One Thing I Love About Supernatural Is That You Don‘t Need To Read Fanfiction To Get The Sibling Angst,

Reall 😭

Me: *scrolling on YouTube* My little brother: *appears beside me* TikTok? Wait no that’s CapCut

Me: This is YouTube-

give me a female assassin.

but don‘t make her wear all-black leather jackets and boots. don’t make her all badass, cold, untouchable. don‘t make her hate love, friendship, feelings.

give her a pink t-shirt. give her a messy bun. give her pink lipgloss, blue eyeshadow, carefully done makeup. give her golden bracelets with gems, necklaces in the form of hearts.

make her blush when someone compliments her. make her giggle uncontrollably when she sees the person she likes. make her clumsy, affectionate, make her just like other girls.

and then make her kill in front of her crush and complain about the blood that got on her high heels.

Tell me when you find a fitting word, I need to know why my chest feels so tight anytime I think about my current hyperfixation 😭

i need to learn to tone down my excitement when it comes to whatever Thing i am currently heavily interested in bc there is no reason for my heart rate to spike because of said Thing

why do i feel like i’m panicking when i am oVERJOYED—

interestingly enough this typically happens with a specific character. but, uh, recently it seems my new Thing is just general 2010s fandom culture. so that’s… great. i got nostalgia: extended edition where i consume decade-old media, watch video essays, and feel like i’m going to explode in a good way

I love self-indulgent fanfiction. So much that I'll straight-up read fanfics of shows I haven't even watched, because the fic premise looks like the author is Going Through Something, or going on pure wish fulfillment of their deepest and most embarrassing daydreams. Or unsure whether they're writing really dark bizarre kink porn or impressively unsettling psycholocial horror. It's fun to get a look inside other peoples' heads.

I like amateur literature where sometimes it's just casually mentioned that one character can teleport, which is irrelevant to this story's plot, and never brought up again.

Benny Lafitte deserved better. Let Dean have friends, you cowards.

Mf stole Valentina‘s handcuffs

Iconic

Josephine by SOFIA ISELLA

[credits to me. More here]

The body was torn apart.

When someone says, “The body was torn apart”, I think of an animal. A wild animal, maybe a wolf or even a bear, biting, using its fangs, clawing at a body until it is unrecognisable. Until there is nothing left but a bloody mess, an open chest, flesh hanging loosely from bones. Fingers, or entire hands or arms missing and later found in a bush, half-buried, half-eaten.

When someone says, “The body was torn apart”, I think of a grenade. A pulled trigger, maybe from an enemy across the border, hitting the ground in a trench, and blowing the entire thing up. And there is nothing left but a few bloody remains of the uniform, or just about the last parts of the body if the person was standing enough far away.

When someone says, “The body was torn apart”, I think of a maniac. A knife, maybe from the house’s kitchen, maybe from the nearest butcher, stabbing a person until their breathing fails. Until the ribs are broken, the chest covered in cuts and bruises, sometimes even entire fingers or ears cut off and thrown across the room, creating small puddles of blood.

When someone says, “The body was torn apart”, I do not think of this.

But this is so much crueller, so much more horrifying than anything I listed above.

There are no scraps of skin or flesh lying around, no pool of blood around the body. There is nothing to indicate anything remotely close to an explosion, no reason why there should be. There is no knife, no brutal mess around the person.

I have a reason to believe, though, that we will find a severed arm later.

The body was torn apart in clean, fresh cuts. And in several ways, this is better than the cruel methods listed above.

But whatever—whoever—tore this person apart was no animal, no hand grenade, no maniac. Whoever tore this person apart was thinking clearly. They knew what they were doing when setting clean cuts into the skin, slowly pulling it off the muscle fibre. They knew what they were doing when cutting open the ribcage with bone scissors, twisting the ribs around to face the outside of the body. They knew what they were doing when emptying the chest, taking out one organ after the other, cleaning it, and setting it back inside.

And in so many ways, that is a lot more unsettling than an animal or a grenade or a maniac.

There are two types of writers:

1. 'It's fiction, it doesn't need to make sense!'

2. 'I didn't account for the rotation of the planet and how that affects the constalations while my characters stargazed at different times of year, I have failed as a writer, and this entire thing is trash'