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icyharrington · 4 years

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Is It Wrong?- THE PREQUEL- Part 1 (Michael Langdon X Reader)

so basically,,,, i took my adhd meds for class this morning, and then suddenly got super inspired to write this, so i figured i couldnt waste the focus and wrote this whole ass thing in a few hours. this is the first part of a 3-part prequel series, which details the events leading up to the first part of iiw! just a whole lot more teen angst, drama, fuckboy michael, and more... there isn’t going to be any SMUT smut for obvious reasons, but in a future part there is going to be some dirty stuff ;) anyway i know this will prob flop but this is the first full length fic i’ve written in months and i had a lot of fun writing it, so ima post regardless ^__^

plot: things are turning upside for you now that the biggest fuckboy in school, michael langdon, is about to become your stepbrother. if you think shit is crazy now, wait til you find out that this is just the prequel 😏

warnings: underage drinking, talk of sexual shit, teen angst, sexual tension, taboo relationships

wc: 4.2k

It wasn’t like you didn’t want your dad to be happy.

You did, of course you did.

You’d seen him, engulfed in his loneliness, floating from day to listless day like some kind of cheesy Victorian spectre. Too many times you’d found him alone at night, one hand cradling a glass of sewer-brown liquor, the other thumbing through worn photo albums extracted from dust-ridden shelves in the living room. You hadn’t known your mother well- she’d died back when you were still in diapers, but what you did know was that she’d been a vibrant light in your father’s world that had been unjustly snuffed out in its prime. He was a good father to you, and you knew you made him happy despite the dull ache ever-present in his heart, but it was evident that deep down he craved a companionship you could never provide.

So of course you were glad when he met Miriam. Of course you were glad when you’d seen his beaming smile, sharing the news, with the giddiness of a teenage girl in love, that he’d found somebody. He was practically glowing, that night he’d gone out for their first date. You’d known it’d been special to him, because he’d shelled out a few hundred to treat them both to a fancy dinner; he’d even gotten her a bouquet of flowers on the drive there.

You hadn’t said anything when he’d gushed to you the next day about how he’d found the one, despite having known her for only a week; sure, he was rushing into things, but at least he was happy! And that was all you wanted- for him to be happy.

That was why you were especially crushed when you finally met Miriam’s teenage son, whom your father had briefly mentioned with a passing “he goes to your high school, maybe you know him”.

There were so many boys at your school that it was impossible to guess who your potential stepbrother might be. The prospect that you might know him didn’t bother you too much, though you did think it might be a little awkward upon first meeting, but really what did it matter? A little bit of teenage shyness was a small price to pay for your father’s newfound happiness.

That is, until you met him.

So really, it wasn’t like you didn’t want your dad to be happy.

That wasn’t the case at all.

You just really, really, wished he’d fallen in love with anyone other than the mother of Michael fucking Langdon.

ii.

“Oh, you’re so pretty,” Miriam gushed over a glass of Chardonnay, which had already been defaced with aubergine lip prints around the golden rim. “Gosh, I just wish I had your hair. Mine was fried from years of coloring, so I just chopped it all off!”

You smiled sweetly, observing your father’s glimmering eyes as he hung onto every word that rolled off her tongue, menus still stacked neatly in the middle of the table as you awaited the fourth and final guest. The three of you had been there for fifteen minutes already, and still her son had not arrived.

I guess his study session is running late, she’d explained, after seeing your furrowed brows at her lack of accompaniment. It was the first time you were meeting your father’s new love interest and her son, and you were rapidly growing more and more anxious in anticipation of the big reveal.

Studying, you’d thought, racking your brain. So maybe he’s one of the nerdy teacher’s pet types? You could certainly live with that; there were a great deal of others you could think of who would be far worse to potentially become step-siblings with.

“Thanks, Ms… Mead, did you say it was?”

You weren’t sure you knew of any boys whose last name was Mead; he definitely had to be someone you hardly knew.

“Oh, honey, call me Miriam,” she said warmly, and you nodded, unsure of what to say next.

Miriam was certainly not what you’d imagined your father’s girlfriend to be like, not that you cared either way; she sported short, dark hair with vampy makeup, clad in all black with a tasteful leather jacket to match. She was also a bit older than you’d anticipated, with fine lines adorning her rounded face, but again, none of that mattered to you at all. She seemed perfectly sweet, and you had no complaints about her thus far.

“Okay, Miriam,” you said, feeling somewhat peculiar addressing an adult by their first name, “so, remind me, how’d you guys meet again?”

“Well, it’s a funny story, really,” Miriam chuckled, plucking a dinner roll from the woven basket across from her and dropping it onto her plate. Her dark eyes shifted from you to your father, poising an impeccably groomed raven brow. “Should you tell it, or should I?”

“Oh, you should, definitely,” your father said, sipping his wine.

“Okay, okay. Well, we were in the meat section at the grocery store when we both reached for the last steak on sale. So I looked at him, and I told him- oh my, this is embarrassing- (your dad’s name), you finish!”

Your father looked like he was about to bust out into laughter, and, suppressing a snort, he blurted, “she said she’d cut off my hands if I took it!”

Immediately after the words left his lips, the two fell into boisterous hysterics that ushered forward a few disapproving glances from the stuffy rich assholes at the next table over, and you couldn’t help but laugh a little yourself. Well… she definitely was a character, but as long as your father was being kept entertained…

“Hey mom,” came a sudden, inappropriately loud male voice from behind you, so out of place that you nearly jumped from your seat. “I was helping Dan with the world war three chapter in our textbook, he sucks at geography shit.”

The voice’s owner revealed himself as a tall, blond boy, who promptly slid into the empty chair beside you, chiseled face slightly obscured by the deep shadows resulting from the dimness of the restaurant’s ambient lighting.

This was, indeed, somebody that you knew, and you blinked twice to be sure that your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you.

It took you a few seconds to register the direness of the situation at hand, but once the thought processed in your mind, you about descended into an out-of-body experience.

This couldn’t be.

No way.

No motherfucking way.

You’d never been all too much of a religious person, but in that moment, you found yourself silently begging whatever higher power was out there that this was all just some sick, cosmic prank.

The boy turned his head to give you a good, uncomfortably long look, stupidly perfect mouth twisting into an amused sideways grin, and then he spoke. “Ohh shit, (y/n)? (Y/n) (y/l/n)?”

He spoke your name like it was a punchline, tongue darting out to lick his teeth like a lizard about to gobble up some poor, helpless cricket as you sat there with your jaw unhinged. You were at a loss for words, or at least almost, managing to croak out a pathetic, puny, “Michael.”

“Oh, good! You guys know each other already!” Miriam exclaimed, seemingly oblivious to the complete and utter horror that had just about finished swallowing you whole.

Michael let out a snort, roughly translating to ‘uhh, yeah, not that well… I’d never be caught dead hanging around with someone like (y/n)’, and you grimaced. “Yeah, a little bit. You were in math class with me last year, right?”

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to regain your composure for fear of feeding into this complete asshole’s already massive ego. Yeah, in fact, you had been in math class with him last year, and, not-so-coincidentally, that very same class had turned out to be the one you dreaded the most.

Michael Langdon was the most insufferable, mind-numbing, self-obsessed asshole that you’d ever had the displeasure of knowing; he was easily the most popular boy in the grade, and it was clear he was fully aware of his own high school bullshit prestige. He was loud, cocky and obnoxious; the type of fuckboy- yes, you knew the word fuckboy was overplayed, but in this case there was no other way to describe him- who’d loudly brag about his sexual escapades in the middle of the hallway to his flock of adoring fuckboy minions. He was an I-don’t-do-relationships type, a U-up-text-at-3am type, a Yo-dude-did-you-see-Zoe-Benson’s-tits-today type, a bro-I’m-so-fucking-baked-right-now type. Just the sound of his voice from across a crowded hallway was enough to make you physically recoil. And the worst part?

Every-fucking-body loved him.

Your complaints about him during lunch would only result in your friends cooing dreamily, as though he were some kind of sympathetic creature that needed babying: But he’s so cute, they’d say, twirling locks of their hair and fiddling with their bracelets. I’m sure he’s not that bad.

But he was that bad, and if they took off their shit-stained, teenage hormone-clouded rose tinted glasses for only a second, they’d see exactly what you saw.

It wasn’t only the students, either. He was able to get away with everything and anything he pleased, whether it be sneaking sips of vodka in a water bottle between classes or ditching class to smoke a joint behind the bleachers. There’d even been rumors that he’d fucked some senior girl in the handicap stall during the autumn pep rally while the rest of the student body was packed like sardines in the sticky-hot gymnasium, subjected to incremental barks from the football coach to scream louder and louder.

How the hell was somebody as pleasant as Miriam the mother of such an incurable douchebag? And how, in all the unholy realms of hell, did your luck get so miserably bad that she ended up with your father?

It was all so fucking unfortunate that you almost wanted to laugh. And you probably would have, if not for the chance that you might puke all over your nice new sweater if you opened your mouth.

“You smell funny, hon,” said Miriam before you could reply. “Was Dan burning incense in his room?”

Oh, god. So she was one of those oblivious parents. You rolled your eyes; it made a lot of sense when you thought about it.

“Huh? Oh. Um, yeah. Incense,” Michael said, before suddenly extending his arm across the table to your father. “Oh shit, how rude of me. I’m Michael. Nice to meet you, man.”

Your father seemed unfazed my Michael’s distinct lack of manners as he accepted the boy’s hand and shook it, and you felt yet another knot twist up in the pit of your stomach as you realized that your father, too, had somehow been cast under Michael’s spell.

“Michael, we talked about this,” Miriam said under her breath, like she was scolding a child who didn’t know any better. “Keep the potty mouth to a minimal when we’re out in public, especially while we’re in such a nice restaurant.”

“Oh, sh…oot, sorry, mom,” Michael said with a faux-sheepish smile, his eyes flickering with amusement despite his supposed remorse. “And sorry to you too, sir. Bad habits.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mike- can I call you Mike?” your father said as they released hands, moving his to rest atop Miriam’s on the cloth-sheathed table. “I remember what it was like being a boy your age.”

You scoffed, loud enough that the table fell silent for a moment, and quickly you disguised it with a cough. Your cheeks went hot as all eyes laid on you, and you frantically scanned your brain for something to fill the silence with.

“So, um,” you said, clearing your throat. “Michael’s, uh, how come Michael’s last name isn’t Mead?”

Fuck. That sounded so fucking stupid. Instinctively, you felt your eyes wander to Michael to see if he was laughing at you, which you hated yourself for; why should his stupid, pea-brained opinion mean anything to you anyway? As much as you wanted to distance yourself from that idiotic, made-up high school hierarchy, you always wound up finding yourself being sucked back in, it seemed.

“Well, my late husband’s last name was Langdon, and since he was kind of a dirtbag, I decided not to keep his name after he passed,” Miriam said slowly, as if taking very careful thought to word herself correctly. You took in a breath; this seemed like a whole new can of worms that you hadn’t meant to open up.

“Hey, c’mon, don’t talk about dad like that,” said Michael, his tone only half-playful, eyebrow cocking as he flashed his mother a knowing look.

“You try being cheated on multiple times, Michael. Then you’ll see that dirtbag is really a nice way of putting it.”

Oh, sure, you thought bitterly. As if Michael fucking Langdon is even remotely capable of understanding someone else’s pain.

You took this as your cue to stand up from your seat, mumbling something about needing to use the restroom before scurrying off in the opposite direction as fast as you could without drawing attention to yourself. If ten minutes with Michael as your psuedo-stepbrother got to you this badly, you could only imagine how awful your life was about to get.

You could only hope that your father would find some reason to nip things in the bud with Miriam, but right now, that appeared to be an unlikely prospect.

iii.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t end my shit right here and now,” you griped to your best friend, who sat crosslegged on your bed as you stood idly before your floor-length mirror, arms dangling limply at your sides in an unintentional stance of defeat. Your face was one that you hardly recognized anymore, forehead creased with worry and eyes shadowed by bruise-colored rings from a seemingly endless barrage of sleepless nights; a week ago, your father had gleefully announced his and Miriam’s engagement; you of course, as his loving daughter, had to behave as though you hadn’t just received the worst news of your life, which somehow you’d pulled off (for a second you wondered why you’d never taken up theater, seeing at how convincing your acting could be sometimes). It was like you’d been plucked from the familiarity of your boring, normal world and dropped into your own personally tailored hell without any warning at all, though you couldn’t think of a single thing you’d done bad enough to warrant you deserving this. “The worst person on the planet is about to be my fucking stepbrother and nobody else seems to think this is a big deal!”

Your best friend shook her head, letting out a snort as if any of this was even remotely funny in the slightest. “So your stepbrother is hot and cool and he pisses you off. They literally make porn about that.”

You resisted the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her until some semblance of sense entered her head, instead shoving your hands into the pockets of your jeans with a loud huff. “Yeah, but this isn’t fucking pornhub, (best friend’s name), this is real life! And I’d rather skin myself alive than sleep with that walking STD.”

“You have a lot more self respect than I do. It’s admirable,” she said, still startlingly calm for your liking, and you were beginning to believe that she’d never understand the mental turmoil you were currently suffering with. “Personally I’d ride him into the sunset, whether he had a herpes dick or not.”

You gagged, shaking your head with adamant disgust. Was she really that fucking horny? “You’re sick, you know that?”

“Sick for diiiiick,” she sang back, batting her eyelashes playfully at you. You turned away, scrounging up every weary shred of self restraint within you not to scream.

“Look, (b/f/n). I’m being serious right now. If you fuck him, or suck his dick, or whatever, I will literally never speak to you again.” Your tone was stern, and you faced her again to see whether your seriousness had computed in the hormonal wasteland that was her brain. There was an extended pause as she blinked at you, tilting her head to one side thoughtfully as she chewed her lipgloss-slick bottom lip.

“I mean, he wouldn’t fuck me anyways,” she finally said, still infuriatingly chipper. “I’m nobody. And he’s, like, royalty.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! I don’t care whether you think you have a chance with him!” You realized too late that you were nearly shouting, so you took in a shaky gulp of oxygen and coaxed yourself to soften your tone. The last thing you needed right now was for people to think you were losing your mind, although sometimes that was exactly what you felt like was happening. “Please, just promise me you won’t? I just need one aspect of my life not to involve him. Please?”

“Okay, fine,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest and settling her chin on top. “If it really matters that much to you, I’ll just shift my thirst to Dan Mott instead. That boy is a fucking snack and a half.”

A wave of almost-relief cascaded over your body, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself become one with this momentary victory.

One year. Just one stupid, insignificant year until I can go away to college and forget all about him.

If you could survive that much, you told yourself, you’d be able survive anything.

You just hoped that intoxicating spell of his wasn’t strong enough to bring your best friend into his web of bullshit, alongside all the other girls who’d become entangled along the way.

If she did, you’d be stranded, left to run from Michael and his ever-expanding army all on your own.

iv.

In what seemed like a blink of an eye, the dreaded date of your father’s wedding ceremony arrived; now you stood amidst a small group of distant relatives at the subdued reception party, seeking refuge from the disturbing thought that, legally, Michael Langdon was now your brother, at the open bar.

You and your best friend had decided to make something of a game out of how many drinks you could finagle from the bartender without any adults noticing, which had ultimately proved to be pointless- an hour into the reception, your father had staggered over with two overflowing dirty Shirleys, thrusting them towards the two of you with a big, sloppy grin on his face.

To say he was in a good mood would be a severe understatement- the man was jovial, and you almost felt guilty for hating the circumstances of his marriage so much. By the raised-brow looks your best friend had been shooting at you all night, you knew she was thinking the same thing: that you were being selfish for worrying so much about yourself when this was the best thing that’d happened to your father in years. And maybe it was true; maybe you’d been so wrapped up in your own teen angst bullshit that you’d willingly blinded yourself from the truth. So, with your father’s beaming face dancing in the back of your mind, you pushed any thought about Michael back to the dredges where they belonged.

Fuck Michael Langdon. You couldn’t allow him the satisfaction of knowing that you were distraught, though you’d surely already made that pretty obvious over the past few months (he’d wasted no time in taunting you about it, seeming to relish in your death glares and eye rolls- hey, future sis! he’d crooned at you as you passed his table in the cafeteria one afternoon, nearly causing you to trip and spill your perfectly mediocre iced coffee all over yourself as his friends cackled like demented hyenas).

I’m not gonna let him bother me anymore.

I’m not-

“SIS-TERRRRRR!”

Okay, this had to be some kind of divine test of will.

A blazer-glad arm flung itself around your shoulders and you flinched, immediately jerking away from your intoxicated stepbrother (god, it felt weird to refer to him that way) whose brash motions had sent you both stumbling.

“Getting shitfaced at your mom’s wedding… classy,” you spat, crossing your arms in front of your chest and narrowing your eyes at the blond-haired boy.

He was, admittedly, good-looking (only by conventional standards, of course); his lightly gelled blond hair had long since come undone, now soft and unkempt from hours of attention-whorish dancing, but you thought the disheveled look suited him better anyway (since his whole thing was to look like a grimy, rugged fuckboy, not because you personally found it attractive, obviously). He’d undone the top few buttons of his white top (no doubt the only formal article of clothing he owned), which was now stained beyond foreseeable repair with a colorful variety of liquids, and there was a bead of sweat traveling from his slick forehead to his model-sharp jaw. Even in disarray, he looked good, and you couldn’t help but hate him for it.

“God, you are so uptight,” he said, pale eyes flickering towards the multicolored ceiling in exaggerated annoyance as he dragged out his syllables with leisure. “You need to relax, set up a dick appointment or something. Or pussy appointment, I don’t know what you’re into.”

Your mouth fell open at this remark, too stunned by his vulgarity to even get angry with your friend, who had dissolved into a fit of giggles beside you; it wasn’t that you were some pearl-clutching grandmother- you had no issue discussing sexual matters with your friends, and in fact some would even say you had a perverted sense of humor. But this? This was different: something about the way those words had fallen from Michael’s mouth made you feel dirty.

At your lack of response, Michael flashed a pearly grin that could only be categorized as evil, and he crossed his arms to mimic your stance. “Oh, sorry. I forgot that you’re probably still a virgin.”

He glanced over to your friend, whose feeble attempts to suppress her second wave of laughter had proven unsuccessful, before averting his gaze back to you. “Aw, don’t feel bad, (y/n). There’s nothing wrong with being a late bloomer.”

Then, as if to punctuate his words, he smirked.

Your mouth pressed into a thin line, you felt something like a storm swirling inside of you, winds thick and unyielding and relentless, and you were almost positive that you’d tear him apart once the feeling aligned with the rest of your body.

It was then that the song blaring through the speakers switched to something inappropriately upbeat, each thump of the dance-friendly bass feeling like punches to the gut.

The storm inside you hadn’t been giving way to anger at all; it was sadness you were feeling in your belly, hopeless and humiliated sadness, though you couldn’t quite understand why: he’d made some stupid, generic joke to try and get a rise out of you- what else was new these days? Maybe it was the fact that your best friend was, by her passiveness and obvious amusement at your expense, encouraging his taunts when she was supposed to be there for you. Or maybe the reality had finally, finally sunken in, that this kind of interaction with Michael would now consume your life for the next year.

Either way, it didn’t make a difference, and as if on cue, the familiar sting of unshed tears arrived patiently at the back of your eyes.

All at once you were were dizzy; Michael’s perfect face was doubling and distorting before your eyes, and your friend’s pitched laughter rang like incessant, robotic television static in your ears.

With very last straw of self preservation you could grasp, you said nothing at all, walking away with the dazed sluggishness of a zombie on autopilot.

You considered yourself lucky; soon enough, you wouldn’t have the luxury of walking away at all.

“She’s too sensitive,” you heard your friend say, faintly, in the background of your thoughts.

You didn’t have the energy to wonder why she wasn’t coming with you, much less the energy to chastise her for being a bad friend, which was what you knew she deserved. If she cared more about getting Michael’s attention than preserving her friendship with you, you supposed there was no use in trying to stop her anymore.

He’s like a disease, you thought as you ambled your way towards the bathroom, surrounded by people but yet still so alone. He’s like a disease, infecting everyone he touches.

It was only a matter of time, you supposed, before he got to you, too.

Who knew? Maybe he already had.

tagging some people from my old iiw tag list!: (i’m sorry if i tagged anyone twice, i’m literally half asleep right now cuz i got like 2 hours of sleep in the past 24 hrs lol) @wroteclassicaly @ritualmichael @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @trelaney @kissydevil @sloppy-wrist @michael-langdon-appreciation @ccodyfern @sojournmichael @starwlkers @maso-xchrist @space-princesssss @ahslangdon101 @isabellaserpentiawesson @stupidocupido @bademliimagnum @nana15774 @urlocalgothb @hexqueensupreme @gold-dragon-slayer @langdonsboots @langdonstrash @fckinsupreme @hisgirlwonder @venusxxlangdon @obsessivenostalgicbaby @kleinegamerin @lambofcairo @kiiteiru @littledemondani @beriveri @grossgayartist @featherpool-852 @discocalico @cryptid-coalition @nu-tt @diamcndscarred @chocolateandhorror @michaelsfrenchtoast @sarcasticbxtch20 @ringpop-poppy @imjustasadhoe @melodylangdon @codycrazy @perfect-ginger-maniac @baphomet-wears-gucci @bigstudentpatrolbonk @jazzcowgirl @a-n-t-s @langdonsblood @ritualmichael @myluciferiscody @fentycoven @gracebtw @bongwaternation @king-of-mischief-and-bitchez @hoseokchild @witchywcmans @satanicbimbo @lvngdvns @langdonskillerqueen @aradevil @anemia-doll @muralskins @funtomimagines @mrssgtjamesbuckybarnes @our-mrlangdon @lotsofhunny @sevenwonderwitch @horrorstreet @kpopmademedo-it @naughtygranger @codyshands @krazycags01 @skullag

#michael langdon #is it wrong #michael langdon x reader #mine #michael langdon fic #ahs #american horror story #apocalypse #ahs apocalypse #cody fern #x reader #ahs x reader

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fratresdei · 4 years

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Meditation Gone Wrong

Caroline Crook is back on the blog to share her hilarious story of a guided meditation gone way off the rails, and how Scott Pilgrim, glowing orbs of light, and bad Cracker Barrell interviews all come together on the mental plane to invite her into some divine laughter.

I thought I'd tell you all about a guided meditation I once tried that quickly became one of my favorites, and also a complete disaster.

I've been meditating on and off for a year now, through a variety of apps, podcasts, tarot readings and the occasional Quaker service here in DC. I faced some of the same challenges that I've faced with yoga while trying to cobble together a semi-regular meditative practice. There is tension in meditation, in the desire to remain relaxed, yet focused. The general impression of meditation is often a serious one - I know when I first considered it, I called to mind half-lit rooms hazy with incense, hours of silent contemplation, maybe developing some psychic powers as a reward for such diligence and focus. The practice felt appealing and intimidating in equal measure.

The first meditation podcast I tried out was called, fittingly, The Meditation Podcast. The hosts only release one guided meditation per month, each one is about 45 minutes, and they use "binaural hearing" (sustained tonal frequencies designed to slow the heart rate) for a fully immersive session. The first episode I listened to was called “Self Love” - I was told to visualize myself looking in a mirror that, throughout the 45 minutes, gradually began to glow with light. It was awesome. 5 stars.

The following week, I found another episode they had put out called "Finding My Truth." The episode was described thusly: "In today's meditation, we journey to our highest Being, our highest Self, to gain a deeper, divine perspective about our lives, our Truth, and our Purpose." And I thought, Sounds vague, but great. Truth and purpose? Sign me up. I changed into pajamas, settled into the old recliner in my apartment and pressed Play.

(The following is mainly paraphrased from memory, as the podcast hosts archive any episodes older than 6 months.)

"Feel yourself sinking into the chair. Feel your body sinking through the chair, into the earth. Imagine rooting yourself deep into the earth under your chair."

Rooted. Got it. I felt my body grow heavy, my eyelids closing. Good stuff.

"Now let your consciousness float out of your body, utterly weightless. Your body is still safely grounded in the earth."

Okay...

"Your consciousness is a light, soaring, up, up..."

Oh-kay...

"Above and through the atmosphere..."

The atmosphere? Wait, we're HOW high?

"Soaring into space."

Space?? Back down on earth, in my grounded, rooted body, I felt my grounded, rooted face begin to frown in confusion. But the host encouraged me to pause up here in space, to take in the beauty of stars and planets as they swirled in and out of view. The human brain is incredibly adaptive, and after only a few deep breaths, I was suddenly super comfy up here, a disembodied consciousness gliding through, you know, outer space.

"Now, you see a door. Approach it, open it, and go inside." Sure enough, a door swirled into view. There's a scene in the movie Scott Pilgrim vs. the World where Scott floats toward his crush's apartment door, which materializes as a white door with a star-shaped window, floating in the middle of a starry sky. My brain offered this exact image, and this exact experience, minus Ramona Flowers.

And what was behind the Scott Pilgrim door? "Your guardian deity is here, and has been expecting you."

Hang on. My who?

"Your guardian deity stands before you, ready to teach you everything you need for your life's journey."

My who? For my what??

"Take a moment to greet your guardian deity, then sit and prepare to receive what they are here to teach you."

Again, I was a meditation novice. My brain heard "Surprise, you are sitting in front of an authority figure whose full focus is on your life goals" and went into overdrive compositing every bad job interview I've ever had into one moment. Suddenly I was not a beautiful disembodied beam of light -- I was 15, fidgeting in an Ann Taylor Loft blazer, watching the General Manager at Cracker Barrel frown over my resume, my mom waiting outside in the car. Except instead of the General Manager at Cracker Barrel, I was sweating in front of a beautiful being radiating Grace, every gesture exact, every expression a poem. This was a bad job application, and a surprise exam, AND a performance review, all rolled into one.

I was so busy manifesting these insecurities, I didn’t notice the podcast had gone quiet until the host spoke again, jolting me in surprise. "Now that your guardian deity has given you the wisdom you've come to receive..."

So not only had I arrived completely unprepared to receive any kind of wisdom from my guardian deity, but I was so busy reliving every time I've been unprepared for a self-evaluation of any kind, I completely missed the part of the meditation where I actually receive said wisdom. Mary, Martha, eat your heart out.

"... you rise, and thank them for the time they've taken to set you upon your life's path."

Unwilling to even try rewinding the podcast, reliving all that cosmic social anxiety just to ask my guardian angel to repeat that one more time about my life’s purpose, I rose, and thanked them for the time they'd taken to set me upon my life's path. In the space I almost heard laughter, and am now certain my guardian deity was chuckling, having somehow known I would pull something like this.

But the worst was yet to come.

"You've brought a gift for them, to thank them for their wisdom. Hold out your hands, and see the gift you hold for them."

I'm a good daughter of the Capitalist Machine, so I immediately pictured the robin-egg blue box from Tiffany & Co. Apparently in my mind, this image is the highest gift one could receive, the pinnacle of luxury and taste.

"Open up the gift, and present it to your guardian deity." So I opened up the box.

And without warning, my mind yelled, "INSIDE THE TIFFANY BOX IS THE HEART OF A BABY DEER." And pictured a bloody, still-beating heart of a baby deer. To offer my guardian deity.

Back down on earth, my grounded, rooted body froze in horror. WHY would I picture that?? WHO would want that??

I went into overdrive, picturing alternative gifts. What do you get for your guardian deity, the being who, ostensibly, has everything? Well here's what I came up with in those 8 seconds:

A dying star. Prayer. A child's smile. A single blade of grass. The concept of laughter. Red lipstick. Dark matter. A rosary. Teeth. A tennis bracelet. Baby's breath. An actual baby's breath. The sound of a curtain brushing the floor. Solar flares.

The thing in the Tiffany box transformed rapid-fire into each option, a roulette wheel of terrible gift ideas. In the end, bafflingly, I went with the tennis bracelet.

By that point my guardian deity was giving me this loving-yet-exasperated look, like they just caught me playing in a cardboard box on the edge of a cliff. But I sensed something like mild laughter, and the bracelet was suddenly gone from my hand, which I decided to take as acceptance. Then the podcast gently drew me back through the Scott Pilgrim door, and back down to earth; the interview was over.

I've tried a lot of different meditations since then - some creative visualizations like this, some more focused on breathing exercises, some that involve poetry or music. This was one of my favorites, because it taught me the most about visualization, presence and focus. Stillness in prayer isn’t necessarily about staying 100% focused for 45 minutes - when I lost my focus in this meditation, I didn’t slam back into my body on earth. I kept returning to the visualization, returning to that stillness, and the path continued onward. I still may not know my life’s purpose, but there was prayer, and there was communion with the Divine, and for me that's enough.

I mainly love thinking about this one though, because I rarely laugh with God, and I came out of this meditation shaking with laughter. I kept picturing my guardian deity politely waiting until I left the room before tossing my Tiffany tennis bracelet in the trash.

There are infinite ways to have a laugh with the Divine. Find yours with Fratres Dei.

October 30, 2019 | Denver, Colorado

#mindfulness #spirituality #body wisdom #bodywork #yoga #spiritual but not religious #religion #christianity #religious humor #humor

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cross-roads-blues · 5 years

Text

Leaving You Is Loving You

This is my late submission for @huntersociopathavenger‘s writing challenge and I’m so sorry this is late and I really hope you like it! <3 <3 <3

Prompt: “If you leave now, you lose everything!”

Warnings: Angst, Torture, Hurt

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Break Ups

Pairing: Dean/Castiel

Read on AO3 here.

[Read the whole thing under the cut!]

Castiel groaned as one of the angels flung him against the wall. He promptly sliced the attacker with his angel blade, not doing much harm, however and proceeded to punch the angel in the face, breaking free from his bond. Just as he was making his final break out of the tavern, which inadvertently became a battlefield between him and a faction of rogue angels with apparent orders to capture him, somebody hit him bluntly on the back of his head and somebody’s foreign grace encompassed his mind, sedating him. He blacked out, even before his body hit the floor.

He woke up because of pain and because of a rough female voice calling out his name. The angel blinked and slowly opened his eyes adjusting to the light. After a quick look around the room the angel concluded that he was held in some sort of basement with grey featureless walls and floor and something looking suspiciously like a blood stain in one of the corners. In front of him was a metal door with scratched surface and on his right was a big, what he assumed to be window, which was now covered by dirty used-to-be-beige blinds. The angel himself was chained to a chair with iron chains with angel-binding sigils etched into them. Castiel sighed. Captured, yet again.

“Castiel!” Rough female voice returned and now Castiel was sure that it wasn’t a hallucination. Someone very real was standing behind him and calling out his name.

“That… that would be me,” coughed out angel.

“I damn well know it’s you.” Castiel heard high heels clacking on the floor behind him and soon a woman walked out from behind him. She was wearing a grey striped pant suit with slightly unbuttoned blue shirt and she appeared to be in her mid fifties.

“My name is Dina,” she said as she knelt beside him to be at eye level with him.

“Angel, I presume,” noted Castiel.

Dina nodded. “A pathetic one, I should say. Weakened, with no wings, stranded on Earth. And who’s fault is that?” With a hoarse laugh, Dina stared into Castiel’s eyes.

The angel furrowed his brows and exhaled irritatedly. “Is this about the Fall? That was a year ago and I think we established that I didn’t make the angels fall! And Heaven is open, by the way!”

Dina laughed again and her laugh sounded rotten. “What’s up there isn’t Heaven. It’s a miserable copy of what was before the Fall.”

“Before the Fall there was a dictatorship!” grunted Castiel, tugging at his restraints.

“And that's how it was meant to be!” through her teeth spit out Dina, every word fizzling with venom.

“Well, what do you want from me now?” yelled Castiel.

Dina narrowed her eyes. “I want the names of every angel and their vessel that is running things up there. I want to know my targets and I’m sure you know all of them. And I want to know where you base your operations on Earth.”

“And why would you think I will just give it to you?” hissed the angel, furrowing his brows.

Dima gave him a weird look and smiled slyly. “I have ways to make you comply.”

“What do you-“

With one quick movement Dina opened the blinds on the window, revealing a window behind it.

“Oh no…” gasped the angel as he perceived what was behind the window. Behind the window was Dean, tied to a chair, just as he was, but Dean was already covered in blood and bruises. He was tortured, with horror realised the angel. Castiel gagged.

“I presume you two know each other,” in a sweet song-alike tone murmured Dina just above his right ear.

“You…” Castiel found himself speechless. Everything inside him screamed. Dean was hurt because of him. For the first time in years he found it hard to breathe.

“He has nothing to do with this.” Castiel saw red.

Dina laughed. “Why of course he does. I need your precious boyfriend-” Dina raised her eyebrows, noticing Castiel’s confused face “-oh yes, everyone’s aware of your connection - to make you talk.”

Castiel squinted his eyes shut for a second. “Dina, don’t do this, we can work it out-”

He was interrupted by the sight of another angel entering the room with Dean and slicing his cheek with knife. The angel moved so fast that Castiel didn’t even have time to say anything. He didn’t hear Dean’s cry of pain, but he definitely saw Dean’s brows shoot up and hunter’s eys squinting shut, as Dean flinched. Castiel wondered whether the angels even told Dean why they were hurting him… or whether he will have to tell Dean later once all of this was over.

“And you know what, Castiel? He knows exactly that we’re cutting, stabbing and punching him because his boyfriend wouldn’t spill the tea,” off-handedly mentioned Dina from somewhere behind Castiel.

“Let him go. You have me,” grunted Castiel.

“I have the box, to which he-” Dina gestured towards the window, “-is the key. It is known that you will do anything for the Winchesters, especially for the older one. Such a cute couple you are. So what it’s gonna be, Castiel? We got a deal?”

Castiel was on the verge of spilling all information just for Dean to be let go. And he realised that it was incredibly egotistical and selfish of him, to sacrifice everything for one person, but he couldn’t have it any other way. It was Dean.

And then something almost magical happened. Just as Castiel opened his mouth to agree to Dina’s demands, he felt a small crack in the right handcuff. Acting in a split second, Castiel pulled his hand up and to his right, breaking free of the bond, taking Dina by surprise. He dodged her attack with a blade and flung her against the wall, and considered charging on her but then realised that the angels might kill Dean if he kills Dina so instead he leapt up, crashing through the window into the room Dean was kept in, slamming the angel guarding him into the door, stealing his blade and effectively killing him with it. He then rushed to barely conscious Dean, hurriedly untying his wrists before Dina regained her strength.

“Cas?” mumbled Dean, trying to get up.

“I’m so sorry, baby, “ muttered Castiel, scooping Dean up and rushing out of the room onto the staircase. An angel charged in on them, but Castiel quickly deflected his attack and stabbed him with an angel blade. Castiel ran as fast as he possibly could up the stairs, holding Dean’s unconscious body in his hands. Slamming on the metal door at the end of the staircase, Castiel found himself in the dark alley behind a towering building. Castiel glanced back and saw Dina two more angels rushing after him. Being careful not to accidentally hurt Dean, he cradled him closer and decided to make a run for it. Around the building there was an old pick-up truck, and Castiel, without much hesitation, rushed towards it. Castiel thanked all deities and cosmic beings that it wasn’t locked, put Dean into the backseat, taking off his trenchcoat in the process and stuffing it under Dean’s head and himself got into the driver’s seat. Putting what Dean had taught him to use, he hot wired the truck with shaking hands and slammed the gas pedal. The angel breathing became rapid and shallow as he tried to steady out his hands on the wheel. Making a sharp turn, he drove the truck out of the alley, as the wheels gave out a cringy screeching sound and the saloon filled with smell of burnt rubber. Castiel clenched his jaw and hit the gas pedal once more, as he drove the track through the crammed roads, fenced by askew buildings from both sides, towards the main road. He didn’t stop until he was at least 10 kilometres away. He pulled over, glancing back to make sure he wasn’t being followed and rushed outside and opened the backseat. Dean was still unconscious, so Castiel carefully placed a hand on his forehead, brushing outside unruly dirty blonde hair and commanded his grace to flow through and fix the damage done to the hunter. After a couple of seconds, Dean’s eyes flung open, as he inhaled deeply and woke up.

“Cas?” he said, grabbing onto the angel for support and sitting up.

“Yeah,” shortly said the angel, helping Dean to get into the passenger’s seat of the truck.

“Son of a bitch grabbed me from back entrance of the diner,” grumbled the hunter, as Castiel got into the driver’s seat. “Thanks for healing me up by the way.”

“Dean,” tiredly said Castiel, turning to face the hunter, “I’m so sorry. They did such horrible things to you and all because of me.”

The hunter gave Castiel an exhausted smile. “It’s fine. I’ve been through worse. Plus, you saved me. That’s what matters.”

Castiel lingered for a second, then pulled Dean closer and wrapped his arms around the hunter, leaning in for a kiss. Dean’s lips still tasted a bit metallic from blood, but Castiel didn’t care. He was just glad Dean was okay and that Dean was still even willing to be with him after all the torture he endured because of Castiel. And in that moment, it hit him. Castiel realised what exactly he had to do in order to keep his hunter safe.

“This was never going to work,” mused Castiel, sitting alone in a featureless 2004 Toyota Corolla. His Lincoln was very recognisable and Castiel decided that would like to go unnoticed for this. He stared at the nameless motel in front of him with nothing to distinguish it from other building other than a neon red sign. It’s been two days since Dean’s abduction and near death and the angel spent those two days in conflicted thoughts. He concluded that there was no other way and he had to do what he had to do. That’s why in that morning he was sitting in front of that motel, about to make perhaps the hardest choice in his life.

A door of the motel flung open, tearing angel out of his train of thought and he saw Sam leaving in his tracksuit for his usual 5 am jog. Rising sun was playing on the windows of the motel, as the younger Winchester made his way down to the street, not noticing Castiel. The brothers were on a case, so Sam shifted in his usual case-routine: after his jog, he would probably go the closest food joint, grab a salat for him and a sandwich for Dean, and surf the web for research on the case until Dean would show up at the diner. Which means Castiel had an hour at most alone with Dean.

Castiel waited for Sam to leave the parking of motel and got out of the car. He exhaled and on shaking legs walked towards the door of the motel. He hesitated at the door for a brief moment, but proceeded to knock twice. Better now than later.

“Who’s there?” hoarsely and rather angrily replied the older Winchester from behind the door.

“It’s me. Castiel,” replied the angel.

The door creaked as the hunter with a sleepy glare stuck his head outside. “What are you doing here, sugar? I thought you were still sorting it out in Heaven.”

“I uh- We need to talk.” Castiel made his way inside motel room, noting that the flannel the hunter threw on to open the door was still unbuttoned.

“Of course, Cas, what about?” Dean beckoned the angel in, wrapping his arms around him in the process and kissing the angel on the cheek. Castiel felt his heart plunge, because he knew what he had to do and that made every cell inside him ache.

“It’s about our relationship.”

Dean furrowed his brows, casting a concerned look at the angel, as he headed to the night table and grabbed a half finished bottle of beer from there. “What is it, buttercup?” he said, settling on the bed.

The angel inhaled deeply and decided that it was for the better good. “Dean… What was between us… That could never work. We could never work.”

Dean froze. “What do you mean? Is it- is it something I did?”

Castiel swallowed a traitorous lump in his throat. “No, Dean-”

“Then I wasn’t enough for you? Is that it, Cas? I wasn’t good enough?” The hunter stood up and started pacing in circles around the motel room.

Castiel caught him by his shoulders and pulled him close. “You were more than enough, but-”

“I’m not your type?” Dean shook his head in confusion, furrowing his brows. He exhaled slowly, collecting himself and closing his eyes for a second. “Where did I go wrong?”

Castiel bit his lip. Everything inside him hurt. Dean’s eyes were becoming wet and seeing the hunter cry over something that wasn’t his fault, but was Castiel’s made the angel want to disappear. “You didn’t,” said Castiel, finally managing to get the words back under control.

“Then why are you saying that you have to go?” Dean tried to wrap his arms around the angel, but the latter one pulled away.

“Because look where it got us!” Castiel abstractly waved his hand around the room.

“I don’t understand-”

“You were nearly killed because of me! Our- our relationship, our bond that we share, it’s a- it’s a, a…” The angel stuttered, looking for the right way to put it, but Dean was quicker than him to catch on to his train of thought.

“A liability.” The word sounded like a stone thrown at a glass wall, shuttering it in pieces. “I’m a liability.”

Castiel’s lips narrowed into a thin straight line. “They were using you as leverage.”

“And you’re scared that next time we won’t be so lucky and we wouldn’t break out and you would actually have to give them what they want in exchange for me?” It was Dean now who stepped back.

“No-” The hunter didn’t let Castiel finish.

“And you can’t have that, can you?”

“That’s not what I meant-” tried to intervene the angel, but Dean wasn’t listening, as he was back to pacing around the room.

“Hell, it makes sense,” he mumbled on his way, not stopping moving for a second, “You’re fighting a friggin’ civil war, and giving out info every time I get captured is- is- is bad strategy!”

“It’s not what I meant!” yelled angel to interrupt Dean, who stopped dead in his tracks and gave the angel a weird long look.

“Then what did you mean?” he asked in a contemplative, alienated way, that was so unusual for Castiel to hear.

“You could get killed,” quietly said the angel, sitting down on the bed.

“Because they would fail to get what they want from you and they would actually proceed to their threats?” Dean’s forehead covered with tiny droplets of sweat, as he ran his hand through his hair.

“You’re twisting my words again, Dean. They might kill you just to… prove a point to me, without even asking for anything in return.”

“Is that so?” Dean collapsed in the chair, opposite Castiel.

Castiel furrowed his brows with a tilt of his head. “Of course it is!” he said in a raised tone, standing up. “I would give everything-” he emphasized this word with a rise in his voice- “for you. There isn’t a thing that I wouldn’t do for you.”

Dean blinked slowly, processing angel’s words. Then, he slowly rose from the chair and stood next to Castiel, stood painfully close, stood as if preparing for the kiss, which wouldn’t happen now, thanks to Castiel.

“Then stay. Stay for me. Don’t go,” finally said the hunter, with tears in his eyes and Castiel felt his grace rushing painfully through every inch of his body, feeling his body ache with pain that was non-existent, but it didn’t make it feel any less real.

“I can’t do that, Dean,” softly said the angel, as he started walking towards the door. “They would never stop coming for you,” he said on his way out of the motel room.

The angel opened the door, letting a large current of wind flowing into the room, sending papers flying all around the room. He didn’t notice that the weather worsened during his talk with Dean, that it was raining outside. Growls of thunder filled the room, as Castiel’s trenchcoat flew behind him almost like a cape.

“If you leave now, you lose everything!” yelled Dean, trying to be louder than the thunder. “You hear me, Cas? Everything!”

The angiel tilted his head and looked back just for a second, trying to etch Dean’s face into his memory. “I’m sorry.”

The door shut behind the angel.

Outside was storming. Castiel spied Sam returning early from his jog and hurried to the car. Sam already noticed him, but the angel was faster. He started his car and drove by completely confused Sam, who shouted something at him, but Castiel ignored him.

He didn’t stop until he was 50 miles away from that motel. He nearly got into an accident at least twice during his voyage. Stopping his car in the middle of nowhere, Castiel got out of the vehicle and sat on the hood of the car, not paying any attention to heavy rain. And in that moment he discovered something new about his species, something he was unaware for at least billions of years. He didn’t know angels could cry.

Dean sighed, inhaled and stepped down from the porch of the bar he spent last hour in. Sam was in the motel, doing research on the case they’d been working for the last 2 days and Dean was intending to join him, maybe after going for a quick drive. It was raining, and even though Dean usually liked rain, it helped him think, he had grown to hate it as it was reminding him of that early morning 5 months ago. Dean cringed at the memory and headed towards the Impala, kicking up gravel on the ground. He was just reaching out for the key in his pocket, when somebody hit him with something heavy on the side of his head, effectively knocking him out.

Dean came to his senses in a grey featureless and familiar basement. If his head wasn’t pounding like a thousand devils had partied in there, he might have even rolled his eyes.

“You guys are dicks,” he shouted out to nobody in particular.

He was partially angry at himself, getting captured twice by the same captors felt embarrassing. And the other half of him that wasn’t screaming with frustration was screaming with fear, with anticipation of pain. Pain he didn’t deserve, pain he could do nothing to stop.

Abruptly he heard the squeaky sound of the door behind him opening. Slow clicking of heels on the stone floor did nothing to relieve Dean’s fear and aggravated his anger. He remembered too damn well who was the owner of the footsteps.

“Hey Dean,” said Dina in a soft voice as she appeared from his right and knelt beside him. In her hand she was holding an angel blade and in her other hand to Dean’s horror there was a small hammer. Behind her two angels in suits appeared, moving silently like snakes. Dean felt himself shiver.

“I don’t know if you got the memo, but I haven’t seen Cas for 5 months now,” said Dean, trying to make his voice sound the usual level of snarkiness and confidence, despite growing panic in his chest.

Dina smirked. “I haven’t seen him in 5 months either. But it’s not him that is the reason for this.”

She stood up and slowly started to circle around Dean, the sound of her high heels echoing around the room. “At this point I just wanna murder you for purely selfish reasons. I’m tired of chasing cold leads. Might as well get me some entertainment in between. Plus your death might attract our wayward angel,” she murmured as she slid her finger across the edge of the angel blade.

Dean felt everything inside him squirm. It wasn’t the first time Dean was threatened with death, but this time, the bad guy seemed done with monologuing way before someone could swoop in and fix the situation. Abruptly the floor beneath Dean’s fit trembled. Dean, torn out of his thoughts cast a concerned look at Dina. “Is this you or should we be worried?”

Dina furrowed her brows but didn’t reply, just motioned to two other angels to check it out. As they headed towards the door, a force threw them back into the walls, as the door flung open. Light bulbs burst into millions pieces, as the entire room went into darkness and shook one more time with a growl of thunder. Dean heard a slight clinking of metal, as a small ray of light reflected on Dina’s now bared angel blade. The room was deadly silent.

“Show yourself!” yelled Dina. “No need to fight in the dark like cowards!”

“Very well,” said a quiet hoarse voice, a voice that Dean would recognise from millions.

As the lightning lit up the room, a pair of magnificent - damaged, but magnificent - wings appeared on the wall, as Castiel emerged from the darkness. His eyes were glowing blue, so bright that it was almost blinding and his trenchcoat was flying behind him in the wind.

“Make a move and I’ll kill him,” hissed Dina, holding a blade to Dean’s throat. Dean felt the coldness of metal just below his chin as he tried to lean back away from the blade.

“No, you won’t,” calmly said Castiel.

Dean felt the blade clatter into his lap, as Dina lit up from inside out and a soft sound of a blade entering flesh was heard. As the corpse of the angel collapsed on the floor, Sam, who apparently was the one to kill Dina, rushed to Dean from behind and started untying his wrists. “God, Dean, are you okay?” Sam hurriedly freed Dean’ right wrist

“Yeah, she didn’t even have time to touch me, you guys came on time,” grunted Dean, as he with Sam’s assistance freed his left wrist.

“Phew, thank god.” Sam helped Dean up and they started to head towards the door, when Dean stopped dead in his tracks.

“Where is Cas? How did he leave so quickly?” muttered Dean, gazing around the room.

Sam hesitated with the answer. “When you didn’t show up at the motel til morning, I called him to help me get you back. He agreed, but said that he wouldn’t stick around afterwards.”

Dean rubbed the nape of his neck. “Gone with the wind,” muttered the older hunter.

Sam furrowed his brows and gave his brother a concerned look. “Dean-”

“Tsh! Don’t say it, I’m fine. Let’s just go,” sharply said Dean and opened the door, pushing aside the corpses of angels with burnt-out eyes.

Dean woke up in the middle of the night. No wonder, he slept terribly after he was the only one in the bed. It took him around an hour to fall asleep after he and Sam returned to the motel near which Dean was kidnapped. They had taken two separate rooms on that trip due to having some… disagreements on their way there, so there was nothing and nobody to distract him and that fueled his insomnia. Dean sighed and stared at the ceiling, when he noticed something with side-vision. A figure, a painfully familiar figure, was sitting on the bedside near him.

“Cas?” sleepily grunted the hunter, recognising the blue eyes that shone bright even in the dark. “You came back.” The angel flinched, taken by surprise by Dean’s awakening.

“I wasn’t- I was just-” Castiel hurriedly got up and headed outside of the door.

“Wait,” called out Dean behind him. “Don’t go just yet.”

Castiel stopped. His shoulders flinched, as he hesitantly turned around and slowly walked back, perching himself up on the very edge of the bed. “Yes?” asked the angel in a tired tone, with a slight voice break in the middle.

‘You were right, they did try to kill me,” said Dean, not knowing how to start the talk, but not willing to let the angel go just yet. He wasn’t angry at the Castiel, deep inside he knew exactly what the angel meant when he said that it was dangerous for them to be together. And the angel did turn out to be right after all.

“I’m usually right.” Castiel avoided eye contact with the hunter. Nothing was heard in the room for the next couple of seconds.

“And you came and saved me,” continued his sentence Dean. His mind became clearer and clearer, sleep fading away.

“Well, me and Sam came and saved you. It wasn’t just me-,” said Castiel, furrowing his brows and slightly narrowing his eyes.

“Not my point,” cut him off Dean. “Cas,-” Dean grabbed the angel’s hand, making the latter one focus his attention on him, “-this is exactly what I was talking about. Any connections in this line of the work are a risk and we are liabilities for each other and the bad guys know it, but we get over it every time. And Cas, I need you.” Dean’s green eyes became slightly wet. “I need you so frigging much. These last 5 months been hell without you. And I can’t live without you. And you know what, Cas? I’d die for you any day. Because I know you’d do the same. So if you want to go, go. But just know that, what I went through today? I’ll go through worse for you.”

Castiel exhaled loudly and sat on the bed near Dean. “Dean-”

“No, Cas, I don’t wanna hear it. I don’t wanna hear the “they’ll never stop coming for you” speech again. Because I damn well know they won’t. But I’ll choose life with you over anything. So if you decide to come back, I’ll welcome you.”

Castiel hesitatingly looked directly at Dean for the first time since the hunter woke up. “I just want you to be safe, Dean.”

“And I just want to be with you. And I am not going to let you walk away another time,” shortly said Dean and patted the bed near him. “Come here.”

Castiel’s eyes lit up. “Dean, I’m so sorry. This should’ve been your choice-”

“Shh,” stopped him Dean, “Don’t apologise. You did what you did for me. Now come here.”

Castiel lingered for a second but then with a smile took off his trench coat, pants and blazer, throwing them in the corner of the room and climbed under the sheets with Dean.

“Thank you,” murmured Castiel as he threw his arm over Dean, feeling familiar warmness beside him. Maybe their relationship was dangerous. Maybe they were liabilities for each other. Maybe they were constantly risking anything. But in that moment Castiel felt like he was the happiest angel to ever exist in any dimension. And he made a silent vow to himself to not throw it all away.

#hunters1stwritingchallenge #deancas #casdean #destiel #destiel fanfic #destiel fic #deancas fic #casdean fic #deancas fanfic #casdean fanfic #crossroads content

24 notes · View notes

pinkletterday · 5 years

Text

Writer's Year In Review

This year has been a revelation. I went from deeply, irrevocably believing I can't write fiction at all to knowing that I'm actually pretty good at it!

It's given me the confidence to find work as a freelance writer and editor in real life, after years of unemployment and anxious paralysis resulting from chronic illness and trauma. A lot of other factors also helped but the fic writing played a huge role in getting my shit together.

General Fic Stats:

Word Count on AO3: 92284

Fics posted to AO3: 23

Favourite Fic:

Kiss It Better (Westallen).This fic is my baby. I love little Iris and little Barry in it so much, the hurt and confusion in each other they attempted to heal, how that healing carried into their adult love and family. It will always and always be my favourite thing I have ever written. Wee!stallen is my jam, and the reason I ship them so damn hard.

Do Not Go Gentle (Westallen). Ngl, I love this for the sheer amount of truly gratifying comments. Every single one of them have been emotional and flaily. It all makes me feel like I may have finally levelled up. Hallelujah. xD

Funniest Fic:

The Care and Feeding (Queenwestallen). This is my ultimate OT3. This fic, written as a list and discussion is 95% humour and contains some of my best banter and (I feel) characterization. An element I'm really proud of is how I managed to center and include all their important non-romantic relationships in their conversations. Iris's boisterous female friends, Oliver's friends, Cisco and Caitlin's snarky commentary all shoehorned themselves into the list with hilarious and wholesome results.

It's not a popular OT3 but I feel like it's a good first attempt to drag this ship to water. xD

Cutest Fic:

Dancing Queen (Olivarry). Even after a year this contiues to be the fic with the highest kudos ratio (except for the more recent one) and the second most bookmarked. I love getting comments on this because they are all some variation of "my teeth hurt. I have diabetes!" xD Well, I did build it around a rainbow sprinkle icing sugar donut, but there is a significant dollop of angst there in the middle. A flangst donut.

Your Vigil In My Keeping (Westallen). This fic has less than 200 hits but has the highest kudos ratio of all. I guess kid fic isn't everyone's cup of tea, but Wee!stallen is cute af yo. I headcanon the origins of Barry and Iris's steadfast partnership in this story, where her faith and belief in him is as strong as his protectiveness of her, all tied up in the language and innocence of children.

Kinkiest Fic:

WA Smut and Kink Collection. I literally just posted this yesterday lol. So far it's just a face-sitting short, but I have quite a few hard and soft kinks lined up. Westallen needs more hard smut tbh, and they have such a unique powerfully loving dynamic that every kink I'm writing has required me to come at it a little bit sideways with a whole lot of emotional focus.

Saddest Fic:

Three fics I can't choose from.

Do Not Go Gentle (Westallen). This is basically Iris's grief and fear in a raging tempest, and it's strongly implied that the future Nora has warned them of will come to pass regardless of what they do. The fact is that there already is and will be a timeline where Iris loses Barry, just as there must be one where she won't, because that is the nature of potentiality.

The Paradigm of Uncertainty (Westallen). This was a drabble almost, that ruminates on the probability that speedsters do not erase timelines but abandon them, along those versions of their loved ones. It's as @rkwago's brilliant comment says: "Iris hurts in so many weird, cosmic ways that her life is almost an eldritch horror house," which is the most perfect description ever of what it means to be a time traveller's wife.

The Universal Constant (Gen, background WA). A lot of people find the way Barry goes off on Joe cathartic in this fic, and so do I. But it's not so simple. I don't think Joe was wrong to form the views he did, or that anyone was in the wrong really. As @sophiainspace pointed out, it's a mediation of grief and love, their parallels and continuations between parents and children and lovers. The fact that it takes Henry's death for Barry to find the adult language to articulate to Joe why he will always believe in his father's innocence is a tragedy that cuts three ways.

(This fic is also the reason I have a folder in my drive marked "how to get away with murder" and probably a likely reason to get me arrested one day. xD)

Most Popular Fic:

Strangers In The Cold (Coldflash). The Coldflash fandom is a joy to feed. This was my first smut fic which was preceded by an entire chapter of banter about nothing in particular (except it ended up establishing a background that gave birth to the Coldflash vs Olivarry polyam series) And holy wow, for a newbie writer, the response has been amazing. Looking back, I wince at a lot of writing mistakes and its undeniably rough, but it really bolstered my confidence.

(I feel a little guilty that all my other CF stories are still in my WiP folder while I update the polyam series at snail's pace.)

The Shape of Us (Westallen). I wrote this on tumblr half-asleep one night, half as a rambly headcanon...and woke up to literally one hundred freaking notes. What the hell. Now at over 260, it's the most popular fic I've ever posted on tumblr.

I never consciously intended it to be a body-positivity fic but apparently women really relate to the insecurities of growing older and watching our bodies change with marriage, children and the sheer hectic pace of life. Even my non-fandom friends reblogged it simply for its representation of "real women". Barry's response is my own wish fulfillment fantasy; the sort of total acceptance and validation that we wish we could hear it the times we can't find it in ourselves. In light of the virulent body-shaming Candice Patton has been subjected to ever since she was revealed to have gained a fuller figure in S5, I'm very glad to have written it.

Least Popular Fic:

Carry On (Gen) This character study of Oliver Queen only has 135 hits a year after posting, which is par for the course with gen. But has a solid 12% kudos ratio, which means it's probably as good as I think it is. It's one of my favourite and easiest fics I have ever written.

Love Me Like You Do (Olivarry) Lordy, if my first Coldflash smut filled me with confidence, my first Olivarry smutfic all but ruined it. I struggled with it for a long time, unlike SitC, which I suppose shows in the over-descriptions. I got carried away with the quipping and I guess Barry topping at all is really not popular with slash fans?

Still, I'm honestly toying with the idea of deleting and rewriting it. At least it was a learning experience - don't write smut unless it makes you feel horny yourself.

Most Challenging Fic:

Do Not Go Gentle (Westallen). I think the reason stories you knock off in two hours are instantly popular while the ones you slaved over for weeks barely get any attention is because the process is reflected in the ease of reading. But this one is an exception. It was an absolute monster, taking three weeks and several revisions to wrestle into submission - and it paid off in spades! Going by the response, I seem to have achieved the wow factor I was going for.

My only regret is that I posted it on tumblr before the last revision that finally made it work, so that too many readers saw the lacklustre version rather than the polished one.

Honorable Mention:

A Stitch In Time (Olivarry for now, eventual Queenwestallen) Baby's first multi-chapter! Admittedly chapters 3 and 4 have been languishing in my drive for a few months now and this thing has 100% more deleted scenes and outtakes posted to my tumblr than the actual story on AO3. But I'm so proud of it! I learned to write action scenes because of it, how to write climaxes, dream sequences, news articles and tell a story in several different formats. It made me rediscover my empathy for Felicity and write her as a PoV character, think deeply on Laurel Lance's losses and give voice to her struggles, and explore how a real friendship and understanding could evolve between Oliver and Iris out of their mutual love for Barry. (Centering female characters within manpain narratives, ftw! Otoh, I centered Iris so much it veered off the Olivarry rails into Queenwestallen territory on its own)

There is so much meaty conflict and delicious looming disaster in this story that I'm determined going to keep at it, even if slow and steady. If only to bring the light of Barry/Iris/Oliver into the world. xD

Holding On (Olivarry). This real-world disability AU deals with chronic and mental illness and the precariousness and personal demons of that reality. I tore out the rawest parts of my life for this fic and put them on display so that I couldn't bear to show it to anyone for a year after it was written.

I'm very glad I did finally brush it off and put it up because it has struck a chord with so many people, especially other Spoonies. The low number of hits on a fic that deals in hurt/comfort rather stings, as I can't help but think the disinterest is because of the "disability" and "neurodivergence" tags. But I still think it's one of the best things I've written and one I'll always be proudest of.

General Reflections:

Things I've learned over the past year of writing:

- Self-deprecation is not my friend. I need to be honest enough with myself to acknowledge when my writing is good, because either I self-validate and build confidence or I become a black hole of insecurity where validation goes to die. And if I think I'm a bit better than I actually am, it's not just okay but necessary to believe it.

- What I call writer's block is perfectionism, anxiety and physical and mental fatigue. If I don't eat, sleep, hydrate and acheive a relaxed mental state, I won't be able to write.

- Momentum is more my friend than any amount of inspiration and motivation. Sitting my ass down and make it a habit to churn out X number of words a day, even bad writing, will do more to help me than polishing an idea to a high shine.

- If I don't forgive myself for the stories I can't write I'll never write anything. I am doing this for free, to share the love and joy and therefore obligated to no one.

- I'm capable of writing things I don't have the first idea how to write. My fingers on a keyboard can paint the picture my brain can't visualize.

I don't believe in New Year's resolutions, but I am going to make it a personal goal to write at least 15k words per month, learn to stick to a posting schedule where possible. and end next year with an additional 150k words posted.

To everyone who follows this blog, commented, reblogged and liked my posts - I see and remember and appreciate every one of you. You're the reason I feel seen and valued and why I am motivated to keep writing through all the difficulties life throws at me. <3<3<3

#the flash #myfic #fanfic #westallen #olivarry #arrow #oliver queen x barry allen #personal #barry allen x iris west #coldflash #queenwestallen #leonard snart x barry allen #oliver queen x iris west #writing #meme #review #year in review #happy new year #pinknote

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sheithfictioncatalogue · 6 years

Note

I'm really interested to know what all of the members of this blog's top 10 favorite Sheith fics are. What stories blew your minds so much that you can't stop thinking about them?

We’re going with 3-4 favorite fics per mod, otherwise we end up with 40 fics. And thanks for patiently waiting for our answers, it’s hard to choose just a few faves!

Cas:

Picosecond - Glossolalia (@fenri)

ongoing, 8/? chapters, 107k. (Explicit) Contains: heavy angst, nsfw content, drinking and drug use

It’s been eight years since the fall of the Galra Empire. While most of the Paladins of Voltron have gone their separate ways as friends, it’s the Black and Red Paladin who’ve parted on uncivil terms. At Empress Allura’s side, Shiro is now a married man and father overseeing the birth of the universe’s peace times, and Keith, a bounty hunter, is avoiding any association with the newly established Interuniversal Alliance for Planetary Peace.

It’s by accident Keith finds himself working alongside the man he’s tried to run from.

It’s by accident Keith finds himself in the same man’s bed.

To Be By His Side - starticker (@starticker)

19k. (Teen rating)

Prince Takashi of Shirogane must marry to inherit the throne, and his spouse must be determined by eligible candidates competing in a series of competitions known as the Royal Games. Complications arise when Shiro’s bodyguard, Keith, goes missing weeks before the Games begin, and then again when a mysterious suitor shows up to compete. What has happened to Keith? And who is the Red Knight, the challenger who seems determined not just to win Shiro’s hand but also his heart?

Married at First Sight - kittymills (@flashedarrow)

ongoing, 42/? chapters, 164k. (Explicit) Contains: anxiety & nsfw content.

“Strangers putting their lives in the hands of science… with a little help from their friends.”

Lance thinks Keith needs some romance in his life – but he knows Keith won’t go looking for it on his own so he signs Keith up for a unique experiment designed to determine if science can predict true love.

The Holt siblings think Shiro works too hard and under that very capable façade lies a soft heart that just needs a bit of love. They’re skeptical of the experiment’s professed success rate but they encourage Shiro to apply – it’s all in the name of science after all.

Our Stories Of The Gentle Fall - (@idrilka)

18k. (Mature) Contains: Torture, violence

The Galra prison cell sees no light.

(Or: Shiro and Keith get captured. Shiro tries to hold on and keep Keith alive at all cost.)

Monx:

Silver and Indigo -BlueRoboKitty (@bluerobokitty)

50k. (Mature) Contains: nsfw content, mild sexual assult, gore, Graphic Depictions Of Violence - Background Ships: Allura/Lance, Hunk/Pidge, past Allura/Keith

Takashi Shirogane is in college, going on 25, and so tired. When his classmate Allura hooks him up with a friend of hers at a sorority party, he isn’t sure what he expected but it wasn’t this. Freshman Keith is younger, completely out of control, and a welcome distraction.

18-year-old Keith Song had every intention of making tough-looking Shiro his latest victim, until Shiro turns out to be unexpectedly charming, sweet, and even cute. What kind of serial killer falls in love with his victim? Keith, apparently.

Perhaps true love does come for everyone, even serial killers. Dating Shiro has even allowed Keith to forget his itch. Until some people start getting a little too flirty, too handsy with his new boyfriend. Then that old itch returns…

all the what ifs i never said -rosegardenlake (@whoalookingcooljoker)

46k. (Mature) Contains: nsfw content, mentions of self-harm, suicidial thoughts

Keith is nine when he first notices Shiro.Shiro is gentle and quiet, always keeping to himself. Keith is rough and loud, running wherever his feet will take him, screaming on the top of his lungs into the wind.But despite that, they’re a constant throughout each other’s lives…if only that could be enough.As they grow, Keith just wants them both to be happy, but instead, he’s falling apart.

To Be By His Side -starticker (@starticker)

19k. (Teen)

Akira:

Fly Again -Skalidra (@skalidra)

5k. (Explicit) Contains: nsfw content

Shiro is the captain of a pirate ship, and Keith is one of his top lieutenants (among some key other things). Keith, as one of the Flighted, is also the best member of his crew for scouting. He always knew that there was a chance that a scouting mission could go badly, but when it actually happens, while they’re hunting one of the Galra’s military vessels, it’s just a matter of rescuing him as soon as possible.

Small Heart, Made of Steel -inkfishie (@inkfishie)

25k.(Explicit) Contains: nsfw content

The fight with Zarkon, the battle with the Galra fleet, the crash; It came back in small measures.

Keith finds himself stranded and alone.

complacent -tagteamme (@phaltu)

18k.(Explicit) Contains: nsfw content

Keith sees the agitation in the way Shiro holds himself. He sees how Shiro’s rigid, more reserved, how his anger flares a little more than normal and the sharp edge to his orders. Keith’s pretty sure that if he looks in the mirror, he’ll see some of the same irritation reflected back.

They both need to cut loose. Keith just needs to find a way.

Project Zero -TruebornAlpha(@itdans & @runicscribbles)

235k. (Explicit)Contains: nsfw content, abo-dynamics, mind control, body horror, torture - Background Ships: Hunk/Lance

The war with the Galra has stretched on for centuries and since the disappearance of the Last Paladin, the Resistance has been in shambles. With every passing day, the Galra’s control grows, infecting more worlds and building their army of mindless drones. Keith never cared for the war. Safe in the fringe colonies, surviving on nothing but his wits and skill, he thought the worst would pass him by. Until he met Shiro, a disgraced captain on borrowed time, standing against the Galra with nothing left to lose but himself.

A galactic war, a dangerous enemy, and a deadly synthetic virus. A story of two unwilling heroes fighting to find love against impossible odds.

Vevi:

Of Desert Grains and Cosmic Dust - wolfsan11

40k. (Teen) Contains: Child abuse, minor character death

“Keith, baby, you have to listen to me, you have to stay awake!”

Shiro?

A ghost of a touch skitters over his numbed face, thumbs sweeping fervently against his temples.

“We’re going to fix this. I’ll fix this, I promise, but you can’t go to sleep, you hear me? You have to hold on, please!”

Shiro … Shiro, wait. Fix wha— … fi …

The thoughts fall away from him as unconsciousness claims him.

—

Soon after a fallout with one of the members of the team, Keith is inflicted by a strange illness that ravages his body and mind; something that takes him ever closer to the brink of death. Despite their differences, the Paladins are desperate to save the life of one of their own.

Now, if only Keith would figure that out.

Fragile: Handle With Care - EchoResonance (@echoresonance)

16k. (Teen) Contains: Child abuse

Shiro’s heard all sorts of stories about soulmates. He’s seen the stories in action. He’s seen his father knock his hip against the corner of the counter and watched the bruise bloom on his mother’s. He watched his friend get a tattoo and seen another friend with the fading remnants of that very same mark. It was a magical moment for some people.Shiro and his soulmate were not those people.

An AU in which the marks that one person receives, the other also bears temporarily. And although Shiro has had few accidents and has never been struck a day in his life, it is very rare that his skin isn’t a painting of reds, blues, and purples

The Saccharine Scent of Blossoms Fed On Blood - Isidore

9k. (Mature)

Unrequited love blooms in the flesh of the pining.

‘Every moment, every syllable that sounds crushed velvet between Keith’s teeth, Shiro falls deeper and deeper in agony. The itch has spread up his arm, and he’s relieved he wore long sleeves tonight. When he excuses himself for a minute to roll up his sleeves, he sees it. Tiny white blossoms press through his skin, he can feel their thin roots winding through him, brushing against nerves and winding around veins. He plucks one, pulls it by its roots from the inside of his arm and a trickle of bright blood drips onto the floor.’

Keith burns while Shiro blooms.

#sheith #vld keith #vld shiro #voltron #modfaves #recs #anonymous

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welllpthisishappening · 6 years

Text

Scoring on the Wraparound

He wasn’t really avoiding it.

He didn’t really have time. There were...things. Stuff. Packing. Kissing his fiancée as much as humanly possible.

Because he had a fiancée now and impending fatherhood wasn’t nearly as intimidating as calling his brother from the other side of the world to tell him about both of those things.

So maybe he was avoiding it and, maybe, sometimes the more things changed the more they stayed the same.

Words: 5.5K of Jones Brothers feelz. Rating: The lowest common denominator of T because I can’t write a story without someone swearing AN: I got an anon a couple days ago asking about Liam’s reaction to finding out the news of Mattie Jones and if he’d be around when Killian and Emma told the Vankalds and my mind was like ok, we can do that in a drabble of some sort and then my mind laughed at itself because what even is a drabble? So here’s this instead. And eventually I really will write Killian and Emma telling the Vankalds because the Vankalds would freak and buy several thousand dollars of Rangers-branded baby merchandise. Thanks for still loving this stupid hockey team, guys. It’s the best. Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll.

“Call him.” “I texted him before.” “Call him.” “I have no idea what time it is at home. And then I’ve got to figure out the time difference for Colorado and--” “--Call him.”

Killian sighed, closing his eyes lightly and he could still, somehow, feel Emma’s stare on the side of her head. He leaned back, bumping into the wall they were both resting against and it probably wasn’t a good sign that the brand-new, only slightly used hockey arena seemed to creak when Emma shifted next to him, a hand on his thigh and her cheek pressed against his shoulder and he was, at least, ninety-six percent positive she was smiling.

“It’s weird that you haven’t, you know that, right?” Emma asked softly, the words barely audible over the growing sounds in the arena and Roland’s not-so-quiet instructions to Humbert about the best way to sing the anthem. “Is there...is there a reason you haven’t?” That got him to open his eyes.

“No,” Killian said intently. Emma hummed, a possible agreement that sounded just a little cautious and that wasn’t right at all. “Of course not, Swan. We’ve admittedly been a little busy. Sleeping. And not sleeping.” She flushed slightly and he’d probably spend a questionable amount of time thinking about that, tugging her lips behind her teeth when her eyes flitted towards the ring on her left hand.

“Ah, that’s cheating,” Emma mumbled. “You can’t make sweeping allusions when there’s a painfully adorable kid a couple feet away.” “He’s distracted.” “Killian.” “Still here.” Emma rolled her eyes, but her tongue darted between her lips and he was winning whatever flirting battle they were staging. That probably wasn’t the right word to use when he kept trying to make sure his hand trained on her stomach, palm flat against the fabric of whatever she was wearing – or, more often than not in the last twelve hours, not wearing – and he was having a difficult time coming up with the words.

That might have been his problem.

He wasn’t really avoiding it.

Not really.

Well, maybe.

And it didn’t make sense.

But there was something and maybe Killian was kind of nervous – terrified, more like, but that wasn’t really the right word either a few days removed from winning a goddamn gold medal and getting engaged and making out with his fiancée on the ice because they were going to have a kid.

A kid.

And he hadn’t told his brother.

Technically.

“You’re being difficult on purpose,” Emma accused, rapping her fingers on the back of his palm. “And you’ve got some kind of obsession, here.”

She smiled as she said it, the teasing note in her voice making it obvious that it wasn’t any kind of issue, but Killian felt his own flush rise in his cheeks and he was so goddamn happy he was certain he was going to explode.

Or something less drastic.

He really wanted to go home. And maybe go to the doctor. And tell his brother. Officially.

“I know, Swan,” Killian mumbled, dropping his head to kiss against the curve of her shoulder. She eyed him meaningfully, jerking her head towards Roland, like he could even bring himself to care what was happening in the far corner of the room.

He was still singing, the gold medal around his neck bouncing off his chest every time he added whatever dance routine he’d choreographed and Humbert looked passably amused – and only slightly irritated, the thin line of his mouth twisting slightly whenever Roland’s voice picked up.

“It’s stupid attractive,” Emma added.

“What is?” “Your brand-new touching...thing.” “You’ve got to call it something else, love. That sounds menacing.” “Ask me to expand my vocabulary when I’ve gotten some more sleep and am not constantly worried about what brand-new horrors the Rangers website is going to provide me today.” Killian chuckled lightly, goosebumps on Emma’s skin when the air brushed over her neck. “Three days, Swan. Of absolutely, positively not getting out of bed.” “You know, that sounds kind of menacing too,” she pointed out, twisting slightly and absolutely ignoring whatever sound of protest Killian made at the move. “Seriously, I’m going to punch you in the face. The kid does not mean my abdominal muscles disappeared. That’s just not how the human body works.” Killian quirked an eyebrow, but it was mostly so she didn’t notice the way his heart almost beat out of his chest at the casual use of the word kid and it absolutely didn’t worked. She smiled, though, and that was kind of the point.

“Everyone knows,” Emma muttered, tugging lightly on the front of his shirt. “It’s not like they don’t. El and Anna have been texting about themes for a nursery for the last twenty-four hours. They’re like...real invested. And Reese’s already thinks we should consider some kind of spinach puff appetizer.” “That sounds disgusting.” “I know! That’s what I told her, but she’s thrilled and planning and, you know, if it means we get to have some kind of cake-tasting event like she did, then maybe I’m down to plan a wedding.”

The world exploded.

It felt like, at least – the rushing in his ears and the force of Emma’s smile and whatever light they were using in that media room seemed to make the stone in her ring sparkle at some kind of cosmic level.

He wasn’t sure that even made sense.

“We’ll make sure we get some kind of cake-tasting event, Swan,” Killian promised and he didn’t argue her movement when she leaned forward to brush her lips over hers. “More options than Mary Margaret.” “You are a giant, competitive weirdo.” “Who won a gold medal. And you agreed to marry. So, you know…” He could feel her smile against his mouth, not even bothering to pull away and he had to count to ten in his head so he didn’t actually groan when Emma’s fingers carded through his hair. Humbert probably wouldn’t have appreciated that either.

And Killian really didn’t want Regina to yell at him for scaring Roland.

“Yeah, I know,” Emma muttered. “How come you didn’t call Liam yet? Is this...I mean you can’t stop touching me, so at the risk of sounding like an absurdly over-confident ass I think it’s pretty safe to say you’re not upset.” “Swan,” he sighed, resting his forehead against hers and his hand felt like it had a magnet in it at that point. “That’s not even remotely what it is.” “Why then?” He couldn’t really shrug, but he made a noise in the back of his throat and that might have just been a whine when Emma’s fingers moved out of his hair. She tapped lightly on his jaw, Humbert’s quiet we going to do this coming at, quite possibly, the worst time.

“I don’t know,” Killian said, but open book absolutely worked both ways and Emma didn’t even have to move away from him for him to feel the force of her skeptical stare. She tapped a bit harder. “Because he’s...he’s Liam and he’s, you know…” “I promise I do not.” Killian licked his lips, scowling slightly and the admission felt like it scratched its way out of him. “Because he’s Liam,” he repeated. “And he’s...well he’s always figured everything out and everything I’ve done has been to--” “--Impress him?” Emma interrupted. “Because I really do think the hat trick in the gold medal game might do that.” “Nah, not like that. It doesn’t have anything to do with hockey, actually.” Emma’s eyebrows leapt up her forehead, flying into her hair when she pulled back to gape at him and her hand fell on top of his. “Do you think Liam is, what...judging your life decisions? I mean I know we didn’t really plan this and we’re kind of going out of order, at least the way society dictates the order should go, but that’s kind of antiquated and society can honestly go fuck itself and…”

He cut her off, ducking his head and pressing his lips against hers and the sound she made – some kind of gasp, groan thing that sent a shock down his spine – probably scared Roland and Humbert and every single human being in the entire arena.

Killian sighed against her and he hadn’t really been holding any tension, even with the distinct lack of sleep, but kissing Emma was like coming home or landing or something equally absurd and sentimental and maybe he had been avoiding his brother.

“I love you,” he muttered, her eyelashes still fluttering and chest moving a hint quicker than normal. “An absolutely absurd amount.” “I feel like the whole marriage and family thing was a pretty good sign, honestly,” Emma laughed. “You going to tell me the truth now or you want to keep making out?” “Is that an honest question?” “No.” He grinned, trying to run his hand through his hair. It didn’t matter. She’d absolutely destroyed it. “Liam’s always been this kind of...I don’t know,” Killian explained and he had to take a deep breath before the words rushed out of him. “He’s kind of my hero.” Emma blinked.

And blinked again.

And he really didn’t expect her to laugh.

“You’re kind of ruining that previously discussed confidence, Swan,” Killian said and her laugh got louder. Humbert muttered another string of words and possibly mentioned schedule four times. “Jeez, Humbert, relax.”

Emma was still laughing, the sound inching closer to just a bit unhinged and Killian had read a few websites when he wasn’t entirely preoccupied with undressing his fiancée, but none of the lists he’d looked at mentioned manic hysteria as an actual symptom of the first trimester.

“Swan,” he said cautiously, inching back in her gaze and there were tears in her eyes. “Are you alright, love?” “Was that supposed to be a surprise?” Emma asked. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out before. That’s a credit to you and your makeout skills, you know. I was way too distracted.” “What is happening right now?” “Alright, I want you to listen to me right now and, like, file it away in the deepest, darkest corners of your mind and then I don’t want this to be a question ever again, got it?” Killian nodded slowly, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to, but Emma was still smiling and the last two weeks had been some kind of dream, so maybe it all made sense.

“I love you,” she continued, tugging on his shirt. “More than anything and I am…God, I’m happy and excited and terrified and you are going to be so good at this. We’re going to be so good at this. So, yeah, I’m kind of freaking out, but I’m also ready for it and you get to call your brother and brag to brother and be confident that you are the absolute best guy I know. Bar none.”

Humbert stopped talking about the schedule.

Roland stopped singing.

And Killian wasn’t sure he was still breathing.

If he was dreaming, he didn’t want to wake up.

“You want to get married, Swan?”

She laughed again, loud enough that it sounded like the noise actually bubbled out of her and it might have been pure joy and possibly bouncing off the walls or echoing in his head and none of it mattered as long as it kept happening.

Emma nodded, the tears finally falling on her cheeks and she bit her lip when he brushed his thumb over her cheek. “Yeah,” she breathed. “Every single time.”

Killian kissed her, quick and maybe just a hint bruising, tongue tracing over her mouth until she sagged just a bit against him and they were absolutely fucking up the entire schedule. And probably Merida’s ability to sleep for, possibly, the rest of her life.

“I’m going to go call Liam,” he said and Emma rolled her eyes.

“About time.”

It took a few minutes to find a quiet corner and then a few more minutes to decide if he was going to actually FaceTime the phone call, but that debate was more one-sided than Kilian expected and it took two rings before Liam’s face showed up on his phone screen.

“You know,” Liam drawled, barely giving Killian a chance to breathe, let alone give any kind of socially acceptable greeting. “I was starting to think you forget I was here.” Killian winced, squeezing one eye shut and stuffing his hand into the back of his hair. “Ah, that’s not fair,” he muttered. “It’s been...you know, busy.” Liam hummed, the hint of a smile curling on the ends of his mouth and it was probably stupid to have been worried. And that wasn’t quite the right word either.

Killian wasn’t worried.

He knew Liam would be happy and excited and the prospect of battling both Locksley and Scarlet for Matthew Jones’ favorite uncle would be some kind of thrill of a lifetime thing, but the words were still sitting in the back of Killian’s throat and he just wanted his brother to be proud of...everything.

That sounded lame in his head. He could only imagine what it would sound like out loud.

“Busy here meaning life-changing?” Liam asked and the smile was a smirk and vaguely sarcastic and Killian felt like he was fourteen years old.

That was kind of weird – all things considered.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But in a good way, you know?” “You keep using that phrase. Why are you asking me for confirmation?” Killian shrugged, ducking his eyes to his feet when he slid down the latest wall he was leaning again. Liam did something ridiculous with his eyebrows, a somehow judgmental arch that wasn’t really helping the pace of the conversation and Killian dimly wondered if that was genetic.

It was probably on some website somewhere.

“You’ve got to actually use words at some point, little brother,” Liam chuckled. “We can’t just converse in grunts. And the ring looked good, by the way.” Killian made some kind of noise – probably something that would, generally, be classified as a grunt of surprise and Liam nearly dropped his phone when he started laughing. “Here’s a tip, when important people in your life tell one half of the relationship that you’re a part of something important, assume you will also get that news in some kind of timely fashion.” “Did those words make sense in that order?” “Elsa told me. Or showed me. And then showed me the group text. She and Anna think you’re going to to choose some kind of sports theme and that’s incredibly cliché.” “Some kind of family tradition,” Killian said, the words falling out of him before he really considered it and Liam’s eyebrows were going to get sprained if he kept moving them that way.

“You tell Mr. V you’re going to name a kid after him yet?” “Jeez, El’s just shouting things from metaphorical rooftops, huh?”

“Anna.” “Ah.” Liam chuckled, slouching into the corner of the couch and the twins were shouting off camera, the sound of pucks hitting something echoing from the other side of the world. And Lizzie started crying at some point, Elsa’s quiet entreaties to go back to sleep barely audible over the sound and it was all vaguely chaotic and kind of nice and Killian’s heart did something impossible again.

Exploded or something.

“We didn’t tell ‘em yet,” Killian said, belatedly answering the question. “Figured that was kind of an in-person thing.” “Ah, so I’m not the last person to find out then, huh?” Liam asked. “I actually feel better about that. And, technically, I guess I knew before anyone else did with vaguely worded texts that sent Elsa into some kind of emotional tailspin.” “Again, I was kind of busy. And trying to propose.” “Not on the ice.” “I was never going to propose on the ice,” Killian laughed, fingers still tugging on his hair and they were still dancing around announcements and life-changing news. “I wasn’t trying to avoid you,” he added softly. He might beat up Liam’s eyebrows at some point. “We weren’t going to say anything because all those sites say you shouldn’t and--” “--Killian,” Liam cut in and Elsa’s voice had, suddenly, disappeared. She was probably frozen somewhere. “Are you reading websites? About...kids?”

His jaw ached from clenching it so tightly, whatever noise he made in response some kind of impossible thing that seemed to pull from the pit of his stomach. But then he remembered Emma’s face and her hand on his and, well, he was goddamn thrilled about everything.

“Yeah,” Killian nodded. Elsa might have shrieked. Lizzie started crying again. “I mean not a ton because I’ve got to be connected to wifi or I’m going to get totally fucked by my phone plan, but some stuff and ideas and..”

He took another deep breath and his lungs were going to explode with his heart and Liam’s smile had never been that wide.

Ever.

“Emma’s pregnant,” he finished, his own smile making the muscles in his face stretch and twist and the world seemed to pause for a moment when Liam actually dropped his phone.

That appeared to be catching.

“Holy shit,” Liam muttered, shaking his head in something that might have been awe and possibly disbelief and Killian was glad he was sitting down. “That’s...holy shit.” “Eloquent.”

“Shit,” he repeated, Elsa clicking her tongue from somewhere when his vocabulary dissolved into one curse word that the twins would probably spend the next week repeating. “I mean...I knew or kind of knew, but that’s…”

Liam shook his head again and maybe they should all get a media training rehash from Ruby. None of them were very good at holding a conversation. “Is it weird to tell you congratulations? People told us congratulations and I thought that was weird, but I can’t come up with another word, so, uh...congratulations.”

“I’ll take it,” Killian grinned. “It is kind of weird though, but I accept it.” “When I come up with another word to scream from those metaphorical rooftops you were talking about before I’ll get back to you.” “That’s fair.” Liam laughed again, a bit quiet and slightly stunned and Killian hoped all the internal organs that felt as if they were twisting into several dozen knots at the moment recovered by the time he had to play actual hockey games again.

“So, uh, it’s been a pretty good Olympics for you huh?” Liam asked. Killian dropped his phone. They were all absolute disasters.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Kind of the best. I’m uh...I really wasn’t avoiding you, but El and Banana kind of attack-called and Scarlet can’t keep a secret and I just wanted you to…” He needed to finish a goddamn sentence

He couldn’t.

Words were, apparently, more challenging than an overtime gold medal game or impending fatherhood or proposing as many times as one person could propose in a several day-span.

He’d asked Emma to marry him sixteen times.

At last count.

And Liam absolutely knew how that sentence was going to end.

It was, admittedly, kind of obvious.

“That’s stupid,” Liam said pointedly, waving a hand over his shoulder when Elsa shouted something that sounded a hell of a lot it’s definitely stupid, KJ. “See, I’ve got back-up. I win.” “Were we arguing?” “No, but I still win because that’s definitely the stupidest thing you’ve ever thought. Were you honestly worried that I’m not incredibly proud of you at all times?”

Killian made some kind of impossible noise, probably doing permanent damage to his throat in the process, and Liam widened his eyes in disbelief. “C’mon, little brother, that’s ridiculous,” he said. “You’ve done something good here and not just because that kid is going to have the greatest hockey genes in the history of the world. You are...well you can self-loathe with the best of ‘em, can’t you?”

Elsa laughed in the background, another quiet agreement and side commentary and Killian resisted the urge to make a quip about play by play. He shrugged instead.

Liam rolled his eyes.

“I’m going to take that as an agreement,” he chuckled. “It’s unnecessary. It always was really, but you’re also the single most stubborn person on the planet, so that was falling on deaf ears. That’s got to change now, Killian. Because you’re going to be that kid’s hero and you should be. He couldn’t pick a better one.”

Elsa might have been crying.

“That might have been the single greatest motivational speech you’ve ever given,” Killian mumbled, blinking quickly and threatening to rip out his own hair.

“That was off the cuff too. Feel free to tell your kid about that when he understands the English language. And take solace in the fact that the twin thing is a Vankald trait because I trust you little brother, but I’m not sure you could cope with twins.” “Younger brother. God.” “I take such joy in that little pinch between your eyebrows though.”

Killian groaned, rolling his entire head in response. “Although you’re probably right about twins. Right about the hockey genes though.” “I’m already ready for the national title run in...what year?” “2036.” Liam let out a low whistle and Elsa probably should have moved to the couch if she was going to comment on every single part of the conversation. “Was that also on the websites you’re reading?” Liam asked.

“Scarlet did the math.” “Scarlet can do math?” “Ask him that question next time you talk to him.” “Ah, no thanks, he couldn’t really hit anybody for the last two and half weeks. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of all that pent up aggression.”

“Good call.” Liam hummed in agreement, a kid suddenly in his lap and wearing a Team USA jersey and the world had a messed up sense of humor. “You learn some things over the years,” he grinned. “You nervous? Honestly?” Killian considered his answer for a moment, tucked into that quiet corner and he wasn’t entirely certain how he was going to get back to the media room. “Grand scheme,” he mumbled and Liam’s eyes widened slightly. “Not at all. Questionably not at all.” “How does those words go together?” “I have no idea, actually,” Killian admitted lightly. “But I’m not. I’m...good. Great. Better than great. It’s kind of the little things. Do they have monkey bars in schools anymore?” “What?” “Monkey bars. You know, like you swing and fall off and break your wrist or something.” “That is oddly specific.” “I’m worried about monkey bars and their existence and potential for asshole kids to do something vaguely terrible.” Liam gaped at him, blinking quickly like Killian would disappear and show that he’d been replaced with some kind alien obsessed with playground equipment. He didn’t. Because he was questionably worried about monkey bars.

And it only took Liam four and a half seconds to realize that monkey bars were both a metaphor.

“You learn some things, Killian,” he said again, shifting the kid perched on his leg and wincing when a knee collided with his stomach. “And you realize you can’t control everything and that’s good for everyone involved. It’s not the blue line. There’s no straight path from the point. It’s a five on three penalty kill and everything’s coming at you from every single angle and it lasts like...the rest of your life.” “You’re really selling it.” “Yeah, well, you’re kind of committed now. But, honestly, it’s chaotic and exhausting and your thighs will probably feel like you’ve been on the PK for twenty-six straight minutes at some point because you won’t get any sleep and that kid may have great hockey genes, but all babies hate squash and he’ll throw it at your face.

But here’s the sell. You are so goddamn happy you reek with it from the other side of the world. And so is Emma. I think Anna printed out that picture of you two on the ice to use as, like, blackmail for the rest of your lives. So you get to keep doing that and you get to keep building something and settling into something else and life keeps happening and it’s absolutely...” he paused to cover his hands over Charlie’s ears, pulling him against his chest, like that would help. “It’s absolutely fucking fantastic and you’re going to be the best dad that kid could ask for.”

Killian exhaled for what felt like the first time in his life, a rush of air and feelings and Elsa was close to sobbing somewhere in that house. “Stepped up your motivational speech game over the last couple of years,” he muttered, a shaky laugh clinging to the words. “Someone should have been recording that.” “I’m not convinced Elsa wasn’t.” “Double negatives kind of taking away from the whole thing honestly.” “Ah, hit the post.” “Too many hockey metaphors,” Killian said and Liam nodded in agreement, lower lip jutted out slightly. “If I tell you that I just wanted you to be proud of me are you going to tell Locksley and Scarlet because I don’t think I could handle that.”

Liam didn’t answer at first and that was only kind of jarring, but then he blinked again and his eyes were a little glossy and Killian was holding his breath.

Elsa sniffled.

“No,” Liam whispered. “I wouldn’t. I would tell you that I have been since the very start and every single day since. No matter what you think you’ve done.” “God, you’re on a roll.” “That’s because I’m presumably getting more sleep than you are. Neurons firing on all cylinders and whatnot.”

“Yeah, that makes total sense.” “I am absolutely ready to beat down against both Locksley and Scarlet and David, if need be, because I’m that kid’s only actual uncle and I’d like whatever record to note that.”

“The record appreciates that,” Killian said, finally letting his hand fall out of his hair and that felt like a bigger moment than it probably should have. “Maybe he can be a centerman or something. Keep the tradition alive.” Liam dropped the phone again.

And he nearly lost track of time, talking and planning and Elsa really did have far too many ideas about the potential decorating scheme of a potential nursery and they’d moved into a two-bedroom apartment.

Killian found his way back to the media room, Humbert glancing his direction when his shoes squeaked on the floor and Roland was never going to stop humming the national anthem.

“Let me know when you land, ok?” Humbert asked, leaning forward to brush a kiss over Emma’s forehead and she was still smiling.

“Of course,” she said.

Humbert nodded towards Killian when he walked out, leaving them alone with an incredibly excited eight-year-old and the sounds of a computer doing something and Killian’s hand did that magnet thing again, brushing over Emma’s stomach as soon as she was within reach.

“You ready to go, love?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Emma nodded, closing her eyes lightly like she was trying to memorize the moment. “Let’s go home.”

“Call him.” "You’re supposed to be asleep.”

Emma sighed, shifting against his side and there was not enough room for that. The bed creaked and they both snapped towards the bassinet, container thing and there had to be an actual word for it, but Killian was far too worried about waking up his hours-old son to be concerned about proper sentence structure.

They had a son.

“I’m not asleep,” Emma muttered, tugging on the team-branded t-shirt he’d changed into at some point and everything felt sluggish and far too fast at the same time. He’d tried not to fall asleep, like he’d miss something or some momentous moment if he even dared close his eyes, but Emma was so goddamn soft against him, breathing evening out and Matthew David Jones was still asleep.

Parents of the year.

Already.

“And I’m not going to fall asleep because our sleep schedules are all already out of whack and this bed is, like, a rock,” Emma continued. “So we should probably call them and tell them that there’s a painfully adorable kid here.” “You want me to use that exact phrase, love?” Killian asked, quirking an eyebrow and she didn’t roll her eyes. Her lips twitched slightly and that was kind of a victory and the world was incredibly perfect.

Or something less sentimental.

No, something more sentimental. The most sentimental.

Killian leaned to his left, grabbing his phone off the nightstand and it didn’t even take a single ring, Liam’s eyes wide and he might have been vibrating with excitement, the phone screen shaking on his side of the call.

Emma laughed.

“Why are you awake?” Killian asked. “Is there an earthquake happening there?” Liam leveled him with a stare that probably should have been patented. “Killian, you called me and I’m experiencing some weird déjà vu because I feel like we did this with the ring call and also because I’ve been waiting for you to call me for, like, nine hours. Also I have kids. Kids who have to go to school.” “Oh, yeah, that’s a thing isn’t it?” Emma mused, Liam’s eyes darting towards the sound like he’d be able to see her out the side of the phone. “We’ve got to decide where to send him to school, don’t we?”

“I mean not right now, Swan,” Killian reasoned. “He’s real busy sleeping.” “Wait, what?” Liam gasped, shouting the question and jumping up and down and Elsa yelled from somewhere.

She ran into the frame, colliding with Liam’s side and the hospital bed probably couldn't stand up to the combined force of both Killian and Emma’s laughter. “KJ,” Elsa breathed. “Can we...can we see him?”

It took far longer than it probably should have to climb off the bed, but Killian was far more aware of noise than he’d ever been in his life and his knuckles turned white when he gripped the phone, directing the phone camera towards a still-sleeping Matthew David Jones.

“Oh,” Elsa sighed, a hand flying to her mouth and Liam absolutely was not breathing, a statue who seemed determined to lick his lips, at least, forty-two times in a ten-second span. “Oh my God. He’s perfect.” “Totally perfect,” Emma agreed softly, smiling at Killian when he glanced over his shoulder.

Liam nodded, slinging an arm around Elsa’s shoulders and they were definitely both crying. Killian couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

He might have been crying too.

“Did Mom and Dad show yet?” Elsa asked, eyes still on Matt.

Killian shook his head. “Tomorrow. Or later tonight. I don’t know, I’ve already lost all track of time outside of this hospital room.” “Ah, well, that’s understandable.”

“You guys good?” Liam asked. “Like...everything good? Healthy and all of that?” “Yeah,” Killian said. “All of the above. I think Scarlet’s already measuring him for his first jersey fitting.” Elsa clicked her tongue, closing her eyes tightly and Killian didn’t remember deciding to sit down, just that his knees bent and Emma’s fingers brushed over the side of his arm. He had to twist to hold her hand.

He didn’t really mind.

“It was totally Liam’s idea,” Elsa continued, shouting from out of frame again and thrusting her hands towards the camera when she collapsed back down.

And, really, he shouldn’t have been surprised.

Because of course they’d bought it.

They’d bought his first jersey.

He hadn’t been playing long yet, he and Liam had only just started practices and it was almost his ninth birthday and they’d pooled their money – for a second-hand Rangers jersey that was far too big and far too ratty and there was a rip in the right sleeve.

The new one was better.

It was a Rangers jersey and far too big and the number twenty on the back went without saying, but the name was slightly unexpected, the MATTHEW emblazoned on it making Killian’s breath hitch and Emma’s hand tighten and it was some kind of miracle he didn’t drop the phone.

“It’ll probably take some time for him to grow into it,” Liam started. “You know, being an actual newborn at this point, but, uh, I figured he could wear it eventually and it’d intimidate the monkey bars or something.”

Emma’s hand tightened again, an impossible show of strength that left Killian wincing and tugging her fingers up to brush his lips just underneath her ring. “Monkey bars,” she echoed, tears on her cheeks and voice slightly shaky and there had to be a word bigger than sentimental. “Thanks, guys. Just...thank you.”

Elsa nodded, the force of her smile possibly affecting the atmosphere or the rotation of the Earth, and Liam didn’t look away from Killian.

“Congratulations, Dad,” he said and the words settled in the pit of Killian’s stomach and the back corner of his mind and he and Emma were asleep again by the time the Vankalds showed up later that afternoon.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs #captain swan ff #cs fic #blue line one shots #the amount of money the collective vankald family has spent on rangers merch is absurd #kristoff is like...i could get this for you for free

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duallygirl178 · 3 years

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Dearest O'Malley Chapter 14

Chapter 14

I was editing one of Natalie's stories while she was away for an afternoon. She didn't ask me but I predicted she wanted it edited by the time she came back to her office to submit it to a self-publishing agency and as my English skills went to work, I scanned through her work and corrected some mistakes. I was minding my own business when the bedroom door opened suddenly and slowly. I froze from my work and watched with fright. Then slammed shut like if someone was in there. It did it again. It would open up slowly and slam shut again loudly. That door has NEVER done that before! I get off from the chair and go see if anyone was in there. I looked and there wasn't anyone in there. My heart pounded and I came to an idea that I would pay Gonzo a visit. He had a ghost box that would help me find out whose ghost was in my house. I made my way to see Gonzo and I let him know I needed to borrow something.

Gonzo used to be a ghost hunter for a paranormal team when he was 6 years old. He knew how each and every equipment worked. As I knocked on his door, Gonzo answered it.

"Hi O'Malley. What can I do you for? a cup of sugar?" He asked.

"I need to borrow a ghost box because I have a ghost in my house that's slamming doors on me and I'm at my wits end to just get the sage out and smudge the stupid joint." I said almost snippy.

"Sure...whoa, you look more white than normal, you do have a ghost in your house." Gonzo said.

Gonzo went to get his ghost box and when he found it, he brought it to me to use. I thanked him and apologized for my snippy behavior. I was scared to paranoia. As I began to leave, Gonzo followed me which was alright because I wanted him to see this. He and I talked on the way to my house and when we arrived, I turned it on and couldn't figure out which buttons to use and what they do. Suddenly, the door began to open slowly and slam shut and it scared us. I think I might have wet myself. I have never been in a paranormal so scary as this before. We were panting hard and out of breath.

"Can you help me understand how to use this box?" I asked.

"Sure..." Gonzo said shortly and then he walked me through the instructions on how to use it. When we got it going, I point it to the bedroom. There was static for a while and we soon heard a voice that said "Hey man."

We looked at each other in shock and horror.

"Oh gravy train...did you hear that?" I asked.

"Sure did. Sounded like Impa's voice. That is creepy. I'm scared O'Malley" Gonzo said.

The ghost box went static and said it again. "Hey man, I've been looking all over for you." The voice said again.

"That is creepy. Gonzo, I'm this close to bolting out this house and leaving for good." I said getting scared.

I couldn't believe I was hearing Impa's voice! I didn't want to believe it.

"Gonzo, you try talking to him." I said.

"Impa, is that really you? Where are you?" Gonzo said.

Again, there was static and then the ghost box replied: "I'm in the bedroom on the bed."

"Bedroom?" I asked.

Gonzo was looking and he froze in horror to see it. Slowly he tapped me while he trembled and he said my name; "O'Malley, Malley...."

"What Gonzo?" I asked.

"Don't look too closely, but there's something on the bed in your master's bedroom. Looks half formed." Gonzo said.

I turned and saw it. I gasped loudly. On the bed was a car half formed of what used to be Impa. I nearly screamed.

"Ohh my stars! Ohh gravy!" I gasped.

I have never seen anything like this in my life. At least not a ghost.

"Gonzo, I've never seen anything this creepy in all my life." I said.

"Me either. You should ask him what happened after he died." Gonzo said.

"No speed bumping way, you ask him." I said.

"No way, I'm close to calling out Mommy and grabbing me a pacifier just to shut me up." Gonzo said.

"Huh? you're in your 50s dude, you're too old for a pacifier." I said "You're such a big baby."

The ghost box answered our question. It was telling us after Impa was attacked by the alien when he was living, he escaped to the highway and sadly passed away with exhaustion on the highway. The next thing Impa sees is his lifeless body being hit by oncoming traffic.

"It wasn't all bad and I got to see and do some cool things I wasn't able to do when I was living. So how have you two dopes been doing?" Impa finished.

Dumbfounded, Gonzo and I were in a murmur in conference of who was going to talk to Impa.

"O'Malley, you play around with tariot cards, you talk to him." Gonzo said.

"Well you've been part of a ghost team, you talk to him." I said..

"Nuh uh. You should because you read those weird inspirational books." Gonzo said.

"They're not weird! If you had some sense of Buddhism practice, you'd find you'd be a better Baptist." I said.

"Maybe you should talk to him first O'Malley. He's in your house." Gonzo said.

There was silence except for the ghost box going static. I couldn't win this quarrel so I agreed to talk to Impa.

"Impa? Are you still there?" I asked.

There was static again. Gonzo looked up and the ghost was gone.

"O'Malley, he's gone. He just disappeared." He said.

I looked and he was right. Ima's ghost was gone.

"Where'd it go?" I asked.

We went out to the living room and there was the ghost on the couch. It scared us.

We spoke into the ghost box to Impa for a while and when Impa was done talking, his voice started to fade away. He started to say he was being transferred into Heaven. Gonzo turned off the ghost box and we both were left horrified and speechless that we stayed quiet for hours. There was little conversation. I knew I was going to need some space from this house for a few days.

"Is it okay if I spend a few days at your house?" I asked with no eye contact.

"That would be fine." Gonzo said doing the same.

After 2 hours, I had the courage to move to the bedroom to get a few things to take with me. It would be 6 days before I could recover back to the carport.

I had left a note to Nathan and Natalie that I was spending a few days at Gonzo's house. I wrote down Gonzo's number in case of emergencies for them to see. And so my visit began.

One the first day, I had breakfast with Gonzo while I explained everything to Gonzo's masters of what happened and how scared I was to see face to face with with a ghost when my home was a place of Zen and Peace. They were horrified to hear. Gonzo's owners served us grapefruit with cottage cheese cranberry juice and ham. I didn't mind but it was an interesting combo. I ate it because I knew it was healthy. Gonzo's owners gave him some his medicine shot. I was observing while I ate the fruit and realized. Gonzo had pre-diabetes and never told me. I wouldn't have cared..

"Why Gonzo, you never told me you had pre diabetes. I wouldn't have cared. disabilities is what makes a friendship more than stronger. It means a lot to me than life" I said.

"Because I was afraid it would end our friendship when I didn't want this." Gonzo said.

"You don't need to be afraid Gonzo. I've been reading a lot about diabetes. You don't have anything shameful to hide from me. You're still my friend no matter what." I said.

Gonzo smiled admiring my comment.

We talked some more and Gonzo told me more about his ghost hunting days. The craziest one was where he picked up a being on camera with two long legs a scary looking face with huge teeth tiny arms and three bloodshot eyes that was in a couple's home. I usually didn't believe in such horrid nightmare like things but Gonzo's story was so convincing that I believed it was true. Gonzo showed me old vintage photo from 1969...before CGI was invented,...before computers were made. It was a real photo.

After breakfast I helped clean up like a good guest and told about my friend Impa and how he died. Mrs. Lacefeild, one of Gonzo's owners, was drying the dishes while she listened to the stories. Gonzo added in text on things Impa would do that was funny or the best part of the story on one of our adventures together. After that, Gonzo and I spend time together by going out to lunch at Sonic. We talked about plans for tonight. Gonzo wanted to go to the Cosmic Café for some tea or coffee and wanted to go look at books. I added in that we could watch a movie at the movie theaters. Gonzo agreed that would be a great idea.

At 3PM after Sonic, Gonzo and I went to the Cosmic Cafe and browsed. I loved books and found a few that I wanted to have; Paranormal activity by discovery Library, Gods from outer space by Erich Von Daniken, a book about the Le Mans, and ghost stories. There was all sorts of books that looked good. I purchased them at the counter while I waited for Gonzo who was still looking at the sci-fi novels. I looked through one of them while I waited for Gonzo to purchase about 3 books that he found. We took them to the coffee shop and read them while we had coffee. I started to get into the Le Mans story. It was getting good where the ford company was just failing and needing a car to race against the Italians. We stayed there for a few hours and then the shop was getting ready to close up for the day. So we left and took our books with us. We went back to Gonzo's house and we exercised together by having a nice stroll in the neighborhood while talking.

By 4 PM, Gonzo and I got back to his home and let our engines cool off. We looked at what was showing at the movie theater. There was a bunch of horror movies and we kept checking. We looked at a few more and there was one that would be good. So we decided to go to it and get tickets to go see it. The movie was about a NASCAR driver stays atop of his game with his best friend and crew mate in racing until a hot shot rookie comes along and so the two friends must use their talent and devotion are put to the test. It was funny and I sure can relate to the main characters.

Day 2 had come the next day and Sweetie-Pie came by Gonzo's house. She was looking for me. She had told me where I went to and that she had went by my house to see if I was available. I told her I would explain everything to her because Sweetie-Pie was upset and thought I was having an affair.

"Darling, it's not about you that I needed space from. There is something in my home that scared me to believe that my home is rigged with paranormal activity. A bedroom door opened slowly and slammed right in front of my face. Gonzo was there too. I'm being honest." I said.

"It was the scariest thing I've ever since The Amityville Horror. I'll never forget it.

Gonzo said remembering when he and I saw a ghost. He looked spooked enough to be a statue.

Sweetie-Pie looked at Gonzo and believed it. She knew it wasn't a laughing matter or a prank. That look in Gonzo's eye let her know so.

"Okay guys, I believe you. But would it help if we talked about it over our date. You looked like you really need to talk about it." Sweetie-Pie said.

"Yes," I answered softly.

I needed to talk about what I just saw. I didn't want to have ghosts in my house and not be able to sleep at night.

I went out with Sweetie-Pie that evening and I told her about the ghost situation and Impa's ghost being on the bed. I told her how scared I was. While I was in the middle of the story, I began to slow down on my conversation when I got to the conversation about the ghost on my master's bed. Something out of the ordinary made me slow down.

"What's the matter?" Sweetie-Pie asked.

"Just....um.." I couldn't respond to her. I was stuck on my subject but when I gained control of myself, I finished the story.

"What was that all about?" Sweetie-Pie asked.

"Not sure, But it was really strange. Kind of got caught in the supernatural vortex." I said clearing my throat.

"what was Impa like?" Sweetie-Pie asked me.

I smiled and sighed.

“Impa was crude, rude, and

(will continue this later)

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