Producer Jeff Bhasker faced a daunting task several months ago. After having worked with Kanye West and winning Grammy Awards for producing Mark Ronson’s “Uptown Funk,” and Fun.’s 2012 album “Some Nights,” he had to decide whether to take on a new project: the debut solo album of One Direction member Harry Styles.
“I’d just had a baby, and I was kind of like, ‘Eh, I don’t know if I’ll jump into this,‘” Bhasker tells Variety. He agreed to have Styles come over to “just talk,” and proceeded to put him through the Bhasker home sniff test. “My dog tends to bite people, and he was kind of scoping Harry out,” Bhasker explains. Styles “did this move — like a little shoot the gun with his finger, and my dog walked over and started licking his finger. That’s when I was, like, ‘This guy has something special.'”
Once music came into the mix, Bhasker was sold. “He started playing references of what he wanted to do, which sounded like a cool rock band. I got it, and could see where if we pulled this off, it would be one of the coolest things ever. But he needed a buddy who plays guitar like he’s Keith Richards.” The insinuation being: Styles is the Mick Jagger in this scenario.
Adds Bhasker: “I’m so proud of the album itself, and also of Harry for being so brave, and committing 100%, and writing the kind of vulnerable lyrics that he wrote, and not pandering to what people thought he would do. People have no idea that this is what Harry Styles is like. Just like I didn’t know. He’s obviously very famous and beloved, but people don’t know the depths of what an amazing personality and artist he is.”
Variety spoke with Bhasker about the recording of “Harry Styles” ahead of the album’s May 12 release:
On Tuesday, certain corners of Twitter devolved into a stream of
gallows humor, jokes about bunkers and apocalyptic memes about nuclear
Despite the dark source material, however, some experts say the
jokes are a healthy reaction to the news of the day.
Some experts say bleak humor can actually help assuage
anxiety and serve as a coping mechanism. It turns out that laughter,
even if it’s tinged with fear, really is the best medicine — at least up
to a point.
When there’s scary news and you can’t do anything
about it, “Continuing to … read the Twitter jokes about it, at some
point, after it relieves some of your anxiety, it will do the opposite —
making you more anxious again,” Dr. Susan Weinschenk, a behavioral scientist, said. Read more (8/9/17)
A sampling of some of the many, many universes in which Viktor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki didn’t somehow manage to avoid each other for TEN+ YEARS and are already happily married (Inspired in part by the musings of @kiaronna and @pearlo on this topic from this post):
In 2010, Viktor is leaving an Olympic after party because it has just more or less dissolved into an orgy and that’s not Really his scene. In this universe, he decides not to go back to his room and instead finds his way to an outdoor seating area, which is not very heavily utilized given the fact that it’s February. There is only one other person out there–an athlete with his back turned, curled up onto a bench. The lettering on his jacket says Japan. “Mind if I join?” he asks, and the other man turns to reveal dark hair and the deepest eyes Viktor has ever seen. “Oh,” he squeaks. “No. Go ahead.” They sit, and talk, and three hours later exchange phone numbers. Instead of going to America to train, Yuuri Katsuki goes to Russia to train under Yakov Feltsman. He takes National gold in 2011 and marries Viktor in 2012.
Phichit accidentally posts a video of Yuuri doing a bit of Viktor’s 2013 free skate to Instagram, instead of the hamster video he meant to post. The video makes its way through the figure skating grapevine until, obviously, reaching Viktor. Viktor immediately DM’s Phichit, begging to know who the man in the video is. Yuuri wakes up to six missed calls, 609 Instagram notifications, 49 texts and a DM from Viktor Nikiforov. “I WAS ASLEEP FOR AN HOUR,” he shrieks. Phichit takes complete credit for their marriage in his speech at their wedding less than a year later.
Through the careful and judicious saving of money for several years, and because in at least one timeline the main waterline in the onsen and the transmission on the family car don’t go kaput in the same year, Yuuri’s family is able to send him to one of Yakov Feltsman’s ice skating boot camps when he is fourteen years old. Viktor is there, all shining hair and huge smile and new celebrity. He has just placed at the Turin Olympics and is on his way to becoming a Russian household name, and Yuuri has been in love with him for two years already. “Yuuri!” Viktor coos across the ice, over the heads of the fifteen other skaters in the bootcamp. “Keep your hips even! It won’t make it so hard to turn into your Axel!” “Yuuri! Don’t hunch your shoulders on the spread eagle!” “Yuuri! Your thigh should be parallel to the ice on that sitspin!” “He’s incredibly skilled for his age,” Lilia tells Yakov in the back of the rink one day. “And Vitya has been behaving remarkably well, since he came here.” She fixes her eyes on Yakov, deep and determined. “He’ll be old enough to make his senior debut next year. If we groom him through his last year of juniors, he could bronze in his first GPF, or better. I want him, Yasha.” Yakov Feltsman is not in the habit of denying his wife those few things she asks of him. Yuuri Katsuki returns home after that bootcamp to pack his things and collect his dog and hug his parents goodbye. “I’ll take good care of him, Mr. and Mrs. Katsuki,” Viktor assures from a Skype call. “He’ll be getting the best training in the world. I even have a poodle, so Vicchan won’t be lonely during the day!” Hiroko and Toshiya just smile knowingly. Yuuri Katsuki is newly fifteen when he moves to Russia and begins sharing a condo with Viktor Nikiforov. He is sixteen when he wins his first GPF silver, and eighteen when the Vancouver Olympics roll around and he stands below his best friend on the podium and accepts silver for Japan as Viktor accepts gold. He is nineteen when, after five years of glances and touches and shared secrets and tears and laughter, Viktor pulls him into bed. “About time,” is the general consensus to that. They have only been dating, dating-dating, for five months when Viktor asks him to marry him. “I know it’s quick,” Viktor says, “but I feel like–I feel like we’ve known each other all our lives, anywa, so what’s the point in waiting?” Yuuri, of course, feels the same way.
Viktor makes a split-second decision to touch up his make-up before a press conference at the Trophee de France 2011, and as he’s patting the sweat marks off his temples hears the definite sound of someone crying. “Um,” he announces to the otherwise silence bathroom. “Are you okay?” “Yeah!” comes the answer, shrill. “I’m totally fine!” “You don’t sound fine,” Viktor says, and ducks his head to see which stall has feet under it. In the last stall, he sees a pair of badly-abused sneakers. He straightens up and knocks on the door. “I’ll leave you alone if you want me to, but I can–if you want, I can show you a better place to cry. Than here.” It takes a moment, but the door opens. The man in front of him has watery eyes and puffy red cheeks and Viktor isn’t sure he has ever found someone so beautiful. “Okay,” he whispers, and Viktor leads him onto the roof where instead of crying, he stares out over the skyline and tells Viktor about his home town. Viktor never does discover why Yuuri was crying, but he does get his phone number–and he does visit his hometown with him, a year later, to tell Yuuri’s family that they’ve decided to get married.
Yuuri is somehow convinced by Phichit to go out with a group after Skate America in 2013–Phichit is in his element, leading people around the city with expansive gestures and the effortless social confidence Yuuri has come to know of his best friend. “You’re from this city too, aren’t you?” asks someone at Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri turns from Phichit’s monologue to see Viktor Nikiforov of all people. Yuuri, distantly in the back of his mind, realizes that he didn’t see Viktor before because he is wearing a hat, scarf, and enormous sunglasses. “Um, not from here,” Yuuri says, trying not to squeak, “but I–we both live here, Phichit and I.” “But you know the city,” Viktor says, “so that means you would know a place where I can get the most disgustingly greasy food imaginable and you and I can go there and my coach never needs to know?” “Yes,” Yuuri says immediately, because he may be timid around most people, and especially around his idol, but he has more than enough sense to realize that His Time Has Come. “I can absolutely do that.” Yuuri takes Viktor to American Coney Island, where they eat loose burgers and chili fries and drink diet coke, which is the only cession to their diets. “Oh Yuuri,” Viktor laughs at the end of the night, a speck of chili cheese still at the corner of his mouth, “I could fall in love with a man like you.” And he does.
Celestino wins a radio lottery and receives tickets to Champions on Ice in Las Vegas–he decides to take Yuuri and a rinkmate. Yuuri’s rinkmate is nice, but he doesn’t know her very well, and he’s several years younger. She also has friends in Nevada who she wants to meet up with, and Yuuri doesn’t know anybody in the state for obvious reasons. On the first day they are there, Yuuri’s rinkmate disappears with her friends and Celestino takes his wife and goes exploring on the strip. Yuuri stays in his room and plays Pokemon and Skypes his mother. On the second day, Yuuri goes shopping for souvenirs for Yuuko and his family, and stares far too long at the billboard of Viktor Nikiforov’s face that is advertising the ice show. That night, he debates which of the three posters he brought with him he should bring to have Viktor sign, before deciding on none–the odds that he will meet Viktor Nikiforov tonight are practically not any higher than they were when the were on opposite sides of the world, and Celestino won’t want to wait in the long autograph lines. “Don’t you want an autograph, Yuuri?” Celestino asks after the show, and Yuuri thinks it’s nice of him even though they both know that the polite thing to do is say no. “No,” Yuuri says, staring at the long line, and continues out of the building. They branch off then–Celestino has dinner plans with his wife, and Yuuri’s rinkmate is meeting back up with her friends for some clubbing. Yuuri is walking back to the hotel when he bumps headlong into somebody’s solid chest. “Oh, sorry,” they say, and steady him with hands on his shoulders. Yuuri looks up and finds the same icey blue eyes frm that billboard yesterday staring back at him. “Oh,” Yuuri whispers, wide-eyed. “You’re–” “Shhh,” whispers Viktor Nikiforov, pressing a finger to his own lips. “Don’t give it away, I’m hiding. “VITYA,” someone from the alley leading back towards the ice center screams. “Come on,” Viktor laughs, and tugs Yuuri away by the hand. It’s the spring before Viktor will cut his hair, and it flies out behind him in a magnificent cascade as they run. They find their way into a club, where Viktor buys them drinks and laughs and laughs no matter what Yuuri is saying, and then drags him out onto the dance floor. Yuuri has not yet met Phichit Chulanont, who will drag him to pole dancing classes and teach him how to move his hips like a weapon, but he and Viktor get by in the crush of bodies, pushing against each other. “I think I love you,” Viktor breaths against his neck, and they’re both three sheets to the wind, but Viktor is Russian and Yuuri is a college student and their tolerance is astronomical. They aren’t even stumbling. “I know we only just met, but I think I love you.” “Then let’s get married,” Yuuri blurts before he can help it, and Viktor beams. “Yes!” he cries. “Yes, let’s do that!” It isn’t hard to find a place that will marry them–even though Viktor’s signature on the certificate looks more like a drawing of a tree, and even though Yuuri’s tie ends up around his forehead halfway through the ceremony. In the morning, Yuuri wakes up with the worst hangover of his life, fully-clothed next to Viktor Nikiforov, and says, “We can–this happens all the time, we can have it annulled.” Viktor stares down at the ring on his finger, tangled hair all over one shoulder. Yuuri realizes that he doesn’t even rememer where the rings came from. How much did they cost? “I would rather not, if that’s okay,” Viktor murmurs, and so they don’t. Yuuri carries out the rest of the year in Detroit, wearing the ring around his neck on a chain and thinking about his husband, half a world away, waiting for him.
So, I… was not expecting to open up the news tonight and feel like I’d been kicked in the stomach. I’d barely even thought about Linkin Park in years. They were my brief, embarrassing nu-metal mallgoth phase. They were everyone’s brief, embarrassing nu-metal mallgoth phase. Then they were the band even nu-metal posers made fun of. By that point 15-year-old me had plunged down the rabbit hole and discovered Rammstein, and the Smiths, and the Sisters of Mercy, and KMFDM, and I had so much awesome music to wallow in that I barely had time to feel self-conscious that I’d never really stopped loving Hybrid Theory. (Although I did, a little, because I was 15 and nothing was too stupid to feel self-conscious about.)
But holy fuck did I love that album. “Crawling” is the first music video I have any actual memory of seeing on TV. Linkin Park was the first rock concert I ever went to. (And fuck you, they were awesome.) I loved it for the exact reasons my entire age cohort found it embarrassing as soon as we were out of middle school. It’s a primal scream of rage and anguish, artfully bottled up and beautified, that manages to articulate a lot of the nuances of how people hurt each other and what it’s like to be hurt so badly you can barely hang on. Which means it had its finger squarely on the pulse of what it’s like to be 14. Stuck in a rat cage with a few hundred other rats, all of you hopped up to the gills on hormones, clumsily figuring out all the ways people can hurt each other, how and when to protect yourself, how to judge others’ behavior. And because people learning how to judge get awfully enthusiastic about it and nobody likes the primal anguish or the pants-on-head stupidity of their 14-year-old self, it didn’t take long for us to start finding Linkin Park embarrassing. Their angst is utterly sincere, and sincerity is uncomfortable. Especially when it reminds you of the utterly sincere, solipsistic, overblown, ridiculous angst over trivial shit that your adolescent hormones were pumping through your veins in middle school. Getting over yourself is healthy.
Coming back to listen when I’m pushing thirty, though, nothing on Hybrid Theory makes me think about my mid-teens melodrama. Some of it makes me think about friendships and relationships that turned into the kind of fucked-up shit that makes me want to grab my past self and shout “run while you can.” But most of it–speaking as a grown-ass adult here–most of it makes me think “holy shit, I want to find whoever did that to this kid and kick their ass six ways from Sunday.” It is so fucking unbelievably obvious in retrospect that none of the shit Chester Bennington is screaming about is something you just get over once you’ve grown up a little and escaped the shitheads you went to high school with.
Transmuting pain into art is a natural, almost universal impulse; doing it well is hard. Getting close enough to grab the beating heart of it, pulling it out to dissect it, ruthlessly rearranging it into something with structure and clarity, stepping back far enough to judge what you’ve made… the strange, disconcerting realization that you’ve turned it into something beautiful. Something that will appeal to other people, make them relate it back to their own pain even if it’s not the same. (Something vulnerable that can be criticized and judged and sneered at.) Maybe at first it’s for your own benefit, help you process and understand it, let out a bit of that primal scream… but let me tell you, the first time someone says “thank you” or “I needed this” or “you articulated what I couldn’t” or “this got me through a dark place”… that doesn’t just make it worth it, it humbles the shit out of you. And it makes you want to keep doing it forever. It turns the pain into shared understanding and an offer of comfort.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t make the pain go away.
Chester Bennington was really fucking good at transmuting his pain into art and offering it up with utter sincerity.
So RIP, dude. I don’t know the details of what you were going through, but you gave the world a pretty good glimpse of the broad outlines. And that glimpse got a lot of kids through adolescence, my dumb ass included; I can only imagine what it did for people who were going through the same stuff as you. Life may not be some fairy tale where turning your demons into art is always enough to save you from them, but I wish you’d made it. You saved a lot of other people. Whatever peace eluded you here, you deserve to find on the other side.
You woke up to the sound of your ringtone blaring into your ear. You huffed, screwing your eyes shut and hoping it would stop; it didn’t. Reaching out, you grabbed your phone and squinted at the bright screen, your eyes needing time to adjust.
You sighed through your nostrils, closing your eyes and ignoring the impending headache that you could already feel starting in your temples. You debated not answering, and the call ended. You nearly let a smile form on your lips, but your phone began to vibrate in your hand again, Jimin’s name popping up once again as the sound of your ringtone kept you from sleeping.
You know, in this town, an artist really needs a lot of space when they’re trying to create something special. A place to cultivate a world of their own, far away from the real world that’s around them. Luckily for me, I live right inside the middle of the “H” of the Hollywood sign. And this is how I spend most of my nights: perched high above the chaos that swirls within the city of angels below. Now don’t get me wrong, I love to dip my toe into the muck and the mires of the city every now and then, especially on Tuesdays. But truthfully, when I’m in the middle of making a record, especially now when the world is in the middle of such a tumultuous period, I find I really need to take the space for myself far away from real life, to consider what my contribution to the world should be in these dark times. So each morning, I have the luxury of asking myself, “What shall I cook up for the kids today? Something with a little spice? Something with a little bitterness but is ultimately sweet? Or shall I take the day off and turn down the fire, and just take a moment to send my love to them over the ether?” Because sometimes, just being pure of heart and having good intentions and letting them be known is the most worthy contribution an artist can make. So, even though these times can feel a little bit crazy, they’re not so very different from what other generations have experienced at one time or another before. Amidst all the uncertainty, and as we transition out of one era into another one, there’s no place I’d rather be than smack dab in the middle of “Hollyweird” making this record for you. Because you, and the music, and this place, are my love, my life, my lust for life.
Lana Del Rey announces her new record Lust for Life
like okay, you want a good example of a Uniquely Millennial Creepypasta type thing, watch Petscop
Petscop is a youtube series framed as a let’s play of a “lost PS1 game” that was never finished, about solving puzzles and collecting strange creatures
and the commentary on the videos is suitably understated, the creator never freaks out or screams or anything. he carries on like an incredibly casual twitch streamer playing some weird shit he found online would carry on. something weird happens, he goes “huh, i didn’t expect that,” and moves on.
it’s really good, it’s something distinctly of “our generation,” and it presents itself with both tact and self-awareness. it pokes fun at the sheer weirdness of early 3D games, something our generation understands super well, it pokes fun at these early 3D games being weirdly dark to the point that something like this “hidden game” wouldn’t even phase someone that grew up playing these games. oh, the game suddenly turned in to a cryptic horror-type game with weirdly disturbing themes? yeah ocarina of time did that too, so nobody is screaming or freaking out. it’s something people that grew up with these games would understand.
nobody does a meme, nobody does a funny scream, there’s no overt meme references, it’s all well-made and tonally consistent. it’s actually good.
Written for the following prompt: The house party me and my friends threw kinda escalated and after throwing out everyone I found this half naked person passed out in my bed but I can’t be bothered to wake them up now so I’m just gonna go to sleep and deal with it in the morning, they are kind of cute anyway AU
“Erica,” Derek says calmly—very calmly, he thinks, considering the situation. It’s two in the morning, he just trudged back from the library with a pounding headache behind his eyes, and he comes home to find their apartment the site of a raging house party, with drunk undergrads everywhere.
“Hey, Der,” she says, with that wide grin that only comes out when she’s had one drink too many.
“You didn’t tell me you were throwing a party,” he says, his jaw clenched, and she scoffs.
“This? This isn’t a party. This is a, uh, just a little get-together.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “It’s finals, for fuck’s sake. I’m going to bed, at least turn the fucking music down.”
He pushes through the crowd—accidentally hitting some of them with his backpack, oops—and finally seeks refuge in his room. The noise is dulled, blessedly, when he shuts the door behind him, and he exhales, letting his eyes fall shut. His momentary calm evaporates, however, when he opens eyes and notices the very important fact that someone is currently asleep in his bed, sprawled out on his stomach like he owns the place.
All Derek can see is broad bare shoulders, messy brown hair, and half of a mole-dotted face, pressed into the pillow and currently slack with sleep. Huh.
Derek sighs. He’s fucking exhausted, he doesn’t want to deal with babysitting some drunk kid right now, and he really doesn’t want him to wake up and then throw up in Derek’s bed or something.
Plus, the traitorous little voice in his head says, he’s really cute.
Derek shakes his head, irritated, as he drops his backpack on his desk chair. He strips down to his boxers and skips brushing his teeth—he’ll do it twice in the morning, and people are probably fucking the bathroom anyway, Jesus Christ.
Derek pulls back the comforter and gently slides into the bed, trying not to disrupt the mattress before he realizes that he’s being ridiculous. Why is he even considering a stranger’s comfort? It all seems for naught, anyway, because this kid apparently sleeps like the dead.
He takes a quick peek under the blankets, and at least the guy’s still wearing briefs, thank god. Derek doesn’t want to have to worry about accidentally sexually assaulting someone in his sleep.
He flops over onto his other side—thanks to the king size bed, his only grad school indulgence, there’s plenty of room—and closes his eyes. He’ll deal with this shit in the morning.
The text came in at 7:17am, and in the mean time, Stiles had made his way through four and a half breakdowns, all of them for different reasons.
Number One: Male werewolves could get pregnant, and tying into that:
Number Two: Derek had never found it relevant to their two year relationship to share this fun fact. That didn’t say much as to his thoughts on their future together, which stung.
Number Three: Stiles was going to be a father at twenty-four.
Number Four: Just the night before, with Derek in Argentina visiting Cora, Stiles ate a dinner of Cheetos, plain microwaved hotdogs wrapped in bread, and four beers before passing out on the couch with the tv remote in his hand. He was not ready to be a father.
Number Five (still ongoing, more or less halfway through): They were going to have to move because no amount of corner guards or stupid little outlet plugs could childproof the loft. The door to the kitchen was literally a jagged hole in a brick wall. Stiles caught his shins on it regularly, they were always a mess of scabs and bruises.
Actually his entire body was a mess of scabs and bruises, because that was his life now, had been since sophomore year: fighting off the forces of supernatural evil.
Too bad he couldn’t childproof his life.
Oh god, they were going to have to move out of Beacon Hills. Away from the pack.
Nothing was stable in Beacon Hills, it had been eight years of panic and anxiety and near deaths and actual deaths. They couldn’t bring a baby into their current lives, Stiles wouldn’t even bring an adult into this hellhole. Who was trained in firearms. With combat experience.
A/N: This is all written with love for fan fic. I’m teasing, not putting it down in any way. Hope you enjoy! (Sorry, tag list is closed!) XOXO
The motel door opens quietly and you hear Dean shuffle in, his footsteps easy to recognize. You don’t move, body too exhausted to even roll over in bed and say hi.
Sam has to know that Dean comes to your room every night now. Actually, Dean just goes straight in with you now more often than not, leaving Sam to himself. You’ve never discussed it, but you suspect that Sam’s silence on the matter of you and Dean is his thank you for finally having some privacy on a regular basis.
Either way, you aren’t remotely surprised that Dean is here. You listen to boots being kicked off, a gun being placed on the night stand, and clothes being shuffled off. He’s down to his boxers when he slides beneath the covers.
Check out the inspiration behind Harry’s home here!
As always, this miniseries is dedicated to @stylesunchained. Thank you for your screaming for no spoilers, my love. It wouldn’t be proper of me to not thank @chrissy22787 and @permanentcross for their continued support and also continued screaming over this story. Where would I be without you three?!
Let me know what you think! Happy reading.
After secluding himself for the better part of two days, Harry decided it was best to consult someone about his next move, if there was one at all. Nick was the only plausible option, as he was the one who introduced you to Harry, and he’d known you longer than Harry had. Much longer. He’d told Harry that he considered you to be one of his best friends, which shocked him a bit, considering Nick didn’t mention you all that much. But, plenty of time had passed since Harry was in London for an extended period. Nick was a magnet for friends, and he was allowed to make more without Harry around…
Requested with the prompt: ‘when your try to leave but they tug on your shirt because they want you to stay’
Peter had done it again. He had promised that he wouldn’t be late again. That he wouldn’t flake out on your plans, again. After the first couple of times it had happened you brushed it off, but now it was now the norm that Peter didn’t show up. And a miracle when he did.
After hours of waiting in your apartment for Peter to come through the door you had given up. You pushed all of the study notes and school books away from you as you moved away from the dining table. Glancing at your watch it was now just past half eight, about four hours since Peter was expected to be at your apartment. You could feel the anger boiling up inside of you, ready to explode at any minor thing. And you just begged to yourself that it wouldn’t be Peter to catch the brunt of it. So in an attempt to calm your bubbling emotions you stepped outside onto the fire escape, and allowed the fresh city air to try its best to wash away your emotions. But the longer you sat out on the fire escape the more your mind overanalysed everything Peter had done in the last month that had gotten on your nerves. You didn’t want to be doing this to yourself, but you knew that you were only doing this because Peter was your closest friend. He meant so much to you! And you just couldn’t understand why all of a sudden he didn’t seem to care about you anymore. Had you done something wrong? Had you said something? He would have told you. You would know if you had. It just didn’t make sense. You need the reassurance that everything was okay between the two of you. You couldn’t fathom losing Peter to something that must of been so minuscule for you to look over it.
Before you realised your body was taking you off the fire escape. Your feet guiding you to your room to grab your jacket. You were going to go to Peter’s apartment and see what was going on. In the back of your mind you really hoped that Peter wasn’t home, and that Aunt May would tell you he was still at that damn Stark Internship. You wanted to see what was going on with him but you were scared of what might happen, and what could be said.
You had made it to Peter’s apartment door. The adrenaline was wearing off and now you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Knocking on the door gently, you waited for either May or Peter to come to the door. It only took a couple of seconds before you were greeted by May’s smile.
“(Y/N)! I wasn’t expecting you! How lovely to see you again!” May smiled, opening her arms in front of her, engulfing you in a warm hug.
“I’m so sorry for just popping in like this. I didn’t even think of calling first.” You realised, following May over to the small dining table.
“Oh no, don’t worry about that! You’re always welcome here sweetheart.” May said reassuringly, “Peter’s just gotten home and is in his room, just go on through (Y/N). I’ve just got to run out and get something for dinner.” She continued, her warm hand placed on your back and nodding towards Peter’s bedroom. You thanked her quickly and headed towards Peter’s door. His door was cracked open slightly, but no sound was coming from the other side. You couldn’t make up your mind if you wanted to open the door slowly or just kick it open. You settled for the first. As the door opened you saw Peter sitting at his desk, his head placed in his hand in exhaustion. Your heart and mind softened slightly at the sight of him. He only moved slightly at the sound of his door closing completely. Turning his head slowly to have his brown eyes look at the source of noise. Shocked by seeing you in his room, he fumbled as he found his feet and stood up from the chair.
“What? What are you - why are you? (Y/N)? I um.. Oh I’m so sorry. I told you I wouldn’t - but I have. I’m so -” Peter rushed, his worlds tumbling over each other as he tried to form a sentence.
Clutching the plastic lunch tray she navigated her way through the crowded cafeteria and back to the lunch table. The stress from the first four periods of her day slowly melted away as she spotted her group of friends across the cafeteria, sitting at the same table they had since the start of their freshman year.
A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips as Lydia waved over to her. Picking up her pace, Y/N maneuvered her way through the crowds of people who were too engaged with their conversations with one another to pay any sort of attention to the small girl.
Castiel says it for the first time on the way to a hunt out east. They’re on a nondescript stretch of road somewhere between Illinois and Pennsylvania. It’s dark out—the middle of the night— and Sam’s passed out in the back.
It comes out of nowhere, really. Hours of silence, both of them in their own world, and then—
“I love you,” Castiel says. Quiet but sure.
Dean’s grip on the wheel tightens, and when he turns to look at Castiel, the angel looks resolute. Sad, almost.
“Just so you know.”
And Dean almost has to laugh. Just so you know. As if he didn’t already. As if it hasn’t kept him up at night, sick with longing.
As if it changed anything.
Dean takes a deep breath. Tries to push down the lump forming in his throat.
“Cas…” He meets Castiel’s eyes once again. The lights are playing across his face, and it takes everything Dean has not to reach for him. To draw him in by the back of his neck, to finally give in to this thing that’s been growing between them for years.
Instead, Dean says, “This is a bad idea.”
“I don’t understand.” There is a barely perceptible tremble in Castiel’s voice.
“Cas,” Dean says again. It comes out rough, and he clears his throat. Why is this so goddamn hard? “You know how I feel about you,” he manages.
“Yes. I suppose.”
“I want this to work, man. I want it so bad. You don’t— you have no idea.”
“Then why can’t it?”
“Because we don’t get to have things like that. Not in this life. This has never worked, no matter how much I want it to. No matter how much Sam wants it to. The people we care about end up dead.” He lets out a breath. “I can’t lose you.”
He looks at Castiel, but Castiel’s face is blank, his gaze fixed on the road in front of them.
“That’s no way to live,” Castiel says, finally, and the anger in his voice catches Dean by surprise. “You can’t go through life denying yourself of things because you’re afraid. Life is too short.” He turns to Dean, and there’s fire in his eyes. “You of all people should understand that.”
Dean’s chest feels tight.
“Do me a favor,” Castiel says, softer now. “Please.”
“Yeah?” Dean croaks.
“Try. Just try with me, Dean.”
And Dean turns to Castiel once more, meets his eyes, sees the hope there. Castiel reaches across the space between them, his palm up. An offering.
“Please,” he says again.
“Yeah,” Dean says, almost a whisper. He takes Castiel’s hand in his, their palms sliding easily together. “Okay.”
Castiel squeezes his hand, gentle, and Dean feels some of the pressure release from his chest. He nods, mostly to himself, directing his attention back to the road.