#more notes on AO3

[vvatchword]

Sleeper

The last nightmare Delta had was also the worst, probably because it felt so real.

Usually, dreaming was great. In dreams, passersby were as small as children and he tramped through the halls in full diving regalia. Nobody bothered him. In fact, passersby usually sprinted off in the other direction. Then he’d laugh, although it came out in slow motion. Lasted for hours sometimes. His throat hadn’t been right for ages. He’d had a bad cold since… well, he couldn’t remember, but it had to be months at this point.

It was hard to tell where he was dreaming. Most of the time he dreamed he was in a city under the sea, skyscrapers and everything. The floors were patterned in repeating geometric flower motifs, and brass fish arced up against ceilings, and everywhere was green, green, green, a deep fishy green. Past the city lights was the solid blackness and the distant neon flickers of abyssal life.

He liked it. It was quiet. It was dark.

Sometimes he thought he might be escaping in these dreams, although he couldn’t think of where he wanted to go or why it was so important to leave. While he saw bathysphere stations and airlocks, he never seemed to reach them. He would remember: he couldn’t leave yet because he needed to take something with him.

He’d lumber off to find whatever-it-was. He hadn’t ever found it that he could recall.

The worst dreams were when the lights had all gone out and he heard far-off popping sounds. Holes blown in the floor. Fires burning in a clothing store. A mannequin melting. Horrible raspy screams that went up forever.

Fewer of those pretty dreams anymore.

But there was one good thing that never let him down:

Sister.

Whenever he craved cigarettes, she appeared. It never really made sense, but dreams didn’t have to make sense. He’d start to see her, first faintly and in blips. Then he could see her crawling on her hands and knees through the wall, like a faint impression in TV static, and his heart would lift. When no one was looking, he’d knock on the wall. This was how he told her that the coast was clear.

The vents here were huge. Cartoonishly enormous. Big gusts of fresh air blasted out and fogged his viewplate. When the technicians fucked up the seal on his helmet—which they often did, they were harried these days—he could smell fresh earth. Somewhere, there were forests.

Eyes flickered in the vent like burning coals.

“Daddy,” whispered Sister.

“Ohhhh,” he said, and reached out. His voice came out deep, sonorous, strange.

The nightmares usually started when she tumbled into his arms, all stick limbs and scraped knees. She was the only good thing about them—they were together—they were complete. For at least a few moments, everything was fine.

“Look! Look!” she said, flinging her arms up. “It’s you!”

She plopped a yarn doll up against his faceplate. It had a baseball for the head and a broken wristwatch for a face. The second hand flicked, flicked, flicked, at a second to midnight.

“I made it!” Sister said, smearing it against the glass. “It took me days and days and daaays.”

He groaned appreciatively. Granted, he would have made the same sound if she had held up a rock or a tin can.

For a minute, he would hold her up, feel as though something had locked into place—something was correct—but he was missing an ingredient. Worst part of the nightmares was feeling like they had to go somewhere, and not remembering the location.

“Come on, Daddy!” she said, sliding down his arm. “ADAM!”

She stuffed the doll underneath her arm, yanked her syringe out of her sash, and grabbed his hand with both of hers. He took a step, rumbling, his tone a question.

“Fa-ster,” she said. “Fa-a-aster! Slowpoke! I can smell the ADAM!”

ADAM.

Get ADAM. That’s right.

He followed at a slow trot. He was always slowest and heaviest in nightmares. He couldn’t drag his gaze away from the little brown head bobbing ahead of him. His hand swallowed hers, but he held it with inestimable gentleness.

There was a flicker of movement in the hallway just ahead.

His thumb pressed tightly over the back of Sister’s hand.

It had been there just a moment. A fish’s shadow? A man’s trousered leg? Whatever it was, it was gone.

Didn’t care. He swung up his drill. It was longer than Sister was tall, originally meant for hollowing stone and boring holes in hulls. He never took it off.

Sister’s hand slipped from his. She pattered away as quickly as a cat.

He staggered after her, lowing.

“Hurry uuup,” said Sister, stamping at the top of the stairs. “There’s an Angel!”

A beam of light from an emergency bulb threw her shadow against the wall. She was waxy white, her eyes so bright he couldn’t even see the shadows of her pupils.

For a second, he remembered her standing against the glass in the day lighting, bottom lip sucked under her teeth, pinafore balled up in her fists. She had freckles. He remembered her eyes being blue and her hair being all mussed up. Covered in grime from sliding on her belly through cracks all the goddamn time, and bruises and scrapes all over. Cute fucking kid. Not a good kid, obviously, but that had always reminded him of himself.

Then he tried to remember what he was like as a kid and the whole kit and caboodle slipped away, and all he had was Sister, white and glowing and alone.

Fear tingled all the way to his fingers. He felt distressingly heavy. If she would only stay close… everything would return to normal. Everything would feel better.

“Angel is this way! Come on!” She pattered into the blackness.

He took the stairs three at a time, fingers resting on the lever inside the drill. Jogged through circles of light and deep pools of shadow. He thought he saw movement just ahead. Could have been her.

No.

It wasn’t her little padding feet. These were heavy plastic soles, big pounding scrapes.

He charged down the hall and skidded around the corner.

Sister was alone, kneeling beneath a tilted street lamp. An Angel sprawled below her. She plunged her needle deep into the Angel’s liver and waggled it one way, then the other. Stabbed again, plunged straight through the muscle. Rich red liquid flowed into her bottle; she hummed.

Lowering his drill, he breathed in.

Held the breath.

Breathed out.

“Lily-poppies,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Li-lies. Po-ppies. Sca-bbies.”

Shoulders sinking, he plodded to her side. The Angel rocked beneath her ministrations. A whisper started in the back of his mind.

Bad.

The Angel was fresh. Looked like someone had shot it point blank in the forehead. And this one was nicely dressed, too; nice tuxedo, pressed white shirt, carnation in the buttonhole. His wallet lay beside his upturned hand, the clean bills peeking out of it. He lay on a tarp that stank of fish.

From down the hall, ghosts whispered.

“Is that the one? Is that it?”

“Gotta be. That’s an Alpha. I haven’t seen one of those in ages.”

“Don’t jump the gun. What’s the symbol?”

“Triangle! That’s it! We got ’em.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Now get out there.”

“No, you do it. You’re the big assassin here.”

“Buddy, you’re the one with the grenades. You don’t even have to get close.”

“I… I can’t. Grenades just… they don’t do shit, man. You saw Joseph. He was in four parts. Four parts.”

“That’s the difference, you idiot. Joseph went alone. We have the Family.”

“Fuck the Family. I’m not suicidal, man!”

“Shhh!”

“Fuck it! You do it yourself!”

Footsteps rushed away down the hall.

“Hey! Hey! Asshole! Come back here!”

Three sets of footsteps, a slammed door…

Delta had already flicked the lamp on his helmet. Nothing. He and Sister were standing in a hub where four tunnels converged. A statue of a man lifting a sunburst leaned against the wall, glittering with glass. He had been felled at the shins; rebar twisted out of the base like dead stalks. All the lights had been blown out except for three emergency bulbs still glowing palely against the ocean.

Sister tilted the bottle back and sucked busily, her doll leaning against her hip. She was sitting. He wished she wasn’t sitting. They might need to start running.

“Hrrrrup,” he said.

She sucked down the dregs, burped, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Syrupy stuff streaked across her cheek.

“Come on, Daddy,” she said, and bounded up to her feet and across the room.

He groaned and charged after her. The doll lay lonely behind them.

“Hurry!” she called. “More Angels!”

She took a tunnel that sloped toward the seabed. On either side, the buildings flew up, a thousand walls and neon signs, shoals of mackerel shifting sluggishly. A Greenland shark drifted by, so dark and still that it might have been dead. For a few minutes, Sister and Delta sprinted alone through the pale green light.

The tunnel terminated at another hub. This one was remarkably clean. The sister statue to the previous hub’s still stood upright, with floodlights throwing dramatic colors over its shoulders in oranges and reds. The plants around its feet still lived, and the fountain still trickled. Fresh water. No rubble. Shining tile. Delta’s boots squeaked on the floor. Through the glass, long rectangles of yellow light; dancers in bright colors wavered.

Maybe this would end up a good dream after all.

Sister raced straight ahead.

“This way!” she said.

She was making a beeline for a door framed by neon. Over it, an animated sign: “NARCISSUS.” The frame flashed from white to red to white again, and gaudy flowers opened over and over and over. Inside the petals were grinning faces. He couldn’t read it; he knew that he should be able to, somewhere in his mind; but the letters were like hieroglyphics, acknowledged, colorful, bright, but meaningless.

Sister threw the door open. Light flooded the corridor, blew out the contrast, hazed everything in gold and white. But he did not hesitate. He charged over the threshold, from tile to carpet. Thick carpet, plush carpet.

“Wipe your feet,” said someone far away.

Delta snarled. Busy.

Two men with guns framed the door. Big, broad-shouldered boys in turtlenecks and black trenchcoats.

“Big Daddy coming through!” one yelled, and dropped his gun, raised his hands, flattened back against the wall.

His friend did the same, but not fast enough. Delta shouldered past him. One elbow was all it took. The trenchcoat hit the floor, hard, and the gun’s stock cracked on the wall. A woman screamed.

The music squawked off. A room full of tuxedos and silks turned as one. Women with ivory barrettes in their hair. Bright red lipsticks. Roses, mums, forget-me-nots. The band, standing on an alabaster dais, with a mirror behind them. Delta saw himself then, hemmed in by scarlet carpet and golden ceiling, stirring up the cigarette smoke. At his feet, party-goers in all the colors of the rainbow, small and perfect and pretty, and Delta like some hulking astronaut from another planet, the uniform color of shit. But Delta only had eyes for one person. He could feel her presence flying ahead of him. He plunged through the crowd, past the marble bar, the waiters in matching vests. Sharp gasps; a soft cry.

The closest partygoer turned, making a face.

“What is that god-awful stench?” he said.

Delta brushed by. The man slammed so hard against the bar that he threw his martini over his shoulder and baptized the bartender.

“Just a Big Daddy, folks!” someone was shouting. “Just a Big Daddy! Don’t touch the Little Sister. Careful. Careful. They’re just passing through.”

“Can’t wait until this war is over,” someone slurred. “Can’t even go for a drink…”

Door marked “Exit.” Delta could see it closing slowly, and there were two more trenchcoat men with their hands up against the wall.

Delta banged through the door. Behind him, startled chatter rose up, as did the ragged upswell of swing. He had entered a utility hallway leading to restrooms. Only a handful of people lingered here—smoke-breakers and hangovers. The carpet surrendered to tile. A trash can with a polished cap.

The dark mouth into another hub.

He could vaguely see his Sister through the dream-sight then. She’d found an Angel, all right. Another one, lying on a tarp, this one scruffy, no wallet, hadn’t shaved. Shot point-blank between the eyes. In his hazy other-vision, he could almost feel the dimple in the skull.

Sudden color against the checkered tile.

Sister screamed.

An electrical jolt flashed through Delta; his heart missed a beat.

“Give it here, you brat!” a man said.

Delta roared and charged down the hallway. He shoved one half-drunk man out of his way and the hapless fellow jabbed an elbow through the wall. Far behind him, the party went silent again; pretty heads peeped out.

Delta slid to a stop on a balcony. Just below, lit up as though on a stage, was Sister, circled by four pacing ne’er-do-wells in threadbare pants and patched jackets. Worst of all was the bulky man who struggled to yank her needle from her hands. He flung her back and forth—back and forth and back and…

Delta’s heart throbbed—another electrical jolt sizzled through his chest, this one twice as painful as the last—

Hang on, kid!

Delta flung himself over the balcony. Moment of weightless glory, then the full brunt of all 1,500 pounds came crashing down. He smashed the first man under his boots like a beetle. Yanked the lever in the drill and it roared to life, rattled his bones all the way up and down his spine. The attackers spun back, dipping, ducking, like hyenas around a rogue lion.

“The bigger they are!” cried a man on Delta’s left, and lunged, swinging.

His pipe clanged off of Delta’s shoulder. The next second, Delta’s drill bored him a second navel. The man gurgled, a kittenish sound, before his ribcage split open like the leaves of a book.

At the same time, the only woman in the pack leaped on Delta’s shoulder, pounding him with her wrench until his head felt like the clapper in a bell. She was screaming something, but hell if he cared what it was. Spinning, flinging the legs and trunk of the first man into the air, he hurled her against the tile. She bounced, leg cracking beneath her, and slid over her partner’s blood. It was no getaway. One good uppercut, a solid strike beneath her chin, and Delta launched her across the room. She cracked against the wall and flopped wetly to the floor, her leg bent at an awkward angle and her head torn half off.

Glaring at him from the foot of the stairs was the final attacker, the thickset man with small eyes. He had curled his elbow around Sister’s neck with his left arm, jammed her needle into his right, pumping the ADAM-rich slurry into his body. Blue light chased the outlines of his veins, glazed his fingers in crackling light.

“Want some, big guy?” the asshole hissed.

Screaming with rage, blind with terror that was half his and half his Sister’s, Delta flung himself up the stairs.

He didn’t even see the flick of the wrist; all he saw was the beam of lightning. The impact boomed against his breast. He reeled, slid, staggered through the banister, somehow didn’t go over. Lights and dials sputtered. Liquid fire roiled beneath his skin, and every muscle tightened in his arms and legs, and his chest seemed to be bound with iron. His heart seized up again. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe.

“Da-ddy!” Sister wailed.

All he could see was Sister’s face, twisted up in horror. Everything else around her faded. The thickset asshole backpedaled, dragged her further toward the doors at the top of the stairs. Sister kicked and bit and clawed, stretching out her arm, like she could pull Delta back up onto his feet by will alone…

Groaning, reaching toward her, Delta jabbed the point of his drill into the floor and lifted. He took one staggering step forward. Then another. And another. Faster, and faster. This time, when the asshole flicked his hand, Delta ducked—thunder boomed over his shoulder—and in two swift steps Delta clenched him around the throat.

Hacking, eyes bulging, the man dropped Sister and her needle and his hands flew to Delta’s arm. He flashed with light just as Delta’s thumb punched into his windpipe. The explosion blasted them apart. Delta skidded, tumbled, crashed on the staircase. Above, the light-spangled ceiling slipped sideways.

The thickset man hadn’t fared much better. He rolled over the ground, spasming.

Little pattering footsteps.

Sister threw her arms around Daddy’s elbow. Delta patted her on the back. His hands were still quaking. The stairs shuddered beneath his formidable weight.

Twitching, moaning, Delta heaved himself to his feet. Sister scrabbled up his side and snuggled up against his helmet. Delta whirled to face the thickset man again, raising his drill.

“Unzip him, Daddy,” Sister whispered in his ear.

Panting, spitting blood, the thickset man dragged himself to his knees, snapping his fingers. The electricity on his palms faded quickly; he folded his hands together, and when he raised his palm again, there was a dripping green polyp balanced on his hand.

“Go to hell,” he rasped, and pitched.

A pop like a water balloon. Wet green flesh burst all over Delta’s faceplate. A wave of confusion swept through him, tingled down his spine. It was far more disorienting than the electricity. His muscles seized up, one after another.

Groaning, Delta dragged to a stop. The point of his drill hovered at the attacker’s throbbing throat.

“Unzip him, Daddy! Unzip him!” Sister said. “What are you waiting for?”

Delta commanded his arm to move, but it wouldn’t. Could not fold his fingers. Couldn’t even make a sound. He labored to breathe. Fear billowed up in the pit of his stomach.

The attacker reached up slowly, pushed the drill away with the flat of his hand.

“Hold your breath,” he whispered.

Delta hacked. His throat seized. A wondering groan started in the pit of his belly.

“Bad man!” screamed Sister.

She sprang off of Delta’s back and onto the thickset man, stabbing him in the shoulder with her needle. Screaming, he threw her off, and she rolled down the steps. The thickset man charged after her, wrenched her to her feet.

“Brat!” he said, backhanding her.

“Da-addy!” Sister cried, her voice strangled.

Delta choked, coughed. He sucked each breath down with effort, and turned — it was like trying to move through molasses. He stretched his arm out — his drill sputtered to life. But the thickset man flung his hand out and splayed his fingers wide. Delta released the lever and the drill wound down again with a disappointing whine.

“That’s right, big guy,” the asshole whispered. “Wait right there.”

A door opened at the head of the stairs.

“Told you, right he… oh my god!” said a man.

“Eleanor?” said a woman with a British accent. “And Louie.”

The thickset man whirled around. Sister squirmed in his hand.

“Doctor Lamb!” he sputtered. “This isn’t what it looks like!”

He dropped Sister. She stamped on his foot — he hissed, leaning over his knee. With a squeal, Sister raced to Delta’s side.

“Daddy!” she said, tugging on his hand. “We’ve got to go, Daddy!”

Delta managed a gurgling sound.

Sister swung on his leaden arm, wailing. “Wake up! Wake up!”

“Eleanor,” said the lady, stepping down toward them. “Eleanor. Come here.”

Sister and Delta locked eyes with each other. An unspoken question ran between them.

“What happened?” asked the man behind Doctor Lamb. His voice was strangled.

“Knuckles, you cunt,” rasped Louie. “Doctor Lamb, this fucker is worse than useless. The minute he saw the mark, he ran. Of course he took the grenades and fucked up the entire plan and now everybody else is dead.”

The little man cringed. “I’m… I’m sor…”

“Fuck off.”

“Louie, Knuckles, please.” Dr. Lamb gripped Sister’s hands and pried the tiny fingers free. The girl stared up at the woman, slack-jawed, as though she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Dr. Lamb’s face was severe—high cheekbones, sharp chin, shark eyes. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in her suit.

“She don’t recognize you, doc,” said Louie. “They never do.”

“What was wrought with these methods can also be unwrought,” said Dr. Lamb, prying the tiny hands free.

Delta swayed on his feet, and his strained gurgling grew frantic. His heart felt like it would wrench itself out of his chest. Lamb looked him in the eye in the same way one might examine a statue.

His fingers itched.

Dr. Lamb dragged Sister to the base of the stairs. She kicked, wailed, screamed. Dr. Lamb’s knuckles were white and tensed, her arm stiff, but the way she pressed her hand to her breast was with the same unhurried emphasis as an actor on a TV screen.

“This is not your daughter,” she said. “Do you understand? Her name is Eleanor. And she is mine.”

“Doc, he’s an automaton,” said Louie. “He can’t…”

She held one long finger up. Louie sighed and fell silent.

“Now. Kneel, please.” The lady extended a hand to her side. Knuckles, small and shivering, handed her a pistol.

Delta dropped to his knees. His arms relaxed.

“Remove your helmet,” she said.

He reached up to his helmet and patted around for the wingnuts. Every time he’d gone in for maintenance, the techs had started stealing them for other projects, and he had been left with just two—one on his right shoulder, the other on his left. They were loose enough; he tossed them to the floor with trembling hands, then pressed the hilt of his drill against his helm and twisted it free. The pressure within equalized with the room, and his eyes and ears popped. With some effort, he lifted the helmet off and laid it beside his drill. The air burned against his eyes, but he did not blink; his eyes were still locked with Sister’s. Her face was even more ashen than before.

Knuckles gasped.

“Woof,” said Louie, and whistled.

Dr. Lamb did not blink. If she were horrified, she didn’t show it.

“Now. Take this pistol,” she said, holding it out.

With agonizing slowness, Delta folded his hand around the stock. Could everyone hear how fast his heart was going? Fuck, he still couldn’t breathe.

“Hold it to your head.”

He fought the impulse with all his might. But slowly, inexorably, he raised the muzzle to his temple. Sister covered her mouth.

Dr. Lamb folded her hands across her lap. “Fire.”

For a second, his heart beat in tandem with Sister’s, and he knew that she understood. In that single moment, when all he could see was her terrified face, he could hear her voice in his head—a stream of terrified gibberish, something he had only heard once before.

Don’t leave me Daddy please don’t leave me please oh please

He pulled the trigger.

All he felt was the impact. He did not hear the shot, only her voice, a scream that surged up from both of their hearts at once. He never heard it end.

UPRISING: BLACK SCRAPBOOK HUB

This Chapter on AO3

[jemkebaby]

Another illustration for @lovelyelbowleech’s „All’s fair”.

More fluffy this time.

[shadowbends]

Looking through your Ao3 bookmarks and seeing that little “This has been deleted, sorry!” is like finding a gravestone, but the writing’s too worn down to read what it was standing for anymore.

What were you, Bookmark #336... What stories did you tell? Which words were it that once left a mark on my soul?  *touches my laptop screen like it’s text from an ancient ruin*

Cowabummer. 

[ao3-crack]

(x)

[calicos-clones]

I don’t think people realize how freaked out fanfic readers get when their favorite author(s) doesn’t update their ongoing schedule ON TIME.

And it’s not cause we want the chapter…it’s cause we’re so fucking worried about the Author.

Like— OMG ARE YOU OKAY? YOU’VE BEEN GIVING US THE TRAGIC UPDATES OF YOUR LIFE IN THE NOTES THE PAST 10 CHAPTERS?! WHY STOP? ARE YOU DEAD? DID YOU GET STUCK IN THE WALL LIKE YOUR CAT?? HAVE YOU EATEN?? HAS YOUR BRAIN EXPLODED??

Readers no longer care about the story when they don’t get their usual update. We panic and flag S.O.S as we track down our wayward author who has been both blessed by the universe with a creative mind and cursed all the same with the worst luck.

So any authors who are reading this please understand— when we comment “hey are you okay?” in your comments. No, we are not asking about the chapter.

We are legitimately concerned for your wellbeing. Do not force yourself to shit out a chapter just to appease other ppl when you yourself are not in the mental state to enjoy it or even write it to begin with.

TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF DAMMIT

[chiropteracupola]

an assortment of my temeraireverse fic-dragons!

[cygnet and honoré are from fifteenth-century britain and france, aquilillus, flavia magna, and bán are from second-century britain, and cipachcoatzin is from sixteenth-century mesoamerica]

[transformativeworks]

Here's a tutorial for changing tag colors: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53119543

THANK YOU!

Here is a clickable link for anyone who needs that - https://archiveofourown.org/works/53119543

and I shall tag @sorbusaucuparia to close the loop!

[coffinwoodx]

in desperate need of a fic where kim and the skills talk. like where harry introduces kim to the skills or something like that i just really want them to interact directly 😭😭

an excellent example i read recently is GOOD MORNING VOYEUR ACCIDENT by mlemlo in the first chapter. it was very brief but harry directly names one of the furies when talking to kim and it reacts in his head

it made me so happy and i really want to read more about this so anyone please 😭🙏 recs needed

[puhpandas]

@ggyweek2024 Day 1: Scars

(2,434 words)

After developing a new normal, Tony finally asks Gregory about how he got the scar on his face.

One of the first blaring changes that Tony noticed about Gregory when seeing him again after so long was his scar.

Tony couldnt help but stare when he first saw it. It was thick and jagged, and discolored a darker shade than his skin. It was large, jarring on his face, and travelled from his jaw across his cheek to his nose.

And even after they had the big long talk about everything and discussed and debunked and explained, Gregory never told him how he got the scar.

It took Tony a while to feel normal enough around Greg to go to his house a lot. It's more common than not, now, for Tony to go to Greg's after school and get to know him. The real him.

But through it all, Tony's never gathered the courage to ask Greg about the long jagged line taking up a quarter of his face.

Its been weeks, now, since they reunited. Possibly months, and Tony hasnt asked Greg about it in that long.

Its never felt right to. Even when things were still centered around what happened enough to reveal that much, it had been too soon, and any time afterwards, Tony was just happy to be friends with Greg again. He never wanted to mess up any normalcy and his relationship for Greg to satisfy his own curiosity.

He already learned his lesson about that.

Today's one of the days he goes over to Greg's to hang out. The standard routine continues as normal; Tony bikes to Gregory's house, parks, goes inside and greets Vanessa and Freddy on his way to Greg's room, who both greet him back enthusiastically, and then he goes in.

When Tony enters Gregory's room, he immediately finds him hunched over at his desk. His back is facing Tony, and even from his point of view he can see Gregory's arm moving back and forth in a scribbling motion. He doesnt seem to hear him come in. He's so engrossed in whatever he's drawing he's almost nose to nose with the surface of the desk.

Instinctively, a smile quirks on Tony's face. He shuts the door quietly behind him, and goes over to Greg's chair.

Gregory only seems to notice him when he's in his peripherals. He jolts slightly, eyes widening in suprise, but then hes smiling and setting down his pencil.

"Jeez," Greg chuckles. "You scared me."

"Sorry." Tony replies. The window is open and the blinds are open by Gregory's desk, and it casts a few lines against Greg's face and his paper. Tony switches his gaze to Gregorys latest drawing, and smiles again.

It's some comic centered around Gregory and Freddy taking down a bad guy. The panels are dramatic and scary looking, and Tony notices that near the end of the page, in the right bottom corner, theres a panel where Gregory is completely alone.

He's interrupted by Gregory calling his name.

Tony looks back over, and the sunlight peeking through the blinds somehow manages to cast a perfect halo around the scar on Greg's face. It's like the world somehow knows that Tony's been stewing in curiosity about it lately.

Tony must have been looking at it, because when he tears his gaze away to look at Gregory himself, he shuts his mouth from where he was about to say something and darts his eyes to the side. His hand comes up to his cheek.

"Sorry." Tony says again. He looks at the floor.

One moment, then, "Its okay." Gregory drops his hand after a few seconds of silence. "Did you come over to finish our book? We only have a couple chapters left, I think. I saw that the second series is way longer."

Tony smiles again. "Yeah." He confirms. "Are you reading or am I?"

"You read last time." Gregory gets up from his chair, leaving his comic and colored pencils behind. "I'll do it this time."

Tony still feels bad about making Greg uncomfortable, but Gregory seems to have moved past it. He sighs. "Okay, sure. This is the last book, isnt it?"

"The last in series one." Gregory replies, moving to his bookshelf. Tony watches him go. "Funny how we only started reading because you wanted a reference to start writing first person, and now we're going to start series two."

Tony smiles, knowing why exactly he kept reading for so long. Of course he's inspired by the first person point of view, but theres another reason he likes reading the books so much. "Its a good series."

Gregory plucks the book off of his shelf and makes his way over to his bed. Tony follows him, and they sit side by side, leaning against Greg's pillow as he opens to the bookmarked page.

Tony's on Gregory's right side, meaning that Tony has perfect view of his face scar when he leans down to see the pages clearly. He sighs out his nose, trying his best to ignore it. Greg's obviously uncomfortable with it. He thinks. He doesnt need to tell me. I dont need to know.

While Gregory is finding their last page, Tony thinks about how hes never told Gregory how he got his own face scar. The thin pale line on his right cheek.

But then he remembers that he doesnt need to tell him, because Gregory already knows how Tony got the scar.

"Here." Gregory rips him out of his thoughts, pointing at the page. He clears his throat, and Tony tries to ignore the proximity, and how Gregory's face scar is in his peripherals.

"I looked around to make sure we were alone." Gregory starts reading. "Then I leaned in close and whispered: "My Achilles spot. If you hadn't taken that knife, I would have died.

She got a faraway look in her eyes. Her breath smelled of grapes, probably from the nectar. "I dont know, Percy. I just had this feeling you were in danger. Where...where is the spot?""

The word knife makes Tony think again, even when he tries to pay attention to the story. Tony's own face scar was made by a knife. His eyes dart back to Greg's cheek.

"I wasn't supposed to tell anyone." Greg's voice echoes in his room. "But this was Annabeth. If I couldnt trust her, I couldn't trust anyone.

"The small of my back.""

"Greg." Tony interrupts impulsively, not tearing his eyes away from the discolored line on Gregory's face. Gregory stops reading, twisting his neck to look at him. When Greg looks him in his eyes, Tony switches his gaze to look back. "Uh... can I ask you something?"

Gregory seems to deflate a slight bit, but Tony only notices because he's watching closely.

Greg sighs almost soundlessly, then: "My scar."

Tony jolts, his eyes wide. He glances to the side. "Oh, um--"

"I know that's what you're going to ask about." Gregory interrupts. Tony risks a glance back, the inklings of guilt in his stomach, but Gregory doesn't look angry, upset, or uncomfortable. Just kind of resigned, but in the least worst way. "Its okay."

Gregory shuts the book, only pausing to place the bookmark back in. "Is it okay?" Tony asks. He wouldn't want anyone prying for answers about his face scar. He hopes that Greg wont mind as much because its Tony.

"I see you looking at it all the time." Gregory tells him, shifting in his seat to angle his body so he's fully facing Tony. Tony forces himself to look him in the eye. "I know how you are. It's probably killing you, isnt it?"

Tony tries not to let his jolt show at those choice of words from Gregs mouth, and he nods. "Sorry." He apologizes. "I just--"

"You cant stand not solving a mystery." Gregory interrupts again. He fidgets in his seat. "I get it."

Tony doesnt respond again. He just stares, and watches how Gregory is looking away from him when it falls silent. He looks at how Gregory's face is tilted so the scar is in perfect view for Tony, and how his fingers fidget with the strap of his watch and how his knees seem to tremor ever so slightly.

He waits. In the silence, he can hear the TV in the living room droning on through the walls. He can hear the barely audible exhaust from cars from outside. He can hear his own heartbeat in his chest, and he can feel his own guilt for being excited to be told.

"Its..." Gregory's voice is jarring in the silence. He looks back at Tony, and there are lines under his amber eyes. "Its not a fun story. Might... might remind you of some things."

Gregs eyes had darted to the right side of Tony's face when he said that, and Tony's brows raise. He's suddenly hyper aware of his own face scar.

He looks at Greg's, sharp and large and jagged. It dips in his skin around his jaw, and it makes the skin around his left eye stretch differently. Its darker against his tanned skin, and Tony sighs out. "That's okay."

Tony doesn't notice how Gregory never worried about trusting Tony.

"Vanessa was like me." Gregory jumps right in. "She had a knife, and I just woke up with no memory, and she just..."

He trails off, making a slashing motion with his hand. "I barely got away with my life." He says, his voice slightly wet. "If I was just a little slower..."

His eyes get faraway, and Tony, in between his shock and taking that in, bravely reaches out a hand and sets it on Gregory's fidgeting one.

His hand is warm against Tony's icy fingers, and it's enough to bring him back to reality. He gasps a little, and Tony catches that same expression that he used to think made Gregory look so young a year ago.

Tony doesnt bring up his own scar, because he knows Gregory knows how it came to be. It was from a knife, too, and Tony barely got away with his life.

Greg's other hand has been raised to his face, where he messes with the scar on his cheek. Theres a few fleeting moments where Gregory and Tony look at nothing but eachothers eyes, and it feels like it lasts hours.

Tony sees how Gregory unsubtly looks away from Tony's eyes to his right cheek.

Gregory's fingers twitch under Tony's hand. Tony watches Gregory remove his other hand from his face, reach out, and barely brushing against his skin, poke the spot on Tony's cheek.

"We match." Greg says, soft as silk. He smiles, but it looks pained.

Tony cant find a response in him, he just keeps staring, and realizing for the first time how Gregory's right.

It feels otherworldly, Tony thinks, or fictional, how Tony and Greg somehow have matching scars on their cheeks that are parallel to eachother. It reminds him, boldly, of how Freddy and Bonnie have parallel matching earrings.

But they were designed that way. Tony and Gregory somehow got here by chance. Are they this way because of the worlds design? Is it fate that both their cheeks were marked by that thing?? That the fact that they have scars at all tells that they're still here? That Tony would look in the mirror and stare at the pale line on his face in-between it all to remind himself that it was all real, and his theories weren't far-fetched? That he wasnt going mad?

"I have another," Gregory rips him out of his thoughts, tapping on his hand, and Tony realizes his eyes were unfocusing. "on my stomach."

Tony feels a surge of panic when Greg lifts his shirt, but he looks back from where he averted his eyes to where Gregory is pointing.

Theres a gathering of skin on his stomach. It's long and horizontal, almost diagonal, and discolored like his face scar. It's a line, Tony realizes. A big one. Tony's mouth parts, and he looks at Greg's eyes.

"When I freed her." Gregory looks away. "She got me again."

Tony doesnt respond, he just looks at the bunch of skin on Gregory's stomach. It obviously used to be a stab wound. One of Tony's biggest fears is stab wounds.

He shakes his head, clearing his throat and trying not to stutter. "I have one." Tony says. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing the green corduroy at the end of the bed, and he rolls up the sleeve of his raglan tee.

"Y-- Rab got me." Tony says, pointing at his bicep, where just under his shoulder on the side, theres a thick, long slice. He feels it with his finger, and it dips in the skin, dark like both of Gregory's are. "He tried to stab me in the back, but I dodged."

Greg stares at it for a long time, and his eyes look infinitely more tired.

He eventually shifts, and uses his other hand (the one not beneath Tony's) to move his hair out of the way near his temple. He tucks it behind his ear, pointing at a small scar right at his hairline. Its almost lined up perfectly with the corner of his eye. "One of-- Rabs lenses shattered, once." He explains. "It almost blinded me."

Tony sighs through his nose, feeling his eyebrows furrow.

Theres so many. Gregory has so many scars littered around his body.

Tony squeezes his hand.

He shows Gregory more scars of his, which are few. He eventually gets to the old childhood ones with funny and embarrassing stories attached to them, and he stops giving Greg room to reveal more of his scars. Tony can see little light lines and dots scattered around his arms and hands, and another bigger one peeking from under his shirt sleeve, but Gregory never gets to tell the stories of those. Tony just tells him about how the scar under his chin is from tripping at the pool when he was eight, and that the one on his ankle is from a scooter rearing back at him from a failed trick when he was nine.

Greg doesnt try to unearth all of the scars hes collected again. He just laughs at Tony's stories until tears prick his eyes, and the book sits un-re-opened next to them as the sky darkens outside Gregory's window. The lines under Gregorys eyes recede, and Tony's shirt sleeve starts to fall back down his arm.

Through it all, Tony never moves his hand from on top of Greg's, and Gregory doesnt move his either.

ao3 link

[moodlemcdoodle]

Read some Dark/Chaos Avatar Zuko AU fics a while back and those AUs are VERY GOOD but then I had a brain blast so. Dark/Chaos Avatar Toph AU

[necrotic-nephilim]

For the new ask game

"If I have to force you I will"

Brudick

send a ship and a quote and i'll write a a short fic!

this is so inspired, anon. here's 2.7k of BruDick whump. warning for non-con somnophilia, but it's very brief. the whole fic is very non-con/dead dove in nature tho. this takes place during Jason's Robin era. enjoy <3

Dick could feel Bruce’s eyes on him from across the room, even without looking. He made a point not to look. Instead, Dick focused on helping Jason set his dislocated shoulder.

“How does that feel?” Dick asked. He pressed his fingers against the bone, just to double check for any breaks.

“I’m fine,” Jason insisted. He hopped off the medical gurney and pulled away from Dick’s touch. An immediate wince came out of Jason when his feet hit the ground. His ankle was at best, swollen. At worst, sprained.

With how hard Killer Croc threw Jason into that brick wall, he was lucky to walk away with a dislocated shoulder and sprained ankle. Dick still couldn’t get the noise of Jason’s small body slamming against the hard brick and the noise he’d made when he fell to the ground.

“You should take a couple weeks off patrol at least,” Dick said, putting away the leftover bandages. “To let it heal.”

Jason made a face at Dick, his mouth screwing up like he’d eaten something sour. “I said I was fine!” He didn't look fine. He was pale and a little sweaty from the pain. “Right, B?” Going right above Dick's head, Jason turned to Bruce with an expectant look.

Dick finally let himself look at Bruce. He levelled Bruce with a deadly glare. Now though, Bruce was the one avoiding his gaze.

“We’ll talk about it later, chum.” Bruce walked over to them and ruffled Jason’s head with disgusting affection that made Dick’s lip curl.

He had nothing against Jason. But he damn well knew Bruce was doing it to get a rise out of Dick. The worst part, it was working remarkably well.

“Get to bed now,” Bruce said, patting Jason’s good shoulder.

Jason gave a nod that was a little too serious, like he was facing a war general giving an order. Given who he was talking to, Dick supposed it wasn't far off. Jason ran off to the stairs, almost managing to hide his limp. Dick watched him disappear up the steps.

He was a good kid.

Too good for this life.

“That could've gotten him killed.” Dick didn't look in Bruce’s direction, but there was no one else in the cave he could've been talking to. No one else on the planet Dick would speak to with such an icy tone.

“You would've stuck that landing at his age,” Bruce said coolly, pointedly avoiding the hostility bleeding from Dick.

Dick whipped his head around. “I had more training at his age.” So many insults sat on Dick’s tongue. He managed to swallow all of them without choking. “Take better care of Jason.” With that, Dick turned on his heel and walked toward where his motorcycle was parked in the bay of the cave.

“Where are you going?” Bruce asked. Like he had any right to know.

“Home,” Dick snapped. He wanted his bed and shitty take out from the only place in Bludhaven open this late.

“This is your home.”

Dick’s hand curled into a fist, itching to hit Bruce. He wouldn't stoop that low. “Not since you kicked me out, it isn't.”

“You still have a place here.” Bruce’s voice was as even and emotionless as it always was. He could've been talking about the weather.

Emotions were weakness to Bruce. And there was a time Dick naively believed Bruce trusted him enough to share that weakness with Dick.

What a joke that was.

“No, I don't,” Dick spoke through grit teeth. He just needed to keep walking to his bike and leave Bruce and his rotting city behind.

“Then why are you even here?”

Dick spun around fast enough to make his hair fall over his face. He really should cut it, but he liked the length. Bruce had always made him keep it short. For practicality. Now, letting it grow just past his shoulders, Dick’s hair was one of the few pieces of self expression he had.

“Because I made a promise to Jason,” Dick’s words dripped with all the anger he could muster, looking into Bruce’s cold blue eyes. “I would be there if he called. Unlike you, I keep promises.” It was a cold insult that hit below the belt.

“You think I couldn't have handled Croc?” Bruce arched an eyebrow. He was trying to back Dick into a corner and Dick knew it. Drag some kind of confession out of Dick that he'd come to see Bruce for some hopeless romantic reason.

Bruce could keep hoping. Dick was there for Jason and nothing more.

“Clearly you couldn't,” Dick pointed out. “Jason got hurt.”

For the briefest second, real emotion flashed across Bruce's eyes. It was something, at least. A small proof he really did care about Jason.

“He just wanted to see you.” Bruce regained his composure. “He looks up to you. He's been talking about training with you.”

Dick shook his head with a cold laugh. “I’m not falling for that. If he wants to train, he can come to me. Don't use him to get to me.” He gave Bruce a final warning look before turning back around.

“Stay.”

“No.” Dick didn't look back. His bike was within arm’s reach when a hand grabbed his arm.

“Dick,” Bruce was trying to sound soft. The command in his voice ruined the illusion of kindness.

“Don’t.” No matter how much Dick knew Bruce’s kindness was a ruse, he couldn't stop himself from mirroring it. The anger left his tone and was replaced by something softer. “It’s late and I have a shift tomorrow.”

“Call in,” Bruce said. Easy for him to say with his billionaire pockets.

Dick shook his head. He tried to pull his arm free. “This isn't happening again. It's especially not happening now.” Jason’s face flashed across Dick’s mind. In Dick’s Robin suit.

That betrayal was still a raw wound.

“Dick, I…” Bruce trailed off. “I'm sorry for how I- for how things happened.” Just as he almost took accountability, he skirted past it. A vague, half-assed apology that wasn't going to fix anything now.

“You should've said that and a hell of a lot more over a year ago,” Dick just shook his head. He tugged his arm harder. Bruce’s grip was a vice.

“Please stay.” Despite the words, it sounded like an order, not a request. Bruce’s brow hardened.

“Bruce,” Dick said, setting his jaw. “Let go.”

Bruce raised a hand and for a second, Dick almost flinched, expecting to be hit. Instead, Bruce's fingers hovered in the air before cupping Dick’s face. He was still wearing his suit, but Dick could feel the gentle body heat through the glove. He gasped.

A thumb stroked Dick’s cheek. And for a part of him, it was hard not to give in to. There was comfort in the familiarity. How easily Bruce slotted back into a role he used to perfectly fill in Dick’s life.

Dick didn't need Bruce in that role, though. And he definitely didn't want him there.

“Just the night,” Bruce offered, still stroking with his thumb. “I’ll order from the Chinese place you like.”

“I said no.” Dick took a half a step back.

The gentle, loving hand holding Dick’s face shifted to a brutally possessive grip without warning. Bruce held Dick by his jaw, fingers digging in enough to make Dick hiss.

“If I have to force, you I will.” It was dangerous, how matter-of-factly Bruce said it. No violence or threatening nature to the statement. Just a plain coldness.

Dick flinched. His full body recoiled.

“Are you out of your mind?” Dick hissed.

Bruce has been rough with Dick, before. But only when Dick asked for it.

Never like this.

The only thing Bruce had ever forced Dick to do was leave. At the time, it had been the worst thing Bruce ever did to Dick.

This was worse, now.

“You can't force me to do anything,” Dick said when Bruce didn't answer. He just started at Dick with those empty eyes. “I’m not under your thumb anymore.”

“I want to know you're safe,” Bruce spoke so calmly, like he wasn't trying to force Dick to stay against his will. Like he was practically doing Dick a favor. “Someone needs to look out for you and make sure you're taking care of yourself.”

“I have people,” Dick said, and it wasn't a lie. He had the Titans, his friends and coworkers in Bludhaven. “I don't need you. I never did, Bruce. You never understood that.” Dick’s heart was beating too fast in his chest. Bruce had to be bluffing. Trying to fake Dick out or something.

The grip on his jaw was going to bruise if Bruce kept it up.

“I need you, though,” Bruce’s voice was low and quiet. “That's what I was wrong about when I kicked you out. I thought…” he didn't finish the sentence. He just shook his head once. “I didn't know how much I needed you. And I need you now, Dick.”

Dick leaned in close to Bruce’s face. “I don't care what you need.” He pulled back and twisted his head away to wrench it from Bruce’s grip. A single well aimed strike to Bruce’s inner wrist forced his hand to open, letting go of Dick’s arm.

For a second, Dick was free.

It was a short second.

Dick didn't have time to step back. He didn't have time to think before Bruce lunged.

It was a brutal and effective pin. One that Dick had always struggled to get out of during training. Bruce grabbed Dick’s wrist and twisted him around, forcing him to his knees. Bruce’s own knee pinned Dick down, pressed between his shoulder blades while Dick’s arm was held at a painful angle.

He had one arm free. But it was difficult to grab Bruce from where he was standing. The shock of being pinned in the first place slowed his reaction.

“What the hell has gotten into you?” Dick gasped. He reached back to grab an escrima stick. If Bruce wanted a fight, Dick would give him one.

His hand was stopped before he could reach the weapon. Bruce just grabbed that wrist too and hauled Dick back up to his feet like he weighed nothing. He pinned Dick against his own body, Dick’s arm painfully trapped between the two of them.

“I’m giving you one last chance,” Bruce said into Dick’s ear. His breath was warm on Dick’s skin in a sickly way. “Stay with me for the night.”

Instead of answering with words, Dick lifted his foot and kicked Bruce as hard as he could in the shin. Bruce stumbled and Dick dropped into a crouch, ready to flip Bruce off of him.

Before he could, something sharp pinched against his neck and Dick gasped.

The psychotic bastard.

His body slumped, weightless in Bruce’s arms that shifted to cradle Dick. Gently, like a lover.

Then, Dick slipped away.

Once he was drugged, it was easy to pull compliance out of Dick.

Bruce just had to carry him up the stairs and into Bruce’s bedroom. He carefully stripped both of their suits, laying them out for Alfred to wash in the morning.

Dick wasn't quite unconscious.

But he was groaning and sluggish, unable to hold his eyes open or form real words. When Bruce touched him, his body yielded and gave in so sweetly.

The way he was supposed to give in to Bruce.

Dick wouldn't remember any of it when it woke up. But his body would.

His body, warm and beautiful under Bruce’s hands. There were new scars Bruce didn't know about. He made sure to show attention to every one with gentle kisses and colorful hickeys.

But he felt the same when Bruce was buried inside of his right warmth.

Even in a drugged state, Dick reacted beautifully. Soft moans and twitches as Bruce fucked him. Slow and gentle. It was so easy to manipulate Dick’s body into the right positions. He was just as flexible as he’d always been.

Bruce liked the long hair, he decided, when he buried his fingers into it to pull Dick into an embrace while Dick whimpered.

Beautiful. Perfect.

With a hand curled around Dick’s cock, they both came as Bruce groaned Dick’s name into his sweet skin.

Bruce licked Dick’s cum off his sweaty skin. Glassy eyes watched him, struggling to say something. It almost sounded like Bruce’s name.

After finishing, Bruce cleaned both of them up and climbed into bed, arranging Dick in his arms the way they used to cuddle in bed. He closed his eyes.

Dick was home now. Where he belonged. Bruce was stupid for ever sending him away. But he was home. That was what mattered.

They would figure out the rest later.

Dick came back to awareness in a warm bed with a sore body. The sheets and pillows were familiar. They smelled familiar. His body ached in familiar places too.

Before Dick even opened his eyes, he knew where he was.

He sat up. His body was still slow and stiff. Whatever Bruce had drugged him with was a hell of a thing.

Bruce drugged him. And fucked him.

Too many feelings flickered through Dick at once for him to parse out. Anger. Confusion. Shock.

Betrayal.

Dick tuned them out. He needed to take stock. Stay focused. At least until he was out of Bruce’s home.

The sunlight filtering through the windows marked the time as late morning. Bruce’s side of the bed was empty, but Dick could hear the shower running from the ensuite bathroom.

His suit was nowhere to be found. Which left Dick stuck in Bruce’s bed, naked and vulnerable.

He tried to keep his heartrate steady. The sheets got bunched up in Dick’s first.

The moment Bruce came out of the shower Dick was going to break his goddamn-

“Bruce!” The bedroom door flew open and Jason skidded into the room. “Bruce, Alfred wants to know where he should put-” Jason froze like a deer in headlights when he saw Dick. For a moment he just stared, wide eyed and open mouthed.

Dick look down at himself and swore. He snatched the blanket that was pooled around his waist, pulling it up tight to his chest. It was too late. They both knew Jason had already seen all the bite marks scattered across Dick’s skin.

“I-” Jason stumbled over his words. “I’m sorry, I didn't know-”

Like some kind of divine timing, the bathroom door opened. Bruce stepped out in nothing but loose boxers, drying his hair. He saw Dick, then Jason. His expression changed for both of them, settling on a coy smile.

“We’ve talked about knocking, Jason,” Bruce said calmly.

Jason’s face was so red it looked like it was about to catch on fire. “Sorry.”

“Head down to the kitchen for breakfast,” Bruce just gave him a fond look. “Dick and I will join you in a few minutes.”

“You’re staying for breakfast?” Jason’s eyes lit up looking at Dick.

Dick couldn't openly scowl at Bruce with Jason’s eyes on him. But he knew what Bruce was doing. And he had no choice, backed into a corner like this.

“Yeah.” Dick forced a smile. “Just for a little while.”

Jason whooped with excitement and ran out of the room as quickly as he’d came into it.

Dick whipped his head around and leveled Bruce with a deadly look.

“After breakfast,” Bruce said, before Dick can speak. “We’ll discuss this then.”

“You had no goddamn right-”

Bruce cut him off with a chaste kiss. Dick choked against Bruce’s mouth. All of his protests forced away. Dick’s heart was pounding. Too many emotions at once.

He swallowed his pride and kissed Bruce back.

[youchangedmedestiel]

I need help from fic writers. Especially long fic writers. I need advice.

How do you write a long fic? What's your process compared to writing short ones? (More questions in the tags below).

[daughterofhecata]

Short note to fic readers who want an author to maybe write more of a particular story:

DO NOT come barging into the comment section with "Please write a sequel!!!", especially if that it the entirety of your comment and you have no previous rapport with the author.

DO mention a few things you liked about the fic and then maybe throw out a few ideas of what you would like to read, like "I wonder how the next morning is going to go!" or "it would be so interesting to see them negotiate the relationship going forward!" and maybe end on a note of "would love to read more in this universe!"

That way you've actually opened a creative window, shown your interest in the fic and the universe, without pressuring the author or treating them like a content machine.

[wander-wren]

every once in a while i like to poke my head into "anti [x]" tags just to see what the other side thinks. recently i was looking through "anti ao3" and found a really funny post claiming that ao3 is not anticapitalist, but actually the Definition Of Capitalism, bc it relies on volunteer labor while supposedly having the money to pay a staff.

oh, honey.

but i am not going to make unsubstantiated claims on the internet, no, and this gives me an excuse to look at ao3's whole budget myself, which i've been meaning to do for a while. these numbers are taken from the 2022 budget post and budget spreadsheet.

ao3's total income for 2022, from the two donation drives, regular donations, donation matching programs, interest, and royalties was $1,012,543.42. less than $300 of that was from interest and royalties, so it's almost all donations. and that's a lot, right? surely an organization making a million dollars a year can afford to pay some staff, right?

well, let's look at expenses. first of all, they lose almost $37,000 to transaction fees right away. ao3 and fanlore (~$341k and ~$18k, respectively) take up the biggest chunks of the budget by far. that money pays for, to quote the 2022 budget post, "server expenses—both new purchases and ongoing colocation and maintenance—website performance monitoring tools, and various systems-related licenses."

in some years, otw also pays external contractors to perform audits for security issues, and for more servers to handle the growing userbase. servers are expensive as hell, guys. in 2022, new server costs alone were $203k.

each of their other programs only cost around $3,000 or less, and otw paid around $78k for fundraising and development. wait, how do you lose so much money on your fundraising?? from the 2022 budget post: "Our fundraising and development expenses consist of transaction fees charged by our third-party payment processors for each donation, thank-you gift purchases and shipping, and the tools used to host the OTW’s membership database and track communications with donors and potential donors."

then the otw paid an additional $74k in administration expenses, which covers "hosting for our website, trademarks, domains, insurance, tax filing, and annual financial statement audits, as well as communication, management, and accounting tools."

in case you weren't following all of that math, the total expenses for 2022 come out to $518,978.48. woah! that's a lot! but it's still only a little over half of their net revenue. weird. i wonder what they do with that extra $494k?

well, $400k of it goes to the reserves, which i'll get to in a second. the last $93k, near as i can tell, gets rolled over to the next year. i'll admit this part i'm a little unsure about, as it's not clear on the spreadsheet, but that's the only thing that makes sense.

the reserves, though are clear. the most recent post i could find on the otw site about it were in the board meeting minutes from april 2, 2022: "We’re holding about $1million in operating cash that is about twice the amount of our annual operating costs. There is another $1million in reserves due to highly successful fundraisers in the past. The current plan for the reserves is to hold the money for paid staff in the future. It’s been talked about before in the past and we’re still working out the details, but it’s a rather expensive undertaking that will result in large annual expenses in addition to the initial cost of implementation."

woah....they're PLANNING to have paid staff eventually! wild!

so let's assume, for easy numbers, that the otw currently has $1.5 million in reserves. before we even get to how to use that money, let's look at the issues with implementing paid staff:

deciding which positions are going to be paid, because it can't be all of them

deciding how much to pay them, bc minimum wage sure as hell isn't enough, and cost of living is different everywhere, and volunteers come from all over the world

hiring staff and implementing new systems/tools to handle things like payroll and accounting

making sure you continue to earn enough money both to pay all of the staff and have some in reserves for emergencies or leaner donation drives

probably even more stuff than that! i don't run a nonprofit, that's just what i can think of off the top of my head.

okay, okay, okay. for the sake of argument, let's assume there is a best-case scenario where the otw starts paying some staff tomorrow. how much should they be paid? i'm picking $15 an hour, since that's what we fought for the minimum wage to be. by now, it should be closer to $20 or $25, but i'm trying to give "ao3 is capitalism" the fairest shot it can get here, okay?

ideally, if someone is being paid to help run ao3, they shouldn't need a second job. every job should pay enough to live off of. and running a nonprofit is hard work that leads to a lot of burnout--two board members JUST resigned before their terms were up. what i'm saying is, i'm going to assume a paid otw staff is getting paid for 40 hours of work a week, minimum. that's $31,200.

at $400,000 per year, the otw can afford to pay 12 people. that's WITHOUT taking into account the new systems, tools, software, etc they would have to pay for, any kind of fees, etc, etc.

oh, and btw, if you're an american you're still making barely enough to survive in most places, AND you don't have universal healthcare, vision, or dental. want otw to give people insurance, too? the number of people they can pay goes down.

it's. not. possible.

a million dollars is a lot of money on the face of it, but once you realize how MUCH goes into running something like the otw, it goes away fast.

just for reference, wikipedia also has donation drives every year. wikipedia, as of 2021, has $86.8 million in cash reserves and $137.4 million in investments. sure, wikipedia and ao3 are very different entities, but that disparity is massive. and i should note that if you give $10 to wikipedia they don't give you voting rights, i'm just saying.

by the way, you may have noticed that i didn't mention legal costs at all here. isn't one of otw's big Things about how they do legal advocacy?

yes, it is. they have a whole page about that work. and i can't for the life of me find a source on otw's website (and i'm running out of time to write this post, i'll look harder later), but i am 90% sure i learned before that most, if not all, of otw's legal work/advice/etc is done pro bono. i've also seen an anti-ao3 person claim their legal budget is only $5k or so, but they didn't have a source. but keep in mind that if they don't have a legal budget, all the numbers above stay the same, and if they do, there is even less money available for paid staff.

you can criticize ao3 and the otw all you want! there are many valid reasons to criticize them, and i do not think they're perfect either. but if you're going to do so, you should at least make sure you can back up your claims, bc otherwise you just look silly.

[nana-mizu-shiki]

"You're not flirting with me, are you?"

Was not expecting that ( ﾟ, ﾟ)

[king-nyx]

Nothing breaks my heart more than “Error 503” on ao3. Completely unfair.