trying to get better at drawing humans the operative word is trying

askinfresh  asked:

hiya lovely! So on Tuesday I'm going into major surgery and I'm pretty nervous about it. So if you have time, could I get some UT/UF/US bros comforting a S/O who's about to go into a 6 hour surgery? Thanks so much <3

(*Of course! <3  I’m sorry to hear about the surgery!  Everything will go well, sweetie, so don’t worry.  I’ll be checking on you! )


UT!Sans:

“hey kiddo, don’t be nervous.”

Sans wraps an arm around you, pulling you against his side.  The idea of the human hospital actually freaks him out a little, but you’d never be able to guess from his careful smile.  He rubs his hand along your upper arm, tilting his skull against the side of your head.  "the docs know what they’re doing.  you’re just going to take a little nap.  heh, what'dya say we practice for tomorrow?“

Sans begins to lie back, pulling you with him, cradling you against his chest. “by the time we’re done, you’ll be such a pro, you can do it with your eyes closed,” he teases lightly, chuckling.  He proceeds to just hold you on the couch, rubbing your back lightly, lulling you to sleep in his arms.

UT!Papyrus:

“DON’T WORRY, HUMAN!  EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT!  THE GREAT PAPYRUS KNOWS THIS TO BE A FACT!”  Papyrus says it with such confidence that it’s practically impossible to doubt him.  His hands are on your shoulders, his grin wide.  "I STAYED UP ALL NIGHT WATCHING HUMAN SURGERIES ON THE INTERNET!  WHILE THEY ARE QUITE UNSETTLING AND ABSOLUTELY TERRIFYING–“  He breaks off; honestly, he’s a little shaken after watching them, but he’s trying not to let it show.  He had no idea you were so fragile, that so much went into the repair of human bodies.  He only stayed up all night because he couldn’t sleep without nightmares after watching the videos.  Still, he’s determined to be the best skelebae possible.  

”–THEY ARE ALSO SAFE AND PAINLESS!  WELL, THE DURING PART.  THE RECOVERY–“

He breaks off again, sweating.  He’s blowing it.  "THE RECOVERY WILL BE TAKEN CARE OF BY THE GREAT PAPYRUS!”  And what a great save!  "I’LL NURSE YOU BACK TO FULL HEALTH, AND TAKE CARE OF EVERYTHING, SO DON’T YOU WORRY!  YOU WON’T HAVE TO LIFT A FINGER UNTIL YOU’RE COMPLETELY RECOEVERED!  AND I’LL BE THERE WHEN YOU WAKE UP!“  He pulls you against his chest– at this point, to comfort both of you.

UF!Sans:

"c'mere, sweetheart.  i can make you forget about tomorrow.”

Red grasps your hands and tugs you into his lap, his fingers automatically shifting to your hips once you’re seated.  He’s smirking as he pulls you close against his chest, his teeth lightly grazing the side of your neck.  He knows better than to leave any marks on you before a surgery–although, he has to admit that marking you is pretty tempting, if just to have a reminder to everyone involved that you belong to him.  No, he’s just trying to get your mind off it for now, to give you a reprieve from the bundle of nerves gathering in your stomach.  

He tilts his head up and presses his sharp teeth against your lips.  

“don’t think about it.  just think about me,” he murmurs, his voice practically a growl against your mouth.  

And he quickly makes sure the only thoughts in your head are about him.  

UF!Papyrus:

“I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU’RE WORRIED.  DO YOU REALLY THINK I’D LET THEM DO ANYTHING TO HURT YOU?  THE TERRIBLE PAPYRUS WOULD BURN THE FACILITY TO THE GROUND IF THEY DARED BOTCH THIS!”

Papyrus is self-assured, his arms crossed and a scowl weighing heavily across his face.  While he means every word, he’s secretly concerned; the idea of humans operating on you doesn’t inspire confidence in him.  He’d much rather locate a monster with healing magic, even though you’ve explained to him that this is what’s best for your health.  

He looks away, hiding his concern behind his irritation.  "…I’LL BE THERE, YOU KNOW.  WHEN YOU… SLEEP, AND WHEN YOU WAKE UP.“  His voice, while still boisterous, comes out a little softer.  He reaches out and grabs the back of your head, pulling you against his chest with one arm.  He’s still looking away, his expression shifting to something much softer–something he doesn’t want you to see.  His gloved fingers stroke the nape of your neck.

"I’D NEVER LET ANYTHING HAPPEN TO YOU.. SO DON’T WORRY.”

US!Sans:

“I-IT’S GOING… GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT, H-HUMAN!  IT.. IT IS!  IT’S JUST… THEY’RE GOING TO…”

He can’t keep it together.  Sweet little Blueberry discovered what happened during a human surgery, and it has rattled his bones in a way that nothing else has.  The fact that you’re going to be subjected to it frightens his very SOUL.  He’s trembling, giant tears pricking the corner of his eyesockets, while his gloved hands are fisted at his sides.  

“I..I-I’M SORRY!” He finally wails, throwing himself at you.  His arms wrap around your frame, and he buries his face against your shoulder, his own shoulders shaking.  "I’M S-SUPPOSED TO BE STRONG AND…AND COMFORT YOU, BUT…!“  He breaks off, hugging you tighter.  "I JUST DON’T KNOW WHAT I’LL DO IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO YOU!!”

In the end, Papyrus ends up having to comfort both of you.  

US!Papyrus:

Even though you’re Stretch’s mate, Blueberry is still crying over the fact that you’re going to have surgery.  He’s watched some videos, and they scarred him for life, so he’s way more inconsolable than you are.  Papyrus ends up drawing you against his chest, his other arm snagging his brother and pulling him against his side.  

“it’s going to be ok, bro.  the docs know what they’re doing. they do this all the time.  human bodies are different from ours.  they’re strong.  they can handle this,” he assures Blueberry, which does seem to calm the smaller skeleton.  He breathes in deep, looking from Papyrus to you.  

“…REALLY?”

“yep, it’s all ok.  it just happens sometimes.  no biggie.”  He shrugs, and you know he’s downplaying it (on the inside, he’s definitely not as calm as he appears), but he’s not going to let his true feelings show.  With his brother calm, he twists to wrap both arms around you, pulling you down onto the couch, so you’re sprawled out halfway on top of him.  Sans sits beside the two of you and wraps an arm around you, leaving you in a pile of pokey skeletons.  

“it’s all going to be ok.  one minute you’re asleep, the next you’re awake–and probably going to say some hilarious things.”  His lazy grin lifts into a smirk.  "don’t worry.  i’ll capture every glorious moment on my phone so you won’t miss a thing.“  He smirks, chuckling, while you swat his arm and Blueberry mock-chides him.  Then, the two brothers pull you closer.

4.21: Sam gets locked into an involuntary demon blood detox, while seals are breaking left and right.

Bobby doubts Dean’s reasons for locking Sam up, and Sam’s angry about BEING locked up, because they’re ALL still working from Bad Intel. They’ve all been led to believe that killing Lilith will STOP the apocalypse, when in reality killing her is what will START it.

They’re all running around chasing the wrong thing.

Just when they thought they’d gotten a handle on the cosmic plan for them, the script will flip… and it’s all due to Cas’s intervention. But that doesn’t happen quite yet.

In order to try and “save Sam,” Dean calls on Cas and swears his allegiance to the side of Heaven, which he’d been resisting all along. They felt like they had to pick a side, because Heaven and Hell seemed to BE on opposite sides here. Yet Sam and Dean BOTH were being maneuvered into position even as they tried to resist.

But heck, one good thing came out of that, and it’s this gif by Lizbob:

Like Cas told Dean in 4.15, Dean always seemed to do the opposite of what he asked? Well, turns out that was Heaven’s play all along… They weren’t trying to stop the apocalypse, Heaven wanted it to happen just as much as Hell did.

Meanwhile, we get some interesting character analysis of Sam via his hallucinations, at the same time we see Dean essentially saying the OPPOSITE of what Sam believes of himself. While Sam’s own mind has Dean accusing him of being a monster, while Real Dean upstairs is trying to prevent Sam from becoming that monster Sam already believes himself to be.

Poor Cas is back to following orders and letting Sam out of his cage, yet he still seems to regret being a part of luring Anna to be captured and taken to Heaven.

DEAN: Well, I’ll tell you one thing. At this point I hope he’s with Ruby.
BOBBY: Why?
DEAN: 'Cause killing her’s the next big item on my to-do list.
BOBBY: I thought you were on call for angel duty.
DEAN: I am on call. In my car, on my way to murder the bitch.

He’s never trusted Ruby, and now he’s got the proof that she’s not trustworthy.

But just like he did in 4.01, Dean proves just how well he knows Sam… despite Sam still believing that Dean doesn’t know or understand him at all.

SAM: Dean’s gonna come after me. And he knows my habits, my aliases, everything. He knows exactly which motel I’d pick.
RUBY: Hence the room.
SAM: Whatever it takes to shake him.
RUBY: It won’t be easy. I mean, he knows you better than anyone.
SAM: Not as well as he thinks.
RUBY: You know, it’s sad.
SAM: What?
RUBY: That things have gotten this bad between you two.

Oh, Ruby… YOU ENGINEERED THAT RIFT BETWEEN THEM.

Meanwhile, Sam’s also bought into everything else she’s engineered– believing that Dean’s “weak,” that Dean’s not getting the true big picture, that he’s incapable and deluded.

Oh, Sam.

But while on the surface some of the choices Sam made back in s4 (keeping things secret from Dean about working with Ruby, believing Dean wasn’t strong enough to handle the truth) might look similar to his choices in s12 (keeping things secret from Dean about working with the MoL, believing Dean wouldn’t understand his reasons for doing so) look very similar, as soon as you scratch the surface you see the underlying circumstances are entirely different.

Sam and Dean BOTH had bought into the lie about the apocalypse, so instead of addressing the true underlying problem, they were scrambling around pointlessly chasing their tails while Heaven and Hell conspired to put them where they wanted them.

BOBBY: Us finding Sam? It’s gotta be about getting him back, not pushing him away.
DEAN: Right.
BOBBY: I know you’re mad, Dean. I understand. You got a right to be, but I’m just saying. Be good to him anyway. You gotta get through to him.

And a BIG part of this is Dean’s beliefs about what Family is, and what family does for one another. He doesn’t really give a damn about what the angels or demons want from them, because as long as he and Sam are on the same side they can fight together… But what side they chose back then didn’t really matter, because Dean hadn’t yet learned to fight on the side of humanity. He was too busy trying to play catch up on a cosmic scale.

Sam chooses Ruby over Dean… 

DEAN: Look what she did to you. I mean, she up and vanishes weeks at a time, leaves you cracking out for another hit—
SAM: She was looking for Lilith.
DEAN: That is French for manipulating your ass ten ways from Sunday.
SAM: You’re wrong, Dean.

No, Sam. He was 100% right.

Sam has bought entirely into Ruby’s lies. He truly believes that Dean just doesn’t understand, that he’s somehow weak… And to Dean, that’s what has made Sam monstrous.

SAM: You don’t know me. You never did. And you never will.

Oh, hon… he knows you so much better than you know him. He just proved it by finding you. He’s proved it again and again.

But Sam’s so willing to buy into Ruby’s lies because he needs to prove to himself that he’s NOT the monster he’s always felt like. And that need has absolutely blinded him to the truth. It doesn’t help that Dean’s final words to Sam were the same words John told him when Sam left for Stanford.

If you walk out that door, don’t you ever come back.

Because Dean’s lost. He’s hurt. Sam rejected him for Ruby.

But now in s12, Sam’s not blind to reality in quite the same way. He sees a potential end to the need for him to stay in the life, a potential for a future like the one Mary had always wanted for her boys, and on some level he knows that what he’s doing is wrong, just like he did with Ruby. But the foundation of that whole belief isn’t based on a manipulation by the universe to draw both him and Dean into starting the apocalypse.

His reasons in s12 are intensely more personal to Sam. But they’re STILL based on this incredibly shaky foundation of wanting to live up to his mother’s hopes for him. And that’s just not operating in reality.

Mary’s hopes for her kids were all based on the lie that she ever had a normal life with John. Big truths need to come out, and hopefully before they reach the sort of precipice of no-take-backsies they get to in this moment in s4.

anonymous asked:

I am craving some big-time whump. Like Tony having a seizure or Tony having an allergic reaction. Any way you could write a fic for me?

OK THIS WAS WEIRDLY DIFFICULT. also it took forever, sorry, I knew it was gonna get long and I couldn’t make myself focus on it. BUT HERE IT IS, AN EON LATER, long after your craving has died i’m sure. I hope it’s okay anyway.

“Heyyy!” Sam cries, delighted when he opens the door to find Steve and the rest of the Avengers crew standing on his doorstep.

“Heyyy!” Steve echoes, grinning fit to break his face. Sam can’t help but pull him into a tight hug, pleased to finally see him looking so happy. Steve huffs out a laugh and squeezes Sam’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

Sam leans back to look him in the eye, squeezing in return. “Likewise, man, likewise. You look good.”

Steve smiles, chin dipping toward his chest. “Thanks, I feel good. Thanks for inviting us.”

Sam scoffs. “Like I was gonna miss the chance to have the Avengers over for my party. My friends think I’m super cool.”

No we don’t!” his sister yells from inside the house and Steve laughs at Sam’s long-suffering sigh.

Keep reading

Renegade - Part Three

Description: Things are going better than Y/n could have expected, but their relationship with Cas takes an unexpected turn. Part Three of the Renegade series.

Read Part One Here

Read Part Two Here

“Well, you answered the phone. That means you haven’t killed each other, right?”

“What do you want, Dean?” you ask, tucking your cellphone between your ear and shoulder so you can keep painting. The new warding is almost finished.

“How is he?”

You glance down the hall to the closed bedroom door. “As good as he can be. Asleep right now. He’s going to need a lot of rest to recover.”

“You run into any trouble?”

“Two angels at a gas station. Didn’t exactly take them down clean, but they’re not a threat anymore.” Dipping your brush into the paint can, you carefully start tracing out the next sigil. “How’s Sam?”

Dean sighs. “He’s healing. Slowly. But I don’t know how much longer I can hide any of this from him.”

“Well keep me posted. And if you need me to come back just say the word.”

“Just focus on Cas. I can handle things on my end.” Sam says something you can’t make out on the other line. “Yeah, I’m coming. Y/n, I gotta go. Be careful, okay?”

“You too, Dean.” You hang up, pocketing the phone before returning to painting.

It isn’t long before you hear the bedroom door open and Cas’s steady footfalls in the hallway. “Was that Dean?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply without turning. “He was just checking in.”

“Is he angry with you?”

This makes you turn around. He’s changed into a pair of sweat pants and a plain gray T-shirt. It’s the most casual you’ve ever seen him. “Why would Dean be angry?” you ask.

“For coming with me,” Cas clarifies. “He made it clear my presence was undesirable. I doubt he was pleased with your decision.

Actually it was his idea, you think but you can’t tell him that. “He’ll get over it,” you say instead. The words are nearly unintelligible, though, around the yawn you can’t seem to stifle.

Castiel’s head tilts and he peers at you with concern. “Y/n, when is the last time you slept?”

Truthfully you can’t really remember. “Maybe two days ago?” you reply with a shrug, turning back to your painting.

But then Cas is there, plucking the paintbrush from your hand. “You need to sleep,” he says sternly.

“I will when this is done,” you reply.

“No. Now.”

“Cas-”

“News flash,” he cuts you off. “Humans need sleep.”

You blink. “Did you just quote me to me?”

He ignores you, giving you a slight push toward the couch. “You need to rest.”

“The wards-”

“I may not have my powers, but I am more than capable of operating a paint brush,” he assures you.

“If anything attacks us you’ll be helpless,” you protest. He presses on your shoulders until you sit, and damn if the couch cushions aren’t the softest thing you’ve felt in ages. You’re only just realizing how much everything hurts; how your whole body aches and your eyes burn.

“I have the angel blade,” he replies, tucking a pillow behind your head as you lay down. You find you don’t have the strength to fight him. “And if it appears something’s wrong, I’ll wake you.”

“Just for a couple hours,” you yawn. “Then I’ll get back to work.”

His response is to drape the quilt over you and turn out the lights, painting in the darkness while he listens to you breathe.

#

“I don’t understand.” Cas is frowning at the television as he grabs another handful of popcorn. “There is clearly room for both of them. Why doesn’t Rose simply move over?”

“That, my friend, is the age old question,” you reply with a laugh. “Congratulations. You now know why Titanic is a terrible movie.” Now he’s staring at you again. It’s starting to become a habit of his. “What?” you ask a little defensively, drawing your knees up to your chest.

To your surprise he smiles, shaking his head a little. “I just never imagined you would come to think of me as a friend.”

Chuckling, you toss a piece of popcorn at him, grinning when it bounces off his forehead. “Hey. It’s hard to like someone who breaks your hand.”

“It’s hard to like someone who punches your face as a greeting,” he counters. He has a point.

Things with Cas are going better than you ever would’ve expected. It was awkward at first, the two of you skirting around each other and hiding in opposite ends of the house, but three weeks in, you’ve grown almost comfortable. Comfortable, albeit a little restless. You can feel cabin fever setting in, and you know Cas does, too.

“It isn’t that late,” Cas says. “Should we watch another film?” You’ve been making him watch any movies you deem classics to try to help his understanding of pop culture.

But you don’t think you can sit through another movie tonight. You can’t take two more hours of sharing this couch with Cas, holding your breath each time his knee knocks into yours. You can’t take the warmth of your arms brushing together, the jolt when your fingers touch in the popcorn bowl. The way his laugh seems to rumble in his throat, the sparkle in his eye during his favorite parts, the smile that plays at the corner of his lips when he looks over and catches you staring. It’s too much.

What is wrong with you?

“Let’s go for a walk,” you blurt out.

He tilts his head. “Is that … wise?”

“The trails around here are pretty quiet,” you reply. “As long as we don’t go too close to town we’ll be fine.”

His answering smile makes your chest tighten almost painfully. “Then yes. I would enjoy getting some fresh air.”

Stomach fluttering, you lead the way out the door.

Dusk is just starting to settle, painting the sky in smokey tendrils of gray. Fireflies dance within the boughs of the evergreens, blinking in and out of sight like sparks. The wind carries with it the smells of pine and fresh earth. You take a deep breath, acutely aware of Cas standing mere inches behind you.

“Do you need a jacket?” he asks, touching your shoulder lightly. “It’s chilly.”

The goosebumps rising on your arms have nothing to do with the temperature. “I’m fine,” you reply with a soft smile, walking to the start of one of the trails. Frowning, he hurries to catch up with you.

“Human immune systems are not entirely efficient,” he protests. “The cold will make you  more susceptible to illness. I really think you should-”

“Cas.” When you turn to face him, he freezes. You comb your fingers through your hair, trying to figure out how you want to say it. “I’m here to take care of you,” you start slowly. “Not the other way around. You don’t have to worry about me.” Before he can respond you start walking again, picking a pace you know is just a little too fast for conversation.

That doesn’t stop him from trying, though. “The stars are beautiful,” he points out a little breathlessly.

“Yeah.”

“I remember when my father first created them. He took a piece of light and shattered it into countless pieces. And then-” He cuts off as the two of you clamber over a tree that’s fallen into the path. You bite your lip when you feel his hand on the small of your back, pressing to give you a gentle boost. Cas starts talking again as soon as you’re over. “Then he handed some of the fragments to each of us. He said we could place them anywhere we wanted. I tried to draw pictures with mine, to tell stories, but they looked more like stick figures.”

So Castiel helped make the constellations. Of fucking course.

“Gabriel,” Cas says, starting to laugh. “He spelled out profanities with his. Michael was furious. They spent days rearranging to cover them up.”

“You miss them.” It’s not a question.

“Yes,” he says quietly, and you can’t bear the pain that fills his voice, can’t stand the ache in your chest when you hear it.

Your feet start to move faster without you even thinking about it.

“Yn?” There’s a question in his voice, but you don’t know what he’s asking. You skirt around a boulder, picking up speed. Your boots scuff loudly against the dirt path and your muscles start to heat up from the exertion. “Y/n, are you alright?”

No, you’re not fucking alright. Your pulse races anytime he looks at you. Your skin tingles from his touch. Your chest aches, hurts so bad you can barely breathe and this isn’t right. This isn’t you. You’re supposed to hate him, so why can’t you-

You don’t even realize you’ve started running until your toe catches on a jutting root and you start to fall. Cas’s hand closes tightly around your wrist, wrenching you back and reversing your momentum. You stagger into his chest and his arms circle around your waist to steady you.

“Are you alright?” he demands.

You can’t breathe. You’re pressed against him, hands splayed out on his chest. You feel each rapid breath he takes, the heat that seems to radiate from him. One of the hands at your waist has found a strip of bare sin where your shirt is riding up and the feeling of warm callous on your hip is electric. Those cobalt eyes are so impossibly close, slightly parted lips scant inches from yours and if you just lean in you can close the gap and - 

This is why I worry about you.” There’s a note of frustration in his tone. “You get lost in your own head and you forget to take care of yourself.”

You can’t find the strength to say anything.

Seeming to just notice the position you’re in, Castiel’s arms fall away and he takes several hurried steps back. “I - apologize. I fear I’ve done something to upset you. I can feel your discomfort around me. I’m not sure what I did, but I am truly sorry, Y/n.”

“I-” You sigh, wringing your hands a little. “You didn’t do anything, Cas.”

“Then why have you been acting so strangely?”

“I haven’t,” you protest. “I’m just - I’m trying to sort through some things and around you it’s sometimes hard to think and-”

Castiel steps forward and kisses you.

You’re frozen at first, hands curling into fists at your sides, but then he starts to pull you closer, kiss you harder, and you can’t think anymore, you can only move.

You reel back and punch him.

Cas staggers away from you, one hand pressed to his jaw.

“Son of a - shit, Cas, I’m sorry!” You touch his shoulder but he jerks away, eyes wide with apprehension. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you repeat and part of you wants to cry. “I’m sorry, you just - you caught me by surprise and I couldn’t - I’m sorry.” 

But you can see it in his eyes, the damage you’ve done, the trust you’ve lost. Every step he takes away from you feels like a blow and how did you let this happen? How did you let it get this far? How did you fall in love with an angel you swore you hated?

He’s still staring at you, face unreadable in the quickly falling darkness. You have to fix this. You want to fix this. You want to pull him close and you want him to kiss you again and you want him to know it’s not his fault, that you care, that you’ve never felt whole until he picked up your heart and held it.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Then you turn and run.

#

You don’t know how long you run. It isn’t long before you veer away from the trails. Thistles catch at your legs and tree branches whip your cheeks. You relish the sting.

You finally stop when you reach the outskirts of town, bracing your hands on your knees as you try to catch your breath.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Okay. Okay, think, Y/n, think.”

First things first. You have to get away from Cas. You’ll call Dean. Zeke has to be close to healing Sam completely. Or at least far enough along that Dean can send him packing and Sam can keep healing on his own. And if not…

If not it doesn’t matter. You still have to leave. You can call in some favors, other hunters. Garth can be clumsy but he’s a quick learner. with a few instructions he’d be more than capable of keeping Cas hidden for a few more weeks.

Call Dean. That’s the first step.

He answers on the second ring. “Hey, Y/n, what’s-”

“I can’t do this anymore,” you cut him off. “I’m sorry. I know you were relying on me but I’m done. I’m coming back. I have to-”

“Woah, woah, woah. Slow down. What’s wrong?”

You flop down in the grass, hugging your knees to your chest. “I screwed up. I really screwed up and Cas is probably never going to trust me again and I have to come back. I have to get out of here.” You realize you’re crying now and use the collar of your shirt to dry the tears.

“Y/n, what the hell happened?”

Cas kissed me.”

“Cas what?”

“He kissed me, Dean.”

“I thought you two hated each other.”

“I - not exactly.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “It’s complicated.”

“So he planted one on you. What did you do?”

“I punched him.”

“What the - You can’t just go around punching people all the time!”

“He caught me off guard, Dean!”

He sighs heavily. “What did Cas say?”

“We … didn’t really talk about,” you reply, biting your lower lip.

Dean chuckles. “Too busy not keeping your hands off each other, eh? Good for Cas. Didn’t know he had it in him. So did he know what he was doing or did you have to-”

“We didn’t have sex, Dean!” you practically shriek, cheeks on fire at the mere thought of it. “We didn’t talk because - because I ran.”

“You ran?”

“Yeah. I ran.”

There’s a long silence. “Y/n,” Dean finally says and you hate the voice he’s using, the one that means you’re about to get a lecture. “You have to talk to him.”

“Says the king of not talking about things,” you mutter.

“Look, Cas - he’s probably just as confused by this as you are. You can’t just leave him hanging.”

“You didn’t see his face, Dean.” The words come out as more of a sob. “He - I hurt him. I could see it. He’s not going to want to talk.”

“Probably not,” Dean agrees. “But he’ll listen. Cas will always listen to someone he cares about.”

But how can you be sure you’re one of those people?

“Just talk to him, Y/n. And if you still want out after that, then we’ll make it work. But talk to him.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Good luck, Y/n.”

#

It takes you the better part of an hour to walk back to the cabin. The windows are dark when you arrive, and your hand shakes as you fit your key into the lock. “Cas?” you call hesitantly. There’s no response.

You spent the trip back working out what you’re going to say to him. An apology seems like the best place to start. Apologies for punching him, for running, all of it. You have to explain that it’s not his fault. It’s yours. It’s your guilt over lying to him, your fear of the intensity of your feelings for him. He has to know that it can’t work between you, that one day all of this will have to end.

You freeze with your hand on the doorknob to the bedroom, leaning your forehead against the wood. You have to do this. It’s time to rip off the bandage, swallow the pill, set the record straight.

To set you both free.

Knocking softly, you push open the door. “Hey. Can we talk?”

But anything you would’ve said is lost because the room is empty. The closet is bare. The bed is neatly made. The only thing out of place is the folded note resting on the pillow. You read it three times just to tell you what you already knew.

Cas is gone.

To be continued.

Forswear

He knew she’d find him.

           He hasn’t exactly made himself scarce these past few weeks, and she always had a habit of knowing more than she ought. He knew it was really only a matter of time before Overwatch’s angel decided to darken his doorstep.

           So Reaper is decidedly unsurprised when he hears the telltale click of her heels as she descends the stairs—the light from her wings illuminating the dark room with a soft, warm glow.

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anonymous asked:

Hello! I need some help. I have had little to no motivation to write anything lately, and whenever I do, I cut it out after a few hours. So, I finally got one idea but I have no idea how to create this character. I want to write a story about a female homicide detective who solves cases with a fellow detective that she falls in love with who is also female, but I don't want the entire story to be revolved around love. So, I guess I'm asking, how do I keep motivation and write this story? Thanks!

Any time motivation is shot, I like to first do a systems check- are you well? Have you slept and eaten? This is my favorite go-to checklist of self care. (I know sometimes things seem obvious, but honestly, sometimes I feel like I’m losing my tenuous grip on humanity only to realize that I just needed a shower). I, and a lot of people I know think that we are Terminators and can function just fine without taking care of ourselves, but the truth is that doing optimal work (especially creative work) is really hard unless you’re keeping the ol’ engine well looked after. 

Okay- once you know that you’re in the best operating condition that you can be, if you’re still not feeling motivated, it’s time to look at other strategies. 
A lot of people have this idea that motivation and inspiration drift down on downy wings to bestow ideas on creative types. The truth is, most creative people spend a lot of time chasing motivation and inspiration down with a stick. 

My recommendation is to add structure to your writing routine. Your structure can be anything that works for you, but once you get a pattern down that you know works, stick to it! Aggressively defend and uphold what works for you.
Things you might want to add to your routine:

- Deadlines. I know. Deadlines are the worst. But they put a fire under you and help blot out thoughts about perfection and ‘what if this is actually terrible.’ My anatomy professor’s mantra of “It doesn’t have to be perfect, it has to be Wednesday” kept me going through that class, and trying to draw a damn pelvis in perspective every week. 

- Exercise. Move your body! Taking a brisk walk before sitting down to write can get your blood pumping and your brain gears whirring. If the weather is disgusting or your bum knee is acting up or Doc Erica wants you to be consuming more calories before you start an exercise routine, try to at least get some fresh air or sun- open a window, take your writing outdoors, sit in front of your SAD lamp if you need to. 

- Environment. Make yourself a writing happy place. Maybe coffee shops are your jam, or you’d like to write in the park. I find that sitting up in a comfy but upright chair with a table does wonders, but maybe lying on your belly is your true form and most powerful state for writing. 
Things to consider:
+ Temperature- Do you like to be warm and snug? A little chilly?
+ Light- Cover of darkness? Natural light? Twinkle lights? Lamp?
+ Snacks- You wanna snack on something healthy while you work for fuel? Reward yourself when you’re done with something made out of sugar? Coffee can help you focus, and icy cold water with a bit of lemon is bracing. 
+ Music- Music without lyrics, or with very familiar lyrics tends to be ideal. 

- Other People. Other people can be really great for holding you to your deadlines, talking to you about what you’re planning, celebrating when you hit your wordcount, or even just being pumped about a new chapter. Being totally self motivated is hard! 

- Achievable, Consistent Goals. Make yourself a daily writing goal. Make it something that seems really, really easy- 100 words a day, say. Something easily within your power, whatever your power is right now. Focus on hitting your mark, and working consistently. Reward yourself for meeting your goals, and then step up your goals when you’re meeting them all the time. Making a habit of working consistently will serve you better than working hard a couple times a month. 

Separating the Steps. Try doing your planning and researching as separate things from actually writing. Making an outline before your writing session can really help keep you focused and on task. 

- Eliminate Distractions. You know what’s easier than writing? A lot of things. Most things. Not writing, for damn sure. Creation takes far more effort than destruction or consumption. It’s easy and comfortable to take the path of least resistance and turn on Netflix to burn up a couple hours without having to generate your own things. That’s not a bad thing (sometimes in our lives we honestly need 15 hour Netflix breaks from the horrors of existence and that’s okay). If you want to create things, though, take yourself away from easier, amusing activities. Legend has it that Neil Gaiman sometimes borrows friends’ summer homes so that he can hold himself hostage with no distractions until he’s written his draft. If you’re not that hardcore, asking your roommate to change the wifi password can suffice. 

- Tell People To Fuck Off. This is your time! Defend it as viciously as you can. (I mean, don’t tell your ma to fuck off if she’s a nice lady, but she’ll understand if you ask to call her back in an hour, because you’re in the middle of something). 


As for your story, I think you have a really interesting premise! Homicide detectives sounds like a really exciting backdrop for a romance, and there’s a lot of potential for a subplot there (or a main plot, if you want the romance to take a back seat to catching The Blue Mountain Killer). 
While creating your character, consider what you already know (she’s a homicide detective, she has a crush on her coworker), and then start asking questions about what you don’t know (what made her want to become a detective? What does she think of her job? Is she good at her job? What does she like about her coworker? Did they always get along?) 
What does she want? What problems is she going to encounter in the story? What does she think the solutions are to her problems? 
While you’re figuring out your main character, I’d do some research into homicide detectives, homicide cases, and probably tackle some crime dramas while you’re at it. 

I hope this helps! Good luck out there. 
-Evvy

anonymous asked:

Okay I have a prompt for you!!!! Can you do fic of Anna trying to be sexy but totally failing ( kinda like fetchingly draped against the wall part) and Kristoff trying so hard not to laugh cause he doesn't want to make her feel bad plus he's enjoying it ..... If that made any sense :) please and thank you

Yay! It’s been a while since I’ve had a prompt. Then again, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything. Such a cute prompt

                                 Operation Temptation 

Summary: Anna decides to seduce her mountain man after he comes back from a long ice harvesting trip, but is stifled by her clumsiness.

Rated: T for sexual themes and hiilarity

Pairings: Obvious Kristanna

  “Sleep well, buddy.” Kristoff cooed as he shut the door to Sven’s personal stable, the reindeer snorting in response.

  Dusting off his pants, Kristoff scanned the area for his routine welcoming committee but without success. Anna would usually have him pinned in a tight embrace by now, especially after being gone as long as he was. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little hurt that she wasn’t there to greet him.

  Shrugging, Kristoff made his way to the warm interior of the castle. She’s probably asleep, Kristoff reassured glancing out of the window at the ebony sky. Like a human.

  As he stood outside of his bed chamber, he was alarmed to hear a faint and familiar giggle coming from the other side of the door. Slowly, Kristoff twisted the brass handle slowly and eased the door open.

  Eyes on the ground, his vision made contact with a slim silhouette cascaded over the floor. His gaze traveled along the shadow and up to his bed where he discovered his welcoming committee. Kristoff’s mouth almost dropped at the sight.

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You’re now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

You both like johnlock.

Stranger: I apologize for experimenting on you without your knowledge. Again. SH

You: Are you saying that because you’re actually sorry or because your sorry arse got caught? JW

Stranger: Can’t it be both? SH

You: You can’t keep doing this, Sherlock. JW

Stranger: It was harmless. SH

You: I swear, one day you’re going to think something’s harmless, and I’ll wake up with cat ears. JW

Stranger: I would never attempt to give you cat ears. SH
I have no desire to alter your physical appearance. SH

You: Well, what a huge relief. Nevermind then, do carry on. JW

Stranger: Oh. Good. Will do. SH

You: SARCASM SHERLOCK. JW

Stranger: You’ve forgotten how the caps lock works again. SH

You: Nope. That was on purpose. Emphasis. NOT OKAY. JW

You: I’m not an experiment. JW

You: I’m supposed to be your friend. JW

Stranger: You are my friend. SH
But why would that mean that I can’t experiment on you? SH
I experiment on myself. SH

You: I object to that, too. But at least you have your own permission to do so. I’ve never given you anything resembling permission. JW

Stranger: Then give me permission. Obvious. SH

You: …you’re supposed to be a genius. Why would I give you free range to do what you will with me? JW

Stranger: Because I’m your friend. I obviously won’t be trying to damage you. SH

You: ‘Trying’ being the operative word. JW

Stranger: What if I promise to keep it to things that are nonlethal in any dose? SH

You: There are still side effects. And things you can’t predict. JW

Stranger: Fine. Only drugs I’ve already tried on myself? SH

You: …I would /prefer/ if you didn’t try /anything/ on yourself… JW

Stranger: Why would I not? SH

You: …side effects and things you can’t predict! JW

Stranger: Oh, it’ll be fine, John. For example, I just injected myself with a new drug. There are no side effects at all. SH

You: Not any that you can see yet… JW

Stranger: There won’t be any. SH

You: Oh? You can tell the future now, too? Colour me impressed. JW

Stranger: It’s statistically improbable. SH

You: Sherlock, YOU’RE statistically improbable. JW

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Fic: Like the River

Summary:

Dragon Spirits don’t trust just anyone.

McCree never expected for them to ever trust him.

Or how McCree gained some trust, won a shootout, almost caught the flu, and proceeded to be the most handsome damsel in distress Overwatch has ever seen.

Fandom: Overwatch

A03: X

Ship: McCree/Hanzo

Notes: Thanks to @sroloc–elbisivni for being the best beta the world could ask for and helping me with the title! And @wantonlywindswept and @barsenthor for being bad influences to drag me in this trash bin. 

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Doctors and Nurses

Steve rolled over, and into Bucky.

“Umpf, wha- Bucky?” His nose had met Bucky’s shoulder, thankfully not the metal one, and the dark-haired man looked back at him.

“Are you awake now?” Bucky implored, and poked a finger into Steve’s chest to emphasise the question. How long have you been waiting? The thought flashed across Steve’s mind briefly as his body tried to wake him up properly. He squinted up at Bucky, whose head was gently haloed by the weak early morning light that peaked through Steve’s blinds, and was staring back at him intently.

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Here’s the first of my Fitzsimmons Secret Santa gifts, and this one is for littlescienceloves! I cannot tell you how much I had to contain the shit-eating grin I had on my face when I met you in person and realized that I was your secret santa, especially when you turned out to be on of my favorite people on this site. I’m so happy that I got to write this for you. What was meant to be a one-shot, based on your “pregnancy fluff” prompt turned into a large multichapter idea for me, so I’m giving you the first two chapters. I’m going to keep adding to this fic, and I might change this up a bit, but I hope that this is the gift that keeps on giving for you. I haven’t put it up anywhere because it’s still very much a WIP. I hope you can forgive me for that <3

“Hey Jemma,” Fitz whispered, softly prodding his wife.

Jemma shifted lazily, turning over to nestle her head between his neck and shoulder. “What is it, Fitz?” 

“Do you know what engineers are really good at?”

Even though her eyes were closed, Fitz was certain she was still rolling them. “If this is a pick up line— ”

“No, no,” Fitz cut her off exasperated.

“Are they really good at talking when someone is trying to fall asleep?” Jemma crinkled her nose as she grinned, drawing up one leg so that it settled across Fitz’s thighs. Even though they had been together for years now, the touch of her skin still made him tremble with happiness.

“Have you been with enough engineers to create this statistical trend?…OW!” His sarcasm was quickly returned with a pinch from Jemma. “Anyway, I’m talking about engineers having a decent sense of planning.”

“Planning?”

Crossing his legs at the ankles, he set his free hand behind his head. His other arm cradled Jemma to his side. “Yeh. You need to make sure every little bit of the device works and at the proper time and… and well, that’s not my point. Engineers are good at planning, and timing too – wouldn’t you say I’m a good engineer?”

“You’re alright,” she said dryly, but a hint of a smile played on her features.

“Aw no, Jemma. I’m all right as a husband, barely tolerable really. But I think I can say I’m a decent engineer.”

“Oh Fitz,” Jemma kissed him lightly on the collarbone, “I’d say you’re much better than tolerable.”

His face broke into a smile, and he began to absentmindedly, though still very delicately, run his fingers through her hair.

“Fitz,” she reminded him, “your sense of planning right now may not be so excellent though.”

“Jemma, Jemma.” He sighed, “That’s because you’re caught up in the short term. I have to look out for the long term.” He lifted his hand from her hair to gesture above them. “A universal sense of time even. Space too.” He grinned. “That whole continuum I might know something about.”

Lifting her head, Jemma made a fist of the hand resting beneath her and set her chin upon it. Now looking at him eye to eye, she raised one interrogative brow.

His hand came down out of the air to rest a moment on her shoulder. He then propped himself up, and reached over to the nightstand, where Simmons’ birth control lay. Taking it, he rolled back over.

Eyes fixed on hers, he said, his voice trembling slightly, “I think.. maybe… if you want to… you could stop this?”

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Person of Interest 'If-Then-Else' Analysis and Review

Hoo, buddy.  That was a hell of an episode.  With enough nail-biting turns to make even seasoned PoI viewers hold their breath through the better part of this episode, this was what we had all been waiting for.  Season 4 has been a constant ratcheting-up of the tension, and this was the episode that finally set a light to that fuse and blew everything apart.  And it was a beautiful thing, both in terms of some of my favorite cinematography yet from this show, and in terms of character and story.  This is PoI at its finest, playing with reality, time, and perception to deliver a powerhouse of an action piece with lovely character moments scattered throughout.  Come on in to hear what I think about ‘If-Then-Else’.

 

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2

MUAHAHAHAHA //lightning flashes
Mad scientist Q is really fun to draw. Bond is just confused.

I wrote a mini story to go with it. I don’t write as much as I draw, and I did it in quite a rush. It’s also unbeta-ed and not Brit picked so please go easy on me :’D

ETA: Now on AO3!

Summary: They warned him not to go near the old house on the hill. They did tell him that a mad scientist lived there, and that human bodies were seen delivered to the house and that he would be next if he did not heed their advice.

So of course, Bond finds himself at the doorsteps of the aforementioned house on one stormy night.


——

James Bond was an observant man.

It was practically a job requirement. Agents in his field who lack this particular characteristic tend to find their career very short-lived (as well as well, their lifespan). But Bond had to admit that even the densest person could not miss spotting the huge, conspicuous house en route to the little town of Framlingham. The lightning flash behind the old house did add a dramatic effect to his first sight of the house.

“What can anyone tell me about the house up on the hill on the way to town?” Bond asked the folks of Suffolk a couple of hours later in one of the local pubs.

The question was met with a collective silence in the pub (though one of the more drunk men squeaked and fell off his seat). Some whispering occurred amongst them, glancing at Bond surreptitiously a few times before the barman, a burly old man with a fine and bushy beard, stepped up, followed by the rest of the towns people.

“The big, ol’ one with the patchy roof?”

“Yes.”

“With the run down shutters and delipidated walls?“

“Yes.”

“Ugly door knockers?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t gotten close enough to judge on the aesthetics of the door knockers, sir.”

“Well, then it’s better that you didn’t get close enough to be able to see them,” the barman warned darkly.

“A mad scientist lives there!” a waitress raved.

Bond snorted.

“You may scoff,” the waitress sneered, “But plenty of us have seen large packages delivered to his house. Human sized packages.”

“Maybe he’s lonely, you know those life sized dolls-”

And,” a new person cut in, this time a young man, “the store I work for supplies his groceries. I’ve made deliveries and every time I do, he never shows himself, but he talks to me using a disembodied voice at the front door. And he cackles when he thinks I’ve left. And his name on his credit card payment is Abra Cadaver. Who has names like that?”

“At least it doesn’t rhyme with cannibal,” Bond smirked.

He was met with dirty looks from everyone.

“Our point is, stay away from that house if you value your life.”

————

Apparently, Bond was very bad at listening to advice.

He knew this already of course, with M, Tanner and that old fart at Q-Branch taking turns in lecturing him everyday on The Importance of Listening to Their Advice, but this had to be the worst case of Very Bad Ideas.

Seventeen hours after his successful mission, Bond found himself at the front door of the house that everyone warned him to stay away from. To be fair, it was not his fault that his MI-6 issued car broke down (bloody Q-Branch) right in the middle of a fierce thunderstorm thirty minutes away from town with the house being the nearest and only shelter. But between a possible mad scientist who might or might not cut him up for crazy experiments, and the crazy thunderstorm which looks set to drown anyone who remains outdoors for five minutes, he will take the chance with the mad scientist.

But bugger him sideways if the door knocker really was very ugly, Bond grimaced as he grabbed the tongue of the gargoyle door knocker and knocked three times.

Thunder struck the moment a disembodied, crackling voice could be heard above him.

“Evening. Sorry my speaker is broken, I know I sound like Vincent Price with a cold on it. State your business.”

Well, that solves the mystery of the disembodied voice.

“Sorry, would you mind putting me up at least until the thunderstorm is over?”

A pause, some static and more crackling before the voice said, “Come in.” And the doors opened inwards with an ominous creak.

Bond stepped in, and the first thing he thought was that bloody hell, this place smells of death and decay. It was also filthy as hell. The walls were brown with grime and there were paper and unknown materials strewn about everywhere. Bond was getting giddy from the terrible smell of rotting meat. He almost did not notice the cackling in the background. Following the laughter, he trudged forward past the living room to the steel door marked “Test Chamber Ahead”, and opened it hesitantly.

The first thing Bond thought when he opened the door was, “Well shit, the Suffolk folk might be right about Mr. Abra Cadaver after all.”

The second thing Bond thought was that well, at least he was a hot mad scientist.

Really, he should not be finding a skinny looking kid with a bird’s nest for hair attractive, but there was something compelling about the boy’s slender form and red lips. The part where he was laughing evilly while mixing chemicals in conical flasks, waving test tubes in his hands and poking and prodding at what looked like a green hand while bouncing around the table was a little bit off putting though. The green, glowing goggles that the kid was wearing coupled with his tousled hair did not help with the image either. But instead of stepping away quietly while his presence was not detected from the potentially dangerous scientist who was currently picking up a glass jar that contained what looked like a human brain, Bond did the stupidest thing he could do.

Bond cleared his throat, causing the young man to finally notice him.

“Good lord!” the mop-haired man jumped, “Forgive my rudeness, I was distracted by the promising results of my experiment that I forgot that I let you in.” Bond suddenly sincerely hoped that this man would never encounter an assassination attempt because he would probably not last very long.

“The folks at Framlingham told me about you, Mr. Cadaver.”

To his surprise (or maybe not), the man started laughing heartily.

“Talked to Ben from the grocer’s I see? They tell you that I’m a mad scientist then? Though they’re probably right sometimes, experiments can be so aggravating when they don’t go as one envisioned.”

“They did tell me about your ugly door knocker, which I do have to agree about,” Bond replied.

“Barbarians. Nobody appreciates gargoyles nowadays,” the scientist sniffed.

“Your house is filthy. Your mold has mold growing on them”

“A scientist doesn’t have time for trivial matters like spring cleaning.“ the man said simply. "I never did get your name, Mr…?”

“Bond, James Bond.”

“Well Mr. Bond, I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you now, as you have seen my secret projects,” Mr. Cadaver’s glasses glinted.

Bond tensed, his hand twitching for his Walther in his holster.

“Joking, you didn’t think that I really was a mad scientist, did you?” the scientist laughed and went back to poking at the brain in the jar.

Speechless, Bond stared at the man thinking that he really was mad to joke about killing a Double-Oh. Instead of voicing this, he decided to ask a question that has been bugging him since he entered the room.

“Where did you get those from?” Bond gestured in the general direction of the various body parts pickled in jars.

“Government provided. Biomechanics is a rather important subject at the moment.”

“So you’re working for the government.”

“Technically. They did offer me a role in MI-6, but I didn’t think that it’d be interesting.”

“MI-6.” Bond deadpanned.

“Yes, and I assume that you are a Double-Oh? Based on that Walther PPK you are sporting under your jacket and that Q-Branch standard issue ear radio receiver.”

“How-”

“Major Boothroyd and I happened to be friends, and he has been trying to recruit me as his successor for over a decade.” Mr. Cadaver smirked.

“I can imagine that the old man is not very happy about you continuously declining him. That pompous old man has been trying to retire for years.” Bond smirked.

“Oh I can imagine, with headaches like you Double-Ohs to look after.”

Bond laughed, maybe this mad scientist would be better company than he thought.

—–

The next day, Bond repaired the man’s roof before returning to MI-6.

“By the way, my name’s not really Abra Cadaver,” the scientist said when sending Bond off, “And no, you won’t be able to find out my real name.”

True to his word, not even Major Boothroyd knew of the boy’s name, but it seemed that he was telling the truth about his acquaintance with Boothroyd.

Two days later, Major Boothroyd announced his retirement as Quartermaster of MI-6 and called for an emergency meeting with the entire operatives staff and the Double Oh faction to introduce his replacement. Bond was not surprised when the mad scientist he met during the stormy night stepped up to introduce himself.

“I thought you didn’t find MI-6 interesting?” Bond questioned the new Q as Q outfitted Bond for the first time for a mission.

“Mmm, MI-6 suddenly got interesting two night ago,” Q shrugged as he passed to Bond a gun and a radio.

“By the way, here’s a little extra something for your mission.” Q handed Bond a small box and left.

Bond opened the box and laughed.

It was the ugly as hell door knocker.