#and when she told him: 'you two have the most unhealthy tangled up crazy thing that i've ever seen.' it feels harsh but she's also right.

[septembersghost]

do you ever think about the fact that if he spent a year with lisa and ben, it means he got a christmas with them?

yes. it means he had a birthday with them too. (though whether or not he told them this is debatable. imagine him not telling them, and having a perfectly ordinary day, and it’s still the best birthday he ever had, except for the gaping hole that is sam, which is unavoidable at the center of everything, which he is trying to move past, which he is thrashing about in the night...). they had a thanksgiving (did he help cook? that’s not the type of thanksgiving he would ever have been accustomed to, but it seems like something he’d want to help with). we know they had a halloween, sam picks ben’s mask up out of the trunk and comments on its accuracy, which means...dean helped ben make it.

since i watched ‘let it bleed’ this morning...don’t think about the soft, broken way dean calls her “honey” after she’s stabbed. don’t think about how gently he has to carry her, how he has to make ben carry and shoot the rifle. (don’t think about how sam knows how to floor it to get to the hospital...) don’t think about the way he’s sitting vigil at her bedside. how when cas heals her, he says thank you, but that it doesn’t change anything.

when he comes in and apologizes for being the one who “hit them,” and he says he lost control for a while. (“I'm the guy who hit you..I lost control for a minute, and I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I'm real happy you two are both okay. And uh, I'm just - I'm glad your life can get back to normal now.”) it’s loaded with double meaning because that story is a cover, but it’s also how he feels. he sees himself as the car cash that plowed in and decimated their lives. he thinks allowing himself to be with them for even a moment was a failure and a loss of control on his part, and he will never allow that again. everything that crowley and castiel are responsible for in that episode is his worst nightmare confirmed - every terrible thing about himself (he has to be a torturer to extract information, he slaps ben to get him to keep it together, these are horrors for dean), every worst fear about people he loves being exposed, used, hurt. when he starts to crumble as he walks out of that hospital room, and forcibly composes himself.

and tbh that episode is disturbing on multiple levels for me, but when sam says that whitewashing their memories is one of the shadiest things dean has ever done, sam is right. it’s an awful decision. the trouble is, it’s all too much for dean, and he can’t live their blood-soaked lives knowing that lisa and ben are out there, worrying about him, remembering him, constantly under threat, seen as pawns. dean is the thing in the dark. he can’t do it. and he tells sam he will break his nose if he ever mentions them again, and it is ugly and cruel for everyone involved. dean doesn’t have his own memory erased, but he takes whatever he remembers, whatever he feels for them, and puts it in a box, and seals it away.

fandom is so weirdly nasty to lisa and pretends like she doesn’t understand, but i personally think she does. the moment sam comes back, it’s over. i already said this in the other ask about them a couple of days ago, but i believe she knows, as much as a third party CAN know, that in comparison to sam, she and everyone else will always lose. the most unhealthy, tangled-up, crazy thing. she tries hard to keep him loosely in their life anyway because she cares, she’s independently willed and compassionate, she wants to give him a safe place to return to. but it’s too painful. nobody can live like that, with a flickering part of someone you long to have there as a constant. waiting to receive news that he’s dead.

yes, she says, “i’m close to my sister,” and we all get that it is not the same thing, she didn't have to raise her sister, she hasn’t stitched up her sister’s wounds in dingy motel rooms, she hasn't traded her soul and been tortured in hell for her sister, but you can’t blame her for using that frame of reference, to try to make sense of it. and dean tries, for a breath, to choose them, but it’s not possible, not when he’s everyone else’s most wanted, when he’s manipulated and conscripted back into the fight. monsters are always hungry, darling, but it isn’t the monsters alone. it’s their flesh and blood. it’s the cosmic forces. it’s the inexorable call of the fight. there is no rest, there is no real safe place.

so he gets a year, a christmas, something homemade in the oven, lights on a tree, a hand to hold instead of a knife, but it’s sand in the hourglass. it slips and slips and the palms of his hands are cut up and scrambling for purchase on the shore, and the swan song didn’t end anything, and cage doors come unlocked and we have to heal what walks beyond them, and it’s a mirage. he could live there, with the edges shimmering, but something is always going to come along and tear them apart. better to leave. he has to let it bleed.

(He was not dead yet, not exactly— parts of him were dead already, certainly other parts were still only waiting for something to happen, something grand, but it isn’t always about me, he keeps saying, though he’s talking about the only heart he knows—He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There’s a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place— well then, game over. You wonder what he’s thinking when he shivers like that. What can you tell me, what could you possibly tell me? Sure, it’s good to feel things, and if it hurts, we’re doing it to ourselves, or so the saying goes, but there should be a different music here. There should be just one safe place in the world...x)

[everythingisgayandnothinghurts]

TK and Carlos in NY, meeting his old friends and crew. They can run into Alex or not up to you. Please and thank you.

I hope this answers your prompt well enough and of course I had to torture TK with his ex.  I love how as a fandom we have all made him a borderline abusive creep for the most part.  Fandom is great.  Hope you enjoy this :)

TK had thought coming to New York would be fun.  It turned out there were more memories he wanted to avoid instead of revisit.  

They were leaving the day after tomorrow and honestly TK would be happy curling up in a hotel all day tomorrow instead of seeing anymore of this city.  There were just so many places that were tainted with bad things.  His high school was where he had found pills in the first place and it had been the place he dealt with his dad getting divorced for the second time.  The firehouse had been great to visit to see his old team, but then it reminded him of Alex which still did funny things to his insides.  They had visited with his mom and that had been alright, but they were practically strangers at this point after so many years.  It was good to see her, but there had always been a reason TK had chosen to stay with his dad despite his crazy hours at the firestation.  His mom meant well but she was overbearing and a little self absorbed.  TK never felt at home around her the way he did with his dad or with Carlos.  

“You look exhausted,” Carlos observed over their table at the back of the bar.  This bar had too many memories, but also some of the best food TK had ever eaten in his life.  He had been craving pizza from this place since they had left for Austin.  He had come here almost every weekend during the fire academy with his friends.  He had even gotten an enthusiastic hug from the owner upon walking in.  Carlos had looked surprised but TK had merely shrugged and chatted amicably.  

“It’s nice being home, but it’s a lot,” TK told him as he finally slowed down devouring his pizza.  “I’m glad you got to meet my mom.  I don’t see her much, but she means well.”

“She was nice,’ Carlos said awkwardly which made TK laugh.  Carlos was nice almost to a fault.   

“She is a total bitch,” TK shook his head while chuckling.  “It’s kind of what I love about her.  She isn’t the most nurturing woman, but she reminds me of home the most.  She was a fun mom to have growing up a lot of the time.  She was the one who joined me jumping in the sprinklers when I was little.  She’d  skate around in our socks on a lazy Saturday morning.  We had some good times before she left.”

“Was it hard when your dad remarried?” Carlos asked curiously.  “Are we not meeting your dad’s second wife?”

“Fuck no,” TK said quickly and definitively.  “I will never talk to Lauren again if I can help it.  That woman nearly destroyed me when I was seventeen.  She’s the bitch that threatened me with conversion therapy when she found out I was gay.  She ended up leaving when my dad told her that absolutely wasn’t an option.  She was mean and abusive and just awful.”

“God, that’s awful,” Carlos said quietly and TK blushed when he realized how vehemently he had answered that question.  His high school years had been complicated and he had hurt a lot of people not least of all himself during those years.  Lauren had been a nightmare back then and TK was happy to never have to see her again.  

“Like I said, being here is complicated.” TK said quietly as he took another large bite of his pizza.  Carlos reached over to squeeze his hand in understanding and they were silent for a few minutes.  TK was just starting to relax when the door opened and the last person he wanted to see came through the door.  Alex was in the doorway with who he figured was Mitchell from spin class.  He was about TK’s height with blonde hair and blue eyes.  It was bad enough that the thought of Alex made his stomach knot up, but seeing him made his entire body freeze.  Alex had turned him into a shell of himself while they had been together and he had been too blindly in love to realize.  Alex had broken him and driven him to OD when he hadn’t touched pills in years.  He loved Carlos, but his heart still screamed for the pain to be felt when Alex was right in front of him.  It was like his heart was totally separate from his head and it was hard to tell his heart it couldn’t love someone anymore.  

“What’s wrong?” Carlos had noticed his change in posture and looked concerned.  “What’s going on?”  

“Alex is here,’ TK said as he closed his eyes tightly and tried to fight the mixture of longing and hurt and anger that was washing over him.  

“Your ex?  In this bar?” Carlos whirled around to look for himself.  

“He’s the one that introduced me to this place,’ TK said numbly as his body still tried to decide how he wanted to react.  Part of him wanted to burst into confused and hurt tears while another part of him longed to march up to Alex and tell him exactly what kind of hell he had been through this year because of him.  “He took me here on our first date.”

“Do you want to go?  I’ll pay our tab and we can go, okay?” Carlos put a hand on his before digging out his wallet and heading to the bar to pay their tab and for their food.  TK sat there and somehow knew Alex was going to come speak to him.  They had always been stupidly drawn to each other.  TK shouldn’t be surprised since he was drawn to everything that would destroy him.  

“TK?” Alex’s voice reached him and TK only wanted Carlos to be here.  He couldn’t be alone with this man, not now.  “Is that really you?”

“Hey Alex,” TK forced himself to open his eyes and those dark eyes looked so damn happy that it made him sick.  Alex didn’t get to look at him like that anymore.  That job was for Carlos and Carlos alone.  

“What happened to you?  I haven’t seen you since…” Alex trailed off, apparently unable to say since he had broken TK into indistinguishable pieces.  

“I moved,” TK said shortly and tried to see around Alex’s tall figure to find his boyfriend.  He really wanted to go back to their hotel now and sleep for a year.  

“You did always like to run away from your problems like a little boy,” Alex sneered at him with a shake of his head.  

“TK,” Carlos appeared at just the right moment and TK stood quickly.  He wanted out of here and he wanted out now.  

“Who is this?” Alex had to ask snidely.  “Did you find yourself another sorry soul to take care of you TK?”

“I’d watch what you say about my boyfriend,” Carlos said in a deep voice that sent shivers down TK’s spine.  

“We need to go,” TK said as he tugged Carlos toward the door.  “We really need to go.”

“You don’t want to have drinks with us?” Alex offered as he gestured to the man he had walked in with.  “First round can be on me.  Mitchell would be...interested to meet you.”

“Like I want to be anywhere near you,” TK spat at him as the anger won for the moment.  

“What?  We can’t be civil Tyler?” Alex knew TK hated to be called that by him and he only ever used it in a derogatory way.  

“It’s okay baby,” Carlos said to him lowly as he took charge and finally got them past Alex and out onto the street.  TK was shaking badly as Carlos got them a cab and gave directions for a hotel.  They collapsed onto the backseat and TK huddled into himself for the short ride to their hotel with his mind racing.  He hated that Alex could still get such a strong reaction to him.  He really hoped Carlos didn’t take his tears the wrong way to mean something they didn’t.  His emotions were tangled up in a mess and crying was the only way he could let them out.  He didn’t want Alex back and he didn’t love him.  He only loved Carlos.  It was just hard seeing someone who had once been your entire world with someone else. 

“I don’t love him,” TK sobbed out the minute the two of them were alone in their room.  He collapsed on the end of their bed and wished his body would just stop reacting so damn much.  

“I know that,” Carlos said quietly and patiently.  His boyfriend came to kneel in front of him with a plastic glass of water the hotel had supplied them with.  “Try to drink some water for me, okay?”

“Don’t be mad,” TK begged softly instead of drinking the water as he wiped at his eyes.

“I’m not mad at all, Tiger,” Carlos told him gently as he took his hand.  “Today has been a lot for you.”

“Seeing him is weird,” TK tried to explain even if it made the tears come faster.  “He controlled my entire world outside of my job.  He forced me to get clean when we got together and everyone thought it was such a good thing.  Then he controlled where we went and who I spoke to.  I let myself fall for him and focused solely on him and being without him was so overwhelming that I OD’ed and thought I couldn’t live without him.   It was so unhealthy what I felt for him, but it’s like my body is conditioned and I just can’t react to him normally when he had the guy he cheated on me with there and expected me to have drinks-”

“Take a breath, okay?” Carlos stayed in front of him and TK felt so incredibly stupid crying like this in front of him.  “I’m not upset with you at all.  You’ve been feeling a lot of things all day and you’re tired and Alex was just one thing too much.”

“Can you hold me?” TK asked shyly, knowing that’s what he needed.  He needed Carlos all around him to protect him and ground him to the here and now so his mind wouldn’t wander to days past.  “I just… I need you.”

“You don’t have to ask, baby,” Carlos told him as he leaned forward to kiss him gently.  The tears were slowing and with every touch TK could feel his body settling down again.  Carlos slowly unbuttoned TK’s shirt before gently taking it off his shoulders and tossing it to an extra chair.  He took both of TK’s hands and pulled him gently to stand.  Gentle hands ran down his body to his belt to undo the buckle before the button and zipper followed.  TK had never had someone undress him so intimately before and the care nearly brought him to tears again.  Carlos undressed him completely and got him under the covers before quickly taking off his own clothes and following suit.  The room was dark, the blankets were warm, and Carlos was completely surrounding him with his warm arms and firm chest.  

“I never thought I would love again,” TK said softly after some quiet minutes had gone by.  He placed a kiss to the underside of Carlos’s jaw.  “I never thought anyone else would ever want me, would ever love me.  You’ve taught me what a relationship is supposed to be.  You’ve taught me what love is Carlos, and I can never thank you enough.”

“What he did to you does not make you unlovable in any way,” Carlos told him with a kiss to his head as his large hands drew slow, soothing circles on his back.  “He manipulated you, controlled you, and hurt you.  None of that was your fault in any way.  You’re safe here with me.”

TK silently snuggled into Carlos’s chest and felt his eyes grow heavy.  Carlos put the TV on low to some game show they could both zone out to.  It had been fun enough to show Carlos his home and all his old stomping grounds, but he knew Austin would always be home for the both of them. 

[minimonojoon]

crystal snow

g e n r e: angst, bittersweet ending tho; p a i r i n g: yoongi x reader; w o r d s: 3k+ words. s u m m a r y: yoongi perfectly knows how much she loves the snow and he prays it will be the sole thought to bring a little joy to her; w a r n i n g s: mentions of depression, mental illness, swearing;

a/n: the pov is yoongi’s and he refers to the reader in a third person. talking about a delicate topic such as depression is not easy and most of the stuff in this fic is from my personal experience + the researches I’ve done about the topic. I’m always scared as hell posting this, so reviews and comments are always appreciated! also: this was inspired by crystal snow and while writing it I was listening to breathe me by sia and where’s my love by syml (alternate version). enjoy! <3

The incessant ticketing of the clock on the cramped kitchen’s wall echoes through the darkness of the apartment. Everything is quiet, still covered in the shadows of a day that is yet far away to start. The cold weather outside and the lack of heating makes the air ungodly freezing, pinching at Yoongi’s body unpleasantly, as he grunts his sleep away by scrunching his eyes and reprimanding a yawn. He surely hates winter, at least when he can’t afford a heating system that would allow him not to find extremely hard to leave his bed in the mornings – not that he wants to, anyway.

He sighs with satisfaction as his early morning routine starts with a highly needed dose of caffeine, probably the only good thing in his days lately, and looks up at the clock on the wall. He scrunches his nose at the sound, unnervingly loud in his ears as it’s the only companion he has right now. As he voices a grunt of displeasure having already finished his coffee, he restrains himself from throwing something at that damn thing on the wall.

I could try, he thinks, maybe that would catch her attention. Maybe she could wake up and enter the kitchen. Yoongi smiles bitterly, closely analyzing the state of this part of his small apartment. There are few dishes from past days left in the sink, the result of his tiredness (or, to be honest, just plain laziness) from work, and on the two counters and the tiny table near the window there are remains of instant noodles and ready-made pasta sauces. And he’s not even mentioning the emptiness of their fridge. Probably she’d kill him, if she knew the state of their shared kitchen. Or any other part of their tiny space they were able to find after a long, exhausting research.

Days have become much slower, unhealthier and unhappy since she’s not around anymore. He loved the way she would wake up only to share the mornings together, even if she started work hours later. Her sleepy smile is extremely missed, as the way she always swatted his arm when he grunted to her, scolding her for spilling precious drops of coffee on the counter. She constantly forgot to wear her glasses first thing in the morning, and that was the result.

Yoongi scruffs his feet on the wooden pavement as he reaches again their bedroom, quietly picking up his clothes from the closet so he can get ready for another boring day of work. He turns around and glances at her, studying her sleeping form. She’s balled under tons of blankets, but Yoongi can perfectly distinguish her hand under her cheek and her long, messy hair partially covering her eyes. Her expression, as far he can presume, is deep into slumber. He exhales a relieved sigh. At least she’s getting a little of sleep.

The times he caught her awake, watching outside their window where houses, buildings and the far away skyline of the city could be seen, are uncountable. And whenever she realizes Yoongi is watching her, completely stilled as he’s facing a rare species for the first time, his worried gaze on her, she would close her eyes and pretend nothing happened. Or worse, she would glance again outside, her eyes watery. Times like that are the only ones where Yoongi would finally made eye contact with her. For brief moments, he’s able to study her gentle features, the round shape of her bright eyes and the petals that formed her mouth.

Now, those same eyes were deprived from their vivacity, as her cheeks are constantly pale – the adorable shade of color that tinted them each time she returned home was just a faint memory. Her strangely squeaky laugh, that Yoongi would never admit he loved so much, doesn’t fill their apartment like it used to.

Yoongi often asks himself what she thinks whenever their eyes met. What’s passing through her mind in that precise moments, and why she always pretends she’s sleeping although he perfectly knows she’s not. Sometimes, he’s terrified how he isn’t able to reach her as he was used to do before. There were few things in life he was sure of, and one of them was being able to read her – recognizing the curve of her lips whenever she finds something funny but couldn’t say it out loud due to inappropriateness, or the way she fidgets her fingers whenever she’s embarrassed. Her body is like a panorama he couldn’t possibly be tired of. He could close his eyes and follow every inch and scrape of her features, naming each scrape and angle.

The person she’s right now isn’t her, he finds himself thinking frequently. It’s an empty shell that lays on a bed that isn’t warm anymore, not when they don’t talk, laugh or make love on it. Not when the complicity they shared is shattered, and no matter how much effort he puts in trying to recompose the pieces together, nothing seems to work. It’s like extending a hand that, for a few inches, isn’t reachable. It’s frustrating as hell and Yoongi’s blood boils whenever the thought crosses his mind. He then can’t do anything but breaking things, crying, screaming. He is desperate.

As a mouse trapped into a labyrinth, going crazy because he can sense there’s a way out of this whole mess, but he isn’t able to find it.

Yoongi tugs too roughly on his pants, almost tripping on himself while walking to their bathroom as a wave of rage he’s barely able to control almost drowns him. He faintly hears her moving on the bed, the comfy covers shuffling and a soft moan escaping her lips. He stops himself midway, checking her out with frenetic eyes. He doesn’t breathe as he desperately hopes that maybe today she’ll say something to him. Even if it’s a mere breathed and angry be quiet, he really doesn’t care. Probably, Yoongi would cry right then and there for hearing her voice again.

It’s frustrating, not knowing how to help her. Yoongi shuffles his black hair and tugs on the bangs, because her world has crumbled and his miserably with hers. He feels in a painful limb, where their hands, once tangled strongly together, are slowly untying. And he’s unable to stop this horribly, faithful they seem will face incredibly soon.

Yoongi can’t exactly point when everything begun. There isn’t a precise moment, or an event he can recall that makes him thinks that’s why, and he’s safe to say he hates himself because he wasn’t able to read the little signs he now knows she leaved him, or whenever she shrugged off her discomfort and he didn’t insist enough to talk to her, to let her relish her feelings onto him. He would have take everything she gave him. Everything.

This past year hasn’t been easy for them. Damn, it’s not just this one year, he bitterly thinks. Their economical situation has drastically dropped into a more precarious, insidious one. Being young and with wide dreams doesn’t help at all in the ruthless world they lived in, nor it is realizing that life mostly gives you lemons and what the fuck, most of the times you can’t even make a proper lemonade – not when they were risking losing everything they worked hard for. They have given their blood, sweat and tears to find the cramped apartment they are sharing now, frantically searching for something they could simply afford. Their neighborhood isn’t the fanciest, nor the one with that pretty view she loved so much, but at least they found something that’s theirs, and theirs only.

For a while, everything was fine. Although they kept struggling with their work schedules and tired exhales were made whenever their limbs ached returning home, Yoongi distinctly saw a tiny sparkle in their future, the kind that allowed him to dream a little for themselves. He dreamed of her continuing her studies, reaching the goals she set for herself, and for him to brush his fingers onto his piano again. The soft looks and quiet smiles they shared made Yoongi aware they were both thinking about that future, and he knew, no, he was sure they saw the same sparkle.

But then everything vanished into the thin air, like ashes raised into the wild, freezing wind.

First, it was the way she dragged herself outside bed, and slowly lost her smile. Then it was the way she could cheer him up in the first lights of mornings with a caress or a whispered loving word, whenever he was too tired even to properly think, that vanished away. Her somber presence gradually took over her solar one, and soon enough everything she did became mechanical, dull and without no reason other than not let herself and Yoongi starve. That is, until now.

Yoongi glances again to the bundle of covers she was under, and briefly shakes his head. He’s unaware of the motif behind her sudden worsening of conditions. The only thing he remembers is the door slumming shut too early for her shift to be ended, and her feet that stumbled until she reached their bedroom, hastily leaving her shoes and clothes behind to let the covers engulf her. He presumed it was something about work, and for a brief, frightening moment he believed she was fired. But after a few days, when he received a telephone call from her employee asking why she wasn’t present at work, Yoongi had a hard time even stuttering two words coherently. He briefly asked if something particular happened, but when he received a shrugged response he told her boss she was sick.

That was almost two weeks ago. And that unease sensation Yoongi felt when he had that call, isn’t still leaving him at peace. His senses are on full alert, as if something worse could happen any moment. If he tries to feed her, she refuses. If he tries to talk to her, she’s completely quiet. Sometimes, he faintly hears her in the middle of the night, when she probably thinks he’s deeply asleep, walking into the bathroom, crying. She then walks around the apartment with no apparent reason, then she comes back to bed.

The last time he heard her was two days ago. Although his eyes were close shut, Yoongi could perfectly picture her eyes filled with tears, scrolling through her puffed, rose tinted cheeks, while her hand anxiously dragged her hair back, her shoulders hiccupped uncontrollably. He needed to control himself just to not scream or punch the first object in his sight, restraining himself from intervening. The last time he tried didn’t ended well.

Yoongi exhales. His morning routine is now finished and even if he’s apparently ready to face another day at work, he doesn’t feel like it, at all. The weather seems to perfectly accompany him with his grey clouds and dull light, and he bitterly smiles to himself, mockingly thinking it could be the suitable entrance of a character in those tv dramas she occasionally watches.

He hears her stir in her sleep again, and suddenly the curiosity takes better of him and his feet step closer to her side of their bed, her closed eyes and long eyelashes entering Yoongi’s view. The pout she formed tells him she’s not having a peaceful sleep anymore, nor the way her strain of hair on her temples are damped. Munching on his lower lip, he hesitates, his hand hovering over her form, unsure to touch her. He doesn’t do it anymore, since the day she started to fly away from his feathery, loving touches. He takes a deep breath again and right then she murmurs something unintelligible, brows furrowed and painting slightly.

Before Yoongi can ponder about anything else, his hand is on her forehead, waving away bangs of wet hair. His expression softens and at the same times covers with such a melancholy, the moment her expression relaxes onto his touch. He’s unwilling to let that caress go to fast, finally able to physically do something to shove away the pain and distress in her. His hand strokes her cheeks, flowing to her hair with such a delicacy and then going back, too afraid of breaking her, of waking her. He blinks a few times, realizing his eyes are wet with tears, feeling the lump in his throat suffocating him.

When his first sob leaves his lips, he shies away from her.

He fiddles with his jacket, quickly grabbing his things before he’s out of the apartment. The cold air of December hits him like a firetruck, but it’s so welcomed he doesn’t care the slightest. The freezing temperature of the morning dries the tears on his cheeks in seconds, and he inhales profoundly as his mind starts to clear. He needs to be strong for her and support her in the way she needs the most. How to do that, though? The only he’s aware of how hard is to watch someone you genuinely care for rotting and can’t be able to reach them. He desperately wants her to know he is there and she’s not alone. That they can do it, together.

Yoongi runs his hands into his hair, messing them and grunting loudly. He covers his eyes for a few moments, trying to recollect himself before he’s out there into the lively, busy streets that he needs to cross in order to go to work. He doesn’t even care his scarf doesn’t cover him properly, not shielding for a particularly powerful gust of wind that has his skin growing with goosebumps. His onyx eyes are glued to the pavement of the sidewalk, his lips are thighed together, almost fully white.

Then, something extremely cold and small brushes the tip of his nose and after a few moments, another one is on his right cheek. His expression distorts into confusion, as his eyes flutter to realize it’s a snowflake. A tiny, little one that hasn’t melted yet. It’s still there and oh, they’re starting to descend gradually into the ground. The time stops for a few moments, as his lips quiver before finally open into a small circle. His nose is up in the air as he watches the morbid shade of gray that covers the sky. The perfect hue that calls for snowfall, as his grandfather always used to say.

Yoongi stops abruptly, recalling the first time he and her saw the snow together. Well, that was the first time she saw snow falling. As she lived in a country where for the most part of the year it was warm and sunny weather, the white little freckles were something endearing to her, almost magical to her eyes, the way they covered everything in white. Pure, enchanting, marvelous, adjectives Yoongi also associates her with. He can perfectly picture her eyes glinting with glee, her brightest smile painted and her cheeks red from joy and the cold hitting her face. She couldn’t stay still for a moment, as shrieks of excitement filled her mouth, catching each snowflake and showing him the most defined ones. “They’re amazing, Yoongs! Look at this one!”, she was thrilled and Yoongi didn’t restrain himself from smiling at her, his heart doing somersaults to see her so happy. “Promise me we’ll going to live somewhere where snows at least once a year,” she exclaimed laughing, and Yoongi found himself nodding without hesitation.

The memory fills his brain and his heart, as his stomach drops and he’s gulping again. He knows the littlest details could make the difference sometimes, when everything they see is just plain, pitch black. He’s so desperate he clutches uncontrollably to that thought, while his legs move before he could think straight and he’s quickly coming back home. If she sees it, maybe she’ll smile. If she sees the snow, maybe she’ll think not everything is falling apart.

He is panting uncontrollably when he reaches the apartment complex he lives in, fumbling with the keys and storming to the stairs, covering two scales at the time. He doesn’t care if he’s doing a mess, if he’ll get scolded or he wakes her up abruptly entering the house. She must see the snow. She must know there’s still something good in her life.

By the time he’s entering the apartment, silence greats him. Everything is in the exact same way he left it, the air slightly stained and the fastidious rumors of the pipes interrupts every now and then the godly stillness of the entire apartment. Yoongi shuffles to their bedroom, not bothering to leave his jacket or any of his things behind him.

The moment he enters the rooms, his breaths itches and his eyes widen. His limbs don’t respond anymore, as he stays still in the entrance, his mouth slightly agape. His breath is accelerated, but he doesn’t care in the slightest. He engulfs her waking and sitting form, her back turned to him, her hair messy and the old pinky pajama she’s wearing completely creased. Her face is turned to the window, where it’s now clearly visible the snowflakes that fall.

There isn’t a word that comes from Yoongi’s mouth, neither from hers too. But he’s sure she knows he is in the room, so with soft, silent steps he approaches her, totally terrified he could scare her away. Yoongi can hear his beating heart into his ears, roaring furiously as glances at her eyes glued to the window. They’re watery, he notices, but there is a different glint into them, her lips quivering. She’s gazing the snow as if she has just been awaken from a long, exhausting dream. Her breathes fills the room, slightly ragged.

Then, as she’s finally acknowledge his presence in his room, she turns to him. Yoongi is now fully looking at her ethereal and beautiful features, how the soft curves of her cheeks and the eyes he so much adores are eventually looking at him, seeing him for the first time in months. It strikes him she’s still alive, breathing and awake. Yoongi exhales deeply, taking in his lungs as much air as possible so he doesn’t crumble in front of her. His mind is blank white and focused on her form that is coloring his soul and mind again. He isn’t aware of how many minutes passes, how they observe each other in a stilled silence that no one dares to break.

At last, her lips move to form a smile, as her head move slightly in the way she always does when something particularly makes her glinting, her eyes forming crescents.

“Yoongs, it’s snowing.” Her voice is throaty yet endearing, surprised even.

“I know,” he cracks, smiling a little.

And then, his arms are wrapped around her in a tight embrace.

[captain-swan-coffee]

Practice Makes Perfect

I’m so sorry this fic took me so long! I’ve been struggling with my health and just started going back to school so I don’t have as much free time as I’m used to. But i’m going to try to get fics out weekly like I used to! I have so many ideas and prompts I can’t wait to share! And Captain Swan Story Book should be out soon which I’m apart of and can’t wait to share! 

This is a story I’ve been wanting to write for a while. Emma and Killian have been dating for three months now and Hook still hasn’t made any moves to take things to the next level. Finally Emma confronts him and gets an answer she wasn’t expecting. Hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for reading! Oh and big shout out to @winterbaby89 for the beta! You’re the best!

Rated M

~4,500

Read more of my work on ao3 and FF!

“What does my beautiful girlfriend want tonight? Beer or wine?” Killian questioned from the kitchen. They could hear and smell the popcorn popping in the microwave as Emma put a DVD into her laptop, pausing it until Killian got their snacks in order.

“Definitely wine for me tonight. There’s rum in the cabinet next to the stove if you want some,” She mentioned from her spot, in the loft, knowing that he would definitely take her up on that offer.

“Mmm, rum and my favorite Savior? I truly am the luckiest man in the world,” He teased, pouring himself a double shot into a glass. He brought their refreshments up to her bedroom and sat down close to his Swan. Bouncing a little as he snuggled in on her bed.

Emma tucked herself in close, inhaling his unique scent of sandalwood and ocean breeze. She was blissfully happy. They had only been together for twelve glorious weeks, but it felt like a lifetime. They did everything together. For the first time in Emma’s life she was in a real relationship. She was used to unhealthy and borderline abusive partnerships that always ended poorly, but Killian was the exact opposite. She could feel how much he cared about her and he told her how much she meant to him every day. Emma pressed play and the movie began. Tonight she was introducing him to Into the Woods, one of her favorites and in her opinion one of the best movies of all time. Emma sipped on red wine as she popped a few pieces of popcorn into her mouth. She glanced at her pirate who was doing his best to follow along to the complicated storyline. She smiled watching his brow furrow, as it does when he’s trying to concentrate.

Hook caught her stare, giving her one of his famous eyebrow lifts. “What is it, love? I thought you liked this film,” Killian stated, giving her hand a light squeeze.

She simply smiled before slowly leaning in covering his lips with hers. Unable to contain herself, she immediately begged for entrance which he happily granted. Emma loved the way his tongue glided over hers in perfect sync. The taste of rum and red wine mingled flawlessly together creating a new flavor that was intoxicating enough for them both to see stars. Soon enough, she found her fingers tangled in his dark locks as the kiss deepend. Instinctually only mere seconds later, Emma moved to straddle his lap. Maybe this would finally be the right time to take their relationship to the next level, or at the very least feel out the next step, Emma thought to herself. But before she could move things along any further, Killian broke the kiss, pulling his lips from hers, and planting a loving kiss to her forehead.

“‘I’m sure you don’t want to be stuck explaining this whole movie to me,” Killian  chuckled lightly, sporting a half smile.

“Okay that’s it. What’s wrong?” Emma sighed demanding some answers.

“What do you mean?” Hook implored, giving her a puzzled look.

“Killian, I have been throwing myself at you for the last few weeks and everytime you turn me down. Are you not attracted to me like this?” Emma worried, not sure if she really wanted to hear the answer.

“What? Emma, how could you even think that? You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of setting my eyes on!” He tried to convince her, but he could tell that she wasn't buying it.

“Then what is it?! You don’t want me?” Emma guessed pressing her lips together with a shattered look on her face. She could feel herself start to hit an emotional wall as tears started to form in her eyes.

“Emma, you know that’s crazy,” He tried to reason with her knowing how upset she was becoming.

“Then what is it? We’ve been together for over three months and every time I make a move you find an excuse or change the subject. Most couples have been intimate in some way by now or have at least talked about it. I just don't understand. Since the moment we met it was sexual advance here and innuendo there. And now that we're together… sometimes it feels like you don’t have any interest touching me.” She confessed, a tear streaming down her cheek. Emma could tell that deep down he was hurting. And whatever it was, was trying desperately to come out but something was holding him back.

“Emma...” He pleaded looking down, refusing to look at her. Hook’s eyes began to glass over as Emma sensed the shame felt.

“What is it? I’ve tried to think of every explanation as to what it could be and I just don’t understand! Do you not want to be with me? Because I want to be with you. Killian, please just tell me what’s wrong. You can tell me anything you know that, right?” Emma begged of him. She could see the hurt and suffering behind his eyes and she wanted so desperately to be able to take all this pain away but didn't know what was causing it, she felt so powerless.

He took a deep breath, preparing himself for Emma’s reaction to his next confession. “I’m afraid… I’m afraid I can’t give you what you deserve,” Killian finally admitted, his head dropped and he refused to look her in the eyes.

Emma cupped his face with her palms, forcing him to look at her. “Killian, what are you talking about?” She questioned not quite comprehending what he meant.

“It’s been along time since I’ve shared a bed with a woman,” He finally muttered. She could tell that his confession was incredibly difficult for him to tell her but she still didn't know why he was so ashamed by it.

“It’s been a long time for me too, but that’s no reason to be afraid,” Emma assured him.

“No, love. I’m not talking about months or even years,” Killian couldn't keep eye contact with her as he continued. “I haven't been with anyone since Milah died,” Hook choked, a tear began to well up in the corner of his eye.

Emma was speechless, she had no idea what to say. She also felt like a complete ass pushing him like this when this is obviously a huge step for him.

“When she died, it wasn't just her heart that was crushed. Mine was crushed too. I couldn't bear being with another woman. I tried, so many times but I just couldn’t. Once you're with someone that you love like that it just isn't the same,” He confessed feeling like a total utter fool.

“Killian, I’m so sorry. Here I am making this about me when you’re hurting. We can wait as long as you want,” She apologized, reassuring him that there was no rush.

“That's the thing, Emma I want to. For the first time in centuries there is nothing more I want in the world than to be with you like that,” He grinned pouring out his heart and soul to her.

“Then what’s the hold up?” Emma questioned, still cupping his face with her hands.

“I’m what this world refers to as “rusty.” I fear that I can't give you what you truly deserve,” Hook admitted cocking his head to the side feeling another wave of shame and disappointment.

“Killian! What I deserve is you!” Emma beamed, lovingly swiping a stray strand of his gorgeous dark brown hair to the side.

“What if I can’t satisfy you properly? What if I can't give you that?” He wondered leaning into the soft skin of her palms.

“Killian,” She tried to argue with him.

“When we’re together I want to give you everything you want and more. I want to fulfill every one of your deepest desires. How can I do that when I’ve barely touched a woman in over two hundred years,” Hook scoffed, looking into Emma’s understanding eyes.

“Killian, sex isn't just about pleasure. I don't care about any of that…” She tried to reason with him.

“But I do. Emma, I know that it’s still early and you’re afraid of this word so I won’t say it but-”

“I love you,” Emma quickly cut him off, beating him to the punch.

He was completely stunned. Never in a million years did he ever think she would utter those words before him. “What?” Tears slipped down both their cheeks.

“I love you. I mean it, Killian. And I’m not a girl who says that lightly,” She couldn't hold it in any longer. Every fiber of her being loved the man before her.

“I love you too,” Hook beams, smiling ear to ear. “Now you’re not just saying that to get into my pants are you?” Killian teased, loving her cute little giggle that floated through the loft.

They shared another soul shattering kiss as little crystals of happiness fell from both their eyes. Their swollen lips parted once again as she let her forehead rest against his. “Now, we can do one of two things. We can either go back to watching the rest of the movie or we can make love right here, right now. Either one I’m more than okay with. Whatever you chose won’t change the way I feel about you,” She promised him while lovingly pushing his hair to the side.

The choice for him became as simple as taking his next breath. Without wasting another second, Killian kissed her with everything he had. He wanted to show her how much she meant to him. How much he needed her. How much he craved her touch.

She was still on top of him, straddling her pirate, her legs hugging his tightly. Emma ground her center onto him. She expected to feel his member hard and wanting, pressing tightly against her, but she didn't feel anything.

Hook could feel the questions spinning behind her eyes. “I’m sorry, love. I promise you, I go to bed and wake up everyday hard and yearning for you,” Killian reassured his Swan.

“I think I can help with that,” Emma flirted, trying to push away the embarrassment she knew he was feeling. “You’re just nervous but don’t be. We have all the time in the world,” She made sure he knew there was no need to rush. “Stop trying, stop thinking, stop talking. Just feel and listen. This happens more than you would expect, okay. There is nothing to be ashamed about. Just close your eyes and listen to the sound of my voice,” Emma requested as Killian leaned against the bed frame, heeding her every word. Following her advice he closed his piercing blue eyes and just focused on his breathing.

Emma skimmed the seam of her thin pale pink cotton t-shirt, lifting it over her head and throwing it aside. Hook’s eyes were still glued shut as she reached for the clasp of her black lace bra. Emma let it fall from her shoulders one strap at a time. Then she reached for her pirate's right hand, dragging it up her side tortuously slow. Killian’s eyes were still shut but she could hear the hitch in his breathing. Her hand continued on its journey before finally reaching its destination. Emma pressed her hand against his encouraging him to explore her newly exposed skin. He moaned as he felt the contrast between her silky smooth skin and her hard pebbled nipples. Emma smiled when she felt a slight twitch in his pants grinding against her already soaked center.

She could see his eyes began to flutter open. “Keep them closed pirate. Don’t make me blindfold you,” She flirted with the slight shift in her hips. Emma could feel his member stir to life while she continued letting him feel every inch of her.

“Bloody hell, love. You have no idea how many times I’ve thought of this,” Hook muttered under his breath as his Swan continued to torture him.

Emma slowly unbuttoned his shirt, raking her nails through the newly exposed dark coarse hair on his chest, dragging her hands all the way down to his half hard length. She drew large circles, palming him through his jeans as sounds of pleasure and profanity filled the air. Like a girl on a mission she quickly popped the top button on his trousers, freeing him from his tight confinement.

“You can open your eyes now,” Emma bit her bottom lip holding his impressive and slightly aroused member in her hand. The skin felt so unbelievably soft in her palm. There was just something so right about touching him like this.

By the time he opened his eyes she had already taken him in her mouth. The sight of her alone brought him to the brink of release.

Almost instantly, Emma felt him harden completely in her hot wet mouth.

Killian couldn't think of a more breathtaking sight than the woman of his dreams’ pretty pink lips wrapped around his cock while he watched her perfect breasts bounce gently between his legs. Hook jumped when he felt her tongue flick his overly sensitive head. “You’re a bloody siren,” He moaned, watching her bob up and down his shaft. Emma let out a little giggle at his comment. The vibrations only created more pleasure shooting through him. She was lavishing him from root to tip, causing him to grow concerned that if he didn’t say something soon, there wouldn’t be a chance for him to reciprocate for her.

“Emma love, remember over a century. I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long. I don’t want to come, not like this, please,” Killian pleaded with her as she watched his chest rise and fall. She gave a pout before releasing him from between her lips, she heard him let out a sigh of relief as she released him from her sensuous torture. Emma snaked her way up his toned torso nibbling on every bit of exposed skin in her path until she was face to face with him again.

They shared a tender kiss that awoke something primal in Hook. He tangled his hand in her golden tresses giving them a light tug. Emma ripped the zipper of her jeans open, not caring in the slightest the damage she may have possibly done to them. She just needed him inside her, to fill that burning desire coiling deep within her belly.

The next thing she knew, her pants were thrown to the floor and she was only left in her matching pink thong. “What do we have here? I could really get used to this world's version of undergarments,” Killian growled under his breath. Emma forgot that in his world panties were a little less sexy and a lot more practical.

“Oh you just wait, pirate. Next time I’ll pull out the big guns,” She smirked leaning back down to reattach her lips to his. Next time. She was already thinking about their next time together. That in itself was enough for him to die a happy man. Killian skimmed his hand and hook down her curvy side following her smooth skin all the way to her perfectly supple ass. A bolt of pleasure shot straight to her clit as soon as she felt his soft caress. Emma reluctantly pulled herself from his touch. They both whimpered at the loss as she caught her breath. With just a wave of her hand Emma magically stripped her pirate of his last garment, leaving him completely vulnerable and exposed. Hook swallowed attempting to clear his dry throat as he felt his rock hard cock bob against his toned abs. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted his tattoo on the inside of his forearm that read “Milah.” Emma remembered the first time she saw that name. It was the first real conversation they had ever shared. It was when she started to fall for him, even though she knew that she would never admit that at the time. Emma held onto his hook, lifting his left arm to her cheek. She placed a tender kiss upon the cursive writing. The gesture meant everything to him.

“Would you like me to take the hook off, love?” Killian implored, wanting her to be as comfortable as possible.

“When we make love, Killian I want to be with all of you. That includes your hook,” She vowed while bringing his hook up to her nipples. He was mesmerized as he watched his Swan roll the steal across her rosy buds, hardening in their wake. He gazed intently at Emma, his eyes followed his hooks’ path as she steered it down towards her center. The sound of fabric ripping brought him back to reality. The tiny piece of pink lace was so tore to pieces leaving her soaked folds left on display. She continued her path down to her dripping sex. She could feel his eyes burning holes in her as his breathing hitched from anticipation. Finally the metal reached her glistening heat. She slowly rubbed the curved top through her center, drenching it in her sweet nectar. It was without a doubt the hottest and most erotic thing he had ever seen in his 300 years. Emma brought it to her lips sucking it clean of her own juices while giving an audible moan.

“Besides, I’ve always had a thing for your hook,” Emma winked as she grinded her center into his, covering his member in her essence. It took all the strength he had to restrain himself from coming right there on the spot. He couldn't believe that the woman kissing him not only loved him, but the man who he used to be. She wanted all of him, hook included. “To be honest, it’s always been kind of a turn on,” Emma confessed, biting her bottom lip.

Without warning Emma suddenly was on her back, her mouth being attacked by his. There was so much passion in his lips it practically took her breath away. Instantly she felt him nibbled down her breasts, giving them the attention they both deserved. He followed his path down past her stomach. Killian almost made it to his intended destination but before he could he felt Emma’s fingers tugging at his dark locks. “Please, Killian. I’ve been waiting a long time for this and you’ve been waiting for over a century. I need you now, please, I just want you inside me,” She begged as he kissed back up her stomach.

“Are you sure, love?” Killian implored gazing into her eyes, blue chasing green. Emma smiled and nodded at him reassuring that this is what she wanted.

Killian dipped down to kiss her again before pulling back with another question. “Isn't there that shield thing that men wear in this world to prevent a woman from falling with child?” Hook wondered. Oh my god how could she not have had this conversation with him yet? And how did he know about condoms? It was really sweet of him to worry. No man she had ever been with had ever asked about protection first. They were usually so focused on their own pleasure that they would act first and ask questions later.

“I take a pill everyday so I can’t get pregnant. Don’t worry just focus on right now,” She added palming his cheeks with a loving smile. Emma could see just how nervous he was and wanted to ease his worries but didn't quite know how. He began to place kisses down her neck, along her collarbone and across her breasts, where she gasped and melted into his mouth and rough, calloused hands. He nipped lightly, followed by soothing flicks of his tongue and Emma had never felt more adored in her life. She was writhing beneath him, desperate for more, anything she could get, and Killian sensed it.

“Emma, love, I want nothing more than to satisfy you. Tell me everything you want and i'll do my best to give it to you. I just want to please you,” Killian promised.

“Killian, stop putting so much pressure on this. We have all the time in the world to practice and perfect this,” She vowed urging him forward, using her own hand to line him up at her entrance. Hook moaned when he felt his throbbing tip being coated in her juices. God she was so warm and wet he could just slip right in. Emma sharply inhaled as she felt that deep satisfying stretch spread through her body. Killian couldn't believe that after so long he was finally inside the woman that he loved more than anything in any realm.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” He growled in between kisses as Emma hooked her arms around him getting him as close as humanly possible. Killian revealed in the tight drag of her walls while she dug her nails into his back leaving little crescent moon shaped marks in their wakes.

Her hips rolled to meet his movements, finding a frenzied rhythm that drove him mad. He groaned when he felt her ankles lock around the small of his back. Killian continued to rock into her slowly, gently, wanting to imprint the moment on his memory for the rest of his life.

“Harder,” She begged, her eyes falling closed as her lips parted in a wordless cry. Killian nibbled crook of her neck as he felt her hand slide down to his ass as if she was urging him forward and faster. He looked wrecked, and she was sure she looked the same. Swollen lips, a pink tint to the skin and glassy eyes. Emma could tell he was holding back. His forehead wrinkled and his whole body tensed as he pumped into her. She knew that it probably had a lot to do with the fact that he hasn't been with a woman in ages but she wanted him to enjoy this experience. Emma didn't want him to have to hold back. Without warning she flipped him over so she was on top. Quickly she drove herself down on him taking her pirate harder with each drop of her hips. Killian tried to get her to slow down but she wouldn't budge.

“Emma, fuck,” He moaned out barely above a whisper. Killian instinctually pressed his thumb where they were joined, circling her sensitive bud as fast as he could. He was determined to get her to the finish line but his body had other plans. Before he could say another word he shot his seed deep within her, coating her walls. Emma continued to ride him until she was sure she had rung every last drop of pleasure from her pirate. Hook took a second to catch his breath as both their essence dripped down her thighs. She watched both their chests rise and fall, completely exhausted from what was supposed to be their boring Sunday movie night.

Emma collapsed to his side, snuggling in close with a smile glued on her face. But when she looked to her partner she didn't see the grin she was expecting. “Killian, hey, what’s wrong?” She worried smoothing her thumb over the apple of his cheek. It was a simple gesture but it meant everything.

He took a pregnant pause before telling her what really was on his mind. “You didn’t come…”Killian sighed heavily. Emma could see the shame and disappointment on his face.

“Still the best sex I've ever had,” She reassured her pirate as she propped herself up from his chest giving him a comforting smile.

“How is that possible?” Hook implored lifting his brow.

“Because, we didn't just have sex. We made love. I’ve never done that before, not like this,” Emma confessed grinning like a schoolgirl.

“Well I won’t let you go unsatisfied,” Killian promised. She watched him skim his hand down the center of her stomach, down under the sheets.

“Well who said I was un-” Emma was quickly cut off by the feeling of his fingers touching her most sensitive spot. “Killian, you don’t have to,” She pleaded with him. Hooked paid no mind as he shifted her onto her back once again, kissing down her toned body. His lips soothed her hot skin, teasing every inch of her flesh. Killian enjoyed making her wait, taking his time with the princess before him. He nipped at the insides of her creamy thighs, making sure to torture her like she tortured him. She gasped when she finally felt his talented mouth against her satin center. She could feel his tongue lay flat against her clit just begging to be between his lips. All Emma could do was bite her tongue and hold on for dear life.

“Do you know what we taste like together? Pure perfection. Like food from the gods,” Hook growled into her core. Killian sunk his lips into her flushed folds and for a moment he thought the delectable heat might actually burn his tongue. She groaned and Killian wasn't sure how it could get more perfect than this. Emma's sounds of approval in the air, her legs wrapped around his neck and the taste of princess on his tongue. He imagined this moment since the second he laid his eyes on her. He made himself mad thinking about how she would feel and taste. He just couldn't believe that he was finally living the fantasy in his dreams. He never thought he would get the chance to kiss the woman in his arms let alone make love to her. Emma's hips instuically began to buck into his face. Killian tried his best to keep her tight against him while using his other arm to urge her legs up onto his shoulders. She leaned up on her elbows to watch but her head dropped back again when he swiped his tongue against the hot bundle of nerves at her center again and again. Emma spread her thighs, her hands pressing his head deeper. He groaned, barely able to breathe as his tongue eagerly delve in deeper, eating her out to his heart’s content. He loved responsive she was, moaning and rocking her hips, her hands reaching for him. Her fingers tugged on his hair as he ran his tongue up and down her slit, letting her arousal dance in his mouth. Emma let out a wordless moan that rose in volume and pitch until it was a airy cry of mindless bliss. Suddenly with no warning white hot pleasure burned through her veins, stars clouded her vision and she felt weightless, just floating in pure love for a priceless moment before shuddering in release.

All she could do was breathe. Her brain felt like it was moving at a million miles a minute. How could this man before her seriously doubt his own abilities when he just gave her the best orgasm of her life? She could barely even string two sentences together she was so speechless. “There’s my confident captain!” She giggled, her hand draped over her forehead still trying to catch her breath as Killian flopped back to her side, pulling her back to his chest. “So, was it everything you hoped your virginity the sequel would be?” Emma teased, giving him sweet little kisses to his pecs while raking her nails through his dark curls.

“It was more, Emma. Because I was with the woman I love,” Killian sang placing an affectionate kiss to the crown of her head.

“And that loves you,” She promised. Making sure he knew she meant every word. Hook still wasn't used to her confessing her true feelings like this but loved hearing the words fall from her lips.

“I promise though I’ll be better next time,” Killian told still concerned about his performance

“Killian Jones will you stop that! You were perfect,” She scolded him while rolling her eyes. “But I suppose there isn't any harm in practicing. You know, just to make sure,” Emma giggled, moving to straddle him once again.

That night they both learned an important cliche that happened to ring true. Practice does indeed make perfect. And they relearned it. Over and over again.

Hope you enjoyed and sorry it took so long!

Thank you so much for reading! Let me know if you want to be tagged in the future!

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[spockandawe]

So, Kaput.

You guys, I think we’re all out of good boys. There are no more good boys to be had. Because I’m pretty sure Kaput needs to join Terminus in gay baby jail.

Behind a cut for length.

And also let me start by saying that I love this. I didn’t have a way to get emotional purchase on him before and now I do. That being said. This is going to start from a suspicious place. He’s had little enough screen time that the build from zero to >:O wouldn’t be that satisfying. But my goodness do I have receipts to back me up.

Okay, so who even is this guy? Well, mostly we don’t know. He was around in the background here and there, heavy emphasis on background. But we do particularly see him show up in the text stories that go with Last Stand of the Wreckers. And there’s one especially interesting tidbit.

Kaput was the one who said Ironfist was a dead man walking, and he said made that call ‘too quickly for Ironfist’s liking’. Okay, not that suspicious, it’s totally understandable that Ironfist would be upset about this and not want to admit that he’s really truly dying a slow, inescapable death. But what do we hear later?

Um??

So that’s two doctors saying as sure as anything that they could have saved him. Not that there might have been a chance, they’re saying they could have done it. First Aid isn’t even technically a full doctor when we meet him on Delphi, he’s a nurse (just demoted because of the autobrand-examining fixation and the psych evaluation, but hey). And just look at the other injuries Ratchet repairs. Look at the scope of the war and the crazy injuries any medic would have been exposed to. Even if Kaput didn’t know how to do it, couldn’t he have sent the info to… any other doctor? Anyone?

This is an awfully suspicious call to make is all I’m saying.

Pure ridiculous speculation: Ironfist got that injury developing the cerebro-sensitive bullets. And when those were done, the ethics committee nixed them, saying it would be a war crime to use them in almost any situation. And we also hear about the Gideon’s Glue inquiry, where another horrifyingly deadly creation of Ironfist’s was somehow leaked to the Decepticons. We even see/hear about the aftereffects of that mess in the section with Rung and Flattop. Ironfist was right at the middle of these two projects, and when an accident happened, a doctor was like oh, yeah, you’re definitely dying, this is super untreatable.

I don’t want to say that someone told Kaput to let him die (especially if Brainstorm was doing design work at the same time and got off scot-free), but this is interesting and just begging for speculation to happen.

But! Back to canon. The first thing in the comic that Kaput does is roll on in and pick up Anode after Tailgate accidentally, uh, impales her. The first time we hear him speak is when she’s waking up.

You took her stuff? My first thought is that hey, not cool. My second thought is that no, if he’s going to operate on her, he’d need things to be out of the way, that’s fair. But look at his own words. It was a nasty wound, but localized. He was operating on her stomach. Why was it necessary to take things out of a compartment by her shoulder? And we don’t see anything to suggest he emptied those compartments conveniently right there for us to see on her hips. Mister doctor man, why are you meddling with your patient’s personal possessions?

(Especially when those possessions just so happen to tie conveniently to his own medical area of expertise and lead conveniently to exciting medical experiments involving the personal possessions he was meddling with)

Now, a lot of the Terminus meta meant looking at his words and actions outside the framing that made it so easy to see him as a decent guy. Then the bitterness and his controlling ways really show up. But even without context, Kaput is so nonthreatening and friendly and helpful. He spends all his time helping people! But let’s look at the way he just wedged himself RIGHT into the middle of the narrative.

For an awesome look at some of the thematic elements of the story and Kaput’s role in them, you should definitely check out the meta by @sunderedstar written here. It’s super interesting stuff. I’m less good for thematic analysis. I’m better at compiling discrete events and looking at them like hard data. So that link has storytelling and fairy tales. But what I’ve got is that when you pull the screencaps together, by LL07, Kaput has lodged himself in every single major thread of the plot we touch on.

(pedantic: except for the two whole panels worth of chromedome and rewind talking to rung)

He’s in the middle of the Anode (+Lug+Velocity+Nautica) tangle.

He’s most of what Brainstorm and Nightbeat talk about in their very brief appearance.

He’s at the center of the action with Ultra Magnus and the armor, which brushes up against the rest of the old ship officers.

And my goodness me is he involved with the Tailgate stuff.

Remember, this is a rando who we’ve barely even seen before LL02. Even Megatron didn’t invade every storyline quite that extensively when he joined the crew. And he’s Megatron. This is just… Some Guy.

But what’s weirdest is just how… central he is. Not just that he’s everywhere. But suddenly there are three urgent medical events, plus two minor ones, and they all go to him. There are piles of new mechs on this planet, and the only ones who get any attention at all in all of LL07 are Kaput and Fangry.

This is slightly out of order, but check out this panel again.

Nightbeat is brilliant. It’s his thing. And not only did Kaput beat him to the punch in terms of trying to decode the flowers, he landed on an answer before Nightbeat even started working on the problem. Brainstorm even calls it ‘stealing his thunder’. Kaput is seriously at the center of everything.

Anode grabs this random stranger and is immediately down for her one and only shot to try this complicated, tricky blacksmithing thing she’s never done successfully before. No prep, no getting to know you, just damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead. Which… is honestly pretty in-character for Anode :P

So this is the storyline where his presence is most understandable, and Velocity and Nautica staying out of the mix with the blacksmithing procedure is understandable too. But this is honestly the medical subplot where he has the least presence as a person. He does give Anode the feedback from the monitoring equipment, which is what she uses to adjust her blacksmith… thing, but not much past that.

Minimus Ambus, why are you bringing your armor problems to Kaput?

One, you’ve known Ratchet since forever. Two, Ratchet already has very thorough knowledge of how your armor works. Three, you were surprised he had this knowledge. Why are you going to Kaput over this?

This isn’t even a spark-related issue, your best guess is physical damage, why did you bring this to Kaput?

Um. And why are you so distressed at the idea that Kaput isn’t coming with you? Why are you pinning your hopes on him? You have two medics already. You have an impressively high medic concentration. Ratchet is an expert in everything, he’s demonstrated that he has longstanding knowledge of your armor, and you trusted him enough in MTMTE 40 to tell him about the little figurine that you thought was meant to mock you.

Yeah, this all is kind of… weird.

Kaput didn’t really do anything suspicious during the blacksmithing procedure. But first, from a narrative perspective, that was way too easy. Lug’s doing fine physically and mentally and she has most of her memories, and Anode patched things up on the trust/communication front right away? I don’t trust one tiny little bit that things are happily wrapped up on the Lug front. And also, oh my god, just look at that wording. Lug is doing improbably well? I’ve never seen anything that suspicious in my entire life (I love it).

Nautica, why are you bringing your eye problems to Kaput?

You also know two other medics. Who you have known for longer than him. One of them is the Chief Medical Officer and is an expert in all the things. And the other one you’ve been friends with for years and you just, just finished amica-marrying her. Why on earth are you bringing your medical problems to Kaput??

And also… her eye wasn’t injured, as far as the art went. Her face was injured, but her optic was always drawn looking intact.

So this is also pretty weird.

And now we’re in the land of incoherent. What on earth is even happening here. I guess armor… could be designed that way, if you really really wanted to, and put a lot of effort into developing a ‘personality sensor’.

But like, just look at those words. ‘Personality sensor’. That sounds ridiculous.

And this is a suit that has been worn by many people over the years, presumably people with different personalities. But. All of them have had to let their own personality be subsumed by the single continuous identity and legacy of ‘Ultra Magnus’. Designing this armor to require a strong, consistent sense of self sounds like the worst possible idea.

That’s apart from how everyone was in a long war, and folks have been getting screwed up left and right. Admittedly, Cybertronians have been a little slow to the punch with the whole mental health care thing. But shellshock, come on, people have been able to recognize at least some signs of PTSD for a long fricking time. The people wearing this armor. Are in a war. Where sufficient trauma can pretty severely screw up your mind, your sense of self, your conception of who you are.

Let’s make the armor dependent on being calibrated to sense one specific personality before it’ll work! That can only end well.

And anyways, I can’t see Ultra Magnus’s thing here as anything but unhealthy. Whatever was up with the armor, I don’t think an aggressive return to black-and-white thinking is at all healthy. He might be mobile now, but this isn’t good for him in the long run. He had a whole quiet personal crisis over this exact thing before, and now he’s being nudged in the opposite direction.

Also, Minimus Ambus thought there was a physical damage problem with his armor, and then Kaput comes right back and says that nooo no no it’s definitely personality-sensing magic. I mean science. I don’t know what to think, but I do think it’s suspicious that Kaput was examining the armor and then it stopped working even harder than before.

First, it worries me that Tailgate is putting blind faith in someone’s good intentions again. The Getaway thing is still pretty fresh. He and Cyclonus just had a mini-fight about Tailgate getting close to other people when Tailgate was trying to push him away. But then he turns right around and trusts Kaput just like that.

(Given his responses when he’s told about the dangers of this treatment, I do bet it’s at least partially because he’ll do anything to fix this problem, so he stops being a danger to Cyclonus. But he also is prone to thinking the best of people, and it’s come back to bite him multiple times)

Wait, what?

Okay, Cyclonus coming to Kaput to tell him about Tailgate, and telling him to treat Tailgate’s injuries, that makes sense.

But Cyclonus told Kaput that Tailgate had an abnormal spark?

First of all, the super strength originated with a traumatic event. The other people affected by the spark spasm suffered eventual negative side effects. It only makes sense that mister epicenter here would eventually have some problems of his own.

Cyclonus said it was like Tailgate was trying to claw out his own spark, but that doesn’t exactly match these words. Blaming an abnormal spark… the connotations of ‘abnormal’ make this sound more like a birth defect. Not a recent development. And Cyclonus is usually very good about deferring to experts and trusting their experience and knowledge in their own field. We just saw that last issue with Brainstorm. He handed off Killmaster’s wand, said ‘I’m sure you can figure this out’, and… trusted him to figure it out. This doesn’t sound like him.

I am a fan of fixing up Tailgate, but wow, what a convenient, immediate offer of a solution. Buddy, you haven’t even examined the guy yet, there’s no evidence you read Velocity’s reports on the original issue, and I don’t trust you at all when you talk about Cyclonus saying it was totally this thing, this is definitely what’s wrong. You haven’t even looked at him and you’re saying ‘hey, check out this convenient offer of assistance!’

I don’t trust you.

You haven’t even examined him yet and you’re talking about depowering his spark? A potentially fatal procedure? When you haven’t even looked at him?

And also you just said you might be able to find a solution, but now the solution is totally to depower his spark? You’re moving the goalposts so fast that I missed that completely on the first writeup of this meta.

Oh look, Kaput hasn’t told Tailgate anything about what’s going to be done to him.

Also, “inescapable.” So much D:

More things Kaput never mentioned to Tailgate.

Oh my god, he didn’t even tell Tailgate how long the procedure is supposed to take.

Moments before you enter this impenetrable box that is barely larger than you, let me just tell you that you’re going to be stuck in there for six solid months with no food, no nothing. Just you. Alone.

I also didn’t tell you about the slow painful death part until after I built your underground radiation coffin

Good lord, that wouldn’t be comfortable for a day, never mind six months. Why not build it large enough for like. A bed and a chair? Space to stand?? This is creepy, bro.

Oh my god, he never even told Tailgate whether or not he’d be able to talk to anyone for those six solid months.

I’m not happy about the situation Fangry sets up for Tailgate here. However, I am also not terribly distraught to see Kaput’s decapitated body.

But for the last bit of medical sleaziness, look at Kaput just casually leaking patient info to some rando who wandered into his office and decided to cozy up to him.

I pretty much understood what Terminus was aiming for, once I went back and reread. I am totally lost when it comes to Kaput, but wow do I not trust him.

And I don’t trust that he’s gone either.

Kaput told Anode some weird stuff about how there can be bleedover between a spark and a brain. Kaput’s brain is… nominally gone.

But you know, it’s remarkable. It’s like I can remember something from the long long ago days….. Almost like a few issues into MTMTE we met a doctor who seemed like a decent guy at first, then turned out to be extremely not-decent. It’s almost like we saw that doctor very-probably die. And then he came back later and he very-probably died again, this time complete with a missing head.

Lemme just--

Hm.

We see Rung, Red Alert, Metroplex, Whirl, and (it’s gonna happen) Pharma surviving having their heads blown up, or their brain modules severed from their spark for a period of time. Whirl survives the soft termination in the holiday special. Windblade took Metroplex’s brain on an adventure without worrying that he was going to die right away. We hear Cyclonus reference Rossum’s rule of thirds, which seems to tie back to how long a spark can survive while being severed.

Kaput worked in a research facility where they did theoretical work, but also developed new technology for use in the war. He worked alongside Brainstorm, mister mad science. He’s a spark specialist, he’s a medic, and it’s extremely speculative (but also extremely plausible) that he tried some things out on himself. Things like maybe a built in emergency spark support system. Or relocating his brain module from that obvious, vulnerable head down into somewhere in his more-shielded torso.

And now, let’s get silly and speculative about writing techniques, because it’s fun and I live for this kind of thing is why

All covered by the end of season one (except the Brainstorm thing that got cut off), pretty straightforward once you know how the story goes. But now. For fun. Recalibrate to look at the time-traveling warning message in terms of where the Lost Light at the end of season two stood before everything went to hell.

Abort the mission. Do not leave Cybertron. - Or, abort the mission, don’t leave the Lost Light?

Don’t open the coffin. - Don’t open the Necrobot’s pods?

Don’t let them take Skids. - I’m snickering, but I feel very bad about it

Don’t go to Delphi – Random chill side quest to another planet early in the story that goes right to hell? So... don’t go to functionist!Cybertron? (we even learn that Tarn Glitch lives there)

Do not—I repeat do not—look in the basement – Don’t look in the basement… of the planet? :DDD

And for the sake of the Cybertronian race itself, don’t trust Brainstorm – You know, I left this off at first, since it didn’t show up in the original issue one message. But given Nightbeat’s joking comment about Brainstorm breaking the rules of science. I’m just going to slip this in here too. Brainstorm accidentally an alternate dystopian timeline, I am sure he can find even more havoc to wreak. He broke the space-time continuum, maybe he can break physics next!

I’ll freely admit that I love to play with conspiracy theories, and I sure know how to stretch a point, but this really took less stretching than I thought it would to make it fit. Plus I am very suspicious of how similarly Kaput and Pharma make their entrances into the story. Oh hey actually, you know what, the Delphi arc was also when Tailgate and Cyclonus had their first big clash, and it ended with Cyclonus hitting him, kicking him, and leaving. And this time, Cyclonus was the one on the defensive, and Tailgate made him leave :’) Just noticed that. But also look at this panel from after time traveling Tailgate leaves a time traveling voicemail.

Every one of those bad things they tried to warn about had a net positive outcome. Season one and season two of MTMTE also started off with a giant pileup of everything happens so much, but there are always things that are terrible in the moment, but play critical positive roles in the future. The winning conditions in the future wouldn’t be possible without the disasters of the past, and the big climaxes in this story are always wonderfully crafted. So I spent a lot of the early comic being disoriented and confused, but history does suggest that this story foundation being laid out now is going to make for a glorious whole.

But back to Kaput! Basically I trust him about as far as I can throw him (and he is a unicycle man who is two stories tall), and I also am extremely skeptical about him being dead. It’s driving me crazy that I can’t tell what on earth he was up to. The way the narrative distorted around him was bizarre, and I want to know what he’s trying to accomplish. Terminus was friendly and affable in company, until he decided to start being a dick in private. There have been plenty of assholes in the Autobot ranks. There’s no reason to believe other people who came out of the pods aren’t also controlling users who know how to keep up a good public face. Especially with the Pharma parallels, I am very unwilling to believe this is Kaput’s real face. I’m dying to know more, because I sure don’t trust what he shows us on the page.

[kootenaygoon]

So,

After Calvin left, the Star promoted Greg to editor.

In some ways, it seemed like a waste of talent. Rather than having him chase down leads and conjure up historical stories nobody else could manage, he would spend his days laying out pages and fixing our mistakes. Black Press also wanted him to do the Castlegar News, stretching his time even thinner, which meant I was still primarily on my own to build my story list and manage my time. Right away I saw the difference in his editing style, though, as he would routinely bring up questions or flag problems in my stories that Calvin never would’ve caught. It felt like we were significantly upping our game. The move was something of a one-two punch, because it meant we got to poach Ed Thurman from the Nelson Daily. He was easily their most talented and prolific journalist, and the Carpenters considered it a huge win to have him on the team. I was hopeful that he would handle the more newsy stories, like city council and provincial politics, while I nestled back into my comfortable arts milieu. As it turned out, though, Ed was equally passionate about the arts and keen to edge into my territory. I could tell he genuinely loved the kids of the community, and celebrated in their successes, which was most obviously evidenced by his managing of a local youth choir. 

I came to learn that when he spoke his mind, he didn’t mince words.

“Tell me about your relationship with Cam Carpenter,” he said, one afternoon, while we were alone together in the newsroom. He was sitting on one of those Swiss exercise balls instead of a computer chair.

“I hear there’s some friction there?”

He looked over the top of his glasses at me, expectant, and for a moment I struggled to speak. It was no secret that I’d been tangling with my bosses, but I was surprised that he would come right out and question me so directly on it. I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to share, whether I wanted to make him privy to all the gossip Tamara and I had accumulated. That being said, I wasn’t going to pretend I had anything but contempt for the guy. Somehow he’d become, in my mind, the embodiment of right wing power. He was the Old Boy’s Club incarnate, a smarmy Tony Soprano-style businessman who was ruthless about the money side of things and unethical in how he managed his staff. I knew it was unhealthy, how much I fixated on him, but I couldn’t seem to stop. I didn’t want to come off as some demented asshole in front of my new colleague, though, so I chose my words carefully.

“You know, he’s just one of those swaggering macho types and I struggle to get along with men like that. The guy’s a bully, and he’s used to getting away with shit. The way him and Sharon run this paper? So sketchy.”

Ed blinked. “How so?”

I told him some of the gossip I’d heard about their shady advertising tactics, how they routinely expected their staff to volunteer their time, how they were beholden to their relationships with the local government and always looking to cozy up to the Baker Street business community. Their biggest offence, in my opinion, was using editorial time for advertising ends. I told him about the Black List, the stories of mine they’d spiked (which I considered censorship), and told him about the various conflicts we’d engaged in over the winter months. I was trying to play nice, but apparently I wasn’t very good at it.

“The big thing is he messed with Cass. Like there’s a big part of me that’s just gorilla-pounding my chest in solidarity with her, you know? Like don’t fuck with my friends.”

“I understand that.”

The other thing was money. I was stressed out daily about my anemic bank account, while the Carpenters were obviously wealthy enough to drive fancy cars and buy soccer teams. Journalism was in dire straits, but it still seemed outrageous that Black Press could get away with paying its employees poverty level wages. I’d gone to Sharon desperate, asking if I could pick up additional work, and was told there was nothing they could do. When I mentioned a raise I was informed I hadn’t been in the job long enough, and that raises in general were rare. Meanwhile they were living large, at least in my mind. 

Around this time Rosemont Elementary held a flash mob in front of city hall for Pink Shirt Day, an anti-bullying initiative. That year’s slogan was: “Bully Free Zone” and I watched as hundreds of students performed a choreographed dance led by a teacher in bright pink running shoes. I found it oddly moving, seeing these kids stand up for something they believe in, and I ended up getting one of the shirts myself. In my mind it was a statement about my work-place culture, and wearing it was a defiance against the Carpenters and the way they wanted to push me around. 

Pretty soon it was my favourite shirt. 

One afternoon Paisley came home to me rage-pedalling on our spin bike, worked up into a manic state because Cam had volunteered me to serve food at an upcoming event organized by the Knights of Columbus. I hated that Cam had the power to dictate where I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to do, and I was a fucking journalist not a goddamn waiter. 

“I don’t understand why you’re so mad,” Paisley said, with her hands on my face, as I panted steaming on the couch.

“So you don’t like your boss. Neither do I. It’s not this huge life-altering deal, you know? It’s not healthy, how much you’re fixating on this. You’re scaring me.”

“It’s just that he gets away with everything and nobody stops him.”

“What do you mean everything?”

“Like he treated Cass like shit for years until she quit and he still gets to have his job and be this big man in the community. It’s fucking bullshit.”

“Will, you have to chill. Okay? Breathe.”

I leaned forward and dug my fingers into my temples. “I’m just so fucking angry I don’t even know what to do.”

She climbed into my lap, lifted my chin to look up into her eyes. “Let’s just have a nice afternoon, okay? You don’t need to be anywhere. We could even watch the fourth season of The Wire.”

“Really?”

At work, Tamara could sense that I was having a difficult time. I was arriving late, moping at my desk, struggling to get myself into an appropriate mood. She encouraged me to exercise, asked about the dogs, and gave me relationship advice when I was feeling despondent. I was having no problem churning out content, but in my off-moments I didn’t know what do do with myself. I carried around work stress in my shoulders, compulsively consumed cannabis every opportunity I got, and in general felt shitty that I couldn’t find an appropriately sunny headspace that matched my beautiful surroundings. I had a job I found fulfilling, in a cool community I wanted to stay in. What was my fucking problem?

“The world’s a shitty place sometimes,” Tamara said. “The older you get, the more you see it: people just get away with stuff, and nobody cares. Nothing happens.”

“That irritates me so much.”

Tamara paused, inhaled through her nose. “You don’t even know the half of it, Will. Like I’ve been asking around about Cam, and I’ve heard some crazy things. You know women talk to each other.”

“Like what?”

She then proceeded to share with me a series of anecdotes, each of them featuring Cam doing something inappropriate. She added her personal experiences, carefully taking me through all the ways she felt he was a profoundly shitty human being. She was on the verge of reporting him to Black Press, but hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. I asked her questions, probing her for details, and couldn’t believe the answers I got. I felt my pulse quicken, my breathing get shallow. I ground my teeth together, clenching my hands into fists and shaking my head in disbelief. 

“I want to crucify that motherfucker.”

The Kootenay Goon

[blackboard-monitor]

Heavenbound, chapter 1

sort of forgot i started doing this so sorry if you were waiting for this, although i sincerely doubt anyone was

1 THE END IN THE BEGINNING

It was Tuesday.

Tessa Jokinen woke, feeling refreshed and full of energy. As if that wasn’t strange enough, once she rolled out of bed and stood up, she discovered that although she had gotten up, her body had not. In was still sprawled out on the bed, one foot sticking out from under the covers, her shoulder-length hair forming a tangled halo around her head.

Tessa decided that the peaceful image was somewhat ruined by the dark handle of a dagger jutting out between her shoulder blades. She rubbed her temples, feeling a little off course.

‘This is going to be really hard to explain,’ she said out loud.

‘Indeed,’ said a deep voice behind her. ‘You have died.’

‘I have arrived at that conclusion, too,’ said Tessa and turned around. There was a man leaning against her desk. Tessa couldn’t see very well in the unlit room, but she got an insistent feeling that she was looking at a classicistic sculpture. There was a definite air of smooth, bronze skin and certainly a lot of toga. Tessa raised her eyebrows.

‘Who are you? Like, Zeus?’ she asked.

‘No!’ snapped the man, clearly insulted. ‘I’m an angel of death.’

Tessa sighed. ‘Well, that’s really something then, isn’t it? I’m dead and there’s an angel in my room. I was actually kind of hoping for the grim reaper. You know, tall skeleton guy with the black robes and the scythe…’ she trailed off when the alleged angel just stared at her blankly. ‘I guess there’s a God, then?’

‘It is very likely,’ said the angel, ‘but I don’t have much to do with him. Do you want to hear something about being an angel?’

Tessa didn’t comment, because she was trying to decipher what was the point of an angel that didn’t have much to do with God. The idea wasn’t compliant with her knowledge of Christianity.

‘Well, the in the recruitment office they go on and on about duty and honour and the excitement of it all and then the next thing you know you’re on minimum wages and find yourself in the furthest corner of the multiverse at half past five in the morning, thinking this isn’t what I signed up for,’ the angel was complaining.

‘Do you have a point?’ asked Tessa. By now she was fairly convinced that this was all just a particularly absurd dream, but in the off chance that it was actually happening, she didn’t think the working conditions of an angel were among her biggest concerns.

‘Yes I do,’ said the angel, ‘I was just getting to it. The thing is, you are not merely dead. You were murdered.’

‘Oh, really?’ Tessa said pointedly. ‘Just when I thought that dagger appeared into my back out of natural causes. An unhealthy diet or something.’

‘Lose the attitude, would you? It’s not my fault you got stabbed,’ the angel protested. Tessa half wanted to point out that she wasn’t exactly in the best mood, but decided that she was more interested in seeing where this was going.

‘As I was saying, you have been murdered. However, this isn’t just your everyday murder we’re talking about it. The person who killed you just so happens to be Queen Random of Yölund,’ the angel said pompously.

‘The queen? Of Yölund? I’m pretty sure there’s no such place or person,’ Tessa told him.

‘Not on this planet or this reality, no. But Yölund is a real place just as much as Tampere, Finland,’ the angel replied.

Who names their kid Random? thought Tessa. Out loud, she said, ‘You know, I’m not a Christian, so why are you even here? To carry me to heaven?’ Tessa demanded.

‘I was getting to that, but you won’t let me finish. Indeed, usually that would be the case, but your death is something entirely extraordinary,’ the angel said conversationally.

‘Just tell me already,’ Tessa said with a sigh.

‘Fine. You’re awfully impatient for a decedent,’ complained the angel. ‘This is the Zephi Act from the Laws of the Deceased,’ he continued. A look of great concentration came over him as he recited, ‘ ”anyone whom has been slain by another being, be that being of another reality, can and will not be taken directly to Heaven. If they wish to continue their existence in Heaven, must they find their own way, and, in addition, punish the being that slay them in any way they see fit.” ’

‘Another reality? What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Tessa.

‘Are you familiar with the theory that every time anyone anywhere makes a decision, it creates a new reality -- or dimension, if you will -- parallel to this one?’

‘I do read sci-fi.’

‘Well, it’s not just a theory.’ The angel beamed at her.

Tessa rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, fair enough. I’m not saying I believe you, but even if I did, what does this have to do with me?’

‘You remember when I told you about Random of Yölund earlier?’

‘It was two minutes ago.’

‘Well then. As I said, Yölund is a real place, but it is located in a different reality entirely. Therefore, the law indisputably applies to you. I am here merely to send you on your way, not to take you to Heaven,’ the angel explained.

‘But why? What’s the point? If I’m to go to heaven, why should I have to get there myself, just because of who killed me?’ Tessa demanded.

The angel made a face. ‘It always seemed a little illogical to me, too. I suppose the idea was to reduce our workload.’

‘That makes no sense, though,’ said Tessa, ‘how does it lighten your workload if you have to come here anyway to explain how this works?’

‘You tell me,’ said the angel. ‘But the law’s the law. So, get ready. You’re going on a quest.’

‘A quest? Am I in a video game now?’ asked Tessa.

The angel shrugged.

‘Fine. And if I refuse?’

‘That is a little tricky. On paper, it would mean you would cease existing. In truth, the possibilities vary. You might stay here and haunt this place, or roam around as a restless soul, or you might end up in the Other Place. Technically reincarnation is always possible, although highly unlikely unless you really believe in that sort of thing.’

Tessa sank down on the side of her bed to reflect on this, momentarily forgetting that she was sitting in a pool of her own blood.

‘So, what’s your answer?’ asked the angel.

‘Well, this has all been very interesting and all,’ said Tessa, ‘but I think I’d like to wake up from this dream now.’

‘Ah,’ the angel said, ‘that explains a lot.’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘People are rarely that calm,’ the angel explained. ‘Except the ones who don’t believe it’s real, of course.’

‘But it isn’t real,’ Tessa argued. ‘Obviously it isn’t. All of this is completely absurd.’

‘Maybe, or maybe your view of reality is just limited. Does this really feel like a dream to you?’

Tessa had to admit that it didn’t. Even the most vivid of her dreams were never this detailed, let alone internally consistent. People would warp into different people, places would suddenly be other places, and there certainly had never been a pair of jeans flung across the back of her chair, where she had left them last night. Looking around her room, she saw nothing out of place -- apart from the angel, of course -- nothing out of the ordinary. The alarm clock on her nightstand glared 05.42 at her in red, digital lines.

She turned back to the angel. ‘Okay, so this seems real, I’ll give you that. But it can’t be, can it? I’m seventeen. I can’t just be dead. It doesn’t make any sense.’

The angel sighed. ‘Yes, yes, too young to die, life is so short, how very tragic and all that. Look, you’ll have plenty of time to mull over this later, but right now you’re going to have to get to the next stage of grief because I need an answer.’

‘Just give me a minute!’ Tessa snapped.

The angel obediently fell silent.

Okay, Tessa told herself, what am I going to do?

She found herself looking at what apparently was her dead body. There really was a lot of blood, and she knew she should have felt a lot more upset. If all of this was real -- and everything indicated it was, -- it meant that her life was over. She was awake now, but at the same time she was never going to wake up again. Knowing this should have made her sad, but she just felt sort of… blank.

‘Why aren’t I sad?’ she said out loud.

‘You are currently incorporeal and therefore lacking in the hormone and neurotransmitter department. You ability to experience emotions is obviously impaired,’ the angel said impatiently.

‘Huh,’ said Tessa, ‘that makes sense.’

‘Are you going or not?’ the angel demanded. ‘I really am on a schedule here.’

‘I didn’t get to that yet,’ said Tessa and received a heavy sigh as a response.

Now that she finally gave herself the chance to think about it, however, Tessa realised that there really was only one real option. She knew she didn’t want to be reincarnated, at the risk of becoming a mosquito or a right-wing extremist; nor did roaming around restlessly sound like a good way to spend an eternity. She wondered what the “other place” was and decided if the angel was from heaven, it had to be hell. That doesn’t seem like a viable option either, she thought. This quest is the best shot I’ve got.

‘Okay,’ said Tessa, ‘I’m done.’

‘Finally,’ groaned the angel.

‘First, I’d very much like to know your name, because having to think of you as “the angel” is driving me crazy,’ Tessa went on, ignoring the comment.

‘My name is Argon,’ the angel put in. ‘Would you just answer the question already, please?’

‘I was getting to it,’ Tessa said, ‘I’ll go. Oh, and by the way, your name is a noble gas.’

‘I am aware of that, thank you,’ Argon told her coldly.

‘Sorry. Finally, I’d like a little privacy, so I can change into something that isn’t Eeyore-pyjamas,’ Tessa concluded.

‘If you insist,’ said Argon, and vanished.

‘What is he suggesting?’ Tessa muttered under her breath as she walked over to her wardrobe, ‘wearing pyjamas on a fantasy quest? Not gonna happen.’

Changing proved to be a little challenging, however. Standing in front of the mirror on the wardrobe door, Tessa realised that her reflection had decided to take the day off. No matter how much she stared, the image of her pyjama-clad body, round face or small ears failed to appear on the glass, and things only got worse from there. When she attempted to open the wardrobe, her hand slipped straight through the handle like her fingers were just wisps of smoke.

‘Bugger,’ she said.

Now what? Tessa thought. Looking down at her hands, she realised that Argon had meant it when he’d said she was incorporeal. Where she was used to her body being was just a translucent glimmer of what she had looked like, pyjamas and all.

I guess if I’m immaterial, that means I’m not technically wearing anything, she realised. Which means, if I imagine hard enough, I can be wearing anything I want to be wearing.

Tessa focused and decided that she was wearing her favourite jeans, a t-shirt, her warmest black hoodie and a worn-out pair of sneakers. It wasn’t a very glamorous outfit by any standards, but Tessa was a believer in practicality over looks. She didn’t know what this quest awaiting her had in store, and she felt a lot better facing it in comfortable shoes.

Looking around her room once again, wondering what to do next, Tessa spotted her Lord of the Rings poster. On impulse, she imagined herself a cloak like the ones the hobbits wore in the film. This, she decided, completed her outfit, and she felt a bit better prepared.

Tessa returned to her bed, sat down gingerly and proceeded to experimentally poke a finger through the back of what had until recently been her head.

‘This must be the strangest thing I have done in my entire life,’ she said out loud.

‘Technically this is no longer a part of your life,’ Argon pointed out, reappearing.

‘Fine, the weirdest thing in my death then,’ Tessa corrected.

Argon nodded his approval.

‘How am I supposed to go on this quest thing if I’m immaterial?’ Tessa inquired. ‘There’s not much I can do if I can’t touch anything.’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ Argon assured, ‘Heaven is lending you an artificial body for the course of your journey. Of course I can’t let you have it here, because we certainly can’t have the deceased walking around in their own reality. That happened once and that’s a mess we’re still trying to clean up, take my word for it. Anyway, you will find yourself material once more when you arrive in another reality.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’

‘Now, as I said, I’m on a schedule, so let’s get this done as quick as possible. You can’t go alone and – ’

‘Why not?’ interrupted Tessa, who quite enjoyed being alone.

‘Because, to start with, you wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to go and how to get there.’

Tessa gave this some thought.

‘You’re probably right,’ she agreed, ‘I don’t exactly have tickets for the Heaven Express in my back pocket, especially since I don’t have a back pocket.’

‘Precisely,’ said Argon, looking very pleased with himself.

‘But who am I supposed to go with?’ asked Tessa.

‘We can hook you up with a freelance wizard and a faithful steed. You can also bring a friend, if you like, but if they’re alive, they have to come back after,’ Argon told her.

‘I don’t really have a lot of friends,’ Tessa said slowly. ‘Not ones that would be willing to go on a quest with a dead person, at any rate,’ she added.

‘I’m sure there’s someone.’

‘No, not really. My best and oldest friend is probably this stuffed animal,’ said Tessa, attempting to grab the small, shabby tiger by the tail. Her hand went through it. Remembering that she was immaterial was proving surprisingly difficult.

‘Well, that’s not a problem,’ beamed Argon, ‘hand me the tiger.’

‘I can’t touch anything, remember?’

‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ said Argon, stepping over to snatch the tiger himself. It had been a birthday present from Tessa’s dad when she turned nine and, for some reason she’d forgotten, she had named it after the Colombian pop singer Shakira.

With an air of grave dignity, Argon placed Shakira the toy tiger on the floor in the centre of the room, closed his eyes and began to chant something in strange language with sharp consonants. It seemed to be doing absolutely nothing.

Tessa blinked.

A full-grown Bengal tiger was sitting on her carpet.

‘Jesus bloody Christ!’

‘Mind the language,’ said Argon reproachfully.

‘Oh, shove it, cherub,’ the tiger snarled at him.

‘And it talks?’ Tessa asked weakly. She had begun to feel a little lightheaded, despite the fact that, technically, she had no head.

‘What use would I be to anyone if I didn’t talk?’ asked the tiger cheerfully.

Tessa squeezed the bridge of her nose. ‘Shakira?’

‘Yes, Tessa?’

‘Is that really you?’

‘Who else would I be?’

‘But how…?’ Tessa stammered.

‘Having lived all your life in predominantly Christian culture, you shouldn’t be that surprised  by an angel performing a miracle,’ Argon pointed out.

‘Did I not tell you to shove it just a moment ago?’ the tiger asked him icily.

‘You did, but fortunately I don’t take orders from artificially animated tigers. I gave you life and I can take it away as well,’ Argon replied with equal temperature.

‘Would the two of you knock that off?’ said Tessa, glancing at the clock that was now declaring 6.01. ‘My parents are going to wake up any minute now and I’d like to be out of here by then. I’m pretty sure this isn’t the kind of behaviour they would appreciate.’

‘No need to fret. The toy and yourself will be quite invisible to anyone living in this reality,’ said Argon, ‘and besides, you must wait here while I search out the rest of your party.’

‘What about--’ Tessa attempted, but Argon had already vanished with a flash of light.

‘What a prick,’ Shakira muttered.

‘Now what?’ asked Tessa. ‘We just wait for him?’

‘I guess so.’ The tiger gave her a grin full of yellowed teeth longer than her fingers, which was really quite unsettling.

Trying to not let herself get too caught up on how completely insane this all was, Tessa looked around, searching for something to occupy her mind. Her gaze landed on the open books on her desk and, out of habit more than anything, she sat down. She had time to spare, so she might as well try to get some homework done. Or, so she thought, until she realised that the vague shape of her hand, more idea than flesh, passed straight through her pencil when she tried to pick it up.

‘You have got to be kidding me,’ said Shakira. ‘Come on. You’re dead. Could you finally get a life?’

Tessa turned to look at her.

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Look at yourself. You’ve just died, and what’s the first thing you do? Your bloody book report, cause it’s due next week?’

‘I have to get it done sometime.’ Even as she said it, Tessa felt like there was something a little off with the statement.

Shakira rolled her eyes, which was also an alarming expression on a tiger.

‘No you don’t, Tessa, that’s the point! I’m pretty sure your English teacher doesn’t expect you to turn in your project if you’re dead!’

There was a silence, in which the truth in Shakira’s words settled in the room like a fine layer of dust, broken abruptly by a sharp rap on the door.

‘Tessa, time to get up.’

Tessa froze.

‘It’s Mum,’ she hissed at Shakira, ‘we need to get out of here!’

They rushed to the door, straining to hear the receding footsteps and the distant click of the bathroom door.

‘I think she’s gone,’ whispered Tessa.

Shakira just rolled her eyes and slinked out of the door.

Willing herself not to look back at the life she was leaving behind, Tessa followed.

[stumentha]

Writer's frenzy – meet the evil cousin of writer's block

New Post has been published on http://stumentha.com/writer-frenzy/

Writer's frenzy – meet the evil cousin of writer's block

If I’m not a Bohemian I don’t know who is. Not only am I a playwright, but I spent several years living in the capital of Bohemia, Prague. I live and breathe my art, and anyone who knows me well will attest to me being a little socially unconventional at times. I don’t drive a car, I put my faith in philosophy not religion (unheard of right?), I often wake up in the middle of the night with crazy ideas for flash mobs with helium balloons and board games made of felt, and I’ve pretty much dabbled in every artistic medium there is.

True to the Bohemian stereotype though, especially in the years I lived in Czechia, I also spent a lot of time feeling miserable. I know, I know. Creating art isn’t always passion and bonfires. I get that. Totally. Creating art is sometimes suffering. And I get too, that some people might say, “Stu, you lived in Prague, the city of a thousand spires, are you really going to tell me you were unhappy?” You’re right. I wasn’t unhappy all the time. There were times, especially when I was working on my plays, or backpacking across Europe, and making friends and catching up with friends, when I was ridiculously happy. I’m a pretty optimistic person by nature, and my time overseas was absolutely amazing. But inevitably, even in a city so rich with culture and art, and living my dream, I still sank at times into depression. There were times when I felt like I was flying. I wasn’t just riding a magic carpet, I was the magic carpet, capable of doing anything and going anywhere, but there were times when I felt myself unravelling at the seams at full speed, my creatives threads tangled around a thousand different things and places at once. I still at times fell apart, and I think a lot of that has to do with writing too much.

I’ve never suffered from writer’s block. Really. Never. I always find that faced with a blank page I can always write something. Whether that something is drivel or a masterpiece is another matter, but I can always write. Yet, there is another side to that coin. It’s writing too much. It’s sacrificing your health for the sake of your craft. It’s jeopardising the happiness you might have now for the misguided hope of finding more happiness in the future.

That’s like a fishermen throwing back his freshly-caught fish in the hope of catching a marlin. It doesn’t make sense.

Here’s what I’ve learnt: there is a difference between suffering within the creative process as part of your artistic journey and suffering outside of that creative process and using your artistic path as an excuse to feel miserable.

Unfortunately, lacking balance between work and personal life has consequences. For years I’ve neglected my back, sitting at my desk for hours on end at times and not getting up to stretch my arms and legs, and failing to even rest my eyes. There was a time when I drank like a fish (hey, I lived in Prague, the beer there is like some kind of golden nectar made by the gods, it’s 2AUD for a pint, could I be blamed?) I ate deep fried cheese for lunch and those freezer pizzas that taste like cardboard for dinner (washed down with another pint of beer of course). I’m lucky to have the metabolism of a gazelle so luckily, none of it really showed. Still, my gut suffered the onslaught.

Picture me in Prague, sitting in a dingy smoke-filled pub, a pint in each hand (yes, a pint in each hand) a joint in each hand (yes, a joint in each hand), jumping on tables (yes, actually jumping on tables), and kissing pretty girls in pretty beer gardens. It was a lot of fun. But there were also nights when I punched holes in walls, and wandered through the streets at 3AM so blind drunk I only know where I got to not how I got there, and sat in cliched piles of scrunched up papers while the world and the universe beckoned me outside to play. To me, Prague was the Wild West. I could do things in Prague that I couldn’t do in Australia, because I could be free to be another me, free from the baggage of family and past habits. I could be reckless in my personal life and my career.

In many ways, I’m glad I was reckless. There is a time to be reckless in life and through recklessness we often learn great life lessons. More often though, I neglected my social and love life for my other lover, my novel. My friends were often in awe of me, and told me so. Not so much for how many pints I knocked back but because I was so industrious. When I told them I felt like a hamster in a wheel, working on my novel for hours on end each day, my friends clapped their hands and told me “nonsense”, I was living the dream, I was doing something they weren’t. I have the metabolism of a gazelle remember? I looked good. I looked healthy. And I was “going for it”. I was doing the “right thing”. I certainly wasn’t suffering from writer’s block.

No. Of course I wasn’t. I was seduced by something else – the evil cousin of writer’s block, that more discrete, more consuming, more addictive muse who gets you up at 2AM to write poems and philosophical essays for her, who gets jealous of you meeting your friends even for just one beer, who tells you she wants you to love her and only her. She is dangerous. Like some kind of deranged junky, she doesn’t care that your fridge is bare, she doesn’t care that you’re tired or dissatisfied, she only cares that she has you and you have her. In your veins. She is the tenth muse never spoken of, the black sheep of the gods, and the most dangerous muse you’re ever likely to meet – she is what I call “writer’s frenzy”. You might call her creative obsession, or the patron saint of “workaholicism”.

Writer’s frenzy isn’t something many people talk about. I doubt you’ll find it any “how to” writing ebooks. Actually, I’m pretty sure I made the term up. Indeed, some writer’s have never had it (whether that’s good fortune or not, I’ll let you decide). So let me further explain. Writer’s frenzy is the opposite of writer’s block. It’s writing for the sake of writing. It’s spinning the wheels on the bicycle when you’re already losing control down the mountain and the pedals are only turning air. To some degree, writer’s frenzy is great. We should all write a Jerry McGuire manifesto at least once in our lives. I’m sure writer’s frenzy is what a lot of writers might even strive for. But what’s that old saying? Too much of a good thing is sometimes not such a good thing.

Writer’s frenzy is not flow. Though it might start off as flow, it’s not destined to be a zen state. It’s mania. It’s the other extreme edge of the seesaw. Writer’s frenzy doesn’t just make Jerry McGuire write a manifesto one night, she makes him write one every night. It’s not healthy, and though it often disguises itself as intense productivity connecting you with the world and your passion, writer’s frenzy can lead us to misery and disconnection. And this doesn’t just apply to writers or even just artists. We all write our lives in this world whether we are merchant bankers or circus clowns. Writer’s frenzy keeps us toiling away only as a means of ignoring our real world problems. It comes down to this: are you using your work as an excuse to alienate yourself from the world?

I know I’m guilty of doing just that, especially in the years I lived in Bohemia. Sure, I’ve had success. I wrote four sell-out theatre plays in Prague and loved every minute of the journey. But I also at times disconnected myself from the world. Whether I was washing away my inner problems with beer and unhealthy habits, or spinning the wheels of my novel for the sake of spinning the wheels, I spent a lot of time running away. From a lot of things actually, maybe even success. It was probably a good thing to not always have two pints and two joints in hand. But sometimes the writing has to wait because health should never be sacrificed. Everything must be in balance.

The tenth muse must be put in her place.

Lately, I’ve been taking care of myself again. I refuse to be a struggling, miserable artist drowning my sorrows like any another stereotypical “Bohemian” artist. Because I’ve decided that no longer will art be my heroin. No. Art will be my heroine.

I’ve bought a back brace for my back. I’m doing yoga in the mornings. I’m drinking chamomile tea instead of endless coffee. I’m teaching myself to get up early again (I’m pushing for 5AM). I’m being a healthy writer. I’m going to be a happy artist. I can still be a Bohemian, I just choose to be a Bohemian who lives life to the fullest wherever I am.

The important thing is to be healthy, because by being healthy you can walk the creative path for longer and eventually, who knows, you might even realise where it is you’re really heading to.

  Wanna join me? …

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[septembersghost]

i’m still on s1 of my rewatch and do not remember too much about dean/lisa so TELL ME why i just listened to ‘we were happy’ by taylor swift and teared up about them? :,(

OH NO, THIS IS BABY TAYLOR...even baby!Taylor is giving us Dean feelings now?! ...watch me pull up my folder of her demo recordings and cry. (My first thought - missing you like this is such sweet sorrow/Won't you come back to me?) 

as an unapologetic Lisa stan, I’m here for this heartbreak.

You threw your arms around my neck, back when I deserved it And we were happy

When it was good, baby, it was good, baby We showed 'em all up No one could touch the way we laughed in the dark 

look at them:

“It wasn’t greeting card perfect, but we were in it together.” She tells him it was the best year of her life! I!

 no lie, august played for me earlier and I started tearing up about them -

But I can see us lost in the memory August slipped away into a moment in time 'Cause it was never mine And I can see us twisted in bedsheets August sipped away like a bottle of wine 'Cause you were never mine Back when we were still changin' for the better Wanting was enough For me, it was enough To live for the hope of it all Cancel plans just in case you'd call

ALSO LIKE, I was going to make a liveblog post about them yesterday, may I just use your message as an excuse to do this?

in 6x14, Ben lies that something is wrong to get Dean to come home, and we get this:

Dean: What do you want from me?

Lisa: I'm not asking for anything.

Dean: Well, then ask for something!

It’s the crux of everything. (Want something. Want something!) 

She wanted to give him space and leeway, because frankly she’s more understanding than most anyone would be in that situation (she cares so much about him? this fandom’s mindless hatred of her will never not confound me), and she doesn’t want to lose him, but she understands that when Sam comes back, everything is instantly different. fandom loathed her for this in 6x06, “I didn't expect Sam to come back. And I'm glad he's okay. I am. But the minute he walked through that door, I knew. It was over. You two have the most unhealthy, tangled-up, crazy thing I've ever seen. And as long as he's in your life, you're never gonna be happy. ...That came out so much harsher than I meant,” and the “you’re never gonna be happy” part IS harsh/unfortunate and is a result of Veritas’ spell causing brutal honesty, but the other part of what she says is simply...true. She knows it is. Dean knows it is. She saw him grieve for a year - something we don’t even get to see. She loved him for a year. We barely get a taste of it, their gentle domesticity, him smiling at her when they wake up, cooking breakfast, easing into something like a life, but it happens. We don’t see the dinners and the walks in the twilight (gun at his side, but he can almost forget the weight of it there, nothing is haunting his steps, for a while), we don’t see the nightmares and the late nights with him poring over books, his frantic moments in wanting to get Sam back, her quiet concern; we don’t see him laughing and having movie nights with Ben, but it happened. He loved her and her son for that year too. (no offense, but he does NOT call her house and the two of them “home” without deep meaning behind it, and of course this was before the bunker. when did he ever have a home, like that? never. I know I mentioned ‘tis the damn season and What Is and What Should Never Be, but it’s here too, the heart I know I'm breakin' is my own, to leave the warmest bed I've ever known.) She’s very attuned and aware, and she knows. She tries to keep him in their life anyway, even at a distance. Even if it’s - go because you have to go, but come back when you can, come home in one piece. (and Dean is so honest with her, he SHOULD have told her about the vampire situation, the fact that he doesn’t is...an example of dumb writing imho.) personally, I think she wanted to give him a safe place and another reason to stay alive. and who could blame her for that?

the thing is, Dean WANTS to be wanted. He needs to be needed. (wait, that sounds like a reference to Cheap Trick? lol. well, let’s just reference ALL the songs.) even soulless, or maybe especially soulless, it’s all tangled, Sam needs him, so he goes. he wants Lisa to ask for something from him, but she can’t, because the thing she wants to ask for, for him to stay, is the thing she knows she can’t have, a refrain we will hear again. (everybody wants you, everybody wonders what it would be like to love you...) but oh, if only she could ask for that.

she says: “You know, I...I can't. Ask for something. I know what I want. But I can't have it -- Not how you live. My phone rings, I think -- tiny chance it's you, big chance it's Sam calling to tell me you're dead.”

you look at him, and you think, who could live with that heartache and that vivid love and that constant fear that the next time you hear his name, it’s going to be because he’s dead? it’s impossible. and Dean can’t quit. he can’t give up that road any longer. he can’t not be there for Sam. it’s all softness and tragedy and angst and longing. people weren’t into this? (I’ll never stop being mad that they forced him into a place where he had Cas erase their memories, it’s even WORSE now than it was in S6. they deserved to remember him. he deserved to be remembered and loved by them.) I personally don’t believe Dean ever falls out of love with anyone he falls in love with, whatever that means (he loves in all sorts of ways), even though he loses them. He carries it, like he does everything, in that boundless heart.

Bobby said: “It's as close to happiness as I've ever seen a hunter get.” It’s so close, and it’s still too far away. Oh, I hate those voices telling me I'm not in love anymore But they don't give me choices and that's what these tears are for 'Cause we were happy