, one or the other would find a way to quickly escape the situation.

During the practice matches, neither did well with their thoughts clouded by what happened this morning. The fear of losing one another sinking in and making its roots. The blond reasoned with himself that he wasn't afraid of losing Testurou, just scared of not having anyone to let his frustrations out on. He wasn't gay, he told himself. He couldn't be. The only reason that he felt any form of attraction towards his senpai was because of his annoyance with every one else at the camp. Their sessions were only a venting mechanism that was bound to fail sometime. But then Kei looked at him, his concentration on the match and the grin on his face, and his heart skipped a beat. His mind went blank and he just stared in awe of how captivating the Nekoma captain looked with that glint of excitement in his eyes and his tongue dangling slightly out of his mouth as he analyzed everything that was happening on the court.

Tetsurou catches the younger boy's gaze and holds it, unfamiliar with the look in his eyes. It was; different. Sure he's seen Kei blush out of pleasure and embarrassment, but he just couldn't figure out what was different this time. Before he could put any more thought into it, the rooster-haired boy turns in response to the shouts of his teammates and is met with a face full of volleyball. Kei couldn't help but laugh at the sight. And in that moment, Kuroo Tetsurou decided that he would do anything to hear that laugh again. He didn't care if he got hit with ten more volleyballs and had to sprint up that stupid hill, it was the most imperfectly perfect sound he'd ever heard.

He was escorted to the nurse by the team manager and Kei had no other choice but to pay attention to the match. Every block felt good, relieving him of his stress but no matter what he couldn't stop himself from worrying about Tetsurou. In the back of his mind he knew that he was going to be okay, it was only a nosebleed; but, there was that looming thought of him getting hurt that stuck with him the rest of the afternoon. Kei thought about this morning, and wondered if Tetsurou was starting to get bored of the same old makeouts. And if soon, he would start getting bored with him.

After all the practice games were over, Kei ended up on his porch. He was gladly welcomed in by the boy's parents and made his way up the stairs. He walked into his room with a heavy heart, and pushed the standing figure onto his bed. The blond was now moving quick. Taking both their shirts off before Tetsurou could even bat an eye. His mouth traveled quickly down from his neck to his tan v-line. This wasn't right, something wasn't right. The raven-haired teenager couldn't even process what was happening before feeling a tug at his belt buckle. Before he could say anything to stop the fast-paced undressing, Kei crashed his lips against his. The kiss being different than others, desperate and messy, giving Tetsurou no time to kiss back. It wasn't slow, it wasn't passionate, it wasn't right. It was rushed and needy. The feeling of something wet made the narrow-eyed boy pull back, to the sight of a crying blond hovering over him. 

"I-I'm sorry," Kei muttered, head hanging in shame.

Tetsurou gave him a light smile and carefully lifted his chin up, "I never want you to be sorry for something that you're not ready for. Promise me something," he paused, waiting for confirmation from the younger boy. When given a short nod he continues on, "Promise me that you won't do something that you're not sure of just because you think I expect it from you."

Kei is shocked once again by the third year's careful consideration for him. He leans in slowly and connects their lips. There was less nerves compared to the previous kiss, and much more care. Kei cupped Tetsurou's face with his hands and deepened the kiss, skillfully capturing the third year's bottom lip in his and playfully biting down on the soft flesh. Tetsurou wrapped his arms around the thin figure and pulled him onto his lap, reciprocating with the same amount of passion. Kei opened his mouth ever so slightly, giving Tetsurou's tongue just enough room to deepen the kiss even more. It felt as if Kei didn't have any oxygen left in his lungs, but was unwilling to stop in order to catch his breath. Their lips molded perfectly into one another as their senses were spiraling out of control. They kept on closing the distance that separated them with an urge to be a close as possible before there was little to no distance between the two. Skin against skin as their kisses became more heated. Despite all that was going on, neither had any intention of going further. 

They finally broke apart moments after, gasping for breath with a string of saliva connecting the two swollen lips. While Kei was still trying to catch his breath, Tetsurou began planting light kisses down his neck. He stopped at his collarbone and began moving back up to his ear. When reaching the final destination he takes Kei's earlobe and softly bites on the boy's sensitive spot. Kei couldn't help but moan and dug his nails into Tetsurou's shoulder.

He continued placing delicate kisses all over Kei's face and whispered something ever so softly that it almost went unheard, "I love you."

[kimikotsuki]

Fandom discourse and culture has changed a lot over the years and I always try to err on the side of caution whenever possible.

The reasons writers create and share their work are varied and diverse: maybe they're trying to improve their writing and welcome advice, sometimes it's all about the ~ S Q U E E ~ because you loved the show/character and wants them in more situations, sometimes the reason is the ~ R A G E ~ about the direction canon took and you plan to murder it and use it's blood to re-write the story; this is more an illustrative than exhaustive list and sometimes there'll even be multiple reasons at once of course.

And sometimes, those reasons do not match or go well with any type of criticism, even well intentioned, constructive ones.

I saw an post on Tumblr that ilustrated very well another reason why one shouldn't simply assume that con-crit is welcome: if you go watch an amateur performance (in the most literal sense of the word of non-remunarated, regardless of quality of performance), one won't immediately presume afterwards to go to the artist and start critiquing it.

At the same time, I wholeheartedly think that one of the most wonderful, unique possibilities of fandom is the capacity for collaborative work between the authors of a story that is being posted as it's written and it's readers, culminating in an end product with quality that ends up being more refined than otherwise it would've been.

That type of interaction is even sometimes one of the main reasons people write fics, to not only create something, but also to share the act of that creation.

That works almost like making all the readers of a fic into beta-readers and can be a wonderful thing, but the post argued that the work done by betas is analogous to editing in published works, and that such a relationship is based on built trust, so while yeah, that dynamic between writer and all their readers could work, assuming and simply barging in is generally more harmful than productive.

When I adopted that new reasoning, I debated whether or not I should then mark all my bookmarks on AO3 as Private and make them inaccessible to anyone else, but in the end opted not to, mainly because even though I mainly write them for my future self, I also feel other readers can benefit a lot from knowing how the experience of someone who liked a work enough to rec it went, specially if while reading that fic they stumbled upon things they didn't like.

If there's one thing I learned from over 15 years of reading fics is that my tastes change over the years, and sometimes it's not even about the quality of the writing itself or even the progression of how polemic subjects are treated at any given time, but rather the moment that I am in changes how I receive the same work, such that tagging a certain work as one worth reading again later with no contextual information on the vibe I was riding when I did that will inevitably lead to a disappointment that is frankly an overreaction on my part.

That happened somewhat recently with a Frostiron fic I read a long time ago, in a moment where I was squeeing like crazy over the pairing (and it was a work of squee, so we matched really well) and it got on my list, but years later, when I was feeling nostalgic over the pairing and went to read my list of besties, the expectation I had was so great that the dichotomy between my experience back then and the one in the re-read were terribly big, even though it was a well written fic, squee and all, and the only real difference was that *I* wasn't squeeing over the pairing anymore.

And at the same time, I found that, in a way, this managing of expectations I do primarily for myself when I create a rec with the bad points of a fic that I loved can also be helpful for others, because even if it doesn't fit 100% since we're different people, I always thought the best recs I've always found were the ones that stated what were the cons of any given story, because those cons might not be something that bothered me like it bothered them or it even might end up being somewhat bothersome to me, but the pros outweigh them and, because I went in expecting to find those things, there's no disappointment in it, so they end up bothering me a lot less then it could've.

The other reason I eventually settled on not making my bookmarks private was actually because of those authors that seek improvement and welcome constructive criticism from all the readers who are invested in their story and value their thoughts and experiences while reading their work, because while yes, better to err on the side of caution and not go offering advice and opinions were those are not wanted, if we let that completely rule everything we do in fandom there will be a lot of loss in regards of this constructive, dynamic and interactive aspect so characteristic and wonderful to this type of media.

I know authors can have access to the bookmarks made of their fics, but unlike comments, it's not quite a space exclusively dedicated to them or even for interactions between reader/author.

In a lot of aspects, I'd even go as far as saying it's a space primarily for readers: it's not something that will culminate in a email sent to the author's mailbox, it serves mostly for filtering and ordering purposes (like when you're looking for fics to read and apply a filter to show only fics with a certain number of bookmarks or to order the fics shown from the greater to the least number of bookmarks) and also so readers can, reading these bookmarks, have a better idea on what's to expect from a work from different readers with different personalities and world views and ways to pereceive what was written.

And since it's a space the author *can* have access to *if* they want, it's possible for them to look at that place to see that con-crit while, at the same time, not being a place where that con-crit will get shoved in their faces if they *don't want it* and as such it seemed to me to be an overall respectfull and good compromise between those two points that seemed very important to me, and one of the only way I've found of making it known if that type of interaction is welcome, I'd be happy to head over to their comments and talk there.

If I'm marking it as a rec and commenting, I'm doing it because I think that fic absolutely is one of the best stories that I had the pleasure to read; however, the number of characters allowed in a bookmark rec are limited, so if I end up putting into it anything besides an incoherent keyboard smash, those things are going to be whatever points I feel are very important to keep in mind whenever starting to read it so that reading experience is the most enjoyable possible both for my future self who's going to look at that besties list and decide on what to read again as well as first time readers who might have seen the rec and will go in knowing somethings that, by their nature, don't tend to be things we tag for; they will have mostly what amounts to con-crit, so if you welcome this type of interaction or if the rec I made is bothering you in anyway, I urge you to get in contact with me through the fic mail I linked in my AO3 profile.

This post is getting linked there because the profile section doesn't allow enough characters for everything that I had to say about the subject.

As soon as I see the email, I'll either be happy to either tag the bookmark as Private so it won't be visible to anyone but myself if it bothered you or head over to your comments section so we can talk better about the points I raised if this type of interaction is something you welcome.

[lwoorl]

The Day Laika Came Back

Link to ao3

Note: This is an experiment to see if posting my fanfictions in both tumblr and ao3 is worth it. If this publication gets to at least 50 notes (not counting self-reblogs) in the following 3 weeks I will start posting my future fics in tumblr, otherwise I will stick to only publishing in ao3.

Summary:  Jon Kent comes back from space, years older and unable to believe he made it home. But coming back to the life he left won’t go as smoothly as he wished it did.

Jon can’t help it, he has to stare. Everything is so new and nostalgic at the same time, like a dream he’s had every single night for years and years and only now can clearly remember. It doesn’t feel real, the trees, the sky, as if someone took the string of memories he barely could hold, those precious, faded images he was starting to doubt if ever even happened and knitted a world out of it, colorful and lovely and solid. The final sentences from a poem he could barely recall, suddenly coming together into something he can hold.

It’s too good to be true and it makes the back of his neck ache, hurt and burn with that sense of dread crawling all over his shoulders, like subconsciously he knows any moment now the universe will pull him by the hair and throw him back into the darkness of space like a rag doll, like it all will dissolve if he so much as reaches to pick up a flower and he will be forced to admit what he’s been fearing for a long time now, that this never existed and the infinite void and the rocky prison is his only real place, that he appeared there and will roam there and will die there and all there is is there and there and there and nothing else than there and all those memories he holds so dear are just a bad joke, a carrot dangling in front of a horse to keep it walking; A plastic carrot.

But right now, he isn’t there. He’s here. And it’s real and true and alive and he can’t help but to look at everything with very round wide eyes like a baby who was just born. Drinking all around him like a man who’s been in the desert a decade and a half and will die if he doesn’t drink all the water in the world.

It happens all too quickly, the arrival, the fighting, confusion, questions, answers, kind words, harsh words, words, words, words all around, all in English, not kryptonian or other alien language but his mom’s tongue. He keeps it together through all that and puts a brave face on, and then when no one but his parents are watching and it’s all over he cries on his dad’s shoulder and his mom’s arms are around him and Jon shakes and chokes and laughs.

Time passes, seconds, hours, it’s not even been four days when a lot of people congregate around him. They ask more questions and he gives more answers and they demand proves and tests and argue and discuss and through all that he can’t help but to pass his eyes over their faces and almost gasp when he sees anything vaguely familiar. Dad’s friends, dad’s coworkers, that one’s wonder woman, that one’s a green lantern, that one’s this, this one’s that, that, those, these, and then his eyes rest on someone he thought he would never see again and if he thought his eyes couldn’t widen more, well, he was wrong.

He’s shorter than Jon remembers and he also got a bit wrong the length of the hair, but the costume, that’sexactly as he pictured it in his mind all these years, from the boots to the cape to the utility belt, he got it all right.

Damian has his eyes very open just like Jon, he can notice it even with the mask, and suddenly he really wishes he could take it off, to see his eyes. He can’t remember if they were green or blue.

He’s stuck there, being hit once again with the amazing, ecstatic thisisrealimherenotthere feeling, just going over his friend’s features, burning the image in his mind, and then Damian bites his lips and looks away like someone slapped him and it comes crashing down.

…Ah.

His dad will always be his dad, and his mom his mom, but he never… Well, he did, but not really, not seriously, he never… Actually thought how it would be for everything else.

Because, well, it makes sense, he's… He isn’t the same as when he left, he took too long coming back and now. And- And probably if he had taken one or two, maybe even three years that wouldn’t be much of a difference, maybe, but he's… He probably doesn’t look at all like his younger self.

And… It hasn’t been that long here. And now he thinks about what it must be like, what it would be like for him as a kid, and he realizes a lot of people probably won’t see him as himself. Won't… It will be more like this eleven years old just dissipated in thin air and a randomadult that just so happens to share his name appeared in his place and those two only have the most tiniest of connections and that one time when he met that older version of Damian and himself he didn’t actually think of them as them , did he? Not as…

He keeps looking at the ground for the rest of the Justice League meeting, and when everyone starts to leave he doesn’t notice Damian walking towards him until he speaks.

“Jon.”

He feels like jumping out of his own skin. He looks up, and then down, because Damian is short and a kid. And Jon isn’t, not anymore, and then Damian starts to open his mouth to say something but Jon doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t, because if there’s another thing he remembers of his best friend is that he’s mean, good intentioned and warm, a really good person once you know him, but also oh so damn harsh, and he usually could deal with that and see the real meaning lurking under his words but right now he’s tired, beaten and in the middle of a life crisis and can’t, doesn’t want to and won’t deal with it. So he bails. He just walks out and leaves him there, half a word out of his lips, he then goes back to his dad’s side and absconds from the encounter.

Some time passes, he settles, and doesn’t get in contact with anyone. Because it would hurt, right? He already proved he can’t face Damian; Kathy would either cry or smile and act like it’s fine, but he doubts she will see him as her friend and not a shadow of someone she knew; And he can’t actually tell any of his school friends… He’s ashamed to admit, he doesn’t really remember half of them.

So he stays in Metropolis and thinks what to do. He can’t just retake school where he left it, he will most likely have to work on getting a GED. He can’t hang out with people he knew, not now that he’s so different. He doesn’t think he will leave to do anything in space as long as he lives. And he doesn’t feel like looking for a job. So he stays with his parents dear Rao he missed them and throws himself into fighting crime, perfectly and completely, until it’s almost like he doesn’t have a civilian identity anymore. It makes for a good distraction, but there’s the risk of running into people he knows.

He thinks Damian is doing it on porpoise, working near Metropolis, sometimes in Metropolis, be it alone or with his Teen Titans team. He runs into him a couple of times, Damian’s heart beats real fast when it happens, and then he always tries to force him into talking when the fight is over, but Jon just keeps looking to the ground and running away. It must make him look like a jerk, hell, he feels like a jerk, but he can’t face it, the ‘you aren’t my Jonathan Kent’ he just knows is coming.

He’s walking through the city, pulling at his civilian shirt as he runs an errand for his mom. It feels like a costume, he wonders if normal clothes ever felt this fake as a kid, he can’t remember.

Suddenly, there’s a heartbeat in the crowd, a fast one he recognizes, moving right at him.

He tries to escape like the coward he is, but he can’t show his powers in public, and he doesn’t want to just walk over someone. Jon tries finding a place hidden from sight so he can take flight and disappear like always, but just as he’s entering an alley there’s a little hand firmly around his wrist and judging by how much force he’s applying there’s no real way he can get rid of Damian without tearing one of his fingers off.

It must look funny, the image of this young adult all but cornered by a tiny runt, looking like he’s going to pass out as he avoids looking at his face. It doesn’t feel funny, but, Jon thinks, it probably looks funny for someone else.

“Why are you ignoring me?!” Damian yells, his fingers hard enough against Jon’s skin that his nails turn white. “No, not only ignoring! Why are you avoiding me?!”

The accusation makes Jon flinch because, well, because it’s completely true. He forces himself to look at Damian’s face. His eyes are teal, so he was half right.

“Why do you think?” Is all he can say. Because really, it should be obvious, right? He isn’t the same person, barely remembers who he used to be. If he met a younger version of himself today, Jon’s afraid he couldn’t prove him they’re the same person.

The moment they talk for more than ten seconds Damian will realize he isn’t who he remembers and will lose all interest in him, maybe will even blame him for his loss, like he personally murdered the kid to occupy his place. No one shows it, but they’re just thinking of him as a bad copy, aren’t they?

“Tt.” Damian’s jaw tenses and his heartbeat skips a beat. “Of course.” He frowns really hard and then lets Jon’s wrist go. He doesn’t waste much time into flying away.

He doesn’t see him for a while. Damian stops invading his city and he doesn’t even hear of Robin for two or three months. Jon tries not to feel sad about it, but truth is the attention felt nice.

Around four months later there’s an alien invasion. The whole league joins to fight it and Jon helps too.

He’s fighting in the front lines, punching alien after alien after alien, when he hears a familiar scream and turns his head right on time to see Robin get hit and fall to the ground. The one who attacked has their weapon pointed at him.

Jon is there in less than a second, his eyes red as he stands between Damian and the other guy. Jon isn’t sure why, maybe it’s because he just recovered all this life and is still half expecting to lose it, maybe it’s because he hasn’t had someone he cares about actually being in danger in forever, or maybe realizing he’s the older one now is getting to him more than he first thought, but there’s just this surge of protectiveness running through his veins that builds up and comes out in a “Don’t touch him!” That resembles more an animalistic growl than human speech.

It’s over quickly, a leap and a well aimed hit is all it takes. He’s next to Damian before he even realizes. He offers to help him stand up but Damian slaps his hand away.

“I don’t need your help, don’t treat me like a kid.”

“Stop being so fucking stubborn, you could have died!” Damian’s heart jumps at that, for a moment Jon doesn’t know why, and then realized it’s because he isn’t used to hearing him swear.

The feelings of the last couple months come back but he pushes that aside, the middle of a war zone is not the time to worry about his interpersonal drama.

Damian tries to get up and then trips, Jon’s there to catch him and then looks what’s the problem with his X-RAY vision. He’s got a broken leg, a bruised rib and some injuries on the left arm. He probably won’t be able to walk unassisted right away.

“Here, let me…” He moves to pick him up and Robin, surprisingly, doesn’t put up any resistance. Jon doesn’t even need to use more than one arm to fit him, Damian’s so damn tiny.

“Put me down.”

“No.”

He looks around. The battle’s almost over, but there’s still people fighting and shots firing up nearby. Jon trusts the others to hold up without him for a while and starts flying towards safety.

“Just let me down, I can wait until Father comes for me.”

“Yeah, no. I’m not taking any risks.”

“You shouldn’t be wasting time with this, you and Superman are our biggest hitters.”

“You’re important too.”

“…Why?”

The word comes soft and broken, and it makes Jon pause mid air. He looks down, at the boy in his arms. Damian isn’t looking at him as he holds a handful of his red cape.

“Because you’re my best friend.” The words come easier than he would have thought, like they were just waiting to leave his mouth. Damian lets go of the fabric and then looks at him, his face a mirror of the expression he had when Jon just came back.

“But I thought…” He trails off. Jon resumes moving and after a while Damian speaks again, barely a whisper “Then why have you been avoiding me? I… Thought you didn’t want to see me.”

“I guess that’s a normal conclusion to get to.” He mutters, because, well, it is. Why is he so damn clumsy with people? Sometimes it’s as if his mere existence was hurting those around him. “But, no, that’s not why.”

“Then why?!”

This is the point on the conversation that Jon would chicken out and disappear, but he can’t do that while carrying the person he’s talking to. So he takes a deep breath and conjures all the guts he can get. “I didn’t think you would like the person I’m now.”

A beat of silence, a pang of anxiety, and then “You’re really an idiot if you thought that.”

Jon laughs, there’s no other answer he can give to that, he laughs and ever so slightly holds Damian a bit closer. They stay in silence the rest of the trip, and soon he’s leaving his friend at the safe edge of the battle field.

He starts turning around, ready to go back, when he feels those little fingers around his arm.

“Jon.” Damian’s voice is calm and steady, but his heart is going fast and filled with adrenaline. “You haven’t changed at all.”

It’s the first time Jon’s heard that. It’s been months since he made it home, and it’s the first time he hears that sentence. Those words go to stab him right on the chest, and he has to look away and bring a hand to his face to clean the tears that are peeking from his eyes.

“Yeah.” He nods, not sure what he’s agreeing to. Damian smiles and his fingers release him. “After this… Can we hang out?”

“Do you really need to ask?!” Damian huffs, and then, softer. “We have a lot of catch up to do.”

“You have no idea.” He laughs again, Jon thinks this is the most he’s laughed ever since that reunion with his parents.

As he leaves to re-enter the battle, he hears behind him a “Come to the manor later, we can play video games and you can see Titus and Alfred again!” He stops just long enough to wave, and then flies into the war zone.

Jon thinks, for the first time in a long while… That things are going to work out just fine.