#tropes!

oh gosh! i love a lot of tropes. here are a few:

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.

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~

“Wher’re we goin’?” Aziraphale purred.

“Taking you to bed, angel,” Crowley’s voice rumbled through his chest.

That was…nice. More than nice, really.

Aziraphale nodded sensibly. “Took you long enough.”

He felt Crowley chuckle beside him.

“Not like that,” he said.

“Oh,” replied Aziraphale, his heart sinking. “Thasss too bad.”

Keep reading on ao3...

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.

inspired by palm springs (2020)

Today, Dean went to work.

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.