FINALLY, six months after I was commissioned, this thing is done.
I’m truly sorry to my donation winner, Cindy. Lord knows you never asked to put up with my procrastinating ass.
But I’m truly happy with how this turned out! And I hope you, Cindy, and the rest of y'all are too!
This work is a part of the Fandom Trumps Hate auction. Check out some other cool works and support these charities this movement helps!
Never had Castiel been checked out with such scrutiny.
The man walked around him, eyes slowly dragging over his body, just on this side of appreciative. They were green and critical under contemplative eyebrows, pushed together to form a crease in the middle that Castiel kind of wanted to poke. The man’s arms were crossed over his chest, his thumb playing with his lower lip as he circled.
Castiel just stood, arms loose at his sides, posture normal which was to say terrible. He watched the man watching him.
“Well,” the man said, facing Castiel but also kind of facing the large camera he’d brought with him. “The suit is awful but we can work with it. Are you sure I can’t talk you out of the trench coat?”
Castiel shook his head, his mouth grim.
The man sighed. “Well, I’ll figure something out.”
He then explained to Castiel some of what he was going to be doing. Usually the exposition would take place among the five men who hosted, but Castiel understood this was a special case. The usual five men to do the job was now one.
“Hi, and welcome to
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
: celebrity edition. Where instead of the Fab Five, who are all experts in their fields, you have me, Dean Winchester, a bisexual hockey player who is slightly above average at these things.”
Castiel was, in this scenario, ‘the straight guy.’ He supposed that description fit simply by process of elimination. He knew he wasn’t gay because he did not wish to have sex with men. He didn’t particularly want to have sex with women but he liked them well enough: enjoyed the softness of their lips when they’d kissed him and liked their smell and general company.
So yes, Castiel could be the straight guy.
Although Dean Winchester’s shoulders looked very nice…
“Today’s victim is Castiel Novak: world renowned entymologist specializing in honey bees. His latest research publication is receiving all kinds of awards so he’s going to have a little celebration tonight. That’s where I’m here to help.”
“Okay, Cas, it may only be me, but I’ve still got some hired guns to help me move shit – er – junk around your apartment.” Dean turned to a woman wearing headphones. “Do I have to say that again?”
She smiled and rolled her eyes. “If you would, please.”
Dean sighed and repeated himself, this time leaving out the swear word.
This was all far too much production for Castiel. He preferred quiet libraries or the gentle hum of apiaries to the clapboards and shouted instructions of a television set.
“A necessary evil
“his agent had called it. “
How do you expect to get more funding, Castiel, if no one cares about your research?”
Castiel had thought this quite unfair and demonstratively untrue. Plenty of people cared about his research! Students and… kindergarten teachers…
Castiel supposed those groups didn’t pay very much. He may have seen Meg’s point.
He didn’t know why that meant he had to be involved with a reality show, though. He glowered at the camera.
Dean smiled at him, unaffected. “I have given the crew my instructions so now I can whisk you away for a fun makeover montage.”
Viraha - want or the realization of love arising from separation
Tired and weary down to my soul, I return to the city and to work early the next morning. Part of me wishes that I could call in sick. Forget about facing all people and wallow in my sorrow for a few days. I’d hardly call myself recharged as I drag myself through a shower and prepare to face the day. At least it’s only a half day with students, the last half dedicated to another form of torture – Parent Teacher Conferences.
Somehow, I survive it and trudge home, dreaming of stew and crusty bread on order from Sae’s and a hot bath. I drop my bag on my kitchen table and pull out my phone. The number is programmed and I have the menu memorized by now. Once my food is on its way, I set the phone down, thinking I’ll grab a quick bath to warm up before the food arrives in thirty minutes, but something small and shiny on the table catches my attention.
“Mornin’, sunshine. Want some coffee?” Dean nuzzles into Cas’s hair and breathes him in, tightening his grip on the angel’s waist, pulling him back against his chest “I can drag my ass outta bed for a few minutes to go put some on.”
“No. Thank you,” Cas grumbles, shifting to snuggle back against Dean. His voice is sleep-rough and low, and Dean can’t get enough of it. He tugs Dean’s arms tighter around him. “We don’t have anywhere to go or anything to do today. I’d like to stay here a while.”
Pressing kisses to Cas’s neck, nibbling his way around to his jaw, Dean finds himself grinning as he murmurs against Cas’s warm skin. He’s perfectly content to stay here for as long as Cas’ll have him. “Awesome.”
i love the way u write jocasta nu she's like jedi professor mcgonagall. i can totally see her saying "have a biscuit, anakin."
Anakin knew better than to cry.
It didn’t ever help. It just made his eyes sting, and if the Masters saw him
they would be angry. Masters didn’t like to see you cry. It was probably bad
Or…bad for meditation, anyway.
Bad for communing with the Force, maybe. Anakin wasn’t really sure. He never
seemed to know the right words to say here.
So it was better not to let the
issue come up.
Anyway, Master Obi-Wan was busy
right now. Maybe he would be angry later, after Master Tiin told him what
Anakin had done, but that was later. So Anakin would have some time to prepare
himself, to come up with the best possible apology. Masters liked apologies, as
long as you got them exactly right. And Master Obi-Wan was much easier to
apologize to than Master Tiin. Usually, he just told Anakin to meditate. That
wasn’t so bad. He could think about whatever he wanted, and no one would ever
know the difference.
So he would apologize to Master
Obi-Wan later. If he said just the right thing, maybe Master Obi-Wan would even
smooth things over with Master Tiin. He had last week.
The massive entry of the Temple
Archives loomed suddenly before him, and Anakin almost forgot about apologies. He
stopped and stared up at the towering door. He couldn’t help it. It was huge
and ancient and inside there was more knowledge than he’d ever imagined could
be in one place. And Master Obi-Wan had said he could go there whenever he had
free time. He didn’t even have to ask.
For @kaitymccoy123, after a rough day. I love you to bits, dear, and I think they lost out, not you. I hope this is decent (banged it out on lunch break, posting quickly. Probably riddled with errors). Also, it’s incredibly difficult to find a good AOS Scotty gif.
“I didn’t get it.”
“Ya what?” Monty’s nose crinkles in a way that you would normally
find adorable. As it is, the entire world seems dampened by the bitter disappointment
that snakes through your chest, and your answering smile is hollow.
“The job. I didn’t get it.” Despite your best efforts, you
feel your voice hitch a little on the words.
“The rat bastards,” he spits, dropping his spanner and
pulling you into his arms, heedless of the fact that you’re in the E deck
corridor for all to see. You smush your nose into the mesh fabric of his red
shirt and let him hold you tight.
“Shh, shh, shh, shh,” he murmurs, more an instinctive litany
of comfort than actual shushing. He rocks you gently back and forth, threading
agile fingers through your dark hair. His skin smells of bay rum aftershave and
something vaguely singed, and it crosses your mind to ask him, later, how the
refit is coming. He presses his lips to your temple and sighs heavily through
his nose. “The silly sods don’t know a good thing when they’ve got it.”
His words send hot tears prickling at the corners of your
eyes. Silly as it is, to cry feels a little like defeat, like one last punch in
the gut. You pull back, biting at your lip and swiping your face in frustration.
Monty catches your hands in his. “My heart,” he says softly,
reaching to thumb away the tear-tracks that stain your cheeks. “I know what I’ve
got right here.” His eyes are dark as he stares at you for a long moment, as if
memorizing your features. You can see, suddenly, that he shares your heartbreak. He
clasps his fingers around the nape of your neck, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead
and fluttering his eyes closed. “I have the very best thing, Kaity. I have you.”