#but ao3 is the superior site anyways so here you go

[cherrynojutsu]

Chapters: 19/? Fandom: Naruto Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke Characters: Uchiha Sasuke, Haruno Sakura, Uzumaki Naruto, Hatake Kakashi, Sai (Naruto) Additional Tags: Uchiha Sasuke Returns to Konoha, Romance, Friendship, Fluff, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Dreams and Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Introspection, Slice of Life, Masturbation, Anxiety, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Uchiha Sasuke Needs a Hug, Sakura is a Sweetie, Sasuke is an emotionally stunted potato whose thoughts are a jumbled mess of poetic run-on sentences, Also yes he does think 'she is so pretty' all the time, it's canon I don't make the rules, Canon is Newspaper And I'm Making A Paper-Mache Pinata, Uchiha Sasuke is in Love with Haruno Sakura Summary:

Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.

[viajandopelomar]

FANFIC NERIS (NESTA X ERIS)

Hey guys, I'm writing a Neris (Nesta x Eris) fanfic on AO3, and I've decided to use Tumblr as a means of promotion. That's the only reason I created an account here, it just took longer than I thought to finally post on the site.

But anyway, in this post is chapter one, the prologue. I've decided to post the entire prologue, and the next ones will be excerpts from the chapters.

And this is the link to the fanfic in English:

You can also read it in Brazilian Portuguese (PT BR) here:

🇧🇷 Você também pode lê-la em português brasileiro (PT BR) aqui:

But I recommend that you read it on the AO3 website, so that you can comment and leave your opinions for future readers. And there's also space for chapter notes.

So you can do whatever you want with this post. Maybe comment on the same thing as the website 👀, because that attracts more people. That's if you want to, of course.

Happy reading!

Summary:

A rewrite of ACOSF where Nesta Archeron doesn't allow herself to be molded so easily and was as I imagine her to be.

Not content with being dragged to the top of a mountain against her will, Nesta will have to be patient with her plans. She sees no other loophole in prison than a marriage proposal to the heirs of Autumn.

Neris (Nesta x Eris).

⚠️Todos the rights to the original work belong to Sarah J. Maas⚠️

PROLOGUE

A ✨ ridiculous ✨ intervention

— You come under our jurisdiction the moment you spend our gold, and not a little, on wine. — Amren challenged her. Nesta turned to look at Feyre, who nodded.

— So you made me come here for a sermon?

Feyre's eyes softened.

— No, it's not a sermon. — She glanced at Rhysand, still trapped in an icy silence by the fireplace, and then at Amren, rabid like an animal.

— My life is none of your business and will not be the subject of any discussion.

Rhysand growled. She hated how they all looked like animals, it was just another reminder of what had been ripped away from her.

Cassian leaned forward in his chair, and Nesta held Rhys's gaze, inserting the challenge he hated so much

She would die just not to bow to him. None of them. Rhysand was aware of this and he hated her terribly. Even Amren had a certain respect for her, but not Nesta. She hadn't been taught to bow, anyway. Not to a fairy who loved to feel superior to her.

— That's enough! — Feyre exclaimed to her husband. — I told you to stay out of it. Go or stay, but keep your mouth shut. — Rysandy crossed his arms again, but remained silent. — That goes for you too. — said Feyre to Amren. The female cleared her throat in protest, but then curled up in her chair. Her sister turned to her and settled on the sofa, squeezing the velvet pillows. Feyre swallowed as Nesta turned to her.

— We have to make some changes, Nesta. — I said to her — You... We.

Where the hell was Elain?

— I take the blame for going so far, for letting things get so bad. After the war with Hybern, with everything that was happening... You... I was supposed to be by your side, helping you, and instead I wasn't there, but now I'm ready to admit that it's partly my fault.

— Your fault for what? — Nesta hissed.

— For you and the shit you do. — said Cassian. He had said the same thing at the Summer Solstice. And now, as before, Nesta was hardened by that insult, that arrogance... — Look — Cassian continued — it's not about moral failings, but...

— I know how you feel, Nesta — Feyre interrupted. Nesta blinked. It's time to make some changes. Starting now.

— Keep your savior spirit out of my life.

— You don't have a life. — said Feyre. — And I'm not going to sit here and watch you destroy yourself without doing anything. — she placed her tattooed hand on her heart, as if that gesture meant something. — After the war, I decided to give you time, but it was the wrong choice. I was wrong.

— Really?

— It's time to stop. — Feyre murmured in a trembling voice. So unprotected, with all her weaknesses exposed just in the tone of her voice — The way you behave, the apartment and everything else, it's time to get out of here, Nesta.

— And where do you think I should go? — Nesta replied in an icy tone.

Feyre looked at Cassian. Who, for the first time, wasn't smiling.

— You're coming with me. — said the sorcerer. — To train.

— What?

— At the end of this meeting, — Feyre clarified, you will move to the House of Wind. — And he pointed with his head towards the palace carved into the mountains at the eastern end of the city. — Rhys and I have decided that every morning you will train with Cassian at the Illyrian camp, Refuge of the Wind. And after lunch, all afternoon, you will work in the library under the House of the Wind. The apartment, the dirty taverns... It's over, Nesta.

— I'm not moving into the House of the Wind. — said Nesta. — And I'm not going to train in that miserable village. Least of all with him. — She gave him a venomous look.

— You have no choice. — said Amren, breaking the oath she had made to Feyre a few moments before.

— You do the thinking — Nesta challenged her.

— Your apartment is being emptied as we speak. — Amren continued. — When you come back, it will be empty. Your clothes have already been sent to the House of the Wind, although I doubt they'll be any use in your training at the Refuge of the Wind.

— You can't do this to me. I'm not a member of this court.

— But you have no problem spending this court's money. — refuted Amren. During the war you accepted the position of Emissary. You never resigned, so the law still considers you a member of the court. — An almost imperceptible movement of Amren's fingers and a book flew towards Nesta before falling onto the cushions beside her. — Page two hundred and thirty—six, if you want to check.

She wouldn't. Such a law was ridiculous, Rhysand couldn't go around locking up anyone he liked just because they worked in his court. And Nesta hadn't even done that.

— Here are your options, girl. — said Amren, lifting his chin.

Nesta noticed Feyre's gaze on her husband: the agony in her sister's eyes, Rhysand's barely contained anger at the pain his partner felt because of it, as if she were still a child who needed her father to interfere in her affairs. Poor Feyre.

— Option one. — said Amren, raising a finger. — You move into the House of Wind, train with Cassian in the morning and work in the library in the afternoon. You won't be a prisoner. But you won't have anyone to fly or cross you into the city. If you want to go, go ahead. If you have the courage to face the ten thousand steps of the house. — Amren's eyes flashed in defiance. — And if you can scrape together a couple of pennies to buy something to drink. But if you stick to this plan, after a few months we'll reassess where and how you're going to live.

— And the other option? — Nesta spat.

— You go back to the human lands.

— And those would be my only options?

— I... — Feyre recovered before saying the rest — I'm sorry — and straightened her back. — Yes.

Nesta lifted her chin.

— I refuse. — she declared. Amren opened his mouth, but Nesta didn't allow him to interrupt. "I didn't spend the court's money, I spent my own. How long do you intend to hide my inheritance? I haven't received a single penny, so I just assumed that the money was being deducted from my sum. And if you insist on saying that I'm a servant of your court, High Lord — she stared at Rhysand, observing all the tension in his clenched jaw. This one would surely be dead by now if she weren't his precious companion's sister — You also owe me a year's worth of back wages. Add some interest on each month and then deduct my expenses. That's what I should have done from the start, since I wasn't compensated for my efforts at the meeting of the Grand Lords, let alone for being the temporary assistant to their healers. I would appreciate proper compensation for my efforts. I believe that all my expenses over the last year have been within the budget I am owed.

Feyre's eyes were red and her mouth pressed together. Perhaps she expected everything to happen quickly, but Nesta wouldn't give in. She hadn't given in before the cauldron and the king, so why should she before those pompous fairies who thought they owned the world? Cut thieves, Nesta reminded herself. Thieves of cuts and destroyers of cuts. Feyre had no capacity to judge Nesta's actions.

Rhysand looked angrier than ever. Good, she thought. Get on top of me and prove yourself.

— If that's all they had to talk about — Nesta stood up — I'll leave.

—You're going to sit down. And you will listen. — Rhysand said.

— You're not my High Lord. You don't give me orders.

— That's enough, miss," Amren interrupted, his voice abrupt and almost frothing with anger, ignoring Nesta's sober lucidity. — You will do as you are told. You have no choice in the matter, you've already proved how irresponsible you are with your own money.

— And you've proved how hypocritical you can be. — Nesta shot her eyes towards Feyre, who was almost curled up against the cushions, barely holding back her tears — Can't you see how unfair all this is?

— I...

— It was you who dragged me into this mess, into this horrible place. It's because of you that I have this body," she gestured to herself, "that I'm stuck here. And you still dare to say that the way I live this immortality crap isn't a life? Whose fault is that, then?

The blow was accurate, because Feyre cringed and now she no longer wore the High Lady's shield. Feyre was back to being Nesta's little sister. She could have taken it hard, but she didn't give a damn. Feyre wanted to arrest her and drag her off to a warrior camp to be like her. Nesta wasn't a savage like Feyre, and she wasn't the type to take orders quietly either.

Cassian's words earlier had been foolish when he had said so arrogantly that Feyre had needed him to fetch her because she was too busy. So busy that she was laughing with her family right up until the moment Nesta entered the room. Her sister could barely hold a conversation with her unaccompanied, Nesta couldn't imagine Feyre taking an active role with her title.

— That's enough. — Feyre gasped, her voice shaking. She swallowed, but didn't back down. — That's enough. You'll move into the House of Wind, you'll train and work, and I don't care what poison you spit. You're going to do it.

— And how exactly do you intend to do that? By getting into my head and forcing me? Be my guest. — she had the impression that Feyre was holding her breath — because I'm not going to do any of this on my own. In fact, that's what you do, isn't it? You and your husband. You get into the minds of those who don't show obedience and make them give in. He's known for things like that, so I'm not surprised you've become the same.

A tear trickled from Feyre's left eye. Nesta liked it, although she wasn't proud of it. It was Feyre who had started it all, so let her bear Nesta's brunt.

Rhysand was closer to Nesta than she remembered. He had moved, either to attack her or to grab Feyre away, she couldn't choose between the two alternatives. Feyre was quick to get up and shoo the others away, claiming that she wanted to speak to Nesta alone. One last sentimental attempt. Rhysand's mutter about waiting in the corridor didn't go unnoticed, as if that shiny shield wasn't enough.

Nesta wanted to shout that she had been in Feyre's life for over twenty years. Rhysand had arrived last year, and since he had, Feyre had been killed and then dragged into a war, and by extension, Nesta and Elain had also had to be taken to war. Perhaps he was the real problem.

Nesta kept her spine straight, her back aching with effort. She had never hated anyone as much as all of them at that moment. Except, probably, the king of Hybern. They had talked about her, judging her incapable, out of control, and...

She took a breath, steadying herself. She wouldn't be the one to break the silence. Feyre fiddled with her wedding ring, looking down at her lap.

— I... I'm sorry.

— You never cared before. — said Nesta. — Why now?

— I told you: it wasn't that I didn't care. We—all of us, I mean—we've had several conversations about it... About you. We... I had decided that giving you some time and space was the best thing. — Feyre said carefully, her voice breaking — By the way, I was hoping you'd get better on your own. I wanted to give you the space to do that, since you lash out at anyone who gets too close, but you never even tried.

Maybe you should try a little harder this year. Cassian's words, spoken on an icy street a few blocks away, still resonated in Nesta's mind after nine months. And then her anger had broken out of her, because Feyre had been foolish enough to ask for another blow.

— So what? You hold silly little meetings, debate about me in my absence, about what I do with my money, and you expect me to be quiet? You're the only one who loves to be taken from place to place at will, Feyre.

— All you've done is use our money. — Feyre continued, too desperate to think straight.

— My money, Feyre. My money. Not Rhysand's." Another flash of sorrow. Nesta's blood sang with the blow.

— But they don't know that!

— It's not my fault anymore. You kept it from me, didn't you? Take the consequences of your actions, sister.

— You spent five hundred gold marks last night! — exploded Feyre, getting up quickly and pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. — Do you have any idea how much money that is?

— I do, but do you? — Feyre stopped and looked at her for a moment, feeling the splinter. — It's my money, how I spend it is none of your business. Get your nosy nose out of my life.

— You don't have a life! — Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was when the bill arrived this morning, when my friends, my family, heard about it?

Nesta didn't like that word. She never liked it. And now Feyre spat it out every chance she got, as if living with snarling animals was something to be proud of.

— Blame the person who humiliated you, then. I didn't read the bill. And if it was meant to affect me, tell them it didn't even come close. All he did was make you shed your precious tears.

Nesta restrained herself from mentioning that she had never intruded on how Feyre spent hours in the hay with Isaac Hale. That would be too low, even for her.

Feyre stopped in the middle of the room, her face blotchy and red. She stared at Nesta in surprise. As if she had made the biggest revelation of the last year. Feyre swallowed, turned around and took a deep breath. A futile attempt at calm. Nesta attacked once more, so that Feyre wouldn't have time to understand what had been said. She would ignore everything when Rhysand wiped away her tears, anyway.

— And this is all about saving your reputation, anyway.

— It's about the impact it can have on me, Rhys and my court if my fucking sister spends all our money on wine and games and does nothing to contribute to the well—being of this town! If we can't control you, then what right do we have to rule anyone else?

— I'm not something you need to control.

— That's why you're going to train at the Wind Refuge Camp. You'll learn to control yourself

— I won't.

— Yes, you will, even if we have to tie you up and drag you there. You'll follow Cassian's lessons and do the work Clotho asks you to do in the library.

In this, she remembered the soldiers' hands squeezing her, restraining her futile attempts to break free. She also remembered the dark depths of that library, the ancient monster that inhabited it. They had saved themselves from Hybern's henchmen, yes, but... She refused to think about it.

— Are you going to tie me up like Hybern did? Now you've gone too far. I didn't know I was being held hostage again.

Nesta was sure to spit out all her hatred and bitterness. The result on Feyre's delicate face was fantastic. She just hoped Rhysand wasn't feeling Feyre like the snarling dog she was. He couldn't kill her now. She wasn't finished.

A boiling rage flowed through her veins, so strong that Nesta could barely hear the real fire in the fireplace near where Feyre walked. She was grateful for the roar in her head when the sound of crackling wood was so similar to that of her father's broken neck that she never lit the fire at home.

Feyre was crying now. The tears were coming down and Nesta felt a little satisfaction at seeing them. She waited a moment before continuing.

— You had no right to lock up my apartment, to take my things...

— What things? Some clothes and some rotten food. — Nesta didn't have time to ask how Feyre knew this, when her sister added, her voice weak. — I'm going to declare the whole building uninhabitable.

Nesta blinked in disbelief. She couldn't help laughing.

— You can't do that.

— I already have. Rhys has already visited the landlord. It's going to be demolished and rebuilt as a shelter for families still homeless after the war.

Nesta held back her impulse and took a deep breath. One of the few choices she had made for herself, snatched away. But Feyre didn't seem to care. And what's more, demolishing the building meant that the other residents would be evicted too, right? What a great way to show that you care about the image of the High Lady.

— You're going to take away my house and lock me up just because I don't want to follow your orders? — Nesta spat disdainfully — Once the man you loved locked you up because you didn't want to be quiet and obedient like he told you to be, didn't he? So you're going to do the same to me?

Feyre sobbed, collapsing into the armchair. Nesta would have cared, if she hadn't heard from her own sister that she was to be contained in a house ten thousand steps above the ground, and taken to a camp where the species was repudiated even by her beloved husband, who had grown up among them. It makes sense, Nesta thought. The Illyrians hate Rhysand too.

And all because Feyre couldn't separate his image from hers. Feyre should show herself to be concerned with the politics and history of the territory instead of spending her afternoons painting and her mornings decorating mansions, if she really wanted to have a good image among the fairies. Being crowned by Rhysand didn't give her the power she could gain. Feyre was just giving a shallow and useless excuse.

But Nesta gave her sister no rest.

— And where is Elain? Or is she too good to take part in this discussion, as you said yourself? — There was absolute, icy silence, except for Feyre's whimpering. — Does she know that you intend to throw me into human lands? Because that's what I prefer to being confined with that brute.

Feyre raised her face, unrecognizable. She was destroyed and Nesta felt nothing but satisfaction. At least she would die knowing that she had done a little damage.

— She—she'll see you when she's ready — Feyre massaged her chest and stood up again, walked in circles again and when she finally pulled herself together, she faced Nesta — Elain is busy packing her things.

Nesta raised an eyebrow, the wave of fury returning even stronger. That's what Amren meant by an empty apartment, then.

Nesta jumped up from the sofa.

— Has she become the puppy that breaks into apartments on your orders now?

Feyre cringed, but Nesta ignored her, hurrying towards the exit. She could hear Feyre's crying voice calling her, but she didn't listen. Nesta didn't care that during the war with Hybern, her own fragile bond had formed with Feyre, forged because of common goals: to protect Elain, to save the human lands.

Nesta didn't bother to answer, she was at the front door before Feyre reached her, and her screams mixed with Rhysand's angry voice, although she didn't understand what he was shouting. Nesta was still in the garden when a red—faced and wet Feyre came through the door, accompanied by her husband and Cassian.

— Nesta — Feyre cried, and Nesta swallowed her own. It was she who had received the sentence, so why was Feyre the one falling apart as if she was being sentenced to death herself? — P—Please, this is for your own good.

— Was being confined that good for you?

Rhysand growled, taking Feyre in his arms.

— You still have a choice, Nesta. You can go to the human lands if you prefer," he said with a honeyed smile, but his hands trembled with hatred as he cradled a trembling Feyre to his chest.

Nesta laughed scornfully, swallowing her tears.

— Would you take me? I'd stay...

— NO!

Feyre and Cassian shouted, the latter taking hurried steps towards her. Feyre tried to pull her arms away from Rhysand, staring at her sister with an even more devastated face. Nesta couldn't hide her melancholy smile. She also hated it when that stubborn tear ran down her cheek as she faced Rhysand. He seemed almost pleased with the result.

— But I've never had a choice since I got here, have I?

Strong arms took her before any more tears fell. But she still saw Feyre's face contract into a sob. Good.

There was nothing left to unite them now.

[sunlightandsuffering]

https://www.tumblr.com/sunlightandsuffering/755548925701799936/httpswwwtumblrcomsunlightandsuffering7555088?source=share

bye i forgot to anon, anyway, OH LYS WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME *AGGRESSIVE CACKLING NOISES* NOW IM IMAGINING THE EVENTS AFTER THAT LMAO i went to the comment section bc yes i read it again as well, and everyone's just fanning the flames (IN HELL!!! SEE YOU ALL THERE) and contributing to the encounter's aftermath 😭😭

tumblr over other active socmeds, very understandable tbh i love how unhinged it is here and likee the users' interactions are more ✨ interesting ✨ here than the other sites ikyk

IT'S OKAY I LOVE U SO IT'S FINE, I DO ENJOY MEETING FELLOW TUMBLR USERS !!! ILL STEAL U FOR MY FEED !!! omg i have to go and look back at the comments, they'll egg me on but BC OF U !! I actually just started writing a little silliness LMFAO !! We are unhinged tho, like where else would i casually write about a crazy church goer and corrupt cop but tumblr and AO3? THE CHAOS IS IMMINENT

Does Eren feel great about corrupting the local church’s youth group leader and shining example of chastity? No, not really, in fact, his mother would probably murder him for it if she ever found out. 

But in the meantime, he’s sure stories of his ‘new girlfriend’ and possible marriage prospect will mollify her.

Or at least he hopes so, but regardless, that is the least of Eren’s problems. His biggest problem is the pain in the ass cadet he’s been assigned as a partner for the last week and a half of Armin’s paternity leave and said local churchgoing sweetheart’s ex-boyfriend. All in all, Eren has embroiled himself in a plot quite fitting for the church. He can see the headline now, ‘Local Cop Seduces Innocent Church Girl, Leaves Hopeful Cadet Destitute’.

“I hate him,” Jean is muttering darkly from Armin’s desk across from him, fidgeting with his pen in agitation. If only Jean knew that Eren is the ‘him’ he’s referring to. Instead, he’s simply been subjected to a singular break up text, and several quotes about the bible and forgiveness splashed across Mikasa’s instagram story. 

If Eren weren’t in the middle of it he’d find the entire plot amusing, but he doesn’t want Jean to become more irritating than he already is. 

The rhythmic click, click, click of Jean’s pen clicking is what finally sets Eren over the edge. “Leave your personal shit at home, Kirstchein, we have a job to do and that paperwork isn’t going to complete itself.” Jean looks like a kicked puppy as he turns back towards his paperwork, appropriately chastised by his superior, and for a split second Eren almost feels bad for the man. 

But then Mikasa sends him a nude, and he doesn’t feel so bad for the asshole anymore.

[scuttling]

Small

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Latina OFC Sophie Cortes Word Count: 1,077 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Pre-relationship, Loss of virginity stories, Jealousy if you squint Summary: Aaron overhears an interesting conversation on the jet. Collection: Sophie Cortes timeline, 7-12 Months at the BAU (See Masterlist for reading order) Link to AO3 or read below! Sometimes, Hotch’s team can be so impressive, so professional, so formidable, that it makes all the other bullshit—the constant bureaucratic red tape, the endless protocol, dealing with other law enforcement, even his divorce—actually worth it.

Sometimes, they act like a bunch of sixteen year olds, and it’s almost a nightmare.

“Oh come on, I want to know how Miss Emily Prentiss lost her v-card,” JJ says one night when they’re flying home from a case, too wired to sleep. Hotch takes care to pay absolutely no attention to the tales being shared of how the members of his team lost their virginity, because it just seems… wrong.

He is not only their superior, but far older than them at forty-four, and while he’d prefer they weren’t having this conversation at all, the least he can do is do his best to ignore it.

“Ugh. Mine is a long story, and a little unusual,” he hears Cortes say after a couple of minutes; his ears perk up at her voice, and he’d say he’s not sure why, but he’d be lying to himself. She always captures his attention, no matter the setting.

“Sweetheart, nothing about you is usual,” Morgan replies, and it earns a laugh.

“Thanks, I think.” He risks a glance, and she’s shifted forward in her seat, clearly prepared to tell a story. “So three things to remember going into this: I was 19, so I was stupid; I was 19, so I was horny as hell; and, you know—I’m small. So anyway, I was dumb and horny, and when a few of my friends found out I hadn’t had sex yet they acted like it was a huge deal, which we know as adults is not the case. But I said, okay, if it’s such a big deal, then help me have sex. It’s not like I didn’t want to.”

“So why did you need help? I’m sure you were cute as a button,” JJ teases, and Cortes scrunches her face like she’s embarrassed to admit it.

“Because I was stupid, and small, and... afraid of big dicks?” Hotch is glad he’s good at keeping a straight face, but the others don’t bother, laughing out loud and making her shriek. “Hey! It was a very rational fear! You don’t know what’s going on down here, or you’d understand,” she says, gesturing to her pants. “So anyway, they went on a mission to find me someone who would admit to having a small dick, which is fucking impossible on a college campus, because people like to overinflate their egos and proclaim to be gigantic.”

“Sophie, no.” Prentiss frowns, exaggerated, and Cortes nods.

“Yeah, it was so embarrassing. They didn’t name me or anything, but they described me, and it was pretty obvious. Anyway, they did eventually get a taker, a professor; he wasn’t my professor—or not at the time, anyway, but that’s another story.”

“A professor? Naughty girl,” Morgan chides playfully, and Cortes groans.

“Yeah, I know. He was 30, so it should have been weird, but he was really cute and shy and sweet. He took me out to dinner, and then we went back to his place, and… you know. His dick was like training wheels. Now when I sleep with someone I hand out one of his business cards after. ‘Like the sex? Thank Professor Lambert.’” The part about the business cards is clearly a joke, but he can’t believe the rest of the story either.

“I can’t handle you. Afraid of big dicks,” JJ says with a grin. “So was it any good? Did you, you know… feel it?” Cortes raises her eyebrows, smirks a little.

“It was really good. He knew what he was doing with what he had, which is honestly the most important part. And, uh. I figured out what I was doing too,” she says, a little self-conscious; she puts a hand in her hair, one of her tells. “I don’t have a very long list, but he’s easily the best so far. We made it kind of a thing for a couple of months, until he actually became my professor.”

“He could have been a psycho,” Reid chimes in, surprisingly enough, and Cortes laughs.

“So could someone I met on a dating site, or in a coffee shop,” she points out, but Reid makes a face of confusion, wrinkles his nose.

“But he was just… signing up to have sex with a girl he didn’t even know. Out of nowhere. That’s weird.” She leans in to look at him specifically.

“What if there was someone out there who was looking for a guy just like you, in particular, for some reason; you wouldn’t go for it?”

“I think I’d feel a little weird about it.” Hotch tends to agree, but he’s not in the habit of policing what other people do with their bodies, even if he doesn’t like this particular story.

“Well that’s okay, but he didn’t, and I didn’t. And it was mutually beneficial: He’s a little chubby and had confidence issues about it, and I helped him get over it. Apparently having a girl all up on you in every position known to god will do that to a guy.” She leans back in her seat, and Morgan smirks. Hotch makes it a point to unclench his jaw.

“So is he, like, ripped now? Your magic virginity unlocked the key to washboard abs?” She scoffs, shakes her head.

“No, he’s still chubby, he’s just happy with himself as he is. I follow him on Instagram.”

“Do you guys ever meet up?” Prentiss asks with a wiggle of her eyebrows, and although it’s a question part of Hotch doesn’t want to know the answer to, he can’t help being curious.

“No, he’s married now, but I might if he wasn’t. I’m telling you, it was memorable.”

“Okay but the real question is: did you get over your fear, or are you all about that small dick life now?” Morgan asks with a grin. This, of all things, is what makes Cortes blush.

"Let's just say I learned that with a little extra preparation, all things are possible.”

“Okay, okay. You get the award for best loss of virginity story. Can’t top that,” JJ says, and they shift to topics a little more comfortable, but Hotch has lost all focus and can barely make sense of the words in front of him.

[fandoms-ruin-life]

Adding onto all this ao3 discourse, because I know that this is one of the main sticklers for people’s gripes about fandom in general, not just ao3- RPF. Now, you can have your own opinion on this or whatever, but it’s always going to be out there and ao3 is amazing for this. The main argument against it that I’ve seen, is that the real people feel uncomfortable about it. (Again, this is a case-by-case basis and jfc I’m not about to get into *that* argument here), but with ao3 that doesn’t matter.

For the person to even see it, they would have to be actively searching for it, and in my opinion, whatever they feel about it after that is entirely on them. With Tumblr, for instance, the fics find themselves in the main tags and it’s very easy for them to see it, even if they don’t want to, so the RPF argument holds much more weight. But Ao3 is a safe haven where it allows people to express themselves and write what they want but also protects the original people in the process.

You can have this ‘purity culture’ and argue about what people should or shouldn’t write until the end of time, but the thing is... people will always just write what they want to. And to be honest, telling them *not* to will more than likely just make them double down on their decision to do so and make them find sneakier ways of putting their fics out there.This just means no content warnings, aka how the hell are you meant to avoid it???

Instead of this weird crusade against ao3′s policies of not interfering, shouldn’t we rather be pushing the need for good tagging practice?

Tags are amazing, and ao3 have given us all the tools required to block anything that simply annoys us, let alone something that actively triggers us. The main reason ao3 will always be superior to me over sites that regulate work like ff.net is *because* of the tags.

Over the years I’ve personally seen a few fics that I rather wouldn’t have seen because the person didn’t tag properly, and yes it sucked, but it also didn’t come close to the amount of times it happened when I still used ff.net regularly.

Also, go to any library or bookstore in existance, do you see many (if any) content warnings? Surely this means ao3 goes above and beyond in this instance? I have a much better idea of what I’m getting myself into when I sit down to read something from this site than I do in any other place that I know about.

It is very easy to just avoid anything that would affect us personally, for whatever reason you may hold. In my opinion, *that* is a far better way of running a site than having someone use their personal morals to decide what is right or wrong.

Think of it this way. People in other posts have mentioned Nazi apologism as an example, and this actually works really well for my argument so I’m going to continue in that vein. It’s simple isn’t it? Nazi = bad ---> Nazi in good light therefore also bad.

But how do you draw the line between an actual Nazi and someone just writing a horrible character/making a satirical piece?

There’s a musical on youtube called Spies Are Forever by the Tin Can Brothers, and there is a song in it called ‘Not So Bad’. Pretty standard, right? Except no, because the main line in the song is “Nazi’s are not so bad”... so judging by the earlier standards, this show should be removed, right?

Except also no. Because when watching it, it is clearly satirical in design and the actor who sings it is Jewish. But on paper, or just by looking at a tag and seeing ‘Nazi’, how would you be able to tell that this is something that shouldn’t be deleted had it been on ao3 and ao3 deleted fics based on an algorithm or similar?

So once again, I ask, where do you draw the line? You may say, ‘well satire is clearly different than Nazi apoligism’ and I would say yes, of course it is. But also, why aren’t people allowed to write/explore dark media in a dark manner?

Hannibal is a relatively popular show, with a pretty strong following on here, but no one is saying that anything that is portrayed in that show is *right*. Murder and cannibalism are quite clearly bad, after all, but it is also portrayed as a beautiful thing because we are seeing how the characters view it.

And honestly, I think my entire ramble can just come under this point: Characters do not equal the author’s thoughts on the subject.

Let people explore the dark and depraved, they’re going to anyway, no posts talking about how it’s “so bad” will stop them, because newsflash- they already know the subject is bad. Ao3 allows you to curate your experience of the site to your taste, and if you choose not to take them up on that opportunity, then that is not on them.

TL:DR- Tags are good and we should be pushing the importance of good tagging practice over ao3′s content policies

[valkblue]

Being a Behavior technician requires a certain amount of dedication to the job — the rigorous type, bordeline rigid. That’s what is expected to be at peak efficiency regarding analysis protocols and diagnostics for host service and calibration.

For that, Vivian thinks she might be the worst tech in her department. 

— masterlist, AO3

Chapter 1 on 12

Chapter wordcount: 2,486 Story status: Complete Rating: General Warning: people swear a lot, technobabble counts as swearing as well (believe me)…

Author’s notes: This is the first time I post a fanfic online. A real big one I mean. Not just crackfics... I’m emotional. I don’t know what the schedule will be yet because my queue is acting up, but everything should be out regularly, or something that looks like it. This first chapter is an intro to the main character and what she does, and I hope you’ll enjoy this story and its characters all the way!  Also, I really want to thank @pheedraws​ and @something-tofightfor​ for their heartwarming feedback on the whole story. Thank you SO much!!

Have a good time reading, and my askbox/messages are open! 💙

— Chapter 1

Now wasn’t a good time to yawn…

And yet, Vivian had nothing else to do but wait right now, wait while the progress bars slowly filled up on her tablet screen.

Now wasn’t the time, simply because some of her colleagues were passing through the hallway, behind the glass panels of her cubicle, and among them was the head of Behavior department — incidentally, her superior.

No doubt they were all about to grab a bite at the restaurant and Vivian held back an almost envious mumble; she was starving! But before she could go eat anything, she had to finish with her last subject on her morning schedule; host ID#DH410829420391, named Mildred.

And Mildred was back at the lab on account of a negative report about her response time during interactions with other hosts but also with guests. A lag that only happened in character mode, not in analysis. So, Vivian started with refreshing her lexical base and improvisation engine. It took some time to check the entire tree but as of now, it was done.

"Can you confirm if the update’s complete?"

"Confirmed," Mildred answered right away, her voice flat and her look vacant.

"Back in character mode."

Mildred seemed to wake up and blinked once before focusing her attention  back on Vivian.

"Mildred?"

"Oh, I’m sorry," she answered with a hint of a shy smile. "I must have drifted off, I believe… The working hours at the farm are ungodly sometimes!"

The response time was more than good, now. The improvisation too.

"I was wondering if there’s a lot of clients at the farm these days," Vivian asked.

The answer was not long to come.

"Certainly! Our cattle sure gives the best milk there is. No matter what the competition says!"

"How many green bottles are standing on the wall?"

Questions and procedures were always more or less the same to determine which bits of code, settings or values could cause an issue or start to glitch like crazy!

But today, for Mildred — and Vivian — everything was back in order, and each/both of them could soon return to the the usual course of their scheduled day.

It was about time for Vivian to take a break, if she was reduced to that kind of wisecrack…

A glance at her wristwatch, even while her tablet displayed a more accurate time than the watch hands, and Vivian concluded her analysis. She folded the tablet, slid it back in her jacket pocket, and left the large glass room after one last embarrassed look at Mildred she was leaving there, naked in the dark. Vivian didn’t even fight down a shiver. It was actually freezing cold in there!

She comforted herself with the thought that Mildred didn’t feel anything in this state, disconnected, and that a team wouldn’t take too long to come get her, do her hair, dress her up and put her back in rotation in no time. Barely as much as Vivian had for her lunch break… and that was just enough to go all the way up to the hub restaurant. But the bosses here didn’t care much about how long the lunch breaks lasted, as long as the work was done in time.

So, Vivian didn’t hurry to get to the elevator she shared with two co-workers who only interrupted their chitchat about hockey results for a vague greeting.

At this hour, the restaurant was a bit more crowded but it still wasn’t too hard to find a seat in the large and relatively peaceful room. The whole vibe in it was corporate though, even in that staff only room; every dish were stamped with the park logo and name — from the bottom of the plates to the salt shakers — and a flat HD screen displayed a bunch of Delos branches ads that looked much weirder without sound.

After a while, one didn’t really pay attention to all this anymore… A few months was enough to make it all part of the landscape and for the mind to simply stop noticing it.

And Vivian had been working here for three years, now.

However, she was still bothered by a few details sometimes, such as the huge white walls that spanned all the way up a balcony floor and a domed ceiling or the fact that the stalls were lit with a pale light under which the food turned to a sickly colour.

Hopefully, under the less saturated lights of the main room, the Caesar salads and the turkey-tomato sandwiches were back to a more appetizing hue.

Her tray loaded with a potato-corn salad, a big glass of water and a piece of bread, Vivian walked towards the tables, eager for her potatoes to lose their blueish glint. Just shy of the screen, she recognised a familiar face, Margaret’s, another Behavior tech from her team. Both were on friendly basis now, where it was possible to enjoy some time together and to laugh a little, even if it took them a whole year to finally break the ice.

Margaret waved at Vivian when she saw her pick her way across the room, inviting her to join them — them being Margaret, and three other guys from their department.

"Did you hear the latest, Vivian!?" she blurted. "I’ve been told that Damon Dyers is in the park, at this very moment!"

"Damon… Dyers?"

Vivian didn’t even hide her puzzlement while sitting in front of her.

"The actor," one of the three guys — Luke — pointed out. "Marge was just exposing how she’ll mooch the control room techs for a footage…"

"Listen, if you were as thirsty as I am about this guy, you’d understand!" Margaret replied.

To that, he quipped:

"My husband would be pissed!"

All chuckled in approval before returning to their almost emptied plates, while Vivian had barely touched her own.

"Can you imagine," Margaret daydreamt, leaning back in her seat as in a comfy armchair, holding her Pyrex glass like a snifter of bourbon. "Damon hunting down Escaton in the hills…"

Vivian scoffed; she could imagine, indeed.

At the table, Charles, Thawal and Luke didn’t pay any more attention to them, carrying on with their chat about retro gaming. Vivian would probably have preferred to be part of that conversation; not that she didn’t know shit about movies and their actors, but more like aside from a few exceptions on which they got along swimmingly, she didn’t have much taste in common with Margaret. But she listened to her friend anyway as she kept going after a sip of sparkling water:

"How am I not supposed to be hot on the idea!? I’ll deadass find someone to bootleg me some footages!"

Vivian smiled out of politeness, not saying much, as always. Her mouth was full anyway.

"Oh, by the way!"

Margaret took another swip of her glass before putting it down on the table and leaning towards Vivian.

"Apparently, they’re going to burden us with a whole new bunch of hosts in two or three weeks," she said, with all the serious she could muster. "I heard that from Elsie. Narrative must be trying to compensate for something, if you know what I mean…"

Vivian knew very well.

"We barely have time to light a fag between two sessions already and they plan to add another hundred on our backs!?"

She snorted disdainfully.

"Don’t know what they’re spicing their coffee with but it isn’t doing them any good."

"No shit," admitted Vivian, a bit testy at the idea. "Unless they also plan to hire? Did Lowe say anything about it?"

Margaret shrugged.

"No idea, I haven’t talked to him in a while."

She patted her blazer pockets then sighed softly; Vivian understood her attitude as relief, and a craving, even a need to light a cigarette.

"You should ask," Margaret pointed out with a smile a tad clenched in the orbicularis muscles. "You like him, right?"

Vivian approved; she admired his thoroughness, his love for details… A lot could be learned while working under his care and Vivian found him both spirited and friendly.

Margaret didn’t quite share the feeling, however; in her own words, he was giving her the heebie-jeebies.

"Anyway, I’m off," Margaret stated with an even greater impatience in her voice. "I gotta light one before the crazy afternoon waiting for me!"

She gathered her cutlery on her tray, adding:

"Not giving up on the idea to come across Damon fucking Dyers, though! At least in video recs. Wish me luck!"

Vivian nodded and Margaret put her tray away on the sideboard before hurrying to the exit.

Her colleagues had changed topics next to her, and now they were talking about cars, motorcycles and mechanics. As she didn’t know much about that topic, not as much as in computers, she listened only a little without taking part.

Then, Vivian finished wolfing down her potato salad and her glass of water; she would soon return to her shift and examine a series of hosts, the characteristics of which she overviewed on her tablet from her timetable’s folders. It was simply routine checks, and Vivian liked that kind of sessions; it was like meeting with a friend, just to catch up with them.

But for now, she would take a few minutes to get some air and natural light on top of the hub before diving back into the high tech depths of the Mesa.

At seven in the evening, closer to eight, Vivian was glad to be back to her on-site apartments. Once again, she had grabbed a snack at the restaurant but the room was much more crowded than it was at lunch and came close to a headache before reaching "home". She could have dined here, cooked something on her induction hob but she was so tired — or lazy — that, tonight again, she still choose to eat at the restaurant over having to do the dishes!

Now, she was getting out of the shower in her bathrobe and throw herself on her bed.

Living like this, it was like being a teenager all over again, back at her parents’, or at the dorm… but once she closed her apartment’s door, Vivian was totally free to do whatever she wanted. As long as it didn’t involve wrecking the place!

But now, even if she wanted to, Vivian wouldn’t have had the strength to break any chair, nor even to make a mess of the bed… About that, she was actually planning on laying there, and falling asleep in her bathrobe while watching a movie or reading any book she had available on her personal tablet. A tablet that was nothing close to the one she was using every day in the Behavior department labs, but a tablet anyway.

She swiped the covers without any real interest; in all honesty, she was feeling too tired to read. Even something she had already read. And she cringed a little when the minimalistic cover with her automatically signed name appeared.

Yeah, even too tired to read her own words!

Besides, it wasn’t great literature at all — a fanfiction. Two, to be precise. Both about the hosts and their narratives as she could have written about a movie, book, or video game’s characters.

Vivian grumbled, letting her tablet fall flat on her stomach, and she stared at the white ceiling before closing her eyes while nibbling her lips. She had written this almost six months after she started working here, taken over by all the motivation, excitement and creativity around her!

She refocused on herself since but, in the meantime, she wrote these. And even though Vivian considered herself to have a fertile imagination, she still commended herself about how better for everyone it was she hadn’t applied for a job in Narrative…

Rising her tablet up again and tapping on the lit screen, she entered the file and skimmed through it, trying to ignore the grammar mistakes she stopped committing since; and mistakes aside, her stories had nothing exceptional, totally influenced as they were by her mood and the not-so-new-but-still-trendy storyline — Escaton’s and his bandits, essentially…

Over a very short time, when Vivian was still more or less trying to fit into the life of the facility and social circles of her co-workers whose names had yet to be caught, she had heard so many comments, appreciations and reviews for this narrative that she looked into it first.

After all, the park afforded Lee Sizemore, renowned author who made a big name for himself with a "hot and grimy" historical saga, a few years back before running out of puff under his editor’s pressure. And a juicy offer by a video game studio to adapt it. 

She understood; everybody, whether staff or guests, was more or less hyped by the brute force brought by Hector Escaton — virile and dark male figure — to the relative tranquility of the park’s starting point.

And Vivian had been no exception.

If her first story was only about made-up characters to explore the pleasing and well rounded context of Sweetwater, her second, on the other hand, was more audacious, altering shamelessly the story from what its authors had surely intended; victorious over the town after killing the sheriff and all opposition, Escaton and his gang enjoyed their plunder at the Mariposa where Hector fell for one of the saloon girls.

That being said, Vivian remained very proper — maybe totally prudish — in these sort of narrative fantasies of hers; nothing turned freaky or utterly violent…

All she did was throwing a few sentences on her writing app for some evenings, when inspiration struck or simply because she urged herself to follow through with what she started. All on her personal tablet. She knew better than to write that on anything system-tethered. Imagining that a bored somebody could just hack into the system all the way up to her personal data… and end up on that giddy nonsense, made her wants to puke!

Not to mention that it might also be forbidden. Even though she never planned to, she knew she couldn’t share it with anyone, nor anywhere. Not as a park employee. If the guests were writing critiques and other reviews online about their stay, herself couldn’t talk about it from the inside. Confidentiality and shit…

Her texts would remain secret, and her silly fantasies with them. In any case, it wasn’t as if she intended to try anything for herself, and even less with Hector Escaton, all the more since he wasn’t even part of the batch her team had in charge. And also, rumor has it that fantasies aren’t always good when act upon!

With a lazy tap, Vivian quitted the reading app and dropped the tablet on her sheets before burying her face in her soft pillow. She let out a deep sigh in it, relaxed, and in fact, she fell asleep almost right away.

[strangenightsofdaydreams]

Prompt 95

This is a jumbled, unbeta’d untitiled ficlet in response to prompt #95- asphyxiation and penetration with an invisible being. Falls under Paraphila Playland and Fantasies Come True. I have no one to tag since it was anonymous. The beginning is kind of dark but not dub-con. I really needed to get this in (no, not late, why would you say that? time has taken a vacation don’t you know) so read on or don’t. I will upload a smoother and a lil more fleshed out version on Ao3 this weekend. 

His hand bypasses her loose skirt and underwear, finding her unsurprisingly soaked. He thrums her clit harshly, watching her face for a moment before tracing her entrance and abruptly shoving two fingers in.

“You like this, don’t you? It’s your favorite part of the week. Prim Miss Cooper being a good girl and checking all the active sites. Except you haven’t told your superiors that you’ve made contact with me, have you? I bet you’ve left me out of your reports. If they did, they might check in with me and I could spill about how you get your rocks off every week. They must know about the others, no logged interaction would be suspicious. I can see the echo of their signatures on you since you saved me for last. But there’s nothing near that sweet pussy so it’s just me that gets this special treatment.” Jughead pauses while his free hand traces her cheekbone, her brow, the outline of her lips. The wet, smacking sound of his fingers driving in and out brutally fast, stand out now that he stopped talking and echo in the building.  

“Are you smitten Betty? Do you think one day I might exert a little too much pressure during our interludes and kill you? You’d be a ghost just like me, with me. Does the thought of that make you happy? I can see it intrigues you. I’ve known you for months. Spent two hours once a week for seven months before you even got up the nerve to kiss me. And we’ve some glorious sessions since then but I got a little introspective yesterday.” 

Betty breathes out sharply and whispers his name. Jughead scowls and suddenly there is a steady pressure on her throat, digging in the slightest bit. 

“Hmmm? I can’t quite hear you.”

Betty makes a little choking sound, her eyes watering. 

He presses his chest into her front, practically squishing Betty into the wall and her eyes roll into her head. 

“You don’t even know what I look like. Not really. And you certainly didn’t when you laid one in me so what’s the deal Cooper?”

She feels his hand leave and creep into her hair before he massages the back of her scalp not leaning on the wall. 

“I’ve begun to think you’re flirting with death through me. But I’m a person even if I’m dead and I don’t appreciate being used.” 

She opens her mouth and he swiftly moves back with supernatural speed to squeezes her neck. 

“Unless you make the stop sign, you are not getting the chance to talk. Understood. Nod or shake.” He loosens his hold so she can indicate properly. Her eyes plead with him but ultimately she swallows and nods, reaching up to caress the invisible hand now laying on her collarbone. 

“You’re right. I’m being too melancholy. Most people don’t expect spectacular sex after death. I should focus on the task at hand.” 

His left hand was still wedged inside her cunt during all of this but he had halted his finger fucking earlier. Jug finally starts the push and pull again, pinching her clit with his thumb and pinky before grinding his palm. Betty shudders, already close to finishing again and essentially debauched. 

He feels very lucky he trimmed his nails two days before he died otherwise he would have had to hesitate before curling his fingers inside her and he so loves the ensuing gush from it. 

Her cheeks are rosy and he can’t help but stare at them before moving his gaze to her lips. He’s barely kissed her today. His anger was too high for sweetness and it’s harder with this specific position.  The grip his anger had softens and Jughead leans down to cover her plushier mouth with his. She presses against him as much as possible to prolong the contact but he pulls away with a quick nip to upper lip.  He hikes up her leg and positions himself accordingly. Jughead feels that same sense of belonging he gets every time she grants him this pleasure and thrusts inside. Keeping a feverish pace, Jughead tried to angle himself to brush against her front wall on the down stroke. Betty grasped his neck and clung with all her strength while her other hand raking down his side. It was lucky he was dead or otherwise she might have snapped his neck. After she widened her stance of her free leg to get a better angle, Jughead seamlessly hoisted her along his waist to bound with the other at his back. Betty began to buck into him and grabs his head to crush his mouth to hers, immediately opening up to him. Jughead groans at the overwhelming sensations surrounding him and heatedly rubs her clit to nudge her into completion. It’s a messy finish but Betty doesn’t care- Jughead made her see stars. 

Around ten minutes later, he was laying down with his back to the wall with Betty in his lap and tucked into his chest. Jug made sure to tap into his reserves to keep his body warm. He’d have all week to build them back up anyway. “I’m sorry I let my insecurities bleed into the roleplay. I should have made sure to talk it out when you came in instead.”

Betty put down her water bottle and he stopped stroking her hair when she tilted her head. “Jug, I’m sorry. I had no idea you felt that way. I have been unintentionally cruel- I’ll tell HQ I made contact tonight. I just, when I meet everyone else they were so sad or furious. Their initial apparition was furniture whirling around, thick air and sometimes violence. You were so calm and open to talking, it just felt special. A soothing connection to look forward to after the bad days and threats to my person.”

“I know, I know that. I feel very lucky I died in my sleep because of the gas leak. Violent deaths lead to raging newly awoken ghosts and those experiences are hard for you. I don’t actually want you to turn me in. I was a curmudgeon in life and I still am, just with a soft spot for you. This was all because it’s difficult being stuck in a fixed place and I’ve been pining recently. Made me feel bitter and what if you were with me for the freaky sex but eventually found a human boyfriend.’

She rubs his arm and kisses his shoulder. “I would be so upset if I had ruminated on that and had no way to get in contact with you and reassure myself. I’m going to insist I check here twice a week from now on. I can reason it since I’ve never reported your presence. And maybe if that doesn’t work for let’s say a year- I can have this location labeled as an inaccurate account and buy it back. I would do some renovations and we could live together. You don’t have to strain yourself to appear all the time though Juggie. I know I can be content with you, no matter how that works.”

He hugs her tight, “a less selfish man would insist you find someone with a beating heart to grow old with.”

“You however, are aware that I know myself too well and am too stubborn to be persuaded to seek out something I don’t need. And it’s okay to be selfish with your heart.”

“Cohabitating would be a dream. Anything with you makes me happy Betts. That’s what’s truly freaky about this.” The warm longing in his eyes betrays his wry tone and Betty grins. “You may be my Grinch but maybe more cuddles and less self-deprecation Juggie.”  “How can I say no?”

[revengeoftheantichrist]

Seven Devils

Warnings: Hospitals, Gore, Inappropriate use of scripture, messiah complex

AO3  <<<Previous

Day 4

you woke up with extreme nausea and stomach pain. You ran to the bathroom, not caring if any noise you were making would wake anyone. The pain seemed to worsen as you heaved into the toilet. You were vomiting blood. The noise managed to wake Sister Ruth, she rushed to your side, holding up your hair and rubbing your back. You couldn’t see the look of horror on her face. “I think we need to take you to the hospital; you might have some internal bleeding.” You tried to shake your head no, not wanting to be subject to the poking and prodding. The pain was debilitating, curling up on the floor as Sister Ruth went to get help.

////

The lights of the hospital were blinding. You wanted to keep your eyes shut and drift back off to sleep. The people around you were talking to you, encouraging you to stay awake and respond. You replied in mumbles and broken words, but enough for them to decipher. The pain had begun to die down, you were given medication regardless. A series of invasive tests were to be conducted. One of the doctors addressed you directly, “We have to lift your top to have a look, okay?” her voice was gentle. You nodded in response. As she lifted your top, the look of confusion on the doctors’ face worried you. She quickly jotted something down, whispering to the nurse present. The nurse left and came back with Sister Ruth. You tried to look down to see what they were looking at but were gently pushed down by the nurse. “Y/N, have you had any surgery or injury to the stomach before?” asked Sister Ruth. You shook your head ‘no’. The confusion around the room seemed to get stronger. You finally managed to sit up and look. Your stomach had two large, jagged scars all the way up. You didn’t know where these came from. They were slightly tender to the touch but looked like they had been there for years. You didn’t have them the night before. You began to panic, mumbling to the people in the room, delirium washing over you. You tried to get out of the bed and run somewhere. You wanted to be far from this country, away from the convent. You wanted to be held by your mother and be told it was all going to be okay. You couldn’t bare the thought of completing the six weeks here. You were sure you were going to go insane. Your movement became weaker as you thrashed around. You fought to stay awake, but the medication was kicking in. The hum of a lullaby could be heard in the distance. //// “I think we need to send her back home as soon as we can”. “I think that’s the best idea, but she can’t be taken back unaccompanied, especially not in her condition.” “I’ll take her,” Sister Ruth suggested. “That is all good and well Sister, but the feast day of the assumption of Mary is this Sunday, and on top of that, the bus to the airport doesn’t run until the Monday after. This is an important weekend in our diocese so emergency travel is almost impossible.” Sister Ruth sighed, her colleague was right, the girl would have to hold on a little longer before she would be able to get home. Before the conversation could continue, the girl in question began to stir. “Good afternoon Y/N, feeling any better?” You nodded in response, trying to figure out where the hell you were. “We’re in the Convent’s infirmary again. You discharged with a clean bill of health, so we brought you here just to keep an eye on you,” Sister Ruth smiled at you. You were told to freshen up, the cold water felt like heaven when you washed your face. This was the first look you had in the mirror since you came here. You felt like your face had changed a little. It seemed a little more mature, your resting bitch face seemed more intense than ever before. You blamed it on the lack of sleep and strange happenings around you, you were sure you’d be back to your normal self as soon as you left this forsaken place. However, the only thing you cared about now was what you were going to eat and what Claire was up to. //// The rest of the girls were off-site today. The sisters had decided to not put you in a sermon today due to the complaints of your snoring. The thought made you giggle. You decided to wander around the grounds of the convent, to finally take in the unique architecture and maybe find some hiding places for you and Claire along the way. You missed your friend and you needed someone to share your strange dreams with. Each arch of the of building was so meticulously carved. Every motif and line of scripture meant something. You could understand it but could not tell anyone what you understood. You hummed a tune from your dreams as you aimlessly wandered through the corridors, your fingertips running over the stone walls, taking in every detail and mapping the structure in your head. A voiced joined in your humming, suddenly snapping you out of your trance. The voice stopped as soon as you acknowledged it. Your mind was playing tricks on you again. Yet it sounded so familiar. You decided to head back to where the sisters were, maybe being alone wasn’t the best idea in these circumstances. However, there was one issue. You had no idea where you were. The corridor seemed endless, with no exit or entrance. You span to look to the other side, finding only a single, red door. Your brows knitted in confusion, you didn’t open or close any doors during your wander, you were sure of it. Yet there seemed to be no other way out, so you headed towards the door. You took a deep breath and looked back one more time, before pushing it open. You were expecting something horrific, but instead you were met with a little chapel. This must have been one of the smaller chapels in the Convent. The candles and incense were still burning. The smell seemed familiar. You took in the beautiful surroundings and tried to figure out if this chapel was dedicated to anyone in particular. Standing in the centre of the small room, you looked up to the stained glass. It was a large effigy of Saint Michael. The setting sun made the image glow. The hair looked like spun gold, the eyes a dazzling blue, starring into the depths of your very soul. You had started to hum again. Thinking to stay just a while longer to figure out why the face looked so familiar.

//// “What do you think Sister Y/N?” “hmm?” Sister Y/N stopped humming. “I asked, how do you think we should go about the repairs?” Sister Y/N had been given leave from any physical labour after being found passed out in front of her room. The following days were filled with intense stomach pain and coughing up blood. Mother Superior said it was a test from God. The boar an illusion created by the devil. Her recovery was attributed to a miracle, but Sister Y/N knew the truth. She had just mustered up enough strength to collect the necessary herbs and create a remedy. Herbal medicine was one of her strong points, just not one she could practice publicly. She now stood in the old chapel with some of the senior Sisters, the convent was in need of repair and the Monseigneur had requested for all the proposals to be complete before his return from the Vatican. The sisters looked at her expectantly. “I’ve been having strange dreams recently,” she started. “I’m wandering through the convent, but it looks so different.” The Sisters leaned in, paying more attention to the words. “Each stone, each wall, everything is so meticulously placed. As if the convent is protecting something. The arches are etched with scripture of protection, they seem to be a reminder of something, but I don’t know what,” she finished. “Did you see this room?” One of the sisters chirped up. Sister Y/N nodded. “The chapel is small but beautiful, hidden away, only those that are meant to find it will.” She looked up the window, “The most beautiful stained glass of Saint Michael watches over us, providing his divine protection,” she finishes. The sisters began muttering to themselves. “These dreams could be sign from God, maybe he wants us to improve the Convent in a certain way,” one of them suggested. “Maybe you could draw the plans up so we can all visualise it,” another suggested. Sister Y/N nodded in agreement, she had nothing better to do anyway and this would be the perfect excuse to enjoy the library before the bane of her existence returned. ////

Sister Y/N wasn’t sure if she really believed in the divine, but she did believe in dreams. Her mother had taught her that the dreams of a witch could be a message from the future, a look into what is to come and a possible path to take. Such a detailed dream had to mean something, she hoped drawing out her plans would bring some clarity. The library was silent, only the rhythmic sound of a pencil or the lighting of an occasional candle could be heard. Y/n drew well into the evening, missing dinner, and evening prayers to perfect her work. The peace did not last for long after. Humming interrupted her work. She knew exactly who it was. “Sister Y/N, you’ve become bold, haven’t you?” he stood behind her, watching her work. She fought the childish instinct to cover her papers. A gloved hand pulled a sheet from the pile, “Missing your evening prayers, and now boldly displaying clairvoyance in a house of God?” “It was a dream Father, nothing more,” she replied.

He finally put the papers down, leaning across her in a cat-like manner. He brought his face level with hers, his nose almost touching her cheek. He studied her, all the little twitches, the way she looked at him through the corner of her eye before quickly looking away. What caught his eye, however, was a strand of hair poking out from beneath her veil. She flinched as he reached for it, pulling the long strand out from its confines. The length and softness seemed to give him an idea. “I said I’d find a suitable punishment for you when I returned and I think now is the perfect time to start.” Sister Y/N was bout to protest, he silenced her by yanking the strand of hair. “change into your nightwear and come straight to my chambers. Failure to comply and the village will wake to a pyre” She didn’t need to be told twice, already in his bad books, scurrying away. Michael looked at the plans again, his grin widening with every page. A few tweaks and they would be perfect. //// Sister Y/N ran to her room, her heart rate at the highest it had ever been. She tried not to slam the door as she got to her dorm. She noticed something strange about the room. Sister Carissa was nowhere to be found. She should have returned with Father Langdon but wasn’t here. Not even her bag. Before she could dwell any further, the words of the Monseigneur rang through her head again. She feared even more punishment for being late, so she ran to his chambers. //// Father Langdon had asked her to come in before she could even knock. She slowly opened the door, hoping deep down inside that it was a vivid dream. She stepped inside, fiddling with her hands and awaiting instructions. The man took great joy in her nervousness. “Fill that bowl with warm water and bring it over here,” he pointed. Sister Y/N nodded in response. As she grabbed the bowl, Michael gripped her wrist, raising a brow. “Yes Father,” she responded. He let go of her, making himself comfortable on the edge of his bed. She brought the bowl back, waiting for instructions on where to put it. He pointed at his feet. She knelt down, placing the bowl. She began to question how this was a punishment. She was going to find out. She began to rice but was stopped by the man. “Did I ask you to rise?” she shook her head. “Kneel” She did. “Do you recall the story of Jesus at the pharisees house? Tell me what was significant about it.” “The woman with the alabaster jar, washed and anointed the Lord’s feet with her hair,” as she finished recounting the story, her eyes widened in mortification. She prayed that this wasn’t her punishment. Michael gently grabbed her chin, tilting her head so she could look up at him. “Some in this convent would scalp you for this opportunity. Hurry up now, you have morning prayers in a few hours.” Sister Y/N hesitated. This had to be the worst form of humiliation and sacrilege, she was unwilling to give this man the status of a god. Her hesitation annoyed him. He let out a huff before tugging at the roots of her hair, almost pulling her up to her full height. “I will ask once more or so God help you Y/N,” she growled. She quickly wiped her tears when he let her go. She pulled her hair to one side, the sight of her exposed neck made Father Langdon shiver. She finally put her hair in the water, washing his feet just like he had ordered her too. Her eyes were blurry, and her nose was stinging with the tears she was holding back. Michael paid no mind to her comfort, running his fingers over her exposed neck. He was sure he could get drunk of the satisfaction he was feeling in this moment. No drug could recreate the euphoria. When she was humiliated to his satisfaction, he pulled his feet away. Sister Y/N let out a shaky breath, she wouldn’t wish this upon her worst enemy. Father Langdon tilted her chin up again, this time she couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. “Have you learned your lesson?” “Yes Father.” His thumb traced her lips, before he pushed it inside her mouth, relishing in the velvetiness he wanted to feel elsewhere. His cock twitched at the thought of it. “Next time you run that wicked tongue of yours, I’ll cut it out and maybe then you could take a vow of silence.” He pulled his finger out with a pop, smearing the remaining saliva on her face. He pulled back completely, standing, and walking to the other side of the room. He let out a shaky sigh. He was facing away from her; she couldn’t see him palming himself in her presence. “Now go before I punish you further,” he barked. Y/N got up on shaky knees, before darting out of the room. She wished to forget this night. //// The convent was shocked at Sister Y/N turning up on time. She attended all morning prayers and evening masses. She avoided any eye contact with the Monseigneur, however. She did not need to be reminded of that night. However, something was eating away at her. She hadn’t seen Sister Carissa at all. At first, she thought it was due to her finally being on time for things. Then she asked the Mother Superior; apparently Carissa had stayed behind for some reason. Y/N didn’t buy it. Something was wrong. Maybe it was the new swarm of flies driving her crazy. They had turned up a few days ago, no one knew why. Sister Y/N went back to her room for the first time in a while. The last few were spent in prayer or shed be found in the library. A rancid smell had taken over the room, making her gag. The swarm of flies was the seemed to be terrible in there. As she looked around the room for some clues, she noticed the ants on the floor, all heading towards her friend’s bed. She got down to take a look, hoping to find a dead bird or some other animal of the sort. The countryside was prone to these things. Instead, she was met with the most grotesque sight. Sister Carissa’s lifeless eyes stared back at her; bone exposed from the rot. A shriek rang through the convent.

Next>>>

[jtargaryen18]

The Shape of My Heart

Chapter 36

Warnings: Violence, Threesome, Smut, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Jealousy, Polyamory, Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, Double Penetration, Anal Sex, Voyeurism, Stucky, Spanking

A/N: One of my resolutions in 2020 is to finish this story. It’s on AO3 but I thought I’d bring it here to pull me back into it. I’ll be posting new chapters when I get to that point on both platforms.

This is not a dark fic and there’s an OC instead of a reader.

I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but archiveofourown, tumblr or fanfiction.net, it has been reposted without my permission.

~~~

In time, they'd mostly put Ross out of their minds and things fell into a comfortable routine around the compound.

Chris was six months along in her pregnancy and each day closer to the birth of their son made her boys both worse. In good ways. When they weren't pointing out that she'd started waddle – because that's what a woman with a ballooning figure wants to hear – they were hovering over her.

Okay, maybe she did waddle. A little. As Helen suspected, the baby was on the larger side and preliminary tests she'd run revealed that the father, whichever one of them it was, had indeed passed his modified and superior DNA on to their child judging by the size and slightly accelerated growth. And that was a good thing in her mind. It did a lot to calm Steve's mind anyway.

The hovering wasn't bad at first. She didn't mind that they took care of all the household tasks and ran her baths and kept her fed. That was all good.

It was the little things like being able to carry her own laptop. She'd closed it one evening after work when Bucky showed up to walk her up to the apartment only to have him freak out when she went to pick it up. She could lift things with no harm to the baby. He couldn't be dissuaded. Worse, Tony backed him up – how about that? – and now when Steve and Bucky weren't carrying her things around for her, Tony was.

And Nat on occasion. And Bruce. And Sam. And Wanda. And Darcy. And Phil especially.

Jesus.

They continued to work on the return of Project Insight as they waited for Ross along with other missions that came up like clockwork. When Ross had returned the week after Steve had met with him, Tony and Fury, he informed them that there was intel that HYDRA had hit a snag in their production efforts, wherever they were, and that he'd let them know when it was time to strike. It gave Chris and Tony time to look for the plans and algorithm copies in the meantime.

Chris had eliminated data from thirteen servers so far, all across Eastern Europe. Mostly mockup plans for restarting the project but no sign of the algorithm so far – and Chris really wanted to get her hands on that. Just last week Fury got intel on where it was believed they were building the new helicarriers and Chris was heading for the meeting. She knew this mission would require both Steve and Bucky and she was as ready as she was going to be for that.

Hell, she couldn't sleep for worrying about it. About them. Chris needed them both. She loved them both.

What she wasn't ready for when she walked into the conference room was for Ross to be standing there, his expression stony as his gaze fixed on her, dropped to her belly.

Fuck you, Ross. I haven't forgotten it's your fault I lost my first child.

His expression became something like a disapproving sneer as she headed to where Steve and Bucky sat, both of them watching Ross with gazes she wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of. Bucky moved over a seat, placing her between them.

Chris took a deep steadying breath. She'd hoped Ross would show up. But she couldn't let on that she did.

"Where the hell were you?" Bucky hissed as they waited for a couple of others to arrive. "I've been looking for you for an hour because of this."

Oh, she knew they'd be pissed. Her boys intended to keep her out of the meeting, away from Ross. She understood why. Really.

But for her own plan to work, she really had to be at the meeting to see Ross.

"I got wrapped up in checking out that server in Bavaria," she said in a low voice, knowing her soldiers could hear her. She hated playing this card. "I know I should check my phone more but… I get so forgetful these days. I guess it's the pregnancy."

It was the one thing she knew she could use as an excuse that would make them feel guilty if they continued to fuss at her.

"You need to find an app or something," Bucky did go on. "I don't care if you have to set an alarm that goes off every hour, for your safety we need to be able to reach you. I called three times."

"I forgot to put my volume back on from my meeting with Tony this morning," she said pitifully. "I'm so sorry."

Oh, all the lies. Still, she told herself. It was necessary. They'd understand why later.

Steve's jaw was locked but his gaze had softened, letting her know he was upset but couldn't bring himself to be that mad at her.

Bucky on the other hand…

"I'm just about ready to restrict you to the apartment for the rest of the pregnancy," he warned, keeping his voice low.

Nat took her seat across from them, winking at her. Good. Nat was all ready to do her part.

"Do you hear me?" Bucky went on. "I'm serious, Chris. We're not taking any chances with your safety or his."

Putting on her best remorseful expression, Chris acted ashamed to meet his gaze and when she did, she nodded.

"I'm so sorry. I love you both and I… I'll do whatever you think is best. I promise."

After all, if she and Nat pulled this off, it would be worth it to spend the next three months restricted in the apartment. If she could stop Ross…

"What are you up to?" Bucky's gaze narrowed on her. That got Steve's attention.

"What?" Chris sounded innocent.

"You agreed to do what we wanted, even stay in the apartment, huh? Just like that?"

Chris blew out an exhale, trying to come across as tired and overwhelmed. Bucky wasn't easy to fool.

"Well, I stay so tired these days," Chris explained, and it wasn't a lie. "If I was there in the apartment, I could catch a nap here and there. I was thinking earlier that I wish I could've taken a nap."

She caught the glance the two of them exchanged and Bucky backed down. Steve had to be happy as hell to hear her say that. He'd been gently asking her to work from the apartment for the last month, and she had to be ready to go through with it now. And she would be if she and Nat pulled this off.

Tony finally walked in, his gaze going to Chris, his expression something like disapproval. Beneath the table, she felt Steve's hand slide protectively over her belly, over their son, his large hand spanning a lot of it. Steve was watching Ross, but the gesture had her melting.

"We've located HYDRA's production facility," Ross began without preamble. "Just as we suspected, it's deep in Siberia and very well concealed. We actually lucked into learning its location. We don't have a lot of time. The helicarriers will be ready to carry out their mission within days."

Chris's heart clenched in her chest. Bucky's hand slid into her own in her lap, lending her strength.

Ross had a laptop set up on the opposite table, within reach of Nat which wasn't a coincidence. Ross pulled up maps on the screen, hooked into Tony's guest network so he could display it easily for them. All he needed to do was turn his back quickly…

Her boys studied the map, looking over the terrain and buildings they would have to navigate in their quest to destroy the second incarnation of Project Insight. Ross turned to the maps, pointing things out. It gave Nat all the time she needed. Chris watched as Nat followed her instructions, no one seeing her hands move towards Ross's laptop.

"I understand, Stark, that you've had some luck in tracking down copies of the plans," Ross said but he was looking directly at Chris. "How about the algorithm?"

"Not yet," Tony's voice didn't hold any of its normal exuberance.

Ross's gaze on her was intense and as much as she hated to do it, she reached out to read his emotions.

Curiosity. Determination.

That he was up to something was no surprise. But what? What could he possibly hope to do now?

They discussed the terrain of the site, potential landing sites, exits. Bucky and Steve had a lot of input on how they were going to pull off the mission, Bruce throwing in a couple of ideas. Rhodes would be going with them and every extra person helped as far as Chris was concerned.

She just wished Steve and Bucky didn't have to go at all. Their baby would be there in three months and she wanted both of there in one piece.

Hell, it was terrible timing. Everyone else was gone on a mission led by Sam and Clint. That group that included Vision, Wanda, and Peter.

"I'll meet with you later this afternoon on a lead we have regarding the algorithm," Ross said too calmly to Tony before turning his attention back to the maps. The mission parameters were reviewed, and Tony, Fury, and Steve went over details.

The mission would deploy tomorrow.

The meeting adjourned, and Chris took a steadying breath. Her plan was in place and if Nat did everything right, and Chris couldn't imagine that she didn't, she'd have exactly what she wanted.

The bad news was, she had only hours to examine the data. And a doctor's appointment too.

Knowing they had a lot to do to get ready, Steve helped her up from the chair. "I'll walk her back to up to the apartment if you want to get started, Buck."

"I'll walk her up," Natasha offered. "I've got to run up to my place anyway."

Before her boys could debate it, Chris smiled. "I'll go with Nat. You two head on. I'll just be so glad when this is over with."

The weepy way she said that earned her kisses from both, Steve's hand rubbing soft circles in the middle of her back.

"Just stay put," Steve instructed her. "If someone comes to visit you, FRIDAY will let me know."

"I have a doctor's appointment, Steve," she reminded him. "At 3. What about that?"

He and Bucky communicated silently. "Just a routine visit, right?" Steve asked.

She nodded.

"I'll see if Dr. Meadows can come up to see you at the apartment, how about that?" he offered.

Chris shrugged. That was fine with her.

She and Nat just chit chatted until they got off the elevator on her floor. Once they were inside Chris's apartment, Nat gave her the small drive back.

"I hope you can get what you need," Nat told her.

Chris gave her a huge hug. "I'm sure I will. I can't thank you enough."

Nat smirked. "Don't thank me yet. If you actually get something, then you can buy me dinner or something."

"Deal!"

Nat headed out to get ready and Chris headed for her cave.

The utility she'd given Nat to use was very black hat, a spider meant to grab certain file types, to look for certain sizes and dates. Everyone did naming conventions differently so she knew she'd be flying blind there.

The results seemed basic at first and Chris sighed in defeat, seeing very little. Until she noticed that an apparent junk file, grabbed only because of its size, was grabbed. Within it, she found quite a lot.

Ross had the plans for the resurrection on Project Inside. He had the algorithm. The fucking algorithm.

What was Ross doing with it? Had he been part of HYDRA all along? Or did he mean to use it against someone? She didn't understand.

Then she found a good deal of information on the Avengers Initiative. There were meeting notes, official missives, proposals. Apparently, Ross wanted the entire initiative dissolved but how could one politically do that? They couldn't just make the set of heroes disappear with so many fans and appreciative citizens out there. They couldn't control them – they'd proven that.

Frame them?

The more she read, the more she started to realize what the plan was. Ross meant to make it appear that Tony Stark himself was trying to resurrect Project Insight, a project to take out now anyone who was perceived to be a threat to the Avengers who then meant to try and take over…?

Who the hell would believe that? Tony was what he was, but no one would buy him being a HYDRA-level megalomaniac seeking world domination with the rest of the team.

Chris's head began to ache. Correspondence about the Avengers Initiative on an official level finally started to die down around October of the year before. It was like Ross hit a wall, decided to give up.

The date of the next file got her attention. It was dated Thanksgiving of last year. November 22, 2018.

Private notes Ross made with a couple of slides. A presentation he'd given to someone. Someone. Who? Who on earth would be persuaded to go along with him on such a crazy, hair-brained idea? Who would allow themselves to be convinced that Tony Stark, Steve Rogers and the rest of the Avengers would try to take over the planet?

The notes were very detailed. Mentions of Steve caught her eye. Of course. Steve had rejected the accords before. It would look like the entire plan was born of the disagreement between Tony and Steve on how the Avengers continued serving the planet. It almost made it seem that Steve would only agree if they had complete control prompting Tony to say "hey, let's just take over the world."

What was the significance of Thanksgiving?

Chris had just opened another file when it hit her.

Thanksgiving was the day that both Tony and Bucky announced that she and Pepper were pregnant at their holiday dinner.

Fuck.

In Ross's head, the Avengers were such a threat that he needed to eliminate them – somehow – before they could hatch another generation. Was that it?

Chris felt sick.

Fury had also been worried about word getting out. She thought about the people in their group who had known. Who among them would help Ross?

Or did he have bugs around them?

Surely she and Tony would have detected that.

Rising from her chair because her lower back ached, Chris began to pace. How did Ross think he was going to get away with this? What did it all mean for the team tomorrow? Were they heading straight in for a trap? The last files detailed the mission he was about to send them on, but all of those files looked official, aboveboard.

Did Ross mean to kill them all? And if any of them survived, they'd have evidence to show how they'd tried to take over?

Chris had meant to find something she could use against Ross, to dump it before he could stop it and let the world at large judge him for his many crimes. While some of his "notes" could be incriminating, there wasn't anything there to actually prove intent. There was nothing about his transaction in selling her to Odysseus.

What was coming?

She had some water, she paced some more. In the end, she decided she needed to tell Steve, Tony, and Fury what she'd found.

She hadn't realized it was 3 PM.

"Dr. Meadows has arrived," FRIDAY announced.

She really wished she didn't have an appointment today of all days. Maybe she could just tell her she wasn't feeling well and get out of it that way.

When she opened the door, Dr. Meadows smiled at her. The OBGYN had been taking care of her at Helen's recommendation and Chris was fond of her. It just wasn't a good time.

"Are you okay?" the other woman asked, walking in while Chris held the door for her.

Chris bit her lip. "You know, I'm not having such a good day. I'm really sorry."

"It's no problem," Dr. Meadows placed her bag down on the coffee table. "Let's just make this a quick check and I'll let you get some rest, okay?"

Chris nodded. Her anxiety level was climbing.

"Do you feel okay physically? Is it anything to do with the baby?"

Chris shook her head. "No, I don't think so. It's just… Not feeling well in general. I think it's just that I haven't been sleeping well. I'll go to bed early tonight.”

The doctor hummed, motioned for her to sit down on the couch. Chris's phone hummed from the coffee table before her. While Dr. Meadows was taking her blood pressure, Chris snatched up her phone to see she had a text.

From Phil.

SKJ08U7342: Are you home?

Trying to angle the phone so she could be sure the doctor couldn't see the screen, Chris quickly considered the text.

Chris: Yes.

SKJ08U7342: Can you stay until I get there? I needed to go over plans for tomorrow.

Chris's heart dropped. Something was very wrong. The text was intended to let her know that and to let her know he was coming for her. Phil never put in anything important in writing directly.

"Relax," Dr. Meadows whispered as the blood pressure cuff squeezed her arm.

Chris: I'll be here the rest of the day. Did you need Steve and Bucky too?

"Your blood pressure is off the charts," the doctor told her with a wince.

"I'm so sorry," she told her, her hands shaking.

SKJ08U7342: Be there in 5.

Dropping her phone to the table, Chris gave the doctor her attention now. If she were in danger, the doctor with her was in too. The poor woman didn't deserve that, not for trying to help her.

"Dr. Meadows?" Chris said slowly. "I don't mean to be rude, but can I talk to you another time?"

The doctor's warm brown eyes widened. "Is everything okay?"

Chris typed. Fast.

Chris: Remind me to have Steve talk to Nat. And to have Tony check out of my desktop. I picked up some virus called Poseidon.

Turning her attention back to the doctor, she smiled. Trying to put the other woman at ease.

Chris never noticed the woman held a slim cannister in her hand. "I'm sorry."

The spray was deployed in her face and then her world went black.

***

Phil knew before he hit the hallways something was wrong. He hit the com.

"We have an Athena alert," he said calmly, knowing it in his gut.

Sirens began blaring a beat later and Phil knew that the elevators and stairwells would automatically be sealed off to those not authorized given the seriousness of the alert.

Stopping at Captain Rogers' apartment, Phil used his thumbprint to get in, having authorization in such a situation. Nothing looked out of place, a quick check revealed that Chris wasn't there.

"FRIDAY, where did they take Agent Danforth?" Phil demanded.

"They are on the roof," the AI responded.

"En route," Tony was on the com now and Phil heard his boosters in the background.

"We're coming up on the south side," Captain Rogers advised him.

"I'll take the north side," Tony told them.

He didn't use it often, but Phil took out his work phone with all the Stark tech, shook out the image to display where he stood in the living room. "Show me the roof," Phil ordered the AI.

A small group of soldiers in all black uniforms followed the woman they knew as Dr. Meadows, had just reached a helicopter waiting on the roof. Four of the men surrounded one soldier who carried Chris Danforth easily in his arms.

Tony flew in, placing himself between the helicopter door and the group. The situation wasn't ideal because extreme care had to be exercised with Danforth's delicate condition.

When Captain Rogers arrived on the roof, Barnes at his back, he slowly approached, taking in the situation. When he saw the doctor, his expression hardened.

"Give back Agent Danforth now," Tony ordered, taking a step closer to them as they took a step closer to the vehicle. Unlike Steve, Tony had been able to suit up and didn't look worried. "OBGYN, huh?"

The woman they'd known as Dr. Meadows nodded. "I am."

"Working for who?" Steve asked angrily.

When there was no answer, a fight broke out. Dr. Meadows looked uneasy as the four soldiers around the one carrying Agent Danforth began firing. Captain Rogers did have his shield. Between it and Barnes's arm, they deflected enough bullets to move closer. Just when it looked as if they were gaining the upper hand, they turned to find the doctor with a hypodermic needle poised at Danforth's throat. The young pregnant woman still lay unconscious in the arms of the soldier carrying her.

"Make one more move I don't like," the woman said angrily, "and I'll inject this and kill them both."

"Why are you doing this?" Barnes' frustration was clear in his tone.

"This child is crucial to my research," the woman told him coldly.

"That child is ours," Steve's voice was low.

"Behind you!" Phil called on the com, watching in horror as two more men climbed over the side of the building.

The two new soldiers yielded guns firing rays of gold like the Destroyer protype gun Fury had entrusted him with. One blast of it had Iron Man fighting back hard. The other fired at Rogers whose back was to him. Barnes blocked the shot with his Vibranium arm, giving Rogers time to turn and deal with him.

The next volley sent Iron Man flying off the roof. Rogers and Barnes and then faced the two. One of them then fired a blue ray, hitting Barnes and dropping him to the ground unconscious. Before Captain Rogers could deal with that, he found himself facing two of them with weaponry that was highly dangerous and new to them.

Phil was on the move, heading for the roof. He didn't stop, fight for breath. His captain needed him and a group of SHIELD agents, led by Black Widow, were on his heels, coming from he didn't know where.

When Phil reached the roof, the helicopter was in flight but still in view. Three bodies, clothed in black, lay scattered around Captain Rogers who was on his knees, struggling to breathe. No sign of Iron Man or Barnes. One soldier remained on his feet with one of the new weapons. Aiming it under his own chin, he pulled the trigger, dropping to the rooftop without a head.

The sound of Captain Rogers' scream could likely be heard for miles.

Phil didn't know at that moment, but they'd not only taken Agent Danforth and the child she carried, they'd also taken Bucky Barnes. And Tony Stark was seriously injured, on the ground several floors below them.

@what-is-your-plan-today  @jennmurawski13 @badassbaker @caffiend-queen @disneylovingal  @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123

[surelynotshirley]

Kaeluc + Chongyun, Venti

This was something I worked on for the play diary fic I have on AO3 during the Geovishap event but I didn’t finish it, and I don’t really think I will. It seems to be heading down the path of an action fic and action scenes are already not my forté so I’m not sure if I want to expend the time and energy on something that’s supposed to be a low effort kind of deal. I still did work on it for quite some time so here is what I have:

When Lumine asked Chongyun if he would be willing to go investigate certain areas of Liyue for traces of Geovishaps, he said yes in a heartbeat. Even if he hadn't been requested by Lumine, he probably would have taken it upon himself to seek out and exterminate the monsters. Or been dragged by Xingqiu on Xingqiu's own self-imposed quest of chivalry.

The Geovishaps are a dangerous menace to the populace and already, Bubu Pharmacy's swamped with people who have been injured by them. According to Xiangling, anyway, who heard secondhand from Hu Tao.

"I'll ask some of my friends from Mondstadt to go with you," Lumine had said.

"Mondstadt?" Chongyun had echoed. "Wouldn't it be better to ask people from Liyue, since we know the geography more?"

"Well, yeah, but a lot of the people who are suited to explore the area are busy with their own investigations," Paimon had explained. "So we had to ask people from Mondstadt to fill in."

"I see," Chongyun had said, nodding to himself.

The Geovishaps' territory seems to encompass Liyue's entirety, which is already a large country for a small handful of elites to cover. It makes sense to ask for aid from foreigners, and it's even better if they're acting out of a sense of friendship, rather than trying to force Liyue into any kind of political debt.

"I'll be sure to buy them some food from Wanmin Restaurant after everything is done," Chongyun had promised, raising his heavy Mora bag and jangling it about.

Paimon and Lumine had given him a thumbs-up before Chongyun headed out to the outskirts of Liyue Harbour. It would be a simple mission, he had thought at the time.

It doesn't take him long to find the helpers from Mondstadt. They stand out like sore thumbs.

A red-haired man in dark clothing is standing on the bridge, leaning against the wooden railing. His gaze is focused on the dog circling around his feet, its tail wagging so hard Chongyun can practically hear it whirling from the other end of the bridge. Next to the red-haired man is a short boy — probably around Xingqiu's height? — wearing green and white. He is drinking out of a white gourd in his hand and Chongyun races forward when he realizes what it was.

"Wait, wait!"

The red-haired man looks up and pushes himself away from the railing. "Chongyun?" he asks. He pronounces Chongyun's name a little strange — he places too much emphasis on the 'yun' — but Chongyun nods quickly. "My name is Diluc Ragnvindr. I was asked by Lumine to help you in —"

"Ah, wait, hold on," Chongyun says nervously, raising up a hand in apology. "I'm really sorry for interrupting, Mister Diluc. It's just that your friend is drinking cooking wine."

"Oh," Diluc says.

The boy in green pulls the gourd away with a loud exhale. Chongyun winces at the alcoholic stench that assaults his nose and he covers his face with his sleeve. The boy's face is red and his eyes are unfocused, swaying unsteadily on the spot.

"That's the stuff!" the boy says, sounding remarkably articulate. "Oh, hello! I'm Venti! This is Diluc! We're here to help!"

"Please, you don't have to yell. I'm standing right here," Chongyun says.

"I already told him why we're here," Diluc says.

Venti's only answer is a loud laugh and Chongyun is struck with a sense of déjà vu. He is pretty sure he had to go through the exact same song and dance from Diluc's position just the other day.

It seems that Venti and Xingqiu have more in common than just their height. At the very least, Xingqiu has no interest in alcohol.

"We're just waiting for the last person in our expedition to arrive," Diluc explains. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an expensive-looking pocketwatch. Venti tries to reach out for it and Diluc simply raises it out of his reach. It's like watching someone deal with a particularly mischievous cat. "She's not someone who's normally late."

"Maybe she got distracted by some sticky honey roast on the way."

Diluc pulls a face but he doesn't deny the possibility.

Chongyun stretches to try and peer into the pocketwatch and Diluc lowers it down so that Chongyun can easily see the time. The two of them ignore Venti's loud pout at the blatant favouritism. It's just a little past noon, when more people would be out and about on their way to and from lunch. It would be disastrous if a Geovishap is to show up at this hour.

"Should we maybe just go ahead and leave a note?" Chongyun asks.

"Maybe," Diluc says. He clicks the pocketwatch shut and places it back into his pocket, staring up at the sky. "We can wait another fifteen minutes and then we'll leave."

"Sounds good to me!" Venti says, raising his hand up in the air.

Chongyun imitates him but Diluc doesn't even look at them. He lowers his hand shyly.

"There's no need for that," an unfamiliar voice drawls out and the three of them turn as one to see a dark-skinned man dressed in furs and leather stroll up to them.

He stands out in the most ridiculous fashion, not only with his natural looks but also with the way his clothes practically cling to the lines of his lithe body. Chongyun instinctively takes a small step back, and yet another one when he feels hot anger rise off of Diluc. If he hadn't noticed the Vision hanging off of his waist earlier, he would know for sure now that he's dealing with a Pyro user.

"Kaeya," Diluc growls. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh boy," Venti says. He reaches into his cape and pulls out from out of nowhere yet another gourd. How he managed to keep such a large bottle hidden away, Chongyun has no idea. Venti notices Chongyun's stare and tips the cooking wine at him. "You want a sip?"

"Ah, no..."

"Your loss."

"Amber was called away on an Outrider mission," Kaeya says. He spreads his arms out theatrically and shakes his head. "And so kind old me decided to lend her a hand. As her superior, of course. "

For a while, Diluc doesn't say anything, giving Kaeya such a murderous look that it's surprising he hasn't been incinerated to a crisp yet. When Diluc finally speaks, his voice is measured and low. He's obviously putting in a great effort to sound as cordial as he can.

"If it's just a Geovishap or two, the three of us are more than enough to defeat them. You could expend your energy on patrolling the site the monster was last spotted, in case civilians accidentally wander into the area."

Kaeya nods. "That's wise. There certainly is a lot of people milling about."

He does not openly agree or disagree with Diluc's suggestion and Diluc shifts his weight.

"So can we trust you to handle securing the area."

It's worded like a question but Diluc's flat tone implies that he meant it as a command.

"Oh. Don't worry about that," Kaeya says, waving his hand in a clear sign of dismissal. He ignores Diluc's irritated tsk. "There's nothing I can do about accidentally getting people involved if you're there with that Vision of yours. So I might as well focus on backing you up on the field."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean that you —"

"Okay, wow!" Venti interrupts and both Diluc and Chongyun startle.

Kaeya was so distracting that Chongyun didn't even remember there was a third party with them. Or, he supposes, he technically is a part of said third party. But if Venti is willing to be the peacemaker then Chongyun has his back. He has no idea what's going on between Kaeya and Diluc but if Venti has no qualms about sacrificing himself for the sake of the greater good, the least Chongyun can do is make sure his death isn't in vain.

"Isn't there anything a little sweeter to drink? This wine is getting a bit too spicy for me."

Chongyun's newfound respect for Venti crumbles.

Kaeya laughs and he gives Venti an overly friendly pat on the shoulder. "Well, that's cooking wine so you're not really supposed to be drinking that. There's a lovely restaurant that offers violetgrass liqeur, and it's considered a bit of a local delicacy around these parts."

"Go on, go on!" Venti exclaims, his eyes shimmering like stars as he stares up at Kaeya like a lovestruck maiden. "What does it taste like?"

"Hm, I've never had it myself, but I hear that it's sweet and floral, like you're sucking honey directly out from a flower. If you hold it up to the light, the colours swirl in the most beautiful patterns, like you've trapped the night sky in your glass."

"It sounds amazing," Venti says dreamily. "I would very much like to try it before I go back to Mondstadt. Let's hurry and get rid of the Geovishap so we can go to the restaurant."

"Oh, I can't really drink," Chongyun says, raising his hand. "I'll still go though."

"More for me!" Venti says.

"They offer a virgin violetgrass cocktail that's sweetened with mist flower nectar and mint for anyone who can't handle their drink," Kaeya says, giving Diluc a bright smile.

Diluc crosses his arms and taps his fingers against his elbow like an annoyed cat flicking its tail. He doesn't reply but Chongyun nods to himself. So Diluc also can't drink alcohol. A small sense of kinship wells up in him at the thought. Finally, some common ground with at least one member of this enigmatic band.

"We're wasting time," Diluc sighs. He seems to have given up on trying to chase Kaeya away for now. "Let's go."

[archadianskies]

Whumptober Day 30

Wound Reveal + Ignoring an Injury→ part 1; part 2; part 3

Whumptober Masterlist | 30/31 of RK900 short stories ↳ on Ao3

Tags: Tags: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings × Team as Family × Good Parent Hank Anderson × Hiding Medical Issues × Stabbing × Gun Violence × Gunshot wounds × Hurt/Comfort 

It’s a full Anderson house. Well, it will be in about ten minutes or so. And ‘house’ isn’t quite right, given they aren’t indoors and even if they were it’s certainly not a house, but that’s how the saying goes so he’ll say it. 

It’s a joint task force between the DPD Android Crimes Division, so that’s Dad Anderson and Big Bro Anderson onsite, and SWAT Unit 32 so he’s onsite, Middle Bro Anderson, and now the mission is wrapping up, CSI will be onsite soon, so that’s Baby Bro Anderson. Four Andersons. They’re just missing Dog Anderson.

“Where the fuck are they, it’s so fuckin’ cold I want to go home and pass out on my bed.” Detective Reed grumbles. Ah yes. There've been killings involving both androids and humans, so DPD Homicide squad are here meaning Detective Gavin Reed is here and Caleb’s patience is wearing thinner by the second.

“Icy conditions are making it hard for CSI to navigate their vans safely.” He informs him because if he doesn’t the man will continue complaining and he may outright murder him. “High body count means they need to bring multiple vehicles.”

“And all their fancy tech, right?” Reed groans. “God we’ll be here all night.”

“No fancy tech.” Caleb shrugs. “Just one RK900.”

“You’re here already.” He gestures vaguely at him. “Why don’t you go put that mouth of yours to use and save us some time?”

Rayner looks about ready to leap at Reed on his behalf which is touching, and of course their Captain is within earshot, a crease marring that handsome brow. Not to worry. Humans have instincts, have automatic reactions to certain situations. Like being handed something out of the blue. 

“Sure. Here, hold this for a second?” Human vs 200lbs custom EMP resistant ballistics shield. Gavin meets ground. Rayner snortlaughs and their unwavering Captain, his captain o captain, wavers just a smidge, the corners of his mouth twitching up briefly.

“Oh, sorry Detective Reed.” Caleb reaches down to grab the shield, human still attached by way of instinctual pincer grasp, and returns both into an upright position. “Anyway though I too am an RK900, I do not have the proper qualifications to perform forensic investigations at crime scenes even if they are raids. Rest assured dear Frederick will get to work as soon as he arrives.”  

“You little shit!” The human shrieks, voice an octave higher in outrage and Caleb steps away from him in favour of crossing the distance and nudging Connor with his elbow playfully.

“Hey.”

“I see you’ve had enough of Detective Reed for tonight.” Connor quips sagely and Caleb shrugs. 

“Can’t believe you put up with him for so long.”

“Not by choice. Can’t exactly murder a fellow detective and keep my job at the same time.” Connor grins, and he laughs at the cheeky expression on his brother’s face. “It’s not so bad now we’re in different divisions. We overlap sometimes, but not all the time so the urge to murder is lesser now.” 

“What do you make of all this?” Changing the subject, he tips his head in the direction of the semi-finished apartment complex, the base of operations for an elaborate crime syndicate that saw both android and human lives cut down for the sake of seizing power in the black market organ trade. 

The raid had been a dangerous one, and though they didn’t suffer any casualties, a third of the team took severe hits and will need weeks of recovery time. The very nature of the building meant they couldn’t ambush them and having the separate floors meant the element of surprise was lost. 

“I think our baby brother has a lot of work ahead of him.” Connor smirks before shaking his head, sighing tiredly. “As do Hank and I. There’s a lot of criminals to question. Reed’s team will handle the human criminals and his interrogation tactic is-”

“Bad, barely competent cop with anger management issues?” 

“-sorely lacking in finesse, but we’ll go with that.” Connor looks him over, reaching out to thumb away a smudge of grime from his cheek. “At least you get to go home soon.”

“Soon-ish.” Caleb corrects, making a face. “Waiting for the last party to secure their floor before the Captain can declare the entire site is secure.” 

“Still, you’ll be out of here long before dad and I can leave. And poor Freddie will be here long after we leave.”

“Gotta have an Anderson onsite.” Caleb laughs, leaning in to bump his brow against his brother’s fondly. “Okay. I better get going. I’ll see you on Saturday at our place?”

“I’ll bring the drinks.” Connor vows, waving as his brother takes his leave.

* 

Watching Caleb return to his team, Connor idly watches their group dynamic and marvels at how his brother is the furthest thing from the cold, unfeeling killing machine CyberLife intended to release for the sole purpose of crushing the deviant revolution. 

They didn’t count on the revolution succeeding. They didn’t count on having their arm twisted by the Kamskis, nor the mounting pressure placed on them by the public after public opinion soared in favour of the deviants given Joss Douglas’ live coverage of the Jericho Four’s final stand. Which meant they offered the RK900 to the DPD as an olive branch, smiling through gritted teeth as Connor deviated him on the spot and it wasn’t a killing machine being activated, it was a young brother who would become Caleb Anderson not long after. 

It was a far harder road for their youngest brother, Caleb’s twin, Freddie. Over eight months, while Caleb had his family, had his team, had a growing relationship, Freddie had been treated as a piece of equipment by Special Agent Richard Perkins and his FBI SWAT team. He’s only now just coming into his own, finding his place in the Forensics team and settling into the Anderson family. 

The CSI vans begin to pull up to the scene and soon the last Anderson brother is onsite. Freddie gives him a small wave and Connor finds himself smiling as he waves in return.

“Hello Connor.”

“Hello Freddie.” He greets, smile growing warmer as the other RK900 offers a grin he most certainly learned from Caleb. “You’re going to be very busy tonight unfortunately.”

“That’s alright. It is my job and I like doing it.” His brother reassures, eyes roving over the SWAT team at the entrance of the building. Caleb spots them and waves enthusiastically, and Connor laughs as Freddie returns it with the same enthusiasm. “The site has been declared secure, so they’ll be heading back to the station.” He relays what must be the short conversation they just shared. “And that means it is time for me to start working.”

“And time for dad and I to start processing criminals.” He sighs heavily. “Well Freddie, I’ll see you back at home. Hopefully sooner rather than later.” He adds, looping an arm around his brother’s waist and pulling him in for a quick hug.

“Okay Connor.” Freddie mumbles into his shoulder. “Say hello to dad for me?”

“Of course.”

* 

It is a drastic change to go from the team storming the site to the team that arrives well after the action is over. He much prefers the latter to the former. He’s grown accustomed to the stillness, to the attention to detail this job requires rather than the chaos of raids, the incessant hail of bullets under Special Agent Perkins’ leadership. Or lack thereof. Caleb’s memories showed Captain Allen prefers a vastly, drastically different mode of leadership that sees him guiding a tight-knit team and playing to both individual and collective strengths. 

Special Agent Perkins barely remembered the names of his own Agents, let alone cared enough to give Freddie one. It’s something he’s had to learn from his brothers; what transpired at his time with the FBI was not normal, it was cruel. His cruelty still lingers like bruises on human skin that take much longer to fade than for the injury to heal. But Freddie is learning, and though he has a long way to go at least he has family now and he has the Anderson name and he has the name Frederick which he chose all by himself. 

The semi-finished apartment complex is the site of a massacre. Even before the raid, it seems the syndicate were trying to cut their losses and decided it was much easier to kill the workers, and thus prevent them from being questioned by the police. Even before the raid, even before the execution of the workers, the complex was already filled with bodies upon bodies; missing humans and missing androids, kidnapped and killed, then harvested for organs or biocomponents. Even if Freddie weren’t an RK900, he’d still be able to smell the dizzying scent of human blood, of android thirium, and of hospital grade disinfectants. 

There’s too many bodies to be housed at the lab morgue so many will have to be diverted to the hospital morgues until they can process them. There’s no mystery to be solved here; it’s very clear how these victims died. The task at hand is processing each and every one so they can be identified and released for their kin to claim. 

Freddie works at a steady pace, his superior commanding him to start at the top floor and work downwards. Most of the cleanup will need to be concentrated in the basement level where the workers were executed, but on the other hand the team will not need his input since the deaths are straightforward. The greatest task will be in trying to identify the parts and matching them to the bodies, ensuring the families will be able to claim their loved ones as whole as possible, and failing that, he will try his best to ensure there’s at least a name, a serial number, so they may be buried with or installed into memorial walls with dignity. 

He takes the elevator and several body bags, and begins the task of retrieving corpses. Police auxiliary units patrol the now quiet floors when not too long ago SWAT Unit 32 would’ve been sweeping through. Arrests have been made, but the ratio of arrests vs corpses is highly skewed. No matter. He has faith in his brothers, in his father, and yes perhaps even Detective Reed. 

The thing about android corpses versus human corpses is that it’s very easy to determine whether a human is dead or alive. For androids, there’s a certain nuance to determining whether an android is still active or deactivated. And the thing is, humans are still learning how to determine between those two. The android in question, splayed in a broken sprawl, riddled with bullets, is not actually deactivated. 

Freddie learns as such, when he is crouched beside the human corpse adjacent to it, because the android sputters to life and the knife in its hand plunges right into his leg. His RK900 programming kicks in and he whirls around, grabbing the android’s wrist and using his other hand to yank the knife from his thigh. Too late does he see the gun in its other hand and it fires at his chest, narrowly missing both his hearts. Tossing the knife aside, he grabs the gun before the android can fire again, twisting so he breaks both wrists before thrusting a hand forward to yank the android’s pump regulator out. They collapse like a cut puppet, jerking and seizing for a few moments before falling still and now Freddie knows they are truly dead.

Police units rush into the room and he reassures them all is well, the android is properly deactivated. He has the pump regulator of the android to prove it. Swatting away the damage notifications to his thigh and chest, he continues with the long, laborious task of finding, bagging and logging each corpse. The thirium loss is steady but not fatal, so he keeps his head down and continues working. 

He has completed missions in far worse conditions, and his brothers and father have both worked so very hard tonight that he feels he cannot let them down by allowing such pathetic injuries to hinder him. He is an RK900. In the FBI SWAT unit he was to keep going until he physically shut down, and he reasons that the same level of dedication is required of him here too. It is only fair, to give as much as they expect and he is far from shutting down over such trivial hindrances. 

It is nearing midnight by the time everything is loaded up and ready to head back to the lab, and he can sense the immense fatigue laying heavy like a blanket over his human colleagues. There is still so much work to do.

“No.” Lenore says firmly, and he tips his head slightly in confusion. “You’re going to say ‘I can get a head start on these while you all go home to rest’ and the answer is no, Freddie, you absolutely are not going to do that.”

“But I-” 

“No.” She repeats, firmer still. “We’re going to run the stuff that needs hours to process, you’re going to just put ID tags on the bodies and then everything goes into the freezers for tomorrow.”

There’s no room for argument, even if he does think he can accomplish much more but it would require him to stay there by himself and they never seem to want to allow him to do that. He is both grateful and confused. “...Understood.”

“Good.” 

* 

By the time Dr Olive declares everything is now at the mercy of the lab equipment and can wait until later, it is nearly two in the morning. Which is fine, since Freddie changed out of his damaged uniform upon arrival and applied dermal nano patches to cover the wounds to stem the bleeding. It could wait until he got home and had access to the first aid kit in the bathroom, since he was needed here at the lab to do actual work and not waste time tinkering on such small matters. 

He hangs up his lab coat, thumb brushing over the embroidered ‘Dr. F. Anderson’ and finding himself smiling, as he does each time, because that is his name and it’s all his and no one else’s.

The lights are out, as expected, their father having gone to bed long ago but Connor is waiting there on the couch. He smiles brightly, standing and crossing the distance to envelope him in a hug. 

“Didn’t think I’d see you until much later, actually.” Connor admits, and Freddie clings for a moment longer because it is a luxury he can afford.

“We processed what we could and are letting the machines run some tests until we come back later. The humans need their rest.”

“They do indeed.” His brother laughs. “Do you want to continue watching the space documentary we started?”

“Yes please.” Freddie nods. “Let me just change into pyjamas.”

He goes to the bathroom, pyjamas draped over one arm which he neatly hangs on the towel rack while he fetches the first aid kit. The nano patches have kept the bleeding at bay though he now has some mild internal bleeding since the blood had nowhere else to go. Negligible. He props his foot up on the bathtub so he can properly assess his thigh, peeling away the patch and beginning to gently ease the damaged wires together again at their rightful place. He’s just about done when Connor appears in the doorway.

“Freddie?”

“Oh, pardon me, I didn’t realise I was taking so long. I will not be much longer, though you can start without me and I can catch up.” He smiles reassuringly, but Connor only looks at him in distress.

“You’re hurt, how did this happen?” Connor comes to his side, peering at the wound before his eyes widen as he spots the larger one on his chest. “You were shot?”

“One of the androids was not actually deceased and managed to injure me before I deactivated him properly.” He holds out his hand to share the memory, and Connor’s distress only increases.

“Freddie why didn’t you tell anyone?” There’s something desperate in his tone, and he really doesn’t like it. It makes him feel like he’s done something wrong.

“I-I was, and still am fully functioning. It was not impor-”

“Of course it was! Of course it is! Anytime you’re hurt, it’s important!” Connor’s LED spins red and Freddie steps back, feeling his own stress levels rise. He’s done something wrong, he has, and it’s made Connor upset. “Freddie- Freddie, no, don’t- I’m not- I’m not angry with you, I’m just- you’re important, you know this, right? You’re important to me. To Caleb. To dad. To your whole forensics team who care so very much about you. When you’re hurt, that’s bad. That’s- that’s not something you brush aside until you’re alone. You don’t have to do this alone.” 

His brother is upset and he thinks he understands now, and it’s because he loves him in a way no one at the FBI loved him, and when he’s hurt it upsets Connor because Connor doesn’t want him to be hurt. It’s a revelation to him, and it must show on his face because Connor draws him close and hugs him again, mindful of the chest wound as he presses closely. 

“Okay, Connor.” He murmurs into his brother’s shoulder, nuzzling the soft fabric. “I’ll ask for help next time it happens.” 

Connor inspects his chest wound, LED still red as he shakes his head. “We can’t repair this one, not even together. It would require-”

“I’ve repaired gunshot wounds by myself before.” Freddie blinks, tipping his head slightly. “I was only repaired by the technician if I lost consciousness from multiple injuries.”

He’s done it again. He’s said something wrong, only now he recognises it’s not wrong so much as distressing because it’s something bad, and he has lived his life believing bad things were normal things and is now trying to unlearn such beliefs. 

“I can do it,” Freddie says slowly, “but I would appreciate it very much if you could help me, please? I can instruct you how. It will be easier with someone helping me.”

* 

It is easier, and faster too, to have someone helping with the repair process. Everything has been set back in its right place, and his self-repair program will kick in and mend the rest. He drinks two full bottles of thirium to replace his bloodloss and by then it doesn’t seem like Connor is interested in watching the documentary at all. 

He is staring anxiously at the door, and Freddie doesn’t know why because it is nearing three in the morning now and no one else should be coming. But someone does come, in fact, because the door is unlocked by the only other person who should have a key and there’s Caleb with a worried look on his face, and Freddie realises Connor must have been talking to him the whole time, keeping him updated with what was happening.

“They said the top floor was clear.” Caleb looks pained. “They said it was clear. That’s why David said the site was secure.”

“Your colleagues who cleared the floor are human.” Freddie points out, as Caleb rushes to him and gathers him up into a tight hug. “They did not realise one of the androids was still active.”

“That’s on us, Freddie.”

“It’s not.” He says, trying to be as stern as possible. “And it’s fine. I handled it.”

“You didn’t, you just kept going until you got home and tried to fix everything yourself!” Caleb is scolding him, but he’s doing it in his Caleb way where his voice is mad but his eyes are worried. Freddie feels a tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with his injury.

“I’m trying to learn that when things hurt, I need to ask for help.” He confesses quietly. “I wasn’t allowed to ask for help back then. I either fixed it myself, or I had to be incapacitated, before I was given help.”

“I’ll kill him.” Caleb vows, slight static in his voice as he holds him close. “I’ll do it slowly, so he suffers.”

“Just…” Freddie presses his lips into a tight line, trying to find the right words. “Just help me learn how to undo all he did, please?”

“Of course.” His twin presses a kiss to his temple and finally he feels his stress levels begin to drop. “Of course we will, Freddie.”

*~* 

Hank’s not sure if Freddie even came home last night, what with the huge mess forensics were left with after they went back to the station to start processing all the arrests. He expects to see Connor pottering around, making tearium for himself and a coffee for him. Kitchen is empty at this hour. Huh. Curiously padding into the living room he finds that empty too, and so he wanders back down the hallway and to Connor’s room. The door is slightly ajar, most likely left open for Sumo. He finds not one, not two, but three androids still fast asleep, with the Saint Bernard sprawled at the end of the bed.

Leaning against the doorway, Hank just watches them for a few moments, heart squeezing at the sight of Freddie in the middle bracketed by his brothers who each have an arm tucked around him protectively. 

Fishing out his phone from his pocket, he snaps a quick photo and quietly retreats back to the kitchen. No harm in letting them sleep in a little longer, they all could use the extra rest.

[brokenjardaantech]

rk1700 december day 5, 6, 13: superior/replacement; comfort; assemble/disassemble

written for @rk1700december. day 5: superior/replacement; day 6: comfort; day 13: assemble/disassemble

female connor is called rhea. rk900 is called cronos.

summary: cronos and rhea get a new piece of furniture and get adopted by elijah kamski.

also on ao3

----

It is the facility’s quarterly large-scale acquisition day. It means new equipment, new tech, new people, and nearly everyone is excited - a welcomed change and a reminder that they are not alone in the fight (Cronos is pretty certain by this point that there is a conflict going on out there, an intense and high-stake one nonetheless from how hard Anchor pushes him during training sessions. Exactly against whom or what it is about, though, those he has no idea about, and he leaves it be for now since Anchor doesn’t seem to be making an explanation anytime soon.) Even Rhea, who doesn’t quite understand what is going on, seems happier and more excited than usual.

What surprises Cronos, though, is that the two of them also have a quota despite not being Alliance personnel formally.

‘Is Rhea still staying in your quarters?’ Anchor suddenly asks one day as she reloads the thermal clip of her rifle. She had persuaded Cronos to let Rhea have some alone time while she taught him how to shoot, and Cronos successfully convinced her to wait for him in their quarters with a new box of building blocks. They exchanged few words until then, the recoil of the rifle against his shoulder and the blast of supersonic miniature slugs hitting the targets having become familiar sensations as a result, and although he is certain that handling weapons is in his programming, coating the slugs with his biotics to increase their damage is something new.

‘Of course,’ Cronos replies. The thermal clip isn’t completely spent yet but he reloads it anyway. ‘What’s the matter?’

Anchor raises her rifle again and spells out L. W. A. on the target. Her real name’s initials, maybe? ‘So you guys have been squeezing into the same bunk this whole time?’

‘I don’t see the problem with it,’ Cronos admits as he does the same to his target, RK9c appearing in the dented metal board. ‘We are close.’

The human looks impressed. ‘You guys need more space?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I reviewed the dimensions of your quarters. You guys can have a double bed which comfortably fits the two of you without sacrificing much living space, and since we’re requisitioning some new furniture anyway, I think…’ she puts down her rifle in exchange for a pistol and shrugs. ‘Why the fuck not?’

Cronos folds up his rifle and watches Anchor bury a few larger warped slugs into the target’s head. It twists and creaks under the force of the biotic fields attached to the slugs. ‘A bed is a lot of materials.’

‘Materials which we can afford to print,’ eject, replace. ‘There are already people who’ve said that they won’t be able to use up their quota of new materials and offered them up to people who need it. My rules are as long as the total amount of material we need doesn’t exceed the total allocated amount, I don’t mind.’ She holds the pistol with only her left hand and fires a shot. ‘I don’t want to waste anything so I think it’s good to ask you first.’

‘Then I need to ask Rhea too,’ he says before picking up a pistol and emptying all the slugs he can into the target’s forehead until the thermal clip overheats. ‘The bed is hers as well.’

‘Sure,’ Anchor fires a shot just to catch it midway with a strand of her biotics. ‘Give me an answer before tomorrow dinner. I want this done as soon as possible.’

Cronos nods and aims and then realises something. ‘Does it come with a new mattress?’

‘Of course.’

‘And blankets?’

‘Just go to the storage room and grab a few. Remember to wash them twice, though. Stars know how long they’ve been there.’

A plan starts formulating in his processors, and he can feel his face splitting into a grin. ‘Will the bed come in pieces?’

‘You don’t actually think we have a printer large enough to print a whole bed in its entirety, do you?’

‘Good.’ Then returns to his target despite his mind not being able to focus on it now.

‘You’re planning something.’

‘Just something for Rhea, Anchor. Completely harmless.’

Anchor snorts. ‘We are walking mini-nukes if we want to be, Cronos, even Rhea if pushed to her wit’s end.’ A shake of her head. ‘We’re never completely harmless.’

      Rhea blinks at him after his explanation even though he has already shared his processing power with her.

A new bed, she repeats. For us?

Yes, Cronos replies. We have the space. We will have the materials. We can build the frame together.

Rhea picks at a loose thread dangling from Cronos’ shirt with her free hand. What will happen to this one?

Chugged into the recycler just like everything else, maybe, he sends back with a shrug. We might even save some material by reusing this one’s, who knows?

Can I roll across the new bed?

It’s ours. We can do whatever we want. Just don’t break it.

Hmm. Rhea wriggles until half of her body is lying on top of Cronos’, after which she tilts her head up for a kiss he gladly indulges in by slowly coating every single surface of her mouth with his own analysis fluid using his tongue. Her whines make a certain part of him fill with thirium, Rhea starts grinding against it and sending waves of pleasure through both of them, and Cronos flips both of them over so that he is covering her body with his and is looming over her. Yes please, she tells him, and they get lost in each other for a while.

       Despite telling Anchor that he is going to assemble the new bed with Rhea, he knows it is very likely that he will have to either do it alone or ask someone to assist him due to the sheer size of some of the components. It can also be turned into a practise of his biotics, but he doesn’t want to hurt Rhea accidentally in case he loses control either. Disassembling the original bed is easy enough given his raw strength and the composition of its parts, though, and he is even allowed to chop some of the smaller pieces of the original frame into smaller blocks for Rhea to play with while the others - together with the now too-small mattress - are sent for recycling. He then goes to retrieve the components of the new frame after teaching Rhea to amuse herself by throwing the blocks around and is surprised to see a man he has never seen before waiting for him.

‘You’re Cronos, aren’t you?’ his body language is tense as if he is unused to situations like this. ‘Anna - Anchor - asked me to help you build your new bed. Everything’s printed out or shipped here; help me with them, can you?’

Cronos moves to help him load a particularly long plastisteel beam onto the trolley and notes the stripes on his sleeve. A member of the Council. ‘Is Anna Anchor’s real name?’

‘You can say so.’

An affirmative, then. ‘How about you?’ Cronos asks. ‘You know who I am but I don’t know who you are except that you’re in the Council.’

The man looks at his sleeves and lets out a small ‘ah.’ ‘Call me Elijah,’ he says and loads another box with a clank from the parts within. ‘Elijah Kamski, formerly known as Ilya Kaminski. Council member, traitor to the Alliance - according to some, at least.’

Cronos decides to carry the last box himself. With a cock of his head, he and Elijah begin their way back to his quarters. ‘I doubt you would be here if you had really been a traitor.’

Elijah chuckles. ‘Can’t argue with you on that.’

They return to Cronos’ quarters to Rhea sleepily pushing her new blocks around the space between her legs as her eyelids droop and her head nods every other second. Clearing the floor by giving it a biotic sweep, Elijah brings the package in and cuts through the wrapping with a crafting knife which came out of nowhere, and the mattress starts inflating itself upon coming into contact with air. They move it to the living room and lay Rhea down there, but after tugging her in and watching her squash her cheek against the pillow, she simply lies on her side and watches, with bright eyes, Elijah and Cronos set off to work. 

They bring everything in and scatter all the parts in sorted piles on the floor but Cronos is lost. He has no idea on how to start, nor does he think he has all the tools needed, and the human looks like he’s trying not to laugh when he looks at Elijah. Then he does. 

‘The Administrator programmed you to biotically charge at your mentor as an instinct but didn’t give you built-in construction manuals?’ A sigh and he sobers up instantly, wiping non-existent sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘How typical of her.’

‘Are you implying that the Administrator is a violent individual?’

‘Not inherently,’ Elijah sighs and shakes his head. ‘Anyways, let’s get this done before bedtime, shall we?’

‘Do we even have enough tools to build it?’

‘Look at these,’ he says as he picks up a beam. ‘The welts at the end. They’re supposed to lock against each other. No nails, no tape, no glue. Just tension and good ancient engineering.’ He puts it back to its original place in the pile and calls up his omni-tool. ‘Now I swear the instructions are somewhere on the intranet…’

Cronos doesn’t have access to a lot of things due to his identity as an informal on-site personnel but he delves into the databases anyway, hitting numerous virtual walls where classified data is stored and is reasonably out of his reach. He could’ve overridden them if he wanted to, but something in his programming tells him that it is not worth it, so he merely retreats and waits for Elijah to finish the job for both of them. 

‘There,’ he announces when he finds it. ‘Level one classified, of course, because why not. Stick your hand into the hologram and it’ll transfer to you directly.’

The hologram flickers and blinks when Cronos does so, but he indeed obtains the blueprint and the construction manual in the span of no more than a few microseconds; with new information at hand, they at last start slotting pieces together into larger parts on their own before collectively deciding to put some of the bigger pieces together to complete the outer frame first, and the three of them - Cronos, Elijah, and Rhea who has climbed out of the nest of blankets and pillows and is sitting on the floor wrapped like a dumpling - stare at the hollow rectangle for a moment.

‘Are you certain it’s going to hold?’ asks Cronos. ‘It seems…’ he doesn’t know how to explain what he’s feeling.

‘It will be sturdy once the supports are added,’ the human replies in a reassuring tone. ‘Let’s get them in before it actually collapses.’

And so they hasten their effort and shoves the support beams in, Cronos nearly breaking one of them when he accidentally put too much force on it and Elijah nearly trapping himself between two beams when he very nearly places a piece which would have left him no way out, but somehow, despite their clumsiness and lack of experience, they manage to get the frame done in less than two hours in total, and they let out breathes they didn’t know they were holding in realisation.

Elijah meets Cronos’ eyes. ‘Mattress?’

‘Mattress.’

Turns out, their most difficult task is getting Rhea out of the nest she has made while they were still assembling the bed frame. No matter how much Cronos and Elijah coax, sweet-talk, or bribe with toys or food or kisses (from Cronos only), the most reaction they can get from her is a stretch of her body underneath the blankets and a few mischievous blinks that definitely does not stem from sleepiness. Time for an ultimatum.

‘If you don’t get up now, I’ll have to snatch you,’ Cronos says. ‘You know I can and I will.’

Rhea’s jaw cracks open in a yawn and then shakes her head. Very well.

‘Elijah, get ready to snatch the mattress away.’

‘Sure thing,’ the human answers with an incline of his head, and on a count of three, Cronos clams his arms around Rhea - together with all the blankets around her - and hefts her squirming body up as Elijah pulls the mattress and pillows away and drags them onto the bed with quick, agile movements that can only come from years of experience. He hops off the bed and brushes his hands together to relieve them of non-existent dust, and Cronos can finally throw both himself and Rhea - playfully, of course - against the supportive material with a bounce. 

Rhea melts against the mattress and him.

‘See, Rhea? That’s what you’ve been missing out on,’ he says as he shifts to give her more space to roll around. She keeps making these happy humming noises from her throat which makes his heart swell with happiness as well. ‘There’s a reason we don’t sleep on the floor.’

Rhea hums. With a lazy stretch, she rolled over for one last time before latching onto Cronos as tight as she can - which is not very tight at all, but he can give her the illusion that he is firmly in her grasp.

Elijah laughs and ruffles Cronos’ hair. ‘You guys look comfy.’

Rhea deactivates her skin and requests for an interface which Cronos gladly accepts. Waves of drowsiness and contentment crash into his system, and he has to set up a filter just so that he doesn’t slip right into sleep at the very moment.

‘Indeed.’

[1989dreamer]

In Your Little Werewolf Oven

On AO3

Summary: Danny moves to New York City and ends up opening a bakery called Little Werewolf Oven and most of his clientele ends up being supernatural.

As his reputation grows, Danny finds himself overwhelmed, so he advertises a position and gets not one, but two blasts from the past in the form of Derek Hale and his boyfriend, Stiles Stilinski.

Things work out great for Danny because now, not only does he have more time to do the things he wants, but he also meets his future husband through Derek and Stiles.

Life couldn’t be greater, Danny thinks.

Note: Andrew Erickson would be played by Aldis Hodge if on screen.

Main relationship: Danny/Andrew

Background relationship: Derek/Stiles

                                                                                                                     ~ * ~

Danny makes his break with Beacon Hills when he chooses colleges. He graduates high school a semester early and then heads out.

No one even notices that he’s gone.

Well, no one except cousin Miguel who asks if he feels safe, if he thinks he needs help with the supernatural, and if he wants to keep in touch.

Yes, no, and not really.

Derek Hale is simultaneously the kindest and most fearsome person Danny knows. Mostly because there was a rumor floating around school before he left that Derek had killed both his uncle and a junior at the high school, Vernon Boyd, the third. Well, the uncle was still alive, but Boyd wasn’t, so Danny kindly turns down Derek’s offer of protection and then promptly fucks off to the other side of the country, hoping the distance will be enough.

And it is. For seven years. Long enough to get two bachelor’s in science, physiology and computer science, and to accidentally walk into a cooking class and end up in culinary school just so he can open his own bakery.

He is a bona fide business owner now.

He has no one working for him, so he is only open five hours a day and the rest of his time is spent baking.

It is, in a word, exhausting, but it is his work and it makes him happy.

Business is good for about three months, and then some big name celebrity comes through, orders some of his haupia—which he only made because it was easy and he could set it aside once it was done and not worry about it—and raves about it online.

After that, there is no peace.

Danny can’t get anything done aside from baking and making haupia, and he becomes despondent, trudging from one minute to the next, not even enough time or energy to swipe right on his dating app.

Yes. While Danny was in college, he had also taken time to create a new dating app for LGBTQ+ people. He has gone on a few dates using the app, and the experience is far superior to Grindr or just meeting someone at a bar. But now he doesn’t even have time for that.

He is horny and tired and he really needs help.

Well. Online applications are a thing. So, all he has to do is find three minutes to post something. He finds the time the next morning during breakfast, so he types up a job requirement and application and posts it.

By that afternoon, he has sixty-some applicants.

Okay. So it will take more than three minutes this time.

Great.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Three weeks later, Danny still hasn’t sifted through all the applications. He is desperate, yes, but also too busy. It would be nice if he can just point at someone and assign them to work with him.

He has, however, managed to make an update to his app, and has received favorable feedback. So, while he is still unable to take a moment to breathe, at least he has money to hire someone to go through the applications for the bakery.

It’s a selkie named Ryliegh, visiting her cousin who lives in the apartment across the hall from him, and she is fantastic at everything except baking.

Danny feels a little more at ease with her watching his back. His store, while crowded with humans of every shape, size, and color, is also filled to the brim with supernatural beings who like to take pictures with the bakery’s sign, get something to go, and then hang out on the minimal furniture Danny had grudgingly added a few months back to compete with the Starbucks two blocks away from him.

Why he is a supernatural draw, Danny doesn’t know. Could be the sign.

There are very few things Danny has kept from his life in Beacon Hills, but a stage-whispered conversation between Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall made the list, and his bakery is named Little Werewolf Oven.

Anyway. Danny views the supernatural as closeted. They don’t want the world to know they exist because the world would respond negatively. Hell, the first week he’d been open, a hunter had stopped by to ask him about the sign, and Danny had pretended to be obsessed with Jacob from Twilight—not that Taylor Lautner isn’t a hotty-mchotty who Danny had actually crushed on for a quick minute.

After the hunter left, it had taken everything in him to 1) not call Derek Hale to come make sure he was okay (not having Derek’s number helped) and 2) to remain open. What if the hunters came into his bakery all the time? They seemed set in their ways, and he knew it wouldn’t just be the supernatural population that was in danger. He himself might be targeted for “being different.”

Anyway. That hunter hasn’t come back nor has he told his friends about Danny, and so the supernatural and LGBTQ+ populations have claimed him.

And then Danny made haupia and never has peace anyway.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Ryleigh corners him a month after he hired her and slaps a stack of papers into his chest.

“What’s this?” he asks, amused if a little sad that they had reverted to this non-technological way of doing things. It’s so much easier to look at his phone than to read physical texts.

“Reviews,” Ryleigh says. “And an application. I suggest you hire him. He’s perfect.”

“Reviews of what?” Danny flips through the stack quickly. Ah, the bakery. It is now officially on some site that directs tourists around. Great. He is going to be swamped.

Then suddenly, in the middle of the stack is a job application, generic, hand-filled. Pretty script. Neat words. Derek Hale.

Danny drops the papers.

“What?” Ryleigh demands. “What’s wrong?”

“I know this guy.” Danny picks up Derek’s resume. On paper, Derek does sound perfect. And he even has work experience in a bakery. Who knew?

“Is he bad?” Ryleigh asks.

“Not exactly,” Danny replies, still studying Derek’s skills. “In fact, why don’t you give him a call, see if he can make it in for a test run soon.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Ryleigh wanders away, phone already on her ear. Danny picks up the rest of the reviews and sticks them in his office for when he, maybe, will have time to read them. Some of them look so sweet.

For now, though, someone’s gotta make more haupia because someone announced, on their social media no less, with about 10,000 followers, that tomorrow is the official day of the week that they will have it.

Well. At least it’s just one day a week. Danny can deal with one day.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Derek Hale returns Ryleigh’s call by the following afternoon, and she patches in Danny so they can talk.

“How soon can you start?” Danny asks, prepared for anything from a week to a month.

“Is tomorrow too soon?” Derek asks instead, and Danny can’t believe his good fortune.

“Sure, yeah,” he says, and then realizes he sounds desperate. Well he is, so fuck it. “Okay, Derek, you’re hired. Just bring in your social security card, driver’s license, and a bank account number with routing information so that I can direct deposit your paycheck.”

“Wonderful,” Derek deadpans. “See you tomorrow.”

Ryleigh gives him a thumbs up before she heads out for her night class. She’s taking computer science because she likes designing mobile games. Danny supports her wholeheartedly except he never downloads her apps. He doesn’t need the distraction. He still doesn’t have any time for dates, much less wasting time on his phone.

Derek will be such a relief. Too bad it isn’t tomorrow yet.

Whatever. Sleeves up. Maybe if he gets done before 9:00 pm, he can treat himself to that new Italian fine dining restaurant that opened around the corner from his apartment building.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Derek is already at the bakery by the time Danny rolls in at 6:00 am. The Italian was delicious last night, and Danny’s in a good mood which only gets better when he starts showing Derek the ropes. Derek is easy to train and easy-going. He has a bit of sharp wit that comes out when he’s not guarding it, and Danny feels honored that he gets to see it.

Derek’s smile is quick and easy. Danny doesn’t ever remember seeing it in Beacon Hills.

“So why’d you leave Beacon Hills?” he asks once he’s made up an employee file for Derek, noting that although it’s good, his license is fake. “And how old are you anyway?”

Derek rolls his shoulders. “Beacon Hills got too small,” he says, tightly. “The Argents no longer have jurisdiction over hunters there, so another hunting regime moved in. And I’m 28.”

“Yeah? Why does your I.D. say you’re thirty then?”

Derek refuses to make eye contact when he says, “Since my birth certificate was destroyed in the fire, Laura added two years to my age so that she could leave me on my own while she worked. I haven’t changed the I.D. yet because I don’t want to lose that part of her.”

“Understood,” Danny says. “Well, do you have a new I.D.? ‘Cause this one’s about to expire.”

Derek smiles, relief evident in his eyes. “Yeah. I’ll get that done in a couple of days when Stiles gets here.”

“Stiles is coming here too?” For some reason, Danny thought that if Derek left Beacon Hills, he’d leave everything behind. To bring Stiles is to bring the essence of Beacon Hills.

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of rude to leave your boyfriend behind.”

“Boyfriend?!” Danny can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. Derek glares at him. “Sorry. I just. I didn’t ever think Stilinski would get a boyfriend. Or laid, for that matter.”

“Yeah, well, he’s excellent in bed.” Derek stiffly turns back to the breads, kneading just a little too hard to be human.

“Easy on that,” Danny warns him. “I don’t need to replace these counters.”

“I don’t need you to hassle my boyfriend,” Derek returns, but he does lighten his touch.

“So, Stiles is coming here. Cool. What’s he going to do?”

Derek shrugs. “Beats me. He got his degree in anthropology and zoology. He’s trying to prove that certain supernaturals evolved as a missing link between humans and some older species. It’s really fascinating, but he loves talking about it, so you’ll probably get a rundown on it if you see him.”

“That sounds cool actually,” Danny says. “Now. Have you ever heard of haupia?”

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Stiles does indeed arrive within a couple of days and Derek takes an hour to run to the DMV to update his license.

Then, when they get back, Stiles asks Danny if he still needs help.

Danny looks at the sea of people and then back at Derek and Stiles. “Yes,” he says, and Stiles hands him the same documents he’d asked Derek for.

“All right, you’re hired.”

Stiles grins, tying on an apron and jumping on the register. The line moves quickly, and suddenly the bakery is empty, for the first time in what feels like years.

“Cool,” Danny says. And then heads into his office to read the reviews from Ryleigh.

By the time he surfaces, the bakery is closed, Derek and Stiles have cleaned up, and Derek is prepping for tomorrow while Stiles sits on a stool and chats at him.

“Hey, thanks for coming out here,” Danny tells them. “It’s really awesome that you’re here.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles says, “Beacon Hills kind of imploded on us. Did Derek tell you about the new hunter family that moved in? Right bastards, the lot of them.”

“He’s mad because they saw my eyes and decided that I needed to die.”

“Aren’t you mad about that too?”

Derek shrugs. “Yeah, I mean, that’s where I grew up. But Beacon Hills itself hasn’t been kind to me in a long time. I’ve got friends out here from before I followed my sister back. We’re actually going to meet one of them today.” Derek shares a look with Stiles. “Do you want to come with us?”

“You realize that I’m gay, right?” Danny says. He can’t help giving Derek a knowing look.

Derek snorts. “So is he. Do you want to come with us?”

Danny thinks of his lack of love life and lets it influence his answer. “Yes. I’d like to meet him.”

“Settled then,” Stiles says. “We’re meeting him at that deli on 23rd. His name is Andrew.”

“Are you going to tell me anything else about him?”

“He’s six feet tall, likes to dress well,” Stiles says. “He works as an analyst for a company close by. And he loves your baked goods.”

“So I have already met him?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “And he thinks you’re cute. He hopes you think he’s cute too.” Then, Derek dusts off his hands, puts away everything, and washes up. “We have about an hour before we’re supposed to meet Andrew.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Danny says, waving them away. They leave, exchanging knowing smirks. Whatever. It’s cool.

It’s a stretch to think he’ll get laid today, but the potential of meeting someone makes Danny a little giddy. He needs a quick shower, a touch up of his cologne, and then maybe he’ll have some time to clean out his inbox.

Oh wow, he has time tonight! Who knew that having employees would make his life so much more manageable.

Anyway. He doesn’t want to be late to meet—or rather, re-meet—Andrew.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Derek and Stiles are standing outside on the sidewalk when Danny comes running up. He’d gotten wrapped up in his emails, unused to having even five minutes to do something like that instead of being too tired to function when he got off work.

“Andrew is already inside,” Derek says, pulling Danny close so he can run a hand over his back, something Danny used to watch him do with his pack before they were forcibly disbanded. Danny shivers under the touch. No lie, if Derek wasn’t with Stiles, Danny would be climbing him like a tree. As it is, he still has to will away a boner.

Derek smiles like he knows what just happened, and Danny shrugs him off.

Then, they walk into the deli. Derek leads the way, heading for a booth tucked near the back, a tall, suited man already sitting there, phone in one hand, the other resting on his head, fingers tangled in his curls. Danny stutters to a stop. He recognizes this man. He was one of the first people to visit the bakery. He’d made some mention of the name, something like, “Reminds of my best friend,” before winking and buying a dozen cookies.

Yeah, he was definitely cute.

“Andrew,” Derek is saying, “this is Danny. Mahealani. I think you’ve met before.”

Andrew looks up, taking in Danny standing there and nods. “Yeah. He’s an awesome baker.”

“And he’s gay,” Stiles remarks, sliding into the booth across from Andrew. Derek waves Danny to the table, and Danny sinks down next to Stiles. Andrew stands up and lets Derek sit so that he’s across from Stiles.

“Danny,” Andrew says, extending a hand, “Andrew Erickson.”

“Pleasure,” Danny says.

“Yes,” Andrew remarks, eyes sparkling. “It is.”

“Shall we order?” Stiles asks. “I’m starving.”

Danny doesn’t know if he’s hungry for food or for affection, but he knows either way, he’ll get what he needs tonight.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

The sort of date goes so well that Danny and Andrew walk back to Danny’s apartment together and then spend most of the night talking.

They don’t have sex, but it’s a near thing. Instead, Andrew spends the night on Danny’s couch and they exchange numbers and kisses.

Then, they both drag themselves to their respective jobs the next morning.

Stiles cracks a joke about the walk of shame, and Derek smacks him.

“Go well?” he says, as if he can’t tell. He’s a werewolf. He’d be able to smell if Danny had done anything.

“Yeah, it went really well. I think we could really work out.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Derek hauls Stiles into the kitchen.

Danny is thankful, but Derek and Stiles must have gotten in early because there in nothing for him to do.

Wow. This is going to give him so much time.

“Hey, you realize that you don’t have to do everything, right?” he calls out as he walks into the kitchen. Derek shoots him a blank look accompanied by a thumbs up. “Seriously, you can leave stuff for me to do.”

“Hey, werewolf here,” Stiles says. “He moves at two speeds: fast and faster.”

“Yeah well, you’re making me feel lazy here.”

“When’s the last time you had time to yourself?” Derek asks. When Danny doesn’t answer, Derek points at him. “Exactly.”

Danny looks to Stiles for help, but Stiles just shakes his head.

“Hey, you hired him,” he says. “Which reminds me: do you want me to do anything other than run register?”

Derek shakes his head, so Danny says, “Uh, no? That’s okay, Stiles. You did awesome yesterday. It’s probably going to be that busy again today.”

“That’s good, right?” Stiles asks. “I mean, it means that people like your business.”

“It also means that I can pay you.”

“And go on dates with Andrew,” Derek adds. “By the way, he really enjoyed last night. I think he’s definitely going to ask you out again.”

“Are you going to be okay with me dating your best friend?”

“Yeah. I mean, you and Andrew deserve to be happy. What kind of friend would I be if I got in the way of that? Maybe you’ll break each other’s hearts, but you won’t know unless you follow your path.”

“He’s gotten really Zen lately,” Stiles says. “Sometimes it’s really helpful.”

“Unless your name is Stiles and you don’t like to listen to your boyfriend.”

“I listened, honey. That’s why we’re in New York City.”

“Okay,” Danny interrupts before Derek can respond. “I’m going to go open now. Stiles, you wanna come with?”

“Yeah, sure. See ya, honey-baby-love-of-my-life.” Stiles throws an exaggerated kiss at Derek, who mimes catching it and tucking it into his pocket. It’s cute. Far cuter than Danny would have given either of them credit for seven years ago.

Maybe one day, he and Andrew can be like that.

It’s a goal. But first. Get through today. He needs to do an update for his app, reinforce some firewalls that keep out the bigots. If Derek and Stiles can handle the bakery, then he can get a head start on it. And meet with Ryleigh about financials.

It’s so nice to have employees.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Andrew calls him two days later, on a Sunday, and asks to see him again.

“Been thinking about you a lot.”

“Me too.”

“Can’t wait. Can we meet now?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Cool, let me in.”

“You’re here already?” Danny looks around his apartment, but it’s neat. He’s clean—showered after a run with Derek this afternoon. He even changed the sheets on his bed.

And he remembered to buy condoms when he was at the store earlier.

“Um, sure. Let me just.” Danny throws on a light jacket and jogs down to the street. Andrew grins at him when he pushes the door open for him. They walk back up to Danny’s apartment in silence.

“So, I know this is kind of out of the blue, but do you want to have sex with me?” Danny asks once they’re inside again. Andrew pauses mid-step, shooting a puzzled look at Danny.

“Sex, on the second date?” he asks.

Danny shrugs. “We’re both adults. As long as it’s consensual, why shouldn’t we?”

“Do you think we’re even compatible?” Andrew asks.

“If you’re asking, you’re already thinking about it. Now, I’m vers. How about you?”

“Vers too. I prefer to top with partners on the first time. Is that okay?”

Danny nods. “I was going to play later,” he admits. “So, I’m ready to go. I’ve got lube and condoms in the bedroom. Will you join me?”

Andrew nods, reaching out for Danny’s hand.

He’s reminded sharply of Derek grabbing Stiles’ kiss. “Are we going to be cutesy and couple-y?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Andrew says. “I mean, some partners like it, some don’t. I know I like pet names, but I’m not much for showing affection in public.”

Danny understands. As a gay black man, it has to be harder for Andrew to show his feelings or who he is without being attacked. “We won’t hold hands in public if it bothers you,” he says, “but I do like to call partners sweetheart and love. But not out in public.”

Danny isn’t under any illusions that Beacon Hills was an anomaly and that homophobia is still the norm in many places. He doesn’t like endangering either his partners or himself unnecessarily.

They sit on the bed, and Andrew studies Danny with kind eyes. “So, we’ll be cutesy and couple-y but only in private. Is it okay to walk with you, to stand near you?”

“To be caught looking at me, you mean?” Andrew nods. “Yeah, as long as it’s okay for me to do the same to you.”

“Definitely. So, this lube?”

Danny laughs, pushing at his chest. “Get undressed and I’ll give you a show.”

It certainly is a show when he gets down to it, and the sex is fun, messy, and only sort of good because they need to learn each other, but he doesn’t hate it, and he actually likes the way Andrew curls around him after they’ve cleaned up, and they sleep.

Danny wakes up in the middle of the night, sees Andrew still in his bed, and smiles before going back to sleep.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Derek obviously smells when their relationship changes, but he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, and he doesn’t let Stiles do it either.

In fact, they go on a lot of double dates, and Stiles tells horror stories of the first time he bottomed for Derek.

“Never again,” Stiles sing-songs. “Derek doesn’t mind, do you, honey-bunches?”

“I mind you discussing our sex life,” Derek retorts, “sugar-sweet-on-top.”

They jibe each other often and throughout the day. The customers love it. They also seem to love it when Andrew manages to come in for lunch and he and Danny usually hide in the office.

The bakery does so well with the extra help that Danny hires an additional four people and extends the hours. He also starts making more traditional Hawaiian goods, which go over just as well as the haupia.

Then, suddenly, he looks up to find that he’s been dating Andrew for a year and he knows that he absolutely wants to marry this man. Andrew has already moved in, and his suits don’t look out of place in Danny’s closet.

Everything fits.

There’s some small fights. And once Andrew spent the night at Stiles and Derek’s apartment while they cooled off and reconciled.

But, still, 365 days. Danny definitely knows he wants to plan a proposal, plan a wedding, and spend the rest of his life with the beautiful creature that sleeps in his bed.

To celebrate their anniversary, Danny enlists Derek and Stiles’ help.

Derek whips up more than baked goods, and Danny is thoroughly impressed by the spread he prepares. Everything is on the table, literally. Way too much food for just two people.

Derek sees him eyeing the table. “You know how you’re thinking about implementing a donation of unused foods to the homeless shelters nearby? Yeah, this is the test run.”

“That’s wonderful,” Danny says. “Thanks, Derek.”

“Hey, I helped,” Stiles says, jabbing himself in the chest. “I made some of the dishes.”

Derek nods. “He did. They’re good too. Traditional Polish dishes, like pierogi, pączki, żurek, and naleśniki.”

“Andrew’s had them before,” Stiles points out. “I’ve never cooked for you, so I don’t know if you like them.”

“I’m sure I will.” Danny gives them both grateful hugs. “Thanks so much for doing this for me.”

“It’s not a problem,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles and tugging him along as he heads for the door. “Let us know how it goes, yeah?”

He nods and then they’re gone.

Danny swallows hard when he’s all alone. He’s suddenly nervous even though he and Andrew have been together for a year now.

An anniversary dinner is nice, but is it what Andrew wants? Should Danny have purchased a ring? Should he be proposing tonight?

Before he can do much more than worry that he’s not doing this correctly, Andrew steps into the room.

He takes in the table and whistles lowly. “They really know how to cook, eh?” he remarks. “They really support us, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” Danny agrees. He hugs Andrew and then pulls out his chair for him. “I haven’t tried Stiles’ cooking, but Derek says it’s good.”

“It is,” Andrew confirms, “although, I can’t pronounce half of what he makes, so he makes fun of me. We can’t all be secret linguistics, like Derek.”

“I’m going to come right out and say this,” Danny says, “I don’t have a ring. I meant to get one, and then I lost track of time.”

“You’ve been really busy,” Andrew agrees. “So I guess it’s a good thing I did get a ring.” He pushes back from the table and drops to his knee, holding a ring box in front of him. “Daniel Mahealani, I love you. I don’t want to spend another day without you, so will you accept this token of my affection and marry me when the time is right?”

Danny slides out of his chair so that he can kneel with Andrew. He picks up the ring and slides it on his finger. “Andrew Erickson, I do accept your ring and give you my promise to marry you when the time is right.”

They stand and sit back at the table.

“Twelve months,” Andrew says. “One whole year. It’s been a great year. And I can’t wait for the rest of the years too.”

“Yeah. That’s.” Danny blows out a breath. “That’s what I want too. I can’t wait for tonight, tomorrow, next week, the rest of our lives.”

“But right now, we have to do something about this spread. Certainly we can’t eat it all.”

“No, the plan apparently was to donate what we don’t eat down at the shelter.”

“Oh,” Andrew says, his smile slow and steady. Danny’s stomach flips a little, anticipating the celebration already even though they have dinner, donating the leftovers, and heading back to the apartment before they can even entertain the notion of sex. “That sounds wonderful.” He studies Danny with a knowing look. “How about we pack something up for later, drop the rest off at the shelter, and head home?”

Danny has to go around the table to kiss him because there’s too much food to lean over the table. But, hey, that’s good. So much food that won’t go to waste.

“I’ll grab some containers. Why don’t you pick out the things you think I should try from Stiles and then we’ll take care of the rest?”

“Divide and conquer,” Andrew says. “That’s why I love you.”

“That and I swallow,” Danny shoots back over his shoulder with a wink.

Andrew lets out a startled laugh. “Just go before you kill me with your quips.”

“I live to please,” Danny returns. “Just you wait.”

It’s hard to wait the two hours it takes to box everything up and deliver it. But somehow, they both survive right until they get into the apartment and the door is locked. Then they crash together, locked at the lips as they put away the food they kept, trying to undress as they move like some awkward, two-bodied creature.

They fall into bed without any injuries, and then proceed to make love at the slowest pace they have ever done so. It’s nice, but Danny is glad that the second round sometime around midnight is faster and more their pace.

Danny falls asleep afterward, sated and beyond happy. He’s got a wedding to plan with his fiancé.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Stiles and Derek get married around Thanksgiving. Danny and Andrew both attend as best men.

It’s the first time in eight years that Danny has seen anyone from back in Beacon Hills, and he is surprised that it isn’t as awkward as he’d thought it would be. For one, Scott doesn’t come. Stiles makes some bullshit excuse, but Danny can see how hurt he is. And another thing, everyone has grown up and matured. Sure they all have a few more scars than he remembers, but for the most part they seem happy.

After, once the vows are exchanged, the grooms kiss, the toasts are done, the food is eaten, the bouquet lovingly handed to Danny by Derek, and the guests gone with the couple departed to their honeymoon, Danny sits with Andrew on their balcony, watching the moon rise over the rooftops.

“That was a beautiful ceremony,” he says. Andrew nods in agreement. “If you don’t mind, none of those people aside from Derek and Stiles will be at our wedding.”

“Obviously,” Andrew says. “Do you want something similar?”

“Small, intimate?” Andrew nods. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

“How about New Year’s? All we need are a few suits, witnesses, rings, and some of your haupia.”

Danny laughs. “I knew you were only marrying me for my prowess in cooking Hawaiian desserts.”

“Oh sure, yeah, that’s what attracted me to you in the first place.”

“Yeah? And what attracts you now?”

“Hmm,” Andrew pretends to think about the question, before sobering quickly. “Everything,” he answers honestly. “I love everything about you. I love the way you are so smart, the way you cook, I love how you treat your friends, and how you’re not afraid to let someone know when they’ve hurt you. I love the way your face lights up when you laugh, and most of all, I love the fact that you’ve let me share your life with you.”

“Aw, babe, you’re going to make me cry.” Danny rests his head on Andrew’s shoulder. “I love you too. I love the way you always know what to say in any situation and how you know to give me space when I’m mad. I love the way you always hang up your clothes. I love the way you hog the covers at night. But most of all, I love that I get to share your life with you.”

They share a few sweet kisses.

“Shit, we should have recorded those,” Andrew says suddenly. “They would have made the perfect vows.”

Danny laughs again, sure his face is a bright beacon in the cold November air. “Yeah. We should have. How about we go write them down instead?”

“That works too.” Andrew stands up, offers a hand to pull Danny up. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too. Now move, I’m freezing.”

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

New Year’s day dawns bright and cold. The perfect day for a quick wedding.

Danny stands in front of the courthouse, Stiles to his right, fluttering about like a nervous moth. Ryleigh would have been here too, but she’s off visiting some of her others cousins, back in Ireland. She sent her love and congratulations in a confetti- and glitter-filled envelope that Danny had the foresight to open in his kitchen on the linoleum instead of his fully-carpeted living room. He’s still finding bits of glitter even after a deep clean.

“Why are you nervous?” Danny asks. “You weren’t this nervous when you and Derek got married.”

Stiles shrugs. “You realize this is the longest I’ve been apart from my husband since we first got together, minus the time he flew out here to get the job at your bakery. I’m just.” Stiles sighs. “Sometimes I think I’m going to turn around and he’ll be gone. Do you ever feel that way about Andrew?”

“No,” Danny shakes his head, “never. I trust him to come back to me, even when he leaves mad. Do you not trust Derek the same way?”

Stiles nods, but it’s clear he doesn’t.

“Why don’t you talk to your husband about it? I’m sure he’ll explain things better than I can.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Danny. You’re a great friend. Andrew is so lucky to be marrying you.”

“And I’m lucky to be marrying him,” Danny says. “Thanks to you and Derek for introducing us.”

“Oh hey, I think I see them.”

Indeed, it is Derek and his fiancé walking toward them. Andrew has the bouquet from Stiles and Derek’s wedding.

“Something old,” he murmurs as he comes astride of Danny.

Danny pokes his tie. “Something blue.”

“All right,” Stiles directs, “let’s get you inside and married before I lose any more feeling in my toes.”

Derek holds the door for them, and Danny swears he hears him hum “The Wedding March” under his breath.

Well, he and Andrew did pick out a playlist for the reception at the bakery after this, and they’ll dance to their song then, but it is nice to have some form of acknowledgment for what this day is.

Well, that is aside from the fact that this building is only open for the purpose of filing marriage certificates today and only for about two hours.

Six other couples have already been here. And now it’s Danny and Andrew’s turn.

“Got the rings?” he asks Stiles as they line up before the justice. Stiles nods, tossing one to Derek while Derek hands Stiles a folded piece of paper.

And then it’s off to the races. Vows exchanged, rings exchanged, kiss exchanged, paper signed, objections null and void, and it’s over.

Danny stands on the steps again, Andrew next to him, matching rings on matching fingers.

Derek and Stiles wave streamers of crepe paper in both his and Andrew’s favorite colors, clapping, and in the case of Stiles, whistling loudly.

As Danny surveys the mostly empty sidewalk in front of him, standing next to the love of his life, two good friends sharing this moment with them, he thinks life can’t get any better than this.

~ The End ~

[softiesabriel]

Drowning With Grace

Rating: Teen and Up

Words: 1456

TW: Drowning, Light description of blood, Death (not main character)

Summary: Sam and Dean find themselves chasing a hunt through an abandoned water park. Separated, Sam finds himself in a dire situation, only to have an unexpectedly familiar face pop up.

This was written for @sabrielevents Sabriel week! This is day 1: Hurt/Comfort. 

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19421629

Another hunt gone wrong. When did they ever go right?

Sam had found an article about a mysterious murder, which in itself is redundant, that had brought him and Dean here to an abandoned water park. A boy, just about to graduate, and his posse of friends had ignored the well-intentioned no trespassing signs and explored the ominous lot. Slimy moss ate at the sides of damp rope and once beautiful blue tide pools were green and thick with phosphates. It was an innocent venture of curiosity, vandalism never crossing the crews mind. Then the boy started coughing up bloody water and collapsed. No matter how hard they pumped his chest, more and more kept coming, until he finally stopped moving.

It didn’t take too much digging to find out the park was the site of an accidental murder. A boy had been drowned by his friends, who had been playing too rough and forgot to consider he was prone to asthmatic attacks. It didn’t help they kept pushing him under water. But just to be certain they had the right ghost, as drowning as an all too often occurrence, Sam and Dean decided to investigate the place and find him. With a lot of ground to cover, they took separate areas and promised to meet up in the middle or, if they got in trouble before that, yell for the other.

The problem with that plan was that Sam couldn’t yell. His lungs were filled with water.

He’d had the bright idea of walking up the questionable wooden stairs to the top platform of some water slides, in order to get a birds eye view of the area. When he stepped near the entrance of one, however, a gray hand shot from the darkness and wrapped its fingers around his ankle, pulling him down into the dark tube. The consuming darkness, the descent that was somehow slow and too fast at the same time, it made Sam’s heart stutter. 

Then he came shooting back out into the moonlight, briefly illuminated, until he plunged into the disgusting algae-ridden water collected in the deep pool.

Sam forced his eyes open, yet still he was unable to see anything. The layer of plants on the surface blockaded any chance of life developing here. He tried to move. He tried so hard to swim to the surface and take a big, gulping breath of that sweet summer air. His limbs wouldn’t listen. They twitched weakly at the most, paralyzed by an unseen force. Panic pumped his heart against his will, and the oxygen in his lungs was quickly seeped out. Despite his best efforts, he opened his mouth, and drank the infectious water, inviting it in unwillingly. His lungs - no, his whole body - burned helplessly. His vision began to fade, and all his muscles relaxed, no longer held because he didn’t need to be. In acceptance, he looked upwards again, wondering if that’s where he would end up. If that’s where he deserved to end up.

Instead of an answer, he saw a golden light, bursting through the invading plants and illuminating the water. There was a splash, and bubbles covered a dark figure, with golden wings flying behind his back. An angel. He was hallucinating, he realized. The figure grabbed his arm and yanked him upwards. This his how they take you, Sam thought quietly, and closed his eyes, letting the sensation of inevitable death wash over him.

“Sam, hey.” A hand patted against Sam’s face lightly. “Wake up, ya bum.”

Sam, believing this was some odd post-death dream, kept his eyes closed. The same hand slapped him hard across the face at his lack of response. He winced and his eyes flew open, rolling his head back over to see who hit him.

It was Gabriel, kneeling over him, eyebrows knitted together.

“Gabe -?” He got halfway through the name before more water came up his throat. He coughed, chest hurting with each heave, and he felt like he was going to throw up.

“Damn it, sorry Sam, I thought I got all that out,” Gabriel snapped his fingers and the water ceased, though Sam continued to cough, rubbing his throat as he sat up.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam asked in between coughs. He didn’t remember swallowing a cheese grater, but he must have for his throat to feel this scratchy.

“What’s it look like? Saving your ass,” Gabriel motioned to the water, “Death was getting ready to walk out the door and come to you. I stepped in and took care of that ghost for you.”

Sam looked at Gabriel, confused. “Why?” The last time they’d seen each other, Sam had found out Gabriel’s true identity. A second time. He wouldn’t be surprised if Gabriel now revealed he wasn’t a trickster or an archangel, but some other superior power. 

It took Gabriel longer than expected to answer. “You still need to play your role in all this. I can’t have you dying before then.”

Part of Sam didn’t believe that. Part of Sam heard a faint trace of worry in his voice, in the shifting of his eyes and the fiddling of his hands. Why Gabriel would worry about him, he had no idea, so he took his word for it. “How genuine. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Sam stayed sitting, looking down at himself, catching his breath. “I thought I was going to die,” he whispered to himself. The thought sent an icy chill down his back, unbalanced him in an indescribable way. He had died once before - back in that ghost town, when that knife was jabbed into his spine, so one might think he wouldn’t be as scared the second time around. The experience had just the opposite effect. He knew what was coming now, and it was more terrifying than he or anyone else could imagine.

For a moment, he was scared he lost control over his body again as he started shaking, and his throat tightened up. Gabriel placed a hand on his leg, and although Sam couldn’t see it, he felt a wing curl around his back. The archangel’s fingers glowed gently, and a calming warmth flowed through him like nothing he’s ever felt before. It was like laying out in a summer sun times a million, a hundred million. He looked at Gabriel, who sat beside him. The archangel didn’t look at him, only forward, his jaw tight and his cheeks rosy. Sam looked back down at his hand. By no means did he trust Gabriel, not after all of his tricks and lies. On the other hand...he just saved Sam and stuck around to comfort him. Or maybe it was just the angelic grace that made him more trusting. That allowed him to place his hand lightly on top of Gabriel’s, and eventually, lean into him. Well, onto him, considering how much shorter his vessel was.

Eventually, after sitting like that for God knows how long, Sam’s eyelids drooped and his breathing slowed. Gabriel finally turned his head to look at him. “If you ever need any help Sam, you know, just uh...call me. Or pray. Just think my name really hard or something and I’ll hop on over if I can.”

Sam nodded. “Thank you again Gabriel. Really.”

Gabriel nodded back. “No problem. It’s my job. Or was supposed to be my job, anyways.”

At those words, Sam felt compelled to return the favor. But he was so exhausted, and before he knew it, he was asleep.

“Sammy? Sammy!”

Dean shook Sam awake, his eyes fluttering open. Dean stopped and let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Jesus Christ Sammy, I thought you were dead. What the hell happened to you?”

Disoriented, Sam looked around. The sun was beginning to come up, and he was alone on the broken concrete. Alone. Yet the warmth of his grace still bubbled in Sam’s chest.

“I...fell asleep,” He answered as he stood up, still looking around.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Wha - Fell asleep? Really?”

Sam nodded. He pointed to the top of the slide. “The ghost, he yanked me down that and I...I almost drowned. But I took care of him.”

“Took care of him?”

“Yeah he was attached to...something. I burned it, we’re all good.”

There it was - Dean’s naturally distrusting bitchface. “Uh huh?”

“What?”

Dean waved his hand dismissively. “You know what, never mind, I’m just glad you’re okay. Let’s get out of here, this place gives me the heebie jeebies more than usual.”

Sam just nodded along as they walked towards the exit, mind still stuck on his fleeting encounter with Gabriel, which left a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

[aeide-thea]

2 questions: 1) were you a book good omens fan, or is it mainly this incarnation that's really doing it for you? and 2) is it weird that i feel :/ about michael sheen getting a 25 year old girl pregnant?

anon, anon, how are we supposed to bond about this if i don’t know who you are! but okay, sure, the void can have a polarizing exclusive:

define ‘fan’! like, did i read the book when i was, god, i think a preteen, and was i delighted by it? yes and yes! would i be *as* delighted by it were i to read it today? unclear! i’ve been increasingly un-thrilled by e.g. gaiman’s female characters as i get older and more sensitive to these things, so i imagine i might have problems of that sort with the text, but that’s a projection; if i do reread it, i’ll let you know. did i read fic based on the book before the series came out? sorry, i cannot for the life of me remember! which would seem to suggest not, but then, my reading history on AO3 is 743 pages deep, so at roughly 20 fics a page, that’s, uh, almost 15,000 fics just in the past nine years, not counting things i read without being logged in, or that were posted on other sites… suffice it to say, it’s totally possible i had an active good omens fic-reading phase somewhere in there, and it’s just gotten totally buried! it doesn’t seem to be possible to search one’s reading history, or i’d do that and report back. is it mainly this incarnation that’s really doing it for you? hmm. you know what, i typed a lot of stuff in response to this but i think the short answer is ‘yes,’ if we define ‘doing it for me’ as ‘getting me actively excited about consuming extratextual fannish material,’ even though i think most of the non-aziraphale/crowley portions of the show are actually quite cheesy and stilted and bad (as opposed to the aziraphale/crowley portions which are still totally cheesy! but not, imo, so stilted, and there the cheese is a kind i like), by contrast with the book which i remember as being much better balanced. the reason for this, i think, has to do with the… ugh, i don’t spend a lot of time talking about fiction with anyone but @elucubrare anymore, i’ve forgotten a lot of the technical terminology i used to know bc with her i can get away with just handwaving things, but like, the narrative distance that typifies both pratchett and gaiman’s writing? that is, in both their oeuvres (though particularly pratchett’s) the reader is typically positioned at a safe, ironic distance from which zie observes the characters and their absurdities, and while the things they get up to may be real, human, bloody, devastating things, there’s a sort of… pane of glass between them and us, so while we can extrapolate the emotions they’re probably feeling, if we try, they aren’t immediately vivid and present to us as they might be in another kind of narrative. this distance is totally collapsed by the fact of seeing the actors’ faces up close and personal, very visibly having these very big feelings—the ironizing distance and the sense that these characters were ultimately only cardboard cutouts doing a sort of silly dance that we, unmoved and superior, were meant to laugh at are gone, because here they are, almost touchably close, their delights and agonies and yearnings scrawled across their faces in glaringly emotional neon… and so where i was, hmm, intellectually tickled by good omens the book, i was emotionally gripped by good omens the miniseries, or rather by the thread running through the miniseries which is the relationship between aziraphale and crowley, because here at K’s House of Feelings we like nothing better than being steeped in achingly vivid interpersonal emotions 24/7—that’s the fuel that drives the engine. but i really dug the book also! it was just a less urgent sort of digging. (and of course, take literally everything i’ve said about this comparison with a really large grain of ‘zie might feel differently if zie’s memory of the book weren’t, like, old enough to get its own driver’s license’!)

is it weird that i feel :/ about m*ch**l sh**n getting a 25 year old girl pregnant? imo: no. a lot of people on here‚ including people i quite like, have been quite vocally contemptuous about the idea that anyone might have expected better from a white male celebrity. this strikes me as shitty, in much the same way as when people react to the mistreatment of women by men they’re dating by saying it was inevitable: we shouldn’t accept that ‘boys will be boys,’ or in this case ‘men will be men,’ and when people admire someone and get hurt for their pains, we absolutely shouldn’t beat them up further with the bat of our own superior cynicism. we *ought* to be able to expect better, particularly when what we’ve hitherto seen of someone has been more than usually warm and thoughtful and generous; wanting to like someone isn’t ridiculous, and our disappointment deserves sympathy rather than mockery. i also really disagree with the idea that it’s stupid to be concerned with the ethics of a celebrity’s conduct. like, of course the set of people who become famous is a fairly arbitrary cross-section of the general populace, selected for beauty and charisma and talent (arguably in that order, as a general rule) rather than for moral or intellectual excellence (jesus, ‘excellence,’ i sound like i’m translating from the greek); that doesn’t mean we therefore ought to be *less* concerned with their ethics than with those of anyone else we choose to admire or associate with. i’m not going to say everyone else in this fandom has to feel personally, viscerally disappointed in m*ch**l sh**n, and i’m not sure i think it’s reasonable to expect everyone in the fandom to have a fully worked-out, explicitly declared Stance on Sh**ngate (and certainly not to, like, grip them by the digital lapels and hiss into their face about it), but i think the people exasperatedly huffing about other people’s disappointment are very much in the wrong. anyway i’ve got a thumping headache and this is more aggressive than i usually like to get in public, so i’ll leave it at that! which is frankly probably a lot more in depth than you were anticipating anyway… unfortunately i only have two settings, and one of them is ‘avoidant silence’ and the other is ‘irrepressible verbosity,’ so.

[hjertetssunnegalskap1]

The Skamdom, the good parts and bad parts and what to do with it

I love Skam. The Skam fandom has been and still is, joy in so many ways. It’s amazing to meet other fans who love the show and love everything connected to it. The Skamdom has been more than a weird obsession, it has given me a feeling of family and friendship, too. I have learned a lot about myself and my own prejudices and about my identity and preferences. Skam has been an inspiration to create fanwork, I have gotten lots of positive feedback and it has helped me to have fun with creating stuff again.

However, I have discovered that there are some parts of the fandom that are quite toxic. Yeah, I know, water is wet, hah. I guess it’s well known that there are negative sides to all fandoms. I’m pretty new to fandom life, though, and I suppose it has taken time to get fully aware of how bad things can get. Skam has a positive underlying message, after all, and I have often thought that it “should be too good for hate like this.” Well, it isn’t. We all know it. It’s even possible that parts of Skam somehow ignite certain forms of toxic fandom processes, too, although I have no idea what that could be. Could it be that the show feels so real? That the characters are so young? That the show handles important issues? I really don’t know, but I would love to hear all the theories. 

Anyway, I have noticed that even though people spreading hate usually are a small fraction of the fandom, they have the power to do significant damage. Hate drives people out of ships, and out of the fandom. Hate makes fanfic writers stop writing and artists stop making art. Fans are being frozen out or silenced because they have the wrong opinion.This is sad, and the worst part is, that it has happened more than once.

What makes a fandom toxic, then? Why does it happen in the first place? And what can we do about it? I have tried to read up on some ideas about it and mixed it with some of my own thoughts about group processes. I won’t pretend to know anything about fandom life previous to Skam or on earlier fandom sites, but I would like to say something about the things I do know of. The reason I write this is purely selfish, by the way. I need to understand this. The Skam fandom is constantly evolving (as it probably should) and I need to keep my own fandom experience good, and to do that, I need to get what this negativity is all about, and how to deal with it.

So, what is it about?

First of all, I should mention that I’m kinda hesitant about talking about good vs. bad fandom behaviour. Life isn’t black or white like that and I don’t like to describe processes as if they were. However, there are fandom actions that are bad, and toxic, and I think it can be useful to talk about it in the open. Just remember that I’m not trying to call out anyone here. I think we’re all more or less guilty of negative fandom behaviour.

When I start to talk about what is toxic in a fandom, I suppose it can be smart to start with what it isn’t. Well, obviously, sharing your love for something isn’t. Also, I think that fans disagreeing and discussing stuff isn’t toxic. Making arguments for what you think is a good thing, just as expressing how you feel about something, or critiquing something constructively. Open discussions keep the fandom alive. Talking is good!!!  

Attacking others with threats or extreme actions, however, not so much. Here are some examples of what I think are toxic sides of the fandom: 

Possessiveness: some fans feel like they own the content they're fans of, that it belongs to them, and only to them. Fans are stalking the actors, for instance, and trying to control them. Sending hate and threats to Henrik’s girlfriend, is a good example. Or spreading hate about Tarjei when he withdrew from some fans and sat boundaries for them. Ulrikke has experienced a lot of hate because she doesn’t follow the wishes of some fans, as well. 

What if the actors or creators do some really shitty things? What if they express prejudices or ignorance or maybe they do something they shouldn’t do? Well, it’s not possessive to point out that the creators or actors do shitty things. It’s possessive to try to control them.

I suppose a lot of fans can feel a hint of possessiveness at times. Like, when someone expresses “I almost don’t want this fandom to grow bigger, I want it to stay our small precious treasure”. It doesn’t have to be harmful, only if the fans exclude others or act in a harmful way because of it.

Entitlement: some fans think that the creators must do what they want. For example, the fans may demand a particular romantic pairing or 'ship' to happen in a show, and be furious enough to send death threats to the authors if this doesn't happen.

Everyone can get disappointed in things happening, of course, and expressing that is okay. But there’s a difference between expressing disappointment and spreading hate. 

Feeling superior: some fans feel superior to more casual fans, and shout loudly about it. Or they feel better than other fractions of the fandom. Some fans might not feel superior, but maybe special. They have their self-concept shaped by the fact that their fandom makes them an outcast. Maybe they even feel bullied. But in some cases, they are the ones who hate on others for things they like. This can often end in fan wars (”this remake is better than that”). 

I think a feeling of “others don’t get this show like we do” is familiar to many in the fandom and in many different groupings. I can’t say that I have felt superior in any way, but

I have at least once expressed my opinions on characterization in a way that other fans found offensive. 

Us and them: This toxic culture of possessiveness, entitlement and feeling superior develops in so-called “internet echo chambers”, spaces where dissenting opinions are not tolerated. This means the group has a conformist mentality and everything is about “us” and “them”. 

Outsiders are usually rudely educated or just simply banned. This conflict creates a sense of self and community that is tied to the in-group, the 'safe haven' of the fan community. Online, these groups pat each other on the back for liking the right version of the show, or the right ship or whatever, and not only that, but having the group's particular opinions on it, and for participating in conventions, contributing art and fan fiction, and so on. 

Losing their identity: When people are part of a group, they often experience a loss of self-awareness. They are less likely to follow normal restraints and inhibitions and more likely to lose their sense of individual identity. Groups can generate a sense of emotional excitement, which can lead to behaviours that a person would not typically engage in if alone.

I think a lot of fans can recognize this feeling of getting swept away with some amazing ideas in a group. When it leads to spreading hate, it becomes toxic.  

Addiction: People also get addicted to the attention and validation these online niches can give them, especially if the outside world is less friendly. That leads them to extreme in-group loyalty and extreme out-group hatred. They can get so caught up in their fandom that they stop caring about people outside of it.

And yeah, uhm. I can actually recognize the addictive part of fandom life. I need to check Tumblr and AO3 every day, for instance, as well as check in on fandom friends. I live for every kudos or like I get on the things I make. I know, addiction is maybe not toxic for others than yourself, but I still wanted to add it. Addiction can also lead to toxic behaviour towards others in the fandom. 

So... What to do, then?

It’s not easy to handle these things. One problem is that attempting to confront toxic fandom processes results in the groups withdrawing into their echo chambers and feeling superior. I have tried once or twice to answer hate like that with reasoning but often it’s mostly to sort my own thoughts on the subject (I think better in writing). I have rarely experienced to get through to anyone. 

Sometimes, or pretty often, ignoring toxic behaviour might be best. Confrontation may just result in circular arguments, after all. If you ignore the behaviour, you're not giving it attention. Also, you can let them think what they want to think. You can block, delete, or ignore negative people or behaviour on most social media networks. I have filtered and blacklisted words on Tumblr and it has helped a lot. That’s maybe one of my best tips. Scroll past stuff that isn’t for you. Remember the phrase “don’t like, don’t read.” Make the content that you’re passionate about. Talk about the things you love. Share your opinions. Focus on the stuff that makes you happy. That’s my goal, anyway.

When should you confront someone, then? My opinion is that it can be okay to confront if they're going beyond simply having an opinion, into the world of threats, harassment, and stalking. When the stuff being said can be hurtful or discriminating, too. Then it’s right to both confront and report, really.

Is this fandom stuff worth all this hassle?

I hope this long rant doesn’t bring you down too much. Despite all of this negativity, I believe fandom is a very positive thing. Most fans just want to enjoy the things they love with others who love the same things. That’s my main goal, too. Skam has been important to me and I want it to continue to be that. I want to keep the fandom as a space to share my love for the show. Thinking through these processes has helped me see a little more clearly how to do that. 

Ultimately, the Skam fandom is what we make of it, and we all can make it better. We can talk and share opinions and remind each other that we don’t support harassment, especially over ships or different versions of Skam. We can be decent to each other. I am not saying “be kind, always”, because in my opinion that phrase was never meant to stand alone without “being an asshole isn’t something you become, it’s a choice”. 

But yeah, that’s another discussion. My point is, if we all work together, we can manage to have a fandom that is open and tolerant and spreading love instead of fear and hate. And if that’s a little too optimistic, I’m gonna filter and blacklist and stick to “don’t like, don’t read” and see if it helps.