#cringe tags for a tortured artist trying to make a living | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marshmallow-phd · 5 years ago

Text

Open Wounds

Genre: Boxing!AU

Pairing: Yixing x Reader

Summary: You practically lived at the fighter gym, taking your anger and frustration out on the punching bags as a form of personal torture. Because you also hated that place for taking away the person you loved most. But when a new trainee shows up, showing that he’s different from the boxers you’ve met in the past, your wall begins to crumble. But is history doomed to repeat itself?

Netflix Teaser

Part One I Part Two

The sound of skin hitting worn vinyl and the grunts and groans of grown men trying to beat each other up surrounded you. No matter how high you turned the volume up on your headphones, you couldn’t drown out the distractions. You hated this place. You shouldn’t be here. Over and over again, you told yourself to leave and never come back. When you were covered in sweat and your muscles were sore, crying out for relief, the first part was easy enough to do. It was that damn second step that was impossible.

“Now, what did that poor bag do to you?”

Taking one last swing at the punching bag, hard enough to put some momentum in its swing on the rusty chain, you turned around to face the only person who dared approach you while you were attacking the defenseless bag of sand and pulled out your headphones to hear better.

Han, the old man who owned the gym, smiled at you with wrinkled, sun-weathered eyes. He was still wearing those ugly Hawaiian shirts over baggy khaki shorts after all these years. But despite his appearance, he could still move around and jab like any of the middle-weight boxers around here. You’d known him for years - since you were a teenager – which meant he knew exactly what the punching bag had done to you.

Deciding you’d had enough for today, you started unstrapping the Velcro of your gloves, your hands breathing in relief at the release. “Hey, Han.”

“Tough day?” he guessed.

You sighed. “Tough week.” More like a tough life.

In all honesty, it probably wasn’t that rough. You had a roof over your head, heating in the winter, air conditioning in the summer, food, a bed, a job that you thrived in. Really there was only one dark cloud hovering in your otherwise ordinary sky. A blank spot in your life that could never be filled no matter where you searched for a substitute.

“I’m sure things will get better,” Han said encouragingly. “They always do.”

“No, they don’t.” There were too many examples in the history of the world to list of where things did not eventually get better.

Han huffed at you. “If you keep that up, I’ll ban you from my gym.”

You smirked. “You could never ban me, Han. You love me too much.”

He started to grumble out something along the lines of “watch me” but he couldn’t hold on to the façade and soon he was smiling at you. “Are you going to join us tonight for dinner? There’s a new recruit that joined a while back and you know the boys. They have to initiate. He’s very promising, could be the new lightweight champion. Reminds me of-” Han caught himself before he mentioned one of his old students. The one that brought you pain, the one that brought you here over and over again, never letting you go. Coughing to cover his slipup, he went on, “Well, anyway, I’m sure the boys would love it if you tagged along.”

“No, I think I’ll skip on it,” you said non-too-surprisingly. You never joined in, but that didn’t stop Han form offering, hoping one day you would change your mind, like how you used to. “Thank you, though. I’ll see you around.”

Han nodded, understanding completely. You kissed the old man on the cheek before gathering up your things and heading for the showers.

Once cleaned and refreshed, you weaved through the boxers and MMA fighters training for their next big fight before making it to the front entrance. As you pushed on the door to exit, someone called out for you.

“Hey, wait!”

Rolling your eyes, you turned around to what this person wanted. Most of the boys here knew to leave you alone. Only the ones who’d known you for years would stop and talk to you, but they knew better than to try to chat when you were trying to leave.

The man didn’t seem familiar at all as he jogged up to you, careful to avoid a weight that had rolled into his path.

“What?” you snapped. You’d been here too long and you needed to get out, not be chatted up by some brave newcomer who thought it’d be fun to hit on the only female within this testosterone factory.

The man bowed his head sheepishly, his cheeks taking on the slight hue of pink. In his outstretched hand was a worn red glove that had certainly seen better days. You snatched the glove out of his hand, not out of maliciousness, but out of a rush of relief. If you’d lost that glove….

“Thank you,” you said gratefully as you secured the glove back into its normal pocket. “Sorry about… being rude.”

He smiled at you. “It’s okay. Although, I thought exercising was supposed to make people happier?”

“Depends on the environment,” you countered. That was probably a lie. The chance of your body deciding on how much endorphins to release based on where you were exercising seemed slim. But maybe you would be a bit more cheerful if you worked out at one of the bigger chain gyms than this small training facility.

“Understandable,” he nodded, thinking that you were making a joke, based on the smile he was giving you. He held out his hand, “I’m Yixing, by the way.”

You looked down at his hand for a few seconds, not sure of what to do. Yes, you knew the social norm was to take his hand and introduce yourself as well, but you tried to avoid any interactions with the boxers that you weren’t already friends with before….

Sighing, you stuffed your hand in your pocket. “Nice to meet you, Yixing.”

And that was it. No handshake, no giving of your own name. You simply turned on your heels and left the gym, not looking back as you reached your bike, throwing one leg over the seat and slamming your helmet on before taking off down the road, putting as much distance between you and the gym as possible.

Yixing stood there, dumbfounded. Had he done or said something wrong?

“Don’t take that too much to heart,” Han sighed as he came up and clapped Yixing on the shoulder from behind. “Poor thing had it rough a few years back. Put a wall up after that. (y/n) only tolerates a few of the guys here and that’s more out of respect since she’s known them for so long.”

Yixing frowned, watching as you peeled out of the parking lot on an old motorcycle. “Did something bad happen to her?”

The distrust and the avoidance of physical contact coupled with her working out in a gym designed for fight training… the picture made Yixing’s stomach churn.

Han seemed to know where his thoughts were headed. “No, nothing like that. She just lost someone close to her.”

A strange relief washed over Yixing before the guilt set in. You’d still lost someone you cared about. How close the two of you must have been….

“Come on,” Han ordered as he slapped Yixing’s shoulder again. “You’ve got more jabs to throw before you can leave. Also, it’s your turn to clean the mats.”

Yixing cringed, but laughed nonetheless. “It’s always my turn to clean the mats.”

“That’s what you get for being the newbie, kid.”

Yixing shook his head. He knew all this work would pay off in the end. Every fighter had to pay their dues before stepping into the ring. And someday, he’d be the king.

You clutched the stencil steady as you carefully drew the brush over the slick surface of the gas tank. No air escaped your lungs while you kept yourself still, afraid that even the slightest breath could knock everything off course. The line needed to be perfect or else you’d have to start all over. And get lectured for wasting expensive paint.

As soon as the line was completed, you refilled your lungs with fresh air, sitting up and loosening up your shoulders.

“Nice work, kid,” Don commented as he inspected the paint job over your shoulder. “Line work’s getting better.”

“Thanks,” you smirked proudly. These days, it was the only thing that made you really happy. Putting a brush in your hand and letting the image in your head come to light on the polished metal for the world to see was the best job you could have ever asked for.

You weren’t sure exactly how you ended up in the garage. Art had always been a major part of your life and identity, with faint dreams of entering the institute for your degree. Your brother swore up and down that your works would be displayed in museums one day. Back then you’d laughed at him, called him crazy. And maybe he was.

Even now you still loved to paint and draw on canvas, creating your own worlds with a few simple ingredients. But those works stayed in your apartment, away from the public eye. The images you made on motorcycles and car hoods were the only ones allowed to be seen. You were more comfortable that way. This world of gears and grease was one you knew all too well, even if working here hadn’t been the plan. Being here made a little more sense than being the dressed up featured artist being adored by patrons with large checkbooks, anyway.

Well, the checkbook part sounded nice.

“I think I’m going to finish this one and head home,” you told Don. It was getting late and your hand was beginning to cramp.

“Sounds good,” Don nodded. “And you’re coming in late tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’m going to hit the gym first,” you said, turning around on your stool. You had skipped out on your personal torture yesterday and today, so it was time for a recharge. Plus, tomorrow was Han’s birthday. If you didn’t at least stop by and see him, you’d never hear the end of it.

“Alright, sounds good. Have a goodnight.”

You waved to Don as he walked away. “Good night.”

When you were alone again, you stretched out your hand and got back to the next set of lines to finish out the tank in peace.

The next morning you went about your normal routine, fixing that too-sugary cup of coffee and yanking on paint splattered clothes before throwing your gym back over your shoulder and heading out the door.

At the gym, Han was already there in his usual spot by the main ring a few hours early, leaning on the ropes from the floor while yelling out punches and jabs at the trainee who was up on the platform working with Jack. You didn’t want to be, but you were actually impressed by the speed of the trainee’s hands. They were nothing but blurs, following Han’s barking orders without hesitation. Mesmerized, you stood a little ways away, arms crossed over your chest as you watched the session.

Han noticed you after a few minutes and brought the training to a halt. “Alright, get some water you two. We’ll pick it back up in fifteen minutes or so.”

The trainee took off his protective gear, revealing his identity to be Yixing from the other day. He must be the one Han was gushing about. His next golden boy.

Pulling a thin rectangular present from your bag, you held it out to Han as you approached him. “Happy birthday, big guy.”

Han smiled broadly as he took the gift. “(y/n), if this is what I think it is, you’re going to make an old man cry.”

“That’s my goal in life,” you teased. To your relief, he didn’t open it right away. You hadn’t expected an audience to be around when you gave the present over. Things like this you preferred to be kept private. Usually, Han spent his mornings watching old fight reels, studying the different methods or just reliving his old glory days in the ring. If he was skipping out on that tradition to train this guy… he must really be something.

“So, how are you doing lately?” Han asked.

You shrugged. “I’m fine. Things are going good at shop. I’ve got a lot of projects going so there’s plenty to keep me occupied.”

“Good, good,” he nodded. “Are you still making time for your own work, though?”

You scoffed, pointing to the gift. “What do you think that is?”

“I know what it is,” Han grumbled. “But you also know what I mean. Your own work deserves attention, too.”

“Look, between here and the shop, home is where my hands get a rest.”

Han raised an eyebrow, no hint of playfulness in his eyes. “Then maybe I should ban you from my gym.”

Your jaw dropped. “Han, are you serious-”

“Is everything okay?”

You sent a death glare towards Yixing that he probably didn’t deserve. It was just instinct. Your connection was being threatened and that put you on edge.

“Everything’s fine,” Han chuckled, showing you that he wasn’t serious after all. You relaxed a bit, but now you really needed to hit something.

“I’m going to go change,” you mumbled. Swiping you gym bag back up from the floor, you headed for the locker room.

When you came back, Han and Jack were gone. The former had most likely retreated to his office to hide from your wrath. Jack probably had some errands to run during his short break and Yixing didn’t seem to be sticking around, leaving the gym mostly empty for you to go about your business. As you wrapped up your hands, however, you learned that you weren’t completely alone after all.

“Need a sparring partner?” Yixing offered, wiggling the punching pads at you when you looked up from your seat on the bench.

You shook your head. “I kind of want to be the one throwing the punches right now.” You weren’t here to just be his target.

“That’s what I meant,” he chuckled. He slipped the sparring equipment over his hands and walked back up to the ring, easily stepping up and through the ropes before stopping in the middle of the platform.

Fine. He wanted to be the punching bag, let him.

Sighing, you stood up to your feet and headed on over, ready for him.

“I won’t go easy on you,” he warned.

“If you did, I’d have to kick your butt,” you taunted. The giggle he let out took you off guard. Then the smile slipped away to make room for a hardened glare and he started barking orders at you in a tone that rivaled Han’s.

“Cross! Jab! Hook!”

Over and over again, he shouted out combinations almost too fast for you to keep up. Every few punches, he’d swing out on his own, making you duck. It didn’t take long for you to be covered in a sheet of sweat, breaths coming out short and raggedy as you fought to keep going. Too soon, though, your arms grew weak. You threw in a few more punches before stepping back, giving in.

“You’re good,” Yixing complimented. He unstrapped the gloves from his hands, tossing them down on the canvas out of the way. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

Well, that didn’t take long. You rolled your eyes. “Just because I work out at this gym doesn’t mean I want to date a boxer, okay?”

Yixing knitted his eyebrows, confused. “I wasn’t asking for a date. I’m hungry and I don’t like eating alone.”

That made you stop and reconsider. Because even though you did it every day, you, too, hated eating alone. It was too quiet. It gave you too much time in your head.

“Okay, then,” you nodded. “I’m going to go change real quick.”

“I’ll meet you at the door.”

You threw him a lazy thumbs up before jogging out of there. Even though your morning workout was cut short, you were slightly thankful for the change up in your routine. Besides, he seemed nice and – boxer or not – you could use a new friend.

Part of you worried if you were being more open to him because he reminded you of- no. They were very different. He didn’t giggle, among other things.

You didn’t bother to shower since you weren’t trying to impress anyone, just slipping back into your knotted up t-shirt and jeans before throwing your bomber on and heading out of the locker room.

Yixing was already at the front door, awaiting patiently for you. He’d somehow managed to change faster than you, now sporting skinny jeans and a matching black shirt. For a very, very brief moment, it’d thrown you off guard. You’d grown used to ignoring anyone in athletic gear, immune to what it was supposed to be showing off. But seeing the new fighter in streetwear was making your head spin. The hardened concentrated look was long gone, softening his features to be more open and inviting. Before you could fight it, the corners of your lips were turning up.

“Ready?” he asked. You nodded and followed him out the front door and to his car.

It was a short drive to the little breakfast dinner, only a few blocks away but you’d never noticed it before. Yixing seemed to be a frequent visitor given the friendly waves from both the wait staff and the cooks visible through the kitchen window.

The first few minutes were spent in silence while the two of you mulled over the menus provided at the table. After the waitress took your orders, you played with the pink sugar packet, flipping it back and forth to occupy your attention. You hadn’t been in a situation like this for a long time so you weren’t sure how to proceed.

“Have you been going to the gym for a long time?” Yixing asked, breaking the silence.

You nodded. “Yeah, since I was a teenager.”

“But you don’t train to fight?” he guessed.

“No, I don’t,” you half laughed. “Fighting was never my thing. That was-” you caught yourself just in time. “No, I would just go to hang out with friends who were more into the boxing thing. I liked the workout better than others, so it just stuck.”

“And you know Han pretty well.”

You snorted. That crazy old man had been a huge part of your life. He was there for you when you were alone and basically gave you a second home to run to. But you didn’t need to voice that out loud. “Yeah. He has a soft spot for me, I guess.”

Yixing smiled crookedly, revealing a dimple in his cheek that just softened his features even more. “He doesn’t seem to hand those out very easily.”

“No, it takes a lot of buttering up,” you agreed. “If you’re training under him and he sees potential in you, you’ll never get that treatment.”

“You seem to speak from experience,” he pointed out.

The waitress arrived then with the large plates of food. You immediately dug in, much hungrier than you realized. Plus, it gave you an excuse not to continue the conversation. The hot-off-the-grill meat tasted savory in your mouth and for a few minutes, you forgot that you were sitting across from someone.

“So, what do you do for a living if you’re not a boxer?” Yixing asked suddenly.

You swallowed the food in your mouth and washed it down with a few sips of water before replying, “I work in a customs shop. I do the detail painting and sketch ups.”

“So you’re an artist?” he dug, excitement flashing in his eyes.

“Uh, yeah, kind of.” Shyness, while not a typical character trait of yours, was making you shrink over your food. Being called an “artist” was making you feel awkward.

Putting his fork down, Yixing folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Did you do the work on your motorcycle?”

“Yeah, I did.” Your cheeks were heating up. What was going on? You never reacted like this.

“The line work is really incredible.” Sincerity – not flattery – was more than apparent in his tone. “I noticed it a few times while coming in, but I could never figure out who it belonged to until I saw you drive away on it a few days ago. You have real talent.”

Now you couldn’t even lift your own fork. “Thank you.”

“Did you paint something for Han?”

You cleared your throat, unsure of how to answer. A reply of simply “yes” should have been easy enough. But once buried memories bombarded your inner thoughts.

You’re amazing and someday they’ll put you in the Louvre.

I wish you would stop lying like that.

I’m not! You’ll be this world famous artist and I’ll be the Lightweight Champion across the globe. You can’t paint everywhere I go to fight. We’ll be the greatest team the world has ever seen.

Sure. If that happens, then I’ll paint myself green and dance in the gym.

Deal.

“(y/n)?”

You jumped, pulled from the fuzzy memory. “Sorry?”

“Is everything okay?” Yixing’s face was pinched with worry. Somehow you’d even missed the waitress dropping off the check. He was already signing off the receipt and putting his card away.

“Peachy,” you nodded. Changing the subject, you frowned, “You didn’t have to pay for my meal.”

He waved your protest away. “It’s not a problem. Maybe you can get the next one?”

You knew what he was doing, opening up the conversation of another meal together without outright asking. This wasn’t a date, he said it himself, but it appeared he might want to change that in the near future. And honestly, you weren’t as against it as you thought you might be. Even though he was bring up memories you’d locked away, you found his presence… soothing the hurt rather than multiplying it.

“Sure,” you smiled. “I’ll get the next one.”

Now he was the shy one as he ducked his head. “Good.” Composing himself once again, he stood up. “Let’s go. I have to get back to the gym or else Han will have me on double cleaning duty.”

“That would terrible,” you agreed with a laugh. You weren’t sure the last time you felt this relaxed with a person, this open. It was a scary feeling, but one you were more than willing to further explore.

Yxing watched you speed away on your bike, a smile stretch widely across his lips. You’d promised to have dinner with in a few days and he was on cloud nine. This time, he was able to declare it officially a date before you headed off to work.

Each step he took to head back inside the gym was light and cheery, practically skipping as he headed for Han’s office.

“I’m back,” Yixing announced as he stuck his head in, finding Han staring intently at the small TV he used for fight reviews.

“About time,” Han grumbled. He didn’t pause the TV or look away. “If you weren’t out with (y/n), I’d be making you do suicide runs until you threw up for skipping out on training.”

Surprised, Yixing came all the way inside the office. He’d fully expected to get the third degree, declaring to himself that the short meal with you was worth it. You’d intrigued him when he first saw you. No one was willing to explain who you were or why you came to the gym and left without interacting with anyone. Everyone else seemed to just know already, but refused to let him in on it. “Why do you say that?”

Finally pausing the TV, Han sighed. His eyes drifted over to a painting that was leaning up against the large window that gave him access to the open gym space. It was new, something Yixing hadn’t seen before. That must have been your present you’d given him earlier.

The colors were beautiful. Everything blended in with the fake light that gave it a touch of hyperrealism. A fighter’s robe made of shiny green silk laid across a short wooden stool in the corner of a boxing ring. With the folds of the robe, he couldn’t make out the name embroidered on the back, just bits and pieces of the silver letters.

“She’s a good kid,” Han sighed again. “Watched her grow up within these walls. She painted the murals in both of the locker rooms in high school. She was happier back then, livelier. If she wasn’t here with her friends, she was at home with her dad, helping him on his side business fixing up cars, making them beautiful again. She always needed to be creating something. Then she lost that spark.”

Thinking back to the diner, Yixing could see that clearly. You were fighting to hold back something when he complimented you on your work, like you were embarrassed and didn’t want to talk about it. Then your eyes lost focus because what he could only assume was a memory coming back to the surface. Treading carefully, he asked, “What happened?”

Han pointed to the fighter on the small screen. “Him. She lost him.”

Yixing’s eyes widen. Because he knew who that was. And the more he stared at the footage flickering on the TV, the more his heart sunk. Because he knew this fight.

He was there the night that fighter died.

#exo #exo boxer au #exo boxer!au #yixing x reader #zhang yixing #lay #exo scenarios #exo fanfiction #exo fanfic #exo series #exo imagines #exo lay

294 notes · View notes

mittensmorgul · 5 years ago

Text

So everyone around here should know by now that I find s6 really narratively shaky, and it clearly has its ups and downs. That murky middle section I cringe my way through every time, some dubious-at-best standalone eps. But it also has some of my absolute favorite episodes in the entire series. 6.11 is right there. 6.09 is the most delightful soulless!Sam episode and just delightful in general. 6.15 tops most people’s lists. And then the run I watched today-- 6.17 through 6.21.

I went back to the Hellatus Rewatch Notes I did over the summer, and wasn’t surprised to find just this one post with three short paragraphs:

https://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/186154895705/619-mommy-dearest-ouch-this-marks-the

and this tag: #i just couldn't face writing long wailing meta about the manipulation revealed in 6.20 today sorry

I’m not sure I’m in any better place to write that long wailing meta today, but I’m going to at least try. The narrative we’re seeing spin out over the first half of s15 deserves it. I think it’ll be easier if I talk about this whole chunk of episodes at once, though. S6 might be pretty slapdash as a whole, but this run of episodes in particular seems to all be working together to tell a coherent story, and to be setting up massive narrative paths that Dabb Era has chosen to walk back down from a different perspective. So rather than talk about each of these episodes, I’m gonna talk about what they mean, for the cosmology of the universe, Chuck’s role in all of this and how the parallels have been drawn back to this by his actions in s15, and Castiel’s position in all of it. Dean’s, too, but I’m even going to talk about that in relation to Castiel, because for better or worse, s6 had played the long con on Cas, and as far as we knew at the time, the Storyteller had won...

We’ve all discussed the disconnect between Dean and Cas in s15, but so much of that has fallen into debates over which one of them was right or wrong in their disagreement. I don’t think EITHER of them was right, OR wrong. They’ve just been coming at this fundamental question of Free Will from opposite sides, for the entire series.

For billions of years-- or according to 6.20 at least 400 million years or so if Cas was standing at a shoreline watching the first fish flop itself up on land-- Cas has been. S4 established his character, showed us his doubts in Heaven’s plans that led him from loyalty to rebellion, through torture and brainwashing to fighting free of that in the end. That established his journey into understanding free will and humanity, truly, in ways that he expressed in 6.20 that he desperately tried to share with other angels. Most of those other angels... never understood, never had a reason to understand. Like teaching poetry to fish. Even the angels loyal to Cas, or who didn’t want to follow Raphael in the wake of the failed apocalypse, never seemed to understand this.

S8 gave us some additional insight into Cas, through Naomi’s description of him as an angel that never followed orders, at least not completely. That he’d always had a rebellious streak, or perhaps just a spark of curiosity and interest in creation, and humanity specifically. He refused to participate in horrors inflicted on humanity in the name of Heaven and had been punished by it and programmed back into angelic compliance every time. But until Dean Winchester, he’d never truly rebelled. He’d never rejected Heaven entirely. And even then, that rejection didn’t happen until season twelve. He’d still been trying to maintain a loyalty to the other angels even through s9 when Metatron told him he may drape himself in the flag of Heaven, but he still did everything for one man. I don’t think that was a lie at that point, but I do believe it’s something Cas hadn’t actually admitted to himself until that point. And he wouldn’t admit it to another angel until 12.19, when he told Kelvin in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t acting on Heaven’s behalf, but to spare the Winchesters.

(yep, even then, after the mixtape, after all of that, Cas was still on about Sam and Dean... and even in 13.04 as he argues with the Empty for his freedom, he still frames it in terms of Sam and Dean... ironically the same thing that Dean has taken heat for when talking to Cas, always making it “you, me, and Sam” in 11.23 and the beer run scene and in 12.19... Cas is just as guilty of not being specific as Dean is, for different reasons, but to the same effect)

Back to s6 though. Cas did make his choices. He was adamant (on flashbacks from 6.20) that Dean was “retired,” that he wasn’t to be dragged back into their fight, even as he was desperate to ask Dean for his help. (again, I still blame Sam and his terrible promise he extracted from Dean in 5.22 for that one) Regardless, that choice led Cas down a cascading spiral of worse and worse choices in a desperate attempt to shield Sam and Dean from what I’ll call The Story. Except in doing so, he’d only kept digging the hole for himself deeper and deeper, not realizing that he hadn’t been set up to be the hero, but the villain.

This is the position Chuck seems to desperately want Sam and/or Dean to finally accept in s15:

Chuck: No, this is more, this is….. hope. That’s what’s stopping me. You, you still think that Dean and Cas are gonna fly through those doors just in the nick of time. You still think that you’re the hero of this story. You still think you can win.

And that’s exactly the taunt Metatron used on Cas in 9.18. And it’s exactly the taunt Crowley used on Cas in 6.20:

CROWLEY You kill my hunters. Why can't I kill yours? CASTIEL They're my friends. CROWLEY You can't have friends, not anymore. I mean, my God. You're losing it! CASTIEL I'm fine. CROWLEY Yeah. You're the very picture of mental health. Come on. You don't think I know what this is all about? CASTIEL Enlighten me. CROWLEY The big lie -- the Winchesters still buy it. The good Cas, the righteous Cas. And long as they still believe it, you get to believe it. Well, I got news for you, kitten. A whore is a whore is a whore.

and this is part of a much larger passage-- their entire conversation in Hell-- but the point boils down to this:

CROWLEY Granted. Yes. But just to show you how serious I am about this scheme...How about I float you a little loan? Say, 50 large? 50,000 souls from the pit. You can take them up to heaven. Make quite a showing. It's either this or the Apocalypse all over again. Everything you've worked for -- everything that Sam and Dean have worked for -- gone. You can save us, Castiel. God chose you to save us. And I think...Deep down...You know that.

YOU CAN SAVE EVERYONE, CASTIEL. Dean, Sam, Humanity, Earth-- even Heaven and, grudgingly, Hell too. And in doing so, prove God resurrected you for a PURPOSE. This was what Cas needed, what motivated him the entire year he resisted bowing to Raphael and obediently falling in line while the apocalypse started up again. He could have a purpose, a mission.

Cas had still been struggling with this in Dabb Era. His desperation to “get a win” in 12.19 stemmed directly from this absolute fall into hubris from s6, ending in the release of the Leviathan and Cas’s apparent death again in 7.02. He’s been trying to atone for that guilt ever since.

But in all of this, Cas has never really forgotten what it was to be an angel, what it meant to serve God and to serve Heaven. There was no free will. The few times he questioned his orders, he was punished, tortured, and reprogrammed back into line. He’s fully aware of all of this. For him, learning the extent of Chuck’s manipulation of the story is more a confirmation of his entire experience over billions of years, while that revelation absolutely shattered Dean. For Dean’s entire life-- the blink of an eye for an angel-- he’s believed in very little other than his own personal choices.

Essays have been written about Dean’s underclass upbringing, his life on the fringes of society as a drifter and a con artist, going from town to town under false identities and living a life in the shadows. And yet Dean has always believed that was of his own choice. That he wouldn’t have chosen to do anything else, that he would’ve been bored in a “normal life,” and proved that in season six when he leaves his last chance at a normal life behind with Lisa and Ben and throws himself entirely back into hunting. Because that’s the tragedy. That’s Chuck’s story for both Sam and Dean... they don’t get to be happy.

(this is why I don’t trust Eileen’s story with Sam, fwiw, because that was literally exactly the story Chuck intended her for, exactly the same as Lisa)

This was Sam’s story with Jess from the pilot episode. This was Dean’s story with Cassie, Sam’s story with Amelia... with Rowena... Every time they have a chance at a relationship, Chuck turned it into a tragedy.

But back to the point here...

Dean prized his free will above all else. He’s doubled down on that sentiment even in s15 talking to the girl he didn’t yet know was actually Lilith, confirming that he’d never want to live in a world where all his choices were made for him, or where the whole game he was playing was engineered specifically for him to lose. He’d always stood firm on the point that-- for better or worse-- all of his choices had truly been his own.

(again, why “I didn’t have another choice” is the worst thing any character can say on this show)

For Dean, Chuck’s revelation shattered him, possibly even more than Cas’s betrayal in 6.20 did. And for all he cares for Dean, for all he’s studied Dean and learned about humanity and free will from Dean over the last decade, Cas still can’t understand why, because it’s not the same identity-destroying revelation for him, as an angel who’d had to fight for every choice he’s ever made, as it was for Dean who based his entire worldview on the choices that made him who he is as a person.

And s15 is taking all of these themes from the run up to the end of s6, and turning them inside out.

What makes a hero?

What power do we have against “destiny?”

What power do we have against a seemingly unassailable enemy?

What morally or objectively wrong paths will we be led down before we discover it’s all a trap?

What chance do we have at real happiness, and what would that even look like?

What sacrifices are we willing to make to ensure that humanity overall will prevail against impossible odds?

What ~actually~ needs to be done to stop the eternal cycle of apocalyptic tragedy that Chuck has put them through from the start? (Raphael just wanted to reboot s5, Chuck has shown his hand that horrific tragedy is always his intended endgame, regardless of what form it takes)

Can we achieve a real victory without unleashing an even greater horror on the world for once? (s6 ended with Godstiel eating purgatory, s7 started with the Leviathans escaping into the world, and now Chuck is obsessed with Leviathans and monsters again in s15, while Jack is literally consuming angel hearts and supposedly attempting to gain enough power to kill God... but what will consuming that power make Jack into? He’s already “eaten” Michael, Cas has already stopped Belphegor from “eating Hell” and becoming a new evil god, but Rowena ended up becoming the vessel of Death that brought all those souls back to Hell, effectively neutralizing that particular threat at least for the time being... but this is definitely something I’m still mindful of as the season progresses)

All of these questions were crucial in s6, and throughout the entire series, but this was Cas’s character turning point, and it’s what he’s been fighting his way back from ever since. I can’t help but think that-- like with Belphegor in 15.03, like his choice to return to the Winchesters in 15.06, like his journey to Purgatory with Dean in 15.09-- he’ll be confronted with these specific choices again.

A few other points from these episodes that I think are interesting to keep in mind:

6.17 and the confrontation with Fate herself. If Chuck doesn’t get you, Fate will, or so it would seem. A lot of the themes of this one hit again in 13.19 Funeralia, with why we shouldn’t mess too much with the natural order. I just watched it a couple nights ago, so it’s incredibly fresh in my mind. I still think that episode is incredibly important to what Billie is meddling with in s15, in ways that haven’t entirely been revealed yet.

6.18, and more time travel done right. But also, the Major Sign we all should’ve been more focused on in what Rachel revealed, and what the Winchesters accidentally tipped her off to about Cas. She implied that the Winchesters were becoming a massive drain on Cas’s attention and time in Heaven, when we know the Winchesters had hardly seen Cas all season. When Rachel investigated what Cas was actually up to, she discovered the truth of what he was up to with Crowley, and he was forced to kill her for it. What he wouldn’t do to protect his tenuous shield around the Winchesters? It’s taken them until s15 for them all to finally get on the same page.

6.19, and the pure pain.

6.20, oh right, THIS is the pure pain.

CASTIEL I'm doing this for you, Dean. I'm doing this because of you. DEAN Because of me. Yeah. You got to be kidding me. CASTIEL You're the one who taught me that freedom and free will -- DEAN You're a freakin' child, you know that? Just because you can do what you want doesn't mean that you get to do whatever you want! CASTIEL I know what I'm doing, Dean. DEAN I'm not gonna logic you, okay? I'm saying don't...Just 'cause. I'm asking you not to. That's it. CASTIEL I don't understand.

I think he understands now. Or at least he’s miles closer to understanding.

6.21, okay let’s just take everything from Dean and complete Cas’s fall into the role of Big Bad.

I know I had a point in mind when I started writing this, but I’ve written myself out again :’D

#spn 6.17 #spn 6.18 #spn 6.19 #spn 6.20 #spn 6.21 #s15 meta rewatch #spiders georg of the tnt loop #chuck's process #spn 15.03 #spn 15.09 #castiel winchester #you learned it from the goats #oh DEAN

24 notes · View notes

amoristt · 7 years ago

Text

Among the Inbetweens | Nathan x Reader

disclaimer: i know nathan is not a good person. i am not putting a blanket over his actions in this fic. i, the writer, understand he’s not an innocent character and has made many terrible choices. im just answering people’s requests, please dont put me under the fire for it.

thank you.

moody-patootie asked: I would please like to request a nathan x reader songfic with the song Findlay by Landon Tewers (angsty perhaps?). If it is possible and interests you of course. I think it fits rather well with nathan since he was so unloved. sure thing!! i love song requests so much :3 also thanks for recommending me this song, i love it and i now have a new artist to look into :D in this fic i really wanted to explore the ‘bad parts’ of being in a relationship with nathan prescott, namely his breakdowns. in my fics i mostly portray him in his better, more loving lights, so when you suggest angst i realized now would be a perfect time to show his sides that are harder to deal with. thanks for giving me the opportunity <3 hope you like it!

reblogs + tags and replies will make my entire day as i put a lot of effort into this :)!

story continues beneath the read more. let me know if you can’t access it!

Among the Inbetweens

Upon the very instant you walking into his room, unaware of what you were about to throw yourself into, you realized you really should have called Nathan before just barging in.

The tenacity in the air was almost palpable and it set off alarms that rang in your head like bells, warning you of the situation you were about to have to deal with. Nathan, sitting at his desk with his back faced to you, his shoulders squared and his head ducked down to his shoulders. He was angry.

“Nathan?”

He lifted his head, turned and he glared at you from the corners of his eyes. You felt your stomach drop.

Not mad. Pissed.

“What.” He deadpanned, his voice a rumbling hiss, and you debated just turning around and leaving right then and there.

You swallowed and shut his door behind you, shuffling into the room but staying close to the wall. “What’s wrong?”

The course, airy laugh he forced out made you cringe.

“Same shit every fucking day,” He laughed viciously. “Day in, day out.”

“What happened?”

In an impulsive, fury induced movement, he shoved all the papers off his desk and turned his swivel chair to face you. You jumped at the movement, taking note of his aggression only increasing. His features were stone cold, eyes narrowed and chilling. His phone was gripped almost devastatingly tight in his right hand. This was bad. Very bad.

“What happened?” He asked as though you were dumb. You frowned.

“Yes, what happened?”

He suddenly stood, sending his chair back and hitting his desk, shaking it and tipping over the small jar of pencils he had sitting on top of it. They spilled and rolled over the edge, clattering on the floor.

“What do you think happened?”

Try as you might to not take his words personally, you still knit your brows at his crudeness. He’s just mad, you told yourself. He’s so fucking mad but it’s not at you.

“I’m so fucking-” he gripped his hair and stumbling back. “Sick of it, everything- I don’t even fucking live with them and they still- Ugh!” He kicked some of the pencils that laid near his feet. “I hate it!”

Of course you knew the minute you saw his anger it likely had something to do with his family, but this wasn’t just his normal agressions. He was blind right now, not thinking clearly as he sent another pencil skittering over the floor. You remained silent, unsure of way to say, and you guessed maybe it was best you didn’t say anything at all. Right now was not the time to console him.

A storm was coming and you could see it in his eyes, his stature.

“They don’t care!” He snarled, and you realized he was more venting out his anger to himself rather than saying it directly to you. A pit formed in the center of your stomach as you realized what was to come any second now. He turned his back on you, body trembling with fiery rage. For just a second he looked down at the phone still in his hand, then he store his gaze away, and the next thing that happened you almost didn’t register.

The phone came less than a foot from your head, clashing against the wall with what sounded like a fatal crack. It happened so fast, you’d barely even seen him whip his arm to launch the device, and you flinched seconds after it smashed into pieces. The pieces gathered in a pile on the floor, the phone now absolutely destroyed and covered with it’s own screens shards. The wall sported an inch long hole.

Nathan did not come out of his rage even after you cried out sharply, jerking away from your spot and swearing you had felt some of the glass fling against your arms. If anything he seemed even more tense and furious than before, his bony hands balling and un-balling dangerously. He wanted to swing at something, break something, hurt something and even though he’d never once gone so far as you injure you this time you wondered if it would be a first. There wasn’t one clear thing in his mind right now, it probably all felt like a mush, or maybe static. He wasn’t even close to being in his right mind. Maybe tonight was his breaking point.

With him standing menacingly in the center of the room you made your way along the wall, finding his bed and soundlessly settling yourself on top of it. You tried to make yourself smaller upon it, your legs tucking themselves to your chest. Knowing him and his triggers, you did not look directly at him. Instead you watched from the corners of your eyes, head turned incase he looked up at you so you could quickly turn away and pretend to not see the hate in his eyes.

“Bullshit,” he seethed, and hissing ferocity made you shiver. “It’s all fucking bullshit.”

You wanted to talk to him. You wanted to tell him it was okay to be upset, to be hurt, to hate, but you couldn’t. Surely if you dared to speak up to him directly right now he’d yell at you, and then you’d end feeling hurt and that wouldn’t help anyone. Right now Nathan needed silence. He needed space and solitude. He could get none of these things.

So much was gathering up inside of him, like a pit of snakes or something far worse. They coiled and writhed inside of him, made their way up to his heart and choked the life out whatever was left of it, and he was left facing the consequence of having your entire chest busted and tied. Without an outlet all of it manifested at the very base of his throat, behind his eyes, in the palms of his shaking fists that would do anything for a face to target. You’d never seen him this way, with such a spark that made you feel like everything around you was suddenly so flammable, you included. You stared at him like you imaged a rabbit would stare at a fox: terrified and frozen with apprehensive tension. At any moment you felt like he’d lunge at you, but he didn’t, and it only made the trepidation grow within you until you almost imaged him making his move.

Only, it wasn’t your imagination.

He did make his move, but you were not the paper he lit on fire. Instead it was he himself, his fingers tracing their way down his face, nails biting into his pale skin and dragging along the way. A sharp painful cry left his lips but you felt as though the agony wasn’t from the physical wounds he was dealing onto himself. When he was done with his first path he did it again, harder this time, eyes squeezed shut and his mouth a tight grimace. Without even thinking you sprang into action and made a move for his hands, gripping tight to his skinny wrists and all too easily prying them from his marked up face. At the sudden contact he tried to yank away but you held fast, tugging him with you as you took a step back to try and keep himself from trying again.

“Stop!” You begged, heart leaping and your breath billowing in your throat. He was still trying to rip away from you, stumbling backwards and jerking back his elbows. When he looked up at you, you did not recognize even a single part of those eyes. He was more akin to a wild animal, frightened and frantic, than he was human. His eyes were dark and afraid, and at that moment they were afraid of you.

You felt like you were wrestling with him but you didn’t give in, holding fast and unwavering even as he started giving into it. His will was draining now, that fury that had once been eating him alive beginning to combust inside of him. The compressions of his heart and chest started to loosen and you hoped he felt like he could breathe again.

“Nathan,” try as you might to reach him, he still limply tried to pull away from you. His actions were half hearted and tired but still consistent, so you didn’t lighten your grip until the last of his anguished tugs were replaced with tortured breaths. You carefully led him to the bed where you had been sitting, and although he was sluggish and lagged behind your movements, he still followed you and did not fight when you urged him to sit down beside you.

Countless marks ran down his face, angry and red. The nails on his shaking hands were short but apparently dangerous, able to work as claws if he was enraged enough. Luckily they weren’t sharp or uneven enough to draw any blood but the marks were still very radiant, running down from his brows, over his eyelids, to his sharp cheekbones like a ugly streamers. His split lip still bled from how hard his teeth had sank into the flesh, and his tongue still darted out to subconsciously try and soothe the stinging.

At least he was letting you touch him. Even if his state of breaking, all his walls starting to crumble down and crush him, he was allowing you the grace of sitting next to him and silently offering whatever support you could. There was so many words swimming in your head, so much you wanted to say that you could almost physically feel it bubbling up in your chest, threatening to burst at any moment.

Nathan, leaning forward with his face in his hands, was both silent and deafening. No longer did his shoulders tense up, fists ready to crack on any surface they could find. He was quiet and still, but there was also a part of him that roared like thunder. His cries.

They were soft, barely noticeable unless you were to see his state, but to you they were all you could hear. Loud, unforgiving, piercing. Your chest ached with every angry sob, every harsh intake of his uneven breaths. Before you had been afraid he was too far gone during his act of rage but it always came back down to this, both soundless yet thunderous. He was the calm of his own storm, and he was a rain that licked away it’s wounds afterwards. He was both the ferocious river, dragging everything along with it, and the gentle trickle that followed close behind.

Your hand met the expensive fabric of his jacket and he didn’t respond, so you let it wander past his shoulder to his upper back. Up, down, gently rubbing over his clothed skin. Not only was the repetitive movements hopefully helping him, but they were also helping you. You timed your breathing to the movements, your thudding heart starting to come down from your previous fears. You should have known it would come down to this. Nathan could be the scariest person you’d ever met, but even he got tired eventually. The only thing that presented a problem afterwards was everything bounding in your head, from the things he’d blindly said to you to the things he’d blindly thrown at you. His phone still laid demolished on the floor a few feet away, that new crack in the wall taunting you.

“Nathan,” you whispered, and he didn’t answer. “Nathan?”

He still didn’t answer. His muffled sobs continued on, adding weight after weight to your chest and making your own eyes sting. You gently scratched against the top of his jacket before rubbing in small circles.

“Can you hear me?”

Thankfully Nathan did seem to be able to hear you. He nodded and then sniffed, then let his hands fall limply to his lap. The sight of his face, still littered with claw marks but now glistening with tears, made you have to look away for a minute.

Now that you had his attention your mouth ran dry, unsure of what to say next. You’d wanted his attention to make sure he was lucid in some ways, but now that he was waiting for you to say something you had no idea what you could possibly tell him to make this situation any more bearable. Actually, you didn’t even know the situation, how could you possibly help him?

Still though, his eyes reached yours, longing and expectant. He wanted you to say something, anything. As always it made you wonder how someone as mountainous as Nathan could appear so small at times, like a small child asking you for help; needy, afraid. The worst possible thing you could do right now was not say anything, so you wracked your brain for literally anything to say.

“Are you okay?” You’d blurted, and the second those words left your mouth you wanted to smack it. ‘Are you okay?’ The question was so painfully obvious, so ludicrous and dense, but he went on to answer it anyways, looking down at his lap.

“No.”

His voice was much… Softer than you’d anticipated. Then it struck you that no, his voice did not sound soft, it sounded broken. Soft was kind and gentle, warm to the ears and touch, but his was none of those things. His answer was blunt and simple, cold, and raw with scratches on his throat. The walls that which buried him had yet to disappear, so instead of fighting them he gave in. Nathan was tired, exhausted from his previous outburst that he’d likely be replaying in his head for the rest of the week. Every little thing would set him off in the worst ways.

Your hand found it’s way to his lower back, but this time he tensed beneath your palm, so you slid it right back up to the spot he’d been compliant with. “Is there anything I can do?” Once again your words felt dumb. After what you’d seen simple minded questions were likely the last thing you should be asking him about. But, you didn’t want to ask him what had happened. Of course you were curious but you didn’t want to trigger him into another melt down, especially not when he was already so jaded and worn out.

For a moment he looked at you, turning his head just enough to get his peak before once again covering his face and shaking his head. “No.” He mumbled, and you frowned in defeat. There wasn’t anything you could truly do for him other than stay at his side, offer some sort of grounding and peace for him to come back to when he’s released with his post-meltdown exhaustion.

“You should go.”

At first words didn’t register with you. You blinked at him a few times, processing, understanding, until you finally realized what he had said. “What?” you asked softly, leaning forward and trying to get a look into his eyes past his shielding hands. Never once had he asked you to leave him during a time like this. Usually it was the opposite, him calling for your aid during even his worst times of needs, but this time he didn’t want you to be there with him.

Once again he let his hands fall to his knees, his fingers toying with the fabric of his jeans. “You should go.” He repeated himself and didn’t meet your gaze, staring straight down. Your throat felt like it had been punched.

“Are you sure?” You asked.

“Yeah.” He answered.

You hated the way it made you feel. It made you feel an entire combination of things, but the most prevalent were useless and… Hurt. He didn’t want you to be around him, and though part of you understood it was because he was likely tired and wanted isolation, you still couldn’t help but take that blow to your ego.

Still, you nodded aimlessly, and swallowed down the rock forming at the center of your throat.

“Okay.” Your voice wavered and you knew he heard it with how he squeezed his eyes shut, almost in pain at hearing the sound.

As you got up, feeling like an animal with it’s tail in between it’s legs, you gazed down at him and took in the sight. Him just sitting there in silence, his entire body still slumped but not of relaxation, his face stinging with self inflicted scratches and his eyes still full of humiliating tears. There wasn’t a single thing you could do for him, and you finally understood what years of this had been doing to Nathan. In this moment you could see everything on him: the years of abuse, the pressure, the way he felt so unloved. The childhood trauma. Though you knew he beared these scars and marks you’d never seen them until this point, and it left you breathless. You so desperately wanted to stay, but you knew he wouldn’t let you even if you begged.

Nathan seemed to have read your mind. “I’ll call you.” was all he offered, a subtle way of telling you it was time to leave. You nodded again and thanked him softly, though you didn’t know exactly what you were thanking him for. Turning your back and leaving him felt entire levels of wrong but you did so anyways, and as you opened his dorm door you caught sight of that damn phone again and for some reason that was the one thing that finally let your tears take shape and leave a burning trail down your cheek. You shut the door softly behind you as you left and leaned against it on the other side, holding your sobs in with the palm of your hand.

The entire way home those tears still rolled down your face, from the moment you stepped out of the dorm room to the instant you stepped back into your own. They felt like scratch marks of their own and thankfully you didn’t run into anyone. All you wanted to do, you found, was lay down and sleep. You were tired too, and welcomed your mattress with a loud thud. Silence took it’s place and hung uneasily heavy over your room, cloaked your mind and body with fog.

You didn’t want to move from your place. You didn’t even want to roll over, not having the energy to even breathe evenly it seemed. With a whole lot of urging you managed to force yourself onto your back, staring up at your ceiling through blurry eyes. Things like this had happened so many times before, you’d think you’d have gotten used to it, but this time it felt… Different. You felt so unnaturally lonely.

Roughly you wiped at your eyes and sniffed, laying there on top of your blankets and pillows, wondering about Nathan as usual. After you’d left, what did he do? Did he cry, have another fit, break more things in his room? Or, worst of all, did he do nothing?

You felt selfish to be hurt at the idea of him doing nothing when you left, but you couldn’t help it. Something about the way he sounded, the way he looked at you, felt entirely new and you didn’t like it. His expression didn’t have any substance, his eyes almost entirely empty towards you. Perhaps tonight was his breaking point, but not nearly in the way that you had imagined it would be.

Sitting at your side your phone sat like a brick, unalerting and silent. ‘I’ll call you’, he’d said, but there wasn’t a thing in his voice that led you to believe he actually would.

The entire night felt strange and alien. It felt wrong, like it shouldn’t have happened, or should have happened a different way. You wondered what it was you could have done to change things even though it meant nothing now that it had all happened. You couldn’t go back in time, you couldn’t change the course of your actions, what little ones you had done.

Your ceiling, white and simple, served as a holder for your eyes to unfocus on. Though tired, anxious, and hurt, you just sat there in silence and waited to hear that obvious and obtrusive ringtone of yours. You waited until you finally fell asleep, eyes heavy with tears and uncertainty.

Your phone still sat beside you the entire night.

There was nothing.

#nathan prescott #nathan prescott x reader #life is strange #lis #imagine #scenario #fic #imaginefictionals

164 notes · View notes