#even if it's personal reading and not like the boring tomes I have to withdraw or update records for

[isfjmel-phleg]

July 2024 Books

Magic Most Deadly by E. L. Bates (reread, sort of)

It's been a while since I read the original version, so I couldn't minutely compare the two while reading the revision, but I did find this version more succinct and better-flowing. An enjoyable start to the series.

The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle

I think this is one of those books that I'm going to have read a second time to really get it? Very beautifully written, a lot more going on than my exhausted brain was ready to handle (not the book's fault, but mine).

Skylark and Wallcreeper by Anne O'Brien Carelli

I did not choose this book. Quite a while ago, I had ordered several used books from an online vendor, and this one came instead of one I had selected. They couldn't or wouldn't send what I had originally ordered when I reported the problem, so I was stuck with this one. Perhaps for the better, since I ended up ILLing the book I had tried to order and ended up hating it. This book wasn't...bad, but the two storylines didn't work well together for me--their tones were very different. The WWII plot was a bit underdeveloped. There were some oddities, such as the treatment of some characters' not having a passport as a sign of their being practically agoraphobic/unhealthily opposed to travel. (Quite a few people in the present-day US don't have passports, for a variety of reasons that usually have nothing to do with abnormal psychology--and often have a lot to do with class and finances--so I don't know what reality this narrative is living in.)

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke (reread)

A July craving. Always a pleasure to revisit.

The Luminous Life of Lucy Landry by Anna Rose Johnson

I wanted to enjoy this one more than I did, but I struggled to warm up to the protagonist, and some developments of the climax pushed the bounds of suspension of disbelief too much for me (our heroine is suddenly able to do something she has been afraid of, something that requires physical skill and wouldn't just become possible to one the moment she stops being afraid, and after almost an entire book of only incidental religious references, her faith suddenly becomes very important to her--this could have been set up better from the beginning).

Power of Three by Diana Wynne Jones

I liked this one, it had some fantastic twists as Jones stories do, but for whatever reason it took me approximately 80000 years to finish it (and it's not even that long, under 400 pages) and the slow pace meant I kept getting lost, which is not the book's fault but mine. This will need to be a reread at some point.

The Gammage Cup by Carol Kendall

I enjoyed the social satire of the beginning of this book, but the ultimate plot didn't do much for me, and I was baffled by the antagonists. We never really got to understand who they were or what they wanted; they just showed up, were the bad guys for some reason, our people killed a bunch of them, and we were supposed to be thrilled about that. Yes, this is a children's fantasy, and I'm not asking for complex villains, but I'd at least like to know what these people did that was so villainous besides get in our heroes' way.

Pax by Sara Pennypacker

Beautiful writing, beautiful characterization, sometimes over-simplistic in its themes. (War is a complex topic to develop, especially in a children's book, and oftentimes this narrative does that well, but I'd like a little more nuance than implying that anyone who voluntarily enlists in the military does so because they crave violence.)

Comics

Various issues of Damage (reread)

I have a lot of Grant thoughts sitting in drafts that I haven't had the energy to unleash on the world yet.

Impulse #50-53, 62-67 (Thad Thawne's original appearances, including the Mercury Falling arc) (reread)

Another July craving. Lots of thoughts on this one waiting in drafts too. If I ever have energy again, it's all over for you guys.

The Flash 1987 #74-79 (Return of Barry Allen arc) (reread)

Reread because I wanted to compare it to Mercury Falling (both are stories about a Thawne impersonating an Allen for motives rooted in envy while the hero has a personal crisis about believing that he doesn't meet expectations). Full observations at some point in the future. This arc is one of writer Mark Waid's best, his answer to hidebound fans who complained that the current Flash wasn't as good as his predecessor. The character development is significant and transitions Wally into a stage where he is no longer viewing himself as only Barry's legacy but a hero in his own right.

This arc is also notable for introducing Max Mercury, Waid's reboot of an obscure and underdeveloped Golden Age speedster. He gets dragged out of retirement, drops some insight bombs on Wally, helps save the day, and slinks back into the shadows--very on-brand. Until the next time, when he's dragged back out to raise a kid that no one else knows what to do with...but that's another story.

[gravitymirage]

Taking Back Control – Part 13

Amy regretted the question the second the words left her mouth. She felt terrible, watching the Host flinch back, his hands grasping each other tightly. This wasn’t a character, this was a person.

And she’d just implied he shouldn’t exist.

He swallowed, before nodding solemnly.

“The Host understands Miss Nelson’s confusion. The Host wonders the same thing.” That made her feel worse. “However, the Host is able to explain what he does know.”

“You don’t need to talk about anything you don’t want to.” Amy offered. It was the least she could do, considering she was asking someone to explain their reality. The Host held up a hand to silence her, a slight smile tugging his lips.

“No need, Miss Nelson. You deserve to know, Mark should’ve told you long ago.” Spite was evident whenever the Host mentioned Mark’s name, but at least he was also attempting to disguise it. Amy adjusted her position in the armchair, preparing for his response. She hadn’t expected him to stand abruptly. He strolled past walls of bookcases, fingers tracing down the spines of old books. She watched in silence, his every move telling a story. Some books sent a smile to his lips, others caused him to withdraw his hand as if he’d been burnt. Certain books he avoided entirely, making significant detours to evade them. He didn’t narrate himself once, moving with clear confidence in his location. He twisted through shelves, avoided every pile of tomes stashed on the floor. Careful hands slid the books from their homes, placing them gently on a small wooden table beside her. Seemingly satisfied with his selected books, he sat in the chair before her, rifling through pages. Some were written in illegible handwriting, others text from a typewriter. Many had small braille messages made from little pin holes. “The Host prefers to read from script. It makes him easier to understand, compared to his regular speech patterns.” Amy nodded quickly, before remembering it probably aided the Host if she spoke aloud.

“Of course. Go ahead.” He paused on a page, brushing his thumb across a bloodstain. He sighed, before starting to read. It was Mark’s voice, like when he read the dialogue of a game. The Host was even more captivating, never skipping a beat unless necessary for effect.

“The alters aren’t new. Some have been around for a long time. They each appeared for different reasons, at different times. There is debate about whom came first, but…” He stopped, tilting his head to regard Amy. “The Host asks for Miss Nelson’s permission to talk about him.” It was Amy’s turn to flinch back. She wasn’t sure why the prospect of it scared her so much. She needed to know more. She knew that this information could aid in her escape. Yet she had to brace herself to hear his name.

“Yes.” Her voice cracked on that, but the Host didn’t comment.

“It is thought Dark came first. He’s been with Mark since he was a child, plaguing him with constant nightmares. However, he may have existed, floating through the void, long before Mark was ever born. Time doesn’t apply in the void. Miss Nelson may have only been in there for seconds when spying on the doctor. Before that, in the few minutes waiting for Mr. Trimmer’s return, he could’ve been in there for hours.“ She winced at the realization, then froze. How had the Host known about Bim? "This makes Dark older than all the alters. A being ruling over a separate dimension. No one knows his true motives, but he currently aids the alters in a quest to take control of Mark’s channel. The Host doesn’t believe this co-operation will last for long.” His voice was barely a whisper, hands pulling away from the text to fidget with the cuffs of his coat. It was clear in his tone and urgency he shouldn’t be divulging this information. “Wilford presumably arrived around the same time, though he and Dark kept to themselves. Wilford may be accountable for some of Mark’s more, eccentric, behaviour. It was much later when the other alter began to take form. Contrary to general belief, many alter egos formed before their specific video, the idea of them can be shaped early on. Creatures develop ideas on things based on past experiences, someone’s opinion on a dog would be different if they had been in a vicious attack as a child. Although Mark was likely unaware of it at the time, his time spent around hospitals led to the creation of Dr. Iplier, though he didn’t have his name at that point. The Host iterates that the doctor was a very different person back then, a character created out of Mark’s confusion and spite at being stuck in the hospital for weeks. Stuck with his thoughts, he’d distracted himself with the amusing concept of a mad doctor, before tossing the idea to the wayside, a little pocket dimension filled with the endless halls of a hospital in which he was trapped for years on end. Dr. Iplier lost his medical license very quickly.” Amy listened in stunned silence. That didn’t sound like the doctor she knew. The conversation she remembered from to void filled her ears, sending a shiver down her spine.

“D-Dark mentioned something about taking away his medication.” The Host froze, hands clenching the fabric of his pants tightly.

“The Host knows that doesn’t bode well for the doctor.“ He sighs, the gaze of his bloodied bandages boring into her. ”Dr. Iplier was always conflicted, created to be a failure. He desperately wanted to save his patients but had too erratic of a mental state to keep them alive. Dark was the one to save him from his prison. He offered medication and freedom in return for the doctor’s services. Dr. Iplier knew the deal was dodgy, knew that there wasn’t medication to cure his insanity so easily. Yet he accepted. And it worked. He got addicted to it, whatever cursed medications Dark dug up for him. He was one of the first alters to join Dark, but the years he spent in that hospital left scars. The Host suggests Miss Nelson shows caution around him now.” She wasn’t sure what to say. It made a twisted sort of sense, Dr. Iplier wasn’t keeping his end of the bargain, so Dark revoked his end. A deal with the Devil must be upheld unless you’re willing to pay the consequences. Amy didn’t want to hear about the doctor’s fate anymore.

“Who came next?” The Host faltered at her sudden change in topic. “As in, which alter was created after Dr. Iplier?” The Host quickly drew his attention to the books in his hands, flicking through pages and feeling his braille notes.

“The Host finds it hard to keep track after the beginnings of Mark’s channel. Bim was most likely beginning to form during this time, a character created as a joking jibe at Mark’s ego. No one can keep an ego after being abandoned close to death…” His voice wavered, falling quiet. He wasn’t just referring to Bim. “The Author was next. A young, selfish writer under the incorrect notion that he could play god. He got cocky, toyed with creations unbeknownst of the consequences. His idiocy got him killed.” He spat the words, face twisted as if trying to get bile of his tongue. Amy should’ve taken the hint.

“If the Author died when he was shot, how are you…?” The was a loud clatter as the books cascaded to the floor, the Host towering over her.

“I AM NOT THE AUTHOR!” The storm clouds had finally broken, thunder and lightning crackling to the surface. Amy recoiled back into her seat, staring up at him. “I regret everything he did. But the Author is dead. Only the Host remains.” He spent a long moment there, staring right through the bloodstained bandages before straightening his coat. He pulled away, stumbling slightly over the discarded books. His face contorted with … guilt? It was hard to determine his eyeless expression. The Host kept his head lowered as he gathered the scattered texts, placing them back onto the table. His hands were shaky. Amy sat in stunned silence.

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.” The words were flat, and he didn’t return to his seat. “There isn’t much else to tell. The longer Mark was around, the more alters were created. Google, although his creation may have begun earlier, was formed later, and quickly found himself under Dark’s alliance. King of the Squirrels, Ed Edgar, Silver Shepard all stemmed from videos. Soon every little idea or one-off joke in a game was creating an alter. Tossed aside into an incomplete dimension to be forgotten. Mark abandoned them all.”

Amy wasn’t sure what to say. The Host scooped up the scattered books and sheets, returning them to their shelves. He refused to turn his head to face her as he slid the final tome into its place.

“The Host wonders if Miss Nelson needs to stay any longer?” It was voiced as a question, and Amy appreciated his hospitality, but it was clear he was uncomfortable. Not only had she come into his space, but she’d also tripped a nerve, and the open book had slammed shut. She cleared her throat.

“N-No, I think I’m alright to return to my room now, thank you.” She stood, slipping towards the library entrance. The Host didn’t respond, still facing the bookcase intently. “I really appreciate your help, I can put the empty glass back if you want.”

“It’s fine Miss Nelson.” She nodded, backing away.

“R-Right. Well, thank you, again, for everything. See you later?“ No response. She offered him a faint smile. He didn’t return it as blood pooled in his bandages and trickled down his cheeks. Heavy-hearted, Amy made her way back down the hall, out of the left wing. She kept to the walls, checking around corners for company. There was no one. She’d suspected a mansion filled with such crazy characters would be bustling, yet it was so silent you could’ve heard a pin drop. Maybe they knew what was happening to the doctor.

Upon reaching the stairs, Amy had almost relaxed. But, the sudden shuffling of feet alerted her, and she swiftly ducked out of sight. The alter stumbled, wheezing and coughing, before collapsing to the floor. Her stomach lurched, realization dawning as she examined the figure.

It was Dr. Iplier.

Forgetting the Host’s words of caution, she rushed forward, offering a hand. He immediately recoiled, shaky hands moving to protect his face, illegible phrases leaving his lips. Her heart plummetted in her chest. They were pleas for mercy. Amy froze. He’d just been through what she had witnessed, only much, much worse. She slowed her movements, kneeling beside him.

“Hey, just breathe okay? It’s me, Amy.” The words were supposed to offer reassurance, yet they achieved the opposite. His hands retracted to reveal wide eyes as he leaped up, swaying at the sudden motion.

"A-Amy!” The words were raspy, a test of the tongue. His lips were cracked, stained with the blood that dripped from his nose. The memory of the nightmare crept into her conscience and Amy couldn’t stop her gaze flicking to check his ears. They were fine. The rest of him wasn’t. Fidgeting pale hands pulled at the cuffs of his wrinkled coat, messy hair obscuring his fearfully darting eyes. He was uncharacteristically jittery, all sense of professionalism gone. It upset her to watch. “Y-Y can’t b-be here. You n-need to get b-back t-to your room. I can't…” Amy stood, and she couldn’t help feeling hurt at how he quickly stepped back, careful to maintain distance. “… Be n-near you. C-come on then! Just, go downstairs.”

“Dr. Iplier…”

“Sh-shut up! Listen to me, I know what’s best! You can’t be around me anymore, it’s a hazard. You have to trust me on this, please Amy.“ She understood, yet it didn’t pain her any less. Despite the situation she was in, she saw him as a friend. She didn’t want to see him like this. She took a step forward, and he took two steps back, violently shoving his hands into his coat pockets. His voice was cracking now, desperate pleading eyes boring into her own. "P-Please. I don’t want to have to force you.” The pair stood in silence for a moment, unspoken messages sparking in the air between them. Finally, Amy stepped away, hands held in surrender, before storming down the stairs in every effort to stop him seeing her tears. The weight in her heart hand grown even heavier.

Maybe it was for the best.

At least, that helped ease the guilt.

 Mark didn’t know what to do anymore. He knew Amy was in the mansion, the clues were there. His invitation had clearly been tampered with, Dr. Iplier had been trying to send a message. The way Dark reacted proved that. What he didn’t understand, was why Dark had been so hospitable. Mark had waltzed in their fully expecting a trap; instead, he’d been granted the tensest home tour he’d ever experienced. No violent rants or attempts at control. No bargains, not even a mention of Amy’s disappearance. So, what did Dark want? Why was it never simple?

Mark groaned, running his hands through his hair. He’d just run out of pre-recorded videos, and he doubted he could feign convincing joy. He had no clear explanation for taking a break, and his friends were catching on that something was amiss. Amy’s absence from social media would be noticed, especially if she wasn’t around for the charity livestream that month. Mark let out a frustrated sigh, leaning back in his chair. The livestream, how had he forgotten? He didn’t have a plan for that, and the team would expect something about it soon. In less than a week, he had to have this situation sorted or at least a worthwhile explanation to Amy’s disappearance. Since, ‘Oh yeah, by the way, all my alter egos are frick fracking real and currently have Amy kidnapped in some weird hell dimension!” wasn’t going to cut it. No one would believe that, and he wasn’t exactly willing for his friends to find out about it. Though, with current events, that appeared inevitable. Mark started spinning in his chair in some vague attempt to clear his head. He needed to figure out Dark’s plan, preferably before it became too late to stop.

So, his deadline was a little less than a week. Not his shortest deadline, he’d completed the editing of massive projects overnight. This was a bit different than that. Amy’s life could be at stake. He had to tread carefully from here on out. Find out Dark’s plan, something after that, then save Amy.

If Amy wasn’t already dead.

He shook his head, standing up and approaching his recording studio. He couldn’t think like that, it wouldn’t get him anywhere. Mark turned on his recording program, checking himself in the camera. He didn’t look any worse than usual, so he began a search for a horror game. That should clear his mind, or at least get him something to upload. But he had to be quick.

Time was running out.

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[violetsystems]

#personal

This week has had its up and downs.  The downs seem to be a symptom of the real world these days.  I don’t get very much validation at all that I’m ever on the right track.  At least it would appear that way.  It’s hard to know sometimes how to proceed in life when nobody encourages you.  Being a leader grows out of this I’ve found.  You have to push ahead and do the things you feel deep down.  Sometimes if you are unfocused those things are twisted and destructive.  Sometimes when you have your shit together, it’s banal and routine.  But all validation gives you most of the time is the calm to proceed into the unknown.  Part of my job at work is to see feedback scores of the work down by the people I manage.  I am blessed with a lot of talented people on my team.  I see clear indicators of their performance in numbers.  I tend to fade into the background all the time.  There’s never any clear indication that I even exist sometimes.  This has its ups and downs for sure.  But I find this continues outside of work.  I was on the phone with my landlord because there was a building wide sewage problem.  It turns out somebody flushed something down the toilet they shouldn’t have.  After listening to my landlord vent about what they might do if it happens again, they paused.  It was the first time I’ve ever been called a good tenant.  It wasn’t gushing or fake.  It was just an acknowledgement.  Some sort of validation that I’m at least ok with the space that I occupy.  This city has a habit of projecting you need a right to share the air we collectively breathe sometimes.  And it never has the guts to say it to your face.  I find real validation is sometimes painfully awkward.  It’s a vulnerable state in which someone acknowledges you stand apart from the bullshit.  “Don’t fuck it up” you can hear them say.  People have a hard time trusting people.  And then again people would rather take risks than be alone in their thoughts and decisions.  I’m an only child.  Being alone has always been a reflex for me.  All the way up to the conversations I have with myself out loud.  They’re similar to conversations I write on the internet.  Some people read them. Other people make fun of them.  Some people glaze over the weekly wall of text.  Other people know I’m sharing my thoughts like a journal with people I care about.  That I care enough to explain myself instead of hiding it from the world.  An open book to a certain extent that nobody wants to read.  The cover is all they need to know.  People whisper about me behind my back like I’m some ancient tome.  The necronomicon most likely.  To strangers I’m a thug or a witch.  No one ever tells me how they really feel about me.  I’m expected to read into all of  it like an extreme psyops campaign in a William Gibson book.  Then again nobody ever asks me questions.  When the veil truly cracks every once and awhile I feel people open up just a little.  Show me how they really feel about me.  It’s not written on a deed or certificate.  I can’t wave it around like a trophy.  But it’s a knowing for sure.  Knowing I’ll be ok despite everything.  Knowing I have a little bit of stability that I believe in.  Everybody else doesn’t even believe I exist much less care.  When you don’t score on the meter at all do you even matter?  

Self love is a tough thing.  Self love requires self validation and self confidence.  If you really love yourself you will try to be honest with yourself.  It’s hard to strike the balance between fairness and discipline for some people.  I had some rough years before these.  People have probably read about them.  The last three years haven’t been rough in the same ways.  I’ve been rebuilding myself slowly into a different person.  One that maybe resembles the person I was ten years ago minus the soul searching.  My head is shaved again.  I’m far more in shape than I have ever been.  I’m also way older.  There’s realities to be fair of who I am that I face every day.  And then there’s the realities people place on me without my consent.  What people think I should be.  What people think I am good for.  What people think matters to me or will work out in my best interest without telling me.  There’s a lot of information I’ve accrued over the years by almost making some horrible mistakes.  I bounced back mostly because I’ve always been fairly cautious and measured.  I’m also notoriously hard on myself.  Also extremely patient with others for the record.  I’ve humored so much in the last couple of years its mind numbing.  But knowing when you don’t have the luxury to heal from all the hurt is part of that self love.  And my withdrawal from a lot of things has mostly been about identifying toxic situations.  They might not be toxic for other people.  Society these days normalizes some horrible shit.  It only gets worse.  It never rewards you for being a good person.  I know this because I can’t be anything but a good person.  And I’ve largely become this shadow person who everybody is scared to admit is genuine and a really nice person.  So every once and awhile when your landlord confirms that you are valued as a tenant it cracks.  I walk around this city largely ignored and judged like everybody else.  And then here and there the Easter eggs appear. There’s so subtle these days that reading too far into them will drive you crazy.  What does it all mean?  I’m such a highly valued and loved person but nobody can say it to my face.  They have to flash it like an ad and make me read into everything.  Do I really matter?  Am I good enough to be loved by another person?  Maybe they’re just fucking with me?  Maybe it’s all some sick joke.  Maybe I care and maybe I don’t.  Maybe none of it really matters because nobody loves me how I should be loved?  Other than me.  Which is a crossroads you need to get to in order to be loved.  You have to love yourself enough to know the direction you want to move forward towards.  What’s the right course of action.  Will I miss out on large portions of my life.  I can look back five to ten years now and shake my head in disbelief.  All the things I done don’t matter to anyone.  They care more about catching a cold or being seen talking to the wrong person.  It can make a person think they’re no good.  And I will tell you if you believe this about yourself then you have already lost.  You do matter despite being invisible.  Only you can know how much.  And only you can make yourself better.  And the world needs that most right now even if it won’t admit it.

If I am to survive in the post truth wasteland of America I need to love myself. And sometimes decisions I make to distance myself have very real world intelligence attached.  People often forget what clip I have been living my life at.  To remind people intimidates them.  “Who the fuck do you think you are?”  I’ve challenged a lot fo people.  I confront things often.  I don’t often push or break things.  I just walk away when they’re not working.  I float through walls and jump over boundaries.  And then I wall myself off behind closed doors that I rent without an agreement.  I live by the skin of my teeth with no love or comfort other than feral animals I shelter.  I’m some walking myth to people who is already half dead.  Phased in between the real and the astral like some fallen angel.  And then there’s the actual me following a bleak cycle week after week.  A lot of this is just the reality of Chicago winter.  I’ve survived an ungodly amount of winters out here alone.  I know the drill.  Just like I know how to spot a cop.  It’s pretty easy when they start shopping at the same stores as you.  Whatever accountability I live with is a curse.  But I see things for how they really are.  The truth as it appears to me isn’t always in my favor. And leading sometimes becomes more about accepting the value of safety in your decisions.  I lead a pretty boring life at times.  And yet I can’t avoid the shadows.  I don’t know what I mean to some people.  I don’t know that I care anymore.  I dream that I mean something more to others.  There are people I believe to understand that.  That’s a validation that comes from trust.  Trusting people comes through faith.  Having faith in the world after all I have been through is hard.  Love isn’t easy either.  But it is the hardest to love yourself.  Too little and you will wither and die.  Too much and you will do the same probably.  Balance seems like nothing.  Flows like water.  Doesn’t really have a score attached to it.  Tell me how I am doing?  I fill out feedback scores all the time for people when I shop.  I had a really nice interaction with the sportswear store copping this sweatshirt.  Sometimes knowing what real encouragement looks like comes from nurturing that in yourself.  If you know how to love yourself in an honest way maybe you can nurture honest and genuine reactions and emotions from others.  That’s a lot about knowing how to read people.  But it comes from listening to your heart.  My heart these days tells me nothing has changed.  I’m still in the same apartment as I’ve ever been.  I’m still going to take a ride on my bike and vote in Chinatown.  And I still really love and care about you.  I can’t tell you how much.  Can’t put a score on it.  Can’t even attach a name to it for public record.  But just remember it matters to me.  So much so that I’m not going to change a thing about it.  Besides voting for Bernie.  <3 Tim 

[webcricket]

The Truth is Beautiful

Characters: CastielXReader

Word Count: 797

A/N: Drabble request by anonymous – “So I know you wrote one a lot like this, but im really insecure and usually dont accept compliments of people telling me im beautiful, and so in the imagine where Cas tells the reader they're beautiful, could you do one where the reader kinda insists he's wrong?” Descriptions of reader insecurity regarding their looks and Cas being the fluffiest damn angel in the garrison.

You sensed Castiel’s eyes on you for the umpteenth time that evening. Glancing up from the faded dusty dog-eared tome perched on your lap to peer across the table, you managed to catch his sapphire gaze before he could furtively look away. The angel’s habit of staring wasn’t anything new; in fact, you considered it an integral component of his personality. But you already felt especially self-conscious that day and Cas’ innocent ogling was getting under your skin. “What the hell are you staring at?” you snapped – the words came out harsher than intended and you cringed internally.

“I apologize,” his throat stiffly bobbed as he swallowed hard, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, well bang up job!” you huffed, unable to stifle the frustration you were feeling with yourself and redirecting it squarely at the well-meaning angel.

Cas’ regard dropped to his lap, his brow knotted and jaw tensed in an agonized expression.

A pang of guilt seized your chest, cheeks flushing mottled pink as you sought refuge in the yellowed book before you – it wasn’t his fault you woke up feeling more insecure than usual, fretting about your mousey looks, the frumpy fit of your clothes, the amount of makeup you needed to apply that day to show your face in public – questioning literally everything about yourself and in the end finding nothing positive. The only reason you even ventured out of the sanctity of your bedroom was to help the Winchesters research this damned case.

“Y/N?” Cas was looking at you again, aspect lined with a mix of apology and concern.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” you murmured, guilt softening your prickly demeanor. “I’m just in a bad mood. You know, this case is just-,” you waved at the chaotic jumble of books on the table shared between you as if that was explanation enough.

Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the gleaming wood surface, he wrung his hands several times over, studying the interlocking action of his fingers, finally daring to speak, “Y/N, you’re too hard on yourself.”

“What are you talking about?” you gaped.

He scrutinized you silently for several long seconds, blue eyes stirring wetly with a glint of sorrow. Reclining back in the chair with a resigned shake of his head, he broke his intent focus, finding the courage to speak somewhere in the middle of the bookcase over your left shoulder, “It’s just, you’re more beautiful than you give yourself credit for.”

You blinked once, then again, refusing to believe the sincerity of his words, insisting, “I’m really not.”

Gaze returning to you, his blue eyes narrowed askance, “Why would you think that?”

You bristled, defensiveness re-emerging at the audacity of his inquiry. “Well if you’re invading my thoughts already, do you really need to ask?” you spat in answer.

“I-I didn’t read your thoughts,” he stuttered, shrinking into his trench coat, “it’s just, I see the way you look at yourself, the way you act so distant sometimes, like you’re trying to withdraw from your very existence.”

You sprang upright, trembling, tossing the ancient text carelessly at the table, eyes lividly gleaming red as tears threatened to spring forth unbidden at their corners. You knew you should have listened to your instincts and stayed in your room that day. The angel had a knack for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong and this was no exception.

“Y/N, please,” he rose, arm outstretched, imploring you not to flee as he rounded the table, “hear me out.”

You slouched in place at his request, eyes boring into the floor between your feet, fists clenched so tight your nails dug painfully into your palms, breath coming in ragged pants as you tried to contain your brimming emotion.

“Close your eyes and picture the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen,” he approached slowly, reaching out to gently grasp you by the wrists, drawing your hands together to clasp them warmly between his, “What do you see?”

A particularly stunning sunset you’d witnessed many years ago formed in your mind’s eye, “I see a-”

“It doesn’t matter,” his calm gravelly voice interrupted, “whatever you see, my father created it, perfect as it is, just as he created you. No matter what you think, whatever misconceptions you harbor, you should understand you are equally as perfect. You may not recognize and appreciate your beauty, but those around you do.” He paused, “I do.”

You angled your chin up to meet his sparkling eyes, taken aback by the candor contained therein. Although you still didn’t share his belief that you were beautiful, and might never believe it no matter how many times you would hear the words reiterated by him in the days and years to come, you could not deny the truth of his unyielding belief in your inherent beauty.