#but i love doing it because i get to research

[heirenorm]

After working at a kennel for 6 months (and doing some research while working there) I realized just how little most people know about how to interact with and treat dogs. People think it’s cute to hype up your dog when it’s time to go for a walk or eat, and then get frustrated when the dog eats so fast they throw it back up or won’t sit still to put the harness on.

Dogs, and animals in general, respond directly to your energy. If you are always calm when taking your dog for a walk, and putting their harness on, then they are much less likely to be an excited, frustrating mess. Obviously some excitement is normal, but there is a big difference in the dogs’ ability to remain calm and control themselves.

You have to be aware of how you are responding to their emotions, because your reactions set the tone for your dog. I’ve watched my family get the dogs all excited for a walk, saying the word over and over and dancing around with the dogs and then be yelling at them when they’re so excited they can’t sit still to put the harness on or are pulling them out the door. People punish their animals for behaviors that they created and reinforce and it makes me so mad. Anyway. Rant over. I love animals and people need to be better to them. 💚

parents were amazed how well the dogs walked on leash so in case this trick is more uncommon than I thought here’s my training technique

If a dog pulls on the leash just stop and stand there

that’s it that’s the trick you become a seat belt it works real fast. Start walking again if they stop pulling & even better if you wait until they look at you first (sometimes u might have to call them back to stop pulling if they are a bit dumb)

[lavenders388]

hiiii!! i’m in LOVE with your writing & i’m so happy to have found you ^^ I was wondering if I could request some headcanons of player 388 (Kang Dae-ho) with a s/o that was also in the military? ik it’s gonna sound a bit specific, but if it could be the FARC then i’d really appreciate it !! (oc reasons 😅) <33

~real man~

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ Kang Dae Ho x Military! Reader Headcannons<3

requested 💌

a/n thank you for the request!! this is such a lovely idea!! -matcha

<3 the second he finds out you were also in the military he becomes even more interested in you in a respectful admiration way kind of like how he was to Jung Bae! he understands the struggles that you've been through because he went through the same and he respects you for that, as well as he enjoys knowing there's someone closer to his age he can relate to!

<3 he gets a little bit sad for you; just knowing like what he went through and the things he struggles with from serving like physical injuries/ptsd. he just cares about you so much and doesn't want you to have ever had to go through anything negative.

<3 if you were in a higher branch/rank than him, he gets really embarrassed thinking about how much he talked about himself not knowing there was someone higher than him there. he gets really flustered when you tell him he should still be proud of himself:3

<3 if you were in the FARC, i don't think he would know exactly what it was, just with it being a little different from what he went through as well as depending on how much he knew/didnt know about your country! once you explain it to him he's in awe that you were a part of something so noble and groundbreaking.

<3 Dae Ho also admires and is interested in learning what made the FARC form in the first place and is even more interested in the fact that its now recognized as its own political party! he finds this super interesting and admirable. he loves learning more not just about you but about your country, and he gets to do that a lot by learning more about what you served in!

<3 going off of the previous one, if you arent in the games/when he gets out he definitely researches it a ton just so he can know more about you and impress you with his knowledge:)

<3 he does the "SIR!" thing to you a lot to joke around; but he truly does respect you and see you as higher due to your service and his admiration of you in general:3

<3 he loves this part of you a ton and loves that the two of you have this in common as well, as your relationship develops he appreciates this a lot because it allows him to speak to you and get to know you more:)

[darlingdaisyfarm]

What do u think dad!Ford would be like? 🥹

☆彡 Ford Pines as a dad :)

★ his past haunts him. Ford is hyper-aware of his own mistakes and he’s terrified of repeating them. if he gets snappy or distant, he always circles back to apologise to his kid. “i didn’t mean to upset you. im still learning how to be better at this.”

★ academic expectations aren’t a thing for him. Ford understands the pressure of being “the smart one” better than anyone, so he refuses to let his kid feel the same weight. they could be an artist, a gardener, or a professional bubble blower, he’ll support them 100%

★ awkward, deeply earnest. he’s the dad who gives his kid a PowerPoint presentation on how much he loves them or offers comfort by saying things like: “i believe your emotional pain is valid and deserves acknowledgment.” but he’ll also stay up all night building a model of the andromeda galaxy for their science fair because he wants them to feel supported

★ he loves teaching them. not in a pushy way, but because it brings him joy to share what he knows

★ he's willing to explain the same thing 20 times if they don’t understand it or sit through the same annoying kids’ movie on repeat because it makes them happy

★ paranoid protector. if you think Stan is overprotective, Ford is worse. he teaches his kid how to build a Faraday cage just in case someone tries to control their brainwaves

★ PROUD NERD DAD. he’s that parent. the one who builds overly complicated science projects for the school fair or accidentally intimidates the teacher by asking if the curriculum includes quantum mechanics

★ Ford has seen things. he’s fought interdimensional monsters and battled with Bill Cipher, so yeah, he’s terrified of his kid getting hurt.

“you can’t go to that sleepover. what if it’s a trap set by extradimensional entities?!”

“dad, it’s just Timmy’s house.”

“just Timmy’s house, you say? that’s exactly what Bill would want me to think!”

★ he gives his kid tracking devices disguised as bracelets and builds a mini forcefield generator for their room. It’s a lot, but it all boils down to one thing: he’s terrified of losing them, like he almost lost Stan

★ notes on the fridge with text “out of milk. also, don’t touch the glowing rock in the lab, it might be sentient.”

★ Ford doesn’t always know how to express affection, but he’s so proud of his kid. hes the guy clapping too loud at the school play, or awkwardly trying to high-six after a good report card

★ i have a feeling he'll insist on preparing the kid for every possible situation, from wilderness survival to escaping an alternate dimension. he turns a simple camping trip into an intense survivalist training session.

“so you see this? this is how you create a makeshift compass using only a magnet and some swamp water. now, repeat it back to me.”

“Dad, can we just roast marshmallows?”

★ Ford knows he’s made some very questionable choices in life. and he’s determined to steer his kid away from making the same mistakes. but he also knows that life isn’t meant to be lived in fear. so he tries to let his kid explore and make their own mistakes, even if it kills him to watch

★ he does these impressions of weird creatures he’s studied to make the kid laugh or making up ridiculous bedtime stories about interdimensional adventures

★ being genuinely interested in whatever the kid loves. they mention liking stars? he’s pulling out telescopes and teaching them how to navigate by constellations. they doodle in a notebook? he’s buying them every art supply and researching the history of visual storytelling

★ if the kid needs help with a project, he’ll spend hours (or days) going overboard. you’ll find him at 2 AM in his study, hunched over a model volcano, muttering about optimizing the lava flow

★ casually mentions his interdimensional adventures at dinner and the kid eats it up because, let’s face it, having a dad who’s basically Indiana Jones with extra trauma is awesome

★ he’s terrified of being a bad father, of not being enough, and that fear can make him distant at times. he overthinks every decision, convinced he’s going to mess it all up. what if he's too much like his father? what if he pushes his kid too hard? but the thing is, he cares, so much. and his kid knows it, even if Ford’s love is sometimes wrapped up in layers of self-doubt and fear

★ if anyone messes with his kid oh, they’re done. Ford may be a nerd, but he’s also a six-fingered genius who’s survived the multiverse. he’ll calmly dismantle anyone who threatens his family

★ Ford's bedtime stories start off like normal fairy tales, but somehow they end as “and so, the starfish rebuilt its missing limb, but it always remembered the one it lost. and it knew that even though it was whole again, some things leave scars you never see.” you’re sobbing. the kid’s sobbing. Ford’s eyes are suspiciously glassy as he kisses them on the forehead and mutters something about needing to adjust the humidity in the room.

★ bonus point if he’s reading his kid a bedtime story, he gets way too into it, doing all the voices and even sketching out illustrations

★ Ford may not be that emotional as his brother, except when it comes to his kid. their first stick-figure drawing? framed in his study. their macaroni art project? encased in glass because he’s convinced it’s a modern masterpiece

★ i think Ford is usually the patient parent. but one day, after hours of hearing “why can’t I do this? why am I not good enough?” from his kid, he loses it.

“you think you’re not good enough? do you know what I see when I look at you? i see someone braver than I ever was, smarter than I’ll ever be and kinder than this world deserves. you are my child, my greatest achievement and if I hear you doubt yourself again, so help me, I’ll—” and then he has to stop because both of them are crying and hugging

★ he insists on teaching the kid “important life skills,” but half the time it’s just him geeking out while the kid watches in awe/confusion “okay now, if you ever find yourself trapped in an alternate dimension, here’s how you build a rudimentary portal using only a toaster and three rubber bands.”

“. . . can you teach me how to ride a bike instead?”

“right. yes. of course. bikes.”

★ and he never stops learning. about his kid, about himself, about what it means to be a father. it’s not always easy, but Ford is nothing if not resilient

★ Ford’s idea of a trip is hiking through the woods with a map and an emergency beacon, dragging his kid along while pointing out flora and fauna. “see this plant? highly toxic. don’t touch it.”

★ his passion for research often pulls him away, but he doesn’t want to miss a thing. over time, he learns to put boundaries in place, to walk away from the lab when it’s time for dinner or to prioritize their soccer game over his latest discovery

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 3 - I Get A Little Dizzy

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Truly a disgusting amount of tabs open on my computer to research different monsters of the week for this series. Enjoy!

Chapter title from Imposter Syndrome by Abbie Roberts

Word Count: 16.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: For the first time, you run into Dean alone. Usual warnings, slight emphasis on self-harm.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

Read on A03!

The library is quiet when you feel it. When the White starts to rear and whine inside of you, the world goes technicolor, and you feel an odd sense of unwelcome harmony. You feel Dean.

And you could’ve pretended it was nothing, that you were simply losing your mind, if he hadn’t spoken only a second later.

“Hey, sweetheart, can you point me to any books you got on ghosts?” He’s drawling—his voice is still deep and pretty and very distracting—but there’s something tight in his words. Like he’s frowning. “And, uh, a table? Might need to sit down.”

The girl at the desk starts to fawn over him—asking if he’s okay, if he needs some of their shitty earl gray tea, how it’s so cool that he’s interested in cult and theology—and you realize you’re on your knees. Just the fucking presence of Dean sent you to your knees. 

You’re fucked.

He’s not supposed to be here. This is your case. It’s the kind of case you live for. The years blur together—all covered in blood and sweat and spit—and your nightmares only get worse as the darkness grows, but these cases are easy. Not deadly, just odd. Cases no other hunter tries to touch, because everything about them is downright strange, there’s often nothing to shoot, and the solution is usually more complex than just kill the monster. That’s the other reason you love these cases. No danger. No threat of a hunter watching you bleed into the darkness, of them seeing a monster simply ignore you like you’re not even there or doing something a regular person—hunter or not—should never be able to do. 

Sometimes, on the rare occasion you do run into a hunter, and you just have to be careful. Stay out of their view, handle the case, and vanish in the dead of night without ever being seen. 

And that’s exactly why you’re so goddamn fucked.

You can’t ignore Dean. You can’t avoid Dean. It’s been two long, strange years, and seeing him isn’t any less intoxicating than before. It might even be worse. Stronger. Because you kept reminding yourself that John would kill you—not might, would—and that Dean didn’t seem to feel this baffling, magnetic connection, but that didn’t stop you from dreaming about him. It didn’t stop his name being like a shot of some sort of painful, needy, glorious drug right into your bloodstream, or your brain from searching for him in shadows.

And you’d really tried to stop that. You’d played both days over and over in your head, dissecting every reason to hate him, every reason to be angry, every reason to forget that he ever existed. And you had hundreds of them, starting and ending with he left you. He vanished without a trace, had the nerve to pretend like he cared about you, and then act like he had the right to care when he left you. He was an arrogant, charming, handsome asshole, and he left you. You were allowed to hate him, because he’d made you smile and feel like maybe you could be wanted, and then he fucking left you.

You’ve repeated it a million times. You’ve set that anger deep into your bones to try and make it stick. Carved it into your skull to try and make it real. At this point it might be, because you’ve spent two years practicing it.

But you’ve never managed to throw out his shirt, or stop your heart from twisting and withering whenever Bobby mentions that the Winchesters had a bad hunt, or extract green eyes and a boyish smile from fantasies in your sleep. 

You don’t know how to not feel like there’s saltwater on your raw skin when he indulges the girl at the desk with sweet words, say she’s too pretty to be stuck around all these books. You can’t figure out how to make the White finally realize that it’s not an option to give into its desperation to see him. To crawl around the bookshelves and just look at Dean, to make sure he’s real and this isn’t another unwelcome dream.

There are so many reasons that would be a bad idea. John might be here, ready to put a bullet in your temple. Dean might see you, and you’ll have to explain why you’re staring at him from the floor. Onceyou see Dean, you know you’ll have to talk to him, and if you talk to him the whole hunt will be ruined. It’ll become a long week of trying to figure out the case, dodge Dean, and hide what you are from him.

Maybe he already knows. Maybe John told him. Maybe he’d be just as ready to kill you, and all you’d see is cold, unwavering fury and hatred in his eyes before he killed like the monster you might be.

And you are. You’d have nothing to offer in your defense, because the darkness has only spread in your body, and you’ve only fed it. You still don’t understand exactly what it is, but you know it’s powerful. That whatever you are, you’re rare, and that’s probably for a reason. You’ve spent hours in Bobby’s library—sitting at his desk and reading until dawn cracks and Bobby half-drags you to bed—trying to just find a name for what you are, why you’re like this, but you only ever have more questions.

You can’t stop the spells and rituals from appearing in your head, but you also can’t find most of them in any books. You still call yourself a witch, but most witches spend decades studying to learn how to do things your body just does. More and more monsters respect you. More and more ghosts have burned away with only your hands. It’s grown harder and harder to stop the darkness from slipping out, and when it does it can be dangerous to everyone around you.

Dean doesn’t need to see that. You don’t need another reason to feel like you’re wrong. Just inherently wrong. 

So you should go. You need to go. If you were smart, you’d go now, and never look back.

But you haven’t learned how to do that either. Because you rise to your feet slowly, walk silently towards the door with your head down, and can’t stop your eyes from flicking to where Dean should be seated. 

His jacket is there—hanging off a wooden chair—and there are a few books on the splintering table, but there’s no Dean. 

You go rigid, a weight dropping into your lungs as you whirl around to run, and a hand catches you by the elbow. It’s big and strong and warm through your shirt, and you don’t have to be drowning in grass and spice and leather to know who it is. 

Dean pulls you right back into his chest, his grip remaining firm, and his voice near your ear is low and mocking. “Hey, Princess. Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Fuck.

You should lie. Pretend you don’t know him, wait for his grip to loosen, and run.

“Well, Winchester, I’m not sure you ever think at all.”

Fuck.

He laughs, and you also apparently haven’t learned how to not feel molten and soothed from the deep, rolling sound. “That ain’t your best,” he drawls your name, squeezing your arm lightly. “I’ll give you another shot, though. This time try to go for my looks.”

You scowl into the air. “I don’t think I could, Deano. That’s all you got left, and I’m not that mean.”

He clicks his tongue. “Ouch. You might be meaner, sweetheart. I’d say you’re a downright bitch.”

“I’d say you’re an animal in jeans and a leather jacket.”

“You’re forgetting about my boots.” Dean shrugs, and you can feel his muscles flex at the movement. “I’m an animal in jeans, boots, and a leather jacket.“

You roll your eyes, finally managing to yank your arm away from his hold and spin around. “What do you want, Dean Winchester.”

He’s grinning at you when you see him. A smug, crude smirk that tells you he’s enjoying this far too much, that he might not be trying to kill you, but he does hate you. And yet the shine in his eyes still sending you into a trance, and you’re still leaning a little forward to be closer to his body, and your nails are still digging into your skin to stop your hands from either punching him or grabbing him and never letting go. 

You hate it. You hate that he can still do this to you, that he doesn’t seem at all affected by it, and that you feel tiny fragments—catching light and scattered through your body—withering under his loathing and blooming under his attention. 

You hate that you’re staying instead of running. You’ve promised yourself over and over that, if you ever see any of the Winchester’s again, you’d run and keep yourself alive. If not for yourself, for Bobby. If not for Bobby, for Rufus, who’s told you that he had no interest in watching Bobby drink himself away if you die. 

And you’re breaking that promise. You should’ve made it an oath.

But you’d probably break that too. You might do anything to keep yourself crashing back into Dean, to stay in his shining gravity. 

You hate that most of all.

“I’m just saying hi, Princess.” He’s still grinning at you, but there’s something spiked and furious in his eyes. It’s guarded and hostile, and all aimed at you. “Am I not allowed to do that?”

“Hi.” You raise your chin, and he chuckles.

“Hey.” He scans you over, and you wish you couldn’t feel the heat of his gaze on your skin. “You look good.”

“No, I don’t.” You didn’t look bad, but you’re also sleeping in your car, so this is far from your best. “Why are you here?”

“Shit, Princess, I thought you were smart.” Dean gives you an amused, taunting look, and you want to punch him. “I mean, you can’t think I’m on vacation.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re hunting.”

“Bingo!” Dean spreads his arms wide, a shit-eating on his face. “Look at that, folks, we have a winner! The hunter is hunting-“

“Alone.” You raise your brows at him, crossing your arms. “Dean Winchester’s hunting alone.”

He falters slightly, barely a slip—his voice slightly harsher, his face a little tighter—but you catch it. “Maybe I am, but that’s not your fucking beeswax-“

That makes you stand taller, your spine snapping to attention as darkness pushes at your skin and teeth. “Is your dad here?”

He scowls. “No.”

Your grip on your own body tightens, because Dean doesn’t hunt alone. Bobby says that he’s only ever alone at all because John’s off on a hunt alone, and even then, Dean just waits. 

Briefly, you wonder if he’d wait for you. It’s a pointless hope—and you loathe your brain for thinking of it—but that doesn’t stop the idea. Dean wouldn’t wait for you. You’re not someone anyone waits for.

But you’d like to feel his pure, undying loyalty directed at you. For Dean to talk about you how he talks about John and Sam. 

He wouldn’t. And you hate him for making you want him to.

Dean must read something on your face, because he’s speaking again before you even open your mouth. “And this is a one-time thing, sweetheart, it’s not the same-“

“As me hunting alone?” You tilt your chin a little higher, holding his glare. “Why’s that?”

“Because you- You’re young and this shit isn’t a joke or game-“

“I never said it was a joke or game.” You snap. “And I’m not that much younger than you-“

“You’re young enough.” He hisses. “And you don’t get to act like you understand this life-“

You narrow your eyes. “I understand it just fine-“

“Yeah, sure you do.” Dean rolls his eyes, lowering his face to yours. You’re not sure when he got this close, or why you haven’t moved away, but he smells really good. “I actually fucking know what I’m doing, Princess. This is my life, and I’ve got people around me who-“

“You think I don’t have people?” You lean closer as you sneer, because you’ll be damned if you’re the first to cave and pull away. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? Don’t forget, Winchester, I’m the one who got the moroi and the poltergeist-“

“But you’re still hunting alone.” Dean’s voice is stiff, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think his own words were hurting him. “Which means you don’t have people. If you did, they wouldn’t let you do this shit by yourself.”

You let out a dry laugh. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite, you’re literally hunting alone right now-“

“This is a one-time thing.” He dismisses you with a glare. “Not the same.”

And you’re back at the start. “It’s the exact same. I’m just alone by choice.”

Something pained flares in Dean’s eyes, and the guilt floods you in a second. Wrapping around your lungs like iron, churning in your stomach as your nerves start to feel raw and cower into you, because you shouldn’t have said that. He’s not alone, not at all. He has John, and John’s an asshole but he does seem to at least care about his son, as much he seems capable of caring about anything. And Dean can find company wherever he wants. He just has to weaponize that cocky, euphoria inducing charm, and you think people would give him the world. 

You are alone. You’ve been alone. You have Bobby but you’re still alone. Nobody wants to give you anything, and they shouldn’t. You’d break it. Just like how Dean’s voice is now low and strained, and the guilt is ripping at your guts, and you’re just darkness. Just dark and sick and infectious, spitting venom that erodes everything it finds. 

“I wouldn’t say you’re alone by choice either,” Dean says your name, his voice only taut anger. “You just haven’t managed to trap some sorry son of a bitch into look after you.”

Your nails break skin. “Fuck you, Winchester.”

“Right back at you, Princess.” 

There’s a long moment where neither of you move or speak,  and the only evidence you haven’t become statues is your breath. You’d been so lost in shoving down to darkness—roaring through your blood and a little electric—that you hadn’t realized Dean was walking you backwards. That you were pressed between his body and the table, or that his arms were braced on either side of your body, holding you there. And you’d been so lost in your fury at him—how it had lived in your mouth and surrounded your every thought—that you hadn’t looked at him. Really looked at him.

You’re looking now. And he’s still pretty. Somehow, he might be prettier. His eyes seem to have more shades of green, more little flecks of gold—his attention even more drug-like than before, as if you’re being dragged underwater but learning to breathe it at the same time—and there are a few freckles on his skin that weren’t there last time. His hair is a little longer than, too, but still close cut and spiky, and your fingers still remember how soft it had been. They want to touch him again. You want to touch him again, maybe shove him, maybe slap him, maybe yank him down so you can feel his lips against yours-

“You’re gonna try to do this one alone too, aren’t you.”

You blink at Dean, frowning slightly. “What?”

He sighs. “You’re gonna go off and hunt by yourself.”

“Yeah, I am.” You shift your weight on your feet, trying to not be consumed by how fucking close Dean is. “And I’m-“ You swallow, the words falling out you like vomit as the guilt gnaws at your tongue. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean the shit about you being alone. You’re not.”

Dean stares at you. “You’re sorry.”

You nod—because you are, you can’t fucking live with how this is eating at you, and you really don’t need another reason to be sick—and Dean shakes his head.

“You think- forget it.” He’s scanning over your face, his expression still tight. “You’re fucking, you’re impossible.”

You frown. “What does that mean.”

Dean just hums. “That I’m not alone.”

“Yeah, I just said that-“

“No, Princess.” He grins, and it creates a tiny line on his cheek you want to touch. “I’m not alone. I got you.”

“You do not have me-“

“Why not?” 

His question sounds so genuine it makes you pause, your expression slack with confusion. “What?”

“Why don’t we hunt together? Hell of a lot safer.”

You shake your head slightly, mostly trying to destroy how the White is trying to grab your tongue and pull on your lips until you spit out yes without a thought. “Why would I do that. I’ve-“

“You got this, I know.” Dean raises his brows. “But you’ve also got me. And I can be helpful, sweetheart. We’ll be done in half the time.”

You do not have Dean. If you did, there wouldn’t be a single problem in the world. 

But you still examine his painfully sincere face, your words cautious. “How can you be helpful.”

“To start, I can use a gun.” He smirks at you. “Bet you don’t have that.”

“I can use a gun, Winchester, I just choose not to-“

“And now you don’t have to choose.” Dean wiggles his brows at you, and you feel the White flutter. “I’ll be the knight, Princess, you’ll just have to do…” he pauses, staring at you with a small frown. “Whatever you do.”

You can’t do what you do. Not anywhere near Dean. Not when he’ll freak out and leave you again, maybe this time returning with John in tow to put you down like a feral animal. You honestly don’t know why he hasn’t done that already, because there was no reason for John not to have told him about the poltergeist. 

But he’s just grinning at you, and his offer sounds genuine, and you really want him to stay. It would be really nice if—no matter what alternate intentions Dean had for you, no matter how he planned to look at you or speak to you—Dean stayed. Everything feels simpler when he’s right here against you. The White has already begun to blend and blur with the darkness, and everything already feels clean and silver under Dean’s attention—devoid of the loathing you’d expected, but still burning and wild and magnetic—and God, you’d like it to stay that way.

And you’d just been ready to fucking kill him.

And you don’t care.

“You’d listen to what I tell you to do.”

Dean shrugs. “Sure.”

“Winchester-“

“Cross my heart.” He pushes on hand off the table, holding it over his chest. “Scout’s honor.”

You snort. “Were you a scout?”

“No, but you don’t have to be a scout-“

“Yes, you do, that’s why it’s called scout’s honor-“

“Well, what the hell else am I supposed to say-“

“Pinky promise?” You suggest, your cheek painful as you bite down a grin at his adorably offended face. “All you need is a pinky.”

Dean scowls. “I am not pinky promising.”

“Fine,” you shrug. “Then we’re not hunting together.”

His face splits into a cocky, wide grin, and you realize what you’ve said too late. “So we were gonna hunt together?”

“Maybe,” you mutter, your face growing warm. “I was thinking about it-“

“You make up your mind?”

“Not yet-“

“I’ll listen to you.” 

You stare between Dean’s open gaze and his hand. Raised between your bodies, the pinky sticking out. “I don’t need you, Winchester.”

“Yeah, I bet you don’t.” He mutters, and you frown at the bitterness in his words. The way they sound sour, when Dean shouldn’tbe allowed tobe sour. He left you. “But I’m here whether you like it or not. Might as well make this easy.” 

He flexes his pinky, raising his brows expectantly, and your hand moves almost against your will. Looping your pinky with Dean’s, shaking it once, and freezing once you’re done, locked against him. It’s like you’ve been struck by lightning, and you won’t be able to pull away until you’re ash and smoke for Dean to breathe.

“Awesome.” He winks at you, but doesn’t pull away. Neither of you can pull away. “You got what we need?”

“Not yet,” you mumble. “But I’m working on it.”

He smirks. “Lucky you, Princess, I’m here to help.”

“I don’t need-“

“Yeah, you do.” He makes a wide, sweeping gesture to the table, his finger dropping from yours. “Sit down, sweetheart, cause I’m about to blow your mind.”

You roll your eyes—the loss of his finger, his fucking finger, feeling like you’ve been set adrift through space without a way to come back—and drop into the free chair.

Dean does not blow your mind. He’s adorable and charming as he explains his theory that you’re dealing with a spirit that uses madness to get to its victims, and he’s incredibly wrong, but it’s still cute. His chest is puffed like he’s just slain a dragon, he’s looking at you like he’s waiting for a treat, and it breaks your heart a little to give him a close-lipped smile and shake your head.

“That’s… not correct.”

He blinks at you. “Yeah, it is. I read everything,” he slaps the pile of very closed books in front of him. “And Bobby told me that powerful ghosts can inflict madness.”

You raise your brows, twisting a ring on your finger. “I don’t know who Bobby is.”

“Oh, uh, he’s like my uncle.” Dean shrugs, dropping into his own chair. “Helped my dad out a lot, with me and Sammy. When Dad had to go off on hunts, and needed to keep us somewhere safe.”

You know that. Dean doesn’t know you know that, and something feels bitter over your heart as you lie to him, but you can’t help yourself. “You like him? Bobby?”

Dean nods. “Hell yeah, he’s awesome. And he’s a great hunter, only one almost as good as Dad. Plus he’s got this room of books that Sammy loved, all about monsters. He says this is a spirit,” Dean drums his hand on the table, giving you a pointed look. “It’s a freakin’ spirit.”

“Bobby said it’s a spirit?”

Dean nods, and you pull your lips between your teeth to stop a grin. If he wouldn’t get pissed about you hanging out with Dean—where John might arrive any second, something you know but can’t really bring yourself to care about—you’d call him right now to brag.

“Bobby’s wrong.”

“Bobby’s never wrong.” Dean frowns. “And you told me you didn’t have anything-“

“No, I told you I didn’t have what we need.” You hum, allowing your smug smile to cover your face. “But I know what we’re dealing with.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You wanna keep bragging, or-“

“It’s a pagan god.” You say, and Dean just blinks at you, so you continue. “I’m not sure which one yet, but it has to be.”

He shakes his head slightly. “It doesn’t have to be-“

“Yeah, it does. The madness is spread through the town, Deano. It can’t be a spirit.”

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. “It is.”

“I know-“

“But,” he points a finger at you, his features stern, and it makes the White sing. “That doesn’t mean it has to be a pagan god, Princess. We could both be wrong.“

You give him an amused look. “What have you heard about the madness?”

“They’re basically trying to killing themselves outta nowhere. People with promotions lined up, folks with families just losing their marbles-“

“How are they losing their marbles?”

He scowls. “I dunno, I haven’t been invited to their suicide attempts-“

“They’re dancing.” You run a hand through your hair as you lean forward, your smile growing. “They start waltzing, and don’t stop until someone makes them. It’s not deadly, but-“

“It could be,” he nods slowly. “If we don’t gank it.”

“If we don’t figure out who it is,” you push a book towards him, pulling another off his pile for yourself. “And kill it.”

“That’s what I said-“

“You said gank.” You flip open your book, giving him a pointed look. “That’s not a real word.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You don’t know every word ever, sweetheart-“

“Yes, I do. Shut up and read.”

“Bossy- Shit-“ Dean swears your name as you kick him under the table. “That was my good shin.”

You giggle. You haven’t giggled in two years. “As opposed to your bad shin?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles, and you watch him settle into his book in your periphery. “I’m basically useless now, Princess. You killed me.”

“Maybe I saved you,” you shrug. “You can’t dance to death now. I think I’m the hero in this scenario, actually.”

He chuckles, poking your foot with his. “That would be a dumb way to go. I mean, what are we, in a reserve Footloose town? A handtight?” 

You glance up to see that he has the boyish grin—the one that makes you want to grab his face and hang against him because for some reason, you feel like nothing could ever hurt you as long as Dean was smiling like that—and is obviously incredibly proud of his joke. It makes something warm and gooey in your stomach, makes everything in the world smooth and illuminated. Flowing easily with the darkness, no pain required to keep yourself in control.

“Handtight?”

“Yes, opposite of footloose. Awesome, right?”

“I could do better.” You look back down to your book, and Dean scoffs.

“You’re just bitter about me getting a name for this first-“

“Vitus.”

You can hear the confused frown in his voice. “Wha-“

“Vitus.” You flip your book for him to read. “Sicilian martyr saint, who was associated with that French dancing plague in 1518.”

Dean blinks between the you and the pages. “This guy’s a saint, aren’t they kind of not supposed to kill people?”

You give him a flat look. “I don’t think anyone’s supposed to kill people-“

“Shut up, you know what I meant-“

“I don’t think I did. I think you should explain it-“

“I-“ He glares at you, and your grin is manic. “How the hell did you even find that so fast-“

“I’m good at my job, Winchester.” You flip the book closed with a half-shrug. “And this is literally just the 1518 plague, but in Texas. Which is, very famously, exactly like France.”

You grin at Dean—proud of your own, horrible joke—and he gives you a half-amused look with something in his eyes that you don’t know how to place. Not soft, but not hateful, like you’re blinding him, and he doesn’t care to look away. 

You clear your throat—he’s just looking at you, and it’s making your thinking hazy and your skin ache to touch his—and press on. “Now we just need to figure out why they’re doing-“

“A handtight?” Dean jumps in, and you give him a flat look. “I’m gonna get you to call it that, sweetheart, you’ll see.”

You ignore him, even as your smile grows. “And how to stop it.”

Dean gives you a look of mock curiosity. “Stop what, exactly?”

“I’m not calling it that.”

“C’mon, it’s good-“

“Nope.” You push up to your feet, still smiling at him as he almost pouts at you. “Never.”

“I bet I can get you to.” He rises as well, side-stepping to block your way to the door. You’re not sure if it’s on purpose. “Twenty bucks.”

You snort. “You don’t have twenty bucks.”

Dean’s jaw ticks slightly, and he almost recoils away from you. It’s a small movement, but you still see it. And it still hurts, because you don’t know why. That wasn’t too mean. Not meaner than usual. And he’s recovering quickly—his smile returning, the playful arrogance in his voice back in a heartbeat—but you’d still struck something you hadn’t meant to. And you can feel the sickness take root inside your veins at the thought. All those shattered, pretty pieces that line your whole body start to become heavy, because you hadn’t even meant to, and you’d hurt Dean. You hadn’t even be trying, and you’d still managed to show him just how horrible you were-

“I’ll find them.” Dean says, but he sounds a little far away over the ringing in your ears. “Gimme your number.”

That yanks you out of it, everything rushing back down to Dean as you gape at him. “My number?”

“On your phone, sweetheart.” He smirks at you. “I’m shocked you’ve made it this far alone if you don’t know-“

“Oh, fuck off, Winchester.” You flip him off. “I know what a number is-“

“Sure you do, Princess-“

“Shut up-“

“Here,” he leans down, scrawling his own number on a small paper and sliding it across the table. “That’s mine.” He pauses, his gaze on you suddenly weary. “For, uh, for the case.”

You nod, taking the paper with careful hands, like it might fly off and vanish. It had last time. Dean had last time. “You, um-“ You take slow breath, forcing your voice to remain firm and even. “You don’t need to give me this.”

Dean shifts in front of you, but you’re not quite strong enough to look up and meet his gaze. “Do you, uh, you don’t gotta take it, if you don’t want it-“

“No!” You flush at your high voice, staring at your fingers as you fold and unfold the paper between them. “I just already know where we’re off to next. So I don’t need it.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, his voice dropping to a tone you wish wasn’t so cautious and soft. “You can still take it. Safety first, right?”

You glance up, and see that he’s smiling at you. He didn’t take the out you offered him, and he’s still there, and if you reached out you’d feel warm skin and lean muscles. He’s real, and he’s not flickering away. 

And that makes the Silver—the White folded and blended perfectly into the darkness—begin to bloom. Growing like ivy over the sickness, soothing it into an easy quiet. It makes you high as you smile at him, cautious but real. This might be real. You know better than to hope, but you don’t care what you know. This time, something about this glow—mending parts of you with gold, refracting light over the Silver—feels like it might not fall to ruin. Like it will remain tangible, and not shrivel under your touch.

“Okay.” You tuck Dean’s number in your pocket, standing a little taller as his own grin grows. “Can you meet me at the town hall in an hour?”

His brow furrows slightly. “The town hall? Are we interviewing the mayor or something?”

“Or something.” You hum, and Dean gives you a questioning look. “I think it might be a political thing,” you explain. “I mean, it’s not footloose-“

Dean nods. “It’s handtight-“

“Shut up. It’s not footloose but it is town wide. Targeting random citizens.” You tilt your head at Dean, raising your brows slightly. “So that could mean it’s-“

“Political?” Dean frowns, rubbing his chin. “Like a really weird power play?”

“Really weird.” You agree. “But not impossible. Fear mongering is a very real political tactic, it could be that.”

“You think it’s that?” Dean’s watching you closely, and it’s doing something to your brain. Making it fuzzy and warm. It’s not helpful.

“I think,” you say slowly, crossing your arms over your chest. “That we don’t have any other leads. And it can’t hurt to look.”

“You’re really inspiring confidence, sweetheart-“

“Do you have anything better?”

“Nope.” Dean shrugs, tucking one hand in his pocket as the other finds your back. Resting with a flat palm between your shoulder blades, seeming to suck every bit of tension from that spot, to make you almost lean into him. He pats your back once, a little awkwardly, but then he doesn’t move away. His mouth is still open, your mouth is open, and this shouldn’t feel as powerful as it does. It’s just a hand, but you feel safe and tended to, and it’s Dean’s hand but you feel wanted, and he doesn’t want you-

Dean doesn’t want you at all. He’s looking at you like he sees you—right down to the darkness, then a little further—and he’s not flinching away or revolted by it, but he doesn’t want you. He’s touching you, and maybe he’d like that, but he doesn’t want you. 

“Uh,” Dean clears his throat, his hand still flat and frozen on your back. “We should go.”

“Yeah,” you nod, your eyes seemingly trapped on his. “Figure out this reverse footloose.”

A smirk pulls at his lips. “Handtight.”

“I’m not calling it that, De.” You roll your eyes, but don’t shrug him off as he starts to guide you to the door. “Reverse footloose is already pushing it.”

He clicks his tongue, holding the door open as you walk through. “And I’m the one that’s not fun?”

You flip him off, he lets out a loud laugh, and you’re not sure what the hell is happening. He’s only looking at you, even though the lady at the desk keeps trying to get his attention with cleavage and pouting lips. He’s still touching you, even though you’re giving him no signs that you’re going to offer him what he probably wants. He’s still talking to you, walking with you, even though you’re you. Blooming with silver over your ribs but still destructive. Still sick.

“You got a car?” Dean scans over the parking lot with a small frown, and his thumb has started to trace small circles against your jacket, making it hard to think of anything but daydreams of that small motion on your bare skin.

“Um, yeah, it’s over there.” You manage to point, and Dean’s lips fall into a small, pouting frown. “I can meet you-“

“Actually, uh,” he rubs the back of his neck, his voice becoming low and sheepish. “I’d take a ride, if you’re good with that.”

You blink at him. “Do you not have your car?”

“Dad’s car.” Dean mutters. “He’s using it.”

“How’d you get here-“

“Hitchhiking,” he shrugs, not fully meeting your gaze. Like he’s worried hitchhiking will make you recoil. Like the car you hadn’t just pointed at isn’t the fifth car you’ve stolen this month. “I’m not that far, anyway. And I tried to rent a car but they only had minivans.” Dean makes a sour face, and it’s adorable, but you don’t think he’d apprentice you saying that. “I’m not driving a freakin’ minivan.”

“Alright car boy.” You give him a sweet smile, and when he finally glances up at you his eyes widen slightly. “You wanna drive?”

You might as well have offered him ice cream. All his features light up, a grin that’s sort of mind-numbing breaks out over his face, and you could swear he’s suddenly taller. Bigger. “You sure? I- It’s your car-“

“I don’t give a shit.” You shrug—it’s not your car, but he doesn’t need to know that—and push the keys into his hand. “Let’s rumble, Deano.”

You start to move, but he catches your arm, and when you look back his expression is weary. Untrusting.

“Is this…” He trails off, glancing down to the keys in his hand like they’re going to jump up and attack him. “You’re sure. You’re not- I’m not gonna get in that car and you’ll start yelling at me-“

“Why would I yell at you?” You frown at him, and his grip tightens slightly. “I mean, I will yell at you about other stuff, but not this. That would be dumb.”

He blinks at you, nods slowly, and releases your arm. He could’ve held onto it. You really wouldn’t have minded. 

You’re not sure what just happened—you’re learning that, with Dean, there never seems to be any logic to what’s happening—but you know Dean relaxes again the moment he’s in the driver’s seat. Talking about the buttons, which ones are genuine improvement to the model and awesome, and which ones are freakin’ useless, and really adorable. 

Dean’s adorable. You shouldn’t be allowing yourself to crash back into him so fast, not when you’ve spent so long teaching yourself to hate him, but it’s simple. Natural. The air feels sharper in your lungs when you breathe and he’s next to you. Everything smells like grass and spice and it’s like an anesthetic to everything in you that’s usually only pain. Every feverish and furious piece in you feels calmed, and Dean’s eyes are filled with boundless color, and it’s like you could move right into them and exist in a warm, peaceful world for the rest of your life.

You couldn’t. But you can smile and laugh with Dean on the ride to the town hall, listening to him explain something about engines that you don’t really care about, but he does, which is somehow more than enough. You work together to come up with a cover story, which mostly means shooting down Dean’s ideas about being Wilson and Wilson, no relation, or just flat out breaking into the building.

“You know city halls are public places, right?” You tilt your head at him, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice. “Anyone can be there, as long as we’re not going into private offices. We could just be two college students, looking to interview our representatives for a paper.”

Dean frowns. “Is that what college students do? You’re telling me Sammy’s off in California just talking to a bunch of nerds in offices?”

“Maybe.” You shrug, watching him carefully. You haven’t actually heard him talk about Sam that much, and everything is so precariously good right now. You refuse to be the one to blow it up. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Yeah, but you’re kinda just like that.”

It’s your turn to frown. “Like what?”

Dean waves a hand, giving you a flat look as he parks to car. “You know.”

“I don’t know-“

“You’re all books, Princess. You found that Cletus guy-“

“Vitus-“

“Yeah, whatever, you found him really fast. And you don’t use a gun.” He makes face like he’s smelt something foul. “How the hell don’t you use a gun.”

“With incredible talent and skill. And I am not all books-“

He smirks. “You’re pretty much 90% books, sweetheart.”

You glare at him. “Shut up-“

“Nah.” He turns off the engine, glancing out the windshield to the city hall. “So we’re college students?”

“Or grad students.” You tilt your head at the air, hugging your knees as you think. “Might be easier to sell.”

“Alright.” Dean claps his hands, shooting you a wink as he turns to fully face you. “I’m Robert Page, and you’re-“

“I’m me.” You let out a long sigh, giving him a flat look. “And you’re Dean Winchester. I don’t think we need aliases for this one, De, that’s the point of public places.”

“I’m trying to make it fun though-“

“It will be fun.” You smile at him as you unbuckle from the seat. “We’re going to gank a martyr who’s reverse footloosing a whole town. What’s more fun than that?”

“Handtighting a whole town,” Dean mutters, but he’s smirks again. You won. “I’m gonna get you to say it, Princess, just wait.”

“I am waiting.” You step onto the curb, grinning at him over the hood of the car. “I believe in you, buddy. You can do it.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling as you walk up the steps of the city hall, and throughout the entire, exhaustive process of combing through department after department, looking for any sign of Vitus. It’s long and boring work, but you’re both still smiling, nudging each other to whisper stupid jokes and making fun of the strange artwork lining the hallways, standing far too close together and laughing far too long at nothing at all.

It’s jarring. Frightening. You hate him. You’re supposed to hate him. He’s given you so many reasons to hate him, and he’ll give you more when he leaves again. When he presses on another raw nerve that only he seems to be able to find, and you snap because you’d crashed fully back down to him in just a few hours. 

But God, it’s so comfortable down here. Peaceful in your head and silver in your chest, everything exactly how it should be. Dean keeps placing his hand onto your back as you move through the building, and it feels like it’s burning and branding you, pressing it’s way under your skin until there will always be a place for Dean’s hand to fit. He smells so good, and you could drown in it. He looks so pretty—fidgeting with his jacket and tossing you thoughtless, charming grins that make your heart glow—and you could get lost in him. Get high on him and the deft, careful fingers that are spinning a pen and brushing against your skin. They must be filled with lighting, because they’re jumpstarting and feeding the White until it’s all just silver, and nothing is waging war inside you.

You could fall further. You could fall so much further. All the way down until you never had to be worried about being pulled back up. Until you were shining with lightning all the time.

You won’t. You’re just strong enough not to. But you’re not strong enough to not stare at him as he interviews another random secretary—pinned up gray hair and a sickly-sweet voice—or to not imagine if he’d go down with you. To fight it as everything starts to grow, and you can feel the humming joy of the electrically through the building, or the safety of the coffee in the secretary’s mug, or leather of Dean’s jacket, and how it feels like it belongs right where it is, on his body-

“Do you play the piano, Honey?” 

You blink, because the secretary’s talking to you. “Sorry?”

“I was just telling your lovely friend about how music has lost so much of its joy in these heathenistic times.” The secretary sighs, shaking her head. “No one appreciates a good classical piece anymore. It’s like water, dear, it needs to flow smoothly, in time and key. And nothing better for that than a piano.”

You glance at Dean, who shrugs and mouths crazy, just out of the secretary’s view. You give him a stern look that makes him wink at you, and turn a gentle smile to the secretary. 

“I do play, actually. Could I ask why-“

“You play the piano?” Dean’s frowning at you, and there’s something rough in his voice you don’t understand. “Like, well?”

“I’d like to think so.” You shrug, looking back to the secretary, but Dean keeps going.

“What, did you have like a freakin’ tutor-“

You shoot him a glare, because this is really not something to get stuck on. “No, my uncle. He had a piano, and I used to visit him a lot.”

You’d visit Rufus when Bobby had other hunters over—had the Winchester’s over—and eventually he got sick of you shuffling around and causing small accidents when you got lost in your own head. It became a tradition for him to sit you down and make you play until everything shrank back down to the right size.

Dean doesn’t get to know that. You have to remember that, despite every part of yourself Dean seems to be finding without effort, he can’t be allowed to find that.

“Sorry about that, ma’am.” You turn back to the secretary as Dean keeps staring at you, and she smiles.

“No worries, men can be foolish.” 

You seal your lips in a tight lip to avoid a loud snort as Dean huffs—looking like a kicked puppy in your periphery—and the secretary continues like he’s not even there.

“Do you dance?”

You nod, and Dean’s going to get stabbed later if he keeps acting like it’s shocking you could do anything at all. 

“You can dance-“

“Anyone can dance, Deano.” You shoot him a grin, and he shakes his head.

“Not everyone-“

“Not the sick.” The secretary corrects, and you feel a tendril of darkness creep up your throat, vile on your tongue. “The pious dance, boy, it is God’s will that we have music.”

Dean nods, giving you an amused look. “I’ll amen that, sister.”

You roll your eyes, looking back to the secretary. “Why do you ask?”

She hums. “You have the energy of beautiful music, honey. It would be an act of the devil if you didn’t.”

Dean was right. This lady was crazy. But you mumble your thanks, and keep your tone sweet. “What type of music do you like, ma’am?”

The secretary beams at you, and she leans forward, pulling at a charm around her neck as she speaks. “All of the classics, honey. The good, well-designed music-“

Dean nods in seeming agreement. “Like Zeppelin-“

“Dear Lord, no!” The secretary gapes at Dean, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a laugh. He looks like he’s been shot. “That’s devil music, boy! So much art has been lost to youth like you, corrupted by Satan’s song-“

You side-step, blocking Dean’s path to the secretary as his jaw clenches, holding your gaze on the secretary. “I love your necklace, ma’am, where did you get it?”

“Oh, this?” She lets out a soft laugh, running her fingers through the chain. “It’s protective, from the demons. You like it?”

“It’s very beautiful.” You say, and it’s not. It’s a large, lumpy shape and horrible, slate shade of gray, but you’re not dumb enough to say that aloud. “And thank you for your time-“

“Wait,” the secretary pulls off the necklace, grabbing your wrist and shoving it into your palm. “A lovely young woman like you should have protection for devils.” She shoots a glare over your shoulder, at Dean, and you glance back to see him scowling.

“I, um,” you turn back to the secretary, trying to return the pendant to her desk. “I appreciate it, but-“

“Take it.” Her voice is almost stern, and you feel Dean tense behind you. “And remember, no pleasure is worth more than the love of the Lord, honey. And he loves to sing for us.”

You nod slowly, backing away from the desk with the pendant still in your hand. “Of course. Love of the lord. De?”

He grunts your name from behind you, and you grab his hand without looking away from the desk. “Wha-“

“I’m hungry.”

“Well, we can get you some chips from that vending machine-“

“Yeah, let’s do that.” You drag him out of the room, down the hall—past the vending machine—and right into the women’s bathroom.

“Princess, I don’t know what you’re doing, but I don’t think I’m allowed-“

“Bigger issues.” You pull him into the large stall, dropping your voice to a hushed whisper. “It’s her.”

Dean frowns. “The mean old lady who called me a demon?”

You nod, passing him the pendant. “Cauldron. Vitus’ symbol, he was boiled alive in one-“

“Gross-“

“Yeah. And the lady’s a fanatic, so it wouldn’t be unbelievable that she thinks she’s cleansing the town of sinners or something.”

“So… she’s using this Vitus dude to what, punish those with taste?”

“Yep. Not a spirit.” You grin at him, taking the pendant back and flushing it down the toilet. There’s nothing in it that feels magical, and it’s really fucking ugly. “I love being right.”

He scoffs. “Whatever, sweetheart-“

“You were right, too.” You offer, dropping down to sit on the toilet. “It’s a handtight. Similar motivations, too.”

Dean’s eyes flash, and you think you might melt under the focus of his smug grin. “You called it handtight.”

“Yeah.”

“Because you realized I’m right?”

You give him a close-lipped, grimacing smile, and he groans.

“It doesn’t count if I didn’t earn it,” he grumbles, dropping down to sit against the wall. “You have to call it handtight because I’m a freakin’ genius.”

“Sorry.” 

“It’s fine, I’ll get you later.” He shoots you a half-smirk, and you roll your eyes, because he has got you. Against all odds and logic, you’re not leaving this bathroom stall unless Dean goes with you.

“You really believe that.” You give him an amused look. “That’s cute.”

“Shut up.” He mutters, scanning over your face with a frown. “Why did you say it? Cause you feel bad about saint lady calling me the devil?”

“No,” you pick at the skin around your fingernail as you sigh. “I said it because I want you in a good mood.”

Dean blinks at you. “Why?”

“Because we’re about to deal with Vitus,” you hold Dean’s gaze, leaning down until your only a breath apart, and you can see every freckle, scar, and line on his face. He’s beautiful. You can’t focus on that right now. “And we’re doing it my way.”

—————————

Her way was insane. Her way was a crime. And Dean didn’t have a problem with that—crime was hard to avoid for any good hunter—but it was fascinating to watch Her dance around the words breaking and entering. 

It would be fascinating to watch Her dance at all. Dean’s mind was stuck on that image, scratching like a vinyl record of Her siren-like voice saying De, and a stuttering film of Her dancing. Crazy Lady had been right. It didn’t make any fucking sense, but She had the energy of beautiful music. She was a melody that had engraved its way into Dean’s brain with a scalpel, too amazing for him to every really pull it out or forget it. A melody that, even after two years, he’d still known to follow down and chase to hear just a little more.

She was fucking infuriating.

He’d spent those two years pretending he’d forgotten Her. Two years with Dad on the road and in motels—as he always had been—acting like his heart didn’t do a stupid little flutter when he saw hair like Her’s in a crowd, acting like he didn’t check every palm he touched for a scar. When he didn’t pretend, he told himself he was looking for Her to shout at her. To warn Her to stay the hell away, because he wasn’t a goddamn toy to be lured and trapped and thrown out. For Her to smile at, for Her to make vast and certain that he was being looked at, only vanish. To just go, right when he’d been in pain, right when he’d been so close to placing that fruity smell and learning how to ask Her if she was sorry, if she’d start over and if she could feel this too.

But She’d gone. Dean had woken up with a spinning head and sore body, Dad had told him She’d run right after they’d ganked the poltergeist, and Dean had forced that not to matter. Dean still dreamt of brilliant eyes and a star in his hands, but that wasn’t real, and didn’t matter. Everyone left, so that didn’t matter. Mom was gone, Sam didn’t want him, and Dad would get sick of him soon.

Dad was already a little sick of him. Dean wasn’t Sammy. He wasn’t useful except as a blade or gun, and he was too fucking empty to try and be more. And nobody could be Sammy. The kid was brilliant and kind and deserved the whole world, he was made for more, and Dean was just a selfish asshole who wanted Sam to stay with him. Who wanted to stop being lonely, who’d wanted the one person he knew would always be next to him to stay next to him. 

But Sam could see the pit. She could see the pit. Dad could see the pit. The only people who couldn’t see the pit were people who passed him in the dark and never heard him speak words that were true.

They were the people Dean had planned to waste his time with while Dad was off on one of his solo hunts. He’d had a motel, a scammed credit card with a full line, and week to kill.

But he’d gotten restless. And there was some strange dancing shit going on just a town over, so Dean was technically staying put like Dad had told him to. And it was barely a case anyway. It had been more of a reason to do something. To not be flat out useless until Dad returned.

Then he’d seen Her in the library, and everything else had vanished. It had just been Her, real and touchable in front of Dean, looking like She’d landed from the sky once more for Dean to orbit around. 

And he had. Damnit, he really had. They fought, and She’d bitten him, and he’d bitten back, then the dust settled and Dean still wanted Her. He wanted to walk in Her wake wherever she went. Let Her flood him however she wanted, because at least then he’d be full of that flowing light again. Just for a day, he’d pretend he wasn’t pathetic and caked in mud and dirt under his skin, and exist in Her wake like it could be as easy as it felt. He could look into Her blinding eyes until She looked back and he felt electric and alive, he could figure out what the hell that fruit smell was, figure out if She was really just an illusion. If She was working some kind of voodoo on him, and that’s why he kept forgetting the ache of Her lying, playing, and using him when just She looked at him—truly fucking looked at him—and said Deano like it was a note in the best song she could ever sing.

Why Her leaving had left a scar a little to the left of his heart, when he’d never seen Her for more than a day. What She’d done to him to make it so that as the years had passed, he could sometimes feel Her hand in his, although it had never been there in the first place. Why She haunted in him the dead of night—lonely or filled with fake company—by calling his name. His name. Just Dean, echoing in his ears until he was driven mad.

She’d never just called him Dean, either. 

Even now, in the car, She hummed De and brushed Her skin against his like it wasn’t a searing, painfully glorious mark She was leaving on him forever. 

“You’re gonna have to leave the guns in the car.”

Dean frowned at Her. “No, I am not going in unarmed like a dumbass-“

“What did we say, Winchester?”

She raised Her smooth brows at Dean, and he rolled his eyes.

“We’re doing it your way.” He muttered. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not bringing my gun-“

“Yes, it does.” She crossed Her arms, pushing her tits a little further up her chest, and Dean needed to get a hold of himself. He’d seen boobs before, there was no reason this should be making him short-circuit.  

No reason but they were Her’s. And they looked soft. All of Her looked soft. Soft and pliable, ready to be touched and tended to, capable of Dean sinking some part of himself into until it stuck and She’d remember him forever-

Dean blinked as Her hand waved in front of his face. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, course I am-“

“What did I just say?”

Dean had no idea—his mouth slightly open and brow furrowed as he raked his brain for a guess—and She sighed.

“Guns will be useless here, Winchester.” She said, and Dean opened his mouth to protest that guns were about safety when you were a freakin’ hunter, but she pushed on. “All we need to do is destroy the alter. We can use our hands.”

“What if crazy devil lady discovers us?” Dean snapped, giving Her a pointed look. “You’re gonna ask nicely for Her not to sick that dancing son of a bitch on our asses?”

“She won’t discover us, that’s exactly why we’re waiting until she’s gone to go inside.” She paused, frowning into the air. “There is a chance she’s got Vitus patrolling her house-“

“What-“

“But it’ll be fine.” She shrugged, twisting a ring on Her finger. “We’ll get through it.”

Dean scowled. “I am not dancing to death tonight, Princess, I’m bringing my fucking gun-“

“No, just-“ She sighed. “It’s really unlikely she’s doing that, it’s just a chance-“

“I don’t know about your luck, but mine luck isn’t good enough to go on chance-“

“We don’t need guns-“

“We do.” Dean leaned over the arm rest until he could see the little bit of spit on Her lips when she pulled them between her teeth. “What if one of us is in trouble? Gunshot will let the other know.”

She gave him a flat look. “I am not using gunshots as a safety system. That’s paradoxical.”

“Well unless you’ve got something better.” Dean smirked, because he was going to win this one. They’d gone to the town hall, and he was breaking into Crazy Ladies house to destroy the alter and leave town—She said something about saints and pagan gods not liking to be caged, and how Vitus would almost certainly take care of Crazy Lady for them—but Dean would be damned if he didn’t win one thing today.

She was scanning over his face, Her eyes narrowing, and just when Dean was ready to declare victory and tell Her they were going to his motel room so they could grab Her a gun too, She turned away. Pulled fully back and started rifling through the glove compartment, Her brow in an adorable little scrunch as she searched. 

Dean watched Her, trying not to let his brain latch onto the pretty pout of Her lips from focus, or how quick and deliberate Her fingers were. “What are you-“

“Here.” She rose back up and shoved a flashlight into Dean’s hands. “We can use signals with these. Like morse code.”

Dean frowned. “Do you know morse code?”

“No-“

“Then how the hell-“

“I said like morse code, Winchester, keep up.” She angled Her own flashlight down, her mouth hanging slightly open as she thought. Dean wanted to push his thumb between Her lips. “What if-“

“What if I brought my gun-“

“Shut up. What if we did one to check in.” She flicked the light on and off,  Her words picking up pace as she continued. “Two for I’m in danger, three for I’m safe.”

“Why not one for danger, so we’re not wasting our fucking time-“

“Because if you accidentally turn the light on and off I’ll come running, you’ll be fine, and I will kill you for making me run.”

Dean pushed down how the idea of Her running to him made his head a little fuzzy, and scoffed. “You don’t run or use guns? How the hell are you still alive?”

She shrugged. “I run when I want. And I can shoot, I just choose not to.”

“What, on fucking principle-“

“On lack of necessity.” She raised Her chin slightly, an odd look flashing over Her pretty features that felt hollow. Felt bigger than the bored, amused pride in Her voice. “I told you, Deano. I’m just that good.”

Shit, She really was. She was blinding. Burning into Dean’s eyes until he’d keep seeing Her everywhere for a million years, pulling him in with that fruity smell and causing strange explosions along his ribcage and up his spine, lighting up every nerve something raw and golden, and he wasn’t alone, how could he be alone when the universe was in front of him and had all been concentrated for him to collide with-

“She’s out. Let’s go.”

Dean blinked, and pulled his gaze away from Her’s to look out the windshield, right in time to see Crazy Lady’s car pull out of the driveway. “So we’re just breaking in?”

She nodded, shooting him a small, teasing grin as she moved out of the car. “Unless you have an objection on principle-“

He couldn’t stop the low chuckle the fell from his mouth. “You’re think you’re really funny-“

“I am funny. I’m hilarious.” She ducked down to give him a mock-stern look. “Haul ass, Winchester, we got a saint to kill.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean rolled his eyes as he stepped onto the curb, smirking at Her as she rounded the car. “Bossy.”

“Suck my dick.” 

Dean laughed, and didn’t fight his hand as it found its way to Her back, resting easily between Her shoulder blades as they moved around the back of Crazy Lady’s house. He couldn’t stop doing that, but his hand felt right there. It grounded him—Dean thought it might be like waking up in your own bed—and he told him She was there. That this wasn’t another dream, and he could keep Her down here—in the blood and dirt, Her strangely ethereal presence perfectly in harmony with how fucking mortal Dean was—for as long as possible. That he could hold onto Her if the wind tried to take her away, could keep Her from bruises and pain with one strong movement.

And She wasn’t shrugging him off, and it made everything worse. Dean didn’t know how to fight this instinct to wrap Her in metal, then trail after Her like a lost puppy. He wanted Her to keep shining on him, and him alone, and stay safe but with him. She was a spoiled brat and a liar and Dean would end up alone again when this was done, but right now he felt useful. He felt wanted. 

And it was a sickness he’d never want to cure.

Not when She was smiling at Dean as she picked Crazy Lady’s lock, or flushing as he pushed open the door and guided Her through. Not when She was walking right against him, so he could feel the warmth of Her body, could brush their skin and make it look like an accident. Not when She tripped over the carpet, Dean’s arm shot out, and She was steady and safe. Pressed right against him. Squirming slightly and tilting Her head back to meet his gaze, Her eyes like a searchlight that reached right into the darkest place in Dean’s body as She—at least for now—didn’t seem to be disgusted. 

“Do you have your flashlight?” She whispered in Dean’s ear, and he held it up with a grin.

“One to check, two bad, three good.”

She nodded, her hand squeezing on Dean’s arm, and she probably hadn’t even been thinking about the movement—Her attention focused on the doors and stairs with a small frown—but it was going to haunt him for a hundred fucking years. 

“We can split floors.” She muttered, Her voice a little far away as she thought. “I’ll take up, you take down.”

Dean made a low noise of agreement, and dragged his body away from Her’s. She’d be fine. He was right down the goddamn hall, this was far better than Her hunting all by herself, and it wasn’t at all Dean’s job to protect Her. She didn’t need it. She was here by choice, She’d thrown herself into this life, and Dean had enough shit to worry about without being responsible for Her safety.

But that didn’t stop the way his stomach clenched and twisted in those brief moments when he’d angle his light out into the hallway, up the stairs, flash it, and then wait for Her response. He didn’t know why they couldn’t just fucking shout. She’d mentioned something about sound being an attractor to music-based saints and deities, but that seemed like bullshit. All of this felt like She was trying to fuck with Dean, make him get sick and tight when She’d take too long to answer, make his focus more on the heaviness over his chest between the second and third flashes. 

He wasn’t finding anything. No alter, no suspicious books, no big sign that said Go This Way To Gank Evil. Crazy Lady even seemed downright boring. She had yarn. Who the hell has yarn.

Dean groaned as he existed one of the last rooms—no summoning ritual guides next to the toilet—and sent a flash up the stairs. 

Nothing. Not one, not two, and definitely not three.  

Then there was a clattering sound, and Dean roared Her name before he could think, sprinting up the stairs and grabbing his gun out of his pants. She hadn’t fucking patted him down and checked, or asked, and he hadn’t planned to use it unless it was necessary, and it was. She was in fucking danger, and She’d thank Dean when he saved Her hot, annoying, insufferable ass-

She was not in danger. Dean burst into the room, raised the gun to eye level, and froze at sight of Her. Standing with Her hands on her hips over a flipped table, turning to look at him with raised brows.

“We said no guns.”

“You said no guns.” Dean grumbled, shoving his own pistol back into his jeans. “I never actually agreed, sweetheart. Shoulda had me shake on it.”

She rolled Her eyes as Dean moved to stand at Her side. “You’re an ass.”

“I know.” He winked at Her, and felt something at the very bottom of his gut coil and spark when She flushed. “Why the hell didn’t you flash back?”

“I didn’t see it, De.” She shrugged, surveying Her mess with a smug expression. “It’s not a great system, in a place with walls.”

“Then why the hell did you make it-“

“You looked like you’d lose your mind if I didn’t.”

Dean stared at Her for a long moment before shaking his head in slight disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”

She smiled, Her eye barely flicking to him as she hummed, “I know.”

He scoffed, his hand returning to Her back. His hand kept returning to Her back, like a goddamn magnet, and She kept letting out a slow breath at his touch, and Dean was going to lose his goddamn mind. He might have already lost it, given how She was so close to his body, and he couldn’t think of anything outside of how every part of Her should be touching every part of him-

Every thought vanished from Dean’s head when She moved. Sent Dean stumbling behind Her as a blonde man covered in burn scars flickered into the room, his face painted in anger and his arms outstretched to grab at Dean. 

And now She was in his way.

Dean’s heart was in his ears, his blood too fast in his body, and his tongue was heavy and made of sandpaper, because She wasn’t even goddamn running-

He fumbled behind him as he regained balance, the boiled son of a bitch barely a second from grabbing Her, and fired right as grayed and jagged nails reached the space right over Her head.

Saint Ugly exploded into the air as the bullet pushed through him, and Dean lunged forward, grabbing Her wrist as she remained rooted in place.

“Why the hell did you push me-“

“I- I’m not-“ She shook her head, still rigid in Dean’s grip.  “Fuck, we’ve got to go, now, he might come back-“

Dean scowled. “You said he wouldn’t go after us!”

“I was wrong, okay!” She shouted, but she was also moving. He’d fucking take it. “Maybe he liked being trapped, I mean it’s not like a bunch of people are worshipping first century Sicilian saints right now!”

“Goddamnit, just-“ Dean’s jaw ticked, but he shook it off as he pulled Her out of the room, into the hall. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” he muttered. “Before that crazy music bitch gets back and Saint Ugly turns this place into a blood-“

“Wait, Dean!”

He froze at Her shout of his name—just his name, like he mattered—turned to Her as something kicked and flared near his heart, before stumbling back as the door slammed, and Saint Ugly appeared right where he’d been standing before.

“Shit-“ Dean ducked Ugly—he didn’t really seem like a saint right now—and pulled Her backwards into a bathroom, slamming the door behind them. “How the hell are we supposed to keep him-“

She let out a strangled gasp, and Dean turned to find Her back pressed to the wall, Her eyes glassy and wide as her hands curled into tight fists.

He half-shouted Her name, grabbing one of Her shoulders and holding her steady as he angled Her face around, looking for a cut or bruise or bump or evidence that Ugly had gotten to Her. “Fuck, sweetheart, you gotta talk to me-“

“I can’t- I don’t-“ She looked bloodless, Her lips pulled into a tight line. “I’m sorry-“

“You’re sorry-“ Dean shook his head. “Shit, what’s wrong with you-“

She made a choked sound, still frozen against the wall, and Dean groaned.

“Just, just fucking point to where he got you-“

“No, I-“ Her hand shot to his wrist, gripping him like iron as he stared at Her. “Deal with Vitus, I- I’m okay-“

“I’m not blind, you’re losing your fucking mind-“

“I’m just, don’t-“ She dropped Her head slightly, flinching as the lights started to flicker over Her head. “Fire, Dean, he’ll hate fire-“

Dean glanced around the bathroom. “How the hell am I supposed to torch the douchebag in here-“

She opened Her mouth to answer, and all that came out was a high noise of fear as She grabbed Dean’s arm, grabbed him forward, and he narrowly missed another attack from Ugly.

The bathroom was not a good place to fight an evil Saint, but Dean could manage. He’d kicked into high gear the moment he collided with Her body once more, found his footing, and moved. This was what he knew how to do. It didn’t matter that She kept saving his ass, or that Ugly seemed hell-bent on Dean and not Her, Dean was comfortable here. Fighting. Trusting his body—not his mind, never his mind—to know when to duck, when to pull Her to the side to keep her out of Ugly’s warpath, and knowing how to fight.

And he was fucking fighting. She’d been right, anything warm seemed to do Ugly in, because when Dean shoved him back into a heater he roared and vanished again. Dean could work with that. He could grab the thermostat dial and crank it all the way up, turn on the hot water until steam was rising from the sink, and keep his gun raised until he figured out something more permanent. Firing and swinging with his fists, unhooking to iron towel hanger and brandishing it like a blade, splashing the hot water in Ugly’s face-

The son of a bitch didn’t like that. He screeched, the scars on his skin starting to bubble and blister like they were new, and Dean felt everything settle. There it was. He had Ugly now.

Dean kept Her within arm’s reach as he grabbed the fancy, stupid little paper cups from the sink and started to fill them up.

“Dean,” She hissed, and when he glanced at Her she was hugging herself, fingers curled on her arms. “What-“

“I’ve got it Princess, just-“ Dean’s head snapped up as Ugly reappeared—seething and downright disgusting—and his face cracked into a wide grin. “Shower time, bitch.”

He threw the cups, splashing the water right on Ugly’s face, and grimaced at the sound of pain that echoed through the bathroom as Ugly melted. Turned into a puddle of slightly brown water on the floor. 

“Is it-” Her voice was soft as She grabbed the hook of Dean’s elbow, looking over his shoulder with a frown. “It’s glittering, right?”

Dean nodded, letting out a long, slow breath. “You wanna go?”

“I, uh-“ She swallow, leaning a little into Dean’s back, her breathing still shallow. “Yeah. Yes please.”

She was really quiet. As they moved out of the house, into Her car, and took off down the street, She barely said a single word. She just stared at her hands and picked at her skin, barely humming when Dean spoke and closing Her eyes for long moments when the silence stretched on. It was fraught and painful, like a live wire Dean had to brace himself against. Like something that could snap.

It was driving Dean insane. He hated it. She was downright docile, not protesting or arguing with Dean when he muttered that he was taking them back to his motel room. Not angry at him about the gun, or telling him how he could’ve handled Vitus better, or doing anything but sitting there and shutting down. 

And he had to fix it. She didn’t even have to smile, She just had to look at him, and breathe evenly, and stop making Dean feel like he was failing Her without ever having Her to begin with. 

When he parked Her car, Dean sighed, and move his hand to grab Her’s. Raising it out of her lap as She frowned at nothing, placing it carefully on the armrest.

“Stop doing that.” He muttered, tapping the raw, bloody skin around Her fingers. “You good to stay here for a minute?”

She nodded—so small he almost didn’t see it—and Dean ran a hand over his face, shaking his head before dragging himself out of the car, watching Her for a long moment through the windshield before he moved on. Her face titled down and cast in shadows, Her fingers curled on the armrest, and Her body so small he’d think she was trying to hide from something.

He wasn’t sure She’d be there when he got back. And he had to move some shit around, but he didn’t know what he’d do if he returned and She was gone. She wasn’t moving, wasn’t even glancing up to see where they were or where Dean had gone, but he didn’t trust it. It could be another con, another trick, another scam that didn’t make sense, that he was all too happy to fall for. 

But he didn’t want to drag Her inside. She looked fragile like this, and Dean was not soft or gentle. He didn’t care for things. He killed them. 

And She didn’t really look like she could afford to be handled by someone who didn’t know how to be gentle right now. 

And that made Dean sick. 

But he still, somehow, made himself turn away and walk into the motel room. She might have vanished when he returned, and Dean couldn’t know if She was truly just turning to stone and he wasn’t doing anything to fix it.

He moved faster because of that. Made sure his bed was passably made before he grabbed his bag, pushed through weapons and cassette tapes and clothing, and found what he was looking for in a matter of minutes. Stuffed all the way at the bottom, exactly where they always were.

Dean tossed Her jacket and flask into the closet, thought about it for a second longer, and tossed all of his laundry in there as well. She didn’t need to see his boxers. At least, not the dirty ones.

When he walked back outside, She was still there. She hadn’t moved an inch. Fuck, She barely even flinched when Dean knocked on the window. If he didn’t know better, Dean wouldn’t be sure she was breathing.

He opened the door, hanging off the hood of the car as he lowered himself down to Her eye level. 

“Hey,” he said Her name slowly, and She still didn’t look at him. “Are you living in here now?”

She didn’t respond, but She did move. Her eyes dragged to Dean’s, and he felt like someone was grinding his bone to dust and sticking needles into his skin. He didn’t know what the hell was up with Her, but she looked lost. Like She didn’t know where she was, why she was there, or who  She even was. She was watching Dean like he wasn’t Dean. Like he was more, and She didn’t know what that meant.

“Are you, uh…” Dean trailed off, and She still just stared at him. He didn’t have a freaking clue how to deal with this, not like She probably needed. He’d handled Sammy’s freak outs, when he was a kid. When Dad had grunted that of course you should be careful ‘round strangers, Sammy, they might try to fuckin’ kill and eat you, and the eight-year-old hadn’t taken that very well. But that had been easy. Dean knew Sam, he knew what calmed him down. 

And he didn’t know Her. He couldn’t move away from Her, and he kept liking everything he learned about Her against his best judgment, but Dean didn’t really know Her. Everything he did know was what She probably didn’t want him to, and what he wished he could unlearn. And everything else was useless here. He knew She didn’t drink. He knew She knew a lot about monsters, that she wore the best perfume he’d ever smelt. He knew She liked stupid things, and smart things, and telling Dean what to do. He knew he dreamt about dragging Her down into him and kissing Her until she was as dumb as Dean always felt in Her presence. Good dumb, where She rolled around his head and made everything illuminated so Dean knew there was something. That in his pit there was something, that She really was something, and whatever the hell he couldn’t stop feeling about Her was something.

He knew how he’d imagined Her being dumb, just for a moment, just for him. How he’d imagined Her being slack jawed and all his in a way he couldn’t afford to have, or lose. 

But that wasn’t real. Dean didn’t know which parts of Her were real. Dean didn’t know Her at all.

Yet he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t move, couldn’t walk away, couldn’t let Her rot in the car. It felt unforgivable, and Dean wasn’t looking to be forgiven, but he didn’t want to be damned. 

Not for this. Not when it seemed like it might cost Her too.

“C’mon.” Dean grabbed Her carefully, helping Her out of the car and into the motel room. She didn’t fight him. She only moved with him like she was rain, and he was wind pushing Her where he wished her to fall.

Down on his bed, Her back flat on the mattress, Her chest starting to rise and fall in a slower pattern. 

Dean dropped at Her side, bracing his elbows on his knees as he cleared his throat. “So, uh, you were right. Didn’t really need the gun, I guess.”

She sighed, and when she spoke Her voice was quiet, barely a whisper. “You used the gun, De.”

“Didn’t kill the son of a bitch with it, though.” He shrugged, watching Her carefully. Her eyes were closed, her face slack, and Dean wished it didn’t make his blood flow lower than it should. “If we had just brought Hot Pocket’s we’d have ganked the asshole right off the bat.”

“You’re a genius.” She mumbled, and that sounded better. She still wasn’t moving, so Dean wasn’t sure. 

“I know, sweetheart.” He kept going. Just until She smiled, and the whole world lit up because of it, he’d keep going. “With my brains and your criminal skills, we’ll have all the boring, anti-good music puritans out of the handtighting business in a week.”

She opened Her eyes, and they were filled with something Dean didn’t recognize. “We?”

Dean blinked at Her. He hadn’t expected Her to hang on the we. He’d expected Her to tease him about being the brains, or get adorably offended over being called a criminal, or scold Dean for saying handtight again. But Her gaze was intent, and Dean had to acting like his whole body wasn’t rioting against him from it. 

“Yeah. We.” He offered Her a small grin, and hoped She’d take it. Dean really needed Her to take it. “We ganked that asshole together, Princess. We’re an okay team.”

Her eyes sparked slightly, and let out a small huff that didn’t sound like pain. “A team.”

“Think that’s what they call it, yeah.”

“What would you call it?”

Dean paused, scanning over Her features. Open. Soft but no longer fragile, and open. And he could see the universe in Her eyes again. “I’d call it a team.”

She hummed. “Good. We can make a business card. No more handtights under our watch.”

Something Dean exploded, and his grin was probably dopey and too wide, but he didn’t care. Not when he felt lit up like this. “You called it handtight again.”

“Yeah.”

“You mean it this time?”

She tilted Her head at him, and that wasn’t a smile, but it was closer. “I think so.”

Dean scoffed. “C’mon-“

“I meant it.” She said, Her smile growing slightly. “I think it’s stupid, but I meant it.”

He narrowed his eyes at Her. “And you’re not gonna try to make me go back and kill Crazy Lady-“

“No, I don’t have an ulterior- Shit!” She sat up straight on the bed, Her eyes wide. “We didn’t deal with the secretary-“

“Fuck, we didn’t.” Dean ran a hand over his face, frowning into the air. “Do you think she’ll be able to summon Vitus again?”

She shook Her head. “No, he’s dead. But she might be able to summon another saint-“

“Will she be able to do it tonight?”

“I don’t think so.” She said slowly. “I mean, he was probably like her patron or something, and that’ll take a minute to replace.”

Dean nodded. “Okay. Then it can wait.”

She blinked at him. “But-“

“Look,” Dean said Her name, giving Her his best stern look. She was in no shape to confront Crazy Lady, Dean didn’t really want to leave Her here alone—He was certain She’d sneak out after him anyway—and this hadn’t been fatal. For once, there was something that could wait, and he was going to take full advantage of it. “Either I go deal with it alone, or we stay here. But you just-“ He paused, looking Her over slowly. “You need five. Take it.”

She glared at him. “You’re not in charge of me, Winchester.”

“No.” Dean winked at Her. “But if you get up, I’ll push you down, and I think we both know who will win that wrestling match. I’m warning you, Princess. I play dirty.”

He knew that flush, and he knew how to grab onto it like fuel. He hadn’t seen the hitched breath before though, or the way Her mouth parted slightly.

It made his heart volcanic in his chest.

“You’re the worst.” She mumbled, and Dean laughed.

“Sure, Princess.” Dean moved his hand to Her chest. Just the top of it, nowhere obviously inappropriate, and slow enough to give Her time to shove him away. She didn’t. “Down.”

He gave Her a light push, and She moved. Went flat on Her back with a tiny pout and glower at Dean, and he just grinned. 

“You can stay here, for the night.” Dean spoke before he could think, and didn’t know how to stop. “Just to, uh, save time. When we track down Crazy Lady in the morning. Get it over with sooner.”

She blinked at him, something glazing over Her eyes slightly as she nodded, Her voice soft once more. “Yeah. Okay.”

Dean nodded. “Awesome.”

“Sure,” She held Her hands over her head, her nails scraping at already raw skin. “For the case.”

Dean frowned, but pushed past it. “So you, uh, you want some food-“

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what-“

“Act like you want me here.” She mumbled. “Like you’re not just trying to make sure I don’t run off and handle the secretary by myself.”

Dean frowned. He wanted Her here. He wanted Her here more than he should. He just didn’t want whatever that had been to happen again, because it made him feel foul and rotten and useless, just watching Her breathe too fast and stare at nothing and pick Her skin bloody.

He didn’t know how to say that in a way that didn’t sound pathetic. 

But he also hated how She was small again. How She wasn’t looking at him. So he took a long breath, and made his words steady. Not certain—not when they weren’t the full truth—but steady.

“I’d like you here, Princess.” He lowered his back flat onto the mattress, keeping his gaze trained on the ceiling as he settled at Her side. “I’d get bored without you. And I think I owe you one question, anyway.”

She sighed. “I- I don’t want to answer questions right now.”

“Okay.” He turned to look at Her, and found her already watching him. So close. “You’re still staying, though.”

She looked at Dean like she’d never seen him before. Like he’d dragged himself up from the center of the Earth—drenched in dirt and something sticky—and she wasn’t sure what she was seeing was real.

He knew the feeling.

“Okay.” She whispered, and that was it. Dean gave Her a small smile, She returned it, and this silence didn’t feel like a live wire. It felt like the whole world, just in Dean’s shitty motel room. She turned her head back to look at the slightly stained and cracked ceiling, Dean looked at Her, and he couldn’t sit up. If he sat up, She’d find a way to leave. He didn’t want Her to leave. Breathing was easier when She was next to him. The world felt more colorful, and he felt like something had moved and found a home in a strange depression in the cavity of his chest. It washed always all the foulest parts of him and made him feel clean, shining so brightly that the remaining filth didn’t seem all that bad to live with. 

And it was fake. It was irrational and fake, another scam this enigma of a woman was probably trying to pull on him, and Dean still didn’t give a fuck. He’d believe lie after lie if he could keep feeling useful to someone like he was useful to Her. Just a voice and hands and a mouth who’d made Her smile again, and cleared that glassy look from Her eyes. 

He should ask Her now. Demand to know why the hell Dad had found all that shit on Her, demand for there to be an explanation. A reason that made him think this moment could last.

But he didn’t ask. He just basked in the glow and gravity of Her, and didn’t bother to fight his hand as if drifted across the mattress between them. Brushing his pinky with Her’s, and doing nothing more. Keeping his breathing steady as She didn’t move for a long moment, blinking at the ceiling and not looking at Dean—but not moving away either—and grinning wide and dumb when Her pinky hooked into his. 

“I can sing, too.”

Dean blinked at Her. “What?”

“You were shocked I could play the piano and dance.” She whispered, and even in side-profile Her smile was blinding. “I can sing too.”

“Your uncle also teach you that?”

“No. I taught myself.” She sighed. “Growing up I didn’t… I didn’t have much else to do.”

When She turned to look at him, Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut. All the air was gone from his body as She scanned over him, and Her eyes were made of stars, and Her face had fallen right from a heaven that wasn’t real-

“Led Zeppelin, huh?”

Dean huffed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you dare trash Zeppelin, Princess-“

“That was a neutral statement.” She gave him an amused look. “I wasn’t going to make fun of you.”

He scowled. “Yeah, sure-“

“I wasn’t!” She rolled on Her side—Her pinky still locked in Dean’s—and his body was either going numb or coming alive for the first time. “I don’t make fun of things people like, De. Art is inherently subjective.”

He chuckled, ready to poke and tease Her, but she looked so goddamn sincere that the words died on his tongue, and he had to cough slightly to find his voice again. “You got thoughts on Zep, then?”

“I have thoughts on everything.”

That pulled a low laugh from Dean’s chest. “No shit, Princess-“

She scowled. “Sorry I care-“

“No, you’re not.” Dean grinned at Her. “And it’s better than being a boring fucking bum with no thoughts.”

“I guess, yeah.” She gave him an odd look, her words slow. “Do you… do you want to hear my thoughts on Led Zeppelin?”

Dean nodded, shooting Her a wink. “Be careful, sweetheart. You’re not the only one with thoughts.”

She was not careful. She spoke so fast and gestured like a mad woman, sitting up on Her knees for more dramatic motions and saying every word like a spell that just drew Dean further into Her. Her thoughts on Led Zeppelin were acceptable—there was always room for improvement, not everyone could appreciate their genius the way Dean did—but neither of them seemed to know how to finish a conversation. Dean certainly couldn’t remember. He kept following Her down every path she dragged him, until he was talking about food andcartoons, and She told him a story about making her father watch old Disney movies, and He was telling Her a story about Sammy trying to reenact a whole episode of Scooby Doo with toy soldiers for him on his birthday. 

Dad didn’t even know that story. He’d been off hunting. But She was giggling and smiling and leaning down over Dean’s body, so he’d tell it to Her a million more times.

“And Sam, he-“ She was covering Her mouth to stifled Her laugher. It wasn’t working. “He tried to make you kiss the Daphne solider?”

“He thought it was the best present he could give me.” Dean smirked up at Her. If he hooked his arm around Her waist and tugged her down, he could kiss Her. “Am I gonna lose you if I tell you I did it?”

She snorted—it was the cutest fucking thing Dean had ever seen—and gave up completely on trying to cover her sheer joy at his embarrassment. He was okay with that.

“Did you,” She took a long breath to control her laughter, Her eyes glowing on Dean’s. “Did you use tongue?”

He placed a hand over his chest, acting offended at the very question. “Course not, Princess, I don’t put out on the first kiss-“

She raised her brows. “Put out your tongue?”

“It’s my second-best limb, sweetheart.” He winked at Her, savoring every bit of Her reaction—flush, hitched breath, widened gaze—that told him She might feel this. She could, maybe, feel this, and nothing else would have to matter again. “Girl’s gotta earn it.”

She rolled Her eyes, but her voice was a little higher than before. “The tongue is a muscle, dumb dumb.”

“Huh.” Dean paused, furrowing his brow in thought. “Second best appendage?”

“I mean, I think ranking them in the first place is stupid-“

“You only say that,” Dean cut Her off with a smirk. “Because you don’t have one that’s obviously the best like I do.”

She gave him a flat look. “And what appendage would that be, Winchester.”

Dean wiggled his brows at Her. “Why don’t you guess- Ow!”

She’d shoved his arm, and Dean grabbed it as dramatically as he could, acting like She’d stabbed him.

“God, I’m dying, you’ve killed me-“

She snorted again. “Oh, fuck off, you big baby-“

He pouted at Her, barely containing his grin. “That’s no way talk to your victim-“

“Shut up- Dean!”

He grabbed Her arm, yanked Her back down to the mattress, and Dean would never allow Her to stop calling him his full name again. It sounded awesome when She said it. Not just a name, but Dean. She said Dean like it could only be him, and no one else. It was just them in the room—a little bit just them in the universe—but there could be a million other Dean’s but he’d still know She was only calling for him. 

“You’re such an asshole-“

He shrugged, not flinching as She glowered at him and slapped his hand away from Her. She was half fallen over his body, wiggling slightly but not trying to pull away, and he didn’t really have the brainpower to think about anything but that. “It’s payback, Princess.” He smirked up at Her. “Teach you to shove me.”

“Yeah,” She swallowed, and Dean was deeply aware of how She was molded perfectly into him. Too perfectly. “I learned my lesson, Winchester. Good work.”

Dean could taste the shift. It was sudden, but had still lay under everything, just waiting to be dragged back to the surface. 

And here it was. Here She was. The sugar was gone, but the fruit was strong, and Dean was intoxicated by it. Intoxicated by Her, so close and beautiful above him, beautiful in a way that made him sure She was royalty. There was no other explanation. That must be where Her wealth came from, from being created to be worship and obeyed like a living god. To be followed down, down, down, shining wherever She could be seen and coming apart only in the dark.

Dean could be Her dark. He could be the one to stand near Her in the shadows and unravel her where it was only them. The one who smirked when She told him what to do because he’d do it then and make Her scream his name later. Scream it like that. Like She had before.

And he still didn’t know where the hell that desire came from, but it didn’t matter. He felt it, more than he’d ever felt most things. And She was so fucking close, and Her eyes were wide and unreadable and infinite on his, and Her breath was warm on his face, and all it would take is a small movement to find out if he’d be worthy of being Her dark-

Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and they both tensed. She stared at Dean, he stared at Her, and he tried not to dwell on how empty he felt when She rolled away, giving him space to pull his phone out of his pocket, glance at the contact—Dad, shit—and put it to his ear.

“Hey-“

“Dean, there’s a bus down to Louisiana that should be leavin’ in about an hour. Pack up and catch it.”

Dean frowned, sitting up on the bed and adjusting his grip on the phone. “Dad, I don’t-“

“This son of a bitch is two-man job.” Dad snapped, his word clear through the phone static. “Need you here by the morning. Room’s paid for ’till next week, we’ll come back and grab everythin’ when we get this asshole.”

Dean swallowed, glancing over at where She was watching him with a far too neutral expression. “It leaves in an hour?”

“That’s what I said, boy.” Dad paused, his voice dropping in a way that Dean knew meant he was frowning. That meant he was, rightfully, sick of Dean speaking. “This gonna be a problem?”

“No, sir.” Dean muttered, running a hair through his hair, suddenly unable to meet Her gaze. “I’ll be there by morning.”

“Good. I’ll be waitin’ at the station.”

That was all Dean got before the line went dead.

“Was that your dad?” Her voice was small, back to the soft tone from before, and Dean grimaced inside as he nodded.

“Yeah, I, uh, I gotta go.” He gave Her an apologetic look, standing from the bed and pulling his shit into his bag. “Dad needs my help on his case.”

“Oh.” She nodded slowly, Her voice growing back to its usual tone, but still not easy. Still not fully Her. “Okay.”

“You can stay here.” He offered. “It’s paid for. And I’m, fuck, I’m out in an hour but we can go back to Crazy’s house now, I guess-“

She shook Her head, and something in Dean dulled at the fucking passiveness on Her face, in Her voice. “It’s fine, Winchester, I know how to handle a religious fanatic.”

He couldn’t just nod and let go. He couldn’t just walk out the door. “I’m serious, if we leave now-“

“I’m serious too.” She crossed Her arms, still watching him from the bed. “I’ve had… a lot of practice. I’ll be fine.”

He made a low, grumbling noise, and glanced at the closet. “You gonna stay here?”

“Yeah,” She said, watching Dean carefully. “I mean, if you’re really okay with it-“

“Yeah, like I said, it’s paid for.” He moved to the closet, blocking Her view of the mess inside with his body as he shoved the jacket and flask into his bag. Whatever this was felt like it was growing, and he was not about to bomb it with how much of a freaking creep he’d been for the past three years. “I, uh,” he rose back up, giving Her a small, nervous grin. “I’ll call you. To check on how dealing with Crazy went. And you need me, call me.”

She sighed. “Yeah, got it.”

Dean frowned. She didn’t believe him. “I will call you, Princess.”

“Okay, Winchester.” She gave him a close-lipped smile, and Dean’s brows furrowed. “See you in a few years, I guess.”

“You’ll see me sooner.”

“Sure-“

“Tell you what.” Dean dropped his bag, marching across the room to stand above Her at the foot of the bed, and not allowing himself to get caught up in the euphoria of standing above Her at the foot of the bed. “I’ll call, and we’ll see each other by three months.”

“De-“

“Pinky promise.”

He stuck out his pinky, and She gaped at him.

“Are you serious?”

“As cancer, sweetheart.” Dean flexed his finger, raising his brows. “I take my pinky promises very seriously.”

She rolled Her eyes, but didn’t say anything as she scanned over his face. Dean just reminded silent and still. Whatever She wanted to see She’d find, and it was all Her. Her call. Her choice if Dean remained alone until they collided again, if he’d keep forgetting, over and over and over, how to hate Her until the very idea of hating Her was just a far-off fog.

And when She raised her hand and locked her picky with his, Dean felt something settle a little to the side of his heart. Something he hadn’t felt in two years, and came back with an almost brutal force as She smiled at him, and Her voice fully regained that siren-like quality that might end up the death of him.

He’d just have to see.

“See you soon, Winchester.” She said, and he grinned.

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“You gonna take my car?”

Dean blinked, realizing the keys were still in his pocket. “I was actually just gonna walk, it’s a small town-“

“Take it.” She shrugged. “You can take a long route, spend some time driving. I’ll walk and find it by the station in the morning.”

Dean stared at Her, unable to wrap his head around what exactly She could be. A princess, an angel, the hottest lady he’d ever seen, sent to tempt him and make him go goddamn mad with whatever the hell She was doing to him. 

“Are you-“

“I’m sure. Bye, Dean.” She gave him another smile, and he felt like he was drowning in the moon. 

That didn’t even make any goddamn sense.

“I, uh, bye.” He made a stuttering motion to the door, and—before he could think better—turned around, leaned down, and pressed a small kiss to the top of Her head.

And he was a goner.

Because this time as he left Her, everything was still made of color.

And nothing felt lonely at all.

End Note: John Winchester winning terrible parent of the century three chapters in a row he’s on a roll folks.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[somewriterchronicles]

It is so good that hobbyists and amateurs can express themselves on online platforms.

We get so obsessed over being perfect, and researching everything, and getting beta-ed, and proof reading our work... which is great! All of this is great.

I love people who want to be good at writing and actively try to achieve it.

But I also love people that don’t want to be good at it. Writing just as a hobby is also great.

Writing and posting just because it’s fun to do so is okay.

Your writing, your grammar, your style not being good is okay. Not being interested in improving yourself is okay.

If you don’t want to put in an effort... that’s also okay. It is super okay, actually.

Do things badly just because it’s entertaining to do so.

Sing out of tune. Draw ugly art. Write crappy stories.

It’s your hobby. You’re doing it for fun. You don’t owe commitment, dedication, energy to your hobby.

You are entitled to engage with your hobby just to spend some time doing a pleasant activity in a shallow effortless lazy way.

If you want to get good at it, and practice to be better and better every time that’s fantastic. But it’s not the only way to engage with something you do for fun.

i get so happy when people that are new to fanfic writing, or just writing in general, post their work on ao3. despite their doubts, despite their fear of something so personal and vulnerable being perceived, they still press that button, and i turn into the equivalent to a proud mom cheering on the sidelines. like yes! you did that! your work is worth seeing! you deserve to share your passion for and be part of a community! i’m so proud of you!

[flightlessangelwings]

“be inclusive” then go and find another writer to do it for you instead? you will ask this and get mad a writers for being white and writing black characters “the wrong way” make up your mind. jesus.

I love how every time I reblog that post about inclusivity that starts with “being inclusive with your reader insert fic is a kindness” someone gets real mean about it.

First of all I’m a writer myself so I know what I’m talking about. Thus, I know it’s not that difficult to leave skin tone descriptors out. We’re asking the bare minimum here and yet it’s constantly a battle. And the reason we ask this is because 1, it shows kindness and curiosity to those who don’t look like you, 2 if it’s supposed to be a reader insert then most anyone should be able to picture themself and 3 poc exist and deserve to feel seen too.

And you won’t “write black characters the wrong way” if you’re not being racist and using stereotypes. Be respectful and do your research. Literally not that hard.

And y’all wonder why poc aren’t active in fandoms anymore. Racism everywhere.

[babybearnation]

think i like you best when you're just with me

⎇f1 drivers x gn!reader - you're trying to quit smoking (reactions) ⎇contains: alex albon, arthur leclerc, charles leclerc, dino beganovic, george russell, zhou guanyu, kimi antonelli, lance stroll, lando norris, liam lawson, logan sargeant, max verstappen, mick schumacher, ollie bearman, oscar piastri, paul aron, pierre gasly, yuki tsunoda ⎇author's note: this is something i struggle with so i appreciate 🔒 anon for requesting this! if you're trying to quit an addiction, i love you, i believe in you, stay strong! (kofi for long fics) ⎇content warnings: smoking/addiction/relapses (all), crying (alex, charles, logan, max), arguing (kimi, max), suggestive (lando, ollie, yuki) ⎇word count: 2.1k

alex albon:

alex is not going to judge you for struggling. he understands that sometimes people turn to shitty things to cope with life. when you confess that you want to quit smoking, alex is immediately looking up all the strategies he can. he'll find your cigarettes and keep them on his person that way he can try and stop you when you go for one, he'll convince you to put out your cigarette if he catches you with one, he'll even let you play with his hands or his hair if it means you won't think about the feeling of a cigarette between your fingers. and if you break down in tears because life sucks and you just want to smoke, he'll hold you and cheer you up until you feel better.

arthur leclerc:

monaco has one of the highest rates of smoking in all of europe so arthur is probably pretty desensitized to seeing people smoke. he'll still be pretty upset if he finds out that you smoke, though. upon discovering that you want to quit, arthur is immediately on board, helping you slowly but surely remove the desire to smoke from your life. if you ever relapse, he might be angry at first, but he soon learns that you really cannot help it. after that he becomes much better at helping you leave the cigarettes behind. any milestones you hit in your smoking cessation journey will be celebrated however you so desire because he truly believes that's what you deserve.

charles leclerc:

he might be a bit baffled as to why you smoke but when you explain to him that it helps you deal with stress, he's gonna be stressed himself. he doesn't want you smoking - he wants you as healthy as possible, thank you - but he gets it. when you tearfully suggest that you want to quit, he's helping you as soon as he can. he'll get you those patches or mints for the first couple months, and he nab and destroy any cigarette he catches you with (with permission, he does not want to upset you further), but eventually, he switches paths and tries to get rid of your stress. he'll do whatever is takes to help you quit, tbh.

dino beganovic:

he's not really happy about the fact that you smoke but he knows he can't control you, so he will just request that you don't smoke in his presence. when you decide that, actually, killing your lungs really isn't worth it, you'll ask him to help you quit. he'll be patient with you as you attempt to quit, always careful not to push you too far, but also knowing exactly when to be more commanding. he doesn't want you to experience any relapses, but he's prepared mentally and physically for when/if you do. he's really sweet about helping you quit, even if his initial reaction to finding out you smoke was one of pure disgust.

george russell:

there's actually a pretty big smoking culture in the uk so i wouldn't be surprised if george has encountered many smokers in his time as a brit, but he's a bit shocked when he discovers you're one as well. he won't be completely disgusted - people cope in a myriad of ways, after all - but he will push you towards trying to quit. when you eventually agree, he's laying out all the options towards cessation that exist, giving you the pros and cons of each one. he's done his research, which means he's really good at helping you fight your cravings and preventing any relapses. if you ever do relapse though? it's okay, he won't judge. he gets it and he will help you get back on your feet so you can try again.

zhou guanyu:

he thinks its a dirty habit and will say as much to you, but in a much nicer way than that seems. when you ask him to help you with fighting your addiction, he's there instantly. you want his help? you'll get it! he's not going to let you suffer alone. he's very patient in the early stages, understanding that relapses are bound to happen. if you get really distraught over these relapses, he will do everything in his power to cheer you up, even if that means he has to ruin his cool guy persona and embarrass himself to make you laugh. he will do literally anything to make sure you go through cessation without too much trouble.

kimi antonelli:

he's young and been embroiled in the world of motorsport for a very long time, under heavy watch from mercedes, so he's probably never even considered smoking before. when you confess to him that you smoke (probably since before you were legally able to), he's gonna be upset and this might trigger an argument between you two but it comes from a place of love and concern for him. the second you suggest quitting and finding other coping mechanisms, he's there. he'll think of every single way he can to prevent you from smoking. if that means you have to travel all around the world with him so he can keep an eye on you, then so be it!

lance stroll:

i would not be surprised if this man has smoked before and hated it. he gets it though - he deals with perpetual stress in his line of work and he has plenty of coping mechanisms. he's gonna be a bit upset that you chose smoking of all things, but he'll happily let you do whatever you want because he gets it. when you say you want to quit, however, he's there. he's paying for all the expensive alternatives and treatments, getting you all the therapies. hell, if he can, he'll even pay away your stress. your job is your stress? okay, well, your new job is as his full time SAP so. enjoy it. anything he can do to make your life easier and to reduce your stress so you'll stop smoking, he'll have it done by the end of the day.

lando norris:

whilst he might find it hot that you smoke, he's also gonna be a little bit concerned because he's fully watched you chain smoke three cigarettes before and that surely cannot be good for your lungs. when you tell him you've started the process of quitting, he'll be so proud of you and he'll offer to help every single step of the way. it's really hard to relapse around him because he'll shoot you with a water gun every time he catches you smoking. despite being a chaotic gremlin most of the time, lando really does understand stress very well and so he'll understand your cravings and relapses. he'll never make you feel upset. if its the feeling of something in your mouth you crave, well... lando's got that covered ;).

liam lawson:

he's not happy about it, but he understands that you smoke because you're stressed. he may accidentally push you too far when insisting that you try and quit, but when you come to him and say that you wanna quit because you yourself has decided to, he feels a little victorious knowing he played some role in that. he can be a bit too aggressive with you at first - demanding to know why you thought relapsing was okay - but he quickly researches more into nicotine addictions and realises you really can't help it. after that, he becomes much more helpful and your path to cessation becomes much easier.

logan sargeant:

if anyone understands stress, it's this man, so when he catches you ripping into a new pack of cigarettes as tears stream down your face, he gets it. he might try and stop you that first time but ultimately, he wants you to make the decision to stop. so when you ask him if he'd help you fight the addiction, he's obviously saying yes. he's there to hold you when you cry and try and stop you when you relapse, but every month you pass without smoking, he'll buy you something nice. a little material motivation/incentive never hurt anyone, right?

max verstappen:

he loves you, he really does, but he isn't entirely sure if he can handle your smoking. it might cause a rift or an argument, but eventually he realises how deep your addiction is and offers to help you get out of it when you end up crying during another argument. he helps you with alternative products (patches/mints/e-cigs), or he'll pay for group therapy or he'll snatch any and every cigarette he sees you smoking out of your hand. whatever it takes for you to quit, he'll do it, because he wants you to be happy and healthy and he doesn't believe any amount of cigarettes is good for either of those things.

mick schumacher:

it breaks his heart to know that you turned to smoking because you were too stressed about life. his heart is well and truly broken. he's very kind and patient with you though, and if you're really struggling, he'll go out and buy you cigarettes, but he hates seeing you smoke. when you tell him you're quitting and that he has to hold you responsible, he does. he takes his job very seriously and will help prevent, or at least soften the blow of, any relapses that may happen. when you get to one year cigarette free, he celebrates in a way that suits you because that's an incredible achievement that deserves to be celebrated!

ollie bearman:

i think ollie would be so torn on this. on the one hand, he hates that you're smoking because you're stressed. he hates that you're hurting. on the other hand? you smoking is fucking hot. when you tell him you want to quit, he might playfully protest but when he realises how serious you actually are, he'll put the jokes away and asks how he can help and support you. every step of the way, every stumble and every success, ollie is there to help you. some people might think its weird how overprotective of you he appears to be, but he refuses to let you get hurt and sink back into that place of smoking ever again.

oscar piastri:

he's soft yet blunt on his thoughts regarding you smoking - he hates it, but it's your life. when you tell him you want to quit because you refuse to let stress and smoking control your life anymore, oscar's on board basically instantly. he's researching the best strategies to fight a nicotine addiction and he's slowly helping you implement them into your life and test the waters to see if they help. he knows there will be bad days and he's always willing to hold you through all of them, but he can't help but be so proud when you hit milestones, no matter how many times you've hit them before.

paul aron:

he seems very strict about taking care of his health and being at peak performance so realising he's dating someone who smokes might jolt him but he's never once gonna be mean to you about it. people have different ways of coping and he won't shame you for yours. is he gonna pounce on the idea of you quitting the second you hint at it? of course he is, but he's not pushy. he's only ever pushing you to stop when you tell him to because you know he can help prevent a relapse or help you deal with something stressful. if you ever slip up, he won't hold it over your head. it happens. he'll pick you up and help you carry on or start again.

pierre gasly:

another one who might be a bit upset at first but quickly learns that you are deep into addiction and aren't able to just up and quit like other people can. he'll be there to guide you through every step of your smoking cessation, always cheering you on when you do well or comforting you when you slip up and relapse. he'll never make you feel like you're wrong or dirty for smoking. he's just so supportive!

yuki tsunoda:

yuki might find it hot at first but those feelings are very quickly washed away by panic and concern. why were you smoking? did you want to quit or was this something you planned to do for the rest of your life? when you tell him you want to quit, yuki will try his best to cheer you on. he offers to cook for you as motivation but like.. he always cooks for you. luckily, he's cute enough that it's fine, but you do have to find a proper source of motivation to keep you going. and seeing the way yuki's eyes get brighter with each milestone you hit, you quickly realise what that source is.

© all rights to babybearnation 2025.

[thatrabidwolf]

hey so a little while ago I decided this would be a fun thing to make, and now 3 days and many, many hours later, I have it complete, and I would like to share it! So, here is:

Questions to ask yourself when creating / studying / writing about, etc a culture (fantasy or real)

I absolutely love creating my own fantasy worlds, and recently I have been looking at advice on how to do it better, but none of the posts I’ve found are quite thorough enough for me. So, I decided it would be fun to make my own list of what questions you should ask yourself when making a fantasy culture!!

This will certainly not be all-encompassing, and I am by no means an expert on any of this, but I have tried my best with the knowledge I have. Think of this as a jumping off point!

I will always refer to the culture you are making/studying/writing about etc as ‘your culture’. I do not mean the culture you are literally from.

Religion and beliefs 

Note- even if your culture has no god or religion, some questions will still apply. Additionally, a culture does not need a religion. 

How does your culture believe the world/them/nature/etc has been created? (E.g. the Dreamtime, the days in which God made earth, etc)

Is your cultures religion poly or mono theistic?

What does your culture believe is holy or good, religion wise? How does this affect people who do not fit that standard? How do people try to reach this standard? 

How does your culture worship? Do they have rituals or ceremonies? Why do they do this, in their eyes?

How does your culture think of its God(s)? Are they afraid? Reverent? Are they less than (the) God(s), or equal (I have never heard of non-Gods being viewed as better than (the) God(s), but hey, why not?)? Are they perhaps being protected or cared for by their God(s)?

What is your cultures view of death and the dead? What do they believe happens after death? How does their mortality affect this? (I.e. are creatures that live longer less afraid of death and hell?)

Are there any people who can be closer to their God(s), or servants of God(s)? (I.e. priests, monarchs, monks, nuns, etc)

How do religious people view non- religious people, or people who follow other religions? (and vice versa)

Are there multiple religions or belief systems in your world? How do they interact?

Why do people believe what they do? (Have they met the gods? Who made their religion?)

How does religion help or harm the people who follow it (And even the people who don’t believe it)? Are people aware of these issues? 

How does religion affect things like art, language, routines, clothing, food, etc? (E.g. hijabs and modest clothing, prayer times that cause people to wake up earlier, cursing.) do religious ‘uniforms’ exist? (E.g. a priests outfit) who wears them?

How does one pray, or service a God? 

If someone in your culture wanted something from (the) God(s), what would they do to get it? (I.e. what could they do for the god so their request is answered?)

Farming and Agriculture 

Note- most stationary settlements will farm, but not all cultures will be stationary. If your culture is not stationary, this may not apply.

Who farms, and where? (The who is very important. Are they willingly in this field (pun unintended), or have they been forced into it? Are they paid? How much? Are the conditions good?)

Does your culture have aid from animals or machinery when farming? How are they aided?

What do they farm, and how? (I highly recommend researching farming methods, if only because it can be really cool!)

Does your culture farm everything it eats/needs, or do they import and export things? If they import and export, what are their main imports and exports? Who do they trade with?

How important is farming and trading in your culture? How does it’s importance affect those living there? 

What foods are not farmed, or not as common? Why? 

What ingredients are most common? What are they used in? (Note- the answer to that second question is going to be ‘a lot’. Don’t just make one dish with the most common ingredients. Make a bunch!)

Other materials

Note- if the answer to any of these questions is no, then you must consider what the alternative is. If they don’t have clay, what is their crockery (if they have it) made of? If they don’t have metal, what are their weapons made of? Also, a culture does not, by any means, need all or any of this. This is just an example.

Does your culture have access to sand (and, by extension, glass)? Where is it? How is it transported?

Does your culture have access to stone and metals? And again, who mines for this? How is it transported?

Does your culture have access to clean water?  How is it transported?

Does your culture have access to wood and fire? If not, how are their environments heated and/or lit? (Do they burn another substance?)

Does your culture have access to paper and ink? If not, what do they write with? (If they write at all)

Does your culture have access to electricity? 

Does your culture have access to clay and porcelain? And do they have glaze or paint for their clay?

Does your culture have access to candles?

Does your culture have access to string, ropes and twine?

Does your culture have access to leather, animal skins and/or furs, horse hair, feathers, scales, ivory, and other such materials? Could they perhaps have similar animal materials from fictional creatures? (E.g. dragon scale suits from the how to train your dragon series)

Does your culture have access to plastic?

Does your culture have access to materials most (if not all) human cultures do not have? How could you play around with this? What could these materials be used for? (E.g. an underwater society could use shark teeth as daggers, a society in space might trap stars in lanterns for lighting, etc. be creative!!!)

Food

Note- I have not included drinks here, but most of these questions will also apply to them.

What proteins/vegetables/fruit/grains/dairy does your culture eat, and how much do they have access to? What portions do they eat? (Note- this is directly affected by the availability of certain foods, not simply personal preference of those living in that area. What is your climate, and what animals and plants live and grow there?)

What flavours are enjoyed by your culture? (Note- salty cuisine may be indicative of having to keep food fresh for a long time, sugar may be inaccessible in certain areas, etc. consider why you have chosen what you have chosen.)

How is food stored? (Important! If they don’t have fridges, how do they keep their milk and eggs from going bad while transporting it? Is all their food fresh? Is it canned or non-perishable? What areas will have lower quality food, and why?)

if food travels a long while, it may be worse quality. Keep in mind where the food is coming from

What foods are easily accessible for all classes? What foods are not?

What foods are eaten by upper classes? What foods are eaten by lower class? How will each class view the foods eaten by the opposite class? 

What foods are considered a treat? (Keep in mind; someone (potentially in a lower class) may consider a food that someone else eats often to be a treat.)

How do some cultures view other cultures cuisine?

Is your culture aware they need a balanced diet? Do they have one? 

Where is food bought? From whom is it bought? (I.e. are there markets and salespeople? What do markets or shopping districts look like?)

How much do people eat? How many meals do they have? How big are those meals?

What would someone eat as a snack? What would they eat if they just needed a lot of energy and had barely any time/money/resources?

Do restaurants exist? Would the food in them be entirely authentic to your culture, or would they serve other cuisine? What would a restaurant look like? How many are there, and how often do people go to them?

Housing and architecture 

What do houses look like? What are they made of? How are they made? 

Are there homeless people? How are they treated by society? How are they treated by the government/monarchy/whatever your system of ruling is?

How are areas organised? (E.g. is there separation between more and less expensive neighbourhoods? Where are the shops, and such things?) (note- bad planning=bad quality of life, and more time to plan=better planning. Why is it organised the way it is? Is the planning amazing because one dude got free rein to make a city (like Canberra) or is it horrible because it was rushed?)

What rooms do houses often have? Do they have rooms at all? How many rooms do they have?

What does furniture look like? What is it made of? What types of furniture exist?

How are spaces decorated? Are they decorated at all? How does personal preference affect this? (Does your culture decorate with paintings, mosaics, tapestries, etc? Do they grow plants up the walls to fill empty space?)

If permanent structures are not a thing, what do the people in your culture use as shelter?

How are houses heated and/or cooled?

Plumbing. Does your culture have hot water? Does your culture have clean water? How? Do they use wells, or do they have pipes and aqueducts? Do they have to drink wine/ some other drink because it’s easier? Please don’t just assume they’ll have easy access to water.

PLUMBING. How do bathrooms work? Where does sewage go? (Do they have toilet paper?)

How are areas lit? Without electricity, lighting is a big issue. How much can the people in your culture see when the sun goes down?

If one does not own a home, can they rent one? Do apartment blocks exist? Do hotels and motels exist?

Transportation

Does tourism exist in your culture? How do locals feel about tourists? Why do tourists come?

Do people leave the place they live often? Will they know much (or anything) about other towns, cities, countries, etc?

How fast is each means of transportation? How far will they have to go? (How long will a letter take to send?)

For each means of transportation you must be able to answer: how common is it? How accessible is it? What is the overall view on it? When is it used, and when is it not?

How do vehicles move? (Do they have an engine? Are they pulled by an animal? Do they have oars? Are they steam-powered?)

What does each means of transportation look like? What are they made of? Where are they made?

What is required for the upkeep of each means of transportation?

How does the terrain affect travel?

Are there paths to walk or drive upon? What are they made of? How are they made? Do they require maintenance? Do they get maintenance?

How does the weather affect travel? (Especially water travel)

How is cargo protected from water damage?

Public transport! Do they have it? What is it? Where does it go, and what are its limitations? How many people can it take to a place? If someone never takes public transport anywhere, how will they act if they have to take it somewhere? How would someone who does take it act?

How are letters sent? Why is it done this way? How long does this take?

Weather and climate 

What are the seasons? (You can make them up! You can have more than 4! You can be creative! Make a season where meteors are falling all day every day, if you want! Have fun with it!)

What is the weather during each season? (Does it snow? Do leaves fall from trees in autumn?)

Generally, what is the temperature during each season?

How humid is it?

How does the weather affect clothing?

What methods do people in your culture have to manage the weather or protect themselves from it? (E.g. covering oneself in mud to avoid sunburn and mosquitoes, hibernation, etc)

This isn’t all weather, but how often do natural disasters occur? Are there are many active volcanoes? Are tsunamis common? Do flash floods occur a lot?

What is peoples view on the weather in their area? (keep in mind that oftentimes people get very sick of the weather they are used to, and find other weather more interesting.)

Education  

Who has access to an education, and who does not?

How much would an education cost? 

What is learnt in schools? What does the curriculum focus on, and what does it miss out on? What subjects are there? Can it be harmful at all? (E.g. teach misinformation)

Do University and similar education options exist?

What would a school look like? 

How strict are the rules in schools? 

Who has access to literature, and is able to learn to read? Who is not?

Are there schools for children with disabilities? Are they good? 

If someone cannot have an education, what will they do instead? What work can they do?

Who teaches children? Are they paid? How much? 

When do children leave school? (I.e. at what age?)

Does homeschooling or other education options exist? 

What emphasis is put on an education? If someone did not go to school, how would they be treated? Alternatively, if someone that people thought should not go to school (e.g. women, in some places and time periods) did, how would they be treated? 

Language

Does sign language exist? How many people know it? If those in your culture do not have hands in the same way most humans will have, try to think of other ways they could sign! (I.e. flashes of colour like a chameleon or octopus)(Note; if you intend to have sign mentioned a lot in a story, it might be best to have an idea of what some signs may look like)

Does written language exist? Who learns it? Does illiteracy negatively impact a person?

Does spoken language exist?

Does telepathic communication exist? How does it work? (Keep in mind- thoughts are not always perfect, fully formed sentences. They may not even be words at all! How does this affect telepathic communication?)

Are there any other means of communication? (E.g. text to speech, body language, expressions) what are the limits of these, and how does that affect those that communicate using it?

What is the dominant means of communication? What is the dominant language? Is there a globally used language? What is it? Why is that one the globally used language?

Are there multiple languages? How do they interact? Are they similar?

Are there linguistic differences within a single language (I.e. Auslan having multiple signs for ‘eat’ depending on where you are)? (spoiler alert: there will and probably should be)

How are people with smaller vocabulary/more difficulty talking treated? Why do they have less linguistic ability?

With knowledge of your cultures beliefs and ideas, try to think of the symbolism that your culture might use. (E.g. If someone wrote a poem about how their lover is the dirt, would that mean their lover is unimportant and to be trodden over, or does it mean their lover is the home of growth and life, the thing that supports us all? What do things in your culture symbolise, and why?) Try to think of an object/place/plant/anything culturally important that someone could use to symbolise 1) their lover 2) the family members they love 3) someone they hate 4) a close friend

How is cursing treated? Is it commonplace?

And, just for fun; how would people insult each other? Come up with an insult in your culture! (My fictional world often uses ‘unnatural’ as an insult, as they worship nature)

Class and power 

Who is ‘in charge’? (E.g. A monarch, a council of lords, a government, etc)

If the person (or people) in charge leave their position (they are overthrown, their presidency ends, they die, they step down, etc) who takes over? How is a new ruler chosen?

How does the person in power rule? What do they have control over, and what do they not? 

What gives power? (Wealth, Magical ability, strength, etc) how would someone gain power? Can they gain power?

How is/are the person/people in power viewed by both lower and upper classes?

Is there a large class divide?

How do the lower classes view the upper classes, and vice versa?

What can someone in power do to lose or gain respect? Do they know this?

What is the currency? (It could be coins and metals, but it does not have to be.) Does everyone use the currency, or just upper class peoples? Is there a currency at all? If someone is not paid with money, how else are they paid? (Land or housing, perhaps?)

How much do upper class people know about lower classes lives, and vice versa? How does this affect relationships between the two? Does the ruler know what lower class lives are like?

Do servants, butlers, etc, exist? Who has them? Are they treated well? Do they live in the house they serve?

How are staff/employees treated? How good is their pay? How much time can they have off work? 

What is the cost of living? Can many people afford it?

Law 

I’m fairly sure this one is obvious, but: what are the laws?

Are there any things that are illegal that perhaps shouldn’t be? (E.g. being queer being illegal in some areas)

Are there any things that are legal that perhaps shouldn’t be? (E.g. my own fictional world having murder be legal as long as the victim is under 10 years old.)

What is the punishment for breaking the law?

How does age impact punishment?

What is the treatment towards the law and it’s enforcers? 

Who enforces the law?

What is the view on vigilantes?

How can the law and its enforcers be unfair? (Is it less harsh on more wealthy people, is it likely to harm minorities, etc)

What is the trial process? Is there one?

Is there a death penalty?

And if there is no finite law: what rules are generally accepted, and what is the punishment for breaking them?

War and combat

are children taught how to fight from a young age? Why? 

What weapons and armour are used? What are the restrictions surrounding them? How can they hurt/protect a person? What is the upkeep required for them?

How is a war started? Who calls for a war to happen?

How does war affect the world, and those in the warring countries? 

How does war affect the economy and trading?

What combat styles are popular?

What is the view of war from the view of civilians, those fighting, and those in power?

How is the army or those who can fight organised? Do they have sufficient training?

Who fights in a war, and why? Are they or their family compensated? Is it for honour? Who doesn’t fight? Why?

Is your culture particularly prone to war? Why or why not?

How are refugees in or from your culture treated? 

Prejudice

which groups are oppressed? What is the reason for it? What do the oppressors say the reason is?

Which groups are oppressors?

Are the oppressed groups in most of our modern cultures treated badly in your culture? (E.g. people of colour, queer people, disabled people, neurodivergent people, people who follow certain religions) are there any other oppressed groups? (E.g. people with magic)

How does prejudice affect oppressed groups? Are they hurt? Killed? What micro-aggressions are present? 

How do oppressed groups fight back? Can they fight back?

How do oppressed groups try to blend in/ hide their minority identity? Can they do so?

Art 

Who does art? Is it only those with the money to do it, or does everyone have access to it? And even if everyone can do art, who does and doesn’t? 

What forms of art exist/are most popular? (Don’t be afraid to make something up! Fantasy types of art would be so cool)

What materials is art done with? 

What type of art is most widespread? How does its popularity affect the culture? (E.g. in my fantasy culture, glassblowing and stained glass are very popular art forms, so I am sure to mention it more often than, say, pottery, and to be creative with what is made of glass)

Is art present even in everyday objects like paintings on the bowls you’d eat dinner on or detailed carvings in one’s bed frame, or is it very separate from non-art items? How can it’s prevalence help build the world or descriptions of said world?

Is art used for ceremonies or religious purposes? How?

How does your culture view art? Is it seen as important? Pointless? A fun little meaningless hobby?

What is art used to convey? (Can it protest bad ruling, share one’s life experiences, depict stories, worship (the) God(s)?)

Fashion and beauty 

Do sumptuary laws exist? Why? What are they?

How is clothing washed? How often is it washed? Who washes it? Where does it dry?

Who makes clothing?

Are fabrics often dyed or painted? What colours are they dyed or painted in? What patterns are painted? What are they dyed with? (Note: this will often impact cost. If someone does not have much money, they may not have brightly dyed fabrics, depending on the accessibility of dye)

What styles of clothing are popular? What styles are more expensive, and why? 

What fabrics are used? (Cotton, linen, wool, silk, velvet, etc) are there other fabrics or clothing materials you can imagine? (E.g. the spider silk clothing from Gregor the Overlander, or the dresses made of salt in ‘The Siren’)

How many items of clothing do people often have?

Do makeup and wigs exist? What are they made from? What styles are popular? Who wears them, and when, or for what? Are they gendered?

Does plastic surgery exist? And if your culture has no plastic, can a similar procedure be done with magic?

What are the beauty standards, and why are those considered beautiful? (E.g. being fat being the beauty standard in the past as it meant one had wealth) Are there prominent figures that affect this? (E.g. celebrities, popular artists work)

How do people treat immodesty and nudity? What parts of the body cannot be shown? Do these rules differ depending on who you are? (E.g. my fantasy world allows those with magic to show more skin, as that way you can see the physical manifestations of their magic easier)

How many layers of clothing are common, and what are those layers and their purposes? (This is affected often by temperature, or a desire for volume in clothing.)

What underwear is worn? (Optional)

What do shoes look like? What types of shoes are there? How many pairs would people own?

Is clothing and beauty gendered? (It doesn’t have to be!)

How does where someone lives affect their clothing? (E.g. a person living on a farm isn’t exactly going to wear ballgowns everywhere.)

What hairstyles are popular? Why? Who are they popular with?

What perfumes/colognes/scents are popular? Why? How are such scents made?

I don’t have another place to put hygiene questions, so they’re going here. How often do people in your culture bathe and brush their teeth? What do they bathe with? (I.e. do they have baths, and warm water to fill them? Or do they have to just towel themselves off every once in a while?) do they have soap? How would someone be treated if they did not bathe, or if they did not smell pleasant?

How is class shown in accessories or clothing? 

Sex and Romance 

Does marriage, or a similar legal, religious or romantic ceremony exist? What are the traditions surrounding it?

How would someone in your culture court/flirt with another? 

What is considered romantic in your culture? (E.g. Is there a certain flower used to convey romantic love? Would a kiss on the cheek be seen as more romantic than a kiss on the lips? Would there be specific romantic pet-names for a partner?) Why is this considered romantic?

What importance or weight is placed upon marriage, romance, sex, having kids, etc, in your culture? Is it entirely unimportant and optional, or is it seen as absolutely vital for everyone? Why is this importance or lack thereof present? How would a greater or lesser importance impact the culture and those in it? (E.g. In my fictional world, romance is seen as entirely optional and even unimportant or unlikely, and so people can be extremely close, and even do traditionally romantic things without others thinking they are anything but friends.)

How are gay, aromantic and/or asexual and polyamorous people treated in your culture? Why?

Is sex taboo in your culture? Is it more taboo for certain people? (E.g. would it be more frowned upon for a woman to speak about sex than a man? Why?)

How is pornography, sex toys, kinks and fetishes, STD’s and STI’s, sexual pleasure/ desire, and sexual discussions treated in your culture? Why are they treated this way?

Leisure

Note- it is easy, when writing fantasy, to forget that people have downtime. But in reality, people do stupid, weird things when they’re bored. People play games and goof around. Don’t forget this, as it really helps flesh out a world!

what sports exist in your culture? What is the ‘culture’ surrounding these sports? Do people get competitive over teams they like? Who plays the sport? Are there professional sports players, and if so, how do they get that status? How do people watch sports, and learn the rules?

If a child is bored with nothing to do, where will they go? Is there a library around? Is there a playground, or a relatively empty street they can kick a ball around? And the same sort of questions for all ages. Where do adults go when they’re bored? (Bars? Restaurants? Friends houses?) what about teenagers? Young adults?

What other games are there? Try to come up with at least three. 1) a game you can play without any materials, and in any place (something like rock-paper-scissors or eye-spy, but ✨fantasy version✨) 2) something you’d need the fantasy equivalent of a pack of cards and a minute or so of rules explaining. (Like Uno or blackjack, or some board games) 3) something more in-depth that takes a few hours or so. (Like DND, magic the gathering, monopoly, perhaps, etc etc)

What other hobbies can people take up? Do the people in your culture know how to sew? Are they super into taxidermy? What are very common hobbies (like watching TV or reading) and what are the less or not-at-all common ones? (Like spending 7 hours writing this godforsaken list because it’s extremely fun) How are these hobbies viewed by people who don’t do it? 

And if those in your culture don’t have hours of downtime, think about what parts of their day they might use as rest. Perhaps if a woman is forced to sew and clean all day, she’ll do it with other women so she can gossip and talk to them. No one can work all day every day without any sort of rest or fun.

Performances! Does your culture have operas? Dances that tell stories? Comedic performances? Do the performers travel, or do they stay in one place, like at a theatre? Do these performances cost money? Who will have watched one? Who watches them frequently? Who doesn’t have the time/money for them?

Do drugs and alcohol exist? What is the culture surrounding them? (Do people do them just for fun, in social situations, etc?) are there addicts, and how are they treated? What do drugs and alcohol do to the people in your culture? And if not drugs and alcohol, are there other substances one can use in place of them?

A few questions that fit nowhere else:

Do people have pets? What pets do they have? Do the pets serve a purpose (like wolves and cats to hunt, dogs to pull a sled, goats for milk etc?)? What is the general treatment towards pets?

Who takes care of very young children (below school age)? Is it a parent or an outside carer (Like a daycare)? 

Are there other holidays or special days unrelated to religion? Are birthdays celebrated? New years? How are they celebrated?

Feel free to add more!!!

[tuttle-did-it]

Pretty much exactly. A LOT of scientists were inspired by Trek. Multiple NASA people have discussed Star Trek and how it changed their lives-- Mae Jemison was inspired by Uhura to be the first Black woman in space. The NASA nerds have named asteroids after Trek characters and actors. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cultural_influence_of_Star_Trek

Various tech people have talked about becoming tech scientists and research scientists because of Trek.

Smithsonian also did an entire book on Trek influences into science! 3-D printing was apparently inspired by the transporter/replicators. https://www.smithsonianmag.com/blogs/smithsonian-books/2023/09/08/star-trek-and-3-d-printing/

And people are working on trying to create a real holodeck. https://techland.time.com/2013/02/25/cave2-not-a-star-trek-holodeck-yet-but-getting-closer/

And frequently, scientists will write blogs or books about how Trek changed their world, which helped them change the real world. https://www.rand.org/pubs/commentary/2016/08/star-trek-at-50-how-the-tv-series-inspired-a-boy-to.html

The Trek actors have all talked about how many people come up to them to tell them they were inspired to go into Sciences because of them. The women actors, in particular, get a lot of these people telling them that they made the women fans feel like they really could do amazing things in STEM, and I fucking love that. SO much.

Trek has a lot of flaws, and I think even those of us who love it are able to see those flaws, and openly criticise the failures of the franchise, shows, and characters. But the power of Trek to inspire people into building new and amazing things, to go into space, to change science forever? I LOVE THAT.

It somehow just dawned on me that video calls didn’t exist in the 1960’s and the that the transmissions they were showing in TOS would have been revolutionary, ‘cause whenever they have to videochat with admirals or whatever I’ve always just been like “Kirk ‘n the boyz on Zoom again”

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

Makar Sankranti ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Summary: Y/N never learned how to fly a kite. Lando changes that.

-‘๑’- ln x desi!reader ✧.*

-‘๑’- fluff ✧.*

you were staring at your phone with a frown, and lando felt the urge to smooth that little crease between your eyebrows and kiss the little pout. so he did.

“what’s on your mind?” he asked, as he settled beside you on the couch, peeking into your phone.

you were looking at pictures of kites and people flying them. people, lando recognised, were your cousins and your mom.

“it’s makar sankranti in a week,” you mumbled.

“what’s that?”

“it’s a kite flying festival. we get a bunch of kites, and we fly them, and we have competition with other people on who can cut who’s kite’s thread,” you explained.

“do you wanna celebrate it here with me? i can get your kites. you need those paper kinds, right?” his arm tightened around you, pulling you into his chest.

“that’s not the problem. the problem is that i never learned to fly a kite properly,”

lando made a confused noise, waiting for you to continue.

“when i was young, my cousin brother was always excited to fly kites, and my mom was one of the youngest in her generation, so she enjoyed it too. they teamed up and they did all the kite flying, and all i did was launch the kite in the air and then stand aside,”

“wait, so, you never learned how to fly a kite?”

“i’ve always wanted to, but y’know, by the time i was at the age where i could do it myself or it was finally my turn, everyone just expected me to know,”

“but no one ever taught you,”

“exactly,” you leaned your head against his chest, cuddling him.

lando’s arms tightened around you, and a plan formed in his head.

the next day, he gathered all his friends on this important mission. ria, aarav, steve, ethan, niran, and max. good thing lando and you were spending a part of the break in england, huh?

lando explained the situation to them, and quickly distributed tasks based on his research. he’d hoped that aarav would have some knowledge about the festival and the kite flying techniques, but the britishers had completely wiped away his indian cultures. how disappointing.

ria and niran were in charge of finding and understanding the different threads that were available, and which would be the strongest. it was surprising just how many different types were in the market.

ethan and steve had the responsibility to find the different types of kites that were sold. just like the threads, it was surprising that there wasn’t just the paper kind. plastics, and different thickness of papers, and different thickness of wood used on hold them, everything.

the last three, aarav, lando, and max, used the week to learn different techniques. they asked aarav’s parents to help who jumped at the opportunity. lando had even called your mum, but the conversation hadn’t been the most pleasant.

“i need you to teach me basics of kite flying and stuff,” he had requested.

“oh, now she has an interest in kite flying?” your mom had scoffed.

“she just didn’t have the opportunity to learn before, so i thought i’d surprise her,” his hand was fisted and away from the camera’s view because he really did not like the tone your mom was speaking in.

“she had plenty of opportunities, she just never had any interest,” but your mum then explained the basics to him, using all the hindi words that he practiced saying to get the pronunciations right.

the group spent hours and hours over at aarav’s terrace, where his parents taught them all they needed to know. everything from chadhana to lapet to cut gayi.

lando hadn’t realised just how fun kite flying was. and he didn’t realise how much he would have to invest in bandaids. thankfully, he got the skin colour kinds, and managed to avoid you playing with his hands.

it also made his heart hurt a little. that you hadn’t had the opportunity to properly learn. that the age you could learn was taken away by your cousin, and while you loved your cousin, lando knew you did, you deserved to have someone teach you too.

on the day off, lando had woken up early, quietly slipping out of bed. he texted in his group to make sure their plan was set. quickly making some breakfast for you, he set it all on a tray and took it to your room. entering, he saw that you were already out of bed, and in the washroom.

making the bed, and setting the tray of food on it, he waited for you. once you came out of the washroom, with your hair tied and your face moisturised, a smile lit up your face at the scene in front of you.

“what’s this?” you asked.

“happy makar sankranti, baby,” lando wished with a smile.

“you remembered?”

“of course i did,” you were standing in his between his legs now, his arms around the back of your thighs, your around his neck.

"well, we've got plans today, so eat your breakfast, get ready, and then we'll get going!"

"what plans?"

he leaned up and pressed a kiss against your lips, "it's a surprise,"

you pleaded with him to tell you, but every time you opened your mouth, lando either fed you a bite of the waffles with nutella or pressing kisses.

later, the two of you got ready for the day. and just before the two of you left, lando pulled out a tie from behind his back.

"what do you plan to do with that?" you asked, sceptical.

"well, it's a surprise," lando said, as if it explained everything.

you rolled your eyes, but turned around, and lando jumped slightly before he put the tie across your eyes, and tied it.

taking your hand, he led you slowly to the car, only because you had screamed at him when he tried, and got you settled in the passenger, putting your seatbelt as well, before he jogged over to the other side and got in.

"y'know, we could be doing something else with the blindfold. or even with the tie, actually," you commented innocently, knowing exactly how lando would react to it.

"babe," lando whined, "you can't stay stuff like that while i'm driving!"

"all i'm saying is that i'm blindfolded and you could literally do whatever you want. well, you could whatever you wanted even if you'd used it to tie my ha-"

"okay, okay, shut up! we're going home!"

you laughed, "no! you said you have a surprise for me! i wanna see that!"

"you can't do that to me!"

you laughed.

the rest of the way, the two of you joked and laughed and talked about everything and anything. for instance, "where are we going?" you asked.

"aarav, niran, and ria's place,"

"if we take their initials, it makes ran. like, ria, aarav, niran. r - a - n. ran. so we're going to ran's place," you joked.

lando didn't laugh.

"you're supposed to laugh!" you smacked his arm.

"it was a terrible joke!" lando exclaimed.

"i laugh at your jokes! do the same for me!"

"i don't have bad jokes!"

"you have so many bad jokes, lan! now, laugh at mine!" you insisted.

"oh, i'm sorry, let me just-" lando started before he let out a loud, obnoxious, very fake laugh, which only made you laugh harder.

eventually, when lando parked in the garage, you asked, "can i remove this yet?"

"nope! we're not there yet,"

lando stepped out of the car, and then helped you out. he insisted on picking you up again because there were going to be stairs. you refused, and he laughed at you. in turn, you yelled (laughed) at him for laughing at you struggling.

once the two of you were at the terrace, lando made sure everyone and everything was set, before he removed the tie from over your eyes.

adjusting to the light, you saw niran, aarav, ria, ethan, and steve standing with kites and firkis in their hands. realisation dawned on you.

"oh my god," you whispered. "what's happening?"

lando's hands held your waist, as he bit his lips and watched your reaction.

"do you like it? are you excited?"

"are we going to fly kites?" you asked.

lando nodded, "yeah!"

you frowned then, turning to him, "but i don't know how to fly a kite,"

"that's why, all of us learned to do it, and now we're going to teach you,"

your eyes filled with tears, before you turned around and hugged your boyfriend. "thank you," you whispered.

lando pressed a kiss on your cheek, before you turned around and jumped towards the group, where ria jumped with you as well.

the next four hours were spent with the group teaching you how to fly a kite. lando, max and aarav taught you how to properly fly the kites, and the rest of them taught you how to tie the string and wrap the strings on the spin wheel, and when to hold it lose and everything that you had seen your family had done when you were younger but never had the opportunity to do so yourself.

you laughed and screamed and jumped, and so did they. everyone took pictures, and there was music playing in the background, and you and ria danced with beer bottles in your hands.

and when you cut your fingers from the string, you excitedly showed them to lando, who tried to match your energy, really he did, but your fingers were bleeding a little. he did wrap your fingers in bandaids and pressed kisses.

later, when the group had torn some and flew most, all of you sat on the terrace together, showing pictures, and recalling stories from the day and the week that they had spent learning how to do it properly.

you leaned against lando while the others laughed. "thank you for doing this,"

"did you have fun?"

you nodded.

"i'm glad. now you know how to fly kites! you can go back home and show off to your family just how talented your kite flying skills are,"

you laughed, but you kissed him, thanking him again.

"i love you, lando norris," you whispered against his lips.

"hmm, i love you too," he kissed you one last time, before the two of you joined the group's discussion again.

✩♬₊˚.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

happy makar sankranti! fun fact: i learned how to fly a kite today! i hope you like it! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @greantii ; @anamiad00msday ; @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @justaf1girl ; @peterholland04 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry

[then-be-a-warrior]

I'M ON REDNOTE!!!!

In case you didn't know, REDnote is what we're all going to IF TikTok gets banned.

This is the real deal, y'all. This is our chance to be petty as fuck to our government.

Make sure you do your research on why we're all moving to REDnote (because I just don't have the energy to explain lol). But long story short, this is a giant middle finger to our government and I love it. Don't fuck with freedom of speech.

If TikTok gets banned, my only two platforms will be REDnote and Tumblr.

Spread the word that we're all (if not most) of us are moving to REDnote.

[pirha]

and maybe she still becomes a rogue- because personally I can't believe that she went "crazy" only because of the Joker. Part of my reasoning is that her story interprets as a feminist journey in learning independence after abuse, and another part is that she had to be capable of doing all the things she's done

(also im gonna be honest i dont know as much about her origin since it's been so long since i've watched the media- which i should really do- but she fell in love with the Joker, knew it wasn't the sanest thing, didn't tell anyone else and thus became Harley Quinn. But! I am NOT saying it was her fault in any way, she was coaxed and mislead, and especially if she were mentally unstable when she met the Joker, all of this would be made easier than someone in their fully right mind and is therefore more vulnerable and unsafe, to herself and others. Which also leads back to my point: she wasn't mentally stable at the time and even without Joker there, that doesn't change most of her circumstances, and so it theoretically wouldn't change her capacity of becoming a rogue.)

And then there's some shenanigans with Jazz and Danny- two civilians- being all chummy with a rogue. Or maybe having severe and messy drama with a rogue. This random girl gets caught up in an attack and on live television gets in a heated and nonsensical argument with an infamous rogue - there's name calling, flashbacks, obscene comments, and even some slapping. It only gets broken up when Batman and co show up and physically break apart the two, where this girl gets one last hit in with her purse before storming off. Some basic research shows they were partners at Arkham Asylum, and this goes viral. There's theories, commentary, iceberg dives, explanations, clips, reactions, memes, debates, etc.

And it only gets worse and worse each time the two women run into each other.

Danny: Jazz! I just scored you a personal internship with Harleen Frances Quinzel! The same woman you write your college entrance essay on!

Jazz: *Squeal* How did you manage that?!

Danny: I pulled some strings on the other side. Pays to be Ghost King. Now pack your bags, we're going to Gotham for two years!

Jazz: We?

Danny: Of course. Like I would leave you alone for months on end. I got myself a paid internship in Wayne Tech.

Jazz: *Louder Squeal* This is going to be so much fun! Did you know Miss Quinzel just accepted a job as Arkham Asylum? She's going to personally work on Joker!

Danny: You have the perfect window to posion him!

Jazz: Dreams do come true!

[eclipseberrycake]

Two for One Special

AN: GUYS YOUR BRAINS ARE SO WRINKLED IM KISSING THEM ALL

This was also a request! So thank you Anon! I was doing some research (By the way, huge huge shoutout to @snowysyndrome and @sammylkcho both of y'all RND things had me just shaking in my seat bro) and yeah, y'all are starved.

I know my sister, who got me into the game, explained that shippers treat them like two different people so I'm assuming with both of them it's more like a poly! ship than anything else. Either way I'm excited to toy with this dynamic!

☁ Man introductions are so hard for me and idk whyy

☁ Like most times i just start writing and oops a plot pops out but i need an intro to get there and I just...never have one gnogng

☁ I think RnD would like either a healer toon or a extractor toon. Since they can distract on certain floors, they know the dangers of distracting and wouldn't wish that on their partner.

☁ Razzle and Dazzle both have very different love languages as well.

☁ I saw it mentioned that Razzle is a very affectionate toon, and yk what? I agree...to an extent. Here's my twist, lol, on them.

☁ I think Razzle is very open with his affections, announcing them for all the toons to see and hear. He's beaming with pride as he presents them with boxes of chocolates or maybe a bandage he bought when he noticed you didn't have enough tapes. He's shouting praises as he passes behind you, the twisteds on his tail even if you couldn't tell based on his giant grin.

☁ Razzle is a very "Words of affirmation" kind of toon, because it's something that he can do so everyone knows just how much he worships you! You are his spotlight, his main star. He just wants to treat you as wonderfully as you treat him and his brother. Is that so much to ask?

☁ SPEAKING of his brother, Dazzle. Oh Dazzle.

☁ I think he's just as affectionate as his brother personally! Being connected to someone who's as affectionate as Razzle kind of eases him into the whole thing and by the time you get together, he's well-versed in what kind of affection works for him and how he wishes to show affection.

☁ He's a huge physical touch person, imo, and an acts of service partner! When your in the elevator, it does not matter what Dazzle wants as it's his turn with the legs and he needs to be by you. Not that Dazzle is complaining of course.

☁ He's constantly by your side when he's not off distracting. You do machines together because having more eyes on the look out than not is crucial to him, plus when it's his turn with the brain cell, he's a fast extractor so you don't need to be in the line of fire more often than not.

☁ He has a good eye too, so if there's a valve or jumper cable on the floor like, half way across the map, he probably spotted the smallest bit of it, immediately redirecting himself, his brother and by extension you to go get it. It's immediately handed to you nonetheless, and he won't take no as an answer, literally going out of his way to pick up gumballs to fill up his inventory space, much to Dazzle's chagrin.

☁ But, Dazzle does need a little extra fawning over. He gets insecure in himself really and doubts whatever he thinks you see in him. Between you and his brother though, it never lasts long and he's always smiling your way soon after, trailing after you like a lost puppy.

☁ Both are absolute buffoons in love by the way. They literally trip over each other when seeing you pass by.

☁ The spend hours gushing with each other over a thing you said or did, despite the fact the other was right there.

☁ They don't get jealous either, unless it's from each other. Not in the toxic, weird way either. Like if you press a kiss to Razzle's cheeks because they swooped in and saved you from a twisted, Dazzle is immediately whining softly for one of his own, despite the giggles in the elevator.

☁ If you come up on Dazzle's side to hold his hand while walking to the other machine, Razzle is complaining loudly about the unfairness and is demanding dibs the next floor their distracting on.

☁ But my favorite thing about these two is they canonically don't fight and prefer to hear each other out. So needless to say, communication is huge with these two. They listen and they don't judge.

☁ And as Rodger points out, they have two contrasting opinions. So if you ever find yourself in a tizzy with another toon, these two are easy to talk to and offer several perspectives on the problem while helping you discuss how you yourself is feeling.

☁ One of their favorite things to do is to wrap themselves around your back and have their chins on each of your shoulder. So Dazzle on one side and Razzle on the other, keeping you trapped as they press a flurry of kisses to your cheeks, shoulders, temples, literally anywhere they can reach.

☁ Y'all gonna turn me into an RND simp with this damn, wish that was me.

☁ OH HEY- They are SUCH fun uncles by the way. I feel it in my bones. They don't have a canonical interaction with Toodles, but like, c'mon. They're so good with her, I KNOW it.

☁ Razzle is obviously the fun, exciting Uncle, using Toodles to tease you knowing you could never stay made at them. He'll pick her up and hang her over you so Toodles can toy with your cheeks and hair, pulling her up out of your reach when you try to retaliate.

☁ Dazzle is the calmer, rock of an uncle. The one Toodles goes too when she needs someone to talk to that isn't Rodger, or when the tension of her extended family gets to be too much.

☁ I imagine Dazzle is happiest when he's got you, his brother, and Toodles all nearby.

☁ I'm not saying imagine sitting on the couch, with Dazzle reading a story as Toodles falls asleep in his lap, you on Razzle's side as you play some game like cat's cradle or something, but I'm also not...not saying that.

☁ Seeing their twisted is...an experience for them.

☁ Lol you thought I'd forget about that bad boy? Not a chance.

☁ Every time they hear the rattles of it being awoken, a part of them positively shrivels at the aspect it could've been you caught, only to realize it was Sprout doing it for the Agro-tapes. Sprout's good about making sure everyone nearby knows he's doing it and keeping watch until the Twisted returns to it's slumber, so they know if nothing else, you're safe.

☁ But still, the aspect of you getting caught by it makes them uneasy, especially if they're distracting and can't get to you without risking everyone else.

☁ It's happened once before.

☁ There was a machine in the ring of vines, right near the twisted, and you had assured Brightney you could get it so that way in case Razzle and Dazzle distracted near there, she wouldn't be caught without a way to run out.

☁ That however left you in the line of fire instead, proven when Teagan, having been spotted by a twisted accidentally ran in the part of the circle hidden by a wall, waking up the twisted.

☁ It snapped too quick for you to react, catching your leg and tripping you just on the boundary of their reach.

☁ Even from across the map, Razzle and Dazzle could hear your cry of pain, immediately turning tail from where they were distracting a twisted clone of Poppy. Tisha was right there to pick up where he left off, quickly shouting at him to go and that Ginger was somewhere on that side too and could help.

☁ He shouted a thanks before taking off, immediately finding Ginger on the way. She had heard you too, ready to offer her assistance in anyway she could.

☁ They found you scrambling to get out of the boundary, Razzle and Dazzle quickly pulling you against them as their twisted form snarled, yanking against the weight holding them down. The image terrified them at the thought that any version of them could even think about hurting you.

☁ Between them, they shakily allowed Ginger to heal you, thanking her profusely before walking you back to elevator. Connie would take over the machine and that would be that.

☁ The run was ended soon after that, Razzle and Dazzle both taking you to Sprout And Cosmo as well to confirm you were alright. Both gave you a clean bill of health, along with Ginger doing so as well, finally easing their poor hearts.

☁ After that they would both need lots of love and extra affection that night to assure them that you are truly okay.

☁ But as I said previously for Razzle, both just want to make you as happy as you've made them.

[imaginationlover101]

Should Of Said No

Series List

Part 1

Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: An early morning out of the motel leaves unwanted questions brought up before the vist to Harvells roadhouse.

A/N: Loosely inspired by Taylor's Swifts "Should of Said No"

The September air was quite chilling for this time of year. The leaves on the ground began to change colors, and slowly but surely the heavier jackets were taken out of the closets and slowly making there way into the wardrobe. The September sun shows it's last few days of Summer before it makes up it's mind and a linger of the new fall air begins to show.

What used to be my favorite time of year soonly turned into my least, and it all happened when I saw Jo Harvelle wearing Dean's jacket.

This all started a few days ago when Dean, Sam, and I began to finish up our research on the "cold-hearted man." Now for context you see way back when in the 1950s there was this man named Jacob Treasure, who lived in Omaha, Nebraska. Townspeople say that since his death, he has been haunting young girls who are still hung up on their first love.

Now, this is because when Jacob was in his 20s, he was in love with his high school sweetheart. Jacob was convinced the two were out to be married, and the day Jacob went to propose to his dear love Amelia. He found out she was cheating on him with a business owner in the town over. Now poor Jacob was so distraught in what had just happened he had died of a broken heart, and since that day he haunts young girls who are still hooked on their first love as an order of revenge.

Well, Dean, Sam, and I had found Amelia to make her known to what all Jacob had done, and finally, Jacob's haunting seemed to die down. So we salted and burned the body and was on our way. It was as simple as that, and sooner or later we were on our way.

We hadn't seen Bobby in a while, so we decided to make a trip to him, and then go visit Ellen and Jo. Ellen was complaining all year long to us about how we don't go visit enough, and all the whiskey is getting lonely because "Dean" has stopped by to visit. So, with our bags packed, we made our way out of the motel and to our newest location.

Lifting my suitcase off the bed, I began to look around the motel room. Dean was downstairs starting the car, while Sam and I were doing one last search of the room. Walking around the room, I began to search the nightstand drawers. I could hear Sam stop in his tracks and look my way.

Turing around, I stop my rummaging and look towards him. "Doesn't it feel like we're missing something?"

Sam sighs and takes one big stare around the room. "No, Y/N, I promise we've done this like 10 times already. Is something wrong?" Oh, Sam, stupid Sam Winchester and his big brown puppy dog eyes.

Sighing, I stopped my movements and sat back on my bed. Rubbing my hand over the tacky red bedding, I finally stopped. "I don't know, Sam, something just feels off."

Sam stops for a moment and makes his way towards the edge of the bed to sit near me. Placing his hand in mine, he begins to smoothly hold it in a comforting way. "Don't take this the wrong way, Y/N, but are you hesitant to see Jo?"

Jo, really Jo? Miss, I wear shirts that are clearly too tight for me, and Miss I love to stand right next to Dean and hover real close to him in case "something bad happens."

Rolling my eyes, I begin to stand up. "Pffff Jo, please why would I be hesitant to see Jo?" Flicking my hair behind my shoulders, I began to walk towards the ranky bathroom mirror to fix my makeup. Though it was probably no use in the dark anyway. The bathroom bulbs were slightly fading, and the mirror looked 2 shades too dirty. I couldn't wait to take a clean hot shower.

"Y/nnnnnnnnn-" Sam says, practically singing my name. Following my footsteps, he leans on the door frame with a grin. "You don't have to pretend it's just me and you. No Dean, no Jo, just us"

Looking at him through the mirror, I roll my eyes once again, continuing to line my lips in the mirror. Groaning, he leans his head against the frame, closing his eyes. "Come on, Y/N, just tell me the truth. Besides, I was the same way with that girl Andrea back in high school. You remember her right."

Sighing, I close the cap to my liner, but not before putting on lipstick. Letting Sam's words sink in for a minute, I turn around. "Sam, that was different. You were in love with Andrea -" lowering my voice, I peak out from the empty space where Sam was standing (making sure no one was really around)

"I am not in love with Dean, and besides, if Jo wants to go prance around Dean like a fawn looking for water. Let her go ahead, I won't stop her." Placing a hand on my hip, I grab my makeup bag from the counter.

"What bothers me is how she just goes walking around with a smug grin on her like she owns Dean, when clearly -" moving past Sam, I place the makeup bag on my suitcase, but not before pointing in his direction "-she doesn't!"

With a grin on my face, I began rolling my suitcase towards the door waiting for Sam. I could tell he was in between his words, trying to figure out what to say or not. Laughing at my antics, he grabs his suitcase and follows me towards the door. "So you're okay with her."

Grabbing my stuff, I open the door and make a beeline for the stairs. "Sam, I am better than okay. All I need is a cool drink and a shower, and trust me, this attuide of mine will fade. "

Somewhere out of the blue, Dean appears at the end of the steps and takes the suitcase out of my hands. Smiling at me, he holds a hand above my head blocking the sun out of my eyes. "Almost couldn't see you there, sunshine. The sun was shining too bright on you today."

"Thanks D, what'd I do without you?" Rubbing Deans shoulder, he takes all my bags and begins to make his way towards the car.

Turning around, I face my attention to Sam as he makes his way down the stairs. "See, there's no competition. What would I need to be jealous about?" Sam just shakes his head as we makes our way towards Dean.

"Hey, what were you guys talking about up there. I thought maybe Sammy boy over here fell in the toilet or something". "Really Dean?" Sam says lifting his bag off his shoulder and onto the hood off car.

"Hey, Hey, Hey watch what your doing there Sammy, your gonna scratch the paint." Sam huffs a quick whatever before grabbing his bag making his way into the car.

"Ah some peace and quiet" Dean said as he leaned against the hood while staring at the motel in front of us. Sighing I follow his movements, "Yeah I'd say we had a good run".

Taking his attention off the scenery, Dean nudges my leg. "How are you feeling?" With a confused look on my face I nudge his leg back.

"I'm okay, what'd you mean though?" Crossing his arms over one another he stares off into the nearby greenery of the motel.

For a moment Dean hesitates, "I just want to make sure your all good sunshine." Laughing I lean off the car and stand in front of him now blocking the sun from his eyes.

"Hmmmm and how are you feeling Winchester?" Leaning further on the hood he grabs my hands motioning for me to help him up, but not before I muttered "grandpa" under my breath.

"Come on I hear a burger that's calling my name." Rolling my eyes I lean closer to him as he wraps an arm around my shoulders. I could already see Sam's rolling eyes through the cars windshield.

Dean never mentioned a word to me that day on how he was feeling, and it wasn't until later that week he revealed what was wrong.

Making our way towards "baby," I couldn't help but look at the area around us and think of the calm before the storm. I had a feeling that things were soon to go south, but I tried to ignore them for as long as I could.

[followthebluebell]

Any advice on how to find local and reputable cat breeders? Websites? Keywords? Things to look out for?

I'd start at a cat show, tbh. It's a good way to meet people in the community, meet their cats personally, and really just talk to them. Cat breeders love to talk about their animals, so you'll learn a lot.

But this is pretty unrealistic for a lot of people. :/ That's a lot of travel time, possibly time off of work, not to mention it's fucking exhausting. So let's be a bit more realistic.

You want to figure out what breeds you're interested in first and learn as much as possible about them. You want to know what health problems they've got, if there are tests for said health problems, and what you're potentially getting into.

Once you've sorted out your breeds of choice, make your way over to TICA's website. Just being listed here isn't a guarantee of a good breeder or anything; it's just a list of breeders who SUPPOSEDLY follow TICA's guidelines. Not all of them do; it's not like anyone actually checks on these things.

And this is why you've really got to research your breed beforehand: you want to be able to ask the breeder, "Hey, I know sphynxes have heart problems; do you do frequent scans for HCM and can I see the results?" or "progressive retinal atrophy can be a problem in bengals; do you do genetic tests for it and can I see the results?" or "maine coons can get hip dysplasia; do you have any OFA scores I can see for your cats?" Just whatever the health problem in your breed is, don't be afraid to ask about it and ask for scans, tests, etc. You want to be able to personally see them.

A good breeder will be able to provide tests and scans and be more than happy to let you take a look at them.

Ideally, you'd be able to meet the cats in their home. At the very least, meeting the mother is a good sign. You might not meet the sire, because a lot of breeders do not want to keep their tomcats on site due to the smell, conflict, and lack of space for multiple cats. Or they may have used artificial insemination. I don't think that's particularly common in cats (at least compared to dogs), but it's a thing that happens.

Red flags:

Insists you feed a particular type of food (raw, Paw Tree, etc)

Tells you to avoid vaccines/deworming (your new kitten should have AT LEAST 2 FVRCP vaccines by 14 weeks old and a deworming)

Refuses to do tests or refuses to show you the results

Won't show you a pedigree

Says their cats are immune to FIP

Offers to sell you an unaltered kitten (especially in the US)

Selling kittens too young (8 weeks is absolute MINIMUM legally; I'd prefer to see kittens with their mothers until they are 14-15 weeks). Some bad breeders will try to use the line 'the mother is rejecting the kittens' or 'they're already using litter and eating solid food'.

Pressure to buy immediately

Not allowing you to interact with the kitten

Not showing the cats in shows

Too many litters in a single year or has kittens always available -- it's a sure sign that they're mass producing cats

Breeding multiple breeds -- typically, a breeder will be very focused on just one or two breeds.

[toomanyfanficsbruh]

Hello!! Happy New Year!!

My God, I am so sorry it took so long. And it's not even fully finished 😭😭

Here you go, something better than nothing xx

Queen Of England

It was often on calm days, that something happened. And as normal, something happened.

Merlin and Gwen were walking back from their weekly Taco Tuesday meet ups - it kept them full and up to date with the other's lives.

At this time of the year, both of them were busy with work. Gwen with her new designs for Vogue and Merlin with his piling stack of assignments to mark. The both of them nearly almost never had time to talk to eachotner. Insert, Taco Tuesdays. The best idea since sliced bread and pull-out sofas.

On the way back to Gwen's apartment, she gasped loudly at her phone, "No. Way. Oh My God. Holy Fishsticks."

Merlin leaned over her shoulder to look at her phone. Damn the privacy protection screen that she used. Smart, but quite annoying when trying to snoop. "You're fake swearing again. This must be bad, what happened?"

"I just got swiped on by The Arthur Pendragon."

"Who?"

"Merlin! You know! The actor??" Gwen turned the phone around to Merlin, who was face to face with the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. Surely that was fake.

"Gwen! No I don't! Who?"

"Gah. Your sarcasm isn't really helping right now."

"And neither are your descriptions. Wait, let me do some research." It took Merlin all of 2 minutes to find the guy and all of 8 minutes for it to register that it was That Guy.

"You've gotta be kidding me Gwen, that's gotta be a fucking catfish."

"Ah! Swear Jar!"

"No seriously. You are drop down gorgeous. I love you to bits. But why on earth would this stuck up prick be on Tinder?! Doesn't he have enough actresses to be putting his hands all over?"

They stopped at Gwen's door, "Hmm. You make a good point. The real Arthur Pendragon would never text me."

"Excuse me? No, you are gorgeous, didn't I just say this?" Merlin tapped his chin in a moment if thought, before look at Gwen again. "But you know what would be fun?"

"I know that twinkle of mischief anywhere. And I know it's not going to end well. What is it?"

"How about…we mess with him a little…"

"Oh no."

So, in a moment of frenzy and bad argument, Merlin walked back to his apartment with Gwen's Tinder account password and a plan up his sleeve. Gwen called it Reverse Catfishing. Merlin said it was giving the guy a taste of his own medicine. Whatever it was, it wasn't going to end well.

Merlin was in the middle of reading a student's essay when he recieved a message from the so-called actor.

Arthur: If you were the letters of the alphabet, you would be A Q T.

This guy used proper sentences and grammar in his pick up lines. Merlin would have been fooled if it wasn't for the horrendous line that he'd chosen.

Gwen: is that from a book of 1001 pick up lines because that was horrible

Arthur: If you were a fruit, you'd be a Cute-cumber.

Gwen: no, I'd be a Fine-Apple.

The typing bubbles went away after a moment and Merlin went back to his marking, assuming he had scared the catfish away. Surely, nobody with common sense would start off with such a bad pick up line. There were many many others that could've been used.

Arthur: I can't say I'd disagree with that.

Gwen: left you speechless have i?

Arthur: You left me speechless when I first saw you, much less now. Seems that I can't function at all with you around.

Gwen: then leave?

Merlin felt the rejection in that reply. He also felt a little bad.

Gwen: I mean. don't leave. but like, get a speech therapist?

Merlin hit his head, not only did he reject the guy, he also had the shittiest response. Poor dude.

Arthur: Maybe I wouldn't be stuttering when I meet you then. Do you know a good speech therapist?

Gwen: if you're so ultra famous shouldn't you know one?

Arthur: Most speech therapists on set are for accents, not really for what we're talking about.

Gwen: yea right. "on set" keep up the facade and I might believe you.

Arthur: sent photo

Merlin was almost scared to open the photo, lest it was something that should not be shown to the common eye. He clicked on it while squinting, only to find the most boring thing.

Gwen: which website did you find the movie set off of?

Arthur: I'm on the set right now?

Gwen: and I'm the Queen of England

Arthur: Your Majesty?

Gwen: do you understand the word sarcasm

Arthur: Do you know how to use grammar?

Gwen: touchè

It was going to be a long night.

It had been a week. A week since Gwen had given Merlin her Tinder account details. To be honest, Gwen wasn't too fussed about it anymore, it seemed like Merlin was having much more fun with it.

Instead, over the course of the week, Gwen had gone out with a workmate, Lancelot, who was equally nice and silly and someone she knew wasn't a catfish. He was wonderful and exactly what she was looking for. Only now, she had to introduce him to Merlin. Which was the hard part.

She had tried the next Tuesday they met for Tacos, but he was so engrossed in his phone that she may as well have left and gone to bed. Whoever it was, Merlin was obsessed. And she told him as such.

"Me? Obsessed? I think you're going crazy Guinevere."

"If I'm so crazy, put down the phone Merlin."

"But we're in the middle of a conversation!"

Gwen cocked an eyebrow and threw on, what was known as, The Mother Face. Gwaine and Percival were terrified of it, Merlin knew not to get Gwen to that stage of annoyance. Well, every other time but now. Now, Merlin was fucked. (Ah, Swear Jar!)

"If that conversation is so important, then I'll go home and we can Taco Tuesday next week. Is that what you want?"

"No…?" Merlin shook his head and turned the phone screen down. "I'm so sorry Gwen, I never meant for it to get this far. It's just that…"

Gwen put her hand on his arm, beckoning him to continue talking. A soft gesture amongst the people hurrying to get their tacos.

"It's just that?"

"That, I didn't expect this guy to be so…down to earth? You'd expect a celebrity to be pompous and a tight ass, but he's not? Or at least, he doesn't seem to be that way?"

"And you believe that it's The Arthur Pendragon?"

"Gwen, he sent a picture of his birth certificate. This guy has absolutely no idea about hackers and the internet and normal people things. He's adorable." Merlin had a glint of care in his eyes, something sparkling. Something Gwen hadn't seen in a long time.

The last she had seen him this flustered was with a girl called Freya, but she had to move cities to look after her mother. She was lovely and Merlin was nearly heartbroken. The only thing that kept him from crying was Gwaine who took him out drinking every second night. Safe to say, neither of them did that again, after the reaction Gwen had when Merlin got alcohol poisoning.

"Oh yeah?" Gwen tilted her head and gave Merlin a slight smirk to show her amusement. He didn't notice.

"Yeah. He nearly gave me his social security number, it was hilarious. He knows bad puns and pick up lines to a tee and he's never seen Tangled." Merlin took a deep breath, "Gwen, I think we need to come clean."

Gwen nearly choked on her taco, "We? I think you mean, you. You need to come clean. I did nothing! I'm innocent!"

"And I'm the Queen of England."

"Right. You keep this up, Your Majesty, and you'll never get to meet the new dude who took your best friend out on a date ."

"You would never hide such a thing from me!"

"And you wouldn't look good in a gown, nice to know we agree on something."

Merlin took a bite out of his Taco, "Excuse you, I think I'd look magnificent in a gown!"

Gwen paused for a moment, thinking, the cogs in her brain started turning again, "Actually, with a cinched waist, petal sleeves and maybe a deep wine brocade… I think we could make it work!!"

Arthur Pendragon has never been left waiting. He has never been stood up and he has never in his life, had to wait for a date.

Today was the first time it happened. Arthur was not impressed.

Recently, he hadn't really been too impressed by much. His films had upsettingly bad scripts, his co-stars were not at all nice people and his father was breathing down his back almost every minute of the day.

The only time he had been able to breathe was when he was texting Gwen. She seemed lovely, although more of Morgana's type, but she had the breath of fresh air Arthur needed.

His particularly favourite conversation that he'd had with her, was about the new adaptation film he was starring in - A Farewell To Arms, by Hemingway. Arthur mentioned that he'd never read it before and almost got blocked. Gwen said that it was a favourite of hers and a literary masterpiece.

Arthur had read it in one night.

Even if he didn't necessarily agree with it being a masterpiece to the literary world, he did enjoy it. After reading it, he hated the adaptation script even more.

Now, he was left waiting in a cafe, looking for the woman who had made his days much brighter than they had been. He was close to telling Morgana that the Tinder plan, actually, wasn't the worst thing to happen.

Gwen said she'd be wearing a green shirt (emerald to be exact) and to keep an eye out. Arthur was definitely keeping an eye out.

It took 25 minutes before he saw her walk through the door and almost got up to greet her, until he realised she was wearing purple.

Now, Arthur might not know many things, but he knew that green and purple weren't the same colour. They were opposites on the colour wheel! That was a fun fact he kept in his pocket for trivia nights.

Other than that, the waiting, caffeine-less morning and now the colour change, did not sit well with Arthur at all. He was already prone to outbursts, he didn't want to mess this up.

Gwen saw him and walked over with a coffee and a chocolate slice in her hand, "Arthur Pendragon. Wow, it is a sight to see you in real life."

"And you… Are not wearing green."

"Was I meant to? Is there an issue with me wearing purple that I wasn't aware of?"

"No!"

"Right. Well."

An awkward silence fell over them, unlike what Arthur was used to when talking to her.

"Well. I spoke with my director about the scripting for A Farewell To Arms,and he said he'd change some of the lines to make it more natural to the time period." A small smile crept over Arthur’s face.

"A Farewell To Arms? Well, I'm glad it's more natural, but I really couldn't care less about Hemingway."

"I thought you said it was a literary masterpiece?"

"Not at all, Mr Pendragon. Hemingway sits in my bookshelf, getting cobwebs with how little I read it."

"And now you'll tell me you think my pickup lines are good."

"And I'm not sure what you mean by that." Gwen set her cup and plate down.

"I mean, that you're not at all what you seem to say you are. And what a great pity at that, because life isn't completely about good looks Guinevere! You need to be authentic to yourself. It's one thing to lie over an app but another to completely change your personality, and for what? You got swiped on by a celebrity? So? Forgot you're a person with your own opinions?"

Arthur wasn't entirely sure when he stood up or began raising his voice, but he was shocked by the additional presence in the conversation.

"And if you didn't have a stick up your ass, you'd know that you're falling into the common form of hypocrisy. Don't act like you don't fucking change your opinions for interviews and then over a dumb app!"

Arthur saw Gwen put an arm out to the additional voice, probably to calm it down. He needed one of those right now actually.

And to make matters worse, Arthur turned around to give the conversation intruder a piece of his mind and realised three important things.

The conversation intruder had the most vibrantly deep blue eyes. The words on Arthur's lips retreated back to the locker he had been trained to never open. Maybe this time, these eyes would hold the code and keep it closed.

The conversation intruder had a point. And that was bad. Because that meant Arthur was wrong. And that was a slim to none chance in any situation. And Arthur didn't hate it. Hmm.

The conversation intruder was wearing a green shirt. Emerald green to be exact.

"And you, must be Gwen." Arthur turned on his bright, Camera smile and was met with the most uninterested face, coupled with the gorgeous blue eyes. Arthur was done for.

"Do I look like the Queen of England?"

Arthur might have just fallen to the ground with that response, if he wasn't gripping the table like his life depended on it. Not only was this conversation intruder the handsomest person he laid eyes on, he was also the person Arthur had been thinking of for the past 3 months. This man was the reason for Arthur’s sleepless nights and calm days, the crux of his laughter and somehow also the most annoying thing that had ever happened to him.

Arthur did not know how to react.

"Your Majesty." Arthur had actually bowed. He didn't think he'd do that, but he also didn't believe in Love at First Sight and well, there's a first time for everything.

Gwen looked between the two men, intrigued, confused and held in a chuckle because what on earth was happening right now. The Arthur Pendragon, actor and millionaire, just bowed to her best friend, Merlin Emrys, humanities professor. Things like this didn't happen everyday. Things like this just didn't happen, at all.

She whispered a quick goodbye to her friend and walked to a table near the back, where Lancelot was waiting. Maybe, it wouldn't end so badly.

Let me know if you want the conversation between Arthur and Merlin, because really, this is such a sad ending from my end. I can do better, I promise lol.

I can't believe I didn't die from the second hand embarrassment.

Catfish au

Gwen gets a random text on her tinder Account by one Arthur Pendragon.

Gwen: it can't be real. THE Arthur Pendragon would never text me!!!

Merlin: I disagree. You're georgous. But you're probably right, it's a catfish

Merlin: you know what would be funny?

Gwen: oh no

Merlin: let me text with him. I'll pretend I'm you. Give him a taste of his own medicine.

That's how it begins...

...

Only that Arthur wasn't a catfish

Bonus: reveal

Merlin: this is so embarrassing, but erm... I catfished you *starts to ramble about the original situation*

Arthur: *not listening and supposed to be angry.* you're hot???!?

Merlin: what?

Arthur: *internal crisis* what?!