#he likes being fed because he was homeless for five years and may was Like That even before he ran away

[bright-eyes-strawberry-lies]

HC that the quickest way into Luke's good graces is to feed him. The campers know this and fully take advantage of it on a regular basis.

[dimdiamond]

Bagginshield fic list

Yeah, I decided to make one too because there are enough to cause me headaches and I'd like to have them somewhere organized. Please look at the tags before reading them!

Fix-it fics

Desperate magic by BeautifulFiction: Bilbo is left to tend Thorin as he hovers on the brink of death after the Battle of the Five Armies. Is love enough to save Erebor's king, or is this the last farewell?

Lay your troubles down by Avelera: An extended version of "the acorn scene." Bilbo sees his chance to snap Thorin out of his madness, and takes it.

The Riven Crown by BeautifulFiction: The aftermath of war is no laughing matter. Those who died must be honoured, those who are wounded must be healed, and those who remain need food and clothing, peace and sanctuary. With Thorin's life hanging in the balance, it is up to Bilbo and the rest of the Company to rule the rag-tag remnants of Erebor in his place. Then there is the matter of the gold... Can Bilbo save both king and kingdom, or is Erebor destined to fall deeper into ruin?

The Color of Possibility by lindoreda: When Bilbo puts himself between Thorin and Azog's blade, his mithril shirt protecting them both, it isn't long before some dwarves whisper that 'Oakenshield' might not be the best epithet for their king anymore. But for Bilbo, barred from Thorin's sight since the battle, this new epithet only adds to the sting. Spending his days caring for the recovering princes, Bilbo wonders how much more of this he can take, not suspecting his place at the center of a silent divide in the company.

Homesick by Margo_Kim: Five years after they've reclaimed Erebor, Thorin is sick of home, Bilbo is just sick, and neither is handling the situation ideally.

The Road Delivered Us Home by keelywolfe: In the years since Bilbo left Erebor, he has lost his respectability, gained a nephew, and gotten on with life at Bag End. He'd left aside adventure for the comforts and peace of his little Hobbit hole, and for the love of a child who needed him. Though perhaps, adventures can yet find him.

Notices in the Paper by YamBits: Bilbo returns to the Shire after his adventure, newly married, and newly homeless, after his two year absence allowed the Sackville-Bagginses to obtain Bag End. Bilbo and Thorin go to the Tooks for help, and find newly orphaned Frodo Baggins, also looking for a home.

A Royal Guardianship by ladyoakenshields: When Bilbo and Thorin return to the Shire for a sabbatical during Yuletide, they find a reason to retire the throne in Erebor sooner than expected.

The Shire's gems by awkwarng3: Thorin, Bilbo, and Frodo move to the Shire after raising Frodo in Erebor, and Frodo makes a friend.

Time travel fix-it fics

An expected journey by MarieJacquelyn: For years Bilbo has written about his adventures and told stories about his dealings with dwarves and dragons. To most it seemed like fanciful nonsense but to Bilbo it was all very real. A weight followed him home from his travels, one called regret. Now in his final moments Bilbo has a choice to make – go quietly into death’s embrace or go back again and face all the fear and pain for the chance to make things right? Of course, change is a fickle thing and not everything can be done again as Bilbo is about to find out. In the end, it may not only be salvation that he’s fighting for.

Bilbo Baggins, warrior of the Valar by Pallalalo: Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “And you’ve come to the Shire to look for this someone? My, Gandalf, I wonder if you know Hobbits at all. They would tell you that adventures are nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. That they would make you late for dinner.” Bilbo recalled his own words perfectly. It had been something he and Gandalf had looked back on with bittersweet laughter. This Gandalf however noticed his exact words. “Would they now? And what about you, mhm? What would you tell me about adventures?” #The Valar send Bilbo back in time, to the day where Gandalf asks him to join in an adventure. After living a lifetime of regret and suffering, he vows to change things for the better. For Thorin. For Frodo. But will he succeed?

I'll die to care for you by thehufflepuffhobbit: His gaze landed on Mahal's eyes once more. "You did your best, Thorin." It was tempting to look away; he wanted to deny that with everything he had. It certainly didn't feel as though falling into Gold Sickness and then dying was doing his best. Mahal smirked, as though he knew Thorin's desire to contradict him, and pinched his cheek before walking over to a table. "Aye, I didn't think you would believe me. I'm not lying, it certainly could have gone better. More according to my plan, but I know you really did try." "Your plan?" He didn't know if he should ask, really. Knowing that his Maker had set a course for him, he didn't want to think about the ways he had done everything wrong. There were too many examples of mistakes in his long life, too many opportunities that he had missed that had probably been planned for him from the beginning. Or:Mahal feels like Thorin fucked up his legacy and gives him a do over.

Darker times ahead by Reach4theSky: Bilbo is sailing to the Undying Lands but wary of letting go of the guilt that has been with him for many decade. His most sincerest wish is to go back and change what was done. Before reaching the lands of peace and healing, he dies aboard the ship and finds that his wish is being granted, not because he is the one to wish it but because this is the dwarves last chance to escape a fate of eternal waiting. He finds that not only is he going to be sent back to his younger body, but so is the entire Company of Thorin Oakenshield. Time is a fickle thing and not all the members have their memories returned to them at the same time. The journey on becomes interesting as the dwarves slowly remember and fight for themselves and their kin, yet new hurdles are thrown at them when they realize that more people remember than expected...

Of an arcane binding by Salvia_G: An inexplicable magic ties Bilbo Baggins, hobbit of the Shire, to Thorin, dwarven prince of Erebor.

Legends by DomesticGoddess: The fellowship has set out on its noble quest to destroy the ring and put an end to the threat that is Sauron! Just set out really, barely left the gates of Imladris, but things are going smoothly enough so far. That is until the two most unlikely party crashers fall upon their little fellowship. Uncle Bilbo and the Legendary Thorin Oakenshield?! Frodo just wants to know what's going on but the two of them won't stop hollering at each other long enough for anyone to get a word in edgewise. Suddenly, their little group is joined by Frodo's two biggest heroes and he discovers there was a lot more to Uncle Bilbo's stories than he realized.

Beside myself by bliboboggins: "What are you doing? Just who do you think you are?" Startled, Bilbo turned around slowly. And there, in a familiar patchwork dressing gown, brandishing a fire poker wildly about, was... Bilbo.

Erebor never fell au fics

The hearth doesn't make the home by Moonrose91: For things Bilbo could not change, he was condemned to a life of isolation, with the belief that none could love him. And then a Dwarf came to Hobbiton.

Clarity of vision by Mithen: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.

Ghivashel by mdseiran: The last thing Bilbo expects when he stays up late one night is company. The strange dwarf and his companion crash into his life and prove unexpected saviours. But the dwarf seems to think he will be joining them on their travels, and Bilbo has no such intentions.

The Song of My Heart by DomesticGoddess: After a failed attempt of trying to carve out a new home in the Blue Mountains for his people, Thorin finds himself beseeching the Hobbit Thain and his council for a place for his people in their bountiful land. An agreement is struck and plans in the works for integrating his people into their land. The only condition being an arranged marriage between himself and one of their family heads. A small price to pay to see his people safe and well fed. Unfortunately, he’s to marry the most disagreeable hobbit in all the Shire who also seems to hold a personal grudge against him. If only he could figure out why his new betrothed hates him so much.

Oak and Mistletoe by HildyJ: After a life dominated by a strange form of sickness, Thorin is sent to the Shire to seek a cure only Bilbo Baggins can offer.

Karkûn shukula - A Cinderella AU by harrypanther: When the Prince of the Shire visits the Kingdom of Erebor, there is great excitement. There are hopes he will choose to marry one of the Royal Family, cementing an alliance that would secure food supplies for the dwarven Kingdom and gain new allies. All eligible dwarves are expected to attend a series of Balls. Unknown to the guests, there is a third royal child, manoeuvred out by his ambitious stepmother, for whom this may be his last chance of restoring his fortunes and escaping his fate…

Alone this Yuletide by Emsiecat: 'Alone this Yuletide? Irritated with prying and nosey family members? I am an out of work blacksmith currently trying to make my way by any means necessary that does not involve my resorting to thievery (prisons are most uncomfortable, I've unfortunate first hand experience). However, if you would like me to be your strictly platonic companion for any social function, but have me pretend that we are in a serious courtship, so as to torment your family and ward off unwanted suitors then I am more than obliging...' After becoming increasingly irritated by overtures of romance from various Shire residents following the death of his mother four years ago, Bilbo is more than ready to resort to desperate measures. That is, up to and including pretending to be in a serious relationship with a certain surly blacksmith currently inhabiting the Bindbale Woods. It's a good idea after all; all they have to do is pretend to be in love over the Yuletide period and Bilbo's family and suitors will surely leave him alone after that. It's perfect! And nothing can possibly go wrong, right? Certainly nothing as preposterous as falling for one another for real...

Modern au fics

Nothing gold can stay by perkynurples: Bilbo Baggins led a rather peaceful life, thank you very much, until an old acquaintance decided to turn it upside down, and he found himself agreeing to take a job that’s… let’s say not exactly up his alley, and might eventually cost him a little more than his treasured cozy lifestyle. Who would have thought tutoring a slightly menacing monarch’s more than slightly overbearing nephew could prove to be such an adventure?

Love-In-Idleness by perkynurples: Taking Bilbo Baggins, a successful movie actor who is only just getting used to the perks and intricacies of becoming A Face People Want To See, and putting him together with Thorin Oakenshield, with his very traditional (read: slightly backwards) ideas about what constitutes Real Art and Real Talent, might very well be viewed as just some clothead’s idea of a joke. But there are jokes, and then there are carefully calculated risks the size of controversial reproductions of classic Shakespearean plays - for Bilbo, it is the chance of a lifetime to prove himself to all those who have ever deemed him too one-dimensional to even attempt stage, while Thorin has the opportunity to get out of the rut that’s been hindering his career for so long now, and shine in a role worthy of his talent once again. That is if the two learn how to share the same space for more than ten minutes without wanting to tear each other’s hair out. The course of true love never did run smooth, after all…

Candid by northerntrash: Thorin wasn't entirely sure why there was a six-foot candid photograph of him hanging in this exhibition, but he was going to wring the neck of whoever had put it there. In which Bilbo is a photographer, Thorin an accidental model, and Gandalf just likes to make trouble for everyone.

How the west was won and where it got us by stickman: Bilbo is a harried 1st year British literature Ph.D. (early 20th century fiction) who happens to have an interest in spatial narrative structures, a lack of time-management skills, and a tiny apartment with a lot of books and very little furniture. He’s stressed, always, and doesn't quite know where he belongs. He tells himself that really, this is, in fact, what he wants to be doing. But sometimes, as much as he loves books, he gets an urge to do something with his hands. Thorin is a disgruntled M.Arch. 1 in his last year who can’t be arsed to shave and frightens his students, and, frankly, his profs, but his work is top-notch so no one can really say much. They can, however, bully him into running a hands-on design workshop on Saturday mornings, which is complete crap, because he’s used to drinking his Friday nights into oblivion so showing up at Milstein at 7:45 the next morning and trying to teach in a room of wall-to-wall windows as the sun rises is not at the top of his list. Besides, no one ever shows up. Except one morning, someone does. [graduate school AU]

Butterfly effect by eyra: Yoga wasn’t for him. Yoga was for interesting people. Luminous people; people who took gap years and spoke a foreign language. People who ate lentils and burned incense and had fantastic, colourful friends with fantastic, colourful lives full of travel and silent retreats and those baggy trousers with elephants on them. Yoga was decidedly not for people like Bilbo, who wore cardigans and ate beans on toast and whose linguistic capabilities stretched only as far as a rusty Spanish A-Level. Just your regular story of boy meets yoga instructor.

Remover of the obstacles by MistakenMagic: "Dis often chided her older brother for being a misanthropist. She did it so often it had become a term of endearment. It was true that Thorin struggled with people; he struggled to form and maintain relationships. Dr. Grey had diagnosed him with this and Thorin hadn’t the heart to tell him this wasn’t a symptom of his PTSD, it was a symptom of his personality. He exercised a sense of apathy with almost everyone he met… But Bilbo was different. Thorin actually found himself wanting to know more about him."

Color outside the lines by andquitefrankly: Kindergarten has just gotten significantly better. Just ask Thorin, who's got the biggest crush on the new kid in class, Bilbo Baggins. With the help of his friends, Thorin knows that he can take back the swings from the 1st graders, show up the K-1 class in the school pageant, and win the heart of one curly haired boy. Yup. Kindergarten is going to be a year to remember.

Bran' New Suit by pibroch (littleblackdog): Andrew's description had been sufficient to recognize him— a riot of honey brown curls, short in stature, a well-favoured face with expressive features— but it hadn't quite been enough to prepare Tom for the sharp, almost painful tug in his gut at the sight of the man. They had never met before, to the best of Tom's recollection, but there was something eerily and inexplicably familiar about him all the same.

Different species au fics

I've grown a hedge around my heart by pibroch (littleblackdog): "Thorin was the essence of so many Buckland oddities, distilled into one misfortunate young hobbit, much to his infinite embarrassment. Built like a stork, his father had said once, in an example of Thrain Brandybuck’s usual tactless humour. All beak and legs." Thorin Brandybuck, just recently come of age, still lives in his family’s smial in Buckland, with his parents and two younger siblings. Thorin is an odd duck amongst his relations and neighbours-- unsociable, grumpy, shy, and awkward. And beyond that, he looks rather strange even for a Bucklander, strongly favouring the thick, dark haired build of his Stoorish blood. It defies all sense and reason why Bilbo Baggins, an exemplar of all the respectable traits Thorin lacked, would ever desire a friendship with him. Bilbo, as Thorin discovers, is not always as sensible as he appears.

In which the dwarves are satyrs for reasons by HiddenKitty What the title says basically.

Bride of the demon king by DomesticGoddess: Thorin is King of the demons, a beast-like race feared by humans. Ever since the demons and humans formed a truce years ago, the humans have sent a young human every year as a tribute to the King of demons. Thorin is tired of having to deal with the tribute that has long since lost its meaning. The only tribute he'd be interested in is the boy he met fifteen years ago on the border of the demon and human realms. Despite his fantasies, Thorin knows the chances of ever seeing the boy again are slim to none, until they're not.

Lost He Wandered Under Leaves by serenbach: Thorin son of Thrain is a struggling blacksmith descended from a fallen line of kings. In an attempt to provide for his family over the winter, he reluctantly accepts an impossible sounding task - to hunt down an enchanted deer that lives in the Old Forest that borders the Shire, and make armour and weapons from its hide and antlers. He never expected to succeed. And he certainly never expected what he found to change his life so completely.

A Dryad's Tale by Bilbo Baggins by Moongazer12: Bilbo is a dryad (think little sibling to ents). Long ago a curse was placed upon him from destroying one of the rings of power. Whenever he touches someone with his bare skin he will make them insane. But despite this, he and Gandalf have gone on many adventures to help protect Middle Earth (What was the point to destroying the ring if something else destroyed it instead?) Gandalf has called on him once again to help on a quest, Bilbo just hopes that they read his amendments to the contract.

The quest but with a twist au fics

King, come at the red morning by Tawabids: Bilbo has heard fairytales of the lost prince of the dwarves, Thorin son of Thrain, who disappeared the day Smaug attacked the Lonely Mountain. But he does not believe in fairytales until he comes across the dwarf sleeping in the depths of Erebor, and kisses him back to life. Now Thorin - a hundred and fifty years out of his time - has to confront a world in which his city is empty, his people scattered, his baby brother Frerin is king, two nephews he's never met are missing in action, and a war is brewing right on his doorstep. And as if that wasn't complicated enough he's trapped in the body of an old man and falling stupidly in love with a gossipy, grudging little hobbit.

When the sun rises by Harry1981: Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was not a very respectable Hobbit. No respectable Hobbit had a sword and crossbow hanging in their home, nor did they have Dwarves as family. But Bilbo Baggins did, and all of Shire knew of his husband, blacksmith Thorin Oakenshield. When Bilbo comes home to find his Husband earlier than expected, he learns of a quest to reclaim Erebor. It is a death mission. Bilbo knows that Dwarves are stubborn creatures, and none more than Thorin himself. But nobody said that Bilbo himself was any less stubborn. So he will follow his dearest husband across all of Middle Earth, through plains and mountains and forests, all while hiding the true nature of their relationship (Dwarven politics never helped anyone), brushing off some old wounds (and getting new ones) and finding out new things about the dwarf Bilbo calls husband (and his extended family). Nobody ever said love was easy, after all.

Small, but fierce by DomesticGoddess: As a result of a magical mishap during the trip to the lonely mountain, Bilbo is reverted to a wee little hobbitling. Only in body, of course. His adult mind is still very aware of the indignity of it all (seriously! He doesn't need to be coddled, carried, and fed like a child). It turns out, dwarves love children and there is nothing cuter than Hobbit children. Bilbo soon realizes that he can get away with just about anything in his babyish form and starts taking full advantage of it. Even the grumpy brooding king can't deny the angelic little creature anything he desires (and Bilbo's going to milk that for all it's worth).

Your song like a home in my heart by Nennvial: In Middle Earth, all creatures have a soulmate. Not all have some, but if they do, it is a bond nothing can break, not even death. The more famous story of such a bound was the story of Bren and Luthien, who even defied detath. The way someone can find out that the other is one’s soulmate is through song: when they meet and hear the voice of the other, a song sings in their heart, which feels like home and makes them complete. They may refuse it if they wish to do so, but they hence risk a life of bitter looniness. Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins are soulmates, but they must admit it to themselves throughout their journey to Erebor.

To Dungeons Deep (And Caverns Old) by KingUndertheMountain: Bilbo Baggins was not your average hobbit. Of course, he had the wonderfully groomed and well-taken-care-of hairy feet like every other one of his race, yes, but he was not like other hobbits. He was cursed. Or, as the witch who gave him the enchantment put it, was “gifted”. She had given him the “gift” of obedience – whenever there was a direct command given to him, for example “cook a large meal” or “take a walk”, he could not disobey. Not without a lot of pain and eventual submission.

Chocolate candy one-shots

The world is sleeping (my world is you) by katheneverwrites (mandolinearts): I asked Persephone, “How could you grow to love him? He took you from flowers to a kingdom where not a single living thing can grow.” Persephone smiled, “My darling, every flower on your earth withers. What Hades gave me was a crown made for the immortal flowers in my bones.” - Nikita Gill ---“What do you mean, my friend?” There is a line of thought that surfaces in Gandalf’s mind, but he drowns it before it can take root. Surely not. But Bilbo’s chuckle sets him on edge. The small, gentle god of harvest, nature, and flowers sits up straighter, and in his crown of flowers there is a wire of strong metal, his cloak is suddenly not colorful anymore but the deepest black and he is terrifying, horrific, powerful - “I married Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the World.”

Of seasons by northerntrash: As far as he could tell, he had been kidnapped, which in itself made this week more than a little unusual. In which Bilbo steals away the Lord of Death, and Thorin can't quite bring himself to stay angry about it.

Warm up by paranoid_fridge: On one of their walks, Bilbo tumbles into a stream. They make it back to Bag End and Bilbo demands Thorin warm him up.

Royal Blue And Crimson Red by Mistofstars: Here's what happened before and after Bilbo accidentally eavesdrops on Gandalf and Elrond at night in Rivendell, as they discuss Thorin's quest and his family's history. Oh, and Thorin and Bilbo share a room, of course ;)

I was young when I left home by Margo_Kim: There was a pity clapper somewhere in the third row. Thorin finished his fourth song to polite applause from the people who noticed that the song was finished, but within the smattering of claps was someone beating his hands together like he was trying to rhythmically kill a fly. There was usually one of those, the kind who notices that no one else is paying attention and so is determined to compensate for that regardless of how they feel about the actual music. Thorin ignored him. It was easy to do so—he'd always hated looking at the audience when the singing was done.

A matter of buttons by StupidFatPenguin: “Your shirt,” says Thorin, quite out of the blue, and Bilbo looks down his front to see if there is a spot of tea or jam or anything equally embarrassing spilled on it. He is relieved to find nothing of the sort and looks up at the dwarf with an eyebrow raised in question. Thorin sits mute, his still-smoking pipe forgotten in his hand. He looks on for long moments still, seems almost lost to a thought before he shifts and lifts his gaze to meet Bilbo’s inquiring face. “It is familiar to me. Did you not wear this on the eve we met?” In which Bilbo and Thorin re-enact the evening they met.

The ladder by Milliethekitty27: Inspired from a post made by wheeloffortune-design on tumblr. Tired of his lonely kitchen in Yavanna's Garden, Bilbo Baggins wonders if the dwarven love of being underground is true in death. If so, maybe his dwarves are living (ha ha) under the very land Bilbo is weeding. With that thought, Bilbo goes and asks Hamfast for a shovel.

Love hobbit by HybridOwl: Bilbo Baggins considers himself a bit of a cock up, all things considered. He never made it out of his small highway adjacent town, can't seem to stop chain-smoking, and overall has more to talk about with the plants in his shop than 90% of all the rest of Middle Earth. So when he's reading the morning paper and a love note that can't be for anyone but him pops up, he's pretty sure - almost positive, really - that he's being made fun of. "TO the chain-smoking little stud who collects two metros from Gamgee's Goods every morning, will you be my love hobbit? - Bearded Biker." (heavily inspired by tumblr posts)

Fusion with other fandoms au fics

The Second Time by authoressjean; Sebastian Moran can't pull the trigger on John Watson to save his own hide, and what the hell is it with the doctor, anyway? Then Gandalf shows up, meddlesome wizard, and reminds him none too gently of his past life: as Thorin Oakenshield, leader of a company that had once included a small hobbit named Bilbo Baggins. One that looked decidedly like John Watson. And this would be the perfect chance to make things right with Bilbo the way he really hadn't been able to before he died, and that's when Gandalf tells him John doesn't remember being Bilbo, and to leave him alone. Right. Like that's going to happen.

And sow a star divided in us by MistakenMagic: Short summary: Gays in space! Longer summary: After his first successful solo mission, Jedi Knight Bilbo Baggins, trained by High Council member and full-time nuisance, Master Gandalf, returns to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. During an excursion to the sparring arena, he meets a group of Dwarven Jedi from Ered Luin, a mountainous planet located in the Outer Rim. Young padawans, Fili and Kili, are full of curiosity at this strange, barefoot Jedi, but Master Thorin, who appears to have the personality of a rancor and mental shields like blast doors, is less than impressed.

Comics you should definitely check

Every work by rutobuka, seriously they're criminally cute and they're not still favored by everyone without reason.

Retelling the Hobbit by Mellow_Comics: Bilbo has never been good at telling the "true" story of what happened on his journey to the Lonely Mountain. Now he's trying to turn the tale of his quest into a lighthearted children's book-- a bedtime story for his young nephew Frodo. But what really happened on his journey? And how did it actually affect him? This is a comic adaptation/retelling of the Hobbit! It's framed as a bedtime story that Bilbo is telling a younger Frodo.

For now these are some of my personal favourites! However, I'm sure my list will grow since my reading list has some gems still waiting for me to read, so be certain that there will be a part 2 of this list!

[holyhellpod]

Holy Hell: 3. Metanarrativity: Who’s the Deleuze and who’s the Guattari in your relationship? aka the analysis no one asked for.

In this ep, we delve into authorship, narrative, fandom and narrative meaning. And somehow, as always, bring it back to Cas and Misha Collins.

(Note: the reason I didn’t talk about Billie’s authorship and library is because I completely forgot it existed until I watched season 13 “Advanced Thanatology” again, while waiting for this episode to upload. I’ll find a way to work her into later episodes tho!)

I had to upload it as a new podcast to Spotify so if you could just re-subscribe that would be great! Or listen to it at these other links.

Please listen to the bit at the beginning about monetisation and if you have any questions don’t hesitate to message me here.

Apple | Spotify | Google

Transcript under the cut!

Warnings: discussions of incest, date rape, rpf, war, 9/11, the bush administration, abuse, mental health, addiction, homelessness. Most of these are just one off comments, they’re not full discussions.

Meta-Textuality: Who’s the Deleuze and who’s the Guattari in your relationship?

In the third episode of Season 6, “The Third Man,” Balthazar says to Cas, “you tore up the whole script and burned the pages.” That is the fundamental idea the writers of the first five seasons were trying to sell us: whatever grand plan the biblical God had cooking up is worth nothing in face of the love these men have—for each other and the world. Sam, Bobby, Cas and Dean will go to any lengths to protect one another and keep people safe. What’s real? What’s worth saving? People are real. Families are worth saving. 

This show plugs free will as the most important thing a person, angel, demon or otherwise can have. The fact of the matter is that Dean was always going to fight against the status quo, Sam was always going to go his own way, and Bobby was always going to do his best for his boys. The only uncertainty in the entire narrative is Cas. He was never meant to rebel. He was never meant to fall from Heaven. He was supposed to fall in line, be a good soldier, and help bring on the apocalypse, but Cas was the first agent of free will in the show’s timeline. Sam followed Lucifer, Dean followed Michael, and John gave himself up for the sins of his children, at once both a God and Jesus figure. But Cas wasn’t modelled off anyone else. He is original. There are definitely some parallels to Ruby, but I would argue those are largely unintentional. Cas broke the mold. 

That’s to say nothing of the impact he’s had on the fanbase, and the show itself, which would not have reached 15 seasons and be able to end the way they wanted it to without Cas and Misha Collins. His back must be breaking from carrying the entire show. 

But what the holy hell are we doing here today? Not just talking about Cas. We’re talking about metanarrativity: as I define it, and for purposes of this episode, the story within a story, and the act of storytelling. We’re going to go through a select few episodes which I think exemplify the best of what this show has to offer in terms of framing the narrative. We’ll talk about characters like Chuck and Becky and the baby dykes in season 10. And most importantly we’ll talk about the audience’s role, our role, in the reciprocal relationship of storytelling. After all, a tv show is nothing without the viewer.

I was in fact introduced to the concept of metanarrativity by Supernatural, so the fact that I’m revisiting it six years after I finished my degree to talk about the show is one of life’s little jokes.

 I’m brushing off my degree and bringing out the big guns (aka literary theorists) to examine this concept. This will be yet another piece of analysis that would’ve gone well in my English Lit degree, but I’ll try not to make it dry as dog shit. 

First off, I’m going to argue that the relationship between the creators of Supernatural and the fans has always been a dialogue, albeit with a power imbalance. Throughout the series, even before explicitly metanarrative episodes like season 10 “Fan Fiction” and season 4 “the monster at the end of this book,” the creators have always engaged in conversations with the fans through the show. This includes but is not limited to fan conventions, where the creators have actual, live conversations with the fans. Misha Collins admitted at a con that he’d read fanfiction of Cas while he was filming season 4, but it’s pretty clear even from the first season that the creators, at the very least Eric Kripke, were engaging with fans. The show aired around the same time as Twitter and Tumblr were created, both of which opened up new passageways for fans to interact with each other, and for Twitter and Facebook especially, new passageways for fans to interact with creators and celebrities.

But being the creators, they have ultimate control over what is written, filmed and aired, while we can only speculate and make our own transformative interpretations. But at least since s4, they have engaged in meta narrative construction that at once speaks to fans as well as expands the universe in fun and creative ways. My favourite episodes are the ones where we see the Winchesters through the lens of other characters, such as the season 3 episode “Jus In Bello,” in which Sam and Dean are arrested by Victor Henriksen, and the season 7 episode “Slash Fiction” in which Dean and Sam’s dopplegangers rob banks and kill a bunch of people, loathe as I am to admit that season 7 had an effect on any part of me except my upchuck reflex. My second favourite episodes are the meta episodes, and for this episode of Holy Hell, we’ll be discussing a few: The French Mistake, he Monster at the end of this book, the real ghostbusters, Fan Fiction, Metafiction, and Don’t Call Me Shurley. I’ll also discuss Becky more broadly, because, like, of course I’ll be discussing Becky, she died for our sins. 

Let’s take it back. The Monster At The End Of This Book — written by Julie Siege and Nancy Weiner and directed by Mike Rohl. Inarguably one of the better episodes in the first five seasons. Not only is Cas in it, looking so beautiful, but Sam gets something to do, thank god, and it introduces the character of Chuck, who becomes a source of comic relief over the next two seasons. The episode starts with Chuck Shurley, pen named Carver Edlund after my besties, having a vision while passed out drunk. He dreams of Sam and Dean larping as Feds and finding a series of books based on their lives that Chuck has written. They eventually track Chuck down, interrogate him, and realise that he’s a prophet of the lord, tasked with writing the Winchester Gospels. The B plot is Sam plotting to kill Lilith while Dean fails to get them out of the town to escape her. The C plot is Dean and Cas having a moment that strengthens their friendship and leads further into Cas’s eventual disobedience for Dean. Like the movie Disobedience. Exactly like the movie Disobedience. Cas definitely spits in Dean’s mouth, it’s kinda gross to be honest. Maybe I’m just not allo enough to appreciate art. 

When Eric Kripke was showrunner of the first five seasons of Supernatural,  he conceptualised the character of Chuck. Kripke as the author-god introduced the character of the author-prophet who would later become in Jeremy Carver’s showrun seasons the biblical God. Judith May Fathallah writes in “I’m A God: The Author and the Writing Fan in Supernatural” that Kripke writes himself both into and out of the text, ending his era with Chuck winking at the camera, saying, “nothing really ends,” and disappearing. Kripke stayed on as producer, continuing to write episodes through Sera Gamble’s era, and was even inserted in text in the season 6 episode “The French Mistake”. So nothing really does end, not Kripke’s grip on the show he created, not even the show itself, which fans have jokingly referred to as continuing into its 16th season. Except we’re not joking. It will die when all of us are dead, when there is no one left to remember it. According to W R Fisher, humans are homo narrans, natural storytellers. The Supernatural fandom is telling a fidelitous narrative, one which matches our own beliefs, values and experiences instead of that of canon. Instead of, at Fathallah says, “the Greek tradition, that we should struggle to do the right thing simply because it is right, though we will suffer and be punished anyway,” the fans have created an ending for the characters that satisfies each and every one of our desires, because we each create our own endings. It’s better because we get to share them with each other, in the tradition of campfire stories, each telling our own version and building upon the others. If that’s not the epitome of mythmaking then I don’t know. It’s just great. Dean and Cas are married, Eileen and Sam are married, Jack is sometimes a baby who Claire and Kaia are forced to babysit, Jody and Donna are gonna get hitched soon. It’s season 17, time for many weddings, and Kevin Tran is alive. Kripke, you have no control over this anymore, you crusty hag. 

Chuck is introduced as someone with power, but not influence over the story, only how the story is told through the medium of the novels. It’s basically a very badly written, non authorised biography, and Charlie reading literally every book and referencing things she should have no knowledge of is so damn creepy and funny. At first Chuck is surprised by his characters coming to life, despite having written it already, and when shown the intimidating array of weapons in Baby’s trunk he gets real scared. Which is the appropriate response for a skinny 5-foot-8 white guy in a bathrobe who writes terrible fantasy novels for a living. 

As far as I can remember, this is the first explicitly metanarrative episode in the series, or at least the first one with in world consequences. It builds upon the lore of Christianity, angels, and God, while teasing what’s to come. Chuck and Sam have a conversation about how the rest of the season is going to play out, and Sam comes away with the impression that he’ll go down with the ship. They touch on Sam’s addiction to demon blood, which Chuck admits he didn’t write into the books, because in the world of supernatural, addiction should be demonised ha ha at every opportunity, except for Dean’s alcoholism which is cool and manly and should never be analysed as an unhealthy trauma coping mechanism. 

Chuck is mostly impotent in the story of Sam and Dean, but his very presence presents an element of good luck that turns quickly into a force of antagonism in the series four finale, “Lucifer Rising”, when the archangel Raphael who defeats Lilith in this episode also kills Cas in the finale. It’s Cas’s quick thinking and Dean’s quick doing that resolve the episode and save them from Lilith, once again proving that free will is the greatest force in the universe. Cas is already tearing up pages and burning scripts. The fandom does the same, acting as gods of their own making in taking canon and transforming it into fan art. The fans aren’t impotent like Chuck, but neither do we have sway over the story in the way that Cas and Dean do. Sam isn’t interested in changing the story in the same way—he wants to kill Lilith and save the world, but in doing so continues the story in the way it was always supposed to go, the way the angels and the demons and even God wanted him to. 

Neither of them are author-gods in the way that God is. We find out later that Chuck is in fact the real biblical god, and he engineers everything. The one thing he doesn’t engineer, however, is Castiel, and I’ll get to that in a minute.

The Real Ghostbusters

Season 5’s “The real ghostbusters,” written by Nancy Weiner and Erik Kripke, and directed by James L Conway, situates the Winchesters at a fan convention for the Supernatural books. While there, they are confronted by a slew of fans cosplaying as Sam, Dean, Bobby, the scarecrow, Azazel, and more. They happen to stumble upon a case, in the midst of the game where the fans pretend to be on a case, and with the help of two fans cosplaying as Sam and Dean, they put to rest a group of homicidal ghost children and save the day. Chuck as the special guest of the con has a hero moment that spurs Becky on to return his affections. And at the end, we learn that the Colt, which they’ve been hunting down to kill the devil, was given to a demon named Crowley. It’s a fun episode, but ultimately skippable. This episode isn’t so much metanarrative as it is metatextual—metatextual meaning more than one layer of text but not necessarily about the storytelling in those texts—but let’s take a look at it anyway.

The metanarrative element of a show about a series of books about the brothers the show is based on is dope and expands upon what we saw in “the monster at the end of this book”. But the episode tells a tale about about the show itself, and the fandom that surrounds it. 

Where “The Monster At The End Of This Book” and the season 5 premiere “Sympathy For The Devil” poked at the coiled snake of fans and the concept of fandom, “the real ghostbusters” drags them into the harsh light of an enclosure and antagonises them in front of an audience. The metanarrative element revolves around not only the books themselves, but the stories concocted within the episode: namely Barnes and Demian the cosplayers and the story of the ghosts. The Winchester brothers’s history that we’ve seen throughout the first five seasons of the show is bared in a tongue in cheek way: while we cried with them when Sam and Dean fought with John, now the story is thrown out in such a way as to mock both the story and the fans’ relationship to it. Let me tell you, there is a lot to be made fun of on this show, but the fans’ relationship to the story of Sam, Dean and everyone they encounter along the way isn’t part of it. I don’t mean to be like, wow you can’t make fun of us ever because we’re special little snowflakes and we take everything so seriously, because you are welcome to make fun of us, but when the creators do it, I can’t help but notice a hint of malice. And I think that’s understandable in a way. Like The relationship between creator and fan is both layered and symbiotic. While Kripke and co no doubt owe the show’s popularity to the fans, especially as the fandom has grown and evolved over time, we’re not exactly free of sin. And don’t get me wrong, no fandom is. But the bad apples always seem to outweigh the good ones, and bad experiences can stick with us long past their due.

However, portraying us as losers with no lives who get too obsessed with this show — well, you know, actually, maybe they’re right. I am a loser with no life and I am too obsessed with this show. So maybe they have a point. But they’re so harsh about it. From wincestie Becky who they paint as a desperate shrew to these cosplayers who threaten Dean’s very perception of himself, we’re not painted in a very good light. 

Dean says to Demian and Barnes, “It must be nice to get out of your mom’s basement.” He’s judging them for deriving pleasure from dressing up and pretending to be someone else for a night. He doesn’t seem to get the irony that he does that for a living. As the seasons wore on, the creators made sure to include episodes where Dean’s inner geek could run rampant, often in the form of dressing up like a cowboy, such as season six “Frontierland” and season 13 “Tombstone”. I had to take a break from writing this to laugh for five minutes because Dean is so funny. He’s a car gay but he only likes one car. He doesn’t follow sports. His echolalia causes him to blurt out lines from his favourite movies. He’s a posse magnet. And he loves cosplay. But he will continually degrade and insult anyone who expresses interest in role play, fandom, or interests in general. Maybe that’s why Sam is such a boring person, because Dean as his mother didn’t allow him to have any interests outside of hunting. And when Sam does express interests, Dean insults him too. What a dick. He’s my soulmate, but I am not going to stop listening to hair metal for him. That’s where I draw the line. 

 Where “the monster at the end of this book” is concerned with narrative and authorship, “the real ghostbusters” is concerned with fandom and fan reactions to the show. It’s not really the best example to talk about in an episode about metanarrativity, but I wanted to include it anyway. It veers from talk of narrative by focusing on the people in the periphery of the narrative—the fans and the author. In season 9 “Metafiction,” Metatron asks the question, who gives the story meaning? The text would have you believe it’s the characters. The angels think it’s God. The fandom think it’s us. The creators think it’s them. Perhaps we will never come to a consensus or even a satisfactory answer to this question. Perhaps that’s the point.

The ultimate takeaway from this episode is that ordinary people, the people Sam and Dean save, the people they save the world for, the people they die for again and again, are what give their story meaning. Chuck defeats a ghost and saves the people in the conference room from being murdered. Demian and Barnes, don’t ask me which is which, burn the bodies of the ghost children and lay their spirits to rest. The text says that ordinary, every day people can rise to the challenge of becoming extraordinary. It’s not a bad note to end on, by any means. And then we find out that Demian and Barnes are a couple, which of course Dean is surprised at, because he lacks object permanence. 

This is no doubt influenced by how a good portion of the transformative fandom are queer, and also a nod to the wincesties and RPF writers like Becky who continue to bottom feed off the wrong message of this show. But then, the creators encourage that sort of thing, so who are the real clowns here? Everyone. Everyone involved with this show in any way is a clown, except for the crew, who were able to feed their families for more than a decade. 

Okay side note… over the past year or so I’ve been in process of realising that even in fandom queers are in the minority. I know the statistic is that 10% of the world population is queer, but that doesn’t seem right to me? Maybe because 4/5 closest friends are queer and I hang around queers online, but I also think I lack object permanence when it comes to straight people. Like I just do not interact with straight people on a regular basis outside of my best friend and parents and school. So when I hear that someone in fandom is straight I’m like, what the fuck… can you keep that to yourself please? Like if I saw Misha Collins coming out as straight I would be like, I didn’t ask and you didn’t have to tell. Okay I’m mostly joking, but I do forget straight people exist. Mostly I don’t think about whether people are gay or trans or cis or straight unless they’ve explicitly said it and then yes it does colour my perception of them, because of course it would. If they’re part of the queer community, they’re my people. And if they’re straight and cis, then they could very well pose a threat to me and my wellbeing. But I never ask people because it’s not my business to ask. If they feel comfortable enough to tell me, that’s awesome.  I think Dean feels the same way. Towards the later seasons at least, he has a good reaction when it’s revealed that someone is queer, even if it is mostly played off as a joke. It’s just that he doesn’t have a frame of reference in his own life to having a gay relationship, either his or someone he’s close to. He says to Cesar and Jesse in season 11 “The Critters” that they fight like brothers, because that’s the only way he knows how to conceptualise it. He doesn’t have a way to categorise his and Cas’s relationship, which is in many ways, long before season 15 “Despair,” harking back even to the parallels between Ruby and Cas in season 3 and 4, a romantic one, aside from that Cas is like a brother to him. Because he’s never had anyone in his life care for him the way Cas does that wasn’t Sam and Bobby, and he doesn’t recognise the romantic element of their relationship until literally Cas says it to him in the third last episode, he just—doesn’t know what his and Cas’s relationship is. He just really doesn’t know. And he grew up with a father who despised him for taking the mom and wife role in their family, the role that John placed him in, for being subservient to John’s wishes where Sam was more rebellious, so of course he wouldn’t understand either his own desires or those of anyone around him who isn’t explicitly shoving their tits in his face. He moulded his entire personality around what he thought John wanted of him, and John says to him explicitly in season 14 “Lebanon”, “I thought you’d have a family,” meaning, like him, wife and two rugrats. And then, dear god, Dean says, thinking of Sam, Cas, Jack, Claire, and Mary, “I have a family.” God that hurts so much. But since for most of his life he hasn’t been himself, he’s been the man he thought his father wanted him to be, he’s never been able to examine his own desires, wants and goals. So even though he’s really good at reading people, he is not good at reading other people’s desires unless they have nefarious intentions. Because he doesn’t recognise what he feels is attraction to men, he doesn’t recognise that in anyone else. 

Okay that’s completely off topic, wow. Getting back to metanarrativity in “The Real Ghostbusters,” I’ll just cap it off by saying that the books in this episode are more a frame for the events than the events themselves. However, there are some good outtakes where Chuck answers some questions, and I’m not sure how much of that is scripted and how much is Rob Benedict just going for it, but it lends another element to the idea of Kripke as author-god. The idea of a fan convention is really cool, because at this point Supernatural conventions had been running for about 4 years, since 2006. It’s definitely a tribute to the fans, but also to their own self importance. So it’s a mixed bag, considering there were plenty of elements in there that show the good side of fandom and fans, but ultimately the Winchesters want nothing to do with it, consider it weird, and threaten Chuck when he says he’ll start releasing books again, which as far as they know is his only source of income. But it’s a fun episode and Dean is a grouchy bitch, so who the holy hell cares?

Season 10 episode “fanfiction” written by my close personal friend Robbie Thompson and directed by Phil Sgriccia is one of the funniest episodes this show has ever done. Not only is it full of metatextual and metanarrative jokes, the entire premise revolves around fanservice, but in like a fun and interesting way, not fanservice like killing the band Kansas so that Dean can listen to “Carry On My Wayward Son” in heaven twice. Twice. One version after another. Like I would watch this musical seven times in theatre, I would buy the soundtrack, I would listen to it on repeat and make all my friends listen to it when they attend my online Jitsi birthday party. This musical is my Hamilton. Top ten episodes of this show for sure. The only way it could be better is if Cas was there. And he deserved to be there. He deserved to watch little dyke Castiel make out with her girlfriend with her cute little wings, after which he and Dean share uncomfortable eye contact. Dean himself is forever coming to terms with the fact that gay people exist, but Cas should get every opportunity he can to hear that it’s super cool and great and awesome to be queer. But really he should be in every episode, all of them, all 300 plus episodes including the ones before angels were introduced. I’m going to commission the guy who edits Paddington into every movie to superimpose Cas standing on the highway into every episode at least once.

“Fan Fiction” starts with a tv script and the words “Supernatural pilot created by Eric Kripke”. This Immediately sets up the idea that it’s toying with narrative. Blah blah blah, some people go missing, they stumble into a scene from their worst nightmares: the school is putting on a musical production of a show inspired by the Supernatural books. It’s a comedy of errors. When people continue to go missing, Sam and Dean have to convince the girls that something supernatural is happening, while retaining their dignity and respect. They reveal that they are the real Sam and Dean, and Dean gives the director Marie a summary of their lives over the last five seasons, but they aren’t taken seriously. Because, like, of course they aren’t. Even when the girls realise that something supernatural is happening, they don’t actually believe that the musical they’ve made and the series of books they’re basing it on are real. Despite how Sam and Dean Winchester were literal fugitives for many years at many different times, and this was on the news, and they were wanted by the FBI, despite how they pretend to be FBI, and no one mentions it??? Did any of the staffwriters do the required reading or just do what I used to do for my 40 plus page readings of Baudrillard and just skim the first sentence of every paragraph? Neat hack for you: paragraphs are set up in a logical order of Topic, Example, Elaboration, Linking sentence. Do you have to read 60 pages of some crusty French dude waxing poetic about how his best friend Pierre wants to shag his wife and making that your problem? Read the first and last sentence of every paragraph. Boom, done. Just cut your work in half. 

The musical highlights a lot of the important moments of the show so far. The brothers have, as Charlie Bradbury says, their “broment,” and as Marie says, their “boy melodrama scene,” while she insinuates that there is a sexual element to their relationship. This show never passed up an opportunity to mention incest. It’s like: mentioning incest 5000 km, not being disgusting 1 km, what a hard decision. Actually, they do have to walk on their knees for 100 miles through the desert repenting. But there are other moments—such as Mary burning on the ceiling, a classic, Castiel waiting for Dean at the side of the highway, and Azazel poisoning Sam. With the help of the high schoolers, Sam and Dean overcome Calliope, the muse and bad guy of the episode, and save the day. What began as their lives reinterpreted and told back to them turns into a story they have some agency over.

In this episode, as opposed to “The Monster At The End Of This Book,” The storytelling has transferred from an alcoholic in a bathrobe into the hands of an overbearing and overachieving teenage girl, and honestly why not. Transformative fiction is by and large run by women, and queer women, so Marie and her stage manager slash Jody Mills’s understudy Maeve are just following in the footsteps of legends. This kind of really succinctly summarises the difference between curative fandom and transformative fandom, the former of which is populated mostly by men, and the latter mostly by women. As defined by LordByronic in 2015, Curative fandom is more like enjoying the text, collecting the merchandise, organising the knowledge — basically Reddit in terms of fandom curation. Transformative fandom is transforming the source text in some way — making fanart, fanfic, mvs, or a musical — basically Tumblr in general, and Archive of our own specifically. Like what do non fandom people even do on Tumblr? It is a complete mystery to me. Whereas Chuck literally writes himself into the narrative he receives through visions, Marie and co have agency and control over the narrative by writing it themselves. 

Chuck does appear in the episode towards the end, his first appearance after five seasons. The theory that he killed those lesbian theatre girls makes me wanna curl up and die, so I don’t subscribe to it. Chuck watched the musical and he liked it and he gave unwarranted notes and then he left, the end.

The Supernatural creative team is explicitly acknowledging the fandom’s efforts by making this episode. They’re writing us in again, with more obsessive fans, but with lethbians this time, which makes it infinitely better. And instead of showing us as potential date rapists, we’re just cool chicks who like to make art. And that’s fucken awesome. 

I just have to note that the characters literally say the word Destiel after Dean sees the actors playing Dean and Cas making out. He storms off and tells Sam to shut the fuck up when Sam makes fun of him, because Dean’s sexuality is NOT threatened he just needs to assert his dominance as a straight hetero man who has NEVER looked at another man’s lips and licked his own. He just… forgets that gay people exist until someone reminds him. BUT THEN, after a rousing speech that is stolen from Rent or Wicked or something, he echoes Marie’s words back, saying “put as much sub into that text as you possibly can.” What does Dean know about subbing, I wonder. Okay I’m suddenly reminded that he did literally go to a kink bar and get hit on by a leather daddy. Oh Dean, the experiences you have as a broad-shouldered, pixie-faced man with cowboy legs. You were born for this role.

Metatron is my favourite villain. As one tumblr user pointed out, he is an evil English literature major, which is just a normal English literature major. The season nine episode “Meta Fiction” written by my main man robbie thompson and directed by thomas j wright, happens within a curious season. Castiel, once again, becomes the leader of a portion of the heavenly host to take down Metatron, and Dean is affected by the Mark Of Cain. Sam was recently possessed by Gadreel, who killed Kevin in Sam’s body and then decided to run off with Metatron. Metatron himself is recruiting angels to join him, in the hopes that he can become the new God. It’s the first introduction of Hannah, who encourages Cas to recruit angels himself to take on Metatron. Also, we get to see Gabriel again, who is always a delight. 

This episode is a lot of fun. Metatron poses questions like, who tells a story and who is the most important person in the telling? Is it the writer? The audience? He starts off staring over his typewriter to address the camera, like a pompous dickhead. No longer content with consuming stories, he’s started to write his own. And they are hubristic ones about becoming God, a better god than Chuck ever was, but to do it he needs to kill a bunch of people and blame it on Cas. So really, he’s actually exactly like Chuck who blamed everything on Lucifer. 

But I think the most apt analogy we can use for this in terms of who is the creator is to think of Metatron as a fanfiction writer. He consumes the media—the Winchester Gospels—and starts to write his own version of events—leading an army to become God and kill Cas. Nevermind that no one has been able to kill Cas in a way that matters or a way that sticks. Which is canon, and what Metatron is trying to do is—well not fanon because it actually does impact the Winchesters’ storyline. It would be like if one of the writers of Supernatural began writing Supernatural fanfiction before they got a job on the show. Which as my generation and the generations coming after me get more comfortable with fanfiction and fandom, is going to be the case for a lot of shows. I think it’s already the case for Riverdale. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the woman who wrote the bi Dean essay go to work on Riverdale? Or something? I dunno, I have the post saved in my tumblr likes but that is quagmire of epic proportions that I will easily get lost in if I try to find it. 

Okay let me flex my literary degree. As Englund and Leach say in “Ethnography and the metanarratives of modernity,” “The influential “literary turn,” in which the problems of ethnography were seen as largely textual and their solutions as lying in experimental writing seems to have lost its impetus.” This can be taken to mean, in the context of Supernatural, that while Metatron’s writings seek to forge a new path in history, forgoing fate for a new kind of divine intervention, the problem with Metatron is that he’s too caught up in the textual, too caught up in the writing, to be effectual. And this as we see throughout seasons 9, 10 and 11, has no lasting effect. Cas gets his grace back, Dean survives, and Metatron becomes a powerless human. In this case, the impetus is his grace, which he loses when Cas cuts it out of him, a mirror to Metatron cutting out Cas’s grace. 

However, I realise that the concept of ethnography in Supernatural is a flawed one, ethnography being the observation of another culture: a lot of the angels observe humanity and seem to fit in. However, Cas has to slowly acclimatise to the Winchesters as they tame him, but he never quite fit in—missing cues, not understanding jokes or Dean’s personal space, the scene where he says, “We have a guinea pig? Where?” Show him the guinea pig Sam!!! He wants to see it!!! At most he passes as a human with autism. Cas doesn’t really observe humanity—he observes nature, as seen in season 7 “reading is fundamental” and “survival of the fittest”. Even the human acts he talks about in season 6 “the man who would be king” are from hundreds or thousands of years ago. He certainly doesn’t observe popular culture, which puts him at odds with Dean, who is made up of 90 per cent pop culture references and 10 per cent flannel. Metatron doesn’t seek to blend in with humanity so much as control it, which actually is the most apt example of ethnography for white people in the last—you know, forever. But of course the writers didn’t seek to make this analogy. It is purely by chance, and maybe I’m the only person insane enough to realise it. But probably not. There are a lot of cookies much smarter than me in the Supernatural fandom and they’ve like me have grown up and gone to university and gotten real jobs in the real world and real haircuts. I’m probably the only person to apply Englund and Leach to it though.

And yes, as I read this paper I did need to have one tab open on Google, with the word “define” in the search bar. 

Metatron has a few lines in this that I really like. He says: 

“The universe is made up of stories, not atoms.”

“You’re going to have to follow my script.”

“I’m an entity of my word.”

It’s really obvious, but they’re pushing the idea that Metatron has become an agent of authorship instead of just a consumer of media. He even throws a Supernatural book into his fire — a symbolic act of burning the script and flipping the writer off, much like Cas did to God and the angels in season 5. He’s not a Kripke figure so much as maybe a Gamble, Carver or Dabb figure, in that he usurps Chuck and becomes the author-god. This would be extremely postmodern of him if he didn’t just do exactly what Chuck was doing, except worse somehow. In fact, it’s postmodern of Cas to reject heaven’s narrative and fall for Dean. As one tumblr user points out, Cas really said “What’s fate compared to Dean Winchester?”

Okay this transcript is almost 8000 words already, and I still have two more episodes to review, and more things to say, so I’ll leave you with this. Metatron says to Cas, “Out of all of God’s wind up toys, you’re the only one with any spunk.” Why Cas has captured his attention comes down more than anything to a process of elimination. Most angels fucking suck. They follow the rules of whoever puts themselves in charge, and they either love Cas or hate him, or just plainly wanna fuck him, and there have been few angels who stood out. Balthazar was awesome, even though I hated him the first time I watched season 6. He UNSUNK the Titanic. Legend status. And Gabriel was of course the OG who loves to fuck shit up. But they’re gone at this stage in the narrative, and Cas survives. Cas always survives. He does have spunk. And everyone wants to fuck him.  

Season 11 episode 20 “Don’t Call Me Shurley,” the last episode written by the Christ like figure of Robbie Thompson — are we sensing a theme here? — and directed by my divine enemy Robert Singer, starts with Metatron dumpster diving for food. I’m not even going to bother commenting on this because like… it’s supernatural and it treats complex issues like homelessness and poverty with zero nuance. Like the Winchesters live in poverty but it’s fun and cool because they always scrape by but Metatron lives in poverty and it’s funny. Cas was homeless and it was hard but he needed to do it to atone for his sins, and Metatron is homeless and it’s funny because he brought it on himself by being a murderous dick. Fucking hell. Robbie, come on. The plot focuses on God, also known as Chuck Shurley, making himself known to Metatron and asking for Metatron’s opinion on his memoir. Meanwhile, the Winchesters battle another bout of infectious serial killer fog sent by Amara. At the end of the episode, Chuck heals everyone affected by the fog and reveals himself to Sam and Dean. 

Chuck says that he didn’t foresee Metatron trying to become god, but the idea of Season 15 is that Chuck has been writing the Winchesters’ story all their lives. When Metatron tries, he fails miserably, is locked up in prison, tortured by Dean, then rendered useless as a human and thrown into the world without a safety net. His authorship is reduced to nothing, and he is reduced to dumpster diving for food. He does actually attempt to live his life as someone who records tragedies as they happen and sells the footage to news stations, which is honestly hilarious and amazing and completely unsurprising because Metatron is, at the heart of it, an English Literature major. In true bastard style, he insults Chuck’s work and complains about the bar, but slips into his old role of editor when Chuck asks him to. 

The theory I’m consulting for this uses the term metanarrative in a different way than I am. They consider it an overarching narrative, a grand narrative like religion. Chuck’s biography is in a sense most loyal to Middleton and Walsh’s view of metanarrative: “the universal story of the world from arche to telos, a grand narrative encompassing world history from beginning to end.” Except instead of world history, it’s God’s history, and since God is construed in Supernatural as just some guy with some powers who is as fallible as the next some guy with some powers, his story has biases and agendas.  Okay so in the analysis I’m getting Middleton and Walsh’s quotes from, James K A Smith’s “A little story about metanarratives,” Smith dunks on them pretty bad, but for Supernatural purposes their words ring true. Think of them as the BuckLeming of Lyotard’s postmodern metanarrative analysis: a stopped clock right twice a day. Is anyone except me understanding the sequence of words I’m saying right now. Do I just have the most specific case of brain worms ever found in human history. I’m currently wearing my oversized Keith Haring shirt and dipping pretzels into peanut butter because it’s 3.18 in the morning and the homosexuals got to me. The total claims a comprehensive metanarrative of world history make do indeed, as Middleton and Walsh claim, lead to violence, stay with me here, because Chuck’s legacy is violence, and so is Metatron’s, and in trying to reject the metanarrative, Sam and Dean enact violence. Mostly Dean, because in season 15 he sacrifices his own son twice to defeat Chuck. But that means literally fighting violence with violence. Violence is, after all, all they know. Violence is the lens through which they interact with the world. If the writers wanted to do literally anything else, they could have continued Dean’s natural character progression into someone who eschews the violence that stems from intergeneration trauma — yes I will continue to use the phrase intergenerational trauma whenever I refer to Dean — and becomes a loving father and husband. Sam could eschew violence and start a monster rehabilitation centre with Eileen.

This episode of Holy Hell is me frantically grabbing at straws to make sense of a narrative that actively hates me and wants to kick me to death. But the violence Sam and Dean enact is not at a metanarrative level, because they are not author-gods of their own narrative. In season 15 “Atomic Monsters,” Becky points out that the ending of the Supernatural book series is bad because the brothers die, and then, in a shocking twist of fate, Dean does die, and the narrative is bad. The writers set themselves a goal post to kick through and instead just slammed their heat into the bars. They set up the dartboard and were like, let’s aim the darts at ourselves. Wouldn’t that be fun. Season 15’s writing is so grossly incompetent that I believe every single conspiracy theory that’s come out of the finale since November, because it’s so much more compelling than whatever the fuck happened on the road so far. Carry on? Why yes, I think I will carry on, carry on like a pork chop, screaming at the bars of my enclosure until I crack my voice open like an egg and spill out all my rage and frustration. The world will never know peace again. It’s now 3.29 and I’ve written over 9000 words of this transcript. And I’m not done.

Middleton and Walsh claim that metanarratives are merely social constructions masquerading as universal truths. Which is, exactly, Supernatural. The creators have constructed this elaborate web of narrative that they want to sell us as the be all and end all. They won’t let the actors discuss how they really feel about the finale. They won’t let Misha Collins talk about Destiel. They want us to believe it was good, actually, that Dean, a recovering alcoholic with a 30 year old infant son and a husband who loves him, deserved to die by getting NAILED, while Sam, who spent the last four seasons, the entirety of Andrew Dabb’s run as showrunner, excelling at creating a hunter network and romancing both the queen of hell and his deaf hunter girlfriend, should have lived a normie life with a normie faceless wife. Am I done? Not even close. I started this episode and I’m going to finish it.

When we find out that Chuck is God in the episode of season 11, it turns everything we knew about Chuck on its head. We find out in Season 15 that Chuck has been writing the Winchesters’ story all along, that everything that happened to them is his doing. The one thing he couldn’t control was Cas’s choice to rebel. If we take him at his word, Cas is the only true force of free will in the entire universe, and more specifically, the love that Cas had for Dean which caused him to rebel and fall from heaven. — This theory has holes of course. Why would Lucifer torture Lilith into becoming the first demon if he didn’t have free will? Did Chuck make him do that? And why? So that Chuck could be the hero and Lucifer the bad guy, like Lucifer claimed all along? That’s to say nothing of Adam and Eve, both characters the show introduced in different ways, one as an antagonist and the other as the narrative foil to Dean and Cas’s romance. Thinking about it makes my head hurt, so I’m just not gunna. 

So Chuck was doing the writing all along. And as Becky claims in “Atomic Monsters,” it’s bad writing. The writers explicitly said, the ending Chuck wrote is bad because there’s no Cas and everyone dies, and then they wrote an ending where there is no Cas and everyone dies. So talk about self-fulfilling prophecies. Talk about giant craters in the earth you could see from 800 kilometres away but you still fell into. Meanwhile fan writers have the opportunity to write a million different endings, all of which satisfy at least one person. The fandom is a hydra, prolific and unstoppable, and we’ll keep rewriting the ending a million more times.

And all this is not even talking about the fact that Chuck is a man, Metatron is a man, Sam and Dean and Cas are men, and the writers and directors of the show are, by an overwhelming majority, men. Most of them are white, straight, cis men. Feminist scholarship has done a lot to unpack the damage done by paternalistic approaches to theory, sociology, ethnography, all the -ys, but I propose we go a step further with these men. Kill them. Metanarratively, of course. Amara, the Darkness, God’s sister, had a chance to write her own story without Chuck, after killing everything in the universe, and I think she had the right idea. Knock it all down to build it from the ground up. Billie also had the opportunity to write a narrative, but her folly was, of course, putting any kind of faith in the Winchesters who are also grossly incompetent and often fail up. She is, as all author-gods on this show are, undone by Castiel. The only one with any spunk, the only one who exists outside of his own narrative confines, the only one the author-gods don’t have any control over. The one who died for love, and in dying, gave life. 

The French Mistake

Let’s change the channel. Let’s calm ourselves and cleanse our libras. Let’s commune with nature and chug some sage bongs. 

“The French Mistake” is a song from the Mel Brooks film Blazing Saddles. In the iconic second last scene of the film, as the cowboys fight amongst themselves, the camera pans back to reveal a studio lot and a door through which a chorus of gay dancersingers perform “the French Mistake”. The lyrics go, “Throw out your hands, stick out your tush, hands on your hips, give ‘em a push. You’ll be surprised you’re doing the French Mistake.” 

I’m not sure what went through the heads of the Supernatural creators when they came up with the season 6 episode, “The French Mistake,” written by the love of my life Ben Edlund and directed by some guy Charles Beeson. Just reading the Wikipedia summary is so batshit incomprehensible. In short: Balthazar sends Sam and Dean to an alternate universe where they are the actors Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles, who play Sam and Dean on the tv show Supernatural. I don’t think this had ever been done in television history before. The first seven seasons of this show are certifiable. Like this was ten years ago. Think about the things that have happened in the last 10 slutty, slutty years. We have lived through atrocities and upheaval and the entire world stopping to mourn, but also we had twitter throughout that entire time, which makes it infinitely worse.

In this universe, Sam and Dean wear makeup, Cas is played by attractive crying man Misha Collins, and Genevieve Padalecki nee Cortese makes an appearance. Magic doesn’t exist, Serge has good ideas, and the two leads have to act in order to get through the day. Sorry man I do not know how to pronounce your name.

Sidenote: I don’t know if me being attracted aesthetically to Misha Collins is because he’s attractive, because this show has gaslighted me into thinking he’s attractive, or because Castiel’s iconic entrance in 2008 hit my developing mind like a torpedo full of spaghetti and blew my fucking brains all over the place. It’s one of life’s little mysteries and God’s little gifts.

Let’s talk about therapy. More specifically, “Agency and purpose in narrative therapy: questioning the postmodern rejection of metanarrative” by Cameron Lee. In this paper, Lee outlines four key ideas as proposed by Freedman and Combs:

Realities are socially constructed

Realities are constituted through language

Realities are organised and maintained through narrative

And there are no essential truths.

Let’s break this down in the case of this episode. Realities are socially constructed: the reality of Sam and Dean arose from the Bush era. Do I even need to elaborate? From what I understand with my limited Australian perception, and being a child at the time, 9/11 really was a prominent shifting point in the last twenty years. As Americans describe it, sometimes jokingly, it was the last time they were really truly innocent. That means to me that until they saw the repercussions of their government’s actions in funding turf wars throughout the middle east for a good chunk of the 20th Century, they allowed themselves to be hindered by their own ignorance. The threat of terrorism ran rampant throughout the States, spurred on by right wing nationalists and gun-toting NRA supporters, so it’s really no surprise that the show Supernatural started with the premise of killing everything in sight and driving around with only your closest kin and a trunk full of guns. Kripke constructed that reality from the social-political climate of the time, and it has wrought untold horrors on the minds of lesbians who lived through the noughties, in that we are now attracted to Misha Collins.

Number two: Realities are constituted through language. Before a show can become a show, it needs to be a script. It’s written down, typed up, and given to actors who say the lines out loud. In this respect, they are using the language of speech and words to convey meaning. But tv shows are not all about words, and they’re barely about scripts. From what I understand of being raised by television, they are about action, visuals, imagery, and behaviours. All of the work that goes into them—the scripts, the lighting, the audio, the sound mixing, the cameras, the extras, the ADs, the gaffing, the props, the stunts, everything—is about conveying a story through the medium of images. In that way, images are the language. The reality of the show Supernatural, inside the show Supernatural, is constituted through words: the script, the journalists talking to Sam, the makeup artist taking off Dean’s makeup, the conversations between the creators, the tweets Misha sends. But also through imagery: the fish tank in Jensen’s trailer, the model poses on the front cover of the magazine, the opulence of Jared’s house, Misha’s iconic sweater. Words and images are the language that constitutes both of these realities. Okay for real, I feel like I’ve only seen this episode max three times, including when I watched it for research for this episode, but I remember so much about it. 

Number three: realities are organised and maintained through narrative. In this universe of the French Mistake, their lives are structured around two narratives: the internal narrative of the show within the show, in which they are two actors on a tv set; and the episode narrative in which they need to keep the key safe and return to their own universe. This is made difficult by the revelation that magic doesn’t work in this universe, however, they find a way. Before they can get back, though, an avenging angel by the name of Virgil guns down author-god Eric Kripke and tries to kill the Winchesters. However, they are saved by Balthazar and the freeze frame and brought back into their own world, the world of Supernatural the show, not Supernatural the show within the show within the nesting doll. And then that reality is done with, never to be revisited or even mentioned, but with an impact that has lasted longer than the second Bush administration.

And number four: there are no essential truths. This one is a bit tricky because I can’t find what Lee means by essential truths, so I’m just going to interpret that. To me, essential truths means what lies beneath the narratives we tell ourselves. Supernatural was a show that ran for 15 years. Supernatural had actors. Supernatural was showrun by four different writers. In the show within a show, there is nothing, because that ceases to exist for longer than the forty two minute episode “The French Mistake”. And since Supernatural no longer exists except in our computers, it is nothing too. It is only the narratives we tell ourselves to sleep better at night, to wake up in the morning with a smile, to get through the day, to connect with other people, to understand ourselves better. It’s not even the narrative that the showrunners told, because they have no agency over it as soon as it shows up on our screens. The essential truth of the show is lost in the translation from creating to consuming. Who gives the story meaning? The people watching it and the people creating it. We all do. 

Lee says that humans are predisposed to construct narratives in order to make sense of the world. We see this in cultures from all over the world: from cave paintings to vases, from The Dreaming to Beowulf, humans have always constructed stories. The way you think about yourself is a story that you’ve constructed. The way you interact with your loved ones and the furries you rightfully cyberbully on Twitter is influenced by the narratives you tell yourself about them. And these narratives are intricate, expansive, personalised, and can colour our perceptions completely, so that we turn into a different person when we interact with one person as opposed to another. 

Whatever happened in season 6, most of which I want to forget, doesn’t interest me in the way I’m telling myself the writers intended. For me, the entirety of season 6 was based around the premise of Cas being in love with Dean, and the complete impotence of this love. He turns up when Dean calls, he agonises as he watches Dean rake leaves and live his apple pie life with Lisa, and Dean is the person he feels most horribly about betraying. He says, verbatim, to Sam, “Dean and I do share a more profound bond.” And Balthazar says, “You’re confusing me with the other angel, the one in the dirty trenchcoat who’s in love with you.” He says this in season 6, and we couldn’t do a fucken thing about it. 

The song “The French Mistake” shines a light on the hidden scene of gay men performing a gay narrative, in the midst of a scene about the manliest profession you can have: professional horse wrangler, poncho wearer, and rodeo meister, the cowboy. If this isn’t a perfect encapsulation of the lovestory between Dean and Cas, which Ben Edlund has been championing from day fucking one of Misha Collins walking onto that set with his sex hair and chapped lips, then I don’t know what the fuck we’re even doing here. What in the hell else could it possibly mean. The layers to this. The intricacy. The agendas. The subtextual AND blatant queerness. The micro aggressions Crowley aimed at Car in “The Man Who Would Be King,” another Bedlund special. Bed Edlund is a fucking genius. Bed Edlund is cool girl. Ben Edlund is the missing link. Bed Edlund IS wikileaks. Ben Edlund is a cool breeze on a humid summer day. Ben Edlund is the stop loading button on a browser tab. Ben Edlund is the perfect cross between Spotify and Apple Music, in which you can search for good playlists, but without having to be on Spotify. He can take my keys and fuck my wife. You best believe I’m doing an entire episode of Holy Hell on Bedlund’s top five. He is the reason I want to get into staffwriting on a tv show. I saw season 4 episode “On the head of a pin” when my brain was still torpedoed spaghetti mush from the premiere, and it nestled its way deep into my exposed bones, so that when I finally recovered from that, I was a changed person. My god, this transcript is 11,000 words, and I haven’t even finished the Becky section. Which is a good transition.

Oh, Becky. She is an incarnation of how the writers, or at least Kripke, view the fans. Watching season 5 “Sympathy for the Devil” live in 2009 was a whole fucking trip that I as a baby gay was not prepared for. Figuring out my sexuality was a journey that started with the Supernatural fandom and is in some aspects still raging against the dying of the light today. Add to that, this conception of the audience was this, like, personification of the librarian cellist from Juno, but also completely without boundaries, common sense, or shame. It made me wonder about my position in the narrative as a consumer consuming. Is that how Kripke saw me, specifically? Was I like Becky? Did my forays into DeanCasNatural on El Jay dot com make me a fucking loser whose only claim to fame is writing some nasty fanfiction that I’ve since deleted all traces of? Don’t get me wrong, me and my unhinged Casgirl friends loved Becky. I can’t remember if I ever wrote any fanfiction with her in it because I was mostly writing smut, which is extremely Becky coded of me, but I read some and my friends and I would always chat about her when she came up. She was great entertainment value before season 7. But in the eyes of the powers that be, Becky, like the fans themselves, are expendable. First they turned her into a desperate bride wannabe who drugs Sam so that he’ll be with her, then Chuck waves his hand and she disappears. We’re seeing now with regards to Destiel, Cas, and Misha Collins this erasure of them from the narrative. Becky says in season 15 “Atomic Monsters” that the ending Chuck writes is bad because, for one, there’s no Cas, and that’s exactly what’s happening to the text post-finale. It literally makes me insane akin to the throes of mania to think about the layers of this. They literally said, “No Cas = bad” and now Misha isn’t even allowed to talk in his Cassona voice—at least at the time I wrote that—to the detriment of the fans who care about him. It’s the same shit over and over. They introduce something we like, they realise they have no control over how much we like it, and then they pretend they never introduced it in the first place. Season 7, my god. The only reason Gamble brought back Cas was because the ratings were tanking the show. I didn’t even bother watching most of it live, and would just hear from my friends whether Cas was in the episodes or not. And then Sera, dear Sera, had the gall to say it was a Homer’s Odyssey narrative. I’m rusty on Homer aka I’ve never read it but apparently Odysseus goes away, ends up with a wife on an island somewhere, and then comes back to Terabithia like it never happened. How convenient. But since Sera Gamble loves to bury her gays, we can all guess why Cas was written out of the show: Cas being gay is a threat to the toxic heteronormativity spouted by both the show and the characters themselves. In season 15, after Becky gets her life together, has kids, gets married, and starts a business, she is outgrowing the narrative and Chuck kills her. The fans got Destiel Wedding trending on Twitter, and now the creators are acting like he doesn’t exist. New liver, same eagles.

I have to add an adendum: as of this morning, Sunday 11th, don’t ask me what time that is in Americaland, Misha Collins did an online con/Q&A thing and answered a bunch of questions about Cas and Dean, which goes to show that he cannot be silenced. So the narrative wants to be told. It’s continuing well into it’s 16th or 17th season. It’s going to keep happening and they have no recourse to stop it. So fuck you, Supernatural.

I did write the start of a speech about representation but, who the holy hell cares. I also read some disappointing Masters theses that I hope didn’t take them longer to research and write than this episode of a podcast I’m making for funsies took me, considering it’s the same number of pages. Then again I have the last four months and another 8 years of fandom fuelling my obsession, and when I don’t sleep I write, hence the 4,000 words I knocked out in the last 12 hours. 

Some final words. Lyotard defines postmodernism, the age we live in, as an incredulity towards metanarratives. Modernism was obsessed with order and meaning, but postmodernism seeks to disrupt that. Modernists lived within the frame of the narrative of their society, but postmodernists seek to destroy the frame and live within our own self-written contexts. Okay I love postmodernist theory so this has been a real treat for me. Yoghurt, Sam? Postmodernist theory? Could I BE more gay? 

Middleton and Walsh in their analysis of postmodernism claim that biblical faith is grounded in metanarrative, and explore how this intersects with an era that rejects metanarrative. This is one of the fundamental ideas Supernatural is getting at throughout definitely the last season, but other seasons as well. The narratives of Good vs Evil, Michael vs Lucifer, Dean vs Sam, were encoded into the overarching story of the show from season 1, and since then Sam and Dean have sought to break free of them. Sam broke free of John’s narrative, which was the hunting life, and revenge, and this moralistic machismo that they wrapped themselves up in. If they’re killing the evil, then they’re not the evil. That’s the story they told, and the impetus of the show that Sam was sucked back into. But this thread unravelled in later seasons when Dean became friends with Benny and the idea that all supernatural creatures are inherently evil unravelled as well. While they never completely broke free of John’s hold over them, welcoming Jack into their lives meant confronting a bias that had been ingrained in them since Dean was 4 years old and Sam 6 months. In the face of the question, “are all monsters monstrous?” the narrative loosens its control. Even by questioning it, it throws into doubt the overarching narrative of John’s plan, which is usurped at the end of season 2 when they kill Azazel by Dean’s demon deal and a new narrative unfolds. John as author-god is usurped by the actual God in season 4, who has his own narrative that controls the lives of Sam, Dean and Cas. 

Okay like for real, I do actually think the metanarrativity in Supernatural is something that should be studied by someone other than me, unless you wanna pay me for it and then shit yeah. It is extremely cool to introduce a biographical narrative about the fictional narrative it’s in. It’s cool that the characters are constantly calling this narrative into focus by fighting against it, struggling to break free from their textual confines to live a life outside of the external forces that control them. And the thing is? The really real, honest thing? They have. Sam, Dean and Cas have broken free of the narrative that Kripke, Carver, Gamble and Dabb wrote for them. The very fact that the textual confession of love that Cas has for Dean ushered in a resurgence of fans, fandom and activity that has kept the show trending for five months after it ended, is just phenomenal. People have pointed out that fans stopped caring about Game of Thrones as soon as it ended. Despite the hold they had over tv watchers everywhere, their cultural currency has been spent. The opposite is true for Supernatural. Despite how the finale of the show angered and confused people, it gains more momentum every day. More fanworks, more videos, more fics, more art, more ire, more merch is being generated by the fans still. The Supernatural subreddit, which was averaging a few posts a week by season 15, has been incensed by the finale. And yours truly happily traipsed back into the fandom snake pit after 8 years with a smile on my face and a skip in my step ready to pump that dopamine straight into my veins babeeeeeeyyyyy. It’s been WILD. I recently reconnected with one of my mutuals from 2010 and it’s like nothing’s changed. We’re both still unhinged and we both still simp for Supernatural. Even before season 15, I was obsessed with the podcast Ride Or Die, which I started listening to in late 2019, and Supernatural was always in the back of my mind. You just don’t get over your first fandom. Actually, Danny Phantom was my first fandom, and I remember being 12 talking on Danny Phantom forums to people much too old to be the target audience of the show. So I guess that hasn’t left me either. And the fondest memories I have of Supernatural is how the characters have usurped their creators to become mythic, long past the point they were supposed to die a quiet death. The myth weaving that the Supernatural fandom is doing right now is the legacy that will endure. 

References

I got all of these for free from Google Scholar! 

Judith May Fathallah, “I’m A God: The Author and the Writing Fan in Supernatural.” 

James K A Smith, “A Little Story About Metanarratives: Lyotard, Religion and Postmodernism Revisited.” 2001.

Cameron Lee, “Agency and Purpose in Narrative Therapy: Questioning the Postmodern Rejection of Metanarrative.” 2004.

Harri Englund and James Leach, “Ethnography and the Meta Narratives of Modernity.” 2000.

https://uproxx.com/filmdrunk/mel-brooks-explains-french-mistake-blazing-saddles-blu-ray/

[viking-raider]

The Bat’s Sister *Fic Request*

Summary: You’re Bruce Wayne’s little sister, and after meeting at a Charity Gala, you and Clark Kent kept running into each other. So much so, that the pair of you fall in love, much to Bruce’s annoyance and attempts to stop it. But, both Clark and Bruce would do anything to keep you safe.

Pairing: Clark Kent/Reader

Word Count: 14,274

Rating: Superman/Batman AU, Fluff, Violence, overprotective superheros

Inspiration: Request by @jessevans​ (x)

Author’s Note: This is my first Clark Kent/DC story! I had a lot of fun writing it too!

Tag List: @jennylovelyheart, @peakygroupie, @jessevans​ @MITZWINCHESTER @rosie-loves-things​, @ohjules​, @mary-ann84​, @omgkatinka​, @hm-fck​, @the-freak-cassie-131​, @heelsamizayn​, @agniavateira, @cap-barnes, @romyr4​, @michelehansel, @katiebriggs004-blog​

Clark first met you at one of Bruce's Charity Galas. He was there to write an article on the event for the Daily Planet, when he noticed Bruce pull you aside into a corner as you entered the venue, handing you a glass of champagne. Clark let the rumble of the hundred plus people in the room around him fade away and honed in on the conversation between the two of you.

“You're late, y/n.” Bruce told you in a concerned voice, resting a hand on your shoulder. “I thought...”

“Bruce, just because someone is running late, doesn't always mean something happened to them.” You sighed, rolling your eyes at your older brother. “You know what the traffic from Metropolis is like at this hour trying to get into Gotham. Especially, when the great and mighty Bruce Wayne is throwing the gala of the century.”

“If you'd called me, I could have gotten you a helicopter in.”

“Dear God, Bruce.” You laughed, sipping your champagne.

“What's the point of being so rich, if you don't enjoy it?” Bruce teased you, grinning.

“Being rich is your thing, Ru.” You chuckled, shaking your head. “I am more than content on living in my flat in Central Metropolis, and doing my simple nine to five job.”

“A flat the our inheritance pays for, and a nine to five that's at Wayne Biotech.” Bruce rolled his eyes back.

“I pay my own bills,” You defended yourself. “Our inheritance only pays for the rent and whatnot. As for Biotech, I enjoy it, helping the world invent and discover new vaccines and medical treatments. You know as well as I do, I can't sit around a multi-million dollar mansion, while servants take care of literally every whim and fantasy I may or may not have. I'd lose my mind.” You sighed, setting your glass down on the table behind you. “It's not like I can run around the city in a rubber suit.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes at you, you'd been the first person he told about being Batman. “You're the only family I have left, y/n. I don't want to lose you, like we lost our parents.” He told you, taking your hand in his. “You know, that's the main reason I do, what I do at night.”

“I know it is, Bruce.” You told him, resting your hand on his cheek. “But, I can take care of myself as well, you know.”

“Mr. Wayne.” Clark beamed, stepping up to you and your brother. “Ma'am.” He smiled, sweetly at you.

“Mr. Kent.” Bruce replied, turning to the reporter. “How can I help you?”

You narrowed your eyes and tilted your head at your brother, seeing his shoulders tense as he looked up at Clark, giving you the odd feeling that the two knew each other.

“I'm well.” Clark replied, his smile smug, but familiar. “It's an amazing party you have going on here.” He said, gesturing around to the rest of the room, like he was reminding him that there was more than just the three of you in the room. “Can I get a statement about it?” He asked, pulling out a pen and small notepad.

Bruce opened his mouth to say something, but something else caught his attention and he patted Clark on the shoulder. “You know what, I forgot to check on something downstairs. But, I'm sure my sister, y/n, here would gladly give you a statement about it. It was her idea to throw this gala to raise money for a wonderful cause.” He grinned at you, chuckling seeing the utter look of horror in your face as he walked away.

“Oh, I hate him.” You sighed, picking your glass back up and downing it.

“Would you like that to be your official statement?” Clark asked, grinning amused.

“I wish.” You scoffed, shaking your head. “But, no. Of course not.”

“So, tell me, what it is that the gala is about?” He asked, poising himself to write down your answer.

“Um,” You glanced around the room, hugely uncomfortable about being in the spot light, you never liked being the center of attention.

Clark watched and listened to your heart beat become erratic with panic and tucked his pen back into his front pocket and his notebook in his back pocket. He turned around as a waiter walked behind him and picked up two glasses of wine, holding one out to you. “How about we go somewhere quieter, that way you're more comfortable answering any questions?” He suggested, your fingers brushing as you took the glass from him.

You took a deep breath and a gulp of the wine. “Sure.” You nodded, looking around and then motioned for him to follow you out of the main room of the event and down the hall to one of the empty offices. “Ask your questions, Mr. Kent.” You told him, sitting down across from him.

“Right.” He smiled at you, pulling out his pen and pad again, setting it on the desk next to him. “You're Bruce Wayne's sister?”

“Little sister, yes.” You nodded, turning your wine glass between your hands. “I was two, when our parents were killed.”

“How old was Bruce?” Clark asked, scribbling in his pad.

“Sixteen.” You replied, shifting in your seat, neither you or Bruce liked talking about the death of your parents.

“I'm guessing, he took care of you, after that?” He inquired, tilting his head at you and pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“Sorta.” You shrugged, taking another gulp of wine. “Between him, our butler, Alfred, and nannies. All rather lonely, really. But, you have to make the best out of what life gives you.”

“And being a Wayne, that's pretty much everything you want, since your family as huge chunk of the world's wealth.” Clark chuckled, smiling at you, but his smile faded see you didn't find it funny. “I'm sorry, that...what is this gala about?” he asked, shaking his head and changing the subject.

“The Gala is to raise awareness about the hunger crisis in third world countries.” You explained to him. “Wayne Industries started a food supply market in the 1910's, that helps feed low income families and homeless in Metropolis and Gotham.” You continued, crossing your ankles.

“What made you want to throw the Gala for it?” Clark asked, intrigued.

“I spent a year in Africa helping try and treat a disease outbreak, then helped develop a vaccine for it with my position in the Wayne Biotech labs. While I was there, I noticed how so many villages struggle to keep themselves fed, and figured that Wayne Industries had more than enough money to help, as would many of the other rich socialites over here. But, rich people don't generally like donating money, unless they get to dress up and mingle with other rich people.” You chuckled, finishing off the rest of your wine. “and yeah, you can put that down as my official statement.” You added, seeing Clark's eyebrow raise as he finished writing down what you said.

“That'll make for some scandal.” He giggled, setting his pen down. “A rich woman calling out other rich people.”

You rolled your eyes. “Just because you're rich, doesn't mean you get to think you're above everyone else in the world. Besides, I'm not into being rich. It doesn't really give me what I want out of life.”

“And what do you want out of life, Ms. Wayne?” He asked you, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair.

“Something quiet and simple.” You sighed, looking out the open windows to the bright and dark night of Gotham. “I've lived in the city for ninety percent of my life, and I've never felt more one with the world, than when I'm somewhere quiet, where I can look up and see the stars, and not the lights of a million buildings, airplanes and satellite dishes.”

“Why don't you move out somewhere in the country?” Clark asked, he could relate to how you felt, he'd been a small town boy, and coming to Metropolis the first time was overwhelming, especially with his Kryptonian powers.

You shrugged your shoulders. “Bruce got me a house out in the country for my birthday a couple years back, but I don't get to spend too much time there. I'm the head Biochemist at Biotech, so I work a lot and when I'm not working a lot, I'm traveling for other Wayne industry responsibilities.”

“You're quite the busy young lady.” He complimented, taking a sip of his forgotten wine.

“Indeed, I am.” You smiled at him. “Tell me, how do you and Bruce know each other?”

“What makes you think we know each other?” Clark asked, smoothly. “We've met at several events I was writing a article on for the Daily Planet.”

“I know my brother, Mr. Kent.” You told him, smirking and crossing your arms. “I know, when my brother is acquainted with a reporter, and when he knows someone.”

“Well, I guess when you run into someone as often as he and I do,” He told you, acting cool. “You just start becoming very familiar with each other.” He explained, dancing around the fact, he and your brother had met each other two years before, and ended up leveling most of Metropolis and Gotham, as Superman and Batman. “I end up attending nearly all of your brother's events for Wayne Industries.” He added, pressing his lips together.

“Hm.” You hummed, knowing he was hiding something. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

There was a knock on the office door and one of Bruce's assistants stuck her head into the room. “The silent auction is starting, Ms. Wayne.” She informed you, looking between you and Clark.

“Thank you, Felicia.” You told her, standing up and smoothing your dress down. “Mr. Kent, it was a pleasure to meet you, and thank you for the interview.” You said, extending your hand to him.

“The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Wayne.” He told you, standing up and shaking your hand, gently. He moved out of your way and held the door open for you, smiling sweetly as you nodded your head to him, and walked out.

Clark ran down the street, in a complete rush to get his latest article into Perry White before his deadline. All he needed was to have Perry chewing him out again for being late, and holding up the printer. But, he couldn't help the detour to rescue people from a major apartment fire. He turned the corner and collided straight into someone, knocking them over and his glasses off.

“Oh, gosh!” He exclaimed, shifting the strap of his shoulder bag. “I'm so sorry, I wasn't paying attention.”

“That's quite alright, Mr. Kent.” You told him, picking up your bag and grabbing his black framed glasses off the sidewalk.

Clark blinked several times, looking down at you. “Ms. Wayne.” He grinned, helping you up. “Are you all right?” He asked, looking you over.

“Other than feeling like, I ran into a bull made out of a brick wall?” You chuckled, holding out his glasses to him. “The only injury is to my pride.” You assured him, readjusting your jacket and backpack.

“Well,” He sighed, biting his lip. “Is there anything I can do, to ease that for you?” He asked, tilting his head at you.

“Not unless you can get me across town in,” You glanced down at your watch, and groaned. “an hour.” You sighed, your shoulders dropping. “I'm running late for my flight to Jordan.”

“I could get you to Jordan in less than an hour.” Clark commented, licking his lips.

Laughter bubbled out of you at his comment, your hand resting on his upper arm. “If only.” You giggled, looking up at him.

He raised his eyebrows at you, pressing his lips together to keep himself from making another comment. “I should let you get to your flight, I'm sorry about being a brick bull.” He chuckled, running a hand through his hair.

“No harm, no foul.” You assured him, going on tiptoe and giving him a hug, surprising him into hugging you back.

“Tell your brother, I said hello.” He called after you, as you rushed into awaiting car.

“I will!” You called, slipping into the car and your driver closed the door.

Clark watched your car pull away and disappear in the traffic, running his hand through his hair again and then turning on his heels and continued to rush down the street and into the Daily Planet. He managed to get his article in on time, but he ended up spending the rest of the day thinking about your body hugged around his. By the time he clocked out and started his walk back home, Clark had already settled it in his mind that he was going to try and get his hands on your phone number and ask you out to dinner, for an interview, of course. Perry had asked him to do a follow up on the Wayne Charity Gala he'd attend the month and a half before, so it was the perfect reason to ask you out. He just needed to find out when you'd be back from your trip.

“Yes, Hello,” Clark said, when someone from Wayne Industry Headquarters finally answered the phone. “I'm Clark Kent, a reporter for the Daily Planet in Metropolis. I did an interview with Ms. Y/n Wayne, and I need to schedule a follow up interview with her.”

“Ms. Wayne is out of the country, at the moment, Mr. Kent.” the Secretary informed him.

“I am aware of that.” He said, running his hand through his hair as he paced his small flat. “Can you tell me when she'll be back, and how to contact her when she returns?”

“Um...” The Secretary groaned, typing quickly on her computer and shaking her head. “Ms. Wayne is due back into Gotham in two weeks. If you'd like, Mr. Kent, I can pass on a message to her assistant, Felicia, and have her call you when Ms. Wayne returns.”

“I would appreciate that, thank you.” Clark replied, it wasn't exactly the answer he wanted, but it was better than her telling him to fuck off and hanging up on him. Clark wasn't off the phone with the woman when his phone rang again, with a private number. “Clark Kent?” He answered, pathetically hoping it was you.

“Why are you asking about my sister, Superboy?” Bruce asked, leaning back in his chair as he sat in his office.

“Bruce.” Clark smiled, tightly, dropping onto his couch.

“Answer the question, Clark.”

“I was asked to do a follow up interview with her, after the one I did with her at the Gala. Where you ditched her, to go play Batman.” Clark told him, giving into the older man's protective banter. “How did you know I called about her?”

“Clark, y/n is the only blood family I have left in this universe.” Bruce told him, rotating in his chair to look out over Gotham. “I know, if someone three countries away, breaths in her direction. I especially know if someone is inquiring after her in my own company, or any company.”

“Don't you worry about smothering her?” Clark asked, pulling his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“She knows, I do it, for her own good.” Bruce growled, squeezing his phone a bit tighter.

“I'm not going to do anything to your sister, Bruce.” Clark sighed, picking up on the edge in his voice. “I just need a follow interview with her.”

“Then, why didn't you call me?”

“People don't usually call the owner of a company to ask for an interview with one of their employees. They usually call the front desk and ask for one to be scheduled.” Clark countered, dropping his head back.

“Y/n isn't one of my employees, she's my sister, and I'm her guardian.”

“She's a grown woman, Wayne.” Clark shook his head. “She doesn't need you acting like her father, or her personal Batman. She needs you to be her brother, and let her live her own life.”

“Coming from the alien, that's an only child.” Bruce snapped, hanging up on him.

Clark dropped his phone on the couch beside him and sighed, heavily, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair. He got up, stripping his clothes off as he made his way into the bathroom and cranking the hot water tap all the way on and stepped into the spray, groaning as the hot water soaked into his skin and muscles. He leaned on his arms against the shower wall, letting the water rain over his head, and watched as it swirled down the drain.

“Just an only alien child,” he groaned, tilting his head back to let the water hit his face. “That might be in love.”You were on the jet on the way back from Jordan, when Felicia sat down across from you. You cocked an eyebrow at her, knowing by the look on her face, she had news to tell you.

“We had a request come into headquarters for you.” She told you, scrolling through her phone.

“Oh?” You sighed, you really weren't in the mood for people requesting you. You just wanted to get home and sleep for a week. “What do they want?”

“An interview.”

“No.” You shook your head. “I don't do interviews, everyone knows that.”

“Well, it was an ask for a follow up, to one you've already done.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, then it dawned on you. “Clark Kent.” You nodded, it made sense now.

“Do you want me to contact him, and tell him, you'll be denying his request?” She asked, glancing up at you from her phone.

“No.” You sighed, rubbing your eyes. “I'll do the follow up, just make it a point to tell him, I'm not answering an personal questions.” You told her, getting up and going to the back of the jet, to lay down.

Felicia called Clark as soon as the jet landed back in Metropolis. “Mr. Kent, I'm Felicia Davis.” She introduced herself.

“How can I help you, Ms. Davis?” Clark replied, pressing his phone to his ear with his shoulder as he sat at his desk in the Daily Planet.

“I'm Ms. Wayne's assistant.” She explained, sliding into the car beside you. “I'm calling in answer to your request for a follow up interview with her, about the Charity Gala.”

“Oh, yes, right!” Clark grinned, ear to ear. “Is there a good time for Ms. Wayne to meet me? I was thinking over dinner, if that's alright with her.”

“Ms. Wayne just arrived home from two weeks in Jordan, and is rather exhausted.” Felicia told him, opening a personal planner she carried around for you. “So, she'll need a couple of days to recover from her work trip.”

“Of course.”

“How does Saturday night sound to you, Mr. Kent?” She asked, tapping the date with her finger and looking at you, to confirm you're all right with it as well. “Excellent. Ms. Wayne will meet you at 7 pm, Saturday night. Do you need us to make the arrangements?”

“No, no.” Clark shook his head, like she could see him as he rummaged around his desk for a sticky note to write on. “I can make a reservation at a restaurant in down town Metropolis, and then send you the details.” he told her, finding what he was looking for.

“Very well, you can contact me with this phone number.” Felicia told him, penning it into the planner.

“Thank you, Ms. Davis.” Clark said, leaning back in his chair, with relief.

“You're welcome, and have a good day, Mr. Kent.” She replied, hanging up with him. “He'll be making a reservation for dinner this Saturday at 7pm. He'll call me with the name of the restaurant.”

“Strange for a man to pick the restaurant, we usually do.” You chuckled, glancing out the window.

By the time Saturday rolled around, Bruce had caught wind of you going to dinner with Clark, and in his typical fashion as your overprotective brother, he completely blew it out of proportions. You both spent that Friday in his office at Wayne Industries arguing about it, and most of the morning and afternoon Saturday doing the same.

“Oh, for the love of Superman, Ru!” You snapped as you stood in your closet, trying to pick out a pair of shoes to go with your outfit.

“Don't say that name!” Bruce barked over the speaker of your phone.

“What name?” You quipped, picking up a pair of black flats. “Ru or Superman?”

“Superman.” Bruce sighed, he'd stopped trying to prevent you from calling him, Ru, decades ago.

“Good Lord, Bruce.” You rolled your eyes, slipping your shoes on. “You still feel threatened by Superman? Ye ol' Batman's jealous.” You teased him, knowing it get under his skin.

“I'm not threatened or jealous of him, y/n.” He told you, rolling his eyes. “Not like that anymore, at least.”

“Then, enlighten your dear sister, and tell me how you are threatened and jealous of him?” You kept teasing him, checking yourself out in the mirror.

“It's complicated.”

“Well, uncomplicate it.” You pressed, going to your jewelry box for a pair of earrings.

“There's not enough time to do that, your date is in twenty minutes.”

“It's not a date, Ru!” You snapped, turning to look at your phone. “It's business. Business, you got me stuck in, when you left me at the Gala with Clark, so you could go play rescuer.”

“Don't remind me.” He groaned, still feeling the deep bruise on his side.

“All right, I'm going.” You told him, picking your phone up off the bed.

“Call me, if anything happens.” Bruce told you, quickly. “Or if you need an alibi to call it short.”

“I will, bro.” You told him, going out the front door. “And, Bruce, don't fucking stalk me. You, Alfred or anyone else, for that matter.” You warned him, hanging up before he could protest. “Off we go, Hector.” You said, as your driver opened the car door for you.

Clark stood out front the restaurant waiting for you to arrive, and smiled brightly, seeing your car pull up and your driver open the door for you. He offered you his arm as you got out of the car. “How was your trip to Jordan?” He asked, leading you inside.

“It was very good, thanks.” You told him, smiling softly. “How's work going for you?” You asked as the waiter showed the pair of you to your table.

“It's never a dull moment for a reporter, especially in this world.” He teased, pulling your chair out for you, then moving to his. “Your assistant, Felicia, made it clear I wasn't supposed to ask you any personal questions.” He said, setting his pen and notepad on the table by his menu.

“Well, if you do, they're to be off the record.” You explained, picking up your menu and browsing the selection of food and wine.

“Of course.” Clark nodded, following your lead. “What was your business in Jordan about?” He asked, looking at you over his menu.

“It was a Biotechnology convention.” You explained, turning the menu page. “Biochemists and the like gather every few years to discuss their research, breakthroughs and such with each other. Swap what info we can to help each other out, typical boring Scientist mambo jumbo.” You chuckled, looking over your menu at him.

“What made you become a Scientist?” He asked, picking what he wanted and setting his menu aside, but didn't bother with his notebook.

You shrugged, setting your menu down. “I enjoy helping people. I'm no Superhero, so I help in the ways and places I can.”

“You don't need to have super powers, to be a Superhero.” Clark said, looking at you, softly.

“That's possibly true.” You nodded, agreeing with him.

The waiter came over and took your dinner and drink orders, and you and Clark chatted away through two glasses of wine and most of your food, before you really realized that Clark hadn't written a single line in his notepad.

“Isn't this an interview, Mr. Kent?” You asked him, as dessert was set in front of you.

“You can call me, Clark.” He smiled at you, picking up his spoon to dig into his ice cream.

“Clark,” You grinned, taking a bite of your chocolate lava cake. “aren't you supposed to be interviewing me?” You repeated your question, smirking at him, impishly.

“I am supposed to be interviewing you, Ms. Wayne.” He nodded.

“Y/n.” You told him, staring at him across the table. “You can call me, y/n.”

Clark blushed and took another bite of his ice cream. “Admittedly, y/n, this is an interview with a motive.”

“Typical reporters.” You teased him, rolling your eyes playfully.

“My Boss, Mr White, asked me to do a follow up interview on your Charity Gala, but I really just wanted to ask you out to dinner..”

“So, you used the interview as an excuse.” You chuckled, nodding your head and amused that Bruce was mostly right.

“I am sorry.” He told you, abashed.

“That's quite all right, Clark.” You assured him, you really didn't mind at all. “But, won't you get in trouble with your boss for not doing the interview?”

“Yes, probably.” Clark nodded, worried at that prospect, he'd been on thin ice with Perry for several months.

“Well, how about we finish our desserts, and we take the actual interview on a walk around the park?” You suggested, setting your attention back on your cake, hoping to hide your blush.

“I rather like that idea.” Clark said, seeing your blush, easily, and blushing a bit, himself.

Clark paid the bill and you both left the restaurant, stopping long enough for you to tell Hector the change in plans. You took Clark's offered arm, resting your hand in the nook of his elbow as you strolled through the gates of the local park. The sound of late night birds, other pedestrians and the gurgling of the various fountain filled the cool night air, making it feel like You and Clark were blanketed in another world altogether. Clark took out his notebook and pen, and started funneling out all the questions he had to ask you for the interview and you answered them with a calm ease. It took no time for you and Clark to knock out the interview, and get to spend the rest of the time making several rounds around the park, oblivious of time and space. You were laughing at a joke Clark had made about himself being a small town, country boy, when you suddenly felt the cords of his muscles under your hand turn into steel, cutting off your laugh and glancing up at him.

“Clark?” You frowned at him, as he pulled you both to a stop and he looked around the dimly lit darkness around you, his head tilting slight side to side as he scanned around. “What is it?” You whispered, looking around with him.

“Stay calm.” He told you, softly, taking your hand from his forearm and carefully pulling you behind him, as three guys came out of the dark treeline, beside the sidewalk. “Evening, gentlemen.” He greeted them, every muscle in his body tensing, making Clark come off even bigger than he already was.

“Jesus Christ.” You panted, pressing one hand to your stomach and resting the other one on Clark's hip as you peeked around his arm.

“Hand over the jewelry and cash, and you and your sweetheart over there,” one of the men said, winking at you. “have to get hurt.” He said, the unmistakable click of a knife opening muted out everything else around you.

You looked up at Clark as he slowly shook his head.

“Not going to happen.” He told them, licking his lips. “I'll give you this one warning, to walk away.”

“I don't think, you understand your situation.” Another of the three said, taking a step forward.

“Clark.” You whispered, squeezing his hip.

“It's alright, y/n.” He told you, his eyes still glued to the men. “They're not going to hurt us.” He assured you, grabbing the arm of the guy as he shot forward, twisting his arm behind his back and shoving him to the side.

The one with the knife came at Clark next, raising the knife high. But, Clark easily grabbed him by the wrist, wrenching the weapon out of his hand and punched him across the face, forcing him back into his friends.

“I suggest you leave.” He threatened them, tossing the knife aside and giving them an expression that sucked all the courage out of them. “Now.” He snapped, rolling his jaw as they scrambled to their feet and haul themselves out of the park. “Are you all right?” Clark asked, his body relaxing as he turned around to you, cupping your face in his hands.

“I'm fine.” You told him, looking in his eyes, utterly shocked. “You could've gotten hurt!”

A smile broke out over Clark's face, and his hands dropped from your face. “I'm all right.” He assured you. “I'm use to people trying to fight me, I was bullied as a kid.” He explained, looking back to where the would-be robbers disappeared. “I should get you back to your car,” he added, looking up. “It is getting rather dark.” He offered you his arm again, and you slowly took it, still in shock.

“Of course.” You nodded, letting him lead you back the way you'd come.

“Good night, y/n.” Clark smiled as you stopped by your car.

“Good night, Clark.” You smiled back, still in a bit of a daze over what happened.

He blushed, slightly and started to walk away. “Do you think I could see you again?” He asked, turning back around, spurred by a bit of courage.

“Uh,” You blinked at him. “Sure.” You nodded, ducking into the back of the car and pulling out a card from your bag. “This is my private number.” You told him, holding it out to him. “Just so you don't have to go through headquarters or Felicia, to get a hold of me.”

Clark looked down at the card, then back up at you, spinning the little card around his fingers, nervously. “I'll give you a call, some time soon.” He promised, then wished you good night again, before turning himself towards home.

“Mr. Wayne called, while you were on your little walk.” Hector told you, as he pulled the car away from the curb.

“Of course, he did.” You rolled your eyes.

“He wants you to call him.”

“I'll call him in the morning.” You told Hector, rubbing your neck. “I just wanna go home and sleep, right now.”

Clark was staring at the card with your number on it as he sat at his desk at work, trying to work up the courage to call you, when one of the secretaries for the newspaper came over and told him, he had someone waiting for him in one of the conference rooms. Sighing and slipping the card into his pocket, Clark got up and found the conference room his visitor was waiting for him in.

“What are you doing here, Bruce?” He snapped, closing the door behind him.

“You took my sister on a date last night, disguised as an interview.” Bruce told him, clearly fuming already. “And you almost get fucking mugged in the process.” He snapped, slamming his hand down on the conference table.

“First of all, it wasn't a disguise.” Clark barked back, his anger flaring. “I do admit that when Perry told me to get a follow up interview with her, I also used it as an opportunity to take her out to dinner, I wouldn't call it a date though. Secondly, She was in no danger of those three punks, with me there with her, and you know that.”

“That doesn't fucking change the fact, she could have gotten hurt, Clark!” Bruce yelled, not even bothering to keep his voice low.

“I wouldn't have allowed it, Bruce!” Clark yelled back, moving closer to the table that thankfully separated them. “I would have protected her. I did protect her. They never got within two feet of her.”

“Oh, but they got within three feet of her.” Bruce snapped, mocking him. “Mighty Superman only have a detection range of two feet.”

“I knew they were there, I didn't fucking know they were going to try and mug us.” Clark countered, glancing behind his shoulder, to the door. “There were dozens of people in that park with us,” he told him, calming down. “Not every person that comes within range of her, is going to try and harm her. I certainly never would, and would never, allow anyone else to either. Y/n is as safe with me, if not safer, than she is with you.”

“Oh, you thinks so?”

“I know so.” Clark answered, a sharp tone in his voice. “You're just a mortal human. You get stabbed with a knife and you're fucked.”

“You think since you can take the hit of a bomb, you're better than me at protecting my baby sister.”

“She's not a baby anymore, Bruce.” Clark snapped, that upset him more than anything else in this conversation. “She's an adult, and you need to start treating her like one. You're not pissed off about what happened last night, you're afraid that she might fall in love me.”

“I'm not afraid she might fall in love with you.” He growled, raking a hand over his face and turning away from him.

“Then, what are you afraid of?” He demanded, leaning against the table.

“I'm afraid of her getting hurt.” Bruce said, quietly. “Especially, because I know she's already in love with you.”

“She is?” Clark asked, shocked and staring wide eyed at Bruce's back.

“Yes.” He sighed. “But, I can't allow that.”

“Why?” Clark groaned, rolling his eyes. “Cause I'm an alien.”

“Because, you're Superman.” He answered, spinning back around to look Clark in the face. “How many enemies do you have, that are looking for you to have a weak point? She would be that weak point, Clark.”

“She's your weak point as Batman.” Clark argued, sitting down at the table. “She's your weak point as normal Bruce Wayne, richest man in the world.”

Bruce huffed, sitting down at the table across from him. “I know she is, that's why I go so far out of my way, to protect her.”

“And you don't think, I can do the same?”

“I know you can,” Bruce sighed, feeling older than he really was. “I'm just not use to having to share her, is all.”

Clark laughed and shook his head at that. “We can protect her together, Bruce.” He told him, leaning over the table to him. “It doesn't have to be one or the other of us. It doesn't have to be Clark Kent vs Bruce Wayne, or Batman vs Superman, all the time. We found our common ground on protecting Earth in the Justice League, and we can find the common ground of protecting y/n.”

“I don't want you to tell her, you're Superman.”

“Does she know you're Batman?”

“She does.” Bruce nodded, checking his watch.

“But, you want me to lie to her about who I am?” Clark narrowed his eyes at him.

“She found out about me being Batman on accident.” Bruce told him, meeting his eye. “She found Alfred tending to one of the injuries I sustained after our battle with Steppenwolf. Wasn't like I could exactly lie to her after that.” He ran a hand through his hair, remembering the look on your face when you walked in on them. “But, you're Superman, you won't have that issue.”

“You do recall my dying?” Clark asked, cocking an eyebrow at Bruce.

“The kryptonite was destroyed when you killed that monster, Clark. There's no more of it on Earth, and probably the universe. It's nothing you have to concern yourself with anymore. What you do need to concern yourself with now, if you choice to pursue my sister, is her safety and keeping her in the dark about who you are. We both know the more she knows about who we are, and what we do, is more a danger to her life.”

You sat, cross legged, on Clark's couch with a bowl of cereal balanced in your lap as you watched the news, in one of Clark's plaid shirts. You spent more time in Clark's flat now-a-days then you did your own, and were content to do so. Clark appeared in the door way of his bedroom, watching you as you ate, momentarily oblivious to his presence. He grinned seeing you in his shirt, only three of the center buttons closed to keep the over-sized garment on your small frame, even then it slipped down one of your shoulders. He could still smell the lingering scent of sex from the night before and earlier in that morning.

“You sleep well?” He asked, stepping into the living room.

“I always manage to sleep like a baby, with you.” You told him, looking up at him as you took another bite of your coco puffs.

“That makes me feel good.” He chuckled, leaning down to kiss the top of your head, then padded into the kitchen to make himself some breakfast. “What's your day looking like?” He asked, glancing around the corner to look at the tv.

“I have to go into work at the lab in an hour or so, then two board meetings.” You answered, setting your bowl on the coffee table, and grabbing the remote to turn up the news. “I do have another conference in Jordan in two days, some issue going on with one of Wayne labs there. Bruce is sending me over to deal with it, since the rep that's there now, is doing fuck all.” You explained, frowning at the news.

“How long will you be gone?” Clark asked, his own eyes glued to the tv as he made his breakfast.

“Shouldn't be more than a week,” You replied, absentmindedly. “With any luck of them being competent.”

“Well, if they're not competent enough to listen to you, they're in real trouble.” Clark joked, reassuring himself that what was happening on the news, wasn't something he needed to rush out and present Superman too.

“I'll fire every last one of the idiots, if they fucking try me.” You said, rolling your eyes at the thought of them giving you issues, which you knew, with men of their caliber and brains, they most certainly would.

“Well, it gives us enough time.” Clark told you, coming to sit down beside you on the couch.

“Enough time for what?” You frowned, turning your head to look at him.

“I wanted to ask you something.” He told you, resting his plate on his thigh.

“Oh, god.” You moaned, seeing the seriousness in his eyes. “Perry didn't fire you, did he?”

Clark laughed, shaking his head. “No, I'm still a reporter at the Daily Planet.” He assured you, with a blush. “We've been dating for a year now...”

“Yeeah..”

“I was going to ask, if you wanted to move in with me...” He said it slowly and quietly, not quite meeting your eyes. “You practically live here anyway.” He added, with a nervous laugh and looking around his flat, he could identify more of your things than his own, in the living room alone.

“That's a serious commitment, Clark. “ You said, just as slowly.

“I know it is.” He told you, pushing the food on his plate around with his fork. “I thought, maybe, we were at that point...”

“Bruce would have a heart attack.” You chuckled, at the thought.

Bruce didn't like the thought of you dating Clark, he didn't like you spent so much time with him, especially in between the sheets. But, he'd stopped nagging you about being with him, almost a year ago. He still gave you disgruntled remarks when you spoke about Clark in his presence, and he always seemed a tiny bit on edge, when the three of you were in the same room together. You didn't care what Bruce thought or felt on the subject, you were happy and content with Clark, the relationship the two of you had together. You'd also never been in such a serious relationship with someone, that you moved in with them, either.

“Does his opinion, matter so much, that it would make an impact on our relationship?” Clark asked, concerned it would, Bruce had promised to ease up on his attitude towards him and his love for you, but, Clark also knew, that what Bruce thought and said mattered to you.

“No.” You shook your head, resting your hand on his arm. “No, Clark, it wouldn't.” You tried to sound as convincing as possible, but could tell by his expression, it wasn't enough. “Just...give me until I come back from my trip, to decide?” You asked, biting your lip.

“Take all the time you need.” He smiled, leaning in to kiss you.

You smiled at him and kissed him back, before getting up to get dressed and rush off to work. You left on your business trip two days later, and both you and Clark called it, when the people in charge of the Wayne Biotech lab in Jordan would give you trouble and annoy the hell out of you. Your temples throbbed as you fell back on your hotel room bed, staring up at the ceiling, the arguments you had with the board still bouncing around your brain, making the migraine you had worse.

“Bunch of brain dead morons.” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

A loud crash from outside your room door startled you up out of bed, you stumbled away as the door flew open, your back hitting the wall behind you as a disguised man stepped through the opening. The only thing you could see on him, was his eyes, and you didn't like what you saw in them. He advanced towards you, putting you into instant fight or flight mode, and decided to do both. Picking up the closest thing to you, the lamp on your bedside table, and launched it at him, before scurrying over your bed and making for the door. You'd almost made it down to the lift, when he caught up with you, grabbing you by the back of your hair and painfully yanking you backwards against him.

“Hello, Ms. Wayne.” A woman called stepping into the hall from another room.

“Who the fuck are you?” You panted, struggling against your captor. “What do you want?”

“I'm Pamela Evans.” She grinned at you, giving you a once over. “And I want to know about the advanced gene development project you and your brother are working on.”

“We're not working on gene development.” You growled, bearing your teeth at her.

“My sources say otherwise.” Pamela said, grabbing you by the jaw.

“Your sources are fucking brain dead.” You snapped, jerking your head out of her hand.

“I don't believe you.” She growled, giving you a super dirty look.

“That's your issue.” You growled back. “Wayne labs and Industries have never, and will never, do research on the type gene development, you're apparently going on about. Whoever is doing it, is a mad scientist asking for trouble.”

“You see,” Pamela brought her face inches from yours. “I've seen the files on your and Bruce's computers. So, you're going to tell me all about it.”

“You're delusional.” You shook your head the little you could with the man's hand still tight in your hair. “Fuck.” You gasped suddenly, feeling a cold tingle in your thigh and glanced down to see her pull a small pocket knife out. “You don't understand we're no....”

“No, sweetheart, it's you that doesn't understand.” Pamela mocked you, pulling something out of her shoulder purse. “We're going to get that research out of you, one way or another.” She pressed something to your neck and you felt a sharp pain. “I'll give you long enough to sleep off your nap, to tell me.” She said, as the black fog around the edges of your eyes grew and your body went limp.

You woke up God knows how long later, shackled to a concrete wall in a dimly lit room. There were no windows in the square concrete room, a single light set deep into the center of the ceiling and a metal table and a single chair below that. There was a thick metal door opposite of you with a slot window set in it. You were drawn to the sound of that opening, a pair of eyes looking in on you, then slamming shut again. It was several minutes before the actual door itself opened, and in walked Pamela and a man, the man from the hotel. Even with him out of his disguised, you could identify those eyes from a mile away.

“Good morning, Ms. Wayne.” Pamela smiled, giving you a smile that would have made Mary Poppins sick. “Or is it night, Eli?” She asked, turning to the man, who just shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn't matter, have you decided to give me the information I've asked for?” She asked, turning back to you.

“I told you, it doesn't exist.” You told her, groggy and fearful, your thigh throbbed and you could feel a small steady stream of blood ooze from it, leaving a puddle around your foot. “Messing with human genes is dangerous, and ridiculous.” You tried to reason with her.

“Then, what's this?” Pamela asked, pulling a sheet of paper from the table and bring it closer for you to see. “That's an email, from you to your brother on the subject. Telling him, that it was possible for such advancement.”

“It's opinion, not research.” You panted, trying to keep your anxiety at bay. “Someone at one of my brother's many business ventures wanted to know if he thought it was possible to do so, and my brother asked me.” You explained to her. “While, I think it might be possible for such development and advancement, neither of us are conducting research to find out. It's purely academic.”

“Why do you think it's possible?” Pamela questioned, turning her back to you and setting the paper back down on the table.

“I believe anything is possible, with the right circumstances and factors.” You told her, focusing on her back.

“Do you think you could achieve it, if you were to try it?”

“I don't know, and I wouldn't try.” You told her, honestly and shook your head at the thought.

“Even if, your life depended on it?” Pamela asked, smirking at you as she leaned back against the table, to look at you.

“My life, for the lives of all the failed test subjects it would more than likely take to prefect it?” You summed up her thoughts, you knew the math on how many people would be needed to be experimented on, and the decades it would take to achieve on top of that. “Yes, then I'd die, to prevent you and anyone else from trying it.” You nodded, confident in that choice.

“Well, let's see if we could,” She shrugged her shoulders, glancing at Eli. “persuade you.”

Eli dropped a rolled up bag onto the table with a emphasized thump, and rolled it open, revealing several instruments, you didn't need to be a Scientist to know were about to be used to torture and, likely, kill you. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to calm your heart and make peace with your choice. Eli removed something from one of the pockets, it looked like an ice pick or something, and moved over to you, running the sharp tip down your chest, between your breasts and down your stomach.

“Change your mind now, or I'll let Eli have his fun.” Pamela tried to give you a chance.

“No.” You said in a small, but steady voice.

Pamela waved her hand at Eli, and he easily sank the object into your stomach next to your belly button. You howled in pain, yanking on your bonds as Eli slowly removed it, grinning at you like a little boy on Christmas morning. Eli, luckily, didn't get far in the quest to torture you to death, as serious commotion sounded from the other side of the closed steel door, catching the attention of all three of you. Pamela looked to Eli, then hesitated for a moment, but she moved to the door, she'd just rested her hand on it, when it blew off the hinges, launching her halfway across the room. Eli dropped his weapon and moved away from you, as a figure stepped through the dusty doorway.

“Superman!” He snapped, jaw falling open.

Superman looked from Pamela under the heavy steel door, Eli backing up into a corner and You chained to the wall, head lulling and struggling to keep your heavy eyelids open to stay conscious. He wasted no time dispatching Eli, throwing him across the room as another figure stepped through the doorway and made for you, cupping your head in their hands.

“Y/n?”

You blinked several times, shaking your head and trying to clear way the heaviness in your mind. “Bruce?” You panted, recognizing your brother's voice through the fog.

“It's alright, sis.” Bruce reassured you, taking something out of the utility belt of his Batman suit and cutting you free. “We've got you now. You're safe.” He supported your weight against his body and turned to Clark, standing above Eli's lifeless body, in all his Superman glory.

Clark looked at the pair of you and the pure anger on his face melted, seeing you. “She's hurt.” He said, crossing the room to you, cupping your face in his hands. “She's bleeding internally, whatever they stabbed her with, nicked her intestines. If we don't stop the blood now, she'll bleed to death.”

“I have something on the plane.” Bruce said, lifting your shirt and grimacing at the wound to your stomach.

“It'll take too long.” Clark said, shoving everything off the metal table. “Lay her down, I'll cauterize the wound.”

“I'm not letting you heat vision my sister.” Bruce snapped, shaking his head and shifting your weight against him, to support you as you grew limper against him.

“Bruce, she's going to die, if I don't!” Clark barked, impatiently, resting his hand on your shoulder. “I know what I'm doing, I've done it before.” He tried to reassure him.

“Trust me.” He added, quietly.

Bruce sighed, and let Clark lift you up and lay you down carefully on the table. Clark peeled up your bloody shirt, biting his lip as he saw the wound to your stomach and noticed the one to your thigh. He glanced up through the opening and pressed his lips together, hearing more people coming.

“We've got more guests on the way.” He told Bruce, over his shoulder, trying to keep his focus on you.

“I'll deal with them.” Bruce said, moving around the table and out of the room.

“Y/n.” Clark whispered, resting his hand on your cheek. “Y/n, look at me.”

You blinked hard and groaned as Clark put pressure to your wound, you looked up at the blurry double face hovering above you. “Clark?” You whined, blinking repeatedly trying to clear the strange look your boyfriend had. “Clark?” You repeated his name, stronger this time, but no less confused by what you saw.

“Yeah, sweetheart.” He forced a smile, brushing your hair out of your sweaty and grimy face. “I'm going to stop the bleeding, but it's going to hurt, a lot.” He warned you, with a pained expression. “But, you have to hold still and trust me.”

“I've always trusted you, Clark.” You groaned, wincing.

“Good.” He panted, sounding relieved. “Take my hand.” He told you, slipping his hand into yours. “And squeeze as hard as you have too, baby.” He instructed you, his eyes turning red.

You screamed at the top of your lungs at the excruciating burn to your already agonizing wound, squeezing Clark's hand so tight, it felt like the bones of your hand were going to shatter. You'd passed out from the pain and came to sometime later, finding yourself in bed on one of the family jets and Clark sitting on the edge of the bed beside you, holding your hand in his.

“Clark?” You whined, squeezing your eyes shut at the bright lights.

“You're all right, y/n.” He told you, letting your hand go to turn off the lights, and pull down the window covering. “You're safe now, love.” He promised, sitting back down next to you, and brushing his fingers through your hair.

“How?” You moaned, opening your eyes to look at him.

Clark blushed, looking away from you and biting into his lip.

“You're-” You blinked up at him, your mind finally connecting. “Superman.”

He nodded his head, taking your hand and rubbing your knuckles with his thumb.

“That's why Bruce was so set against us.” You nodded, regretting it. “He didn't want me dating you because you're Superman, and you two are practically enemies.”

“We're not enemies anymore, y/n.” Bruce said, appearing in the room. “Clark and I are in Justice League together.”

“Jesus.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “The two most important people in my life, have lied to me, to such a degree.”

“We were trying to protect you.” Bruce tried to reason with you.

“Protect me?” You snapped, turning your head towards him. “That bitch kidnapped and tried torturing me, because she thought we were trying to do research on advanced gene development, Bruce. I can imagine what she'd have done if she knew by brother, is Batman, and my boyfriend, is Superman.” You looked at both of them, angrily.

“Advanced Gene Development?” Clark frowned at you. “Why would she think that?”

“Someone contacted Bruce about the possibility of it, and he and I discussed it.” You explained, no less angry. “She got a hold of the emails we exchanged on the subject, thinking we were actually doing it.”

“But, we're not.” Bruce frowned at you, as well. “I wonder how she got those emails as well, they're supposed to be secure.”

“Well, she's got people in a high enough place in the company to get a hand on them.” You snapped at him, annoyed. “Were you ever going to tell me, you're Superman?” You asked, turning your attention to Clark.

“I wanted too.” He whispered, dropping his eyes to your hand.

You rolled your eyes over to Bruce, narrowing them as he refused to look at you. “The fuck of men.” You growled, looking away from both of them.

“He's an alien.” Bruce mumbled, fidgeting with his watch.

“He's got a dick. I know, I've seen it.” You snapped at him, eye twitching. “He's a man. A man from another planet, but a man, nonetheless.”

“I didn't want to know that.” Bruce groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

“And, it's not your business what Clark decides to tell me.” You told him, sharply. “Especially, in reference to my and his relationship, Bruce.” You winced, pushing yourself up more against the pillows piled behind your back.

“You are my wa...”

“I haven't been your god damn ward for over ten years, Bruce!” You shouted at him. “That ended the hour I became eighteen, and you know it! Stop trying to be dad, you're not dad and you never fucking will be! He'd have let me be a long time ago, he'd let me be my own woman, instead of trying to control what I do with my life and who I see, whether they're from this planet or not.”

“I'm your brother, it's my job to protect you.” He shouted back, turning to you.

“Protect me!” You yelled, your voice cracking. “Not keep me prisoner and suffocate me!”

“Let's calm down.” Clark said in a calm voice, squeezing your leg.

“NO!” Both you and Bruce yelled at him at the same time, and making his sensitive ears twitch with the volume.

“You're staying home with me.” Bruce seethed at you, but his tone was quieter.

“Fuck you!” You barked, your voice still loud.

“You're not safe on your own, y/n.” He tried to reason with you, again. “Whoever these people are, who think we're doing advanced gene development, are going to try and get their hands on you again.”

“And you're safe, cause you're fucking Batman.” You mocked him, rudely.

“That,” Bruce snapped back at you, snarky. “and I'm not the head Scientist at the biggest Biotech laboratory, and company, in the world. You, out of anyone on this planet, can make that advanced development happen, and these people know this.”

“As I told that bitch,” You told him, crossing your arms. “I'd rather die. The decades it would take to perfect the genes for testing. Then, the number of lives, the trials would claim to attune the genes for the subject, is astronomical. If, I was the person that could manage to pull this off, perfect the genes, and find the correct subject for them; there's between a five to ten percent chance, it would even work.”

“What would such an advancement even be used for?” Clark asked, leveling an eyebrow at you.

“Anything.” You shrugged, looking at him, brows creased. “You could edit a person's genes for anything, from preventing certain illnesses. Body characteristics, like if you wanted them to be tall and muscular. You could delete genes, so they felt no pain or be more aware of it. You could engineer super soldiers, or make it possible for people to have a long life span. There's so many options, and they're only limited by imagination and technology.” You rubbed the crease between your brows, feeling a stress and tension migraine forming.

“You could create the Earth equivalent of me.” Clark summed it up, a sick feeling in his stomach.

“Yes.” You nodded, that thought hadn't occurred to you. “Pretty much.”

“So, do you understand, why you're not safe?” Bruce sighed, feeling the tension knot up his shoulders. “You need to be somewhere safe, until we get this sorted out.”

“They'll look for her anywhere Wayne Industries is affiliated.” Clark said, softly, rubbing at his neck and looking at Bruce.

“I can have Alfred find us a safe house for her.” Bruce agreed, nodding his head.

“I'll take her home with me.” Clark said, smiling gently at you.

“Your flat isn't safe.” Bruce stated, looking between the two of you.

“I know, it's not.” He answered, still watching you. “I mean, I'll take her to my mom's, in Smallville. No one's going to look for her in Kansas, it's such a small and middle of nowhere town. I'll take time off from the Daily Planet, and stay there with her to make sure she's looked after. My mother could use my help on the farm, anyway.”

“Is this your way of introducing me to your mother?” You grinned, teasingly.

Clark laughed, blushing and nodded his head. “I guess, it is a way to think of it.”

“I like his idea.” You told Bruce, looking at your brother. “He's got a point.”

Bruce sighed, his shoulders slumping, he was begrudged to agree with both of you on the subject. “I'll have the pilot redirect us towards Smallville.”

“You shouldn't.” Clark said, stopping Bruce as he headed out. “If anyone notices a Wayne plane landing at the airport in Great Bend, it'll be a dead giveaway, that's something's going on.”

“Then, how do you propose on getting y/n to your mother's farm?” Bruce asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.

A lopsided smirk pulled on one corner of Clark's mouth as he looked at you, eyes sparkling. A slow grin pulled across your lips as you caught on to what Clark was suggesting, and you were more than cool with Superman flying you to his parent's farm. Bruce groaned as he figured out the same thing, rolling his eyes and throwing up his arms, he couldn't fight you two being together and he couldn't fight doing what he had to do, so you were safe.

“Fine.” He sighed, deflated. “We'll land in G.I. Airport as scheduled, and you can take y/n to Smallville from there.”

Clark nodded, pressing your knuckles to his lips. “We'll stop by my place, so we can get a couple changes of clothes before we go.”

“You have clothes at his place?” Bruce asked, looking at you, surprised.

“I've been staying at Clark's a lot the last couple of months, so it's just easier to keep some clothing there.” You answered, blushing at Clark. “He also asked me to move in with him.” You added.

“You never did get the chance to answer me.” He reminded you, glancing up at you.

“I know.” You replied, nodding and biting your lip.

Bruce looked at the two of you, then quietly excused himself and gave the pair of you space and privacy.

“I think, I'd like to move in with you, Clark.” You told him, carefully leaning forward and brushing your fingers through his short curly hair. “I want to take us more seriously.” You admitted, smiling sweetly at him.

“I'd love nothing less, than the same.” He smiled back at you, leaning in and kissing you, tenderly, on the lips.

You rested back, wincing that the discomfort of your stomach. You peeled back your shirt and grimaced at it, even though Clark had cauterized the wound, it still hurt and was tender as hell. Clark gently traced the tips of his fingers around the wound, mindful of sensitive areas and looked up at you, sadness in his blue eyes. You reached out and cupped his cheek in your hand, caressing his skin with your thumb and gave him back a similar sad expression, but one tinged with love and trust.

“It's going to take a bit of time for you to heal.” He told you, his fingers moving down to your torn and stained jeans, where Pamela stabbed you in the thigh. “You'll have scars...”

“I'm use to having scars.” You told him, resting your hand on his shoulder. “Inside and outside.”

The jet landed in Gotham International Airport, Clark easily carried you off the plane and to the car Bruce had waiting for the three of you. You rested your head on Clark's shoulder, you'd tried to sleep on the plane, but you couldn't get comfortable enough. Clark wrapped his arm around your shoulders and rested his cheek on top of your head. The chauffeur dropped the both of you off at Clark's flat, you said good-bye to Bruce, who promised to keep in touch and visit, if he could. You managed for first stairwell and a half up to Clark's flat before the pain in your leg became too much, and Clark carried you the last of the way up. He set you down on the couch and went into the bedroom, dumping his gym bag on his bed, then shoved yours and his clothes into it.

“Okay, I think that should tide us over.” He said, slinging the bag over his shoulders. “If not, I still have clothing at my mother's...”

“And I can always buy some.” You chuckled, smiling up at him. “So, how do we do this, Superman?” You asked, looking up at him.

“Let's go up to the roof.” He told you, going around the coffee table and picking you up into his arms. “It's a good launching pad, since this is the tallest building in a decent radius.” He explained, taking you up the stairs to the roof.

“I'm guessing that was a factor in your renting the place.” You teased him, hugging your arms around his neck.

Clark blushed at you, smiling guiltily. “It was.” He admitted, standing in the middle of the roof. “Hold on really tight and take a deep breath, hold it and I'll let you know, when to let it out, okay?” He explained to you, shifting your weight comfortably.

You nodded, hugging your arms tighter around his neck and took a few breaths, then held it. Giving you a nod of warning, Clark flexed and both of you rocketed into the clouds with an insane speed. What would have taken almost four hours, nonstop, on a normal flight, took less than twenty minutes for Clark to achieve. You panted as he carefully set you down on the dirt driveway of his childhood home. You heard the screen door open and saw a beautiful, older woman step out onto the porch, shading her eyes from the mid afternoon sun.

“Clark?” She called, taking a step down off the porch.

“Hey, Mom.” Clark grinned at her, his hand slipping into yours. “Mom, this is y/n.” He introduced you as she came closer to you both.

“She's the one you've been telling me about?” She asked, grinning at you, brightly. “It's so nice to finally meet you.” She said, giving you a hug.

“It's nice to finally meet you as well, Mrs. Kent.” You smiled, hugging her back.

“Oh, please, call me Martha.” She told you, holding you at arm's length, making your heart skip a beat, finding out the Clark's mother's name was the same as your own mother. “What are you two doing here?”

“Um,” Clark blushed, looking down at Hank as he sniffed around his feet. “There was a bit of trouble, and I need somewhere safe to keep y/n, until her brother and I figure it out.” He told his mother, patting the dog on the head.

“What kind of trouble?” Martha asked, looking between the two of you, and noticed the blood on your jeans and shirt. “Good lord.” She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.

“Mom, it'll be all right.” Clark said, resting his hand on her shoulder and pulling her into a hug. “I'm staying here with you guys, I'll help you around the farm. I know there's a few projects dad started and that I promised to finish.” He pulled back, smiling at her encouragingly.

She stood there, quietly looking up at her son, worried and concerned, but you could see that hint of relief on her face, as well. “Why don't we get you two inside.” She said finally, turning and motioning to the house.

Relieved himself, Clark picked you back up and carried you up onto the porch, stopping as he caught the look on your face. “What is it?”

“I feel like you're carrying me over the threshold, on our wedding night.” You chuckled, resting your hand on his cheek as he blushed.

“I'd be a lucky man, to have you as my wife.” He smiled, teasing you and kissing you softly on the lips as he walked into the house.

Clark carried you upstairs to his bedroom, flicking the light on and setting you down on the double bed. He dropped the bag on the floor and pushed open the window, letting in the cool late summer breeze into the room. with the sound of the wind ruffling the corn stalks, tree branches and tall grass. It felt surreal to you, even the few times you stayed at the country cottage Bruce bought you, there was a busy road not far from it, so you never completely lost the busy city feel. But, here in Smallville, there was none of that, you were literally miles from the busiest road, just endless farm fields, nature and the occasional bark from Hank down in the yard.

“It's so quiet.” You commented, laying back in his bed and grinning at the hanging planets above it.

“Is that going to bother you, city girl?” Clark teased, sitting next to you on the bed, looking up at the planets with you, and tenderly rubbing your good thigh.

“I find it disconcerting, that I can hear my own thoughts without them being interrupted by a car horn, siren or someone yelling a rude comment at someone else.” You teased back, with a giggle. “But, I love how peaceful it is.” You added, in a softer tone, eyes flicker back to his.

“That's one of the things I love about being raised here.” He told you, shifting to lay down on his back, beside you. “It took me a long time to hone my powers, so I didn't hear every huge and microscopic thing. I would sit in the corn field, and just zone everything out, except the sound the stalks made when the wind rustled them, or fixate on a bird, singing in its nearby nest.”

“Are they hard to deal with in a city like Metropolis?” You asked, turning your head to look at him, slipping your hand into his.

“At first it was, cause there's so much sound and its so quick, if that makes sense.” He answered, still looking at the planets. “But, over time, I fine tuned it, and I'm able to control it now, no matter where I am.” He explained, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.

“That's good.” You smiled, shifting uncomfortably.

Clark turned his head towards you, sensing your pain. “Can I do anything?” He asked, brushing his fingertips over your cheek.

“Not unless one of your super powers, is relieving pain.” You quipped, weakly.

“Sadly, I don't have that super power.” He frowned, sympathetically. “How about a bath instead?” He offered. “Get you cleaned up and into clean clothes, the hot water might even help.”

You let your eyes drift shut at the thought of a nice hot bath, washing off all the grim, dry sweat and blood off your body. “Join me?” You asked, tilting your face towards him, hopeful.

A grin pulled across his lips, and he sat up on the edge of the bed. “Can you make it that far?” He asked, motion to the bathroom door on the other side of the room with a raise of an eyebrow.

“If I can't limp three hops to the bathroom.” You said, sitting up beside him. “You might as well put me down.” You chuckled, but the glint in Clark's eye told you, he didn't find it funny. “I can make it.” You told him, kissing his cheek and propelling yourself up and hopped into the bathroom. “Tah-dah!”

That did make Clark smile, getting up to join you. He helped you peel off your shirt, unbuttoned and unzipped your jeans, carefully tugging them down over your wound. He hadn't cauterized the wound there, Pamela had managed to miss any major or troublesome veins, so it had stopped bleeding sometime ago. It still cut through muscle and nerves, making it hard and largely uncomfortable to walk, or limp for that matter. Letting you lean back against the sink, Clark drew the bath and helped ease you into, before taking off his own clothing. You slid forward, letting him slip in behind you and then eased back, resting against his broad and strong chest, melting as his arms locked around you, his chin resting on top of your head. You both just rested in the hot bath, eyes closed and enjoying the safe and peaceful tranquility of the moment. You could hear Clark's mom bumping around downstairs, humming to herself.

“She's making dinner.” Clark suddenly said, as he read your mind.

“Hm.” You hummed, feeling your stomach growl as the mention of food. “It sounds, and smells, amazing.” You commented back, resting your hands on his as they rested on your waist.

“You want some help, cleaning up?” He asked, tilting his head to look at you.

“How can I say no, to a handsome man, offering to wash me?” You laughed, nodding your head.

“You can't.” Clark laughed, softly, into your ear, pressing his lips to your neck.

Clark let you sit up, between his legs, and picked up the soap and a wash cloth. It felt incredible to have his strong hands on your body, rubbing the soapy cloth into your skin and massaging the tight and stressed knots of muscle in your back. He was mindful of your wounds, rinsing away the soap, before letting your hair down, attentively pouring water over your head to wet your hair, then gently working the shampoo into your hair and scalp, making you moan at the amazing feel. Hair and body washed, Clark helped you out of the tub and dry off, you limped back into his bedroom, picking the bag up off the floor and digging through it for your clothes, while Clark took a shower. You limped downstairs, looking at all the family photos that lined the wall going down the steps, smiling at the younger Clark. You found Martha in the kitchen, stirring something that was in the pot on the stove.

“See you got cleaned up.” She said, smiling as she noticed you standing in the kitchen doorway. “Must feel nice after what you've been through.”

“Incredibly so.” You nodded, taking a seat at the kitchen island. “Dinner smells good.” You complimented her.

“Thank you.” She answered, giving you another smile. “So, tell me, how did you and Clark meet?” She asked, putting a lid on the pot and turning to you.

You blushed, brushing your wet hair behind your ear. “I met him, when he was doing an article on the Charity Gala my brother, Bruce and I, were hosting. He interviewed me at it, and we just kept running into each other, until we fell in love.” You told her, smiling.

“Your brother, Bruce?” Martha asked, brow slowly creasing. “Bruce Wayne? You're Bruce Wayne's sister?”

“I am.” You nodded, frowning back at her.

“He's the one that helped Clark and I get the house back.” She told you, her eyes a bit glassy at the memory.

“Get your house back, how did he do that?”

“Clark was...gone for a while, and while he was away I fell behind in the bank payments, and they foreclosed on the house.” She explained to you, turning back to the stove, needing a psychical distraction. “Your brother and Clark are friends, and he helped us get the house back from the bank.”

“The Smallville Union Bank?” You asked, lifting an eyebrow at her back.

“Yes, you know it?” Martha asked, looking at you over her shoulder.

“Yeah...” You nodded slowly, shocked. “My brother, he bought the bank, out right...” You told her, glancing around as it struck you why Bruce had bought the bank.

“He did it,” Clark's voice came suddenly. “as a gift to me.” he explained, sliding into the seat beside you.

“That's so incredibly sweet of him.” Martha beamed at the two of you, touched.

“It really is.” You agreed, dumbstruck, and looking at Clark, who offered you a small smile, his hand squeezing your knee.

You'd stayed on the Kent farm for nearly two months before Bruce finally did come to visit. He hadn't even so much as call, or send any other type of communication to you, while you were there. He feared that if he did, the people that hurt you would pick up where you were and come after you. So, when he showed up on the porch early one morning, you knew it was because he'd found something out about the people wanting to know about the Advanced Gene Development.

“Bruce?” You said, stepping out on to the porch with him, you'd healed well enough by now that you only had a minor limp. “Did you find out anything?” You asked, feeling your anxiety rise.

Clark had been asleep upstairs, and sensed the rise in your anxiety, he'd become quite attuned to you in the past two months, even more so than he had the year you two spent together back in Metropolis. He figured it was because you two spent every waking moment together, from sun up to sun down, you'd just become synced to him. You also found you really liked the small life of Smallville, quiet and not many people, helping Martha in her garden, and Clark on various of the farm projects; he'd even taught you how to fix the tractor in the barn. So, when he sensed your anxiety, even while dead asleep, he was up and at the screen door in a microsecond.

“Clark.” Bruce greeted him, lifting an eyebrow at the fact Clark was only in his boxers.

“Bruce.” He greeted him back, unbothered.

“I came with news.” Bruce said, turning his eyes back to you.

“Well?” You pressed, sitting down on the porch swing.

“Seems three of the CEOs in the company were working for Pamela Evans, she'd corrupted them.” he started to explain, pacing the length of the porch, which gave you an even more unsettled feeling. “They, ironically, call themselves, the Council,”

“How ominous.” You rolled your eyes, rocking back and forth on the swing.

“It was a rogue group, trying to reproduce and enhance humans,” He looked at Clark, and sighed. “to try and fight any more aliens that might try and take over the planet.”

“Such as Superman.” You understood, glancing at Clark yourself.

“Luckily, they're a small group and easily taken care of.” Bruce went on, leaning back against the porch railing. “I've tracked down most of them, and dispatched them. But, there's one person left, the leader of the group.”

“Pamela wasn't?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No.” Bruce shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Then, who is?” Clark asked, moving to sit on the swing with you.

“His name is Oliver Maddox.” He sighed, rubbing his scruffy face. “He has a very small and faint paper trail, a trail that leaves behind a lot of bodies.” He pressed his lips together, looking at you with a down turned face.

“So, where is Maddox?” Clark asked, on edge.

“I was hoping, you'd help me find him, Clark.” Bruce told him, lifting his head. “If we can eliminate him, then the group will fall apart, and y/n will be safe again.”

“Give me everything you have on him,” Clark told him, adamant. “And I'll take care of him.”

The tone of Clark's voice worried you, but you trusted him. Bruce gave Clark the file on Oliver Maddox, but declined to stay at the farm, even for breakfast, saying he had pressing matters to deal with inside Wayne Industries. You understood that with the corrupted CEOs he had to get rid of, there would be a lot of paperwork and damage control to take of. You sat on Clark's bed after breakfast, worried over the prospect of Clark going after Oliver Maddox, and potentially killing him.

“Y/n.” Clark whispered, leaning against the door jam, and frowned when you didn't answer him. He pushed off the door frame and moved to you, cupping your face in his hands. “Y/n.” He said your name, even softer this time.

You blinked up at him. “You're going to kill him, aren't you?” you asked, quietly.

Clark sank to his knees, moving his hands to hold both of your in his, pressing his lips to your fingers. “If I have to, then, I will.” He whispered, against your knuckles. “But, I will bring him to justice, and keep you safe, y/n.”

You leaned forward and kissed him, deeply, holding his head in your hands. Clark slipped his hands up your arms, gripping your shoulders for a moment, before his hands glided down your back and his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him, so your legs wrapped around him. He stood up, supporting you with one arm under your butt, turning long enough to close the bedroom door, and lay you back down on the bed. He pulled your sweats and panties off, shoving down his boxers enough to get himself free. You ran your fingers through his hair, fingertips caressing his neck and shoulders, nails racking, harshly, down his lean back and dug into his round ass, making him moan and growl into your neck as he sucked on it. His hands went behind your knees, pushing them farther up and rubbing himself against you, causing you to moan around your trapped lip as you bit into it, and you felt his cock grow and harden against your wet core.

“Clark.” You mewled, breathless, using the advantage of your hands grasping his plentiful ass to jerk his hips against you.

“Y/n.” He groaned back, his eyes squeezing shut at the feel of you.

Sex between the two of you had always been balanced and gentle, but this time it wasn't, it felt desperate and rough, like you needed to keep each other grounded by pure force. Clark rocked his hips into you, driving himself deeper into you each time, your hands moved up his back, hooked under his arms and around to his shoulders, nails breaking the skin at the top of his shoulders and making Clark hiss. The headboard knocked against the bedroom wall to the uneven and hard thrusts, catching Martha's attention as she walked into the house from picking vegetables from the garden, for that night's dinner. She looked up at the ceiling, hearing the faint noises the two of you were making, even above the banging headboard, blushed and shook her head.

“Let's go take a walk, Hank.” She called to the border collie, setting the vegetable basket on the counter. “Give the kids some space.” She chuckled, holding open the back door for the dog and following him out.

“I love you.” You moaned, pulling Clark into a kiss as you both came, needing the taste of him on your lips.

“I love you too, y/n.” Clark moaned into your mouth, brushing your hair out of your face.

It was the screen door slamming that woke you up an hour later, you found yourself alone and knew what was going on. You yanked on your sweats and ran down the stairs, your thigh throbbing from the excretion. Clark was standing a few feet away from the porch, long red cape blowing in the gentle breeze, he turned to you, the breath and words you were starting to form stuck in your throat, seeing him fully decked out in his Superman suit. It defined every muscle you worshiped and hugged the amazing curve of his ass. But, it made a huge swelling of pride burst from inside your chest, and a smile crossed your lips. You looked him in the eye, both of you smiling, both of you knowing what he was going to do, and why. Your feet didn't even touch the porch steps as your ran for him and found yourself wrapped up in his arms, his lips on yours.

“Go get them, Superman.” You whispered against his lips. “And don't be late for dinner, Clark.” You added, chuckling as you stepped back.

“I will, and I won't be.” He grinned, then shot up into the sky, a sonic boom punctuating his ascent, before he vanished into the clouds.

[thecandywrites]

Blood For Gold Part 12

Wow, my personal life has taken some hits lately, things are going sideways and I've gone through some loss and am about to experience a lot more. And this has been one of my few saving graces in dealing with all of it.

So. Let's go from bad to worse and from big to overwhelming shall we? introducing some new characters. to the right of Ramsey, Audra's mother's mother- Loreiris aka The Saharan Viper. Her parents, Jodhaa and Akbar (I know, super original right? I love that movie) then Akbar's mother, Rahelle. To the right of her, The Jade Empress/Sultana- aka Grandma Anavia, then Audra's heir father- Leucordorize, aka Cory, and his wife, below him, Maradiem.

As always, thanks to @kriskukko for sharing that regency orc art with me. And to @punkhorse96 for all of your wonderful feedback.

Blood For Gold

Part 12

You barely had your “gifts” moved to Amara’s room and had your “Will” in her possession by the time Axal came back and crashed into your bed.

“And?” You asked as you sat in your room and took off your jewelry and makeup at the vanity.

“And the reason Audrey Rogers is his favorite is because she has a double headed, polished red jade dildo that she wears in a harness and rams him with it, just, balls to the wall, rails him with it, railed me with it too, it was glorious.” Axal proclaimed proudly as you dropped your earrings onto the surface of the vanity.

“What?” You blanched, completely taken off guard by that revelation.

“Ramsey loves both men and women, but he is much more preferential to men and if I may be so bold, is very preferential to me. Lucky me, lucky, lucky me.” Axal cooed as he rolled over to look at you through the mirror and even from here you could see the beginnings of hickeys on his skin, despite his high collar on his borrowed English clothes.

“He...he likes to be railed?” You asked, flabbergasted.

“Yes, and it’s because he loves men more than women and has been...I believe the English term is a rake?” He asked.

“Yes, a boyish playboy, that’s what that means.” You confirmed.

“Well his parents are done with it and beyond fed up with it. And in an effort to shake him of his rakish ways, he claimed that you were the only one worthy of him, conveniently at your wedding to Edward, so that you were thankfully no longer on the marriage market and thus no longer available, like a pregnant woman only wanting preserved meat in a fresh produce market and even when he went to the stables, supposedly “comparing” all of them to you, and since there is only one you- Audra, he and his parents were at an impasse until you became a widow, only a year later, which Ramsey confided in me that he was not expecting at all and honestly terrified him because he thought he would have more time, on the range of three to five years, even a decade at least, but his father is pushing him, practically has a cannon to his head by the way Ramsey went on about it. Apparently when it was found out that you would be available, the calendars were marked as to when you would be available again and the ball at Havenfield was planned thusly, to encourage him and you to get together and Ramsey has been recieving coaching for a year by his father about how to properly court a moura bride based on your master. Ramsey is only pursuing you because you are, in his mind, his last and only saving grace from ruination at the hands of his parents.” Axal informed you.

“Oh...oh my gods, he has the homosexual panic in a heterosexual society then?” You asked.

“Very much so.” Axal confirmed as he winked and clicked his teeth.

“But if he likes to be railed and wants to be railed by you- then that means that he and I are at an impasse, I will never share a lover, let alone a husband with you or anyone else for that matter, it’s practically incest, even by our lax Dorierran standards, let alone the English ones. I would never stand for it and I would never be allowed to have a lover of my own here, I like to be railed, not to be the one railing necessarily and I’m turned off to the idea and by the idea.” You argued, finding aversion to the idea of railing Ramsey. Demsey Draft, if he asked nicely, perhaps, but not Ramsey.

“I know, that’s why I have a solution for all of us. So at 3C’s, there is a lady I have in mind, Buchon Octavia Lafronze.” Axal grinned.

“Octavia? Really?” You asked, intrigued at his choice.

“You see, all Ramsey needs is a public wife, a highborn lady who is preferably beautiful, to give him an heir and a spare right? And one that would play to the public right? You have no desire for that. I have always known this about you. She’s closer in age to him and she would have the right temperament and would be a better fit and her mate, Drina, could always pose as my wife if I need to do so here, I will send for them tomorrow morning. She can be here by the end of the week. You just have to play along for about a week and a half. Surely you can do that can’t you?” Axal petitioned as you realized that your circumstances weren’t nearly as dire as you thought they were as you were relieved that Ramsey was not another version of Richard, but rather...in a bind himself, and while he was desperate, he was not as malevolent as you thought he was only a few moments prior. This suddenly made more sense. It wasn’t necessarily Ramsey that perhaps sent for Calla and Bennie, it was probably and most likely his father, wanting to clear out obstacles for his son. That made the most sense.

“I can.” You decided.

“Excellent, however in the second order of business. There is no Demsey Draft at The Red Velvet Rope.” Axal declared before you turned to face him with a frown.

“What?” You asked.

“There is a guy who is called “Draft”, his real name is Kondus Rogers, he’s actually Audrey’s Rogers’ husband and he’s the one who fashioned his wife’s dildo after his own cock which is just as equally impressive, but he is a minotaur, a brahma bull minotaur at that, he’s huge, giant cloven hooves, wide impressive horns, he has to come into rooms ducked and sideways, beautiful, glorious man. But there are no other “Drafts” and certainly no Demsey’s that work there. There is only one moura orc who works there but he’s a midnight orc, like, dark, dark midnight blue orc. But his name is Louko, aka Louis Charter and his moura mark is barely a speck of gold on the back of his neck. That’s it. I went through the whole “catalog” too and looked all of them over, some more thoroughly than others.” Axal informed you as you recalled seeing a minotaur serve you that Sultan’s feast there.

“That...that’s impossible.” You shook your head no, not wanting to believe him.

“I can only tell you the truth of what I found. That is the truth and the whole truth. I would not hold anything back, especially from you. Unless The Red Velvet Rope is keeping him locked up in a high tower or locked in a dungeon or he works at two whorehouses and is really a whore for another place and he was on loan, I don’t know what else to tell you.” Axal shrugged before he got up, stretched and kissed you on the cheek.

“Goodnight Audra, I love you. Don’t do anything I would do and probably will be doing.” Axal wished you before he left your room through the secret door and made his way to Ramsey’s rooms for the night, sauntering all the way.

“He...he can’t be right.” You said to yourself in the mirror before the thought occurred to you.

Convenience and coincidence rarely went hand in hand by happenstance, unless… what if it was connected? Your gut told you that it could be. But your rationality had a hard time figuring out a way for the two to be connected, much less how.

The next day you were surprised to learn that the rest of your family had moved with haste and had somehow, by nothing short of a miracle, had gotten ahold of The Blue Blaze, a speed train meant to expedite moura bride’s travel on the continent that traveled twice as fast as the normal steam trains and had somehow bypassed every other train, even the Orient Express trains, which were delayed by half a day so that The Blue Blaze could pass and supersede them and you felt like you were being led to the gallows the way you had been immediately prepared for your family’s arrival and your nerves were beyond frayed and you were consumed with anxiety because your gut was screaming at you that you needed to flee now before you could face your mother’s shame that you had been defeated in only a year and a half. Moura’s were bred and prepared to live in circumstances much graver than yours had been and come out rather unscathed after decades of “mistreatment”. You felt your mother especially would be extra harsh on you and you had only been able to speak barely a word about it to Amara who seemed immediately aware of your unease and had asked you about it back at the palace as you were waiting for the carriages to come around and take you to the station.

“Why are you so anxious?” Axal asked as he noticed you were pacing the platform, wringing your hands and double checking your jewelry to make sure it laid right as you silently prayed to all the gods who would listen as the Raymonds and all their guests were waiting for the train to come at the station. You were actively ignoring the stares from others on the platform because you were dressed in your traditional clothes as a proper sultana from perhaps Constantinople or the Middle East or even India instead of an English lady and you looked and felt even more foreign here now than you did when you first came two years ago. You felt lost and like you didn’t really belong anywhere. You felt you didn’t belong here in England and you didn’t belong in Dorierra either. You felt like you were homeless and homesick for a place that was neither Dorierra or England. You were excited to see who else might have been coming but you were agonizing over the unknown of how they would react on seeing you again and anxious to know how they would react once they learned the truth of what had happened and to know that you lost to one of the moura's oldest foes.

“I’m not the same woman I was when I left, I’ve been...I’ve been wounded and I’ve been trying to heal but...the wounds that are the hardest to heal from are the ones that no one can see.” You tried to tell him as even Demsey was watching you, wishing he could offer you some kind of aid or comfort as you were clearly distressed. Even Ramsey seemed anxious but he was practically ignoring you and almost glued to his mother while Charlotte was completely oblivious to the plight as she and Zax continued to talk as even Jane felt sympathy for you as Rian kept her company nearby, since Charlotte and Jane kept each other company while Axal kept you company, even choosing to pace with you a little bit, so that you weren’t the only one doing so.

“Do you know why Audra seems as tight as a bow string?” Demsey murmured to his sister Amara who was standing closest to him.

“Apparently, when Audra left, she was similar in many ways to Bennie, Audra is self conscious that her mother will be displeased to see how much she’s changed and think that the changes were not for the better.” Amara murmured to her brother.

“Surely once her mother learns of what she’s gone through, she will have some understanding, and if her mother thinks she’s changed for the worst, she will need to have her head examined. Because Bennie plays to Sierge the way an actress plays to the adoring masses. Audravienne is actually genuine and authentic.” Demsey tried to reason as Amara smiled at her brother’s discernment.

“When I came to check in on her, she was having an attack of anxiety and panic about it. According to Calla, Audra’s mother is...demanding and exacting. Not necessarily soft or all that motherly. And what’s more is Audra’s father isn’t even her father.” Amara murmured, having wanted to tell her brother about this but not getting an opportunity beforehand.

“What do you mean?” Demsey asked.

“Apparently the stables are as their name implies, moura women are dames, moura men are studs, and the stable masters decide who breeds who, on any given day in order to improve genetics. Audra told me that she has two fathers, a house father, or the father who presided over her home and is for all intensive purposes married to her mother and raised her and her siblings as his own. But her heir father or the father who sired her, is someone else, someone who is popular among the stables because he throws the ideal that Audra seems to embody. The way a white mare will throw color onto a foal. Audra told me that her heir father has fathered thousands of children and he never once even learned Audra’s name. I got the impression that they were very estranged. That’s why Axal and Audra look like the twins they are but Rian and Zax look nothing like them, they all have different hier fathers but the same mother.” Amara revealed to her siblings who seemed to gravitate around them.

“Is that true?” Kiera asked Leumeni before Calla approached since she had overheard her name.

“Yeah. Audra’s father is known as the Buttercup Stud. Every kid he has the closest to “the breed standard”, sadly, just like horses or dogs are bred to conform to a standard, the stables are overrun with him and his offspring.” Leumeni reluctantly confirmed.

“Would I ever have to... ?” Kiera asked.

“No, never, over my dead body, any bride who is not moura who comes into Dorierra is automatically disqualified from ever having to be involved in the stables part of Dorierra.” Leumeni finished for her as Amara realized the two had grown that close already but either Leumeni wasn’t being completely honest or you had been over exaggerating, which didn’t seem likely as Demsey seemed to catch onto Amara’s alarm as even he was surprised by Kiera’s interaction with Leumeni as he blinked in surprise at her and gave her meaningful look which she quickly and almost guiltily avoided.

“What’s going on?” Calla asked as she came over with Tzane.

“We’re trying to figure out why Audra’s anxious.” Amara informed her.

“Oh, it’s because of Audra’s mother, her mother, Sultana Jodhaa Lilita, is one of the most beautiful women in the world, but in marinai there’s a term, it means “tiger mother” in the most direct translation. But it means that the mother is demanding and pushes her children for very high levels of achievement and always towards perfection, to the point anything less than perfection is not allowed, much less accepted and severely punished. She makes my mother look like a kind, soft, warm hug with a blanket compared to her. Hell, I’m anxious. Lilita can cut you down to your kidneys with just a look. Much less a word. She can weigh and measure kings and they would be found wanting in her eyes. The only kind, soft mother figure in Audra’s life is actually her heir father’s wife, Maradiem, something of a step mom I guess? In English? But I sincerely doubt she will be coming, or her heir father for that matter, I doubt he could be bothered. Now Audra’s father Sullimon Akbar, he’s wonderful. Firm but gentle and kind and honestly the ideal father.” Calla breathed but the sound of the train coming into the station pulled their attention back as Demsey watched as you seemed to stand extra rigidly as you seemed almost frozen in fear as he was ready to march back to Windsor and go ahead and get Heavencrest geared up for you. You had clearly been through hell and if your family thought they could come here and judge you harshly for it, they were going to be in for a rude awakening, he wouldn’t stand for this and neither should you. He needed to shield you from this. He didn’t know how but he was determined.

Meanwhile Ramsey was in a similar state of panic, he could see your own anxiety as his own whirled within him. He had heard from his mother that your own was a “typical” moura mother, meaning, harsh, demanding perfection, and not exactly soft, kind, understanding or sympathetic like his own, but rather, like his father, and he worried what kind of scrutiny he would undergo himself.

The moment came and your tears flooded your vision at seeing your mother and your house father again as you did your best to bow and greet them respectfully, but you had barely lowered yourself an inch before your mother, uncharacteristically, practically ran to you, grabbed you up and held you fast, hugging you so hard your back popped, which you weren’t expecting. Nor were you expecting her to be crying too. Along with your Papa who also hugged you from the back so that you were effectively sandwiched between them before you just broke down crying, relinquishing yourself to their arms as you noticed that even your grandmothers, Loreiris, who was your mother’s mother and your house father’s mother, Rahelle were here too as they tried to squeeze in and hug you too, which you happily did.

“You are just as beautiful as the last time we saw you.” Your mother cried into your shoulder, before you noticed your hier father- Cory, and his wife- Maradiem and their other children, your half siblings and Cory's own mother, the Jade Sultana- Anavia, standing next to them, wearing their more traditional elven clothes.

“Father,” you greeted formally after wiping your eyes and greeting him respectfully and traditionally, as you were taught.

“No formalities here Audravienne.” He gently cooed to you as he hugged you too. For one of the few times in your life and for the first time, using your name to do so as all of you were once again, brought to tears at being reunited as Maradiem huged you just as tightly as your own mother had as even your heir grandmother hugged you tight as did your “hier siblings”, never in your life did you expect to see everyone in your family, nor their warm greeting, but you would be lying if you tried to deny that you didn't want or need it.

“I thought…” Demsey began before Calla cut him off.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure that’s the first time he’s ever called her by her name, even when she was leaving to wed Edward, he didn’t use her name.” Calla murmured to them as she and was effectively shocked before you introduced their hosts as they greeted Yalin and Gregori, giving them many gifts, in thanks for inviting them and hosting them as Gregori happily took the swords with pleasure while Yalin happily accepted all the jewelry, feeling like she was suddenly carrying fifty pounds of gold and jewels before Yalin and Gregori had to hire all the available carriages at the station to bring everyone back as you were squished between your mother and your housefather as your mother held you the way you had always needed her to and once back at the palace, your family insisted on talking with you privately which Yalin and Gregori opened up one of the audience rooms for your family as all of you filed in and the doors were shut, leaving Bennie and Calla and their siblings and the Voyambi’s on the other side as Calla and Bennie pressed their ears to the door while Yalin and Gregori, Ramsey, Charlotte pressed their ears to the other doors on the other side of the room while Jane sat anxiously by, worrying about what was going to happen next.

“What happened? Why are you a shakan?” Your mother implored in marinai as she held your hands in yours.

“Because of the abuse Mama.” You answered honestly.

“What abuse? The contract should have shielded you from any and all abuse, tell me.” Your mother warmly invited.

“I was alienated, persecuted, beaten, raped, poisoned, forced to drink mourkatili by the gallon.” You began before everyone gasped in outrage.

“And did you kill them for trying to kill you?!” Your mother demanded.

“No, I could not repay any of it. All I could do is gather all the evidence I could that it was happening in the first place. They poisoned their own father with Jade’s Crown, it made him go crazy! He would be himself during the day and a violent madman at night and I was locked away with him like a prisoner, three months after I married him, he could not hide it from me anymore and once he showed it, it just got worse and worse. Then when it became apparent that he would die soon, they poisoned me with cyanide and mourkatili, it was in everything, even the water I bathed in so that they could bury me with him. In only a month I was addicted to it, I was constantly drunk and my kidneys bled into my urine, my colon bled into my stool. By gums bled into my mouth. It took me five months to wean off of it without going crazy myself.” You explained as Bennie and Calla shrunk down on the other side of the door, both of them holding their hands over their mouths to keep them from throwing up as tears streaked down their faces.

“What are they saying?” Amara pressed.

“The Morrigans made her drink mourkatilli.” Bennie answered as she wiped at her eyes, her tears streaking her eye makeup and staining her handkerchief as she and Calla both shuddered at the very thought.

“Mouras, more or less, are immune to every kind of poison. To give moura a shot of cyanide, it’s like giving yourself a shot of whiskey. It can get you drunk, and make you sick if you drink too much, but not unless you drink amounts that would kill a village, you’ll recover, you’ll have a hangover, but you’ll be ok eventually right? However a millenia ago, there was the poison of poisons that was made, a poison that would kill anything and everything, including and especially a moura. Mourkatili means “moura killer”. Before the gold plague the only thing that could kill a moura was battle, very old age or a broken heart. We were immune to everything else, until mourkatili was invented. Only it behaves like whiskey laced with morphine or laudinoum or opium or any other very addictive drug, for a moura- it’s better than morphine, better than laudinum, better than opium, better than sex, better than anything and everything. It’s both sweet like candy, yet zesty like orange juice and numbing like morphine, but it makes a moura body bleed, it’s killed countless moura babes still in the womb, when their mother’s bodies choose between saving the baby or saving itself, the body will always choose the latter. It’ll make a moura mother instantly abort a baby, no matter the stage of pregnancy, but that baby will be dead before it’s birthed. It makes your gums bleed around your teeth, it makes your throat bleed, it makes your stomach bleed, it just makes everything bleed but it also makes the blood in your own mouth taste like chocolate. It’s the very first poison mouras are trained at the stables to detect because one sip could either kill you, or turn you into an addict and you kill yourself trying to chase the high it gives you. It’s the single biggest danger to a moura’s life and health and with such a dose, Audra’s internal organs probably look like they’ve been shot with a bird shot and the chances of her mothering a child after this will be especially hard, if not impossible for her. No wonder the stable masters didn’t let her come back and gave her the shakan status, because the shame of having an addict in the family is worth killing her for- to preserve the family honor. The Morrigans destroyed her and poisoned her and tried to kill her and it’s a wonder she’s alive. A single drop of it in a well can kill all the inhabitants of a city ten times the size of London. And she...she just told them that they made her drink a gallon of it. That much should have killed her, made her an addict at the very least. Fuck, how is she alive? How is she…?” Calla wept as Bennie and Calla hugged each other as the Voyambi’s stared in horror at each other as Demsey was seeing red, he wanted to run Richard Morrigan through with a thousand swords and make pay with everything he had, including his life for what he did as one look around, Calla and Bennie's brothers were of the same mind as all of them curled their lips in anger and disgust as all of them were heaving mighty breaths as Duke and Duchess Voyambis were even appalled by such knowledge, to know a countryman would behave so.

Meanwhile back inside the audience room-

“It is because I have that proof that they are paying double to me what Edward claimed he could. But the stable masters knew that the chances of my recovery were slim. And I was more trouble than I was worth. So they branded me a shakan and I’ve been alone and by myself ever since. The Morrigans even blocked all messengeraris, all my letters, everything, even after I left them. There was no way for me to tell anyone and they isolated me from every other moura, it wasn’t until only a few weeks ago that Calla left a note inside a book that found its way to me that I was able to find Yalin, and she introduced me to others.” You explained to your family.

“Where are the Morrigan’s now?” Loreiris demanded, drawing her sword as everyone else did the same before Gregori and Yalin hurriedly opened the door as Bennie and Calla did the same, falling over each other to try to get through the door first as all Demsey saw was your whole family have a weapon drawn as they all stared angrily towards you, as you stood there with your hands up, using the universal signal for stop and they didn’t need to think twice, he bolted for you, leaping between Calla and Bennie, thinking they were going to attack but Ramsey managed to get to you first since the door he was overhearing from was closer to you before he pulled you behind him, rather hoping to be run through, so that he wouldn’t have to live without Axal as Demsey was there with him only a couple of seconds later.

“Oh my gods, they’re not after me, they’re wanting revenge on the Morrigans, I told my family what they did to me.” You confessed as you ducked and evaded both of them before Jane burst into tears and sunk down to the floor and you and Rian were the first to her.

“My parents are done for aren’t they?” Jane sobbed.

“Who is this girl?” Your mother demanded.

“This is the Morrigan’s only daughter, who is innocent in all of this. But her parents, as awful and abusive as they are, are the only things between her and living in the street. She was my only friend through all of it and she helped me gather evidence.” You answered as you helped pull her back up to her feet as you consoled her.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, if I can have a moment of your time and attention. While it is true that the Morrigans have wronged Sultana Audravienne, they have been under intense investigation for the last few days. A year ago, when the stable masters initially investigated this matter, they found solid evidence of wrongdoing and have kept that evidence, and they attempted to resolve this matter, thus the current contract that she has with them and the Morrigans. If you wish to legally press charges and wish to sue for damages and accuse them of whatever they might be guilty of, that can be arranged. But if you attempt to kill them in revenge, you will be wanted for murder which will spark a war. Right now, we must do things the proper way here in England. But this will take time. Up to a few weeks at least, maybe even a month. For now, settle in, come together, enjoy being reunited with Audravienne. There is a masquerade ball in only two days, and it will take us about a week but there has been a request for a proper Kamoba battle, which we will gladly host here. Let the tempers flare in the Komoba battle so that in court, we can all keep our composure and our heads and our wits. I will have the best lawyers involved and this matter will be resolved before you depart.” Gregori offered your family which seemed to be the magic words in appeasing them.

“Fine.” Loreiris huffed as she resheathed her sword as did everyone else in your family resheathe their weapons before Axal managed to pull you away from Jane and brought you back over to your family where you received even more hugs and words of encouragement and praise and understanding.

“Are you disappointed?” You asked your mother.

“No, I’m shocked, and I’m angry and very disappointed with the Morrigans. But not with you. You are blameless in this. You survived. You are here and you have persevered against mourkatilli which is a battle far too many lose to. No. I am proud of you. So proud of you. Since you are free of mourkatili now, we will have those masters reevaluate you. You will be coming home. Never again will an Englishman be in any position of authority over you and never again will you suffer at the hands of anyone, lest of all an Englishman. No, no child of mine will ever marry an Englishman after this” Your mother insisted as she said the word “Englishman” with particular hate and disdain and disgust As Yalin, Calla and Bennie all winced and grimaced as they gave each other meaningful looks.

“We’re screwed.” Yalin murmured worriedly to her husband before she translated your mother’s words to him.

“Oh I wouldn’t worry about it. Richard Morrigan has practically dug his own grave, all we need to do is prove he is the only Englishman who is like himself before we let himself bury himself in it before Audravienne is awarded everything he has and thus we will come to have everything he has. We can prove that we are different and that Audravienne would be treated very well here. Ramsey is up to the task to prove he is different.” Gregori returned confidently as Yalin looked from Gregori to Ramsey who looked particularly terrified of the idea as Ramsey looked to Axal who looked particularly anxious with his mother’s words as well.

“Mama, not all Englishmen are like the Morrigans.” You gently countered, thinking of Demsey Voyambi more than anyone.

“I mean the Raymonds, your hosts, act the opposite to the Morrigans, they have been very kind, welcoming and hospitable, they invited you here haven’t they? They are hosting us aren’t they? And they offered to help us. They are good people.” You tried to intercede for Axal’s sake as Axal blew out a breath of relief and gave you a look of gratitude and appreciation as Yalin too was giving you a grateful look.

“It is the Dauphin that has made us coming together possible and you just heard with your own ears what they are about to do for us. We can not snub them or begrudge them. They are innocent in all of this. Let us see how it plays out.” You desperately pleaded.

“What is Audra saying?” Gregori whispered.

“Audra is interceding for us.” Yalin proudly revealed.

“Excellent. Knew she would.” Gregori insisted.

“And you must make sure that her confidence is well founded and must be richly rewarded.” Gregori insisted to Ramsey.

“Yes, of course.” Ramsey forced a smile and a nod.

"Who are you?" Loreiris demanded as she stood before Demsey and appraised him.

"I'm Duke Demsey Voyambi." He cordially answered.

"Who are you to Audra?" She asked as she searched his eyes.

"A freind." He allowed.

"A friend?" She repeated with a raised brow.

"Yes." He nodded.

"A friend who put himself between her and her family? With a look in your eyes that said that you were about to fight all of us off if we posed a danger to her?" She posed.

"Absolutely. She has suffered more than enough and she should suffer no more, not by anyone's hands, not even those who may or may not share her blood." Demsey insisted as Loreiris mouth quirked a lopsided grin at him.

"A good friend then." She surmised.

"I hope so." Demsey found himself nodding.

"Good. But you should know, that the next time you try that, you will be run through and I have a feeling Audra would prefer you alive, rather than dead. Do not face a blade without the proper protection, or a blade of your own." Loreiris advised cooly before she turned and returned to the others.

[hi-epervier]

@slenderiscoming some Naruto & Fugaku hijinks since you expressed interest in that.

Pre-sasunaru, Fugaku bullies his way into adopting people, Naruto is Naruto. Here's what I have so far, Hope you enjoy <3

Modern AU where down-on-his-luck, ex-homeless kid Naruto, age 20, saves Fugaku’s life while Fugaku’s stranded in the States, with his family back in Japan, and no one else can/is willing to help. He also visits Fugaku at the hospital, and when they clear Fugaku for discharge, brings the old bastard home to his tiny firetrap apartment, with its mess and his possibly-drug-dealers roommates, because Naruto can't not help complete strangers and the staff said they needed someone to keep an eye on the old bastard in case of medical complications.

And. Fugaku is 1000% appalled at everything, and complains, a lot, and demands they put an end to this farce, and generally makes a nuisance of himself, until Naruto tells him to shut his trap. Which works for exactly twenty seconds and just because it caught him off-guard. Then Fugaku resumes complaining, only a little less fervently.

And. Naruto’s everything Fugaku despises, but he’s also the only one who helped, and Fugaku can respect that. That’s a good kid. A good, extremely rude, potty-mouthed, sloppy, gay kid, but, a good kid. And in Uchiha Fugaku’s books, that counts more.

And. Fugaku’s got a stick up his ass. Anybody who knows him can tell you that. So this kid, with his brashness, and his loud mouth and everything, is confusing. Completely baffles him, and he’s not a man who likes feeling baffled. Fugaku wants everything to make sense and be efficient, and cause as little trouble as possible, and things do! Because he’s not the kind of man you mess with. He’s intimidating as fuck, and a hardass. He gets his way.

Naruto doesn’t give a shit. That’s the first thing he learns about the kid: Naruto doesn’t give a shit. He talks back, he speaks his mind, and gives as good as he gets. Naruto doesn’t put up with his ‘respect your elders’ crap. They butt heads. But Naruto is kind. After the initial clusterfuck, it’s actually pretty easy to talk to this kid because Naruto talks back immediately when he’s not okay with something!!! And he doesn’t hold grudges. Fugaku’s own sons aren’t like that. They’ve inherited his stupid pride gene. And his way with words. Naruto’s way to deal with conflicts actually resolves them. Fugaku may have to admit it’s more efficient than his own method. Who would have thought?

It’s evident that Naruto is a complete disaster. His lifestyle- bad. Very bad, no good, nuh uh. Fugaku disapproves, vocally so. He tries giving orders advice. Doesn’t work. Naruto doesn’t give a shit. He tries shoving money at the ungrateful brat who doesn’t see common sense when it’s trying to beat him on the head. Naruto gets royally offended. Turns out they’re both stubborn assholes. Still doesn’t work, and Fugaku is hell-bent on helping out this kid who does not wants his help. 

So, Fugaku has a (brilliant, if he says so himself) idea. Fugaku has a son around Naruto’s age. Sasuke’s gay. Naruto’s gay (bisexual, or whatever. Fugaku’s not paying attention to what the fuck ‘labels’ are. Whatever. Naruto likes men. Fugaku asks, just to make sure. Repeatedly. they have a shouting match- whatever). They’re both good kids. They could learn a thing or two from each other. Naruto should feel honored, Fugaku’s son is such a catch.

Two birds, one stone. Fugaku helps out this bratty good kid he’s getting way too attached to (fathers-in-law get to shove money at their sons-in-law when they feel like it and nobody can stop them, right?), and Sasuke gets a boyfriend who’s not one of these good-for-nothing twinks he’s been hanging around. Everything is good. People should give Fugaku a medal for his exceptional ideas. No wonder his eldest is a genius.

Naruto is not on board with the idea. He’s so not on board with the idea that he thinks it’s a joke and gets a good laugh out of it. Past the first five minutes it start looking like he’s dying.

How fucking dare he, and why the fuck not? Fugaku’s son is a catch. Naruto should be fucking grateful. Not just anyone gets deemed worthy of joining the Uchiha clan, and Fugaku’s son in particular is a catch. Naruto is an idiot. Fugaku is offended on his son’s behalf. And what’s wrong with arranged marriages? Nothing. Nothing is wrong with them. They’re efficient and Fugaku knows what’s best. Naruto is an idiot.

Naruto starts calling him a Pimp. Fugaku’s brilliant idea is backfiring and Fugaku’s feathers are ruffled. But he’s nothing if not stubborn (he’s right, dammit).

Is it because Naruto wants children? Fugaku assures him that there are options for 'his kind' if he wants to reproduce, and says some really offensive shit while he's at it, and Naruto jibes back that he's being a real asshole right now. Fugaku tries to correct course by informing him that Mikoto will not care about his proclivities as long as he and Sasuke give her grandchildren. Naruto goes 'wow, you're a real piece of work'. And then decides to fuck with Fugaku's head by saying 'maybe I don't like kids'. And Fugaku hadn't even considered that and looks like he swallowed a lemon when presented with the possibility. He asks 'don't you?' and Naruto almost pisses himself laughing with how much just asking that is putting a strain on this old bastard, but he keeps a straight face. Fugaku doesn't receives an answer, so he goes 'well, but, an heir...' but concedes that it might suffice if his eldest conceives instead, and he supposes they'd still give Naruto and Sasuke their blessing despite this obviously huge let down, and Naruto must realize how generous he's being there, obviously, and and... somewhere around that part Naruto takes pity on him and goes 'nah, kids are cool, I was pulling your leg. Still don't want you to pimp me out tho', and Fugaku is both like 'oh thank fuck' and 'why'.

If it's not the kids, it must be something else. Is it because of the costs of moving to Japan? Fugaku would take care of that, obviously, as head of family. The logistics? Consider it done. Are Naruto's shitty jobs the problem? Just get rid of those, and Fugaku will find him a better one in Japan, more worthy of his future station, or Naruto can go to school there, get a diploma, it's not a problem that Naruto is mentally challenged, Fugaku has connections. Does Fugaku need to go yell at Naruto's shitty boss? Landlord? Mean aunt? No really, does Naruto need him to yell at anyone? (Fugaku likes yelling at people. Very cathartic). Is it Japan? Does he not like Japan? Well, the whole family could uproot itself to the States, at least at first, like for a year or two, Japan is obviously superior and Naruto should see the errors of his ways. No? Then why? Is it Sasuke? Does Naruto think Fugaku's son is unworthy of him? Does he not like brunets? Does he fear Fugaku's son is not aesthetically pleasing? Fugaku falls over himself to reassure Naruto that his son is, quote-unquote, 'a stud'. Naruto goes 'oh my god you crazy old bastard, where did you learn that word and also what the fuck'. They keep bickering and eventually Naruto gets fed up and yells that you can't just dictate people's lives like that, and Fugaku, old fart from old money, genuinely confused, goes 'well, why not?' Naruto can't believe he's stuck with a matchmaking tyrant for the next few days.

Fugaku continues his campaign to convince Naruto that The Idea is good. Ramen. Ramen is a thing that Japan has. In fact, it has plenty of it. (It also has natto, and Fugaku very crankily informs Naruto that american breakfast standards are subpar. 'just eat your cereal,' Naruto sighs. Fugaku glowers at him around a mouthful of froot loops)

[miraculousandbts]

RM | Baby Sister

Summary: Your brother visits you after a long time, and you’re the happiest person on Earth.

Pairing: Namjoon is y/n’s brother.

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: y/n gets a little too overwhelmed and starts happy crying a little. Adorable Joon because that should be a warning.

You opened your eyes and let out an annoyed sigh. Your phone had been ringing for the past 10 minutes, and it was kept under your pillow, which meant you felt it vibrate near your head. You begrudgingly placed your hand under your pillow and searched for the object, taking it out when you touched it. You opened it and saw 5 missed calls from your brother.

"Joon?!" You sat up with a start, all thoughts of sleep long forgotten. Your brother finally had enough time to call you. Not once, but five times. You clutched the phone to your chest and smiled at nothing in particular. Then your phone rang again, almost giving you a heart attack. It was him again, you saw. Before you could pick up, you did a mini happy dance, which was basically just wiggling sitting in your bed looking like a homeless hobo with your bed hair.

You swiped the accept button and nearly screamed, remembering in the last minute that you just might blow your brothers' ear drums if you actually did scream. "Hey, baby sister." He greeted. "Joon!!!" You replied back, a little too enthusiastically. "Woah! Are you on a sugar rush this early in the morning?" He chuckled. "Nah, I just missed you a little too much."

He sighed. "I'm sorry, love. All this idol business is...you know." You did know. Being an Idol was not easy, especially if you were as famous as them. He wasn't only a part of the team, he was also the leader and the translator. Plus, handling six hyperactive kids was not an easy task. He had apologised countless times, giving the same reason again and again. You knew, at this point, he was getting fed up of himself. "It's okay, Joonie. I get it. And I'm proud of you, so don't apologise, just tell me when we'll be seeing each other again." You went from serious to yourself in a second without missing a beat.

"About that," he sounded full of life again, "we have to shoot a Run episode in a water park, and I may have suggested One Mount." You let out an excited squeal. "And the staff may have agreed." Hearing this, you yelled loudly. (Y'all will understand what I'm talking about if you've seen episode 13 of Run BTS! If you haven't, I'll tell you. One mount is a water park (I think) in Ilsan, Namjoon's hometown. They shot episode 13 there, so that's the excuse I'm using, cuz I'm a person who has a lot of ideas but they are completely unrelated to the topic. Thank you.)

You were meeting your brother in person after an year. An year! You both were very close before he became a trainee and suddenly didn't have any time for you because he was all the way in Seoul. You always knew about his dream about being a rapper though, so you always supported him in whatever decisions he made. Granted, you freaked out a little when he suddenly changed his hair style to an afro, of all things, but still, you were his sister, and you had to support your brother.

You were so happy, you felt like crying. You let out a sob and a hiccup involuntarily, and brought your free hand to cover your mouth. "Wait, shit, are you crying, love?" He sounded worried. "Aw, baby, don't cry." You might hate it when other people babied you and you might go around getting into fights with boys, but with your brother, you did a complete 180 and became his baby sister.

You sobbed again. "I-I'm fine. J-Just, we'll b-be seeing each o-other after such a-a long t-time..." you trailed off. "I know, love." You could practically imagine him sitting in his studio, smiling gently. "I love you, but I've gotta go right now. I still have some packing to do!" He said in a cheery voice. "I love you too." You simply replied while he hung up.

You wiped your tears, internally thankful you hadn't cried enough for your nose to get runny. You already looked like you had been dragged through a barbed wire fence backward with your hair open, the last thing you needed was a runny nose. Finally deciding to start your day, you get out of bed and head to the bathroom. You thanked the Gods it was a Sunday today, or you would have been running around the house wearing mismatched socks and uncombed hair looking for your car keys despite the fact that they're always kept at the same place, knowing you were late for college.

You randomly let out a giggle and hugged yourself tightly while brushing your teeth. You were meeting your brother again, and you couldn't be happier.

*****

Namjoon was excitedly packing a duffel bag with a few pair of clothes and other necessities, while a big grin was plastered on his face.

Taehyung and Jungkook entered the room while talking something about gaming. Namjoon wasn't even mad that they had not started packing yet, even though he knew how long Jungkook takes just to pack a duffel bag. "Uh, Namjoon hyung?" He looked at Taehyung, who was looking at him weirdly. "Stop smiling like that, it's creepy." Namjoon only shrugged and went back to packing.

"What are you so happy about anyway? I mean, I know we're going to Ilsan, but I did not see Taehyungie hyung, or Yoongi hyung grinning like idiots when we went to Daegu." Jungkook plopped down on the bed and raised an eyebrow. "I'm not excited because of that. I'm going to see y/n after an year." He dropped the shirt in his hand and sat down beside Jungkook, his expression changing to a gentle one.

Both the younger boys looked at each other and smiled. Taehyung was thinking about his younger siblings, while Jungkook smiled at the thought of his elder brother. All the members had siblings, either elder or younger, but they had also found family in each other.

"We'll leave you alone, because we know we won't be able to stop you from smiling, and it really is creepy." Taehyung took Jungkook's hand and pulled him outside. Namjoon sighed. He picked up his discarded shirt and put it in the bag, zipping it up. One more day, and he'll be hugging and kissing you like before.

*****

It was early in the evening. You were anxiously waiting for your brother at the airport.

He said he'd be there by now. You looked around, clutching your phone tightly. You noticed you had been doing that a lot recently. That's when it happened. You saw him. You smiled so big, you were afraid that your jaw would fall off. You let out a small giggle, and ran towards him. Not too fast, you did not want people to think you needed a mental asylum.

That's when he spotted you, and smiled a really big smile. When you neared, he opened his arms and you jumped on him, wrapping your arms around his neck, squeezing tightly. You missed him, so so much. "I feel like crying but I can't stop smiling. My cheeks hurt." You muttered, nuzzling your nose in the crook of his neck. You heard him chuckle, and then he pulled back.

"Still so pretty." He pressed a light kiss on your forehead. You heard someone clearing their throat behind him, and that's when you remembered that he wasn't alone. Being his sister, you had met the other guys a couple of times, which was enough for you to get comfortable around them. You were that kind of person; it took you a very short time to make friends and remove the awkwardness people tend to have when meeting someone for the first time.

You looked back and gave them a smile. Seokjin smiled back at you and moved in for a hug. You gave him a side hug, while the rest of them followed. While you all exchanged greetings, two cars arrived, for all of you. "How did you come here?" Jungkook asked. If you had to choose who were the closest to, except Joon, you'd choose Jungkook, considering he was the closest to your age.

"In my car." You answered simply. "Can I go with y/n to her house before coming to the hotel?" You turned around at Namjoon's voice. He was asking this to his manager. The manager told him he could, while warning him to be on time and to be careful around paparazzi. He also jokingly told him to let you drive as he didn't have a driving license. Everyone knew Joon could be clumsy.

Everyone said their goodbyes and went to their respective destinations. You and Namjoon entered your car, while he complemented how you maintained it over the last few years when he gifted it to you. You had gotten into your dream university and had bought a small one bedroom flat near the said university.

He had told you how proud he was because your university was one of the biggest in the city, and getting in was hard. You had worked so hard, all the while doing a part time job to earn enough money to buy your own house. You were inspired by him, to work hard and not depend on anyone. The only thing your parents helped you with was making sure you were not overworking yourself and putting yourself in danger.

Shortly after you had gotten in, he had sent a small car as a birthday gift. You had almost cried that day. He had told you he didn't want you to take the bus every other day, or spend any more of your hard earned money on a car. Knowing you well, he had attached a card to the car which said that he knew you wouldn't accept it easily, and being your elder brother, he was ordering you to accept it wholeheartedly.

"So, how are your studies?" He asked, as soon as you started the car. The airport was fairly near to where you lived. "Good. I do wish that the teachers would give deadlines for projects accordingly though. The toughest ones have the shortest deadlines, while the easiest ones have the longest." You rolled your eyes. "Ah, I know the feeling. You work your butt off for a week for the harder ones, and something always goes wrong. Be it the spelling, or the wordings. And then you spend two weeks chilling, doing the project in a day, just waiting for the day you turn it in."

You both chortled. The drive was filled with laughs, while you both caught up with each other. You told him stories about what happened in your friend group, while he told you the boys' antics. His stories were absolutely hilarious.

You finally reached your apartment building, and parked the car. Helping him with his stuff, you both silently reached the elevator. Getting in, you pressed the button for your floor. A while later, you both found yourselves in your house.

"Go freshen up. I'll make dinner." You kept his stuff near the table, and pointed to the bathroom. "I like your style." He looked around and made his way towards the bathroom. "Stop complimenting yourself." You shook your head. You both knew how similar you both were. From your love for crabs and trees, to how you decorated your house, you had gotten almost everything from him.

You made some simple ramen, and you both had dinner quietly, making small talk. He looked tired, and you were ready to sleep too. You asked him to go to bed, promising you'll join him shortly. You cleaned everything up, and entered your room to take some pajamas. You can never forget the sight that awaited you.

Namjoon was curled up in a ball, hugging a pillow to his chest like a little koala, while snoring loudly. You cooed at the sight. It made him look like a baby, and for a moment, you felt like you were his elder sister, determined to protect your big baby at all costs. After silently taking out your pajamas from the closet and changing into them in the bathroom, you got in the bed.

He let out a small sigh, and moved closer to you, wrapping his arm around you torso. You remembered the old days, when you both would sleep together, and while he wasn't a big fan of cuddling, you both would end up doing just that. You weaved your fingers through his hair, and fell into a deep peaceful slumber.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Five Fics Friday: April 10/20

SPECIAL EASTER WEEKEND EDITION: FIFTY FICS FRIDAY

Hey, everyone!!

Well, I asked on my Twitter and here if y’all wanted to see a special edition 5FF for the Long Weekend since we’re all stuck inside (and some of you stuck with family I’m sure you’d like to avoid or are just tired of seeing), and it was a unanimous YES, because who doesn’t love to curl up all weekend with a good book or fanfic??

So here we are: Fifty fics either pulled out of my ass, recently read, recently bookmarked, or recently Marked for Later! Each section has a count so you know how many are in that section (and it’s for myself when I go to double check the count, LOL). I hope you guys enjoy these!! <3 Love you all, and happy reading :)

As always, read-more will appear on the third reblog. Sorry mobile, please don’t hate me :(

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@johnlockficclub APRIL NOMINATIONS (5)

A Beginner's Guide to Apiology. by VictoryCandescence (M, 10,952 w., 1 Ch. || Retirement AU || Friendship, Love, Bees & Beekeeping, Old Age, Dreamy Sexytimes, Angst, Soulmates, Grumpy Sherlock, Magical Realism) – John and Sherlock meet for the first time as old men in Sussex. (to read)

Through the Clouds by Mazarin221b (E, 20,004 w., 6 Ch. || Retirement, Sussex, Bees, Home Improvement, First Time, Romance) – Sherlock takes a remarkably early retirement at 47, and convinces John that a change of pace would do them both good. They buy an old cottage on the South Downs, and exchange their nonstop life in Baker Street for quiet contemplation, bee studies, and book writing. They might go completely insane, but sometimes it takes stepping outside of the life you're living to find the life you want. Part 1 of Through The Clouds (“WINNER” fic)

The Winter Garden by Callie4180 (T, 31,213 w., 13 Ch. || Post-S4, Retirement, Christmas, Slow Burn, Grown-Up Rosie, Parenthood, Rosie’s Cat, Angst with Happy Ending, Holidays, Beekeeping, Magical Realism, Sherlock POV, Sherlock’s Violin, Future Fic, Sussex, Honey, Magical Healing Honey, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Scar, First Kiss, Touching, Mycroft is Dying) – As Sherlock nears the end of his career, he's given the gift of a cottage in Sussex. The honey from the beehives out back is amazing. Almost...magical.

Where Else Would I Be? by cwb (E, 34,910 w., 10 Ch. || Retirementlock, Domestic Fluff, Falling in Love, Parentlock, Fluff and Smut, Reminiscing) – John and Sherlock's five-year-old granddaughter spends the weekend with them in Sussex. Sherlock happily indulges her whims, and John takes care of them while quietly revisiting the past thirty years of their lives together.

Crimson Hymns by brilliantlyburning (E, 48,982 w., 9 Ch. || Post-S3/TAB, Angst,  Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Drug Addiction, Unhealthy Coping Methods, Demisexual Sherlock, Boxing, Pining, Sensory Processing Issues, Drug Use, First Kiss / Time, BDSM, Mary is Not Good, Parentlock, Proposal, Happy Ending, Beekeeping, Violence, References to Addiction, Poetry) – He laid his head over John’s heart, eyes level with his silver-rough scar, and listened to the crimson hymns beating beneath the surface. He imagined flowers blooming in his own chest: veins weaving intricate patterns on petals of thin muscle engorged with blood, sinew for stems and tendons for roots—the flowers would be poppies, maybe (addictive) or foxglove (deadly yet useful)—twining gleaming blood-red around the porcelain bone of his ribs. In his mind’s eye the gruesome bouquet all tied together on the left side of his chest, the stems bound together in heartstrings and the flowers fed by the rhythmic contraction of ventricles. It’s yours, he imagined saying to John—from the vena cava to the mitral valve to the arteries it is yours.— Or, the Love Song of W. Sherlock S. Holmes. (to read)

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Five Times John Watson Remained Oblivious (K+, 1,154 w., 1 Ch. || Five and Ones, Romance, Friendship, Asexual Sherlock, Queerplatonic Relationship) – ...And one time he didn't. asexual!Sherlock/John.

Linger by orphan_account (E, 4,879 w., 1 Ch. || Lingerie, Fluff and Smut, BJ / HJ, Switchlock, Sherlock in Lingerie, Come Play, Dirty Talk, Anal Fingering, Anal/Oral, Implied Shower Sex, Neck Kissing) – Sherlock decides to surprise John after a somewhat stressful day at work.

Given In Evidence by verityburns (M, 5,034 w., 19 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Angst, Drama, Case Fic, Romance, BAMF!John, Submissive Sherlock, First Kiss, Humour, Three Garridebs) – Coming back from the dead can be a complicated business. With a new case on the horizon, rebuilding a life is one thing... rebuilding a friendship quite another. For Sherlock and John, things may never be just the same...

Iris by slashscribe (E, 11,948 w., 1 Ch. || Parentlock, Pining Sherlock, Post-S3) – Sherlock does his best to make John happy when John comes back to 221B with his new baby after the events of Season 3, but Sherlock has a track record of getting things wrong in this area. This story is an exploration of their gradual shift from friends to lovers, told from Sherlock's perspective, full of a lot of pining and lack of emotional awareness.

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Guardian and Assistant by I_Have_No_Clue (M, 1,229 w., 1 Ch. || Omegaverse || Blow Jobs, PWP, Alpha Sherlock/Omega John, Mentions of Heat) – In this A/O world, ever Alpha, Beta, and Omega have a Type to them that describes the traits they have. John tries to figure out Sherlock's. Part 1 of the Types series

Bonneville Black by HollyShadow88 (E, 3,362 w., 1 Ch. || Established Relationship, Motorcycles, Motorcycle Sex, Public Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex) – John discovers that Sherlock has a motorbike. He also discovers that he finds Sherlock on a motorbike to be unreasonably attractive.

Code 221b by whitchry9 (T, 6,528 w., 11 Ch. || S1 Canon Compliant, Medical, Paramedics, Hurt/Comfort, Outsider POV) – Sherlock Holmes is well known to the paramedics of London. So when John Watson comes into the picture, it seems like a fantastic solution. Someone would take care of Sherlock and prevent all those problems. Of course, they didn't think about what would happen if John was hurt. (They really should have.)  Part 1 of the The Patron Saint of Idiots series

Permanent Fixture by vitruvianwatson (E, 18,836 w., 9 Ch || Post-S4, Parentlock, Slow Build, Friends to Lovers, They’re Good Parents, Blushing Sherlock, First Kiss/Time, Explicit Consent, Sexual Content) – Now, as Rosie sat curled up against Sherlock’s side, John watched and wondered exactly how he had ended up here. Domesticity had never suited him before, not at any point in his life. His disastrous marriage had been proof of that. But somehow, here in the warmth and safety of 221B Baker Street, here with Sherlock Holmes reading medical jargon to his daughter, Sherlock’s bony feet nudging against his leg, John couldn’t imagine anyplace that would make him happier.

Sex Shop Quartet Series by testosterone_tea (E, 28,180+ w. across 3 works || Series WiP || First Kiss/Time, POV John, Sex Toys, Sex Talk, Anal Play, Anal Beads, Anal Fingering, Awkward Sexual Situations, Rimming, Inexperienced Sherlock, Oral Sex, Developing Relationship, Love Confessions, PWP, Bondage, Handcuffs, Praise Kink, BDSM, Kink Negotiation, Edgeplay, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Ice / Wax Play, Blindfolds, Emotional Love Making, Teabagging, Riding Crops, Impact Play, Intercrural Sex, Roleplay, Spanking, Collars) – Sherlock goes undercover at a sex shop but finds he has no idea what any of the toys are for. Cue John Watson, awkward sexual conversations and some unfortunate incidents involving too much plug and not enough lube. But all's well that ends well and Sherlock gets the best happy ending of all.

Roll Away Your Stone by foxxcub (E, 39,463 w., 1 Ch. || Downey Holmes || Boarding School AU) – Seventeen-year-old John Watson is set to finish his final year of school with a flourish, until the headmaster assigns John as a "tutor" to an arrogant, yet brilliant new student named Sherlock Holmes. Holmes is not about to be put in his place by this popular rugby football player with the too-blue eyes, and John isn't going to let this impulsive fifteen-year-old get away with anything. Neither expects to become friends, but a series of unexpected events and a possible murder mystery bring them closer together than either of them thought possible.

I Believe in Sherlock Holmes by Ranowa (T, 63,038 w., 10 Ch. || S3 Fix It, Hurt Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Torture, Homeless Network, Alcohol Abuse, No Mary, Bit-Not-Good/Angry John, Protective Mycroft, Angst with Happy Ending, Non-Linear Narrative, Major Character Injury, Recovery, Forgiveness, Sherlock’s a Mess) – John's been angry at Sherlock since the day he turned up wearing a fake mustache and a tuxedo. He's still angry, even as he moves back into 221B, and he never hesitates to let Sherlock know it.One day, Sherlock stops saying sorry, and walks out instead.One day, Sherlock wakes up handcuffed in the boot of a car, and John doesn't know, because John's been angry at him for so long he's forgotten that he's not the only one that's hurting.

I'm coming home, John. -SH Series by Ranowa (M, 67,247 w. across 3 works || Post-TRF, Angry John, Idiots in Love, No Mary, Drug Use/Substance Abuse, Emotional Rollercoaster, Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, PTSD Sherlock, Recovery, Sherlock’s Violin, Angst with Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Asexual Sherlock) – In the two years after Sherlock throws himself off the roof of St. Bart's, crunches into the pavement below, and dies in John's arms, John starts texting.He doesn't know that his text messages are being read.

Roommates are for little people by alexxphoenix42 (E, 69,042 w., 14 Ch. || Teen/Unilock || Forced to Share a Bed, Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Relationship, Sherlock is a Prick, Drinking, Inadvertent Drug Use, Family Wedding, Footballer John / Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Frottage, Slow Burn, Mild Dub Con, Cuddling While Sleeping, Slight Homophobia, Posh Boy, Dirty Dancing, Endearments, Nosy FAmily, Bathing Together, Mild Angst, UST/RST, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff) – John was looking forward to seeing his friends back at uni, but a new year brings new complications, not the least of which is a dorm room with only one bed, and a stroppy roommate with an utterly spectacular arse. God, John doesn't need the headache.

Gold Rush by ShirleyCarlton (E, 71,783 w., 17 Ch. || Post S3 / No Mary, Friends to Lovers, Mentions of Past Sexual Abuse, First Kiss, Case Fic, Slow Burn, Alternating POV, Switchlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Marriage Proposal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Abduction) – John has divorced Mary and pops round to 221B one evening to find Sherlock in the middle of a case. As Sherlock tries to find the identity of a young woman’s stalker, John realises he can no longer deny his feelings for Sherlock – which then, to their befuddlement, turn out to be mutual. Shy kisses and tentative embraces ensue. But will Sherlock be able to cast off a shadow from his past that he thinks might prevent John from wanting to stay?

Scheherezade by sgam76 (G, 197,576 w., 45 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF/Pre-TSo3, PTSD Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Humour, Protective John, Papa Lestrade, Big Brother Mycroft, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Aftermath of Serbia, Past Child Abuse, Childhood Memories, Drunk Sherlock, Canon Compliant, Suicidal Thoughts / Attempt) – Sherlock is home, he and John are returning to cases, and all's right with the world--right? But a series of minor mishaps and injuries makes two things very clear to his friends and family: first, Sherlock's time away wasn't the grand adventure everyone has assumed it was; and second, that time has left Sherlock with a legacy that's bleeding into his life today. Sherlock is Not Okay, and it's not going away. Part 1 of the Scheherezade 'verse series

POSTED THIS YEAR [WiP’s & Full] (19)

A Bowl of Comfort (Store-Bought is Fine) by tepidspongebath (T, 763 w., 1 Ch. || Food, Comfort, Domesticity, Fluff) – “When did you last eat?” “What day is it?” “Oh, for god’s sake - you can’t keep skipping meals like this, Sherlock.” “It’s Lent.” “And since when do you care about Lent?” “Since you get chocolate eggs at Easter.” (to read)

End of the Curve by doctor_not_your_girlfriend (T, 833 w., 1 Ch. || COVID-19, One Shot, Medical Realism, Major Illness, Recovery, Optimism, Disability, Needles) – July, 2021. Mycroft has a special delivery for Sherlock. Inspired by Proving A Point by elldotsee, J_Baillier. (to read)

Love Is A Smoke by J_Baillier (T, 3,617 w., 4 Ch. || Heavy Angst, Pining, Romance, MCD) – It's spring in 2036. John and Sherlock are no longer together. Sherlock attempts to cope — or doesn't. (to read)

A Study in Beard by Loveismyrevolution (T, 3,810 w., 1 Ch. || Established Relationship, Fluff and Humour, Experiments, Beards, Idiots in Love, Quarantine) – Sherlock has to face the consequences of using up all of their shaving foam. Which turns out to be more fun than expected. Boys being boys, nothing can go without a challenge. Although, being isolated presents a problem. How will they determine the winner? Part 2 of the Hairy Situations at 221B series (to read)

Isolated by CarmillaCarmine (G, 3,926, 3/4 Ch. || WiP || Quarantine From Virus, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Bi-Panic, Cuddling & Snuggling, Coming Out, Bathing/Washing, Bubble Bath, Kissing) – Due to an ongoing pandemic, John and Sherlock find themselves isolated at 221B. (to read)

Sherlock's Solution by PipMer (T, 4,125 w., 1 Ch, || Fluff, Romance, Friends to Lovers, Isolation/Quarantine, Pining, Miscommunication, First Kiss) – Sherlock and John are stuck in quarantine. Against all expectations, John is the one who goes stir-crazy first. Sherlock has a unique solution to the problem. (to read)

The Unexpected Threat by J_Baillier (T, 4,283 w., 1 Ch. || Military AU / Pacific Rim Fusion || Established Relationship, Medical Conditions, Coronaviruses, Doctor John, Bratty Sherlock, Romance, Science Fiction, Futuristic Medicine, Ghost Drifting AKA Telepathy, Medical Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Healing) – The kaiju are not the only threat to the security and well-being of the staff of PPDC's Chard's Rift base. It's the year 2050, and a coronavirus epidemic sweeping the planet has reached The Azores. Part 4 of the At The Edge of Our Hope (to read)

Quarantine by wendymarlowe (T, 6,444+ w., 20/? Ch. || WiP || COVID-19, Forced Isolation / Quarantine, John’s Blog, Humour) – John and Sherlock are stuck at 221B together due to coronavirus concerns. Sherlock slowly drives John barmy. (to read)

Stranded by BeautifulFiction (T, 5,798 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Communication / Relationship Discussion, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, BAMF John, Doctor John, Case Fic, Drinking, Huddling For Warmth, Friends to More) –  When stranded on a derelict barge at high tide, John and Sherlock reconsider their friendship.

Attentions, Experiments, Oddnesses by hubblegleeflower (E, 6,383 w., 1 Ch. || Friends to Lovers, Experiments, Frottage, Mutual Masturbation, Kissing, First Time) – John is behaving oddly, and Sherlock hopes it means what he thinks it means, but he has several theories and could well be missing some of the facts. (to read)

Casualty by Silvergirl (E, 12,051 w., 4 Ch. || Canon Compliant Until T6T, Mary’s Dead, Trauma/Comfort, John’s a Good Friend, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss/Time, Sherlock Learns Teamwork, Parentlock) – Sherlock renders assistance at a hit-and-run and is left deeply shocked. When the accident turns into a case, John moves back in to 221b to help—and finds that Sherlock has way oversold his image as an emotionless thinking machine. (to read)

The Night Riviera from Paddington to Penzance and Back Again by  Iwantthatcoat (M, 12,918 w., 5 Ch. || Post-S4, Hurt/Comfort Emotional Hurt/Comfort, BAMF John, Devil's Foot Adaptation, Hallucinations, Oral Sex) – Mrs Hudson has decided her boys need a little vacation together (after the events of S4) away from London and has booked them an inordinately (per Sherlock) long train ride from Paddington Station to Penzance. (to read)

A Gossamer Dream by CarmillaCarmine (E, 15,985 w., 4 Ch. || Writer/Teacher AU || First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Writer John / Teacher Sherlock, Fluff, London, Holding Hands, Online Friendship / Romance, Phone Sex, Anal Sex, Happy Ending) – Sherlock had never realised one could care so much about someone they'd never met in person. Now he is about to meet the friend with whom he's been chatting online for months and his anticipation is reaching a crescendo. (to read)

Contrition by sussexbound (E, 18,556+ w., 5/? Ch. || WiP || Post-S4/TFP Didn’t Happen, Rosie Doesn’t Exist, T6T/TLD is Canon, Year After TLD, Light BDSM, Soft Dom Sherlock / Sub John, Punishment, Light Bondage, Light Masochism / No Sadism, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Tenderness, Aftercare, Forgiveness, Edging, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Mutual Masturbation, Hand Jobs, Anal Fingering, Rimming, Frottage, Communication, Sexual Negotiation, Sexual Tension, Spanking, Head Injury, Anal Sex) – “You’ve been tense ever since we got back, itching for a fight, all your usual tells, but why…?” The truth strikes like lightning. “Oh… Oh! You’re not angry at me. Not this time. Well—maybe a little. But mostly, mostly you’re angry at yourself. Why? For falling behind? For not being there in time. For not taking Wilkes down fast enough?” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t really matter.” He lifts a finger to his swollen cheek and cut eyebrow. “You blame yourself for this. And you offered to fix it. But I wouldn’t let you, and… But that’s not what you really want, anyway, is it?” John looks stunned, a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming lorry, frozen, waiting for the lethal strike. “You don’t want me to let you help. At least not right away. No. What you want, what you really want is—punishment.” (to read)

Feeling Seen by jadztone (E, 30,177 w., 9 Ch. || Ballet!Sherlock / Rugby!John, Demisexuality, Virgin John, Experienced Sherlock, Toplock, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Background Molly/Irene & Greg/Sally) – Rugby player John is starting over at a new university, with the help of friends Molly and Bill. Few people know that John is demisexual, but ballet dancer Sherlock Holmes deduces right away that he has no interest in sex unless he’s fallen in love. John finds this strange genius intriguing and would like to get to know him, but Sherlock has a self-cultivated reputation for only wanting casual sex. John has reason to believe that’s not really true, but he’s not sure he wants to risk his twice-fractured heart to find out. (to read)

Sanguineous Serendipity by CarmillaCarmine (E, 34,783 w., 14 Ch. || Vampire AU || Alternate First Meeting, Turning a Character, Vampire Sherlock, Captain John, POV John, Feeding, Blood Drinking, Crossdressing Sherlock, Genderfluid Character, Sherlock in Heels, Transphobic Behaviour, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Soulmates, Romance, Happy Ending) – Vampire Sherlock meets a dying John in a field hospital in Afghanistan and gives him a whole new life. (to read)

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse by SilentAuror (E, 50,635 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S4/S4 Divergence, Case Fic, For a Case / Reverse Fake-Relationship, Conferences, Marriage Equality, Travelling / New York, Pride, Homophobia, Bottomlock, Marriage Proposal, John POV, Sexuality, Love Confessions, Emotional Love Making, Public Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Passionate Kissing, Needy/Clingy Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Touching / Hand Holding, Bed Sharing, Little Spoon Sherlock, Intense Orgasms) – John and Sherlock go to New York to attend a conference run by the National Defence of Traditional Marriage Coalition in order to investigate the potential bombing of the annual Manhattan Pride parade. As the conference unfolds, John finds himself repulsed by the toxic ideology being presented, which becomes relevent to his own unacknowledged issues and his friendship with Sherlock...

Next Right: Welcome to Westbound Rest Area 818 by elwinglyre (E, 59,874+ w., 13/15 Ch. || WiP || American Unilock AU || Bunk Beds, Anonymous Sex, Homophobia, Closeted John, Roommates, Angst with Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Music, Rape/Non-Con, Hurt John, BAMF John) – Sherlock Holmes dreams of escape from his smothering family and space to breathe. Studying chemistry at the University of Michigan, he's almost far enough away to fill his lungs. Almost. While John Watson dreams of being a doctor, he also dreams of being with another man. John knows that with hard work and study, he can make the first a reality, but he's certain the second can never be. Until a secret encounter in the dark at Rest Area 818 changes everything. When Sherlock meets his new roommate, John Watson, he sees a man in the closet. Sherlock hides from no one. Except from his own family, a detective inspector who wants his evidence returned, and his secret encounter at Rest Area 818. Thank you to recently folded who lovingly beta’d chapters 1-5 and helped with an important plot point that deeply enriches this story. Also thank you to hotshoeagain for beta'ing the rest of the story.Setting late 1970s, Michigan, USA. POV third person alternates between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. (to read)

Thermocline by J_Baillier (M, 83,557 w., 14 Ch. || Scuba Diving AU || Adventure, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Marine Archaeology, Asexual Sherlock, Horny John, Relationship Drama, Technical/Scuba/Wreck Diving, Slow Burn, Underwater /  Medical Peril, Doctor John, Hurt Sherlock, Anxious Sherlock, John POV, Protective John, Body Appreciation) – John "Five Oceans" Watson — technical dive instructor, dive accident analyst and weapon of mass seduction — meets recluse professor of maritime archaeology Holmes. As they head out to a remote archipelago off the coast of Guatemala to study and film its shipwrecks for a documentary, will sparks fly or fizzle out?

ANYTHING GOES – JOHNLOCK (5)

Talk by illwick (E, 6,364 w., 1 Ch. || Dirty Talk, John’s Giant Junk, PWP, Light BDSM, Size Kink, Oral / Anal, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Rel.) – Sherlock was never much for dirty talk... until an unexpected visit yields unexpected results. Part 20 of Unwind

Ghost Stories by SwissMiss (M, 22,256 w., 1 Ch. || Pining, Holmes Family, Christmas, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Bed Sharing, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, First Time) – Sherlock's parents think he and John are a couple. They might be onto something.

Pater Noster by SilentAuror (E, 34,256 w., 2 Ch. || Case Fic, HLV/S3 Fix It Fic, Family Trauma, Sherlock POV, Villain Mary) – During the autumn that John is staying at Baker Street again after Sherlock was shot, he ruminates over the similarity between Sherlock's shot and the one that killed his father when he was fifteen. Cold case meets series 3 fix-it. Part I takes place entirely within His Last Vow, Part II takes place starting at the end of HLV and continues after.

The Homecoming Series by sussexbound (M, 51,744 w. across 12 stories, WIP || Domestics, PTSD, Love Confessions, Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling, Jealousy, Family Issues) – Sometimes home is all you need. After three years of horror, betrayals, and crushing loss, John and Sherlock find their way back home to one another, and together find new footing in a world that has changed forever.

The Green Blade by verityburns (T, 72,929 w., 15 Ch. || Case Fic, Bromance) – As a serial killer hits the headlines, the police are out of their depth and the next victim is out of time. With faith in Sherlock Holmes at an all time low, this is a case which will push loyalties to the limit...

ANYTHING GOES – INEFFABLE HUSBANDS (5)

All Roads Lead To You by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel (T, 2,549 w., 2 Ch.|| Pining Crowley, Oblivious Aziraphale, Love Confessions, Feelings, Resolved Romantic Tension, Rescuing, Happy Ending, Snake Crowley, Magic Bracelets, POV Aziraphale) – It had taken Aziraphale quite some time to find the presence he had been looking for, but here he was, in the Reptile House of the London Zoo. As an angel, Aziraphale shouldn’t have been finding amusement in the discomfort of another, but he couldn’t help but do so as he was glared at by a very familiar snake. “Oh my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, “how ever did you end up in this situation?”

The slowest moving object in the universe by chamyl (G, 4,996 w., 1 Ch. || God POV, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Beach Day, Games, Light Humour, Tenderness, Embarassed Crowley, Soft Idiots, First Kiss, Love Confessions) – Crowley and Aziraphale have had feelings for each other for a very long time. It takes a date at the lake and a round of 36 Questions That Lead To Love to give them the final push.

Wings and How to Hide Them by triedunture (M, 10,134 w., 1 Ch. || Mutual Pining, First Time, Love Confessions, Body Swap, Wing Kink, Idiots In Love) – Crowley's been annoyingly in love for six thousand years. What's another lifetime between friends? Or: Aziraphale definitely fucks and isn't that just perfect?

Souls In Creation by Dragonfruit112 (NR [M], 23,110 w., 6 Ch. || Aziraphale was Raphael, Hurt/Comfort, Angst With Happy Ending, True Angel Forms, Memory Loss/Amnesia, Seraph!Aziraphale, Cherub!Crowley, Moments of Time, Pining Aziraphale, Deaths, Disasters Through History, Whump, Taking Care of Each Other, Friendship, Mates to Friends to Mates, Bed Sharing, Sick Crowley, Healing Powers, BAMF Aziraphale) – They knew each other before the Fall. They loved each other before the Fall. They were creation's first soul mates. But the Fall changed everything, and now Aziraphale is forced to live in a world where only he remembers their shared past. Burdened by pain and grief, he hides himself under the guise of a clumsy Principality until he can make his love remember once more. Only, he doesn't know how long that'll take.

Any Way You Want It by LieutenantLiv (M, 27,585 w., 5 Ch. || Holidays, Slow Burn, Fluff, First Time, Eventual Smut, Swimming, Dreams of Dancing, Kissing in the Rain, Self-Esteem Issues, Misunderstandings, Crying Love Confessions, Soft Crowley, Clingy Crowley, Virgin Aziraphale, Romance) – Saving the world is exhausting work. With Heaven and Hell off their backs, it seems as good a time as any for Crowley and Aziraphale to take a proper break. Neither one of them predicts the direction their holiday takes.Who'd have thought that sharing a cottage in Scotland would be quite so romantic?

[lesbiedykes]

aY’all wanna hear an AU I have for Carmen Sandiego? No? Well I’m gonna rant anyway. 

TLDR; V.I.L.E. is a Coven of Vampires.... more under the cut. Warning: goes not extremely explicit but does get dark, and contains spoilers for season 2. 

AU Where VILE is a coven of vampires. These vampires are the stereotypical vampires. They cannot walk in sunlight, fire and silver are dangerous to them. They need sleep albeit not as much as humans. They can eat human food, but it tastes bad. Ultimately, vampires can only be made, not born (or so they believed...) 

Approximately 400 years ago (1600′s), Gunnar Maelstrom was reborn into his new life as a Vampire. A noble in his human life, he was soon hunted down by vampire hunters when they realised he had stopped ageing. He is forced to flee and live in the shadows, resentment growing. He spends a century wreaking havoc upon humanity, a gory murder spree that soon bores him. He wishes to return to his life of luxury. 

In the early 1700′s, he meets Dexter Wolfe, a talented human thief who manages to rob a group of wealthy individuals blind, making off with their property. Maelstrom is witness to this and follows Wolfe. Wolfe is homeless and stealing to survive, but strives for more. He and Maelstrom strike a deal, and Wolfe is turned into a vampire by Maelstrom. 

Maelstrom and Wolfe, for a few years, work as a team. They travel the world, stealing whatever the need to live lavishly. In the late 1700′s, they meet Countess Cleo. She is from a fairly wealthy family and knows much about high society, culture, and art. While they were attempting to rob her, she discovered their secret and then asked to join them. They agreed, due to her valuable skills. 

They meet Saira Bellum soon after, an absolute genius for her time. Cleo falls in love with her immediately. The group is impressed with her abilities, and decides to welcome her into their fold. Together they sail to the New World in the 1800′s, where they meet Brunt, a widow put on trial for murdering her husband, who would be sentenced to death. Maelstrom takes an interest in her, and decides to turn her. 

The five of them continue to travel for another couple decades, before finally deciding to open V.I.L.E. Academy with their accumulated wealth, and expand their coven. 

Each year, they would accept forty students from across the world. Any promising thief could attend and at the end of the year, 15 students would pass. Because the transformation into Vampire was potentially fatal and only the strongest could survive, usually only 5-8 agents survived each year. Those who died during transformation are disposed of and those who survived wake up to an unquenchable thirst, and participate in their first hunt - their old classmates, set loose on the island. (This would, after all, keep V.I.L.E. a secret, two birds with one stone.) 

Shadowsan/Suhara was raised to be an actual samurai, deflected days before his first battle and stealing one of his brother’s (who was a samurai) swords. He eventually makes it to V.I.L.E. island, where he is amongst the graduating class and the survivors of the transformation. 

Flash forward over 150 years. Dexter Wolfe has grown bored of the island, taking off constantly to explore the world once more. His absences grow more and more frequent. The faculty, his coven, are deeply betrayed believing he might be attempting to run away, and send Shadowsan to kill him. 

Shadowsan tracks Wolfe down to Buenos Aires, Argentina, where he sees that Wolfe is intending to run, and.... has a child? Which surely, should be impossible - but it’s not. 

Recovering from his shock, Shadowsan plans on killing Wolfe, but is stopped when the police arrive on a raid. He watches as Wolfe puts his daughter in a closet, talks sweetly to her to calm her down, and takes off. Chief shoots Wolfe, which would have been fatal if he were not a vampire. 

Shadowsan prepares to do damage control - kill all witnesses, after dealing with the target. He begins the fire in the house, planning to move outside afterwards. What he does not expect is for Wolfe, upon seeing the flames, to run back into the house to save her daughter. (Oh, how his teacher has changed.) 

Shadowsan takes the girl and gets out of the house just as the roof collapses. Knowing there’s no way for Wolfe to have survived that, he opts to return to V.I.L.E. without taking out the police. 

Shadowsan takes credit for Wolfe’s death and for bringing Black Sheep back to the island. They puzzle over her existence and have Bellum run a few tests that prove she really is half vampire. This being completely unprecedented, they decide to raise her and study her, with the plan to make her their secret weapon. 

Through her youth, Black Sheep shows little to no signs of her Vampire lineage. She eats human food and runs around in the daytime (although the sun may hurt her eyes, at times), and grows at the rate of a normal human child. She does seem a bit faster and more agile, but that could just be the fact she was raised by professional thieves. Because of this, the faculty keeps the vampire thing a secret from her, which she generally accepts. 

Things continue as they do in canon, with her getting in contact with Player, requesting to attend the academy, and failing (although she does not get fed to her passing classmates, talk about preferential treatment). She follows them out on their mission and has the same realisation about stealing. She is surprised to see that her classmates have changed, but she cannot describe how or why. 

She is returned to the island and eventually makes a break for it after stealing the hard drive. Things continue as normal. She meets Ivy and Zack and they join her, the has multiple successful capers.... 

And then she gets sick. 

Her vampire awakening as truly struck. Carmen spends a few days writhing in pain, mimicking an actual transformation. When she comes out of it, she is bloodthirsty. She tackles the first person she finds on the street and begins to drink their blood. 

Carmen comes to just as the person looses consciousness, and she’s left with a limp body she rushes to emergency. Carmen rightfully panics, having no idea what has happened to her. Player does his best to research, coming up with only urban legends about vampires. They both agree its ridiculous and instead agree that VILE most likely did something to her to make her like this. She continues her missions, fighting the desire for blood. She is also suddenly more sensitive to sunlight (though not nearly as much as a full vampire) and has lost part of her appetite for human food. 

When Chase is taken prisoner and used for bait, she saves him and is almost killed by Brunt. Shadowsan saves her and reveals that he is the one who found her, and that she is half vampire. He gives her a kinda half-assed explanation about her past and tells her that V.I.L.E. is indeed a Vampire Coven. He leaves her with the hard drive and a bottle of pills. 

The pills are an imitation blood substitute that vampires can add to beverages and drink to survive between feedings. They were invented by Bellum for the operatives to drink to reduce the need for blood. Carmen, not being a full vampire even after her transformation, wouldn’t need to drink them as often, but they help the cravings. 

Meanwhile: 

ACME does not know they are hunting Vampires. They genuinely believe it’s just a large criminal organisation. Chase, however.... is a descendent of a long line of vampire hunters, and believes that Carmen is a vampire before she even began to wake up as one. While the claims feel ridiculous, he is still the only agent that has managed to get close to Carmen Sandiego, so ACME wants him on their side. 

I have more but I’m tired so maybe I’ll add more tomorrow. If you read this far, thanks!!! 

[mllemaenad]

(Chantry Asker) I don't defend the Chantry because I think is "has to be good", but part of what Dragon Age encourages us to do is consider the difficulty faced by well-intentioned factions. The Inquisition, for example, has problems, becoming vulnerable to infiltration, and depending on how you played the game, may have done worse. It's not easy to help people, but the Chantry TRIES. Many Thedosian groups don't even do that. If not the Chantry, then to whom do the downtrodden and hopeless turn?

But Anonymous person: this is exactly what I mean. Whence comes this desire to treat the Chantry like some kind of beleaguered, underfunded kindergarten teacher?

“She’s trying, okay? She’s trying.”

Do you feel the need to defend Mass Effect’s Cerberus, too? Sometimes an evil organisation is just an evil organisation.

Why on earth do you think the Chantry is ‘trying’? Again: absolutely no one is saying that a particular revered mother (or Chantry brother or sister) may not be a good person who attempts to help people. That’s not in question. But ‘the Chantry’ is a continent-wide political organisation with massive resources and influence. It is led by a divine and by grand clerics, and on the other side by lord and lady Seekers and by knight-commanders of the templars. It has shaped the world. That’s the scale we are working on here.

No one group in history has impacted life in Thedas more than the Chantry. The influence of this church of the Maker prevails across most of the continent’s kingdoms, and the bulk of humanity pays at least lip service to its tenets. Belief in the Maker has started wars and forced those outside the Chantry to the fringes of society.

– The World of Thedas Volume I

So that’s a good start.

"The Keepers, Shaperate, Qun, Augers, Seers, and Shamen don't help. Only the Chantry.”

That’s one of the first things you said to me. And it’s so confusing because ... it reads like you really don’t grasp that these people are not in Lothering because, largely, they have been driven to the margins by Orlais and its Chantry. They can’t be there. They would die. 

Just as an example – can you imagine what would happen to an augur who set up in some Chantry-dominated village? Started summoning his gods, offering guidance and assistance, suggesting spirit possession to help training young mages? The poor bastard wouldn’t live out the day. But that wouldn’t be his fault. His people aren’t the ones practising religious persecution.

How – how – does that demonstrate the virtue of the Chantry? You can’t give someone points for being the only game in town when they’ve killed all the other players.

The Chantry began and has continued to be a predominantly human organisation. Other races are seen to be further from the Maker. The elves have their false pantheon of idols. The dwarves worship themselves. The Qunari are the worst of all, actively crushing worship of the Maker and desecrating Chantry values in the name of the Qun.

–  The World of Thedas Volume I

They have built the racism right into their doctrine, so that’s nice. And the religious persecution. And just ... zero self-awareness in that they hate the Qunari for converting by force when they do the same thing.

But let’s think about your "downtrodden and hopeless”, shall we?

Why is it that most of the elves in Thedas live in abject poverty, and regardless of their skills are effectively barred from bettering their lot? Oh, that’s right. Because the Chantry invaded their homeland, stole it from them, and forced them to live in slums and convert to the Chantry faith.

But you already know that something went wrong. A small elven raiding party attacked the nearby human village of Red Crossing, an act of anger that prompted the Chantry to retaliate and, with their superior numbers, conquer the Dales.

We were not enslaved as we had been before, but our worship of the ancient gods was now forbidden. We were allowed to live among the humans only as second-class citizens who worshipped their Maker, forgetting once more the scraps of lore we had maintained through the centuries.

– The City Elves

Why is it that most mages are dependant on Chantry run Circles to house, feed and clothe them? Oh, that’s right. Because the Chantry kidnaps them as children, prevents them from inheriting their family titles and property, and steals their children in turn should they have any.

Chantry law requires those with significant magical ability to join the nearest Circle and live under its supervision. While Thedosians with extremely low levels of magical talent are generally permitted to go about their lives, they are still closely watched. In most nations, practising magic and not joining a Circle is to be branded an apostate and, thus, a danger to society. Those who survive capture are turned over to the Circle to become students or prisoners, depending on the circumstances.

– The World of Thedas Volume I

So that’s ... pretty great. It sounds as though you’re suggesting – best case scenario – that the Chantry should get points for setting up a soup kitchen for the homeless, when they were the ones who burned down those people’s houses. And built an ugly mansion on the land.

But that really is a ... best case scenario. It doesn’t really fit with the reality of how the Chantry operates. I mean: the Chantry takeover in Kirkwall was a fucking disaster. Meredith had death squads. I mean – death squads. That whole situation was a dystopian nightmare.

And then there’s whatever the fuck is going on in Tantervale:

Chantry law is all but absolute in Tantervale, earning the city its dour reputation. The city guard is obsessed with enforcement. A street urchin would get a year in the dungeon for something that would get him a pat on the back in Orlais.

– World of Thedas Volume I

So ... yay for theocracy? And then there’s the clusterfuck in Jader:

The overpopulation and poor living conditions led to an outbreak of disease that nearly crippled the city, followed by famine in the poorer sections when it was quarantined.

Mother Giselle, whose prosperous chantry was in a wealthier quarter, wrote to Val Royeaux asking for assistance from the Chantry. When help was not immediately forthcoming, it is said that she addressed the clerics of her chantry. “As Andraste herself said, ‘My faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,’ then so shall faith sustain the hungry in this time of need,” Giselle told them. “As we have devoted our lives to divine contemplation, such a diet should come to us quite easily.” With that she took the unprecedented step of taking all of her chantry’s food into the poor quarters of Jader, distributing it to peasants who would otherwise have starved to death.

Shocked and shamed by what some in Val Royeaux privately referred to as an ostentatious bullying tactic, Chantry officials coordinated relief efforts. Food arrived quickly, along with instructions on how it was to be distributed: first to the Jader chantry to end the hunger strike, then to the Orlesian peasants, then to the Fereldan refugees, and finally to the elves of the alienages. Mother Giselle famously replied to the orders by saying, “If we believe that some have fallen further from the Maker’s grace than others, then those who have fallen further are in greatest need of our care. We cannot fill their souls until we have filled their bellies.” With the support of Lady Seryl of Jader, who was directing relief efforts of her own, Giselle ignored the directives and fed the poor of the city without regard for race or nationality.

Her actions saved thousands of lives in Jader and made her a beloved figure among the poor in Orlais and Ferelden alike. Those actions also destroyed her chances of any official political advancement in the Chantry, as the grand clerics did not look kindly on being shown up in such a manner.

– World of Thedas Volume II

So, five important points here:

1) Mother Giselle’s actions are ‘unprecedented’. So stepping up like that and forcing the Chantry to give aid in a time of crisis is not actually standard practice.

2) This is a clear example of a person attempting to do good and being stymied by the Chantry hierarchy.

3) The Chantry is, in case anyone forgot, really fucking racist.

4) Ending a famine also ended this woman’s political career, because the Chantry just cannot stop being The Worst.

5) While Giselle is undeniably doing some really awesome stuff here, that bit about not being able to fill people’s souls before filling their bellies indicates that even good people tend to do harm when following Chantry doctrine, because they can’t just ‘do good’. They’re also pushing conversion.

Whenever and wherever the Chantry has real power, they tend to do terrible harm. They do it on such a scale, on such a level of ‘these bloody hands may never be clean again’ awful that ... a few acts of kindness can’t easily redeem them.

To be critical of the Chantry, I don’t need to have another option. I can critique a thing without going further – especially since ‘The Chantry killed everyone else’ is ... pretty much why other people aren’t around to help. But ... it really isn’t as if no one else knows how to do good? 

I mean – look at Alistair. Assuming you made him king, he shows up with ships to bring the Fereldan refugees home, and offers aid to rebel mages. He fights with Meredith about it. That aid continues into Inquisition. While the Chantry is busy tearing Kirkwall apart, Alistair is helping. Anders runs a clinic for the poor and dispossessed in the Kirkwall sewers. He’s so damn popular that a mob turns up to defend him. That’s just one man. Most people like him are locked up, so they can’t help. Imagine a thousand clinics run by spirit healers.

Or ... did ... no one listen to Merrill?

Merrill: What does your Chantry do? I mean, you keep saying how great it is. Anders and Isabela tell me to stay away from it. But what does it do? Among the Dalish, the Keepers teach the children, preserve our history, perform magic. The priestesses here just... sing.

Sebastian: The Chantry does many charitable works. It cares for widows and orphans –

Merrill: Who in the Dalish would just be part of the clan, like everyone else. I just don't get it.

...

Bethany: So, there's no Circle among the Dalish?

Merrill: Any child with the gift of magic is apprenticed to a Keeper... in another clan if there's no need in her own.

Bethany: That sounds nice.

Merrill: Magic is a gift of the Creators. Why wouldn't we use it? It just seems... wasteful for humans to lock their mages away where they can't do any good.

– Merrill Dialogue

The Dalish would regard ‘charity’ as a communal duty, and magic as a tool to help people. She’s not wildly impressed by the Chantry, which is not doing enough good of any kind for her to notice. Merrill lives in one of the poorest parts of the city. So. Maybe her way might be worth a try?

Individuals can do good. Organisations can do good. These things are not in question. But the Chantry is – and I say this again – an imperial religion. Its primary function is to serve the Orlesian empire, which is racist, power hungry and deeply religiously intolerant. Empires are bad news.

I’ve seen the examples you’ve given. They exist. Some of them are real instances of a Chantry official, or a small, local chantry, doing a Good Thing. But I have to ask ...

Can you really look at a set of scales that has ‘genocide’ on one side and ‘helped out a single mum that one time’ on the other and say “Sure, that balances”?

[pussypoppinhippo]

Show me How you Burlesque|| Ballum

Summary: When a burst pipe threatens the Friday night Drag show at the Prince Albert the Vic offer to host instead. The show stars Walford’s own Diana Dee Izzuez but just which one of the residents of the square is behind the glamorous performer? 

A/N: I haven’t written anything like this in maybe ten years but this struck me tonight, beware of spelling mistakes and saucy dancing below.

Spotify Playlist for this fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jVrM8LP1qwd0OvO3vqcgo?si=DtdQVAY4RkKo2ZBmbv6r4A

It was a little past seven at night on a semi busy Friday in the Vic when Tina, somewhat dripping wet despite the wonderful summer weather, came bursting through the pub doors. No one really batted an eyelid at the sight, Linda who was stationed behind the bar wasn’t all that taken aback when the soaking wet woman accosted her talking a mile a minute about drag queens, burst water pipes and a plea to move some sort of theme night into the local pub.

At a table just by the door Jay, Lola and Whitney were chatting waiting for Calum to bring the next round of drinks over from the bar, Whitney and Calum had broken up a year prior just before their wedding day after a blow up argument about the lads clear disinterest in their impending marriage. They’d only really started speaking properly again after Easter and tonight was the first real night in the pub they’d embarked on as friends.

“Apparently some sort of pipe disasters driven everyone out of the Prince Albert” Calum nodded his head over to Tina who was now drying off with a towel Mick had fetched her “ they’re moving their drag show here, starts at eight and apparently they’ve got this local performing as the main act”. Placing the drinks down on the table he took his seat next to Jay “Tina says we can stay for free if we fancy it” he added.

“A local act?” questioned Lola “I wonder if it’s that ...deedee? Ben was talking about the other week there you remember that?” she nudged Jay with an eyebrow raised.

The ginger rolled his eyes affectionately at the mention of his brothers latest nightlife obsession “ Di I think he said, apparently she’s from Walford and if I remember quite rightly he said she was pretty enough to make him consider the other side”.

Calum swallowed at the mention of the handsome mechanic, they’d started dating in secret in November and while Ben wasn’t best pleased with being kept a secret he’d understood that halfway’s father moving to Walford had made his impending coming out much more difficult.

“I say we stay! it sounds like a good laugh doesn’t it?” Whitney piped up with a grin, “ What do you think Cal?”. Nodding he gave her a smile as he reached down to send his boyfriend a cheeky text about missing out on the fun. “Speaking of Ben where is he tonight?” she asked taking a sip of her drink.

“He said Something about some hot totty” Jay snorted with a head shake “ same old Ben ain’t it? though I’m sure he’ll be sad to have missed out on all this” he motioned to the filling pub and the makeshift stage that Mick and Tina were creating toward one end of it.

They fell back into relatively normal conversation about life as they enjoyed their drink, managing to grab another round just before Kathy announced the show would be starting in five minutes time. Checking his phone Calum noted the text from his lover with a smile

‘ Sounds like I’m missing out don’t get stolen away by Walford's blue eyed temptress now ;) x’

He didn’t have time to reply to it as Kathy Introduced the nights entertainment.

“ Please give a warm Walford welcome to the Incomparable Walford vixen Miss Diana Dee Izzuez” she grinned as the first few notes of ‘Welcome to Burlesque” filled the air.

The figure that stepped onto the makeshift stage was like a vision from a Hollywood film, while the person was not particularly tall the glittery red high heels made the fishnet stocking encased legs that peeked from the slit in an equally sparkling floor length gown look long and the dress with its corseted top hugged the figure of the person it encased in all the right places. Long flowing wavy black hair framed a perfectly painted face with lips that could have been painted in blood and as they parted Calum thought he quite possibly could have died as the voice of an angel fell from them.

“Show a little more, show a little less

Add a little smoke, welcome to Burlesque”

It was seductive every move graceful and every word of the song perfectly sung as the queen on staged greeted her audience with an at ease smirk. Everyone in the pub was captivated, the Prince Albert faithful watched on with an admiration for someone they loved and the Vic’s usual punters looked on in an almost awe at the masterful mystery before them. It was only as the second verse began that a vague sort of recognition rang in Calum’s head, he’d heard that voice before he was almost certain but he couldn’t quite place where.

The seductress on stage waved an elbow length black glove encased hand at someone in the crowd as her eyes scanned the rest of them passing over the table at the back of the room with a disgruntled Phil, an interested Sharon, a captivated Louise and a fed up looking Keanu in mild interest before landing on the friends sat near the door with a smirk.

“If you wanna a little extra, well, you know where I am

Something better in the dark, just playing with your mind

There's nothing in the days, that's just for the bump and grind

Show a little more

Show a little less

Add a little smoke

Welcome to …….Burlesque.”

The song finished up and Diana took her applause with a graceful smile and leant down to accept a drink from someone.

“Y’know she does look sort of familiar” Lola popped up eyes narrowing as she studied the figure on stage “y’reckon we know her?” she asked the group who were also studying the drag queen with interest.

“Maybe it’s kush?” added whitney “ I can’t really tell the lighting here is awful”.

The ginger snorted “ can’t be we all know after New Years karaoke Kush’s tone deaf, what do you think mate?” he nudged Calum unaware that the penny had just dropped for the former army officer, Diana Dee Izzuez was sporting a rather prominent hickey just above a classic pearl necklace, a hickey that the man knew matched perfectly with one he’d given Ben mere hours before in the Arches and that singing voice one that reminded him so much of Ben singing in a hotel shower after a sneaked weekend away a month or so back.

“Uh I…no idea mate” he stumbled out trying to hide his surprise with a sip of his drink as he tried to make sense of the fact that the beautiful performer on stage could in fact be his rough around the edges boyfriend.

“Welcome Ladies, Gentlemen and those who are somewhere in between, my name is Diana Dee Izzuez but you my friends can call me Di” the queen purred voice husky with a musical lilt that had Calum second guessing if his suspicions about this being Ben were right.

“I’m going to sing a few songs and do a touch of dancing for you tonight, if you enjoy my performance there are tip jars on the bar we’re collecting money in aid of AKT who help support LGBT+ homeless youth” Di smiled before taking a sip of her red wine and setting it down on the side of the stage. Clicking her fingers above her head the next songs started up the plucky piano recognisable to anyone who enjoyed a Broadway show almost immediately.

"The name on everybody's lips

Is gonna be Roxie

The lady raking in the chips

Is gonna be Roxie”

Highways mouth went dry as he watched Di swing her hips seductively on stage, every word was sung with that same devilish smirk that he could pinpoint as the one Ben used along side witty one liners, that was most definitely his boyfriend. Her hips swayed as she clicked her fingers to the beat teasingly kicking her leg out from the slit in the dress so the audience could catch a peak of the lacey black garter and matching suspenders underneath.

“From just some dumb mechanics son

I'm gonna be Roxie

Who says that murder's not an art?”

While the change in lyrics may have went over almost everyone in the pubs head it had Sharon and Louises eyes widening in recognition although Ben hadn’t made it that subtle he’d coupled the line with a little kiss blown toward the table.

His boyfriend certainly caught it and it had confirmed what he’d been thinking, Walford’s blue eyed vixen was none other than Ben Mitchell. On stage the performance went on Di was shimming along to the beat, the little break in the music was filled with a slow seductive turn and a pretty impressive high kick showing off more of the lace hidden underneath the eye catching dress. Taking a step off the stage the crowd practically parted  as Di didn’t miss a beat heels clicking in time with the music as she purred the lyrics.

Think of those autographs

I'll sign,

'Good luck to ya, '

Roxie!

She leaned over signing a piece of paper that was offered toward her with a flourish, she made her way toward the back of the crowd interacting with people as she went. Di never wavered once while singing leaning over to kiss a miserable looking Keanu’s cheek as she breezed past the Mitchell table and worked back toward the stage leaving the woman at it stifling giggles. Reaching the group of friends at the front she shot Calum a wink.

“the audience loves me!

And I love them

And they love me for loving them

And I love them for loving me

And we love each other

And that's because none of us

Got enough love in our childhoods

And that's showbiz

Kid”

Di had leant toward them as she’d sung the lines and the last few  had definitely been aimed toward Calum who was trying his best not to turn beet red. He was definitely going to have to have a long talk with Ben after this and perhaps he’d suggest those heels make an appearance at their next weekend away. She climbed back onto the stage finishing the song with a flourish and a smile before smoothing her hands over her curves then bending down to pick up her wine.

“Y’know those pearls…. they looks a bit like the ones you showed me with the one pink pearl in the centre” Jay arched an eyebrow at Calum who hadn’t quite managed to get his blush under control.

“No…no don’t think so mate” the taller man spluttered trying to avoid eye contact, he’d noticed it as well that  the pearl necklace Di was wearing was identical to the one he’d bought Whit for their wedding day but had never given her, the one he was sure was supposed to be nestled in his bedside drawer back at the flat.

“Wait ...do you know who she is Cal?” Whit questioned as everyone at the table turned toward him, looking at him expectantly she leaned in a little more “have you figured it out?”

Shaking his head he was just about to blurt out an excuse when a voice from the stage interrupted.

“ For this next song I’m going to need a handsome volunteer” Diana pretended to scan the audience her eyes almost immediately landing on Calum who was trying to lean away from his ex almost wife who had leant in to try and get information out of him, the little flash of jealousy in Di’s eyes was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“hmmmm you” she purred pointing to Highway “ give that tall glass of water a round of applause as he makes his way up here oh and barkeep?”. She waved a hand toward Mick with a dazzling smile “ two of your finest whisky please for me and my friend here”.

While she’d been speaking Kathy had slipped a chair onto the stage, of course she knew exactly who Di was, Ben had approached her about the drag nights after he’d done a few gigs at other clubs but she wasn’t quite sure why exactly instead of the usual anonymous handsome punter he’d picked Calum for this bit.

Making his way onto the stage after some pushing from the others Cal allowed himself to be pushed down into the chair eyes taking in just how gorgeous the other was up close in drag.

“ be good for me lover boy” Di purred in his ear as the music for the next song started up leaving Calum blushing to stand behind the chair.

“The demon queen of high school has decreed it

She says Monday, 8am I will be deleted

They'll hunt me down in study hall

Stuff and mount me on the wall

Thirty hours to live, how shall I spend them?”

Up close like this the taller man could smell the perfume Diana wore, the musky floral scent was definitely expensive and the note of something very strictly Ben peeking through it was definitely making it that much more alluring. Diana's hand slid down Calums chest as she sang undoing the top button of his white button up with gloved hands. Her hips still swinging she danced around the man in the chair using him as a prop to help enhance her performance. Every word of the song was sung with such passion the lanky man was sucked in, so enchanted he wasn’t expecting the lap full of Di that he ended up with.

"Shh…

Sorry but I really had to wake you

See, I decided I must ride you ‘til I break you

'Cause Heather says I gots to go

You're my last meal on death row”

She guided his hands to her hips and faced the audience as she seated herself in his lap the pleased smirk of blood red lips saying it all the watching audience. Calum’s eyes drifted toward his group of friends who were giggling, grinning and wiggling their eyebrows at him as he received what could best be described as a lap dance from the other. He was most definitely past blushing and was now an almost permanent shade of pink that perhaps could only be matched by the shade of red Phil Mitchell had turned when his wife had explained exactly who the tart on stage was really.The Dance continued just as raunchy as Di rolled her hips and halfway hands wandered ever so slightly to run over the curve of waist the corset was giving the beautiful babe in his lap.

Get your ass in gear

Make this whole town disappear

"Okay, okay!"

Slap me, pull my hair

Touch me

There and there and there

And no more talking!

Whoa!

Love this dead girl walking!

A slap to the man's thigh and then hand tugging halfways hair in time with the song sent the crowd cheering and they only got wilder as Diana stood in front of him and ripped the skirt from her dress revealing lace boy short style panties that at that moment only Calum could see had the word ‘saucy’ stoned in red gems on the back and that matching lace suspender set that held up fishnet stockings. Hitting the note at the end of the song the place practically erupted as Di took a bow and then the whisky offered on a tray by Mick handing one to Calum before cheersing him. Downing it the undertaker stood up moving to make his way off stage but not making it very far as he was caught by Miss Diana who spun him around and promptly kissed him on the lips. Despite the moment of panic it brought immediately Calum found he didn’t actually care and pulled the other closer to deepen the kiss ever so slightly appreciating that with Ben in such high heels he didn’t have to bend into the kiss so much.

Parting to wolf whistles from the crowd Halfway slipped off of the stage and back to his table where he was greeted by raised eyebrows.

“SO you don’t her then?” questioned Jay as he crossed his arms.

“ never kissed me like that cal” Whitney added reaching over to wipe a spot of red lipstick that had transferred over to the corner of his mouth.

“ So c’mon spill, who is the mysterious Diana Dee Izzuez” prompted Lola as they all leaned in toward the other so they would be able to hear his answer over the beginnings of Britney's Toxic.

The door near the back of the pub slammed followed by a muffled “Phil!” and Calum could only chuckle his eyes were drawn back to the dancing figure on the stage who had gone from Hollywood glam to sex kitten.

“ Well I’d say he’s a talented man with daddy issues” he grinned, glancing over to the others at the table “but I think you’d know him better as Ben Mitchell and he’s my boyfriend”.

[dyde21]

Pressure

So Spiderman became my favorite PS4 title pretty quickly I think. I love it, and I’ve always had a soft spot for him. I also absolutely love how MJ was portrayed in the game, and I had this idea so I ran with it.

XxXxXxXxX

Hearing her phone buzz, MJ was turning her head before she managed to pry her eyes from the article she was writing. Finishing off another sentence, a small smile graced her lips as she finally picked up her phone. She was in a good groove, and she was pretty sure this article would go over well. Things had been oddly quiet in the city, so she actually had a chance to report on a massive charity effort that had had a noticeable impact on the homeless population, and had lead to a ten percent decrease in the population as more people were connected with jobs to help them out.

Turning on her phone, she'd be lying if she didn't admit that seeing Peter's name and the little spider emoji didn't bring a smile to her face.

Can I swing by for a bit?

Pausing, she tried to suppress the sinking feeling in her gut. Something about his text just felt wrong. She wasn't sure if it was just from years of knowing him, and being in an on and off relationship with him, but she had a sixth sense for when something was wrong with him.

Of course. She quickly replied, before she turned back to her article, trying to get through it before her night was derailed by Peter in either a wonderful or awful way, depending on how lady luck seemed to be feeling tonight.

Be there in five.

She saw the message, leaving it as she went back to writing. She knew she had about ten minutes before he got here, figuring the odds of him not passing a crime on the way to her apartment was slim to none. Pausing after the end of a paragraph, she quickly dialed her phone as she ordered a pizza for them. She knew crime fighting had a habit of making her unfortunately under-fed boyfriend starved, and she wasn't really in the mood to cook and judging by his odd text, she doubted he was either.

When fifteen minutes, MJ was seriously starting to get worried. While Peter being late was definitely more a normal situation than him actually arriving on time, there definitely felt something wrong about tonight. Part of her wanted to text him again, but she figured if he was in the middle of being shot at, a text was the last thing he needed at the moment. Doing her best to focus on finishing up her article, she pushed thoughts of her crime fighting boyfriend from her mind. He could take care of himself, he had been doing it for years after all. If she started worrying every time he was in danger she'd go insane.

When she heard the window slide open five more minutes later, she let out a sigh of relief. She closed her laptop, having just finished the last edits on her piece before she heard the loud thump. Racing across the room, she turned the corner to see Spider-man laying on the ground, clutching his shoulder.

“Peter!” She called out in a worry as she ran to his side, helping him sit up as he groaned. He ripped his mask off with one hand. “I'm okay.” He muttered, but she could tell he was the farthest thing from it. He just looked... horrible. There were no other words for it, and she didn't even just mean the fact he had a wound in his shoulder.  “Come here, get to the bathroom!” She ordered as she began to pull him along. He managed to drag himself to his feet, and as she watched him she could see just how beat up he was, his suit was torn all over and he had a slight limp. Which was even scarier, because the news hadn't released any reports of a supervillian attacking. Just what had caused all of this?

A minute later and she had Peter sitting on the edge of her tub as she pulled off his shirt, starting to dress his wounds like she had done too many times in the past. For once he wasn't making any quips or attempts at humor, and that scared her more than the blood.

“What... what happened?” She asked after a moment, her curiosity and concern eating away at her.

“I... failed.” He said after a moment, his head dropping into his hands.

Pausing her first aid, she looked at him. Peter was damn good at his job, especially after all these years. Sure some things were out of his control, but he usually could soldier on. She hadn't seen him this down in years, since she had first found out his secret and found out the toll it took on him. Setting down the bandages, she sat on the tub next to him, looking at him patiently. “What happened?” She asked after a moment.

Peter just looked at her, opened his mouth to say something that she was pretty sure was a joke before he sighed.

“It was supposed to just be a simple mugging. I swung in, stopped it without issue, but before I could web them up properly for the police, a getaway driver nearly ran me over. They sped away and I chased them... but...” His voice trailed off as she saw his eyes darken. “Pete...” She offered gently, running a hand through his hair.

“He shouldn't have been there!” He burst out suddenly. “He should have waited for a cross walk. But the boy was just running across the street, and the muggers weren't interested in slowing down. Before I could stop the car completely it...” Peter's voice cracked as he fell silent. “I was so distracted I didn't notice them pull a gun and point it back at me until I was hit. After that it's a bit of a blur. The boy's in the hospital... and it doesn't look good.” Peter finished his story.

MJ felt a fist clench around her heart as she stared at her broken boyfriend. She could tell he blamed himself completely for this, once again ignoring that it was the criminals who did it.

“Peter...” She said softly as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a hug. She felt him wrap his arms around her, hugging her tightly as he buried his head into her neck. “It's not your fault.” She whispered softly, rubbing the back of his head.

She knew peter felt responsible for every death since he put on that mask, and everyone added just a little more weight to his shoulders. She hated nights like this, when it seemed like Peter was incapable of seeing all the wonderful good he did, all the lives he saved, for the few he failed.

After a few minutes, he seemed to get himself back together and MJ went back to work with bandaging his wounds. Luckily he healed quickly, so she knew he'd back up on his feet in no time.

“Look at me Pete.” She asked after a moment, waiting for him to meet her eyes. His eyes met hers and she smiled, before she leaned forward and kissed him briefly. She laughed slightly at his bewildered expression, still glad that even after all these years he was her lovable dork that preform precise movements of acrobatics in the middle of a fight while dodging bullets, but he still got flustered with a little personal affection.

“You can't blame yourself for this. The driver was the one who ran, after committing a crime in the first place.” She explained patiently. She already knew how he would respond.

“But it's my jo-”

“Peter!” She said, reaching up and cupping his face, making him look at her, cutting off his denial. He just stared at her, finally giving her his full attention again.

“You're not a god. You're a man in a mask. You do amazing things. You've saved so many lives, you've inspired so many people. But you're still just a man. You can't blame yourself for everything.”

MJ saw his shoulders slump as a look of resignation overcame him. She had known him for years now, and she had seen his growth. From an awkward, unsure teenager who got powers out of nowhere, to a man who was figuring out his place in the world, to the hero standing on top of the city, to his low moments like how where he regretted ever putting on his mask. She had been with him through most of it, and she planned to stay at his side, because he no matter how many responsibilities had been shoved on his plate, he always made the time to be excited for her as she pursued her dream as a reporter, and even when they fought about her habit of getting into danger, he was always, always there for her. While she may get annoyed at how often he had to run off, it was clear he always felt guilty as well and rarely took her for granted. Despite their ups and downs, they were an important part of each others life by now, and nothing could change that.

Peter nodded after a moment. “You're right. I just...”

“Wish you could do everything?” She finished for him, offering a patient smile.

He returned the smile, nodding. “Yeah.”

MJ just nodded. “I don't blame you it's tough feeling helpless...” She muttered, thinking back on all the times she saw him fighting, or watching him come back from a fight in a similar condition that he was in to now. “But you have to realize sometimes things are out of your control. It's not easy, trust me. But it's important.”

Pete nodded. “You're right... as usual.” He said after a pause, making her smile. “I'll... work on it.” He offered.

Nodding, MJ felt satisfied. “That's all I ask. That hero heart you have is one of the things I love about you.” She confessed, making them both flush. They leaned forward, about to kiss again when someone was suddenly knocking on the door. “The pizza!” MJ exclaimed, hopping up and rushing across the apartment, leaving Peter confused and asking about pizza.

Standing at the door, MJ fished out money before she realized there was still a pool of blood right inside the window where Peter had fallen in. Cursing her luck, she did her best to open the door without letting him see too much inside. Luckily it was New York so she doubted the delivery boy would be weirded out by the person acting a little strange. He seemed a bit curious as to what she was hiding, but she tipped him ten bucks and shoved him away and he seemed content as he left as she closed the door and let out a deep breath. She had tried very hard to keep a relatively normal reputation with her neighbors, and she didn't need any rumors starting. Peter was standing near the doorway to the bathroom, still shirtless but he had finished bandaging his wounds. He just looked somber, there was no other way to properly describe his downtrodden expression. MJ's eyes flashed over his chest, still not quite used to just how good of shape Peter was in under his suit. Forcing her eyes upwards, she smiled and nodded her head. “You have some spare clothes in my room. Bottom drawer of the dresser.” She offered.

Ever since she had found out the truth, and he had occasionally crashed at her place when either injured or just too tired, she had kept a few sets of clothing for him. Not including the nights he just stayed over to be with her. By the time he had emerged again, he was in a comfy pair of sweatpants and a daily bugle sweater than just made him look cute. While she loved seeing him look heroic in his suit without a mask, or sexy when shirtless, seeing him all bundled up in casual clothes like that was probably her favorite. It was when he was really just Peter Parker. The geek she fell in love with. He joined her on the couch, the TV turned to some random movie as they both started eating a few slices of pizza, idly chatting about her new article or when they both had the free time to go see that new movie in theaters.

She noticed he was still quiet, but he seemed to have at least regained some sense of self. Just then, the distant echoes of a siren rang out as she saw him freeze, his eyes drifting over to where she was sure he left his suit.

“No.” She warned, causing him to look back at her.

“But...”

“No.” She repeated, setting down her mug to turn towards him and prepare for a fight.

“I can't just...”

“Yes you can.” She snapped, before toning it back for a moment. “Peter, for tonight, for me. Just stop. You're not in the right head space for this. If you go out there now, you could make a mistake, someone else could get hurt. YOU could get hurt. Don't do that to me. Don't do that to yourself.” She said, reaching up to cup his face gently. “There isn't a super villain out there. The cops exist for a reason, and they can cover things for a few hours.”

She could tell he still wanted to get up, but she saw her words spinning around his head, slowly convincing him. Reaching down, she grabbed another slice of pizza, holding it up for him, her eyes pleading him to take it.

He stared at her for a moment, then the pizza, before he sighed and nodded. He took the pizza and settled back into the couch, taking a bite.

Proud, she leaned over and kissed him. The world could wait for a night. Standing up, she made her way over to the window and shut it properly, they didn't need sirens interrupting them for once.

Moving back to the couch, she sat down on it and looked over to see her Pete chilling out eating Pizza for once. Grinning, she beckoned him with a finger. “Come here, Tiger.”

MJ was pretty sure she'd always prefer kissing her boyfriend to worrying about him.

XxXxXxXxX

Hope you enjoyed this little story! It was pretty fun writing it, I love this couple and I hope we can see more of them in future games.

[gordonwilliamsweb]

San Francisco Wrestles With Drug Approach as Death and Chaos Engulf Tenderloin

This story also ran on Los Angeles Times. It can be republished for free.

SAN FRANCISCO — In early 2019, Tom Wolf posted a thank-you on Twitter to the cop who had arrested him the previous spring, when he was homeless and strung out in a doorway with 103 tiny bindles of heroin and cocaine in a plastic baggie at his feet.

“You saved my life,” wrote Wolf, who had finally gotten clean after that bust and 90 days in jail, ending six months of sleeping on scraps of cardboard on the sidewalk.

Today, he joins a growing chorus of people, including the mayor, calling for the city to crack down on an increasingly deadly drug trade. But there is little agreement on how that should be done. Those who demand more arrests and stiffer penalties for dealers face powerful opposition in a city with little appetite for locking people up for drugs, especially as the Black Lives Matter and Defund the Police movements push to drastically limit the power of law enforcement to deal with social problems.

Drug overdoses killed 621 people in the first 11 months of 2020, up from 441 in all of 2019 and 259 in 2018. San Francisco is on track to lose an average of nearly two people a day to drugs in 2020, compared with the 178 who had died by Dec. 20 of the coronavirus.

As in other parts of the country, most of the overdoses have been linked to fentanyl, the powerful synthetic opioid that laid waste to the eastern United States starting in 2013 but didn’t arrive in the Bay Area until about five years later. Just as the city’s drug scene was awash with the lethal new product — which is 50 times stronger than heroin and sells on the street for around $20 for a baggie weighing less than half a gram — the coronavirus pandemic hit, absorbing the attention and resources of health officials and isolating drug users, making them more likely to overdose.

The pandemic is contributing to rising overdose deaths nationwide, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, which reported last month that a record 81,000 Americans died of an overdose in the 12 months ending in May.

“This is moving very quickly in a horrific direction, and the solutions aren’t matching it,” said Supervisor Matt Haney, who represents the Tenderloin and South of Market neighborhoods, where nearly 40% of the deaths have occurred. Haney, who has hammered City Hall for what he sees as its indifference to a life-or-death crisis, is calling for a more coordinated response.

“It should be a harm reduction response, it should be a treatment response — and yes, there needs to be a law enforcement aspect of it too,” he said.

Tensions within the city’s leadership came to a head in September, when Mayor London Breed supported an effort by City Attorney Dennis Herrera to clean up the Tenderloin by legally blocking 28 known drug dealers from entering the neighborhood.

But District Attorney Chesa Boudin, a progressive elected in 2019 on a platform of police accountability and racial justice, sided with activists opposing the move. He called it a “recycled, punishment-focused” approach that would accomplish nothing.

People have died on the Tenderloin’s needle-strewn sidewalks and alone in hotel rooms where they were housed by the city to protect them from covid-19. Older Black men living alone in residential hotels are dying at particularly high rates; Blacks make up around 5% of the city’s population but account for a quarter of the 2020 overdoses. Last February, a man was found hunched over, ice-cold, in the front pew at St. Boniface Roman Catholic Church.

The only reason drug deaths aren’t in the thousands, say health officials, is the outreach that has become the mainstay of the city’s drug policy. From January to October, 2,975 deaths were prevented by naloxone, an overdose reversal drug that’s usually sprayed up the nose, according to the DOPE Project, a city-funded program that trains outreach workers, drug users, the users’ family members and others.

“If we didn’t have Narcan,” said program manager Kristen Marshall, referring to the common naloxone brand name, “there would be no room at our morgue.”

The city is also hoping that this year state lawmakers will approve safe consumption sites, where people can do drugs in a supervised setting. Other initiatives, like a 24-hour meth sobering center and an overhaul of the city’s behavioral health system, have been put on hold because of pandemic-strained resources.

Efforts like the DOPE Project, the country’s largest distributor of naloxone, reflect a seismic shift over the past few years in the way cities confront drug abuse. As more people have come to see addiction as a disease rather than a crime, there is little appetite for locking up low-level dealers, let alone drug users — policies left over from the “war on drugs” that began in 1971 under President Richard Nixon and disproportionately punished Black Americans.

In practice, San Francisco police don’t arrest people for taking drugs, certainly not in the Tenderloin. On a sunny afternoon in early December, a red-haired young woman in a beret crouched on a Hyde Street sidewalk with her eyes closed, clutching a piece of foil and a straw. A few blocks away, a man sat on the curb injecting a needle into a thigh covered with scabs and scars, while two uniformed police officers sat in a squad car across the street.

Last spring, after the pandemic prompted a citywide shutdown, police stopped arresting dealers to avoid contacts that might spread the coronavirus. Within weeks, the sidewalks of the Tenderloin were lined with transients in tents. The streets became such a narcotics free-for-all that many of the working-class and immigrant families living there felt afraid to leave their homes, according to a federal lawsuit filed by business owners and residents. It accuses City Hall of treating less wealthy ZIP codes as “containment zones” for the city’s ills.

The suit was settled a few weeks later after officials moved most of the tents to designated “safe sleeping sites.” But for many, the deterioration of the Tenderloin, juxtaposed with the gleaming headquarters of companies like Twitter and Uber just blocks away, symbolizes San Francisco’s starkest contradictions.

Mayor Breed, who lost her younger sister to a drug overdose in 2006, has called for a crackdown on drug dealing.

The Federal Initiative for the Tenderloin was one such effort, announced in 2019. It aims to “reclaim a neighborhood that is being smothered by lawlessness,” U.S. Attorney David Anderson said at a recent virtual news conference held to announce a major operation in which the feds arrested seven people and seized 10 pounds of fentanyl.

Law enforcement agencies have blamed the continued availability of cheap, potent drugs on lax prosecutions. Boudin, however, said his office files charges in 80% of felony drug cases, but most involve low-level dealers whom cartels can easily replace in a matter of hours.

He pointed to a 2019 federal sting that culminated in the arrest of 32 dealers — mostly Hondurans who were later deported — after a two-year undercover operation involving 15 agencies.

“You go walk through the Tenderloin today and tell me if it made a difference,” said Boudin.

His position reflects a growing “progressive prosecutor” movement that questions whether decades-old policies that focus on putting people behind bars are effective or just. In May, the killing of George Floyd by the Minneapolis police energized a nationwide police reform campaign. Cities around the country, including San Francisco, have promised to redirect millions of dollars from law enforcement to social programs.

“If our city leadership says in one breath that they want to defund the police and are for racial and economic justice and in the next talk about arresting drug dealers, they’re hypocrites and they’re wrong,” said Marshall, the leader of the DOPE Project.

But Wolf, 50, believes a concerted crackdown on dealers would send a message to the drug networks that San Francisco is no longer an open-air illegal drug market.

Like hundreds of thousands of other Americans who’ve succumbed to opiate misuse, he began with a prescription for the painkiller oxycodone, in his case following foot surgery in 2015. When the pills ran out, he made his way from his tidy home in Daly City, just south of San Francisco, to the Tenderloin, where dealers in hoodies and backpacks loiter three or four deep on some blocks.

When he could no longer afford pills, Wolf switched to heroin, which he learned how to inject on YouTube. He soon lost his job as a caseworker for the city and his wife threw him out, so he became homeless, holding large quantities of drugs for Central American dealers, who sometimes showed him photos of the lavish houses they were having built for their families back home.

Looking back, he wishes it hadn’t taken six arrests and three months behind bars before someone finally pushed him toward treatment.

“In San Francisco, it seems like we’ve moved away from trying to urge people into treatment and instead are just trying to keep people alive,” he said. “And that’s not really working out that great.”

This story was produced by KHN, which publishes California Healthline, an editorially independent service of the California Health Care Foundation.

Kaiser Health News (KHN) is a national health policy news service. It is an editorially independent program of the Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation which is not affiliated with Kaiser Permanente.

USE OUR CONTENT

This story can be republished for free (details).

San Francisco Wrestles With Drug Approach as Death and Chaos Engulf Tenderloin published first on https://nootropicspowdersupplier.tumblr.com/

[stephenmccull]

San Francisco Wrestles With Drug Approach as Death and Chaos Engulf Tenderloin

This story also ran on Los Angeles Times. It can be republished for free.

SAN FRANCISCO — In early 2019, Tom Wolf posted a thank-you on Twitter to the cop who had arrested him the previous spring, when he was homeless and strung out in a doorway with 103 tiny bindles of heroin and cocaine in a plastic baggie at his feet.

“You saved my life,” wrote Wolf, who had finally gotten clean after that bust and 90 days in jail, ending six months of sleeping on scraps of cardboard on the sidewalk.

Today, he joins a growing chorus of people, including the mayor, calling for the city to crack down on an increasingly deadly drug trade. But there is little agreement on how that should be done. Those who demand more arrests and stiffer penalties for dealers face powerful opposition in a city with little appetite for locking people up for drugs, especially as the Black Lives Matter and Defund the Police movements push to drastically limit the power of law enforcement to deal with social problems.

Drug overdoses killed 621 people in the first 11 months of 2020, up from 441 in all of 2019 and 259 in 2018. San Francisco is on track to lose an average of nearly two people a day to drugs in 2020, compared with the 178 who had died by Dec. 20 of the coronavirus.

As in other parts of the country, most of the overdoses have been linked to fentanyl, the powerful synthetic opioid that laid waste to the eastern United States starting in 2013 but didn’t arrive in the Bay Area until about five years later. Just as the city’s drug scene was awash with the lethal new product — which is 50 times stronger than heroin and sells on the street for around $20 for a baggie weighing less than half a gram — the coronavirus pandemic hit, absorbing the attention and resources of health officials and isolating drug users, making them more likely to overdose.

The pandemic is contributing to rising overdose deaths nationwide, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, which reported last month that a record 81,000 Americans died of an overdose in the 12 months ending in May.

“This is moving very quickly in a horrific direction, and the solutions aren’t matching it,” said Supervisor Matt Haney, who represents the Tenderloin and South of Market neighborhoods, where nearly 40% of the deaths have occurred. Haney, who has hammered City Hall for what he sees as its indifference to a life-or-death crisis, is calling for a more coordinated response.

“It should be a harm reduction response, it should be a treatment response — and yes, there needs to be a law enforcement aspect of it too,” he said.

Tensions within the city’s leadership came to a head in September, when Mayor London Breed supported an effort by City Attorney Dennis Herrera to clean up the Tenderloin by legally blocking 28 known drug dealers from entering the neighborhood.

But District Attorney Chesa Boudin, a progressive elected in 2019 on a platform of police accountability and racial justice, sided with activists opposing the move. He called it a “recycled, punishment-focused” approach that would accomplish nothing.

People have died on the Tenderloin’s needle-strewn sidewalks and alone in hotel rooms where they were housed by the city to protect them from covid-19. Older Black men living alone in residential hotels are dying at particularly high rates; Blacks make up around 5% of the city’s population but account for a quarter of the 2020 overdoses. Last February, a man was found hunched over, ice-cold, in the front pew at St. Boniface Roman Catholic Church.

The only reason drug deaths aren’t in the thousands, say health officials, is the outreach that has become the mainstay of the city’s drug policy. From January to October, 2,975 deaths were prevented by naloxone, an overdose reversal drug that’s usually sprayed up the nose, according to the DOPE Project, a city-funded program that trains outreach workers, drug users, the users’ family members and others.

“If we didn’t have Narcan,” said program manager Kristen Marshall, referring to the common naloxone brand name, “there would be no room at our morgue.”

The city is also hoping that this year state lawmakers will approve safe consumption sites, where people can do drugs in a supervised setting. Other initiatives, like a 24-hour meth sobering center and an overhaul of the city’s behavioral health system, have been put on hold because of pandemic-strained resources.

Efforts like the DOPE Project, the country’s largest distributor of naloxone, reflect a seismic shift over the past few years in the way cities confront drug abuse. As more people have come to see addiction as a disease rather than a crime, there is little appetite for locking up low-level dealers, let alone drug users — policies left over from the “war on drugs” that began in 1971 under President Richard Nixon and disproportionately punished Black Americans.

In practice, San Francisco police don’t arrest people for taking drugs, certainly not in the Tenderloin. On a sunny afternoon in early December, a red-haired young woman in a beret crouched on a Hyde Street sidewalk with her eyes closed, clutching a piece of foil and a straw. A few blocks away, a man sat on the curb injecting a needle into a thigh covered with scabs and scars, while two uniformed police officers sat in a squad car across the street.

Last spring, after the pandemic prompted a citywide shutdown, police stopped arresting dealers to avoid contacts that might spread the coronavirus. Within weeks, the sidewalks of the Tenderloin were lined with transients in tents. The streets became such a narcotics free-for-all that many of the working-class and immigrant families living there felt afraid to leave their homes, according to a federal lawsuit filed by business owners and residents. It accuses City Hall of treating less wealthy ZIP codes as “containment zones” for the city’s ills.

The suit was settled a few weeks later after officials moved most of the tents to designated “safe sleeping sites.” But for many, the deterioration of the Tenderloin, juxtaposed with the gleaming headquarters of companies like Twitter and Uber just blocks away, symbolizes San Francisco’s starkest contradictions.

Mayor Breed, who lost her younger sister to a drug overdose in 2006, has called for a crackdown on drug dealing.

The Federal Initiative for the Tenderloin was one such effort, announced in 2019. It aims to “reclaim a neighborhood that is being smothered by lawlessness,” U.S. Attorney David Anderson said at a recent virtual news conference held to announce a major operation in which the feds arrested seven people and seized 10 pounds of fentanyl.

Law enforcement agencies have blamed the continued availability of cheap, potent drugs on lax prosecutions. Boudin, however, said his office files charges in 80% of felony drug cases, but most involve low-level dealers whom cartels can easily replace in a matter of hours.

He pointed to a 2019 federal sting that culminated in the arrest of 32 dealers — mostly Hondurans who were later deported — after a two-year undercover operation involving 15 agencies.

“You go walk through the Tenderloin today and tell me if it made a difference,” said Boudin.

His position reflects a growing “progressive prosecutor” movement that questions whether decades-old policies that focus on putting people behind bars are effective or just. In May, the killing of George Floyd by the Minneapolis police energized a nationwide police reform campaign. Cities around the country, including San Francisco, have promised to redirect millions of dollars from law enforcement to social programs.

“If our city leadership says in one breath that they want to defund the police and are for racial and economic justice and in the next talk about arresting drug dealers, they’re hypocrites and they’re wrong,” said Marshall, the leader of the DOPE Project.

But Wolf, 50, believes a concerted crackdown on dealers would send a message to the drug networks that San Francisco is no longer an open-air illegal drug market.

Like hundreds of thousands of other Americans who’ve succumbed to opiate misuse, he began with a prescription for the painkiller oxycodone, in his case following foot surgery in 2015. When the pills ran out, he made his way from his tidy home in Daly City, just south of San Francisco, to the Tenderloin, where dealers in hoodies and backpacks loiter three or four deep on some blocks.

When he could no longer afford pills, Wolf switched to heroin, which he learned how to inject on YouTube. He soon lost his job as a caseworker for the city and his wife threw him out, so he became homeless, holding large quantities of drugs for Central American dealers, who sometimes showed him photos of the lavish houses they were having built for their families back home.

Looking back, he wishes it hadn’t taken six arrests and three months behind bars before someone finally pushed him toward treatment.

“In San Francisco, it seems like we’ve moved away from trying to urge people into treatment and instead are just trying to keep people alive,” he said. “And that’s not really working out that great.”

This story was produced by KHN, which publishes California Healthline, an editorially independent service of the California Health Care Foundation.

Kaiser Health News (KHN) is a national health policy news service. It is an editorially independent program of the Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation which is not affiliated with Kaiser Permanente.

USE OUR CONTENT

This story can be republished for free (details).

San Francisco Wrestles With Drug Approach as Death and Chaos Engulf Tenderloin published first on https://smartdrinkingweb.weebly.com/

[ohgoddard]

Fist of Fire: Omega.1.4.

Heroes dying is nothing big, unless they were big of course. They die all the time, the villain arms race pulling ahead for but a few minutes. However, its never for long. A villain can never stay in power for long. Unless they’re in congress. I did my fair share of damage to those guys too, believe me. I hated those bastards. In my quest to achieve a quiet head, I had to pop a few. Some were heroes. At least they called themselves that.

Making the honor “hero” a job is up there in the stupidest things humanity has done. No one signs up to be a hero, they are intrinsically one. This is where you get people like the Ultra-Knight, and the race riots of Carson City after his ‘crusade against crime’ ended three dozen lives. Three dozen black lives. The agency covered for him, laying a marvelous case out that pointed to some law infraction in each of the persons lives, calling it all probable cause. Even the fourteen year old who happened to be carrying eyeliner she accidentally didn’t pay for. You can imagine how the case was received.

I was fed up with it. Not with the case specifically, however I was in those crowds in Chicago, but with Heros in title only. People who saw life saving as a paycheck and not the obligation that comes with their job or circumstance. I detest hero academies, hero schools, the whole agency. They may call me an abomination of the costume, a terrorist, but I am more of a hero than they ever were or will be. Because I knew when the “hero” wasn't a hero at all. I’ve been pulling on your chain recently doc, so i’ll give in just this once. Then it's back to the usual lunacy. Celerity of mind only comes once in a while, I hope you understand.

Fantasma was my first. Not my first killing, that was done a few months before hand. Some pimp in a brothel with kids. No, Fantasma was my first hero killing. This might surprise you, because the official cause of death was ‘blunt force trauma by result of duty’. I was that trauma. Fantasma was a sick man. He used his powers of invisibility to get blackmail and perv on the people. He used his office as a way to escape consequence. No one is going to believe you, that a hero would blackmail you? Watch you while you sleep and shower? Record you in your intimate moments? Preposterous it would seem.

No one had proof. How can you, when the very man you claim to be stalked by cannot be found. The police most likely knew, but did not do anything. They used him to go beyond the 4th amendment, search a perps home without them knowing. Had I known what he was doing sooner, no doubt would I have done the same. It would have saved lives. I know all too well of the suicides he has caused. Some of them were at his insistence for some sick game. I found all of this in his files he kept on every single person he blackmailed. For someone so great ta breaking in, he kept a surprisingly lax protection for himself. But I am getting ahead of myself. I do that sometimes.

Did you know Fantasma watched you too, doctor? I am surprised as you are. I thought I remembered your name when I heard it. I read it in those files of his some time ago. You must have been traveling in the city at the time. He hadn’t the time to confront you I suppose. Not like he had anything worth knowing on your file. You were gone too quick. Count yourself lucky, doctor. He did awful things to the women he liked. Anyways where was I? Yes, right.

The voices told me about Fantasma. I heard his name countless times but ignored it, much like every other hero name I heard that wasn't my own. However this one managed to get past me, I could not tell you why. Perhaps it was because it was a cry for help. A cry for help from someone to stop Fantasma. In my usual speed, and backed by an increasingly rare curiosity into the problems of the public, I went over. Stopped a car wreck, a mugging, bank robbery on my way there. No one ever talks about those. Always the bad, never the good. I made my way to the cry, but I could not find it. It had stopped. 

My search revealed the body of a young man, no older than 22. Three gunshots in his chest. A Polaroid resting on his wounds, covered in his blood. It was a clear shot of him and another man, being very… close with another. I found his body in an alley, in between two tall brick buildings. Dozens of people walked by, yet few could tell me if there was even an alley there, let alone if they heard a gunshot. This boy called out Fantasma’s name before he passed, before someone shot him. Now I am the last person to tout my investigative skills, but even the most fly-brained of private eyes could figure out where to go from here. But I needed proof. Not because I was going to go about this in a legal way, mind you. No, I needed to know for myself. I didn’t care then for the politics between the agency and the public, I still do not. However, there are plenty of people that steal the identities of heroes. I do not want to execute an innocent.

I still haven't, by the way. I only take care of the crooks.

Around this time people still thought I was the real Omegaman. I still by birthright, technically. You get what I mean. So strolling into the Chicago branch of the hero agency was a piece of cake. Now you may have a hard time imagining this building because its been destroyed a few times in its lifetime, so let me paint you a picture. Think of the most beige and sad administration office ever. Lifeless grey cubicles lay beyond the pretty receptionist in the lobby. Filled with a few dozen hard-working pencil pushers who kept up with hero jobs, categorizing them, and other boring maintenance tasks. A farm of human life and effort. Truly, the realest evil is the ones we cannot punch away.

Anyways I walked in, costume in full, and just walked into the records room. Omegaman was not to be questioned. His duties were beyond that of Ted Bizby, hero accountant. The records rooms were old school. This branch had not caught up to the modern day, and it made things a variety of easy and difficult. Easy in the sense that everything I needed was kept in one succinct file, easy to read and handle. Downside, the sorting system of the past century seemed to have also evaded the Chicago branch of the agency. With my super-speed and with great effort given to cover my tracks, it took me seven hours. Over nine-hundred heroes in the city, I know in my broken mind the identities and weaknesses as documented by the agency by heart. I also found Fantasma. Frances Garcia-Hernandez. Aged 39, lived in a four room home on the outskirts of the city. No wife and children. God has little miracles for us all. Attached in the file was a picture of him, visible. A thin goatee went around his flabby face. His body was not made for fighting. It would make things easy for me.

What made it even easier was the forty five page complaints against this hero. Every single one followed the same story. Blackmail. Each complaint was flared on the paper, “investigated; dismissed”. I took his file and left the agency. While flying back to my home at the time, a woman’s homeless shelter, I pulled up my phone to check the police database.

Every person who complained on that list is dead. Natural causes. Varying from falling A/C units, debris from nearby hero fights, stray gunshots from gang fights, you name it. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to know this is bullshit. It seems impossible, of course, that any one person can do all this. But not any person is invisible.

It was three days after I made my discoveries that I flew to his home. Crime never sleeps, but I need to. He lived in a very small gated community beyond the city boundaries. Fantasma seemed to live in irony, being someone who breached others security, kept lax home security, but at the same time wanted the very best money could buy. A man of very puzzling interests. Shame that many of them were illegal. His home was a modest one, two rooms per each of its two floors. I came as Kiara that day. It was very easy to get into the gated community, apparently Mr. Garcia-Hernandez had many young women callers. You can imagine why.

Can you see why not all  my murders were bad? I even hesitate to call them murders. More like the removal of cancerous tumors. Or de-leeching.

It was early evening when I knocked on his door. I had dressed in a hoodie and jeans to look as normal as possible. It made it all the more sickening when he opened his door and smiled at me. He stood about my height, but luckily packed exactly as much danger as I expected. He was dressed ina  wife-beater and boxers. His teeth were a disgusting yellow, and his balding head managed to actually cap it off with peak creep. He said to me, “Why, I don’t remember having an appointment today. But my memory is spotty and I could always use the company.” His breath reeked of alcohol. The hero of the people indeed. He put his long and controlling arm around me and beckon me into his home, and I took note of the speed he locked the door behind me. The first time he has done that.

This was not the first time I had been in his home obviously. I had been here before, in the room upstairs filled with industrial servers where he kept gigs of blackmail. But he didn’t know that. And now I had him trapped. This is where the agency’s official deah report differs. It reads that a villain had found his identity and infiltrated his room and killed him in his sleep. What happened was I beat him with a chair leg. Brutally. He had no chance. I rendered him the first stage of human evolution, the sludge he truly was at his core. I spent hours beating him. I tore him apart with my hands after the chair leg broke. He was long dead before hand but I didn’t care.

He would feel all the pain he caused.

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

“That will be all for today, thank you.”

She sounded much more strained today. I turned my head to look at the doctor, doing my best not to intimidate. I asked her with genuine sincerity ,”Doctor was I too descriptive today?”

“No,” she replied. “No, you were good today. I think we are making progress. By.. by getting you to open up about your problems we are closer to fixing what is wrong with you.”

She was lying. She is not ok. Something about her heartbeat. Her sweat. She is scared. But this isn't the fear of me, no I know what that feels like. It's the fear of.. Oh i'm an idiot.

“Doctor, don’t worry about your information getting into the wrong hands. I used his servers to smash him into pieces. He had no back ups. You and many others are safe from copycats.”

A slowing of the heart, a strained smile. “Thank you for your reassurances, Kiara-”

“Omegaman.”

“Omegaman. But I am ok, really. These sessions are about you.”

I flash her my gayest smile. “If you still feel scared, I can escort you to safety.”

It had the intended effect, the heightened heart rate and the blood rush to the cheeks. Her usual professionalism took over, sadly.

“Miss Ki- Omegaman. This is a professional environment. That is all for today.”

I laughed as they carted me back to my room. I still need to sell the crazy look.

[livinginlandmarketing]

In the dramatic midterm elections of 2018, when the fate of the House and Senate hung in the balance and a new governor was about to be enthroned, two of every three votes tallied in California were cast via mail-in ballots rather than by in-person voting —even in the absence of a deadly pandemic.

By-mail voting has long played a dominant role in Golden State democracy, so the ballot-in-every-mailbox experiment currently underway is not so much revolution as evolution. But understanding the particulars of what happened to mail ballots in California’s 2018 election — how many were sent to voters, how many were never returned, how many were rejected and why? — can help prepare for an unprecedented Nov. 3, when counting commences on what may well be the weirdest Election Day in American history.

A Southern California News Group analysis of data collected by the U.S. Election Assistance Commission revealed some surprising things:

In 2018, 13.8 million mail ballots were sent to voters and 8.3 million were returned for counting. That means 39% — some 5.5 million ballots — failed to make their way back to elections offices to be tallied. In Southern California, Los Angeles had the most trouble getting ballots back, with 51% unreturned. In San Bernardino, it was 46%; in Riverside, 38%; and in Orange County, 37%.

Two percent of the mail ballots that did make it back were rejected by election officials, slightly higher than the national average of about 1.4% for the 2018 election. Locally, Riverside was the most prolific rejecter, with 2.3% of returned mail ballots uncounted, while San Bernardino rejected 1.5%, Los Angeles rejected 1.1% and Orange rejected just 0.7%.

Why were those ballots rejected, exactly? The most common reasons were arriving late and without proper signatures, but there were stranger reasons: 198 were rejected because the voters were dead, 222 were rejected because multiple ballots were received in the same envelope, 1,166 were tossed because the voters had already voted, and 153 were rejected because there was no ballot in the envelope. 

Stacks of mail-in ballots wait to be computer counted at the Orange County Registrar of Voters in Santa Ana, CA on Tuesday, November 6, 2018. (Photo by Paul Bersebach, Orange County Register/SCNG)

Such oddities comprise a tiny sliver of the more than 8 million mail ballots cast, and should serve as reassuring proof that the system roots out irregularities, elections experts said. Several studies done over the years have failed to find fraud on any significant scale. Indeed, the conservative Heritage Foundation’s database of confirmed election fraud cases details 1,298 “proven instances of voter fraud” and 1,121 criminal convictions nationwide over a decade, as hundreds of millions of ballots were cast.

“One-hundred-ninety-eight people could have died after mailing their ballot, 222 people could have forgotten they had voted three weeks ago and sent in a second vote,” said Matt A. Barreto, political science professor at UCLA and co-founder of Latino Decisions, a research and polling firm. “The system catches all these things, as it is supposed to.”

An official ballot drop box. (Photo by Watchara Phomicinda, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Controversy over unofficial mail ballot drop boxes set up by the California Republican Party at churches, candidate headquarters and other unauthorized locations has sparked investigations into potential felonies, adding a new layer of complexity to an already-tense 2020 election.

Ballots MIA?

Mail balloting has been a big part of California’s voting picture long before COVID-19. Since 2010, roughly half or greater percentages of voters have chosen to cast mail ballots in general elections. Statewide, 66% of ballots in the 2018 midterm were cast by mail, according to the EAVS data.

Much of Southern California, though, lagged behind the rest of the state: In Los Angeles County, only 44% of votes were cast by mailin 2018, while in San Bernardino it was 59.6%; in OC, 61.5%; and in Riverside: 69.3%

That millions of mail ballots were never returned shouldn’t really come as a surprise.

“We don’t have 100 percent turnout in any election. Many of these people are registered for permanent by-mail ballots —  ‘When I vote, I prefer to vote by mail, but I don’t always vote.’ They’re still going to get a ballot for every election,” said Thad Kousser, chair of the political science department at UC San Diego, whose recent research found that the overwhelming majority of California voters favored mail-in ballots for this election, as well as a widening partisan divide over mail balloting.

Fred Smoller, associate professor of political science at Chapman University, said American elections often fail to propel more than 60 percent of registered voters to do their civic duty. “As a nation, we have the lowest voter turnout of any industrialized nation in the world, so mail ballots that are never returned are consistent with how many people don’t actually go to the polls on Election Day,” he said. “Some see it as one more piece of junk mail.”

And while some states move swiftly to remove inactive voters from the rolls, California leans in the other direction so as not to disenfranchise people.

“One reason why so many ballots go out and may not be used is because we make it hard to remove voters from the voter rolls,” said Kim Alexander, president and founder of the nonpartisan California Voter Foundation. “Other states have much more aggressive purge laws; we have strict anti-purge laws.”

Today, more than half of California voters are registered as permanent, by-mail voters. As their ranks grow — something allowed by a 2001 law — the percentage of ballots that don’t come back has grown as well.

Election workers dump ballots onto a table for sorting in 2018 in Washington state. (AP Photo/Elaine Thompson)

“This is a trend I’ve been watching, and it does concern me from a waste perspective that we’re sending ballots to people who aren’t using them,” Alexander said. “A lot of them probably get recycled. There is an optics concern, because voters don’t have a lot of understanding of what’s happening behind the scenes to process vote-by-mail ballots. But this is a very important point: Even though they’re not being used, they’re not being misused. There’s a lot of security built into the system.”

What happens?

Election workers examine the envelopes before they are opened. Each bears a bar code that’s unique to that voter, and workers confirm the voter’s registration and address.

They check the signature on the envelope against the signature on file. Sometimes people forget to sign. And if the John Hancock on that envelope doesn’t resemble the one from the voter registration or DMV form used to register to vote, the registrar must contact the voter and give him or her time to “cure” the problem, which is why it’s so important to get mail ballots in as early as possible.

If all matches up, workers record that the ballot has, indeed, been cast, which stops the voter from voting again. The envelope is opened, the ballot is removed and the two are separated to protect voter confidentiality. The ballots are flattened, stacked and fed through scanners for counting. Registrars can’t tabulate mail votes, though, until the polls close on Nov. 3.

As of Oct. 20, 4.9 million mail ballots had been returned by California voters, according to data from the Secretary of State. That includes more than 1 million in Los Angeles, 437,000 in Orange, 174,000 in Riverside and 173,000 in San Bernardino counties.

Dead folks and other oddities

In Southern California, scattered cases of voter fraud have been uncovered.

Orange County District Attorney Todd Spitzer informs the public about the county’s response plans to help safeguard the election process on October 5. (Photo by Mindy Schauer, Orange County Register/SCNG)

In August, the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Office charged Caesar Peter Abutin, 55, with casting votes in three elections on behalf of his mother, who had died. He pleaded not guilty.

In July, four men admitted their role in a scheme to give money and cigarettes to homeless people on Skid Row in exchange for false and forged signatures on ballot petitions and voter registration forms.

Reform California, the political action committee of Republican Carl DeMaio, has gathered examples of what it calls “massive fraud” in Southern California counties, including 14 ballots sent to the wrong address; seven people who received multiple ballots with separate voter ID numbers, often with variations of their names (“Margaret” and “Peggy,” for example); and four ballots sent to dead people.

Over the past decade, the Heritage Foundation’s election fraud database for California includes 24 false registrations, five cases of duplicate voting, four cases of ineligible voting and one fraudulent use of an absentee ballot. It doesn’t reflect every instance of election fraud, but the low numbers — and many academic studies — suggest such fraud is  rare.

That almost 200 ballots from dead voters were rejected in the 2018 election shouldn’t raise eyebrows. “You can go vote in the morning and die in the afternoon,” Alexander said.

“No voting system is perfect,” said Chapman’s Smoller. “There are always little instrumental or mechanical problems — like the 90-year-old with memory issues who mails in a ballot and then shows up at the polls to vote — but stories about thousands of mail ballots showing up in rivers is nonsense.

“That’s a very important point: Vote-by-mail does not have widespread, systemic fraud. It is not a hoax. You can trust it. But you’re always going to have things. It’s the nature of human beings.”

In Orange County, the Registrar’s Office takes multiple steps to ensure that voter rolls are up to date on deaths, a spokesperson said, getting notification from the Health Care Agency, the Secretary of State’s “VoteCal Deceased List” and a firm that produces national data on deceased voters. It cancels inactive voters who have not participated in two consecutive federal general elections and checks published obituaries daily. Sometimes, there’s direct notification from the family. Sometimes, ballots are returned and marked “deceased.”

“There is no evidence that there’s fraud or that mail ballots favor one party over another,” Smoller said. “There is evidence that it increases turnout — and if you believe in democracy, that’s a great thing.”

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-on October 23, 2020 at 06:51AM by Teri Sforza