#you can pry secret admirer fics from my cold dead hands

[eddiethebrave]

secret admirer

859 words

Steve watches a lot of people. He sees girls as their eyes linger on him. He sees some boys do the same. 

If Tommy caught them, he’d probably do what he always does; humiliate them, hit them. He’s always been a bit protective of him. Steve doesn’t know why. He’s known Tommy since middle school because their lockers were next to each other since they were assigned alphabetically. It’s been like that every year since then, too. 

Sometimes he wonders what his best friend would do if he stopped averting his gaze from places it shouldn’t be yet always strays to. 

More and more lately he finds himself watching someone in particular. 

Steve has to be careful. He can’t let his gaze linger and he has to make sure his face stays neutral, almost as if he’s looking through him and not at him. He forces himself to laugh when someone cracks a joke about The Freak as if Steve isn’t one himself. 

He knows he’s a hypocrite - a coward. He wishes he could be more like Eddie. Just be himself and not care about judgment or criticism. 

It’s his biggest dream and greatest fear. 

Steve’s seat in the cafeteria conveniently (strategically) puts Eddie directly in his line of sight. Aside from the singular elective they share, it’s the only time Steve gets to see him. He’s only been watching him since school came back after winter break and he’s captivated. 

He wishes he had somewhere to expel all of the thoughts he hoards in his brain like a dragon does gold. (Something Steve only knows because he - like a stalker - saw a book Eddie was carrying around for a week or so and checked it out of the library himself as soon as it was available. On the log card inside the cover, E. Munson was written a few times along with some other names.)

He gets an idea on Valentine's Day when he opens his locker after last period and a couple of pieces of paper fall to his feet. Steve watches as Tommy picks one up and coos, “Someone’s got an admirer.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve rolls his eyes and snatches the paper. He doesn’t necessarily care what these girls have written to him, but he feels weird letting anyone else see something that was intended for his eyes only. 

Tommy only snickers and pats him on the shoulder a few times in approval. Steve puts the valentines in his backpack to look at when he gets home. He zones out as Tommy starts talking again - something about taking Carol Perkins to Benny’s. 

At home, Steve reads the cards with a furrowed brow. He doesn’t want to be ungrateful given these girls are putting themselves out there and making a move on someone they like. It’s just. 

He feels completely detached from it all. None of the messages are personal. They could have been given to anyone.

He - somewhat guiltily - throws them away. 

The next day, Steve excuses himself during morning practice and slips a piece of paper into a beat-up locker.

Eddie you’re really pretty i wish i could tell you to your face -H

He signed the note with his last initial to be a bit more inconspicuous and perhaps give him some plausible deniability lest he be found out. He’s sure he’s being too precautious - paranoid? - but it gives him peace of mind nonetheless. He couldn’t imagine the dreadful things that would happen if someone traced this back to him. He’d have to run away. 

He’d have to kill himself. 

As much as he wants to, Steve doesn’t hang around Eddie’s locker to see his reaction. Though he does think about it all morning. They don’t have class together until later in the day. When the lunch bell rings, Steve has to force himself to make his way through the halls at an acceptable pace and pats himself on the back when the cafeteria is mostly full when he strides in.

He takes his place at the table where all of the more athletically inclined people tend to congregate and takes a deep breath.

When he chances a look, Eddie is already at the head of his table. He seems quieter than normal. Steve’s always been good at reading people and he can tell the difference between a good quiet and a bad quiet. Eddie’s quiet in a bad way. 

He languidly flips through a book with a faraway contemplative look. 

Steve looks away with a ghost of a frown on his face. 

He tries again the next day. 

Eddie i like your hair is it as soft as it looks? p.s. you didn’t look happy yesterday, sorry if it was my fault -H

That day at lunch, Steve doesn’t look at Eddie as frequently as he usually would, which is unfortunate. 

Eddie has taken to scanning the lunchroom with narrowed eyes. His arms are crossed over his chest and despite him being affronted, Steve can’t help but think he’s kinda cute. 

He smiles to himself and tries to listen to his friends for once to aid in avoiding Eddie’s gaze.

two

[emerald-chaos]

Insomnia

*gif not made by me, credit goes to the owner*

Hi Everyone! So it's been probably like...10 years since I wrote my last fic lol. Watching TFATWS has rekindled my undying love for Bucky Barnes and I just couldn't help but start writing again. I had to get my feelings out! I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I've been considering writing some more parts...so tell me if that's something you'd be interested in! I appreciate any and all constructive feedback or just feedback in general! Much love.

Pairing: Reader x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 2533 (lowkey popped off...oops)

Warnings: Just in case...vague allusions to a dark past, struggles with mental illness, explicit language, and some suggestive conversation. Oh and some really bad jokes lol. Fluffy and angsty.

No matter how much you tossed and turned, how many sheep you counted, or how much you prayed and pleaded to any higher power that would listen – the release of sleep just wasn’t going to happen. You’re not sure why you were surprised, it’s not like this was the first time. You let out a heavy sigh and toss off the covers. This has been a nightly occurrence for as long as you can remember. When you were trying to rest, when there was no noise to block out the images in your head, it was a battle. A battle which you have always lost.

You flip on the bright florescent lights of the bathroom as you trudge in, dragging your feet in exhaustion. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust to the harshness of the light as you place your hands onto the countertop. The cool marble feels good against your palms as you close your eyes and lean your head back, another sigh leaving your lips. You twist your neck from side to side, trying to release some tension and maybe get a satisfying pop. No such luck. As you open your eyes and gaze upon the person staring back at you a small laugh tumbles from your chest.

Jesus, she looks awful.

The dark circles that permanently reside below your eyes appear more pronounced than usual. The corners of your mouth hang low and you just look…tired. Like you were rode hard and put away wet.

The bottle of melatonin tucked away on your counter catches your eye. You pick it up and twirl it as you inspect the writing. “Sleep Support” you read, “may help promote restful sleep”. What a load of shit. You place the bottle back down and inspect the orange one next to it. The pills inside were about as useful as the melatonin. Nothing seemed to quiet the voices or stop the scenarios that plagued your mind. You splash some cold water on your face and grab for a towel to pat it dry. Your eyes drift to the mirror again, as if though the water was going to wash away the dead look in your eyes.

Yeah, fat chance.

Before you know it, your legs are carrying you through the compound. The only sounds present are the whirring of various appliances and the soft patter of your feet against the tile floors. The moonlight casts shadows over the various pieces of furniture and lights your path. Your fingers curl around the handle as you pull the sliding glass door open. The crisp outside air kisses your skin as you step out and close the door behind you. You find yourself settling down in your usual spot on the balcony and you sink into the comfort of the chair.

Many a sleepless night has been spent out here, admiring the way the moonlight gleams off of a nearby pond. Before the compound and the balcony, it was a fire escape and a bottle of bourbon. You kind of missed that coping mechanism a little bit. You were thankful, of course, to call this place your home. Thankful to feel safe for once. Thankful to be a part of a team that felt like more of a family than any sorry piece of shit who had been in your life before. Not that you were bitter about that or anything. A little baggage builds character. However, life hasn’t always been kind to you and your stupid brain had a cruel way of constantly reminding you of that fact.

In all honesty, Tony rescued you. You absolutely hated to allow him to relish in that fact, but it was true. He took a chance on a royally fucked up kid out of college who managed to skate by and earn a mechanical engineering degree. If you were to ask him, he would say it was because the first words you said to him were fuck off. Apparently, something about that translated to, “hey, I would be a great addition to your tech and development team”. Although, you were pretty sure you just really meant that he should fuck off. I mean, the guy’s reputation does have a bit of moral gray area to it. Somehow, some way, your tenacity made an impression on the billionaire. Now here you were - living at the Avenger’s compound, sitting on a balcony at 3:30 in the morning because you couldn’t turn your brain off long enough to find some peace and sleep. What a life.

Even as you were sitting here in your special spot, reminiscing about some actual good memories – your brain still tried to drift into the darkness. Glass breaking; voices, thick with hate, engaged in a screaming match, and the cold nights spent trying to find a safe space to eat and lay your head. Your fingers gripped into the arms of the chair as you felt the heaviness in your chest increase.

“God damn it,” you cursed through gritted teeth.

The panic attacks were a second nature at this point, but you still really hated when you lost control. Your eyes closed tight as you tried to rack your brain to remember the bullshit your therapist had told you earlier in the week. Something about 5 things you can see?

“We gotta stop meeting like this, Doll”

The voice ripped you from inside your mind and back to reality. Your eyes opened and were met with a beautiful pair of cerulean ones. You blamed the skip in your heartbeat on your fading panic attack - although, you knew better than that.

“Well, it seems to me that the only logical conclusion is that you’re stalking me, Barnes” you quipped as a grin spread across your face.

“Could say the same about you,” Bucky retorted as he sank into the chair beside you, “besides, been doin’ this a lot longer than you’ve been around”.

You rolled your eyes, but the super soldier had a point. Almost each and every time, aside from the ones that happened when the team was away, you two would meet like this – here on the balcony, both searching for something to replace the sleep that neither of you could find.

“Yeah, we get it, you’re old” a laugh fell from your lips as Bucky snorted at your remark, a grin remaining ever present on his lips.

The familiar silence took over as he leaned his head back against the chair, closing his eyes. Meanwhile, yours were hungrily taking him in - tracing over the stubble on his chin, the soft pinkness of his parted lips. Recently he’d gotten his hair cut and even though you much preferred the long hair, you would rather die than actually admit that to him. Your crush on the 106 year old grumpy ass was one of your best kept secrets. At least, you thought you’d kept it from being painfully obvious.

The man sitting before you, he had a tough exterior and a horrific history, but you knew him better than that. You knew about the way his nose scrunched up when you made him laugh and the way his eyes looked as he listened intently to every story you ever told him. You knew the sweet melody of his laugh and the far off stare that meant he was also held captive by his own thoughts. This late-night rendezvous had become somewhat of a routine for the two of you and you would be lying if you said it wasn’t your favorite part of the day.

The first time it was a short nod and typical white person, thin-lipped smile as you left to find a different spot to suffer alone. Shortly after, it developed into cohabiting the balcony – staying on your own separate sides of course, only occasionally sharing words. Then, before you knew it, the two of you would be sitting beside each other, shooting the shit like you’d known each other for years. Just two, incredibly fucked up individuals, trying to make each other feel a little more human.

Bucky had always given off the quiet, brooding energy. Typically he kept to himself, other than with close friends like Steve, choosing to stand in the corner and listen to the conversation rather than be a part of it. Occasionally he would give a quip during a meeting that would catch people off guard, but mostly he just sat there and stared. The Bucky you had come to know was nothing like the person that others wanted to make him out to be. Sure, at one point he was a masterful assassin who killed like he got pleasure from it – but that wasn’t him. The Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes were not synonymous.

If only the world could meet Bucky at 3am.

“What’s going on in that empty head of yours over there?” Bucky’s voice once again brought you back to reality as you laid your eyes on the familiar grin plastered across his face.

“Please,” you huffed, cheeks tinted a light shade of pink at the thought of him catching you staring, “which one of us has a college degree again?”

His laugh was a symphony to your ears. Your smile mirrored his when he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at you.

“So, what is it tonight? That nightmare again?” he asked, voice dropping an octave as his facial features softened in a way you really hoped only you got to see.

“Mm, not quite” you responded, your voice a broken whisper.

Bucky wasn’t the type to pry, but with you he wouldn’t even have to. Talking to him, sharing your deepest secrets and fears, telling him about the nightmares that kept you awake at night – it all came easily. Too easily.

“This week it’s...it’s that image of my stupid mother. Standing there with her black eyes and busted lip, telling me that it was me that was the problem. That it was me who...” you swallowed hard, the heaviness creeping back into your chest and tears fighting to wet your eyes. God you hated that you let this get the best of you.

Just as your mind started to bring you back to that dark place it was interrupted by the feeling of warmth spreading over your body. You looked down to see Bucky’s large hand resting right above your knee. When your eyes met again, he gave you a soft look that made your heart scream.

“I’m sorry,” you could tell he meant it as he gave your knee a soft squeeze.

A small smile flashed over your face and you had to resist the urge to reach out and cup his soft, stubbled cheek in your hand.

“Hey, we’re all a little fucked up, right?” you joked.

“Some more than others,” he replied, those beautiful wrinkles appearing around his nose as he scrunched it up with another laugh.

“Thanks, Buck... I’m sure you’d rather be doing anything other than listening to my sob story,” you reluctantly broke eye contact and looked down at the hem of your shirt as you fiddled with it in your fingers.

You were all too aware at the loss of contact as Bucky drew his hand back and leaned back into his chair.

“Doll,” he started as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes again - you could swear you almost saw a grin on his lips, “there are very few things I’d rather do than sit with you on the balcony at 3am”.

At that moment it felt as though time stood still. Sure, you had flirtatious banter back and forth occasionally and made a habit out of spilling your deepest regrets to each other during the wee hours of the morning, but this felt different. This felt like a confession.

You’d be lying to yourself if you tried to convince yourself, or anyone else for that matter, that you didn’t have a thing for him. I mean - who wouldn’t? The guy was a gentleman; he was soft spoken and caring, he was a dork who loved to crack jokes at the most inappropriate times, the type of person who would give you the shirt off of his own back if it meant you were taken care of.

He....well, he was Bucky.

And god damn it if you didn’t love him.

You’re unsure of how much time has passed, but one minute you’re sitting on your chair, chewing your lip and droning on about the man in front of you in your head. The next minute you found yourself on his lap, knees seated on either side of his waist as your legs straddle him and your hands connect with the skin they so desperately craved to feel. Bucky’s eyes opened slowly and met yours as you let the pad of your thumb gently run along the curve of his bottom lip. The uneven breaths leaving your chest hitched as you felt his hands grip your hips softly. Refusing to break eye contact, Bucky gently pressed a kiss to the pad of your thumb. You dragged his lower lip down briefly.

“Well,” he began. His voice was barely above a whisper but it’s thick, lustful tone made you shiver from head to...well, you know, “are you gonna kiss me, Doll? Or do I have to do all the work myself?”

He barely finished his sentence before your lips captured his. It was messy, almost all teeth and tongue. It was needy, as if it was the last time either of you would ever kiss anyone again. It was fucking incredible.

Bucky’s metal arm snaked up your back and found its way into your hair, curling his fingers gently around the strands at the back of your head, as his other arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer to his form. He was intoxicating. This whole situation was something you had briefly imagined months ago, but ultimately pushed out of your mind. There was no way that he would ever be interested in someone like you. Yet, here he was, tongue fighting for entrance into your mouth.

You aren’t quite sure who pulled away first. Both of you were gasping for air, chests heaving up and down as you both stared into each other's lust-blown pupils.

“You kiss pretty well for someone who hasn’t had a girlfriend since 1940,” you teased, laughing as he rolls his eyes at the comment.

“You just don’t know when to shut that mouth of yours, do ya?” he practically growled, ever so slightly tightening his grip on your waist, and you almost lost it from just the sound of his voice alone.

“Why don’t you make me, Barnes?” you leaned in close, warm breath fanning over the shell of his ear.

A yelp escaped your throat as you were suddenly jerked up to a standing position, locking your ankles behind his back as he effortlessly held you up by your thighs.

“Oh Doll,” he chuckled darkly into your neck, almost making you pass out from the sensation, “I thought you’d never ask”.

[ginazmemeoir]

Mmkay so this is just a fic idea that was swirling in my head, based off the tale of Kacha and Devayani. hope you like it :D

tagging some : @gopikanyari @momo-all-the-way @carmen-riddle @taareginn @reddish-green-personality

@holding-infinity-and-a-book @aadyeah @weird-u @the-fault-in-our-inquilab @dragonfairy1231 @allegoriesinmediasres @mango-pickle

The afternoon sun poured through the trees. A breeze flowed through the forest, picking up pace and then lazing back, like a cat trying to chase bees. Kacha, Sharmishtha, Prabha and I had gathered near a brook. It was our favourite spot in Vrishaparva. There were no prying eyes, and devas did not interfere in asura territory so we were safe from them as well. Everything seemed a bit too bright and colourful whenever Kacha was around. He chalked it up to the fact that his mother was a yaksha, so he had a connection with the forests. I sighed as I admired him – his flowing shoulder length locks, his wide nose and high cheekbones, his smile, the way he talked with the cows, his biceps as he whirled around his lathi. “Quit ogling him and just go up to him already or you’re gonna end up alone in a pit” said Sharmishtha, elbowing me. “I don’t even know what you see in him. I hear the other asuras call him a ‘deva bastard’ and a ‘twink’.” “That’s because they’re jealous of him. No asura could match the way he looks, or the way he behaves” I reply, cutting off Prabha’s useless critiques.

The wind picks up pace once again, and Sharmishtha gets up chasing her dupatta. A blue lotus flutters and drops near my feet, and I pick it up. It shimmers as if dusted with moonshine, and its scent made the fullest of roses in bloom in spring smell like stale bread. Prabha put it along with the other flowers in my gajra, and said “Even Lakshmi wouldn’t look half as beautiful as you when she sees you like this” she laughs merrily. I push at her playfully, and that is when Kacha arrives there. He was mostly silent, listening, observing, so it made me feel as if the lotus was a drug when he said, “Devayani, can I have that lotus?”

I hastily pluck it from my hair and give it to him. Sharmishtha returned by then, leaves in her hair, and her torn dupatta in her hand. “It was stuck in a branch and I had to climb 6 feet to retrieve it.” Kacha was oblivious to her rant, and he kept looking at the flower, as if studying a complex problem. “Do you like it Devayani?” he asks. I stare at him, slack jawed, dumbfounded to reply for a minute. “Yes she does. Now Kacha why don’t you get her those flowers?” “After all aren’t you the one who brings flowers for her priceless gajras?” say Prabha and Sharmishtha in order, teasing Kacha. A blush creeps up his cheeks, as he replies, “Lady Devyani is my guru’s daughter, it is my duty to serve her.” What I wouldn’t give to hear those words, but spoken with love instead of reverence. “They grow near the river’s source, in a lake nearby. That is the only place you can find these blue lotuses.” Sharmishtha says. Determination fills Kacha’s eyes. Sometimes I do wonder if he lies about his half yaksha parentage, for there is certainly something… different about his eyes. “I will return by dusk with your cattle Lady Devyani.” He assures me, and leaves for the lotuses, getting his lathi for the trek up ahead. I don’t believe his promise at all. Twice he’s promised me before, and twice before have the other jealous asuras murdered him, and twice before has father resurrected him through the mrita-sanjeevani on my plea. I look behind him, hopeful for the love budding in his heart, and dreading for his safety.

Dusk creeps its way into the ashram. I stand at the gate, looking anxiously for any sign of Kacha, when the asuras, led by Atibala, arrive at the gates. They were clearly coming after making merry, and I could smell the scent of honey wine on them. “Guru Shukracharya, please come accept our obeisance” says an asura, slurring his words and giggling half way through. Father arrives, in his flowing white dhoti and beard, annoyed at the disturbance in his prayers to Shambhu. “Who is it at this late – oh Atibala! Come, it is always great to see an old student!” says father, as he invited Atibala and his companions. Maybe he wouldn’t greet them the same way if he knew they were the ones who had murdered his favourite disciple in cold blood twice. Or maybe he did know, but chose to ignore it. Atibala brings a pitcher and a goblet towards father and offers him wine. Father took the goblet and greedily inhaled the scent, swirling the vessel. An enthusiastic wine connoisseur, father downed the goblet in one gulp, remarking afterwards that it tasted different. Atibala attributed it to fanciful terms like the right serving temperature, touched father’s feet and left. Father soon after retired to his chambers, leaving me alone.

The sky is now dotted by stars, illuminated by the first rays of moonlight, and I start panicking. There is still no sign of Kacha. I rush towards father’s chambers and wake him up. “Father, Kacha hasn’t returned yet. Please do something!” I cry. Father immediately gets up, all hints of the sluggishness from the wine gone. He instructs me to light a lamp, and to wait outside. After what feels like eternity, but would have been a blink of an eye for him, he calls me in. His expression is gaunt, and his hands are trembling. “What happened father?” I ask, warily. “Kacha is no more.” he says, as if tired. “What?” I reply, shocked. “I SAID HE IS DEAD. HE WAS CUT DOWN BY ATIBALA AND HIS PARTY, AND THEN THE SON OF A BITCH BURNT HIM.” “Father, you are the only person in this universe who can revive the dead. Twice you have revived him at my behest, I vow father this is the last time I ask of you, please bring Kacha back.” I plead again, trying to calm father’s rage. He goes into a meditative trance again, but returns back quickly, this time even more shocked than last time. “Kacha is in me.” I am too stunned to even comprehend what he means. “Atibala mixed his ashes in my wine.” Father says, disgusted and horrified at himself, his students, and fate’s cruel turn.

Dread floods me. I cannot choose the man I love, about whose love I’m not even sure, over my father. Father, as if sensing my thoughts, says in a resigned tone, “Devyani, I can only resurrect Kacha on one condition. I will have to teach him the mrita-sanjeevani, which Kacha will then use to resurrect me back once he comes out of my body.” Father sounds like a defeated man. Obviously, such a heinous act by ones students was bound to leave a teacher like this. I kneel beside father’s bed, holding his hand, calming and healing him through my powers, as he starts chanting the mantra. Slowly, a faint light starts emitting from him. Kacha then emerges, making a sickening sound as he tore through father’s abdomen. Immediately he kneels down beside father, laying his hand on his chest, and utters the mantra. Father’s stomach seals up, and his breath returns to him as he opens his eyes. He still has that odd look of resignation on his face, and looks at me with – pity?

Today has been a lesson to me, a lesson that matters of the heart while shouldn’t be rushed, should certainly not be stayed, lest the heart’s wish never take wings. I can’t even bear the thought of losing Kacha again, not without telling him how I felt about him. “Kacha,” I start, as I move towards him “, I am in love with you. I love you like the dawn loves the sun, like the river loves the sea, like the clouds love-“ “Stop Devyani.” Kacha says, interrupting me midway. I fear what’s going to happen. Is he offended? Or does he not love me? “Devyani, I must return back.” Kacha says. “Where?” I ask him. Kacha had showed up on our door once, and each time I asked about his origin or parentage, he shied away. “Back to Amravati.” he replies. The deva capital? I look at father, who has instead chosen to look at the floor. I look back at Kacha.

I now realize the heartbreak that poets so fondly mention, as if stating the weather. How idiotic they are. Heartbreak wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t even painful. It was draining. Everything I thought I knew was a lie. The man I had fallen for saw me as nothing more than a tool. All those times I caught him looking at me, or when he caught I, was a performance. His demeanour? What about his silent laugh? Was the way he blushed earlier today also a performance, part of an elaborate use to manipulate me? A thousand questions flood me, but only one sentence makes it out of my mouth – “You lied to me. You-you used me?” Tears blur my vision as I take a step back. “You are just a deva spy, and you used me.” Kacha stays silent, his shoulders hunched and head bent. “And you knew – you knew and you kept this a secret from me!” I whirl at father. He looks at me with tear stained eyes. “Devayani I-“ “Don’t you dare even take my name out of your filthy impure tongue!” I shout as I turn back to Kacha. He flinches at my tone, and I see the glistening tears on his face as well.

“You knew how I felt about you. You knew I loved you, and you knew I would get father to resurrect you each time you died. Had you told me your truth, I would’ve kept my distance, I would’ve stayed out of your way, I would’ve respected you for fighting for your faction, and yet. Yet you chose to manipulate me and my love, you conniving betraying lying cheating deva bastard!” Kacha looks taken aback at my words. I can feel my features contorting from my rage and pain. I can feel the hurt I’m causing, the way my tongue bleeds Kacha’s heart like he bled mine. I muster all my powers, and then I utter words that would cause Kacha the most suffering – “Kacha. You have seen my love so far, but now you will see the power of my hatred and my wrath. Kacha, I curse you to never be able to use the mrit-sanjeevani. I curse you to forget the knowledge to use the same mantra for which you have died and returned to the world thrice. Let the devas know that their spy failed.”

Kacha’s expression turns to stone. He bows to my father and touches his feet, and my father, the chivalrous, honourable man he is, blessed the man who almost killed him and broke his only child’s heart with a curt “May you emerge victorious in all future missions.”. Kacha then flies out of my house, and a blue lotus, with petals that shone like moonshine and fragrance that made the fullest of roses blooming in spring smell like stale bread, falls at my feet.

[sunson]

A bit late merry christmas 🎄 i know it's a heavy theme, but is it ok for you to write eren trying to help mikasa with depression?

Title: which of the blessings will you deny

Summary: To let love grow, you must let go.

Notes: I *tried* to make this as eremika induced as I possibly could, but unfortunately this turned out to be more of a mikasa introspective during the nine month timeskip. There is eremika though, more so in the end, so hopefully that makes up for it lol. Also, I’d just like to thank @rogmes for being amazing and editing this fic up for me. I know you said there was no need, but I’d like to thank you for amazingly kind words of encouragement. Thank you so much! 

It’s quiet; it always is. Sometimes, Mikasa can hear the barest whispers of the wind that clash in the darkness of the night. It haunts her in her sleep, and she wakes up with the curtains drawn and something horrible and dark reaching for her and she can’t scream.

And then she wakes up again.

It’s a quiet Mikasa knows too well. It’s the quiet that she felt when she heard the first squelch made when a knife was rammed into her father’s body; the sudden crack of her mother’s head as it lands to the ground.

It’s the quiet she felt when she heard through Armin’s soft, shaky whisper that Eren was dead.

People are wary of her now, careful not to step on her toes—even Sasha, with her untimely bouts of loudness, is solemn around her. She’s wary of everyone now too. Armin tries to pry out the problem from her, but she will not allow him to do so for this is something she will take down to the grave with her. Her monster comes in the bright red of blood and death and she will slay it herself. She is not weak; she is strong. She does not need anyone’s help, least of all the people she cares about. She will not drag them down with her when they still have enemies to slay.

So she draws away from everyone and her hope for seeing the ocean diminishes. All she remembers are Hanji’s words, that yes, there are so many people to bring back. But Mikasa wishes—with all her might, hoping against hope, that through some miracle, she could bring back her parents.

Their image fades away from her mind, and each day Mikasa yearns for them more and more. Her father’s touch, her mother’s kiss—a distant memory. A dream.

It’s a wonder what brought this on. Perhaps the revelation that Eren and Armin have only a few years left to live, or perhaps the realization that there is an entire civilization outside who have left innocent people to rot in walls and die like cattle. It doesn’t matter; both make her sick to her very core.

She doesn’t sleep anymore. In her dreams, an inhuman hand reaches out and claws out the throats of her loved ones and her heart speeds up and hammers until she reaches out and pulls it away from her body and then and only then, does that thing stop.

She can count her ribs through the thick cloth of her shirt. Food has become scarce and she’d rather Eren or Armin have her share instead, lest it go to waste. On good days, she’ll share it with Sasha who spares a smile filled with pity at her.

The gesture—no matter how warm—makes Mikasa grow hard and cold on the inside.

The taunts then come from Levi—it’s to be expected. The man’s temper is as short as his stature but it doesn’t hurt Mikasa in any way. Jibes, pushing, she bears it all—even if it is through gritted teeth. She doesn’t blame him. Her performance during training and on the battlefield have become poor, and Levi says something along the lines of, it’s like you want to be killed, and Mikasa realizes this with a newfound revelation that, he’s right.

Yes, Mikasa wants to die. She wants to dig up a hole and bury herself alive in there, wait as release comes in the form of light taking away her soul. Perhaps God would take pity on her and take her back to see her parents, Mr and Mrs. Jaeger, Hannes, Armin’s grandfather, Mina Carolina, Marco, Commander Smith, even Bertholdt as stupid as he was. There are so many, so many people that Mikasa wants to see, to bring back.

But this is life. Its reality is grounded in pessimism and death and the things that Mikasa wishes to only exist in tales. She is a girl looking for a myth in a world surrounded by facts. But death; it is the only certain uncertainty in life. Perhaps the magic she wishes to find will be there. Perhaps then, will the dead eyes of the people she has left behind will cease to follow her.

One day, Eren gets injured and Mikasa stops. Her breath halts and afterwards, she locks herself in a room, scratching and clawing at herself until lines of red appear on her arms, neck and legs. Yes, pain: pain is so good. She is alive and she will stay alive until Eren is dead. The pain makes her go hazy, however, and suddenly she sees Mrs. Jaeger putting out the clothes to dry. Mikasa’s hands are still so small so she can’t reach the wire all too well, but Mrs. Jaeger helps her, carrying Mikasa in her arms until she clips the cloth, and Mrs. Jaeger shuffles her hand in Mikasa’s hair, smiling at her as if she’s proud.

It’s the happiest Mikasa has felt in years.

One day, Armin says: “stop this.”

“Stop what?”

“Whatever you’re doing. We’re worried about you.” He pushes the door as Mikasa tries her best to close it—she cannot deal with this right now. Bubbles of blood are running from her thigh and her arms from the line she has made with her sword, and she’s about to see something again.

“I’m not doing anything. If anything, I’m… giving myself remedies.”

A deep breath, and Armin forces the door open with all his might. It’s useless though, even in this state, Mikasa still has her strength and she will not allow anyone to overcome her.

“You’ve been spending too much time in this room. Sasha told us that during the communal showers she saw scars on your body. Freshly cut. We haven’t been out for an expedition in days. Mikasa, I just want to know what you’re doing to yourself.” Another shove. “I’m family—don’t I deserve an explanation at least?”

“I’m doing nothing. I’m getting better. I know you’re worried Armin, but this isn’t something you should concern yourself with.” Mikasa then slams the door which echoes with a loud thud, and the situation hits her so suddenly that she collapses.

She doesn’t know how long the darkness overtakes her. There are no hands out to grab her, no tearing of throats of the one she cares about. It’s empty. Quiet. Grey.

When she comes to, it is the colour green that stares back at her, a stark contrast to the grey Mikasa saw which makes her blink herself into focus until the green that stares at her are the eyes of Eren.

He cuts the silence first, his voice quick and sharp as he speaks.

“Everyone told me not to be angry.”

And it takes Mikasa seconds to bring his face fully into focus. “Don’t say anything Eren, you’ll make it worse.”

“But they’re wrong”, he says, “I will be angry, and you will hear everything I say. You-” His face contorts into something that Mikasa can only describe as rage. Then—nothing. His face wears down and he looks so much older than he is.

And then, finally: “How could you do this to me?”

Mikasa breaks down first. Her tears come streaming in silent sobs and she clutches at her heart and tries to tear away the bandages that cover her arms. She wants out, she doesn’t want this. Eren stops her, holding her arms in his own and he’s yelling at her— something, he says something, but Mikasa doesn’t know what, and then the yelling quiets down, and she stops struggling and slowly, so slowly, she is in his arms. It’s the smallest she has ever felt, and Eren rocks her gently; swaying her back and forth, murmuring soft whispers in her ears. Like a child being lulled to sleep by their mother, Mikasa’s eyes close, and Eren leaves soft, gentle kisses on her ear and cheek until the darkness overtakes her once more.

She awakes again, and it is Eren’s eyes that greet her.

She is overcome with shame and emotion as the magnitude of what she has done hits her. She avoids looking at him, but he sits on the bed, and pushes her face towards him, his hands never leaving her skin.

“You, are the bravest person I have ever known. You are the only person that I know. But you were hurting and I was blind enough not to see it. Armin kept telling me that something was going on with you, but I ignored him because I thought, ‘Mikasa is so strong, so brave, no fear could ever overtake her.’ I think I was too caught up in my own world to even care to peek into yours.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me.” She tries to shake away his hand from her face.“My… struggles are nothing compared to humanity’s. I’ll get through this. Like you said, I’m strong.”

“You are, but I wonder about…,” his hand trails from her cheek to her chest, resting upon the skin that covers her heart. “How strong you are here.”

It’s silent, and the rising sun shines over the two of them and Eren’s eyes are an even brighter green. He looks at her with something like compassion and she’s overcome. She wants to be held in his arms until there is nothing left but the thrum of his heart.

And he says this: “You need to let love grow inside you, Mikasa. Let the love grow, you need to take care of yourself.”

She wonders when this boy, the one she always feared for, has become so wise. He has become so tall; his back broad and wide as his boyishness fades into manhood. She spends a moment, admiring him, and Mikasa thinks that were she a poet, she would write about his beauty for days.

He is so much more than what he gives himself credit for. So much more than just his strength and prowess. He is Eren, Eren who wears his heart on his sleeve and fights for what he believes in.

What’s your secret Eren, Mikasa thinks. What keeps you going, even after all of this death?

“Where would I find such love?” She says, and Eren gives the ghost of a smile.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you find it.”

And it’s the end of that. Days later, when they find the ocean and Mikasa heart is full of hope, Eren takes her hand in his and they waddle through the sea.

The ocean is a sight to behold, and all the struggles make it worth to see it. Her face is red with love and warmth and her scarf flows with the ocean breeze. The waves crash loudly and life is large, so large.

She heals; slowly, but it’s sure every time. She makes sure to smile often, and she eats her food with others. She believes in her strength, but most of all, she believes in the strength of her friends. Yes, life is so very cruel.

But there is so much beauty to be found. Perhaps mysteries like the ocean will come again in her life.

[thefragileblackdahlia]

In the Beginning: Part two

Chapter Summary: Dean is transported back in time and finds that his newfound grandfather may be hiding a secret that is key to Sam and Dean's predicament. While dreaming, he finds a familiar face. Castiel seems to have trouble remembering, and Ariel deals with her time in the Mal'ak box.

Pairing(s): Eventual Dean x Archangel!OFC

Warning(s): Self-loathing, Fluff, Angst, Typical Supernatural violence, Mild Language

A/N: I wasn't sure how to write this one. It isn't one of my favorite episodes, but still, the story is essential. Thanks to everyone who is keeping up with the fic. This episode will have LOTS of Dean x Ariel content, teehee.

Beta'd by Katieartist

Word count: 2,742

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After tracking Mary and John to a diner, Dean finds out that his mother was a hunter. Dean persuaded Mary to let him talk with her dad, his grandfather. There, his elder quizzed him on how to hunt the supernatural.

Mary's father sat in a recliner chair, studying a lore book as he acknowledged Dean. "So, you're a hunter?" He mocked, "Well, tell me something, mister hunter, you kill vampires with wooden stakes or silver?"

Dean grinned at his forwardness, "Neither. You cut their heads off. So, do I pass your test?" He poked.

"Yep." Samuel retorted while also closing the lore book in annoyance and tossing it on the small coffee table. "Now get out of my house." He snapped.

Mary scoffed at her dad's disdain. "Dad!"

Samuel ignored his daughter and made no effort to look Dean in the eye. "I don't trust other hunters, Dean, don't want their help, don't want them around my family."

In the background, Deanna prepared the table. "Knock it off, Samuel."

"He's a hunter," Sam replied.

Deanna strolled into the living room and placed a hand on her hip, "Who passed your little pop quiz, and now I am inviting to dinner. Are you hungry?"

"Starving." Dean replied.

"Good. I'm Deanna." She informed, extending out a hand for Dean to shake. "You've met my husband, Samuel, now wash up."

Dean looked at Mary with a warm smile; it made him feel nice to know he and his brother were named after their grandparents. "Samuel and Deanna?" Mary just gave him a knowing nod. He added, "Really?"

. . .

Everyone sat around the dinner table, eating dinner. Dean held a knife in one hand and a fork in the other. As he went to tear into his steak, he was interrupted by a light tap on the arm from Deanna.

"First time in Lawrence, Dean?" She started with a smile.

"Well, it's been a while. Things sure have changed...I think." Dean went back to eating, but before he could, he was asked another question.

"You working a job?" Samuel asked while pouring gravy over his mashed potatoes.

"Yeah, maybe." Dean replied vaguely, setting both forearms on the table as he looked to Sam.

"What's that mean?" Samuel snapped.

Dean smirked at Samuel's suspicions, "It means I don't trust other hunters either, Samuel."

Mary and Deanna shared a look of admiration for Dean's sass.  The young woman chewed on her fork before speaking, "Hey, um" She cleared her throat. "Why were you following me and John?"

The chartreuse-eyed hunter sat his utensils down and looked to Mary. "Mmm, I thought something was after you, um -- boyfriend, but um, I don't think that anymore."

Mary looked at her father as Deanna began talking, "John Winchester mixing it up with spirits, can you imagine?" Deanna tittered while shifting her gaze to her husband. Samuel grimaced.

"I saw that," Mary mumbled.

"What?" Her father retorted.

Mary snatched her napkin from her lap and placed in on the table. "That sour lemon look."

The elder held up his hand and flashed her a nervous smile. "Now hold on, John's a really, really nice..." He took a long pause and turned away from Mary as he continued. "Naive civilian."

The young woman scoffed and nodded over to Dean, "So what? You'd rather me be with a guy like this?"

Dean gagged on his water, peering up at Mary, his mother. "What? No, no. No. I- I have...someone- I think" He coughed and lifted the napkin to his lips.

"You think?" Deanna smiled at his uncertainty. "Why not 'I know?' " She pressed.

The righteous man tightened his hold on the glass at her question. What would his answer be, 'Because she is an Archangel and is locked away in heaven.' They didn't need to know about that or her.

Dean pulled his lips into a tight line and nodded his head. "She's uh...tied up right now, with more important things." He stammered through that sentence, a few pauses here and there. The hunter cleared his throat to avoid any more prying. "So what about you, Sam? You, uh, working a job?"

Samuel brought his glass to his lips and gave Dean a shrug, "Might be."

Mary picked at her food and rolled her eyes. "He's working a job on the Whitshire farm." Sam's eyes immediately darted over to his daughter's ultimately giving her the bitch face.

"Whitshire--why does that name sound familiar to me?" Dean pondered.

Samuel leaned back in his chair as he responded, "It's been all over the papers --Tom Whitshire. Got tangled up in a combine a few towns over."

Dean shrugged. "That kind of thing happens."

"Except why was he on it in the first place if his crops are all dead?" Sam queried.

The young male hunter looked away in thought, "Demonic omens?"

"That's what I got to find out." Samuel affirmed, along with a nod.

Dean rubbed his fingers tips together to get whatever was left on them and then dabbed his face with the napkin. "What about the rest of the town? Did you find anything on the web-of... information that you have assembled?" Dean pursed his lips, understanding they had no idea what the internet was.

Deanna interjected, "Electrical storms, maybe. The weather service graphs should be here on Friday."

"By mail?"

Sam scoffed at the question, how else would it be delivered? "No, we hired a jetliner to fly them to us overnight." He ridiculed.

This just made Dean smile. Of course, it wasn't a laughing matter, but the tension just made things awkward.

"You know, it sounds to me like we might be hunting the same thing." Dean drawled. "You know if we go in there in numbers, we could take care of this real quick."

Samuel leaned into the table, "What part of 'we work alone' do you not understand, son?" He made his feelings clear. He didn't want Dean anywhere near their hunt.

The mossy eyed hunter got the message loud and clear. He shifted in his chair and flashed his family a sheepish smile. "Okay."

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Dean relaxed on the motel bed; his mind overwhelmed by all that he has learned. His mother's side of the family were hunters. He had so much to tell Sam when he got home.

The man let out a hard sigh as he removed his shoes. He figured he should go shower, so he pushed himself to his feet and wandered into the bathroom.

Every minute he wasn't talking or occupying himself, he thought of Ariel. He leaned over the sink with both hands on each side. It wasn't often Dean looked in the mirror, but when he did, he despised what he saw. He bored holes into his own eyes, clasping the ceramic sink.

The silence was deafening; he hated that. His thoughts were very loud, so loud that it felt like they were screaming, clawing at his skull. He tore himself away from the mirror and began peeling off his many layers. He sniffed, wiping his nose as he stood next to the tub in his boxers.

His movements were slow, almost as if he didn't want to shower, but he needed to- just to clear his mind of things. Dean never liked being alone. Everything felt too big- too much. This is why he needed Sam. His presence made him feel less isolated; he didn't carry the weight alone.

Dean clutched the shower nozzle and twisted it toward the 'H.' The water carried through the pipes and out the showerhead, raining down on the ivory tub. Casually, he stepped out of his undergarments and eased into the shower. He slid the curtains closed.

In the shower, nothing else mattered; it was just him and his thoughts. There, he allowed his facade to crumble. Why couldn't things be so much easier for him and his brother? He spent 40 years in hell just to be brought back to stop the rising of Lucifer.

The righteous man stood utterly still under the scalding water. The water pressure wasn't the best, but at this moment, he did not care. He carded his fingers through his damp hair while also taking a deep breath.

All of the guilt pulverized him, resulting in tears. They fell in rivulets with the water, blending in. Dean looked to the ceiling through his tears and let out an unsteady breath.

"I can't," He choked out before taking in a sharp breath. "It- It's not fair." Dean tried his best to hold in his sobs, but they came out the more he prayed to Ariel.

"It's not fair..." He lamented. All he wanted was to live a normal life now, to be ignorant of what went bump in the night. He knew he would be happier; his shoulders would feel much lighter.

All he longed for was to hear that it will be okay even if he knew that it wouldn't be, but he had no one- Correction; He didn't deserve anyone, or so he thought.

Dean turned off the shower and reached for a towel. He tied it around his waist and grasped for his boxers. His face was stoic, the opposite of what it had been just only 10 minutes ago.

The freshly cleaned hunter eyed his boxers, debating whether to hand wash them or not. Not. He dropped his towel and stepped into the plain black boxers. He decided not to sleep in his shirt, considering he might have to wear it tomorrow.

Dean shuffled over to his single bed and flopped down. It was a tough day, a lot to take in. He let out a loud sigh and shimmied under the scratchy blankets.

It was nice to fall asleep and be hopeful of something other than nightmares.

Dean drifted off to sleep.

. . .

Ariel laid in the fetal position against the cold hard metal, attempting to use her wings to keep comfy. She had only been in the Mal'ak box for two days, and it already felt like it has been a millennium.

In these moments, she missed the noisy disputes and Lucifer's destructive behavior. She felt empty.

Ariel's wings seized as a low frequency from 1973 was picked up and traveled through her eardrums. At first, she had no idea who it was that would pray to her, but then she thought about the only human she's made contact with since leaving heaven.

"I can't," The voice came through, echoing in her mind. It was Dean. "It- It's not fair." He started again with a trembling tone. Was he crying? This forced the archangel to her feet. She could not give up on humanity and certainly not on The Winchesters.

Ariel clenched her jaw and pressed her bloody digits against the metal door, the cold prickling her wounds. She did not care.

"It's not fair." Hearing him cry broke her, and her true vessel's heart. What was she to do?

Countless minutes had passed since she heard from Dean. She kept her fingers pressed against the small fissure, searching for relatively anything.

After a while, her arm began cramping from holding it up at an awkward angle. She couldn't give up. Ariel just inhaled deeply, shut her eyes, and searched again.

There he was.

. . .

Dean relaxed on the hood of his impala, sipping a beer and gazing at the stars above. He never really stargazed alone, but he felt like he was waiting for someone.

"I used to do this every day with my big brother..." A voice whispered from his left. He nearly leaped out of his clothes but calmed once he saw it was Ariel. His heart skipped a beat when he examined her. She dressed nicely, and all her bruises were gone. She donned a teal 40s sundress with tiny pink polka dots. It had thick straps and bow of the same print in the center. Her hair neatly pinned up in a tight, curly pony-tail.

Dean sat up slowly with his mouth agape. "You aren't all bruised." He stated. It was obvious she hid her bruises for his comfort but probably for herself too.

Ariel perched herself upon the ball of her palms, a modest smile dancing across her cherry pink lips. She pursed her lips at his statement. "You are very observant." She mocked with a sweet laugh.

"Yeah, well, you don't make it easy." The male riposted as he slid off the hood and rested himself against the side of the car. He avoided eye contact with her, shifting here and there whenever he could feel her gaze locked on him.

"I'm sorry." Ariel breathed while also coming down from the hood. The archangel didn't mean to offend him. He was genuinely concerned for her.

"Don't." Dean uttered hesitantly, then came a long pause.

The jaded hunter finally turned to face the woman. He had no idea she was standing this close to him because when he turned around, he could feel her body heat radiating from her. Dean clenched his jaw once his olive eyes fixated on her doe eyes.

"I- I meant..." He stammered, trying to find the right words before he proceeded. "Why would does someone like you give a crap about someone like me?" The man managed to get out before he started to break down.

Ariel looked away for only a moment, just to find an answer to his inane question. It wasn't as though she meant to 'give a crap' about him. He was her mission and only that, but she supposed Fate had other intentions.

"You ask why a lot, and never just accept. I don't know why I care, but I do." Ariel put it as best as she could.

Dean stilled, his eyes capturing all of the small details of her face. The freckles on her cheeks to the curl of her lips when her face relaxed. She had a beauty mark under her left eye, hiding under her long eyelashes.

He curled and uncurled his digits as he began speaking, "I have to question the good things 'cause in this life..." He hesitated. "They don't come easy or without a price."

Ariel offered Dean a wan smile before she tiptoed to fling her arms around his neck. She pulled him into a tight hug. She wasn't sure what to say to that. What he believed was right, but it didn't always apply to everything.

Dean closed his eyes, accepting her touch with bliss. He leaned into her, burying his face in between the crook of her neck and shoulder. She smelled like cherries. This small display of affection cracked his mask. Dean wrapped his arms around her and pulled him deeper into his chest.

Ariel carded her fingers through the hair on his nape, gripping him as tight as she did when she helped raise him from perdition. She brought her lips to his ear and planted a small kiss to his sideburn before she whispered, "It isn't you that will be paying the price, so do not worry."

"That doesn't make it any better." The guilt-ridden man only pulled her in tighter as he talked. This felt right; her in his arms and them chest to chest. The only missing thing was to connect all of them to merge as one.

Dean subconsciously pressed his lips against the skin of her neck. He ran his tongue over chapped lips and went to kiss the same spot, Ariel's figure flickered and gradually faded away like a mirage, and he felt a sudden pang of emptiness.

. . .

Ariel fell to the floor, nearly breathless. "Damnit." Dressing fancy and hiding her bruises took a considerable amount of energy and focus.

She leaned against the iron wall and pulled her knees to her chest. Those little moments gave her a reason to fight the wretched contraption. Either she would have to tear it apart or hope that Castiel will break her out. She focused on the former.

The warrior raised herself to her feet and pressed her palms against the loose hinge.

. . .

Dean reluctantly opened his eyes and stretched his limbs. "Great..." He slammed his fist down on the clock, putting an end to the incessant ringing. The worst part about dreaming is forgetting that nothing's authentic. The scenery and the stars were all fake except her. The thought put a smile on his face as he started his day.

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[dancesontheedge]

Friday Night Fandom Asks

Or really Saturday morning, I guess.  This is what happens when you get home at 11pm.  DISCLAIMER: To me, fandom means fanfiction, and even more specifically it means reading fanfiction and meta.  And creating content of any kind, but I don’t really do that outside of Mercy Street.  I was tagged by @sagiow

1. What was the first fandom you were aware you were a part of?

 First fandom that I read fanfiction for: Pellinor Chronicles by Alison Croggen way back when I was 12 years old (it should probably be noted that I still haven’t read the second half of that series).  First fandom that I read fanfiction written by the same author/not crack-fic: A Little Princess (Also 12).  First fandom that I tried to write fanfiction for: Harry Potter (when I was about 10, before I knew what fanfiction was).

2. What’s your current favorite fandom?

Mercy Street (which is also the first fandom that I have talked to people on the internet about, and has inspired a large amount of research).  And Check Please! because it’s just so cute!

3. What is your secret favorite fandom?

Hmmm.  I’m in a lot of fandoms that I don’t talk about much.  Charmed, Veronica Mars, Criminal Minds, TAMORA PIERCE... I’m pretty open about what I like, though, so if I have a secret fandom, it’s only because it doesn’t come up very often.

4. What fandom do/would people think you ought to like that just leaves you flat?

Lord of the Rings (for why, see Tamora Pierce’s published works: I love me some fantasy).  I’ve tried several times to read the books and I just can’t get through them.  I’ve only tried to watch the movies once, and honestly I wasn’t paying much attention (New Boyfriend was *much* more interesting).  I was probably just not in the mood?  But it could also be the lack-of-women issue.  The most striking example of this turning me off of a book series is Eragon-- I stuck it out through book one because it seemed like everyone I knew was totally in love with it, but I was bored to tears the entire time.  After I finished it, I thought to myself “Why didn’t I like this book?”  And the answer I came up with was “Not enough female characters”

On another note, I think it likely that Harlots would be the kind of show people would recommend for me.  I haven’t watched any of it, but I’m very wary because visual sex makes me very uncomfortable.  I’ll take my porn in writing form, thanks.

4. What attracts you to a fandom?

It depends.  The characters for sure.  I’ve got a couple of favorite archetypes, among them: “Person overcomes years of prejudice/indoctrination to realize they were wrong and make amends/fight for the opposing side” (Zuko, Finn, Emma Green), “All Around Good Person fights for what they believe in” (Steve Rogers, Keladry of Mindelan, Sybil Crawley), and “Giant Nerd” (Spencer Reid, Chloe Sullivan, Alec Hardison).  If a character from canon really grabs me, I’ll read all the things about that character, and often that character will be the only thing I’m interested in the fandom for.  My participation in a fandom is more-or-less independent of how much I like the source material and how happy it makes me to read a new book/watch the newest episode.

For example on the scale we have: Mercy Street, which I love, participate in fandom for, and was very excited to see every episode of.  Pride and Prejudice, which I can’t stand but love every single fandom variation of.  Turn, which I really enjoy watching but am uninterested in fandom for.  Star Wars and Tamora Pierce, which I get so excited about watching/reading and would definitely classify myself as obsessed with but do not really participate in fandom for.

5. What aspect of fandom makes you squee or the modern-day equivalent of squee-ing?

It really depends on the fandom.  I love AUs, though.  And if I’ve got a favorite ship in the fandom, I find soulmate AUs fascinating.  I don’t have ships in all my fandoms though, so maybe just dark humor or very dry humor?  But again, it depends on the fandom.

6. Which character from which fandom do you think would most appreciate you as a fangirl/boy?

...?  I’d like to think that my favorite characters would all appreciate my admiration for them.  I tend to dislike egotistical characters or characters with delicate egos, the kind who would be openly appreciative of having fans.

7. What was the first fandom you were in before you were aware of fandom?

I was raised on Star Wars.  The first time I saw it, I was 4 years old.  When I was 6, I was Princess Leia for Halloween.  The previous summer, when I was 5, my family remade Episode 4 as a home video-- my little sister (aged 3) played Chewbacca.  Episode 1 came out when I was 7, and I refused to go see it in theaters because I was convinced it would be a war movie.  Because I had seen the OT enough times to know that there was a full fledged *war* a generation earlier.  It took me until I was over the age of 18 to realize that not everyone paid enough attention to episode 4 to know who Biggs was.  I played lightsaber with my sister and my cousins every time we got together.  My cousin read a bunch of the EU, and I listened eagerly as she told us what happened after episode 6.  At one point, I started reading the EU myself.  Disney can pry Mara Jade from my cold dead hands (she just needs to exist, no romance with Luke necessary).  I was not kidding about loving Star Wars.

I now tag whoever wants to do this.

[bazzledazzled]

Can I have cute destiel things (fics, art, whatever)? Today has been beyond stressful and I'm about ready to curl in my bed and ignore the world for a week.

AWWW FRIEN!!! *hugs* I’m so sorry that things are like that the world can rlly suck sometimes. But hopefully it’ll get better you just need to get through it. Hang in there frien ❤️️❤️️❤️️❤️️

Okay so I have decided to make some high school au fluff??? Basically it’s just some stuff idk and a lot of Artist!Cas which you will pry from my cold dead hands….

Anyways, let’s get to it!!!

“Can I see?” Dean asks, gesturing to the sketch pad resting on Castiel’s lap. It was a bright sunshiny afternoon with the skies purely blue without a single tuft of white and the green trees swaying in the light breeze. Spring filled the air as the smell of pollen drifted through their nostrils and yellow daisies dotting the field outside their high school. It was lunch break, and often times when the students finished early they would stroll through the gardens, admiring the large campus. It was a boarding school, towering high above them all with many turrets and towers, almost as if it was a real life Hogwarts. Everyone was dressed in uniforms, but each person had their little quirks that made theirs unique. For example, Dean’s shirt was always untucked and he almost never wore a tie. Sam, his brother, always made sure that everything was neat and tidy, and it was almost impossible to see him with a hair out of place. Castiel always had his tie loose as if the thing was choking him and was always wearing a long coat that wasn’t technically part of the uniform and wasn’t at all required. Dean just thought he was cold.

“Not yet, Dean,” Cas says, a wave of nervousness washing over him. He loved art with his whole heart. It was what he lived and breathed for, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t uncomfortable with showing people his latest drawing. The thing is with art, is in a way it looked into the very depths of your soul, revealing secrets that even you yourself didn’t know, and Cas was not prepared to show Dean those secrets after knowing him for barely a month.

But at the same time it felt longer than that. Cas has been staring at Dean for almost as long as he can remember, idly sketching portraits on scrap pieces of notebook paper, and later ripping them to shreds as if that could wipe away the way his heart stuttered when Dean glanced at him and keep him from stumbling over his words when confronting him, saying everything that wasn’t what he wanted to say.

“How long have you been drawing?” Dean says, sitting down beside him under the oak tree. Cas shifts a little so it’s almost impossible for Dean to see what’s on the sketch pad as he talks and draws.

“I’m not sure really. I guess I started showing interest in it when I was in eighth grade?”

“Oh cool.” There’s a bit of silence in which both of them listen to the swaying of branches over head, causing the light to dance across the ground and over the current piece of art Cas was working on. Dean studied him, watching his head tilt sideways as he tried adding something different to the piece in an attempt to make it better. He watched his blue eyes light up brighter than the sky above them as he finally made the right like and watched as his hands moved the pencil across the page in elegant swirling motions, creating one line after another.

Often times, Dean would not talk to Cas, but merely watch him as all his focus was drained into the piece, his black hair being ruffled by the breeze. When he drew, he was in his element, and there was nothing more beautiful than seeing Cas like that.

“Why do you always insist on staying with me, Dean?” Cas asks, not looking up. Even now Cas still acted a little shy towards Dean and didn’t talk to him much, and the first day they met Dean barely managed to get his name out of him. So why would someone like him, who probably has tons of friends begging for his attention at this very moment, want to hang out with him?

Dean shrugs. “Some people are annoying and don’t know how to keep their mouth shut. But you’re a mystery wrapped in a trench coat, Cas, and I love mysteries.” Despite himself, Cas blushes, glad for the sketch pad between them.

“Why do you not want me here?”

“No I um…” Cas tried to think of the right words to say without sounding desperate.

“I guess I’ve never had a friend before.” Dean nudges his arm.

“Well buddy, looks like today’s your lucky day,” he says with a smile, his green eyes glowing. They’re even more perfect than the leaves or the grass.

“You’d want… to be my friend?” Cas asks shyly.

“Of course! Who wouldn’t want to be your friend?” Cas started to shrink down in his trench coat, the praise overwhelming him with happiness.

“I’m weird though.”

“And that’s just why I like you.”