raw panic

I kept getting distracted by the idea and had to write it up. sourwolfsparking

Stiles slides out of the Jeep and snorts when he catches sight of Derek sitting in front of the loft building, totally wolfed out, his black tail swishing along the ground as he watches Stiles approach.

“Hey Lassie, you lock yourself out?”

His ears twitch to face Stiles, and Stiles practically sees the judgment in his pale eyes.

“Ok,” he concedes. “Not my best material, I’ll admit, and you’re probably more of a Cujo than a Lassie, but…” He trails off, expecting a huff or even a playful nip at his shins (Derek’s trademark snark tends to come out in this form as painfully adorable dog antics that Stiles has tragically yet to capture on camera). But Derek just looks back at him, unmoving.

Stiles drops to a crouch in front of him, lifts a hand to run down Derek’s back, and smiles when he leans into the pressure.

“Seriously though, dude. What’s with the puppy suit? You don’t usually just hang around all day in your second skin like this. Low profile, all that? You point blank refused to come play Frisbee fetch with me in the park last week, as though people would seriously be able to tell you apart from a dog and freak out, but whatever.”

Derek whuffs faintly, leans forward to sniff at Stiles’ face.

He leans away from the wet tongue, laughing.

“Hey, quit it. Yes, I ate a Reeses on the way over; no you don’t get any, especially in this form. Chocolate’s bad for dogs. I think.” He pauses. “Right?”

Derek whuffs again, turns to lap at Stiles’ fingers. Stiles rolls his eyes, tugging his hand back and shaking out the wet digits.

“Yeah, ok, wolf slobber is not the way to convince me to give you treats. …I mean, not treats treats because like, you’re not a dog and that would be speciesist and all that. But really though, what’s up with the extended wolfiness? Did you lose your clothes in the woods or something? Did you get stuck in wolf form and now you’re not sure how to turn back?”

Derek yips at that, chasing Stiles’ waving fingers and nipping pointedly at his hand. Stiles freezes because…

“No wait, seriously?”

Derek snuffles into his palm, nosing into it before turning back and huffing again, low and urgent.

Shit, Derek. Ok, you’re freaking me out here. If you can turn back just, seriously please turn back now. We’re behind my Jeep, there’s no one around. Look, I’ll even avert my eyes for decency and everything.”

Which he does. He actually covers his eyes with his hands to block out any potential glorious nakedness, that’s how freaked out he is right now.

About ten seconds go by, before Derek huffs and licks at the back of Stiles’ hand.

Which is most definitely a wolf thing to do, not a human thing. A trapped in wolf form thing.

Derek’s trapped in wolf form.

Stiles drops his hands away and, sure enough, there Derek is: fur, tail and all, watching Stiles with a mildly put out expression.

“No no, hey, this cannot be happening. This can’t happen to you, Derek, you’re like, the most wolfy-aware person we know. Who the hell are we supposed to go to for advice about you being stuck like this?”

Derek seems to be echoing Stiles’ agitation, lifting a paw to nudge at Stiles’ knee.

“Yeah, yeah. We could go to Deaton but you know how helpful he always is. Which is not at all, by the way. Shit, ok, we can handle this though. We’ll figure this out. You can come home with me for now, I’ll get you some paperwork or something, a collar, so people don’t think you’re a stray and try to take you away. And I know, man, I know that sucks and you’ll hate wearing it but it’s better than having to worry about dog catchers on top of everything else.”

He fists a hand into the thick fur of Derek’s nape, using the touch to ground himself because the world feels frighteningly unstable right now.

Derek’s an actual wolf. Derek could be trapped as a wolf forever and then…

“And what does this mean for us, Derek? After everything we went through… we were just starting to work things out and now. I mean… damn it, we’ve only been dating for two weeks and now my boyfriend’s a wolf.” Derek ducks his head regretfully, licks at a bit of chocolate along the edge of Stiles’ thumb. Stiles instantly feels like crap for making this about himself, for giving Derek something else to worry about. He tries to gentle his tone out of raw panic as he lifts his other hand to rub soothingly behind Derek’s ear. “Man, you’re cute as hell like this, don’t get me wrong. But like, in an ‘I want to snuggle and pet you’ kind of way. And I’m really not into the whole bestiality thing dude, I wish I was, but I think we’re probably gonna have to put our next lunch date on hold until we get this—“

He breaks off at the sound of a throat clearing pointedly behind him, looks over and finds Derek standing at the loft entrance, his arms crossed and his brows arched high on his forehead. Half a step beside him stands a pale woman in her mid-thirties, who is watching Stiles with an expression that’s more than a little disturbed.

“Stiles,” Derek says very carefully, as the wolf-Derek (not Derek?) continues to lap chocolate off Stiles’ palm. “What are you doing with my new tenant’s dog?”

anonymous asked:

10. please?

“Don’t try, I’m not worth it.”

“Are you fucking insane?” Tony exclaims, but the outrage he intends to convey somehow ends up sounding as blind panic.

Steve doesn’t stop in his descent down a creaking wooden ladder; each shudder and groan it makes as it rebels against Steve’s weight just another scrape against the inside of Tony’s chest. He is only a small dot high above, but moving steadily down.

He still has enough time to go back, to save himself. If only the fool would listen.

“When we’re out of here,” Steve calls out, clearly pissed off. “We’re going to have a long talk about what constitutes as insanity. Among other things.”

Tony shuts his eyes and bangs his head against the concrete. He tries to move, but fails. Again.

He doesn’t know what is it they gave him, but it successfully paralyzed him from the neck down.

And then they stuck him in the suit. Well, suit minus the helmet. And the best thing? The suit is completely out of juice.

But the worst thing is that Steve - that foolish, reckless, brave idiot - is now literally climbing down to his own death just because Tony went and got himself captured.

“You can’t carry me up,” Tony tries again. “Even without the suit-”

“Tony, I love you very much, but right now I really need you to stop talking.”

“Fuck you, Rogers,” Tony exclaims hotly, feels something wet streaming down his cheeks. “You can’t save me, all you’re going to do is kill yourself trying.”

“Yeah?” Steve grits out, and even with the distance separating them, Tony can hear that familiar stubborn determination giving his voice a steely edge. “Watch me.”

And Tony does. Watches Steve jump down thirty feet of height, unable to do anything to stop him. Unable to even breathe, all air expelled out of his lungs by sheer panic.

Steve!” Tony cries out when he gathers enough air to speak. He doesn’t recognize his own voice: thin and small and cracking on edges. “Steve, you fucking idiot.”

A pained grunt sounds from somewhere to Tony’s right. A wave of relief surges through Tony’s chest. Tony grits his teeth, tries to lift his head, the sound of his harsh breaths almost drowning out that of boot heels scraping against concrete, and then, then-

There are hands wrapping under Tony’s arms and lifting him to his feet, pressing him against solid chest for the briefest of moments. Then, gloved fingers are darting along the metal of Tony’s suit, finding the hidden catches and releases.

“Don’t try it,” Tony pleads in a pained voice, raw with guilt and panic. “I’m not worth it.”

Steve, whose face is dirty and bleeding from a gash above his right eyebrow, pauses in getting Tony out of the suit, his right hand sliding up to cradle the back of Tony’s neck.

“Shut up. Shut. Up,” Steve grits out in a wrecked voice, leans his forehead against Tony’s. “You’re worth everything.”

Tony screws his eyes shut, opens his mouth to curse the stubborn bastard, but all that comes out is a half-choked sob of Steve’s name.

And somewhere in the building above them the clock continues to count down, fast approaching zero.

Like You’d Been Softened

Izaya wakes to pain.

It’s overwhelming, for the first moment. His jolt to consciousness is sudden, so startling he can’t make sense of what’s even happening for the first breath; and the pain is there waiting for him, surging through every fiber of his body before he can attribute any kind of source to it. He’s screaming before he thinks, before he can even make an attempt to restrain the sound spilling past his lips; his whole body is in agony, muscles seizing tight like he’s being tortured, like he’s trapped in a cage of his own physical form. There are blankets tangled around him, the fabric twisting under his hips and binding him to stillness for the first panicked moment; and then he gasps an inhale, reflex overriding the unbearable wall of pain for the time it takes to fill his lungs, and into the haze of red-washed agony there’s a startled inhale from behind him, and a voice: “Izaya,” no less concerned for the drag of sleep still weighting at the syllables. “Izaya, what’s wrong?”

“It hurts,” Izaya gasps. He can’t think straight, can’t form his awareness to any details beyond that overwhelming force: the pain, the rush of it blinding, the knot of agony twisting tighter in his body with every beat of his heart as if to scrape his nerves to endless torment. He wrenches a hand free of the twist of blankets around him, reaches out desperately for something to cling to, something to brace himself against; and Shizuo’s hand meets his, the grip of the other’s fingers unhesitating and solid as the wall they have always seemed to be. “Shizuo.”

Keep reading

I have low tolerance for pain. I don’t like to feel it and neither can I endure seeing it happening to others. I will look at an open wound and get dizzy.

Why am I saying this? I read that volume after Aizen betrayed everyone and we have a Fourth Squad guy admiring Orihime strength because she was healing a heavily injured Ichigo.

Orihime Inoue, 16 years old girl know for being empathic and kind, she can look at the boy she likes bleeding on the ground and is like “I have super healing powers, all good” and go to business.

Just saying, Orihime Inoue mental fortitude is amazing.

im broken, aren’t you?

so i heard someone needed angst???

here’s a bomb drop have fun.

Keith swung his bayard around, blocking a laser and ducking behind a pillar.

“Lance, buddy, I need your backup!” He called into the comm and heard a noise of agreement, and then swung back around into the fight. He slashed and rolled, taking down another few soldiers. He ducked into another small corner where he could take a minute to breathe and shake his head, because god his ears were itchy. He must have left shampoo in his hair or something.

Keep reading

The Little, Blue Hyundai Sonata

Prompt: AS REQUESTED BY ANON: “hamilsquad x reader where reader gets into a car accident and suffers brain damage and kinda resorts to a child like state and the hamilsquad have to try and take care of her”

Paring: Could be interpreted as Hamilsquad with some Laurens X Reader or Poly!Hamilsquad (Whichever sweetens your tea) 

TW: Car accidents, swearing, loss of a loved one, abusive father figure, suicide attempt, reference to depression, suicidal thoughts, regression, trauma, panic attacks, nightmares, flashbacks, anxiety, breakdowns, refusing to eat, temper tantrums, mute, robbed, temporary character death, ambulances, vivid description of car accident/blood?

A/N: Thank you so much to the anon who requested this! I hope this is what you had in mind and I really hope you enjoy this! I hope this meets your standards! As always, thank you for all of your love and support! I love y'all! If you want me to tag something, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know! I want you to feel safe when reading my work! Please enjoy!

Word Count: 6140

You were fifteen when you got your first car. She was a blue, 2004 Hyundai Sonata, and you called her Sonya. Your father had driven her for a few years before you’d gotten her, and he took the new car. You didn’t mind though, you loved her. She had a few flaws like a busted air conditioner and cracked motor mounts-so she shook sometimes and rumbled when it was cold out-but you didn’t mind that. In fact, you loved her flaws. You found the rumbling of the engine soothing on the cold mornings. And Sonya had the fastest defrost you’d ever seen. You loved your car.

Keep reading

What is an “instant” death anyway? How long is an instant? Is it one second? Ten? The pain of those seconds must have been awful as her heart burst and her lungs collapsed and there was no air and no blood to her brain and only raw panic. What the hell is instant? Nothing is instant. Instant rice takes five minutes, instant pudding an hour. I doubt that an instant of blinding pain feels particularly instantaneous.
—  John Green, Looking for Alaska
Five seconds with Misha Collins: A Novel

This is part 3 of “Sparrow’s Infinitely Long JIBCon Report”, a writeup about JIBCon that I posted to fandomnatural a couple days ago after my first JIBCon, which was held in Rome last week. It was the first con (of any type) that I’ve ever attended. I was livetweeting it for fandomnatural, and I wrote up a thing about my Jensen, Jared & Mark interactions (all of which were great) for fandomnatural as well. But the Misha part got so long it somehow turned into a whole damn novel, really about the whole fangirl experience. Here it is.


Ok so, of all the main cast Misha definitely is the one I most wanted to see… and definitely has the most potential to rattle me, lol. I was hoping, kind of desperately hoping actually, that the Misha photo ops would be later in the weekend so that I could get settled in first, maybe get to see him a few times from afar first and kind of get used to the idea. BUT NO, when I consulted my schedule the Misha photo ops were like VERY FIRST THING ON DAY 1, before the main stage had even started, and so I was all “…. shit”, lol.  (He did actually have a few other op sessions later actually, but those conflicted with other ops I also had to do).

The very very first thing of course on day 1, though, is just to get into Jibcon at all, which means standing in a loooong line at registration to show our id’s and get our passes. While in that long line, I got talking to a German girl next to me. It turned out she was also at her very first con. We were each pretty relieved to find another newbie and so we started bonding over first-con jitters. She said, “I’m kind of worried I’m going to panic at the photos.” This was absolutely my strongest fear as well and I said “Me too.” I was really thinking privately, “I’m not just ‘kind of worried’, I’m TERRIFIED,” and then she added, now with this sort of stricken look on her face, “Especially Jared. I’m really nervous about Jared,” and I confessed “Yeah, I know what you mean, it’s Misha for me…. I don’t even know why….”

She looked at me, and there was this little pause, this mutual-fangirl-recognition-moment, and then we finished the next sentence in alternation. She began “It’s so strange….”  and stopped, and I picked it up and said “It’s so strange, how you can find yourself getting so…  emotionally attached, to one particular actor…. and… for….” and she was nodding and she chimed in and we said in perfect unison “…FOR NO REASON!” and we both just burst out laughing.

Because it is so strange, isn’t it?

In his panel later, Misha said something about how odd it is to discover that (from the cast’s perspective) there are all these people that you’ve never met who have somehow gotten attached to you. He described how “warily” the cast approached the fans at first, how at first the cast was standoffish about the “all these weirdos”. (He never really retracted or clarified the “weirdos” characterization and I don’t know if he’s concluded that the fans are not weirdos, or simply has concluded that weirdos can be nice people too) It got me thinking: from the fangirl perspective there’s actually a rather similar experience of confusion and wariness. It is just as odd to discover that you yourself have gotten attached! That you’ve become part of this strange mass of obsessed humanity, that you’ve become one of the weirdos! You’re looking into your own heart & brain going “wtf, heart, brain. WTF,” and you approach *your own self* warily. And you approach the actors extremely warily, partly for fear they will somehow make you crumble. You know they have an illogical power over you, and you know you cannot voluntarily control the rush of adrenaline that they can elicit; you are even fighting a feeling of shame about it (the infamous Fangirl-Shame; so illogical and unwarranted and unfortunate, yet still so strong).

So, as a fan, one is (or I was, at least) extremely, extremely wary about approaching the cast in person, wary about that moment of handing over that power to them, while not yet knowing how exactly they might affect me. It is a moment that requires a real trust in the actor, a trust that the actor will not be cruel or cold to you if in fact you do crumble.

Another fan told me not to be scared because “Misha is a nice guy.” I was standing in the photo-op line clinging, mentally, to that statement, hoping that it would turn out to be true.

So I get in the photo op line and it turns out there’s a well-organized flow to the line (which kept reminding of a herd of cattle headed to slaughter, ha). The longest part of the wait is in a large herd of people outside in the hall where you are sorted into your pass types (angel pass, demon pass etc.) and you are slightly nervous but you know you still have a good chunk of time to wait. Batches of people get taken away bit by bit (headed off to slaughter! You never see them again and you are never quite sure what happened to them) As the herd thins, suddenly you’re waved forward to join the next part of the process, and now YOU are in the group that disappears around the corner, to join a much shorter line of maybe 5 people that is neatly arranged just outside the photo op room door. This is where you (or I at least) start to get REALLY nervous. The third stage is inside-the-room line where you’re like shit there he is, there’s only about 6 people in front of you now and you’re just like 1 minute away from your little 5 second photo moment with this…. random actor dude who you don’t even know, and you know that you don’t really know him, and he knows that you don’t know him, you both know that neither of you know each other and you both know that there is something deeply ridiculous and bizarre about this little tiny meeting, and you’re thinking WHY THE FUCK AM I FREAKING OUT. You’re laughing at yourself — laughing and laughing, at yourself — even while panicking, because this whole thing is completely ridiculous. Yet here you are just the same!

I was still out in the herd and didn’t yet know how the flow operates, and was busy discovering that my dominant emotion while waiting in that line was not excitement at all but was raw panic. Honestly I was unprepared for what a strong and downright unpleasant fear it was. It was not at all a jitters/butterflies/“omg!” kind of feeling but more like, actual ice-cold dread, and it was approaching true terror level. The level of fear really surprised me. I mean, c'mon, I’m not a starry-eyed kid, I’ve been around the block! Misha should seem just a pup, to me; I’m ten years older than him, and, not to toot my own horn or anything, but, I’ve got to a place in life where I can usually hold my own in all kinds of situations. I give public talks all the time, I meet all kinds of people, I’m used to performing, I can usually handle nerves pretty well. But this frickin Misha photo op was FUCKING. TERRIFYING.

To try to calm myself down I started talking to the other fans around me, many of whom reported the same state of near-panic. I mentioned in the livetweets how there seem to be two components to the fear. One was a fear of looking bad - of looking too ugly next to the beautiful cast, feeling like maybe you’re too ugly even to want them to have to look at you. This seems really common. :( (and yes, I was feeling it, keenly. So keenly that I actually haven’t looked at any of my photos; I picked them up with my eyes half-squinted shut, stuffed them in my bag and still have not looked at any of them).

But that is far from the only fear. I started talking to a Swedish girl named Emma next to me. Emma could be a supermodel - tall and slender and blonde and gorgeous, the whole package, drop-dead. You’d think she’d be fine being in a photo, but it turned out it was her first con too, and Misha was her first ever photo-op too, and like me she was PETRIFIED. Because… the other part of the fear is a real fear of losing one’s dignity in front of the actor. Of being so overwhelmed that you might crumble; get physically shaky, or unable to speak, or (worst) maybe you might even cry. There’s this terrific uncertainty of not knowing how you’re going to react, how badly the adrenaline will hit you, and being desperately worried that you’ll come off badly in front of this person who you dearly want to impress.

It’s inherently such an unbalanced interaction, isn’t it? The actor is so much more socially dominant; the fan is on a lesser social and psychological footing in all possible ways. The actor is, additionally, experienced & well-practiced at the whole photo-op routine, while the fan is (usually) not. Each of the main cast must have done tens of thousands of these little photo ops, right? I was thinking, on that one day alone, each of the main cast would be buzzing through hundreds more such fan-actor encounter moments, and there would be hundreds and hundreds more tomorrow, on and on in what must seem, to them, an endless flow, the actor as calm as a rock in a river while a virtually endless stream of completely interchangeable fans flows by like minnows in the stream. Any individual fangirl knows she is just one of a million minnows. The fans know they are interchangeable and forgettable; and yet nonetheless are hoping to somehow be able to hold their own, to carry themselves well, to be able to speak coherently and to, in some sense, meet the actor as an equal, as a fellow human, if just for a very brief moment.

The impulsion behind all that fear, the reason to gut oneself through it, is this unlikely hope that for one moment  the actor might see them as an individual; one moment of being “appreciated and seen”, as /u/TotallyNotARaccoon eloquently put it. And maybe, just maybe, even remembered, even if just very briefly. I thought, while in the photo-op line, of Peter Beagle’s “The Last Unicorn”, in which the greatest gift the unicorn can bestow upon a mere mortal is simply to promise to remember them.

So I’m in the line thinking about all this and getting MORE AND MORE SCARED, and one of the many things I was panicking about was what to actually DO with this photo op. I had been thinking about this for eight months, okay? You’d think I would have settled on a plan, right? You’d think I would have made a decision by now. BUT NO. However, standing there in line, I remembered this Misha/Jared photo I saw last year that had really bothered me. It was that one from a year or so back that had two fans hugging Jared, and then way off to the side was Misha, all alone, holding a little sign that said something like “The Jared photo ops were sold out”. You guys remember that?

Grrrrrr. I was so pissed!

THEY EVEN DID ANOTHER 2ND PHOTO LATER, same two fans, same kinda pose, Misha holding a sign that said “Still sold out”.


The entire point of both photos was clearly to deliberately let Misha know that they didn’t want him at all. Those 2 photos just PISSED. ME. OFF. so fucking much. It’s not like I thought it had broken Misha’s fragile little heart or anything. He’s a pro, he certainly knows he’s got his own loyal fanbase, he’s got layers of support & protection, and he is savvy enough to understand that in any mass of humanity there will be some small % of toxic wackos who are best ignored. That sort of fanwank must just sort of mostly blow right past unnoticed. Or at least roll off pretty quick.

But then…. there was that other con a few months back where it sorta came clear that maybe it does get to him a little bit. Remember when that bullshit fan got up to ask Misha a question and then was all “Actually I didn’t even want to ask you a question, I wanted to ask JARED a question” and she’d very obviously gone to some trouble to stand in Misha’s question line just to say that, and Misha just, like, went off on her. It was pretty trolly and funny in the moment, but it also made painfully clear that he actually has noticed the fanwank to some degree. So… at least sometimes, it probably stings a little bit.

Anyway I thought: if those nutjobs made a sign about how they didn’t even want Misha in their photo, well, then I’ll make a little sign to show people I really DID want a Misha photo, that he was actually my top choice and the main reason I even came to the con. And I came a fricking long way for this, too, like, WAY out of my way! I mean, c'mon, I was supposed to be flying to Alaska that very weekend and I’d actually diverted to Rome for this photo (a decision I am paying a real physical price for today in terms of jet lag!) So I got an idea for a little sign. I pulled out a piece of paper and my trusty Sharpie (same one that’s in my pocket now to label bird nests) and made this sign for Misha to hold:

“This joker  —->   [an arrow pointing toward me]

is flying from

[east coast city] to Alaska


just for a photo

with me.”

I made a tiny second sign, this one for me to hold, that just said: “worth it!” :D

Instantly I was already embarrassed about the little signs and convinced they were SUPER LAME, but by now I was at that “fuck it” point. In for a fangirl penny, in for a fangirl pound, right? COMMITTED, lol.

Then my bunch of fans, including me & Emma, got called forward to slaughter and we were herded around the corner to the small-group-just-outside-the-room, and we lined up there like obedient sheep and at this point my heart started to POUND. All of a sudden my main worry was no longer that my little signs were stupid, but that my knees were going to shake so bad that I was going to collapse. I actually had to start doing the deep-slow-breathing thing to slow my heart down. (deeeep breeaaaath, thinking SLOW, SLOWER, to my heart; but even so my fitbit reported later that my HR spiked at 132, more than twice resting, lol) I looked over at Emma right behind me and she was, like, ASHEN. I said “Is your heart racing too? Cause mine is,” and she whispered “yes”. She looked so scared that I started patting her arm and saying stuff like “deep breaths, deep breaths, just breathe slow, we’ll be fine”.










Misha Collins

And it turns out he is THREE-DIMENSIONAL. Also he has feet.

There was this odd sensation of some part of my brain trying to map the familiar 2-D face onto a human 3-D body. Something deep down in my mind was kind of going basically “whoooooa, he’s always been two dimensional before, wtf happened, he’s a PERSON! And also he has FEET!” ha, haahahhaha, I was standing there amazed by this. (I know you do see Castiel from head to foot occasionally in the show, but usually it’s some kind of waist-up shot or a closeup) The moment I caught sight of him he happened to be sort of shaking out his legs from the last pose, and it seriously was this brain-jolt moment, to be able to see the guy from head to foot, continuously all in one field of view (w/feet, w/depth) and without a camera cutting away to some other scene.

There were maybe 8 people in front of me. Later on in the weekend, once I got a little more sane about it all, my favorite part of photo ops became this first moment in the room, when they’re not at you yet. Because, you get to watch several other photo ops before yours. I would so, so love to just spend an hour just sitting there quiet as a mouse in the back corner of the photo op room, just watching the flow of it. Some fans have elaborate poses in mind; the majority actually don’t, turns out, and most just do the Classic Hug pose (there is this craving for hugs. There’s this whole currency about whether or not you got hugged). There’s something incredibly endearing about these little interactions: watching each fan gear themselves up and step forward for this little moment they’ve been waiting and planning for for months -  especially endearing now that I know firsthand that a good half of them are fighting back a fricking flood of complex fears and emotions that I now deeply understand. I got to feeling this fellow-fangirl pride about how well they were each handling themselves.

And then there’s the aspect of watching how the actor handles it all, gamely keeping his energy up through what must be (let’s be real here) a pretty boring-and-also-tiring hour. Trying to give each fan a genuine smile and a moment of eye contact, trying to give each photo its little moment of energy, and trying to stay game and cooperative about all the weird little poses.

But that’s later that I start noticing all that. Right now I was only thinking “I am going to fucking COLLAPSE if I can’t get my heart to slow down” and the line was going wayyyy tooooo faaasst, bam, bam, one after another, <FLASH>, <FLASH>, <FLASH>. I was really grateful to a couple fans with complex enough poses that it slowed the process down, because that gave me some more time to try to get my fucking heart rate under control, lol. Some girl wanted Misha to lie down on his back next to her with some kind of stuffed animal and with his feet in the air (he got this slightly wtf look on his face, but did get down on the floor willingly enough), and thank god since that gave me a sec to order myself to CALM THE FUCK DOWN. Another girl then apparently asked him to pick her up, which I am pretty sure the actors are not supposed to do but she was a tiny little thing and he WHISKED her off her feet, bridal style, with a big grin, and she was thrilled, and that gave me 2 more seconds to continue chanting to myself CALM THE FUCK DOWN, GODDAMMIT. But then the next whole set of fans in front of me, all the rest of them, were all just Classic Hug pose and it was going super fast: hello, <pose> <FLASH>, thank-you, next fan, hello, <pose> <FLASH>, thank-you and I’m like FUCK WOULD YOU JUST SLOW DOWN, MISHA, BECAUSE I NEED MORE TIME TO CALM DOWN. My entire ribcage is shaking with each heartbeat now, it’s seriously bad, it’s worse than that time I bumped into a grizzly bear! I turn to Emma (who is just behind me) and she’s dead white now and she whispers that classic phrase to me, “I’m really nervous”, the Great Fangirl Understatement, by which I know she means “*I am fucking terrified*” and I hiss “we’ll be fine, we’ll be just fine, we’re gonna be FINE, BREATHE, you’ll be FINE”, patting her arm. All of a sudden I’m next, the girl in front of me’s doing her photo, I totally fumble with the bag hand-off and then somebody’s all “your turn, NEXT” and there’s nobody in front of me and Misha’s looking at me.


I went

dead calm

Exactly like I did with the grizzly bear.

Footnote: With the grizzly bear, I was all alone and it was the very end of the day and I was hiking alone in grizzly country on a bird project. (footnote to footnote: That was a weird project… I was constantly ending up lost off-trail on my own at the end of the day. It was maybe not the world’s best organized fieldwork, now that I think about it) Anyway it was a blustery evening near sunset, the wind was blowing the wrong way for the bear to get my scent, and also the trees were rustling in the wind and hiding the sound of my footsteps, and I rounded a corner and literally almost bumped into the rear end of this frickin ENORMOUS grizzly bear. It had not seen me yet. I was a couple feet away from it. It was fucking HUGE. I knew if it saw me and got startled to find me suddenly that close, I was dead.

With the grizzly bear, I instantly had 2 voices going on in my head. One voice, the stupid voice, was saying, “Get closer and take a photo!” Fortunately a second and much more ancient and much wiser voice spoke up and said “DO NOT TAKE IT BY SURPRISE. Back away very, very slowly before it attacks,” and that is what I did with the bear: I tiptoed backwards for a long, long time, at least a quarter of a mile (and also maneuvered closer to an alpine lake, figuring if it charged, I would rather jump into the lake and die of hypothermia than be mauled to death.) And I got away.

Misha is now looking at me and I instantly have those exact same 2 voices in my head, lol, the first going “Get closer and take a photo!” and the second going, I swear, “Do not take it by surprise. Back away very, very slowly before it attacks”.

Misha has already spotted me though! It’s too late to back up and sneak away!

However…. he does not attack, ha. The 1st voice takes over and somehow then I’m just, like, walking up and telling him super confidently what to do: “You stand here, I’ll be on this side, you hold this little sign, the sign’s pointing at me, ok?” He’s like “sure” and he rearranges himself and shifts over to the correct side (whoa, he’s doing what I asked) and takes the little sign (and it looks like he doesn’t even have any claws, whoa! He is, like, almost definitely not going to kill me) Meanwhile a 3rd voice in the way back is piping up again, now that he is very close, with “This guy is DEFINITELY three-dimensional.” And somehow through all this mental chatter I manage to say, about the sign, “Do you want to read it?”

I was not really expecting him to read it given the fast clip of the photo-op line, but I hate it when actors aren’t at least given a chance to see what the hell it is that they’re endorsing, so I was just sort of pointing out he could read it if he wanted.

He turns the sign toward himself so he can see it, and kinda studies it for a sec, and then he doesn’t look at me and doesn’t say a thing but slowly turns the sign back around and turns to the camera with that mock-appalled look that he’s so good at. (you know that look, right?) Somehow I had not expected that particular look of his in response to that little sign, and I just busted out laughing.


I forgot all about trying to do any kind of polished smile or correct head angle so as to look good (always a doomed endeavour for me at the best of times) so in the photo I’m actually in the middle of this huge belly laugh and paying zero attention to the camera.

And that’s it. That’s my 5 seconds with Misha Collins! And I know my time’s up, and I am SO THRILLED because I didn’t pass out, I didn’t collapse, I was able to talk, I functioned like a normal human being. I kept some little shred of dignity! I’m totally thrilled. I turn to go and reach out for the little sign. But now he’s turned the sign around toward him again and he’s reading it again.

The following little exchange was actually not very long but has accordioned out in my mind (as Jeremy Carver would say) to where it felt like it lasted half an hour. I was just so certain the line was going to keep bipping right along and that my time was up. But instead now Misha’s turned the little sign around again so that he can see it, and he’s studying it again.

Then he turns to me. He’s now completely blocking my way out of the room, like, squared up in front of me, and he’s got this laser look like he’s studying me (I was relaying this to /u/TotallyNotARaccoon later and she pointed out, he’s got this way of really focusing on you that is pretty sweet, that really makes you feel like you’ve got his full attention.)

He says, “Why are you going to Alaska?”

I say something like “I’m an ornithologist, and I study birds up on the tundra, up in Alaska. I go up every spring,” and he’s all, “Really?” (narrow eyed look here) and then he says, “With who? With what group?”

The answer to that is about five minutes and twenty institutions long, because it’s this gigantic long-term research project with a million collaborators from all over North America at the USA’s main tundra ecology research station, so I scrambled a bit here and tried to shorten it down to my main 3 collaborators. Now I’m listing universities, fuck, and he’s staring at me as I list universities, and meanwhile I’m thinking “This is incredibly boring, Misha, why did you ask me such a boring question? You should have asked what species I study, or where the field site is,” but he’s still giving me that extremely attentive look and I finally realize what he probably really meant was “are you legit / where do you work” and so I add, “But I work at Aquarium X actually, in [east coast city]”.

So he says something like, “But why are you working at an aquarium in [east coast city] if you study birds in Alaska?”

So I say, “Well, I study whales there.”  (Which I do.)

Here Misha does SUCH A CLASSIC CASTIEL PUZZLED SQUINT that it almost burns a hole in me - it turns out that this look is actually a Misha thing and not just a Castiel thing - and he says, kind of slow like he’s confused:

“You’re an ornithologist but you study whales?”

Again I just busted out laughing.

At that point I realized the whole line has been stopped dead for a little while and poor Emma (who is next) is probably ABOUT TO DIE, so I decide to wrap it up (me! I’m the one who decides to wrap it up! Not the JIBCon staffer and not Misha)  I actually said “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about my career later,” (like he gives a fuck about my frickin career; and like there is gonna be a “later”, ha hahaaa) and I walk outside and I’m just… laughing.

All through JIBCon there are these Moments that get filed away in my memory. I guess this must happen for any fan, at every con: the things you will remember, right? The little portfolio of highlights, the things that make it all worthwhile. My little mental file ends up including:

Jared & Gen finally getting into their dip pose successfully and laughing at each other (described here)

Jensen staring up at me with this totally wtf look on his face thinking I am a moron (see previous link)

Me squeezing past Mark saying EXCUSE ME right in his face (see previous link)

Meeting my fandomnatural buddies IRL at last and realizing anew what genuine friendships I have made through this show. And my line buddies too, Viki, Emma, all of them.

But the moment that is sharpest in my memory is actually this one of Misha Collins frowning at me and saying “You’re an ornithologist but you study whales?” And me just laughing.

Anyway, that was my little photo op moment. I don’t know why he stopped to talk to me for a few sec. I am guessing it was probably half a case of “this crazy person apparently flew all this way, so I’ll give her a bit more time” and maybe half genuine curiosity on his part. But I hope somewhere in all that he got my actual little message, which was: You were my top pick, Misha, and thanks.

EPILOGUE: By Saturday I was in my “fuck, I didn’t bring anything for them to sign” crisis about the autographs (see previous link) but it occurred to me that for Misha, rather than see if he would deface euros like I did with most of the rest of the cast, instead I could have him sign the photo. So I scouted out his autograph session, which was almost done. He was the only one in the room, with a line of a dozen or so people. There he was! He was still three-dimensional. (I couldn’t see if he still had feet, lol) As with the photos, the autograph lines move with a very smooth efficiency. Sign, “thanks”, fan moves on, sign, “thanks”, fan moves on. My heart rate is maybe a *tish* high now but nowhere near full panic mode anymore. Because, it turns out, Misha is just a guy, and indeed, as I’d been told, a nice guy at that. As my turn ticks closer I’m wondering whether I could bother him for just 30 seconds more of conversation (I’m thinking of explaining about the ornithologist/whale thing, maybe saying something like “actually Misha, just to explain, I’m an ornithologist so I study whales and also sea turtles and elephants, which I forgot to mention before, so hopefully that clears it all up”) — but then I realize he looks a little tired. He is doing this thing where he goes slightly unfocused for a split second between people. It looks like fatigue. It gets me thinking how tiring this must be sometimes, how long these photo and auto sessions are for them (it’s like… a solid hour or more sometimes, of all these high-emotion-for-the-fan, 5-second-long, interactions). So I decide to keep it very very quick and simple and minimal; to act, and be, super calm and cool, so that he can just glide through it all quicker and go take a break sooner.

It’s my turn, he says hi pleasantly enough, but I just say “could you sign this please”, and I say nothing else, just slide the photo over and he signs. “Thank you *very* much” I say, in my best cheerfulest smiling-est, I’m-Totally-Fine-Here, Don’t-Worry-About-Me, voice. “Thank YOU”, he says, automatically; he offers his hand to shake, also automatically (he’s been doing that with everybody), but he’s nice, he’s a nice guy, he gives me a smile and I smile back.

And I turn and walk away feeling… AWESOME.

It’s a big room and there is a long walk back to the door. I’m about six strides away when Misha says behind me, kind of hesitant like he’s not sure he’s got the right fan, “See any good birds here?”

The Last Unicorn remembered me!

I resist the urge to march back up to his table and tell him about European hoopoes, and instead I just say “Yeah, actually, there’s swifts all over.” (Which there are.) Misha nods sagely. I’m pretty sure that means we’re best friends now.

EPILOGUE 2: Yesterday I met another grizzly bear. I was driving a pickup north through the sleet over the mountains in northern Alaska, almost brain-dead with jet lag (this Rome-Alaska itinerary that I put together to get my 5 sec w Misha was really not the brightest idea, but I REGRET NOTHING). The truck was fishtailing around and I was really trying not to skid off the road in the mud, and suddenly there was this frickin ENORMOUS grizzly right in front of me. It galloped away (fuck it was fast!). When it got to a safe distance, it stopped and turned and looked back. I could see its fuzzy little blond round ears trained on me, as it paused there with one (GIGANTIC) front paw raised, like it’d suddenly thought “why am I running from you?” Granted I was in a pickup, but just for the record, my heart rate was nowhere near what it was in that Misha photo-op room.

OK, that’s my report… and I’m heading out on the tundra now to get to work. Because, as Misha Collins can tell you, I am an ornithologist and that means that I study whales, so I’m going to head on out there and see what I find. :)

What is an “instant” death anyway? How long is an instant? Is it one second? Ten? The pain of those seconds must have been awful as her heart burst and her lungs collapsed and there was no air and no blood to her brain and only raw panic. What the hell is instant? Nothing is instant. Instant rice takes five minutes, instant pudding an hour. I doubt that an instant of blinding pain feels particularly instantaneous.
—  John Green, Looking for Alaska

anonymous asked:

"So you have a crush on my son?" - glory-goes-to-the-empire

Phasma looked up, and immediately she was hit by the raw sensation of panic.

Rae Sloane, one of the most legendary women to work with the Empire.

Nervously, she tried to muster up the courage to say something, but she only managed to squeak out a yes.

When You See It

Originally posted by thewinchesterdaily

Characters: Sam x Reader, Dean x Jo

Words Count: 2102

Warnings:  Angst, Some Violence, Fluff, Swearing

Request:   Could you please do a one shot where Sam and the reader (she’s a hunter and knows the Winchesters for many years) are together but because Dean is tactile with her, Jo thinks he’s in couple with her. Jo is jealous and pissed so she attacks the reader. And maybe do a protective Sam?

A/N: @look-at-this-moose, it won’t let me tag you for some reason, babe.  But here is your request, finally.  Hope you like it!  

“Son of a bitch,” Dean grunted, falling into the bar stool.  It had been a hard hunt and Dean had done nothing but complain the whole ride to the Roadhouse.  You chuckled, finding a seat beside him.  Jo turned, blond hair draping over her shoulders, when she heard Dean.  A smile slipped over her features when she saw him. You waved as she approached the two of you from behind the bar.

“Hey,” Jo greeted you, her smile growing under Dean’s care.  “How are my favorite hunters?”  

“Hey ya, Jo,” Dean said with a wink.  You rolled your eyes at his lecherous grin, slugging him on the shoulder.  Jo leaned over the bar, stealing a short kiss from her boyfriend.

“You greet all the customers here this way,” Dean teased and Jo only smiled wider.  “No wonder this place is packed.”

Keep reading

Amazing ficlet written by bnaz

The livestream flickered shut and uneasiness settled in Carmilla’s stomach.

As little as she knew about Betty Crocker, her behaviour just didn’t sit well, and she replayed the last few seconds of that livestream, trying to stitch the pieces together. The slight tilt of Perry’s head, the piercing yet strangely knowing stare, the condescending “dear”, the low pitched voice, the-


The penny dropped.

She suddenly saw long, slender fingers caressing her cheek. She saw stern gray eyes and a menacing grin exposing sharp teeth. Then, she saw Laura with that necklace. And Carmilla knew.

“Laura,” she shot up and ran as fast as she could, bumping against a few unexpected walls along the way. She ran through dark, tight tunnels and humid corridors, and past bookshelves she was sure she’d seen at least twice already. She tripped on scattered books and nearly slipped on damp pages long forgotten on whatever corner of hell she was in. When she ran violently against a wall and fell backwards, Carmilla knew she had reached a dead end. She got up and pressed her now scraped palms against the cold stone, her chest rose and fell quickly as the feeling of dread overloaded her senses and, suddenly, her lungs required more oxygen than she could provide.

“Laura!” Carmilla shouted and her hands balled into fists.

She glanced back, seeing the same corridor she had seen countless times before, and the feeling of dread quickly morphed into raw panic.

“LAURA!” She turned to the wall and banged her fists against the stone, hitting it over and over again while continuously shouting Laura’s name. She knew she wasn’t strong enough to break through the wall, she knew she was trapped in there because someone wanted her to stay put, because someone knew she’d save Laura no matter what, and that just wouldn’t do.

As thick drops of blood trickled down her wrist, the realisation that Laura now thought Carmilla had given up on her crept into her brain and she could do nothing but hit that wall and call for her, feeling guilt and fear and panic all rolled up into the tears that now coated her cheeks, and the blood that now stained the ground as evidence of her own defeat.

The things that shouldn’t have happened.

I can’t seem to remember myself before you. It’s been so long and yet the gaping hole mocks me as I try filling it up with all my uncertainities.I might be able to write about it someday when the ache from your memories no longer leaves me gasping for air.You’ve got me questioning my sanity, as I lay hazed by the things that shouldn’t have happened…

Request: Falling Apart

Request: Something saf with Sam, please?

Request: Really sad sam×reader oneshot?

Word Count: 1,874

So I don’t know if this counts as ‘sad’ but I cried at regular intervals while writing (but I’m an over-emotional wreck anyway so I might not count) I hope this works for you, thanks!<3

“I don’t get it.” You whisper. You’re not mad. Not mad. Just confused, and a tidal wave of fear roars through your stomach, “I don’t- did I do something? Don’t you love me anymore?”

“No, no. God, no. I’m doing this because I love you.” He says, obviously conflicted, “Y/N, you have to understand-”

“That you think of me as weak? That you think I can’t defend myself?”

“You can’t defend yourself against the threats we’re looking at!” He raises his voice, “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, okay? I don’t want to either.”

“Then don’t.” You’re struggling to keep your voice level, “I- you- I don’t know.”

“I can’t just let them kill you. Or worse.”

“They’re not going to.”

“Look, Y/N, I appreciate it. I do. And I’m sorry. Be honest, it wasn’t working out anyway.”

Those words are like stones being dropped into your stomach. You’d thought it had been going as well as ever – if not even better, stronger.

You’d met about eight years ago while trying to chase a demon who’d been making his way through each state, killing methodically. You’d put your brains together and got the case done – after three weeks together, you didn’t really want to leave, so you didn’t. And it just developed from there. Six years, you’ve been an official couple. You’re still alive now – sure, it’s been a close call a couple of times but you ignore that because Sam’s died at least twice.

“Wasn’t it?” You can’t help the tears that rise up, washing over you, “There was me thinking we were doing okay. Then again, it doesn’t matter what I think, does it?”

“Y/N, stop.”

“No, Sam. You don’t get,” You pick up your rucksack, shoving the few things you have out into it, “To break my heart like that then tell me to stop. You don’t. You lost that right.”


You pull the bag onto your back, glaring at him through the tears.

“No buts. We’re done, right? This way I’m not a 'walking target’. This way, if I die, you won’t feel quite so responsible, because hey, she was a a stubborn, reckless bitch anyway. Have a nice life, Winchester.”

You haven’t called him by his last name since the early days, definitely not since you began dating. It was a kind of informally formal thing, and it sends shivers down his spine.

“See you. Or not.” You say, and the door slams behind you.

Breaking up with you was the last thing he ever wanted to do. God, he loves you more than anything. And he thinks – no, he knows – that this is for the best. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him and he thinks that pushing you away will keep him safe.

He regrets it instantly. He wants you back in his arms, to kiss your head and apologise and tell you that he was wrong and that he loves you and if you ever leave, a piece of his heart will leave with you – it has. He feels like a part of him is missing, something necessary and important. And that something is walking away into the rain, tears streaming down her face.

“You agree with me, right?” Sam beseeches of his brother, “You know I did the right thing?”

Dean swallows, and shakes his head, “Sam, you just threw out the best thing that ever happened to you. And you let her walk away.”

There’s a pause, and Sam drops onto the bed, head in his hands.

“I know.”


It’s been three weeks since you hitched a ride from an old hick and got the hell out of there. You’re four states over, not working a case. Just hanging around the motel; around the town. You’re lonely, so lonely, but you’d never admit it. You drown your sorrows in whiskey, ending your nights staring at the empty bottle.

It’s hard to let go of the best six years of your life.

Sam calls every day. It kills you not to pick up, but you’re mad and you’re trying to get over him because he’s just smashed you into pieces and picking up would be like letting him grind his heel into the shards.

Then, one day, it rings. Your head snaps towards the phone, but instead of Sam’s caller ID, it’s Dean’s. Raw panic floods your gut as every horrible possibility runs through your mind.

Is he injured? Dead? Worse?

You almost don’t pick up, expecting Dean to give up and put the phone down, but it keeps ringing. Eventually, you pick up.

“Y/N?” Dean’s voice is mildly panicked, and you wince.

“Is everything okay?”

“Define okay.”

“You’re both alive, well, not dying, living, uninjured, in one piece…” You list, and Dean laughs.

“Alive, sure. But it’s Sam.” When you don’t reply, he continues, “Y/N, he’s broken. He won’t eat, won’t sleep, he’s drinking himself to death and crying and I’ve never seen him so messed up and I’m worried. He hates himself for what he did to you.”

You pause, and something like anger courses through you. Part of you is satisfied that he’s hurting, in some sick way, and another part is indignant – How dare he be upset? This whole thing is his fault!

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“You gotta come back.”



“This is his fault, Dean. And I’m trying everything I can to put myself back together and the last thing I want to deal with is seeing him again. I’m sorry.”

“Y/N, please. Please. You can’t just-”

“Sorry, Dean.”

And you hang up, feeling worse than ever.


“Dean,” He’s drunk again, “Dean, I hate this. I hate it.” Tears run down his face, eyes reddened and puffy, “Why do I always ruin everything?”

It’s been two days since he called you and all hope washed down the drain. Sam hasn’t stopped drinking, he hasn’t slept at all nor has he eaten. Dean can’t seem to coax any kind of life out of his brother and it kills him.

“You haven’t ruined everything, Sam.” Dean says tiredly, “It’s gonna be fine, you’ll see. Heartbreak mends.”

Sam looks up, staring at his brother, “Dean, it’s never been like this before. I need her like I need air in my lungs. Every time I close my eyes, every time I try to sleep, it’s her, her laughing or smiling and for a second I think I feel her or smell her or hear her and it’s torture. I wish I was dead.”


“What do I do?” The younger Winchester begs, “Where do I go? How do I fix this?”

Dean stands up, the chair scraping against the linoleum floor of the motel.

“You go and you find her. You hand her your heart and you hope to God that she doesn’t drop it and stamp on it.”

Sam nods, “Yeah. I’m gonna do that.”

“Get some sleep first. She won’t take a second look at you drunk.”


There’s incessant knocking at the motel room door. You roll over, glancing at the clock.

Six? Really?” You mumble, running a hand through your hair. You push yourself out of bed and shuffle over to the door. The knocking comes again, just as you open it.

Sam’s eyes widen as he takes in your somewhat dishevelled appearance – not that he looks any better.

“Can I help you?” You ask, tone more hostile than you’d intended. He swallows, and looks at you – but he still can’t meet your eyes.

“Actually, yeah. I just… I just want to talk.”

“No thanks.”

“Please.” He whispers, “Please, Y/N. Just a minute.”

“I said no.”

“One minute. One minute then I’ll go and you’ll never see me again.”

You hesitate, before opening the door enough to let him in. He nods in gratitude, stepping into the room.

Sam waits in silence while you close the door and turn to him.


“Well you need to know that I regret it. And I hate myself for what I did to you and I’ll never forgive myself and it’s a miracle if you’ll forgive me because I’m a screw up and I know that and the fact that you ever loved me at all is a miracle in myself and I know I’m poison and I know that everything and everyone I love dies and there’s another miracle, that you’re still here, and I know you deserve so much better than me. I know that.” He takes a breath, watching the tears as they slide down your face, “But, hell, Y/N, we don’t get stuff like this. Stuff like us. Ever. We’re so damn lucky to have found each other and I hate myself because I tried to throw it away and I thought I could handle it but I can’t. I don’t want to live another day on this earth without you.”

You want to say something. You do. You know you should push him away because he broke your heart and you need to let him go but you just can’t so you do the only thing you know how to do.

You burst into tears.

Unbidden, unrelenting tears wrack your frame and you’re almost doubled over, hot tears streaming down your face ruthlessly, dripping onto your shirt. He steps forward, not wanting to touch you nor wanting to leave you. You just can’t right yourself, though, shaking and crying and you rub at your eyes until they puff right up but you don’t care. You don’t even make an attempt to speak until Sam gives in, each sob ripping the hold in his heart that little bit wider.

“Shh,” He soothes, and when you don’t push him away, he gathers you into his arms like a small child. You take a few shaky breaths, trying to calm yourself down but you can’t seem to stop the tears.

“I’m-” You stammer, “I-I’m sorry.”

“No, no.” He whispers into your ear, “I’m sorry. I messed up, I know I did.”

“I should- be- be mad at you.” You say, “But I’m not. I can’t be.”

He pulls away slightly, wiping away your tears with a gentle thumb. Tears threaten to spill over but he keeps his eyes on yours.

“Blessing or curse?”

“Both.” You say, and suddenly you’re laughing instead of crying and he hugs you to him.

“I’m so sorry. I thought I could protect you – protect us both – but I was so, so wrong. So wrong.”

You nod, “You got that bit right.”

“Can you forgive me?” He asks, and you nod without hesitation.

“Don’t ever pull any of that bullshit again, you hear me?”

“Done deal.” He leans down and presses his lips to yours without warning – not that you mind. No, you don’t mind at all.