#and no it is actually pretty well-damn-documented that SPN was NOT

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

For $5 USD stop making everything about that goddamn show for five minutes.

[smol-and-grumpy]

EUPHORIA - Chapter 14

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: He’s Dean Winchester, owner of a shady night club. She’s a journalist who has been asked to write an article to expose the indecency and debauchery that’s going on behind closed doors. But he’s also Dean Winchester, the boy who sat next to her in class. The boy who was too cocky for his own good.

Chapter Warning: Flangst 

WC: 2754

A/N: This chapter fills my ‘shower sex’ square for @spnkinkbingo​​​​​ Please share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear your feedback.

Beta’d by @deanwanddamons​​​​​​​​​​​ <3

This series is more than two weeks ahead on patreon!

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Dean’s in his office with Cas. Two security guys are sitting on the couch. The police came  again to ask questions, and they just left a moment ago.

He walks to the little bar and pours himself a whiskey. Is 4pm too early to drink? Yeah, it probably is, but he doesn’t really fucking care. 

And he woke up feeling so damn good, seeing her dancing naked in his apartment. He watched her doing a victory dance, felt like he had a victory of his own — it went downhill from there. Well, apart from the morning sex. And the second morning sex in the shower. That was pretty memorable, if he’s honest. He thinks back to how he pushed her up against the tiles, pushes his cock into her. Thinks about how she comes around his cock, how her nails claw into his back, marking him up. He lets her down and turns her around then, pushes her against the glass of the shower, slips into her again, bottoming out and fucking her while he spanks her ass raw. He wishes that he could turn back time. Just a little.

Nonetheless, the morning left a bittersweet taste in his mouth. Can’t lie, he was quite irritated that she already found an apartment, and almost wanted to tell her not to take it. But what can he do about it really? Nothing. It is what it is, and well, it’s not like they will stop seeing each other. Because he’s not giving that up so easily.

It’s just—

—he can’t even really explain it. It’s not like he experienced anything like it before either. If Dean had to describe it, he’d say that it’s the feeling of wanting to spend 24/7 with her and only her , and that pisses him off because he has to be a fucking adult about it. It’s especially rubbing him the wrong way, now knowing that someone is after him — and by proxy is after her as well — and he’d just rather know at all fucking times that she’s alright.

Cas is still laughing his ass off and that just makes him grumpier. 

“Cas, you done there?” Dean snarls at his friend and sits down on the couch with a groan. Sex twice this morning is taking a toll on him too. He’s not seven-fucking-teen anymore.

“It’s funny when you think about it, no?” Cas tries his best to suppress his grin.

Cas is laughing about the fact that the police want the list of people who hold a grudge against Dean. Which is probably longer than he cares to admit, hence Cas’ stupid laugh. 

It’s Dean’s own fault really, he wasn’t exactly known as the golden boy growing up. And even in the business world, he had more beef with people than not. There’s a long list of displeased women as well, and Dean doesn’t even know all their names. 

So now, instead of maybe spending the evening with her, Dean has to fucking write up a list to hand over to the police as soon as possible. 

Great. 

That’s just what he needs today. 

*

Dean’s still on that fucking list and it’s 11pm. He was supposed to take a night off — at least that’s what he told Cas, because he wants to be with her as long as she’s staying with him. He remembers her saying that she’s going into work in the evening because Rufus wants to talk about the article she’s writing about his club. They actually never talked about it again. Dean’s not sure if she’s going to write it at all. 

But he’s almost finished with the list, so there’s that. Maybe another hour — if he’s lucky. 

He decides to take a short break and send her a text.

  D: Are you upstairs? Sorry, it’s going to be a while longer till I’m finished.

  Watching his screen, he sees that she’s reading it, sees her typing back a reply.

  Y/N: Don’t worry about it. Just finishing up.

D: Should I come pick you up?

  He kinds of hopes that she’ll say yes. Dean thinks that he could use a distraction. Writing up names of people who might want bad things to happen to him is not exactly a joyous task.

  Y/N: Don’t worry, Rufus will drop me off. I’ll see you later!

  Right, so back to the list it is. Dean sighs before he gets up to pour himself another whiskey.

“You’re smiling. Why are you smiling?” Rufus asks. His desk is right across from hers.

“Why? Does my smile irritate you?” Y/N’s smirking as she looks at her supervisor.

“Damn well, it irritates me!” Rufus shouts and she flinches but his face softens afterwards, lips pulling into a smile, “It’s that Winchester boy, isn’t it?”

“Nah,” She’s quick to say, and Rufus chuckles. She knows he doesn’t believe her.

“Have you thought about the article yet?” He says, sitting back in his chair. 

They��ve been discussing it before and he leaves it up to her. She doesn’t know why he asks again. She can’t possibly have made up her mind after six hours. Y/N needs more time than that.

“I don’t know,” She sighs, “I’ll meet Mrs. Mills in two days. I’ll let her speak, let her explain and try to understand her side of things.” 

That’s new to Rufus. He was on a break when she talked to Jody Mills.

Rufus nods, “You know that you can pull out of it, I gave you the permission to.”

“I know. Thanks, Rufus.” 

She hears him clicking on his mouse, hears the computer being shut down. 

He stands up, “You’re happy Y/N, I can tell.”

She gnaws on her bottom lip and it spreads into a smirk, “I am,”

“Good. That’s good,” Rufus says, picking up his suit jacket to put it on, “I love seeing you happy. I don’t even think I’ve seen you happy. And if it’s all that Winchester boy’s doing, I’d say that you should keep him close. He’s a good one, I can tell. He was being all proper when I talked to him last.”

She has to smile at that, because yeah, it sounds like Dean. He always has a way to charm himself out of any kind of situation. It’s frustrating really, because the teachers let him get away with so much. Especially the female teachers. 

“Seriously, Y/N,” Rufus says as he waits for her to pick up her things to drive her to Dean’s, “I mean it. If anyone deserves a little happiness, it’s you. And if he should cross you, let me know, I have five dogs and some friends.” 

“I will,” She snorts, has to hold back a laugh. But it’s cute and she really appreciates Rufus’s protectiveness over her.

 *

 Y/N decides to drop by his office before going up to the loft. She finds Dean hunched over his desk, his head rests on his arms. 

Approaching carefully, she reaches out a hand, touches his shoulder and Dean jolts up. In that moment, his computer screen comes back to life as well. She really didn’t want to look but she couldn’t not notice the list of names. Male and female ones alike. She’s curious what it’s about, but again, it’s not really her place to ask. The title of the document says Potential Leads . Her trained eyes can not unsee that. 

Dean sits up straight, pinches at the bridge of his nose and then he rolls his chair back and grabs at her wrist, pulling her sideways into his lap with a force that makes her squeal in delight. She ends up giggling on his lap while Dean kisses the tip of her nose, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.

“How are you?” He asks, his hand strokes at her thigh while the other one tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear. He lets his fingertips travel over her cheeks and her nose, as if her face is written in braille and he wants to memorize and read every word.

“Good,” She answers him and leans down, buries her forehead into the crook of his neck, scruff rough on her skin. She smells his cologne, his musk from the day. Her nose brushes against his throat and she nuzzles her face deeper into it while he wraps his arms around her, “Not as tired as you, apparently,” She says with a smirk.

It feels good being with him, and she can’t help to fall for Dean. It’s just a couple of days but it feels right, it feels like she’s found the piece of the puzzle she’s been missing growing up. She wonders if it’ll stay good. Good things never last in her life. She can’t help but feel a little sad that she’s going to move out, even though it's what she wants. Although it’s convenient this way. It’s convenient to come home to him and they get to see each other without having to schedule anything. Without having to send out texts and making calls, asking when they both will be free or available. 

Oh well, one can’t have it all, she knows that.

Dean tilts his head, leaves a lingering kiss on her forehead, “Yeah, I’m tired. Why don’t you go up and I’ll finish here. I promise I won’t be long.”

She sits up, looks him in the eye. They’re weary. There’s clearly something that bothers him, “Is something wrong?” She asks, because she can not not ask. 

“Nah,” He sighs and places his lips to her temple.

They sit in silence for a little while until Dean starts to speak again, “I get threats every now and then but lately, it increased and they damaged some property. The police just want some names, but it’s really nothing for you to be worried about, okay?”

She frowns and Dean thumbs at the crease between her eyebrows, “Is that common in your line of work?” 

Dean snorts, “Yeah, pretty much. There are a lot of jealous people,” He pulls her closer, hugging her tighter and rests his chin on the top of her head, “I can deal with it, but it’s a whole different story if you’re involved.”

Her ear is on his chest and she hears the bass of his voice vibrating. 

“‘S that why you’re worried about my safety?” 

“Uh-huh,”

Y/N takes time to think and then it dawns on her, “You think the break in of my apartment has something to do with it?”

He breathes evenly but she can hear his heartbeat picking up pace, “I don’t know. I don’t think so, and I hope it was just a coincidence.” With his next breath he adds, “I’m sorry, it’s just… I never had a woman as close to me as you are now, and I guess that makes you a target and my Achilles heel. In hindsight, I should have never taken you to the party. I’m sorry about that.” He kisses the top of her head. 

She doesn’t really care about the threats, though. All she heard was the fact that he said that she’s the first woman that’s been close to him. She wants to ask him if it’s true. If she’s the first one who has got to know the real Dean. If she’s the first one he really cares about. But she doesn’t ask, thinks it’s not really the right time.

“‘S okay,” She says, nuzzles her face deeper into the base of his throat, “I’m a big girl. I can handle what life throws at me.” 

“I know that,” Dean chuckles, “But I would be super bummed if you were to be harmed.”

Y/N frowns, “You think they will go that far?”

Dean shrugs, “I don’t know. Fact is, you’re my girl, and I need you to be careful out there, alright?”

My girl.

Her heart flutters at that. 

She chuckles softly and Dean pushes her away a little, 

“What?” He asks but he’s smirking.

Still grinning, she says, “You said I’m your girl,”

He smiles and tucks her hair behind both her ears with his hands, leaves them on the side of her face, cradling it between his big palms, “That’s because you are,” He moves closer, their noses touch, lips ghosting over each others, “Wouldn’t want to have any other,” He kisses her, soft and gently, tongue teasing along her teeth. She tastes whiskey on the tip of his tongue.

Just when she wants to melt into the kiss, Dean breaks it abruptly, “You should go up so I can finish this. If you stay, I don’t think I can keep my hands to myself.” 

Chuckling, she kisses his nose and gets up from his lap. 

It’s an hour later when Dean finishes and he’s so goddamn tired, he almost crawls along the floor to his loft. Lack of sleep last night and being on edge the whole day does weird things to your body. 

He finds her in bed, laying on her stomach, reading. And she’s wearing only panties. Dean shrugs off his jacket right by the door, drops it and begins to unbutton his shirt while he strolls closer to the bed. Next he works on his pants and leaves a trail of clothes along the way. 

When he’s standing by the foot of the bed, he’s only dressed in his underwear and his dick stirs in his pants. He tries his best to ignore it. 

Dean crawls up to her, spreads kisses on both her ass cheeks and rests his head on it, using her butt as a comfortable pillow, “So tired,” He groans and she chuckles. Her hand reaches behind to thread through the top of his head and Dean leans into the touch, bathes himself in the feel. 

Before he can make himself too comfortable, he pushes himself away, “I’m taking a quick shower,” 

He showers real quick, still ignoring his dick that’s already hard and heavy, because that’s not what he wants right now — which is weird because it’s almost always what he wants. Guess she changed him.

Dean walks out, his body still damp, a pair of fresh underwear on, and crawls into bed. She’s already waiting, has abandoned her book and is curled up on her side. He spoons her from behind and she turns herself, curls against his side and buries her face into the crook of his neck. He feels her naked chest pressing against his. 

When she looks up to him, Dean steals a kiss, kissing her forehead while he tucks her hair behind her ear. His thumb paints along her eyebrow, her nose, down to her lips. He kisses her, all soft and smooth, the hand that’s on her waist kneads her flesh. 

She bucks her hips, grinding her lower body against him and he has to chuckle. She’s a needy little thing but he’s not going to give in. Instead, he manhandles her around, buries his face into the nape of her neck, spraying kisses there, “Baby, we should get some sleep,” 

Y/N whines at that, backs up her ass into his bulge but Dean’s hand is on her waist, holds her steady. After a while, she gives up. 

He’s stroking her with one hand while she lies in his arm, hand travelling over bumpy territory, trying to memorize her every crease and every bump with the tip of his fingers. He listens to her steady heartbeat, listens to her breathing even out. 

No, sex is definitely not the only thing he wants with her. He wants all the other things right now, and he doesn’t even know himself anymore. It’s different with her. He doesn’t want her to think that it’s only about the club. That it’s only about the rooms he shows her. 

Dean thinks that everyone can like the wonderful part of a person. The trick is to accept their flaws. In this short time, he has learned to accept her flaws, can honestly and truly say that he can work with them, can work around them, can make something out of it. The good things, he knows, will always be there. It’s the things underneath that are challenging. But it’s a challenge he’s ready to face. 

Fuck , Dean thinks to himself, he’s falling fast down the rabbit hole that is her and even though it should scare him—

—strangely, it doesn’t.

Chapter 15

[caslikescoffeeandfreckles]

The Heart Will Lead You Home

A very late spn finale fix-it fic based on an addition to this Tumblr post! Word Count: 1.9k Read on Ao3

There was no stopping the way Dean’s heartbeat stuttered when he saw Ohio on the map, the wound still too fresh. Every press of his foot to the gas pedal felt like stepping on his own neck as they cruised along the highway, cornfields turning to soybeans turning to green galaxies of fireflies at night. He thinks he likes these stars better; the blue ones just hurt.

When they cross from Indiana to Ohio the stuttering becomes an ache, like the valves have shut down and the arteries are cut off. He keeps his breaths short and measured, careful, while his hands white knuckle the steering wheel and he presses a little heavier on the gas. It costs him a breath, that foot still on his neck. But he keeps driving. 

The case is a weird one and Dean hasn’t been paying enough attention to explain how he ends up driving out in the middle of nowhere by himself. He can’t even tell you what town they’ve been in the past few days, just knows that there was a lead Sam needed to follow, leaving Dean to cruise down dark country roads that shouldn’t feel so achingly familiar and his chest shouldn’t feel so painfully full and empty all at once. 

But Dean’s not an idiot. He does know these roads and he knows what waits up ahead. He keeps telling himself it doesn’t mean anything. This isn’t some kind of sign, his heart choking and coughing and lurching like a car on its last wheel with every stretch of mile. 

At the sight of the barn he almost turns around. The aching in his chest is seeping into his bones, it feels like they’re breaking from the inside out, like there’s something swelling inside his chest cavity and pushing bone through tissue and skin. 

The barn looks almost exactly the same as last time, the old wood boards grayed and weathered and hanging from the frame with just a few nails and the grace of God - or Jack now, he supposes.

It takes Dean a good thirty minutes to make himself get out of the car. And it hurts. Every movement hurts down to the flex of his knuckles, each foot fall against the hard dirt path. 

Dean stands outside the door, his hand raised to pull it open but unable to follow through. 

Cas isn’t going to be there, he tells himself. Stop being an idiot. Because he has to make sure any lingering tendrils of hope are gone. For whatever is left of his sanity, he just has to. 

He doesn't realize until he’s already opened the door that he hasn’t drawn a weapon. There’s a dark growling voice in the back of head calling him a damn idiot, but it’s not as loud as it used to be. It’s been fading over the years but ever since - ever since… well, it’s been pretty radio silent in the last few weeks.

 It turns out there’s no need for a weapon anyway. The barn is empty save for some abandoned farm equipment and hell’s entire population of spiders. The ground crunches beneath him and Dean looks down to find broken glass everywhere. There are scorch marks on the walls. The air is stale, untouched for years. The last time Dean had been in here it had smelled like lightning. 

With that thought the pain becomes unbearable and Dean shatters like the glass beneath his feet. His hands reach out without thinking, seeking something to grab, to hold onto, but he can’t find anything. He can’t see, can’t hear, all of his senses drowned under the wave of agony ravaging his chest. 

He’s dying. Dean just knows it somehow. But he doesn’t want to fight it this time. The desire isn’t even there. He doesn’t know when that had left him, maybe the night the Empty claimed Cas with a confession of love still wet on his lips, maybe in that void of loneliness once Cas was gone and Dean had sat decimated on the cold floor for hours trying to understand what the fuck had just happened and why he hadn’t been able to say something back, maybe just before Dean had walked through the barn door. Whenever it had gone, it had clearly gone with the angel and Dean didn’t miss it. Didn’t have a reason to anymore.

He’s not going to be there either, Dean hears the last bit of his self-loathing whisper, like one last punishment because even in death, Dean Winchester can’t let himself have peace. 

I know, Dean thinks. He knows Cas is gone, somewhere no one can ever reach him. He’s done the research. But how can you document the existence of something that represents Nothing? That is Nothing but the absence of everything in all of time and space? But he wishes Cas could be on the other side. Even with all hope gone, he still wishes it was possible if only to give Cas the one thing both of them thought they could never have. Because Cas deserved that much. Cas deserved more than the world had ever been able to offer. 

Castiel… Cas… I-

“Hello Dean.”

Dean’s heart stops and his eyes fly open.

He’s here, just feet away, in the same oversized suit and dirty trenchcoat. He’s here.

“H-how,” Dean starts, his mouth too dry. “I don’t- C-Cas how…” 

Cas doesn’t move except to blink. “I think we have Jack to thank for this.” His voice is a deep and gravelly as the day they met and it’s like a soothing balm over Dean’s aching body, chasing all the hurt away like his grace has all these years. 

“He found you,” Dean says because he needs to hear it again. “H-he found you.” Jack did what Dean couldn’t. The pain that has been raging inside Dean is gone, replaced with a weight of gratitude for the kid. 

Cas nods like it’s that simple. “It took a while, but yes. Jack is very… determined. I think he gets it from his father.” The corners of Cas’s mouth soften into a small smile.

Dean doesn’t know how he finds the energy to blush but he feels the heat seep into his cheeks all the same. He has a million questions and another million things he wants to do with his hands right now but they’re safer in his pockets. There are too many words rushing around his brain and none of them feel right, none of them feel like enough. “Did you- what you said,” he tries, desperate to know but not sure exactly what he wants to know first, “when you- did you… mean it?”

A shadow crosses Cas’s face and Dean immediately regrets asking. “You still doubt me?”

“No, no,” Dean hurries to say. Cas hasn’t moved but he feels further away and that alone makes Dean’s chest hurt again. “I know- I know you meant it, Cas. I mean, I-I watched you…” get ripped away again. Cas had said he loved Dean and been swallowed into nothing. It left little to be misunderstood. It was just that… “You’re an angel, Cas,” Dean says, his voice sounding weak even to himself. “You’re like a million years old and - and I’m - you’ve never… is it the same kind of…?”

“You think I do not understand love the same way that you do,” Cas says, voice clipped and dry. It cuts like a blow and Dean can’t help but flinch. But he nods. Cas watches him carefully before nodding himself. “You are right. I am an angel, I was not designed to experience emotions aside from love and loyalty to my creator.”

Dean is deflating before Cas finishes his sentence. 

“And yet… since the moment I first touched you in hell, there has been no being or entity I have trusted more without question,” Cas continues and Dean meets his eyes, confused and dangerously hopeful. “There has been no one I desired to follow to the ends of the Earth as I have desired to follow you. I do not love you the way humans love. Because I fell in love with your soul before any other part of you.” Cas’s arms rise to cross over his chest and there’s a faraway look in his eyes. “I have seen inside of you, Dean, I have seen the core of who you are and carried the roots of you in my arms. I held your soul against my chest and felt the greatest warmth I have known in my entire existence. I felt the true depth of your compassion and love, deeper than any ocean God could ever craft. And I knew before I rebuilt your body that a part of me would always belong to you, and no other thought has ever brought me such peace.” 

When Cas’s eyes refocus they snap to Dean and his next words sink past every barrier of defense Dean has left. “I don’t love you in the same way as a human. I love you more than you could ever truly fathom, Dean. But I know that it is love because you taught me how to recognize the signs. You defined love for me. And even though you don’t feel the same, I am-”

“But I do.” The words jump from Dean’s throat before he can think them through but there’s no way in hell he’s going to miss another opportunity. He’s lost Cas too many damn times to waste a single minute. “I do, Cas. I- I can’t see your soul or whatever but I - you’re the only - Cas, I don’t want to breathe when you aren’t here.” He feels feral as he speaks, ready to jump out of his own skin, and honestly isn’t sure if he’s saying actual words. But the movements of his tongue and lips feel right so he keeps going. “Everytime you leave or get taken away it just gets harder and harder and I don’t- I can’t do it again.”

Cas is watching him with careful eyes, but Dean can see the hope blazing just under the surface. “So what do you want, Dean?”

“You,” Dean says and takes a step forward. “Us. I want us.” 

The hope bleeds through into the blue and Cas’s eyes shine like the stars Dean’s been avoiding. “Is that all?”

Dean shakes his head. There’s a new life unraveling in his head as he takes another step closer to Cas. A life far away from hunting, with a cozy little home with enough yard space for a vegetable garden, a garage to shield Baby when they aren’t filling her trunk with suitcases instead of weapons and driving to the ocean just because. A life with kids and familiar faces at the supermarket and big family dinners with friends on Friday evenings. And Cas. Every minute of every day there is Cas. The only constant, the only necessity. “I have a list,” he admits and takes another step. “But you come first.”

Cas is close enough to touch now and so Dean does. His hands fall on Cas’s waist and slide around his back to pull the angel forward and Cas comes with no resistance. He falls into Dean’s chest like a missing puzzle piece, his arms wrapping around Dean’s shoulders and clutching tight.

“You have me, Cas,” Dean whispers into his angel’s ears. It’s a moot point by now but he thinks they both deserve the reassurance. “You’ve always had me.”

“I want to go home,” Cas says, his voice soft but still sending a rumble through Dean’s body.

Dean clings even tighter. “Then let’s go make one.”

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Work Something Out

Characters: Dean Winchester x Teacher!Reader, Castiel Winchester 

Word Count: 1,480

Warnings: just fluff, minor angst

Summary: One of your students tells a story that captures your attention quickly because it brings you back to your past and the one thing that changed your life forever.

Squared Filled: meeting the parents // Daycare Teacher au

Author’s Note: This is for @spndeanbingo and @spnfluffbingo2019 respectively and this is also based o @spn-imagines-nation imagine! This is unbeta’d and any and all mistakes are all on me.

Feedback the glue that holds my writing together

Tags at the bottom

“Alright class, I hope you all had a great summer. I see new faces, and to get to know each other, I want you to turn to your table and tell each other a little bit about you as well as something fun you did this summer,” you said to your class of adorable children. “You may begin.”

Almost immediately, chatter erupted throughout the classroom which made you smile. Taking a seat at your desk, you watch their faces grow with smiles as they told their old friends and potentially new ones of their lives. The one kid you were especially paying attention to was Castiel Winchester who was so enthusiastic in his storytelling. He had been in your class for the past few years, so you knew a little bit about him. He was usually quiet and reserved, but he wasn’t like that this time. He seemed to have found the courage to be outspoken and friendly to his peers.

Teaching kids is something you’ve always wanted to do. They were your passion and fuel that gassed up your motivation for life. Just seeing their smiles when they came to you with a project they made, a paper they wrote, a test they completed, and anything else they did at school or home gave you the utmost joy. You didn’t have any kids of your own, so you thought your school children as if they were. It was always a pleasure to teach them and help them grow into exceptionally fine people. It was always hard to watch them leave after every year, but it was worth it.

As each kid took their turns, you could tune into what they were trying to say. One kid was proudly telling their peers about how he and his older sister took a round trip across the country since she was going away to college soon and wanted to do something with him. Another kid talked about the time where she had to get her tonsils removed and how much ice cream she ate because of it. Each story was more or less the same, but they were all unique in their own way.

Getting up, you walked around the classroom and stopped by each desk to monitor the things they were talking about. You didn’t know how many times kids would talk about things that their parents did or recall something of what they heard that wasn’t appropriate for school. As you approached Castiel’s table, he was still talking about his summer, but that wasn’t why you were so concerned. It was the looks on his tablemate’s faces that got you immediately tuning into their conversation.

“And then my daddy ripped off the head of the vampire! Blood went everywhere and it was so cool! I was only allowed to stay in the car, but I saw the whole thing! It was like the time he stabbed ten demons in the gut and killed them all! He and my uncle are the best monster hunters ever!” Castiel grinned, showing off his toothless smile. He apparently had lost his two front teeth as well. His friends were clearly scared, and they looked at you for help, but you were frozen, unable to move or any anything.

His story brought back memories you’d rather forget. When you were a child, your family was murdered right in front of your eyes. For an eight-year-old, that was traumatizing enough, but it wasn’t humans that destroyed your life. A nest of vampires broke in and slaughtered everyone in their trail. The only reason why you were able to get away was that there was 7 of you and only 6 of them. It broke your heart to leave, but while they were busy munching on your family, you left and ran to your neighbor’s house who called the police. By the time they got there, the vampires were long gone, but you remembered everything about that night. Even though you told the police you were asleep and caught the men already inside. Even though you told them they were human. Even though after 25 years, you could still remember their faces and the way they sunk their teeth into your parents like they were a lean piece of meat. After that night, you never encountered another supernatural thing ever but researched a lot about vampires and other creatures in case something were to happen. Your passion was children, so you pursued that knowing that if something were to happen to your students, you would know what to do. The only problem was that they were back, and they were looking for you to complete the job. You escaped them once, and they didn’t want that to happen again.

“Castiel,” you said once you found that you could speak again. “Why don’t you let your other classmates have a chance to talk. Okay?”

“Okay, Miss Y/L/N,” he sighed as he sat down properly and let the rest of the group decide what to talk about. You made a mental note to talk to him after class because unlike his classmates, you believed every word he said.

“Castiel, could I have a word with you?” you asked at the end of the day. Students filed out of the door to greet their parents with huge smiles. You have never met Castiel’s parents, but you think you might need to now. Castiel bounces over to your desk, but once he saw the look in his eyes, he grew worried.

“You’re getting that look that my daddy does when something is wrong. Did I do something wrong?” he asked fearfully.

“No, you didn’t. Where did you come up with that story you were telling everyone?”

“It’s not a story. It really happened. My daddy and my uncle are monster hunters.”

“Okay, who is picking you up?”

“My daddy.”

“Can I speak to him? Can you go get him for me, please?” you asked sweetly. He shrugged and agreed before running out of the classroom. Knowing that there was actually monster hunters out there scared the shit out of you because you knew they were there for a reason.

“Did you get into trouble?” A man with a deep voice spoke as Castiel dragged him into the classroom.

“Miss Y/L/N says no,” the kid responded. Damn, Castiel’s dad is pretty hot. No, not pretty hot, most definitely hot. He had the brightest green eyes you have ever seen, and his body was muscular but not in the way that was disgusting. He was tall, the perfect height for you. Wait, you are not meant to size him up as your next boyfriend, he was here for a reason.

“You wanted to see me? I’m Dean Winchester,” he said as he held out his hand for you to shake which you did.

“Y/N Y/L/N. Castiel isn’t in trouble. He just told a story to his classmates that scared them. Something about vampires and demons.”

“Cas, go wait outside,” Dean said immediately, and his son did as he was told without question.

“I don’t know where he got that imagination from, but he told me everything he said was real. That you and your brother were monster hunters.”

“I’m sorry, he really shouldn’t be telling people those stories,” he chuckled.

“So the part about you slicing off a vampire’s head and stabbing ten demons in the gut is true?”

“No. Look, the bedtime stories I tell can get a little animated. That’s all.”

“That’s a shame,” you whispered.

“Why is that?”

“It doesn’t matter. Those stories aren’t real,” you sighed as you took a seat at your desk. Dean bit his bottom lip because he knew you were in some kind of supernatural trouble. If you weren’t, then you wouldn’t act like this.

“What if those stories are true? That they really happened?” he asked as he leaned on one of the student’s desks. Looking into his eyes, you knew that they were true. He only said they weren’t so he could test your reaction.

“Then I would tell you that I have a problem. A supernatural one. When I was a kid, a nest of vampires slaughtered my entire family, and now they’re back because I escaped. They’re looking for me, and since you’re a monster hunter, I figured you might be able to help. But, that’s if those stories are true,” you said with an eyebrow raised. Dean got up and produced a card from his jacket and handed it to you.

“Give me a call. We might be able to work something out,” he said with a wink. After taking the card, he walked out with his son. Never in your whole teaching career had you ever thought about dating one of your student’s parents. But to hell, if you think you were letting this one get away.

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[life-love-geekculture]

SPN 14x20: a few (i.e. many) thoughts

Writers lie.

But, they lie in order to tell a greater truth.

At least, that’s how the proverbial wisdom goes anyway. After this episode, however, I’m not entirely sure I know what Chuck’s truth is supposed to be.

“Endings are hard. Any chapped-ass monkey with a keyboard can poop out a beginning, but endings are impossible.”

That’s my all time favorite quote from the series. Along with the addendum endings are a raging pain in the ass. Ever since his introduction, I’ve always felt an affinity for Chuck’s character. He’s a writer. So am I. He vocalized a not insignificant part of that experience. Reconciling the pain characters you create and love have to go through to get them from point A to point B. The difficulty in wrapping up a story. Hell, critics. It’s one of the reasons Metatron always drove me a bit nuts during his play at godhood. All of the technique, but none of the artistry.

I guess what I’m trying to get at is Chuck’s turn to villiany hurts a little. It’s brilliant beyond all belief, don’t get me wrong! What better way to get across the theme of free will on a meta-narrative level? But within the SPN universe it just feels anti-thetical to the story he’s been “telling”. An honest to god betrayal of it.

Don’t get me wrong. I can buy the avoided apocalypse (the first one at least) was Chuck’s intent all along. He wanted Sam and Dean to choose family. He created free will so it could be used. It plays seemlessly into the parental metaphor they’ve also attached to him. The kids have got to grow up sometime. And part of growing up means cleaning up your messes on your own. Which the Winchesters do...a lot.

This sudden shift in attitude,though, just doesn’t make sense to me. It’s less writing an ending as crumpling the document and throwing it away. If the multi-verse is supposed to represent drafts, then Chuck is the kind of writer who keeps ahold of them because some element in one could make another better (and now bringing all the alt-hunters back make sense on a meta level and my head hurts). The point is, if SPN is his final draft or his favorite why destroy it?The characters’ didn’t do what you wanted ? That’s half the fun of being a writer! The unexpected twists of creation! Inspiration turned to life! It makes no sense.

And so I tried to look at it from the God-angle perspective and it still doesn’t make sense. Chuck doesn’t change. Like he told Lucifer he’s pretty much the same as he’s always been. Yes, there’s the Old Testament’s wrathful side. The fire and brimstone and punishment, but even in the Bible that’s balanced with compassion and forgiveness. There’s the Chuck whose solution has always been: build a bigger box. The one who fought for creation to be born. Not made, born. The one who could be reasoned out of apparent wrath because the point was the lesson (the truth) he was trying to get across. And then I remembered his exchange with Castiel...

Chuck: See this is why people need to lie. It’s good. Keeps the peace, you know?

Castiel: Seems like an odd stance for...you.

Chuck: Is it? I’m a writer. Lying is kinda what we do

Chuck is God’s lie.

That is, it’s the mask he wears to keep the peace. It’s his way of walking away and letting the kids learn (and in many ways blossom) for themselves while still supervising. It’s something Metatron calls him out on when they meet in season 11 to discuss Chuck’s autobiography. Specifically, Metatron notes the emphasis on time spent in the Chuck persona was being used to hide the truth. And, it’s a truth Chuck readily confesses to Sam in the Bunker.

Jack told the universe to stop lying. Chuck comes back immediately in full father-mode. The father who demands obedience over the growth of the children (hello, season 1 & 2 parallels). These are not coincidental. Now, sure Chuck could fix creation, but could he do the same for himself? Evidence suggests...not so much. And, based on the look Billie gives Jack in the Empty, the kid done fucked up something. That was not a happy look.

So where does this leave us?

Well, with a zombie apocalypse in the immediate future and lots of ghosts to deal with next. More importantly, though, it looks like the boys may be on a mission to stop or save God himself. It’s...it’s a hell of a way to go out. The writer in me is very proud.

Before I wrap this up, though, a few thoughts on TFW 2.0:

First, I called it with Dean. Again, not a surprise. As I said, he needs to get to the edge before he can back off from it. That said, this episode wasn’t without some painful moments for him. As some of you may know, I’ve started rewatching and reviewing old episodes of SPN in preparation for the series finale. A bit serendipitous given recent events, but as part of that I rewatched episode 1x03 recently. Dean’s speech about Mary being his hero is so similar in tone to the speech he gives Lucas (the kid with the psychic link to the lake ghost) about his belief in Mary wanting him to be brave. It physically hurt to watch. The facade hiding the pain of Mary’s second death publicly cracking in a way similar to the facade hiding the pain of her first. But it also made me really excited to complete this review series and pull out those hidden parallels. Also, don’t think for a second I won’t point out how much of a nerd Dean really is. I have said it for years and now I feel vindicated!

On a more serious note, I don’t know what to say about Jack. Seeing him dead hurt (the only tears I shed in the finale to be honest). But this season left off with so many unanswered questions. Just how powerful is this kid? What are the Shadow and Billie planning? What is with Halucifer 2.0? How the fuck do souls actually work? And I’m still trying to get my head around his self-prophecy to Cas. A perfect world has always seemed, again, anti-thetical to the point of the story. The power of choice means things can’t be perfect and the only way to bring about perfection is to rob creation of choice. It’s a constant battle the Winchesters have had to fight. I’m cautiously intrigued to see how this storyline is going to be fulfilled.

So let’s talk about Sam. I knew the kid was in a bad place going in to this episode, but...DAMN!

I’m pretty solidly in the camp he wasn’t intending to kill Chuck with that wave of multi-dimensional hoo-haa. Sam’s only ever been that bad of a shot during the trials when he was sick. Still the fact he even tried it...This might be the one thing I can’t forgive Dean for this season. Even when the boys have been at their worst, Dean still allowed Sam to talk.To get his grief out. There’s been no relief since Mary’s death and Sam’s journey has inevitably played into a point I made reviewing Absence(14x18). The boys are used to dealing with death as a matter of consequence, not an accident. Which is why Sam is currently blaming himself for what happened. While it’s true Jack’s storyline for the season contributed towards Mary’s death, it’s something that could have happened regardless of if he had a soul or not. There’s no cosmic choice involved. But add it to the list of things that have gone wrong this season, and it makes sense for Sam to shift the blame to Chuck when he realized he’s been watching and apparently not doing anything (something we’ve known about Chuck for practically forever).

It’s something people do when bad things happen all the time in the real world. Chuck could have been less of an ass explaining why he couldn’t help, but he’s sorta not...wrong. Assuming he didn’t interfere with Jack to kick this mess off (and I hope to God that is not the case), it all goes back to free will. Sometimes bad things just happen. Sometimes Someone makes a stupid mistake in the heat of moment, and you just have to live with the aftermath. That said, I just kind of want to wrap the moose in a bunch of blankets and keep him protected in the Bunker forever and...

And so finally, we come to Cas. My sweet, awesome fucking angel/best dad in the whole universe. Cas wins the whole season! Give him all of the awards! The poor angel has been putting out fire after fire and I love him for it as much as I’m still terrified for him. It does crack me up a little that everyone got so pissed at the boys last episode for the Ma’lak box, and yet Cas is literally thinking of putting Jack in the Cage this episode. Like father, like son I guess. Yet, it’s clear his intention is to save him. Cas isn’t blind to the danger Jack poses, but his aim is to just contain him till a cure can be found. Not a great solution but the only one we have at the moment. And can we talk about that scene in the graveyard! Perfect imagery of a father being strict but compassionate towards his son who screwed up. All of the awards! All of them!

[seenashwrite]

(see HERE for part one of answer)

Ah, mass appeal, that oft elusive lil' stinker. How to get it is one of those age-old questions for us creator-types. We want it, for personal reasons, for perhaps monetary reasons, and determining what constitutes it and how to tap into it and even if we should try to tap into it are all pickles.

No, not that type, those are fabulous. I mean sticky situations. The non-tempuraish bliss with delusion of "Hey, I'm doing great on my diet, 'cause it's a vegetable!" kind.

Spoiler Alert: I'm not going to tell you not to compare yourself to other people, of course you are, and in many ways this is a good thing, it's called having an ideal to which to aspire, except it shouldn't be rooted in popularity, the admiration should be for their work. . . . Thanks for your question!

I'm kidding, Dean, and you damn well know it. Bite me. And fetch me a whiskey. And some Death pickles. I got talkin’ to do.

Part Two: Water Chumming & How That Shark May Bite Your Ass, So Here’s A Bunch Of Other Stuff That Can Be Done From The Safety Of The Shore

C/P for convenience:

Is it worth trying to please the masses when we can't please ourselves? Am I poking the bear?

Let us recap from Part One:

We talked about how to get from a feeling of ineptitude to - at first - just mild trepidation when it comes time to hit "publish",  and started delving into "but how to get there?" so that the path can lead on to an actual measure of confidence, which brings us to the second part of your question up there - which is, I find, a completely normal thought, stemming from exasperation, when it feels like you're surrounded by a ton of people who are having ungodly amounts of success, and it seems like the biggest mystery in the world. So it's natural to wonder: should I follow their lead? Try to do what they're doing?

Maybe - let's unpack that, dig into what that would entail, the pros-and-cons, what some alternatives may be.

Near the end of Pt. 1, we talked about not understanding why some stories/writers gain traction, while others don't, specifically regarding the quality of their stories. As facetious and jokey and snotty and funny as I made that "rant", and said how you could always use the SSDTs [Same Shit, Different Title] stories as a "How Not To Do It" guide, I also mentioned how they must be doing something right - and they are, the metrics we've got (hearts, notes, feedback, asks r/t stories, followers, reblogs) bear it out. It's right there. There's nothing to interpret. It's there. It's fact.

Not to mention, as much as I've tried to drill down on objective parameters for my rec list, to try and smoosh down subjectivity, both on my part and on the part of people who rec to me, there's still a pretty substantial margin of subjectivity. There just is - a story could be ridiculous in plot, could be littered with reprehensible grammar, could poorly represent Sam/Dean/etc., could have a shallow Y/N. Yet if something within the story, no matter how oblique, speaks to the heart of a reader? In the immortal words of Private Hudson:

Game. Over. They’re in. Case closed.

I also mentioned that little number in the corner, that overall snapshot of how much action a given story/that writer accumulated and pondered - does it indicate how great the story is? Also known as: Does that mean their story/their writing is better than mine?

Well. No. Not necessarily. I suspect that - and this would take a huge data mining mission on every single one of a given writer's high count stories to know - in part, some of the number represents a manifestation of a cult following. I'll save you the trouble of clicking the link:

"A cult following is a group of fans who are highly dedicated to a work of culture. A film, book, musical artist, television series or video game, among other things, will be said to have a cult following when it has a small but very passionate fanbase. A common component of cult followings is the emotional attachment the fans have to the object of the cult following, often identifying themselves and other fans as members of a community. Cult followings are also commonly associated with niche markets."

I've no idea why "musical artist" was the only human example they threw in there, because in my experience/observation over **cough** decades of life on the planet, I see cult followings for humans  more than stuff, and public figures of other areas beyond music (actors, politics, etc.) just as much. There are men-I MEAN-people who will never be socially ostracized no matter how inappropriately they behave, no matter the amount of evidence, doesn't matter - their following will absolutely make preserving the (fake) image that person cultivated their hill to die on.

But we're getting negative, and where I'm going with "cult status" in our context isn't negative. The "cult" mentality aspect to which I refer is about loyalty of followers (specifically reader-followers) in general, and then further, the loyalty of that subset of reader-followers who were early readers. They adored "x" number of that writer's stories in the past, and even if the quality of newer stories has declined, they are still gonna hit that heart and reblog it and say it was great. Do they actually believe it? Some of them, to be sure. Do some of them have on cult following rose-colored glasses? Friggin' of course.

Like I said above the cut - I'm not going to tell you not to compare yourself to other people, of course you are, and in many ways this is a good thing, it's called having an ideal to which to aspire, except it shouldn't be rooted in popularity, the admiration should be for their work. But there's admiration owed to these writers for maintaining their follower base, regardless of whether those follower-readers aren't in the admiring-for-the-work mode. So while you can't admire them for their stories, because you think they blow, there is an ideal, a definite modelling to consider: what are some of these writers who are getting huge numbers doing to maintain what popularity they've accrued?

Let's pause here for a recap of what we know for sure:

1. You won't know if telling stories is legit in your wheelhouse or not until you start getting some feedback from readers, which is going to help get you out of Ineptitudeville;

2. Ideally, this would begin with an honest, straightforward editor who knows how to give constructive critique --> in the meantime, use The Nail's guiding standards to serve as an at-home editor til you feel ready to find such an editor;

3. You can't get feedback for your supplemental self-editing documents of "nailed it" and "Achilles' heels" unless you put yourself out there (which, hopefully chipping away at #1 will get you over the ineptitude hump and into a healthy trepidation territory so you can do);

4. There's potential modelling to be done by observing what the "popular" writers are doing outside of their stories to accrue/maintain followers, and trying to see what their loyal reader-followers see in stories you don't find very good.

Again - assuming you've gotten comfy enough to just feel a normal nervousness vs. ineptitude, it's on to getting an audience. So, what could it be? That these mega-number generators are doing? I think it's two things:

(A) They have broad exposure that brings others into the fold (B) There's more at work than just stories

But Nash, are you not paying attention? I don't have exposure, they've got a bazillionty followers - you may say.

Then let's get you some exposure that has nothing to do with follower counts, nothing *inherently* due to the potentially not-so-robust nature of your stories at present, things that just might get you more followers, hopefully turning a chunk of them into reader-followers somewhere along the way.

.

(A) Exposure that doesn't require "popularity":

1. SPN Fanfic Pond ---> 24/7/365 - join it and submit your stories - never know who'll see it - guaranteed reblog

2. SPN Hiatus Creations ---> specific dates - I don't think many people know that they include fics, since they mostly get submissions of art - weekly topics to choose from - join in, submit your stories - the folks behind it most always put a little comment in their tags, so be on lookout for your feedback doc - guaranteed reblog

3. SPN Family Birthdays ---> 24/7/365 - their kindness gets your name "out there" to more people, both the mods behind-the-scenes, as well as that blog's followers - guaranteed exposure - *mandatory* to reblog this with a thank you and at least one point of feedback about it to whomever created that birthday wish for you

4. Bingos:  SPN Genre Bingo - SPN Fluff Bingo - SPN Kink Bingo - SPN Angst Bingo ---> specific dates - variety of topics - guaranteed reblog - good/decent potential reblog from others via their followers and those who follow the tags

5. Challenges from individuals ---> sporadic dates - variety of topics - follow people who you see hosting them, if they've hosted one they'll likely host more - hosts will typically reblog each fic (good chance with a touch of feedback), and/or put your "@" and link to your fic onto a master post - more popular the blog/higher follower count, the more exposure, so high reblog/new reader potential

6. Seasonal Celebrations ---> specific dates - Secret Valentines, secret Santas, etc. - do it and you're also probably making a friend, maybe gaining a new follower, maybe their followers will come visit your place because your assigned person reblogs what you did for them - moderate-to-high potential for reblog *

(*Should be a guarantee but some people are dicks; my Valentine didn't ever send me shit this year, not even an apology through the organizer, but you know what? I don't care. Legit. I made a friend through it, and really enjoyed making what I did for them.)

7. “Bangs”  ---> sporadic dates - a.k.a. Mini-bangs / Big-bangs - focused on a topic/character - guaranteed reblog

8. Appreciation Days ---> specific dates - Angst, Smut, Fluff appreciation days - you can even submit already written fics/don't necessarily have to whip out something new - specific tags can draw readers - good/decent potential for reblogs

9. Prompts ---> 24/7/365 - imagines, those generic prompt blogs - follow some, keep an eye out for the interesting ones - challenge yourself to crank out one a week, short little 500-ish word blurbs - reblogs, maybe, who cares, this is serving to get you out of the funk and get used to posting your work; it's practice, and if it gets love, then great, if not, you still got stuff to put on a master post - and make a master post and get it in your profile so it's easily find-a-ble

10. Outside of Tumblr * ---> 24/7/365 - Fanfic.net and AO3 - join and put fic there and put your links somewhere on your blog - both have stats - both give opportunity for people to comment and to share direct links to their blogs, which is how this connects to the goal of visibility in the SPN fandom here - also a way to self-reblog your story in a “fresh” way/cuts down on repetition popping up on your followers’ dashes (i.e. - helps cushion the ol’ “Oh they’re posting this again?!” feeling)

[* Note: many of us have great distaste for Wattpad because it is a breeding ground for thieves - people will c/p stories from here and present them as their own, some trying to excuse it by “giving credit” in a blanket manner a la “found at Tumblr” or listing the “@” of the writer. The problem is, Wattpad’s method of reporting leaves much to be desired - like Instagram, they only seem to be interested if a published author takes issue. The only real way to call out these thieves is via an immense amount of pressure from the SPN Family commenting directly at their Wattpad page. My point? Your choice, but if you do join up and post there, proceed with caution.]

.

(B) The stuff that's more than just writing:

1. Reblog interesting things that show who you are - fan art is a great start - shows your tastes and what you like - when feeling confident, host a challenge, as what you choose for the framework (one of mine, for instance, was using lines of dialogue from Archer) will also reflect what you like, what you're into - tag people you're friendly with and say something like "Even if you're not interesting in joining, signal boost, please??? [cute emoticon]"

2. Narrow down focus - if you're multi-fandom, drill down on your favorite - start by building up a solid following in that one fandom - keep a ratio of about 80% primary fandom, 20% to cover the others/personal/non-fandom stuff - use a "Not [fandom]" tag for that 20% so your followers can choose to opt-out - or if you can't manage this, do a side blog or two

3. Set your queue to pop stuff out (at minimum) 2 or 3 times/day - stuff it - start with CanonSPNgifs - keep your blog active - unless something you want to reblog is time-sensitive, chuck it to the queue - a wall of posts from the same person on the dash is off-putting - same for constant reblogs of your own stuff*

(* Which you should do, yes, but have an understanding of time zones, will ya? I swear some people are re-blogging for myriad time zones in Oz and Narnia, as well, I've no idea... I've digressed)

4. Send Asks to people like the "spread the love" stuff - if they post "Ask Me" things, send them one - reblog the answered ask and say what you think about their answer/at minimum say "thanks, this was great" - reblog those ask games posts for your followers so they ask you questions - get engaged

5. Respond to a good portion of the comments people leave for you, whether feedback or just funny things they said - specifically, feedback with reblog deserves reply of thank you, whether in the notes or a fresh post; see my blog for copious examples - make a post that says your tags are open/offer to tag folks - anytime your follower count jumps by, say, 5, reblog it - make an OMG!-type post every time your follower count increases by, say, 10 - you’re telling them you actually give a shit that they follow

6. Keep an eye out for folks (especially those who make rec lists, so always check out rec lists for who did it when you spot them) who have said it's okay to tag them - always tag them, even if they seldom reply/reblog/feature you on their list, as you never know

7. When you read stories by other writers that you love, reblog them *with some feedback* - do unto others, etc., etc. This is in huge headline size for a reason. Take the hint.

ETA - I chimed in and gave some tips since I composed this post, and it may be helpful for you/for people who are shy or intimidated or just not particularly comfortable verbalizing feelings.

...and here’s what I suggested:

If you want to get specific, say what your favorite thing/things is/are; in my mind that could go something like this:

I felt like I was right there with them in the ____ [setting]

I felt like I was right there during ____ [part of the plot]

I felt like I was watching an episode of the show

I could relate so much to ____ [character]

My favorite line(s) was/were ____

___ [character(s)] sounded just like they do on the show

___ [character(s)] acted just like they do on the show

And there’s also more generic things, such as:

This story really touched me, I needed something heartwarming!

This story cracked me up, I needed a good laugh!

This story made me smile, I needed some cheering up!

This story got me crying, I needed a good cry!

This story was really creative, I needed a change of pace!

And if you want to keep it really simple? This can apply to any story:

I enjoyed this more than I can say, thank you so much for writing it

.

Is full-on blind cult following an "ehhhh" thing? Yeah. But the basis of it, the true, legit loyalty part of it, is wonderful. You want that. The more readers know you, the more they'll feel comfortable interacting with you, and the greater their comfort, the more likely they'll give you feedback and, eventually, some constructive critique* 

(*You gotta make it clear you're fine with critique, though, and don't dare say it if you're just gonna pitch a fit when you get some, however poorly phrased the critique may be; but that's another topic, for another day).

Great, Nash, you still haven't answered my question about pleasing the masses - you may say. 

The answer is: that's a call you gotta make for yourself. To hopefully help, I'll tell you two stories about chumming the waters with (what seems to be) the standard wares that get a ton of followers/reader-followers.

Interestingly, I *just* this past week or so had a great discussion with someone (who I won't reveal, of course, because it was PM) on this very topic. You'd recognize their name, if not follow them/have read their stuff, they've got a healthy fanbase, etc., etc., etc. all that jazz. It would surprise you, is my point, to know that they've been pondering on their writing - specifically, the genre in which they feel entrenched. They accrued their popularity (I hate that word, but can't think of a better one) in a certain, ah, niche. You know the holy trifecta: angst, fluff, smut. One of those.

(I am not going to go down the road of how much I loathe the limitations of those, I know myself, this will turn trash fire and neglect you. But they are the cards we've been dealt, there's nothing to be done to change it, we must play our hands. #flames on the side of my face #haaaate #I'm done)

Anyway, they've sat here "x" year/years later and looked back at their pre-SPN fanfic foray (read: how they used to write/what they used to write), and are like - Where'd my voice go? Where'd my style go? Can I get it back? Sure I can get it back, but if I start being "me", what will my reader base do with that? Will they stick around and support me? Will they bail? etc., etc., etc. You get the idea. Reasonable thoughts, all.

I tell you this next bit because while what is going on with above writer is on the side of Got A Wide Reach, like I said in Pt. 1, I am presently on the other side, the Modest-in-Number, Large-in-Loyalty reader collective. And I *have* chummed the waters, though not entirely purposefully. And it didn't work... well, hasn't, I can't predict the future, could blow up tomorrow, but not likely. I suspect I know why. We'll get to that.

I say not entirely purposefully because I stumbled into Fluff and Smut, one of each. (There is a second fluff, but that doesn't count because it was tailored to a very specific person who gave very specific things to include for a Valentine swap thing.) The fluff was via a thing I did, and my dear friend nailed it, gave me three cringy words that were meant to hit the fluff bullseye, and I doubled down. You can see that here, should you care.

People fucking lost their shit. I repackaged it into its own post in case folks didn't like the snark in the one linked above/would rather reblog sans snark. People lost their shit, part deux. Flattering as hell. I appreciated it immensely, truly.

On the smut*, I lost a bet (I can't even recall what it was, maybe I mentioned it somewhere) with the friend that drew me into SPN because they were (are? yeah, still are) frustrated with the show and I needed a writing exercise and I had (at the start time) eleven years of source material, so hells yeah I said yes. The bet was for smut, and I said - Fine, but I can't not plot.  Great, was the answer, but I had to typical it up, this was a punishment, after all. And typical, for me, means so much detail that it made brain cry. Copious detail works my nerves. Copious pondering works my nerves. Any one thing that’s too much will Work. My. Nerves. And I wrote it (it's five parts now, but part one and two was the orig piece and ended open), and said to friend "This won't get shit response" - "You wanna bet?" - me, the idiot: "Yup" - "If it does, you have to finish it out".

(*no link because I don’t know your age, and it’s set to sensitive)

People fucking lost their shit. On FF.net and AO3, that is. Not the numbers some people get, but holy hell. Hence, parts 3 through 5. Far as here, not so much the hit. But the people here who've liked it have REALLY liked it, so there's that, and it's flattering as hell, and I appreciate it immensely, truly.

And yet at the end of the day, hey guess what, say it with me now:

Now, for all my pseudo-fussing, I was cool with doing it, because at heart I'm wired to think about marketing, and I thought - Oooooh. This will bring people to the goods, the stuff I'm *really* proud of, and then and then and then....

Nope. Some yes, mostly nope. Most of my loyal roundtable were brought into the Nashooligan fold by other stories.

Here's why I think writer above got on the other side of the coin and I'm riding the edge - they went down the rabbit hole on a few, got mega results, and it fills the confidence tank, and why not wash-rinse-repeat? Humans are wired that way, we don't do things that we don't get something out of, it's normal. Thing is, they - as they see it - got lost a bit along the way. It worked, though, that squashing of their voice - "worked" in the sense that it drew the masses. Some people would be completely okay with this, would find it a reasonable trade-off; this writer isn't presently thinking so.

And back to me - I think the reason my smut and fluff didn't hit the stratosphere and draw in the masses (ergo, little motivation to do more) is because my style is still in there. The snark, the focus on accurate characterization, and like I say, I can't not plot. I didn't pullout the recipe, same ol' ingredients, mix up some standard shmoop/standard porn, flop it in the cupcake paper, bake it, then smear a thin layer of canned frosting - flavor: "Meh Plot" - around it. I made that junk from scratch, like I do all my other stories, and while I did use some of the same ingredients, I didn't go all-in. Notably, my evergreen stance that Y/N can die in a fire, ceiling optional, I ain't doing it. 

I am not going to insist you read either of them, I'm just gonna ask you to trust me on this: I read quite a bit, and I've yet to see the ingredients of Reader Mommy Married To Dean Have A Baby Sam Has Dogs scenario mixed together like mine, and I've yet to see a Reader Insert Smut With Dean Smut With Sam Inferred Happy Ever After With Dean mixed together like mine. 

Which, like I say, is what I suspect is probs the issue. I didn't get as far down the proverbial hole as my writer friend in terms of Typical'ing Up my stories. Could I un-ring that bell? Better put: could I start ringing bells? And I mean weekly, if not twice a week, quickie ones, throw in a lengthy once a month? Crank out the recipes? Plenty of templates to work from, after all. It would be hard for me in the sense of voice-squashing, but could be done.

So if I had to give you a vote on whether chumming the waters is a strategy to take, given those potential pros-and-cons, here's why I vote "no", both for myself, and for you, and others contemplating such.

It's partly that cautionary tale of my writer friend (and there's gotta be more feeling like her, there's just got to be), and mostly it's because of three writers I can think of off the top of my head. They're all quite talented, they consistently turn out solid, creative pieces that can be differentiated from the rest of the fodder floating around, and all three have substantial reader and/or follower bases. One has less than the other two, but nothing to sneeze at. The second - another person I've had great PMs with on the topic of wide appeal - attributes part of their success numbers-wise to specializing not in a niche genre, but due to specialty in a subset of the fandom (a specific, very popular 'ship).

The third, who has a *massive* reader and follower base, I can't get my head wrapped around, and I don't mean that in the sense of not understanding why people adore them, they deserve every bit of it. We'd have to dig deep into years of works and chart out the numbers (likes and reblogs and comments and followers - again, the only metrics we got) to see if there's a tipping point, but there's no magic bullet, so likely there'd be nothing in that data - or data from any highly successful writer around here - that's gonna reveal some secret. And this is the only writer I can think of that I'd really love to know a tipping point on, because: reason I can't get my head around it is because they don't do typical, ain't even in the ballpark of typical. Now, they do inject smut into much of their work, but plenty of other times it's just inferred. Consistently cheeky, if not snarky, if not balls-out-gut-bust funny. Consistently original, creative plots, even when it starts out purposefully trope-y, there's gonna be a slant on their take. I may not personally like everything they put out, I'm not saying they're perfect, but if we're trying to keep it objective vs. subjective, applied to The Nail framework? They're nailing it easily 80-90% of the time. I've actually got a soft moratorium on them, between stuff I find and noms I get on their stuff, I only include them sporadically on the list or else they'd be everywhere.

That gives me hope. Not-a-one of those three are cranking out stuff religiously on some frequent schedule, they write when the muse hits. Not-a-one of those three are following recipes. Not-a-one of those three are blanketing their voice.

And this goes back to the very first thing you said, about pleasing others when we can't please ourselves. Part of the reason you're not pleased is because on whatever level, your stuff isn't grabbing an audience, however big or small. I know it, because I've been there, as I've told you. The biggest part, though? It's because you know you can do better. Maybe you're cranking it out too fast. Maybe you're not fleshing out a character enough. Maybe you wished you'd taken another run at the plot before you published. I don't know, truly. But you're not digging the end result somehow. When you get there? To legit confidence? You're not going to care as much about pleasing others, you just won't. And that confidence is going to show in how you interact with others, little notes you make on gif sets when you reblog, things you say when you feedback others, all that stuff I said above.

People are attracted to confidence. It may intimidate them at first, they may linger on the periphery, but then once they see it's not arrogance or something, they'll be bees circling closer to the honey, because it... it... how to put... it rubs off. A kind've What Would "x" Do kind've thing. And most people will always welcome having more confidence, I mean, the real genuine confidence. We choose who are friends are - to be cheesy - not just because of who they are, but because of who we are when we’re with them. I think the younger we are, we get the wires crossed of "nastiness" and "straightforward". It's the difference between those folks, for instance, who snap and go all "You cum dumpster!" on Anons who word things poorly (I don't mean the ones who are vitriolic, I mean the ones who use less-than-elegant phrasing), vs. the folks who plainly reply something to the effect of "That's certainly something to consider. Thank you for your input". That they can’t discern the difference between a person dishing out hate - actual hate - and a misstep in phrasing speaks a lot to their confidence, that they’re taking a complete stranger’s words as such a personal affront.

I say all that to say: it's not about just the stories; the stories are a piece of a bigger puzzle. Personally, when I see folks being nasty in that manner? My knee-jerk thought is - They are so quick to lash out and write that stuff, and are so careless with their words, I bet their story-writing follows suit. And guess what? I have been 99.9% correct thus far. There's no OOMPHs in their stories: there's no brain-chewy, no heart-grabbing, no snort-giggles, no soul-touching. It's as typical as that comeback. It's lazy. It's easy. It's eye-rolling. It's expected.

Put another way: their lack of confidence in general is what is infesting other areas, in this instance, their stories. I wonder if - since you said “anything I’ve ever created” - that even if it was a slip-of-the-tongue, it may’ve been a meaningful one. If it’s the case, that there are other areas of life where you feel less-than-ideally-confident (a.k.a. - inept), I think you’re smart to start in this area, with fanfic, because as illustrated there’s lots you can do that’s in your control, that’s not dependent completely on others, and probably have some fun along the way, getting to know folks, getting encouragement, seeing your stuff get circulated, etc.

Do you keep a tiny notepad on you? Do that. Grab one from a dollar bin at Target or get you a Moleskine if you're feeling fancy, doesn't matter, but keep it on you, purse, backpack, jacket, wherever. I don't want you doing what I'm about to say on the notes in your phone, not yet. I want you to physically jot down by hand a word or two or five or whatever, about things you see/encounter, turns-of-phrase you hear, mannerisms you note in others - all that stuff - things that do please you. Those OOMPHs. And now you have some inspirational story points ready to go. Even if you aren’t able/feeling up to doing that other stuff above? This is an easy, small place to start.

Bottom line: this isn't happenstance. 

It's not happenstance for the subpar writers, and it's not happenstance for the exceptional ones. This is work. Getting confidence is work. Style is a great deal inherent, true, but it can - and should be - honed, and will likely evolve in subtle ways as time goes on. Confidence and proficiency in a skill (like writing) are not automatic "things" that come with age, not even necessarily with experience. Dig in. Take some of the actions listed above. Start with the least stressful to you, then pick away at 'em as you get comfortable. If you're already doing some of those? Then, start again fresh mentally, as if you just today started doing them. Bump up your effort. Push yourself. See what happens. Get confident in the little things, and it will start to add up, overflow into the empty places.

Look at the pickle you’re in presently as an opportunity to alter your current methodology - I mean, we know whatever you’ve been doing isn’t working for you, right? So it can’t hurt. Batter it and deep fry it, tweaking the recipe as needed; it’s still you, but you’ve applied a well-thought-out, well-crafted extra tastiness to it. There’s people out there who will love it, and they’ll turn up.

See? 😉

[vanchlo]

The Assistant / Chapter Twenty One, “Give and Get”

Hola, I hope that you all are doing great and that life is treating you well! How are you guys liking Niall’s new album?! From what I’ve heard of it, I’m really liking it! What are your fav songs off it? I’m sooo glad lots of shows are coming back for the Fall! I’ve been loving HTGAWM, Riverdale, SPN and lots of others! Also, I just wanted to say if there’s anything I can improve on regarding this story and writing, please let me know! I know that there are some parts I need to rewrite because they’re confusing and that the timeline is a little weird, my apologies. I hope you guys are enjoying the story and that it’s not boring, and that it is progressing.... I’m trying to be more detailed and make some things clearer so I hope things aren’t too bad. Let me know what you think! Well, I’ll keep this little message short and let you get to the story :) This is a pretty juicy chapter if I do say so myself ;) PLEASE PLEASE let me know what you guys think, I’m sooo curious to hear your reactions especially to this chapter! Enjoy! c: 

Click here for past chapters of The Assistant! 

I know that he doesn’t believe me.

“Yer not a good liar, ya know that?” he answers, lifting his eyebrows ever so slightly. I nod softly, looking around awkwardly without an idea of what to do, or say. “Did sumbody do this t’ you?” Harry continues, taking another step when there aren’t many left. I inhale nervously when the pad of his thumb softly brushes over the healing cut at the edge of my scalp that I couldn’t as easily hide the scab and bruises of this morning.

I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t. Because if I do, I’m afraid all of the words pent up inside of me that wish to free his ears with the truth will all come rushing out. No matter how much I try to stop them. And that the crazy beating of my heart will make them go all over the place, just like his touch has done to me. A gentle ‘heeey’ drops from his lips, making me look up at him and into his soft caring eyes that belong to the real Harry. My Harry. With courage bubbling up inside of me, my lips begin to part when a loud voice cuts in.

Angry wet raindrops fall on my shoulders, piercing through my sweater and shooting ice into my veins. I wrap the thin piece of clothing around me tighter, cursing myself from this morning for not having brought any kind of coat to make up for this pathetic sweater and this chilly rain. And cursing myself for forgetting to put gas in my car yesterday, landing me on the tube for today and in this wet Fall weather. As I walk under the faint glow of the wet streetlamps, my shivering body grows colder and colder with every painful step. Icy drops run down my face, the only relief I find in this sudden rain is the numbing of the stings and throbs painting my body. Splashes of rain puddles hit my legs, soaking through the sheer black tights donning my legs. You only have one and half more blocks to go, Becky, you can do this, I think hopefully. And with that, I soldier on. Soaked to the bone and beaten down.

My feet squeak along the wooden floor, leaving tiny invisible puddles behind me as the warmth of the flat begins to thaw my frozen body. I drop my bag on the table in the entryway, toeing off my shoes and leaving them where they land. I plod my way across the room and into the kitchen, unbeknownst to the movements my body makes. 

Open the cabinet. Take down a mug. Pick up the tea kettle. Fill it with water. Turn on the burner. Set it down. Walk over to the kitchen island. Pull out a chair. Sit down. My eyes fix themselves on one spot on the wall, staying there and no motivation to move.

Click!

Thud!

“Hey, I’m just stopping back to grab something I forgot. Boys don’t really have hair straighteners, I realized only after I left the flat,” Skye’s joking words poke through my hazy bubble, but that’s all they do. “Becky. Wait . . What the bloody hell happened to you today?! You look like you got run over by a car, Ree. You’re bleeding!” she almost shouts, voice rising in volume as she clears the room and comes to cup my cheeks with her warm hands.

“I’m fine, it’s old,” I reply quietly, meeting her eyes after she turned my head to make sure I’m looking at her.

“You are not fine, Ree. You have t-this gash in your scalp and a cut in your lips, both covered in dried blood. Did somebody do this to you?!”

“No, I-I just fell. You know how clumsy I can be sometimes,” I answer, attempting nonchalance as I step down from my swively chair and go to tend to the whistling teapot.

“You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met, always have been and always will. Now I’m not bloody leaving or going anywhere for that matter, until you tell me what really happened, Ree. Actually, wait- you stay here and don’t you move your bum one bleeding inch!” she points at me, raising her eyebrows above her sky blue eyes surrounded by black eyeliner.

I mindlessly remove the kettle from the heat, pouring the blistering hot water into the yellow mug, watching the water mix with the Peach tea bag.

“Now come here,” Skye orders moments later and I turn around, surprised to find her gently but a little forcefully leading me to the island once again. “Sit.”

“I’m not a dog, Skye, don’t give me commands.”

“I don’t care, just sit down and let me take care of you,” she replies, flicking her wavy hair half the color of bone and the other half sky blue to over her shoulder. My gaze follows her hands as they reach for the brown bottle and cotton pads. “Now are you going to tell me what happened, or not?”

Putting the bottle down hastily, she gently pushes my damp curls away from my face and runs the pad along my forehead. I suck in a breath through my teeth, wincing at the terrible stinging on my forehead.

“Ree?” she sighs, giving me a hard look in the eyes. My lips don’t move and neither does hers. A sadness I don’t want to look anymore into hangs around her eyes as she runs the pad along my forehead a few more times before discarding it, red blotches staining the cotton. “My God, you’re the most stubborn person I’ve met,” she sighs, the package crinkling as she removes another pad from the bag and soaks it with the hydrogen peroxide.

The pad is inches away from my forehead again when tears begin to fall down my cheeks out of nowhere, my lips creasing with them and my eyes falling shut. Skye’s face falls and she discards the pad, pulling my face against her chest and tucking my head under her chin.

“It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok,” she repeatedly hums against my hair, planting kiss after kiss on my damp ringlets. Arms around my neck keeping me close. “Everything’s going to be ok. You’re going to be ok, Ree.”

If only I could believe that too.

And if only the thought of giving him up didn’t scare me so damn much.

My weekend consisted of cuddles on the couch with Skye in our PJs, who decided to cancel her trip last minute, instead staying back to have a two-day long movie marathon with moi. She took care of me, making me a grilled cheese when I wanted, and stirring up chocolate milk for me when I wanted that too, and tending to my cuts a few more times until they were scabbing up and could fend for themselves. She didn’t push for the story again, but I knew it was on the end of her tongue and it was only a matter of time until she’d catch me off guard and make me spill.

With Monday looming closeby, I soaked up the last hours of freedom until eight am rolled around and I dragged myself out of bed. With a heavy lunchbox courtesy of Skye’s rare cooking excursion this weekend of Taco Soup and garlic bread, I head off into the chilly bright morning. Slipping into my forgotten front seat of my car, I start up the old thing and only then remember my lack of gas issue. But when I look at the gage, it’s hugging the bold F. Oh, Skye, what would I do without you, I think to myself with the warm hint of a smile clinging to my lips.

I put the car in Park and turn the keys until the hum of the engine is no more. With a deep breath, I peak a look at myself in the rearview mirror. Loose chestnut curls barely touching the shoulders of my violet peacoat and the smooth brown dress underneath it. By habit, my eyes dart to the slightly discolored area of skin just meeting my scalp and the dark crease in my bottom lip. If you don’t look too closely, you can’t notice them with the makeup and the colored lip balm. Sighing, I grab my purse and lunchbox and leave my car for the long parking garage in search of the elevator that will take me up to the seventeenth floor, and back to Harry.

The main floor of seventeen is doused in a quiet hum, albeit for the occasional phone ringing and small conversation among the Cubiclers tucked away in their cubicles by the elevator. Dark clouds hover on the other side of the clear pristine windows, threatening to burst at any moment as they cast dreariness over the black tiled floor and sleek gray granite walls of the firm’s main floor. The circular fluorescent bulbs hidden in the black wooden ceiling work hard as the rain nears, and stab needles into my head that still dully aches after three days.

My MacBook sounds its typical whoosh as its screen comes to life. I open my email with slow fingers, relieved and yet surprised to find only a handful of emails waiting for me. A handful or sometimes two less than usual. Thank God.

My fingers float across the keys with learned ease, composing a reply to a current client asking for some more information and certain documents that are the usual after Harry liked what he heard in the face to face consultation from Friday. I include a timeframe for when they’ll hear from us next, before sending the email off.

The day drags on with its hits and its misses. My time is spent answering emails and typing up new ones, retrieving and delivering case files for Harry that land on his empty desk as he sits in a courtroom across town. Last but not least, I take another crack at filing, rounding out another few sizable stacks before lunch arrives and I’m knee to knee with Asher in the breakroom scarfing down my soup and sharing my cookies.

3 o’clock rolls around out of nowhere, the rain clouds far gone as I savor the sliver of sunlight peeking out from behind the now fluffy clouds. Harry’s weekly list dinged in my inbox hours earlier and has grabbed my attention ever since, checking off a few things already until I decided to devote the rest of the day for filing and then hopefully finishing out the rest tomorrow. I kneel down and pick up the granola bar I dropped trying to take it out of one of the drawers of my desk. My hip bumps my creaky old desk as I leave for Harry’s office to get on that filing. The voices of Green Day, The Stones and Fleetwood Mac among others swim around me as names and numbers occupy my mind, as bright warm sunshine peeks in through Harry’s windows. I don’t catch one glimpse of him for the rest of the day, or of anybody else of significant importance much to my pleasure. I leave the rest of the files for tomorrow, gleeful at the sight of only a few stacks left and the bubbling hope of how happy Harry will be to see them all done. A new song by Vance Joy fills my car as I pull out of the parking garage and begin to make my way home.

My alarm clock rings too quickly the next morning, waking me up with a sad frown at having to leave that wonderful dream where I was on a beach with Derek from Teen Wolf. Mmmmm. Fucking alarm. I stumble out of bed and whiz through my morning routine with heavy limbs and heavy eyes. My Tuesday is a blur of coffee, emails, to-do lists and dreading doing the rest of those files. But with a new album and sneakily watching some more American Horror Story, I get through the day along with Skye’s soup and cookies.

With the secondhand hugging the 11 and the shorthand inching towards the 5, I decide to call it a day and make a break for my desk. Hiding away thick files and stacks of empty ones, I tidy up my desk and put everything back where it was this morning before deciding to head out. But when I’m reaching for my purse, I happen to look up and find Harry walking in my direction. Well, so much for thinking I could avoid you today, the words course through my skull as I heave a silent sigh at watching him arrive in front of my desk.

“Did ya drop something’?” he questions, leaving out a greeting as his striking maroon suit tightens around him when he bends over to pick up something off the floor. His eyebrows quirk together as he looks down at a white envelope, and a second later I feel my heart cease in my chest. “Hmm, ‘s addressed t’ me, I wonder what it ‘s,” he continues, apparently thinking that because of that he can go ahead and help himself and open it although it wasn’t sealed and the content already had begun to spill out. 

I scramble around my desk and over to him, not so calmly or chalantly ripping it from his hands. But when he looks up and over to me, I realize I was a fraction of a second too late because the creased letter tight in my hand is open just enough for the words stuck to it to be known to the world. Thick emotions paint his face all over, creasing the space between his eyebrows as they knit together sadly with his puppy dog eyes locked on me. Lips trembling to open, but not fully getting there. All as my heart races uncontrollably, regret filling my body quickly with my chest growing tight and my cheeks hot. Realization dawns on me, making me think back to bumping into my desk on my way to file some stuff. Shit. Devastation slowly sticks to every inch of skin on his face and seeps into his green eyes framed by thick lashes.

“Becks,” he rasps, hand going to his hair as if it’s his own unique coping mechanism. “What's this? I-I mean I know what it ‘s, but I don’ get it. ‘m so bloody confused . . yer quttin’?” Harry croaks, words coming out fast and then slow, and sloppy and crazed. “If you want less hours or t’ get off earlier, I can do that. Even if ya want more hours, we can figure that out. Or if ya wan’ a lighter workload, we can work sumthin’ out, Becks, I promise. Jus’ tell me what you need and ‘ll make it happen, jus’ pleas don’ leave.”

Wow. His lips sputter to a stop, as my heart does something the same and I’m left all of a sudden speechless, but with so much to say just a minute ago. Or so I thought. My heart only thumps faster and harder when he comes closer to me at the end of his plea.

“I-I’m not leaving, Harry. I-I just- I don’t know . . . “

“What d’ya mean? Tha’s a two weeks notice letta I just read. T-this isn’t makin’ sense, Becks,” he replies in a huff, throwing up a hand in exasperation before it falls heavy with a plop against his leg. Yeah, I don’t know, either. “Wha’s bloody goin’ on?” he outright asks, eyes glued to me and expecting an answer. And a good one at that.

“I have it because I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Why’re you thinkin’ ‘bout leavin’? What happened?” he questions quickly with sad eyes, and when they stray from my face to land on my forehead he steps forward, and I suddenly feel the urge to shrink into myself. If only that were possible. “Becks, yer head - ‘s gashed open, what’d you do, love?”

“I’m just clumsy, I tripped and fell,” I answer, looking away from his prying eyes and then back to find something in his that I don’t like.

I know that he doesn’t believe me.

“Yer not a good liar, ya know that?” he answers, lifting his eyebrows ever so slightly. I nod softly, looking around awkwardly without an idea of what to do, or say. “Did sumbody do this t’ you?” Harry continues, taking another step when there aren’t many left. I inhale nervously when the pad of his thumb softly brushes over the healing cut at the edge of my scalp that I couldn’t as easily hide the scab and bruises of this morning.

I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t. Because if I do, I’m afraid all of the words pent up inside of me that wish to free his ears with the truth will all come rushing out. No matter how much I try to stop them. And that the crazy beating of my heart will make them go all over the place, just like his touch has done to me. A gentle ‘heeey’ drops from his lips, making me look up at him and into his soft caring eyes that belong to the real Harry. My Harry. With courage bubbling up inside of me, my lips begin to part when a loud voice cuts in.

Jennings.

“Harry! I got Mr. Bishop on the line about the crazy Tillings case that’s all over the news. You know the one, with the wife stabbing her kids to death . . Well, there’s some stuff he wants to talk to you about, like maybe even hiring you for the Defense instead of Tomlinson,” he nearly shouts, with a foot out of the door of the large meeting room across from us. Several of the big lawyers like Stone, Bradley, Mickey, and Rose are visible through the half drawn blinds strewn over the windows acting as walls around the secretive room. It looks like the judge interrupted an important meeting, another one that Harry just so happened to skip out on. 

Harry sighs, muttering an ‘I’ll be there in a sec’ to Pete, before turning back to me. Hand back to himself and eyes full of questions, ones that I don’t want to answer. But I do. I just don’t know if I can.

“We’re not done here. ‘ll see you tomorrow’ before court and we’re settling all this then, alright?” he says with a wag of his ringed finger, and I nod at him. It’s really not that much, but it seems like more when he squeezes my arm as he holds my gaze before leaving with a goodbye.

Well, I guess my secret’s out. 

I inadvertently avoided my phone and emails for the rest of the night, and the next morning until I pulled into the parking garage attached to the gleaming skyscraper that I call my work. With my head down and the word ‘avoid’ repeating over and over in my head, I quietly make my appearance and try my best to slip away to my desk unnoticed. My heart pounds a little as my email loads, the innermost part of me dreading the long list of new emails waiting for me and the possibility one or a few might be from Harry.

A strange calmness covers me when his name isn’t found anywhere in my new emails on this dreary and cold Tuesday morning. Nervously, I pull up the weekly list and double check his agenda for the day, even though I was the one who wrote it and I should remember. But I wrote it up weeks ago.

Tuesday, November 9th

Court for the O’Pete’s Case 10AM - All day

Dinner with friend at The Grand 5pm

The plan for the day is simple and to the point, with some room for leeway and adjustments which I won’t be surprised if he makes. And a later start to his morning, which I know by now that he certainly likes. But not today, because guess who’s going to be Mr. Early. Ugh. I busy my mind this morning by answering emails and returning calls, peeking a glance every now and then in the direction of the elevator expecting to see him pop up out of nowhere. The first few times I look over without a hint of his appearance, but the fifth time I watch the elevator doors open and spit him out.

Oh no.

I know I can’t, but I almost try to hide behind my desk. Drop my head and busy myself with something. Turn around and make it look like I’m grabbing something from behind me. Crouch down and dig in the lowermost filing cabinet.

“Hey.” an internal groan ripples through me at the remembering that of course, he has to walk right past my desk on his way to his office. Could I be any more stupid? Probably not. “I wanna um talk t’ you ‘bout yesterday, ya busy?” the raspy words roll off his tongue fast. I slowly sit up to look at him, but it can’t be slow enough. His long curls gleaming wet after what must have been a morning shower, his nose and cheeks dotted with red from the London cold.

“Yeah no I’m fine,” I reply hastily, my words tumbling out before I can tell them to stop. Dread and nervousness guide my actions as I turn to face him fully and close my laptop.

“Kay, c’mon then. I wann’ talk in my office.”

Gulp.

Pushing my chair in, I leave my desk and follow his heavy footsteps down the hall and around the corner. The thump thump of my heart picks up as his drying curls bounce on his shoulders, and his shiny new YSL boots click clack on the tile flooring.

Here we go.

“Sit down,” he instructs, waving a hand to the black leather chairs in front of his cluttered desk. I do as he says, crossing my legs and folding my hands as I watch him set his black leather messenger bag on his desk and get situated as I wring my hands nervously. 

I watch his careful and rather rushed movements, until he’s hung up his jacket and fixed his hair. “Now le’s talk,” Harry sighs as he walks towards me and sits down on the corner of his desk to face me. Okay then.

“What’s there to talk about?”

“Don’ lie t’ me. You know I wan’ t’ talk ‘bout that two-week letter I found of yers,” he goes on with a huff.

“I know, but there’s nothing to be said. I changed my mind and decided not to give it to you.”

“Well yer mind had t’ have been made up pretty damn good ‘bout quittin’ if ya felt so compelled t’ write it in tha first place,” he argues, looking away after a moment with a shake of his head.

I take a cue and shake mine too, frustrated at the way he’s acting and how big of a deal he’s making about this.

“You were never supposed to see it,” I comment softly in admittance, looking up from my lap and to him. But he won’t look at me. A hand adorned with rings is in his hair as he looks away, then stands up and walks over to where midmorning sunlight streams in through the polished window.

“What, are ya not happy enuf here, Holte?” he asks, throwing up a hand that he seconds later stuffs in the pocket of his tight black pants. It’s almost painful to hold back a snort at his remark, or to chime in with a ‘duh’ or an ‘are you serious’. “I thought we’d figured out our own li’l system and that you were comfortable an’ happy here”

When I don’t answer, I can’t ignore his heavy sigh that pokes at me and somehow makes this worse. “What can I do t’ make ya happier, huh?” Harry says softly, but not in a nice way, and more like in it a perturbed way like he doesn’t want to have this conversation any more than I do.

I don’t know about that.

His question catches me off guard a little, and I almost want to take it the wrong way. But things aren’t like that, and what’s to say that they ever will be more. Turning my mind to something else to get it off that, I start to think of what I should tell him. Well for starters, you could stop dating that bitch of a Barbie and that would take away something like half of my problems. Then there’s maybe treating me with some respect and decency, and not just when you like or those certain days when you decide we’re friends.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” I decide to say, but I regret it almost as soon as I say it, because he’s Mr. Doesn’t Take No For An Answer.

“Why can’ ya just talk t’ me,” he relents, something sad and real creasing his brows and painted in his eyes. I start to fall for it and the truth itches to come out.

Briiiiiiiing!

He huffs and his gaze lingers on me willing me to speak as he seems to wait it out to see if it’s going to ring a second time and a third time and a fourth. And just when I gather a little nerve he reaches out and picks up the phone. “This is Harry,” he answers, pulling his lips in and pressing them together as he listens to the person on the line. I watch his eyes dart around and he nods with a ‘mmhmm’ before grabbing a pad of paper and a pen, jotting down something important.

I can hardly take the mix of awkwardness and tension for a minute longer, and I stand up and make it for the door.

“Becks, wait.”

The name and its sudden return hit me like a wall, hard and out of nowhere. My lips tremble with all of the things that I could say, and my limbs stutter with the things I could do. I decide on one, and I turn around. “I’m not going anywhere, so would you stop worrying about it?” I tell him, watching his face donning an expression I don’t want to read as the phone is still pressed to his ear, his hand cupping the speaker.

I think I hear a small sigh, but I don’t know because I’m already turning around. A harsh clud! tickles my ears and just as the icy metal welcomes my fingers, a warmth arrives on my shoulder making me spin around to find it.

“Please don’ leave, I still wanna talk t’ you. Ya’ve been actin’ so weird lately and there’s a cut on yer head and ya dropped a two weeks letta’ that ya say wasn’ real or sumthin’ . . . Will ya jus’ tell me wha’s goin’ on already?” Harry almost pleads, the ‘please’ stinging in his eyes. I can’t do it. The pleading and concern drowning in his eyes does it. It gets me.

“You won’t believe me,” I almost mumble, unsure of if he heard me until his quickfire ‘tell me’ knocks that down.

“Ya underestimate me sumtimes.”

A soft ‘okay’ falls from my lips recklessly a few breaths later, just like the rest of what I’ve said in the last minute. A shaky breath trickles into my lungs, my heart picking up speed as words jumble around in my head. It’s only made worse when his hand placed on my shoulder that’s hard to forget gives a little squeeze, egging me on.

“It’s um Amber, s-she keeps harassing me, Harry. I put that file on your desk the other day and I know that she took the crime scene photos out and did something with them just to sabotage me, or something. Also other times when she comes in, she always has to give me shit somehow: accidentally knocking over a coffee on my desk, accidentally hitting the end button on my phone when I’m on a call, or her favorite being to tell me that I’m not allowed in your office when you’re not here. I’ve told her time and time again that I am, but she won’t believe me,” I talk fast, shoving the words out into the free air before I stop myself, or before he does. My eyes jutt away from his, far too nervous and scared to wonder what they’re holding because his poker face doesn’t work on me. And if I see something I don’t like, I’m afraid I won’t get the next part out, because of that and the dryness eating up my throat. “A-and Friday I was doing filing in your office, and from the second she helps herself in she won’t leave me alone to get out because ‘I’m not allowed’. She was almost screaming at me, and she literally dragged me by the arm out an-and threw me at the door but I missed and hit the trimming o-on the wall, giving me a bloody fat lip and doing that to my forehead,” I divulge, sputtering to a hurried stop before another word takes it out of me and I’m spilling tears on his shoes.

My chest shakes with each hasty breath and the violent thuds of my heart pounding against my ribcage. Sweat slickens my palms I didn’t realize I was folding together so hard, the tips of my fingers white against my knuckles that I instantly release. But then they start to shake. Tears prick at the back of my eyes, ready to make their debut as I nibble nervously at my lip. Dread fills me, mixing with my nerves and anxiety and fear and everything else to make the worst feeling ever. It surpasses the gut-wrenching anxiousness of sitting at your desk in class waiting for the teacher to hand you your graded test. Or being statue still behind the wheel during your driving test afraid one little mistake will make you fail. Or the impending drop of a rollercoaster that makes you feel like your stomach is going to jump into the sky along with the rest of you.

The uncomfortable eeriness of silence pools around us, slowly building an invisible distance between him and I. A distance I’m afraid will be magnified by just a few words from him. Words that he could spill at any second. The waiting is always what kills you. I get ready to speak, new words ready to spring off the tip of my tongue.

“Tha-that’s not Amber, Becks, she’d neva do that kinda stuff, let alone give sumbody a gash on their head and a fat lip,” Harry finally says, words quick and sharp that are accented with a nervous laugh. Gulp. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach at the drop of a hat- or at the second he disagrees. A sudden angry heat fills my body all over, joined by a sourness spilling into my stomach. I think the toast and oats from this morning are going to be reappearing real soon. “‘m sorry ya think that, Becks, but I know her and she wouldn’ do that kinda stuff t’ sumbody, I swear,” he finishes. As if I needed to hear it a second time.

Braving it, I meet his eyes and find them creased with something sad that I don’t give a shit to decode, but I know they look even worse when they lay on mine. I take a step back, feeling his hand slide from its place on my shoulder. He steps towards me and almost grabs my hand, but I pull it out of his grasp. “Don’t,” I almost spit through gritted teeth, my heart beating loud and fast in my ears. My name starts on his lips, and I shake my head. No. “O-of course you didn’t believe me. God, what was I thinking? Why would you anyways?! Your head is so fucking wrapped up in her that you can’t see anything else but what she wants you to see, Harry!” I explode, words flying places without a thought. Because who gives a flying fuck.

Rage seethes through my veins hot and fast. A sudden boom! of thunder echoes through the room, big fat raindrops hitting the window with pits and pats. The former rays of sunshine nowhere to be seen as smoky clouds dominate the sky. 

Yeah, things sure do change fast.

“Becks, c’mon. ‘ve known her for years, I know she wouldn’ do this stuff yer accusing her of!” he replies, throwing his hands up and doing a half sigh-half gasp in exasperation. “Why would she anyways, what reason has she got t’ harass you if that were even true?”

“She hates me, Harry! Ever since the first day she met me she’s had it out for me. I’ve done nothing to her, but she insists on making my life hell ever since. I don’t know why, m-maybe she feels threatened by me or something, because you’ve kept me around for so long and because I’m a fricken girl! Why are you asking me? You should be asking her, Harry!” I almost shout, but at this point I don’t think either of us cares anymore. A guttural groan leaves his lips, a hand caught in his hair next messing it up further as he keeps his distance rightly.

“I know her, Becks. I know she wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Somebody dragged me by the arm and threw me to the ground, Harry! It wasn’t some ghost, I saw who it was. It was bloody daylight out and I’m sure you could ask anybody around here and they could tell you they saw her here at that time on that day, and maybe even what I looked like afterward!” I yell at him, finding my hands in my hair next, feeling the urge to pull it out. Palms sweaty, goosebumps covering every inch of my body and my brain turned on to fight mode. The sour feeling in my stomach grows, and next my eyes begin to blur ever so slightly and I don’t know how much longer I can fight. Or how much more. “W-why don’t you believe me, Harry? Why would I ever lie to you?” I relent, throwing a frustrated hand up to have it smack against my leg. My words crack at the very end and I shake my head with a sad smile.

It looks like a light clicks on in his head, filtering to his eyes as his lips part slowly. His forehead shiny with the same kind of clammy and angry sweat that covers my body. I blink at the blurriness, but it only grows worse.

“Amber’s not like that, she’s neva been,” he continues, refusing to give her up by holding onto her honor. It makes me sick. And if I stay here another minute longer, I’m afraid that I will be. “Becks, y-yer just confused o-or ya took sumthin’ she did wrong.”

“Wow, you’ve really got yourself hooked on believing all of her lies, Harry. You really have no clue of what kind of person you’re dating . . And I can’t believe I ever thought th-that there was some good down deep inside of you,” I spit, the anger and intensity falling as the words hit the air and my fight leaves me too, leaving the last words hanging there in my exhausted voice.

His grief-stricken face drowned in a mixture of sadness, confusion, and anger stare back at me in a blurry haze that disappears with my next blink. Hot tears trail down my cheeks, my whole body heavy. My heart. My stomach. My head. My eyes. His boots click when he inches towards me, but I move away by habit. A habit I didn’t know that I suddenly have. It hits him too, and the hurt etched into his face deepens from seconds before.

My heart wrenches at the sight of him. And the immediate disgust. I spin around, dying to get out of here and as far away from him as I can get. I swipe hastily at the tears flying down my cheeks, the clack of my heels muffled in my ears where my heart beats ravenously faster and faster and so do his words that play like a tape in my head.

It doesn’t stop when the sounds of seventeen come back to me, or people passing me, or the bile beginning to rise in my throat. Or even when I’m pushing past the doors. Or when I’m emptying the remnants of this morning’s breakfast from the pit of my stomach. His words and the look on his face still drill into my head, and when another wave hits me I heave into the toilet as the cold ridges of the dirty tile dig into my boney knees. Once it passes, I’m not yet out of the woods as sobs wreck my body and only grow worse when I play over and over the words he said.

And it only amounts when I think that maybe just maybe he’ll burst in here any second calling for me and admit his fault. But as the minutes grow and my cheeks become wetter, I sit back and curl against the partition of the stall and cry harder. Because he isn’t coming. He never will. 

He’ll never be that prince in shining armor I’ve wanted him to be this whole time.

[kellendriaaa]

Fate and choices

Chapter 1

Cast: Jack Kline; Rose Ceallaigh (Main OFC); Sam Winchester; Castiel; Dean Winchester; Gabriel; Lucifer; Tara Zendey (OFC); Clark Barker; Victoria Wellagan (OFC); Dolby Murray (OMC); Mitchell Inkle (OMC); Loris Lichens (OMC)

  Pairings: Jack Kline/Rose Ceallaigh; Castiel/ Dean Winchester; Gabriel/Sam Winchester; Lucifer/Sam Winchester; Clark Barker/Tara Zendey and others... 

  Summary: Rose Ceallaigh, a student and part time waitress found an innocent boy, not that innocent in front of her building. Knowing that he ran away from his family not to escape them but to protect, Rose try to help him discovering a world she did not know who was right in front of her eyes.

He know basically nothing about the world, so Jack will learn what is love, burn, passion, joy and being hurt. He will learn how to be human, how to feel every emotions.

While Dean, Sam and Castiel are still trying to find him and finding that girl who is immune to supernatural powers when dealing with their own preoccupation.

Okay I sucks at summary too. I'm sorry please give it a try 

Notes: I don't own Spn neither their amazing characters only mine so all the OFC and OMC. English is definitely not my first language (I'm french) so sorry for my many mistakes.

It's really slow, and basically nothing happens, I'm placing the characters and the context of their lives but I always put hints into my chapter. Sooo enjoy ! ^^

The music was ringing in the dinner. Heat of the moment by Asia was making her move her head while reading her document on the global warming; it is not that she did not like it. C’mon, she definitely love studying and learning about the environment and water and all of that but making a whole project about it seems heavy and way too much in her mind.

Except, that asshole naming Brennan, Mr. Brennan, do not even wait for her to come in the class to choose what she had to do.

Well, not exactly. Yes, global warming was the last subject but there was another one.

Fate and choices.

C’mon, how the hell were we supposed to do something with that. She was not really a fatalist (sometimes she was, after watching sappy movies. And knowing she will passed another valentine’s day watching other sappy movies) but apart from that she was believer and did not think everybody deserves hell.

  …

  Okay reading fanfiction on the net was enough for everybody to go straight to hell but at least she knew and was ready to run to hell with her fanfiction friends. However, all these peoples with a rough life do not necessarily deserves this. After her class discuss the subject of “Fate and choices” she was pretty sure, her classmates were demons or at least some dark creatures even if she do not believe in that.

  So is she really a believer? That is a good subject! Better than all of them actually.

  “Rose!” her boss shout, “less brooding and more working lil’ girl.”

“’m coming” she answer tying the knot of her apron correctly.

  She was working as a waitress in the diner when school was over or before. For now 2 years and she freaking like it, everything was cool and people were kind (not always but most of them!) so was her boss. Mitch Inkle, soon to be, 60 years (they were preparing a little something for the event) and four marriage in the counter, well four-failed marriage so four divorce. He was immune to marriage now.

  “Why don’t you shout Vic name when she’s obviously sleeping in some corner of the house huh?” she complained while dressing the table, “’m pretty sure she’s your fave here.”

“Yeah maybe, she gives me chocolate cake every day not like you and the rest of this damn house.” He shout the rest of the sentence so everybody hear him, then everybody laughed.

“We, on the contrary, care about your health old man so don’t complain,” says Loris, another waiter.

“Yo Loris,” start Vic finally out of her beauty sleep, “can we talk about all the cigs you smoking? We should have another big conversation about how your ass will burn with these things.”

“My ass will be cooked perfectly just waiting to be eat hon’,” he says laughing.

  This was her day, joking around before the opening. Her coworkers became her family.

  Today was a chill day, clients were calm and all, no problem happen.

Yet.

Nothing happen before these guys came into the diner. ‘They look freaking weird’ she said to herself. They were four, a guy with a trench coat (like who still wear that?) giving his soul with his eyes to the guy who look a squirrel. Actually, they were giving each other heart eyes but seems deep in Narnia. Then there was the giant one and goddamn it he was tall as hell. Probably Eiffel tower height.

How did he even walk correctly and the hair! Is he doing an ad for L’Oréal or what? Well, the giant one was in front of a young guy, looking like the trench coat guy. Seems lost, like a kid.

  Did they kidnap him?

  “Rose! I’m tired of screaming your name all the time,” Mitch, who was right next to her scream laughing, “go ask these guys what they want lil’ girl.”

“I’LL GO!” she screamed in his ears going to the weird team. “Hey guys! What can I get you?”

“What is the most delicious and greasy thing you have?” The squirrel asked. She laughed while the giant one just rolls his eyes.

“The Mr. and Mrs. Is the biggest and greasy thing I eat here and it makes regret it the day after. But hell it was all worth it.”

“Yep,” said Vic staying next to me, the smile on her face becoming bigger showing all her teeth and she got so many teeth. “Big, delicious and mouth orgasming. You’ll feel it all over your body, trust me I know.”

  Was she flirting with the squirrel? He is way too in love wi-

  “Well, I’ll take it then,” he says winking at her with a smirk.

  Not so in love I think. Or just too much in the closet. That done, she wrote down his command and went for the others while Vic went to tell Dolby, the cook, what she needed.

  “Soooo, what about the others?”

“Egg and bacon,” said the giant one, “with water.”

“Nothing for me.” The trench coat.

  The last one seems to search very deeply, what he wanted to choose. Rose feet were hurting her in these damn shoes. Too small for her feet but what can she say when it was calling for her, screaming her name for her to come and buy them.

But right now, she regretted it more than anything, how something so pure and beautiful could be so evil. The fact that the young one seems to be searching excessively long did not help at all, even if he was cute when he was concentrating.

  “Ooooookay, he’ll take egg and bacon,” the savor, who was the giant one, say.

  She nodded then go to Dolby while she saw Vic adjusting her clothes, opening the button of her shirt then going to serve the squirrel. Rose thought that she should probably tell her that he was not that type of guy but then she thought about how he reacted to her poor attempt of flirting then let it go. She sit at the bar checking her text.

  Tara

Hey booboo, your still in work or?

11.17AM

  She loved that woman but she hates her grammatical errors. She answered rapidly.

  Rosie

You’re* and yup still. What about you?

11.26AM

  Tara

Shut up, just finished some stuff, about to go to you. Need some burger with a lot of bacon asap

11.28AM

  Rosie

It’ll be waiting for you. Love ya xx

11.28AM

  Tara

Same here xx

11.29AM

  She put her phone into her apron and take the plates, sighing when she knew rush hour is about to come. She walk toward the team giving them their plates.

  “So 2 eggs and bacons for the two of you and hot sauce for the guy here,” she gives the hot sauce to the squirrel, “’m sorry she forgot it.”

  They nodded and started to eat. They really really freaking really seems weird and she was pretty sure she saw a blade in the giant one coat but maybe eyes were becoming tired. Anyways, she waited for Tara and not long after she saw the old red mustang parking and her best friend coming into the diner hugging her closely.

  “I don’t know how that old car is still rolling.”

“My baby is tough, she’s the strongest person I’ve ever see in my life,” Tara answered, her car was her life literally, she was taking care of that car more than herself sometimes. “You done? ‘m taking the food home.”

“Just wait until this table is done then ‘m all yours.”

  She was about to tell Mitch that she was done then something inside her twist. Maybe her instinct but she take Tara and throw her down, using her body as a shield against whatever that happen. Probably an explosion, her head was tripping, she hears gunshot, then a big light in the dinner but her head was too dizzy to focus, she tried to see if Tara was good but her face was full of blood, same for her arm then nothing.

TV was on, probably SpongeBob because she knew every episodes of this show. The smell were horrendous, it was a hospital. She was in a hospital. What the hell was she doing in a hospital, she tried to move but every part of her body hurt even part she didn’t knew exist were hurting her.

The first things she saw was white, too bright, too white and too clean. There was a face smiling at her, face she recognize as Tara. She try to smile back but her lips was drier than the Brennan bald ass so she tried to move but Tara stopped her.

  “Hey easy booboo, you take some good shot here.”

  Rose wet her lips, her mouth feels weird, disgusting just like hospital. Like death.

  “Stop being overdramatic about the hospital, it’s not death,” Tara say laughing slightly.

“Ho… How?”

“I know you, how do you feel?”

She adjusted herself in the bed.

  “Like a 2 trucks went over me then a train came and end the job.” She respond scanning the room, there was SpongeBob at the TV and men in front of her, men in suit. Black suit and sexy suit. Weren’t the guys from the dinner? Tara saw Rose confusion about the two men standing and watching her like a mouse in a laboratory.

  “Booboo, these guys are the FBI and they want to ask you some questions if you want.”

  She nods quietly. She knew something were weird with these guys but FBI, she did not except this.

  “Hi Rose I assume,” say the giant one, Rose nod, “I’m agent Smith and this is agent Wesson,” he continue pointing the squirrel. “We want to ask you some questions about the attack at the diner.”

  She nodded again.

  “What do you remember?” asked agent Wesson.

“Not much, I was about to tell my boss that I was going with Tara then… then… I don’t know I felt something coming so I pull Tara away, then nothing much after that.” Rose answered. “By the way, Tara your face was full of blood and… and… how?”

“How what?” She answered not sure.

“How did all the blah on your face is gone, it looks like nothing happened.”

  Tara looked at the agents then at Rose.

  “You protected me, which is by the way the last time you do such a stupid thing, you were the one who was damaged booboo.”

  Rose was sure and certain that Tara’s face was disfigure but she did not remembered a lot so she let that go. Maybe it was just her mind playing tricks. Still, she was curious about what could have happened.

  “Do you know what happened?” Rose asked.

“An attack, we’re working on these missing people, did you hear about it Rose?” Asked agent Smith.

“Yeah, they’re talking about it at school apparently these guys were going in and out the old house, at the end of the street. A haunted house or something.”

  They seems interested, the three looked at each other then at Rose.

  “Which one?” Asked Wesson.

“Pink with an angel on the porch, you cannot miss it, it’s the only old house around.”

“Thank you, we’ll let you rest now,” said agent Smith.

  She didn’t hear about them after that. C’mon agent Smith and Wesson, were they that obvious? Why not agent Beyoncé and Jay-z?

Months after that, life was still the same nothing more or nothing less. Tara was in one of her many traveling, so Rose was mostly alone at home but she likes it. She loved chilling on her big comfy couch while watching TV, with some shows or Marvel movies. She loooooooved Marvel since the day Tara bought her, her first comic book as a birthday gift, it was almost 5 years ago. She was 18 years old and it was her first gift. She still have it, cherished it since this day. Since her 17 she lived alone, ran away from abusive parents and found that beautiful woman who helped her and raise her up when everything was down. She owed Tara her actual life even if she was working in a little diner, struggling with school, she has never been happier than right now.

  Today was Mitch’s birthday surprise. The regular customer knew about it, so they were acting differently on purpose. The old lady, Mrs. Marks, was upset about everything, complaining all the time so Mitch would take care of her, living the employees to plan the surprise. Dolby did an amazing cake who was in the fridge, Vic took care of ours and Mitch’s clothes, Loris make sure that Mitch was away during the preparation.

  “Goddamn! Where is Rose? Or Vic?”

“Calm down Mitchie, Loris is in the place why don’t you go and see what Mrs. Marks needs huh?”

  He shook his head, refusing to go again and hear about how stupid those teenagers, being taller and provocative than ever are.

  “No, hell to the no, I love her but not today,” he begin then whispering the last part, “I just want slit her throat and burn her at the moment, go with her and I’ll see the new one.”

  Loris laugh, it was amusing to see how the charming and loveable Mitch could be when things get out of his control. Loris went to Mrs. Marks thanking her then went to see how things were going in the kitchen with the girls and Dolby.

  “Yo! Is everything ready ‘cause Mitchie is about to freak out and kill everybody.”

“Yup, almost done,” said Rose, “go and change ‘m gonna shut down the power.”

  They all nodded, so she did it and called for Mitch to see what was happening, he was almost relieved to get away from the constant stress and check everything making sure it was alright but he and Rose came back, there was no light in the dinner just a little bit the cake’s candle then everybody screamed.

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY MITCHELL!!”

  Rose has barely seen Mitch crying and it was one these moments she will forever keep.

The party was good, they were so many gift it took him 1 hour to open them all, from the customers, the employees, his kids and even ex-wives, same for his family. Mitch is someone you cannot not love. He was like that and Rose like it this way.

After the cleaning, Loris dropped her at the nearest bus station so she could take a bus go straight home. It was late and very dark and that part of the city was not full of light. So she took her phone from her backpack and use the lamp torch to see through her way home.

Everything was fine when she saw a body sitting on the ground, her first reflex is to run to him and see what is happening because he seemed hurt. The truth, he was full of blood and there was a cut on his lips. She tried to wake the guy up but he was totally down.

So she shake him a little bit, trying to have a reaction from him, he open his eyes, looking at Rose. She try to make him stand up but it was hard since he was about to collapse.

  “Damn!” She curse and put him on his feet nevertheless. “Yeah, that’s it hold onto me big guy. ‘m taking you to my house. Do you understand?”

  He nod so at least he was still conscious. She hold him through the way his arms around her shoulders while she was holding him from behind, going upstairs slowly until they make it to her door so she try her best and open it taking him directly to her room so he can sleep on the bed. She close the door and lock it twice to be sure. Then run to her bathroom taking all the medical care she got. She put some alcohol on a compress, cleaning his head and his lips.

The guy was beautiful, soft pink lips, beautiful features. Looking like an angel.

But she didn’t stop, she keep searching for other marks or cut but his clothes full of blood did not help at all so she try to find something that could fit him. And there was her ex-boyfriend’s clothes who can fit him so trying her best to not look, Rose undressed him, cleaning the bruises every time she finds some, and put the fresh cleaned clothes on him.

After putting the bloody clothes in the washing machine, she put the covers on him and turn on the heater so that he will not be cold then clothes the door letting him sleep.

  She start questioning herself. First of all, what the actual fuck? What will happen if the boy was a killer or something like that? However, a killer would not be in that state huh? He would’ve been the one putting someone in that way so no, well she hope no.

Trying to keep her mind out of this, she started working on her school project. Doing research and writing down everything that seemed important in no order, after she will put all the ideas and information in order.

When she looked at the watch, it says 02:54 AM.

  She scratched her eyes not being sure of what she was watching.

  And indeed it was not 02:54 AM but 06:24 AM, it was worse so she stopped everything and let her body fall on the couch and sleep.

Chapter 2 ; Chapter 3 ; Chapter 4

[rocky-alex]

Motels Won’t Cut It Anymore

Hi! This is the first fic I’m posting on Tumblr. I got the inspiration for it when I was cleaning and listening to my current SPN spotify list, and it kind of just took off from there.

Summary: When something came knocking on your door, or rather, crashing through it, it wasn’t the dark past you’d run away from, but rather two brothers in an old, but sexy, car. They held you at gunpoint, made your crash your bike and ended up saving your life. And from that point on, you were never going to work at a motel again. 

Word count: 1233

Warnings: Some cursing

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Chapter one: Boy, You’ll Be A Dead Man Soon

“Y/N, for fucks sake, please put on the uniform.” Mike looked completely exasperated at this point.

“We’ve been over this already, it’s a dress. A pink dress at that. I refuse to wear that monstrosity.” You turned your back on your manager to stuff your bag and jacket in one of the empty lockers.

“You have to, rules and regulations, it’s not up to me.” “Oh really?” Eyebrows raised, you turned around to look at Mike. He flinched. “Let me ask you something, Mr. Manager,” you continued. “Would you make the male employees wear that uniform?” You pointed at the dress and apron lying on the counter.

“What?” Now he looked confused.

“Would you,” you said slowly “make guys wear a pink dress at work?”

“No, of course not.” You smirked.

“Well then guess what, Mike, I’m not wearing it either.” Mike groaned and let his head fall on the counter as you left the reception to start work.

You’d had this job cleaning rooms, and occasionally pulling a graveyard shift at the reception desk, at the Seaside Motel for a couple of months now, having shown up one day after travelling through the States. You’d left your hometown in Sweden after a nasty family fight and were down to change in your pocket. Mike hired you on the spot, even letting you stay at the motel until you found and could afford your own place. The pay was decent, more than enough for the little apartment you ended up in at the edge of the little town close to the motel. If you were smart you could even save a nice little amount each month.

Being a twenty one-year-old foreigner there weren’t a lot of jobs on the market, so you’d been overjoyed when Mike gave you one. You didn’t mind a hands-on job, you actually quite liked it. Mike was a good boss, despite his insistence on the uniform. That little fact hadn’t come up at the interview, so you refused. A pink dress? Please. You doubted you’d wear it even if Mike decided to threaten you with a gun, much preferring your black t-shirts and jeans, and since you never slacked off and did your job well Mike seemed reluctantly willing to let it slide. It didn’t stop him from trying to talk you into it, though.

The cleaning cart was in the storage room you’d left it in yesterday. You refilled the supplies, plugged in your headphones and set out to clean the rooms. One of your favourite parts of this job was discovering exactly what people did and left in the rooms. After the first week you’d decided to start a sort of “bucket list” of things to find in a room, everything from used condoms and kinky underwear in the bed to a dead body in the closet. Every time someone left their room you tried to guess what you would find, and so far you’d been right most of the time. But people were seldom exciting. For example, you hadn’t yet guessed on a dead body.

As your job always proved a perfect opportunity to sing and dance along to your music, and you spun out of the room you had just finished. You made to go knock on the next door and noticed a big old black chevy in the parking lot. If you had to guess, and you were pretty sure, you’d say it was a late 60’s Impala and dear lord was the car sexy. You wanted to admire it more closely, but unfortunately duty called. Hopefully the owner would be staying a while.

“Don’t you know… Girl, you’ll be a woman soon.” You walked (danced) up to the next room, knocking and calling out “Room service!” There was no reply, so you unlocked the door and went to pull the cart in when you suddenly felt something cold press against your temple. You stopped dead in your tracks and slowly raised you hands. This was a new one. You closed your eyes and focused. There was one more behind you, further in and with the music still playing in your headphones you couldn’t hear if they were saying anything. Okay you got this, Y/N, you told yourself. Before the man holding the gun could reach for you you dropped to the floor. At the same time you turned toward him and landed a punch in his crotch. He dropped to the floor, losing his grip on the gun. You grabbed it and stood up straight, aiming the gun at the other man. However, luck wasn’t on your side, as he also had a gun. Your reached up and damn near ripped off your headphones. As soon as they landed around your neck your heard the man speak.

“You okay, Sammy?” The man you’d punched had crawled back away from the door, still on the ground.

“Yeah, I’m good, Dean,” he managed to groan out. You kept your eyes on the man with the gun, Dean apparently.

“Who are you?” he asked. You raised your eyebrows. You’d have thought the cleaning cart made it obvious, but decided to humour him.

“I’m the nice cleaning lady who’s come to change your towels.” Dean narrowed his eyes.

“Okay first of all, you’re not wearing a motel uniform, and second, you’re not supposed to come in here with the DND sign out.”

“Okay first of all,” you parroted him “the uniforms are pink dresses. Would you wear a pink dress at work? And second, you don’t have a sign on the door.” Dean let his eyes drift to the other man for a few seconds, his mouth opening and closing a few times before hissing “Sam, you didn’t put the sign out?”

“What?” Sam answered. “I thought you were gonna put the sign out!” Dean huffed and looked back at you.

“So you’re just here to clean?”

“No I’m here for the autographs,” you deadpanned. “Of course I’m here to clean, it’s my fucking job!” There was silence to a few moments. Then Dean hesitantly lowered his gun. You did the same. However, not trusting these guys at all you kept it in your hand. Dean walked over to Sam, all the while keeping his eyes on you, helping him up on one of the twin beds. Sam seemed to have recovered a bit from the nut crack.

“How did you do that?” he asked in a strained voice. Damn, you must’ve gotten him good.

“Do what?” He grinned and gestured to the gun you’d taken from him.

“How did you react so fast when you felt the gun?” You grinned back.

“Practice, honeypie. Lots of practice.” Dean looked at you in disbelief.

“Seriously?” You raised an eyebrow. “How come a twenty something girl working in a fleabag motel has ‘practice’ in dodging a gun?”

“No offence, sugar, but you haven’t exactly earned the right to my life story,” you answered. Dean looked taken aback.

“Well alright then,” he said. He shook his head and gestured toward Sam’s gun. “If that’s all you can go ahead and hand that gun back and be on your way. And we won’t need any more room service.” Giving him a dry smile you placed the gun on the table just inside the door. You left the room and closed the door behind you. Jackass.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Don’t Act So Surprised

Characters: Florist!Dean Winchester x Reader, Maddy (OFC), minor characters

Word Count: 1,320

Warnings: just fluffy goodness

Summary: the guy next door to you is always sending you and your shop flowers, and it got you thinking that maybe there is something more behind the meaning of it.

Squared Filled: Coffee Shop AU // Florist!Dean

Author’s Note: This is for @spngenrebingo and @spnaubingo and this is unbeta’d and any and all mistakes are all on me.

Feedback the glue that holds my writing together

Tags at the bottom

There were two things you looked forward to each and every morning: seeing the bright smiles of your customers and seeing Dean Winchester next door handing out flowers. Your coffee shop had been in business for about 4 generations. With each one, they had renovated the shop to fit the times they lived in. Now that the shop was yours, you got to make it look however you wanted which gave you great pleasure.

Serving customers for over 60 years meant a lot to you. Having a coffee brand that people loved made a community that was hard to get away from. Everyone who came to the shop was friends. Everyone who came in new left as a friend. There wasn’t one single person who didn’t feel comfortable when walking into your shop.

Speaking of community, the businesses that formed around you, you tried to be friendly towards them because you believe in working in harmony with others around you. Many people have come and go, but you always welcomed in the new with warm arms.

Just a few months ago, a flower shop had opened right next door to you which gave the environment a lovely splash of color. As soon as you saw moving boxes, you went over to meet the owner. You were never the one to believe in love at first sight, but something clicked between the two of you when eye contact was made.

He had been so nice to you from the start, always stopping by to drop off flowers to liven up your shop. In exchange, you had given him free coffee since he was giving you free flowers. This little unspoken arrangement has been going on for months, but now it seems as if he did this because he was flirting with you.

Along with every batch of flowers, he would leave a note that would make your cheeks heat up. Every cup of coffee had a sweet note written on it. It’s been a long game of back and forth, but you didn’t know how to move it forward.

Your employee and best friend keep telling you to tell him the truth whether that came out in one of your little notes, but you were afraid of ruining the dynamic between the two of you. What if this was all flirting to him? What is he is just being nice? What if he didn’t actually like you?

Your romantic life was pretty sad. Every guy you dated ended up leaving you after a few months for reasons you didn’t know. Maybe it was because they didn’t like the fact that you were a strong independent woman who was doing very well for herself. Maybe it was the fact that you came on too strong because you were just that eager. Whatever the case may be, it has seriously put a damper on things. It’s one of the main reasons why you didn't want to pursue a relationship with Dean. He might get scared and leave.

All you can do now is hope that maybe he would ask you out so you didn’t have to.

“Hey boss,” your best friend said once you entered your shop.

“You know I don’t like that word. You’re my best friend,” you grimaced, setting your things behind the counter.

“I know. I like to see you squirm,” she grinned, pulling out a big bouquet of flowers. Much bigger than what giving to you for the shop. “Guess who stopped by this morning?”

“Whoa, these are a lot of flowers,” you admired the big bouquet of different kinds and colors of flowers.

“He said these were for you instead of the shop,” she smiled, handing you the card that she definitely did not (did)read.

“There’s a card?” you asked, grabbing it from her hands. Quickly reading through it, you felt a blush stem from your neck. “He thinks I’m beautiful?”

“Oh, he thinks a lot more than that,” she snickered.

“Did you read this?”

“No,” she nodded, giving you a sly smile. “Someone has a crush on you.”

“What? He doesn’t. He’s just being nice,” you passed it off, putting the card in your purse for safe keeping.

“That is not the vibe I got when I read it,” she stated, watched as Dean grabbed a few flowers and started making his way over to the shop. “And look who is coming your way right now.”

“Hey, Y/N,” he smiled as he entered the shop. He was relieved when you got his flowers because he really wanted you to know that he was interested in you without coming right out and saying it. He was a little shy to be doing so.

“The flowers are beautiful,” you blurted, blushing when he gave you a toothy grin.

“I’m glad you liked them. Since I didn’t bring flowers for the shop, here,” he informed, giving you the handful he picked from his shop.

“Dean, you’re going to be broke if you keep giving me your flowers,” you said, taking them.

“Here’s your coffee, Dean,” your best friend said as she slid him her cup.

“And you’re going to be broke if you keep giving me free coffee. I guess we’re even,” he winked, taking a sip of the delicious substance. “Best damn coffee I ever had. I’ll catch up with you later, yeah?”

“Okay,” you smiled, watching him walk out the door.

“Do you like him?” your friend asked with a nervous smile.

“I think I do. He’s so nice.”

“Good, then I don’t feel bad for giving him your number. Or mentioning to him that you may like him.”

“Wait, what?” you panicked, looking at her with wide eyes.

“Wrote it on the cup. I can’t keep watching you eye-fuck each other from across the street.”

“Maddy! What if he doesn’t like me?” you gasped.

“Well, better think of something because he is calling you over,” she pointed to Dean who was indeed waving you over.

“When I get back you’re fired,” you half-jokingly said.

“Love you!” she grinned. Exiting your shop, you crossed the street to where Dean was located.

“Hey, so, I’m sorry about my number being on there. Maddy just doesn’t know when to butt out. I don’t know what she told you, but I don’t like you. I mean, I do like you. You’re a great person and all, but… Ugh, I’m sorry, I usually don’t get like this around guys. I mean I do around guys I like. I maybe happen to like you,” you finished. Dean had been patiently waiting for you to finish so he could tell you the news.

“Maddy didn’t write your number on here or tell me anything about you liking me. But, it’s good that I know.”

“Wait, what? She just told me that she wrote this all down on there.”

“No, all she wrote was “call Y/N over to your shop. You won’t regret it”. And believe me, I don’t.”

Glaring, you turned to look at your best friend who just stood there with an innocent smile on her face. She was so going to get it later. Maybe this was a good thing. Maybe it’s time to get your feelings out there.

“Did you want to grab dinner maybe? I’m friends with the owner at the new Italian restaurant that just opened. I can get a deal,” you asked awkwardly, hoping he would say yes.

“Yeah, I would love to,” he smiled.

“Wait, really?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” he chuckled, handing you a single rose despite giving you a bouquet earlier.

“No, I’m sorry, I… you know what. I’ll meet you outside of my shop? We can walk together. It’s not far from here.”

“Great,” he winked, greeting some customers that stopped by. Quickly walking back to your shop, you glared at Maddy as soon as you walked in.

“I fucking hate you.”

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