Fandoms I write for are Hamilton, In The Heights, Dear Evan Hansen, Be More Chill, West Side Story, Les Miserables, Mad Max Fury Road, Star Wars, The Avengers, The Adventure Zone, and The Song Of Achilles
Going rate is $4 dollars for 500 words
For fluff and smut, I write basically all ships (except for Kylo ships. No can do.)
No rape, incest, or pedophilia, and I reserve the right to reject a commission
When he saw Connor Murphy parked in the pale green arm chair in the counselor’s office, wrists wrapped up and phone plugged into the yellowing charging port, Evan Hansen really began to regret trying swallowing his two weeks worth of Xanax prescription in five minutes.
He hadn’t been even remotely successful. Of freaking course, his hands had to start shaking so hard that he couldn’t even twist the lid off. By the time he had made it downstairs and was shakily using a knife to saw the top off (he wasn’t going to need the bottle afterwards anyways), his mom was walking in the door, and he hadn’t heard her over the thrumming in his ears. She saw him right as he threw the bottles contents down his throat. Curse her and her adrenaline induced super strength; she had him pinned down and was calling 911 before he could say “damn.”
The worst part was not getting his stomach pumped (although that was a close second). The worst part was his mom crying and hugging him while they waited. Of course, she was waiting for the ambulance to come and save him. Evan was waiting for the Xanax to take him out before his mom started crying even harder. But he stayed awake, through the stomach pumping, into the psychoanalysis, and it wasn’t until he was tucked into a hospital bed at eleven that night that he finally passed out, empty and still wanting to die.
Here he was. In the counselor’s office. Because having a shrink just wasn’t enough. No, he needed two shrinks. And he had to share a literally miniscule lobby with Connor Murphy to do it.
And the thing was, this fear of Connor was totally new. He hadn’t even really noticed the guy until a few weeks ago; except for that time in the second grade when he threw a printer at a teacher (which, while impressive, had sent him straight home for two weeks). Evan didn’t know too much about Connor Murphy except that he wore the same black hoodie everyday, he was almost disconcertingly tall, and his sister, Zoe, was cute and in Jazz Band. Evan also knew, just from looking really hard this one time at his face, that he felt bad for him. There was something shattered about Connor Murphy’s eyes, and while Evan didn’t feel like he was in a position to say anything, he kind of wished he was. Even when Connor got pissed. Even when he shoved him to the ground that one time and called him a freak. Not that that didn’t suck. It had. It was terrifying. But he couldn’t shake that sad feeling in his stomach. Connor was some broken enigma that Evan was constantly watching out of the corner of his eye, tracking his every movement for some sign of emotion beyond rage.
Here he was. In the counselor’s office. His phone was hanging in his limp grip while he eyeballed Evan, eyes intrusive and dark.
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