#icepick fic

[gingerhastoomanyobsessions]

obviously there’s no definitive goncharov plot so I can’t wait to see all the different versions of the Shoe Movie that tumblr will inevitably cook up

[clonewarswritings]

The Squadron’s Spouse

Introductions (Umbra Squad)

Series Summary: An AU where clone squads are sometimes assigned an Emotional Support Partner who is equal parts counselor, mediator (and spouse) in order to keep morale and loyalty as high as possible—somebody gets a job and at least several fairly loyal not-on-paper-but-you-know husbands, while the squadron of clones are less inclined to do things that, you know, make accidental babies happen.

Featured Clones: Umbra Squad (OCs)

Rating: Teen

Read on AO3

To call the moment nerve-wracking is an understatement. It would be like calling a new star warm or a vast ocean wet—completely blindsiding with the immense weight of reality. You had expected to be introduced to the squadron properly, yes, but not… like this.

Not all of them at once.

Maybe Scorch, the squad leader, had misinterpreted your demeanor as excitement or contentedness. Maybe he didn’t think about how your nerves were tugging at your tongue and softening your words, or how he was plenty familiar with his brothers-in-arms already while you had just scarcely been introduced to the man himself.

Nevertheless, the entirety of the squadron piles into the rec room like a herd of excited puppies, all laying curious eyes on you the moment they hurry inside, until there are nine more people in the room with you—nine more people you barely know, and yet were told that you match up perfectly for.

“Uh…” you try to find the words somewhere in the back of your head. “Hello… there…” You reach up and wave slightly, just a little gesture of a hand.

Scorch introduces you by name with a respectful bow of his head and a gesture towards you. Even in the ten minutes or so of being able to speak to him privately, you can tell he is genuinely a good man; a little energetic and overly humorous about his own shortcomings, though you figure that must be due in part due to the huge burn scar that covers one side of his face. He had explained it had come from the first battle of Geonosis, the fire from an explosion had caught him without the helmet offering much help, apparently.

Ironic name aside, Scorch seems overjoyed at the thought of he and his squadron being matched in the Companion program.

The rest of his squad? It’s hard to tell. Their expressions aren’t nearly as readable, and each one holding a different look in their eyes—one of them was still wearing their helmet and was leaning against the back wall, arms crossed. You think for a moment that they’re entirely unmoved by the situation until they wave a hand and chuckle.

”So if you’re s’pose to be our uh, spouse-“

”Technically the right term is ‘companion’, Icepick.”

”Fuck that.” The faceless trooper huffs, then turns so you can clearly see your reflection in the darkness of the visor and says, “But does that mean we gotta call you things like ‘darling’ and ‘sweetheart’?”

”Well, I mean—“ you swallow down the rock in your throat. “You can just call me whatever you like! My name is a good starting point, though I mean… a nickname could work. My friends used to call me-“

”Around these parts, you earn a nickname,” Icepick says, as sharp as his name. “And if you do somethin’ stupid or badass enough, then you’ll get one. Until then, you’re just a Civi.”

”Civi…?”

”He means ‘civilian’,” this time, one of the other clones reply—the one who had tried to correct Icepick before. He doesn’t have any tattoos or markings to differentiate himself, but his hair is long, all the way down to his shoulders and pulled back into a ponytail. He offers a smile all the same and says, “Please forgive Icepick, he’s a bit… unfriendly to new people. But I’m Ratchet.”

Scorch, Icepick, and Ratchet. You try to start pushing the names into the depth of your memory as the other clones in Umbra Squadron start to introduce themselves, one by one.

Doc identifies himself as the squadron medic, or as close as he can be as he wasn’t born and trained as one. He claims to be very knowledgeable about field medicine, and seems perfectly happy to start telling a story about one time that he had to patch up Ratchet from a rather gruesome blaster shot to the stomach—but luckily he’s interrupted with the next introduction.

Screwloose seems more comfortable to talk about the weapon he prefers to carry than about himself.

“The uh, DC-15A carbine is a really good and reliable weapon,” he says, never quite able to meet your gaze with his as he speaks. It almost sounds like he’s reciting facts and, after a moment, you realize he’s wringing his hands as he talks. “Standard issue, minimal kickback, and there’s more than a dozen mods to use depending on the situation…”

”He gets nervous ‘round new faces,” another clone says from beside him, arms crossed and posture nonplussed about the entire situation. “Name’s Dread, short for Dreadnaught. I handle the big guns and the bigger clankers.” He laughs after a moment, and the man’s body language finally loosens as he wraps an arm around the shoulder of the next clone to introduce.

Pinpoint isn’t just quiet, he’s entirely mute, or he is at least to you. Dread explains that Pinpoint is their sniper, and he just… doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t really talk to anyone outside of other clones, and even then what he says is curt and to the point—a no-nonsense kinda guy. Pinpoint does at least offer you something of a half-smile and a quiet wave, and you offer it in kind.

Next is Knick and Knack, a pair of clones who apparently earned their names not only for being nearly inseparable from one another, but also because they had a bad habit of picking up countless useless bits from missions—a shiny rock, a pretty bead, something or another that wasn’t against the regulations.

Last but certainly not least was Trigger—he stood beside Scorch when everyone came into the rec room, and called himself the second-in-command of the squad. He seemed a bit more tense than most of the rest, a bit less inclined to meet your eyes or offer much information about himself.

But that was all of them. You look at each of the clones one by one, committing each name to memory as best as you can in the short time you had been given them. Even if you were assigned to an entire squad, your work was certainly cut out for you; keep an eye on these boys.

“Well, we’re not the fanciest lot in the army,” Scorch jokes, “but Umbra squad isn’t short on good men fighting for the Republic.”

”I can see that,” you reply, trying to keep the smile on your lips when your heart is beating rapidly within your chest. All of their eyes are on you, watching, waiting; what will you do next? What will you ask? It’s weird to think that this is the first day to an entire relationship with each of these soldiers—one that very well may dive deeper than mere companionship, given the fact that you had indicated comfort for it on your application.

You take in a breath, then start speaking.

”Well, you already know my name, but let me tell you a little more about myself. I’m from Coruscant, born and raised there-“

”Is it true that the city goes all the way down to the core?” Dreadnaught asks. Pinpoint’s expression beside the man grows curious in tandem.

”Well, I suppose? I don’t… know, exactly. See, I was born just a few layers beneath the surface, and down there it’s like…”

[littlesmartart]

DRAWTOBER #29 - Setting fire to our insides by StarsAlignNomore

Lan Wangji dies after the thirty-third strike. Lan Xichen does not handle it well. *fleabag voice* This is a fix it. Tracing back his steps, all his life, every decision he’s ever made, every bruise and every cut – it leads back to his father. Jin Guangyao has regret nestled where silent calculation used to sit. He’s not surprised to still feel the cold prickle of acrimony right next to it. A kick to the chest and Jin Guangyao had promised to ascend those stairs in bright Jin Gold and rise to meet his father on equal footing. Now he’s dressed in Lan Blue and no chance to fulfill that promise. He makes a new one then, staring into the flames. He swears it on the memory of Nie Mingjue’s lips against his skin and Lan Xichen’s cold silver eyes. He’s made of regret instead of Jin Gold now and he will not cower down in fear. He will make his father pay for it.

so you know how I've recc'd some fics on here as "comfort fics"? this is, uh... I'd say this is basically the opposite of that! I am very rarely this masochistic in my reading habits because there's already so much pain in canon, but oh my god, this fic compels me, it destroys me, and it's not even finished yet! I absolutely stand by the concept that the best way to reconcile NieYao is by hitting Xichen with the Whump Hammer, and this fic takes that concept and runs a fucking marathon with it; what do NieYao do when their moral centre decides he's had enough of being nice and reasonable??? in that way, we get a fantastic "who you are in the dark" character study of each of them, and oh boy, you know something's going badly wrong when Mingjue is the most reasonable and restrained of 3zun.

there is so much more to this plot than just 3zun though - and every new plot point is an icepick right to the heart and had me getting up to PACE AWAY MY FEELINGS because there just ??? keeps being more???? this fic is not a fun or lighthearted read, but it is INCREDIBLE and will have you on the edge of your fucking seat, and if you are in the right kind of mood then I would thoroughly recommend it.

tldr; reading this fic be like -

[saltandburnheathens]

Low Places.

Prompt: Why do you think that you need to fix me? Who told you I was broken!?

Pairing: None.

Rating: Mature for implied/drug use.

Words: 1.6k

Warnings: Drug use. Implied suicide.

Summary:

He hadn’t meant for anyone to find him. It was the dead of the night and all Dean had been craving since coming down was to go back up. But in a place like Lebanon, Xanax was the best he could score, and he hadn’t had a proper hit since their last job took them to Austin. Then he’d remembered the methadone pills hidden beneath the driver’s seat of Baby.

Notes:

I saw this prompt and it spoke to me. I have an ongoing story I'm writing purely for self-indulgence and copium that has Dean suffering from addiction. Namely drugs. And this just spoke to me on another level. So I whipped on my playlist for that fic and fired this onto the page. Largely unedited, so excuse my flaws. I was also high when writing as I always am (Just weed, kids. Calm down.)

If you want to see this continued or written around, let me know. I'd love to add another Drug Addict! Dean to my verse.

Show A03 some love.

Curled inward on himself, his knees digging into the hard resin of the shower tray, Dean prayed for escape. He babbled and begged anyone- Chuck, Lucifer, fuckin’ Billie - to snap his God-damned neck in two. There was nothing he deserved more than death and he didn’t quite have the strength (or the balls) to do it himself. 

The water had long turned cold, leaving behind icepicks falling from the shower head and piercing his skin. Over and over and over. Again and again and again. Just like the bad decisions he’d made and the people he’d hurt; Relentless and never-ending. 

Sam was somewhere beyond the door, deep within the bunker and doing everything to avoid the older Winchester. They hadn’t spoken in days, nor crossed paths in the hallways. Dean would say he'd left if he didn’t know any better, didn’t know the fear burning in his brother’s gut. But there was no way he’d do that after catching Dean chasing little pink pills with whiskey. 

He hadn’t meant for anyone to find him. It was the dead of the night and all Dean had been craving since coming down was to go back up. But in a place like Lebanon, Xanax was the best he could score, and he hadn’t had a proper hit since their last job took them to Austin. Then he’d remembered the methadone pills hidden beneath the driver’s seat of Baby.

His first mistake was stopping by the kitchen for a bottle of whiskey. The second was giving into impatience and drowning thirty milligrams in smokey liquor. But it all ended when Dean failed to notice Sam standing on the threshold, atop the step, and watching his every move. Sober Dean wouldn’t have made that mistake, but he didn’t come around much anymore. 

“What is that?” 

Silence.

“Dean. What is that? 

“Whiskey.”

Sam moved closer. One step. Two. Then he was right at Dean’s shoulder and manoeuvring him so they were facing each other. 

“You promised. No more lies.” 

Dean desperately tried to avoid his brother's gaze. His stomach flipped, from the cocktail or fear, he couldn’t tell. Maybe both. 

“Dean!” 

“What?!” 

“What did you take?” The words slow, seething through Sam’s teeth. 

“Nothin’.” 

They went on like that for damn near thirty minutes. Dean denied anything other than liquor and his brother threatened to pat him down. In the end, Sam held firm on his promise and forcefully dug around in the pockets of Dean’s jeans, coming up with a small bag of pink and yellow pills. 

An argument erupted (“You fuckin’ promised me!” “Yeah? Well I lied!”) and Sam found himself on the wrong end of Dean’s fist. It was settled when the younger Winchester fled the kitchen in a horrid silence, his tail between his leg and a shiner developing below his left eye. 

“I can’t deal with you when you’re like this.” 

Dean was alone, fist bloody and bruised, begging the earth to swallow him whole. A gut-wrenching guilt bloomed in his stomach, but the buzz of the drugs overshadowed it. His mind was hazy and covered in heavy thickets of brambles and thorns. And had it not been for the throbbing in his fist, he would have written the whole thing off as some sort of fucked up high. 

But it wasn’t. The evidence was there in black and blue and shades of red. Peppered across his knuckles like crude clouds. 

He clenched his fist, whimpering through the pain, and shifted to cut the water off. Silence bloomed in the absence of thundering icicles. The emptiness left room for thought and Dean didn’t very much care for thought; especially not his. 

“Dean? Are you alright?” 

Somewhere above him, lingering by the door, he heard the fluttering of wings. Then the gentle squeak of the bathroom hinges. 

“What have I told you about personal space, buddy? This is a key example right here.” Dean allowed himself to fall back against the tiles, taking pressure off his knees.

“Because you’re naked? Or because you’re crying?” 

“‘ ‘not crying.” 

He wasn’t, not at that moment. But he had been. He’d practically had to shove his fist in his mouth to stop from screaming through the sobs wracking his body. 

Dean just wanted - needed - it to end. 

Castile moved closer and slid back the glass panel of the shower door. Dean didn’t even reach forward to stop him or try to shield his nakedness. The angel rebuilt him from nothing more than ash, bit by broken bit; Who cares if he saw his cock and balls? Or the bruises on his body from bar fights he couldn’t remember. Or the track marks from needles he vaguely felt? It was nothing to an angel of the lord. 

“You were praying for me.” 

“I wasn’t prayin’ for you. I was prayin’ for anyone who would fuckin’ listen an’ that just so happened to be you. Doesn’t mean I need you.” Dean snarled. 

Castiel came to his hunches, the tail of his coat dipping into the wetness pooled at the base of the shower tray. He cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brows, a look of caution on his countenance. Dean kept his head firmly in his hands. 

“Let me fix you.” 

“Why do ya’ think that you needa’ fix me? Who told you I was broken!?” Dean was looking now, boring holes through the angel's skull with eyes fogged by dope. 

Who the fuck said anything about a repair job? 

“You. You asked for help.” 

“Help can mean a lot of things. Don’t always have to mean I need ya to fix anythin’.” 

The angel seemed to contemplate this for a moment before reaching out and taking hold of Dean’s arm. The hunter jumped back, smacking his head against the tiles, desperately trying to pull himself free from Castiel’s grasp. But it was useless, he was already being whisked forward and up from the floor, his feet struggling for grip through the dampness. He stood shaking on legs made of lead. 

“Jeez. Warn a dude before you manhandle him like that.” Dean grumbled. 

“You’re shivering.”

“Yeah, well” Dean reached for a towel and began dragging it across his body, “I was happy where I was.”

“But you’re cold.”

With a roll of his eyes, Dean pushed past the angel and into his bedroom. As much as he loved the man, his tolerance was wavering. All he wanted was another hit to take the edge off. Then he could go into town in search of the next one. Again and again and again until finally, something killed him. 

Or someone. 

Castiel watched as the hunter pulled on a pair of sweatpants and an old Zeppelin shirt, the pallidness of his skin highlighted further by the darks in his clothing. 

“You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question, but a matter-of-fact observation. 

“I’m doing just fine, C- ” Dean sighed. He sat heavily on his mattress, the frame squeaking against his weight, and leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. 

He wasn’t ready for this conversation. He hadn’t been ready when Sam cornered him in the kitchen all those nights ago, and he certainly wasn’t near ready now. 

“Sam’s prayers make more sense now.” Castiel took a few tentative steps forward, stopping a few feet shy of the hunter. 

Dean looked up to meet the angel's gaze. His brows were pulled up and knitted together in the middle, a regular expression for him, but it was his eyes that stopped Dean in his tracks. They were frightened, almost like he’d stumbled upon a haunted house when looking for a mansion.

“His - what? Sam’s been prayin’ to you? About me?” 

“He didn’t tell me that you’d relapsed in so many words, but I should have read between the lines. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it.” Castiel pursed his lips together and swallowed, “I rebuilt you from nothing. I know your past, and I assumed your present too.”

“Cas - “ 

“But somehow I missed it.”

“You didn’t miss anything, angel.” Dean spat, drawing his breath back and forth through gritted teeth, “I’m a very good liar.” 

“Yes. It would seem that way.” Castiel hung his head, releasing a trapped sigh. 

Silence stretched between them before Dean rose to his feet to find the remainder of the methadone. He hadn’t many left, maybe enough for another twenty-four hours if he rationed them. But relentless in his effort to chase after the high, he took two from the packet and began to crush them up with the hilt of his pocket knife. 

Castile watched on, astonished at the brashness of it all. 

“You can stand there with your mouth open like a fish, or you can fuck off. I’m gonna do what I’m gonna do whether you’re watching me or not.”

“Is this really how your story ends?” 

“With any luck.” Dean leaned forward, closing one nostril and inhaling through the other. He blinked several times and huffed out through his mouth. The burning disappeared, giving way to the rush of the drug. 

“You don’t mean that, Dean.” 

“Don’ I? What sort of ‘help’ do you think I was askin’ for, huh?” Dean stalked closer to the angel, pupils blown and a small trickle of blood smeared beneath his nose, “Did you think I wanted you to flutter down from your pedestal and throw me a hug? Let me cry on your shoulder and then check me into rehab?” He scoffed, “Been there, done that. The t-shirt just didn’t fit me.” 

“So what are you asking for?” 

“A way out.”

[jynrso]

some of it remains (but your love is unmoved)

hey all! this is the fic that i've been working hard on over the past few weeks. it's the first fresh piece i've written in over a year – the oneshot i posted a few weeks ago ("not without me / not without you") had a rough draft and outline so i had a bit to go off. this was a completely new story and i didn't intend for it to be this long. . .13.5 and 6k words later, here we are! jyn's experiences are based on my own. i got a concussion about 3.5 years ago and i still get icepick headaches to this day (that i never got before). while i don't get migraines, they are pretty bad. when i was thinking to myself about jyn's role as a brawler, i figured she'd get hit in the head pretty often –– and from that, this fic was born. title from "as it was" by hozier read it on ao3!

Jyn Erso has always had a remarkably thick skull. 

Not in the sense that she isn’t intelligent. Rather, ever since she’d learned how to fight, she’d quickly found that she could bounce back from blows to the head quicker than her comrades. Hits that would render other Partisans unconscious usually only dazed her; if she got knocked down, she pushed herself back up in seconds, returning to the fight with her brutal efficiency hindered only slightly by slight dizziness and a burgeoning headache. 

As a brawler, with the reach of her truncheons keeping her in close contact with her targets, she’s more exposed than a long-distance soldier. Though her armor absorbs many of the hits she takes, by favoring hand-to-hand combat, it’s not uncommon for her skin to be littered with various bruises and abrasions from hits she’s doled out and ones she’s taken in return. Even with her gloves, her hands often take the brunt of the damage; out of every place on her body, her hands are the most heavily scarred. 

But despite her fighting prowess and experience on the battlefield, she’s had her fair share of close calls. Even she isn’t completely unaffected by someone slamming the butt of their blaster against her skull. The scar snaking up from the top of her forehead into her hairline speaks to that; a few years ago, she’d been hit so hard by a stormtrooper that it had not only knocked her out but also needed stitches –– ones she had to do herself without the credits for proper medical care. It had never healed right, the scar angry and raised to this day, but she’d escaped with her life . . . and only a few consequences. 

The chronic headaches ––  the bad ones –– had begun during her stint in an underground fighting ring, just after Saw abandoned her on Tamsye Prime. In an attempt to earn enough credits to survive, she’d played her strengths to her advantage and fought numerous other sentients for money. Though she’d won more fights than lost, her opponents usually got in a hit or two; and, with the lack of protective gear, the blows she’d taken had often been more debilitating, especially in the aftermath. 

But in the middle of a war, a headache here or there is hardly her biggest problem.  

It’s not like she’s bleeding out or has any open wounds. A stim shot usually takes care of the worst of the symptoms and dims them to a more manageable level. And when that doesn’t work, in the years after Saw, she’d hole up somewhere dark and quiet and ride it out for a few days by herself. With her high pain tolerance, she can push through just about anything, even if it means spending a few hours incapacitated. 

Her last . . . episode had been right after Scarif. She doesn’t remember much of what’d happened after Bodhi had picked her and Cassian up from the beach but she recalls moments of blinding pain. The agony from her burns from the blast had only just been overshadowed by the splitting in her skull, feeling as if someone had taken an axe and cleaved her in two. 

Ever since, however, she’s managed to keep her headaches under control and everyone else in the dark. But with the recent destruction of Alderaan and the move from Yavin IV to Hoth, it’s only a matter of time. With the amount of pressure and stress slowly building up on her shoulders, she just hopes that she’s alone when the inevitable happens, and strong enough to ride out the pain when it comes.

When Jyn wakes, unusually bleary-eyed and out of it, Cassian’s no longer in bed next to her.

The sheets on his side have long gone cold. Faintly, in the back of her mind, she remembers him leaving earlier that morning; before his departure, he’d briefly woken her up with a kiss on the forehead and a whispered urge to go back to sleep. Not recalling much more than that, she assumes that she’d fallen back asleep and pushes herself up into a sitting position. 

As soon as she moves, a slow, heavy ache makes itself known in her left eye, radiating back toward her skull. She curses softly, rubbing her forehead with the palm of her hand, hoping that the pressure will help ease the oncoming pain, but to no avail. Even when she presses harder, digs her fingers into her hairline, the steady throbbing beats in time with her heartbeat. 

A pit sinks in her stomach. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, the pain of it a distraction. Even though her head doesn’t pound badly now, she knows from experience it’ll only get worse as the day goes on. And if this is one of those headaches. . .

Fuck, and she actually has shit to do today. She and Cassian are flying out in the afternoon for a surveillance and scouting operation at the abandoned rebel base on Dantooine. Bodhi’s swinging by later ––  shit, maybe sooner than she thinks, glancing at the chrono and seeing what time it is –– to help her get the ship ready while Cassian takes care of the pre-flight briefing with Draven. 

Okay. Okay. She exhales, throwing her arm over her eyes as she lays on her back in the messy remnants of their bunk. It’s not the ideal situation but it could be worse –– she just has to get out of bed and get ready while her pain is still manageable. Then she just has to meet Bodhi, get to the ship, and take off for Dantooine without indicating something is wrong, then find somewhere hidden and quiet to ride it out by herself. 

(There’s no way in hell Cassian is going to let her get away with that, a small voice in the back of her mind reminds her but she pushes that thought away for now. Once they get into the air, she can figure out an excuse. She just has to get there first. )

Groaning, Jyn hauls herself out of bed, wincing when the simple movement jars her already tender head. Without bothering to flip on the lip, she fumbles around in the dark, picking up random pieces of clothing they’d scattered across the ground the night before. 

In the bathroom, biting back a curse as the cold finally begins to hit her, the warmth of sleep finally wearing off, she quickly gets ready in the relative silence and dimness of the ‘fresher. 

There’s a basic medkit under the sink, equipped with bandages, a few bacta patches, and hyposprays. It’s meant for the occasions when either of them has minor injuries but doesn’t want to go to the medbay. Though it’s here for this purpose –– and she knows she should grab something –– she still hesitates. It’s not that bad (yet) and she’s pushed through worse. And there’ll be times in the future when they have a greater need for these supplies. . .

With her thoughts feeling like static, it’s difficult to concentrate enough to make a proper decision. Before she can, someone knocks on the door and shakes her from her daze. She flinches at the sound, wiping a shaky hand down her face as her head protests the sudden loud noise. 

“Fuck,” she mutters, rocking forward on her heels and leaning forward against the sink, so far that her forehead nearly touches the smudged mirror. The medkit looms in her peripherals but she ignores it, convincing herself that she’ll be fine. (She’s always fine –– she has to be ). 

In a burst of strength, she pushes up and away out of the bathroom, heading toward the door. 

“Jyn!” Bodhi brightens when it opens, then almost immediately falls when he looks at her properly. “You –– you look like shit!”  

“Thanks, Bo,” she mutters, leaning against the doorframe as she pulls on her boots. “Good morning to you, too.” 

Frowning, he rubs the back of his neck as he peers in closer, head dipping down and wide eyes scrutinizing her disheveled appearance. “Well, it’s actually closer to afternoon, now, but –– ” 

“Still morning,” she grunts, straightening. The edge of her vision goes fuzzy for a few seconds, threatening to white out completely; she steadies herself on the wall once again and exhales heavily, then forces herself upright.

“Do you –– do you need to go to the –– ” 

“No,” she bites out forcefully. Her voice harsher is than she intends but the pain makes her feel brittle, fragile even, and she can’t help but overcompensate. “Just –– I just had a bit too much to drink last night. That’s all.”  

Both of them are keenly aware of just how well she holds her liquor and Bodhi is much more observant than people give him credit for, especially around the people he cares about. He frowns, eyebrows tugging together, and while his expression tells her exactly what he’s thinking, he’s also picking up on the hidden details in her own. 

But for whatever reason, either her voice or the stubborn look in her eyes, he doesn’t comment on her flimsy excuse and nods instead, perhaps not wanting to put up a fight when it’s clear she’s looking for one. 

She doesn’t miss the concerned look in his eye when she walks out of the room a little slower than usual. He stays close to her as if expecting to catch her if she falls, arms nearly brushing as he keeps her pace. 

His intense attention makes her uncomfortable, her ears reddening from the unfamiliar notion of having someone care about her. She’s fine. A headache isn’t anything to make a fuss over, and really, he’s making a big deal out of nothing.  

“I checked out the ship you’re taking this morning,” he says, keeping up a steady stream of chatter as they navigate through the halls of Echo Base. She only half-listens, occasionally offering up hums of agreement as he speaks, but it’s growing more difficult to keep her focus solely on him. “There isn’t too much to do but . . .”

After a few minutes, they reach their destination. When the noise and brightness of the hangar bay hall hit her full force, Jyn sways on her feet, eyes closing as nausea swells low in her stomach. Bodhi grabs her elbow to keep her steady but she just barely feels the touch, the hammering in her head overshadowing every other sensation. 

“ ––yn! Are you okay?” 

Bodhi’s voice grows louder and more nervous with each passing second she fails to reply. Jyn barely manages to clamp down on her flinch, forcing her eyes open and gritting her teeth as her head protests. 

“Fine,” she rasps, then licks her dry lips. Just one more hour, at most, and she can lie down; she just has to get to the ship first. “I’m fine. Where –– where’s the shuttle?” 

He pauses, scrutinizing her once again. “Listen, if you’re not feeling well, we can––” 

“I said I’m fine!” she reasserts, a bit harsher than she intends. Her head throbs at the raised tone of her voice. She sighs. “Look, can we just –– ” 

It’s clear he doesn’t entirely believe her. With all the time they’ve spent together since Scarif, he knows what her normal behavior looks like –– and this isn’t it. “Jyn, you really should –– ” 

Her eyes flash in irritation. She doesn’t need to be coddled. “If you want to stay here, be my guest. But I’m going to finish up packing the ship.” 

Once again, he must see something in her face that ends any possible argument. For him, this is a losing battle. Sighing, his shoulders slump in the face of her stubbornness. “All right. Come on.” 

Leading her to a ship in the back of the hangar, she focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and pushing down the pain as best she can. No matter how lightly she steps, the impact of her boots against the ground sends electricity radiating up from her legs to her head, a dull thumping that seems to grow the longer she spends in the hangar bay. 

She blinks and then they’re there. Almost robotically, she nods as Bodhi’s mouth opens and he begins to talk, only catching the tail end of whatever he says. He gestures toward the remaining crates of supplies that need to be loaded onto the shuttle and Jyn doesn’t bother to respond, turning toward them and setting her shoulders in preparation. 

(With her back turned, she misses how his mouth thins, how he reaches out for her but drops his arm after a few seconds. She misses the determined set of his eyes, the way he seemingly comes to a decision before setting to work himself.)

It’s easy to lose herself in the repetitiveness of the task. With only the pain in her head to keep her company, she tunes out the rest of the hangar bay and loads up the ship. At least in there, the lights aren’t so bright and the noises around her are muffled some by the thick durasteel walls. 

A blink and it’s done. It’s been –– how long has she been doing this, so lost in her head? 

For a few seconds, she stands in the cargo bay and looks down at the crates without really seeing them. Her hands flex at her sides, fingers still primed to hold a box. But then a particularly painful jolt of pain goes through her eye and she hisses, pressing the palm of her hand against the socket. When it eases, her brain recircuits and she remembers her purpose, rocking back on her heels. 

She turns to look for Bodhi, not finding him in the cockpit as expected. Instead, when she heads down the loading ramp to look for him, she sees him a few feet away, looking in her direction and talking in hushed voices with Cassian. 

Jyn scowls in irritation, hands curling into fists at her side and marching over to them. She has a good idea of what Bodhi’s telling him –– that she’s been acting weird, that there’s something wrong with her, that she isn’t capable enough to go on the mission. All those thoughts jumble in her head at the same, overlapping and intensifying what’s already there. 

“I’m fine!” she barks when she makes it over to them, putting her hands on her hips and tilting her chin up in defiance. Her jaw tightens, the muscles in her body bunching up and tensing. “I don’t know what he’s telling you but –– ” 

Cassian holds up his hands and Bodhi takes a step back when faced with her sudden burst of rage. “We’re just going over take-off protocol since Bodhi isn’t coming with us on this one,” he explains gently. 

Her anger deflates from her as quickly as it’d arrived and she closes her eyes briefly as her skull throbs in protest. Embarrassment at her outburst curls low in her gut but she refuses to let it show. 

“Great,” she mutters, shoving her hands deep in her pockets and turning away from them. Her cheeks redden, ears burning beneath her hat. “I’ll be on the ship if you need me.” 

If her behavior hadn’t been a cause for concern before, it certainly is now. She hunches in her coat, keeping her head down as she stalks to the shuttle, the snarl on her lips acting as armor to repel any stares from overly curious recruits that she gets on the way back. 

Cassian isn’t far behind. She’s only been on the ship for a few beats before he joins her, standing close enough that there are only a few inches between them. When she looks back into the hangar bay, Bodhi’s still there, his body language anxious and worried in the distance. 

She scowls, feeling betrayed and like they’re ganging up on her. She’s clearly fine –– she’d gotten everything on the ship quickly and efficiently. What complaints could they even have? When she turns away, she determinedly keeps her gaze focused on her datapad and makes a point not to look at Cassian, even when his presence 

Finally, he breaks the stalemate, not bothering to pretend he doesn’t know something is wrong. “Bodhi says you’ve been off all morning.” 

“Did he,” she says flatly, her eye twitching. Her mouth twists and she resolutely stares down at the datapad but not truly seeing the words on the screen. 

“I’m not going to push you,” he replies steadily, his voice not changing despite the derision in hers. There’s no judgment, nothing but concern despite her growing frustration. ( Stars, she doesn’t deserve him. ) “But if something’s wrong, you can tell me.” 

If he hasn’t picked up on it, then she must be successfully hiding the worst of her pain. When she turns to face him, she lets a little bit of her raggedness show, exhaustion written on her features. It’s not a lie, not truly, but a misdirection instead. Let him think this is the root of the issue. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

One of his eyebrows ticks up, likely remembering how she’d barely moved when he’d left their bed that morning. He doesn’t believe her, not entirely. But whatever he must see in her face must be enough to convince him that she’s all right for now. 

He nods slowly, brows tugging together as he considers her words, but doesn’t drop the matter entirely. “You can sleep once we make it to hyperspace.” 

It feels like an order rather than a request but she knows the decision is ultimately up to her. Too exhausted to disagree, the throbbing pain on one side of her head sapping all of the fight out of her body. 

Cassian hesitates, giving her a chance to pull away, then reaches out to cup her cheek. She closes her eyes when his thumb brushes against her cheekbone rhythmically; it doesn’t relieve any pain but his touch soothes her, comforts her in a way that only he can do. 

“Let’s finish getting the ship ready,” he says softly, and, eyes still closed, she nods once again. 

It doesn’t take long for them to finish; apparently, Bodhi had gotten more done than she’d realized while she’d lugged crates of supplies back and forth. Feeling almost as if in a trance with only a dull throbbing pain to keep her company, before she even realizes it, they’ve completed everything else and prepped the shuttle for take-off.  

(Dangerous, Saw’s voice barks in her head when she blinks in confusion, her body acting on auto-pilot as she buckles herself in and mechanically pulls on a pair of headphones. Just because you’re with someone you trust doesn’t mean you’re safe. Focus, my child.)

With one last wave to Bodhi, she closes the cargo bay door without another word and joins Cassian in the cockpit. Her limbs feel heavy, eyes squinting against the bright lights flashing on the dashboard. It takes her more than one try to get her seatbelt buckled in. 

Numbly, she forces her awareness out of the cave in her mind and does her best to pay attention when Cassian completes the pre-flight checks. It only takes a few minutes ––  she thinks, her thoughts feeling as if they’re moving through sludge –– before they’re up in the air. 

“Calculating jump to hyperspace,” he says. She clenches her jaw, nods, and prepares herself. 

The jump to hyperspace is worse than she’d expected. She presses the back of her head into her seat in an attempt to keep it steady and her white-knuckled hand gripping the armrests so tight she shakes. Against the roar of the engine, she inhales and exhales short puffs of air, eyes squeezed tight. It feels as if her brain is rattling against her skull, sharp pinpricks of pain hitting her through the eye in full force. 

One particularly bad pulse through her head has her biting down so hard on her tongue that she draws blood. The sharp sting at least provides a distraction, the coppery, metallic taste now filling her mouth becoming something to latch on to other than pain. 

But it’s getting more and more difficult to keep herself together. The combination of the lights, the noise, and the jerky movements of the shuttle around her have flayed her control almost entirely. She can’t do this, she can’t do this, but she has to, she has to keep it together for just a few more secon––

The ship stills. 

The only sound in the cockpit is her sharp, rapid breathing that she struggles to quiet and the hum of the engine underneath her feet. Though she can’t see him, she’s acutely aware of Cassian at her side. She hears him take off his headset and set it down on its hook above the dashboard, then hears the creak of his seat as he turns, presumably to face her properly. 

Hears the low, comforting sound of his voice when he tentatively asks, “Jyn? Are you okay?” 

“`m’fine,” she mumbles after a beat, her brain taking longer than usual to comprehend his words properly. Even though it’s very clear that she’s not, she can’t quite abandon the ruse just yet, still hanging onto rapidly disappearing threads of composure. “Just. . .” 

She trails off, swallowing down a wave of nausea. In the silence that follows, her stomach churns, due both to anxiety and her migraine; if she moves, even slightly, she’s going to throw up all over the floor. To tamp down on that, she focuses on her breathing: ragged inhales that catch before they make it to her lungs. 

Cautiously, she cracks her eyes open, just a slit, to see Cassian leaning forward in his seat, gaze tight with worry. His fists are curled against his knees, his body tense with the effort of not reaching out to her. She imagines he wants to check her over himself and see what’s causing her pain but not without her permission. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks. She can hear the desperation in his voice, likely compounded by the fact that he hadn’t pushed her to tell him what’d been wrong earlier. “Jyn, please. Did someone hurt you? Are you––” 

“Fine,” she cuts him off weakly, ignoring his growl of frustration at her protests. He’d reluctantly taken her by her word earlier but that’s not going to work anymore. The ruse is up; it’s so incredibly clear that she isn’t fine, the jump to hyperspace having rattled something loose in her brain. “It’s. . .” 

She pauses, licks her lips, then decides ––  what the hell. She can’t physically keep her walls up much longer. Her eyes flutter close, the pressure in her head abating only slightly with the lack of light. Finally, she says, “My head.” 

“Did you fall? Jyn, let me check––” 

“No,” she swallows, fumbling with her words. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, her thoughts slow and sluggish. “It’s –– it’s a migraine. I think. I, um, get them. Occasionally.” 

When Cassian doesn’t reply, she opens her eyes to see what he’s doing, feeling nervous and exposed. She watches as he gingerly stands and reaches over her, flicking off the lights in the cockpit and dimming the space as much as possible. While it isn’t completely dark, with switches on the dashboard still blinking, it’s a marked difference from how bright it’d been before. Her breath leaves her in a stuttered exhale as her shoulders relax slightly. 

His voice is quiet when he asks, “Better?” 

“Yeah,” she rasps. It is. “Thanks.” 

A beat of silence passes between them before he tilts his head to the side, in the direction of the back of the ship. Though it isn’t large and not meant for long-term travel, there’s a small bunk room and galley just behind the crew’s quarters. Though he doesn’t say anything, Jyn knows what he’s asking. 

“No,” she grits out. She keeps her head still but follows him with her gaze. It’s a struggle to get the words out. “I don’t . . . need to rest.” 

“Jyn. . .” 

“No.” It feels like her last line of defense. It’s a stupid hill to die on but she can’t seem to let it go, barely clinging to what little she has left. Even though she knows that Cassian would never treat her differently  –– and he never has when she’s come to him injured or in the aftermath of a nightmare –– she’s not unlike a feral animal when hurting, flinching away and attacking the hand that tries to help.

He’s seen her at her worst, has held her through it, has seen more of her than anyone in this galaxy ever has. But used to a lifetime of sharing a bunk and never truly being alone, she’s learned to keep her pain quiet, to remain small and unobtrusive in moments of true vulnerability. Cassian and the rest of Rogue One have slowly broken down some of her walls but there are some things she doubts she’ll ever be able to shake fully.

But then Cassian whips out his trump card. 

“Please, Jyn? For me?” And if his saying please hadn’t been enough, he adds softly, “My back has been sore all morning. Lay down with me?”

“Just for an hour,” she relents ––  barely. “And you have to actually lay next to me.” 

His eyes soften. “`course. Come on.” 

She stands slowly to try and offset the dizziness that she knows will come, but it doesn’t work. She bites the inside of her cheeks and closes her eyes when it washes over her, her head throbbing in time with her heartbeat. For a few seconds, she worries once again she might throw up all over the ground but swallows it down. Fuck, it hurts so badly. 

There’s this urgent, wild urge in the back of her mind to cry out for her mother –– she feels like a child again, scared and in pain, and wanting nothing more than Lyra’s comfort. 

Finally, when it passes, she opens her eyes again, breathing heavily. Cassian stands a few feet away, one arm outstretched in case he needs to steady her. He’s not even trying to hide his worry anymore; she’d reassure him in any other situation but she’s just so tired. 

Slowly, she makes her way to the bunkroom with Cassian close behind. It’s not far, and soon, she’s perched on the edge of the small cot, shoulders hunched forward. 

He reaches out and touches her arm gently. That one small gesture eases a knot of tension in her body and she sags like a puppet whose strings have been cut. “I’m going to grab you some water. I’ll be right back, okay?” 

Feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable, she doesn’t like the idea of him leaving her sight right now. But at the thought of water, she swallows, her throat dry. Slowly, she nods, her head heavy and protesting the jerky movement. 

She keeps quiet and doesn’t move until he returns with a glass of water in hand. Despite the position likely being hell on his back, he crouches next to the bed, offering it to her. 

Silently, she reaches for it with a shaky arm, just barely managing to take a few sips without spilling before handing it back to him. He takes it, but not without a small sigh and a look of concern. 

“You need to stay hydrated.” As quiet as it is, his voice is still too loud. 

Not having eaten anything all day, she’s keenly aware of the hunger and thirst steadily growing in her stomach. But it’s no match for the pain in her head and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to keep anything more than water down if she tries. “No,” she manages. But then, to appease him, she adds, “Later.” 

“All right,” he says finally, setting the glass on the small desk a few paces away. A pause. He shifts on his feet, and she’s just about to order him to move from his uncomfortable position when he speaks again, “I grabbed a hypospray. It’s yours if you want it.” 

There’s a protest on her lips that dies when he interrupts, anticipating what she’d planned on saying, “We have more than enough supplies. It won’t be missed.” 

Jyn licks her lips, then dips her chin in a slow nod. 

Cassian’s jaw works briefly, clenching and unclenching before his expression finally smoothes. He knows her better than she knows herself, she thinks –– and they both know how stubborn she can get about soldiering through her pain until the last possible moment. For her to give in now without too much complaint tells him exactly how bad her pain is, what she’d been trying to hide from him all day. 

Without a word, he waits until he catches her half-squinted gaze before slowly bringing the hypospray to her neck. She tilts her chin to the side slightly and closes her eyes; her breath stutters in her lungs when his warm hands brush against her skin, looking for the artery. 

“Dispensing now,” he murmurs and she doesn’t have the energy to hide her flinch when the cold medicine enters her bloodstream. 

The small, barely there movements of her body send shockwaves of pain through one side of her skull. Her whole body tenses, muscles rigid. She keeps her eyes squeezed to better ride out the wave washing over her, ebbing and throbbing; even as she feels the hypospray beginning to take effect, it isn’t immediate. 

Now that she’s sitting, with no more tasks left to complete, she properly takes stock of her pain, it feels as if someone is repeatedly taking an ice pick to her head, stabbing her eye socket with each throbbing beat of her pulse. Before she can stop it, a small whimper leaves her mouth before she presses her lips tightly together so no other sounds can escape. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he says softly. She feels him brush her cheek with his fingers lightly, then moves some of her hair off of her face. “You don’t have to hide from me, Jyn. What do you need?” 

She doesn’t have to do much to convey it. Without speaking and moving as little as possible, she finds his arm in the dark and pulls him toward her. Gingerly, Cassian stands –– she can hear his joints popping as he does so –– and maneuvers himself over her and onto the cot. 

He settles stiffly next to her with his back to the wall; at first, he doesn’t move, likely not wanting to cause her any more pain. But as soon as she feels him at her side, she reaches for him immediately. He is, as always, a lifeline for her, an anchor in the middle of the storm. She turns onto her side, curling into him, desperate for some sort of comfort, a distraction from the pain, if only for a few seconds. And even though it must be hell on his back for him to curl over her like this, he does so, anyway, his body a shield between her and the outside world. 

Forehead pressed against his neck, her fists gripping his shirt with a white-knuckled grip, he quietly murmurs nonsense into her ear. All she can do is cling to him in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness strength and breathes. 

Hours later, Jyn opens her eyes, slowly waking up. She doesn’t remember falling asleep but the combination of Cassian’s presence and the hypospray’s effect eventually lulled her to unconsciousness. She blinks once, twice, feeling a hundred times lighter than she had earlier; the pain in her head has abated to a manageable ache –– still there but not as debilitating. 

She tilts her head upward, the tip of her nose brushing against Cassian’s face. He’s in the same position as he’d been in before, curled around her protectively. Still asleep, his face is relaxed, his breathing slow and even. 

As much as he needs the sleep, she’s unable to resist her next impulse; she tilts her chin slightly, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his mouth. It’s short and sweet, lasting only a few seconds; and even though it’s a selfish want, her heart skips a beat in her chest when his eyes open, warm and brown, blinking down at her. 

It’s a testament to how much he trusts her that he doesn’t tense upon awakening. Rather, his expression warms, mouth tugging into an indulgent smile. “Hi,” he murmurs, voice rasping. 

“Hi,” she repeats, her smile a mirror of his. When he moves to brush his lips against hers again, she meets him eagerly, basking in the afterglow of the morning and the relaxed feeling that only sleep can bring. 

“How are you feeling?” 

She hums. “Better.” 

“Good.” His arms tighten around her, firm but loose enough that she can pull away. She doesn’t. “You scared me, you know.” 

She stays silent as he continues. “When Bodhi told me he didn’t think you were feeling well, I didn’t think it was that bad, not when you marched over to us a minute later. But then, after we jumped. . .” he closes his eyes briefly, licking his chapped lips. She wants to smooth the wrinkle between his brows with her thumb. “I thought you would have told me that it was that bad.” 

Is that disappointment in his voice? Shame curls in her gut. Had their positions been flipped, she would have felt just as helpless. “I know. I should have.” 

“Why didn’t you?” An open question. If he’s judging her for it, he keeps that out of his voice. 

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “It’s. . .It’s not that I don’t trust you, because I do, but. . .” she shrugs with a shoulder as best she can while lying on her side. “Just habit, I guess.” 

A habit formed after years of being alone, exacerbated due to Saw’s abandonment and how quickly her ties to the Partisans –– her foundation of self, her family –– had been ripped out from underneath her. It had been necessary to hide the vulnerable sides of herself for survival, instincts that she hasn’t quite shaken now that she once again has a team she can rely on. 

He licks his chapped lips. “Have you . . . seen someone about this? A medic?” 

“Once.” After her symptoms had lingered long after a particularly bad head injury, Saw had forced her (not that she had much choice with how sick she’d been) to see one of the Partisan’s medics. “With how many concussions I get, this sort of thing. . .happens, they said.” 

Cassian hums. “Will you see one of the Alliance’s medics when we get back?” 

“I don’t think there’s anything they can do,” she argues. She can handle it –– not to mention that, with how many injuries those doctors have to deal with on a daily basis, she’d just be wasting their time. 

He stays silent but the look in his eyes tells her he doesn’t like her answer. “There might be medicine that could help.” 

“The hypospray worked well enough,” she retorts grouchily, cuddling closer to him so she no longer has to meet his gaze. His heartbeat beats a steady tempo against her cheek. 

He brushes her bangs back behind her ears, his hand lingering on the side of her face. Perhaps reassuring himself that she’s still in one piece, that she’s no longer in as much pain as before. “To prevent this sort of thing from happening so often.” 

She scowls. “It doesn’t happen that often.” 

“Jyn. . .” he sighs. “What happens if we’re out on a mission and you’re like this? If –– if something happened to you, I couldn’t. . .” His jaw clenches, eyes flashing at the thought of the hypothetical. 

Knowing he’s right –– it has happened out in the field but never to this degree –– she stays silent. 

“Let’s make a deal, all right?” She remains quiet, listening. He continues, “You go to the medbay when we get back, see what they can do. I’ll come with you. And then, in return, when my back is bothering me, I’ll go. But we tell each other, all right? When we’re hurting. Trust goes both ways, remember?” 

“Trust goes both ways,” she echoes softly, tipping her head back from his chest and onto the pillow so she can better look at his face. Her headache has been subdued to a dull throbbing, a far cry from the agony she’d felt earlier. “You promise you’ll go?” 

“If you do, I will,” Cassian says. “And you’ll tell me next time your head hurts, yes?” 

“Fine,” she concedes with a grumble, though her displeasure fades when he gathers her back up in his arms and kisses her forehead gently. Her breath hitches at the feeling of his lips against her skin. 

“We have a few more hours before we reach Dantooine,” he tells her softly. “We should get up, grab some food. When’s the last time you ate?” 

Even though she hasn’t eaten anything all day, the remnants of nausea still remain in her system. She makes a face, wrinkling her nose at the thought of leaving the bed and Cassian’s embrace. 

“You said your back was sore,” she says instead. Regardless if it had only been a ploy to get her to bed, his back bothers him more often than not. It won’t hurt to rest a little more, especially not when they’ll be in hyperspace for a while still. “Lay here with me?” 

The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles down at her. It’s the type of true smile she so very rarely sees outside of when they’re alone together, the one that never fails to make her heart swell in her chest with a type of love she’d never thought she’d ever feel. “Always.” 

[aria-ashryver]

When the Dark Comes, Leave a Light

Book: Immortal Desires

Pairing: m!Cas x m!Gabe

Ratings/Warnings: Teen - swearing, nightmares

Words: 1.6K

Summary: Cas comforts Gabriel after a recurring nightmare

A/N: This is just a little standalone fic I wrote for a friend's birthday! It isn't intended to be part of the Starlight storyline, but it can be read as such if you want it to! It's just soft. My friend wanted pet names and cuddling and chocolate and comfort, so that's what we're getting 💛

(I think we all deserve a little comfort after Starlight's CH36 angst, yeah? 😅)

@choicesficwriterscreations

Fear thudded into Gabriel like an icepick to the chest. He woke swimming in sweat-soaked sheets, a scream catching in his throat as he struggled to break the choppy surface.

He’d known countless hours like this. Lurching out of a nightmare into the midnight emptiness, sick with disorientation and dread. Trapped in that awful place between fitful sleep and daylight, he’d dig bloodied nails into his forearms to wait it out, praying the memories loosened their grip before he broke under their weight.

Desperate for the first rays of dawn to burn them away to ash and cinders. Guilty for being so weak in the first place.

Anxiety curled through him, an insidious, slow moving fog. The memories came on so thick sometimes they were suffocating.

‘Gabriel?’

Only, Gabriel wasn’t alone.

‘Shit, hold on baby.’

Not anymore. He wasn’t left alone to wander through the fog. Not when Cas was there, his beacon, his lifeline, the intensity of love in his voice cutting clean through the grey.

At Gabriel’s first choked sob, Cas was already moving. He was gone from the bed and back again before Gabriel could so much as blink to flick a light on in the hallway, flooding the room with soft, diffused light. He returned with an oversized hoodie in hand, slipping beneath the sheets to soothe Gabriel tunelessly; gentle murmurs and gentler hands reassuring him, grounding him.

As the world around him clarified, Gabriel blinked the tears from his vision, locking eyes with the love of his life.

‘Cas?’

Small; his voice pitched small and terrified, even to his own ears. Gabriel could only imagine what Cas saw on his face just then, because his eyes blazed with prismatic feeling; understanding to protective rage to the sheer weight of his loyalty; again and again and again, softer and more full of care with every pass.

‘You’re safe,’ Cas said at once, and some thread of tension in Gabriel snapped at the certainty in Cas’s voice.

He was here, he was safe, he was home.

‘You’re okay,’ Cas murmured. ‘I’m here, I'm with you. Can I touch you?’

Wordlessly, Gabriel nodded.

Cas’s touch, which had been whisper-light until now, turned firmer —more deliberate— as he stroked his palm down Gabriel’s side in slow, repetitive strokes.

‘Shh…’ Cas’s eyes gleamed silver in the low light. ‘Breathe, baby. That’s it. Just breathe.’

It took every ounce of effort to suck a gulp of air into his shuddering lungs. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut against the effort it took. He regretted it almost immediately as a chill washed over his skin, panic closing up his throat at the thought of the looming dark. 

How many times was he going to dream the same dream?

‘I— I’m—’ Gabriel’s eyes darted around the room, a shriek of pain jolting down his neck at how tightly he was holding his muscles. ‘I had—’

‘You had that nightmare again, angel?’ Cas offered.

‘Y-yeah.’

Sighing, Cas pushed himself upright. Leaned his back against the headboard and opened his arms. ‘C’mere.’

Helping Gabriel upright, Cas tugged his hoodie over Gabriel’s head before hauling him flush against his chest. Gabriel settled himself between Cas’s bent knees where they bracketed him either side, Cas’s arms winding tight around his waist. He was utterly enveloped by him, the warmth of him, his scent; Gabriel snuggled his chin into Cas’s sweatshirt, breathing in the scent of him so deeply his lungs strained. Tears sprang into the corners of Gabriel’s eyes again at the relief it brought. They spilled, diamond bright, onto his cheeks.

Clutching Cas’s arms where they wound around him like bands of iron, Gabriel let the fear bleed away.

He didn’t know how many minutes passed. Only that Cas’s heart was a steady rhythm against his back, the heat of him sinking, soothing, into his body. The hold had done wonders to anchor him, but Gabriel wanted to see.

Squirming, he twisted sideways until he was nestled in Cas’s embrace, arms looped around his neck and legs slung over his lap. Cas gripped the outside of his thigh and hauled him even closer, one arm supporting his back. It made him think of all the times Cas had sneaked up behind him to scoop him into a princess carry.

Whenever Gabriel had asked what he was doing, face creased with laughter and fidgeting to be put down, Cas would simply grin and tell him he was practicing for their wedding night.

Blinking the wetness from his eyes, Gabriel let himself get lost in the sound of Cas’s voice; it had finally registered in his conscious mind that Cas was talking to him, bickering about nothing, scoffing without any real heat… giving Gabriel yet another anchor to lead him gently out of the dark.

Gabriel’s heart squeezed almost painfully as he fell a little bit more in love.

‘—real nightmare here is how many fucking pillows you have on this bed,’ Cas muttered, stuffing another squashy pillow behind the pair of them. ‘Who needs this many pillows?! How the fuck am I meant to save you from your bad dreams if I can’t even find you in your bed because you insist on sleeping in the entire goddamn bedding section of IKEA, huh? What am I meant to say when Astoria asks why you haven’t shown up for school tomorrow? “Oh, sorry, Gabriel can’t make it today, on account of he’s busy suffocating himself on a fuckin’ army of Skogsfräkens”.’

A watery laugh burst from him at the eternal suffering in Cas’s voice. Slowly, the shadows came unstuck from behind his ribcage.

Cas could banish even the darkest of Gabriel’s nightmares with nothing but a well-timed eye roll.

‘Shut up,’ Gabriel shot back. ‘You love them more than I do.’

The way Cas’s mouth flipped up at the corner told Gabriel he was absolutely right.

‘You shut up,’ Cas grumbled. His voice was crushed velvet and rolling thunder. Gabriel could hear the I love you that pulsed behind every word Cas spoke. ‘Here, open up.’

Bewildered, Gabriel could only blink as Cas pushed some bite-sized morsel between his lips.

Trusting him, Gabriel gave it a moment… and the decadent silk of rich chocolate began to melt on his tongue. Shuddering against the sudden bloom of warmth trickling through his limbs, Gabriel swallowed it down. Glancing up at Cas, he immediately parted his lips for another.

Cas huffed a laugh.

‘Brat.’

Snapping another sliver off the bar on the bedside table, Cas fed Gabriel a second piece of chocolate, eyes lingering on his mouth as he ate. He waited until Gabriel was done, tugging his chin the moment he swallowed to slant his mouth over Gabriel’s own.

Their kisses were slow, and tender, and tasted of always. 

Cas cupped Gabriel’s jaw as he drew back, his eyes as serious as he’d ever seen them.

‘I will never let anything hurt you,’ Cas said. ‘You know that, right? You're safe with me.’

His voice rang with the solemnity of a vow; unbreakable, tenacious, anchored deep in his heart.

Gabriel pressed his lips into a wobbly line, too overcome to answer right away. He nodded, a sudden lump in his throat he wasn’t sure had anything to do with his nightmares.

Snagging his phone from the bedside table, Cas checked the time. He hummed thoughtfully, eyes narrowed in that way of his he always looked when he was planning something.

‘I don’t think either of us is getting back to sleep any time soon,’ he said, ‘and it’s not long 'til sunrise. Wanna go get ice cream instead?’

Gabriel sniffled, gnawing his lip as he thought it over. The idea was tempting, but...

‘Where are we going to find a place that’s open to sell ice cream at five in the morning?’

‘Mmm…’ Cas tilted his head, grinning. ‘How legal do you want my answer to be, here?’

‘Cas.’ Huffing a laugh that was still a little wet around the edges, Gabriel threaded his fingers through his boyfriend’s. ‘We are not breaking into the ice cream parlour.’

‘Relax, I was kidding. We can pick up some ice cream from the gas station and go hike up Saville Park Reserve to watch the sunrise together. C’mon,’ Cas said, tugging at their joined hands like an overgrown puppy. ‘You love that romantic shit. I’ll pack a thermos of coffee and a big ass blanket… you can tell me all about what a fucking fantastic boyfriend I am...’

‘You’re an amazing boyfriend.’ Gabriel slid a tender hand along the clean line of Cas’s jaw, cupping his face and pulling him down for a kiss.

‘I know.’ Tugging at the end of the loose braid he’d thrown it in for sleep, Cas let Gabriel’s hair spill like heavy silk through his free hand. He worked his fingers against Gabriel’s scalp, a smile playing about his lips. ‘You don’t have to stop there, you know. You can tell me all about how sexy and tall and badass I am. Maybe throw in something about how good my ass looks in jeans?’

Gabriel spluttered another laugh; his shoulders shook with it as he pressed his forehead to the heated skin of Cas’s neck. If he could stay in Cas’s arms forever, it would still never be enough.

‘I love you,’ he sighed, miraculously warm again, full again, light again.

Cas took the broken parts of him and didn’t flinch when their edges cut into his skin. Gathered him up and made him feel beautiful and accepted and loved, even as he was.

Loving Cas, being loved by him? 

It was the greatest gift Gabriel had ever known.

In the faintly growing light, Cas smiled.

‘I love you too, princess.’ Leaning down, Cas pressed a kiss to Gabriel’s forehead. ‘I love you too.’

[melonba11s]

Strade in a Shock Collar Part 2 (BTD Ficlet)

A continuation of the last fic for July ficfest! I double in a day, I hope yall enjoy them both!

Contains: Strade, Gender Neutral MC, MC POV, Lobotomy, Canon typical violence.

It had been a real struggle getting Strade strapped down against the work table he had held you against so many times before. Even woozy from constant jolts of electricity he was a force to be reckoned with.

But now he was down, the thick leather straps you'd ordered the other day strained as he thrashed but held. The shock collar around his neck was a bit tight, you had to admit. Maybe that had something to do with his attitude problem...

But after this, hopefully you could do away with it! You just had to be careful, this was a really tricky procedure... Even trickier if he kept moving like this, shaking his head, screaming insults at you.

"Strade... Do you know why you're down here?" you asked, a simple question. Strade grit his teeth as he stared into your eyes, pools of molten gold smoldering, threatening to burn the flesh off your bones.

"You're fucking insane, you traitorous bitch-" you didn't hold back and slapped him across the face, which only earned you another yell from him. He really didn't respond to pain in a way you'd like.

"It's because you aren't being good... I only did all of this for both of us... I worked so hard..." You could feel tears welling up in your eyes, your face burning as they dripped down your face. Usually Strade loved to see you cry.

It didn't affect him now though, he just continued to glower up at you. He really had changed.

"I tried so hard... I just want us both to be happy you know." You whispered, your voice choked. You needed to control yourself. You reached over to the basement counter and picked up the only tool you'd need for this job.

"I was planning on getting you drunk first you know... But I don't think you earned it." You waved the icepick over his face. Strade looked pissed off still, then confused, then... genuine fear over his face. Seeing his expression contort in such a way caused a shiver to run up your spine. Knowing how much power you held over him... It felt better than sex, it was definitely a feeling you could get addicted too.

"W-Wait, Schatzi" He was bringing out the old nicknames now. "Please... I'll... I'll be good." His voice was shaking, his eyes trained on the pick as it danced in front of his gaze.

"I gave you so many chances to be good before, why should I believe you now?" As much as you wanted to throw the pick aside and dive into his arms, content with his promise... You had to remain strong. Or else you'd appear weak.

"I promise! I won't-NO" he jerked his head to the side as you began to lower the ice pick towards his face. You frowned.

"You promised to be good, Strade. So, Stay. Still." you enunciated the last two words, a command. A command he disobeyed immediately, returning to his thrashing.

You set down the pick, letting out a growl of frustration in spite of yourself. This wasn't going to work. You dug around, finding the last of the leather straps.

Since most of him was already tied down, this proved to be very easy, strapping his head to the table. He still strained, but he was still. Just what you needed.

And he was crying now, as the point of the tool got closer to his eye. Whimpering even, hyperventilating. You didn't respond to these things at all, you needed to concentrate.

As the pick slid under the eye, he let out a howl. It was hard to tell if it was from pain or fear. A trickle of blood came from his eye, and you went to work quickly, swiping the tool from left to right, hoping to god you hadn't gone to far in.

When he stopped begging, his words becoming slurred, you stopped. You flicked the tool of the matter left on it, listening to it splatter against the floor.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" you asked, your voice cheerful again.

"Ungh..." Was the only response. Of course, he would be tired after that. His gaze was on you still, but rather than pools of molten gold, they were more like yellowing dead leaves. You grinned, unstrapping him and immediately laying on top of him. He didn't fight back, you could hug him as much as you wanted now.

"I think things are gonna work out a lot better like this, Strade."

[cursedhaglette]

4, 9, and 24 for halia :3

4. What would your Tav’s romance scenes look like? How many would they have?

ooooOOOOH as a durge, I think a lot leading up to act 3 would revolve around her memories and the urges, following a similar structure to the durge storyline? so durge spoilers below

act 1: the night after Alfira, you'd find her pacing by the riverbank at the act 1 camp, concerned with what she's done and feeling out of control. from there, the PC would have the opportunity to comfort or condemn her, with comfort opening the option for flirtation. OR you can tell her it was badass and she looked sexy covered in blood after, which just leaves her more conflicted.

tiefling party: she would absolutely offer to go to bed with a medium-high approval PC. if you side with the tieflings, she's grateful you encourage her to fight against the darkness of her urges. if you kill the tieflings, she wants a night to distract from how conflicted she feels about how good the slaughter felt

mountain pass/underdark: she would offer to spend the night with the PC once in both locations, assuming the PC continues to have solid approval with her

act 2: before you go to last light, she has a ! bubble to talk to the PC and tells them she doesn't think she should come along that day, she's concerned something bad will happen if she does. if you bring her, you have to knock her out during the Isobel fight because she becomes aggressive toward the party if you don't let her kill the cleric. after, she explains the situation with Sceleritas and if you didn't let her kill Isobel, she tells you how grateful she is for the companionship and that the PC has been the only steadfast thing she's known since all this started, and she wants more with them. if you let her kill Isobel, she fucks you nasty and no emotions are discussed, but she becomes possessive over the PC to the other characters

act 3: after her history is revealed, PC will have the chance to tell her to follow Bhaal once more or to resist the call of her urges. after the fight with Orin, if she didn't accept Bhaal, she tells the PC she loves them and she's glad for everything they've shared together. if she sides with Bhaal, she promises that if the PC is good, she'll be sure they're the last two souls alive before she claims the world in her father's name and kills them both.

9. What’s the significance behind your Tav’s name?

there isn't one, i was just making sounds in my head and thought "oh, Thalia the Golden sounds pretty dope" and started writing only to find another fic at the time had a main character name Thalia, so we cut the "T" off for clarity. lol

24. What does your Tav consider to be their own biggest character flaw?

her anxiety and self-doubt, even pre-tadpole. she just stays quiet about it a bit better before Orin gives her the ole icepick to the skull.

but also maybe the whole murderous urges. what does it say about me that those didn't come to mind first?

[calkale]

Hey, i was wondering how your slimav mw2 au was going, if you lost interest no worries!

Omgomgomg i was thinking about this earlier today!!! ill admit i did lose interest for a little bit but i do really wanna do more with it. Ill post what i have of the fic here cause knowing me itll be months before i finish it since i havent worked on it in months and im still working on the character designs i like giving them scars and giving those scars meaning and I wanna make up little backstories for them too

ill post what I have under the cut and if you have any ideas id love to hear them too

this is like the outline I made while playing the mission so I wouldn't forget lmao plus some little details about them

this is all I have of the fic so far:

“Its kinda beautiful isnt it?”

Slider turned away from the view of the snowy, Russian mountains to look at Maverick. They had been sent here to this russian air base to retrieve **idk think of something** and decided to stop for a break just before reaching the base.

“Yeah, but theres a prettier view right next to me.” Slider winked at Mav.

“Oh shut up!” Mav playfully slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on lets get going before another MiG takes off and knocks us off this cliff.”

They both stood up from where they had been crouched down and Mav made his way towards the ice wall they were about to climb. They both had their ice climbing gear attached to their boots and wrists, they were bundled up in white winter gear to blend in with the snow storm that was rapidly approaching. Mav had a M24 sniper rifle and his ACR, both white in colour, strapped to his back along with a pistol and a few knives attached to his thighs. Slider had the same but with a pistol on each thigh and a heartbeat sensor attached to his ACR. They both carried small backpacks, in Sliders he had a few packs of C4 which they planned on using as a distraction if needed, and it would most likely be needed knowing them.

They were an efficient team, they worked together more often than not and got along really well. Thats part of what lead them to their relationship.

Maverick swung his icepick into the ice and jabbed his left foot into the ice.

“Watch my six.” He winked at Slider.

“Yeah im watchin it alright.” Slider said, mostly to himself while staring at Mav’s ass, which still looked amazing even under a layer of snow pants.

Mav laughed and started to climb up the wall, swinging his icepicks into the ice and digging his feet in with every step. He was almost at the top when they heard the roar of a jet engine overhead.

The only way up this part of the mountain was near the runway, they had tried to time it so they could get up in between take offs but apparently there had been a change in the schedule.

The snow started blowing off the edge of the mountain, right above Mav, and the ledge slider was standing on started to shake.

“SHIT!” Mav yelled as the jet passed right above their heads.

Slider looked back up and Mav was only holding on by one icepick, both his feet had come off the wall along with the other pick in the seconds Slider was looking down.

“Shit, Mav, dont fall!”

“I dont really have much of a say in that Slider!”

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

Whumpay Day 28: "I'm about to pass out"

during Unruhe | @today-in-fic @whumpay2022

Scully wavers as she exits Schnauz's trailer, the clear sunlight sending what feels like a red-hot spike through her skull. Would an icepick through the eye have felt like this? It's the side affects, aftereffects, of the mishmash of medications Gerry had given her; a bone-deep ache and waves of dizziness washing over her. She looks at the ground, tries to steady herself.

"Are you okay?" Mulder asks, suddenly at her side, and she can't deny that she's grateful. Her heart is still pounding with fading terror, and the way he touches her waist reflects the same in him.

She starts to shake her head, but winces at the pain and instead just utters a small, "No." She's not alright. She wants to sleep until the drugs are out of her system, but isn't sure that's safe. She wants to not be afraid anymore.

Mulder leans down so he can see her face and she can't help but relax; he's blocking the light and easing some of her pain. On the other hand, it only makes her more aware of how shaky and dizzy she is. "You should get checked by the paramedics," he says carefully, like he thinks she'll argue. She tries to take a step, though in what direction she isn't sure, but has to catch herself against his shoulder.

"Mulder," she whispers, suddenly feeling very small, "I think I'm about to pass out."

The last thing she registers as the dizziness and drug-induced exhaustion take her over is Mulder's arms coming around her to break her fall. The first thing she registers a few minutes later, coming to with a paramedic checking her over, is also Mulder, his lips pressed to the top of her head and one hand stroking up and down across her back. He's still holding her, and she can't help but be grateful, for both their sakes.

She'd heard the desperation in his voice screaming her name earlier, when they'd both thought he would be too late to save her, and she hears the gentleness now as he whispers I've got you into her hair, and for the first time, she realizes he might love her.

[gigantomachylesbian]

You know, at this point I should just lower my expectations when it comes to fandom but it’s still SO frustrating to see the way people constantly sideline Katya and Sofia to focus on Goncharey, especially when both of them have so much nuance and genuine importance to the story that just gets flattened. So many fics just throw them in there to basically cheerlead for the mens’ relationship and help with their problems, while Katya and Sofia get no complexity or even importance of their own, not to mention how deeply out of character that whole trope is for Katya especially. Like if you really think she’s going to sit there and listen to Goncharov whine about his relationship and be all sympathetic about it you’ve fundamentally misunderstood her entire character.  

Also why is Icepick Joe about as popular as Sofia when she has twice as many scenes as him and way more characterization??? The way I’ve seen people invent entire personalities and backstories and even ships for that man while just writing off Sofia as a toxic lesbian... it’s so unfair. I just want to see the same level of character analysis given to the ladies as any of the male characters get.

[averagedog-writer]

Idfk man here

(I probs won't post other full chapters here but here's chapter one of the full fic, I'll mainly be posting this on Ao3, but anyway, shakes this post like a jar of treats) (once again this is for @beanstalk-nicholas' spn au)

“Alright, baby!” Mikey slammed the bottle down with a smirk, “usual rules? Any objections?”

“Just pour the shots,” Alopex laughed.

“We are here to celebrate! Let me be a little flamboyant!”

“Wait,” Ellie rested his head on his hand, “what are we celebrating?”

“Uh, scoff!” Mikey fell into his chair, lining shot glasses in front of him. “I’m getting a full ride to UCLA, all I gotsa do is ace this interview, and everyone knows what this face can do.”

“Ride on, little dude! I’ll be braggin’ about you in no time!”

“Guys,” Mikey sighed and leaned over the table, holding his arms out and squeezing his hands. Alopex and Ellie each sat a hand in his, letting him squeeze them as he beamed, “I love you guys.”

Alopex snorted, “Drinking without us again?”

“Love you too, Angelo.”

“Now,” Mikey pulled his hands back and grabbed the bottle, “shots!” 

His head was pounding. There was a soft white fog around the edges of his vision, it felt like someone had taken an icepick to his temple. Mikey forced himself to sit up and covered his mouth as his stomach bubbled. He glanced beside him, Alopex and Ellie were still sound asleep. 

He fell back to the pillows and held his stomach. He couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes, he laid still, staring at shadows dance on the ceiling. 

And there it was. A crash. Just beyond the door.

Mikey groaned and forced himself to sit up again, a hand over his temple. He scowled and waited, finally swinging his legs off the bed as a thud echoed through the hall. He tiptoed across the room and grabbed the doorknob, slowly pulling the door towards him. The hinges squeaked as he peered into the hall.

His breath hitched. A shadow moved across the couch, large enough to block the light pouring in from the precariously opened window. 

Mikey slipped through the door and tiptoed through the living room. He silently grabbed the neck of the vodka bottle he had conveniently left on the coffee table.

The floor creaked somewhere behind him. He wheeled around, brandishing the bottle like a sword. A hand grabbed the edge of his shell, pulling him back from his spot. He lost his footing, hitting the ground and wincing. He swang the bottle above his head, chirping as it was pulled from his hand. The intruder held his wrist and stepped around him. 

Mikey kicked his feet up, planting them on the intruder’s stomach. He paused for a second as he kicked a shell.

“Take it easy, ‘lil man!”

Mikey gasped, “Raph?” 

“Hey!”

“You scared the crap out of me!” Mikey kicked Raph’s shell before he dropped his legs and sat up.

“Sorry!” Raph scooped Mikey off the floor and balanced him on his feet, “I jus’ needed to talk to ya’.”

“Did you come in through my window?” 

“I,” he paused, “no?” 

“Why didn’t you just use the front door? Like a normal person?”

“It was locked! An’ I figured you wouldn’ answer, cause you’d be asleep.” 

“Yeah, but the window? You know you’re allowed to plan a visit, right?”

“Mikey?” The light flicked on.

Mikey wheeled around and beamed, “Alopex! Hi!” 

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah! Everything’s great! Al, this,” Mikey punched his chest, “is Raph. Raph, this is my friend Alopex.” 

“Whoa, your brother Raph?” Alopex smirked, “Nice to finally meet you.” 

“Yeah, you too! Mikey’s told me a bit about ya’, you seem like a nice girl! But uh, unfortunately I gotsa borrow your friend for a minute, we got some personal family business, so–”

“Raphael, explain yourself new,” Mikey snapped.

“Did you jus’ full name me?”

“Yes. Clearly this was something important if you had to break in to tell me, so you can just say it in front of Alopex.”

“Fine,” Raph huffed. “Dad ain’t been home for a few days.” 

“He, he’s gotta be busy, right? You know he–”

“Mikey, Dad’s on a huntin’ trip, an’ he ain’t been home in a few days.” 

Mikey sighed and groaned, throwing his head back and rolling it forward, grabbing the bridge of his nose and groaning again. “Al, can you excuse us for a minute?”

“Yeah, take your time,” she turned and waved as she slipped back into the bedroom. 

Leo’s mouth closed around the spoon as he scowled. There was a small thud just beyond the kitchen. He pulled the spoon from his mouth and dropped it in the bowl, slowly setting it in the sink and pushing off the counter.

He slipped to the arch, hugging the wall as he peered around the corner. There were footsteps, soft ones, slowly moving closer.

There were beside him. He waited a moment, watching the figure pass him by a few inches. Leo slipped through the doorway, wrapping an arm around the figure’s neck and pulling him back. It was too dark to see him, but he didn’t care. The figure was tugging at his arm, trying to pry him from around his throat. 

Leo forced him into the living room. The figure slammed back against him, throwing Leo into the wall. He groaned as his back collided, reaching his free arm over and pulling a katana from the display. 

He chirped as teeth closed around his arm. Leo pulled his arm back and pushed the intruder off him, holding his arm to his chest and holding the katana in front of him. He was panting. He could barely see, the only light in the room came from an open window. 

A foot hit his wrist. Leo winced and flexed his hand, the katana clattered to the floor. A hand grabbed the back of his neck and pushed him from the wall. A hollow thud echoed around him as something hit the back of his shell. It knocked him off him feet. He landed on his knees and stopped, the figure stepped around him and pointed one of his katanas between his eyes.

“You’re out of practice.”

“You fucking serious?” Leo snapped.

“Yeah, you’re–”

“No, are you fucking serious? Drop it.” 

“Fine.” Donnie dropped the katana and took a step back. Leo cringed as it rang against the wood. 

“Hell are you doing here?” Leo grabbed his katana and pushed himself off the floor, “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Wouldn’t it be funny if I was sorry?”

“Hell do you want?”

“A beer would be nice.”

“Donnie.” 

“Fine, fine,” he sighed and rubbed his arm, “Dad, he hasn’t been home for a few days.” 

“And I care because?”

Donnie glared, “Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days.” 

“So?” Leo snickered, “I don’t give a shit about that old goat.”

“He’s a sheep and you know it!”

Leo turned on his heel, setting his katana back on its shelf. “I appreciate the family update but I don’t–”

“Leon, he’s your father and he’s missing.”

“Are we forgetting that Dad threw me off a roof?” 

“Leo–”

“No, stop, it’s my turn,” he turned again. “First, you just broke into my apartment to tell me Dad’s missing, that could’ve been a phone call, m’kay? Second, my front door was unlocked, you could’ve just walked in. And, third, we both know how I feel about Dad, you’re lucky I haven’t kicked your ass to the curb yet.”

Donnie stared at the floor. “I’m going to look for him. You don’t have to come with me but you should at least know what’s going on.” 

There was a beat. Leo took in a breath and huffed, groaning and throwing his head back. “Oh my god, you’re showing emotions. I’ll help you find Dad but I have a job interview in, like, a week, so if I’m not back for it I’m never helping you again.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t be asking you if it wasn’t important.” 

“Yeah. I know.”

“You just showed up to my apartment telling me Dad is missing! Excuse me for being a little hesitant to go with you!” Mikey followed him down the stairs. 

“You’re not listenin’! Dad’s missing, I need your help!” Raph hit the last stair and stepped onto the curb.  

“Look, you remember Amherst? Clifton? Ohio? He was missing then too, I’m sure he’s just busy!” 

Raph stopped and turned, grabbing Mikey’s shoulder and sighing. “Dad ain’t ever been gone for this long.”

“How long has he been gone?” 

“Almost a month now.”

“Are you serious?! Almost a month and you just decided to tell me?!”

“So, you’re comin’?” 

“I,” Mikey huffed, “I don’t know! You know what Dad said to me, and I just, I’ve been out for so long. Raph, you know–”

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’ be asking you to come if I didn’ think it was serious. I, I can’ do it alone.” 

Mikey groaned and threw his head back again, letting his head roll forward. “What was he hunting?” 

“Come on,” Raph turned and started down the sidewalk, Mikey close on his tail. 

They stopped behind a dark red minivan. It looked beaten up, it was at least a decade old. 

“You’re driving a minivan?”

“It was cheap, and I’ve kinda been livin’ in it.” Raph popped the trunk and took a step back. 

“Oh, Raph,” Mikey sighed. An air mattress laid flat along the floor, seats had been removed.

Raph cleared his throat, “But, uh, Dad was huntin’ this thing outta Jericho, it’s been huntin’ men for the past twenty-somethin’ years. He went after it about three-ish weeks ago,” he pulled a record player out of a bag. “Here.”

Mikey took it and pressed play. Splinter was asking, no, begging, Raph to, “get ready,” warning him that everyone was in danger.

“You already scrub for EVP?”

“‘Course I did. Here,” Raph stepped beside Mikey and pressed buttons over his shoulder. “I slowed it down, ran it through all that stuff you told me about, and this was what I got.” 

Mikey winced at the whisper. “Never go home?”

“I know, right? It makes no sense.”

“Think it’s a ghost?”

“Gotta be.”

There was a beat. Mikey replayed the whisper, mouthing along with her. Raph slammed the van’s trunk and leaned against it. 

Mikey groaned again and turned off the recorder. “I’m going with you. But I need to pack a bag, and tell Ellie and Al, then I’ll be back. Okay?”

“Sure thing. I’ll warm her up for ya’.”

“For the record, me going with you is not because I care about Dad,” Leo leaned against the railing. 

“Right, it’s because we’re so close.”

“We might as well be twins, D. I’m doing this for you, and when we find Dad I’m out again.” 

“Yeah I got that.” Donnie popped the trunk and hummed. 

Leo’s eyes traced the car. A perfect replica of an Impala, down to every last screw, Donnie’s prized possession. He relaxed a little as he stared at it. 

“Bag,” Donnie turned and held his arm out. 

Leo slipped his bag from his shoulder and handed it over. “So, why didn’t you go with Dad?” 

“I was on my own hunt, down south.”

“Dad let you solo?”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“You know what I meant.” 

“Whatever. They found his car but none of his stuff was in it, I think he dumped it and went on foot.” 

“Wow, Dad? On foot? Never thought he’d stoop that low.”

“Leo.”

“Just sayin’.” 

“Anyway, we’re gonna follow the same way he did, we’re gonna stop, obviously, and I don’t know.” 

“Don’t hurt yourself, let’s just get this over with.”

Mikey grumbled and grabbed his bag, throwing it on the bed and forcing his closet open.

“You’re really going?” Alopex was sitting up against the pillows. 

“I kind of have to.”

“This about your dad?” 

“Yeah, it’s just a little family drama, it’s nothing super serious.”

“Raph said he was on a hunting trip?”

“Mhm, Dad hunts deer. He’s probably just at the cabin with his friends, I’m just going to check on him.”

“And, the interview?”

“I’m making that interview,” Mikey dropped a pile of clothes into the bag. Alopex slipped from the bed and stepped around it, grabbing Mikey’s arm and making him face her.

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

“I mean it’s not how I was planning on spending the week, but–”

“No, I mean, you barely talk about your family but as soon as your brother shows up you’re running off with him.” 

“I promise you, I’ll be back before my interview, I’ll call you guys as much as I can.” 

“Mikey,”

“I gotta go,” he closed his bag and threw it over his shoulder, “tell Ellie when he wakes up, and help yourself to anything in the apartment. You guys can stay here if you want.”

“I’m drinking all of your vodka.”

“Just don’t touch my champagne.”

“I can’t make any promises.” 

Mikey laughed and pressed a kiss to her cheek, “Love you guys.”

“If you don’t make the interview–”

“I’ll make it!” 

[alovelyburn]

The Writing A Story Process and Where I Am In It:

☑ Fail for months to make a lot of progress on the things I meant to write. ☑ Come up with a random ass idea that for some reason lodges in my brain like an icepick to the ear ☑ Outline it ☑ Spend a couple of hours to a couple of days reading song lyrics and poetry trying to get inspiration on wtf to call it. ☑ ”I’ve forgotten how to write wtf.” ☑ Set up a document with a tentative title in some stupid fancy formatting to make myself feel useful without getting anything done ☑ Try to write like, good prose and stuff and manage it for a few paragraphs ☑ Hit a wall and go play video games ☑ Procrastinate ☑ “Hurrr ok lemme do this.” ☑ Do something else. ☑ GDI MY SELF-IMPOSED DEADLINE IS COMING LEMME JUST DO SOME STUFF. ☐ crap prose occasionally interspersed with stuff like [HE LEAVES LIKE A DICK], [HE’S ON A HORSE] or [FORESHADOW THIS] ☐ Get to the end and feel good about the fact that if I posted it right now I’d technically have something like a fic that’s X words long even though it would be the worst thing I’ve ever posted, much like this is the worst thing I’ve ever written. ☐ Make it less terrible. ☐ Make it less terrible again. ☐ Make it less terrible for a third time. ☐ Send it to @zombiesgohome with a comment like “please tell me if this sucks, I literally can’t tell anymore.” ☐ Fix any issues she points out ☐ Make it stop being terrible. ☐ Post it with a bunch of typos ☐ Read through it after I’ve already posted it fixing more typos like an idiot ☐ Hibernate

[skull-bearer]

Watched the Rocky Horror Picture Show a second time and finally realised what it is.

It isn't a movie. It's a collection of short AU drabbles based on a movie and clumsily strung together through the most lazy ass framing device.

Including:

Frankenstein AU (Frank-N-Further makes Rocky and falls in love with him but Rocky is too confused and doesn't get it it's too cute!)

Songfic (LOL guyz I wrote a song for this with dance steps! Imagine everyone dancing to this lollolol)

Rock N Roll AU (Fuck you Meatloaf you get an icepick to the face)

Awkward Dinner Party AU (What if they all had to actually sit down for a meal together! LOL someone would end up dead)

Drag Show AU (I know this really obvious but what if everyone joined in, including Dr Scott?)

(Gets cancelled for undoing his disability)

A complete mess of a fic where the author is clearly working out their own shit (RIFF RAFF AND MAGENTA KILL EVERYONE AND ARE ALIENS IDK)

Now I wonder what the original source material was.

[thee-radio-host-is-a-kookaburra]

reader x icepick joe fics when

[livesincerely]

Okay I have to ask after seeing your last ask… is here anything new you could share about your run away with me fic? That fic lives rent free in my head and I’m dying for any kind of update. (There are no cures for this kind of obsession unfortunately.)

God, Ive been such a neglectful parent to the Run Away With Me Fic. It feels like chapter two has been sitting in my drafts half-complete for an actual age.

I can't remember how much of the draft I've already shared, so here's everything I've got so far, with a promise to update soon!

00000

Their first stop, if you can call it that, is back at Jack’s house. It has to be: Jack doesn’t even have his wallet on him, doesn’t have anything except his phone and the clothes on his back, and even if he did, they’d still have to stop. 

Because it’s Jack. 

Because Jack’s not like Davey. He’s better.

The lights are on in the downstairs window but Jack doesn’t seem the least bit concerned as he walks up the front path, Davey trailing a half-step behind him, his fingers curled around Jack’s sleeve. Sure enough, Ms. Medda is sitting at the kitchen table, a dressing robe pulled over her shoulders, a cup of tea clasped between her hands, and concern dusted across her features.

“Johnathan Francis Kelly,” she admonishes as they enter. “What have I told you about rushing out in the middle of the night?”

“Not to,” Jack says, sheepish, pressing an apologetic kiss to her cheek. “Sorry, Mama, it was kinda an emergency.”

“It must’ve been some emergency,” Medda continues. “I heard you racin’ down the stairs like a bat outta hell, didn’t so much as⁠— What on earth are you wearin’, baby?”

“Like I said, it was an emergency,” Jack says, pulling the zipper on his hoodie up a bit higher. “Didn’t have time for real clothes.”

“And just what, pray tell, was so important?” Medda asks, arching an eyebrow.

Instead of answering, Jack steps aside.

“David!” Medda says, noticing him for the first time. Davey gives a jerky wave, hoping he doesn’t look as twitchy as he feels. “What brings you around at this hour, honey? You alright?”

“Dave’s havin’ sort of a hard night tonight,” Jack explains⁠, in that understated way of his that Davey’s never quite mastered. “I went over to help him out, and we started talkin’, and, uh…”

Jack takes a breath, then blurts out, “We’re going on a trip, Mama.”

“A trip?” Medda repeats, expression inscrutable. “What kinda trip?”

“A road trip,” Jack says. “Davey and I…” He pauses, then continues with, “It’s hard to explain it all, and some of it isn’t,” ⁠—Jack glances at Davey⁠— “Well, we just gotta get away for a while. And I know that it’s late and that this is basically comin’ out of nowhere, but we just gotta get out of here. We have to.”

Medda takes a long sip of her tea. “And what do your folks have to say about all’a this, David?”

Davey flinches at the question, his eyes immediately darting to the safety of the floor. Jack steps forward, one arm stretched back over him like a shield.

“Mama,” Jack says softly.

“Ah,” Medda responds. It’s weary, the way she says it, almost disappointed, and Davey finds himself shrinking further back at the sound of it.

“We can’t be here right now,” Jack murmurs. “Davey can’t be here.”

Davey’s lips part automatically, the usual protests bubbling on his tongue, but they fizzle and die before they can fully form. He just doesn’t have it in him to pretend.

Medda turns to him then, and her eyes are just as piercing as her son’s. She slowly rises to her feet, stepping around Jack until she’s standing right in front of him.

Davey’s heart pounds like an icepick chipping away at his ribs.

“You look tired, honey,” she says simply⁠—unexpectedly⁠—cupping Davey’s face in her hand. She holds his gaze, then pats his cheek⁠: carefully, caringly, the press of her palm terribly warm against his skin⁠. Davey closes his eyes against a fresh wave of tears that threatens to spill over. “You think this is gonna soothe that bleeding heart of yours?”

“I don’t know,” Davey answers, voice rough. Admitting it hurts, but like how an antiseptic hurts when you’re cleaning a scrape⁠—a necessary kind of pain. “But I don’t think I can keep on like I have been.”

“A little space can be a good thing,” Medda says, nodding. “No shame in taking some time for yourself, finding some room to grow. Just as long as you don’t let yourself float away.”

“I’ll try not to,” he whispers.

“Hey, it’s gonna be alright,” Jack interjects, though it’s hard to tell which of them he’s trying to convince. “We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

Davey bites his lip. “I… okay.”

“When were you boys thinking of leaving?” Medda asks.

“As soon as I get the car packed,” Jack says. 

“It’s late,” Medda says lightly, brow starting to furrow. “You don’t wanna wait until morning?”

“No!” Davey blurts out. His skin is crawling at the mere suggestion of waiting, nausea lingering in the back of his throat. “No, we can’t⁠— We can’t⁠—”

Two hands reach out almost at the same time, landing on each of Davey’s shoulders.

“Dave, it’s okay⁠, we ain’t gonna⁠—”

“You’re okay, honey, you’re okay⁠—”

“Sorry,” Davey gasps out. It feels like there isn’t enough space in his chest to hold both of his lungs. “Sorry, sorry.”

“We’re leaving tonight, Mama,” Jack says, quiet but firm, and Davey tries to focus on his voice, the strength and sound of it, instead of the buzzing in his ears. “I know it ain’t ideal, but…”

He trails off, and for a long moment no one says anything. There’s too much to be said.

“Why don’t you sit down for a sec, Dave,” Jack eventually says, giving Davey’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’m gonna go pack a bag, I’ll be right back.”

“Here, baby, let me get a suitcase down from the attic,” Medda says, moving to follow.

….

Spot rubs at his eyes, hair and clothes rumpled from sleep.

“You couldn’t have waited another couple of days?” he asks, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. “We’re literally just about to get out for spring break.”

There’s no censure in Spot’s tone, no heat in his words, but Davey can’t help but sink in on himself, guilt and shame creeping in once again. 

“That probably would’ve made more sense,” Davey murmurs, eyes trained on the floor, worrying the hem of his sweatshirt between his fingers. “Would’ve been smarter to wait⁠—”

“This couldn’t’ve waited,” Jack says, a hand landing low on Davey’s back, gently drawing him in, and the expression on his face is as steadfast as stone. He looks Davey dead in the eyes and repeats, in a voice that’s soft and serious meant only for him, “This couldn’t’ve waited. Not even for another second.”

Davey doesn’t know what to do with this declaration. He ducks his head, swallowing heavily

Spot glances back and forth between the two of them, brow furrowed, then seems to come to some kind of conclusion, his expression and posture easing all at once.

“Yeah, alright,” he says. 

00000

Davey watches the scenery rush past in a blur of hazy shadows and electric lights, eyes unfocused and mind whirring. Something’s buzzing in the back of his throat, something fluttering inside his lungs, his pulse tremoring in his chest.

He can’t tell if it’s the car rumbling along the highway that’s shaking beneath him or if that’s just him, the rush of adrenaline fading away into quivering aftershocks that make Davey feel like he might vibrate right out of his skin.

Jack reaches out and turns the radio down, the music quieting into a gentle hum.

“Davey,” he says. “Are you okay?”

Davey sucks in a shaky breath.

“I don’t know,” he answers for what feels like the hundredth time. He can’t tell if it’s gotten easier to say or not. “But I definitely wasn’t going to be okay back home.”

“Yeah, alright,” Jack says after a second, nodding to himself. “We can work with that.”

We, Davey notices, heart giving a nervous jolt. We.

He’s heard the word used far to often, lately⁠⁠⁠, mostly in regards to things that should be Davey’s alone, but that he’s been forced to relinquish: his choices, his plans, his dreams, his life. But it sounds different coming from Jack⁠—like sharing instead of taking.

“—ve? Davey?”

“Sorry, what?” Davey says, pulled from his musings.

Jack slants a look at him, the concern in his expression thrown into soft, golden light every few seconds by the string of street lamps lining the highway. 

“You wanna catch some sleep?” Jack suggests. “I’m good to stay up for a few hours if you need’ta rest for a bit.”

Davey shakes his head, a jerky little movement. “No, that’s not… I can’t sleep, I’m too keyed up.”

“Okay,” Jack says, all ease and understanding. “How about some food, then? You hungry? Thirsty? When’s the last time you ate somethin’?” 

Davey fiddles with the hem of his sweatshirt. “Dinner last night, I guess.”

Jack frowns, immediately picking up on the guilty, uncertain note in Davey’s voice. “What is it?”

“I…” Davey takes a steadying breath, then quietly admits, “I threw it all up right before I called you. I couldn’t… I couldn’t…”

Davey senses more than sees Jack’s jaw tightening unhappily in response to this confession. He hits his indicator and starts merging right, heading for the next exit.

“I’m sorry,” Davey says miserably. “I didn’t mean to, it’s just a thing that happens, sometimes, if I get too stressed, I can’t help it⁠—”

“Davey,” Jack cuts in firmly. Davey’s mouth closes with a soft click. “I’m not upset with you.”

“You sound like you’re upset,” Davey says.

“But not with you,” Jack says, almost biting the words as they fall out of his mouth. “Not with you.”

It takes Jack a while to find anything open, given how early it is. Davey points out a convenience store sitting on a corner, the lit interior a promising indication, but Jack waves him off, muttering under his breath about a hot meal. 

Eventually they pull into the drive thru of a 24-hour burrito stand. 

“What do you want?” Jack says, rolling his window down. 

The speaker buzzes, a worker calling, “What can I get you?” in an accented voice. Jack responds in Spanish instead of English⁠—asking for a second to think about it, presumably⁠—and turns back to Davey, expectant.

“Whatever is fine,” Davey says, picking at his nails.

“Davey,” Jack says. “C’mon, work with me here.”

“No pork,” Davey offers, unsure of what else to say.

Jack sighs. “Yeah, I’d figured that much. You want chicken or beef?”

The worker says something over the loud speaker⁠—Davey can’t understand the words but the tone of it screams impatience. Jack cuts in with rapid Spanish and the voice falls silent again. 

“Chicken or beef?” Jack patiently repeats.

“Chicken.”

“You want your rice on the side?” Jack asks.

“Yeah.”

“Extra pico?”

“...Yeah.”

.....

“I’m so fucking tired of crying,” Davey mutters, scrubbing furiously at his eyes like that will prevent the tears from falling. “I’m never gonna be able to do this, I can’t even keep it together⁠—”

“Hey,” Jack says, gently knocking Davey’s hands away. “[reassuring dialogue]

When he glances up again, Jack’s expression has shifted: eyes wide, mouth parted, head tilted to the side.

“What?” Davey asks.

“Nothin’,” Jack says, and it looks like he gives himself a little shake, blinking rapidly. Davey can’t decide if he looks pleased or perplexed. “It’s just, I can’t remember the last time I saw you in your glasses.”

“Can’t sleep in contacts,” Davey hedges, giving a small shrug.