#I´ve not been in a creative headspace for a while

[theshardsofmyheart]

“...Cruel Prince James strode into the chamber, his cape flashing behind him and his terrible, terrible mustache askew with rage...“

Here´s to late night patrols, good friends and stories about terrible terrible princes.   

[mattzerella-sticks]

Heavenly Bodies (a Dean/Cas fanfiction Ao3)

The Met-Gala theme this year has Fashion pairing up with Catholic Imagination. But is there more to this trendy Garden of Eden then meets the eye? Will it be the place where a new covenant is born - one between Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak? Read more if you want to see if they take a bite of the apple...

           Dean’s eyes were starting to burn, the camera flashes coalescing to form one giant sun he stared into for too long. Thankfully, the saving touch of an attendant pushed him along, away from the photographers and further into the event. He released the breath he had been holding – the one that kept his body slim for the cameras – and shook loose the aches that built up from posing for too long.

           Normally modeling clothing wouldn’t put too much of a strain on his body: walking the runway his bread and butter. But today’s outfit was more constricting than the suit Sammy forced him into for his wedding. Then again… that was the year he wasn’t getting hired. And all those rejections made the ice cream in his fridge look all the more appetizing.

           This time he had no one to blame but his designer. And while it looked fantastic on him, Crowley’s measurements cut too close. The silver vest buttoned too tight, pushing his chest and the bedazzled cross on it outwards. His pants, the same silver shifting towards a deep crimson in a captivating ombré, hugged his thighs. The buttons of his shirt nearly bursting at the seams – especially at the cufflinks where two glittering crimson crosses were adorned. Only his cape – blood red and fastened at his shoulders by two firm silver shoulder pads – seemed to flow easily; its tail fluttering and tapping against his lower back.

           “Dean!” Charlie, his friend, manager, and date for the evening, sidles up beside him, “You need to see this!” Her pale blue dress fans out into a ball gown, little doves fixed to the tulle. A long white mantle covers her usual bright hair.

           “Charlie, can’t it wait?” he whines, “The sooner we get inside, the closer I get to unbuttoning this torture device.”

           “Trust me,” she says, “you’ll want to keep it on after you see him.” Dean’s curiosity is piqued, but he still summons the minimum amount of disgruntlement as she drags him past celebrities and models and towards another crowd of photographers, the shutters like gunshots, each striking their target for the kill.

           “Okay, okay,” Dean gripes, yanking his arm free, “What is it you want me to… to…”

           Dean’s eyes lock onto the center of the crowd, where the people part and a miraculous light shines down on the focus. Standing there was a literal angel – and not because of the ethereal, dark wings sprouting from behind. The man’s outfit, besides the avian accessory, was a simple elegance. A sleek, tan coat would fan behind him as he twisted into another pose. His head was adorned with a simple halo, glittering with each flash of the camera. And his cane, glossy, polished chrome, seemed to stab into the ground with how sharp it was.

           “Who is that?” Dean asks, gaping at the sight.

           “That’s Castiel Novak,” Charlie tells him, “He’s a designer – apparently out of the game for awhile. But when he heard what the theme for the Gala was, it got his creative juices flowing. He designed that gown we saw Billie wearing.”

           “Billie?” Dean parrots, “Billie Rapier?” She had received probably similar treatment as her friend Castiel was getting. Dean remembers passing by, nearly tripping at the picture of sacramental beauty. The electric blue gown perfectly draped across her body, the waist pulled tight by a golden bodice. Across the chest, a bejeweled heart – sewn into the fabric – bled rubies. A crown of gold crosses decorated her head, matching the golden jewelry winding its way like vines down her arms. “He did that?” Dean asks, blinking.

           “Yep,” Charlie smirks, “And that’s just the start of his new line… word is he’s looking for a muse for his male collection. A… Righteous Man, so to speak. Now ask yourself… who’s more righteous than… well, you?”

           “Ugh, do not bring that up,” Dean groans, “That was a one-time campaign for Michael… the douche.” A cologne named Righteous… made sense when you got to know Mr. Godson. But the artistic direction – Zachariah Adler should never have been allowed behind a camera. Thankfully, recent allegations have come to light that will keep him far from the fashion industry.

           “Paid well, at least,” Charlie shrugged, “Even if I got only twenty percent of that fat check. Anyway… you’ve been looking for a fresh start. And there won’t be many of those now that you’re older –”

           “Charlie!” Dean says, “Do not bring up the ‘o’ word!”

           “What… older?” Charlie asks, her grin growing wider with Dean’s groan, “Should I maybe say thirty-ni -!”

           Dean clamps a firm hand across her lips, shooting his friend a dark look. “Don’t,” he warns, “Press finds out how old I really am then it won’t just be me out of a job, missy.” She rolls her eyes, but takes a vow of silence. He releases her, wincing down at his hand. “Might want to check your make-up,” Dean tells her, “Sorry.”

           Charlie pulls her phone out, checking the smudges and huffing. She shoots him a dark look before stomping away, each of the doves on her dress somehow ruffled. Dean watches her leave, unaware of the shadows that have fallen overhead.

           “There is beauty in anger,” a deep voice rumbles like thunder from behind, “Like a storm that passes over an empty field…”

           Dean startles, twirling towards Castiel, who had somehow approached him without his notice.

           “Oh!” he says, blushing, “Um… I didn’t see you –“

           “I know,” Castiel continues, finally tearing his blue gaze away from Charlie and towards him, “You were very preoccupied with your date. I hope your small inconvenience won’t come back to haunt you later on in the evening…?”

           “Dean,” he says, smiling, “Dean Winchester. And no, Cas, it won’t – I mean, not in the way you’re probably thinkin’, because Charlie there is about as straight as I am… which is not at all – I mean,” he notices the other man’s strange head tilt, and dread crawls further up his throat, taking control of his vocal chords, “I don’t know why I just told you that – not that I’m ashamed I mean, you saw Lena Waithe right? Totally got a selfie with her and her amazing cape it’s just – we only met today and… I should stop talking, right?”

           “Cas?”

           Dean blinks, short-circuiting at the path Castiel had chosen to take given the multitude his ramblings had presented the designer.

           “Oh, are you not a nickname kind of guy?” Dean asks, “Sorry – it’s a habit. My brother, Sammy – he prefers Sam – tells me it’s gonna get me in trouble. Like that time I nearly slipped with his ex, calling her ‘Demon’ instead of Ruby. Not like the love was long-lasting, but I’m sure that didn’t help.” He catches sight of Castiel’s face again, this time much softer, laughter bubbling to the surface. “I really need to stop running my mouth.”

           “No, it’s fine,” Castiel says, patting Dean’s shoulder, “The rambling and the nickname. It’s a welcome change from ‘Mr. Novak’ and ‘Castiel, the angel of Fashion’.”

           Dean snorts, “A little presumptuous, aren’t they?”

           “They’re not far off,” Castiel – ‘no, Cas’ – admits, “I mean, my name’s origins are heavenly, except the real Cassiel was the angel of Thursdays, not fashion. And even then, who wants to be the angel of loincloths and tunics?”

           “Loincloths!” Dean giggles alongside Cas, “That’d be a sight. I can see Gucci now – each selling for 500 bucks a piece!” Their mirth doesn’t go unnoticed, a pack of paparazzi already forming, fingers itching for the perfect shot. Dean, trained to notice the glint that shines within every photographer’s eye when the perfect image comes to mind, slips into his model headspace.

           “You might want to smile, Cas,” Dean whispers, “We’re about to make every gossip rag and Buzzfeed article about the Met Gala.”

           “I wonder what the headlines will read?” Cas muses, moving to tuck Dean’s arm into his, bringing him closer, feathers tickling the base of his neck, “Angelic Designer woos Holy Crusader at Met Gala?”

           “Hey!” Dean pouts, “Who says you’re doing the wooing?”

           “Let he who hasn’t been flustered once this entire conversation cast the first woo,” Cas says, glancing at the other man with mirth. Dean frowns, the blush eating away at his foundation easily proving his point.

           “Anyway,” Dean says, carrying on, “It looks like my date has left me at the altar, so to speak… would you maybe like to accompany me inside?”

           “From now to the foreseeable future, Dean Winchester, I would love to worship at your altar.”

           “…That’s not what I said.”

           “I’m an artist,” Cas smirks, walking forward, “I can take creative liberties.”

           The duo continues towards the Met, halted every couple of inches by the cameras being shoved into their faces. Dean doesn’t mind, each picture made more enjoyable by the man by his side.

           “Dean! What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me?”

           “Sammy please… I’m severely hung-over, up way to early, and sore in places you wouldn’t want to know –“  

           “I just mean, I think as your brother I deserved to find out from you instead of the Internet that you ‘ve been involved in a secret relationship for nearly a year with some designer.”

           “What! That’s not… where did you hear that?”

           “TMZ.”

           “Jesus, Sammy, I have not been in a secret relationship with Cas –“

           “Dean, keep it down I drank too much to be awake this soon.”

           “Dean… who was that?”

           “…Can we pretend this never happened and I can call you later?”

           “Dean!”

           “Hey, this ain’t confessional – I don’t have to tell you anything.”

           “Dean so help me God –“

           “Breaking up – krrsh – going through a tunnel – krrsh – talk to you soon, bye!”

           “Dean! He better not be going through your tunnel –“ Click!

           He sighs, tossing the phone back onto the nightstand and slipping back under the covers, Cas already waiting to wrap him up. “Who was that?” the other man asked, peppering Dean’s neck with kisses.

           “Just my brother,” Dean giggles, “Apparently our chemistry was so amazing that people think we’ve been seeing each other much longer than just last night.”

           “Well you know what they say,” Cas says into Dean’s neck, “Miracles do happen once in a lifetime.”

           “Yeah,” Dean hums in agreement, “That sounds about right.”

           They don’t leave the bed – or deal with the media frenzy from last night – until the next morning.

[silvericepipeline]

??

I started this Tumblr as a place to put down stories or other works I had created. And that is what's it's been used for so far. I posted here last in 2019 with a short story I wrote for my high school creative writing class.

This isn't a piece of fiction writing. This is almost like a journal entry of things I can't get out of my head. I've been in a weird headspace tonight and I'm not sure what to do about it, so I decided to put my thoughts out into the void of Tumblr. This is going to be chaotic, there will ve very little flow to my thoughts, I just needed to get them all out there.

"Exhaust yourself, boy exotic. Wear your body and your mind down to a sand, and then come back."

I was reading a story entitled erode. earlier tonight, and that quote got me thinking.

What is my purpose in the universe? What does the universe expect me to do with my one lifetime? Is me being here necessary for the state of the universe? (The answer to that question is 'probably not,' but I'm not about to kill myself or anything like that. I'm not suicidal, I promise.)

Those questions then led to more questions.

Who am I? What am I doing?

the thing is, I don't know who I am anymore. I've been pretending about who I am for so long that I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to just be me. A friend told me to find someone I can be me around, but I can't do that if I don't know who I am.

Am I the happy-go-lucky person that I show off to everyone at work? No, that's just who I'm pretending to be when I'm there.

Am I normal like the rest of my family? No, I'm very much the black sheep of my family (very much literally too). I dress in all black more often than not, I'm queer, I'm gender questioning, I love pop-punk and rock music, I hate makeup, I love video games, and that's just to name a few. But around my family, it's easier to just pretend than be criticized for looking weird.

And I know that list makes it seem like I know who I am, but honestly, I really don't. I don't know how to explain it.

Everything is changing so fast, and I know this and did some of it to myself but I also want everything to stay still. And while everything is changing so fast, I also feel like I'm stuck, like there's no way out of where I am.

I want to erode, or do as the quote says. "Exhaust yourself, boy exotic. Wear your body and your mind down to a sand, and then come back." I don't know how. But I know I want to, and I know I should. I need to find myself, and the me that is here right now isn't fully me. But I don't know where to begin.

Maybe I already have to some extent, but something tells me that I'm not done eroding yet, that there is more to be done until I understand what I need to.