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dothwrites · 4 years

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Prompt for destiel where one of them saves the other from a calamity, au or canon/humans or human & angel, but they get severely hurt instead, and other gets to comfort them and help them heal, and they get to confess

---

It’s his fault.

That’s all Dean can think as he kneels on the grimy floor, slick with Cas’ blood. His fault.

He was the one who insisted on pressing forward with the hunt, who overrode Cas’ desires to wait. He should have listened. After all, it was just him and Cas, newly human and still a little fragile with it. He should have listened to Cas’ objections, should have listened to the little coil of unease in the pit of his stomach warning him that this was a bad idea, should have, should have, should have.

It should have only been one demon.

There had been more.

The demons had fought with brutal efficiency; within a few seconds, he and Castiel were separated from each other. From far away, Dean had heard the struggles, the snap of electricity that signaled a demon’s death and the grunts from Cas that accompanied the sick, wet sounds of fists striking flesh. At least Cas was still fighting. Dean was less than useless, caught in a chokehold that slowly obstructed his airway. His joints screamed in pain while black and red crowded at the edge of his vision.

“Dean Winchester.” His name was spoken in a sneer, contempt dripping from the lips of the leader of this little outfit. In a former life, her meatsuit must have been some kind of model--she was all lithe lines and sleek muscle and tall enough to look Dean in the eyes. Her eyes flashed black as her fingers gripped at his chin. Five bright pinpricks of pain blossomed across his cheeks as her nails dug in. Dean grunted, but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of crying out.

“You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? The whole world, open for the taking, room enough for everyone to spread out now that you killed the man upstairs, and you still couldn’t let us be.” A thin trickle of blood dribbled down Dean’s chin as her nails broke skin. “Well, you should have kept your nose out of it.”

She drew her hand back, silver glinting as she moved. All Dean saw was the wickedly sharp point of her angel blade. He remembered how it felt, skin and muscle splitting underneath the force of the blow, how easily the blade slid into his body. Looked like he was going to get to experience it again, except this time without the failsafe of the Mark to pull him out again.

“Dean! Dean!”

The blade started to plunge down and Dean closed his eyes. They hadn’t had enough time, him and Cas, and now he was leaving Cas to the rest of a mortal life, alone. I’m sorry, Dean thought, tensing in preparation for the inevitable blow. Cas, I’m so sorry...

The blow never hit. Instead, what hit was a dervish, a whirl of blows and snarls and yelps. Somewhere, in the mad scuffle, Dean recognized the shock of dark hair and the flash of Cas’ shirt. Seeing that gave him enough strength to break free of the hold. His own blade slipped into his hand and he plunged it into the gut of the demon who had been holding him.

He’d had just enough time to feel triumphant before he heard the low grunt of pain.

He’d known what it was, but he still turned around to confirm. His eyes landed on a nightmare.

A demon stood tall, blade in hand. Crimson liquid dripped slowly off of the tip of the blade to splash upon the ground. Though it was impossible, Dean would swear that he heard the impact of every drop. A sick, twisted grin spread across the demon’s face as they looked down.

Castiel staggered backward, hands clutching at his stomach. Already, a dark stain spread across his shirt. Horrified, Dean could only watch as Cas dropped down to one knee, before he finally collapsed to the ground.

Dean’s still not sure the exact sequence of events. He knows that he charged forward, a pained shout erupting from his throat. He knows that there’s a dead demon. He knows that his fumbling fingers managed to find his phone and call Sam, leaving bloody smears on the screen.

And he knows that Cas is dying.

“You stupid son of a bitch, why the hell did you do that?” He won’t cry, not here and not now, but he wants to. Cas moans lowly in pained protest as Dean drags him into his lap. He ignores the sticky warmth leaking into his jeans from the ragged wound in Cas’ stomach the same that he ignores Cas’ eyes squinting shut in agony. He’ll deal with those later, push through those nightmares when Cas isn’t gasping for air right in front of him. Dean lays his hand on Cas’ neck, fingers pressing down on his pulse point. It’s thready and rabbit-fast.

“You have to ask?”

“Dammit Cas.” Dean bends down low over Cas’ body, as if he could shield him from the rest of the world. Too little, too late. He’d screwed up and now Cas was paying the price, like always. “You know that I’m not worth it. You know it.”

“Dean.” Cas’ mouth moves like he wanted to say more, but all that comes out is a dribble of blood, leaking from the corner of his mouth. His hands grasp at Dean, but his grip is so weak that it slides off without ever making an impression. “Dean,” Cas manages to say, breathing in deep and forcing the single syllable of his name out with extreme effort. “I, I--”

“Don’t you say it,” Dean hisses, pressing down hard on Cas’ stomach. The sound of Cas’ agonized cry is enough to twist a knife in his heart, and the feel of warm blood gushing over his hand makes him sick to his stomach, but at least it forces Cas to stop talking.

“You’re not fucking dying on me,” Dean almost snarls, voice wobbling towards the end. “You hear me, Castiel? Not yet.”

Cas’ eyes close. He doesn’t respond.

---

Dean watches the skip and jump of the heart monitor and listens to the steady beats. Like a metronome, it counts the beats of Cas’ heart. Each rise and fall, each electronic beep soothes Dean’s rough edges, as it acts as a reminder. Cas is still here. He didn’t lose him.

Twenty-two stitches. That’s what it had taken to save him. That and some very good surgeons, some impossible luck, and a series of driving maneuvers delivered by one Sam Winchester. Dean would doubt that his brother was capable of such driving, if he hadn’t been in the back seat with him for the full duration.

They’d cut the margin of error so thinly that it was translucent. Minutes, the doctors had said, with the vague whiff of suspicion that came from bringing in a stabbing victim. If traffic had been heavier or if Sam hadn’t been driving quite so fast and furious on the Fury Road...Well, Dean would have another corpse on his hands to burn. Again.

Dean’s attention is caught by a low groan coming from the direction of the bed. Within seconds, he’s at Cas’ bedside so that he can see the exact moment that Cas’ eyes flutter open.

He’d been so angry earlier. Furious, that once again, Castiel saw fit to throw himself to the wolves, all for Dean’s sake. He’d been ready to give Cas an earful when he finally woke up (once they discovered that he was going to wake up). But seeing the hazy, pained look in Cas’ eyes vanish to be replaced with a slow, pleased smile erases all thoughts of rage from Dean’s brain. All it leaves him with is sweet, clear relief.

“Hey sleeping beauty.” Dean cards his fingers through Cas’ hair, as tentatively as though Cas were made of porcelain. “How are you feeling?”

Cas pauses to consider. “Numb,” he finally rasps. He glances to the side, where the IV stand drips down into various tubes connected to his body. “I assume that there’s a large amount of medication responsible for that?”

“Yeah, you’re getting the good stuff,” Dean says. He can’t stop touching Cas’ hair. It’s a little gross--Other than a few quick sponge-baths from the nurses, Cas hasn’t bathed and his hair has taken the brunt of that. It’s a little greasy, but Dean couldn’t care less about that. Not when Cas smiles up at him through a grizzled beard.

“Don’t be angry,” Castiel says. His fingers wrap weakly around Dean’s wrist. “I know that you’re probably furious with me.”

“Damn right I am. How many times do I have to tell you, I ain’t worth--”

“Stop.” Cas squeezes his wrist. His grip is pathetic enough that it forces Dean into silence more than if Cas had managed his usual bone-bruising force. “Nothing you say will ever convince me that you’re not worth saving. Nothing,” Cas says, as severe as his voice will allow. He strokes over the soft skin of Dean’s wrist. His eyes look at something faraway only he can see. “I sometimes think that I was created in order to keep you safe. Please don’t deny me that.”

And what can you say to that?

Dean lifts Cas’ knuckles to his face, brushing a gentle kiss over them. “Way to make a guy feel guilty, asshole.”

Cas smiles wanly. “Whatever it takes.” His voice turns thin and ragged around the edges. Dean knows that it’s not going to be long before he slips back into sleep.

“But you have to try and stay around.” Dean takes in a deep breath. The words sit on his tongue, ready to taste freedom. “It’s not fair to make me go through this without you. I love you, dumbass, and if you go off and get yourself killed just because you were trying to save me then I’m going to be really pissed at you.”

They haven’t said it. They’ve kissed, they’ve fucked, hell sometimes they’ve even done what Sam would probably call making love. They live together and they’ve died for the other. But they’ve never said the words. Dean had been convinced that he never would. Cas knew. That was enough for him. Everything else was window dressing.

But there in the backseat, with Cas’ limp and bleeding body pressed against him, forced to listen to Cas’ pained wheezes, and his hand pressed against Cas’ stomach trying to keep Cas’ blood inside, Dean had been overcome by only thought.

Cas is going to die and I never told him.

The thought that Cas could die without knowing exactly how much he’s adored has kept Dean awake for several nights.

Cas’ eyes are wide as his fingers clench reflexively around Dean’s wrist. “Dean,” he finally gets out. He blinks quickly, obviously fighting against impending sleep. “Dean, I--”

“Yeah. I know.” Dean brushes Cas’ hair off of his forehead and leans down to press a kiss against the clammy skin. “Go to sleep.”

“You’ll be here? When I wake up?” Cas’ voice is already slurred, sleep wrapping around him and tugging him deep into oblivion.

Dean settles onto the edge of Cas’ bed, unwilling to release his hold on Cas until he absolutely has to. Cas murmurs happily, nonsense words that trail off into silence.

Dean runs his finger down Cas’ cheek, bristly and unshaven. It’s warm to the touch. When he pulls away, Cas almost follows after him, squirming in his sleep until Dean takes his hand in his and laces their fingers together. Only then does Cas subside into peace.

“Yeah Cas,” Dean says, despite the fact that Cas can’t appreciate his words. “Yeah, I’ll be here.

---

#destiel #destiel fic #destiel fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #canon!verse #angst #happy ending #dothwrites

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grimweaver · 4 years

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~*~

Lucien leaned back again and closed his eyes as he sipped his tea, with a hum going out with a long and low exhale through his nostrils. After some time of wrapping his head around this revelation, within the uncomfortable silence that fell between us, his eyes shot open and stared up at me over the rim of his cup, ablaze and sharp with anticipation for a further explanation.

I wet my lips and heaved out the rest:

“On the 16th of Sun’s Dawn, Year 409, father attended a Hearts Day Celebration at Castle Cheydinhal. It had been seven years since we lost mother to an untimely death— from a respiratory illness that she had developed as a consequence of prolonged confinement in the coal mines of Eastmarch during a Fighters Guild quest. Being a widow and single father for that long was beginning to weigh his spirits down, so he went with the innocent intention of finding someone who would make a good wife and mother. All was well and promising for a while, but it took a horrible turn near the end. While he was in the library, conversing with the countess, he blacked out. For a time, the only thing he could recall happening after that was waking up in one of the guest rooms… lying next to the still sleeping Llathasa.”

Lucien responded with another low, growling noise into his tea as he sipped it again.

“After a great deal of agonizing and trying to figure out how the hell it all happened, father left for home that very morning. During the trip back, he started to remember some things that happened between the library and waking up— that he was overcome by what he called a ‘waking dream’—though fully conscious, all reason and fear of consequences left him, responding only to his… um… attraction to Llathasa. It became clear to him that, during this event, someone must’ve slipped something into one of the wine barrels that altered the minds of all who consumed it—Sanguine mischief most likely, since that prince of sexual deviousness has his goons cause chaos of that nature on Hearts Day every year.”

“Sounds like a logical conclusion to me,” he heaved, sitting up straight to eat from his plate with the usual aristocratic grace. His brow sank over his puzzled eyes. “Where was Andel all that time?”

“I have no idea. Obviously, wherever he was, it was not where he could’ve intervened or discovered them together. Anyway… I’m sure you’ve done the math in your head already, but that was roughly nine months before Farwil was born. During that time, father avoided Castle Cheydinhal out of fear and guilt, but was compelled to return when we received the ‘exciting’ announcement that Lady Llathasa was finally with child, and that we were invited to stay in the castle to be a part of the celebration of his birth. Knowing that he was the real father of the child, he insisted on being there, no matter how awkward it was going to be for him or Llathasa. It was his son.”

“I understand the compulsion, but if I were in his boots I would not’ve brought my children with me. What if Andel knew and had his guards ready to ambush and send him to the executioner’s block?”

“He was assured that he didn’t. Llathasa included a secret message in the invitation that was sent out to him. It said: ‘He’s your son. Andel doesn’t know’.”

“Hmm… and how did you come to know all of this?”

“I overheard a conversation between him and my eldest sister, Ruthandra. It was on the evening we returned from one of our visits with the Indarys family. Thirst woke me up, and as I went downstairs to fetch water from the well, I was stopped by their voices; there was a tension in them that piqued my interest, so I stopped and listened carefully as he spilled it all out. I was old enough to put a few pieces of the conversation that I heard together and understand that he had fathered Farwil.” I stopped to soothe my dry and tightened throat with more tea. “I remember just sitting there at the bottom of the stairs and staring out the window of the back door, just trying to comprehend what I had just heard. By the time I had realized father was about to walk right past me, on his way to his bedroom, it was too late to scamper up the stairs unnoticed. When he inquired about why I was up so late, I told him it was for water and admitted that I had overheard what he told Ruthandra. He wasn’t happy about it, but he answered me truthfully when I asked if Farwil is our little brother—leaving out explicit details, of course. He told me that Andel should never suffer the knowledge of the truth, so that he may remain until his last breath in blissful belief that his wife had bedded with no other man and Farwil is his flesh-and-blood son. He made me promise to keep it a family secret, and I have for over twenty years. You’re the first person I’ve shared this with.” I reached down to grab more snacks from the plate, but it was completely empty— I had been absently munching on them throughout the whole story. Catching my breath after exhausting my voice, I just went quiet for a while and waited for him to reply.

“Malkhai,” he said, looking directly into my eyes with deep sincerity. “I promise that this secret will be safe with me. And… don’t you fret any about breaking the promise to your father. It’s like you said—it is a family secret. You and I are family.”

I smiled weakly. “I wish I could say it makes me feel better. But there are still anxious thoughts about Andel—he’s never confronted me about it but… it’s so obvious that he at least knows that Farwil was fathered by someone else. My theory is that, before understanding the situation, he performed the Black Sacrament to have a Llathasa’s accident staged by a Dark Brotherhood assassin, which is why he is now bound to a lifelong obligation to us.” I leaned forward and looked directly into his eyes. “Would I be correct... Lucien ?”

The corner of his mouth stretched into a sinister grin as he narrowed his eyes and chuckled, “It would certainly seem to be the case, wouldn’t it?” He laced his fingers together over his wide, toothy smile as he chuckled again, “As much as I would like to take credit for that work, I must be honest and say that I was not involved in her death… none of our Brothers or Sisters were, in fact.”

“But… then for whom did Andel perform the Black Sacrament?”

“A political rival, and that’s all I’m going to say.” Lucien’s brow sank again, struck by the memory of what was said back in Taneth. “Hmmm… but I do wonder… thinking back on what Farwil said about Llathasa lamenting at the chapel… if it was all an accident, why would she say she had ‘hurt a friend in a way she feared can never be forgiven’?”

“That confuses me too,” I said. “At this point, the only way we’ll ever know is if I unearth more of those private letters or father can explain it himself… if I ever find him.” A sudden dreadful thought entered my mind, twisting knots in my chest. With much reluctance, I asked Lucien “Please tell me… did the Dark Brotherhood make my father disappear?”

Lucien shook his head immediately, looking straight into my eyes again as he said “I swear to all the Powers of the Void, we were not involved in his disappearance either.”

“Oh good!!” I breathed out with a sigh of relief. “Because that would’ve made things even more complicated than they already are.” I pondered a little while, scratching my chin. “Still, it doesn’t rule out the possibility of Andel’s involvement.” I grinned, then flirtatiously folded my arms under my chest and leaned inward. “Gee… I sure wish I knew someone who could do some thorough, investigative work in the castle to find any clues that would either confirm or deny that theory. I’ll be sure to make it worth the effort and risk, once I am in a... position to do so.”

"Considering what he'll risk," Lucien replied, taking in a deep breath and hiding a bashful grin behind his cup as he sipped more tea. “That someone would have to consult his superior first, I'm sure… but this matter must be set aside for now. We need to keep our focus on our current task.”

“Right… which means that we need to get adequate sleep soon,” I looked over at the large bed in the corner, through the protective rail made with scrapped Ayleid doors, torturing myself with a vision of us between those silky red sheets.

“Yes. I suppose, since it's already well past midnight, I'll have to let you go back to the guildhall.” Lucien replied. He then followed my gaze and read the longing in it well, then said with an aggravated sigh, “You know how much I wish I could ask you to stay.”

“I do, but I know why you cannot. But... as much as I disagree with the reasoning, I will respect it.”

“Thank you. I can’t say that I don’t share your frustration, but you need to understand the Listener’s restrictions as a necessary measure. In the past, our enemies have gone as far as marrying a member of the Black Hand in order to infiltrate the organization, and have done so successfully multiple times. Also, there is the concern of a relationship opening the doors of favoritism and manipulation. The Listener needs to know that it is through your own talents and skills that you have achieved high ranks and rewards, not because I gave you an unfair advantage.”

“The marriage part I understand just fine, but not even being allowed to... “ I shook my head and grumbled. “I’m sorry, but I think that’s insane.”

Lucien heaved a heavy, gravely breath as he shot me a warning glare.

"And... um... I'm just going to stop there... before I say anything else I'll probably regret," I said, averting my eyes as I stood up.

“Wise decision.” He replied, rising also and fetching my bag and cowl for me.

“So... um… what are you going to tell the Listener if he asks you why you chose me to play the student?” I asked him.

“The truth, of course: you’re strong enough to bear the weight of all those metal pieces, and you’re the only one that possesses the right... hmm… aesthetic qualities .” He answered—heaving a gravely, longing breath. I could almost feel his touch as he eyed me up and down, and it sent another fiery wave through my body.

We then departed the way we had greeted— with some uneasiness, he slowly closed the short distance between us and placed his hands upon my shoulders. This time the kisses he gave each cheek were a little longer, and he couldn’t resist taking the perfume in again as he kissed the left check. He tilted his head slightly to the right, almost giving into the temptation to kiss my lips. With his mouth only a couple inches away from mine, he half-whispered: “Rest well, Malkhai .”

“You too, Lucien ,” I replied with a slightly trembling voice.

LaChance opened the door and bowed his head as I left through it, putting the cowl back on and pulling the handle of the bag over my shoulder. I turned around for one last exchange of smiles, without a further word, and exited the apartment building.

The streets were still crowded, but since the vendors were closed there was less resistance in the straight path from Sisters of the Sands to the Mages Guildhall— I just had to be extra mindful of my steps because of all the garbage and pools of drunkard heaves on the ground. As unpleasant as it was, I would take waste hazard maze over the uncomfortable situation that awaited me at the guildhall. Even if he had declared that he had no authority over me, arousing Farwil’s anger could have terrible consequences for everyone else.

The tension inside cooled when it seemed like everyone had retired to their respective sleeping quarters and were well into their sleep. But, no more than a few seconds after ease washed over me, I heard a voice growl from the black shadows of the wide hallway: “Where the hell have you been??”

End of Part XIII

#lucien lachance #tes oblivion #elder scrolls stories #the dark brotherhood

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breeeliss · 7 years

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[Femslash February]: Asleep

lol that it’s only day 2 and im already late with this >.>

Day 2: Asleep (Chlonette)

Words: 2133

Link to Archive of Our Own: [AO3]

[Previous: Snow] [Next: Rescue]

The first time Chloe stayed after school to study in the library, she found Marinette sleeping over her books at a study table near the windows.

Lycée turned out to be a lot harder than Chloe had thought, and trying to keep up with all of her homework without getting frustrated and forgoing it completely was almost impossible. It led to her bringing in half-finished homework assignments or not bringing in any assignments at all since it happened that Sabrina wasn’t in any of her classes this year. Her teachers packed her up with review sheets and extra homework every single day, and she had to use the hour study sessions at the end of every day to finish up all her work before she went home. It was absolutely deplorable stuff, but even her father was putting his foot down about it, which meant she really had no choice this time around.

She was dragging her feet to the library and looking for a seat when she found Marinette at a study table all by herself.

Chloe raised a brow. She didn’t really see Marinette much anymore. They were on completely different bac tracks and they were in completely different classes for any subjects they did share. She did occasionally see Marinette in the halls as they walked to their respective classes, but putting in the energy to mess with her was a lot harder now. It wasn’t the same now that they barely saw each other.

But, apparently Marinette also stayed for the study blocks after school. And apparently she wasn’t faring too well.

Chloe put her books on a chair two down from where Marinette was sitting. She was passed out on top of her tablet, and her right hand was still clutching the pen she was using to mark up the book they must have been reading for her French Literature class. Chloe reached over to check the page they were on and realized that Marinette was almost as far behind in the book as Chloe was.

Huh. And she always thought that Marinette was a studious little thing.

If Marinette was here, it was probably because she needed to be, and Chloe had far too much studying to get done to even bother with being petty. She poked Marinette in the forehead until she jerked up in her chair and rubbed at the cheek that was pressed against her tablet. She turned her head and groggily blinked up at Chloe. “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you probably,” Chloe replied. She shoved Marinette’s book closer to her. “Come on. I don’t need your snoring distracting me.”

Marinette glared weakly, but other than that she didn’t really rise to the flimsy bait Chloe set up. They both buckled down to work for about an hour, and Chloe left only a couple of minutes after Marinette did. It was the longest they’d ever been in such close proximity to each other without causing a fight. Maybe her father was right and lycée really did make young ladies out of little girls. That or fighting with Marinette really did get old after a while. Especially when school work wasn’t a joke anymore.

Chloe was having lunch with Sabrina the next day and told her that she saw Dupain-Cheng for the first time since classes started.

“During the study block?” Sabrina asked.

“Yeah. Working on Literature homework or whatever. Aren’t you in that class with her?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it was that bad.”

Chloe frowned. “Didn’t think what was that bad?”

Sabrina shrugged. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but she misses a lot of classes. Comes in late a lot. Falls asleep during lessons. Hands in things late or doesn’t hand them in at all. She looks exhausted most of the time, so I guess she’s been falling behind.”

They dropped the subject -- Chloe didn’t want to appear too interested -- but she sort of remembered Adrien telling her something about him having a hard time keeping up with his class schedule. He was always missing classes and coming in late and forgetting assignments too. But Adrien had tutors that filled in the gaps pretty well, so it didn’t seem as if his work or his grades were suffering too much. Plus he had a far better attention span and work ethic than Chloe did, bless his heart.

But Marinette didn’t have tutors to catch her up. She was probably using the study blocks to catch up on extra and missed assignments too, and even then she couldn’t stay awake.

They saw each other but did not speak to each other after school for that entire week as they struggled to catch up, and Chloe couldn’t help but feel a little bad for her. Chloe was behind because she couldn’t be bothered to do work half the time. Marinette look like she was sprinting to catch up and falling behind every day. She wondered why on Earth that was, but they weren’t nearly close enough for Chloe to just ask.

One day, after three akuma attacks that interrupted the flow of the entire day, Chloe found Marinette passed out on the tables again, this time over her writing homework.

She was starting to suspect that she was a narcoleptic or something. Didn’t she sleep at night like everyone else? What did she do with all the time she wasn’t at school?

Chloe peeked over at Marinette’s work again, and recognized the assignment as one Sabrina had been working on close to a week ago. She sighed and cursed at herself, doing a quick calculation of how much she was going to regret this.

She smacked Marinette in the arm and jostled her a couple of times before Marinette woke up again. Marinette looked like she was going to say something, but Chloe promptly cut her off and said, “Come.”

“What?” Marinette blinked.

“Darling, you’re a week behind on your work, and you’re practically drooling on what little you do have written down. So come on before I change my mind.”

Marinette hesitated in her seat for a moment, so Chloe merely shrugged and headed for the exit to the library. She was rounding the corner when she heard a chair scrape and Marinette running to catch up with her. “Where are we going?”

“Coffee. I need it, and god knows you should probably hook an IV of it up to your arm at this point.”

Marinette snorted and Chloe barely caught sight of the dark circles under Marinette’s eyes. “I don’t need coffee, Chloe.”

“You need it like you need a smack in the face. Maybe then you’ll stop sounding so stupid. Hurry up, before they notice we’re gone.”

Chloe bought two cups of the strongest brew they had, only adding enough cream to it to make it drinkable. Marinette looked like she was going to put up a fight about not paying for her own drink, but Chloe held up a hand and silenced her protesting while she handed off her credit card.

“You should also do something about those bags under your eyes,” Chloe told her as they snuck the coffee back into the library. “Get some concealer. Better yet, have a facial night and get some sleep. You look an absolute fright.”

Marinette didn’t even take any of that as an insult. Instead she nodded along and took a huge gulp of her coffee before she sat back down to work. Chloe bit her lip and opened up her own books. Nope. She wasn’t going to care. Marinette wasn’t her business, and she didn’t like Marinette. This was as far as her kindness would go.

Of course, during lunch the next day, Sabrina handed Chloe a box from the Dupain-Cheng bakery filled with fruit tarts that had a note affixed to the top. Thanks for the coffee. -Marinette.

She saw Marinette after school that day, wearing some concealer under her eyes, and looking a little fresher faced than she did the day before. She greeted Chloe quietly, and passed her a cup of coffee. “The mask and the makeup was good advice,” she told her.

Chloe blinked as Marinette dared to offer her a smile before she put her headphones in and started scribbling on her tablet.

She couldn’t remember the last time Marinette smiled at her without it looking sarcastic or like she was desperately waiting to tell her off. It was....interesting. And different. And probably due to the stress and lack of sleep. Although, Chloe found she didn’t much care what it was or why she did it.

Because a tired Marinette wasn’t a Marinette that Chloe enjoyed seeing. Marinette was always doing something, talking to someone, screaming and being melodramatic over something, and being a star in literally everything. It was abysmally annoying, but it was more troubling to see her not be any of those things. If lycée was going to turn around and throw Chloe for this much of a whirl, she was at the very least going to make sure that the one thorn in her side didn’t go around and change either.

They settled into a routine of trading off between buying each other coffee every week. Sometimes, Marinette would bring more pastry boxes from home filled with sweets that would keep their attention up, which Chloe heavily appreciated. At first, they were used to just working in silence, but they eventually worked up to the point where Marinette would show her something silly she read in her Literature book or Chloe would complain over the unclear directions her teacher gave while Marinette tried to decode it for her. Sometimes, if Chloe was really feeling nice or hating the sight of Marinette agonizing over an assignment, she’d switch papers with her if it was a subject she was good at. Chloe was a lot quicker with Marinette’s Literature assignments, and Marinette always made quick work of the short paragraphs Chloe had to write for history. It tended to get them out of the library much faster.

They were three weeks in, and the two of them were, dare Chloe say it, actually civil with each other.

“Why doesn’t Alya come study with you?” Chloe asked during a short break. “Or anyone else for that matter?”

Marinette shook her head. “She babysits her sisters after school. Plus she helps her mom around the house. She doesn’t have the time, and I’m not going to ask her to sacrifice all that for me. I don’t want anyone to have to suffer through helping me when it’s my fault I’m behind. Besides, you’ll work in a pinch,” she smirked.”

Chloe stuck her tongue out. “Gee, thanks you brat. Why are you always so exhausted all the time? Beauty sleep is a thing, you know.”

“Busy month,” she said vaguely. “Lots going on at home. And other things...”

Marinette wasn’t offering much information, so Chloe didn’t feel the need to be nosy. “Well, at least you’re all caught up now. But, lord, sleep why don’t you. You look like a damn ghost. You’re a pretty girl. You shouldn’t look that exhausted.”

“Thanks I guess,” Marinette said.

“I’m serious,” Chloe said. “Asking for help is a thing. If you’re just going to keep running yourself ragged by keeping to yourself, you’re dumber than I thought.”

It came out coarser than she thought, but Marinette seemed to have picked the sincerity out of it. “I guess you’re right.” She nudged her ankle against Chloe’s. “But if I promise to start asking for help, you have to promise to work on staying focused.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you’re smart,” Marinette said. “You’re behind because you get bored quickly, not because you’re not smart enough to do this stuff. You just have to find ways to keep you motivated. Keep your attention going. Then you’ll be golden.”

Chloe hummed. “Makes sense....”

“How about this?” Marinette offered. “We’re stuck in these blocks for the next month anyway. You kick my ass and make me sleep and ask for help, and I’ll kick your ass and motivate you to focus on your work.”

“The minute you said “kick your ass” you had me,” Chloe smirked.

And Marinette actually laughed -- a bright, light-hearted laughter that Chloe didn’t think she’d heard in ages. It sounded foreign and refreshing all at once, and she vaguely realized that she was the one to cause it.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Marinette grinned, bringing her coffee cup up for a toast.

Chloe rolled her eyes, but knocked her cup against Marinette’s before taking a huge sip.

She was sure it wasn’t going to take much effort to get used to this.

#miraculous ladybug #chlonette #chloenette #chloe bourgeois #marinette dupain-cheng #chlonette fanfiction #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #my writing #femslash february 2017 #femslash february chlonette edition #asleep

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hrk4 · 6 years

Text

The year that was...

Dear Friends:

Season’s Greetings!

Standing between the two armies eager for battle, Krishna’s exhortation to his friend in dismay was, in essence, this: Why do you hesitate to do what is most natural to you? Why are you so afraid to be yourself? Why are you combating your own temperament, making a mockery of your hard-earned proficiency, and behaving in a manner singularly ill-suited to what you hold dear? Arjuna’s despondency was a consequence of his own sentimentality and hence Krishna inspires him to return to himself, reminding him constantly of his true nature as a warrior. A twenty-first century Krishna would have most certainly appended a proviso to his famous utterance – “Try to excel in the work and path aligned to your nature, even if it is flawed or less glamorous. It is better than following the way of others. You will never feel guilty if you follow your inherent nature.” In that rider, he might well have illustrated the various machinations of society that detracts from the individual the opportunity to stay true to the Self. At every turn in the road of life, people—even with the noblest of intentions—await the slightest of chances to misguide the traveller, gently nudging him away from the inner path. He is expected to tread the beaten track; he is directed to follow the well-known route.

For someone who has relentlessly strayed from the banal passageways leading to predictable endpoints, I faced a profusion of advice and admonition this year from family and friends, badgering me to recognize, nay embrace, the multi-hued, dazzling avenues that would lead me to some goal or achievement or outcome of their choice, which in turn would be hailed by the people of the world as something that perhaps justifies my existence. I’m glad to place on record that all such attempts have failed miserably and I continue to be myself, treading the inward path wholly aligned to my nature. What is particularly memorable is that I did not react to the advice and admonition with anger or arrogance (I must admit that at times I was tempted to flash the middle finger but such murderous thoughts didn’t last long); instead, I quietly accepted it as a gift that is useless to me but given with warmth nevertheless. I smiled at them, not condescendingly, nor artlessly, but with the awareness that nobody is in a better position than I am to evaluate my mind, and therefore any such attempt is bound to fall short – at least in my eyes. Of course, the dark side of this whole business is that my instincts have driven me—often unconsciously—to be more careful around such people – the unsolicited advisors and admonishers; this has translated into the unfortunate measuring of utterances and the calculation of gestures – clearly a deviation from the natural flow of the self. Therefore the informal tête-à-têtes with such people are bound to decline albeit gradually and in not-so-obvious ways.

In my view, friends are those exceptional individuals with whom you can be yourself, in addition to the unmistakable emotional connection. This is both a function of the attitude of the friends—whether they continually judge you or not—and of your own preoccupation with what the world is thinking of you. The less they judge you and the less you agonize over what others’ think, the more comfortable the relationship. As a silent witness I observed some of my close friends moving far away from me and some of my casual acquaintances moving closer, becoming friends. Through this transitory phase, I tried to remain calm and accept the changing reality, which is inevitable. In such instances, I find solace in recollecting memories with old friends of mine whom I hardly get to meet but every time I do, we start from where we left off, even if that was months or years ago.

When I sat down to gather my thoughts on what the year 2017 has meant to me, more than what my ‘achievements’ were, or even what my ‘learning’ was, my mind was forcibly drawn towards where I stand as an individual; my focus was primarily on how I transformed through the course of these twelve months. ‘Achievements’ implies ego; ‘learning’ suggests an unfinished process; but ‘transformed’ connotes a newer, perhaps better, state of being that has already been effected. That said, to record some of the completed tasks and learnt lessons might be valuable for future improvements, and hence I have found it appropriate to archive them here.

My activities in 2017 were largely confined to the following domains: i. Writing, ii. Music, iii. Research, iv. Design, v. Publishing, and vi. Monkey Business (what my friends at Infy would call ‘इत्यादि-इत्यादि’).

I. I wrote some articles/essays and did a fair bit of translation/editing for Prekshaa Journal as well as for my upcoming books. Apart from having two short stories published (in Indian Review and Cha), I also spent some time writing a detailed outline of my first novel. I taught two courses at Bangalore Writers Workshop and was also a judge at the annual Deccan Herald short story competition. (Lesson learned: Working without constant expectations is both pleasurable and profitable; fretting over deadlines and unfinished projects is counterproductive.)

II. I formally dived into the amateur circuit of Carnatic classical music with an hour-long solo violin concert at Chowdiah Memorial Hall in November. Earlier in the year, I played a couple of chamber concerts. (Lesson learned: If playing in your room is tiring and playing in front of your guru is sweat-inducing, playing in front of an audience is in a different league altogether.)

III. This has mostly involved reading some of the important texts of the Hindu tradition, both primary and secondary sources. This has also meant my taking baby steps into the worlds of Sanskrit poetry, ancient Indian polity and law, history, Kannada literature, and the Epics.

IV. I designed close to fifteen books and four album covers, the highlight being the Prekshaa calendar. I also explored a bit in the area of Indic fonts and hopefully will have a breakthrough soon.

V. For all practical purposes, I didn’t write any book in 2017; I only published books (through W.I.S.E. Words Inc., the Indie publishing setup I run along with Dr. Koti Sreekrishna); eight in all: Stories Behind Verses (by Arjun Bharadwaj and Shashi Kiran B N; in collaboration with Prekshaa Pratishtana), பகவத்கீதை தற்காலத் தமிழில் (by Sripriya Srinivasan), The Song in Pictures (in association with my photographer-friends Anirudh, Anshuman, Divya, Frank, Navneeth, Prathigna, and Skanda), and five anthologies of essays by Prof. M Hiriyanna (a republication of otherwise unavailable classics).

VI. Apart from getting addicted to cryptic crosswords and card magic, I did some voice-acting on stage and voice-over work in the studio. Two short videos produced for Shaale stand testimony to what they’re worth. I signed out of Twitter and LinkedIn. I also spent a few extra hours sorting out my finances. Plus, I started cooking regularly. (Lesson learned: Without all this monkey business, my life will be meaningless.)

It is impossible to write down all the wonderful things I learnt in 2017 but it might be instructive—to my future self, if not anyone else—to document some learnings from my gurus as well as the wonderful artists I had the good fortune of meeting this year:

A. Ever since I was getting ready to perform on stage, my guru Dr. L Subramaniam has been consistently pushing me to improve my art; his focus has entirely shifted from the technical aspect of violin-playing (which was the mainstay during the early years of my lessons with him) and moved to the aesthetic and emotional aspects of music. To give life to every note, to add emotion to every phrase, and to make every performance unique has been his refrain. LS sir has often said: Even if you play for five minutes, it should be something sublime.

B. My entry into Sanskrit poetry and literature has been a direct result of the single-minded prodding, encouragement, and support given to me by Śatāvadhāni Dr. R Ganesh. His emphasis on the importance of familiarity with Sanskrit literature and classical art forms of India—particularly dance—for any student of Indian culture has influenced me deeply. Time and again I have felt that any student of Hindu heritage will benefit by embracing the holistic approach as advocated by Dr. Ganesh as opposed to the numerous other approaches, far more seductive in appeal but piecemeal all the same.

C. Dr. S L Bhyrappa made the astute observation that as a novelist and philosopher, instead of getting affected by a certain individual’s actions (often antagonistic in nature), he tends to go deeper into the psyche of that individual—regarding him/her as a character in a story—and analyzes the more fundamental reason that makes him/her behave in the said manner. In another instance, when Dr. Ganesh asked him during an interview, “What in your opinion keeps a relationship going? What truly sustains love?” he replied with a single word: Mārdava (tenderness, gentleness, compassion).

D. Every visit to Dr. S R Ramaswamy’s office room—rather karmabhūmi—in Chamarajpet is equivalent to reading a pile of books; he teaches us so much, not only by his eloquent speech but also by the force of his personality. When a friend of mine inquired about his fragile health condition, he merely said, “From my twentieth year, I realized that I’m just an āgantuka (stranger, guest, visitor) here in this world.” One seldom finds that sort of awareness—not merely in word, but in action as well. The wonderful paradox in SRR’s worldview is that although he feels like a visitor, he toils with the gusto of a landowner!

E. I have learnt so much just by observing Prof. L V Shanthakumari, an epitome of tranquillity. It baffles me how a person can transcend such pain and yet not make any bones about it. Her presence itself is calming and reassuring but not without a healthy dose of humour and wide-ranging discussion. If only our society had more elderly sages like her.

F. During a conversation I had with Mantap Prabhakar Upadhya, he spoke a great deal about the mind of an artiste during performance. He underscored the importance of art leading to self-forgetfulness; unless the artist can become one with the art, the connoisseurs will not get the ultimate experience. He then told me that when he dances, he doesn’t do it for the applause or for appreciation but as a means of washing off his ego.

G. In my interactions with Nirupama and Rajendra, I found unmatched zest for innovation and a relentless pursuit of self-betterment, not just as dancers but also as human beings. I am reminded of an old saying—One can accomplish almost anything for which one has unlimited enthusiasm—whenever I meet them. When there is absolutely no need to do anything different, when the formula works, and when things are going smoothly, and yet you choose to innovate, that is when you become a pioneer.

H. The continual learning from the extended Prekshaa family—it would be gross injustice to use a term like ‘team’ or ‘crew’—is something that I cannot fully put in writing. I have never seen a more selfless bunch of people, always putting the needs of the organization over their own, making mock of their own travails, and creating an atmosphere of riotous fun without ever subtracting from the tasks to be accomplished. To me, this is nothing less than lokasaṅgraha in action.

2017 started off with a celebration of my mother’s sixtieth birthday (in February) with a small get-together and large doses of music. On the occasion, we brought out her book Sixty Years, Sixty Episodes, a collection of interesting anecdotes from various dimensions of her life. By mid-year, our family was going through a terrible phase with the sudden deaths of members of the immediate and extended family. My grandmother, Smt. Malathi Rangaswamy passed away in July at the age of eighty-five. She was perfectly normal even the previous evening—afflicted by neither a fever nor a cold—and the next afternoon, she was gone. To live according to your terms is rare but rarer still is to die according to your terms. Those who knew her surely felt that with her passing, an era had ended. An old school orthodoxy that had its own warmth and beauty in spite of its obvious limitations. A life of rigorous economy and wise investments. A determination that always placed principles before passions; a firmness, even rigidity, that put faith above joys and comforts; motherly love that knew no discrimination; and benevolence that knew no bounds. The end of 2017 brings with it my father’s semi-retirement from his erstwhile semi-retirement. After a few successful consultancy assignments, he is setting out to write a book chronicling his twenty-year journey of social service in the area of Avoidable Blindness; quite aptly, he has chosen to call the book Eye-opener.

My travels this year were mostly limited to South India—south of the Vindhyas, to be precise,—a place that is my home and that satisfies me more than anywhere else on the planet, with the sole exception of the Himalayas.

The more I read international news and the more I talk to friends living in the US and Europe, the more I’m convinced that as on date, India is—in addition to being so vibrant and diverse—among the safest and sanest places to live in the world; doubtless, we have our own problems but when a population of over a billion is governed by less than a hundred thousand police stations and yet able to maintain peace by and large, then it has definitely something to do with our ‘civilizational maturity,’ as one of my friends put it.

Speaking at the launch of his most recent book, Dr. S R Ramaswamy recalled a wonderful remark by his guru D V Gundappa: “If we were to think that the Supreme [or Destiny or the universe; call it what you wish] bestows upon us those things that we deserve—ex officio—then we would have absolutely nothing. It is because of His immense kindness that He grants us—ex gratia—all the things that we have.” In sum, we don’t get merely what we deserve, but far more than that. And I shall leave you with that thought.

Here’s wishing you and your loved ones a great 2018!

Cheers, Hari

#memoirs #newyear

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