#cam writes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

raindrvq · 6 days

Text

You said, "Baby, no attachment"

Pairing: Bob Sheldon x Randy Adderson

Summary: Randy thinks back to his relationship with Bob and contemplates what that relationship is. Takes place before the book/Bob is alive. A bit angsty.

Warnings: Mentions of drinking/being drunk

Word Count: 626

A/N: First time writing a fic in like... two years. Listened to a lot of Chappell Roan writing this so. I'll post this on ao3 later too. Title comes from Casual by Chappell Roan.

Randy stared closely at the other boy as if he was trying to study him, memorize every curve of his lips and flutter of his eyelashes, commit it all to memory. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at his... friend? No, they were more than friends, surely. Friends don't sneak off with you into empty rooms during parties, friends don't send a thousand shocks throughout your body with every touch they give you, and friends don't kiss you like it's breathing. But then what were they? Boyfriends? God, Bob Sheldon would never call Randy his boyfriend. Besides, Bob was still dating Cherry. He loved her, and made sure to remind Randy of the fact. And a boyfriend is more than a kiss, a boyfriend takes you out on dates, and buys you gifts, and holds your hand. And Bob could never do that for Randy.

The closest they ever got was at the drive-in, when instead of chasing after Cherry and Marcia, who had ditched them once again, they sat together in Bob's Mustang. "Might as well watch the movie, we’re already here." Bob had told him. They watched the movie together, in complete, comfortable silence aside from random comments and jokes mumbled to one another. But something in Randy couldn't just appreciate what he had. He found his hand inching over to Bob's, focused more on Bob's reaction than the movie screen. He had only managed to rest his pinky on top of Bob's, but even that was enough to make his body feel like it was on fire. It was one thing to drunkenly make out at some party, hiding away from prying eyes, but here was so much different. They were surrounded by people, and for some reason, just trying to hold Bob's hand felt so much more intense than any sloppy kiss they had ever shared. Maybe because they were so much more sober now, they were conscious of their actions. Or at least couldn't use alcohol as an excuse. Not that they hadn't been drinking, but it definitely wasn't as much as they had then.

There had been times when Randy had questioned just how drunk Bob had been when he dragged him off during a party, having seen him weaning the same bottle the entire night. But he wouldn't bring it up, hell, Randy himself was usually much more sober than he let on when they were together. He tried to keep his eyes on the movie, not let Bob catch his staring, but he still felt Bob's gaze from the corner of his eye. Bob didn't move, didn't pull away, but Randy didn't dare move closer. This touch alone was a lot. It wasn't until they heard the sound of some of their buddies approaching, obnoxious drunken laughter and loud comments bouncing back and forth. Bob quickly pulled away, the movement was subtle so as not to draw any attention to what had happened in the moments before, but he drew his hand away so fast it was like Randy had burned him. Bob leaned against the door of the car, away from Randy, and Randy felt something stir in the pit of his stomach. But hey, he should've expected this.

So yeah, Bob wasn't his boyfriend, they were nowhere close to that. But calling him his friend felt like he was ignoring everything that had happened between them, every little moment they shared. And maybe he should. Maybe he was just trying to make himself believe in something that wasn't really there. Maybe it all meant nothing, and he should stop trying to turn it into something. Bob and Randy were only friends, that's all they'd ever be, and no amount of drunken makeouts could change that.

#im ngl i finished writing this awhile ago but i was too lazy to proof read n re format it lolz #the outsiders #the outsiders fanfiction #bob sheldon #the outsiders bob #randy adderson #the outsiders randy #brandy #?#the outsiders brandy #bobxrandy #cam writes

5 notes · View notes

camkablam · 9 months

Text

another unfinished mcsm draft

okay so context for this one is that, from what i've been able to discern and remember, it's basically an AU where a cult or something has kidnapped Jesse and turned them into a vessel for the Witherstorm. Unsure whether this was meant to take place before or after the events of the game.

Warning for self-harm, torture, extreme isolation, blood, cults, burning, amnesia and feeling like you're going insane. If anyone thinks any other warnings should be added, please let me know.

Latest Draft: Discolour

He was forgetting, and that was what scared him the most.

It was as though his memories from Before were drowning in quicksand, slowly being dragged deeper and deeper into the depths of his brain to the point that, if he were somehow able to heave them back out, they would be stained and damaged. He wasn't sure whether or not the Forgetting was due to the fact that he'd been here, in this tiny world of four white walls and a tiled floor, for as long as he had been (not that he had any idea how long he'd been here whatsoever), or if it was a symptom of whatever they had done to him.

Whatever they were doing to him.

He'd counted each tile on the floor, knew the exact number of dipping cracks off the top of his head, knew which ones were cut short by the walls. He'd found every tiny bump, nook and cranny in the white, fingers tracing along them, had even pin-pointed the ones on the ceiling. He'd tried counting in his head to

(keep himself sane)

pass the time, but had lost count somewhere in the five hundred thousands. He'd start up again, though. He always did.

Brain beginning to thump behind his eyes, he grimaced and raised his hands to scrub at his forehead. It usually hurts not long after he's taken out of the room (and oh god, things were so much worse when that happens, when they come, things were always so much), although he's always returned eventually. And as much as the white walls and the tiled floor were burnt into his eyelids, as painfully boring as they were, he would always choose the room over what lay outside it. What they do.

He groaned quietly, pressing his palms into his eyes and breathing deeply. His chest spasmed. The Thing Inside stirred, but didn't waken.

Yes, the Forgetting was definitely the worst part. And that was certainly saying something, considering just how terrible everything about this was. The Before was blurry now, fogged and unclear, as were the people that had been there. All reduced to blurred faces and splotches of colour and half-pronounced names. Panic curled in his chest everytime he tried to think back and hit a wall, everytime he paused and realised with rising horror that he couldn't remember his name.

He had been certain of rescue, at some point. Certain that someone- someone who he could no longer remember by face nor name- was coming for him. Was looking for him. Would find him.

Looks like they never did.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the achingly bright light above him, grinding his teeth together as the urge to cry closed his throat. He had already cried, and he didn't want to

(wake it)

do it again. There was no point. It's not like it'll magically fix everything. Besides, he was almost completely sure that they were watching him. He wouldn't be surprised if they were.

But he didn't want to Forget. He didn't want to be left alone in an empty room with nothing but an empty head, the same white walls and tiled floor and bright light and windowless door, counting the cracks on the ceiling, the cracks forming on his brain. He didn't want to Forget a time before they'd ripped and sown scars across his body, before straps held him down, before the agonising pain. Please, don't make him forget.

Then there was the Thing Inside. No, he would not be forgetting the Thing Inside. No matter how much he would like to. No matter how much he wanted to.

Hard to forget what's always there.

He gritted his teeth, tears burning in his eyes and squeezing his throat. Panic was beginning to curl inside his chest, constricting his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He dug his nails into his skin, trying to squash it down. But it was enough for the Thing Inside to jolt awake with a grumble, little sparks of pain stabbing at the small of his back like a thousand needles.

Grunting, he clamped down on his tongue, sucking in harsh breaths through his clenched teeth as It withered against his spine. It was hungry, as It was always hungry. He could feel it aching through his stomach, up to his chest, throbbing in his brain to the point that he was fairly certain he was either going to throw up or pass out.

Not like it mattered. He was already clamping his teeth down on the flesh of his arm.

When you count the same tiles two thousand eight hundred and nineteen times, the same cracks one thousand nine hundred and sixty-four times, the same thin strips of white line still visible from the new paint four thousand one hundred and eight times, you begin to lose your mind.

---

When you sit in utter silence with nothing but the buzz of your brain and the cold floor to lie on, you begin to turn transparent. You grow numb and you become a nothing within a nothing, a hazy dream entirely disconnected from a reality you can't remember. When you lie there and count, from zero and onwards and onwards and onwards and onwards and onwards, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, you start to go insane.

He was fairly certain he'd already done so a very long time ago.

(Not that he knew how long he'd been here.)

Groaning, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his eyes aching. A dull throb shot through his arm, and he glanced at it, at the blood trailing from the deep bite just below his elbow, pooling on the floor and staining his pants leg. The urge to smear it on his hands and face and the floor and walls, to make the white (white white white white) all red (red red make it red god no more white get rid of the goddamn white make it red please) rose up, but something stopped him.

He may be Forgetting (goodbye, names and places and faces), but he knew- somewhere in his empty brain- what would happen if he spread the red. What had happened the last time.

He didn't touch the red, because he wasn't supposed to touch the red, but he watched it. Observed it. Looked at it. Watched it sluggishly spread across the white. Watched it slowly dry to a dark reddish-brown and stain.

But he did not touch it.

After a long time (or maybe no time at all), his muscles began to ache, so he shifted and laid down on his side, not once taking his eyes off the drying blood. It was the most interesting thing that had happened in what felt like centuries. The pain in his arm was welcome. It was different. It reminded him that he wasn't dead.

He welcomed the pain.

He welcomed the blood.

(He didn't touch the red.)

There was a difference from the pain and bleeding inside the room than outside it. The pain and bleeding from inside the room was done by him. The pain and bleeding was purposeful, was created, was welcome- even if it was initially for the Thing Inside. But the pain and bleeding that happened outside the room was not welcome. Was not a relief. Was not done by him.

It was difficult to decide whether or not he preferred the blindingly white door to be open or closed. Very difficult indeed.

Earlier Draft: Bunny Bones (for some reason)

He was forgetting, and that was what scared him the most.

Whatever they were doing to him.

(keep himself sane)

pass the time, but had lost count somewhere in the five hundred thousands. He'd start up again, though. He always did.

He was riddled with scars. Carved into his skin like a craftsman with a block of wood, elegant and beautiful, had it not been for the ugly, terrible black and purple and yellow bruises that stained him like mud on a newly cleaned floor. There were patterns and symbols he didn't understand; they crawled along his arms and across his shoulders, all over his chest and stomach and down his legs. They were on his feet, his hands, his back. He didn't have to see them to know they were they. They made their presence known by the throbbing, burning pain they brought.

Elegantly ugly.

He groaned quietly, pressing his palms, adorned with twin perfect circles of scarred flesh, into his eyes. They did it with scary precision. Cutting not deep enough for him to bleed out without stitches, but deep enough to scar. Deep enough to hurt.

But yes, the Forgetting was definitely the worst part. And that was certainly saying something, considering just how terrible everything about this was. The Before was blurry now, fogged and unclear, as were the people that had been there. All reduced to blurred faces and splotches of colour and half-pronounced names. Panic curled in his chest everytime he tried to think back and hit a wall, everytime he paused and realised with rising horror that he couldn't remember his name.

He had been certain of rescue, at some point. Certain that someone- someone who he could no longer remember by face nor name- was coming for him. Was looking for him. Would find him.

Looks like they never did.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the achingly bright light above him, grinding his teeth together as the urge to cry closed his throat. He had already cried, and he didn't want to

(wake it)

do it again. There was no point. It's not like it'll magically fix everything. Besides, he was almost completely sure that they were watching him. He wouldn't be surprised if they were.

Then there was the Thing Inside. No, he would not be forgetting the Thing Inside. No matter how much he would like to. No matter how much he wanted to.

Hard to forget what's always there.

He gritted his teeth, tears burning in his eyes and squeezing his throat. He wanted to get out of here. Away from the white, white room and the pain, the pain, the pain. Wanted to run, as far and as fast as he possibly could, in any direction, to anywhere, so long as it wasn't here.

But there was no running.

There was no escaping.

There was only pain.

And Forgetting.

---

He was fairly certain he'd already done so a very long time ago.

(Not that he knew how long he'd been here.)

Groaning, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his eyes aching. A dull throb shot through his stomach, and he glanced at it, at the blood trailing from the elegant lines and symbols and runes carved around his belly button, pooling on the floor and staining his pants. They had been healing, but he must have torn them. The urge to smear it on his hands and face and the floor and walls, to make the white (white white white white) all red (red red make it red god no more white get rid of the goddamn white make it red please) rose up, but something stopped him.

He may be Forgetting (goodbye, names and places and faces), but he knew- somewhere in his empty brain- what would happen if he spread the red. What had happened the last time.

But he did not touch it.

After a long time (or maybe no time at all), his muscles began to ache, so he shifted and laid down on his side, not once taking his eyes off the drying blood. It was the most interesting thing that had happened in what felt like centuries. The pain in his stomach was welcome. It was different. It reminded him that he wasn't dead.

He welcomed the pain.

He welcomed the blood.

(He didn't touch the red.)

There was a difference from the pain and bleeding inside the room than outside it. The pain and bleeding from inside the room was done by him. The pain and bleeding was purposeful, was created, was welcome- even if it was initially done by them. But the pain and bleeding that happened outside the room was not welcome. Was not a relief. Was not done by him.

It was difficult to decide whether or not he preferred the blindingly white door to be open or closed. Very difficult indeed.

---

His skull was splitting in half. His brain was shredding itself to bits, ripping and tearing, like a dog gorging on a juicy steak. He was screaming- or at least, he thought he was screaming- but that didn't stop it. Didn't stop them.

The fire crackled and spat. He was bleeding- from nowhere and everywhere, lying in a pool of his own blood, his wrists and ankles rubbed raw from rope burn. They were everywhere, all around him, forming a circle around the fire like campers trying to keep warm on a windy night. One knelt next to him, carving into his skin like some kind of master sculptor. They finished, cocked their head to the side as though to examine their work, then grabbed a handful of something- it might've been sand or salt or something else- and smeared it into his open sores. He screamed again. Tearing at his throat.

They didn't stop.

They never stopped.

His head was exploding. Or maybe it was crumping inwards, caving in on itself, a structure finally collapsing. Then there was a spark, the sizzle of electricity, the crackle of the flames- and he was on fire. His whole body seared with a blazing agony he couldn't fully describe. Could hardly comprehend. And there might've been someone else screaming alongside him.

But he wouldn't know, because that's when his heart gave out.

---

He first heard the voice the following night.

#mcsm #mcsm fanfiction #mcsm jesse #cam writes #my writing #unfinished draft #writing draft #self harm tw #blood tw #cults tw #torture tw #isolation tw #extreme isolation tw #dark content tw

11 notes · View notes

cam-writes-apparently · 9 months

Text

WIP Wednesday

Except it's Thursday and I haven't re-read or edited this yet, and a little mention to @solesommerso for helping me plan this, I'm actually so happy I've finally started writing this.

A weird combination of coffee and soot fill my nostrils as I enter which, knowing cap, will be gone by the time I leave. Heading towards what I'm hoping is the kitchen, taking in my surroundings, an oddly low number of people on the apparatus floor, maybe they're eating lunch, I mean you gotta eat when you can on this job. Taking a deep breath, questioning why no one is stopping me from just wandering in, realistically firehouses should definitely have security. Nothing screams Owen Strand more than a Casadio Undici coffee machine in a firehouse, smiling softly, I realise I'm definitely in the right place. Stepping into the kitchen? Dining room? Lounge area? God does it really matter right now? “Can we help you with something ma’am?” Alright, definitely in Austin, not a ma’am tho, smiling and scanning all the faces that now look directly at me, “Alvez?” oh there he is, “Hey Tyler..”. Listen, I know I came here, I know I voluntarily used my technical analyst to find his firehouse but with the look on his face I really wish I was anywhere else right now. “You- here- what?” he's stuttering, I really shouldn't have just shown up like this, at his place of work? God I really should- “I heard you got married..” the words sorta fall out of my mouth before I can stop them hoping the look of apology and genuine happiness appears across my face like I planned, rather than the panic and need to run that I'm actually starting to feel. “And if I remember correctly, I was supposed to be your best man”

#wip wednesday #current wip #911 lone star #911 lone star fanfiction #original character #cam writes

3 notes · View notes

bluevalleybreakingnews · 1 year

Link

Oops! I’m in my Sportsicle era now that the show has ended and they’re comic canon. Spoilers for 3x13.

#stargirl #dc stargirl #cameron mahkent #artemis crock #sportsicle #cam writes

12 notes · View notes

godsfaultycreations · 9 months

Text

Animal Crossing Time

the sillies playing animal crossing

Taco Bell

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt donatello #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt michelangelo #turtle drabble #whip and nae nae #save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #pb&j duo #smarts and crafts #first post #small artist #small art blog #mars arting #cam writing #gods faulty creations

2K notes · View notes

hapinesbuterfiy · 2 months

Text

casual - rafe cameron ೨౿

🎧🪩 casual - chappell roan

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

summary: you and rafe have been casually seeing each other for what feels like forever now, but is your relationship really casual?

warnings: angsty, rafe is a dick in some parts, not proofread!!

"baby, no attachment" is a phrase you know all too well, one that rafe cameron whispers to you between passionate kisses, before getting on his knees and devouring your pussy in the passenger seat of his jeep. nothings official between you two. you're relationship is casual, according to rafe. he's confusing, to say the least.

rafe could be all over you, wrapping his arms around your waist in front of the entire club, drunkenly telling you how beautiful you looked. he'd call you in the middle of the night, to say "m' pickin' you up be ready in 5. we'll go to that diner you like, i miss your face." you spent countless nights with each other, sharing your deepest secrets and the most intimate parts of yourselves. your favorite bra is still in his dresser from the first time you hooked up, and he refuses to give it back to you because he likes the "constant reminder of your tits." you even got invited to spend a weekend with him and his family in paradise island.

but you're relationship is casual. right?

you hate yourself for letting it drag out this long. rafe's different around his friends, distant. there are even rumors going around that you're "just a girl he bangs on the couch." you try your best to be nonchalant and give him his space, but deep down you know you're not capable of that.

it's casual but you spend hours on late-night phone calls, having the deepest conversations and confiding in each other with things you have never told anyone else. you're his casual hook-up but picks you up in the middle of the night to take you back to tannyhill because he misses you. so really, is it casual? no.

it's 1:52 am. you find yourself underneath your plush duvet cover, you're small reading light illuminating the space, on facetime with rafe, again. you always carefully listen to everything he has to say, trying your best to console him, especially when it comes to everything going on with his dad. however, this time it's different. you're sick of the constant state of confusion he puts you in, you decide that now is the perfect opportunity for you to confront him about it.

"rafe. can you come pick me up? i wanna talk to you about something." you're soft-spoken but your tone is stern, you're not going to allow yourself to continue to play these games with him, you want answers.

he's unfazed by your request, simply grumbling in response. you can hear his bed squeak as he gets up and grabs his keys off his nightstand. he mumbles "mhm, text when i'm there." before ending the call.

you rush to your dresser, throwing on your favorite brandy melville set and fuzzy slippers, he'll be here soon. rafe's massive headlights could be seen from down the block, you didn't need him to text you to be aware of his arrival.

you step up into the passenger seat, carefully shutting the door behind you as you get into the truck.

"hi. missed you today. what did you wanna talk about?" he motions his hand toward your thigh, gripping the soft flesh under your shorts. the truck was freezing. you could feel the goosebumps appear throughout your limbs as you sat their, you're only relief from the cold being rafe's hands.

"rafe... i know you said no attachment but i can't do this whole casual thing anymore. 'm not that kinda girl." you're eyes dart down to the carpet beneath your seat, trying you're best to avoid contact with him until he responds. .

he lets out a large, exasperated sigh as he removes his hand from your thigh, brushing his fingers through his greasy curtain bangs as he shakes his head.

"listen kid. alright? 'm not in the headspace to be in a relationship right now. i don't wanna get into anythin' serious. i don't wanna hurt you. yea?" he brings his focus back to the road ahead of him, driving around in circles as his firmly grips the wheel.

your face drops. you're in complete disbelief that he had the audacity to say that to you. "you don't wanna hurt me? are you fuckin' kidding me? rafe you're casual bullshit has been hurting me for the past six months." you begin to yell, anger completely taking over you.

he pulls over, not wanting to get distracted while driving, he knows how much you hate it when he doesn't pay attention to the roads. "hurting you huh? so you mean to tell me that i'm hurtin' you by buying you shit, listening to your rants, and givin' you the best sex you ever fuckin' had? really?" he throws his arms up in defense, licking his lips while eyeing you down.

you could feel the tears starting to spill out from your eyes. you manage to let out a "rafe it's not fair, i can't just do casual" between sniffles, you place your head into your hands as you continue to sob into them. oh shit— he knows he fucked up.

he parts his lips, letting out a large exhale as he tries to come up with a quick way to calm you down. he moves his body so his torso is situated above the glove box, making it easier to reach you. he pulls you into his arms, wiping the tears off of your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, pepping soft kisses to the top of your head.

"sh. i know. i know. 'm big bad rafe cameron yea? 'm sorry i hurt you. i gotta figure my shit out. 'm gonna take you back to my place, we'll talk about it in the mornin' alright?"

you nod in response, embarrassed that you let yourself break down like this in front of him. you know it's wrong, but maybe you weren't delusional after all. maybe when you wake up in the morning you wont be casual anymore.

#💌#♡ rosie writes ! ୨🎀୧ #divider by crazyfm #rafe cameron #outer banks #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cam #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron concepts #rafe cameron fanfiction #chappell roan

714 notes · View notes

onsunnyside · 1 year

Note

So I stumbled over this and I just... Can you imagine cam daddy!Ari and shy!reader, coaxing her to do a stream with him, just so he can show off those big hands? Reader would be doing him such a big favour, her face won't be in it, he'll just touch her a little, "That's fine, right, bunny? Can you do this favour for me, I promise I'll be gentle..." (he adds "at first" quietly to himself because MMMPH he'd go wild for her eventually)

this is going in the fic 😵‍💫 what if I just… post the masterlist so all the asks are easy to find 🌚 totally not bc the fic is coming soon

it's the first time you're on camera, but you aren't showing your face. Just dressed in a cozy sweater and fuzzy socks, biting on the hem of your sweater to hold it up and "show everyone your pretty cunt, baby." You watch yourself through the screen, you can't read the comments without your glasses so Ari does it for you: "they're talking about how cute you sound, how small you are compared to me... someone asked if I have to force myself into your little hole."

"H-He does..." You manage, whining when he pushes away your hand to rub your swollen nub, his fingers slowly thrusting into you, "he sometimes goes slow, but I-I like it when it hurts."

"She cries when it's just the tip—it's 'cause I tease her." His beard brushes your cheek, his lips pressing soft kisses along your tear-stained skin, "she's just my little baby, my sweet dummy. Crying when daddy won't fuck you, rubbing your face all over my cock when you're needy," he laughs at a comment, "yeah, yeah, she gets real dumb. Can't even remember her own name."

He curls his fingers and hits that spot, and you cry out, your sweater dropping from your mouth. You almost fall over right there, but his other arm keeps you up and pinned against his bare chest.

"No, you won't see her like that tonight. This is just a test run, seeing if she likes it." He talks as if you aren't there, trembling on his fingers and making the most pathetic sounds. He lifts your sweater and places it between your teeth again, giving the viewers that filthy view of your drippy pussy, "and you like it, baby? You like all these people watching you cum all over daddy's fingers?"

#tw nsft link #spicy videos #cs drabble #yes i'm still writing it #part one is almost done hehe #haven't gotten a lot of asks about it lately though 🫡#ari levinson #ari levinson au #ari levinson drabble #sonny drabbles #ari levinson x fem!reader #ari levinson x female reader #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson smut #cam daddy ari levinson #cs: thots #cs: idea #Cs ask

4K notes · View notes

milk-o-bitch · 2 months

Text

Mickey was screwed

The first time you do it is always a bit awkward specially if you're doing it with someone who wanted to beat you up hours ago.

Their first time wasn't the exception, it was also fast and angry. Ian was angry with Mickey for taking the gun from Kash and Mickey was angry with himself for letting the heterosexual facade fall. Plus they couldn't take their sweet time because Terry was napping in the living room.

Ian tried to put his face in Mickey's neck which earned him a smack on the head, and the same thing happened when he tried to hold Mickeys hand. They opted to not face each other which was far less intimate, something that Ian hated.

The second time was really uncomfortable because they were in a freezer. The cold didn't bother them that much (both of them at some point have had to shower with cold water) but doing it while you're standing up can get a little bit exhausting. This time Ian didn't get his head smacked when he placed his hand over Mick's, but touching his chest was a big no.

The saying goes third time's a charm and their third time was perfect. They wanted to go somewhere where you could get a little more privacy, so the abandoned building Mickey hanged out by himself when he needed time to think and de-stress was perfect. The coats were no blanket but it was puffy enough to lay on them.

It was getting cold but the heat of their bodies made it feel like summer. This time they did hold hands (for a brief minute) and Ian could touch him wherever he pleased. He would dare to think that Mickey was starting to like him.

What Ian didn't know was that Mickey craved his touch more than oxygen, he wanted to be caressed by Ian, hold his hand and even tenderly kiss him, but he would never admit it. Because that would change everything, it would be more than a hook up and the word relationship scared Mick (more than Terry).

After they finished he told Ian to go, to avoid being seen with him, but the truth was he needed some time to think. And the conclusion was that he was fucked, because he was falling in love with the freckled dork. He would do anything to stop feeling warm every time Ian looked at him, to stop feeling butterflies every time he touched his hand, and to stop the need to kiss him every time their faces got too close.

Mickey was screwed.

#gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #shameless us #Cam writes

88 notes · View notes

nodirectionhome-ao3 · 1 month

Text

Definitely not crying as I write Chapter 2 of ATITA. Nope not crying at all. Emotions? Couldn't be me. Nope nope nope.

I'm lying, of course

#a tide in the affairs #james lives au #chapter 2 #cam writes

29 notes · View notes

umbrellacam · 1 year

Text

lifeline

Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson

Rating: T+

Additional Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Gets a Hug, uh kind of, he can actually barely stand to be touched at the moment so, Tim does his best, Good Sibling Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Past Rape/Non-con

AO3 link: here

Summary:

At a low moment, Dick thinks he needs to catch Tim, and he just - can't. Tim catches him instead.

--------

After Blockbuster, after Catalina, after Bludhaven: Dick finds himself lying in bed at the Manor, staring up at his ceiling with slightly sunken eyes. He listens to the rain pound outside and curls his fingers in his sheets, slowly tightening his grip against the vertiginous slide of his mind out of his body.

The door creaks. Dick tilts his head carefully to keep his brain from sloshing out his ears. Squints at the light spilling into the room, the figure in the doorway. Too small for Bruce or Alfred.

Tim.

After Stephanie, after Tim's father, after Superboy: Dick knows the dark circles bruised under Tim's own eyes. He knows Tim needs his support - needs Nightwing, needs his older brother. Dick should sit up. Beckon him in. Fold him into a hug.

Get up, Grayson.

But he can't stand the idea of Tim looking at him right now, while he's feeling paralyzed, broken open. He knows his guts aren't actually showing, but Tim's eyes can make him feel that way, just as easily as Bruce. He's still so young. He shouldn't have to see Dick's messy insides.

He needs to be alone. He can't be Tim's support right now, he thinks. He doesn't have enough strength for himself, let alone someone else.

It's raining.

He stares blurrily at Tim's motionless silhouette, limned in the syrupy sconce lighting from the hallway. What is he even going to say - no? (a tiny, nasty little voice hisses.) Go away, Timmy? I can't handle hugging my little brother right now? I'm too weak, too selfish, too fucking broken to even offer you comfort when you're grieving so many terrible losses?

Weak - useless - failure -

He hears himself make a ragged sound, breaking above the downpour outside. Shards cutting his lungs on the way up.

Tim's shape lurches forward, shutting the door behind him and dropping the room back into cool darkness, and oh no, no. Tim really can't see him like this. Dick twists away toward the wall, one hand covering his face, his hot, swollen eyes. The other presses tight against his chest, like he's putting pressure on a wound, like if he pushes down hard enough he can stuff the jagged noises back down his throat.

The bed dips behind him as he shivers, chokes. A warm body hovers close against his back, radiating heat but not quite touching. Dick curls up tighter and tries to hold his gulping breaths, bracing against poisonous memories, ghostly sensations that…that…

…That don't come.

Instead - it's Tim's forehead, resting light between his shoulder blades. Tim's arm, cautiously encircling him until he can put his hand over Dick's own, on his chest. Tim's voice, murmuring into the dark.

"I've got you, Dick. I've got you, I've got you. What a shitty day. Shitty month. Shitty…long time, I guess." So very shit. Just, such absolute unrelenting shit. "You don't - have to be okay, y'know. I'm - I'm not really either, obviously, everything's all - everything's so fucked up, but. You're here, and I'm here, and Bruce is down the hall, and Alfred is downstairs, and - and I've got you, if you're falling."

Tim pauses, breathing, then actually sing-songs a little, pitchy and hoarse, "If you fall, I will catch you - right? Hah. You'd better know Cyndi Lauper." Does Dick know Cyndi Lauper? He's gotta be kidding. This ridiculous kid. Dick wants to cry. "That's me and you, okay? If you fall, I'll catch you. I'm here. I've got you."

Dick's held breath explodes from him in silent, shaking sobs. This is so fucking backwards. He should be strong enough to turn around, tuck Tim's head under his chin, hold him, not the other way around. But God, he can't - he doesn't deserve -

He grabs at Tim's hand, desperate, twines their fingers and squeezes until Tim's bones creak. Tim makes a quiet noise and squeezes back, anchoring him as best he can.

Ugly, wrenching noises keep tearing Dick's chest open; unpredictable, and louder than he would have ever wanted Tim to hear. His pillow gets soaked. But he doesn't let go. Tim keeps talking about nothing from safely behind him, voice low and steady, impossible to ignore.

They hold on to each other, a lifeline caught over the abyss. The rain slowly fades.

--------

Notes

Clarification just in case - Tim doesn't know about what happened with Catalina. He knows about Blockbuster and obviously about Bludhaven's destruction, but other than that, he's flying blind.

Wanted to write a little something where Dick feels viscerally negative about being vulnerable in front of Tim, about leaning on his younger brother in any way, because that is Just Not The Way Things Should Work - but it. turns out okay actually. maybe good, even, for a certain definition of the word that includes 'humiliating', and 'awkward', and 'god, he loves this kid so fucking much', and also 'let's never talk about this, please'.

#Cam posts #Dick and Tim #Dick Grayson #Tim Drake #dcu #batfam #my fic #I wrote something small #but it is something!#yay go me #mid-day reblog #Cam writes

51 notes · View notes