6. Are there any fics from others you reread all the time?
14. If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fan fic would you pick?
6. Are there any fics from others you reread all the time?
To be honest I don't often reread fics anymore because I favor having new experiences (I also don't rewatch movies or shows a whole bunch for the same reason), so I definitely can't say "all the time," but I have been rereading (very slowly) both The Devil's Hangin' Round My Doorstep by 94BottlesOfSnapple and Always Crashing in the Same Car by a_silver_sun as both of them are excellent!
14. If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fan fic would you pick?
Oh this one's easy! It's not even done yet (I've got a measly chapter one out), but Out of the Darkness, Into the Limelight definitely takes the top spot for me since it's already based on a film I love with all my heart!
Congrats on 300!! 💜 Pretty please could you write a little Destiel hurt/comfort?
Thank you! As requested, Destiel hurt/comfort. Read below!
also on archive
Dean groaned as Sam helped him down the stairs and back into the bunker.
“What happened?” Cas asked as he came up to them, concern in his blue eyes.
“Just your typical werewolf,” Dean replied through a grunt of pain.
Cas quickly moved to help Sam bring Dean into his room, where they laid him down on his bed. Dean winced in pain as the scratches from the werewolf brushed against the fabric of his shirt.
“I’ve got it from here, Sam.”
Sam nodded, looking between the two of them. “Right, sure.”
When Sam left, Dean grinned up at Cas. “You gonna heal me with a kiss?”
Cas smiled fondly at him. “If that’s what you want.”
Dean only blinked at him slowly, trying to ignore the pain. Cas ran a hand through Dean’s sweat and blood soaked hair, gently raking his fingers against his scalp. Dean shut his eyes and hummed in content at the feeling, and then Cas’s lips were on his and a warm wave of grace washed over him. His wounds closed, the pounding in his bruised head ceased its drumming, and the pain slipped away as easily as it had come.
Dean let the kiss deepen, allowing Cas’s tongue access to explore his mouth. When they did break apart, Dean smirked and pulled Cas down onto the bed with him, causing the angel to fall on top of him.
“Dean,” Cas chuckled.
“What?” Dean asked innocently.
Cas shook his head but he was smiling. “Sam’s going to wonder what’s taking so long.”
“So?”
“When are we going to tell him?” Cas asked as he smoothed a hand over Dean’s chest.
Dean shrugged. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want Sam to know yet, he knew he’d be supportive, Sam loved Cas like a brother and he wanted Dean to be happy, but there was something holding him back, some fear ingrained so deep inside of him that he couldn’t just push it aside.
Dean looked up at Cas, into those comforting blue eyes. “I don’t know. Soon.”
“You said that a month ago.”
“I know,” Dean sighed. “I’m just not ready yet.”
“You’re scared,” Cas said, it wasn’t a question, it was a statement, an observation.
“Yeah,” Dean mumbled.
“You shouldn’t be. Sam’s your brother, and I’m fairly sure he already suspects.”
“I’m sure he does, but, I don’t know Cas. I don’t want him to be overly supportive. The second he finds out he’ll probably invite all our friends over and throw a surprise party or he’ll start planning our wedding. I just want to have time with just you, while Sam’s not involved.”
Cas pressed a kiss to Dean’s forehead and reached for Dean’s hand. “I understand, I just think he deserves to know.”
“And he will, just not yet. Is that okay? Can we wait a little longer?”
Cas nodded as he snuggled closer to Dean. “Of course, whatever you want.”
“Thanks.”
A moment of silence passed between them, and then Cas asked, “how many werewolves attacked you on that hunt?”
“Three, I think,” Dean replied. “One came up from behind and two in front, but Sam and I took care of ‘em, and I knew my angel boyfriend would heal me up the second we got back, so I wasn’t worried.”
“Well I was,” Cas said softly. “I know you needed me here to monitor the phones, but I always worry about you when you go on a hunt and I’m not there.”
“You don’t need to, Sam’s always got my back, and then I get to come home to you.” Dean smiled as he gently cupped the side of Cas’s face.
“I love you,” Cas said.
Dean grinned, Cas’s words warmed him to his core. “I love you too.”
Cas sighed and kissed Dean’s knuckles. “We should probably go find your brother.”
Dean shook his head. “Nah, let him wonder what we’re doing. I don’t feel like going anywhere right now.”
Cas hesitated for a moment, but then settled down again. Their legs ended up entangled and Dean’s eyes slid shut as he listened to Cas’s soft breathing.
Sam found out the next morning, when he knocked on Dean’s door and opened it to find the angel and the hunter curled up together, where they’d stayed since Cas had healed him.
“Dude what the hell?!” Dean protested over a yawn.
“Uh, sorry,” Sam said as he stood awkwardly in the doorway. “I just uh, found another case.”
“And you couldn’t wait until I had some coffee in me to tell us?”
“I just thought we could get an early jump on it, but you and Cas look… busy.”
“We’re not busy,” Dean retorted. “But, I guess the secret’s out now.”
“It wasn’t much of a secret,” Sam said.
“Shut up,” Dean muttered.
“I’m happy for you,” Sam continued.
“Yeah, thanks,” Dean replied. “But we’re not talking about this.” Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed and Cas climbed off after him. He didn’t think twice about taking the angel’s hand as they walked to the kitchen.
i saw you were accepting prompts - could you possibly do one with thirteen and the fam where one of them gets kidnapped and the rest have to get whoever it is back?
holly's august extravaganza day 15: find you here inside the dark
thank you for the prompt!
@badthingshappenbingo prompt: blindfolded
ao3 | 1.5k | kidnapping, psychological torture, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, set vaguely during s12
Yaz has been thinking.
There’s not much else to do, really, wherever she is; the room she’s being kept in is windowless and featureless, and the only interesting parts of her day are when the visor she’s being forced to wear darkens, effectively blindfolding her. She’s not really sure what happens during those times, except that someone—presumably one of her captors—joins her, stays in silence, then, after an unidentified amount of time, leaves.
Though, to be honest, all her time here is unidentified. Yaz has no idea how she’s supposed to track the days; she’s pretty sure she’s not on Earth, so there’s no guarantee that days are days anyway. She tracks the passage of time through the periodic meals she receives, but as those are pretty much all the same, there’s no way to tell what equates to morning, noon, and evening.
She tried, at first, but it became too confusing too quickly. So, instead, she thinks.
First it was about ways of getting out of here. Yaz is nothing if not proactive and, while she trusts the Doctor to save her, she’s always liked figuring things out for herself. Especially when said things are Doctor-related, because it feels like she’s proving herself, or something. Like she’s showing the Doctor that she’s worth it, that she can handle all the running and fighting and general chaos that follows them wherever they go.
Like she is capable of staying by her side forever.
But Yaz has walked this room too many times to count now; she’s traced her fingertips over the walls, searching for any cracks or crevices to indicate where there might be a door. There is none, apparently, and Yaz has to concede that their technology is beyond her.
If the Doctor were here, she’d have her sonic out by now, spitting out words, only half of which Yaz could understand. She’d find a way out in no time.
Or, if not, at least she’d be here. Talking a mile a minute, probably annoying the hell out of their captors. Yaz can almost hear her now—
Wait.
She can hear her now.
It’s faint and distorted, but unmistakably the Doctor, and Yaz feels hope flash through her. If the Doctor is here, then maybe… Maybe she’s going to get out of here.
It’s not that it’s been bad here, per se, but Yaz hasn’t spoken to another person in so long that she’s starting to go a little out of her mind. Whatever thing has her, it’s not chatty; the only reason Yaz knows there’s actually someone else around somewhere is that she’s heard its heavy breathing whenever it comes into the room.
The Doctor’s voice gets louder and Yaz jumps to her feet, spinning in a circle to try and pinpoint where it’s coming from.
“Doctor!” she cries. “Doctor, it’s me, I’m here!”
The sounds pause for a moment, then suddenly resume at Yaz’s back. She turns and runs to the wall, pressing her ear against it to try and hear something—anything—but just like that, it’s gone.
For the first time since she’s been here, Yaz feels tears building in her eyes. She’s been so certain, for so long, that the Doctor is coming for her, and now she knows; the Doctor was here, feet away, and now she’s—
“Yaz?”
She’s behind her; she has to be. Yaz spins, grinning, arms out to drag the Doctor into a hug—but she’s not there. She frowns, but she doesn’t have time to process it before her name is called from another corner of the room, so clear that it feels like it’s right in the room with her.
But Yaz is alone, still, except for the voice that bounces from wall to wall, surrounding her and sending her dizzy from trying to follow it. She can’t see for tears as she realises—it’s all a trick. For what purpose, Yaz doesn’t know, but she doesn’t care to figure it out either.
The Doctor isn’t here. She never was.
And then, as if to torture her further, the visor darkens, and Yaz is blind.
*
She lives in darkness from then on. Unlike every other time, it doesn’t clear, not even when she’s brought meals, so Yaz just sits pressed into a corner, entirely alone.
And she thinks.
She knew, back when they started travelling with the Doctor, that there would be danger. That she’d probably fear for her life, maybe even get hurt along the way. They’d all accepted the risk, but Yaz—Yaz hadn’t even had to think about it. Maybe it’s because of her job, but the thought of danger hadn’t phased her for even a second; it had exhilarated her.
All her life, Yaz has wanted to do something. She’s always needed that adrenaline rush, that thrill, and she hadn’t found it sitting in her police car breaking up minor disputes. Then the Doctor appeared and handed it to her on a platter, and who was Yaz to turn that down? Travelling with the Doctor has been everything; there’s nowhere Yaz would rather be than with her.
But Ryan has been saying, lately, that he doesn’t know how much longer he can do this. He wants to leave, Yaz can tell, even if he hasn’t said it directly.
“Where does it end, Yaz?” he’d said to her once. “How many times have we almost died already? We can’t get lucky forever.”
“I trust the Doctor,” Yaz had replied. “She’s always kept us safe, and she always will.”
She doesn’t think Ryan believed her, but Yaz has never been more certain of anything in her life. Except… Except, now, she’s starting to wonder. Yaz doesn’t know how long ago she was taken, but she’s fairly certain it’s been too long. Hours, days, weeks spent holding onto the knowledge that the Doctor would come for her; most people probably would have given up by now, but the thought never even entered Yaz’s head.
The Doctor would come; it was never a question.
Except she hasn’t, and Yaz is alone in the dark, and she’s losing faith.
*
Yaz loves the Doctor’s voice. She loves to listen to her talk, loves the way her eyes light up at anything new, loves the sheer emotion she pours into every single word.
Now, though, she’d give anything to get her to stop.
It’s been like this since the first time; Yaz will hear the Doctor’s voice calling for her, promising her that she’s coming, that she’ll be free soon, and it will be so clear that Yaz could swear she’s right in front of her. But she’ll reach out and feel nothing, and no-one, and disappointment will flood her all over again.
She should be used to it by now; she should expect it, even. But every time, there’s hope. And every time, it’s crushed.
So, the next time it starts, Yaz assumes it will be no different.
“Yaz,” the Doctor, or whatever’s mimicking her says. “Yaz, it’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here; we all are, just hang on.”
It’s the same as always. Yaz presses herself further into her corner and buries her head in her arms—not that it makes any difference. “No,” she whispers. “Stop it.”
“Yaz, it’s me!”
“Yaz!” Ryan—that’s a new one. Yaz doesn’t let it get to her though; this just means they’re getting more creative now. She doesn’t budge, not even at the slight shuffle off feet along the floor. Everything they’ve done to her has felt realistic, so why shouldn’t the same go for this now?
Something steps close to her, fabric rustling gently, and Yaz could swear she feels hot breath on the top of her head. She tenses to keep herself from moving; this means nothing.
Don’t hope don’t hope don’t hope.
“Oh,” she hears, then there’s a high pitched whirring in her ear—a sound so familiar she could cry, but she won’t, she refuses.
“Yaz, you can look now,” the Doctor says gently. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.”
The hands on her face tell Yaz she has no choice in the matter, and she puts up little resistance as her head is slowly raised. She doesn’t know what’s going on, and she has no time to work it out before she realises she can see, and—
“Oh my god,” Yaz sobs, all but collapsing into the Doctor’s arms. She grips the back of her coat tightly and presses her face into her chest, relishing in her warmth, in the heartbeats echoing rhythmically in Yaz’s ears. “You’re here, you’re actually here.”
The Doctor hugs her tightly, running her hands through Yaz’s hair. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
Yaz pulls back, though only slightly, only enough so she can look the Doctor full in the face. She brings her hands up to her face and strokes her thumbs over her cheekbones, taking her in like she hasn’t been able to do in so long. She’s vaguely aware of Graham and Ryan standing behind the Doctor, but she barely pays them any notice, too focused on the Doctor. “I thought—”
“I know,” the Doctor shushes, smiling sadly. “I know. I swear to you though, Yaz, I’ll always come back for you. I’ll never leave you. I promise.”
Hi! Please could you write a short hurt/comfort for destiel? I'm in an angsty mood and I'm not sure why
Woops, I hope you consider 2.2k ‘short’. And I hope you’ll feel better soon! ♥
“You feeling any better, Cas?” Dean asked into the dimness of the room, only illuminated by the hall lights behind him. From his vantage point, he could only vaguely make out the shape of Castiel on top of his comforter, spread out like a starfish and eerily still. The weird position probably would have made Dean laugh any other day, but he didn’t feel like laughing in that moment -- the images of the last hunt were still burned too freshly in his mind. Of himself being struck down by one of the harpies and almost torn from limb to limb, had Castiel not arrived in the nick of time, deftly striking them down with the wrath of God, and looking so fucking lost and shell-shocked right after.
Though, ‘wrath of God’ was probably the wrong phrasing, seeing as Castiel had completely lost his grace not so long ago, and was just as human, even if a bit more awkward, as the rest of them.
Dean guessed that was also the reason for his dramatic position, and his withdrawal from all of them once they had finished the hunt. Down in the dirt with them all, it must have sucked to have had such close calls, whereas before, he could have smote them with so much as a glance.
“Go away, Dean,” Castiel said, and his deadpan delivery actually made Dean laugh.
“Alright, princess, but only if you tell me what’s wrong.”
Dean could see Castiel turning his face towards him, the light from the hallway briefly catching in his eyes.
“Because you always tell me what’s wrong whenever you are suffering.”
“Alright, alright, alright,” Dean grumbled, feeling himself flush for some inexplicable reason. “Have it your way. I actually just came here to ask you if you wanted to come for dinner, but I’m guessing that Mr. Mopey Pants probably wants to eat about as much as he wants to talk.”
“That’s correct, Dean,” Castiel confirmed.
“Jesus,” Dean sighed to himself, regretting all of his life choices (as usually). Instead of doing the sensible thing and just walking away to let Castiel sulk by himself, he stepped into Castiel’s room and shut the door behind himself, extinguishing almost all of the outside light. Without bothering to turn on the ceiling light in return, he drew closer to the bed, stumbling in the darkness. Although he could not see with his eyes unadjusted to the lack of light, he knew the layout of the room well enough not to bump into anything -- besides, all he had to do was follow the always palpable existence of another human being in the room. Without so much as hitting his foot, his knees sank into the soft give of the mattress.
He wanted to sit down at the edge of the bed and have a calm and collected conversation with his best friend, as any normal person would do. What he wound up doing instead was not to stop there, for whatever reason: once his knees hit the bed, he suddenly found himself climbing on top of it, and since Castiel was all spread out on it, there was nowhere for Dean to go but on top of him. Not on top-on top of him, of course -- he did not press his body up against his, like some sexual fiend. No, all he did was try to lie down next to Castiel, and lied down on his arm and part of his thigh instead, though he tried to minimize the contact. However, he was apparently the only one interested in doing so because, despite their awkward positioning, Castiel made no move to withdraw from him and instead stayed rooted where he was, all spread out.
As Dean adjusted his body, he thought he heard Castiel’s breath catch in the darkness, just so. For his own sanity, he decided to discard it.
“Cas, listen,” Dean began, “I know I’m not exactly the poster child for talking out your issues, but, uhm, I’m trying to do better. And encourage myself and other people to say when they got a problem. Be more open and all that. It’s a bit weird at first, I get it, but it does help.” That flush again, heating his skin. “Me, at least. It makes me feel better. Less alone, I guess. Less responsible for,” he made a throwaway gesture that could only be heard in the room, not seen, “everything, I guess.”
Castiel remained silent for a while, probaby mulling over Dean’s words. Then, he made a quiet sound of assent. “You do,” he agreed evenly, “feel responsible for everything.”
Dean could not help but groan. “Yeah, thanks, man. That wasn’t my point, though.”
“Yes,” Castiel said easily, “your point was that I should talk about whatever bothers me.”
Dean felt like rolling his eyes again. “If you got it, spare me your jokes.”
“Oh,” Castiel said, his arm twitching under Dean’s weight. He sounded surprised that Dean had gotten that his flat assessment had been an attempt at a joke and maybe a deflection -- as if Dean hadn’t known him long enough to be able to recognize his weird sense of humor that others often misunderstood as him being socially awkward.
“Yeah,” Dean huffed out, but there was no heat behind it. Just feeling Castiel’s arm and thigh under him was enough to keep him calm and somewhat endeared to the former angel, strangely enough. Maybe he needed to go out more.
“But,” Castiel began, pausing for yet another moment before commencing again, “but what if whatever bothers me is lying on top of me and trying to get me to talk about what bothers me?”
It took Dean a minute before he got what Castiel was driving at with his weird wording, and then he felt his body stiffening up. “You calling me a bother?”
Right, he hadn’t come there to hear that kind of crap. If Cas wanted to be alone, then so be it.
Just as inelegantly as he had climbed onto the bed, he attempted to roll off of it. But before he could quite get up and leave the moody angel behind, there were hands grappling at his shoulder and hips, pulling him right back.
Dean grunted as he fell back against Castiel, who only tightened his grip to keep Dean in a weird kind of embrace.
Suddenly finding himself winded, Dean could do nothing but stay where he was, Castiel’s arms around his chest and his face burrowed in his neck.
Cas smells so good, Dean thought in a moment of stupidity, incapable of not enjoying their unexpected proximity, Castiel’s hands and breath on his body. He wished they could stay like that forever, close and under cover of darkness, nothing but the two of them.
“Dean,” Castiel sighed, the warmth of the spoken name not just in Dean’s heart but also on his skin. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to see you like that?”
Dean, dumbly drunk as he was on Castiel, was far from understanding whatever Castiel was hinting at. “Wha--?”
“See you almost ripped asunder from those harpies, crying out and yelling my name--,” Castiel faltered, swallowing.
Dean didn’t even remember calling out for Castiel specifically. He thought all he had done was scream and curse and hoping for either Cas or Sam to come and help him.
“And had they succeeded, there would have been nothing I could’ve done for you. I could not have healed you, put your body back together the way it belongs. The way it is right now.”
With any other guy and under any other circumstances, the way one of Castiel’s hands suddenly roamed his body while the other held Dean tightly against his own body probably would have felt like someone trying to cop a feel against Dean’s will. Especially since Castiel did not exactly hold back, but panted as though holding back a sob while he touched any part of Dean’s body he could reach. As it was, Dean knew it wasn’t Cas’ intention to molest him or make him uncomfortable: it was self-reassurance, pure and simple. Something Dean understood instinctively, had needed more than enough times himself. Which was why he didn’t shy away or tell Castiel to stop. No, instead, he relaxed himself into his hold, and nuzzled back against his head.
“This what all of this is about, Cas?” Dean asked in a hoarse whisper. “You feel bad about not being able to mojo it all better anymore?” He could have probably been more precise in his words by asking if he felt bad about not being an angel anymore, but as much would have been understood; he did not mean to hurt Castiel any more than he already was hurting.
“I feel bad about seeing you like that,” Castiel deflected. Then, “I was scared when seeing you like that. Scared of losing you. And of being helpless to prevent it.”
There was a sudden lump in Dean’s throat. “You didn’t lose me, though. And you did prevent it.”
“Had I arrived even one moment later, Dean,” Castiel objected, pain thickening his voice, “then you would’ve lost an arm or two, or even your life. And I could not have healed you, restored your body. You might’ve died, Dean, and there would’ve been nothing I--”
That was about as far as he got because with a press of his lips, Dean cut him right off. Despite the shocked little noise that Castiel let out, he kissed back right away, his hand returning to angle Dean’s head to kiss him deeper, taste him wholly.
It was Dean’s turn to be surprised when he felt Castiel’s tongue and lips immediately claim him that way, without any hesitation.
By the time they broke apart, both panting and staring at each other in the dimness, Dean had ended up with his back on the bed, Castiel hovering over him.
“Don’t--,” Dean pressed out through heavy breaths, “don’t be a child, Cas. You didn’t come late -- in fact, you came at the exact right time to fucking save me. And you saved me with what you can do now, as a human, not as an angel. Without you, things might’ve gone downhill. Or they might’ve not. Who knows, maybe Sammy would’ve saved me.”
He could practically feel the frown above him.
“What I’m trying to say is: on a hunt, anything can happen. Might go good, and yeah, might go bad. It’s what we’re used to -- known all our lives. All we can do is give our best and hope it all pans out. And work with what we got. Same as you. Yeah, you can’t magically mojo all my injuries away, but you can kill any bitch with a blade like it’s nobody’s business. You’re quick and precise, and a damn asset to our hunts, if you ask me. And that’s what you should be focusing on. Thinking about the shoulda woulda coulda doesn’t help in any way -- think of what’s right in front of you, not what’s in the past or in the future. Ain’t nothing we can do anything about anyway. Well, not much, at least.”
Dean was proud of his little joke by the end there, but Castiel did not laugh. Did not even chuckle, that bastard. Instead, he made a contemplative noise as he listened and thought Dean’s words over again.
“What’s right in front of me, huh?” Castiel reiterated thoughtfully, one of his thumbs tracing the line of Dean’s jaw and his lips.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut and fought against the urge to kiss that teasing finger. “Not exactly what I meant, but yeah.”
“To me, that’s exactly what you meant,” Castiel said, with unprecedented lightness. “To not dwell on how badly you could’ve been hurt and how you screamed my name, but on how whole you are right now, how alive, thanks to me, and how much pleasure you could still receive.”
Dean was glad that Castiel could not possibly see how flaming his cheeks must have been. “That an offer, Cas?” His voice came out much lower than he had been going for, which however seemed well enough.“‘Cause lemme tell you, if it is, I wouldn’t mind showing my savior how thankful I am. How fucking alive.”
“It could be,” Castiel replied, his voice dipping in kind.
Which was an unexpected turn of events, if Dean had ever experienced one, and he had actually experienced many. But, true to his own words, he should focus on what was in front of him. What had, in fact, been in front of him for a whole damn while now, he had just been too chickenshit to reach out for it.
Not anymore, though. Instead of drawing back and laughing it all off, diminishing the heat and warmth he felt for the weirdo on top of him, he laid a hand on Castiel’s cheek, let out a sigh, and pulled him back into another kiss.
Hi! I absolutely adore your fic recs, so thank you so much for sharing them with us! I recently got back in the Sherlock fandom, only to find that I hadn't bookmarked any of the fics I read 😭
Please can you help me find a fic? It was set somewhere cold (I can't remember exactly where) and I think John got hurt, and then Sherlock has to find a way to take him to a hospital. Thank you!
Hi Lovely!!
First off: LOVE your icon, hee hee!! <3 <3 Fantastic!
Secondly, the fic that immediately came to mind was this one:
You Have Drawn Red From My Hands by J_Baillier (T, 67,085 w., 17 Ch. || Three Garridebs, Heavy John Whump, Hurt / Comfort, Pining, Heavy Angst, Case Fic/Adventure, Slow Burn, Sick Fic, Injury, Guilt & Depression, Just Talk Already Please, Medical Realism, PTSD) – John getting injured leads Sherlock on a path of guilt and revelations.
-----
But I’m sure I’m wrong hahahahhahha!!!
Any one know for sure which fic this Lovely is looking for??
