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licieoic · 4 years

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“Pour One Out” - Digital Oil Painting

Inspired by Suptober, theme: Pour One Out. Bartender/Patron AU! This one was actually inspired by a number of themes from Suptober including “Family Business” and “Favorite,” as shown in the ficlet below the cut. (It’s PG, though Dean is having some more adult oriented thoughts, LOL.)

Please see the pinned post at the top of my Tumblr for my links if you'd like to help support me in saving for a safe place to live!

“Hey.”

Looking up, Dean saw his brother, Sam, sticking his head into the brewing room. It had to be nearly time for his shift, he already had his abundant hair pulled back.

“Your favorite’s here,” he said.

Dean straightened up so fast, he nearly dropped the pitcher of beer he’d been pouring so carefully. “Trench Coat?” At least, that was the name he used with Sam; he didn’t want his brother knowing what he called the quiet man in his head. He’d never quite had the courage to ask the man’s actual name and since Winchester Bros was cash only, he couldn’t sneak a look at a credit card either. He’d considered asking for his ID, as that was perfectly acceptable in a bar, but since he was clearly over legal drinking age it would just make Dean look like he was stupid or an ass.

“Usual spot,” Sam answered before popping back into the main area of the bar.

He got up close to the shiny brewing vat in front of him and tried to check his appearance, but the metal didn’t make for a good mirror and left him looking deformed. Damn… He hoped there was nothing to worry about, like food in his teeth or crustiness in the corners of his green eyes, and that his light brown hair was just the right amount of tousled, leaning more toward ‘I woke up like this’ and less like ‘I use a lot of product.’ Then he reached into the pocket of his apron for the breath mint he always kept there, on the chance that his favorite patron would stop by.

It was easy to remember the first time he’d ever seen him, he doubted he would ever forget. Five months after he and Sam had opened the bar, they’d had to strike a deal with the Devil (Dean’s private name for their wealthy investor, Crowley) in order to save it from going under. It had always been their dream to start up a family business and they’d each quit lucrative careers (Dean as a mechanic, Sam as a lawyer) to open Winchester Bros. It had taken every penny of their life savings to do it, they just couldn’t give up so soon.

Pride still smarting with the knowledge that they’d be under Crowley’s thumb for the foreseeable future, Dean hadn’t exactly been the friendliest bartender that night. After being short with a small bachelorette party, Sam told him to concentrate on the solo patrons at the bar who usually weren’t the chatty types and leave the groups to him. Dean hadn’t argued, they needed as much patronage as possible, he could ill afford to turn what could be repeat customers into people who never came back just because he was in a mood.

Down at the far end of the bar, he saw a man with dark, messy hair hunched over the bar. He wore a slightly dirty trench coat over a deep navy suit and had a five o’clock shadow darkening his jawline. All in all, a fairly standard-looking barfly, if he were judging a book by its cover. Dean leaned both hands on the bar and tried not to sound too brusque as he asked, “What can I get you?”

Then the man looked up… and Dean forgot everything. He was lost in the bluest eyes ever to blue, bluer than the tie hanging crooked from the man’s neck. Dean’s mouth might have gone slack, he wasn’t sure. They were like angel’s eyes, almost too pretty to be real.

“I don’t know,” said the man, immediately dubbed Angel Eyes. He seemed kind of down, but that wasn’t unusual for a lone bar patron. “Do you have a menu?”

“W-we do,” said Dean, pulling over the list printed on laminated cardstock once he remembered how to speak. The line at the top read ‘Winchester Brews,’ which he’d thought damn clever at the time, now he worried it was corny. “Ahem… Everything on offer is brewed in-house, plus I can make you just about anything you like.”

“Anything, huh?” He looked at the menu, but didn’t really seem to be reading it. “I don’t know,” he said again, “surprise me?”

Something was really bothering this man, Dean could tell, his bartender instincts were jangling like crazy. His bi-dar, however, was all over the place. He never had a problem flirting with the ladies who came in, but it was always hard to tell if he was clear to make a pass at a man. That kind of thing could get dangerous, depending on who it was and what kind of attitude they had.

“Surprise you,” Dean repeated, reaching below the bar for a tumbler which he filled with a few ice cubes. “Well, you look like a man of… discerning tastes.” He followed this with a wink to test the waters. To his delight, Angel Eyes smiled. And Dean’s heartbeat doubled. He turned around and took a surreptitious breath in an attempt to calm it down, but it didn’t work.

From the back shelf, he retrieved a bottle of whiskey with a simple handwritten label on the front that read ‘Winchester Special #5’ and turned back to face him. As he poured, Dean said, “This here is our monthly special.”

“What makes it special?”

“It changes every month,” said Dean. “Afterward, we add it to the list of brews. And if you can guess the flavor, the inspiration behind it… it’s on me.”

“Has anyone gotten it right yet?” It was the nineteenth, he’d assumed correctly that some people had already tried Dean’s challenge.

He shook his head. “Not quite.” Gesturing at the tumbler, he quirked a brow and asked, “Care to try?”

Angel Eyes picked up the glass and took a sip. He tilted his head, appearing thoughtful.

“So?” asked Dean when he didn’t get an immediate answer. “What’s it taste like to you?”

“Hmm. Molecules.”

Dean laughed outright and Angel Eyes grinned. “Well, you’re not wrong!” he exclaimed. “Molecules, heh, can’t say I’ve ever heard that one before, but is that your final answer?”

Swirling the ice in the glass, Angel Eyes took a longer pull, maintaining eye contact with Dean as he rolled the whiskey slowly over his tongue. Dean’s mouth went dry as he watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down when he swallowed. Unconsciously, he licked his lips and those bluer than blue eyes followed the movement.

Angel Eyes clicked his tongue. “Blueberry…” he said, slowly. “But there’s something else… It’s sweet and… creamy?”

“No hints,” said Dean, but mentally he was cheering the man on, wanting him to make the right guess, and he was so, so close.

He took one last sip from the glass, finishing it off. “It’s good. I like it. It reminds me of a blueberry sour cream pie. Final answer.”

Dean grinned broadly. “We have a winner!”

He returned the smile with one of his own and it seemed like both of them had forgotten their problems prior to their meeting each other. “Really?”

Nodding, Dean poured him another. “On me. Since you’re the first correct guess.”

He picked up the tumbler and saluted Dean with it. “Cheers.”

Dean nodded, a little disappointed that he didn’t have an excuse to keep their conversation going, and turned to go back to work.

“Oh, and—”

Heart in his throat, he looked back. Angel Eyes hesitated.

“Thank you,” he said, finally. “This… really helped.”

“Yeah?”

He made a vague gesture. “I don’t want to get into it, I know bartenders aren’t therapists,” he said. “Just some family issues.”

Dean’s heart sank. He had a family. Of course he did. “Well, you’re not the first guy to come here to escape his wife for a while,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Oh, I’m not married,” Angel Eyes said.

“Girlfriend?” came out of Dean’s mouth before he could stop himself.

He shook his head. “One of my brothers is constantly going through a rebellious phase. Our father isn’t happy about it.”

“Ohhhh, well, I can definitely understand annoying brothers,” said Dean, aiming his thumb at Sam who was down at the opposite end of the bar, and forcing himself to swallow down any follow-up questions. He’d already said he didn’t want to talk about it, Dean wanted to respect that. “You should bring your family around,” he said, smiling. “It’s easier to open up after a few, you know?”

Angel Eyes chuckled. “I’m not sure if that would be a good thing or a bad thing. Besides…” He thumbed the rim of his glass before glancing back up, hitting him with that blue gaze all over again. “I don’t know if I want them coming around here. Maybe I want to keep you all to myself.”

Any thoughts of pushing for more patrons to offset his and Sam’s massive debt had flown away. Dean could only nod like an idiot, he knew what the man meant, of course, but the unspoken implications in the statement were pinging around in his head like a super ball. He might have squeaked out an ‘okay’ or a ‘yeah’ as he headed back to work, he didn’t remember. He did remember almost tripping over his own feet and not looking back, knowing his face would be bright red. He pretended to not remember hearing another chuckle.

Since then, Angel Eyes came in at least once a week, always sat at the end of the bar, and always ordered the monthly special, even though he paid for each subsequent drink following his correct guess. He was never wrong about the flavor either, which amazed Dean, he even got the lemon meringue right. He’d been so sure that no one would get it – he’d heard lemon-vanilla, toasted marshmallow, all kinds of other things because who guesses ‘meringue’ for a whiskey anyway? Apparently, a man with gorgeous blue eyes in a slightly dirty trench coat. Three months in, he was the only person who’d figured out that Dean based all the specials on his favorite pies and it only made his guesses come that much quicker.

As he headed out to the front, he dropped off the pitcher of beer and grabbed #15 from the shelf. He almost couldn’t believe it had been ten months since his favorite patron had first come in. Tonight was the night, he resolved, he would ask for Angel Eyes’ actual name. Maybe in another ten months, he’d work up the courage to ask for his number. Dean internally rolled his eyes at himself. He was truly pathetic.

Angel Eyes perked up at the end of the bar the moment Dean emerged from the back, yellow light from a nearby neon sign on the wall reflecting off his dark hair, almost like a halo. They smiled at each other and Dean’s heart was immediately doing flips, seeing how obviously happy he was to see him. Could be the Crush Goggles, but still…

“Fancy seeing you here,” said Dean, filling the glass with ice and setting it down on the bar. “I was wondering when you’d be in to try the latest special.”

“I’m just hoping it isn’t Pumpkin Spice,” said Angel Eyes. Being that it was October, it was a fair comment. You couldn’t go ten feet without encountering something bearing that smell and/or flavor.

“I do like pumpkin pie,” said Dean, pouring the whiskey. “But I think it’s more of a November flavor.”

Dark brows lifted. “A hint? This is new. What did I do to deserve that?”

Dean laughed. “Maybe I’m in a good mood, that’s all.”

“Me too. It’s a good night.”

“Hopefully, about to be better,” said Dean, nodding at the glass.

“I don’t need to drink to have a good time,” he said, but picked up the tumbler all the same to have a sip.

“Your continued presence at my bar says otherwise,” said Dean.

Angel Eyes swallowed. “There are other reasons a person might come to a bar.”

“Such as?”

“Good ambience.” He took a longer sip and let his eyes wander over Dean before traveling back up as he swallowed. “I like the company.”

Dean hoped he wasn’t blushing but he couldn’t hold back a goofy smile. “You do get to meet all kinds of people in a place like this,” he said.

“Yes, though I was referring to one specific person.”

“Yeah?”

He finished the whiskey and set down the glass, meeting Dean’s eyes head-on. “Yes.”

Mouth dry, Dean cleared his throat. “So, uh…” He gestured at the tumbler. “Any guesses?”

“Maybe.” He trailed one finger around the rim of the glass. “If I pay for the drink, can I have something else as my prize? If I get it right, of course.”

“Uh.” He swallowed hard. “S-s-sure.” He could hardly manage the one word; he couldn’t even summon the brain power to ask what it was he wanted.

Smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, Angel Eyes considered his answer. “This is a good one,” he said. “Definitely not pumpkin, but it has sweetness… and a note of tart as well.”

“Are you a sommelier?” Dean asked suddenly. “That would sure as hell explain a lot.”

He laughed, the bright sound so incongruous with his gravelly voice, it had quickly become one of Dean’s favorite things about him. So much so, that he would go out of his way to come up with a corny joke or allow himself to be a little clumsy, just for the chance to hear that laugh.

“No,” he said, still smiling. “Disappointed?”

“No. I just can’t figure out how you’re never wrong.”

“I haven’t made my guess yet,” he pointed out.

“And?”

Deliberately, he reached into his glass and retrieved a small ice cube. Before Dean knew what was happening, Angel Eyes was popping it into his mouth and sucking on it while he thought about what answer to give.

Guh. He has to be doing this on purpose! Dean thought. How does he make everything he does so sexy?

Still keeping eye contact with Dean, he bit down hard. Crunch! If he kept this up, Dean would need to run to the bathroom and readjust his jeans. To try and diffuse some of the tension in the air, Dean attempted to make a joke like he usually would.

“You, uh, you know what they say about people who chew their ice, don’t you?” he asked, almost tripping on his own tongue.

“No,” he said, to Dean’s surprise. “What do they say?”

Well, this backfired spectacularly, thought Dean. “They, uh… that they’re, well, you know…” Those clear blue eyes wouldn’t give him an inch, Angel Eyes sat patiently waiting to hear the punchline of Dean’s naughty joke like they were talking about the weather. He had no choice but to quietly stutter, “That they’re… s-s-sexually frustrated.”

“Oh.”

Really? That’s all you have to say, ‘oh’? thought Dean, incredulously. While he watched, Angel Eyes fished out another ice cube and crunched down on it viciously, all while holding Dean’s gaze, as if to punctuate his statement. Heat creeping up into his cheeks, Dean took a steadying breath. Curse blushing, he thought. Curse the noun, curse the verb, curse the act!

“H-have I finally stumped you?” Dean asked when his tongue decided to work again.

“Caramel apple rhubarb,” he said, definitively. “Final answer.”

“Damn!” exclaimed Dean, pounding one fist on the bar. “You did it again!”

All he did was smile in response, the handsome bastard. As he reached into his coat pocket, he casually remarked, “You know, your freckles disappear when you blush.”

He blinked. “They do?”

“Then I get to notice them all over again when they come back.” Retrieving his wallet, he pulled out a ten-dollar bill and placed it on the bar between them. “It’s what I’ve been calling you in my head all this time. Freckles.”

“Well, that’s kind of rude, how would you like it if my brother and I were calling you Trench Coat behind your back?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Okay, good, because that’s totally what we’ve been doing.”

They snickered together.

“Out of curiosity,” said Dean, “what were you calling Sammy?”

“Manbun.”

Dean snorted. “I’m absolutely going to call him that.”

“So, his name is Sam? You don’t wear nametags, so I’ve only ever known your last name.”

“Nametags are lame.”

“They are. What’s your name, then?”

“Is this what you wanted instead of a free drink?”

“No, this is something I should have asked ten months ago.”

Fair point. Dean held out his hand. “Dean,” he said.

His fingers were cold from the ice but his palm was warm and smooth. “Castiel.”

“Wow.” It wasn’t a name he’d ever heard before; surprise mixed with his pleasure over finally learning the name of his long-held crush. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Not sure. Probably something anti-climactic, like Steve.” He picked up the ten with his other hand. “I’ll get you some change.”

Castiel tightened his grip when Dean would have let go. “Keep it,” he said. “Consider it a tip.”

“Okay,” Dean said, slowly, tucking the bill into his apron pocket.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?” asked Castiel.

“No.”

He grinned and it put all of the smiles Dean had received before to shame. It held a hint of mischievousness as he said, “That’s what I want.”

“You-you want—what? D-dinner? W-with me?” Dean couldn’t quite believe his ears. He’d barely been able to hope for a first-name basis tonight, he couldn’t possibly be so lucky as to score a date. But then, considering they’d been dancing around each other for ten months, maybe Castiel thought if he didn’t make the first move, it would never happen.

Bringing up his other hand, Castiel sandwiched Dean’s between the two as he said, very deliberately, “I don’t believe I’ve guessed wrong.”

Dean could be pretty dense sometimes, but he knew unequivocally that Castiel wasn’t talking about the whiskey. “I’m off in half an hour,” he said, smiling like an idiot.

“I’ll be waiting… Freckles.”

Okay… so maybe blushing wasn’t such a bad thing.

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palbabor-writes · 3 years

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hullo there

question, question.

i got a WIP idea & i did a little world building to spark some joy - so now i have these bullet points, and i’ll likely write this, but i wanna see if anyone is interested in me doing a post... cuz it’s... levi... again...

*insert sweat emoji*

and a, uh, college AU...

anyway, more under the cut.

lemme know what you think? pwease?

Teaches Real Analysis for Graduate students

It’s a tough class to slip into; only offered in Fall and Summer & only available the first three days of Senior and Graduate registration

You’ve looked over the class schedule - asked around the campus - got your advisor on speed-dial - you’re determined to get in this Fall

Come hell or high water - you’re walking the fucking stage in December

But there’s a snag

Apparently the professor you want, the one you’ve known for the last three years, and have a great rapport with, is taking this semester off

Something about over work? Or maybe it was a time share that was about to expire?

Whatever it is - it’s a goddamn wrench in your finely tuned plans

At 7am, Monday morning, you’re at your desk, mug of coffee in one hand, fingers of your right diligently poised over the trackpad

Click, click, return, one final strike of the keyboard, and you’re in

Registered for MAT 8811 Complex Analysis & Number Theory (Fall:1) MWF 8am - 10:45am

And with professor…

Who?

One Ackerman, L.

Huh, you ponder, stiff legs stretching under the table as you cup your steaming mug to your lips. Never heard of him.

As a rule, you usually don’t bother with those professor aggregator sites

It’s all bullshit.

You should know, you were an adjunct last spring, and the reviews you got were middling at best.

Who cares if anyone thinks he’s easy

This is a graduate math class for fucks sake - nothing is easy when you’re working on a masters

But your dawdling keystrokes have another idea in mind, and before you can blink you’re clacking their name into the search function

Oh.

He’s… got some good reviews. Fair. Easy to understand, and… bite-sized? Okay

A strange adjective for a math professor but whatever… guess time will tell

August 22nd

It’s too hot for this, you think, adjusting your backpack straps as you dash up the last flight of stairs. Why can’t we start in September? It doesn’t even feel like fall when the temps are hovering in the mid 90’s (32 for my celsius babes)

Thankfully, Professor Ackerman is in one of the older classrooms - so it’s spacious, cool, and blissfully dim - what with recessed fluorescents that likely haven’t been changed since their installation in the mid 1960s

You take a seat toward the back, flicking on your laptop and arranging your materials

Not that you’ll use them today

Syllabus day is always easy - a waste of time, really. If there’s one thing that should be compiled into an email, it’s this

So you open up a few windows, poke around on a couple of websites, order some shoes, and, oh, looks like two of your favorite shops have a sale on. Maybe today won’t be so bad after all

You’re just about to toss another item into your cart when the overhead projector starts up that low pitched whine

Blinking, you look up from the brightness of your screen to the front of the lecture hall

Odd. You didn’t think… you saw the professor even come in… and… why are the light still dimmed?

Was he sitting in one of the seats?

You look around at your peers, but most are simply tugging out binders, notepads, one is clicking on a recording device, no one is acting like anything is out of the ordinary so you shift your focus back to your screen - adding an additional pair of shoes to your already overburdened cart

Treat yourself, right?

You’re so engrossed in your rapid fire clicks and the frantic recitation of your card number that you don’t see the powerpoint flicker to life

Or the sharp eyes of the man who’s taken a seat on the bottom lip of the raised platform

There’s always one, he muses, tapping his electronic clicker against the heel of his booted foot

They think they’re slick; what with all that engrained tech, the subtle narrowing of their gaze, a distracted pass here, a well timed question there - well, we’ve all gotta learn things the hard way sometimes, don’t we?

“That’s all I have for you,” a deep voice calls out, making you jump in your poorly padded seat. “Textbook is for sale at one of those kiosks the school bookstore sets up. But the link I provided on the slide should take you to a free to use PDF. Stick it to the man and all that jazz. Any questions?”

Yes, you think, slamming your laptop closed. Like when did a presentation start? And where the hell even are you?

Finally, you spot him. He’s perched on the steps, legs haphazardly crossed, elbows resting on his raised knees. There’s… an intensity to him. Maybe it’s that jet black hair, or the cold look in his sleep weary eyes, but something about this man just oozes a loud and clear, “don’t fuck with me,” vibe

And you, idiot that you are, just missed his entire… lecture? What the hell even was that? Did he just toss some slides up and call it a day?

As the class filters out he remains where he is - but when you step up beside him, he graces you with a bored stare

“Yes?”

Best course of action… be… honest?

“Hi,” you blurt, molars gripping indentations into the side of your mouth. “I… I’m in, uh, your class.”

He blinks dispassionately. “You don’t say?”

Crap. “Yeah, and, er, I didn’t… I think I missed some of your presentation. With the lights half off I didn’t… see you start it.”

“Half?” he questions, knocking a few rogue strands of onyx hair from his brow. “That’s odd. Cuz from where I’m sitting, it looked like you missed all of it. Lemme guess…” And here he pauses to give you a swift once over with his pewter eyes. “Online shopping?”

What a… a… your outrage dies in your throat when he swivels back to your widened gaze

Something about this… feels...

He waits for your reply, untangling his legs and bracing his hands behind him as he peers up at you. “Go on,” he taunts, a black brow arching sardonically. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

notes: (ᓀ ᓀ)

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bagadew · 3 years

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The Great Ace Attorney Playthrough: The Adventure of the Unbreakable Speckled Band (Part 2a)

Last Time: A day of terrific highs and crushing lows, as I (Ryunosuke) met Herlock Sholmes The Great Himbo Detective, danced around with him solving crimes, and discussed the secret pet of the Russian teenager next door. Unfortunately this all happened because I (Ryunosuke) have been accused of murdering Kazuma, the best character in the game, whom I doomed by finding hot. Also we didn’t even get to see the Russian teenagers secret pet, so what, I ask you, is the point?

(Quick note before we start, because the investigation parts take me a lot longer, I’m going to break them down into chunks of daily progress. If anyone would like, when I’m finished I’ll link them all together in a masterpost, but this way we should get somewhere (and I won’t spend three hours emailing myself screenshots))

As Biff Strogenov the 1 ton sailor is still guarding the door to cabin number 2, we can’t sneak back inside to look at cute animals investigate Kazuma’s death.

Also Herlock Sholmes has left us so we don’t even have him around to lighten the mood and take our minds off of the fact this games greatest character lies dead on the ground (or wherever they’ve taken the body).

However we do get to go and see my man Hosonaga, who has been investigating this whole time and probably has more information to give us!

(And speaking of Hosonaga, I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’m no longer sold on the TB theory. I think if Hosonaga did have TB he would effectively be a one man bio weapon, and given the amount he interacts with everyone I’m not sure that’s a direction Ace Attorney would want to go in (at least I hope not). However if it’s not TB that, very excitingly for me, leaves something like Cystic Fibrosis as a good option. While Cystic Fibrosis (what I have) itself has only recently started to affect non white people, I believe there is a sister condition with similar symptoms that mainly affects asian people. I’ll look into it further when I next have a checkup.)

(Also just to be clear, I do know that Hosonaga probably has tragic backstory poison cough, but I’ve decided I’m going to just run with this until I’m told otherwise. Get your representation where you can!)

THE FUCK!?!

HOSONAGA WHAT HAPPENED???

Is this like the blood and something that just happens sometimes, or did someone do this to you?

Oh wait one of his little lenses is gone, this was clearly man made!

HE SAID WHAT!!??!!

LOOKS LIKE WE’VE FOUND THE FUCKING KILLER LADS!

Kazuma I’ve already let you die on my watch, please lend me your sword so I don’t make the same mistake twice!

So this is how they outdo Miss Brett huh?

I haven’t even met this man and I’m already setting my phaser to kill.

WHAT ARE YOU, THE NIGHTS OF NI?!!

‘’tis but a scratch’ he says as he looks at me through one and a half eyes as the bruises blossom!

I don’t know if I should consider this man a badass or an idiot!

Also, on a lighter note, he did meet Herlock Sholmes the Himbo Detective, so I can rest easy knowing they’ve canonically interacted

But still, I’m not sure how I’m going to get past this.

This bastard almost certainly killed Kazuma (who we’ve already established is the best) and now he’s started on Hosonaga (who becomes a closer second every time I talk to him).

I am going to rip this man to pieces with my teeth and laugh as I do it

(Editors note: Here I made my tumblr post calling for the captain to catch these hands)

In these trying times let’s just sit for a while and reflect on the new, very important, information we have received. Hosonaga likes ballet.

Thank you Hosonaga, I feel calmed now.

And also, thank you for this autopsy report. You know I always feel slightly weary about trusting these, but since it’s from you...

Dammit now I’m sad again!

So, it looks like someone broke Kazuma’s neck. I’m sort of glad it was something quick, but given Kazuma’s big ol’ sword, I’m confused about how it was done. Though I guess we can eliminate the tiny 15 year old next door from our list of suspects, since I don’t think she’s got the necessary strength.

(Also it’s definitely the captain.)

Well I’m glad of that, but it does mean that whoever killed Kazuma must have crept up behind him and taken him by surprise, otherwise they’d have been struck down by KBS (Kazuma’s Big Sword).

What I don’t understand is how the killer got into our cabin. I’m wondering if it’s one of those things where they were already in the room, but I can’t see anywhere anyone could hide.

So Kazuma was hit on the neck then? I must admit I thought someone had gone at him with their bare hands!

I trust you too Hosonaga!

(You remember that dial that was hovering between Idiot and badass, well guess which way it’s flipped!)

Come on Susato! Trust us too! Believe in me (Ryunosuke)!

... not yet... ok... :(

(Understandable though)

God I wish I could have seen it!

(It’s at times like this I wish I was better at drawing)

Hosonaga: The Susato to Herlock’s Ryunosuke!

Huh?

What’s shoe polish?

The writing on the floor? That’s all I could think it could be?

Ah, the mysterious smudge!

A taste test?

Ok, seriously though, it seems like the mark might have been left by Kazuma’s shoes as they scuffed along the floor. I’m not sure what this tells us, other than that the body was moved, but I think we’d already worked that one out by the fact Kazuma apparently chose to write his final words in Russian!

Farewell Hosonaga...

DON’T TIS BUT A SCRATCH YOUR WAY OUT OF THIS HOSONAGA!

(The dial has spun back to idiot!)

Oh shit...

I’m not even sure what to say or do about this other than feel bad and sad.

Like would it help if I told him I was pretty sure he’d been set up to fail, or would that make him feel worse?

You’ve got a self abusive streak to you, don’t you Hosonaga.

Oh SHIT! HE WAS DRUGGED TOO!!!

Wait a second, I BET EVERYONE ON THE SHIP WAS DRUGGED SO THEY COULD SMUGGLE NIKOLINA ONBOARD!

Except Kazuma because he didn’t like chicken!

I wonder if these two facts are connected, or if whoever killed Kazuma knew what was going on and took advantage of everyone being drugged to commit their murder.

Someone like the captain perhaps?

(And on that note, I’m going to turn in for the night and upload this in the morning)

#tgaa spoilers #tgaa #the great ace attorney #ryunosuke naruhodo #susato mikotoba #kazuma asougi #satoru hosonaga #the adventure of the unbreakable speckled band

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zmediaoutlet · 4 years

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in support of wildfire relief, @jesusonthetortillas donated $10, and requested pre-series pining!Sam, with diary discovery. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

After his little lesson from Sabrina, the hot librarian's assistant, it's not hard at all for Dean to find what he's looking for. He drops Sam off at the library the way he usually does, and flirts with Sabrina on his way out like he usually does, but instead of going to his shift at the construction site like Sam thinks he's going to, he circles back around, through the library stacks on the main floor, and waits like a dingus by YOUNG ADULT – ADVENTURE, watching the back of Sam's nerdy, nerdy head where he's hunched at the computer banks, getting up to no kind of good.

It wouldn't have come to this, Dean thinks, if Sam weren't so—he doesn't even know how to think about it. He doesn't know when to pin it down. They were doing okay. Sam ran away, a few years back, but since then he's—well, he's always bitching at Dad and bitching at Dean half the time too, but he's done good in school, he's done his part with the hunting. It was sometime at that last school. September in Maryland. Dad was gone a lot of the time, because Dad always was, and Dean went with him on about half the hunts but Sam got to stay behind, got to just call in research tips and last-minute lore checks, and Dean thought he was pretty happy, as much as Sam ever seemed happy. Chill, just doing his homework at the rickety desk, not complaining any more than usual about Dean's usual dinners of fast food or Kraft or Top Ramen. Seventeen and getting tall and mellowing out, and finally hanging out with his little brother was just fine. Dean thought.

That was two towns ago, three months ago. Dean picks his nails with his pocket knife, leaning on one elbow by the Hardy Boys. Sam's still working away on the computer. Anymore he always is. After school he's always angling for Dean to bring him to the library and if Dean won't drive him then Sam walks, even when it's raining, like it is half the time in frickin Washington, anyway. Always finding a free computer and settling in and disappearing onto the internet. Not coming home until the library closes, and moody if Dean's there when he walks in, and Dean just—he thought they were past all this crap. He thought that maybe Sam had—settled. Figured out how things were, how things had to be.

Well. Either way. Sabrina, with the glasses and the sexy dreads and the legs that very much went all the way to the floor under those wide-legged pants she was always wearing—she gave Dean a computer lesson, free of charge, and he's got a way in, now. Sam won't talk to him, won't hardly look at him. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, watching Sam type on the battered public machine. Sam's not the only one who knows how to research a case, in this family. Dean's going to figure this out. He's gonna fix it.

A bell rings, at five o'clock, like the end of a school day. Sam jerks like he's been shocked and looks up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. He's been engrossed for two hours, typing away, reading. Real frickin' boring, on Dean's end, but he stayed put. Like staking out a house for a job—nothing to do but wait. He takes a few steps backwards, makes sure the shelves hide his face, and there's a general rustling as people leave—a mom and her kid, and tears because the kid's favorite book wasn't here—and when Dean looks again the computer banks are empty, and Sabrina's checking out the last few patrons, and Sam's—gone. Walking home in the rain, little goth that he is. Fine with Dean, if it gives him a few minutes.

When he settles into the chair Sam was in it's still warm. He opens up Netscape Navigator, the library's homepage welcoming him in a friendly kinda way—big yellow smiley face, that's fun. He goes to where Sabrina taught him, in the menu at the top: view, and then History, where it turns out the computer saves all the webpages you went to just in case you need to find them again, and there—oh, jackpot. Gotcha, Sam.

All kinds of crap. A weather website, a bunch of Ask Jeeves searches, something called DiffEQandU. Some mythology stuff, too, and Dean goes to one that turns out to be a history of kitsune. That's something, at least—Sam doing his important homework, in there with whatever other crap he's been working on.

The last bunch of results are all pages from some website called Livejournal, which Dean's never heard of. He clicks one at random and is brought to—huh. A splashy red page, with a big picture on top of kids graduating from high school in those dorky blue robes. He scrolls down, skimming, looking for the important details among the mess, but it's hard to tell what it is. A forum, it looks like. Kind of like the ones Dean's been on where people trade car parts, or swap ghost stories. A square box, dated yesterday, that says WHEN IS HARVARD'S APP REVIEW???, and a panicky paragraph where some chick might die if she doesn't get in. Another, the day before, with questions about the SAT, and a link that says 43 comments that, when Dean clicks it, brings him to a bunch of apparently teenagers all giving each other tips from some test they're worried about taking.

College. Dean's stomach curls into a knot. It's all—college stuff, applications and tests and deadlines. The usernames are all weird shit: tmntpizzadelivery, quistis4ever, willyshakes. Dean can't tell—is one of these kids Sam?

Sabrina's nearly done with her line of book nerds. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and clicks away, tries another of the Livejournal results in the history. Another forum, this one apparently about—soccer? Jesus, Sam. Another forum, this one about Conan the Barbarian, and that one's at least easy to snort at, with people's shitty drawings of Red Sonja and excitement about a possible remake. There are personal pages, though, too—one titled Delaware Sucks, in which some girl complains about her life—one titled trent reznor rules my soul, featuring a goth kid who won't shut up about Nine Inch Nails and his bitch of a mother. Another, with a plain blue-and-grey color scheme, with the title on the road, and a new post from today—from an hour ago—with the text just reading, I don't know what to do anymore, and six comments underneath, waiting.

"Hey—ready to go?" Sabrina says.

Dean jerks in his seat. Sabrina's raising her eyebrows at him, behind her glasses, a little smile curving her mouth that promises something a little better than book dust and computer lessons. "I'm always ready," Dean says, grinning, and gets her to roll her eyes—yeah, he's in there—but his eyes drag back to the webpage, the posts. He scrolls down, quick—post after post, waiting to be read. "Real quick—borrow a pen?"

She has one—she's a sexy librarian, of course she has one—and he uncrumples a receipt from his jacket pocket and writes down the URL, careful to get it right. rearviewmirror.livejournal.com. He wants to click on the comments, but.

"Come on, the movie's starting soon," Sabrina says, and Dean closes Netscape, folds the receipt very carefully into his pocket, stands up. He's got a date to make out with a hot chick in the back of a movie theater, and maybe a little more, and Sam's whole Eeyore routine has to take a number. Dean will figure it out. He's got an easy way to run a stakeout, now.

December 4

Still can't decide. Anyone else going through this?

current mood: agonized current music: motorhead (AGAIN)

Comments:

teenagehamburger: Yes!! I still don't know where I want to go. Mom wants me to stay close to home, but Delaware sucksssss. Where are you looking?

rearviewmirror: Anywhere. TBH I'm still not even sure I should apply.

teenagehamburger: WTF?? Of course you should!! College is the big escape, remember?

December 1

He's driving me INSANE

current mood: annoyed current music: motorhead (again)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: lol you got it bad

rearviewmirror: right now I just want to hit him with a brick, actually

teenagehamburger: LOL!! Sorry :( :(

rearviewmirror: Sigh. I guess it could be worse, right?

teenagehamburger: Definitely!! He could be the cute cheerleader from 4th period who doesn't know I exist….

coppertonebuttgirl: oh, sorry hammie, that sucks <3

November 29

The thing is, I don't even want anything crazy? I just want to be—me. Just me, without anyone breathing down my neck. Trig teacher says I could get in to one of the top ten, but I just want to go *anywhere that's not here*

current mood: restless current music: Pearl Jam (home alone!)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: i hear you lol. why don't they get that the rules and hovering and all that shit just makes us want to run faster?

rearviewmirror: Exactly! My teacher keeps talking about college like it's a place to expand your mind and stuff, and that's fine, but lately I just want to expand my horizons. Kind of ironic?

bloodofreptile: yeah lol haven't you lived like everywhere?

rearviewmirror: Feels like it.

teenagehamburger: Is You Know Who going to college too?

November 18

I feel like it shouldn't be this hard. Normal people have it easy.

current mood: indescribable current music: silence

Comments:

coppertonebuttgirl: feel free to talk to me anytime <3

November 3

Dad's gone again. Didn't say goodbye. We went to the movies and he gave me a beer, and we watched the stars for an hour in the parking lot even though it was freaking freezing. Happier than I've been in a while. Don’t want it to change but it has to change.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

teenagehamburger: OMG, that sounds so romantic?? I can't believe you were drinking!! Aren't you underage?

bloodofreptile: lol relax it's not a big deal

teenagehamburger: I'm just saying!!

coppertonebuttgirl: wish it wasn't hard for you <3

bloodofreptile: dude you've got to say something

rearviewmirror: I literally can't.

bloodofreptile: ok but it's gonna drive you crazy. do you even know if he's gay? start with that maybe

The posts go on, and on. Reading backwards through time, it's a strange piecing-together. rearviewmirror is active in about ten communities and Dean reads through all of them, that week, bringing an illicit cup of coffee in to the library when he doesn't have a construction shift. He reads with his hand over his mouth and by the time he has to get off the computer he's got a headache, every time, his throat dry and aching.

The journal's been active for six months. Dean clicks through the pages to the very start and reads it in the right order, his heart pounding oddly in his ears. I don't know what this place is. A journal, I guess, considering the name. I just need somewhere to talk where no one will listen.

It's not a pouring-out, like some teenage girl doodling hearts around her crush's initials. He holds back. Never says exactly where they're living, never mentions names. To figure out who it was, you'd have to be one of two other people, and Dean knows that Dad can barely turn on a computer, much less go onto the internet and pore over some teenage angst-fest. Dean spends half his time wishing he were the same. Maybe if he hadn't asked Sabrina for help.

At home, Sam's the same as he always is. Comes home after his own stint at the library, eats the dinner Dean gives him. He reads, most of the time. Does his schoolwork. Dean says, careful one night, "Hey, True Lies is on. Wanna watch?" but Sam only gives him a strange, uncertain look and says, "No, I have a paper due," and he shuts himself into their bedroom with the door very firmly closed, and Dean sits there on the couch alone with a beer and Jamie Lee Curtis being sexy as hell on the fuzzy TV, and he—he doesn't know what to do.

He remembers that day, the looking at the stars day. It was November 2. A nasty anniversary, in their family, and yeah, Dad left. Dean got it. He'd thought Sam did, too, by now. It was better to have Dad gone, on a hunt, than trying to drink himself to death at home in the apartment. At least he was working, that way, and not hurting himself. To distract both of them, Dean picked Sam up from the library and they went straight to the movie theater—the Blair Witch sequel, with Dean providing running commentary about how dumb they were about dealing with ghosts, which at least made Sam grin and elbow him to shut up, even if he was laughing too, the liar—and, yeah, afterward they'd picked up Taco Bell, and then after that Dean swung through the liquor store drive-thru and they parked out, and he let Sam have a beer, and they both sat on the trunk and leaned back against the cold glass or the rear window and didn't really talk, much. The stars, big above them. The night, quiet. Sam was pressed against his side, chilled out and not bitching about anything, and Dean tucked his hand behind his head and he was pretty content with the world, right then. His brother, here, and a six-pack waiting, and nothing happening right then that'd hurt them. Sam smiled at him, that night, before he went to bed. It was sweet—like he used to be, when he was little—and Dean had ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching the public access, but his dreams that night were—good, like they never were on the night of November 2, and it had felt… okay.

do you even know if he's gay?

The college prep—that wasn't a surprise. It hurt but it didn't shock. All his worrying, all his whining, wanting to be 'free'—whatever free meant—it was all part and parcel of the last decade. Dean should've known better. Sam wasn't mellowing out. Sam was a stubborn little shit and he'd always wanted to have a life that wasn't—this.

The gay thing. That hit different. One of the communities Sam followed was for lesbian and gay youth, talking about their coming out experiences. Sam didn't post there much but he commented, asked questions. How do you know? What does it feel like? The hamburger girl was from there, a lesbian chick trapped in some Delaware high school. Encouraging, commiserating. They talked about how college would be their big escape, their chance to go to a big city and find their way. Meet people. Only apparently hamburger girl was crushing on the cheerleader from fourth period, and Sam—

Dean makes an excuse the next day. Saturday: no work for Dean, no school for Sam. Alone in the apartment together, all day, after Dean's week of reading—he can't face it. "Where are you going?" Sam asks, eight a.m. with his hair fucked up and coffee clenched between his hands, and Dean looks at him in his pajama pants and his ratty hand-me-down shirt, skinny and tall and hiding things Dean can't handle, and he says, snappish in a way he doesn't mean to be—"Out, Sam, for christ's sake—" and sees Sam's expression shutter before the apartment door slams behind him.

He goes for a drive, out of town. Cold, threatening rain like it always is, but it won't snow. Out—past the airport, past the suburbs, out to Black Lake. They killed the nymph that was drowning people out here, him and Dad, when they first arrived. Sam stayed home. Sullen on the other end of the line when Dean called to say they'd finished the job, and they were getting burgers for dinner, and did Sam want one. Whatever, Sam had said, like even answering was an imposition. That was November, too.

He sits on the hood, heels braced on the bumper, arms locked around his knees. The lake looks cold. He wants to sink into it, wants to feel that freezing shock, like the polar bear dive he did on a dare back in Illinois. The way the brain just goes blank, tv-static filling up everything and washing all the shit away. All the weird crap you don't want to think about, frozen, and the only thing to focus on just—getting out.

He's not going to dive into the lake. It's nine in the morning and he's wearing his only pair of boots. He hasn't gone out with Sabrina all week. He's been piss-poor at the construction site and McMillan nearly brained him with a hammer yesterday, because Dean wasn't paying attention, and the foreman screamed at him in front of the whole crew. None of that feels close, right now. He breathes the wet-clogged air, cold and mossy, turning his ring restlessly on his finger.

Back at that high school they went to in Raton, Mrs. Encinas in 6th period English told Dean he'd be smart, if he didn't just give up all the time. All he needed to do was take the time to read between the lines, to actually interpret what he was reading and not take things on face value. He made some joke. He doesn't remember what it was, now. Like he didn't know what the fuckin Great Gatsby was saying, when he hoped and hoped and never got what he wanted. When happiness always felt like it was about a thousand miles away, on the other side of a lake he couldn't cross, and hope went out like a snuffed light. Dean can read what's not there. He's done it his whole life.

The problem: Sam's little online journal went back six months. They've lived in four towns, in that time. He never uses names, never puts up anything that'd really identify him. They were in Maryland, August-September-first of October, and it was a comment right at the end of August, on the community for gay kids, talking to the hamburger girl: I like someone, too. He doesn't know. He. The same he that carried forward, through all his journal entries, from Maryland to Washington across whole breadth of the country. He likes classic rock. He drives me nuts. He gave me a beer, and I wanted—

Dean curls forward over his knees, sliding his hands into his hair, breathing hard between his knees. He can read between the lines and he wishes that he couldn't. He wishes—god. What? That Sam would just meet a nice girl and fuck her and get it out of his system? Except how he was writing, it wasn't like it was new. It was something he'd been thinking about. When did you know? had read one of the forum posts, and in the responses, among all the dumb teenage crap about formal dances and jerking off to the wrong person in the music video, there was a comment by username rearviewmirror that said, I broke my leg and he carried me to the car and I wanted to kiss him.

Sam broke his leg in July, the summer he turned fifteen. He'd been trying to stay quiet but he'd had this trapped whimper in his throat that he couldn't stop, and Dad had stayed behind to cover their backs and it had been left to Dean, to scoop Sam up, his whole body quivering with the shock—to hug him close between the trees, humid Georgia night making every place their skin touched slick with sweat—to let Sam cling to his neck, shuddering, and to put a hand on his back and whisper, hey, Sammy, it's not even that bad, huh? no bone sticking out, you did good. we're gonna get you a cast and I'm gonna draw you a great picture, okay, Cindy Crawford with her tits out, right there on your shin and Sam had been so shaky that his laugh sounded like he was crying, but he'd nodded against Dean's neck and chattered out sounds cool, Dean, and when Dean got him to the car Sam hadn't wanted to let him go—so they crawled into the backseat together, Sam still half in his lap and with his arms still tight around Dean's neck. Dad got into the front and frowned at Dean in the rearview, and Dean nodded, and when the car leapt forward Sam gasped and gripped at Dean's shirt when his leg got jostled, and Dean put his hand in Sam's hair and said, it's okay, you're okay, and Sam—wanted to kiss him.

He can't square it. It's like there's some twinned version of his brother, in this place Dean never knew existed. All these secrets he's been hoarding, this other person he's been. These wants that make him a stranger.

He goes back home with stuff for lunch around noon. Sam's reading, in the bedroom. "Got pb&j or grilled cheese," Dean calls, down the shotgun kitchen through the thin-carpeted hall, and Sam calls back, "I'm not hungry," which is a goddamn shit of a lie. He grows like an inch a day, he's never not hungry. Dean braces his hands on the counter and counts to five, in his head. He puts the bread away, and puts the cheese in the fridge. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV and it's college football, which is boring as hell, but it fills the apartment with noise. He wishes Dad were home. He wishes he were hunting.

The Huskies lose. Sam hasn't come out of the room, as far as Dean can tell. He's had—four beers? He looks at the table. Five. It's getting toward dark and it's raining, a-fucking-gain, and Dean's still wearing his jacket and his boots and his ears are cold, because the heater in here sucks, and he's shredded the label of the beer everywhere, everywhere. He brushes it off his knees and that just means it's gonna get ground into the shit-brown carpet, but—who cares. He's got other things on his mind.

He gets the last beer out of the fridge. Should've bought more. "Got some spare cash," he says, to the dark hall. There's a halo of light around the half-closed bedroom door. "Thinking pizza for dinner."

Silence.

Dean pushes the beer bottle against his forehead. "C'mon, Sam. It's not going to kill you to prefer pepperoni or sausage. Just say something."

"Doesn't matter," is the response.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed, slams the bottle down to the counter. It's four steps to the bedroom and the door flies open under his palm. "Just fucking say," Dean says, and Sam's looking at him with big eyes, curled up on the twin bed with his back up against the wall, books spread open all around him. Homework, of course. "Just say it, okay? What do you want?"

Sam stares at him. "I don't care! Get—whatever, pepperoni. Jeez, what's up with you?"

"Sure you don't want sausage?" Dean says, kind of nasty, and Sam frowns, shakes his head. Goddamn it. Dean drags a hand over his face, sags against the door frame. He's—a little dizzy. Oh—okay, so maybe he should've eaten, sometime since this morning. "Damn it, Sam," he says, his stomach twinging.

"What?" Give him this—maybe he's sneaking around, maybe he's lying about half his life, but Sam doesn't shrink back from an argument. He's still in his pajamas. He shoves his notebook away, lifts his chin. "What?"

"Been doing some reading," Dean says, and watches Sam's face scrunch disbelievingly. "Rearviewmirror? You don't even like cars."

It's weirdly satisfying to watch Sam blanch. He's been so unaffected the last little while it's almost a relief to get a real reaction. His mouth parts, his eyes go big. He stares at Dean in total silence except the rain drumming on the roof, and then he says, "That's—private."

"Not that private," Dean says. "You're putting shit on the internet for any asshole to read, Sam. It's not a pretty princess diary with a sparkly lock."

Sam's face is white. He licks his lips, his back rigid against the wall. "How did you—you never—"

"I know how to use a friggin computer," Dean says, and watches Sam close his eyes. "So? Got a lot to say to a bunch of strangers. Might as well say it to me. I mean, I'm your brother, right? Family."

It comes out hard but his voice cracks, on the last word. He swallows and some of the anger dissipates. Sam's jaw flexes and he tucks his hands behind his neck and his knees drag in, like defense. Like he needs defense. Against Dean. Like it's Dean who's wrecking things.

Dean's legs go out from under him. He sits down. Right there, in the doorway to the bedroom, the frame hard against his spine. The rain's loud and he doesn't—what is there to say? "You should've told me."

That's really it. Sam looks at him. Disbelief. "How?" he says, and Dean tips his head back against the wall, looks at the popcorn ceiling, says, "I don't know, it's not my damn secret. But you should've."

"Yeah, that would've gone great," Sam says, sarcastic.

Silence. The rain. Dean drags his hand over his face again, clears his throat. "So. You're—queer." For some reason it seems like the simplest thing to start with.

Sam snorts. "I'm not, like, jerking off to JC Chasez," he says, bitter.

"Who?" Dean says, but shakes his head. "God, whatever. Jesus, Sam, I can't—don't talk about you jerking off. You're not—you don't date chicks, either. Ever. So you're—"

"I don't know," Sam says. Kind of firm. Dean closes his eyes to not look at him. "I don't know, okay? But that's not what—" Pause, while he drags in a breath that's audible across the room. Dean curls over, his forehead between his knees. It's too big to hear. Sam blows out air. "You read the whole thing?"

Frail. Cobweb soft, like if Dean breathed too hard it'd break. Dean folds his hands over his head. "I read the whole thing," he says.

"Don't—" Sam says, quick, and cuts himself off. Dean can't stand it—he looks, peeking up, and Sam's made himself small, there at the head of the bed. His mouth is small, his lips between his teeth—his eyes, big and scared. "Dean. I wouldn't—I swear. I wouldn't—"

"Kiss me?" Sam flinches like from a raised fist, when Dean's all the way over here. Dean licks his lips, dropping his hands so they dangle useless between his knees. "Or, what. Leave? Either way it's pretty fucked up, for me, Sam."

"Oh my god," Sam says, very quietly, and—christ. Looks like he's gonna cry.

"Sam," Dean says, and no matter how pissed he is, that's not—Sam fights back. Sam always fights back, he's frickin' annoying that way. He's not supposed to crack like this. Dean rolls up to his knees and Sam's looking away, neck craned unnaturally so that his face is pointed at the broken-blind-covered window so that Dean can't see, but Dean can—Dean can see his teeth so hard in his lip that the skin there's white, and his chest shaky, and his fist clenched in the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and, and—"Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam's eyes close and there is—shit, shit, a tear, running fast out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek so quick that if Dean could blink he might've missed it.

Dean's gut hurts, like he took a punch from a werewolf and he's gonna be bruised for the next three weeks. He doesn't have anything to say to make it better, not when it's this screwed up. This isn't Sam bitching about Dad or whining about crossbow practice or pouting about a move. Sam's been thinking about this for two years and he's managed to talk about it with people, online at least. Dean's coming at it with a week's slow raw realization and he doesn't know how to make it—not how it is.

He gets over to the bed, on his knees. Sam won't look at him, like the view of nothing through the blinds is the most fascinating thing in the world. There's a wet shining trail, down his cheek to his jaw. A damp circle on his t-shirt. Dean says, because he can't think of what else to say, "You really—you want—" and even then, can't articulate it. A kiss. Sex. A kind of close they've never been. He says, slower, "Is that why you want to go?"

Sam drags in air. Sounds like it hurts.

Dean drags his teeth over his lip. There are books all over the bed. He pushes them away, and Sam's notebook. He pushes up—knee on the mattress, and sinking down to his hip, and Sam's close enough to touch, now, and he jerks and looks at Dean like he's an alien. A ghost. Something that can't be real, only they both know that it is. Dean touches Sam's hand, fisted there in his pants, and Sam jerks again, his stiff shoulders back against the wall, and he shoves Dean's hand but no matter the crazy growth spurt Sam's been having Dean's still stronger, still has the reach—he grips Sam's wrist and yanks, gets him off balance, and then he's right inside Sam's grapple and has his hand flat on Sam's chest, pressing him harder against the paint, and Sam stares at him wild-eyed with his breath both fast and deep and Dean leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a bad kiss—he barely hits on center, and Sam freezes—but there's the touch of warmth, Sam's lips—soft—and the shocked air hitting Dean's face—and Dean drags in breath through his nose and resettles, fits his mouth to Sam's soft open lower lip and makes it better, his head tipping, easy pressure there, just the faintest amount of suction so that when he pulls back a millimeter there's a little smooch sound, and that makes it—real.

He kissed his little brother. No getting around that. No pretending. His nose brushes Sam's cheek and Sam's not really breathing, and Dean—fuck, Dean does it again, pressing in and letting Sam's wrist go so that he can get a hand on Sam's jaw, tipping him so it's good. Sam makes a tiny noise and breathes out hard against his mouth, and when Dean kisses him for a third time Sam meets it, his lips moving finally out of that still shock, his fingertips brushing Dean's arm all careful, his heart pounding under Dean's hand.

Dean pulls back. An inch between them—not enough but all Dean can seem to manage. He swallows. His lips are tingling, and his eyes are closed and he doesn't want to open them, and his fingers—jesus, he's got them tangled in Sam's hair like Sam's some easy hot chick he's picked up at a dive bar, pressing her up against the wall in the bathroom hallway, knowing how the night's going to end.

"We can't," Sam says. Sam. His voice, steady and familiar. "We—Dean. This isn't—"

"No," Dean says, god knows why. He pulls back, though—pulls his hand out of Sam's hair, stands up. His legs wobble for a second. He has to open his eyes and so he drags in a breath and does, and Sam's sitting there with his shoulders high and tight and his hands fisted on his knees and his hair a little fluffed on one side, a little screwy. His mouth parted and his eyes—fixed on Dean's face, looking all over it. Like he's memorizing a trail map, for an unknown stretch of land.

"I'm drunk," Dean says. It's not true. Five beers—he's buzzed but he knows what he's doing. Sam doesn't contradict the lie. "Acting nuts. Sorry, Sam. I—"

"I want pepperoni," Sam says. His face isn't white anymore. He's flushed, dark pink in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are dark, wide and fixed on Dean, and there's still that shining trail on his cheek but it's drying. "Order from that place on Melrose. Garlic knots, too."

Dean backs up a step, pins on a smile. "What, you think I'm dumb? Like I wouldn't get knots," he says, and Sam doesn't smile but he nods, brief and fast like Dean's picking up a play in some con they're running, and Dean snaps a finger-gun at Sam—fuck, what is he doing—and turns out of the room, says—"Okay, dinner in thirty minutes or less or your money back!" and walks through the kitchen and out into the living room and out the front door, and closes it behind himself, and leans against it and stares blindly out into the rain, the setting sun still sparking some tiny golden bit of light out to the west, past the horizon.

He licks his lips and tastes salt, not his own. Sam's hand, on his arm—skimming, brushing light through the thickness of his jacket. Like he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to really touch. He drags in the rain-soaked air. He'll drive, to get the pizza. He'll drive, and he'll give Sam time. When he gets back he'll offer Sam half the pie and a beer, and there'll be some movie on TV that Sam probably won't want to watch, but maybe he will. They'll be—brothers. Dean knows how to do that. It feels like it's all he's got left.

It's—not easy but it's not all that hard, either. There's a brutal week where Dean's torn between walking on eggshells and wanting to wrestle Sam to the ground, and Sam goes perfectly silent—not pouty withdrawal or furious silent-treatment, but as still and quiet as though he's not even there. Dean can't bear it. It takes Dad coming home to break it—Dad, and christ, when he calls to say he's coming back Dean completely freezes and his mind fills up with—with—but then Sam looks at him and takes the phone out of his hand and says, his mouth's full—what's up? and after that it's like things… settle. It's not okay but it's livable.

rearviewmirror.livejournal.com goes quiet. Dean checks, occasionally, over the months that pass. When he's looking up some random piece of lore for Dad, when they're hunting alone and Sam's stuck back at whatever shitty hotel they stored him at, and Dean's on research duty because Sam's in high school and can't answer his phone. Dean types in the address and checks, and it's still that last post. Anyone else going through this? He hopes, sincerely, not. It's too fucked up for anyone else to bear. At least the Winchesters have practice.

They run PT. Sam does his homework. Dean watches TV. Hunting focuses things. There's stuff to kill and people to save and things aren't falling apart any more than they ever are, so—Dean deals.

Sam leaves.

It's January. Dean's in a library, alone. Dad's working a job north of Boise and he sent Dean down to Wendover to take care of a haunting, and Dean's done and Dad called and said two more days and there's this raw wounded spot where Dean should be able to turn, to look over his left shoulder and say—but it's empty there, and so he's in a library.

Sam started posting again, when he got to school. Small stuff. That he was sorry for the long break. That he'd ended up at a university after all. The hamburger girl doesn't respond anymore but the Nine Inch Nails boy does: thought you were dead, he says, no-caps like he's so goddamn cool, and Sam says, Just working some stuff out.

Sam likes his professors. He plays pick-up soccer with some of the guys from his dorm. His roommate snores. He doesn't listen to music at all. There's nothing—real. There's none of the sadboy shit, nothing about what he's feeling, no pondering of what it all means. He picks up a few different Livejournal friends, clearly people from his classes, who crack jokes about Ancient Civ and Linear Algebra. He joins a community focused around civil rights litigation. He might as well not be there.

Dean reads it all. If Sam's not calling then Dean's gonna check in whatever way he can. When Sam left Dean made sure he had at least one good knife in his bag and he said don't forget the salt when Sam hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and Sam snorted and looked at him like a gunshot but he nodded, and Sam's not dumb, he knows how to take care of himself, but. Dean's the big brother, here. He's within his rights, to check and make sure baby bro's not being a dumbass.

January and it's fuckin cold, in Wendover, but the library's too warm. Dean keeps his coat on anyway, scrolling through the comms. He's kinda turning into an expert, navigating the pages, recognizing the shorthand. He hasn't made an account. Doesn't know why he would. He finishes his scan of the comms Sam's part of and doesn't really see any relevant posts, and no comments from rearviewmirror that he can find. He chews his cheek and goes back to the main page, thinking—okay, he can get out of here. Beer and dinner, and finding a motel that doesn't look toxic, and waiting for Dad to call. Not the worst night he could have. He refreshes, one last time, just in case, and there's a new post. He reads:

January 23

Done with class for the week. Feeling restless.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

lawblog69: we should go out!!

bloodofreptile: go get laid

Dean snorts. At least the NIN kid is consistent. He refreshes again and there's a new comment.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

He takes a breath, sitting there at the computer bank. It's quiet in here—the good people of Wendover aren't much for the library, apparently—but he feels like someone's right there. Like he could reach out and touch, when it's just words on a glowing screen. Still—the speed of the comment—Sam's… sitting there. Right now, on a computer in Palo Alto, looking at the same thing Dean is.

He refreshes.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

bloodofreptile: still holding onto that? very hufflepuff. how long has it been?

rearviewmirror: my whole life

Dean presses his knuckles to his lips, hard enough that he can feel his teeth pressing back. Jesus, Sam. He refreshes—another comment, from coppertonebuttgirl, agreeing about the restlessness but apparently she's off to a date with her boyfriend, and Sam responds and says sounds nice :), and jesus, Sam, Dean thinks. Off to have the big college experience like he wanted so bad, off to have that new shiny life, and after five months away he's still all sadsack, still not actually living.

He clicks the comment box. He types, unaccountably mad. He hits submit, and gets a warning that it'll show as anonymous. He waits, and refreshes, and reads:

Anonymous: Just go hit a bar. Live a little. Thought you were supposed to be smart, college boy.

rearviewmirror: Since when does smart have anything to do with it?

Dean rolls his eyes. He can hear Sam's voice saying it, nettled and trying to sound like he isn't.

Anonymous: You're on here mooning after Cindy Crawford when Claudia Schiffer and Tyra Banks are out there in the real world. Have a beer, get over it.

A pause. Dean has to refresh twice. The librarian walks by with her cart of books and gives him a distracted smile, and Dean's so addled he doesn't actually process and then return it until she's already gone.

rearviewmirror: I don't think it's something you get over. It mattered. It still does, to me.

Dean chews his thumbnail. Sam's face, turned unnaturally, looking out that window at the rain. The wet track, on his cheek.

Anonymous: Matters enough that you're never going to move on?

rearviewmirror: I didn't think you could move on from family. Maybe I was wrong.

The air goes out of Dean's chest. He turns away from the computer, entirely, swiveling the chair so he's looking out at the lonely bookshelves. He flexes his jaw and swivels back around. Hits refresh.

The thread of comments is gone. He blinks, confused. He doesn't think he was hallucinating—been a while, since he was that tired and drunk. But—oh—in its place, a single comment, under the brief conversation with the NIN kid:

rearviewmirror: Tell me if it's you.

Dean licks his lips. He closes out of the browser, picks up his notepad and keys. On the steps outside it's cold, cold, fucking cold, and this town is bleak. He walks down to the Impala, waiting there in the iced-over grey snow, and braces his hands on the hood, and blows out a long purling winter-dragon breath, and then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Another new phone, but he's got Sam's number memorized, and he almost calls before he chickens out. If it's not actually wanted—he imagines that conversation and he's just not constitutionally capable, right now, of facing how goddamn awkward it'd be.

He texts: It's me.

The response, after seconds: Where are you?

The shitty part of Utah. That's saying something. Easier, like this. Like it's not him kicking down a doorway right into Sam's head.

I don't have class tomorrow.

Could be random, if he didn't know who he was talking to. Dean leans his elbows on the hood of the car, looking at the little box of black-and-white text. He chews his lips and thinks. Before he can respond, another message:

I don't want to move on.

Dean tips his head enough that he's pressing the edge of the phone into his forehead. His fingers are cold. He sniffs, his nose dripping in the icy weather, and types, careful to make sure he gets it right: I'm nine hours away.

Less, if he goes over 100 in the boring parts of Nevada, and if he doesn't stop at all for a catnap.

Stop in Reno for a nap. You get weird when you drive all night. Text me when you're close.

Dean works his jaw, standing there in the cold. He's got nothing to do, for two days. He's got most of a tank of gas. He's got—nothing. Nothing. He gets in the car, and he drives.

It's only 9:30 when he gets to Reno. There were parts of Nevada where he drove very, very fast. He pulls into a truck stop, gets more gas and parks out near where the semis are lined up, the drivers early-birding the night away. Still cold here but less so. He twists around so his back's to the passenger door and looks out the driver window at the neon signs of the truck stop, the cars going in and out of the gas islands. He ate a little but his stomach was all twisted up and he couldn't get much down. A beer would go easier but he doesn't want to be drunk. Well. He does. This is insane. This is—completely stupid.

He pulls out his phone, looks at it. Dials and holds it to his ear, and it rings three times—long enough for him to change his mind four times—before there's an answer, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"

His voice. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold glass of the window. "Long time, no speak," Dean says. It feels rusty.

Sam's quiet for a second, on the other end. "Not really, though. Right?"

"I guess so. It's not the same." Dean listens to the little acknowledging sound Sam makes. There's silence again, for seconds that he counts—one and then two and then three. He listens to the cooling tick of the engine, through it, and then says, before he loses his nerve, "I shouldn't come. Right? This is nuts."

There's some noise, staticky. Like something passed over the mic on Sam's phone. After a beat, Sam says, "You should do what you want to do."

"Oh, should I," Dean says, and it comes out sarcastic, but he doesn't really mean it to be mean. Sam doesn't take the bait, staying quiet on the other end, and Dean opens his eyes again, watching a huge truck muscle past the gas island, watching the normal world go by. He rubs his eye. "I've been—it's been weird, Sam."

Understatement, but he doesn't know why he says it. That kind of stuff isn't for Sam to worry about.

"Go to sleep," Sam says, instead of responding. "An hour or something, just enough so you won't drive off the road. Text me when you're close."

Same thing he said before. "It'll be like three in the morning when I'm close," Dean says, and Sam says, "I'll be awake," and then the line disconnects, and Dean's left there alone again on the bench seat, but it—feels different.

He sort of sleeps, sort of doesn't. He's got a talent for going to bed wherever and whenever he has to—on spare tires and on forest floors and in a closet, once, with a propane tank as his pillow—but his brain won't shut up. He drifts in and out, for the hour Sam asked him for, and then he gets out of the car and goes into the 24-hour c-store and buys a big cup of coffee and a Hershey bar, and points the hood west, and follows the yellow dashed line home.

He texts from a gas station outside Sacramento. Sam texts back in less than a minute with an address. Dean glances at his map of California and responds: 45 minutes, and it's more like thirty when he pulls up to the—yeah, the motel, and he makes a sound that's sort of like a laugh except it doesn't feel like one. He turns into the parking lot and the headlights flash the building, and there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to a pillar.

Dean parks. Sam has his arms folded over his knees, but he unfurls, stands. Dean gets out of the car and Sam's—jesus, ten feet away, his face totally visible under the streetlight. His hair's a little longer. "Did you get taller?" Dean says, and Sam huffs, his head ducking, and—fuck everything else, it's Dean's little brother, and he drags Sam into a hug, folding his arms over Sam's shoulders even if he has to lift on his toes a little to do it. Sam goes stiff for half a second, but he hugs back, and Dean turns his face in, Sam's hair in his nose like it always is, and feels him—warm, and safe. All Dean ever wanted for him, pretty much.

"You have to get the room," Sam says, when they pull apart. At Dean's eyebrows he shrugs, the corner of his mouth curled. "What? My scholarship doesn't include seedy rent by the hour stuff."

"Oversight much?" Dean says, but he goes in, and he gets a room. Two queens, because that's what the tired miserable little desk clerk says they have available. Means Dean doesn't have to think about other possibilities, and it means that when he dangles the keys off his finger and Sam half-smiles at him, when they've walked down the cold sidewalk side by side, when Dean opens the door and finds the different motel room, same as the first—Sam sits on one bed, and Dean sits on the other, and they look at each other, and it's like it's two years ago and they're just two kids, waiting for Dad to come home.

Sam is taller. Taller than Dean, now. His hair long enough to fall in his eyes, which it does constantly. Newish sneakers, and old jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt, and a denim jacket over the top of that. Not warm enough for the Bay in winter, but Dean bites his tongue before he says anything about it.

"How are your classes?" he says, instead.

Sam's cheek sucks in, like he's chewing it. After a second he says, "You don't want to talk about my classes, man." His head tips. "Anyway. You read about it, right."

It was a mistake not to stop for beer. Dean needs something to do with his hands. "Your algebra professor sounds like an asshole," he says.

Makes Sam smile before he ducks his head, looking down at his lap. "I thought—" He swallows, audibly. He shakes his head, his hair falling down and hiding his face. "Only reason I started posting again was that I wondered if you might still—if you'd check."

It's quiet, honest. Dean hasn't talked to Sam in person for half a year and he's off-balance. Expecting Sam to snark, to be dismissive, to roll his eyes. Small hours of the morning, maybe he's too tired not to be honest. Maybe he's growing up. Dean's not prepared for that.

Sam looks up at him when Dean's silent for too long. His teeth dig into the corner of his mouth and he drags his hand through his hair, gets it off his forehead. "I said I didn't want to move on. You know what I meant, right?"

Dean huffs. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot, Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes tighten. Dean leans back on his hands, tips his head back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. "Thought this was the whole point of getting out. Getting away, making a whole new life. Being someone else."

"I'm still me," Sam says, unseen. "And it wasn't the whole point. I want a life. That part—whatever, that doesn't matter right now. But I never thought the other thing was going to go away."

He stands up, so Dean can see him. Dean looks at him down his nose, and Sam's—god. Tall. That keeps being his first thought. Tall, and maybe not a stranger, even if he's real damn strange. Sam steps closer, in the little space between the two beds, chewing his lip again. He's gonna make a sore there. "Dean," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "You came."

"Yeah," Dean says, rueful. "Well. I'm Cindy Crawford."

Sam's face ripples—a frown, surprise—and then a huffed little laugh—and then he steps between Dean's knees and touches his chest, his jaw. Leans down, slow, telegraphing like they're practicing a fight, and Dean stays exactly where he is, leaned back on his hands, and Sam's mouth touches his—softly. Not hesitant. Dean lets his eyes close and feels it. Puff of air against his face as Sam lets out a tense breath and then another kiss, the damp inside Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and Dean kisses back then, reaching up and getting Sam's jaw, his jacket, fisting the denim and pulling Sam closer. There's a stagger—Sam's knee landing on the bed by Dean's hip, and Dean gets an arm around his lower back and kisses him again, tasting him. Salt, and when Dean kisses him again and presses his mouth open, licks inside, there's coffee-taste, Sam's tongue—slick, tentative—he stayed up, to wait for Dean—his kiss clumsier now, like he doesn't have much practice.

Dean pulls back a few inches. Sam's half-draped on him, his weight nearly in Dean's lap. His eyes are dark but big with surprise, like he didn't expect Dean to go with it. "Sammy," Dean says, and Sam—shudders, his hands closing hard around Dean's shoulders. Okay, Dean thinks, filing that away. He drags a thumb over Sam's jaw, where he's got a barely-there prickle of stubble. "What are we doing?"

Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. "This," he says, holding the side of Dean's neck. "This."

They peel Sam's jacket off, and then Dean's. Sam's still in that hoodie, soft black, and Dean gets his fingers just under the hem of it, barely grazing Sam's stomach, kissing him again—tangled up close on the edge of the bed, Sam's thigh slung over his. Sam keeps touching his face, his chest. His amulet, swinging forward between them when he urges Sam down to his back on the mattress, a knee between Sam's and his hand still there on Sam's belly. Sam grips the amulet and breathes out hot against Dean's face and lifts up for another kiss, which Dean gives him easy, and it's—god, it's good. The lights on, the room warm, Sam wanting underneath his hand. His mouth, slick and open, learning how to press back, how to give as good as he's getting. Dean kisses his cheekbone, his jaw, settles his hand flat on Sam's stomach to ground him, says, "Sammy, you've done this before, right?" Sam hitches breath, nods. Dean sorta laughs, lifts up so he can actually see Sam's expression. "More than once?"

"Twice," Sam says, and when Dean raises his eyebrows he frowns, vaguely indignant. "Jenny Morrison, just before graduation." He licks his lips. "And—a guy. After student orientation, here."

"Playing the field, huh?" Dean says. There's no reason it should make his stomach go molten hot. He rubs Sam's stomach, feels the rise of his breath. "You like it?" Sam nods, again. "What'd you do?"

Sam's cheeks are dark, brick-red. He licks his lips again and Dean ducks back in to kiss him, knocking his mouth open, tasting inside. Earns himself a small deep noise and Sam's hand sliding through his hair where it's too short to grab. He nudges Sam's nose and sits up, peeling off his overshirt. "C'mon. What'd you do? Didn't put that up on your journal, how am I supposed to know?"

"It was a rush party," Sam says, looking at him. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, making sure his amulet stays put, and Sam blinks heavily, his lips parted. Jeez—it's weird. Hot. Sam wants him, Dean thinks, and it sends a rush of blood south. "He's—uh. Pre-med, smart."

"Not looking for his biography, Sammy," Dean says, and spreads his hands on Sam's hips, pushing up. The hoodie moves, the t-shirt underneath rucks up—Sam's pale here but still that faint all-over tan, darker than Dean's skin. He licks his lips. "What'd you do? Jerk each other off?"

Sam nods, again, his mouth open. God, Dean can imagine it. On some dorm-room bed, their heads leaned together, Sam's mouth open just like this—panting, his hand fumbling down—fuck, fuck it's hot, Sam nervous and into it and trying, making sure. "You liked it, huh?" Dean says, stroking his thumbs over Sam's bare belly.

"Yeah," Sam says, thin on not enough air, his knee drawing up. "But I—I thought about—when you kissed me—" and Dean kisses him again, groaning. Jesus, Sam's gonna kill him. Thinking about some shitty nervous freaked-out kiss when another guy's got his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam grabs his shoulders, sits up, and Dean accommodates him easy, letting Sam touch him back—Sam's hands sliding down his chest, around to his ribs, grasping. "Dean," he says, panting.

"Let's get this off, huh?" Dean says, pulling, and Sam yanks the hoodie off in a second flat, his hair all ruffling up behind it. The shirt comes with it and there's just Sammy's bare smooth skin, that same pale tan all over. Small brownish nipples, slim muscles. His body. Dean dips and kisses his bare shoulder, licking there, biting, and Sam's nails dig into his ribs so he does it again, swinging a leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap, taking his time. He scrapes his teeth over the swell where Sam's collarbone dips into the arch of his trap, and Sam grips his neck, his back arching. He's hard. Shit, he's nineteen, he has to be hard. Dean slides his fingers down Sam's belly to his belt, tucking under the waist of his jeans, but Sam grips his wrist, then, groaning, saying—"Wait—wait—"

Dean drops his head to Sam's shoulder, groaning back. "We waited," he says, but Sam's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back, making him look. "What?"

Sam's pink. "Have you—with a guy?" Dean rocks back but Sam's holding him close, looking all over his face. "Dean. Have you—"

"Yeah," Dean says, and watches Sam's ears go red. Sam doesn't need to know when, but it was all in the last year. Three dudes, hookups that were way too easy. They were good—turns out that Dean just likes sex, any way someone will give it to him—and he learned what it felt like to have a dick not his own in his hand, how it felt to slip a cock into his mouth and make a man groan. He hadn't thought about Sam while he was doing it, not really, but he's thinking about it now, and Sam's eyes have dropped, his lips between his teeth. Jealous? Dean smiles while Sam can't see and breaks Sam's hold on his wrist, and slides his hand down, and cups the crotch of Sam's jeans where he's swelling them out. Sam jerks, eyes flying open. "Means I know what I'm doing. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and then it's—undoing his belt, and unzipping, and then—god, he's still got his sneakers on. Dean backs off and kicks off his boots, deliberately, and Sam blinks at him hot-eyed with his chest heaving and his jeans half-open looking like a friggin porno, but then he gets with the program, and the shoes thud to the shitty carpet and then they're practically racing, undressing, and when Dean kicks his boxers off to the side Sam's—naked, half on the bed, staring at him. Dean stares back, circling a hand around Sam's ankle. God, to look at him, in the lamplight. Long legs, hairier on the shins and lightly furred on the thighs, and a decent dark bush around a dick that's—jesus, that dick. Big, bigger than Dean's, bigger than—Dean licks his lips and looks up with an effort and Sam's staring right back at him, focused between his legs, his mouth parted. "Like what you see?" Dean says, and Sam doesn't answer, just reaches for him, and Dean crawls up the bed and settles on his elbow above Sam with their legs brushing bare, Sam's dick hot against his hip, and Sam kisses him with both hands on his face, his thigh dragging up against Dean's, his lips almost trembly.

Dean soothes a hand down Sam's ribs but Sam's—fuck. Shaking. They haven't even done anything. "Sammy," Dean whispers, between Sam's needing brief kisses, and Sam shakes his head and kisses him again and then ducks his head down, his nose brushing under Dean's jaw. Dean pulls Sam closer—tips, so they're on their sides—and pulls Sam's leg over his hip, pushes in, and—ah, shit, shit that feels good, Sam's big dick brushing in against his, dragging heavy and hot. "Oh," says Sam, small, and Dean slips his hand further and grips Sam's ass, the muscle tight and small—pulls in, and pulls again, encouraging, and Sam grips Dean's shoulder underhand tight enough to hurt but follows, pushing in with the rhythm Dean's urging. He's breathing fast, hot against Dean's throat, but he's got it—humping in, meeting Dean, making their dicks slide, his cockhead smearing wet against Dean's belly. Dean hums, kissing Sam's temple where he can just reach it, just enjoying the—insane way it feels. He lets Sam's ass go and Sam keeps going—good, good—and he licks his fingers sloppy, and reaches down between them, and for the first time he gets a grip on Sam's dick, feels the heft of it. Sam makes a sound like he's been shot and Dean says shh, easy, slicking his hand down to the base, squeezing hard as he pulls back up, and Sam makes another gulping strange sound, his thigh clutching hard around Dean's hip, his hand crushing Dean's lower back in closer. "That feel good?" Dean says, and Sam—comes. Fast, humping in, spurting up Dean's belly and his own, the slick getting all over Dean's dick, hot and wet, the sensation enormous. Dean squeezes him through it, knowing, and Sam humps in again and grabs his ass, nails digging in. Dean tips his head back, feeling it. God, it's good. Sam. His brother.

He swallows. His dick's throbbing, wanting more, feeling left behind. Sammy shudders and Dean licks his lips, pushes Sam back so his shoulders hit the bed. He flops—boneless, shocked—and Dean drags his hands over Sam's ribs, frames his hips. His dick is still big, flushed and wet, his balls clutched up high, and Dean licks his lips and says, "Okay," to no one, and leans down, and gets Sam's dick in his mouth.

A shock, Sam's body practically lifting off the bed. "What," he says, somewhere Dean can't see him—"What are you, oh—" and Dean thinks, oh, what if no one has done this? What if Jenny just opened her legs and she and Sam humped awkward and teenage in some backseat—what if pre-med only wiped his handful of Sam's jizz on the mattress and passed out—what if Dean's the first one, here, opening his jaw wide, careful of his teeth, slicking down, getting the whole fat length of it in his mouth. Only—he can't, fuck, Sam's too big. He fists the base, pulls off, spits and slicks the wet down. When he glances up Sam's up on his elbows, staring, and Dean grins at him, jerks it again, swallows. He can taste Sam's jizz, leftover from coming before. "Hang on," Dean says, and goes back down, letting the head bust his lips open, slicking tight down to his fist, dragging his tongue hard against the underside, suckling easy. Sam takes his statement as an order and grips his head, his shoulder, his hips cringing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean heaves in air, feels Sam firming up again, thick and needing and good.

He's only done this a few times but he—shit, he liked it. Likes it better the other way around, of course, but like this—his dick pressing into the bed, throbbing—Sam splitting open his mouth—yeah, it doesn't exactly suck. He bobs up and down, making sure to pay special attention to the soft ridge at the head, and Sam's making insane noises, now, up above him, petting his head and his shoulders and gripping, trying to shove up. Dean leans into his hip so he can't, fists his dick, pulls off gasping and licking his lips. Sam's still staring, down the length of his torso, and Dean jerks him through the goopy mess they're making—his spit, Sam's precome, what Sam's already come. "You like it?" Dean says, and Sam—rolls his eyes, the little shit.

"You're smug," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "You're damn right I am," and lets Sam's dick go and goes down, down, no fist in the way until Sam's dick hits the back of his throat and he gags—breathes through it—slurps up with tight lips and then goes right back down, getting his throat used to it, learning the feel of this massive, awesome dick. Sam moans, pushes his hips up, and Dean lets him, rides it—lets Sam fuck up, lets him get a rhythm, like fucking—Sam, fucking his face—and Dean reaches down between his own legs and fists his own dick, finally, groaning in relief and making Sam shudder as the vibration rumbles through Dean's open throat. Sam grips his head with both hands, holding him down, and Dean drags in air through his nose and holds there, filled up with Sam and choking, spit flooding out of his open mouth—the world dark and just Sam's taste, his smell—and Sam makes a little sound—and Dean grunts and lifts off, breaks Sam's hold and crawls up his body, straddling his hips and dragging his dick against where Sam's is all sloppy-hot, dripping wet. Sam gasps up at him and grabs his hips, his ass, fucking up into him, and Dean grips both their dicks in two hands, fucking into the tight wet channel he's making for them both, and Sam pulls at his ass, spreading it, rocking his hips to help, moaning and looking helpless up into Dean's face, and Dean leans down and breathes against him and Sam still comes first, creaming them both, his dick flexing and twitching in Dean's grip, and Dean braces one slick hand on the bed and fists himself seriously, jerking fast, and Sam moans and kisses his jaw and pulls at his ass with those big hands, his fingers slipping low, dipping—and Dean jerks and spills, his belly seizing, his thighs clamping around Sam's hips, Sam's lips open and dragging wet against his throat, his fist gripping the bedspread so hard that his fingers cramp.

Sam's stroking his hips, repetitive and soft, when he's done panting. Dean swallows, shifts his weight. He's slumped on top of Sam, his face buried in Sam's shoulder. Wet between them, sliding, and he releases his dick and slips his sticky hand out, bracing on the bed enough to get some air between them. When he lifts up Sam's eyes are half-closed, but he focuses on Dean's face right away, and his hands stop their stroking and just squeeze, warm and tight. "You okay?" Sam says.

"My line," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes again, squeezes again. Dean sits up more but Sam doesn't let go. "C'mon, we should clean up."

Sam's eyes tighten, just barely. He sits up, keeping his grip on Dean, and Dean rocks back but doesn't tip over. He gets a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep his balance and Sam says, steady, "Don't freak. Okay?"

"Who's freaking?" Their dicks are still pressed wetly together, though Dean's basically soft, now. Sam's still plump, thick. He swallows. "C'mon, we're gonna get cemented together," he says, and Sam's mouth purses but his grip goes light, and it gives enough room that Dean can lift off, get his feet under him. Jesus, there's enough jizz on him that it's rolling down his belly—he claps a hand to it before it can drop, smearing it over his abs. "You come like a geyser, dude," he says, not really complaining, but Sam's cheeks are red when he looks back up, and he feels—shit. He doesn't know.

He goes to the bathroom. Fluorescent light, pink-painted sink. He wets one of the five-cent washrags and wipes himself up, and he's not turned on anymore so his thought is mainly that it's just gross, and that bed's going to be wrecked, and also, what is he doing. What is he doing.

Sam's hand appears, reaching around him. He jumps. In the mirror behind him, Sam's tall, looking over his shoulder. Looking at Dean, even as he wets the other rag, cleans himself up. Dean chews the inside of his lip and can't really turn away. Sam's got red marks on his shoulder, where Dean was biting him.

"Stay," Sam says. He tosses his wet rag back into the sink and settles his hands on Dean's biceps, squeezing. When he steps forward his dick presses into the small of Dean's back and his chest is warm, damp. "Tomorrow at least. We've got the room. Stay."

"You want your dick sucked again?" Dean says, and that time it is mean and he did kind of mean it to be, and Sam's eyelids dip and his jaw clenches, but he only slips his hands away from Dean's arms to his ribs, holding him. It feels… Dean shakes his head. "Sam," he says, but there's not really anything that can go after it.

A big hand slides up and over, flattening on his breastbone. "It's not just this," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror, and it makes Dean's cheeks go hot.

He covers Sam's hand with his. He shivers, for some reason. He says, "I should take a shower, I've been in the car all day," and Sam says, "Okay," and Dean takes a shower and Sam sits on the closed toilet, watches him through the clear curtain. Gives him a towel when he comes out. Takes his hips, when he's dry, and presses him to the tiled wall, and tips his head up, and kisses him clean.

Five in the morning, or later. There's a clean bed and Dean hasn't slept in a day. He lays down and Sam lays down with him, a few inches away until Dean relents and turns over, and Sam curls up behind him, holding on, his mouth against Dean's shoulder. There's going to be a call from Dad, at some point. Dean's going to have to meet him somewhere, because there's going to be something bad that needs killing. He can't stay. He's wired and tired, all at once.

"Sleep," Sam says, and Dean turns his head against the pillow, knows he will.

"Hey," he says, and Sam makes a quiet noise. "If you put this on your journal, maybe bloodofreptile will finally shut up about you getting laid all the time."

"His name is Dennis," Sam says, and Dean laughs, weirdly glad. Dennis. Yeah, that fits. "And this isn't going on the internet."

"Probably a good idea," Dean says, and Sam says, again, "Dude, go to sleep," and Dean tips back into Sam's warmth, and does, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in a year.

#fffr #wincest #weecest #first time #long fic #my writing #--seriously this one also went too long #but idk it felt right this way

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hetacon · 4 years

Text

Prom Queen: Chapter 1

Previous || Next

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Word Count: 1,500

Pairings: Endgame Prinxiety, Eventual Platonic LAMP, more could be included at a later point

Warning: The teeniest bit of swearing, slight food mention, Remus is mentioned briefly

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Summary: “Oh shut up,” he grumbled to it as he turned off the alarm before checking the date and sighing lowly.

It was exactly the day he had been thinking. The first day of school.

(Don’t miss the notes I have at the end of this post if you’d like to hear some additional details! There is a prologue to this story by the way, be sure to check it out!)

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The alarm blared loudly from across Virgil’s room. He tried hard to the best of his abilities to ignore it but he did make it loud for a reason.

One of those reasons being that he knew himself well enough to know that he would ignore it if he could and shut it off and go back to bed if he couldn’t. Going across the room to get it had always proved to have a higher chance of success in his experience so he had gone for that option last night.

The second reason though was because of today. Virgil shot up upon remembering and went over to his phone charging across his room, squinting at the screen.

“Oh shut up,” he grumbled to it as he turned off the alarm before checking the date and sighing lowly.

It was exactly the day he had been thinking. The first day of school.

The first day of high school in fact, the event of the decade that he and Roman had been waiting for in anticipation. Well, that was being generous but either way, they were both anticipating it for different reasons as they always seemed to do.

Virgil was not thrilled at the prospect of a new school. He would be required to learn a new campus, new classrooms, new classmates, and new teachers. Within the first week, he knew he’d be accustomed to at least the rooms for his classes but the other ones could take some getting used to. He knew that either way, he wasn’t going to get along with a majority of his classmates and he’d be too nervous to get to know any teachers or do much more than answer the occasional question or take role until they’d learned their students’ names. The campus was another issue too. Where would he be waiting in the morning? Where would he eat lunch? Did he and Roman even have the same brunch schedule? How was he getting home again? What time did his day end?

After shooting a text to Roman about one of those questions, namely in terms of the schedule, he got ready. After pulling his hoodie on over his head, he brushed a hand through his bangs to push them back before frowning at his reflection, letting them fall over his face again. He didn’t look better per say but he could see less which was always a plus in situations he was dreading. His mom had come in at some point to make sure he had actually gotten up and he was out of the house with his backpack and phone as soon as Roman bounded up his driveway.

“Virgil, it’s finally happening!” his best friend squealed, linking their arms as Virgil was tugged along down the route to their new school. “Finally, we’re high schoolers now, can you believe it?”

Virgil snorted, feeling a weight lift off his chest. One of them at least. “Can I believe it? Yeah. Do I want to? Hell no,” he muttered out with an edge of grumpiness to his voice only to have Roman laugh.

“I promise that I’ll be with you as much as I can the whole day! We’re going to have brunch and lunch together too and then I’ll take you over to my place after school!” Roman explained. He honestly made it sound so simple but really, he usually did. It even usually was, at least when Roman told him so. He just always knew how to make awful situations... easier.

“Eh, I guess I’ll take it. Though I’ve gotten a horrible end of the deal for compensation,” Virgil jeered a little, laughing to himself as Roman gasped and shoved him with an obvious smile.

“Shut up, you love me and you know it!”

Virgil’s smile came easily as they kept walking. “Yeah yeah, whatever you say,” he snorted.

Roman talked about theater, asking what productions Virgil thought they should put on, how he hoped to get some good roles this year, and then listed off some of his personal favorite musicals that he hoped he’d get to do at some point. Virgil filled in the gaps and spaces of the conversations and Roman did the rest. It was comfortable, it didn’t seem like this year would feel so bad now with things going just as they always had.

The day started off pretty alright honestly, much better than Virgil would’ve expected. Luckily he’d done a walkthrough of his schedule during registration so he knew vaguely where to go and he made it to his second period class early.

A lot of them were standard class introductions, icebreakers, and syllabuses. It seemed like exactly what he was used to in junior high, just at a different school. Some of his classes seemed pretty boring but he knew he didn’t have much of an option on the basic ones he had to take. He texted Roman between classes to see how he was fairing. He wasn’t very surprised that it was going off without a hitch.

It was a relief by the time that Virgil got to his English class right before lunch, the one class he and Roman shared together. Roman rushed in right as the bell rang and collapsed into the seat next to him, breathing out with a smile.

“Cutting it close, huh?” Virgil whispered.

“Sorry, I was a bit preoccupied,” Roman merely offered as explanation before the teacher got up and started talking, cutting their conversation short.

“Man, I am so excited for theater today! I can already tell it’s going to be so amazing!” Roman chattered excitedly as they walked out of English, making their way over to one of the more secluded areas of the campus Virgil had been able to find, setting up to eat lunch.

“Yeah, totally didn’t see that coming,” Virgil said with a slight shake of his head, smirking a bit. “It’s not like you’ve been talking about it all day. Oh wait! You have.”

“Alright alright so I will admit that I might be a little more excited than one would expect!” Roman relented, shrugging. “But! It’s just so amazing, I got into 7th period theater, Virge! I’m going to be in the actual productions!! That’s a big deal for a freshman, usually people don’t make it until maybe sophomore year, you know?”

“Well the director would’ve been an idiot if he didn’t want to put you in them, yeah? I think so anyways,” Virgil said as he took out his sketchbook.

“I suppose but still, I’m just...” Roman laughed to himself, bouncing in place. “I’m so excited, I can’t wait to meet all the new people there,” he giggled.

Virgil nodded, starting a sketch of Roman which Roman immediately posed for, knowing the drill.

“Soooo, have you met anyone interesting today?” Roman asked as Virgil was working out the shape of Roman’s nose, their eyes making contact for a second before Virgil was back to sketching.

“Nah, not really. Though somebody just kinda... Gave me a cookie during art. He said I looked like I needed it. He’s my table partner now so there’s that, you know?” Virgil said with a shrug. “He’s pretty cool I guess. Liked one of my drawings of you.”

“And you didn’t strike up a conversation? C’mon Virgil, you could be set on baked goods and a person with great taste for the rest of your life!” Roman exclaimed, shifting out of position as he threw his arms out to which Virgil gave a half-hearted glare.

“You’re dumber than I gave you credit for if you believe I can talk to people.”

“Well I may be dumb but I take it with pride like a Prince should!”

“Your brother is the smarter of the two of you,” Virgil mused.

Roman pouted. “He is not!”

“Pretty sure he is,” Virgil hummed out.

As the two conversed a little more, Virgil didn’t feel up to eating anything.

Lunch ended and the day finished up with Virgil waiting outside the auditorium for Roman to be done with theater. The two walked home with Roman going on and on about the rest of his day, telling him about all the people he had met and all the things that he had gotten up to. Apparently there was already some idea of what the fall play would be so Roman talked about it at length.

“But seriously Virgil, it was so nice of them! Two of the juniors gave me a card to welcome me, it had my name on it and everything, I can’t wait!”

Virgil merely nodded as Roman continued.

Virgil didn’t have much to say at that point, just letting Roman keep going. Virgil just listened on, focusing silently on his best friend as they made their way home.

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A/N: Hey hey hey guys, here is the first official chapter of Prom Queen! I don’t have an especially strict schedule for this story but I do try to post every other day and it works out fairly well! I’ll try not to make it be more than a couple weeks between chapters but life might get funky so if anything happens, I’ll try my best to handle it and get more chapters out!

That being said, I hope you are enjoying the story and are excited for future chapters! Let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglists, either this one or my writing/art taglists in general and I’ll catch you guys next time!

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Taglist: @spookijam, @its-the-cat-queen, @virgils-paranoia, @marshmallow-the-panda, @anotheregofanficblog, @tssidesfamily, @shapa-likes-art, @isabelle-stars

#sanders sides #prinxiety #virgil sanders #roman sanders #multi chapter #prom queen #stan writing

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popculturebuffet · 4 years

Text

Amphibia Reviews: The First Temple or Bessie and Joe: The New OTP

Hello all you happy people! Amphibia season 2 moves right a long and it’s time for some video game shenanigans as we enter The First Temple! Family drama, snail on bird action, and outhouses await you under the cut with a recap/review with full spoilers.

So we open with the Plantars having chocopillbug pancakes. Ironically my mom offered me chocolate chip pancakes after this and thank god for that. This is a rare treat to the point Anne didn’t even know they had choclate, and is suprisingly not strangling Hop Pop over this. Unsuprisingly he broke out the good stuff to try and make up for hiding the box and things are still VERY awkward between the two, with Hop Pop walking on Egghshells around Anne and Anne doing the same when he brings it up with both desperatley trying to avoid the subject and Sprig not helping by bringing it up a bunch.

I like this a lot and didn’t really think about the series continuting any tension over his decision.. but should have. Partly because this is a modern animated show and most of this wonderful new wave of shows have a LOT of emotional nuance. ANd partly because this show dosen’t forget things even most nuanced shows forget: the fact the characters cause chaos and learn life lesons is outright RECOGNZIED by the show as a pattern and brought up quite often, as are the patterns that lead to it, like mostly being sprig and anne, anne’s impulsivness that sort of thing. It’s the kind of thing you just gloss over in most shows but this one lampshades to hell and back for funsies so when something THIS important happens, you’d better belivie it’s not just going to disappear.

The tensions thankfully broken by a new arrival, as a massive sparrow shows up in the yard. “It’s a giant bird with.. books on it’s back.. what. “ Great delivery from bill there. Naturally it’s Marcy!

I missed this little goober. Such a joy to be around, and she of course marvels over the Plantar’s house before getting back on track: She’s found the first temple.. even though she sent a letter saying that and it’s not commented on that she did. It set off the whole previous episode Marcy... you okay Mar-Mar?

That aside though it’s time for the first temple and Marcy asks for the Box, with Sprig trying to make a joke about how good thing she didn’t ask for it a week ago.

Polly rightly punches him in the ribs... do frogs have ribs? Hold on.. okay here we go

Huh.. so they do not You learn something new every day. Well lack of ribs or no our heroes are ready.. while Marcy’s sparrow Joe is also ready TO GET IT ON. Yes really, he does a mating dance for Bessie, complete with an intersumental version of “Sylvia” from last season. God damn that bird’s got game. The only time i’ve seen more game is THIS.

Marcy tells him to knock it off. Look marcy your a pet owner now and as a pet owner, it’s your responsiblity.. to let your giant bird do horrifying things with a slightly smaller but still giant snail. it’s what nature intended. Nature was doing a lot of cocaine that day but we still honor her wishes.

But anyways Marcy’s figure out something intresting about the box.. by winding it just right the gems pop out, which allows her to take one, we later find out it’s the green one, to use in the temple. So off we go with Marcy and the rest of the kids up top and Hop Pop.. screaming in Joe Sparrows claws. He’s fine.

So while they get ready, Anne worries about the amount of puzzles and hazzards Marcy’s hyping for this but Marcy shurgs it off and gives her own big boast about how may RTS she’s beaten.. suspciously like Yuaan as one post on here pointed out. Not a huge suprise though, to Marcy she’d just be the grand hero out of one of her rpg’s and not think of how many people she probably killed or who she’s working for.. though you’d THNK given all the RPG’s both tapetop and on her switch she’s played, that Marcy would see that “the benevolent king turns out to be the big bad” trope coming.

But Anne’s worry is not on the big bad of the show but on Marcy who has a tendency to get so in the zone she ignores the world around her, which goes from focusing on her game while helping anne get softserve leading to a mess, not letting Anne down in a play and.. Anne catching Marcy on tv as all the snakes escape from the zoo.

Regardless our heroes arrive and while the awkwardness between anne and hop pop continues, they find a majestic temple.. and what appears to be an outhouse. Hey we all gotta poop sometimes, even people making a majestic temple. If you don’t it comes out like this.

So they head in and we get our first puzzle, a mysterious cube that lifts you into the air and allows you to tilt the thing around.

Those of you wondering why I have such a strong reaction have ever never played breath of the wild or played it with a pro controller, i.e. NOT having to tilt the very thing your screen is on because Nintendo has failed to grasp that MAYBE people don’t like that, that it takes you out of the experince and that it’s really hard to focus on your screen while having to move the fucking system about. And the plantar’s getting horribly jostled around as she moves it is EXACTLY how it feels to play a puzzle requring that shit.

Next is a color based tile dungeon leftover from Link’s Awakening DX. As marcy figures out the reds do fire and the blues do crushing... but she reads the language (And as she put earlier “Guess who learned an entire dead language?” God she’s precious. ) and finds a green with envy pun (Which Hop Pop takes offense to.. several of his friends are green.). Which is curious as given several citzens of amphibia are green.. why would they make a green pun? So she gets on one tile and Hop Pop plans to take the risk of getting on the other green tile, but Anne does it instead.. and things get heated between the two as Anne reveals she no longe feels like family since he did what he did for polly and sprig and hop pop takes offense as she IS. Even if he screwed up with her. But Anne’s near death experince activates the tile.

The final challnge switches us from Zelda.. to Harry Freaking Potter.

Now I used to love Harry Potter, with all of my heart. Then JK Rowling turned out to be a transphobic piece of shit who thinks she’s an ally, but is really a bigot who wants to “accept” trans people without giving them any rights. So yeah while I still love the starkid musicals, ore more accuratley the music from them, and own a copy of lego harry potter I got as a gift recently as both parties had no idea she was a monster when this stuff was made. Still a sore subject though, but if I didn’t bring up the similiarties I wouldn’t be doing my job as a critic and this was likely thought up long before JK outed herself as well...

No no the great mighty poo respects all peoples.. and wants to take their heads and ram it up his butt. He’s an equal opportunity butt rammer.

Anyways this is the frog equivlent of chess flipfrog, and just like with Wizard chess, our heroes end up as the pieces minus marcy.. and in a nice twist on that scene, Anne ends up on the other side. Marcy is a grandmaster at it though so after an hour or so of play she almost wins.. only for the king equilvent to refuse to be taken and the automatic board she’s up against to send Anne against hop pop, and with our heroes magically restrained and given stone weapons, this can’t end well. Eventually though Anne’s forced to hit HOp Pop multiple times and while he says “well isn’t this what you wanted”, she says no.. she didn’t want to phsyically hurt him it’s just complicated. So we get one heck of an emotioinal scene as Hop Pop just wants to help and wants this to stop and dosen’t knoow how to fix this which as someone who desperatlyt ries to fix most emotional situations right away this hit very hard.. and her response of needing time hit harder. The two while not reconciled, ar ecloser to it and Marcy realizes what she’s done getting so obessed with winning and forfits for thier benifit. Our heroes leave, seemingly having lost.. only to find glowing arrows to the crap hole, which turns out to be the pedistal. The temple wasn’t just an intellegence test but empathy.. and the temples are clearly built to specifically test each of the chosen three, our heroines, specifically. Marcy’s tested her intellegence.. but also her willingness to let go of cold clyincal thought to do the right thing. That earns her her gem recharged and a flash in her eyes and her gem starts pointing to the next. She needs time to triangulate and hop pop and anne are back on workable footing... though our heroes offer to take a break instead of going to the next temple.

Back in Newtopia, Yuaan reports on the toads gathering.. but dosen’t get to mentioning sasha before Marcy’s letter interrupts and Andridas oddly and aburbly dimisses her.. and goes to talk to a watcher with a thousand eyes, his “master” who has plans to undo the prophcey and get their revenge.

Final Thoughts: This was a damn fine episode that gave Marcy some much needed character development, and gave the reveals of last episode some more emotiional fallout. It also had some really great jokes as always. Top notch stuf.

Next Time: Marcy tries to win everyone over through science and we FINALLY get an episode with the Frog Robot apparently. Horay

Next on this Blog: We go into final space yo! It’s unexpected births, ho yay, and horrifying zombie gary’s galore!

Until then if you liked this review, follow me for more, join my patreon, comission a review if you please and i’ll see you at the next rainbow. Play us out jeff... and I haven’t done THAT bit in a while but eh. This song was too perfect.

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#amphibia #anne boonchuy #marcy wu #the first temple #hopidah plantar #sprig plantar #polly planntar #king andrias #the watcher with a thousand eyes

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hainethehero · 4 years

Text

(This is just a shortened form of a fic that I'm currently writing, based on my Sterek post-link below!) https://hainethehero.tumblr.com/post/636769782067298304/currently-writing-a-fic-for-this-keep-your-eyes

Bike Boys

"I know all the guys come here hoping Kate would be the one to check their vehicles. But I'm sorry, she's not in today." the raven-haired mechanic offered, a small smile softening his handsomely rogue-ish features.

Stiles snorted, shaking his head as if to say everything was fine. "It's nothin' man," he remarks, feigning nonchalance in an effort to look cool. "I actually prefer men working on my... engine."

And he so did not mean for it to sound so creepy but it came out wrong anyway, making him cringe as the mechanic- Derek- smirks in amusement. It should totally be illegal, looking that good in dark jeans and a dumb t-shirt, a damp stain on the neck of said t-shirt. The man stared at him with pale green eyes that sparkled in the evening sun like some kind of enchanted lake. Again, Stiles wondered for the fifth time that day, Am I attracted to guys?

He'd been on a campaign recently to find out if he was attractive to them, but hadn't really been focusing on the bigger issue at hand- which wasn't really an issue, he was just curious to know if he was sexually attracted to tall, dark and handsome. Derek had broken through all of his walls this far and if he were being honest, it wasn't a big deal. Stiles had never been found attractive to anyone from school yet, was totally a virgin and was bi-curious. Sure, he was a mess while this Derek-guy looked well put together... and why the hell would Derek want him anyway? He's a spastic teenager with pale skin and fragile bone and nothing much to offer but sass and sarcasm.

"Hey, any chance you're headed to that music festival in Barstow?" Derek asks, voice like honey over shards of ice. He's currently wiping his oil-stained fingers on an already dirty cloth. Stiles refuses to look at the way his biceps bulge beneath the short sleeve of his t-shirt. He couldn't torture his eyeballs like that.

"Uhhh... yeah actually. I was supposed to meet up with some friends there. Of course, as my luck always goes, my bike stalled and now I'm here... with you."

He panics at the sight of a perfectly arched brow. "Not that that's a bad thing! I'm really glad for the uhh... assistance."

Derek grins and goes over to a black and blue bike. Stiles follows because he's got nothing else to do. "This one here's a 1949 Harley Davidson panhead chopper."

"You trying to sell me another one because my bike's lost all hope for a fix up?" he jokes, secretly hoping that wasnt the case because he'd spent money on his Street Bob goddamnit!

Derek snorts and folds his arms, once again showing off those incredibly unrealistic-looking muscles. "Well, it's due for some major maintenance but I wouldn't call it a lost cause. And also, this chopper is mine. If we leave now, we could probably get to the festival in ten minutes tops."

Stiles feels a stroke of pleasure course down his stomach, pooling between his legs and making him tingle down there. He blames it on his stupid teenaged body. But, did this sexy motherfucker just say 'we'?

"Uh, so you're going too? That's- awesome..."

Derek chuckles softly and it shouldn't be so endearing but it is. "I was supposed to meet some friends there too."

"Well what time do you get off?" Stiles asks almost immediately and hates that he can feel himself blushing.

"When I'm done with my last customer of the day."

Stiles blushes even harder- seriously fuck himself. "Which is.... me."

Derek nods, "You comin?"

In more ways that one hopefully, Stiles thinks, totally hating that his mind had provided him with such a tact less joke. Here he was, in an auto shop, with a much older guy, who wasn't a douchebag and was weirdly friendly and a little reserved which... Stiles found incredibly hot. And oh God, was he going to be riding bitch on this man's chopper? Derek mounted the bike, waiting for him to get his head out of his ass and hop on behind him.

Apparently he was.

"What's even the mileage on this thing?" he chokes, making conversation to distract his heart from pounding out of his fricken chest with excitement. He mounts the bike, leaning back slightly so that Derek couldn't feel the weird heat his body was suddenly giving off.

"A hundred and twenty thousand," Derek answers casually, much bigger hands taking Stiles' arms and pulling it around his torso. The teen squeaks when he feels the hard, rippling muscles beneath his palms.

"Jesus, you get around huh?"

Derek glances back at him with a wink that has him instantly sporting a semi. "And it's not even street legal. Hold on tight."

Stiles is pretty sure at this point he wasn't gonna let go... ever, but he does as he's told. His heart races as the fresh wind of the open roads slices through his hair and holds on tighter to the warm body in front of him. He presses his cheek against Derek's back and closes his eyes, for once not second-guessing or questioning anything that was happening to him.

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marvelous-writer · 4 years

Text

Of Christmas Lights & Car Chases

Summary: In which Peter gets tangled up in some Christmas lights when he’s trying to stop a car chase.

Word Count: 967

Genre: whump, fluff, humor

A/N: Merry Christmas!! 🎄 Thank you @whumphoarder for beta reading and brainstorming with me!

Link to read on Ao3

Buildings blur by as Peter rapidly web-slings, trying to keep up with the police cars in hot pursuit of the speeding criminals below. He’s been at this for almost five minutes now and the bad guys still have yet to show any signs of giving up.

“I believe they’re heading towards the Brooklyn Bridge, Peter. Take this next left and you might be able to cut them off at the intersection,” Karen supplies in his ear as a map of the block he’s on pops up on the side of his HUD.

“Thanks, Karen!” Peter says with a grin. He lets go of the web and twists in the air before shooting off another web at the closest building down the next street.

He swings as quickly as he can, arms pumping almost painfully at this point. “Man, I can’t believe these guys robbed a toy store days away from Christmas,” he complains.

Peter releases his web and free-falls for a few seconds, the street below rushing up to him before he shoots another web at the last second and swings in between a line of cars at a stoplight, earning a few displeased honks in return.

“Incoming call from Tony Stark,” Karen suddenly announces. “Shall I answer it?”

“A little busy here, Karen,” Peter responds, brows pulling together in concentration as he twists in the air, narrowly avoiding hitting a street vendor’s sign as he swings lower to the ground.

But of course, she answers the call anyways, all thanks to Tony’s override programming.

Peter rolls his eyes goodnaturedly as the call connects. “Hey, Tony.”

“Hey, kiddo. Listen, I’m trying to plan out the menu for the Christmas party. What are your thoughts on lobster?” Tony asks.

“Uh, well I’m not sure-”

“Or should we have it all be kid-friendly food since we got Morgan, you—obviously, and Clint’s kids? Last time I checked they’re all on the RSVP list, so-”

Peter glances at the map on the side of his HUD, seeing the blue and red dots resembling the cops and robber’s cars are just about at the intersection up ahead. Shooting another web off at the closest building, Peter swings up, then runs along the side of the building. ‘Uh, this isn’t really a good time right now. Can I call you back?”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“You know, just trying to stop a car chase,” Peter answers with a grunt as he leaps off the building and shoots off another web.

“Ooh details! I never get any action anymore. I’m just an old, boring retired man now and the most exciting thing I have going for me is planning a Christmas party for fifty-or-so people.”

Peter huffs out a breathy laugh at that, but his smile fades when he sees that the robber’s car is now going in a totally different direction, away from the intersection. They must have quickly turned down another street in a last ditch effort to shake the police off their tail.

“They’re getting away, Peter,” Karen cautious.

Groaning in frustration, he swings sharply to the left, quickly heading in the direction of the red and blue dots on his screen.

“They’re getting away? A little off your game, web-head?” Tony asks in a light, teasing tone.

Apparently so, Peter thinks to himself, gritting his teeth. “Nope! I’m all good here! Right as rain!”

“So what did these guys do anyway?” Tony asks.

“Robbed a toy store.”

Tony tsks his tongue. “Grinches.”

“Yeah, I can’t believe that they’d-” Peter cuts off when his spider-sense suddenly flares up at the back of his head, sending chills down his neck and spine.

But it’s not quick enough to warn him.

In a split second, Peter feels himself slam into something, a startled gasp escaping from his mouth as he feels himself fall. Everything blurs together, the street below rushing up to meet him at an alarming speed. Before he has any time to react, something tightens painfully around him and he’s jerked to an abrupt stop.

Peter cracks open his eyes, seeing that he’s dangling almost thirty feet in the air above the busy street full of people and honking cars. He cranes his neck as he looks down at himself, only to see that he’s caught in a long strand of Christmas lights.

“Uhh... can I call you back?”

“Why?”

“Uh, I’m just a little... tangled up at the moment.”

“Tangled up...?” 

...

Three days later, Peter is sitting at the dining room table at the Stark’s Christmas party surrounded by Tony, Rhodey, and Happy, while everyone else mingles out in the living room.

Rhodey holds up a newspaper from the Daily Bugle, featuring a photo of Spider-Man dangling in the air by a strand of Christmas lights while the firefighters try to untangle him. But it's not the photo that gets to Peter. It’s the heading—“Spider-Man Get’s Lit for Christmas.”

“So, the fire department had to get you down, huh?” Rhodey asks with an amused grin.

Peter heaves out a sigh. “Yup.”

Rhodey chuckles, shaking his head. “Only you, Peter...”

The three men laugh and Peter can feel his cheeks burn even more. He almost wishes that he’d skipped out on the party, already knowing this relentless teasing was bound to happen. Bad enough Tony’s been sending him pictures and gifs of him tangled up in those lights these past few days, all of which have gone viral.

“I guess you go all out for the holidays, huh, kiddo?” Tony says with a grin, nudging his arm lightly.

Peter rolls his eyes as he takes a sip of his Grinch punch, wondering if it's the bitter taste that’s making him a little grouchy.

He really hopes Jameson gets coal in his stocking this year for posting that article.

16 notes · View notes

makeste · 4 years

Text

BnHA Chapter 266: Sad Naruto Flute Music

Previously on BnHA: Tamaki ate a horse; Dark Shadow punched Re-Destro through a wall; Gigantomachia didn’t want to wake up from his nap; Tokoyami climbed inside of Fatgum’s stomach like a little emo joey and mused about Hawks; Hawks was all “am I evil or no? history shall decide!” and sort of kind of maybe tried to kill Twice; and then Dabi showed up and set the two of them on fire before you could say “stop, drop, and roll.” All of this was a real chapter that really happened. Anyway but then Hawks saved Twice by pulling him out of the fire, which I totally didn’t notice during my first readthrough last week, so that’s nice. But then Dabi stepped on Hawks’s face and used his quirk again. So that was not so nice. We’re really having ourselves an arc, here.

Today on BnHA: Well you know the old saying. Save a man from burning and you feed him for a day, stab him while he’s running away and you feed him for life. Oh, the chapter? Right. Well Hawks is perfectly fine aside from getting a sexy scar for his troubles, which I’ll have you know I did predict. Twice however is not so fine, which, fun fact, I did not predict. If you’re just joining us. Yeah. I boofed it. Anyway so Hawks escapes Dabi using the power of mysterious main character logic, and then he stabs Twice, and Twice dies, very slowly and sadly and in Toga’s arms. That’s it that’s the chapter. You’ll love it. It’s full of feels. And death. Lol I’m in a mood right now I’m sorry guys. I’m gonna go write some healing Bakugou essays.

so as mentioned on the “previously” section above, Hawks saved Twice’s life! meanwhile Dabi apparently arrived in time to listen to Hawks’s “here I go... time to kill you... really gonna do it... here it comes...” speech for at least several seconds before he finally decided to make his grand entrance, as evidenced by him quoting Hawks’s “sentiment” line right back in his face before setting him on fire. so basically Hawks is still okay and villains gonna villain. this is my conclusion and 4 out of 5 dentists approve but you can form your own judgements as well and that’s fine!

(ETA: this is all your fault fifth dentist.)

anyway so before we begin, full disclosure, I was warned this chapter would make me cry. so that ominous pronouncement is gonna be weighing on my mind while we embark upon our weekly manga journey today, but alas such is life! at least life in March 2020. did we really expect any good news at this point. I want a refund on this whole year but apparently I should get in line

so here we go. someone is narrating and it’s not quite clear who

but the “you’ve just been unlucky” part is a reference to what Hawks was telling Twice in chapter 264, so unless Dabi was listening in on that part too, I would think this would have to be Twice? even though Dabi’s the one whose face is so prominent here, all handsome and crazy

omg Hawks is holding on to his feather and using his tk to blast away while holding Twice

what a fucking thing to do. is the fucking feather still on fire. and somehow he hasn’t instinctively let go of it?? THIS BOY I SWEAR TO GOD

and so he’s definitely going to have a scar there now it looks like! pretty sure this makes him an honorary Todoroki. aww

and also Twice seems to possibly be unconscious, so I guess that was Dabi’s narration?? you mean to tell me Dabi was basically sitting outside for like a full five minutes. were you fixing your hair. getting ready to livestream?? “hey there villain nation it’s me ya boi, so I’m here in the Hilton Gunga Heights and omg like a shitton of heroes have attacked us out of fucking nowhere, and now the number two hero is getting ready to fucking murder my bro Twice, and he hasn’t even noticed I’m here yet. shit is totally crazy, anyways before we go on just a reminder to click on the link below to check out our official league merch, and if you haven’t already, click on the button to like and subscribe, it really helps us out.” and then boom, just in time to save Twice from Mr. To Stab or Not to Stab

(ETA: now that we know it’s actually Twice what am I gonna do with all these Dabi social media jokes. huh?! Horikoshi you ruined everything!!)

oh this chapter is apparently called “Happy Life.” that’s fun I’m sure we’re going to have a really fun time here

(ETA: so fun the funnest.)

Dabi doesn’t really seem fazed though

yeah he’s fucked we know don’t have to rub it in ffff

(ETA: Dabi. we underestimated him, Dabi.)

so Hawks is all “you nearly murdered your bro just fyi” and Dabi is all “smirk it’s fine cuz I knew you were going to save him cuz ~that’s ~what ~heroes ~do” wow you guys. I just realized that between Dabi and Hawks, this has the potential to be the single snarkiest fight we’ve ever had in this manga. my hype for this chapter just went up 10x

also even though I just summarized these last few panels I’m also going to post them so we can all shamelessly admire hot wounded Hawks

hot damn. you were right, AFO. wounded heroes are the sexiest. I may be paraphrasing a bit

also two things, (1) looks like he called some of his feathers back (so then WHERE WERE THEY??), but it’s not much. and (2) he was wearing gloves this whole time that’s right I forgot. so maybe his hands are okay?? the hell are those made of, damn

oh my freaking lord

this is one attractive chapter I’ll give it that. also raise your hand if you’re surprised that Dabi never actually trusted Hawks. yeah that’s what I thought

well shit looks like we’re finally getting some Hawks thoughts! unsurprisingly, they are all “I’m fucked”

please note that while talking!Hawks is continuing to be all sassy, thinking!Hawks is busy tallying up Jin’s injuries. this is a good sign, maybe. I hope. lol

anyway but speaking of Jin, what is going on

oh lol he’s making a break for it

this is so bad you guys. this is so so bad. if Twice lives that’s all well and good, but if he escapes, Hawks is 100% right about how dangerous he is. they could literally capture 90% of PLF in this raid and it would hardly even matter. also in the meantime the #2 hero is about to be roasted alive so that’s also not great for the hero side all things considered

ohhhhhhhhhhhhh no. I don’t like this. no no no

why did we suddenly cut to outside and someone’s screaming (?) echoing from offscreen. I’m trying to think of not-terrible explanations for this and coming up short. uh

now we’re back to Hawks/Twice/Dabi, only I don’t see Hawks yet. but Twice is just barely dodging the flame blast, and meanwhile Dabi is all

is he talking to Twice?

yep he’s talking to Twice

that’s fine. that’s all I need. for Twice to “go wild” while my nine-year-old son is outside with his batteries all fried and innocently waiting for someone to lead him back to where his other child soldier friends are waiting for him. like. say what you will about Hawks and betrayal, but there was a fucking reason he was trying to take Twice out first

hmm but we’re getting this slow-motion panel now and FUCK ME I SWEAR TO GOD IF A FEATHER PIERCES HIS HEART OUT OF NOWHERE I’M GONNA LOSE IT

WAIT WHAT

EXCUSE ME BUT

? ??????????

well you sure have been made to look the fool now, Dabi. thought you’d won just because you had Hawks cornered in a narrow room and you set him on fire while standing in between him and the only exit. rookie fucking mistake. you scrub. you clod. you halfwit. how could you let this happen. wow I can’t believe Dabi let Hawks escape unscathed except for a sexy scar and that’s the end of the chapter

LMAO

oh my god. well good news everyone this chapter did indeed make me cry

(ETA: listen. I’m going to hell, I know. but it’s still funny as fuck.)

“he went outside with the blast... and flanked me?!” ...sure. sure let’s just go with that. seems reasonable

actually no, sorry, I literally went back two chapters to see if there was another way out of this room, and nope

by the way that last panel is apparently from Dabi’s POV if I’m understanding this right. just standing behind Hawks waiting for youtube live to connect

but anyway. so no exit. meaning Dabi apparently torched a hole right through the wall and Hawks just sat there and was all “okay this hurts like a mother but if I wait it out a few more seconds I think I can... there we go!” you know, logic

so now there is a ton of action happening which I can’t quite understand, but also Dabi is shouting Hawks’s real name for some reason

why do I feel like this is definitely the last page before somebody definitely fucking dies. shit. shit

oh thank god so far so good. and also, lol

BECAUSE HE READ THE DATABOOK, HAWKS. that’s probably how he figured out you were a spy too. we’ve been had

oh snap?!

don’t do this to me Horikoshi. don’t give me hope. don’t act like you’re gonna actually address this topic sometime before the heat death of the universe

AND HE’S OUT

MY BABY OFF TO DESTROY PEOPLE. ;_; shitttt hahaha nervous laughter Ralph Wiggum sitting on the bus etc.

GODDAMN IT HORIKOSHI

I don’t want Twice to kill anyone but it doesn’t mean I want him to die either! just!! can’t I have it both ways?? please stop with this I can’t take it also what is Spinner doing. and also YAY GIRAN SIGHTING hot damn the sex appeal of this chapter is fast approaching critical levels

GOD FUCKING DAMMIT FUCK

fuck me. [eyes post from last week] the real announcer jinx was the metas we made along the way

well we’re cutting away again!! because of course we are!! Horikoshi won’t show violence unless it’s a dog exploding or a little boy accidentally murdering his entire family

[taps megaphone] this thing on. all right then. [clears throat] NO ONE WANTS THIS

FOR FUCK’S SAKE

“I KNOW YOU’RE ALL DYING TO SEE WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN, SO HERE, LET’S CUT TO A RANDOM PAGE OF TOGA AND COMPRESS BEING CAPTURED BY A MAN WITH HUNGRY HUNGRY HIPPO ARMS”

oh damn but are they really captured though??

forgive me for being skeptical. not to doubt you, Hungry Hungry Hippo Man. I’m sure you’re absolutely right and your sentence cut off at the end there because you remembered that they changed their name to Pliff, and not because you’re being stabbed or burned or impaled or whatever the fuck

!!!

HE LIVED BITCH

yes he totally lived and this definitely isn’t so that he can get one final scene with Toga before he suddenly keels over and dies. shit. at this point it’s fucking inevitable. you had to go and drag his girlfriend into this. I’m so sad you guys I can’t even deal with these emotions I’m just gonna stubbornly joke about stupid shit until I figure out what the fuck else to do

OH MY GOD!!!!???

HE DIED BITCH!?!??

he’s already dead he’s already fucking dead fucking shit

ohhhhhh it’s pouring down sads now

my bird son really went and fucking killed the sweetest little dumpling in the manga. I wrote like 5 thousands essays defending you, Hawks. we gonna have to get you a damn good lawyer now

why is sad flute music from the Naruto OST playing

he’s not gonna need it where he’s going Toga. because they already have plenty of handkerchiefs on the farm. and lots of room for him to run around and play with other villains too

lmao fuck

I really did this to myself, why did I actually start playing Sadness and Sorrow fuck my life. real actual tears

and it SEEMS TO ME, YOU LIVED YOUR LIFE, LIKE A CANDLE IN THE WIND~~~

[sad makeste noises]

AND I WOULD HAVE LIKED TO KNOW YOU

BUT I WAS JUST A KID~~

...

your candle burned out long before

your legend ever did.

[mellow keyboard tones]

welp. ... 2020 ladies and gentlemen

#bnha 266 #twice (bnha)#dabi #hawks #himiko toga #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste spoiler recap #makeste reads bnha #lol I'm not gonna delete those essays though #gonna take my licks like a man #HAWKS YOU DID A BAD THING #WHERE IS BEST JEANIST

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ghostmartyr · 4 years

Text

So if you, like me, have nothing to do but wonder about the state of my inbox, you might rightfully be wondering how I plan to deal with the obscene backlog I have spent so many years failing to deal with.

If you have never wondered that, fear not, that doesn’t exclude you from finding out.

Today we’re just going to go through my entire slew of unanswered asks, and instead of answering them, I am going to provide excuses for why I didn’t do anything with them.

For added fun, several of the asks were in my Drafts.

I will not be cutting out the comments I started to make.

I will no doubt regret this.

Let’s have a time, shall we?

I don’t even know what year this is from. If I remember correctly, I didn’t get back to you because I thought about trying to reason out who would legitimately win, and there were too many points for both sides. I kept intending to come up with a proper answer, then time went by and this got buried.

Though the actual answer is probably “it depends on who gets the main character sticker at the time.”

...

Well.

I can tell you this is multiple years old.

We, as humans, aren’t equipped for time travel.

I didn’t answer this one because I didn’t feel like it was asking for one, and I’m only reproducing it here because it is really, really funny now.

Two years old. Plus change.

I think the entire reason I never replied to this one is that it cheered me up whenever I scrolled down enough to see it, so thank you.

You know, I entered the link at the time. Really, I did. But then came trying to come up with a comment and what can you really follow that with?

(Click the link.)

Okay then.

I still feel no need to respond to this, so that’s probably why I didn’t to start with.

Historia and literally anyone.

I don’t remember why I didn’t answer this, which usually means some combination of feeling tired and not being in the mood to scroll down to where it was.

Oops.

The thing is, this crosses dangerously close to being a fic idea. Fic ideas take time and effort. You can imagine the absolute dread I felt at having to engage with either concept.

It would have been a lot of fun to do, though. Hats off.

See, again. This is a very interesting concept that requires thought. I can tell you when I received it I was in no mood for anything that required anything of the sort.

I wrote a fic that is possibly never going to see the light of day now where they hang out in a kitchen with hot chocolate together and bond through unstated trauma and Frieda attempting to make things better.

That probably contributed to interfering with imagining how they would actually get along.

Anyway, I ship them slightly in that fic AU. Don’t @ me.

Oh dang. I remember this.

I actually really wanted to answer it, but the problem is that I wanted to come up with a good answer. Every character, tiered by their chances. A full Hunger Games edition of what went down and who killed who.

Then I didn’t.

Anyway, turns out the answer is that no one feels the need to chop of rocking chairs in a hurry, so she’d last a long time!

I didn’t answer this because I try to avoid responding with, “I don’t know.” My secondary answer would probably have been, “By being killed.”

Not that there’s anything wrong with those answers, but unless there’s been a tonal trend in asks, I assume that pithy answers that don’t actually have any meat behind them would not be appreciated.

I would stick to him probably being killed, though. But some signs do point to him being relatively immortal.

Hm.

Hmm.

I don’t know why I didn’t answer this, but I would guess it had something to do with me caring very little about Ymir’s thoughts on anything outside of her little clutch of people. And ongoing trauma of repeated dead/alive Ymir commentary killing off my desire to come up with a good answer.

Sorry?

I... have no idea why I didn’t answer this? Maybe I didn’t see it?

Anyway, yes.

There’s a longer version behind that yes, and I’m sure that might have contributed to never getting around to answering this. ...Assuming a past where I did actually see this one.

I have a confession.

I don’t really like crossovers.

There’s a sliding scale of degree, but that’s basically why this didn’t get a response.

Ah, we’ve landed on a recurring theme.

Sometimes, answers involve me thinking about the entire cast.

The usual consequence of that is I don’t have the energy for that, so nothing ever happens with these.

Oh, this one’s easy.

I had no fucking clue.

No ideas, head empty.

That didn’t seem like a good answer, so here we are, probably around a year later. I still have no clue. If I were forced to write a singing duo AU, I would probably just put some adjectives and nouns into a blender and flip a coin.

Names are hard.

I think I didn’t answer this one because I felt like I’d answered similar asks before. And I’m not really sure when this is from, but it’s possible canon complicated coming up with an answer that wasn’t distressed screeching.

Something something give Connie and Mikasa hugs, not partial about where they get them from.

Apparently not. Oops.

I can’t remember why I didn’t respond to this one. It’s possible the oodles of bad parenting proved too distracting to formulate such a post.

Sometimes I get an ask, and my immediate, gut reaction is, how the fuck should I know?

If I can move past that, the ask is answered.

If I can’t, the ask continues its descent through scroll hell.

I am sorry. There are no answers here.

Yeah, this is just the same as the above, just with I have no idea.

It’d probably be a Madoka Magic deal.

Huh. I don’t remember passing this one over. If I were to guess a timeline, I was probably too bitter over potential post-timeskip looks that I never got to be interested in focusing on the characters lucky enough to get good ones.

Go Connie for being less short, I suppose.

This clearly belonged to something that I was doing, but time has eroded the context, so I am simply left with failure and disappointment on all sides. Sorry.

Aw, we’re getting into the boring part of the inbox now, I think. Not because of the questions; you guys are always great. But I can’t think of a reason why I wouldn’t have answered this, which leads me to think that the reason was I was too tired to put words together.

That’s a boring reason, so maybe I should go into Drafts for the next few...

Yeah, still unfairly prejudiced against crossovers. I am no fun, etc. etc.

I have no memory of it, but I feel like I didn’t answer this because there was no way I could match this kindly anon’s enthusiasm.

You go, random internet person.

You have good ideas.

Oh no.

Uh.

See.

I know exactly why I didn’t answer this one.

I am so sorry, Anon.

I really didn’t care.

I am filled with affection for you because you clearly do, but uh.

...I basically put this on Read.

This has a very simple, ie boring, explanation. Any time someone asks about the cast as a whole, I want to think about the cast as a whole, and that takes a lot more thought than most of the asks I get. Cue putting it off. Cue it getting lost in scroll hell. On and on we go until we end up here.

Anything that opens with kilometers is something that requires more brain power than I have had in the past year.

Also I think I got this during a spoiler week, so I saw it, but I was trying not to look at it, and then it got lost in the post-chapter asks.

That happens a lot.

We might see it more soon.

If I can’t come up with words more than “-shrug-” I try not to answer.

...Good news, though!

The manga did my job for me!

I feel like I answered some variation of this. That might be why I didn’t answer this specific one.

The wiki does a better job keeping track of the timeline than I ever have. I probably didn’t answer this because it would involve trying to remember which volume actually name-dropped a number of weeks or months. Searching for lines I know a character said is pretty easy, but searching out lines I have a vague feeling of someone providing? That tends to hit the frustration button with the force of a truck.

But yeah, if you ever want to know how long something took, the wiki is absolutely your friend. They do good work.

Consider: “What if” questions are hard, and I am lazy.

This is actually one I really did mean to get to, sorry. It’s an interesting thought, and I miss Sasha.

...I clearly did a magnificent job answering your asks, friend.

Prediction asks are hard for me; I feel like I’m throwing darts randomly into the air and the dartboard is still deciding if it’s going to show up. So uh. I guess I just kept putting this off until it didn’t get answered.

This post is going to have so many apologies. Implied and otherwise.

I continue to be the No Fun Police who accidentally-on-purpose avoids crossover commentary.

I feel like I didn’t answer this one entirely because seeing it in my inbox gave me far too much joy to have it lost in a sea of posts.

This is what my inbox was made for.

I have no idea when this was from, but I see your emotions and appreciate them, Anon.

...Did I not see this one?

Hey, Anon who probably doesn’t remember sending this: This is a good ask and deserved some good attention, and I’m sorry I missed my shot at it. Good thoughts.

I didn’t answer this one entirely because I knew I couldn’t match the energy of it, and responding with anything less felt heretical.

That is one hell of a mood, Anon.

This is definitely from the era of, “Can’t think, brain empty.” Sorry about not getting back to you, I just really couldn’t organize my thoughts well enough to come up with an answer.

I feel like I didn’t know what this was continuing from and was too exhausted to ask.

LOOK YOU CAN SEE I WANTED TO ANSWER THIS BECAUSE IT’S A DRAFT.

Too many things, Anon.

I liked so many things about all of that. Trying to turn that enthusiasm into words wasn’t agreeing with me, so I put it in Drafts and told myself one day I’d do the most awesome post detailing everything.

Intentions, huh?

Every time I tried to take a normal screenshot with formatting Tumblr just laughed at me, so that might have been a contributing factor.

Dang, I’m really sorry. This is another one of those cases where I wanted to take my time with a response, and I took too long.

I, uh.

Am guilty of not being too interested in pondering Ymir’s thoughts on Levi or Erwin.

That’s it, that’s the explanation.

Yeah, I just couldn’t come up with an answer here? Or someone else asked? Or several of my friends decided to be annoying about lists on Discord? I don’t even know.

Presumably there could be a list.

There is not.

Honestly, I just couldn’t figure out how to follow that starting sentence up. A thought exercise on Armin, Historia, gender, and themes sounded really interesting, and I put it in Drafts so as not to forget it being interesting.

Then, you know. This post sort of paints the picture.

Ah.

Man, I really was looking forward to putting some proper thought into this. That’s the problem with having so many things I love in one place, I guess. Symbolism? Historia and Ymir? Mikasa? So many good things! Where do I start!

With paralyzing indecision that results in not a lot. Sorry, Anon. This really did light up my day when I got it.

Here’s the thing about me and writing:

I often fail to.

(I love both these ideas, though.)

Yes.

Do I know why I didn’t get around to answering this?

Absolutely not.

But yes, I’d agree with that.

GOOD NEWS!

The manga actually gave us some of them together in the future.

I occasionally giggled over their shared distaste.

It was a good time.

And this is another one I just do not know why I didn’t answer, whoops.

This never got answered because I couldn’t come up with an answer.

Broad questions are scary because they can go just about anywhere and I didn’t know how to handle that level of commitment.

I think I didn’t answer this one, A), because words are hard, and B), because mostly I just wanted to listen to more of your wondering and less of mine.

I probably could have answered this by saying I don’t have any, but that seemed rude, so I didn’t respond to it at all.

Yep.

Frieda is worthy of my time and effort.

Landing this in Drafts instead of my inbox.

Where the lighting makes it more obvious that hope has gone there to die.

I think about it so much too.

I find the answers fundamentally upsetting.

That is probably why I did not provide an answer here.

That is a lot of kids to make up headcanons for.

So I didn’t.

She’s eaten by dogs before she develops a personality.

Since that seemed like the wrong thing to say, I said nothing, and into Drafts this went.

‘I have no earthly clue’ seemed similarly unhelpful.

At this point, we understand that there is no mystery to my backlog.

This one hurts.

-sees the 112 reference-

Wow does it hurt.

As I hope is obvious, I really, really loved this question, and kept meaning to carve out time to work on it specifically. What went sideways was trying to put words to how EMA functions. I knew the feel of what I wanted to express, but every time I tried to write it, it came out wonky.

I’m very sorry I couldn’t do anything for this, because I was thrilled to spend time with it.

I didn’t answer this because Fuck Marley.

It’s nothing against you. At the time, I simply wasn’t in any mood to consider any version of Marley. Even the canon version was too much for me, so giving it my time in a roleswap AU had me hissing.

Roleswaps in general are amazing, and I love them a lot. A dedicated person could make a fantastic one based around Marley and Paradis. I think it would probably be cool af.

But I was so tired of Marley when I got this, I just couldn’t make myself think about it. Sorry. It’s a fun idea.

I didn’t answer this one because I kept trying to extend my response past, “I think he just really likes baseball.”

I think he just really likes baseball.

My feelings on that as a quality answer are derogatory.

Mm. The ones where I actually tried to get something started hurts.

Ultimately, this ask was a larger demand than I could make my brain work through at the time. I made sure to write down the tl;dr version of Sasha’s, because I found that desperately important, and not something that people talk about much, but the additional weight of trying to think of themes for multiple characters made it hard to progress.

Me, looking at the prompts: Hi my brain left me.

Sorry, Anon. Too many gears were moving for me to get a proper feel for what I wanted to do with this one, so I ended up ditching it. ...I was planning to finish it, though. Eventually. See, I even put the quote in the Draft version as a reminder of what I was doing, so I could get back to it right away.

Yeeeeah, this is just one more to the “I will give this wonderful thing all the time it deserves!” pile.

The pile is stored in the Failure Corner.

Perfectionism is the enemy of progress.

You guys really like crossovers.

I love that for you.

-spends two years ignoring you-

I mean, I just didn’t know what to do with the rainbows.

They sure are there.

They sure are pretty.

I sure couldn’t come up with a comment to add.

...I don’t know why I didn’t answer this. Possibly because I think it’s fine? I’m not too attached to it, and spent the whole manga period wanting to watch an anime version instead, then we got an anime version.

I’d guess that my general “meh” feelings interfered with responding here.

No idea why I didn’t answer this.

Yes, and good for you.

I support all thoughts on giving the Reiss kiddos personalities.

I think I didn’t get back to you on this because I wasn’t sure how to encourage you to keep going so I just sat awkwardly on my hands and felt weird about not saying anything.

...Thanks for sharing!

I love how it’s the little things that date these.

Unfortunately, we’re now at the point where 90% of the reason I didn’t answer was because I was too sick to muster up anything approaching enthusiasm.

Or because I’d just finished answering a bunch of chapter-specific things and was burnt out.

This felt pretty self-explanatory to me, so I felt like that gave me permission to ignore it.

Also, it mentions Marley.

I might be slightly petty.

Really though, I think what stopped me from giving a proper answer is that the question of what an author is trying to say throws me off a little. I work better thinking of it in terms of what the story is saying, with the author just happening to be the hands that wrote it all down.

I don’t know. This was probably another case of feeling like I should give this more of my time than I was able.

I couldn’t decide.

That’s it.

That’s the reason.

Everyone needs to give Mikasa a hug.

My blog title for a hug.

-the crossover snake hisses and consumes another-

I am so sorry.

This is fun.

I probably should have just gone with posting and saying so, because I am genuinely charmed by this. I tend to feel like I have to add something to asks to justify the post. That policy maybe didn’t need to be a thing.

I love my anons.

I want that to be clear.

Really, I do.

I especially love their willingness to embrace my crackpot logic.

Still.

Sometimes, the only response one can have to Schrodinger’s Ymir is to ignore its existence, find a pillow, and scream into it for the rest of time.

This replaces typing.

-looks at Armin-

-looks at Eren-

Yeah, don’t know why I didn’t answer this one, either. I blame tiredness? Sorry about that.

I feel like I didn’t answer this one because it felt like work.

This is where I start considering that making this post was a mistake.

I could have just agreed with you and gone about my day.

Probably should have.

Did not.

Another one for that, “had nothing to add so I just left it in a corner, abandoned and unloved,” pile.

There is an apology section at the end, but we’re not there yet.

This one I don’t think I noticed.

Alternatively, I did notice, and wasn’t sure “Yes,” would pass as a good enough answer.

--------------------------------------

Okay, time to really just get into it: I think for the remainder of my inbox, I didn’t answer because physically, I was just too damn exhausted, and I kept waiting for a point in time where I’d feel better. Sorry to put a limit on the personalization, but in the end, that’s all there was to it, and rephrasing it a dozen times will make me crazy.

And here we are.

Well.

Good grief, do you guys even have any clue how much I like all of you?

Obviously there’s a lot of guilt in the above, because I can’t tell you how much I wanted, each time, to give a great answer that would make you thrilled you messaged me. I am so sorry to all of these I didn’t get to. There were days when the alerts in my inbox were the best thing to happen to me, and I never wanted to let any of them go without acknowledgment.

I try to say thank you as often as I can in my responses, because that’s as close as I can get to reminding you all, constantly, that I am grateful for your participation. The only times I don’t say it is when I worry that it’ll look like it’s being done out of habit, not genuine gratitude. Or when I think you might take it the wrong way if I say thanks for a basic conversation. Because you provide me content and make me interested in things I might not normally look twice at.

There are so many instances of people saying hi, and thank you, and wishing everyone well here.

I haven’t been active in the larger fandom in two years, but I have always been so happy that you guys kept dropping by my space anyway.

You are a pleasure and light in my life, no matter how much snark I might throw about.

Thank you all.

#attack on asks #tl;dr #long post

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illnessfaker · 3 years

Note

do you have any resources on OSDD? like more in depth than just the diagnostic criteria, i'm very familiar with those, i guess more...people talking abt what it feels like? I have cptsd and I've been noticing things very similar to what you described in your post for a long time now. I thought I had DID for sure a while ago, but I was also actively manic/psychotic, so when that calmed down I assumed I had just been delusional. But the identity disturbances and dissociation persist. I don't think it's DID now it's osdd if it's anything but I'm wary of saying that for sure and rly would like some i guess more descriptive accounts of how symptoms are for someone with it. Sorry if this is a lot/you don't have anything of that nature, I'm glad to hear you're figuring out your own multiplicity and hope the understanding helps you in your healing process!

firstly, thank you for your kind words 😊

@/this-is-not-dissociative has a lot of info about did/osdd-1 (and other dissociative stuff) as well as having did/osdd-1 vs. dissociation in bpd/cptsd - though it's possible to have did/osdd-1 and bpd/cptsd of course - and did-research.org talks about osdd-1 a little bit (especially vs. having full-blown did). these are probably the best resources i can point you towards even though they don't contain many personal accounts. the first blog is staunchly against self-dx iirc and there's a lot of "you should speak to a professional about this" but u know how it is (at the very least they provide a lot of info and resources on how to go about doing that, it seems.)

some posts in particular that may be informative/helpful to you (there are probably many reasons to dislike this blog but it's what i've found most informative so yeah):

anp and ep, + an explanation of structural dissociation and how it models ptsd, cptsd, bpd, osdd-1, and did.

anp and avoiding trauma

an example of did vs. osdd-1

parts in bpd/cptsd vs. osdd-1

parts in cptsd vs. osdd-1 (this mod "kevin" has osdd-1, by the way)

parts vs. fragments vs. alters

alters not being easy to recognize

identity confusion vs. identity alteration

( read-more bc this got long despite it being past my bedtime lmao )

the problem w personal accounts of stuff and did/osdd-1 is presentations of these diagnoes will differ from person to person, sometimes greatly. contrary to media depiction they're also covert disorders by nature - they're psychological coping mechanisms for intense distress, and part of those coping mechanisms is being ignorant to the fact that your sense of self is fragmented / there are parts of your sense of self that are attached to trauma. i know of several folks who were initially diagnosed with osdd-1 but then later re-diagnosed as having did because the severity of their situation was very effectively hidden from them by this dissociation.

( another problem is that ppl are flawed and can give bad/wrong info on how stuff works or trends can give the wrong impression and unfortunately that's very common w did/osdd-1 spaces online. e.g. u don't have to know the name, age, etc. or know who's "fronting" or whatever with elaborate tagging systems and pages on ur blog with said info abt ur parts or "alters" to have did/osdd-1. worrying abt that stuff too much can worsen dissociation. )

it's not common for someone to have did/osdd-1 and for it to be obvious to themselves or others (who don't know what to look for, that is). this is why no small number of folks with did/osdd-1 are seemingly well-functioning on the outside since different dissociated parts often serve "everyday life" purposes such as going to work/school and these parts are the ones disconnected from traumatic "materials" as they're called. part of the reason why i'm wanting to conceptualize my experiences as osdd-1 is due to the fact that my default state (the "host"?) is emotionally dissociated from my trauma - i know it happened, but it seemed like it happened to "this body" rather than "me" and i don't feel anything about it until i get triggered. "apparently normal parts" that handle everyday life are usually trauma-avoidant or separated from the trauma like this in some way.

that being said, i'm still not totally sure if i qualify for an osdd-1 diagnosis or not tbqh. my situation is most like the "some individuals with OSDD-1 lack both amnesia and highly distinct parts" mentioned in the page i above linked (but yesterday and this morning/afternoon i was convinced i did - go figure). i'd been researching did/osdd-1 for a while (not necessarily because i thought it was what i was experiencing) which is part of what helped me come to terms with having experienced dissociation for a long time, and i thought up until like...the other day i definitely didn't have it. i came to believe i had some weird bpd/cptsd/szpd-like situation where emotional states had been "locked away" in boxes that i rarely touched as a defense mechanism against psychological distress. i also had a metaphor for my "emotional part(s)" as it/them being like, (a) ghost(s) that follow me around and aren't evil but occasionally "wrap their hands around my throat" to remind me that they're there.

then i saw someone w an osdd-1 diagnosis talk abt how they have parts whose "job" is to "feel sadness for them" as a defense mechanism against that kinda distress and then i was like...huh. and then i thought about how seeing my parents again felt kinda weird and distant. and that's kinda what tipped me off, despite having a pretty unstable sense of self and dissociation issues for a while. the "seeing my parents" thing is somewhat more major, because it felt different from my "default setting." thinking about it is uncomfortable and weird.

ur gonna have to do a lot of reading, tbh, and doing it in moderation is probably a good idea since thinking too much abt dissociation can trigger it. another thing is that conceptualizing yourself as having did/osdd-1 when you don't actually have that experience can worsen dissociation/identity issues as well so u gotta be careful abt how u approach it. but at the same time, cptsd and did/osdd-1 have mostly the same treatment methods anyway (and technically u gotta have cptsd to have did/osdd-1, not as like a diagnostic requirement really but a "you have to be traumatized from long-term traumatic experiences at a young age" sense) so many resources abt did/osdd-1 may be helpful to u regardless of whether you "have" them or not.

i can't tell u how to differentiate between symptoms of psychosis and did/osdd-1 (the blog i mentioned may have posts about that topic - there's two in their master-posts but neither were particularly helpful i don't think) since afaik i'm not psychotic but i wish you luck!

#no reblogs -#asks #Anonymous #resources

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anika-ann · 4 years

Text

Errare Humanum Est - Pt.3

What’s in a Name?

Type: series, soulmate AU series (part 1, part 2) x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (past?) Word count: 1850

Summary: When angel grace fails to deal with an amnesiac, the human ways will have to do. Too bad they are rather slow.

Warnings: swearing, amnesia, Team Free Will being themselves, alcohol

The briefest guide to SPN characters of Team Free Will (at the end of the post)

Story masterlist

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An ominous silence fell on the room, until an annoyed voice cut the air.

“Awesome. Is it like… a black nothing? White nothing? Or…?”

Castiel grimaced at Dean’s wry questions.

“It’s… it’s like a really tight knot, to be honest. The memories, I can feel them there, but… there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry. I couldn’t even get a glimpse. I’m sorry, Natasha. I wish I could be more help.”

Tears gathered in Natasha’s eyes, but she cautiously rose to her feet as if she didn’t trust her strength and took Castiel’s hands in hers.

“It’s alright, Castiel. Thank you for trying,” she whispered weakly, her smile forced. She turned to the brothers then, tugging at the shirt she was wearing. “I… can I keep those, please?”

“Yeaaah?” Sam answered unsurely, not following where she was going with that. “Why would you ask that?”

“I… I think I should go. Thank you-“

That had them all lunging forward, Sam speaking up first.

“Whoa! We’ve been over this. You… we can’t exactly keep you here by force, but you have nowhere to go. No money to live on. Your memory… is not okay. Castiel couldn’t find anything at the moment, but we’ll figure out a way to help you.”

“I don’t want to-to impose. I’ve- I have already-“ she stuttered, but was interrupted by Dean’s sigh.

“Look. I’m not gonna lie, I ain’t happy about babysitting you,” he announced honestly, rising from his seat, gesturing towards her with his beer as he spoke. Sam really hoped he was going somewhere with that talk, because so far, it sounded like he wanted to support Natasha’s decision to leave. “But we had much bigger problems at our hands and much more annoying too. Helping people is kinda what we do. It’s in the family.”

Her eyes were wide as she was watching the hunters and their angel, attentive and observant. She was clearly considering her options, wondering if Dean was being honest. Sam was pleasantly surprised by Dean’s speech to say at least.

She gulped before speaking up, her gaze falling on the floor. “…okay. Thank you. I’ll… I promise to repay you when I can.”

“I’m sure you will,” Sam hurried before Dean could tell something that would creep her out – like ‘having a few ideas about that’. Though Sam was most impressed by Dean’s earlier words.

“Can I just ask you something, Dean?” she quirked up then, the corners of her lips inconspicuously rising.

��Yeah?”

“…do angels count as your family?”

“You-“ the older brother started, only to shut up and realize he didn’t know how to finish. So he only pointed a finger at her in pretended warning.

Sam snorted a laugh. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”

“If you must know, for us, family don’t end with blood,” Dean finally managed to reply and Sam couldn’t help but smile sadly at the memory of Bobby, a man who was an uncle to them, if not a father too. “It’s about the family you choose.”

An honest smile lighted up Natasha’s face, her eyes soft. “That’s nice…. So, where do we start?”

“Well, I should go,” Castiel announced swiftly, casting a glance at Dean, ever dutiful to the righteous man. “I’ll… see if I can find anything on the subject of soulmates I don’t already know.”

“Okay. See ya, Cas.”

“Bye,” Sam hummed absently, his mind already racing, wondering about their next steps.

With a sound of a flutter of wings, the angel was gone. Natasha stared blankly where he had been standing just a second ago.

“…oh,” she huffed, clearly caught off guard. “I didn’t see that coming. I didn’t even say goodbye.”

Sam only laughed at that – she seemed confused, sure, taken aback, definitely, but she was processing everything remarkably well considering what a mess she had woken up into.

“You’ll get used to it. We’re really tired, so we would catch few hours. I was thinking I could lend you my tablet?” the younger hunter offered, pulling it out of his bag and holding it out to her. She eyed it curiously and Sam realized where the problem might be. “I’ll show you how to operate it-“

“I… think I might know, actually,” Natasha admitted sheepishly, biting her lip as if ashamed. Sam couldn’t help the rise of his eyebrows.

“That you remember? You don’t know your name, but you know how to work with this thing?” Dean questioned, his eyebrows high as well. She only shrugged helplessly. Dean spun to Sam then, his face saying just how done he was with this situation. “Brains are weird, man.”

“More so when angels and resurrections are involved,” Sam added, grimacing wryly. Oh, he would know, wouldn’t he? They all would.

“Not wrong there.”

Sam turned his attention back to the woman then, seeing she already turned it on, the screen lit up. Huh. Okay then.

“I just thought you might wanna… look up things. Anything that comes to your mind.”

“Like unhuman things?” she asked half-bitter, half-curious.

“Oh, you don’t wanna look for those. You might find Twilight and Teen Wolf and stuff like that. Not to be trusted.”

Natasha tilted her head to side, not understanding what Dean was referring to, naturally, and Sam rolled his eyes. She reminded him of Castiel for a moment and a new idea struck his mind.

“Natasha, can I take a picture? I’ll run facial recognition… just to see if anyone reported you missing, okay?”

She hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, but nodded. “…Okay. Thank you, Sam.”

Sam led her to a wall, switching on more lights for better illumination of her face. He snapped a quick photo of her face and started the trace. Dean had managed to tuck himself in already.

“That was… fast. I promise to be quiet.”

“Thanks. Goodnight, Natasha. If you’re tired, just wake up one of us and we’ll leave you a bed, okay?” Sam offered, internally cringing at the idea of trying to fit onto the tiny-ass sofa.

Natasha glanced at the piece of furniture, then back at Sam and at Dean, her eyebrow slowly rising, probably thinking the same thing.

“Sure. Goodnight, Sam. Goodnight, Dean.”

The only reply she got was Dean’s snort. She giggled and Sam rolled his eyes, laying down to his bed, finding a comfortable position – as comfortable as one could find on a motel room bed. He was out in no time.

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Trying to research resurrections would have probably been a good idea. Or ‘how to cure amnesia’ or something like that. But no. Not for you.

The very first thing you wrote down – and really, could anyone blame you since Sam had specifically told you to look up whatever came to your mind – was the word ‘soulmate’.

It led you straight to a world of wonder. There was everything; it started with a definition, mostly matching what Sam, Dean and Castiel had told you.

Then the photos of soulmarks appeared. Some were funny and specific, like ‘Excuse me, but I believe that the dog that just ate my snack was yours,’ or ‘I’m afraid I’m in the wrong class, ‘cause I sure didn’t sign up for Greek mythology’. Others were annoying and general, something between the lines of ‘Can I borrow your pen?’ or ‘Is this seat taken?’. There were few that broke your heart: ‘Please, don’t leave,’ ‘I just got you, you can’t do this to me.’

You weren’t sure in which category your words would fall into; probably very specific and weird for both the crossed ones and the plain ones.

People were looking for their soulmates too. Either via forums, attempting to guess what comeback they would throw when hearing the words on their skin; another option was a few agencies that claimed to be able to find the match; that felt a bit like cheating and you doubted it worked anyway.

What took your breath away and made your heart ache were links to counselling for those who lost their soulmate. It made your chest tight for a very obvious reason, yet so irrational. You might have lost your soulmate, but you didn’t remember it; on the other hand, your other half could be suffering indescribable pain for their loved one, the one they had been destined to spent their life with. For that only, you felt tears gather in your eyes.

Then again, you could have been wrong. As far as you were concerned, you had never had to meet in the first place, and they only had their words crossed out just like yours, left with a dull ache and strange sense of longing.

There were brighter sides to soulmates too – many and many people shared their meet-cute with their destined partner, photos radiating love and adoration, with the subtlest shade of hate in the comments from people who no doubt didn’t have a soulmate to begin with. Because apparently, that was a thing as well; not everyone was bound to have a soulmate, not in the literal sense of the word. The world was a truly strange place.

You didn’t even realize you had started to rub your collarbone, your mind escaping elsewhere. What was your soulmate like? You believed with your whole heart he was one and the same person, saying both of the lines written on you.

Was he sweet? Polite? Or a bad boy? Tall or shorter than you, scrawny or built like a mountain? What colour were his eyes, his hair? Did he have a nice smile, warm and welcoming, or was a grumpy man? An extrovert, an introvert? Was he willing to show affection publicly or was he shy and private? What did he enjoy doing?

What was he doing now? And more importantly… where was he?

You sighed, sinking deeper into the couch. You could wonder, but it would be no help. You needed to pull yourself together, look up things that might be actually useful to you as a human being with amnesia and deal with daydreaming later.

You wanted to remember. You wanted to know your soulmate, but you needed to know your own persona first.

Hell, you didn’t even know your name.

For some reason you had chosen Natasha, but the motivation behind your actions slipped through your fingers, the truth burning on your tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste as you couldn’t grasp it.

Alright. For now, you would be Natasha. You trusted your instinct on that one, choosing the name despite feeling it wasn’t your own, but still with a purpose.

Figuring out your last name was the next logical step. You couldn’t recall it either, so you just wrote down ‘American last names’ to the browser, waiting for results to pop up. You surfed through them for a minute, your fingers freezing on one particular name.

The name struck something in you, a spark lighting up like a flare in your chest and you knew this was the one you should pick.

You had been brought back from death. And until your true self and your mind would be resurrected, a new person had to be born.

That person happened to be Natasha Rogers.

“Natasha Rogers…” you whispered, barely audible and a smile spread on your lips involuntarily. You liked the sound of that. “That will do.”

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Part 4

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Thank you for reading :-*

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Tags: @cxptain @smilexcaptainx , @murdermornings @irepostthingsiwanttoseelater , @polarcrystall @eliza5616 @rayofdawnworld @victor-criss-bish @skychild29 @elysianecho @simmisblog @scentedsongrebel @orions-nebula, @sergeantrosabellaswan @songofcosplay, @ilovesupersoldiers @wxstedhexrt @silver-winter-wolf @guardian-tn @janieavalos @vxidnik, @patzammit , @annathesillyfriend @maravderofthephoenix

Anyone wants in or out, shoot me a DM or an ask :)) It’s (usually) no problem ;)

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kuriboo · 4 years

Text

Hugsaku 2021

Day 3 - Things You Said in a Dream | Three Things | Favorite Food | “Oh no I seem to have fallen on top of you and now am too lazy to move. What a tragedy.”

For Hugsaku 2021, I’ve been writing a continuous story with the prompts from each day. The general story is: Yusaku ends up in Heartland with no idea how he got there and Yuma decides try to help Yusaku get home. If you’d like to read the story so far, it’s available in either my previous posts or on ao3. I’ll link to the story on ao3 in the notes.

I ended up using four different prompts for this part, which was more than I expected I’d be using when I first started writing it. I don’t think I ever used this many prompts in future parts, but it ended up working very well for this one. I hpoe you enjoy!

Yusaku woke up screaming.

When his eyes were closed, all he could see was a completely white room. All he could remember was the duels he was constantly forced to go through, all he could feel was desperation, the pain and punishment that came with losing. He couldn’t breathe. Now he was awake and he didn’t recognize anything in the room around him. That only made him feel worse. Where was he? He couldn’t calm down, he couldn’t breathe.

A face floated in front of his. He didn’t recognize it. The face glowed white, with different colored eyes. “Is he sick again?” the face asked. “He doesn’t look good.”

Yusaku screamed again and scooted back on the floor, away from the stranger. This wasn’t home. Why wasn’t he home?

“What’s going on?” A different voice, off to the side. Another face entered Yusaku’s field of vision. He recognized this one: Yuma. Yuma looked towards the stranger.

“He woke up and kept screaming,” the stranger reported. “He did say he gets nightmares. For a second, though, it appeared he was looking directly at me, as if he could see me. Then he screamed again.”

“That’s silly, no one else can see you,” Yuma muttered. He looked at Yusaku. “It must have been a nightmare? But, um, I don’t know what to do?” His voice got louder . “I should do something, right??”

Yusaku’s heart was racing. Breathing was difficult. He felt like Yuma and the stranger were several rooms away. But slowly, his mind started working again. This was Yuma’s room. Yuma was letting him stay here. He’d been dreaming before. The incident was in the past. He had to pull himself out of it.

“Three reasons,” Yusaku managed to get out, “to keep going.” He looked down at his hands. Shakily, he held up a finger. “We need to save Kolter’s brother. We have to help him.” Another. “Ai and Kolter don’t know where I am.” Another. “There’s still a chance… I can get back to Den City.” With each reason, he calmed down a little bit. Breathing got easier. The world around him felt more real. He forced himself to take deep breaths. He took in the scene around him.

Yuma was crouched on the floor next to him. That stranger Yusaku had seen before was real, apparently, and still there. The floating was real, too, so apparently whoever this was could just float in the air, which was weird. Yusaku could feel how sweaty he was. The blankets and the sleeping bag he must’ve thrown off himself in his sleep, because he didn’t feel any different now than he had before he backed away. No difference in the amount of weight on him or how warm he was. It was dark, probably the middle of the night. Yuma looked tired, but still concerned. Yusaku felt bad for waking him.

Yusaku rubbed the back of his neck, feeling itchy. “It’s nothing,” he told Yuma. “Just a nightmare. I get them all the time. Don’t worry about it.”

“Of course I’m worried about it!” Yuma shot back. “‘Just’ a nightmare? You don’t look good at all, for a moment you looked more like a cornered wild animal or something than someone who just woke up. You looked scared. You shouldn’t have to feel scared.”

“Doesn’t matter if I should or not. It’s just the way it is.” Yusaku shrugged. Whatever was ideal meant nothing compared to reality. “I’m probably just not used to waking up in your room. This happened multiple times after I moved to my apartment. It’s nothing.”

“It’s something all right.” Yuma sighed. “What kind of nightmares are you even getting that you’re reacting this badly to them?”

“Real world experience. From the past.”

“What happened?”

Yusaku looked away. As a rule, he didn’t talk to anyone about the Lost Incident besides people that were involved and understood, like Kolter, or Ai. Yusaku didn’t open up to people. He generally avoided interacting with people at all. Nobody uninvolved could really understand. Plus, now he had his identity as Playmaker to worry about. Opening up to people, connecting himself to the Lost Incident, it ran the risk of someone figuring out who he was. And Playmaker needed to be anonymous. Playmaker was a criminal. Yusaku couldn’t keep doing what he was doing if the wrong person figured him out, and anyone could be that wrong person.

But here, in Heartland City, the Lost Incident didn’t exist. It never happened. Yusaku didn’t exist, and neither did Playmaker. So discussing the Lost Incident couldn’t possibly get him in trouble here. He looked at Yuma again. Something told him that Yuma might not understand, but he’d at least try. At least, he wouldn’t judge Yusaku badly. Usually opening up backfired for Yusaku, but maybe this time it wouldn’t.

“I was kidnapped when I was 6.” With those words out, Yusaku couldn’t stop, so he kept going. He didn’t look at Yuma as he explained what happened, but out of the corner of the eye he could see the stranger floating above them. The stranger didn’t seem judgemental, though, they just looked down at him and listened with a curious expression on their face. “After a few months, we were found and rescued,” Yusaku finished. “But I still have nightmares about it 10 years later. I’ve never really been able to move on.”

“That’s awful.” Yuma teared up. “I’m sorry something like that happened. If I was there, I’d…”

“You would have been way too young to do anything about it if you were even alive then,” Yusaku pointed out.

“Hey, I would have been 1!!” Yuma puffed out his cheeks. “Who cares how old I was, I would’ve done something no matter what! Age means nothing if I’m feeling the flow.”

“Whatever.” Yusaku rolled his eyes. “What’s done is done. It doesn’t matter either way.”

“Of course it matters,” Yuma protested. “If you have nightmares about it and it still hurts you, then it matters, because you matter. Well, in this case, there’s only one thing to do.” Yuma collapsed on the floor next to Yusaku.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh no, it looks like I’ve accidentally fallen on top of you, and now I’m too lazy to move. Guess I’m stuck here all night. Maybe you’ll sleep better if I’m here next to you.”

Yuma wrapped his arms around Yusaku in a hug, further cementing the fact that he was really going to stay there all night.

Yusaku sighed. He wasn’t going to be able to push Yuma away from him, and even if he did he knew by now that Yuma would just come back. He might as well live with it.

Still, something was bothering him. He pointed up at the stranger above them. “Do you know who that is?”

Yuma looked from Yusaku, to the stranger, then back to Yusaku, then to the stranger again. “Wait, you can see Astral??”

“Most peculiar.” The stranger-- Astral-- brought a hand up to his chin. “No humans besides Yuma have been able to see me so far. Have you been able to see me the whole time, or is now the first time?”

“I saw you when I woke up. Not before then.”

“I wonder what prompted this change?” Astral asked. “I’ve spent more time around Yuma’s other friends than you, but they still cannot see me. Maybe there’s something special about you.”

It seemed like Astral wasn’t an imaginary friend after all. Yusaku didn’t appreciate the comment about Yuma being his friend, but he was too tired to point it out or to think about why he could suddenly see Astral when he couldn’t before. All he could do was fall back asleep, pulled back towards it by the extra warmth Yuma’s arms provided him.

Yusaku woke up to the smell of something burning. He checked the time: it was fairly early in the day. Who was burning something this early? He looked around the room. Astral and Yuma weren’t here, so it was entirely possible that Yuma was the culprit. Figuring he better go check on him, Yusaku got up and followed the smell to its source in the kitchen.

He found Yuma in the house’s kitchen, perched over a pot on the stove. In a panic, he tried to grab it off the stove before yelping from pain. Yusaku sighed. If something had been cooking in the pot, then clearly it was hot and not to be touched with bare hands. Only a fool would do something like that.

Astral floated above Yuma, watching his work. “Interesting. Observation: contact with metal can sometimes cause pain to humans.”

“It’s because it’s hot,” Yusaku clarified. He walked across the kitchen to close the distance between himself and Yuma and Astral. “If you touch something really hot, it burns you.” Yusaku stared at Yuma. “What’s going on?”

“Oh. Uh.” Yuma blew on the part of his hand that touched the pot. “It’s kind of a complicated story.”

“I have time.”

“Well… You were talking in your sleep. About hot dogs?? It sounded kind of like you liked them, or at least, that’s what Astral thought. So I thought maybe if I made some hot dogs it would cheer you up? I mean, you had a bad nightmare last night, and being stranded in some other world has to be stressful for you. You know? But I kind of accidentally burned them…” Yuma laughed nervously. “So much for that, huh?”

“You never cooked hot dogs for me, Yuma.”

“You can’t eat human food, Astral! We already tried!”

Talking in his sleep? As far as Yusaku was aware, he didn’t talk in his sleep much. Maybe being in Heartland City was causing something weird to happen to him. Maybe that was why he could see Astral now. But he had been dreaming. It had been a nicer dream for once. He was visiting Kolter at Cafe Nom, like none of this ever happened. It was...nice, actually. He missed that more than he’d think he would. And Kolter did give him a hot dog in his dream…

Yusaku spent more time around Kolter than he did anyone else. He included school in that as well, since Yusaku skipped classes occasionally and Kolter and Yusaku pulled more all-nighters together than anyone else probably should. And now, Kolter wouldn’t let Yusaku pay for hot dogs and coffee anymore (though he did try to limit the amount of coffee Yusaku drank). He pretended to keep some sort of running tab for Yusaku while refusing to let him pay any amount of it off. And Yusaku only started eating hot dogs in the first place to have a reason to be at Cafe Nom that was actually legal, but by now they’d grown to be his favorite food. Yusaku did tend to stick to eating cheaper food anyway. Yet, hot dogs were still the winner. Some days he barely ate anything else.

Yusaku stared at the pot of burnt hot dogs. All burnt food smelled bad, and hot dogs were no exception. They weren’t going to be edible. It was a disaster on all accounts. But Yuma had done it thinking of him. Yuma’d gone out of his way to do something he wasn’t asked to do for him, with nothing for Yuma himself to gain from it. Yusaku didn’t know how to respond to that. Friends did this kind of thing for each other, right? Yusaku was rarely on the receiving end of something like this, and never on the giving end. That required having friends at all.

“Thank you,” Yusaku managed. Hopefully that was good enough.

“For what?” Yuma sounded confused. “For burning your hot dogs? That’s a weird thing to thank someone for. What, do they eat burnt hot dogs where you’re from?”

“No.”

“Then what are you thanking me for?”

Yusaku sighed. “Nevermind.”

“I believe that Yusaku was actually thanking you for the sentiment rather than the hot dogs themselves, Yuma,” Astral explained.

“I didn’t send anyone mints,” Yuma said.

“Nevermind.” Astral sighed.

Yusaku dreamed again the next night. It wasn’t a nightmare. It wasn’t a dream of what he missed.

Earlier that day, Yuma had helped Yusaku look for a way home after school. It was difficult without having idea how Yusaku arrived in this world in the first place. The only idea they could think of was based on Astral being from another world as well. Apparently, as Yuma and Astral gathered Number cards, Astral began to regain memories as well. (Interesting, that Yusaku and Astral had both lost memories upon arriving in his world.) Astral suggested that the key might be within his lost memories. So, Yusaku ended up actually helping Yuma and Astral look for Numbers. They had no luck that day, though.

The dream Yusaku had wasn’t far off. He was trying to help Yuma deal with Numbers. Dreams could be nonsensical, however, and Yusaku’s dream often didn’t make sense. Sometimes, rather than Heartland City, he found himself in Den City, Link Vrains, and other places Yusaku couldn’t remember ever seeing before.

No matter where they were, Yuma kept dragging Yusaku along with him in his search. They seemed to be in a rush. But even though they never found anything before Yusaku woke up, Yusaku never felt too annoyed about the whole situation.

#hugsaku #hugsaku2021 #yugioh vrains #yugioh zexal #tater writes #this one starts out with yusaku waking up from a nightmare...#i've really enjoyed writing the banter between yuma and astral and i think this chapter really shows it off #as for yusaku being able to see astral... i've intentionally interpreted his abilities loosely for this fic #yusaku can sort of sense what's happening in vrains so i've decided to interpret that as #yusaku being able to sense things from other connected worlds #with vrains being connected to den city and astral world being connected to heartland #which is almost certainly not how it works but? i wanted yusaku to meet astral

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