#will be a multi part series

[on-the-clear-blue]

Dan had many feelings. Sure most of them were negative and hate was a very big one of his many emotions.

But another one was pure and simple ecstatic euphoria.

Because...he was himself again. Gone was a big and bulky form, back was his...normal self. He had forgotten what it had felt like to look in the mirror and see himself, not the twerp or the clone, not some demented memory screaming in horror at what he had done.

No. It was his face, thr soft curves that he got from his mother, the dark hair and blue eyes from his father, the eyebrows that matched Jazz's, not a single lick of Vlad was in him, not the scars from his global dominance, no deformed fangs that bit into his flesh, no flaming hair that he couldn't shape.

It was just Him.

And he couldn't help but feel great about that.

---

Danny watched as Dante (they all couldn't be named Danny) stare at himself in the mirror. He himself didn't have the personal need to preen as much as the teen was doing, so perhaps it was just the quirk of his other self.

Stopping behind him, Danny couldn't help but smile a bit, the teen looked happy, sure he wasn't smiling but Danny knew his teenage face well enough to know that Dante was majorly pleased.

Blue met blue through the mirror, and Danny nodded to the teen, Dante had been given an old clone body after a long rehabilitation, so it was set in Danny's teenage years, even though the man had aged a decade.

Smirking as he ruffled Dantes hair (which earned him a snap of teeth and a jab to the kidneys) Danny nodded to the door, "Come on, your going to be late for school, it's your first day so you can't miss it."

Dante gave a glare and a huff, but the glare softened as he looked at himself in the mirror, and Danny was struck at just how young the teen looked at the moment.

Apprehension and tension was clear on the boys face, but behind that was worry, panic even Danny knew the face well, having had it many times before.

"Do I really have to fucking go? Doesn't being a war criminal exclude me from such things?" Dante snarked, turning to actually properly look at Danny, who could only chuckle.

"We both know you actually want to, cant be an astronaut without a PhD and cant get that withour a high-school diploma...You quit before graduating...last time." Danny said with a stiffness.

The teens eyes hardened "Well excuse fucking me, seeing everyone I loved and cared about die in an explosion made me not really feel up to going to god damn fucking school."

Shoving past Danny, Dante stormed past him, a trail of steam and the sent of smoke following him out of the house and onto the streets of the new city.

Some ecto filled, low life having, bat infested city...called Gotham.

---

Damian tugged at his tie, fixing it into place after touching up his hair once more, frowning as he fiddled with it, making a mental note to trim it soon.

Grabbing an sponge, the teen dabbed it into a small tub of tan makeup, before softly applying it to his face, his touch light as he goes over the back eye he was trying to hide.

Yes the Robin mask did offer some protection, but not nearly enough to fully stop a Venom junkie that just got a new dose.

And while he was thankful to get the new lead on Banes operation selling Venom, a deep nagging part of him hated that his face had payed the price for it.

Damian hated that he cared about his appearance, and hated that he associated it with his mother.

Learning how to do disguise make up had been one of the only times during his training he had spent extended periods of time with his mother, skills that he was still using to this day.

Putting down the sponge, Damian got a fresh one and dabbed it onto his face, blending the colors until the purples and blues of the black eye disappeared completely.

"Master Damian, the car is pulled up to the front, though i shall be taking you Master Richard has offered to pick you up. I must tend to your idiotic father, as he seems to be trying to stand again on both his broken legs. Perhaps this time I shall leave him in a straight jacket before hiding the keys, that should keep him down for longer..." the old butler muttered to himself at the end, but Damian could only sigh as he stepped away from the mirror.

"Just invite Miss Kyle or Eamm Clark to keep him down." Damian said, toeing on his shoes as he steps out from his room, taking the offered backpack from Alfred as he walks by him.

"Ahh...that might solve the issue of him staying in his room...but both of them have a possibility of causing more harm to him.." the elder butler said, walking close behind his youngest charge as he made his way to the front of the house.

Damian pulled a face, "Disgusting Pennyworth, please do not discuss my fathers...promiscuous relationships with those two, I do not want to dig out my ear drums just to burn them but I shall if you continue."

The old man gave a not-smirk, the kind thst was more frown but held a jolly feeling. "Oh of course Master Damian..."

Rolling his eyes, the teen got to the front steps, even half way through them in blissful silence before Alfred spoke once more. "Ah. I was set it inform you yesterday day but as you had an injury I had forgotten, you will be receiving a new classmate today, your father had done a screening of course, and they stood out because of their parents, who happen to be inventors that like making things go...to steal a phrase from Master Jason, Boom."

Damian just nodded, "I shall research them. I will know everything about them by the time I will come home."

"And that is all I can ask you Master Damian" Alfred said, opening the car door, "I do hope thst the day is not wasted, it is not every day that one starts highschool."

[actuallybean]

Last Woman Standing* | Part One

An apocalyptic plague wipes out every woman on Earth — except you. Now locked in a bunker with Sam, Dean, and Castiel, they soon realize they’re all falling in love… and lust… with the last woman alive. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, polyamory, apocalyptic themes, emotional/psychological tension, possessiveness, protective dynamics, some angst, heavy sexual content in later parts, consensual but intense scenarios. Pairings: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Castiel x Reader (eventual polyamorous dynamic) Part Two Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @catsinacottage Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You wake to the sound of your phone buzzing angrily against the wooden table.

It vibrates so violently it nearly throws itself onto the floor. Your cheek is stuck to the open pages of an old lore book, your neck stiff from the awkward angle you'd passed out in. There’s a deep indentation from the spine of the book pressed into your skin. A blanket—Dean’s old flannel one—has been thrown over your shoulders at some point, but it’s barely warding off the cold.

The overhead light is still on, flickering slightly, and the bunker’s library is otherwise silent. Too silent.

You blink against the sting of dryness in your eyes, your lashes crusted together from sleep, and groggily fumble for your phone. The screen glows harsh in the low light. You squint through the blur and read the message that’s been sent a dozen times, each timestamp a little more frantic than the last.

Jody Mills: Claire’s missing. Donna too. No women at the station today. Something’s wrong. You okay? Hello?? WHERE ARE YOU??

Your breath sticks in your throat.

You bolt upright, the chair scraping across the floor with a shrill screech that echoes off the walls. The books you’d been reading tumble to the floor in a heap. The bunker feels too big, too quiet, too cold.

You blink at the time—4:42 a.m.

Your fingers shake as you type out a response. I’m fine. What do you mean they’re gone?

The message status says Delivered, but there's no reply. Just that hovering silence.

You rise to your feet, still disoriented, brushing the sleep from your eyes and pushing the blanket off your shoulders. Your bare feet hit the cold stone floor as you move toward the hallway, calling out quietly.

“Sam?”

Nothing.

“Dean? Cas?”

Still nothing.

The bunker feels… wrong. Like the shadows are watching you. Like you’re the only person left alive underground.

You move quickly now, padding barefoot down the corridor, glancing into each room as you pass, heart thudding harder with every unanswered call.

And then, from somewhere deeper in the bunker—you hear it.

Voices.

Frantic. Overlapping. Panicked.

“I can’t find her anywhere!” Dean’s voice, sharp with worry. “Kitchen, bedrooms, garage—nothin’. She’s gone, man!”

“I checked the security feed,” Sam is saying, breathless. “Last image of her is from ten hours ago, entering the library. Then nothing. No exit. Nothing after that.”

“What if…” Castiel’s voice is quiet but grave. “What if it happened to her, too?”

“No.” Dean growls. “Don’t say that. Don’t even—She wouldn’t just vanish. She’d fight like hell. We’d know.”

The sound of Castiel’s wings shivers through the air, the heavy flap echoing in the silence like thunder underground.

“I searched every floor,” he says when he rematerializes. “She’s not here.”

You round the corner into the war room just as Dean shouts again, pacing furiously. “Goddammit! She was right here! We were all here, and now she’s just—” He cuts himself off, shoulders trembling.

“I’m here,” you say softly.

The silence that follows is immediate.

Dean whirls around like he’s seen a ghost. Sam’s eyes widen, stunned. Castiel stops mid-step and stares at you like you’ve just risen from the dead.

You blink at them from the archway, wrapped in your oversized sleep shirt, hair a tangled mess, phone still clutched in your hand like a lifeline.

“I… I fell asleep. In the library. My phone was under a book or something. I didn’t hear anything.”

They don’t speak at first—just stare. The relief that floods the room is palpable. Dean exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face as if he’s physically holding himself together. Sam drops into the nearest chair like his knees gave out. Castiel takes a step forward, his eyes flickering with something that might be awe, or grief, or some mix of both.

Dean finally breaks the silence. “Jesus, sweetheart.” He crosses the space in three long strides, wrapping you in a fierce hug, arms crushing around you like he’s anchoring himself. “We thought we lost you.”

“I didn’t even know anything was happening,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Jody messaged me. Said Claire was gone. Donna too. No women on duty anywhere.”

Sam speaks without looking up. “Hospitals. Schools. Government offices. It’s not just hunters—it’s everyone. Every woman… just gone.”

You feel it settle like lead in your bones.

A cold, unspeakable understanding.

“Except you,” Castiel says, voice low and reverent. “You’re the only one left.”

You stand there in the middle of the war room, Dean’s arms still around you, Sam watching you like you’re fragile glass, Castiel with something ancient and wounded in his gaze—and for the first time, you truly feel the weight of your existence. You, alone, standing against the silence that swallowed half the world.

And suddenly, the bunker doesn’t feel cold anymore.

It feels like a cage.

A quiet, humming tomb. And you’re what it’s protecting. Or what it’s hiding.

Either way—you are no longer just part of the world. You are what remains of it. And that knowledge burrows into your chest like a splinter too deep to remove.

✦

You don’t cry at first.

Not when Sam lays out the facts on the war room table like corpses in a morgue. Not when Dean starts scratching a map of missing persons reports into the wood with his knife. Not even when Castiel murmurs that Heaven’s gone still—no new souls, no activity.

It's when they tell you you can’t leave that it finally hits.

You sit in the library—the same goddamn chair you fell asleep in—with a wool blanket wrapped around your shoulders, hands clenched around a mug of tea you forgot to sip. The steam has long since faded.

Dean sits across from you, hunched forward like he can’t meet your eyes. Sam’s pacing behind him, arms folded, the muscles in his jaw tight. Castiel stands in the doorway like a silent sentinel, eyes burning holes through the floor.

“Look,” Dean says, gently. “We don’t even know what’s causing this yet. We don’t know if it’s demonic, celestial, viral, magical—”

“I get it,” you say, your voice hoarse. “You think I’ll vanish too if I leave.”

“We don’t know what’ll trigger it,” Sam says, turning sharply. “But so far, you’re the only woman who’s survived. That means something. And until we figure out what that is, you’re not safe outside.”

You nod numbly, staring at the mug in your hands.

You’re not safe inside, either—not really. Not from the thoughts creeping in around the edges of your mind.

Claire. Jody. Donna. Charlie. Eileen. Rowena.

Gone.

Without a trace.

The grief doesn’t crash all at once. It leaks in—through the cracks in your resolve, through the soft moments of silence between words. Through the familiar ghosts in your memory.

You remember Charlie’s laugh echoing through the bunker, her boots up on the table while she trounced Dean in Mario Kart.

You remember Jody’s arms around you after your first brush with death, how her voice shook when she said, You’re one of mine now.

You remember Eileen’s gentle hands and her fierce, unflinching eyes. The way she taught you the ASL sign for family.

You remember Donna’s voice over the phone, warm and light, always ending every call with, Love ya, sweetheart. Stay sharp.

You remember Rowena sitting across from you at the kitchen table once, sharp eyes and a small smile on her lips, telling you, You remind me of myself at your age. That’s a good thing. Mostly.

They're all gone.

Every woman you’ve ever fought beside, bled beside, loved—

Gone.

You blink, and the tears spill over without warning, sliding hot down your cheeks, caught in the salt lines around your mouth. You press the mug to your lips just to have something to hold onto, something solid.

Dean looks up, alarmed. “Hey—hey, don’t…”

He stops himself, because what the hell can he say?

Don’t cry? Don’t feel this? Don’t mourn an entire gender?

You swallow a sob so thick it bruises your throat.

“I keep thinking,” you whisper, “what if it’s not just now? What if this is it? What if I am the last?”

No one answers.

The silence is worse than anything they could say.

Sam crosses to you slowly, placing a hand on your shoulder, the touch gentle but grounding. Castiel approaches from the shadows, kneeling beside you like a knight before a dying queen.

Dean swears under his breath and kicks the leg of the table before sinking down next to Sam, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re not alone,” Dean says eventually, voice low, rough. “You’ve still got us.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But it’s not the same.”

Because they don’t know what it’s like to be in your skin. To sit in your room and realize every face you’ve seen in the mirror belongs to a class of people that no longer exists. To have no one left who knows the language of your body, the weight of your silence, the ache of sisterhood.

The boys are trying. You know they are. But grief like this is a different kind of species. It doesn’t respond to logic or comfort. It just is. A dull, gnawing ache that worms its way through your chest and wraps around your lungs until even breathing feels like mourning.

You stand, the blanket falling from your shoulders, and turn to leave.

“Where are you going?” Sam asks gently.

“My room,” you mutter. “I need—just—I need a minute.”

Dean starts to rise like he might follow, like he might try to offer you company. But Castiel gently puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

You don’t look back.

You walk the long, dim hallways of the bunker barefoot. It’s colder now. Or maybe you are.

When you finally reach your room, you close the door softly behind you and curl up on your bed, pulling the covers to your chin like armor.

And in the dark, you finally let yourself cry for real.

You cry for Claire’s stubborn spark and Donna’s laugh. For Rowena’s strength and Jody’s arms. For the way Charlie used to tease you and the way Eileen used to see you. For every woman you’ve known. Every girl you’ve saved. Every name you’ll never learn now.

You cry for the silence where their voices should be.

And you cry for yourself, too—for the hollow, lonely truth of what you’ve become.

Not a survivor. Not a warrior.

A relic.

A ghost of a world that no longer exists.

✦

Time loses shape in the bunker.

There are no windows, no sunrises or sunsets to mark the hours. Only the hum of old lights, the rumble of distant generators, the clink of coffee mugs, and the shuffle of tired feet. At some point, the calendar on your nightstand stopped meaning anything. It’s just a piece of paper now—one of the last things written by a woman.

You don’t know how many days passed before it stopped feeling like shock and started to feel like reality. But by the seventh day, the stillness has settled into your bones. Everything that’s gone hasn’t come back. There are no signs. No answers. No dreams whispering clues in the night. Just absence. A void shaped like half the world.

And you still haven’t seen another woman’s face.

Not in person. Not on a screen. Not even in a dream.

You tried, once—searching old photo albums on your phone, scrolling desperately through camera rolls just to see them again. Your thumb paused over Jody’s smile, Rowena’s raised brow, Claire’s battle-stained cheek. You looked at them like a starving person might look at food behind glass. You tried to feel comforted.

Instead, you felt grief crystallizing in your chest like frostbite.

You stopped looking after that.

Sometimes you stand in front of the bathroom mirror longer than you should, just to prove to yourself that womanhood still exists. That it’s not gone. That it hasn’t been erased like pencil marks off a white page. But it’s a hollow ritual now, one that leaves you colder afterward than before.

Your face looks different, even though it hasn't changed.

You wonder if it's because there's no one left who reflects you anymore. No one to echo your voice back with understanding. No one to soften your roughness with their own.

Just you.

And the men.

Always the men.

✦

It started small.

You don’t notice it right away—not in the thick fog of grief, not when you’re moving like a ghost through the bunker, not when your body feels like it’s wearing the loss like a second skin.

But then—little things.

You walk into the war room and the conversation stops just a little too quickly.

You reach for a cup in the kitchen and Dean is already there, wordless, placing it in your hand before you can ask.

You stretch your sore arms during training and catch Sam’s eyes lingering on the scar beneath your collarbone—one he’s seen a hundred times before, but now… now it looks like he’s seeing you for the first time.

And Castiel. He watches you like you’re both familiar and sacred. Like something holy and untouchable. His silences are longer now. Sharper.

At first, you try to chalk it up to the circumstances. You’re all grieving. You’re all trapped. And maybe they just don’t know how to treat you anymore. Maybe they’re trying too hard not to break you.

But it grows.

They grow.

Possessive in quiet ways. Protective in louder ones.

Sam walks you to your room even when you insist you’re fine. Dean insists on keeping you in his line of sight when you’re in the firing range. Cas offers to accompany you every time you even suggest stepping outside your door, like he’s afraid the air might swallow you.

It’s not… bad. Not really. But it makes the bunker feel smaller. Like the walls have inched closer every day since the world went dark.

You’re not just the last woman.

You’re the only one.

The last reminder of the world before.

And they look at you like they know it.

✦

It’s after dinner, one quiet night, that it really hits you.

You’re washing the dishes—old habits die hard—and you glance up toward the table where the boys still sit. No one’s talking. Dean’s staring into his glass of whiskey. Sam is flipping through an old newspaper from before the vanishings, not really reading. And Castiel’s eyes are on you.

Not just on you. Watching you.

There’s something so gentle in the way he does it. So reverent. Like you’re the last page in a book he thought he lost. He doesn’t look away when you meet his gaze, doesn’t flinch. Just holds it, like a tether.

Your hands still in the dishwater.

Sam glances up next—and for a moment, it’s like he was waiting for you to catch him. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then closes it. His brows furrow. He doesn’t look away either.

Dean, too, lifts his eyes now. Slowly. Like gravity’s fighting him.

And when all three of them are staring at you—really staring—you feel it all at once.

You’re not just a woman to them anymore.

You’re a symbol.

A relic.

A vessel.

The last proof of what was lost.

And maybe—maybe the last hope of what could be rebuilt.

The thought makes your stomach lurch.

You dry your hands and leave the kitchen without a word, your footsteps soft and fast against the stone floor.

✦

That night, you stand naked in front of the mirror again.

It’s the first time in days that you’ve really looked. Your body’s changing—little things. The curve of your hips. The dip of your waist. You press your hand against your belly and try to remember if it’s always felt this soft. This alone.

You turn, examining old scars and new shadows, the pink stretch of your skin where bruises have bloomed and faded. There’s a vulnerability to it now that you can’t shake.

You used to think of your body as a weapon. Sharp. Agile. Strong.

Now it feels like something rare and endangered. Something every eye in the bunker tracks when it moves, even if they pretend not to.

You sigh, turning away from the mirror. You slip into one of Dean’s flannels, too long on your frame, the scent of smoke and leather still clinging to the collar.

You crawl into bed, but sleep doesn’t come.

Because now, it isn’t just grief that sits on your chest—it’s something else.

Something quiet and hungry and waiting.

And you don’t know if it’s theirs… or yours.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 301

Ellie, during one of her stints of what do I do with my life right now, decides to, with the help of her Original Dad-Person (Look he’s aging and she’s not and it gets less questions the older he gets if he says daughter instead of sister with how the Fentons are getting older too) creates a Boo-Tube channel. No, not a Youtube channel, those are stuck to a single dimension.

Bootube on the other hand? Due to being through the Realms (and wow is Tucker getting so much income from creating it) is interdimensional. Which is so cool honestly. And she doesn’t know what to do at first, and honestly there’s already so many travel blogs that she kind of just… decided to do something that she wished someone had done for her and her brothers and Danny when she was new to the world. 

So she creates the channel CAAW: Clone Awareness, Accommodations, and Welfare. They had to learn things through trial and error, but maybe she can help someone out there learn how to find their own selves, or even help someone not melt. 

[convictedrone]

part 2 of drawing over roblox screenshots

[kuizqe]

i had a vision

[b38rman]

THROUGH THE MOTIONS [pt. 2] ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ Ollie Bearman

series tags - ollie bearman x afab!reader, enemies to lovers, slight angst, slight sickfic moment, eventual smut, explicit sexual content

synopsis - Between you getting an international driving permit and a rental car or having to spend time carpooling with the Ferrari Driver Academy co-driver you despised the most, you just had to choose the more difficult option. (Spoiler alert: it didn’t have anything to do with getting the permit or a rental car.)

parts - 1 | 2

rating - part 2 - explicit

warnings -  18+!!! minors dni, alcohol, driving without an international license! (please get the right paper work lol), explicit sexual content, unsafe sex

a/n - this video lowkey fired me up to write this. anyways, enjoy this filth !

Everything was almost annoyingly normal in the next few days—or at least, as normal as you and Ollie could be. It was as if both of you were just going through the motions, not caring to talk about what had just transpired. It was infuriating that you didn’t talk about it, but it was just as daunting to begin thinking about talking about it. 

Ollie would pick you up, bring you home, and you two would repeat that routine without a word uttered aside from absolutely necessary one-worded small talk. It was almost peaceful if it didn’t carry a heavy tension in the air. 

Sometimes you just wished you could figure out what he was thinking. Other times, you couldn’t help but wonder if he wanted to know what was in your mind too. 

The next time Ollie picked you up was for a joint birthday celebration for two Prema engineers. The house where it was being held was quite a long drive away, and you couldn’t figure out how to get there for the life of you. Maybe it was uncharacteristic of you to text Ollie if he was going and if he could bring you, but again, you had no other options and he was bringing you to work practically everyday anyway; what was one more drive?

You waited out in the cold evening air in an outfit you wished you’d brought a thicker jacket for, and the familiar vehicle pulled up again like clockwork.

When you opened the door, your breath hitched in your throat as your eyes landed on Ollie. 

He was in a baby blue button down that looked just swanky enough to make him look more polished than usual. His curls were a bit tamer than usual too, like he’d been running his hands through them incessantly, and his cologne was a tad bit more noticeable. It made you feel like you were being flayed alive that he looked just that good. 

You got in the seat, buckling yourself in, trying not to look at him directly again as if he’d become the sun himself. 

“Why’d you give me that look?” You could hear the grin in his voice as he started the car. It filled you with a guilty, eye-roll inducing feeling—but you felt your mouth tugging up into a smile like you couldn’t control your body anymore. 

You squeezed your eyes closed, like it could stop the feelings rushing through your gut.

“You look—“ Nice. Cute. You clean up pretty decent. “—less horrible.”

His laugh was obviously complacent, like he knew he fished another ounce of vulnerability out of you. Still, you felt like that first time was more his fault than yours. After all, it was his fault he looked for you, and it was his choice to stay. 

“You too?” He answered back.

The car ride was exactly 52 minutes. You had to pretend you didn’t want to throw up for a whole 52 minutes.

When you got to the party, it was all the same with you and Ollie. It wasn’t like a few remarks were going to change anything, much less his heroics to make you drink tea when you were sick in order to make you feel even just a little bit better. 

You were convinced nothing could drastically change your dynamic. Maybe you felt like his presence, no matter how annoying it could be at times, had grown into something reliable and comfortable—like a pair of ugly yet useful boots that needed to make your toes bleed before you could walk in them.  

To an outsider, it would’ve looked like you were a couple emerging from the car. Still, there was no getting your door, helping you with your things, or holding your hand as you stepped out. It was him, then you, then the two of you separately. 

The party went on like that, but you couldn’t bring yourself to mind. Everyone at Prema never made you feel out of place, and it was a welcome break from all the noise about ‘how it feels to be this’ and ‘what does it mean to you to do that’. 

Of course, there was alcohol, but you couldn’t bring yourself to indulge and possibly become embarrassing around anyone, especially Ollie for that matter. 

You’d drift in and out of circles, a cola in one hand and your phone in another. This was your safe space, despite how fleeting the concept of home was for motorsport drivers. Prema was steady, stable, and ready to be there for you in good times and bad times, and you hoped Ferrari would continue to be the same. It was still strange that Ollie was part of both of those things, if not an integral part of those things in your life.

As the conversations began to die down and your social battery began to falter, you found yourself sitting on a lumpy sofa in the corner of the living room, people-watching from a distance. You were content where you were, an easy smile playing on your lips as you watched 30-something Italian men gesticulate in the foreground.

That was until a familiar looming figure appeared in your periphery before taking the spot next to you uninvited.

“That’s where you went.” Ollie said simply, his breath smelling like a mix of white wine and whiskey. His cheeks were more flushed than you’d ever seen them, and you felt the warmth of his body radiate on you. 

“What d’you need?” You asked, trying not to think about your ride home later or how far down his flush went (it was disappearing down his neck and under his button down.)

“Nothing.” He paused and seemed to contemplate for a second. “A hug would be nice.” 

Forget a bear, right now he looked more like a petulant little puppy than anything.

You were confused, but considering how drunk he seemed to be, his attitude didn’t come out of thin air. He’d probably forget about all this in the morning anyway. 

“Okay, um, from me?” You trailed off as you looked at him, his arms already wide open. You should’ve been worrying about how the engineers and staff might react to this, or how embarrassing all of this actually was in the greater scheme of things. It was your fault, though, that you obliged. 

Ollie laid his arms around your shoulders and nuzzled his head into your neck, sighing. He was taller than you, so the angle was a tad awkward. Ollie didn’t seem to mind at all though. 

Little did you know that he would take it as a chance to not let go. All things considered, you accepted your fate pretty quickly.

After a few minutes, Rene (of course he’d notice first) approached the two of you, a goofy, knowing grin on his face. 

“I told you! Him driving you would get you two to like each other.” Rene said with a laugh.

“No, Rene, we’re not—“ You tried to answer back but the man shook his head.

“Nonsense. I’d know.” He winked in an overly exaggerated way to punctuate his statement. “Anyway, is your chauffer alright?”

You glanced at Ollie, who seemed to be taking a nap with his hair pressed into the nook of your neck.

“Not great.” You deduced.

“You should be the one to drive tonight, he is out of it for sure. Just don’t get caught.” Rene decided for you.

It shouldn’t have ended there, but it did. Little did you know, whatever this was didn’t really have an end in sight. 

You sat there for a moment, holding the weight of Ollie’s head against your shoulder, feeling strangely stuck in limbo. The night had shifted unexpectedly into something intimate, confusing, and decidedly uncharacteristic for the both of you.

“Alright, up you go,” you muttered under your breath, nudging Ollie’s shoulder. He groaned in protest but eventually sat up, his head lolling back against the couch.

“You good?” you asked, leaning forward slightly to catch his gaze. His eyes were glassy, his lips tugging into a lopsided grin.

“Never better,” he mumbled, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

“I’m driving,” you announced, standing up and straightening your jacket.

Ollie blinked up at you, processing your words with the speed of molasses. “You don’t have a license.”

“Neither should you right now,” you shot back, holding your hand out to him. “Keys, Ollie. Or we’re both walking.”

He grumbled something under his breath before fishing the keys out of his pocket and handing them to you. His fingers brushed yours for just a second too long, and you felt a strange jolt of electricity shoot up your arm.

“Come on,” you said, avoiding his gaze and pulling him to his feet.

The walk to the car was uneventful, aside from Ollie’s occasional stumbling. You kept a firm grip on his arm, steadying him when he leaned too far to one side.

“You’re bossy when you’re sober,” he slurred, leaning his head against your shoulder as you fumbled with the keys.

“And you’re unbearable when you’re drunk,” you retorted, shoving him gently into the passenger seat.

The drive back to your host family’s house in Maranello was quiet, save for the occasional murmur from Ollie as he slouched against the window. The streets were empty at this hour, the soft hum of the engine filling the silence.

“You didn’t have to come get me,” Ollie said suddenly, breaking the quiet. His voice was softer now, tinged with something that sounded like regret.

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, keeping your eyes on the road. “I wasn’t about to leave you there.”

He turned his head to look at you, his gaze heavy. “You’re too good for that.”

You scoffed, trying to brush off the unexpected compliment. “Don’t get sentimental on me now, Ollie.”

The rest of the drive passed in a haze of quiet moments and shared glances. When you finally pulled into the driveway of your host family’s house, you turned to look at him.

“Come on,” you said, nudging his arm. “You’re not staying alone tonight.”

Ollie blinked at you, his brow furrowing slightly. “Here?”

“Unless you want me to take you back to your place and risk having Dino or Rafa film you passed out on the couch,” you said, arching a brow.

He considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Fair point.”

Getting him inside was another adventure. You shushed him more times than you could count as he stumbled over the threshold, laughing quietly at his own clumsiness.

“Shh,” you hissed, dragging him toward the guest room you’d been staying in. “My host parents are asleep.”

Ollie grinned at you, his steps faltering as you guided him to the bed. “You’re like a secret agent,” he whispered dramatically.

“Yeah, well, secret agents don’t babysit drunk soon-to-be Formula 1 drivers,” you muttered, pushing him gently onto the mattress.

He flopped down with a satisfied sigh, kicking off his shoes and wriggling under the covers. You stood there for a moment, watching him settle in, his face soft in the dim light.

“You good?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

He nodded, his eyes already fluttering shut. “Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

“For what?”

“For… not leaving me.”

You didn’t know how to respond, so you simply tugged the blanket up to his shoulders and turned off the light.

As you closed the door behind you, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. Whatever this was, it wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

When morning arrived, took a moment to register the unfamiliar weight against your side, the soft sound of breathing near your ear.

Ollie.

He was still asleep, his face turned toward you, his curls a wild mess against the pillow. One of his arms had ended up slung loosely across your waist, his hand resting near your hip. You froze, your mind racing as you pieced together the hazy events of the night before, the same clothes still on as a reminder that all of this was real.

He must’ve shifted in his sleep, you told yourself. It wasn’t like either of you had planned this. And yet, the steady warmth of him next to you sent a pang of something—comfort? Panic?—coursing through you.

You shifted slightly, trying to wiggle free without waking him.

“Don’t,” he mumbled, his voice groggy and muffled. His arm tightened just a fraction, holding you in place.

“Ollie,” you whispered, trying to keep your tone steady.

“Five more minutes,” he muttered, his eyes still closed, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips.

“Seriously, you’re—”

He cracked one eye open, his gaze meeting yours, and the sight of him that close—soft, unguarded—made your words falter.

“You stayed with me,” he said, his voice rasping with sleep.

“Yeah, well,” you mumbled, looking anywhere but at him. “You were in no shape to be left alone.”

“Good excuse,” he teased, though his tone was gentle, his hand brushing against your side as he shifted to prop himself up on one elbow.

You shot him a look, heat rising to your cheeks. “You’re lucky I didn’t just leave you on the couch.”

“Lucky, huh?” he said, his grin widening.

There was something about the way he was looking at you—like he was trying to memorize every detail of this moment—that made your chest tighten.

“Yeah, what are you gonna do about it?” You tried to taunt, without any bite coming out of it like you meant for it to. Instead you felt your faces inching ever closer, so close that you swore you heard his pulse racing in time with yours. 

That was finally, finally when his lips crashed into yours. Your body felt like it was about to give out, but it was even more overwhelming that you knew Ollie was right there to catch you. You were lightheaded from how much you wanted this. 

“Okay?” Ollie pulled away to ask as he moved to pin you down on your bed. You honestly couldn’t think straight anymore.

“Yeah, God, just—come on.” You replied breathlessly, and you felt Ollie smile against your lips. It was imperfect in most ways, morning breath and all, but it was everything you never knew you wanted. Maybe it was everything you weren’t allowing yourself to have.

Ollie continued to move on top of you, moving to kiss your forehead and cheeks before proceeding to bite down on your neck. That left you gasping for air, melting like putty in his hands. 

Next thing you know, you’re pawing at his button-down, all rucked up and wrinkled from your activities the night before. He made quick work of it, and soon the baby blue was discarded on the floor, the pile soon being joined by the dress you had on, and Ollie’s trousers.

“Shame, I liked that.” Ollie said as your dress hit the ground. “I like this more though.” His toothy grin took on a whole meaning of its own now, one that you’d probably think about nights from now, with your hands down your underwear. 

“Shut up.” You answered back, your body deciding to blush in spite of yourself and the situation you were already in. 

You continued kissing, harder and more desperate than before, and Ollie was grinding into you through the thin layers that still remained between the two of you. The whimpers that left his mouth made you feel a sense of power over him, one you never thought you’d have. It wasn’t drunkening though, it was more of a soft glow that you felt exuding from your body.

“I don’t have a condom,” Ollie was the breathless one now. “We don’t have to—“

“I’m on the pill.” You said with finality and a hint of desperation. You weren’t sure if you wanted Ollie to know the latter or not, but you definitely wanted what was to come.

“Fuck, okay.” Ollie looked a little blindsided by that, eyes blown wide and filled with what you could only explain as unabashed want. 

You unclasped your bra (you wished you could pause and frame the look on Ollie’s face when you did) and shimmed out of your underwear. When Ollie slipped out of his boxers, you hoped your face didn’t give away any particular thought. Because honestly, he was well-endowed.

“Like something you see?” He had the nerve to be smug as his cock was out, red and hot and waiting.

“Could say the same for you.” You retorted, pulling him down by his neck so you’d be face to face as it happened.

You wrapped your legs around his hips, and he seemed to get the signal because soon, you felt his tip breach your entrance. You bit your lip to prevent any noises, seeing as your host family was likely still home somewhere. 

Ollie continued to slide in slowly, biting at your shoulder probably with the same sentiments as you. When you felt his hips flush against yours, you relished in how good it felt to be completely full.

A soft “Move,” exited your mouth, and soon Ollie was pulling back and thrusting into you with force. You were so grateful your beframe wasn’t betraying you with sounds of what was going on.

It was surprisingly tender, but still so satisfying. Ollie was thrusting into you at a steady but deep pace, leaving you gasping and leaving crescent-shaped indents down his back as you tried to hold on. 

Something shifted though when Ollie hitched up your left leg and started thrusting into you harder and faster. You felt yourself barelling straight to release as you could feel everything without any barriers between you and him. 

“Ollie, please.” You cried out, him now hitting your g-spot with every thrust. He was still fucking you in earnest, but clearly getting sloppy. 

“Let go for me baby, that’s it.” Ollie encouraged, punctuating with particuarly hard thrusts, leaving you clenching uncontrollably. Eventually, you felt your orgasm roll through you, and you pulled Ollie back into a kiss just to muffle the sounds you were making.

You felt Ollie still hammering into you, and you could nearly cry from the excess of pleasure and overstimulation you felt. He laid into you with one, two more deep thrusts and he was spilling inside you with a grunt he couldn’t silence.

Ollie laid on you, his head nuzzled into your neck, softening cock still inside you. 

“You keep surprising me.” Ollie broke your solemn silence, brushing his fingers over your face. 

“I hope you like surprises.” You quipped back, unable to hold back your smile. You knew that this moment had to end sooner or later, and this would turn a bit disgusting with Ollie’s cum drying between your legs. However both of you were here now, still. Here. Still.

“I do, actually;” Ollie replied simply. “I do.”

[embraceweird]

The in universe documentaries about the fall of the Ravens are going to go so hard

[winterfireice]

Trauma candy salads have taken over my TikTok and I can’t stop thinking about how the naturals characters would have so much content

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

I'm slowly making my way through a new project- editing the entirety of the album PUNCH by Autoheart to the Life Series.

I was originally planning to post all of the edits in order of the songs on the album, but I instead made the Lent one first and am too excited to keep it in my drafts any longer while I work on the first four songs of the album (especially since we're coming up on finals seasons and the amount of time I'll have to work on these is gonna plummet so fast). So instead, I'll be posting them as I make them and make a masterpost of them all in order at the end.

That being said, I hope you enjoy this! I'm really proud of it and a lot of work went into it.

[m4iya]

how would I know? suna rintaro

requested mini-series

When you're flat out rejected, it takes time to force yourself to forget how you once felt. Though, an unexpected shift makes things way more complicated than they already were.

a/n: I used to write a lot more angst, but it's been a while since I've gone out and done something this detailed... a friend gave me this idea and I immediately thought of writing for Suna.

⭑ chapter 1: a change of plans

⭑ chapter 2: more than just a friend

⭑ chapter 3: keep it under wraps

[actuallybean]

Last Woman Standing* | Part Two

An apocalyptic plague wipes out every woman on Earth — except you. Now locked in a bunker with Sam, Dean, and Castiel, they soon realize they’re all falling in love… and lust… with the last woman alive. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, polyamory, apocalyptic themes, emotional/psychological tension, possessiveness, protective dynamics, some angst, heavy sexual content in later parts, consensual but intense scenarios. Pairings: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Castiel x Reader (eventual polyamorous dynamic) Part Three Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @catsinacottage @ourmrswonderlandlove @scary-noodlesblog @sapphic-destiel @inkedpages @obsessedwithfictionalmen01 @joggince SupernaturalMasterlist | Main Masterlist

You wake in the dark before the lights know to warm the halls.

There’s a kind of stillness in the bunker that exists only at this hour—when the world hasn’t yet remembered to turn again, and everything is quiet enough that you can almost hear the bones of the Earth settling. The air feels colder than it should, like it’s seeped into your skin during the night and nested there. Even beneath the heavy flannel wrapped around your shoulders—Dean’s, you remember, still smelling faintly of him—you can feel the chill curling against your spine.

You draw your knees to your chest, folding in on yourself, the worn material of the blanket brushing against your bare thighs as you try to keep something in. Or maybe it’s about keeping everything else out. The silence. The grief. The yawning realization that no one else with your voice or your shape is out there anymore.

Your sleep had never really come, not fully. Only pieces. Flickers. You remember half-dreams that bled into nightmares: laughter that turned to screaming; hands that weren’t there reaching for you in the dark; the shadow of a woman’s face you couldn’t place dissolving into smoke. You’d reached for someone in your sleep—maybe Jody, maybe Charlie, maybe yourself—and found nothing but the frigid air clinging to your sheets.

When you finally shift upright, the ache that moves through you is deeper than fatigue. It’s the dull weight of something hollow. Like your soul had curled in on itself during the night and left your body behind.

The floor is mercilessly cold beneath your bare feet, even though you know every crack in the stone by now. The familiarity doesn’t make the chill any less sharp—it just makes it feel earned.

You don’t know why you’re up.

You’re not hungry. You’re not looking for anyone.

You just... can’t stay still. Not anymore. Not when the room is filled with ghosts and the bed doesn’t know how to comfort you.

You gather the flannel tighter around your shoulders and step into the hallway, moving like a shadow, silent and slow. The lights haven’t kicked on yet, but the bunker hums faintly with the sound of its own life—pipes creaking behind the walls, the low rumble of power somewhere deep beneath your feet. It’s a mechanical heartbeat, but it keeps time well enough to keep you from unraveling.

As you pass through the long, narrow hallways, a familiar ache begins to build in your chest. Not pain. Not even fear. Something lonelier.

Restlessness.

You tell yourself you’re just walking to walk—but then you hear them.

The sound rises up from the war room just ahead. Not loud, not shouting—but urgent. Three voices. Frayed at the edges. Layered with something you don’t recognize until it tightens your throat from the inside.

Worry.

You press yourself against the wall just before the threshold, heart beginning to thump—not from fear of being caught, but from recognition.

Sam. Dean. Castiel.

You don’t step forward.

You don’t clear your throat or enter the room like you have every right to.

You stay in the shadows. Because something in your gut tells you this isn’t meant for you.

They’re not fighting. Not quite.

But their voices carry like storm clouds brewing.

Dean’s voice is the first to reach you, low and rough, like gravel ground down to a whisper.

“You think she knows?”

Sam responds quietly, his voice clipped with tension. “She’s smart, Dean. Of course she knows something’s changed.”

There’s a pause. Then Castiel, softer than you’ve ever heard him—almost mournful.

“She’s grieving. She feels watched. Watched and wanted. She feels mourned.”

Your breath catches.

Mourned.

You didn’t realize how true that word felt until you heard someone else say it.

You lean into the wall, barely breathing, heart thudding like a metronome you can’t quiet.

Dean speaks again, this time not holding anything back. His words fall heavy.

“She is mourned. You think I don’t miss the way things were? You think I don’t hate that this world made her this lonely? But I can’t even look at her without—fuck—without wanting her so bad it makes my chest hurt.”

The silence that follows feels dangerous. Thick. Crushed under weight that’s been waiting too long to be named.

He wants you.

You had suspected. You had seen it in the way his eyes lingered on you in the morning, when you wore his flannel and nothing else. In the way he touched your back when passing you in the hall, brief but possessive. In the way he never let you carry anything heavy anymore, like your body was a relic he’d promised to protect.

But hearing it out loud?

It digs under your skin in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Sam’s voice cuts through next. Quiet. Honest. Raw.

“She’s not just a woman,” he says. “She’s the woman. The last one. And I try not to think about it like that, but… I do. We all do.”

Another silence. This one deeper. More loaded.

Dean again, this time slower, like the words cost him something.

“It’s not just physical. Not for me. Not anymore. She walks around in my shirts like they’re hers, and I let her because they are. Every time she pulls away, it feels like a goddamn sin not to hold her. But I see the grief in her face and I just… I don’t move. I let it burn.”

There’s a scraping sound. Maybe Sam’s hand against the table.

“She's everything we’ve ever lost,” he murmurs. “All of it. In one heartbeat.”

You feel like the floor tilts under you.

They’re not talking about lust.

They’re talking about loss.

About reverence.

About you.

“She isn’t a cure,” Castiel says quietly, solemn. “She’s not a promise. Or an obligation. She’s a person. And right now… she’s broken.”

There’s a pause. Then Dean speaks again, voice low but resolute.

“Then we fix it,” he says. “Or we hold it together ‘til she can fix herself. But one day soon… she’s gonna look at one of us different. And when she does—”

“We follow her lead,” Castiel finishes, simple as scripture.

You pull back before they can hear you.

You step away from the wall like it’s burned you, your hands trembling slightly as you retrace your steps back through the corridor, the chill of the stone under your feet suddenly sharper, harsher. You don’t know if your heartbeat is racing because of what you heard—or because of what it meant.

They weren’t talking about you like a possession.

They weren’t even talking about you like a burden.

They were talking about loving you.

And it’s too much.

It’s everything.

✦

You’re already seated at the kitchen table when they walk in.

The bunker is still shadowed in early gray, caught between night and morning. The fluorescent lights above you flicker unevenly as they hum to life, casting pale light over the steel countertops and stone floor. The air smells faintly of old coffee and something slightly burnt from dinner the night before. You sit curled inward, Dean’s flannel draped loosely over your shoulders like armor, your fingers wrapped around a chipped mug of untouched coffee. It's gone cold in your hands, but you’re holding it like it might still offer comfort, or at least something to ground you.

You hear their footsteps first.

Soft at first—Sam’s slower, longer stride; Dean’s heavier, always with purpose; Castiel’s near soundless, like he doesn’t even touch the ground until he chooses to.

They round the corner one by one, their conversation dissolving the second they see you.

You glance up, and for the briefest second, the world hangs still.

Dean freezes halfway through the doorway. His eyes land on you and twitch away immediately, like the weight of your gaze is too much. His expression shifts in a microsecond—surprise, hesitation, guilt?—but he covers it quickly, jaw tightening as he looks somewhere just over your shoulder.

Sam stops behind him. His posture is careful, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to relax yet. His lips part slightly, and there’s a faint smile there—gentle, but cautious. You can see the war in his eyes. One part concern, one part tenderness, one part dread that maybe this is about to spiral into something no one’s ready for.

Castiel lingers furthest behind them, barely inside the doorway. His presence is quiet, but thick. His hands are folded in front of him, and his expression is unreadable as always—except for his eyes. They stay locked on you, unwavering, like he sees every inch of you even when you’re trying to hold pieces back.

No one speaks at first.

The silence is loud. Uneasy.

They don’t know what you heard.

And you don’t tell them.

Not yet.

Instead, you set the mug down slowly. The ceramic taps against the wood.

Your voice is soft, but steady. “I know.”

Dean blinks. “Know what?”

You lift your head fully now, meet their eyes—each one of them in turn. Not accusing. Just aware.

“That you’ve been watching me,” you say. “That you want me. That you’re all trying not to.”

There’s a pause. It’s not denial that follows—it’s stillness.

Castiel’s head tilts slightly. He takes one quiet step forward, as if honoring the gravity of your words with his movement. His eyes don’t flinch.

“I overheard you this morning,” you continue. “Outside the war room.”

Sam reacts first—his whole body shifts, like something in him just gave out. His mouth opens slightly in response, but no words come out. He looks at Dean instinctively, and you see the guilt settle behind his eyes.

Dean’s fingers flex at his sides. He brings a hand to his face, dragging it down slowly, like he’s trying to wipe away the shame, or the exhaustion. “Shit,” he mutters. Quiet, but not surprised.

Castiel lowers his gaze for a heartbeat. When he raises it again, he bows his head—wordless acknowledgment.

“I’m not angry,” you say, your voice softer now, carrying the weight of everything you’ve carried alone. “I’m just… realizing some things.”

Dean clears his throat, looks at the floor. “If it makes it better… we’ve been trying real hard not to make it worse.”

Your lips twitch at that—somewhere between a smile and a sigh.

“I know you have,” you say. “I see it. I feel it. The effort. The restraint. Every time one of you pulls away instead of reaching for me. Every time you try to hide what’s written all over your face.”

Sam shifts closer to the table now, one hand brushing the edge like he wants to sit but doesn’t know if it’s allowed. “What is it you’re realizing?” he asks.

You look down at your hands. The ceramic of the mug has warmed slightly from your grip, but it still feels like a placeholder—like you’re holding onto it so your hands don’t shake.

“That I thought grief was the only thing I had left,” you say quietly. “But maybe… maybe I’m still me. Not just the last woman. Not just some symbol, or a curse, or a fucking monument to what’s gone. Maybe I’m just me. Still.”

You glance up again.

Dean is watching you like a man seeing sunlight after years in the dark.

“And maybe,” you continue, voice breaking slightly, “I get to decide what that means. How I want to live. How I want to be looked at. How I want to be touched.”

The silence expands, then contracts around your next words.

“And who I want to look back at.”

Sam takes a careful step forward. His voice is low and warm. “We’ll follow your lead,” he says. “No matter what that looks like.”

You nod slowly. The lump in your throat is heavy, but you swallow around it. “I’m still scared.”

Dean finally moves closer, crossing the room with a quiet kind of gravity. He doesn’t touch you, not right away. Just sets his hand down on the table beside yours. Not touching—but there. Offered.

“So are we,” he says, voice rough with emotion he doesn’t try to hide.

Castiel’s voice follows—steady, resolute, like the closing of a prayer.

“But you are not alone in this.”

You look up at them. One by one.

Sam, who watches you like you’re the beginning of something sacred.

Dean, who aches like he’s been biting down on love since the world ended.

Castiel, who speaks with reverence and sees through you like glass.

And for the first time since the world fell apart, you believe it.

You’re not alone.

Not in this room. Not in this grief. Not in this hunger blooming beneath your skin.

Because it’s not just grief that pulses through your chest anymore.

It’s want.

Not loud. Not dangerous. Not overwhelming.

Just awake.

And it’s growing.

Like something warm finally waking up in the ashes.

✦

After dinner, after the hush of laughter that sounded almost real again, after long glances shared over plates of canned green beans and reheated cornbread…

After Sam reached across the table to take your empty dish even though your fingers were still loosely wrapped around it.

After your knuckles brushed, and neither of you pulled away.

After Castiel, still and silent beside you, watched the way your fingertips circled the rim of your water glass like a prayer he wanted to learn by heart.

After Dean leaned back in his chair, stretched like he was trying to shake something off—and then stared at your legs beneath the tablecloth for just a second too long before abruptly pushing his chair back, muttering something about needing air, and disappearing into the hallway like a man who’d accidentally stared at the sun.

After all of it, you asked them to meet you in the war room.

No fanfare. No tension in your voice. Just a quiet request, and three solemn nods.

Now, the map table lies between you like neutral ground. Like the last battlefield before surrender.

You sit on its edge—ankles crossed, fingers laced in your lap. The wood is worn beneath you, familiar in its permanence. It has held the weight of plans, weapons, grief. Now it holds the weight of choice.

They come in separately, but the air tightens the second all three of them are there together. Sam stands to your left, arms crossed loosely, brows slightly furrowed like he’s been thinking too much. Dean flanks your right, hands shoved deep into his pockets, jaw tight but eyes darting your way and then away again. Castiel hovers just behind them both, spine straight, hands folded neatly in front of him like a knight awaiting orders he already knows by heart.

None of them speak first.

The silence isn’t hostile—but it’s thick. Electric. Laced with something unspeakable but known.

It’s you who breaks it.

Your voice is soft. Measured. But sure.

“I’ve been thinking,” you say, eyes flicking between them. “About... this. About us.”

Three heads lift in unison.

Dean’s frown barely flickers. “What do you mean?”

You slide off the edge of the table, feet landing softly on the floor. You don’t back away. If anything, you move closer to the tension. You want to meet it head-on.

“I mean what you said,” you answer, your gaze settling on him before sweeping to the others. “What I overheard. What I feel now. It’s not just in the air. It’s in me. And it’s real. We’ve been pretending it’s not getting heavier. But it is. Every day.”

Sam shifts his weight. One hand rises to scratch the back of his neck. Nervous. Thoughtful. “We didn’t want to pressure you.”

You offer a gentle smile—one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I know. You’ve been walking on glass around me. But I’m not made of it. I don’t need to be wrapped in silence and watched from afar.”

Castiel’s eyes flicker with something warm. Something relieved.

“I’m not a relic,” you continue. “Not a symbol. Not a sacred last piece of something the world lost. I’m just… still me. And the grief is still there, but underneath it—” your voice drops, barely above a whisper, “—I want to feel something again. I need connection.”

Castiel takes a small step forward. “You’re asking us for something.”

You meet his gaze. There’s no fear in yours.

“Yes,” you whisper. “But I’m also offering you something.”

The room stills. The moment breathes, stretched so thin it might tear.

You draw in a slow breath, grounding yourself in the weight of what you’re about to say.

“I want to try something,” you say softly. “Something new. For all of us.”

Dean’s arms cross over his chest—not in defiance, but restraint. You can see the storm in his shoulders.

“Like what?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You hold his eyes for a beat.

“One day. With each of you. Separately. One-on-one. Time to just… be. However we need to. Together.”

The air thuds between you like a skipped heartbeat.

Sam’s mouth parts, breath stuttering just slightly. His eyebrows lift like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Dean’s gaze drops to the floor. His throat bobs like he’s swallowing something sharp.

Castiel blinks slowly, reverently. “You want to share yourself with us.”

You nod. “If you want it too. If this is something you choose. Not because I’m the last option. Not because the world fell apart. Because you want me.”

There’s a silence that swells like a tidal wave—then finally breaks.

Dean exhales sharply, a short, disbelieving breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “You can’t just say shit like that and expect us to stay standing.”

You laugh, just a little. It feels good. It feels real.

Sam moves first—always the one brave enough to start. He takes a slow step forward, voice low, measured. “So you’re saying… you want to spend a day with each of us. Separately. And we all agree to take turns.”

You nod. “Yes. If it feels okay to you. If we set boundaries. Talk first. Make sure it’s us. Not chaos. Not pain. Just… real.”

Dean’s voice is quieter now. Raw. “That sounds a hell of a lot better than pretending this isn’t eating us alive.”

“I want this to be mutual,” you say. “Not something you do because you feel like you have to. I need to know that it’s me you want. Not just what I represent.”

Sam’s eyes find yours again. They’re warmer than they’ve been in weeks. “It’s you,” he says.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. “Always been.”

Castiel steps closer. His words are soft, steady. “There is no other world in which we could love more truly. This is not compromise. It is choice.”

Your breath catches.

And something inside you—something you didn’t realize was still closed—cracks open.

The silence that follows isn’t fragile anymore. It’s reverent.

This is happening.

“This isn’t a game,” Sam says. His voice is firm but not cold. “We need to talk everything through. Openly.”

Dean nods. “Ground rules. Honesty. No hiding.”

Castiel’s voice is calm, like ritual. “No jealousy. No competition. Just presence. Just respect.”

You nod, heart thudding hard beneath your ribs. “And consent. Every step. No matter what.”

They each nod.

It feels like an oath.

Dean steps toward the table, leans on it with both hands like he’s anchoring himself. “So… who gets the first day?”

They all turn to look at you.

The decision is yours.

You hesitate, breath trembling.

Then: “Sam.”

Sam’s eyes widen. His smile comes slow, soft. Sincere.

“Okay.”

Dean doesn’t flinch. He just gives a small nod, understanding passing across his face like weather.

Castiel bows his head in quiet acceptance.

Sam looks at you again—and then down, as though the weight of being chosen is heavier than he thought. You see his knuckles flex. His pulse in his neck.

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “Guess I better stock up on whiskey before it’s my turn.”

You laugh, quiet but real. The sound of it echoes gently in the room, and the tension starts to loosen. It’s no longer choking. It’s alive.

Castiel’s voice is soft but certain. “Tomorrow begins something new.”

You look around at the three of them—these men who have become your anchors, your grief, your gravity.

Your voice trembles, but not from fear. “Thank you. For letting me choose. For making me feel… human. Again.”

“You never stopped,” Sam says, his voice a balm.

Dean smirks, but there’s love behind it. “You’ve just got the whole world riding on you now, sweetheart.”

“No pressure,” Castiel murmurs, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches in something like a smile.

You roll your eyes, but the air has shifted.

It’s no longer sharp with what might’ve been.

It’s charged—with what will be.

The night ends not with ceremony, but with touches that say everything.

Sam brushes his hand along your back as he passes, gentle and grounding.

Dean pours you a drink and sets it down beside you without needing to speak.

Castiel lingers at the doorway, eyes meeting yours like a vow has already been spoken.

Tomorrow is Sam’s day.

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep not thinking of the end of the world—

But of what might finally begin.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

YES! JOIN ME IN THE DELCIOUS DUNGEONS!

[wanderlust-in-my-soul]

Tag Game: Scenes I will never forget

Got tagged by @dramalove247 and @obsessedferalgremlin 🌸 Thank you! I love those tag games!

Rules: Share 5-10 scenes you can't forget. Not your favorites, the ones that got stuck in your brain for any reason.

Explain if you want to, or don't, your choice. Well, most of them are indeed my favorite scenes, because my brain works that way :D I see something I really like, it is stuck in my brain or it left a deep impression on my heart. But there is at least one scene I could not forget and I hate it...

Sweet Home season 2

We were robbed!!!! They were robbed!!!! I couldn't get over this scene and it is still stuck in my brain. It is the longing look while he watches him smoking this cigarette in this very sexual and yet, as a former smoker, in a very uncommon and uncomfortable way... the cig would have been soaking wet after that... But that is not the point! They wanted each other! Nobody can tell me otherwise!

Dear Doctor, I'm Coming For Soul

I feel like I am one of the few people, that actually liked the ending. But they held hands until the end. That is peek romance and I love the transition of this whole scene. This scene was everything. I think about it from time to time and I feel happy.

Eien No Kino (Eternal Yesterday)

This series has so many beautiful scenes. But this first encounter between these two was everything a little romantic at heart could wish for. I don't know if there is a series or movie which depicted "love-at-first-sign" better.

The Sign

This series was a little let down for me, and when I think about it, I don't think about the romance and the story, but I think about this scene. It left its impression on me. The series itself did not.

Century of Love

I love it! This almost kiss. The tension. The fireworks in the background. The shy laughs afterwards. The way they look at each other. Everything about this scene was great.

Unkown

It is no secret that I love this series to no end and this love scene has a special place in my heart. So, I guess it is no wonder, that this scene, this grip and turn-around find a place in this list. It is the way Yuan holds Qian and the way he turns him around while he is closing the door with the other hand. Qian is like a puppet in his arms. And don't get me started on the way Qian holds Yuan's face in his hands! Ugh! I love it so much!

I Feel You Linger In The Air

This is the saddest fuck in history and I can't forget it. It was tender and full of love and goodbyes. No more words needed.

Island Part 2

Well, Cha Eun Woo and these piercing blue eyes. Do I need to say more? I could look at this gif for hours and it wouldn't get boring.

The End Of The World With You

I hate it! I was so confused when I saw this for the first time. I mean what is this? Why? And why can't I forget it? Nooooo! This feels so wrong!

I am tagging @gawincaskey @markpakin @chezlalune @troubled-mind @lurkingshan @maxescheibechlinichacheli (as always only if you want to, no pressure and if you already did this, just ignore me)

[goldenstorm0]

I started cooking a stupid sxf theory for shits and giggles, but now I'm planning on rereading the series to take notes because I am starting to buy into it unironically. Like there is a .001% chance it's true but it would be so fucking funny if it was and I want it out in the world juuuuust in case so I can either be Right to the Max™️ or just plain wrong and dumb for it

[b38rman]

THROUGH THE MOTIONS [pt. 1] ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ Ollie Bearman

series tags - ollie bearman x afab!reader, enemies to lovers, slight angst, slight sickfic moment, eventual smut, explicit sexual content

synopsis - Between you getting an international driving permit and a rental car or having to spend time carpooling with the Ferrari Driver Academy co-driver you despised the most, you just had to choose the more difficult option. (Spoiler alert: it didn’t have anything to do with getting the permit or a rental car.)

parts - 1 | 2

rating - part 1 - teen and up readers

warnings - ollie being awkward and a little mean , a really bad flu

a/n - comments and feedback are very much appreciated! 💞

The dawn October breeze in Maranello had a certain bite to it. Still, even if you couldn’t figure out if you loved it or hated it, you knew you’d never get tired of it. 

The ever-cooling air stung your nostrils as you took a breath in. Despite the unpleasant bodily sensations, you had to stand outside, dressed in firetruck red, because Ollie told you to.

“—Or else I’m not picking you up.” The snark commanded. 

Ever since you signed with the Ferrari Driver Academy, shifting gears to work with Prema in your upcoming season, you’d put off getting a rental car and a driver’s permit like any sensible person would have done. Instead, you chose to rely on overpriced modes of transportation to get you places on time. 

Rene brought up the idea first in passing during a dinner you were having, Ollie and you comically sitting as far apart as possible. The latter kept his head down, infuriatingly emotionless at the topic. 

The arrangement was cemented though when Jock had one-too-much of you being barely on time. Ollie, who initially grinned and rolled his eyes at your predicament, fell eerily silent. However, if you two were anything besides enemies, you were people pleasers. 

You watched as the familiar black Volkswagon pulled into the front of your host family’s house. A pool of anxiety flooded your stomach, but you fought it and entered the car.

It was warm inside. It smelled like him.

You didn’t dare make eye contact with him, even though you felt his gaze on you as you set your bag down and put your seatbelt on.

“You good?” Ollie asked, and you were surprised with how soft his voice sounded. You felt your guard rising as you knew he could use any interaction against you.

“Yes.” Your tone stayed flat—neutral.

The car ride was silent and a tinge awkward, just like how every early interaction you had with Ollie was. The thing is, you got along with everyone just fine; in fact, every other FDA driver felt like family already, if only Ollie didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. 

It was in the little things—like how Ollie would be telling a story to everyone else and he’d go quiet the moment you walked in the room, or how Dino or Rafa would ask if you were coming to a hangout you weren’t invited to in the first place. It was pathetic to feel like you were left out, but honestly you couldn’t help it.

That initial awkwardness turned into slight bitterness. The passive-aggressive nature of your interactions bled into everything you did. You figured that two could play this game.

No matter how hard you resisted, you felt your body begin to slip into the early morning fatigue. The warmth, the rumble of the car beneath you, and the wear and tear of the past weeks were definitely getting to you.

You hadn’t realized you’d fallen asleep until you felt hands tugging on your jacket. 

“We’re here.” Ollie stated blankly, pulling on the handbrake and turning the engine off. 

“Right, yeah.” You rushed out of the car before the embarassment could set in.

Your routine was repetitive enough to be sickening, and you’d endure car rides to and from the factory for days on end as long as it wasn’t a race week that Ollie had to be in.

Both of you barely said anything about it though, which was surprising given that things often turned into wars of who could have the final say between the two of you. To be fair, once, you fought about which Mario Kart set up was the best for Heaven’s sake. Let’s just say it didn’t end well and the other drivers had to intervene.

Today, though, you’d come off a week of late nights at the simulator to help with the team’s data. Ollie was conveniently away, leading you to be more resourceful than efficient about getting home. It involved a lot more walking, waiting, biking or a combination of the three. 

As a result, the cold had finally decided to seep into your bones and you were down with a flu so bad you were sure you were having visions. 

You could barely sit up and eat, much less check your phone. A half-eaten, day-old bowl of soup was getting cold on your bedside table, and you honestly felt more helpless than anything.

The days were lost on you, and once Monday rolled around, who could blame you for forgetting to tell Ollie about any of this.

You tossed and turned in your bed as the sun crept through your blinds. More voices were present in the hallway, which was unusual but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel anything but pure exhaustion to the point of apathy. 

Due to this, your eyes or brain didn’t have time to process Ollie opening your bedroom door and stomping right in.

“I told you I wouldn’t pick you up if you weren’t outside.” His attempt to tell you off didn’t sound all that convincing. 

You just hummed in response, but the weird feeling in your stomach began to grow as he shut the door behind him. You closed your eyes, like that would do anything to stop how your body was responding. 

You weren’t sure why or if you were imagining it, but Ollie made his way to sit on the side of your bed you weren’t curled into. It felt like a flu-induced hallucination, but you could feel his warmth and his scent emanating from near you. 

Maybe you were just really sick. Maybe he smelled like mint and citrus and you wanted nothing else but to bury yourself in the smell. You were so tired. 

You felt a warm, calloused hand reluctantly lay itself on your temple, You prayed he didn’t feel your pulse racing.

“You’ve got temperature.” He muttered under his breath. 

“I’m freezing though.” You answered back, not missing a beat but with an evident lump in your throat. You finally made yourself look at him, and he looked back at you with something that looked almost like worry. 

Ollie began shedding his coat, one you’d seen him wear a dozen times to the factory. You were honestly confused about what was happening until he pulled your comforter down and began helping you into it. Afterwards, it probably looked like you were about to head to work in pajamas and a uniform far too big for you. 

His warmth and scent enveloped you to the point that you weren’t sure if you were breathing at all. You were still really cold though. 

“I’ll make you some tea.” He said, getting up and doing just that right as he did. 

You weren’t sure where this kindness was coming from, but it definitely did feel like a white flag being waved upon the wars you were having. Even if it was just for now. 

He returned not too long after, persuading you to drink the cup of ginger tea all at once. It was the first thing you consumed in a really long time.

“You’re much less scary like this.” Ollie said sheepishly as you drank the rest of the tea. 

“Yeah? What’s that supposed to mean?” You tried to add some bite into the words. Your bodily weakness wouldn’t let that happen. 

Ollie didn’t respond. Instead, he just looked at you. You wanted to curl up and hide under his gaze, all because you couldn’t figure out if it felt better or worse than being scrutinized by him. Right now, he looked at you with a wonder you weren’t sure was genuine. 

“I’m—um—done with the tea.” You stammered out, handing him the cup as a way to get both of you out of the conversational grid lock. 

He moved to set the tea cup right beside the bowl of soup on your bedside table. 

You weren’t entirely sure what happened next. All you remember was you drifting off with Ollie on his phone still by your side. 

You woke up in a cold sweat at one point, trying to get up but a warm, comfortably weight was wrapped around you. You decided to go back to sleep.

The next time you woke up, it was dark. Ollie was nowhere to be seen.

And all you had left of him was his jacket. 

[blue--ingenue]

Autistic!Scorpius Headcanons [Part 1]

He’s highly sensitive to touch. Doesn’t enjoy being surrounded by strangers in large crowds, and certainly hates being jostled/prodded by people he doesn’t know. He’s highly tactile with those he trusts, but even then he can still get overstimulated by too much hugging, cuddling, etc.

Tactile stimming! I love that Adam Wadsworth’s Scorpius constantly stims by running his hands along the fabric of his robes, fiddling with whatever he’s holding, and feeling out the textures on the closest set piece. I imagine Albus introduces him to muggle stim devices like spinners, fidget cubes, squishy toys, and spinner rings. If he doesn’t feel like using a stim object, he’ll tap out repetitive rhythms by drumming his fingers along his thighs or fiddle with his wand.

Some of his special interests include dinosaurs, A History Of Magic, and magical creatures. Since he was little Draco indulged him by taking the family on weekend trips to the magical zoo. Astoria insisted on visiting muggle zoos and museums, which is where he fell in love with dinosaurs. He loves that dinosaurs are one of the few subjects that both muggles and wizards have yet to fully understand. He loves reading about them, and adores how similar they look to some of his favorite dragon species.

Has extremely high emotional intelligence, which fuels his empathy. He has a deep understanding of his loved ones’ thought patterns, emotions, and feelings. It pains him to see the people he cares about in pain, so he is often the first person to lend a listening ear or a shoulder to cry on. 

Despite his emotional intelligence, he has trouble picking up on social cues, especially from people his age

Very easily loses track of time while focussing on his special interests. He could spend hours in the library if the book he finds is interesting enough. Albus only takes issue with this when Scorpius forgets to drink water and accidentally misses meals. (Eventually Al tucks a few sandwiches and biscuits into his cloak to drop off at the library. He doesn’t want to interrupt the time Scorp sets aside for his special interests, but wants to make sure someone looks out for his health on the days that he forgets to.)

 His sensory processing issues make him hyper-aware of his own emotions and sensations. Even too much of a good feeling can send him closer to sensory overload. We see this a lot in the Year 5 Broadway cast. Erik Christopher Peterson’s Scorpius becomes overwhelmed and begins to hyperventilate during intense situations: Albus pressuring him to climb onto the roof of the Hogwarts Express (negative experience), when the boys get trapped in the past and Scorpius realizes he’s outside of Bathilda Bagshot’s home (positive experience). Both times, Albus holds onto him and guides him through a brief breathing exercise. (These interactions only last a few seconds on stage, but they’re so significant.)