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anonymusbosch · 2 months ago

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on wanting to do a million things

prompted by @bloodshack 's

i wanna learn SQL but i wanna learn haskell but i wanna learn statistics but i wanna start a degree in macroeconomics also sociology also library science but i wanna learn norwegian but i wanna learn mandarin but i wanna paint but i wanna do pottery but i wanna get better at woodworking but i wanna get better at cooking but i wanna bake one of those cakes that's just 11 crepes stacked on top of each other but i wanna watch more movies but i wanna listen to more podcast episodes but i need to rest but i need to exercise but i wanna play with my dog but i wanna go shopping but i need to go grocery shopping but i need to do the dishes but i need to do laundry but i need to buy a new x y and z but i need to save money but i wanna give all my money away to people who need it more but i wanna pivot my career to book editing but to do that i have to read more and i wanna read more nonfiction but i wanna read more novels but i wanna get better at meditating but i wanna volunteer but i wanna plan a party but i wanna go to law school. but what im gonna do is watch a dumbass youtube video and go to bed

I think I've been doing slightly better this year about Actually Doing Things. not great! but I do a lot and I've been "prototyping" ways to get closer to doing as much as is possible. and if I actually talk about it it's a bunch of very obvious statements but I'll try to make them a little more concrete

rule number one: experiment on yourself

there's no one approach that's right for everyone and there's not even one approach for me that works at all times. try things out. see what works. pay attention to what doesn't. try something else.

rule number two: ask what's stopping you and then take it seriously

example: I often want to do Everything in the evening at like 2 PM, but then get home and am tempted sorely by the couch, and then get stuck inertia'd and not doing much but being tired and kind of bored. why?

if I don't have plans, it's easy to leave work later than planned and hard to make myself do something by a specific time

i'm generally tiredish after work. 4 out of 5 times, that'll go away if I actually start Doing Something, but 1 out of 5 it's real and I will go hardcore sleepmode at 8 PM and just be Done

i use up a ton of my program management/executive function/Deciding Things brain at work and usually find it noticeably harder to string together "want to do Thing > make list of Things > decide on a Thing > do Thing" after I'm home. Even if I have a list of Things to Do, how does one decide! how does one start! and god forbid there's a Necessary thing. then it's all downhill

therefore, mitigations: have concrete time-specific plans in advance.

if I have an art class at 6:00 PM I need to leave work by 5:15 and NO LATER and I can't get sucked into "oh 10 more minutes to finish this" *one hour later*

that also means I have to have a fridge or freezer dinner ready and can't spend 45 minutes cooking "fuck it, what the hell did I put in the fridge, why don't we have soy sauce" evil meal that is not good

plans with friends: dinner! art night! music night! repair-your-clothes night! seeing a show! occasionally, Accountability Time where a friend comes over for We Are Doing Tasks with tea and snacks etc.

for some reason I'm way better about Actually Doing Things when the plan exists already. magically I overcome couch inertia even though I am the same amount of tired! and while I never learn the ability to decouch without plans I at least learn to make them

still working on:

a "prototype" for maybe next month is a weeklyish Study Session for a thing I want to learn about. I want to somehow make it employer-proof (I am accountable to some entity to being at place X at time Y) and haven't figured out a good way. Maybe I can leverage that the local library is open til 8 on wednesdays and somehow make it a Thing? maybe I'll try it!

oh god oh fuck the thing about plans is that if you want to have them you need to make them. christ. a lot of the time I can cover this with some combo of weekend planning + recurring events (things like weekly friend dinner/weekly class) + having cool friends who reach out proactively but it still requires active planning and it can fall thru the cracks

rule three: cool friends

they can take you to things

they can remind you that you can do whatever the fuck you please

i have a friend who is somehow Always doing cool classes and learning shit. and this reminds me that I can ... do that. and sometimes I do

you can take them to things!!

rule four: try to kill the anon hate in your head

obv this depends on your circumstance but sometimes it's worth it to me to look at constraints that "feel real" and check whether they're an active choice I made thoughtfully or, like, the specters of people I don't know judging my choices

time and money are obvious ones. recently was gently nudged towards looking at whether i could give myself more time to Do Things by cooking less. imaginary specters of judgmental twitterites: "it's illegal to spend money. if you get takeout you're the first up against the wall when the revoution comes. make all your lunches and dinners and hoard the money for Later. for Something. how dare you get lunch at the store. you bourgeois hoe. taking charity donations from the mouths of the poor cause you don't have your life together enough to cook artisanal bespoke dinners every night. fuck you." and obviously eating takeout 24/7 is not the answer, but realizing I was not making an active choice helped me try making the active choice instead. "how much do I actually want to balance cost, time, tastiness, and wastefulness of my food, given my amount of free time and my salary and the tradeoff against doing something else? can I approach it differently to do more quick cheap food + some takeout?" -> current prototype: substitute in 1 takeout dinner or restaurant-with-friends a week, 1 frozen type dinner, and then batch cook or sandwiches lunches w/ "permission" to get fast lunch at the store. we'll see how it goes!

i am really really bad at this and find it helpful to talk to other people who can help point out when I'm being haunted by ghosts about it.

rule five: what would it take? what's the next step?

this one i give a lot of credit to @adiantum-sporophyte in particular for, especially for prompting me with questions when I muse about the million-ideal-lives on car rides. what would it look like to do xyz? what's something I could do right now to move in that direction? what's the obstacle? like, actually ask the question and think through it. with a person talking to you! damn! maybe the obstacle to x is that I don't know if I'll like it or if I just like the idea of it. and I don't want to commit to x without knowing. Okay, so maybe an approach would be to find someone who does x and talk to them about how their life is, or maybe it's "spend 15 minutes looking up intro-to-x near me", or "actively schedule 1 instance of x", or something like that. Or maybe it's that I don't know what it takes to do x. Okay, how about on Tues after dinner Adiantum fixes a sweater at my apartment while I spend 20 min looking at prereqs for x. like, it's so basic to say "to do a thing, you could try figuring out how to do it" but I think the important thing here is the feedback/prompting to even recognize "hey, step back, if you don't know the next step then figuring out the next step is the next step"

rule six: habits

prototyping: exercise

I do a lot better when I exercise in the mornings. I do a lot better when I do PT exercises regularly. For a while I was doing PT with friend in the morning every morning before work (accountability! a friendly face to make it more pleasant!) but that didn't really solve - it's not the kind of exercise that makes me feel awake/active, it's like dumb little foot botherings. but: having the habit of morning exercise made it easier to swap out 2 of the 5 days for more intense exercise, and then to swap those 2 for a different more intense exercise when I needed a break. it's easier to build a low-effort version of the habit and then work in the higher-effort one than to just Decide to be the kind of person who gets up at ass o clock to do cardio or whatever

rule seven: set up the structure of your life to make it easy

this is also a "duh" thing but like. on so many levels it comes down to structure your life to make the choice more doable. this can be something like "i structure my life to make vegetarian cooking baseline and vegan cooking the majority by stocking the pantry with staples and spices from cuisines that work well that way" or "i chose an apartment that lets me commute by bike" or "i have my camping gear put away in a fashion that makes it easier to gather frequently and lowers the barrier to trips" or "i keep physical books around to prompt myself to read xyz" to "i don't use instagram or twitter or snapchat or facebook" to . idk.

and in terms of charitable giving: similar deal. I have an explicit budget at the beginning of the year (~10% of my before-tax income), I know in advance what charities I give to, and I know what timing I will use (basically, alerts for donation matching around specific fundraising times). Anything outside the Plan comes from my discretionary budget/fun money. That makes it less of a mental load (the choice is already made; I don't grapple with every donation request or every bleeding-heart trap because I have a very solid anchor on "I give to xyz, the money's set aside") and it's armor against impulsive-but-not-useful scrupulosity. I structure the rest of my spending/life to prioritize a set amount and it makes it easier to follow through

rule eight: if you can do it at work a tiny bit that counts for real life

(infrequently used)

"hi mr. manager I think it would be great if I could use enough SQL to make basic queries in the database so we don't have to go through the software team for common/basic questions. I'd like to take 1 hr on Friday to go through some basic tutorials and then 1 hr with Pat on Monday so he can walk me through an intro for our specific use case. I estimate this will help save the team a couple hours a week of waiting for answers from the other team." and then you have enough of a handle with baby's first SQL that you can add little bits and bobs as you exercise it. this is responsible for a medium amount of my knowledge of python and all 3 brain cells worth of SQL.

rule nine: life is an optimization problem

not in, like, "you need to optimize your skincare and career and exercise and social life and have everything all at once" that's not what optimization means. optimization is like, maximize something with respect to a set of constraints. i explicitly Do Not do skincare beyond "wash face" and "sunscreen" bc I want to optimize my life for like looking at weird plants in the mountains. explicitly choosing to put time and money elsewhere! can't have it all all at once. so fuck them pores. who give a shit. yeah i ate a lot of protein shakes instead of home cooked breakfasts this week bc i was prioritizing morning exercise. im looking at this beautiful bug and it doesn't know what fashion is or what my resume looks like. im holding a lizard. im not spending time on picking cool clothes or whatever bc i spent that time looking up lizard hotspots on purpose.

that's really long and probably mostly, like, not surprising? but i keep benefiting from ppl being like "hey have you considered Obvious Thing" framed very gently

#long post

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theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming · 2 months ago

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Nicole Reads A Lot of Fanfiction (and she's gonna share it with you): Week 15

Week [1] [2] [3] [4/5/6] [7] [8] [9] [10/11] [12/13] [14]

How are we all doing... Anyway this is a few days late because I got lazy on Wednesday and then the episode happen and well.. everyone was/is crashing out.

It's an all Buddie Rec List. Sterek will be back next week, I promise. And I'm trying not to read that many codas. But there absolutely will be codas.

Anyway pay attention to tags. Especially for the last 2 fics on the list.

Buddie: 9

a strong hand and a sound mind by Illgetmerope | @illgetmerope (2025•M•37.9K)

Buck needs to do something reckless. There's a lawyer's business card in his wallet, but Eddie's shop is right there, so he lets himself make a different choice. (title from Noah Kahan)

i wanna be the one that you're callin when you're drunk by instantcaramel | @toxicpositivitybuddie (2025•E•3.4K)

“No, nope. I don’t want to know what’s coming next, especially if it has anything to do with Eddie Diaz. If I have to hear the name Eddie Diaz again for at least twelve hours, I think my head might explode.” Buck doesn’t think he’s talked about Eddie that much. “Can I give you some advice?” “Sure, why not?” “You might have better luck making friends if you don’t spend the entire hang out talking about the one that got away or whatever.” Ravi sighs. “I’m getting an uber home. Your sister will be here soon.” He stands easily. “Goodnight, Buck. See you at work.” ;or Instead of finding Buck's ex, Ravi calls his sister to pick him up from the Bar. A slight 8x11 rewrite.

ragged threads and muddy colors by granadas (2025•E•40.6K)

Buck had thought the black mask that completely covers the top half of the guy's face looked silly, when he'd seen it on the news. Now, with the man in front of him, he realizes why no one jokes about the vigilante's appearance. Even though he clearly doesn't perceive Buck as a threat, he seems like a mountain rather than a real person. All of his muscles look toned, and there's something dangerous in the set of his shoulders. Still, he offers Buck a small smile, one that kind of reminds him of Eddie's. He reaches his hands down to help Buck stand. It puts the man's biceps next to his face. Buck swallows. Be normal when you talk to the hot vigilante, he thinks to himself. "You know they make bigger shirt sizes, right?" he asks instead. — OR: Eddie Diaz is Daredevil. His life gets a lot worse before it gets better.

where do all the cowboys run by smilingbuckley | @cryingbuckley (2025•M•35.4K)

“You- Jesus. Come inside. You’re soaked.” Eddie grabs his arms, pulling Buck into the house. “What the hell are you doing here?” Eddie asks, but he walks away before Buck can answer. Buck sways on his feet. Eddie’s house is warm. A bit too warm, given that the air conditioning still isn’t working. Maybe Buck can fix it, he’s quite handy with tools. Eddie returns in his sight, carrying a stack of… things. Buck isn’t sure. His eyesight is a bit blurry. He can feel a towel being rubbed over his hair, and Eddie mumbles curses under his breath, a mix of Spanish and English. They’re mostly the same, calling Buck an idiot or a fool for standing out in the rain. Or maybe driving while exhausted. Buck’s Spanish isn’t great on a normal day, so his sleepy brain barely bothers to translate. Suddenly, Eddie is undressing him. “Huh?” Buck… well, he doesn’t really asks, he just makes the sound. “You’re going to get sick,” Eddie tells him with a sigh, throwing the wet clothes on the ground. “Idiota, what were you thinking?” Buck sighs, leaning into Eddie, making it more difficult for the other man to undress him, “Missed you.” (AKA: Buck escapes LA after his parents gave an unfriendly visit)

slow down (speed up) by besocrazy | @besocrazy (2025•E•2.0K)

It feels good. Buck’s hands are big and calloused, different from anything he’s felt before. They drag up over his ribcage and then back down again, catching on the elastic of his sleep pants. Buck grunts against his ear, dead asleep but somehow aware enough to be frustrated. Join the club, Eddie thinks.

Crossroads by hearmyplea | @hearmypleas (2025•E•65.2K)

Eddie is on the cusp of breaking down. Everything that can go wrong, has gone wrong. Even a fucking tsunami, of all things. He’s boiling over, and needs release. All these intense feelings he’s carrying are becoming too much. He comes across a flier for “Crossroads”. An underground exclusive nightclub aimed towards dark clubbing and exploration of self with full anonymity. A place where he can release, let loose, and maybe learn more about himself, and examine some… feelings he’s starting to come to terms with. Feelings he definitely wouldn’t mind exploring with that masked, tall and hunky dancer on that stage over there who just happens to remind him of Buck. No one will know about his desires, about his fantasies. Why not indulge himself.

Until I see you again by Demiwitchwoodwalker | @writing-is-hard-af (2025•T•13.2K)

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” “I– Someone hit us. We were– We’re at the intersection of 2nd and C– Collins, I think. I don’t– I’m not sure. My– My name is Christopher Diaz, I’m 14. My dad’s in the front and– and he’s not waking up. I think he’s breathing but I– my seat belt's stuck, I can’t reach him, I– help us, please.” ------ Every word felt like another inch’s tightening of the noose suddenly around his neck. Eddie. Eddie hurt. Car accident. Eddie. Chris. Eddie. Chris. Eddie– Buck couldn’t breathe, couldn’t– couldn’t– but Chris needed him. Chris was– he was alone. And even though Buck was fracturing inside, heart cracking and breaking into a million small pieces in his chest, he had to keep it together for him. Eddie was– Chris needed him to tell him what to do, that it would be okay, even though Buck didn’t know if it would. Chris needed him to be there. Eddie needed him to be there for Chris, for him, if– if– if– ----- Eddie and Chris get in a car accident while they're still in El Paso, and who else would Chris call but Buck?

What If The Way You Hold Me Is Actually What’s Holy by icewhisper (2025•T•26.3K)

Eddie Diaz is twelve when he meets Javier Gonzalez at Pool Club and thirteen when Javier becomes his first boyfriend. He's still thirteen when they're caught and his parents send him to church camp for the summer. Twenty years later, he confronts the fact it was conversion therapy. Then, he begins to heal. (Featuring Buck being ready to fight the Diaz parents.)

Where the Light Enters by june_nights | @beecauseevan (2024•M•108K)

There's a beat of silence. A smile blossoms on Buck's face. It starts with a twitch at the corner of his mouth, then spreads inwards. He purses his lips, almost like he's trying to contain it, then gives up and lets it bloom into a brilliant smirk, crooked and devastating on his warm lips. He cracks open one eye, the left one. The smirk creases his birthmark. It's the same shade of pink as his lips, the same color as the lightning scar. "Oh yeah?" Eddie clears his throat and frees his own sandwich from its plastic prison. "Eat so you don't collapse. Save us both the trouble." He can still feel Buck's eyes on him. "I don't break that easily." Or: Chris is 800 miles away, and Eddie's house feels emptier than ever. As always, Buck is right there, ready to have his back, to catch him without hesitation if he falls. This is familiar, this is normal, this is the way they've always been. This is fine, until it isn't. Until Eddie finds himself drawn to Buck in ways he never expected—ways that might not be so new at all.

#Buddie #evan buckey x eddie diaz #2025 Fic Rec List #Buddie Fic Rec

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popculturebuffet · 1 year ago

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Next up for Cartoon Network era of shows, who is your favorite character from each of the mid-late 2010s Dimensional era (shame they didn't get the best treatment and exposure on the channel, being the point when Cartoon Network was overplaying Teen Titans Go and pushing most other shows to the side) shows you've seen like: We Bare Bears, The Powerpuff Girls 2016, Mighty Magiswords, Ben 10 2017, OK KO Let's Be Heroes, Apple & Onion, Craig of the Creek, and Summer Camp Island?

We Bare Bears: Ice Bear though I loved them all. And as for thoughts, I really need to go back and watch all of this show as it was really good. Relaly solid. I think I just was in that hole of "If the status quo dosen't change I dont like it" which is still mostly true, it is kinda annoying to have a series long arc of someone wants to get a girlfriend with panda and not.. doing anything with that. But it's very clearly mostly slice of life shenanigans. ALso seems to have ended well

PPG: SIlico as he seems neat.. but I watched maybe one episode of this. I wasn't intrested, everything I heard was bad and looking back it seems half assed.

Mighty Magiswords: Yet another one from this era (and the last) I need to go back to, a true classic. Character wise I love Porhias for his voice and whole vibe. Though Vambre's legs will always have a place in my heart... moving on.

Ben 10 Reboot: Kevin having a bootleg omnitrix. This one I didn't see much of and while I may watch it some day for completions sake... it seems mid. Not as messy as ultimate or omniverse with some growth and really intresting ideas, but not nearly as intresting as the og or alien force seasons 1 and 2. It's firmly in the middle: trying hard to be funnier, inoffensive, but as bad as omniverse could get in it's worst moments... it had ambition. 2016 takes a much needed fresh start and just kinda... does a weaker version of the first show without the charm or real stakes or neat jack kirby-esque art style.

OK KO Let's Be Heroes: It's like asking me to pick my children you monster. But i'd have to go with Professor Venemous. He's a compelling villian, and while I feel we coudl've gotten more post shadowy figure takeover out of him (and may give him just that some day), he's an intresting villian whose bisexual as hell, clever and whose motivatoin and history with characters is great. The cast as a whole is though as this is the best show of the bunch here, though it has close compettition and you can probably guess who. It's fun, has well done character arcs, great action at a time Cartoon Network hated doing acction scnees (it's why SU got the shit end of the stick for a while and why this show ultimately did not last) and ended on one hell of a final episode (The actual climax is mixed but still pretty good given the time constraints). An all time classic and one of the best show's cn's put out and certainly one of my faviorites.

Apple and Onion: Onion, though ti's bittersweet given the whole Grahm Lihean thing. God dammit richard. A great show I wish i'd watched more of, really sweet and chill and like most of these as you pointed out , given the short end of the stick for teen titans not for me.

Craig of the Creek: Another all time faviorite and one I need to watch more of including the full story arc. But what i've seen of the story arc is excellent and the show as a whole is great, the recess successor I didn't know I wanted. It's still largely i'ts own thing but it's hard not ot see "Kids in their own elabroate clicks with terriotirY" and not think recess, but going way bigger than it's more grounded cousin. It's still clear most fantasy stuff is just the kids imaginations, but it dosen't hold back a fantastic show with a stacked roster of characters, a truly great world that just gets better and better, and a lot of nice character growth and moments. I'm not ready for it to end and boo HBO MAx for not wanting one of thier most succesful shows to go on. Favorite is JP. Eaisly. he's the boy.

Summer Camp Island: I"ve barely seen any of it I hear it's great and once again they screwed it over badly.

#cartoon network #we bare bears #powerpuff girls #mighty magiswords #ben 10 #ok ko let's be heroes #apple and onion #craig of the creek #summer camp island

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she · 2 years ago

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my badly put together two cents on the next episode preview cause I’m seeing a lot of people confused by Jim’s behavior

Jim has a BIG inferiority complex and trouble accepting his own sexuality and it is shown over and over through the previous episodes. His sister says love between two men isn’t real / doesn’t work, and back when he was young and bold and brave he thought he could prove her wrong‬. This was the one thing he was sure about! Young Jim not yet Uncle Jim maybe was ready to fight the world! He was going to show them love between men was real! This was the stone in which Jim built so much on. Of course it was real and it worked because his love was real and WOULD work. There was no space for doubt with all the love and surety he felt. Then he finds out Beam is in a relationship with a woman, and that issue doesn’t get resolved until years later. And it’s? He says so himself to Wen “well I did prove her”. And he spent so long with the internalized notion that the reason his relationship failed, this one thing he never ever doubted, was because he was a man, and the then love of his life found exactly what his sister and the rest of the world was always telling him: real love in a heterossexual relationship. Not going to go through all his other problems about relationships and cheating but Aof was a GENIUS when he made “the other person” in this messy triangle a woman. It stacks up on every single prejudiced brick Jim had to put up with all his life and cements it neatly. Jim’s walls are not only high but they are incredibly fucking sturdy. And he didn’t build it alone he definitely had help but damn. There was a lot of work put on to it.

I’m not saying people are supposed to like this scene or think it’s acceptable behavior considering Jim is gay himself but it is incredibly on point and in character of what Aof has shown of Jim so far. The man knows what he is doing and not once he made it seem like his characters were black and white with foolproof morals or logic.

That’s just my humble opinion though :) I think Jim (and everyone else) is a very well rounded, multidimensional character with a complex line of thought. Maybe I don’t agree with everything they do but I sure as hell can see where they’re coming from

#moonlight chicken #idk whenever someone says 'oh this doesnt make sense' for whatever happens on this show i die a little cause u dont getttttt ittttttt #u dont gotta agree but aof is making these characters sooooo relatable on sooooo many fronts #i dont need to like it or think in this situation i'd do the same but i can.... empathize with everything they do #mlc Jim #moonlight chicken jim #jim says he doesnt like complicated things and proceeds to be one of the most complicated characters with complicated emotions ever written

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roseofdarknessblog · 2 years ago

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Everything Will Be Okay (Porco Galliard x Reader)

Word count: 3 285

Disclaimer: english is not my first language, I apologize in advance for any mistakes

TW: mentions of anxiety, depression, self-harm, suicide, swearing

Everything Will Be Okay

„Want me to pick you up from school after work?“

„No need... I stayed home. Wasn’t feeling good.“

„Really? You promised me you would go today. Are you trying to get yourself in trouble?“

„Porco, please...“

„I’m being serious. You haven’t been to school for almost two weeks now. I know uni is different from high school, but still. You’re never going to get that degree if you keep on behaving like this.“

You put your phone down with teary eyes and pulled the blanket over your head. He was angry with you. Again. Just like the last couple of days. Most of them were spent arguing or in painful silence. It really hurt – the fact that your boyfriend wasn’t able to understand that you were getting bad again.

Severe anxiety and underlying depressive episodes were nothing new to you. They troubled you for most parts of your life and made almost everything unnecessarily hard and complicated. School, part-time jobs, and even social life. Making new friends was a nightmare. But dating was something even worst. On most days you were convinced that nobody would ever love you.

Why would they?

You were a total mess, your life had no real meaning and if you disappeared, probably nobody would even notice. Or care.

Well... at least that’s what your darkest thoughts wanted you to believe.

But then you met Porco Galliard. The two of you accidentally bumped into each other at a bookstore. You were carrying a huge pile of books and couldn’t see the boy walking towards you. And since he was occupied by the phone in his hand, he didn’t see you, either. Let’s just say that he wasn’t very happy when several books fell on his feet and even knocked the phone out of his hand.

You never felt more embarrassed in your entire life. Quickly apologizing you picked up your books and tried to leave the angrily cursing and hissing boy. But the stack was really heavy and you almost tripped over one of the rugs the bookstore floor was full of. Porco caught you just in time and helped you make it to the cash register safely by carrying the books for you. You apologized to him once more, thanked him, and did something you never dared to do before – you invited the boy for a coffee at the next-door caffé shop.

To this day you didn’t exactly know why you did it. But it felt right at that moment. Even more when he left you his number after saying goodbye to each other. And so after many more small cute dates and even more late-night calls and texts, the two of you became a couple.

With him, everything felt so natural and easy. You felt loved and appreciated. But most important... you felt safe. Safer than ever before.

„What’s going on? You’ve been acting really strange since we moved in together last week.“

„I don’t wanna talk about it through texts.“

„I get it, but you barely talk to me when I get home from work. It’s always Porco I’m tired, I’m just not in the mood, my head hurts... and stuff like that.“

He was right. You were avoiding him, which was a good starter for almost every argument the two of you had in the last couple of days. Porco was super excited for you to move in with him and even though you wanted to live with your boyfriend and spend as much time with him as possible, it was a huge change in your life.

And you were never good with those.

Starting a new school or work, going to some important place you have never been to before... it all triggered your anxiety and made every day a living hell. There were times when even your meds couldn’t help you feel better. You just had to wait it out, try to calm yourself, and simply push through.

„Everything's fine, I just... need some time to adjust.“

„Was moving really that bad? If you don’t want to live with me you can just say it, no need to make a big fuss around it. It just makes us both miserable.“

„No no no... I just...“

Your life kinda started to fall apart weeks before that. University was stressing you out on daily basis, you got fired from your job and had some nasty arguments with your parents. Porco became the only light in your daily life. The only thing that kept you going and distracted you from your darkest thoughts.

Until the day you saw him become frustrated with your mood swings, lack of energy, and desire to communicate properly. You cried yourself to sleep that night because you loved the boy so much and never wanted to hurt him in any way. He was always so kind and loving towards you, so how could you hurt him with your horrible behavior like that?

„I love you, Porco. And I’m so sorry.“

With that, you turned your phone off and hid it under the pillow.

You could feel sheer panic rising in your chest, it made your heart race and your hands shake. It took over your logical thinking and started to whisper horrible things to you. And even though you tried not to listen and give in, it was getting harder every single day.

You were so tired of everything always going wrong.

Tired of ruining your life over and over again.

Tired of being scared all the time.

Tired of being a burden to everyone.

Tired of trying.

You were just so tired of being yourself.

Porco was usually excited to leave his workplace behind and head home or somewhere else with you. But today he was dreading coming back to his apartment. He knew that behind closed doors awaited another stupid and pointless argument. It made him sad and disappointed – in himself, not you. He felt frustrated because you were shying away from him and didn't accept the help he was so desperately trying to offer.

Well... maybe it was because of his temper. He always was kind of impulsive and pretty stubborn. It was usually him, who started raising his voice and left halfway through the argument. But every time he promised himself that next time it would be different. He really tried to do his best each day because he loved you like no one else in his life. You meant the world to him and he would do anything for you. Anything.

„I fucked up.“

He texted his older brother as soon as he got to his car, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes for a second. Work has been crazy for the past few weeks. He was constantly stressed and tired, which made him even more nervous and agitated. But he had to keep up with his boss’s commands if he wanted the promotion which was at stake.

„Well, that’s nothing groundbreaking. I mean, you do that pretty often, baby brother.“

„Fuck you, Marcel.“

„Yeah, I love you too. So... tell me, what’s the problem? What did you do this time?“

„We’ve been arguing since she moved in and it’s only gettin' worse. I’m really starting to worry about her. Like... I know something is going on, but she just won’t tell me anything and keeps acting weird, kinda distant and cold.“

„Is she taking her meds properly? You know that she struggles with that sometimes, mostly when she’s feeling the worst.“

„She is, I make sure of it every morning before I leave for work.“

Porco knew for a long time now that you had serious mental issues. At first, he got a little scared but you telling him everything also made him really emotional. You trusted him enough to talk about something so personal. That day he went home and spent long hours on the internet reading everything he could about anxiety and depression – best coping methods, most effective treatment options, and such. He wanted to be prepared for every occasion you may need his help.

„I’ve been a dick to her lately, wouldn't be surprised if she wanted to dump my stupid ass. I never deserved her anyway.“

„Okay, stop right there! Putting yourself down won’t fix anything. You both need to sit down and talk your way through it like always. She loves you, I’m sure about that.“

„I love her too.“

„Yeah, I know. You’ve been head over heels for her from day one, wouldn’t talk about anything else.“

„Her phone has been off for the last hour or so. I’m kinda scared to go back home, don’t wanna argue again.“

„Get your ass to your car and go, you idiot! She needs you, so stop being a crybaby and be there for her. I bet she can’t wait for you, it’s been a long day. Try talking for a bit and if it doesn’t work, just spend time with her. Hug her, kiss her, reassure her that everything will be okay again. I don’t know... you know what works best in these kinds of situations for her.“

Marcel was right. As always. But Porco would never admit that out loud.

He got home as soon as he could. Speeding half of the way, not putting on any music which was unusual for Porco. A strong unpleasant feeling took over him. Why would you send him that last text and immediately turn your phone off? And why was he such an idiot and didn’t run home right away? Screw his boss and the shitload of work, you were far more important.

„Babe? I’m home!“ he shouted as soon as he unlocked the door to his apartment. It was nothing fancy, but just enough to feel comfortable, cozy, and safe. Enough to start his life with you by his side.

All the lights were out and the apartment was flooded with dead silence. That made chills run down his spine. Did you pack your stuff and went back to your parents? Was he really that horrible that you finally had enough of him?

„I’m sorry about earlier,“ he said a little hesitantly and made his way to the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, but no light was coming from the room. The floorboards softly creaked under his feet as he entered, made his way to the bed, and turned on the little lamp on his nightstand.

And there you were. Curled up under your favorite fuzzy blanket and hugging a plush lion he won for you at a festival you visited for your second date. A loving smile made its way to Porco’s lips as he leaned down and kissed your cheek softly, careful not to wake you up.

But that smile was gone in the same instant his eyes discovered what was laying on the bed next to you. A bright yellow makeup bag you used for keeping all your meds in one place. Anxiety and depression medications, some sleeping pills, and pain relievers you always had on hand because you got bad headaches pretty often.

„Shit, shit, shit... NO!“ he cursed loudly and turned you over to your back. „What the hell did you do?! Why? Why would you...“ His voice broke as tears started to collect in his eyes. Porco never felt more scared, never in his twenty-one years on this planet. His hands were shaking as he brushed back a few strands of hair from your face.

You looked so beautiful.

So peaceful.

So...

You stirred a little when a familiar voice interrupted your sleep. The first thing you saw as you opened your eyes was your boyfriend. He was finally home after another long day. Porco became such a workaholic that it made you worried sometimes. He wanted that promotion really badly, but it was slowly taking a toll on him.

„Porco?“ you said his name still half asleep and reached for his hand. The boy sitting next to you jumped a little, his eyes wide and face pale like he just saw a ghost. „What is it? You okay?“

„ME!“ he screamed at you, reaching to the other side of the bed and grabbing the pills you accidentally left there earlier. You went to get some water and when you came back, tears rolling down your cheeks, you just collapsed back under the blanket and didn’t care about putting the meds away. „How many did you take?! Do we need to go to the ER? Should I drive or call an ambulance?“

„What? No... Porco, listen...“ You quickly sat up and grabbed both of his hands, trying to look him in the eyes. Seeing them full of tears made your heart hurt. „Calm down, love. I’m fine, really. Nothing happened, I’m okay.“

„But... but...“ he stuttered looking confused and still scared to death.

„I only took one extra pill for my anxiety and one for sleeping. I felt like shit, pretty bad anxiety attacks kept coming and going the whole day. I just... I wanted to sleep it off, and you know I can’t fall asleep without pills when I’m like this.“

You hated taking all your meds, but they were very important. And you always reminded yourself that they are only temporary, with the right kind of therapy there was a big chance of making a full recovery. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually.

„That’s why I turned my phone off,“ you added, leaning closer to him, and kissing his cheek. „And kinda because I was angry with you. But I didn’t want to hurt myself, I promise.“

It sometimes occurred to you, of course, it did. Depression was a nasty opponent and often made you question if it was really worth keeping on going. But there was so much to live for and you didn’t want to miss out on those things.

You never wanted to harm yourself... not really. All you wanted was to just silence the pain and break the numbness that sometimes took over your life.

„I really thought...“ whispered Porco in a broken tone and lowered his face into his palms.

„Come here.“ You carefully pulled him into a tight hug, resting your head on top of his. His whole body was still shaking slightly, heart pounding wildly in his chest. „I’m sorry, I didn’t wanna scare you like this.“ Your lips gently pressed a small kiss to his forehead when he lifted his head a little to look at you. „I’m really sorry, Porco.“

He shook his head, grabbed your face, and kissed you on the lips. Fear was mixing with love and relief as his lips parted and he kissed you even more intensely. More hungrily. More lovingly.

„I was horrible to you recently. My job is making me really stressed and I took it out on you like an idiot. As if I didn’t know you already had it pretty hard. With school, your parents, and moving in together.“

„Well, I wasn’t making it any easier for us.“

When your mental health got out of control, you just shut down and pushed everyone away. Sometimes even Porco who was desperately trying to get to you and help. He was capable of bringing you back from the darkest corners of your mind, but only when you let him. If not, there was nothing he could do. Just wait for you to fight back on your own.

„A lot of things happened recently and I got overwhelmed by everything. You know I’m not good with big changes, even if they are good ones.“

He suggesting you to come live with him was something spectacular. You couldn’t wait to fall asleep every night next to him and wake up the same way – in his loving embrace while he whispered how much he loved you. You wanted to create your own little home with him, and do all the little daily tasks around your shared place.

Porco liked to cook in his free time, so you were pretty excited about getting some delicious meals, and eating them together by candlelight and with his favorite music playing in the background. You wanted to share everything with him, every little detail of your daily life.

But life wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows. It wasn’t like that most of the time, but you still wanted nothing more, than for you two to be happy. To live peacefully and create a future you both would feel excited about.

„I love you,“ you said kissing his lips again. „I love you so much, Porco.“ He was still in shock, you could feel it as his tensed body was leaning against yours. Did you ever see him this scared? About anything? No, definitely not. He wasn’t that type, playing it cool and unbothered was mostly what he went with. „Please, just relax. I’m fine, everything is okay. You can count over my pills if you want to, hardly any of them are missing.“

„No, I believe you... I’m just... shit I really thought it was over and that it was my fault. I was horrible to you when you needed me. But I’m so incredibly sorry, you know I love you more than anything. Nothing should be more important than you and your needs.“

You carefully wiped tears away from his cheeks, lightly kissing the tip of his nose. He hated that but never said anything because his adorable frown always made you smile a little. „Porco, if anything ever happens, it will never be your fault. Understand? Never. Most days it’s you who keeps me going, who keeps me motivated to try over and over again. I want to get better for myself but also for you. For us. For our future together.“

He nodded slightly, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist as he kissed you on the shoulder, then on your neck and chin. Porco never was a big fan of physical contact... until the two of you met and he got comfortable around you. Since then he loved holding hands, hugging, and cuddling up to you in bed. He always wanted to feel you close to him, because your presence was the most comforting thing for him. Especially after a long day at work.

„I’m so tired,“ Porco muttered against your neck, leaning deeper into your embrace.

„It’s fine, we can sleep for a bit and have dinner later,“ you said and made yourself comfortable again, pulling Porco into the sheets with you. He lay on his back, inviting you to rest your head on his broad chest, so he can wrap his arms around you protectively.

„Are you feeling better now? Did the meds help?“ he asked quietly, playing with a few strands of your hair. „Or can I help somehow?“

„Just hold me for a while.“

Were you really feeling better? No, not really. Especially not after you scared your boyfriend like that. You were angry with yourself, how could you act so stupid and careless? But it was better to keep quiet and melt into his embrace. Every bad thought will pass... you knew that. They weren’t real and they didn’t have the power to hurt you. Not when Porco was there.

Love wasn’t some magical remedy for your messed up thoughts, heavy heart, and hurtful soul, but it really did help. Simply just laying there, listening to Porco’s once again calmly beating heart and playing with the buttons on his shirt he hated wearing to work.

You felt at ease like you could finally breathe a little better again.

Everything will be okay.

Everything.

#porco galliard #porco galliard x reader #porco galliard x you #marcel galliard #attack on titan #aot #snk #shingeki no kyojin

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metalandmagi · 4 years ago

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Winter 2021 Anime Worth Watching!

Since 2020 basically sacrificed itself to give us the most stacked anime season of all time, I’m currently buried under the weight of almost 20 shows airing per week. So for anyone who’s looking for some anime to watch this winter, here’s some first impressions! I’m speed running my list this time by only talking about the new shows...because otherwise this would be my great American novel.

If anyone’s interested, I have master lists for both 2020 anime and 2019 anime, because there’s no shortage of fun things to find.

New Shows!

And before anyone asks, So I’m A Spider, So What? isn’t on here, because CG spiders freak me out.

Cells At Work Code Black: This...less comedic spin off of Cells At Work (made by a different studio) takes the wholesome concept of Osmosis Jones meets cute anime girls and turns it on its head. In this much more depressing version, we follow a rookie red blood cell who works in the body of an overly stressed, alcoholic smoker who puts every strain on the body imaginable. I love Red Blood Cell AA2153 and his co-workers, but man am I glad we get the regular Cells At Work airing this season too, because I need something fun and uplifting after seeing my sweet son go through hell every episode.

*Heaven’s Design Team: Have you ever wondered how God came up with some of the weird ass animals that live on this planet? Like, what’s the deal with giraffes? And why can’t we have dragons and flying horses? Well this is a comedy about the engineers and designers in heaven creating the new animals that are going to inhabit the Earth. That’s it, that’s the show. It’s kind of in the same vein as Cells At Work, having comedy blend with a surprising amount of educational information. If you want something light and funny, this is the show for you (though I don’t think it needs to have full length episodes). I’m just hoping there’s an episode about how the hell the platypus was created. Also it’s the only new one available on Crunchyroll.

Horimiya: A romantic comedy about a girl named Hori who fits the image of a perfect queen bee and a quiet bespectacled boy named Miyamura who never makes an impression at school. When the two meet by chance outside of the classroom, we see that Hori is practically raising a younger brother by herself, and Miyamura is actually a sweet guy who happens to be covered in tattoos and piercings. This show is an exercise in breaking down the images people have of others in their minds, and it’s a concept that really hits home in a fun and meaningful way. Honestly, this has become one of my immediate favorites. The characters have great chemistry, and I can’t wait to see more of them!

Monster Incidents (Kemono Jihen): When big shot Tokyo detective Inugami is called to a rural town to investigate a series of strange animal deaths, he finds a mysterious boy with the nickname Dorotabo who has been shunned by the other children in town. As the detective gets closer to Dorotabo, he discovers that there may be more...inhuman secrets to the boy than he realizes...and Dorotabo discovers that Inugami has some secrets of his own. This is a hard show to sell without spoiling the first episode, but it had twists and turns that kept me engaged from start to finish. I’m really interested to see where the plot goes, because I thought this was going to be something totally different just from the PV and series summary. If it plays its cards right, this could be a great paranormal detective show!

Wonder Egg Priority: A psychological drama about a girl named Ai who starts having dreams about a mysterious egg that promises to give her what she wants most in the world...a true friend. Before long, she begins to see how the dream world and reality are tied together, and trippy antics ensue. It’s hard to say more without spoiling anything, but I had to go back and add this one in because I made the mistake of thinking it was an OVA when it’s actually a full series. And what a series it’s starting out to be. This anime has all the psychological discomfort of a Satoshi Kon product with the beauty and style of something from Kyoani (even though it’s made by Clover Works). It’s really one of those anime you just have to see to understand.

Sk8-∞ (Skate the infinity): An original skateboarding anime from Bones, featuring a typical sports anime protagonist who takes a new transfer student who has never skateboarded in his life under his wing. Together they compete in dangerous races and take the skating community by storm. The character designs rival Appare Ranman’s in outlandish creativity, and I can smell the main characters’ ship dynamic a mile away (considering they’re exactly the same as the protagonists from Robihachi). If you’re looking for some wild and crazy fun with top notch skateboarding animation, don’t skip this!

2.43: Seiin Koukou Danshi Volley-bu (Seiin High School Boys Volleyball Club): Yes, it’s another volleyball anime. And no, it’s not just a clone of Haikyu. This story follows Yuni Kuroba, a physically built but emotionally weak teenager who finds out his childhood friend Hajime is moving back to their hometown for high school. Yuni discovers Hajime has become an exceptional volleyball player and they join their school’s volleyball club hoping to turn the unknown team into a rising star. If anything, this anime is much more like Stars Align or Free, where the sport is a backdrop for letting the characters explore their personal problems. Or at least it seems that way after the first episode. I went into this show ready to throw it in the trash because how could anything compete against my beloved Haikyu, but I found myself really enjoying the dynamics of the main duo and I’m curious to see what the rest of the team is like.

And speaking of sports anime rip-offs…..I can’t believe I’m including this but…

Skate Leading Stars: The show where the animators clearly wanted to design another throw away idol anime but saw how popular Yuri On Ice was so they decided to make whatever the hell this show is instead. It revolves around a fictional team sport called skate leading, and we follow the world’s most insufferable main character, a former figure skater named Kensei who wants to return to the ice and join his school’s skate leading team after he finds out his childhood rival is going to compete in the sport. Look, this show is just trashy enough to get a certain type of audience hooked, and it mainly has to do with the best boy of the winter season, Hayato Sasugai, the aspiring team “coach” who pulled most of us into watching this show with his punk appearance, snide comments and smug personality. He’s basically the lovechild of Izaya Orihara and Shizuo Heiwajima in a high school sports anime setting. The show treats itself with the perfect amount of sincerity to get away with being absolutely ridiculous most of the time without making you feel like you’re watching it from a dumpster...like Try Knights. You will know after one episode whether this show is for you. All I can say is, Hayato is worth the watch, and I haven’t seen any 3D animation used for the skating scenes (yet) so that’s a win for me.

Honorable mention:

Jobless Reincarnation ( Mushoku Tensei): Yet another isekai where the main character is hit by a car (big surprise) and gets reincarnated into a fantasy world...but he happens to remember his previous life and narrates himself growing up as a jaded adult. I’m only including this because it looked amazing animation wise, and I love the opening where getting hit by a car and dying is actually traumatic. And I love the protagonist’s parents (who are retired adventurers who just want to bang all the time). But honestly...the main character is the fucking worst, and I don’t know if I want to keep watching it because of how creepy and weird he is. Like...he’s the hit on your fantasy mom as a baby kind of creepy and weird. But for anyone who wants a cool looking isekai that had an amazing PV, it’s worth checking out.

Continuing Series!

Because the real gold of the season is in all the established anime getting their next seasons, I’m just going to list some of the things that are also amazing and definitely worth checking out if you haven’t already (because I’ve already talked about most of them at some point and don’t know what else to say).

Attack On Titan season 4

The Promised Neverland season 2

Beastars season 2

Log Horizon season 3

That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime season 2

Re: Zero season 2 (second cour)

Dr. Stone season 2

Cells at Work season 2

Osomatsu-san season 3 (second cour)

Higurashi New (second cour)

Jujutsu Kaisen (second cour)

Not to mention all the shows I don’t watch that everyone else loves...like World Trigger (which I have seen quite a bit of, but long shounen shows are too much for me now) Quintessential Quintuplets, and Non Non Biyori.

So there’s just some of all the anime airing this season. Hopefully, someone can find something they like. Here’s to a great year...well, of anime at least...

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digital-corruption · 3 years ago

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I'm not happy with it, but I am sick of editing this chapter and I want to move on. Otherwise, I'll never finish it.

⚠️ Trigger warning: PTSD episode, choking

Unrecognisable Part 49

Fire. Everywhere. As far as the eye could see. I tried to find my way out, but all I could see were flames and it didn’t help that every next breath was emptier than the previous. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I turned back to look at Jake, but where his hand had once been there was nothing but fire creeping up my arm. In that moment my heart stopped as I realised I was done for. I would die in this fire and nothing would be left behind. I didn’t want to die, I wanted to live. Live, damnit, live!

I jumped up in a cold sweat, my heart racing in a panic. My eyes darted around the room, trying to remember where the hell I was. Rundown, abandoned office. Old, ratty leather couch. That’s right, the warehouse. Sighing, I wiped my temple of the sweat and my cheek of the tears. Shit, that was worst and most vivid nightmare I had in ages. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the heat of the fire. I glanced down and remembered the burns on my fore arms beneath the bandages. That’s right, not all of it was a dream. Some of it, no, most of it was real.

I sunk down and hugged my knees lightly while my mind ran through the events of the night before. I felt the pain of Cyan pinning me to the ground, syringe in his hand, coming so close to injecting me with liquid poison. I remembered hearing the roar of Jake’s voice cut through the room before he tackled Cyan and wrestled him for control. The look in Jake’s eye as Cyan bled out beneath him still sent chills down my spine. It was as if it had been a game – a game with the odds completely stacked against Jake. He won and basked in the victory while his opponent died

However, that moment was brief - that gloat turned to terror.

I winced as I could still taste the smoke on the back of my throat. I wondered how much mouth wash I would have to gargle to get rid of the awful taste. Or was it just one of those things I could never get rid of? Would I regain my sense of smell, or would I only ever be able to smell smoke forever more? Would I always be cursed to remember the night in perfect definition?

My phone beeped several times, which broke my concentration. I stared at it for a minute while I tried to decide whether I would even bother checking it. My curiosity won in the end.

Trix: Holy fuck! What the fuck did you two do!?

Trix: You killed Cyanide!? You actually fucking killed him!?

Trix: What the fuck were you thinking!?!!

Trix: OMFG…

Trix: There’s going to be a power vacuum a mile wide because of you!

Trix: Shit! All hell is going to break loose!

Trix: Why the fuck did you have to kill him!?

I turned the screen off and tossed the phone onto the floor. As if I cared about Colville’s underground politics. They could self-destruct on each other, and I wouldn’t blink an eye. So long as they stayed the fuck out of our way.

I stood up and stretched out gingerly. My crusted burns painfully threatened to weep again if I pushed them too much. I spotted a glass of water on the desk. I knew it was already mixed with Jake’s pain medication. I picked it up and downed it in one go.

‘Or let them come. We could use the stress relief,’ I thought to myself.

Let them come. Let them burn.

I could hear Jake’s dark voice in my head even though he never said those things. Somehow I heard them as clear as day and it made me smile. Suddenly I had renewed strength and was ready to face the day.

Thinking of Jake, I went to check on him. Had he been up all night working again? I expected to find him sitting at his desk as usual, but strangely the desk was vacant. I walked over and found his laptop had been left to run a process, but it had already finished. So where was the user?

A faint sniffle from the far end of the floor caught my attention. Zigging and zagging through the random scattering of desks and chairs, I found Jake sitting on the floor with his head in his knees in the far corner of the loft. His entire body was shivering, no, shaking. I knelt down beside him and put my hand on his back. His entire body jumped at my sudden touch. He raised his head slightly in response. His face was pale and his eyes were wide while his breathing trembled.

“Jake,” I cooed. “Jake, you’re safe.”

No response. The closer I looked, the more I noticed. His pupils were dilated. There was a tiny bit of dried blood on his lip where he had bit it too hard. His fingernails had bent and broke badly from digging them too hard into his pants. How long had he been like this?

“Jake, you’re not in the mines, you’re not in the fire. You’re… here,” I gestured to our surroundings with my head. “You’re home, for lack of a better word.”

“Find R-richy…” Jake shuddered.

“No, Jake, you don’t have to find him. He’s in prison, remember?” I smiled gently. “That was a very long time ago. You don’t need to worry about him anymore.”

I paused for a moment and waited for any sort of reaction from Jake, but he couldn’t hear me. I sighed with regret, knowing that I had caused this new series of episodes. Somehow, I had to get Jake out of the mental prison. It hurt so much to see him suffer like this, especially after having a taste of it myself. But how?

Out of nowhere, Jake snapped around and grabbed my wrist. As if the pain of that wasn’t enough, he twisted it and pushed me off balance. I fell backwards onto the floor with a thud. I screamed out from the searing pain of my burns being so harshly manhandled, but my cries were cut off by Jake’s hand at my throat. Unlike his taunts of the past, he squeezed hard, stifling the life from me, while he stared at me with dead, cold eyes. I clawed desperately at his hand, trying to get him to release me, but he was too strong.

“Jake!” I barely got out.

I stared deep into his cold, blank eyes hoping for any sort of recognition of what was happening, but I got nothing. Quickly strength drained from my body. My vision began to tunnel as my consciousness started to fade. The consideration that I could die right then and there suddenly became a frighteningly real possibility. My heart beat so heavily it felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. With the little vigour I had left, I shot daggers into the eyes of my possessed assaulter. Wake up damnit!

Suddenly Jake’s eyes widened as a wave of realisation washed over him. He immediately let go and jumped off me. I turned over and coughed uncontrollably as oxygen flooded my brain again. I was so deafened by the sound of my own pulse pounding in my ears that I could barely make out Jake screaming in agony until my heart rate started to recover.

“No!” Jake yelled at the top of his lungs. “Why? Why!?”

I tried to speak, but the only sound that came out of my throat was a cracked, broken mess. Jake buried his face in his knees again while his hands pulled at his hair. He let out a tortured wail into his thighs. I crawled over to him and lifted his head up with my hands cupping his cheeks. His expression was so full of pain and remorse that I couldn’t hold back my own tears. I leant my forehead against his and we cried together.

After a while Jake gritted his teeth and spoke up, “I’m so fucked up.”

“That’s why we’re seeing the doctor,” I hoarsely reminded him.

“What if he can’t help me?” Jake bit his lip hard. “Fuck, MC, I was so close to killing you.”

“Jake-“ my voice croaked.

“Don’t you dare say it’s ok because it’s not!” he snapped. “A few seconds longer and…”

I wiped his tears from his cheeks with my thumbs, then kisses his lips. “Tonight, Jake, tonight you’re meeting with the doctor and you’re going to get a handle on this!”

“I wouldn’t need it if it wasn’t for Richy!” he exclaimed. “He’s the reason I’m like this! He turned me into a pathetic, weak, deranged fuck up!”

“And he’s paying the price for it,” I reminded him.

“No…” Jake shook his head and his eyes turned dark. “He’s paid a pittance for what he’s done. His entire existence is a mistake!”

I realised there was no point in trying to argue with him, the best thing I could do was distract him from the topic. I raised my arms and took a good look at the bandages. They got rather bunched up and dishevelled during Jake’s episode, and my wounds wept so much, there was no point trying to salvage these. I needed fresh bandages.

“Did I do that?” Jake anguished.

“Let’s not focus on that,” I glanced up at him. “You can’t change the past, but the now you can change. Will you help me clean these?”

“I caused you so much pain… Only if you would have me,” he said full of guilt. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Then let’s go downstairs,” I stood up carefully.

Jake remained on the floor and with a pained expression, looked up at me, as if he didn’t deserve to stand. I held out my hand to help him up. He took it and pressed his forehead onto the back of my hand apologetically.

“I-I can’t say I forgive you,” I admitted.

“Nor should you. I won’t ever bother asking you to,” he muttered. “This is already much more than I deserve.”

“Jake, that’s not true,” I frowned. “You need help. Everyone deserves help.”

“No, not everyone,” he shook his head.

“Yes, you,” I rolled my eyes.

Jake raised his head and kissed my fingertips, “These are still so clean.”

“No, they’re not,” I sighed.

“They’re cleaner than you think. I don’t deserve this hand. I will only taint it,” he rambled.

“Jake, come on, get up,” I frowned.

Jake looked into my eyes as he put his lips around my pointer and middle fingers and softly lowered his mouth until he was past the second knuckle.

“Something tells me you want to taint it,” I raised my eyebrow.

Jake pulled my fingers out of his mouth leaving a trail of saliva between his lips and my fingers, “I want to corrupt all of you. I will if you keep letting me.”

I swallowed uncomfortably. There was such a darkness around Jake, and it had taken complete control of him. It threatened to engulf and pull me under with him. Oh how easy it would have been to let it consume me. No, my ego had to continue taunting it, thinking I had the upper hand and could control it. I pressed my fingertips against Jake’s lips then shoved my fingers back into his mouth. He eagerly started sucking on them, running his tongue lovingly along their length. I nearly fell into temptation, but the persistent pain on my arms reminded me that there were more pressing matters to take care of. I pulled my fingers back out and then lightly held his chin.

“Stand up, Jake,” I commanded, tugging the invisible leash.

Obediently, Jake stood up and followed me downstairs to the bathroom. I started to go through the first aid kit for the antiseptic solution, but Jake stopped me. He took my left arm and carefully unwound the ruined bandage, then proceeded to thoroughly clean the open burns and blisters. He reapplied the burn cream from the night before and pulled out a fresh bandage to rewrap my arm. After meticulously caring for my left arm, he repeated the process for my right arm just as diligently. Watching him, it was hard to think he was the same person who nearly killed me less than an hour ago. Glancing in the mirror, I noticed the bruise marks already starting to appear around my neck. The juxtaposition was so extreme that if it wasn’t for the physical evidence of Jake’s episode, I would’ve thought that I had imagined it, like it was a bad nightmare. It was too easy to forget how quickly he could snap.

The rest of the day passed rather uneventfully. Jake buried himself in his work, trying to distract himself from recent events. While he was occupied, I checked the news online to see what was being discussed about the fire. Generally the census was that the authorities had no information regarding the freak fire that burnt down the old warehouse, but I knew that wasn’t true. The articles mentioned some vagrants dying as a result of the fire, but that was as much as they mentioned. There was absolutely no mention of who or what they were, or of us. I suppose all things considered, that was for the best. I was sick of being painted as anarchist villains. I guess there was no story to weave so no propaganda to spin.

In the end it was just a fire that some nameless people died in. However, after a while, that started to unnerve me. All things considered, I shouldn’t have cared that Cyan and his cronies weren’t even named, but then I had a fleeting thought. If it was us, would we get a mention? Or would our deaths too be swept under the carpet like we didn’t exist? Would our loved ones even be told we died? Would our bodies be returned to them, or would we be cremated as John and Jane Doe? The fact I couldn’t even answer that made me sick. Suddenly I felt like there was real weight to Jake’s fear of being wiped from existence. It was too frighteningly easy to become lost and forgotten in this world.

#duskwood #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood jake #duskwood jake x mc #unrecognisable fanfic

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l-artemisia-del-secolo · 4 years ago

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Too many options

Yelena Belova x reader, a lil bit angsty, a lil bit fluffy, mentions of mindcontrol, happy ending as usual, adjusting to ordinary life

You wanted this evening so badly. Dreaming about it for weeks. Finally everything was close to normal. No alien invasions or governmental missions. No nightmares or tears for both of you for almost a month. You were expecting an ordinary date. As much as it can be under your circumstances.

But Yelena wasn't there yet. You were waiting in your meeting spot for almost an hour. It wasn't something new. Out of a sudden she could have a briefing or a mandatory status report. But she always managed to at least send a text. When both of you were particularly lucky she even could call you.

But this time it was different. Not a text, not a call. You yourself tried to contact her a few times. Her number was unavailable.

You had a bad feeling about this. How could you not. You knew too well the nature of her work. The possible outcomes and consequences. The ones that didn't let you sleep at night. Horrific dreams of her possible injury, even death. Yelena tried so hard to help you fight this, while being simultaneously consumed by other fears herself.

Adjusting was hard. Especially in the first few months of your relationship. It was mere weeks when you met after she was freed of mind control.

And in the beginning it was intense. Sure, Avengers did provide the resources for needed support. But it was you who had to deal with mood swings, depressions or anger issues.

Adjusting to the real world was hard, exhausting and painful.

Yelena warned you though in the beginning. She's not used to ordinary life. But with you she'd like to try.

It was getting ridiculous, so you went home.

What you saw there shocked you.You didn't know whether Yelena was there or not so opted to use your own key.

There were piles of clothes on the floor in the hallway. Yelena's clothes. What the hell was going on?

"Lena, are you here?"

No answer. You carefully proceeded to the next room. The same thing. Piles of shirts and jeans, jackets and coats were just lying around. They were not torn or anything. Just there, waiting to be picked up and worn.

"Yelena?" You called again, hoping for at least something.

When you finally reached your bedroom you were almost afraid to get inside.

"Love, are you there?" You asked as you were opening the door.

You sighed with relief. But it lasted only a second.

Your woman was sitting on her knees near the biggest stack of staff. Her hair tangled, eyes red from tears. She was wearing a weird mix of pajama pants and her bra.

As soon as you understood the surrealism of the situation you rushed to her.

"Babe, what's happened?" You clumsily fell on your knees in front of her.

She didn't react, blankly staring at the mirror, which you now were blocking.

"Малыш, что случилось? (Babe, what happened?)" You said in your broken Russian. That was the trick that you often used to calm her down. It was her idea in fact. She taught you this language herself.

Yelena heard you and slowly opened and closed her mouth.

"Лена, кто-то был здесь? Тебя ранили? (Lena, someone was here? Are you hurt?)"

You carefully examined her face, barely touching her. No blood, no visible injury. Same with the neck and shoulders.

It took her almost five minutes to properly feel you on her skin. She was confused, but she was finally there with you.

"What, what are you doing?" She removed your hand from her body. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I mean..."

"I said, I'm fine." Yelena raised her voice, but immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry. I know you have questions. But I did it myself."

"Yourself?" You echoed in disbelief.

"Да. (yes)" She got on her feet. And put on the nearest t-shirt. "I... It's hard to explain."

"Do you want something. Anything?" You couldn't fathom what was going on. But you were sure that Yelena thought of this as "I can handle this on my own" situations. And that wasn't a good sign.

"No." She shrugged. "I'm sorry, I've missed our dinner."

"It's fine. We'll have another one." You gave her a reassuring smile.

"Yeah, if It doesn't happen next time too." She laughed bitterly. "With me you never know, ha? Kinda like a time bomb."

You tried to approach her, but she shook her head.

"It's always like that. Aren't you tired of it? We're having a great day, week, month. But I always find a way to screw it up."

She hated herself during moments like this. Always feeling like she still didn't have control over her own life. Who knew where and when the next outburst could happen. And what could trigger it.

"It's not your fault." You once again tried to reach out to her. This time she stepped away from you.

"Right." She let out a groan. "But it's my fault. But somehow it's because of me, we're standing in this mess instead of enjoying our life together."

She was so angry, so frustrated. This was supposed to be your romantic evening. Personal, intimate. All those things she was always denied.

"We are enjoying ourselves. It's just an episode..."

"Really? That's how you call it?" Yelena was almost hysterical. "A fucking episode. Do you even..."

She clenched her fists, and the vein on her neck could burst at any moment. She started pacing the room, avoiding at any cost looking at you.

"You want to know what happened? I was preparing, you know, choosing the clothes. Started thinking about it. And I..." She suddenly stopped, trying at least to calm her breath. "I... I got overwhelmed. I didn't know what to do. You won't believe it, but suddenly I felt a burden of responsibility... What should I wear, how should I combine clothes and how others would perceive me. How you would. What color, what style...should I copy someone or I'm good enough myself...I...I was always told what to wear and now..."

You didn't care about her protests anymore. You hugged her, immediately feeling her heartbeat, her fire on your skin. She was trembling all this time, devouring herself from inside, killing another Yelena, the one that she didn't control.

"I... I..." She couldn't stop herself. Weeping and shaking, she was finally defeated by reality.

It took her a few minutes to come back to you. You felt it. She kissed your collarbone, asking for attention.

"I'm with you, babe. I can only imagine what it's like. Being overwhelmed by options, by your own responsibility, by the consequences of the actions you yourself took. But it's ok." You were gently stroking her hair. "You hear me? It's ok. We... We are gonna work on that. Simplify everything. Reduce the number of options. And it's not about clothes, it's a...about everything. We'll get there. I promise."

"You're going to throw everything away?" Yelena whispered.

"Maybe. temporary, I guess. We should have thought it through. Not buy mindlessly everything we see."

"Even my vests?' Yelena sounded so timid. She was hiding in your embrace, putting herself together again.

"Of course not. Кем ты меня считаешь? (who do you think I am?). We're keeping the vests at any cost." You could feel Yelena smiled so close to your heart.

You both knew there was so much hard work ahead. Overcoming and fighting, breaking and building. But you were ready for it. Both of you. It was worth it.

#black widow 2021 #black widow fic #marvel self insert #yelena belova #yelena belova fanfiction #yelena belova imagine #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x you

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cuttoothed · 4 years ago

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For the second day of @jonmartinweek, mostly for the prompt "injury", though also a little bit "love confession" (by omission).

Set directly after episode 92. Content warnings for mild descriptions of Jon’s canonical injuries (blood, burns).

Things are...tense, when they go back down to the Archives. Actually, “tense” is probably an understatement, after finding out that Elias murdered not only Gertrude Robinson, but also the unknown man in Document Storage—who as it turned out was none other than Juergen bloody Leitner.

A lot to take on board, all in all.

Basira seems to have accepted her new employment status with eerie calm, and starts setting up at Sasha’s old desk (oh god, Sasha’s dead, has been for months), fetching notebooks and folders from the stationery cupboard and arranging pens and highlighters in a desk tidy. Daisy is nowhere to be seen—thankfully, Martin thinks, because she was even scarier than usual in Elias’ office. Melanie storms off into the stacks and there are sounds of shouting and things hitting the floor, which Martin is in no hurry to investigate. Tim sits at his desk with his feet propped up for about five minutes, then stands up and says: “Fuck this, I’m off to the pub.” He doesn’t invite anyone else to go with him, and Martin thinks their presence probably wouldn’t be welcome.

Jon arrives in about half an hour later, smelling of fresh cigarette smoke. Normally Martin would disapprove, but the way things are right now he’s tempted to take up a few bad habits himself. Jon looks...exhausted, defeated, his shoulders slumped wearily. His clothes are smudged with dirt, and there’s drying blood crusted around the injury on his neck; the bandages on his hand are starting to slip, revealing the angry, raw burns beneath.

Martin’s not sure he’s ever been so happy to see someone in his life.

Jon gives him a small, tired smile as he passes, then heads into his office and shuts the door. Martin knows that no sane person would try to go straight back to work looking like they’d just been through a war zone and still with an open wound; he is also aware that Jonathan Sims is the sort of person to do precisely that. He hesitates for a few moments, then makes a decision.

He fetches the first aid kit from the break room, and goes and knocks on Jon’s door. It’s a firm knock, a knock that he hopes says “I’m coming in whether you like it or not”, because it’s not beyond Jon to try to avoid them all for an extended period.

“Come in,” Jon calls, and even his voice sounds exhausted. When he sees Martin enter the room, his expression softens in a way that’s difficult to parse. Is he just relieved that it isn’t one of the others? Or is he actually pleased that it’s Martin?

It’s been two months since Jon went into hiding while suspected of murder, and the last time Martin saw him he had been quite sure Jon was planning to—to hurt himself, somehow. Before that, though, there had been a time when they were...well, close, in a way. Jon had let his guard down around Martin, in the midst of being so suspicious and afraid. He had trusted Martin, when he didn’t trust anyone else, had eaten lunch with him and talked about boring, ordinary things, the tight set of his shoulders relaxing just a little. He had even laughed, sometimes. It had been, despite everything, one of the happier times in Martin’s life, and if that’s not pathetic he doesn’t know what is.

“Hi, Jon,” he says.

“Martin,” says Jon, his tone soft. “It’s so—ahh, how are you?”

“How am I? You’re the one with a bloody great gash in your neck and looking like you put your hand in a fire.” Martin brandishes the first aid kit. “You really should go to the hospital, but I know it would be a waste of my time suggesting it.”

“Thank you for bringing that,” Jon says. “I appreciate it. You can just leave it on the desk.”

“Nope,” Martin tells him cheerily, setting the kit down and opening it. “I know you, Jon. If I leave it with you it’ll still be sitting here untouched tomorrow. Plus, I got my first aid certification when I was working in the library. It’s probably expired now, but I think it still counts.”

Jon looks as if he’s about to protest, but then he huffs a breath that might be a laugh, and nods in concession.

“All right then,” he says.

Martin snaps on a pair of disposable gloves and directs Jon to sit on the desk and undo the top two buttons on his shirt, so Martin can examine the wound on his neck. It’s shallow, fortunately, and the bleeding seems to have already stopped. Martin cleans away the crusted blood as gently as he can, though Jon still winces a few times.

“What happened?” Martin asks, as he smears on antibiotic cream.

“Daisy. She, ah, she decided that I was dangerous. Needed to be dealt with. Fortunately Basira was able to convince her otherwise.”

“Bloody hell,” Martin mutters. He’s not sure why he’s surprised; he’s always felt afraid around Daisy, like a rabbit being in the same room with a fox. But he just sort of assumed it was typical Martin fear of, well, everything. He never thought Daisy would actually hurt any of them. He applies a bandage carefully over the wound, and then turns his attention to Jon’s hand. Unwrapping the bandages reveals the red, blistered mess beneath, and Martin hisses in sympathy.

“Please tell me you went to the hospital for this.”

“I went to a walk-in clinic,” Jon says. “They cleaned it up, gave me some antibiotics and painkillers. They, uh, they did recommend I see my GP for follow up monitoring, and that I should get a referral to a physiotherapist, but, well, it’s been a busy few days.”

“Jon,” Martin sighs, exasperated, and Jon smiles a bit shakily.

“I know,” he says. “I will go to a GP, I promise. It’s just a bit tricky when you’re wanted for murder. Anyway, it seems to be healing rather well, all things considered.”

Martin considers whether to apply antibiotic cream, but the skin doesn’t seem to be broken, and he knows it’s best not to touch the area more than needed. Instead, he rewraps it with clean, dry bandages, being sure to keep them loose.

“How did this happen?” he asks, to distract himself from the fact that he is, technically, holding Jon’s hand. Jon gives a self-deprecating laugh.

“I, uh, I was trying to get information from a devotee of the Lightless Flame. This was her price.”

“The Lightless Flame? That cult—from the statements?”

“The same. As it turns out, a—a lot of things from the statements are real. Unpleasantly so.”

“I—yeah, I sort of figured that out when Tim and I got trapped in these weird corridors for days by that Michael...thing.”

Jon’s face blanches, his brows furrowing.

“You—god, Martin, I didn’t know. Are you—I mean, you’re okay, obviously, but— Have you seen Michael since?”

“No, and I hope I don’t.” Martin feels faintly nauseous at the memory. He doesn’t realize his hands are trembling slightly until the fingers of Jon’s hand, the unburned one, touch his wrist.

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” he says. “When I realized a-about Sasha, about that thing, I hoped I could take care of it myself, spare you and Tim. I never wanted to drag you into all this.”

“I don’t think there’s much avoiding it,” Martin mutters miserably. “And you didn’t seem to mind dragging Melanie into it, while you were on the lam.”

“I shouldn’t have asked her for help either. It wasn’t fair to put any of you in the position of aiding a suspected murderer.”

“I never believed you did it,” Martin tells him fiercely. “It just would have been nice to know you were okay, you know?”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I—I wanted to contact you, but it seemed too risky. I knew the police would be watching you, since we’re friends. Or—or at least friendly.”

Everyone I’ve talked to says you and him were close. Martin had been ridiculously pleased by the accusation at the time, and he feels the same now, with Jon’s injured hand cradled in both of his. Jon trusts Martin with his wounds, his vulnerability. Jon wanted to contact him; Jon thinks they’re friends.

“I—” Martin starts to say, and he doesn’t know if his next words will be I missed you or I worry about you or some humiliating romantic confession blurted out and impossible to take back. He draws a deep breath, and instead says: “I’m glad you’re back, and that you’re okay. I don’t have that many friends, I can’t afford to lose one.”

He says it like a joke, and mercifully, Jon takes it as one, and gives a relieved laugh. Martin realizes he’s long since finished bandaging the burn and is now just sort of...holding Jon’s hand; he releases it, reluctantly, and Jon smiles, lifting his other hand to touch the bandage on his throat.

“Thank you, Martin,” he says, hopping down from the desk. “I appreciate it, really.”

“As a token of your appreciation, you can go ahead and make a doctor’s appointment for that hand,” says Martin firmly, closing up the first aid kit.

“I will,” Jon says solemnly, and Martin believes him, but he’s also going to check in and remind him at the end of the day because Jon has a tendency to forget about trivial things like his own wellbeing. It’s just who he is, and Martin’s made his peace with it, like he’s made his peace with being utterly, hopelessly gone for Jonathan Sims.

“I was going to make some tea, if you fancy,” he says as he opens the door. “You look like you could use a cup.”

“Oh, yes, that would be lovely, thank you. Oh, and Martin?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad I’m back as well. I—” Jon hesitates a moment, then says: “I missed your tea.”

It’s not much of a declaration, but Martin understands what Jon means by it; for the two of them, it means a lot.

#the magnus archives #jonmartinweek2021 #tma #my fic #jonmartin #cw injury

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tedturneriscrazy · 4 years ago

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Another Saturday, another episode! Let's take a look at Keeping Up A-fear-ances!

(Good lord I'm starting to make myself sound like some sort of content creator)

Oh, okay, we're just starting at that level of intensity, huh?

Chest gem origins

Gwendolyn not being satisfied with managing the curse and determined to cure it? I'm sure this won't be a real world allegory in the slightest.

Oh, so Eda literally just stumbles upon the portal? I could call that contrived, but honestly it's not dissimilar to how Dipper found Journal 3. For that matter, the entirety of Lord of the Rings is predicated on an accidental discovery like this and nobody gave Tolkien shit about it.

Was the eye on the portal cracked in previous episodes? I don't remember.

Seems like Gwen is the "well-meaning but ultimately misguided" flavor of mom.

As an aside, I am now quite curious about how Eda's first trip to the human realm went. Maybe a future episode will cover it? At any rate, I smell a new favorite fic prompt.

The screaming alarms in the Demon Realm will never not be funny to me.

Also, that is a worrying number of hearts. Eda is straight up murdering these poor creatures.

For some reason the gold fang being removable never occurred to me as a possibility, and now I feel like a kid who's discovered that Santa isn't real.

Oh hey, the new outfit! I'm also impressed how close to symmetrical that tearing was.

I need to get a screencap of Luz sleeping on that stack of books because she is adorable.

Also, staying up all night researching? This season seems determined to completely eradicate the notion of Luz being dumb, and I am here for it.

I have a feeling the Hexside mug will be making its way to The Mystery Shack in the near future.

Lilith's first experience with transformation and she seems understandably horrified.

The curse acting stronger when stressed? That seems...important.

Ah, so the dismemberment is from the curse! A surprisingly useful side effect from what we've seen so far.

Can I just say that I appreciate how Eda's reaction to Lilith's first taste of transformation is immediate remedy, explanation, and reassurance? And doesn't make any snarky comments along the lines of "now you know what it's like?" Whatever happened in that week and a half must have been cathartic as hell.

"Always. Always curious." Luz is the TOH fandom.

(Also, Eda, you know she is, considering how much she went on about your "mysterious past" at the Covention)

"Magic bird tornado?!" Luz has a way with words that's just *chef's kiss*.

"Gwendolyn." Eda is already just fucking done.

"MOM?!?!" Jeez, Lilith, you're just now hearing all this?

I was charmed by how motherly Gwen was acting toward Eda, but then she kinda just...dismissed Lilith, and now I'm somehwat less charmed.

(Sweet flea as a term of endearment is kinda cute, though might have some unfortunate implications depending on how you want to interpret it)

"Who knows what they put in those nasty concoctions?" OH WE GOING FOR THE ANTI-VAXXERS NOW YESSSS

Luz and Lilith's reaction to that whole exchange is priceless.

Everyone's perspective here makes perfect sense for who they are and what they've been through.

Poor Lilith. Her cursing Eda is beginning to make more sense.

Ah, thus begins the collaboration.

"We'll be consulting someone very special." Why does that seem so...ominous?

Is there anyone who watched this episode for the first time whose bullshit detector didn't go off immediately when Gwen mentioned finding someone who promised a cure?

Heh, Palm Stings.

Nonbelievers will be blinded by the power of the tome? I'm sure they will be, Wartlop.

I must say, as something of a scientist myself (okay that's not true, I'm a QA tech for a food manufacturer, but I do have a chemistry degree), I am 100% here for the swings being taken at faith healing/"miracle" cures/anti-vaxxers in this episode

Oh, we Wile E. Coyote now, huh?

Also, interesting how much apple blood is being played up in this episode.

Lilith please you're projecting your mommy issues on a literal child

OH WE REALLY JUST WILE E. COYOTE HUH?

You're right, Luz, Gwen's bicep game is goals.

(Somewhat disappointed the scars are from questing and not beastkeeping, but eh)

Why do I get the feeling there's gonna be a future episode where everybody stages an intervention for Eda's apple blood problem?

"Those feathers mean we're driving the beast out" Gwen no

Hooty is holding the brain cell? Oh no...

If that ice cream came from the Night Market it would explain why Lilith sounds drunk.

(Side note: I can't be the only one getting flashbacks to Mermista's ice cream binge, right? Different context, but still)

"Abomi-berry" "Franken fruit" "Key slime pie" These are A+ flavor names.

Oh, there's the transformation...

I must say that whole segment kinda rubbed me the wrong way. The way King's opinion on his dad was changed seemed...I don't know how to describe it. I get that they needed a trigger for Lilith's transformation, but honestly if any part of the episode is contrived it's this.

"¡It really is that good!" So that's what an accent slip in written form looks like. (The upside down exclamation point is used in Spanish, in case anyone didn't know)

I keep half expecting Eda to say "Beep! Beep!" at this point.

Luz is finally asking questions. Took long enough.

Ah, the classic "moving the goal posts to extract more money from a desparate family member" technique.

Luz channeling Scorpion, we love to see it.

There is an exquisite irony in Eda's mom being scammed, I must say.

Ah, so that's where the elixirs went. Dammit, Gwen.

Luz is definitely thinking "Are you fucking kidding me right now?!"

Beast!Lilith is massive.

"Sweet flea?" Gwen just realized she done goofed.

"I can see you still need a little time." God Luz is so fucking smart.

The con revealed.

OH DAMN SCARY MAMA

(Also I am terrified of bees/wasps, so extra scary mama in my book)

The scam is revealed, goblins, getting back into the Wartlop disguise is kinda pointless.

She joined the Beast Keeping coven entirely to cure the curse? That's dedication. A shame you couldn't have spared some of that for Lilith.

Still, I do like badass scary mama Gwen. I'd be down to see more of that.

Owl Beast fight!

I am slayed by the fact that the portraits are now officially a recurring gag 😂

Aw, here's The Moment™️

"My turn to drive" Does this imply cars are a thing on the Boiling Isles after all?

Lilith crying almost immediately💔 She was holding onto a lot of pain.

Yes, King, she was trying to do her best. I mean, road to hell or whatever, but at least Gwen got there in the end.

WHAT?! YOU'RE BREAKING UP LULU AND HOOTCIFER?!?!?!?

Terrace, that's just cruel. (Worthless brownie points for whoever understands that reference)

No, seriously, you can't just give me my favorite inter-character relationship in the series after Lumity and just...take it away like that, come on! 😭😭😭😭😭😭

I know I should remark on how Lilith told Gwen about the circumstances of the curse, how Gwen rightfully accepted responsibility for the whole situation, and how Luz finds the big hair aspirational, but...NOOOO DON'T END THE ADVENTURES OF LULU AND HOOTCIFER WHYYYYYYYYY💔😭💔😭💔😭

"BUT I CAN'T HOLD A PEN!"

I will never emotionally recover from this.

Okay, I think I got that out of my system. Anyway...

Not the only human, huh? Cue the "Belos is a human" theorists going into maximum overdrive.

That said, a tantalizing lore dump.

We certainly do have a lot of garbage. Some of it even holds office. HEY-O!

Setting up the next episode, too. Continuity!

Camp's over, huh? That means it's been three months.

Way to misdirect with Camila, guys. That said, we have now seen Camila cry and I HATE it. (In the right way, I think)

WHAT THE FUCK

HOLY SHIT

CREEPY LUZ IS REAL WHAT

OWJEIWHQGIWWOPQ

(It's hard to keysmash on a phone, even with autocorrect off)

That wraps it up! The flaws in this episode seem more pronounced than any others in the season so far, but the good stuff was really good! Overall a solid episode! I know everybody's looking forward to library Lumity in the next one (so am I), but I'm personally eager to see what they do with Gus. His part is the A plot, after all.

Anyway, I'll be back at this next week! Still hard to believe this is a thing, but that's life, I guess.

#the owl house #eda clawthorne #gwendolyn clawthorne #luz noceda #lilith clawthorne #king of demons #toh king #toh s2 spoilers #the owl house s2 spoilers #the owl house season 2 spoilers #toh spoilers #the owl house spoilers

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spaceorphan18 · 4 years ago

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99 Perspectives on a Single Love Story #72

A/N: The Story of Kurt and Blaine told through the eyes of everyone else but them. Each chapter is a different perspective in the ongoing tale of their love story.

I started something like this a while back - and now I’m taking the idea and really running with it. Each chapter is a ficlet of a different character at a different point in Kurt and Blaine’s life - documenting their love story. This starts in Audition, and each chapter will be paired with a different episode until reaching Dreams Come True.

[Ao3]

***

Gunther (Movin’ Out)

Gunther is stacking the last of the cases of napkins, feeling annoyed, old, and tired. His shift’s over soon, and it can’t be over soon enough. He’s run this diner for over thirty years, and damn if hasn’t thought about selling it every day. Not yet, though. Gotta have enough to retire on. But soon. Very soon.

He’s wiping his hands on his apron when one of his young employees, Kurt Hummel, bounces into the back room. He nearly groans. These kids are always asking for one thing or another. Why can’t they just be professionals and do their jobs without bugging him every five seconds? Back in the old days - these attention starved children would perform in the diner for free and then get the hell outta there. Now, if they sing they have to get paid, or so the lawyers have told him. Might as well put them to work as the waitstaff. Doesn’t stop him from being annoyed every time they come around asking questions.

“I’m not approving any more time off,” Gunther grumbles.

Kurt bounces on his feet a little. He’s clearly excited about something. Too much enthusiasm in the youth can’t be a good thing. “I promise, I’m not asking any.”

“That girlfriend of yours is only here once a week now,” Gunther continues his complaint. “Do you people think Mondays are the only time people eat? I need people to work on weekends, too.”

“No, actually this is about my fiance.”

Gunther gives him a funny look. “You asked that girl with the nose to marry you?”

Kurt flinches. “Rachel? Oh, god, no. My fiance is up-and-coming future Broadway Star Blaine Anderson.”

“Never heard of him.” Gunther gives him a dismissive hand, and starts to walk towards the kitchen.

Kurt follows along. “Yes, but you will when he performs here next weekend.”

“No. Working employees only.”

“Please,” the kid whines. “He’s a great guy, and I’ll get him to sing some pop, because I know Broadway drives you crazy.”

“My ex-wife loved Broadway,” Gunther says, snidely. “Which is why I kept the diner in the divorce. Sometimes spite is satisfying.”

“Well, okay…” Kurt isn’t going to stop his pursuit. Gunther can always tell the persistent ones. “See, he’s doing his audition for NYADA next Monday, and I think this would be a great way to warm up -- his first New York crowd. And the customers will really love him. He’s charming and handsome and hardworking and…”

Gunther rolls his eyes. “Oh, god, does he want a job here, too?”

“Uh, maybe?” Kurt says. “I mean, we are planning on doing everything together.”

“That sounds like a stupid idea,” Gunther scoffs.

“Well, I didn’t actually ask…”

“Look kid,” Gunther says, pointing a finger into his chest. “Let me give you some advice. Don’t get married. Sure it sounds nice at first, but eventually your spouse will become a soul-sucking harpy, who leaves you for a yoga instructor and all you’re left with is a decrypted, kitschy diner full of tourists and teenagers from Iowa. I realize all of you plucky kids think that New York City is the big dream, but this place ain’t what all those TV shows make it out to be. This is the real world, and the real world chews you up and spits you back out again.”

Kurt’s jaw drops a little. Gunther has no regrets, though he does feel a little better getting all of that out.

“Oh, whatever, he can perform here - but only if you work Friday and Saturday night for the next month.”

“Fine.”

“Now, go tell Santana I need more of that Yeast-I-Stat.”

#s.o. writes things #99 perspectives

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zmediaoutlet · 5 years ago

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fic: there will be better days

I’m so glad about the ending of Supernatural. It found its way, in the end. This fic is me drawing out that sensation as long as I could. I hope y’all like it, but it was written in a small way for a special group in a special discord, because I’m so glad we got to experience this dumb happy thing together. <3

title: there will be better days pairing: Sam/Dean rating: E length: 9500 words tags: Post-Season/Series 15, Spoilers for Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Heaven, First Time, Pining Dean Winchester

summary: Sam and Dean settle into their heaven.

(read on AO3)

They stand on the bridge, in quiet, for…

How long? It doesn't matter. Dean keeps his hand on Sam's back and Sam's shoulder tucks against his side, Sam being kind enough to slump down against the railing so that the position works, at all. The view's beautiful. Some woods, a river. A place Dean doesn't recognize but that hums with steady life. What a miracle, that death can bring them something new.

He's splitting his attention, though. The trees, the flowing water, the late-summer feel where the bright gold of everything burnishes down toward fall, it's a sweet goad toward peace, but. Dean's eyes drag away, every few minutes, and it's just—Sam. His eyes steady on the rush of the receding water, and his hair tucked behind his ear, and his back, steadily rising and falling under Dean's hand. Not pulling away. Not fidgeting, or impatient. Like he'd be content with this, exactly this, as long as eternity stretches out in front of them.

A bird flits by, blue-and-white against the green of the trees. Sam's eyes follow it and he smiles, just barely, a pull of lips that makes Dean's heart thump sorely against the inside of his ribs. His body keeps thrilling, reminding him, over and over: Sam. Sam. He slides his hand up to Sam's shoulder and squeezes, and Sam's eyes slide to his face. "Ready?" he says.

Sam doesn't ask for what. "Yeah," he says, soft and easy, and Dean drops his head, laughs. Something that had been knotted in his chest, for years and years, loose now—everything in him, free.

He steps back, and Sam turns to keep him in sight. Dean spins the keys to the car in his palm, grinning. "You want to drive?" he says, tipping his head at the car.

Sam blinks. Shakes his head, and swallows, and when he speaks his voice is thick. "No," he says, and clears his throat, and shakes his head again. "No, I want you to drive."

On the road Dean gives Sam a version of the same explanation that Bobby gave him. "We can go see him," Dean says, glancing across the seat, and Sam smiles and says, "We will," but he says, "Later," and Dean's—yeah, he's good with that. Later. They have forever, to do anything they want.

It's hard to wrap his head around. He doesn't know how long he waited, for Sam. A lifetime. The length of a drive. It felt—feels—like infinity, like every second is stretched and slow and exactly as long as it needs to be. The roads out here are gorgeous, empty, room for the Impala to stretch her legs, and Dean knows in a strange and centered way that if he wanted he could drive forever, and at the same time if he parks it'll have been ten minutes, as far as his mind's concerned, and he won't have missed a thing.

The radio's playing Zeppelin, quietly. Has been since Sam got into the car. Tangerine, right now—does she still remember times like these?—and Dean looks over to find Sam looking right at him. Dean's not sure Sam's turned his head, the whole time. He could make a crack—it rises to his lips, take a picture or what, got something on my face?—but it feels distant. He gets the impulse. Sam smiles, his back against the passenger door, and Dean smiles back sort of helplessly before he turns it back out on the road, and leans back in his seat, and settles into the drive.

Anything they want. Anything they could need, or dream of. There doesn't seem to be any real requirement to sleep, or to eat, or to do—anything. Time, slipping strange, and a stasis of a kind if they want it. That isn't what Dean wants, but he's not totally sure, about Sam.

The world changes around curves. Massive trees obscure the turns and it feels like a new road with every switchback. A short way past and there's—a house. Not a house Dean's seen, but he rolls slower, and Sam finally looks out the window at something that's not Dean, so—a house. Okay, Dean thinks. He can deal with a house.

Two stories, and a basement, and an attic full of dust. Dean goes into a sneezing fit when he opens up the hatch and Sam sniggers at him. It's not perfect, by any means. There's a sagging porch, and the sink in the first floor bathroom doesn't work, and there's some seriously fugly wallpaper that's peeling, and a stained carpet in the rear bedroom that, yikes, did something die on it? Would that even be possible? But Sam says, "This'll work," with content in his voice, and Dean looks around and tongues the inside of his cheek and thinks, well, yeah. This'll work fine.

There's food in the fridge, when Dean opens it. "I'll fix something," Sam says, and Dean looks at him in total surprise. A lifted shoulder, like Sam's been able to make anything other than eggs and bacon and bad, bad pasta his whole life. "What? I learned."

He did. They have chicken, roasted broccoli that Dean admit doesn't taste entirely like farts, these crispy potatoes that are—well, goddamn. There's not a dining table and so they sit out on the porch, a six pack of cold beer between them, watching the night settle in. It's cool but not cold. The lamp on the porch flickers, and Dean smiles, because he's damn sure that's not a ghost and instead that he's gonna have to rip out the wiring and start fresh.

Sam leaves his empty plate on the step behind them. He leans his elbows on his knees, and looks out at the darkening sky. The treetops are shadows against deep purple and Dean wants, very badly, to put his hand in Sam's hair, to feel his neck, his back. To settle himself against the fact of Sam's spine, his ribs and lungs, all of him here. Breathing, and here. "You learned to cook, huh," he says, instead of doing anything else, and gets to watch Sam turn his head, just a little. He's still wearing the same clothes he showed up in. Strange things, that tug a little at something Dean feels like he used to know. Sam turns his head but he doesn't look at Dean; Dean just gets his three-quarter profile, and the shape of his mouth turned a little solemn, and his eyes as they flick over the view of the dark, surrounding trees.

"Yeah, I did," Sam says, after too long. "I…"

That's all, for a few minutes. Dean puts his plate down, too (mostly clean, other than some broccoli he's not gonna be forced to eat), and shifts down one more step so they're sat right next to each other, and presses his knee against Sam's. Sam looks at their knees instead of at him.

"I wanna hear everything," Dean says. He reaches and gets Sam's hand, and squeezes it, and Sam's eyes close. Shit he wouldn't have done before, but hell—he's dead, he gets to. "Everything. Okay? Every—dumbass repair you screwed up on the car, and if you took Chinese lessons at a community college, and who won the World Series, okay, because I remember, we had a bet, and I need to know if I owe you or you owe me."

Sam swallows. "Jesus," he says, under his breath, and then laughs, a little. "Jesus, we did have a bet. That was—uh, that year it was the Dodgers." He swallows again, and when he opens his eyes they're wet, and a tear rolls down very slowly, against the crease of his nose, and his mouth hitches up at the side in a piled-up dimpling fold, and his chin creases, and Dean squeezes his hand very tightly. "Dodgers. But I can't remember which way you bet."

God, Sam. Dean knocks their shoulders together and lies: "Damn, I bet they were gonna lose. How's that figure, huh? I go down and my team does all in the same year? Shitty luck." Sam shudders out another laugh, wet, and nods, looking down at their clasped hands. "Guess I owe you, Sammy. Whatever you want, okay? Figure, we got time up here. I can figure it out."

Sam's chin is still shaking. A tear falls onto the back of Dean's hand, shockingly hot. Sam takes a deep breath. "I'll think of something," he says, when he can get his teeth out of his lip. Their knees grind together, close enough that Dean might get a bruise, if there's still such a thing as bruising. Sam sniffs, hard. He always was a sloppy crier. He looks at Dean a little sidelong, and smiles kind of embarrassed. Like Dean isn't an inch from losing it himself. "I kinda—I watched a lot of soccer."

Dean rolls his eyes, theatrical, and releases Sam's hand. "Of course you did," he says, layering on the disgust, and it's enough that Sam snorts and dashes his hand over his face, and when Dean gathers up their plates Sam's enough together that he can repeat his old dumb argument that there's a lot of strategy to find interesting in soccer, and anyway over the years the U.S. got better so it wasn't even really like rooting for foreign teams. Dean brushes it off, like he always did, and the argument's dumb but it feels—right. Something locking in, something solid. He washes the plates by hand in the sink and Sam dries them, and stacks them in the rickety cupboard Dean's definitely going to build a replacement for, and then he braces his hands on the countertop and closes his eyes again and breathes, slow. Calm, now, but still something built up inside that Dean doesn't know.

It doesn't bug him, like it might have, before. Dean chews his lip, and drains the sink, and tosses the dishrag over the faucet to dry, and says, neutral, "Hey." Sam makes a small noise, so he's not in some other universe. "Just—one thing. How long?" Sam turns his head, looks at Dean, and Dean lifts a shoulder. "It's—with how the time works, up here, I got no idea. How long was it, for you?"

He looks the same, is the thing. The same as he did when Dean was standing there, in the dark, with that strange numbness everywhere south of his spine and a stillness creeping up in his heart. The terror of that moment has already faded but the rest of the feeling is right there—looking at Sam and loving every single part of him. Pinning him into memory, exactly as he was, with his goddamn stupid haircut and his wide mouth. A few greys, at his temples. His body, lean-but-muscled, trim from running. His eyes, beautiful, even as panicked as they were, even as he told Dean that it was okay.

It wasn't. Dean knows that, now. Sam's cheek sucks in, on one side. "I was 68," he says. Dean feels the air go out of himself, a little. That's—jesus. Sam doesn't look sad about it. Not exactly. He slides his hands into his jacket pockets, tipping his head. "I was—I was in bed. It wasn't bad."

Dean bites the corner of his mouth. "Guess that makes you the older brother, then, huh?"

Sam smiles, just a little. "No," he says, and doesn't elaborate more than that.

There are two bedrooms, upstairs. That first night they sleep in the living room, watching old movies on an old TV, Dean in a recliner that's ridiculously comfortable when he kicks the footrest out and Sam on the couch. He wakes up at dawn to Sam still sleeping, his arms folded around a pillow like he always used to do, still in that old jacket, that hooded sweater bunched up and twisted around his waist. Dean recognizes it, now. He dreamed it. His heart feels like it can hardly take knowing, but there it is, anyway. His face is soft, sleeping, and Dean gets up with his back aching just a little—turns out that there are still aches—and he crouches down, and he settles his hand on Sam's jaw, and runs his thumb over the sharp-angled turn of his cheekbone. Sam opens his eyes, slow but not like he was even really asleep, and he looks at Dean looking at him, and Dean just—it's enough. If it was just this, for eternity and past it, that would be—that'd be good.

There's a library, in the house. A small office kind of room, off the kitchen, but Sam says the books change, when he goes in and out, so it stays fresh. The fridge always seems to have something in it. There's always gas, in the car, although sometimes little things need fixing, and in the garage there are things that Dean can use to fix it, so he gets to spend afternoons contented under the big black bulk, while Sam hands him things from the toolbox, and is distracted half the time from reading so that he hands Dean the 3/8s wrench instead of the 5/8s wrench, but that gives Dean an opportunity rag on him so it works out, either way.

"Mom and Dad are here," Dean says, one day. He's doing the wiring, on the porch. As good a place to start as any. Sam's helping, kind of—actual electric work apparently wasn't one of the things he learned, over the years. "They've got a house, Bobby said."

"That's great," Sam says, and when Dean looks down he looks like he means it, soft smile and all, but Sam doesn't suggest they visit, and Dean thinks—well, later's still always on the table. They haven't gone anywhere, really, except for drives sometimes through the mountain roads, and Sam's gone for his runs in the early dawn before Dean wakes up, and Dean's found on a path through the trees a good creek, where he's fished with Sam mostly ignoring him, reading again in a lawnchair with his bare feet kicked out into the soft grass, but still paying just enough attention to smirk behind his book when Dean doesn't catch anything.

They don't really stay apart for more than the time it takes to leave a room and come back. Even with those runs, Dean only knows they happened because as he's waking up Sam comes back with sweat in his hair, and Dean gets to make fun of him for stinking up the place before Sam rolls his eyes and clatters into the bathroom to turn on the creaking ancient shower, and he leaves the door open when he does so Dean can hear the water running, and the splashing, and how Sam's apparently started to hum. He doesn't sing, but Dean recognizes the tunes anyway. When Sam comes out Dean has breakfast ready—they take turns on dinner, but for some reason Sam doesn't like to make breakfast, anymore—and they eat, and then there's some project to do or a movie to watch or a book to finish, and—Sam's right there, solidly content. Like he's making up for lost time, and taking his sweet time in doing so.

Whisky, one night. In the cupboard. It's good—some Scottish blend Crowley had left in the bunker, once, sharp and sweet and rolling smoke down the throat—and they're out on the porch again, on the new bench this time, watching the sunset come down. Sam's mostly holding his glass, rather than drinking, but he looks okay. Head leaned back against the wall, and his shoulders relaxed, broad and strong. He doesn't seem to mind that Dean watches him as much as he does the sky, but he's looking thoughtful, and finally Dean says, "Tell me." Sam rolls his head against the wall, and meets Dean's eyes. "It's been on your mind, all day. Spit it out, man."

The corner of Sam's mouth lifts. "You would've made a good therapist, you know that?" he says. Dean raises his eyebrows. "I've been… I had a son."

Dean's jaw drops. "That's—" he starts, and his brain doesn't supply anything else. Shock—bewilderment—joy, and it's the joy that wins out, and he punches Sam in the shoulder and says, "Frickin' mazel tov, dude! That's—what was his name?"

"Ow," Sam says, half-laughing, clutching his arm. "What do you think? I named him after you."

"Great choice, pick the handsome brother," Dean says, nearly automatic, and Sam rolls his eyes like he's supposed to, but Dean's still spinning through it, taking it in. Sam—with a little boy—and Dean wants to know everything, everything, but Sam's gone from content to content-but-pensive, and Dean makes fun of him for going emo a lot, but this is… "He a good kid? Doing the name proud?"

"Yeah, he is," Sam says. He huffs, after a second, like he's remembering something—some memory that Dean doesn't share. There's been a lot of that, really, although Dean's not sure Sam notices when it happens. "You'd hate his taste in music, though. And he drives an electric car."

"Heathen," Dean says, and Sam raises his hands in surrender, and then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Dean looks at his back, broad in the grey t-shirt. He sips at his scotch. "We could—probably see him. I'd like to meet him. And you must…" Miss him, is what he wants to say, except that his heart seems to catch up to what it means, what Sam's saying. That he had a boy, a kid, and he was old enough to drive and have shitty taste in music, and it was a whole life—that the kid had a mother, and Sam had a world separate to this one, and of course Dean knew that and Dean always wanted that for him, and that was true, that wasn't ever a lie no matter what else Dean felt, deep inside where he never, ever intended for it to matter, but. Dean misses Jack, sometimes, in a soft sore way—misses Ben, even, when that pain's far-distant and not even truly his to feel—but what Sam's going through, that's different, and Dean doesn't know how to touch it.

Sam shakes his head, though. "I do," he says, answering what Dean couldn't say out loud. "But I—no, I don't want to see him. Not yet. He's living, and I think—I hope he's doing the best he can. I was kind of an old dad. Old-fashioned maybe, too, but I taught him right, I think, and he'll be okay. I want to just—let him live. In my head. You know? And later, when he's finally—god, he'd better be really old—then. I'd want to see him then."

Dean gets it, and doesn't. He's not sure he could've waited another minute for Sam, if he'd been forced to. He picks up Sam's glass, abandoned on the bench between them, and holds it forward. Sam takes it, and accepts Dean's clink when it's offered. "To Dean," he says, and Sam huffs and gives him a slanted look back over his shoulder, but he nods, and repeats it, and they finish the bottle between them that night.

Funny, that they ended up in the mountains. Kansas was all flat prairie and farmland and endless horizons, and Dad used to joke sometimes when they'd drive across the country's flat middle that you could roll a marble all the way from Abilene to Lincoln and the only way it'd stop is if someone picked it up. Up here it feels—different. With the hills, and the trees. Like they could be hemmed in, if they were feeling bad about it, but instead it just feels like shelter. A place of their own. A place to make their own.

Sam left the bunker, he says, one day. A fishing day, when Dean's got his cooler full of cheap beer and Sam's working on yet another friggin' book, though this time he's at least enjoying the cool air, watching the birds and the river more than he's got his nose in some old dude's ancient wisdom. "Couldn't stay," he says, and Dean—yeah. That makes sense.

Little revelations, now and then. Sam doesn't seem to be in a hurry to tell them, but he doesn't seem to feel bad about them, either. Like they're sorrows mostly dealt with, or details that don't matter in the grand scheme. Dean never had a place, when Sam was gone from him, but even the car—he couldn't drive it, when Sam wasn't there in the passenger seat beside him. He gets how the bunker could've been less a shelter than a prison, when the halls were empty, and the silence got too thick. "I left it to him," Sam says, after a little while. He tucks his bookmark into his spot, tucks the book under his arms. Dean's just holding onto the fishing pole at this point, barely paying attention to the line, but Sam's watching it for the both of them. "I didn't—take him there, ever, but I told him about hunting, about the job, and I left a letter. Explaining it all, with the key and everything. It's there if he wants it."

"Good," Dean says. Sam glances at him. "Someone should use it. He's a legacy, too."

"Yeah, he is," Sam says, and it's quiet for some reason, and then he nods down at the creek. "You're getting a bite, dude—" and oh damn it, see, this is why Sam's a distraction on fishing trips, and Dean fumbles the rod and cusses at his brother and Sam just laughs, and the afternoon's easy, and Dean finally does get a damn fish and brings it home and considers leaving the guts under Sam's pillow, but instead he fries it up with dill and cornmeal and Sam makes nearly orgasmic noises, eating out on the porch because Dean still hasn't built them a table, and Dean says, "Jeez, dude, get a room," and his ears are pink but—he's happy. Sam's happy. That's been the only goal, this whole damn time. A falling-down house in the mountains, with the two of them totally alone, turns out to be as good a place to be happy as any. Go figure, Dean thinks, watching Sam suck his fingers and then turn his eyes hopefully toward the kitchen for more.

A drive. There's a road that snakes up high, ending in an empty lookout point, and Sam convinces Dean to come further—a hike, up to the very top of the mountain, where the trees start to thin and there's a view like—

"Holy shit," Dean says, when he heaves himself up over that last friggin' boulder, and Sam says, "Right?"

A vastness. The forest is thick and the sky's this clear, depthless blue, and the valleys and hills spread out in front of them untouched. Like they're really the only people in all of heaven, nothing but them and the trees and the house. Sam stands with his hands on his hips, looking out, looking like a damn model for that weird orange hiking jacket he's wearing, and Dean sits down on a handy flat rock and feels the sun on his back, takes it in. "You know, I thought the memory thing would've been okay, honestly," Dean says. Sam glances back at him. Instantly knows what Dean means, from the way he's furrowing his massive forehead in disbelief. "I mean, maybe it would've gotten boring, I don't know. Stuck on our hamster wheels forever. But there was good stuff, in there, and we—I mean. We would've been together. Right?"

It had been brutally painful, at the time, but in later years Dean had thought about it. Approached it cautious, like something that would break if he touched it. Soulmates, he thinks, now, deliberate inside his own head, and Sam smiles, like somehow he heard it. "Yeah, I guess so," he says. He tips his head. "Could've watched that memory of you turfing it into the pasture on that wraith hunt about a hundred times, I think."

Dean raises his eyebrows, says, "Ha," while Sam grins at him, but then Sam looks back out at the view. "Would've been some choice ones of you, too, you know," he says, but then shakes his head, even if Sam's not looking anymore. "This is—better, though. Glad Jack did it like this."

"And Cas," Sam says, and, yeah. Cas.

Dean takes a deep breath. He hasn't gone there, in his head, really. Castiel, free of the death he'd cursed himself to, free of darkness. Dean drags his hand over his stubble, remembering. The dark, reaching out. He looks out at the clear, bright day. "He was in love with me," he says.

Sam turns his head, but Dean's focused on the trees—past them—through to that day. All the time after, Dean never said anything about it, out loud or even in his head. They hadn't had a body to burn, and Sam hadn't asked questions, careful and kind in that way Sam had learned to be once he was older, and it had been an old bruise, unhealed, that Dean didn't like to press on because what was the point? It doesn't hurt now, but it's…

"He told you?" Sam says, and Dean nods. A pause, again, and Sam comes and sits down on the rock, too. His hands are clasped between his knees and Dean looks at them instead of the trees. Broad and tan, and big, and calm like everything in Sam is calm, now. "And you didn't know?"

Dean looks up, sharply. "Did you?"

Sam's mouth tilts. "I wondered," he says, and Dean huffs, leans back on his hands, looks up at the clear sky. A breeze, just chilly enough that he's glad of his jacket. Sam shifts, beside him. "Did you want to see him?"

It's asked—a little careful. Like Sam doesn't want to influence him either way. Dean imagines it—praying, and saying—what? He doesn't answer, and Sam doesn't press him, and they sit there for a while, in quiet, with the breeze bringing the smell of the trees.

"I didn't marry her," Sam says, after a while. Dean lifts his head—another revelation. Sam's slowly rubbing his thumbs back and forth, a dry chafing, looking out at something Dean can't see. "She was a really good person. Good mother. I wore a ring so people wouldn't ask questions, but I—I think she would've said yes, if I'd asked, but I didn't ask. She moved across town, when Dean was ten. We got along fine—hooked up a few times, even, after we split, but it just…"

"Never came together?" Dean offers, when the pause has gone too long, and Sam lifts a shoulder, his mouth curling wry as he looks at Dean. "I know the feeling."

Maybe it was some cruelty of Chuck's. To make it impossible for anything else to feel true. Dean tips his leg out so it touches Sam's, and Sam huffs, and touches Dean's knee, and the heat of him sinks right through the denim before he pushes to his feet, and offers a hand to help Dean up, too. They walk back down the trail, back to where Dean parked the car, and they drive down the winding roads with sunset spilling through the valleys behind them, and when Dean parks in front of the house the porch light's on like they left it, and Sam's getting out and saying something about maybe burgers, for dinner, and he'll make potato salad if Dean'll take care of the cooking, and Dean has to pause, with his heart suddenly thick and full in his chest, and thinks—well, if it was intended to be a punishment, then shit if Chuck didn't get it wrong.

They have burgers, and potato salad. Sam doesn't put in enough mayo and Dean tells him so. They watch The Right Stuff, and Sam listens mostly patiently to Dean filling in all the extra details about the astronauts before he tells Dean that he's a nerd, and Dean says, "Oh, if anyone's the nerd—" and they bicker, and wash the dishes, and Sam's beautiful, is the thing. Beautiful. Whole and healthy and content, in the lamplight in the house they're building. Beautiful his whole life, from when he was a little kid and Dean was wiping his snot-nose with the edge of his t-shirt to when he was a bitchy asshole of a teenager to when he was a high-handed and distant adult to when he was just—Dean's brother, paying him half-attention in the mornings, getting all his jokes, being bossy and being kind and being himself, and himself is all Dean ever wanted him to be.

Sam picks up one of the endless books that he's left on the kitchen counter. "You going to keep watching old nerd movies?" he says, a dimple tucked into his cheek.

Dean's chest feels somehow tight and full of molten gold, all at once. "Sammy," he says, and Sam hears the change in his voice, and blinks at him. Dean knows what Cas had meant, those years ago. How it could feel so entirely perfect, just to hold it like this, under your heart. To acknowledge it and know it for true. "You're it, for me. You know that, right?"

A slight tightening, around his eyes. He searches Dean's face but Dean—he doesn't know what expression he's wearing. It hardly matters.

"Our whole lives. I never—there wasn't ever really an option, for something else, but I don't think I ever even really wanted something else. Ever since I was little. It was you and me in my head, no matter how I thought about the future. I wanted you to have more but I never pictured anything else for me, not really. Even when I got the chance. Never came together, you know? But I don't think I wanted it to. All I wanted was you." Sam's lips have parted. Confusion there, but concern too, and Dean smiles at him. "I guess this sounds—this isn't like a goodbye or anything, or a… I don't know. I just… wanted you to know. In case you hadn't guessed."

Sam lays his hand on the counter, like he's looking for something steady. "Dean," he says, and then doesn't seem to know how to follow it up.

Dean shakes his head. "Didn't mean to drop a bomb on you," he says, and it's that loose knot again, an untangled free thing. Easy, when this had never, ever been easy. When he'd died for it, and lived through way worse than dying. Here, looking at Sam's expression—shock but also not quite shock—his other hand still clutched around his book—it feels like nothing but right. He smiles, looking at Sam's eyes. "After the life we had, man, this is the cherry on top. I don't need anything more than this."

He goes to bed. Sam's still standing there, in the kitchen, when he does.

Time moves more because they expect it to than because of any rules. Sam's been studying it, sort of, out of curiosity more than anything else, and he says he thinks that if they wanted it to be it could be about two pm in a warm July forever. Dean's noticed, even if he doesn't much care. How long have they been here, and still it's those last days of summer creeping into autumn, where it's cool in the shade and the sun's warm, and it doesn't snow, and if it rains it's just for long enough to make the house feel cozy and right, and then when the sun comes out again the world's washed-new, and he doesn't have to dig his car out of the mud.

It's raining the next morning, and Dean lays in bed with the covers pulled up around his shoulders and enjoys it, knowing there's nowhere to go. His room is his room only because it's the bed he picked, with the north-facing window and the view of the car, if he wants to glance down and see it; they leave their doors open, almost all the time, and they hardly have possessions that need keeping anywhere. He lifts up on an elbow after a while, and looks over the foot of the bed down the hall, and on the opposite end by the stairs Sam's door is open and he's a solid lump, in his bed, still snoozing through the rain, and Dean's heart folds up in his chest, looking. It tends to do that.

He goes through some morning things. Making the coffee, and sipping at a cup while he eats a slice of toast. He goes into the library and picks something off the shelf, and carries it back upstairs, and then it's the solitary, strange contentment of a morning crap (the door closes for that at least, and he'd wondered why that was something that stuck around in heaven until he experienced the weird peace of an unhurried morning), and then a coffee refill, and then it's still raining and he thinks—yeah, back to bed, crawling in with his coffee and his book, his back to the headboard, the house warm, the sifting rain outside nothing but soothing.

"Hey," he hears, and looks up.

Sam—oh. In his flannel pants and one of those v-neck sleeping shirts, black this time, his hair rumpled, leaning in his doorway. He closes his book and lets it fall down by his leg. Sam's eyes follow it, with a small frown.

"You really went for the beauty sleep, huh?" Dean says, as though the clock means anything. Even in heaven, he feels weird when Sam catches him reading. In that time in the bunker—after Jack disappeared—he'd started again, like he used to when he was in his twenties. Dumb stuff, nothing like what Sam would pick, but he liked the stories. Sam's never made fun of him for it, but he still—well, still.

Sam's still looking at the book but the silence has stretched, with the patter of the rain filling the space between. "I stayed awake for a long time, last night," he says, finally. "Thinking about stuff. What you said. Other things, too."

He seems okay. Not bitter, or angry, or even particularly stressed about it. Still, "Sorry," Dean says.

Sam shakes his head, and looks up at Dean's face. "Don't be sorry." He pushes a hand through his hair, sort-of smiles. "Figures, you wouldn't say anything until you knew I was a sure thing."

Dean snorts. He moves the book over to his bedside table, leaves it with his empty coffee mug. He pulls his knees up under the blanket, making room, and Sam comes and sits at the foot of the bed, one knee pulled up onto the mattress, looking at Dean steady and—and okay. They're okay.

"I had a dream last night," Sam says, finally. Dean nods—the dreams come pretty steadily, up here. Never nightmares, just invention, and memory recontextualized. "It was about… when Azazel had Dad. You remember that? Forever ago. All I wanted was to kill him. All you wanted was for us to be together. Remember?"

Of course, Dean remembers. The way he'd dragged Sam away from another fire. Sam looking at him with almost-pity, when he'd finally admitted what he wanted.

There's not a trace of pity in him, now. He pulls his knee up against his chest, comfortable. "You know, I thought about it," Sam says. "After you were gone. How everything felt—incomplete. Half-a-loaf. Even…" He shakes his head, and Dean wonders what goes there. He'll find out someday. "We were always breaking the world for each other. Normal siblings don't really do that. I don't know if you realized."

"I bet Mary-Kate and Ashley would give it a shot," Dean says, and Sam smiles at him, but rolls his eyes, too. "Sam—"

"I wondered," Sam interrupts. He lifts his eyebrows, a little, and Dean hears it as the echo it's meant to be. Despite everything he can feel his cheeks going pink. "If it wasn't just that we couldn't find something that was better, but that we never would. If you'd…"

He trails off. Dean picks at the blue yarn-ties on his blanket, watching Sam's face. Turned now, toward the rain outside, lit beautiful with morning. "I wouldn't have said anything," he says. Sure, somehow. "Even if we'd had—hell. Another decade, just you and me. When I said this was enough, I meant it."

"I know you did," Sam says. "And I know you wouldn't have. Because you wouldn't have wanted to ruin anything for me, right? If I had some outside shot—some kind of normal I might've dug up?" Dean nods. Sam nods, too, and then reaches out and flicks his knee through the blanket, hard it enough that it nearly stings. Dean claps his hand over the spot and smacks Sam's hand away, but Sam's already retreating, hands up, smiling. "Truce, truce. Just saying. I wouldn't have tried for anything, if you'd been there. It would've just been me and you and the dog."

The dog. "Did he—" Dean says, distracted, and Sam says, "Old and kinda fat, and happy as he could be."

Sam's just looking at him, along the length of the bed. "Sammy," Dean says, and chews his cheek for a minute. Sam's patient. "I know it wasn't easy, that I was gone. But I'm still glad you got that shot. Glad I didn't ruin it."

"You didn't—" Sam starts, and then closes his mouth. He smiles at Dean with his lips closed, and then breathes out slow through his nose. "I'm glad you're glad," he says, instead, and maybe that's all the compromise they'll ever get, on the subject. Dean's not sure Sam gets it, smart as he is. That Dean would've always wondered. That there would've been some horizon, distant and gold, that Sam might've always looked to, and imagined something different.

The rain's slacking, outside. Sam looks out the window again, at how the sun's drawing out, the light changing. "Do you want to try to figure out the cabinets today?" he says.

God, Dean loves him. "You can work the band saw," Dean promises, and Sam rolls his eyes again, and stands up, and says, "Let me shower first, before all the excitement," and Dean watches him step into the hall and then into the bathroom and hears the shower come on, through the open door, and he thinks it'll be a good day. Inevitable argument over what color to stain the cabinet doors notwithstanding.

It sits between them. Dean didn't feel tense about it but saying it aloud nevertheless makes him feel almost weightless. He knows that Sam's thinking about the conversation—going over past conversations, and things they've done, and choices they've made, over and over, because Sam's an egghead who had to puzzle things out forever before he can come to some kind of peace with them—but that's okay. They're still together and nothing's ruined, and the house comes along. They work on the kitchen for a while, Sam pulling down the horrible wallpaper while Dean does the woodwork, and there's a week nearly where they build a fire outside every night and dinner's what they can rig up over the flames—hotdogs, and kebabs, and mac and cheese even that gets a weird smoky flavor to it, and honestly it's about the best version Dean's ever had.

When Sam starts talking he comes at it obliquely. They're watching a movie—Moonraker, just as dumb and wonderful as Dean remembered it—and right over the top of the scene where Jaws is whaling on the guards, Sam says, "I didn't sleep with anyone for almost fifteen years."

"Makes sense, your game is terrible," Dean says, and grins when Sam sighs. "What do you mean? After the breakup with—"

Sam still hasn't said her name. "It just didn't…" Sam shrugs. "It wasn't important somehow."

"Plus you would've thrown your back out," Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam says, dry. "Plus that." A pause, while they both watch the end of the fight. Roger Moore was a way better Bond than people gave him credit for, Dean's always thought. "How long for you?" Dean makes a sound. "Before… You used to brag about it, you know? But you didn't come home bragging for a long time."

"You trying to get me to say just looking at your goofy mug every morning was enough?" Dean tips his head on the couch to find Sam raising his eyebrows, actually surprised. "Hah. Well, it was."

"Seriously?" Sam says.

Dean shrugs, not sure why it's coming as a shock. He doesn't actually remember himself, even though it's closer in memory for him, when he last had that urge—to just go for a hookup, to let off nervous energy. On the screen, Bond's punching someone, and Holly Goodhead's in trouble. "No need to try to fix what ain't broke, as they say," Dean says, and he can tell Sam watches his face for a while before Sam turns his attention back to the movie.

Later: Dean's peeled back the scary carpet and it turns out there's good wood flooring underneath. Go figure. He's trying to decide whether he wants to cut it out in pieces or roll the whole thing up and see if he can get Sam to carry it. Sam brings him a cup of coffee, while he's standing in the doorway to the bedroom and frowning, and then says, "I never thought about being with a guy."

Dean slops the coffee, a little. Good thing he's tearing out the carpet either way. "Uh, okay."

The corner of Sam's mouth tugs up. "It just never occurred to me," he says. "Not really."

Dean takes a sip from his mug. Even in heaven Sam manages to screw it up, somehow—this time, way too strong like he used three times the amount of grounds needed—but it's Sam's coffee, and Dean's so damn gone for him that he's fond of the sludge, too.

Apparently he's been silent too long. Sam tips his head, leaning against the doorframe, opens his mouth and closes it again.

"Do you really want to know?" Dean says, after a minute. He'd answer, he thinks. If Sam asked. What would be the point of keeping it secret, after all, with what they both already know?

"I think you just told me," Sam says, quiet, but shakes his head, and then jerks his chin at the carpet. "If you think I'm carrying that whole thing downstairs you're insane."

"Worth a shot," Dean says, and they put it away, for another day.

Later: they're painting, in the hall between the kitchen and the living room, and it was a long bickering session to come up with the color but Dean thinks that Sam was really arguing just to argue and not because he cared, at all. It smells like paint, which in theory is unpleasant but which really Dean's always kind of enjoyed—because it means there's a project being done, and progress being made, and that always settles something, in his bones—and Sam's got a full on handprint of slate blue on his ass that Dean thinks somehow he still hasn't noticed, and which should cause some entertainment when he does—and Sam says, standing back and squinting at his edging work, "How did you know?" Dean grunts, not following for once. His brush needs to be cleaned. Sam reaches up and fixes a line, carefully swiping blue away from the ceiling, and says, "About us. When did you know?"

Dean pauses, fingers all tangled with the brush in the murky water. Sam's frowning up at the ceiling, patiently doing his part. That's a question he never really asked himself, and he doesn't know the answer. Too easy to say always, even if sometimes that feels like the truth. November 1983 is another answer, but of course that's wrong, too. From the first time Sam smiled at him. From the first time he guided Sam's hands around a gun and helped him pull the trigger, and they nailed that empty Coke can like it was a vamp, at thirty paces. From the day Sam left, at that shitty house in Utah, and Dean stood in the dark street with his heart bleeding out 'til it was empty. From the night Sam died, and Dean knelt in the dirt with him and understood how it felt to die, too, and yet still be forced to stand up and keep living, and to have his whole body reject it, everything in him knowing: no.

Sam crouches down by him, and nudges Dean out of the way, so he can clean his own brush. "I didn't get it, I don't think," Sam says, when Dean hasn't responded. He riffles his fingers through the bristles, blue blooming up so that Dean can't see his skin. "Not for… Man, I don't know. It might've been when I thought we were going to lose you to Amara. Maybe earlier." He draws his brush out of the water and squeezes the wet out, and Dean watches his hands, like he does so much of the time. Capable and square-palmed and long-fingered. Blue paint stuck under his fingernails. He rests his brush on the side of their paint tray and his hands lace loosely between his knees, where he's still right there, inches from Dean. "Wish it hadn't took me so long."

Dean looks at him. Sam's looking back, not really smiling but with his face soft. He stands up, after a few seconds, and from Dean's crouching vantage Sam looks impossibly tall. "C'mon," he says, easy. "Let's finish this up. I want to watch you fail at fishing at some point today."

Later—

There's no real time, and therefore it's no particular day. Days have passed and yet the days are still gold, and beautiful. Sam goes for a run, and comes back, and they have breakfast, and they shower, and it rains briefly midday and so Sam reads in the armchair while Dean watches a movie—Godfather II, and he tells Sam he's a barbarian for reading through it, but Sam calmly ignores him like he always does—and then the rain stops, and Dean thinks, maybe a drive, and so they go for a drive, with the late afternoon sun pouring down. They park, in front of the house, and Dean gets out, and he's thinking about dinner—Sam's turn to cook, but Dean wants steak and Sam's never actually gotten the hang of steak—and Sam says, "Hey," and so Dean turns, and there with the driver door still open on the car, Sam steps up close to him, and takes Dean's face in his hands.

Dean's heart thuds slow, in the base of his throat. Sam's been this close before but he hasn't had quite that look in his eye. He stands still, waiting, and Sam's mouth twitches into a quick smile, like he's had some funny thought that he'll share with Dean, later—and Sam leans down, and when their mouths press together it's...

Sam pulls back, after not long enough. "Is that okay?" he says.

Really asking. Dean's holding Sam's forearms, his lips warm. "You're supposed to be the smart one," he says, and his voice comes out raw. "You figure it out."

His eyes are closed. Sam laughs, softly, and Dean takes a breath, and then there's Sam's mouth, again, soft but insistent, just the right amount of pressure. Sam's very good at this. Who knew. Dean's hand slides to Sam's chest and he parts his lips, and Sam takes the invitation as it's given, licking just barely inside. They're both unshaven but the scratch of Sam's chin feels good. Sam's nose brushes his. Dean pulls back, and tilts so their foreheads are touching, and there's an infinite universe of time around them and he could just stay—here. Right here, with Sam's breath mingling with his, and Sam's hand on his face.

Once they've started, though, Sam doesn't seem to feel the need to stop. "Bed?" he says, quiet, and Dean nods, and then—Sam's room, with the sun coming in the window and the thick blue blanket soft under Dean's hand. Sam sits beside him and leans in and they kiss—again—for ages, Dean's arm around Sam's neck and no sound but their lips meeting and parting, and the breeze soughing against the house.

Sam's—happy. That's the only thing Dean can think, over and over, his heart thrilling for it. "Is it weird?" Dean says, at one point, and Sam touches his cheek with two fingers, and drags them soft along Dean's stubble to his jaw, to his chin, and shakes his head and then laughs and says, "Yeah, but who cares about weird," and Dean says, fervently, "Not me," and Sam laughs again and presses him down to the bed and kisses him, again, and again.

Clothes go away, slowly. Boots, and jackets, and Dean pushes Sam a little upright and unbuttons his shirt, careful, while Sam watches his face. "Do you know what you want?" Dean says, not pushing either way. When the shirt's open he spreads his hands on Sam's chest—god, even through the undershirt, it's—but Sam's shaking his head, and Dean tries to focus, even if focus seems a billion miles from here. "And you never…"

But no, because Sam told him. Sam lays his palm on Dean's stomach, warm. "What did you want?" Sam says. Gentle almost. "The first time you—when you thought about it. What did you picture?"

"Who says I pictured anything?" Dean says, and Sam just smiles at him, and, yeah, okay. So Sam knows him better than anyone. So what.

Naked, Sam is… It's not like Dean never saw it before, but he never let himself look, like he's looking now. Never with the sense of right, that he feels now. Sam's looking right back, which somehow comes a surprise. Dean lets Sam tug off his jeans, his boxers, and he's left on his back on the bed, and Sam stands there and his eyes go all over—from Dean's chest to his dick to his feet, for some reason—and Dean feels himself flushing, but it's more because—

"I didn't think it'd be like this," Sam says, and yeah. Yeah, that's it. Sam's flushed, too, a little red come into the hollows of his cheeks. His dick's half-hard, swinging heavy against his thigh, and Dean wants it. Wants Sam. It should be complicated but it isn't. He spreads his legs, and Sam kneels on the bed and then fits himself there, so Dean's thighs can slide against Sam's, and there's the warm glance of his belly, and his chest against Dean's, and how his nose brushes Dean's cheek and how his hair falls forward, and the dense familiar physicality of him. How he's Dean's brother and how he's—everything, everything else that ever mattered.

They rub together, kissing. Sam's fingers find his nipple and play with it, slow and insistent. Sam's hard, thick, pressing into the crease of Dean's thigh, and Dean nudges under Sam's jaw, kisses his throat, drags his thumb down between Sam's pecs. "Do you want to," he says, against Sam's skin, and Sam's hand cups over the back of his head and he doesn't have to say anything for Dean to know.

There's lube, in Sam's bedside table. Dean laughs, while Sam blinks surprise at it. This perfect house. He pulls Sam in close again, and he doesn't think it'll take much—hell, they might not even have to bother—but he wants it, like this is a first time they might have had, some perfect day that never existed on earth. He drizzles the lube over Sam's fingers and Sam knows what to do, reaching below, and Dean spreads his legs wide and sinks into the pillow, into how it feels. "Do you like it?" Sam says, curious and a little pleased, and Dean hooks his arm around Sam's neck and drags him down for a kiss so Sam won't ask such dumb friggin questions. The slow drag and stretch of Sam's knuckles inside—and he's not going far enough or deep enough, because he's done this to women maybe but never to a guy, but it feels good, anyway.

They don't move from that position. Dean reaches down and tugs at Sam's wrist, and gets a slick dragging hand on his hip, instead. Sam kisses his cheekbone, shifts his weight, and the press inside—ah—thick, and just that first bright sting that makes it count for something, but it doesn't hurt beyond that, and it's just the slow parting drag of Sam, inside him, until he's as far as he can go and stops with his hips pressed right up close. Dean holds him there, feeling. Sam's breath against his cheek, and his weight held tense on one elbow, and their chests rising and falling together. Dean's dick presses against Sam's belly but it doesn't feel important, right now—it's more that they're—finally, they're—

"Please say I can move," Sam says, breathless, and Dean gasps in and then laughs, dizzy, says, "Jesus, you've been waiting on me? Get the lead out, come on—go—"

It lasts—

For the time it takes Dean to curl his hips up and feel how Sam jolts, hard inside. For the time it takes Sam to lift up higher, getting enough space between them that he can see Dean's face, and for him to fit his hand around Dean's jaw and press his thumb against Dean's lower lip and look him in the eyes, startled, like even after everything he's learned something new. For the time it takes Dean to wrap his thighs around Sam's waist and arch, and for Sam to bury his head down into the curve of Dean's throat, and for Dean to hold Sam's shoulders, and for it to be…

Perfect, Dean thinks, after.

They're on their sides. Dean's leg is still caught around Sam's hip. Their heads are on the same pillow and Dean's got his hand on Sam's chest, and Sam keeps tracing some nonsense shape into the skin over Dean's ribs, and the sun's still out, and the breeze is still gentle, and it feels in a way like no time has passed, at all. Like this is still their first day in heaven. That first moment, when Sam appeared on the bridge, and Dean's heart thumped into place, like it was beating again, at last.

Sam's hand settles flat on Dean's side. Dean looks up from Sam's chest, and Sam's waiting there, to meet his eyes. A smile, small. "Good job, tiger," Dean says, and Sam's smile goes deeper, and Dean rolls his eyes, and tugs Sam's chest hair in retaliation. Sam mimes pain but all he does is pull Dean an inch closer, and sigh.

"Do you think we could've made it work?" he says, eventually. Dean hmms, asking. "Before, I mean. When we were alive. It feels like…" He shakes his head, a small movement against the pillow. "I don't know. Like we wasted time."

"Maybe," Dean says. He shifts, stretching out his legs, and lifts up on one elbow. Sam tips his head back to keep looking at Dean's face. Dean looks back, unhurried. The straight line of his eyebrows, and his tip-tilted eyes. His mouth, relaxed in contentment, and the slope of his nose, and that mole that Dean feels the weirdest fondness for. He touches it, and Sam blinks, and Dean smiles at him. "It worked out, though. Don't you think?"

Sam's mouth tips, a dimple peeking up in his cheek. He looks as glad as Dean's ever seen him. "Yeah," he says, finding Dean's hand. Their fingers tangle together, caught warm against Sam's chest. "Yeah, it worked out okay."

#wincest #carry on spoilers #my writing

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beautiful-bau-beau · 5 years ago

Note

helloooo!! I have a Spencer request :) Could you write one where Spencer is injured (maybe like when he broke his leg or something like that) and he stays round yours and you look after him, help him shower, comfort him and stuff :)

Anonymous said to beautiful-bau-beau: could u do a soulmate au w spence where you feel the share pain with your soulmate, i think it would be interesting since spencer seems to be shot or nearly killed in almost every episode

Sticks and Stones

fem!reader/Spencer Reid

masterlist

[Set in season 5 when Spencer gets shot in the leg but makes references to Maeve]

----

To the average eye flowers are soft, simple little things. They spark romance in the hearts of budding couples, they aid the grieving widows, their beauty inspires the masses in forms such as poetry and art. For some, flowers only caused distress.

Few were "fortunate" in the world to have soulmates. Once twelve years of age, a soul bound to another would feel the pain, to a lesser extent, as well as receive a flower at the sight of the intrusion. Small purple blooms grew at bruises, at a cut, the flowers would mimic the length and size. Any other type of pain was indicated by large, red blossoms. As each wound healed, the flowers would wilt and die.

You were among the many to few flowers as flimsy nuisances, only serving as reminders of the pain you had to go through.

Before turning twelve you often wondered if you had a soulmate. You had spent many days vividly imagining who your soulmate was, what he looked like, what he did for a living, choosing to ignore that if you indeed had one, a lifetime of pain was sure to follow.

Lifetime of pain indeed.

Your soulmate must have been a stuntman, a police officer, hell- even a lion tamer with the amount of pain he seemed to put you through. The occasional bruise and scrape seemed to hit you up until your early twenties, that's when the real pain began.

Every other day it seemed that you were doubled over, screaming in agony. You were an ugly vision of purple and red, but hell, it seemed to strike up a conversation with you and your patients.

You served as a private duty nurse, taking care of patients in the safety of their own home. You enjoyed the one-on-one with your patients, and it was decidedly better than working in a crowded hospital with a difficult schedule.

You had just finished a job working with an elderly woman, as her granddaughter had recently decided to move in with her to take care of her. It was a sad departure, but the job had finished and it was now time for you to find another patient in need.

You were employed through a small local medical office and received career requests through their office website.

One particular request caught your eye that morning from a Ms. Penelope Garcia. A friend of hers had recently been shot in the leg and needed to quickly recover before returning to his job.

You eyed your own leg, sighing heavily. It still seemed to throb harshly every once in a while.

A week ago, out of nowhere, an extreme pain radiated through your leg, causing you to drop what you were doing and scream. Thankfully you hadn't been on the job but the look of pity your neighbors gave you the next day felt just as awful. Every time you glanced at the offending appendage you could swear you saw another blossom grow.

"You and me both, buddy." You mumbled, picking up your phone. The job seemed simple enough, and hopefully you would be able to bond with this new patient by shared leg pain.

"You ordered a nurse for me?" Spencer hissed into his cell, turning to look over his shoulder. "I can take care of myself!" He eyed your figure, currently unpacking a medical bag. You had entered his apartment mere minutes ago, not understanding his confusion.

"Are you Spencer Reid?" You asked, greeting his wheel-chair bound figure. "I'm Y/n Y/l/n, the nurse your girlfriend Penelope ordered." You were met with a blank stare. "Is she uh.. here?"

"I'm going to have to make a phone call." Spencer blurted, wheeling himself inside. He left the door open so you took it upon yourself to enter.

"Spencer, I love you but are you listening to yourself right now?" Penelope replied, twirling a pen around her fingers. "You were shot a week ago, you're in a wheelchair. How are you going to shower? Replace your bandages? Sweets, this nurse will help you. And before you even have to ask I already checked and your insurance covers this!"

"Garcia-"

"I won't hear anything more about it as I know I'm right! Goodbye, dear!" A heavy sigh came from the man, and he placed his cellphone back in his pocket. He turned to look at you again, wheeling his way over to you.

"I apologize for earlier. I wasn't exactly informed that you would be coming here." He placed his hands on his lap, awkwardly.

"That's alright!" You chirped. " You’re low-risk so I won’t invade your space too much by staying overnight with you. I'm here to help with personal medical care, bathing, trimming nails, and making you comfortable.... as well as urinary and colostomy care." His eyes widened and you simply waved him off. "I get it. It's weird. But from what I read through of your medical reports, the bullet went clear through and you'll need a crutch in two weeks! At least you're not hooked up to a catheter?" You tried to joke. You were met with another simple stare.

"Let's uh, change your bandages, shall we?"

It had been a few days since you started working with Spencer. He was a nice man, a little awkward, and seemed to be more of an introvert, so you respected his space. He seemed to take to staying in bed, simply asking for books every once and awhile.

"There's no way you're able to read all these so quickly. You'd have to be superhuman..." You teased, bringing him a stack of his latest requests.

"I have an IQ of 187 and can read 20,000 words per minute." Spencer replied, catching your eye. He flushed under your surprised glance. "...Not to brag."

"Well... that'll do it." You set each book in your arm down, one by one, a particular title catching your eye. "The Narrative of John Smith?"

"Have you read it?" He asked, trying not to sound too eager. He hadn't originally pegged you for an Arthur Conan Doyle fan.

"Uh, no." You scratched behind your ear sheepishly. "But a few friends of mine have, they all highly recommend it. What do you think? Does it live up to all the hype?" Spencer opened his mouth but shut it almost immediately, causing your brows to furrow.

"I can't tell you what to read... it's just a very special book to me."

"Did someone special give you the book? Penelope?" Spencer let out a chuckle, hissing as he adjusted himself on his bed.

"Garcia is just a friend but you're correct, someone special gave me the book."

"A soulmate?" You asked, immediately regretting your choice of words. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed. I'm just the nosy nurse that asks too many questions." You knew it was a sensitive topic for some, with or without the soulmate.

"No, it wasn't from a soulmate... but I wish she was." Spencer's voice grew soft. You felt as if you had stepped too far, intruded upon a fond memory.

"I do have one though." He continued, noticing your unease. "Sometimes I worry I imagined her but every once and awhile, I'll notice some flowers by my legs, the likely result of a cut from shaving or bruises." You let out a laugh, leaning against his door frame.

"I would love a low-risk soulmate like that. He must jump through flaming hula-hoops or something. I could make a decent living as a florist." You murmured.

"That's got to be tough." Spencer observed, noticing no flowers on your arm.

"I guess he's a lot like you." You lifted up your pant leg, crimson petals on display. "His reason can't be nearly as heroic as yours, though." Spencer couldn't suppress the smile that grew from the compliment.

"Well I guess you'll have to find him and ask."

"Well you're in the FBI right? Let's formulate a profile and find him so I can give him a piece of my mind. You in?" You teased.

"Sounds like a worthy use of all my newfound time." He let out a small huff of amusement, eyeing your figure. He appreciated how lighthearted and casual you were. He noticed the space you gave him and your little efforts to make the apartment easier to maneuver around. Although he hadn't seemed motivated at first, something told him he should get to know you more.

"Y/n?" Spencer asked, drawing your attention away from one of the books you had borrowed from his shelf. "Is there any way we can wash my hair?" He had procrastinated in asking, too embarrassed for whatever your plan was for showering.

"Of course! I could cut it too if you'd like." You offered, standing to wheel him into the bathroom.

"Are you saying you don't like my hair?" He faked an offended tone which he knew would make you laugh.

"I think your hair is beautiful, right at that perfect length before it gets too weird for any man to wear." You snorted. You moved him to a stool, not too difficult a feat as he was able to support the majority of his weight on his good leg. "Alright, the shirt has got to come off."

"Isn't against a code to try and seduce your patients?" Spencer teased. Since your conversation the other day he had grown to feel more comfortable with you and a friendship ensued. You took care when treating him and told stories of past patients. It was clear you loved what you did and cared for the people even more.

"Oh please. If I was seducing you, which I'm not, you'd know." You rolled your eyes, waiting for him to lift his arms before peeling his shirt off of him. He leaned back, long tresses falling into a pool in the sink.

He was extremely handsome, you couldn't deny it. His sharp cheekbones and jawline, his full and enticing lips, the way his hand flexed as he read.... you didn't notice any of that. You especially didn't notice how wonderfully intelligent he was, or how kind. Not at all.

Besides, it would never work. You both had your respective soulmates and he seemed to still be carrying a torch for the past relationship he was in. Not to mention the most important factor of all, he was your patient.

You carefully stepped around him to grab a large and small towel, snickering as you found a familiar design on one.

"Star Trek fan?" You asked, hanging the fabric on the shower rail and turning the tap on to warm water.

"Typically I'm not one for fiction but surprisingly there aren't that many scientific errors in Star Trek, especially considering how long ago it was made. There are certain improbabilities, but not that many outright errors, which make it so enjoyable to watch."

"Eh, I've only seen the film from 2009, and I was mostly paying attention to the deliciously handsome cast." You knew that would agitate him. "And not just for Chris Pine but Zachary Quinto as Spock? Oh, he is gorgeous, even if he is gay. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, and not that I had a chance with him anyway." You laughed.

"Y/n, I am not one to comment on the education of another but you are seriously missing out! Star Trek: The Next Generation is one of the most influential series of it's time. the new film doesn't even have Data! Data, y/n, Data!" He grumbled as you washed his hair.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Next you're going to tell me that the 1996 Doctor Who movie is better than the series?" He opened his mouth when you raised your soapy hand. "Disregard that statement, I can't afford another argument, I'm already too emotional from our last one." You faked a sniffle.

"You know, most females I talk to don't watch Star Trek or Doctor Who."

"I'm just that amazing, I know." You sighed, moving to grab the washcloth and dousing it with water, handing it to Spencer so he could wash himself. You grabbed the Star Trek towel and started to dry Spencer's hair.

"You're something alright." He retorted, drawing a gasp from you.

"I could have let you sit with greasy hair, you know!" Just for extra measure you rubbed his head a little harsher than before but miscalculated your aim, accidentally hitting your wrist against the marble sink.

Spencer felt pain radiate through his wrist and time seemed to slow. It suddenly seemed to dawn on him all at once. You experienced constant pain, pain he gave you because he was often injured on the job. Not to mention his gunshot wound on your leg and now the purple blossoms forming on his wrist.

He wanted to shout, yell, jump up, wrap you in a hug. He had finally found his soulmate! However, he remained silent.

When you spoke about your soulmate the other day you seemed angry and forlorn at the amount of pain you had to endure. There was no doubt in his mind that if you knew he was your soulmate, you would walk right out of his life, but not before giving him a swift kick to the ass.

So he stayed quiet.

You weren’t sure what changed between you and Spencer. After the shower he mentioned he didn’t feel too well so you guided him to bed. Since then he stayed in his room, barely calling you to his side.

It was weird. If it was any other patient you would have paid no mind and kept to yourself but you thought you had made a connection with Spencer. You enjoyed the banter between you both and finding out your shared interests. It must have all been in your head. You brought yourself out of your thoughts to prepare Spencer’s tea.

“Here you are!” You called, stepping into his room to hand him the mug. “I’m about to head out, do you need anything else?”

“No, thank you.” You stayed by the door, waiting to see if he would even spare you a glance. When he made no motion to move, you gave up, spinning on your heel to grab your purse and coat.

“Ah!” You heard Spencer hiss from the other room before feeling a sharp sting on your tongue. Your hand came up to cover your mouth, brows knitting together in confusion. Was he…? Did he…?

Spencer was your soulmate, he had to be. There was no possible way that him burning his mouth and your pain that followed were coincidences, right? Spencer was your soulmate! So why did you feel your heart drop into your stomach?

You shut the door, racing down the stairs and out of his apartment building, letting the cold air sweep over you.

There was nothing special about you. You were just a simple nurse and he was your patient. Besides, how were you deserving of Spencer? You weren’t.

He couldn’t find out, he just couldn’t.

You didn’t know if it was just because you knew that Spencer was your soulmate but the tension between the two of you was… palpable.

“Hey!” You popped your head into his room, his figure jumping in surprise. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to startle you!” You exclaimed.

“Hi?” He greeted, trying to seem calm. You were leaving tomorrow and he was panicking. The past few hours were spent debating about whether he should tell you that he was your soulmate. Could he really just let this opportunity pass by?

“I just wanted to know if you needed anything? I figured you probably ran out of books by now. Everytime I think you’ve reread all the books in your library I keep finding new ones.” You tried to joke.

“I… Yes. Yes, please.” He mumbled, hiding his gaze. You sighed, wondering for the millionth time what you had done wrong to make him so distant and reclusive.

“Alright, I’ll take the stack.” You bit your lip to keep from sighing once more, groaning as you picked up the books littered around the room. “God these are heavy.” You whispered under your breath, trying to waddle into the other room as you quickly realized you were losing your grip. It seemed as if it was too late, the pounds of literature falling on your feet.

Both you and Spencer let out a groan, heads snapping towards each other in surprise.

“Did you- did you feel that?” You asked, even if you knew the answer.

“I did.” Spencer’s voice seemed small. “Y/n, I am so sorry.” You were taken aback, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“You’re sorry?” You questioned, pain forgotten as shame radiated through you. “Am I that bad of a soulmate?” You whispered, clenching your fist to keep tears from pricking your eyes.

“No! No, no, no!” He tried to sit up as straight as he could, internally cursing at how hurt you looked. “I only apologized because… I can’t help but feel like I disappointed you! I am an FBI agent, I’m always going to be in danger therefore putting you in danger. When you first mentioned your soulmate you seemed so… upset. I don’t know if I’ll ever truly be able to make you happy.” He admitted, the tips of his ears turning red as his gaze fell to his lap.

“Disappointed? Past-tense?” You cried. “Did you know about this?” He didn’t move.

“Well… I guess I can’t be angry with that.” You sighed. “I knew too. I just thought that… you wouldn’t want me. You still seemed so in love with whatever woman gave you that book. And out of my league. And my patient.” You let out a wry laugh, sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Are you kidding me? You are the most gorgeous woman I have ever met. You make me laugh and you are so kind and caring. I am proud to be your soulmate.” He swallowed thickly.

“Spencer you are selfless. You dedicate your life every day to helping others. You are handsome, sweet, and hilarious.” You reached for his hand. “And I am so happy you turned out to be my soulmate.”

Your eyes finally met and before you knew it, your lips smashed against his.

“I don’t know if you know this… but I happen to get injured on a lot of missions.” He uttered as you pulled apart. “So I have a feeling that I’ll need you around more often.”

“Well Doctor, I think you just might be right.” You giggled, drawing him in for another kiss.

-----

Feedback is always appreciated!

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years ago

Text

Humans are Space Orcs, “Revelation.”

This needed to be done. I know I went a different direction than a lot of you were expecting, but I thought it was best. If you want my reasoning for anything I will be happy to answer.

It took him a second to figure out what was going on. Ramirez let him go and stepped back his dark amber eyes crinkled with concern. Turning his head to look around the rest of the room, he saw the others, Sunny, Krill, Katie, Three adaptids, Maverick, Jackie, Narobi, and his dog all staring at him with expressions of concern and frustration.

Krill stepped forward to say something, but as the little creature was doing so, he felt something as his mind and body finally caught up with each other. Heat rushed into his face and head as he was overcome with near blinding rage.

He stepped away from Ramirez, chest beginning to rise and fall heavily. He felt his face contort as his skin reddened with blood. His hands clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. He was so mad he could barely think. How dare they invade his privacy like this, go into his room and search through his things, and then confront him.

He wanted to scream at them, to throw things to march across the room and grab one of them by the throat.

But he was too angry even for that.

The rational part of his mind, which was barely functioning at the moment gave him one more option.

He turned on his heel and marched right out the door. A red hue had taken up his vision encroaching in from the darkness bleeding into silhouettes. He felt like his arms begin to tingle. His body was too light as adrenaline rushed through him. His head was light, his legs were light.

Footsteps behind him, “Adam!”

No, he knew what would happen if they caught up, and he was at least rational enough to avoid that. He sped up his pace listening to the footsteps behind him, they sped up to, and he broke into a flat sprint.

No one could keep up with him in a sprint, the repurposed steel-eye prosthetic he wore would make sure of that. The only two people that had a hope of catching him were Maverick and Rmirez, and even they couldn’t match high performance machinery.

He raced through the ship leaving the people he passed barely enough time to register he was there before he was gone again. He burst out into the cargo bay and pelted down the ramp. He ran as hard as he could as fast as he could until he could barely breathe and then skidded to a halt.

He had made it to the side of the launch feild, where there was nothing more than grassy knolls and distant electric fences to keep prying eyes away. No one was here and the closest figures were merely back dots moving about the tarmac He paused here pacing one way and then the other. His hands shook.

WIth no relief he turned his head back and screamed, ripping the cap off his head and throwing it to the ground as he sunk to his knees on the grass and dirt. His uniform pants were likely to get stained, but he didn’t care.

Moving from angry to despondent, he stared out at the launch field as tiny black silhouettes crawled across it like ants on a nest. The Sun was growing low behind him casting his shadow long over the grassy knoll.

A shadow appeared distantly, and he watched it as it snaked its way up the tarmack turning towards him. He flipped up his eyepatch to get a better look zooming in on the figure.

Waffles zig-zagged over the tarmac, her nose twitching as she snuffled at the ground, her tail in a low wag her ears back.

Surprisingly he felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

She continued to follow her nose lifting it on occasion until she saw him silhouetted against the sky and ran towards him pausing a few feet away. He frowned watching as she tucked her tail so far between her legs that it was touching the underside of her belly. Her ears were back as she approached him, her nose still twitching ears flat against her head.

What was wrong with her?

She scooted forward some more crawling onto his knees and pressing her snout against him like she was supposed to do when he was having an attack.

She must be malfunctioning, he was fine

He pushed her off, but she returned hesitantly a moment later trying so hard to get him to respond.

“I’m fine dumb dog.” He snarled pushing her away again.

Her big dark eyes didn’t understand. She was just trying to do her job..

She was worried.

He tried keeping her away, but ever time he moved, or pushed her away shed come right back behaving how she was taught when responding to significant mental distress. He tried scooting back, but she followed him forward eventually growing frustrated herself and using the last thing in her arsenal she had.

She crawled on top of him and then just lay down flat on his chest pinning him to the ground chin resting on his neck.

He could have pushed her off, but lying there in the grass staring up at the blue sky he was slowly coming to a realization. The dog whimpered from where she lay against him, her ears still flat against her head.

Dogs didn’t lie.

They couldn’t.

And she was acting like he was having a serious episode. He didn’t feel like he was but, then again what was he doing here lying in the grass after running away from his ship. The anger faded, replaced with guilt, first guilt for treating her so poorly, thinking about how hard she was working and how ungrateful he was being made his eyes tingle with moisture.

“I’m sorry girl.” he whispered, stroking her ears, running his hands through the fur on the side of her neck, “I’m so sorry.” she whined, “Your not dumb, of course you aren’t. You’re the smartest girl in the galaxy and I’m….I’m the idiot.” He continued to stroke her ears apologizing repeatedly until she started nuzzling at his chest again.

Right, no obsessive thoughts, even if it was to apologize to your own dog who you were being a massive dick to.

He stroked her ears some more and told her she was a good girl instead. Slowlyher tail began to wag beating against his leg, and she stepped off of him letting him sit up, though she imposed herself right before him as he sat.

He continued to stroke his hands through her fur, and she closed her eyes.

“So, thinking about all of this, there was only one option.” He said to her, her tail thumped more at the sound of his voice, “You seem to think I am in significant psychological distress, but I don’t feel like I am, and the conclusion to that only means that I….. well it means you’re right and I’m wrong.”

She snorted as if she agreed.

Her ears had perked back up.

He looked up at the sky closing his eyes as he tried to take a few deep breaths. What did he feel?

“Well, I am stressed, out of my mind stressed. I don’t think it’s anything big honestly, but it all sort of compounded.” Waffles continued to listen, “Started with the Burg war and putting that suit back on, fucked me up, and it probably wasn’t the best idea.” He looked into her deep brown eyes, “We could have just set up some kind of rocket launcher at the opening and then killed them all without stepping foot inside. I never had to put the suit on.” his voice faded away as he continued to think, “It’s like I feel like I have to do everything because it's better if I die than other people do.”

She grumbled.

“Yeah I know, doesn't make sense.” She rested her head on his lap as he continued to talk outloud to her, “Why do I feel like I have to save the universe single handedly. There are thousands of men and women, multiple ships and other captains who can help do all of these things .” He glanced down at the dog again, “I may be the fleet commander which by default makes all the things I said earlier true, but…. I keep trying to do everything myself. It’s not physically possible, and I know that.”

He listened to the sound of jets roaring overhead, “And while I’m at it, I blame myself for everything too. Took a freaky ass ghost or whatever the hell to tell me to knock that the fuck off. What else do I blame myself for?”

He sat there thinking for a long time waffles listening intently with her head cocked.

“I need to change things. I need a structure I can rely on so that I can do my job better, and everyone else has a chance to do their job too. I need people who are smarter than me to advise decisions and workout problems because next thing you know I’ll be trying to fix the ship myself, and that would be a disaster.”

The dog’s tongue lolled from her mouth as she panted.

That was good, she only did that if she was relaxed.

“And I’m still not alright. I’m stressed and my PTSD is returning, but I think that has more to to with the stress than the PTSD itself. I got over the war years ago, and I can be over the cannibal if Iwan’t. I SHOULD be over the prison thing, and it isn’t my fault that someone took my DNA to create an entire herd of hybrids….. I will help them, but that doesn't mean I have to take care of them as much as it hurts me to say that since I still feel responsible.”

He tapped his feet on the dirt, “I’m close to cracking, and if I crack….”

He stood rubbing his temples. “I need a different perspective, someone who is less emotionally attached than me.”

Waffles fell into step beside him, “No one who is too emotionally invested so that gets rid of Sunny, and Krill for sure. I want someone who can be serious with me without sounding like they are lecturing. Ramirez, Katie, Narobi, and Jackie are out. Conn was never an option. He can read my mind so maybe I’ll talk to him later about what my real problem is, but I think I need some blunt straight to the face advice. A second opinion that’s not afraid to crack down and tell me I’m being an idiot….. I don’t need understanding right now. I need to be told off.”

The dog looked up at him, “And I think I know just the person.”

***

The door to the ship’s chapell hissed open casting light over him as he sat contemplating the books stacked on on the self to the side of him, from where he sat on one of the pews. He reached out and picked the top one up flipping through it absently.

Waffles lay at his feet napping.

The footsteps behind him paused as the door hissed closed, and then they approached up the aisle.

“How do you think he did it? Walk on water I mean? That would be a cool trick.”

Maverick paused at the end of the pew eyebrow raised, “Are you done with your little tantrum?”

He smiled as he turned to look at her, “Yes, I am done with my tantrum.”

She took a seat at the end of the pew hands clasped on her lap.

“In fact that’s why I came here to talk to you.”

She looked skeptical, “Talk to me or at me.”

He shook his head, “No… I… Waffles helped me realized that you guys are right, I’m not alright, and now I need a place to go from here.”

“Finally.” She grumbled.

He smiled, “Go on let's hear it.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Do what.”

“Give me permission to give you one of my lectures.”

He tilted his head, “Your what?”

“I have this habit of coming up with just what exactly I would say to people when I’m going on a run or taking a shower. They are really mean so I usually don’t say them.”

“Go on.”

“Your funeral,” She muttered as she stood, “Your being an idiot, a selfish idiot.”

That was a good start.

“Everything with you is about me, me, me. I have to save the world, I have to win the battle, I have to get everything done all the time. It's a shitty way to act and it makes the rest of the crew feel like you don’t trust them, and then when we try to help you just blow us off like you can handle it. Which I might not care about so much if you had proven that you CAN handle it. But no you get all heroic and sad like no one understands what it means to worry about the galaxy. Like the rest of us don’t stay up at night wondering if the burg are going to come back, and this time with better weapons. I don’t give a ship about what you do with your free time or how you commander our ship, you can do it in heelies wearing a funny hat if that's what you need to stay relaxed, but right now you're not commanding a ship, you you….. You know what you really are.”

He waited wide eyed.

“You are a total control freak.”

He blinked not having expected that.

“That’s it. You have to have your hand in absolutely everything don’t you.” he went to open his mouth but she held out a finger, “No, shut up and let me finish. You are a total control freak, yeah you are the Commander but that doesn't mean you control everything. You’re like the president, your job isn’t to control everything, its to veto dumbass ideas and make quick decisions, while everyone else does their job and reports to you on the more important stuff. You behave like a child wanting everything your way all the time, and then when it doesn't you throw a fit and run off to do whatever you want anyway. It makes it hard for the rest of us to work, and we worry about you, a lot. You are a good commander, and I think with some work you could be the best, but you need to figure something out soon because if you crack and go psycho, everyone else is going to suffer for it. We need you commander, but not in the way you think we do.”

She went quiet

He waited.

“I’m done.”

“Ok cool.” he took a deep breath, “First thing’s first. I need to rework our system.

***

He stood nervously at the head of the command deck a notebook in hand. He had tried to do his work on a tablet but found that writing by hand gave him more clarity. He had been up all night working, but not in a bad way, thi felt good, like he was moving towards something. A good portion of the crew had been assembled, most of the upper echelon officers and some of their seconds.

A soft murmuring rose up from the group, and scanning his eyes over them he could see where Sunny stood at the back of the room her arms crossed over her chest. Krill floated beside her with Dr. Katie.

As far as he could tell everyone was here, so he cleared his throat and allowed the room to quiet. They were sitting at the tables in the mess hall, and he tried to just stand in front of them but found he wanted to see their faces, so he stepped up onto the bench to get a better look.

“Alright everyone, quiet down. Now the sooner we get this over with the sooner I can have a nap.”

Half chuckle form the crowd.

“It has come to my attention recently that this crew needs a bit of an…. Administrative overhaul. We are a mess, and that is mostly…. Well no it is entirely my fault, and I know a lot of what I am going to say is probably a no brainer for most of you, but just bare with me for a few minutes.” He adjusted his notes, “I haven't been trusting you with your own work, and I am sorry for that. As you can probably tell, I have an issue with thinking things through before I do them, but that is something I will be working on.” He turned to look at them, “So what I have done, and what I should have done a long time ago is give the department heads complete charge of their departments.”

The group shifted, “That means all requisitions, staffing, internal problems, all of those will be covered by the department head. I don’t want to know about it unless there is a problem that only I can fix. So If you are missing equipment take it to the quartermasters and their requisitions office,and they, not me, will determine if we have it in our budget.” he turned to the chief quartermaster, “I am honestly putting the most work on you, because I am expecting that you acquire all the equipment this ship needs to keep running including food, ammunition and spare parts. You’ll have to work closely with engineering in order to get all of that done. I want all the departments speaking closely with each other.

He lifted his head and looked back at Sunny, “Sunny.”

He lifted her head.

“As chief weapons specialist and one of our experts on close combat. I will be giving control over to you on battlefield tactics. That’s what Drev generals do isn’t it?”

SHe seemed surprised.

He turned to look at cannon, “Cannon the Drev clan’s needs are yours, I need you to make sure you guys have everything you need. If there are disputes, you determine how to settle them.”

He sighed, “I do expect full reports from each of the department heads where you will make it clear if there is anything you need me to do, but otherwise, this ship needs to be able to function without me sticking my nose in everyone’s business. If I do, you have full permission to tell me to fuck rite off. Though as commander I reserve the right to Veto any decision you make if I think it will be detrimental to the ship or two the mission, furthermore, there are a lot of people in this room much smarter than me, so I am going to use that, and i am putting together a council of sorts, kind of like the jedi council, and you are going to help me make decisions. I need all of your knowledge and perspective if I want to lead this ship correctly or even the fleet?”

There was a surprised muttering in the crowd.

“Now we will be on leave for the next few months, which give you time to think on this project a little if you are worried, but I have a feeling you guys can handle it alright. Anyway, get on out of her, go home, and make sure to get those psych evals and physicals sent to dr Krill in a timely fashion.” He looked over at the doctor, “You will be in charge of determining who is and is not ready for active duty, also I will be hiring a few new hands as an attachment to the medical department. We need to expand psych, get a real psychiatrist for how crazy you all are.” He smiled as the group chuckled, and he stepped down from his chair.

The room slowly emptied leaving only a few people left…. The same people for earlier.

Sunny was still quiet and Dr. katie had her arms crossed.

He sighed and walked forward, “I’m sorry about earlier.” he said to them.

“You should be?”

“And what about getting yourself help?”

He turned to glance at Maverick, “I had a discussion with Mav earlier, because i thought she would be the most brutally honest with me…. She was. I will be doing a psych eval, but towards the end of leave.”

More frowning.

“I won’t be seeing a psychiatrist.” he raised his hands as the group began to mutter, “No it's alright, I've thought it through, and I have determined that for me it isn’t the best course of action. Medication has never been for me either. I know it's helpful for most people, but I just need to relax, clear my head and find a way to relieve stress. So, I’m going home for a few months.”

They still seemed skeptical, but they relaxed enough not to argue.

Ramirez seemed the first person to accept his apology and smiled, “Well good luck commander.”

A few other murmurs rose up from his friends.

He looked at Sunny, “I promise, when I get bac. I will be better, and I will do better.”

“

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 years ago

Text

Silent Night

Based on this: “You aren’t a big fan of Christmas and just want to get out of the city and away from the hustle and bustle. However the one and only Captain America has had his eyes on you and wants to spend a perfect Christmas with you whether you like it or not."requested by anonymous.

Warnings: noncon sex (fingering, intercourse)

Note: Okay, so I’ll be working on holiday drabbles over the next few days. Hopefully one or two a day if I can manage! Thanks for all the requests so far and I’m working at keeping up.

Hope y’all enjoy. Like and/or reblog!! <3 Reblogs really help especially since I haven’t been getting many.

A quiet Christmas. A once in a lifetime occasion. Convincing your parents to let you skip the family dinner had been a task in itself, only exchangeable for your labour. The old cabin your aunt hadn’t visited since her fall down the stairs a year ago was far away that it guaranteed a holiday undisturbed. A favour, you negotiated, a gift for your aunt who would soon be in shape to once more respite to the northern forests. The place must be dusty, it would need a cleaning before that. Your selfish reclusivity disguised as generosity.

More difficult had been your departure from work for the two weeks that encapsulated both Christmas and New Years Eve. Stark was the festive sort and Nat was the talkative sort. She’d let slip just as you informed your boss you’d be away and unable to attend his respective holiday parties that you hated the time of year. You cringed and it told Tony all he needed to know. But, begrudging and with a vow you’d attend the next year, he approved the time away. You scowled at Nat and promised her payback.

The drive was peaceful. The further you drove along the single lane highway, the deeper the snows grew, the quieter the air. You thought of how nice it would be to be alone. Somewhere where even the howls of wolves were muted in the sheets of snow, completely serene.

Not hiding in the corner of the room as others drank and made merry in the false spirit of the season. Not putting on a smile to assuage propriety. Not lying about your plans for the days of cheer. Only you and nature and silence. Well, maybe some non-Christmassy music too.

Then your mind strayed. You had tried to be covert. Tried not to let on your pending absence. FOMA was not an emotion for you, in fact you feared having to partake. You made Nat swear not to tell anyone else; not to let Wanda know until it was too late, not to goad Pepper into her nagging, not to allude to Peter that his “second aunt” would be miles away.

It had almost gone to plan. You woke up early to leave. You lifted your bag, afraid the wheels would give away your escape. You crept to the elevator but when the doors opened, Steve was there. He didn’t miss the guilty frown or the suitcase. He stayed on the elevator, though he’d only just taken it up, and made the descent with you.

“You’re leaving us?” He wondered. “Without a goodbye?”

“I’ll be back. I just didn’t want a whole...thing,” You gripped your suitcase and his hand settled next to yours.

“Let me help you with your bag at least,” He offered. “A Christmas present since you won’t get mine until you return.”

“Present? You didn’t have to--don’t have to--”

“What is it? You hate us, don’t you? Just put up with us for the paycheck?” He kidded.

“Steve,” You rebuked and he subtly tugged the bag away from you. “You know that’s not it.”

“Family?” He asked.

“Well...not exactly.” You admitted as the doors opened and he waved you out ahead of him.

“Not exactly?”

“I’m doing a favour for my aunt. Cleaning out her old summer cabin.” You explained as he followed you across the lobby. “A nice solitary reprieve.”

“Oh, are we that chaotic?”

“Not what I meant,” You grumbled as you passed into the parking garage. “Really. I’ll see you after when the city isn’t so...shiny.”

“Alright.” He wheeled your bag to your car as you popped the trunk. “But I don’t think you realize how much we’ll miss you.”

“You’ll survive,” You scoffed as he lifted your suitcase into the car.

“Mmhmm,” He nodded and you closed the trunk.

“Don’t,” You warned him. “I already got the guilt trip from Tony. You’re better than him.”

“Sure I am,” He shrugged and you shook your head.

“Alright, enough. I gotta go.”

Your farewell was more than that. Steve was persistent, as always. You’d finally managed to get a final goodbye as you were halfway in the car and he blocked you from closing the door. Maybe he didn’t realize how often he was in your way. How often he was at your desk gabbing away as you tried to concentrate on Tony’s chicken scratch or how he always found you on your lunch and kept you from listening to the latest episode of that one podcast. Maybe he didn’t, or maybe he did. Maybe the golden boy was a bit more tarnished than he let on. Or maybe he was as oblivious as he seemed.

You tore your mind back to the road. To the dull lights that shone in your rear view. When had they shown up? You were the only car for the last little stretch, not many ventured into this area later than September. You squinted at the car, the specks of snow obscuring it enough to be just discernible, and looked back to the road ahead.

You were almost there, hopefully before the snow made the way impassable. Before you were forced to park your car in the forest and trek the rest on foot. You’d done it once before, but without the feet of snow to slow you. You wondered if you’d even make it should it come to that.

You made it though. The headlights disappeared from your mind and when you turned off they passed smoothly. You continued up the winding path, just wide enough for your car. Slow, steady, safe. When you pulled up to the side of the cabin you sighed. You’d have to shovel your way in, and maybe out when all was said and done.

You awkwardly pulled on your snow pants in the cramped interior of your car. You hit your head and elbows several times before you were left out of breath but protected. You had to push your way through the snow and into the garage. The shovel was covered in frozen cobwebs, the dusty and undisturbed space smelled like snow and isolation.

You grabbed the shovel and turned back. The snow continued to fall, adding to your chore. A few paths, to the door, to the car, around the back. It’d tire you out and see you til the morning when the real work began.

Your first day was spent dusty and wiping down the tables and walls. The work carried over into the second when at last you managed to sit still for more than a couple minutes. There was wood left in the shed but you were nervous you’d be out in the drifts, almost taller than yourself now, chopping more. You didn’t use much in the summertime when it was reserved for evening fires. Now it was shoved in the stove to heat the front room where you huddled under a blanket and shivered.

The generator powered the 70s style fridge but little else. You were left to flashlights and even an old oil lamp your aunt had bought at a yard sale. It was close to evening, the sky a pale blue threatening to turn pitch black. You sat with a book open in front of you, the words bolder in the reserved quiet of the cabin.

Your cell held the pages down, lifeless and without signal. Your mom couldn’t remind you of your desertion, Tony couldn’t try to guilt you, Nat couldn’t send those weird memes that were frighteningly dark. You were entirely unbothered by the winter owls and the distant snowy creatures of the trees. Christmas Eve had never been so perfect.

The date was in the back of your mind. You’d barely take note of it if it wasn’t on the lock screen. You moved to the sofa and reclined to read another chapter, yawning and curling into a ball. You’d been sleeping there to stay close to the stove and feed it in the early hours to keep it from dying.

Another half chapter and your eyes were closing against your will. You closed the book around your phone and set it on the floor beside the couch. You pulled the blanket to your chin and clicked off the flashlight. You nestled into the cushions, the fire crackling and coaxing you deeper. You fell asleep, a slumber unusually rapt on the night before Christmas.

You didn’t wake to stoke the fire though, not that you realized in your sleep. Undisturbed, unworried. Until you did wake and not of your own accord.

The old cabin was known for its creaks and cracks. First built in the thirties and renovated in the seventies, it was expected. But this wasn’t a groan of aged wood, or the wind battering the old shingles, it was a footstep, and then another, and another. Soft against the hardwood, the clink of dishes, the sound of living.

Your eyes opened and you saw the stove glowing amber; finely stocked and burning boldly. Your heart seized and you sat up so suddenly you had to keep yourself from toppling to the thin carpet below. Surely a bear wouldn’t be so tactful, so careful.

You turned and looked into the kitchen. You recognized the golden head, the broad shoulders as the intruder stood at the kitchen stove. The smell of pancakes filled the cabin and you shivered as the blanket fell from your shoulders. You stood but he didn’t seem to notice.

You tiptoed to the fireplace and grabbed a log from the stack. Surely a meagre weapon against him but what the fuck was he doing here? Steve Rogers in your aunt’s cabin, uninvited and quite possibly, unhinged.

You neared the door of the kitchen and he turned back to you. You held the log at the ready to swing. He held a spatula and was entirely unfazed by your fearful approach.

“Did I wake you?” He asked as if all was as it should be.

“What--What the hell are you doing here?” You clung to the log as he stepped closer.

“You can’t spend Christmas alone,” He said coolly. “I couldn’t let you.”

“Better yet, h-how did you even--did you follow me here?” You pointed the log at him as he tried to step closer. “No. Don’t. Steve, this is weird.”

“It’s dangerous here. All the snow. Out here alone. You need someone.” He replied as he turned back and flipped the pancakes. “Go on and grab a plate, these are almost done.”

You flinched. What was wrong with him? This wasn’t the Steve you knew. Well, it was in that he was sweetly making you breakfast but he was also intruding on your privacy. You stepped closer with the log and poked him.

“Steve, you need to go,” You said. “Now.”

“Now that’s not very grateful, is it?” He ignored the log and went to the cupboard. He pulled out two plates onto the counter and switched off the stove. He piled the flapjacks on them and went to the fridge to find the syrup. “I’ve come here to keep you company, to keep you safe, and I’ve even made you breakfast.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” You kept the wood in front of you as he opened the silver drawer. “You’re really freaking me out.”

“And you want me to go out? Into the storm?” He nodded to the window, white with the whirl of the blizzard just outside. “I barely made it here.”

“Steve,” You whined. “Steve, stop.” You jabbed him harder with the log. He dropped the cutlery on the counter and turned to you slowly. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing is--” He grabbed the log and wrenched it from your grip. “Wrong with me.” He broke it in half easily and dropped it. “What is wrong with you?”

“You’re not supposed to be here.” You insisted as you backed away.

“Will you just sit down and eat your breakfast?”

“I don’t want to. I want you to go.” You said.

“Jesus,” He breathed and wiped his hands on his jeans. “You always do this. You’re such a little tease.”

“What are you talking about?” You felt around as you passed through the doorway backward and he neared slowly.

“I might be born last century but I’m not stupid,” He said. “Your blouses, that smile, the way you chew on your pen when we talk, that fake laugh you put on.”

“Steve, you’re wrong, I never--”

“I just want you to have a Christmas to remember. For us to make our first Christmas special.”

You gulped and peered around. You looked back to him and lunged for the poker leaned against the wall. He grabbed it before you and tossed it away just as he pulled you back. He spun you around and threw you against the sofa. You fell onto it with a painful bounce and tried to push yourself back up. He was on you in and instant.

“Steve!” You yelped. “Steve, please stop!”

You beat on his chest as he wrestled with you. You had to be dreaming. This was some sick nightmare. He was so strong, so decisive. You tried to wake up, hit him hoping you would suddenly jolt up and find the cabin empty, but your eyes were already open and this was just as real as it felt.

He soon had you beneath him, straddled and squirming as he held your hands beside your head. You kicked your legs helplessly and he squeezed your hips between his thick thighs. His blue eyes were dilated and sinister as he pinned you down.

“Shhh, calm down. Please,” He tried to soothe you. “Honey, you can’t open your presents if you’re bad.”

“Honey? Don’t call me honey!” You spat. “Get off of me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” He said. “Please, don’t make me.”

You stilled suddenly. You stared up at him, shocked. Was that a threat? From Steve Rogers? Well, he was on top of you and you felt the twitch in his jeans as he stared down at you.

“You wouldn’t,” You gasped.

“Only if you make me,” His voice was low and grimy. “Don’t make me.”

“Steve,” You pleaded in a whisper. “Please,” You tried to move and barely jostled him. “Let me go.”

He closed his eyes and huffed. He lowered his head and squeezed your wrists. He was angry, frustrated. You were terrified.

“You’ve already let our breakfast go cold,” His words were measured though his tone trembled. “You better start listening, honey, or you’ll ruin the whole day for us.”

“Steve, please…”

“Don’t.”

“Steve.”

“No. Don’t make me.”

“Steve, please, you’re scaring me.”

He let go of your wrists and for a moment, you thought he would get off of you. But he didn’t. Instead, he grabbed the neck of your loose sweatshirt and the tear of fabric was like a crack of lightning. The thin tank top beneath showed your nipples, hard from chill air, and he ripped it just as swiftly.

“No,” You tried to bat his hands away, tried to keep them from your bare chest.

He pushed past your struggles and ground his pelvis into you. “You have to be good.” He hissed. “Or I’ll be bad.”

“Stop,” You sobbed. “Steve.”

You tried to shove him away but he didn’t relent. He bent over you, sliding back just slightly. He held your chin in his large hand as his other tweaked your nippled painfully. “Shhh,” He pressed his lips to yours and muffled your pleas.

His hand continued to toy with you, kneading and pinching painfully. He groaned into your mouth and rocked his hips against you. His hand moved lower as his other threatened to break your jaw. You were forced to open your mouth and he quickly devoured you.

He tugged at the elastic of your sweatpants, hooked his fingers under your cotton panties as he pulled them lower. You reached down to keep them at your waist but he yanked them sharply from your grasp. He lifted his pelvis as he edge them down your thighs.

He withdrew from your lip and held you down with a hand on your chest as his other worked at your pants. You grabbed his wrist, unable to budge him as your pants reached your knees. He got to his knees and you wriggled to get away.

He caught you and pulled your legs out from beneath him. He leaned them against his torso, your feet at his shoulders. He pressed his thighs around your ass as he reached down between your legs. You squirmed and pushed at his hand. Kicked your tangled legs against him. He grabbed your ankles in one hand and held them to his left shoulder.

He shoved his fingers between your thighs and forced them between your folds. He shuddered and pulled his hand away. Your eyes widened, hopeful again. You tried to move your legs but he kept them firm against him. You looked down as he unbuttoned his fly.

“Steve.” You begged. “Steve, I’ll be good.”

“Too late,” He warned. “All you had to do was listen, honey. But you wouldn’t.”

You wheezed as he unzipped his jeans and you looked away as he revealed the head of his swollen cock. You felt him pull himself out entirely and you closed your eyes. You reached down to shove him away with just your fingertips. He ignored you, if he noticed your pathetic resistance at all.

He moved your legs. Pulled them as wide as they would go still caught in your sweats. Not much but enough. He held your left knee and guided himself along your most tender spot. You tried again to draw away but he had you trapped. He leaned over you, bending your legs just slightly as he rubbed his tip against your pussy.

He pushed inside just a little. You were too tight and too dry. You exclaimed and he pulled out. He sighed and you opened your eyes to watch him lick his fingers. You grunted desperately. “Please, don’t.”

He rubbed his slick fingers along you, wetted them again and forced them inside of you. He pressed his thumb to your clit and your body stiffened. Despite your fear, your body responded. He licked his fingers a third time, to taste, to add a little more, and shoved them even deeper.

He played with you a bit and then pulled his fingers out to spread your juices along his cock. He pressed his tip to you again, this time he slid in easily but not painlessly. He didn’t ease himself in. He pushed himself to his limit and past yours and you cried out.

“Ow! Ow! Steve, it hurts. Get off! You’re hurting me, please!”

“I told you,” He thrust once, sharply. “To be good.” He thrust again and you writhed in agony.

You gritted your teeth as you tried to hold back your yelps. He rocked against you steadily, each time you winced at the strain. His hands went to your thighs as he brought himself as deep as he could go. He leaned over you, your back curved as he curled your body beneath him.

He planted his hands beside you as he raised himself over you. He lifted his pelvis and slammed it down, each time adding to the reverberations along your spine. He hammered you into the cushions as you whined. He watched your face as he worked against you, his pupils dark and wide. You grabbed his biceps and dug your nails into his skin.

“It really h--” Your breath caught. Surprised by the sudden tickle that crested the pain. “St-op...It--no.”

You covered your face with your hands as the coil wound tighter. You were ashamed and shocked at your response. The suddenness of the rise. The sounds of his cock gliding in and out of you added to the heat. Filled your head lewdly and carried you higher. You grunted as you were drawn thin and then the release washed over you.

He kept a hand beside you and pulled away your hands as you came. You closed your eyes and he carried on. Never wavered, only sped up. Didn’t let up as he chased another hill and you were forced over the edge again. You could feel his eyes on you, could feel his pleasure at stealing yours.

His groans grew louder and mingled with the sound of his body against yours. They sickening symphony reached its climax and you felt his release. Felt the gush within you as his hips jerked wildly. He emptied in himself inside you. Let forth all that he’d repressed. Anger, longing, resent; every ounce of it spilled out. He was left panting and weak, crushing your legs beneath him as he barely kept himself from slumping over you entirely.

He pushed himself back onto his knees. He pulled out and let your legs fall. Your body twisted as your knees hinged over the edge of the couch. You were shaking as you pulled your sweatshirt over your chest and his large hand settled on your ass. He caressed you, as if he cared, as if he had been sweet.

“We should eat,” He said as he drew away. The couch shifted as he stood and you heard his zipper. “Then we can start opening presents.”

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