heists! love a heist where each of the people pulling off the heist is wildly good at the thing they do, and also a total weirdo. Leverage is everything to me.
surprising nobody, i am a sucker for a good fake dating story.
a character who either doesn't understand or is refusing to make eye contact with their own feelings, frantically deflecting with jokes.
two characters who have feelings for each other but are each shoving that down as far as it will go, and it gets sublimated into banter, which is really just the above trope but two-player.
roadtrip stories
the inherent homoeroticism of two same-sex pals solving a mystery together
musical episodes (when done well)
stories that switch points of view where you realize that each person has part of the truth, and also is wrong about some stuff.
food or music as a metaphor for love. food or music as an expression of (non-romantic) care.
stories (although sadly nowadays this probably skews historical fiction) highlighting the power of the press.
a group of friends who all genuinely respect and love each other. and they have to work towards a common goal together. idk maybe they have to pull off a heist???
coffee shop or flower girl | au or fix-it | enemies to lovers or childhood friends | angst or fluff | love at first sight or pining | modern au or historical au | break up & make up or proposal & wedding | get together or established relationship | soulmates or unrequited | fake dating or secret dating | obvious pining or domestic fluff | hurt/comfort or crack | meet the parents or meet cute
Thanks for the tag @tealfling! Blue/bold are my picks~
no pressure tags! @wehavemadchemistry @kimberbohwrites
You attend a stage hypnosis show. Despite your initial resistance you find yourself onstage.
The hypnotist is an older gentleman. He guides you through the initial induction and you find yourself fuzzy brained and very suggestible. The longer the show goes the deeper and deeper you go. Soon he has you doing things in public you never would have done before.
Your humping your chair, your sucking on a cock only you can see. You’re saying the must nasty and humiliating things to an invisible lover as he fucks you senseless. And it’s all on video.
The end of the show comes and you wake up back in your chair with the rest of the audience. Everyone is looking bat you and you have no idea why.
Later, at home, you’ve just gotten into bed when your phone rings. You answer it, “Hello?”
“It’s showtime!”
You feel a complete stillness and calmness envelope you. “What are my orders Master?”
“I’m at your front door, let me in”
You get out of bed and walk to the front door of your apartment. You’re completely naked. It doesn’t matter because you know the real show will be starting soon.
A confession of my own: There are certain tropes that I absolutely love in the context of fantasy, and this is one of them. Stage hypnosis? Absolutely. Recording without consent? Hell yes. Complete subjugation of will after a single encounter? Yes, please!
Thank you for saying that about the term “damsel in distress ” it has been butcher so much by fandom that I just quite literally amazed my teacher will rip her hair out if she saw people take on that trope but I have seen paragon used incorrectly too as if being paragon is such a bad thing
Most days by now, he didn’t bother. At the beginning of the loop, he’d shown up for a couple of shifts, certain that he’d just had some really freaky, vivid dreams. Then he’d spent countless days searching for ways to escape, talking to every person he came across, doing everything he could to get as far away from the Roadhouse as possible. He’d even taken a couple of flights but it didn’t matter how far away he got, he always woke up again in his bed the next morning.
The same morning. Whatever.
He’d gone through the whole ‘Bill Murphy in Groundhog Day’ routine, including the suicide attempts. He’d done whatever he could to help the people around him. He’d even saved a couple of lives but it didn’t matter how much he changed or how many personal revelations he reached. The loop was inescapable. He knew that now.
Nothing he did mattered, so Dean just did whatever he felt like. And today he felt like going to work.
The shift started the same as always. No one’s behavior changed unless Dean affected it in some way so he knew by heart what would happen. He’d used it to his advantage a few loops, hitting on every person in the bar and taking home whoever showed any interest. He’d stopped doing that after a while; it felt gross to have sex with people who wouldn’t remember it.
There were four people in the bar when Dean arrived, aside from Jo behind the counter. Of those four, three would remain until closing time. More customer would filter in as the evening wore on.
Dean kept an eye out for his favorites: Leslie, who he could always draw into a debate about beat poetry, her talking points changing wildly with just the slightest variation in response from Dean. Rufus Turner, who Dean had just learned how to draw into a proper conversation (he’d gotten punched in the face twice as he worked out the right mixture of confrontational and respectful). Castiel, an astrophysicist who Dean had talked to the science of time loops about but had never been able to offer advice that could actually help.
As if conjured by the mere thought of him, Castiel suddenly entered the Roadhouse, loudly slamming the door open. Dean froze. This was new. He wasn’t meant to be here for another hour.
This was new.
Castiel stood frozen in the doorway as well, eyes widening as he spotted Dean. Then he was stalking forward.
“You!” Castiel shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Dean. “You’re not supposed to be here!”
Jo said something but Dean ignored her. “You’re the one who’s not supposed to be here!”
“No. No, see, I’ve gone through this day thirty-eight times now. Everything stays the same. You weren’t here the last thirty-seven times, why are you here now?”
Dean stared at him. Then he started laughing. He tried to hold it back at first but it came bubbling forward, hysterical peels of laughter leaving him breathless. His eyes began to water and before he knew, someone was roughly tugging at his elbow, pulling him outside.
They leaned him against the wall and slowly, the laughter died down. Dean leaned forward, palms on his knees as he regained his breath. Castiel was standing next to him and Jo was in the doorway, staring at him worriedly.
“Go back inside,” he told her with a wave of his hand. “I’ll be right back.”
Jo gave him a dubious look and Dean couldn’t blame her; both he and Castiel had to look crazy from her point of view.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just gimme five, okay?”
She pursed her lips together but nodded, stepping back inside and closing the door behind her, leaving Dean and Castiel alone.
“Thirty-eight times, huh?” Dean asked, straightening. “That’s it?”
“That’s-” Castiel cut off his own indignant response, seeming to realize just what Dean wasn’t saying. He had to give it to him, he was quick on the uptake. “How many days has it been for you?”
Dean shrugged. “I’m not sure. Thousands.”
Castiel paled. “And you haven’t found a way out?”
“I tried everything I could think of,” Dean said. “Asked you for a bunch of advice. Did the whole Groundhog Day personal improvement thing, didn’t work.”
“Groundhog Day?” Castiel repeated quizzically.
“Oh, come on, you know Noether's theorem off the top of your head but you haven’t heard of Groundhog Day?”
“How do you know that?”
Dean shot him a flat look.
Castiel looked disconcerted. “Right. That’s - what else do you know about me?”
“You’re the youngest of five siblings. You and your father were close when you were younger but the relationship has gotten strained since you came out of the closet in college. Your first boyfriend was named Bartholomew and he was a total dick but you weren’t confident enough to break up with him until the second time you found out he cheated on you.
“Your favorite drink is whiskey, neat, and your favorite author is Jane Austen, but you prefer reading poetry over novels. You can quote William Carlos Williams’ ‘Spring Storm’ by heart. You have a mole on your chest here,” Dean pointed at the spot right next to Castiel’s left nipple, “and your gag reflex is practically nonexistent.”
Castiel stared.
Dean coughed, feeling awkward for the first time in forever. “Sorry. I’ve kinda forgotten how to talk to people without following a script.”
“Right,” Castiel repeated. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why don’t you tell me in detail what you’ve tried to break the loop so far?”
It was Dean’s turn to stare.
“I need all the available data,” Castiel said. “I have a couple of theories on how this loop happened and how to end it but it’s going to take time to test them. Weeks, most likely.”
“I ain’t going nowhere,” Dean said faintly. “You - you really think you can get us out of this?”
Something ached in his chest. Hope, he realized after a moment. He was feeling hopeful.
“I will get us out,” Castiel corrected. “Both of us.”
Both of them.
Dean laughed disbelievingly, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Okay. What do you need to know?”
