staring into open flame

Hello, I’m Lella. 29 This is my writing depository. mdni, 18+ only

[chronictranssexuality]

"you don't owe anyone anything" You are a tar pit. Speak for yourself. I personally owe the cafe employees my dishes put away and my friends a listening ear and small scared insects a cup and a gentle trip outside. Hyperindividualism is a rancid infection borne of capitalism and willfully misinterpreted therapyspeak and I will defy it by continuing to be kind regardless of whether or not it benefits me personally

[valtsv]

i refused to stay buried because i love you why are you running

[valtsv]

babe it's me i'm just covered in dirt and blood because i had to claw my way up into the light and crawl on my hands and knees back home to you stop screaming

[catgirlmimikyu]

I don't understand husbands who dgaf abt their wife's interests. you should be getting hard every time she nerds out, no exceptions

[detailedart]

The Knight of the Flowers, 1894, by Georges Rochegrosse. Detail and photo by Paul Perrin. Edit.

[ieatratsyummy]

They could never make me hate you, complex female character whose reaction to trauma was not pretty and digestible like how people think it should be.

[fag4butch]

*sighs dreamily* what a fucking weirdo

[gay-poseidon-deactivated2025051]

*twirling hair* what a fucking freak

[ionomycin]

Deep sea

[autistobrat]

this too shall pass but the fuck was that for

[ravioliet]

god's weakest soldier is scrolling tumblr instead of being productive or participating in any of their hobbies

[redjennies]

okay you know those posts that are like "this male character archetype would be better as a woman"? you know what we need more of? female loudmouth braggart hero antagonists. women who are cocky and comedically vainglorious and beloved by the public and also objectively suck so fucking bad. I'm not kidding. I don't care how sexist the audience would be about that. I want to see a woman who should be played by whoever the female equivalent of Nathan Fillion is.

[lellanella]

Apple Pie

cw: fem!reader, a bit of hurt/comfort, Dean appropriate cussing, a sexual joke at the end there, and a burnt thumb

a/n: this is just me stretching my limbs

You bake Dean a pie, and ruin it. Dean is completely himself during the ordeal.

wc: 1.4k

The pie is burnt. The apple pie you’d spent an embarrassing amount of time and effort on is ruined, you reek of smoke, your thumb stings, and you’re pretty sure Dean is going to be coming through the front door any minute.

You stare at the blackened mess in dismay, nose scrunched against the acrid smell as smoke filters out your kitchen window.

In hindsight, you'd been a little ambitious. At no point in your life have you successfully baked anything, and just because you’re in love with a man that loves apple pie does not mean you’ve suddenly gained the ability to bake it for him, no matter how much you want to see his eyes all soft and warm and pleased with you.

You’d thought about buying one of course, but had scoffed at the idea of cutting corners, wanting to do it yourself. Some stupid decision to bake it with love or whatever the hell those idiotic hallmark movies had convinced you was the right thing to do. Clearly, your hubris has been your downfall.

And the downfall of your pie.

You were sure you’d only been out of the kitchen for a moment or two. You’d set the timer for five more minutes, just long enough to brown the crust, tidy up, and change into clothes devoid of flour and sugar. Sure, Dean has seen you covered in all manner of blood and guts and, frankly, things you don’t want to think about, but it’ll be a cold day in hell that you stop trying to impress him.

You’d gotten the living room cozied up, blankets draped and pillows fluffed for maximum movie watching comfort, and had moved onto the very important outfit selection process. You’d just been tugging one of his faded band tees over your head when the screaming smoke detector sent you rushing back to the kitchen.

In your haste to get the pie out and onto the stove top you’d bumped and scraped the top of it against the lip of the oven, filled the kitchen with smoke, burnt your thumb, and realized that instead of setting a five minute timer, you’d set the oven to a roaring five hundred degrees and consequently roasted the hell out of said pie.

Shame chokes you as you run cold water over your hand. You can toss the pie in the trash, hope it’s buried enough he won’t catch it, and light some candles to mask the smell. He’ll notice the blister forming on your thumb, but you can explain that away.

The front door opens and you move, snapping the sink off and angling your body between Dean and the charred remains of his would-be treat. Your hands knot, pressure dulling the burn a bit. Embarrassment burns your cheeks.

“Baby doll, I’m tellin’ ya, gotta keep this locked.” He closes and locks the door, staring balefully at you while he shrugs his jacket off. “I’ve got the keys, you don’t need to be leaving this open, yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I forgot. But Dean —”

“S’alright baby, not mad at ya, just not thrilled with you being on the first floor anyway. Have you —”

“Dean, honey, I have to tell you —”

“Tell me, baby.” His boots fall forgotten by the door, eyes glinting with that focus that makes your belly heat as he moves towards you. “But do it closer. Missed you all day.”

“Wait! Stay there.”

He cocks his head, lips tipping down. He shoves his hands on his hips and frowns, but he stays put.

“What's up? You ok?” You stare at the little crease in his brows while your mind scrambles to catch up. Logically, you know he won’t care. He’ll smile and laugh and bundle you close like he always does and forget as soon as the mess is cleared away. But this feels heavier than that, and to your disgust you can feel the threat of tears building. You’re frozen, disappointment and embarrassment beating back your rationality as concern sharpens his features.

“Sweetheart, what? What’s wrong?” He shifts his weight from side to side, clothes still dirty from the garage as he stares you down. It hurts a little more that he’s come straight from work to you, and you can’t even get a stupid pie right. You fidget, fingers plucking and rolling against each other as you frown back at him. “If you don’t tell me I can't—”

“I burnt the pie.” Your admission is softer than you’d expected. “I tried to make you one,” you add. “Apple, actually.”

His eyes flare with understanding, and something else thats too lovely for you to think about without bursting into tears. His face softens, and he starts towards you again while you plead your case.

“I wanted to surprise you but I messed up the timer and burned it. I’m sorry, I was going to toss it but I ran out of time, and—” You blink carefully, swallow your words, sure you’ll cry soon if you don’t get a grip.

“Lemme see it.” He’s in your space now, heat pressed to your front.

You narrow your eyes at him, palms snapping against his chest to back him away from your failure, but he’s Dean so he ignores it. His arms curl around your waist and he hoists you onto the kitchen counter instead. A very distant part of you preens at his manhandling, but you’re too agitated to bask in it like you normally would. You’re sure you’re sitting in flour, but he’s wedging himself between your legs, hands steady on your hips as he swipes a kiss along your cheek.

He keeps you there, your thighs hooked tight around his hips while he ignores your sputtering, and you pointedly look away as he considers the stupid burnt mess on the stove top.

“Baby,” he says. His voice is warm with laughter as he jostles you against him. “Hand me a fork.”

You slap at his shoulder. “Dean, you’re not eating that.”

He tightens his arm around you, ducks his head into your line of sight. “My girl baked me a pie,” he says. He grins. “Course I’m gonna fuckin’ eat it.” He reaches past you, lips tucking to that soft spot behind your ear as he rattles through the silverware drawer.

“Dean, come on.” Mirth chases away the heat in your throat and you laugh into his shoulder. “Let me down, I’ll toss it and we can order one from the diner.”

He pinches your hip, eyes full of reproach as he digs his fork directly into the center of the pie. “Don’t you dare,” he says. He shovels a forkful into his mouth, glaring at you. “Don’t touch my pie.”

You roll your eyes. “No way that tastes good.”

“Bet your ass it does.” Another too large bite follows the first, and you’d worry about him choking if you didn’t know better. “Best pie I’ve ever had. Want some?”

You shake your head, smiling in disbelief as he shrugs and continues inhaling the blackened mess.

“Can’t believe you were gonna toss this.” He smacks sugary lips against your forehead. “Have some faith in me.”

You brush a crumb from the corner of his mouth and he nips at your fingers. His eyes narrow, and lightning quick he’s got a hand wrapped around your wrist. He tugs it closer for inspection, frowning at the reddened skin on your thumb.

“You burn yourself, baby?” His voice is maddeningly tender, his calloused fingers even more so. “Should have told me.”

“Just a little.” You shrug, bashful. “I rinsed it. It doesn’t hurt or anything.”

“Still. Come here.”

He hauls you off the counter and herds you towards the couch. You let him fuss, pie forgotten as he sorts you out with too much burn cream and a band aid meant for a much bigger wound. Finally, satisfied you’re not in grave danger, he tosses you the remote and drops a blanket in your lap. He kicks the ottoman closer, hauls your feet onto it the way you like.

“Pick a movie,” he says. He saunters back to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a plate overflowing with pie.

“Dean, you’ve made your point. You don’t have to —”

“Don’t have to eat the best damn thing I’ve ever tasted?” He drops down beside you, thigh warm against yours. “Start the movie, honey. Quit bad mouthing my pie.”

But he’s looking at you the way you’d wanted, that soft contentment you’d hoped for lighting his eyes. Your belly warms, cheeks heating for an all together different reason as he groans in delight around his next bite.

"Well," he adds. "Best damn thing aside from that sweet little cu—”

"Dean!"

[fangorn-forest]

masculine energy this feminine energy that. well i’m out of energy

[batbetbitbotbut]

need me some of this "renewable energy" I keep hearing about

[lellanella]

Apple Pie

cw: fem!reader, a bit of hurt/comfort, Dean appropriate cussing, a sexual joke at the end there, and a burnt thumb

a/n: this is just me stretching my limbs

You bake Dean a pie, and ruin it. Dean is completely himself during the ordeal.

wc: 1.4k

The pie is burnt. The apple pie you’d spent an embarrassing amount of time and effort on is ruined, you reek of smoke, your thumb stings, and you’re pretty sure Dean is going to be coming through the front door any minute.

You stare at the blackened mess in dismay, nose scrunched against the acrid smell as smoke filters out your kitchen window.

In hindsight, you'd been a little ambitious. At no point in your life have you successfully baked anything, and just because you’re in love with a man that loves apple pie does not mean you’ve suddenly gained the ability to bake it for him, no matter how much you want to see his eyes all soft and warm and pleased with you.

You’d thought about buying one of course, but had scoffed at the idea of cutting corners, wanting to do it yourself. Some stupid decision to bake it with love or whatever the hell those idiotic hallmark movies had convinced you was the right thing to do. Clearly, your hubris has been your downfall.

And the downfall of your pie.

You were sure you’d only been out of the kitchen for a moment or two. You’d set the timer for five more minutes, just long enough to brown the crust, tidy up, and change into clothes devoid of flour and sugar. Sure, Dean has seen you covered in all manner of blood and guts and, frankly, things you don’t want to think about, but it’ll be a cold day in hell that you stop trying to impress him.

You’d gotten the living room cozied up, blankets draped and pillows fluffed for maximum movie watching comfort, and had moved onto the very important outfit selection process. You’d just been tugging one of his faded band tees over your head when the screaming smoke detector sent you rushing back to the kitchen.

In your haste to get the pie out and onto the stove top you’d bumped and scraped the top of it against the lip of the oven, filled the kitchen with smoke, burnt your thumb, and realized that instead of setting a five minute timer, you’d set the oven to a roaring five hundred degrees and consequently roasted the hell out of said pie.

Shame chokes you as you run cold water over your hand. You can toss the pie in the trash, hope it’s buried enough he won’t catch it, and light some candles to mask the smell. He’ll notice the blister forming on your thumb, but you can explain that away.

The front door opens and you move, snapping the sink off and angling your body between Dean and the charred remains of his would-be treat. Your hands knot, pressure dulling the burn a bit. Embarrassment burns your cheeks.

“Baby doll, I’m tellin’ ya, gotta keep this locked.” He closes and locks the door, staring balefully at you while he shrugs his jacket off. “I’ve got the keys, you don’t need to be leaving this open, yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I forgot. But Dean —”

“S’alright baby, not mad at ya, just not thrilled with you being on the first floor anyway. Have you —”

“Dean, honey, I have to tell you —”

“Tell me, baby.” His boots fall forgotten by the door, eyes glinting with that focus that makes your belly heat as he moves towards you. “But do it closer. Missed you all day.”

“Wait! Stay there.”

He cocks his head, lips tipping down. He shoves his hands on his hips and frowns, but he stays put.

“What's up? You ok?” You stare at the little crease in his brows while your mind scrambles to catch up. Logically, you know he won’t care. He’ll smile and laugh and bundle you close like he always does and forget as soon as the mess is cleared away. But this feels heavier than that, and to your disgust you can feel the threat of tears building. You’re frozen, disappointment and embarrassment beating back your rationality as concern sharpens his features.

“Sweetheart, what? What’s wrong?” He shifts his weight from side to side, clothes still dirty from the garage as he stares you down. It hurts a little more that he’s come straight from work to you, and you can’t even get a stupid pie right. You fidget, fingers plucking and rolling against each other as you frown back at him. “If you don’t tell me I can't—”

“I burnt the pie.” Your admission is softer than you’d expected. “I tried to make you one,” you add. “Apple, actually.”

His eyes flare with understanding, and something else thats too lovely for you to think about without bursting into tears. His face softens, and he starts towards you again while you plead your case.

“I wanted to surprise you but I messed up the timer and burned it. I’m sorry, I was going to toss it but I ran out of time, and—” You blink carefully, swallow your words, sure you’ll cry soon if you don’t get a grip.

“Lemme see it.” He’s in your space now, heat pressed to your front.

You narrow your eyes at him, palms snapping against his chest to back him away from your failure, but he’s Dean so he ignores it. His arms curl around your waist and he hoists you onto the kitchen counter instead. A very distant part of you preens at his manhandling, but you’re too agitated to bask in it like you normally would. You’re sure you’re sitting in flour, but he’s wedging himself between your legs, hands steady on your hips as he swipes a kiss along your cheek.

He keeps you there, your thighs hooked tight around his hips while he ignores your sputtering, and you pointedly look away as he considers the stupid burnt mess on the stove top.

“Baby,” he says. His voice is warm with laughter as he jostles you against him. “Hand me a fork.”

You slap at his shoulder. “Dean, you’re not eating that.”

He tightens his arm around you, ducks his head into your line of sight. “My girl baked me a pie,” he says. He grins. “Course I’m gonna fuckin’ eat it.” He reaches past you, lips tucking to that soft spot behind your ear as he rattles through the silverware drawer.

“Dean, come on.” Mirth chases away the heat in your throat and you laugh into his shoulder. “Let me down, I’ll toss it and we can order one from the diner.”

He pinches your hip, eyes full of reproach as he digs his fork directly into the center of the pie. “Don’t you dare,” he says. He shovels a forkful into his mouth, glaring at you. “Don’t touch my pie.”

You roll your eyes. “No way that tastes good.”

“Bet your ass it does.” Another too large bite follows the first, and you’d worry about him choking if you didn’t know better. “Best pie I’ve ever had. Want some?”

You shake your head, smiling in disbelief as he shrugs and continues inhaling the blackened mess.

“Can’t believe you were gonna toss this.” He smacks sugary lips against your forehead. “Have some faith in me.”

You brush a crumb from the corner of his mouth and he nips at your fingers. His eyes narrow, and lightning quick he’s got a hand wrapped around your wrist. He tugs it closer for inspection, frowning at the reddened skin on your thumb.

“You burn yourself, baby?” His voice is maddeningly tender, his calloused fingers even more so. “Should have told me.”

“Just a little.” You shrug, bashful. “I rinsed it. It doesn’t hurt or anything.”

“Still. Come here.”

He hauls you off the counter and herds you towards the couch. You let him fuss, pie forgotten as he sorts you out with too much burn cream and a band aid meant for a much bigger wound. Finally, satisfied you’re not in grave danger, he tosses you the remote and drops a blanket in your lap. He kicks the ottoman closer, hauls your feet onto it the way you like.

“Pick a movie,” he says. He saunters back to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a plate overflowing with pie.

“Dean, you’ve made your point. You don’t have to —”

“Don’t have to eat the best damn thing I’ve ever tasted?” He drops down beside you, thigh warm against yours. “Start the movie, honey. Quit bad mouthing my pie.”

But he’s looking at you the way you’d wanted, that soft contentment you’d hoped for lighting his eyes. Your belly warms, cheeks heating for an all together different reason as he groans in delight around his next bite.

"Well," he adds. "Best damn thing aside from that sweet little cu—”

"Dean!"

[so-many-ocs]

no dude it's so cool how attached you are to that character who is singled out and ostracized due to the external monstrousness that clashes with their internal spark of humanity. and i love how drawn you are to themes of horror and love, nature versus nurture, otherness, isolation, and the abject. i bet you have normal feelings about your own personhood

[cowboyspones]

women were not banging out spirk fanfiction in the 60s for you to be AI generating your fic

[wiltkingart]

from the bottom of my heart: just because something makes you uncomfortable doesn't mean it shouldn't be allowed to exist

[ischleepzzz]

"But what about <thing that literally kills people>?"

[firedragon1321]

This was on a non rebloggable post so I'm setting it free.