#i have doubts on the cas listening part that could be discussed | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shorkbrian · 4 years ago

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I swear I ain’t in it for the money, but I can’t stop thinking about sugar daddy shoto. Maybe he sweeps a cute little college kid or barista of their feet, just something fun and casual. But this man starts falling harder, needing a way to lock them down to him. Money isn’t quite cutting it anymore, so he decides fucking a baby into her would do the trick. Shoto would push her down into the mattress, large frame twisting her into a sweet mating press. This way they could stay together forever and Shoto would have absolutely no problem providing for his sweet family <3

but fr tho I feel like Shouto is NOT the type for kids.

Mans will tolerate them when they babble or wave at him, but he very actively Does Not Want them.

Always uses condoms, and even though he’ll threaten not to, it’s never a legit thought in his mind to cum inside. Shouto doesn’t want to be a dad.

-----

You’ll be sittin on a park bench, fading sunset dark and pretty in front of you yet all you can do is cry. There’s not really any people around so it’s not like you’re bothering anyone - you hadn’t wanted to cry in your shabby apartment (half the cause of your worries) just in case you received a noise complaint.

“Are you alright?”

A somber, smooth voice is heard. You’re swiping at your tears quickly as you look up, trying to laugh off your state of distress. “Oh, haha, yeah I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” It’s hard to smile with your puffy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes.

The man in front of you frowns, hands in his coat pockets, scarf draped around his neck. “You don’t look fine. Mind if I sit?”

He’s already claiming the spot next to you on the bench before you can say a word, turning to you with a passive expression. “Why are you crying?”

And that’s all it takes to have you breaking down all over again, tears streaming down your face. Just one person offering to listen to the heavy burden you have to bear.

‘’M sor-sorry...” You sob, wiping at your eyes with frigid fingers, successful in doing nothing more but smearing tears around your face.

“Here.” The man’s taking off his scarf, gloved hands offering it you.

“I ca-can’t use your sc-scarf sir.” But he’s insistent, pressing it into your hands up by your face.

“I’ll just get another one. Keep it, you’re in need of it more than I am.”

The kindness makes another fresh bout of tears roll down your cheeks, but this time you're able to dab them away with soft fabric as you sniffle.

It takes a moment for you to calm yourself. When you do, you can finally engage in conversation with the man.

You tell him about your job hours getting cut, how you’ve been turned down or ignored by every single place you’ve applied at for a second job. How you’re barely affording to wash your clothes - you have to hang them or drape them across things in your apartment because you don’t have the money to pay for a dryer cycle.

And to top it all off, you’re still short on rent, despite how you scrimped and saved and even forced yourself not to buy groceries this week - you’ve gone hungry for the past three days.

“You haven’t eaten?”

You glance up at the man and his incredulous expression, shaking your head. “I’ve been trying to save money, I thought I could afford my rent if-”

“What kind of food do you like?” The man is pulling out his phone, swiping and tapping immediately.

“Thank you, but I’m not-” looking for charity is what you want to say. Plus, you shouldn’t accept favors from strange men.

But the handsome man is waving you silent. “I’m cold, plus I’d like to grab a bite to eat before I head home. I don’t like eating alone though, you’d honestly be doing me a favor.”

You take a moment to process. Is he telling the truth? He sounds like an honest guy.

“Seems like the only place open around here is “Joe’s 24 hour Diner”.... You mind burgers?”

So that's how you end up in a booth opposite the man (”Shouto” he had told you as you both headed to the diner), munching away at warm food. It tastes so good, you hardly have time to worry about the man watching you as he eats.

You’d been shocked at his looks the moment you’d seen him in the light of the diner. Pretty two-toned hair, different colored eyes, perfect skin, expensive clothes. Why was he even talking to you? It’s obvious the two of you led very different lives.

“How does everything taste?”

“Delicious.” Is your response, and Shouto seems pleased, nodding before taking another bite of his meal.

Maybe it’s stupid... but you feel weirdly safe with this man. He doesn’t seem to bear any ill-intent towards you, nor has he made any comments about your body or let his hands or eyes stray. He seems like a gentleman.

Conversation flows easily between the two of you, even sharing a few chuckles at times. He’s some fancy rich businessman, you learn, and you share about your own life, laughing at the comparisons. Shouto can’t fathom growing up in a house with less than five bedrooms and a personal servant.

He asks for your number, and you’re hesitant in giving it - he surely can’t be interested in you? But he seems so sincere, it’s hard to say no.

When the two of you part ways, Shouto gives you a wave, “Hope to see you again soon, and under better circumstances.”

“You too! And sorry for being such a mess and stopping your walk-”

Shouto shrugs, cheeks beginning to pink from the cold air as you two stand outside the diner. “You needed help. I like to assist.”

-----

The next morning you wake to find an atrociously large sum deposited in your Venmo account by none other than a Shouto Todoroki.

Immediately, you’re calling him. “It’s too much, we just met. How can you give away that much money to some low-life?”

You hear him sigh on the other end of the phone. “You’re obviously struggling. I was wondering what your hours are this week, perhaps we could talk about this over dinner? Or lunch, if that fits better with your schedule. I’m flexible.”

It’s a few days later, days spent questioning yourself, questioning his intentions, before you see him again, both of you deciding to meet for lunch to further discuss... whatever had just happened.

“Was what I gave you adequate to cover your rent?” Are the first words out of Shouto’s mouth after you greet each other.

“Yeah, more than enough-” You squirm. “But I need to ask.... why?”

“Why?”

“Why me.”

“Oh.” Shouto’s expression clears. “That’s easy. I told you a few days ago - I like to assist. I’m quite lonely, and it feels nice to use my money on someone other than myself. I think providing for someone brings me... I wouldn’t quite say joy, but... contentment.”

You contemplate his answer for a moment.

“Well... you saved me with my rent, I don’t really know how to thank you.”

The man leans forward. “Well.... I know it might be a bit sudden, but how would you feel accepting me as a.... benefactor of sorts?”

“You mean like a sugar daddy?” Is your immediate, blurted response. You want to slap yourself for speaking before you have the chance to think about your words, but luckily Shouto just lets out a light laugh.

“If you’d like to call it that. I’m willing to provide financial assistance for you, in exchange for companionship, if you’re willing to give it.”

Your face heats up as you drop your eyes, fidgeting nervously in your seat. “I don’t feel comfortable with a... a sexual relationshi-”

“That’s perfectly acceptable.” Shouto cuts you off before you can continue. “I wasn’t trying to insinuate a contract of that nature. I’m thinking more along the lines of accompanying me at meals, sharing experiences with me, providing company and friendship to a lonely man. If it seems that we’d like to progress further than that after we get to know each other, well, that will be addressed then. For now-” Shouto meets your eye, dipping his head a smidgeon so he can look at you directly. “All I ask for is a simple, non-intimate bond between two people.”

This is crazy.

And yet you accept.

The situation may be wild, and completely absurd, but you’d be a fool not to say yes.

Shouto is charming and handsome, respectful, courteous - you could go on and on about his positive qualities. He just seems like a sad, lonesome man swallowed by work and responsibilities, too stressed and busy to put the effort into making friends the conventional way.

-----

Months pass by.

You’re eating at every meal, sated and never going hungry. You’re able to move into a new place, one that doesn’t smell like cigarettes and sits right next to a railroad.

Clothes aren’t a worry anymore, you have your own washer and dryer in your new apartment (Shouto offered to buy you a house, or a penthouse at the least, but you couldn’t justify it to yourself). You’re able to afford new things, and pretty dresses, shoes that are comfortable and fashionable and that fit.

You no longer have to wear clothes down until they have holes in them. You’re able to go to the doctor’s when you feel sick, able to pay for health insurance.

Life is good.

Shouto is a personable man, serious, but he can be rather funny and even crude at times.

The doubt and thoughts of “Why is he doing this for me?” and “I’m not good enough for this.” plague you, but Shouto always seems to catch on, reassuring you that you’re exactly what he needs - a friend.

And you’re more than happy to be that.

You think sometimes, that even if he wasn’t paying you, you’d still like to be friends with Shouto Todoroki.

Until he starts acting weird.

“You should just stay at my place. I have more than enough room,, it’d be easier for both our schedules. We’d get to see each other more often.”

“Uhm...” You don’t really know what to say. You like your freedom, and having your own place where you can walk around in your (expensive) underwear without being bothered.

“I think it’d be nice, don’t you? We could have breakfast every morning, you wouldn’t have to worry about traveling to and fro, we could spend more time together. We don’t see each other nearly enough.”

He’s pushing, insistent. How are you supposed to tell him no? He’s paying for your entire life. Plus, it wouldn’t be that bad to actually live with him. Shouto’s an amicable man.

So you move in.

“I bought you a few things, they’re on your bed.”

Shouto’s striding into the kitchen where you’re making coffee, buttoning up his shirt as he comes closer. You’ve found that the man likes to sleep in nothing but boxers, shrieking and flushing an embarrassing shade the first time he’d come to wake you up with a sweet “welcome” breakfast in bed.

It’s taken a while to adjust, but you finally feel that you’re fully settled in.

“Oh, you really don’t ha-”

“I wanted to. I went through your closet - your clothes are nice, but your underwear seemed to be lacking.” He’s so matter-of-fact.

All you can do is stare at the back of his head.

“Could you pass me a spoon please?”

-----

Shouto had splurged on expensive, fancy lingerie.

At least eight different sets were laid out on your bed. It was overwhelming. It also felt.... a bit intrusive? They were all in your size, in a complementary color for your skin tone.

Weird.

Not as weird as the onset of Shouto’s casual touches.

You’d be reading, or drinking tea and watching cars race by on the street so far below, and Shouto would come up behind you, caress your sides before intertwining his fingers with yours on one hand. He did it as if it was a normal thing, but it felt anything but normal.

Or you’d be on the couch together, and Shouto would shuffle closer until his large body was pressed to yours, almost curled around you. The faux-cuddling was a bit more off putting. How do you tell him no?

The touches became more and more intimate, Shouto’s gifts more and more frequent until you weren’t even spending a penny, the man taking care of everything.

The arrangement was beginning to make you uncomfortable.

Shouto’s bi-colored eyes seemed to always be on you, tracing the shape of your body, watching you move, or breath, or sit. It was distracting, and you felt bad for feeling this way towards the man who’d pulled you out of poverty, but it was so unnerving.

He seemed to notice.

“You’ve been so stressed these past few days. Is something wrong?” Shouto’s rubbing a hand into your shoulder, hovering over you at the dinner table.

“No?” Is all you can manage, wiping your hands on your napkin as you finish your food.

Shouto frowns. With a sigh, his hand drops from your shoulder and the man leaves your side, heads toward the kitchen.

You clear your plate from the table, following after him so you can wash it and put it in the dishwasher before you head off to get ready for bed.

But Shouto is rummaging in a cupboard, pulling down two wine glasses to accompany the bottle of wine that’s standing proud on the island. It’s your favorite, a sweet wine that Shouto knows you like, always brings it out when he decides to drink whisky or bourbon after dinner.

He pops the cork and pours you a glass while you finish with your dishes, handing you the glass when you turn away from the sink, pressing it into your hands. “Let’s relax a little bit, it’ll be good for both of us.”

You’re fine with that, knowing that a little wine won’t hurt you, especially when it’s of such fine quality. You’d never dreamed that you’d be able to taste such richness in your lifetime, spend frivolous amounts of money on wine and fine eateries. Yet here you are.

Shouto pours himself a glass, barely a sip filling the bottom. The man raises it to his lips and takes a swig, grimacing a bit in his flat, unexpressive way. You giggle a little.

“Too sweet?’

The man nods, setting the glass back down. “I’m not entirely sure how you can stand to stomach it. But if it makes you happy-” He shrugs, before pulling on of the bar-stools out from under the island so he can sit facing you, long legs stretching out before him.

You look at him, and he looks at you, and then you take another sip of wine to avoid the awkwardness.

“You’re distancing yourself from me.”

The accusation is quiet, Shouto’s eyes focused on your fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass.

He’s always been straightforward with his words. “Is there a reason you keep drawing away?”

The wine disappears from your glass, sliding down your throat and settling in your stomach. You fill your glass again before speaking, struggling to find the right words without upsetting your... benefactor.

“Well, Shouto... I don’t really know how to...” You trail off, hoping Shouto will say something, change the subject, say it’s alright and move on to something else.

But the man stays silent, eyes appraising you.

Taking a deep breath, and another gulp of sweetness, you try again.

“Sometimes the closeness... like, physical closeness? Makes me, well, uncomfortable.”

Hopefully, that would satisfy his curiosity for now. That wasn’t the only reason you’d been avoiding Shouto seeming distant, but you didn’t think sharing the others would result in anything good.

Said man accepted your response, dropping his eyes to his lap as he mulled it over. More wine was consumed, glass re-filled. You felt nervous.

“You’re saying that my touch isn’t something you’d prefer.”

Biting your lip, you soften at his confused expression, at the hint of sadness swimming behind his eyes. “Kind of. I don’t mind you Shouto, you’re really kind, and you’re good company, and a wonderful friend. I just don’t think the.... the intimacy is for me.”

Shouto raises his head, stares at you with those pretty eyes, lips parted as he comes to terms with your words.

“It sounds like you don’t trust me. I would never hurt you, you know this.”

You scramble to assure him. “I do! I do trust you, and I know you wouldn’t.” (at least you hoped) “But I guess I just... Coming into this agreement I wasn’t ready for that type of... thing. I don’t know if I ever will be.”

The man rises, shakes his head as he steps closer to you. “Don’t worry, I remember our first conversation about that aspect. I see that for you, that type of relationship would only begin after you really cared for the other person, trusted and wanted to see them happy, am I correct?”

“Oh, Shouto-” You rush. “No, I care for you, and I trust you, and of course I want to see you happy. I think it’s just, y’know, my last relationship like that went really bad, and it sucked. I don’t want to go through that again.”

Shouto nods, understanding. “I see. You don’t have to worry about any of that with me then.”

A smile crosses your face, and you feel relived that he accepted your rejection with grace and understanding instead of violence or anger. “Thank you, it means a lot to me.”

The mood of the room shifted, from tense and uncomfortable, to easy and light, and you poured another glass of wine, laughing a little at how worried you were about the conversation with Shouto, only for it all to turn out fine.

“I’m going to go drink some of the liquor that’s kept in my room. I could mix a few drinks for you to try, you might like how sweet they are. I know hard alcohol isn’t quite your thing.”

You beam a smile, nodding your head eagerly. Before, you’d feel apprehensive about going into his room with him to drink alcohol. But with the conversation the two of you just had, you knew - things would be fine.

-----

The room was spinning and you felt giddy and light. You were definitely tipsy.

“You can lay down on my bed, you’re getting wobbly on your feet.” Shouto had offered, and you’d gladly accepted, flopping down onto his comfy bedspread with a laugh at how the motion made butterflies rise in your tummy.

Shouto leaned against his dresser, swirling whiskey in his glass as he watched you, a half-smile across his face. You smiled back, before closing your eyes, a little bit tired as you realized that you might be a bit more than just tipsy.

Shouto had mixed quite a few drinks for you, and you’d drank each one eagerly, impressed with how little alcohol you could taste in each one. You don’t remember how many you had, but it didn’t really matter.

The next thing you know, hands are on your waist, scooting you further up the bed so your legs no longer hang off the edge. Cracking open an eye, you’re met with the visage of red-and-white, eyes soft and warm as they regard you, Shouto’s face tinged a bit pink from the few drinks he had consumed. The man had never been too good at holding his alcohol.

When those hands started to slip beneath your shirt, you wiggled like a little worm, not really comprehending the situation. Maybe it was a dream.

Your shirt was discarded, then your pants. It felt much more comfortable now, and you mumbled a “thanks�� to the man helping you settle for bed. He was so nice, Shouto took such good care of you. You still kind of couldn’t believe the turn your life had taken with him, the good luck pushed into your path.

Someone was kissing you.

With a grunt of surprise, you kissed them back, meeting their feverish pace and trying to keep up, soft lips puckering and pushing against your own with intent. Kissing felt good. You liked kissing.

Then a hand was cupping your face, stroking tenderly over your cheek before it began sliding down, down your neck, into the valley between your breasts, trailing over your bra. It felt funny.

Pushing back for air, you gasped when the hand on your chest started squeezing at you, eyes flying open with the startling, sudden sensation.

Shouto was hovering over you, lips puffy, panting as he stared at you with lusty eyes, an uncharacteristic look on his face. This... this wasn’t supposed to be like this. You knew. Hadn’t the two of you just talked about something... important? Was it important?

You didn’t feel panic until a hand cupped your sex, feeling your skin through your panties.

This wasn’t right.

Alarm bells were ringing, dull and far away, but you didn’t think that Shouto should be touching you in such a way. you should be going to bed.

“Mm, Sho, can you stop?” But your words felt funny on your tongue, and Shouto didn’t stop. Maybe he didn’t hear you.

His hair tickled your chin as the man bent to mouth at your tits, pulling the cups of your bra underneath them so he could feel your hot skin, let his saliva drag slick and wet against your chest.

Your hands instinctively rooted themselves in his hair as you gasped again, not expecting such a move, tugging lightly at his head to pull him up. Shouto just groaned, teething gently at your breasts and not moving an inch. His hips were grinding against the bed though, as he stood between your spread legs.

Before you knew it, your panties were gone, bra clumsily unclasped and discarded, and you were completely bare. Shouto was undressing before you, struggling with the buttons on his shirt before giving up, easily ripping the fabric of his body with one tug, grumbling.

You didn’t feel so tipsy anymore.

“Shouto, what’re we doing? We shouldn’t be doing this, we need to stop-”

“Stay down.” Was his firm command, a hand splayed across your naked chest and pushing you back into the mattress as you tried to sit up. It made you breathless, the growl in his voice, the dominance emanating from the man. You stayed still.

“This’s gonna make us a stronger couple.” The man slurred, eyes dark and hands wandering, effortlessly keeping you pinned against the bed as he ground his hips forward against the edge. You were getting scared.

“Wait-”

You fell silent as one hand pushed down his pants, his underwear going with them, pink cock bobbing free. He was so pretty down there, and it made sense, all of him was pretty, but you suddenly realized the weight of the situation, what was happening.

“Shouto, no, oh my god. We gotta stop right now, we’re drunk, we’re-we’re-”

“Don’t care. Not gonna let you hide away from me this time.” Shouto shook his head, taking his cock in one hand and giving it a long, slow pump, flushed tip weeping precum and wetting his hand.

“No, no, this is wrong. I don’t want this, I could get pregnant!” You cried, beginning to panic for real, pushing against the one strong hand anchoring you to the bed.

Shouto just chuckled, letting go of his cock to crowd against you, getting up in your face to press a wet finger to your lips, the salty taste of his precum threatening to slip into your mouth unless you kept it shut. “Shhh, shh. If you stay nice and still, if you do what I say, I’ll use a condom.”

You couldn’t believe your ears.

“You’re gonna listen to me, you always do.” The man nodded to himself, once again dragging his cock against the bed between your legs, as if he couldn’t stop himself. “Or else I’ll fuck you raw.” The finger was pulled from your lips, only to be wagged teasingly in your face.

You couldn’t believe how he was acting.

“Be nice.”

Shouto tapped your nose with a neatly manicured finger, before groaning as he heaved himself upright, red cock bobbing against his stomach, desperate for attention. The man gave you a look, as if to say “don’t move” before he took his hands off you, heading for his dresser.

Once you saw him pulling out a strip of condoms, you were on your feet, stumbling toward the door.

Although panic had sobered you somewhat, you were still struggling with the effects of the alcohol, so your reaction time was maddeningly slow. Slow enough that you weren’t able to truly fight against Shouto when he grabbed you from behind toned arms wrapping around your middle and heaving you into the air, only to throw you back on his bed.

You were almost sick on the bedspread, world spinning and stomach protesting, but you were able to calm yourself.

But then Shouto was on you, flipping you onto your back, a soft hand pressing against your throat threateningly.

“You want to have a baby? Want me to cum in you so you’ll get all fat with kids? Hm?” He was so intense, almost choking you, straddling your waist and keeping you pinned. It was too much

You were able to manage a tearful, desperate “No!” despite the hand around your throat, and Shouto backed off, releasing the pressure to instead stroke his hand against the sides of your neck.

“Stop acting like this, it’s the next logical step for us. You said you cared for me, wanna make me happy. This’ll make me happy. I won’t be like the last guy.”

His cock was pressed against your stomach, and you could feel it twitching. Shouto clambered off of you, letting go of your neck so he could grab the condoms he’d tossed on the bed before snatching you up.

“Do what I say and I use these.” He waved them in your face before tearing one off, beginning to open it.

You stayed still, gazing at him blearily, limbs feeling fuzzy, mind feeling the same.

The condom was rolled onto Shouto’s cock, the man spitting into his palm and giving the latex a few rubs to make it slick before reaching for you.

He dragged you to the edge of the bed - the perfect height for him to fuck you - and you didn’t fight, terrified of his threat. You couldn’t stand the thought of a baby.

(You didn’t know, but neither could he)

“Wanted to do this since I met you.” Shouto mumbled, pushing your panties to the side with a few fingers so he could guide his tip to your hole. “Want you so bad.”

You didn’t know what to think of this side of Shouto. This unreserved, uncareful, slurring mess of a man that loomed before you, gaze dark and wild, limbs everywhere as he groped and squeezed and appreciate the shape of your body.

But he must’ve gotten impatient, because then he was pushing inside.

It hurt, stinging pain rippling up your back and you keened, causing Shouto to pause. One of his hands darted down to wrap around your calf, hauling it up on the bed so he could lean forward and press it to you chest, sinking his cock a few inches deeper.

“You’re gonna take it.” He hissed before messily kissing you, pressed so close together that it was hard to breathe. “I’ll make it feel good after you do.”

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olivia-anderson-fanfic · 4 years ago

Text

A Miraculous TikTok Account

Part 25

First

But, unfortunately, the good mood didn’t last long.

Hungover, tired from lack of sleep, and sore from sleeping on the floor…

Not a great start to the day, but they had stuff to get done.

They’d all brought their technology and, after a few moments where they'd discussed their abilities, they’d gotten to work. If it were at any other time, with any other people, they could have been mistaken for just a set of teenagers engrossed in their technology of choice.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t as lighthearted as it seemed to the untrained eye.

Ladybug pressed her lips into a thin line, eyes roving over every still frame of their TikToks.

It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense AT ALL.

Why had Hawkmoth suddenly upped the ante? It had to have something to do with their accounts and/or the fact that they were now all living together, it was too soon after the start for it to be anything else, but then the answer should be obvious. It should be somewhere on their accounts…

And yet she couldn’t find anything. Nothing that could have provoked him, really.

She could see the conspiracy board in the background of Chloe’s video, but that didn’t mean much.

It showed their estimate of Hawkmoth’s height, which shouldn’t be much of a problem considering the fact that miraculi had a way of keeping people from figuring out who their holders are using physical characteristics alone...

It also showed some of the attributes/insults that the miraculous team had come up with. Had he been upset when Ladybug had pointed out his “stupid shaped condom head”? Insulted when Carapace had said he had “Rich asshole dad vibes (think Gabriel Agreste but more overtly evil)”? Hurt when Chloe had written “terrible fashion sense, probably straight”?

She didn’t think that was what had happened, lashing out over a few petty insults didn’t fit her profile of him. Hawkmoth was smug, Hawkmoth was cool and collected, and, above all, Hawkmoth was determined to keep his hands clean so he couldn’t be found.

Maybe that was it. He’d been threatened by the proof that they were actively looking for him.

She didn’t know. It didn’t make sense for someone who only ever came out when he thought he had won to appear for seemingly no reason…

But she brushed it off. They had bigger problems.

Namely, Hawkmoth shouldn’t have been able to find them. They’d done everything they could to keep their location a secret, from carefully placed camera angles to sneaking in through windows to asking Rena to cloak them when they could. So how had he found them?

The first answer they’d come up with was the people Chloe had hired to move her things in. Chloe had badgered her dad to figure out the names of the movers and given them over to Rena, who was doing a shockingly extensive background check on them all (they were opting not to question it).

“Three of them had a criminal record, but they were all minor. Public indecency, drunk driving, that kind of thing. Nothing that really screams ‘Hawkmoth’,” said Rena. “And the only one that fit the height requirement was the complete wrong skin color, so…”

“I doubt that any of them have property in the rich area of town, anyways,” said Chloe.

This earned a glare from the others and she shrunk back with a sheepish smile.

“It’s around the Eiffel Tower, though, we should check that out,” said Ladybug. “Since that’s a more or less easy to access place.”

Rena shook her head slightly. “There’s been akumas that have tried to take or destroy the Tower. If his base was there he wouldn’t have allowed that.”

They all considered this before deciding that made sense.

Carapace leaned back in the armchair with a long sigh. “I looked through all the comments. If anyone managed to find us that way they’d have to be speaking in code for me to have missed it.”

Chloe nodded and set her phone down. “I couldn’t find anything on the internet, either.”

There was a beat as the five of them considered this. If the movers hadn’t been Hawkmoth, and no one online had figured it out, then the only way Hawkmoth could have found out was…

The anxiety in the room spiked.

“So, we all agree that the traitor is probably Chat, right?” Said Chloe.

Chat frowned. “I was the only person fighting him for a while. Why would I even bother if I was a traitor?”

“To keep up looks, or maybe you only recently started working with him,” said Rena. “Besides, Hawkmoth needed the Ladybug miraculous, too, to make the wish. Maybe you were waiting for her to show up.”

Chat bit his lip and drew his knees to his chest. “No. The only reason that we even got a Ladybug was that I happened to be allergic to birds. I didn’t even know there were other miraculi until she showed up.”

“And that allergy was exploited quite a few times by Hawkmoth, so much so that another hero had to be involved. Sounds a little suspicious, honestly.”

Carapace sighed. “Please, that was just good strategy. Hawkmoth wanted another hero to appear, so he made it happen. There’s no reason to think that it was Chat’s fault.”

Rena didn’t seem all that convinced.

“Maybe we should get Chat to explain why his room wasn’t touched,” Chloe said.

“I can’t! Because, get this: I don’t know or help Hawkmoth!”

Carapace raised an eyebrow. “Can we talk about how eager you guys are to throw him under the bus?”

Rena frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m SAYING that someone here has been just a little too curious about us all. Not to mention you love it when stuff doesn’t go well for us. Or that you’re the newest member here.”

Rena pushed her laptop from her lap and got to her feet. “PLEASE. You’re just mad that all the signs are pointing towards your little friend betraying us!”

Carapace pushed himself to his feet as well, looking at Chloe and Rena with clear contempt. “And your ally is so great? Want to talk about how she messes up all the time and makes everything hard on us? She fucked up enough to get Ladybug to babysit but, sure, let’s go after the person who’s been putting his life on the line for the longest!”

Chloe launched herself at him --.

“ALRIGHT, THAT’S ENOUGH!”

Chloe’s hand stopped inches away from Carapace’s face. Carapace let go of her shirt. Rena unclenched her fists. Chat pulled his face out of his knees.

Ladybug crossed her arms over her chest. “Kwami. You’re acting like children.”

“But --,” tried Rena.

“NO.”

Rena snapped her mouth shut.

“I get that you’re all scared, and that’s UNDERSTANDABLE, but you need to get ahold of yourselves. This is exactly what Hawkmoth wanted, for us to be scared and angry and, most importantly, ready for akumatization. Yes, this is a big problem, but all of you need to go cool down.”

There was a beat before Chloe got off of Carapace and offered him a hand up. Carapace looked reluctant but, when Ladybug had turned her glare on him, he took it.

“Thank you.” Ladybug pressed her lips together as she considered her next words. “If you’re going to get akumatized, run out of Paris and do something to relax. Otherwise... Chat: play video games, Carapace: listen to music in your room, Rena: you can use my gym to work out, Chloe: do some gardening.”

There were a few moments as the four stared at her with wide eyes before they slowly shuffled off to do as they were told.

She waited to make sure they were gone before dropping her Ladybug persona and falling back on the couch. She rested her arm over her eyes.

Kwami, she hated that it had gotten that far. Really, she hadn’t expected it. While it wasn’t at all shocking that Rena and Chloe were confrontational and Chat would cower, she hadn’t thought Carapace would snap at them.

Still, once she’d realized that things were escalating… she probably should have done something.

Not that she didn’t have a reason, because Ladybug always had a reason. She’d wanted to see their reasonings for why they could all be traitors.

… not that she genuinely thought there were traitors. The only person that was even slightly shady out of the lot of them was Rena, and she was pretty sure that was just because of her miraculous.

Ladybug clicked her tongue irritably.

How the hell was she supposed to prove to everyone else that they were all safe, though?

~~~

Taglist

@nathleigh @sassakitty @th1s-1s-my-aesthet1c @blueslushgueen @woe-is-me0 @ladybug-182 @cas-and-their-refusal-to-write @trippingovermyfeet @melicmusicmagic

#a miraculous tiktok account #ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #carapace #nino lahiffe #queen bee #chloe bourgeois #rena rouge #alya cesaire #chat noir #adrien agreste #miraculous team #miraculous fic #ml fic #mlb #chloenette #chlonette #adrino

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elsanna-shenanigans · 4 years ago

Text

June Contest Submission #13: sound of rain

Words: ca. 5,500 Setting: mAU Lemon: No CW: Angst, incest shame, mentions of driving in storms

What were Anna’s greatest fears, you ask? Well, for starters, she was scared of clowns. And spiders. And those Minecraft icebergs videos on youtube that always played creepy music in the background and promised to not discuss creepypastas of any kind (but were always lying. Those especially kept her up at night).

However, not even the most predictable jumpscare, which always sent Anna falling off her chair like the adult she was, could hold a candle to the way her stomach sank when her mother called that one night at 7 pm. Anna could barely hear her phone below the branches rattling against the windows and the heavy rain loudly splattering on their roof. She’d already been on edge since she heard the wind blowing a little bit harsher than usual. It resembled a woman’s shriek. But when she tiptoed towards her phone (like she did whenever she was spooked), she was thrust into a much more horrifying ordeal, one she’d been trying to avoid every time the chance came up. Her throat went dry. She clenched her fist.

“Anna, love, we won’t be able to make it home tonight.”

They’d leave them alone. The two sisters. Alone at night.

“We’ll stay with some friends. They live only a few blocks away from work.”

Heavy footfalls echoed down the stairs. A wretched feeling clawed at Anna’s stomach.

“We already told your sister. She’ll take care of you.”

Her sister. Elsa, her sister, who stood now on the bottom of the stairs, staring at Anna without interrupting this one-sided stream of words their mother poured into her ears. The shirt she wore was shoulderless.

Anna coughed.

“O-oh! Is it really that bad over there?”

“The streets are flooded, love. Crap, I think it’s only getting worse. We’ll leave in the morning as soon as it’s safe.”

Safe.

Anna swallowed.

“Is that alright? Do you need us? We… we could try to drive there if you’re scared.”

“No!” Anna blurted, startling Elsa. “Wait, what? No-no-no-no, you guys stay there. Elsa and I will be fine, right, Els?” She shot her sister a quick look. Elsa nodded. “We’ll… we’ll have a girl’s night. Paint each other’s nails and stuff. Easy-peasy!”

Elsa nodded again.

‘Easy-peasy’. Who ever said that? Why would Anna say that? It wasn’t easy-peasy at all.

Anna wasn’t an easily scared person. Sure, she used to snuggle with her sister during the scary parts of Sharkboy and Lavagirl, but that was in the past. She was a very responsible 18-years-old grown-up now. Planning a trip for her gap year once school was over and all. She wasn’t scared of spending a night without her parents, and she wasn’t scared of some rain. She wasn’t even scared of Elsa’s terrible cooking.

Something else that kept her on edge.

There was this boy at school. He was in her class. A senior, like her. He was funny. Cute, even. They liked to hang out during lunchtime and free periods. He was mostly nice to her, but there was this thing he’d said that day, just as a light rain began to fall. Just a tiny thing that stayed with her after school was over.

Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.

“Are you trying to stab your meal?” Elsa asked. Anna realized she was holding her knife above the poor tortured pasta. She must have been punishing it without noticing.

“Sorry,” she murmured, then placed the knife down. “I’m just… just…”

She looked up, and her heart sank a little. Her sister’s eyes were downcast, her expression melancholic and somber. She avoided her sister’s gaze.

Anna’s mouth shut.

She’d been getting too caught up in her inner ramblings.

“Are you alright? You look a bit down.”

Elsa smiled sadly and shook her head.

“It’s nothing.”

Anna squinted, studying Elsa’s expression. Her lopsided smile, her delicate hands on the table, her avoidant gaze.

“I know what’s wrong. You’re thinking about Honeymaren again.”

Elsa exhaled through her nose. It was that nose-exhale laugh that was barely a laugh, but Anna always counted it as one to add to her mental list of times she made Elsa laugh.

“Is it that obvious?”

“I just know that face. Your secret is safe with me,” Anna promised, with a smile. “Now, spill it. What’s on your mind?”

Elsa shrugged.

“I… don’t know. I feel like I wasn’t honest with her. About… how I felt.”

Anna frowned, but didn’t interrupt.

Elsa breathed deeply. She still avoided Anna’s gaze.

“It wasn’t fair for her. That is all.”

“Don’t you think your sister should know?”

The boy’s voice echoed between her ears. Anna resisted the urge to sweep her head from side to side.

Now she was avoiding Elsa’s gaze, and she was sure she was blushing. It must be visible under the kitchen’s cold light. Her leg began bouncing, almost on its own. It did that when she had too much energy. Or when she was uneasy.

A bitter feeling settled in her stomach. She could escape from her thoughts for some time but not forever. Everything was a potential reminder.

“Anna.”

Anna’s head snapped up. Her mind went blank for a moment.

She found her sister’s eyes locked with hers. They were kind. Gentle.

“Thank you for asking,” Elsa said. Anna’s heart gave a leap, because those eyes were on her, and her sister was gazing at her and that was such an unbelievable honor, to be seen by this wonderful woman.

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth again. She clenched her teeth. She gulped audibly. Her vocal cords seemed to be tied up.

In that moment, the need to tell her everything seized her. It was the need to be honest with Elsa and the need to get it out of her mind. She craved comfort and reassurance.

She had Elsa’s full attention, but no matter how much Anna wanted it, she held herself back.

Instead, she smiled and stood up.

“Come on. I’ll do the dishes.”

Because here’s the thing: Anna was a loving, caring, protecting soul. She liked listening to boys at school complain about their many brothers. She liked hearing about her parents’ work. She even liked hearing Elsa talk about her crushes, her fears, her college classes, or her ex-girlfriends. As she saw it, providing a safe space and a willing ear was a big part of loving others,

Another big part of loving others was knowing when to keep quiet.

There simply were issues you wouldn’t discuss with some of your friends. That’s just a fact. You probably wouldn’t gush about boys or girls with your grandma, and you wouldn’t ask your friends in sophomore year for help setting up a bank account. Ever since Honeymaren, Anna had been careful not to burden Elsa too much. She didn’t tell her about her falling-out with her best friend, Kristoff, or about her doubts and anxieties concerning college. Right now, Elsa needed peace and support.

Likewise, some matters belonged in the therapist’s office, and not in family dinners.

Anna wasn’t easily scared. This wasn’t fear. It was logic. It was making the smartest decision. Doing the right thing for the people you love.

Doing the dishes was soothing. Under the hard splash of the water, she could almost drown out the memory of the boy’s words (“You do know you’re obvious, right? Does she know you’re this obsessed with her?”) and the rough rain hitting the roof. It was getting louder. Heavier. She wondered if power would go out. She wondered if her parents were alright half a city away.

“We should call them before heading to bed,” Elsa commented. Anna’s twisted mind extrapolated some very wicked thoughts out of Elsa’s wording.

“Y-yeah,” she agreed, and her mind couldn’t come up with anything smarter to say, so she bit her lip and decided to leave it at that instead of clumsily rambling and risking saying something she didn’t mean.

Elsa waited for her to finish washing. It was awkward. Of the two, Anna was the only one who knew how to maintain a conversation (under normal circumstances, but sharing space with Elsa hadn’t felt like a normal circumstance in a very long time). So, Elsa, unable to come up with a thing to say, simply paced around the kitchen until Anna was done. She didn’t know why. Anna wasn’t providing much of a spectacle.

They headed to bed a few minutes later. A strong wind had joined the rain in their torment, and they both mockingly swirled around the house and scratched the walls and windows with their twig-claws and their cloud-shawls. If you looked out the window, you wouldn’t see an inch of asphalt on the streets: they were completely hidden by a glistening layer of rainwater. If you opened the window, you’d hear the vertiginous slosh of water against water. When Anna was fourteen, she and her family had gone to see the Niagara Falls (Elsa had held her hand the entire time), and the sheer thunderous loudness could put this city rainfall to shame, but it was the closest comparison Anna could find. It was harsh. It was maddening. It was growing louder and Anna’s gut was twisted into a tighter and tighter knot.

She gulped and decided not to look out the window.

She shot Elsa a quick half-assed goodbye and locked herself in her room, and then she sighed.

Safe at last.

Her room was a mess, but it was her mess. The kind of mess you would describe as encrypted data if you knew how encrypted data worked. Whatever. The point was that only Anna, with the use of her unique knowledge of her room’s jungle, could find lost phones, hairbands and socks among the piles of clothes and half-finished paper crafts scattered around the floor and on the carpet, which had been folded in half when Anna tripped over it, and she’d never brought herself to fix it. The boy band posters and continental maps on her wall were all about to fall off and her poor Duolingo Owl plushie somehow ended up under her bed. She rescued him, sat cross-legged on her bed, and hugged him to her chest, seeking some warmth and comfort. It… it was growing quite cold. She’d need to find another blanket. Somewhere.

She sent her parents a quick goodnight text, read some Supernatural fanfiction on her phone for a few minutes, and gave another try to her Duolingo course after being harassed by the feral green bird a little. She tried everything to distract herself from this odd empty feeling in her stomach.

It wasn’t that she was scared. Okay, sure: the loud whistling wind and the heavy rain did make her nervous, but that was ridiculous. She had no reason why. The one time her family had been stuck in a storm like this, they’d been driving down the road, in the dark, in the rain. A light flashed before them (a driver with broken headlights), and her dad hit the brakes. The wheels slid across the water. He lost control for a moment, her mother yelped, the car accelerated out of control and…

And then her father took control again. He’d steered the wheel in just the right way and drove them home safely. Anna didn’t even remember being scared back then. It had been like a rollercoaster for her, and she loved those.

Her sister didn’t deal with it as nicely. She had an anxiety attack and refused to get in the car for the following week. Anna had decided to join her mutiny in solidarity, and they ended up walking to school together for some time. Anna wasn’t sure how she did it, but her mere presence and support seemed to calm Elsa’s nerves, even if they were only eleven and fourteen at the time, and neither knew what to do in scary situations.

Funnily enough, Anna wouldn’t say she knew any better at eighteen. Elsa was older, so hopefully she did. Hopefully, she’d figured out the way.

Those were the main thoughts coursing through her mind when she heard her sister knock on her door.

“Anna? Are you awake?”

Anna… kind of froze. She gripped her plushie and faced the side of her room opposite to the door. Oh, what should she say? Was Elsa worried? Had she given her a reason to worry?

“No, I��m not!” Anna shouted back. Yes, alright. That would communicate she was awake if Elsa needed her, but she didn’t want to get up, all tied up with a little bit of humor to quell whatever anxieties were tormenting her big sister this time.

Anna’s anxieties, however? They squeezed her heart like a hand. Squeeze and release. Squeeze and release. Like a stress ball. Pounding blood. Into her ears. It was harsh and maddening.

A pause.

“I just wanted to say… if you need anything, I’ll be in my room.”

Anna nodded, even though Elsa couldn’t see her.

“Thanks!”

Her own voice sounded so loud. So hysteric. Was she hysteric? She felt hysteric. Too loud. She was vaguely aware of Elsa’s footsteps retreating.

Her heart sprang painfully. She’d worried her. She didn’t mean to worry her, yet at the same time hearing her leave only filled her with deeper desperation. The wind howled outside. It shook the whole house. Rain seeped through every nook and cranny. Power would go out. Anna was sure of it. What if a cable post was knocked down by the wind? What if a tree did? There was one right next to Anna’s room. If the wind blew in just the right way it could crush her.

She curled deeper into her covers. Oh, how she wished Elsa had kicked down the door and entered Anna’s room unannounced. She wished Elsa had stayed with her.

There had been a time in which Anna felt very safe in her sister’s arms, before she started to turn into something else. Back then, her hugs felt so warm and gentle and loving, like nothing could harm her as long as she stayed there. With time, her brain began to give them a different resignify them into something less wholesome. Something more… erotic. Anna couldn’t remember the last time she’d dared to embrace her sister.

When had that happened? Was it when Anna was in middle school and she began to admire her sister a bit more than usual for girls her age? Did she turn into what she was now when she realized what it meant? Was she born with it?

Anna was a brave girl, but the idea of being “born with it” was the most terrifying of all.

“You’re so obvious, Anna.”

It was stronger than her.

A low rumble in the distance. Loud. Louder. Followed by a flashing light.

Her heart stopped. Lungs stopped. Throat dried. Wind screamed and Branches rattled. Her muscles burned with tension as she gripped her plushie to her chest.

…Well, Elsa wasn’t coming for her. But she did offer an invitation. And… and she wouldn’t have to do anything. Anna would just sit there. In her room. It wasn’t odd or concerning for people to be anxious during storms. It was such a small and harmless weight to dump on Elsa’s shoulders, nothing at all like the words brewing at the bottom of Anna’s throat. Not a burden. Not something disturbing, scary, off-putting.

So she slid her legs off the bed, opened the door, and carefully tip-toed across the hallway, still holding the plushie, and then she knocked on Elsa’s door.

It took a moment.

“Come in.”

Anna sighed dramatically. She hesitated, but twisted the doorknob regardless and quietly slipped in.

Elsa’s room was nothing like hers. For starters, she had a huge periodic table on her wall. That should say enough about her place of dwelling. Still, cool science stuff aside, Anna could never help but notice the adorable baby pink bed covers on her bed, always so neatly laid, or her pristine wooden floors, the family photos hanging on the wall, on every spot free from scientific stuff and broadway posters. She had all of her hockey trophies arranged on a shelf, and a few embroidery supplies on her desk. On her bedside, there was a tiny door frame with a picture of her and Anna, on that Niagara Falls vacation. They looked so tiny and childish and innocent.

Elsa was already in bed, but she was sitting up and turning on the bedside lamp as soon as Anna entered. She wore a slightly-too-flattering white nightgown.

“Anna?”

Her gentle raspy voice broke Anna out of her thoughts. She blinked.

“Uh?”

“Is everything alright?” Elsa asked. Her loose hair was flawless. How could her hair be so flawless?

“Y-you mean me? Yes! Yes, I’m… totally good,” she stammered, then shifted on her feet, wrung her hands together and said: “I just… I-it’s pretty rainy outside, isn’t it?”

Elsa opened her mouth to speak, but then another crash of thunder shook Anna’s eardrums, and next thing she knew, she was cowering under Elsa’s covers like a scared puppy. Head hidden and all.

Her sister chuckled and stroked Anna’s head through the blankets.

“Are you still totally good?”

“…Maybe?” Anna squeaked. “I-I think I’ll be more good here.”

She could almost feel Elsa’s grin as her hand drifted down to pet Anna’s back.

“You know, I was wondering when we’d have a sleepover again,” she commented. “I worried you may think we’re too old for them.”

Anna’s head shot up from her blanket cocoon.

“What? You’re never too old for sleepovers!” She declared, at the outrageous claim. That got a laugh out of Elsa, and it was so beautiful and graceful, knowing she’d caused it made Anna’s heart soar.

“Then come here.” She laid down again, and Anna’s stomach flipped when she reached a hand across the bed and over her body. Eyes wide, brain dead, she could barely process what was going on until Elsa asked: “Do you want me to turn off the light?”

Oh. Oh, right. Yeah. The light.

Anna nodded. The whole goal was to fall asleep, after all. She, uh, she’d be fine without the light.

The lights went out with a click.

Elsa settled in bed.

Anna exhaled.

Without any sound other than Elsa’s breathing, the swoosh of the leaves and the whistling of the wind felt louder. There were more trees on Elsa’s side. No shit they were louder. Their branches swatted and scratched the poor tortured window.

The thunder was getting closer.

It echoed louder every time. Closer every time. And it sounded more angry and violent than before. Anna’s heart found solace in Elsa’s closeness but it still wasn’t enough.

Elsa seemed unaware of Anna’s growing restlessness. She needed a bit more.

“Elsa?” She whispered. Her sister hummed in response— a question. Anna could hear herself say the words in her mind but they sounded so pathetic and obvious she couldn’t bring herself to pronounce them— sisters didn’t say these things—, so instead, she just scooched closer, still hugging the plushie close as a barrier between her and Elsa, and an excuse to not wrap her arms around her. She timidly tucked her head under her chin.

Shame hit her right away— she was taking advantage of her sister’s ignorance. If she knew the truth, she’d never let her so close. Your family was meant to be your safe place. A refuge where you weren’t seen as a meal or an object of desire. Was this not the greatest form of betrayal? When you sought your family for safety and comfort, and they crossed the ultimate line by… by…

Elsa sighed and wrapped her arms around Anna, pulling her close. One of her hands delicately tangled into her hair.

For a moment, there was silence. And warmth. An unbreakable sense of love and security. All Anna could hear was Elsa’s beating heart and her breathing. Then, a kiss on the top of her hair.

“It’s okay, Anna,” she murmured. Anna blinked. Then blinked again. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t say a word. Elsa squeezed her tighter. “I got you,”

Anna’s eyes brimmed with tears. She held her breath and covered her mouth. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t right. Elsa didn’t know and she couldn’t know. It would hurt her so much, and all Anna wanted was to see her happy. And saying it out loud would mean it was true. That she could no longer hide from it. She had truly turned into something unredeemable.

She thought of that photo of them, when they were little.

When had that changed? When had she changed?

She shouldn’t be so close to her. This had been a huge mistake.

She sniffled.

“I’m sorry.”

She barely heard herself over the sound of rushing blood in her ears.

Elsa stiffened.

“For what?”

She sounded curious and worried at the same time, and Anna really should have shut her mouth, really shouldn’t have said anything at all. She was a hypocrite. She knew bringing this up was a horrible thing to do.

“Is it because you came looking for me?” Elsa asked. Now Anna had to give her answers. Any kind of answer. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t tell anything to anyone. This was her burden to carry and forcing someone else beneath it was cruel.

She nodded. Elsa’s hand kneaded her shoulder.

“You don’t have to be sorry for that.”

Anna shrugged her shoulders up to her ears. She was a hypocrite. A hypocrite. She remembered that time on a week-long school trip when, texting Elsa late into the night, she’d asked her if he was okay. Was she okay? Realization of her feelings had hit right as she was leaving and it now plagued her every thought like a leech latched onto her heart. She couldn’t tear them out. The trip was supposed to be fun but all she could do was roll her thoughts over in her head, disseminating them like frogs, desperately trying to find proof that she was still herself, that she wasn’t changing, that she could have these feelings for someone else, that he could have a future. And then Elsa sent her a text— “I miss you”— and Anna couldn’t keep her hands to herself. She shouldn’t have replied at all. But they talked and talked and talked until Elsa noticed something was off and asked about it and Anna wrote “I’m just scared because I feel something I shouldn’t and I always thought I was good and clean and safe to be around but I’m scared I may be sick and gross and I don’t know what to do I think I may die if this is true and I don’t want anyone to know and I’m so sorry I’m scaring you with this I shouldn’t be telling you this at all and I feel like a hypocrite telling you all of this—.”

She’d deleted the whole wall of text.

“I’m just a bit sleepy.”

Then she tried to go to sleep.

It should have been enough, shouldn’t it? Putting her thoughts into words helped her down the panic spike. Coming back home wasn’t as torturous as she’d feared. Seeing her sister wasn’t paralyzing or incapacitating. They could still play Mario Kart and watch bad Netflix originals together and sometimes, she could convince herself she’d been scared for nothing. The intensity dissipated. She felt safe again.

Then the panic came back.

Lightning flashed again and her whole body tensed up, as if struck herself. Elsa’s hand rubbed circles on her back.

“Anna,” she said. “Are you sure that’s all?”

Anna’s breath hitched.

“I-I…”

She couldn’t.

Elsa wouldn’t force her. She knew that. Anna only had to say she didn’t want to talk about it, and she’d drop it. She had the power here.

Yet her jaw was stuck open.

She heard thunder again. She’d come into Elsa’s bed in her own volition. She didn’t feel scared of thunder in her arms.

She could drop it. She could let the panic spike pass, but it would always come back, until she left forever (hopefully), until Elsa was nothing but a painful distant memory, but that wouldn’t make any of them any happier. A gaping wound left untreated.

No! No! She couldn’t tell her the truth! She couldn’t admit to being the kind of person who shows up in the news for others to morbidly gawk at, the kind of people who hurt their own flesh and blood, who hurt the people who trusted them the most. Her sister would try her damn hardest but she’d never be able to look at her in the same way. She wasn’t just ill. She was becoming part of the illness itself. It defined her whether she liked it or not.

She’d never tell anyone. But if she never told anyone, she feared the illness would never heal. That the panic would never go away for good. Oh, it would be so much easier if Elsa forced her to confess, if she had no choice at all. She wanted her to knock down her door, insist until Anna had nowhere to escape and then embrace her and promise she’d love her forever, regardless of what Anna changed into.

But Elsa didn’t insist after her original question. She waited silently for Anna to speak.

And someday, she’d stop asking, because she knew Anna wouldn’t reply.

One day, she’d stop knocking on her door and wait for Anna to come looking for her instead.

One day, she may even believe Anna was alright, and withdraw her offer of support. Then what kind of terrifying things would Anna have to do to feel her arms around her again?

Was that what she wanted?

Yes.

No.

One of her hands released the plushie and gripped Elsa’s nightgown.

“I need to tell you something,” she choked out.

Elsa’s hand on her back stopped.

“I’m here,” she reassured her, and Anna nearly sobbed.

She inhaled very deeply.

“I had a talk with this boy at school today, and I’ve been thinking about it all day.” She screwed her eyes shut. “I think there’s something wrong with me. F-for some time. I feel things that aren’t like me. Like… Like they’re things someone else would feel. And what does that say about me!?”

“I’m… sorry, I don’t think I understand,” Elsa said.

“Right,” Anna sniffled. “I’m sorry. I know this is coming out of nowhere and…”

“No, no, no!” Elsa quickly sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. “I want to hear you. What do you need?”

Anna’s heart swelled with love. How could she so easily capture her affections all over again?

She sat up with her. Their legs dangled down the bed. Elsa had some very pretty legs.

“I…” her heart pounded so quickly. “I feel things that are… wrong. And I don’t know how I could have these feelings! I really don’t want them. I want…” She wanted to be good. At school, at home, with her friends, she wanted to be the funny one. The cute one. The kind one. This huge stain in her heart changed that. It made her feel like a liar. “I feel like I’m not… me. Like this is so wrong I-I’m gonna disappear.”

Elsa breathed, slowly.

“It feels like a loss of identity,” she concluded.

Anna nodded. A complete loss of the self.

“Exactly,” she exhaled. Then she gulped. Her heart punished her ribs and it hurt but it had been easier than she thought.

A huge weight was lifted off her shoulders.

Elsa frowned, and looked Anna in the eye.

“Anna… listen. Whatever it is that you’re feeling, you’re still you.”

Her gaze was piercing and hard and protective and Anna could feel her throat go dry.

“But…”

“No. I want you to listen.” Elsa grasped her hands, and only then seemed to notice the plushie Anna had brought along. She smiled at it. “Do you remember why I got you this?”

“Because you were making fun of me?”

“Only slightly. I saw it in a store and remembered how excited you were about learning korean for your boy bands.”

“Their music is good! People are just mean.”

Elsa chuckled. They’d gone over it a million times already.

“I remember how you went over twelve different instruments in elementary school, until you discovered you preferred singing. I wish you would sing to me someday.”

Anna’s face burned.

“That would be very embarrassing.”

“I think you would be lovely.”

She had to duck her head and avoid Elsa’s gaze this time.

“You always liked arts and crafts, too. But you want to study social sciences in college. You always loved history, too. I still have that book about brave women of history somewhere. You had me read Joan D’Arc’s story out loud before you could read on your own. That one was always your favorite. You also kept a spider as a pet below your bed for a month because you said spiders deserved love, too, and you have maps hanging on your room because you want to travel the world, and you’re still deciding where to go on your gap year.” Elsa brushed her cheek with the back of her knuckles. Her stomach twisted and leaped. It was vertiginous. “You’re so much more than what you think you may feel, and I don’t think you’ve changed at all.” She tucked her hair behind her ear— “You’re so beautiful, Anna—,” and took a deep breath. “It’s why I fell in love with you.”

Anna blinked. Then frowned. Her mouth opened and closed. She looked at Elsa looking for a hint that she may be kidding but she looked so serious and shy and hopeful— but she was into acting after all, wasn’t she?

Anna coughed.

“Thank you.”

Elsa gave her a confused look.

“For what?”

“For trying to make me feel better”

Her frown deepened.

“You think I’m lying to you?”

Crap.

“Wait, what? That's… wait, that’s not what I meant.”

“I’m trying to be honest with you!”

Anna shook her head.

“But… but…”

Elsa watched her, waiting. She was so elegant and regal and beautiful and human.

“But you’re so perfect!”

Elsa averted her gaze.

“I’d doubt that,” she said. Her chest heaved. “I’m… Anna, I’m telling you this because… hold on, I’m understanding this correctly, right?” Fear crossed her eyes. “You feel the same way?”

Anna’s brain whirred like a train out of rail.

“Y-you mean…?”

Elsa nodded.

She gulped. Her stomach sank with shame. She covered her face.

“I didn’t want you to find out.”

“No, no, I’m…” Elsa vacillated. She was just as lost. “I’m glad you told me.”

…Okay, alright, alright. Anna needed to take a deep breath. And drink some water.

“I’m gonna get some water,” she said.

It took her like half an hour to find a bottle (one she wisely spent internally freaking out, because her sister felt the same way hersisterfeltthesamewayhersisterfeltthesameway), and when she returned, Elsa was right where she left her, sitting on her bed, staring at the periodic table on her wall and quietly reciting each element to calm herself down.

She had no business being so adorable.

“…So, you feel the same way?” Elsa asked a few moments later, after they both exchanged the bottle a few times.

“Yeah,” Anna replied. It felt thrilling and terrifying and liberating to say it out loud. “And you’re not…?”

“I’m not lying to make you feel better,” Elsa promised, leaning in and smiling at her. “I-I truly can’t believe it.”

Anna choked on her water, like a genius hersisterfeltthesameway—

“I can’t believe it either.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Elsa’s hand fell on hers, and it took her a second to realize this was permission— an invitation— her sister felt the same way— and she was allowed to squeeze back.

“W-what does this mean?” She asked. “I mean… what now?”

“It doesn’t mean we need to be in a relationship,” Elsa stated. The mere mention of a relationship nearly gave Anna a heart attack (the good kind). “We should… We should think things through. Take our time.” She glanced at the curtains. “It’s late. We can talk in the morning.”

“Y-yeah. You’re right.”

Neither of them moved.

Then, Elsa’s thumb trailed over Anna’s cheekbone, shily brushed over her chin. Warmth spread across Anna’s stomach and heart, and under Elsa’s loving, approving gaze, for once she felt like herself.

Her sister felt the same way.

“Can I kiss you?”

It was an unexpected surge of courage— she must be high on it. The words felt like dipping below the waves, like the vertigo of looking over the railing and watching the water fall.

Elsa smiled, shyly, nervously, and with a hooked finger guided Anna forward.

She’d never touched something so soft, so kind and gentle. She’d never felt so safe and loved.

“You’re still you.”

Still me.

She tightened her grip on Elsa’s hand.

The kiss was chaste. They pulled away. Hearts racing. So quickly. So loudly. They couldn’t even hear the rain.

Elsa beamed.

“Come on.” She tugged at her hand. “Let’s go to sleep.”

Perhaps it was raining outside. Anna couldn’t hear it. She could only hear Elsa’s rapid happy heart against her ear. Her eyes misted over but for an entirely new reason. She squeezed her sister’s waist.

“I love you, Elsa.”

She could almost hear Elsa’s heart picking up speed.

“I love you too.”

#elsanna #submission #june 2021 contest #prompt: storm #cw: angst

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verobatto · 4 years ago

Text

Destiel Chronicles

Vol. XCV

It was a love story from the very beginning.

And You Are Not Here... (Part. III)

(13x04)

Hello my friends! This is another meta from season 13. We are still mourning with Dean...

I'm gonna focus in just one episode, because I have a lot of things to say about this one. Obviously, the majority of the things have been already analyzed by the meta community.

But, let's see what we find...

Move on

Remember how the last episode ended, with Dean blowing out his feelings and pain to his brother, so, this episode starts with Sam trying to talk with his brother about that. And by that I mean: Cas.

SAM: Hey. How you feelin’?

[DEAN is working on his laptop. He looks up at SAM, but doesn’t reply.]

Sam understands now that fact he had always suspect, what really means to Dean losing Castiel. But Dean sees it coming and doesn't answer, because he knows he let his pain and mourn talking by themselves, and now he wants to come back to hide behind his walls. But Sam won't let that goes so easy. Another heated discussion about Jack brings the topic back.

SAM: Dean, we can’t hide him forever. And, you know, just keeping him cooped up here isn’t working.

DEAN: Yeah, it is, actually. You wanna know why? Because as long as he’s here, he’s not out there doing God knows what. So what, does this mean that your plan for bringing Mom back isn’t working? ‘Cause I’ll say it again—Mom’s dead, Sam. Lucifer ripped out her freakin’ heart. Now, the sooner you can wrap your head around that, the sooner we can all move on.

(Gif set credit @demondetoxmanual )

Look at this, Sam takes Dean's words and immediately repeats the ask but with another different meaning, aeaning his brother gets immediately. Sam tilts his head, and his eyes are searching for the answer in Dean's face, because he knows he won't have the answer in words from him.

These exchange of gazes is so so important, because Dean is saying "Are you really asking me if I can move on... From CAS?" Because is obvious Sam was implying that, for Dean, losing Cas was more painful and unbearable than losing Mary. "You want to move on, from mom?"

The pause, the coma, is pointing Sam is referring Castiel, not mom. Is not mom the one you want to move on, right?

Dean's silence is priceless, both men talks without talking, and both know what they're talking about. Of course Dean can't move on from Castiel. And Sam knows it. Because he experienced the same with Jess.

And Dean changing the subject after that is saying HE WON'T TALK ABOUT IT.

Lies and Toxicity

We have a beautiful scene between Jack and Sam, in which Jack snaps all the bad things he heard last night. But Sam explains to him, they need his help to bring Mary back, and Jack can connect again with S through the pain of losing their moms. And he gives the kid a tip to conquer Dean's sympathy.

SAM: (...) Listen, if there’s one thing that Dean respects, it’s effort. So come along. Help us out. Let’s go be the good guys.

So we'll see the kid really giving everything in this mission.

Another quote that caught my attention was Jack saying this:

JACK: I thought lying was wrong.

Just came to my mind episode 14x19, when Jack is sick of so much lies and turn the world into 'just truth's real madness!

And another foreshadow in the same episode we will have Cas coming back, they're talking about this ...

DEAN: (...) why’d she come back from the dead and knife his ass?

JACK: People come back?

SAM: When a person dies and their soul can’t move on…

Talking about this in this specific episode has a meaning: the wife, the woman that man loved coming back from the death, is a reflection of Castiel coming back at the end of this episode. Souls that can't move on, is talking about Dean and Castiel's decease.

Another thing that is pointed in this episode is Sam seeing the bad things of John Winchester in his brother.

Castiel in the Empty

As the preamble to Castiel in the Empty, we had this dialogue here...

JACK: My mother… could she be a ghost?

SAM: No, we, um… we burned the body.

DEAN: That’s right, and what gets burned… stays dead.

Dean is saying this to himself because they burnt Cas' body too, but this scene is cut and we jump into the next one: Castiel walking around the Empty.

Then, again, Dean goes with this quote here...

DEAN: So, aside from getting dead, what do Gloria and Wes have in common?

And the scene cuts to Castiel again, emphasis in loved people that was dead, and now comes back from it.

Another interesting scene is Dean finding Gloria's diary of mourning.

SAM: More of the same. Um, he really was into the whole catharsis thing.

DEAN: Yeah, sure. Who wouldn’t be? I mean, it’s like another word for “happy ending”.

Dean shows here he knows exactly what that is, and how you can feel when you lose the love of your life. The "happy ending" is a reference of a suicidal thoughts as another way out from the pain. And as we will see in the next episode, was a way out Dean was considering for himself. Also, the journal was made by John after Mary died, and was made by this widow, after his wife died. Is important because in the interview with MIA (the ship shifter therapist) she will ask Dean if he has a diary.

Sam talks about catharsis, as an important way to process the pain, and he really tried to make his brother to do that at the beginning of the episode. Failing.

MIA: Mm. Most of the people I see are in the same boat. No warning, no goodbye, no closure.

These words play an important role for Sam, Jack and Dean, in loosing their mothers and loosing Castiel.

They exchanged heated words again in front of Mia, Sam accusing Dean because he is not carrying well with the deaths, and we'll have again an indirect question, with second meaning. Sam will be talking about Castiel again. But then, and just like Dean did at the end of the previous episode, Sam will have his blow out about losing Mary. Is a blatant comparison between Romantic Love (CAS/Dean) and Family Love (Sam/Mary).

Sam leaves, and Mia points at Dean. Dean drinks from his flask. He was doing that and eating a lot, as he always does when he loses Cas.

MIA: (...) You’re angry, Dean.

DEAN: And?

MIA: And if you don’t want to do anything about it, that’s your business. But you’re aiming it at everyone in your life.

Dean will take these words and do something about it, at the end of the episode. But, I want to talk a little about visual Narrative here, because while Mia was talking with Dean, there was a picture behind her, with BLUE/GREEN AND RED COLORS (Destiel).

The scene between CAS talking with the empty that had taken his shape is intertwined with the shape shifter that took Dean's shape. This is very meaningful bc both creatures decided to take the protagonists of this love story shapes.

So, the Empty explains where Castiel is, and also, is baffled by the angel that woke him up. Is the first time someone wakes up in the Empty, and the entity is really mad at it.

But Castiel doesn't know why he woke up, so, he went with the first idea: Maybe the Winchesters did some deal or spell. But they didn't.

The Empty represents all the darkness inside of Castiel: his doubts, his depression, his fears, his weakness. So, the only way to keep him there SLEEPING (as the image of depression) is to point at the lack of faith in coming back, or in feeling himself loved or needed.

The following dialogue shows us how smart is our angel.

CASTIEL: Having me awake causes you pain.

COSMIC ENTITY: If you can’t sleep, I can’t sleep. Yeah? And I like sleep. I need sleep.

CASTIEL: Then get rid of me.

COSMIC ENTITY: Oh, should I, should I?

CASTIEL: Send me back to Earth.

Castiel immediately detect the point of it, and tries to give a resolution for both of them.

COSMIC ENTITY: Or I throw you so deep into the Empty that you can’t bother me anymore, hmm?

CASTIEL: Except you know that won’t work, or you would’ve done it already.

COSMIC ENTITY: Pretty smart. Pretty smart, dummy.

CASTIEL: Send… Me… Back.

The first conclusion CAS arrives is by his side. The only way the Empty can get some peace is sending him back to Earth. What Cas doesn't know is, the empty won't come back to sleep, ever again after this.

COSMIC ENTITY: That’s not part of the deal. No, no. Besides, you don’t want to go back.

CASTIEL: Yes, I do. Sam and Dean need me.

COSMIC ENTITY: Oh, save it.

When the Empty says SAVE IT, is because he knows the excuse is making CAS to come back, is not the real one he has in his heart. Oh, save it is not because of that, is because ONE MAN NAMED DEAN WINCHESTER.

Because immediately after this, the Empty mocks him about it...

(Gif set credit @petercapaldi )

Look at Castiel's face when the Empty refers to his feelings as TULIPS, because the tulips represents the perfect lover, passion and romanticism. The tulip is a symbol of sincere love. It is an incredibly romantic flower that when giving it you express infatuation, passion, unconditional love, pure love.

So, the Empty is saying here: save it, you are in love, you want to come back because you are in love.

To the Empty, is very disgusting, aberrant, and it annoys him. He qualifies it as "little feelings"

Because he's trying to erase the hopes in Castiel. So, he shows him he knows everything about him, and if he didn't understand at first with the tulips reference, he makes it clear now I KNOW WHO YOU LOVE.

And seeding again the depression, because he needs CAS sleeping or defeated, he continues...

Unrequited Love. The Empty exposes right in front of Cas' eyes the fear of being unrequited. With this, he is trying to show him WHY WOULD YOU COME BACK IF DEAN DOESN'T LOVE YOU BACK? He needs to cut any hopes in the angel.

And after this, he shows CAS l his mistakes, and fears, and regrets, and guilts. All the bad things, all his darkness, to put him back to sleep.

But then, Castiel gets it, he is already saved. And with more energy and hopes inside his heart, he faces the empty again:

CASTIEL You can prance and you can preen and you can scream and yell and remind me of my failings but somehow, I’m awake. And I will stay awake and I will keep you awake until we both go insane. I will fight you. Fight you and fight you for…ever. For eternity.

COSMIC ENTITY No. No.

CASTIEL Release me. Release… me.

Symbolism again! Castiel asking his own darkness and depression, and regrets to release him in that moment, he release himself from all of that and he returns stronger than never.

Lack of Faith

Back to Dean, Jack and Sam with the shape-shifters we can see another interesting visual element, next to Dean: Sunflower.

The sunflower is the symbol of the Sun and symbolizes love and admiration. But also happiness, vitality, positivity and energy. ... For some religions it is a symbol of the one who permanently seeks God, the divine, since the star king symbolizes God.

This could be linked to what Dean means to Cas, but I think is mostly what Cas means to Dean.

But jumping into the dialogues and the symbolism and parallel of having two Deans as we had two Cas, there's a little clue for a foreshadow...

Look at this, the scene is pretty blatant, we have Buddy, Mia's ex, obssesed with her, jealouse of her life, intertwined with the dialogue between Dean and Jack, showing how important Jack is.

So, Buddy is the Empty, Mia is Castiel. And the most important thing in there, is Jack... These are the ingredients and this is the dialogue...

BUDDY: I never stopped looking for you.

JACK: I can’t.

BUDDY: And when I found this place, when I saw all that…

DEAN: Yes, you can.

BUDDY: …warm, fuzzy good you were doing. I couldn’t let you have that.

Buddy is the Empty saying to Mia, CAS, that he will search for him in a future, and he will see his happiness, one of the most important persons to CAS is JACK, that's why the dialogues are mixed here.

DEAN: Sammy believes in you, and when he believes, he’ll go Hell for leather…

BUDDY:

So I took it all away, and it was fun.

DEAN …but you gotta try.

Again, the Empty mirror talking about taking all away from Mia, Castiel's mirror, and we have Dean talking to Jack. This is the foreshadow of 14x08, when the Empty will come for Jack in Heaven.

MIA You’re… you’re a…

BUDDY: What? A monster? Well, so are you. And it’s about time you embraced that. So I’m not gonna kill those boys. You are. You end them, or you die, courtesy of Tweedledee’s silver bullets. So what’s it gonna be, princess?

MIA: Shoot me. Shoot me!

And now we have Castiel's mirror giving her life in exchange for Dean and Jack. Just like CAS will do with his deal with the Empty in 14x08 and his ultimate Sacrifice in 15x18.

Now, the last scene. Sam is ready to move on from having faith but Dean will take the advice that Mia gave him. But in this attempt of stopping Sam from being like him, he will show again one of his deepest feelings...

(Gif set credit @aborddelimpala)

Dean had lost faith, hopes, because he lost Castiel. And Castiel represented all of that to him.

Sam is worried, and Dean just realized he said it. He had just showed his brother part of his depressive thoughts. And the sadness in his face is all over.

Miscellaneous: The address in Mia's office door was 219, this is a very interesting visual element, is a reference to episode 2x19, "Folsom Prison Blues", in which Sam and Dean were two prisoners, trying to show their innocence. Finally breaking free. As a foreshadow of the emotional prison we will see in Dean's possesion in episode 14x09.

To Conclude:

This episode is full of symbolism and is centered on Castiel and his storyline with the Empty.

The episode shows us too the pain carried by Dean, Jack and Sam in loosing the people they love and how each one of them walks through it in different ways.

Hope you like this meta, see you in the next one!

Tagging @magnificent-winged-beast @emblue-sparks @weird-dorky-little-d @michyribeiro @whyjm @legendary-destiel @a-bit-of-influence @thatwitchydestielfan @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @lykanyouko @evvvissticante @savannadarkbaby @dea-stiel @poorreputation @bre95611 @thewolfathedoor @charlottemanchmal @neii3n @deathswaywardson @followyourenergy @dean-is-bi-till-i-die @hekatelilith-blog @avidbkwrm @anarchiana @dickpuncher365 @vampyrosa @authorsararayne @mybonsai1976 @love-neve-dies @dustythewind @wayward-winchester67 @angelwithashotgunandtrenchcoat @trashblackrainbow @deeutdutdutdoh @destiel-shipper-11 @larrem88 @charmedbycastiel @ran-savant @little-crazy-misha-minion @samoosetheshipper

@shadows-and-padlocked-hearts @mishtho @dancingtuesdaymorning @nerditoutwithbooks @mikennacac73 @justmeand-myinsight @idontwantpeopletoknowmyname @teddybeardoctor @pepevons @helevetica @isthisdestiel @dizzypinwheel @jawnlockwinchester @horsez2 @qanelyytha

@destielle @spnsmile @shippsblog @robot-feels @superlock-in-the-tardis @superduckbatrebel @2musiclover2 @madronasky @anon-non2 @cea1996 @lisafu02 @asphodelesauvage @destiels-canonahhhhhhhhhh

If you want to be added or removed from this list just let me know.

If you wanna read the previous metas from this season here you have the links:

Vol. XCIII, XCIV.

Buenos Aires, January 3rd 2021 6:46 PM

#destiel #destiel chronicles #destiel meta #Supernatural meta #season 13 meta #13x04 meta #Castiel #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Jack Kline

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angelfishofthelord · 4 years ago

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sea of blue or aztec gold

(a fic for 12x16 where Claire got bitten by a werewolf except for Cas is there)

The three of them stand in the left corner of the motel room like some kind of conclave of the grown-ups. Claire picks at the chipped gray polish on her fingernails and stares at them between the sweaty strands of hair falling into her eyes. The British guy--was his name Miles or something--keeps twisting his feet around like he wants to leave. Sam and Dean’s voices rise and fall and she strains an ear to hear a few snatches.

“--maybe Cas--heal her--” comes from Sam and Claire shakes her head. No one sees it, of course, because nobody's even asking her. At twenty years old she’s seen more dead bodies than the average middle-aged adult but sometimes--like right now--she still feels like a kid. Like some wayward youngster who ruined the cake at a party and now everyone is trying to figure out how to fix it without causing a scene.

“--in the area--looking for Kelly--call him--” Dean rejoins.

She bites back a sigh. It looks like a decision has been made already, without the options ever reaching her. Closing her eyes she leans her head down into the crook of her arm and tries not to think about that blessed half second before the werewolf’s fangs sank into her skin. The split moment before her life disappeared and was replaced by the kind of nightmare she’s killed without a second thought

“Hey.” Sam puts his hand on her shoulder and she forces herself to look up. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” she shrugs. “You didn’t call Jody yet,” she adds, more as a hope than a question.

“Not yet. Cas is gonna come by and see if he can heal you. He should be here in under an hour.”

Her nose wrinkles and she hikes up the blanket around her shoulders, sliding deeper into the armchair. Castiel isn’t her parent, but he’s going to fuss over her and make that same face where the brow gets all twisted up in concern. Except for he has an additional look of a million or so years of sadness in his eyes, and she doesn’t really have the energy to pretend not to care about him right now.

“Let him know I said hi,” she murmurs, shutting her eyes again. Pretending to fall asleep is still the surest way to get grown-ups to back off.

She knows when Castiel arrives even before he speaks. His heavy, deliberate footsteps come echoing from across the room. They pause a few paces away and Castiel exchanges hushed words with Sam and Dean before moving closer and putting a hand on the armrest of the chair.

“Claire,” he says and for half a second she swears he sounds just like her dad. Not that she really remembers what her dad sounds like anymore; those memories have been too saturated with blood and confusion, too deeply buried to ever retain the clarity they once had. But there's so much gentle worry coiled around the sound of her name that she almost wants to launch herself into his arms and have him tell her a story that’ll make the bad dream disappear.

Instead she opens one eye and grunts wordlessly at him.

“May I?” he asks and waits until she nods before pressing two fingers to her forehead.

The buzz of grace streaking through her feels like downing a shot of migraine. When she flinches away he immediately pulls back. “I’m sorry,” he says, first to her and then to Sam and Dean who are standing next to him expectantly. “I can’t…the cells are already mutating. It’s beyond my power to-”

“Okay,” Dean cuts him off, tersely. Terrified. “So what now?”

What happens next is a Russian roulette of options. Dean tries to sell her on his plan of being a vegetarian werewolf who eats rabbit heart salads on the daily. Sam explains the details of a risky cure where the sole test subject died. The British guy sputters objections for both ideas, all the while looking more and more unnerved by the whole situation.

Castiel is the only one who says nothing. He sits there on the edge of the bed across from her, hands on his knees as he listens to everything being discussed. “It’s up to Claire,” he says tepidly when Dean presses him for an opinion. She wonders if he’s afraid to interfere in her life again. He still doesn’t say anything when she finally chooses to try the cure. The look on his face, on the other hand, is absolutely rife with sorrow.

In fact all four of them are staring at her with such piteous expressions that it makes her feel nauseous.

She blocks them out by pulling the blanket up and over her head as they discuss who’s going to go get blood from the werewolf who attacked her and who’s going to stay with her. Dean suggests him and Castiel for the hunting team, but Castiel disagrees.

“She could already be changing, we have no idea how fast this will happen. If something…” his voice drops, making the words even sharper to her ears, “…I should be here. I can heal.”

Claire decides that this is the point where she needs to muster up enough strength to protest. But the second she tries to stand up fireworks of pain go off through her body. She clamps down on her tongue to keep from crying out and works slowly, putting one foot down on the linoleum floor and then the other. The blanket drags behind her as she finally staggers to her full height, only to see there’s no one left in the room except for the British guy--Mick-- and Castiel. They’re standing an awkward distance apart, staring each other down with equal parts suspicion and contempt.

“Well,” Mick begins tentatively. “Someone should make sure the rooms beside us stay vacant so we are undisturbed during the…process. Perhaps we should also have some words with the manager, to keep her from being alarmed by anything she might hear.”

“Yes,” Castiel answers and then moves to position himself in front of Claire. The message is clear: he doesn’t trust Mick to be left alone in the room with her.

“I’ll do it,” Mick says hurriedly before turning and leaving the room.

Claire pokes Castiel in the shoulder after the door closes. “Scary,” she teases him.

Castiel turns around, the coldness in his eyes instantly replaced by soft strokes of concern. He reaches out to give her a hand as she sways in place. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” She latches onto his arm because her joints are on fire right now and it’s less humiliating to need support than collapsing and him having to carry her. “Just peachy.” The bed suddenly seems very far away. She concentrates on the ugly checkered bed sheet ahead of her like it’s the only thing in existence and pushes her body forward one half step at a time.

Finally her fingertips brush against fabric and she heaves her body over the bed with a groan. Every pore of her skin feels like a miniature furnace. She doesn’t have the strength to scream. She wishes she could, wishes she had a set of lungs that could strip the glass from the windows with a long, curling howl.

Cool petals of water brush against her forehead and she realizes that Castiel has put a wet towel on her forehead. It doesn’t do much to actually dim the fire raging through her veins, but the familiarity of the action is comforting.

“I’m sorry,” he says. The mattress creaks from the corner where he’s taken a seat. “I know how hard this is. You are an incredibly brave young woman.”

“Doubt that angel can get turned into werewolves,” she mutters.

“No, but--” he stops, prompting her to peer up at him from the corner of the towel.

“What?”

He’s sitting there with his hands in his lap again. “Well, I have been poisoned or infected by...things before. It may not be the same but... I know how hard it is to stay in control of both body and mind. What you’re doing, even now, is a testament to your great strength of will.”

“Wait.” Claire tries to push herself up on one elbow but only manages to lift her head a few inches. “When were you infected with what?”

“You should get some rest,” is his response as he leans over and fits a pillow under her head, then moves around to tuck the blanket around her chin. His fingers graze the side of her cheek; they feel like a bouquet of icicles. She leans into the touch desperately and his eyes cloud with sympathy.

“Your cells are in chaos right now. Your body, your immune system is trying to fight off the mutation,” he explains. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Do you want to call--”

“No,” she says, loudly and quickly. If she allows herself to think about calling Jody--and hearing her voice--she’s going to dissolve on the spot. “Just--talk to me. Tell me about what happened when you were infected. What, was it like an angelic version of the zombie virus?”

Castiel sits down on the bed, still half on the edge like he’s unsure of how much space he’s been invited to take up. “No, there were several different--the first time was years ago.” He stalls, eyes growing distance even as they fixate on the floor below him. “I was full of souls from Purgatory. I…needed them to defeat Raphael. But then the power of those souls changed me. I thought I was God,” he finishes in an embarrassed mumble.

There's a lot to absorb from those few lines but above all the idea of this mild, awkward angel pretending to be the Almighty is what stands out to her. “You?” she laughs faintly. “What did Sam and Dean think of that?”

continue reading on ao3

#my fanfic #whump #claire novak #spn 12x16 #body horror #mutilation #dadstiel #castiel #spn fanfic #hurt comfort

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abraxos-is-toothless · 5 years ago

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Where’s the Baby?

So I finally posted a part 2 to Coming Home. I have linked it, if you missed it. Though you probably did as I posted it a while ago.

I might work on more parts to this if you like it or if there’s something you’d like to see.☺️

—————

Stepping through the door to the townhouse brought Azriel a different sense of comfort and happiness than walking through the door of his and Elain’s cottage, despite that though, he still had to pay certain people a lesson in the training room. He had Luka in his arms as they rounded the corner to the sitting room. It was difficult to let his baby go ever since he’d returned home. Feyre and Rhys, were snuggled together on the sofa listening to whatever nonsense Cassian was spouting from where he was perched on the arm of Nesta’s chair while she read, unbothered by her mate’s bullshit. Mor was drinking a glass of wine, no surprise there, on the floor as she annoyed Amren, who was trying to put together yet another puzzle.

Mor squealed when she saw them in the doorway, even though Azriel knew she had scented them the minute they got within a few feet of the house, and was instantly making a grabby motion for Luka. He reluctantly handed him over after placing a quick kiss to the boy’s cheek, listening to his delighted giggles. Turning to his High Lord and Lady he gave a small nod and moved to stand behind them.

Cassian was clearly ecstatic to have him home, grinning from ear to ear as he asked “Care for a drink, dear brother. Rhysie just got a new batch in and I can vouch that it tastes wonderful.”

Nesta, without taking her eyes off of her book, reached over to pat Cass’ thigh. “That my love, is because you’ve drunk a whole bottle every night since he bought it. If you do so again tonight, you’ll be sleeping outside.”

His brother quickly shut his mouth, pouting as he stared wistfully at his nearly empty glass of liquor. Azriel couldn’t help the roll of his eyes.

“I’ll do a taster in a moment Cass, but first, there’s just one thing I need to do.” As soon as the last word left his mouth he banged the High Lord and Lady’s head together.

“Azriel!” his wife shouted. She’d gone slightly red in the cheeks and was looking at him sternly. He would deal with that scolding later, she was beautiful when she was angry and could always be soothed by his clever hands and tongue, before she was begging for something bigger.

Cassian was howling with laughter and nearly fell off of the chair, Mor had an astonished look on her face, Amren was smirking and Nesta had finally put down her book. It was difficult for Nes to be interested in much, so he felt quite proud in grabbing her attention. Meanwhile there were two sets of eyes glaring up at him.

Rhys was the first to recover, healing Feyre before himself as he said, “What the fuck was that for Az?”

“That was for sending me away on a ridiculously long mission and making me miss my son’s first steps.” His High Lord turned sheepish and guilty then, as if he had known already what he had caused and had most likely been punishing himself since. “As for you,” he pointed an accusing finger at Feyre “you know exactly what you did.” He said it with a blush, trying to push away the thoughts of how sinful Elain had looked in those leggings.

The High Lady of the Night Court just gave him a coy smile, and turned back to watch as her nephew pulled on Auntie Mor’s hair.

“You both owe me a few hours in the training room as payment, no holds barred.” He wouldn’t ever use even half of his full power against his family, but he felt some kind of sick satisfaction to watch as they gulped. He turned away from them then and began walking back over to his wife, but just before he got to her side, there was a quiet beat of tiny wings and Azriel turned in time to see his son disappear into shadows.

It took a few seconds to register what had happened but then Elain let out a small sob, calling out to Luka, and kicking everyone into action. Feyre began winnowing through each room of the townhouse, Rhys reached out with a tendril of power searching for any little thing and Az had stepped into his own shadows to search, while the rest searched all of the little nooks and crannies. When he stepped back out, everyone was back in the same room and he pulled Elain into his chest as Mor gravely shook her head at him.

“His shadows must be different to mine, I can’t see him anywhere.�� Elain sobbed harder at that and so he just squeezed her tighter.

Rhys held a pained look on his face as the girls gathered their coats, planning on checking the gardens. “I can scent him but there’s no specific place, and I can hear muddled thoughts that don’t make any sense at all. It’s almost like he’s masking himself.”

Nesta spoke to her sister now, but he wasn’t totally sure his wife was paying any attention. “You’ve taken him to the gardens since he was born El, he might have gone somewhere he knew best and felt most comfortable. We’ll find him.”

Just before anyone could make it even three steps to the door, there was snap in the air and there were vague shadows gathering before Cassian was yelling out in pain. They all turned to the commander abruptly, stunned silently at what they saw. Luka was now sat atop his brother’s shoulders, pulling on fistfuls of long dark locks as he squealed “go’choo ass!” followed by a fit of giggles as Cassian held onto his chubby little legs. Elain let out a relieved breath, much like the rest of them, and proceed to translate baby talk at their confused faces.

“He says ‘got you, Cass!’ I think someone has been in the room too much while you boys have been discussing sneak attacks and strategy.”

Cassian finally mastered his astonishment at being bested by a child and pulled his nephew down from his shoulders and held the boy up in front of him. “Got me huh? That was quite a clever trick, little one, so much like your daddy.” And then he threw him up in the air, before taking him off to the kitchen, finding him his favourite soft biscuits no doubt. Cassian missed the awed look Nesta gave him as he left.

Azriel turned to Elain as the rest soon followed the sound of blabbering, baby and soldier alike, and cupped her face in his palms.

“Thank you my love, for blessing me with such a mischievous little boy. There’s never a dull moment with you, dearest.”

If he’d been drinking during her next words, he surely would have choked.

“I want another one.” She said it as if she’d been thinking on it for a while, and with a hint of nervousness, like she was scared he would say no.

“Are you sure? Luka is only just nearing a year old Ellie.”

“But girls are much easier. A sister may calm him down, and even give him a sense of responsibility as he grows older.” His wife smirked slyly at him before continuing, “Besides Feyre said they’d watch him tonight, to give us some alone time since you were gone so long.”

He leaned in and nipped at the point of her ear and whispered, “Naughty little temptress.”

He felt the shivers wrack through her body as he grabbed her hips and winnowed them home faster than he ever thought he had.

—————

Want more parts of there’s something you wan to see? Just let me know and I’ll do my best to get them out:))

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cinaja · 4 years ago

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Before the Wall part 41

Masterlist

----

Getting the Autumn Court into the Alliance is easier than expected. If it had been a Continental country that sold out an emissary to the enemy, it would have taken centuries for any other country to even consider associating with them again. But the Autumn Court is from Prythian, and Prythian has always been an outsider in Continental politics, so Miryam only received a few odd looks for championing its case.

It certainly helped that most of the Alliance members had more important things than a Prythian court changing sides to consider lately. In the past months, they managed to win more and more ground, pushing the Loyalists back further and further and advancing into their territory step by step. Each mile they win is bought in blood, and the Loyalists seem to become more brutal the more desperate they become. Still, the Alliance is moving towards complete victory quickly enough that most of the Fae members deem the time right for the first discussions about what to do after they have won.

Like most humans, Miryam desperately wishes they’d postpone their discussions until after they have actually won. Their new unity is fragile enough as it is, and the last thing Miryam wants is to watch it shatter over another useless argument. Besides, the Fae seem interested only in possible new territory, money and trading rights for them, and Miryam couldn’t care less about that as long as there are still millions of humans living in slavery.

“I believe we are taking the fifth step before the first,” Miryam says not for the first time. “Before we argue about what to do with our defeated enemies or their land, shouldn’t we finish defeating them first? Or we could figure out a way to safely free the humans from slavery.”

She looks around the table, hoping for nods of agreement, but except for Drakon, Zeku and two or three other Fae, most of them seem doubtful. Miryam pushes her disappointment down. The human side of the Alliance has been more unified than ever, but the Fae have been causing trouble lately, pushing back against Miryam’s suggestions more than they ever did. If she could only make them understand that this war isn’t just about power or land or politics, but about ending slavery.

“Treaties take time,” Emperor Shey says. He’s the ruler of one of the northern territories and is in the comfortable position of having his country remain mostly untouched by the fighting. “It is best for us to at least begin discussing now so that we can all agree on the terms of surrender we’ll offer the Loyalists.” He nods to Miryam. “And as for the human slaves, their liberation will of course be included in our terms.”

As if it would ever be so easy. No one here seems inclined to discuss what they will do if the Loyalists decide to use their slaves as hostages. She hasn’t heard anyone bring up where they will go after the war, either. Maybe they don’t care. Miryam knows for a fact that Shey doesn’t.

Drakon taps his pencil on the table. He’s been attending more Alliance meetings since discussion shifted towards what would happen after the war. He usually stays out of the political disagreements, but the actual machinations of creating a stable new system are right up his alley. He’s certainly better at it than Miryam, and, as it turns out, also better than several of the other rulers who seem to mostly rely on their advisors for these things.

“Perhaps we should try to centre our efforts around the humans, though,” he says. “We are talking about several million slaves who will get freed. That’s far too many for them to simply disperse into the pre-existing human countries, and I doubt they’ll want to live under Fae rule. Territory lines will need to be redrawn, new countries created. This is what we ought to be discussing first if we truly want to talk about what will happen after the war.”

Miryam could have kissed him. The other human councilmembers seem pleased as well. Drakon is well-liked with them, if only for being one of the few Fae to treat them as equals and actually care about ending slavery. And having a Fae agree with them just makes everything so much easier.

“We can’t simply create new territories,” Shey scoffs.

Nakia rolls her eyes, muttering something to Andromache. Her obvious disgust probably isn’t helpful, but certainly understandable. If Miryam wasn’t being watched so closely, she would have spent most of the meeting rolling her eyes.

“Which is why Drakon said that we should start discussing it now,” she says pleasantly. “Do you disagree, Your Excellency?”

Shey clearly does, but he can’t disagree without saying that he doesn’t care what happens to the freed humans after the war. And that would not go over well with the council. For all that many Fae don’t actually care, they certainly like to pretend they do.

“No, of course not.” He inclines his head at Drakon. “Please, go on.”

As Drakon begins to outline the challenge they will be facing once the war is over – enormous, so much bigger than anything Miryam could have imagined – she keeps watching Emperor Shey. Sometimes, she wonders if he remembers her from before the war started. She certainly remembers him.

When Miryam was fourteen, Shey visited the Black Land on a diplomatic mission. She doesn’t remember the exact reason – some trade agreement if she isn’t mistaken – but she does remember Shey, blond-haired and tall, with eyes like shards of ice. She remembers standing behind the high table together with Liki, the newest of Ravenia’s personal slaves. Liki had been Miryam’s age, but he’d seemed endlessly younger and it had been clear from his first day that he wouldn’t last long. (Not that anyone ever did.) Miryam had made sure he would tend to their guests that night, leaving her to Ravenia, hoping he would at least survive the day if she kept him away from the queen who had been in a foul mood that day. She had been wrong.

It had just been a drop of wine spilled on the Emperor’s sleeve. A minor mistake, yet a death warrant for any slave of Ravenia’s. But the queen hadn’t noticed Liki’s mistake, had been busy with her own food. And she wouldn’t have needed to see. If Shey had just let it slide. He had to own hundreds of coats, with money enough for thousands more; the stain should have been nothing to him, but he’d still made a fuss. And so Liki had died.

Miryam remembers how he screamed, how he kept looking at her as he died, like he expected her to save him. She remembers kneeling in the blood, ordered to wipe it away. And she remembers Shey’s cold eyes watching her, not a hint of sympathy or guilt to be found in them.

She looks into those eyes now, power whispering alive inside her, and she is sure that he doesn’t remember that day, doesn’t remember Liki or her. And she despises him for it. Shey meets her gaze and for a moment, Miryam hopes he sees the disgust in her eyes even when her face doesn’t betray anything.

She allows the memory to linger for a moment longer before pushing it away again. She always does it this way – carefully dips her feet into the memories like a child testing the temperature of water, allows herself to feel the anger for a few moments before pushing it away again. She doesn’t want that anger, doesn’t want these memories. They come with a roaring fury, and Miryam doesn’t know what to do with that, can’t reconcile it with the person she wants to be.

Shey is still watching at her, so Miryam gives him a small smile, forcing any coldness out of her eyes. Then, she turns a back to Drakon and starts listening to what he’s telling the council.

After another hour of discussions, they decide that they won’t be able to solve this problem in one sitting and that they’ll bring experts in on the issue. Miryam thanks everyone for their time and gets up. Drakon follows after her.

“Thank you for the help,” Miryam says.

“Sure.” Drakon tugs at his clothes. “Their priorities are really messed up. Discussing what will happen after the war is important, but they focus on all the wrong things.” Miryam nods and Drakon continues, “I’ve been working on a proposal. For what to do after the war, borders and such. I thought we might use it as a starting ground, but I’m not sure if it’s good enough. Would you read over it for me?”

“Of course,” Miryam says.

Why he asks for her help with this is beyond her. She read over a few of his ethical essays already, which did make sense with most of the texts being about slavery. But this isn’t another essay that will be published and spread around the soldiers. This is a proposal for the council outlining a possible way to deal with the aftermath of the war, and Miryam, who never spent a day of her life in school and doesn’t know anything about laws or treaties, is probably the least qualified person to comment on it. He should ask Andromache or Nakia. But if Drakon is nervous about the council’s reaction and having Miryam read the text first, she’ll do it.

Drakon snaps his fingers and a folder with at least fifty pages appears in his hands. Miryam gapes at it.

“When did you write all that?” She asks.

He shrugs. “It was clear from the beginning that the war would end eventually and we’d need a strategy. I started early.”

Miryam shakes her head and takes the papers. “You’re brilliant,” she says lightly. Flips through the pages. “I’ll read this as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.”

Miryam would have liked to talk more about the contents of that proposal, but now, the other councilmembers are beginning to leave the room and Miryam doesn’t really feel like talking to any of them. She hugs Drakon goodbye and makes towards her rooms.

Once there, Miryam closes the door to her office behind herself and leans her back against it, pressing her head against the cool wood. Tasia, who is sitting behind Miryam’s desk, grins at her.

“From the look on your face, I take it the meeting went well?”

Miryam groans and pulls one of the chairs over to sit down on. “If they could at least pretend to care about anything other than themselves.”

Tasia nods to a half-eaten plate that’s carefully balanced on top of a huge stack of papers. On it, a light dinner has been laid out, already half-eaten. “Want some?” They ask, snatching an olive up from the plate. “Food doesn’t exactly solve any problems, but it usually makes them more bearable.” They grin at Miryam. “Unless it’s poisoned. Then, it actually can solve problems.”

Miryam blinks at them, then laughs and takes up a slice of garlic bread. “Remind me to never get on your bad side. I’d never be able to eat again.” She leans against the edge of the table and nods at the paperwork. “Anything important today?”

“Isn’t there always?” Tasia leans back in the chair. “But most of it can wait until tomorrow if you aren’t up to it today.”

“Yes, I think that would be for the best.”

It has less to do with feeling up for it and more with the proposal Drakon prepared for the council. Reading over it will take a while, especially since Miryam rarely understands proposals like this on the first try.

“Smart,” Tasia says. “I think I’ll call it a day soon, too, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Miryam smiles. “And remind your brother to take his medication, yes? His cough won’t get better if he doesn’t.”

“I will.” Tasia gets up, but then, their gaze falls on three envelopes lying on the edge of the table. Thick, expensive paper. “Oh,” they say, picking up the envelopes. “I think these might be important, actually. I haven’t opened them, but they seem to be directly from the respective royal families.”

“Then I better take a look,” Miryam says, frowning down at the letters. She occasionally gets letters from Continental royals. One a day is normal. Two is unusual. Three means trouble.

“Have a nice evening,” she says, managing a smile at Tasia, and slips into her chambers.

Miryam’s room is uncomfortably cold and she kneels down before her stove, trying to light a fire. There is an entire host of servants working in the palace, but Miryam outright refused to let any of them work for her. She spent too long working in a palace and even though she knows all of the servants work here of their own free will and get paid for the jobs, she still couldn’t stomach having any of them look after her room.

As soon as the fire is burning, Miryam sits down on the sofa and pulls a blanket up to her chest. She lights a candle and rips open the first letter. With each word she reads, the knot in her stomach tightens. With numb fingers she opens the next letter. And the next. The same messages, just with slightly different words.

Miryam’s power stirs. Instead of slamming it back down, she tries to sooth it. Gently talks it down until it settles again. Then, she jumps to her feet and stalks over to the door. Four guards are posted outside, and all of them incline their heads when she opens the door.

“Good evening,” Miryam says. “Could one of you please send a messenger to Grand Duke Zeku to tell him that I need to talk to him?”

Zeku arrives quickly. Because of propriety, Miryam waits until he has taken his seat and they both have a cup of tea standing before them before bursting out, “Why did I find official requests to be allowed to court me from three separate Fae royals on my desk today?”

Zeku takes a sip from his tea and leans back in his chair. “I’m surprised that you’re surprised,” he says. “Surely you are aware that should we win this war – which becomes more and more likely with each day – you will be a very profitable match. You’ll hold quite a bit of political power.”

Political power and arrogant Fae be damned. Miryam can’t believe what she is hearing. “And they honestly expect that I would marry them to – what? Advance their political standing?”

Shrugging, Zeku takes another sip of his tea. He seems completely unfazed by the situation, which just agitates Miryam more. “But you can’t ignore the fact that such a match would be beneficial for you as well,” he says, “You are in an extremely difficult situation politically, without an army or any close political alliances. Marrying into one of the Continent’s more influential royal families would give you what you have been lacking: A security net for when this war ends.”

Rationally, Miryam knows that Zeku has a point, but this idea is just completely absurd. She takes a deep breath and forces herself to calm down. She can’t be freaking out like this in front of him.

“But I don’t want to marry any of them,” she says as reasonably as possible, “I barely even know them.” And what she knows, she doesn’t like.

“It’s not like there is a shortage of candidates for you to pick from. I’m sure any Continental family would be happy to have one of their members marry you. Cauldron, I would marry you if you agreed.”

Miryam gapes at him. “I can’t marry you,” she says. It’s completely impossible. For about a million reasons, the least of which being – “You are over five hundred years older than me.” She shakes her head. “That’s…” Disgusting, she wants to say, but she catches herself just in time. There are rules and protocols for these situations and none of them allow for her to be impolite about her refusal. “I am honoured by the offer,” she says carefully. “But you’ll forgive me if a marriage to anyone who is this much older than I am is out of question for me.”

Zeku inclines his head. “Of course,” he says, “And I apologize, I should not have phrased my offer so carelessly. I realize how it may have been misinterpreted, but I can assure you that I have no romantic or sexual interest in you.” He smiles. “I, too, prefer romantic partners who are closer to my own age. But I think your view of political marriages is slightly off.”

“Oh.” Miryam relaxes a little. Zeku accepted her refusal easily enough, he isn’t trying to push her. And he isn’t actually interested in her, it was just politics.

“I’m not sure if you know this,” Zeku says, “but it is common for political marriages to be sealed with a contract defining the terms.” He drains his cup of tea, then refills it. “Now, on the entirely theoretic assumption that you and I decided to marry.”

He pauses to look at Miryam, as if to check how she will take the comment. She nods at him to go on. Now, she’s more curious than upset.

“Well, in that theoretic case, the contract would probably include a clause forbidding any sexual interaction unless explicitly agreed upon by both parties. It would also allow both of us to have as many lovers as we wish. You and any children would be barred from inheriting the throne, although agreements could be made to provide for your children, should you want them.” He says all of that in a completely cool, analytical tone. This truly isn’t about feelings for him. It’s just another contract, another way to seal an alliance. “On the political side, I assume you would receive a certain amount of political power in Sangravah, although you would not have equal power to me. That would be theoretically possible, but you are a bit too inexperienced for me to be comfortable with putting you in charge of my country. You’d be required to spend a certain amount of time in Sangravah for administrative purposes and I’d require you to join me for foreign politics, as I’m sure you guessed, but you could spend the rest of your time wherever you want.”

Miryam nods slowly and takes a sip from her tea. “That’s rather impressive,” she says slowly.

Zeku shrugs. “Honestly, these types of marriages are more like close alliances than romantic unions. Usually, they also include some political benefits for the countries – trading rights, military alliances, something like this.” He taps his fingers against his cup. “I’m surprised Drakon never mentioned it to you.”

Now that Zeku mentions it, it does seem strange to her that she never heard of it. But of course, they don’t talk a lot about his engagement with Ravenia. She knows that he and Jurian discussed it a few times, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement not to mention Ravenia in Miryam’s presence if not absolutely necessary.

“I still don’t want to get married, though,” Miryam says.

Zeku sighs. “I don’t want to be push you on this,” he says, “but I’d still ask you to reconsider. You don’t seem to realize how precarious your situation is. It doesn’t have to be me, but marrying into any Continental royal family is your best shot at getting out of this.”

Miryam wraps her arms around herself and doesn’t answer. The entire discussion makes her skin crawl. Even with a contract protecting her, she hates the idea of such a union.

“You’d have every protection,” Zeku says. “Nearly every freedom.

But that doesn’t matter, none of it does. Because Miryam looks at the Continent’s elaborate marriage contracts, and all she can see is that they look a whole lot like purchase contracts. What Miryam needs is protection, a security net for her political games, and in return for that, she is selling herself.

And she hasn’t come this far just to end up selling herself to another owner.

Maybe it’s stupid, but she doesn’t want to marry any of the people who proposed to her. Not even Zeku. As close as they are as allies, the thought of marrying him terrifies her. Maybe it would be different if it was someone she could imagine spending the rest of her life with, maybe someone she actually loved – if it was Drakon, she doesn’t think she would mind. But it isn’t, and if what her political survival requires is for her to sell herself, then that isn’t worth it.

“If I’m lucky, this war will be over soon and none of this will ever concern me again,” she says, trying to convince herself as much as Zeku. As soon as her people are free, she will disappear from politics. Then, these Fae nobles can go find someone else to marry. If not… She’ll deal with it then. “Either way, I’m going to refuse. Would you read over the letters for me?”

Zeku’s mouth tightens with displeasure, his blue skin seems do darken a few shades, going from the light blue of a cloudless summer sky to the deep, angry colour of a stormy sea. Miryam can’t tell if he’s actually worried on her behalf, or just annoyed at the missed opportunity. She doesn’t doubt that Zeku cares about her in a way – otherwise, she’d never go to him for advice – but she isn’t stupid enough to believe that he has no ulterior motive in helping her. He benefits from their closeness as much as she does, for while his backing gives her some small level of security, being her ally brings him as close to the leadership of the Alliance as he can get in the current political situation. It is entirely possible he had hoped to advance even further by marrying her.

“Of course,” Zeku says. “As you wish.”

----

“I can’t stay long,” Drakon says as the door closes behind him.

“What a pleasant greeting.” Ghost appears before him. He’s wearing his Black-Land-human look again. Ever since he met Miryam, that seems to be his favoured look.

“Sorry.”

Drakon sits down on the ground and unwraps the lunch he brought along. He is near-certain that having lunch in a sacred cave counts as a direct insult to the Mother, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. If she minds, she can come over here and tell him herself. Maybe blasphemy will do what countless prayers didn’t and get his goddess to care about what’s going on here.

Now that he thinks about it, his frequent meetings with Ghost might have a negative influence on his relationship to his goddess.

“What has you so stressed this time?” Ghost asks.

“There was another attack last night,” Drakon says. Over the past months, he’s grown so used to talking to Ghost that any awkwardness vanished long ago. “Three hundred dead.” He rubs a hand over his face and looks down at his food. He’s been up since two in the morning and hasn’t had anything to eat yet, but he finds he isn’t hungry at all. “And I have to be in Telique for an Alliance meeting in less than an hour. It’s about that proposal I told you about.”

And once he’s done with the council, he’ll probably get an earful from Sinna for slipping his guards again. They’ve gotten into arguments over that several times already. Sinna thinks him reckless for continuously going out without guards, and Drakon can’t explain to her where he’s going.

“You go to Alliance meetings?” Ghost asks.

Drakon makes a face at him. “Funny,” he mutters.

But he has to admit that he probably went to more council meetings in the last month than the entire rest of the war. Now that they are discussing subjects he’s comfortable with, the meetings are far more bearable. A few of the other royals actually seem to respect him. At least a little bit.

“How is Miryam?” Ghost asks.

“Well.” Drakon grins. “Arguing around with the council, but what’s new? She’s getting better at dealing with her powers, though.”

“Good to hear.” Ghost disappears and reappears in a sitting position facing Drakon. “And the two of you? Still as close?”

“Yes,” Drakon says and feels his face heat. For some reason, Ghost is fascinated with both Miryam and their relationship. The interest in Miryam, he understands, but it makes Drakon somewhat uncomfortable that he keeps asking after their relationship.

Especially because Drakon has a hard time answering. Something has changed between Miryam and him in the last months, but he can’t quite explain what it is. They’ve certainly grown closer, but there is also something different, something new between them. He hasn’t dared to mention it to Miryam out of fear that she doesn’t feel the same way, but he is sure that there is something.

It’s just so confusing. He knows he loves her, but he isn’t entirely sure if he’s also in love with her. Either way, he’d never dare to talk to her about it.

“Don’t worry,” Ghost says, “I won’t ask.” He grins. “Besides, I’m probably the last person who should try to meddle in anyone’s relationships.”

“What do you mean?” Drakon asks, frowning. Ghost keeps making hints at what can only be his life, but he never says anything concrete.

“Just that my track record when it comes to falling in love isn’t the best,” Ghost says in a tone that makes it clear he won’t talk further on it.

Drakon nods and looks down at his uneaten food. He won’t have time to eat it now, he has to be off to the council. The other members are only just beginning to accept him, and he doesn’t want to squander that by turning up late. Sighing, he gets up, but Ghost calls him back.

“Before you go,” he says, “There’s something you should know about.”

Drakon doesn’t think he can take any more bad news today. “What is it?” He asks.

“There has been trouble with the wards lately,” Ghost says. “I haven’t been able to truly look into it since I’m stuck in this cave, but it doesn’t look good.”

“Are you going to elaborate on that, or do I need to guess?”

Ghost doesn’t seem to care about the dire circumstances and grins at him. “Actually, hearing your guesses might be fun. But no.” He gives one of his shrugs. It’s no longer quite as jerky as it was in the beginning, like the motion becomes smoother with practice. “I can’t really tell what’s the problem with the wards, though, or which ones are affected” he says. “They might simply be old. After several millennia without being checked, even the best wards are bound to give out eventually.”

Shit. The wards are all that’s protecting Cretea, keeping the sword save. There are several layers, but if just one of them falls, there will be serious trouble. At worst, anyone could winnow on the island or get on via boat. But even if those wards remained intact, Cretea might still become visible or trackable. This is a nightmare.

“Almost ten millennia,” Drakon says softly. “These wards have held for almost ten millennia and they have to break in the middle of the most violent war of the past three centuries?”

This has got to be some kind of sick joke. He must have done something to offend some kind of higher power, causing it to try making his life as terrible as possible.

Drakon doesn’t allow himself to contemplate what it might mean if the wards are truly eroding. He isn’t a witcher and has no affinity towards spells, he won’t even be able to find out what’s wrong with the wards, much less fix any problems. He can only wait and pray – although the latter hasn’t helped with any of his other problems yet, so he doubts it will work this time.

----

Lying on her back on her couch, head in Mor’s lap, Andromache looks up at the ceiling of her room in Telique. She just spent the past three hours sitting through another council meeting and her head hurts.

“How was the meeting?” Mor asks. She wasn’t allowed to join since her uncle chose to participate himself.

Andromache shrugs. “Endless discussions, as always. Drakon’s proposal was good, though.”

Mor nods. “Yeah, I read it. I doubt the Loyalists will like giving up parts of their territories to form new human countries.”

Andromache shrugs. On the list of her priorities, the Loyalits’ emotions aren’t exactly high up. She turns to Miryam, who sits in one of the armchairs with her knees drawn up to her chest. “You were unusually quiet during the discussions, though. Is everything alright?”

She still feels bad for not asking that more often before the wall spell, and she certainly isn’t about to make the same mistake again.

Miryam shrugs. “Sure.”

It doesn’t sound convincing. “You never stay out of discussions,” she says.

“The subject isn’t really my strong suit,” Miryam says lightly. Andromache and Mor both frown at her and Miryam shrugs. “If you must know, most of these discussions require some kind of prior education. Which I don’t have. And I don’t really want to embarrass myself in front of the entire Continental leadership, so I thought it would be smarter to stay out of it.”

Oh. Andromache bites her lip. She never really considered that, and from the look on her face, Mor didn’t, either. Miryam seems so at ease amongst all these royals that it is easy to forget that she wasn’t raised as nobility.

Miryam shrugs again. “Doesn’t really matter,” she says. “Drakon is good enough at this that no one will notice if I’m not as long as I manage to cover the political part without making any big mistakes.”

Andromache frowns. That strategy seems a bit too risky to her and she’s about to say as much, but Mor already jumped on to a completely different line of thought.

“What’s up with you and Drakon, anyways?” she asks.

“The same as in the last five years,” Miryam says a bit too quickly. “We’re friends.”

Andromache looks up at Mor, who grins back at her, and sits up. “Really?” She asks, leaning forward.

Mor brought up the idea that Miryam and Drakon could get together months ago already. At first, Andromache laughed it off, but lately, it seemed far more likely. Her and Mor aren’t the only ones to have noticed, either. If she isn’t mistaken, there is quite a bit of money to be had with betting on if (or when) the two of them will get together.

“It’s complicated,” Miryam says, but she refuses to look at either of them.

Mor throws her hands up in the air, shaking her head. “How is this complicated, Miryam? I know your life has a tendency to be difficult by definition, but Cauldron damnit, you are in the comfortable situation where both of the options you have are good. All you need to do is choose.”

Miryam tugs at her hair and looks away. Andromache grins. Teasing Miryam about her possible feelings for Drakon is probably the most normal conversation they’ve had in weeks.

“Mor’s right,” Andromache says. “Drakon seems perfectly content to be your best friend if that’s what you want. So at this point, it really boils down to you deciding if you are interested in a relationship or not.”

Miryam tugs her knees closer to her chest. She turns to Mor. “Did you hear from your friends lately?” She asks with exaggerated innocence. “I haven’t heard from Rhys or any of the others in a while.”

Andromache and Mor exchange a look – and both of them burst out laughing. “Really?” Andromache asks, grinning. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

Miryam grins back. “Does it work?” She asks.

“Yep.” Mor jumps to her feet and takes a bottle of wine out of a cupboard. Plopping back down on the couch. “I ran into Az two weeks ago and he says the others are fine,” she says and jumps straight into a summary of the latest news she got from Azriel.

A servant brings them dinner and Andromache and Mor slowly work their way through the wine. As the evening goes on, the mood relaxes further and further. It is almost midnight when Miryam suddenly tenses in her seat, fingers gripping the edges of her chair. She obviously tries to keep her focus on Mor and Andromache, but her eyes keep flickering to something behind them. Andromache doesn’t think Mor notices anything except for Miryam being a little skittery, but Andromache knows enough to suspect what’s going on. She knows for sure when Miryam yawns a few times, then excuses herself claiming to be tired.

Andromache jumps to her feet. “I’ll walk you to your room,” she says. “There’s still something we need to discuss about the meeting, anyways.”

“Right.” Mor leans back into her cushions. “I, for one, had quite enough of politics for the day, so I’ll be staying here.” She grins over at Andromache and waves a wine bottle at her. “If you still want some of that wine, you better hurry.”

Andromache smiles at her over her shoulder and follows Miryam out of the room. As soon as the door has closed behind them, her smile fades. Still, she waits until they are in Miryam’s room, door safely closed between them and any listeners, before saying a word.

“You okay?” She asks.

“Sure,” Miryam says, but there’s a hint of tightness in her voice.

“Oh yeah?” Andromache crosses her arms and glares at her. “Back to that shit again, are we?”

Miryam glares right back. “I’ve got it under control.”

“You said that once already. Remember how it ended?”

Andromache certainly remembers. She still has nightmares about it sometimes. Miryam thrashing on the ground, screaming at horrors of her own imagination, is not something she ever wants to see again.

“Yes, I do.” Miryam pulls of her shoes and neatly puts them into the corner. “And do you think it was pleasant for me? Or that I want it to happen again?”

Andromache sighs and stops glaring. Being angry at Miryam simply because she is worried about her is the opposite of helpful. From personal experience, Andromache can tell that it never helps to push another person into a corner. Especially with Miryam, who isn’t the most open person on a good day.

“Sorry,” she says, even though she doesn’t really think she needs to apologize. “But tensions in the Alliance are running higher again, and if you are having trouble, I need you to tell me.”

“It’s the first time in six weeks.”

The only problem is, Andromache can’t tell if she’s telling the truth or not. With Miryam, it’s hard to tell. It’s not that she wants to die – quite the contrary, if Andromache isn’t mistaken – but she wouldn’t hesitate to choose the war over her life.

“I’m careful,” Miryam says. “What happened after I cast that spell won’t happen again.”

And if it does happen again, I’ll tell the council. And if they think you’re going insane, you’ll be out of your position and none of your excuses will be able to help you. Andromache doesn’t say that, though, if only because it would be the surest way to keep Miryam from ever telling her anything again. And if she’s being honest, also because it’s an empty threat. She wouldn’t have Miryam kicked out of the council, not in this precarious situation and not without having a replacement for her.

Maybe she should stop blaming Miryam for being willing to sacrifice herself for this. After all, she would do the same.

“Alright,” she says. “I’d still like to get some of that wine, so I’ll be going back to Mor.”

----

Miryam spent the entire night lying awake in bed, considering what Andromache, Mor and her talked about. Close to the morning, she finally made her choice.

“I think we should talk,” she says.

Drakon and her are sitting on a flat stone by a lake’s edge somewhere in central Erithia, dipping their toes into the water. A swarm of rainbow-colored fishes is swimming around Miryam’s feet, occasionally dipping their noses against her feet.

“Sounds serious,” Drakon says. He leans forward to run his fingers through the water.

“Kind of.” She shrugs awkwardly. “Not really. It’s just…” She stumbles over the words, then decides on the direct approach. “Are you in love with me?”

Drakon freezes, which really is answer enough for the question. It also makes it beyond clear that she should not have been this direct about it. She opens her mouth to say something else, somehow soften her words and make it clear that there isn’t a problem, but Drakon is quicker.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “That’s… Ah, Cauldron damnit.” He starts drumming a hectic rhythm on his leg. “I didn’t mean to…”

No, Miryam really shouldn’t have approached it like this. “No no, it’s alright. I wasn’t trying to, well.”

Damnit. She really dug that grave herself, didn’t she? Maybe she should have tried thinking about how to approach that conversation with Drakon instead of just focusing of if she was going to approach him about it.

Either way, her words seem to calm Drakon. At least a little bit. “I’m not even sure if I’m actually… Fuck.” He sighs. “I enjoy spending time with you. I miss you when you’re not around, there’s no one better to talk to. I love you, I really do. I’m just not entirely sure if I love you that way.” He changes the rhythm to something that’s a bit slower. “Kiko brought up the idea, but I’m not entirely sure. It’s difficult to tell, you know?”

Yes, she understands that all too well. “How did you know with Kiko?” She asks.

“Oh.” Drakon smiles. “That was completely different. I actually got a crush on him before we became friends.” He shrugs. “He was… easy to fall in love with. A year older than me, and far more outgoing. We were both in our first year in university and I thought he’d never notice me.”

Miryam nods. She doesn’t think she could fall in love with someone without truly knowing them first. She certainly never felt any kind of attraction towards a stranger.

“I know I should have told you,” Drakon says softly, “But I didn’t want to make things awkward. I’m perfectly happy to be your friend.”

Yes, Miryam really started this conversation the wrong way. Apparently, her talent for handling situations doesn’t extend to her private life.

“I wasn’t trying to blame you for this,” she says softly. “Quite the contrary, actually.”

Drakon looks somewhat relived. The rhythm he’s drumming slows further.

“But things between us have changed in the last months,” Miryam continues. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” Drakon says carefully. Now, it seems it’s up to Miryam to takes the next step.

“Well, what I was trying and failing to say earlier,” she says with an awkward smile, “is that I think I might also be in love with you.”

Drakon freezes. “What?” He asks softly.

Miryam bites her lower lip. No wonder that he’s surprised. She is, too. It’s been less than half a year since she broke up with Jurian, and here she is, already in love with another.

“I’m not sure if it will work, of course,” she says, thinking of Jurian. “But I thought we should at least talk about it. Decide if we want to give it a try.”

“You’d like to give it a try?” Drakon echoes. He still sounds stunned, but then, he seems to catch himself. He buries his face in his hands. “Right. Please pretend that I said something charming or at least remotely intelligent instead.”

Miryam laughs nervously. “For what it’s worth, I believe my opening question was what started the entire problem.”

Drakon looks up and grins. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Sorry.” Miryam grins back. She wonders if they should kiss now, but neither of them makes a move. She hesitates. “If it doesn’t work out between us, we’ll still be friends, right?”

“Of course,” Drakon says without hesitation. “You’re my best friend, I wouldn’t ever want to lose that.”

Miryam smiles. Slowly, she reaches for his hand and intertwines their fingers. Drakon squeezes her hand.

“So we’re together now?” He asks.

“Yes.” Miryam grins. She pauses, thinking of the public reaction this might cause. “Would you mind if we didn’t make it public for the moment, though? You can tell Sinna and Nephelle, of course, but if we could keep this out of the public for a while…”

“Of course,” Drakon says, sobering up. “Everything is terrible enough for Jurian already. If he finds out that we’re together now, that will just make it worse.”

Miryam nods, feeling a stab of guilt at the thought. Especially because her first concern hadn’t been Jurian, but rather the public. She already had one relationship where the entire world watched and every little detail fuelled camp gossip all around the Continent. If she announced a relationship with Drakon now, the public interest would be at least as big, if not bigger, and adding that pressure to their relationship from the beginning is the last thing Miryam wants.

What they have is so precious, and it seems so fragile. And it belongs solely to the two of them, no one else. And Miryam will be damned if she allows the world to ruin this for her.

----

Tags: @croissantcitysucks

#before the wall #miryam #jurian #drakon #andromache

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deanirae · 4 years ago

Text

Can you get it inside your head I’m tired of dancing?

post 8.07 pre 8.08] crack/angst past turned unrequited deancas, implied deanbenny 2,4k [x]

The sun, also currently known as bitch, has got some serious nerve to sit where it always does, not upside down and nine miles to the left as it frankly should on this memorable fuckhat day. Where is the End of Days when it's really called for? When it should be really nigh?

Dean flips the front mirror panel down not to have to deal with at least that one disappointment. He can still see Cas's half-constipated, half-abandoned and kicked in its fluffy ass puppy face in the mercilessly annoying reflection. The obvious choice would be to not grace it with anything right now, but A – he's the one driving so his eyes can't wander off pretty far, especially in the barely sunlit grayness – and B – on his left, Sam is currently roleplaying a twelve year old girl that has her big emotional introspection accompanied by listening to Sarah McLahlan because her mean parents wouldn't let her buy ebola from the internet. Or something.

Point is, he's three hours into ostentatiously moping, trying to quietly terrorize Dean into making peace with Cas on the fly so it won't be awkward and problematique for him anymore. To Sam, Dean is just too inconvenient anytime he's inconvenient. And that, by order of nature herself, demands immediate and final stopping and ballot recounting also.

And Dean's point is, that it's not gonna happen anytime soon.

And Cas's point – assuming he’s still remotely capable of making those – seems to be dead-set on that 50:50 face thing. And Dean regrets briefly glancing; with more or less the same intensity he regrets his whole life on the crap weather days his bones hurt harder than it should be legal.

Sam, in his hemhorroidal disturbance, reaches out to the tape deck and attempts to put anything on, but Dean feels like exactly zero of his tapes right now, so he swats Sam's hand off with a loud smack. Judging from the faces he gets for that, it's gotta be resonating in their heads a lot.

It's gonna be a long ride to Lousiana, way longer and more exhausting than the freshly puked from Purgatory one. In fact, the closer they get to Lafayette, the more tired he is and they won't start working the vetalas case until tomorrow night because apparently hanging around clubs on fridays is the new hanging downside of trees or whatever cool thing it was vetalas were doing before the rise of the all you can eat buffet of horny dicks certain they're gonna get reverse cowgirls for a two dollar drink. Or reverse cowboys. Fucking cheapskates. Some of them do have it coming. But in severe STDs, not in this.

In itself, waiting for the actual hunt really doesn't need to be a problem. It's just that Sam and Cas are fucked-bent on having it be one because—

“I said I'm going to stay with you and join you on hunts,” Cas finally snaps. „There's no need for this 'backup' as you call it, Dean.”

—Because that.

“Don't air quote it, man,” Dean mutters wearily, because of course Cas air quoted it.

“And there is absolutely no need for you to sleep in a vampire's camping truck when we have plenty of motels to pick from,” Cas rants on, zero deterred and plus ten determined, clearly not tuning into Dean's I don't wanna discuss that vibe.

Annnd because that too, yeah.

“Well I donno, I sure didn't want us to look like some sort of a hookup site for salvation army fashionistas threesome. You'll thank me later. Or you can do it now and shut up when you're done, how's that.”

“A vampire,” Sam interrupts his polished bitchface just to whine it out, which has to be peak brotherly care by his modern standards.

“You two asshats had no problem leaving me in vamp-vegas for a goddamn year,” Dean growls. “I am an adult adult and I need some me-time that isn't you time. And I'm gonna have awesome time while I'm at it. Sue me if that's a crime. Bother my lawyer.”

“You don’t have a lawyer”, says Sam.

“Aren’t you kind of a lawyer?” Dean remembers suddenly. “Or at least close enough for you two to bother each other and not me?”

“No, didn’t get to get there yet, thanks to you,” Sam mutters, also suddenly remembering the past life of his that was never meant to be.

“Oh, I’m sorry”, Dean whines. “Did I set your girlfriend on fire?”

“Fuck off.”

“I thought you missed me,” as if triggered by the word fuck, Cas drops the bomb with an evenness in his voice which hints at many things but Dean's brain is too stop-record screech to dissect them right now.

“What?” he blurts out, confused and affronted both.

“I thought you missed me,” Cas repeats, lower and harder like Dean's a stupid cat that won't spit out what it's chewing.

“Cas, I really don't wanna do this.”

“You kept praying to me to come back, Dean. After you were out of Purgatory. I heard you. Those were quite some prayers. Now you're putting yourself in real danger just to stay away from me. I don’t understand.”

Sam just stares at Dean, the always most helpful thing on the planet that he is. Thanks, Sam. Dean stares at the road. Cas stares daggers through the back of Dean's head. Poor Baby can't just leave this situation so she just keeps on rollin’. Nobody wins that day.

“That was before you told me you were lying your ass off just to kick me out last minute. Your subscription for my prayers and personal Jesus license have now expired, by the way. Like, the fuck does talking to you even do?”

“Fine!” Castiel snaps, so close to throwing his hands in the air for a grand effect but luckily thinking better of it since he's in a car that has a roof among other things. “I understand that you're angry—” he tries to start over, calmer, after a self-collecting breath.

“No, you don't,” Dean mutters.

“But you can't risk your life in the stupidest available way just to get back at me, Dean. Not after everything I've done to make sure you come back safe.”

Well at least he didn't include Sam in that „saving” part.

“You were there, man. You know Benny never double crossed me or you. What the exact fuck is your problem with him?”

A very angry squint-frown precedes the actual answer.

“You were his ticket to Earth. Now your life doesn't hold the same value.”

“Thanks, Cas. That's really swee—”

“You know that's not what I meant, Dean,” Cas growls in a tone that's clearly a final warning.

So final even Sam and his high horse must have heard since he steps in to defuse Cas.

“Cas, I'm not a fan of saying it, but Benny isn't a threat to Dean. I think the guy is kinda trying to settle,” he offers.

Dean smiles a little bit.

“See, Cas?”

“But I'm worried he might have more vamps trying to take him down because he pissed off every fang that ever knew him and then some. This is actual danger, Dean.”

“What?!” Castiel explodes in unbridled rage.

“Sam, have you ever wondered where do snitches go after they die?”

“Dean, you know I'm serious.”

“Ditches,” Dean concludes.

“When exactly were you going to tell me this?” Castiel asks coldly. “After you get killed by vampire avengers?”

“They're all taken care of, Cas. No mean jokes this time. Relax.”

“With your Winchester luck? I doubt it.”

“Oh, come on. It's not like you wouldn't bring me back even if something did happen.”

“Yes, even twice because first I would have personally destroyed you for being so reckless.”

“I know you would.”

“Guys,” Sam tries to placate, “we should all calm down and rethink how to handle it safely. It's not a good time for some jilted lovers tiff”, he begs.

Dean frowns then makes mocking faces at him to communicate that he's being a fucking douche.

“You're a fucking jilted lovers tiff,” he decides.

“We had sex, Dean,” Castiel states accusatorily.

Little does he know, he just broke Sam beyond repair. Now that the cat is out of the bag, the only thing Dean can do is to straighten some things out.

“Once,” he says, raising a finger to accentuate his point. “Cas was sure we were gonna die in the morning. We didn't, but there never was a follow up on that, so,” Dean shrugs.

“You weren't interested.”

“Says you,” Dean huffs. “I’m sorry, do you know me? Being interested in sex is in my top five pasttimes. You behaved like a brick on the other hand and I don’t know how to read concrete.”

“I don’t want to be here, good fucking God,” Sam finally yelps after a successful reboot of his brain.

Dean’s pretty sure nobody wants to be in this car right now and the only goddamn thing that could potentially make him ‘special’ right now is the fact currently Sam’s probably the only person in the Impala who has not lain his mouth on Cas’s dick. Hopefully.

Funnily enough, Cas could easily poof out without lethal injuries, but he’s dead set on staying, judging from the frown on his face that looks like a stock market crash diagram.

“I didn’t exactly see you giving me any signs.”

And set on having this conversation.

“I’m not a cat, I don’t go into heats, Cas. Can we talk about it somewhere more private? Later? Cuz everybody here wants to fucking die right now.”

“Private?” Cas asks. “If you want privacy to talk then why do you refuse to book a room with me?”

“We don’t need to share a room to have a conversation. Unless what you want it to end with is getting back on track with that last night on Earth thing we had that one time.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam cries.

“Grow up and stow your crap, Sam,” Cas says unexpectedly before Dean could even bother to serve anything in a similar note.

Dean is so thrown off his equilibrium by that he puts the car to an abrupt halt. Only because he’s too deeply wired to not crash the Impala into the first available so he won’t accidentally kill Sam.

That is, if Cas’s words haven’t obliterated him already. He glances at him, just in case. Speechless as holily commanded by the celestial – potentially horny – wrath from the back seat, but at least he’s still breathing.

“Um,” he says, because someone’s gotta, because he’s still the big brother in this demented equation. “Cas, what the fuck was that?”

“Should you, of all people, really need me to be this blunt – now that the worst affairs have been settled, we could pick up where we left off, and hopefully reach a mutual understanding regarding the nature of our relationship so that doubt no longer hinders you. If it’s still something that interests you, of course. Would that be clear and direct enough, Dean?”

Well, that was… long? Long enough citations are probably needed, but, uh, yeah. S’ gotta be addressed immediately or else.

“Cas, that was 2010 and we have 2012 now.”

“It was 2012 when you prayed to me in Purgatory and it was 2012 four days ago. Granted, your feelings towards me might be very complicated, but I still can sense and read your longing,” Cas says with a weary sigh.

“Stop smelling my longing,” Dean responds with a wearier one. “And I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“But I should explain myself to you.”

“I’m real fed up with your explanations, you know that? And we don’t got time for that, either. We need to get to Lafayette because we got a case waiting to get solved.”

“It’s because he’s waiting there for you, isn’t it,” Cas says sadly; not a question. A statement.

Dean doesn’t need to respond. Doesn’t feel like it, too.

Yeah. It’s good to actually have someone waiting for you; someone there.

Maybe it’s not that complicated, after all. Maybe it doesn’t have to be.

Dean starts the car. He’s got a place to go to.

The sound apparently wakes Sam from his stupor. His bright idea of the day, he turns the radio on before the awkward silence can make the universe inside of the Impala collapse on itself and on all three of them. Too late for Dean to react now; might as well get a load of the weather report.

In the back seat, Cas flicks his wrist subtly and the monotone voice sharply cuts off into static for a moment and the frequency bar moves elsewhere on its’ – or rather, Cas’s – own. Some solitary synthesiser-made sounds drop one after another like tiny steps and Dean realizes he definitely has heard this song before at some point in his life as eighties one hit wonders ain’t no strangers to him. Oh well. Might as well not get any of the wea—

Looking from a window above, it’s like a story of love… Can you hear me?

Is he fucking kidding?!

Came back only yesterday, I’m moving farther away.... Want you near me…

“Are you fucking kidding?” Dean cries out, incredulous.

Tries to turn the radio off but it just won’t die.

All I needed was the love you gave— “You want melodramatic? I’ll give you melodramatic.” —All I needed for another day — Dean reaches out for his phone and starts typing angrily — and all I ever knew, only you.

He puts on good ol’ Fish and hopes it’s gonna be louder than Cas’s synth-pop loving. And starts driving towards where he wants to be cause he’s tired of dancing.

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the-american-witch · 4 years ago

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Strength in Numbers Part 2

Part two of Strength in Numbers and inspire by @supernaturalimagine prompt of Imagine losing your hair to chemotherapy and the boys shaving their heads to make you feel better.

Word Count: 2214

Warnings: Cancer, angst

You had no idea it would be like this, this time. Everything hurt. Your body, your mind, your soul...even your dreams hurt at this point. Plagued by nightmares with both memories long forgotten, and memories you wanted to forget. Not even Cas could help you with those, try as he might.

You were right, you wound up in the hospital more often than not; and yet you were wrong. Each time you had to be admitted the boys were there for you. They didn’t get caught. Weren’t even questioned; they were just known as “your boys.” Some of the staff asked how you managed to get all three of them on a leash like that you would always simply say they were a gift from God. If only they knew.

They were truly your rocks throughout this thing. You felt guilty of course: taking them away from hunting all the time, and if either Sam or Dean stayed with you they made sure Cas went with the other along for a hunt. (Turns out Cas, angel of the Lord, was quite the hunter when he put his mind to it.) This meant there could always be someone with you when you went for treatment. Try as you might to be okay, to hide exactly how much pain you were in they were there anyway. Just like they promised they would be.

That didn’t mean you were happy about being stuck in the hospital all the live long fucking day though. You sighed for the thousandth time in about an hour, flipping through the channels again and again trying to find something interesting to watch.

“You know we could always--”

“No, Dean...we’re not watching Doctor Sexy again. Besides it’s just a rerun where Kelsey turns down Trevor because she still thinks he’s not serious about them.” you turned to look at him, smirking, “And that’s just some bullshit I don’t have time for right now.”

He raised his hands in surrender, “Sorrrrry my bad. Just trying to help.”

“Uh huh. I’m sure.” flopping back on your pillow with a groan you shut off the tv. “There’s nothing on.”

“There never is this time of day.”

You stuck out your tongue before you tossed him the remote. He turned the tv back on and immediately switched it to Doctor Sexy M.D. You nearly screamed and only stopped yourself because your nurse came in with another bag.

When she made an offhand comment about how trashy it was you started laughing at Dean’s face. He looked so offended and tried to explain the nuances of said “medical” drama.

“Listen all I’m saying is that it’s hard to watch something like this when all you’re looking at is how they still have earrings when they do open surgery. Or they way they treat the newbies.”

“Yeah but the stories!”

They went back and forth the entire time she was in there, between her doing her duties and taking your vitals and such. You may as well had been a lawn ornament and while it was irritating to be literally spoken over, it was also a relief that his sole focus wasn’t on you for a few minutes. After your round of treatment you were feeling less and less like yourself and you knew it was only a matter of time before you got really bad. Again.

After she left Dean settled back into his chair and grumbled about Nurse-No-Nonsense. You threw your pillow at him and then pouted for him to give it back.

“No way you gave it to me!”

“You would deny a dying woman her own pillow?? What kinda monster are you?” You knew you made a mistake the moment you said it; but seeing Dean sober up in an instant was what really killed you. You hated when he got that look in his eye. The one that screamed how much he was hurting that he couldn’t help you through this. That it wasn’t a monster to kill or a curse to break, it simply...was.

He gave it back, even fluffed it for you and put it behind your head. “You know you can’t play that card all the time...it’s just plain dirty.”

“I know but you love me anyway.”

XXX

You groaned and covered your mirror. You didn’t need it anyway. You no longer wore makeup in any way, shape, or form; and well...you finally went bald again. You were actually surprised it hung on as long as it did this time around. Last time it was only a matter of weeks before it completely fell out and left you with an impressive hat collection. It took longer this time and you didn’t know whether that meant your body was stronger than last time...or if the treatment wasn’t working as planned. Either way, you hated it. You hated knowing that you look as sick as you felt. That anyone who looked at you would see your bald head and instantly know that you had this disease for which there was no cure. You put on a hat and left your room without a glance in the mirror’s direction.

As you approached the library you heard voices, not unusual considering the boys were staying home more and more but the fact they were hushed made you suspicious and self-conscious.

You heard Sam’s voice first “Come on, Dean...I know she hasn’t exactly been herself lately but don’t you think this is taking it a bit far?” Okay...so whatever it was that’s going on it definitely had to do with you. Great.

“Dude, if you saw how she’s really been,” you winced, wondering how much he had seen without you meaning to and how bad it really was in his eyes, “you wouldn’t be asking this.”

“Okay but this? Man, I know she’s bad but this is extreme.”

“It’s really not. Okay so just sit down and shut up about it.”

You walked in, trying to make it seem like you were totally just strolling in without any knowledge of what they were just talking about. Considering the glances they kept throwing your way you doubted your success. But you went along your business anyway and didn’t comment on it and neither did they.

“Nice hat, yn/n.” Sam gave you a smile and you felt your face flush not knowing if he were sincere or trying to make you feel better.

“Thanks...it’s been hanging in the back of the closet but I figured it was time to break it out, you know?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah I know it is. Sometimes changing it up means beginning back the old.”

You glanced at Dean to see if he were going to add anything to this, maybe a hint of what the fuck they were discussing earlier. His gaze however was glued to the book in front of him. You smiled at Sam, “Exactly.”

Once you were done in there you went to the kitchen, their whispers continuing almost as soon as you were out of their line of sight.

XXX

You were so...anxious. All the time. You knew the brothers were planning something you just didn’t know what. You didn’t know if it were good or bad and honestly your mind kept going back to the start of all this. You told them you wanted to keep your distance during all this and now that they’ve seen you during treatment you were worried that they would take you up on that offer. That they thought you were a burden. Too hard to take care of, too much effort, too much patience, and way too many rules about how to help care for you. You were sure it was only a matter of time until they realized it would be better for everyone for you to go live somewhere for people like you.

You hadn’t seen them all day and you wanted to make sure they knew your appointment had been changed. That you knew it was yet another thing they had to deal with and that you were sorry and could find another way to get there if needed. It’d been a while since you’d seen Cas anyway so maybe he could take you if they couldn’t.

You wandered the halls, calling out their names, “Come on, guys, this isn’t funny!”

“Alright!” Dean shouted and you followed his voice. “Alright, eager beaver. Can’t give us two more minutes can ya?”

“Two minutes for what--” you gasped at the sight in front of you.

Sam turned to you, wiping off his newly shaved head. “Well? What do you think? Think we actually pull it off.”

He...was bald. So was Dean. They were both bald… not a hair on their heads. And, yeah sure they looked good but that was not the point the point was that they were bald!

Dean smirked, “Aw look at that she’s speechless. Okay hon, tell us how you really think we look. Lay it on us.”

You just continued to stare. Lips parted, eyes more than likely bugging out of your also bald head...you legitimately couldn’t think of anything to say. You did however, burst into tears.

The reaction was clearly not one that they were expecting because the brothers were frozen in place while you cried. Sam finally reacted first by backhanding Dean in the shoulder.

“I so fucking told you.” he walked over to you while Dean remained in his place. Sam hugged you and in his embrace you cried harder.

“Shit,,,shit y/n it was not supposed to be like this. We just wanted..well...we uh…Shit sweetheart I’m sorry.” hearing Dean stumble over his words like that, hearing the wobble in his voice, the uncertainty...it was too much. This whole thing was too much.

You shook your head, “Don’t...please don’t be sorry. Don’t take this back…” you sniffled and tried to pull away from Sam before he ended up as your snot rag but just like the other times you’ve broken down in his arms he didn’t let you go. You turned your head to look at Dean. You saw how confused he looked and you nearly started crying again.

“Dude, you need to stop whatever it is you’re doing because she’s about to hyperventilate over here.” you didn’t really know what the point of Sam’s stage whisper was, you were being held by him so it wasn’t like you were not going to hear him.

“I’m not doing anything!”

“Then maybe stop doing that!”

You shook your head, “Oh my god, you both need to stop!” They looked to you and you wiped your eyes, sniffling but able to string more than a few coherent noises. “Don’t be sorry...this, I can’t even begin to say how much this means to me. This is so...so utterly ridiculous and amazing and I just...I can’t believe it.”

Sam chuckled, and it was a better feeling that you’ve had in a long while. “So...you don’t hate it?”

You looked between them and actually laughed. You laughed like you hadn’t since the diagnosis. Reaching up to pet Sam’s newly shaved head you grinned and shook your own. “Sam, you finally let Dean use the clippers on you...how can I hate it?”

He snorted and finally released you from his grip, “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You know once you start growing your hair back I am too.”

You smiled, “I know and I can’t wait for that day.” you kissed his cheek “Thank you...this really means a lot.”

“You know we’d do just about anything for you. The fact this made you smile? Worth it.” he nodded to Dean, who then nodded back as Sam headed out. “I’m totally stealing your hats though!”

“You wouldn’t dare!” chuckling softly, you turned your attention to Dean. “So...about the, you know, five minutes ago.”

“You mean where you looked like you had a mental breakdown and I was the biggest douche on the planet?”

“Yeah that.” you went over to him. “I’m sorry I just, like I said this was so unexpected. No one’s ever done something like this for me before. No one cared enough to do something like this.”

“Like Sammy said, we’d do anything for you, Y/n/n.”

“Maybe but it wasn’t Sam convincing you to do it now was it? In the library the other day, that’s what you were talking about, right? Yeah, I heard. A little bit. I just...I can’t--”

“--believe it yeah I’ve heard. Is it that hard to think your family cares about you?”

You lightly scoffed. “Wow that is so, we’re not going to go there since I could very much ask you the same question.” you hugged him, tightly, like it would be the last one you give. “I’m trying to say thank you, you dope.”

When he hugged you back, for a moment you thought he was going to knock the wind out of you. However tightly you were embracing him had nothing on how tight he was, you. You didn’t even think about complaining. You relaxed in his embrace.

“We’d do anything for you.”

“I know, Dean...I know.”

#spn fanfic #self insert fanfic #second pov #reader insert #sick!reader #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #spn fanfiction #cancer #angst #supernatural imagine #my writing

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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years ago

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A Healing Touch/New Experiences

15x17 coda, Post-Finale, Dean/Cas, Adam, Serafina, Sam, Jack, 2/2 chapters, 4.7k

Chapter 1: A Healing Touch (ao3 link)

Maybe if Cas hadn't abandoned him, he wouldn't have agreed to Adam's offer. But with free will finally theirs, Cas made his choice, and Dean his. Now he has to live with the consequences - even if they are awkward. He won't die from it, certainly.

It's only a massage.

But what Dean doesn't know, is that it's more than a massage. It's healing.

Dean’s grip tensed on the towel, pulling its fabric closer against his waist. Terrycloth rubbing his crotch like sandpaper, making him even more aware of his current state of undress than he already was.

Damn Adam, for talking him into this. The placid cadence of the First Man wreaked havoc with Dean’s judgement. Lulled him into a false sense of security. Now that his armor’s been cast off, Dean realizes how terrible an idea this really is. Briefly, Dean considers turning tail and jumping back into his outfit. Pretend this never happened. Play dumb. But then Adam emerges, parting the beaded curtains and motioning him towards a table set up in the middle of the room. Dean trudges along, window of opportunity slammed on his fingers.

“Relax Dean,” Adam croons, lighting one of the many candles that surrounds the room. Interspersed with crystals, totems, and an incense stick that suspiciously smells like a VW van at a concert. “This is going to be a transcendent experience.”

“If you say so…” He sits, kicking his feet. Hunched over, spine protesting from the angle. Ignores twinging pain with practiced ease.

Doesn’t matter how well he masks it in the other man’s presence; Adam arches a brow at Dean and orders him to lay down. “You’ll feel better that way.”

He stills, clutching at the towel with both hands. Frozen with an unnamed emotion Dean swears isn’t fear. Staring with wide eyes at Adam while the other man waits. Finally, he breaks the silence, “Can’t you just… do my shoulders?”

“I will,” Adam promises, drifting closer, “Along with your sides… your back… anywhere I believe you might need.” He brushes featherlight fingers across his chin, a scant distance from actually touching it. Lips stretched in a lazy smile. “If it’ll make you more comfortable, though, I’ll look away while you get settled.”

Dean clears his throat, gaze darting away. “You will?”

“While I don’t agree with your shame,” he says, pulling back, “I understand it. How it works. So, when you’re ready to start, let me know.” Adam spins on his heel, grabbing for tinctures and potions on a nearby counter. Mixes them. Feigns busyness while Dean readies himself.

He slides off the table, glancing from Adam to the exit. Wonders if he can sprint fast enough, snatch his clothes, and jump into his Baby. Put Santa Fe in his rearview, even if it meant leaving Cas. Finding a new path home would serve him right, abandoning Dean immediately for Serafina. Former and current angel leaving for lunch, catching up after millennia apart. Dean stuck with Adam. Biding time, making awkward small talk; listening as he rambled on about differing memories patchworked together while he played hopscotch through his timeline. So bored and confused he didn’t realize what Adam offered until he locked the bathroom door behind Dean, instructions rattling around in his head. Towel in his arms instead of around his waist.

“Dean,” Adam chimes in, laughing, “I’m almost done.”

Thinking, not acting, wasted too much time. No other options left Dean unfastened his towel. Held it while he climbed onto the table, carefully lying down. Adjusting his junk so his weight wouldn’t crush it. Then, face pressed into the appropriate hole, Dean fixed the towel. End hanging off the edges, censored his freckled ass from view. “Okay,” he says, croaking the next few words out. “I’m all set.”

“Perfect.”

Dean nearly asks when Adam will start. As soon as the question forms in his throat, he swallows it. Adam’s wet, warm touch sliding over his back. Spreads a slick substance that makes his skin goosepimple when the air meets it. Elicits a sudden, breathy response from Dean. “Sorry,” Adam apologizes, continuing his ministrations, “probably should’ve warned you?”

“Would’ve been nice…”

“Well, we can’t go back, now can we?” He kneads Dean’s shoulders, loosening a tight muscle with his thumb. “Let me do all the work…” Adam speaks aloud, calling on a nearby smart device. Tells it to play a certain playlist, whining strums pouring from his speakers. Dean rolls his eyes. The added hippie music only pours salt in the wound. “You’ve got a lot of knots, Dean.”

“I’m not surprised,” Dean says, “the stuff I do? My body’s been through the wringer.”

“You should take better care of your body, Dean. We only get the one.”

“Yeah, we do…” Dean sighs, shifting. Too aware of Adam’s touch. Counting the differences between his expectations and the reality. They’re softer than what he expected a man’s hands should feel like. And gentler. These motions were more tender than Dean was used to, especially from a stranger. Part of him wants this over with, while a stronger, quieter part begs for more. He shifts, squirming. “Hey, what’s this you’re rubbing me with?”

“Oh, the oil?” Adam laughs, pinching his sides, “I had it specially delivered from some small town I last visited years ago, in Morocco. When it was all the rage, kids fleeing for the East in search of enlightenment. This herbalist was teaching in the streets…”

Dean tunes Adam out like he did the music, drowning his voice in the waves of his mind. Lets it sink deep below while Dean splashes around shallower waters. Like how this trip was planned.

After Chuck, after the Empty – after their last cosmic showdown, the Winchesters faced a new challenge. An ordinary day. It’s been years since Dean could wake without worrying he forgot something. Walk and not look over his shoulder, at where he imagined someone with vengeance in their eyes and death in his future. Greet his family and not doubt that he will see them later.

It’s everything Dean wanted. Except he couldn’t handle it.

Sitting at the breakfast table, his family discussing pointless, trivial affairs, Dean broke. Maybe because of Sam’s bright smile while talking about a road trip he planned with Eileen, or Jack’s list of shows he wanted to watch. Maybe it was when he caught Cas’s gaze, his foot nudging at Dean’s, with a well of emotions Dean hadn’t deserved. Similar to that horrid night, although less sadness darkening his expression. Less blood staining his hands. Dean flashed between those two images and stood, hitting his knee on the table. Left with a meager and suspicious excuse.

Somehow, an endless cycle of near-death experiences made things simpler. Being trapped in a never-ending story meant exactly that. They would live forever. Exist in the unknown, remain unchanged.

Now that freedom is truly his, what will he do? How will he end? Will he become someone he doesn’t like? Will people he thought would stay forever slip out of his grasp? Does he go first and leave so many people behind?

He couldn’t sleep those next few nights. Cas caught on after his third bout with insomnia, bags heavy under his eyes. Looked across the canyon from his side of the bed, arms curled tight around himself. Chained there. “What’s wrong, Dean?” His fingers twitched in aborted need. Another easy piece that proved more difficult to fit into place. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Dean stared at Cas. Saw the streaks of grey that tickled his hairline, and little crusts around his eyes from sleep. Reminders of how fast things can change, and what little they have left in the tank. If Cas were an angel, he thought, they’d have more time. Can stay alive through his grace, healing even the littlest signs of age. Like Serafina did with Adam.

It slipped out like a leak, and then poured free. Inch given; mile taken. Frantically repeating how he met the First Man who loved an angel, and they lived normal lives in Santa Fe, and they seemed weird but in love, and –

“Okay,” Cas said, “we’ll go visit them.”

“Dean,” Adam whispers. Dean creaks an eye open from below the surface. “Where were you just now?”

His heart lurches. “Can’t really go anywhere, now can I?”

“Only in the physical sense,” he tells Dean, “your body can be here, but you can also be a million miles away.” Adam kneads harder on his back, forcing a grunt through Dean’s clenched teeth as he poked a sore muscle. “What’s more important that you’ve allowed your mind to wander far from the present?” He stops massaging, bending. Meets Dean’s squinted gaze. “Would you rather not be here?”

“What did I ever do to give that impression?”

Adam doesn’t flinch from Dean’s bite, smirking at him. Followed by an airy laugh that sounds nicer than it should. “Y’know, my hands can only do so much,” he continues, standing. Clawing at Dean with blunt nails, repetitively raking patterns like he were a rock garden. “Massages are a give and take. I can only leech away what you’re willing to part with. And there’s a mountain of stress buried here you’re still holding onto.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean growls. Closing his eyes hard enough white, hot stars burst from behind his lids. “Maybe you’re a shitty masseuse?”

“Nah, I’ve been doing this since Alexander the Great was in toga diapers. Can’t be that.”

“Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you’re any good.”

“That’s true.” Adam pinches Dean’s lower back, at the dip right where his ass curves from beneath the towel. Electricity jolts along his nerves, up his spine, and makes Dean bite his lip. “Then let’s say my intuition is sounding the alarm you’re blocked.”

Dean snorts, “Then give me some Pepto and we’ll call it a day.” Another pinch. This time his knee jerks, foot jumping into the air. “Can you quit it?”

“When you start taking this seriously.”

“Sorry,” he says, each syllable drenched in sarcasm. “I didn’t think your types took anything seriously.”

Adam places his hand on Dean’s neck. Touch shocks him enough he lifts his head, finding the other’s stern expression. “If not for me,” he says, “then Castiel.”

He still feels Adam on his neck, and the second hand hangs at his side, shiny. Yet there must be a third. Because how else can Dean explain the pain in his side as anything other than a stab wound. Knife stuck there, cruelly twisted, cutting his insides further. Dean subtly nods, going slack. Adam guides his head back to its resting spot. Resumes petting him with much more severity. Each stroke like a match scraping against a striking surface, sparking but never lighting.

“Do you feel my hands, Dean?”

“Am I supposed to feel anything else?” Dean grouses, “Because if this is you coming onto me…”

Adam squeezes Dean’s ass over the towel, Dean yelping. “Why I’ll admit you’re a beauty, my heart is spoken for. As is yours.”

Dean waits as the coiled heat in his stomach unravels, breathing raggedly all the while. “Yeah,” he says, “I can feel your hands.”

“Good,” Adam says, “and how do my hands on your body feel?”

“Um… good? I guess? Like any other massage.”

“You’ve gotten other massages before?”

“When I could, I guess.”

“And your masseuses,” Adam asks, coating more of the oil along his shoulders, “were any of them men.”

No. “Why does that matter?”

“I’m just asking,” Adam says, “guessing, actually, if your hesitation during this process has something to do with my gender expression.” He rubs at his biceps, fondling them. “So I’ll ask again – have you ever been massaged by a man.”

He’s fought with countless men. Punches and kicks and elbows at throats acceptable foreplay. Love bites that stung far too long, bled too much. Shook hands with many hunters while crossing America during his early years where he was figuring himself out. Their intimidating grip thrilling Dean more than they should while near his father. John’s idea of what makes a man still living in his mind, a shadow that won’t disappear no matter how many curtains he draws or lights he turns on. Persistent.

Sometimes Cas’s hand lingered, back when their relationship was new. Finding its footing despite Chuck’s story. He blamed it on his angel’s inexperience with humanity. But the more he stayed on Earth, the longer they lasted. More significant. A game of chicken, each daring the other to drop first.

That’s the most intimate he’s ever been with another man.

It’s been too long since he and Cas touched like that. Circling, never committing. Losing before the game starts.

“I��” Adam’s touch feels different, headier. Matchhead catching, flame bursting atop it. He sighs, “I’ve never been massaged by a man.”

Adam hums, “You’ve never had the opportunity?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve had lots of opportunities,” Dean tells him, “I just… never took them.” He shrugs as best he can. Sighing when Adam brushes one of his love handles, scratching it. Warm delight making Dean’s toes curl. “It wasn’t something a guy like me was supposed to do.”

“Supposed to,” Adam parrots, “someone else was making these decisions for you?”

Bristling, Dean shifts as if to raise his head again. Adam shoves at Dean, keeping him there. Adds an ounce of pressure that should stoke his anger. However, Dean responds with no retaliation. Stills, and when Adam removes his hand, continues talking. “I made these decisions,” Dean tells Adam, “I… there were a lot of expectations, being me. People I couldn’t disappoint. If they knew I went to get… massages, by men… things might not have been the same.”

“Even if it hurt denying this part of yourself?” he asks, “Suffocating it because other people had opinions on how you should live your life?”

Dean scowls despite how dedicated Adam works at kneading the skin above his tailbone. “You wouldn’t understand, okay. Being the first person gives you leeway, make your own rules. I was born into a certain role – there was an image I had to fit. If I wanted to survive and I… and it got easy, over time. I wasn’t hurting anyone –“

“You were hurting yourself.”

“I’m used to it.”

Adam reacts violently, nicking Dean’s hip hard enough he expects blood. But his thumb soothes the spot, caresses it far more lovingly than Dean thinks is appropriate. He doesn’t voice his concerns. Busy thinking about the sudden callouses he feels on Adam’s thumb.

“That’s a dangerous point of view to have, Dean,” Adam warns, drawing him from the off-ramp. “How can you speak so carelessly about yourself like that?”

“I… I – uh…” Dean had a response. A common one he trotted out whenever a question like this appeared. Now, he finds the stable empty. He has nothing. “I…”

“You’ve been given a wonderful gift, Dean. The gift called life. Gone are the oppressive forces steering your judgement. Controlling how you grow.” Adam’s voice rises, passion seeping into his skin. Mixing with the oils, providing a euphoric numbness. “Now is when you should slash through those bindings and grow into the person you were always meant to be!”

“What if I…”

“Hmm?” Adam stops massaging him. The music ended at some point, leaving only silence. “What if you what?”

Dean slowly rises from the face hole, Adam not fighting him this time. Leans on his elbows, staring at the floor. At the small droplet that splattered there. “What if I don’t like that person?” he mutters, “What if I look in the mirror one morning and I don’t… don’t recognize that it’s my reflection. What if I become someone so wholly different now that I… now that I can grow, and change, that I lose parts of myself. Lose my family, because they don’t like who I’ve become?”

Adam’s hand rests on his shoulder, fingers curling over a spot that doesn’t belong to him. When other people touched it, his skin crawled. Itched like fire ants crawled and bit. It’s the opposite feeling, with Adam’s hand. As if Dean’s soul breached through the shadows and filled him with so much light, he could overpower the sun. But only one other person has ever made him feel like that…

“If your family truly loves you, Dean,” Adam says, stepping into view. Guides Dean’s gaze from his feet towards his face using both hands. Smiling, “Then they love your most core, basic parts of yourself. And those, I know, will stick with you as you journey into a new era of self-exploration. Just as they will. You shouldn’t be afraid of change. It is the most powerful force in existence. Change cannot be stopped, cannot be controlled… how we choose to respond to it, however, is where humanity finds its freedom.” He lets go, drifting backwards into Serafina’s waiting arms.

There’s still a hand on his shoulder.

Dean turns. Instead of a thin, linen shirt, there’s a starched white button-down. Blue tie where he expected a scarf and chunky necklace. Dark hair with touches of gray, and blue eyes rimmed red with tears. “Cas…”

“Dean…” he says, squeezing his shoulder, “I love you. I… I won’t ever leave you.”

“How can you promise that, Cas?” he asks, “How do you know that? We’ve… what if Chuck was the only thing keeping us together? What do we do now that he’s gone?”

“We live Dean… day by day.” Cas kneels, pressing a thumb against his chin. “You’re right, I can’t be certain about the future. None of us can, not anymore. But, before Chuck, all I saw was bleakness. Now that he’s gone… after every hardship we’ve been through, the clouds have parted. It finally looks bright. And we could have a thousand more days or one more day, but in this moment Dean I want to experience everything with you.” He kisses him, breathing that promise into his body. Words mingling with his heart and soul. “My first, and most important act of rebellion was loving you. In these few years we’ve known each other I’ve lived more than I ever have. I’ve grown, not because of Chuck or despite of Chuck… but on my own terms. And you’re still here, with me.”

“Cas I…” Dean knocks their foreheads together, “You’re someone I never expected entering my life… and if you left, I don’t know if I can go back to living without you. Every time you were taken from me I… part of me died. A part that never came back, even though you did. When the Empty took you, I thought that was it. If I lost you one more time… I fought so hard for this – to live by my terms that I… I don’t want to lose it. Lose you.”

“Then don’t act like you already have,” Cas tells him. “Let me in. Let Sam and Jack… we’re all figuring this out together. Shoulder your burdens with us and we will do the same to you. That way we can enjoy our time together. And when one of us goes, the other will always have the memories of what we’ve won to remind us how the fight – how life was worth it.”

Dean nods, dropping another kiss against Cas’s lips. Rises with Cas, uncaring that the towel fell. He already felt more exposed from this simple massage. Modesty seemed a… a moot point. Cas slips between Dean’s legs, wrapping him in a hug. Dean returns it.

Then he looks at their voyeurs, watching from the sidelines. “Was this what you had planned all along?”

“Before you came here,” Adam says, “I had a vision.”

“…Right.”

“And in that vision,” Serafina adds, swaying with Adam. Fingers threaded through his curls, petting him, while his oil-covered hands stained her patchwork skirt. “He saw you two sticking around for a few more days.”

Dean arches a brow, huffing, “We do?”

“Oh yes,” she says, “you’ve only just begun to heal, the both of you. It’s a process – like growth – that never really ends.” Serafina’s gaze darts from him to Cas, and back again. “Plus, if you stay, we can introduce you to some new things. Offer some wisdom from our many lifetimes on Earth that may prove… beneficial.”

Dean and Cas share a silent conversation. He grins from that, knowing he can tilt his head or flutter his lashes and be understood completely. “Okay,” Dean answers, “it’s not like there’s anything else we need to be doing.”

“Perfect!” She claps, “Oh I’ll – I’ll go put some tea on, and Adam can show you to our meditation room. We can spend the rest of the evening just sharing, maybe even fall asleep under the stars. In all of America, Adam and I’ve found they don’t shine quite like they do here.”

Dean leans his head on Cas’s shoulder, listening as Serafina rambles about possible plans. Adam interjecting with his own ideas every now and then. Watching them, a strange feeling flutters inside his chest.

He isn’t sure what to expect from hanging out at their commune or drinking their Kool-Aid. But, for the first time since they’ve closed the book on Chuck’s story… he’s excited.

(chapter 2)

#supernatural #spn #spn15 #spn15 post finale #15x17 coda #15x17 unity #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #adam the first man #serafina

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earlgreytea68 · 5 years ago

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A Review of the Fall Out Boy Biography Inevitably Colored by Shippiness Oops But Really Mainly By My Love for Pete Wentz

I don’t even know who the audience is for this monstrosity of a review, nor do I know the audience for this biography, though, so, like, it’s fitting lololol:

I am a new Fall Out Boy fan. I say that because, if anybody was in need of a Fall Out Boy biography, you would think it would be a new fan. AND YET. I’m not entirely sure who the market for this book is, because it isn’t really Fall Out Boy fans of any duration, because not only can everything in the book be easily located with the simplest of Google searches but also there’s so much he leaves out. And what he leaves out is just…so incredibly telling. It’s like, the facts he chooses to highlight are often pointless and random (although thanks for telling me that Pete Wentz’s jeans were so tight he had to perform without underwear, I’m going to think about that a lot now), whereas the facts he leaves out are the ones that lend both complexity and context. Like, this whole book could be Exhibit A in how malleable facts can be. Given the same set of facts, this man and I would tell two very different stories.

At least partly this is because he’s a music critic (I glean from the book) and I’m a creative writer. I believe he is a music critic because he takes care to dedicate a paragraph of musical analysis to every song on their earliest CDs (he loses interest in them over the hiatus, and more on that later). I appreciated this, because I know nothing about music, and I learned a lot about how talented Patrick Stump really is, like, not as a vocalist, because I knew that, or as a musician, because I also knew that, but as a smart, clever songwriter. I don’t know how to critique music, and I was happy this guy was full of praise for what Patrick does. He also pointed out musical hallmarks of theirs – like their tendency to drop the music suddenly for Patrick to sing an a cappella line – and that was the first time I’d ever really thought about them.

He was full of much less praise for Pete’s lyrics, though, and I think that’s because he’s a music person, not a word person. Not that he thought Pete’s lyrics were ever bad but he tended to stay very conventional about them: emo, confessional, dramatic, and ingeniously juxtaposed with Patrick’s clear-as-a-bell voice. He’s kind of obsessed with the contrast between Patrick’s voice and the lyrics he’s singing, whereas I’m much more obsessed with the contrast between Patrick himself in sweater-paws and glasses snarling, “I am your worst nightmare,” like, sweetheart, I doubt it. AND YET HE PULLS IT OFF. Like, that’s so interesting to me, how much Patrick can make himself embody Pete, that act of alchemy where he sings on his behalf, but this book talks less about that than I think it might, mostly because I don’t think this guy really wants to think too hard about how incredibly good Pete’s lyrics actually are. The thing about Pete’s lyrics – he does this, and it’s so clever, it’s killer clever – is you can read them so easily on one very obvious and expected layer, and then there’s always one or two additional meanings tucked underneath them, and you might never stop to think about them, especially if you’ve already written him off, but his lyrics reward careful study and a lot of thought, he specializes in triple entendres, a turn of phrase that spins out into so many meanings, that’s so hard to do and he makes it look so easy that it’s such a simple mistake to dismiss it, to not even see how dense his poetry is. The conventional story on Pete Wentz is he’s good at marketing – marketing the band, marketing himself – and so he spun in circles to keep the spotlight on him and away from Patrick, and that’s definitely one take, and another take would be to point out that the same whirligig sex-symbol tabloid-fodder act also had the side effect of undercutting any tendency to take Pete seriously from a literary point of view, like, so much easier to just say that, in keeping with his goth guyliner, he wept into his inkwell and scrawled messily over parchment. So anyway: criticism #1 of this book is that they should have complemented the music-critic-ness with an English major.

Criticism #2 is that I feel like people always get wrong what appeals to girls, to speak in the massive generalizations of this topic. Like, someone somewhere was like, “Hey, girls like this Fall Out Boy band, it must be because Pete Wentz is hot.” And they’re not wrong about that, exactly, but they always seem to miss how many entangled layers often come with attraction. Like, yeah, sometimes it’s just he’s got nice abs but often there’s a million other things happening there, and one thing I cannot forgive this guy for is not just his failure to engage with Pete’s lyrics on any real level, but how little he also truly examines Pete Wentz’s genuine marketing genius. He’s a music guy: His interest is clearly in Patrick, and also in Joe and Andy, because they’re musicians, and he can wax poetic about them. Pete gets his standard paragraphs: Oh, he chose the right management, the right record label, the right deal. He can pick out a good band, like Panic! or Gym Class Heroes. All of that is true, but none of it really grasps exactly how smart Pete really is. Like, the book hardly mentions at all how much Pete realized immediately the value of internet fandom. When I first fell for Pete Wentz – that first weekend I spent Googling him – what really was the death knell for me was stumbling upon the old FOB Q&As he used to run in the earliest days. And it wasn’t actually his constant leaning into the Peterick shipping with such dead-on unerring understanding of fandom that did it for me (although that was pretty charming, ngl). It was how often teenagers messaged Pete Wentz with their problems, and how patiently he took the time to respond. My boyfriend broke up with me. My grandma just died. I don’t feel like I fit in anywhere. Again and again and again, Pete Wentz took these messages and wrote out detailed, laborious responses. And I know he was a guy angling hard to be famous but not all guys angling hard to be famous realized how important something like this is, this very personal connection, like, above and beyond the bantering and the smirks, and even if you’re doing it entirely for ulterior motives, that’s a ton of emotional labor he was performing. I finished reading those Q&As and thought, God, Pete Wentz must have been exhausted.

And I’m not sure that’s something the bio ever really wrestled with, because it never really talked about that aspect of him. I don’t actually think the bio read anything Pete Wentz has ever posted online, like, not even those basic Q&As that are the easiest thing in the universe to Google, never mind the secret blogs he still has scattered all over the internet with nuggets of lyricism buried in there for Patrick to mine. It’s just so easy to buy into the Peter-Pan, devil-may-care Pete Wentz picture, and for all I know that’s the truest of the pictures, but it’s also undeniable fact that the other side to that was either really cunning and savvy or just a nice guy, and either way it’s another layer to Pete Wentz that gets short shrift in the bio. Which isn’t surprising because although the author clearly appreciates Fall Out Boy the band, the author clearly isn’t fannish at all, whereas it’s pretty abundantly clear Pete Wentz is fannish. He’s unapologetically fannish. He speaks fan language with a fluency that is hard to fake. And he’s astonishingly well-versed in tropes. He’s instinctively good at creating a good story, not just in his lyrics (although he, like Taylor Swift, is adept at tropey lyrics, so it’s no surprise they have a mutual admiration society), but in his life. In addition to the Q&As, that first weekend was full of me being like, …How is this the tropiest thing I’ve ever read??? It’s unsurprising that the bio doesn’t point out all the tropes in the Pete Wentz / Patrick Stump / Fall Out Boy story, because the author isn’t versed in tropes, but Pete Wentz definitely is. He knows how to use words, well. And you wouldn’t necessarily know it to listen to him – he babbles and uses tons of filler phrases and never, ever ask him what his lyrics are about, it’s like trying to have a conversation in Wonderland – but that’s all part of the aw-shucks-sometimes-I-scribble-some-stuff-down-Patrick’s-the-real-genius brand.

Now I am not qualified to write a Fall Out Boy biography and also I don’t know these people and also everything I do know comes from Google but that said, I feel like I do know for a fact some primary source materials that the writer just chose to leave out that really does display how malleable stories can be depending on what you highlight or not. Like, if he didn’t want to draw psychological conclusions based on the facts that’s fair enough. But he also pared back the narrative so drastically that it left off the true meat of it, like, if you read this book you would not necessarily think there was much interesting about these people, whereas if you really dig into everything they’ve got out there, well, you could start to think they’re super-interesting people. But I am a creative writer and this biographer was a music critic. He settles happily into the song analysis but I’m busy connecting dots into a narrative, and life is complicated, it is not a simple narrative, but that impulse underlies most biography, the idea that we can assemble the facts into something that has something to say about a human life. But that act really exists in how you assemble the facts.

~~~~~~~~TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE DISCUSSION~~~~~~~~~~~

A really good example of this is the way the biography deals with the Best Buy incident. Here are the bare facts: Pete Wentz, in a Best Buy parking lot listening to Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah,” took too many Ativan. In a phone call, his manager noticed he was slurring, called his parents, they rushed him to the hospital, he lived. These are the facts that the book gives you, and these are true facts.

If you want to expand slightly upon these bare facts, Pete has given many, many interviews about this incident because he is very open about mental health issues and his bipolar disorder and depressive episodes and anxiety. Pete has said that he’s not sure he was trying to kill himself so much as just make his head quiet for a little while. Pete has said he felt like he was too busy being Pete Wentz for everyone else and he just wanted to rest. These are also facts, although ones I don’t think the biographer truly believes. He does dutifully quote them but he also clearly has his own belief about how much Pete’s telling the truth. Because this is inevitable in any telling of the facts.

If you want to expand slightly upon these facts, you could point out that Pete’s lyrics reflect how noisy his head is (“when this city goes silent, the ringing in my ears gets violent”), which might color how you understand him when he says he just wanted some peace and quiet. You might also point out that, as the bio has already said, Pete was the driving force behind the band’s strategy and it was about to culminate. You might remind the reader that Pete walked away from other possibly very successful careers to do this band (there is much made in the book of the theoretical ease with which Pete could have achieved a soccer career, which made me raise my eyebrows a bit but, you know, Patrick does say Pete’s really, really good at soccer). You might recall that Pete has these kids relying on him whose parents he literally had to persuade to trust him. You might say that so far everything had gone exactly as he planned and he just needed to stick the landing. You might mention the fact that they kept rewriting songs and rewriting songs and rewriting songs; that Pete was in such utter meltdown mode that he was sliding lyrics under Patrick’s door and then retreating, so that the rest of the band never even saw him; that they had scrapped half the album and were furiously writing new music right up until the deadline – all of which are facts not even mentioned. You might say all of those things, because they are indeed all true facts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is appropriate at this point to note that many of these things were simply not germane to the story this biographer was telling, which was a music-critic-focused story. But these things are all incredibly germane to the story *I* would tell, about these four people who found each other, lost each other, and found each other again, and the two people at the center whose creative alchemy was by turns either too dazzling or too explosive and in both incarnations needed to find a way to balance to keep the band afloat. This is the story I would tell, but, to be totally honest, Pete and Patrick’s creative partnership doesn’t really seem to interest the writer of this book. He mentions it vaguely, in passing, once or twice, fairly standard surface proclamations about Pete handling lyrics and Patrick handling music, and Pete drawing the spotlight away from Patrick who didn’t want it. Or he’ll say that the true secret to the band’s success is Patrick’s voice and Pete’s lyrics, like Patrick could be any pretty-enough voice, which I think just isn’t true, there’s so much more to the way they clicked together. I read this great New Yorker article once about how, through history, genius exists in pairs, that often two people need to find each other to push each other to be better than they would ever be apart.

It’s fine to not want to get into that too intensely, it’s just that that means that half the story of Folie goes away, if you’re not focused on how the band was creating. Like, there’s so much about the lead-up to Folie to talk about: Patrick’s control over the music to the exclusion of everyone else, Pete’s worsening prescription pill thing, and the way that their creative partnership seemed to disintegrate while simultaneously leaving no room for Joe or Andy in the band. The book mentions really none of this – nothing about the fact that at one point they had descended into physical altercations over chord progressions; nothing about the story the producer tells that Patrick would get so frustrated after phone calls with Pete that he’d throw things around the studio; nothing about the story that Patrick once told Pete, “I don’t care, I’m going to write a song and call it ‘I Don’t Care,’” such a telling little tale when later Patrick comes to hate the song “I Don’t Care” – so the hiatus feels like it descends out of nowhere, with a paragraph about the fans not liking the album. Which, again, is a true fact, but without the other true facts of the way the entire creative process was crumbling around them, around all of them, it sounds less compelling. The bio does get into Joe wanting to flex his creative muscles more but doesn’t connect it back to the Folie era of being shut-out. The hiatus becomes entirely about Patrick not liking being booed.

Even worse to me is the book devotes a lot of time to each of their music videos, which is awesome, because their videos are important and great, but it devotes exactly zero time to the video for “What a Catch, Donnie.” And I’m so bewildered by that, you can have a field day with the symbolism in that video, even if you want to just make a true factual statement about its plot: Patrick collects all of the detritus of Fall Out Boy and all of their friends come and party with him, while Pete goes down with a sinking ship all alone, to a medley of the words he’s leaving behind. Like. That is literally what happens in this video. And then the hiatus starts. To me this is one of the most ridiculously angsty things ever, that they would go out to their own triumphs echoing back at them and the literal death of captain!Pete Wentz. To the story I would tell, this is the most germane. It merits not a single mention in the bio (other than praising the song itself for being one of the strongest on the album, and talking about the Elvis Costello cameo).

Because he’s much more interested in them musically than as people or relationships, he seems to lose interest in them post-hiatus. He details each of their hiatus-era projects with his typical attention to the music criticism side. And then he spends, like, eight pages talking about the guy who wrote the article that triggered Patrick’s “We Liked You Better When You Were Fat” blog post. I’m not even exaggerating. It’s an entire chapter dedicated to the article and the guy who wrote it. Patrick’s response is described and quoted and even praised, but not in nearly as much as detail as the original article, and Pete’s reaction to Patrick’s blog post gets literally zero attention. Which is fascinating since, in some tellings of the story, that’s the entire reason the hiatus ended. Pete has said on multiple occasions that he read the blog post and was upset Patrick was so upset and called him up and asked him to try writing with him again. But if you’re not actually interested in that creative relationship as a relationship, then you don’t see a reason to explain the motivation behind trying again.

You also don’t really see a reason to tackle why they initially struggled to get back into it. Like, truly grappling with the Pete/Patrick relationship leads to more depth than the surface “Patrick doesn’t like the spotlight, so Pete takes it for him.” That’s too simplistic a formulation, as Pete himself has said. It also discounts Patrick’s obvious dedication to Pete, his complete willingness to step in and publicly defend him on many occasions, like, Patrick’s no shy, retiring wallflower when it comes to Pete, Patrick can let loose viciously on behalf of Pete. Their protectiveness is mutual, although the public narrative often glosses over that. (In one of those “why leave that out” details, the biographer notes that Hemingway was Pete and Ashlee’s ring bearer but not that Patrick was Pete’s best man, Idk.) At any rate, I point that out because the struggle they had to find their groove writing together after the hiatus mirrored their initial struggles, to find their way into trusting each other’s strengths, but the book is just kind of like, “The first session wasn’t successful but the next session was. They were out of practice.” They weren’t out of practice with songwriting, not really, especially not Patrick – they were out of practice with each other. And that wasn’t just a hiatus-era souvenir, that went back to Folie, but we didn’t get that part of Folie.

The biographer also, annoyingly in my view, loses all interest in them at this point. He devotes almost no time to the post-hiatus era, which is fascinating to me, since their ability to launch a comeback as successfully and relevantly as they did is striking, and to do it not by relying on nostalgia but by generating genuinely new hits with a genuinely new audience, and he’s not interested in that at all. Even worse than not being interested in this is the fact that he fails to close the Folie loop, like, he devotes lots of time to Patrick coming to hate Folie because of how much the fans hated it. Then he makes a little note, like, “Maybe someday Patrick will come to love Folie again,” or something, and the thing is, I know the book was written a few years ago now, but there was definitely stuff available about how much Folie had become a fan favorite in the hiatus years. Patrick gave an interview somewhere where he talked about the reunion show and how he read fan reviews of it and the fans were like, “They should have played more songs from Folie!” I always think at that point And then Patrick looked into the camera like he’s on The Office. But, at any rate, Patrick got to see Folie become beloved and that loop could have been closed better and he just leaves it dangling. (I’m almost like, Did he really write most of this book while they were on hiatus and then when they came back he was like, …Goddamn it?)

He doesn’t at all get into the shock of the immediate level of success of their comeback, like, that’s another thing that’s documented, that they were unsure anyone would care and they were so startled by the response that they had to actually add larger venues onto their tour because they’d thought no one would want to come to their shows. He could have talked about how people waited hours outside in the Chicago cold to get into the comeback show, how they started the show with “Thriller” and Patrick says the response was electric and it must have been amazing and he’s just not really interested in it, you can tell that he’s bored. He doesn’t talk about how Patrick hadn’t really thought about having to perform the new songs live because he didn’t think anyone would really care about the new album, so they had to really think about how they were going to make it work, and how he almost permanently damaged his voice having to sing “Alone Together” live and that’s what finally finally drove him to pursue actual voice lessons, like, he mentions none of this, he’s just like, “They wrote Save Rock & Roll, and then they wrote American Beauty / American Pyscho.” He’s just clearly, at that point, bored. Whereas in the story I would tell, that is the most satisfying part, the happy ending beyond their wildest dreams.

Okay, omg, this is SO LONG, but here are some other random thoughts:

· He never – not once – goes back to source Pete’s lyrics to their original blog entries, which can be very interesting. This is because he’s not interested in the lyrics really, but it’s very frustrating to me because, like, SOMEBODY TAKE THESE LYRICS SERIOUSLY, PLEASE, THEY’RE SO GOOD. It also means that he misses things like “Miss Missing You” and the way it echoes Pete’s poem with the line “I miss you missing me,” like, that’s just a fact ::shrug:: He also says “Hum Hallelujah” is about teenage romance, and that is the most straightforward, surface-level reading, like, “Oh, it says ‘teenage vow in a parking lot,’ that’s what it’s about.” This pains me only because “Hum Hallelujah” might be the most perfect lyrically constructed song Fall Out Boy has, every line is golden and stuffed with meaning and emotion, and he’s just like, “teenage romance,” so dismissively, and I wince, like, “I could write it better than you ever felt it” is a line that deserves more than that. Not to mention “I love you in the same way there’s a chapel in a hospital,” god, or “One day we’ll get nostalgic for disaster,” ugh, do not read this book for lyrical analysis. He also terms the best lyrical line on Cork Tree as “To the ‘love’ I left my conscience pressed / Between the pages of the Bible in the drawer” and, while there’s nothing wrong with that line, I don’t even think that’s the best line in XO (I mean, leaving off the follow-up of “What did it ever do for me? I say” undercuts those lines immediately, imo). (He does at least point out that “Keep quiet, nothing comes as easy as you / Can I lay in your bed all day?” is a devastatingly sexy couplet.)

· Can I just say, the entire debacle with Hey Chris gets precious little time in this book, which in a way is fine but in a way is like, just by Googling I got way more information on what went down and the weird, weird words that were being flung back and forth (at one point the term “heterolifemates” is used which makes zero sense at all in this context), but this book does spend a lot of time with Chris and Pete pre-Patrick (fascinating, right???) and there’s this weird part where Chris says he hated Pete before he met him and is like, “He should wear pants that fit,” which is just…such an interesting reason to hate Pete Wentz, like, Idk, Chris, coupled with your heterolifemates thing and weird thing about “whose name do you say every night???” which is also weirdly sexual phrasing and also being like “no one knows how to break a heart like he does,” like, everything about this entire situation has so much queer subtext but the book doesn’t touch any of that, ever, in any circumstance, with a ten-foot pole.

· EVERYONE, THE BORDERS WHERE JOE AND PATRICK MEET IS LOCATED IN EDEN PLAZA AND I AM SO UPSET I DIDN’T KNOW THAT WHEN I WROTE THE DEVIL FIC.

· I did not know that the producer wanted them to change the “We’re falling apart to halftime” line in Dance, Dance because he thought it was too incomprehensible and I’m just like, That’s the lyric where you thought you were going to lose people??

· From the bio, describing the Live in Phoenix performance: a strange moment where Wentz inexplicably gets changed onstage. A strange moment? Inexplicably? Okay, like, germane to my telling of the story is how much those dick pics affected Pete Wentz’s public persona, how much he knew exactly what he was there to sell and he sold it with gusto, and how much of a spiral that ultimately sent him on. Instead, this biographer finds it inexplicable that Pete Wentz would take his shirt off onstage, and his analysis of the music video for “This Ain’t a Scene” gives the dick pic storyline only an offhand reference, calling it “making light” of the scandal, instead of really digging into the obvious pain there, like, that’s not a joyful lark there. (Later, much later, years later, Brendon Urie will manage to actually make light of the dick pic saga, both in the Drunk History and also in the joke of the dick pic being the photo that comes up when Pete calls him, as seen in the promos for the tour they did together, and that feels much more genuine. But that bit in “Arms Race” is kind of heartbreaking.)

· Pete says of their failed attempt to get the Guinness record of the first band to perform on all seven continents that it was the worst feeling he’d ever felt in Fall Out Boy, and the biographer is like, “Really, Pete? Really?” and I kind of want to shake him because Pete Wentz is obviously a dramatic person and he feels disappointments keenly and he made that statement literally just as they were finding out they wouldn’t be able to do it, like, of course it’s just hyperbole! The biographer is weird through that whole section of the book because he never once mentions that, as a consolation to Pete, Patrick stayed up all night with him so they could get the record of most interviews by a duo in a twenty-four-hour period, like, that’s what I would have said about that story instead of trying to get way more out of Pete’s off-the-cuff self-pity (which is just so Pete Wentz, it’s like this writer hasn’t just spend a hundred pages writing about him…).

· Whenever I read about how many songs Patrick shows up with when it’s time to record an album, I always feel this little twinge of solidarity with him, like, sometimes that’s just how it is in your chosen creative medium, you’re just always endlessly writing.

· I had never thought before about the fact that Pete says all the time that he was too selfish pre-hiatus, all the time, a lot, that’s how he describes his problem – and the fact that there’s an entire song on Truant Wave called “Love, Selfish Love” with the line “God bless the sad and selfish” and I’m just going to…sit here and think about who in Patrick’s life could be described as sad and selfish.

· From the bio re: Soul Punk: It’s disarming to hear this garrulous boy-next-door sing so candidly about sex. Yeah, I don’t think you were paying attention to the way Patrick smirks at the camera in the music videos, buddy.

· Detail I knew but had never really thought about before: that Pete got Patrick to really click into songwriting with him again by giving him a puzzle. Patrick says that sometimes Pete gives him homework assignments, “I want a song that sounds like x, y, and z,” and Patrick will be like, “That’s impossible,” but also so intrigued that he ends up sitting and writing the thing. The fact that Pete knew, after a few mediocre songs neither of them liked, like, “You know how I snag him? This way,” is adorable. Also, the fact that it was Pete who adored the song to come out of it, “Where Did the Party Go?,” and that it was his excitement over the song that made Patrick think, Okay, maybe we can do this, like, it was Pete’s joy that drove Patrick’s optimism, they’re so creatively linked, these two.

· He does include the detail that Pete was worried he’d fallen behind during the hiatus because he didn’t spend much time playing music and so he committed himself to practicing and improving with metronome work, like, Pete Wentz ugh <3. In a very recent interview that I cannot blame the bio for not including, Pete said that Patrick helps him with the bass because he’s so musically talented and everything about that offhand statement just kills me.

· I did not know that one of the leaks of their reunion was on a blog that wrote “You can stop refreshing for a journal update,” and I’m in love with that, sorry.

· Ugh, can I just say, the fact that Patrick sang all of his vocals for Pax AM Days live with the band is just so unbelievable, he kills me.

· From the bio: “We were fireworks that went off too soon / And I miss you in the June gloom, too,” Stump sings here, and you can’t help but wonder if the words refer to his public but brief marriage. …I have indeed helped the wondering of that because I have never once thought that about this song lolololol

#long post #peterick #pete wentz #fall out boy #fob #bandom

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dotthings · 5 years ago

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While usually I’d post my ep-watching notes, I’m skipping that this time because 15.03 is such a deep dive emotionally on multiple character points. Also I’d normally rewatch before going into more depth on any one point but the Dean and Cas part in particular is a raw wound I need to get my thoughts out before I lose what’s left of my mind because of this show. That was a LOT.

Disclaimer because fandom is how it is: I will block anybody who brings character hate onto this post. You will, especially, not reblog me just to screech I have no right to consider Dean’s pov seriously and treat him as a human being and that Dean has no right to feelings how dare u. Disagreement is fine, if you see the characters and story from a slightly different angle, so long as the discussion’s in good faith, we’re good.

I’ve talked here a few times about why Dean feels the way he does about recent events, why he has a right to anger, hurt, pain, and this is a little similar, as I’m definitely not going to stop treating Dean like the layered, sympathetic, complicated character that he is any time soon, and he has every right to the anger and the hurt and the pain, but in this specific scene, his words are in the wrong. It’s in the same zip code as “you’re dead to me” and Dean delivering ultimatums to Cas, both of which are things I’ve criticized. This doesn’t mean Dean doesn’t have a right to his feelings or I’m going to ignore why he might act the way he does instead of knee jerk simplifying, which does the character, the story, his relationship with Cas, and the entire show a disservice. He has a right to that anger, fear, pain, hurt. However there’s a distinction between things Cas actually did where I can see why Dean might still be upset with him—shutting Dean out, not trusting Dean enough, not trusting in THEM enough--and then there’s Dean saying things are are untrue and unfair.

In the final scene of 15.03 Dean pins every screw up onto Cas, he uses the word “always” and it is a shockingly unfair statement, and you could make a history reel of Team Free Will demonstrating how off-canon that statement is. Let’s not repeat that cyclical thing, because it’s a trap like a hamster wheel and maybe some infernal device of Chuck’s to get fandom to fight, but anyone with an ounce of sense, who pays attention to canon, can see that Sam, Dean, and Cas have set things in motion that make big messes, repeatedly.

What Dean says plays into all of Cas’s deepest insecurities and fears, and the intention of the episode is very very clear that even Dean doesn’t believe what he’s saying. He says it anyway, which is a whole mess right there and I’ll get into that, but the things Dean says to Cas aren’t Dean’s truth. Jensen’s incredible, beautiful acting makes it obvious immediately not only that Dean doesn’t truly believe what he’s saying, but that Dean deeply regrets it the second they come out of his mouth. Most people have at one time or another said stupid things in anger they don’t really believe, or give into the impulse to lash out. Dean’s tendency to do this isn’t constructive or positive behavior, it’s a character flaw, but he is also a sympathetically portrayed character, not an asshole or an abuser, and we are always shown the sources of the hurt and the pain that brings him to that point. That doesn’t mean he can do that to Cas and it’s perfectly okay. But it’s a deeply ugly, bad hot take to treat Dean as monstrous or abusive.

Understanding where the pain comes from that gets Dean to the point he’d lash out like this doesn’t mean that what comes out of his mouth on the other end is right.

There is no part of Dean that really thinks Cas ruined everything and is always what makes things go wrong. It’s actually laughable to suggest this—I will for reals laugh at anyone who tries to earnestly argue that as a reliable take on canon. That’s pretty much someone who has divorced the canon and isn’t paying attention to years and years of material. This line isn’t in fact actually about Cas ruining Team Free Will save the world plans. It’s something much deeper, about Dean’s fears and Cas’s. Which I’ll get to a sec.

Dean also is incredibly unfair in blaming Cas for Rowena’s death, and if Cas had just let Bel devour all those souls and become a Lucifer-level problem, TFW would again be completely screwed. And he is also uncharacteristically cold to Cas about sending him on the mission to Hell with Bel. These are all red flags and build-up to the final scene.

Fandom loves to yell about OOCness. This isn’t OOC, these things, this hurt, they are a part of Dean, but they aren’t how he really feels about things, they are purposefully crafted as red flags to show the audience something is wrong. Not that Dean isn’t himself, or possessed. It’s like a figurative, emotional possession. His deep sense of despair is eating him alive and his relationship with Cas is taking a hit from it.

It’s also interesting Dean voices what AU Michael said, which was AU Michael using Dean’s greatest fears about how Cas might perceive how Dean feels about him. This isn’t proof that AU Michael was speaking the truth about how Dean feels after all. It’s that Dean remembers witnessing AU Michael saying that to Cas, taunting Cas with it, and it’s still among Dean’s big fears—that Cas thinks he ruined Dean’s life, that Dean doesn’t love him back and blames him for all the troubles. Then there’s Dean’s fears that Cas doesn’t love him back, that Dean ruined an angel, Cas’s falling was his fault and so every bad thing that happens to Cas, deep down, Dean self-loathes himself for.

Dean has done a lot of growing but the vestiges of the Dean in S9 who said “I’m poison” are still there. That kind of thing doesn’t just magically go away never to return.

And here’s this huge chasm that has opened under Dean’s feet. Dean is doubting the meaning of his entire life right now, because of the revelation about Chuck. Because of Dean wondering if anything he’s gone through is “real” — if any of his actions and feelings and pain and struggling and losses and wins had any real meaning at all or was it all puppeted. It was good in this ep seeing Dean not giving up, determined to fend off or seal away the ghosts, and up yours, Chuck, but he isn’t over his sense of despair.

One of Dean’s fears here is that what’s between him and Cas isn’t real, that the things Cas did, for him, their closeness, none of that was authentic. Remember that their relationship started as *movie announcer voice* it was only supposed to be a mission...it became something more. Cas’s introduction into Dean’s life was Cas as a chess piece, sent as part of Heaven’s bigger clockwork plan.

Dean’s entire world is caving in, and he’s not ready to see that everything Cas feels for him, Cas's deep and genuine love for him, is in fact very, scarily, in your face real.

He’s shutting himself off, he’s shutting Cas out. The feelings he has for Cas aren’t gone, but Dean’s a mess.

Interesting how this ep shows a demon ripping Ketch’s heart out of his chest, because Dean figuratively rips his own heart out of his chest in the last scene with him and Cas. He hurts someone he really REALLY doesn’t want to hurt, who he loves so so much--you can insert here a sizzle reel of 11 seasons of Dean listening to Cas, defending Cas, offering Cas shelter and protection, saving Cas’s life, caring about Cas, being there for Cas, grieving for Cas, feeling insecure about Cas, showing fondness for Cas, in one way or the other. There is so much. That doesn’t mean the relationship doesn’t have problems or their own issues and poor coping mechanisms and circumstance and familial dynamics haven’t made things difficult at times. Dean hurts Cas on the most raw, biggest fear Cas has and interestingly, the biggest fear or criticism Cas fans have about the show.

And there’s Bel—demon of marital strife—playing on Cas’s fears all throughout the ep, taking little digs about how expendable Cas is, how unimportant he is to his friends. He’s like the angel in S11 who tells Cas he’s expendable and Sam and Dean “are the real heroes.” Maybe it was part of Bel’s plan all along to have Dean and Cas divided, along with his bigger take over Hell agenda.

I’ve been saying this and saying this--while it’s valid that Dean is still hurt over what happened with Cas, Jack, and Mary, and is still, remember, rawly grieving Mary’s death which was mere DAYS AGO—it’s also not actually what it’s about, and it’s not even entirely about Dean’s Chuck-induced despair, although that ground falling away is what’s pushing things to this point. What it’s actually about underneath is Dean and Cas and their relationship. Years of unresolved Dean and Cas issues. I sure called that one. Dean’s fears. Cas’s fears. Dean’s abandonment issues, Cas’s leaving, Dean’s fears of losing Cas, Cas’s fears of not being loved, Dean’s fears of Cas not loving him the way he loves Cas.

One thing that is so so tragic about Dean’s despair is that just last season, Dean reached a point of self-like. Liking who he is, who he’s becoming, the family he’s chosen. Being good with his life.

And then boo the crushing reveal that Chuck was manipulating their circumstances all this time. Which doesn’t mean Chuck was controlling them or their decisions or feelings. But Dean doesn’t feel that way.

Which, emotional horror that this is, also just serves to show just how much Cas actually means to him, how important Cas is. This big Destiel drama and hurt and pain rises from Dean and Cas loving each other and being in love and being complete and utter dumbasses. It hurts. It’s supposed to hurt. Their friendship has been mostly functional. Their love story is a car wreck. If Cas wasn’t so important, all this emotional horror wouldn’t be taking place. Dean and Cas’s relationship right now is a lightning rod for the fallout on pretty much everything.

And it’s really strong, and it’s going to endure this, but not without taking some hits to the bow.

On Cas’s part, Cas isn’t in a great headspace but he’s in a less self-destructive and harmful and despairing headspace than Dean. He has grown a lot and I think a few seasons ago, Cas would have endured, looked grim and said nothing, and stayed. He would stay doubting himself, or stay thinking Dean is really unfair, but he’d stoically take it. But not this time, and Cas did the only thing he could now. He had to leave. There’s only so much hurt he can take and Dean is shutting him out and not listening to him.

Here’s the twist about Cas. He both does and doesn’t believe Dean is speaking his truth. Cas’s gutted, shocked face at what Dean says brings Dean up short, it’s so raw. Dean’s realization of OH F*CK WHAT DID I JUST DO comes instantly, both from his own words ringing in his ears and from Cas’s reaction. The thing about Cas’s reaction, is that it has a bit of “oh you did not JUST” to it, where I think maybe Cas knows this is total BS and Dean is full of it but Cas also believes it. Cas feels like a failure. He feels like he has failed everyone. And now here’s Dean, his favorite person in the actual literal universe, telling him he is. Blaming him, when Cas knows intellectually that it isn’t actually all Cas’s fault, but nobody blames Cas for things more than Cas himself does.

This jacks right back into all of Cas’s deepest fears about not belonging. About being lonely. About being expendable and the afterthought in Team Free Will. One thing I’ve pointed out over and over is part of Cas’s drive to protect Jack is needing to be needed. Dean and Cas is not a parallel relationship to Sam and Dean, it wasn’t formed the same way, it doesn’t function the same way. They are very very close, but there also is no Sam to Cas’s Dean, until Jack. This is not about seeking or needing a codependent relationship. Putting it more baldly, while there’s a brothers-in-arms aspect to Dean and Cas, they are not sibling bonds/like-sibling bonds/parent-child like bonds, Dean and Cas are lovers, spouses, chosen not-actually-platonic life-mates, they are coded as a couple or as spousal over and over. Strip that layer out and trying to meta this becomes a lot of “but why??”

The answers are simple. Don’t strip out the subtext, and the by now textually-level implied nature of Dean and Cas’s relationship. Which doesn’t mean I am saying it’s been consummated, but it also is what it is.

I’ve also pointed out how Cas’s immortality offers him the emotional horror of being the survivor, of Sam and Dean dying and Cas losing them and living forever onward without them. Ironically, becoming so attached to Sam and Dean fed his loneliness, because now he has that fear of losing them and living on forever without them.

Cas too has done a lot of growing, and like Dean, just last season showed how far he’d come. In Cas’s case, when he voiced that he knew Sam and Dean were there for him, and that Cas realized that he was enough. But as with Dean, those deepest shadows and insecurities don’t just magically go away and Cas still fears that he doesn’t mean to Sam and Dean what they mean to him and Cas, right now, feels like a failure to everyone he loves. Shoulder tap from another Dean and Cas parallel—“you fight and you fight for this family, but they don’t need you, not like you need them” which the YED used to taunt Dean way back when.

No matter how much Cas might understand about what Dean really feels, or about his own actual culpability, I don’t see how Cas could do anything now but walk out. Cas has never left Dean because he needed to leave Dean, because staying with Dean hurt too much. Cas has had to leave Dean, or left Dean, at various points for various reasons and it was never because he personally needed to leave because of his Dean feelings. Cas has had to leave because of world-saving stakes angel business missions, or because he was captured, or brainwashed, or murdered, or because his own headstrong decisions resulted in events that separated them, or he was protecting their son Jack. It wasn’t because Cas wanted to leave. Cas doesn’t want to leave now but he also needs to, personally.

The fact that Cas so candidly stated those fears here startled me. I was hopeful for more emotional candidness, but this is even farther than I’d hoped. This is going to the root. And yes it is incredibly exciting. As emotionally horrifying as this storyline is, the purpose is to move things forward to an even better place. This arc isn’t here for destruction. Things are being shaken out big time and it’s only going to make the bonds stronger once things are worked out. There’s already been a string of big moments in the show’s history showing just how deeply Cas is loved, and how much Dean loves him. If you were waiting for even more verification, just wait for it.

What’s also leaving me SHOOK is how very very very SPECIFIC this is. There’s a reason my Dean individual meta and my Cas individual meta is all mashed together here in a post that veers into talk about how Destiel is real. It’s things like this that show me recent SPN is serious as a heart attack about Destiel. Even if they can’t make it overt. I think a distinction needs to be made between overt/not-overt vs canon/not-canon. Destiel being non-overt doesn’t make its intention and its presence in the story not-canon. But my main point, this final scene isn’t about Team Free Will or a collective “how Cas feels about humanity.” This is unambiguously about Dean, and about Cas, and about Dean & Cas and their long relationship, and SPN is really f*cking serious about how important this is to both of them and how important it is to the show’s story.

#Dean Winchester #Castiel #meta #destiel #spn #supernatural #supernatural spoilers

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percywinchester27 · 5 years ago

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About a boy (Part-13)

Word count: 3.7K

Warning: Suspense, feels, physical abuse, child-trafficking, kidnapping, child-violence, bullying, angst, this gets really really dark, rest of the warnings in the tags.

Characters: Dean, Cas, Gabriel, Benny, Michael, OCs and… Sam?

Summary: Dean Winchester has a secret. A secret that could really land him in trouble. He never expected to connect with anyone when he walked into the ‘Blue Stone Orphanage for Boys,’ but even then, the walls he has put up are slowly coming down. Now, a series of strange events are threatening to expose him. When everything starts falling apart around him, will he still be able to save the one person that matters the most?

A/N: Please pay attention to the tags if you have triggers. Also, things get better after this!

Kudos to the lovliest @deanssweetheart23 for beta reading this story <3

About a boy masterlist

The adrenaline had taken over his body. That was the only explanation for how Dean could even remotely function with this sort of efficiency, let alone calmth. The first part of the plan had played out without a hitch. It had been easy to walk out of the Orphanage with Andy gone. They had walked too fast- almost sprinted- all the way till the edge of the town and it had taken Dean all of five minutes to fuse the wires and have the first car they saw running. It was an old Toyota XUV, stick shift, but nothing Dean hadn’t handled before.

So they had set out into the night. Dean in the driver's seat and Cas in the shotgun. Behind, Gabriel and Benny were sitting on either sides with Michael wedged between them. Gabriel had insisted on tying Michael’s hands behind his back. Dean couldn’t care less. It wasn’t like Michael was going to try anything funny. All he could do was point out directions when Dean was about to make turns and furtively steal looks at Cas who was sitting as passively as a stone besides Dean.

Dean knew Cas was distraught. Everything that Cas had believed in had been shattered in front of his eyes. Moreover, somewhere deep down he was wallowing in guilt that countless others had been sacrificed while he enjoyed his privileged safety. Both he and Gabriel must be feeling it. Dean should have been feeling something, too. Sadness, empathy… something for his friend. But in reality, he was feeling nothing except a haunting and all encompassing numbness.

His brain was processing Michael’s instructions, and his muscles were responding accordingly, steering the wheel in the right direction, but that’s all. Somewhere he knew that this odd disembodiment wouldn’t last, that it was his body’s defense mechanism to save him from the overloading of emotions and crippling fear each time he thought of Will. So he just didn’t. He didn’t think about anything except getting to the damned warehouse. Because, he knew if he waited long enough, allowed himself to feel, he’d be folded on the floor, paralysed in terror at the prospect of what might be.

If the numbness was the only thing keeping him upright and functioning, then so be it. Dean welcomed it.

“Take the second left and drive until the end of the road,” Michael said quietly. “That’s where the barn-house is. Turn off the headlights when you hit the country road. They have guards watching.”

There was a rough grunt from behind and Benny made a disapproving sound. “Stop hitting him,” Benny said.

“This is not about you, Lafitte,” Gabriel hissed. “This son of a bitch rode his high horse all these years and ruled the fucking place like he was some sort of king. All the while he was letting all those boys get bloodied and cut open and sold.”

Despite himself, a shudder overcame Dean, and he could feel a tiny crack in his numbness.

There was another hit.

“Stop hitting him, Gabe.” It was the first time Cas had spoken since they had left the orphanage.

Gabriel made an incredulous sound. “You of all people are saying this, Cas? You? Don’t tell me this bastard doesn’t deserve it!”

Cas shook his head. He looked haunted and his voice was dry, parched even. “You aren’t really angry at him. You’re angry at yourself. You’re angry because you always suspected that something wasn’t right with this place, that Andy was abusing his power. You always doubted that the privilege that came with being from Michael’s orphanage came at the cost of something horrible that he knew about, that he was a part of. You knew it in your gut and you ignored it. Overlooked it. Because confronting Michael would have meant giving up your freedom and comforts which you were so used to, which you loved. Don’t kid yourself by thinking that you’re angry with Michael. You’re angry with yourself. Angry and feeling guilty because you could have easily been one of those kids but you aren’t. You are safe and sound while some poor kid died instead of you.”

His words were followed by silence. An uncomfortable, too deep silence.

Dean looked over at Cas who was still glaring straight ahead into the night, eyes completely dry now. When he spoke next, his voice was softer, more like the Cas Dean knew and cared for.

“Gabe,” Cas said, “I know how you’re feeling. But now is not the time for it. You can’t let it get to you, can’t let the anger overpower you when you need to think straight. You have to get a grip on yourself because we need to save those boys.”

“You’re right,” Gabriel sighed. “I’m sorry.” And Dean could hear the crushing guilt there along with severe self-loathing.

How had he never seen this? All those weeks and months spent in the same room, he had never suspected that Gabriel’s outlandish, extravagant behaviour could be a direct sign of him acting out… because he felt miserable inside.

“It’s okay, man!” Benny said quietly. “Nobody is holding anything against you. Ain’t that right, Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“Besides,” Benny continued, “We’re here.”

The grey outline of the building was visible even from a couple hundred yards away. Yellow lights pouring out of the windows lent a sinister glow to the structure.

Dean cut the engine and climbed out of the car, everyone followed suit.

“Okay, here’s what we do,” he said. “Cas and I will try to get in from the front door. Gabriel, is there anyway that you can cause a distraction?”

“Distraction is my middle name,” Gabriel said with a small tilt to his mouth. He reached out into his pockets and casually removed what looked like detonators. “You say it, I got it!”

“Benny, I need you to go out back and see if there’s another entrance there. It seems likely.”

“Alright,” Benny said, bending to buckle his shoes.

“What about me?” Michael who was staring defiantly at him. At least as defiantly as one could, with their bound hands trussing up the shoulders awkwardly.

“Oh, you’re staying in the car,” Gabriel said, jerking him back in.

“You can’t do this to me!” he protested

Gabriel smirked bitterly as he pushed Michael inside and shut the car door to his face. “We can and we will.”

There was no point in discussing the nuances of the plan. Each minute spent standing was a minute wasted, a minute more of Will’s life in danger.

Dean signaled and all of them made a move, hurrying as stealthily as they could along the tall outgrowth that ruled most of the property. At the very edge of it, with a single nod, Benny split from them and sprinted towards the south. Gabriel too gave a sly grin, eyes full of his usual mischief. He saluted once and headed in the opposite direction from Benny.

With bated breath, Dean listened carefully for anything that was unusual. He wasn’t sure what Gabriel’s detonator was supposed to do, but it had to be something noticeable.

Cas was squinting into the darkness, trying to make sense of what lay ahead of them. It was hard to tell, but from the light that filtered out of the ghastly grey windows, they could make out the shapes of about five men. Two of them were guarding the entrance and three were making patrol rounds. All of them wielded guns.

Dean felt a shooting fear for Benny who was out there by himself and even Gabriel. They were both unarmed and alone. If anything happened to them… on Dean’s watch…

A sudden, brilliant light lit up the night followed by a loud blast far along the western edge. All of the five men abandoned their post and hurried towards the commotion.

“Where the hell does he even get those things?” Cas muttered next to Dean.

They waited for a few more minutes then crept further ahead. They were right in front of the warehouse now with just a few thinly spaced trees in between and a line of cars. There would be no hiding now.

“C’mon,” Dean said and they made a beeline for the car closest to the building and ducked behind it. The guards at the door had been replaced by two more and from inside the warehouse, a couple more were hurrying to join the others who had rushed to find the source of the blast.

When enough time had passed for Dean to be sure that no one else was coming out from inside, he gestured to Cas and they dived at the two guards. It was crucial for it to be a surprise attack or else they were going to start firing guns and alert everyone. It started out well when Dean jumped on top of the sturdier looking man, knocking the gun right out of his hand; but the other guard was quicker. He grabbed Cas’s hand and twisted it around till there was an audible crack and Cas went down with a yelp. The man standing over him hit Cas with the blunt end of his gun and then turned it around to aim the barrel at Cas’s face.

Before Dean could even register what was happening, there was a guttural cry and a fist landed on the guards neck, who immediately crumpled next to Cas. Dean noted Michael’s face in the flurry of movement but his instincts led him to kick the guy he was holding down and then land a blow to his neck. He slumped down as well.

“You were in the car!” Dean scowled. “How did you get out?”

Michael bent down to check on Cas. “No thanks to you, asshole,” he said. “I’ve spent my whole life being kicked out and pushed into sinkholes. You think a leather cord around my wrists and a locked car was going to stop me?”

Dean did not retort. He was worried for his friend. Cas looked faint and in a lot of pain. He had sustained not one but two blows to his head tonight, and from the looks of it, his wrist was broken. Even then, he shrugged out of Michael’s grasp.

“You should hurry, Dean,” Cas said through gritted teeth. His face was beaded with sweat and he looked ready to pass out.

Ordinarily, Dean would have never trusted Michael with anything, but when it came to Cas, there wasn’t much Michael wouldn’t do. Hadn’t that already been proven in the most horrible way possible already?

“Michael,” Dean barked. “You stay with Cas. He’s in no shape to go anywhere. Help him over to the edge of the outgrowth. He should be well hidden from view. I don’t care about what happens to you, but we both care about Cas. Protect him!”

Cas protested vaguely and Dean knew he would be mad about this later, but right now it was the right thing to do.

Fortunately, Michael didn’t waste any time in coming up with a comeback. He hauled Cas’s good arm over his shoulder, and led them both out the clearing.

This was it. Dean bent down and grabbed the weapons lying around. He tucked the smaller gun into the waistline of his jeans and held the rifle in his hands, then, he dove into the warehouse.

The inside reminded him of the west wing. It was just as dirty and stank of old blood. He shuddered as he made his way into the interiors. There were noises to follow and an obviously well used corridor leading towards them. Dean followed it as carefully as he could, keeping his eyes and ears open should there be any more of the henchmen around. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out that the noise was a decoy and then head straight inside.

His ears picked up the distinct sound of careful footsteps around the corner and Dean raised the rifle as he made the bend, poking it into the person who emerged from the other side.

“What the hell, Winchester!” Gabriel hissed. “Why’re you trying to kill me?”

He wasn’t alone. Next to him Benny was trying to keep a straight face at Gabriel’s panicked expression. Even being in a murder building with weapon wielding mercenaries couldn’t faze Benny all that much.

“Here!” Dean handed Gabriel the other gun. “Hold on to this. Nice work with the fireworks out there.”

“It’s like the 4th of July, baby,” Gabriel said. “Ran into Lafitte out back. The dumb guards there abandoned their post without waiting for backups. Where’s Cas?”

Dean quickly explained what had happened in a low voice. He could tell that neither of them were happy about Michael being with him, though nothing could be done about it.

“We figured out the surgery rooms from the backside,” Benny said. “They’re this way. C’mon!”

Dean followed their lead, watching the rear end. Benny wasn’t wrong, the operation rooms were right there. But they weren’t anything like the ones in hospitals. They were dirty and grimy; disgustingly so. The walls were bathed in old, brown blood and the floor was caked in it. It looked more like the underground torture chambers in gore movies than anything else. Dean felt a chill run down his spine. The stench made him want to barf.

Benny came to a halt ahead of them. “Dean,” he said in a muted voice.

It felt like a deja vu from when he had found the holding cells in the left wing as Dean walked by him and looked into the room. Inside, in the middle of the room, next to a trolley of bloody and rusted instruments was a stretcher. Resting on the stretcher with his brown hair drenched in blood was Barry. With each step that Dean took, he could see more of it. The blunt incision at the side of his stomach, roughly sutured, and the bloody cloth draping his body from his stomach down. There was blood everywhere on the floor. Bright and fresh.

Dean reached out to touch his face.

“Barry?” he whispered. The voice didn’t sound anything like his own. It was empty and echoed around the room.

Barry’s half open eyes stared at nothing. Dean reached out with shivering fingers and closed them shut. Then, he collapsed to the floor, face in his hands.

“Dean, Dean!”

The voices over him were coming from a distance. It seemed unreal. All of it.

A hand gripped his shoulders.

“I had assured him that I would come back for him. And now he’s… he’s… “

Another pair of hands seized him by his arms and shook him violently. “Snap out of it, damn it!”

“But he’s dead!” Dean pointed out, unable to move more than a finger. “Look at him. He’s dead.”

“I know,” Benny whispered urgently. “And he won’t be the only one if you don’t move.”

“Think about Will,” Gabriel said, his voice subdued. Dean looked up to see that he was crying. “Will needs you.”

Dean got up on his knees; his whole body was shaking. He didn’t want to think about it, but if Barry was dead…

“No!” he said out loud. “Will is alright. We’re going to find him.”

“Yeah, that’s my boy,” Benny huffed, hoisting Dean off of the floor, and edging him out of the door. They reached the end of the hall and to the last door. The scene that met his eyes was beyond horrifying. Someone small lay on a raised platform and a man in a white apron was bent over it. Two others were standing around assisting him. Andy and a dark haired man in an expensive looking suit were standing at the edge of the room. The man’s face betrayed no expression. He was simply overlooking what was happening with a passive look. Andy on the other hand looked revolted.

Dean leaned over just a little further to get a clearer view. Just enough to see the face of the figure laying on the platform. It was Will.

He didn’t know what came over him, but one minute Dean was standing at the edge of the door, the next he was bounding into the room, thrashing left and right at any obstruction he could see to get to Will. Again, the shock of it all was on his side. Before any of them could react, the two assistants were down on the floor.

Andy started into action. “What the-” Before he could finish his sentence, Benny had jumped on him, hand to the throat. All of a sudden the room burst into a flurry of action as the dark haired man whipped out a pistol and took shots in the air.

Out of pure impulse, Dean threw himself in between the man and the platform, shielding Will with his own body. But there was more shooting, and more men poured into the room. At first Dean felt a surge of defeat, assuming them to be the henchmen, but as more and more of them came in, he realised they were uniformed police officers. He turned to face Will, completely blocking out the chaos behind him.

Will lay on his stomach, his face turned to the side and his eyes closed. He could have been only sleeping if it wasn’t for the long cut at his side. The dirty cloth under him was soaked in his blood. His hair was falling over his eyes and the tiny mole on the left side of his nose. It was really small, and Will had a habit of scratching it when he was nervous. Dean reached out to brush away the hair, leaving a bloody trail on his skin. He looked at his own hands to find they were blood smeared. In fact most of him was, after he had slid into Barry’s blood.

A logical part of him knew what he should do; check for the pulse, but he simply stood there, not taking his eyes off Will’s face.

“Dean.”

The voice came from behind him and it was unexpectedly soft. He felt warm arms envelop him, felt a brush of lips against his temple.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Jody said, sounding heady with relief.

“Jody,” Dean sniffled, and he realised he was crying. “Will.... Will!”

“He’s alive,” she said. “Look, he is breathing.”

Even as Dean turned, to ascertain for himself, a group of EMTs blocked most of his view. He watched one of them tape the wound close and the others gently lifting him on to a gurney. Then they were taking him away.

Dean struggled against Jody, yanking free of her hold to follow them, but she held on tight.

“I need to go with him,” he shouted. “Let go!”

“Only family can ride with the ambulance, Dean,” she said sympathetically.

“But I need to be with him!”

“And you will be.” Jody let go of him then. “C’mon. You’ll ride with me.”

Most of the drive to the hospital was a blur. Jody told him about how the Orphanage was a middle house for the kids. And at the very minute that they were driving, it was being raided by the police for evidence. The suited man was Jacob Styne, and the warehouse had enough paper evidence to convict the whole Styne brood. They had taken into custody everyone present including Andy.

He barely paid attention to any of it, except what was happening to his friends. Cas was being driven to the hospital as well, so were Benny and Gabriel, where after ascertaining their well-being the police would record their statements.

By the time they reached the ER, Will had already been taken into the Operation Theater. There was nothing to be done except wait. At some point Dean felt the seat next to him dip and looked up to see Bobby beside him. He flung an arm over Dean’s shoulder, holding close, grounding him to reality. No words were spoken, but Dean was comforted in a way that only a father could.

When Jody came back, she looked worried. Dean got to his feet immediately.

“How’s he?”

She bit her lip. “They didn’t take out his kidney. You got there just in time… But, I don’t want to lie to you, Dean. He’s lost a lot of blood and the doctor is worried.”

“So get them to pump him up with more blood,” Bobby said, speaking for the first time.

Jody’s brow furrowed. “It’s not that easy, he has a rare blood group-”

“Let me help!” Dean said suddenly. “I can give him my blood. We have the same blood group!”

“What?”

“Jody,” Dean said, hurriedly. “Michael said that they were saving Will because he has a rare blood group, AB negative. That’s the same as mine. Ask them to take mine. As much as they need.”

Jody’s eyes rounded in worry, but she didn’t question Dean over it, and went to speak with the doctor.

Soon, Dean was put onto a bed. They first tested him, and then when it was confirmed that it was indeed, miraculously the same blood group, they hooked him up to a tube. It was killing Dean to just lie there watching the blood drain. Everyone should be hurrying, they all should be concentrating on saving Will. But it was a hospital. Every patient was just the same to them. And Will was an orphan at that.

The seconds bled into minutes and then excruciating hours as Dean waited. He was aware when Benny and Gabriel came in, quietly sitting besides him and Bobby, just waiting for the doctor to come out. When she did, all of them stood up at once.

The doctor lowered her mask and gave them a tentative smile. Then she said the words that actually let Dean breathe again.

“He’ll be alright,” the doctor said. “He just needs to rest.”

Dean sat down on the chair again. The relief had knocked out any and all strength that had been holding him up. There were hoots of exultation all around him, but Dean simply let the words seep into his heart.

Will was alright. He was going to be alright.

*******************************

A/N 2: Things will get better after this, trust me! two more chapters to go! (Plus and epilogue)

Please do tell me what you thought of the chapter? I live for comments!

If you wanna be tagged, please send me an ask

About a Boy taglist:

@sdavid09 @deanssweetheart23 @blacktithe7 @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @cosicas-cuquis @chalicia @anathewierdo @mrswhozeewhatsis @protectteamfreewill @firefly124-writing @spnbaby-67 @hoboal87 @rizlow1 @donnaintx @starmission @gh0stgurl @tftumblin @emily-a-c11 @ericaprice2008 @jotink78 @charliebradbury1104 @ohgodwhybloggg @i-dont-get-cold @bobbie3939 @samsexualdeancurious @dancing-the-hellfire-rumba @cookiechipdough @wildfirewinchester

#dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester #spn fanfiction #weechesters #spn au #Ana writes aab #anawrites #anawritesspn #aab13 #tw: child abuse #tw: organ trafficking #tw: child trafficking #tw: kidnapping #tw: prostitution #tw: character death #tw: physical abuse #tw: torture #q

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oh-styles · 5 years ago

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Something About a Loss: Part I

Disclaimer: Before we jump in, I want to disclose that this chapter talks heavily about miscarriage, and depicts violence and bouts of depression. If it is something you aren’t comfortable with, I advise you to skip this one.

In addition, I found this chapter extremely hard to find a finishing point on. I feel it is not as good as my other works, simply because it’s sad as fuck. I don’t write sad stuff well, and I know this now. Nevertheless, I did it.

I also advise that if you are sad after finishing this, you stream Lights Up.

May 18, 2019 Los Angeles, CA

You were ill, and infallibly ill, at that. Since the days leading up to this very moment, the one where you are splayed over the king size mattress with a thin sheet covering half of your exposed body – you can’t decide if you’re hot or cold – you swear up and down you have purged at least half of your body weight. Harry, who was as well as a whistle, claimed you just had a stomach bug, but felt confident enough to remain by your side despite the risk of germs.

“I can pop to the shops real quick, get you some ginger ale?... What sounds good, pet?”

Death. Death sounds good.

You don’t want to risk moving – or risk any movement, really – for the sole sake of your sensitive stomach that is one head acknowledgement away from projectile vomiting like you were in a poorly casted remake of The Exorcist. You can sense Harry standing beside you, and after a beat with no response, he reaches his hand out and holds it front of your mouth to confirm you are still indeed breathing.

“You still with me, sweets?” You wiggle your toe rapidly. “Is that a yes…?” Wiggle. “Alright, I’ll be back in a bit, okay? You want anything else? Crackers?” He’s met with silence, but he watches you from the doorway – giving a subtle glance to your big toe – and nods to himself. “Is it okay if I take y’car? Mine’s low on petrol and I don’t feel like—”

“Keys in purse,” you mumble into your pillow, pulling a hand free from the sheets and pointing somewhere towards the corner of the room.

“Right,” he spots the Gucci bag hanging on the closet door. “I won’t be long.”

But be long, he did, but it wasn’t his fault, really. He had to remind himself he couldn’t get sidetracked, that he had a sick girlfriend back home waiting for him, so he needed to promptly check off his mental grocery list and be out the door before you could say Harry Styles. But, it’s right as he’s awkwardly carrying three Canada Dry’s, and beginning to regret passing on grabbing a basket, that he hears it.

“Harry Styles!”

It was a few photos and a video of a cool hat trick later that he finally found himself tucked away safely back in your car.

“Alright, sicky, I’m home.” He nudges the bedroom door open with a light kick and sets the bag of drinks down on the end of the bed. Where he left you, just a mere thirty minutes before, is now empty, and he spots where you kicked off the sheets in a clear haste; it was no telling where you are now. He can hear the harsh guttural retching from the bathroom door, and with a peek inside, there you were, lay stark naked on the opaque tiles. “Blood hell, pet.”

“I think I’ve fallen ill,” you mutter against the toilet seat. That was a major understatement if he’s ever heard one. This was the second day you’ve been stumbling into the bathroom at all hours of the day, seemingly fine just moments before. It was hard telling how much longer this could last, but Harry already decided by tomorrow he was willing to take you to the doctor if no symptoms have let up.

You were not having it; you had fully accepted death if it meant avoiding any doctors office--needles, blood tests, what have you. It was just a stomach bug, one that would pass, and you’d rather not waste his time and money on something that can be treated with water, rest and back rubs.

Though, the following morning, after you were finished purging your breakfast into the toilet, you spotted Harry in the doorway of the bathroom with your shoes in hand, and a sullen, sunken face.

“Alright, let’s go, pet.”

You were 24-years-old, an adult woman, who at the mention of anything medical, instantly recoils into a ball on the floor. No, sir. There was no way you were going. Water, rest, and backrubs--that’s all you needed, thank you. But, unfortunately for you, your boyfriend stood firmly in the doorway, and already prepared himself for such a reaction.

“There could be something seriously wrong with you, pet. Read something about a parasite--”

“A fucking parasite.”

“It’s just a thought--”

“Something could be growing inside me?”

There was more on his mind than just a fucking parasite, but he couldn’t find the words to say them, not with you hyperventilating on the bathroom for in fear of having to see a doctor. In truth, it was the first thing that came up when he searched your symptoms, and when he called the doctor that morning, they too agreed you come in for tests.

If he were to say the p-word, your panicking might only intensify. It’s not that you didn’t want kids, but it wasn’t something that was exactly on the table for discussion as of late. Was it something you could see yourself doing in the future? Of course, but that was in the future, maybe a couple years from now. You still relied on your boyfriend to remind you to take your vitamins; there was no way you were ready for a baby.

As for Harry, ever since the first morning you chucked yourself off the bed and raced to the bathroom, he knew; it was this gut feeling most would describe as an intuition, and with every passing day, it would only grow in size. If it wasn’t the morning sickness, it was you sleeping your days away, and complaining about the tenderness of your breasts.

You just thought your period was coming.

“Or...you could be pregnant.”

He had his assistant drop off a few tests that morning while you were still asleep, and maybe it was a father's instinct, but he knew the outcome before you even had to glance down at the test. He made a deal with you, if the tests came back negative, they would see a doctor. If they were positive, he’d give the two of you a day to let the shock settle.

He was relatively surprised by how resilient you were when he handed over the tests. There were three boxes, six in total. Throughout the day you would take one, which was easy because your urgency to pee had sparked over the last few days, and whatever response it gave you, you would make a note of it.

By the third pregnant, you stopped taking them.

Harry was making lunch, and the only thing you felt you could stomach was cooked spaghetti, minus the sauce. You sauntered down the stairs, the tests concealed in a ziplock bag, and tossed them up onto the kitchen counter.

“I want eggs instead.”

“Oh, yeah?” He didn’t bother to glance back at you. “Scrambled? Poached?”

“Fertilized.”

He was spreading mayonnaise onto a piece of bread, and you think he might’ve not heard you, but it was once he twisted the lid back on, setting the knife on the edge of the sink, that he turned around, that you realize he’d been crying.

“So,” he sniffs, a smile spreading wide. “We’re having a baby?”

It’s then that you pull out your phone, and do a quick Spotify search, fast forward the song until you’re reached the chorus, before you hit play on Kiwi.

* June 10, 2019 Los Angeles, CA

“Think we can snatch up some Cinnabon today, muscles? I got a hankering for some cinnamon on buns.”

At first glance, you don’t look any different; not from the day before, anyway. To any new pair of eyes, you’re just an ordinary woman who insists on stopping to pet every dog that passes by, and who trips over her shoelace she refuses to tie. No stranger would be vaguely aware of the hidden secret laid burrowed deep inside the swell of her stomach.

“Is it you that wants it, or baby bean?”

You snicker, but you damn well knew the answer. The little baby bean laid protectively inside of you just entered its ninth week of development, and you were proud to say it was the size of an almond. You spent the greater portion of the morning studying over all the changes the little one would be making, and the sexual organs were one of them.

“Okay, get this. It says that the gonads have become either testes or ovaries. We actually have a boy or girl—or whatever it wants to be, that’s their choice, but testes and ovaries, babe!”

You knew it would still be some time before you found out the gender, but it didn’t stop either one of you starting a list of names written in the Notes section in your phone.

“I really like Lily…or Meadow,” you inquire from the kitchen, as you dip a carrot into a tub of ranch. “Maybe even Moonbeam?”

“Moonbeam. Moonbeam Styles.”

“Could be a middle name, too. Meadow Moonbeam.”

“Babe, our child wasn’t conceived at Woodstock.”

No, but the thought crossed your mind frequently as to when your egg had openly welcomed your boyfriend’s sperm, and after some math and a doctor’s visit, you were left with a definitive time: late march, or March 29, to be exact.

“I think you knocked me up after the Rock ‘n’ Roll thing.”

“The Rock ‘n’ Roll thing,” Harry rolls his eyes.

“I remember—I was on my period the week before, and I didn’t want you anywhere near me, and I remember once we were in New York it was finally over, and after the Stevie Nicks thing—” You could see him roll his eyes once more. “—we went back to the hotel and we fucked like…all night, practically.”

“Okay, but you know that doesn’t mean it was that night.”

“Listen, okay. Because of the time change, I forgot to take my pill that day, so I doubled the next day, but because I missed—”

“How do you remember this stuff?”

“Just let me finish, will you!”

In the end, despite your distinguishing facts, the boy that laid sprawled out on the sofa in nothing but his underwear, still was doubtful whether to believe your undeniable facts. Yes, you were right that the two of you did get down and dirty that night, but you also got down and dirty for likely many nights after that, but he’s aware of how stubborn you are, and let you have this one thing.

“I can’t believe it… I bet it was because you were around Stevie Nicks. She put a spell on your sperm, I bet.”

June 18, 2019 Wembley Arena, London, UK

“Are you going to ask Stevie Nicks if she put a spell on your sperm?”

“Pet, I will leave you in the car.”

“No, no, I’ll be good, I promise!”

“And don’t…give anything away.”

You were one who did well with keeping secrets, but this secret was nestled away inside of your body, and it was only a matter of time before that secret was impractical to hide. You and Harry had decided that you would tell family and friends by the twelfth week, because there was something he read about most miscarriages happening in the first trimester – for whatever reason – and it was just better to wait until that risk was lower.

“It’s literally a week away—a week. A week, Harry.”

“6 days, actually.” He pulls his hoodie up and over his head, tousling his hair in the process. “Can wait 6 days, yeah?”

“You’re asking the impossible of me!”

“I’m asking you to not tell my mother I knocked you up.”

Knocked up. This wasn’t some one-night stand bullshit—though, you might recall him shoving your face into the bedsheets and ramming himself into you dripping cunt quicker than you could say, “Yes, baby, right there!” You like to imagine the conception of your child was a moment filled with love and passion, but you can’t lie to yourself and ignore the fact he spit in your mouth, and after he came in you, making you stand and let the cum drip down your thighs while he got off to it on the bed.

No, your child was created by love, dammit!

“Don’t tell Anne we made love and are having a baby, got it!”

Even he knows ‘making love’ wasn’t what you would call it, and the long pause as the two of you walked into the venue was more than proof of that.

Despite being given this absurd task of not letting any cats out of any bags, you did manage to keep your mouth closed upon the arrival of Anne Twist. She was quick to swoop you in her arms, planting a kiss on your cheek, and even rubbing a thumb over your cheek, saying something about your clear complexion.

“Your skin is looking beautiful, darling. Are you using something new?”

Pregnancy hormones. “Vitamins.”

“Oh, what kind?”

Pre-natal. “Hair, skin and nails.”

“Well, you are looking very healthy.” She really was none the wiser, well, up until moments later when you turned down a glass of wine backstage.

“I, uh, was really hung over this morning. Was throwing up all night. Pretty gross stuff.” You weren’t entirely fibbing. You and your unborn child have been playing a cat-and-mouse game of whether it will agree with what you eat or not. Last night, turns out, it did not particularly care much for the chicken and rice Harry had cooked up. “Just sticking with water tonight.”

Two days later, you and Harry attended the wedding of Amy and Mike, which was just another imminent disaster just scheduled to happen. It was one thing biting your tongue for one person, but that evening, you would have his entire family on your tail, and you aren’t completely confident on how many lies you can pull out of your ass in one evening.

But, it was that morning, after waking up in a haste and purging every last bit of your late dinner – you sometimes get hungry around 2 am – that you realize, staring back at you in the mirror, is the well-defined beginnings of a bump. Before, it only looked like you had spent your afternoon at an all-you-can-eat buffet, but now, you were pregnant. There was no way José you could fool anyone into believing you were just simply bloated from a big lunch.

“I think if the morning sickness gets any worse, we should try those pills the doctor was telling you about.” You hear Harry rustling around in the bedroom, seemingly on the hunt for the little slip of paper with the prescription. “D’ya want some toast, love?”

You heard a light tap on the other side of the door, and it was once he peeked his head in, that he spotted you, standing bare-chested in front of the mirror, and the obvious little convex mass that he swears up and down was not there a minute ago.

“We have to tell them.”

“Babe—”

“Your mom is already onto me, and I’m only going to get bigger.”

“You can’t announce pregnancies at weddings—that’s a law, or summit, yeah?”

“Well, this wouldn’t be a problem now if we had just told them earlier.”

“All of the books say it’s best to wait—”

“Well, fuck waiting—I’m fucking massive now!”

You ended up arriving late to the wedding, and considerably disorderly, after having to redo your makeup in the venue bathroom because you started crying on your way there because you saw a bird. No, that’s it. Just a bird, one that you thought looked very beautiful. You knew there was no way you could finish the night without crying at least five more times.

Your excuse for that: “Oh, probably going to start my period soon!” They’d get the truth soon enough.

June 28, 2019 New York, New York

“You’re actually going to wear that shirt to dinner,” you affirm, giving your hand a little wave in the air to help dry your nails. Harry gives a brief glance down at his top, stretching it at the bottom to admire it fully. “There isn’t anything else you could wear?”

“What’s wrong with m’shirt?”

“It says Safe Sex…like, in big letters—can’t miss ‘em.” It’s then, with a little more observation, you notice the two figures, and how they each appear to be holding— “No, for fucks sake, Harry. You aren’t wearing that outside of this hotel room.”

“It’s a nice shirt.”

“They are whacking each other off!”

“It’s a Keith Haring, darling. Get with the times.”

In the end, after much persuasion – and a threatening promise of spilling red wine all over his vintage top – he wore the shirt to dinner. A nice restaurant, mind you. One where the appetizer costs as much as a normal entrée at Applebee’s, and to fork the bill at the end of the night, you’d have to ask politely if they accept payment plans.

“Babe, stop looking at the cocktail menu.”

“I’m just looking.”

“You’re going to upset yourself because you can’t have any of it.”

“Babe, they put an actual egg white in a White Lady… Fucking rich people, let me tell you what…” And leave it to the rich guy sat in front of you to wear a shirt promoting masturbation to a 5-star restaurant.

“Maybe I can get the little Styles a matching one, so they can match with their daddy.” You saw the corner of his mouth twitch at the word; he still was getting used to the idea of being a father in the coming months.

“You’d actually be fine with your newborn child wearing a onesie that says Safe Sex?”

And after a moment’s thought, he didn’t bring the topic up again.

In the month since you found out about the pregnancy, there were many lifestyle changes you inevitably would have to change. For one, you weren’t allowed to stand in front of the microwave anymore, nor could you lay on your stomach, because you might ‘squish’ the baby. You tried to explain to your boyfriend that your child was practically the size of an almond, and laying on your stomach would do it no possible harm, but he wasn’t having any of it.

As if giving up alcohol was bad enough, you were forced to abandon your love for seafood. There was a list of things you could eat in moderation, but you weren’t exactly sure how to eat lobster in moderation.

You also spent an hour crying when you were told you couldn’t eat cookie dough do to the raw eggs.

“Love, you shouldn’t be eating it anyway!”

“It’s fucking good, Harry! Like you would know. The only sweet shit you put near your mouth is my cunt.”

Harry realized very early on that pregnancy, for you, was just a rollercoaster of hormones, and he better strap in for the ride. After he had told you that you had to give up coffee and sushi, you locked yourself in the bathroom while you cried in the bathtub.

“You hate me!”

“I don’t hate you! That stuff just isn’t good for the baby.”

“If it’s my baby, it’ll want it!”

You stayed locked in the bathroom for an hour, and only came out because you forgot there was a new episode of This Is Us. Harry then spent the next thirty minutes online trying to track down a eggless cookie dough recipe he could make, that way you could stop giving him the stink eye from across the room.

He was lucky you didn’t make him sleep on the couch that night.

* June 29, 2019 New York, New York

Tonight was your last night in New York, and you would then spend a week in London before heading out to Canada to enjoy a nice, serene vacation with the Gerber’s. Harry called your little holiday in Muskoka a pre-babymoon, but all you wanted was a vacation. You knew it would be later in the year when his schedule began to pick up, and all of the plans they have been deriving for months would finally be set in motion, so it was not set in stone as to when an actual babymoon could fit in that timeline or not.

“We’ll make something work, love.” Harry bumps his hip out and taps your side. “You’re not due until December; I know we can get away for a week.”

December 20th, to be exact. Harry had his fingers crossed for a Christmas baby, but the last thing you wanted was to spend the holidays overdue, trying to push a small human out of your vagina. If you could have it your way, Christmas would be spent cuddled on the sofa with a cup of hot chocolate, your baby girl – or boy – fast asleep in its My First Christmas onesie, snoozing soundly on your chest. Harry would be off in the corner, taking aesthetic photos of you by the Christmas tree, and maybe he would find himself cuddled into your side for a little family nap.

But that was still six months away.

Harry was off doing a photoshoot for Rolling Stone, so you spent your afternoon back at the hotel with his debit card, buying every stretch mark cream that promised fast results, and ramen from GrubHub. You were also mildly surprised when your child decided it liked your lunch choice and let you digest it properly.

“So, we know you like ramen… I’ll make a note of that.” You smile, giving gentle rubs to your little bump. “I think next we should try some… Oh, dumplings sound good. Think you want some dumplings, little bean?”

And once again, you right back on GrubHub.

“Daddy will be back soon, and then we’ll go back on a plane and be home… Nana said she got you some stuff, so we’ll have to check that out, huh?”

You like to imagine that they’re bundled inside you, nodding along to everything you say. “Well, yes, I would like to check out what Nana got me!” Though, only the size of a lemon, your little, growing human has developed vocal cords, teeth, and even fingerprints.

So far, the pregnancy has been pretty smooth sailing for you. You feel like you spent most of the first trimester asleep or puking, but now you’re finding yourself up and moving, doing the dishes and laundry, vacuuming, and trying to find some time to spend in the bedroom.

The idea of sex while you had a growing fetus taking up your insides, for a lack of better words, freaked the fuck out of you both. Would it hurt? Would it damage anything? Every article you read online sufficed your thoughts, but you wouldn’t let Harry’s penis near you until your OB gave you the green light, and once that green light was lit, the two of you didn’t waste a moment.

You also didn’t really imagine the first time having sex since you two found out you were expecting would result in him calling his mom immediately after. In his defense, you trust Anne, and she’s been through this twice, so she must have all the answers. But, I think the last thing anyone would want is having their boyfriend call their mother after they’ve finished fucking you, to ask if it’s normal for their girlfriend to bleed a little.

“Yes, Harry… a little is normal…”

You texted her a few minutes later to apologize.

“I can’t believe you called your mom.”

“I panicked!”

“I don’t like it when she knows we’ve had sex.”

“Well…you are pregnant…with my child… Had to have m’cock in ya for that to happen.”

Harry didn’t waste any time getting back to the hotel after his shoot, and just like every morning right as he wakes up, he made a beeline to your bump and greeted it with a little kiss. “Hello, little bean. Did ya keep y’mum company today?” And of course, a kiss for you. “Are you all packed? Probably going to leave here in a few—flight leaves in two hours.”

“Yep, and—” You watch as he strolls around the room, picking up his phone charger and tosses it in his bag. His eyes, they were different. They were darker. They— “Eyeliner? They really put you in eyeliner?”

“Oh, yeah.” He grins, throwing on his jacket. “I wanted to get back here, so I didn’t bother taking it off.”

“You look like you belong in a pop punk band that writes songs about how much they hate their hometown but refuse to leave.”

Thirty minutes later, and the three of you were out the door. His driver was parked outside, and felt informed to give a heads up that a group of girls were beginning to form outside the building. This wasn’t your first time, nor would it be your last. At this point, all you could do was shrug your shoulders and carry on. All the times before, they never pay much attention to you, nor have they ever bothered to do so.

You noticed how Harry grew silent on the elevator, and even made the comment, “Stay close to me. Don’t stop for anyone.” You felt that was the baby talking, because the last thing he could imagine happening was lingering outside too long and getting jostled.

Outside the doors, he spotted the driver waiting outside the car door, and he reached his hand back to find yours. “Just stay close. We’ll be quick.”

You could hear the screaming through the glass doors, and once you were outside it was amplified. Girls were shoving, and reaching their arms out as far as they could, trying their best to get that small, brief touch. You kept your hand bound tight with his, your eyes fixated on the ground, and you knew you were only a few feet away from the car, until you felt a sudden, deafening whack across your back, one that sent you flying forward into Harry’s jacket.

Before you could find your footing, you felt a pair of hands tangle and twist itself in your hair, and you were violently thrown back, colliding with a hard blow on the pavement.

You could hear the screaming – much different than from before – and most certainly not from the same person. When you opened your eyes, all you could see were a pair of shoes, but they became closer and closer until you felt the kick strike your stomach, and again to your jaw.

“Get the fuck off of her!”

“Go fucking die, cunt!” Spat.

You didn’t realize you had been shielding your face until you felt a pair of hands reach out, taking your in theirs. You saw a brief glimpse of a cross tattoo, and were swiftly lifted up and settled in the backseat of the car.

Two hours ago, it had a heartbeat. It had told you how much it enjoyed the ramen and dumplings, and how excited it was to hear about the presents its Nana had gotten them. It was only the size of a lemon and had developed teeth and vocal cords and fingerprints. It was close to 3 inches long, and not even a full pound in weight, and now it’s all gone.

There wasn’t going to be a Christmas birthday. You weren’t going to sit on the sofa with a cup of hot chocolate, with your newborn asleep on your chest. There wasn’t going to be photos taken by your boyfriend, ones he would show off to every one of his friends.

All the names would go unused. Meadow Moonbeam, Lily Magnolia, Sunshine Rainbow were all ceased to exist now. There would be no family now, just the two of you.

You listen to the nurse talk, and you watch Harry sit beside you, but you don’t say a word. You stare at the ceiling tiles and count 94, and once you’ve finished you notice she’s still talking, so you recount again, but this time you get 95. Maybe the room is just getting bigger, or you’re just getting smaller.

Harry adjusts himself in his seat and squeezes your hand. When you peak a glimpse over, you notice his eyeliner is now smeared, mostly having been rubbed off, and you can confirm that by the black mark on his hand. He says something to you, and you stare at his lips as he repeats it, but all the worlds fly over your head like the wind.

“Pet,” he says again, and this time you acknowledge him. “We can go. You don’t have to say here.”

You’ve already spoken to the police, given your statement. There wasn’t much of a statement to give, anyway. You didn’t see the person; hell, you weren’t even sure if there was just one. They could have had three heads; you really didn’t know. All you remember is the voice.

“Go fucking die, cunt!”

It wasn’t me who died.

There weren’t much more the nurses could do, at least not now, anyway. The nurse – you think her name was Nancy – said there was a chance you could need a D&C, and she went over the details, but you blocked her out. Harry even excused himself out of the room.

Before she left, she dropped a sonogram photo down on the side of the bed, the last picture you’d ever get of your child.

It’s been two hours, and you’ve not said a word. You reach down to feel your bump, to confirm to yourself it is still there, to make sure it wasn’t taken away from you while you weren’t looking. There wasn’t a heartbeat, but you bump remained untouched.

“Sweetheart, we can go. We don’t have to stay.”

You don’t even realize he’s returned, but he’s standing by the end of your bed, and the moment you notice his red nose – the light sniffle gave it away – you immediately reach out to grab the ultrasound photo, tucking it away at your side.

He keeps saying that, but once you leave, it’s really over. Those few months you had spent lying to your friends and family, keeping your little bump a secret, was all for nothing. It was all done. Finished. There was nothing to come tomorrow. No new development news next week. No waking up to Harry draped over your stomach, leaving a trail of drool on your shirt. No kisses, no change, no baby. It was all back to the beginning now, before you met your baby bean.

But life was different back then, because you hadn’t known what special love it gave you, and now that love has been taken away, and you’re just supposed to find your footing again and carry on like nothing happened. It’s only been two hours, but you don’t believe that’s possible.

You stay at the hospital for an hour more, until it’s been confirmed that you and Harry have another flight, this time at a different airport. Instead of JFK, you would be driving to Queens to leave out of LaGuardia.

“Hun,” you hear him walk around to the other side of the bed, reaching down to grab your shoes. “I love you.”

You can’t turn around, not with the pain still inching all across your abdomen, but you feel the weight shift on the mattress, and all of a sudden, a pair of arms wrap around your chest, pushing you back against his chest. It’s silent for just a moment, until a retching sob expels from the back of his throat, and he lays his head on your shoulder, and all you could feel where his tears drenching your skin.

His hand falls and lands on your bump – still there - and it rests there for a while, softly rubbing little circles back and forth, his way of giving his baby bean one last goodbye. You feel him kiss the inside of your neck, and with another sniff, he steps away, and helps you into your shoes.

The two of you leave out of a back entrance where your vehicle is waiting, and in silence, you sit unmoving. You check once again to make sure your bump hasn’t disappeared.

It’s all you have left.

At LaGuardia, you’re escorted in by security, through another back entrance, and only once does Harry stop to take a couple photos. You stand silently, watching the interaction, and you’re astounded at how calm his demeanor is, where just forty-five minutes ago, he was at the hospital sobbing into your neck. You don’t understand how he could pose and smile – if you can call that a smile – despite having been given the news just hours before that his unborn child is dead.

It sounds vulgar; you hate the word dead, but that’s the reality of it now. It’s not living anymore, and maybe if you say it enough, you’ll stop feeling.

Anything to make the pain stop.

By now, the news has spread about the attack, and it’s all every update account and fan page can talk about. They talk about how they’re grateful you’re okay, how you’re up and walking and seemingly unscathed. As Harry walks back at you, you think you see them take another photo – a quick one, probably blurry – and you realize your hand is still resting on your bump.

Doesn’t matter anyway.

“C’mon, pet. Let’s get home.”

#saaf series #harry styles imagine #miscarriage tw #miscarriage mention #death mention #death tw #one direction imagine #harry styles

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