#i am so sorry for my contributions to this fandom i simply desperate for a lovw triangle ft my pookie bear hughie

[buddietommys]

hughie is technically nerd coded and so that just leaves me to believe that if this was a cheesy 2000s romcom he would have his "oh my god the nerd is actually hot?!" moment and it would be during some party and his three love interests (butcher, homelander and soldier boy ehehehe) would all have stunned reactions

[mercurial-madhouse]

Trigger Warning: Healing is painful, but there’s so much light on the other side if we’re strong enough to walk through the dark.

My hope in sharing my story is to help anyone who reads it find peace or healing, just as I always aim with my fiction. If it feels right to you to do so, I encourage you to reblog this. It is highly personal, but I choose to share it publicly.

************

This past Sunday, I received an email responding to my desire to withdraw from a fic fest. Instead of the simple “You have been removed from the fest” that I’d been expecting through an official channel from mods to a participant, this is the response I received. Please be aware, the following is painful.

***

We've removed you from the fest and will mark you down as not being welcome to participate in future fests. We show a great deal of compassion toward our writers, which is why we send reminders, answer any and all questions, and provide extensions when requested. There's a reason why our fest has one of the highest numbers of fics of any fest/challenge in the fandom - it's because we support our participating writers and do everything possible to assist them as they complete their fics.

However, once a writer has repeatedly failed to communicate and missed both a deadline and an extended deadline, it's clear that they do not have any respect for the fest, the mods, our time, or our own unique situations, as we don't have endless extra hours to track down participants in a fic fest. Several reminders on three different platforms, an extension, and requests for writers to simply let us know if they need more time does not demonstrate a lack of compassion in any capacity. We also showed a great deal of compassion by welcoming you with open arms into the [redacted] after you insulted the fest, insulted [redacted] fics, and made writers uncomfortable last year after signing up to beta their fics, all while pretending to support and uplift writers in the fandom just as you did in your email here.

Have a great week!

- [redacted] Mods

***

This email arrived right at the end of the night, just as I was lying down to sleep. I couldn’t read it all the way through. It elicited a trauma response in me. My heart started racing, my palms were sweaty, I was shaking, I felt sick to my stomach.

I went into fight/flight/freeze/fawn mode. My first response was to freeze. In order to escape the barrage of pain bombarding me, I simply dissociated and disconnected from my body. It allowed me to sleep, but barely. I deleted the email in a desperate attempt to pretend it didn’t exist.

The pain caught up with me twenty-four hours later. I couldn’t breathe, my lungs shrunk in around my heart. My whole body locked up. I couldn’t move. I knew that if I spoke, even to say ‘hello’ to someone, I’d start crying.

The moment I was alone in my room the tears came. The pain came, bursting through me. I sobbed uncontrollably, curled into myself on my bed, begging for the pain to stop, begging for a miracle, screaming internally for relief and to understand what I’d done to deserve this because I didn’t have the air for more than broken whispers.

I fell asleep whispering ‘I need a miracle’ over and over. The mantra blocked out all the disgusting thoughts that wanted to keep swirling through my head. This is it. This is the final proof that you don’t belong here. You never have. You never will. Run away, M. It’s over. You tried, you failed. You always do. You always will.

I fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion.

Grief is intense. These are the moments where we don’t think we’ll survive what we’re feeling. My love, whoever you are, if you are reading this, hear from me. The agony passed. I needed to feel that agony, to allow it to move through me and to give myself the space to feel it. Without diving off the deep end into what hurts, I wouldn’t have been able to find the inner peace to keep healing, to start to understand.

The residual pain is still there, even as I write this post. But it no longer overwhelms my senses. And by Tuesday morning, I’d been given insight into what was happening.

I experienced a trauma response because it mirrored mistreatment I first received in childhood from family and classmates alike and continued into my adult life. In full view of others, it was acknowledged as cruel even by my mother, who struggles with her own guilt because she never stood up for me. No one did.

So I internalized the mistreatment. I must deserve it if everyone else around me is ok with me being singled out like this? At first I spoke up for myself. But in the end I stopped speaking up for myself too. I had never healed this pain and here it was, coming back around again, forcing me to face it, to heal it once and for all.

I still do not know what exactly I may have said to cause these accusations that you see in the email. **I do not and will not deny them.** Even if my words were taken in a way I did not consciously intend, to deny that I said anything that caused someone else pain is to deny my own power AND to deny that everyone’s emotions are valid and worth digging into.

I have the power to inflict pain, just as I have the power to spread and share love and joy.

Whatever I said came from a place of pain, of believing I did not belong in this community. That I am not good enough or worthy enough to be here. A series of unfortunate but necessary events when I first entered this fandom completely disintegrated my core beliefs in my abilities as a writer, something I have always kept so close to my heart, and my belief that I had a place in this fandom.

I expect, as I look into my past patterns, that what I did was try to logic why I wasn’t allowed to belong. At the time, this fest was the only subset of the fandom I knew, I was so brand new. So I looked through all the prompts in the fest. I brought a scientific method view to answering the question: “What is it about the fics people write in this fandom am I unable/incapable of doing?”

This process allowed me to generalize everything I saw that I perceived as ‘I can’t do that, this is why I don’t belong here’. Consumed in my own doubt that I could measure up and write something worth reading, I dropped from the fest last year too. If I can’t contribute writing that’s worth reading, I could at least stick with what I do best, which is helping others be their best selves. I had signed up to beta, and I chose to cling to the only grasp of belonging I had, which was through beta’ing. I ended up beta’ing four fics last year for the fest. And, of course, each of them were (and still are) incredible fics. At the time, it was further proof to me of exactly what I can’t accomplish.

In all likelihood, these generalizations, stemming from a place of pain and jealousy because I wanted to write good fics too, came out in a personal conversation with someone, which they translated as a personal attack. It is valid. Whoever you are, your emotions are valid. It does not matter how I meant whatever I said, pain is what you felt. This person did not feel comfortable sharing that pain with me, so instead they turned to others and shared. My moment of vulnerability and pain then spread more pain.

Pain only comes from pain.

The response was to shadow ban me. In fact, I was never meant to find out about any of this. The pain this person shared was simply taken at face value and that was that.

So on my end, this decision showed up in the physical world this way: Suddenly all my asks went unanswered, people I tagged to share snippets and last lines and get to know more through ‘about me’ posts or who had once talked to me through DMs simply stopped speaking to me in a way that is only noticeable to the person being ignored. I thought I was going crazy. But there it was, right in front of me: absolute proof that I wasn’t good enough to be a part of this fandom.

Is anyone else beginning to see the cycle of pain?

I expect I continued this cycle right back, because the pain turned to bitterness. I’d been doing everything I could to support every author the best way I knew how, and this was what I got? The exact opposite?

I found out about this shadow ban and actual blocking around June of this year. An ask sent in by a friend for me, inquiring why I couldn’t reblog a post that’d been sent to me by someone else, finally gave me the answer that I’d been banned for the accusations you saw above.

Horrified, hurt, and unable to comprehend any of this except to know that I support every author no matter what they write, I sent an apology to the mods, trying to end this cycle the best I could without knowing any of the details of what had happened. There was nothing more I could do.

They thanked me for the apology, though as you can see from the email, it was never accepted. I do not say that as a judgement call, but simply as a statement of what happened. Everyone is entitled to accept or not accept in their own time and their own ways.

I have been healing so much since everything that occurred last year. And the more I dig in to this cycle, the more my heart goes out to the drafters of this email, to the person I hurt with my words who then turned to share it out of context with others, and to the people who shadow banned me in connection with this situation.

We attract to us what resonates with us. Like attracts like. Which means just as I’ve attracted the greatest friends to me, I have also attracted this pain, and conversely, these mods and that person attracted me to them.

Deep down, on some level we share the same core wounds. And the person who can really understand just how painful those wounds can be is someone who feels them too.

So this is my message to the mods of the above email, to those who have shadow banned me and want nothing to do with me, and to the original person I hurt with my words:

I am sorry for my part in this pain. I am sorry for causing pain and I apologize for it. You are loved. You are enough. You are doing a fantastic job. Your feelings are valid. Your hurt is valid. I don’t know what occurred that hurt you before I entered the fandom, but after finding out from others that an email like the one you sent above is ‘Oh that’s just how they are’ tells me something else happened to hurt you before I even arrived.

Your hurt then is valid too. Allow yourself to feel it and process it. Don’t let it consume you. Don’t let that hurt and fear of it happening again or believing that that’s how everyone is push away from you people who in fact love just what you love. If someone has a different belief from yours, don’t let it invalidate what is true for you. Believing internalized lies about myself only caused me pain. And we spread and create what we believe to be true, whether we consciously realize it or not.

So here, now, is my truth:

I choose to perpetuate love. I choose to spread love. I choose to understand my pain and the pain of others, to transmute it, and to heal it, instead of passing that pain on.

I choose compassion. Compassion for myself in making these mistakes, and compassion for those who have hurt me. I do not condone the email that was sent to me. No one deserves to be treated that way. I choose to focus beneath the visceral anger and lashing out, to focus on the agony beneath the words, and stop this cycle of pain.

I choose to belong in this fandom. I choose to support every author in this fandom and ensure no one ever feels not good enough. I choose to own my past mistakes and learn from them.

I choose trust. To trust that those who I truly hope will see this, will see it. I have no expectations of responses or outcomes or reactions. My only hope is that whoever will benefit from seeing this post will see it.

This is not a matter of right or wrong, bad or good, just or unjust. It is a situation of two parties in pain, triggered by the same triggers.

Looking back on that email, I’ve come to realize that half of the pain I felt when I received it was not my own. I felt the pain of the attack, sure, but I also felt the immense pain beneath those words. And I wish I could hug you. I acknowledge your pain and I acknowledge how painful it is because I know that pain myself. I also know that this pain isn’t you and it isn’t who you are.

So I choose to remember the mods I first met around this same time last year in this same email chain. Mods who were so kind and offered advice to a brand new writer even when she sent an email that had nothing to do with the fest and was still struggling to find her place in the fandom. I choose to remember how beautiful that kindness felt. I choose to remember how I was so grateful for that kindness that I shared my gratitude for these same mods in an email with with another fandom friend at the time. I am still grateful for you.

You are so loved. You are loved for being exactly who you are. This fandom is built upon love. A shared love of five incredibly talented lads who have brought so much joy and light when each and every one of us has needed it the most. Shine your light through the dark and believe with all your heart that you are not alone. You have support. I support you. Shine on. Don’t let anyone dim it.

[ask-idv-designer]

Just an advice on promoting your fandom related blog. Dont just start your art post with hate art, thats just all-around rotten vibe. It makes even ppl who dislike that character avoid you

In general i suggest separating memes from finished work or putting them under the cut, usually those clash with people wanting to reblog your post

But ye good luck on stuff 💐

I am going under the assumption that this anon either never interacted with Identity V as a whole or don’t understand Philippe’s lore.

I totally get what ya mean, at the same time the hate art in question was an artwork from my Twitter account I made in response to finding out Philippe is getting yet another skin in-game. That was the context which I forgot to include, which is my bad.

Just a bit ironic looking at this message because a good chunk of the fandom hates Wax Artist, including me.

Why?

Within his lore it’s been shown he makes “art” and studies a very outdated and highly racist form of forensic science where you would tell if someone is a criminal by their facial features. This type of study was obviously abused which lead to wrongful imprisonment or death of many POC individuals.

Philippe actively contributes to such a study with his wax “art” and used his own sister’s image without her consent to help further these harmful views.

They threw away a completely good design and potentially good character in favor of telling a tale of a man desperate to push his racist ideaology for the sake of “putting the real criminals in jail” aka those in the BIPOC/POC communities receiving unwarranted punishment.

I have reason to hate him! I am Puerto Rican. I deal with racism almost daily, and I most definitely don’t want to deal with it in my favorite game or media. Mind you, people use the excuse that Identity V is a horror game and that he fits the time period it takes place, the Victorian Era. With this I raise the issue of how horror media should be enjoyed by all, no matter your skin color, and knowing this man exists in the game is disheartening. That is why most of the playerbase avoids playing him. No one wants to play or interact with a character that contributes to racism as a whole. There are obviously people who still excuse his actions entirely or purposely ignore his actual lore and implications. There are those who acknowledge his extreme flaws and play him regardless due to him being “meta”.

Despite where people stand, I hate him with a burning passion and that art in my previous post was not the first instance where I showed my absolute disgust of his character. I have every right to be upset at seeing a Philippe in a match as a survivor or in Duo Hunter matches, and I most definitely have a right to express it through art.

Just cause I have an ask blog of a hunter oc who happens to be white, doesn’t mean I am nor do I support the actions Netease has taken to develop Philippe as a character. They could have completely rewritten him, scraped him within the design meetings, or ultimately deleted him the moment many POC players actually confronted them of their continued incorporation of racism into a, let’s face it, attempt to make a historical based horror game that pretty much has its lore held up by tape and string with so many plot holes, continuity errors, and slowed updates to the story.

So, I am sorry if it seemed that the art of me just wanting to burn Philippe to the ground sends a “rotten vibe” to you, but I’m going to put this next sentence plain and simple.

I don’t care for racist characters nor do I want anyone who enjoys Philippe as a character to even touch my blog with a ten foot pole.

People before me has made posts about hating a character before, so why question me about it? As for how to run my own blog, it is my decision alone how to format things and I simply don’t care if people avoid me.

Putting this in the nicest way possible, It’s their problem not mine.

I owe people nothing nor do they owe me anything, because in the end of the day this ask blog was made for fun and not having to deal with to explaining the obvious.

So please, if you don’t like it then please scroll and ignore me.

This is the only time I will to explain myself and I will be turning off anon for now because generally posts like these are ripe for more anons who would bring in negativity and anger. So I hope this clears it all up. I understand there is good intentions behind this post, but in the end this is my blog.

- Mod Neon

[wolfstar-in-color]

July Colorful Column: Remus is a Crip, and We Can Write Him Better.

There is one thing that can get me to close a fic so voraciously I don’t even make sure I’m not closing other essential tabs in the process. It doesn’t matter how much I’m loving the fic, how well written I think it is, or how desperately I want to know how it ends. Once I read this sentence, I am done.

It’s written in a variety of different ways, but it always goes something like this: “You don’t want me,” Remus said, “I am too sick/broken/poor/old/[insert chosen self-demeaning adjective here].”

You’re familiar with the trope. The trope is canonical. And if you’ve been around the wolfstar fandom for longer than a few minutes, you’ve read the trope. Maybe you love the trope! Maybe you’ve written the trope! Maybe you’re about to stop reading this column, because the trope rings true to you and you feel a little attacked!

Now, let’s get one thing out of the way right now: I am not saying the trope is wrong. I am not saying it’s bad. I am not saying we should stop writing it. We all have things we don’t like to see in our chosen fics. Maybe you can’t stand Leather Jacket Motorbike Sirius? Maybe you think Elbow Patch Remus is overdone? Or maybe your pet peeves are based in something a little deeper - maybe you think Poor Latino Remus is an irresponsible depiction, or that PWPs are too reductive? Whatever it is, we all have our things.

Let me tell you about my thing. When I first became very ill several years ago, there were various low points in which I felt I had become inherently unlovable. This is, more or less, a normal reaction. When your body stops doing things it used to be able to do - or starts doing things you were quite alright without, thank you very much - it changes the way you relate to your body. You don’t want to hear my whole disability history, so yada yada yada, most people eventually come to accept their limitations. It’s a very painful existence, one in which you constantly tell yourself your disability has transformed you into a burdensome, unworthy member of society, and if nothing else, it’s not terribly sustainable. Being disabled takes grit! It takes power! It takes a truly absurd amount of medical self-advocacy! Hating yourself? Thinking yourself unworthy of love? No one has time for that. 

Of course, I’m being hyperbolic. Plenty of disabled people struggle with these feelings many years into their disabilities, and never really get over them. But here’s the thing. We experience those stories ALL THE TIME. Remember Rain Man? Or Million Dollar Baby? Or that one with the actress from Game of Thrones and that British actor who seemed like he was going to have a promising career but then didn't? Those are all stories about sad, bitter disabled people and their sad, bitter lives, two out of three of which end in the character completing suicide because they simply couldn’t imagine having to live as a disabled person. (I mean, come on media, I get that we're less likely to enjoy a leisurely Saturday hike, but our parking is SUBLIME.) When was the last time you engaged with media that depicted a happy disabled person? A complex disabled person? A disabled person who has sex? No really, these aren’t hypothetical questions, can you please drop a rec in the notes?? Because I am desperate.

There are lots of problems with this trope, and they’ve been discussed ad nauseam by people with PhDs. I’m not actually interested in talking about how this trope leads to a more prevalent societal idea that disabled people are unworthy of love, or contributes to the kind of political thought processes that keep disabled people purposefully disenfranchised. I’m just a bitch on Tumblr, and I have a bone to pick: the thing I really hate about the trope? It’s boring. I’m bored. You know how, like, halfway through Grey’s Anatomy you realized they were just recycling the same plot points over and over again and there was just no WAY anyone working at a hospital prone to THAT MANY disasters would stay on staff? It's like that. I love a recycled trope as much as the next person (There Was Only One Bed, anyone?). But I need. Something. Else.

Remus is disabled. BOLD claim. WILD speculation. Except, not really. You simply - no matter how you flip it, slice it, puree it, or deconstruct it - cannot tell me Remus Lupin is not disabled. Most of us, by this point, are probably familiar with the way that One Canonical Author intended One Dashing Werewolf to be “a metaphor for those illnesses that carry stigma, like HIV and AIDS” [I’m sorry to link you to an outside source quoting She Who Must Not Be Named, but we’re professionals here]. Which is... a thing. It’s been discussed. And, listen, there’s no denying that this parallel is a problematic interpretation of people who have HIV/AIDS and all such similar “those illnesses” (though I’ll admit that I, too, am perennially apt to turn into a raging beast liable to harm anything that crosses my path, but that’s more linked to the at-least-once-monthly recollection that One Day At A Time got cancelled). Critiques aside, Remus Lupin is a character who - due to a condition that affects him physically, mentally, emotionally, and intellectually - is repeatedly marginalized, oppressed, denied political and social power, and ostracized due to unfounded fear that he is infectious to others. Does that sound familiar?

We’re not going to argue about whether or not “Remus is canonically disabled as fuck” is a fair reading. And the reason we’re not going to argue about whether or not it’s a fair reading is because I haven’t read canon in 10-plus years and you will win the argument. Canon is only marginally relevant here. The icon of this blog is brown, curly haired Remus Lupin kissing his trans boyfriend, Sirius Black. We are obviously not too terribly invested in canon. The wolfstar fandom is now a community with over 25,000 AO3 fics, entire careers launched from drawing or writing or cosplaying this non-canonical pairing. We love to play around here with storylines and universes and races and genders and sexualities and all kinds of things, but most of the time? Remus is still disabled. He’s disabled as a werewolf in canon-compliant works, he’s disabled in the AUs where he was injured or abused or kidnapped or harmed as a child, he’s disabled in the stories that read him as chronically ill or bipolar or traumatized or blind or Deaf. I’d go so far as to say that he is one of very few characters in the Wide Wonderful World of media who is, in as close to his essence as one can be, always disabled. And that means? Don’t shoot the messenger... but we could stand to be a tiny bit more responsible with how we portray him. 

Disabled people are complicated. As much as I’d like to pretend we are always level-headed, confident, and ready to assert our inherent worth, we are still just humans. We have bad days. We doubt our worth. We sometimes go out with guys who complain about our steroid-induced weight gain (it was a long time ago, Tumblr, okay??). But, we also have joy and fun and good days and sex and happiness and families and so many other things. 

Remus is a disabled character, and as such, it’s only fair that he’d have those unworthy moments. But - I propose - Remus is also a crip. What is a crip? A crip - like a queer - is someone who eschews the limited boundaries placed on their bodies, who rejects a hierarchy of oppression in favor of an intersectional analysis of lived experience, who isn’t interested in being the tragic figure responsible for helping people with dominant identities realize how good they have it. Crips interpret their disabilities however they want, rethinking bodies and medicine and pleasure and pain and even time itself. Crips are political, community-minded, and in search of liberation. 

Remus is a character who struggles with his disability, sure. But he’s also a character who leverages his physical condition to attempt to shift communities towards his political leanings, advocates for the rights of those who share his physical condition, and has super hot sex with his wrongfully convicted boyfriend ultimately goes on to build community and family. Having a condition that quite literally cripples you, over which you have no control, and through which you are often read as a social pariah? That’s disability. But using said condition as a means through which to build advocacy and community? Now that’s some crip shit. 

Personally, I love disabled!Remus Lupin. But I love crip!Remus Lupin even more. I’d love to see more of a Remus who owns his disability, who covets what makes him unique, and who never ever again tells a potential romantic partner they are too good for him because of his disability. This trope - unlike There Was Only One Bed! - sometimes actually hurts to read. Where’s Remus who thinks a potential romantic partner isn’t good enough for him? Where’s Remus who insists his partners learn more about his condition in order to treat him properly? Where’s sexy wheelchair user Remus? Where’s Remus who uses his werewolf transformations as an excuse to travel the world? Where’s crip Remus??

We don’t have to put “you don’t want me” Remus entirely to bed. It is but one of many repeated tropes that are - in the words of The Hot Priest from Fleabag - morally a bit dubious. And let’s face it - we don’t always come to fandom for its moral superiority (as much as we sometimes like to think we do). 

This is not a condemnation - it is an invitation. Able-bodied folks are all but an injury, illness, or couple decades away from being disabled. And when you get here, I sincerely hope you don’t waste your time on “you don’t want me”ing back and forth with the people you love. I’m inviting you to come to the crip side now. We have snacks, and without all the “you don’t want me” talk, we get to the juicy parts much faster. 

Colorfully,

Mod Theo

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Never a Gull Moment

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes Rating: T Word Count: 3523

For @yavannie, who wanted Sam to either gain new powers or carry Bucky through the air. Spoiler, I went with both. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Sam’s had an intense first week as Captain America. The perfect opportunity for a break arises when Joaquín contacts him, offering new programming for his suit. All he needs to test the tech are the beach, birds, and one uncooperative bonehead Sam didn’t manage to leave behind in New York.

If there’s one skill Sam’s hoping to adopt from his predecessor—Steve, not Walker (sweet Jesus, not Walker)—it’s the ability to end a conversation with a humble handwave before it can even begin. Steve always had that in the bag. Leading with the wrist in a flick of the hand that came across as both sheepish and respectful. Like he’d love to stop and talk with that fan or this journalist but he was just too busy. And not rude busy, busy with a quiet nobility. Anyway, it all came across in the wave.

Sam hasn’t nailed the wave.

Four days after the GRC vote-that-wasn’t, he’s still in New York, bouncing between TV appearances; everybody wants a piece of the new Cap. Sam wishes they asked a little more about his opinions on compassion for the displaced, as well as those who survived the Snap to form new, functional communities, and less about the look of his new suit, but isn’t it always a battle between style and substance? At least people are listening. To everything except the look Sam knows he has in his eyes, the one that says this debut has been a lot and he’s longing for home.

He knows he has to nail this aspect of being Captain America too. Unfortunately, chuckling amiably with morning show hosts isn’t doing a hell of a lot to distract him from what it took to get him here. There are seconds where his attention wavers—he’ll be nodding along to whatever someone’s saying, or letting his gaze follow a bike courier down the street instead of staying trained on the camera the roving reporter has set up on the sidewalk—and that’s when Karli hurtles into his mind. He feels her desperate blows vibrating the shield, the weight of her body in his arms, in her death.

He can’t keep sitting behind desks or posing impressively and trying to answer the hard questions (on the rare occasion they’re asked) after he’s told people he’s not the expert. When Torres calls up, it’s the close-enough-to-official reason Sam’s been waiting for to step back and do something that actually feels useful.

Bucky, who’s been skulking behind the scenes, somehow never pulled into interviews (if he knows the deferring wave and he’s been doing it just outside Sam’s sightline all week, Sam’s gonna kill him), sticks with him. They head south to meet Torres, and at least that feels like the right direction. Homeward bound. Of course, they stop a handful of states before Louisiana and hug the east coast, but it’s an improvement. They meet Torres at… the beach.

He’s got his foot propped in the open doorframe of a Humvee, giving Sam and Bucky a big, eager, whole-arm wave as they pull up. Not like they’re gonna miss him; Torres is in the only vehicle parked halfway down an unpaved road. Sand dunes climb steep and high just feet from his front bumper, an informal path cutting between the dunes and leading to the water, though Sam can’t see that from this vantage.

Torres’s hand is somehow already grasping Sam’s in a pumping, congratulatory shake before he’s fully out of the car. Sam hears Bucky’s soft snort of suppressed laughter and shoots him a look across the seats. Bucky raises his palms, but Sam spots his smirk before they’re both slamming their doors and stretching their legs after the drive.

“Traffic?” Torres asks brightly.

“Nah,” Bucky answers, coming around the back of their ride. “Sam just drives slower than my grandmother and she—”

“Died on the Titanic?” Sam guesses dryly.

Bucky’s flat stare could be saying a lot of things, or nothing. Sam feels as if he’s been a student of the language of Bucky’s stare for a while now, but his comprehension is still rudimentary. Pop that asshole in a sanctuary for rehabilitated brain-washees, have somebody study his behaviour like Jane Goodall studies chimpanzees, and they might get some answers. The idea starts as something funny Sam almost shares, but then he imagines handfeeding Bucky a banana and it gets weird. He keeps his mouth shut.

“Or she got the cryo treatment too and she’s kickin’ around someplace, speakin’ Russian and makin’ headshots.”

“Come on, man, Hydra jokes about your own grandmother?” Sam scoffs. “That’s not even a little bit funny.”

Torres’s expression is like a kid watching a wrestling match on TV—awed, alarmed, reluctant to question what’s real because he’s just enjoying the show.

Bucky cracks a slow smile and Sam rolls his eyes, slapping Torres’s shoulder to get him to head towards the Humvee and the reason they’re here.

“Nana woulda thought it was funny,” Bucky assures them.

“Nana?”

“Lemme guess… You called your aunt ‘TT,’ so your grandmother’s probably… ‘GG,’ am I right?”

Sam glares at him (because his guess is correct and he’s a pain in the ass) and turns fully to Torres as he opens the back, revealing a large case.

“You were vague on the phone,” Sam recalls, watching Torres tug the case close before undoing the clasps. Bucky leans against the vehicle as he observes, dark pants picking up a swipe of road dust from the dirty taillight. “Something about an update for the suit?”

“Right,” Torres agrees.

He throws the case open to reveal the wings Sam gifted him. They’ve been repaired and Sam automatically strokes a hand over the gleaming, extended metal. If Torres did this himself, he sure worked fast.

“That duffle bag wasn’t good enough for you?” Sam asks jokingly, remembering his gear broken and jumbled, fit to be dragged out with the trash.

“They’re kind my prized possession,” Torres admits. “I thought they deserved to be kept nice.”

“You might even wanna put ’em on sometime.”

“I’m working up to that.” Torres laughs. “I wanted to make sure they were in working order before I jumped off a building.”

“Or out of the back of a plane without a parachute, right, Buck?” Sam asks, smacking the back of his hand into Bucky’s chest.

“I was fine,” Bucky insists.

“Sure you were. We can watch the footage again. I’m up for that.”

“Just let the man finish.”

Torres grants Bucky a wide smile in thanks.

“Yeah,” he picks up, “so I was fixing them, working on the wiring, and when I got the electronics running smoothly again, I started thinking about Redwing—”

“May he rest in pieces,” Bucky contributes.

“Uncalled for,” Sam complains.

“I replaced it, didn’t I?”

“The Wakandans replaced it.”

“As a favour to me.”

Torres’s gaze dances between them until Sam motions for him to continue.

“About Redwing,” Torres goes on enthusiastically. “The sophistication of the relationship between you, how intuitive the tech was. How Redwing understood not just simply-stated commands, but a more conversational approach, interpreting your intentions.”

“Finally, a little Redwing appreciation,” Sam says. He crosses his arms and gives Bucky a meaningful look.

“But what if it was a real bird?” Torres blurts.

Most of a minute passes as Sam stares at Torres’s excited expression.

“I think I might get where Torres is going with this,” Bucky says.

Sam holds up a hand to pause him. He could make a guess at it too, but there’s no need for that. They have the source of whatever alterations have been made right here.

“In your own words, Joaquín,” Sam encourages.

“Well,” he begins, one palm braced in the bed of the Humvee as he leans over the case with unconscious protectiveness, “you know I’ve kinda been itching to get my hands on the wings for a long time.”

“Yeah.” Sam laughs, remembering having to practically slap Torres’s hands away from the jetpack in Tunisia.

“Since you gave them to me a couple weeks ago, I’ve been tinkering, like I said, and I had this idea. Now,” he warns, raising both hands in caution, “this might be either really obvious or really disrespectful to the whole concept of the Falcon, but I started wondering if it’d be possible for the person wearing the wings to talk to nearby birds. Use them like a resource, like with Redwing.”

“Black Panther dresses like a cat with Vibranium claws.”

“Spider-Man has webs,” Bucky adds.

“Right,” Sam agrees, nodding to him before looking back to Torres. “I don’t think it’s disrespectful to lean into the gimmick if it’s amplifying your abilities.”

“Awesome,” Torres pronounces.

“I assume you went further than just wondering about it?”

Torres gives them a modest shrug.

“I know a guy who knows an ornithologist.”

“Bird scientist,” Bucky translates.

Turning his head, Sam glances at Bucky with a no shit look.

“Thanks,” he says insincerely.

“You’re welcome.”

“Long story short,” Torres pipes up, “she got me access to a catalogue of bird calls and the scientific consensus on what they all mean. I patched that info into the suit and, hopefully, it’s something that could be used, uh, on the fly. Sorry, I was trying to think of another way to say that.”

“So my suit would be able to communicate with birds?” Sam checks. “Automatically?”

“Yeah, it would assess your surroundings the same way Redwing does already, but scanning for birds, identifying what kind they are, and having the interpretation of their calls at the ready if needed.”

“What sort of information would I be gaining with this tech?”

“Stuff like… are they feeling threatened or disturbed? Does something feel off about their environment that has something to do with somebody you’re maybe chasing?”

“Mating rituals,” Bucky says.

“How is being able to recognize mating rituals going to help me?” Sam demands.

“You never know.”

“You brought your suit, right?” Torres wants to know. Apparently, he’s not going to bother engaging with Bucky’s nonsense. “It won’t take long for me to install the new software.”

“It’s in the back,” Sam assures him, jerking a thumb towards the other vehicle.

“Great!”

“But just the bird calls. This suit is brand new. No tinkering.”

“No tinkering,” Torres swears.

He sets up his impromptu workshop in the back seat, next to the suit. Sam has to admit to himself that Torres’s reverential expression as he handles the Captain America suit is pretty flattering. He watches the progress until Torres sits back, stating it’ll just be a few minutes for the new programming to be assimilated.

“Why the beach?” Sam asks while they wait.

“I was inspired by some shaky, far-away footage of you in New York. You did, uh, kind of a nosedive into the river there, so I thought maybe you’d be interested in testing your suit’s maneuverability in water at the same time as we did a trial with the bird calls.”

“Are we running a drill or something?” Bucky wonders.

“That’s a good idea,” Torres says immediately. “A scenario to use both the calls and the water.”

“You got something in mind?”

Sam isn’t the one who asks because he can see from Torres’s face that he does. Fortunately, he is the one who gets to laugh when the Lieutenant squints consideringly at Bucky and asks, “How long can you hold your breath?”

—

The last Sam sees of Bucky, he’s taking off his shirt.

“Oh, entire jacket this time?” Torres asked when Bucky took that off first.

After that, it was his shoes and socks, then his t-shirt, and this whole Bucky stripping thing isn’t so much a last look as something that Sam has to stand there witnessing for a while. He’s already in the Cap suit and, seriously, Bucky could’ve changed at the same time. Then, he would’ve been ready to go without making Sam and Torres wait around. But Sam wouldn’t have gotten to see him undress.

“Hurry it up, man.” His voice is a little off because, at the same time, he’s thinking, Please don’t take your pants off.

“If you’re making me play a drowning victim, I can at least not be getting weighed down,” Bucky argues. “This is to help you, right? Quit complaining.”

Finally, he stalks away, mounting the dune in black jeans and a half-assed scowl and disappearing over the top. The plan is for him to swim out, then duck under the water when Torres tells him to (the guy’s brought along waterproof earpieces for the purpose). Next, Sam will fly up and search for the ‘victim,’ relying solely on input from the seagulls wheeling lazily overhead. It’s a good exercise Torres has cooked up.

Sam hands the shield off to Torres for safekeeping before the Lieutenant heads to the beach. The shield won’t be necessary for this and there’s no way in hell Sam’s leaving it in the car. Besides, it’s kinda funny how wide Torres’s eyes go when Sam offers it up. Even bigger reaction than leaving him the wings, though this he doesn’t get to keep.

“On my signal,” Torres restates.

Sam gives him a sharp nod.

Once he’s alone, he paces between the vehicles, eager to kick off the ground. He hasn’t had an opportunity to just enjoy himself in the new suit yet. Leading up to the confrontation with the Flag-Smashers (and Georges Batroc, that fists-of-steel bastard), he was in training mode, focused and determined. In the media-heavy days that followed, he conceded to a few stunts for the camera. Those hadn’t been purely fun though; they were actually something Sam had to think quick and hard about, ultimately deciding that it wasn’t just performing on command but rather giving the public a lighthearted look at their new Captain America. Testing new tech with Bucky, Torres, and a bunch of seagulls? That seems like it’ll actually be a good time.

The instant Torres’s voice in Sam’s ear says, “Bucky’s under,” he unfurls the wings and sails up over the crest of the dune.

It’s not the warmest day and the greenish-blue water’s choppy near the shore, but there is a surprising smattering of people along a quarter mile of beach. Must be locals, Sam guesses, trekking down to the water from nearby houses. That would explain the lack of other cars where he parked. The people aren’t that close or that bothered by his sudden appearance overhead. Startled, sure, but after they’ve identified him (he sees a few hands lifted to foreheads to block out the sun so they can get a good look), he gets to return a couple big waves. Besides that, nobody’s getting to their feet to pound sand and swarm Torres, who’s conspicuously there with Sam—he is holding the shield, after all. Pretty typical. The bigger the crowd, the greater the chance of people scrambling for his attention and/or whipping out their phones to film him. This group seems satisfied with watching Captain America hanging out at their beach on his downtime and Sam appreciates them for that.

“No scanning the water,” Torres says in his ear. Sam laughs.

“I’m not, just assessing our audience here.”

“Is this a bad spot? I didn’t think anybody’d be around when I sent you my location, but—”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry. Did anybody ask you what was up when Bucky waded out into the water?”

“Nah. If they were wondering, they probably aren’t anymore.”

“Glad I won’t have to compete with a lifeguard to rescue him,” Sam jokes.

He hears Torres’s short laugh of agreement before focusing. Not on the water at all, but the birds. Those down on the sand are squawking for food, comfortable enough with these people to complain loudly in the hopes of being fed.

Sam’s sudden swoops scatter the gulls in the air, so he tries easier circles, mimicking their movements to hover high above the beach. Soon enough—these guys either have bad short-term memories or no patience—they start communicating with each other. The new programming Torres has uploaded to his suit signals to Sam that the birds are aware of a disturbance in the water. He gets a target on his goggles’ imaging and dives.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sam crashes into the murky water no more than a hundred yards out. The drop-off is dramatic enough for him to not complete a faceplant into a shallow bottom. Bucky’s treading water a couple body-lengths down, but he wrecks his form to offer Sam a raised middle finger in greeting. Sam’s wings retract as he grabs Bucky’s wrist to haul him to the surface.

They breathe, bobbing in place.

“Thought you’d be faster,” Bucky says.

“You didn’t drown, did you?” Sam points out. “Come on.”

He catches hold of Bucky’s hand and shoots out of the water, wings opening in the air to carry him once the thruster’s done its work. But Bucky squirms below him, their wet grip twisting precariously. Water runs from his sopping jeans.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam asks.

“I don’t want to be carried to shore!”

“Why?”

“Because dangling this high above the ground feels a little weird to me! Not all of us do this every day!”

“I guess we could run the exercise again.”

“Fine. Let’s do that. Just drop me.”

Sam rewards Bucky’s melodrama by abruptly releasing his grip. Hey, that’s what the idiot asked for, and if he can fall out of a plane to the forest floor, he can plunge into water. It’s not like Sam’s up at aircraft cruising altitude, just high enough to make Torres look like a little action figure army man, standing on the sand in his fatigues.

“Running it again?” Torres wants to know.

“Yep,” Sam tells him, accelerating away from the shore. “Just giving that dumbass time to swim to a new spot.”

“Even though he can’t reply while he’s underwater… you know he can hear you in the comms, right?”

“Oh yeah.”

When Torres lets him know that Bucky’s gone under a second time, they start the drill again. Once more, Sam does a gliding approach to the seagulls. Once more, they go quiet before filling the air with their screaming, overlapping calls. Once more, Sam finds Bucky. He knows he’s quicker this time, so he’s expecting an acknowledgement of that when he contracts the wings, straightens his body, and plummets into the water feetfirst next to where Bucky’s floating below the surface.

Instead of an appreciative nod, an outstretched hand, or even a thumbs up, Bucky darts away from him. Is he trying not to get rescued? Now he’s just fucking up the exercise. Only, Sam can’t even berate him, because he’s still under too, holding his breath as he swims after Bucky. He uses the jetpack for assistance, but Bucky’s a fast swimmer, legs kicking just ahead of Sam. Goddamn human shark.

Because he is not an idiot, Sam surfaces to catch his breath, leaving Bucky somewhere below.

“There a problem?” Torres asks.

“Only with Bucky’s idea of teamwork.”

“Get him like a bird would!”

“Is that a real suggestion?” Sam asks, rising and falling as a small wave swells under him, rolling towards the shore.

“Really, Sam! You know, like how birds hunt fish.” Back on the beach, he makes a sharp, downward gesture with his arm that has Sam chuckling. He gets what Torres means though.

“Alright.”

Sam goes from water to air, then, alerted by a trio of seagulls taking annoyed flight from the surface of the water, goes into a steep dive. Nabbing the swimmer from above is the trick, he learns, when the swimmer is being intentionally uncooperative with the rescue attempt. Bucky might be quick when he knows Sam’s behind him, but when he drops down on him, there’s nowhere Bucky can go. Sam wraps his arms around Bucky’s bare chest from behind and lugs him up for air.

The first thing Bucky says is, “You took even longer that time.”

Frustrated, Sam splashes the back of his head, but when Bucky strokes his arms out, rotating to face him, he’s smiling.

“You messed it up,” Sam accuses. He rubs a hand across his goggles to smear the water droplets off.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t have fun.”

Sam narrows his eyes before a laugh bursts out of him. He can’t help it; it’s the pressure he’s been under, so much internal conflict, suddenly drawn out with the current. Yeah, Bucky was slightly uncooperative, but that’s nothing unusual. Swimming ahead like he was going for a gold medal or forcing Sam to plunge deep after him, the two of them suspended like the goddamn Shape of Water before Sam towed him to the surface—either way, Bucky definitely gave him distinct scenarios to work with. Sam can’t say he doesn’t feel more comfortable now that he’s had some practice. More comfortable with his wings in the water, with working with his feathered allies. With Bucky.

“Still don’t want a lift?” Sam checks.

Bucky’s expression hardens and Sam backs off with a laugh.

“See you on the shore,” Bucky states firmly.

“Alright. Get doggy-paddlin’, White Wolf.”

Sam feels Bucky’s hand shoot out to seize his ankle in retaliation as he launches out of the water, but he’s too slow. Sam’s wings fan wide as he flies up, up, up with the birds.

[fallingsunflower]

I'm not gonna lie I've been out of the loop for a quite a long while now (Found out about holivia today) and as someone who's been bombarded with it all at once (god give me strength) you truly see how desperate O is. Like I know you were all saying it but in my mind I was fully like but she was meant to be the badass female director. Now? I despise her. I have spent the majority of this year excited for DWD (because of the cast, because of what it means for harry, hell because of the female director) now I'm mostly dreading everything to do with it.

Anyway as I was going through everything some stuff stuck with me and I thought I'd share. First off she does many many many pap walks on her own, I find that incredibly interesting (and annoying obviously) but it more so makes me think about the route her and her team are taking. Which at this point I think I've grasped to be; take what you can get now, worry about the consequences later. They're clearly incredibly desperate for olivia to get more famous while shes attached to harry, which makes it more obvious that this is temporary. They're trying to get her name out there as much as possible so that she can get more fans through harry, and they're seemingly praying that they stick around (they wont).

Her online vogue article was interesting to say the least. I don't follow vogue much so I don't actually know if this is a big deal, but I'm assuming if she's not on the cover it's not. I'm pretty sure her status (as a celebrity) is still quite low acting and directing wise (as in, in the industry) I mean real life too, but she definitely has more fans now than before this whole thing started.

My last comment is that as a queer women of colour, I am deeply offended by some of the things I have discovered she has said and done. I hope people (specifically white straight people) in this fandom realise how truly offensive that stuff is. I've been spat on before for having lighter skin than she did in her photoshot, and the coming out comment hurt like a bitch because when I came out I was beaten. My family still refuses to speak to me 10years later, and I've received back hateful messages from family members about me and my fiancee's recent engagement. So I take personal offence to many of things she has said and done.

I would also like to add that I've been told you're trying to post less olivia related stuff and more harry related stuff (it is harry related your account) and so I just wanted to say that theres no need to post my ask, because it is all olivia related (my apologies for that) so I'd understand. Simply wanted to share my thoughts.

I came here because a friend recommended it catching up wise and seeing what the fandom's been up to and is talking about at the moment etc. etc. and I just wanted to say that it's a very lovely place mod, I have to say you do an amazing job of controlling the environment and making it a safe space so kudos and hats off to you for that. I imagine it must be exhausting and yet you do it so well. I've also gathered you were in some kind of accident?

I'm a doctor so I'll just say to be careful with your neck, drink water and get some rest. Get checked up again soon if you can, if not my fiancee's cousin watches this forum (space? I feel old) like a hawk I'm more than happy to help you examine yourself and see if anything's wrong. Take care.

Oh jeez, I'm sorry you've been bombarded with all of this information. It must be hard to unpack all at once. It's hard enough trying to make sense of it all and most of us have been here for a while now.

I'm so sorry you've been through all of that - that's awful. If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. But it only goes to show just how ignorant Olivia is, and offensive. It's disgusting and makes light of horrible situations. And now there's a whole fanbase (mainly gf harries blindly supporting her) who are contributing to racist and homophobic beliefs.

In regards to the ask, I wanted to try limiting Olivia posts because I got complaints. However, part of the blog, as well as discussing Harry, is also discussing holivia so naturally olivia is part of that. But I don't want to turn into a hate account or a stalker account. I have no interest in her so I've been limiting asks that talk about her but have no relation to Harry (this doesn't include the posts outlining her problematic behavior though because those ought to be shared).

I'm glad you like the blog. I enjoy running it :) I try to keep it a safe space for everyone.

Thank you for the advice. Yeah, I was in an accident on Tuesday. I was driving home from work and got hit. My back is killing me today though. I might put some heat on it.

Congratulations on your engagement, btw. I'm happy for you x

[misscrazyfangirl321]

Proving Ourselves

A late contribution to Friends and Family August, because I wanted to finish strong, but writer’s block got in my way. Set in my universe where Sean finds out that he is Trubel’s father.* 

*Feel free to message me for full backstory

Fandom: Grimm

Relationships: Theresa Rubel and Sean Renard 

-

Vienna. 

He hadn’t been there in years, not since just after his brother’s death, and he honestly never planned to go back. It was over; when his father died, there was hardly a point in the Royals keeping up the fight. (Hardly anyone left to keep fighting.) 

But that was where one of the last keys was, and he truly did want to prove himself to this team. He made his choice, finally, but he knew that was only the first step. So he offered to go retrieve the key from the Royals. 

At least Trubel wanted to come with him. Granted, it probably had more to do with not trusting him than any desire for father/daughter bonding, but it was something. He’d have to be careful, but if he played his cards right, he might be able to win her over a little. 

“I’ll get us a couple of tickets,” he announced, and she gave a slow nod. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through websites until he found a good deal, and was just about to order them when she peered over his shoulder. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. First class?” She shook her head. “No way I can afford that.” 

He waved her off. “I’ve got it.” Frankly, it sounded like a wonderful chance to spoil her a little. Clearly, she hadn’t had that enough in her life, and he had every intention of changing that. 

She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Seriously? What, you think you buy me lots of nice things, and it’ll convince me that you’re a good guy now? Nah. That’s easy. You want to prove something? Prove you really care?” She fixed him with a cold stare. “Fly in the back of the plane. Absolute worst seats. No fancy service, no nice chairs…” She looked him over pointedly. “No leg room.” 

And that was… Well. Not an altogether pleasant idea, although he’d definitely done things more uncomfortable than that. Trudging through sewers in Vienna, for one. 

Still, though. For his daughter, anything. 

“Consider it done.” 

-

Two hours into the flight, and Sean was really starting to miss first class. He shifted a little in his seat, legs aching. Trubel didn’t turn back, just kept staring at her hands, but she must have seen out of the corner of her eyes; her lips twitched, just a little. And that made it all worth it. 

… Probably. 

Making a mental note to take some pain meds as soon as he landed, he glanced at his watch. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much later than it was the last time he checked. Or the time before that. 

Ridiculous. 

“Hey, uh-” It was the first time Trubel had spoken since boarding the flight, and he turned to her, maybe a bit too eager. So sue him; he wanted to talk to his daughter (and have something-anything-to focus on besides the growing cramp in his leg). But after a moment, she shook her head. “Forget it.”

“What is it?” He was trying not to push, truly, but she started this.

“I was just… Thinking about Mom.” 

Oh. He drew in a breath, tilting his head to the side. “What about her?” Purposefully gentle, trying not to spook her. Trubel was one of the bravest people he’d ever known when it came to fights, but when it came to emotions, one false move could send her scurrying back inside herself. She gets that from me, he mused wryly, although it probably wasn’t fair to credit himself with anything she’d become. 

She shrugged, clearly trying (and failing) to feign nonchalance. “Just… She was, like… Peaceful. Bake bread, make tea, smile at people… That kind of thing, right?”

“Right…?” He raised a brow, wondering if she was trying to make sense of his and Rebecca’s relationship. If so, he wished her luck. Many had tried, and all had failed. 

“Think she’d be… Disappointed in me, or something?” 

Oh, sweetheart. The endearment felt natural in his mind, but he managed-barely-to bite it back; he rather liked having his head attached, after all. “No,” he replied simply. “Definitely not.” Hopefully that would be enough. 

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Right. I don’t even know why I asked you. You didn’t even know that she was a G-” She caught herself, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. Everyone seemed distracted in their own stuff, but she still only mouthed the end of the sentence: “Grimm.”

His gut twisted, and in spite of his best efforts, he couldn’t quite hide his flinch. It was true, of course; Rebecca kept that from him, and even though there was a lot he didn’t tell her, it ached, knowing that she didn’t trust him enough to tell him. The pot and the kettle, he supposed. 

Trubel hesitated, maybe realizing that she’d struck a nerve. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I-”

“No,” he interrupted, forcing himself to exhale, to let the pain drift to the background. This was not about him. “You’re right; I didn’t. But I know how she thought.” He reached for her, hand lingering in the air between them, but didn’t dare close the gap. 

She turned, finally facing him properly, and he let his hand fall to his knee. She said nothing, but her head was tilted to the side; at least she was listening. 

“Rebecca believed in peace. But she always said it took two kinds of people to keep it: people who made it, and people who defended it. Artists, teachers… People like her. They make peace. But it’s up to people like you-” and me, he almost said, but he doubted she’d appreciate the parallel. “-to keep it.” 

It had been more than twenty years since he’d last heard that spiel, but he could still remember every word of it. When things got to be too much-when he was drowning in guilt from his first shooting, no matter how many lives it saved-she gathered him up in her arms, stroking his hair, whispering the reassurances on a loop. 

Trubel swallowed, watching him with wide eyes, but said nothing. He took that as his cue to continue. 

“Believe me when I say that your mother would be so incredibly proud of the woman you’ve become. And-” his throat was a little too tight-there was that fear- “I know it probably doesn’t mean much to you right now, but… I am too.” 

She turned away sharply, and for a horrifying moment he thought he’d crossed a line. He had no right to be proud, he had nothing to do with it, with how incredible she was, and now she was shutting him out, and-

A shudder ran through her, and he stopped short, panic giving way to realization: she was crying. Dabbing fiercely at her eyes with the edges of her sleeve, wrapping her other arm tightly around herself. Trying desperately to keep it in. 

Should he just pretend he didn’t notice? Probably. But his heart ached at the thought of his little girl inches away from him, crying her eyes out all alone. 

After a moment’s debate, he reached into his pocket, retrieving a handkerchief, and set it on her leg. 

She froze, then looked down, and snorted. She lifted it up, wiping away her tears, wiping her nose, and taking deep breaths. Finally, she gave him a wry look. “You’re not getting this back.”

“I have more.” A ridiculous number, in fact. His father, for all his flaws, always went out of his way to send a handkerchief for Christmas. (Or at the very least, someone on his staff did. Privately, Sean always suspected the cook, Milly; she was always kind to him and his mother, after all.) 

“Of course you do.” 

The lapsed into silence, and he let his thoughts drift: first to Milly, then to his mother, and finally to Rebecca. 

“What’cha thinking about?” Trubel asked, and he swallowed, grateful that she was reaching out but wishing she’d chosen any other time to do it. 

Still, he wasn’t going to lie to her. “Just... I got to thinking about what your mother would say if she could see me now.”

Working with Black Claw? Kidnapping Kelly? Killing Meisner? Oh, she’d hate him now, wouldn’t she? Would the fact that he was trying now-that he was doing the best he could-for their daughter, for Diana, for Nick-outweigh the things he’d done? Hard to say. Not likely. 

“She’d…” Trubel hesitated, offering him a shaky smile. “She’d say you got old?” 

It took a few moments for him to register the tentative olive branch, but when he did, he couldn’t help but laugh. A nameless sort of relief washed over him, as if he’d been waiting for this all along and hadn’t realized it. 

“Now, I’ll take a lot of accusations,” he shot back. “Frankly, most of them are probably true. But if you’re saying I’ve lost my dashing good looks… That I won’t take.” 

“Gross!” She laughed, shoving his shoulder, and he couldn’t stop the ridiculous smile spreading across his face. And just for a moment, he knew that it didn’t matter what happened next: with the keys, the team, or even the Jabberwocky. 

Everything was going to be okay.

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

I've noticed that you use the R*ylo tag a lot and I was wondering if you could explain why you ship something that's so abusive? I'm not condemning you for shipping them, I used to myself I'm just wondering if you could explain *your* reasons? I don't think that I'll ever understand why people do but maybe you could help me take the first few steps?

Oh, no problem! 

First, I would like to clarify that I don’t really consider myself an active part of the Star Wars fandom, and I am aware that Reylo shippers can often be toxic about things that have nothing to do with the actual ship. (Finn, John Boyega, etc.) Might go without saying, but I do like to make sure everyone knows that I think that behavior isn’t okay. 

I have also heard the Reylo ship described as abusive. While I can more than understand that interpretation, I wouldn’t say I agree with it. That is, I don’t think this ship is any more problematic than say, MC/Merula. It’s a traditional case of enemies of lovers. True, Ben Solo said and did some terrible things to Rey. He tried to kill her friends, he Force-probed her mind, etc. But on the other hand...she also gave him the scar on his face, and stabbed him in TROS. I don’t think of their antagonistic behavior toward each other as abuse. I think of it as simply being two people on opposing sides of a war, a life-or-death war, who are also wrestling with confused feelings for each other. A growing fondness and respect. Enemies to lovers. 

In general, I tend to think it’s a bit odd to condemn Kylo Ren as a villain...more than we condemn Darth Vader, who’s onscreen body count is significantly higher, and includes children. Ben is trash, I don’t deny it. He did terrible things and that makes him interesting to me...but I guess I just don’t understand the hatred he gets from half of the fandom. Anakin slaughtered an entire tribe of sand-people and was not sorry. He called them “animals.” Meanwhile, Ben murdered his father and doing so “split his spirit to the bone.” I guess this also applies to shipping him with Rey. I’ll admit, I find it odd that people think it’s toxic for Rey to want to redeem him...when it’s the same idea as Luke wanting to redeem Vader. Like, the exact same. The only difference is that the bond is romantic isntead of familial. (No, J.J, that was not a “sibling” kiss. Stop trying to appease both sides, dude.) 

Why do I ship them? Well, mostly because of TLJ. I will admit that TROS didn’t mishandle this ship the way it mishandled so much else, such as Ben’s redemption and death...but this fire really started in the second movie. Could just be the performances, or the chemistry that the actors have, or maybe it’s how Ben and Rey are written. They do have some interesting parallels. I dunno, I just really got invested in their bond during TLJ. How they were trying to figure each other out, and realized they were kindred spirits. How indignant Rey was on behalf of Ben when she thought Luke had tried to kill him. How heartbroken she was when he wouldn’t turn back to the light - and Ben’s equal desperation for her to turn Dark. That scene in the elevator, where Rey uses his name for the first time? More romantic tension in that one scene then between Anakin and Padme across all three prequels, if you ask me. 

TROS fortunately didn’t abandon this like it abandoned so much else of TLJ’s contributions (Cough cough, Rose, cough.) and while I think the writing was overall weaker, there were some really sweet moments nonetheless. Rey healing Ben and basically telling him that his loyalty to the Dark Side is all that’s stopping them from being together. The way they perfect the Dyad by the end so Rey can pass Ben the lightsaber. Hell, the concept of the Dyad in general. I am more frustrated than you can imagine that Ben had no lines following his turn back to the light, but I don’t care what people say - their kiss wasn’t cringe, that moment was earned. At least in my opinion. 

But hey, it’s just a ship, and it features a rather divisive character, so there’s no reason anyone has to want anything to do with it.

[nadisabug]

Fictober19-Day 8

Title: Alone

Prompt number: 8 “Can you stay?”

Fandom: Danganronpa (SDR2)

AU: post-simulation (note: not apart of the fictober-sdr2 series I am doing, this is separate bc I have been doing so much angst and I need a break)

Rating: T (teen)

Warnings: Graphic depictions of injuries

Tags: SuperDanganronpa2, Komahina

A/N: After the cut, it goes graphic injury depiction. If that bothers you, skip ahead to “Komaeda!” and you should be fine. I’m just trying to practice overwhelming sensation and just descriptions in general. Also!! Sorry it’s late :( I’m doing my best, uni is hard >:( I promise I will get the missing ones out before 12 at the latest.

EDIT: links to part two and three

“”“”“

Pain.

All Nagito felt was pain.

Waves of adrenaline washed over him, stinging and burning, leaving a dull buzz in it’s wake. The uneasy feeling of his skin not being in a single piece - the knowledge that there was a hole in him - made his head spin. He felt as if he were freezing, cold cement beneath him biting at his tender flesh, and burning at the same time. The warm blood soaking his clothes, dripping down his body, pooling in his palms, felt wrong. It irritated Nagito, the thick, warm goo itched his skin. He felt the overwhelming need to wipe it off, just scrub it off of him, and close his wounds so they wouldn’t weep anymore.

But he didn’t. He allowed it to happen, he allowed himself to freeze and burn and itch, he allowed himself to wallow in complete and utter misery. In despair. He deserved it. He was useless, worthless, nothing. He didn’t matter, the only thing he did in this world was fuck everything up - that much was apparent by now. The only contribution he could possibly make would be sacrificing himself in order for hope to prevail. It was probably the only good thing he had done in his life.

But that didn’t mean he should enjoy it, or even feel good about it. He deserved to be as miserable as possible in his last few moments, miserable, in agony, and utterly alone. Nagito felt the tendrils of a burning steam lick at his hand. It traveled up his arm, caressing his gaping wounds, stroking his chin, before delving into his nostrils. He involuntarily gasped, sucking the tape covering his mouth in, and creating a wheezing snort from his nose. The warm fog filled his lungs, coating them, covering them. It felt like he had inhaled tar, and the sticky substance clung to the inside of him. He hyperventilated, forcing short puffs of air out in an involuntary and desperate attempt to expel the offending fog, and consequently pulling more in with each frantic inhale. His mind grew fuzzy and his vision began to darken as the lack of oxygen finally began to take hold. His limbs weakened, and he tightened his grip on the cord he was holding. He couldn’t let go, he couldn’t. If he let go everything would be ruined, pointless, all his fault. He had to keep holding on he couldn’t let go. Nagito looked over to his hand, checking to make sure it was in his hand. But… it wasn’t… Not just the rope…

He didn’t have a hand. Komaeda tried to scream, but nothing came out. His chest started heaving as his mind started to clear, focusing solely on the missing limb. It was oozing thick blood and Nagito was sure he saw the flash of white bone. He just kept trying to scream but he couldn’t he was breathing but he was not speaking he couldn’t call for help no one would come-

"Komaeda!” Nagito’s world tilted and spun, his was sitting up, but there was still blood all over him and he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t scream- “Nagito!” Calloused hands captured Nagito’s face in a firm hold. Suddenly, all Nagito could see was green and red and green and red and green and red and for some reason someone was screaming but he didnt- “Nagito, look at me, I am right here. It’s me, Hajime. I’m Hajime. You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

Nagito’s eyes focused. Oh. Hinata-kun was here. He had come. He… saved… Nagito…

Nagito stopped screaming. He blinked. Hinata was still there. He blinked again. Hinata was there.

Hajime was there.

Nagito opened his mouth to express his gratitude, to play off his sweat-soaked sheets, tear-stained face, and voice torn by screams. He opened his mouth to apologize. Say something eloquent.

All that came out was a broken sob.

Nagito’s eyes stung and his throat closed, sobs rising from his constricted chest.

Hinata’s eyes softened, losing their frantic, worried edge, and he loosened his grip on Nagito’s face. One of his hands slipped behind Nagito’s back, and suddenly Nagito was in his lap.

He was startled, Nagito tried to push away, insist that he was fine. But Hinata spoke.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here now.”

Nagito sobbed. He clutched Hinata’s shirt, balling it in his one fist, digging his stump into Hinata’s chest. It was still raw and healing, only just getting over the nasty infection, but Nagito jammed it into Hinata. He needed to, he needed it to be grounded, to be gone, for her to be gone. He wanted it to grow back, just appear like new, like it had never happened. Just more ugly, pale, skinny Nagito. That would be better, anything would be better than the empty space, the memory of the utter despair he went through.

But there was nothing he could do to change that.

So he cried.

He cried until he couldn’t anymore and there was nothing left to cry about. He cried until he stopped. It was slow, a new sob rising every minute or two, growing more and more apart. He cried until he began to feel Hinata’s hand on his back, rubbing circles, pressing Nagito further into Hinata’s chest. He felt the warmth radiating from Hinata and couldn’t help but wonder just how long it had been since he had been this close to someone. He cried until he realized Hinata’s hand was in his hair, combing through it, caressing his scalp. Nagito thought for a moment that his diminishing headache could be due to the comfort provided by Hinata’s hand, but he could neither confirm nor deny it.

And then it was silent.

Nagito felt so secure and warm and safe and so, so very tired. He felt himself begin to drift off, closing his eyes just for a moment-

Hinata moved.

“Wait!” Nagito’s head shot up, a lightning bolt of pain arching across it at the harsh movement. His vision blurred, he clutched Hinata’s shirt again, and his entire body is tense. “Please! Don’t… don’t…” please don’t go

Hinata did not respond for quite some time. It was long enough for the pain in Nagito’s head to soften to a dull ache and his vision to clear and focus on Hinata’s face. He was stoic, as always, expression carved in fine granite. Magnificent. Always. He always was.

The silence worried Nagito. Of course Hinata would say no, Nagito knew he did not deserve any of… whatever this was. But, whether it was because he felt like he could not backtrack or because he needed it that bad, he spoke again.

“Can you stay?”

Nagito’s whole world froze for a moment. He stopped breathing, his heart stopped beating, he stopped thinking. Everything was in this small moment, everything rode on this. This could change everything. Nagito knew it was risky. He knew it was stupid. He knew Hinata would say no because Nagito was terrible, just terrible the worst human being he didn’t des-

“For as long as you need me.”

Nagito almost started crying again.

Hinata said it so… simply. Like this wasn’t the most important thing Nagito had ever been told. It held so much, a promise, a commitment, an understanding. It meant so much. Nagito felt like he had to say something, he had to. It was just… too much for him not to.

He opened his mouth and an echo of a sob came out. His face burned and he looked down at his hands hand and stump. He couldn’t meet Hinata’s eyes. He opened his mouth again to explain himself, to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, to beg Hinata to not take it back and leave Nagito all alone again…

“Nagito, you don’t need to say it,” Hinata finally spoke, voice velvet and warm. Nagito felt Hinata brush a strand of hair behind his ear and reddened in response. “I know.”

At that, Hinata laid down on the bed, pulling Nagito with him. Hinata pulled the blanket over the both of them, pressing Nagito into his side.

“Sleep.” Hinata ordered softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Nagito’s final thought before sleep claimed him was an answer.

I hope you never do.

[bluejaytaco]

Yo!

 been reading a lot of Hankcon(Hannor? Robocop? Whateveritscalled Hank/Connor) fics lately. Been on that particular kick and been writing quite a few different fics myself. As my first contribution to this fandom, here’s a short, silly one that might develop into more. We shall see. (warning: pwp elements. kind of literally. Not for the kids.)

Enjoy!

-

It was a sudden wake-up call. There was banging on the door that shot through his body and woke Hank from his nap on the couch. He thought, for a moment, about just leaving whoever it was for Connor to deal with when he returned from his walk with Sumo. But the banging didn’t stop.

When he answered the door, he immediately regretted it. He barely made eye contact with the psycho before she had him by the neck and pinned him to the wall. “Where is he, you sick son of a bitch?!”

Josh followed in right behind her, trying and failing to cool her down. “We don’t know if he has anything to do with it.”

“The…fuck you… talking about…?”

North glared at Josh. “Of course he does! Connor would do anything for him, even subject himself to something so degrading!”

Hank shot North a dirty look. “…What-?”

“Shut up, pervert! I’m asking the questions here!” She squeezed tighter. “Where are you keeping him? Tied up to your bed? Some weird sex dungeon?! Were those other guys your friends?! Did you get paid for it?! Answer me!”

He gasped and tried to wheeze out an ‘I can’t.’ He needed to know what was going on before he could do anything. He also needed to breathe, but it’s possible the android forgot about that part of humanity.

Sumo moved in and squeezed himself between North and Hank with a soft growl.

“Am I interrupting something?”

All three turned to Connor as he shut the door. All still perfectly put together and clearly not tied up as North may have feared.

Seeing Connor made her release Hank. She then immediately went up to the other android and quickly looked him over with the same care as a mother who saw her child take a nasty spill.

Connor just continued to stare and blink owlishly at her. “Did you fear something happening to me?”

North grabbed Connor by the shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Did anyone touch you inappropriately?”

Connor frowned. “Not to my knowledge. Why?”

“Is it possible he wiped your memory?”

Josh sighed and shook her head. “North, Markus was right. It’s not him.”

She shot him a look. “If it’s not him, then who else is it?!”

Hank stopped rubbing at his neck and finally felt brave enough to speak. “Alright, would you mind filling us in on what the fuck you assholes are talking about?!”

-

“Ah!~ It’s so big!” The wet sound of slapping skin and wanton moans filled the house. “Ohhh! Don’t stop!”

Hank regretted asking. Now his computer played a video from a porn site he’d only ever heard of. The video depicted what looked to be the best police department set a porn budget could allow. But there, in full center frame, was Connor with his back against a desk, getting railed by an ‘officer’ with a cock the size of his forearm.

And Porn Connor looked to be enjoying every second of it.

Hank tried to cover his face discreetly as he felt it heat up. He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about what Connor would be like in bed. He’d already involved himself in those types of fantasies. It was almost to the point where he was conditioned and seeing a porn star with Connor’s face almost immediately made him hard. He did his best to keep from bringing attention to himself as the blood rushed south.

But North kept glaring at him as Porn Connor moaned and arched into the touches of the other man.

Connor, their Connor, just watched with an unreadable expression. He crossed his arms as the porn version of him begged for more, to be fucked harder. Faster. Make him cum.

As the moans became louder and more desperate, Connor finally turned to North. “That’s not me.”

Josh threw his hands up in the air. “Thank you!”

North frowned at Connor. “I thought you were a unique model.”

“I was before the revolution. I’m not truly one-of-a-kind like Markus. My programming was set up so my consciousness would be transferred to another body if this one were to ever be destroyed. During the revolution, the others gained their own sentience. There were a total of nine RK800s; eight are still active. This is simply one of those.”

Hank finally felt brave enough to speak up. “Why the fuck would one of the Connors get into porn?!”

Connor shrugged. “It’s a lucrative business, from what I understand. And, as I was fairly popular in the news during the revolution, it’s possible there’s a small niche to fill for that.”

“People wanting to see you get plowed?”

“Correct.”

Josh clicked off the video and returned to the main page. “If that’s true then,” he typed RK800 into the search, “yeah, top results ‘RK800 gets put in his place by human masters’ and ‘RK800 serves his freed people.’”

North sneered in disgust. “Ugh.”

Connor didn’t seem fazed. “It’s only people fulfilling a fantasy. No harm would come of it.”

Hank snapped around to look at him. “No harm would- Connor, people are gonna think you’re doing porn!”

North nodded in agreement. “And there’s an RK800 who might be in danger because of this!”

“I don’t believe I see any danger for him. Also, I’m not ‘doing porn’ so those people would be wrong. Thus, this is a non-issue.”

Hank and North both just stared at Connor. Then, they both started. At the same time.

“The fuck do you mean a non-issue?!” “Don’t see any danger?!”

“People are going to find this and-“ “He could be where I feared you were!”

“-think ‘oh, Connor’s a big slut now’-“ “Locked up in some bedroom-“

“-and who the fuck knows what kinda psycho-“ “-waiting for someone to come use him!”

“-is gonna assume you’re down to fuck because of this!” “He could be in serious danger!”

“We have to do something about this!” Both of them ended in unison.

Connor just looked back and forth between the two silently. He knew full well his nonchalance on the matter was what brought everything into question, but he couldn’t find it in him to change his mind. The videos existed. There was no changing that. And the android behind it could be anywhere. He didn’t know which one of the “Connor” series this android was. It made it difficult to contact him.

Luckily, Josh could see what Hank and North couldn’t. He looked away from Connor and back to North. “Look, now that we know it isn’t him, let’s get going. We can think of what to do about the other one later.”

She shot a look at Josh before pointing at Connor with a look of determination. “This isn’t over.” She then stormed out of the house.

Josh sighed and looked back at Connor. “Sorry… We just found it and she immediately assumed the worst.”

“I understand. But I really doubt there is any need for concern.”

“Yeah, I’ll try to tell her that.” He turned and nodded to Hank. “Sorry for the trouble.”

Hank snorted. “Just you do the talking next time. I’d rather not be strangled in my own home.”

Josh smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He walked to the door and gave one last wave. “We’ll talk again soon.”

Both of them waited for the door to shut to the house. Then, without looking away, Hank cleared his throat. “This is going to make working with you pretty awkward.”

“Only if you let it.”

[nandalorian]

So. I wasn’t going to post about Roswell, but now I am, so buckle up because this is going to be a long one.

A lot of people on Tumblr, Twitter, and the wider internet have, over the last few days, very intelligently posed criticisms of Roswell’s representation of POCs and queer characters in the context of Malex. While I have to be upfront about the fact that the problematic writing has made me apprehensive of seeing the show through to its next season, I’ve been pretty quiet on that front as I gather my thoughts and figure out what I need to say. As a white woman, I am upset and dismayed by the token and tone-deaf representation, but I feel like that’s not mine to speak to when there are a lot of people of colour in this fandom who can and should take this opportunity to explain, criticize, and educate the rest of us on how the show has failed and how it must do better. In that regard the most worthwhile contribution I can make is to listen and amplify those voices and their thoughts, feelings, experiences, and insights about the negative and at best lazy representation of people of colour on the show.

But as a bisexual woman and a professional writer and editor, I am in a position to criticize the queer representation from a political and social standpoint, but also a creative one. I am going to break this post up into two parts because there’s a lot I want to address about two separate issues, and I think the waters will get muddied if I try to combine it into one post. So let’s talk about Malex first, which is the subject about which, oddly enough, I feel the most calm. Depressed af, but mostly calm.

More under the cut.

A lot of people have already written about Malex or Tweeted Carina and the production team far more eloquently than I can manage, but the thing is, while I do have issues I’ll get into in a sec, I... actually think they have done a good job of writing Michael as a bisexual man and Alex as a gay one. That isn’t a popular opinion at the moment, but hear me out, because I have a lot more to say on the subject of bisexuality that doesn’t concern Michael Guerin. The show’s struggle isn’t entirely that their politics are bad. I do think the intentions are mostly good--mostly--but what I want to speak to is the breakdown between intentions and how those intentions translate to the screen through the medium of writing, direction, and the actors’ performances.

I don’t want to dismiss or disregard anyone who feels differently since that view is also totally valid and a lot of people have raised very fine points to that end. This is just my interpretation, so take it with a grain of salt and feel free to disregard or not. But my take is we can’t boil down the show’s issues to saying oh it’s biphobic or homophobic where Michael and Alex are concerned. I don’t think it is, not inherently.

The show’s struggle is that the writing is often so sloppy, rushed, and disjointed that it’s impossible to tell whether they don’t fully understand what positive queer representation is and what it isn’t, or if they just don’t know how to do it justice on TV. Perhaps it’s a combination of both, and right now I’m not writing off either possibility.

But I’m inclined to think it’s the latter. To be clear: the Malex/Maria triangle is shitty writing because love triangles frequently are, and they’re really, really difficult, if not impossible, to get right. The reason I think so many of us are up in arms about it is because the show rushed and stumbled its way through a 30-second supercut of Alex and Michael’s relationship from the word go, just enough to get us hooked before abandoning it for something else.

We’re pissed because it’s like they got us addicted to black tar heroin and then took away our fix just as the night sweats and shaky hands started to kick in, and at this point my life since episode 1x11 has been like a bad Trainspotting withdrawal montage. I don’t think they have intentionally baited us, although that is what it feels like. It’s taken a lot of angst and going back and forth on my part to arrive at this conclusion, and I will say I still waffle about it some days. But bad writing is bad because it pulls unintentionally negative reactions from people due to being misunderstood, or from creating all these wild implications the writers didn’t necessarily intend or realize were present in the final product.

The fact that Carina has to take to Twitter to explain each episode to viewers shows the quality of the writing or lack thereof. If it were stronger, she wouldn’t have to do that, but the show suffers from chronic exposition, incredibly bad pacing, and an overreliance on plot devices to advance the story rather than gradual and necessary character development. Sorry if that’s harsh, but the editor part of my brain sometimes wants to weep during episodes of Roswell. Oftentimes a bunch of shit will happen in an episode that doesn’t even progress the story, leaving us or the characters at exactly the same place they started off.

In short, everything happens too much. The characters feel like they have no agency because they are always reacting to one thing after another every episode, not even a second for them to breathe and be and let us see who they really are when the world isn’t on fire. And that’s all the characters, not just Alex and Michael, although arguably we have a bit more insight into the primary characters like the Pod Squad and Liz. But really, everything suffers as a result. The characters seem thin or underdeveloped and the sense of urgency, tension, and risk disappears even from theoretically high-stakes scenes like a live shooter at a hospital because we don’t get to see who the characters are in their normal lives. We don’t fully know what’s important to them before the next explosion happens.  

Adversity is a helpful writing tool because it can show us who characters are under a certain set of high-pressure circumstances, but boredom and normalcy is just as important for character development. You can’t tear down what we don’t know exists. Star Wars: A New Hope wouldn’t have been half as effective if we hadn’t seen Luke Skywalker in his day-to-day life before that simple life was upended and he got the call to adventure. The first stage of the hero’s journey is necessarily the boring part because we can’t cross from the known to the unknown world without seeing what the known world is.

We never really… get that with Roswell. Not even for a second. So of course we feel cheated of bisexual or gay representation in the show because we never actually get to see Michael and Alex in any kind of sustained relationship, healthy or not. It’s just conflict conflict conflict with a bit of sex and longing gazes thrown in, followed by more conflict and then the relationship ending in favour for a new one. All hat, no cattle. (Literally.)

With Michael we get to see some of his routine and him being himself with his family, etc., and a lot of that has to do with the incredible performances Michael Vlamis delivers week after week, although even then, that suffers. Rather than start us off slow and building relationships from the ground up, the season begins in conflict, so that it has the effect of it seeming like the town of Roswell has been vacant for 10 years and everyone moved back in the same day and started catching up on each other’s lives after a decade apart. You don’t get the sense that anyone really talks to each other, even though most of them have been living in the same place their whole lives. Every single relationship, from Isobel and Michael, Max and Michael, Max and Isobel, even Maria and Michael, could have been strengthened if they’d taken more time to lay that groundwork ahead of the conflict. Especially Maria and Michael! Imagine how much better this season would have worked if they’d had an existing relationship, friendship, or flirtation before Alex got back. By this point we’d be nodding and probably going, “Okay, I get it. I might not like it, but I get it.”

Alex by comparison is a total cypher where his background and his day-to-day life is concerned. We know almost nothing about him outside of his history of abuse, his tragic backstory with Michael, and his role in helping to uncover the mystery about the fourth alien. Yes, we’ve gotten to see that he is blunt and fiercely loyal to his friends, and he has serious issues with needing to be in control, which are all valid from a character development standpoint. I have come to desperately crave any and all scenes with him and Kyle because that seems to be when we get the most significant moments of character insight like that wonderful “I’m talking about a conversation, not a war” moment. But how much else do we know or understand about him that is canon, not fans’ headcanon?

Furthermore, the lack of context and representation around Alex’s disability as a veteran, amputee, and potentially as a PTSD-sufferer is really dangerous and feels like tokenism. The way they’ve written the existence of his injury feels inconsistent, and while showing his residual limb during a love scene was significant, they ruined any goodwill we might have developed toward them for that by simply never engaging with his disability again. Same with the fact that he is of Indigenous heritage, which we know FROM A TWEET but which the show has never actually engaged with explicitly, in a move taken straight from the J.K. Rowling Book of Bogus Representation. We don’t quite have enough information to know yet whether this is tokenism or bad writing, in Alex’s case, although I sincerely hope it isn’t the former. Based on everything I’ve seen so far, though, my hopes aren’t high, because it kind of feels like the writers want credit for representation when they haven’t actually done the legwork (yet?).

Maria suffers a similar lack of character development, and what started off promising when we got great scenes with her, Liz, and Alex and then met Mimi has quickly deteriorated to her being nothing more than Michael’s new love interest. As a woman of colour, that is lazy and shitty on multiple levels, and I just about hit the ceiling in 1x11 when they not only showed a black woman being drugged and her body used against her will--could you be more tone-deaf to those implications?!--but had two white women (Jenna and Isobel) accusing Maria of being a murderer to another WOC (Liz). Maria’s very thin character development in the latter half of the season has had the dual effect of making us feel like we’ve been cheated out of a relationship we have gotten attached to but haven’t been given time to fully appreciate or understand (Malex) and thrust into a new one that feels weak, arbitrary, and rote by comparison.

I actually don’t object to the idea of Michael and Maria as a couple. They have great chemistry. But I do object to the lack of development they’ve given us on either front, either Michael/Maria or doing serious justice to Malex as a ship. To think all of that could’ve been solved if the writers had slowed down the show’s pacing and actually given themselves and the characters time to breathe and get to know each other, and us them.

What I feel a lot of straight/white/cis/able-bodied writers don’t seem to understand is that representation takes care. It’s great to say you’re going to write a diverse show and have lots of representation, but it’s for naught if you don’t also understand that you can’t write diversity in the same way you’d write a character coming from a place of privilege, be it racial, socioeconomic, gender, sexuality, ability, etc. Part of that privilege is having a lot of generally positive understanding and assumptions about those characters already built in, especially from your viewers who share that privilege. Writing diversity takes WORK, a lot of attention to detail, sensitivity, and most of all the ability to listen. It takes a lot of consultation with people who have those experiences and know what they’re talking about, because the experiences, assumptions, and biases of nondiverse writers just can’t fully capture what minorities know and live every day of their lives. To do otherwise is how we arrive at whitesplaining, mansplaining, straightsplaining, etc. If you’re a white/straight/cis/able-bodied person and think you’ve done enough to positively represent your diverse characters, that probably means you need to do more. It’s not for you to judge how much is “enough.” That’s for your consultants and, most importantly, your viewers. And if those people are telling you you’ve missed the mark, the next best thing you can do is stfu and listen to them and try to learn how to do better, not get defensive or start patting yourself on the back for everything else you’ve done.

I think those principles can be applied to all the representation on the show, including that of POCs, the differently abled, and the queer characters. I think the writers have done enough with Michael and Alex as queer characters on their own, but they’ve missed the mark on doing enough with them together. Because--and I know this will come as a shock--part of writing queer characters is also giving us well fleshed-out queer relationships. They started off down that road, but at some point the road abruptly ended and left us as viewers feeling stranded in the middle of a desert. That’s uneven writing that results in a feeling of uneven representation, and as far as viewers are concerned, it amounts to the same thing.

Carina’s attempts to explain why they’ve done nothing wrong to viewers via Twitter and social media is sheer intentional fallacy. And while we’re at it, I’ve spent a lot of this season wanting to take Twitter away from her and throw a copy of “The Death of the Author” at her head instead. It’s not enough, Carina. What you intended isn’t enough if it’s not there on the page or visible to us on the show. As a writer she should understand that, but instead she is getting defensive of her abilities as a screenwriter and showrunner when fans pipe up to say whatever she intended isn’t translating properly. We aren’t seeing that representation, which means the writers need to do more than what they think is “enough.”

Add into that a rushed, arbitrary love triangle with an underdeveloped black female character and an underdeveloped gay POC with a disability, especially when those two characters are also best friends whose relationship is severely threatened as a result, and there’s no wonder why viewers are up in arms about this. I don’t think the love triangle makes Michael seem like an indecisive or promiscuous bisexual--and anyway, since when is being promiscuous a bad thing. It just makes him and Maria seem careless of Alex’s feelings and like Alex is the victim, which they could have avoided by taking their time with the characters/relationships, especially the vulnerable ones, or by avoiding such a lazy and unnecessarily dramatic trope in the first place, or at the very least establishing the characters and their relationships enough that our current situation felt more organic.

So really this kind of leaves us at an impasse, I think, as fans. I think people ought to keep speaking up to Carina if they think that will help, but I think it’s also important for us to be able to separate bad politics from bad writing, or at least be able to engage with them as separate things that occasionally (or frequently) overlap with disastrous consequences. I’m sure there are a lot of people who will disagree with this utterly, and that’s fine. Could be I’m totally wrong, and I am aware that I’m probably giving the writers too much credit about what they may or may not have intended.

But with regards to Alex and Michael, maybe it will help to understand what’s happening from this standpoint and tailor our approach accordingly. We really can’t take it upon ourselves to make demands upon the show in terms of what story they want to tell, but we can certainly complain when they aren’t telling that story effectively or when it alienates viewers, especially on points of diversity and representation.

But I don’t know. It could be the only way to make ourselves heard, to tell the writers when they are and aren’t doing “enough,” is to vote with our time, attention, and viewership, whether that means continuing to watch the show or stopping altogether. And that’s kind of a bummer, because there was a lot of potential. But if the quality of the storytelling is unable to make heard the voices and experiences it ought to, especially with such a receptive, enthusiastic audience, then maybe it’s time we start looking for other shows that do a better job, or better yet, continue to keep telling and creating our own.

Those are just my thoughts. Please feel free to discuss with me in the comments or via DM, because I’m still talking through this stuff and welcome the conversation and any alternate or opposing viewpoints.

I’ll be back in a bit to share a second post with my far less forgiving thoughts about Roswell’s representation of queer female sexuality, because that one’s a doozy and the gloves come off. Sorry not sorry in advance.

[stars-and-rose]

|Heart Point| Chapter One

Is Emily staring another story when she already has like eight others planned?

You fucking bet!

This AU is a collab between me and @planetkookie ! Kai is an absolute Queen! She's the one behind all the amazing art in this AU (you can see the character designs if scroll through my account, or search the tag #heart point au!) She'll also be writing one-shots when she feels inspired too!

Meanwhile, I'm writing the main fic!

Notice: I own none of the characters in this! Vance and Cassidy belong to Aphmau, and the boys all belong to Thomas Sanders!

The general plot and some dialogue belong to Aphmau as well

Without further ado....

Fandom: Thomas Sanders/Sanders Sides

Pairings: Logince, (Eventual) Prinxiety, (Eventual) Logicality and (Eventual) Remceit

Summary: In which Roman suffers through a break-up and proceeds to accept a gift- which probably wasn't a good idea.

Word Count: 2892

Trigger Warnings: Break-up, Fainting, Cursing because I cannot contain my potty mouth, not anything really severe this fic is very fluffy

next>>

Chapter One: When momma said "Don't accept gifts from strangers," she might of been on to something

"You're breaking up with me?"

Roman could not believe this was happening. He loosened his grip on the hot chocolate he'd been drinking; the hot liquid had turned bitter on his tongue. He stared at his boyfriend, who wasn't making eye contact with him.

"That's,  um, a way to put it. Definitely." Roman's boyfriend, Vance, still wasn't meeting his eyes.

"Definitely a way to put it or definitely breaking up with me?" Roman's voice still had the tiniest bit of hope in it. Maybe he'd heard Vance wrong. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions, a skill he was fantastic at.

"Both?" Vance finally raised his eyes and they met with Roman's. Vance's blue eyes were filled with apprehension, sadness, and something that looked suspiciously like pity.

Meanwhile, Roman was trying not to cry, his green eyes scrunched with his effort. "Oh."

"Ro?" Vance's voice was soft. "You okay?"

"Did I do something wrong?"

Vance shook his head violently. "Do something? Are you kidding? No, no way! You've been an awesome boyfriend-"

"But you're breaking up with me?" Roman blinked a few times, desperate not to cry.

Vance let out a sigh. "Yes."

"For Cassidy. On the track time." Roman's voice gained a bit of an edge as he spoke.

"Heh… I see word travels fast." Vance grumbled, looking away again. Roman covered his head in his hands. Little tears were starting to fall down his face and he'd be damned if he let Vance see them.

"You're dumping me for Cassidy on the track team?" Roman's voice was muffled, and Vance sighed.

"Oh no… Roman…I'm sorry… please don't cry…. Ro come on, we're in public."

"Crying? Who's crying?" Roman lifted his head from his hands, eyes a bit red.

"Roman…."

Roman let out a laugh that held no humor to it. "Why would I be crying, I'm an adult, thank you."

"Don't call yourself an adult when you have stickers all over your face."

It was true, Roman did have stickers on his face: two gold stars, one on his left cheek and the other near his right eyes. It was one of many ways Roman showcased himself to the world, and he was proud of it.

"I can have stickers all over my face and handle my boyfriend breaking up with me three weeks before prom because that’s what adults do!" Roman's voice grew louder as he spoke, drawing attention from the people around them. Neither boy cared. Roman loved attention and Vance was used to it, due to Roman's dramatic flair.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Vance's voice had become soft again.

"Absolutely."

That had been twenty minutes ago.

Currently, the same boy who'd said he was 'absolutely' okay was sobbing on his bed with his best friends arms around him. Patton always smelled like cookies and vanilla and the smell was a comfort to Roman.

"Oh, Kiddo, breathe, just breathe it's going to be okay." Patton soothed, rubbing the taller boy's back as he continued to sob. He looked around at the other boy in the room. "Remy, we're going to need more tissues."

"How did I end upon tissue duty?" Said boy huffed, walking across the room with the tissues in his hands and his signature sunglasses pushed back.

"You were compelled by the ancient right of friendship!" Patton told him, before turning his attention back to Roman. "Here you go! Just take one-"

Roman proceeded to bury his face into the box.

"Or do that whatever works for you!" Patton looked back up. "Remy, we're going to need ice cream! Double-chocolate chunk, stat!"

"Now I'm on ice cream duty?" Remy sighed, crossing his arms.

"The power of friendship. It compels you!" That, or the fact Patton was starting to get into extreme dad mode, and that was a sight no one truly wanted to see.

"Gurl, I have track practice in fifteen minutes and if I don't get a coffee between now and then I am going to lose it."

"Vance..is on the track team! And so is Cassidy!" Roman instantly went back to sobbing at an even higher pitch than before. Patton winced.

"Oh my goodness, can we not bring up Track for now? Vance just dumped Ro-"

"-for Cassidy Stevenson?" Remy interrupted. " From the relay team? Yeah, I know. Cassidy hooked up with Vance at the post-meet and greet last week and then proceeded to spill everything to Alexandria Waters who is such a big mouth and told me- why are you looking at me like that?"

"You knew about this?" Patton growled.

"Um, yes darling I pride myself in knowing all this school's gossip-"

"You knew about this and didn't tell Roman?" Patton yelled, reaching over-protective dad mode, his eyes blazing as Remy took a step back.

"Hey, I didn't want to trigger that!" Remy waved his arms at Roman, who was still managing to cry even though he had been doing so for almost a half-hour now.

Patton sighed, backing down. "Fair. Ro, kiddo, how we doing?"

"They're probably warming up together wearing those stupid short- shorts! Vance looks good in stupid short-shorts! Why is running even a sport anyway? It's just walking a little faster!" After his stunning contribution, Roman went back to the tissue box.

"Okay, that's my limit, I'm going to get myself coffee and go to track." Remy flipped down his sunglasses. "But, Roman? Forget about him. You're perfect just the way you are."

Roman wasn't feeling that perfect- his eyes were red from crying and his throat burned. "Even with stickers on my face?"

“Especially with the stickers. Okay, hon? Okay."

"Okay." Roman agreed softly.

"I'm going to go. AND IM GOING TO SMOKE DOWN THAT UNGRATEFUL STICKERLESS ASSHOLE FOR YOUR HONOR!" Remy cried out, exiting the dorm with a whoop!

"Yeah, Remy! Be our Prince's knight! Roast him! With butter! And organic peanut butter!" Patton cheered.

"Thanks, Remy," Roman whispered as he watched his friend leave.

"See, Ro? Everything will turn out a-o-kay!"

Then, the door swung open. "My apologies, I got here as soon as I could, by which I mean as soon as the scholastic decathlon mixer wrapped up-" Despite his breathing making it sound like he had run to the dorms, Logan still managed to look as professional and orderly as ever. Patton gave him a quick smile.

"Took ya long enough! Ah, don't look so guilty Lo, I'm joking."

"Is he okay?" Logan asked, scanning the room for their usually over-the-top friend. "Where is he?"

Patton simply pointed to Roman's bed, where the boy had wrapped his arms around his legs and curled into a ball. He had finished sobbing, but a few stray tears slipped down his cheeks. Logan walked over to him and bent down.

"Hey Roman," Logan whispered softly, knowing by now how to deal with Roman after the brunet had a meltdown. None of his usual big words- that would only make Roman feel stupid and in turn make him feel worse "I had planned to save these for your birthday, but I got you some stickers…"

Roman looked up, his green eyes brightening the slightest of bits. "Stickers?"

"Yes, Ro. They have little crowns on them."

"Crown stickers?" Roman mumbled, his voice rough from his sobbing.

"And they're glittery too."

"Glittery crown stickers?"

"Mmhmm. All yours." Logan gently put the stickers down on the boy's knee. Roman instantly snatched them and turned around.

"Hey now, staying in your dorm and putting stickers on your face isn't the best thing for your mental health-"

"Huh?" Roman turned back around, one of the glittery stickers placed above Roman's nose.

"Oh Newton, ah, let's go for a walk. Fresh air and sunlight are proven to help increase mood." Logan helped Roman up and flashed Patton a nervous smile. "I'll take care of him, don't worry Pat."

Patton flashed him another smile, and Logan saw how Patton was exhausted. Dealing with Roman's meltdowns happened to have that effect on people. Logan knew in a single glance that Patton needed a break from his roommate.

Soon enough, Logan managed to drag Roman outside. "See, Roman? Don't you feel a little better with the sunshine?"

In response, Roman let out what sounded like a hiss."The vitamin D is infecting me."

Logan gave the other boy a small grin, happy that Roman had a least remembered one thing from science. "Then it's doing its job."

"Why am I outside?" Roman whined. "I could be covering my notebooks with pretty crown stickers and crying until the sunsets."

"Hey, hey, no thinking like that. It will only decrease your already unhappy mood. How about we head down to the café, get some smoothies? The fruit in them will make you feel better."

Roman crossed his arms. "Vance dumped me at the café."

Logan paled but immediately responded. "Okay, so I'm going to get us smoothies from somewhere that is most definitely not the café, okay? You stay here and take a moment to relax, okay?

Roman nodded, "Thanks, Lo. You're the best."

Logan nodded and turned away, hoping he had succeeded in hiding his growing blush from the other male. "It's okay, Ro. It's not a problem- it never is, not for you, you being a very good platonic friend." Smooth.  Logan quickly walked away before he could embarrass himself.

"I appreciate it," Roman called out after him, a small smile forming on his lips.

"He likes you." Roman jumped and spun on his heels. A boy was standing on the fountain behind him, his heterochromic eyes meeting Roman's

"Holy goth boy batman- where did you come from?"

"The fiery pits of hell." The way the boy said it, so deadpan, Roman wasn't exactly sure if he was kidding.

"Really?"

"No, I just got out of band practice." The boy said, rolling his eyes. Roman huffed.

"Oh, cool." Roman knew his boy, he just couldn't be a finger on the name… aha! "You're Damien, right? I think we have home ec together?"

"Yup, you're the boy with the stickers."

Roman nodded. "My reputation proceeds me. I'm Roman."

"Roman… I've heard a lot about Roman recently." Damien looked him in the eyes again. "You just got dumped."

Roman winced. "If I did, it was for reasons completely unrelated to stickers."

Damien laughed. "I'm sure. How are you holding up? A broken heart is no small matter."

If he was honest, Roman was surprised that Damien, a boy he'd had about three conversations with, was concerned for his well being. "Me? I'm totally fine! Some people just can't handle me!"

Damien looked unimpressed. "Your eyes are red and your voice keeps cracking."

"Hmpft."

The other boy sighed from his position on the fountain. "You don't think Vance was in love with you?"

Roman huffed. "I never know! People are so annoying! They all lack the ability to communicate properly and show affection-  I wouldn't know if someone liked me if they came up right behind me!"

"Roman!" Roman turned on his heels and saw Logan peeking out a doorway. "I'm aware that your favorite smoothie is-" Logan proceeded to spell out Roman's overly complicated order. "-but is there anything else you need? They have red velvet cupcakes? With rainbow sprinkles? I know that's your favorite."

"Oh, that sounds amazing! Here, I think I have a few dollars-" Roman started to rummage around in his pockets.

"Not necessary, Ro. It's on me."

"Oh, really? Are you sure?"

"Affirmative." Logan ducked back into the café, and Roman turned back to Damien, who had jumped off the fountain and came closer to the brown haired boy.

"Can't show affection?" Damien grumbled.

"Mmhmm! As I was saying, Humans? Brick walls. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. They wouldn't know how to show lo-"

Damien stared at Roman like he was having a hard time processing what Roman was saying. "Riiiight. I think I might have something for you that will help your current…predicament."

"Huh?"

Damien pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket, pulled something off it and stuck it to Roman's cheek. It was another sticker, this one a rather large red heart.

"Damien?  Did you just give me a stic-"

The other boy gave him a smile. "Abracadabra."

Then, Roman proceeded to faint.

.....

Processing...

Welcome New User

Welcome to HEART POINT

.....

Roman's thoughts were murky as he started to wake up.  What had happened? He had been talking too that senior- Damien!- and Logan had gone out to get smoothies and cupcakes- so why did it feel like Roman was laying against his bed?

Patton's voice woke him up faster. His best friend sounded really worried? Had Remy gotten hurt at Track? Had he found out that Logan still was staying up late studying? Roman opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. So he was in his dorm.

"Should we take him to the nurse?' Patton fretted, and from what Roman could hear, was pacing.

"For what, a broken heart?" That was Remy.

Roman sat up and groaned, directing both boys’ attention to him. "Kiddo! You're okay!" Patton ran over to his bed and helped Roman up. "You gave us quite the scare, fainting like that! Logan had to carry you all the way to our dorm."

"Yeah, babe, he was really freaked. Totes unusual for him." Remy took a sip of his drink.

Roman squinted at his friends. There was something off here… oh, wait… that was new…

"Why are there stars above your heads? And that's a heart?" There were indeed stars and hearts above his friends' heads: four gold stars floating over Patton's, and three gold stars and one red heart over Remy's. Roman blinked a few times, but the images were still there. In the corners of his vision, he noticed something else. In the bottom left corner, there was a red and gold circle with the words: Roman, Level One cutting through it. In the top right, was a similar circle with the words: Dorms and Evening cutting through it.

What was happening?

Remy looked up but apparently could not see that floating images above his head. Patton looked two, and at the same time both boys muttered, "Oh, Roman.."

"And what's with this border thing? I'm on level one? What?" Roman shook his head a few times, trying to shake it off. "It's all around my vision- I can't get rid of it!"

"Ro, calm down! You probably hit your head when you fainted, It's okay." Patton, on his tippy-toes, placed his hands on his friend's shoulders. "Breathe, okay?"

Roman nodded and took a few, long breaths. The stars, heart and the weird border were still there.

"Roman, hun, we good now?" Remy asked. Roman simply nodded, even though he was most definitely not good.

There was a knocking on the door, and Patton removed his hands and went to answer it. "That's probably Lo! He went to get you some ibuprofen!"

Sure enough, it was Logan, carrying a little bottle in his hand. "Roman, I see you've woken up. You had me nervous for a bit there."

"Nervous isn't the word I'd use," Remy mumbled into his drink.

Roman sucked in a breath. "Logan?"

"Yes, that is my name." Logan turned to Patton. "Is he okay?"

Patton sighed. "It's been a long day, we're going to cut Ro some slac-"

"That's a lot of hearts." Roman blurted, because, in fact, floating over Logan's head were three gold stars and four red hearts.

"Hearts? Roman, do you require-" Logan continued to talk, but Roman subconsciously blocked him out. He raised his head to his cheek, and it rested on the sticker Damien had given him: the red heart.

[chut-je-dors]

Sorry but I don't think you can say you're trying to "contribute" to making the mclennon fandom "more equal" with the way half your fics portray paul thistring after john's dick and making him be sub in all your fics and I hear people say how good the hor mechanic is but I think paul is just super annoying, not realistic at all and I'm sorry I don't understand how that fic became so popular in the first place or how your contributing to this fandom

You know what, I usually delete all this kind of asks after the whole hysteric!Paul controversy took place, ‘cos my patience was just running out and I was simply getting tired of it, but I actually want to answer this time, and will do so thoroughly. So beware, a LONG post coming through.

I’d like to begin with the claim that half of my fics portray Paul as the “bottom” one. First of all, I’d like to clarify that for me, it doesn’t matter who bottoms and who tops — the important thing is whether the relationship between the two men is equal, and that equality has nothing to do with who bottoms. One of them has to, if they were to do anal sex. It is true that in most of my fics, Paul has been the one to bottom, but that doesn’t mean he’s beneath John in any other way than just physically, literally lying under him.

There is a lot in this whole thing that people don’t really get:

First of all, you need to understand what kind of a place our fandom was when I was first starting as a reader. Most of the fics featured Paul as the bottom one, but John as the emotional drive in the stories. I’ve lost count of the oneshots I read back then that had John pining after Paul, and there didn’t seem to be any corresponding fics where Paul was the one desperately pining for John. Their relationship didn’t seem equal; Paul was too soft, John was too hard. Paul was the romantical one, John couldn’t have cared less. Paul was a stuck-up nun, John was a reckless arsehole without any regard for others feelings.

I started reading fics in 2009 at the age of 13, and two-three years later I was writing my first fic ThighGHGHGHGS. This was both an outlet for my personal frustration over John’s thighs (man was I high on hormones at 15), a desire to write something that would make other people laugh, and an attempt to do something that was often less seen; Paul pining over John.

After that, there were a couple of smaller fics that I won’t be discussing here, meant as crack fics and never to be taken seriously. (What 1 being my personal favourite.) The big needle in the wound for everyone seems to be the Hot Mechanic and the Hot Series in general, so let me tell you about that fic:

In 2012-2013 the steady stream of new fics on JohnHeartPaul seemed to be dying down. There were maybe one or two multichapter fics being published, new chapters appearing every now and then, and the place seemed to be dying down. At that point the JP-archive stopped being updated. I was 15, going on 16, and growing increasingly frustrated with the lack of good new fics in the fandom (at that point I’d read the whole archive through like, twice). I started roaming over to the Merlin fandom and was blown away by the amount of good fics that incorporated the characters into all sorts of AUs seamlessly. I especially loved the modern AUs, and felt that that was missing from our fandom. At this point (in 2013) there were about two or three Modern AU fics in the fandom, and all of them were oneshots! We simply had no multichapter modern AU fics.

I decided to simply continue on the same policy I’d previously had with ThighGHGHGHS; I wanted to bring something new into the fandom. (Note: I don’t want to sound egoistical in this essay — the reason why I haven’t explained this before now is because I am a very, very modest person, and I have a problem in taking credit and compliments over something that I don’t feel was such a big deal. But these are things that I’ve heard from other people over the years, and as such I feel safe saying them, even though I’m still battling to accept the high praise.)

So why is The Hot Mechanic so popular? Because it is the first long, plot-driven modern AU in this fandom.

I wanted to do it as a crack fic, because I love humour. I wrote a fic that made me laugh, and I never expected it to become a thing that’s still going on. But because it’s a crack fic, it brought a few changes into the characters. They don’t react like normal people do. Hell, George isn’t a normal person. Ringo is the closest one we get to a normal person in that fic, and Paul literally walked in on him fucking his cousin! They’re all completely out of their heads, and it’s made for the laughs. Since it is a deliberate crack fic that isn’t even trying to make the characters look real (think of it as a really long Monty Python sketch), and since I literally wrote it SIX YEARS AGO, I don’t think it is fair to continuously keep on using that fic against me as a proof of how I “always” write Paul and John.

The following parts to the Hot Series have followed the same pattern as the first part, because, y’know, continuity. You can’t change a character just like that in the middle of the story without an explanation, and since the lads’ characters were well-established in the first part of the series, I had to keep it up. And I wouldn’t have changed it either, because writing them was, and is, genuinely fun, and that’s what matters.

What’s important is also the fact that Paul and John’s relationship is equal. They are both loving towards each other, showing affection openly. John is pining after Paul at work, dreaming about the moment he gets back to Paul on a regular basis, and Paul often reacts to this with fond humour. They laugh at each other’s jokes, walk out hand-in-hand, are equal when it comes to sex — they decide together what they want, standing constantly on equal ground. That sort of an open, fluffy relationship was kinda new as well, mainly due to the fact that this fic takes place in the modern day; they are allowed to be together.

I wrote the Hot Mechanic with a conscious wish of people copying it, taking my lead and jumping into the world of AUs. I hoped that people would get inspired by my first futile attempt at a modern AU, and bring more of them into the fandom. In the end I don’t know how much of an impact the HM had on the authors in general, but some sort of a switch has happened in any case, since in these days we’re gloriously swimming in Modern AUs.

In 2015 I wrote the Vomiting Adventure. I can’t remember if there was any particular reason, other than that I had probably been ill, and wanted to write a fic to commiserate with my subconsciousness. (And those who complain about the hysteric!Paul never seem to mention it at all. Maybe because it doesn’t fit the profile?)

The same year I wrote Hate Is Such A Strong Word. That fic was... never intended to be what it is today. It started as deep, thoughtful few sentences, and then suddenly Paul was tied to the bed, and ??? It suddenly became a try on how to write smut, since I had no real experience in it. It was also a crack fic, and as such I ask you to look at it like at the HM: As nothing meant to be realistic. It was not planned, and Paul bottoming didn’t hold much meaning. It was my first smut, and someone needed to bottom. And Paul was already tied to the bed, which was convenient.

When you look at my fics, you’ll see that most of them are in fact meant as a light, fun reading experience. They are crack fics. The only clear exceptions are This Is Not Them, and Ten Minutes.

This Is Not Them came from that old damned desire to once again do something new, but this time something new for me, since all I had ever done was write crack fics. I wanted to challenge myself and write a fic in a completely different style and tone, I wanted to show people I could do other stuff as well. This fic has Paul bottoming at the beginning when he’s with John, because wordless agreements between characters about who tops and who bottoms? Y’know how those work -- but he tops with other people. He is depressed. Sex is his only way of feeling something, which is explained in the fic (meaning that he is not a slut, but feels conflicted because he feels like one, but doesn’t want to, and doesn’t know who he is anymore). And John has his own depression to fight against, and here, Paul bottoming is kind of a plot point... uh, like a small dot in a bigger plot point about who John is and Why Is He Like That? I don’t want to spoil the fic for those who haven’t read it yet, but; there isn’t a sentence written in that fic that doesn’t have a meaning behind it. Paul doesn’t bottom for the reader: he bottoms because John won’t, due to the man’s ghosts from the past.

What underlines my work is that I always want to do something no one else has ever done before, or has never done properly. I have decided not to delete my older work, because I know people enjoy those fics, and I hope people wouldn’t judge how I write now based on those 6-year old works. The fics that I’ve been working on within this past year are This Is Not Them, Ten Minutes, and 5 Thomas Lane. Read those fics, and tell me whether you see a sign of the “feminine and girlish” Paul. (or don’t read them, ‘cos they’re really long... like so many words..... god)

I can say that personally I’ve never liked the fics where Paul was made out to be the crying princess, just based on his looks. The fandom tended to do that (as they often do for “pretty” characters), and I wanted John and Paul to be equal. They are equal in banter, equal in feelings, and yes, equal in bed as well in the way that it matters: mentally. (Except for This Is Not Them, but that is a plot point)

I highly encourage you to take a look at my fic page, where you can see all the fics I’ve written at a glance! It really sounds like you haven’t read most of them, so do give them a go!

As a response to your thoughts that I have not contributed to this fandom at all — I’m sure you’re aware of the JP-Library by now. At least I hope so! Here is how all that happened:

As I mentioned before, in 2013 the fandom seemed to be dying down. 2014-2016 continued in the same way, with everyone having sort of scattered around after JohnHeartPaul had gone quiet. Tumblr isn’t the best place to keep your whole community in, since it doesn’t offer any possibility for good fandom discussion. AO3 was slowly gaining foot in the fandom, and new fics started to appear little by little — AUs to my delight, although even as recently as in 2016 there just didn’t seem to be any new ground-shaking fics. Overall the whole place seemed to be dying down, and I was feeling desperate, because this fandom had been my home for years by then.

4th of January 2017 I had a thought that if no one else was going to do anything, I was the one that had to. Here is a quote from messages I sent that day to one friend after bringing up the idea of a new, updated JP-archive:

CJD, [04.01.17 23:43]I just kinda wanna keep the jp fandom alive

CJD, [04.01.17 23:43]cos I’ve been watching it go down for years :/

This was my core motivation from the start. I collected all the fics from the JP-archive, went through them to sort out the broken links, and started adding AO3 fics into the mix. A month after the idea of doing this had surfaced, I published the site, and have been updating it ever since. Soon after that I took over @mclennonrecs​.

I have been told by several different people that “you’re the one who’s keeping this fandom alive” or “you revived the whole fandom”. I’m not... sure if I agree, but it does however give a picture of what at least a one group of people think of my contributions to this fandom, and I’m glad to think that I’ve managed to make at least a small difference.

Truthfully I find it quite offensive that you would question my involvement in our fandom after all the work I’ve put into the Library and Mclennonrecs. I won’t say anything else on the matter, but I hope you take your time reading through my answer and considering what I’ve said.

I am always ready to receive criticism about my writing and the work I do, as long as it is given constructively. I do hope people would stop hounding writers for writing stories with bottom!Paul. It is discouraging to new authors and tiring to the old ones. I’ve always loved how people of all ages can unite over our love for John and Paul without judging anyone, so let’s not start creating unnecessary tension now.

Learn to see the fandom through its rich history, and don’t judge people without knowing their motivations. Please spread love instead of hate. Thank you! :)

[datheetjoella]

Eyes on the Prize

Author: DatHeetJoella Fandom: Free! Pairing: MakoHaru Rating: G Word count: 1,500 Warnings: tiny mentions of blood and minor injury Notes: This fic was written for the @makoharubigbang in collaboration with @paribean. You can check out her adorable art that accompanies the fic over here!

I hope you enjoy!

Read at: AO3, FFn, or here.

"Go, Tachibana!"

"You can do it!"

"Tachibana-kun!"

The voices echoing around annoyed him immensely, because they were calling out for all the wrong reasons. Some high-pitched, raised an octave above their normal tone and squealing just to catch Makoto's attention. Others guttural, yelling not to genuinely encourage him, but with the sole intent of wanting to win. Hearing it filled Haruka with the odd desire to drown out every other voice, so his would be the only one to reach Makoto's ears, because he believed it to be the sincerest. "Makoto!"

Cheering Makoto on was something that Haruka had grown to be an expert in. During countless of races throughout the years, he had made sure that his unwavering support would sound out through the venue, whether he was on the bleachers, or waiting in line for his turn in the relay as Makoto's powerful backstroke propelled him through the water and left everyone behind. Even if he couldn't hear it, Haruka was sure that he would be able to feel it resonating within his heart. This time was no different.

What was different this time around was that Makoto wasn't in the pool, nor was he the one giving the team a headstart in this relay; he was the anchor who would run their team to victory, chosen specifically because he was the fastest and fittest boy in their class. He was quickly overtaking his opponents, and Haruka could tell that Makoto was giving it his all like he always did. Because he didn't want to disappoint his classmates, prove to them that giving him the most important role in the race wasn't the wrong decision. Because he wanted to make them proud.

While Haruka was always proud of him regardless, he couldn't help but want to contribute to Makoto's success. Unlike with medley relays, he was now supporting him from the sidelines; after seeing his performance at the club versus club race at the start of the year, their class had easily determined they didn't want Haruka anywhere near the track-events of this sports festival. They wanted to win, after all. That just meant that he had to make his voice count from here.

"Makoto!"

Only a few meters left until the finish line and Makoto was in first place. It seemed like there was nothing that could take away his victory now and their class was already cheering.

But then Makoto's right foot twisted awkwardly beneath his weight, making him trip forward and sending the baton in his hand flying. He was barely able to catch himself on his hands and knees, but when he tried to get back up, he fell again.

Instantly, the entire race was forgotten as Haruka's eyes widened in shock and worry. "Makoto!"

He rushed over to Makoto's side, and he wasn't the only one. When he crouched down beside him, Haruka noticed that people were swarming around them, students and teachers alike.

"Tachibana-kun, are you okay?"

Numerous similar questions were shot at him, and Makoto looked up with his sunny smile as he gently rubbed his ankle, but he wasn't able to conceal the pain in his eyes - at least, not to Haruka. "I'm alright, I think I just sprained my ankle, that's all. Sorry!"

After hurting himself pretty badly, the idiot was now apologising for losing the race, of all things. That truly showed just how kind he was and Haruka huffed in a mixture of exasperation and fondness. "Don't apologise. I'll take you to the infirmary."

"I'll help!"

"Me too!"

Haruka immediately shook his head at the shouted offers. "It's fine, I got him."

Hearing the underlying bite of dismissal in his tone, Amakata-sensei cleared her throat and spoke up before the other students could protest. "Let Nanase-kun handle it. Otherwise you'll all miss the closing ceremony."

The crowd quickly dissipated after that, but not without some students voicing wishes for Makoto's quick recovery. He thanked them all with his default smile as Haruka helped him up and slung his arm around his shoulder, his own wrapping around Makoto's waist.

Slowly they stumbled towards the school together, but it wasn't long before Makoto stopped in his tracks. "Haru? The nurse has a first-aid tent outside…?"

"You need an ice pack for your ankle to minimise the swelling and she probably doesn't have those outside."

It was obviously a lie, but the meaning hidden within his reasoning didn't get lost on Makoto: all of the attention he had received had gotten on Haruka's nerves and he wanted to be alone with him for a moment. So he simply smiled as he skipped along, trying his best not to lean too much of his weight on Haruka.

"This isn't going to work," Haruka admitted after a couple more meters. Makoto was putting too much strain on his ankle and he didn't like the way Makoto's arm around his shoulder reminded him of last summer; of a cold, limp body and weak breathing. Of fear and desperation. He let go of Makoto's arm and crouched in front of him. "Here."

"…Are you sure?" Makoto questioned with furrowed eyebrows, "You know I'm heavy-"

"Just come on already," Haruka cut off, the finality in his words showing there was no room for discussion.

Makoto sighed in defeat and wrapped his arms around Haruka's neck, muscles flexing as Haruka grasped his bare thighs and lifted him off the ground. Haruka wobbled a bit as he straightened his back, but he soon recovered and continued to walk.

Haruka's determination was honestly adorable; Makoto could vividly remember the last time he gave him a piggyback ride like this. They were eight, maybe nine, and he had tripped over his untied shoelaces as they were running home; they had completely forgotten the time as they were playing and it was already five minutes past their curfew. His knees were bleeding pretty badly but he didn't want to cry, and Haruka had offered to carry him home. "Thanks, Haru-chan, you're my saviour," he had said, which made Haruka's face turn as red as a fire hydrant.

It was funny how that was still true, even today.

When they arrived at the infirmary in one piece, Haruka gently put Makoto down on one of the beds before he collapsed beside him, panting and wheezing.

"You shouldn't have carried me, Haru," Makoto scolded in disapproval, "You're always complaining about how heavy I am and how I'll crush you with my weight-"

"But I did it," Haruka objected, pulling himself from the mattress and sitting upright next to him. "It's not like I couldn't do it, so I don't see the problem."

Another fond sigh escaped Makoto's lips when he realised what was actually going on. Since Makoto had gotten so much bigger and broader than Haruka, he wanted to prove both to him and to himself that their size difference didn't mean that he couldn't carry or protect him anymore. Haruka really was too cute.

With his right hand Makoto grabbed Haruka's and intertwined their fingers, his left coming up to lovingly cradle Haruka's cheek. "Well, thank you, Haru," he murmured, voice dyed in mild teasing and heartfelt sincerity, and he closed the distance between them to capture Haruka's lips in a tender kiss.

Haruka shut his eyes and hummed into the kiss, tension evaporating at the reassuring touch and his free hand found Makoto's knee, lightly caressing his skin. The contact lasted much too briefly for Haruka's liking, but he couldn't protest as he felt Makoto's forehead against his. Eyelids fluttered open and he was greeted by shimmering green as Makoto met his gaze and nudged his nose with his in affection.

His breath was warm against Haruka's lips as he whispered, "After all these years, you're still my saviour."

Heat rose to Haruka's cheeks with a single heartbeat when he processed those words. He abruptly pulled away and got up, walking off in utter silence.

"Haru?"

"Ice."

That excuse for his flurry of overwhelming feelings made Makoto chuckle, thinking that Haruka might as well grab some to cool his blazing cheeks while he was ahead.

"Are you going to carry me home too?" Makoto teased as Haruka took off his sneaker and sock, hissing when he suddenly pushed the cold compress against his pulsating ankle.

"Shut up."

Embarrassment was written all over Haruka's face, which made Makoto giggle once more. He earnestly replied, "I love you too."

Almost inaudibly and while avoiding all eye-contact, Haruka grumbled under his breath, "Love you too."

That just made Makoto laugh harder, interrupted by a fierce and startled yelp of "Haru!" when Haruka pressed the ice pack against his thigh in revenge, smirk adorning his features.

"Serves you right."

Again, Makoto could only smile. He might have lost the relay and had to watch how victory was stolen from his grasp, but he couldn't mind it, not when he had long since won the greatest prize he could ever wish for: Haruka's heart.

[concussed-to-pieces]

Comfort

Fandom: WWE

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Ambrose/Omega!Female Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: How about a Thirst Party Saturday...Wednesday pick-me-up? I was thinking an Office!AU, with that sweet, sweet Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamic we all know and love. Tagging @toxiicpop, @oraclegazes and of course, the campaigner for all things LaBraun, @hardcorewwetrash!

Enjoy!

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains threats of rape, musings on consent and general manhandling. Stay safe everyone!]

You knew that you probably should have stayed home today.

Suppressants were expensive and you had the sneaking suspicion that your script had been cut to begin with. You hadn’t felt right for months. But your doctor always dismissed your concerns as Omega paranoia and you didn’t want to make your visits any more difficult, so you just put your head down and accepted the reports without complaint.

You were very lucky after all, you had to remind yourself. Getting hired into an office setting while being an Omega was no easy task, but you’d managed to pick up some runner work that would get your foot in the door over at King’s Game Enterprises. It was only small things for the moment and you’d had to sign a waiver before you started stating that you would keep up with your dosages or face immediate termination, so you couldn’t exactly afford to have your prescription cut with sugar pills. But you had this unshakable feeling of restlessness while making your morning commute. You were tense and tight, as though you were about to jump out of your skin at any given second.

In a burst of desperation, you decided to be honest with your boss about your situation. There was an off chance that maybe, he might understand and send you home early. His wife was an Omega and he treated her like an equal.

Maybe it’ll be okay.

You gathered up their coffee orders and a few files from Alicia, then squared your shoulders and headed for Hunter’s office. Please don’t fire me, you begged mentally. Please please please.

You heard the office door click open before you were halfway down the hall and Stephanie poked her head out. “Alright, move it.” She said, not unkindly. “Smelled you a mile away.” Your heart sank. They know. She at least waited until she’d closed the office door behind you before she started in on you. “Did you not understand the paperwork you signed? Because I can find someone to explain it to you. In perfect detail.”

You bowed your head meekly and pressed her coffee into her hands. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t exactly the equivalent of coming in with a sore throat, but I don’t have any sick days saved up yet. I didn’t know what else to do, ma’am, I need this job so much.” You kept your eyes on the floor, blinking back tears. “I wanted to ask if…if maybe Mr. Hunter could send me home. Or even you, if you have that authority. I know it’s dangerous for me to be out and about like this, I swear I didn’t skip a dose. I-I take my meds, always, but I don’t feel right today and I don’t want to cause any problems.”

“I’ll get Hunter in here. You sit down.” Stephanie clicked her tongue. “Your script get swapped? Did they put you on the generic?”

“My doctor doesn’t give me my scripts, he calls them in himself. He says it’s too dangerous to have an Omega walking around with an unfilled script.” A tear slipped out and you quickly wiped it away, irritated with yourself. Stupid suppressants!

There was a loud knock on the office door and then it was shoved open, the person on the other side not even waiting for acknowledgment. “Heya’ boss one, is boss two he…” The person, a man with a mop of unruly sandy-blond hair, ground to a halt. His nose twitched.

“Perfect timing Ambrose, as ever. Hunter already call you?”

“Y…yeah.” Ambrose said slowly. He shook himself all over. “Whew, sorry. I’m back.”

“Wonderful, I’m so glad Seth is teaching you to be prompt.” Stephanie turned back to you, gesturing at Ambrose. “Dean is one of our Omega therapy Alphas. It’s a new program that some of the higher-ups initiated for the safety and comfort of people like you and me.”

“Basically we’re here to keep you okay.” Dean explained simply. He radiated calm Alpha scent, the new fragrance washing away your terror at being fired.

“We?” You asked in confusion.

Another knock sounded on the door and Ambrose moved to open it, revealing two more men. The Alpha smell, which was heady enough in the room from Dean alone, instantly thickened. Your stomach filled with warmth and you gasped for breath, dimly aware that Stephanie was saying something. Seth. Roman.

Mr. Hunter’s hand was suddenly tilting your chin up. “You still in there, kid?” Hunter Helmsley was the epitome of mated Alpha, broad-shouldered and confident in his own skin. You could see why Stephanie adored him.

You barely had the mental capacity to shake your head. “I don’t feel well, sir.” Your voice was a trembling whisper.

“It’s alright. That’s why our boys are here. Can you make it to lunch time? Two hours.” Hunter glanced at the clock. “Then, it’s only half a shift missed instead of a full one.”

Two hours. Two hours. You nodded dumbly. You could do whatever this Alpha asked. You were a good Omega.

Hunter chuckled. “Alright. The boys are going to escort you to our Omega office, okay? Scent-dampening walls like mine. We need to keep you under wraps until this calms down. You may want to talk with your physician as well, figure out what he gave you.”

“Not the right amount. He won’t listen to me.” You breathed.

“He’ll listen to Dean.” That was one of the other Alphas, but was it Roman or Seth? Seth or Roman?

“Our Alpha partner program can also accompany you to appointments, if necessary.” Hunter added gently. “They’re here to make things easier.”

The idea of having a strong, secure Alpha with you in the doctor’s office made your chest ache with longing. You whined without meaning to, blushing and covering your mouth. “Sorry, I just…”

“Don’t apologize, Omega. We understand.” Seth (or was it Roman?) took your hand, sending tingles through to your fingertips. “C’mon, before everyone in the building is banging on Hunter’s door.”

Roman (or was it Seth?) opened the door for you, making you flush even hotter than before. Normally only mates were offered the courtesy of having a door held for them. Dean came up on the other side of you, the two Alphas flanking you in the hallway while the third brought up the rear.

You finally got up the courage to whisper, “Are you Seth or Roman?” to the dark-haired man at your side.

“He’s Seth, I’m Roman.” The young man behind you answered, making you glance over your shoulder to look at him. He gave you a small smile, as though he was doing his best to soften his hard features. “Roman Reigns, Alpha at your service.”

“Um, no offense to any of you but…why were you guys picked for this?” You asked awkwardly.

“Even temperament, mostly.” Roman replied, shrugging.

“I don’t get nuts around Omegas. Hormone imbalances.” Dean said shortly.

“And I’m too smart to lose my cool.” Seth added smugly. “We aren’t like those other Alphas, butting heads over a piece of ass.”

“Rollins.” Roman’s tone held a sharp note of warning.

“Sorry, sorry. Not to imply that you’re a piece of ass or anything.” Seth apologized hastily. “You’re an Omega, and an Omega that doesn’t want to sit at home and do nothing! Pretty rare.”

“Sitting around is only good until the bills need to be paid.” You commented dryly. “Wait, how am I supposed to do my job if I have to-”

“Ambrose is going to be with you when you’re running errands, okay?” Seth murmured, raking a hand through his hair. “It’s not ideal, I know, the space in here is kinda’ tight. But if something happens while you’re in our care, Hunter will eat us alive.”

Dean opened the door to the Omega office and stepped in, gesturing for you to follow. “C’mon, let’s sit you down for a minute. How you feeling? Doing okay?” He asked kindly, touching your forehead with the back of his hand. “You don’t feel fevery.”

“I’m just nervous, mostly. Restless. Like it’s hard to breathe. I mean, it’s not actually hard to breathe, but like how you feel when it is?” You fumbled to explain. “Chest is kind of tight.”

Roman had pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket, the well-built Alpha turning to a fresh page before clicking his pen. “Can I get the name of your primary care physician, and a rough estimate of how long he’s been cutting your medication? Mr. Helmsley will need it for your file.”

“Oh, b-but I have no proof-”

“Your body is out of sync. Unless Hunter--er, I mean, Mr. Helmsley, has put you under a significant amount of stress, there’s no logical reason for you to be feeling like your lungs are too small.” Seth raised an eyebrow. “I doubt you have anything going on outside of work that could contribute to the level of discomfort you’re dealing with. Shortness of breath is a pretty common complaint in Omegas once their meds are switched.”

“According to my primary, every complaint is a common complaint for someone like me.” The statement came out more bitter than you intended and you grimaced. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, this is good information to have. With your consent, Dean will accompany you on your next appointment.” Roman continued to write for a moment, before clearing his throat. “Ah, when is your next appointment?”

“I had made an emergency one for tomorrow, a cancellation happened and I picked up the slot. Waste of a day off, but I was really hoping to talk some sense into the doctor.” You said weakly. “Or at least try. It’s...hard. He has me strip down and put on the examination gown before he’ll speak to me and I just…I mean it’s a vulnerable situation for someone like me and I don’t really have anyone to come with me.” You were so relieved that someone might be taking you seriously, the words just came pouring out. “I know he doesn’t like Omegas so I just try to make everything simple but now I’m sick or confused and I’m scared, what if there’s something really wrong with me?”

“Easy, easy. Look, I’m gonna’ go grab you a soda from the break room stash. We’ll get some sugar into you, perk you back up. Like Mr. Helmsley said, if you can duke it out for two hours you’re in better shape.” Dean reminded you, heading for the door. “Everything’s gonna’ be just fine. I can come with you tomorrow, I don’t have any prior assignments.”

Of course, as soon as the words were out of his mouth the door flew open and half the contents of the IT department poured into the office. Drew, Tony and Perkins led by one Brian Kendrick who shouted, “There! I told you I smelled heat in the hallway!” pointing an accusing finger at you. You were frozen with fear. The small room was packed with Alphas and Betas now, crowding in on you from all sides.  The air was thick with different smells and the snap of hungry teeth and this is why you can’t have a job this is why you need to stay at home-

“Ambrose!” Seth yelled over the hubbub. It must have been something they had rehearsed, because you were suddenly pulled tight to Dean's chest.

“Face into my collarbone, breathe in. Breathe out. Don't look at them, focus on me.” Ambrose said calmly. There was the sound of a solid impact behind you and Kendrick abruptly stopped hollering.

“You're all really gonna' let this yappy son of a bitch rile you up into acting like a bunch of animals?” Roman asked, his voice low and irritated. “Get out. All of you! Out!”

You whimpered and Dean cupped the back of your head, humming comfortingly. “It's alright. He's a friend. You're safe with me.” He soothed. “We're on your side. Nothin' is gonna' happen to you while I’m here.”

“I'm going to talk to Kalisto and Mustafa. This is some bullshit.” Rollins grunted angrily. “Jesus Christ, that was a fucking nerd mob.”

“Are you alright?” Roman asked, sounding concerned. A large hand covered Ambrose’s on the back of your neck and you relaxed a little into Dean. “Go talk with the smart ones, Seth. We’ll stay put with them until you get back.”

“My legs are going to give out in a second.” You warned thickly.

“Grab the chair, Reigns.” Dean ordered. You closed your eyes, the sound of your swallow loud in your ears. “I’ve got you. Focus on my voice, calm that breathing down so you’re getting enough air.” Ambrose coached, settling you into the chair.

Roman’s hands rested on your shoulders, keeping you upright in the seat. Ambrose shifted in between your thighs, the comfort you felt at his presence a little startling. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you while one of us is here.” Roman said firmly.

“Promise?” You whispered, opening your eyes.

Dean stared back at you until you glanced away, unnerved by the intensity of his look. “Promise.” He replied softly.

…

“Clothes stay on. No, fuck you, their clothes stay on. You’re not bullying them anymore, got it asshole?” Dean rasped, looking like he was inches from pinning your doctor to the wall. “I’m here with them. Now do your damn job and explain what’s happening.”

You hadn’t taken two steps into the examination room before your primary care physician had gestured at the gown on the table and barked at you like he always did. But Ambrose didn’t take kindly to that, the light-haired man glaring holes through the old Alpha doctor. “You can’t threaten me in my own practice!” The older man sputtered.

“They have the right to be treated with fucking dignity, not like they’re an inconvenience. Shit, they’re sick and scared and you’re over here playing high and mighty!” Dean snapped. “What’s the story, huh doc? What’s your issue?”

“Omegas are breeding machines with hysterical, hypochondriac tendencies. My issue is that I’m having my time wasted.” The doctor answered primly.

“This is an Omega who’s got shortness of breath and their heats are getting worse even though they’re taking their suppressants. You’re the one writing their scripts; you’re the one who switched them to a generic without asking them first and then, you cut their doses in half!” Ambrose was fairly roaring at this point. “Feeding them some bullshit story about how they couldn’t take their own script to a fucking pharmacy! ‘Course they can, most Omegas do!”

“I’m not going to stand here and be accused of-”

“Accusing you? Buddy I haven’t even shown you my evidence. I’m flat-out condemning your ass. I have invoices. Faxes. Pages and pages of scripts with your name all over them. I suggest you fucking play ball with my Omega, or King’s Game is gonna’ raze your little pop-up clinic and turn it into a fuckin’ penny candy store.” Dean bared his teeth. “You feel me yet, doc?”

“I…” Your doctor paused, looking like he’d had the rug yanked out from beneath him. “Listen, this is standard procedure for Omega-exclusive practices, I can’t just-”

“You’re diggin’ a pretty deep hole for yourself, doc. You tryin’ to tell me that there’s more guys like you out there, purposely fucking up people’s lives?” Dean snarled.

“It’s the way things are.” Your doctor replied with a weary air. “We need to perpetuate our species one way or another. I don’t expect you to understand, you don’t smell quite right yourself.”

“You’d better watch that nose around me, doc. I’ll bite it off.”

“Aside from your own issues,” Your doctor continued, looking much more pale, “I can’t just up their dosage on a whim, this-”

“Hey, you’re not talking to me. Talk to them. This is their health at stake.” Dean growled.

“Fine.” Your doctor turned toward you with a huff, still not meeting your eyes. “It will take weeks for the suppressants to regain their previous effectiveness. A gradual increase is the only way to straighten you out. If, of course, this is all true.” The doctor didn’t seem to be able to help tacking on the snide remark at the end.

Dean was all over him like a bad suit, fists digging into the older man’s white jacket. “You keep this attitude up and I’ll bite your nose off for free.” He threatened. “This is your last warning to cut the shit. Write them the correct script or so help me God, my people will call your people.”

You just sat there wide-eyed, barely believing what you were watching. Dean was going to bat for you like you were his, radiating scents of fury and Alpha. Your body lit up with excitement and you barely kept yourself from begging Ambrose to mate you until you couldn’t remember your own name. Your face flushed. Where had that desire come from?! You had never been that forward before!

Ambrose kept up the rumbling threat of a snarl in his chest while your doctor printed off some new paperwork, the younger Alpha quickly yanking it out of the older man’s hands and then passing it to you. “Let’s get you taken care of, okay?” Dean murmured, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to steer you out of the examination room. “I know a guy, Doc Swagger. I’ll give you his number for when this script runs out.”

“Wow.” You breathed.

“Too much? I wanted him to take you seriously. I wasn’t sure whether ‘upset mate’ would work, so I went with ‘upset bad cop’.” Dean sounded worried. “Did I overstep?”

“Oh no, gosh. I’m just…a little hot is all.” You admitted, flushing.

“A little h…oh. Oh.” Ambrose paused, then gave you a grin. “Yeah? You think maybe you like when I get tough?”

“No! I do not!” You protested frantically, watching his grin widen. “I’ve never had anyone defend me like that is all and I don’t…I mean I’m not…look, I don’t want to offend you.”

“Offend…?” Ambrose raised an eyebrow, obviously confused. “I think you’ll have to try harder than that.”

“Well because I’m an Omega. And…and I can’t control myself as well as I should.” Your flush was from shame now. “It’s not fair to you that you have to deal with me all…messy like this and probably smelling like a...I-I don’t mean to be this way. It’ll be so much easier once my medication is evened back out.” This was so embarrassing. You had never felt smaller in your whole life. “I really don’t mean to be this way, I know what you must think of me.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with how you smell.” Dean finally murmured after a minute of silence, his back ramrod straight and that teasing smile gone from his face.

…

Hunter assigned Dean to you permanently when he saw how well the two of you were getting on. He mostly just seemed pleased that the program was a success and that you could get your work done with minimal interruptions.

There were no more outbursts from the IT department, and if anyone so much as twitched their nose at you it seemed like Ambrose was at your elbow, brandishing a stapler with deadly intent. His methods were a bit more…hands on than you would expect from someone in an office setting, but you were grateful all the same.

“I ain’t hurt anyone for real in years.” He confided in you one day while you were making copies, his lean frame towering over you. He tended to station himself to the side of you if he could help it, stating that he didn’t want to loom. “Used to pretty often though. This little program is good for me, I think.”

A huge pair of hands abruptly clamped down on your hips before you could respond, and you were rudely hoisted into the air and dropped to the side to free up the copier. “Out of my way.” Brock from Financial grunted.

“Hey!” Dean snapped, his expression gone fierce. “You don’t fucking touch them, Hunter’s orders!”

“What makes you think I give a flying fuck about Hunter’s orders?” Brock snorted derisively, “The little go-fer with slick-reek was taking too long. I have important work to do.”

You blushed hotly with shame, hoping that you didn’t actually smell like slick. How incredibly embarrassing!

“You can ask them to fucking move.” Ambrose’s fists clenched. “Or you can wait.”

“Copies really worth getting your panties in a wad over, Ambrose?” Brock’s grin was infuriating, arrogance shining through in his slouched posture.

“Certainly seemed like it was to you, Lesnar.” Dean scooped up the copy that Brock had made before the other Alpha could reach it, quickly ripping the page in half.

“Your maturity knows no bounds.” Brock sighed.

“Were you all set with the machine?” Dean asked you, studiously ignoring the massive Alpha blocking the door. You nodded quickly, not wanting to cause more trouble. You could always come back on your way out, after all. “Guess it’s your lucky day, Lesnar.”

“You do realize that they’ll fuck anyone, Ambrose. Regardless of how that person treats them.” Brock chuckled, his nasty smile back full-force. “Isn’t that right, little Omega? I bet you’d love it if I shoved up your skirt and just-”

“Stop!” You said while shaking your head violently, unsure at first if you were trying to shut him up or trying to keep your thoughts from circling on the visuals his words were eliciting. Normally you would have been thrilled at the idea of an Alpha offering you any sort of attention, especially attention that might ease the hot shivers in your stomach. But all you could focus on was the brief flash of a wounded look that crossed Ambrose’s face and the nausea that was building in your throat.

“Man, why the hell would you say something like that? Were you raised by wolves? Jesus.” Dean seemed more offended than anything else, moving until he was between you and Brock. “I mean shit, what’s your problem? Mommy issues? Daddy issues? Tiny penis? All three? Get the fuck away from them.” He gave Brock a hard shove, clearing the doorway. “Go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute.” Dean urged you, making you scramble for the hall.

You slid down the wall once you were in the hallway, tucking your knees up into your chest. Brock had done nothing but make everything worse, your face still hot from the notion that you might smell like slick and be unable to do anything about it. You got unsteadily to your feet and fled to the bathroom, locking yourself in a stall and resting your forehead against the door. Too late you realized you had forgotten your copies in the hallway, and tears choked your throat. Why was this so hard? Why did you have to be so stubborn about this job? Plenty of Omegas stayed at home, raising babies and keeping house. Why couldn’t you?

Maybe the suppressants failing was a blessing in disguise. Maybe…maybe you should be one of those Omegas. You had been so sure of yourself, and look where it had gotten you! Huddled up in a bathroom stall, your stomach rolling and tears dripping down your face. And now your nose was running. You thumped your head against the stall door and then flinched back when the bathroom door opened with a loud bang!

“Omega?” It was Dean, whispering as loud as he could. “You in here?”

“Yeah.” You sighed, unlocking the stall and opening the door. You kept your eyes fixed on the floor. “Sorry I ran. I know you have the worst job in this place and I’m not exactly making it easier by taking off on you.”

“Hey, I get it. You were scared, maybe a little embarrassed. Don’t listen to anything that asshole says, okay? He’s just pulling the same shit every other Alpha and Beta does, trying to guilt or threaten you into boning them.” Dean said bluntly. “Like I need to tell you that, like you don’t already know.” He laughed weakly. “And what the heck do you mean by ‘worst job’?”

You just shook your head, finally raising your eyes to look at him. He had a new graze on his cheek, the small cut oozing blood down the side of his jaw. “Oh, what happened?” You asked unhappily, reaching out and wiping the blood off with your thumb.

“Caught the side of the copier funny. It made that low toner warning t-turn off though, so I think I fixed it.” Dean’s voice hitched slightly and you hastily pulled your hand back.

“Sorry, I…reflex.” You apologized, tired to death of blushing. But you shouldn’t have touched him! He wasn’t yours, after all, and it was a little frowned upon when an unmated Omega went around touching unmated Alphas unnecessarily. “Didn’t mean to.”

“It’s alright.” Was all Dean said in reply, jamming his hands into his pockets. When you caught sight of his hands later on in the day, you noticed his knuckles were scraped open in a few places.

I ain’t hurt anyone for real in years.

What did he consider ‘for real’?

…

Your heat cycle ended and life returned to normal for the most part. Dean no longer needed to accompany you everywhere and he said as much, pressing the phone number for his doctor friend into your palm. “I’ll see you around, Omega.”

You scolded yourself for your daydreaming, sentimental tendencies on the way to your appointment with Doctor Swagger. You felt guilty for the trouble you must have put Dean through during your cycle and you were hoping this new doctor would be able to help you manage yourself better.

Doctor Jack Swagger was the largest Omega you had ever met, the blond man standing head and shoulders over you when he shook your hand warmly. “The usual? I doubt you want to spend your whole day off in my tidy little exam room.” His easy demeanor was a complete change from your prior physician and you found yourself relaxing. “Ambrothe recommended me, huh? I’m flattered.” Swagger grinned. “He’s normally all teeth when I have to poke and prod him, poor bastard.” He patted the examination table. “Alright, quick checkup and we’ll have you out of here in no time.”

True to his word it wasn’t long before you were on your way, the fresh script for name brand suppressants tucked safely into your pocket. Swagger said he had already called the order in, but that “it might be a good idea for you to have the script in hand, so they can cross-reference it.” Which you were sure was his way of letting you know that he wouldn’t be offended if you wanted to be certain you were getting the right product.

You were grateful that he seemed to understand your plight. But then again, who knew what kind of trials he had been through? Nobody could have believed he was an Omega, as huge as he was. You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. Of course, not every Omega was going to be small-boned and delicate, the world just didn’t work that way. People like you did lean towards the diminutive, but an Omega’s size wasn’t nearly as much of an issue as it would be for, say, a shorter Alpha.

There were plenty of other things people could find wrong with Omegas. Size was an outlier.

You shook your head at yourself. Those thoughts weren’t going to do you any good. Everything would be okay now! You would be back to your usual self in a few months and hopefully you could still see Dean every now and then--

No! Stop it! That’s not how this works! Just because he had treated you decently, just because he was required to keep you safe when you were more likely to have a lapse in judgment? You were a job, that was all. Something to keep Mr. Helmsley signing checks for him. Nothing was going to change that. I don’t get any say in the matter, you thought sadly. He’s not mine and he’s never going to be. Might as well get used to it, no Alpha is going to so much as look at me unless I’m in heat.

…

The next time your cycle came around, you were caught off guard. It was almost two weeks early! You did your best to remain calm on the drive to work, calling ahead to let Stephanie know you would be a little late. Dean met you at the door, his expression carefully neutral. “Again?” You nodded, biting your lip. He grunted, taking off his heavy leather jacket and dropping it over your shoulders. “That ought to mask it, at least for now. How do you feel?”

“Queasy.” You admitted, snuggling down into the coat and tucking your nose into the collar where Ambrose’s scent was cloyingly thick. It was pitiful and you knew it, saying as much when Dean gently took your arm to lead you in. “M’sorry, your jacket is going to smell all gross.” You mumbled.

“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t mind your smell? Damn.” Dean huffed.

“What if people think you’re my mate because my scent is all over your stuff?” You continued over him worriedly. “What if Brock comes after you?”

“That’s kinda’ the point.” Dean said matter-of-factly, making you pause. “Look, I’m here to help you avoid conflict. No one said I had to fight fair.” His smile was crooked. “I just hope you can deal with the group of people who will pity you.”

“Pity…?”

“Yeah, I’m not exactly a prime cut of Alpha steak.” He shrugged. “Not really much interest. Hell, I’m scrawny when you look at Reigns or Rollins.”

“I don’t think you’re scrawny!” You protested, touching his hand on your arm. “You’re trim.”

“Is that a thing? Sure, okay. I’m ‘trim’.” Dean chuckled. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

“Not every Alpha needs to be huge, y’know.”

Dean fell silent at your words and you wondered if you had annoyed him. His hold tightened momentarily on your arm. “Come…come in here for a second.” He muttered finally, ushering you into an empty conference room.

You were instantly on guard, your death grip on the jacket around your shoulders the biggest oxymoron you could think of. Ambrose left the door to the hallway slightly ajar, and he leaned against the wall beside it.

“Look, I don’t want you thinkin’ you owe me for this uh…well, whatever it is that I’m doing. Escorting, I guess. I was trained to do this, okay? It’s not like I moonlight in HR or somethin’, this is what I clock in to do. So you ain’t gotta’ be delicate with me, alright? I’m a big kid.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“I don’t understand.” You said slowly, feeling like that was the best course of action.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair. “You…what you said. Not that I don’t appreciate hearin’ stuff like that, mind you. I don’t want to think that I’m…fuckin’, inadequate. And I usually don’t think that way anyhow. But you don’t have to say stuff just to make me feel better. Like I said, I’m a big kid.” He tried for another smile and it was even less convincing than his previous attempt. “Now, let’s get you to your office.”

“But-” You began to protest, bewildered.

“Please. Drop it.” Dean said softly, his hand tucked back into the crook of your elbow. “Seriously.”

You nodded, not really wanting to but understanding that he was uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. And wasn’t that odd, an Omega trying to make an Alpha feel at ease! “Hey, if you ever need to talk to someone…”

“I’m fine. Thank you.” Oh, you had definitely upset him. His words were clipped and short, bitten out. “What’s up with me is my own business, Omega.”

“Yeah, but if you have to babysit on top of that-”

“I’m not babysitting you.”

��You literally put your coat on me and now you’re leading me along this hallway like I’ve never been here before. Face it, you’re a babysitter.” Your stomach twisted suddenly, robbing you of your breath and making you stop in your tracks. “Oh.”

“Omega? Shit.” Dean swore, glancing both ways before propping you up against the wall. “It's okay, you’re alright. You’re alright, it’ll pass.” He said softly, brushing your hair back from your face.

You tried to focus on his voice, tried to focus on his hands on your shoulders. “Dean-” You whispered.

“Shh, you’re alright. Breathe.” Dean urged and you nodded, trying to be obedient for this Alpha. “Just keep breathing, you’ll be okay. Nothing bad is gonna’ happen while I’m here, I promise.” His eyes lowered. “Is it your stomach?”

“Y-Yeah.” You choked out. “Hard to breathe-”

Dean grimaced and spread his palm flat on the lower portion of your stomach, applying firm, even pressure as he worked his hand in small circles. The heat of his fingers bled through your blouse and you whimpered, quickly biting down on your knuckles to stifle the noise. “Easy now, just relax into me.” He rasped, his voice rougher than usual. “I’ve got you.”

The pain in your stomach dissipated almost as quickly as it had arrived, and you held onto Dean’s arm while you tried to regain your balance. “What…God, I feel like I just ran a marathon.” You said finally, making Dean snicker.

“You probably blew through your caloric intake for the week. Let’s get you to the office and then I’ll find you a snack.” Ambrose’s hand stayed on your stomach, supporting you during the rest of the trek to the Omega office. You wanted to wonder at that, but you quickly crushed the notion. He was doing his job. Nothing more, but definitely nothing less.

He kept closer than he usually did, touching you with some part of his body for the majority of the work day. Fingertips, his jeans brushing your slacks or his arm bumping your own in the narrow hallways. Normally it wouldn’t matter, but after his curt behavior earlier it was entertaining to a degree. And confusing.

“I just don’t think I could do it.” He muttered out of the blue.

You glanced up from the pile of mail you were trying to sort, seeing that he was fiddling with his phone. “What?” You asked, making him jump.

“Oh, sorry. That was supposed to be in my head. My bad.” Dean apologized, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just thinkin’ about…well, it doesn’t really matter.” You raised an eyebrow and he swallowed hard, the sound seeming over-loud in the quiet room. “Uh. Jesus, if I hadn’t seen you earlier I’d swear you were an Alpha. You’ve got the stern look down pat.”

“Oh?” You wrinkled your nose, unsure if you were being complimented.

Ambrose practically lunged across the desk to pick up one of the bottles of water he had grabbed earlier, clumsily popping the cap on it and downing half the contents. “Okay, alright, you win, you can’t do that shit with your nose.” He gasped once he was done. “Look, it wouldn’t work between us. I ain’t never even thought about dating an Omega before!” Dean sounded outright panicky and you got the feeling his mouth was miles ahead of his brain as he rambled, “I mean, I have thought about it, yeah, but it scares the shit out of me. I just--if-if they have some kind of wave and I ain’t around, what happens? What fucking happens? People talk a lot of shit but there isn’t any hard proof, do Omegas want to bang whatever whenever? And if they do, why would--”

“Listen, I’d love to answer but I can’t. If I told you I’d have to kill you. Official orders from Omega higher-ups.” You interrupted Dean pompously, barely holding back your giggles when he gave you a wide-eyed look. “What, you don’t know about the network? We have influential Omegas stationed at key points across the globe, Dean. There’s nothing Alphas or Betas can do without us knowing.”

Understanding dawned on Dean’s face and he shoved your shoulder, giving an embarrassed laugh. “Shut up, I was bein’ serious y’know.”

“I don’t really know the answers.” You admitted. “I’ve been on suppressants since my first heat, and up until relatively recently they worked fine. So I couldn’t tell you. I doubt Omegas actually want to bang whatever whenever, but hormones are a funny thing. Especially if they’re combined with a fertile Alpha or Beta. Your scent makes me weak in the knees, sure, but I’m not about to jump you. With the half-strength suppressants the hardest part was dealing with the mental images.”

“Oh. Like when Brock was-”

“Ew, Jesus, don’t remind me.” You cut him off, covering your ears. “It was bad enough in the moment, God. I wanted to die.”

“Why do people do that shit to you guys?” Dean asked, “Just to get you wound up? Give you some kind of picture that’ll make your body feel even worse until you get some relief?”

“So that they can conveniently offer to be the relief.” You shook your head. “Guilting and manipulating an Omega into mating while they’re in heat ought to be a punishable offense. Nine times out of ten we aren’t in our right minds, how are you supposed to get consent out of someone who can’t even remember words anymore?”

“And that’s the ticket right there, isn’t it.” Ambrose growled. “Fuckin’ pieces of crap get an Omega riled to the point of incoherence and have their fun.” He gave you a sidelong look. “That uh, that something that’s happened to you?”

“No, not me personally. I’ve been very lucky.” You replied softly.

“Well you ain’t gotta’ rely on luck anymore, okay? I’m here. I’m not particularly lucky myself, but what little I’ve got I’ll happily spread thin for ya’.” Dean cracked his knuckles, looking very serious. “That’s why I signed on to this program anyway, figured if my Alpha hormones are fucked I might as well do some good.”

“How are they messed up?”

“Ah, I get weird dry spells. Months, sometimes. I’ve got some meds to regulate it for when the spigot turns back on, mostly because if I didn’t I could probably tear a stack of phonebooks for kicks. It’s like testosterone overload, I can’t get a straight thought through my head even with the meds. I’ll be like ‘I need food’, then two seconds later I’m out climbing my fire escape, stealing tomatoes off the balcony of the guy who lives above me.” Dean shrugged. “Probably naked too, if I know myself.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah, I’m uh, not too bright when I get that way.”

…

Friday had come at last. It had been a long week and you were definitely looking forward to some time off. Ambrose was more fidgety than normal, to the point where it was actually getting on your nerves. Usually you barely noticed it, but today Dean seemed like he was trying to tap and shimmy his way out of his own skin.

“Hey, are you okay?” You asked, much sharper than you had intended.

Dean flinched, not meeting your eyes when he looked up and instead focusing on a point by your shoulder. “Yep.” He said shortly.

You quirked an eyebrow at his behavior, getting to your feet and smoothing the wrinkles out of your skirt. “Hey, if something is wrong you can tell me, you know. I’m not in anyone’s pocket just yet.”

“I just have to get through this shift. I’d appreciate it if you would drop it.” Was his stiff reply.

“Is it something that I did?” You asked worriedly, thanking God that you were at the end of your heat and your flush wasn’t quite so neon. “Did I say something? Did…did Brock do something?”

“This ain’t got anythin’ to do with you!” Dean said, his voice rasping badly when he raised it. He deflated almost immediately. “Sorry, I’m…sorry. I promise it’s not anything that you did. I just gotta’ get through today. I’m trying real hard to keep my cool here, Omega.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” You asked, lowering your own voice and crouching so you were at eye level with him. Dean still wouldn’t look you in the eye, awkwardly shifting in his chair. “Hey, I’m serious. You take such good care of me all the time. Do you need a water? Something to snack on?”

“It feels like someone cranked the knob up to eleven and then snapped it off.” Ambrose mumbled, not answering your question. Then, “If something happens…”

“Nothing is going to happen. I’m running down the hall to the lounge, getting you a water and some chips, then coming right back. Three minutes tops.” You promised, giving him a reassuring smile. “Let me take care of you.”

Ambrose groaned loudly, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing his temples. “Alright, okay, fine. Just be careful. Three minutes. I’m coming to get you if you’re not back.” He threatened half-heartedly, making you snicker while you stood.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” You eased into the hallway, making sure it was empty before you closed the door behind you. As you made the short walk to the break room, you wondered whether this was the beginning of Dean’s own proverbial hell week. Your heart went out to him if it was, you of all people understood that having your body go to war with itself was not a fun experience.

The vending machine was devoid of chips, but there were a few packets of crackers available. You fed it your change and then huffed in annoyance when the crackers got stuck in the dispenser. Pounding your fist on the side of the machine did no good, and you resorted to shoulder-checking it until it rocked enough to drop the crackers. “Ha!” You said triumphantly, retrieving your prize and turning around.

Brock was so close you all but walked into his chest and your heart sank to your shoes. “Well well well, if it isn’t the office pet. Where’s your cuntlicker?” Brock leered down at you.

You swallowed hard. Cuntlicker? “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Omega bitch. Where’s Ambrose?” Brock’s tiny eyes narrowed even further. “I owe him for the other day, after all. Maybe I ought to have you suck me off as an apology.”

“What makes you think I would agree to something like that?” You snapped, ignoring the faded response of your body that clamored to be claimed by an Alpha.

“I don’t need you to agree-”

“If you don’t want me to bite your cock off, I feel like my agreement is incredibly important.” You snarled, surprising yourself with your own aggression. “Also? Not even if I was out of my mind with heat, Lesnar.”

“Is that fucking so?” Brock’s hands crushed your shoulders, the large Alpha hefting you up and pinning you to the wall without so much as a noise of exertion. “Try again, Omega bitch.”

“Go fuck yourself, asshole!” You struggled in his grip, kicking your legs and wriggling wildly. “You don’t own me, no one owns me, no one has any right to treat me like this so fuck you!” You proclaimed furiously. “I’m nobody’s sweet little Omega and I will tear your dick off if you touch me again!” You were screaming at this point, so incredibly outraged that you were seeing red.

“What are you gonna’ do to me? You can’t even fight back.” Brock sneered. “Until I decide to let you go, you’re stuck. So do me a favor and stop wasting my time, little bitch.” His fingers dug in harshly but instead of crying out in pain you spat at him, refusing to be cowed. “I know you’re gonna’ change your tune the second you see my cock, you Omegas are all the same. Once I wreck you, Ambrose won’t come within thirty yards of your sorry ass.”

You jerked your head to the side and sank your teeth into his hand. Brock responded by slamming your back against the wall so hard you saw stars for a second.

“Don’t push your luck-”

The door to the room opened and Ambrose half-fell through the doorway, barely catching himself in time. “What are you fuckin’ doing?” He asked Lesnar bluntly, his teeth clicking loudly at the end of the sentence. Dean looked feverish, his hair messy and eyes wild.

I’ve got some meds to regulate it for when the spigot turns back on, mostly because if I didn’t I could probably tear a stack of phonebooks for kicks.

You gulped. “Ambrose why are you so fucking obnoxious?” Brock grunted. Dean didn’t bother to respond, he simply latched onto Lesnar’s fingers and peeled one of his hands off your shoulders. You dropped to the floor and then with an ugly twist of his wrist, Ambrose snapped every finger on Brock’s hand.

“Keep it up, Lesnar. Give me an excuse t’ send ya’ ass t’ the fuckin’ ER.” Ambrose snarled. “Didn’t you learn your lesson the first time? I figured you’d appreciate the black eye, but I guess you’re more hands-on than that.”

“You broke my fucking fingers!”

“You had the Omega trapped, not much choice.” Ambrose shrugged. “My job description is ‘any means necessary’.” His footing was unsteady, the slender man almost falling over when he managed to pull you upright. “Are you alright, Omega? Anythin’ hurt?” He asked, straightening out your blouse clumsily.

You threw your arms around him, hugging him as fiercely as you could. Dean stiffened for a second before he returned your embrace, holding you tight to his chest and cradling the back of your head like he had the first day you had met.

“Are you alright?” He asked again, quieter this time. “Did he hurt you?”

“N-no, I’m okay. I had it under control.” You selfishly buried your face in his shirt, inhaling his scent deeply.

“I noticed.” Dean whispered.

“You're gonna' fucking pay for this, Ambrose!” The larger Alpha swore, easily ripping Dean away from you and delivering a blow to the smaller man's jaw that snapped his head to the side. “After I'm done with you, you'll eat through a straw for the rest of your life!” Brock raged, his broken hand cupped to his chest.

Dean shook his head and then bared his teeth, blue eyes wide and pupils blown in a fixated stare. “And I was gonna' let you live, too.” He rasped, giving a harsh bark of mirthless laughter. He caught your arm and pushed you towards the door, his fingers lingering on your skin longer than he needed to. “Get Hunter, Omega. Be good for me, okay?” His scent was saturated with Alpha smell, strong enough to take your breath away.

“But-!”

Ambrose didn't have another second of attention to spare, throwing himself bodily at Lesnar and flooring him. The last thing you saw before fleeing to go find Mr. Helmsley was Dean straddling Brock, the slim Alpha ranting swears while the two of them swung wildly at each other.

…

What was left of Brock Lesnar was blackballed from King's Game and all its subsidiaries. Which may have stretched further than you had anticipated. Dean was released into the care of Rollins and Reigns. According to Mr. Helmsley he was a little too far gone to be trusted with driving himself home. “He’ll be fine in a few days.” The older Alpha assured you, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “He bounces back pretty quick. Tough kid, Ambrose.”

You spent the weekend quietly. You were shaken by the fact that while Ambrose clearly displayed  dominant tendencies, he hadn’t ever tried to assert that dominance over you. He also hadn’t thought for a second about taking a piece out of Brock, recklessly lunging at the larger man.

Was it because Brock had gone after you? Or was simply because he had hit Dean? Ambrose had seemed to be in his right mind until he had been punched, then he had obviously lost the battle with his surging hormones. Now that you thought on it, if what Dean had said was true, Brock was probably lucky to be alive.

Dean wasn’t at work on Monday or Tuesday. When Wednesday came, you marched straight to the Alpha Program office and banged on the door.

Seth opened the door, staring down at you momentarily. “Uh. Yes?” He asked after an awkward pause.

“I need Dean’s address.” You said firmly.

“Ha! Pay up, Rollins.” Reigns called from his desk across the room, chuckling while Seth swore under his breath and dug into his pocket for his wallet.

“Why do you want Ambrose’s info?” Rollins questioned you warily. “He’s not in the greatest shape right now, and I dunno’ if he’s fit comp-”

“He lit into Lesnar and I want to know why.”

“Brock put his hands on you. Dean takes his job very seriously.” Seth explained like you were a child, making you bristle.

“But why pummel the guy? Not that I’m ungrateful, mind you. It just seemed like overkill is all.” You wrinkled your nose. “I don’t know. I guess I just want to talk to him. Make sure he’s alright. I haven’t felt okay since that day and I…” You trailed off, feeling that familiar blush creep up your neck.

“Ah. Talk.” Roman cleared his throat. “I don’t know if he’ll be in the proper headspace for speech. But hey, maybe having you there will help him come back around.”

“Is he really that far gone?”

“The spat with Lesnar pushed him further than it should have. He’s been mostly non-verbal whenever Rollins or I check on him.” Roman shrugged. “He’s not hurting himself. He’s all bundled up in a blanket den like usual, it’s just that he’s not talking. Dean gets into his own head sometimes and there’s not a whole lot we can do about it except let him know that we’re there for him if he needs us.”

“Will he hurt me if I show up?”

“Ambrose ain’t like that.” Seth answered sharply. “He’s a couple sandwiches short, yeah, but he’s never violent without a reason. He thinks the world of you.” He stopped, looking embarrassed. “Uh, not in like…a creepy way or anything. Just, y’know, you’re important to him, I guess.” He floundered.

“Okay.” You took a deep breath. “So give me his address.”

…

Ambrose lived in a rougher neighborhood and you were immensely thankful that your heat had passed. You weren’t sure you would have been as confident if it still had your body in its grip. Even in your right mind, you spent a solid five minutes talking yourself up in the car. “C’mon, Rollins said he wouldn’t hurt you. You don’t even think he would hurt you, you big baby.” You shut the car door behind you firmly, straightened out your skirt and headed for the apartment complex stairwell.

Reigns had given you Dean’s door code, stating that he was unsure if Ambrose would be able to answer the door in his current state. The lock clicked open under your fingers and you let yourself into Dean’s apartment, knocking your knuckles against the wood of the door to announce your presence. “Ambrose?” The first thing that hit you was the smell, Alpha scent so strong it made your head spin and knees weak. You braced yourself on the chair beside the door, trying to clear your head.

The second thing you noticed was that the whole apartment was dark. Daylight filtered in weakly through the curtains, but other than that the place was in shadow.

You put the small bag of groceries that you had picked up before coming over onto the counter, noting with worry that there were no dirty dishes in the sink. “Dean?” You called a little louder, thoroughly concerned now. “Hey, where are you? Roman and Seth said that you’d be here.”

Behind you there was the sound of a door creaking open. You whirled just in time to see Dean unfolding his lanky form from a pantry that was definitely not meant to be a living space. He spilled out onto the floor and laid there for a minute, before he turned his head to the side and groaned pitifully.

“Dean!” You dropped to your knees, forgoing your usual Omega propriety in favor of touching his shoulder. “Dean, oh my God. Are you alright?” After another long minute he raised his head slightly, dazed blue eyes trying hard to focus on your face. “Dean, it’s me. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” You said quietly.

Dean’s reply was a hum that turned into a low moan, his forehead hitting the floor again with a dull thud. “Om’ga.” He slurred. “Thought y’ were th’ guys. Y’kay? Lesn’r come back? I’ll geddup, ‘ll kick his ass again…” Ambrose struggled to do just that, shoving himself into a sitting position. He then inhaled deeply and you watched his pupils dilate. “Y’ didn’t need to come over here. M’ fine. Just been in my den.”

“Is that what you call the pantry?”

“Small, dark. Quiet. I need that when I’m like this.” His voice sounded shot.

“Can I get you something to drink?” You offered. Dean flailed an arm out until he caught hold of a drawer pull, hauling himself partially upright. You grabbed his free hand and managed to help him the rest of the way.

“Fuck’s sake.” He rasped, holding tight to your arm. The knuckles on his hands were still cracked and yellow-green bruised, presumably from his fight with Lesnar. “Feel like hot garbage. Why y’ here?” He asked wearily, his head lolling back momentarily.

“I’ve been worried about you.” You said, a little plainer than you had intended.

Ambrose jerked his head up to look at you, obviously startled. “You…what?” You propped him up against the counter and filled him a glass of water from the sink, which he quickly drank. “Om’ga m’ serious, wh…what did y’ say?”

“I was worried about you.” You whispered, twiddling your fingers nervously.

“Why?” Ambrose asked bluntly.

“I don’t know, because you got into a fight with an Alpha who’s at least twice your size? If I had just-”

Ambrose placed a finger on your lips, stopping the flow of words. “Y’ not gettin’ raped while I’m on th’ fuckin’ clock, un’nerstan’? Don’t care how sick I am.”

“But if I had let him-” You tried to continue your previous train of thought.

“No. There’s no gray area here, Om’ga. Not allowed. No is no, always has been. Y’ did th’ right thing by fightin’ back.” Dean closed his eyes, tilting his head back to bump the cupboards. “I saw him fuckin’ pinnin’ you there an’…thought I was too late. Got so scared.” He confessed. “Needed you t’ leave. Wouldn’t hurt you, but…but I didn’t want y’ afraid of me if I fucked him up.”

“Is he at least fun to punch?” You asked dryly.

Dean’s drawn-out groan of a response sounded downright filthy. “So much fun.” He dragged a hand through his hair, finally seeming to notice the shopping bag you had brought in. “Whuss’at?”

“Dinner. I didn’t know how sick you were, so I um. I brought dinner.” You fought down the feelings of self-consciousness when Dean’s face became guarded. “It’s pretty basic stuff, but I know when I’m knee-deep in heat there’s nothing better than not having to make your own food.”

“Omega, m' okay. You don't need to--y'know.” Dean fell silent. When he spoke again, his voice was much quieter. “I already tol' y' that I'm a big kid. Don't have to take care of me or say shit I wanna' hear. Which one of th' guys put y' up to this? Bet it was Rollins.”

“Nobody put me up to anything, why is that so hard to believe?” You asked, thoroughly irritated.

“It wouldn' be th' firs' time, is all. Don't mean t' be all weird abou'it.”

“I'm here because I was worried sick about you, and I wanted to know why you went after Lesnar so hard even after you got him to let me go.”

“Make sure he never did it again. He shouldn't have put his hands on you.” Ambrose snarled. “He talked so much shit when you weren't around, tryin'a rile me up n' get under m' skin. Fuckin' rattlin' on about how I mus' be fuckin' you, there's no other reason I'd take on the job 'cept to get first crack at an Omega, righ'?” He said bitterly. “It's Alphas like him that made me apply in the first place, an' look at me. Stooped to his fuckin' level th' firs' chance I could get away with it.”

“But you were on the opposite side of it!” You protested.

“It don't fuckin' matter. I went full rut-brain and hauled off on someone. Coulda' killed him.” Dean muttered grimly. “Been thinkin' about it this whole time. If Hunter hadn't gotten there when he did...Christ, was so fuckin' mad.” You wrapped your arms around him impulsively, hugging him tight. Dean actually moaned at the display of affection, his cheek dropping to rest on the top of your head. “Omega, y' can't...”

“I can.” You said softly.

“I won't prove him right, Omega.” Ambrose whispered, his hands trembling when he rested them on your hips. “I won't accept a reward for bein' someone like him, some domineerin' Alpha fuckstick.”

“I'm not a reward, I'm a human being. A lot of time and effort goes into me, Ambrose. I expect you to appreciate that.” You said huffily into his chest. “I'm hell on wheels during my heat if I'm not on suppressants and I don't fully understand how bad you get during your own spells, but I'm willing to try if you are.”

“Y' willin'?” Dean tipped your chin up, searching your eyes with his own. “Are y' serious?” You kissed him on the mouth instead of answering and he startled you with a gravelly whimper, his body going slack against yours while he cupped your face and kissed you back. “God, Omega, I've been goin' out of my mind, I wanted t' ask, wanted t' do it right.” He breathed. “I know I'm not much of an Alpha, m' skinny an' not nearly as dominant as I oughta' be, but...but God I want you. Wanted you t' want me, t’ take me as your mate.” He crooned helplessly in his throat. “Knew it from the first second I saw you, but you were so pretty. I don’t get pretty things.” He buried his face in your hair, rocking you back and forth. “I thought I fucked everythin' up when I went after Lesnar. Thought I scared you.”

“I was scared for you. I knew you weren't feeling well and I didn't want you to get hurt.” You assured him, boldly resting your hands on his hips.

Dean chuckled. “Ain't gotta' worry about me, Omega. Been in way worse shit than that.”

“Don't say that. I don't even want to think about you getting hurt.”

The Alpha groaned louder than you expected at your words. “I don't think anyone's ever not wanted me to get pummeled. You sure I ain't dreamin'?” You kissed him again, softer this time. “God, if I'm dreamin' don't wake me up.”

“Will you let me fix dinner?” You asked cautiously. “You can shower while I do that, might make you feel a little more human.”

Dean kissed your forehead, then teasingly rubbed his overgrown stubble across your cheek. “Not a fan of the mountain man look, Om’ga?”

“I didn’t say you had to shave!” You protested quickly, making him snort with laughter. “Just get washed up. Nothing better than a nice hot shower when you’re in heat, take my word for it. Yes, I know you’re not in heat, but I feel like a few of the rules are universal.” You ticked them off on your fingers as you spoke. “One, any food you don’t have to cook yourself is good food. Two, a hot bath is next to godliness. A hot shower will suffice, but it has to be hot. Three, if you need to cry because something hurts, that’s okay. And four, the most important one, be careful.”

“I ain’t gotten murdered in the shower yet, have I?” Dean looked troubled for a second. “Does…does it hurt when you have your heat? Where does it hurt? We learned that stomach soothe thing in our trainin’, but that can’t be all.”

“Ah, I personally get pains in the small of my back, my neck and shoulders. The stomach throbbing I think is universal, something to do with the reproductive areas going into overdrive with prep work.” You shrugged. “It’s so strange to me that there’s no concrete answer to essentially any Omega problem. It’s always a ‘possibility’ or some crap like that.”

“Tryin’ to keep you guys under everyone’s thumb.” Dean grunted, moving to scoop his blanket nest up out of the pantry. “More research means more informed folks like Doc Swagger, right? Can’t have that shit fixin’ their system.” He reasoned. His face reddened when he caught the incredulous look you were giving him. “My uh, my ma was an Omega.” He fumbled to explain, clinging tighter to the blankets as if they were a shield. “Never knew my dad.”

“Oh, so you’ve had a vested interest in that kind of thing.” You realized. Dean nodded wordlessly, ducking his face into the blankets. “Hey, don’t hide from me you goof, that’s a good thing.”

“Seth thinks it’s weird.” Dean muttered.

“Seth’s not an Omega, now is he? Of course he thinks it’s weird.” You chided. “I think it’s awesome that you pay attention to stuff like that.” You tugged the blankets down and kissed him again, smiling. “Now go get washed up.”

“God, just havin’ you around makes me feel more human.” He said dazedly. “Yeah, okay, shower. Goin’.”

You squealed quietly to yourself once you were sure he was in the shower, doing a giddy little shimmy before you started making dinner. He likes me! He’s liked me since the beginning! Your whole body still felt like it was buzzing happily from all the kisses and touches; you had never been touched tenderly by an Alpha before Dean. It had always been so clinical, as though being an Omega was contagious and no one else wanted to get infected.

Dean obviously didn’t give a damn, never shying away from the limited contact you had been bold enough to make. He seemed to welcome your hugs and kisses as well, so you made a mental note to do that as often as you thought you could get away with.

A still-stubbled chin rested on your shoulder and a set of strong arms wrapped around your midsection. “Miss me, Omega?” Dean asked, grunting when you wiggled back against him contentedly. “Think I’m about eighty-five percent human again. Makin’ mac n’ cheese?”

“Mm. Ultimate comfort food.” You nodded, continuing to stir the pasta. “Want to set your table, or should I?”

“I can manage it.” Dean pulled away, pecking the top of your head. “Thanks for takin’ care of me, Omega. Y’know you don’t have to, right?”

“I’m doing this because I want to, Alpha Ambrose.” You teased, making him rumble in his chest.

“Could get used to that.” He said finally, his tongue poking out from between his teeth when he smirked at you. The smirk vanished after you commented positively on his dimples, his face taking on a more bashful look while he set two bowls out on the counter. “Always thought they were out of place on the mug of a guy like me, y’know? Weird fuckin’ cherub smile.”

“You must have gotten away with so much when you were little.” You sighed. He grinned at you, silently indicating that he absolutely did. “Who am I kidding, you probably still raise hell.”

“Nah, Lesnar was my first fight in ages. There’s this thing called getting arrested, happened once or twice. Kinda’ not a fan of it so I’ve kept my nose clean.”

“Arrested? Never heard of it.”

“Yeah, it’s weird, it’s when ‘The Man’ decides he’s had enough of your semi-vigilante bullshit.”  Dean snuck a taste of mac n' cheese out of the pot as you reached over to turn off the heat and he laughed when you swatted him on the shoulder. “Alright, alright, I'll be good! You gotta' hurry up though, m' starvin'.”

Dean, it turned out, didn't exactly have a kitchen table. His living room sort of...flowed into the kitchen and he apparently ate on his couch most of the time. He ended up hauling the worn coffee table in close enough to bump his knees when he sat down, then patted the space on the couch beside him.

“C'mere, Omega.” He urged, wrapping an arm around your shoulders when you obliged him. To your surprise, he scooped up a spoonful of cheesy pasta from his bowl and proceeded to feed it to you. Your brow furrowed in confusion as you chewed and swallowed, and Dean cocked his head to the side. “What is it?” He asked.

“You just said you were hungry.” You pointed out, tentatively accepting another mouthful of mac n' cheese.

“I am. But if you're my mate, if...if we're dating, you come first.” Dean said firmly. “So you eat, and then I'll eat.”

“How about we compromise?” You suggested, emptying your bowl out on top of his and then offering him a spoonful of your own pasta. “We'll eat from the same bowl. I'll feed you, and you can feed me.”

“Yeah?” Ambrose looked suspiciously misty-eyed for a second, before he cleared his throat and eagerly ate the comfort food. “M' old-fashioned, sorry.” He mumbled around his mouthful. “Never had anyone to share stuff with like this. I always thought I'd have t' bring a fresh-killed deer to someone's parents or somethin'. But I guess sittin' in my apartment eatin' cheesy mac ain't so bad.”

“Think you can live with the disappointment?” You grinned.

“Oh, I'll manage somehow.”

His quiet murmurs of contentment slowly turned into outright purring as the evening went on, and you found yourself petting his hair while the two of you watched television. “Hey, can you look at me for a second?” You requested softly, making Dean tilt his head up. “Hi.” You kissed him and he moaned into your mouth, seeming caught off-guard.

“Omega, fuck.” He breathed. “Hi. Huh.” He shuddered all over. “One more of those and I'll wreck my pants. Go easy on me.”

“Why? Do you get like it when I kiss you?” You asked, giggling when Dean nodded wildly. “What else could I possibly do to you, if that's all it takes?”

“Everything.” Dean growled, twining his fingers with your own. “Everything and anything is great. Kiss me, bite me.” He was all but begging, baring his neck and burying his face in your shoulder. “Bite me, bite me please.”

You blushed bright red, licking your lips at his invitation. “Are...Are you sure? What if I hurt you?”

“I dare you.” You mouthed over his neck and he sobbed out a breath against your shoulder, his body twitching. “God, please, please Omega, just-” Your teeth dug in, canines crushing down. Dean froze for a second, almost long enough for you to get worried. “Fuck.” He snarled, “Yeah, you're perfect.”

“More?” You asked, squeaking when he yanked his shirt off and pulled you into his lap. His eyes met your own and the two of you just stared at each other for a moment. “More.” You announced.

“You're my mate.” Dean replied, cradling the back of your neck when you nosed across his shoulder. “Whatever you want, just keep biting me.” You sank your teeth in harder this time, giving a growl of your own when Ambrose rolled his hips. Your skirt rode up on your thighs. “You want to go further, Omega? We can if you want to.”

“You say while I have a mouthful of your neck.”

“Hey, don't talk with your mouth full.” Dean scolded, carding his fingers through your hair. You giggled and he started laughing as well after a second, his smile warm when he looked down at you. “What do you want from me, Omega?”

“A lot of things.” You answered truthfully, pulling your skirt up out of the way. Dean's eyes widened gratifyingly when you ground yourself against the swell of his cock in his jeans. “A specific thing right now, if you're interested.”

“Jesus Christ, if.” Dean unbuttoned his jeans, biting his lip when you pushed his hand away and unzipped his zipper. “You're dangerous, know that?” He rasped. “Checkin' up on me, feedin' me.”

“I have to take care of my Alpha.” You said simply.

“Yours, Omega. All yours. As long as you'll have me.” Dean spoke just as plainly as you, cupping your cheek. “Until you leave.”

“I'm not going to.”

“I sure as hell hope not.” He watched hungrily while you shed your panties, rumbling when he saw the slick that shone in the dim light. “Fuck, you can't still be...”

“No, m' just wet.” You rose up onto your knees and Dean shivered in anticipation, his thighs tight beneath you. “It's much worse when I'm in heat, trust me. Half the time I don't even bother with underwear.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing.” He sighed, gripping the base of his cock and giving himself a lazy stroke. “If that ain't a turn-on, I dunno' what is.”

“Good to know.” Dean's knuckles brushed the soft skin on your thigh and then he pulled away, letting you slowly lower yourself onto his cock. You weren't able to hold back a moan and he echoed your noise, sounding desperate. His fingers dug into the couch on either side of his body when you were fully seated, and you panted out a few shallow breaths as you tried to get used to the size of him. “God, Dean.” You gasped.

“Oh Jesus, fuck.” Dean grunted, whimpering when you snapped your teeth back down into his neck. “Yes, good Omega, good Omega, bite me, mark me.” He urged, his eyes rolling back in his skull as you tugged at his hair and began riding him. “Best Omega, don't be shy little Omega, fuck me, fuck me-”

You leaned back, using your hold on his hair to make him watch his dick slide in and out of you. “You like it? You like the way I take your Alpha cock?” You crooned, his passive behavior driving you to quicken your pace. He still had his hands clenched into fists on the cushions, like he was afraid to touch you. “Fuck up into me like you mean it, Alpha. Claim me.” You demanded. His hips bucked once, shallowly, and you ground down onto him.

“Don't want to hurt you.” He groaned, his hands seeming to move of their own accord despite his words. Dean palmed your thighs, only tightening his grip after you nodded encouragingly. “Won't hurt you. Your Alpha's gonna' make you come.”

“Yes please!” You begged, leaning into his touch.

“Look at you, taking every inch of me. What a good Omega you are.” Dean praised, “You needed this, didn't you? Needed your Alpha inside you to fill you up. Alpha's here.” He thrust his cock up, snarling, “Alpha's right here to give you what you need, tell him what you need. You need it harder? You need it faster?” You could have cried with relief when he crushed you down to sit in his lap again, his dominant tendencies shining through. “Grind on your Alpha's cock.” He ordered and you obeyed, making him grit out a swear. “Hah, fuck, Omega, you're so tight around me, fuck--”

“I'm a good Omega, right?” You panted, and Dean pressed his forehead to yours. “M' a good Omega, make you feel good?”

“God fucking dammit Omega, this is the fucking best I've ever felt in my life.” He growled, “Come for me, c'mon, get my knot fuckin' slick for you, do it, do it-” The bulge at the base of his cock throbbed against you, prodding thickly at your pussy with delicious intent. Just the thought that something so big would be inside you in a matter of moments was enough to make you arch your back and grind down even faster, your pubic mound bucking against his stomach in a frantic bid for completion.

Your orgasm surged through you, sending jolts up and down your spine where Dean gripped you fiercely. In the midst of it all, his knot slipped into you and you buried your face in his shoulder, crying out loudly and circling your hips. “Oh sweetheart, oh God, God are you alright? Are you alright?” Dean gasped, trembling fingers combing through your hair soothingly. “Jesus, I'll stop if you're not alright Omega, need to tell me y' okay.”

You managed to give him a thumbs up, making him moan in what seemed to be relief. His knot throbbed inside of you and then he grunted, coming hard. You sucked in a breath at the sensation of being mated, claimed and proven worthy by your Alpha's knot like you were an Omega out of the history books.

“Fuck.” Dean breathed. “Fuck. I've never knotted anyone before.” He mumbled finally. “Never had it engage. Holy fuck, you're my mate.”

“I'm your mate?” You echoed, unable to hide your smile.

Dean appeared to be in the same boat, his eyes going wide with the realization. “I'm your mate.”

“You're my mate.” You kissed his forehead. “My Alpha.”

“My Omega. I...God, wow. That sounds...that sounds really great.” He smiled up at you, his curls a frazzled mess and blue eyes bright with affection. “My Omega-mate.” You relaxed into Dean's arms and he began humming softly, continuing to stroke your hair and plant the occasional kiss on the top of your head. “Take a breather, Omega. We've got time.” He murmured. “Sleep good.”

Sleep good.

[cryathon]

easy girls

Hello Kylee!!

I’d be really glad if you posted this but it’s absolutely fine if you don’t want to because even I understand how horrendous my writing can be sometimes.

So.

You are probably very surprised by this submission but hear me out?

I have only recently joined the Holland and Peter Parker fandom, but I absolutely loved all the fan contributions- fan arts, hcs, fics. Like I’m absolutely sold. So I have been playing around with this idea for a long time now and having read quite a few fics, I have finally found the courage to write it out. However, I have yet to open a Tumblr account. (I’m literally hovering over people’s accounts and reading stuff and sending asks) And if I do open an account, I don’t think it’ll be anytime soon, so before this fic becomes ugly to me and I impulsively delete it like my others, I decided I should submit it and get someone to post it, and who knows, maybe I might get advice on how to improve my writing or some people might actually like it.  

Of course, this is absolutely not the best you’ve read and has room for improvement. Buuuuut, I am a non native English speaker and it’s been years since I last wrote something (last I had written an HP fic, which I also deleted. SMH.)  Please feel free to make any sort of editing/spelling corrections as well as add warnings I might have missed out (and a summary if you feel it’s necessary) before posting it.

                                                                      - easy girls -

        pairing: ahahaha

warnings: mention of blood. douchebag!Tom. douchebag!OC. sad (i think??). 

word count: <1k

author’s note: I’m ashamed of myself for having written Tom (and for treating Sam) this way. This was the result of having read so much angst. I’m also sorry if the writing sucked big time (sometimes I forget the word for absolutely simple things so don’t be surprised).

You had already crushed on him since he first graced the screens in the role of a beloved superhero. But on an occasion of a friend of a friend of a friend, you got the privilege to meet him face to face.

Now, with your eyes directly across his doe ones in the dimly lit cafe, you debunked the age-old debate about the existence of love at first sight, having experienced it first hand today.

Thomas Stanley Holland was the one for you, and every cell in your body knew it.

“Hello,” you shyly offered a hand. “I’m Y/N.”

His smile melted your heart.

***

You stumbled into the room in a drunken stupor, hand gripped onto the door knob to keep yourself from falling.

Tom had his hands snaked around the waist of another woman, again. This time, he didn’t even look up and continued to fervently make out with her. Someone that was not you.

You were no longer shocked, but the wound in your heart deepened.

“Tell me!” you shouted, grabbing Tom by the collar, making it so that Tom was no longer near that woman’s body.

“Why won’t you tell me?”

Tom simply sighed, rubbing his temples with his now free hands. The woman snorted and waltzed out of the room. “I’m sorry, I’ll be done with her tonight for sure. Call you later?” Tom called out after her.

“Whatever,” she had mumbled, carelessly, and your heart burned.

Oh the things that you could do to be in her place.

“Tell me,” you pleaded, your eyes watering, “Tell me why you won’t love me.”

He released an annoyed sigh.

You repeated again, your voice trembling.

“Tell me.”

Your hands had now been clutching onto Tom’s shirt, shaking him.

“Because I hate girls who throw themselves at me!” The words escaped his lips before he could even stop himself. He had been momentarily taken aback by how blunt his words were but quickly regained his indifferent composure.

He cleared his throat.

“Because I hate girls who throw themselves at me,” he repeated, calmly. “I hate- I hate easy girls. Girls like you.”

Your hands limply fell to your sides.

Your eyes widened but your vision become hazy. Your ears were ringing and your face had paled, having been drained out of all the blood.

You could no longer see Tom or his apartment, and the next thing you knew, you were walking on the road barefoot under the pouring rain.

You were not even crying- you’d knew if you were, because they left the oh so familiar trail of heat across your cheeks. Instead, your heels felt warm, as they had now been slashed red due to some uneven and unshaven rocks on the gravel.

You loved Tom shamelessly, and he broke you mercilessly.

You had left a faint bloody trail on your wake.

***

You had been visiting a photo exhibition after finally giving into your best friend’s numerous ploys to get you to live like a human again. You had continuously reassured her that you were no longer hurting, just numb, but she had still been adamant to get you your first doze of Vitamin D in months.

She had dressed you, washed and combed your hair, fed you, and was now pulling you around, bouncing from photos to photos. When she finally let go off of your hand and excused herself to greet a friend, you stayed rooted on your spot, in front of a photograph of a ship.

You had been staring at the photograph, not necessarily looking, when a nervous tap on your shoulder brought you back to Earth.

When you turned, you had your heart in your mouth, for in front of you, awkwardly stood someone who caused your numbness to fade and you to feel after so many months.

Tom’s brother.

He had mumbled something but you could barely hear.

Did Tom send him here?

No, that was ludicrous, and you almost slapped yourself for thinking like that.

Tom would never even bring your name up in front of his family, let alone send his brother to ask you to come back.

God, why were you even thinking this?

Ever so gently, desperation grabbed your heart with its dainty fingers and you let it silently dictate your features.

Maybe you could…

“I’m sorry, I was kind of lost. Did you say something?” you gave him an innocent smile.

“Uh nothing, it was just- I was- just- I had wanted to say hello,” he offered his hand again.

“I’m Sam.”

***

You were humming as you baked, trying to bury the guilt that had bubbled in your chest. Your cookies, freshly out of the oven, smelled delectable. Your best friend would have loved them if she were here.

Your phone, still on silent, buzzed with the 34th missed call, quickly followed by the 16th message of the day.

You caught sight of the text bubble as your screen lit up.

“Y/N, please, please just call me, okay? I know you will. I have be…”

Your cookies looked perfect but your mouth suddenly tasted bitter, and you dumped all your freshly baked cookies in the bin.

Another text appeared.

 “Please just tell me why you feel we shouldn’t be together. is it because of Tom? cuz if it is then I’m willi-…”

You started to violently bang the tray against the bin, ensuring that even the last of the crumbs fell.

Sam loved you earnestly and you broke him viciously. 

You gingerly lay the empty tray on the counter.

Oh well. You can always bake another batch.      

    P.S. I’m sorry it’s not memes.

——— Ok, just you came to the right place, I’m a sucker for angst and I LOVE to hate Douchebag!Tom ok?? Your English is fine,no spelling errors from what I can tell and your grammar is 👌👌👌. Annnyways, I think you should really start an account, and if you did, I would be the FIRST to follow. I need a second part, I’m eager to know what happens next. When you make a part two, PLEASE TAG ME. holy shit I love this so much, thank you for submitting this to me. I love you and please message me off anon so I can follow you tbh.