#writing interrogation

[prokopetz]

The constant rolling disaster that is Overwatch's game development aside, what really perplexes me about how Blizzard is handling the broader franchise is their continual insistence that a canon narrative exists in spite of their equally continual refusal to tell anyone what it is.

Like, okay, the events of the games aren't canon. Fair enough: the games are multiplayer-only, and you can't account for player actions.

Oh, and the animated short films aren't canon either – they're properly understood as in-universe propaganda, not depictions of actual events. That's a little high concept for you guys, but fine.

But surely the comics are canon, right? Well, no; some of the comics (we're not telling you which ones) were canon at one point, but the writing team has decided to go in a different direction.

My dudes, what is left? The weird Source Filmmaker porn? Is that canon? Well, apparently it's at least as canon as anything else!

[help-itrappedmyself]

Dead on Main Part 5

Masterpost

“We have to stop for snacks!” 

“We are not stopping for snacks.”

They started this conversation two whole minutes ago.

“We have to stop for snacks! It is a quintessential part of the road trip experience. This is our first road trip. Do you really want to deprive your family of the full experience?”

Apparently, the Waynes have never been on a full road trip, usually flying places instead, so Dick is insisting we make this a whole experience. Danny is willing to bet car games will be played at some point.

“It’s a long drive, we’re not stopping unless necessary.”

Danny wonders how long the discussion can last as it reaches the four minute mark. 

“ But-”

Tim taps Dick on the shoulder to shut him up. “I have to go to the bathroom.” He deadpans at Bruce. 

Bruce looks at him in the rearview mirror, looks back at the road, looks back at Tim. Bruce sighs.

“Everybody is going to the bathroom. We can get some snacks, and then we are not stopping for at least four hours.” 

Dick cheers, and Danny chuckles at Tim’s smirk. They’ve only been on the road for forty-five minutes, by all rights no one should have to go to the bathroom yet, but Danny was enjoying the family banter in the car.

The first forty-two minutes of the drive was mostly just everyone settling in, Dick in the front as navigator, though it didn’t seem like Bruce needed directions. Danny had asked and he’d never been to Illinois before, but they’re probably still in familiar territory, he might need a map later. Danny is in the back seat, sitting behind Bruce, Tim is sitting behind Dick. Dick and Tim both brought backpacks with them for the drive, Tim has at least two tablets in his. Danny knows they put a bunch of stuff in the trunk as well,  overnight bags and other assorted items, he thinks he saw a pillow. Danny knows somebody went to pack something for him/Jason when they get there, but doesn’t know who. He doesn’t have any entertainment, because he doesn’t have anything except Jason’s phone on him. 

They pull into a gas station, Bruce is determined to get the most out of this stop. Bruce pumps the gas as Danny, Dick, and Tim head inside. They do all go to the bathroom, and Bruce comes in to use the restroom as they raid the snack aisles. Tim has three canned coffees in his hands.

“You know if you drink all of those we’ll have to stop again.” Danny points out. “ Plus it’s late, can you not sleep in cars?”

“Can’t sleep at all usually. We’ll see, but I have some stuff to work on anyway.” Tim points to the drink displays. “Anything you’d like?” 

Danny knows that they don’t mind paying for him, at this point it has been debated multiple times, and he knows he won’t make the whole trip without any snacks. He grabs a Monster and a Gatorade for the road. They meet Dick in the chip aisle. It looks like he’s already grabbed one of every candy, and he’s well on the way to one of every chip.

“Hey, what do you like Danny?” Danny stares at all the food precariously balanced in his arms.

“If you’re sharing, I think we’re good.” 

Dick and Tim laugh.

“We will be sharing most of this. I got all of our favorites, but everyone has something that they’re not willing to share as well. Why don’t you pick out something that’s just for you.”

Tim has grabbed sour gummy worms and is making his way to the checkout counter where Bruce is waiting with a very resigned look on his face. Danny grabs a bag of beef jerky and walks with Dick to the checkout. The look on Bruce’s face when Dick walks up with his arms full is hilarious and Danny actually snorts at Bruce’s ‘I can’t control these children’ apologetic look he gives the cashier as Dick dumps his haul onto the counter.

They pile back into their seats, the seat between Tim and Danny now stuffed with all the snacks. There is not one empty cup holder left in the car. They spend the next short stretch getting resettled, opening up their first snacks and drinks. Tim Pulls out a tablet, but doesn’t start working on anything, too busy texting someone. Danny considers pulling out his phone, remembers it’s not his, and then decides not to. He wouldn’t know the password anyway, maybe he can ask if his brother’s know what it would be.

They’d just about hit the first hour mark on their 12-hour trip when Dick turns around in his chair to face the backseat. Danny sees him slip his phone away.

“Hey, Danny, why don’t you tell us about yourself?” Tim has put his phone down.

“Well, I’m still in highschool. Should graduate soon, hopefully.” Danny starts tapping his fingers on his thighs. He hopes he can graduate. “You know I have a sister in college. I have another sister, she’s a traveler, she doesn’t do school.” 

“Do you like school?” Dick prompts.

“It’s okay.” He shrugs. “I’m not great at it. I like learning, but it’s not a great school and there’s only so much learning you can do from inside a locker.” 

“You fit in a locker?” Tim asks.

Danny looks at himself, quickly realizing that they have no idea what he looks like as he sees Jason’s bulky frame. He chuckles, rubbing the back of his head with a hand.

“Ha, yeah. I’m more…. Tim to Damian size? I think I’m around your height.” He said in Tims direction. “Maybe an inch or two shorter, but I have no muscle mass, so It’s a bit of a squeeze but I fit well enough. Never get stuck. Tucker got stuck once.” 

Dick frowns. “Do a lot of people end up in lockers at your school?” 

“Sure. Me, Tucker, Mikey… Maybe Wes if he ever really pisses someone off. But he’s more likely to annoy me than Dash, and I’m not going to shove him in a locker.”

Tim nods sagely, like he understands high school. Dick is frowning like he doesn’t. 

“Dash a sports guy?” Tim asks.

Danny nods. “Football quarterback and basketball.”

“Geek or nerd?” 

“Personally, nerd probably.” Danny thinks about it. “But there’s not much opportunity to explore engineering and space in high school, so I’m mostly average. Tucker is a big geek, he’s great with computers. Does most of the coding for my more technological fixes when I’m working on my parent’s stuff.”

“You work with your parents a lot?” Dick’s phone chimes, but he ignores it.

“Not with them so much as on their stuff. They create it, they come up with a lot of cool stuff. I reverse-engineered a lot of it once it’s done.” 

“You said a lot of it was weapons?” Tim’s phone dings. “Damian says not to ignore his text.” 

“Oh!” Dick grabs for his phone.

“Some. They built other stuff as well, but they specialize in weapons and defenses against ghosts.” 

Dick immediately turns back to look at him. “Ghosts?” 

Danny could hear the doubt in his voice. He sighs. “Yeah, they’re ecto-biologists. Amity has a big ghost problem, that’s why we live there, they wanted to study them.” Danny has a slight shiver, but suppresses it. “They develop a lot of technology using ectoplasm-” Danny shudders for real this time. His squeezes his eyes closed, feeling a deep roiling in his gut that is vaguely nauseating, and a fire in his brain that is making his blood feel like it's burning. This is strange. His brain goes on overdrive, thinking about his parents, the blob ghosts he has had to free from their basement, the threats they make, them shooting at him. Danny recognises the churning in his body as ectoplasm riling up a core. His core.

But he’s not in his body, he shouldn’t have… Jason has died too. Danny opens his eyes and they’re glowing.

[whumpy-bi]

But just…I feel very strongly about a Whumpee being tortured for information they just don’t have. Whumper is certain they know, they are totally convinced Whumpee is lying through their teeth.

Whumpee wants to scream if they hear that goddamn question one more time—but they have no choice, Whumper will keep asking until Whumpee cracks.

But they’ve cracked a long time ago, they just don’t know.

Whumper tells them over and over—“If you’re honest, we can stop. You can lay down, I’ll even get you a drink. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

But Whumpee just wails and begs them to stop, even as Whumper asks again. They just don’t know.

[castillon02]

“Make them clean their own guns,” Nguyen said, leaning her considerable bulk over Q’s desk. She was just starting her shift. “Or at least wear gloves.” 

Q kept plunging a bore brush soaked with cleaning fluid into the barrel of 007’s Walther PPK. His eyes burned with fatigue. “I’ll take it under advisement.” 

When he finished, he left with gun oil on his fingers, fingers that had traced over the gun’s every crevice, every curve and angle, every metal and electric anatomical fold. 

—

“Why not tell us to clean our own guns?” 006 asked. 

“I'm a control freak,” Q said. “Which is also why I know that yours is in the middle of the Atlantic and not in need of cleaning at all.” 

This was a lie. 006 had reported the gun lost at sea but had actually smuggled it back into his own flat, where it was currently residing in what Q suspected was his bedroom and knew for certain was the room that also had a backup earwig that Q had personally assembled, a Ka-Bar that Q had archaically sharpened on a whetstone, and one of the decoy keychains and keys (Alaska) that Q kept on his desk so that agents had something harmless to swipe. Probably there were other things that 006 also had in his nest, but they would be things that Q hadn’t touched and could only theorize about. 

Q was bad at lying. 

006 visibly recognized this, realized that Q was lying in his favor, and couldn’t stop his eyes from widening. “Right,” he said. 

Q smiled. Fixed him with a specific knowing look. You don’t ask, I don’t ask. “If it hadn’t sunk into the fathoms below, I would recommend a new hammer spring. Sometimes these things get a bit fussy when you use a gun as a bludgeon. That’s part of why I do in-person maintenance.” 

Part of the reason; not the whole reason. 

006 muttered a Russian curse. “Thank you, Q.” 

“Happy to help.” 

---

001 brought his guns back clean, but with a new part in them each time; a replacement firing pin, hammer, ejector rod, bullets. 

Q always asked about the replacement. He did it before disassembling the gun, like a magic trick.

001 always grinned like a mischievous schoolboy. “I’ll get you next time,” he would say, wagging a finger at him. Perhaps you’re more fallible than you believe. 

“It’s good that you’re optimistic,” Q would reply loftily. No mistakes. I see your gun. I see your tricks. I see you. 

—

004 never cleaned her gun and always brought it back. Hers was a semi-automatic of Theseus, parts replaced naturally when there was wear and tear. 

“Same as always?” she asked when she picked up her kit. 

“Same as always,” Q confirmed. 

—

When Q was a child, he asked, “Mum, why do you always shout about your car keys in the morning? And why does Peter never know where his pencils are?” 

She frowned into the mirror and finished applying her lipstick. “Sometimes people lose things, dear.” 

“How?” Q asked, boggled. 

She looked at him with squinched eyes; that meant she was thinking hard. “Well,” she said slowly, “we forget where we put them, or someone puts them somewhere we don’t expect.” 

Q squinched his own eyes too. What could she be thinking so hard about?  

Mum smiled. “Tell you what, we’ll see if I can give you a demonstration after school, all right?”  

Mum didn’t turn on the telly right away after dinner like she usually did. Instead, she sat down next to him on the sofa. “Sweetheart, you know how you asked about when I lose my keys? Does that ever happen to you?” She was trying to be casual about it, but if it were really unimportant then she would have asked during a commercial. 

“One time I pretended it did,” he told her, “because I was curious to see what it was like. So one day while you were doing the shopping I put one of my books on top of the telly and stomped around in the other room going ‘Where the hell is my story book?’ in a loud voice like you do with your keys. It was a little fun, but not much.” 

“It’s not fun to lose things. Do you know,” she asked, “where your story book is now?” 

“Yes, of course,” he said. His story book was immense and well-thumbed, so heavy that it made him grunt whenever he had to lift it, but he had already read through all of it at least four times. It had hard edges and corners that were beginning to bend; chocolate fingerprints littered the pages at the beginning because his hands had still been sticky from birthday cake when he first opened it—he can put his fingers on them now and see how much he’s grown. There’s a stain of pomegranate juice at the beginning of the Persephone story from the pomegranate that his mother had bought before they read it together; a special treat, expensive, but “you have to know what a pomegranate is before you read it,” she’d said, “otherwise you’ll wonder why they’re eating the seeds.”    

“And where is it?” his mum asked. She had to know that Q knew, because why wouldn’t he know? 

He answered anyway. She ‘humored’ Q a lot, she sometimes told him, so he could humor her this time. “In the vegetable drawer,” he said. “You came home for lunch and moved it there. But that’s a silly place for things that aren’t vegetables, isn’t it?” 

His mum closed her eyes and sighed, long and deep the way she did every so often when Q asked too many questions that she couldn’t answer. “You’re right,” she said after a moment. “I’m lucky to have a son who knows that. But most people can’t keep track of their things as well as you can, so let’s not talk about it too much and make them envious, all right?” 

That was something he knew how to do. He had already had a few talks about not stirring the other kids up with how smart he was. Plus he could tell from the tightness in her voice, like when she talked to her boss’s boss or Q’s headmaster, that she was nervous. “Sure, Mum,” he said. “I won’t.”   

So he never mentioned it again. 

He also never lost his keys, or his rucksack, or his socks, or anything else he touched and touched often. He might as well try to lose his own foot.     

—

“You know, we can clean our own guns,” 002 said, dropping her pistol onto Q’s desk. “In fact, you’ll find I did.” 

Q smiled. “That will make it much quicker when I do it, then.” 

002 pursed her lips and blew a pink bubble with her gum, which Q Branch had also issued her. “And where do you want this?” She took the sticky wad out of her mouth and held it out to him. “Gonna chew it for me?” 

Q held out a petri dish. “We have better chemical analyzers than my tongue, I’m happy to say. We do want to see about the wear and tear on the product.” He met her eyes. “Reliability is important in our field.”  

002’s performatively petulant glare softened. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and next time you’ll make it into plastique instead of a tracker.” One corner of her mouth quirked up.

The sticks of gum were actually one of Q’s least favorite gadgets; like most gum, it was sensitive to heat, so he couldn’t hold it for long without destroying its structural integrity. Couldn’t sense what he usually sensed. But if it put a smile on 002’s face as well as being useful to her, he’d keep issuing it.   

—

“A gun and a radio,” Q said. He waved his hand at the corner of his desk where he’d perched the usual equipment case. “Earwig will be distributed at your landing site. Unless things go terribly wrong, the local team should be able to support you for this one.” 

Bond took the case. “Anything else?”     

Q looked up; he’d been double-checking Bond’s mission brief and wondering how much structural damage the Managua team could make excuses for. “Cufflinks.” He pulled a small box out of his desk drawer and opened it. Inside lay a pair of cufflinks, copies of ones that Bond already owned and wore frequently. “They have little folding knives in them.” He demonstrated how the outside half could be pulled apart to reach the blade in the middle.��

The corners of Bond’s eyes were all happy wrinkles. “Am I expected to need tiny knives?” 

“No,” Q admitted. “But you brought the Walther back last time and I thought you could use some positive reinforcement. May I?” He removed the old cufflinks and put the new ones on, his fingertips brushing against the warm skin of 007’s wrists as he did. “Good luck in the field, 007,” he said after he closed the last French cuff. “As always, try to bring the equipment back in one piece.”   

“As always,” Bond echoed, his eyes meeting Q’s before he left. 

The cufflinks weren’t just positive reinforcement, of course. They were a connection; this meant that it was even odds that Bond would destroy them. (Paradoxically, Bond had the best equipment survival rate when that equipment self-destructed; he wore the latest exploding watch for three months and four missions before he had to use it.) 

Q didn’t touch the other 00s, who stayed near their equipment, more or less, and who deserved their privacy, deserved not to have their footsteps tracked through the crevices of Q’s brain. In fact, he didn't touch anyone. Not if he could help it.

With Bond, Q made excuses for the tiniest bit of extra assurance, the mental tip-toe of 00 feet sneaking across the globe. 

—

“Make Hutchinson do it,” Nguyen said, back again. “He loves guns; he’d be thrilled to do maintenance on company time.” 

Q met her eyes. “I take personal responsibility for the equipment of our most senior agents. They deserve that level of consistency.” He changed out the cleaning swatch he was using. 

“How consistent will you be if you burn out because you never leave this place? Guns, radios, earpieces--you can delegate. Our work is important, but...” 

“I’m almost done,” Q said, implacable. 

Nguyen sighed. “Sleep well, Quartermaster.” She showed herself out.             

Q dried, oiled, and reassembled the gun. He would make sure to catch up with Doctor Who and a few blockbusters so he could convince Nguyen that he sometimes made an effort to think about things that weren’t work or work-related. They could collaborate on blueprints for a sonic screwdriver. It would be fine. 

He would even give the same advice if he were in her position. She couldn’t know that Hutchinson doing as simple a thing as cleaning a Double-Oh’s gun until it shone would be detrimental to the delicate safety net that Q had been building since he had arrived at Six.  

Q touched everything his agents went out with, enough that he could still sense 007's old Walther in Macau, 001's discarded ejector rod in Tunis, 004's stack of worn-out gun parts secreted in a tea tin hidden behind a book on his shelf because he liked the thrum of them all together like that, and there was always the risk, at work, that they'd be disposed of.

He never lost things that were truly his. Guns, radios, earwigs, cufflinks.

He hadn’t lost an agent yet either.

[mischievous-thunder]

[gilmores-glorious-blog]

braius asking everyone except chetney if they’re single is so fucking funny actually since everyone in bells hells except chetney is in a deeply complex situationship with someone else in the party

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

cw captive whumpee, injury, betrayal, tortured for information, intimate whumper 

After hours of torture, of beatings, of sleep deprivation, Whumpee finally gives in. Coughing up a mouthful of blood onto the ground at Whumper’s feet, they beg, “S-stop, please. No more, I can’t—I'll tell you, I-I'll tell you everything.” 

“You lasted longer than I thought.” Whumper crouches down in front of them, taking Whumpee’s chin in their hand and tilting their head up. Their expression is almost sympathetic as they take in Whumpee’s teary eyes and bruised face. “But it’s okay. It’ll all be over if you give me the information I need. And then, just think how nice it will be to finally rest. You can sleep in a real bed while your injuries heal.” 

Whumpee doesn’t need any more convincing. They choke out the information through sobs, clinging to Whumper, and each heave of their chest sends pain shooting through their broken ribs. But it will be over soon—Whumpee doesn’t know why they even held out this long if they were just going to break anyway. 

Whumper strokes their hair gently as they give up the secrets they were trained to die for. Endangering their team’s entire operation and perhaps their lives. But then again, it’s not like Whumpee’s team came to rescue them—as Whumper had reminded them countless times. And they were right. 

“Good…that’s perfect, Whumpee,” Whumper praises after they’ve finished spilling every bit of information that had been requested, and then some. “Thanks to you, your team won’t stand a chance against me, now.” 

A sense of relief washes over Whumpee. It's done—the suffering is finally over with. They want to sleep until the pain no longer clings to their bones and laces every movement. However, their relief is quickly replaced by a fresh bout of fear at the realization of what they’ve just done. “They’ll know it was me,” Whumpee whispers brokenly.  

“Of course they will,” Whumper says, matter-of-fact. “And they will go looking for you. And if they find you, they will kill you.” 

Whumpee shakes their head. “Worse,” they correct. “They’ll do so much worse than just kill me.” 

A sharp pain shoots through their side and they groan, clutching at one of their wounds. Whumper gathers them into their arms before they collapse completely, and assures Whumpee, “That’s why you will be staying with me. In exchange for giving up the information I needed, you will be under my protection.” 

Whumpee can’t possibly have heard them right. They must be delirious from the pain. “W-what?” they stammer. Everything is growing fuzzy, and now that they’re being held in Whumper’s arms, they just want to let their eyes fall shut and surrender to sleep. 

The gentle fingers brushing back Whumpee’s hair lull them further into unconsciousness as Whumper murmurs, “I can’t just give you up now, sweetheart. I think you’d make a valuable addition to my team.” 

Whumpee hums in agreement, not quite sure what they’re agreeing to, but if it means an end to the pain, they’ll do just about anything. 

“You were never cut out for this line of work, were you?” Whumper says teasingly. They lift Whumpee in their arms and begin carrying them somewhere, but the gentle rocking motion of their steps eases Whumpee into sleep long before they find out where they’re being taken. 

[whump-in-the-closet]

Hear me out, a whumpee pretending to be scared of something so they won’t break during interrogation or something like that and then whumper finds out

OH ANON YES. BRILLIANT.

~ an arrogant whumpee who’s willing to sacrifice their self-respect in order to survive~

a whumpee who’s been tortured before and takes it as best they can. They clench their jaw and clean their wounds. They pop their dislocated limbs back into their sockets and can sleep in any position. They don’t talk back, not out of compliance but disgust. Whumper isn’t worth their breath.

but this Whumper is relentless. Every day is hell, filled with different kinds of pain. Their questions are drilled into Whumpee’s head like a mantra, repeated over and over. They know, somehow, Whumpee isn’t broken. And it infuriates them, like an itch just under their skin.

Whumpee starts to grow tired and decide it’s time to start playing by Whumper’s rules.

When Whumper snaps an electric collar around Whumpee’s throat, it’s easy to scream their voice is hoarse. They don’t have to force the tears into their eyes.

Whumpee allows their voice to quiver. They know how to duck their head in the perfect image of terror. “P-lease. Please n-not again.”

What Whumper doesn’t know is that the hitches in Whumpees voice are from hidden laughter.

Whumper is triumphant, gloating. They’ve finally broken the stoic. They press the remote with glee and watch Whumpee strain against their chains.

“Finally, you know your place.”

Whumpee sobs, crumpled face-first on the interrogation table. “I’ll— I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

Whumpee gives them incorrect information, lying through their teeth and biting back a smile. This idiot, they think.

But Whumpee miscalculated one tiny detail. They didn’t realize how quickly Whumper would verify the information. They thought they had bought themselves more time. They were wrong.

Whumper enters the interrogation room and dials the shock to the highest setting. This time, the screams are real. “How long were you lying to me?”

Between the shuddering pain, Whumpee coughs violently and gasps out, “The whole goddamn time.”

[whumpberry-cookie]

After the rescue, Leader never shows the impact captivity had on them.

They keep composure for the sake of their team. But there are signs.

------------------------

"Bring me coffee to my office, please" while they never used to say please before, out of their rank and reputation.

Smoking way more often then before

A tiny little muscle tremble that makes it hard to hold the cutlery. Drops the fork on the floor and instantly picks it up, like nothing happened.

Gives more authority to their assistant to take decisions for them.

During the meeting, they show their assistants some secret hand sign and leave the room. They continue without them.

Used to hate cats/dogs? Now places their hand on the fur of the animal that came and lied down next to them. Well, look at that, isn't that a retired service animal that sensed their distress?

A crying kid sees the first adult they can run to and hugs their waist, crying. Leader instead of instantly ordering to take the kid away, first sighs and awkwardly pets their back. "There, there".

------------------

[sinful-lanterns]

kraken hamel⁉️ what i would do to get her inside of me ASAP is heinous,,,

Kraken Hamel who climbs into the Researcher’s little rowboat one evening and accidentally makes her scream because she wanted to get closer to the little human sailing by herself at night. While the Researcher is busy panicking about what to do, Hamel would wrap her thick, slimy tentacles around you and gently clasp the tips of them over your mouth, effectively shutting you up. “Oh, please don’t scream,” she’d say in such a gentle voice, leaning closer to you to get a good look at you. “You’ll attract other monsters to your boat. Many dangerous ones in fact…”

Kraken Hamel, who; despite being a very scary looking monster girl with her lower half comprised of tentacles, was actually quite the gentle one in comparison to the other monster girls you’ve encountered. She’d keep you safe, her bioluminescenct body glowing like a nightlight as she helped you with your “studies” in researching monster anatomy.

Oh, and by studies I mean she gave you a very thorough, hands on demonstration of how her tentacles functioned. Your body would be like jelly in her arms, as she moved her thick, girthy, lubed tentacles in and out of your holes like it was nothing, allowing you to feel the stimulating, soft bumps of her suckers rubbing up against your walls, so you could make a mental note to add that later to your guidebook…

Your notes thanks to your encounter with Kraken Hamel include:

- Krakens have a girth of 4-8 inches for their tentacles, with lengths varying in size depending on the kraken itself.

- Krakens have a bioluminescent glow that can shine very brightly even when buried within something (or someone). Their glow can even be shown through human skin.

- Krakens are naturally very slick and lubed. Especially the tentacles as many were able to fit in small crevices and holes.

- Kraken Hamel is very good at aftercare.

[susieandhobbes]

The SydCarmy backlash is so Boring

It's many other things besides, but primarily, it's so fucking BORING.

There's a very specific kind of irrational anger that comes with ships featuring a Black women x a leading white boy of the month and every sorry excuse for why it's definitely not racist is so played out

"What's wrong with a platonic friendship between men and women?! We need more non-romantic representation"

Yawn

"There just isn't any chemistry"

Cliche

"I just think she's too good for him actually. She's so strong/independent/amazing, she deserves better"

mhm if you say so

"What if she/he were gay instead? I think this would be a great time for more LGBT rep :)"

Yep, convenient

"It's definitely not a race thing because I ship her with this white person!" (A side character who is either a derivative of the lead, poorly written, or has minimal screentime)

Oh indeed

"I ship her with this Black person!" (Often times the only other Black person in the show or movie, no matter how little they interact or how little interest she has in him, in a violent case of "pair the spares")

Sigh

I can pick any popular swirl ship dating back to fucking 10 and Martha in 2007 and find 50-11 variations of the same excuses. Truly, I'd rather y'all just say you don't want Black women's hands on your fav white men but I'm pretty sure like 85-95% of the people aren't even self-aware enough to realize that that is their issue. So until then, can we at least switch up the damn script?

[youcalledsworld]

DP x DC prompt

Danny was taught by Frostbite and Pandora how to suppress his ecto signature so that other ghost and ghost tracking technology can't sense him. Sadly they didn't count on Jazz being liminal and having a strong signature so she is tracked down by the GIW and vivisected.

Danny worried about his older sister, tells his parents about his Halfa status so they can help look for Jazz. They don't have time to really acknowledge it because their baby girl needs their help. So Danny and his parents raid the GIW base and save Jazz. Sadly, on the way out Jack is killed trying to protect Maddie and Maddie is grievously injured.

Maddie gives Danny a device to suppress Jazz's signature and tells him to take Jazz and leave. Danny with an injured Jazz runs, he thinks of going to Gotham since the ectoplasm there might conceal him and Jazz but decides not to. The GIW has gotten smarter so they might go to Gotham to try and track them.

But with the suppression device he can take Jazz anywhere so he takes her to Star city. While there Danny took up multiple under the table jobs and underground fighting to make money.

Black Canary was investigating a new underground fighting ring when she noticed the boy who couldn't have been older than 15. He was a regular and she could tell that he regularly threw fights just enough not to be scouted by the big players pulling the strings behind the scenes. So she thought he would be the perfect person to interrogate.

She followed him to his run down apartment building. She found his apartment and was getting ready to silently enter, through the window to speak to the boy when she saw him trying to feed a young Redheaded woman who had a blank face, sunken eyes and was so skinny you could see her bones.

She then noticed the boy's shoulders starting to shake and heard him sobbing asking for his sister to come back to him.

[varpusvaras]

Senator Organa is already in the interrogation room when Vader arrives.

He doesn't look afraid, either. Vader can almost respect it. He would've, in different time. He had liked Senator Organa, back then, and he had thought him to be a man with sense. He had thought that he had understood the situation and accepted it, and had done his part in the Empire.

Instead, he had been deceiving them all. Most of all, he had been deceiving Vader. Stealing from him. Taking what belonged to him.

He should've been very afraid. But he isn't.

That is not bravery, nor is it even integrity.

It is merely stupidity.

"Senator Organa", he greets him first. He shouldn't have. Everyone should be bowing their heads when he walks into the room, if not out of respect, then out of fear.

He has a feeling that Senator Organa feels neither towards him.

"Lord Vader", Senator Organa greets him back. Voice level, if not a little tense. He is awaiting some news, but he doesn't now what they are, yet.

Vader is not going to give him anything.

"Let us get straight into the point, Senator", Vader says. "You were hiding a Force-sensitive child in your home. A Force-sensitive child that belonged to Anakin Skywalker."

The name feels strange to say out loud himself. Foreign. Like he is speaking a different language altogether.

Senator Organa lifts his head up a little. A defiant little gesture.

Vader waits for him to answer. To see if he is going to try and deny it.

"If I may, my Lord", Senator Organa says. "I wouldn't say we were exactly hiding her. She is the Princess of Alderaan. She has been a public figure since she was brought into the family. I, at the very least, was under the impression that both you and the Emperor knew of her."

"But you were hiding her true identity." Senator Organa may have been able to circle around his first point, but he can not do it for this one.

"She was legally adopted", Senator Organa says. "She is an Organa, now. That is her true identity."

Vader clenches his fist. The hand and the glove make a harsh sound in the otherwise quiet room.

Senator Organa does not look afraid.

Vader hates it.

"You hid her true parentage", he accuses. "She belongs to the Empire, not to you. You had no right to take her."

There is a shift on the Senator's face, finally. He still does not look afraid. No, instead, he just looks a little frustrated, or perhaps exasperated.

"She is a baby", he says. "She had barely taken her first breaths when she was placed in my arms. She had no one else at that moment. I did what was right."

"You should've only done what you needed to do", Vader says. "And what you should've done was to bring her to the Empire."

"She is a baby", Senator Organa repeats. "She needed to be taken care of. She needed to be fed and clothed and loved. I did what was right for her."

"That was not a decision for you to make."

"Whose was it, then?" Senator Organa stares right into Vader's eyes. "Whose decision was it, then, Lord Vader? She had no one else. And certainly, there were no Imperial officers around to tell me what to do, either."

He sounds accusing, now. Like he is accusing Vader of not being there.

Like he is accusing Vader of-

Vader leans over the table. He is taller now than he had been before, and if he had garnered respect back then, he definitely does now.

Still, Senator Organa does not look afraid. Just like the Queen had not.

There is a look in his eyes as he watches Vader. Like he is trying to see through the mask. Like he is expecting to see something behind it.

Like he knows.

But he cannot know.

Everyone who had known who Vader had been before, and had known Senator Organa as well were dead.

Vader had seen to that himself.

Apart from one person.

The person who is responsible for what Vader is, now.

"There is, now", Vader says. "The truth is out. And still, you continue to hide her."

"She is still a child", Senator Organa says. "She has barely taken her first steps. She is just starting to speak her first words. All she still needs is someone to take care of her. Not the Empire."

Vader had once thought Senator Organa to be a wise man.

Now he thinks he is only a fool.

"I am choosing to ignore your platant disrespect towards the Empire for a moment longer." It is a warning, one that Vader hopes the Senator will heed. For his own sake. "Though I must admit, you are correct on one thing. She is just a child. A child that needs someone to look after her. A child you are putting ahead of yourself and your wife."

Vader leans closer, as much as the table between them allows.

Senator Organa does not look afraid.

Fool.

"You would need someone you trust to hide her." Vader watches Senator Organa's face carefully. "Someone you know would care just as much. Someone you know would put her ahead of themselves as well. Someone you know, who knows exactly what they are up against. Someone who knows."

He bores into Senator Organa's feelings as he asks the next question.

"Is she with Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

There are many feelings swirling inside the Senator's mind. Together they create a whirpool that is trying its best to keep anything and everything from Vader's grasp.

"No", Senator Organa says.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi was there when she was born." Vader reaches towards the rushing waters. "He needed a place to hide as well. A place I would never know to search. A place that was too close for me to see. You hid him on Alderaan as well, and now that we have discovered you, you gave her to him to hide away."

"No", Senator Organa says.

Vader plunges his hand into the water and seizes it.

"Is the girl with Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

"No!"

It is the first time Vader has heard Senator Organa break at all after they had been taken from Alderaan.

Still, he speaks the truth.

Vader can feel it.

It is not the entire truth, though.

There is something else. Something Vader can not quite grasp yet.

He will find it out eventually.

There is nothing that will be kept from him.

Not about this.

Vader pulls away. He leans back and watches as Senator Organa draws in a deeper breath to center himself again.

He looks slightly shaken, but still not afraid.

"Why continue this?" Senator Organa blinks as he focuses back on to Vader. "Why draw this out unnecessarily? We both know that eventually, the Empire will get what belongs to it. You could make this all a lot easier for yourself and everybody else."

"She is a child", Senator Organa says. "We are doing this for her own good. She needs to be taken care of-"

"The Empire will take care-"

"She needs to be loved." Senator Organa interrupts him. There is a righteous, irritating tone in his voice as he continues to speak. "She needs to be loved. The Empire cannot do that. She needs people to love her, to hold her, to nurture her."

Vader hates him more and more with every word.

If Senator Organa had been a wise man, he would've stopped there.

But he isn't.

"I watched her mother take her last breath, at the same time as she took her first." Vader has never hated anyone as much in his life. "She spoke to us about the life she had planned, about the nursery with sunlight and the crib next to a window. About the life she would've given to her, had she had the opportunity. She told us about that all because she was my friend. I had known her since she was barely an adult. We could've given her daughter everything she wanted to give her. To give her the life she wanted for her."

Vader knows nothing but hate as Senator Organa looks at him, through the mask, right into what is beneath it.

"She would've wanted her to be loved", Senator Organa says. "You know that."

If he had planned to say anything more, he cannot do it, as air is being seized from his lungs as his throat is being crushed. He does not even make a noise as Vader tightens his grip.

It would take just a little more. Just a little twitch of his fingers. That is all that Vader would need to do to.

He does not do it.

Instead, he releases his grip. Senator Organa does make noise now, as he gasps raspily, his body falling forwards towards the table as he does so.

"Consider yourself lucky, Senator Organa." He looks up at Vader as he speaks, and tries to halt his gasping. "That I still have a need for you. Perhaps you speak the truth when you say that the girl is not with Kenobi. But there is still something more you know, and I suspect that it is Kenobi's location, even if the girl is not there. I'm sure that we will come to an understanding about this all sooner or later. Perhaps the Emperise shall be merciful towards you and your wife at the end of it."

Senator Organa does not say anything, too busy to trying to breathe through his battered throat.

"Though I must tell you", Vader says. "That the same mercy will not apply to the one who has the girl. They will be tried the moment they are discovered, and it will lead to their end."

Senator Organa looks at Vader, and he looks afraid.

Interesting.

Vader turns, and leaves the room without another word.

[luxaofhesperides]

Ghostlight!

"You came?" "You called."

Danny in trouble, Duke to the rescue! (Or it can be reversed!) Maybe they've been online friends or met in person once and bonded over both having all these unexpected powers. Slightly angst.

There was never a point when Danny thought he would need the panic button Duke gave him.

It was a sweet gesture, a way for Duke to show that he cared for Danny and wanted him to be safe. Never mind that Danny can take care of himself, heals quickly from most wounds, and has been the protector, not the protected, ever since the Accident. If it makes Duke feel better, than Danny was more than happy to keep it on him as a token of affection.

The cultists, however, caught him off guard. 

Danny would be embarrassed about being nabbed off the streets so easily if the people who took him weren’t cultists lead by the daughter of a GIW agent, one who disapproved of the scientific approach the GIW took towards ectoplasmic entities and had turned to mystic arts as a way to defy her father. Which, usually, Danny would be all for striking out against the strict expectations of parents and their unwillingness to listen to their kids in any serious manner, but not this time. Not when it ends with him slowly waking up after they chloroformed him, curled up in some magic circle, surrounded by black candles and blue flame, and something in the air that smells of blood blossoms.

There are voices speaking, but he can’t make out what they’re saying over the pounding in his head, his heartbeat stuttering in his chest with each gasping breath he takes. 

Whatever they’re doing, whatever’s got him bound in the circle, makes his blood feel like its been lit aflame, agony coursing through his veins. He tries to grit his teeth and bare it, but it doesn’t become any more manageable.

No, it gets worse the longer he’s awake.

Danny tries to move, tries to get to his feet, but all he can do is curl up tighter, a sob forcing its way out of his throat.

“I know you’ve got some connection to Phantom,” he hears someone say, both by his ear and so far away he can barely make out the words. Danny whines, trying to insist that they’re wrong, he’s got nothing to do with phantom, but the voice continues. “Come on, cooperate with us and this will end sooner for you. You can’t lie about this; you wouldn’t be feeling anything if there was no connection.” 

A hand brushes against his forehead, burning hot, and Danny turns his face towards the ground trying to move away from it. 

“I knew ghosts had to have some tie to the living world. And a living anchor would make the ghost stronger… If only dad would listen to me.” The voice sighs, and the words help him put the pieces together and realize this is the daughter of the GIW agent that came closest to finding him when he first ran to Gotham. 

It’s been close to a year since then. He thought they’d stopped looking. 

Really, he should have known better.

The hand leaves his forehead and he hears the leader bark out an order. Voices surround him, chanting, as they rise out of the dark. 

A red glow begins to fall on everything, enough that Danny can see it through his barely open eyes. A shudder runs through him, and he feels his transformation try to begin.

NO, he thinks desperately. He tries to force it down but it fights against him. It’s agony, pain on a molecular level, the feeling of dying over and over and over again.

NO, he thinks, STOP I DON’T WANT TO DIE SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME.

And then, unbidden, a single word rising in his mind. Duke.

Duke will help him if he knows Danny needs help. Duke has been kind and welcoming and helped Danny find his footing in Gotham, never judging and always quietly offering a hand in support. He’s the person Danny’s closest to in Gotham, someone dear to him, a light in the dark. 

He gave Danny a panic button.

Contrary to popular thought, Danny isn’t an idiot. He knows Duke is the Signal. A few too many incidents where Duke had disappeared and the Signal appeared to save him tipped him off. It didn’t help that Duke acted the same in and out of costume, and he always, always grabbed Danny first at the elbow, then slid his hand down to his wrist. 

Besides, who else gives panic buttons to their friends? Danny would have done the same to Sam and Tucker if they weren’t always attached at the hip. He’s a (former) teenage vigilante too, he knows how being involved in this kind of thing invites trouble into the rest of his life.

Duke can help him. He’s a hero. He’s saved Danny before.

He’s his friend. Danny trusts (wants to trust, so badly) that Duke will help him even when he’s not fully human, fully alive.

With trembling hands, he reaches into his jacket, to the panic button. It’s a simple necklace with an unassuming metal rectangle dangling off of it. It’s flat and thin, but the top gives way to a button that Danny clicks three times in quick succession. 

He waits a moment, trying to breathe through the pain, and clicks it three times again.

Please hurry, Duke, he thinks, hand falling limply to the ground. 

“Let’s try this, instead,” the leader says, and the chanting falls to a quiet murmur to give way to her voice as she begins reciting something.

It starts at his feet. They cramp up suddenly, then pain crackles up his bones like lightning, digging deep into him. It feels as if a thousand knives dig into his abdomen, cutting in deep and twisting.

Danny chokes on his breath, then screams, trying futilely to scramble away. All it does is make him writhe on the ground, back arching enough that he can feel the strain of it on his spine, but it doesn’t matter because he’s forcing down his transformation again, smothering Phantom as much as he can.

His breath mists out before him. His fingers go numb, frost spreading across the floor.

Tears slip down his face as Danny pants for breath.

It hurts. It hurts like nothing has ever hurt before, but he refuses to give in. If they find out he’s Phantom, they’ll only do worse. 

Please, he thinks again, deliriously.

As if hearing him, a window shatters above him and the cultists break off in screams. 

Forcing his eyes open, Danny squints through he tears and watches as the shadows around them rise up, roiling, and crash against the cultists. The force of it knocks them down, leaving them to claw desperately at their faces as the shadows cover their nose and mouths, cutting off their air. The leader is yelling, rage clear in her voice, shooting out magic spells at the Signal.

The Signal is usually a friendly figure. He’s safe, something whose meer presence makes people feel safe. His smile means everything’s alright and when it’s directed to Danny, he feels like nothing bad can ever happen to him again.

The Signal isn’t smiling now. 

He’s furious, expressionless and stone cold, bashing away the spells with shadows or light, advancing on the leader like an avenging angel come to deliver justice. 

He takes her out with hard hits, striking methodically. It’s not quick. She doesn’t get the kindness of being knocked out; no, he snaps a wrist, breaks her nose, slams her down on the ground and cuts off her air with a knee until her struggles die off and she’s left limp on the floor. 

When he rises, surrounded by shadows still moving restlessly, illuminated only by the flicker blue flames of the candles, he should look terrifying. 

All Danny feels is relief so sharp it worries him that his chest was cleaved in half without him noticing until now. He shivers against the floor, too weak to reach out to the Signal.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t have to. 

The Signal picks him up with careful hands, checking him over for injuries.

“Duke,” Danny murmurs, slurring a bit. The torture is definitely at fault for it, but the sudden absence of all that pain doesn’t help him sound any more coherent. “You came.”

“You called,” Duke says, “Of course I came. I’ve been looking for you for hours. You never showed up for our study date and I know you always try to reach out if you can’t make it. I’m just sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”

“S’okay, ‘m not mad. Was scared, but you made it better. The panic button…”

“It’s how I found you. I’m so glad you were wearing it today.”

Danny tries to smile, but the most he can manage is a twitch of his lips before his head tips forward to rest against Duke’s armored shoulder. ���I always wear it.”

Duke’s grip on him tightens for a moment, then he begins walking, taking Danny away from the magic circles and the prone bodies of the cultists who had watched him be tortured and decided to keep going. Danny shudders again, his entire body aching. His transformation is still fighting to come out, but it’s not as strong anymore. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Duke says into his ear. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“No! No hospitals, please. I can’t let them know… they’ll find me…”

Duke shushes him soothingly, tucking him more securely against his chest. “Alright, Danny. No hospitals. But I am going to call Batman for a pick up to get you to one of the people we trust for medical care.”

“But Batman doesn’t work in the day.” Danny’s too exhausted to sound confused, but it must go through anyways. Duke laughs lowly, and the sound helps unwind the last of his nerves coiled up tight in fear. 

“Danny, it’s well into the night. You were gone for hours. Longest hours of my life.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, 

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault. Hang on, Batman’s nearly here.”

In any other circumstance, Danny would be excited to meet another hero. Especially Batman, one of the original heroes of the modern age. But all he wants is to go somewhere safe so he can curl up and cry, then sleep for three days before he pretends to be a normal human again. Ideally, he’d stay with Duke until he felt safe again, but he doesn’t want to take Duke away from the city that needs him.

His ears perk up a bit when he hears the smooth rumble of an engine stop in front of them. A door opens with a click without Duke needing to grab the handle, and then Danny is carefully being deposited in the back seat.

“Wait,” he says, trying to grab for Duke’s arm only to have his fingers fumble and grab nothing. Duke doesn’t move away, though, and instead grabs Danny’s seeking hand. “Stay? Please? I just—” his voice shudders, cracks, fractures apart. “I just want to feel safe.”

There’s a pause, a stillness in the air, before Duke says, “Okay. I’ll stay.” And then he’s sliding into the backseat, pulling Danny in to lean against him, curl into his embrace.

“Signal,” Batman’s low, gravelly voice says. There’s something in his tone that makes Danny tense up, prepared to take off, and his transformation pushes at his skin, ready to come out.

“He knows who I am, B,” Duke replies. “He’s trustworthy. Besides, just because he knows me doesn’t mean he knows you.”

“We will be discussing this later,” Batman says, dark promise in his voice. It’s just how he talks, Danny’s sure, too used to years of making himself the scariest thing in the dark. That doesn’t change the fact that Batman can be terrifying, and Danny can’t imagine he’ll take kindly to the fact that Danny knows Duke’s identity.

Fear slithers up his spine, and he can’t stop the transformation this time. The rings of white light flash over his body in a second, leaving Phantom in his place. 

Danny lets go of his legs first, glad to be free from their aching weight, and without a body made of flesh and bone, the hurt begins to fade away until it’s just an unpleasant memory. 

“What—” Duke starts to say just as Batman says, “Signal—”

They must have some sort of silent exchange. There’s only a heavy tension in the car and the barely audible rumble of the engine as they drive towards their destination, whatever it may be. Danny sinks into Duke some more, sighing in relief as a hand comes up to card through his wispy white hair. 

“Danny,” Duke says, “What’s this?”

“It’s why they hurt me,” he mumbles against Duke’s chest. “It’s why they keep hunting me down. I want them to leave me alone. I’m tired.”

Embarrassingly, his voice cracks on the last word and more tears fall down his cheeks. He hears Duke move, and then hands, bare and gloveless, wipe his tears away with a gentleness that makes his heart ache.

“They won’t be able to hurt you again. You’ll be safe from now on, Danny, I swear it.”

“S’okay if I get hurt,” he says, “It always happens. Promise to save me if this happens again?”

“I’ll do whatever I can to make sure it doesn’t happen again. But if it does, then I promise to always save you. I gave you that panic button, didn’t I? As long as you keep it, I’ll always find you.”

“You’re a good person, Duke,” Danny says, voice falling quieter as his exhaustion catches up to him. “I’m glad I met you.”

He thinks he feels a soft touch to the top of his head. A kiss, maybe, though it’s not likely. But he wants comfort, and he’s endured a lot a pain so he allows himself to hope and be delusional. With the warm that spreads through him from Duke’s soft kiss to his head, Danny gives in to the siren call of slumber.

“Get some sleep, Danny,” Duke says, voice hushed. “I’ll stay with you as long as you need.”

I know, he doesn’t say, too tired to open his mouth again, You’re always here. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

He falls asleep easily after that. There’s nothing in the world that can hurt him while he’s in Duke’s arms. He’s never been safer.

[the-broken-pen]

hi I saw your recent post I hope your moving went smoothly!

I have a loose prompt, if you wanted/had time/had WiFi to write: an interrogation room meet-cute between villain and non-field agent hero

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them the hero realized they were in the wrong room. A very wrong room.

They blinked. The villain blinked, taking them in.

“You look lost.”

“That’s rude,” they responded before they had the chance to think about it. “I work here.”

“Do you now,” the villain said, and the hero grew abruptly aware of their jacket stamped with the Agency logo, their gloves marking their designation as a touch based hero. It was a miracle they didn’t turn red with the embarrassment of it.

They tried the doorknob behind their back. It rattled, but didn’t open, and internally they started screaming. Just a little bit.

“They don’t open from the inside,” the villain said helpfully. “Security risk, or something like that.”

“I know that,” the hero snapped, and the villain raised an eyebrow. “Sorry.”

The apology blurted out before they could stop it.

“Did you just ‘apologize’ to me?” The villain looked at them incredulously.

“Uh,” they managed. “Funny question.”

“Funny—“ the villain cut themself off. “It’s not a question, I literally just heard you apologize.”

“Maybe you should get your hearing checked out,” they offered, and winced, because apparently every sane part of their brain had fled to France and left them with a singular suicidal brain cell.

The villain’s mouth was slightly open, as if they weren’t entirely sure what was happening. The hero shared the same sentiment.

The villain glanced at the camera, then back to the hero.

“You’re not a field agent,” they said, as if it was dawning on them.

“You don’t know that,” the hero said defensively.

“You’re holding a file.”

“Field agents are capable of holding files,” the hero replied. “Kind of rude of you to assume they can’t.”

The whisper of a smile tugged at the corner of the villain’s mouth.

“Sorry,” the villain said, and it was just barely mocking.

The hero rocked on their heels a bit, drumming their fingers on the file in their hands.

“They’re taking a while to get you out,” the villain observed.

“Yeah, Bob’s on duty.”

“Oh, so Bob doesn’t do his job?”

The hero jerked. “I did not say that.”

“It was kind of implied, though,” the villain said earnestly.

The hero had interacted with villains before: ending interviews for files, the odd informant. Never held a conversation though, and certainly not for this long.

This was why they didn’t do field work.

“What, no response?”

The hero smiled, sickeningly sweet. “I’m compiling commentary to add to your file.”

“So you admit to not being a field agent.”

“Continually makes assumptions, poor listening comprehension…”

“Not a very long list,” they pointed out.

The hero felt their smile sharpen. “The rest involves curse words.”

The villain barked a laugh, and the hero jerked slightly in surprise.

The villain regarded them like they were deciding something, as if they could see something within the hero that they themself couldn’t.

It had been a long time, longer than the hero would like to admit, since someone, anyone, had looked at them like that.

Like they mattered at all.

“I like you,” the villain said finally, slowly, like they weren’t entirely sure those were the words that were going to come out.

“You also like crime.”

“And you know how dedicated I am to that,” the villain said pointedly, a glint in their eye.

“How sweet,” the hero managed after a moment. “This is exactly why I became a hero. To be compared to felonies.”

The villain just smirked. They peered down at the handcuffed hands, then looked up at the hero. They weren’t sure when they had moved away from the door, closer to the villain, but somehow it had happened.

There was something warm to this; it sat in the hero’s chest, light and airy.

“I’ll text you when I get out. Say, next week?”

“You’re going to jail,” the hero reminded, mouth dry.

The villain grinned. “Right,” they drawled, amusement splashed across their face. “Jail. Which is where I am going. And where I shall stay. Absolutely.”

Something clicked, and the hero didn’t have to look under the table to know the villain had slipped their cuffs.

Despite their best efforts, their eyes flicked downwards, like they could see the now empty cuffs below the table. The villain grinned further, as if in challenge.

Are you going to tattle?

The hero swallowed.

“I’m really not supposed to be in here.”

“I’ve gathered,” the villain said. “You work the desk all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Personal choice, or…”

“I like it,” the hero said defensively. “It’s just puzzles, and I’m good at those.”

“Puzzles?”

“Putting things together,” they said vaguely. “Routes and evidence and all that.”

The villain’s brow furrowed, as if they were mulling something over. Their gaze returned to the hero, and it was searing.

“You’re the one who found me, aren’t you.”

“Oh,” the hero said, blushing. “That’s-I’m not—“

The villain leaned forward. “Am I in that file?”

The hero tucked it behind their back.

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

“No,” the hero said with emphasis. The villain laughed.

“You’re bad at this,” they said, but it was fond.

“Thanks, I try,” the hero said. They were waiting for the villain to stand up, but they seemed content to just sit there and watch.

“Mhm,” the villain agreed, and for some reason, the hero flushed even further.

The villain’s gaze snapped to the door, and they tilted their head as if listening to something.

“They’ll be here in a minute,” they said. The hero blinked. “To get you out,” the villain prompted.

“Right,” the hero said. They had forgotten they couldn’t leave, but the villain didn’t need to know that. They had a feeling they knew anyways.

“I’ll call you,” the villain reminded.

“You don’t have my number,” the hero protested.

The villain gave them a look. “You’re cute. Do you like pizza? We could do pizza.”

“We could never speak again.”

“Funny, I’ve never heard of that restaurant.”

“You—”

“Oh look, they’re here!” The villain said cheerfully.

The door swung open, and someone the hero vaguely recognized stepped in.

In the next second, the hero was in the hallway.

“Oh, and love,” the villain called, and the hero cursed themself for blushing. “Don’t be jealous of the other felonies. You’ll always be my favorite crime.”

The hero ducked their face behind the file, but they couldn’t stop the pleased smile that crept from the corners of their mouth.

[tangerinecherrygal]

Finally I can articulate one of my main issues with acotar atm. This point has probably been made before and in a much better way than I could, but my main issue with sjm is the murkiness of her stances on certain subjects.

Authors don’t have a responsibility to their audience to spell out their intentions. Media literacy is such a buzzword at the moment, but it really does apply to every piece of media we consume. Mainly the news and what we see on social media. In literature and tv/movies it becomes a bit more complicated.

People come at texts with different perspectives, but if an author is skilled enough, their stances will come across in some way or another. Though sometimes people that have certain ideologies go out of their way to apply it to whatever they are consuming. The Joker, LOTR, American Psycho, Breaking Bad, Succession and on and on. But I’d like to think that most of us don’t have such extreme ideologies that it affects how we view media that much.

Author seems to operate in a weird area where her messages conflict with each other, and not in a way that has purpose. I just read HOEAB and what stuck out to me was her idea of oppression. To me it seemed like the oppressed only deserved their equality if they fit a certain profile. This is true to life, but the writing doesn’t unpack this in any meaningful way.

Why is Lehabah treated with sympathy, and Philip Briggs not? It’s because his rebellion is loud and violent, but Lehabah’s most radical act is still in service of those that oppress her, even if the oppression is unintentional. There is a clear link to real life class and race relations, but it’s shallow exploration means that this commentary on oppression can never be fully fleshed out.

Now for the part that has been tread and retread: the court of nightmares and it’s real life implications. The CoN is full of ‘evil’ people that must be kept from the land of Dreamers. What is she saying with this besides the obvious real life zionist/colonialist parallels? There is no interrogation of this belief, it’s just accepted.

The wing clipping is shown to be a problem, but what would be required for the true liberation of Illyrian women is not something that our dear author is willing to explore meaningfully. Instead her approach reiterates the idea that other people and races within the night court are backwards, savage and unwilling to change. Again, you can’t not draw real life parallels to this. If we view wing clipping as an allegory for practices like FGM, then it paints it as a serious issue. But this is never adequately addressed. This reiterates the message that ‘this is just the way this culture is’ and further vilifies all of the Illyrians. It never gives a true voice to the many women affected by their cultural practices, and because of this, there can never be any true reform in the text.

These little things that I’ve noticed make me question what her intention was while writing. These aren’t once off things, they are recurring in her work. My takeaway is: Liberation is good, but only if it looks a certain way?