He Looks So Concerned-

Fanfic writer.

I really do love being a fanfic writer; being able to create content for my favorite shows is an incredible gift that I’m greatful to have-

But it also means that I am cursed with truly horrible ideas at times..

Start of chapter three, Sins of the flesh.

Link to Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1249130358-sins-of-the-flesh-chapter-3-a-brother%27s-love Link to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38974686/chapters/101269308#workskin --- Dean struggled to keep his eyes open despite the coffee he was sipping on, his head leaning against the window of the impala; usually driving was one of his saving grace’s from the blindfold since the car had been a gift from his father to him, but today was an exception due to his tiredness. Dean listened to the hum of the engine and relaxed in the way the car drove over the road as Sam drove, the radio turned off to pull them both into a comfortable silence.

Neither had questioned the fact that Dean had been on the floor that morning when Sam went to check up on him since he wasn’t up yet; Dean hadn’t said a word as he was roused awake by his little brother, the memories of the night before vague within his mind.

As Baby drove steadily down the highway, her tires gripping the pavement and the leather seat pressed against Dean’s back, Dean found his thoughts drifting back to the mysterious Castiel. His dream from the previous night was still bothering him immensely; he knew his father was not always the most honest of men, and he had experienced nightmares that involved him before, but nothing like this.

Ever since he started praying to the angel, he would get flashes of gold and black in the middle of the dream and be woken up, but never had he had a conversation with them.

He didn’t want to dwell, but something was telling him to dig for more answers; perhaps he would call or visit Bobby soon to see if he knew anything. Dean took another sip of his coffee and grimaced only slightly when he realized that it had gone cold; he placed it down in the cup holder and took in a breath of air, thankful that they were almost to the other town.

There was a sudden crunch under the tire of the impala and Sammy was slamming on the brakes while Dean grasped both the dash and the door with both hands. As the car came to a halt, Dean turned his head towards his brother, jaw still set from the fear. “What the fuck was that?” Dean asked his brother as Sam sighed, falling silent for only a moment before he spoke.

“I don’t know, but I think our tire popped because of it,” Sam murmured and opened his door, leading Dean to join him and walk around the car. Dean leaned against the car as Sam knelt to the ground and examined their car, a heavy groan coming from him as he seemed to shuffle his feet against the gravel for a moment. “What is it, Sammy?” Dean asked as he tilted his head in his brother’s direction, and the way his brother sighed came off eerily loud as the road and surrounding area seemed to be silenced now that they had stopped driving. “It’s a crow; I didn’t even see it on the road, why would it have been there in the first place?” Sammy wondered aloud, and Dean could tell that his smart-ass brother was probably looking at it with fascination like he always did when it came to something strange.

I painted a mirror. An eye for an eye, friends.

I love all of these outfits, they’re beautiful and they really did an amazing job!!

Ranboo fashion

Ranbow.

You can love someone and still choose to say goodbye to them,

Tara Westover, Educated

Start of chapter four, Sins of the flesh.

Link to Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1263570085-sins-of-the-flesh-chapter-4-raised-from-perdition Link to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38974686/chapters/103642149#workskin -CAUTION: This one may include trigger warnings for those who are sensitive to descriptions of hell and very mild gore. You have been warned- ---- Hell was a horrible place; it was filled with the vilest of human beings, demons and creations you could ever imagine. People who had sold their souls were hung on hooks like meat hung in racks; in hell, a human and a cow were no different. The stink of sulphur, blood, smoke and flesh was constant, but if you were there you would find that the rotten scent was nothing compared to being whipped; to having your flesh torn and ripped repeatedly as blood and sweat rolled down your back. It was always ablaze, fiery hot and bright; never for a second was hell silent, but you would get used to the splitting headaches and the lack of sleep eventually.

Screams of pain and gurgles of pure agony surrounded Dean in hell; pain radiated throughout the man’s body and he didn’t have his blindfold over his eyes to allow him to feign ignorance to the many bloodied and beaten people surrounding him. The man didn’t remember how long he had been in hell, the pain too much for him to think about anything else; he hung on hooks, screamed and bled until he couldn’t take it anymore. He fought as hard as he could, avoided becoming a torturer at all costs and tried to remember what earth was like and who he was.

He was a priest, yet he was in hell; he struggled for forty long years until a saving grace came upon him. Hell lit up with a yellowish-white glow bright enough to blind you with a single glance, demons perished all around and Dean was raised from hell once again as a hand burned his left shoulder.

~♰~♰~♰~

Dean gasped as his eyes flew open, arms flailing and hands desperately grasping at something to hold on to; the first thing he registered was the feeling of cold stone beneath him, as well as beneath his palms when finally he had a grip on something.

Looking up, he saw towering ceilings and archways stretching high above his head; the many depictions of angels painted skywards were new to him, he had never even known that they were there. His left shoulder ached, and he came to realize his left hand lay on a very familiar statue; dozens of rosaries hung around her neck, swaying just slightly in a breeze that carried itself through the open door at the very back of the church. Dean sat up, breathing in the still-stale air; he could smell rain on the breeze and yet the church’s oxygen remained dusty and scented like history, it seemed no one had cleaned it properly in a while. The man only barely registered the pounding in his head as he looked around at the pews and the windows of his church, still a little disorientated by the sudden drag up from hell. Finally understanding that he was safe, Dean hauled himself up onto shaking legs and got a more thorough look at his surroundings...

Self-introductory

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[Scorpio sun] - [Libra moon] - [Scorpio rising]

[He/him | FTM] - [INTJ] - [Slytherin] - [Autumn] - [Workaholic]

[Writing two books] - [Writes fanfic on the side] - [drinks too much coffee because of it]

My favourite books: 

The blackthorn key series by Kevin Sands

Sherlock Holmes series by Sir.Arthur Conan Doyle

Harry Potter Series (f-ck you J.K.Rowling)

Educated by Tara Westover

The hidden witch by Chandelle LaVaun

Serpent & Dove by Shelby Mahurin

Favourite shows/movies:

The Good Doctor

Sherlock

Criminal Minds

The Big Bang Theory - Young Sheldon

The Imitation game

Supernatural

Ghost Adventures

My blog will mostly be shit posts, information about my characters and books, book recommendations, playlists, and the occasional dark academia mood board. This is a safe space for everyone, unless you disrespect someone’s existence, then you are certainly not welcome.

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I have always been a lot like my father. I have his hair, his face, his taste in music, his last name, some of his old jackets and shirts. I’ve often hated that I’m so much like him, as the only thing I don’t and will never have from him is his support. Now, however, I carry pocket watches and work towards education, a feat he never achieved. I do not use his last name, he doesn’t deserve the credit of my success. His music I’ve integrated along with violins and melodies that his rough and tough demeanors would never fit into. His clothing and jackets are reserved for when I make art, the paint that is left on the shirts show how I can make beautiful things as opposed to the blood that had previously stained them when he got into fights. I am very much like my father, but never will he be like me.

trans masculinity, when u have a shitty father, is abt taking pieces of him for yrself & reclaiming it & turning those things delicate & caring in ways he could never, ways that would disgust him. in his hand-me-down jacket, i carry bandages. the knife he used to skin deer is now the knife i use to sections apples to share with my brother

playing god

Me: ...I need a way to get rid of all these crows so that this plot hole can be fixed. Also me: Let’s just flood the town and attack them with lighting; yes, great, perfect.

Played like a d-mn fiddle.

I really can't express to you how much I love the phrase "played you like a d-mn fiddle"

I don't know why, it's just funny to me to turn to someone who's just been bamboozled, and instead of sympathizing you compare them to an instrument of fools. For example: "...I feel stupid-" "..." "please don't, I'm ridiculed enough-" "He played you like a d-mn fiddle" "I'm leaving you"