Echoes of Ghost

ao3 doesn't have an app because for it to have an app, appstore will have to approve it first. and if, hypothetically, ao3 needs appstore to approve it, it will also have to abide by appstore's pro-censorship stance and start banning dark and taboo fics, which is against its own core principle of being completely against censorship.

ao3 doesn't need an app. it works more than fine without an app. the reason ao3 can allow dark and taboo fics, the reason it can allow the most disgusting and shockingly vile fics, and be completely against censorship is because it doesn't need appstore's approval. it stands on its own as a non-profit organization with functioning site and a team of lawyers protecting its platform, its users, and every single fanwork on its platform.

everybody say thank you ao3

Once, when you caught him on his way back from the store. Carrying an obscene amount of bags in one arm, all of them looking suspiciously like microwave-dinners. The other time you had caught him in the lobby looking about ready to murder the out-of-service elevator. You chatted with him while you both walked up the stairs, and he introduced himself as "simon"

And, sue you, you feel bad for the guy. Doesn't get visitors, doesn't go anywhere as far as you know.

And those damn tv dinners.

So, you buy all the fancy ingredients you usually reserve for celebrations and cook dinner for two. Your school drama teacher would have been proud of your performance when you sheepishly knocked on his door with a tray of lasagna "uhm, hi. I'm your neighbor, I don't know if you remember me–"

"I do." Simon cuts you off, door barely hedged open. His arm, the one on his cane, shakes with effort. Eyes cutting down to your tray, narrowing, "what's that?"

"Oh– uhm. Lasagna. I made more than I expected, and I'm out of town in a few days and I don't want to waste it–" you rattle off, faster than you'd like but conscious of the way his shoulder must be aching just to stand and talk to you, "I thought– if we shared–"

"Fine." Cutting you off again, door pulling further open "but I don't own dishes. Bring yer own."

Which is how you end up sharing a tense dinner with simon, footie match on the tv in the next room. You try not to stare but...he's handsome under that surgical maks he always wears. Good, strong jaw, pretty lips, nice scars.

When he's done, simon whipes the food that spilled off his chin and grunts "best damn meal I've had in years."

Really, it becomes routine from there.

You bring over a homecooked meal, every week at least. Eventually you and simon start chatting, at first bitching about the elevator and neighbors, then life in general. Ghost starts to accumulate actual plates and cups in his home, some food items other than microwave meals.

You learn a lot about simon. About what he did before the injury, about the mates he calls now and again. Eventually, you bully him into using his wheelchair when you visit instead of forcing himself to use a cane. He also bullies you into getting your shower head fixed.

high school for you had it's up and downs. messy friendships, bitchy cheerleaders, some talking stages and a singular solid boyfriend was your experience. you were more introverted; you joined many clubs, but never showed up to the meetings. classes? took many of the advanced courses, but hardly passed them. you enjoyed being a teacher's aide because it gave you a superiority complex over the underclassmen. your popularity ranged somewhere in the middle. known, but never invited to the halloween parties, not that you wanted to go of course (you did). you were friendly enough that you had a pretty decent amount of people from your school added on myspace and other online platforms, but definitely ruffled a few feathers enough to also gain a few of your own baseless rumors and petty enemies. you wish you could say you regularly attended the school events, but going once to each of them was enough for you. overall a pretty regular student. your english teacher adored you and you still regularly exchange holiday cards. you still don't know if you actually liked high school.

high school for simon, however, was much more interesting but in a way he's glad he'll never have to experience again. being the severe introvert he is, he avoided the school events, only joined two clubs in freshman year to meet the minimum volunteer requirements possible but continued to be in and regularly attend the meetings up until he graduated. he didn't have many friends. he had a singular friend through those four years, who he still thinks about every now and then since he's lost contact with him ever since he faked his death. he took only the basic, average placed classes and passed with good grades despite missing at least two days out of every week. simon in his teenage years wasn't the strong, bulky man you know him as, but instead incredibly lanky and borderline underweight from the lack of nutrition he got at home and for that same reason girls didn't want him; he once gathered the courage to ask a girl out but she flatly rejected him, but there was a singular girl who had a secret crush on him all four years. he initially avoided sports, but ended up joining the wrestling team in his junior year which helped. he began smoking that same year, and also found himself occasionally getting into fistfights and being suspended because although he was naturally quiet, he still was easily agitated, but somehow he wasn't known at all. his teachers forgot he existed at times because he was so quiet. whenever someone mentioned his name, someone else would go "who?" choose your own partner activites still haunt him.

would simon have dated you in high school? definitely. he was so introverted, a little awkward, a little indifferent, but he was young and still so sweet underneath. really if any girl asked him out then he would've said yes, and while he wasn't downbad for those experiences, and his own parent's relationship was a mess, he still wanted to believe that fairy tale love existed.

This is what AO3 is designed to prevent.

This is what AO3 is here for.

You will never have to worry about middle of the night fic purges.

Censorship.

Purity culture cults and advertiser tantrums.

Your fic stays, until you yourself take it down.

Maybe you don't like reading fanfics with *insert specific topic or pairing* but it doesn't mean it should not have the right to exist and be posted.

You might say "well X and Y are immoral/illegal so people shouldn't write about it" and I would respond with "please go touch grass" or "go fuck yourself" depending on the day.

Immoral and illegal things have the right to exist in fictional works!!! Do you think we should arrest people who write murder stories? Or kidnapping stories? Or what about the people who wrote the movie Saw? Do you think they deserve to be arrested for writing about illegal/immoral acts? No you don't. You apply this rhetoric to fanfics because you are unable to understand the first rule of fanfictions. Don't like, don't read. Tags are here to literally prevent you from seeing things you don't like. Use them and stop being an idiot.

If we follow your logic and AO3 actually decides to delete every fic with a mention of X because it's immoral/illegal/bad/you don't like it. What about next? Maybe you think that X is bad but Y is okay so you don't consider that maybe other people think that Y is bad too and needs to be deleted. What then? And when you say that something illegal shouldn't be written about, which countries' laws are you following? Mine? Yours? And at what point in time? Now? In ten years? Laws evolve and government outlaw things all the time with no good reason. Political and religious censorship don't only target traditional medias, what's legal today might be considered illegal tomorrow even if our moral stance on it never changed.

So he fucks you with the suppressor on his pistol instead.

Huffs about you being "such a slag for me, hm? Take anything i give you." When you only screw your face in disgust but open your thighs wider for him. Notches the suppressor just barely inside and kisses you, one hand roaming your body, until you're grinding down on it of your own accord.

"Gonne cum for me? Make me a new favorite weapon?" He teases, smiling at the desperate little groan you let out. Ghost starts fucking the suppressor into you properly, pushing further and further until he can angle it just right–

"There you go..." a delighted growl when your whole body seizes, the edge of the suppressor brutally massaging that perfect spot inside you.

He doesn't stop until you're shaking with overstimulation and desperately grabbing at his wrist to pull out the gun.

Instead of shifting into a proper wolf, he becomes something...different, wrong. Limbs too long, torso bent at an odd angle. His fur is patchy and thin, tail wiry and ears too pointed. Ghost can't escape his disfigurement even in his other form, the one meant to bring comfort to him.

If ghost had it his way, he'd never shift again. Live his life as a human and pretend his wolf never clawed at his insides begging to be seen.

Unfortunately for ghost and his tendency to never address his emotions, shifters have to shift at least once a month to prevent hospitalization.

So, once a month, ghost drags himself deep into the forest outside of base.

Government property technically, least risk of being seen by civilians or gunned down by hunters. Under the moonless night, ghost becomes a twisted memory of a wolf. He stalks the ground, indulges in every instinct while stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his body.

Every stumble is just excitement, every wrong-sounding howl and bark just a weird echo. But when ghost finds his way to the river he loves, he also finds another shifter.

Another shifter like him.

A deer, at some point. But your fawn spots still paint your hide, your legs have too many bends in them, and antlers sprouts only from the right of your head. You, too, are a creature born of violence.

It is a silent agreement, what happens between you.

That night, two monsters follow eachother through the woods. For once, ghost finds himself play-bowing and chasing another creature again. He feels light, happy. Working his twisted muscles until you end up curled into his soft stomach, soft grass under you and polluted sky above.

Only in the morning will ghost learn that the terrible scarred thing in the woods is the shy archivist on base. The one who smiles at him when no one else will.