#and all my journals say over and over and over

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

💀 Making Your Villain Make Sense (Without Making Them Right™)

("because if I see one more war criminal with a sad diary entry get a redemption arc, I’m gonna throw my laptop.")

Here’s the thing: your villain doesn’t need to be redeemable. But they do need to make sense.

And I mean sense beyond "they’re evil and they monologue about it." Or “they have a tragic past, so now they do murder <3.” Or “they were right all along, the hero just couldn’t see it 🥺.”

Let’s fix that.

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🧠 STEP ONE: BUILD A LOGIC SYSTEM THAT ISN’T OURS Your villain shouldn’t just be wrong, they should have their own internal system that works for them. Morally flawed? Absolutely. But coherent.

Ask yourself:

What do they value more than anything? (Power? Order? Loyalty? Vengeance?)

What do they believe about the world, and how did they get there?

What fear drives them? What future do they think they’re trying to prevent?

The villain doesn’t need to know they’re wrong. But you should.

Make their logic airtight. even if it’s awful. Give them cause and effect.

─────── ✦ ───────

👿 STEP TWO: STOP GIVING THEM THE BETTER IDEOLOGY Listen. I love a “morally gray” moment as much as anyone. But if your villain is making all the good points and the hero’s just like “no because that’s mean,” your arc is upside down.

If your villain is critiquing injustice, oppression, or inequality, make sure their methods are the problem, not their entire worldview.

✖︎ WRONG: Villain: “The ruling class is corrupt.” Hero: “That’s not nice.”

✔︎ RIGHT: Villain: “The ruling class is corrupt, so I’m burning the city and everyone in it.” Hero: “So you’re just… committing genocide now?”

Your villain can touch a real issue. Just don’t let them be the only one talking about it, or solving it with horror movie logic.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔪 STEP THREE: GIVE THEM POWER THAT COSTS THEM The best villains lose things too. They’re not just untouchable horror dolls in sexy coats. They make bad choices and pay for them. That’s where the drama lives.

Examples:

They isolate themselves.

They sacrifice people they love.

They get what they want, and it destroys them.

They know they’re the monster, and choose it anyway.

If your villain can kill a dozen people and feel nothing, that’s not scary. That’s boring. Let them bleed. Let them regret it. Let them double down anyway.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧱 STEP FOUR: MAKE THEM PART OF THE WORLD, NOT OUTSIDE IT Villains shouldn’t feel like they were patched in from another genre. They should be part of the world’s logic, culture, class system, history. They should reflect something about the setting.

Villains that slap:

The advisor who upheld the regime until they decided they deserved to rule.

The noble who’s using war to reclaim stolen legacy.

The ex-hero who thinks the system can’t be saved, only reset.

The priest who truly believes the gods demand blood.

They’re not just evil, they’re a product of the same world the hero is trying to save.

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👁 STEP FIVE: SHOW US THEIR SELF-JUSTIFICATION You don’t need a tragic backstory™. But you do need to show us why they think they’re right. Not just with exposition, through action.

Let us watch them:

Protect someone.

Choose their goal over safety.

Justify the unjustifiable to a character who loves them.

Refuse to change, even when given a chance.

A villain who looks into the mirror and goes “Yes. I’m correct.” is 1000x scarier than one who sobs into a journal and says “I’m so broken 🥺.”

─────── ✦ ───────

🧨 BONUS ROUND: DON’T MAKE THEM A HATRED MEGAPHONE Especially if you’re writing marginalized characters: don’t let your villain become a mouthpiece for slurs, abuse, or extremism just to make them “evil enough.” That’s lazy. And harmful.

You don’t need real-world hate speech to build a dark character. You need power, consequence, and intent.

─────── ✦ ───────

TL;DR: Good villains don’t need to be right. They need to be real. Not a vibe. Not a sad boy in a trench coat. Not a trauma monologue and then a sword fight. They need logic. They need cost. They need to scare you because you get them, and still want them to lose.

Make them dangerous. Not relatable. Make them whole. Not wholesome. Make them make sense.

—rin t. // thewriteadviceforwriters // villain critic. final boss consultant. licensed chaos goblin

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[crescenthistory]

heyy carina, I hope you have a safe travel♡ how about our beloved Remus with the 'Person A waking up to a sleeping Person B clinging onto them tightly.' prompt and 'Saying "you're lucky I love you" and realizing too late what they said' prompt

for the journeys & journals mini-event <3

wc: 1.5k

cw: gn!reader, best friends to lovers, instinctual communication, physical affection, fluff, first kiss, reader pov, in denial!reader that can be interpreted as shy, reserved, etc.

It’s normal to be this close with your best friend.

That was what ran through your mind over and over like a mantra as you fell asleep in Remus’ arms yet again. This time, the excuse was that the get-together at James and Regulus’ stretched too long into the night, and the walk to Remus’ was simply shorter. You already had a toothbrush and your medication there. Convenient. 

It was only natural you wake up in his arms, the air of his flat light with dust particles dancing in the incoming morning sun. Both of you wearing some of Remus’ worn pyjamas, with his arms around your waist and his face buried in the crook of your neck, soft breathing fanning out over your skin informing you that he was still asleep.

You had been thinking more lately. And you were thinking even harder now, with your fingertips slipped up under the hem of his shirt, as if they belonged there.

Whenever you thought like this, Remus would pinch the space between your brows to emphasise the furrow and tell you “nothing good ever comes of that, dovey.” You always listened to Remus – you convinced yourself that that was the reason you had kept avoiding this specific line of thinking for years.

Truth is, you were a coward. And hopelessly in lo–

“Mm, good morning, dove.” Remus' voice rumbled against your skin, brushing his nose against your pulse point. You were amazed he could realise you’re awake without you moving or saying anything.

You smiled nonetheless. “Good morning, Remus.”

He tightened his grip on you, pulling you closer to him, despite your limbs already being an incomprehensible, tangled mess. Whether it was because he heard the shakiness in your voice, or because that is a normal thing for a best friend to do at 10 AM in the morning, you had no idea.

“Staying for breakfast?” he mumbled after a minute.

Normally, you would say yes without hesitating. Today, though, you were doing all this damned thinking, stalling you.

Remus answered for you. “Staying for breakfast,” he said, this time in the affirmative. He nuzzled into your shoulder and breathed you in.

“Well, if you simply insist.” You kept your voice light, breezy. You felt very breezy. And you were not in lov–

“I do, actually. The bastard that I am, keeping you here against your will.”

You knew he was joking, but even hearing Remus’ faux self-deprecation brought forth some primal, instinctual reaction in you, instilled after years of deconstructing every piece of misguided direction his father had drilled into him. You moved your head back enough for him to see your face, see that you were happy to be around him. “Breakfast would be lovely, my keeper.”

Remus grinned at you, lazy in the sunlit sheets. “At your beck and call, no?”

“Hey, I didn’t ask you to do that,” you argued, holding up your hands as if proving your innocence. 

He caught your hand with his, intertwining your fingers as he extracted himself from your neck to lay back against the pillow he had abandoned in your favour. He brought the hands up to his mouth to kiss the back of yours. “No, I do it because it’s fun. And I’m quite good at it.”

“That you are,” you whispered, voice too quiet to suit the moment.

Remus looked at you for a second too long, eyebrows twitching as if he was analysing you. Whatever he found, he decided to just smile at you. “The usual, then?”

“Do we have everything for the usual?” Remus had an elaborate breakfast meal he preferred to cook you up, a mixture of his and your favourites. 

His expression turned mischievous. In those moments, you saw his friendship with James, Sirius and Peter clear as day, etched into every furrow of his face. At least he had the decency to sound sheepish as he said, “I was hoping we could go to the shops.”

“The shops!” You let out a groan, rolling over to bury your face in the pillow beside his – you made a point not to let go of his hand, though. The nearest Sainsbury’s is quite the walk away. “Rem, it’s early.”

“Yes, it’s early, and I want to cook my dove a proper breakfast to wake you up. And I want to continue spending time with you. So…” 

It had taken years of friendship for Remus to get to the point where he would ask you to do anything you weren’t immediately thrilled about. The odd displayal of intimacy settled into your heart, even as you wore a mostly fake scowl to peer up at him. “Gods above. You’re lucky I love you, Lupin.”

A beat – then you realised what you had said. It was far from the first time you declared your love for him, but there was something about how the word love has been bouncing around your brain, uninvited and uncomfortable, for quite some time now that made it taste differently.

“That I am; alas, I love you more, so you must come along.” Remus’ tone and expression wore none of the weight to signify the same strife you felt at the minute.

The smart thing would have been to play off your momentary silence as you preparing yourself to get up. To brush it off, like nothing.

Then again, thinking like this had not been smart in the first place, so you were clearly not in the right headspace at the moment.

Remus’ gaze flicked back to yours when you remained frozen, looking at him in a way that was strange at best and concerning at worst. His brows furrowed properly this time as he studied you. He squeezed your hand and rolled over onto his side to see you better. “Dove?” he whispered, voice quiet. “Is everything… Are you alright?”

The anxiety you saw in his eyes told you he must think he had said something wrong. It made you ache enough to nod. Even still, you kept looking into his eyes, falling further and further down the well that was his amber eyes.

You had to physically tear yourself away and throw yourself back onto your back, putting distance between you as you let out a harsh breath. “Yeah, yeah,” you forced out, a bit choked. You made for a laugh, but failed. “Sorry.”

He didn’t let up. Instead Remus curled back against you, inadvertently pushing his plaid pantleg up as he hiked his leg over yours to lay against you. “Don’t be sorry. Hey. Hey.” 

With gentle fingers, he placed a hand on your cheek, turning it towards him. Your foreheads were a hairsbreadth apart. He looked between your eyes, fiercely studying. “What…” His question trailed off, unsure.

You looked back, confused and horrified with yourself. For a second, your gaze flickered down to his lips, noticing how they were slightly turned downwards into a frown. Almost panicked, you looked back up, just in time to see a sliver of realisation dawn in his eyes.

His expression seemed to be turning to one of entertainment, but you didn’t dare look back to his lips to see if they had changed. “Oh… uh…” He struggled to find the words. “Is this about…?”

You quite felt like going back to sleep right at this minute. You tried to turn your head back around, running despite there being no room to do so.

But Remus’ hand on your cheek remained steady, though it turned sweeter. “Hey, hey, no dove, it…” He swallowed harshly, eyes crinkling into a nervous smile. “Me too,” he whispered. “Me too.”

Your lips parted slightly. He couldn’t possibly mean…

He brought your hands still intertwined together up to his chest and pressed them against his chest. Over his heart. His gaze chased yours, and now you had the guts to check, verifying that he was in fact smiling. One look at his eyes proved it real. 

“I meant it too,” he whispered, ushering an intense amount of hope into each syllable. Hope that you understood. “I meant it too, my love.”

Your breath caught. 

Two young adults, entangled beyond what any visual glance could infer, on a cheap bed in a small flat that was made big with love. It was love.

You brought your free hand up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over his undereye as you looked at him with all the confused affection in your heart. “Yeah?” you let out. Maybe not eloquent, but he carried all the meaning in the world nonetheless.

“Yeah.” Remus’ voice was teary with laughter. “Dove, can I kiss you?”

You didn’t wait to answer him. You closed the minimal distance between you and kissed Remus Lupin, like you were always meant to.

He was your best friend – but you were also madly in love with him. And the sentiment was shared.

[gracie-eilish]

roommate! billie au [pt 2]

part one

warnings: mention of hookups

an: i’m going based off my own college experience for age. billie and reader are 18 as of right now.

roommate! billie, who was kind enough to have her hookups at their place and not yours. but what she didn’t realize was the opening and closing of the heavy dorm door at 4:37am, without fail always woke you up behind your sleep mask.

roommate! billie, who couldn’t understand why she hated hearing you talk about that cute guy in your boring history class.

roomate! you, who couldn’t understand why you hated hearing her talk about last nights hookup or that cute girl in her production class.

roomate! billie, who held you in her arms when that cute boy from history class took you on a date just to ghost you.

“he didn’t deserve you anyway,” she’d say soothingly. “i mean what does he even have going for him??”

“he’s really pretty,” you mumbled into her shoulder. she stifled a laugh at how cute you were being.

“okay, that’s fair. BUT! he still doesn’t deserve you, love.” your heart rate picked up at the pet name.. love. your friends in high school didn’t really use pet names with each other, reserving them for partners or crushes only. this was new.

roommate! billie, who was always fiddling with her guitar. plucking new progressions, or softly humming a rhythm she was working through, scribbling in her little journal.

roommate! billie, who started to play/sing some things for you, asking for advice, letting you in on some secret projects she was working on:)

roommate! billie, who started to cherish your evenings in the dorm together more than the parties you went to, or her hookups on weekends.

roommate! you, who started to cherish your evenings in the dorm together more than the parties you went to, or your boys you dated around with.

one particular rainy early october evening, you both were clad in comfy clothes, working on homework, journaling, writing, just sharing the comfortable silence together. your room had been decorated for halloween, little pumpkin string lights over the window, ghosts and goblins and spiders littered the surfaces of your room, cheap gel window clings of spooky characters covered the glass… you two had a thing for decorating for holidays you had discovered.

your phone buzzed on your desk, picking it up to see his name on the caller id. you let it ring, setting it back down.

“who’s that?” billie mumbled, not looking up from her notebook.

“y/situationships/n.” {your situationships name}

“why’d you ignore him?? i thought this was kinda going somewhere??”

“meh. i’m enjoying your company right now.. don’t really wanna leave.”

her heart fluttered.

roommate! billie, who insisted you two do a matching halloween costume. something cheesy, like glinda and dorothy, or a dalmatian and firefighter, or buzz lightyear and woody.

roommate! billie, who pretended not to know how to do a certain makeup skills so you’d have to do it for her before the halloween party you both were attending.

roommate! billie, who sat on the bathroom counter while you did her eyeliner for her. you noticed but didn’t say anything about the blush creeping up on her skin the closer your faces got.

roommate! billie, who didn’t let you go all night. always a hand around your shoulder or on your waist. even when y/s/n was around, she didn’t let her grip falter.. possessive, jealous… you didn’t move her hand away not once.

roommate! billie, who pulled you onto her bed that night. both tipsy and giggling like all 18 year old college roommates do. she on her back, you on your stomach, both gabbing about whatever your drunk brains could muster up, still wearing your halloween costumes.

“can i tell you a really big secret? like so so secret no one can know?” billie nodded furiously, wanting to know everything about you and more.

“i’ve never kissed anyone before.” you smacked your hands over your flushed face.

“WHAT?!” she nearly shoved you off the tiny bed. you giggled shushing her, it was 5:16 am after all.

“seriously? but you’re you! how has no one ever kissed you before? wait woah woah woah…. how have none of you guys you’ve gone out with this year NOT ONCE kissed you?!”

you shrugged. “i wish i knew. a few people have tried to kiss me.. but the moment just wasn’t right, ya know?”

she nodded slowly, still unable to comprehend that the angel lying next to her had never had something so simple yet romantic as a kiss. if only she could just lean over, take your face in her hands and,

“can i tell you what my dream first kiss is?”

“you have a dream first kiss?” she asked mockingly.

“billie i’m 18 years old and i’ve been on nine first dates since we got here in august. yeah.” she raised her hands in surrender, prompting you to continue.

“okay so,” you shifted to get a little closer to her. your shoulder was practically touching her stomach. “i want it to happen during the winter. i wanna be on a date, or maybe getting dropped off from a date, either way.. outside.” billie nodded like she was taking notes.

“i wanna be with them, walking or standing by the car, looking into their eyes when all of a sudden i feel this wet blob get in my eye. we both giggle and they brush the snow off my face. snow!! it’s snowing!!! we look up and laugh softly until i look back down, and they’re not looking at the snow… they’re looking at me. they’d tease me about my cold nose, booping it softly, before cupping my cheek, rubbing their thumb on my cold skin… they’d lean in softly and then…”

you popped you lips softly, hands mimicking the explosion of a firework to signal the kiss. you looked at billie with the softest smile and widest eyes, melting billie’s heart.

“so what i’m hearing is when there’s a snowstorm coming i need to send you out on a date?” you snorted, nodding jokingly.

“noted. get someone to kiss y/n while it snows so she can live happily ever after in the cold.”

giggling you shifted to sit next to her, dropping your head to her shoulder, wrapping your hands around her arm closest to you.

“you’re the best.” you kissed her clothed shoulder.

roommate! billie, who didn’t move for a long time after you fell asleep on her shoulder. admiring your fluttering lashes, watching the rise and fall of your chest.

roommate! billie, who’s heart fluttered when you only used “they” when talking about your dreamy first kiss…

roommate! billie, who eventually woke you softly so you both could change and take off your makeup and properly get ready for bed.

roommate! billie, who’s bed was suddenly so cold without you in it.

roommate! you, who now lay wide awake facing the wall so billie wouldn’t know you weren’t sleeping. it was so easy to fall asleep over on her bed…

roommate! billie, who was searching the weather app for the first predicted snowfall of the season…

[bebethsas]

writing prompt:

a bunch of 'tumblr' (runeterra adjacent to tumblr) friends form a group chatting back and forth about their theories about Jayce Talis' "secret partner."

Then one night one of them gets an anon ask saying something like "I see that you are interesed in the history of Hextech and its founders. I can answer some of your questions. What would you like to know?"

and at first this person ignores it, but then more and more asks come in (and then more members of the group start to also receive the same asks):

"the discoloration of page 58 of Jayce's earliest journal was when he knocked over a mug of sweetmilk."

"he had a fear of bats."

"the schematic on page 204 of Jayce's second journal was a joke--I was halfway through soldering the frame when he doubled over laughing."

and then even weirder asks come in, written as if they're answering the older asks, even though those anon asks were never answered/ published on the blogs:

" tumblr.com/runetalis/74553408893347519/the-discoloration-of-page-58-of-Jayces-second?source=share Hey, at least it didn't get on the crystals, right? And I made you a new one, remember??"

"tumblr.com/runetalis/74553418993537520/he-had-a-fear-of-bats?source=share I did NOT!"

"tumblr.com/runetalis/74553408893347519/the-schematic-on-page-204-of-Jayces-second?source=share ohhh yeahhh--that's right! you were so mad--you shut off your torch, whipped off your protective goggles and started throwing chalk at me! ...worth it. I can't believe I forgot that."

"tumblr.com/runetalis/74562118503246/httpswwwtumblrcomrunetalis74553408893347519d?source=share I can't believe you forgot that too--by the time Sky arrived that morning, you were hiding under our desk and trying to negotiate peace talks."

"tumblr.com/runetalis/74562204212021/httpswwwtumblrcomrunetalis74562118503246d?source=share peace talks which you immediately broke, by the way."

"tumblr.com/runetalis/74562402417122/httpswwwtumblrcomrunetalis74562204212021d?source=share Eh, I saw an opportunity and took it."

Viktor drops a hint that he carved their initials into the wall of their lab, behind their desk:

"vandalism, Viktor? really??"

"What? I was 29 and desperately in love with my best friend--my straight best friend."

"your straight hadn't-had-his-bi-awakening-yet best friend. there, fixed it for you."

"Isn't that just the phrase 'in the closet?'"

"being 'in the closet' implies that you know that you're in a closet. I didn't even know that I had one."

(one of the friends is attending the university, and is able to sneak into Jayce and Viktor's old lab--it's still there, just preserved as an important part of Piltover history--and nudge that heavy desk aside. The desk hasn't been moved in *decades* and it shows. They move the desk as far as they can, and sure enough, smoothly carved into the wall, just above the baseboard, is: 'JT +V-' (they can't make out the last initial, and they couldn't move the desk any farther). Heart pounding, they carefully slide the desk back into place and sneak back out.)

bonus:

what is this 'hexussy' people keep talking about?

Viktor, wait, no, NO--!

are you okay?

...knowledge is a paradox, my love; the more you know, the more you wish not to know. There are some very talented artists on here, that is all I will say.

ANYWAY

at first the group thinks that it's a bot, or a troll--but how could these messages 'respond' to previous asks if the asks were never published? Even if someone managed to steal a password and login to one of their blogs, that person would have to publish the ask in order to respond to that post's message. And all of the asks are still sitting in their inboxes. Unpublished/ unanswered.

anyway, something something Jayce and Viktor are haunting technology, something something they saw people start to speculate about Viktor and start to get exited about him (his existence, as well as his potentially secret love affair with Jayce...), so they decided to pop down and educate some people.

Sometimes, I like to think about post canon modern piltover and zaun and how they would look back on Viktor and Jayce.

Like immagine:

The war was decades years ago. Piltover and zaun are completely modernized, and some nerdy kids are on their runterra version of tumblr nerding out about gay history (as we do). And one of them is like:

"Did you guys know that Jayce Talis actually wasn't the sole creator of hextech and he had a secret coworker he called his "partner" who was erased from all the research files for some unknown reason."

And they would go insane making theories about this secret partner. Digging through old files to find his name. Puzzling together the hidden truth

[darlingdaisyfarm]

soooo do you remember when Alex Hirsch hosted a Livestream to raise $ for the LA fires, and there was one thirst message that Ford's va read and he was like "Dear God!!" In private what would he think about that thirsty "12 fingers" comment? (I hope you know what I mean and saw it, it was hilarious)

yes yes yes i totally know what you're talking about, of course i watched that stream!! thank you for this ask btw, it brings back such pleasant memories, that stream cured my depression back then, i was so happy to see Alex and the others again

and ooooh the intonation when j.k. simmons said “dear god”.... hmmhmhm. his voice does smth irreversible to my brain, let’s just say that. like, ever since that stream i have this headcanon that this is EXACTLY how Ford reacts when he’s shy or embarrassed :p

as for your question, “in private” im stupid so i wanna ask. do you mean just the two of you, and you let your old man boyfriend scroll through those thirst comments on your phone? or are you the one flirting like that with him?? but either way ive thought about both. so here we go

(if im wrong pls ignore this lmao but here’s what i think u meant.....)

nsfw themes

you’re lying on your stomach on the bed, legs swinging behind you, giggling while reading out the most deranged pervy comments from the internet about your nerdy scientist boyfriend. you know exactly what you’re doing. and Ford, he’s at his desk, as always scribbling smth in his journal, already suspicious of the way you keep trying to hide your laughter.

he glances up, curious. “what is it, darling?”

“oh, nothing. just. . .the internet thirsting after you again.” you hum innocently, scrolling.

Ford sighs, letting out a nervous laugh. “not this again.”

“it’s adorable.”

“it’s invasive!”

“baby, listen to this one! girl let's be real about that silver fox,” you read aloud, glancing every now and then at Ford's reaction, whose eye began to twitch involuntarily, “with those 12 fingers he could—“

he chokes and his entire face goes crimson as he throws you an awkward look.

“dear god, sweetheart,” Ford interrupts you, pinching the bridge of his nose. “why do you insist on reading these things aloud?”

but you’re grinning, loving this. because his fluster is just as beautiful as his brilliance. and you purr, “you know they’re not wrong.” and you reach over, fingers featherlight on the wrist of his hand, drawing it closer, eyes sparkling. “what would you do with all twelve, hm?”

Stanford blinks, stunned, fully understanding what you're hinting at. “i— you— now that’s entirely inappropriate, darling.”

“and yet. . .” you murmur, smiling lazily. Ford tries to go back to his journal, fumbling for composure, eyes refusing to meet yours. you smirk, stretching, curling your toes into the mattress, obviously proud of your effect on him.

he clears his throat once cuz it got too dry from embarrassment, but then finally speaks again. “and yet, love, you’re well aware those fingers are going to be inside you tonight.” Ford says it with no expression, and then, just like that, he returns to scribbling in his journal, flipping the page as if he didn’t just make your soul leave your body.

you stare at him in shock. so you didn't imagine it? question caught in your throat. he doesn’t even look at you, but the corner of his mouth does twitch. ever so slightly.

OR WAIT WAIT i also thought about other thing where you’re curled up in his lap, looking up at him with those mischievous lashes and honeyed affection as you say, “have i ever told you how much i appreciate your. . . dexterity?”

Ford raises a brow. “are you referring to my intellect or my hands?”

“yes.” you smirk.

he huffs, amused. “be more specific, sweetheart.”

so you take his hand and guide it toward your mouth, kissing the center of his palm, and then slowly, you trail your lips up each finger, teasing.

“twelve fingers,” you whisper between kisses, “and every one of them could be inside me in a different way.”

Ford swallows, his pupils dilate. “good gracious. you’re going to be the death of me.”

you just tilt your head, pouting sweetly. “but what a way to go, hm?”

his big hand is resting in yours now, oh Ford knows this is about to undo him but he still lets you proceed, shamelessly enjoying how you’re taking your time with it, devilish. your warm wet mouth brushes each digit slowly. breath is warm, and your kisses are warmer.

he watches, at first. or tries to. but once your lips close around the pad of his index finger and suck, pretty enough to be suggestive, his breath stutters. unable to do it anymore, Ford looks away sharply.

“d-darling, that’s. . . ah. that’s quite enough.” but is it? no. no, you don’t think so.

you hum against his fingertip, lips curving with mischief, and slowly release it with a soft pop, glancing up through your lashes. “mm. . . these hands, Ford, could make me cry, you know that?” you pause to kiss the space between his knuckles. “bet if you curled these fingers just right, pressed them deep and slow, id be moaning your name before the second one even got in.”

he lets out a low barely-audible huff, so shy he's still refusing to meet your gorgeous eyes. his ears are red, betraying every single emotion he’s trying to strangle into silence.

his voice sounds so pathetic “it does feel. . . quite nice,” Ford murmurs finally, which makes you smile victoriously, adoring.

you kiss his ring finger, “i knew it. so sensitive. how’d you get away with hiding that all this time?”

Ford's breath shudders again, hand twitches. fuck. holy shit. he doesn’t even know whether to pull away or grab you by the jaw and beg for more.

“i never thought my hands— i’ve never quite thought of them as—“

“sexy?” you purr, wrapping both hands around his, cradling it, your mouth ghosting over the middle knuckle of his third finger. “you built an interdimensional portal with these, Ford. and you still think they’re not worthy of worship?”

he presses his other hand over his face, shielding himself from a solar flare. “dear god, d-darling.”

the hairs on the back of his neck rising from the soft puff of your lips against him. involuntary response, he tells himself. you kiss one finger, then another and the worst part is how immediately and helplessly his body reacts. Ford's not dumb, he feels that stupid traitorous pulse beneath his waistband. trying so hard to be subtle, but honestly, he’s not hiding anything, not from you. the outline’s getting clearer by the second, and he knows it. knows you see it. knows that if you reach over, right now, and press your palm to him, he’ll whimper. he will.

and ohh, imagine what happens once you work your way up that arm and he starts realizing his whole body is this sensitive.

his heart rate accelerates first, blood pressure rising. his face flushes as red colour spreads across his cheeks, ears, the back of his neck.

but lower. lower. a hot, undeniable pull beneath the waistband of his pants, signaling his body to respond to your voice. your filthy, teasing, soothing voice.

Stanford can feel the blood pooling downward, filling him. his cock thickens shamefully, pulsing to life in agonizing increments. it twitches inside his pants, hardening by the second, until the seams feel too restrictive and uncomfortable. thighs clench in reaction.

Ford dares not look at you. not now. not when his erection presses hot and full against the zipper, aching to be touched.

and god, you haven’t even gotten to his belt yet. Ford swallows, pursing his lips guiltily, but a soft sob still reaches your ears. you know he’s nothing but a bundle of nerve endings and arousal. so helpless. and you haven’t even kissed his neck yet.

(omg im so scared i interpreted this ask wrong.....)

[himasgod]

NRC STAFF AND YUU

Where they find out that Yuu is self-harming

I was going to add a warning and a lil comf message as always in this type of fanfics, but I think annonie explains it pretty well <3

responding to this request

It was Grim who approached him—nervously, voice urgent.

“You gotta talk to Yuu, Professor. They’ve been… off. They flinch when I get too loud, and the other day I saw bandages I know weren’t there before. I don’t get it… why would they do that?”

Crewel paused.

He had graded over fifty exams last night, scolded a third-year for exploding a cauldron... But that one sentence stopped everything.

He didn't scold Grim. He didn't panic. He nodded once and said,

“Thank you for telling me. You did the right thing, pup.”

That night, Crewel stayed up researching.

He was poring through psychology journals. His brow furrowed as he read about pain, coping mechanisms, and invisible wounds.

The next morning, he requested Yuu stay after class. Not in front of the others—he simply handed them a folded slip during potion lab, saying, “Come see me after last bell. No rush.”

When Yuu arrived, they looked uneasy, shoulders high with tension.

“I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“No. Sit. Please.”

They did, eyes darting to the ingredients shelf, then to the floor. Crewel sat across from them, hands folded on his desk, voice softer than they’d ever heard it.

“Grim spoke to me.”

Yuu froze. Crewel continued gently.

“He’s worried about you. And now, so am I.”

Silence. Yuu’s throat tightened.

“I’m sorry—” they blurted, eyes starting to burn.

“I didn’t want anyone to know— I was just— I didn’t know how else to deal with everything and—”

“Stop.”

Not a harsh command. Crewel stood and walked around the desk. He knelt beside them, one gloved hand hovering over their shaky hands .

“You have nothing to apologize for. Pain is not a moral failure. It doesn’t make you shameful. It makes you human.”

Yuu’s breath hitched.

“I’m not here to fix you. I can’t wave a magical pen and erase what you’ve felt. But I can promise you this: you’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”

He rose, placed a hand over his heart.

“You’re a part of this college. My student. And I take care of what’s mine.”

From then on, Crewel didn’t hover—but he checked in.

When Yuu looked withdrawn in class, he’d ask them to help sort ingredients. I

f they were dissociating, he’d say, “Mind walking with me to the greenhouse?”

Small tasks that let them breathe.

And he never pushed. Never pried.

Only left the door open—always open.

Crowley had a knack for dramatics. He thrived on being the center of the room.

But when Grim nervously shuffled into his office one rainy afternoon and said, “I think Yuu’s in trouble,” the headmage's feathers metaphorically dropped.

He didn't say a word at first. Just listened.

Later, he knocked on Ramshackle’s door himself.

Yuu answered, surprised. “Headmage?”

He took off his mask.

“May I come in?”

They blinked.

Crowley never took off his mask.

Never.

Crowley stood in the entryway.

“I hear you’ve been struggling. And before you say anything—I’m not here as your headmage.”

He placed the mask gently on a dusty table.

“I’m here as someone who once felt like a ghost too.”

Yuu swallowed hard.

“I know it’s hard, adjusting to this place,” he continued. “You’ve had to survive here without magic, without family, without answers. And you’ve done it all without a safety net.”

His voice wavered.

“Perhaps I should’ve given you one sooner.”

Yuu stared at him. Crowley’s eyes, usually behind his mask, were steady.

“Can I show you something?” he asked.

He led them to a storage room near the staff quarters. There, behind old uniforms and spell books, was a small chest. He opened it.

Inside were journals.

Dozens of them, worn at the edges.

“I wrote these when I was your age. A long, long, long.... long time ago.” he said quietly.

“When I didn’t understand the world, or my place in it. When I thought maybe… the world would be better off without me.”

Yuu’s breath caught.

“You’re not weak for needing help,” he said, turning to them. “You’re wise for accepting it.”

From then on, when he saw them anxious in a hallway, he didn’t sweep them away with flair.

He’d tap their shoulder, whisper, “There’s tea in my office. Let’s get some air.”

And on days when Yuu couldn’t speak at all, Crowley would sit beside them in silence. No mask. Just himself.

In time, Yuu came to understand that even the loudest voices sometimes scream just to be heard.

And Crowley?

He’d make sure Yuu never had to scream alone again.

It started with a quiet knock on the side door of Mystery Shop one evening after lights-out.

“Hey, little imp,” he said without turning around“Didn’t expect you tonight.”

But when Yuu stepped inside, their energy wasn’t curious about the items. It was heavy.

Sam finally looked over, smile fading as he saw their eyes red rimmed, hands tucked in their sleeves.

“Something happened?”

“I relapsed.”

Sam didn’t recoil, didn’t gasp.

He just set down the crystal orb he’d been polishing and stepped out from behind the counter.

“Come sit,” he said gently, guiding them to the little seating nook near the incense shelf. “Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t know,” Yuu whispered. “I just—Grim told the others, and everyone’s being kind, but I feel like I’m broken again. Like I failed.”

Sam reached over and pulled a tiny wooden box from a shelf behind him.

“Know what this is?” he asked, resting it in their lap.

Yuu shook their head.

“This box came from a spirit walker in the Scalding Sands. It’s over four hundred years old,” Sam explained. “Used to carry healing charms, notes of love, little promises folks made to themselves when they were hurting.”

He opened it slowly.

Inside were slips of folded paper—some new, some brittle with age.

Sam added one more—his own. He held it out to Yuu.

“Write one. Anything you want. Doesn’t have to be big. Could be: ‘I want to breathe tomorrow.’ Or: ‘I want to see the sun.’”

Yuu stared, then shakily took the pen.

After a long pause, they wrote:

“I want to believe I’ll be okay again.”

Sam tucked it inside the box, sealed it, and whispered, “Now it’s kept safe. No refunds, no backsies. That promise is real now.”

Yuu smiled weakly.

From that night forward, Sam always had a space open at the back of the shop.

If Yuu was overwhelmed in class, they’d sometimes find a handmade “delivery” waiting in their dorm room: a spell charm for calm dreams, a candle, or a simple note that read:

“Healing ain’t linear. But I’ve seen how stubborn you are. You’ll get there.”

Professor Trein stood at the front, chalk still in hand, yet his eyes had wandered from the blackboard.

He watched Yuu—slumped at their desk, shoulders taut, eyes unfocused. Not bored. Not distracted. Disassociated.

Lucius had already leapt from his desk perch and was weaving around Yuu’s chair. Trein set the chalk down.

“Yuu,” he said calmly, “Could you assist me in the archive room for a moment?”

There was no reason to doubt the request. It was casual enough.

No alarm in his tone. No heads turned. Yuu nodded numbly, rising without protest as the class barely took notice.

Trein’s pace was slow as he led them to a quiet hall—far from noise.

He closed the door behind them.

“Would you like to sit?” he offered, pulling out a chair from a reading desk.

Yuu did. But their gaze remained lowered.

Trein sat across from them, hands folded.

“There are lessons one cannot find in any curriculum,” he began, “Lessons about how to exist in a world that often refuses to make space for our pain.”

Silence.

“You don’t need to speak right away. I only ask that you listen.”

Yuu nodded once—just enough to let him know they were still with him.

“I’ve seen the signs,” he said. “The trembling. The vacant stares. The way your hands fidget when you believe no one is watching.”

“I want you to know I do not pity you. Pity can be shallow and cruel. What I feel is respect.”

Yuu looked up, confused.

“It takes strength to face each day knowing you’re at war with your own thoughts. It takes courage to survive when the world you knew has been torn from you and replaced with a place that doesn’t always feel real.”

Trein continued, “Grim came to me out of concern. And I assure you, Yuu… there is no shame in stumbling during recovery. Only in believing you must do it alone.”

Lucius jumped into Yuu’s lap then, curling up. Yuu slowly let a hand drift to stroke his back.

Trein gave a faint smile.

“Even Lucius knows who needs grounding.”

He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bound notebook—aged but blank.

“This is for you. Write what hurts. What confuses you. Or write nothing at all. You may tear out the pages, burn them, or never show a soul. But sometimes, the mind cannot quiet until its burdens are given a place to rest.”

Yuu took it gently.

Down the road, Trein never hovered. But he always noticed.

If Yuu’s answers in class were shorter than usual, he’d adjust the lesson pace. If he saw their breathing stutter when voices around grew loud, he’d assign a solo reading task and lead the others elsewhere—shielding them with normalcy.

“Oi! You’re not gettin’ out of PE that easy!”

Yuu had hoped to sneak past the training field.

But Vargas spotted them with that hawk gaze of his and jogged over, waving enthusiastically.

They braced for a lecture about attendance, but he paused as he got closer.

“You okay?” he asked—less gruffly than usual.

Yuu tried to shrug it off, but Vargas tilted his head.

“I know I ain’t always the most gentle guy. But I do notice when one of my students looks like they’re carryin’ a boulder on their back.”

He crossed his arms.

“You wanna go for a walk?”

Yuu blinked. “You’re not gonna make me run laps?”

“Nope. Today we walk. Slowly. No sweat.”

So they did—around the track, where Vargas usually shouted drills.

His voice was calm, explaining how, even in physical training, injuries sometimes come from inside.

“Used to have a friend back in my rookie days,” he said. “Tough guy. Strong as hell. But he had demons in his head that none of us could see.”

He glanced at Yuu.

“Pain ain’t just broken bones and bruises. You can be fightin’ for your life, and no one will know unless they look close enough.”

Yuu swallowed. “I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“You didn’t,” Vargas said, dead serious. “You’re still standin’. You showed up today. That takes guts.”

They stopped near the bleachers, and Vargas handed them something—a pair of weight gloves.

“These are yours now, not for lifting. Not for workouts. Just a reminder. You’re stronger than you think.”

From then on, Vargas kept an eye on them.

If Yuu’s breathing quickened during group drills, he’d subtly call a “water break.” If they looked spaced out, he’d shout, “Hey! Wanna time me on the sprint?”

[doctorbitchcrxft]

The Monster at the End of This Book | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: religious trauma lmfao that's p much a warning for this whole season, canon violence, canon gore, MDNI 18+, smut, fluffy smut, mentions of sexual actions, dacryphilia

Word Count: 8583

A/N: I actually started writing this episode on Dean’s birthday… crazy!!! Happy birthday, Dean!!!!

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

“Hey,” Dean told you as he shut the door to your shared motel room behind him. 

“Hi,” you replied, shutting your journal. You’d recently started doodling and jotting down your thoughts again, and it felt good to try to establish a healthy habit again.

“I wanna talk to you about something,” said Dean while he shrugged off his jacket.

Your heart jumped a little. “Okay, shoot.”

Next to come off were his boots. “Did you mean what you said back at Sandover? About feeling like you’re constantly an accessory to somebody else?”

You considered for a moment while you tried to remember what he was talking about. “Oh, yeah,” you noted. “I did,” you said honestly. “Now that I’m me again and have my memories back, it definitely solidifies my feelings about how the angels regard me given they made me your assistant in their dream land.”

Dean nodded, seeming unsure of what to say. “I’m sorry,” he told you finally.

“Why?” you asked. “None of it’s your fault.”

“I know. Still thought you’d wanna hear it from somebody.” He looked down at the carpet.

You stood and walked over to him, putting your hands around his neck. “I did,” you said. “And I appreciate it.” You gave his lips a small peck, which he then turned into a deep kiss. Eagerly, you responded, and he pulled your hips closer to his while his hands roamed your ass. 

You bit his lip slightly, and he growled into your mouth. Immediately, you felt wetness pooling between your thighs. 

“Are we really doing this?” you asked him between kisses.

“Please, sweetheart, please,” he begged. “I need you. Please.”

“You have me,” you replied, and he began to kiss down his neck.

He nipped you, and you could feel a smile on his face as he did. “You know what I mean.”

You grinned. “I really don’t, though.”

Dean swiftly spun you around and plopped you down on the bed. It wasn’t long before he was back on top of you, and you tugged his hair hard while he made quick work of shoving your shirt upward to gain access to your breasts. He kissed and nipped at them with fervor, suckling each nipple as if you were his last meal. 

“Dean,” you moaned, back arching into him. When you did so, your clit brushed over the tip of the bulge in his pants. 

“Fuck,” he hissed. Dean instantly went back to kissing your lips, rolling his dick against your core, nevermind the many layers of clothing still between them. He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head. Then, he instructed you to keep them there. “You move them, and I stop, got it?”

You nodded feverishly. 

“Words, sweetheart, so I know you understand,” he cooed.

“I got it,” you said breathlessly. “Touch me, Dean, please.”

That was all he needed to hear. Dean’s fingers made their way down your stomach with a gentle, teasing touch. He shoved your jeans and underwear off with one hand while tweaking your nipples with the other. When he’d finished, he immediately began coaxing you toward ecstasy with rough circles around your clit. Just before you could come undone, he stopped. 

You whined, and he took that opportunity to shove his dripping fingers into your mouth. You licked them clean and swirled your tongue around them, looking up at Dean with wanton eyes. 

He captured your lips in a feverish kiss, and you were unsure when he’d even had time to take his jeans off. The next thing you knew, though, he’d sheathed himself inside you. 

Your hands instinctively moved to clutch his shoulder and hair when he rolled his hips against you, and Dean pinned them above your head again. You whined against his lips and moved your hands back to his shoulders, and he grunted. 

“What’d I tell you,” he said as he stilled against you. 

Unexpectedly, tears welled in your eyes. “Dee, I want to hold you. Please, Dean. I need to.”

His expression softened as tears spilled down your cheeks, and he kissed them away. “Okay, baby. C’mere.”

He held you close to him, protectively caging your body in with his elbows propped up on either side of your head. Dean brushed away stray strands of hair as the two of you kissed passionately. Before you knew it, your orgasm came crashing into you. Yours seemed to milk his out of him, and the two of you fell asleep with his cock still inside you and your arms around each other. 

****

You laid awake the next morning with Dean’s arms around your waist limply. At some point the previous night, he’d slipped out of you. Which, you had to admit, you were ever-so-slightly disappointed by. The rising sun coming through the blinds made him almost glow. His eyelashes kissed his cheeks, fluttering every once in a while as he dreamt. With the arm that Dean’s head rested on, you reached around to the side of his head to stroke his hair rhythmically. It seemed to be soothing him into a deeper sleep despite the fact he’d normally be awake by this time. 

You revelled in this moment. You and Dean had been through so much together, and there was no one else you’d rather spend your days with. 

Moments like these were rare, but it was during these times you started to adore him even more. Despite his hard exterior and sarcastic comments, he was endlessly forgiving and caring. Dean found you exactly when you needed him, and you would never let him go again. 

Finally, his breathing shallowed, and he began to wake up. With his eyes still closed, he hummed, “Mm, morning.”

“Hi, sweet boy,” you said, giving him a kiss on the nose.

He scrunched his nose in response, but he couldn't fight the smile spreading across his face.  Dean opened his eyes and immediately gave you a deep kiss. “Love you,” he mumbled.

“Sorry, what was that?” you asked between kisses, a smile tugging at your cheeks.

“You—” he kissed you again, “—heard—” and again, “me.” 

You broke away from him and gently removed his arms from you despite his protesting. “Come back!” Dean whined.

“Babe, we gotta get going,” you told him. “We’re supposed to leave in, like, twenty minutes.”

“Why’d you let me sleep, then?” he groaned, and you could hear him roll into his pillow in the squeaky bed.

You poked your head out of the bathroom to look at him with your toothbrush hanging out of your mouth. “You looked so cute; I didn’t wanna wake you up.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, though you could hear the smile in his voice that he was doing his best to hide.

You smiled around your toothbrush before turning back to the bathroom. Once you were dressed, you returned to the bedroom to find Dean appearing to still be asleep.

“Dean,” you said, shaking him lightly. “De-an.”

In a flash, he grabbed your arm and pulled you down to the bed. You squealed, and he chuckled while he pulled you underneath him. You smiled, and Dean studied your face for a moment before kissing you. The kiss was sweet, and you threaded your fingers through his hair. 

Though, when you wrapped a leg around his waist, you made a comment. “Dude, you’re seriously hard again?”

“What?” he asked. Dean went back to kissing you. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful; what do you expect?”

You ran your hands down his chest, giving him one more lingering kiss before pushing him off. 

“What?” he groaned. “C’mon.”

“Stop whining,” you said sarcastically. “If you go get dressed, I’ll blow you before we leave. ‘Kay?”

Dean was dressed and ready to go in under two minutes.

****

Contrary to how people normally treated you when you showed up with badges and “FBI” written on them, the man behind the counter at the comic book shop you’d entered looked skeptical; almost amused.

“Uh, can I help you?” the man asked, a small smirk on his lips.

“Sure hope so,” Dean replied. “Agents DeYoung, Shaw, and Panozzo. Just need to ask you a few questions.”

The three of you put your badges away, and you scanned the man’s face for why he seemed like he was on the verge of laughing.

“Notice anything strange in the building, last couple of days?” Sam asked.

The man snorted. “Like what?”

“Well, some other tenants reported flickering lights.”

The man squinted and shook his head slowly. “Uh, I don't think so. Why?”

“What about noises? Any skittering in the walls? Kind of like rats?” Sam pressed.

“And the FBI is investigating a rodent problem?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“What about cold spots? Feel any sudden drops in temperature?”

Then, a smile broke across the man’s face. “I knew it! You guys are LARPing, aren't you?”

“Come again?” you questioned, tilting your head to the side.

“You're fans.”

“Of what?” you snorted.

“What is ‘LARPing’?” Dean echoed.

“Like you don't know,” the man replied. However, when the confused and stunned expressions didn’t change on your and the brothers’ faces, the man prompted, “Live-Action Role-Play! And pretty hardcore, too.”

“I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about,” Dean replied.

“You're asking questions like the building's haunted. Like those guys from the books. What are they called? Uh... ‘Supernatural.’ Two guys, one gal— I think one of the guy’s girlfriends— use fake IDs with rock aliases, hunt down ghosts, demons, vampires. I’m pretty sure the girl’s name is (Y/N)—” at that, your jaw dropped. “But the guys; what are their names? Uh... Steve and Dirk? Uh, Sal and Dane?”

“Sam and Dean?” the younger brother tried.

“That's it!” the man exclaimed.

Dean pressed further, “You're saying this is a book?” The employee nodded. “Books. It was a series. Didn't sell a lot of copies, though. Kind of had more of an underground cult following.” He got up from the stool behind the counter and moved to a table labeled “Bargain Bin.”

“Let's see,” he said. He picked up a book and handed it to you. “That's the first one, I think.”

The title was “Supernatural” by Carver Edlund. The cover was illustrated like an ‘80s-style smut book with Sam depicted having much longer, flowing hair, shirtless and holding a gun. Dean, on the other hand, was depicted in a muscle tee with huge biceps and a much squarer jaw, and you were splayed across the hood of the Impala with a tight tank top and skinny jeans on. You cringed at the sexed-up fantasy versions of you and the boys, and Dean took the book from you.

He flipped it over and read, “ ‘Along a lonely California highway, a mysterious woman in white lures men to their deaths’.”

“Holy shit,” you murmured.

Sam grabbed the book and read it for himself. He looked up at the man, bewildered. “We're gonna need all the copies of ‘Supernatural’ you've got.”

****

You, Dean, and Sam spent the day reading through each and every one of the books; the three of you baffled by every page.

Dean shook his head. “This is fuckin’ insane. How's this guy know all this stuff?”

“You got me,” Sam replied, scrolling away on his laptop. He took it upon himself to research the book’s author to try and find him as well as learn about the series itself. 

“Everything is in here. I mean everything. From the racist truck to– to me having sex. I'm full-frontal in here, dude,” Dean replied, shutting the book titled “Route 666.” “By the way, (Y/N), you were totally jealous,” he smirked.

“I was—!” you sighed. “Nevermind. How come we haven't heard of them before?”

“They're pretty obscure,” Sam replied. “I mean, almost zero circulation. Uh, started in '05. The publisher put out a couple dozen before going bankrupt. And, uh, the last one – ‘Strangers’— ends with (Y/N) and the angels while you were in Hell.”

You sat down at the table across from Sam, turning his laptop toward yourself. 

Dean leaned on the back of your chair, reading over it. “I reiterate. Fuckin’ insane.” Your partner tapped the side of your hip, prompting you to get up. He took your spot, and you took that as an invitation to sit on his lap. 

“Seriously?” Sam deadpanned. “PDA?”

“Oh, come on, dude,” you replied. “I wanna sit down, too.”

“Check it out,” Dean said, scrolling through the website with one hand while the other stayed wrapped around your hips. “There’s actually fans. There’s not many of them, but still. Did you read this?” he questioned, looking between you and Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam replied.

You leaned over to look more into the page. 

“Although for fans, they sure do complain a lot. Listen to this— Simpatico says, ‘the demon story line is trite, clichéd, and overall craptastic.’ Yeah, well, fuck you, Simpatico. We lived it,” Dean grunted.

“Keep on reading,” Sam told you and Dean. “It gets better.”

“There are ‘Sam girls’ and ‘Dean girls’,” your boyfriend smirked. “Oh, even ‘(Y/N) girls,’ and— and,” Dean looked up from the computer, his face dropping a bit. “What's a ‘slash fan’?”

“As in... Sam-slash-Dean. Together,” the brunet cringed.

“Like, together, together?”

Sam nodded. 

Dean was appalled. “They do know we're brothers, right?”

“Doesn’t seem to matter,” Sam replied, grimacing.

“They know (Y/N)’s my girl, right?”

“Speaking of which,” Sam added, trailing off. He took his laptop back, scrolled a little, clicked a bit, and then turned it back toward the two of you. “There’s Sam-slash-Dean-slash-(Y/N).”

“Eww,” you and Dean groaned in unison, and you stood from Dean’s lap.

You crossed your arms and started to pace.

“Oh, come on. That— That's just sick,” Dean grunted. He shut the laptop sharply. “We gotta find this Carver Edlund.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. “That might not be so easy.”

“Why’s that?” you questioned.

“No tax records, no known address—” Sam took his laptop back and started typing. “Looks like ‘Carver Edlund’ is a pen name.”

“Somebody’s gotta know who he is,” Dean argued.

Then, it looked like a lightbulb went off in Sam’s head.

****

Sam’s grand idea was to meet with the publisher. She seemed a little strange, a little awkward, but you found those traits endearing. She wrapped her long sweater around herself in slight discomfort, eyeing you and the boys up and down. It seemed she was pretty skeptical of your intentions.

“So, you published the ‘Supernatural’ books?” Sam asked.

“Yep. Yeah,” she nodded, talking very quickly. Her eyes glazed over dreamily. “Gosh, these books…” she trailed off, “y’know, they never really got the attention they deserved. All anybody wants to read anymore is that romance crap. Y’know, ‘Doctor Sexy, M.D.’?” she scoffed. “Please.”

A lopsided smile pulled at your lips. Dean loved Dr. Sexy, and you teased him about it frequently.

“Right, well, we're hoping that our article can,” Sam trailed off, searching for the words, “shine a light on an underappreciated series.”

“Yeah! Yeah, because, you know, if we got a little bit of good press then m-maybe we could start publishing again,” she said excitedly. 

“No, no, no, no,” Dean rushed out. “God, no. I mean, why— why would you want to do that? Y’know, it's, uh, such a complete series, what with Dean going to Hell and all.”

The publisher clutched a hand to her chest, suddenly growing quite emotional. “I don’t think it’s complete! I mean, look at poor (Y/N) and the angels! Gosh, you must not ‘ve read it yet.” Before Dean could even reply, the publisher was off on another rant. “Ugh, the book where he went to Hell… that was one of my favorite ones, because Dean was so— so strong, and sad, and brave. And Sam— I mean, the best parts are when they'd cry. Y’know, like in— in ‘Heart’, when Sam had to kill Madison, the first woman since Jessica he really loved. And in ‘Home,’ when Dean had to call John and ask him for help.” The publisher turned away, tearing up. “Gosh, if only real men were so open and in touch with their feelings.”

Dean nearly choked. “Real men?”

The publisher turned back around with a sniffle and an awkward smile. “I mean, no offense. How often do you cry like that, hmm?”

“Well, right now, I'm crying on the inside,” Dean remarked dryly. 

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Lady, this whole thing is funny.”

She crossed her arms again. “How do I know you guys are legit, hmm?”

“Oh, trust me. We, uh... we're legit.”

“Well, I don't want any smart-ass article making fun of my boys,” she said. “And don’t even get me started on my (Y/N).”

You, Dean, and Sam quickly chimed in with a chorus of “No”s. 

Sam quieted your chatter by saying, “We— We are actually, um... big fans.”

“Hmm.” She looked skeptical. “You've read the books?” “Cover to cover,” Dean insisted, and you nodded.

A smirk pulled at the woman’s lips. “What's the year and model of the car?”

“It’s a 1967 Chevy Impala,” Dean replied.

“What's May 2nd?” she tried.

“That's my—” you gave Sam a sharp elbow to the side, “uh... that's Sam's birthday,” he corrected, giving you a slight glare.

“January 24th is Dean's,” you said.

“And (Y/B/D) is (Y/N)’s,” Dean added.

“Sam's score on the LSAT?”

Sam looked over at you and Dean, slightly at a loss. “One… seventy-four?”

“And (Y/N)’s middle name?”

“Trick question,” you replied. “She doesn’t have one.”

“Dean's favorite song?” the publisher questioned.

“It’s a tie,” you responded. You could feel Dean staring at you as you answered, “It’s between ‘Ramble On’ and ‘Traveling Riverside Blues’. Both Zeppelin.”

“What’s (Y/N)’s?” the publisher asked.

“Easy,” Dean smirked. “ ‘End of the Line.’ Traveling Wilburys.”

“Back in book one, what’s the first thing (Y/N) thinks when she sees Dean?” the publisher asked.

The question made a slight heat rush to your cheeks. “I— uh, she, she thought he was wearing too many layers for being in the California sun. And that he was really beautiful.”

You could feel Dean’s eyes burning a hole through your skull, and you refused to move your eyes from the publisher’s.

“Okay, okay,” the publisher finally conceded. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s Carver Edlund's real name?” Sam asked.

The publisher’s excitement seemed to deflate. “Oh, no. I— No, sorry, I can’t do that.”

“We just want to talk to him. You know, get the ‘Supernatural’ story in his own words,” Sam begged.

“He’s very private. It’s like Salinger.”

“Please. Like I said – we are, um…” you gave Sam a weird look as he unbuttoned his shirt with a slight cringe to reveal his demon-protection tattoo, “big, big fans.”

It felt like the intro to a bad porno, and Sam gave you and Dean an intense glare to get you to reveal yours as well. 

Dean rolled his eyes, and you pulled down the waistband of your jeans just enough to reveal the bit of your hip with the tattoo on it. 

The woman licked her lips, and she was pretty brazenly eyeing your boyfriend and his brother up and down. “Awesome. You know what?” She turned around and hiked up her skirt. Your eyes nearly turned into saucers when she revealed her left ass cheek to have a matching demon-protection tattoo.

“Whoa,” Dean chuckled uncomfortably. “You are a fan.”

“Okay,” the publisher grinned, scribbling on a pad of paper. “His name's Chuck Shurley. And he's a genius, so don't piss him off.”

****

Dean poked your side as you walked up to the front door of Chuck Shurley’s house. “I didn’t know that’s what you thought of me when you met me.”

You playfully tried to shove him away. “Fuck off.”

He continued trying to poke you, and you shoved him. He quickly rebounded and grabbed you from behind with his arms around your waist. You squeaked and playfully tried to get away from him. 

“Guys, can we focus, please?” Sam asked.

You could almost feel Dean glaring at his brother while he set you back on the ground. To cool him off, you pressed up on your tip-toes and gave Dean a peck on the cheek. His anger seemed to immediately melt away, and he turned to give you a small smirk. Dean then rang the doorbell, and a short, squirrelly looking man answered it. 

“You Chuck Shurley?” Dean asked gruffly.

“The Chuck Shurley who wrote the ‘Supernatural’ books?” Sam prompted further.

The man crossed his arms. “Maybe. Why?”

“I'm Dean. This is Sam and (Y/N). The Dean, Sam, and (Y/N) you've been writing about.” Chuck closed the door in your faces.

You rang the bell again, annoyance growing and patience thinning.

“Look, uh, I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Chuck said when he opened the door again. “Really, I do. It's, uh, it's always nice to hear from the fans. But, uh, for your own good, I strongly suggest you get a life.”

Dean put a hand out to stop the door when the author tried to shut it. “See, here's the thing. We have a life. You've been using it to write your books.” He shoved the door open with his shoulders squared, subsequently forcing Chuck to back up into the house.

“Now, wait a minute. Now, this isn't funny.” Chuck held his hands up in surrender, and he shrank away from the approaching older Winchester.

You found the way Dean’s shoulders bristled to be incredibly attractive. “Damn straight, it’s not funny,” your boyfriend said.

“Look, we just want to know how you're doing it,” added Sam.

“I'm not doing anything!”

Dean pressed forward. “Are you a hunter?”

“What? No. I'm a writer.”

“Then how do you know so much about demons?” He continuously approached the shorter man, and Chuck fell back on his couch. “And Tulpas, and changelings?”

“Is this some kind of ‘Misery’ thing? Ah, it is, isn't it? It's a ‘Misery’ thing!” he rambled.

“God, no, it’s not a ‘Misery’ thing,” you snorted. “You’d already have your ankles broken if it was.”

“And believe me, we are not fans!” Dean growled.

“Dean, babe, relax,” you urged him.

“Well, then, what do you want?!” Chuck questioned. His voice had risen about an octave as he asked the question.

“I'm Sam. And that's Dean. And that’s (Y/N).” The younger brother gestured between the three of you.

“Sam, Dean, and (Y/N) are fictional characters. I made them up! They're not real!”

You thought for a second. “Come with us,” you ordered. 

“What? Where?” the author asked.

You simply grabbed his arm and dragged him behind you.

“I told you this is a ‘Misery’ thing!” he panicked, trying to shrug you off.

“Dean, pop the trunk,” you told him.

He nodded.

“What?! The trunk!”

“Relax, dude.” You brought the reluctant Chuck behind you to see the arsenal in the trunk. When you let his arm go, his shoulders seemed to relax.

“Are those real guns?” Chuck asked, looking a bit shocked. 

“Yup. This is real rock salt, these are real fake IDs,” Dean replied, pointing to the objects in the trunk.

“Well, I got to hand it to you guys. You really are my number one fans.” He still seemed very nervous. “That’s, that’s awesome. So, I— I think I've got some posters in the house.”

“Chuck, stop,” Dean grunted.

“Please. Wait. Please, don't hurt me.” He cowered in fear.

“How much do you know? Do you know about the angels? Or Lilith breaking the seals?” Sam asked, clearly running out of patience as well.

Then, Chuck seemed confused. “Wait a minute. How do you know about that?”

“The question is, how do you,” Dean nearly snarled.

Chuck looked at your partner as if he was crazy. “Because I wrote it?”

“You kept writing?” Sam questioned.

“Yeah, even after the publisher went bankrupt, but those books never came out. Okay, wait a minute. This is some kind of joke, right? Did that— Did Phil put you up to this?”

“Well, nice to meet you. I'm Dean Winchester, and this is my brother, Sam,” Dean said. “And that’s (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

Chuck then seemed more confused than startled. “The last names were never in the books. I never told anybody about that. I never even wrote that down.” The author looked like he was going to vomit. He turned on his heel and hurried back into the house, and you and the boys were quick to go after him. 

When you made it to Chuck’s kitchen, you found him pouring a large glass of whiskey. He gulped it down, and then, he turned around. He startled a bit, groaned, and closed his eyes. “Oh! Oh, you’re still there.”

Dean nodded sharply. “Yup.”

“You're not a hallucination.”

“Nope.”

“Well, there's only one explanation. Obviously I'm a god.” You and Dean groaned.

Sam rolled his eyes. “You're not a god.”

“How else do you explain it? I write things and then they come to life. Yeah, no, I'm definitely a god. A cruel, cruel, capricious god. The things I put you through— god, the physical beatings alone,” Chuck grimaced.

“Yeah, we're still in one piece,” Dean grumbled.

“I killed your father. I burned your mother alive.” Chuck ran a hand through his hair and then gestured at you. “And you! I made you kill your parents! And then you had to go through the whole horrific deal again with Jessica—”

Sam tried to object. “Chuck—”

“All for what? All for the sake of literary symmetry,” he rambled. “I toyed with your lives, your emotions, for... entertainment.”

“You didn't toy with us, Chuck, okay?” Sam exasperated. “You didn't create us.”

The author seemed to calm down for a moment, and he gave the three of you a side eye. “Did you really have to live through the bugs?”

The three of you nodded.

“What about the ghost ship?”

Dean nodded sharply. “Yeah, that, too.”

“I am so sorry. I mean, horror is one thing, but to be forced to live bad writing,” Chuck trailed off. “if I would have known it was real, I would have done another pass.”

“Chuck, you're not a god!” Dean grunted.

Sam added, “We think you're probably just psychic.”

“No. If I were psychic, you think I'd be writing? Writing is hard,” the man whined.

Sam searched for the words. “It seems that somehow, you're just... focused on our lives.”

“Laser-focused,” you chimed in. “You workin’ on anything right now?”

Then, something seemed to dawn on him. “Holy crap,” the author breathed out. He skittered over to a stack of papers and frantically flipped through them. “The, uh, latest book? It's, uh, it's kind of weird.”

“ ‘Weird’ how?” Sam questioned.

“It’s very Vonnegut,” replied Chuck.

Dean quirked a brow. “Slaughterhouse-Five Vonnegut or Cat's Cradle Vonnegut?”

Sam seemed surprised by his brother. “What?”

“What?” Dean grunted defensively.

The younger brother looked amused.

“It's, uh, Kilgore Trout Vonnegut. I wrote myself into it. I wrote myself, at my house, confronted by my characters,” Chuck explained.

You dropped your head back, slightly frustrated and slightly amused by the absurdity of the situation. With your head reeling, you walked out of the front door of Chuck’s home.

“Think you could let me see that?” Sam asked him.

Hesitantly, Chuck nodded and handed over the manuscript.

The brunet took it and immediately started flipping through it while you and the brothers headed out the door.

“But that’s—”

“We’ll bring it back,” Dean noted sharply, shutting the door behind him.

****

Once in the car, Dean began driving to the laundromat nearby as you’d suggested on the way to Chuck’s house.

“Since when do you read Vonnegut?” Sam asked Dean absentmindedly while he scanned through the manuscript.

“Since—” Dean started, cutting himself off, “none of your business.”

You smirked. “We watched Slaughterhouse-Five two summers ago. Dean really liked it, so I suggested he read Cat’s Cradle. He liked that one, too.”

“Huh,” Sam chuckled. “You’re rubbin’ off on him, (Y/N).”

“Slow your roll, Sammy,” you replied. “I haven’t even gotten him to Farenheit 451 yet.”

“In my defense, there’s only so much to do in some of these crap towns,” Dean added.

As night fell, you helped Sam carry the dirty laundry into the laundromat.

Dean took the manuscript off the front seat and brought it in with him while you and Sam loaded the machine.

“I’m sitting in a laundromat, reading about myself sitting in a laundromat reading about myself,” Dean said, slightly bewildered.

“My head hurts.”

“There's got to be something this guy's not telling us,” Sam replied.

“Sam, no darks yet,” you told him, taking the t-shirt he’d just tossed in out of the machine.

“ ‘Sam, no darks yet’, (Y/N) said, having gotten used to parenting the two men she lived with,” Dean read from the paper. “Sam rolled his eyes at (Y/N), but his mind was elsewhere. He was starting to have doubts about Chuck; about whether he was telling the whole truth.”

“Stop it,” Sam grumbled.

“ 'Stop it,' Sam said’,” Dean smirked. “Guess what you do next.” The younger brother turned away.

“ ‘Sam turned his back on Dean and (Y/N), his face brooding and pensive.’ I mean, I don't know how he's doing it, but this guy is doing it. I can't see your face, but those are definitely your ‘brooding and pensive’ shoulders,” Dean mocked.

Sam gave an exasperated sigh.

You looked over Dean’s shoulder. “You just thought Dean was a dick.”

Sam turned around, suddenly seeming impressed. “The guy's good.”

****

The next day, you returned to Chuck’s house with the papers. You and the Winchesters had read through every page.

“This feels like The Twilight Zone,” you told Dean as you approached the doors of the house.

Chuck opened it before you even had a chance to knock, catching you slightly off-guard. “Oh, good,” he shuddered, “you’re here.” He skittered back into his house, and the three of you followed him inside.

He picked up some more pages off his messy kitchen table and began to pace back and forth. 

“So, you wrote another chapter?” Sam deduced.

“This was all so much easier before you were real,” the author sighed.

“We can take it; just spit it out,” Dean said, growing impatient.

“You especially are not gonna like this.”

“I didn't like Hell,” Dean deadpanned.

“I didn’t like Uriel,” you added.

Chuck nodded shakily. “It's Lilith. She's coming for Sam.”

“Coming to kill him?” Dean’s eyes widened.

“When?” Sam wondered.

“Tonight.”

“What, she’s just gonna drop outta the sky?” you scoffed. “Here?”

Chuck sat down and put his glasses on the end of his nose. “Uh... let’s see, uh, ‘Lilith patted the bed seductively. Unable to deny his desire, Sam succumbed, and they sank into the throes of fiery demonic passion’.” Sam laughed. “You're kidding me, right?”

“You think this is funny?” Dean snapped.

“You don't? I mean, come on. ‘Fiery demonic passion’?”

“It's just a first draft,” Chuck said sheepishly.

You shook your head. “Wait, wait, wait. Lilith is a child.”

“No, uh, this time she's a ‘comely dental hygienist from Bloomington, Indiana’,” Chuck answered.

“Fantastic,” you grumbled.

“So what happens after the... ‘fiery demonic’ whatever?” Dean asked.

You and Dean were barely giving each other time to finish before you were bombarding Chuck with more questions.

“I don't know, it hasn't come to me yet,” the author replied.

“Guys, look, there's nothing to worry about. Lilith and me? In bed?” Sam scoffed.

You spun on your heel to face Sam. “Wouldn’t put it past you, darlin’!”

Sam glared at you, ready to fire back, but Dean cut him off by asking Chuck, “How does this whole psychic thing of yours work?”

“You mean, my process?” he replied.

“Yes, your ‘process’,” the older brother mocked.

“Well, it usually starts with a headache,” the smaller man began. “A really bad headache. Aspirin is useless, so... I drink. Until I fall asleep. The first time it happened, I thought it was just a crazy dream.”

“The first time you dreamt about us?”

Chuck nodded. “It flowed. It just— it kept flowing. It still does. I— I can't stop it, really.”

“You can't seriously believe—”

Dean cut Sam off. “Humor me.” 

Chuck held up the manuscript.

“Look, why don't we, we just,” Dean trailed off, reaching for the manuscript, “take a look at these and see what's what.” He then seemed to realize what had happened. “You—”

“—knew you were gonna ask for that. Yeah,” the man nodded.

****

You refused to speak to Sam, and your mind was spinning. With no idea whether or not the angels still expected you to kill him if he fell out of line again, you just kept your mouth shut.

Dean was white-knuckling the steering wheel as he drove, and Sam was reading the latest chapter in the passenger seat.

“Dean, come on,” Sam scoffed. He then read from the pages, “ ‘The minivan accident wasn't that bad, but Dean was still seeing stars. He scratched absently at the pink flower Band-Aids on his face’.”

“So?” you questioned.

“So, I’ve seen him gushing blood. You'd use duct tape and bar rags before you'd put on a pink flower Band-Aid,” Sam replied.

“What's your point?”

“My point is this— all of this— is totally implausible; it's nuts,” the younger brother argued.

“He's been right about everything so far. You think he's just gonna ground out at first now?” Dean finally said. 

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, continuing to read. “Huh. ‘Dean slid behind the wheel of his beloved Impala and drove off, the plastic tarp on the rear window flapping like the wings of a crow’.” “A tarp?” you and Dean questioned in unison.

“Yeah. On the rear window. And you drive it like that,” Sam nodded at Dean.

“Well, he might be wrong about the details but doesn't mean he's wrong about the end result,” the older brother replied.

Sam looked annoyed. “So we’re just gonna run?”

“Dude, we are a long way from ready for a face-to-face death match with Lilith.”

“Babe, slow down,” you said, looking at the officers blocking the road ahead.

A deputy leaned over into the car’s window while Dean rolled to a stop. 

“What seems to be the problem?” Dean asked, trying not to seem defensive.

“Bridge is out ahead,” the deputy nodded in the direction of the roadblock.

“We're just trying to get out of town.”

The deputy pursed his lips. “Yeah, ‘fraid not.”

You could see by Dean’s shoulders he was beginning to panic. “Is there a detour?”

“Nope.”

“There's not a side road that takes us to the highway?” 

“To get to the highway, you have to cross that river. To cross the river, you have to take that bridge,” the man answered.

“How deep's the river?”

You sighed, folding your arms and slumping down in your seat. “Dean—”

“Sorry. Afraid you kids are gonna have to spend the night in town.”

****

It was safe to say you and Dean were at your wit’s end. This was just another instance in which you felt like an accessory to your life; that free will wasn’t yours to have. Your mind was absolutely swimming as Dean and Sam tried to figure out a way around the manuscript.

They proposed the three of you do the opposite of what the paper told you, but something in you knew that was futile. Your theory was proven true when the “tofu burger” Dean had ordered turned out to be the bacon cheeseburger you knew he wanted.

Dean then decided to head to the Toreador Motel, and Sam made his distaste apparent.

“Dude, this place charges by the hour,” he scoffed.

“Yeah, well, the book says Lilith finds you at the Red Motel. Hence, the uh, hooker inn. It's opposite day, remember?” Dean replied.

You followed your partner into the motel room you’d be sharing with him and Sam. You began taking hex bags out of Dean’s duffel to try to keep Lilith away for as long as possible. 

“What are you doing?” Sam questioned. His tone was slightly judgmental.

“Couple of hex bags ought to Lilith-proof the room,” Dean replied, coming to your defense. He motioned for you to throw one to him.

“So, what? I'm supposed to just hole up here all night?” the brunet scoffed.

“That's exactly what you're gonna do, okay? And no research. I don't care what you do— use the Magic Fingers or watch Casa Erotica on Pay-Per-View,” Dean replied, taking Sam’s laptop out of his bag with a grin. 

“Oh, dude, come on.”

“Just call it a little insurance,” Dean replied.

“What are you gonna do?”

“Well, the pages say that I spend all day riding around in the Impala with (Y/N). So I'm gonna go park her. Behave yourself, would you? No homework. Watch some porn,” he grinned wickedly, pleased with himself.

You followed him out with a small smile on your face.

As soon as you were in the car, you asked Dean, “What’s bothering you?”

“What?” he asked, starting the Impala’s engine.

“C’mon, tell me. You’re not… you,” you replied.

Dean sighed, tearing out of the parking lot before speaking again. “You remember how you said you felt like an accessory to your own life?”

You nodded.

“I’m startin’ to feel that way, too.” 

You just started at him while you waited for him to continue talking.

“I’m runnin’ on fumes, here, (Y/N). And the fuckin’ angels and the apocalypse, and Lilith, and…” he trailed off, “Sam.”

“Don’t even get me started,” you replied, scoffing slightly.

“Yeah,” he said, looking sad.

You dropped your shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to pick on him or get between you two. I just… I’m so frustrated with him.”

“Trust me, I am, too,” Dean told you. “You don’t have to feel guilty for givin’ ‘im shit. I’m this close to swingin’ on ‘im.”

You giggled slightly. “Sorry. ‘S not funny.”

“You’re right, it’s not,” Dean grumbled.

You shrank further in your seat. “I’m sorry.”

“Sweetheart, look at me.”

You pulled your eyes up from your lap and looked over at Dean. 

He occasionally looked away from the road briefly to flick his eyes to yours. “I’m not mad at you. You’re okay.”

You nodded, but you still felt your heart pounding. 

“I’m gonna kill those fuckers for what they did to you,” he growled, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he drove.

You looked up again. “Who?”

“The angels,” Dean responded. “You’re not yourself anymore, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry.”

“(Y/N), stop,” Dean urged. “I’m not mad at you: really. You’re okay. I still love you.”

Tears welled in your eyes. “You shouldn’t.”

“I should.”

“I’m sick, Dean.”

“So am I.”

“It’s not the same,” you protested. “You did what you did because you had to. I did what I did because I wanted to.”

“You wanna know why I’ve had such a hard time forgiving myself?” Dean asked, his tone slightly elevated. “Because I wanted to do it, too. I’ve told you that. And you still love me. Why can’t you believe I feel the same about you?” Dean parked the car on the corner of the street, turning to look at you. “I’m serious, look at me.” He grabbed your face gently and turned it up to face his. You kissed him deeply. 

“I love you,” you muttered against his lips. 

“I love you, too.”

Just then, the back window of the Impala shattered. You quickly grabbed your gun out of the glovebox and wheeled around, firing off a shot. 

“(Y/N), wait!” Dean shouted, but it was too late. 

You dropped the gun in shock, praying to god you didn’t just kill someone. Frozen to the spot, Dean got out to go look if the person trying to break into the car had been killed. 

Dean looked through the shattered back window. “They’re fine. They were a bunch of punk teens. They’re runnin’ away.” Dean started around to your side of the car to open the door for you. “C’mon, if we run, maybe we can catch ‘em!”

Just then, a van came careening toward him.

You screamed, putting your hands over your mouth when Dean got thrown to the ground. “Dean!” you cried. Instantly, you got out of the car and ran over to his unconscious body. 

You rolled him on his back and straightened out his legs to check him for injuries or fractures. “Somebody, help!”

The family driving the van got out and profusely apologized to you. The woman driving the van wore long, dangling star earrings, and she said, “Does— Does he need first aid? We— We have some in the van; it’s not ideal, but—”

You cut her off. “Anything works,” you replied quickly, tucking your hair behind your ears while you fussed over Dean.

The woman returned shortly with a box of pink, flowery bandaids, and you stared at it blankly for a moment.

“Is— Does that work for you?”

You nodded. “Yeah, yeah. This is great, thanks.”

****

“Fuckin’ hell, my head hurts,” Dean groaned from the passenger seat. You drove the Impala with a busted-up Dean covered in pink bandaids and the back of the Impala’s window covered with a tarp from the van’s owners. It flapped in the wind like the wings of a crow.

“I know,” you told him, “I’m sorry.”

“Where are we going?” he asked. 

“Chuck’s,” you answered shortly.

****

You and Dean helped yourselves to waters from Chuck’s fridge while you waited for him to return home. When he did, he didn’t seem surprised to see you. 

“Why do I get the feelin’ there's something that you're not telling us?” Dean nearly growled, approaching Chuck with his shoulders squared.

“What wouldn’t I be telling you?” he stammered.

“How you know what you know, for starters!” Dean was backing Chuck against a wall, and you just watched with your arms crossed.

“I don't know how I know, I just do!”

“That's not good enough,” Dean replied. He shoved Chuck to the wall by his collar. “How the hell are you doing this?!”

Suddenly, Castiel appeared beside you. “Dean, let him go!” 

Your partner wheeled around. 

“This man is to be protected,” the angel insisted.

“Why?” you scoffed.

“He's a Prophet of the Lord.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

“You... You're Castiel... aren't you?” Chuck breathed out.

“It's an honor to meet you, Chuck. I... admire your work.” The angel picked up a book and started thumbing through it. 

“Whoa, whoa, what?” Dean chuckled dryly. “This guy, a prophet? Come on, he's – he's... he's practically a Penthouse Forum writer.” He turned to Chuck, his eyes slits. “Did you know about this?”

You picked up Chuck’s whiskey and handed the author the bottle. 

“Thanks,” Chuck swallowed, taking a huge swig. “I, uh, I might have dreamt about it.”

You snarled, “And you didn’t think to tell us?!”

“It was too preposterous. Not to mention arrogant. I mean, writing yourself into the story is one thing, but as a prophet? That's like M. Night-level douchiness.”

You sighed. 

“This is the guy who decides our fate?” Dean whispered harshly to Castiel.

“He isn't deciding anything. He's a mouthpiece: a conduit for the inspired word.”

“The word? The word of god? What, like the new new testament?” you asked.

“One day, these books: they'll be known as the Winchester gospel,” the angel replied.

“You’re kidding,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

“I am not,” Castiel replied, looking confused.

Chuck disappeared upstairs with a small excuse for himself.

“Him? Really?” Dean questioned.

“You should've seen Luke.”

You smiled a little. 

Dean asked, “Why'd he get tapped?”

“I don't know how prophets are chosen. The order comes from high up on the celestial chain of command.”

“How high?”

“Very.”

“Well, whatever. How do we get around this?”

“Around what?”

“The Sam-Lilith love connection,” Dean grimaced. “How do we stop it from happening?”

“What the prophet has written can't be unwritten. As he has seen it, so it shall come to pass,” the angel replied.

“Great. Fantastic,” you muttered.

****

You and Dean immediately raced back to the motel you’d left Sam at. When Sam told you he’d burned the hex bags to ward off Lilith, you were furious.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you shouted.

“Lilith is gonna slaughter you,” Dean added.

Sam shrugged calmly. “Maybe she will, maybe she won't.”

“So what?” Dean scoffed. “You think you can take her?”

“Only one way to find out, Dean, and I say bring her on.”

“You are out of your fucking mind,” you laughed humorlessly. 

Sam glared at you. “You think I'll do it, don't you? You think I'll go dark side.”

“What else am I supposed to think?!”

“Dean, little help here?” Sam questioned, gesturing at you. 

The older brother held his hands up in surrender. “I’m on her side, here.”

“Seriously?!”

“Yes! Okay? Yes. The way you've been acting lately? The things you've been doing?”

For the first time, Sam looked a little startled.

Dean’s voice got dangerously low. “Oh, I know. How you ripped Alastair apart like it was nothing, like you were swatting a fly. Cas told me, okay?”

“What else did he tell you?” Sam questioned.

“Nothing I don't already know. That you've been using your psychic crap, and you've been getting stronger. We just don't know why, and we don't know how,” Dean responded. It was clear his guard was up.

“It’s not what you think—” Sam tried to defend.

You scoffed. “Sam, just stop. I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth anymore.”

“You have no right to say that—”

“Really?” you challenged, raising your eyebrows and stepping to him. “ ‘Cause if you wanna lecture me about trust and honesty, we can go there. We can talk about the phone call you had with Ruby after you nerfed Alastair.”

“You what?” Dean roared.

“Dean—” Sam pleaded, still clearly very frustrated.

The older brother just grabbed his bag and turned for the door. “Are you coming or not?” he asked, fuming.

Sam took a deep breath, eyes steely. “No.”

Before Dean left the room, he dropped his bag forcefully on a chair next to the door before heading out. You followed him, slightly confused.

“Dean, we gotta get the hell outta dodge,” you told him. “Lilith is coming, and we cannot fuckin’ stop her.”

“I know, (Y/N),” he replied, sighing. “I know, I know.”

“So, what now?”

“Just let me think a second, okay?” He stopped next to the soda machine and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, I feel stupid doing this. But... I am fresh out of options.”

It was then you realized he wasn’t talking to you. 

“So please. I need some help. I'm praying, okay? Come on. Please,” Dean begged.

Castiel, thus, appeared. “Prayer is a sign of faith. This is a good thing, Dean.”

Rage boiled in your chest knowing you’d prayed to him for so long while receiving no answer. It hurt to know that especially your mother’s prayers had been ignored.

“So does that mean you'll help me?” Dean asked. 

The angel shrugged somewhat. “I'm not sure what I can do.”

“Drag Sam out of here, now. Before Lilith shows up.”

The angel shook his head. “It's a prophecy. I can't interfere.”

You sighed. “Castiel, please. You’ve ignored my prayers before,” you told him, a little pain in your voice. “But even still, I’ve gone to hell and back for you. And so has Dean. He has never asked you for anything. As far as I’m concerned, Sam’s made his choices. But for Dean’s sake, please. Please.”

“What you're asking,” Castiel sighed, “it's... not within my power to do.”

“Why? 'Cause it's ‘divine prophecy’?” Dean snorted.

He nodded.

“So, what? We're just supposed to sit around and, and wait for it to happen?”

“I'm sorry,” the angel responded.

“Fuck you. You and your mission. Your ‘god’,” Dean snarled. “If you don't help me now, then when the time comes and you need me, don't bother knocking.” He brushed past the angel, and you followed.

“Dean,” Castiel called after him. “Dean!”

Your partner wheeled around. “What?!”

“You must understand why I can't intercede,” the angel explained.

“Prophets are very special. They're protected.”

He huffed. “I get that.”

“If anything threatens a prophet, anything at all, an archangel will appear to destroy that threat. Archangels are fierce. They're absolute. They're heaven's most terrifying weapon.”

“And these archangels; they're tied to prophets?” Dean questioned.

You could practically see an idea rolling around in his mind.

“Yes.”

“So if a prophet was in the same room as a demon—”

Castiel cut Dean off. “Then the most fearsome wrath of heaven would rain down on that demon. Just so you understand why I can't help.”

He offered a half-hearted smile. “Thanks, Cas.”

“Good luck.”

You nodded at him, and the two of you headed to the Impala.

****

Utilizing a bit of coercion, Dean figured out a way to stop Lilith and Sam from their “fiery demonic passion.” He used the knowledge given to the two of you by Castiel to make Chuck come with you to Sam’s motel room. 

Just as it seemed Lilith was going to attack Sam, the three of you burst through the door. 

“I am the prophet Chuck!” he cried shakily.

Lilith’s shoulders dropped. “You've got to be joking.” With a roll of her eyes, she began approaching Chuck.

“Oh, this is no joke,” Dean smirked, his voice low and gravelly. The ground began to shake, and a brilliant white light began filling the room as Dean continued. “You see, Chuck here's got an archangel on his shoulder. You've got about ten seconds before this room is full of wrath and you're a piece of charcoal. You sure you want to tangle with that?”

With one last look to Sam, she poured out of her vessel’s mouth.

****

Dean didn’t want to waste any time. As soon as Chuck was dropped back off at his house, you and the brothers were on the road again.

The tarp flapped loudly behind you, slightly driving you insane. However, you were trying to focus on the conversation between Sam and Dean.

“So a deal, huh?” Dean questioned.

“That's what she said.”

“To call the whole thing off— angels, seals, Lucifer rising— the whole nine?” he asked again.

“That was the gist of it,” the younger brother shrugged.

Dean huffed.

“What?” Sam asked.

“You didn't think once about taking it?”

Sam scoffed. “You kidding me? Dude, you spent all day trying to talk me off the Lilith track.”

Dean shook his head. “I'm just saying—”

“She would have found some way to weasel out of it. And all it would have cost us was our lives.”

Your partner sighed. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”

“Anyway, that's not the point.”

“Then, what is?” you asked.

“She's scared,” Sam replied. “I could see it. Lilith is running.”

“Running from what?”

He pursed his lips. “Don't know. But she was telling the truth about one thing.”

“What's that?” Dean chimed back in.

“She's not gonna survive the apocalypse. I'll make sure of that.”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-nesmith @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[alicelillianshaw]

Alice watches Jack's smile, returning a grin as she eyes him holding his own packed duffel. All set for this trip.

All set for New Mexico, the massive sky that waited, deep red canyons and constellations and sagebrush and stones, stones a billion shades of blue.

It made something inside her tremble and soar, a bird lifting off for flight.

It was really happening.

'You look exactly like me when I wear that. I don't think people would be able to tell the difference.'

Hah. She exhales, shaking her head. Yeah. Minus the glaring height difference.

"I'm not sure what to say if we land and someone asks me for a sound bite about new zoning bills or anything like that."

Alice extends her leg. Watches the way the cuff of the sweatpants billows over her ankle, clearly too large.

"I also don't think I quite have your innate aplomb. And coolness. But I appreciate you saying that."

Yeah— you typically had to have an air about you, to get elected. A certain something that grabbed people's attention. Jack certainly did. Jack could wear anything and look confident.

She can only imagine how he'd look in New Mexico. Beneath the blazing sun, casting everything in brilliant warmth. Beneath the setting sky. Beneath the night sky, looking beautiful, head crowned by stars.

She watches as he picks up their bags. Departure imminent. The night had started with shock, painted on both of their faces, what happened in the office, and now it was this— them about to leave. Them, New Mexico. Alice's mind is racing far ahead, feeling hopeful, feeling excited for everything in their future. They could handle the other things. Together. They would find a stone to match hers.

'Car's here. Cora's sitter is also on the way. Anything else you need to bring? Last chance.'

Alice pauses— then immediately shakes her head. What else was needed?

On this trip, and in general? Alice thinks she has all she needs.

"I'm all set. You're going. As long as you're going, the rest doesn't matter."

She plays with the hem of her shirt— Jack's shirt — idly.

"Though. I did pack my writing journal. Not my work one."

How could she not? With all the things he inspired.

Jack walked into his bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He'd already packed the essentials — tooth brush, razor, shampoo, body wash. That was all neatly tucked away in his duffel bag. But there were a few other things that he'd been hesitant to pack. After Alice had caught Jack in his office, he really, really didn't want to bring any pills. Definitely no coke, but. But. He needed them, and Alice just… didn't understand. And he didn't want to make her understand. He had a feeling she never would, and it wasn't a problem anyway, so why did it matter? He wanted the next few days to be nice. If he didn't bring any pills with him, he just … wouldn't sleep. He'd be awake for days on end, and it'd be miserable for Alice. So, without another thought, Jack reached for the little baggies of pills. He'd thought of the perfect plan, actually.

There was an old bottle of hydroxyzine from a few months back. It was an antihistamine, used off label to treat anxiety, and it was generally nonaddictive. It was prescribed to Jack by his primary care physician to help with some of the "panic attacks" he'd been having. It made the average person drowsy. Not Jack. They hadn't worked for Jack, no matter how many he took. He was superhuman like that.

Jack dumped the leftover pills into the toilet, flushing them, before filling the bottle with Xanax and Adderall. He wouldn't bring coke. Adderall would be fine for a few days. As long as Alice didn't look inside (and he'd make sure she didn't), she'd never know the difference. The outside of the bottle said: take 1-2 pills as needed for anxiety/sleep. Prescribed to Jackson E. Kennedy. Refills remaining: 0. Yeah, this worked. In fact, Jack thought he could leave the pills on the nightstand of wherever they stayed. A (scummy) display of trust, so Alice would see that he was taking real medicine prescribed to him.

Jack walked out of his room, duffel bag in hand, particularly proud of his own cleverness. Alice was standing there in … all of his clothes, it seemed. His favorite Knicks t-shirt, sweatpants that were too big on her. And — were those the socks he'd packed for her, too? Jack smiled, trying not to feel guilty.

"You look exactly like me when I wear that. I don't think people would be able to tell the difference."

Jack reached for both of their bags, heading in the direction of the stairs.

"Car's here. Cora's sitter is also on the way. Anything else you need to bring? Last chance."

[bragginball-z]

Hi guys, this is an excerpt from one of my current WIPs! The basic premise of this fic is that Cas was given a journal by the Winchesters in order to have something to help him keep busy while they sleep. Each one of his entries gives a deeper look into his views on some of my favorite destiel scenes. This entry in particular takes place after the events of “Goodbye Stranger” in which Castiel nearly kills Dean due to Naomi’s mind control. I had so much fun writing this, I hope you enjoy reading it! >:D

A Love Letter to Humanity

———————————————————————

March 27th, 2013

I almost killed Dean. I felt his flesh tensing and giving as my knuckles met his supple skin. I felt the fibers of his body I so tenderly knitted back together split and ooze blood beneath my hands. In my mind I heard Naomi’s words, frantic and demanding as she ordered for me to just do it. I felt the cold metal of my blade rest securely in my palm as I readied myself to deliver the finishing blow. And then I heard him. Dean. I heard his voice. Not the crude imitation Naomi conjured thousands of times. She never could get his cadence right. The deep timbre in his voice overly done or completely vacant. No, the moment I heard him I knew it was actually him

Dean asked me what broke the connection, what snapped me out of my Naomi induced mind control. At the time I said I didn't know. I alluded to the possibility of the angel tablet being responsible for my mental clarity. But now, as I channel my thoughts and I write, reliving every second of that moment, I know exactly what broke the connection. Dean did. The upset in his voice as he stubbornly encouraged my violence turned into a somber tone at his realization that I wasn’t in control of what I was doing. The helplessness, the fear in his voice grounding me and yanking Naomi's hooks from where they had been deeply implanted into my mind. “This isn't you, Cas,” he had said so confidently. So saddened and sure that the Castiel he knows would never hurt him like this. That I would never cause him so much pain and suffering. Even after all the times I have wronged him, disappointed and lied to him, he still believed with the utmost certainty that I would never kill him of my own volition. That I would never betray myself him in such a way. Not if I was of a sound mind. As I hurt him I felt at war with myself. I was aware of what my vessel was doing but I had no say in the matter. Each time I tried to resist Naomi pulled the reins tighter, my control over my vessel slipping from my grasp at each rough yank. Through this entire struggle Dean spoke to me. He called me part of his family, said they all needed me. The way my name sounded coming from his bloodied and broken mouth haunts me. Like a vengeful spirit it surrounds me and makes me feel cold and on-edge. It reminds me of how many times he said it, how each time he sounded more fearful and defeated. I was not in control, no matter how much I wanted to be. Then he said he needed me. Not Sam, not Kevin, Not the world. Just him. Dean. And just as quickly as those words penetrated my ears I was back in control. As simply as that.

“I need you, Cas.”

I need you. In all my billions upon billions of years alive I have never felt things- emotions, as strongly as when those words pierced my true ears. I need you. Suddenly, terrifyingly, I was aware. It was as if a haze had been lifted from my mind. I could see again with painful clarity. I could see Dean before me, on his knees and pleading, one arm raised in a look of surrender or acceptance. He has never been a man of faith, not like Sam, but seeing him like that reminded me of a most pious man helplessly praying to a cruel god. I have never seen Dean like that. Yes, I've seen him beaten, bloody, defeated, and helpless, but I’ve never seen him so desperate.

His father molded him into a thing to be wielded, an instrument only meant to cause harm; (something I vehemently disagree with but I digress) so why didn't he try and kill me? Yes, I am stronger than him, there is no question about that, but time and time again I have watched Dean fight beings far more powerful than me and walk away victorious. I do believe we have a more profound bond but I feel it’s probably one sided. He has changed me, just in the few years I’ve known him. But I don’t believe I have changed him. Even as I did something as foreignly intimate as rebuilding him and mending his soul, I took care to not change a single thing about him. My higher ups instructed me to do some “minor tweaking” as I rebuilt him. Originally, I had planned to. Truly, I had. But then I touched his soul and I saw him in all his glory. The righteous man. Dean Winchester. My grace swelled and surged all around me, within me, through Dean, and the result was my handprint forever seared into the very essence of his soul. Perhaps I did change him. Physically, without meaning to. I never intended to brand him, to leave a mark of proof that it was me who saved him. But I did. My finely honed powers that never once acted erratically were instantly and overwhelmingly out of my control the moment I laid a hand on him. And from there I only spun more out of control. The worst thing that could happen to an angel started happening to me so gently and unobtrusively that I didn’t notice until it was far too late. I started to feel.

I felt when he said it. I felt so much.

I need you.

Never in my existence have I ever been made so keenly aware of someone's longing. Dean always has a constant feeling of yearning to his soul. Even as I write this I can sense it. A quiet and aching pining that brushes against my grace like a gentle hum of a motor or the purr of a cat. In that moment, however, it was utterly overwhelming. It felt like my grace was aflame. The moment those words fell from his bloodied mouth it was like a dam broke. An eruption of even more emotions and feelings, some I can recognize and others I can’t seem to place engulfed me whole. It was like I was submerged in water and roughly breaching the surface simultaneously. I felt my blade slip from my fingers as the weight of the situation, of Dean’s words, of Naomi’s tampering, finally dawned on me.

Naomi asked me, “Us, or them?” but I know what she was implying. It was the same question countless of my other brothers and sisters asked; “Are we worth giving up for him?”

Yes, you are. Anything is.

Perhaps if I was braver, or maybe slightly more stupid, that’s what I would have said. I act as if saying it is what makes it true. My actions speak loudly enough, they confirm every suspicion and accusation my siblings have about me. It has been proven time and time again, no matter the circumstances, I will always choose him. I know it will be my downfall but I just can't seem to stop myself. No other being matters when I know he’s there. He will always be my priority.

As I sit here and write this I realize Meg is gone. I was too caught up in my selfish musings to take a moment to reflect on that fact. I was quite fond of the demon, for some reason. Maybe it was her charm; sharp tongued and quick witted like someone else that’s disastrously dear to me. Her vessel was attractive as well, from an aesthetics viewpoint. She had nice hair, a vindictive and cocky smile, and a presence that was uniquely her. I think my memories of her will always remain mostly fond. Although, when I think of her an odd feeling settles in my stomach sometimes. I think of the way she indulged me, let me kiss her on a whim, and always had suggestive remarks that made me feel oddly flattered. But when I think of her death… It doesn't sadden me nearly as much as it should. I enjoyed her company, in a nontraditional sort of way, but I don’t grieve her. It is odd knowing I will never see her again, but her death won’t haunt me. I’ll be able to go on with my life, the world will keep turning, more people will die. I just can’t seem to bring myself to miss her. Selfishly, when I think back to that night, when memories surface and I’m overtaken by reliving the past I only see one thing; Dean. I feel cruel and biased but it’s the truth. He is on my mind constantly often. I hope that by writing this out it will help me “work through my feelings” as Sam once put it. Though what there is to “work through” I’m not entirely sure. What I did was unforgivable. What I almost did to the man I Dean, is a sin of no equal. Yes, I was able to heal him with my grace. His contusions taken away and broken bones mended as if he was never hurt to begin with. But I know the truth. Dean knows the truth. Even though he has no physical blemishes or wounds to remind him of what happened, the true damage I’ve done rests far below the surface. Bone deep and embedded into his very being, the hurt I inflicted resides within him. Fractured, shaken, and betrayed. An open wound far beyond what I’m capable of healing. All I can hope for is that even if it lingers it doesn’t fester. That it doesn’t feed on the familial feelings of friendship Dean holds for me. That the wound doesn’t gape so wide open that it swallows whole all of the care I have for him. Now that I know Dean, consider him my friend, my family, it’s hard to imagine what I would do with my time if he wasn’t in my life. I rebelled for him, died for him, killed my own kin just to ensure his well being. In these past years my actions have been reliant on the effect they’d have on Dean. This isn’t to say all of these actions have worked out in the ways I've wanted. No, most of them have failed quite terribly. Regardless, a selfish part of me still hopes Dean can see the reasons behind my actions, see that my intentions are always well meaning.

“I need you, Cas.” Dean had said so earnestly, so full of meaninging, so achingly human. Through his humanity he gave me a gift I never knew I wanted; purpose. I feel like my existence has meaning when I’m around him, when I’m able to help his cause. Slowly, through observing Dean’s actions and hearing his opinions, I feel more for the world around me than I ever have before. Feelings that make me gaze more appreciatively at the humans that live on this little planet. With him, I feel what I imagine it is like to be human. Now that I know what feeling is like, I’m afraid I’ll never be the same. I’m afraid of what I’d feel if I knew Dean hated me.

I don’t know what else to say, I have too much on my mind and I can’t pick out any more cohesive sentences from my jumbled thoughts. When Sam and Dean first gave me this journal they told me that when I ran out of things to say, that was the signal it was time to stop writing. I guess the fact I’m an ancient being with an insurmountable amount of knowledge and experiences doesn't quite register with them. Either way, these journal entries have to end somewhere, lest I run out of space, and an inability to articulate my countless thoughts is probably my “cue” to “wrap things up”. The last thing I’ll say is what has been repeating in my mind, silencing my other thoughts with the sheer amount of feeling behind it ever since the words failed to escape my lips:

I need you too, Dean.

[moonshynecybin]

rider moves and contract rumors, your ranking from most to least likely to happen (alternately, is simon patterson ever right)

thank you !!! truly contract season haunts my every waking thought there’s so many torrid little possibilities and it was supposed to be boring this year and instead it’s soap opera level bananas

jorge>honda

9/10. i think this one is gonna probably happen? like if it doesn’t then i think he skulks back to aprilia and is just kinda miserable with them for a year because they are a team with an abnormally high tolerance for diva behavior after tag teaming aleix and maverick for multiple seasons lol. and then jorge can pick a japanese team for 2027 so eventually it most likely happens anyways. but then with luca out i really do think the absence stars have aligned and it’s looking more and more likely as an option that is clean for both of them and makes sense. which wouldn’t make me mad really, except i don’t know where luca is going and that stresses me OUT !!!!! like if aprilia doesn’t want him i guess he’d be a brilliant test rider but :( lucaaaa… also i think it would be funny if they lost luca and suddenly realize that the bike is bad again

toprak>yamaha

8/10. guys i think lucy might actually let him kick the football lol… truly after all the recent reporting the only part where i was kinda on the fence about its validity was miguel oliveira having a two year contract on the books/jack miller being too good to be a sacrificial lamb generally (booo), but the race has some reporting from pramac that that second year for oliveira could be solidly in doubt, PLUS the pramac team boss confirmed they’ve talked to toprak… and all the previous rumors kinda came just from his own manager… which to me is much more indicative that the ball is in fact rolling down the hill. which is fun i wanna see him cope with our fuck ass tire situation let’s see if he can really play some ball. lots of ball metaphors in this section sorry but i love a juicy little unknown and i think having his loud mouthed manager in the paddock would be SO funny

pecco> yamaha

0/10 SO not happening any time soon it’s kinda funny that this has been circulated as a viable rumor in multiple journalism publications. like girl what. i mean not only is pecco on the record as saying that leaving contracts early divorce is something he deeply personally disapproves of, he’s ALSO invested a lot in this team specifically and has been a ducati fan since he was a baby little boy. and i think in generally he just doesn’t like the idea of “quitting” like if you gave pecco the option he’ll take noble suffering any day of the week… nail himself to that cross if he has to… like i firmly believe that if pecco leaves ducati, it’s going to be a decision FROM ducati, and he’s TOO valuable for bike dev in this current market what with bamboozling front end saves georg marquez over on the other side of the garage even WITH with the problems he’s having. and he’s not even THAT bad he’s just flopping by his own extremely exacting standards. anyways pecco will stay would be my read

enea>aprilia vs luca>aprilia vs ogura >aprilia

unquantifiable. see now here’s where i stare at the screen and steeple my fingers and wonder and hem and haw and then make some decaf and smoke a cigarette… if i had my druthers i think a luca/jorge clean swap would be ideal and luca would fit right tf in at aprilia and we would have a bez/luca teammates era that would be super fun for me AND marco bezzecchi, as luca’s methodical ass nature develops that bike into something more consistently competitive and honda is off spackling over the walls that jmartin punched through when he realizes the honda has mad chatter problems. that would rule. pbut then enea also wants to leave ktm apparently and it’s complicated bc he has a two year deal but the current situation is REALLY not working and enea probably has a higher results ceiling than luca BUT also isn’t that great at bike dev so. genuinely no idea lmao. i would hope they give luca a shot for at least another year bc it’s the cleanest option and let ai ogura develop some more on a more low-stakes environment at trackhouse, who seem to LOVE him and also just really need some good results in their pocket lol. but GOD who knows what’ll happen for real like i certainly don’t

[heavenescent]

⋆˚꩜｡ june: monthly goals & how to achieve them

summer is officially here. there's no more time anticipating the deadline of bikini/glow-up season, and it came a lot faster than you thought. personally, i just finished my first year of uni and it went by quicker than i would've ever expected! i took a week to relax, but now it's time to pick myself back up. here's my top 3 monthly goals for june & some tips:

--------------------------------

--------------------------------

GOAL ONE: get back to the gym!

.ᐣ - what does this mean for me?

i've been recovering from some pretty bad hip, back, and knee injuries from a car crash a little over a year ago, but i'm cleared now to go back to the gym! my body is the weakest it's ever been right now, so i've been getting back into being active by taking outdoor walks, not too difficult hikes, and gentle bodyweight exercises when i have the time. even at the gym, i take things easy by going on the elliptical (mainly to alleviate pressure on my knee) and stick to cardio. once i get my new car in a week, i'm excited to have the freedom to go to the gym again! i'lll be sure to blog about my fitness journey too!

.ᐣ - what does this mean for you?

being disciplined does not mean that you need to be depriving yourself of care. it's so easy to get sucked into toxic motivation and put your all at first, and then lose momentum because you wasted all your energy in the first couple weeks, or even days. i know the advice "be realistic with your goals" is pretty overused, so i like to say, "be firm, but be kind." if your body can't take it, there is no shame in taking a step back. don't be ashamed to let yourself rest, especially when getting started, or starting again. routines should be built to last, and you should not feel like death when you have to stick to them. understand that struggling with change is one thing, but struggling to live in that change is another.

if you feel awful about missing out on getting the summer body for this season, don't fret. even if there isn't realistically enough time to reach your goals, getting started now will feel infinitely better than continuing to push it off. aim to get those 10k steps a day to the best of your efforts. exercising isn't just something that keeps you fit physically, but it truly keeps you fit mentally as well. if you've got a case of summertime sadness, try listening to music or an audiobook on a calm walk. if you can't walk outside or on a machine, just keep yourself on your feet or moving your hands. learning a skill is a great way to stay active, both with your body and your mind.

i'll hopefully be making a complete beginner's guide to the gym soon, because it truly is the best once you get over that initial anxiety. i'll also make a guide to exercising at home in various settings, either living with parents, in an apartment, or with other roommates.

GOAL TWO: cut down on mindless screen time!

.ᐣ - what does this mean for me?

i won't lie... i think i'm one of the worst people i know in regards to screen time and phone usage. and i am ASHAMED of that fact. i used to think phone addiction would never affect me, but i spend nearly every free moment i have on a screen, mindlessly scrolling or consuming brainless, meaningless content. when unpacking the things i brought home from my dorm, i noticed i had a serious problem when instead of putting on music like i would normally do, i struggled to find an enticing enough youtube video to put on in the background. i was subconsciously afraid of being left alone with my own thoughts; i needed something in the background to narrate a controlled train of thought for me on a predetermined topic. in short, not good. for this month, i want to be more mindful of the time i spend online. i started this blog primarily to deal with this issue, and to keep myself accountable by having a place to track my habits. i also just really enjoy journaling and writing, and having a blog is already so therapeutic. instead of doomscrolling, i'll find physical media to interact with, or find knowledge on attaining my aspirations.

.ᐣ - what does this mean for me?

everyone seems to be so attached to their phones, but the way you use your social media is different. you aren't just doomscrolling with no purpose, you're finding tips on improving yourself, or inspiration on new ways to upgrade your personal style. all of this is fine, but the key word in this monthly goal is mindless. if anything, the goal should read: be more mindful about your screen time. be aware that even consuming positive content, such as scrolling through #self improvement can still reach a point of overconsumption. so then, what does it mean to be mindful? well, i think it's a little different for everyone, as most things are.

on one hand of the extreme, no one should ever be spending more than 12 hours a day on social media. on the other hand, i understand why some people can't justify spending less than an hour being on their phone. lifestyles are just too different to be offered a one-size-fits-all solution. so, instead of giving my own unjustified advice, i'd like to recommend a book i read recently:

Digital Minimalism: Choosing a Focused Life in a Noisy Digital World by Cal Newport

to be blunt: this book was incredibly eye-opening, and provides so much more context and solutions to achieving a healthy, balanced relationship and life with your electronics than i can try to muster in one tumblr post. i really cannot recommend this book enough, especially for those of you angels that want to live more presently, without the shackles of algorithms fighting to keep your attention.

GOAL THREE: get closer to finding the real you!

.ᐣ - what does this mean for me?

this is the most abstract goal on this list, and quite fitting for the last of the three main goals of the month. in a world with so much emphasis on finding what makes you individually unique, yet also finding the group or label that fits with that individuality, i have struggled to find something that is truly, authentically myself. over the years, i've come to accept that all the past, present, and future versions of myself (or who i think myself to be) are all me. but even with this in mind, i can't help but feel something nagging deep inside my soul that knows i'm not being authentically true to myself. outside of all the trends and niches, who am i? another reason why i started this blog is to really explore the intricacies of my entire personality, both what i appreciate about myself and what i need to work on improving. i hope that being consistent in my blogging, reflecting, and interacting with others helps me see my genuine interests and characteristics in a relatively anonymous space. please perceive me!

.ᐣ what does this mean for you?

i don't feel all that qualified in giving real advice for this, since it is genuinely just the blind leading the blind here, but i will leave some questions/advice that have helped me be more introspective:

if you were to die tomorrow, what would you be most proud of? you can't be negative or self-deprecating, be genuine. what good have you left in the world? amongst your family and friends, who would remember the impact you have left, and what would they say about it? i promise that even if you think there's absolutely nothing, there is something. think hard, and be kind to yourself.

describe yourself in 3 words, now describe the 3 defining characteristics of what you aspire to be like. how much of an overlap is there? how do your current defining characteristics connect with your desired characteristics? make note of how similar or different they are, and regardless of which it is, find the similarities in them anyways.

look through some pictures of yourself throughout the years. what are the common themes between your past and current aesthetics? even if they seem like they couldn't be any more different, find at least one similarity. the similarity could very well just be that they're popular or trendy at the time. take note of these similarities, and reflect on what this means you're drawn to.

i know these questions all seem pretty different and quite random, but really reflect on all your answers. and i mean reflect. write it down on paper, think it through, jot down all the thoughts as you ponder over each answer. thinking it inside your brain and getting it all down on paper are completely different, and being able to visually see what troubles you grounds you enough to think everything through more. thoughts can very easily get muddled and jumbled up in your head. get them out and reflect on them for the month. no matter what conclusions you come to, use them for good.

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i'll be sure to figure out a way to improve this really blocky formatting, but thank you for reading! i wish you all the best of luck!

love, kate

[onlygirlaliveinnyc]

tied ✰ ✰ ✰ pt.3

pairing: older!dilf!noel gallagher x fem!reader genre: fluff word count: 1102 warnings: none ? summary: old photos resurface and a day out pulls you back together, things soften. a/n: based of @ngmyfav 's request for a pt.3 and a few anon reqs for the same thing— hope yall like the fluff!! i'm not super good with continuing stories so i hope this all makes sense LOL; dunno how i'd to a pt.4 but i think this is a good end

the morning after, anaïs didn’t say much. just wandered into the kitchen with her sunglasses on, wrapped in a hoodie too big for her— her boyfriend's, probably— and poured herself orange juice like she hadn’t walked in on her parents in the middle of a laundry room tryst.

you’d expected fire. sarcasm, at the very least. but she just raised a brow over the rim of her glass and said, “so. are you two… a thing again?”

noel, standing behind you at the stove, looked like he wanted to melt into the tile.

you turned to face her. “we’re… talking.”

“that what they’re calling it these days?” she deadpanned.

you laughed — more from nerves than amusement — and sat across from her, tucking your legs beneath you on the kitchen chair. “we didn’t plan it. it just… happened.”

she tilted her head. “and the talking started before or after you jumped each other in the utility room?”

“anaïs,” noel warned, voice hoarse from sleep and guilt.

“i’m not mad,” she said, shrugging. “just confused. i thought you hated each other.”

you hesitated. “we were young. and loud. and stupid.”

“you still are.”

“less loud, though,” you muttered.

noel coughed into his tea. anaïs cracked a smile.

then she glanced at the table, where a half-unpacked box of old photos had spilled across the wood. some curled at the edges. some in those little plastic sleeves from cheap disposable cameras. a few polaroids tucked between, all yellow-tinged and soft with time.

she picked one up.

it was you — grinning, sunburnt, sat on the floor of some dingy backstage greenroom, noel behind you with his chin on your shoulder, both of you looking like you were about to say something stupid.

“you kept these?” she asked, voice gentler now.

“found them the other day,” noel said. “in the loft.”

anaïs looked between the two of you — her mother in his old t-shirt, sleeves rolled, tea gone cold. her dad in joggers and socks, eyes still puffy with sleep, hair a mess. like a life she’d only ever glimpsed in fragments was slowly unfolding in front of her.

“it’s not just a fling, is it,” she said.

you shook your head. “no.”

anaïs didn’t answer. just reached for another photo.

—

a few hours later, you were out — all three of you. wandered through portobello, peeked into shops. anaïs made you try on sunglasses you’d never wear, teased noel for not knowing what a cruffin was. the sun caught in her hair like it used to when she was little, and she smiled like she meant it.

you bought her a leather-bound journal she’d been eyeing and some skincare she didn’t need but deserved. noel carried the bags. didn’t even complain.

and when she got tired, you hailed a cab for her — gave her a kiss on the cheek and told her to text when she got home.

“i’m happy,” she said, just before the door shut. “for both of you.”

you barely had time to reply before the car pulled away.

noel slid his hand into yours.

—

peggy gallagher had a sixth sense about these things. when anaïs called her earlier — voice suspiciously casual, tone far too innocent — she’d already started preparing tea. by the time you and noel walked through the door, she had a full tray out and a knowing look in her eyes.

“well, well,” she said, eyeing the two of you. “if it isn’t my least discreet son and the woman who used to call me mum even when she was pissed off.”

you flushed. noel groaned. peggy smirked.

“make yourselves useful,” she added, waving toward the kettle. “and don’t sit apart like strangers, i’m not blind.”

you shuffled into the kitchen. noel took mugs out of the cupboard with the quiet dread of a man facing judgment day.

“i was wondering when you’d stop acting like idiots,” peggy said eventually, once you were seated with tea and biscuits and nowhere to hide.

noel blinked. “what d’you mean?”

“please,” she said, waving a hand. “you’ve been circling each other like bloody magnets for years. all that tension. it’s exhausting.”

you choked on your tea. “you noticed?”

“course i did. anaïs gets it from somewhere.”

noel cleared his throat. “well. it’s… different now.”

“it better be,” peggy said. “she deserves more than flowers and flings.”

“she’s got more,” he said, voice low. “always has.”

you looked over, caught the edge of emotion in his face. peggy did too.

her expression softened. “you hurt her once.”

“i know.”

“don’t do it again.”

he shook his head. “i won’t.”

there was a silence — not heavy. just full. then peggy leaned back with a sigh.

“well. i suppose i’ll allow it. but only because i’m sick of seeing you mope around every christmas.”

you laughed. noel rolled his eyes. peggy smiled behind her teacup.

—

later, back at his place, you curled up on the sofa while he made tea.

his place was warmer than you remembered — still full of guitars and half-drunk mugs of tea and records he never put back in their sleeves. but it smelled different. felt different. lived-in. softer.

you pulled your legs under the hem of his hoodie—one you found from raiding his room— the same one he’d once left on the tour bus for you to steal, years ago. it still smelled like him. always would.

“tea,” he said, handing you a mug and settling beside you.

“cheers.”

you sipped in silence for a while, the radio playing soft in the background.

then he said, “i don’t want to mess this up.”

you looked at him. “you’re not.”

“i was a cunt to you.”

“yeah,” you agreed. “but you’re better now.”

he gave you a lopsided smile. “you think?”

“i know.”

he leaned in, kissed your temple. “do you want this? properly?”

you set the mug down. met his eyes. "i never stopped.”

he exhaled — long, shaky — and pulled you into his chest. "i’m gonna do it right this time,” he said into your hair. “swear it.”

you didn’t answer. didn’t need to. just held on tighter.

outside, the city hummed — neon and warm breeze and the buzz of a june night stretching out in front of you. inside, his heartbeat thumped steady beneath your cheek, the kettle ticked cool, and for the first time in years, the silence between you was soft.

you smiled into his hoodie and let yourself believe in it.

just this once

[corviiids]

man i know i just posted a ficlet about it but ive just been thinking so much about light during yotsuba arc having nightmares he can't remember at all when he wakes up. just his subconscious sorting memories that he technically doesn't have anymore so it's like waking up to missing or corrupted data in your own brain. dreams that feels so normal in the moment and that leave you feeling disgusted and haunted about yourself as a person because you felt so normal about something that should obviously feel so wrong now that you're awake even though you know they're just dreams. just so compelling to think about light waking up in a cold sweat but unable to remember what was horrifying him and then taking actual comfort in the chains and in L's constant presence because it means they're going to catch kira and end the nightmares, and also that if by some impossible trick of fate the nightmares are real and he really is kira, that L will put him down and end the nightmares that way. not to repeat myself but pov you are the monster under your own fucking bed!!!!!!!

[ilovetv99]

thinking about ch0mpkin's evil evbo post (evilbo, if you will) and going "How can I align this with My Interests (the axes)" and the answer is Very easily actually

[slayerdurge]

i finally tried out the "lose to orin" path line and i was excited to see if gortash has any unique dialogue about it (considering he has unique dialogue for becoming bhaal's chosen again & for resisting bhaal) but apparently durge can't even tell gortash that she lost to orin 😂 which i mean i guess it kinda makes sense because you probably wouldn't want him to know that if you're trying to ally with him but you'd think you'd still have the option to click it even if he just reacts by attacking you 🤣

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

when I want to write something self indulgent to give me all the angsty and cuddly hurt/comfort feels but I can't because I end up feeling guilty because I'm seeking after feels that I feel in an inappropriate place because my mom told me one time when I was 15 that I shouldn't search that out or it's probably sexual sin but it confuses me because ALL the feels happen that way for me even if it's entirely platonic and nonsexual and so I don't know if it's okay to want to write to that because apparently all pleasure of any sort, even over platonic stories, is sexual or comes with a possibly probably sexual feeling and I also am having a hard time figuring out what's genuine conviction from God and what's just my anxiety/OCD/perfectionism/fear of failure