#“Just deconstruct it and pull it out of your collections” *slow blink*

[baede-6]

I feel like if Bungie is going to continue with the mandatory exotic missions,they need to compensate us a Vault slot.

I'm just saying.

Choir of One is fine,but it's not staying in my inventory.

It's certainly nothing to sing about.

See what I did there?

Seriously though,this thing is going in my Vault.

[viacursecasting]

A Blooming Mistake.

{ Read on AO3 }

Summary: Sonic is hiding his hybrid roses, meant for someone special, but Shadow's determined to uncover the truth...

In a way rivals know best.

~

Radiant light of the full moon streaked through the leafy embraces of forest branches, illuminating freckles upon the well-trodden path for the cobalt quilled hero. His buckled cherry shoes crunched upon dried foliage as he ambled toward his destination. Normally he would’ve utilized his renowned speed, but he was wary of disturbing any critters peacefully slumbering in their nests. Even so, as he heard the pitter-patter of startled animals, he cupped the corner of his lip with a gloved hand, whispering apologies into the darkness.

As he clutched a shovel in one hand and a basket of rose stems in the other, he continued onward through mossy trees and flowering bushes until he reached a clearing, grassy and kempt, overlooking the vast sea, which stretched across the horizon to kiss the distant mountains. The serenade of gentle waves lapping against the cliffside soothed his upright ears. A spring breeze combed through his quills. He inhaled deeply, the aromatic scent filling his nostrils, the air so briny he could practically taste its salt upon his tongue. Moonlight reflected divinely across the waves, a sparkle rivaled only by his toothy grin. No matter how many times he trekked here, it always felt like the first.

Refreshed from admiring the landscape, he then glanced at the bundle of stems in hand. This species was a unique hybrid, one that bloomed crimson petals with ebony splatters. The hedgehog recalled the laborious hours he poured into growing these for weeks on end—planting monochrome roses adjacently, watering them each day, breeding the resulting hybrids into super hybrids, not to mention the painstaking chore of pulling out weeds and debris by burying his knees in the dirt. If the buds successfully bloomed, he would take it as a sign to pursue his crush. Was all this effort going to be worth it?

More importantly, could he handle the answer?

As he set the woven basket down he simply… stared. At nothing in particular. Why he couldn’t bring himself to start the final stage of planting the crossbred stems, he didn’t know. He groaned, rubbing his temples as if just now realizing what a ridiculous idea this was.

What are you doing here?

He thought his inner voice was berating him until his ears perked at the unmistakable sound of a familiar, confident gait.

“I said, what are you doing here?”

He swore his heart raced faster than his feet ever have as he peered into the forest, searching for the source of the low voice. Then, as if materializing from the shadows, a jet black lifeform stepped into view, his rosy highlights complementing his fiery gaze.

“Shadow?” The royal blue hedgehog blinked repeatedly to make sure his emerald eyes weren’t playing tricks on him from lack of sleep.

Once he realized this was no illusion, Sonic discreetly held the shovel behind his quills, subtly adjusting his footing to hide the basket at his heels. But there was no fooling his dark counterpart, who analyzed his body language suspiciously.

Shadow crossed his arms. His cool and collected tone sent chills down Sonic’s spine. “Don’t toy with me, hedgehog. What are you hiding?”

“Nothing!” Sonic blurted. “What are you hiding?”

The agent rolled his carmine eyes at the feeble attempt to deflect the question. As he took several steps closer he glanced toward his rocket skates, feeling the ground get considerably flatter, devoid of twigs and stones. He observed, “This clearing appears to have been tended to.”

Sonic laughed nervously. “Nature at its finest, I guess.”

“Is that so?” Shadow humored him. The closer he got to his parallel, the softer the earth felt with every step. “I suppose nature also watered this specific plot despite having no rain all week?”

Sonic glimpsed skyward, feigning a motion as if he felt a raindrop despite the unassuming clouds. “It could start pouring any minute. We should head back—”

He stifled a breath as Shadow, nose to nose with Sonic, scrutinized him as if he could find the answer in his irises, green as a hill zone. Suddenly he reached around Sonic’s waist, fingers brushing against the underside of his back spikes.

Sonic’s muzzle reddened intensely. “Wait, what are you—?”

Shadow seized the digging tool from his rival’s grip. “Look what we have here.” He chided with a smirk, “Shame on you, hedgehog. Wrecking the beauty of nature so you can play buried treasure.”

“This isn’t a game!” Sonic cried. “Now give that back!”

Shadow kept his foe at bay with an extended arm against his chest. As Sonic clawed the air in an attempt to retrieve the shovel just out of reach, the agent spotted the basket of greenery at Sonic’s contrasting sneakers. Shadow halted, curiosity getting the better of him as his counterpart finally yanked the tool from his grasp.

But that was the least of Shadow’s worries.

Before he could get a closer look inside the rattan basket, a glowing streak of cyan made it disappear and then reappear a few feet away in Sonic’s grip.

Shadow glared at the speedster, at first with annoyance. Why would he hide a few measly plants? Then it dawned on him. Slowly his expression turned into one of horror, staring wide-eyed at the so-called hero.

But Sonic paid no mind as he refused to make eye contact, red with embarrassment. He could practically feel that scarlet gaze burning his azure fur. “Please, Shadow. Just go home.”

“Sonic.”

Shadow said it with such bleeding concern that his sapphire twin regarded him. Aghast, the ebony hedgehog paled as if he’d seen a ghost, troubling Sonic. “Stop looking at me like that, Shads. You’re scaring me.”

Shadow ignored the request. “Is that what I think it is?”

Sonic tightened his clammy grip on the wicker handle. “What do you think it is?”

Shadow’s hesitation was brief, as if his hypothesis would somehow become true if he voiced his suspicions. “Performance-enhancing drugs.”

Sonic laughed at the notion. He had never touched a drug let alone taken one. He wasn’t even sure he knew what one looked like. “Don’t be ridiculous—”

“That’s why you’ve been so secretive,” Shadow mulled distantly, rubbing his fingers under his chin as if he solved the case. “Either you plan on outperforming me, or you’ve been taking these to get on my level.”

Sonic’s expression twisted into one of confusion. “What? No! You’ve got it all wrong!”

Shadow remained skeptical, requiring proof. His eyes bore into his foe like daggers stained crimson. “Then hand it over,” he demanded, the golden power inhibitor on his wrist gleaming menacingly around his outstretched hand.

Sonic’s heart seized at the thought. His fingers clenched the woven handle so tightly he nearly bled. He swallowed before replying, “I can’t.”

Neither of them wavered. Not even the void’s icy breeze could make them flinch. Was that the wind or Sonic’s internal cry for help?

Then Shadow sighed, tightening his gloves as if foreseeing this outcome. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

In a flash he leapt forward, trailing an amber aura in his wake. Sonic’s mind deconstructed the act in slow motion, perceiving Shadow’s feet leave the ground, his limbs curl into a ball, his attack home in on Sonic’s beating organ.

Sonic dropped his possessions, steeling himself to block the spindash with crossed arms, the force so powerful his heels dug trenches in the dirt. He grunted with the effort of holding Shadow off as the high-pitched rev of the spinball deafened his ears. It was like preventing a screeching tire from burning rubber on his vitals.

Seeing as this was getting him nowhere, Shadow performed a backflip, landing gracefully on his feet. “Hmph. I’m just warming up.”

Sonic chuckled, stretching his legs like a marathon runner in a show of confidence. “Sure thing, faker,” he emphasized, knowing this would warrant some aggression.

Shadow couldn’t help but clench his fist with ire, drawing his arm back before zooming forward with a punch.

The blue blur easily sidestepped to dodge but Shadow expected this, extending another blow at the last second, hitting his opponent square in the jaw.

Sonic reeled back, more out of shock than pain, rubbing the soreness away. Regardless, he found himself smiling. It wasn’t often he brawled someone who matched his abilities. After crushing laughable badniks for days on end, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t itching for some excitement. “Lucky shot.”

“Calculated shot,” the agent corrected. “Are you as slow in the brain as you are with your feet?”

Sonic gasped dramatically, tossing the back of his hand to his forehead. “Alas! You have discovered my fatal flaw!” He bowed humbly. “Teach me, O Wise One.”

Just as Sonic was about to straighten, his opposer kneed him in the abdomen. He doubled over with a groan, sinking to his knees.

“Lesson one,” Shadow advised, “never let your guard down.”

In his kneeling position, Sonic took the opportunity to grab Shadow’s ankle and yank him to the dirt, knocking the wind out of him as he landed on his back. Shadow coughed, attempting to regain control of his lungs as Sonic loomed over him, boasting, “Lesson two, surpass the master.”

Shadow sprung to his feet. Meanwhile Sonic revved up into a concussive ball, billowing dust, and charged forward to knock over his contender like a bowling pin. But Shadow performed a handless frontflip like a gold-medal gymnast, easily dodging it.

“Chaos Spear!”

Upon hearing Shadow’s battle cry, Sonic serpentined throughout the clearing to avoid numerous bolts of energy the agent’s palms emitted. But no matter how quickly Shadow fired, Sonic managed to evade every shot by a hair.

At one point the blue blur skidded to a halt, and suddenly a glowing spear jutted out of a tree right before his face.

Sonic let out a nervous chuckle, grateful to still have a nose. “Someone’s getting antsy.”

He ducked in the nick of time to avoid a jet-boosted roundhouse kick to the head. Sonic then swept his leg to trip his assailant, but to no avail as Shadow leapt high into the air, backlit by the witnessing moon, before clasping his hands together to pummel Sonic into the ground.

CRUUUSH!

The hero narrowly somersaulted clear, shaking dirt from his quills. When he looked up to see the crater Shadow formed with his fists, his stomach churned. “Whoa, Shads, take it easy!”

Tired of this dance, the lifeform was tempted to execute a Chaos Blast right then and there, but instead he sneered, “Not until I get what I want.”

He dashed forward. His parallel instinctively did the same. However, a vine caught Sonic’s toe, hurtling him straight into Shadow. The hedgehogs were a mass of flailing punches and kicks, their limbs a blur as their tangled bodies rolled in the grass like a prickly tumbleweed.

Their careening stopped dead in its tracks as Shadow straddled Sonic, their panting faces inches apart, their arms wrestling for dominance with Shadow’s fists against Sonic’s palms.

Through grunts, Sonic tried to reason with him. “Okay, Shadow… hff… This was fun at first… hff… but now—” He cried out as his wrists bent at a dangerous angle.

“It was never a game, Sonic.” Using gravity to his advantage, Shadow pushed harder.

Pain shot through Sonic’s arms. “Shadow, stop!” he pleaded, his biceps nearly giving out. “It’s not what you think!”

Shadow snarled, his fangs gleaming like dual blades. “Don’t lie to me!”

Sonic’s muscles screamed. He didn’t remember his counterpart being this strong, didn’t understand where such passion was coming from. “Why are you so worked up?”

“I won’t let you destroy yourself!”

Shadow’s guttural cry echoed throughout the crisp air, followed by a chorus of flapping from retreating crows. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he almost wished Sonic would run away, too, as he shut his eyes tight to suppress his hot tears.

Witnessing such raw emotion made Sonic yield, letting Shadow pin his wrists to the dirt beside his spiky head. Though Sonic took shallow breaths, his peach torso still brushed against his rival’s ivory chest fur, soft and full, making his back spines prickle. “If it matters so much to you,” Sonic relented, “then you can take what’s in the basket.”

No sense of victory hailed Shadow as he sulked from revealing a shred of vulnerability. Instead a numbness washed over him like a waterfall. He crawled off the sapphire hedgehog, taking a few steps to retrieve what he thought was a performance-enhancing substance. But what he found was much more tame.

Perplexed, Shadow inspected a leafy stalk carefully. “These look like rose stems.”

As Sonic stood to brush grass off his quills, he could feel his face grow warm, resorting to sarcasm as a defense mechanism. “That’s because they are rose stems, genius.” He almost laughed. This was G.U.N.’s best agent?

It still didn’t add up. “Why were you hiding these from me?” When Sonic failed to answer, Shadow read his flustered face instead. “Are they intended for Amy?” Sonic shook his head. “Blaze?” Another shake. “Knuckles? You are aware he’s in love with a rock—”

“It’s you!” Sonic blurted, immediately slapping his palm over his mouth. He had to say something—he felt as if he were going to explode any second. But the regret was instant. He wanted to be cremated right then and there and have his ashes flung over the cliff into the depths of the sea below, dissolving into nothingness.

Shadow was taken aback but quickly composed himself, clearing his throat. “I see. Yellow roses?” he surmised, knowing that this flower hue symbolized a strong bond among friends.

“No,” Sonic replied, downcast. There was no point in lying anymore. “They’re a hybrid. Black for eternity and red for luh—! …Ove.”

That last word caught in his throat, so foreign on his tongue. Unconsciously he rambled, desperate for some sense of control again. “I thought that maybe once these bloomed, I’d have the courage to… ask you out.”

Shadow had difficulty masking his bewilderment. He opened his mouth as if to say something but failed to express a coherent thought, unable to recall the last time someone rendered him speechless.

Sonic rubbed the back of his neck, elaborating, “I know it’s stupid. Even though you get on my nerves, you also… get me, you know?” He reminisced over the moments they were forced to team up against a greater evil, racing side by side, occasionally stealing sidelong glances at each other.

Then images of the Finalhazard flashed in his mind, followed by the harrowing sight of Shadow plummeting to his supposed death. “When I thought I would never see you again, it made me realize I had taken you for granted.”

I should just stop talking, Sonic told himself. But his lips betrayed him. “Since then, I just couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

What are you doing? “I mean, look at your speed. Your strength. Everything about you screams danger.”

Shut. Up. “But instead of running away from you, why is my heart telling me—”

Shut up shut up shut up!

He growled, yelling over his thoughts, “—to run with you!?”

Sonic was practically on the verge of a cardiac arrest. His breath was short, his ears were numb. He felt as if an anchor pulled him by the pit of his chest to claim him as part of the earth’s core. He expected a witty comeback. A kick to the stomach. Anything! But what he got was worse. Shadow stared at Sonic as intently as a sniper through the lens of his scope. As pervasive as a bullet, what really killed Sonic was the silence.

Sonic shook his head to clear his mind. It was all so ridiculous, devoting so much time and effort and emotion to someone who couldn’t care less. “But it doesn’t matter.” He hastily gathered his belongings and began to head homeward. “Clearly you don’t feel the same way so let’s just move on and pretend none of this ever happened—”

“Wait.”

Sonic froze, feeling Shadow’s grip around the crook of his elbow. His heartbeat pounded so incessantly he thought his eardrums would burst. “Yeah?”

The crimson-eyed hedgehog averted his gaze, though Sonic thought he spotted a faint rosy tint across his tan muzzle. “It appears as though your sentiments mirror mine.”

Cogs slowly turned in Sonic’s mind, trying to process the confession. But then he laughed in denial. “Come on, Shads. You’re not serious.”

Shadow squeezed Sonic’s arm in affirmation, finally locking his ruby irises with his counterpart’s emeralds.

Fixated, Sonic read no hesitation, no amusement in that scorching gaze, straight as a gun barrel. That’s when he knew Shadow was indeed telling the truth.

It finally clicked. Then Sonic turned bright red, realizing just how close Shadow was standing, feeling his warm breath on his lips.

Shadow stroked Sonic’s cheek with the back of a curled finger, a touch that was extra gentle in case he miscalculated his own strength, before resting it under Sonic’s chin to slightly crane his neck. The agent found his blush quite endearing, and being its trigger was icing on the cake. They were in such close proximity that Shadow could breathe in his admirer’s scent, sweet as freshly cut grass. Shadow’s blood pumped so madly he thought Sonic could hear it. He briefly wondered if he would ever get used to the hero’s presence. Perhaps he would find out at a later date.

If so, it would be a date to die for.

With slowly lidding eyes, Shadow leaned in, parting his lips just as their muzzles were a quill’s breadth apart—

“Shadow, come in!” urged an electronic voice.

The hedgehogs jumped out of their trances. Shadow cursed under his breath, realizing the command came from his wrist communicator. He pressed a button as he spoke into it. “Yes, Rouge?”

“You’re supposed to report every hour so we know you’re safe while patrolling,” his bat coworker scolded.

Shadow grimaced. “I can take care of myself.”

“It’s just a precaution,” Rouge stated. “In any case, that cheery attitude of yours lets me know you’re fine. Bye~!” The call ended with a beep.

A forlorn sigh escaped Shadow’s lips, the moment officially tainted.

But with his ever-present smile, Sonic brushed off any disappointment he may have had. “You should get back to work.”

Shadow glared at the blue hedgehog, feigning annoyance. “This area is well within my jurisdiction, and I haven’t finished inspecting it,” he claimed, watching Sonic’s grin grow wider, so contagious he wore a hint of a smile himself. He then graciously took the shovel from Sonic’s grasp, walking toward the primed plot. “Come. I hate leaving a job unfinished.”

[secondhand-trash]

Ashido Mina(BNHA)- Spring Flowers

A/N: I know that this is way earlier than the time I’m supposed to post this but I will be in an examination hall at that time so I decided to post it now uwu this is the fic I wrote for @bakuismybitch for the @/bnhaclaimedmysoul spring time event^^ sorry that I haven’t been messaging you as much as I should and that this falls short comparing to my other stuff, I kinda overestimated my ability to balance life qwq

Description: you might not be able to go out to enjoy spring as you want to but Mina is determined to bring spring to you.

Word count: 1735

When quarantine was first announced, Mina had expected that she would be the one badly hit by all this. She was the energetic one in this duo, the one that couldn’t go a day without being around other people and the one who wants to go out. If one of you would go insane because of being trapped inside he confines of your house, she could almost bet on her last existing brain cells that it would be her.

And oh boy was she wrong.

At first, you seemed to be rather indifferent by all this. “It would be fine,” you had said when her hands flailed around while she whined about how long it would be until you could do all the things you liked to do again, “there are plenty of things we can do while being inside!” You were the one who would make her get up early in the morning despite no longer having a schedule because you read that maintaining your regular habits was good for the mind. There were pages of home workout videos and craft tutorials on the search history of you browser, she was still astonished that you managed to find so many different way to sew puppets out of old socks. You had took upon yourself to make something different for lunch every single day and she had to practically beg you to stop baking after having sourdough for a week consecutively because you wanted to test out all sorts of recipes and fresh bread doesn’t last long. So, which she would now scold herself for being so stupidly optimistic but didn’t know any better at that point, she was truly convinced that the only issue you would have is the eventually shortage of space to accommodate all your creations that spawned from your boredom.

She knew that something was wrong the moment she woke up one morning and saw that it was way past the time you would usually wake her up at. It was a gradual change, but the more she picked up on your wilting spirit the more concerned she was. Lunch started repeating, you nearly forgot to feed your starter one week until she asked about the little jar of dough in your fridge, you started breaking ramen into pieces and call it a snack. She could see you physically spiraling down and it was very worrying to witness. 

The breaking point when she realised that she had to step in and pull you back was when she walked out of the room one night and saw you wrapping yourself under a cocoon made out of blankets with a nutella jar in your hand, your eyes an empty void as you stared at the glowing television. No lights on, no anything, just the pale light from the screen shining on your face and making you look so souless. Mina’s eyes travelled back and forth between your still frame and the television. Why were you watching the weather channel at 1?

“...Are you ok?”

No response, you didn’t even move. Gingerly, she climbed onto the couch next to you and gave your shoulder a light poke. “(y/n)?"

Nothing, not even a budge. You jumped when she called for your name again, this time louder and with a bit of a squeak to her voice. Clumsily, clutching the jar that nearly dropped, you coughed in embarrassment. “Oh, mina,” you chuckled almost too stiffly that it sounded more like a huff, “you’re still awake?”

“Yeah...” she narrowed her eyes, “what are you doing?”

“Ah, you see,” you put down the jar of chocolate spread, pilling the blanket away from your body as you gave your nose a light scratch before continue, sounding almost way too matter-of-factly considering how eerie this all was, “I was thinking that since we can’t go out, maybe I’ll imagine what it is like everywhere else to make it remind myself of what spring looks like.”

All the little cogwheels that had been spinning and spinning in her mind finally clicked into place when she realised what all of this was about. Spring, yes, it was spring already. She didn’t even remember that it was already a good quarter into the year with how long she had been staying in but you sure did. You had always thrived during spring, something about the smell of grass in the humid air and the warmth that was seeping back from the winter cold always put you in a constant good mood. So the fact that this bit of joy was no longer available had put you in a slump that you were sinking deeper and deeper into made total sense.

“Guess I should go to bed now,” you said nonchalantly, as if you weren’t staring at a slow motion shot of a random place in the world like a zombie just mere seconds ago. You collected the half-finished jar of nutella and hoisted the blanket in your arms, looking at your very dazed girlfriend like she was the one who was doing something weird, “You coming?”

“Yeah,” Mina said as she scurried up, thinking of what she could possibly do to stop you from finding comfort in the weather channel, “yeah.”

You woke up to the sound of pots banging and cabinet doors slamming shut, a squeal mixing in between at times. Your foggy morning mind was telling you to go back to bed, that you did not have the energy to handle whatever it was that your girlfriend was up to. But just as you were about to flip onto your other side and take up the now spared up vacancy on your luring mattress, a sharp screech followed by a series of profanities made every hair at the back of your neck stood up. You sighed, no longer feeling even an ounce of sleepiness and rolled so you were facing the ceiling.

You needed to go check if she is alive, didn’t you?

Poking your head from the door, you could see Mina carefully pinching a piece of bread with the very tip of her thumb and index finger. She was almost flinging it into the pan before quickly retreating her hand as fast as she could. The sizzling echoed through the kitchen and you watched as she poked the bread with the spatula with caution.

“Mina?” You tilted your head when she snapped her head up, yellow eyes widening when she saw your confused face, “What are you doing?”

She didn’t say anything so you looked past her shoulders to look at what’s in the frying pan. If anything, your confusion had only grown. The bread was soggy, the edges browning and sticking to the bottom of the pan. There were clear stains of what was put in there before left around the bottom, some already starting to burn into black char.

“Mina what are you making?” You asked and your girlfriend scratched the back of her neck rather sheepishly.

“This was supposed to be a surprise,” she said, “I was gonna make you breakfast.”

“Aw that’s so sweet!” You cooed and then you finally connected the dots of what she was trying to do deconstructing the kitchen so early in the morning, “Is this... French toast?”

“Yeah!” She chirped, literally scratching at the pan to flip the frying toast and it made your heart ache at how it was likely that you were to say goodbye to that pan after this, “Is it not obvious?”

You blinked, not having the heart to tell her that you would have no clue if you simply stare at the pile of burned bread that was placed on a plate. “Did you add any butter to the pan?” You asked, referring to the burn that stuck to the pan.

“...you need to do that?”

You chuckled, “Do you need help?”

“What? No!” She flailed her hands in the air as she tried to push you out of the kitchen, “Just chill around and wait for the food! This is about you, I don’t want you to even lift a finger!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” She exclaimed, shooing you out of the kitchen, “It’ll be done in a few.”

“Ok,” you said rather skeptically, “just... call for me if you need anything.”

It didn’t take long for you to hear another groan from the kitchen and for Mina to weakly beckon you for help. You laughed, knowing exactly that this was bound to happen.

With a good square of butter in the pan and some relentless scraping later, you had the plates of toast on the table with a generous amount of syrup on top. You eyed Mina curiously when she didn’t sit down, running around the house and grabbing the computer in her hand.

“Mina what are you doing now?” You said, almost not sure if you find this amusing or confusing.

“You see,” she said as she turned on the computer, “I know that you like spring and you’re sad that we don’t get to experience the season, so I decided to do something fun and have a picnic indoors!”

You snorted when she pulled up a picture of the lily fields at a nearby park and placed it right by the table. A gif of butterflies on her phone which she carefully steadied with a mug. “You know how those youtubers like to use have a fake fireplace in their backdrop?” She said, seemingly pleased with her little set up, “I figured we can do the exact same thing but with flowers.”

This whole thing was a bit funny, if you were being honest but warmth bubbled up inside of you at the thought of Mina going out of her way just to make things a little bit more enjoyable for you. You laughed when she lined up your sock muppets and arranged them in a circle, going as far as to putting an empty cup in front of them.

“What is a picnic without friends?” She winked as she poured out a glass of orange juice for you. Raising her glass, you grinned at how hard she was trying to put on her serious face. 

“Cheers to spring?”

You smiled. The glowing screen might not even come close to the real thing, but you still felt the fresh giddiness that the spring flowers would always bring you.

“Cheers to spring.”

[liron-ao3]

Read it on AO3

Dreams of water and sand

A post-canon Destiel oneshot

Dean watches out over the lake. He isn't even sure if it holds any fishes that might bite, but sitting here on the wooden boardwalk, a fishing rod lazily in his hand, just like in his dream all those years ago, he doesn't care. It's not his purpose today, whatever meaning this word might hold in heaven.

Time is strange here. It's running fast, but everything seems to be slowed down at the same time. Maybe that's just what eternity feels like.

Dean wonders how it must have been for Castiel to be pulled out of his millennia, from humanity nonetheless, a blink of an eye for a celestial being like him.

Dean bites his lip. He never really understood him back then, not even as little as he did at the end. He called him for bullshit reasons, always complaining that the angel didn't make him his priority.

He still cringes thinking about it. Castiel's people were fighting for their existence and he just ...

There is no use in self-deprecation after all this time. No use in deconstructing himself over things he can never make right again. This wasn't the last time that he didn't listen, that he didn’t ask for Castiel's motives, didn't tell him that he needed him as more as a tool to whatever mission Dean was set on.

Sure, he called him family, even brother. But it was all a lie. At least if you count omission as lying. He should have said something before the Empty took him. He should have said something when he found him in purgatory.

There are many, many regrets that Dean collected in his too short, yet eventful life. But when he was dying and all the words he needed Sammy to hear before he was gone were said, in his last second there was nothing worse than that he didn't say it back. That Cass had died never hearing these words from him. Not even disguised as brotherly love.

"I'm so sorry, Dean. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be," Castiel says, suddenly standing next to him.

Dean doesn't even flinch. He waited for him here, prayed for him to come. A small part of him doubted that he would.

He watches the angel from the corner of his eye. His tie is crooked as always, his trademark trenchcoat pushed back just like the suit jacket as Castiel has his hands in the pockets of his pants.

A light breeze works through his messy hair. Dean wants to know what it feels like to run his hand through it, wants to see the smile that he imagines to elicit by it.

"I always knew that I would go out swinging, Cass," Dean tries to comfort him and isn't that the strangest thing? Shouldn't the angel be happy that he is here, in the heaven he specifically built for him?

"No," Castiel insists, voice even and sure, "you should have lived a long, happy life, should have had a house with a garden and a swing, a beautiful wife, and green-eyed kids that smile like you do."

Dean turns his head to look at him properly, the confusion forging deep lines into his features. "Do you really think that's what I was dreaming of?"

Castiel still looks out at the lake, hands clearly fists in his trouser pockets.

"What were you dreaming of?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper above the soft wind blowing waves over the water surface.

Dean chuckles. He knows it's silly, but he owes Castiel the truth. After all these years of not being open, of omitting and fogging the truth, of keeping him in the dark, he deserves to know.

"This. I dreamt of this. You and me, sitting on this boardwalk. Me holding the rod in one hand and your hand in the other. You with one of those silly fishing hats. Just sharing the peaceful surroundings and nature's sounds."

He stops talking for a moment, waiting for the angel to fill the silence. Dean turns his face up and to the side, studying the lines scattered around the angel's eyes, the straight line of the bridge of his nose, his eyelashes so beautiful in the afternoon-ish sun. He wants to brush his thumb over the everlasting scruff on Castiel's jaw, wants to kiss these chapped lips until they are wet and glissening.

He needs to look away again. It's too much. He had never allowed himself to look at him this closely and now all the details that make Castiel his Cass are overwhelming.

But maybe it's too late. Maybe now back in full grace Castiel doesn't feel for him what he felt back on earth, slowly turning more human, losing his essence to become a smaller version that was just content in being useful to the Winchester's.

A sudden pain works its way to Dean's heart, clenches it harder than death's hold on it on that fateful day.

I love you, Castiel had said then and every bit of solid ground inside of Dean had crumbled away. Truths that he held as his own for decades. That he wasn't good enough, not worthy of unconditional love, only useful in the roles he assigned to himself or let others assign to him: son, brother, friend, the ladies' man, Michael's sword, father.

All that fell away and in the ashes that remained, for the long minutes that he sat on the cold floor after Castiel was gone, there was only one role left, one he couldn't ever allow himself to carry out of the bunker: Dean, the man who was loved by an angel and worthy of being loved. It was tangible and yet fleeting.

How could he hold on to this role that he just received? How could he build on it when the person who assigned it to him wasn't there anymore to fill it, to reinforce it, push it into his stubborn head and doubtful heart until he would finally believe?

Yes, Dean had denied the role that Chuck had assigned to him, rejected it still under the influence of Castiel's words. But he didn't truly believe them. Not yet. Maybe one day he would have, if he had stayed alive long enough.

But now he is here and the old fear of not being good enough for a literal angel is back in full swing.

There'll be peace when you are done. Dean wants to call bullshit on the line, but then he realises that it's just his old pattern of dealing with things: assuming - not asking, pushing his feelings down - not making himself vulnerable.

"What about you, Cass? What were you dreaming of?"

He dares to look at the angel and the small smile he sees playing on his lips is so worth the swarm of butterflies that nearly make him dizzy.

"You, Sam, Eileen, Jack, and I on the beach, our feet in hot sand, the waves clashing against the shore in a neverending dance. Me putting sunscreen on your face and you complaining about it. Cold beer in a cooler, your head in my ...," he trails off.

Dean smiles. "My head in your lap, the cowboy hat on your messy hair, salt on our skin from taking a swim."

Castiel moves his head in one smooth motion and fixes his eyes on Dean's for the first time. "That would have been nice," he murmurs.

Dean nods lightly. "We could still have this," Dean whispers, "if you wanted to that is."

Castiel's face lights up and damn it, Dean is flashed by the beauty of it, pulled under in a current of light and love.

He swallows hard, not trusting his legs to carry his non-existent weight. He's still not used to being like this either, so he doesn't trust himself to not fall into the lake while trying to take this step.

So he reaches out and takes Castiel's hand instead, pulling softly until the angel understands.

Cass kneels down next to him and Dean can finally touch. All those places he wasn't allowed to. No, scratch that. That he didn’t allow himself to touch. They are there, right in front of him. So he brushes his thumb over Castiel's stubble with his free hand, runs it over his lips and the bow of his cheekbone, sighs contently when Cass leans into his hand and closes his beautiful eyes, relishing in the moment.

This. This is so much more real than anything Dean shared with anyone in the physical world. This is real. This is good. Dean Winchester is finally home.

[welcometophu]

Harvest 4

Twinned Book 1: Commit to the Kick

Harvest 4

[ Previous | First | Next ]

Alaric is already far from the house when he shifts back into human form and digs out his phone.

Going out for a run. Avoiding my father.

He sends the text to Chris and leans his elbows on his knees while waiting for a response.

Okay. I’ve actually started writing. Keeping writing is good.

Alaric snorts softly. He’s seen Chris start writing three times already, and each time after a half hour, Chris has deleted the file and gone back to his research. Maybe this time will be the right start.

He shifts back into the hound and raises his nose, catching scents on the air. The fading scent of apples has him loping toward the orchard, weaving through the trees with his nose to the ground. It’s too late in the season for the apples to be good—there’s already been a hard frost, and the remaining apples were turned to cider weeks ago. But it’s a comfortable place to explore, catching the scent of his extended family and the rest of the community.

The orchard is always a popular place in the fall, as the Clan gathers apples for food and preservation. Alaric remembers shimmying up the trees to shake the apples from the highest branches, so that Corbin and Drea could collect them.

He pauses, catching their scents, entwined together and bright as if they passed recently. Nostrils flare and he follows the scent, intent on the path until he stumbles over them.

Entwined, yes.

Lying on the ground together, tangled and hip to hip, mouth to mouth. Soft sounds that only register after Alaric’s stepped on Corbin’s foot, in the split second before Corbin jerks upright.

“Fuck!”

Alaric takes several steps back, lowers his body to the ground, tail drooping.

Drea sits up more slowly, combing leaves from her hair and tugging her shirt back to her waist. “Ric? What are you doing out here? If Mom wants us to come in, you could’ve texted.”

Corbin is flushed, his heart hammering, scent a confused melange of arousal and fear. “Ric, I… we….” He trails off, and Alaric shifts back to human, because he gets the feeling he’s supposed to say something.

He kneels there, silent. Cold seeps through his jeans from the damp ground, chilling his knees.

“Ric?” Drea says, and there’s worry in her scent now. She rolls into a crouch, one hand out.

“I’m not a wild animal you have to tame,” Alaric growls.

“Yeah, well, you might be giving off the wild animal vibe right now,” Corbin says quickly. “Complete with growl. Should I be worried you’re going to tear my throat out?”

“Were you hiding this from me?” Alaric knows the answer as soon as he asks it, knows he shouldn’t have even bothered. Warmth rises under Corbin’s skin, and Drea ducks her head, won’t look him in the eye. “Why?”

“We didn’t want to hurt you,” Drea says softly. “You and Corbin—”

Alaric shakes his head. “I love you both. You’re my best friends. It’s not like….” He trails off, because he doesn’t have the words for it. “I’m not angry.” He means the words to be truth, and isn’t sure why they taste like a lie on his tongue.

Drea kneels in front of him, reaches out until he leans forward, lets her hug him. She presses her cheek to his, and he turns to take her scent on his skin before he pulls away.

“It’s good,” he says, and pushes to his feet. “We’re good. I’m not going to tear anyone’s throat out.” When he grins at Corbin, there’s a puff of smoke from his nostrils. “I don’t need to. If it comes to that, Drea can defend herself. Don’t fuck up.”

He doesn’t know what he’d do if they couldn’t stand each other after this. He holds up his hands—Corbin’s his right, and Drea his left—then lowers them slowly, as if maybe they’ll understand what this really means to him.

Corbin comes to his feet, and Alaric shakes his head before Corbin can approach. “Not now,” Alaric says. He lets wings carry him skyward, spots Corbin flying close behind. Alaric wheels tightly in the air, diving back to the ground, daring Corbin to follow.

By the time Alaric levels out, Corbin is gone. Alaric takes another lazy turn, spots Corbin on the ground below with Drea.

He lets the air carry him back to the house. He taps on the window of his room with one claw; it takes three tries before Chris looks up from his laptop and blinks. Alaric taps again, and Chris finally rises and opens the window.

Alaric resolves into human form before his feet touch the ground. He frowns as he looks at Chris, opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Sorry to interrupt your writing,” he finally says.

“It’s fine. I don’t know why I expected you to come back through the door instead of the window.” Chris rubs his eyes, glances at his watch. “I probably needed a break. It’s been a few hours. Were you just out flying? You’re probably starving.”

“Started out running. Just following….” Alaric shrugs, because it’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t live by instinct and nose. “Found Corbin and Drea.”

“I’m surprised you’re not still out there with—” Chris cuts off abruptly, frowning. “Alaric?”

“They were together.” It’s not a big deal, and it’s not something he needs to worry about. Or worry at, picking at the thought and feeling like it’s a scab on his skin. “It doesn’t matter. It’s okay.”

“You don’t sound okay.”

Alaric tries to taste the words again, and this time they taste more like truth. “No. ’t’s okay. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

He pushes through the door to his room, not sure where he’s going until he stands in the hall. He can smell the stay away scent from several doors down, knows that this is the one place his father doesn’t want him to go. Alaric strides down the hall, passing Drea’s room, and stops at the door to the room that belonged to Orson. He pushes it open, shrinking back from the wave of scent that pours out. He tilts his head before he thinks better of it, baring his neck to his father even without him there.

“Ric?”

“It’s okay,” he says again, lowering his chin and standing resolutely in the doorway. “My father marked this room to make sure we didn’t go in.”

Chris crowds close behind him, and Alaric inhales that scent instead, familiar and strong, letting it wash away the inherent order in the marking.

“Did your father seriously piss on this room to keep you out?” Chris asks, breath warm against Alaric’s ear.

Alaric huffs a laugh. “Not exactly. I think. He wouldn’t have harmed anything important.”

Chris moves behind him, and Alaric hears the sound of his phone waking up. “So, are we going in?”

Alaric takes a slow step over the threshold, body stiff and wary in the face of the strong scent. Once he clears the doorway, he can breathe more easily, and he takes a moment to steady himself and take stock of what’s been brought back.

“Hey,” Chris says quietly, and when Alaric turns, he realizes that Chris is aiming the camera at the room, then at Alaric himself.

“Hi, Ric,” Thorne calls out. “You’ve got both of us here. Chris thought that if there’s anything in those boxes, we might be able to help out.”

“And I figured you’d rather have Rory on the phone than Pawel,” Chris says quietly, and Alaric can hear Rory’s low laugh on the other side of the call.

“Yeah, then let’s start opening boxes.”

The boxes are labeled neatly, as if someone had been planning for a move. Bedroom 1. Bedroom 2. Kitchen. Living room. It’s as if they somehow have the dregs of the entire apartment here, whatever might have been deemed important by someone collecting evidence, without any of the furniture.

Alaric starts by pulling the tape off the living room box. Half burned candles, and a bag filled with a bowl and herbs that make Alaric sneeze. He holds them up to the camera, and after a moment, both Rory and Thorne chorus, “Sage and thyme.”

“There’s something else in there,” Alaric says. “You might not see it, but I can smell it, and it doesn’t smell like dinner.”

“Bring it back with you,” Rory tells him. “We’ll take a closer look then.”

Chris hands the phone to Alaric. “We’ll do better if we go through two boxes at a time. I’ll start on one of the bedroom boxes.”

“Do you know what you’re looking for?”

Chris raises both eyebrows. “Nope. Do you?”

He has a point. Alaric just points at the boxes, and Chris pulls the tape off and digs in.

It’s a lot of little personal things. A bookmark that’s a scrap of paper in handwriting that Alaric doesn’t recognize. A to-do list in a flourished scrawl, interspersed with Orson’s writing, and for a moment Alaric’s heart arches. He smells Orson on the books he pulls out, and on one particular throw pillow. He stands there, holding it to his chest for a long moment, inhaling the scent.

“Alaric.” Chris is holding up a composition book. “Your brother kept a journal.”

Alaric reluctantly sets the pillow down on Orson’s bed and sits down next to Chris as he points the phone at the book. Chris opens the book, and Thorne lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Is that your brother’s handwriting?” Thorne asks.

Alaric runs his fingers lightly over the ridges the pen made in the paper. “Yeah. Most of it is. Some of these notes in the margins aren’t, but it’s the same handwriting from most of the other notes from the living room. Probably his roommate.”

“Those are rituals.” Rory’s voice is cautious. “I mean, that page is a discussion of ritual. A deconstruction, like you’d probably do in Pawel’s class. Did Orson major in Magical Studies?”

Alaric shakes his head, the motion slowing. “I don’t think so. He was an engineer.”

“He could’ve gotten a minor and not said anything about it,” Thorne suggests gently. Chris nudges Alaric’s shoulder, and Alaric leans into him, stares at the book rather than the phone.

He can see what Rory’s saying; as he skims through the words he sees things that sound like they could be magical ritual. But more like information about it. Almost as if Orson and his roommate were holding a conversation on the page about how Clan could mix with Mage Talent in ritual. It twists into a tight knot in Alaric’s gut, and he closes the book.

“We should probably take a closer look at that.”

Alaric grunts. He can’t deny that Thorne’s right. But the idea of reading it himself makes him feel vaguely sick. “I’ll bring it back.”

His nostrils flare, a sudden bright flash of anger in the air. Footsteps land harshly in the hall outside; Alaric stands as the door bursts open, moves in front of Chris.

“Get out,” Theobald growls deeply, the sound reverberating in the room. It burrows under Alaric’s skin, and he takes a step back, stopping when he bumps into Chris’s knee. “This room is closed.”

“Because you don’t want the truth.” Alaric drops the phone into Chris’s lap, behind his back where Theobald can’t see. He hopes Chris has the sense to end the call before Theobald catches the small sounds of Rory and Thorne breathing. He keeps talking, trying to cover. “Because you don’t want to know the real reason why Orson died.”

“I already know!” Theobald pushes into the room, gets in Alaric’s face, pushes at his shoulder. “I know that it was a Mage that brought this on my son. The same way they are trying to twist your mind, trying to turn you into something other than Clan. And we will have retribution for Orson’s death. For the loss of my son and heir.”

Alaric barks out a sharp laugh. “You still have a son, and an heir.”

Silence, anger growing in the air around them, thick in Theobald’s scent.

“We will have our retribution,” Theobald growls, low and dark. “Before they take you as well.”

Alaric huffs and smoke swirls around them. He feels the tension in Chris’s knees where they press against Alaric’s legs, the small jerk of motion backwards. “No,” he growls, voice rumbling with another puff of smoke. “We aren’t going to war.”

“We’re going to war if I say we are,” Theobald counters. “And it is past time to make them understand—”

“Make who understand?” Alaric shouts. “Mages? All Mages? They aren’t all the same. They aren’t all one person, and neither are we. There are Clan who have communities where they live with Mages. Where they marry Mages. This isn’t even about magical ritual. I tried to tell you, it’s something different. That isn’t a symbol—”

Theobald roars, and Alaric stops abruptly, words dying in his mouth. He reaches for Chris, getting an arm around him as soon as he rises in clear statement of his protection for his friend. Theobald’s gaze narrows, and Alaric stares back at him.

“No,” Alaric says, tone falling flat. “I tried. I came back here for dinner today, but you want me to be something I’m not and you’re determined to destroy our community. You want to go to war, and there isn’t a war that needs to be made. I won’t do it. I won’t be blind to everything outside of this place. I can’t be. I’m angry about Orson’s death and I’m going to find out what happened. That’s what we need to do, not fight blindly because that’s what your father did, and his father before him. This isn’t Mages. We don’t know what it is, and I’m going to find out. And I refuse to go to war on your behalf.”

“If you walk out—”

“Don’t come back?” Alaric barks out laughter, short and sharp. There are steps in the hall, claws clicking on the floor, and his mother’s scent, bright and worried. “I thought I was all you had left, father. I’m either your heir or I’m not. You can’t have it both ways. But fine, I won’t come back until I know what happened.”

He pushes Chris ahead of himself, toward the door. Alaric keeps his body between Chris and Theobald, refusing to let Theobald threaten Chris. There’s a low growl in Theobald’s throat, but Alaric ignores it, just as he ignores his mother standing in the hall, and the gathered Clan around them in various shapes and sizes.

Chris heads toward Alaric’s room without needing direction, and Alaric follows close behind.

“Alaric.”

He almost stops at his mother’s soft voice. He pauses, rocks back before stepping forward again. “I’m sorry,” he replies quietly. “We won’t be at dinner tonight.”

“Be safe,” she murmurs. Alia makes no move to follow, and by the time Alaric reaches his room, he and Chris are alone.

Chris holds up the book. “I thought you’d want this.”

“Fuck.” Relief spirals through his chest in a bright, hot spike. Alaric takes the book, then yanks Chris close for a hard hug, holding on. It’s meant to thank him for rescuing the one thing that might help—for daring to smuggle it out in front of Theobald. But it feels more like taking comfort as he inhales Chris’s scent, presses his cheek against him and rubs for a moment as if Chris were Clan.

“I assume we’re leaving.” Chris’s voice is a rumble as they stand pressed close together. Chris’s hand moves across Alaric’s back, then lightly pats him. “Let me pack up my project, and we can be out of here in five minutes.”

Alaric’s phone chimes, and he steps back, chest aching as he shivers in the cold. He thumbs it open, stares at his sister’s text.

I’m sorry.

Air rushes out. I’m sorry, too, he types. Rumor travels fast?

I meant about—wait, did something happen?

Alaric stares down at Drea’s words, realizes she isn’t in the main house and has no idea. I’m leaving, sorry. Not you and Corbin. I can’t stay here with Theobald.

What did our father do now?

Chris lays his hand on Alaric’s shoulder, warm and heavy. “You just about ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Alaric types out one last reply. He won’t listen, and he won’t investigate to find out the truth. He says he’s going to war.

[ Previous | First | Next ]