#tw shitty writing

[brainr0t-landfill]

🌃Mercurial:

Ghoap x male reader

Chapter One/Prologue: Abstain

"I found you, I found the door."

-Mitski, I Want You

(please mind the tags, I don't know how the UK train system works, English isn't my first language apologies for any mistakes <3)

You kiss them goodbye on the doorway, you make sure their jackets are zipped up, you promise to keep the windows locked and to not go out at night, Simon smiles, his eyes crinkling above the surgical mask.

"Gonna be good for us, hare? Sure hope so."

It's half joking, half threatening and desperately hopeful.You focus on the spot between his eyes as you nod, stomach twisting into knots and hands sweating.

You press your ear to the metal door and listen to their footsteps fading away then you rush to the balcony and watch the black, truck you repainted last month go down the road, through the U turn and disappear, your knuckles white against the railings your forearms stiff, eyes so wide and unlinking untill they water and force you to blink. You're scared that any moment now the other shoe will drop, they'll turn the car around and John will ask you if you really took them for such fools as Simon rumages through drawers and wardrobes laying every bit of your pitifull escape plan on the floor, like a wolf gutting a hare. Then you'll be driven back to the lonely, stuffy shack in the woods in the trunk, hogtied and gagged, feeling every bump on the road.

The trunk opens and you shut your eyes against the onslaught of white hard light, nose stinging from the cold as you curl into yourself out of both fear and well deserved shame, guilt. They're talking above you, familiar voices blurring together and becoming white noise. You feel like an insect pinned down, getting dissected.

Someone places their hand over your eyes, rubbing at your red, runny nose with their calloused thumb.

"Oh lovie."

"Carefull Si, cannea back out now."

There's silence for a second and you know they're exchanging the kind of look that saves their lives out on the field, the kind of look that explains and understands.

"Gotta let him learn his lesson ,hmm?"

"No other choice left."

Simon runs his hand over your face and rubs at your neck, that still smells of someone else. Mature and cold with hints of narcissus.You can see his internal conflict in his darkned eyes and see you can see his attachment, his love, his despration winning out.

You look up at them at Simon's wide set face and his unfocussed eyes dried out from lack of sleep, John bends down and picks you out of the truck setting you down on aching feet, still clad in socks as he flicks his knife out, a flash of fear goes through you, gutted by the same knife you had bought for him on his birthday, how fitting.

"Run 'n I'll break ya legs,."

"Last resort Si, might never heal proper again."

"Wouldn't tha' a good thing by now?"

You hear a sigh, both exasperated and heartbroken.

"Hope not."

Simon holds you in place by the shoulders as John cuts the ropes away, his jaw is set but his sweet blue eyes are wet, tired and you can't help the immense guilt you feel at putting them through this, for pushing them so far, for staying when you knew you'd do this.

Then you lift your face and see it, the cabin it's a box really, no windows and only one heavy door, John had mentioned his father had built one for hunting ,you wonder if it's the same one. You look over the dark wood walls and the door padlocked from the outside, your fear snowballs, all consuming and rattling your ribs. The idea of being trapped in the small, dark space is nauseating, it terrifies you in a way so primal, so reflex you think you'll bolt for a second, you think you'll beg scream, anything, anything. John straightens up and caresses your face.

"Just for a little while hare, just 'till Si n' I are back from this misson, then we'll come 'n get ya, promised we'd never leave eachothe, remember?."

He rips the tape off your mouth and gives you a soft sweet kiss, familiar lips failing to settle you for the first time, well groomed stubble scratchy against your moist skin, Simon presses his cheek against yours.

"It has everything ya need and we'll be back before you know it, just behave yourself and you'll never have to see this place again."

His voices is gravel against your skin, his breath smoke but you can't focus on them pressing against you on either side or the ropes laying undone on the grass.

All you can see is the cabin, the padlock, the wardens, the convict.

You had stayed for a long time in that cabin, long enough for your food to start running out, long enough to grow both lovesick and resentfull, long enough to get yourself together and fix the old, busted hunting camera you had found shoved between the wall and the bed.

You bought two flasdrives a week ago before their deployment and hid them in your tool box, on one you upload images of the cabin, of chains, of bruises, dents in the wall and your room ransacked time and time again.You know it's not a strong case and it's not meant to be. It's supposed to be a reminder for what you did, what you're running from, your sentencing.

On the other flash drive you upload all your happy memories, screenshots of loving wordsand jokes, selfies together, pictures of gifts and vacations, the apartment you saved up for with them. To keep you warm, souvenirs from the last place you settled in, from the last place you let yourself be loved.

You tuck them into the struddiest back pack you own, four changes of clothes, underwear, very basic toiletries, some fancy jewellery you'll have to pawn off later on. The money, fake ID and passport you had hidden in the inner lining of one of the coats John's forgotten about a long time ago, discarded at the back of his closet.

You pack the bag in under ten minutes just the way you practiced, the hard part is the note, you write over and over again palms sweaty and hands shaky eventually you settle on;

'Stay safe, I love you, goodbye.' Flowery language and false promises feel ingenuine when you're leaving everything the three of you have worked for, everything they'd tied their hearts to , it feels cowardly when you're running away. You leave the crumpled up notes on the top of the trash and your shared card on the table. You keep your promise ring in your pocket.

The walk to the train station is torture, every loud step is Simon, every wide shoulder or brown jacket is John, you feel like you're drowning in a pool filled with snippets of them, like driftwood caught in a storm much bigger than he'll ever comprehend. You either dread the day they'll be nothing but memories or salivate for it, you can't decide with the overwhelming panic, the sick excitement.You buy a day pass and a burner phone before you throw away your cell phone.

The bus ride is calmer, when you don't think about the pub you met in, the small flower shop you routinely bought foxgloves and bluebells from, the record shop Johnny loves, the workplace Simon insisted he drove you to whenever he could; the lufe you're betraying, the blessings you're running from.

You sit arms crossed and face hidden under your hood as you watch the city flash by, the further away from home you get the more guilt you feel; guilt for letting them in, guilt for misguiding them, guilt for aggravating them again and again and again untill either one snapped, guilt for leaving when you had just convinced them you wouldn't even think of it.

You swallow it down and watch the city speed away colors blurring like oil paint.

Next Chapter >>

[sleepyfan-blog]

Feeding Time

Author’s Note: This is the next in the Baby Primarchs being raised by Big E series. First. Previous. Next

Warnings:  dehumanization of primarchs, dehumanization of infants, neglectful parent, baby barf, please ask me to tag additional things

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel

Summary: The Emperor feeds some of his infant generals.

Neoth held One in the crook of one arm, making sure that his head was well supported as he held the bottle of skin-temperature warm (not hot, not cold, not cool, as he had learned through trial and error) and ensured that his first primarch could latch on firmly to the nipple of the bottle in order to feed. The little one drank swiftly, making tiny suckling noises that Neoth refused to acknowledge as anything other than One successfully feeding. He was making sure to be very quiet, as the rest of his twenty-one infant generals were peacefully sleeping. He hadn't known, when he had ordered for each of them to be decanted - that each of the little ones would have a different sleeping and feeding schedule.

But they did. One preferred to be fed at least once every couple of hours - and if he was not fed precisely on time he would use all three of his lungs and wail at the top of his lungs, while waving tiny fists in the air and kicking at the sides of his cradle. And when One started to cry, he set off all of the others, no matter how deeply sleeping or content they had been before One had begun to cry. One also occasionally hissed and growled when startled... Although that was likely due to the feline DNA that he had inserted into One's DNA structure. 

One was currently purring as he suckled the bottle, his eyes squinted closed in contentment. Neoth made sure that the bottle had exactly the amount of formula that One fed on without causing him to spit up, after having drunk more than his small stomach could handle, as One would suckle until his bottle was dry, no matter how full his stomach got, which Six, Nine and Eighteen were also prone on doing. Twelve cried whenever one of its' siblings cried for any reason, which was frustrating in its' own way. 

One released the bottle's nipple with a tiny sigh and yawn, stretching a little and resting his head on Neoth's chest. Something treacherously soft and warm was beating beneath his breast. Neoth ruthlessly squashed the feeling as he set One down in hi-it's bassinet. He lightly brushed the light blonde hair out of One's face, as he murmured a quiet "Good boy."

One curled into his touch as the infant primarch shoved its' thumb into its' mouth and starting to suck, dark eyes once again closing for a nap.

Which was good, as it was time to feed Twenty-A and Twenty-O, who refused to be separated from one another, even to feed or be bathed (and... Bathing was on the list of things that needed to be done, but feeding the primarchs so that they would grow out of such a helpless and needy stage was paramount). This clinginess was understandable, as the two of them had been incubated in the same pod, though they would be weaned from one another's presence. His generals needed to be independent enough to work solo, or alongside just the forces he sent alongside them.

Neoth floated the two of them out of their bassinet and into his arms with a flicker of warp-craft. He stilled when Fifteen shifted from in its' sleep. Fifteen was by far the most deeply connected to the warp of all of Neoth's Primarchs - which had been by design, but Fifteen was also very closely attuned to Neoth's own use of the Warp - and often awoke, sable eyes staring up at him at any moderate or higher working of the warp he did in the infant primarch's presence. Fifteen once again settled in its' crib, snuggling into the heating pad with a contented sigh.

Twenty-A began to gum Neoth's shirt, seeking a nipple, Twenty-O just stared up at him, teal eyes barely blinking. 

The Emperor of Mankind silently sighed, carefully floating two bottles of formula in front of each of the twins' faces. Twenty-A took a moment to unlatch from Neoth's shirt to begin drinking its' bottle, periodically stopping to gurgle at Twenty-O, who gurgled back, or waved a hand at Twenty-A at each vocalization. The twins were slower eaters than most of their siblings - which could be frustrating when more of the primarchs were awake and wailing for their own meals. Three, Twelve and Nineteen also ate slowly, though they'd already eaten in the previous hour to this, before One had eaten.

... But trying to rush the twins through their meal only caused them to burp and throw up everything they'd eaten all over his shirt, pants, shoes, or the room in a sticky mess before caterwauling until they were fed in the way that they liked best. 

An hour later, and the twins finally finished the last of their feedings, and tried to snuggle into his chest to sleep. Neoth, having a great many things to do, not the least of which currently included feeding the rest of their siblings, swiftly set the pair down (as if he let Twenty-A and Twenty-O fall asleep in his arms, they would not stop crying when they were put down, no matter what Neoth tried, short of picking up the fussing infants again).

Seventeen began to whimper, just as Neoth finished tucking the twins into their shared crib. Suppressing a sigh of irritation, Neoth picked the little primarch up, rocking him back and forth. Seventeen had already been fed recently, and its' diaper did not need to be changed... So why was the little one fussing? As expected, a handful of moments after it was picked up, Seventeen settled down in, dark brown eyes closing, tiny hands grasping onto his shirt. Neoth sighed, clicking his tongue a little as he gently removed the tiny hands from his shirt, setting Seventeen down again "I can't hold you, I have to feed five more of your brothers, Seventeen." Seventeen snuffled a little, dark eyes filling with tears. Neoth sighed and tucked one of the stuffed animal shaped toys that held his scent and had a warm core next to Seventeen, who curled around the toy and fell into a deeper sleep.

He... Really needed to come up with names for them. Preferably before they started to form long-term memories. Their names were something that he'd been pondering on and off since their creation had been relatively certain, but he had yet to settle on a name for any one of them, much less a name for all of them. 

Fourteen was awake, and started to sniffle, shifting unhappily in its' crib. Neoth swiftly made his way over to where the white-haired primarch was laying, so it didn't start squalling and wake up more of its' siblings. He pitched his voice low and soothing, one hand rubbing Fourteen's back, the other holding it close to his chest "Easy, easy Fourteen. You're safe... Shhh, shhh... Calm down. Are you hungry?" He murmured, floating another bottle of formula in front of Fourteen's face.

The tiny primarch stared at the bottle before opening its' mouth and latching on, sucking hard. Fourteen was prone to tears and fussing, but it ate quickly - too quickly, if Neoth didn't shift the angle of the formula to make sure that Fourteen didn't suck in air, or drink too quickly and give its' tiny belly cramps. Four, Eight and Sixteen also ate very quickly as well - though Fourteen was the one who ate the fastest, and fussed the most when its' stomach was upset from foo much formular too quickly, or air being swallowed alongside the formula as well. 

Neoth put a small towel on his shoulder, before raising Fourteen up to that shoulder, patting it's back after Fourteen finished eating. Despite his best efforts, Fourteen usually did needed to be burped at least a little after being fed, and was one of the messiest eaters of all of his primarchs. At least at this life stage. Neoth shuddered internally at the little gargling sound that Fourteen made before it spat up a mix of air and formula onto the towel, which absorbed the sticky substance without dirtying his shirt.

It took ten minutes, after Fourteen had been fed, for Neoth to be certain that Fourteen wouldn't unexpectedly vomit in his crib, necessitating cleaning of the bedding, lest fourteen lay in the substance until it dried - which stank. Once the burping period was over, he set Fourteen down next to its' warm-cored plush toy before walking over to where Thirteen was curled on its' side.

Thirteen was awake, blue eyes staring up at him as he approached, straw-blond, curly hair sticking out every-which direction on its' head. Thirteen rarely cried, or vocalized much at all, unless interacting directly with one or more of its' fellow primarchs, or with one of the Custodes who fed it and its' siblings when Neoth was attending to other duties. Thirteen ate at a medium pace and rarely needed to be burped. It was one of the lower-maintenance of his primarchs, which was a breath of relief. A pity that of its' siblings, only Five, Seven and Ten were equally agreeable and quiet. It drank its' ration of formula without fuss or complaint, nor did it fuss when he set it down again. 

Neoth went over the feeding schedule in his head, frowning as Two began to fuss. Both Two and Eleven were the ones who were adapting most poorly to being outside of the incubation chambers. They weren't putting on weight like the others, and though they would cry given certain stimuli, they weren't as active as the others, either. Something seemed to be wrong with the both of them, and their medical teams were diligently researching possible causes, as well as putting  both infant primarchs through a series of medical tests, trying to determine the cause. He sighed as he picked up two, rocking it back and forth until it settled down again. 

His vox communicator chimed, and Neoth suppressed a frustrated growl. He was not to be disturbed while feeding the Primarchs unless something urgent came up. "Delaxius, finish feeding the Primarchs. Something has come up." The Emperor of Mankind ordered one of the Custodians guarding the primarchs' room. 

"As you command, my lord." Delaxius responded immediately, entering the room. 

Neoth swiftly exited the room, swiftly returning to court, unaware of the spit-up towel on one of his shoulders until hours later, when one of the High Lords of Terra tactfully asked him as to why he was wearing such a thing.

Fuck!

[ganondoodle]

since seeing a post from a mutual yesterday i was thinking about how grateful i am that i can now, confidently say something like -im taking demise away from nintendo- or -hes MY character now- while knowing that the people following me will understand that thats not actually possible and also i dont mean that literally literally (duh)

bc (while i have mentioned it in the past and im not trying to fish for sympathy with this, the memories ... and trauma really does come back every now and then) there were people once that imagined i said that about a popular character in the fandom i was in when i was a teen and proceeded to try (and nearly succeeding bc i was already struggeling alot with depression, anxiety and undiagnosed autism) to bully me into killing myself; perhaps it wasnt their actual goal, but the shit they did (alot of them were adults too), was absolutely insane, but i've only been able to see that wayyyy after the fact

like even if im remembering wrong and i did word it wrong or weird or in a way that was easily misunderstood, i was a teen, with english not as my first language and it still was some fandom shit that ultimately did not matter and never in any scenario warrented that level of harrassment, i dont even think i ever told my parents bc i thought i had to deal with it alone since i 'caused' it too and since then just ... wanting to forget it ever happened

while i am much, much better now, and slowly learning to manage my mental health struggles too, i do wonder just .. how much of how i am today was shaped by that horrible experience, like the way i overly try to pre-apologize and put doubts on every thought i write out, or the panic i feel when something does go outside my usual range (mostly twitter really ..) was immensely worsened by that .. among stuff i probably dont even realize

funnily enough, i made my account on tumblr to try and flee from all that was happening to me (even if they did stalk me at first .. even here) and hey, im still here :D

i guess what im trying to say is, i am very happy to still be here, i am grateful to be able to be myself, even with its downsides, even with my problems, even if the things i do are passable at best, even if i will never "make it big", even if i am annoying at times, even if i do mistakes still, even if i am .... horribly bad at replying to the awesome people that message me-

there are, at least a few people, who enjoy, or even care, or heck, even think about what i draw and write, which is .. still mind boggling to me and i might never be able to truly believe its all real, there are people who are able to see beyond my flaws, forgive me if i do missstep or overreact, and just be aware that even with everything i share about me, there is lots you dont know that may inform why i feel a certain way about something, but thats okay, i am human, i am here, there are people who enjoy my brainworms, and perhaps even think i, as a person, am nice

i am so grateful for that

some things are good

[morverenmaybewrites]

More dark fantasy! Gotham

Part 1

Monster hunter! Jason Todd? Monster hunter! Jason Todd.

[seraphic-elysian]

@foolondahill17 have my attempt at the prompt you put about Dean sprinting to Cas. It's not perfect and I ended it without a resolution as I wanna write this as a whole ass fic but I really wanted to share this with you since your idea inspired the hell out of me. ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ It happens in a moment. A heartbeat trapped between the milliseconds of time. Dean turns in the loose grip of his brother’s hands, green eyes trained on the golden crack of light that splits their world open to another, waiting for the sign of his angel. His heart is racing within his chest, adrenaline keeping him sharp and steady, as he waits with bated breath for his angel to emerge through the light. The image of Castiel stalking toward Lucifer as Sam pulls him to the portal is burned into his eyelids. He knows that it is almost a sickening parallel of the way that he had pulled Sam from his burning apartment all of those years ago but he can only pray that Castiel will not be killed. That he will not have to suffer the same agonizing heartbreak that Sam did when Jessica died.  He refuses to entertain the thought of something happening to the angel, of him dying or being hurt while in the other world. That will not happen. 

It cannot. 

Dean steps close enough to the portal that he can hear the rushing of the wind and smell the heavy scent of gunpowder on the breeze. It pulls at his clothing in a tantalizing lure, a promise of taking him to where his angel is, but he refuses. He will not step back through the portal and waste the safety that Castiel had given him. 

Sam’s voice is nothing but a gurgle of noises behind him but he does not need to hear him to understand what he is saying. Dean knows that he is too close to the portal for his brother to feel confident that he will not go through it to find Castiel. He knows that he becomes irrational and impulsive when his angel is in danger. That he has, in the past, openly let others be hurt and killed if it meant that those he cares about will be safe. Dean also knows that he has a history of suicidal tendencies, of throwing himself in front of others to take a hit or killing himself to trade someone else's life for his own, and that Sam has been witness to him doing that several times. And while he is aware that he would not hesitate to end his life if it meant that the angel would return safe and alive, he does not feel the need to do so. Not right now. 

“Don’t be stupid, Dean! Cas is capable!” Sam nearly screams the words to him, voice only barely heard over the rushing noise in Dean’s ears. 

And of course he is. Dean knows better than anyone what Castiel is capable of and how strong and intelligent the angel is. But even having the knowledge of that will not stop him from worrying about him. It will not stop him from desperately trying to keep the angel by his side where Dean is able to keep him safe. 

After all, how can anyone act normal and as though the world is not on the verge of ending when the living personification of their heart is facing off against an archangel?

The portal flares a brilliant gold that burns his eyes and Dean’s breath leaves his lungs in a shaky exhale as Castiel appears in front of him. There is blood stained along his trench coat, his black curls are covered in dust, and his face is streaked with dirt but Dean has never seen anything more beautiful. Exhausted blue eyes meet his own and something that Castiel sees on his face makes the angel’s brows furrow and him to step closer to Dean. They are close enough that he can feel heat radiating off of the angel and the exhalation of his breath ghosting across his face and, for the first time, Dean does not step back or snap at the angel. No, he only sways forward as he is captured by Castiel’s orbit. He surrenders to the feelings that he has in his chest, this desire to put himself out there and show the other how he feels. 

“D-” 

Castiel cuts himself off as an angel blade pierces through the bottom of his chest with a sickening squelch. The shining metal is clean as it slides through the angel’s body without resistance before it is yanked out violently. Crimson stains his white dress shirt and Castiel’s grace flares brightly through the gaping wound. Dean is moving before he can think, arms gathering the angel against his chest as he sags, and pressing his hand against the bleeding wound on his back. He does not see where Lucifer goes as the angel saunters off but he knows that Sam will watch his back. Something heavy and soft curls over his arms and back, engulfing him in the scent of honeysuckles and wildflowers, but when he looks there is nothing there. The smell of Castiel’s grace slowly begins to turn acrid as his grace begins to burn and Dean collapses to his knees. 

“Get away,” Castiel whines, weak hands pushing against Dean’s chest, “I can’t hold it back anymore. Get away!” 

Dean shakes his head and tightens his grip on the angel, “No!” 

A whine escapes Castiel’s throat as the light flares up brighter and hotter, escaping from his mouth and eyes. The invisible objects that he feels against him heat up rapidly, searing his skin even through his clothing, and the heat and light reaches its apex in a wave of agony before it shatters. A pained howl leaves his lips as fire scorches him, consuming him in a decimating blaze that he cannot escape. His eyes burn even through his closed lids and he turns his face away from the sharp explosion of light. It seems as though it takes forever before it clears, taking the scorching heat with it, and Dean weakly lays Castiel’s body down. He presses his forehead down against the soft cotton of his dress shirt as he processes the hell that he just went through. 

Castiel is dead. There is no denying that, not after what he just experienced. The angel is gone in a shattering of holy light and the smell of scorched feathers. His shaking fingers come up and tangle in the rough wool of the trench coat as he raises his face, desperate to see confirmation that Lucifer has murdered Castiel. He needs to memorize the pattern of his beautiful wings that will be burned into the dirt of this little home. Sliding his eyes open slowly, he sees…nothing. An unending wall of bright white light fills his vision and does not leave no matter how much he blinks or shakes his head. He panics, sucking in a startled breath, body freezing in fear at the implications of what this means. 

Turning his head toward where he remembers his brother standing, he asks, “Sam?” 

“What the hell were you thinking, Dean!” Sam’s voice is rough with anger as he stomps up to where Dean is kneeling, “You know what happens when an angel dies. You’ve fucking seen that happen so many times! So, what the hell were you thinking being right at the center of that? Didn’t you think for a second about what that would do to you?” 

“It’s Cas, Sammy,” his excuse sounds broken as it falls through his lips. He is in agony, arms and back still burning from the blaze that had licked across his skin, “I couldn’t just-” 

“How many times has he died before and you’ve stayed back from it? How many times has he been killed like this and you’ve not put yourself at the center of his grace exploding?” Sam is yelling now, anger making him sound almost terrifyingly like John, and Dean feels far too vulnerable here on the ground, “I don’t even know how we’re going to heal that. Or if we even can. Fuck, Dean, we didn’t need this on top of everything else!”

He takes Sam’s anger without question or complaint. He knows that he messed up and that he injured himself right when they are about to be dealing with Lucifer. He knows that his vision being gone, however temporary this is, will make him a vulnerability and a liability. It is now completely up to Sam to be able to defend not only himself but Dean as well. 

“I should be able to see again in a few days,” he responds once Sam pauses to take a breath, “We just have to lay low inside of the Bunker until then. I know I messed up, Sammy, okay?”

“You can’t see?” Sam is suddenly in his space, calloused hand gripping his chin tightly, and Dean stifles a flinch. His head is tilted back and forth and he feels his brother messing with his eyelids. It is incredibly uncomfortable to not be able to see what Sam is doing but he knows that he is in safe hands, “Is it just blurry or is it fully gone?” 

“I can’t see anything,” he admits as Sam wipes something off of his cheek, “it’s nothing but white.” 

Sam sucks in a startled breath, hands stilling against his face, before he moves and cleans off his other cheek. “Okay, I…I didn’t realize that you were blind.” 

“Then what were you talking about?” 

Sam does not answer right away and Dean huffs in frustration. He hates not being able to see his brother’s face and be able to read him. He has always relied on the fact that Sam is an open book to him, that he rarely hides what he is thinking and feeling, and now having that taken away from him makes him feel as though he is lost at sea without a life raft. 

The trench coat is warm within the grasp of his fingers but he forces himself to release it, to smooth it back into place despite the shake in his hands. His palm presses against the flat expanse of Castiel’s chest and something inside of him burns at the fact that he cannot feel his heart beating or the rise and fall of his chest. That he can feel the heat dissipating from his body, leaving it cold and empty. There is something within the cavern of his chest that feels just as hollow as the body in front of him, something along his soul that screams at the idea of Castiel being gone, but he can do nothing about that. There is no cure or bandage that can heal a broken heart. 

A hand lands on his shoulder and he flinches away from it violently, “What the fuck, Sam?” 

“You know how angel wings are burned into the ground when they die?” Sam asks gently, continuing when Dean nods in confusion, “Dean…Cas’s wings aren’t…they…they’re burned into your skin, dude. From the back of your hands, up your arms, and across your back to either side of your spine.”

“But I’m wearing clothes,” Dean argues weakly, “How could they have burned through that?” 

His brother exhales shakily, “Couldn’t his wings phase through things like that?” 

The fingers of his right hand skirt over to his left, drifting across the back of it, and a pained noise leaves his lips as his skin flares up in red hot pain at the touch. He shakes his head, refusing to accept what Sam is telling him. There is no way that he is carrying the shadow-burn of his angel’s wings on his body. He is not holy enough, not good enough, to carry the image of that burned onto his skin.

Castiel deserves to have something more than Dean Winchester acting as a living tombstone.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," Sam's hands grip his elbows and pulls him to his feet, "Once we do that, we can get Cas and Kelly ready to be put to rest."

Dean grabs onto his brother tightly, resisting the guiding hand that is pulling him toward the house. He does not want to leave Castiel lying here, alone, on the dirt. There will need to be a pyre and Castiel's body will need to be prepped for that but he does not think he has the strength to leave him. Not anymore.

"I can't," His voice catches in his throat, "Sam, I can't leave him."

He can see the furrow of Sam's brow in his mind as his brother responds, "Why not?"

"I love him," it falls from his lips like water, easy and free-flowing, "I love him so much I don't know how the hell I'm able to breathe. I can't just..."

"Okay, yeah, I get it," Sam answers, "How long have you...?"

Dean tries to smile but it pulls at his face wrong, lips twisting into more of a grimace. He turns his face toward the ground and welcomes the white void that consumes his vision. It is much easier to be able to be this open with his brother when he is unable to see his facial expressions.

"Years," he exhales heavily, the word nothing more than a whisper on the breeze.

Sam does not answer him but he does help Dean back onto the ground by his angel's body. His hands are warm as they squeeze his elbows once before removing them.

"Let me go get the stuff to prepare his body, okay? You can do it here and I'll handle Kelly."

"What about Jack?"

Sam huffs, "I have no idea what we're going to do."

"We raise him. We give him the childhood we didn't have. He chose Cas as his father and I'm not going to abandon his child just because his sperm donor is Satan himself." Dean tells him, "We educate him, we tell him about the spooky shit and about the stuff that lurks in the dark. We make sure that he's able to handle himself if he ever winds up on a hunt."

"And we tell him about Cas."

He nods, hand reaching out until it lands on Castiel's arm, "Yeah, we tell him about Cas."

Sam leaves him then, footsteps trailing off toward the house. Dean is left in the dirt, surrounded by the sound of waves lapping at the shore of the lake and insects buzzing around him. It feels wrong, to experience this peaceful moment while he kneels at the side of his fallen person. Castiel should be here. He should be the one that teaches Jack about humanity and the world around them. He should be the one to choose what, if any, of the hunting world that Jack learns. He should teach him about bees and flowers and the names of the constellations in the sky.

He should be here, raising the child that he loves, instead of it falling to Dean.

But he is not. He is dead, killed because he ensured that everyone got to safety. And now it is up to Dean to raise Jack.

He spends the next hour gently cleaning Castiel's body with the warm water and cloths that Sam brought him. The dirt and blood is washed from his skin as best that Dean can while his vision is gone before Sam helps him wrap and secure his body in a soft fabric.

Together, they lift his body between them and Sam guides him to the pyre, leaving him to lay Castiel down inside of it alone. The angel is heavy in his arms and makes his wounds radiate agony as they are agitated but he does not care. There will be time for him to heal, for his wounds to be cleaned and bandaged. But not right now. Not when he is resting the love of his life inside of a tomb made of wood, waiting for him to be set ablaze.

The fire is hot on his face as he stares unseeingly in the direction of it. Jack and Sam are on the other side of the pyre, talking quietly to each other, and Dean wishes that he had the strength to go join them. To find comfort in knowing that they are mourning for the angel together. He could go to them, he knows that, but if he moves from this spot he is not sure that he will be able to keep himself from shattering. The reality of Castiel being gone has not fully hit yet and he knows that the moment the fire burns down, the moment that the only thing left of Castiel is the feathers burned into Dean's skin and the ashes on the wind, that he will he consumed by grief. That the only thing he will be able to feel is the hollow void in his chest that signifies that his angel is gone.

"Can I stay here with you?"

Dean flinches at the soft voice that speaks, turning his head in Jack's direction. He does not respond to him, too afraid that he will say something he does not mean or begin to cry if he does, so he nods his agreement. The kid steps closer to him and his hand slips into Dean's. He takes in a deep breath and squeezes that hand gently, leaving them clasped at his side.

"He loved you," Dean tells him hours later when the fire has died down to almost nothing. Sam had stepped away to handle something some time ago so it is only the two of them left by the angel's side, "You should have your parents here to raise you. You shouldn't have to grow up without them."

Jack is silent for a moment before he speaks, "I have you."

"Yeah, kid, you do."

"He loved you, too," Jack tells him, as though those words do not sends spiderweb cracks along the wall holding his emotions back.

He stays quiet, unable to respond even if he desired to, and they stand there together until Jack tells him that the fire is gone.

Today he will kneel in the ashes of his lover's pyre, gathering the remains of him with clumsy hands, as their child holds the glass jar steady for him to put the ashes in. He will seal up that jar and cling to it for the several hour long drive it will take for them to reach the Bunker.

And, when he is led to his room by his brother, letting him sit the jar down upon his nightstand, Dean will finally allow himself to break.

[beevean]

I think I can finally pinpoint what bothers me so much about the Lenector ship - not even how it was treated in the show, but the very idea of making it "nuanced".

Long story short, I found an author that promised to flesh out the Lenector storyline in the show, including getting a better insight into Lenore's thought process and rewriting some of the dialogue (I appreciated that they fixed the "interrogation" in S3 to make Hector specify that he never cared about a reward, it made him look less stupid)

Author never rewrote the rape scene, which disappointed me but oh well, but they did write Hector and Lenore finally talking about the ring, a discussion sorely missing in S4. It was more or less what I would have written: Lenore swearing that she had no choice and it was for his own good and protection, and Hector lamenting that she still tricked him and made him into a pet and she could have been honest because he would have agreed to work with them.

... but he's still in love with her. He kisses her gladly. And his "conflict", his anger at the betrayal, is framed as something in the way of his love, an obstacle that he'd have to get over it.

And there it is.

Even with the acknowledgement that what Lenore did was horrible, there is the assumption that Hector, after a good talk, is bound to forgive her. That it still makes sense that he'd be attracted to her. That it's okay, because she meant well. That it's okay, because she didn't technically lie, only twisted the truth to wear down his mental defenses (already worn down by imprisonment and abuse)! Oh, I guess I must have dreamed Lenore saying that she wanted to run away with him before kissing him :) to be fair, it was a terrible piece of writing. Good thing it wasn't real, apparently!

Yes, Hector's forgiveness should have taken time, but it should have happened. Because Lenore is not a bad person and they deserved to be together. Because what she did, which was deliberately push her prisoner in a delicate mental state into having sex with her so that she'd put an enslaving ring without his consent, was just an honest mistake and doesn't speak at all of her morality.

She's the best he got. She's nice to him, because she makes cute dick jokes and goes to whine to him. She's better than Dracula, who lied to him (Lenore never did), and better than Carmilla, who was violent with him (Lenore never was). This is not to be taken as a sign of how horribly this man has been treated in life, and how he'd be happy with the smallest of crumbs because he has been broken that badly. Lenore is the happiness he deserves. Ignore how "your life could be worse" is literal textbook abuser logic, it's true in his case.

The problem with S4 is not that it excused Lenore's rape by deception. It's that it rushed the forgiveness that was due and didn't allow them to be together. Lenore's suicide was Ellis hating this character that completely overtook Carmilla's already established role and was treated far more magnanimously than the similar Japanese not-twins, clearly!

And this is the impasse I cannot get over. Every time, every damn time, even when fans agree that S4 was a disaster, all arguments funnel to this one part: Lenore raping Hector for her plans is not a moral event horizon. Hector loving her makes perfect sense and it is a tragic, "nuanced" romance that should have ended with the two kissing in the sunset, finally having in their arms someone who truly respects them.

^ the face of someone who only wanted to protect and take care of the prisoner whom she tricked into sex. She should have been happy with him forever and ever, really 🥺

I'm not judging the shippers' morality, obviously, I don't know any of these people. But the arguments they use make me sick to my stomach, which is made even worse by the fact that the show itself pushes this narrative, just in a way that was so shitty that even the fans were like "bruh".

I won't bother rewriting this trash, because I can do better with the gameverse. But if I ever did, I'd only ask for Hector to at least be conflicted until her sunning (which is not as nonsensical as fans seem to think lol, it just needs to be worded better). Like he recognizes that she did improve his life, but she used unforgivable means for no good reason. You want a tragic romance between two kindred souls? Remove that despicable, cruel act. The Lenore of S3 and the Lenore of S4 are irreconcilable and trying to do so always degenerates in rape apologism whether you mean it or not.

[wheredidalltheusersgo]

The Stranded and The Scaly

Chapter 14: A day to recover

Day 8

Chapter warnings: Vomit, blood

Ba-dump.

Ba-dump.

Ba-dump.

Geoff's heart pounded in his chest loud enough for Ezekiel to hear it from a few feet away. At least it was beating a little slower than before.

Geoff was currently laying on his back with the baby gopher clutched to his chest. The weight on his chest provided by the gopher was strangely comforting, and it was helping to keep him grounded. He briefly recalled a breathing exercise Bridgette had taught him last year, maybe it could help him calm down.

He took a deep breath and held it in, counting in his head.

1...2....3...4.

On the fourth second, he exhaled slowly.

Huh, that made him feel a bit better. After four seconds of holding his breath, he repeated the exercise.

Over at the small stream in the cave, Ezekiel was wringing water out of a small piece of cloth. Geoff focused his eyes on him as he walked over. Zeke gently brushed a lock of hair out of Geoff's face and began to wipe away the blood smeared around his mouth with the damp cloth. The gesture was strangely soothing, Geoff thought as he sighed quietly. While he cleaned Geoff's face off, Ezekiel began to stroke his thick, blonde hair. Geoff couldn't help but let out a weak purr as his eyelids grew heavier. In the next minute, he was fast asleep.

When he noticed Geoff was out like a light, Ezekiel took this as his cue to continue with the cleanup job he was doing. After washing the cloth out, he began to scrub the blood off Geoff's claws. It was a tricky task because of how much blood was caked under them, but there was nothing a little elbow grease couldn't fix. Geoff had really gotten roughed up, hadn't he? Ezekiel took a moment to rest his head on Geoff's chest and feel the slow rise and fall of it as he breathed. For a cold-blooded mutant, he was surprisingly warm...

Ezekiel just couldn't help himself from falling asleep as well.

When Geoff woke up, he was aware of three things. The grime that had been scrubbed from his claws, Ezekiel using his chest as a pillow, and the overwhelming nausea he felt.

Moving Zeke and the gopher off his chest, Geoff bolted to the stream in the cave and hunched over in front of it. He retched. Bloody chunks and bile erupted from his throat and spewed into the water. Oh, how it all burned. This was worse than the time his friends had triple-dog-dared him to eat that muffin out of the cafeteria trash. He regretted going berserk on those wolves, because they were messing him up from beyond the grave. As he laid on his side and clutched his stomach, he was distantly aware of a small, calloused hand rubbing his back.

"Zeke?... is that you?.."

He recieved a grunt of affirmation in response.

"Man, I'm so sorry for causing trouble.. I didn't mean to go crazy out there, I couldn't help it! I-" Geoff's words were silenced by a loud sob coming from his own throat. Big, salty, alligator tears rolled down his scaly cheeks as he looked at Zeke. The smaller boy immediately cupped Geoff's cheeks and tried to wipe his tears away with his thumbs. After all he'd done, Zeke was still trying to comfort him. Geoff really didn't deserve his little buddy. He gently nuzzled into the smaller boy and whimpered quietly.

"Still need rest, come."

Ezekiel wiped Geoff's mouth with the damp cloth from before and guided him back to the spot he was originally resting in. Geoff laid on his back and held both Ezekiel and the gopher close, sighing contentedly. At least he got all those wolf guts out of his system. He felt a bit better now.

Geoff stared down at Ezekiel, who had snuggled into his chest and shut his eyes. He couldn't help but smile a bit, the little fella was like a kitten! He gently stroked Ezekiel's hair with his now-clean claws and recieved a small smile from the little mutant in return.

After a few minutes, Geoff let himself fall asleep once more.

Unbeknownst to the two mutants, however, they were being quietly watched. The cameras hidden all around the island had captured Geoff's massacre in high definition.

"Well, well, well! So Scott WASN'T lying after all!" A small cackle could be heard from within the dark studio.

"Chef, it looks like we've got ourselves a gator to trap!"

-----

[starpirateee]

Alr Imma do something complicated unexpected and suggest some Shitty Cops (Bailey and Sam)

You're welcome, Oz <3

Oh my god shitty cops in my inbox 😭 this will be a pleasure and a curse, these two are so awful...

Uhhh @oswaldpettyeye , Nab wanted you to see this so... C'mere, take your shitty cops and their shitty requited pining that makes them argue like an old married couple

Pre tw for blood, death and vomiting

--

The team pushed open the door, flashlight beams bouncing off the walls. It had been almost twenty years since he'd been at Hatchetfield High, but much like the rest of this town, it hadn't changed in the slightest.

The first thing he saw when he entered was the message written out on the wall. The light from hid torch reflected off it, adding a certain ominous shine to the lettering. It looked like paint, but on closer inspection, he found that not to be the case at all.

"That's fuckin' blood," he declared, unable to do anything but stare as the viscous red dripped down the wall.

As more of the squad investigated the writing, he moved further into the locker room, feeling a wave of nausea overcome him. This wasn't happening. For god's sake, he was Sam fucking Sweetly, he didn't get grossed out by some crime scene. That wasn't him.

For the time being, he swallowed that back and tried to continue on his investigation. He pushed open the door to one of the toilet stalls, having followed a trail of blood on the ground, and peered inside. Led by the torch beam, he scanned the tiny space, and felt his stomach drop as the pit of nausea returned in an instant.

"Holy shit-"

There was a boy, face down on the ground. His blood stained the floor, the edge of the seat, and most of the clothing that was visible. The kid's hair was soaked, his body was bloated, and his skin was already greying.

Sam ran to the next stall along, tripping over himself, and barely managed to pull his hair back before he vomited.

 

--

 

"How fast can you get here?"

"Hatchetfield High? I'll be there in ten."

Bailey sauntered into the break room, looking to grab himself a drink. Technically, he could be at the high school in five minutes; he was allowed to break the speed limit if he needed to. Before he got into that, though, he was going to pick up a coffee.

Immediately, he noticed Sam, lounging against one of the chairs with a glass in hand. Bailey didn't know whether it was just the bright lights, or whether there was something wrong, but he looked a little paler than usual.

"Sam?"

Sam looked up, at least acknowledging the presence of the other officer. "Oliver."

Bailey's brow creased. "What happened? Where's everyone else?"

"It's just me." Sam leaned back, finishing off his glass and running his free hand over his face. "I'm not going back to that fuckin' school."

"Why not?"

"None of ya damn business!"

Bailey held up his hands. One moment, he was focusing on the way Sam looked at him, seemingly more alarmed that he'd chosen to ask than defensive over the actual answer. The next moment, still wondering why he'd been called in to replace this guy of all people, he had averted his attention in order to pour himself the coffee that had been brewing. "Geez, it was just a question..."

"Well, lay off."

He was pale. That wasn't a trick of the light. Sam was washed out and pallid, his forehead still slick with sweat despite his efforts to keep it at bay. If Bailey had been paying more attention, he would've noticed the way Sam was gripping the glass so hard that his knuckles had gone white, but he wasn't, so he didn't.

Closing the lid on his cup, he turned around and leaned against the counter, glancing in Sam's direction. He slipped the shades from his top pocket and over his eyes. "I got called in as your replacement, I just wanna know what I'm dealing with here."

"Murder." Sam's answer came quickly, bluntly. A manner that was fully expected. "Dead body. All that shit."

Bailey's eyebrow quirked. "... What's the matter, Sweetly? Scared of a little blood?"

Sam snarled, his gaze snapping over his shoulder to meet Bailey's. "Shut the fuck up and do your goddamn job, Bailey."

As he walked out, Sam swore he heard a huff of laughter. He cursed under his breath and sank back into the chair. What an asshole.

 

--

 

Bailey arrived late. This was a surprise to nobody. In fact, there was someone waiting outside to point him in the right direction, and he hadn't checked his watch once. When the squad car pulled up to the school's parking lot, he just hummed, awaiting the other officer. "Bailey. Here for Sweetly, I'm guessing?"

"Yep," Bailey looked around as he approached, as if Sam had followed him or something. "What happened to him? He refused to tell me..."

"He refused to tell you? Well, he got in there, saw the body, and vomited. Immediately."

Bailey scoffed initially. "Nah, no way. He wouldn't, he's too-" then it clicked. He remembered the state that Sam was in when he'd found him. His pallid face, the size of that glass of water... His eyes went wide. "Wait, are you fucking serious?"

In return, he got a nod that almost forced a bark of involuntary laughter out of him.

"Sweetly ralphed?!"

"Body was found in the locker room, thank god. He made it to one of the open stalls... Didn't contaminate the crime scene or anything, but he was a fucking mess."

Still is.

That much went unsaid. Bailey decided to give Sam a little bit of his dignity. Not like he deserved it, but he was still recovering! Maybe he'd goad him for it later... To his face, perhaps. He really was scared of a little blood...

For now, he cut him a little slack. He was already gonna get it for deciding to call himself "Hatchetfield's Finest", rubbing it in now was only setting him up for worse, and Bailey wanted to make this last.

"Show me this shit, I think I have to see what all the damn fuss is about."

The two of them made their way to the locker room. As their footsteps echoed through the hallways, Bailey momentarily let himself feel a little nervous. Sam was known for being the toughest guy in the precinct. He was a loudmouth, sure, but he usually followed through on his threats. The fact that the crime scene made him vomit had to mean it was pretty damn serious.

And serious, it was.

He got the chance to look over the body of the boy, the locker room itself, and the message on the wall. Immediately, he saw why Sam had felt so nauseous: this was an absolute mess, and that poor kid had really gotten the worst of it from whoever did this.

"Jesus, talk about a bully, huh?" He said aloud, thinking about the facts. This kid was drowned in the toilet, for god's sake, that was a classic move! They'd been doing it since he was in highschool!

"Huh?"

All attention was suddenly on him. He stopped in his tracks when he realised the conversation had died off completely. "What?"

"A bully?"

"Uh, yeah? Face down in the fuckin toilet? That's a classic bully move! This kid quite literally got bullied to death, ain't it obvious?"

"So... What? We're looking for someone this kid's age?"

Bailey shrugged. "Didn't say that. Could be someone who never grew outta old habits, wanted to make things look interesting." He was pretty convinced that this was the work of someone of a similar age; the writing on the wall gave that one away. The words Nerdy Prudes Must Die weren't generally something a self respecting adult would write, even if they were out for blood.

A sudden thought crossed his mind, another case they'd been running before this murder came up. There had been someone else disappear from this school not two weeks ago. Sure they hadn't actually found any leads yet, but this couldn't be a coincidence. "Hey, we got a name for this kid yet?"

"Mhm, coroner has him identified as... Richard Lipschitz."

"Didn't some kid go missing from here a couple weeks back?"

"The football star? Jägerman?"

Okay, so Lipschitz definitely didn't look like a football star, but Bailey couldn't exactly say he'd been paying full attention to that case when it came up. All he knew was some teenager had turned up missing from Hatchetfield High, and now another had been killed.

"You think they're related? The cases?"

"... Could be."

 

--

 

By the time Bailey got back to the precinct, Sam had long since passed the point of forcing himself to work to make himself look better. One thing was for sure, and that was hat he definitely looked a little more alive than the last time Bailey had seen him.

He managed to stop him when they were passing in the corridor, which managed to agitate him enough as it was, but when he looked up straight into Bailey's eyes, he scowled.

"What?"

"... Farris told me." Bailey admitted. "Everything."

"Oh that fucking snake." Sam hissed, the fire behind his eyes igniting. "And what? You come to gloat about how right you were? Fucking hell, you're such a child."

Bailey faltered. He'd never liked admitting he was wrong, and Sam didn't deserve the satisfaction of it, but he had been wrong, when it came down to it. He sighed. "Jesus Christ... No, I- you were-"

Never before had he sounded like such a stuttering prick. The hell was his problem?

"Nah, y'know, I don't think you'd have been the only one to ralph after seeing that shit."

Sam smirked like his cocky edge had never been lost. "What's the matter, Oliver, scared of a little blood?"

[iwanttokisstheirbloodstainedlips]

{anxiety and old sweaters}

anxiety is like an old sweater,  smelly and itchy,  probing at my insides until i cave until the vomit stops it keeping picking and picking leaving marks and bubbly red scars  keeping me from my loved ones. it was my grandma’s sweater.  i can't leave it  can’t take it off not until it stops hurting.  not until the vomit stops.  my anxiety is like an old, crumpy, ugly, itchy sweater all wrapped up perfect in a box with a bow hiding from the world.  yet presented to all. 

-vick ☆

[yikesharringrove]

ed steve being ghosted by billy and assuming it's bc of his body or weight

tw: eating disorder (anorexia) btw this is angst with happy ending

"So, um, yeah. Just call me back if you want to do something tomorrow night."

Steve hung up the phone, wiping his sweaty palm on the leg of his jeans.

He had had plans with Billy last night. Plans that, when Steve texted to confirm, never actually happened.

He had texted to see if Billy wanted to do something tonight.

No response.

Texted to say that he was free all weekend if Billy was available.

No response.

So, the phone call was his last-ditch effort.

He called Billy, said it's okay if he's too busy, but they could hang out tomorrow night. Steve's parents would be gone.

Usually, the promise of sex had Billy chomping at the bit to spend some time with Steve. Even if they weren't together they were mostly dating. Their hangouts didn't feel all that platonic, especially when they ended with serious make-out sessions, or with Billy spending the night in Steve's bed.

He bit at his nails, tossing his phone down on the bed next to him, flopping back to lie down.

He was trying not to overthink.

Billy is probably just busy. He's on the basketball team, and he's on the fucking Model U.N., and that stupid club (that Steve doesn't understand) eats up time like nothing else.

The bitchy voice in his head tells him that he's just too busy for Steve.

He's probably bored of him, anyway.

Steve really only has a handful of interesting things to say, and he tells the same stories again and again.

Plus, he's kinda gross.

He used to be good-looking, back when he was on the swim team and working out for hours every day.

He's not muscular anymore, he hasn't been in a while.

Once he quit sports, he was toeing the line of fat, and at least he isn't that anymore.

Well, he still is. Toeing the line, that is.

He's constantly trying not to put on more weight.

It's hard, when it seems that everything he eats goes right to his tummy, or his back, or his stupid stupid thighs.

He's been trying to keep everything under control.

He only eats once a day, if that, and he's been trying to skip when he can. He's been on an every-other-day eating streak for the past few days, and he's thinking, if Billy is so utterly disgusted by him, that he won't even respond, maybe he needs to widen that gap. See if he can go two days between.

The weight should stay off, and maybe, once he finally gets thin enough, maybe he can try again with Billy.

Once he's not quite so big, maybe he'll even let Billy fuck him with the lights on.

Or, maybe, Billy is simply done with him.

He's sick of Steve and his gross, ugly body, and ghosting him is the easiest way to do it. He doesn't have to even have to see Steve again. He can just go away and never have to look at him-

The window rattled, and Billy tumbled in unceremoniously, leaves in his hair and a cut on his cheek.

He grinned at Steve from the floor.

"Hey, Stevie."

"Billy, shit. What are you doing here?"

Steve sat up quickly, yanking the blanket over his legs, not wanting Billy to see him in such short shorts.

"My dad took my fucking phone. Something about breaking curfew, and I was super grounded last night, so I missed our date. He's fucking passed out by now, so, I thought I'd ninja my way in here."

He stood up, shaking the leaves out of his hair and dusting off his jeans.

Steve was still more than a little bit caught up on the missed our date part of what he'd said.

"Sorry? Date?"

Billy stared at him.

"Don't tell me you forgot. We were supposed to go to a movie yesterday."

"Yeah, I remember. I guess I just. I didn't know it was a date?"

And Billy, bless those big blue eyes of his, just kept staring at Steve.

And Steve was starting to feel a little squeamish about how much he was looking at him.

"Why wouldn't it be? I mean, did I just climb up that fucking stupid tree just to have you dump me, because that really-"

"No!" Steve said, wincing at how loud his voice was. "I just, I thought we were friends."

And then Billy's face went bright fucking red, and he looked down at his boots, probably getting dirt and mud on Steve's bedroom floor.

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry. I guess I misread, I mean. I'm sorry-"

Steve decided he'd have to throw caution to the wind here.

He tried to ignore the sight of his own legs, walking up to stand nearly toe-to-toe with Billy.

"I didn't think you liked me like that."

Billy looked back up at him, making quick eye contact before looking away again.

"I know what people say about me, but I don't just sleep with anyone."

"No, I mean I didn't think you liked me like that. I didn't think I was." Steve stopped himself. Now it was his turn to look away.

"What? Didn't think you were what?"

"Good enough," Steve breathed between them. "I'm not. You can do better."

Billy didn't say anything, and for one terrible moment, Steve thought he was going to agree. He was going to agree and leave the way he climbed in.

"Nah. Nothin' better than you."

Billy kissed him tenderly, and holy shit, how had Steve thought they were friends this whole time? Maybe he's a fucking idiot too-

"Stop thinking. Just let me kiss you, Baby."

It was easy to stop thinking while Billy kissed him. Because Billy kissed him like he was special.

Billy kissed Steve the same way Steve kissed Billy.

Like he loves him.

[loafofryebread]

Hello mothers and fuckers <3

☆☆☆☆☆

fagdykepearlescentmoon -> loafofryebread

☆☆☆☆☆

I mainly post/reblog fandom stuff so heres the extended fandomes list yippee!!! (i dont rlly post all of them and this list may change and be updated)

mcyt (empires smp/life series), hazbin hotel/helluva boss, cccc/chonny jash (assigned soul by Angel), the magnus archives, arcane, yellowjackets, dungeon meshi, studio ghibli, grishaverse, bottoms, heathers (the musical and the movie), httyd, greek mythology, my ocs and any other number of movies shows and books im currently obsessed with.

☆☆☆☆☆

Times people have thought chewby and I were dating romantically: 2

Times an anon called me and someone else homoerotic: 1

☆☆☆☆☆

My tags are:

#just saying words - Literally just any original post that doesn't fall into any other category

#goose with a guitar - any posts about music/guitar, I don't use this tag very often

#the forest has heard - asks

#shitty poetry hours/pos - any poetry I write

#rye does writing - All my writing, usually just ao3 links

#rye does art - any art i post, if i do ever post any lmao

☆☆☆☆☆

[raineandsky]

#75

tw: vampires, blood, violence

The hero’s step stumbles, caught by a loose rock, but they don’t stop moving.

Their chest heaves with breathlessness. Their legs are burning. Their fingers are frigid by now. They can barely see through the darkness.

Laughter rings through the trees behind them. High, mocking laughter, assaulting their ears on top of their own ragged breathing. They can’t outrun these things—the things know it, from their delight—but they have to try. 

A tree branch grabs at the hero’s shirt, snagging the fabric in its lifeless fingers. Audible glee echoes around them as they twist out of the tree’s grasp, barely faltering as their step falls into a panicked run again.

Something flits through the trees just beyond where the hero can see, a shadow moving through the thick darkness ahead. They turn another way to avoid it. A second thing crosses the gloom this way too. They stumble to a stop, trapped. They want to go back, but the laughter still echoes from that direction.

They can barely breathe anymore. Their legs won’t go any further. Shadows flicker through the night every way they look. Their hand fumbles for the belt on their waist, shoving a tiny dagger into the dark as they back themself into a tree. Please, please, just get bored and go away.

Something steps out of the dark, slipping into the hero’s puny line of sight. Considering how difficult it is to see out here, the thing is standing a lot closer than the hero likes. They thrust the blade in the thing’s direction, hand trembling with exhaustion and terror, as it smiles at them innocently. The expression shows off the long pair of fangs in its mouth.

“There is no point in running anymore,” it says gently. The hero can only shake their head, their throat closed up, and they jab the dagger in its direction for emphasis. It looks frankly bored by their show of defence. “Do you truly believe that that will do anything?”

Something slinks through the gloom behind the vampire. The hero’s hand follows it for a tense moment. The thing grins. “Even if it could,” it continues softly, “do you realise how many of us there are? None of us have eaten in a long time—a little thing like that cannot stop twenty starving vampires.”

The vampire lurches for them. The hero careens out of the way, stumbling in their haste. The vampire behind them has made infuriated contact with the tree they were against, but something else they don’t see still shoves them to the floor.

It’s cold. The leaves dusting the ground are damp, the wet freeze soaking into the hero’s palms as they hurriedly try to right themself. A hand closes on their neck, holding them down like the big catch at the end of the hunt.

“I would not suggest that,” a cool voice says from behind them, “unless you would like death to be excruciating.”

“Ah, a good catch, darling,” the first vampire cries in delight. Laughter still follows them, even from the dirt. “Well, chef has the first taste, do they not?”

The vampire leaning over the hero chuckles, its grip on them tightening as they desperately try to wriggle free. “I always enjoyed my food fresh.”

They lean down, their fangs casually brushing the hero’s skin, and it revels in their last ditch effort at freedom before sinking its teeth into their neck.

Something of a choked cry tears from their throat, their hands desperately grappling with the thing over them. The vampire holds fast, unbothered, and simply bats their hands away. Finally, after a lifetime of agony, it leans back with a gasp for air, and the hero gets a blurry view of their blood smeared around the thing’s mouth as it steps away.

It takes too long for their mind to realise that they’re not being held down anymore. They only get their hands under them to push themself up when another descends on them, shoving them back down into the cold ground. 

“Not yet, darling,” it purrs. “One down, nineteen to go.”

And the torture starts anew. Every vampire brings another wave of delirium, slowly sapping their strength until they’re too weak to even realise someone’s there until sharp fangs are piercing into their skin. Their throat has lost the power to produce anything more than a desperate whimper.

The hero’s barely responding by the time the last thing leans down to them, a twinge of a smile on its face. “Shame,” it says into the delirious fog. They can see the crimson painting its mouth, they think. Their eyes can’t focus. Is it back for another go? “They always stop being fun when they start dying.”

It turns its head slightly like it's studying them. “We owe the werewolves a favour anyway,” it continues to the rest of the pack. “They have asked for some leftovers from us. They always preferred their food alive.”

The hero can barely register what it’s saying. All they can hear is the echoes of laughter through the trees as their mind mercifully pulls them from consciousness.

[the-sparkling-diamond-satine]

also just gonna brag about myself for a hot second (because i missed the anniversary in the fall) and say that. it's been 4 1/2ish years since my last attempt and like. look at me go? still here, still fighting. and i very much WANT to be here. that's progress. might not seem like much but i'm proud to have made it to this point. i want to be alive and i've found friends who are glad i'm alive, and that's not nothing

that's not nothing 💖

[raekleindogpaintings]

And such many cases...

[moreaugriffins]

Imagine Peter getting a call in the middle of the night

him thinking it's probably Ray getting excited about a definitely haunted hairbrush, and letting it ring

eventually picking it up as it continues to ring for a few minutes, only to find out it's Egon's wife

She's stressed, and worried, and Peter isn't sure why she's ringing him

But Winston isn't picking up the phone, and she knows that Egon and Ray have been arguing a lot recently so...

But she's worried

Because Egon's not doing well. He hasn't been sleeping much, or taking care of himself much (which Peter had noticed every time they went on call together), he's been muttering weird stuff, and obsessed with his notes and books, and usually she can help stop him spiralling but he's been pulling away recently, and spending less time and home and-

"He hasn't come home yet"

Egon always comes home, they made an agreement years ago. He's never broken the agreement before

So she's worried

And Peter is too

He knew Egon wasn't doing well, but they were men in their 40s, Egon wasn't a child, he could look after himself, and it was not Peter's job to monitor him. If Egon was struggling, he could speak up. He knew he could come to his friends for help

Then his mind casts back to the time in uni when Egon tried to drill a hole in his own head, how it all started just like this: the sleepless nights and obsessive studies, and pulling away from everyone, even skipping his lectures.. Peter and Ray just about got there on time.. Though Peter joked about the incident now, he's still rattled by it

He's still pretty rattled by many of Egon's vaguely suicidal experiments

He says he'll go look for Egon (after all, she's got a toddler to keep an eye on)

Reassures her that he's fine, that it'll all be fine, he probably just hyperfocused on the proton packs or something, you know how he is

It doesn't reassure her much - he doesn't even believe his own words either, but what else can he say

After the call, he heads to the Firehouse, knowing that if Egon was anywhere, it would likely be in the lab. It was practically the scientist's second home

He storms up to the lab (the place felt eerily quiet. Janine doesn't work at night anymore, Winston has his own home, and Ray has his flat above his shop)

the light is on

that's something

He opens the door, expecting to see Egon in a chaotic state (or god forbid...), and to be fair, the room is an utter mess, with books open, numbers and scripture written on the whiteboard, a pile of empty Twinkies packets around the bin stuffed full of crumpled papers

and in the middle of this mess, is Egon, head in hands, book open in front of him. It's subtle, but he can see the rise and fall of his shoulders

at least he isn't dead (he ignores how worrying that thought is)

He goes over to Egon and whacks him over the top of his head - usually an affectionate gesture from Peter (the affection is slightly lost)

"Come on Spengs, you really leaving your wife at home?"

Egon looks up at him, brows furrowed, and a practised guarded expression, though his eyes gave away the deep exhaustion and paranoia the scientist must be feeling

If it were Winston, he'd know the exact thing to say to Egon, a talk on how his actions are making his (Egon's) wife feel, and to get his act together, with the reminder that everyone was here for him

If it were Ray, despite all the arguments the two had recently, Ray would comfort him, know the exact words to calm the man and ground him back in some sense of reality - those two understood each other on a level like no other

But it was Peter here, right now

And he's not good at emotional conversations or situations. A serious conversation makes him feel like he's going to break out in hives. It's easier to joke than deal with emotions. (that's why he and Egon got on well. Neither liked talking about how they feel)

So when Egon replies with ramblings about Gozer, clearly lost and not in his right mind, Peter makes a couple jokes, he deflects from Egon's worries and brings the man down to the kitchen to make a hot chocolate to calm Egon's mind (that's what they used to do, right?)

There's more talk, mostly from Peter, about some studies he's working on (that are mostly accurate), and how Dana and Oscar are doing, and the show because oh boy does he have a story about that one man who believed he could communicate with fish-

Egon is barely engaging, Peter could see, his mind is elsewhere, running at a million miles an hour, doing complex calculations and making connections. Peter didn't envy the man really - it must be difficult having a mind so clever and loud.

So when he can tell the talking isn't working, he asks "We defeated Gozer, remember? when my girlfriend was turned into a dog, and Stay Puft got the biggest commercial for free, and we crossed the streams. He's gone forever, right?"

Egon seems to come back to reality for a moment, and they stare at each other, before Egon nods slightly and finally takes a sip of his hot chocolate.

Peter eventually drives Egon home, selfishly because he wants to keep an eye on his friend for a little longer, but Egon doesn't utter a word. That's fine. The silence makes Peter's skin itch but it seems to be doing Egon some good.

They arrive at the house (the living room lights are still on), and Egon goes to leave the car, but Peter reaches over last minute, his mouth moving faster than his brain, "All you gotta do is ask, if you need help. We're still your mates, yeah? I don't know what goes on in that brain of yours but you aren't alone."

Egon seems to be mulling something over in his head, then pulls away from Peter's grip - "Goodnight Peter." - and heads inside.

Over the next few weeks, Peter keeps an eye on Egon

He seems to slowly get better

There are no more phone calls from Egon's wife (except one to talk about what happened that night), his eyebags seem to fade away, he talks less about Gozer, the notes disappear and the books are put neatly away or are packed up, and most importantly he seems to be arguing less with the group and making an effort to spend time with them

Then he's gone

and all the equipment and Echo 1 are gone too.

[scratchandplaster]

Aftermath of Drugging

CW: discussions of non-con drugging, spiking food, medical whump, overdosing, drug abuse, addiction, death, brief BBU-mention

Using drugs as a whump method is pretty common, and rightly so! As one of my favorite tropes, it was interesting to think about how they could affect the Whumpee after the act itself, be it physical or mental.

That's why I made a little compilation (for me and you), if you feel like agonizing your Whumpee even further. There are also some examples in between, for your entertainment!

The research is mostly relating to any downers, meaning any drug that makes you calm or fall asleep, so anesthetics, hypnotics or sedatives. Examples include ketamine, Rohypnol, GBL, propofol and heroin.

Uppers on the other hand have the opposite effect in stimulating the human nervous system. Some of the effects that are noted below are applicable to both kinds of drugs, but keep in mind that stimulants are more of an afterthought in this list. I'm going to recap the effects of both at the end.

I'm not a pharmacist by any means, but as far as reliable research for creative writing goes, this should suffice. No one is going to fact-check your whump fic, bestie 🤍

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

By method:

Ingestion (forcing them to take pills, spiking their food)

→ General indigestion, nausea, dry mouth

Injections via syringe or continuous administration through an IV drip (e.g. in medical settings)

-> Swelling/tenderness/infection/bruising of the injection side

-> High fever (even days after the injection)

→ Anaphylaxis: skin rash, chest tightness, dizziness, nausea, facial swelling

Anaphylaxis is an all-body allergic reaction that can cause mild to severe and even deadly symptoms (shock or coma). It can escalate and should be immediately treated with a shot of adrenaline. This kind of reaction could be detrimental to Whumper's plans, especially if they intend to keep Whumpee alive for the foreseeable future. So it would be helpful for them to always carry an EpiPen, just in case...

Inhalation (gas or liquid)

→ High risk of choking and (sleep) apnea

-> Irritation of throat, nose and eyes

-> Throat spasms (Laryngospasm)

Includes coughing, difficulty breathing/speaking and the feeling of suffocation. Even though this kind of spasm fades away pretty quickly, they cause severe stress and panic to the aggrieved party, even leading up to lose consciousness again.

Physical side effects:

-> Drowsiness/tiredness, headaches/migraines, tinnitus

-> Dry mouth/throat or excessive drooling

-> Dilated pupils (causing Whumpee to be light-sensitive)

-> Slurred speech

-> Skin rash, itching, hives

-> decreased/increased appetite (give them a little snack...or not)

Motor skills:

-> Muscle relaxation, ataxia (lack of movement control), general weakness

-> Poor coordination

-> Tremors, cramps, spasms

-> Numbness, paralysis of the body or extremities (a local anesthetic would also do that trick)

Vegetative effects:

-> PONV: nausea, vomiting, retching

-> Cold shivers or hot flashes, acute sweating

-> Arrhythmia, low blood pressure and heart rate

-> Labored breathing

-> Vertigo

The physical consequences alone can make the wake-up process a living nightmare for Whumpee. Any after-effects that inhibit them from just getting up and escape are probably the worst in such a situation, making them weak and useless even if no restraints are involved. Imagine Whumpee just breathing heavily and quivering with cold shivers on a basement floor, unable to shake this uncomfortable feeling off. Their whole system is just trying to get the drugs out, but doing more damage than intended. Numb to the world around them, not even feeling if they are hurt or wounded. Or imagine the complete opposite: Them being able to get up and stumble to the exit, only to be overwhelmed by intense dizziness and collapsing back onto their knees. All the while Whumper watches, of course 👀

Did Whumpee eat beforehand?

Prior to any anesthesia, the person has to fast for at least six hours beforehand. Because Whumpees rarely plan their own kidnapping or non-con high, Whumper should wait for the right moment to get it done. Otherwise, they're risking aspiration or choking and therefore dangerous lung damage up to death; surely the most undesired outcome. Who would have thought that drug abuse can be dangerous...

Impure compounds? In my illegal drugs!?!

If your Whumper's stash really was cut with popular diluents e.g. other medication or lactose, the risks are surprisingly low. The threat of overdosing still comes from the main drug agent. However, mixing downers and uppers to cancel each other out can lead to a dangerous cycle, which amplifies the side effects and increases the risk to OD.

Mental side effects:

-> Nightmares, paranoia around food/drinks

-> Depression, anxiety, self-loathing (e.g. for not being careful enough)

-> Psychosis, hallucinations (optic, acoustic, in terms of taste etc.)

-> Dissociation, confusion, disorientation

-> Insomnia

-> Reduced anxiety or inhibitions

Now instead of being afraid, Whumpee could go batshit crazy and make fun of Whumper; spitting, biting and insulting their aggressor. An outburst they will probably regret later, when they're calm again and sober enough to understand the damage they have caused themself.

-> Memory loss/amnesia

Cue intimate Whumper, who just plays the part of a worried friend while keeping their love safe and controlled. Vague recollections of past abuse? No, just take another sip from your tea, it's alright... One could use drugs as a mean of removing memories altogether, I think in the BBU the "drip" is used to erase the whole personality of the Whumpee, making them a blank slate to train however one would like.

Withdrawal:

-> minutes or even days after the initial drugging

-> extreme anxiety up to paranoia

-> nausea, vomiting, indigestion

-> muscle aches

-> flu symptoms like a runny nose, sweating and fever

Depending on the kind of drug and how often it is used, withdrawal can start after just one dosage. "Not even once"-drugs include meth, heroin and crack cocaine. Also, barbiturates have a high risk of dependence. Speaking of it...⬇

Addiction as a long term effect:

-> Organ damage especially of the brain, liver, kidneys and the diseases that follow (including cancer, short weight, heart failure)

-> Loss of interests, behavior/personality change

-> Selling all valuables and ending up in poverty

-> Aggression/violent behavior

-> Shame and guilt

Isolated, financially and mentally unstable, Whumpee's life had been ruined with just a single act. Even Caretaker turned their back on their former friend. But Whumper would love to help Whumpee become sober again, under just a few conditions. On the other side of the spectrum: a Whumpee who finally managed to escape and take revenge on their abuser, they slowly but surely make Whumper ruin themself through their newly developed little habit...

To sum up:

Downers (decrease bodily functions and calm you down)

→ Unconsciousness, weakness, distortion of perception, failure of motor functions, coma

-> Common examples: Xanax, ketamine, propofol

Vs.

Uppers (stimulate bodily functions and mood)

-> reduced inhibitions, more prone to hallucinations, psychosis, seizures, serotonin syndrome (high heart rate, sweating, twitching, mania)

-> Common examples: meth, ecstasy, cocaine

Bonus: How to store your Whumpee!

The immediate consequence of drugging someone is to figure out how to keep them. Get them secluded and ready for whumping:

-> In the backseat, foot space or trunk of a car (use an ambulance, it's inconspicuous)

-> You know these roof boxes people strap on top of their car? Stuff ´em in there!

-> Put them in a box and ship them overseas

-> Basements are classics, but try the attic for a change

-> Just use a coffin, combined with an old hearse nobody is going to notice

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterpost]