cheap novel

for ilostmyshoe-79!

Dean studied the wall of his room critically. Sure, there was some space in between the various weapons he had hung up, but was it enough?

… did Cas even have posters he’d want to put up?

Dean shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. This really shouldn’t be this hard. Or this nerve-wrecking. It was just Cas, after all.

But then again, this was Cas.

Dean had already emptied two of his dresser drawers, mostly of the lint and cobwebs that had taken up residence there. He’d never been one to hoard clothes, mostly because that was impractical when you were living out of a duffle bag. He’d attempted to tidy the desk too, but given up when he realized he was just shuffling the few items upon it around.

He let out a frustrated groan. Dean had wanted to clear some space for Cas, and while he was relatively pleased about the half-empty dresser, it didn’t feel like enough. He wanted something visible; knickknacks on the shelves, posters on the walls, a hand-knitted blanket on the bed. Something obvious that showed this wasn’t just Dean’s room anymore.

It looked like he couldn’t even do that. His room had hardly changed and Cas was supposed to move his stuff in here today. 

What if Cas ended up thinking this was a mistake? What if Cas didn’t have enough space for his things? It wasn’t as if the newly-fallen angel had much in the way of material possessions, and if Cas felt obligated to give those up just because Dean liked waking up with Cas in the mornings…

Dean was pulled out of his thoughts by the door opening. He turned to see Cas poking his head into the room, carrying a large box under one arm, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. His expression was soft and warm, and Dean felt his own lips twitch upwards in response.

“Hey,” Dean said, walking to the door to help Cas with his things. Cas shifted so Dean could grab the box, which Dean nearly dropped upon realizing that it was, in fact, a lot heavier than Cas had made it seem. “What do you got in here, bricks?”

“Books,” Cas replied matter-of-factly, still smiling as he leaned forward to kiss Dean chastely on the mouth. He pulled away after a moment, leaving Dean sighing in contentment. “Help me unpack?”

“Sure,” Dean said. He set the box on the bed and opened the top up while Cas disappeared through the door again. Cas was back a second later with a pillow and a blanket, both of which he immediately set on the bed and then laid his duffle on top.

Dean stared for a moment at the second pillow next to his on what was now, officially, their bed.

Cas didn’t spare the sight a second glance, instead moving on to his duffle bag and opening it up. He quickly transferred the entire contents of the bag to the bottom two drawers of Dean’s dresser, then folded the bag and set it on the closet shelf next to Dean’s.

Dean shook himself and started going through the box Cas had brought. As he thought, there wasn’t much in it. There was a framed photograph of him, Cas, and Sam. Beneath that were a few knickknacks Cas had collected over the years; a coffee mug Dean thought might be from Biggerson’s, smooth river rocks the size of Cas’s palm, a few dark feathers that gleamed like an oil spill. And, as promised, at the bottom of the box were books.

A few were titles Dean recognized, some he had even read and enjoyed, and yet others were things he would never in a million years admit to reading. Cheap romance novels, books of poetry, textbooks on things like history, biology, and even…

Dean snorted, his cheeks turning faintly pink as he lifted up an illustrated copy of The Gay Kama Sutra.

“Really, Cas?” he said, raising an eyebrow. Cas shrugged.

“It’s been very informative,” he said. “Charlie gave it to me.”

“Of course she did,” Dean muttered, flipping through the pages. He heard Cas chuckle quietly as he began to move the books from the box onto the small bookcase that housed Dean’s few, well-loved copies of Vonnegut.

Dean paused on one particularly… interesting illustration in the book, coughed, and quickly closed it.

“Remind me to send her a fruit basket,” he said, handing it over to Cas. Cas stashed it with the rest of the books, right next to a volume of poems by Byron.

The rocks and feathers from the box found their place on top of the dresser. The mug Cas placed on the desk, right next to the mason jar full of pens and pencils. The framed photograph found space right next to it.

And, quite suddenly, it was done. Dean blinked as Cas broke down the cardboard box he’d carried his things in with a satisfied hum.

“Is that everything?” Dean asked, looking around. Everywhere he looked, he could see Cas.

“Yes, that’s all,” Cas said, surveying the room filled with their mingled possessions for the first time with a pleased smile.

The room looked suddenly fuller, more lived-in. As if maybe Dean hadn’t needed to move things around to accomodate Cas, but instead Cas slipped neatly into the gaps Dean hadn’t even realized were there.

Dean smiled, chest fit to burst with emotion, and reached out to tug Cas closer. Cas came willingly, tilting his head for the expected kiss. Dean obliged him.

“I’m sure we’ll find more stuff. We haven’t even been to the Grand Canyon yet,” Dean said, leaning his forehead against Cas’s.

“I look forward to it,” Cas replied, leaning in to kiss Dean again.

anonymous asked:

what if neil had some sort of identity crisis? i mean he's cycled through so many personalities and looks so what if something happened that triggered him into wondering if 'neil josten' really was his true self? how do you think andrew and the foxes would react?

Oh, Neil would totally have a bunch of little identity crises that he tries to just shrug off two minutes later and it would eventually add up to a full blown one.

  • I feel like Neil’s pretty cemented in wanting to be Neil Josten and belonging with the Foxes
  • So, I’m seeing it more as a ‘Who the fuck am I? Oh, fuck, I’m still not the Neil they all think I am’ kind of thing
  • Like Neil has a bunch of memorized answers to things to try to not arouse people’s suspicions
  • But he doesn’t know the real answers to these questions?
  • Like sure, he can spout off a rehearsed answer to simple questions
  • But he doesn’t want to lie to the Foxes anymore and they’ve made Neil a real person, but he still doesn’t know who Neil is
  • And he’s starting to suspect that they all know Neil better than he knows Neil
  • And there’s this fear that he’s not really the Neil they see and know and that he’s still just chameleoning to blend in with whichever of them he’s with
  • It’s the little things that plant the seeds of doubt
  • Fucking tiny little questions that trip him the fuck up
  • What is his favourite movie?
  • Most people can at least come up with one movie that they like, even if they’re not sure it’s their favourite
  • Neil can’t come up with one movie that he even remembers having watched?
  • He just sits there on the sidelines for any movie discussions

Keep reading

An Extract from a Mandalorian Romance Novel

The Mandalorian held the Jedi’s lightsaber.  It was different to the blasters she’d gripped before - more elegant.  Yet it still pulsed with power, she could tell… The Jedi’s weapon wasn’t as brutish as any other she’d handled.  No, instead it seemed to rest easily in her hands, warm and inviting.
Then, with the slight pressure of her hand, it sprang to life.  The powerful tool immediately stood at attention in front of her, the blade growing longer and longer until it reached peak height and for the first time, she truly beheld the might of the Jedi.  In girth, his weapon was pleasing too - she felt a powerful heat inside herself just looking at it.  She needed to make this seemingly calm man show his true colours, she decided, and lightly squeezed the ammunition packs below his blade - reveling in the sound this made.  She longed to see the power of “The Force”

And thus a grand battle began….

“Ezra, what are you reading?”

“Oh, uh, nothing!  Just something one of your cousins gave me while we were on Krownest!”

sugar ❖ sehun (3)

❝I’m not sure what the Boss does, probably nothing, but he’s always the first to come in here and the last to leave. He’s at the last floor and that’s where you’re going❞

admin : - velvet
genre : fluff, smut (in the next chap), pretty huge age gap, kinda daddyish, ceo!sehun, angst

(gif not mine, cr to the owner)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Epilogue

The next morning Mina was at your door, just like any other Saturdays and took with her some pastries and two cups of chocolate with cream. That was usual for the two of you, she always came to your home to spent the weekend, so you gained a little bit of bravery and asked what was pricking in your brain since last night.

Is Sehun really your father?

Keep reading

While You Were Sleeping

“You ever get bored, Cas?”  Dean asks one evening.  “While I’m sleeping, I mean.”

“Angels do not experience boredom, Dean,” Cas replies, not looking up from his novel – he’s taken quite a shine to literature these days, even if most of them are cheap romance novels with shirtless men on the covers.  “At least, not the way you do.”

At present, they’re lying in bed together, Dean in his favorite dead guy robe and Cas in his fuzzy bumble bee pajamas.  

Dean had shown them to him as a joke, recalling offhandedly his former fascination with the insects.  That had been when he was crazy, however, and he’d incorrectly assumed Cas had gotten over his hobby as an amateur bee keeper. 

Needless to say, he was wrong.  

At present, Cas doesn’t seem to feel inclined to elaborate on the statement, and Dean doesn’t feel inclined to probe further.  Cas once stood for four hours on the same spot, after all – it makes sense that he wouldn’t balk at a few hours of quiet time.

“Alright, well why don’t you put Abs McAbington away for a bit,” he suggests, gesturing resentfully to the clothing-impaired gentleman on the over of Cas’s current novel, My Rich Vampire Sugar Daddy.  “Us mere mortals’ve gotta get some sleep around here.”

Cas cocks his head, squinting apprasingly at him.  “Are you...jealous, Dean?”

Dean scoffs, arms folding defensively.  “No.

“You needn’t worry, Dean:  the man is only a poorly retouched photo rendition,” Cas deadpans, patting his hand consolatorily.  “I could cover him up with a small rag if he upsets you, or perhaps use a sharpie to give him some more appropriate attire.”

Dean scowls.  It’s getting harder and harder to tell whether or not Cas is joking these days, though he swears he’s trolling him at least ninety percent of the time.

“Alright, smartass,” he huffs.  “Just turn out the light and let me get some sleep, will ya?”

Dean’s suspicions are confirmed as a faint smile tugs at Cas’s lips.  “Very well, Dean,” he says, as he does as he is bid.  The light  turns off with a pleasing click, enveloping Dean in soothing darkness.  “Goodnight,” he adds.  Though of course, he isn’t going to sleep.  

He never does. 

The next time the subject arises, it’s shortly after light’s out.  

“You ever miss sleeping?”  Dean asks.

At present, Cas is lying snuggled up to Dean with his back to him – sometimes, he enjoys the comfort of being the “little spoon.”

“Perhaps I would have enjoyed it, under other circumstances,” he admits.  “But predominantly, the only time I spent sleeping was in homeless shelters and abandoned vehicles.  It was a lonely time for me, which I would vastly like to forget.”  He shakes his head, frowning.  “I do not miss it.”

“Well, don’t you at least miss dreaming?”  Dean asks, thinking about his favorite dreamland haunts, fishing by the peer of his favorite lake.  “I mean, even in the bad times, dreams can be nice.”  

Cas shakes his head.  “Dreaming was also unpleasant,” he says candidly.  “I frequently had nightmares – of Naomi, of my dying brethren, of…of you telling me to leave.”  He pauses, swallowing wetly.  “Even my fondest dreams only served to remind me of how much I missed you.”  

Dean says nothing, but he pulls him closer in his arms, nuzzling into the back of his neck.  “So sorry I hurt you, baby,” he murmurs, kissing him softly behind the shell of his ear.

“You know I forgive you, Dean.  You were only doing what you thought was best.”  Cas says this without hesitation, and Dean can tell he means it.  

Dean sighs.  At first, he was relieved when Cas didn’t hold it against him, but he’d be lying if he said there weren’t times when he almost wished he would.  When he wished he’d get angry with him, snap at him just once, so the issue wouldn’t be left feeling so damn unresolved.

But he never does, and Dean is left waiting for a consequence that will apparently never come.  And consequently, neither will absolution.  

Dean smiles wryly into the dark nest of hair.  Who knew unconditional love could be such a burden?

Weeks later, Dean blinks open his eyes to the rustle of paper.  It’s pitch dark in his bedroom, but the clock blinks 3:30 AM.


“Yes, Dean.”

“What’re you doin’?”

“I’m reading,” Cas replies simply, as though this were in any way normal behavior.  “Priests and Forbidden Passion.  It’s quite engaging, if occasionally blasphemous.”

Dean sits up, propping himself on his elbows.  “Ar you kiddin’ me, Cas?  It’s black as Satan’s asshole in here!”

“Satan’s asshole is not black, Dean,” Cas corrects him, calmly turning a page.  “And angels can see in the dark.”

Of course they could.

“…Well, is there any way you can stop for now?” he grumbles, rubbing his eyes blearily.  “It’s kinda distracting, and I need my four hours, so…”

Cas sighs.  “Certainly, Dean.”

Dean waits patiently as Cas sets the book on their bedside table and lies back down beside him.  


“Yes, Dean.”

“…What do you usually do while I’m sleeping?” he asks.  “When you’re not reading your religious smut, that is.”

“It’s erotic literature, Dean,” Cas corrects.

Dean snorts.  “Yeah.  If that’s what you call literature, so’s Busty Asian Beauties.”

It’s too dark to see, but he can feel Cas glower at him.  “…And to answer your question,”  he patiently continues. “Predominantly, I watch over you: I count your freckles, watch your eyes twitch beneath their lids.  Listen to you as you talk in your sleep.”

“Oh, shut your face,”  Dean scoffs.  “I don’t talk in my sleep, man.”

“I can assure you, you do,” says Cas gravely.  “It’s quite entertaining, at times:  I never knew you felt so passionately about protecting rabbits.”

Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Cas continues, “Moreover, I protect you:  I keep the nightmares from your mind, give you pleasant dreams when needed.  Keep your mind and soul safe while your body is resting, and protect all facets of you from harm.  I watch over you,” he reiterates.  

Dean blinks.  He had noticed that his nightmares had severely decreased over the past year or so, but he’d never noticed the correlation between the start of his and Cas’s relationship and the time they stopped.  God, he was an idiot.

“You, uh…sure I’m worth all that trouble, Cas?”  he chuckles, though he’s only half joking.

He can’t see, but he can feel Cas’s eyes on him, the adoration of his gaze almost palpable.  “You always are.”  

Dean smiles softly to himself.  Staring into the blackened room, it occurs to him how much he used to be afraid of the dark:  after hell, it took him years to fall asleep comfortably without the lights on.  Or else, a good amount of alcohol.

Now, he always knows he’s safe with his angel next to him.

He wishes he could convey to Cas how grateful he is to have him there, how much his presence has influenced his life.  But then, communication never was his strong suit.

Instead, he reaches out, feeling around for Cas’s hand and intertwining his fingers in his own.  He smiles, feeling utterly content as he lets his eyes flutter closed. 

“Goodnight, angel,” he murmurs. 

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Ted Bundy’s (pictured on the right) short fuse got him into several boyhood scrapes as a child. At Boy Scout camp, he shoved a plate into another scout’s face for having hatched a small tree. 

On another scout outing, he tangled with a kid named John Moon. “Bundy hit him over the head with a stick. It was a very deliberate attack on another person. The way John Moon described it, he was attacked from behind.”

“It was real easy to see when Ted got mad. His eyes turned just about black. I suppose that sounds like something out of a cheap novel, but you could see it. He had blue eyes that were kind of flecked with darker colors. When he got hot they seemed to get less blue and darker. It didn’t have to be a physical affront, either. Someone would say something, and you could just see it in his face. The dark flecks seemed to expand.” From “The Only Living Witness”

(for @fireworksinmyveins )

James had seen Lily do it a thousand times. He had paused over Charms homework to watch as she flicked her wrist and twisted the long strands of sunset red hair into a careful bun. Had narrowed his eyes at the must-be sorcery as she wove the pieces into a careful braid in the time it took them to walk from Potions to Transfiguration. Had lost his breath in shock the time she had emerged from the bathroom with her hair swirled into something straight out of a fairy tale.

The ease and speed at which she did it made it look all too easy.

“Lily,” he announced one Saturday evening after an afternoon trip to Hogsmeade, draping his body across one of the common room’s overstuffed chairs like a petulant child, “I think I can do it.”

“Do what?” She replied from her spot on the couch next to Remus, where she was resting her head in the quieter boy’s lap as she flipped through a cheap muggle mystery novel. 

“Your hair,” he replied, as though they had been talking about the subject up until that point.

Lily lowered her book, pressing her thumb against the page to mark her line, “My hair?”

“Mmmhmm,” James hummed, pushing himself up from the chair with an exaggerated groan, “It can’t be harder than Quidditch now can it?”

Behind her, Remus snorted, the short staccatoed huff of breath of someone trying their very best not to lose themself to laughter. Lily tilted her head up to meet his winking amber eyes, a small laugh of her own bubbling out at the red flush of his normally pale cheeks.

“Oh,” he said, “Lily please? His ego has been too big lately.”

Lily bit the inside of her cheek, pausing for a moment to decide how badly she wanted to untangle her hair later that evening. The moon, three days away from full, glinted outside the window. And, as it cast a pale white glow across Remus’ long, freckled fingers curled gently around a mug of tea, as it seeped into the scars on his hands and accented the way they snaked across the skin, she made her decision.

“Do your worst, Potter.”

It was not, in fact, easier than Quidditch.

Twenty minutes later, James found himself facing a large knot of Lily’s hair. The failed twelve minute attempt at a bun with three small braids woven out of the hair that he wasn’t able to fit in. Three hairpins struggled to hold back Lily’s bangs, and it was only due to James’s glowing face that she chose not to tell him that the second one wasn’t doing anything.

“It looks,” said Peter, who had entered the room sometime around the seven minute mark, “even worse than your hair usually does, James.”

“But only barely,” snorted Remus, who had gone so red in the face that his skin tone could now be described as cherry.

Lily frowned, “It looks…well, it’s something special isn’t it?” 

James sighed and sat down on the couch with a heavy thud, “Like any of you could have done any better.”

“Is that a challenge?” Sirius, who had been asleep on the floor up until this point, asked with a glint in his eye.

“Oh, Sirius, please don’t-” Lily started, but she knew that resistance was a lost cause as Sirius pushed James aside with a curt “Move Potter” and set to undoing the braids in Lily’s hair.

“This is abuse, James,” he commented as her began to disassemble the bun, “She has such lovely hair, and this is what you do to it?”

James scowled, but said nothing as Sirius pulled the brush through Lily’s hair, taking care not to yank her head or remove any substantial clumps. His jaw worked furiously as though he was going to reply, but he failed to utter a word as Sirius began to weave Lily’s hair together with deft, practiced fingers. His hands moved through her hair as though it were water, fluid, quick, without thought, and he moved it into a place like a conductor directing his band.

“Well,” said Peter when he had finished, and Remus nodded in agreement.

James stared at them slack jawed, unable to choose between looking at Lily, whose head was crowned with a series of slim looping braids, or Sirius, who was leaning back with a grin on his face.

“You have something to say, James?”

James flushed even redder than Remus, “Where did you…”

Sirius winked and combed his fingers through his own mane of dark black hair, “You said it yourself, mate. It’s even easier than Quidditch.”

A-Z Book Recommendations

@macrolit​‘s idea, my version.

Originally I aimed to list only one work per author, but I have Umberto Eco and Péter Esterházy twice, tant pis.

~ A ~
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

~ B ~
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

~ C ~
Celestial Harmonies by Péter Esterházy

(for me at least it is about) P.E., descendant of one of the most important aristocratic families of early modern Hungary trying to cope with the weight of his family heritage; translated to English in 2004

~ D ~
Divina Commedia by Dante Alighieri

~ E ~
Egyszerű történet vessző száz oldal - a kardozós változat [Simple Story Comma One Hundred Pages - The Version with Swordfighting] by Péter Esterházy

early modern Hungary, postmodern; unfortunately no English translation is available

~ F ~
Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco

a.k.a. when you play with conspiracy theories and they turn out to be true: humans vs. texts

~ G ~
A gyertyák csonkig égnek [Embers] by Sándor Márai

in a love-hate relationship with this one; from Wikipedia with love: “The narrative revolves around an elderly general who invites an old friend from military school for dinner; the friend had disappeared mysteriously for 41 years, and the dinner begins to resemble a trial where the friend is prosecuted for his character traits.” translated to English in 2000

~ H ~
Hytti nro 6 [Compartment 6] by Rosa Liksom

young girl and middle-aged man sharing a compartment on the Trans-Siberian Railway in the 1980s

~ I ~
Iskola a határon [School at the Frontier] by Géza Ottlik

boys growing up in a military school between the two world wars

~ J ~
La jeunesse mélancolique et très désabusée d'Adolf Hitler by Michel Folco

poor Adolf’s early character development with a pinch of tasteful humour

~ K ~
Der König David Bericht by Stefan Heym

about a Jewish scholar asked by King Solomon to prepare King David’s biography with the “help” of a committee, but actually about Stalinism and its relation to Lenin and the past and history-writing in general

~ L ~
La Leçon by Eugène Ionescu

about authority and obedience

~ M ~
Macbeth by William Shakespeare

my favourite literary work!

~ N ~
The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

every time I re-read it, I find something new

~ O ~
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez

~ P ~
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

~ Q ~
Historiarum Sui Temporis Libri Quinque by Rodulfus Glaber

there’s this historical / literary text from the 11th century, just because I needed something with Q

~ R ~
Le Roi des Aulnes by Michel Tournier

creepy French guy trying to define himself, the world, and the relation between the two in the 30s and the second WW

~ S ~
Sátántangó by László Krasznahorkai

power and interpersonal relationships in a small community in late socialist Hungary (80s); also watch the 7h long movie version directed by Béla Tarr

~ T ~
A test angyala [The Angel of the Body] by “Jolán Sárbogárdi” (Lajos Parti Nagy)

brilliant parody of cheap romantic novels with very advanced linguistic inventions

~ U ~
Ulysses by James Joyce

~ V ~
Verhovina madarai [The Birds of Verhovina] by Ádám Bodor

slow decay of a secluded village in the Carpates

— and a little cheating now: —

~ W ~
Struwwelpeter by Heinrich Hoffmann

creepy children’s book from 19th-century Germany with blood, fire, and death by starvation. good night, sweet dreams

~ X ~
Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary, 9th Edition

shut up, I like it

~ Y ~
Making History by Stephen Fry

prevent Hitler’s birth, ruin your life, and … I won’t spoil it for you, read it

~ Z ~
Жизнь и необычайные приключения солдата Ивана Чонкина [The Life and Extraordinary Adventures of Private Ivan Chonkin] by Vladimir Voinovich

well, if you transliterate the title…
satire about the Soviet army and everyday life in 40s USSR

is it just me or does reading tcs feel like some strange fever dream just

  • lockwood drinking pulped orange juice and saying he does it bc he enjoys pretending to be a whale?? (ch 13)
  • Harold saying “Why don’t you hook up with that anthony lockwood again?” (ch 4)
  • George and Lockwood’s mottoes about touching dead bodies (ch 15)
  • “I could feel the thrill of danger radiating from him now, intoxicating but also scary” (ch 16)
  • The Lockwood Effect (ch 18)
  • Big Brenda (ch 27)

Like what cheap rom-com novel is this stroud I demand answers

“It was real easy to see when Ted got mad. His eyes turned just about black. I suppose that sounds like something out a cheap novel, but you could see it. He had blue eyes that were kind of flecked with darker colors. When he got hot they seemed to get less blue and darker. It didn’t have to be a physical affront, either. Someone would say something, and you could just see it in his face. The dark flecks seemed to expand.”
- Terry Storwick, Ted Bundy’s childhood friend

Yamaguchi doesn’t really like to read minds. He always feels as if he’s invading people’s privacy. But, sometimes, he simply has to do it. What happens, when he tunes into some random person’s mind on a crowded train, though?

The poll is rather popular, here goes the winner (32%). The second fic was really close behind it.

Also - this is my 50th work published!

SFW, TsukiYama
Words: 1286
Also on ao3.

Keep reading

So this screenshot post came up on my dash yesterday and I just kefhkdswhak IT LOOKS LIKE THE COVER OF A CHEAP HARLEQUIN NOVEL and so I did a thing again. I couldn’t figure out how to reply with a picture in the original post, so I’ll just tag u guys: @thejohnlockhell and @spoko 

(hiatus rant)

So, the thing is, I have a problem with Mary and I don’t know what’s up with that. I mean, as a woman, a feminist, and someone who loves Sam and Dean to the death, surely I should be thrilled that she’s back? And I should be happy she’s this interesting 3D character and not just a traditional mom figure? And I should appreciate that she’s finally been given a voice after having been burned into nothingness, what, ten minutes into the pilot? And the thing is - I am all of those things. It was good to see her back, it was good to see her all human and imperfect, and it was good to question the original narrative and start over.

And yet, I’ve basically spent half of S12 pushing against a sense of mild annoyance, wondering and wondering where the hell it came from and why I couldn’t just be happy.

Well, today I did some serious thingking and now I know exactly why. 

The problem is not Mary - the problem, to me, is that Mary sort of exposed, very clearly, how the traditional Supernatural format just isn’t working for me anymore. I mean - it’s bad enough having characters we care about (characters Sam and Dean care about) appearing and disappearing without any kind of explanation as to what they’re up to and what they know, if anything, about the impending end of the world Sam and Dean’s shenanigans are bringing about (again), and it’s bad enough that Crowley and Cas were always part of that list despite being Very Important people in the boys’ lives for one reason or another, but with Mary - what they did with Mary stretched credibility so much I basically stopped caring about that dynamic completely. Because it just doesn’t make sense, okay? It makes zero sense that your mother’s back from the dead after thirty plus years and that that’s not the thing you talk about and focus on for months and months and months. It makes zero sense we barely saw any conversations about the past, and Mary catching up with her children’s lives. It makes zero sense, even in the context of Dean’s emotional hang-ups on the issue, that John was mentioned once in the entire season. And, I mean, they tried to keep Mary in the story despite the limitations of Samantha Smith’s contract, but, again, to me that just didn’t work. Dean playing words with friends or whatever the fuck it was as he chased after a random monster - nope. Sam having off-screen thoughts and off-screen feelings and off-screen chats with this woman whose death basically defined everything he is - nope. Mary learning who and what Lucifer is off-screen - nope nope nope. What the hell did she even do there? She ordered cheap pulp novels on Amazon and went on to read the exciting story of how her sons were the vessels of the Apocalypse and how John gave himself up for Dean after abusing him for twenty years and how both Sam and Dean were basically tortured into insanity for years by demons and stuff? She called up an old hunter buddy and he was like, Ah, yes, I remember when we all banded togeher to kill your kid because we thought he was the Antichrist, good times? Or was John’s journal this magical Pulitzer thing complete with feelings and every single event that went down until his tragic, tragic death? And, fuck - Mary learning these things - hell - knowing if Mary’s even learned these things, and how, and how much of them - show, that was important. That was interesting - arguably, much more so than the usual Brit villain who whips street urchins into becoming obedient and sarcastic killing machines, because those are a dime a dozen, but this other thing - Mary’s story, and how her return would change everything for those two guys we thought we knew inside and out - that was a BIG THING. Probably the biggest thing to happen on this goddamn show since - I don’t even know. Since Sam died the first time, maybe, and we all went, Wait - what the fuck - that’s the main character, how can he die?

So, yeah. It’s not about Mary. It’s that this you and me against the rest of the world bullshit doesn’t really work anymore, because these are not two kids who have good reasons to stay the fuck away from everyone else - these are grown men, and they have friends and loved ones and a past they should be free to face and discuss, and seriously, enough.

Something Borrowed 5/? (Witney) - Miss Bianca & jazz

Summary: This was going to be Courtney’s first visit to her childhood home in five years, and she’d made a lot of plans. Obviously, none of them had included falling into a whirlwind, summer love affair with her father’s 28-year-old fiancée, three months before the planned wedding. But sometimes, things just happened.

Miss Bianca’s A/N: Okay, so we’re late again. But we have an excuse this time – this beast is 8.4k words, so just be grateful. Jazz and I call this part of the fic the week in paradise, so that gives you a general idea of what to expect. We really love this chapter, and we hope you do too. Please tell us what you think, either here, on ao3, or at our blogs, @willamdelrio and @artificial-jazz.

jazz’s A/N: Fluff!!! And!! Smut!!!! My entire heart and soul departed from my body after this chapter, friends. Read Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, & Chapter 4 and scream along with me <3

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pumpkinqueen1013  asked:

Butler, what's your favorite book genre and why?

Butler: I started reading romance during my training. I was in Israel, I hadn’t picked up the language yet and I was feeling lonely, and I saw a peddler on the side of the street selling torn-up, cheap romance novels from the sixties. It became a kind of comfort food for the soul, and I’ve never felt the need to give it up (Artemis’s are my favorite, mostly because he tends to base the characters off of people he knows).

I enjoy westerns and science fiction as well, but romance is particularly relaxing, which I find more and more important as Artemis gets older.

november 27, 1973

summary: five things that could’ve happened to samantha mulder

spoilers for little green men, ascension, and colony/end game. fourth in my series of fics i’m writing as i rewatch txf.


Samantha is abducted on November 27 and returned on December 24. Christmas Eve. Her father’s friend finds her in the woods (nightgown torn, hair loose and tangled, feet dirty) and drives her to the hospital. 

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Stuck at work.

It’s 7:31pm, and I’m the last person in the office. But instead of leaving, I’m standing in front of the elevator with a box of paperclips in my hand.

“Ready to go?” asks Ray.

He’s keeping the elevator door open for me. Behind him are Megan, Carla, and Marcos, all of whom look tired from working so late.

The first time this happened, I opened my mouth to say yes, then I suddenly changed my answer as I remembered my resolution to lose a few pounds.

Back then I said, “Thanks, but I’ll take the stairs.”

This time I don’t say anything.

“Suit yourself,” Ray says anyway, as if I had spoken.

He releases the door, but before it can close, I toss in the box. It lands on its corner and the lid pops off, scattering its contents like a paperclip grenade. Then the door slides shut and I’m alone again.

No one in the elevator thought this was weird. In fact, they didn’t even notice. I’ve done this little experiment many, many times, so I’m not surprised they didn’t react. I’m also not surprised to look over and see the box of paperclips back on my desk, as if I’d never touched it.

My other experiments end the same way. I’ve blocked the doors, I’ve shouted and begged, and I’ve grabbed at Ray’s arm, but nothing makes any lasting difference. My co-workers never respond, and everything resets. I always end up alone in the office, at least until the elevator reappears and Ray asks if I’m ready to go.

I’ve gotten tired of experimenting, but there isn’t much else to do around here. The phones and radios and fire alarms don’t work. All the computers are frozen. I found a cheap romance novel hidden in Megan’s bottom drawer, but I know how it ends. I ought to—I’ve only read it thirty times.

Even if I actually do take the stairwell, it’s like walking into an M. C. Escher print. However many flights I descend or ascend, every door brings me right back here, to the 40th floor.

Of course, I could always join my co-workers in the elevator. I remember once when I was a kid, I was feeling morbidly curious so I looked up elevator accidents and found out they were incredibly rare. Elevators are probably the safest method of transportation in the world, since they basically cannot just go crashing to the ground. You’re about 1,000 times more likely to die on a staircase.

But even though I know that, I also know this: each time the elevator leaves, if I put my ear to the door, I can hear the receding screams of my co-workers echoing back up the shaft.

And that’s why it’s always 7:31pm. Because I’m supposed to be with them.

Looking up from the paperclip box, I see the elevator has returned.

“Ready to go?” asks Ray.

Eventually, I know I’ll say yes.

Stuck At Work

by reddit user IPostAtMidnight

It’s 7:31pm, and I’m the last person in the office. But instead of leaving, I’m standing in front of the elevator with a box of paperclips in my hand.

“Ready to go?” asks Ray.

He’s keeping the elevator door open for me. Behind him are Megan, Carla, and Marcos, all of whom look tired from working so late.

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