#he loses his family to weeping angels and can’t fix it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eclecticmiasma · 4 years

Text

Painted Smile (Yandere!Abbacchio x Reader)

🌠Commissioned Fic!🌠

NSFW

“You won’t ever throw me away again.”

[Warnings: rape, angst, yandere, alcohol, abusive relationship, stalking, manipulation, female pejoratives, dead dove: do not eat]

Art credit: mazeeyes_2000s on Twitter

*Please don’t use my work to self-harm. This is for horror entertainment purposes only. This work is not a representation of a healthy relationship and should not be considered as such! Keep yourself safe!*

Acrid, wine-stained breath ghosts over the nape of your neck. You cry out in agony as your arms are wrenched behind your back and you’re pushed face-first into the couch. Even if you could speak, you know it wouldn’t reach his ears. From the moment he set foot in your apartment, Abbacchio was long gone.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” The elastic on your underwear snaps from the force in which they’re pulled down your thighs. Immediately, his grasping hands are on your flesh, nails digging into your exposed behind, “Did you already forget where all of this came from? Who saved you?”

You know he’s referring not only to your spacious apartment, but your entire life. Without him, you’d still be under the thumb of your family- used and abused like so many other children of poverty. At the time, Abbacchio seemed to be an angel disguised as an ex-cop. A white-haired symbol of freedom. The first person to ever truly want to protect you. After all, he gave you what so many others could only dream of- a future.

But now you see his gifts came with a price.

As he unceremoniously spreads your legs apart and degrades you, manhandles you like you’re nothing more than property, it’s hard to stomach the fact that you loved him once. You were proud to call him yours. In your ignorance, life had been wonderful.

Anything you asked for was yours, even if you only hinted at it. Sometimes you wondered where his seemingly endless flow of income could possibly come from, but he always managed to assuage your fears. “I live to take care of you, amore,” Abbacchio would say, cradling you in his arms, “You won’t have to worry about anything ever again.”

And that was enough.

Until, little by little, the cracks began to show.

At first he would get anxious without you around. What started as a few phone calls would snowball into a deluge of messages demanding your response. He would call your friends, family, coworkers- all under the pretense that he was worried absolutely sick about your safety. You were always the one who ended up sobbing, apologizing profusely and swearing not to worry him any longer. After a while, even that wasn’t enough.

He began trailing you. Even if you were at work you would often spot him out of the corner of your eye, checking in every so often to be completely sure you were still there. Soon, he demanded a key to your apartment. Foolishly, perhaps in hopes of keeping your relationship alive, you gave it to him. You couldn’t breathe, eat, or sleep without him watching over you. Abbacchio stood where your shadow once was.

A coworker helped you cut contact. He noticed the jittery way you constantly looked over your shoulders, the way your eyes glazed over every time you looked at your phone. He helped you craft a text message that told Abbacchio in no uncertain terms that you needed space. Time to think. When he didn’t respond, you breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he really got it, you thought. After your shift, he was nowhere to be found. Your coworker walked you home the entire week after you ended things, and even joked that you should change the locks to your apartment.

“I get rid of your parents and you spit in my fucking face,” Abbacchio slurs, pinching the soft flesh above your elbow with bruising force. Your back arches and you writhe in pain. He takes the opportunity to breach your entrance with the weeping head of his cock, “Not so high and mighty now, are we, bitch?” He thrusts forward, and the pain of it is blinding.

It’s nothing like the first time you touched. It’s fire and fury and your agency being stripped away inch by inch by inch. Not at all the adoration you felt as his fingers threaded your hair. Not at all the passion of his kiss- deep, desperate, intoxicating. Not at all the love you felt as your bodies connected, the melding of your flesh as he slotted himself inside of you.

“Abbacchio,” You had moaned in earnest, clutching him in the throes of your ecstasy, rolling your hips in tandem, “I love you, I love you-”

“Abbacchio-” You sob, throat sore from screaming. His name feels like poison on your tongue. He yanks you up by the hair and wraps a large hand around your throat, rendering speech impossible. There isn’t time to wonder whose blood it is before the sheer force of his length drilling your insides scrambles your thoughts.

“Quit pretending you don’t love this, quit playing the victim!” Abbacchio barks. The smell of alcohol radiating off of him makes bile rise in your throat, “How many times have you cum on my cock, huh, puttana? Fifty? One-hundred?” You try to shake your head, desperate to scream that this is different, that your love for him is long dead, but only a choked gurgle escapes you. As your vision tunnels, you pray you’ll lose consciousness.

Before you do, Abbacchio pulls out of you and throws you to the floor. Your head strikes the wood with a resounding thunk, but you remain aware. Before you can react, he’s on you again. His legs are splayed on either side of your waist and his cock hangs half-hard from within his pants. He pins your wrists to the floor and hovers over you like a snarling beast. You want to fight for your life, but his face stops you dead in your tracks.

Mascara runs down his cheeks in rivulets of black. His dark purple lipstick is smeared about his face from his assault on you. His eyes are bloodshot from sobbing, hair stringy with grease. For the first time since he entered your apartment, barging in like a drunken bull in a china shop, it occurred to you that he was deeply, deeply hurt.

Not that it should matter. Life with Abbacchio had gone from a dream to a nightmare in a matter of months. He alienated you from your family and friends, manipulated you into ignoring his possessiveness time and time again, he’s raped you in your own home- the disheveled man before you is less human than monster.

But he saved you. Your life was no better before Abbacchio came along. He threw you a lifeline when no one else would, treated you like someone who mattered. Without him, your family would have sold you off to the highest bidder for food scraps and alcohol. All he wanted in return was your loyalty and undying affection. He had given you everything, and you couldn’t even muster that?

As soon as he realizes you’re no longer fighting him, Abbacchio loosens his grip on your wrists and grinds his lower body against your own.

“Do you see what you’ve done to me?” His voice cracks and fresh tears wet the side of your neck as he buries his face in your skin. Your gaze stays fixed to the ceiling. As the seconds go by, you feel yourself sinking further and further to a place from which you’ll never return. Abbacchio presses himself inside of you again, gentler, and it’s like you’re drowning- tail-spinning away from the light of the water’s surface.

He drags you down with him, into the abyss. Feeling your body respond, his thrusts become more deliberate. It no longer hurts, and that only further tears you up inside. He’s still enraged, you hear it in his voice, but the words spilling from his lips don’t line up.

“You’re mine, [Y/n], I…” He clings to you as he ruts against your walls, “Never…never again. You won’t ever throw me away again. I love you so much I can’t breathe-” He kisses you in earnest, his warm tongue and the taste of old wine filling your mouth. It’s repulsive, but it’s passionate. Honest. You feel his utter desperation imprints himself on you mind, body, and soul.

Abbacchio.

“Abbacchio,” You whine as his length strikes a certain spot inside of you. He replies by rolling his hips, fucking into you again and again like he’s memorized every crevice of your body. Your nails dig into his back as he takes you, and you find yourself sobbing again. What have you done?

“Say it,” He orders, breathing heavily against you. You can’t will yourself to respond. All of this is wrong. The abuse you had endured, the guilt worming its way into your heart, the cloying feeling settling in your abdomen brought on by the man that gave you heaven and hell- it was wrong, wrong, wrong- “Say you’re mine!”

“I-” You choke, screwing your eyes shut as a wave of pleasure rolls over you. Abbacchio feels it, and considers it a victory. Everything he needed to hear you’ve told him with your body. You relented, accepted him back, gave yourself over to him once again. Even though you’ve done no such thing, it doesn’t matter. The second you let yourself pity this man, you lost.

To be honest, your fate was decided from the start. The moment Abbacchio walked into your life, you belonged to him.

*all original work is my intellectual property. do not edit or re-upload.

#commissions #yandere #yandere!abbacchio x reader #yandere!abbacchio #yandere jjba #minors dni #not sfw #dead dove: do not eat #tw: rape #tw: abuse #tw: stalking #tw: blood #tw: alcohol #oops! all angst #fics #sorry #tw: abusive relationship #tw: abusive language

226 notes · View notes

peakyblinderswhore · 4 years

Text

req: where a girl runs away from ireland, pregnant and scared and rents a cottage in small heath before accidentally becoming good friends with ada. one day they go to john’s estate and find it in chaos, you go to save michael as he’s still breathing. later on, polly wants to meet me and thank me for everything and this is where they find out about me being pregnant and alone.

a/n: this was initially supposed to be a wattpad exclusive since i was asked on wattpad for this but man, i wrote so much that i think it deserves to be seen on here too. anyway, i hope you enjoy! ps: between me and you, i flaked our at the end and went cliché as per my usual writing.

w/c: 2.8k

warnings: mild abuse (skip past the “keep reading” line and you won’t have to read it)

Somehow, I had managed to catch a boat from Dublin to England. I wasn’t entirely sure where it was headed specifically, I had been much more worried about getting out of here. I’d seen a woman Tuesday evening, she had confirmed my suspicions — I was pregnant.

I carried life and I was overjoyed, until I went home to my husband, bouncing on my toes, waiting to tell him the good news. Initially, I had been ecstatic; that was my first mistake. The second had been talking and the third was for being a whore.

In those moments, my heart shattered. He went out drinking and told me to be gone before he came home. I’m sure he just meant out of the house, to sleep at a friends house for a small amount of time, or something along those lines, but we’d been down this road before. The last time, he had beaten the child out of me. He didn’t know it and it broke my heart even just thinking about the potential it could’ve had.

Of course, I chose the only thing that could guarantee a good life for my child, I fled. First I pulled the house apart looking for every penny in every corner and crevice of the house, then I packed my bag and walked in the shadows to the docks. It was daylight and I hadn’t wanted anyone to see me this way. Upon reaching the boat, it took me all of my grovelling to make it onto the ship. I don’t know if they felt guilty or just wanted me to shut up but they let me on the boat under the promise that I would get off wherever they docked next.

When we docked, I kept my promise, glad to be away from what I called my husband.

“Where are we, please?” I asked a younger sailor.

“Birmingham, Ma’am. Small Heath, specifically, I believe.”

Nodding at him in thanks, I made my way off, following the small crowd that had emerged from within the ship with me. I had almost no idea where I needed to go. Of course, I had to figure out where I was going to sleep.

Once a week or so had passed, I had found a place to rent with the money I had fled with. I think I must’ve drawn some attention as a woman called Ada took a very quick liking to me. She was present, wherever I went and I was worried at first, possibly paranoid that my husband had sent someone to fetch me or do something about me, but I quickly found out that she had absolutely no idea where I’d washed up from.

She was one of the few things that kept me sane over the coming days. My life was a small mess but she helped me set everything in order again.

“Why?” I muttered to her one day, fed up with everything that I was dealing with that day.

“Because once, I was like you. Pregnant and alone; trust me, it’s not fun nor is it good for the baby, whether it’s been born yet or not,” she diligently replied, walking past me into the cottage I was renting.

For a second, I blubbed like a fish, wondering how she had guessed my pregnancy without me giving her any clues.

She must’ve sensed my confused face staring into her back as she set down some food she had brought over from the market because she carried on, “I know because I’ve been there. It’s the small things that give it away the most because you don’t try to hide them as much — you simply think others won’t notice if you pretend that you don’t either.”

She’d managed to hit the nail on the head, shocking me mostly but also making me think about some of my choices, my presumptions about her and what her family was like or what they thought of her.

“Karl and I,” she began, “well, Tommy wasn’t Karl’s Dad’s biggest fan. I was pregnant before we got married and then when we were married, it didn’t last for long. Freddie… he died. Pestilence got him in the end. All of that fighting for a disease to end it.”

I didn’t quite get what she was talking about for the most part, I’d known her long enough to have met Karl but apart from that I was clueless.

“Ada —”

“Don’t pity me, it was a long time ago.”

I clasped my lips together and abruptly nodded my head as I changed the direction of the conversation, “Shall we go out today?”

“Actually,” Ada said as she stepped away from putting the food away, “I was going to take Karl to visit my brother and his kids. Wouldn’t be bad for the boy to get some fresh air and to see his cousins. I’m sure they’ve been driving John doo-wally.”

Giggling, I say, “Doo-wally?”

Ada rolls her eyes, “Get ready, we’ll be off soon.”

Within the hour, you had set off in a car that Ada borrowed from one of her brothers and I had arrived at John’s estate. Karl had gotten out of the vehicle, eager to be greeted by his cousin's big smiles and playing around with them.

“He seems excited, how long has it been since you last visited?”

“Oh gosh, I don’t think I’ve been since they first…”

Ada’s voice trailed away as we turned a corner, revealing the pools of blood covering the expanse of the patio. Who I assumed to be John’s wife was screaming and crying, barey taking a moment to breathe as tears streamed down her face and blood seeped into her dress, staining it dark.

“Oh fuck,” Ada muttered, still in shock before commanding her body to move towards John, “Esme. Esme, is he alive?”

Ada turns to face me as Esme ignores Ada to continue weeping, “Go to Michael, his chest is still moving!”

I fell to the ground once you reached Michael. Without acknowledging the blood that was dying my skirts and now smudged all over my hands, up to my elbows.

I held his head, “Where? Where does it hurt? There’s blood everywhere; I can’t see where you were shot.”

He weakly pats his abdomen, to which I quickly rip open his suit, popping a few buttons from his shirt when I managed to pull it apart and apply pressure to where it became evident of the hole in his skin. Wincing, he groans and I hurriedly say, “I know, love, this is gonna hurt so much, but I have to stop it from bleeding.”

“I’m calling an ambulance!”

I nod, not even turning my head to watch Ada, “Karl go inside,” Michael muttered.

I lift my head, having not noticed the boy standing, lifelessly as he watched me and his mother frantically try to fix things.

“Karl, honey,” I whispered, “follow your Mum. Go inside; don’t come back out until after we come and get you together,” he nodded his head silently and walked inside, as if he had been sleep-deprived and stumbled up the steps.

Michael’s head was lolling about, barely conscious at this point. Focusing my attention back on him, I noticed his eyes rolling into the back of his head, “Hey,” I grab his head, pulling it to face me, his eyes were still rolling so I shook his shoulder a little, “don’t go anywhere. They’re so close to being here, don’t make their journey not worth it.”

He manages to avert his attention and put all of his might into focusing on me, “Wow,” he hastily breathes out, “I made it to Heaven, who would’ve thought? Ha, fucking Tommy, eh...”

“Nu-uh,” I slapped his face before forcing him to look at you and sternly said, “Don’t go anywhere.”

He seems rather amused and continues his rambling, “That felt pretty real to me, you Irish angel.”

Stopping for a moment, I was connecting the dots between what he said earlier and what he was muttering now. My face flushed and he whispered, “Wow, all the way to your ears? That’s adorable.”

Suddenly, I was acutely aware of my hands and how bloodied they were, drawing my attention away from his lazy grin. Deciding in my head quickly, I tore off a strip of my skirts to help prevent any more blood loss from his bullet wound when I applied pressure. I wrapped it around my hand twice and let the rest bundle on top of his wound before pressing down to the point where he winced.

“Sorry,” I murmured, “I can’t have it leaking before they get here.”

At that moment, Ada rushes out of the double french doors, “They’re almost here, I’ve been consoling the kids, as Esme gathers herself.”

Slowly I lift my head to see a quivering Esme, looking longingly at John’s body. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what must be going through her head.

“I’ve got Michael for the moment, not much more blood loss and he’s holding up a conversation for the moment,” I glanced over to a scared Karl behind Ada, clutching onto her skirts, “go back inside with the kids; get Esme cleaned up.”

Ada simply nods, suddenly needing someone else to give the orders, she was in shock from the scene we had stumbled upon this afternoon. It would be hard on anyone but it’s more shattering when it’s your brother. Her hair bounces a little, the only movement that suggests she was still breathing, even if she was shaking — scared hadn’t been a look I’d seen on Ada before and you weren’t sure if I ever wanted to see it again.

Until the ambulance arrived, I had continued talking to Michael, keeping him there and making sure he didn’t lose consciousness at any point.

Eventually, they came and took Michael, keeping him alive better than what I could, I hoped. It had taken every last bit of my energy to drag Ada away once Tommy had arrived to sort the rest out. It had felt like he’d surely taken his sweet time turning up; I had no idea who was more distraught, Esme or Ada; it definitely wasn’t Tommy.

I managed to pull Ada and Karl into the car they had borrowed and drove them back to the outskirts of Small Heath, stopping right outside my small cottage, where the fields met the streets. Neither had argued when I woke them up, their tear stained cheeks and bloody clothes sticking to the seats. Despite Ada’s wishes, I pushed them into my bed and took the sofa for the night, acknowledging the fact that they probably needed a better night’s sleep than I did tonight, after everything that had happened.

. . .

Weeks later, everyone had been to John’s burial. It was strange, Ada had insisted that I was to be there as she didn’t want to go alone but I said otherwise.

“It’ll be harder for you if I’m there. I was there that day too, you don’t need another face to remind you of what happened; neither does Esme, the woman has already been through far to much for me to even get into right now,”

Ada’s face had gotten swollen over the days, mostly from crying over and over again, never getting the chance to get it all out before Karl interrupted. I had often tried to distract the boy but on days when I went out to the market to buy food it was hard to control what he did. He didn’t want to go out, sometimes I had successfully managed to drag him away but I couldn’t blame him for wanting to be with his mother so much.

“Karl, is she home?” Ada called, one morning after I’d been out and bought some flowers to liven up the atmosphere a little.

“Yes, she’s home. She’s got pink flowers too.”

Surprised at Ada’s voice, I walk through, “Awake, love? I got some freesias to lighten the room a little.”

Ada smiled, “Polly wants to meet you. And Michael, properly. They want to thank you for that day, for saving Michael… and for trying to save John,” she sniffed, forcing her smile to stay on her face, “Pol’s invited us to afternoon tea today. I was just trying to convince Karl to go with you to the market to buy something nicer to wear.”

“I might have something that I can adjust for him.”

“So you’ll come,” she says, turning her head away from the newspaper that she was reading, “to Polly’s this afternoon?”

Wincing, I reply, “I suppose so. I think it might be good if I got to see Michael the way he is conscious.”

After fussing about for a few hours over sorting something for Karl to wear and making sure you wore something that was fresh, yourself, you had made it to Polly’s townhouse. It was grand, especially compared to the cottage you were renting out. The front garden was neat and had colour coordinated flower beds and a neatly trimmed border that accentuated the pathway that led to the wooden front door.

Upon knocking, Ada had pushed me in front of her so that when the door opened a beautiful, classical lady answered. Instantly her face lit up, she held out her arms, “You, my darling, must be the one who saved my boy’s life,” she pulled me into a hug and engulfed me into her embrace, tightening her grip so as to not let go and whispered, “thank you so much. I only wish we could’ve helped John.”

Carefully, I wrapped my arms around her, and breathed in her homely scent, “Of course, Polly. My deepest regards, I wish I could’ve done more too.”

She pats my back twice and pulls away, holding me at an arm's length, “Pregnant, pretty and a lifesaver. I’m not sure what else we could’ve asked for. Come in, I have some tea ready,” she beckoned us in, stepping aside to allow us to walk into her home.”

She led us through to the sitting room, offered me a seat next to Michael and walked off to fetch a teapot and some cups and saucers for us all.

“Wow, this is she?”

I turn to face him, blushing profusely, “It is she. How are you Michael?”

“Much better thanks to you. Mum says she doesn’t think I would’ve made it without you.”

“I’m sure you would’ve…”

Ada pipes up, “Michael was in a pretty bad state. Polly spoke to the doctors and they said he’d been stabilised at the scene; that was you, love.”

I sat, bewildered by the thought that I had literally stopped someone from dying. Before, it had only been talk and I had let them while they were mourning but now — it was real.

We sat in silence for a moment as Polly walked back in, now carrying a tray full of tea for us all.

“You know,” Michael began, “you’re beautiful. Your baby is going to be so well-looked after and is going to be just as smart and beautiful as you are… I bet your husband is thrilled to have someone like you.”

I let my head fall slightly and ignore as Polly hums in agreeance with her son and I stare at my hands as I fiddle with the sleeve of my dress.

Ada notices the tension I was radiating and quietly states, “She ran away from home because her husband doesn’t want anything to do with her and her to-be baby.”

Polly halts in her position, currently pouring tea into a cup and turns to face us properly, “Excuse me?”

Michael stands from his seat, “What? What kind of idiot doesn’t want something to do with their wife and kid?”

His face slowly distorts and his cheeks redden as the anger boils inside of him, “You saved my life and fucking goddamnit if I let you and your child grow up without a father figure. You saved mine and I want the chance to repay you.”

“Michael —”

“No, love, he’s right. You’re so strong and you’ve made it this far, but we want to help. Nothing will ever repay the fact that you saved Michael’s life but let us try,” Polly says, resting a hand on my shoulder affectionately, her voice running through the room like silk as she softens.

“That’s right. Marry me.”

My eyes widen, “Ah, Michael, I’m not sure that’s necessary.”

“You’ll be shamed if your baby doesn’t have a father,” Polly soothes, “It’s different if you’re a widow but if word gets out, we can’t fight every single fucker who natters on about your personal life.”

“Marry me; I’ll be the father figure for your baby. It’s the least I can do.”

tags: @saintd0lce lmk if you want to be tagged! :)

#peaky #littlemissshelby #littlemissshelbyreplies #John Shelby #Esme Shelby #michael gray #Michael Shelby #aunt polly #polly gray #polly shelby #Ada Shelby #ada thorne #Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders season 4 #birmingham #1920s #luca changretta #shelby

75 notes · View notes

millennial-star-gazer · 4 years

Text

The Draconic Demon Within: Chapter 4: A Demon’s All-Consuming Rage

The Draconic Demon Within

Genres: Romance, Friendship/Family, Drama/Angst, Hurt/ Comfort, & New Adult Fanfiction

Vera's April 2018 Prompts: Soul, Empyrean, Savage, Memory, Trust, Fear, Unstoppable , Resilient, Supernatural (Implied) Lost (Implied) and Loathing.

Nalu Lovefest 2017 Prompts: Dreams

Nalu Week 2019 Prompts (Implied:) Lost, Curse, Trial, Treasure, Chance and possibly Bare.

Pairing: Nalu/EndLu,( Natsu x Lucy/ E.N.D. x Lucy)

Rating: M for language, steamy and mature adult sexual content (all consensual) in these and future chapters. Reader Direction is advised.(You have been warned!)

Summary: Now faced with the reality of who he is truly is, the son of Igneel must contend with the new darker instincts of his new demonic identity- all while navigating through his ever-growing, intense feelings for a particular celestial wizard. Originally a Submission (semi -au) for Nalu lovefest 2017 (on my previous celestialgeekmage account and now an entry for nalu week 2019 with chapter 3. (Also was on my earliest previous accounts of teamedwardjace/Twishadowhunter in the past. Also part of Vera's April 2018 prompt challenge from fic-writers appreciation on cosmicdragonwizard).

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 4: A Demon's All- Consuming Rage

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Hey guys, it's your girl back again with another installment of TTDW! Fun fact: Being temporarily off work for a few weeks due to pandemic has provided some extra free time to edit and posta new chapter for this fic ( which is on account of the temporary closures of public institutions, and public spaces along with non-essential businesses/services in Ontario-the Canadian province I'm from). This isn't to suggest I'm not without fear or concern about the pandemic or potential effects on global infrastructure but at least I'm mostly coping as best as anyone can at this time. Hope you guys are all too. ( A bit more on this in the A/N at the end of this chapter .) Anyway, hope that this chapter and my other fanfics along with those from amazing writers can help you all while stuck at home. All right, that's pretty much my whole spiel for now. Without further ado, here's Chapter 4 of TTDW-Enjoy!

(Note: Scroll down past the read more button/cut for the designated legend menu and actual story content).

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Disclaimer: Fairytail does not belong to me, but to the most honourable Hiro-sensei instead, for whom without this work of love wouldn't be possible.

Read Previous Chapters of TDDW and on platforms here:

(Copy and paste the links into another window if need be)

A. Tumblr

Previous (Click Here:) (or here: https://millennial-star-gazer.tumblr.com/post/185917542578/the-draconic-demon-within-chapter-3)

Next (Coming Soon:)

B. Fanfiction (Click Here:) (or here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13113898/1/The-Draconic-Demon-Within-Reupload-from-cosmicdragonwizardaccounts)

C. A03 (Click Here:) (or here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17365061/chapters/40861307)

2. Ongoing Master Post Of All My Writing (Click Here:) (or here: https://millennial-star-gazer.tumblr.com/post/179665258923/master-fic-rec-post)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Legend:

Italic: Song Lyrics/Quotes (or flashback dialogue)

Bold: First Person Thoughts

Bolded Italics: Empathized, stylized Word(s) or bloodthirsty fantasies

Bolded Italics (Within and Outside Bracket) including for author's side notes also known as (A/N:) within brackets (though none for side-notes in this chapter ).

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Your body is full of rage.

Every sinew. It is easy to read.

You speak volumes with a clenched fist."

( Paolo Bacigalupi: The Drowned Cities)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Seriously? Luce's alive?

That…. I can't...

A wave of overjoyed relief was washing over Natsu from the spectacular news about his best friend still breathing.

"Hear that Luce?!" He sobbed, not bothering to wipe the moisture from his eyes." You're alive and gonna be okay— Thank God! Really... don't ... know what I'd do without ya…," Scarlet-red eyes remained focused/trained on the face on the motionless angel in his arms.

"Pretty sure the guild and the rest of the people we know would be just as devastated if they lost such an incredible person and wizard . Glad you're okay either way though." Natsu's hands were stroking sweat-plastered strands of Lucy's hair back from her eyes with delicate care .

Really glad she's still in fact alive and kicking…

In that very moment , it was as if the world had fallen away; leaving just the two of them. Nothing else seemed to matter then . Not cold-blooded enemies in the room, or the recent battle just moments before; Not even E.n.d's unnerving metamorphosis. Just a dragon-demon and his most precious star with those subtle breaths, the visible rise and fall of her chest that somehow escaped any kind of major notice before.

Words can't even describe how relieved I am . Digits combed through Lucy's blonde tresses from crown to tip in a physical display of tender affection.

Hmm... Lucy's hair feels really nice. Natsu couldn't help but marvel at texture of her beneath his fingertips .Don't think I've ever stopped to fully appreciate it before .

"Gotta say that your hair feels really nice, Luce." Natsu voiced this innermost thoughts aloud; though his words were coming in soft. ."Smells real amazin' too."

Damn was the appealing fragrance of jasmine with a hint of cyclamen flooding his senses beyond intoxicating."like jasmine and that other flower we saw once— cyclamen, I think. . You've been using a new scented shampoo again, I see. Not that I'm complainin'."

"Psh—Listen to me" Natsu tacked on with a rueful chuckle that was still a bit thick from all that weeping before. " Gettin' all sentimental and crap. Hell... stripper would never even let me live it down if he heard . Still be damn proud of you though just like I am for how well you handled yourself in battle. Why don't we tell him all about it once you're awake and we're out of here?. Bet he'd like that . Till then, the two of us just need to sit tight and figure out our next move, okay?"

Wait ...

The fire demon's hands continued their fond movements- only for blood to freeze in his veins when noticing an unsightly contusion on Lucy's forehead; accented by a small gash just above her brow.

When did this happen? I swear those injuries hadn't there been seconds before .. .

Crimson eyes scanned his best friend's battered frame for further damage in alarm . My God... Natsu's breath caught in his throat at the sight of that line of discolorations on her legs . Not to mention all those scratches along with the small gash peeking out through the tattered remains of Lucy's Star dress .

"Oh Luce..." He sighed, remorseful voice breaking on her name. "Can see that you're in pretty rough shape right now. I'm so sorry. Honestly don't know how or why you had a delayed reaction to all the damage. But this wouldn't have happened if I only had grabbed you and run or got your spirits to transport you to their world, Hell— Maybe we could've both escaped and I could've helped kept you safe while figuring out this new demon form means for us together. Anyways, time to put pressure on your wound."

A hand tore a loose piece of fabric to apply pressure on the hemorrhaging wound. "See? You'll be okay . Gonnal get ya' all fixed up and good as new in no time ."

Damn Luce stills looks like an angel to me, Natsu mused in reverent admiration . Even with those injuries...

"Ooh- how cute!" Jackal's dervisie voice cut through the other demon’s reverie; whose arms automatically protectively tightened around Lucy's frame out of fierce instinct-automatic without a second though. Not to mention those two pair of eyes he could sense that set him on edge."

"Aw Damn." Jackal broke in again with a gleeful taunt that bordered on sadistic."That poor,pretty girl of you is covered in ugly bruises and scratches, Dragneel."

That little ...

Natsu's head automatically snapped around to meet Jackal with a baleful snarl. Damn was that all that black rage roaring in his veins all too consuming.

"There's that growling again" Jackal cackled, clearly unfazed at by the alpha demon's bared canines ." Bared fangs and what not. Such a shame what happened to Blondie here , or is it? You really did a number on her, huh Tempester?"

"Huh," Tempester mused, bland disinterest colouring his tone."it seems I did . Kind of forgot that my curses can sometimes have o delayed side effects on people . Who knows? That pathetic wrench might even have internal bleeding.

"You goddamned bastard!" The flame- eater raged, fury boiling over. "Lucy ain't pathetic or some kind of toy to play with ... God.. All those injuries… are you fault and . I swear that You're both gonna pay for what you did to her!"

"Oh-You think so?" Jackal scoffed with let out another infantilizing laugh —beyond infuriating .

"Someone's rattled." Tempster pointed out, listless eyes trained on the stone-brick wall ahead. "Unfortunate."

"You don't say," Jackal deadpanned, with a disdainful roll of the eyes ."But Seriously Though , E.N.D, do you even hear yourself? .I mean getting all riled up over a human girl in that way —talk about pathetic. Sure said girl is extremely beautiful with a killer bod and feisty personality to boot—I'll give you that. But is she worth losing your cool over or fraternizing with? I don't think so and neither should you . God knows all that pent up rage and aggression would be far more suited for another cause. Not to mention, you'd better off without her life tainting your judgement and hindering your full potential as the most powerful of all etherious. So let's resolve this, shall we? Hand over the celestial wizard and I'll gladly dispose of her for you . Sound good?"

" 'Sound good?'Sound Good?!’ Are you kidding me?"!

Good God did those last words only serve to incense the snarling dragon further.

" There's no way in hell I'm gonna give Lucy up or let either of you touch her!"

"Come on Dragneel-be reasonable."

"No-rot in hell!"

"Oh honestly E.N.D.-"

"My name is Natsu!"

"Well okay then, Natsu— Just calm down ." Jackal's couldn't seem to resist reprimanding the fire demon; as if he were some errant child pitching a fit ."You're being ridiculous. Anyways, tell you what. I promise to make her death as qui-"

"Shut up!"

" Quick and mostly painless..."

"I said shut up!" En.d's voice rose to an ear-splitting roar that could've struck terror into the hearts of the gods themselves. "Try anything on her and I swear I'll kill you!"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To Be Continued

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Well that's Chapter 4 folks- hope you enjoyed! Now a bit more about the pandemic situation in Ontario . Like many other provinces and countries around the world,, the government of Ontario has opted to shut down/ temporarily close non-essential services, businesses, public spaces and institutions to help curb the spread of the virus for a few weeks (or more) before spring break. Such institutions include all schools and childcare centres/ services in those settings which applies to the childcare company I'm currently employed with. You know on account of most of their centres and programs being based in public schools. (Independently-run Daycares also remain closed. And yes i'm a ECE by trade for any who were wondering or didn't already). Schools and child cares were tentatively scheduled to reopen after April 5th; though the closures have been extended for another month (according to Doug Ford (the premier/leader of Ontario). Not ideal but at least it gives me some extra time for me to work on things alongside my writing(i.e editing upcoming chapters for fics and WIPS). All right folks, that's all I have to say on that subject.

As usual, please feel free to let me know what you think by leaving a comment/review , through a reblog or by any other means. Be sure to check out the rest of my writing while staying tuned for future updates of my fics and new projects along the way! (Links above, in the navigation and in bio If on tumblr . Also on fanfiction.) Anyway, take care and stay safe! Ta ta for now!

#fairytail #ft fanfics #nalu #endlu #natsu x lucy #natsu dragneel #etherious natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #future lucy dragneel #the draconic demon within #my writing #millennial stargazer writes #millennial star gazer #please reblog

45 notes · View notes

dotthings · 4 years

Text

Well that flayed my emotions as much as I hoped and in some encouraging ways YES PAIN WITH PURPOSE THANK YOU. There’s a lot here, as is usual with Bobo eps and I’m going to have to take this one at a time especially since I really really need to break down what happened with Dean and Cas in this ep, at length. Yep I am going to go on a bit about Dean and Cas. As you do.

I’ve posted quite a bit of meta about how the rift was a combination of things. It’s years of unaddressed issues. Dean’s abandonment issues vs Cas’s tendency to be taken away, or die, or leave. Years of that. Then on top of it, when Cas couldn’t stand with Dean about Jack, and when he kept some crucial information from Dean that he shouldn’t have due to Jack. Let me restate something I’ve said before: Dean wasn’t wrong to express his hurt and anger. He loves Cas, and Cas is imperfect. No Cas isn’t always the screw up and Dean I already knew regretted that and didn’t believe that (see? I told you) nor does Dean ever want Cas dead. But Cas is imperfect and Cas has hurt Dean, as Dean has hurt Cas. Then there’s Cas’s fears about not being needed/wanted, his doubts about his place in this family, and in Dean’s heart vs. the complicated mess that is involved in being adopted into the Winchester clan as deeply as Cas was. So their insecurities have been their own worst enemies for years, and then the Jack and Mary thing happened. And then ON TOP OF ALL THAT, Chuck and Dean’s wondering what’s real what isn’t. I was pretty sure at least some of that might make it overtly into the prayer. But no none of that.

While I think it is definitely good that Dean expressed himself so openly and did it in a prayer he definitely had reasons to believe Cas would hear and it is really really good Cas HEARD HIM OH MY GOD THANK YOU CAS HEARD ALL THAT. It’s also not such good news that what comes out here is that this is all about Dean’s anger issues and he “can’t stop it.” And I’m not deciding here whether this is authorial eye or Dean’s. It certainly makes sense that Dean would pull guilt onto himself (rather than authorial blaming Dean). But Dean pulling all the guilt into himself, crying and apologizing and there being very little in the ep to address the other side of this--the Cas pov, and how Cas has hurt Dean--is just more cyclical unhealthiness.

Maybe this prayer was cathartic. Maybe this will help Dean going forward, letting go of that anger, that guilt.

So that dynamic therefore is actually really unhealthy. Lashing out at your best friend, who you love, that severely because you just can’t help it when a crisis happens and the pressure is on, even if said best friend hurt you? It’s not a problem that Dean expressed his hurt and anger, it’s that he went too far. And he couldn’t help it. And it wasn’t Chuck existential crisis or even about Mary, it’s just that when under pressure Dean lashes out at those he loves and can’t stop it. While that is a valid issue...that kind of takes the entire burden and puts it onto Dean. Full stop. It’s all Dean’s fault. Dean, how dare you get angry and hurt when you best friend does stuff that actually...hurts you. This is, IMO, canon putting the kind of pressure on Dean that fandom does. Only express positive feelings, Dean, otherwise shut up. Regardless of intent, that’s kind of what this scene validated.

So on top of years of issues Dean and Cas haven’t dealt with, chronic issues, about each other. On top of reasons here Dean might think the bond was manufactured by Chuck, but all right, that last point doesn’t seem to be presenting itself unless I reach pretty down deep into subtext. Maybe we can say it’s fueling Dean’s anxieties and made everything worse, ramped everything up.

But I think given how this unfolded, Dean and Cas having some time apart isn’t a bad idea. That this turned out to actually be “Dean lashes out when he’s panicked and he can’t stop himself” and hurt Cas so much with it is worrying and I get it’s supposed to be worrying. But I’m not exactly vomiting rainbows. I WANT THEM TO FIX IT. I’m incredibly uncomfortable with how the story (whether authorial view or not) places it all on Dean.

This is, frankly, going to feed the Dean hate and I’m just so tired of it, it’s unfair, it’s a twisted stanning view of the character, it lacks empathy, and I’m sorry that this episode did something that validated people who literally needed Dean LITERALLY ON HIS KEES CRYING AND APOLOGIZING before they might believe Dean isn’t an uncaring asshole. Some of us didn’t need that to know, while it is good that Dean said what was deepest in his heart. Yet there’s still going to be stans who keep bashing him and saying he doesn’t care about Cas. I really wish they would just stop and they never will so I will ignore it best I can.

After what I just witnesses in this ep, I am beyond FLOORED if there would be ANYONE LEFT IN THIS FANDOM WHO COULD THINK THAT. I get thinking they need couples therapy or maybe they need space. I’m thinking it. But to actually keep flogging the idea that Dean doesn’t care about Cas, that was already egregious before this ep, now it’s REALLY really egregious to keep flogging that.

So I’m uneasy, for what this means for Dean and Cas--not that they can’t or won’t fix this. OBVIOUSLY THEY WILL FIX THIS. They want to fix this. The arc isn’t over--and for what it means for Dean.

On the one hand, I’m glad to see things dig so deeply into Dean’s issues. Because it’s not Dean hate to say, yeah he’s got some anger issues and needs to examine that. But on the other hand, Dean crying and apologizing on his knees is NOT THE FIX FOR THE RELATIONSHIP. Because there’s unaddressed stuff from Cas’s side. And I’m sure a lot of people are going to breeze right by that. Because in this fandom you have to choose Dean or Cas, and one or the other is being dragged as being an uncaring assholes.

The good news, this ep was exactly what I thought and hoped it would be for Dean and Cas otherwise, in terms of getting them past that early season freeze.

Oh that revisiting of Purgatory was effing beautiful, structurally and emotionally. Cas refused to split up this time. Cas waited at the portal. Cas went through the portal with Dean. There is healing in this ep, they went through a similar situation only with a different outcome. Cas isn’t voluntarily staying in Purgatory to wear a hair shirt this time. This time, Cas didn’t run off and leave Dean just to protect Dean, they only got separated after they were overpowered. Cas waited and waited by that portal and Dean looked and looked. That was no really, that was beautiful (whatever issues I have about the prayer itself).

This was the thaw. This was the beginning of the next phase for Dean and Cas, and no it’s not intended as a fix. The door’s been opened, the ice has broken, the walls have crumbled, so that they can fix it and hopefully to an even better, stronger relationship that all they’ve been before, which is really strong already but damn they have so many issues. While Dean and Cas have mostly been a comforting relationship for me on SPN (health for relative values of healthy) and it is mostly a positive relationship...yeah. Issues.

JFC I just really hope Cas is going to get to voice how he feels about hurting Dean as he has and it does an incredible disservice to the characters and their story to skip over that, not just because I’m defensive of Dean, but for Cas’s sake, for the sake of his character and pov. I feel like Cas’s pov is incomplete. He’s not getting to express himself the way I really really hope he will and I think he needs to. Hell, can I have Cas on his knees in tears pouring his heart out about Dean, it wouldn’t be a prayer or actual tears probably, since he’s an angel, but give me something.

Howe even did things get to the point where it’s Dean carrying most of the Destiel and expressing most of the feelings and bleeding out emotionally again and again in canon and yet so many people act like CAS is the one doing all the pining, as if Dean is the uncaring asshole, while we have such gaps in Cas expressing his pov on Dean. It’s absolutely WILD. It’s beyond wild.

The other good news is despite my discomfort with the speech, I am reeling a bit at just how expressive it was. I do think as the one who said the harsh things, Dean would be the one who needed to take the first sledgehammer to the ice wall and he did it. It’s not that I agree all the blame is on him. But yes Dean opened the door and that’s a good thing. Dean falling to his knees, weeping because he’s scared he is losing his best friend again. To PURGATORY AGAIN NO LESS *screaming internally* and with all the times since he’s lost Cas. It wasn’t an angry emotional rant. It was a vulnerable, sad, quiet pleading prayer directly to his best friend. I am a bit shook that the Dean and Cas feelings weren’t nested in with some other bigger plot thing eating at Dean, where Cas is one of a list, or it’s something else breaking Dean and losing Cas is just too much on top of that. No, it’s just a guy falling to his knees because he’s scared he’s losing his best friend who he loves in every sense of the word yet again and it’s just them and their feelings.

The last time we saw something this overt from Dean, tear-filled, raw, laying it all out there, Cas was dead and in The Empty and Cas couldn’t hear it.

Ohhh and remember how I pointed out in S14 Cas hearing in Dean’s trauma memories the scream Dean let out when he lost Cas and I wasn’t sure if Cas knew that was for him or not, just that it was traumatic.

BUT THIS TIME CAS HEARD IT. HE HEARD THE PRAYER. HE KNEW DEAN CRIED. HE HEARD ALL OF DEAN’S ANGUISH ABOUT LOSING HIM. (Hopefully Cas will get an actual clue now, I hope).

#Dean Winchester #Castiel #Dean and Cas #Destiel #spn #supernatural #meta #supernatural spoilers #COPING WITH MY FEELINGS BY THROWING WORDS AT IT

36 notes · View notes

vikireedphotography · 4 years

Text

The Cigar Is All You See

THE CIGAR IS ALL YOU SEE

First, do no TV: how badly do you want to make it in Hollywood, doctor?

FADE IN:

I/E.

A HOTEL BANQUET ROOM/OUTSIDE ENTRANCE-NIGHT

An EASEL holds a foam board telling us that inside the dark room-twinkling with spores of glittery tables, is the 2021 American Board of Radiology Conference.

Photos of two men are the evening’s GUEST SPEAKERS: GREG CRANDON, 53 and BEN HAMMIL, 52. Crandon is a bit pale, thinning hair on top scalp, bulging but happy eyes. He is posing with TV actor MATT KISLEYAK, 54. Matt is charismatic, and wears his TV-doctor’s uniform, Crandon is ‘on-set’ with Kisleyak and posing with an arm is around the shorter Crandon. Under the photo it reads:

“Radiology Consultant to Hollywood, Greg Crandon (with “Med Lives” star, Matt Kisleyak). The second photo is Hammil, who looks more like a TV star than a radiologist. Tall, long reddish hair. His photo depicts the smiling Hammill standing on a Ted Talk stage pointing and smiling. It’s captioned: “Welcome Ted Talk Keynote Speaker on AI and Radiology, Ben Hammil of Children’s Hospital of Los Angeles”

INT. BANQUET ROOM/BEYOND THE EASEL & SIGN-SIMULTANEOUSLY

In a reverse fractal, Dr. Ben Hammil is on-stage, preaching new gospel.

BEN

Twenty-two years in radiology. I’ve missed things. You know what sees everything? Machine learning. Check this out.

Ben lifts a POWERPOINT REMOTE AND CLICKS!

A massive projection screen behind Hammil fills with what looks like a photo quilt of chipmunk faces (tight crops of just the eyes, nose and whiskered mouth).

BEN (CONT’D)

Chipmunks. Cute. Sixteen-hundred chipmunk faces. Do you see the cat?

CUT TO:

VIP TABLE/ORCHESTRA SEAT LOCALE-CONTINUOUS SOUND OF: BEN HAMMIL’S VOICE-CONSTANTLY.

Greg in a slightly old-school tux joins his wife, ANDREA, 47.

In trying so hard to look younger, she forgets to be young. Everyone but the WIVES in the room are fixed on Hammil’s presentation.

ANDREA

(To Greg)

Can you get Matt’s autograph for Penny?

Andrea’s body language tightens after she notices cocaine on his nose. She grabs a napkin, wipes it. No one sees the coke. Just her ‘mothering’ him.

Fellow attendee and table-mate LEO, 42, now distracted.

LEO

(To Greg)

You missed Hammil’s award.

GREG Oh well.

LEO

Saw his Ted Talk. I played golf with him-played near him.

GREG

It’s just a tool, this software. A computer can’t deliver bad news or hold a box of Kleenex.

Greg gestures to a passing SERVER for another round of drinks. He pivots to PENNY, 36, pretty, blond trophy wifetwo small children later.

GREG (CONT’D) Penny? I’ll get you Matt’s autograph. I’m going to the studio tomorrow.

Penny is electrified. She points at Ben and announces to all:

PENNY

Out of everyone tonight he’s the most interesting and ground-level.

She catches herself when she sees Greg’s reaction.

CUT TO:

EXT. HOLLYWOOD SOUNDSTAGE/PRODUCTION OFFICE FOR “MED LIVES”NEXT DAY

Greg drives his bronze BMW convertible to the GUARD-GATE. A familiar GUARD, 39, waves him through.

Moments later, Greg strides, getting tanner the closer he gets to the the SOUNDSTAGE DOOR. He glides past Matt Kisleyak’s RED FERRARRI. It’s parked next to the door. A sign designates: “Reserved for Matt Kisleyak/Med Lives.

CUT TO:

INT.

SOUNDSTAGE FOR “MED LIVES”-CONTINUOUS

It’s a magical forest of cables, wisteria hanging lights, cameras, crew, fake hospital sets, ACTORS in costume, CRAFT

SERVICES TABLE loaded with EVERYTHING you could ever want. Willy Wonka time.

KEN (O.C.) Dr.Crandon?

KEN GOLDISH, 37, is one of the show’s Producers. Greg wheels in the direction of his voice.

CONT.

The two walk a hallway lined with POSTERS of MED LIVES’ CAST in character. Ken is ahead and faster.

GREG

(Holding a zip drive and script.)

I have the notes on the next show. Just a few minor details.

Ken turns to see Greg brandishing his work.

KEN

(Takes the thumb-drive.) Keep the script.

They stop at the last door.

What did Matt want to see me for?

KEN

(Knocks twice) He’ll tell you.

CUT TO:

INT.

MATT’S OFFICE-FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER

Greg is seated next to Matt’s desk. The blinds are closed, the only light comes from a large computer monitor.

As Matt sits and shares the glow with Greg you see an unbelievably photogenic man.

GREG

(Staring and smiling at Matt.)

This isn’t ideal. You should send the full study to my office at the hospital.

MATT

Not gonna happen. It’s a favor for a good friend. I’m looking out for him. A secret second-opinion.

Greg nods into gear with a deep breath.

CUT TO:

30 MINUTES LATER-

The star is opening the blinds. He turns around and saws his palm into Greg’s personal space.

MATT

Thanks so much for doing this.

GREG

I’m sure it’s not what you wanted to hear. Your friend definitely has stage-four lung cancer. I couldn’t tell more without labs, biopsies-

Greg stands to meet Matt’s goodbye shake.

MATT

Keep this between us?

Matt opens door. Greg pulls the rolled MED LIVES script out of his suit pocket.

GREG

I’m sorry, but a friend of my wife’s..

MATT

(Grabbing a pen.) What’s her name?

GREG

Penny. Thanks for that. I never ask, but the wife...

MATT

Got it. Hey, I’m hosting a celebrity golf tourney this weekend at Hillcrest Country Club. For Children’s Hospital. You play?

CUT TO:

INT. GREG’S HOME OFFICE, WOODLAND HILLS,CA-NEXT EVENING

A man-cave with no man. It resembles a furniture store display. The only indicator of human occupancy is a box of Just For Men hair dye. He stands before a full-length mirror wearing new golf-wear. Looks a little ‘back to school’.

PRICE TAGS are strewn at his feet. He snips the last tag from his BELT.

CLOSE ON: BELT/SCISSORS THE TAG READS $169.00. After a snip, it flutters down onto his new shoes. It’s quiet until-

ANDREA (O.C.)

Christ. You could go as Tiger Woods for Halloween.

GREG

Not really funny. Did you want something?

ANDREA

(Sour.)

Dinner. It’s here.

(Taking a last look, then starts to undress.) Good. I’m hungry.

FADE OUT:

EXT. HILLCREST COUNTRY CLUB-FOLLOWING MORNING

The celebrity event buzzes, it feels like a Christmas tree you could live-in.

INT. HILLCREST DINING ROOM-CONTINUOUS

Cacophonous. Seen from above, Greg disappears into a crowd of

JOURNALISTS, CELEBS, TV CAMERAS, FAMILIES OF PEDIATRIC CANCER PATIENTS, BUSY STAFF, CLUB MEMBERS and people dressed like PEANUTS CARTOON CHARACTERS.

A BANNER ABOVE AN EMPTY PODIUM AT THE BACK OF THE ROOM READS:

“Children’s Hospital Of Los Angeles Annual Celebrity Golf Event 2021”

Hearing Matt from behind a potted tree he eagerly rounds the corner.

It’s Matt with Ben Hammil and a few others. Laughing. Drinking.

GREG (TO SELF) Fucking guy...

Matt turns around. Seeing Greg, he’s not unhappy but there’s no reward in seeing him. Greg bounds over, socially awkward in Ben’s presence.

MATT

(To the group.)

This is Greg Crandon. He’s the Doc who makes Dr. Morrow sound like he went to medical school. Hey, Greg, this is one of your radiologist tribal members: Ben Hammil.

GREG

Yeah, we shared a bill at a radiology convention last week. I was keynote.

BEN

It was actually fun. Like an extended Ted Talk.

ANOTHER MAN IN THE GROUP Oh, that’s where I know you from!

MATT

Greg we’re doing a Four Man Cha Cha Cha wager; the losing team coughs up forty-K for the charity. You’re in, right?

GREG

Forty? It’s in my car.

The group laughs.

GREG (CONT'D) Will you excuse me?

Greg breaks away and rushes to the MEN’S BATHROOM.

CUT TO:

INT. HILLCREST DINING ROOM-TWENTY MINUTES LATER

Most of the crowd spills onto the fairway path, outside. Greg hustles to catch-up.

CUT TO:

EXT. FAIRWAY PATH-CONTINUOUS

Greg approaches the REGISTRATION TABLE.

An ATTRACTIVE SWEDISH FEMALE CLUB STAFFER, 23, is dispensing Team Badges, which are mounted on a valet’s keyboard behind her. The teams are named after Peanuts Characters. Greg squints to see the SNOOPY Team, which is led by Matt.

FEMALE STAFFER (O.S.) Good morning! What’s your name?

GREG

Greg Crandon? I think I’m a Snoopy, on Matt’s team.

FEMALE STAFFER

Here you are. You’re a LINUS!

Matt invited me personally, I’m sure I’m a Snoopy.

FEMALE STAFFER It’s a perfect day for a game, you’ll have a great time.

The Staffer dangles the Linus Team badge. Greg takes it.

As he approaches, A GOLF CART WHIRRS away: Ben Hamill is the driver, Matt’s his co-pilot.

They leave a wake in the COLLECTIVE MEDIA bush they pass.

CUT TO:

INT. GREG'S BEDROOM-2 DAYS LATER-EARLY MORNING

He’s on his back, snoring.

ANDREA (O.C.)

Get up! Get up! Matt’s dead! Greg! Wake up!

GREG

(Slowly waking.) What are you talking about?

Andrea turns on the bedroom TV. Live local news broadcasts the scene outside of Matt Kisleyak’s home in Malibu.

CUT TO:

CLOSE ON: POLICE TAPE, BODIES BEING ROLLED TO THE CORONER’S VAN.

The CAPTION READS: “MATT KISLEYAK, STAR OF ‘MED LIVES’,

BELOVED HOLLYWOOD STAR, WIFE AND SON DEAD: SUSPECTED CARBON MONOXIDE POISONING...”

GREG No! What?

CUT TO:

EXT. HOLLYWOOD SOUNDSTAGE/SECURITY GUARD GATE-1 HOUR LATER

Flowers and memorials nearly block the entrance.

GREG

I have to see Ken Goldish.

GUARD

No one on the lot today without approval. Given what’s happened I cannot do anything. Have Ken call me. Turn around and go park on the street.

Stressed, Greg scrapes his BMW on a concrete safety stanchion.

CUT TO:

INT. KEN GOLDISH’S OFFICE-15 MINUTES LATER

Ken is on the phone with Greg, while multitasking. A MEMORIAL VIDEO is playing on the production monitor in his office. People on-set and walking by the open door weep.

KEN

(Puts Greg on

SPEAKERPHONE)

The show is obviously going to shutdown until the writers find an appropriate way through Matt’s death. Listen, we can’t have people talking to the press about what Matt did.

GREG (O.S.) What did he do?

KEN

His son, Liam’s cancer. You know, you saw his MRI.

GREG (O.S.)

He said it was a friend of his.

KEN

No. Liam collapsed at college. He’s been living at Children’s Hospital on and on for months. I don’t know if Lily chose to die but everyone was drugged and he closed the windows and messed with his central air...No more pain.

GREG (O.S.)

Can I call you when the show is back up? I think I have an angle on

AI-

KEN

Seriously not the time. I gotta go. I’ll let you know about the memorial if you want, okay? Bye.

CUT TO:

INT. GREG'S HOME OFFICE AGAIN-ONE HOUR LATER

Greg saunters through his open office door head-down.

The sound of a GARDENER BLOWING LEAVES IN THE FRONT YARD IS A CONSTANT.

ANDREA (O.S.)

(Popped like a cork.) What did you do?

Andrea is sitting at his DESK; it’s littered with the golf clothing TAGS, the autographed script, she’s been rummaging.

GREG My desk..

ANDREA

I answered your office line.

Children’s Hospital Charity Committee something or other called to say they can’t refund your fortythousand dollar donation but they’d be happy to provide you with a tax form so you can declare it. Were you trying to impress Matt Kisleyak?

GREG Be quiet.

She throws the price tags at his face.

She sits at his desk and lifts the office phone receiver.

ANDREA

I’m calling that charity and telling them you can’t be held responsible because you have a drug problem and I will sue them if they don’t return the forty-thousand.

She dials the Charity’s number, taking it from the tax form.

GREG

I’m warning you-

ANDREA

Now you’re a man, right?

Greg walks towards her, automatically, instinctively. She backs-up to get space between them.

Now they’re both behind his desk.

GREG

We’re are so done.

In one freakish rage he grabs his office chair and swings it at Andrea. The wheeled feet break her jaw as she drops to the floor.

Greg tosses the chair aside blood from the wheels casts off all over the MED LIVES SCRIPT. He stands over the whimpering disoriented Andrea and begins to stomp her into a near coma.

He continues as we FADE OUT.

CUT TO:

EXT. HOLLYWOOD-45 MINUTES LATER

Greg is walking up HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD. Another sunny day.

Surrounded by TOURISTS, WORKERS, WALKERS, SHOPPERS, and CHARACTER ACTORS hawking for tips dressed as DEAD HOLLYWOOD. They appear to be moving on a giant treadmill.

MOMENTS LATER-

The WALK OF FAME STARS peel away under Greg’s feet until he see’s Matt Kisleyak’s STAR with a growing memorial. He looks down at the bloodied LIVES MED SCRIPT UNDER HIS ARM.

Greg enter a crosswalk against traffic.

FLASHBACK TO:

THE ABR CONFERENCE-BEN HAMMIL’S SPEECH ABOUT PERCEPTION.

SEE: IMAGE OF THE BRICK WALL WITH A CIGAR PINCHED IN-BETWEEN TWO-BRICKS.

BEN

At the top we see a garden variety red brick. All of it’s -

RETURN TO PRESENT-HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD HEARING HAMILL’S VOICE.

BEN (V.O.)

-flaws, pores, grit and different colors up close. So many facets and defects. Below that image we see a brick wall. However once I tell you that there’s a cigar stuck in that wall? That’s pretty much all you see now. Humans make a choice, AI just sees everything...

CLOSE ON: TRAFFIC LIGHT ‘DON’T WALK’ SIGNAL.

Greg quickly turns around and RUNS into traffic.

SOUND OF: SCREECHING TIRES. A SICK BANG AND CRACKING THUD. CARS REAR-ENDING. HORNS.

CUT TO:

CLOSE ON: THE AUTOGRAPHED ‘MED LIVES’ SCRIPT. BLOODIER, ON THE SIDEWALK.

A MAN, 29, GRABS IT AMIDST THE CHAOS BEHIND HIM.

MAN

(Into his cel phone.) Bae? I have some good news and better news. You know how Matt Kisleyak croaked today? I’m the proud owner of an script autographed by him. YES. The better news is it’s covered in blood.

FADE OUT.

3 notes · View notes

thatfanficstuff · 5 years

Text

Shattered - Gabriel

Pairing: Gabriel x Reader

Warnings: grief over major character death, flangst (it ends happy. Trust me.)

A/N: This is for @girl-next-door-writes Disney Birthday Challenge. This is horribly late because she kindly gave me an extension when my world went to pot. The prompt is in bold below. Sorry it took me so long but I hope you like it!

***

You wandered through the bunker in the dark, well familiar with its layout by now. You didn’t sleep much lately, instead spending hours roaming through the rooms in your home. Occasionally you’d cook or read. Sometimes you even played one of Dean’s video games. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to sleep. Hell, you longed for it. But in the allusive moments you managed to catch here and there were the nightmares. Horrible scenes where Gabriel screamed for you to help him as he reached toward you and you were always too late to save him.

Sometimes the two of you were surrounded by blood—covered with it, soaked in it.

A few times there had been an ocean roiling in a storm, the massive waves sucking him down into the endless black while they pushed you further and further away from him.

Once there’d been an unrelenting sun shining on an expanse of empty desert while Gabriel dug fingers into ever shifting sand as he tried to drag himself to water that was always just beyond his reach. Every time you tried to close the distance between you, you sank further into the soft ground.

It was the other dreams that you dreaded the most. The ones that you wished to avoid at all costs. The dreams that left you longing and aching for your angel. Those were the ones that brought into harsh relief just how empty your arms and your bed were. You would weep hopelessly from the reminder of what you’d lost and your already broken heart would shatter just a little bit more.

Images of you and Gabriel curled up together in a large hammock on the beach while it gently rocked in the ocean breeze, laughter dancing in the air around you while you basked in each other’s love.

The two of you getting married under a starry sky in a clearing lit by torches. His wings on full display as he smiled that cheeky grin you so loved.

Gabe holding a giggling baby with his hair and your eyes while you looked on full of love for them both. And he’d turn to look at you and give you a true, genuine smile—that sincere one you didn’t see nearly enough.

Those were the nights you could never get back to sleep, the wound too raw and abrasive. You knew you should try to get past it, to move on, but you couldn’t. Gabe was it for you. Your soulmate. How could you possibly get over losing everything?

The boys woke to the smell of coffee and bacon and shuffled their way to the kitchen.

“Hey,” Sam said in a soft voice as you passed him a mug of coffee. He kissed you on the cheek. “Thanks.”

Dean wasn’t nearly as amiable as his brother until he had his morning caffeine. He grunted a hello and sat at the table, giving you a small nod when you placed his mug in front of him.

He was halfway through his second cup and nearly done with his food before he spoke. “Still not sleeping?”

You glanced to him in surprise. His mouth was twisted as if he was biting back something he desperately wished to say. “I sleep,” you said defensively. If it was only an hour at a time you snatched here and there, well that was none of his business.

“No, you don’t.” He leaned back in his chair and the corners of his mouth pulled down in a sharp frown. “You think I can’t hear you when you wake up in the middle of the night? That I don’t realize you pad around here at all hours like a damn ghost? This has got to stop.”

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was tight, a warning in it as his gaze darted between the two of you.

“No, Sam. We’ve let her grieve. And for a lot longer than we should have. I’m tired of her moping around all the damn time.”

You physically jerked from the pain caused by his words. “I’m sorry my mourning is an inconvenience for you, Winchester. I’ll make sure not to bother you any further.” Your voice cracked on the last words. The Winchesters might not be blood, but they were your family. The thought that they may think of you as no more than a burden made your heart ache that much more.

“He didn’t mean it like that, Y/N,” Sam said in an attempt to placate you.

Your gaze darted to him. “Then how did he mean it, Sam?”

Dean leaned forward with a sigh. “I meant that it’s breaking my heart to see you like this, sweetheart. You’ve barely smiled in months and you haven’t laughed at all. You were always the bright spot in all this mess. I hate this, Y/N. Gabriel would hate this.”

Tears instantly flooded your eyes. “Don’t. Don’t say his name. Don’t talk about him like you have the slightest inkling what he would want.” The tears overflowed to spill down your cheeks.

“Don’t be like this. I think we knew him well enough to be able to say that the last thing he would want is for you to be miserable,” Sam said.

Your gaze shifted between the two brothers. “You don’t understand. I’m shattered and I don’t think I can be fixed.”

***

Late that night you laid on your bed, hands behind your head as you stared at the ceiling. Your eyes burned with fatigue but you still had no desire to go to sleep. You’d been holed up in your room ever since your discussion with the brothers that morning. They’d both tried to get you to come out at various points throughout the day, but you’d ignored them.

Dean was right. It was time for you to try to put this behind you, but how did you even begin to do that? A fluttering of wings interrupted your thoughts and you groaned. The brothers had sent their errand boy. “I’m not in the mood, Cas. Come back tomorrow.”

“Not Cassie. Sorry, sweetheart.”

Your entire body froze at the sound of the voice that had haunted your sleeping and waking hours for the past months. When you closed your eyes, hot tears leaked from the corners. “He’s not here. It’s not real.” You’d had this dream before, fallen asleep in mid-thought and conjured him up. That moment before you realized he wasn’t real had been your happiest moment since his death. The moment after? Almost worse than losing him the first time.

Fingers brushed along your skin as they traced the lines of your face. You took a shuddering breath knowing if you opened your eyes and he wasn’t there, it just might kill you this time.

“Look at me.” It wasn’t a question or a request. It was a plea, a tone you rarely heard from the confident angel.

You held your breath as you opened your eyes. When your gaze met whiskey eyes and a lopsided grin, that breath came out in a ragged sigh. Tears flowed freely now and you pressed your hand against your mouth in an attempt to keep the sobs at bay. “Gabriel.”

The name felt foreign on your tongue. You hadn’t allowed yourself to say it since he died. Realization slammed into you. Not dead. Gone. He’d left you and let you think it was forever. You pulled away from him and sat up against the wall. His smile fell at the loss of contact.

“Please don’t cry, sugar. My heart can’t take it. I’m back. Everything is going to be all right now.” He placed one knee on the bed to close the new distance between you but moved back when you shook your head.

You pressed a fist against your chest hoping to ease the ache you felt there. “You left me.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” His eyes searched your face.

“I thought you were dead.”

“I was for a bit.” He shrugged one shoulder and grimaced in pain.

You were on your knees in an instant and moving across the bed, your hurt and anger melting away at the thought he might be injured. Your hands hovered over him as you weren’t certain where to touch. “Are you hurt?”

He gripped your wrist and moved your hand to rest on his chest. His fingers remained wrapped around your arm and his thumb slid along your skin. “I’m okay, Y/N. Just still healing.”

Your eyebrows shot up as you frowned. “Still?”

He moved both hands to cup your face and looked into your eyes. “Even miracles take a little time. I would have been here the moment I was resurrected if I could have been. I’ve been waiting to get healthy enough to come to you. As it was, I had to call in a favor to get here today.”

“Did you hurt yourself coming here?” Panic laced your voice. “Why didn’t you wait?”

He chuckled. “After Dean spent about fifteen minutes cussing me out via prayer, I decided it was perhaps best if I didn’t make you wait any longer. Besides, I missed you. I missed you so much.”

You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his. And as your angel wrapped his arms around you to hold you tight, you felt your heart piece itself back together. Maybe you could be fixed after all.

****

All the things: @swanky-batman @rissyrapp20 @startrekkingaroundasgard @spooookyscary @taylordrunkonwhiskey @thewolf-and-thesheep @laneygthememequeen @collette04 @shatteredabby

#Emma's Disney birthday challenge #Gabriel x reader #Gabriel imagine #supernatural imagine #supernatural

188 notes · View notes

janeofcakes · 5 years

Text

Chapter 15

** This is a long one! But a great one. Nuff said. Enjoy. **

John falls back in his chair as if he’d been struck. His expression displays the pure shock that courses through every inch of his body. He can’t think, has no idea how to think and can’t make himself speak. There are no words to say anyway. His mind has completely shut down, the only words are Sherlock’s echoing hatefully in his brain.

“You hated me,” Sherlock continues in a panicked tone. “You kept me from you daughter and refused to see me. I forced you to help me with one last case and you despised me for it. You saved my life and then Eurus.”

Somewhere in the middle of Sherlock’s confession, John’s eyes closed and his face fell into his hands. Another pane of glass shatters and John can see it - Mary’s death. She threw herself in front of Sherlock. She saved his life after having nearly taken it. She gave him back to John. She knew. John loved him and she knew it. But John was so angry and confused and he blamed Sherlock. He tortured Sherlock.

John gasps, his breath catching in his throat loudly and he struggles to breathe for just a moment. His eyes pop open and stare at Sherlock in horror as another pane shatters.

“The morgue,” he rasps. “I beat you, kicked you. I could’ve killed you.”

“I deserved it.”

“No, you didn’t. No, you fucking didn’t,” John nearly shouts. “No one deserves that. I was stupid, Sherlock. Incredibly stupid.”

“I’d killed your wife!” Sherlock cuts in.

“No, you didn’t!” John cries, dropping to his knees in front of the detective. He rests his hands on Sherlock’s knees and leans into his space. “I remember, Sherlock, I remember now. She saved you because she knew I’d be lost without you. She knew I couldn’t lose you again. It wasn’t your fault and I shouldn’t have blamed you. I was just so...lost. I was a fool. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

Tears fall down the detective’s cheeks and he is shaking his head. For a moment, John is afraid he’s going to argue the point, but then he sees Sherlock’s face. Really sees it. Relief, joy, sadness, forgiveness. He swoops John into his arms in a crushing embrace and weeps on his shoulder. John envelopes his friend and holds tightly.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he mumbles, meaning it more than ever in his life.

“I thought you’d hate me,” the detective breaks the silence after what seems like a very long time. “You hated me so much then.”

“No.”

“You kept her away from me and then I adopted her right under your nose. Gave her my name and your old room. Everything in defiance of your wishes.”

“No,” John doesn’t know whether to pull back to look him in the eye or just keep holding on. He finally elects the former and meets the detective’s blurry gaze. “You did everything right. I can’t think of anyone else I would rather have raising Rosie. You did it to honor our friendship, not destroy it. And you brought her every day to see me. You told her all about me. She probably knows more about me than I do.”

John smiles fondly and squeezes his hands where they rest on Sherlock’s hips. The detective sniffles, his red-rimmed eyes wet, but his features are more relaxed than they have been in days. John knows he shouldn’t say a word, shouldn’t spoil the peace between them, but he cannot pass up the opportunity. Sherlock could whisk out the door and bury himself in cases again. John slides his fingers from Sherlock’s body and bites his lip. The detective takes the hint and slowly begins moving his hands off John’s shoulders and down his arms.

“Why do you call her Watson?” John stares at his flatmate in surprise at the words that sprang from his mouth. It is not what he meant to say at all and now that he has, he isn’t sure what to do. Sherlock looks just as taken aback.

“I started it straight away,” the man begins before John can apologize. “From her first night in the flat. She was only a few months old and did not resemble either of you yet. It wasn’t until later that she had your hair and smile, your eyes. We visited you every day, but when we were at home and elsewhere I wanted…”

Sherlock stops and swallows hard, as though struggling with words he has kept inside for so long. He fixes John with soft eyes and squeezes his biceps just above the elbow.

“I...I missed you so much and wanted you with me always,” he breathes. “Each time I said Watson I felt closer to you. Almost like a part of you was there.”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice is light as a breeze. His hands are on his flatmate’s hips again and he leans forward to bring his lips to Sherlock’s, but the detective lurches back and stands quickly. John falls back on his ass, his back thumping against the chair. He stares up at Sherlock, astonished as the tall man declares something about tea and bounds to the kitchen.

After he has disappeared, John leans into the chair and hugs his knees to his chest. He rests his chin on the hard knot of his left kneecap and lets his eyes drift around the room. The animal skull with headphones, the beloved violin on the desk, the human skull over the fireplace, and then he sees it. He frees his legs and stands to approach the unfamiliar object. It is a 5x7 photograph in a plain black frame. In it, are himself and Sherlock standing close together. He is holding an infant Rosie in his arms and one of Sherlock’s arms is draped around his back, his fingers visible on John’s far shoulder. It must have been taken before Mary died. Perhaps she was behind the camera.

John takes it from the mantle and holds it in both hands. His eyes take in every detail of their body language and smiles. A very calm happiness settles over him and he brushes Sherlock’s face on the photo with his thumb. They look like a family. A proper family. A smile ghosts over John’s lips and his mind clears of all else. That’s the family he wants. It’s what he has always wanted. He may not remember his entire life with Sherlock, but he has remembered enough. He knows how he felt at the wedding. Like the wrong person was walking down the aisle. Like he was making a mistake. But how could he stop it right there? Then Sherlock deduced the baby. John’s first surge of excitement was for himself and Sherlock. His grin had faded the second he felt Mary squeezing his fingers in hers and his vision of the future went from tall curls to short blonde. He’d seen the same look in Sherlock’s eyes and then he disappeared, left the wedding and god, John had wanted to go after him. He had wanted to stand outside the sitting room window of 221B on the pavement below, doing one of those stupid things they do on bloody awful rom coms. Hold his mobile over his head playing “In Your Eyes” at full volume or hold up enormous notes for Sherlock to read. “I know we can never be, but to me, you are perfect.”

Perfect.

Was there ever anyone more perfect for him than Sherlock?

John closes his eyes abruptly, struck by a sudden wave of memory that pulls him under. A pane of glass shatters and he sees himself in a lab at Bart’s. The man from the park, Mike Stamford stands close by as John passes his mobile to Sherlock. For just the smallest of seconds, their fingers brush and electricity tingles through John’s whole body. And those words, smooth and silky in that beautiful baritone that has secretly tickled John’s spine ever since.

Afghanistan or Iraq?

“John?”

John’s eyes snap open and he turns to see Sherlock standing not four feet away. When had he come back in? He is looking at the photo in John’s hands.

“Oh. Um,” John fumbles for words and replaces it on the mantle. “Sorry. It caught my eye.”

The detective wears a soft smile and has a far away look in his eyes as he studies the photo.

“It was taken shortly after she was born. We were so happy,” he mutters wistfully. John watches him, unable to tear his eyes away from that face and those eyes. This man is his life, the very air he breathes, and it becomes more obvious every moment John spends with him.

Sherlock senses John’s eyes on him and clears his throat. He straightens his spine and the whole atmosphere of the room changes. Sherlock addresses him in a businesslike tone and heads for the kitchen.

“Come, John, the tea is getting cold.”

***

“Can you come to the mini-dance marathon on Friday, Daddy?” Rosie asks at dinner that evening.

“Erm. The what?” John looks up from slicing a piece of chicken. She had just told a story about she and her friends playing at recess, so it seemed a sudden change in topic. Granted, she was prone to doing that, but John was still getting used to it.

“The mini-dance marathon. I knew Papa wouldn’t tell you, but you finished those exercise visits with your doctor and can walk just fine now,” she grins at him, cup in both hands, and milk mustache on her upper lip. “You can sit down if you get tired.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I could.”

“You could dance with Papa for the slow songs!” she squeals.

“Your father may already have plans, Watson,” Sherlock pipes up suddenly, a fork full of potatoes hovering between his plate and mouth. “Perhaps with Lestrade.”

“Ha, ha, nope,” she snickers into her cup. “Uncle Greg and Aunt Molly are going to a fancy restaurant on Friday.”

“You’re going to be there?” John asks in a light tone.

“Every child must be accompanied by an adult,” he shrugs. “You’re under no obligation.”

“No, I’d love to go,” John interjects with a smile on his lips. “I’d like to see you dance. Wouldn’t you, Rosie?”

“I have!” she says proudly, putting her cup on the table and licking off her mustache.

“You have?” he leans in conspiratorially, glancing at his flatmate mischievously. “Is he any good?”

“Mmm. He’s okay.”

They grin at one another and laugh quietly. Sherlock cocks a brow and raises the fork to his mouth.

“Wait until Friday,” he grumbles almost petulantly. “We’ll see who can dance, John Watson.”

“I look forward to it,” he flashes Sherlock a brilliant smile.

***

“Good night, my angel, time to close your eyes,” John sings quietly as Rosie blinks slowly, nearly asleep already. “And save these questions for another day. I think I know what you’ve been asking me. I think you know what I’ve been trying to say.”

He hears the click of movement, bones cracking in an ankle or knee from the door. He doesn’t want to turn away from Rosie and give her any reason to employ delay tactics. Instead he continues the song. He knows Sherlock is listening. He doesn’t care. He’s done the same thing to get a sense of their routine - how many chapters, who reads to whom, whether or not songs are sung - but mostly just to see Sherlock in his element. He may be a magnificent detective, but he is an excellent father. John has never seen anything like it. Not that he knew much about fatherhood at this point, but surely Sherlock Holmes exemplifies the perfect one.

He and Rosie are so much alike and communicate on a level all their own. They do experiments together, identify countries and cities on maps, build together and keep notes on it all. There are notebooks upon notebooks of observations and test results in the bottom right drawer of Sherlock’s desk. John is sure there are more stored somewhere else too. They sometimes read things on Sherlock’s laptop together. Rosie whispers questions and Sherlock answers just as quietly. John loves to watch them read and play and cook together, even if he sometimes feels an intruder in their lives.

“I promised I would never leave you. Then you should always know wherever you may go, no matter where you are, I never will be far away,” John lets his voice fade. He snugs the covers up under her chin and gently smooths back her hair. His lips curl up and he leans to kiss Rosie’s forehead.. He tip-toes out of the room and closes the door without a sound.

John pads down the stairs and finds Sherlock in the sitting room at his desk. The fireplace and the laptop screen are all that lights the room. He smiles in the detective’s direction and heads for the kitchen.

“It’s all washed up and put away,” he says. John stops to focus his gaze upon the man.

“Thank you.”

“You bathed Watson and put her to bed,” he says while rolling his shoulders, not looking at him. The doctor lingers.

“I believe I’ll have a drink,” John tells him casually. ”Would you like one? Wine maybe?”

Sherlock meets his eyes with an intense gaze and parts his lips, but pauses before answering. John can feel the heat of his stare and has the sudden urge to rush to the desk and sit in his lap.

“Red, please.”

“Of course.”

John walks into the kitchen. He opens the cupboard and removes two wine glasses. Placing them on the counter, he goes for the wine and corkscrew. He tries to clear his mind as he twists the handle and fails. It could be so perfect, the three of them, just like in the photograph. John is certain Sherlock shares his feelings, but they aren’t a couple. Sherlock said so himself. And who is this other person? Is it possible for him to love them both? Will Sherlock ever admit how he feels about John? Or maybe the proper phrasing of that question is how he felt about John.

John shakes the thought from his mind and concentrates on opening the wine. He pours and carries the glasses into the dimly lit sitting room. He saunters over to Sherlock’s desk and places one glass next to the laptop. The man’s eyes slide up to meet John’s. The gaze is wary but intrigued. The corner of John’s mouth curls. Sherlock raises a brow. John slips by and sits in his chair, leaning back comfortably. He sips from his own glass and smiles lazily at his flatmate.

Sherlock stands, gracefully picking up the glass and walking to his own chair directly across from the doctor’s. He drinks, not moving his eyes from John’s. His lips quirk up and he looks at the glass.

“This is delightful,” he remarks.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” John snorts. “I do remember a thing or two about wine, you idiot. And what it pairs with.”

“Mm. Yes, this would have gone very well with dinner,” he pouts his gorgeous lips and licks them slowly to taste the wine more thoroughly, ignorant of the effect it has on John because if he knows, he is a monster. John can physically feel his knees turn to jelly and is extremely happy he is safe in his chair and not still standing by the desk. He takes a rather sizable swallow and turns his head to watch the fire.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock’s voice is near silence. When John shifts his gaze, the detective wears a most sincere expression. “These memories are...difficult. I wish I could provide more comfort instead of only painful answers.”

“S’not your fault,” John slurs. “I mean that, Sherlock. Especially about Mary. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did back then.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“But I do,” John cuts him off. He slides to the edge of the cushion and rests his hand on Sherlock’s knee. The detective’s intense stare returned the moment John’s fingers touched the soft fabric of his trousers, but it has a different quality and emotion behind it this time. “I hate that you had to live for the last five years with that in your mind. Thinking I despised you. I’m sorry.”

“Watson kept them at bay,” Sherlock replies in a choked voice. John smiles fondly now. He doesn’t move his hand.

“She is wonderful,” he sighs. “It’s always been the two of you against the world, hasn’t it? You’re like two peas in a pod.”

“The same has been said about you and I,” the man answers and sips the wine. He seems relaxed, but his eyes dip to John’s hand on his knee for just a fraction of a second. It’s all John needs to see to know his friend is actually ill at ease and, recalling what happened last time, he takes his hand away. He leans back into his chair again and takes a short pull.

“Tell me about a case,” he says. “What’s Greg had you working on?”

Sherlock fills him in on the double murder he closed most recently and describes a few minor cases as well. By the time he has finished, both men are in danger of dozing off right there in the sitting room. The detective yawns before he can begin another story and his doctor waves him off.

“We should go to sleep. Rosie has school tomorrow.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.”

John rises, picking up both of their wine glasses from the elaborate area rug. He goes to the kitchen, rinses and leaves them in the sink. Instead of leaving via the other door and heading down the hall to their bedroom, John goes back to the door he entered. He leans against the frame and watches Sherlock, who has moved back to the desk and is staring at his laptop again. The light of the screen illuminates his angular face with an eerie blue glow, the fire in mere embers now.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” John asks. Sherlock raises a tired gaze to look at his friend.

“John,” he wets his lips and rubs his hands over his face, “you know about the wedding. You remember it. I told you all that happened after. You know we were never a couple.”

I know. I love you.

“I also know that you haven’t been sleeping,” John tells him instead, “and the easiest way to make sure you do is having you next to me.”

The detective stares and finally opens his mouth to protest.

“Sherlock, you’re exhausted. Come with me please. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

He closes his eyes for a long moment and nods when he opens them. Standing, he closes the laptop and follows John to the bedroom. They take turns in the loo and settle in next to one another, lights off and both staring at the ceiling in the darkness.

“Sherlock,” John whispers into the silence, “I know you’ve been avoiding me.”

“John…”

“Please don’t. You don’t have to. No matter what I remember, I will never turn you away again,” he pauses and has to add the other reason Sherlock needs to be around the flat. The main reason. “And Rosie needs you. She misses you.”

He hears his friend swallow and then sigh. Sherlock shifts in the bed and runs his hand through his curls. John turns his head toward the man and can just make out his features.

“Yes, I know. I miss her too. I’ll stop taking so many cases. ”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

John can see him turn his head and look at him. He also sees Sherlock smile.

“You’re welcome, John.”

***

The morning goes smoothly, as usual. It took no time at all to incorporate John once he was finished with physical therapy and “up to snuff”, as Rosie puts it. Sherlock takes her to school on his own, having an appointment with Greg to complete the police report for a recent case. Tedious, both he and Rosie declared with smiles on their faces. John bids them goodbye and does the washing up. He can’t help but think about the dance marathon coming up. Even without all of his memories, he is quite certain he has never seen Sherlock Holmes dance. He grins at the picture it paints while drying the dishes and putting them away.

When finished, John walks into the sitting room with a cup of tea and the plan to read a book. He stops in front of his chair, about to sit when he sees Sherlock’s laptop is open and on. It still displays the website the detective was reading last night, clearly a blog. John frowns. Sherlock doesn’t seem like the blog sort. Rather more like one who would consider it a waste of time, really, and that’s what makes it absolutely essential that John read this blog.

John leaves the book on his chair and goes to the desk. The site’s title has him stumbling into the desk chair instantly, his cup clinking against the table and nearly spilling. The Personal Blog of John H. Watson.

“John Watson is no longer updating this blog,” he reads aloud. The paragraph goes on to refer visitors to Sherlock’s consulting detective website. John glances through the blog titles with interest - The Mayfly Man, The Hollow Client, A Study in Pink, The Blind Banker - nearly all past cases Sherlock has told him about. Then the words ‘About Me’ catch his attention. “ ‘I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan.’ Afghanistan?”

Afghanistan or Iraq?

“Oh, shit,” John breathes. That’s what they had told him. He had been invalided out of the army while touring in Afghanistan, though he still had no memory of it or any of his time in the service.

John clicks on The Mayfly Man and begins reading. He stops almost immediately and blinks in disbelief. He goes back to the beginning and reads aloud.

“ ‘We’d just returned from a quiet, civilized evening in the pub when our latest client arrived at Baker Street.’ We?”

John continues until he reaches the end of the case. He goes back to the homepage and reads case after case. He doesn’t eat when lunchtime comes and goes. He is completely enveloped in the website. He reads the tale of Sholto and his wedding to Mary, and the Hound of the Baskerville. By the time Sherlock walks in the flat’s door, John has read all but two cases. He stares at the screen unseeing, trying to remember even one of these cases. He closes his eyes and can see blackened panes of glass labeled now with case titles. He stands before them in his mind’s eye, willing rocks to appear in his hands so he can hurl them at the glass. But his hands remain empty.

“John?” the sound of Sherlock’s voice coaxes his eyes open and he stares at the detective. Sherlock looks back hesitantly, not sure what to make of his flatmate’s tense, troubled, pained expression. Suddenly he remembers what he had been reading the night before and then again this morning. Rosie had pulled him away from the laptop before he could close it. Sherlock fixes him with wide eyes. “John.”

“It’s me,” the doctor blurts. “It was me. The cases you told me about, I was your partner.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies cautiously.

“And then I wrote a fucking blog about it.”

“You did,” the detective nods once slowly, trying to ascertain John’s reaction. He is certainly in disbelief, but is he also angry? Will he be shouting soon?

“I just, I can’t believe it. What…” John’s face appears to be all astonishment.

“You read all of the cases?”

“All, but one.”

“Do you remember any of them?”

“No,” John presses his lips together and lets out a disappointed sigh. “Nothing. Why can’t I, Sherlock? It was my life for years. You were my life. You still are. There are so many things I should know about you. I should know everything! Why can’t I remember?”

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock steps closer, wanting to calm him and wondering how to do it. “You have only been home a few weeks and only just learned of this. Give it time.”

“Damn it, Sherlock! I remember things about Molly and Greg. Why not you? How much time can it possibly take when it’s someone so important?” he snaps, his anger and frustration reaching the boiling point. He is about to start shouting when he feels a strong hand on his shoulder. John looks up at the detective. He looks more determined than John has ever seen him, and he is close. He is so close now. John can feel the heat rising from his body like a fire. He wants to touch him, create more points of contact between them.

If Sherlock can tell what is in John’s mind, he doesn’t let on. He gives him a stern but encouraging look and squeezes the shoulder beneath his fingers.

“We have all the time in the world, John,” he rumbles in that low, sexy baritone. John’s knees are as weak as they were the night before. “And we can make new memories in the meantime. We already are with Rosie. And together.”

“I know and I’m glad for that. I am,” John’s eyes slide to the laptop again. “I just wish I knew more about you. About our past.”

“It will come, John. It will all come back to you,” Sherlock smiles warmly.

“When did you get to be so patient?” he jokes. “Am I in another dimension?”

Neither able to resist, they both descend into giggles. Sherlock breaks into a loud belly laugh when John gives a little snort with his chuckles and he is struck silent. It is the most glorious, perfect sound John has ever heard. He wants to hear it again and again, for the rest of his life.

“Come with me,” Sherlock’s voice beckons as he quiets to soft chuckles.

“What?” John blinks in confusion. “Where?”

“On a case. Come with me on twelve cases. Your knowledge of medicine is vast. You could advise me like you did then.”

John’s eyes sparkle. Sherlock looks so excited and John is thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. He wants to say yes. Oh god, yes. He would love nothing more. The chance to use his skills - he is not ready to try working at a surgery again, not yet - the potential for danger - he isn’t sure why that is so appealing - spending even more time with Sherlock - god, Sherlock. Every time John lays eyes on him, he wants to touch him. Maybe more panes of glass will break if he spends more time with Sherlock doing what they used to, retracing old steps.

“I’d love to,” he replies with a grin.

“Perfect,” Sherlock’s lips quirk up. God, John wants to kiss them. “I will inform you when I have a suitable case.”

“Great. That means a lot to me, Sherlock. Thanks.”

Sherlock lifts his hand from John’s shoulder and disappears into the kitchen. John’s skin, even with his jumper on, feels the chill of not having Sherlock touch him. He wants the warmth of his flatmate’s body next to him again. John sighs and leans back comfortably in the desk chair with a wistful expression.

“John?”

He bolts upright in the chair when Sherlock’s head pops into view from the kitchen doorway.

“You haven’t had lunch?”

“Uh, no,” John shifts his eyes away from his flatmate and back again, mildly confused. How would Sherlock have even noticed that? “No, I haven’t.”

Sherlock sashays into the room, positively preening. He stands in front of the desk, pushes the laptop closed, and allows his doctor to admire the view. At least, that’s what it seems like to John.

“Let’s go to lunch,” his voice has a delightfully excited tone. “I know a cafe reasonably close to the school. We could go slowly, take our time, and pick up Watson after we’re finished. It used to be your favorite spot for lunch.”

“As if I needed more convincing,” the doctor rises with a grin. “How fast can we get there? I’m starving.”

***

When the trio arrives in the school gymnasium that evening, music is already blaring and kids of all ages are moving about the room recklessly. Rosie tugs off her coat and all but throws it at Sherlock while she scans the mass of people for her friends. John is about to comment when an excited squeal cuts through the music and a tall red-haired girl rushes up to Rosie, who responds in a similar way. They throw their arms around one another in a tight hug.

“He’s here! He’s here!” Rosie shouts. She turns toward her fathers, hand grasping her friend’s. “This is my daddy, John Watson.”

“Hi!” the girl thrusts her other hand at John and he shakes it while the big brown eyes study his face thoroughly.

“Hello,” he answers. Just when he is beginning to wonder if Sherlock has taught all of Rosie’s friends about the power of observation the girl looks back at Rosie.

“His are really just like yours!”

“I know right!”

“Watson, are you going to introduce your friend?” Sherlock prompts, folding her coat over his arm.

“Oh! Oh, sorry, Daddy. This is my friend, Annika. She’s in Mrs. Thompson’s kindergarten class. We play at recess and after school.”

“It’s so nice to meet you, Annika,” John smiles, leaning toward the two girls to better hear as the music gets louder. “What a pretty name.”

“Thanks. It’s Swedish.”

“It’s lovely.”

Annika grins unabashedly and starts jumping in place as a tall blonde woman approaches.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” she cries, no less excited than Rosie and John is sure they will both be hanging from the basketball hoops in a minute or two. “Look, it’s Rosie’s daddy!”

“Ah, so this is the framed John Watson,” she greets him warmly. “Rachel Reynolds. I’ve heard so much about you. From Rosie.”

She adds the mention of Rosie to ward away the uncertain expression on John’s face and they both laugh as she shakes his hand. Her’s linger when John’s fingers let go and he immediately feels wary. To say Rachel is attractive would be an understatement. If she and Annika are truly of Swedish ancestry, this woman fits the bill with long blonde hair and blue eyes.

“Have you seen Jack and Eliza?” Rosie suddenly yells over the din. John slips his hand out of Rachel’s while she is distracted by the girls.

“They’re over there,” Annika points. “I came over to get you.”

“Papa?” she looks to Sherlock expectantly.

“Yes, Watson, you can go.”

“Yay!” the two girls cheer and run away.

“John,” Rachel is suddenly at his side, nudging her nose into his personal space. The music is loud, but she needn’t be so close for him to hear her. “May I call you John?”

“Of course,” he keeps his tone even in spite of his growing discomfort. She is far too close for his liking and not just because Sherlock is standing on his other side.

“I’m so glad Annika has a friend like Rosie. They have so much in common.”

“They do seem to be very good friends,” John tilts his head away to look her in the eye. Christ, the woman is as tall as Sherlock. Her hand is suddenly on his arm and he resists the urge to pull away.

“I’d love for them to spend more time together,” a sly smile spreads over her lips. “A playdate in the park perhaps? I have a blanket you and I could sit on. We could...chat. Become better acquainted.”

Rachel whispered the last few words into John’s ear under the guise of the music being too loud. Her breath is hot on his neck and he does step away from her this time. Frankly, he is surprised he doesn’t run himself right into Sherlock. That is, until he turns to see the detective is gone. John glances around almost frantically and catches sight of him a few yards away, leaning back against the wall with a petulant grimace on his face. John looks back at Rachel and gestures in his flatmate’s direction.

“Sorry,” he gives her an apologetic smile. “Excuse me.”

He is against the wall next to Sherlock in a second, breathing a sigh of relief. The detective keeps his eyes on the dancing mob, no doubt scanning for Rosie.

“My god,” John says under his breath, leaning a bit closer to Sherlock. “I can feel her eyes still on me all the way over here.”

“Yes, Miss Reynolds doesn’t worry over subtly,” Sherlock remarks, still not looking at John. “She is both a good mother and has a healthy appetite.”

“What?”

“Sex, John,” Sherlock finally turns his head slowly and meets the doctor’s confused gaze with one of steel grey. “An appetite for sex. And her methods of flirtation are very effective.”

“Oh,” John is speechless. Sherlock searches his flatmate’s shocked countenance and turns his head away, out at the dancing throng of children.

“At least she has good taste,” he shrugs. “You have her number. I suppose you’ll want to go on the playdate.”

“No,” John says simply. “I don’t have her number and I don’t want it.”

This declaration takes the detective by surprise, more than anything has in some time. Not since the first time Rosie blew out her diaper, in fact. Messy business, that. He swivels his neck quickly and stares at John, the very picture of consternation. John, on the other hand, is very irritated. Why the fuck would he want this woman, or any woman’s number? Has the bloody brilliant man not deduced his feelings or is he denying them? In spite of the anger and frustration threatening to bubble to the surface, John chooses to ignore Sherlock’s ignorance for for the moment. This is Rosie’s event and is meant to be fun. The last thing he wants to do is disrupt it with an argument.

“Neither here nor there,” he forces a smile, pushing back his ire and affecting a casual posture. “I can’t believe she’d choose me over you anyway.”

“She’s already tried.”

“Of course she has,” John snickers, casting a glance around the large room. “I bet they have all tried. You could have any single woman in this room.”

“I don’t want any of them.”

“Neither do I,” John’s voice is steady and sure.

Sherlock’s head snaps to the side. John meets his startled grey eyes with his own deep blue and determined gaze. It’s like he can see right through into that big brain within and watch the synapses firing. He knows Sherlock has correctly interpreted his meaning, but neither says a word about it.

They talk and laugh together for the next two hours with a few interruptions from Rosie and her friends, who easily entertain themselves dancing with seemingly endless energy. John feels oddly refreshed and comfortable, even with all the activity around them and all the other parents ambling up to meet him throughout the evening. It feels like one of the best times, the best conversations he and Sherlock have ever had.

With only an hour left in the marathon, Jack tilts his bag up and lets the remainder of his popcorn tumble into his mouth. He jumps to his feet and wads up the bag in his hands.

“Ready?” he asks around the mass of popcorn.

The three girls start nodding and shovel in one more handful of popcorn. Rosie has a swig from a water bottle as all three pop up to their feet. The group looks each other over and then dives back onto the dance floor. Sherlock wears a huge smile as he watches them from across the gym. Finally taking his eyes off that brilliant smile, John glances around toward the door they came in. He places a gentle hand on his flatmate’s wrist and when Sherlock’s eyes meet his, they look worried. John smiles quickly to allay his concerns and raises his own brows in question.

“The loos?” he asks and Sherlock’s shoulders relax. John hadn’t even realized they were tense. The detective nods toward the door.

“Turn right. It’s a few feet down the hall on the left.”

“Thanks. Won’t be a tick,” John winks and walks away. This time he can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him and he grins in satisfaction. And with the buzz of excitement cracking through his body. He moves just that smidgeon faster so he can return to Sherlock’s side quickly.

Once in the hall, he heads right and finds what he’s looking for with no trouble. He sees a long bank of sinks when he walks in. An opening in the center of the opposite wall leads to a short hall with stalls and urinals on one side, and shower stalls on the other. Those must be for the older kids to use after P.E. He wonders briefly, while standing before a urinal, how they keep the younger children from drenching themselves for fun. That is certainly what he would have done as a child. John chuckles to himself as he walks to the sinks and washes his hands.

John dries his hands with a paper towel as he approaches the door. Tossing it in the rubbish bin, he pulls the door open and steps into the hall, only the sight that greets him is not what he expects. A large rectangular swimming pool lies before him.

“What the hell?” John frowns. “How did I manage this?”

He is about to turn around when he notices the music. Is the pool connected to the gymnasium? There are doors at the other end of the pool that John is betting lead right into the dance. Surely they are locked on that side to keep the mob from diving in, but would likely push right open on this side. John walks briskly along the long side of the pool, but slows to a stop half way almost without realizing. Something is shaking loose in his mind. A pane of glass, one that is darker than the others, rattles quietly. Then louder and louder, more violently until John has a hand on either side of his head to ward away the pain of it.

The glass cracks and dark, evil laughter bursts through, chipping out a piece and freeing the black ooze of fear within. John watches in horror as it falls to the floor and shatters, the black pudding landing upon it and crawling toward him with a life of its own. John is petrified and can only watch as it gets closer. The rest of the glass suddenly follows in an earth-shattering explosion that pushes John a few steps back, but he stays on his feet. He closes his eyes against the impact and hunches over as if in pain. A low, sinister laugh finds his ears and he opens his eyes, staring straight ahead. He sees a pool like this one and a man. A man in a tailored suit walking toward him with a gleam in his eye and a cruel smile on his lips.

Everything rushes back and it’s so much, so fast, too much. John falls to his knees, his hands still clutching the sides of his head. And the man gets closer, his smile getting wider until he is right in front of John. He squats before him, his lips shaping words. His voice is a menacing hiss in John’s ear.

James Moriarty

“No, no,” John says mournfully, pain filling his voice. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and presses his palms hard against his ears. He can’t shut it out. He can’t stop it from coming.

“Hello, John Watson. So nice to finally meet you,” his voice is conversational, but his eyes are black and evil. “You’ve made our great detective even sharper. I should be angry, but it’s made the game much more fun.”

“Fuck off,” John had growled. The semtex vest was already strapped to his body. His hands were tied behind his back.

“I don’t know what he sees in you, honestly. You’re so ordinary,” Moriarty had smirked, looking at his watch. “He’ll be here soon, John. Time to put on the parka and play this round.”

“No!” John cries out and it echoes around the humid room. The smell of chlorine fills his nose and mingles with the scent of Moriarty’s aftershave. It’s all so clear. Every scent, every feeling, every heartbeat, every...tiny...red….dot. Floating, floating, hovering over Sherlock’s face and his heart. Oh god! It all plays out in his mind and it won’t stop. It won’t stop! John clutches at his stomach as if in pain. He feels sick. It’s so real and it’s too much, too much.

John gasps desperately. Think! He has to think, to concentrate on something else, some way out of this. Sherlock. Sherlock! Opening his eyes, John scrabbles for his mobile and draws it from his pocket. John stares for a long moment as if he can’t move. Moriarty’s voice rings loud in his mind, laughing, cursing, mocking, making promises about the torture awaits Sherlock and how he’ll make John watch. John finally slides his thumb over the mobile slowly, pushes emergency and holds it to his ear. He closes his eyes again, but it doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to see it. Or hear it. But it won’t stop

“I can stop John Watson’s heart.”

He had wanted to tell Sherlock to go, to save himself, but could say nothing. Only what Moriarty told him. Sherlock’s eyes, his face, his voice. Moriarty’s voice. They had talked and taunted. John had tried to end it when he grabbed Moriarty and held him, but the sights were on Sherlock then. One tiny red dot on his forehead and another on his throat and another on his heart.

“John?”

He doesn’t even hear Sherlock’s voice on the mobile he now holds loosely in his hand, completely lost in the memory.

“No!” John shouts. “No, no!”

“John, where are you?”

“Moriarty! He’s here. I can’t stop it.”

“John, tell me where you are!”

“Pool. There’s a pool.”

The mobile slips from John’s fingers and clatters to the ground. He clutches at his stomach again, clamoring and clawing, wanting nothing more than to make the memory stop. He falls over on his side, folding his legs in. Tears drip from his eyes and run down his face as full-blown panic sets in. Moriarty’s voice is harsh and demanding in John’s ears, reminding him of everything he said and all he did, every gut-wrenching moment. Sherlock...no, Sherlock.

John vaguely hears a door crashing open somewhere behind. Someone runs toward his body as he lies trembling at the pool’s edge. The footsteps skid to a stop and he drops to his knees next to John. It is Sherlock. His Sherlock.

“Sherlock, no,” John mumbles into the damp air. He feels small and weak. “Sherlock, run.”

“It’s all right, John, I’m here. I have you,” his hands touch John gently, help him sit up. His deep, glorious voice fills John’s ears, driving away Moriarty and his memory. John opens his eyes and looks at his flatmate desperately. He reaches for the taller man and pulls him close, unable to speak. His heart is racing, his rapids breaths incredibly shallow.

“Just breathe. Go slowly,” Sherlock’s voice is soothing and his touch warm, comforting, the best thing John has ever felt. After a few minutes, John begins to regain control. “That’s it. Good, John, good.”

“I remember,” John gasps, “a pool.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods, “I know. It’s all right.”

He gives John more time, as much as he needs. All the while Sherlock smooths his fingers over John’s hair and brushes fingertips on his tear-stained cheeks.

“John?” his voice is quiet and gentle, “can you stand? I called for a car. It will meet us at the door to the school.”

“What? We can’t leave Rosie!”

“Mycroft will take our place at the dance. She will stay the night with him,” Sherlock assures him. “She will be fine in his care.”

“Right. Uncle Mycroft,” John says, his breathing is almost normal now. “Okay, okay. I’m...I’m good.”

As John begins to rise slowly, Sherlock tucks his arm under John’s and wraps it around his back. He helps him to his feet and they walk carefully, deliberately until they reach the school’s outer door, the same one they entered only two hours earlier. One of Mycroft’s sleek black cars is already parked in the loading zone. The back door opens as they approach and Anthea climbs out.

“Good evening, Mr Holmes. Doctor,” she greets. “Your brother will be here shortly. I will be with Rosie for the interim. Do you need anything at the flat?”

“No,” Sherlock tells her as he helps John into the car. He turns to face her. “We’ll be fine. He needs to rest now.”

“Of course. Please don’t hesitate to call,” she nods.

“I will. Thank you,” Sherlock answers and climbs in. John isn’t sure why, but he has the odd feeling that things between Sherlock and Anthea have changed dramatically over the last five years. Something suddenly cracks and he knows they were never so friendly before. Is it Anthea? Is she the person in Sherlock’s life? John rests his forehead against the cool glass the window and watches London pass by without seeing a thing. A voice in his head says ‘Of course it’s Anthea. No doubt Mycroft asked her to help as often as anything else.’ while another tamps it down and John finds himself too exhausted to think.

@echosilverwolf @technicallywiseoncns @vvaticancameoss @cow-mow@philliphooper@whodwantmeasaflatmate@swissmissing@gloriascott93@kingdomofbrokenhearts@srebrnafh@thetranslucentwallaby@britishaccentfan@plasticstrawsmuggler@spazzz32@absentmindedsstuff@shuukichan @annecumberbatch@maeliandmyself@welcometomyharddrive

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock fanfic #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #hurt john #season 4 #S4 fix

36 notes · View notes

pitiless-achilles-wept · 5 years

Text

Not "Just Hair": Exposure, Autonomy, and Vulnerability

Hello friends, In the past couple days it's become clear to me that I've hit a certain (unwelcome) cancer milestone: I'm losing my hair. Right now it's just shedding like crazy. (If I had a contest with my cat--who's losing his hair for summer right now--I would still totally win!) I don't know why, given that it's a primary side effect of this drug (90% of people lose their hair), but I'm somehow still surprised. I think I felt that, having been in in an improbable, tiny percentage on most other things related to this disease I might at least have the chance to be in the special 10% on something positive. Not so! Perhaps I'm also surprised, though, because my other symptoms haven't been very bad...so much so that (as I wrote about before) I'm in a constant anxiety spiral about whether something physical is a sign or symptom and, if so, whether it means the treatment is working or not. Hair falling out is unquestionably a sign that the chemo is doing something--that it's doing precisely what it's supposed to, in fact, and targeting fast-growing cells of all types. So, yes, in that sense I want to lose my hair. Right when I was first diagnosed I wanted them to hit me with everything all at once: chemo, surgery, radiation - I wanted to be assaulted by every weapon the medical profession had to wield against cancer and I didn't care what I looked like or how I suffered. I wanted to enter treatment as a warrior and I wanted to look like one, shaved head and all. Somehow, though, I lost that attitude. It's not that I don't want to fight, but that the stance of being a warrior all the time is exhausting. There's a lot that's less than ideal about using the language of conflict and battle (and implicitly of winning and losing) to talk about something that you don't have any control over. If this chemo agent doesn't kill enough cells (as my pessimistic side believes it won't) it won't be because I did or didn't do anything. If it does work, it's only my victory in the sense that it's good luck for me. My body isn't the warrior so much as a field on which battles are waged on a cellular level. And my mind has nothing to do with the success--or not--of these conflicts. Fundamentally, I have no control. And that's the hardest thing for me about losing my hair. [More below including Buffy gifs!!]

The loss of bodily autonomy involved in having cancer is huge. Not only does it feel like it's something personal, since it's your own cells (sometimes directed by your own DNA) that have betrayed you, but it's also something you can't fix; you can't do anything to change the outcome of your treatment. You can change the treatment itself (different chemo agents, additional drugs, supplementary radiation), but you can't train for it the way you train for a marathon, where your own commitment to training can pretty much guarantee you steady progress and a positive result. You can supplement your own treatment with things (vitamins, injections, crystals, chocolate) that you believe may help. You can train yourself in healthy ways to respond emotionally. (I was already in therapy but everyone involved with cancer treatment should be.) You can go to the gym and keep your body "otherwise healthy"--a phrase that my doctors said to and about me repeatedly during the diagnosis phase and that I never stopped finding funny...being perfectly healthy EXCEPT for Stage 4 cancer is something of a cosmic joke. (I know that they meant that, unlike many of their patients, I could endure the treatments very well and with minimal complications. That IS a good thing. But still...) You cannot train for cancer treatment. It's a battle, but one you must enter alone, untrained, and unarmed. Fundamentally, you have only yourself. And that must be enough. (I don't mean to dismiss the wonderful community of friends and family here; you all give me the strength to fight this fight. You just can't go with me.) There's an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a show which I love and which has meant a lot to me at different times in my life, where Buffy must fight her vampire ex-boyfriend Angel (who SPOILERS used to be a good guy because he was cursed with a soul but he lost it because he experienced true happiness with her) who has been systematically finding the best ways to hurt her, psychologically, before killing her. In this final battle, he backs her against a wall, sword pointed at her and says, "So that's everything. No weapons. No friends. No hope. Take all that away and what's left?" to which she replies, while grabbing his sword midair with her bare hands, "Me.":

(Gif source: x)

If you want it, here's a clip on YouTube (this exchange is about a minute in). That moment has been my inspiration from the first moment of diagnosis. I had already used it to get through my divorce when I felt I had lost everything. I hadn't, though, because I was still me, with a core resilience and self-confidence and the righteous strength that enabled me to keep going, to thrive. It is grossly unfair that, less than a year later, I need to draw on that same energy again, but that is how battles work. We survive to fight another day. No weapons. No friends. No hope. Take all that away and what's left? Me. I know I've just employed the rhetoric of battle immediately after saying it's not ideal. It's not. I'm a peacetime creature, really, as are most of us. But I won't back down from a fight or sidestep necessary conflict either. And being a warrior is not the same as being embroiled in constant battle. Even Achilles put down his shield and wept in Priam's tent. In fact, all this content is on another blog whose title is "Pitiless Achilles Wept." You can read here about why I called it that, but here's the most important part that I wrote about the scene where Achilles and Priam cry together:

"They speak the universal language of human beings here: grief. They weep as fathers and sons and lovers because that’s honestly the only constant in our small human lives. So here I am, recording my grief, with the hope that at least, by being together, we can get through the evil I have to endure. I actually thought that the blog title was a quotation–and a beautiful line of poetry–but nowhere can I find a translation that reads, 'Pitiless Achilles wept.' But I still cannot think of a line that feels more appropriate to record the thoughts of someone who has to be both a warrior (brave, fierce, pitiless) and a frightened, vulnerable person."

Tonight I am that frightened and vulnerable person, furious that (without my permission) my body is shedding the hair that I have always loved and scared at how it will change my experience of being in the world. When I got my hair cut two weeks ago it showed no signs of giving up the ghost. My stylist tugged on it and pronounced that "you have really strong hair!" and I allowed myself to think that, somehow, that would protect me. Ah yes, I thought, my hair is strong like all the rest of me; it will endure.

Losing it therefore feels symbolic on a number of levels. I know that it doesn't make me weak, but it does make me vulnerable. How can I be so exposed, without any hair to duck under when I feel anxious? How will I get through the day without being able to run my hands through my hair (a nervous tic that is a self-soothing gesture...and currently hastening my hair loss)? How will I cope with being no longer regarded as immediately aesthetically pleasing (from my privileged position as someone who ticks many of the stereotypical boxes for attractiveness) by people who don't know me? (I did not realize how much I relied on this to navigate the world but it has certainly been made visible to me now. Perhaps this warrants another post later.)

Losing my hair is a good sign. We all want chemo to be as effective as possible so the more fast-growing cells we see being targeted the better. But as it marks me, visibly, as "sick" it robs me of the opportunity to choose whether to tell people or not--yet another loss of autonomy. I do have a wig that looks as much as possible like my regular hair. (I don't love everything about it but unless you have one custom-made you're not likely to find anything that looks precisely like you do.) This should enable me to pass as healthy, barring other obvious symptoms. But I imagine I might be the kind of person who would rather go bald (or at least with a 1930s Norma Desmond head wrap) as a way of owning my illness, taking back some of what it has stolen. I might rather this say, "Yes, this illness is a part of me now--even if it's not pretty. That's what a warrior looks like." No weapons. No friends. No...hair. Take all that away and what's left?

#my life as a cancer patient #vulnerability #autonomy #invisible illness #btvs #buffy #hair loss #I guess this might help in that tag?#bex writes

30 notes · View notes

shirtlesssammy · 6 years

Text

9x06: Heaven Can’t Wait

Guys, we’ve made it. This is hands down Boris’s favorite episode. I watch it as comfort food and I love every second of it. It’s also really gay, guys. I can never give this episode justice in this recap, but I love it so, so much.

Then:

How can anyone turn this face out of their home?

Now:

In Rexford, ID, in a secluded home, a distressed man is on the phone with a suicide hotline. The woman on the line is pleading with the man to listen to her and save his own life. He cuts the line, pulls his gun, and sees an old photo of what we can only assume is his mother and himself as a small child, and he stops, dropping the gun. He hears a noise. Another man appears and obliterates the man into a fine mist of pink goo.

Hello, Steve.

Cas is a Gas ‘n Sip attendant named Steve now. He’s wearing an adorable purple striped shirt and monitoring the locals on how to be human. He almost succeeds. #givesteveahighfive2k13 The newspaper man might not see how special and cool Steve is, but Nora, Steve’s boss, does. She’s late but knows that Steve is an overachieving gas station attendant. She wonders out loud, “Where have you been all my life?” And so begins the double story told this episode. Is he really a super attractive, responsible man this single mom has been waiting for or is he a super attractive, responsible employee this gas station manager has been looking for her whole life? “You’re not like the other sales associates. There’s something different about you.” He’s either gay or a former angel, amirite? Cas insists that he’s a completely regular human.

Cas then looks at the day’s newspaper: another unexplained disappearance.

Another reason I love this episode is because everyone is in it! At the bunker, Kevin lets Sam and Dean know that he just translated the angel tablet into doodles Elamite. The language is dead though. They need someone to translate it. Sam jumps right to research! SWOON. Dean is literally saved by the bell when his phone rings. It’s Cas.

He’s got a case, but he’s busy dealing with “The Big O Slush”. I SEE YOU SET DESIGN. Dean asks Cas how they want to do this, and Cas spills his slurpee everywhere.

Then he hangs up on Dean.

Dean takes off with barely a goodbye to Kevin and Sam. He doesn’t like research anyway.

Back in Rexford, Cas is busy trying to fix his halo. BRB, weeping.

Nora confronts him with a toothbrush and sleeping bag in the back of the store. Yeah, Steve pretends that he’s not living at the Gas ‘n Sip and tells Nora he’s been staying to work on inventory. MY HEART. “I wanted to be thorough with inventory, so I worked late last week, and taking a nap here was easier than going back home to my bed. Which I-I have, of course – a bed...and a home.” MY HEART.

File in Pain Library:

And now a story told two ways.

First time viewer Boris:

Nora asks Steve out on a date.

Subsequent viewer Boris:

I’m a monster to think she was asking her very responsible (but attractive!) subordinate employee out on a date. She’s asking this nice, responsible, gay man she trusts implicitly to babysit her child so she can go on a date!

Nora, dense humans and former angels do not understand subtle human conversation. (God, I’ve never identified more with Cas than when watching this scene.) Spell. It. Out. For. Him. Poor Cas doesn’t get it, and just wants to be human SO bad. He takes it as an invite for a date and accepts. Yay! Honest to God, before this moment, I very much doubt Cas has even thought about Nora as someone to have romantic feelings for.

Dean, meanwhile, shows up at the cold open crime scene. The sheriff shows him around the pink goo, all the while mentioning the other victims and how sad they all were.

He then checks in with Sam and Kevin, ALL THE WHILE STARING AT CAS WORKING AT THE GAS ‘N SIP. Like, holy hell, dude. I know you have a lot of angst for kicking him out of your home because you have a lot of angst for allowing an angel to possess your brother, but take it down a notch (please don’t). Dean suggests they ask Crowley (currently chained up in their dungeon) to help with the translations. Dean tells Sam about the case and Sam wonders if he should be there. Dean stutters his way through a shut down.

Cue Dean’s Theme Music, all weepy and melodic.

That boy is pining something bad. (Yeah, sorry, I just can’t read this episode any other way. Dean misses Cas, and Cas misses Dean. And Cas is pissed that Dean kicked him out of the bunker, but is so happy to see Dean, but so sad about being human. And there’s angst and a case to solve and fan fic gaps and trope after trope of goodness. SIGH.)

Cut to a very upset girl talking to her friend on her cell. Her boyfriend just broke up with her in front of everyone. She’s upset enough to admit to her friend, hyperbolically, “I could just die.” The man from the cold open appears and says, “I can help with that.” And turns her into a spray of pink goo.

At the Gas ‘n Sip, Steve is hard at work.

Dean arrives, asking for “some beef jerky and a pack of menthols.” (Is this canon that Dean smokes? Ugh. I hope he’s just being a doofus here.) Dean over compensates for his dickish move of kicking Cas out of the bunker (by being more of a dick and insulting Cas’s chosen career.). Cas acts like a jilted lover. Cas tells Dean, “When I fell to earth, I didn't just lose my powers. I – I had nothing.” CRYING NOISE. Ya know, even without his powers, he had a home, and family and then he was kicked out of that as well. Now he’s making his way on his own. He’s SO proud of himself.

At the bunker, Sam asks Crowley for a translation. He refuses. Sam accuses Abaddon of being scarier than Crowley, so Crowley crumples up a piece of paper to show Sam who’s really boss. Lol.

Dean continues to push Cas to help him on the hunt.

Cas is having none of it. He’s got to stock the shelves, and clean up the mess a patron left in the bathroom (blarf, just bail Cas, it’s not worth it.) (Sidenote: Cas mentioning how he failed at being an angel, ugh. I’m so glad for his self-worth arc in season 13.)

Nora’s interruption about the bathroom cleanup is so interesting. She confirms their “date” in front of Dean, but she doesn’t even ask who he is and why he’s been hanging out with Steve this whole time. Second viewing Boris’s MIND IS BLOWN. She doesn’t need an introduction because she (thinks she) knows exactly who he is. She confirms the evening’s plans because there’s nothing to hide when just confirming her babysitter for the night.

Dean shows his jealousy over Cas’s “date”, but he gets a call that there’s been another death. Cas reluctantly agrees to come along, but not before cleaning the bathroom. Lol.

At the scene of the crime, a very professionally dressed FBI and Steve the Gas ‘n Sip attendant arrive to investigate. While Cas looks on in shock and horror, Dean interviews the girl’s friend on the other end of the phone. “'Kind of bummed'?” “Like more bummed than when she got a "C" on a quiz, and... less bummed than when her parents split up. 'Kind of ... bummed.'” Lolol. Dean then looks for Cas and can’t find him. ALERT THE POLICE. Oh, he was just leaning against the Impala.

For Science:

Cas knows exactly what happened here.

For Science:

It seems that this is the work of the Rit Zien, a special angel that killed other angels past saving in Heaven. That’s their job. Seek out the pain filled angels and kill them. Only now on Earth, they can’t distinguish between real pain and normal human emotions.

Sidenote, I just paused my video and thought you would also like the view:

Dean insists they have to stop the rogue angel. Cas doesn’t think he’ll be any help. Dean doesn’t agree but accepts Cas’s wish to not get involved. He tells him to go on the date with Nora. But first, Cas needs a ride.

*Fan Fiction Gap #1*

While Cas is off living his normal life YAAAS QUEEN LIVE YOUR BEST LIFE, Sam confronts Crowley. Crowley offers to translate the Elamite as long as he gets a phone call. Kevin tries to convince Sam that this is a no good, very bad idea but they move forward anyway. Honestly, if Kevin were in charge this would be a much more boring show – but also with at least a couple fewer apocalypses.

Back with the Dean & Cas romcom, Dean drops Cas off at his date, then notices his unfortunate attire. (Somehow it's dark now? Did they go get some food?) He convinces Cas to take off his Gas 'n' Sip best and undo a button on his collar. (Boris: Tony Manero. Lol. No words. Just links. I mean, John Badham started directing Supernatural in season 9. Pfft. And “I can’t let you do this.” Really Dean? And that once over? Really Dean?) This is all fine and I'm not reading into this AT ALL.

Dean gives Cas his fifty cent guide to wooing women and sends him off on his date. All squealing innuendo aside, this is an incredibly sweet and sad moment. Dean has a tendency to try to save people from the hunting life. Sending Cas off on his date is more than just bro-bonding. It's Dean's way of protecting human Castiel. May he live far from the wars of Heaven, in the company of someone normal. (Boris: He wants Cas to succeed and be happy in the world--it’s just sad that he doesn’t recognize that Cas is happiest around him.)

Cas, that Casanova, snips a rose and waves Dean away so he can make his move. (Boris: Does Dean really watch his Disney Princess friend prick his finger on a rose thorn?) Unfortunately, once Cas gets inside he finds out that he's been asked over to babysit while his boss heads out on a date. Cas sulkily buttons up his collar again.

Crowley meets with Sam and Kevin, and demands Kevin's blood in exchange for the information. He then proceeds to have an embarrassingly bureaucratic exchange with Hell's switchboard as he waits to be connected with Abaddon.

Meanwhile, Castiel's surprise babysitting gig is going super awesome. And by “super awesome” I mean terrible because baby Tanya starts to cry uncontrollably. Cas picks her up and snuggles her as he sings Joey Scarbury's “Believe it or not” - the theme song for the The Greatest American Hero. (Boris: Ah, at some point during his many channel surfing moments Cas stumbled upon --or Dean showed him--The Greatest American Hero, and I kind of want to curl up into a ball for Cas right now. He’s thinking about that magical suit, about how it could make him fly again and give him his super strength back.) Reader, you may be pleased to know that while Cas can do many things, he cannot sing. It does briefly assuage baby Tanya and he tries to set her down. Tanya's not having any of that shit and starts crying immediately.

Dean gets a call from the Sheriff on one of the crime scenes. It turns out the wife died, but the husband is still out running around somewhere.

Cas has a heart to heart with Tanya. “Nobody told you. Nobody explained. You're just shoved out kicking and screaming into this human without any idea why any of it feels the way it feels. Or why this confusion which feels like it's a hair's breadth from terror or pain. You know, just when you think you do understand it'll turn out that you're wrong. You didn't understand anything at all.” Cas notices that Tanya's a bit feverish.

At the police station, Dean goes over the missing man's case file and finds a picture of the annoying truck which tried to park him in outside of Cas's babysitting gig. He races off.

Cas opens the door to bring feverish Tanya to the hospital and sees the missing man. It's Ephram, an angel. Ephram tells Cas that he's come to wash the planet clean of suffering and he's at baby Tanya's house to...take care of Cas. Oh, Cas! (Boris: Cas is suffering as a human so much that the Rit Zien wants to kill him. Don’t touch me.)

In the comic relief portion of the episode, Crowley's still on hold with Hell (and Sam is getting antsy). Abaddon finally connects to Crowley, blood bubbling on the tabletop.

At the house, Cas grabs the rose from his failed wooing attempt and bloodies up his palm while Ephram monologues about how Castiel's pain allowed him to find him. “Earth can be a hard place but these humans, they can do better. They're just doing the best they can.” Ephram is entirely unimpressed by this argument. He used to admire Cas but now Cas is playing such a small game as to be essentially unnoticed on the scale of Heaven. While Ephram smugly talks about Cas, Castiel tries to draw an angel banishing sigil on the double doors. Ephram catches him and breaks his wrist.

Abaddon tells Crowley she's taking souls early, destroying Crowley's contracts. Crowley's getting pissed. He chews her out about her method of controlling Hell and she tells him that she's dismantling everything. When the phone call ends, Crowley demands the translations. “I keep my agreements,” he says, still nettled by Abaddon's destruction of his carefully crafted soul agreements. He reads it and finds that the spell Metatron did was irreversible. Angels running around Earth is the new world order.

Ephram asks Cas if he intends to live as an angel or a man? Speaking of men, Dean barrels into the house, angel blade at the ready, only to get chucked across the room.

Ephram starts to super zap Castiel when Dean slides his angel blade over to Cas, who kills Ephram with one quick strike.

Later, Cas leaves Nora’s house (with everything put to rights, body disposed of, and Tylenol administered for Tanya's fever) and Nora tells him that, the part of him “that cares so much. That's what makes [him] special.” TRUTH. (Boris: Nora’s continued appreciation of Steve warms me to no end.)

Sam's cleaning up from the phone call when he notices that a syringe is missing. He walks in to find Crowley injecting himself with human blood...

The next morning (cough fan fiction gap cough) Dean drops Cas off at the Gas 'n Sip. He apologies for telling Cas to leave, but that he's proud of what Cas has done with his life.

Cas worries, thinking he should help the angels. “You're human now. It's not your problem anymore.” (Boris: Dean’s speech at the end of this episode is kind of like the first part in a trilogy. He continues it in 11x23, and well, the final part has yet to be seen. He’s proud of Cas. He’s family. He’s like a brother. He means more to Dean that he’s able to voice. I hate you show.)

Cas heads inside to open up the store, turning to a news story that talks about the massive meteor fall – a.k.a. the angels falling. He stares outside contemplatively.

What are quotes? Baby don’t quote me, don’t quote me no more:

Oh, well, hello to you too, Cas.

You're not like the other sales associates.

We're not keeping him chained up for the one liners.

This is Cas, in case you forgot, he’s not exactly Chatty Cathy.

You’re special.

Good day, ma’am, and good luck!

Wow. So you went from fighting … heavenly battles to nuking taquitos?

You’re the best.

And you’re a hunter in training, remember?

But as what, Castiel? As an angel? or a man?

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #spn rewatch #spn 9x06 #heaven can't wait #dean winchester #castiel #cas #sam winchester #kevin tran #crowley #abaddon #supernatural season 9

33 notes · View notes

thorne93 · 6 years

Text

Broken Wedding Bells

Prompt: Your brother from another mother, Sebastian Stan, has kindly asked you to accompany him to his wedding suit fitting. You agree even though it breaks your heart to see him engaged to another woman. The sight of him and his big smile while he’s showing you the suit he’s finally picked makes you break down, so you walk out of there, only for him to follow you and ask you what’s wrong. You cannot bite your tongue so you confess how you feel, and in the middle of your confession, he gives you a desperate kiss. The scared look on his face after that lets you know that there might not be a wedding at all. (courtesy of @theartofimagining13)

Word Count: 2271

Warnings: language, angst, heartbreak, cheating? (I guess?)...

Notes: Beta’d by the ever fabulous, ever amazing, wifey @carryonmyswansong. Maybe these will be the GOOD Seb vibes and feels we need after the idiocy that’s been circulating this precious angel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Come on, you have to come. You’re my best maid,” Sebastian whined as spoke to you while you were fixing yourself some lunch. “You’re supposed to be there for this. It’s practically your job.”

“I thought my job was to get you drunk last weekend, at your bachelor party?” you teased.

“You wear many hats. This is one of the final things. Please?”

Sighing from defeat, you rolled your eyes. “Fine,” you obliged as you held the phone to your ear.

“Yes!” he cheered. “Okay, I’ll be there in two hours to get you.”

“Can’t wait,” you said with as much enthusiasm as you could muster.

---------------

A knock on your apartment door signaled that Sebastian had arrived. You skipped over to the door, purse and keys in hand as you opened it.

“Ready to go?”

“Always,” you informed, a forced-chipper smile on your face.

“God, I’m so nervous,” Sebastian confessed as the two of you made your way out of the apartment. His confession sent a pang of jealous rage and pain through your stomach.

“Ah, don’t be. You can do this,” you encouraged against your better judgement, against your heart.

“Do you think the suit will look okay?”

“I think the suit will look perfect,” you assured while you hailed a cab. “You’ve already seen it - three times. They’re just ensuring you havn’t changed since the last fitting,” you reminded.

As Sebastian’s “best maid”, it was your job to keep him calm, happy, free of stress. As his best friend, you were happy to do that. As the girl who had been in love with him for several years... that was a hell of a lot harder.

The two of you had grown up together, practically. His mom sent him to acting schools and acting camp, while you went the other route of writing - screenplays mainly. You knew Sebastian inside and out. He was like your other half. You could tell when he was uncomfortable by the slightest twitch of his mouth. You could tell he was angry just by the flash of his eyes. You could tell when he was nervous by what he would say. You knew his allergies, his medical history, his family history and drama, his aspirations, his dreams, his weaknesses, his strengths. There wasn’t a whole lot you didn’t know about him, if anything.

Naturally, you fell in love with him. He was talented, patient, hilarious, modest, humble, sweet, a child at heart, but he knew when to be serious. He was mature, but silly. He could make you laugh at a whim’s notice, and you for him. You weren’t sure when you fell for him, all you knew was when you realized it.

He’d dated Krista for a little over two years, and at first, it didn’t hurt too bad. It surprised you how jealous you were of her. But as the months went on, that jealousy and pettiness inside you twisted into downright pain. Just her name on his lips sent a surge of heartbreak through you. The way he looked at her made you want to die. But you couldn’t destroy his happiness... how could you? What kind of person would you be?

And then he asked her to marry him. He told you the idea, and the blood drained from your face as your heart stopped, ice cold in your chest. But you fooled yourself into thinking it was just an idea, that it would fall through, that he would realize he loved you or just think he wasn’t compatible with her. Hell, sometimes you even wished she would cheat, just to destroy the relationship. But it never happened.

She was a gorgeous, starry eyed tv actress. She wasn’t a bad person, by any means. She was sweet, kind, cared for Seb. She made him a priority and she was witty and successful. Your qualm wasn’t with her... It was with their relationship.

So when Seb went through with the proposal and she happily said yes, the last shred of hope you had for you and Seb went up in smoke before your eyes. The news hit you as if you’d been shot. Seb told you and you knew you needed to be happy, to be excited for your best friend - he’d found love, you should be supportive right?

You thought you’d done your part when you smiled at him and congratulated him with a hug. You thought that was the end of it, but then he had to go and ask you to be his best maid. He knew it wasn’t conventional, but he said you were his best friend and he wanted you up there with him.

How could you say no? How could you look at your best friend, at the love of your life, and say, “No, I won’t support you on the happiest day of your life”? You don’t. You just fucking can’t.

So you swallowed the poison, your own personal brand of poison, and agreed. This launched you into a wedding fit for royalty. You and Seb did all of the groom-related things, while Krista and her maid of honor did seventy-percent of the wedding planning. But there was still that thirty-percent that you were brought in for. Opinions, assistance, ideas, brainstorming. Every activity practically designed to chip away at your heart, at your soul, at your very core.

Each day you prayed he’d call it off, or that she would, but of course... that never happened. And why would it? You were just you. You didn't deserve Seb and you knew that. Krista was amazing, and he deserved her. You were just nothing. Just the dorky kid he knew from his childhood.

“Welcome, Mr. Stan,” the salesman greeted when the two of you walked into the most expensive suit shop in Manhattan. You’d worked with this man a few times before and he was always rather kind.

“Hello,” he said, shaking his hand.

“Ready for the big day?”

Sebastian took a deep breath and admitted, “Uh, no, not really.”

“Oh, come now, it’s the most beautiful day of your life. You get to marry a stunning woman and start your life with her,” he stated, trying to remind Seb of why he was doing this. Tears pricked your eyes as you clenched your jaw in pain and frustration. You wanted this man to just shut the hell up and get on with the fitting.

The wedding was tomorrow, and your insides were swimming with dread and heartache. On the surface, you seemed to be a painted vision of support and kindness.

“Right this way, and we’ll get you into it and ensure nothing has changed,” the salesman said, guiding him over.

Sebastian started to walk with him before he looked back at you. “See ya!”

“We’ll be right back,” the man assured.

You nodded and gave them a smile before sitting down on one of the expensive chairs near the three sided mirrors. Sebastian would be out here any moment in the suit the two of you had picked out. A black suit with satin trim on the jacket and pants, a pressed white undershirt, and stark bowtie. He would look more dashing than a prince, probably making you want to weep with longing.

And here he was, his dark hair slicked back in the style you two had discussed and picked for him, wearing that breathtaking suit, walking as if he were modeling for a high end magazine. He stepped up onto the platform and looked at himself, adjusting the custom cufflinks you two had chosen. He shrugged a little in the suit, making sure it was fit right and sitting the best it could.

Your eyes were practically glued to him, watching him move, watching his mouth press into a thin line as he thought, watching as his nimble hands fiddled with buttons, watching his jaw clench and unclench.

“Looking very dapper, Mr. Stan,” the associate noted. The tailor came up and began measuring, assuring everything looked just right.

The three men started talking, discussing the wedding, where they’d met, all of the usual questions that circulated a wedding. But the entire time, watching Seb, your mind visited a place it’d never gone before.

Seeing Seb love another was one thing, seeing him date was one thing, seeing him get engaged was one thing, and even helping him plan his perfect wedding to another was one thing. But the thing that got you now, the thing that suddenly hit you, was that you would never have this with him - ever. Your chance was gone. He was getting married in less than twenty-four hours. He was gone.

No flirting, no dating, no engagement, no wedding, no honeymoon, no kids. No growing old together. No fighting. No making up. That future, that love, lied with Krista. She would be his now and forever.

Your future with Sebastian? It didn’t exist, it never did, and now it never would.

The sheer thought of this, the realization that he would never, ever be yours, nearly sent you into a heartbroken frenzy as you sat on the chair trying to control your breathing.

“What do you think, Y/N?” the associate asked, making your eyes flash to him.

You didn’t say anything though, you just frowned. The lump in your throat a strong indicator that if you opened your mouth to speak, you’d lose it.

Sebastian’s face lit up as he eyed himself in the mirror, the action practically breaking you. “So what do you think?” he asked. Sebastian eyed you in the mirror. “Y/N?” he said with concern. “What do you think? Does it really look that bad?”

You shook your head, the tears already breaking the barrier. You quickly shut your eyes, grabbed your purse, stood up, and ran from the suit shop, out onto the street.

Only a few feet from the door, you heard him.

“Y/N! Y/N, wait!” Seb called from behind you, making you turn, tears rushing down your face as you tried to stop them, tried to breathe normally. “Hey, hey, hey, what’s the matter? Are you okay?” he asked, coming up and putting his hands on your upper arms.

You shook your head as you looked away, your eyes going over the slowly moving traffic of New York.

“What’s wrong? Hey, hey, why are you crying?” he questioned, care and concern thick in his voice, as well as painted plainly on his face.

“I... I can’t do this,” you choked out. “I can’t be there for you tomorrow.”

“What? Why? Why not?”

“I can’t be your best maid. I can’t--” You had to swallow, the lump in your throat too thick to talk through. “I can’t stand up there, beside you tomorrow, and pretend it doesn’t kill me.”

Sebastian let you go as he frowned at you.

“What...what do you--”

“I’m in love with you, Sebastian,” you finally said, a slight hint of anger in your voice. “I’m in love with you, okay? I didn’t mean to be. I didn't want it to happen, but it did okay? And I can’t stand there tomorrow, on your wedding day, and pretend for another second that it doesn’t destroy me to watch you pledge your life to her. You and I grew up together. We know each other inside and out. We share memories of blanket forts, to our first heartbreak, to our first big break in the business... And I can’t... I just can’t stand to watch you marry her. I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be your best maid, but I can’t... Not when I feel like it’s me you should be marrying... Not her.”

Sebastian stood with his hands in his pockets, kicking at nothing on the sidewalk as he looked down. You wanted him to say something, but at the same time, you were thankful for his silence, worried you’d just ruined your friendship.

After a few more moments, he finally looked up at you, his eyes narrowed in question. “How long?”

“I don’t know. A few years. I realized it around the time you got with Krista,” you informed, shrugging.

“And why didn’t you ever tell me?” he wondered, his head tilted to the side.

“I... I didn’t want to ruin your happiness. You and Krista seemed really good together, and I didn’t want to be selfish and tell you how I felt. I couldn’t do that to you. How could I sit there and put you in the position of choosing between me and her?”

“You sacrificed your happiness... for mine…” he reiterated, as if he was trying to put the pieces together.

“Of course,” you breathed.

“Why?” he wondered.

You looked at him as if it were obvious. “I always will, Sebastian.”

Within a split second, his hands were in your hair, his mouth on yours, desperate and wanting. The action took you aback, paralyzing you for a moment, but you quickly realized what was happening and you melted into his touch. Your hands wrapped around his suit, he stepped even closer to you, deepening the kiss, your head tilting back.

Breathless, he broke away from you, his face filled with terror.

“Sebastian... Sebastian, what--”

“I don’t know. I just know I love you too.” He shook his head, uncomprehending of what had just happened as well. Both of you were at a loss for words.

“You...You’re getting married tomorrow,” you tried, stammering.

He shook his head. “No, I’m not,” he said, shaking his head. “Not anymore.” At that, his hands found your hair again, his mouth rediscovering yours.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Forever Tag:

@cocosierra94

@essie1876

@magpiegirl80

@letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked

@iamwarrenspeace

@marvel-imagines-yes-please

@superwholocked527

@missinstantgratification

@thejemersoninferno

@rda1989

@munlis

@thefridgeismybestie

@bubblyanarocks3

@igiveupicantthinkofausername

@kaliforniacoastalteens

@feelmyroarrrr

@kaeling

@friendlyneighbourhoodweirdo

@damalseer

@heyitscam99

@yknott81

@sorryimacrapwriter

@glitterquadricorn

@xxqueenofisolationxx

@little-dis-kaalista-pythonissama

@bittersweetunicorm

Sebastian Stan:

@nedthegay

@lostinspace33

@alwayshave-faith

@elleatrixlestrange

@buenostardissherlock

@lenawiinchester

@the-red-world-of-jess-chibi

@memory-of-a-goldfish

@shamptain-shmerica

@crazybutconfidentaf

@esoltis280

@alwayshave-faith

#broken wedding bells #sebastian stan x reader #Sebastian stan fic #Sebastian stan x reader fic #Sebastian stan

133 notes · View notes

scalpsthem-a-blog · 6 years

Note

❝ I’m not sure I’ll be able to be a mother❞ - also from Dannys mama to Aldo 8|

She told me how she’d always love me.

His family had always advised against him getting with a girl that was foreign or significantly younger than him. Guess his family was right, because now he’s done both, fallen in love, even paid for their wedding, and she was hitting him with this. If he was being honest, he didn’t know how he’d handle it.

But the angels whispered she would leave me.

He fully blames himself as he’s sitting there, trying to keep himself together, but he knew the next step for her would be divorcing and moving back to Scotland. He feels anger. He feels sad. Above all, he feels incompetent. Did she not think he could help her raise the boy? It’s not like she’d be alone.

And my love would soon depart.

He’s made the mistake of falling in love when his love wasn’t welcome. He hates to say it, but he regrets having a child with this woman. She didn’t appreciate his efforts, he was always doing something wrong. But that was okay, because he loved her more than anything in this whole world. She was his world.

O let me lie and ease my sorrow.

And the fact she could-- so heartlessly-- hit him with this on their honeymoon? This was supposed to be their day. They’d already made plans. Yet here they were, in the hotel room, almost nude, at almost six in the morning, staring at each other over their cups of coffee. He couldn’t take this.

And weep beneath that willow tree.

He’s standing up from his seat, fear now striking through him. Was she going to get rid of his son? Put him up for adoption? He couldn’t let that happen. He comes around the table, crouching beside her to rest a hand on the, already quite large, baby bump she had. One more month, and everything would have been fine.

Someday she’ll hear that I am sleeping.

❝ Why can’t ya just.. stay? I can help you raise the boy. He needs both of his parents. Not one or the other. That always fucks kids up. I don’t wanna lose you, please. I can fix whatever I did wrong, I just need you to be here with me. Be here for the boy, please! I need to be here for him, but, but so do you. ❞

Then, o then, then let her think of me.

1 note · View note

cassiopeiathewraith · 7 years

Text

Books you should read because I LOVE THEM

Dedication: For @kissmybruisedknuckles who told me to make this because she’s too lazy to make one lol

1. Strange The Dreamer - Laini Taylor

The dream chooses the dreamer, not the other way around—and Lazlo Strange, war orphan and junior librarian, has always feared that his dream chose poorly. Since he was five years old he’s been obsessed with the mythic lost city of Weep, but it would take someone bolder than he to cross half the world in search of it. Then a stunning opportunity presents itself, in the person of a hero called the Godslayer and a band of legendary warriors, and he has to seize his chance or lose his dream forever.

What happened in Weep two hundred years ago to cut it off from the rest of the world? What exactly did the Godslayer slay that went by the name of god? And what is the mysterious problem he now seeks help in solving?

2. The Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern

The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it, no paper notices plastered on lampposts and billboards. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not. Within these nocturnal black-and-white striped tents awaits an utterly unique, a feast for the senses, where one can get lost in a maze of clouds, meander through a lush garden made of ice, stare in wonderment as the tattooed contortionist folds herself into a small glass box, and become deliciously tipsy from the scents of caramel and cinnamon that waft through the air.

Welcome to Le Cirque des Rêves.

3. Unwind - Neil Shusterman

The Second Civil War was fought over reproductive rights. The chilling resolution: Life is inviolable from the moment of conception until age thirteen. Between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, however, parents can have their child "unwound," whereby all of the child's organs are transplanted into different donors, so life doesn't technically end. Connor is too difficult for his parents to control. Risa, a ward of the state, is not enough to be kept alive. And Lev is a tithe, a child conceived and raised to be unwound. Together, they may have a chance to escape and to survive.

4. Cinder - Marissa Meyer

Sixteen-year-old Cinder is considered a technological mistake by most of society and a burden by her stepmother. Being cyborg does have its benefits, though: Cinder's brain interference has given her an uncanny ability to fix things (robots, hovers, her own malfunctioning parts), making her the best mechanic in New Beijing. This reputation brings Prince Kai himself to her weekly market booth, needing her to repair a broken android before the annual ball. He jokingly calls it "a matter of national security," but Cinder suspects it's more serious than he's letting on.

5. This Savage Song - Victoria Schwab

Kate Harker and August Flynn are the heirs to a divided city—a city where the violence has begun to breed actual monsters. All Kate wants is to be as ruthless as her father, who lets the monsters roam free and makes the humans pay for his protection. All August wants is to be human, as good-hearted as his own father, to play a bigger role in protecting the innocent—but he’s one of the monsters. One who can steal a soul with a simple strain of music. When the chance arises to keep an eye on Kate, who’s just been kicked out of her sixth boarding school and returned home, August jumps at it. But Kate discovers August’s secret, and after a failed assassination attempt the pair must flee for their lives.

6. The Darkest Part of The Forest - Holly Black

Children can have a cruel, absolute sense of justice. Children can kill a monster and feel quite proud of themselves. A girl can look at her brother and believe they’re destined to be a knight and a bard who battle evil. She can believe she’s found the thing she’s been made for.

Hazel lives with her brother, Ben, in the strange town of Fairfold where humans and fae exist side by side. At the center of it all, there is a glass coffin in the woods. It rests right on the ground and in it sleeps a boy with horns on his head and ears as pointed as knives. Hazel and Ben were both in love with him as children. The boy has slept there for generations, never waking.

7. Red Queen - Victoria Aveyard

This is a world divided by blood – red or silver.

The Reds are commoners, ruled by a Silver elite in possession of god-like superpowers. And to Mare Barrow, a seventeen-year-old Red girl from the poverty-stricken Stilts, it seems like nothing will ever change. That is, until she finds herself working in the Silver Palace. Here, surrounded by the people she hates the most, Mare discovers that, despite her red blood, she possesses a deadly power of her own. One that threatens to destroy the balance of power.

8. Daughter of Smoke and Bone - Laini Taylor

In a dark and dusty shop, a devil’s supply of human teeth grows dangerously low. And in the tangled lanes of Prague, a young art student is about to be caught up in a brutal otherworldly war.

Meet Karou. She fills her sketchbooks with monsters that may or may not be real, she’s prone to disappearing on mysterious "errands", she speaks many languages - not all of them human - and her bright blue hair actually grows out of her head that color. Who is she? That is the question that haunts her, and she’s about to find out.

9. Illuminae - Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff

The year is 2575, and two rival megacorporations are at war over a planet that’s little more than an ice-covered speck at the edge of the universe. Too bad nobody thought to warn the people living on it. With enemy fire raining down on them, Kady and Ezra—who are barely even talking to each other—are forced to fight their way onto an evacuating fleet, with an enemy warship in hot pursuit.

BRIEFING NOTE: Told through a fascinating dossier of hacked documents—including emails, schematics, military files, IMs, medical reports, interviews, and more

10. Legend - Marie Lu

What was once the western United States is now home to the Republic, a nation perpetually at war with its neighbors. Born into an elite family in one of the Republic's wealthiest districts, fifteen-year-old June is a prodigy being groomed for success in the Republic's highest military circles. Born into the slums, fifteen-year-old Day is the country's most wanted criminal. But his motives may not be as malicious as they seem.

From very different worlds, June and Day have no reason to cross paths—until the day June's brother, Metias, is murdered and Day becomes the prime suspect. Caught in the ultimate game of cat and mouse, Day is in a race for his family's survival, while June seeks to avenge Metias's death. But in a shocking turn of events, the two uncover the truth of what has really brought them together, and the sinister lengths their country will go to keep its secrets.

11. Angelfall (Penryn and the end of days) - Susan Ee

It's been six weeks since angels of the apocalypse descended to demolish the modern world. Street gangs rule the day while fear and superstition rule the night. When warrior angels fly away with a helpless little girl, her seventeen-year-old sister Penryn will do anything to get her back.

Anything, including making a deal with an enemy angel.

12. Caraval - Stephanie Garber

Remember, it’s only a game…

Scarlett Dragna has never left the tiny island where she and her sister, Tella, live with their powerful, and cruel, father. Now Scarlett’s father has arranged a marriage for her, and Scarlett thinks her dreams of seeing Caraval—the faraway, once-a-year performance where the audience participates in the show—are over.

But this year, Scarlett’s long-dreamt-of invitation finally arrives. With the help of a mysterious sailor, Tella whisks Scarlett away to the show. Only, as soon as they arrive, Tella is kidnapped by Caraval’s mastermind organizer, Legend. It turns out that this season’s Caraval revolves around Tella, and whoever finds her first is the winner.

13. The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer - Michelle Hodkin

Mara Dyer believes life can't get any stranger than waking up in a hospital with no memory of how she got there.

It can.

She believes there must be more to the accident she can't remember that killed her friends and left her strangely unharmed.

There is.

14. An Ember In The Ashes - Sabaa Tahir

Laia is a slave. Elias is a soldier. Neither is free.

Under the Martial Empire, defiance is met with death. Those who do not vow their blood and bodies to the Emperor risk the execution of their loved ones and the destruction of all they hold dear. It is in this brutal world, inspired by ancient Rome, that Laia lives with her grandparents and older brother. The family ekes out an existence in the Empire’s impoverished backstreets. They do not challenge the Empire. They’ve seen what happens to those who do.

15. The Darkest Minds - Alexandra Bracken

When Ruby woke up on her tenth birthday, something about her had changed. Something frightening enough to make her parents lock her in the garage and call the police. Something that got her sent to Thurmond, a brutal government “rehabilitation camp.” She might have survived the mysterious disease that had killed most of America’s children, but she and the others emerged with something far worse: frightening abilities they could not control.

16. The Wrath and The Dawn - Renee Ahdieh

One Life to One Dawn.

In a land ruled by a murderous boy-king, each dawn brings heartache to a new family. Khalid, the eighteen-year-old Caliph of Khorasan, is a monster. Each night he takes a new bride only to have a silk cord wrapped around her throat come morning. When sixteen-year-old Shahrzad's dearest friend falls victim to Khalid, Shahrzad vows vengeance and volunteers to be his next bride. Shahrzad is determined not only to stay alive, but to end the caliph's reign of terror once and for all.

11K notes · View notes

archeolatry · 7 years

Text

Faith

"Right now three things remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love." -- 1 Corinthians 13:13

Words: 2,535 (Part 1 of 3)

Mt. Zion, Kansas

It was more than a case. It was a trial. An epic. A test of heroes.

In the end, it was Sam who found the words. It was Dean who held the Rod of Aaron; whom the angels spoke through, begging permission to be set amongst mankind. And it was through the grace of Chuck that they fell, like flaming comets against a darkened sky, across the four corners of the earth. It was also no coincidence that Castiel was willed to the very spot where the rod was planted, now a new, green almond tree rooted in the soil. The only tree in a ruined field of wheat.

His manifestation surprised the brothers. Sam blinked his amazement with his name upon his lips. “Cas?”

Dean--breathless but alive--only stared at Castiel under his eyelashes.

The wind blew gently, rippling through the remaining wheat.

“I suppose I have you to thank for this.”

Castiel whirled around to see Chuck, his arms folded over his chest, resplendent in his divine hoodie and holey jeans.

He had no word for this man--this manifestation. When in this form he could not bring himself to call him Chuck; yet he could not find the devotion in his heart to call him Father. Instead, he merely offered his honest answer.

“No. Those angels made their own choice.” His tongue was thick in his mouth, now that he was on the mortal plane. “They exercised their free will.”

“And is that what you taught them, when you returned to Heaven?”

“No,” Castiel shook his head. “I did not force any idea upon them that they themselves did not harbor. I provided counsel, and each made their decision on their own.” He met eyes with Chuck. “They did not need to be told, only shown the way.”

“They did not need to be told,” Chuck parroted, “only shown the way.” A laugh rippled through his slim frame. “Oh, Castiel...”

The blithe, carefree look on Chuck’s face clenched all their stomachs; they braced for divine wrath.

“They did not need to be told, only shown the way,” Chuck repeated, ruminating on the words. “That’s... You know, if I tried to boil down the reason I left into one sentence, that would be it?” He smacked his palm to his forehead. “Man, I wrote how many of those me-damn Supernatural books and I couldn’t come up with one good theme for the whole of my creation? And it just falls out of your mouth.” Chuck stroked his beard. “Do you mind if I use that line?”

A shared, incredulous look glanced from brother to brother, to angel, and back again. Castiel shook his head No.

“I knew there was a reason you were my favorite.” Castiel’s heart fell into his gut. “You get it.”

Castiel’s mouth was suddenly stuffed with cotton, with a brain to match. “Excuse me?”

“Humanity. You get it. The double-edged sword of love. That all the really delicious food is terrible for you. The irony of free will--the apple, the garden, the whole thing.” Chuck huffed softly. “So many incorrect interpretations...Raphael, Naomi, Metatron... Man, if I had just given you the reins I could have saved myself a lot of hassle.”

“You’re a dick, you know that?” Dean growled. Cas and Sam’s eyebrows shot up in tandem.

“Yeah, I know,” Chuck sighed. “But I’m here to make amends.” He stepped forward, his Converse crunching on the stalks of fallen wheat underneath. “Castiel. You are, without doubt, one of my finest creations. You have learned from every mistake. You...” he searched for the words, “have grown a capacity for forgiveness that astounds even me. And yet I see in your heart that you are humble.” He reached out to touch Castiel’s left shoulder. “Come back with me. Be my second in command, as Raphael was before you.”

“An archangel?” he whispered.

A small, mewling sound came from Dean. “Cas?”

Chuck ignored him. “I could use someone like you, Castiel. Someone who has seen the world I’ve made from every angle. Someone who loves humanity as I do.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Sam muttered under his breath.

Castiel gazed at Chuck, eyes squinted, mouth agape. “But what would I do?”

“Answer prayers. Perform miracles. Heck, you can pop up on burnt tortillas and tree stumps if that’s your thing.” He shrugged a divine shrug. “I realize that I haven’t been the Father I could have--should have been. I’d like to fix that.” Chuck clapped Castiel on the forearm. “Think of it as our family business.”

An petulant little groan came from Dean’s direction.

Castiel cocked an eyebrow; tilted his head. “So...together we’ll rule the galaxy as Father and son?”

Sam huffed his amusement. Castiel making an Empire Strikes Back reference. He was more human than he gave himself credit for.

“Exactly. But with no lightsabers. The world isn’t ready for those yet.”

Castiel glanced at Sam, but stared at Dean, whose bright green eyes were wide and wet.

He turned to face Chuck again. “In a case like this, I believe, I am supposed to express my thanks, and to acknowledge that I serve at your pleasure.” He hung his head defeatedly, eyes clenched, choking back his urge to weep. “Use me but as your instrument. I will oblige.”

From behind him, Castiel could feel Dean’s heart shattering. Sam was biting hard at the inside of his cheek.

“Or...” Chuck began again.

All three heads shot up to face Him.

“Or?” Dean whimpered.

“Or you could go home,” Chuck said indifferently. “Go back to your chosen family. To the man you love. Maybe go see the Grand Canyon.” His eyes lit up. “Oh, and have some deep-fried Oreos! Those things are amazing. You humans...” He laughed in the direction of Sam and Dean, who failed to see any humor. “I give you fire and you use it to deep fry everything. Oh, Me...”

Castiel dragged Chuck back to the conversation. “You’re offering me humanity?”

“That’s right. The chance to live a normal, happy, mortal life, if you so choose. I’ll even throw in a human soul.” He looked down his nose at Castiel. “But if you choose humanity, you will never again be welcomed into the Host of Heaven.”

Cas’ eyes grew wide.

“The irony of Free Will, Castiel,” he said with a half-shrug. “Everything comes at a price.”

He cast his gaze again to Dean, whose heart he could hear from six feet away; it was beating a steady tattoo inside his chest. The tears were now spilling from his eyes. Dean had forgotten how to breathe.

Cas turned to face Chuck. “Would...would I be fallen, like Lucifer?”

“Naah,” Chuck replied. “Think of it as an Honorable Discharge after millennia of service. Although,” he added, with a jaunt of his eyebrows, “you’ll have to turn in your badge and gun.”

Cas palmed the heft of the angel blade up his sleeve. Surrendering the blade itself was easy, but the loss of that power--that purpose...

He had been, at times, a ‘good’ angel. Did as he was told, answered prayers when he could. But with no grace, no angel radio, no ‘mojo’ (as Dean called it)...could he be a good human? Would he know how?

“Is there any guarantee I’ll be sent to Heaven” --the words sounded strange in his mouth even as he said them-- “when I die?”

Chuck shook his head. “I can’t tell you that, Castiel. Part of being human not knowing how the story ends.” A coy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “All I can do is put in a good word with Saint Peter.”

A sigh racked Castiel’s entire body. He looked at Chuck. God. He Who Must Be Obeyed. The distant father he’d never known made flesh and blood before him. He who had put his pieces back together so many times he couldn’t tell if it was reward or punishment.

And Dean. Dean, whose tears were now rolling down his cheeks. Dean, whose raw humanity made him care more about mankind than he had in thousands and thousands of years. The Great Wall of China, the Magna Carta, sending men to the moon...? All party tricks in comparison to Dean Winchester.

Could he survive as a human again? What if he put himself in harm’s way and Dean could not protect him? What if his own mortal body was lost? To cancer, or in a car wreck? He had brought so much toil and travail upon Dean already... But which would hurt more: to risk loving Dean and losing him, or to lose him for all time?

Chuck’s voice cut through his reverie. “Castiel...?”

He pointed at Dean, his hand trembling.“Him.” Cas’ own eyes were watering. “I choose him.”

A deep, pained breath shuddered through Dean. He scrambled foot over foot to close the space between them. And before Cas could speak a single word, Dean cupped his face in both hands and kissed him.

It was gentler than Cas would have thought; so strong was the longing in Dean’s heart that he was half-expecting to be knocked over. It was striking only in the purity of its joy. Castiel found himself reciprocating: pushing back against Dean’s mouth, prying it open, meeting tongue to tongue in an unabashed display of need. Every movement, every touch, was holy.

When they Dean pulled away for air, Castiel had found that his hands had migrated to Dean’s waist. They rested on his hipbones comfortably. Dean’s hand had found the nape of Cas’ neck, stroking the soft, fine hairs there. Foreheads pressed together, they exchanged heavy breaths.

“I will age, Dean. I--”

“I don’t care.”

“I will have no celestial power. I can’t help you or heal you.”

“I don’t care,” he repeated, his voice thin and quaking. “Just as long as you never leave me again.” His lips brushed Cas’ softly. Chastely.

‘In front of God and everybody,’ Cas mused.

He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, whose mouth was parted in awe, but whose eyes were bright with gladness; whose soul was brimming with contentment. And at Chuck, who was smiling beatifically.

“I’ve known all along, Castiel,” he said wistfully. “I just needed to hear you say it.” He nodded at Dean, whose tears rolled hotly down his cheeks. “I think he did, too.”

Chuck raised a hand, and, with an air of finality, snapped his fingers. Castiel crumpled in Dean’s arms.

Dean struggled to support the sudden dead weight, helping Castiel onto his knees as their legs gave out. “Cas!?” He glared at Chuck with daggers in his eyes. “You son of a...”

Dean was set to rush Chuck when Castiel let out a sudden cry. A set of wings sprouted from Castiel’s back, tearing the trench coat to ribbons. They unfurled themselves as if they were living things, independent of the being beneath them.

Dean had expected Cas’ wings to be white, like an angel’s wings were ‘supposed’ to be. Instead, the wings that spread grandly away from him were raven black. Each must have been ten feet from end to end. Dean felt the cool of the tears on his cheek as they flapped, making the familiar whup-whuff sound he had heard a thousand times.

Castiel’s head head shot back violently enough to cause whiplash. Dean stumbled backward in fear and confusion--white light radiated from Cas’ eyes and mouth. A fresh set of tears burst forth, and from the depths of his soul came a howl of anguish: “CAS!”

A long column of light descended from the sky, as if reaching down to join Castiel’s own. His body began to drift off the ground, like a balloon pulling at its tether in a wind. He was otherwise motionless, his hands spread to his sides, his mouth still gaping--still emanating that white light.

(Dean would later describe the whole ordeal as ‘some real X-Files shit’. At that moment, he was too overwhelmed to think.)

Though it was blinding, Dean could not look away from the light. Cas’ wings shone now--not merely black, but swirling with color like oil slick, limned in deep jewel shades of sapphire, amethyst, and emerald. Then, almost as swiftly as they appeared, they began to fade; to become one with the light. To simply scatter in the updraft like a million dandelion seeds, until there was nothing left.

It was then that Cas started to glow.

Ice-blue tendrils of light could be seen winding through his arteries, making him luminescent beneath his clothes. Each fingertip was a beacon, each vein a long highway seen from the air. He was light, through and through.

It snaked through him, following the pulmonary paths and settling into Castiel’s chest--no, his heart--which beat visibly under his flesh. One beat, two beats, three beats before fading. Settling.

The light--the all-knowing, benevolent light--dimmed until it was little more than a street lamp. But the light set Castiel down gently on his feet, leaving him to teeter back into Dean’s arms.

Dean gathered him close, loose limbs and rumpled coat and all. It wasn’t until the fabric brushed his face that he realized how ugly and snottily he had cried; it stuck to his face as he buried it in Cas’ neck. Cas was no longer dead weight, but he was silent and still. The light was gone.

He wound an arm around Cas’ back, bracing him underneath his shoulders. Shifting the coat away from his Castiel’s chest, Dean placed a hand over the former angel’s heart, right where he had seen the glow. At first, there was nothing under his fingertips. He mashed his palm to the spot, hoping to feel something--anything.

There. Under his palm, he felt it. Weak, yes, but unmistakably there. Dean trembled in relief.

It grew palpably stronger under his touch.

Dean gathered Castiel’s shirt in a handful, pressing him closer, until Castiel’s head fell against his shoulder. And, in what was no small miracle, Dean felt the gentle fall of Castiel’s breath on his neck.

Castiel stumbled to gain footing, as if he had woken from a standing sleep.

“I got you, Cas.” Dean’s voice was sandpaper. “I got you.”

Castiel’s legs were his own again, and his arms found their strength once more. His hands curled around the length of Dean’s forearm. With his joints only more solid than gelatin, Castiel took a half-step back.

Castiel looked older, somehow, than he did just moments before. There were bags under his eyes, and his usual five-’o-clock-shadow had taken on a tinge of grey. But he was still real; still in Dean’s arms.

Cas could remember the first time he saw Dean’s face. Not his soul, but his true face--freckles, stubble, scars. There were crow’s feet now, and laugh lines. But Cas could still see into his soul, simply by looking deep into those green eyes.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean smiled wanly, trying his best to not cry again. He held out his hands, pressing Castiel’s into his, interlocking their fingers together.

“Let’s go home.”

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #destiel #destiel fanfic #deancas #deancas fanfic #team free will #first kiss #dean/cas first kiss #castiel transformation #human!cas #fluff and angst #chuck ships it

75 notes · View notes

wen-kexing-apologist · 7 years

Text

What It Takes to Survive

Archive of Our Own: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12013776

There it was, pain that ripped, and twisted, and tore at Alec’s insides, at his body, his mind, his soul. The rune burned on his skin, so hot Alec wanted to claw at it, to rip the flesh from his body, so the agony might ease. His heart stopping, pounding erratically, the stabbing, pulsating pain that settled there. There was a tightness in his throat, so taught it brought tears to his eyes, it turned his vision black. This is a fate worse than death Alec thought to himself, as he felt his legs give way underneath him, and screams and sobs joined together and erupted from his throat. There it was, a pain he had never expected to feel, the severing of his soul to Jace’s. There had been broken bones, and broken hearts, and burns from training mats, and etched runes, but there had never been a suffering as great as this, as the pain faded, and an emptiness settled in Alec’s chest. He would have lost himself in the pain and in the loneliness if not for the nimble fingers, grasping tightly to his shoulder, as it was Alec’s whole world had changed, and he was fighting with everything he had to remember which way was up.

“I-I can’t feel him,” Alec panted, panic wrapping its suffocating tendrils around his heart “He’s dead,” It was as if all the air in the room had disappeared, Magnus and Isabelle simultaneously sucking in a surprised breath, before the ops center went dead silent. Izzy’s shoulders slumped in defeat, Magnus’ hands slipped from Alec’s shoulders in shock, landing with a soft thud in his lap.

Alec hadn’t realized how much Magnus’ touch had been grounding him. As the heat and the pressure from Magnus’ hands fell away, the room was plunged into ice. It was cold, so cold Alec began to shiver, to tremble where he sat. It was as if a noose had been pulled tight around his neck, issuing a final death sentence. He couldn’t catch his breath, the pain too much for him to bear, his body went numb.

It did not take long for Magnus to recover from the news, he had lost too many people to succumb to grief for very long. And there was so much he had to do now, to ensure the Downworld’s survival. Now that Jace had fallen, as so many had before him, to Valentine and his need for genocide.

“Alexander, we have to go,” resolve woven in his voice. Determination in his eyes.

Alec could feel Magnus there, his presence and his soul like a magnet to hi own. But for once, it couldn’t save him. Alec’s arms wrapped around himself as he rocked himself rapidly back and forth, his hands grabbing at the spot where moments ago his Parabatai Rune had sat proudly on his skin. “I can’t, I can’t,” he managed between shaky, rapid breaths, tears he couldn’t control falling down his face.

“Alexander, look at me,” Magnus wrapped his fingers on Alec’s wrist, and for a moment Alec felt like he could breathe again, but the guilt of everything he had done to Magnus, made his flesh burned where he had touched him, and Alec couldn’t stop the knee-jerk reaction as he wrenched his arm from Magnus’ grip. “Alexander,” and there was a seriousness to Magnus tone now that Alec had never heard before. “Look at me, right now,” his tone left no room for argument, left Alec helpless to do anything but obey. Alec thought it would be impossible to break his heart any further than it had been as he felt Jace’s life slip away. But the pain and the calmness in Magnus’ eyes, like he was being torn apart inside, like he was scared, like Alec was a wild animal that could attack at any moment and Magnus was trying to hide his true feelings behind a mask, to settle a peace in Alec’s chest long enough to get him to listen.

Magnus could hardly bear to see how lost Alec looked, as his hazel eyes connected with Magnus’ brown glamor. Magnus held out an arm, ring-adorned fingers reaching out towards Alec’s trembling body. “Take my hand,” he said calmly, the briefest hint of a smile on his face as Alec entwined their fingers. “Okay, now breathe with me, Alexander,” Magnus guided Alec through his breathing, trying with everything he had to calm the panic that was taking over Alec’s body. Alec closed his eyes, still rocking, still grasping desperately on to Magnus’ hand. Magnus took the opportunity to pulse magic through Alec’s veins, to let its calming influence seep deep into his bones, numb the pain, slow the heart, allow Alec some time to focus, to breathe. Magnus hated to do it, he hated to use magic on people, especially when it played with emotions, but the matter at hand was too pressing, and the sooner Alec could come down from the shock of losing a part of himself, the more time they had to stop Valentine from destroying the Downworld, now that their last hope had been lost to the Angel.

“We have to go,” Magnus said, when Alec finally stilled, when the haze dissolved from his eyes, when he finally seemed to return to the world. “We have to stop Valentine,”

“I-“ the world came out strangled and thick “I can’t,”

“Yes you can,” Magnus abandoned kneeling, in favor of sitting cross legged on the cold, hard tiles of the Ops Center floor. “You have to, for him, for Jace. You have to play the soldier now, for just a few more hours, and then you can mourn. But if the worst has happened, if Jace is truly dead, then Clary is in trouble too and we have to help her before it’s too late. And if it is, then we need to stop Valentine ourselves, or else their sacrifice will have been in vain because there will be no one left to set their souls free. No one left to weep for them. No one left to bury them. Jace and Clary deserve more than to be left out there, alone in the woods, to waste away into nothing,”

“Magnus,” Alec sobbed, and it ripped Magnus’ heart right out of his chest. “I can’t,”

“Yes you can, you can and you will. Because you are Alexander Gideon Lightwood. You are not only the bravest man I have ever known, you are the strongest. And you know if Jace is truly dead, you need to bring him home. You need to lay him to rest in the City of Bones with the family he didn’t get to know. You need to get him back, and keep him away from Valentine. And you need to save me, Alexander. You need to save us all.” Magnus let the mask fall away, overwhelming Alec with a sudden wave of vulnerability and fear. Of complete and utter terror. “Izzy will be right there. I will be right there,”

“No, Magnus,” anxiety bubbling back up in Alec’s throat “You can’t. You need to go to the Seelie realm, you need to get to safety. I can-.” But he can’t bring himself to say it, even if it’s true. Because Magnus doesn’t want to be that anymore, because Magnus is still angry at him. Because Magnus may still love him, but he is completely unaware of how madly and deeply Alec has fallen for him. Because he doesn’t know that Magnus is the only thing keeping him sane right now. That the hand they still have linked together is the only thing that grounds him. That makes him remember there are still things worth fighting for. That there is still a battle to be won. That he has to keep fighting, play through the pain. That he can scream, and cry, and punch holes into the walls until his fists bleed, later. That he can’t live without Magnus, even if Magnus has decided to live without him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Magnus says, and it almost echoes this morning, when he had collapsed in the sand, when he had drained all of his magic to help the Shadowhunters again, even though he would get nothing out of it, again. When they had used him as a warlock, instead of treating him like a human being, again. And it almost puts hope in his heart, that maybe Magnus means more than just the words that pass his lips. But that’s too much to wish for right now, that Magnus might forgive Alec for betraying his trust, for lying. It’s a hope he needs to stitch himself back together again.

Alec sets his jaw, he pushes himself off the ground, pulling Magnus with him. He lets go of Magnus’ hand, or he tries to, but the mere thought of losing that point of contact nearly sends his head spiraling right back into a pit of despair, and isolation. He expects the worst when Magnus' fingers slide away from his, of their own accord, but he’s close enough to smell the sandalwood shampoo, to see the fading sunlight gleam off the rings on his fingers, to feel the static energy of Magnus’ magic as it sparks to life in his hands, and it’s enough, it’s enough to keep Alec on his feet.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of blinding, radiant light, fear, panic, and shock at finding Jace alive and breathing, to see the parabatai rune sitting darkly against his skin, to feel Jace, solid and warm against his chest. Of last minute invitations to the Hunters Moon bar, to celebrations of life and love, and things that Alec never thought he would get to have. There is not enough time to breathe, let alone process the trauma, the fear, the sadness. But there is enough time for Alec to know that he has to fix whatever he broke between himself and Magnus. Because he knows, although his soul had been twisted, and broken, and torn, although a hole had been burned into his heart at the same time his rune had been burned away, although his had felt the world slip out from underneath him, that he would have been lost to the tides, to the pain, and the grief, if Magnus had not been there to bring him home. He would have died, right then and there, on the floor of the Ops Room, with only Isabelle to watch the life fade from his eyes, if Magnus’ hands had not been pressed against his back, if the warmth of Magnus’ body had not found it’s way into his bones. And if Alec has learned one thing in all of this, it is what it takes to survive. And what it takes, is Magnus Bane, loving him unconditionally. Magnus Bane, trusting him although he had no reason too. Magnus Bane, fighting for him, even when he thought all hope was lost. Magnus Bane, still bruised and angry from Alec’s betrayal, sitting next to him on the floor, holding his hand, wiping away his tears, filling his body with light and comfort and warmth until Alec could find the strength to fight back against the agony that had wrapped it’s slimy fingers around his soul.

Alec catches a glimpse of Magnus, leaning against a wall, martini glass in his hands, exhaustion in his shoulders, sadness in the setting of his jaw. And Alec know there is no way in Hell he is giving up on them that easily. All the excitement and noise in the bar fades away as he approaches, until there is nothing left but silence and the image of his heart and soul leaning there against the wall.

#shadowhunters #shadowhunters fic #malec #malec fic #malec fanfiction #magnus bane #alec lightwood #alexander lightwood #shadowhunters 2x20 #sh #sh s2 #sh season 2b #shadowhunters fanfiction

8 notes · View notes

kap2448 · 7 years

Text

Vash the Stampede’s Words of Wisdom

Episode 2 Truth of Mistake "There's something that cannot be expressed in words, human emotion. Emotions of the heart can't be just tucked away in a closet. There's a way to know the emotions. Look into the eyes. The girl lied to me, and I believed her. The gentleman lied to me, when I trusted him, but the moment I looked into his eyes the angel of destiny began to unravel the truth. Just look into their eyes. There is only one truth." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 3 Peace Maker "Those who make mistakes blame themselves and close their hearts. It's impossible to fix the mistake. Men can't return to the past. That's why they drink. Lushes, drunks, sliding alcohol down their throats to dilute the memories that can't be forgotten. Frank Marlon, the gunsmith, does nothing but drink & he questions the glass after it's empty. ‘Am I wrong?’ ‘Was I wrong?’" --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 4 Love & Peace "A past that can't be forgotten & can't be buried. A past that can't even be shaken for just a little time. The sentiment deep inside each of their hearts is strong & equal, for beloved parents & for a beloved daughter. Two men can only find the answer from behind their triggers. The moment the sentimental bullets flew towards each other the men stood silent, yet were weeping. The past, enslaves..." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 5 Hard Puncher "Whenever something is gained, something is always lost. It's difficult to live after something like that. What is lost will never return. Important things, irreplaceable things, but what is needed to keep those things is in the firm will packed into one bullet. Man knows, he knows nothing will begin unless he speaks, & that nothing will change, unless he moves." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 6 Lost July "The longer one holds on to a memory, the longer one lives in the past. The deeper the memory they hold onto, the more beautiful the past will become. The beautiful memories will eventually turn into hate. Even if they look ahead, they lose the ability to walk. As long as the heavy chain called revenge continues to bind the heart, the tears of sadness will continue to flow." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 7 B.D.N "The tragedy endlessly repeated in order to fulfill desires. The lust for conquest, making people bend to your will, a thrill intense enough to make you shudder. There's a man who is a slave to that ecstasy. The leader of the Bad Lads, a man who shines: Brilliant Dynamites Neon. The sandsteamer will shake at the moment the huge dynamos on each of his shoulders start to spark. In the pitch black darkness, the gruesome party begins." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 8 And Between the Wasteland and Sky....... "People who sin say this, ‘That they had to, to survive.’ People who sin say this, ‘It's too late now to stop.’ The shadow called sin dogs them steadily from behind, silently without a word. Remorse & agony are repeated only to end up at despair in the end, but the sinners just don't know that if they'd only turn around there's a light there, a light which keeps shining on them ever so lonely. A light that will never fade." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 9 Murder Machine "I met a lone man in the desert, a traveling priest, Nicholas D. Wolfwood. He smiled and then he told me that I'm a troubled man. Faced with his all seeing smile there was nothing I could say in my defense. Did I meet this man because I was destined to or, was it simply by a small jest of God? The man's name is Nicholas D. Wolfwood, a traveling priest I met in the desert." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 10 Quick Draw "I think I'd like to do something nice for somebody. I think it's good if you smile at someone, and they smile in return. Voluntary love encourages people to create a sense of friendliness. Love that is unconditional gives us respect as people, however, it's wrong to force love, to try to keep it alive. If the strain goes on eventually it will bloom into the flower called Lie. The deceptively thorny flower that hurts people." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 11 Escape From Pain "A choice between two things. The forked road, a crossroad, where men given life must take in order to stay alive. Whichever end they live on, they lose something. Whichever end they live on, they are unable to find happiness, but are there really only two paths to a forked road? No, there are infinite paths we must take. There is more than one path. There is more than one path to the future." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 12 Diablo "All people have a sanctuary which must never be touched. A scar of sadness which must never be tred upon. The cooperation formed by the living to realize a dream or achieve an ideal. The man with the white coat told me in a quiet voice that he had finally found me, that he wanted my life. That man smiled a smile deeper than darkness. Legato Bluesummers, a man fascinated by death, only spoke quietly." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 14 Little Arcadia "If you only face forward, there is something you will miss seeing. It is a virtue to devote one's self to something, firmly believing in one's own ideals. But that does not mean it's all right to belittle the ideals or feelings of others. If you lead such a busy life, & you don't realize how your parents feel, it's only for self satisfaction. It's all right to stop every now & again. If you want a moments rest, if you want to feel what other people feel." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 15 Demon's Eye "People judge people. Lives are being cut short because of someone's personal logic. Mothers, fathers, friends... their entire paths instantly vanish into thin air. The question is, should this take place at the whim of one individual? A beautiful woman stood before the corpses of the Roderick thieves. She told me that she was merely discarding some useless garbage. Dominique the Cyclops told me to just think of it as 'Spring cleaning'." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 16 Fifth Moon "A fragment of memory lost in the gap between life & death. Is it something which will point the way towards spiritual awareness? The silver metallic gun crushes and my right arm metamorphosises. My past, my people, my mother... the moment I was reunited with everything I ever protected, the light took Augusta. The Humanoid Typhoon, the $$60 billion man, Vash the Stampede. This is the beginning of my past. This is the end of my journey." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 17 Rem Savrem "Rem told me, that someone she loved died on Earth. She told me she boarded this ship so she could start over. What does it feel like to have someone you love die? I tried thinking of what it would be like if Rem died. When I did, hot water came out of my eyes & it wouldn't stop for a long time. Rem, I'll always be there for you. I won't leave you alone." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 18 Goodbye For Now "Let us regard the fifth moon, shining down upon us from the sky, stained red with blood. And let us remember his name, his legend. To do so, you only need to look up. Like it or not, his legend is chiseled into the fifth moon, a permanent etching from a terrible past. The legend of Vash the Stampede, chiseled, forever, & then the time comes... you only need to tell of the tracks, which lead to the future." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 19 Hang Fire "Strong will can stir the heart, but a will too strong can cut off the heart's visibility. The sorrow of a man bereaved of his family turns into hate, which eventually metamorphosises into the intent to kill. The man's finger reaches for the trigger. Sins change people. Sin begets sin, but I, I still want to believe. I still want to believe in the heart. The heart that feels the sin." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 20 Flying Ship "In times of hardship, in times of sadness, there's a place a traveler can let his mind return to: home. I still don't know what kind of a past the traveler abandoned when he left his home behind. I still don't know what kind of sorrow he bears. But the traveler can keep walking forward because he has something which sustains him... a place which accepts him. He can walk forward, step by careful step." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 21 Out of Time "There is something you can't give up. There is something you want to protect. There is a time you must take a stand, no matter what kind of pain awaits us. The man clad in the red coat took up his gun once again in order to stop the sadness, in order to stop the hate. I keep the word of the red geranium, which I was taught so long ago. I keep the courage and determination deep in my heart." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 22 Alternative "Self protection: the means of protecting one's self. People expose the weaknesses which pain them, & thus form a group. Before they know it they begin to exclude those who are not one of them, but what becomes of those who have been excluded? I smiled at the children who lived in a tight group in their rickety house. Sure, let's live today, let's live tomorrow, & let's live the day after that, even if it means living in eternal pain." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 23 Paradise "To realize a mistake, to not lie, to love one another, to not kill. Those are very simple things, but these times won't allow for them. There is no green on this planet, even though we want it, & want it so badly. A place where we can live peaceful days with no wars, nor stealing, a sacred place, where people can live as people. Yes there, that place is called..." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 24 Sin "Repeated tragedies, repeated pain, the wishes of man are so strong & yet so frail and weak. To live, to stay alive, who would have known survival was this hard...this painful? I must choose. I must make the choice, in the moment that intertwines life & death. Can I choose to remain a human?" --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 25 Live Through "I was dreaming Rem. Everything was so horribly dry, there on that planet, even people's hearts. As I watched the people who lived there from far away, I kept wondering why they went on living, how they kept on living. Rem, listen to me Rem. I did a bad thing. I did a bad thing. Tell me? What should I do?" --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun) Episode 26 Under the Sky So Blue "That day, that time, 130 years ago we were born, weren't we? There was nothing but peaceful days, & Rem was always close behind us. But our disagreeing thoughts changed each of our ways of life, didn't they? I don't regret it. I will vow once again not to kill, not to betray, but to find happiness, to talk about my dreams, because the ticket to the future is always blank." --- Vash the Stampede (Trigun)

#Trigun #Vash the Stampede

89 notes · View notes