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etherealyoungk · 7 months

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—⟡ covert desires (teaser)

summary: the mission is simple - infiltrate a high-stakes auction that the top leaders, businessmen, women, and politicians of the world attend every year and steal one of the most highly guarded and hidden-away paintings from the target’s collection. the only downside, you had to work with kim mingyu, whom you absolutely hated. and to make it even worse, you had to pretend to be his wife for this mission to work.

pairing: spy!mingyu x assasin!reader (fem!reader)

themes: spy au, mafia, enemies to lovers, fake marriage, mutual pining, spies, angst, fluff, killing

warnings: suggestive, kissing, use of curse words, weapons, guns, knives, violence, use of drugs/painkillers, blood, gore, killing, death

wordcount: 750 words for the teaser (17.8k full fic)

a/n: i had so much fun writing this! please note that this is purely a work of fiction!

i'll be posting the full fic when i hit 3.5k to celebrate! teaser under the cut!

you wipe the last of the blood off your hands and carefully move the body, manipulating the crime scene to make it look like it was a suicide. with a carefully crafted suicide scene, the police wouldn’t even blink an eye and just close the case as a suicide, not wanting to bother investigating further.

you just had to leave around the right clues and bait them. once they’d find it, they’d conclude the case without thinking any further and your job was done. you were sure no one would even miss the bastard that you had just sent to hell anyways. after scanning the room, you make sure everything is in place before exiting quietly and disappearing into the shadows.

when you reach home to your apartment, you swiftly change out of your soiled and bloody clothes. the idiot decided had put up a fight, making things harder for himself really. you planned on killing him quietly, but the fight he put up was unnecessary and he wasn’t going to stand a chance against you regardless. you would have finished earlier and your clothes would have been significantly less bloody. sighing, you peel off the clothes and they fall to the floor in a heap as you step into the shower. the warm water offers some sort of relief and relaxation, your muscles relaxing under the hot water. wrapping a towel around yourself, you step out and hear the faint ring of your burner phone fill the room.

“hello?”, you say as you put the phone to your ear.

“did you get the job done?”, the voice on the other side asks.

“yes, you didn’t hire the best for no reason, did you?”, you scoff back, offended he’d have a sliver of doubt in your skills.

“good. we have another urgent matter on hand and it has to be discussed in person. you know where to meet me”, the voice adds.

“i swear if it’s another-“

“you’ll love this one, trust me”, the voice says, cutting you short and hanging up as you begin to say something. you curse under your breath; that idiot never had manners. you huff, throwing the phone on the bed, changing into something comfortable before you crash into bed, too tired to complain or think about anything else.

you were an assassin or a hired killer you could say. but you liked to call yourself an assassin - because let’s be real, it sounds cooler. you were trained, skilled, and good at what you did – which was killing people, bad people specifically. when you weren’t out hunting people down, you were working as a barista at a local cafe. it was somewhat therapeutic compared to your other occupation. but you had to if you wanted to survive in this world. if you wanted your life to have some semblance of normalcy. the world was a cruel place and somehow you ended up doing this for a living but hey, at least it paid well.

the next morning you’re sitting in the hall of seungcheol’s fancy office, or what you liked to call the safehouse. “you’re here! let me tell seungcheol”, dino says upon seeing you, flashing you a friendly smile. you give him a small smile as he retreats, making his way to look for seungcheol.

seungcheol walks in a few moments later, and his presence can be felt in the room immediately. no one messes with him – everyone knew that. he was the most feared man in the underground mafia and a threat to the government as well. his connections and dirt on powerful people ran too deep with secrets only he knew and used as leverage. hell, even the government would hire him to do their dirty work so he was practically untouchable.

“what’s this urgent matter that needs to be discussed in person?”, you ask, once he sits down opposite you.

“no hi?”, he prompts, raising his brow as he looks at you.

“no thank you for yesterday?”, you prod back, challenging him. you were really the only person seungcheol let speak to him like that. he’d pretty much raised you and he didn’t seem to mind, especially since you did most of his dirty work.

“we seem to have gotten ourselves another lucrative mission”, he starts off, treading carefuly with his words. “it’s something worth millions if not billions, so this is a really high-stakes operation.”, he tells, observing you. “and we’re getting paid handsomely for it and so will you if it goes well”, he says.

taglist: @daisycheols @naaaaafla @weird-bookworm @fairyhaos @icyminghao @kyeomyun @joshuaahong @idubiluv @slytherinshua @wheeboo

send an ask or drop a comment down below to be added to the taglist for this fic!

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gotham-ruaidh · 4 months

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Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Chapter 3 (Dancing On Glass)|| Chapter 4 (Merry-Go-Round)|| Backstage (1) || Backstage (2) || Chapter 5 (Danger)|| Backstage (3) || Chapter 6A (Love Walked In) || Chapter 6B (Without You) || Backstage (4) || Chapter 7 (Stick To Your Guns) || Chapter 8 (Time For Change) || Backstage (5) || Chapter 9 (Take Me To The Top) || Backstage (6) || Chapter 10 (Home Sweet Home) || Backstage (7) || Chapter 11a (Nightrain) || Chapter 11b (Nothing Else Matters) || Chapter 12a (Handle With Care) || Chapter 12b (I’m So Tired of Being Lonely) || Chapter 13a (Angel) || Chapter 13b (She’s My Addiction) || Chapter 13c (Patience) ||| Also posted at AO3

Chapter 14A: Where Do We Go Now?

Soundtrack: “Sweet Child O' Mine,” Guns N' Roses, 1987 [click here to listen]

She's got eyes of the bluest skies As if they thought of rain I'd hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain Her hair reminds me of a warm safe place Where as a child I'd hide And pray for the thunder and the rain to quietly pass me by...

Philadelphia || June 1988

Claire pushed her chair back a bit from the desk. Raised her arms. Stretched. Breathed deeply.

Reading for the eighth time the words she’d finally tapped out on the Selectric this morning, after days of rolling them around in her head.

Chief Physician

Boston Medical Center

To Whom It May Concern,

As you may be aware, I am a trauma surgeon at BMC. Twelve months ago I was placed on administrative leave by the BMC, and my medical license was suspended, pending the resolution of BMC’s internal investigation into my conduct. The investigation started by looking into a near-fatal error I committed during a surgery, and then quickly discovered that I had not only been forging prescriptions and stealing painkillers for quite some time, but also developed a severe addition to those painkillers.

As you may also be aware, I did not contest the actions taken by BMC. Subsequently I enrolled in an intensive drug rehabilitation program in North Carolina. I am happy to share that I am almost twelve months clean, having completed the program last December and successfully maintained my sobriety since then.

I have previously communicated to the Board, on several occasions, my sincere regret for what I did and my remorse for the incredible lapse of professional judgment and ethical standards I demonstrated. I repeat those regrets to you now.

Which is, in part, why I am writing you today. I wish to understand what else is required of me to return to work, in any capacity, at BMC.

Making amends for wrongs was something that Claire and Geillis had talked about a lot, during her time at The Ridge. Yes, doing that was a formal part of any 12 Step program.

But it was more than just saying sorry – it required the addict to recognize the wrongs.

To own them. To understand why they had happened, and the impact they had had on others.

Because nothing sounded more inadequate in the English language than the two words, I’m sorry.

But words matter. And this attitude shift was a crucial step on any addict’s road to recovery.

Making amends was something that Claire and Jamie had talked a lot about, too. She had seen him make amends many times, in their short time together – and quite often during their last few weeks on the road, as they traveled city to city for Print’s acoustic tour and Jamie came into contact with many people who had last seen him drunk/rude/high/demanding/hung over/acting like a total asshole during the last (disastrous) tour in ’86.

He made it a point to really talk to each person, to apologize for specific things he remembered doing. No matter if it was the venue manager, or the catering guy, or the lighting guy, or the security guard. I was a dick when I was drunk. I said terrible things. I hurt you. I’m sorry.

Two weeks ago in Chicago, he couldn’t sleep after a fucking incredible show at the old Chicago Theater. The adrenaline buzz after the show so much better than any pills or bourbon or groupie could have given him. He had tossed and turned for hours, until finally, quietly slipping out of their bed and perching in the easy chair in their suite at the Palmer House, watching Claire shift restlessly under the covers without him.

But of course, she knew when something was wrong. She woke, and turned to face him, easing up on one elbow. Watching him back. Giving him space.

When he finally spoke, it was just above a raspy whisper.

“How can you be here, Claire, when all you do is hear me talk about how awful I was to so many people?”

Her heart did break a little bit. “Because I never knew that version of you, Jamie. What I care about is who you are now.”

He sighed, breath ragged. “This shit is so fucking hard.”

“I know, baby.” Somehow she was standing beside him, and blindly he buried his face into the warm skin of her belly. She threaded her fingers in his hair, held him close as his pulse spiked.

“Deep breaths, Jamie. Focus on me. I’m here.”

He had had several panic attacks during the tour. Which could be chalked up to anything – the stress of changing hotels every day, the crush of fans and press that clustered around their tour bus when they arrived in a new city, the women who pulled down their tops in the front row at every concert, the Jack Daniels bottles and little baggies of powder left in his dressing room before the show in Wilkes-Barre.

But instead of smashing to pieces all alone, she sheltered him. He knew when to ask for help. And always found her just in time to crash against her, shaking and crying in bathroom stalls and green rooms and even once on the deserted tour bus. And each time she was so grateful for the psych rotation she’d done in med school that prepared her to help him.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

“Breathe in, Jamie. Think about how much I love you.”

He drew in a deep, sobbing breath.

“That’s right. Now exhale. I’m never going to leave you.”

He exhaled, shoulders shuddering.

“And inhale, Jamie. We can get hamburgers for breakfast again, if you want.”

He inhaled, and she felt a faint smile against her belly.

“That’s right. And out. Think about how amazing our wedding night will be.”

He exhaled. Gently bit the soft, soft skin above her bellybutton. She shivered, and smiled.

“Good. Center on me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She counted along with him – twenty four more deep breaths. Caressing his forehead, and kissing his hair, and loving him and loving him and loving him.

Finally when he had calmed down, she crawled back into bed, and he held her so close against him. Kissing her forehead. Whispering endless words of love.

“If I ever fuck up with you, Claire, know I’ll always own it.”

She kissed his eyebrows. “The same for me, Jamie. I’d rather be mad at you than not have you.”

He had said the same words to her this morning. A promise he never tired of repeating. Murmured against her hair when he bent over to kiss her in the bed, body thrumming with energy.

Colum had booked a studio here in Philadelphia for the day, so that the band could lay down recordings of the acoustic tracks they’d played to dozens of sold-out crowds during the tour. With the incredible press from the tour – thanks in no small part to Geordie Ash’s profile in Rolling Stone – and bootlegs in wide circulation, it was time. And for once, the band agreed with the label.

She would join him later, of course. But today she needed the time to herself, to finally write and then mail the letter to Boston.

All because of Jamie.

“You can’t stay in a state of limbo forever, Claire,” he had said one night, meeting her eyes in the bathroom mirror as he gently brushed her shower-wet hair. “And I know we still don’t know where we’ll live when we’re married. But you have the right to know.”

She had sighed, jamming her hands in the deep pockets of the hotel bathrobe. “I don’t want to go back to that life.”

He had set down the hairbrush they shared, slipping his hands into the pockets, pulling her close against him. “I know. But you can’t have that door hanging open, Claire. Whether you open it or close it, you know I support you. But you’re not doing yourself any favors by not knowing.”

She had nodded, and pursed her lips. Smiling just a little as he kissed the shell of her ear.

She blinked, and turned back to the typewriter.

I have been traveling for the past few weeks, and won’t be back to Boston for at least the next month. Although I may not be immediately reachable by mail or telephone, I’m enclosing the contact information for someone who can get any letter or other message to me.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Dr. Claire Beauchamp

She gently pulled the paper from the typewriter roll. Signed her name. Took a deep breath. Began to address the envelope.

#outlander #outlander fanfic #jamie and claire #little bit better than i used to be

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catboymoments · 2 months

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Hunter singing voice hc?

I'm on the trans Hunter bandwagon, so I'm just thinking about how Luz would draw on him and take dumbass pictures when he's all high from painkillers post top surgery

I think the guy from Set It Off sounds a bit like Zeno haha

Also YES they’re so silly

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hawkinsindiana · 6 months

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i have just risen from the dead to bring you an almost paradise blurb. on my small red velvet pillow, you will find 2.8k words of the first day back to school post s1, aka you and steve awkwardly sitting at lunch together, aka the start of the craziest slow burn of all time, aka "wow these poor kids don't know what's coming", aka The Holy Text. enjoy >:)

canon to almost paradise, post s1

—

the ache in your head persists. it’s spread since last night, crawling beneath your skin to encircle your entire skull. if it weren’t for your fist against your cheek, you’d be face down on the table, eyes closed and drifting in and out of sleep. but no, because of course, taking your entire week to deal with… that has you behind on your calculus. even worse, you can barely comprehend the equation in front of you. even even worse, the ruckus in the lunchroom seems louder than usual. you chase a couple of painkillers with some lukewarm apple juice.

“looking worse than usual, henderson,” tommy sneers as he passes your table, trailing behind a couple other members of the football team. hilariously, he doesn’t look too threatening while holding a lunch tray. while you’d usually lash out at him like a wounded animal, some deep-rooted insecurity of yours bruised by his words, you don’t have it in you. today all you’re able to muster is a glare and a raised middle finger. as tommy drifts away, you tug your headphones over your ears and turn your focus back to the papers in front of you — duran duran begins echoing through the speakers.

if you don’t finish this by the end of the lunch period, your headache is only going to grow. you’re probably being a bit hard on yourself; it’s not like the world’s going to end if you don’t get one assignment in on time. anyone would have a hard time handling what you’ve seen. a monster from another dimension. a child with magic powers. a fake body. just the thought of the past week drains what little energy you still have left in you. god, what exactly did you get yourself involved in?

there’s a kick to your boot — you instantly react with a scoff and a roll of the eyes. why is tommy insistent on attempting to ruin your mood today? but when your gaze drifts down, it’s not his shoes you’re met with. it’s a pair of well-worn, yet somehow pristine, nike sneakers.

your eyes shoot up to meet the face of steve harrington. a bit battered and bruised, he smiles sheepishly.

in shock, you tug your headphones down to rest around your neck, the music continuing to play as you stare up at him. steve gestures with his head to the empty seat across from you, repeating his previous question.

“can i, uh, do you care if i sit here?”

confusion shutters across your face as unease crawls across his. it takes you a moment to register what he said and why… until your groggy mind can recall last night, the hospital, and a feeling of forgiveness.

you swallow harshly, nodding once, “uh, yeah. okay. sure.”

as he sighs in relief and mutters a thank you, your eyes dart nervously around the cafeteria. some of the other students had already begun turning their focus towards the scene in front of them, but now a few are getting their friend’s attention — fingers are being pointed and laughs are exchanged. your gut twists; maybe you shouldn’t have said yes.

you don’t know what you expected when steve had implied the two of you should hang out sometime. it certainly wasn’t this — an extremely public display of alliances. all this attention, even if indirect, makes you feel uneasy. if tommy and carol had their sights set on you before, there’s no telling what their wrath could hold next. your hopes of getting through high school quietly are likely out the window. you squirm in your seat.

you’re wide awake now.

uncomfortable doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling that settles between the pair of you as steve sits on the opposite side of the table. he tosses his backpack into the seat beside him and it lands with a soft thump; it sounds practically empty. despite the commotion of the cafeteria, silence fills the air — it’s loud enough it seems to drown out everything else. you turn your attention back to your homework in an effort to distract yourself.

steve clears his throat, his fists loosely clenched on top of the table.

“how… how are you?”

your hand freezes, the pencil in your grasp stopping abruptly on the page. it seems like such a stupid question to ask; you have to resist chastising him for it. how are you? you haven’t slept in a day. there’s still blood and dirt under your fingernails. your shoulders ache from the tension being carried in them. every time you blink you see that… thing.

the little voice in your head comes through — you should cut him some slack. after all, he’s gotta be reeling from it too. it seems steve’s actually attempting to turn over a new leaf; he’s just trying to be nice for a change. you can offer him the same courtesy. he did save your life.

“i don’t really know how to answer that right now,” you reply, keeping your gaze glued to the equations in front of you, “give me a week and ask again.”

steve nods in agreement, sighing as he slouches in his seat, “yeah, yeah same here.”

you acknowledge his reply with a hum and decide to shoot him a glance. you wish you hadn’t.

despite the injuries across his skin and the uncertainty that plagues his expression, he really is quite handsome. you know that steve harrington is one of the most fawned over guys at hawkins high, but you never saw the appeal. his attitude and the rumors that circulated the jock wasn’t something you found interest in, not to mention those he kept for company. but now, knowing that there’s kindness and empathy beneath his rich boy facade, it’s almost hard to admit you find yourself drawn to him and his stupid warm brown eyes.

god, it’s so cliche it makes you want to hurl. you’ve gotta get yourself in check, otherwise this could spell bad news for you. from how it sounded, nancy wheeler’s the one he’s pursuing. it’s dumb to think there’s a world where you’re considered more than just an acquaintance. you quickly shove away those thoughts.

“i- uh, have some tylenol in my bag if you need it.”

steve, who winced after another cluster headache came and went, glances up at you through pinched eyes. you reiterate your words, gesturing with your chin towards your backpack — it sits unzipped on the table.

“big pocket.”

he looks apprehensive, “you sure?”

“it’s two pills, harrington, it’s fine,” you reply a bit smartly. you decide to soften your tone, an apology in your words, “wouldn’t offer if i didn’t want to.”

you go back to your notes as steve gives in, thankful for something to help take the edge off. when he goes to return the small bottle of pills to your bag, he opens it to get a better look inside, against his better judgment.

steve already knows you take your studies seriously; it’s about the only fact he can recall about you, if he’s honest. he’s never made an effort to learn anything else. prior to about eighteen hours ago, you were the very last thing on his mind. but today, you’re carrying three textbooks with you — one of them is for a topic not even offered at hawkins high. steve can’t remember the last time he touched a textbook, let alone one for a topic he didn’t have to take. he spots a couple more spiral bound notebooks and a few errant pencils, as well as two novels. his curiosity gets the better of him; he grabs the hardcover.

it’s obviously well-loved and fairly light in his hand; the pages have yellowed over the years. the cover is a light blue with a portrait of a woman leaning dramatically over a fainting couch. steve’s face pinches in confusion, brows furrowing.

“pride and prejudice? isn’t this one of those like stuffy boring grandma books? what the hell are you doing reading this?”

your eyes widen suddenly as your head snaps up to see the horrific sight of him holding your book. steve’s expression also changes drastically as panic takes over both of you — for very different reasons.

“shit, mrs. roberts didn’t assign this, did she?”

“no, it’s… it’s mine,” you reply shyly as you grow self-conscious, your gaze darting between the prized possession in his grasp and his face. of all the things he had to be nosy about, you truly would’ve preferred he pick anything else. the haze of embarrassment begins to cloud your senses, nausea prickling in your stomach the longer he holds it.

relief floods through him at your answer, “thank god. i think i would rather die than read this kinda stuff.”

more confusion takes root. steve glances back down to the book — the pages are littered with sticky notes, like the annotations assigned for english class that he never does.

“so… you do this with your free time?”

more embarrassment. blood rushes to your cheeks and your face heats rapidly from his judgmental tone. his borderline disgusted expression doesn’t help. you can’t find the courage to say yes, but your silence confirms the answer.

so naturally, steve decides to take a look.

in an instant, you’re reaching across the table to snatch it from his grasp before he sees too much. but unfortunately for you, steve’s reflexes are much faster than yours.

“give it back!”

“now hang on just a minute!” he replies, a particularly proud and surprised grin pulling at his lips, “maybe i wanna see what all the fuss is about.”

your hand misses another attempt to grab it from him, your frustration growing more palpable with each passing moment, “i thought you’d rather die than read something like this, huh? what’s changed your mind?”

“well clearly, it’s not just any book if it’s got you of all people so worked up about it,” steve clarifies before moving his hand out of the way once more. he turns his body away from the table, out of your reach, and begins flipping through the pages.

this is it. you’re positively certain you’re going to die of embarrassment. your cheeks have never been so warm in your entire life. your final attempt to steal the book back fails — all you manage to grab is a chunk of his jacket. much to steve’s surprise, there’s even more annotations written in the margins, cramped between the edge of the paper and the text. he manages to stifle his reaction as his eyes scan over your words, which alternate between intelligent prose and what could only be described as unhinged ramblings. it’s certainly an interesting combination. steve peruses several pages before he begins to get a sense that this is a love story.

he whistles, “wow, i didn’t take you for a romantic, henderson.”

“oh my god, would you just shut up?”

steve turns back to face you and your sharp gaze, resting his hand and the book down onto the table. the moment you can, you manage to snag it back, the book snapping shut abruptly. if you could’ve caught one of his fingers between the pages, you would’ve.

he laughs lightly, “listen, i’m not saying that’s a bad thing, y’know. just… unexpected is all.”

you scoff while pulling your backpack into your lap, your tone unapologetically dripping in sarcasm, “glad i could defy your expectations, harrington.”

he continues, trying to dig himself out of the hole he’s found himself in, “no it’s just that you strike me as a… oh, what’s his name… stephen king kinda girl. not that.”

your face flattens into a deadpanned glare as you reach back into your bag. unearthed from below the table is your copy of fire-starter. steve inhales and squints, suddenly deciding to take his time with his response.

he shrugs, “well i was right, wasn’t i?”

you roll your eyes and set the backpack down before returning your focus to your calculus. a low mumble leaves your lips as your shoulders revert to their previously slumped position.

“whatever.”

you decide it was a horrible idea to let him sit with you. maybe you’ll part ways after lunch and never speak with him again. the longer you think about it, the more it sounds pretty enticing.

it takes steve another second to realize he infiltrated some guarded secret of your heart — something that you weren’t intending to share. he sighs and readjusts in his seat, silently berating himself for taking things too far. he’s supposed to be making an effort to change his actions; he just fell right back into form at the first opportunity. this is going to be a lot harder than he thought, but maybe there’s a way to gain back some of your trust.

“there’s a couple of huge bookcases at my house just filled to the brim with books like that. you… you could borrow some of them sometime. hell, you can have ‘em, if you want.”

you frown, face pinching in confusion. you hate that you’re intrigued. your voice is laced with disbelief, “you want to give me your books?”

“oh god, no. they’re not mine,” steve shakes his head, but a small smile curls his lips, “i don’t read much, if you couldn’t tell.”

his joke manages to get a snicker out of you. when you glance up, his eyes are burning into yours and bright. inviting. you swallow harshly.

“they’re my mom’s,” steve clarifies, absently pulling on the sleeve of his jacket, “i guess she liked reading when she was younger, i don’t know.”

“you’re sure she wouldn’t mind?

he laughs and shakes his head once more, leaning forward so his elbows are on the table, “no, i don’t think she’d care. she’s never home.”

there’s a slight drop in his expression that you’d be able to recognize from a mile away. loneliness — the kind that permeates deep into someone’s soul. it gives you pause. you remember how massive his parent’s house is; you can’t imagine how it must feel for love to be absent from every room. suddenly, you’re very thankful to have your younger brother running around.

steve abruptly interrupts your thoughts, “i’m sorry, i shouldn’t have done that, i-”

he stops himself from continuing, but you’re unsure why. he pulls his lip between his teeth, struggling to figure out how to finish the sentiment correctly without overdoing it. steve realizes he doesn’t know how.

“it’s alright.”

your forgiveness surprises him — his eyes bounce up to lock onto yours. you might have forgiven him last night in the hospital, but he never expected to receive the courtesy again. there’s only one word that could describe the feeling that washes over him, and he only knows it because he just saw it written in your handwriting. companionship.

to quell his hesitancy, you mirror steve and lean forward on the table, averting your gaze to the pencil held between your hands. you shrug slightly, “i… probably overreacted a little bit too. i don’t show people my books, if you couldn’t tell.”

a smile cracks across both of your faces from your teasing. it feels good. it feels normal. steve moves his eyes down to your hands; the purple polish on your fingernails is chipped.

a beat passes.

“how many did you have to sign?”

when he drags his attention back up, the playfulness you embodied seems long gone, like a distant memory. instead, what he sees reminds him of the girl he met yesterday — a wrinkled brow and sadness that is accompanied by a tremendous loss. the loss of blissful ignorance, of innocence. neither of you are the same people you were a week ago.

steve shakes his head, his focus blank like he’s trying to remember something that occurred years ago, “i don’t know. i couldn’t… after a while, there were so many i couldn’t keep track anymore.”

you hum in solidarity; you think your hand went numb from how many documents you were forced to sign. it feels like all your rights have been stripped away, or like you’re being watched constantly. one wrong move and your life gets torn apart again. you’re barely seventeen — are you going to be living like this forever?

“there was a black car parked outside of my house this morning,” you say lowly, ensuring your words stay between the two of you, “i’m…”

you pause. you don’t know why you’re telling him this.

“i’m kind of scared, steve.”

he nods. a black sedan tailed him on his way to school.

“yeah, me too.”

some semblance of relief floods both of you. neither of you feel so alone anymore.

“i feel like i need a shrink after all that.”

a small laugh bubbles up from your throat. it’s a sound of agreement — even if you didn’t reply, steve would understand you feel the same way.

“tell me about it,” you joke, “i don’t think a shrink could cover it.”

steve grins as he runs a hand through his hair, “right? at least we’d certainly be their most interesting patients.”

you let out another giggle before your face begins to burn bright once more. it feels like you’re the only two people in the room.

#did you REALLY think i wouldn't find a way to absolutely torture you and include p&p in here #steve sir lemme tell you...... you are gonna be ALL OVER THAT BOOK in about three years #steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #almost paradise #almost paradise blurbs

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softhoursofateezandstraykids · 6 months

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Types of boyfriends-With Stray Kids-Bangchan and Lee know (Pt.1,next up:Changbin and Hyunjin)

(my first post, I hope you guys like it TT)

okay first up-leader nim-

𝔅𝔞𝔫𝔤ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔫-

-HANDS DOWN-best man on the planet

-as he has an experience of being a father to 7 troublesome (yet adorable) kids, he would have the best values you would need in a boyfriend: Patience, would be very protective, understand, helpful, responsible

-but you need to get along with the members too,since his members are also like his closest family!its a must and absolute need!

-and yet of course,he would do anything for you, you are his top priority (we do not count the laptop-). Got your periods?no problem,just one call and the next thing you know,he would be at the front door,holding a bag of pads,chocolates,heatpads,your favorite snacks and painkillers.

-CUDDLY AFFF-he would snuggle up to you as you sleep,making sure you are warm and comfy as he would cuddle you,kiss your cheeks as you sleep and admire your beauty until he eventually falls asleep

-a total gentlemen,he would treat you like his queen,all you need to do is return his feelings and love him,this man might seem tough but he is a total softy on the inside,his one goal in life is to love and to be loved,all he needs is your love and he would be the most happiest person on earth!!!

~𝓓𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓼-Studio dates-yes I know,but thats is the most predictable statement here-he would love for you to stay by his side as he works on making the most fire comebacks for stray kids!!maybe he would ask your opinion on his new beats!

𝔏𝔢𝔢 𝔎𝔫𝔬𝔴-

-okay where do I start-he is the definition of Tsundere!!!-

-he would act cold to you but don't judge a book by its cover!he loves you so much!!!he just doesn't know how to show it yet,he is the most kindest,softest,most cat loving,sassiest guy alive!

-physical touches (especially butt smacks)-do i even need to explain-THSI DUDE IS A BUTT HUNTER!!-and he is probably the type to come home exhausted and the first thing he sees is you cooking in the kitchen,wearing headphones and blasting music,clueless of what's happening,he would stealthily take his opputunity to sneak up behind you and smack your butt!and maybe after you both are done eating,he would cuddle you on the couch,watching a movie

-BEST.COOK.EVER. like agreed the pictures of his creations are not appealing but the food seems like it tastes amazing!!!(just like him hehe),he would cook the best meals for you!!

-cat lover,most probably his cats are his top priority (sorry,not sorry,you are the second top priority) man would be babying his cats more than you!

~𝓓𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓼-Amusement parks-!!okay!!hear me out!!he would literally DRAG you to the amusement parks,he would win (or atleast try to) win the games and impress you!he would win prizes for you!!but hold on to him tight when you go on roller coasters,ferris wheels,basically any ride that takes you high-he has an insane fear of heights so protect this boy at all costs!!he would maybe walk around the amusement park with you,eating corndogs or popcorn as he talks to you about any struggles in his life and opens up to you!

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authors note-this is my first time wrtiting this and I hope you like this!FYI!!these are my opinions,im sorry if I offended or hurt anyone,I didn't mean to,lastly,thank you and see you next time!!!

next part will be of Changbin and Hyunjin!!

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alittledizzy · 9 months

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i'm gonna be dying over the george's place/cocktails and dreams picture for a hot minute. like... he didn't mention george in the post! but george's fingerprints are still all over it. george's voice, dream's goofy little smile and thumbs up when george points the camera at him. and the final picture being george's cafe with a caption about dreams and you know they were both so delighted when they saw that and when dream was scrolling through his camera roll high as fuck on painkillers he saw it again and was like Yeah yeah yes three million people Need to see this

#dreamnotfound

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reikarimaaa · 5 months

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:: Harami’s personal Murdoc headcanons dump ::

Harami’s hitch-notes humaNiA :

hey, it’s Harami!1! maybe I could try a consistent schedule… on my dumps I think. i like different styles, and i haven’t got one that i’d consistently stick to atm, so enjoy these experimental ones for now. okey? okey (also I accept requests, please im bored af) also there will always be a tiny bit of russdoc in my Russel/ Murdoc posts (just a little I swear)

// uh, cussing, talks of past rape and substance/ alcohol/ child abuse, slight nsfw, tiny bit of russdoc, and tampering with someone’s CGM which Harami absolutely does not condone! Also! Phase 1 centric, unless specified. //

Murdoc was the one that cut Noodle’s hair for the 5/4 video

Noodle was bribed to do so, and when she didn’t exactly like the hair no more, Murdoc bought Noodle her iconic helmet

(and a Walkman as a bonus, this was in one of my previous headcanon dumps)

as in one of my previous hc dumps, I have stated that Russel and Murdoc first met during their school days

and they interacted during a school collaboration, with the two pitted against eachother in tug-of-war, guess who won

sometimes when he’s had a nightmare of his past rape, he’ll either ask Russel to come to him

or attempt to sneakily enter the drummer’s bedroom and sleep near him instead and attempt to big spoon the big man and epically fail

and if Murdoc’s nightmare was too much, he’ll start crying and asking out for Russel

and when the drummer arrives, he tries to comfort the bassist and tell him to let it all out

the two cuddle with each other for the rest of the night, Murdoc burying his face into Russel’s chest, feeling his warm heartbeat

when D-Day happened, he was dangerously high on alcohol and the crash severely impacted the two

if Murdoc did finish another sip of wine before it happened, it’d be game over for the bassist before he achieved stardom

his relationship with Russel is quite an intimate yet secret one iykyk russdoc shippers, I see you

so when it’s just the two of them, they’ll get all lovey-dovey, but when they’re in public, they tone down the PDA as much as possible with some exceptions.. . Murdoc horny lol

Murdoc has attempted to claw at Russel’s CGM once, (this is explained in my Russel headcanon dump. also don’t do this! It’s dangerous!)

and he still apologizes to Russel about that until this day, even if the band has mostly forgotten about it.

during interviews that little Noodle is also in, he’d constitute cussing like shit for kid-friendly terms like shoeshine or fuck to fickle yes this is creative

due to his quite abusive childhood, he’ll try to act all tough before eventually cowering when someone of higher strength outwits him or worse

and whenever he gets into fights, Russel is there to fix his ‘boo-boo’s’ as he says, russel really is the dad here

whenever Murdoc’s head is pounding bad, he’d take an unhealthy amount of aspirin and painkillers

and he keeps some crack and weed stashed under one of the drawers in his Winnebago in case pain killers ain’t doing their job well enough

he once let Noodle paint the outsides of his Winnebago, never again

lots of bites, hickeys, kisses and licking when in bed and you end up smelling like alcohol and drugs the next morning even if you hadn’t done any of them

sometimes when Murdoc wants to get away from it all, he’ll bring either Noodle or Russel out for a night stroll

just to have a little bit of bonding together, stargazing, talking, whatever

Murdoc’s envious that the fans seem to be liking 2-D more than himself, so he regularly beats him up just to make him seem more ugly even if the end result isn’t exactly what he envisioned, he also just does it for the thrill

whenever either Russel or Murdoc wants to engage in sex but the other is too tired to do so, they usually settle for cock warming or intimate fondling

— hearts , Harami

#gorillaz headcanons #gorillaz imagines #harami’s headcanon humania #russdoc #russel gorillaz #russel hobbs #russel x murdoc #murdoc gorillaz #murdoc niccals #2 d gorillaz #2d gorillaz #noodle #noodle gorillaz #gorillaz #Reika’s writing

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ajaxpilled · 5 months

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Hi! I remember a few months ago you wrote a head canon I enjoyed (sorry if I’m weird for remembering this lmao) about one of the anemo boys smoking cannabis as a treatment for trauma. I saw a head canon on tiktok recently that Wrio takes painkillers for his joints to get through bad days, and the thought of him getting high instead. And getting the munchies ehe, not sure what to do with this but its been sitting in the corner of my mind!

not weird at all omg that’s actually very sweet that u remembered!! and yeah… i think i’ve seen that headcanon, if it’s by the artist who posted it along some very angsty wriollette hcs :’)

i never thought of it in application to him tho!! i think neuvillette wouldn’t approve of it when he does it too casually, because you’re setting a bad example for the melusines again, wriothesley.

but wriothesley never listens - he’s known to be an indulgent man after all, and it’s not his fault that weed is so easily accessible to him… that, and he’s quite fond of just how pretty music sounds, just how amazing food tastes after a smoke; not to mention just how much of it he can pack in. heightened senses are fun, yes, but getting to enjoy even larger amounts of such fun is even better.

neuvillette knows, however, without wrio needing to tell him, when the pain is too overwhelming to bear without it; whether that be physical pain or anxiety flashbacks. when it’s more than just a fun little smoke to make the week a bit more doable - when it’s to hold back any surfacing panic or depressive episodes from long buried memories. when it’s to make the week doable at all, full stop. his shoulders stiff and wrists tight, jaw clenched and elbows and joints cracking and aching from, in neuvillette’s opinion, far too many years of unnecessary violence.

during these times, neuvillette makes sure to show him more affection, as well as have plenty of treats and food for him to snack on; his big appetite is tough enough to satisfy without the munchies as it is. physical touch is just that much better after getting high, and a blissful wriothesley is in heaven as neuvillette cards his fingers through his hair and traces his fingers up and down his arm while he reads his book. even better is when he rubs his tummy for him, gentle circles over the wide arc of his stomach.

when wriothesley goes a little overboard with eating (which is predictable enough on a normal day, let alone a day spent getting high), he denies all of it, refusing to prove neuvillette’s criticisms of cannabis true. his big puppy eyes and quiet grumbling as he holds his stomach gives him away, however. neuvillette puts the book down, turning on a movie instead (always something light hearted or cheerful), and pays special attention to making his tummy, and subsequently his husband, feel better. he gives wriothesley the kind of tummy rubs he adores - deep, soothing circles, kneading any pain away, hands warm and gentle as he settles the meal in wriothesley’s belly. but as soon as he works up a bit of space for him and just a pleasant sensation of fullness is left in wake of aching discomfort, wriothesley is already thinking aloud about what he’ll eat next, knowing sleepy stoned belly rubs will surely accompany it~~

#tw intox #stuffing #intox #tw anxiety #tw depression

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shadowcatzone · 5 months

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(the au in which only the high elder of the vidyadhara can get one child in each reincarnation)

-imbibitor lunae being too good to have kids (kids are for losers and distract you from your job uwu) until dan feng who in the beginning thought thought the same before meeting yingxing

Dan feng: fertilize my eggs please.

Yingxing: what

Dan feng: what

-xingyue child having a long list of health concerns from birth. Bc they're born a little early. Some aren't actually health concerns but dan feng overreacting

Dan feng: they squeeze their eyes shut when i feed them a lemon! That's not supposed to happen!!

Yingxing: ...why are you giving them lemons??

Dan feng: for their vitamin c deficiency?? Why else would they be so pale???

Yingxing: ...they were born two days ago. Of course they're pale, just take them outside twice.

Dan feng: but they'll die from the light exposure and also whatever the xianzhou put into their air to keep it clean!!!

Yingxing: ...love.

-I need the cut higher bc tumblr is a slut again-

-this means in modern times, xingyue child has a long list with things that aren't actually an issue anymore. Still in dan fengs handwriting.

Bailu: oh you're allergic to lemons?

Xingyue child: not really, no

Bailu: okay... but, you easily get sunburned?

Xingyue child: no, not that either.

Bailu: so... do you have breathing problems?

Xingyue child: yes actually i do have those.

-xingyue child not forgetting prior lives (which will eventually become an issue.) (There are also vidyadhara that forget MORE often, so there should be some that forget LESS often, right?) Meaning they spend 100 years at most in the egg as their body regenerates. They remember everything down to 'melting' in the egg.

Xingyue child: do you know what melting feels like?

Dan heng: no...? ...Do you?

Xingyue child: yeah. It's pretty fucked up and very painful, pray you never remember.

Dan heng: ??????

-it's getting a little dark past this point-

-xingyue child having been forced into a war/conflict (the idea is that there was a non-canon small scuffle between the zhuming and another party. No longer than one or two weeks.) In this life which gave them ptsd as a child (child soldier??) They were supposed to learn, lets just say craftsmanship as a broader term. Ardens regia was the one to throw them into said conflict.

-ardens regia also being the one to tell one or more of their kid/s to watch over xingyue child. But xingyue child still almost dies on multiple occasions.

-xingyue child returning from battle with multiple wounds, fractures and the like. They're getting heavy painkillers and none of the bones properly get fixed. They end up smoking something for the pains, can't feel anything.

-they also have glass jars with their bones, from their ribs, their arms and their teeth. Takes them out as a "party highlight" (they don't like or have parties) literally threw the glasses into yanqings lap when he visited them once. It was a traumatic experience for yanqing, then for jing yuan who yanqing told it to, then for renheng and bailu, who heard it from the general.

Xingyue child: wanna see my bones?

Yanqing: ...your what?

Xingyue child, throwing a glass jar into his lap: MA BOOONES, those are rib bones, oh, these are from my left hand, these are from my right- oh look, the field doctor even gave me the small piece of my lung back!

-they're dead afraid of jingliu (a post i made a while back) and will not be normal about it, even if jingliu doesn't remember OR didn't mean it

Jingliu: *trying to grab them as they try to walk away from the seat of divine foresight* aren't you-

Xingyue child, jumping back, hiding behind jing yuan: DO NOT! TOUCH! THE BLACKSMITH!! DON'T TOUCH! DON'T FIGHT! DON'T BOTHER!

Jing yuan:

Jingliu:

-the artisanship commission being very loyal to their blacksmiths. You fight one of them? Now the order of you and anyone who has any kind of contact to you will be delayed, indefinitely.

Master blacksmith (that one guy, i think): oh they fought and hurt xingyue child, one of our blacksmiths? That's it guys! Put down everything connected to the cloud knights!

-the blacksmiths can and will close down the forges. And the senior cloud knights know better than to pick a fight with a blacksmith.

-xingyue childs muscles being anything but torn and they're basically doing everything with bone strength alone. They don't realise bc too many painkillers. They. Dont. Feel. A. Thing.

-also meaning the first time they're off painkillers after anyone decided to fix their bones, they can't work. For months. They insist. Doctor says try it, be my guest. They try to pick up blades sword- their thumb hurts in this position, but its fine - try to lift it and their arm feels like. Searing pain. Nothing ripped (luckily) but yeah. Not gonna work for a while.

#i'm eating gilbird #honkai star rail #hsr yingxing #hsr dan feng #hsr imbibitor lunae #xingyue #yingfeng #//xingyue child #hsr au

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almost-a-class-act · 1 year

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Happy Pacific appreciation week!

Prompt: Day 6 ( February 11th ): Post-war Pairing: Andy/Eddie Author's note: Shh I know the week is officially over, but I will be finishing. Count on it! As with the first several stories this will probably end up on AO3 after I have some time to go over it. You can find me there under roaroftheninth.

Sometimes Andy sees things that aren’t there.

The bullet that they took out of his brain in the Pacific should have been lights out. The fact that it wasn’t is a testament to how much of being alive in this world comes down to blind luck. Someone had said his name, and he had turned his head. That’s all. He had turned his head, and the trajectory that surely would have been fatal changed by inches, shattering his orbital bones and blinding him in one eye but sparing his life.

So he is blind in one eye, and sometimes he sees things that are not there. Those are the pieces of himself he has traded for every morning that has come after that one. Sacrifice is a hell of a thing; men go to war and assume that the two options are some noble death, nonspecific but surely glorious, or coming back the conquering hero. No one expects the multitude of other possible endings, the unremarkable death or the cracking of the mind under terror or coming back unrecognizably damaged to your loved ones. No one expects to be blind in one eye and to see things that aren’t there.

Someone else, maybe, but not me. Andy recognizes this, ruefully, as someone who had also made those assumptions. He thinks everyone must, probably. They wouldn’t go to war if they didn’t.

There is a girl in a white dress sometimes. He sits on the porch in the afternoon and she crouches next to him, looking out into the trees.

Isn’t it funny that neither of you should be here. She looks up at him. It’s not meant to be cruel.

“But we are here,” he says, amiably enough, taking it in the spirit in which it was intended.

Yes, she agrees. She looks back out at the trees again. Isn’t it funny.

His first memory after Bloody Nose Ridge is a full five days later, waking up in the hospital like it’s another planet. He’s less sure he’s been shot than perhaps hit full-force by Joe Dimaggio up at the plate with the Yankees down by a couple in the ninth and the bases loaded. He’s afraid that if he touches his head, he’ll find it’s been pulverized from existence.

The nurse is a woman in a white dress. When they make eye contact, he’s sure he’s seen her before.

“Eddie Jones,” he rasps, in a voice that sounds like, had he slept another hour, it might have left him entirely and for good. “Is he still alive?”

He can’t quite pull his memories together in the way he wants to be able to. He can’t tell if Eddie was hurt, or if he is remembering a future that only might have been.

The nurse looks faintly amused by the question. Of course, she says. We had a deal.

He is not sure whether he has fulfilled his end, ultimately. But he is in far too much pain to be dead.

After an unknowable number of jumbled days during which the painkiller dosage is high and the memories are muddled, Andy quits the morphine cold turkey and becomes a ruined-face ghost that haunts the hospital hallways, up and around largely because laying in bed makes him crazy and they won’t let him read. He turns the corner one day and finds Eddie standing in the doorway to his room, staring at the bed that has just been neatly made by an orderly.

“Eddie,” he sighs, letting himself miss him now that Eddie is safely in front of him again, and when the latter turns around, it is like watching a heart un-break.

“I thought – ” He swallows. “The empty bed.”

Andy steps in closer, and Eddie doesn’t take his eyes off of him as he collects, a little clumsily, Eddie’s hand, and places it on his own chest. It is as much about proving that he has a heartbeat as it is about proving to himself that neither of them are ghosts, that they can touch each other without going through.

Andy lets Eddie watch him for a long moment, taking in what little of him he can recognize.

“Looking good, skip,” he says finally, his voice tight in a way that is almost inaudible because it’s also so quiet.

“Liar.” It hurts to smile, but Andy’s mouth pulls up on one side anyway.

“You were always too handsome, anyway,” Eddie tells him. “About time we got ourselves evened up a little.”

After the war, Andy knows that Eddie is coming to him. It’s not a matter of if, but when. He turns up in the fall, almost a year to the day since that dud mortar on Peleliu, since that tangle with the reaper that might have ended differently – blind luck, one assumes, like anything else in war.

Andy knows better, of course.

He is aware of the way Eddie watches him when he thinks Andy isn’t looking, like he is worried that if he takes his eyes off of him, the universe might right itself and Andy might vanish on him. By rights, you shouldn’t be here. But at night, when he can’t sleep because the nerves in his brain like to fire a hundred thousand volts off unexpectedly sometimes, he drags his fingers so gently through Eddie’s hair, a ghost of a touch, and knows that Eddie’s call was just as close as his. By rights, neither should you.

The girl in the white dress sits on the stair sometimes, pale arms hooked around her knees, and watches them through the balusters. Andy occasionally makes an extra cup of tea, or cuts up an apple and only eats half, the rest left out when they go to bed. Eddie never remarks on these little idiosyncrasies. A person earns a lot of slack when they’ve been through what Andy’s been through.

Not every day is easy, but mostly – on balance – the life they live is very good. It is quiet, perhaps not quite the cadence of the life Andy had imagined for himself after college, but it suits them. Andy will never take it for granted, the way Eddie sounds when he calls him sweetheart, or the dozens of books Eddie has read to him when the hundred thousand volts are in his brain. He treasures every small thing, every smile Eddie cuts him, the unbearable sweetness in the way, when he comes to the train station to collect Eddie after a visit home to his family, he spots Eddie first and finds him adjusting his own collar in the train window, smoothing his hair, as if he wants to make a good first impression after a few days away.

They like to listen to music in the living room during the evenings, with the curtains drawn to close them off from the rest of the world. Eddie can cut a mean rug if he wants to, though when he asks Andy to dance, it is always, for some reason, to sad songs. I saw the harbour lights, they only told me we were parting and I can't even think of his name, but I'll never be the same. Andy asks him about it, murmuring the words into the quiet, warm space between them, and Eddie very seriously says, “If we don’t dance slow, how am I supposed to hold you close like this?” It is perhaps not the real answer, but it is very tender, and merits him being let off the hook.

At night, when they go to bed, sometimes they are lucky enough to sleep without dreaming. They curl up in the circle of each other’s arms and wait for the sun to come back and chase the shadows away.

The girl in the white dress joins him on the porch one afternoon when it’s raining and Eddie isn’t home yet. Both of them listen to the sound of it spilling off the trees, and into the undergrowth. It is spring, and in fact, they are nearing the end of the long, slow climb toward summer.

I like this life that you live, she remarks. She doesn’t always speak to him. When she does, it is faintly probing, as if she is trying to understand something. I like that you look out at the rain. Did you always?

“No,” Andy admits. He was a different person before the war – before the bullet. Before Eddie. “Not like this.”

It is funny, she tells him thoughtfully. That neither of you should be here.

She is often cryptic like this. Andy knows he can’t exactly be surprised. “You’ve said that before,” he notes.

He said your name, you know, she says. He said your name, and you turned your head.

Andy doesn’t remember. When he turns to look at her, she is gone.

#tpweek2023 #hbowardaily #the pacific #fanfiction #roaroftheninth

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localwebslingers · 2 months

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There's a new verse going up! I'm doing the announcement and headcanon post in one for this one, so don't expect to see many posts going forward. Why? Because I'm doing this verse by request ONLY.

What does that mean? It means this verse isn't going to get starter calls, or have open starters posted for it. You seriously have to tell me you want me to answer with this AU, or that you want a starter from it, or it's not happening. That's not because I like it less, it's not because I don't want to do it either. It's because I think only a small group of people would even be interested in it in the first place and I don't want to disappoint myself throwing out lines with no bites.

If that changes and you all just eat it up? I'll look at making it generally available.

New Verse: "A Trick of the Light" (earth-65)

Currently affectionatly being called "earth-64" by me. This is going to be pulling from the comics, the spider-verse films, and headcanons. Just like all the other verses here. If you ahve any questions, please ask! So, let's talk about those headcanons...

PLEASE NOTE: this verse is going to deal with the topics of bullying, depression, and severe head injuries. If you cannot handle those topics, you'll want to stay clear.

At the last second, Peter backed out of injecting himself with the lizard serum he made. Feeling defeated, he met with Conners and confided in his teacher some of his problems, along with nearly using it on himself, before leaving the serum there and going home. At senior prom, Peter tried to brush off Harry's concerns after some of the usual bullies tracked him down before the first screams came from the gym. When he looked to see what was happening, he saw a lizard monster lashing out at students, and moments later Spider-Woman fighting it back.

Instead of dying, Peter still tried to get Spider-Woman to stop, but to stop fighting who he knew had to be Conners, as the last person to be around the lizard serum. Wanting to try and talk his teacher back down again. She didn't listen.

During the fight, part of the gym collapsed and Peter was caught under the falling debris, sustaining multiple injuries including severe head trauma. He was rushed to the hospital and was in and out of consciousness for a few days, then spent most of the next month in the hospital recovering. He barely remembers prom night and has no real memory of the week following the accident.

As a direct result of the head trauma, Peter has poor impulse control for his actions, mood swings mirroring those seen in bipolar II patients, severe headaches, can be easily confused or lose track of what's happening if multiple things are going on at once, and is even more drawn in to himself. He was in therapy for six months to try and help hime cope and learn skills to help himself with these changes. The cost of the appointments on top of the hospital bills drove him to stop going, after promising his aunt and uncle he would keep up with his medications and let them know if he thought he needed to go back.

Peter is on a mood stabilizer and a painkiller to help manage the worst of the side effects.

Jameson still uses what happened to Peter as his soap box for why Spider-Woman should be stopped. He hates it.

If anyone asks Peter if he blames Spider-Woman for what happened to him, every time he tells them no. That it was an accident and she shouldn't be blamed for something she couldn't have stopped. And yes, he still looks up to her and sees her as a hero thanks for asking.

Peter knows Gwen is Spider-Woman, he told her so when he was in the hospital.

Due to years of severe bullying, Peter suffered from depression long before the accident. It wasn't diagnosed and treated, and recognized as something he had before the injury, until he was first in therapy.

After graduating high school, Peter enrolled in ESU. He's currently majoring in both biochemistry and photography.

Whenever The Mary Janes perform, Peter goes to the shows to both support his best friend and take pictures. Any shots he gets that are good, he lets the band have to use for social media, posters, whatever they want. He's never charged them for it.

S.I.L.K still obtains the lizard serum and experiments with it, Peter is horrified when he finds out about it. He's unsure if anyone from the group knows he's the one who made it or if they assume Conners did.

Peter knows how to make a cure for the lizard serum(did anyone asked him about it? No, no of course they didn't)

#((stray chat))#headcanon #[v: a trick of the light]

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leebrontide · 9 months

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Secondhand Origin Stories, Chapter 3

Here's this week's chapter!

For those of you just joining us, I'm posting a chapter a week of my free near future scifi/low neon cyberpunk YA/NA novel, Secondhand Origin Stories, which has been described as

"-a character driven, compelling story full of family, queerness, corruption, brain altering nanites, secretly teen parenting AIs, and taking aspects of the superhero genre to their very human and rarely-explored natural conclusions."

For content warnings and more, check here:

You can follow along by following #SHOSweekly

Chapter 3

Awareness crept up on Issac slowly and was, at first, made up of nothing but pain. He pulled away from consciousness, against waking up to that. It flooded him anyway, dragging him into his body.

He hurt everywhere. The pain wasn’t quite unbearable. He’d had worse. But not often, and it couldn’t be a good sign.

He tensed, straining the miasma of injuries even more. The last time he’d been this badly hurt, kidnapping terrorists had been involved.

He tried to listen for signs of where he was, but couldn’t make out anything. The tilt of the surface he was laying on suggested “hospital bed,” and-- yes, there was some kind of IV in his arm. He noticed the itching tightness of stitches in his arm. So wherever he was, someone wanted him alive. That was probably a good sign. It should be safe to alert whoever was in the area that he was awake, since he didn’t hear any monitors going that would clue them in.

He opened his eyes.

Yep, that was one blank, featureless white ceiling. “Hospital” was looking like a solid option. Something was wrong, though. Why weren’t there monitors beeping away? Where the hell was he? Who would put an IV in someone without monitoring him?

He tilted his head-- which hurt, but slowly gave him more bright white room to look at. Small, no windows, walls as white as the ceiling and--

And Dad, wearing the now dusty, ripped clothes he’d been in that morning, sitting in a plastic chair. He sat by the door, head tilted slightly back against the wall, eyes closed. He wasn’t hurt, and he wasn’t on high alert. So they weren’t prisoners, then.

Issac exhaled, sending shooting pain up through his ribs. At least the worst option was out of the way.

He felt his eyelids droop, exhaustion sweeping back in. Maybe from his injuries, maybe from whatever was in that IV. He suspected serious painkillers were involved. He pushed his eyes open again as Dad noticed he was awake. He wasn’t surprised by the cocktail of angry, guilty emotions on Dad’s face. Yep, Issac was hurt. Yep, it was probably because he lived with superheroes. Issac himself wasn’t worth attacking.

Something was still off, though. He just didn’t know what. It felt like it should be obvious, but the answer stayed just out of reach. He tried to ask Dad.

His voice wouldn't work. His throat hurt trying, but he tried again. No sound. Nothing.

The banked fear from before surged back. He tried again to ask what was going on. No sound. Not even a gurgle or a rasp.

Dad got up from the hospital chair to stand by Issac. Issac tried to sit up. The IV needle yanked at his arm. Something was wrong. Really wrong. Why the hell couldn’t he figure out what it was? Lightheadedness swamped him for a second, and he started to fall back. A metal hand was under him, slowing the drop rather than helping him sit up.

When his vision cleared, he looked up at his dad, who was torqued around, half-facing the door. What was he doing? He was just…moving his mouth a lot. Like he was pantomiming shouting furiously at someone.

Issac’s painkiller-addled brain caught up. It wasn’t his voice that was broken.

He grabbed a fistful of starched hospital sheet, yanking it upwards, needing confirmation and noticing this time that he couldn’t hear the rasp of the blankets as they moved. He craned his head around painfully, finally seeing all the monitors he had expected but not heard earlier.

This was too much to deal with right now. His stitched and strained back spasmed, and he allowed himself to collapse backwards into the bed. He stared up at the ceiling. His mind raced, trying to wrap itself around the possibility, but was slowed by the sludge of whatever chemicals were in his system.

His ceiling view was interrupted by Dad, looking down on him. Dad didn’t try to say anything. They must have already told him Issac wouldn’t hear it. Issac stared up at him, breathing hard. Searching for some sign he was misunderstanding, or some kind of reassurance. All he saw was a mirror image of his own dark eyes staring back at him. Maybe looking for the same thing.

He was grateful when people in scrubs poured in, and Dad’s gaze was diverted off Issac. They moved around the edge of his vision, hands moving on tubes and monitors and lips moving silently as Issac’s awareness flickered. The strain of his breathing hurt his chest. Dad’s hand closed around one of his, squeezing tight. It was cool and familiar, but it wasn’t enough. He felt like he should have questions, but they slid away from him when he tried to grasp them. The needle in his arm tugged again, as some medical person did something with it. He had just enough time to wonder if his disorientation and slowness were from the painkillers, or something more permanent, before some new chemical flooded his system. He felt darkness swallow him from the feet up, and he surrendered readily.

* * *

It wasn’t fair that Opal felt homesick when she was still standing in her room. Pre-emptive homesickness shouldn’t be a thing. And she wanted this. She should be excited. She was sure that some part of her was very excited. It just wasn’t the most prominent part of her right now.

She stared at the big, empty rolling suitcase laying open on her botanical illustration bedspread. What did you bring to chase a dream of being a superhero? So far, she’d managed sandals, and some underpants. She was not an expert on superheroing by any means, but she felt confident that that was not going to pass muster.

Shani leaned around the door frame, looking at Opal, then the suitcase.

<Captain Underpants?> she signed. <good superhero role model. I approve.>

Opal smiled. <Thanks.>

Shani wandered the rest of the way into the room and sat on Opal’s bed, looking at the open closet door. Opal looked at it too. It was bursting, but it was a tiny closet. A tiny closet full of clothes Opal was half afraid to pack. Shani stood up, and pulled Opal’s prom dress out. She started to fold it. Opal laughed a little, and took it back. She hung it back up, shaking her head no. It was a great dress, all teal frills and iridescent sparkles, and Auntie had made it fit perfectly, but no.

Shani gave a stellar artificial pout. <superheroes go to fancy parties!>

Not in prom dresses they didn’t. That was the problem with a lot of Opal’s clothes. They didn’t seem like clothes a superhero would wear. A lot of them seemed too juvenile, like her prom dress, or her cute t-shirts with flowers on them. She had far more pink clothes than she’d realized.

Or, they were too faux-fancy. She pulled out her favorite hoodie. Not only was it pink, but it had a big Fleur-de-lis on the front, and fake military detailing. How would this look to people with real power, real military accomplishments? Would she look like a silly little pretender? A wannabe?

Shani threw a ruffly gray skirt into the suitcase. Opal dove on it as if the Sentinels could actually see her packing in real time. Her friend Nevaeh had talked her into that at Goodwill, but it was way too short. Opal would never wear it in public, much less when she was trying to land a job.

Opal threw the skirt at Shani’s head. Shani threw it back behind her without even pausing in her rummaging, tossing some sweatpants in next, which…OK, that was actually a good idea. Superheroes had to work out, right? Opal grabbed two sports bras out of her dresser.

She had a row of antique books on top of her dresser. No room for all that.

But she couldn’t just leave all of them. Even if she did have digital copies…What if there weren’t any other old books around to smell? Aldis was providing her a place, but she didn’t know what kind of place it was.

She picked a 100-year-old copy of Jane Eyre. It was seven kinds of beat up, but it had that all-important book smell. And it was the story of another young woman who’d gone out into the world to seek her fortune against long odds and a stacked deck. Yeah. Jane would be Opal’s special companion on this trip. Hopefully the Sentinels would be less judgy than the aristocrats in a Gothic romance.

She gathered some of her good letter-writing stationary for her weekly letters to Daddy and turned back around to her case.

Shani was arranging a bunch of clothes in the case with single-minded determination. And she was sniffling. Aw.

Opal was a fan of hugging in general, but hugging Shani was extra nice, ’cause Opal could hug her as tight as she wanted and not hurt her. She kissed the top of her baby sister’s head, and stayed there for a second, just enjoying the soft puff of Shani’s hair. Shani’s hand closed over Opal’s arm.

Then Shani started walking forward, still holding onto Opal’s arm, semi-dragging her along. Opal couldn’t take a real step because she was too close to Shani’s feet, so she shuffled and laughed her way across to Mom’s room.

Mom looked up as they shuffled in, her eyebrows up, a little smile tucked into the corners of her mouth. “Mom, the present,” Shani prompted seriously.

Mom nodded, then sent a text on her phone and stood up.

Auntie came up the stairs a moment later, grinning like the cat that got the canary, holding something behind her back. Shani grabbed Opal’s hand and pulled her to Mom’s bed.

Opal sat, starting to tear up. She didn’t even really care what the present was. She just wanted to bask in the way she felt with the three of them. They loved her so much. She was going to come home at night and not see any of them there. How would she ever get used to that? Aldis was great, and she’d have him. But she didn’t think that could make her not miss Auntie, Mom and Shani.

Auntie produced the gift with a flourish.

It was a suit. A black suit Opal was certain would have been tailored to her exact measurements.

Opal would never have even thought to get a suit. Mom had one, but she only wore it to job interviews and the occasional funeral. But this was what powerful people wore, wasn’t it?

It looked so…adult. So responsible. Like the kind of thing that would get her in to see the right people. Also like you could wear it with a pink shirt and still not look like a kid.

Opal knew a rite-of-passage moment when she saw one. She blinked at them owlishly.

Mom’s smile faded a little. “I know it’s a little plain, but you can wear it with any kind of jewelry, or shoes, or shirt…”

“Come on! Try it on!” Shani demanded.

Opal couldn’t picture herself in a suit, but she was willing to try it. Auntie brought in one of her blouses, and Mom lent her some jewelry and a pair of flat shoes.

She changed, and Mom closed the door to give Opal access to the full-length mirror.

Oh wow. So much for worrying about looking too young. It was like looking into a portal to the future. Except it was right now. That was Opal, standing in her mom’s room, today.

And that Opal looked like she could shake things up at the APB. Like she could do a press brief about the prison system.

Well, that was intimidating as hell.

But excitement was gaining traction. It was definitely a tearful grin, but it was a real grin nonetheless. <Thank you. Everybody. Thank you.>

* * *

Yael dug frantically through the same pile of comics and laundry xe’d just dug through a minute ago.

They’d been kept down in that basement for hours while the top floor got assessed for safety. Which meant Yael’s hamster hutch had been laying open on the ground for six hours. Wood shavings were everywhere. Xe’d put it back together right away, but three of its eight residents were still missing. Yael felt terrible for not having gotten back up to see to them sooner. They must have been so scared when their home fell over.

Issac wasn’t back yet. Neither were Melissa and Neil.

But xe couldn’t do anything about that right now.

Jamie’d tried to help, but she’d started to look woozy, so Yael had installed her on Yael’s bed with the plate of toast she was still trying gamely to choke down to settle her stomach. Yael had to find Twinkie, Jerky, and Skittles before xe’d even think about resting.

Yael knew they were hamsters. That xe was more like scenery to them than a friend or protector. But xe couldn’t help imagining them feeling betrayed by xyr absence and negligence.

Damn it, they were hamsters. People got them as pets for little kids because they were easy to take care of. And Yael was failing them anyway. If something happened to one of them-- if xe saved some of them, but left another abandoned--

“Yael! Yael NO! By your foot, don’t move--” Jamie shouted around a mouthful of toast.

Yael hastily picked xyr heel back up as Jerky skittered out from under xyr foot.

Yael could scoop faster than Jerky could skitter. She scrambled over Yael's hand, frightened by the suddenness of it. Yael made as big of an enclosed bubble as xe could with xyr hands, and sagged back down, exhaling. Xe’d almost crushed her xyrself.

“Is she OK?” Jamie prompted.

Yael could feel her moving around in the protective case of Yael's hands. A flurry of a heartbeat and movement. She seemed to be moving just fine. “She’s OK.” Yael stood, and returned Jerky to her home and family. The hamster fled into her little chew-nest.

Papa appeared in the doorway, looking harried but relieved. “One Twinkie, and some news,” he sighed. Sure enough, a small puddle of golden fuzz sat comfortably on his shoulder, since he had a phone in one hand and the doorknob in the other. Yael rushed across the room to retrieve Twinkie. Seven down. One to go.

Unlike Jerky, Twinkie hadn’t almost just been crushed. She was perfectly relaxed, and went to Yael's hand readily after only a moment of sniffing. Yael kissed the top of Twinkie’s head, stroking her with xyr thumb.

Papa was less relaxed. “Issac is coming home today. The hospital has concluded there’s nothing they can do for him. But he’s not seriously injured beyond losing his hearing-- and that’s permanent.”

Issac, permanently deaf. Xe couldn’t picture it. His headphones were practically grafted onto his head. He was always playing piano, or humming, or whistling, or trying to figure out the selection algorithms on music streaming services…

There was a moment of silence. Yael delayed putting Twinkie back. She, at least, was calm. And soft. And safe.

“I found an ASL learning app,” Jamie offered from the bed. “It can’t be harder than French or Hebrew.”

“I don’t know Hebrew,” Yael mumbled. Xe should put Twinkie down. Go find Skittles.

“Well, at least he’s coming home,” Papa suggested. “I’ll be happier when everyone’s home safe again.” He looked around the room. “But clean your room up, Dove. He’s sprained some things, and may be in a chair for a while. A wheelchair could never get through this mess.”

“I still can’t find Skittles.”

“I’m sure she’s fine. I’ll make sure everyone knows to keep a lookout.”

“Is Issac mad?”

“Mad?” Papa echoed.

“At me.”

This got a frown. “Why would Issac be mad at you?”

Yael turned back to the hutch. Set Twinkie down slowly. “I didn’t save him.” Xe stood there, one hand inside.

“We can’t always save everyone,” Papa answered quietly. “You know that. I’m sure he does too.”

Yael wasn’t so sure.

But he was alive. Nothing meant more than that.

* * *

Jamie had pretty much tamed her rebellious stomach by the time Issac was supposed to come home. She’d moved into the courtyard to try to find Skittles, and to wait for her parents and brother.

She was up a tree when she got the signal they were about to arrive. She wasn’t sure if hamsters could climb trees. But it gave her a good view of the courtyard, and the rest of the family as they streamed in, tense and expectant.

The elevator door opened to the three of them. Issac was in the same rental-grade wheelchair she’d seen the team need for a day or two from time to time. He had on a set of his own rocket-ship pajamas, a hoodie over a sleeping t-shirt, and a tablet sitting in his lap. He was badly bruised up, his hair an even more chaotic tangle than it had been. His eyes were glassy and vague. Jamie went cold at the sight of it-- too much like Jenna’s eyes had been. It stalled her trip down the tree as she stared at him, trying to figure out how scared she should be.

Behind Issac was Mom, her eyes pinkish but her chin up and her jaw set, hands on the handles of the chair. Dad was beside her, face clean, but clothes covered in dust, looking detached and angry. His chin was up like Mom’s, but his eyes were guarded.

There was a flicker of understanding and discomfort from Issac as Mom wheeled him off the elevator. He leaned back in the chair, as if he could hide from everybody seeing him like this. Which was more or less the reaction Jamie’d expected. That was the Issac she knew.

Jamie looked at the rest of the crowd, trying to see what Issac was seeing. Solomon and Yael had almost identically heartbroken expressions, with Yael's maybe a hair more horrified. Drew looked like he was watching a funeral procession. None of this was what someone as proud and stubborn as Issac would want to see. If he was even thinking clearly enough to process it fully.

Dad gave Issac's shoulder an awkward, halfhearted little pat, then he peeled off from the group, making a beeline for his own door. Jamie frowned. That was not what she’d been expecting.

Solomon flinched. Drew and Mom seemed to expect it, but they looked disappointed. Issac looked confused, with a dawning hurt as he registered their dad walking away.

Yael's voice was too loud. “Neil!” Xe headed after him. Dad didn’t react at all. He was almost to his door when xe caught up to him and grabbed one metal wrist, pulling him around to face xyr. “Neil!”

He turned suddenly, twisting his arm out of xyr grasp with a growled “Get off me.”

Jamie almost fell out of the tree. Dad almost never raised his voice. Not in the house, anyways. Not at any of them. And he never sounded that-- mean. He might flip-flop between smothering and distant, but he was never mean.

Dad slammed his front door in Yael’s face. Jamie climbed down, and stood next to Issac as Yael banged on the front door. Dad had locked the door? He never locked the door. Solomon rushed over, trying to hush Yael and pull xyr away.

Jamie looked at Issac, who looked back at Jamie as if she had any clue what was going on. Jamie shook her head. She had nothing.

Mom looked away from Dad’s door with an air of resignation. She knew something. Whatever it was, though, she didn’t say it. She wheeled Issac towards their front door, and Drew opened it for them.

Jamie tried to think of something useful she could do right now, since she couldn’t fix Issac’s ears, make her dad make any sense, or find Skittles. She darted into Drew’s apartment-- also never locked-- and grabbed a few Cokes she knew would be there. If Issac’s stomach was bothered by any medication, this would help.

She got at least a sort-of answer about Dad as she bolted back through the courtyard. She overheard Solomon. “--know how hard it is to catch someone mid-fall. He needs rest for his healing to kick in.”

Not a good enough excuse in Jamie’s mind, but it was some kind of information. Dad wasn’t who needed her attention right now, anyway. Yael and Solomon followed Jamie back into her own living room.

Issac’d been parked next to the couch. Mom was in the process of drawing blinds as Issac squinted around the room. Probably a concussion, then, on top of it all. Jamie’d seen lots of those.

Yael and Solomon stayed hovering by the door, as if they were afraid to come any closer. Bad move. Mom re-hung a picture, then turned to them, crossing her arms. “I don’t think he can read right now. At least, he hasn’t answered any of my questions. For now, we can’t tell him anything.”

Maybe he wasn’t answering, but he wasn’t asking, either. Which meant he understood. Issac hated being confused. If he wasn’t demanding answers, he’d found them himself.

Jamie sat on the edge of the sofa arm and opened a can of pop, offering it to him. He might not be reading, but he was watching everyone. There was a lot of information he could get from that. He took the can, slowly. His hands were stiff and bandaged, and she wondered how long it would take him to heal.

He looked at her. His eyes were glassy, but he was watching as well as he could.

What would Jamie want to see, in his shoes? Not a comforting smile. Not whatever that was on Yael’s face that probably wasn’t pity but made Jamie’s spine itch just like pity did. Even sympathy would tick her off. But she couldn’t play this off like it was nothing, either.

She decided to not do anything. Just meet his eyes with hers. Let him read whatever was naturally on her face.

He sat back in his chair. It was harder to read him this way, but it looked like he was satisfied with whatever he’d seen. She’d just have to wait to see what else she could do.

#SHOSweekly #scifi #queer authors #queer books #lgbt books

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ghoulodont · 9 months

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ok i was planning to make an unnecessary & longwinded post about my personal experiences (or lack thereof) that i used for the last fic i wrote so here it is

my understanding is that the two general categories of wisdom teeth extractions are if they are erupted you can pop them right out and any dentist can do it, or if they are impacted and/or unerupted its more of a surgical situation. mine was definitely in the second category (they were unerupted and i went specifically to an oral surgeon). and ive gathered that in the second category there is generally some sedation involved.

there is a significant split between these two experiences by location depending on how strict the recommendation is that you should not remove teeth that havent caused any problems yet. this is what they recommend in any place that has socialized healthcare because they can use evidence based (for better or worse) guidelines rather than a consumer based you just buy whatever healthcare you want or can afford type of situation.

anyway, in my case, the second category, sedation was involved, yes. however. im not sure what the intention was but i had nitrous oxide and my experience was simultaneously being way too high and way too aware. i definitely could feel & hear them crunching around in there WAY more than i needed to. like i was blasting off into outer space but i took the surgeon with me. also i remember the local anesthetic wearing off at one point, but i was too fucked up to communicate this effectively, leading to this exchange:

me: ow surgeon: are you feeling pain or just pressure me: i dont know surgeon: ok well pressure is this (he presses on my shoulder) and pain is like when someone is cutting you with a knife (i assume he was recently cutting me with a knife and i said ow) me: i dont know

it was so unpleasant. then he gave me more local anesthetic and i said ow again about that which frustrated him. and i remember all this. everything i read about sedation was talking about how much you would not remember. what was the point?

i didnt subject rain to that exactly because 1. nitrous oxide seems less common especially outside of the usa and 2. i had a better and more fun experience to use:

when i had surgery, like real surgery about organs kind of surgery, im convinced they gave me the same medication used for conscious sedation (midazolam) right beforehand and honestly it was great. good vibes all around.

in my experience, which yes you already read but: i truly did not give a fuck what they were doing to me. and they really did very little to me then and nothing at all distressing so its kind of a moot point? the more interesting thing was i went in there thinking i would probably die (unrealistic, it was a very safe procedure. however i did almost get hit by a train on my way to the hospital) and when they gave me this drug i was like... ok goodbye world, its been fun. i still thought i was going to die but i did not care at all. this is the feeling i channeled. highly recommend it.

the painkiller that made rain fall off the bed was also taken not from my wisdom teeth experience but from this surgery/hospital experience. i was not falling off the bed because they put you in a bed with rails like a toddler but i do remember holding onto said rail for dear life. i dont even know what they gave me because i was in a foreign country and all the drugs were called different things. they sent me home with some after surgery and i did NOT take it thank you very much.

anyway i think it turned out logically sound at least, despite my sort of making it up. it was fun hearing little bits of other peoples experiences in the comments too, thank you :)

#clearing out my drafts. this was sitting in there mostly finished #not teeth talk really just rambling

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wellofdean · 2 years

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Endversetober prompt, Day 10: Gun

Whelp. I wrote this. Part of my pledge is just to post what I come up with and not be too precious about it, so here goes.

Cas is unwell, and suggests the improper use of a firearm.

I should warn you that this one is a bit on the dark side.

Cas has been laid up for a month with a broken foot, and he’s feeling a way he never thought he’d ever feel: fed the fuck up with Dean fucking Winchester.

Maybe it’s the painkillers, maybe it’s the ongoing and fucking exhausting lack of Grace and all the attendant eating, sleeping, farting, pissing, shitting, and not having any idea what the fuck is going on, but he is fucking done. Cas is self-aware enough to know that he’s never had what anyone would properly call a ‘sense of humor’ but he has stopped being able to see even the potential for humor in anything, and forget about the potential for anything else. For fuck’s sake. Every other word in his internal fucking monologue is fuck. That can’t be a good fucking sign.

And Dean just… fucking Dean. Just sitting there, slouching like that in his chair, cleaning his fucking gun in his underwear and socks, taking up fucking space and air like he always does, with all that big Dean energy. Fuck, Cas is sick of him. Sick of the way he sneers certainty all over everything all the time and the way his voice is always so fucking full of the conviction that every fucking thing he says is fucking important? Like he’s the only fucking guy who can whatever the fuck he’s saying he’s gotta fucking do?

Cas is also, he has to admit, just fucking tired. He’s tired, and he’s also fucking high as fuck. And, in fact, he’d like a fuck, please. He hasn’t had a good fuck in some time. Dean and his gun. Just fucking sitting there. Clean that fucking gun, Dean. Yes. That’s what’s important.

When Cas was powered up, he’d thought of guns with pity – a crutch of the powerless. All they had to defend themselves. Now he sees what they really are: a crutch for the impotent. A fucking second cock you can use if you’re feeling weak, and now that they’re living in a properly post-apocalyptic hellscape constantly in danger of being overrun by virally mutated former humans, and everyone’s feeling a little weak, aren’t they. Cas suddenly feels like crying. He wants to be held. He hasn’t been held in weeks. It’s painful, not being held.

Dean seems to like his guns. He hangs them on his wall. Tucks them jauntily into his waistband in the back, wears them sexily strapped to his thigh – and Cas can tell: they make Dean feel like a big man. Big man with a big gun. Oooh Dean, is that a gun in your pocket? All at once it’s hits him how fucking ridiculous a thing a man is, and laughter just forces its way out. A little explosion. A short, sharp burst. Oh great, maybe his celebrated sense of humor has returned.

“What’s so funny?” Dean shoots at him.

“Pew Pew!” Cas thinks, delirious and unsteady. Like he’s falling from a great height.

“Absolutely nothing, Dean,” he pulls himself together to shoot back, serious as a heart attack.

Dean rolls his eyes and goes back to his gun. Cas watches him ream out the barrel for a moment, not without a certain tinge of longing, and then just says it:

“Dean, I want you to fuck me.”

Dean doesn’t even bother to look at him, just says “Nah. I’m busy.”

“With your gun, Dean. Fuck me with your gun.”

Now Dean does look at him. He doesn’t say anything. Just stares. Lets his face say it: “What the fuck?”

“I’m serious, Dean. Let’s go all the way.”

“Cas, shut the fuck up,” he sneers. He looks at Cas with those beautiful, dead fucking eyes in that beautiful fucking face, and then: “What the hell happened to you, man?”

Like he doesn’t know.

Cas just looks at him for a beat. His face feels uncomfortable. Like he can’t quite tell what it’s doing. Doesn’t know what his stupid human face is saying without his permission.

“You, Dean. You happened.”

That’s when he loses it. Just starts laughing and laughing. His face a rictus, tears rolling down his cheeks. God, it’s all so funny. So fucking hilarious. He can’t stop. It hurts. He just keeps laughing and laughing. At least he thinks he is? He’s not so sure. All he knows is that whatever he’s doing, he’s powerless against it, and he can’t stop. It feels like laughing, right until it doesn’t.

Then it feels like dying.

Dean turns to face him. Stares for a moment. His mouth turned down at the edges and something bordering on an expression in his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, “hey… hey, hey, hey, hey Cas. What the—?”

Cas folds himself in half. Hugs his arms close, feels like he might fly apart. Wishes he could! And then Dean is there, a hand on his shoulder, a hand in his hair. Oh.

“Hey, Cas. Buddy. C’mon,” he says in a voice Cas hasn’t heard in far too long. “C’mon Cas.”

“Don’t say ‘it’s ok’ Dean. Just don’t,” he sobs, stupidly.

“Man, I know it’s not ok. Cas, look, I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry. I know this is all on me. I’m just… so sorry. I’ve ruined everything. I’m poison. Don’t tell me I ruined you, too.”

“Even me, huh, Dean? Jesus. Fuck off,” Cas says into his own hands, “This is not ‘you’ time.”

“Cas, Cas. I need you,” Dean says, “I need you whole.”

“I’m not whole, Dean, and I never will be.”

Dean pulls Cas’s hands away from his face, takes his head in his hands. Makes Cas look him in the eyes, and now Dean’s eyes aren’t dead. They aren’t. They’re wet and shining. They’re so green, and they are full of Dean again. Like… he’s home again.

“That’s not what I meant,” Dean says, soft, without all his bluster. “That’s not what I meant, Cas. You know it’s not.”

Dean wipes at Cas’s tears with his thumbs. It's rough and clumsy, but it's Dean.

“I’m not going to fuck you with my gun,” he says gently, “that’s not me, Cas, and it’s not you either.”

_____

Also here:

Endversetober 2022 (1758 words) by wellofdean

Chapters: 2/?

Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Characters: Endverse Dean Winchester, Endverse Castiel (Supernatural)

Additional Tags: Endversetober | Endverse Inktober (Supernatural), cocks vs hands, Feelings, References to Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), suggested misuse of a gun, angst and sadness

Summary:

Short fics and drabbles in response to Endversetober prompts.

#endversetober #dean winchester #castiel #endverse #spn #Sorry... this one went dark somehow #but I am posting WHATEVER I PRODUCE #so... here #I guess.

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hollywoodsargeant · 1 year

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🖊🧠🍰~

🖊 Post a snippet from a current WIP.

AH okay. well of course i will have to pick boyish since i have so many unposted words of that... and it is definitely my main wip of the moment so here is some of oscar taking care of a very drunk logan in high school :) still one of my fav scenes i've written for this

It takes some coaxing, but he gets Logan upright on the edge of the bed drinking his water. In the meantime, Oscar crouches down on the floor to get his shoes off, feeling a bit like a loser doing it, but he— Logan would do the same, for him. They care about each other. They care for each other. He sets the shoes out of the way and stands up, finds Logan laying down again, the empty glass set back on his nightstand.

“Thank you, baby,” he mumbles, words wet and blended together. He presses at Oscar’s calf with a socked foot. “Too good for this world.”

Oscar cracks a smile, shaking his head. “Can you get undressed yourself?” he asks, instead of acknowledging anything he just said. “I’ll get you more water.”

“Not thirsty,” Logan insists.

Oscar doesn’t listen to that, just gets him more. When he comes back, Logan is shirtless and fighting with his own belt, apparently not dexterous enough to get the thing undone. The second he sees Oscar, though, he kind of just flops back against the bed, arms limp, giving him this look, a bit helpless. It makes Oscar feel entirely too fond.

And it’s entirely too intimate, when he puts the glass of water down and undoes Logan’s belt for him, when he tugs his jeans down his legs. Oscar fishes Logan’s phone out of the pocket and puts it on the nightstand, plugs it in. He tells Logan to sit up and drink again before going back to the bathroom for some painkillers, just to leave next to the bed, so they’ll be there in the morning. He shuts the door behind, bathroom light left on on purpose.

Logan has his head on the pillow and is staring at him, still on top of the covers, one hand reaching blindly for Oscar’s hip. “Thank you,” he says again. It half-muffles itself into the pillow.

Oscar smiles, reaching down to ruffle Logan’s hair before he can stop himself. “No problem, mate,” he says, grinning when Logan bats him away. “Need anything else?”

He watches Logan consider it, biting his lip and avoiding eye contact. The hand he has brushing against Oscar’s side falls, and he looks up again, eyes a bit pleading. “Stay?”

Oscar breathes in slow, deep, and not careful enough. “Yeah,” he says without thinking, already toeing off his shoes. “I’ll get the light.”

🧠 What’s an idea you have that you can’t quite call a WIP yet?

well. maybe this is technically actually a wip but this morning in the midst of my obligatory daydreaming boyish scenes interlude (a real thing) i decided i need to write a lol college au with established liam/logan so that's my idea. it's only technically a wip bc a doc exists (mostly to write down one paragraph before i forgot the wording of it) but there's only like 300 words on it So. yes. :)

🍰 Name one of your fave comfort fics (doesn’t have to be your all time fave)

comfort fic... well. to me that is just a fic i read a lot bc it makes me happy so my comfort fic is going to be Porn and it's six weeks by dropdeaddeadass. will not be elaborating. last time i read this fic was uh this morning. thank you

and special mention to and all of my wildest dreams (they just end up with you and me) by choripan (Carlos/Lando) for making me laugh out loud more times than i can count. like when a piece of writing makes me laugh Out Loud multiple times? immediate banger. though this fic also made me cry for the dumbest reason ever aka Logan is a background character and the line "Logan smiled so big his eyes disappeared" exists and i cried for 15 minutes so thanks for that too ig

#ask #ask game #i am going to lose my mind #that entire logan getting drunk ordeal is 7k words #including the morning after scene #WHICH IS ALSO VERY LOVELY!#they sleep in logan's fucking twin bed together. it goes as expected #and no! still not dating! spoilers they don't get together until after high school!#not dating but oscar is doing That #and logan calls him baby have we covered that yet #Yeah #shoutout to that #boyish.miamis

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