#╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ titled「 a soft october night 」
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witchy-worm · 1 month ago
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I had the pleasure of claiming @destielpiebitch's incredible fic Paging Doctor Novak in this years DCBB! I've always loved a medical story of any variety, and I have a soft spot for nurse!Dean, so I was immediately drawn to this fic when I saw the claims gallery. It was such a delight to work with this author, and I feel truly honoured that I got to make the art for this incredible fic!
Go check it out here: LINK TO FIC
This fic also inspired me to make chapter headers for the first time! I made the stethoscope and clipboard in illustrator and added the watercolour-y background colours in photoshop.
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Banner and fic info behind the cut!
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Title: Paging Doctor Novak
Author: Salamitsunami1
Artist: WitchyWorm
Rating: Explicit
Pairings: Dean/Cas, past Dean/Lisa, past Dean/Rhonda
Length: 51,314
Warnings: Graphic and accurate depictions of medicine, medical emergencies, and medical procedures. Past unfaithful Dean. Minor character death
Tags: Rom-com, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, Hospital AU, Sexual Tension, Doctor Sexy M.D., Getting Together
Posting Date: October 31, 2024
Summary: Dean Winchester is many things — a nurse, an in-charge on the medical-surgical floor, and a big fan of the ladies. What he’s not is a commitment kind of guy, and he’s definitely not a night duty kind of guy. Things change when a hook-up-gone-wrong gets him lumped on night duty for an entire month, and to make matters worse, he’s been lumped on night duty with a brand new intern. As with all interns, Doctor Castiel Novak is cocky at best and dangerous at worst, but for some reason, and maybe it’s just the way his ass looks in those teal scrubs, Dean’s got a soft spot for the guy. Or a really hard one. Either way, it’s not long before Dean’s new roster is the least of his concerns; he wants that dorky doctor guy, and fuck, he wants him for real.
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deancasbigbang · 2 months ago
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Title: Paging Doctor Novak
Author: Salamitsunami1
Artist: WitchyWorm
Rating: Explicit
Pairings: Dean/Cas, past Dean/Lisa, past Dean/Rhonda
Length: 40000
Warnings: Graphic and accurate depictions of medicine, medical emergencies, and medical procedures. Past unfaithful Dean. Minor character death
Tags: Rom-com, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, Hospital AU, Sexual Tension, Doctor Sexy M.D., Getting Together
Posting Date: October 31, 2024
Summary: Dean Winchester is many things — a nurse, an in-charge on the medical-surgical floor, and a big fan of the ladies. What he’s not is a commitment kind of guy, and he’s definitely not a night duty kind of guy. Things change when a hook-up-gone-wrong gets him lumped on night duty for an entire month, and to make matters worse, he’s been lumped on night duty with a brand new intern. As with all interns, Doctor Castiel Novak is cocky at best and dangerous at worst, but for some reason, and maybe it’s just the way his ass looks in those teal scrubs, Dean’s got a soft spot for the guy. Or a really hard one. Either way, it’s not long before Dean’s new roster is the least of his concerns; he wants that dorky doctor guy, and fuck, he wants him for real.
Excerpt: Being in charge, Dean’s job is simple — keep on top of any patients coming up from the ER or down from the OR, page the doctor when there’s a problem, and call the doctor when there’s an emergency. That’s how he ended up in Frank Devereaux’s room with the phone to his ear, and because the on-call doctor is almost always an intern this late at night, he’s willing to bet that whoever picks up isn’t gonna know Frank’s ass from his esophagus. “Hello?” “Hello?” Dean questions. “Is this the on-call doc or a Wendy’s?”  “This is Doctor Novak.” “Right. Well, this is Dean from med-surg. I’m calling about Frank Devereaux in bed two. He had a lap-chole yesterday, got back to the ward about six hours ago. His pain’s currently a nine out of ten, he’s just vomited up a whole lot of bile, and I’ve got a real bad feeling.” “Okay,” the intern says, like a question. “Would you like a consult?” Dean sighs wearily. “That’s why I called.” “Of course,” the intern says. “I’m on my way.” The phone call hasn’t exactly filled Dean with confidence, and it only gets worse when the intern stumbles onto the ward — his hair is all over the place, his stethoscope is hanging unevenly around his neck, he’s wearing these teal scrubs that are about a whole size too small and therefore clinging to every inch of him, and he’s wearing them with a pair of fucking Converse high-tops, of all things. All interns are cocky, that’s a given, but the cockiest of all is the surgical intern. Each and every year, guaranteed.  “Hello,” he says. “I’m looking for Dean.” Dean glances down at his own name tag. Unfortunately, it’s still right where he pinned it to his scrub top, so it seems the new intern might not even be able to read. In the interest of being nice, he forces a smile. “You found him.” “Oh. Hello, Dean,” the intern says. “I believe we spoke on the phone.” Dean only nods, waiting for the intern to introduce himself, but he does no such thing. No, this guy just stands there, he runs his fingers through his bedraggled hair, and so now there’s a smear of ink on his forehead where it’s rubbed against whatever’s written on his hand. Pointedly, Dean says, “And what did you say your name was again?” “I’m Doctor Novak.” Dean looks Doctor Novak up, down, then back up again. Taking him apart. He’s got bags under his eyes and cracks in his lips. Doctor or not, this guy’s a fucking mess.  “Well, doc,” Dean says, probably against his better judgment. “Frank’s this way.”
DCBB 2024 Posting Schedule
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hardly-an-escape · 30 days ago
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Square: C3 - Clairvoyance
Title: "can you scare me up a little bit of love?"
Rating: G
Ship: Dream/Hob
Warnings: No archive warnings apply
Additional Tags: pre-relationship, Halloween, Hob Gadling's birthday
Summary: Before their friendship ever develops into something more, Dream attends a Halloween party at the New Inn and learns something new about Hob.
Link to AO3.
kind of shoehorning this in but heck it we ball!!! @dreamlingbingo
Monday, October 31, 2022
Calling all devils, demons, imps, sprites, and spectres to The New Inn for a HALLOWEEN SPOOKTACULAR Monday October 31st 4:00-9:00 PM Snacks! Games! No cover and one free drink ticket per attendee! Come in costume or come as you are! It’ll be… A HELL OF A PARTY!!
Hob had had a soft spot for Halloween for years. Always loved a good scary story, he had, and nowadays? The creativity and pure talent people put into their costumes and their horror movie marathons? It beats the hell out of carving faces in turnips and decking yourself out in a flour sack. And he couldn’t deny that his hedonist heart loved the lack of inhibitions that went hand in hand with costumes, sweets, and a little bit of booze. He may have had six centuries’ worth of practice at enjoying life, but a little help never hurt.
So he’d papered his little neck of the woods with posters, stuck them on the bulletin boards around campus – even put an announcement up on the New Inn Instagram account one of his young bartenders had convinced him to start. It had all been up for a couple weeks, but on the day of Hob was still gratified to see how many people had turned up for his Halloween do.
No matter how old you got, it was still nice when people wanted to come to your parties.
He’d even told his stranger about it, when Dream (and yes, the name felt like its own kind of gift) had popped up unexpectedly one evening in late September. He hadn’t gotten around to printing the posters yet, but he was already full of plans for the hellishly-themed decorations. Dream had listened to his descriptions with a little smirk that Hob was beginning to categorize as “sarcastic but fond (?)” in his private lexicon of Dream’s expressions.
That is not what Hell is like, Dream had said matter-of-factly.
Oh, and I suppose you’d know? Hob had responded teasingly, and of course Dream had said nothing, just sat there with the same little smirk and a disconcertingly knowing look in his eyes.
You’re welcome to come, if you’d like! Hob had said, brightly. If Halloween parties are even a thing you do.
I have been known to attend parties, Dream had said. Albeit never one for Halloween.
Well… come by if you want to try one out! Hob had said. He’d wanted to say more. He’d wanted to say Please come and I want you to be there and I want every moment with you I can possibly scrape out of this long life. But he’d managed to avoid it.
It was Monday night, the Inn was full, the cider was flowing, and Hob was happy. The decorations had turned out rather nicely, he thought: lots of big black candles, a real skeleton in the corner courtesy of the biology department, a few red lightbulbs scattered about, and of course a good spooky playlist. Behind the bar, lifelike plastic models of giant cockroaches and trilobites were taped up on the mirror. In the low lighting he hoped they appeared to be scuttling.
Hob was quite pleased with his costume, as well. He’d gone with a classic vampire look – slicked back hair, black embroidered waistcoat, a big cloak (the real deal, his from the 1890s, thank you very much), and of course some ostentatious costume jewelry. He was back by the bar with some of his colleagues, most of whom were dressed as various superheroes, when the bell on the front door tinkled.
Hob looked up reflexively at the sound and almost swallowed his tongue. Dream was standing in the door and he looked… he looked…
He looked fantastic. And bloody terrifying.
His hair was even wilder than normal, as if he’d been standing in a wind tunnel, and his face looked somehow paler and more gaunt, if that were even possible. He was dressed in all black, as per usual, but – different. Almost alien. His leather tunic looked stiff and structured, like it was holding something at bay, with a high collar and long sleeves that reached almost to his knuckles. It came down to a point at Dream’s narrow hips, and from under the edge of the leather flowed a kind of two-tiered skirt that pooled on the floor and looked like it was moving on its own – although perhaps that was just a trick of the moody lighting.
Under his arm was some kind of… helmet, Hob supposed, was the only word. It, too, looked strange and alien – all rivets and leather and… was that a spinal column hanging down? Dream cradled it as though it was a precious thing, and also as though it might explode at any moment. The glassy eyes gleamed red.
Hob saw all this in the second it took for the door to swing closed behind Dream, who stood, poised, looking slightly unsure what to do next.
“Who’s that then, Robbie?” asked Lidia from the English department. “He’s got a wicked-looking costume. Friend of yours?” But her question was directed at Hob’s back as he wound his way through the crowd to Dream.
“You’re here! I didn’t think you’d actually come, to be honest,” Hob said with a tentative smile.
“I have recently been persuaded that it is wise for me to spend more time among the humans whom I serve,” said Dream. “This seemed like an appropriate opportunity.”
“I’m so glad.” The words slipped out before Hob could stop them.
There was a heartbeat’s worth of awkward silence.
“Right. Well. D’you want to come over and meet some of my colleagues? They’re a good lot.”
Dream inclined his head in a gesture of assent and Hob ushered him across the room, one hand hovering an inch or so over Dream’s shoulder blade.
“Er, how should I introduce you?” he asked quietly as they navigated the crowd. “Only I think ‘Dream’ might raise a few eyebrows. Dunno if that matters.”
“I am the Prince of Stories. The Ruler of Dreams and Nightmares,” said Dream, somehow enunciating every capital letter. “But your colleagues may call me Morpheus.”
“Righto,” said Hob as they rejoined the professorial circle. “Everyone, this is Morpheus. Morpheus, this is everyone. Lidia, Michael, Phil, Christo, What’s-His-Face, the French one… pause for jeers…” His colleagues obligingly jeered. “Now, who wants a drink?”
His hand descended the final half-inch to rest briefly on Dream’s shoulder. The Inn was full, the cider was flowing, and Hob was happy. His friend was there.
“So, how come we’ve never seen you around, Morpheus?” asked Lidia. “How do you know Robbie?”
“We met in a pub,” Dream said. “A long time ago. My sister introduced us.”
“Morpheus is maybe my oldest friend in the world,” said Hob. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve known him my whole life.”
“Then why’ve we never met him before?” pressed Lidia, the ever-inquisitive.
“My work keeps me exceptionally busy,” said Dream.
“Oh? What is it that you do?” asked Michael.
“Lord, who wants to talk about work?” exclaimed Hob. “It’s Halloween, for Christ’s sake. Go bob for apples or something, leave off.”
It was very strange, watching Dream of the Endless circulate through a normal human party. The fact that it was Halloween actually helped, reflected Hob; somehow, seeing Dream lean down to listen to tiny Professor Hathaway as she chattered about the Pre-Raphaelites was easier to swallow when said professor was wearing a witch hat and drinking punch out of a goblet. Dream wandering through the costumed crowd with his outlandish helmet under his arm and a cup in his hand made far more sense than Dream in normal clothes on a normal night in the pub ever could.
Hob watched him, and wondered idly what parties were like in Dream’s realm; he imagined them weirder, and far more grand, perhaps with dragons in the rafters and other fae beings waltzing through enormous ballrooms. Dream had mentioned, in passing, a throne room and a vast library, a castle which Hob’s imagination populated with fairy tale creatures, ogres and dryads and talking animals.
But it was hard to believe anything he could imagine would be better than this. All his favorite people – even his old stranger – in his cozy pub, on a special day.
Around 8:30 those who had to teach the next morning began to take their leave. Hob retrieved his big umbrella from behind the bar and escorted Professor Hathaway into her waiting taxi.
“That young Morpheus of yours showed quite an astonishing understanding of the work of John Everett Millais,” she said as they walked down the front path. “You must bring him round again, Robert. I have a few books he might be interested in borrowing.”
“He’s not my Morpheus, Professor,” said Hob. “And he’s not exactly young, he’s older than I am. But I’ll tell him you enjoyed his company.”
“Tch. He may not be yours, but I rather think you’re already his, aren’t you?” she said knowingly. Hob grimaced.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re far too insightful for your own good?” he asked extremely courteously as he handed her into the backseat and closed the car door. Professor Hathaway waved a birdlike hand cheerily through the window as the taxi pulled away.
Hob paused for a moment in the drizzling darkness. The light rain tapped on his umbrella and the warm light streamed out of the front windows of the New Inn. He shivered slightly and drew his cloak a little more tightly around his shoulders. The night was chill, and if it weren’t for the cars parked on the side of the street, Hob felt as though he might have been transported back in time. Professor Hathaway’s parting words rolled around inside his head like a snowball.
I rather think you’re already his, aren’t you?
How had she known – what clairvoyant spirit had possessed her? How had she seen, in just a few hours, what it had taken Hob decades (if not centuries) to admit to himself?
Because he was Dream’s. He was, and had been for a long time, and he’s pretty sure he hadn’t realized just how far gone he was until Dream had walked through the front door three months ago and Hob had released a breath he’d been holding for thirty-three years.
He shivered again. Time to go inside.
Hob got caught up in farewells to several more colleagues before he found Dream again, perched on a barstool and looking like a great black bird. His weird helmet rested on the corner of the bar.
“Well? What did you think of your first Halloween party?” he asked, sliding onto the stool next to him.
Dream paused before answering.
“I found it more illuminating than I expected,” he said. “The people here are… contented. Uninhibited, but not to an extreme. You have created a comfortable space here. I commend you.”
“Thank you,” said Hob, touched. “That means a lot, coming from you.”
“You are welcome,” said Dream. “However, I admit I am slightly confused about some of the costumes. Yours, for example. Are you… dressed up as me?”
He sounded almost uncertain, and Hob couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.
“No, no. No fear, my friend, I’m just a regular old vampire. I suppose it was this that made you ask?” He touched the large red fake jewel that was nestled in the collar of his black shirt.
Dream nodded.
“Saw it in the shop while I was looking for plastic fangs,” Hob chuckled. “I can’t lie, it did remind me a bit of you. But then, after Dracula was published I spent a good few years thinking you might actually be a vampire as well. So it seemed fitting.”
“I see.”
Hob waved to Lidia and Christo as they ducked out the front door into the night, then turned back to Dream. “Listen,” he said, “there’s one more thing I want to do tonight, after all the punters clear out. Do you… would you mind sticking around? Just a bit longer?”
“I will, if you so desire.”
“Great!” said Hob. And if his voice was just a trifle too enthusiastic, well, that was between him and the skeleton behind the bar. “Give me half an hour to get last call sorted and we’ll go upstairs.”
Eventually they made their way upstairs together to Hob’s flat; Hob loose from cider and contentment and Dream as upright and straight-backed as ever. Hob kicked his shoes off and hung his cloak on the rack by the door.
“Can’t believe I used to dress like this all the time,” he muttered, loosening his cravat. “All these stiff bloody buttons.”
Dream was perusing the bookshelves, which was typically his first stop whenever he happened to be in the flat; Hob supposed the Prince of Stories must have a natural affinity for the written word in its infinite variety. Hob slipped into the kitchen and came out bearing a small cake with a little candle stuck in it, which he laid out on the coffee table.
“This is what I wanted to do,” he said, gesturing for Dream to sit and digging a lighter out of his pocket. Dream deposited himself gracefully on Hob’s couch and placed his eerie helmet on the cushion beside him. “It’s… ah, it’s my birthday, actually. My real birthday.”
“All Hallows’ Eve was the day of your birth?” asked Dream, intrigued.
“Well, I don’t know exactly,” said Hob, lighting the candle. “Calendar was a bit squiffy back then. But I know it was after the main harvest and sometime around Allhallowtide, because I remember hearing stories about the martyrs in church when I was just a lad and thinking how that was a bit of a downer, as far as birthday celebrations went.”
“In that case, I wish you a happy birthday,” Dream said. “And how old are you now? If it is not impolite to ask.”
“That’s the best part,” Hob said with a grin. “When I met you in the summer of 1389, I was about to turn 33. So in Anno Domini 2022, that makes me…”
“Six hundred and sixty six,” said Dream dryly.
“Yeah! The number of the Beast! That’s a milestone birthday if I ever heard of one. Especially now, when I know that apparently, Hell and the Devil are real.” He laughed quietly, staring into the candle for a moment. “You know, most of the people I knew growing up didn’t even make it to sixty. My father didn’t. Those blokes I was with in the White Horse when I met you – none of them did. Sometimes I wonder what they’d think of what the world has become. What they’d think of me, if they could see me now.”
There was a long moment of meditative silence, and then Hob blew the candle out.
“Are you not supposed to make a wish?” asked Dream, and Hob thought he must be imagining the teasing note in his voice.
“Do you know,” he said. “I can’t think of a single thing I would wish for that I don’t already have.”
“Is that so?”
Hob made a show of deep thought.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “It is. Now, do you want half this cake or should I eat the whole thing myself?”
read on AO3 >>>
fun fact, this is one of the very first fics I ever started in this fandom – over two years ago! it was originally inspired by this post by @littledreamling
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lizzybeth1986 · 7 months ago
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Rose Gold
Book: The Royal Romance
Pairing: Hana Lee x Kiara Theron
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4, 304 words
Content Warning: Mention of Gun Violence, Character Injury.
Summary: Six months after King Liam and Queen Esther's wedding, Hana and Kiara take their next big step as a couple.
A/N: Set in the P&Tverse. Since P&T spans the timelines of Books 2 and 3 (the Engagement Tour and the Unity Tour + Liam & Esther's wedding), most of this fic takes place after the series is meant to end, and there are references to things that happen there that aren't canon.
The first half of the fic, however, takes place just before the group reunites with the MC and Drake at the safe house (TRR3, Ch 1).
I've borrowed a few elements from Hana's own engagement to the MC in the books: the rose gold ring, the coin throwing ritual at the foundation and the proposal at the lake.
Tagging @hanaleeappreciationweek for Day 5: Romance, @choicesficwriterscreations for FoTW and LGBTQ Archive, and @choicesmaychallenge24 for Hera: Marriage
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October 14th, 2017. Half past Midnight.
Foolishness. Sheer foolishness.
The voice inwardly chiding her right now sounded suspiciously like her mother; for that reason alone she was desperate to ignore it.
But what else would one call an impulse to jump out of a car that could take her in complete secrecy to the city's best safe house, only to race to Argyros and Sons - Cordonia's premier jewellery store - for a gift she wasn't even sure would be accepted...a promise she wasn't even sure its intended recipient would want?
"Looking for something specific, Your Grace?"
Surprised, Hana looked up from the case displaying an assortment of glittering diamond rings. The eyes that met hers in a speculative survey were ocean-blue, marked by wizened crow's feet. It was at the tip of her tongue to correct him (Lady Hana, sir!) when she spotted the Twitter feed on the iPhone in his hand.
News sure does travel fast around the Capitol!
But no sooner had that thought left her head, than the riptide of memories began to flood her.
The Homecoming Ball. Hors d'oeuvres. Speeches. Fireworks. Announcements. Please welcome Esther DuPont, Duchess of Valtoria, and Hana Lee, Duchess of Krysanthe. Cheers. Expectant Gazes. And then...
Darkness. Gunshots. The acrid taste of fear.
Hana bit back a grimace. How long would memories of tonight haunt her? How long would it be before she heard people address her by her new title, without memories of the violence that followed?
She held her handbag with a sudden death-grip, forcing herself to breathe. To push forth happier, sweeter memories.
Unbidden, comes the one memory that had managed to keep her sane this night.
Her laughter.
Sharp. Raucous. Loud. Jarring against the tinkling sounds of cutlery and glassware, as far away as one could get from the soft, windchime quality of delicate laughter, that every female courtier was taught to emulate.
She thought she'd known love until that moment, fool that she was. Thought that no matter who she dated, no matter how distant she'd be from those memories of the social season - Esther would somehow remain her first and forever love.
Until she had taken that one fateful look at Kiara's wildly joyous face, heard her cackle - the kind one would never normally dare to do at court - and realized with piercing clarity that if she were to compare her feelings for these two women, they would be nowhere close.
Her love for Esther had all the subdued warmth of a crackling bonfire. But these newfound feelings for Kiara?? They made her feel like she was plunging herself headfirst into a raging volcano.
Something within Hana had trembled violently in that moment; some premonition that felt searing in its finality.
Kiara was the one. She was all Hana had ever wanted, without knowing it; all that Hana would ever want, from now till eternity. The one in whose arms she would want to stir awake, every day for the rest of her life.
Kiara Thorne, or no one. Kiara Thorne, or lifelong loneliness.
The phrase rang in her ears like a verdict: final, eternal, unchangeable.
When Hana opened her eyes, she found to her consternation that they were blurry from unshed tears. Quickly blinking them away, she noted dully how different the rings on the display now looked.
Certainly she must have moved to another part of the store without knowing. Where before she'd seen glittering, brilliant, ostentatious diamonds, set in white gold and platinum...now she saw stones nestled in the embrace of a warmer, almost blush-toned metal.
Rose gold.
The metal that was all the rage in her mother's birthplace Bethulia, for its delicate shimmer and soft pink hue. Mama had told her often enough in her childhood that their barony's love for it went far beyond just the colour...that her mother - Hana's Nanimaa - loved it for being such a perfect union of gold, silver and copper...
A whisper of a memory of Nanimaa, the one time she'd ever seen her. At a fountain, glowing from the glimmer of abandoned coins.
It took her less than a minute to find exactly what she didn't know she'd been looking for. Had you asked the jeweller about her, he would have told you that the newly appointed Duchess of Krysanthe had chosen her ring with the greatest confidence. The confidence of a woman who had probably wooed her beloved, confessed her love, basked in the joy of being loved back.
A confidence Hana didn't feel.
When she returned to the limo, she was greeted with the sight of a pensive Liam, rubbing the frown between his brows absently with his fingers. A telltale muscle jumped inside his jaw.
"Any news?" Hana whispered, almost dreading the answer.
"Yes," his voice was grainy from exhaustion and guilt. "Three people injured. Bastien, Esther's press secretary, and...."
"And?" Her voice had gone small and high, that a fearful child's.
"And Lady Kiara. She was..."
Hana blinked once, then blinked again. Liam's mouth was moving, yet no sound seemed to come out. All that she could hear was a low, keening noise, like a muffled siren...or like the moan of a woman in terrible pain.
Kiara. Kiara. Kiara.
--
May 12th, 2018. Afternoon.
"How far from the palace are you taking us?" Kiara asks, her voice alight with laughter.
"Not even outside its gates," Hana replies, grinning. Kiara looks down at their fingers laced together, palms almost touching.
They've been together for just six months, and still somehow, the lines on Hana's palm feel as familiar to her now as her own. Without even looking she can conjure up the memory of the heartline on Hana's left palm at a moment's notice - long and deep, starting from her index finger, suggesting she would be a wonderful lover with a very fruitful love experience - and her marriage line, stretching from one end of her palm all the way to her ring finger...suggesting friendly in-laws.
(The thought of luring Hana to marry her under the premise of palmistry is sounding more and more tempting by the minute)
Involuntarily - perhaps to stop herself from checking her trouser pockets once again for that tiny box she took from her vault today - Kiara's hand tightens around Hana's.
Can she dare to hope that fortunate beloved could be her?
She steals a glance in Hana's direction, noting with alarm that her fingers are trembling in Kiara's hand.
"We're here," she says, her voice suddenly small and quivering against the gurgle of water in the courtyard fountain. It's been a palace fixture for several decades now - ornate and imposing - a legacy from King Liam's formidable grandmother, the late Queen Mother Cassandra. According to Kiara's father, the woman had married into the family as a young princess from Monterisso, and for her foreignness alone was expected to be crushed by the strictures of the palace and the expectations of her people - yet in a decade's time she had somehow became the most imposing figure there! There was very little in the palace that didn't have her stamp of approval first.
As they come closer, Kiara sees the one thing Queen Mother Cassandra may not have predicted when this fountain was built - the glimmer of coins, all gleaming in the sunlight like they were minted just yesterday.
Her own smile begins to tremble on her lips, even as she notices Hana swallow a telltale nervous lump in her throat. For the first time since they have gotten here, Kiara notices that Hana's other hand is fisted around something. Something that could very likely be the same coins they just saw in the fountain.
She takes that hand gently in hers, knowing now how nervous Hana must feel; knowing that if they complete the ancient lover's ritual that she so hoped to do today, there will be no going back. She uncoils Hana's fisted hand, finger by quivering finger, watching her face as her breathing quickens. She smiles again - a smile more aimed at reassurance than amusement.
"Are we going to do what I think we're going to do today, ma moité?"
For several seconds, Hana doesn't respond. The three coins in her hand (Heavy. Ornate. Engraved with apples. Ancient) are proof enough. The answer, when it finally comes - almost like it is torn out of her throat for fear that Kiara's feelings may not match her own - is barely audible.
"Only if this is what you want too."
Gold. Silver. Copper. Tossed in one after the other in an ancient lover's ritual - one that Kiara knows only because she'd learned about it from her mother, who'd had friends in Bethulia where this ritual was most popular. Maman and Baba themselves had done it on a trip there when she was a teenager, still squirming over her parents' ability to still act like swoony romantics in their (and this would be said well out of their earshot) "fucking forties!".
Wiser now, Kiara feels the same anticipatory tingles that her parents must have felt back then.
This ritual wasn't for the faint of heart in ancient days. You did it only when you were certain. When you looked at your lover and knew that a life without them wasn't a life worth living.
Well, Kiara muses as she watches a hundred emotions flit in a second over Hana's face, I think I've known that long enough. I've known ever since I saw you fight your father in Shanghai, even when you knew it would cost you everything. Since that one moment, I've been yours.
Planting a tender kiss on the corner of Hana's mouth, she takes the coins. "Ready when you are," she whispers softly.
Hana swallows again, her eyes glistening and moist and relieved all at once. In a silk pouch that dangles from her wrist, she fishes for three coins identical to the ones on Kiara's palm. She breathes deep once, twice, three times.
Kiara links their free hands, grips them tight as they turn their backs to the fountain. Hana looks up, a question in her eyes.
"For friendship!" Kiara says, tossing the copper coin into the fountain. Faint memories of something that almost feels like another lifetime glimmer and fade in her memory. Applewood, sipping water, giggling over their favourite fruits and flowers. The Beaumont Bash. Watching from the sidelines as Hana did the verbel equivalent of ripping out Olivia Nevrakis' spine at the Coronation Ball.
Hana takes out the silver coin, and waits for Kiara to holds up hers'. "For love?"
Engagement tour. Fearing Hana would hate her in Fydelia, but never understanding why that should suddenly matter. Standing with her against a bridge in Paris, each mourning their lost loves.
Finally learning what love really was, when she opened her eyes and truly saw Hana for the very first time.
Kiara nods, touching her forehead to Hana's. "Par amour." Their coins splash in unison in the water.
Her girlfriend lets out a watery giggle as she takes out the final coin, glittering and golden on her palm. Her voice breaks a little as she tosses it behind her. "For...bel- belonging".
Kiara's own sigh releases in a shudder as she lets the final pledge sink in.
There were very few places in the world that truly felt like home to Hana. Not the place where she was born, not the barony that could have been her legacy. It took her months to even find comfort or security in her future in Cordonia - much less belonging.
Without a moment's thought, and without releasing the golden coin in her hand, she cups Hana's face and kisses her. Hana shudders and buries her hands in Kiara's hair, her lips trembling against the unspoken promises in her lover's.
"For belonging," Kiara says it like it is a vow. "And I don't care how long it takes - I give my word right now. I'll never let you feel like you have lost your home. Ever." Another kiss - this time on Hana's temple. "I hope you will always find one. In me."
Hana's smile is warm and dreamlike, her eyes closed as if to savour this moment, her fingers playing with Kiara's curls. She barely notices the sound of Kiara's gold coin landing in the fountain. "I love you, Kiki."
Kiara chuckles at her teasing use of the nickname, brushing Hana's nose with her own. "Together forever?"
Their hands, now free, close around each other. "Together forever."
It's quiet now, except for the sound of collard doves, the rustle of leaves and branches in a light breeze, and their breathing. The air smells of wildflowers, citrus and a subtle floral scent that Kiara knows to be the perfume Hana has been using for months. Orange Blossom. She grins as she remembers. It's a scent Hana has often loved to wear, just for her.
Hana's thumb feathers lightly over the ring finger on Kiara's left hand, almost as if to commit the bare space on it to her memory. Kiara doesn't miss that gaze - bright-eyed and soaked in longing - and how it mirrors a need she has felt ever since they landed at the Capitol last week.
Kiara swallows. She had wanted to take things slow, she really did. Woo her, bathe her in every luxury possible, make this trip even more unforgettable than Hana could ever imagine, and then spring this surprise on her - like a kirsch-soaked cherry topping on an already very tempting Black Forest Cake.
But...but that gaze of Hana's has always been Kiara's undoing.
Simply, she says, "come with me."
Puzzled, Hana looks up. "Where?"
"To Lake Sôse," Kiara whispers, wasting not one more moment and grabbing her hand. Hana lets out a nervous, slightly incredulous laugh as she allows herself to be pulled along.
Kiara isn't sure why she's suddenly rushing this. When she thinks of the elaborate plans she'd been constructing all week - chocolate-dipped strawberries and champagne at one of the Capital's premier restaurants, flowers everywhere, a proposal at the hedge maze with a picture together by the swing to commemorate the occasion - she wants to laugh. She isn't even sure why Lake Sôse was the first place she'd thought of just now.
She takes a deep breath, and grounds herself. Uncommonly impulsive though it may be, her decision has been made. There is even a part of her that seems to prefer it to happen this way!Kiara has never been one for last minute changes of plan...but ever since she fell in love with Hana, she's learned to expect - and enjoy - the unexpected.
It's only when she sees the shine in Hana's eyes that she realises why her mind took the turn it did.
Lake Sôse. The one place Hana Lee has always chosen for solace and comfort. The one place in the Capitol where she felt the most at home. It had been here, Hana told Kiara once, that King Liam had told her his plans to appoint her Duchess of Krysanthe. It was here, hours later, that she'd shared that momentous news with her best friend Esther; where Esther - herself aglow with love and a newfound purpose - hugged Hana and told her that the world would now be Hana's oyster.
She'd brought Kiara to this lake for the first time the day after King Liam and Queen Esther's wedding, following a night when the queen herself had been kidnapped, and Hana had joined the king's entourage to rescue her.
A night that Kiara - in constant fear of losing her forever - had recklessly kissed Hana. In public. In front of the entire court. Braving gazes of teasing approval from Kiara's parents, and near-murderous glares from Hana's. The night everyone outside of Hana's friend circle finally realized the two were a couple.
Kiara remembers the day after that like it was yesterday. Something must have changed fundamentally in Hana that night, because the fear seemed to have gone, and with it the compulsive need for hiding and subterfuge and constantly looking over her shoulder. It was as if Hana had faced what she'd thought was the worst thing that could happen to her, and realized she really was strong enough to face that fear.
You're my safe place among people, Hana told her that morning, her fingers lacing through Kiara's. The one I feel most at home with. I want to bring my safe space..to the place in Cordonia I've always felt safest in.
It is afternoon, and the yellow crocuses behind them exude a warm, buttery golden glow in the sunlight. Hana lets out a breathless, incredulous laugh. "You seem like a woman in a very huge rush today, Lady Thorne."
Kiara's own laughter in response is high-pitched and halting. She tries to hide the moistness of her palms as she makes a blind grab for the small velvet box in her purse. "Believe me, this wasn't the way I'd planned this to go at all."
Intrigued, Hana's eyes follow Kiara's hands, and her eyes widen as she recognises the familiar deep blue velvet, the embossed silver lettering on top. Argyros and Sons.
"Is that --"
"Yes," Kiara says, clearing her throat, "I'd been planning this. All week. It was going to be romantic, elaborate, I was going to sweep you off your feet. Just like I'd planned to ask you out seven months ago."
Hana lets out a watery giggle. We all know how that turned out, don't we, qīn'ài de? Kiara can almost hear her saying.
But the humour stops almost immediately when she looks at the box again, and suddenly Hana seems too still, too shocked...too far off from how Kiara hoped she would react.
Kiara lets out a deep breath, then lets the words gush out of her. She's too scared to stop, too terrified to think - the fear that she may be doing too much too soon is so overwhelming that she knows if she stops she won't be able to bring herself to do this for a long, long time to come. The humiliation would be too strong.
"I'm not one for impulse. I never have been. I've never felt comfortable with anything if I didn't have a plan for it first."
Kiara gives herself a moment to half-smile at the irony of it all. Approaching Hana Lee with a smile and a bottle of water, after that first eventful bite of a Cordonian Ruby was definitely an impulse. So were half the things she had done with Hana since. So will many, many, many of the things they may wind up doing together, if (if!) this leap of faith works in her favour.
She looks up at Hana to see if she's laughing at the memory too. She isn't. In fact, Kiara isn't even sure Hana's reacting yet to what she's saying. Perfectly still, her eyes never moving from the box, so wide that they would go bloodshot if they were widened any further. Kiara swallows, and finds that her throat feels suddenly, inexplicably sore.
"I could never tell what it was about you that changed all that. I still don't. All I know is that...around you, Hana, I feel so much more brave. To let go of the need to plan and organize. To not be too afraid of what will follow - whether it goes in my favour or not. I find myself not just willing, but eager, to trust my gut."
Kiara's eyes search every inch of Hana's face as she opens the box, revealing the ring inside. It's a gorgeous piece, all platinum and sparkling diamonds. The smaller stones form a cluster around a massive one, leading the viewer to believe they are seeing a glittering snowflake, fallen fresh from the heavens.
Kiara had known the minute she saw the ring that it was the one. That it would remind them of the first time they confessed their love. Of their very first date, of the first time they shared Hana's cup of homemade hot chocolate. Of why the two of them will always love winters.
Hana's fingers move, trembling, towards her mouth, her face suddenly flushed. She remembers it too.
"Hana Lee," A frisson of fear slithers down Kiara's spine. "Will you marry me?"
When Hana finally opens her mouth, several seconds later, Kiara has to strain to hear her voice.
"I - I -" her eyes dart away from Kiara as if she's just remembered something important - her beautiful bronzed skin suddenly a little drained of colour. The next few words, she says in a "I.... I'll be back. Give me five minutes? I...just remembered something."
She leaves without waiting for an answer.
Kiara sinks into the grass, covering her face in her hands.
What have I just done?
--
All the way back from her room in the palace to the lake, the pouch hanging from her wrist feeling only a slight bit heavier, Hana cannot stop mentally kicking herself.
"You fool! You imbecile! Bèn dàn!!" Hana curses herself as she speeds up her sprint into a run, "What happened to your tongue? What kind of reaction was that?? What will Kiara think?"
Her mind now sprints miles ahead of her feet, racing in panicked ferocity over the possibilities.
With any luck, Kiara could still be waiting - puzzled and perhaps a little worried. Or she could be actively panicking, the way she does (on very rare occasions) when a plan goes terribly wrong.
Or...or...
Hana holds the silk pouch from her wrist in a deathlike grip as she speeds up towards Lake Sôse. Or.
The thought of that lovely, open space completely devoid of Kiara, of that beguiling combination of rose and jasmine emanating from her favourite Dior J'adore perfume, makes Hana's stomach drop to her feet.
It isn't until she sees that that heartbreakingly familiar figure of Kiara's, hunched over the grass, that Hana allows herself to breathe.
Kiara is there. Shoulders bent, head buried in her hands, almost stumbling as she tries to get up when she sees Hana.
Morose. Defeated. But still there.
Without another thought, Hana rushes into Kiara's arms, almost knocking her off her feet.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Hana whispers against her hair. "I wasn't trying to run away. I really had to get something. For you."
Kiara pulls back to look into her eyes, and when she does Hana's heart twists at the sight of unshed tears. "I thought I'd scared you off."
Hana's own laughter quavers, pitched high in disbelief. "I've just pledged myself to you this afternoon, body and soul, at the palace fountain. This -" she lifts Kiara's left hand to her chest, her thumb caressing the empty space on her beloved's ring finger " - just makes it so much more real."
Kiara's arms wrap around her, pulling Hana flush to her. Hana can feel Kiara shake as she giggles in response. "...you mean to say that I'd have saved myself so much stress if I'd just remembered those coins."
"Yes, qīn'ài de, a thousand times yes." She cups Kiara's face, pressing their foreheads together. "Place that ring where it belongs, Kiki. I can't wait to see it on my finger."
Hana holds her tight until Kiara's breathing becomes slower, calmer. She raises her newly-adorned hand for Kiara to see - marvelling at how the ring really mimics the glow of a snow crystal in the winter sun.
When they part, shyly, reluctantly, Hana begins to fiddle with the silk pouch.
"Here's what I'd gone to bring."
Kiara's eyes brighten at the sight of the box in her hand; a wave of warmth floods through Hana in anticipation of her response. Kiara gasps the minute she opens the box, revealing a delicate, intricately carved rose gold ring, flanked by small diamonds on all four corners, cradling a bigger one at the center.
"Rose gold," Kiara murmurs in wonder.
"Yes," Hana brushes her fingers over Kiara's knuckles. She'd told her once, long ago, how revered that metal was in her home province Bethulia. How Bethulian jewellers and goldsmiths and young women swore by the rosy hue it exuded. How it was a perfect amalgamation of three precious metals - all highly valued in the province. How tied it was to their folktales and bridal rituals.
"Copper..silver...gold." Kiara's tears glitter like diamonds before she lets them fall. "For friendship. For love. For belonging."
Hana smiles, her hand still stroking Kiara's cheek. "You remembered."
Kiara rolls her still-moist eyes, trying hard not to sniff - it would take out all the humour in this situation. "It's hard to forget a ritual we'd performed just ten minutes ago, ma moité."
"I'd planned to give you this ring a week from now," Hana says, shaking her head at her own impulsiveness as the ring she'd chosen on a fanciful whim so long ago, now finds its home. "I've been holding onto it for far too long."
Kiara caresses the stone on her own finger lovingly, admiring the way the rose gold glows on her skin. When she speaks, her voice is breathless in anticipation. "How long?"
For several minutes, Hana's only response is to pull Kiara back in her arms again. Her hand slides slowly, almost with a tinge of regret, down the dip of Kiara's waist on her left side. The wound that had once served as a constant, searing reminder of so much (of her vulnerability, of her inability to run from pain, of what she'd once considered her failures), has healed in more ways than one - only a faded scar that Hana never fails to kiss, now remains.
"For seven months," Hana's voice shakes at the memory, "Since the night after Homecoming Ball."
With a choked sob, Kiara enfolds Hana into her arms, almost as if she'd want to absorb her into every cell of her body. Fervently, reverently, she presses her lips all over Hana's face - her eyelids, her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, all the little-known, barely-noticed parts of her. It takes her a while - perhaps too long, in Hana's opinion - for Kiara's lips to meet hers, but she welcomes the sweet torture of waiting.
"Mon cœur," Kiara says between kisses, "ma raison de vivre."
When they part, the two women keep each other's hands interlinked, one left hand over the other. Neither of them will remember how long they stay at the lake; only that they never want this joy, this warm afterglow of seeing their dreams come true...to end.
The empty spaces on their ring fingers, over which they'd each stolen such secret, hungry glances today, now bear the mark of their lovers. Now bear the most tangible signs of their love, their memories, their promises, their commitment.
Together forever.
--
Translation:
Ma moité - a romantic endearment in French, meaning "my other half"
Qīn'ài de - Mandarin Chinese for "my dear"/"darling"
Bèn dàn - Mandarin Chinese cuss word that means "stupid egg!"
Mon cœur - French endearment, meaning "my heart"
Ma raison de vivre - French for "my reason to live"
--
References for Hana and Kiara's engagement rings:
Kiara:
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(Source: Maxine Jewellery)
Hana:
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(Source: This article on engagement rings, but the actual pic itself came from Blue Rose Photography)
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nerdieforpedro · 2 months ago
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I was tagged by @din-cognito @for-a-longlongtime @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @604to647 and @magpiepills
Thank ya’ll! 🥰 I don’t have much. I haven’t written much this last couple weeks, between work and my class, my motivation has been nil 😭
I did a mix of Mysty’s titles, explaining what some of them are and a spicy 🌶️ peek of one 🤭 like Bat.
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My list of WIPs is always rotating (these I’ve actually written):
1. It’s Incidental - a soft Dave fic, I normally write him dark, manipulative and forceful. We’ll see.
2. Din Djarin tentacle - so this title is not final but it involves Din Djarin, a tentacle monster and a reader? 🤨 A long way off.
3. Din’s in the Neighborhood - working on a new chapter from Grogu’s perspective. I think it will be cute.
4. Nights in Coruscant - working on chapter 2 where Din will be working as a bodyguard and then some.
5. Coasting across the Rainbow - my queer Javi fic. Part five and six should be done by October (at least that’s my goal).
6. Waters of Lethe - my Qimir fic working on chapter two. 🤗 Close to done. (On AO3)
7. Honey and Sugarplum - Working through chapter three where we’ll reach that ranch. Jack is busy…convincing Maeve to go. Might need to carry her to the car at the point. (On AO3)
These are just notes but still in progress:
1. Unnamed Jack Daniel as a fae fic - I got my notes I just got write it.
2. Nathan Bateman researching the female orgasm because why not make your sex bots the best they can be? 🙌🏽
3. Untitled Max Phillips (I dunno why I decided to write for this man, maybe as a challenge to myself?)
4. Maybe add more to the Marcus A fic I told myself I would write ✍️
5. A Safe Place for Us - The Dieter baby daddy fic. I need to update it on here. I think it’s up to chapter 5 on AO3 but only chapter 3 here.
6. Therapy for the Well-Adjusted - Marcus and Aisha are in the cottage. 😙 Hehe
As for an actual sample of writing:
Dave knows what he has to do. He despises it, hates when people beg for their lives, often not even while he’s taking different men from the back would he put up with pleading. He just wants them to shut up so he can focus on coming. Never did he tease them or edge them like this. It’s too messy and takes too damn long. “Fuck…” He mutters. His ass feels empty, even from the loss of their how own fingers and his hole stretched from just the tip of his dick. “P-Paint the inside of my ass…” Whispering as he drools, Dave tries to look over his shoulder but only sees Santi’s curls.
This sample is from my Dave York/Santiago Garcia M/M fic I started back in January. Never finished it and still haven’t but I have made some progress. 😘 Much to Dave’s detriment or pleasure, whichever he’s in the mood for.
NPT: @morallyinept @secretelephanttattoo @chaithetics @lotusbxtch @angelofsmalldeath-codeine
@yourcoolauntie @soft-persephone @megamindsecretlair @arcanefox207 @maggiemayhemnj
@inept-the-magnificent @chaithetics @jolapeno @syd-djarin @sin-djarin
@alltheglitterandtheroar @handspunyarns @perotovar @secretelephanttattoo @schnarfer
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banshee1013 · 1 year ago
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Suptober / Flufftober Day 4 - The Flames and the Light
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Waaaaay behind but still plugging away at this thing and this thing.
Prompts: Suptober: Nimbus Flufftober: Cinderella Moment
Today's installment is below and on AO3, and also added to the series October Days (and Nights).
Title: The Flames and the Light Rating: Teen Warnings: No Warnings Apply  Tags: Men of Letters Bunker, Winchester House Fire, Dean Winchester in Hell, Dean Winchester is Saved, Righteous Man Dean Winchester, Visions, Memories Summary: Hester had said, “When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!” She claimed the touch of Dean’s soul had corrupted him.
She was partly correct: touching Dean’s soul, bright and warm in a place that was so sullen and cold, changed him; but it wasn’t corruption.
It was love. Words: 603 AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50938690
==============================
“Hey, Sunshine, there you are.” Dean’s voice projects over his shoulder, his back to Castiel as he crouches by the hearth of the fireplace in the Bunker’s library. Castiel can hear the soft swish of the brush as Dean sweeps the spent ashes of a previous fire into a dustpan.
The back of Dean’s head inclines toward the two plushy upholstered chairs opposite the fireplace, lit by a small hurricane lamp on the small table between them. The flickering flame within sparkles on the crystal decanter filled with what Castiel knows is Dean’s favorite whiskey, accompanied by two matching glasses. 
“Just need to clean this up before laying a new fire. Don’t want to burn the place down or anything.”
Castiel begins to take a seat as requested when Dean rises from his crouch and turns to beam a smile at him. He wipes the back of his hand across his cheek, leaving a trail of soot…
And Castiel is struck still as an image arises in his mind…
A dark street, lit only by flashing red and blue lights and a dim yellow glow. A small boy sitting on the hood of a large black car, his arms overfilled with a small, wimpering bundle wrapped in a blue blanket. The lights flicker across cheeks ashen with shock and residue from the flames that consumed his family home and set him on his path. 
Castiel blinks, reality returning with a metallic clatter as Dean empties the ashes into the bin by the hearth and turns, his arms filled with firewood. He sets the wood on the metal grate inside the firebox, reaches for the box of fireplace matches on the mantle and strikes one. The bright yellow-blue flash as the match catches turning to red-gold and sparking off the highlights in Dean’s hair as he applies it to the kindling. Yellow orange flames flick as the kindling catches and licks the dark wood bark, turning it gold and then red as the flames climb.
Dean rises and rubs his hands over the flames, cinders rising around him before being swept up into the flue like dying stars. 
Another image arises in Castiel’s mind, unbidden…
He and his brethren, their armor shining sullen red and burnt gold from the fires of Hell even through the smoke and haze — but their goal was something which shone brighter still. The Righteous Man, the nimbus of his glowing soul cutting through the smoke like a beacon. Castiel both curses the necessity of their rescue, but relishes being the first to reach him, the first to touch that shining soul with his Grace, the one to grip him and raise him from Perdition. 
Hester had said, “When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!” She claimed the touch of Dean’s soul had corrupted him. 
She was partly correct: touching Dean’s soul, bright and warm in a place that was so sullen and cold, changed him; but it wasn’t corruption.
It was love. 
He’s pulled from the vision by Dean’s solid, firm grip on his shoulders, his warmth flowing onto Castiel’s skin like sun-warmed honey. 
“Hey, Cas.” Castiel blinks and finds himself staring into green eyes sparking gold from the firelight. “Everything okay?”
Castiel’s hand rises to touch Dean’s cheek, brushes against the solid, warm skin there.
He had to make sure — the light of Dean’s soul still so bright, so warm, Castiel couldn’t be sure he wasn’t still locked in his vision.
“Perfect.”
Dean huffs a soft chuckle as he pulls Castiel to his chest, wrapping him in light and love. 
“Yeah, you are.” 
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streamafterlaughter · 2 years ago
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Fundamental Differing
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masterlist | playlist | chapter vi
Chapter VII: Soft But Estranged
summary: an off day on tour doesn’t mean an off day for partying! The entire touring family heads out for what’s supposed to be a fun night off on the Vegas Strip.
tags/warnings: so much angst it’s gross, mutual pining, rockstar!eddie x rockstar!reader, slow burn, hurt/slight comfort, pining, longing, break up, excessive drinking
a/n: i’m turning up the dial on this fic to 11. angst to the max. no fluff all pain. torture. enjoy! Disclaimer: I do not give permission to have my work reposted on other sites. Reblogs are more than welcome, but please inform me if you find my work elsewhere unless otherwise stated. Reblog to support the author!
——
October 1989
“Oh, honey, come here.” Robin pulls you into a tight hug, letting you sob and snot into her shoulder. It’s three in the morning, and you’ve been drinking yourself into a stupor. You left Eddie a week ago, and haven’t been able to breathe right since. Seeing the video for The Crawl on MTV this morning sent you into a dizzying depression, remembering the days when Eddie would sit at the kitchen table trying to put the chords together. You wished you were with him, on tour, greeting him with kisses after every set. But he left for tour yesterday without telling you, and you only found out when Dustin asked why you weren’t with him. You hadn’t had the heart to tell him you’d broken up with him, so Steve had to break the news.
“I just don’t get it. Why didn’t he try harder? Why didn’t he fight for us?” You weep into the fabric of Robin’s shirt as she rubs your back in soothing circles.
“I don’t know, love, but he’s a fucking idiot.”
Present day
Your POV
Your issue of SPIN comes out today, and your heart is slamming in your chest in line to check out. In your hands is a copy of the magazine, a picture of Corroded Coffin plastered across the cover. Eddie’s eyes seem to glare even from the glossy paper, his arms crossed over his bare chest while the rest of his bandmates stand behind him, looking equally stoic. In the top corner of the page reads, Femme Punk Takeover: An Interview with Death Dance Approximately. You read the words over and over, refusing to spoil the spread for yourself until you’re alone and safe to scream with your friends about it.
Once you exit the store, magazine clutched in your hand, you speed walk back to the hotel you’re staying in. Today is your off day, but tomorrow you play a show on the one and only Las Vegas Strip. Your plans include celebrating the magazine spread by drinking yourselves silly.
Back in your hotel room, you kick your shoes off and fling yourself onto the bed. Robin’s out shopping with Steve, and Sylvie and Lilith are getting lunch, so you have the afternoon to yourself. Instead of diving right into your own spread, you curiously turn the pages until you find the Corroded Coffin interview. It spans four full pages, including photographs and quotes in bold, big lettering. You swear to yourself you’ll only skim, but that promise is quickly broken when you read the first sentence.
Kings of Rock, Corroded Coffin, sit uncomfortably in their folding director-esque chairs, as if sitting for an interview is the least punk thing they could be doing. Their frontman fidgets with his gleaming silver rings, his lips pressed together in concentration or annoyance.
Jessie Stevens: So, on your new album Freak Show, there’s a song titled Sweetheart. It’s far different from the rest of the tracks, a calming break before the climax of Severed Thumb and Wiped Clean. What influenced this mood change?
Eddie Munson: Sweetheart is about someone that was once very close to me. It’s about love and loss, and a whole shit ton of heartbreak, and the one person that never made me feel like, the freak, y’know?
J: Do you still talk to this person?
The frontman’s face falls a little, like he’s reminded of something upsetting.
E: It’s… complicated.
You roll your eyes. It’s not complicated, the answer is a firm no. You and Eddie don’t talk, not more than you’re forced to. You continue scanning the article, until you find something else that catches your eye.
J: You’re currently touring with Death Dance Approximately, who are quickly moving up in the world of rock. What advice would you give them as seasoned rockstars?
Munson pauses, looking at his bandmates with a question in his eyes.
E: I guess I’d tell them never to let go of themselves. I lost myself for a while, honestly I’m still pretty lost. The industry is brutal, it takes so much of your soul away from you, and if I could go back and tell myself one thing, it would be not to let go of who I was. I miss that person.
You read Eddie’s answer, over and over, your eyes stinging. You miss who Eddie was, before signing, before giving in to fame and attention the way he has. Desperately, you want to believe that sweet boy is still in there somewhere. You think he is, after the events of last night, but you’re not sure how to yank him out of the steel shell he’s built around himself.
Further down, one more thing catches your attention.
J: Do you wish you’d done anything differently? Whether it be in your career, or in your life outside of it?
E: I wish I fought harder for my people. I lost someone I loved so much. I let them walk out of my life without any objection. I wish so badly that I could’ve made them stay, but… It was too late. I’ll never know now. I’ll never get to fix it.
Munson’s bandmates look to each other knowingly, clearly aware that the mysterious person he speaks of is the reason for his sour mood.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” It’s barely a whisper, despite no one being in the room with you. All he had to do was ask, and you���d tell him everything. Why you left, what would’ve made you stay, but he’d rather tell the whole world he fucked up than just apologize to you.
Eddie’s POV
His copy of SPIN lay open in his lap as he reads the Death Dance interview. His bandmates are god knows where, enjoying their day off while Eddie mopes in his hotel room.
J: How do you guys feel about touring with one of the biggest names in rock?
Eddie rolls his eyes at the question, knowing you probably hated hearing his band brought up in your interview.
Y: I mean, we knew them growing up. It’s really cool to see them all again, and we’re honored to tour with them.
Eddie’s surprised you’d even mention knowing him at this point, it makes his heart beat a little faster.
J: You know Corroded Coffin?
Y: Yeah! I moved to Hawkins my senior year, where I met Robin, and they were all seniors. We played DnD together, made music together. We lost touch after high school, but the world is so small.
J: Is that what Indiana is about?
Y: In some respects, yeah. Indiana was a huge change from where I grew up in Boston, a much smaller, more conservative place for sure.
Eddie puts the magazine down, and reaches for his CD player. He skips to track 5, and closes his eyes as the guitars wail in his ears. He only knows parts of the song, from hearing it live when he can stomach watching your set, but somehow it feels like listening for the first time.
I’m from a city where no one knows each other / where we walk down streets avoiding eyes and shoving by / and when I moved to Indiana, I began to understand why / I wasn’t meant for smaller towns, where everyone knows my name, / but you had been there, my saving grace, / and now I miss the comfort. / I miss the sounds of singing birds, and the crackle of a fire. / I moved back to the city, and though it’s pretty, / it’s no longer what I know. / Indiana wasn’t home, but I found my home there / In the warmth of your eyes and the smell of your hair / I let myself believe I could make my life here / and when I lost you, I lost everything. / Indiana wasn’t home, but I found my home there. Indiana wasn’t home, and I lost my home there.
He plays the song four times before he can bring himself to breathe right again. Eddie can hear your heart breaking through your voice, the way it cracks on the chorus, the way you belt the final verse. All at once, he understands why you left, why you felt you had no choice. He was drowning in the pressure of being famous, leaving you behind to watch him from the shadows.
Your POV
You finally throw the magazine down, and rush to shower and get ready to go out. Tonight is your night off, a night to relax and not think about the boy across the hall. It’s easier said than done, though, as your mind keeps wandering to that final paragraph. I’ll never know now. I’ll never get to fix it. All he had to do was ask. You’d tell him everything; why you left, what could have gotten you to stay. But he’s been so cold, so distant with you, and you can’t really blame him. It’s just as difficult for you to be on tour with him, but you’re still trying to be mature about it.
Your spiral is disturbed by a knock on your door. You clip your earrings in and rush to answer it, smoothing your shirt to make sure you’re presentable. You open the door to Robin and Steve, their arms linked together like best friends on the playground. Both of them are dressed up, Steve in a button down and black slacks, Robin in sequined overalls that scream Vegas! They greet you with gleaming smiles, and you move aside to let them in.
“I’m almost ready! Any idea where we’re going?” You ask them both before pulling your lipstick out of your bag.
“We’re taking the strip by storm! It’s a group outing, everyone’s coming!” Robin claps her hands together
“Everyone?” You quirk an eyebrow, looking at her in the mirror.
She bites her lip and glances at Steve, who only shrugs. “Yeah, Gareth and Jeff overheard us planning, and we figured some bonding was in order. But don’t worry! We can separate when we get there.”
You smack your lips together and shrug. “It’s not me you have to worry about.” You turn to face them, extending your arms to present your glammed up self. “How do I look?”
“Like you’re gonna rip Eddie’s soul out of his bod— Ow!” Steve rubs where Robin has elbowed his arm. “You look beautiful.” He recovers, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“Let’s get goin’ then!” Robin heaves herself off the bed, and you hold the door for her and Steve, following them out the door.
The casinos are the most insane thing you’ve ever experienced. The bright lights almost blind you, and the sounds of slot machines are so loud you can’t hear yourself think. It’s no wonder no one wins these things, it’s impossible to concentrate.
“C’mon!” Sylvie grabs hold of your wrist, leading you and your bandmates to the blackjack table. You glance behind you, sending a help me look to Steve, who shrugs in defeat as he follows Eddie and Jeff to the bar.
“Robin, I don’t know how to play!” You object, but she’s already sitting in a free stool by the dealer.
“No worries, babe, this is all on me. I just want you all to watch me win!” She’s buzzed, having gulped her champagne down in the car on the way here. You giggle at her confidence, knowing damn well she also has no idea how to gamble.
“Whatever you do, don’t bet our royalties.” Lilith nudges her, hiccuping on her own bubbly.
“Yeah, yeah. Hit me!” She slaps the table, and the dealer smirks like he knows he’s about to watch Robin lose all of her disposable income.
Eddie’s POV
“Whiskey, neat.” He orders his drink, flopping down on an empty stool. Steve sits next to him, while Jeff orders drinks for himself and Gareth. “Come hang out, man!” Jeff calls when he receives his drinks, already walking to the table his bandmates sit at with yours. Eddie nods a response, nursing his drink.
“You gotta at least try to enjoy yourself tonight.” Steve says, taking a sip of what looks like fruit punch.
“I am enjoying myself, Steven” Eddie holds up his whiskey, as if to prove the point. Steve glares at him, and Eddie takes a swig. “What?”
“You’re moping! You’re a famous rockstar on a cross country tour, and you’re moping. Had I known you were gonna be a drama queen this whole time I would’ve brought a goddamn book to read.”
Eddie groans, taking another sip. “I know, I know. I’m miserable.”
“You need to talk to them.” Steve says bluntly, not looking at Eddie.
“Why would I do that?”
“I know you want to.”
“I do not!”
Steve snorts, and Eddie presses his lips together in annoyance. “You read that interview, right?” Eddie nods. “So you know they talk about you now. You’re on their mind. You listen to the song they mentioned?” He nods again. “So you still care about what they have to say. What’s stopping you? Why are you so fucking scared?”
Eddie turns in his chair, back to where your band sits at the table, anxiously watching as Robin plays another round. Your face is pink, caused by the alcohol or the warmth of the building. Your shirt hugs your frame tightly, accentuating your features. You lift a glass of champagne to your lips, pinky extended, leaving a smear of red lipstick on the rim of the glass. Your eyes sparkle with excitement as your friends cheer Robin on. You have a happy glow to you, and it takes everything inside of Eddie to rip his eyes away. “What’s stopping me is the fact that they deserve better.” Eddie grumbles, gulping the rest of his liquor down and calling the bartender over. “I don’t want to ruin this for them. I’m already here, and that can’t be easy. I want them to enjoy this experience, I don’t want to intrude on it.”
“So, what, you’re just gonna drink yourself to death every time we have an outing? You think that isn’t causing them any distress? Your liver is gonna deteriorate soon, man. May wanna figure out a different strategy.”
“Will you get off my ass about drinking, Harrington? It’s rich, coming from the kid that shotgunned like sixty beers a week his freshman year of high school.”
Steve chuckles, and Eddie can’t hide the grin creeping onto his face. “Fair enough. But that was high school. I didn’t have a billion fans relying on me not to die of alcohol poisoning.”
“Nah, just the six hundred Hawkins High students. Big whoop!” Eddie emphasizes his point with a show of jazz hands. “Either way. If I’m gonna talk to them, I’m gonna be drunk when I do it.” Eddie gulps down his second drink in one go, feeling the effects of the alcohol starting to kick in.
“Whatever, dude. You wanna go play some cards?” Steve offers his hand, and Eddie takes it begrudgingly, yanking himself away from the bar and into the mass of the crowded casino. He’s forced to squeeze by you, apologizing under his breath as he brushes against your back, sidestepping between the tables. You don’t seem to notice. He takes his place next to Gareth, and Steve stands firmly between him and you, a bridge neither of you dare to cross. Eddie feels your eyes on him, and it takes everything inside of him not to look back. Instead, he’s dealt into the next hand, planning only to play one round as a distraction from your presence. The waiter drops off another round of drinks, and Eddie slaps his palm on the table. “Deal me in.”
“Okay, that’s enough!” Steve yanks on an objecting Eddie’s arm, hauling him away from the table. He’s already lost a good chunk of change, both at the table and to the expensive drinks he’s been gulping down. Despite his objections, Steve manages to drag Eddie out of the casino unscathed.
“Here,” Steve sticks a cigarette between Eddie’s lips and lights it for him. “Sober up a little.”
Eddie plucks the lit stick from his mouth and exhales, the cool night air bathing his warm face.
“Where,” Eddie’s eyes are glassy, his vision blurring as he takes in his surroundings.
“We’re outside the casino. Waiting for the car.” Steve lights a cigarette for himself, inhaling as Eddie does the same.
“Where’s Y/n?” He realizes suddenly that he hasn’t seen you in hours.
“Back at the hotel. They left a while ago, but you didn’t want to get up. Sometime around your fourth hand, when you accused the dealer of cheating.” Eddie looks down at his feet, seeing four of them, and hums in response. “They told me to make sure I get you home safe.”
He looks back up to his friend, cautiously optimistic. “They said that?”
Steve nods, a smirk on his face. “Told me they’d kick my ass if anything happened to you. So I’m keeping my promise.” The car pulls up, and Steve opens the door for Eddie. “C’mon, in ya go.”
Eddie lets his eyes slip closed as the car starts moving, promising himself he won’t throw up on Steve. He thinks of all the ways he could possibly tell you he’s sorry, how he could start to mend the wounds he’s caused you. He’s going to, he decides, as soon as he can manage to walk on his own.
Your POV
There’s a banging on your hotel room as you’re clawing your way out of your clothes. You pull your big t-shirt on, pause Breaking The Girl, and rush to answer it. You’re expecting room service with some wine, or Steve with tomorrow’s game plan. “Coming!” You call, finally opening the door, only to be greeted by Eddie’s wobbly figure. “Oh. Hi.” You look at his nose as you speak, afraid of what would happen if your eyes were to meet his. His face is flushed from the drinking, his eyes glazed over and his hair frizzy.
“Hi. Bad time?” He looks you up and down, causing your cheeks to warm despite your blood running cold. You realize now that the shirt you’re wearing is one that once belonged to him. “I’ll, uh, go. I can um… I’ll come back later.” His speech is slurring, and you can smell the alcohol as he speaks.
“No!” You say, too quickly. “It’s okay, I’m just getting ready for bed. You wanna come in?”
Eddie hesitates, but you step aside to let him enter. He stumbles forward, placing himself gingerly in the chair across from the bed, where you sit across from him, acutely aware of your current pantsless state. “I read the interview.” Eddie starts, looking at the floor. You cross one leg over the other, waiting for him to continue. “And I’ve been listening to the album. Your album, I mean. It’s great, by the way, really fucking great.” He won’t look at you, instead focused on fiddling with his rings. You don’t respond, unsure where he’s going. “I came to say I’m sorry.”
Your eyes widen. This was the furthest thing from what you were expecting. “For what?”
Eddie slides further into the chair. “Everything. I’ve been such an asshole since the tour started. Especially to you. I wanna say I didn’t mean it, but I did. I wanted to hurt you. Flirting with all those girls, playing that fuckin’ song in front of you. I meant all of it.”
You bite your lip, unsure of how to respond. You doubt Eddie will even remember this conversation tomorrow, so you refuse to let his words convince you of anything. You don’t answer, just blink at him as he continues searching for the words to explain himself.
“I was trying to ignore it, I guess. How I felt about seeing you again. I was hiding it, and probably really poorly. I can't imagine it’s been easy for you, either, but you seem so happy. And it’s made me realize how horrible I’ve been.” He looks up from the floor then, his eyes searching yours for an answer. His face is flushed, his hair disheveled, and his lips are set in the pout that always got your heart stalling.
You clear your throat quickly, knowing it will crack under the pressure otherwise. “Eddie, it’s not your fault. You didn’t force this tour to happen. It’s an unfortunate coincidence.” He winces at your words, and you rush to correct yourself. “I mean, we didn’t know we’d see each other like this. We weren’t prepared. The way you’ve been acting, though hurtful, is completely understandable.” You want to cry. You want to throw Eddie out of your hotel room so you can sob into your pillow. But you don’t move, and neither does he.
“Why’d you leave?” He asks after a long moment of silence. “What happened to us?”
You know he’s drunk, and you shouldn’t be indulging him, but you’ve wanted to say so much to him since breaking it off, and you’re still a bit tipsy. “I was losing you. To groupies, to the label, to whatever you had become, and I didn’t think it was fair to fight it. This is all you’ve ever wanted, all we ever talked about when we were together. And you got it! The only thing you ever wanted. And I am beyond proud of you, Eddie. Who was I to pull you away from it? I couldn’t hold you back from this, but I couldn’t live in the background either. I couldn’t make you choose between me and your dream, so I chose for you.” Your voice falters as you explain, eyes threatening to spill the tears they harbor. “You deserve everything you ever want, Ed. I truly believe that.” You don’t tell him you still wish he wanted you.
Eddie is less than graceful in his response. “I would’ve chosen you. Over and over again, Y/n. I wish I hadn’t made you feel like you were my backup, my plan B. I lost sight of us, I know that now.” You sigh, your heart breaking as he speaks. Years ago, it’s all you wanted to hear. But it’s too little, too late now. “It got to my head, having you and getting signed. I felt like I could have it all. It got overwhelming, and I didn’t realize what I was doing to you. You were right to leave, and I’m so sorry it took me this long to figure it out. I blamed you for my misery when I caused all of it myself.”
You get up from the bed, and approach Eddie, kneeling beside the chair so he’s forced to look at you. “I appreciate the apology, Ed. I know you mean it. But I needed to leave for my own sake, too. I couldn’t keep competing with you, with all of the attention you were getting. I needed to focus on my own dreams, and I couldn’t convince you to root for me the way I had for you. Now that I’m here, I’m glad it happened this way. I wouldn’t have gotten here any other way.” You rest your hand on his knee, and you feel a drop fall from his cheek onto your finger. “You’ll always be special to me. I need you to know that.”
Eddie nods, sniffling. You stand up and offer him your hand. He takes it hesitantly, and you feel the familiarity of his calloused fingers entwined with yours. You can’t bring yourself to let go as he gets to his feet, missing the way his skin feels on yours. “Let’s get you back to bed, yeah?” You lead him out of your room and down the hall. “You got your key?”
Eddie clumsily pats his many pockets before finding his key card in his vest. He swipes it, and you pull him into the messy room, the bed unmade, empty beer bottles lining the nightstand and entertainment center. Eddie collapses onto the bed, and you get to work yanking his shoes off the way you used to after a long night out. He’s still in his jeans, but you don’t make a move to take them off. He’s not yours to take care of anymore, and if he wakes up uncomfortable, it’s not your problem. “Okay. Goodnight, Eddie.” You’re about to leave when you hear him whisper something. “What was that?” You don’t want to believe what you think you heard, but he says it again, clearer this time. “I’d still choose you.” You press your lips together, stifling your sobs as you close the door behind you. You can’t bring yourself to believe him.
chapter viii
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eirian-houpe · 14 days ago
Text
To See All That Might Be - Chapter 2
Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Emma Swan, Grace | Paige Additional Tags: Angst, Missing Persons, Paranormal, Drama, Revenge, curse Summary:
Weird things start to happen when Belle explores the idea of getting a tattoo. Reality and unreality mix and mingle, and someone goes missing, but this is only the beginning of a new and deadly curse for the citizens of Storybrooke that could alter reality forever, when someone comes seeking revenge for what they believe happened, but was never true at all.
The first chapter of this story was Written for the October 2021 Monthly Rumbelling, the rest of the story began to take shape in 2024. It started life as part of a series that I had called 'To See' (which remains part of the title in homage to those humble beginnings), but outgrew the format and needed to be a multi-chapter long-fic to do the ideas I had justice.
Read Chapter One On AO3
Chapter 2 - Bleeding Through
The search that night had been hurried, almost frantic; the denizens of Storybrooke fanned out among the trees, a line of flashlights in the dark. He may have considered himself an outsider, but the intensity with which they hunted - for him, for clues, for his supposed assailant - had Jefferson been able to see it, should have told him otherwise.
But he couldn’t see it, and a bitter daybreak stole like a specter through the woodland and back toward Victorian, where the little girl sat clutching Belle’s side, shrunken and lost, and trying not to give in to the fear that it was all happening again.
“I already said,” she whispered, looking up at Belle, her eyes pleading, before glancing back to the sheriff and the doctor, perched on chairs in front of her. “Everything was normal before the doorbell.”
“And then what happened?” the Sheriff repeated for perhaps the tenth time. She’d lost count.
“No one ever rings the doorbell, and—” Grace’s voice took on an edge, fragile and trembling; desperate as she glanced at Belle once more. “I told you—”
“Emma,” Belle said quietly, her arms tightening around the child.
“Grace, we just—”
“Sheriff Swan,” Doctor Hopper held out a hand to quiet the woman, and then pushed his glasses back into place, offering Grace a compassionate smile. “We believe you, Grace,” he told her, “that’s why we need you to tell us again, in case we missed any of the important details you’ve told us.”
Laughter. A child’s delight in her father’s antics, and she took the dish of mushrooms from him to set them on the table as he pretended to catch himself on the back of her chair. Today, mushrooms, a few days before the spaghetti. She’d almost missed that one, and that made her laugh harder.
“What?” Jefferson ruffled her hair before he sat at the table with her, his face lit with a smile.
“Today fungus, the other day worms,” she giggled. “I think you’re trying to make a garden of our dining room.”
“You caught me,” he answered. “Quite the sleuth, my dear Grace.”
“Shall I be—?”
The doorbell stole the mirth from her father’s face, and Jefferson set down the napkin only lately unfolded, brushing a soft kiss against her cheek as he leaned down to murmur, “Stay here,” against the softness of it.
“Are you worried because you think we’ll be angry?” Doctor Hopper asked quietly as Grace paused in the retelling; bit her lip and pressed closer to Belle.
“Why would we—?” the sheriff began, but the doctor shook his head, and she stopped. Grace liked him… and Belle, of course she liked Belle - and Rumplestiltskin.
“I didn’t do as Papa said,” she said, so soft it was nearly a whisper. “I went to peep… and I saw him.”
“Saw whom?” the doctor asked, and Grace glanced over at the sheriff again, before she answered.
“The Painted Man.”
This time her words were a whisper, and she hid her face against Belle’s shoulder.
The clock chimed the hour, and she covered her ears with her hands, barely hearing the sheriff as she asked, “Do you think you could draw this… Painted Man?”
It was the sound that woke her. The mournful call of the owl whose ghostly feathers and silent wings were etched into her memory like the echo of her own name, and Belle shivered.
Firelight flickered against the wall, but gave no heat, and the lilting melody of an equally melancholy tune rose and fell between the cracks and pops of the fire in the hearth. She knew that hearth; the carpet on which her fingers had fallen, the couch and cushion supporting her back and her head.
Belle sat up with a start.
“Jefferson?”
Her call was barely a whisper and wouldn’t have summoned him even if he was there. He wasn’t. He was missing. Lost, she remembered.
“Grace,” his voice was urgent, fearful, “run!”
He heard her scramble to obey, even as he stepped in front of the man in the doorway, his face painted white in stark and deadly contrast to the black of his clothes. His collar was high behind his neck, and the leather of his long coat did nothing to hide the second face, numbered and leering, on his chest.
“Hello, Jefferson,” he said and his voice was a melodic juxtaposition to the deathlike figure that tried to step across the threshold. “You and I have business, my friend.”
“I owe you nothing,” Jefferson spat. “You wasted your time in coming here.”
“Time is mine to waste,” the figure hissed.
Belle gasped, and pushed herself upright on the couch, and then to her feet, weaving slightly as she headed out of the living room, and toward the front door, that she could see still stood open.
Was this where he’d gotten hurt? She looked around at the floor but saw nothing to suggest it had been. A light beckoned though, spilling from a smaller door leading off from the entrance hall.
She tiptoed that way, pushing open the paneled door, then falling backwards, as from the  window within, a flurry of feathers rushed toward her, then out through the open front door.
Follow, the owl urged silently.
“Wait,” she whispered in reply.
Swan caught Gold by the sleeve in the instant before he started to take the steps up to the porch two at a time. She shook her head when he glanced at her.
“This is a crime scene, Gold,” she said softly. “We really shouldn’t be—”
“Sheriff Swan,” he replied, his tone clipped, “Whoever it is that has Jefferson isn’t going to… pussy foot around while we waste—”
“Time?” she finished his sentence. “If we destroy evidence in there we may never find Jefferson.”
“Oh we’ll find him,” he answered, capturing her with an unyielding gaze, and dropping his voice to the Dark One’s deadly hiss. “I would just rather know what we’re walking into when we do.”
The shiver in Sheriff Swan’s frame was almost visible, and Gold shook off her touch, and waved his hand at the doorway, which opened silently and the yellow ‘crime scene’ tape fluttering to the ground under his feet.
“Don’t be such a stuck-in-the-mud, Rumple,” Jefferson teased, tugging at the somber cloth covering the mirror before turning to face the sorcerer as he stood beside the hearth. “Don’t you think your little maid might,” he shrugged, and waved a hand toward the space beside the hearth, where the spinning wheel now stood barely at a stop.
Rumplestiltskin couldn’t read minds, but he could almost see the picture Jefferson had painted in his: the evergreens framing the mantelpiece, the golden candles flickering warm light to chase away the chill of the Dark Castle’s great hall, and the tree - the tallest fir from the forest standing pride of place, festooned with red and deep green ribbons, aglow with his magic, heralding the promise of solstice.
“And what about you?” he asked, before his mind caught up to his mouth. Committed he asked, “And Grace, of course. What are your plans for the Winter Solstice?”
The clock in the hallways chimed the hour, and the memory evaporated like a child’s bubble blown from soap suds. Instinct made Gold turn toward the sound. He frowned.
“No one ever rings the doorbell,” he murmured, turning back toward the door, confounding the sheriff who had finally crossed the threshold.
“Gold?” she matched the tone of her voice with the expression she made.
Gold halted at a spot on the porch within reach of the button for the doorbell, and frowned at it, as if by his gaze alone he could wring its secrets from it.
“Did I miss something?” Swan asked as she came to a halt at his side.
“I rather fear we all did,” he answered softly, raising a hand to pass it slowly in the space before the bell pull.
It was so incongruous that it jolted Belle to the point of breathlessness; an empty table set upon the grassy bank of the crossroad that led  in one direction between the town line and the center of Storybrooke, and the other between the two extremes of Storybrooke’s forest, but it was kind of… 
“Molten,” she mused aloud. Or at least as though through a heat haze. The silent owl watched her, unblinking, as it perched on the top of a high backed chair. “What are you trying to tell me?” she asked.
Show you.
The owl blinked once, long and slow, but nothing else changed.
“I don’t want your damn tea!” Jefferson spat, choking as, none-the-less, the dark figure moving before him pulled back his head and forced the cup against his mouth and poured the dark liquid inside.
“I don’t have it!” Jefferson cried out just as soon as he managed the roiling in his belly. “I never had it. March had it - always. You know that. You know—!”
“Never? Always? Those are a long time, Hatter,” the man hissed. “And you can’t know them.”
“But I…” Jefferson began, then squirmed aside as the man poured another cup of the dark colored tea, and raised the cup toward him again. “No. You can’t do this; you can’t. Not now, not ye—” His words were drowned in the foul fluid that left Jefferson coughing, retching, shivering and fighting the tears that flooded his eyes. “You do it now and everything ch—”
“You assume that’s not what I want.” The answer was cold - chilling. “Manipulate time, alter reality.”
The table, the chairs, the dark scene before her wavered again, as if in heat and then winked out as though they were never there. They weren’t, she knew, even before she knelt and examined the ground. It was all a vision, a dream. Dark imaginings, but then…
A small, faceted bottle glinted from its nest in the grass, its golden stopper calling to her. Perhaps it would help lead them to wherever Jefferson had been taken - and she had no doubt now that he had been, and had not just…
She shivered, reaching out for the bottle just as silent wings brushed her shoulder, and the owl’s talons stretched forward; closed around the bottle and lifted away.
“Stop!” Belle cried. “I need that!”
She fell to the ground as she lunged, the owl already gone. In frustration, Belle slapped the grass, then pushed herself to her knees, watching the direction in which the owl flew… away deeper into Storybrooke’s forest.
“What do you mean, ‘something that may not belong here’?”
Irritated, Gold waved a hand and snapped, “Which of the words do you not understand?”
“All of them, Gold,” David answered, crossing his arms as he moved to stand at Sheriff Swan’s side. At Gold’s insistence, he and the sheriff had used the rear gate of Jefferson’s mansion to head into the forest, and rendezvous with the other searchers who still combed the woodland for any sign of the missing hatter. “Technically we don’t belong here.”
“And yet,” Gold spread his arms, “here we are.”
“So what are you saying,” Leroy demanded, squaring off against Gold as if he were the enemy, “That something from somewhere, somehow came and… took Jefferson?”
“That’s a lot of ‘somes’.” David muttered, then asked, “And you know this because…?”
“We’ve been through this,” Gold snarled, “You’re wasting—”
“Time, yes.” Swan folded her arms, matching her father in attitude as well as pose. “I’ve gone along with you so far, Gold, because you seemed to know what you’re talking about, but this…” she uncrossed her arms long enough to wave at the nebulous, invisible threat, “thing you say is out there, that snatched Jeffer—”
“If I’m right, is far more of a threat than anything you’ve ever faced.” Gold interrupted, and then entirely without a hint of boasting in his voice bared his teeth and added, “even me.”
“Again,” David said, “You know this how?”
In the place of the essence of a person, the Dark One felt a dull ache. It spread from the brush of the air around his palm and fingertips to become a harsh grasp along his arm; residue of a power, ancient and terrible. 
What had Jefferson done this time? He knew that there was more to his friend than most people imagined, but this…? A power such as he now felt had been just within their world.
Was it still here, holding The Hatter captive for whatever cause had brought it to his doorstep, or did it take him? Drag him to whatever place it could best extract what it wanted from the vulnerable mortal.
“Where…” he whispered into the night as he disentangled himself from the grip of the primordial energy to taste the more mundane that lingered.
“Wonderland?” David’s voice was tight with incredulity.
“Are we talking about the same… white rabbit, size altering mushrooms, playing card-off with his head… nonsense?” Swan scoffed. “Real deadly, Gold.”
“Do not mock what you don’t understand, Sheriff Swan,” Gold hissed.  “The Wonderland of which you speak, and the one with which Jefferson has… history are far different than you know.”
“They would have to be,” Leroy mused and gestured at Gold, “if even ‘Big Bad’ is afraid of this… whatever it is.”
“Big Bad?” David raised an eyebrow, “Really?”
Leroy only had time to shrug before Gold rumbled, “More than you can imagine.”
Her chase through the forest had been exhausting. The gray owl, though flying low, had always stayed just enough ahead to be out of reach, but close enough to lead her onwards. Though, to where, she had no idea.
Still she followed. Each step becoming harder, as though the ground underfoot softened to mud, and from mud to molasses, until finally, the owl alighted on the post of a broken down fence, of what looked like an old mill. The building was as broken as the fence.
From inside, though… voices chilled the wind.  One strained and desperate, the other as sibilant as the rustling of the few leaves left on the nearby trees, or that chilled wind itself. Low, cold and full of menace.
“You knew it was coming, Hatter,” it said, “it’s just a pity you won’t be around to see it.”
Everything was blurred, shifting. The chair felt like sponge, the ropes that had cut his skin until it was slick with blood were like noodles, but ones he could not break, and the taste left behind in his mouth, where his tongue felt swollen to twice its normal size, was bitter, acrid even, making him alternately choke on his own saliva, or drool like a senile old man.
But as much as he might swallow, nothing could douse the fire that raged in his gut; an inferno incinerating him from the inside out, a stark contrast to the ice that consumed his extremities little by little, one by one.
“You don’t…” he gasped, “…have to do this.”
“Oh, but I want to.”
“Please…”
“That’s right, Hatter. Beg.” But Jefferson bit his lip to keep from doing just that. “Always were a contrary motherfucker. You—”
There was a crack of wood, and splinters flew everywhere, before his assailant fell sideways to land with a dull timpanic beat on the dirt floor. A dark blur moved across his vision and the single beat became several until they stopped altogether.
Fingers brushed against his swollen wrists until the spongy sensation fell away and his hands were freed, and the touch against him became a grasp on his upper arms as a low voice spoke urgently.
“I have about sixty seconds before I finish what he started just by being here.” The voice was urgent, compelling, and oh so achingly familiar.
Familiar because it was his own. He opened his eyes and stared, as if in a fun-house mirror at the version of himself that was definitely all business. Dark clothes, a darker expression, and a shake of his head as he told himself, “Save the questions, Jefferson. The answers wouldn’t mean much anyway.”
“But—”
“No buts.  He won’t stay down for long, and I have to get him out of here. Though he’ll be back.” The other him nodded over his shoulder to where the familiar swirling portal waited for its master.
“But… you can’t,” he said.
“I told you. No buts.”
“The hat’s rules,” Jefferson insisted.
The other huffed a little, then his face cracked into a wry little smile, “Oh, that,” he said dryly, and reached into the inner pocket of his jet-black coat, then he set the box he had taken from within on the ground beside Jefferson, with a small morsel of mushroom on top.  “I wouldn’t let him out or give him the ‘shroom until you’re well away from here. You know where to go.”
“No, I—” He stared, confused, unable to pierce the poison’s hold on his mind.
“An age ago there was a woman, she was locked up and you… we… freed her.  You told her to find a man,” the other said.
“Belle. I remember,” he whispered.
His savior chuckled. “Well then, my young friend,” he said, “follow your own advice.”
“What about… you?” Jefferson asked, as the other flexed his long legs and got to his feet, before answering with a wild laugh.
“Don’t worry about me,” he urged. “You do this right, and I won’t matter.” Then as a whisper answered, “I don’t want to matter.”
At their feet, threat groaned, beginning to stir.
“Remember, you have to tell him everything.” The other Jefferson hooked that stirring danger beneath his arms and began to drag him toward the portal. “He’ll know what to do.” Jefferson pushed himself up. Staggered to his feet and turned to watch himself pause on the rim of the swirling vortex.
“Hold her tight,” the other said, looking back. “She’s our world.”
Belle jumped as the owl cried out and took flight, back the way he came, back toward the road, toward…
“Home,” she said urgently.  “I’ve got to get home.”
At the touch of a hand, her eyes flew open as she woke.
“Easy, Belle,” Doctor Hopper’s soothing voice wrapped a calm around her that she knew she couldn’t afford, but neither could she resist. “Looks like you were having quite some dream.”
In his bassinet beside the couch, Gideon cooed, undisturbed by his mother’s agitation.
“Where’s Grace?” she asked on a breath.  “And my phone?  Where’s my phone? I have to tell Rumple—”
“Slow down,” Hopper said firmly. “Gold called a moment ago. They’re on their way back here. Can’t do anything more until full daylight, he said.  And Grace is right there,” he pointed to the other end of the couch, where Grace slept, curled up beneath a blanket.  Belle took a breath, then he asked, “Want to talk about it?”
She shook her head.
“Not until Rumple—”
“I’m here, Belle,” Rumple’s voice came from the doorway, ahead of the general murmur of the others, all speaking at once, though quietly in deference to the sleepers. Speaking nothing that she could make out about anything else.
“I had a… another… a different one,” she said, and Rumplestiltskin came to crouch in front of her, took her shaking hands.
“Doesn’t look like it was any better than the others,” he said, and she shook her head.
Whatever she might have said was stolen by the shrieking crash of the back door as it was forced open. Emma and David instantly drew their weapons, and Rumple moved to stand between her and—
“Jefferson!” Emma gasped, and put away her gun to hurry to the man even as he slumped to the floor, whatever energy he must have had all spent in the act of breaking in.
Belle pushed at Rumple’s hands, urging him to go to their friend, and followed close behind.  She wrapped her arms around herself as Rumple and Emma both crouched beside the fallen Hatter, carefully turning him over.
“Papa!” the shrill cry raced ahead of the stricken Grace as she woke and saw the mess that was her father. David caught her up in his arms to keep her from getting in the way.
“He’s breathing, though barely,” Emma said as she straightened up, pulling out her phone and dialing as she did.
“Papa!” Grace cried again, struggling in David’s grasp.
“It’s poison,” Belle said softly, horrified, shaking her head when Emma asked her what kind, not doubting her for a moment.
Grace’s distress seemed to pierce whatever held consciousness from Jefferson, and he took a deeper breath, though delirious it seemed as he rambled, struggling to get the words out whole.
“Rumples…tiltskin…” he said. “T… ti…Time…  It’s… Time.”
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timebegins-onopeningday · 1 year ago
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October 2023 New Works Round Up
Happy Sunday, everybody! It’s our inaugural new works round-up post, a mere two days after the soft deadline. Let’s do a round up of all the works posted to the collection so far* 🥳
*by Saturday night, when I drafted and scheduled this post.
AO3 | All works | Ask box
New works, in no particular order (link in titles):
spit it out on three by pamlipsestic | Oakland A’s, San Francisco Giants | Zack Gelof/Casey Schmitt
It was in the scouting report, and even if it hadn’t been, the neon yellow custom sliding mitt would've given it right away.
FIX ME A BLUE SKY by hualuo (baiyunli) | Philadelphia Phillies | Bryson Stott/Trea Turner
“Right,” says Trea, feeling like he missed several steps. You’re gonna be good,” promises Stott. “You’re Trea fucking Turner.” He squeezes Trea’s shoulder again, tips the bill of his cap down like he’s letting him in on a secret. His eyes brim with it, crescent moons shot through in hazel. “And call me Bryson, okay?” Trea Turner, on things (and people) he can't control.
our bodies to bargain by sorrellegiance | San Francisco Giants | Sean Manaea & Blake Sabol | neocities 
This is a comic about places and going to them!
step by step by glowfruit | New York Yankees | Aaron Judge/Anthony Rizzo
Aaron's simple request for Anthony to teach him how to cook is not as simple as he might think.
what you want, what you got by powderblu (bluspirits) | Philadelphia Phillies | Brandon Marsh/ Bryson Stott
So yeah, Bryson is a gift giver. That's about the only explanation he can come up with for what's in front of him. Or: courting rituals, daycare edition
we all end in the ocean by Anonymous | New York Mets | Francisco Alvarez/Brett Baty
“Why don’t you come over here for a second,” Eduardo frowned, cringing as he approached Brett. The injury must have horribly deformed him, or something. I’m fine, you don’t need to carry me, he’d wanted to complain, but it was like Brett weighed nothing at all, and no matter how much he kicked and squirmed, Eduardo didn’t falter, carrying him over to the sink. What the fuck? In the mirror, staring back at him, was an orange cat. Eduardo raised Brett’s arm and waved. The cat waved back. Brett let out an ear-splitting scream and the cat in the mirror screamed back, fur puffed up all over. animal transformation au: baseball magic is real and the rays are petty
Unbuttoned by powerblu (bluspirits) | Philadelphia Phillies | Bryce Harper/Trea Turner
Bryce had always told him he'd look good in a Phillies jersey. Now that Trea's on the team, it's time to prove he meant it.
all play no skips by powerblu (bluspirits) | Philadelphia Phillies | Garrett Stubbs/J.T. Realmuto
Some people would refer to what he has going on right now as 'intangibles'.
If I’m not my body by planesandtrainingwheels | Toronto Blue Jays | Danny Jansen/Jordan Romano
He catches sight of the beginnings of a bruise that promises to be ugly tomorrow morning stretching across Danny’s thigh. “You’re insane,” he says appreciatively. Something in him itches to put his hands on it, to brush across the tender purple skin with his fingers - which isn’t a thought he’s ever had before. Oh boy. Danny grins. “Anything for you, Romy.” Or, Jordan Romano, Danny Jansen, and the mortifying ordeal.
The next round-up post will be posted sometime on Sunday, November 12, so if you need a new deadline, aim for the North American morning of November 11.
Under the cut: October Challenges for readers and creators + 3 questions for creators (for your WIPs or completed works) and a bonus side quest for readers!
October Challenge for readers: Before the November post, comment on THREE works you haven’t commented on yet! If you’ve commented on them all already….king shit, because it’s been two days. Go get a boba to celebrate and watch some postseason baseball.
Bonus Readers Side Quest: If the creator of the work allows it, create a moodboard for one of the works you enjoyed and post it on Tumblr. Tag @timebegins-onopeningday so that I can reblog and of course make sure you link to the work and tell the author too!
October Challenge for creators: Every week until the November post (on the 12th), do the following:
Writers, add FIVE sentences to your work.
Artists, spend FIFTEEN MINUTES on your work. 
Podfic? Five minutes of editing or ten minutes of recording. Something else I’m not thinking of? Adjust accordingly to your medium.
Creator Questions: Answer in the notes, send an ask, or just post on your blog and tag @timebegins-onopeningday!
Which player in the work inspired you to put them in the boba shaker of baseball rpf and why?
What is one thing you want everyone to know about your work that didn’t (or won’t) make it into the final work?
Without spoiling anything, what part of your work are you most excited for people to experience?
That’s it for this month! I hope you all enjoy the works that have been posted - I’m still making my way through them, but I’m loving what I’ve read so far. Remember to leave comments if you read, and to treat yourself kindly as you create.
As always, ask box is open and anon is on. I can also be reached at rpfisfine@/gmail.com 🌞
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laissezferre · 1 year ago
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WIP tag game
i was tagged by @asparklethatisblue and @veganthranduil (thank you!)
RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.
i only really have one wip at a time, so that's
1. spy au
then i have various fic ideas yet fully developed:
2. love allergy james 3. outsider pov 4. sleepless in seattle 5. shakespeare vs musical theater 6. rough sex miscomm
tagging both writers and artists! @brainyraccoons @zevons @kiingbooooo @ghosstkid @soft-october-night @egospects
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dragonflylady77 · 1 year ago
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First Lines of 10 Fics Game
Rules: share the first lines of 10 of your most recent fanfics and then tag 10 people. If you have written fewer than 10 fics, don’t be shy and share anyways :)
I was tagged by the lovely @callieb this time around.
1. definitely better than being dead (on Ao3)
When Billy comes to, everything hurts. He keeps his eyes closed, even though the space around him feels dark, and slowly takes a tally of where it hurts: hands, sides, chest, back, feet too...
He listens to the noises in the room and the regular beeping of a machine close by tells him he’s in a hospital.
Huh.
This is new.
Neil never lets him go to the hospital, not unless he absolutely has to, like that time before they left Cali—no, not thinking about that.
2. Steve's pick (on Ao3) (Billy Hargrove Bingo)
“So you’ll do it?”
Steve sighed, wishing his shift would end already so he could go home and crash, instead of listening to whatever issue Dustin had had with Mike fucking Wheeler. Again. He looked at the clock. Half an hour to go. Wednesday afternoon shifts usually dragged but this one had to be the worst one ever.
“Steve? Are you even listening to me?”
“Yeah, yeah, Dustin, fine, whatever.” He rolled his eyes, never happier that the shop was currently deserted. He guessed that everyone was at the movies, catching the new releases. Lucky them.
“Steeeeeeeve!”
Henderson’s whiny voice pulled him back into the present.
“Oh my god, what? I’m at work, you know that right?”
“I am aware. But I also know there is no one there. It’s Wednesday, Steve. So will you tell Mike you agree we should let Max in the Party?”
Steve heard the bell chime when a customer walked in so he looked up and who the fuck was the sex god who’d just walked into Family Video?
3. finding peace together (on Ao3)
Then one day Steve shows up.
Because there's nothing keeping him in Hawkins anymore and he's had enough of the cold and the monsters and he always wanted to see the ocean.
And slowly Steve and Billy become friends. And Steve is absolute rubbish at surfing but it's okay because every time he falls off the board, it makes Billy laugh.
And Steve comes to realise that's his favourite sound. He can't wait to finish work every day and meet Billy at the beach. He lives to hear him cackle when he gets rolled by a wave.
4. a frankly ill-timed visit (on Ao3)
Steve stretches as he wakes up, arm reaching beside him to find the bed is cold. He knows it’s not very late by the way the sun doesn’t quite reach into the room yet. Billy always gets up so early, even when they’re up half the night making love to each other.
Steve yawns and stretches as he finishes waking up. His body is sore in that pleasurable way that says ‘I had a really good time last night’. He can smell the enticing aroma of fresh coffee and slowly realises that the noise he can hear coming from downstairs is actually voices.
Plural.
5. never fall for a straight guy (on Ao3)
Billy is browsing the movies in the Horror section at Family Video, trying to find something Max hasn’t seen yet, when he hears Harrington whisper from the counter.
“You deal with him.”
“Steve…” Buckley whines and Billy moves closer to the head of the aisle so he can hear better, while still pretending to be oblivious and looking at the titles.
“No, Rob. I can’t. Not after…” Harrington stops and Billy feels a pang in his chest.
6. Steve can't take it anymore (on Ao3)
"I've been waiting to meet this King Steve everyone has been telling me so much about."
There's blood on Billy's lip and Steve wants to wipe it off with his thumb.
"Get out"
He presses two fingers onto Billy's chest and gives a little shove. The skin is soft. And warm. So warm even though it's October and Billy's shirt is unbuttoned.
Billy stares, his tongue coming out to wipe his bottom lip, murder in his eyes.
Steve can't take it anymore. If the guy is gonna kill him, might as well give him a reason to. So Steve gives into the urge he's been fighting since he saw Billy in the carpark on that first day of school. Before he can second guess himself, he grabs both sides of the collar of Billy's shirt, pulls him close and plants his lips on the other guy's mouth.
7. wake me up (on Ao3)
"Billy?" Steve wipes the sleep from his eyes and tries to remember where he is. He feels really good but isn't sure why.
His boyfriend's muffled reply provides an answer.
8. we talked about this (on Ao3)
“Oh my god, pretty boy, just fucking do it already.”
Max freezes in her tracks in front of Billy's door, the juice in her cup sloshing from the sudden stop.
9. only the best (on Ao3)
"Munson!"
Steve looked up when he heard the familiar voice. Wasn't he supposed to be at work? "Billy?"
Sure enough, Billy was making his way through the trees to where Steve was sitting with Eddie Munson.
10. DELIGHTFUL (part of my Harringrove Micro Poems series on Ao3)
Daily loving casual touches getting bolder
Envying other couples who don’t need to hide
Languishing to be away from prying eyes
Wow.
I have more I'm working on , including fics for @billyhargrovebingo and the fic for the @harringrovezine and my @harringrovebigbang fic too!
Watch this space!!
no pressure tagging @discodeviant @spaceofentropy @thissortofsorcery @intothedysphoria @half-oz-eddie
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weathertheraine · 2 years ago
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Tagged for this ao3 year recap by my bestie @unacaritafeliz thank you rae !! Sorry it took me forever :P
Most Popular Fic
By both Kudos and Hits (and to my surprise technically posted in 2022) its ‘Sugawara’s genius foolproof matchmaking masterplan: Mistletoe Edition’ ! Which makes sense as it’s the one with every pairing under the sun in it :,) My second ever Haikyuu fic !! Though I’ve come a long way with my writing and characterisation over this year I am still proud of this one and all the Karasuno Shenanigans it contains hehe
Favourite Fic
Man is it conceited to say it’s SO hard to pick ?? I’ve had so much fun writing for Haikyuu this year… I’m gonna cheat and say two because the first one is smut:
Grapes from the Vine - my first smut fic and the softest Ukatake I could muster (which is very soft) I am so proud of this I really got to lean into a more poetic writing style and it cemented my Takeda characterisation which I am SO happy with :,,)
No more time to waste - one of my fics for tsukkiyama week, which has my favourite, confident Tadashi and pathetic pining Tsukki, as well as all my Karasuno Kouhai who I had so much fun inventing !!!
Most Unexpected Fic
Probably ‘from the same cloth’ because it’s such a rarepair and such a far deviation from canon (most of my work stays largely canon-compliant) - Aone/Asahi royalty au for the royalty bang !! They are such a soft rarepair that I have gotten very attached to
Fics for Next Year
WIP fics I’m taking into the new year are:
keep me intact - t4t tskym childhood friends slowburn :,,) this fic is so close to my heart and I’m really enjoying it
Win My Heart! - Timeskip Kuroken ft Kodzuken Loving Their Friends and a very silly dating sim (a gift for @unacaritafeliz)
Fic I’ve started and hope to post this year is:
Hold on to Anything - Huge Tanaka-focussed Night in the Woods AU !! I am SO excited to share this massive project in October, wish me luck
Fics I next plan on writing
Other than the above WIPs, the next fic I’m planning to start (probably after keep me intact is finished) is:
Bokuto and Kuroo’s genius foolproof matchmaking masterplan: Tsukishima-kun Edition (working title lmao)
Tagging
@lilac-writes and @oloreandil !! Though I know it's not really seasonal any more! 😅
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deancasbigbang · 1 year ago
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Title: Two Worlds Apart
Author: destielpirate
Artist: LamiaSage
Rating: Mature
Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester Background Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Length: 55000
Warnings: Nightmares, Panic Attack.
Tags: Amnesia AU Mysterious Cas Mutual paining Angst Past DeanCas Idiots in Love Dark fic Falling in love again Hurt/comfort
Posting Date: October 30, 2023
Summary: After being injured in a car accident and suffering through a memory loss, Dean spent the last four years attempting to put his life back together. The majority of his memories return, but something still remains missing—something he can't identify—that everyone is hiding from him, something that always remains unanswered. Dean’s past comes back to haunt him when he visits Sioux Falls for a business meeting where he meets a stranger named Castiel, but something about the man seems strange and oddly familiar which makes Dean wonder if he knows him, but the guy always refuses. And that marked the beginning of a quest to solve the mystery of his past hidden in between those recurring dreams which becomes more, and more vivid the more time he spends with Castiel which soon leads to a painful realisation and a series of regrets.
Excerpt: “How was it?” Cas asks, glancing back at Dean. “Amazing!” Dean whispers. "It was!" Castiel says in a low voice, "... It really was!" He murmurs, openly staring at Dean as if he had something to say, but then decides against it and casts his gaze away. After hearing the response, Dean casts a brief glance in Cas' direction because it didn't seem like he was talking about the book, but Dean chooses to ignore it because Castiel is hard to understand and has a habit of talking in riddles. Dean sighs, driving on an deserted road late at night, he takes the turns as instructed, paying close attention to the twisting roads. They settle in a comfortable silence, and somewhere along the way, Dean’s eyes flicker over to check upon his new friend in case he has fallen asleep, but Cas is wide awake, reading like he hasn’t picked the book up in ages and wants to absorb each, and every word of it. The road is nothing but a dull route with little to no traffic, and he finds the passenger in the shotgun who is engrossed in the book a little tempting, and happens to steal occasional glances at the nerd beside him, and something drops in his chest watching Castiel wear that soft smile while reading the book as the street light falls on Cas’ face, and fades away just as swiftly, before being replaced by another warm light of the nearing street light, Dean stares intently at the sight before it becomes a memory. Maybe, Dean wasn’t being subtle at all, and maybe Castieln noticed it as he glances at Dean to meet his eyes, and Dean is taken aback by the mesmerizing shade of blue prominent even in dimly lit atmosphere, Cas doesn’t say anything, but offers that lovely smile and Dean find himself mirroring the expression as Castiel tears his gaze from Dean to peer out of passenger seat window, and Dean allows himself to linger a little more at the strange feeling because something tells him this is not the first time he is looking fondly over the person sitting in the passenger seat, and something about Cas that has brought up this feeling, which almost seems like a déjà vu. A faint, blurry memory that is there, but still remains locked somewhere deep inside his brain. “Eyes on the road, Dean,” Castiel reminds, in a delicately soft tone. And without missing a beat, Dean finds himself saying, “But the road is not beautiful.” Castiel’s head snaps in Dean’s direction quickly, probably startled by the response and Dean looks away abruptly, snapping back to reality, flinching at his own words, he clears his throat not sure what had gotten into him seconds ago, it happened too quickly before Dean could even register what he was even saying. Castiel’s reminder triggered something in his brain and he replied with the answer that popped up in his head, as if he has always replied like this to whoever used to be in the passenger seat.
DCBB 2023 Posting Schedule
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hardly-an-escape · 1 month ago
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Square: B1 - Dehydration
Title: "dehydration"
Rating: T
Ship: Dream/Hob
Warnings: No archive warnings apply
Additional Tags: retired Dream of the Endless, established relationship, heat wave, temperature play, implied sexual content
Summary: Sleepless and uncomfortable in the midst of a summer heatwave, a retired Dream of the Endless finds an unconventional way to cool off with the help of his lover.
Link to AO3.
my first fill for @dreamlingbingo 2024! (yes, I know it's almost the end of October...)
The nights were the worst.
The irony was not lost on Morpheus – the night had ere been his home. Dreams belong in the dark, after all; belong to the dark. They are born in those middling nowhere hours between sunset and sunrise, and then too had Dream been born – or if not strictly born, at the very least come into existence.
Even the Dreaming, despite its riots of color and flights of fancy, had been greatly comprised of darkness. Of midnights, and of the dim corners of bedrooms, and the unseen things that lurk in them.
But Morpheus was Dream no longer, and the Dreaming was not his. He was human, not dreamstuff, and possessed of the same human foibles and weaknesses as all the other humans who were lying awake in the dark, oppressive heat of London at the height of summer; namely, a physical body, and all the glands that went along with it.
It was so hot.
Morpheus tossed and turned, seeking a cool patch of pillow. He was so sweaty. The top sheet, despite its lightness, stuck to his skin – but if he pushed it down, the breeze from the fan Hob had propped in the corner made his skin prickle uncomfortably, even as it brought momentary relief from the heat. The thin fabric of his underwear felt burdensome and restrictive – even his eyelids, even the inside of his skull felt sweaty.
He rolled over again and genuinely could not help the pitiful-sounding sigh that escaped him.
“Still awake, darling?” Hob’s voice was sleepy.
“Yes,” sniffed Morpheus. “I am. So uncomfortable. I cannot sleep.”
“I know, neither can I. It’s bad this summer.” One broad fingertip ghosted across Morpheus’s collarbone. It felt just slightly wet. Morpheus did not think his body should be able to make itself wet. “Can I do anything for you, love?”
“Yes. No. Yes. The fan is bothering me.”
Hob levered himself out of bed with a soft grunt and switched the fan off, then came back and kissed Morpheus lightly on the forehead.
“Want a little treat?” he asked. “I got something at the shops earlier that I think you’ll like.”
“I have already brushed my teeth.”
“You get special dispensation for cold treats in bed. I decided. On account of how it’s a million degrees even though it’s bloody midnight.”
Hob padded out to the kitchen and Morpheus heard the freezer open and shut. Something clinked against ceramic and then Hob returned, plopping down on the bed by Morpheus’s knees. Morpheus pushed himself up to a sitting position and kicked the sheet down around his feet.
The treat Hob handed him was bright red, even in the darkened bedroom. Morpheus took the wooden stick delicately between his finger and thumb and gave it a tentative lick.
“Cherry,” offered Hob. “Or at least that’s what it said on the label. I imagine it mostly tastes like sugar, really.”
“It is good. And more importantly, it is cold.”
Morpheus nibbled a chunk off the end of the popsicle and let it melt on his tongue. He closed his eyes, the better to savor the experience, to focus on the soothing interplay between sweet and frozen, and thus missed the sight of Hob fishing an ice cube from the small bowl he was holding and rubbing it gently against his mouth. He was surprised into a gasp, eyes flying open, when Hob pressed a chilly, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one knee.
“Hob – what –”
“Shhh,” Hob said, and placed another kiss, a little higher. “Eat your popsicle.”
Obediently, Morpheus bit off another small piece of the frozen treat. It almost immediately disintegrated into little shards of cherry-flavored ice, sharp and sweet. He felt the chill as it slid down his throat, but barely tasted the popsicle; the whole of his attention was fixed on Hob, on his eyes, wide in the dim room, and on the fresh ice cube he was practically caressing with his lips.
The third kiss was to the thin, soft skin of Morpheus’s inner thigh. The fourth just below his navel. By the time the seventh deliciously chilly brush of Hob’s lips was dropped next to his Adam’s apple, Morpheus’s pulse was racing and the popsicle was drooping dangerously near the sheets, practically forgotten.
Hob, of course, noticed.
“Whoops, love,” he said, reaching over and wrapping his hand around Morpheus’s. “Don’t want that getting on the sheets.”
“No,” Morpheus responded faintly. He was having trouble concentrating.
Hob smirked. He lifted Morpheus’s hand, popsicle and all, and suddenly the whole thing was in his mouth, his lips brushing against Morpheus’s fingers. He made a show of pulling the stained wooden stick out obscenely slowly, of dramatically swallowing, of licking his lips. Then he brought Morpheus’s hand to his mouth again and deliberately kissed each one of his fingertips.
“Why don’t you lie back, love,” Hob said, voice low. “And I’ll see if I can’t find another way to get your mind off the heat.”
read on AO3 >>>
this was expanded from this ficlet, but I added well over 100 words to meet the minimum requirements!
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landwriter · 2 years ago
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I posted 421 times in 2022
That's 421 more posts than 2021!
131 posts created (31%)
290 posts reblogged (69%)
Blogs I reblogged the most:
@softest-punk
@landwriter
@fishfingersandscarves
@teejaystumbles
@moorishflower
I tagged 393 of my posts in 2022
Only 7% of my posts had no tags
#the sandman - 273 posts
#dreamling - 206 posts
#dream of the endless - 106 posts
#hob gadling - 98 posts
#asks - 73 posts
#ruined once again by gorgeous art - 58 posts
#dream x hob - 47 posts
#my writing - 39 posts
#the sandman fanfic - 36 posts
#saint morpheus in stained glass - 34 posts
Longest Tag: 139 characters
#maybe i'm biased but i think learning about things you'd never have encountered otherwise bc someone has done research as a hobby and woven
My Top Posts in 2022:
#5
thinking about dream this morning. thinking about how he dresses buttoned up to the neck in finery for every meeting with hob. thinking it might be like armour. thinking he must keep his feelings in his shoulders his forearms the base of his throat and that’s why he has to keep them covered around hob. thinking of the tension in his body. thinking of his clothes as holding him together. thinking if hob ever reached over and undid a single button he fears the whole of him would spill out and swallow hob up. thinking it might be like courtship. thinking it might be like declaration. thinking it might be like ritual. thinking he might not magic it all off when he returns to the dreaming after their meetings. thinking that maybe instead once every hundred years dream undresses by hand. thinking he sometimes imagines the hands of another. thinking about hob’s warm knuckles brushing his throat. thinking about the rasp of hob’s calloused fingers across the lines of his collarbone. thinking that alone would be enough to be undone. thinking about hob’s lips pressing a kiss to the tender spot where his collar had pressed against his neck all the same. thinking about centuries of wanting. thinking about centuries of denial. thinking about clothes.
1,085 notes - Posted October 17, 2022
#4
Hob is not the daylight to Dream's darkness. He is not the sun to Dream's moon.
Dream is a night sky, Dream is darkness that swallows you whole, Dream is the pale brushstrokes of the moon spilling into your home while you are sleeping, yes -
But Hob is not the day. He is not the yellow glow of a distant star, but the heat and light right here, the heat and light of men. He is fire. He is the hearth. He is the heat we make and the light we tame. Hob is no sunrise. Hob wants.
Hob is the hot roar under the stars, licking into darkness and swallowing it back. Hob is the wild flickering light upon walls that makes us want to tell strange stories. Hob is the steadfast hunger of the most sated fire, burnt down to lazy embers, tracing orange veins into blackened wood, and ready, always ready, to burn for more.
Hob is no star. Hob is a light that is, in comparison, terribly young and terribly human. Hob is a warmth that comes from loving something so much you would consume it forever. It is the opposite of a sun. Hob asks for more. Hob says, Oh, yes.
Hob does not banish the night. He lights it, and he lights it from the ground. He is comfortable in the darkness. But if he is a light of any kind, it is this.
Dream is night. Hob is fire. They both consume. They both desire.
1,118 notes - Posted November 6, 2022
#3
thinking about writing a 250k established relationship dreamling fic spanning centuries of dream keeping a diary of soft vignettes about his husband hob and their lives together just so I can title it My Immortal
1,133 notes - Posted October 15, 2022
#2
hob gadling being so goddamn normal compared to his anthropomorphic husband, in-laws, and husband's social circle that he circles right back around to being the more sus/shady one OR hob gadling keeps accidentally derailing dream's attempts to be King of Nightmares by horny vibes/going "joke's on you, i'm into it"/"promise?" to any and all threats
Hob isn't normal, is the thing. He's not. He never was. He was smouldering with strangeness and hunger long before his future sister-in-law took one look at him and decided he'd be good for her little brother.
He asked her, once, bit drunk, if that was why she chose him: if she'd heard him forswearing her in the White Horse and looked at him, peered into the contents of his soul, and thought: well, there's one at least as stubborn as my brother - maybe they'll be good for each other. She'd just smiled and waited for Hob to take another sip before saying, "Good? I just thought it would be interesting," and twinkled at him when he sputtered. Hob said older sisters were terrors, and they'd toasted to that.
Whether she'd intended or not, they were good for each other, him and Dream. It took them a little bit to realize, a small handful of centuries holding one another at arm's length for fear of what would be seen any closer. Then they'd crashed together anyways, and it had turned out they were matched not just in that bloody-minded stubbornness to keep a decent thing going, but also in all the intensity they'd tried to smother to do so, the roaring hunger and devotion and need; the both of them strange creatures capable of giving so much and greedy enough to take just as much in kind.
On the outside, though, others see Dream, his distance, his power, the thunder of his voice, and don't see it as the armour it is, the necessary carapace protecting the sort of tender feelings that could scorch the entire earth, because he is a vessel for human emotions that are strong enough to live on in stories and dreams, because he is, in that respect, - and Hob gets choked up about this, if he allows himself to think about it too much - fundamentally more human than him, than all of them, the embodiment of every fantasy and fear and tall tale of men, tending to them each night, taking no rest for himself.
On the outside, others see Hob, his banal humanness, and other humans assume the rest of him is the same, and so do most non-humans, except they're baffled by it, baffled by why he is Dream's husband. So he plays it up, because it's funny, and if they're too incurious or gullible to figure out what lays beneath, then that's alright, because his husband figured it out, and loves him for it, and that's all he needs.
Dream didn't understand at first why Hob acted extra human whenever they mingled with other capital-e Entities and inhuman sorts, but now he finds it so amusing as well that Hob wonders how the gig isn't up from the moment anyone sees his twitching smirk. His husband has a terrible poker face, Hob thinks.
He's much better at pretending. In fact, he's so good at performing the petty normality expected of him that it goes full circle and becomes, somehow, magnetically strange to all the fantastical creatures in his husband's social circle.
He had not realized the heady effect of normal human upon non-humans until the time he had gone to a Samhain 'do in the Underhill, in his formal role as Prince Consort to the Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, first of his name, et cetera, and, rather comfortable with those sort of events by then, which were really not that dissimilar to interdepartmental faculty parties, with all the posturing and alcohol, only far better outfits, had, a bit soused on the fantastic elphin mead, accidentally started talking with a member of the faerie delegation about the football tables. At first he thought he'd committed a faux pas when the faerie just stared at him, slack-jawed, but later that night, he'd found himself surrounded by a cluster of wide-eyed dryads and undine and fae, gratifyingly holding court on why Billy Wright had been such a shite Arsenal manager. Apparently, it was the highlight of the evening.
It also helps grease the wheels of immortal statecraft, which Hob thinks of as something of a secondary benefit to making his husband smile. He would be a fierce bodyguard and soldier for Dream, in a heartbeat, he would curry favour on his behalf with pretty words and eager gladhanding, but what works out best, he's realized, is when important folk approach them to talk shop with Dream, to head it off with warm conversation about things like Tube construction, ABBA, and sausage rolls, until they look thoroughly disconcerted, before gracefully handing them off to his husband.
Whenever the occasion allows it, he'll skip on the finery too (another thing, he thinks, that he only cares about his husband seeing). Once, a baku ambassador, himself arrayed in glorious golden robes that matched his sharp gilt claws, had been so baffled by Hob's appearance on the arm of Dream, in his ratty old jeans and a United jersey he got as a gag gift once (and, on principle, refuses to wear in the Waking) that the chimera had absently agreed with Dream's suggestion for revised quotas on devouring nightmares.
Dream had been so delighted by that victory that he'd pressed Hob up against the front door of their flat in Islington, the moment they got back in, and laid kisses all over the hideous jersey, murmuring that Hob was a fearsome diplomat, and Hob had laughed and said he was only a distraction, then let Dream drag him to the bedroom anyways to thank him for his contribution.
Some see what's underneath, of course, and Hob's just as glad for that too.
The second time they'd had dinner with Crowley and Aziraphale, well past the food and making excellent headway on the rest of the wine, Dream had been called away on urgent business. Hob thought the night would end there, but the moment Dream left, Crowley had leveled an unsober finger of accusation at Hob and said, "Don't think I can't tell what you're doing."
Hob hadn't needed to try and look confused, but then Crowley leaned in and said, conspiratorially and only accidentally hissing a little, "This 'regular bloke' thing, but you're worssse than him, aren't you? Bet you are. Bet anything," and Aziraphale had genuinely emitted a tiny gasp of affront on Hob's behalf, and Hob was too busy laughing to say that he wasn't wrong at all, while Crowley gleefully swiveled around and said "I told you so, angel. S'obvious. Humansss. Not a normal one among 'em."
It was a lovely thing to say, actually, and all too easy for Hob to forget sometimes, being a particularly abnormal human leading a particularly abnormal life. But Crowley knew what he was talking about. He spent far more time with humanity compared to most of the inhuman lot. When Hob had made him promise to keep his secret from the rest of them - humanity's secret, really - and explained why, Crowley had laughed and laughed and laughed. He thinks it's the moment they became proper friends.
Hob isn't normal, is the thing.
But it's fun to don it like ceremonial garb and be an ambassador of humanity twice over: in truth and performance both. It's fun to be exactly what's expected and still disconcert.
And most of all, it's fun to go back home with his husband, to their terribly normal human flat, and curl up together in their terribly normal human bed, and watch Dream's face flush with pride or amusement as he debriefs Hob on what chaos he's wrought this time, intentionally or otherwise, with his terribly normal human presence, and Hob just laughs, then smiles until his face hurts, because Dream is his husband, wholly apart from humanity and still the most human creature Hob has met, and he knows all the ways that Hob feels like both, too.
1,370 notes - Posted November 10, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
headcanon where hob adopts a little cat that was living in the alley behind the new inn and after an enemies-to-friends slow burn (250k) dream and the cat become bffs and one day dream says are you bored? come to work with me, tiny emissary of the night and the next morning hob is reading the news and spittakes his tea when he sees the headline Black Cat Crossed Your Path? Scientists Theorize Collective Unconscious After Same Cat Reported In Nation's Dreams
3,659 notes - Posted October 14, 2022
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mercurialkitty · 2 years ago
Text
I posted 14,951 times in 2022
93 posts created (1%)
14,858 posts reblogged (99%)
Blogs I reblogged the most:
@saratsuzuki
@atalethatcantbetold
@zevbaldwin
@itwillalwaysbedestiel
@lifbitch
I tagged 10,290 of my posts in 2022
Only 31% of my posts had no tags
#destiel - 1,227 posts
#cas - 1,217 posts
#castiel - 1,033 posts
#misha collins - 795 posts
#destiel fan art - 505 posts
#dean winchester - 444 posts
#spn - 349 posts
#castiel fan art - 345 posts
#jack kline - 273 posts
#suptober22 - 214 posts
Longest Tag: 138 characters
#is there a fic where jack has his angel powers and just flits back and forth between destiel saileen and kelly households? earth & heaven?
I sent 2 gifts in 2022
My Top Posts in 2022:
#5
I was tagged by @tuometarr (💖THANK YOU so much! 💖 ) in Fic Authors Self Rec, which does give a a great excuse to talk about my own fics so here are  my 5 fave fics I have written
Ahem, that's the tag prompt -- actually I am so new to writing, that I don't have 5 favorite fics yet, but here's what I have:
Talks with Dads - Dean and Cereal - It's super short at 875 words, but I think this is my fave thing. My obsession is repairing the Dean and Jack relationship, so this ficlet has a soft spot in my heart. I think it's sweet.
On the Road again - This is the first destiel fan fic I wrote and shared out with the world, courtesy of a @winchester-reload Suptober prompt. So I'll be forever grateful for Suptober. It represents finally getting out there and creating content even in my fandom fifties. It's short at 1,563 words, but I like it, and I put in three Willie Nelson songs via YouTube links. Really, just the song Angel flying too close to the ground is worth clicking the link.
Game Night - Again, this is me wanting to repair the relationships around Jack. This is a heart to heart between Dean and Mary in heaven. It's 2,204 words.
Road Trip for the Holidays - was my first multichapter fic. It's a pile of self-indulgent college!Jack and his family fluff, with Jack's original character friend, and just a bit of Jack and Dean regretful feelz and memories so it's not pure sugar. At 54,897 words, it's novella length, so finally a decent amount of story to get into. I love parts of it sooo much, and yet I have newbie author embarrassment about it.
Instead of a fifth fic, I'll put in a plug for my fave fic that I'm working on. It's a Season 13 fix-it fic -- the formal title not set yet. Again, it's a repair of the Dean and Jack relationship we saw in 13.01 Lost and Found. I've been working on it for a couple years, but I've joined the WIP Big Bang to "Finish your SH**" , and I feel confident about finishing. So keep an eye out for the @wipbigbang and hopefully you'll see a promo when it gets close to the publishing date.
I'm also working on a midam, but I fear that will be a long time coming.
I'll tag a few random blogs who follow me and who have AO3 links in their header or pinned post. I think most blogs are a lot bigger than mine, especially with folks who write, so this may get lost in notes or they wonder who the heck this is :)
@procasdeanating @stillwinchester @damonnscroww @bluefirecas @fellshish @luninosity
Also if anyone else wants to use this as a reason to talk about their work feel free to consider yourself tagged ☺️
16 notes - Posted April 30, 2022
#4
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Suptober22
Day 20 - Spa
pencil
Cas, Claire and Jack are at the spa juice bar. Cas and Jack have matching fluffy white robes from their massages. Claire was trying out lounging around with an eye mask, but that's not her thing. She's probably going to head to the pool or a cardio dance workout. Jack's considering reminding her that the eye mask is still on her head, but Claire may not mind. It makes a decent headband to keep her hair out of her eyes until she braids it.
19 notes - Posted October 20, 2022
#3
Hey folks, if you went to Rotten Tomatoes to leave a RoadFood review and didn't find the entry last week, it's been added! I know a lot of us must have asked for them to add it so soon, so congrats to us.
Tell them how great Misha is! 😇
https://www.rottentomatoes.com/tv/roadfood
22 notes - Posted January 24, 2022
#2
So Adam is born on September 29 which is traditionally St. Michael's day. Dean was born in January
Adam was the true Michael sword and Chuck just ignored it because he was so obsessed with Dean.
It's like it was the universe's choice and not Chuck's.
25 notes - Posted October 19, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
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Misha photo op! Raven @magnificent-winged-beast edited it for me! (i.e., graciously took me out of the image, etc.)
And what everyone told me before is true. You think he looks good in pictures? It is nothing compared to what he looks like in person. Like maybe he has a big aura or something, but he looks even more handsome than most photographs of him. It's difficult to understand.
127 notes - Posted January 21, 2022
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