#he'd probably hack up a lung

[scoobit9]

Springtrap funtimes

[thepixelelf]

warnings: story starts after a car crash. wc: 1.6k

[sooo, what did I miss?] The first thing you notice when you come to is the acrid fumes in the air. They tickle your nose and rouse a cough from the deepness of your chest, which travels up your throat and comes out as a choke. Your head feels like it's filled with seawater -- like it's been drowning for hours, but you can't let the pain and grogginess hinder you from moving. You have to get out of your car if it's smelling this much like gasoline, and fast.

Your entire body feels stiff. At first, you try to flex your fingers, get the blood pumping enough to make use of them at all. Opening your eyes proves to not be much help. The fumes sting against your eyeballs, and you can't see past the engaged airbag anyhow. Instead, you keep your eyes screwed shut and grunt as you lift both arms to push the deflating airbag out of your way. On muscle memory alone, you fumble for the key in the ignition. Your fingers, for a few seconds, are too weak to twist the key, but after a few determined yanks, you successfully turn off your car. With one possibility of an explosion knocked off the list, you heave yourself off the car seat and shove your body into the driver's side door, thankful when you can open it just fine.

Whatever you'd hit after veering off the road, at least it didn't--

Fuck, why did you veer off the road?

As you fall out of your car, hacking up a storm, having inhaled too much smoke, you try to gather your memories together, but find nothing. There's this lingering feeling... You know something made you jerk both hands on the wheel and swerve off the freeway.

You just don't know what.

Deciding that the memory will probably come back to you later, you stumble a good number of steps away from your car and collapse once again to catch your breath. The cool night air does your lungs well, easing the fire that's still burning in your chest little by little. A metallic taste coats the inside of your mouth. You'd bitten your tongue during the crash.

The roads around you are empty, but what did you expect at sometime-past-three in the goddamn morning? You'd been... yes, you were on your way to the other side of the city, choosing the freeway over the hustle and bustle of traffic in the city streets. Seungcheol had called you.

Well, no. One of Seungcheol's friends had called you using his phone. They asked you to come pick him up from the club they were at because he was apparently "blasted". Though, he was lucid enough to have his friends call you rather than his older sister, who you suspected would chew him out for drinking during his university's exam season.

Even though you're closer to Seonhui, you tend to err on the side of the "cool uncle" type to Seungcheol, despite being only four years older than him. You know, the type of person you can call to pick you up from the bar without getting upset at you for being there in the first place. Someone who has no stake in any of your life decisions, so they get the privilege of not having to judge you for any of them.

He'd said something about Seonhui -- you had heard his voice yelling in the background of the call. Something about how she didn't have to know and about something important he had to tell you when you showed up.

You groan thinking about him. Poor guy; now his sister actually does have to know because her friend is an idiot who drives off freeways for no discernible reason. Feeling around your pockets, you sigh in relief when you find your phone. There's no way you'd want to search your now hellmouth of a car for it.

You know the logical thing to do first is call emergency services, but you could be on the phone with them for who knows how long. Might as well tell the person who's depending on you that you can't make it. Dialling the most recent number isn't difficult, really, although you're starting to feel the chill in the air. You shiver as you bring your phone up to your ear.

"You've reached the voicemail of--"

His voice interrupts the automated one. "Choi Seungcheol."

"--please leave a message after the tone."

You frown at the beep that rings in your ear. Seungcheol should be looking at his phone if he's waiting for you to pick him up, or at least have the ringer on. You wait only a few seconds after hanging up to call him again.

This time, the low trill rings twice before he picks up.

"...Hello?"

You're a bit out of it at this point, having just crashed your car and all, but you think he sounds... slow, like he just woke up, but also hesitant. Since you can't think of a reason he'd sound like that, though, you just ignore it.

"Hey, listen," you say, voice raspy from all those noxious fumes. "I can't pick you up anymore. Sorry"

He doesn't respond for a moment.

A long moment.

"...What?"

He must be pretty drunk.

"I got into a little accident. Princess--" That's what you, Seonhui, and Seungcheol affectionately call your shitty 2007 Honda Civic. You look over at your still-smoldering car and grimace. "--she's done for."

More silence. It's strange... there's no sound in the background, either. Did he move outside?

"Anyway, you're gonna either have to bite the bullet and call Seonhui or maybe try an Uber--"

"Is this some sort of sick joke?"

Your words come to a halt at his sudden, bitter tone, and you let out an incredulous huff of a laugh. "Look, man, I crashed Princess on the side of the road, so I'm sorry" --your tongue curls sarcastically around the apology-- "that I can't pick you up from your drunken bender."

"How do you know about Princess?"

"What the hell are you on about, Seungcheol? How do I know about my car?" An exasperated breath escapes you, and you choke on it for a second. After the short coughing fit has cleared, you bring your phone back to your ear. "You're drunker than I thought. Don't you have an exam soon or something?"

"Exam-- who is this?"

That makes you pause.

"Seungcheol," you say, simply. "It's me."

Another moment of quiet passes, and you wonder to yourself if you've suffered a concussion.

Then he asks, "What's my favourite food?"

"What does that have to do--"

"Answer the question."

Sighing, you wrap your free arm around your middle in a futile attempt to stay warm. "You tell everyone it's pork cutlet, but I know for a fact that you keep a stash of white chocolate in your room."

You hear him exhale. "Fuck."

"I don't underst--"

"Where are you?" he asks, a frantic tone to his voice now.

"Umm..." You glance around. "Highway 216... close to exit thirty-four."

"Don't move. I'm coming to get you."

You shake your head, struggling to keep up. "What? If you're calling me an Uber, don't bother. I have to call EMS to file the--"

"Don't," Seungcheol insists, and you have no idea why, but you feel inclined to listen. "Listen to me. Do not call anyone. Wait until I get there."

"There's a fine if you don't report an accident in twenty-four hours."

"Trust me." The sound of a car door slamming shut on his end of the line only gives you more questions. "You don't need to bother."

=

It takes only fifteen minutes for Seungcheol to find you, and by then you're shivering from head to toe.

A car you've never seen before pulls over and parks hastily near where you're standing (the cold ground got a little too cold). Its four-way flashers turn on before a familiar-ish figure exits and starts making his way towards you, silhouetted by the car's headlights.

"Since when can you drive?" you call out first, since it's definitely a surprise to you seeing your friend's little brother behind the wheel. You could've sworn Seonhui was whining about his lack of license a week ago. "And-- wait, should you be driving? You were just drinking--" He steps even closer, and you see the wisps of his hair lit by the headlights behind him. "Are you blond? When did that--"

You don't get the chance to finish your question. Seungcheol pulls you tightly into him, his hand on the back of your head pressing your face into his coat so all you can really say is "oomph."

Seungcheol's never really hugged you before. At least, not like this. His fingers dig into the fabric of your clothes, like he's clutching desperately to something that will slip from his grasp if he loosens his hold even in the slightest.

It faintly registers to you that he doesn't smell like alcohol at all.

You try to speak, muffled as you are against his coat. "Seungcheol, what--"

"I dyed my hair last week," he says, breathless. The words are panted over your ear, and it's then you fully realize how closely he's wrapped himself around you. You go to say something about how you saw his black hair just the other day, but he continues. "I'm four years sober next month."

The numbers are not crunching. "That doesn't--"

"And my license," he says, finally pulling back just enough so that you can see his face. "I got that in 2018."

You frown. "It's 2016."

Seungcheol breathes out your name, but all you hear is warning bells. You can tell by the pitying look on his face -- as much as it's mixed with relief. You're not going to like what he says next.

"It's 2023," he tells you, saying your name again like it's precious. He holds you tighter. "You've been missing for seven years."

[forestshadow-wolf]

MP officers don't like to be embarrassed

Soap learned this...

Look it's not his fault, really. The guy was talking a load of shit, and soap's just supposed to what? Sit around while the guy is actively making someone's life miserable because he's a bigot? He thinks not.

Admittedly knocking the officer out, and locking him in his own car... wasn't the smartest. But it's not like he couldn't get out easily, the locks are inside the car, it's basically no big deal. Plus he got off scot free.

... until he didn't

While that mp officer was too embarrassed to take legal action, he was embarrassed enough to round up a few buddies and a metal bat, and meet him around the back of the local pub. That was... uhh... fun(?)

Look, he can and did hold his own, but they got the jump on him, and had a significant advantage. so it's not his fault for taking a few nasty hits

So needless to say he didn't exactly walk away unscathed... nor did he walk away, exactly.

He was out with a few friends, and left for a quick smoke. suffice to say he wasn't prepared for the harsh shove into the wall, nor the brutal kick to the crown jewels that had him keeling over. dirty bastards.

he could hear the someone talking to him, presumably whoever he'd beat up and locked in the car — something Collins, he didn't really remember — unfortunately he was too busy hacking up a lung, from the pain.

he manages to gather himself enough to claw his way up to a knee, breathing through the pain, and deliver a (hopefully) hefty fist to whoever's gut was directly in front of him. the following groan and wheeze had a strained smile gracing his fact.

though, apparently the rest of the guys weren't too happy about that, because next thing he knew he was narrowly avoiding a kick to the ribs from what he knew was probably steel-toed boots.

there wasn't really time for pain then, or there was, just- he was a bit busy trying not to get beaten to a pulp. there was a satisfying crack as his fist landed in someone's nose, but the returning blow to his cheek had him stumbling back. he stepped out of the way of another cheap shot, and suddenly there was a bat flying at his head. it whooshed past his face as he leaned away from it.

he grabbed another flying fist and yanked to meet jaw with knuckles, and the guy was down. not a moment after a kick to the back of the knee, and the temple, had him on the ground. letting momentum take control, he met the ground and rolled a half turn to the left, successfully avoiding a face full of knee.

he was quick to scramble back to his feet, and send a flying fist into someone's eye socket. it landed heavy, and had him panting, but he didn't let up, shoving the guy around to put him in a headlock. he panted as he squeezed, cutting off air supply, and feeling the guy struggle less and less.

whatever happened next was a blur as simultaneously, the guy in his grasp fell limp, and blinding white hot pain exploded in his knee, and patches of darkness starburst in his vision. he released his grip and fell on top of the now unconscious guy that was in his grip. whipping around he grabbed at an ankle and pulled with all his strength, crawling up the last guy's body, to pummel his fists into his face until they came back bloody.

he sat back on his knees panting, as the fight slowly drained away, and the adrenaline with it. the pain began flooding back in as the adrenaline left, consequently making his knee scream at him, with all the weight on it.

with a strained sound of pain, he hauled himself up with the wall. his face throbbed, and his ribs ached, his crotch needed ice (badly), and his knee felt like it was caught in an ever-tightening vice.

He left the four unconscious guys behind as he managed to limp/hobble his way back to his buddies. man, all he wanted was a smoke, not to get beaten up by four guys.

he refused the worried suggestions from his buddies, to take him to a hospital. all he wanted was to just sleep this all off, and he'd probably be fine in the morning.

they managed to drag him almost all the way back to the barracks, before his knee buckled and sent him crashing down to the ground for the sixth time, just outside the barracks room. at which point he decided they were close enough, and waved them off.

next thing he knew there was a doctor, and about half the barracks surrounding him. ugh fuck, fine fine. doctor's already here, might as well get checked out.

Concussion, slight internal bleeding, broken ribs, a few broken knuckles, torn meniscus, and a shit ton of bruising. most of it wasn't to bad, and didn't take too long to heal. but the knee took months and month of PT even after surgery, to finally be in working order again.

[endcrman]

Allostasis

(Chapter 3)

As a general rule of thumb, Grian doesn’t do public servers for a multitude of reasons. This one hadn’t even made it onto the list.

TW for implied sexual assault, PTSD symptoms, and Self-Neglect

(This is a comfort chapter in the hurt/comfort fic)

Read the whole fic here. (Here for Ao3/mobile.)

-

Panic enveloped him first, before anything else.

He was surrounded by water, he realized, unable to stop himself from gasping, liquid rushing to fill his lungs. His eyes shot open, stinging from whatever else was in the water with him, everything blurry. His wings were heavy, pulling him deeper, deeper even as he flailed, trying to pull himself above the surface.

He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, fast, jackhammering away as his desperate lungs tried to pull in another breath- only more water. He felt dizzy, flailing hopelessly, arms feeling heavier and heavier, until they met something solid.

The surface was covered, he was trapped.

His vision started going dark as panic enveloped his entire being.

There was muffled shouting as he faded away again.

Grian gasped, sitting up suddenly as he woke. He found his own hand at his throat as he coughed, almost as if the imaginary liquid could leave his lungs still, the memory of his dream sending him reeling.

He hadn't noticed the hushed voices from just outside his door until they stopped, pausing at the commotion he was making. Two pairs of eyes peeked around the doorframe, both landing on him easily, not like he'd moved at all, and Grian couldn't stop himself from shrinking at the attention.

“Grian!” Scar was too loud, too excited, too eager as he rushed inside, towards the bed. “Joel told me a little about what was happening, you should have told me!”

He felt his face crinkle at the thought, looking away from the other at the much more interesting wall. Had that crack in that plank always been there?

There was a beat before Scar spoke again, voice quieting down a bit to a much more tolerable level. “Sorry, guess that's probably why you didn't tell me. I can go if you want? I don't know- Joel said I should come over, he told me you said it was okay but we both know how he can be-”

“Hey!” Joel cut off his rambling, sounding offended. “He did say it was okay. Give him a blummin’ moment Scar, you're going to get yourself kicked out.”

“Sorry,” Grian managed, throat feeling even more sore from hacking his lungs out a moment ago, “still- still tired.”

“That's fine,” Scar quickly assured him, reaching out to touch Grian's shoulder despite Joel's hissed warning. “No need for sorries, take your time.”

Despite Joel's concerns, Grian relaxed under the small touch. He hadn't realized just how much he missed this, even the little touches, not until Joel had been standing behind him carefully detangling his hair.

“Helped convince him to take a shower and eat,” Joel spoke softly, clearly not to Grian himself. “His voice is a bit rough though, like you heard,” and Joel's attention turned toward him again. “Did you want more tea, Grian?”

He thought about it for a moment, but the soreness in his throat had yet to let up. “Less honey this time?” He asked, finally looking back over at his two friends.

“You got it boss.” And Joel was off, busying himself over the stove.

“Honey's supposed to be good for your throat,” Scar interjected, making a wheezy laugh escape Grian.

“Yeah, that's why he put too much in last night,” he hummed, before thinking a bit more on it. “Earlier? I- I don't know how long it's been.”

“Probably just earlier,” Scar's voice was soft, at least for now, before he got too excited to remember it again. “He said he came over this morning.”

“Mm.” He couldn't think of any other way to respond, simply acknowledging the fact. This morning. Judging by the light outside his windows, he'd been out for most of the day then, the sun would be setting soon. “Are you staying the night?” He asked, as soon as the thought came to mind.

“Oh- uh, I think that was the plan? As long as you're alright with that,” Scar seemed unsure, fidgeting in place. “You can kick me out whenever, but Joel said you probably shouldn't be alone right now.”

Grian felt his lip curl, even though Joel was probably right. “I'm not going to kick you out, Scar.” He glanced over at the other, noting how he twisted his hands together, a ball of energy. “Did Joel pull you away from a build?”

“What? No!” Scar lied, laughing as he deliberately placed his hands on the armrests of his chair. “Don't worry about it, G, I'd rather be here anyway.”

“Don't be like that,” Grian scoffed, rolling his eyes. “What did Joel even tell you anyways? How much of my business did he spill?” He wasn't actually upset at Joel, not really, but he felt bitter.

“Not a lot!” Scar's hands were raised again, as if trying to calm a panicked animal. “Just… that you've been here a while now, and you've been having an episode, but you won't say why. Not that you have to! Just- that's what he told me.”

“An episode,” Grian repeated bitterly, mumbled under his breath.

“Like- Like a PTSD episode,” Scar clarified, wringing his hands again.

Grian grimaced at the bluntness, looking away from Scar again. He almost wished for his comm, but he knew it was a bad idea, who knew what kinds of messages could be waiting on there. “Who said I have PTSD?” He bluffed, knowing there were at least a couple of Hermits who would confirm as much, it wasn't his best kept secret.

“Grian…” Scar's hand was on his shoulder yet again, and he couldn't stop himself from relaxing under it immediately. “You don't have to tell me anything, okay? Just let me know how I can help. If I can help.”

For a while it was quiet, just the distant sounds of Joel opening and closing different chests. Grian hadn't even realize he started crying until Scar was pulling away.

“Joel?” Grian could hear the concern in his voice, even though he hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't.

Grian whipped around, grabbing Scar's wrist and holding on far too tight, feeling the tears roll down his cheeks. “D-don't leave,” he barely managed. Scar's other hand moved from the wheel of his chair, gently wrapping his fingers around Grian's grip.

“Oh, Grian…” Scar's voice almost matched his in volume, and for once Grian couldn't bring himself to care how full of pity it was. Maybe just this once he needed a little pity. “I'm sorry, I thought… I thought I upset you. I was just going to get Joel.”

“Please don't leave me.” It was pathetic, he felt pathetic, he was pathetic; but the last time Scar left him alone… He hiccuped, free hand rubbing furiously at his face. “Please, Scar-”

“I'm not going anywhere, Grian.” He barely managed to slip his hand out of Grian's grip, only to lace their fingers together, other hand sandwiching Grian's between them. “You're okay, I'm here.”

There were footsteps approaching, and then silence for a moment. Grian looked up just in time to see the look Joel and Scar were sharing, before their joint attention was on him again.

“I'm going to put this here,” Joel said once he realized Grian was watching him, setting the mug of tea on the bedside table. “For when you're thirsty again.”

Grian sniffled, nodding a little. “Th-thanks. Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand, squeezing Scar's with the other.

“It's fine,” Joel assured him, reaching out to brush Grian's hair out of his face again. “... Do you want me to stay? I was going to head out soon now that Scar is here, but I don't have to.”

Grian quickly shook his head, almost immediately undoing the progress Joel had made on his hair again. “Don't- don't stay just because you feel like you have to,” he insisted, even though that was exactly what Scar was doing. “You've been here all day.”

“Meh,” Joel shrugged, keeping his hands to himself this time. “I don't mind staying longer, but if you want me to go…” He glanced over to where Grian's comm was resting, just next to the cup of tea. “Don't hesitate to call me, either of you!”

Scar pulled a hand away to salute. “Sir yes sir!” He said earnestly, a smile on his face. Grian couldn't stop the tiny laugh that made its way through his tears, Scar's ridiculousness a balm on the entire situation. 

“Good, good.” And Joel was making his way toward the door, hesitating. “Grian,” he had paused in the doorway, biting his lower lip. “We're here for you, alright? Ping me and I'll be over in an instant.”

Grian's chest hurt, and it took everything in him not to sob as he nodded a little. His voice was shaking as he managed a single word, “okay.” And then Joel was gone.

It probably wasn't actually that fast, he probably waited by the door for another minute or two, waiting to see if Grian changed his mind. Though once he finally managed to blink away his tears again it was just him and Scar, who was cradling his hand between his own once more.

“You should drink your tea,” Scar's voice was still quiet as he raised the hand not directly intertwined with Grian's fingers, thumb brushing away some of the wetness on his cheek. “Replace some of those liquids you just lost.”

“Not sure that's how it works,” he mumbled, head tilting into the touch.

“Wouldn't hurt either though.” Scar’s hand started to pull away, only for Grian to hold on to it even tighter. “I’m not going anywhere, G-man, just think you should use two hands to hold the mug, you’re a bit shaky.”

Grian wet his lips, squeezing Scar’s hand again. “... Promise?”

Scar squeezed right back. “Cross my heart.”

Reluctantly, Grian dropped Scar’s hand. He forced himself to keep calm even as the other pulled away a bit, picking up the mug to hand to him, which he took in trembling hands himself. Scar was right, of course, he was in no state to use just one.

“Thank you,” he murmured, before taking a sip of the tea, thanking the void it wasn’t as sweet as the last time he’d had it, he wasn’t sure he could stomach it again. He watched over the mug as Scar rolled minutely closer to the bed before activating the brakes, fiddling with his hands in his lap before looking up again, catching the other's gaze before Grian's eyes quickly darted away.

“Aren't you going to ask?” His words were muffled, spoken into the mug and swallowed by it.

“Ask what?” He could see Scar lean forward a bit in the corner of his eye.

He took another sip of tea, delaying the inevitable. “What happened.”

Scar was quiet for a moment, clearly thinking about what to say next, which wasn't always something he did. Grian almost snickered at the thought, but Scar was speaking finally.

“No, I don't think so,” he looked thoughtful, resting his chin on his fist. “You'll tell me if you want to, Joel said you might, but I'm not gonna push it.” It was quiet again, and after a moment Scar looked up, meeting Grian's eyes once more. “Unless you want me to ask, would that make it easier?”

Grian winced at being seen through so easily, looking down into the mug just to avoid contact. “... It might, yeah.”

“Hm, alright.” He didn't sound judgemental, he never did, but Grian couldn't help but feel nervous. “... It has to do with whatever happened at that convention, doesn't it? When we got split up?”

Grian almost felt like he was there again, surrounded by people on all sides, pushing in on him, no care for his personal space— “Yes,” he choked out, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “It was- it- yes.” He felt Scar's hand rest on his forearm, though he didn't look away from the small bit of tea left in the mug.

“I'm sorry, Grian,” he mumbled, continuing before Grian could tell him it wasn't his fault. “What… What happened? Who did this to you?”

He could feel tears welling up in his eyes again, and he couldn't tell if it was from remembering, or the care that Scar was putting into the situation. “My ex, he- he was on the server. I hadn't spoken with him since high school,” the words sounded legible to him at least, but he'd be a fool to assume that was entirely the truth, voice beginning to shake again as tears rolled down his cheeks for what felt like the millionth time that day.

“He hit you?” Scar gasped, hand gripping a little tighter at Grian's arm.

“I was- I wasn't letting him-” Grian hiccuped, hands going white-knuckled around the mug. “He wanted to touch my wings,” he sobbed, almost spilling what little was left of the tea with how much he was shaking.

“Oh, Grian…” The mug was taken from his hands and set aside, replaced by Scar’s own hand, giving him something softer to squeeze, hopefully not hurting him. “I’m so sorry.”

He was fighting for air through the tears, squeezing Scar’s hand even tighter, pulling it closer towards him as he curled inwards. “He- When we were-” He was broken off by another sob. “Th-they were the only things I had left. I didn’t have them in school. They were mine and now- a-and now-”

“Grian. Grian,” Scar carefully placed his free hand on the other’s shoulder, leaning in close.

“He ruined them!” Grian wailed, unable to stop himself, unable to look Scar in the eyes. “He- he ruined me,” he hiccuped, quieter.

He gasped as he was suddenly pulled into Scar’s arms, almost falling off of the bed. Instead of doing anything else to balance himself, he clung to Scar, sobbing into his shoulder. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry,” he whimpered, feeling the fabric beneath his cheek growing wetter and wetter.

“Shhh…” Scar held him close, and it felt safer than it did restricting, even when he squeezed his arms tighter around him. “Grian, void, Grian, you’re not ruined,” he murmured quietly, face buried in his hair, speaking just above his ear. “You’re not ruined,” he repeated, one of his hands moving up to hold the back of his head, running fingers through his hair. “You can’t… you can’t give him that power over you,” his own voice was shaking slightly, “it’s not your fault.”

Grian couldn’t stop the tears, he couldn’t stop shaking, long ignored sobs escaping his lungs. “I- he made me- I-I feel so disgusting,” he choked out, sure that his nails were digging into Scar’s flesh now, just another thing he couldn’t do right, “I can’t- I can’t look at them, t-touch them- they’re so- and I can’t- I can’t fix them.”

“I’m sorry, Grian, I’m so sorry.” He didn’t even flinch away from Grian’s harsh grip, carefully rocking the two of them back and forth, as much as he could sitting like this. “I wish I could have been there, I wish I could have stopped him. I’m sorry.”

His breath caught on another sob, shaking his head. “You- you did, sort of,” he admitted, his throat beginning to ache again from just how much he was using it now. “When you came looking for me I-” He sniffled, “I stopped it, because- because I heard you. I could.” It wasn’t the full truth, but it was enough.

“Void, I'm so sorry, you're so strong,” Scar mumbled, his hold on the other tightening even more. “Never forget that. You're so, so brave, I'm sorry that you had to be.”

It hurt too much to keep speaking. For now, Grian kept quiet, still sobbing softly into Scar's shoulder. And Scar— the angel— didn't let go, he didn't push him, just held him close, humming softly to him. When he did try to pull away, Grian's grip only tightened again.

“Hey, hang on there,” Scar's voice was still so unusually quiet. “Your back must hurt, at least let me get up on the bed with you.”

It hadn't exactly been at the forefront of his mind, but now that Scar had mentioned it, Grian was far too aware of the sharp soreness in his spine from leaning over too much for too long. He hesitated, because of course he did, before carefully extracting himself from Scar's hold, scooting over to make some extra room on the bed. “I'm tired,” he said softly, newly freed hands rubbing tears away from his eyes, “so hurry up.”

“It'll take as long as it takes,” Scar's tone was just a little lighter. Regardless of what he said, it didn't take too long at all for him to carefully roll into Grian's bed, propped up slightly against the pillow behind him— and immediately Grian was in his arms again, face buried in his chest.

Grian all but melted as Scar started running a hand through his hair. His eyes were still wet, but he wasn't choking on sobs anymore, which he considered an improvement.

“I could help with your wings tomorrow, if you want.” He felt Scar's voice in his chest more than he heard it. “Only if you want me to though, but I think it’d be good to have them cleaned up.”

“I think… I think you’re right,” Grian could only hope Scar actually heard him, the closeness only muffling his soft voice even more. “Maybe… I’d like that.”

“You can decide for sure tomorrow, don’t worry about it right now. Just sleep for now,” Scar murmured, holding onto Grian just a bit tighter.

As exhausted as he was, who was Grian to argue? Slowly drifting off without a word in opposition, finally feeling safe.

-

Grian’s sleep was easy and dreamless that night, a privilege he had not been afforded in the previous week or so, however long he’d been stuck in this rut. When he woke again it was slow, he felt warm, limbs heavy like they were full of lead, but comfortable nonetheless. He could feel a weight over his torso, an arm he realized, holding him close, and finally he cracked open his eyes.

Directly in front of him, blocking the sunlight from hitting his face directly, was Scar, drooling on his pillow.

Grian couldn’t stop the ugly snort that escaped him at the sight, throwing his arms up over his face to block the view, trying to silence the laughter bubbling up inside of him, not wanting to wake the other too early. Though judging by the movement next to him, he failed.

“Mmh, Grian?” Scar’s arm slid off of him, regrettably, but Grian could still feel his body heat, even if he was covering his eyes. “G? You alright?”

He could feel his shoulders shaking, and before he could stop it he burst out laughing, tired giggles escaping his throat as he squeezed his arms tighter, as if that could stop it. He heard a sigh from beside him, before Scar was chuckling softly too.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Scar’s voice was still full of sleep, but he sounded less worried than a moment or two ago, which Grian hadn’t even noticed until just now.

The laughter eventually quieted down and he could bring himself to uncover his face, unable to stop the huge grin from growing, still somewhat hiding behind his hands as he peeked through his fingers at the other. Scar was awake now, clearly, a tired smile on his own face, hair sticking up in every direction possible, at least he wasn’t drooling anymore.

“Heya goof, back with me?” Scar teased, his forever charming smile already contrasting the image Grian had just woken up to, the thought of which made him snicker a little again.fa

“Yeah,” was what he said when he finally managed to make words again, still grinning a bit. “Just glad you stayed, I guess.”

“Uh huh,” Scar didn’t sound convinced, but his amused look didn’t disappear even as he sat up, yawning. “Where would I have gone?” He reached out, hesitating for a moment, but then his hand was brushing through Grian’s hair.

Grian settled into the touch like a particularly pleased cat, eyes fluttering shut as he let out a soft hum. “Dunno, just glad I’m not alone anymore,” he mumbled, not really processing the words before they left him. He’d be embarrassed if he thought about it for too long, so instead he opened his eyes again, looking up at Scar. “Help me with my wings?” He pivoted, knowing he’d be unlikely to work up the courage again.

Scar’s brows furrowed a bit at that, hand stopping for a moment— though it continued again before Grian could complain. “You still want me to? Not just ‘cause you should or whatever?”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded a little, careful not to jostle Scar’s hand. “Yeah. Yeah I mean, I should for sure but… I don’t know if I can myself,” Grian bit the inside of his cheek, looking away from Scar’s eyes now. “And… I don’t trust just anyone to do it for me, you know. And you have experience.”

“Aww, Grian,” Scar cooed, looking touched when Grian finally met his eyes again. “It’s been a while, you’ll have to tell me if I’m too rough.”

“I don’t think you can be,” Grian said mostly to himself, finally sitting up as well. “... Do you… do you want to do it right now? Before I freak out too much and change my mind?” He pitched his tone up, trying to make it sound more joke than truth, though he knew Scar could see right through him.

“Oh, of course, yeah, come here,” Scar hummed, thankfully not commenting on Grian's nervousness barely bubbling under the surface.

Carefully they maneuvered so Grian was almost sitting in Scar's lap, facing away from him of course. It was another couple of minutes before he took a deep breath, slowly spreading his wings. He heard a sharp inhale from behind him, making his hair stand on end.

“Jeez, Gri,” Scar murmured. He could feel the other's hands hovering just above his wings, not quite touching yet. “This might take me a bit,” he spoke up after a moment, “I don't think I've seen them quite like this before.”

Grian swallowed thickly, a lump forming in his throat. “Is- Is it really bad?” He asked, trying to keep his voice strong. 

“Nothing we can't handle together,” Scar promised, “just breathe, I'm going to start now.”

Grian took a deep breath at Scar's suggestion, and then he felt fingers in his feathers. His head started spinning as he was almost thrown back into the past, back to the convention, back against the wall, hands clawing at his wings— but Scar's touch was so gentle, grounding him in the moment, so careful that he couldn't realistically equate the two. 

“Is this okay so far?” Scar's voice was soft, barely audible in Grian's ear. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

“You're doing fine,” he choked on his own words, but that didn't stop Scar’s hands, carefully working each feather one by one until it laid flat, plucking those damaged from his own miscare.

“Thank you for letting me do this,” Scar murmured after a particularly tough tug. “So strong. Your wings are going to look a-may-zing after this.”

Grian wasn't sure when he started crying again, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. It seemed Scar was just as unaware, focused on the task at hand until Grian sniffed, raising a hand to rub at his face. 

His hands didn't stop, thank the void, though they did slow. “You holding on alright there, Grian?” He smoothed a hand down the small area he'd already finished, making Grian relax under the touch. 

Grian couldn't help the chirp that escaped him, clear as day even through the tears. “Y-yeah,” he choked after, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. “It's good, just- just a lot.”

“Okay, let me know if you need a break.” Scar meant well, but Grian was fairly certain if they took a break, he wouldn’t let the other start again. Regardless, he nodded a little, even if he lacked the intent behind it.

Their conversation, if it could even be called that, dropped off at that point. Every once in a while Scar would murmur gentle praises and gratitudes, more speaking at Grian than with him, seeing as he didn’t respond and Scar never pushed him to. The tears had dried once more by the time Scar had finished with the first wing and moved onto the other, manually stretching out the muscles that had subconsciously retracted.

Grian almost could have fallen asleep under Scar’s ministrations once he calmed again, breathing steady and slow as he absentmindedly fiddled with the hem of his sweater, movements slow and without purpose. He hadn’t even noticed when Scar eventually stopped, reaching the end of the task at hand.

“Hey, Gri, how’s everything feeling?” Scar’s voice startled Grian out of his own head, his little jolt earning a laugh. “Wake up, sleepyhead. How do your wings feel?”

“Mm?” Words weren’t working quite yet, but they were jump-started again as soon as he spread his wings, startled by just how good they felt. “Oh- Scar they’re- they feel fantastic,” his voice was quiet, and he could almost feel tears welling up again.

“Good,” Scar sounded relieved, running his fingers through Grian’s feathers one last time, making him shiver a little. “They look really good too, so clean and bright, I’m glad I could help.”

“I-” Grian choked for a moment, suddenly yearning for the feeling of air beneath his wings again. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed it. “I need to fly,” he scrambled out of bed, stumbling a little and ignoring Scar’s laugh. “I’ll be right back, I promise, I just-”

“Go.” Scar was grinning, but Grian felt bad leaving him covered in the small pile of broken feathers.

“Five minutes,” he promised, holding up a hand. “Five minutes, then I’ll be back to clean up and we can have breakfast and- and whatever else you want to do today. Five minutes.”

“Five minutes,” Scar agreed, with a knowing smile.

Grian all but dove out the front door, a whooping cheer leaving him for the first time in forever as he spiraled through the air. Fifteen minutes later, he was sheepishly creeping back inside to Scar, windswept hair and a bright smile on his face. He didn’t feel quite so bad about the time though, not when Scar was grinning so wide right back at him.

[zmediaoutlet]

murder in the city

for @wincestwednesdays - blood

They've started dimming the bunker lights at night. More like a real place, that way, a motel or a house to squat in. The concrete floors are cold on Sam's bare feet. Still doesn't totally know his way around, but that's all right. There are plenty of long nights ahead to figure out the layout. Or maybe not that many. He's been trying not to think about it, but. Lot of long nights.

The infirmary, the gun range, the library. The kitchen, and the coffeepot, and the newspaper left on the island with a couple of obits circled in thick sharpie, and it's probably meant to be a distraction for him but it's probably a real job, too. Sam leans over to check it out but his eyes blur and he sinks to his elbows, and then puts his forehead down to his clenched fists. His mouth tastes like pennies. All the time now, practically. In his throat the urge to cough rises and he breathes very carefully through his nose because he just—doesn't want to. He doesn't want to have to.

A box of black Lipton appeared on the shelves, when he kept coughing and hasn't stopped. He heats water in the old-school steel kettle, leaning against the stovetop, his fingers shoved in to the soft part of his throat next to his windpipe. Like if he strangles himself maybe that horrible tickling urge won't creep in. He keeps his eyes closed and feels his pulse thump against his fingertips, slow and steady. Imagines a day sometime soon when that'll change. Either staggering and erratic or all-too-fast—like years ago, in those worse days, when there was no unexplained tea as a clumsy attempt at care, when the iron-taste riming his teeth was all his own fault.

If all this goes the way he expects, it'll be yet another broken promise. His ears ring. It takes a second to swim past that to realize that, no, it's the kettle, whistling. God, he's tired.

"You gonna make your tea or do I gotta do it for you, Miss Marple?"

He jerks, turns. "I—sorry. Didn't mean to wake you up."

"Unless you made me have to pee I think you're innocent, this time," Dean says, but not really smiling. He's wearing the robe he claimed, hands deep in the pockets. Squinting at Sam across the kitchen like there's something to see.

Sam turns and busies himself with the kettle. Splashing over the tea bag, pouring too fast so that it judders out of the spout, spattering the back of his hand. He hisses, and for the hissing he's punished with not being able to keep the cough down, and it stings, god—stings so bad, not that deep down-in-the-lungs coughing that feels like it's actually doing something, like the one time he got the flu and thought he'd turn inside out, but just—scratching, shredding, making his eyes water and his mouth fill with—

"Jeez, you're a safety hazard," Dean says, and he's right there, at Sam's side, taking the kettle away, a clatter of the steel somewhere, and then his hand heavy between Sam's shoulderblades. Warm, patient, while Sam hacks and shudders and tries to remember how to take breaths that feel clean. "Yeah, okay. Get it out."

There's no getting it out. Sam inhales very cautiously through his nose and doesn't say it, because that would be cruel, and it's too late or maybe early to get into that kind of fight. Especially when Dean's warm against him, and soft in that robe. His arm slides down around Sam's back, and Sam doesn't need help walking but he lets Dean take him over to the sink, and he leans down with his elbows on the porcelain rim and washes his mouth clean, spitting. With the lights low he hopes Dean can't see the color.

He sits with his back to the table and watches Dean move around the kitchen. His space, like the library's Sam's. Dean wipes up the spilled water and puts the kettle back in its place and glances at Sam, and then goes to the pantry shelf where he's got a bottle of bourbon stashed and pours a healthy glug into Sam's mug. "Seriously?" Sam says, and Dean shrugs and then pours another mug full of bourbon for himself, and brings both of them over to the table. He holds Sam's out to him handle-first and says, "It's medicine," and Sam smiles at him, too tired to do otherwise. Dean clunks his mug against Sam's, very carefully, and Sam winds the trailing string of the teabag over his knuckles and takes a sip, cautious. Hot, both temperature and alcohol, but sweet too. Might not really help but it feels good, and that's something, at least.

Dean waits for him to swallow, and then drinks his own mug down in a single shot. Grimaces into it, when it's empty. He looks as tired as Sam feels. Maybe more. Sam sits forward and sets his hand on Dean's hip, sorry in this—thin, entirely inadequate way. Knowing he'd make the same choice all the same. Dean licks his lips and sets his mug on the table by Sam's shoulder and then steps between Sam's knees, and Sam puts his forehead to Dean's sternum and holds Dean around the waist. Warm dark. His mouth tastes like bourbon now, at least.

Fingers through Sam's hair, carding it off the back of his neck. "You slept through the night once, this week?"

He takes a deep, careful breath. Raw over his raw throat. He's not supposed to lie, anymore. He promised. Dean's always asking Sam to make promises he'll be forced to break. "Once, I think," he says.

Dean sighs but doesn't call him out. Maybe he doesn't want to fight, either. Ever since they moved in here it's been—good. Better. Dean happy to have a home and Sam just—well, it doesn't matter. He leaves his forehead against Dean's chest and feels his breath rise and fall, his fingers tucked just barely inside the elastic of his boxers, holding on. Dean has a place, here, the safest place either of them has ever seen, and all this knowledge at his fingertips, and if Sam manages not to screw up these trials then it'll be—worth it. The world safer and Dean… he'll be okay, Sam thinks. In this bunker their family gave them. It's worth it, for that.

"Can't believe I got up for this sappy crap," Dean says, very quiet.

"Thought you said you had to pee," Sam says, muffled, and Dean says, "I can multitask," and then tugs on Sam's hair at the back so he's forced to tip his head and look up, and before he can say anything Dean dips down and kisses him, soft with a closed mouth, just—pressing close. When their lips part with barely a sound he holds there, his forehead against Sam's and their noses brushing and his breath coming slow against Sam's mouth. Steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. Sam's anchored his whole life to it more than once. He touches Dean's throat and then drags his fingertips down, hooking the collar of his t-shirt, feeling that empty space where he used to wear—but that doesn't matter, now. Dean's here. Nothing matters more than that.

"You're wearing my shirt," Sam says, fingers caught in the v-neck.

"Finders keepers," Dean says, and then lifts up, and tucks Sam's hair behind both of his ears, and looks at him, eyes low and tender in the dim. "Man," he says, soft, and Sam doesn't know why, but then Dean touches his chin with one thumb and says, in a more normal voice, "Finish your tea, princess, and then come back to bed, huh? Cold down there without the human space heater."

"Not exactly selling it with your icicle feet," Sam says, and Dean shrugs, smiling at him kinda one-sided, but then he leaves the kitchen, and Sam's left there, listening to him scuff along the hall until he can't. He sits with his mug in both hands, looking at nothing across the empty kitchen. Since the first red spot he's been composing a note, mentally. Trying to figure how he could say everything that's worth saying. He never ends up writing anything down. Nothing he can think of comes close.

He drinks his tea. Leaves the mug by the sink knowing it'll make Dean bitch at him in the morning. His mouth still tastes like metal. But then—when he goes to Dean's room, he gets into bed and puts his arm around Dean's waist and puts his nose to the soft buzz of hair at the top of Dean's spine, and Dean sighs and pushes back against him, and he's warm against Sam's whole body except for his toes that tuck in behind Sam's ankle, freezing, like he's done since Sam's earliest memories. His skin like ice and then warming slowly against Sam's. What more could Sam ask for.

[olichat-reads]

Friends don't

Hawks x reader

Summary: You finally confront your bestfriend on your 'more-than-friends-less-than-lovers' relationship.

Words: 1388

A/n: so. i kinda malfunctioned yesterday & my loopy, sleep depraved self ended up with 3 lectures to catch up with & this little oneshot. um. if it reads a little off, i think so too but cut some slack to my drunken little self hm (｡T ω T｡)? i'm too tired to proofread this properly. bestfriend to lovers!

🌟

You were not subtle about the crush you had on your best friend. You were certain of it. Anyone with eyes could see how much you're absolutely whipped for the number two hero- & if they didn't, they had to be an idiot.

And here you're starting to think you actually were in love with said idiot.

Because there was no way you weren't obvious about your feelings. You've fallen hard the moment Hawks made that god awful bird pun to make you break the overly serious facade you wear whenever you're nervous. And ever since, your feelings have only gotten more & more obvious, with your relationship getting less & less platonic. You were sure you literally had hearts in your eyes whenever you so much as think of him at this point.

Yes, you were best friends but friends don't do things you guys did right?

Friends don't walk together hand in hand- be it entangling your fingers, his arm around your waist or you hanging off his arm like a baby koala.

Friends don't casually share their entire wardrobes, exchanging hoodies & sweatshirts & sweatpants until neither of you know whose are which.

Friends don't take you dancing in the sky, in the dead of the night just to cheer you up after a bad day, knowing you love the wind in your hair, always so carefree & so happy when he took you flying, but not the attraction it called from the onlookers below during the day.

Friends don't end up cuddled in the same bed every other night- you tucked in his wings, away from the world, his arms holding you close, your hand in his hair at a useless attempt to pat down the tangled mess it was, as you exchanged mumbled nonsense whilst dozing off.

Friends don't say 'I love you' with those eyes- eyes that gloss over with so much unsaid emotion, that scream so much more.

Friends don't love like you did. Right?

You were pretty sure they don't.

And it was driving you absolutely nuts.

Which led you to you silently losing your mind on this fine evening, the two of you lounging on the couch in your living room. Hawks popping in unnanounced after his patrol, bringing over takeout from your favourite chinese restaurant, your usual order practically memorized. He'd showered here, in your bathroom which always held two of everything- two toothbrush, two towels, two loofahs, because he stayed over so much. He'd changed into his t-shirt & sweatpants that weren't the only pair that he kept with your clothes in your closet.

The guy practically lives here for god's sake. And you knew it was the same for you at his place.

"Hey, you okay? You seem distracted, Dove," he asked, taking a sip of his drink.

"Do you not like me or something?" You blurt out. Probably not at the best time though, shocking your winged friend enough to have him hacking & coughing up the sweetened coffee he was sipping on. You huffed out annoyed, but reached out to soothe his back with firm pats anyways. This idiot needed to live if you were going to have this conversation.

"Baby, what on earth?" Hawks choked out, still wheezing to get the air back into his lungs. His choice of words making you narrow your eyes at him. Friends don't call each other every single petname meant for your significant other. Birdie & Dovey? Sure. A platonic babe every now & then? Okay. Baby, honey, sweetheart, darling, love?? Unironically? As friends??? Seriously??

"Ugh, you drive me insane!"

"What did I do?!" He cried out defensively, his wings puffing up just like a cat's tail would when threatened, making you huff at him in exasperation.

"I can't figure you out! I've been flirting my ass off for over a year & I have not been subtle, sir. Its just- You don't reject my advances but you never- you never-," you cut yourself off to growl out a frustrated strangled shriek.

"Are you- are you just ignoring my hints? Because you don't like me that way? Is it possible you didn't notice? But I made it so ridiculously obvious! You can't be that oblivious, can you? I know you're not the kind of guy to play with people's feelings like that so Mmh-"

You were cut off by soft, chapped lips pressed to yours in a sweet kiss, effectively shutting you up. But almost just as quickly, Hawks started to pull away, making you growl in displeasure, hands shooting to his hair to pull him back into you. His breath hitched in surprise, the sound sending a pleasant shudder down your spine, before you felt him melt into the kiss. He let you take the lead, let you pour out your frustration into it until you had to pull back for air.

"I'm sorry I'm just stupid. I- um. I had a crush on you for the longest time but I couldn't tell if you liked me the same way," he breathes out, a little breathless. "Now that I think about it though, you were pretty obvious, i just- I was just scared of somehow being wrong? I swear there's a brain in here but I just malfunction around you, Dovey. I'm- stupid. Thats just it, really."

You pulled back a little to lock your gaze with those golden ones you love so much but are very much infuriated with right now.

"..are you seriously telling me you thought I was acting as just a friend-"

"A very, very good friend-"

"But a friend," you bite out. "All. This. Time."

He swallowed at that.

"..yes?"

And at that revelation you head butted your crush of 1 year 2 months & 16 days, no you weren't counting, hard enough to have both of you groaning in pain. You left your head resting against his as the pain ebbed away, watching his eyes flutter open to stare back at you.

Before the dumbass started laughing. Uncontrollably. You wanted to stay mad at him, keep glaring, make this unbelievable idiot squirm a bit longer but goddamn if this man didn't make you soft. You didn't last long before the corner of your lips twitched.

"I hate you."

"I am so sorry, Birdie," he managed to sputter out between laughs. The audacity of this man. You reached behind him to tug at his wing, making him yelped in surprise but going right back to giggling, his hands gently catching your face to keep you close.

"You're so stupid I can't believe you."

"I know, baby," he mumbled, a silly smile on his face as he planted quick pecks on your pouting cheeks that are starting to heat up.

"Dumbass. Bird brain. Idiot." You hissed, trying to halfheartedly bat him away to no avail.

"Should I remind you that you're the one thats in love with this idiot?"

"I regret this already."

The last of your irritation melted away as the winged hero smiled this goofy grin at you, before leaning in for another kiss. This time a little slower, a little sweeter than the last.

Goddamn those were going to get addicting fast.

"So, just to make sure we're both on the same page, we aren't friends anymore hm? We're a couple? I feel like I need to verbally confirm everything with you after this," you teased, tapping his forehead lightly.

"Oh my god," he laughed out. "You're never letting me live this down are you, Love?"

"After the anguish you put me through for how long because you can't read social cues? Hell no," you puffed out in faux offense, crossing your arms with a little hmph for extra effect.

"In fact, I should've been worried if you thought all the things we did up til now were normal amongst friends. Who knows if you've had platonic cuddles with Endeavour behind my back," you theorize with a smirk, watching the number two hero cringe at the mental image you planted in his head.

"Sweetie, stooooop," he whined dramatically before bursting out into laughter all over again, having trapped you in his embrace, making your body shake with his. This time you couldn't help but join in, your weak attempt at remaining mad at this red winged dummy you've been pining for so long cracking way too easily.

"You're right, you're right," he hummed out contently, as his giggles died out, leaving behind an air of serenity.

"Friends don't. Its just that we do."

[mxchineherald]

[@runes-menagerie]

The Grey was thick in the air, today. It was so thick that people had dawned their fabric masks to wade through its toxic fog. He had his own, made from the scrap fabric of his mother's old shawl. It was noticeably frayed and worn, but everything was repurposed in the Undercity. When they had so little in the first place, they had to make do with what they already possessed.

The fabric did little for him as he limped through the alleyway. He braced hard against his weathered and rickety old cane, created from a petrified branch of oak his mother had found in the River Pilt. Again, everything was repurposed in the Undercity. He had to take slow, careful steps. The Grey left a film of oily condensation on every surface, including the already uneven cobblestone ground. It was slow, annoying, and painful to walk across it. Cane, bad leg, good leg. Cane, bad leg, good leg. Cane, bad leg, good l--

The 'bad leg' on his right side gave in as his foot found a particularly slippery spot, and he was falling. He let out a yelp and tried to brace himself for the fall, which only lead to him grinding his knee and both palms against the rough stone. His cane clattered to the side, rolling away and knocking against the wall of the alley. Messy brown hair fell in pieces in front of his face, and he had to pull his mask off to get a deeper breath after hissing all his air out from pain. Bad idea. The toxic air clouded his lungs, and he fell into a coughing fit.

How pathetic he must have looked, clutching a skinned knee with bloody palms while hacking up the putrid air the Lanes had to offer him. Once he caught his breath, he shook his head. "<Always my luck. Janna be praised...>" he groaned out in his mothertongue sarcastically as he examined the damage. He was bleeding, that was for sure, but the wound itself would probably be easily healed by a potion. If only he could possibly afford one.

Without a potion, he'd have to make due with trying to clean it. The Grey could leave a bad infection if a wound was left exposed to it for too long. He looked at his mask, then at his leg. Would he have to bandage himself with the only protection for his lungs? One protection sacrificed for another, and all because he couldn't keep his damn balance.

Frustrated, he smacked his injured knee, immediately regretting it and covering it with both hands as he hissed out in pain again. His only luck was that he was alone, and no one could see him being so foolish.

[undead-merman]

How about yandere catboy vs dogboy war for reader? Dogboy or catboy of your favorite brother with the opposing being Solomon? (No hate to him, but he'd probably test himself on one of those transformation potions if we're being honest)

Always loved your work!

Yandere Dogboy Beelzebub and Belphegor vs Catboy Solomon with GN-Reader SFW

The potion mishap

You were in portions class with Solomon and had a project you were working on together and brewing a type of potion with certain ingredients. Solomon being the curious man wanted to try something, not in the books, an elixir of his own. You’re not sure why you agreed but you did. 

The twins were in the same class and were observing what you and Solomon were up to, looking at the lab table you had with beakers boiling and steam collecting. The smell of catnip and anise was hot and thick in the air. 

They were idly chatting when your timer went off to take it off the flame but it slipped out of your beaker tongs and crashed to the floor making it turn to steam almost instantly—filling the room. Beelzebub rushed over putting his hand over your mouth as they all coughed and huffed. 

When the smoke cleared you apologized up and down but calmed up when you saw everyone with animal features. Solomon’s cat-like ears folded back in pain, Belphegor’s drooped ears and tail tucked in his legs as he hacks up a lung. 

Even when Beelzebub asks if you’re okay you see that Beelzebub’s are folded back and the inner ear fur is exposed. 

After a quick clean-up and observation, they seem to have taken on feline and canine features as well as instincts, Solomon and the twins staring down at each other.     

The age-old conflict

They had an immediate rivalry. They glared at each other and often tried to drag you away from the others. It took the rest of the brothers to separate you, but they certainly were done. 

Seems like they imprinted on you in a way and only really wanted to be around you. Solomon snuck over a lot and would openly wrap his hands around you and rub himself on you like a cat scenting its favorite person. 

Beelzebub and Belphegor were attached as well, right at your sides most times they can be and get upset when they don’t see you for a while, even when you're trying to get some sleep if they aren’t in there with you they are right at the door. And they will be loud about it.

The twin often have you sandwiched between them, and Mammon jokes about them being your guard dogs before Beelzebub bites at him for pointing his finger too close to you. Belphegor just leaning over you, like a lap dog that’s far too big for your lap but uses it anyway. 

Since you and Solomon have to make a new potion, you spend even more time in the potions lad and now the twins are with you to make sure Solomon doesn’t try flirting with you countless times now. Which, To be fair to them, Solomon was certainly laying it on thick. 

Whenever Solmon's tail wrapped around you or if he walked around you and presses his shoulder into you the two started getting upset and they both downright squish you.  Beelzebub picks you up and holds you away, and Belphegor uses his body to shield you whenever Beelzebub is distracted. Solomon does like to toss him bones and Beelzebub seems to go after them like burgers.

Solomon is patient though, and when they get distracted Beelzebub eats and Belphegor asleep. He’s right back to it. 

When you’re not around they will actively attack each other. They don’t want to attract any attention to it simply because it would be too annoying. And with claws and teeth, they can go rough without magic. Though Solomon likes to fight dirty.         

Claiming what is theirs

It becomes enough when you both fall asleep on each other as you wait for the last bit of the potion. Both of them grow intensely jealous but they hold back. They are distant until you’re no longer working on the potion, as soon as you got out of school and maybe even tried to call them to see where they were, Belphegor pinned you to a wall growling that you spent too little time with him 

Beelzebub is behind him with his ears flattened back trying to look more mad than sad, but his tail was between his legs and his sad eyes were hard to miss. 

They end up sitting with you in your room cuddling the rest of the night and they do not allow you to leave until they’ve had their fill. And that means sleeping with you and getting to take in your scent. They’ve grown to really like just holding you and sniffing your hair, though they might be embarrassed if you call them out, and letting them do it calms them down quicker.

They’ll lock you up if they have to. Do you want to leave your cute doggies all alone? Then they’ll take place as master, they’ll bind your mouth and tie your arms and legs. A good dog doesn’t bark.  

Even after the potion’s effect wore off they’re still clingy for the next few days and basically forbid Solomon from coming over the next week. Punishment for trying to steal away their lovely little human. Their partner.    

[trektraveler]

Breathe Free Part One

Summary: You were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, thank you very much! Dean knew that, he also knew better. He'd seen you sick plenty of times in the past five years, but this was different. This was much more than a cold, but you were so stubborn about doctors! Dean Winchester isn't about to let you slip away, even if it means going against your wishes. He only hopes he's not too late!

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, Dean x Reader, Dean x You

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Sick!Reader, Hospitals, Kissing, fluff

Word Count: 5447

One Shot - Two Parts

Author’s Notes: I have been sick with Covid for a month. Well... down sick for 2 1/2 weeks and recovering my stamina for 2 more. Its been a real bitch. Plus my disabled mother has it now. This is following a nervous breakdown I had in June. Writing has been my passion and my mental health balm, but I've not been able to produce anything in months. So this... this is a fucking triumph!! I'm still working on all my other WIP, so please stick around. I'll get there... eventually :) I'm hoping to finish part two shortly and post in a week... ish.

Thank you all for the continued support!

Masterlist (Part Two)

     You were going to kill him.  Honestly.  If this fucking cold didn’t finish you off, you were going to make it your life’s mission to succeed where every bloody monster, demi-god, angel, demon, and creator of all had failed.  Ridding the world of Dean Winchester would be a public service at this point.  The church would canonize you for this!  There would be bank holidays and parades in your honor.  Maybe an annual postage stamp?  A drink named after you at the local bar, at the least. 

     Of course, you’d have to live long enough to carry out your plan for fame and fortune.  As it was, your odds were 50/50.  Congestion, muscle aches, dizziness, sore throat, non-existent appetite and low-grade fever.  How is it that each of these symptoms alone were minor?  Almost unnoticeable.  You could easily carry out any task battling them one on one.  Yet together they took you down hard.  It was unfair and utterly ridiculous!  Not to mention hugely inconvenient. 

     It was probably that sneezing sheriff from that last case.  You had to introduce him of the concept of personal space more than once.  The douchebag said it was just allergies.  Contagious creep!

     Still, you were home now.  Back at the bunker with three bags worth of pharmacy remedies to ease your pain until the virus ran it’s course.  All you had to do was make it to your room and you could drown yourself in cough syrup and peppermint oil.  Unfortunately, Dean was not making it easy.

     “You sound like shit, Y/N.”

     “Well, I feel like shit, so that tracks.”

     You coughed harshly into the crook of your elbow as you trudged down the metal stairs behind Dean.  Sam followed behind you, carrying your bags and his.  Gentleman that he was.  Levelheaded and sensible, God must have given Dean’s portion of those admirable qualities to his brother. 

     “That cough is getting worse,” Dean said, tossing his duffle down on the war room table. 

     “That’s because you won’t shut up.”

     “What does that have to do with it?”

     “Because you keep baiting me into conversation with all of your pushy opinions.  If you didn’t make me talk so much, I wouldn’t be coughing so much!”  You broke off into a hacking fit that proved your point in your mind.  This was entirely his fault!

     “That’s ridiculous.  You’ve been talking non-stop since we met you five years ago and you never coughed up a lung because of it.”  Dean shook his head and looked to his brother, “Sam, help me out here.”

     Sam usually occupied neutral territory during these debates, but one look at you and he sided with Dean.  “Why don’t we go get you checked out, Y/N?”

     “I got checked out in Billings, they said it wasn’t Covid.  It’s probably just a run of the mill virus.”

     “That guy was like twelve,” Dean scoffed.  “I’m surprised he knew what to do with swab.”

     “He was a doctor, Dean!”

     “Debatable.”

     “There’s no harm in a second opinion,” Sam pointed out. 

     You were so tired you just wanted to cry.  Why were they being so hard-headed about this?  Typical!  Men always think they know everything.  It was all so simple for them, they never had to jump through the hoops that you did when getting care.  It was always the same when you went to the doctor, which is why you never went.  Doctors who dismiss your symptoms and bill you for the privilege.  If you were up to your usual fiery disposition, you’d launch into a lengthy explanation, but you just didn’t have it in you. 

     “If I could get a decent one, I’d consider it.  But the fucking truth is, I won’t.  Not without a fight and I just don’t think it’s worth it.  I’m not dying, I’m not bleeding.  I’ve got a cold, a really shitty one that I hope to God neither of you get because dealing with sick Winchesters might actually finish me off.”

     Dean frowned down at you, “What do you mean?  What is it with you and doctors?”

     “I do not have it in me to explain to you the numerous and colossal failings of the American healthcare system, so I am going to simply say this.  It’s my health and I still get a choice.  So, I’m going to my room where I can die in peace and hopefully tomorrow, I will be rise like the Phoenix with clear sinuses.  If not, then my ghost will haunt this bunker and you two will have to fight over my George Carlin collection.”

     Dean blinked at you for a moment, “You know, we killed a phoenix a few years back.”

     You rolled your eyes and started down the hall towards the bedrooms.  “If either of you wake me before noon, I’m licking every doorknob in this place.”

     “It’s a great story, we had to time travel!” he shouted after you.

     You voice echoed back, along with a few coughs, “I’m using your pillowcase to blow my nose!”

     “I don’t like this, Sammy.”

     Sam picked up his own duffle, “Of course you don’t.  Your mother hen instincts go into overdrive whenever any of us gets sick.  Remember Fort Worth?”

     “Food poisoning, God that was awful.  The pair of you were doubled over the toilet for three days from a damn salad.”

     “And Nashville?”

     “Shark week,” Dean muttered, remembering you curled up with a heating pad while he and Sam hunted vampires.  You wouldn’t even talk to them, just whimpered occasionally and buried your head under the covers. 

     “Right.  She doesn’t get sick often, but when she does all she wants to do is sleep.  The more you try to help the more it irritates her.  Just leave her be, she’ll let us know if she needs anything.”

     That earned a frown from the older brother, as did the sound of another sneeze down the hall.  You were a damn stubborn mule when you wanted to be, but that didn’t bother Dean.  It was a useful quality that served you well in the field.  But you tended to double down when you were hurt or scared, making a challenge for people who loved you to help. 

     And Dean did love you. 

     He came to that conclusion long ago when you burst in on him fighting off a werewolf in your barn.  Barefoot, with a sawed-off shotgun in your hands.  You were fearless, clocked the beast right between the eyes. 

Then:      “Are you alright?”

     Dean rolled the dead body off him and got to his feet.  He quickly took measure of the woman standing in the opened doorway.  Silk short shorts and camisole peeked out from under a worn buffalo check flannel.  Blood ran down bare legs and splattered in the cloud of wild curls that framed a pretty face.  Angel with a shotgun.

     Her expression was one of concern, but she kept a tight hold on her weapon.  Smart girl.

     “I should be asking you that question.”

     You glanced down at the blood stains, “It’s not mine.  My neighbor he, ah…I don’t know.  He went… rabid.  I put him down, didn’t want to hurt him, but he came at me…”

     “If you hadn’t, he would have killed you.  Or turned you.  It was a mercy, believe me.”

     You took solace in that.  With a nod, you lowered your gun and glanced over at the werewolf, dead on the ground. 

     “I don’t suppose there’s a monster removal service we call in a situation like this?”

     “It’s your lucky day Sweetheart, cause that’s me.”  Dean stuck his hand out to you, “Dean Winchester, monster remover extraordinaire.”

     You grinned, pulling your lower lip between your teeth and your eyes warmed up.  It was a look he knew well; he’d seen it in women countless times.  You thought he was cute.  You put your hand in his for a handshake and he winked.  You laughed softly, confirming his theory.  You thought he was adorable, or at least charming.  A good start!

     “Y/N Y/L/N.”

     “Y/N.  Pretty name.  If you’ve got a shovel around here, I’ll take care of this.  Then we can decide what to do about your neighbor.”

     You grabbed a pair of shovels along with your rubber gardening boots that you kept by the potting bench.

     “I built the retaining wall in the west garden by myself last summer,” you said, pulling the boots on.  “I’m handy with a shovel.”

     There was a glint of respect in his gaze as he studied you.  It wasn’t every day he met a beautiful woman who offered to help him dig a grave in middle of the night.  In her pajamas. 

     He glanced at the dead body then back to you.  “You sure?”

     “I’ve been saving this bottle of Canadian whiskey for something special.  I think digging my first grave is the occasion I’ve been waiting for.”

     Dean was a grade-A smart ass and never at a loss for a clever comeback.  But damn if you didn’t knock him speechless.  Standing in the middle of a falling down barn with a dead werewolf only a few feet away and blood splattered all over… you were the sexiest woman he’d ever laid eyes on.  He was a confident man who loved women.  When he met a woman he liked, he turned on the charm, pursued her.  Simple.  But you… you held challenge in your eyes, pride in the tilt of your jaw and confidence in the carriage of your body. 

     You were a match to be met. 

     “Well Y/N, lets earn that whiskey.” 

Now:      The following morning, you didn’t come out of your room for breakfast.  When he still hadn’t seen you by noon, he decided to hell with it.  Even if you bit his head off, he was damn well going to check on you.  He was Dean Winchester, damn it!  He’d faced the Devil himself; he could handle a cranky woman with a head cold.

     He stood quietly outside your bedroom, straining to hear any sign that you were awake.  A moment later you broke into a series of coughs, and he took the opportunity to knock.

     “Y/N?”  He cracked the door open and stuck his head inside. 

     Your room was dark except for the glow from your laptop and the tiny light from the vaporizer billowing out peppermint scented air.  Your bed was huge and took up most of the room.  A king-sized masterpiece of cloud-like fluffiness and ruffles.  Princess and the Pea inspired mattress topper and ivory striped pillows stuffed with goose down.  Dean bragged about his memory-foam mattress so often that you took it as a challenge when they invited you pick a room and make it your own.  The bed itself was so big it wouldn’t fit through any door in the bunker, begging the question… how did you manage it?

     You’d teased Dean for weeks, refusing to tell him the simple cheat.  Castiel did it for you.

Then:     “You’ve gotta be kidding me!  I pray to his feathery ass for weeks with no answer and you just up and ask him to move your princess bed and he does it?  Poof?”

     “Well, yeah.  I said please.”

     “It’s very… white.”

     “I know.  We go so many gross places, skeevy motels and hunts covered in monster goop.  I wanted something clean.  You know?”

Now:      With the abundance of pillows and blankets piled on the bed, it was hard to make out your form in the middle of it all.  Dean stepped over your discarded shoes and hunting clothes.  There were piles of crumpled tissues all over the floor, cough drop wrappers and half drank bottles of water. 

     “What time is it?” you asked from the mountain of covers. 

     “Just past noon,” he replied, coming closer to the bed.  “Thought maybe you’d want lunch.”

     You shook your head and Dean could see you a bit clearer in the light of the computer.  Your face was flushed more than it was the night before and your eyes were dull.  You looked utterly miserable.

     He sat on the side of the bed; his hand went to your forehead.  You didn’t even pull away, “Fever.  You take anything for it?”

     Your finger pointed to the table littered with over-the-counter drugs and bottles.  You’d taken everything for it, but nothing really helped.

     “You get any sleep last night?”

     “No,” you said on a sneeze, then groaned.  “This blows.  You should leave so I don’t give you the plague.”

     “Hmm.”  He stood there for a minute, then disappeared out into the hallway.

     You burrowed back under your covers with a shiver, for the first time in his life, Dean Winchester actually did as you asked.  You must be in worse shape than you thought.

     A few minutes later, he reappeared with a large mug in his hands.  “Wanna sit up, Sweetheart?  I’ve got something special for you.”

     With a grunt, you untangled yourself from the bedding and sat up against the padded headboard.  He smiled fondly, you looked adorable, even as sick as you were.  Your hair was held back in twin French braids that were starting to come loose and you were using one of his missing Henley’s for a night shirt.  A few sizes too big, it hung off one of your shoulders.

     “I was wondering where that went.”

     You were confused for a second then tugged self-consciously at the collar buttons.  “It made its way into my rotation after that Wendigo hunt.”

     “Looks better on you anyway,” he held out the mug to you.  “Drink this nice and slow, it’ll take care of that cough so you can sleep.”

     “What is it?” you asked, stirring the steaming liquid with the cinnamon stick that propped against the rim.

     “That is Bobby Singer’s patented, super-secret, cure all hot toddy.  Sammy used to get sick all the time when we were kids, that stuff always put him right.”

     You took a sip, it indeed soothed your throat and although you couldn’t really taste it, the burn of alcohol was distinct. 

     “Wow, how much whiskey is in Bobby’s hot toddy?”

     “Enough to send you off to dreamland.”  He stood and turned to leave.  He knew you didn’t want to be bothered and now that you’d accepted his help, he felt a bit more confident in leaving you.  For a while.

     “I’ll be back in a couple of hours and see if you can stomach some soup and crackers.  Your meds will work better if you eat.”

     He was almost to the door when you stopped him, “Dean?”

     “Yeah?”

     “How’d you kill the phoenix?”

     “It’s a… a long story.”

     You gave a small shrug, feeling silly.  You’d made such a fuss yesterday about being left alone and now you found you wanted him to stay. 

     “I’m not exactly going anywhere.”

     That earned you a genuine smile from him.  He toed off his shoes and launched himself into the middle of your bed with a bellyflop. 

     “Dean!”  You laughed, covering the top of the mug so the contents wouldn’t spill.

     He made a big show of climbing up over the mountain of blankets and pillows, “Jesus, Y/N!  How do you sleep on this pile of marshmallow fluff?”

     “Shut it.  You’ve been dying to try my bed since the day I moved in.”

     “Who says I haven’t?  Remember that trip you took to Jody’s last month?  Sammy and I had a great time painting our toes and talking about boys in here.”

     “Shut up,” you said with a cough.

     “He wanted to try on your underwear, but I drew the line,” he teased, pulling you in close so he could wrap his arm around your shoulders.  “Comfortable?”

     You tucked into his side and let your aching head rest on his chest.  “Mmm.”

     “Good.  So, the year was 1861 and the place was Sunrise, Wyoming.”

     Hours later, long after the hot toddy had done its job, you were deep asleep when Dean woke up.  He was unbelievably hot, and you were the cause.  Obviously, your fever had spiked.  Sweat dotted your brow and soaked through your clothes to the point he was feeling damp where you were cuddled against him.  He gently eased you off, feeling your forehead with a frown.

     “Y/N?  Wake up, sweetheart.”

     You grumbled in your sleep and burrowed deeper under the covers when he pulled them back. 

     “Come on, Y/N,” he urged, pulling a thermometer from his shirt pocket. 

     You were only halfway awake when you realized there was a thin, glass tube under your tongue.  “Wha thmm hemmm?”

     “103.”  He brushed the hair back that had stuck to your temples.  “I think I should take you to the E.R.  High fevers are nothing to mess around with.”

     You shook your head, coughing deeply.  “The meds just wore off.”

     He handed you a box of tissues, “I think you need more than cough syrup and Tylenol.  Let me take you to get looked at.”

     “I’ll be okay Dean; I just need to give it time.”

     Behind the exhaustion and illness, he could see flicker of fear in your eyes, and he was torn.  The last thing he wanted was to push you or take away your choice, but he wasn’t going to let this get out of control. 

     He sighed heavily, “Okay, we’ll try it your way.  On two conditions.  One, you need to eat something, so you keep your strength up.”

     “Okay,” you agreed, trying not to cough again.  “And two?”

     “If this gets worse, you’ll let me take you to the doctor.”  He could feel you instantly withdraw, but he wasn’t going to let you.  This was too important.  He crooked a finger under your chin, gently coaxing you to look at him.

     “I know it scares you, you don’t have to tell me why.  Trust me, I’ll take care of you Y/N.”

     Your reluctance met with his resolve and after a moment, you nodded.  “Okay.”

     “That’s my girl,” Dean praised, brushing a kiss across your forehead.  “Now, if you’re very good, I’ll bring you a bowl of tomato rice soup.”

     “With that bacon cheddar panini you made last time?”

     “Woman after my own heart,” Dean said.  He climbed out of the bed, then noticed you doing the same.

     “Whoa, wait a minute.  Where do you think you’re going?”

     “A shower, I feel disgusting,” you muttered, pawing through the bottles on the nightstand.

     “No way, that fever is way too high.  And you use water hot enough to burn off fingerprints.”

     You tossed back a couple of Tylenol with a generous swallow of water.  “If I smell as awful as I feel, then you shouldn’t be discouraging me.”

     “Y/N…”

     “Super quick, more of a rinse than a shower.”

     “Ten minutes.  Any longer and I’m coming in after you.”

     “Wouldn’t be the first time,” you replied, gathering a fresh set of pajamas.

     “Keep that water tepid,” he called after you. 

     Once you were alone in the shower room, you turned on the water and allowed yourself the coughing fit you’d been holding in.  Dean was worried enough about you.  As sweet as he was, there was a claustrophobic feeling bubbling within you.  It came from a childhood spent as a sick kid.  Parents, teachers, doctors all seemed to hover.  Stealing your air and breathing down your neck. 

     Hidden in the clean clothes were two small bottles of essential oils.  An old remedy passed down from your grandpa.  You striped down and stepped under the water.  It wasn’t nearly as warm as you’d like it, but it was better than nothing.  You uncapped the bottles and sprinkled the contents over the floor.  They mixed with the heat and made a fragrant steam of peppermint and eucalyptus.  You braced your hands against the tiled wall and let your head hang down.  A few minutes breathing in the steam worked to open your nasal passages and more importantly, your lungs. 

     Tightness had been building in your chest since last night and out of all the symptoms, that was the most troubling.  Not even that heavy duty decongestant cut it, and that stuff always helped.  Thankfully, Granddad’s method never let you down.  You breathed as deeply as you could, until the coughing it caused made the room spin and your knees go wobbly.

     You sank down onto the wall bench and turned the water off.  You shivered and tried to work up a bit of strength to dry off and get dressed.  Utterly exhausted, even the thought of standing was enough to tire you.  Of course, you knew if you sat there long enough, Dean would come searching for you.  Potentially naked or not.

     Then:      The shrill scream cut through the bunker, reaching Dean even through his headphones.  He was on his feet and down the hall as another shout echoed from the shower room.  A twist of the handle didn’t yield entry.  Sam was out on a supply run, which meant you were the one trapped inside.

     Dean took a step back and splintered the door off its hinges with a single kick.

     Gun drawn, he burst into the steam filled room, “Y/N?!”

     You were standing on top of one of the teak benches that lined the shower wall.  Soaking wet with shampoo suds cascading down your very naked body.  Your already wide eyes got even bigger, and you screamed again.  You crossed your arms over your breasts and crouched down into a ball, it was the quickest option for modesty.

     “Dean!”

     He peered through the steam and the still running water, gun still drawn, “YN, what the hell?!  What’s going on?!”

     “Spider.”

     He blinked, twice.  “What?”

     You pointed a watery finger towards the middle of the tiled floor, “By the drain.  Huge, HUGE spider.”

     Dean tucked his gun into the back waistband of his jeans, “Damn it, Y/N.  I thought you were being attacked!”

     “Why would I be attacked?  You guys said this bunker is the safest place on Earth!”

     Dean angrily threw a towel at you.  “You were screaming bloody murder!  What the hell else was I going to think?!” 

     You wrapped the towel around your body, tucking It securely under your arms.  “I don’t like spiders, okay?”

     “We just got back from a freaking ghoul hunt, with dead bodies and gore and guts… the whole nine.  You didn’t flinch once, but a bug’s got you clutching your pearls?”

     “It’s an irrational fear, professor,” you replied, switching the water off.  “But since you’re here to rescue me… would you please?”

     Dean rolled his eyes but inspected the drain all the same.  “I don’t see a spider.”

     “What?!”  You looked around frantically, then grabbed Dean’s arm and pointed, “There!  In the corner.”

     He pulled his red handkerchief from his pocket, “Alright, I got him.”

     “Wait!  Don’t kill him!  Just… catch and release.”

     “You’re awfully picky for a damsel in distress,” Dean muttered.  “Is this one of your superstitions, like that cricket in Rhode Island?  Is it bad luck to kill a north-facing spider on a Tuesday?”

     “Nearly every culture believes that killing a cricket brings bad luck.”

     “You know what brings really bad luck?  Going into a vamp nest on no sleep because a fucking cricket was cruising for a date in our bathtub!”

     “That spider doesn’t deserve to die because of my fear.  I just… I don’t want to kill anything else.  Not now, not if I don’t have to.  Do you?”

     You raised your beautiful, luminous eyes and searched out his.  His heart beat in double time and he was suddenly acutely aware of the tiniest details.  Tendrils of your hair dripped water like diamonds on your shoulders and collarbones.  Your skin glowed a healthy pink, you probably used that fluffy loofa thing you always left hanging on faucet.  The scent of your favorite soap hung heavy in the air… what was it?  Ginger peach?  God, he loved it!  You had lotion that went with it and a tiny hand sanitizer that you kept in your purse.  It made his whole car smell like you when you used it, even after you were gone. 

     Dean gave himself a mental shake.  In under five minutes you had taken him on an emotional rollercoaster from panic to irritation to confusion to completely mesmerized.  How did you do that?!  It was happening more and more.  Every time he was around you, he discovered another piece of the puzzle.  He could never predict what you were going to say, but somehow it was always just what he needed to hear.  You voiced the emotions that he had never been able to put into words. 

     “No,” he said at last. “I don’t want to kill anything else either.”

          Now:      Dean was at the stove when you shuffled into the kitchen.  He smiled at you over his shoulder while you sat at the table.  You were in your Christmas leggings and yet another of his missing shirts.  Your face wasn’t as flushed as it had been when you first woke up, a positive sign. 

     “Hope you’ve got your appetite back, because this batch of tomato rice soup is on point.”

     “Your cooking is always on point,” you smiled wanly as he set down a bowl in front of you. 

     “You’re not wrong,” he replied, running his hand over your forehead.  “Fever’s down.  You feel better?”

     “The shower helped.”

     “You smell like a candy cane,” he chuckled, taking a massive bite of his sandwich.

     “Peppermint oil.  For congestion,” you explained. 

     You considered the man across the table from you as you silently ate your soup.  You couldn’t properly taste it, but it was warm and soothed your raw throat.  You’d known Dean Winchester for five years and there were still moments like this, moments where you felt like you were seeing him clearly for the first time.  The delightful domestic behind the swagger and the grit.  He took such pure joy in the mundane that it was hard not to get swept up in it.  The greatest hunter in the world was also the kindest.  Surely there was some sort of cosmic balance working itself out there, but you were too tired to reflect on it.

     “So,” Dean said, pulling you from your thoughts.  “You up for a little movie marathon in the Dean cave?”

     “That would depend on what’s showing.”

     “Lady’s choice.  So long as it doesn’t have subtitles.”

     “La Dolce Vita is a classic!”

     “Die Hard is a classic,” Dean countered.  “Plus, it’s a Christmas movie so it counts double.”

     “Ugh, fine.  You big baby.”  You thought for a moment, covering a cough with the back of your hand.  “How about Ghostbusters?”

     Dean grinned at that, “Yeah?”

     “Or Stripes or um… Caddyshack.  Mom was a Bill Murray fan; we always watched him when I was sick.”

     “Sounds like Mom had good taste,” Dean picked up the dishes and headed to the sink.  “Why don’t you go find a comfortable spot on the couch?  I’ll be right behind you.”

     Laughter always was the best medicine.  And Dean always was the best cuddler.  He brought his gigantic triple thick comforter from his bed and tucked the two of you under it as the 80’s classic played on the flatscreen.  It didn’t take long for the full stomach and the warm hunter to lull you back into a deep sleep.  You were out before the credits rolled.

         Your hacking cough that woke Dean hours later.  It was different this time, you were coughing so much that you couldn’t seem to catch your breath.  He was right behind you as you hunched over the arm of the couch.  As he rubbed your back, he could feel how deeply your lungs rattled.  It was a distinct, wet sounding cough that shook your whole frame.  Heat from your spiked fever radiated through your shirt to his palm. 

     He was saying something to you, but you couldn’t make out the words, only the soothing tone of his voice.  You were truly miserable.  Your head ached with every cough and when you finally managed to stop hacking, you struggled to catch your breath.  A glass of water floated in front of you, and you drank it greedily.

     One word broke through your haze: Doctor.  You didn’t really hear him say it, but the implication was there.

     To his surprise, and as a testament to how awful you felt, you nodded your agreement.  The relief was evident in his voice, “There’s my girl.  Stay put; I’m going to warm up the car.”

     As Dean left, you took stock.  The fever ravaging your system left you feeling disgusting, but you were too tired do anything about it.  Your head was pounding from the coughing fit and your chest was so tight it was painful to draw breath.  You looked down at your pajamas; the snowflake leggings and borrowed shirt were hardly a fashion choice, but they would have to do. 

     There was an awful taste in your mouth had to go.  You could manage a swish of mouthwash, even if you had to sit on the toilet to do it. 

     The minute your stocking feet touched the ground, everything changed.  Your chest got painfully tight.  The feeling of a crushing weight on your chest, as if Dean had driven his car over you and parked it.  The room started to spin and not even holding on to the table made the world steady.  You went down with a thump, landing hard on your ass.  Breathing became like sucking air through a tiny straw, you simply couldn’t.  Your mouth gaped open as you tried and failed to draw air.  Panic swiftly set in as your fingers and toes went numb from lack of oxygen.  Your vision blurred and went dark around the edges.  You dropped to your side and prayed Dean would be quick.

     He was gone five minutes, tops.  The sight of you curled on the floor had him shouting for Sam as he quickly knelt beside you.

     “Y/N!  Baby, look at me, I’m right here...  Sam!!”

     You tired to talk but, no sound came out.  Your hand was on your chest and there was a wheezing sound.  Tears formed at the corners of your eyes. 

     Shit!  He wasn’t sure what had caused this attack, but it didn’t matter.  He had you in his arms as Sam burst through the doorway

     Sam’s eyes went wide as he took in your pale features and distress, “What the hell?!”

     “Hospital now, you’re driving!”

     By the time the Impala was squealing out of the bunker’s garage, you were fully unconscious.  Your limp body sagged against Dean’s chest while he tried to get you to respond.  Sam was alternating between watching the road and checking the rearview on your deteriorating condition.  His foot pressed the accelerator down, pushing the Impala to the limit.

     “What the fuck happened?  I thought she just had a cold.”

     “Its this cough, she couldn’t shake it.”  Dean kept you upright in his lap, knowing it was the easiest position for you to breathe in.  He could feel you losing the battle, even your lips were turning from red and chapped to slightly blue and it scared the hell out of him.

     How the hell did you get this bad so quickly?  He had kept a close eye on you, kept your fever under control, kept you hydrated.  It just didn’t make any sense!  If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought you had… asthma. 

     Flashes came to Dean’s mind; puzzle pieces fell into place.  The vaporizer in your room billowing out peppermint was not a new addition; you took it with you everywhere.  It made even the grossest motel rooms halfway pleasant.  You always kept a scarf wrapped around your neck if the weather was even a little cold, and you pulled it up over your nose when the wind got bitter.  Even that time you helped them burn a body.  You turned away from the pyre and pulled that scarf up… Dean thought it was the smell that got to you. 

     “Shit,” he muttered, digging through your purse as Sam got closer to the city limits.  He pulled out a metal tube with a plastic dispenser.

     “Son of a bitch!” 

      Sam’s eyes caught the reflection, “Is that an inhaler?”

     Turning it over, Dean read the prescription.  “She’s fucking asthmatic!”

     He steadied your lolling head with his hand and brought the inhaler to your mouth, “Okay, baby… this medicine is gonna help you.  Breathe it in for me.”

     He dispensed two puffs into your mouth and prayed the meds got down into your lungs.  Was it the right thing to do?  Use an inhaler on an unconscious person?  Dean had no idea, but he was going to do whatever he needed to do to save you.  He cradled you on his lap and prayed as Sam pulled into the Lebanon Hospital parking lot.

Part Two TAGLIST @deans-baby-momma @muchamusedaboutnothing @peterpangirl21 @ficbreaks @teresa-67 @sacriceria @verytoadpapersoul @heartbreak-of-a-marauder @savspersonalproperty @deanwanddamons @jenwinchester40 @perpetualabsurdity @starryeyeseunbyul @sexyvixen7 @katsbratsupernaturalwhore @agirlwithdemonblood @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @imthedoctorlove @roonyxx @smellingofpoetry @deanwinchesterswitch @thinkinghardhardlythinking @pink-sparkly-witch @barewithme02 @deadlynightshadeindustries @jc-winchester @mrswhozeewhatsis  @kinderousmaster @lyarr24 @aphorism-001 @onlinecemetery @allonsy-yesiwill @myeagletoadmaker

[thewideawakechronicles]

Wait, hold up, Noah might still have a problem! He might have a much more internal bleed from the bullet. But the problem is that, where is the bleed coming from.

If there was internal bleeding located in his lungs, he'd probably be hacking up blood right now. Since the lings have a connection to the nasal and throat area.

As stated before, I don't think it's the lungs that are bothering him..

[captainderyn]

Dear mentor my cp2077 cravings are way beyond my compression and I need v being completely Injured/hurt and relying on judy / or judy humming pyramid song to v till she sleeps

Or if you wish for oc content it would be

> magic studying together or symbolism with flowers :D

_ no forcing here o7 If you don't wanna write em you can do as you wish

> GLITTER ANON

Glitter Anon!! You bring me so much joy every time you appear in my inbox <3 Always happy to provide some angsty V with Judy saving the day. Hope you enjoy!

TW for canon typical injury and canon typical swearing

--

Dakota had been out of her goddamn mind sending V that gig and listing it as solo. Or maybe she'd misplaced her confidence in V as a merc, and V was just losing her edge.

Not that it mattered now, the data was sent to Dakota and the eddies were transferring into her account as far as V could tell from the static spiking across her vision and each beat of her heart sending shooting pain into her head.

Stupid netrunners with their stupid hidey-holes that were better than her netrunner hidey-holes. Despite throwing every hack she knew, straining her cyberdeck to the max while she dealt with the swarm of Raffen that had poured from the dark crevices of the 'abandoned' building like ants, she still hadn't managed to drop the 'runner before being hit by two or three hacks powerful enough to down a cyberpsycho.

Johnny's voice was ragged and tinny, like he was coming from a transmission with bad connection, as he pulled himself from whatever recess of his mind he hung out in.

"V, pull over."

She grunted as she hit another pothole, pain shooting through her entire body. It radiated enough that she couldn't even pinpoint where it was coming from anymore. She pulled one hand to clutch at her side as a jolt went through her.

"Gotta get back to Night City." She insisted.

Her emergency bag with stims was drained dry, her mind swimming from what was probably a higher than recommended dose of MaxDocs.

The gig had been too far to make it to the Aldacados' camp without needing to stop at one of the dodgy, gang ridden gas stations on the way. Too far out in the middle of nowhere to make it to Dakota's shop but just too shy of the borders of the city to make it easy for her.

Only option was the push through til she made it home and patched herself up. Anything else was too risky. Who knew who would sell her their help just to turn around and screw her over.

"V just pull over for a sec!" Johnny pushed again and she was about to snap at him again, turning her head like he'd be riding on a motorcycle alongside her, when she hit another bump.

Whatever injuries were hiding beneath raged in unison and her vision went dark around the edges, her body rebelling against consciousness and desperately trying to give into the innate urge to curl around itself.

Her already tenuous grip on her bike's handlebars faltered and within seconds the pavement was becoming acquainted with her body as she hit it hard, skidding to a stop as her bike charged into the barely-standing bus stop shelter at the edge of road.

V choked out a cough, spitting out red-tinged spit as she waited for the world to stop spinning and shaking.

"Get outta the road." Johnny snapped, scuffed black leather of his shoes stomping in front of her face as he materialized into a crouch, glaring at her from behind his aviators. "Gonna get turned to roadkill."

Pulling each breath in felt like hauling sandpaper down her throat into her lungs as V tried to catch the air that had been knocked out of her lungs. But she rolled over onto her side, then pushed herself into a seated position.

That alone felt like an accomplishment, especially with Johnny's nagging kick at the bottom of her boots until she'd shimmied all the way off the road. When her ass hit gravel she stopped, wrapping her arms around her knees and glaring at Johnny as heat that she really hoped was sweat slid down her face.

"Christ on a stick, you're pitiful." Johnny drawled, standing at her feet with his arms crossed over his chest, "Call your slam piece to come haul your sorry ass of the side of the road."

V scowled, fixing her eyes on her bike, smoking alongside the twisted metal that had been the rusted shelter. She hadn't been going that fast...had she? Everything was blurry.

"Even if you got that bike started, you won't make it a hundred feet." Johnny intercepted her plan, snapping his fingers. "What is her name, the one you make the hopeless puppy eyes at? I'm sure she'd take you in like the lost stray you are."

Feeling her glare on him, he tilted his aviators down to meet her look with raised brows. "You do it or I do it. I'm not dying again because the bitch-ass merc that I was unlucky enough to get stuck with let Raffen and pride kill her out in the Badlands."

Without breaking her glaring eye contact, V rang Judy. As the comm-line rang she stuck her tongue out at Johnny. He rolled his eyes and flipped her off. He flickered out of existence in front of her, just to re materialize leaning against the guardrail next to her.

"Someone has to look out for you." He groused. "You sure as shit won't."

Judy picked up on the third ring, her visual popping up in the corner of V's UI. Or what she could make out of it from the way her UI was glitching out.

"Hey V I was just thinking 'bout..." Judy's voice faltered, "V? The hell are you, what happened?"

V picked at the gravel in her palms, jammed between her skin and implants, wincing.

"Shit went sideways, wrecked my bike." She muttered, lifting her eyes to Johnny who gave an exaggerated 'yes and' gesture. She lowered her brows and he proceeded to make an even more exaggerated gesture.

He was impossible.

She cleared her throat, mouth like cotton, "Can you uh...actually, nevermind."

"Uh-huh, nevermind, what's your location I'm already on my way." There was a jangling like car keys.

But it was getting dark, and who knew what started to crawl around these parts when it was dark. She'd gotten herself into this mess and she could get herself out of it.

A force like a booted foot slammed into her side and V buckled, the sound that slipped from her choking out between a shriek and a sob. She heard Judy trying to ask her what was wrong, but her ears were ringing and the words were stuck in her mouth.

"Rancho Coronado, exit to the Badlands." Johnny supplied to V, standing over her with his arms crossed. Arrogant bastard. "Still think you can drag yourself back to H10?"

"Hnng, fuck, Rancho Coronado, by the old bus stop in the canyon." V choked out.

The minutes dragged as V hunched over herself, the world fading in and out around her. She was aware of Judy staying on the line with her, catching very little of the intense volley of what she could only imagine were heated curse words and the road noise of the van.

Then there it was, Judy's beat up blue van bouncing up the road in a cloud of dust. It groaned in protest as Judy threw it into park and was out before it had rocked backwards to a stop.

"V?" Judy's hands were blissfully warm against the chill that the temperate drop had leeched into V's skin. Judy tilted V's chin up and she forced her eyes open, "You still with me?"

God, she'd never been so happy to see someone, even if the thought of dragging Judy into her shit made her want to scream.

"Still here." V confirmed with a groan, a shudder wracking her, "Unfortunately."

Judy brushed her thumbs across V's cheekbones, lips pursing together, before she moved to slip an arm under V's arms.

"Let's get you to the van."

Moving felt like a monumental task, far too much of an undertaking. But if she didn't even try, then Judy would have to bear the brunt of her cyberware-heightened weight. And she'd already made Judy haul her dead weight from beneath the waters of the dam.

So V forced her legs beneath her and helped to stand with Judy's help, letting out a breath in a hoarse wheeze. Whatever edge the MaxDocs had taken off was wearing away, leaving sharp, ragged edges of pain spiking from various places on her body to mix with the general ache that was her existence right now.

Slopping into the passenger seat of Judy's car was a mercy on her body and she slouched, leaning her head back against the headrest with a whimper.

God, she was so tired of hurting. Hurting today, hurting whenever the Relic flared; her world had been one whole incessant hurt since taking that stupid heist with Jackie.

Then Judy was in the drivers seat, the van rumbling to life beneath them, and her hand was a gentle press on V's thigh.

"Do you need me to find a ripper?" And there was such matter-of-fact concern in Judy's voice, such a simplicity in the question, that V had to squeeze her eyes closed against the burn of tears and shake her head to work around the lump in her throat.

When was the last time she'd had someone care, somewhere there to haul her ass off the floor when shit hit the fan?

"Don't need a ripper." V rasped, "Nothing that can't be patched up at home."

Maybe she should get her cyberdeck checked out after the other netrunners' hits, but the static was starting to fade from her head to be replaced by bone deep exhaustion and hurt. If more issues popped up, she'd go bother Vik tomorrow.

If only to avoid landing on his doorstep in a pitiful state.

Again.

Judy put the van in drive, doing her best to avoid the potholes, her hand staying on V's leg. It was nice, comforting.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd had that either.

V leaned her head back against the headrest, eyes drifting closed, and let the ride pass by in a blur.

--

By the time V made it up the stairs to Judy's apartment, even with her help, she was spent. The floor looked like a fantastic space to just let herself collapse and sleep off all of today.

But that would mean bleeding all over Judy's floor and Judy's grip on her was unwavering.

Instead she found herself in the dim light of the bathroom, gingerly peeling herself out of her clothes. Her jacket and pants rained gravel down in a pitter-patter on the tile and her tank top clung to her skin with a sticky solution of blood and wound.

Judy helped her peel that off too, giving a soft curse at the angry welts and road rash across her torso, back, and sides.

"At least you were wearing leather." Judy said with a shake of her head, "Otherwise I'd be scraping you off the road back there."

There was enough admonishment in her tone that V snorted out a laugh, then winced as her body punished her for it. Already a massive bruise mottled her skin from hip up her rib cage from where one of the netrunner's attacks had hit her hard enough that she fell from what she'd thought had been a hidden vantage point.

Which had led to her fighting her way out of the swarm.

She explained it all the Judy to fill the silence aside from the hiss of the shower, to keep herself from cussing and wincing as between the two of them they cleaned the gravel and blood from her skin.

V let herself drift in the feeling of safety, let herself disengage from the high alert she always seemed to be on. Judy's hands were gentle as she helped V smear a sharp-scented ointment on her road burn and bruises and helped wrap gauze around the worst of it.

Sitting on Judy's couch in a t-shirt two sizes too small and sweatpants that were a couple inches too short, V let her head drop down onto Judy's shoulder. Judy carded her fingers through V's hair without enough tenderness that V could've cried.

"Thank you for saving my ass back there." she murmured, the emotion she'd walled back seeping through a crack in her voice.

Judy leaned back on the couch, tugging V with her so that she was laying half on top of Judy. V relaxed into it, angling herself so that she wasn't laying on her worst side, and nestled her head into the crook between Judy's neck and shoulder.

This was far better than crawling back to her own apartment, nursing her wounds alone, and passing out in the bed cubby with the help of whatever would numb the pain enough to help her sleep. Judy's hand continuing to card through her hair was like a siren's song for sleep.

"I'm always going to come get you mi calabacita." Judy whispered against her hair, "You're not facing Night City on your own anymore."

[thepixelelf]

[sooo, what did I miss?] The first thing you notice when you come to is the acrid fumes in the air. They tickle your nose and rouse a cough from the deepness of your chest, which travels up your throat and comes out as a choke. Your head feels like it's filled with seawater -- like it's been drowning for hours, but you can't let the pain and grogginess hinder you from moving. You have to get out of your car if it's smelling this much like gasoline, and fast.

Your entire body feels stiff. At first, you try to flex your fingers, get the blood pumping enough to make use of them at all. Opening your eyes proves to not be much help. The fumes sting against your eyeballs, and you can't see past the engaged airbag anyhow. Instead, you keep your eyes screwed shut and grunt as you lift both arms to push the deflating airbag out of your way. On muscle memory alone, you fumble for the key in the ignition. Your fingers, for a few seconds, are too weak to twist the key, but after a few determined yanks, you successfully turn off your car. With one possibility of an explosion knocked off the list, you heave yourself off the car seat and shove your body into the driver's side door, thankful when you can open it just fine.

Whatever you'd hit after veering off the road, at least it didn't--

Fuck, why did you veer off the road?

As you fall out of your car, hacking up a storm, having inhaled too much smoke, you try to gather your memories together, but find nothing. There's this lingering feeling... You know something made you jerk both hands on the wheel and swerve off the freeway.

You just don't know what.

Deciding that the memory will probably come back to you later, you stumble a good number of steps away from your car and collapse once again to catch your breath. The cool night air does your lungs well, easing the fire that's still burning in your chest little by little. A metallic taste coats the inside of your mouth. You'd bit your tongue during the crash.

The roads around you are empty, but what did you expect at sometime-past-three in the goddamn morning? You'd been... yes, you were on your way to the other side of the city, choosing the freeway over the hustle and bustle of traffic in the city streets. Sungyoon had called you.

Well, no. One of Sungyoon's friends had called you using his phone. They asked you to come pick him up from the club they were at because he was apparently "blasted". Though, he was lucid enough to have his friends call you rather than his older sister, whom you suspected would chew him out for drinking during his university's exam season.

Even though you're closer to Seonhui, you tend to err on the side of the "cool uncle" type to Sungyoon, despite being only four years older than him. You know, the type of person you can call to pick you up from the bar without getting upset at you for being there in the first place. Someone who has no stake in any of your life decisions, so they get the privilege of not having to judge you for any of them.

He'd said something about Seonhui -- you had heard his voice yelling in the background of the call. Something about how she didn't have to know and about something important he had to tell you when you showed up.

You groan thinking about him. Poor guy; now his sister actually does have to know because her friend is an idiot who drives off freeways for no discernible reason. Feeling around your pockets, you sigh in relief when you find your phone. There's no way you'd want to search your now hellmouth of a car for it.

You know the logical thing to do first is call emergency services, but you could be on the phone with them for who knows how long. Might as well tell the person who's depending on you that you can't make it. Dialling the most recent number isn't difficult, really, although you're starting to feel the chill in the air. You shiver as you bring your phone up to your ear.

"You've reached the voicemail of--"

His voice interrupts the automated one. "Choi Sungyoon."

"--please leave a message after the tone."

You frown at the beep that rings in your ear. Sungyoon should be looking at his phone if he's waiting for you to pick him up, or at least have the ringer on. You wait only a few seconds after hanging up to call him again.

This time, the low trill rings twice before he picks up.

"...Hello?"

You're a bit out of it at this point, having just crashed your car and all, but you think he sounds... slow, like he just woke up, but also hesitant. Since you can't think of a reason he'd sound like that, though, you just ignore it.

"Hey, listen," you say, voice raspy from all those noxious fumes. "I can't pick you up anymore. Sorry"

He doesn't respond for a moment.

A long moment.

"...What?"

He must be pretty drunk.

"I got into a little accident. Princess--" That's what you, Seonhui, and Sungyoon affectionately call your shitty 2007 Honda Civic. You look over at your still-smoldering car and grimace. "--she's done for."

More silence. It's strange... there's no sound in the background, either. Did he move outside?

"Anyway, you're gonna either have to bite the bullet and call Seonhui or maybe try an Uber--"

"Is this some sort of sick joke?"

Your words come to a halt at his sudden, bitter tone, and you let out an incredulous huff of a laugh. "Look, man, I crashed Princess on the side of the road, so I'm sorry" --your tongue curls sarcastically around the apology-- "that I can't pick you up from your drunken bender."

"How do you know about Princess?"

"What the hell are you on about, Sungyoon? How do I know about my car?" An exasperated breath escapes you, and you choke on it for a second. After the short coughing fit has cleared, you bring your phone back to your ear. "You're drunker than I thought. Don't you have an exam soon or something?"

"Exam-- who is this?"

That makes you pause.

"Sungyoon," you say, simply. "It's me."

Another moment of quiet passes, and you wonder to yourself if you've suffered a concussion.

Then he asks, "What's my favourite food?"

"What does that have to do--"

"Answer the question."

Sighing, you wrap your free arm around your middle in a futile attempt to stay warm. "You tell everyone it's sashimi, but I know for a fact that you keep a stash of white chocolate in your room."

You hear him exhale. "Fuck."

"I don't underst--"

"Where are you?" he asks, a frantic tone to his voice now.

"Umm..." You glance around. "Highway 216... close to exit thirty-four."

"Don't move. I'm coming to get you."

You shake your head, struggling to keep up. "What? If you're calling me an Uber, don't bother. I have to call EMS to file the--"

"Don't," Sungyoon insists, and you have no idea why, but you feel inclined to listen. "Listen to me. Do not call anyone. Wait until I get there."

"There's a fine if you don't report an accident in twenty-four hours."

"Trust me." The sound of a car door slamming shut on his end of the line only gives you more questions. "You don't need to bother."

=

It takes only fifteen minutes for Sungyoon to find you, and by then you're shivering from head to toe.

A car you've never seen before pulls over and parks hastily near where you're standing (the cold ground got a little too cold). Its four-way flashers turn on before a familiar-ish figure exits and starts making his way towards you, silhouetted by the car's headlights.

"Since when can you drive?" you call out first, since it's definitely a surprise to you seeing your friend's little brother behind the wheel. You could've sworn Seonhui was whining about his lack of license a week ago. "And-- wait, should you be driving? You were just drinking--" He steps even closer, and you see the wisps of his hair lit by the headlights behind him. "Is your hair red? When did that--"

You don't get the chance to finish your question. Sungyoon pulls you tightly into him, his hand on the back of your head pressing your face into his coat so all you can really say is "oomph."

Sungyoon's never really hugged you before. At least, not like this. His fingers dig into the fabric of your clothes, like he's clutching desperately to something that will slip from his grasp if he loosens his hold even the slightest.

It faintly registers to you that he doesn't smell like alcohol at all.

You try to speak, muffled as you are against his coat. "Sungyoon, what--"

"I dyed my hair last week," he says, breathless. The words are panted over your ear, and it's then you fully realize how closely he's wrapped himself around you. You go to say something about how you saw his black hair just the other day, but he continues. "I'm four years sober next month."

The numbers are not crunching. "That doesn't--"

"And my license," he says, finally pulling back just enough so that you can see his face. "I got that in 2018."

You frown. "It's 2016."

Sungyoon breathes out your name, but all you hear is warning bells. You can tell by the pitying look on his face -- as much as it's mixed with relief. You're not going to like what he says next.

"It's 2023," he tells you, saying your name again like it's precious. He holds you tighter. "You've been missing for seven years."

[geddy-leesbian]

romantic Serrennedy weed smoking scene because I don't want to wait until the stuff that happens before it is done to post it (think the necessary context is just that they're in a fancy hotel and fucked a lot the night before because they'll be apart a while for Luis's tour)

(basically just sweet fluff, but there's one paragraph where Luis talks about a bar fight he got into years before. but it's not angsty at all, he's laughing and bragging)

Baths are one of Leon's guilty pleasures. Leon wasn't one to appreciate life's finer things, so much of the hotel's luxuries were lost on him. But the bathroom? That he very much did appreciate. He was looking forward to the biggest bathtub he'd ever seen. Square, fancy jets, right by a huge window overlooking the city.

Leon soaks, Luis perches on the edge of the tub, bouncing his leg.

“You look like you want to ask something.”

“Would you mind if I smoked in here? Not cigarettes. Pot,” Well then. Leon figured he was going to ask if he could get in the tub with Leon, there's enough room. Pot is a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. It's been a while, but from what he remembers, pot makes Leon all sappy and romantic. “I know you don't like cigarettes.”

“Get in the tub with me,” Leon answers. “And share.”

“Deal.”

Luis leaves for a minute and then comes back with a joint he hands to Leon while he undresses. Leon would have liked to watch him undress (even though he knows what Luis looks like under the clothes, there's still something exciting about the process) but instead he takes a hit and coughs until Luis is already sliding in the tub next to him. He’s kind of embarrassed to be hacking up a lung. He has done this before, really, it's just been a while.

“This is nice,” Luis says, stretching out his legs and taking puffs that don't make him cough like Leon. “I've never been much of a bath person, but I've never been in a bathtub long enough for my legs.”

Leon is a lightweight and starts getting a buzz long before Luis, and slides to the other end of the tub. Luis looks a bit hurt.

“Just wanna look at you,” Leon explains. “You're pretty. I don't tell you that very much. You tell me I'm pretty all the time, I don't say it back. Not sure why, you are. Get why that girl threw her bra at you. Would've done the same thing if I had one. You looked so good up there. And sounded. Fucked up. Fucked up that someone's just allowed to look that hot. You shouldn't be allowed on the streets.”

Luis doesn't say anything, but smiles, very amused by the weed turning Leon into such a chatterbox.

“Perfectly imperfect,” Leon is still going, now staring at the scar on Luis's cheek. “I like the scar on your cheek. I wouldn't like your face as much if you didn't have it. You'd be too perfect, you need a flaw to balance it. How'd you get it? Sorry. That's rude to ask. I'm high.”

“Yeah, I can tell you are. It's okay. I really don't mind talking about it, I won the fight, it's a good story. I would have told you the story sooner if I knew you liked the scar. I've told you how people picked fights with my band. I got this the first time it happened. There was a girl flirting with me, I flirted back. Turned out she already had a boyfriend, who was very drunk. Also very confused. It was hilarious!” Luis succumbs to a giggle fit. He finished the joint, and while it's not hitting him like it is Leon, he's definitely high. “He was pissed I was flirting with his girl, but he was also pissed that I, in his opinion, looked gay. So somehow I wasn't attracted to women and that was bad, but I also was attracted to his girlfriend, which was also bad. He kept flipping between which thing he was mad at, it was so funny. But anyway, somehow it got physical, I really don't remember how honestly, just how it ended. My cheek got cut with a shard of glass. Bled a lot. The scar would probably be much less noticeable if I'd gotten stitches, but I was afraid to go… I broke a bottle on the guy's head. He had a concussion probably, his girlfriend dragged him out to take him to the ER. Was afraid I'd get arrested. So I just hurried to grab the rest of my shit and flee from the scene of the crime with my band, hoping he'd be too drunk to remember and tell the cops anything. Doubt they would have cared about what he did to me, just what I did. But it was okay. Didn't get in trouble, learned a lesson, got a neat scar. Never got into bad fights after. Learned to hit people with mic stands, things wouldn't escalate to emergency room bad if they didn't get close.”

“Really? The guy's head?” Luis nods. “What the hell. My boyfriend knows how to beat people up. That's hot. Badass. Didn't think that actually happened in real life. Thought it was just movie shit. Damn. I love you.”

“I love you too. All the time, but especially when you're high. Wouldn't have guessed you'd be a talker like this.”

“Should buy us a house with a big tub, we'll do this all the time then.”

“It's not like we need to both be in a bath to do this.”

“Yeah,” Leon pouts. “But I like baths.”

“We'll remodel if whatever house we buy doesn't have a tub up to your standards,” Satisfied, Leon goes back to smiling. “So, you were excited for last night, it live up to what you were expecting?”

“Fuck. Sure did. Glad you made me wait, was pretty romantic.”

“So… Up for another round after we're out of the tub?”

“Shit,” Leon wishes he could say yes. He wants as much Luis as possible before he leaves today. But part of why he wanted to soak in the tub so much was that he got a lot of Luis last night, to the point he's sore all over, outside and inside. It's the good kind of sore, like he'd get after working out, but it's still soreness. “Was too good, I'm sore. Might actually die if you do anything to me. I'll suck your dick though.”

[joels6string]

how do you think joel would behave while having a cold in a no-cordyceps au? i feel like he'd deny it until he's completely racked

Oh, for sure. He’d be grunting out “I’m fine” over and over until he essentially just keels over. I imagine him outside hauling lumber into the back of his truck hacking up a lung, burning up with a fever. Poor guy. He just wants to give his people a good life 😭🩵

Man probably wouldn’t even learn his lesson after getting pneumonia.

[tblsomedoodles]

Imagine the boys taking a PE class! They would absolutely dominate!!

Oh for sure! even if their classmates were better at PE than standard humans, our turtles have been ninja training/jumping around buildings for ages. No one will be able to hold a candle to them.

(now all i can see is during the swimming unit, Leo just chilling at the bottom of the pool (with maybe Raph or Donnie. Mikey wants too but he's a land turtle and doesn't have the same lung capacity), playing cards with a couple of fish yokai until the teacher realizes they're missing a few lol.)

True, but that was when they were climbing debris into the sky, so he's probably still better than the rest of the students, he's just on the low end of his siblings.

But yeah, he'd definitely rock the stupid rope climbing thing! Him and Leo both. They probably race to the top to see who's faster. I could also see Donnie just chilling up there for a while b/c he doesn't want to have to do more stupid PE stuff. (PE's probably the one class he doesn't really care about b/c it's boring and he doesn't like sports. So he's fully willing to skip/slack off/get into mischief during that class. He figures if he fails he can always hack the grades later lol)

Thank you!

[monsteraaureaqueen]

How Carmen got *those* arms.

(Reposting my Reddit comment from r/TheBear, because people seem to like it. I fleshed it out... much like Jeremy Allen White's biceps, ha)

By the time Carmen got to middle school, the verbal taunting and teasing the slight, daydreamy little boy had always endured from his classmates started getting physical.

When 13-year-old Carmy came home from school, shirt torn and eye blackening for the third or maybe fourth time, Mikey decided Mom's fussing and smothering and angry calls to the school weren't going to get anything done.

He had to toughen Carmy up, or at least help him be less of a target. He decided to start with the very basics: he took the kid out to the garage, where Mikey still kept the weight set that wouldn't fit in his crap apartment, and taught him the basics.

That's been... Jesus, twenty years ago now, but Carmy's kept it up ever since. The math is simple: short and jacked is, you know, better than just short, any day of the week.

(And God knows cardio is out of the question; if Carmy dared attempt a run along the lake or some such bullshit, he'd probably collapse and die about 200 yards in. Fuck, the cigarettes are doing a number on him and he's old enough now to feel it, the hack and the rasp and the sluggishness. But he doesn't know how to even think about quitting. Even though it's terrible for him in every way, even starting to blunt his palate, just a little but he knows, he can tell. He just can't fucking do this without nicotine, without the blessed ephemeral relief of cold, fresh air and the flick of a lighter, the inhale, the rush. He just...not now. Maybe someday. But not now.)

He does it in his living room, before work, at an ungodly early hour. He has the most barebones setup imaginable - a set of adjustable dumbbells and a doorway chin up bar. He does the most absolute basic routine: Chest presses, shoulder presses, rows, biceps, triceps, chin-ups, lunges, abs. Heaviest he can handle, to failure, 20 minutes max. He actually kind of hates it, but he does it every other day before work, even if he wakes up exhausted (which is daily), even if he didn't sleep at all. He does it no matter what. Because he committed to it. He hates it, but it's part of who he is and what he does. That's the kind of guy he is.

And because Mikey taught him this, taught him this to help him, to protect him. So even though Carmy hates the tedium and the pointlessness of it, every time he lifts one of those stupidly heavy barbells while it's still dark outside and everything in him wants to put it down... somewhere in that place below conscious thought, it reminds Carmen that his big brother once loved him.