#Thank you SO MUCH

[microwavingfranky]

OOOOOH MAN I JUST REALIZED I NEEEEEEED TO MAKE SOME FROBIN STUFF FOR VALENTINES DAY OR I WILL EXPLODE

POSTING ABOUT IT RN TO KEEP MYSELF ACCOUNTABLE RAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH

[tecnestheim962]

Omg, I wasn’t expecting an inspirational speech but I honestly didn’t know how much I needed to hear that! Thank you so much! I will absolutely be taking your words to heart. I’m someone who really struggles to do something if I’m not doing it “perfectly,” so most of the time if I don’t meet my own standards, I either don’t do it or I work really hard and then give up. I really appreciate you taking the time to say this, it means more than you know!

How art good…

Step 1: become insane about something Step 2: grab a pencil about it

...but watch out

[snoopyoftheday]

not a snoopy of the day, but i just wanted to thank everyone who wished me a happy birthday. i've read all the comments - tags and they all made me very happy ♡

[unforth]

Gentle reminder that very little fandom labor is automated, because I think people forget that a lot.

That blog with a tagging system you love? A person curates those tags by hand.

That rec blog with a great organization scheme and pretty graphics? Someone designed and implemented that organization scheme and made those graphics.

That network that posts a cool variety of stuff? People track down all that variety and queue it by hand, and other people made all the individual pieces.

That post with umpteen links to helpful resources, and information about them? Someone gathered those links, researched the sources, wrote up the information about them.

That graphic about fandom statistics? Someone compiled those statistics, analyzed them, organized them, figured out a useful way to convey the information to others, and made the post.

That event that you think looks neat? Someone wrote the rules, created the blogs and Discords, designed the graphics, did their best to promo the event so it'd succeed.

None of this was done automatically. None of it just appears whole out of the internet ether.

I think everyone realizes that fic writing and fanart creation are work, and at least some folks have got it through their heads that gif creation and graphics and moodboards take effort, and meta is usually respected for the effort that goes into it, at least as far as I've seen, but I feel like a lot of people don't really get how much labor goes into curation, too.

If people are creating resources, curating content, organizing the creations of others, gathering information, and doing other fandom activities that aren't necessarily the direct action of creation, they're doing a lot of fandom labor, and it's often largely unrecognized.

Celebrate fan work!

To folks doing this kind of labor: I see you, and I thank you. You are the backbones of our fandoms and I love you.

[sceletaflores]

couldn't help it, i had to kiss the teacher!

pair: professor!logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 3.6k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, age gap (reader is mid twenties...logan is...his age), gratuitous nickname usage, public sex (classroom), oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), an impromptu clitoral anatomy lesson, scent kink, hair pulling, light traces of a foot fetish (i'm literally not even sorry), nat probably blatantly ignoring canon, nat trying to sound smart, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

a/n: based off of me going to my a&p lab today and getting super bored which somehow led to thoughts about professor logan who teaches a&p…that then spiraled into this very quickly. p.s this is like a t.a!reader not a student lol

professor logan has a special way of helping you retain information...

You've been huffing and puffing for the last twenty minutes.

Logan has been blatantly ignoring you for the last twenty minutes, because that's the only way a man with enhanced hearing can ignore someone.

Blatantly.

He's been at the chalkboard since you came in a little after his last class ended, busy mapping out his lesson plan for tomorrow.

The chalk squeaks rhythmically as he writes, you tap your foot in time with it.

You're perched on top of his desk, different stacks of papers messily scattered all around you like a tornado of ungraded essays and homework assignments tore across the glossy cherry wood of it.

You glare at Logan's back harder, forcing yourself to ignore the way his muscles glide and flex beneath the thin fabric of his flannel with every move. You've got your chin resting on the palm of your hand that's propped against your knee, the other holding a red pen down by your shoe.

You sigh, long and overdramatic, for what feels like the millionth time.

Logan doesn't turn around, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move at all. His hand hardly even slows, jotting down different tissue structures with infuriating disinterest.

You shift on his desk with a huff, dragging your eyes back to the paper in front of you. You scan over the messy handwriting and tiny diagrams littered over the page as you tap the pen in your hand against the toe of your shoe absentmindedly.

"Knock it off," Logan mutters from across the room, not looking at you as he does. It's the first thing he's said to you since you showed up.

You instantly perk up at the attention, flicking your eyes back to him.

“Knock what off?” you ask innocently, tapping the pen on your shoe harder than before. The tiny 'clack' sound it makes is sharp in the quiet of the room.

Logan finally turns, fixing you with a look that’s equal parts annoyance and amusement. “The sighin’, the tappin’, the huffin’ like you’re a broken radiator. You’ve been makin’ noise since you sat down.”

You narrow your eyes at him, unrepentant. "I’m bored."

He lets out a dry chuckle, turning back towards to board with a amused shake of his head. “Not my problem, sweetheart.”

You frown, dropping the pen and sitting up straighter, as if you’ve just been handed a challenge. "You could try and help me," you suggest, gesturing to the scattered pile with a wave of your hand. "You know? Like a good professor would."

"I don't grade papers, kid. That's what you're here for." Logan shoots over his shoulder, seamlessly picking up where he left off. “Besides, I’m good with the chalkboard for now. Better company.”

“Chalk doesn’t talk back,” you grumble under your breath.

“Exactly.”

“Oh, so now you can hear me?"

Logan doesn’t bother replying, but you can see the barely there smirk turning up the corners of his mouth.

You scoot forward on his desk, pushing papers out of the way so your legs can dangle over the edge. You swing your feet back and forth, just enough to disturb another pile of papers sitting nearby, watching them slide closer to the edge.

One more swing and the corner of a stack teeters precariously. You bite your lip, considering whether or not to send it tumbling just to see if that would get him to turn around again.

Logan, of course, somehow knows exactly what you’re thinking without even glancing towards you. “Don’t,” he grumbles lowly, a warning.

You freeze mid-swing, but the urge to push his buttons is too tempting. "What?" you say, all wide-eyed innocence, nudging the pile ever so slightly with your knee.

Logan lets out a deep sigh, giving you a sideways glance over his shoulder. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth sometimes, you know that? I doubt Hank's help nags him half as much.”

You grin, taking that as a small victory.

"I was recommended," you remind him, tone overly cheery and saccharine.

"Must've been desperate," he mutters, finally stepping away from the board and dusting chalk from his hands. Logan turns, crossing his arms as he leans back against the chalkboard, giving you a look that says he’s just on the edge of being amused

You raise an eyebrow, fixing him with a blank stare. "I’ll be sure to pass that along to Professor Xavier."

Logan shakes his head, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Yeah? Be my guest. Make sure you tell him you’re spendin’ your time testin' my patience instead of your job.”

You slump back on the desk with a groan, head tilted towards the ceiling. "It's been forever since I've taken this class," you whine, rolling your head to the left lazily. "I hardly remember any of this, how am I supposed to grade it?"

"Barely remember any of this?" he repeats back to you, brow raised in disapproval. He pushes off the chalkboard and starts to make his way towards you. His steps are slow, deliberate, like he’s sizing you up—though you know it’s mostly for show. 

Mostly.

You watch him through half-lidded eyes, still splayed back on your palms and kicking your feet languidly. There’s chalk dust littered over his chest and the front of his thighs, coating them in a thin layer white. Your gaze trails the path of his steps, a slow smile tugging at your lips the closer he gets.

Logan stops in front of you, his towering frame almost filling your view entirely. You’re able to look him in the eyes perched on his desk like this, the green of them is darker than normal.

He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes glint with a teasing challenge as he tilts his head slightly, like he’s daring you to keep going.

“You got cotton in your ears when I’m up there talking or what?” he asks, voice dipping lower than before.

Your smile widens, and you shrug, trying to keep your cool under his heavy gaze. “You know I can’t listen to you when you wear jeans that tight.”

His eyes lock onto yours, their usual sharpness softened by something more dangerous, something that sends a thrill down your spine. "Maybe if you paid a little more attention," he says, voice a low rumble, "you wouldn’t need to whine so much."

You roll your eyes, even as the heat between you starts to curl in your chest. "Or maybe," you counter, leaning back a touch more and tilting your head up to meet his gaze better, "you could actually help me instead of being a complete pain in the—"

Before you can finish, Logan’s hands slam down on either side of you, caging you in. His face is inches from yours now, that barely-there smirk playing on his lips again.

You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the sharp edge of his stare cutting through your casual defiance.

“—ass,” you finally finish, voice slightly more breathless than before.

Logan just stares at you, the intense and unwavering attention you were itching for earlier makes you want to squirm in place now. His gaze is almost predatory, as if he’s taking in every flutter of your eyelashes and the quickening pace of your breath. 

Your heart skips a beat, but you don’t back down.

You lean forward a little, tilting your head. "So, what’s it gonna take to get you to grade just one of these?" You pick up a paper from the pile and wave it in front of him teasingly. “I really need your help, professor.” 

The word drips from your lips like a challenge, a taunt.

Logan’s eyes flicker with something dangerous, a flash of heat that tells you he’s not as unaffected as he pretends to be. His fingers brush against the desk right beside your thigh, close enough to feel the warmth of him but it’s still too far.

He leans down slightly, inches away from your lips. His breath mingles with yours, warm and inviting, as the tension in the air thickens.

The scent of him—woodsy and masculine—invades your senses, and you can’t help but feel exhilarated. Your pulse starts to race, a mix of excitement and a hint of challenge flashing between you. 

You let out a soft breath, eyes fluttering shut as you lean forward almost involuntarily.

Just as you’re about to close the gap, he pulls back, straightening up with a smug grin.

“Tell you what,” he starts, voice gone casual like he isn’t testing the very limits of your sanity. “I’ll help you.”

You open your mouth, cocky victory speech on the tip of your tongue, but Logan cuts you off.

“Not with grading,” he clarifies with a shake of his head. “It’s more like a," he takes a slow pause, like he's trying to find the right words, "personalized lesson.”

You swallow hard, trying to ignore the way your pulse thunders in your ears. "What kind of lesson are we talking about?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady but it still comes out breathless.

His hands move from the desk, gliding up your legs until they rest just above your knees, the warmth of his touch igniting every nerve ending in your body. 

“Logan—”

Anything you were going to say dissolves into a breathy gasp when he drops to his knees in front of you.

Your thighs clench together, arousal pooling in your panties sticky and wet. Logan's nose twitches, eyes darkening as he scents the headiness of your essence in the air.

His mouth twitches into a slow, deliberate grin as he catches the shift in your scent, the change in your body language betraying your desire. 

His hands, firm yet careful, slide higher along your thighs, fingers brushing the sensitive skin just beneath the hem of your skirt. The fabric rucks up ever so slightly under his touch, exposing just a little more of you to the cool air of the room and the heat of his gaze.

"Real quiet now," he teases darkly, voice husky and thick with tension, his thumbs tracing small, maddening circles against your skin. "Not so mouthy anymore, huh?"

Your breath hitches, a low heat sparking in the pit of your stomach and spreading outward.

Logan's grip tightens slightly, as though he’s testing the weight of your response, the way your thighs tense beneath his hands. He looks up at you, eyes dark and gleaming with an intensity that makes it impossible to think straight.

“You talk a lot of game, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice sending a thrill down your spine, “but I think it’s time to show me you can learn something."

You tilt your head back, trying to steady yourself, but it’s no use. Your body’s betraying you, hips shifting slightly forward, your legs spreading just so, inviting more of his touch—inviting him to make good on that unspoken promise that hangs between you.

Logan’s smirk deepens, dangerously close to devouring the last of your composure. "All you gotta do," he drawls, his breath hot against the inside of your thigh, "is ask for it."

His hands slide up a little more, his fingers catching on the edge of your panties. You can't help the sharp inhale that escapes you.

His challenge hangs in the air, thick and heavy, but you're past the point of hesitation. The words leave your lips before you even realize it.

"Teach me."

Logan’s grin spreads like wildfire, the kind that sparks and sets everything in its path ablaze. His eyes never leave yours, holding you captive as he flips your skirt up.

Something low and gritty tears its way from his chest at the sight of your panties, soaked fabric melded against the shape of your aching pussy. The sound echoes in the quiet room, low and primal, stirring a deep thrum of excitement in the pit of your stomach.

He shoves his way between your thighs, spreading them even further to make enough room for the width of his shoulders.

"You're a smart girl," Logan says easily, leaning down to trail kisses along the skin of your inner thigh, just inches from where you really need his mouth. "You should be able to tell me what tissue this is made of."

He dips his head, trailing his nose along the soaked fabric of your cotton panties until it nudges against your clit.

"Logan, I– ah!”

A sharp slap to your thigh cuts you off, pinpricks of pleasure making you cry out as they bloom red across your skin.

“Is that what you call me?”

It takes a second to click in the haze of your mind, what he’s asking for. When it finally does, you're whole body shivers, a broken moan falling from your lips as you take in the expectant look in Logan's eyes.

Your mind whirls, but the answer tumbles from your lips like a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

"Professor," you gasp, voice soft and laced with need.

Logan's grin is devilish, hands gripping your hips tight enough that you can feel the strength behind them.

"Good girl," he growls, voice thick with approval, the heat in his gaze burning you from the inside out. 

You let out a soft whimper, hips instinctively tilting toward him, silently begging for more. But he doesn’t move. Instead, his grip on your thighs tightens, holding you firmly in place.

“Uh-uh," he rumbles, his mouth inches from you, but not close enough to touch. "You know how this works. You haven’t answered my question."

You can’t respond, silent as you stare down at Logan, wide-eyed as your mind races for anything to say that’ll get him to keep going.

"Come on, baby," he urges, thumbs rubbing slow circles over your skin. "Just tell me somethin' smart, I'll give you what you want."

You try to focus, try to remember something—anything—about what he taught in class. But all you can think about is the way his hands feel on your thighs, the heat of his breath, the maddening nearness of his mouth.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing the edge of your panties, just shy of where you need him most, and you can't help the frustrated groan that escapes you.

“What's sweet thing made of?" He nudges the soaked fabric against your clit again, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

"Fuck...erectile tissue," you manage to breathe out, mind fogged as you claw for the right answer. "But it's—it's surface is covered in epithelial tissue."

Extra credit.

Logan hums, the sound low and approving. 

"Very good," he murmurs, his hands slipping beneath your panties, pushing the fabric aside. The first touch of his fingers against your bare skin sends a shiver of pure pleasure through you, your body arching off the desk in response.

His fingers tease along your slit, and you bite your lip to stifle the whimper threatening to spill out. Logan watches you closely, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he spreads you open with his fingers, exposing the slick heat between your legs.

Your back arches off the desk with a loud moan, hands gripping the edge hard enough that your knuckles turn white with it. 

“Fuck, look at that,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, sliding his index finger through the wetness gathering at your entrance. “This is all for me? This pretty pussy all wet for your professor?

He presses a finger against your entrance, teasingly pushing just the tip inside before pulling back, relishing the way your body instinctively arches toward him.

You shake your head, peering down at him with glassy eyes. “You were never my professor,” you shoot back breathlessly, unable to keep from pushing against him even now.

Logan hums absentmindedly, eyes glued to the space between your legs. “Lucky you,” he drawls, sinking two fingers inside you without warning.

Your head falls back with a cry, thighs tightening around his shoulders as sparks go off at the base of your spine. 

“Now, tell me how you feel,” Logan prompts, his voice gravelly and filled with that dark, teasing edge. His fingers glide up, slick as they draw tantalizing circles over your clit that set your nerves ablaze.

You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, embarrassment mixing with arousal as you wrestle with the overwhelming sensations. “I—uh,” you stammer, trying to organize your thoughts, but they slip away like sand through your fingers. “I feel–ah!…good.”

Logan lets out a chuckle. “Good, huh? Just good? You can do better than that. Don't get shy now, baby.”

His hand speeds up, the lewd noise of your slick pussy fills the room with each thrust. “What’s it feel like when I’ve got my fingers in you, hm?”

The dam breaks inside of you, all the embarrassment leaving your body as your hips start rocking down against him lightly.

“Feels so good,” you slur, head lolling to the side to watch him through half-lidded eyes. “Your fingers feel so good in me, professor.”

You’re playing with fire and you know it, but when your eyes slip down his body to find the hard imprint of his cock more than visible through his jeans, you can’t help yourself.

You slide your foot up his toned thigh until the chunky sole brushes against the tented denim.

Logan’s eyes flutter shut for just a second, his grin turning almost feral as he feels the pressure of your foot against him. His hips rock forward slightly, just enough to acknowledge your touch.

“You’re pushin’ your luck, kid,” he bites out, voice rough as gravel, but there's a thread of amusement running through it—like he’s enjoying this game just as much as you are.

You give him a slow, languid smile. "Maybe I like pushing," you breathe, dragging your foot up and down the length of him slowly.

Logan groans darkly, sliding his fingers out of you in one slick motion that makes you whine in protest. His hand moves to grip your ankle, firm but not painful, keeping you pressed against his cock. 

“God, you smell so fuckin’ good,” he says quietly, the words passing through his lips like he couldn’t hold them in anymore. He brings his soaked fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a groan. 

"Taste even better." His voice is rough, filled with desire that matches your own. You can’t hold back the whimper that escapes your lips, your hips bucking involuntarily, begging for more.

His grin widens, and finally, after what feels like an eternity of teasing, he gives in. Logan lowers his head, his mouth pressing against your clit in a slow, deliberate kiss that has your back arching off the desk, a strangled cry ripping from your throat.

Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands as you guide him closer, urging him on. His tongue flicks against your clit expertly, his stubble scratching deliciously against your skin with every drag of his head.

Your body feels like it’s been set on fire. The heat builds in your core, faster than you can control, a coil winding tighter and tighter until you feel like you’re about to snap. 

“I—I think I’m going to—” you stammer, overwhelmed by the pleasure as he picks up the pace, fingers moving faster.

“Tell me,” he growls, the rumble of it vibrating against your clit as he holds your gaze, plunging his fingers back inside of you. “I want to hear you say it.”

“God, Professor! Fuck, Logan, I’m gonna—” you cry out, your body trembling, ready to explode. Your pussy weeps around the stretch of his thick fingers, soaking his hand and his wrist with your wetness.

"Atta' girl," he growls, pressing his thumb over your clit to send a jolt of ecstasy through your core. "Makin' a fuckin’ mess all over my desk, just like that.”

He leans in, wrapping his mouth around your clit and sucking while his fingers keep up their relentless pace. With barely any pressure, he drags the harsh edge of his teeth over your clit and sends you tumbling over the edge, your body arching into his mouth as you come. 

The sheer force of it has your whole body tensing, your foot pressing on the clothed length of his cock harder than before. Logan groans at the feeling, eyes screwing shut as his hips buck up against the heel of your shoe. 

As you ride the waves of ecstasy, Logan’s eyes stay locked on yours, watching. Greedy eyes taking in every detail of your face, every moan and whimper that falls from your slick lips, every tremor of your body.

He doesn’t relent, his fingers working you through the aftershocks, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from you until you’re left breathless, heart racing, and utterly spent. 

As you come down from the high, you glance at him, chest heaving with exertion. 

Logan’s already looking at you, his gaze has a little more softness mixed in with the heat still simmering. He drops one last kiss to the slick skin of your thigh before pushing your foot off his lap and standing. His lips and chin glistening with your release, that cocky smirk still firmly in place as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Your eyes fall to where he’s still hard and tenting the denim of his jeans, pre-come leaking from the tip to stain the fabric darker.

“Ready for another one,” he whispers, leaning in close. His lips brush over yours, hips slotting between your thighs to grind the hard length of his cock along your sensitive pussy.

You can’t help the smug smile that takes over your face, your arms raising up to circle around his neck. Your eyes trail along the boards forgotten lesson plan over his shoulder, to the papers that were sitting on his desk scattered on the hardwood. 

Your legs circle his waist, dragging him closer. "I think so."

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[jav-animations]

Thank you, thank you, thank you... Omg... 💜

I know i may lose followers because of it but it's just how my heart feels like, I'm sorry

For selfshippers that are jealous/non-sharing and feel bad about it :

Jealousy is a complicated mix of feelings that happen when something you hold dear feels like it’s being “shared” or viewed in a way that doesn’t align with what you want. It’s not about being jealous in a way that’s wrong or over the top, it’s more about protecting something that’s deeply personal to you. Your connection to your f/o is a special and intimate bond, and seeing them through a lens you don’t fully vibe with can feel like an invasion of that space.

It’s okay to acknowledge those feelings, even if they don’t always make perfect sense. They’re valid because they stem from your attachment and love for your f/o in your own way. You’re not being unreasonable for wanting your space to feel like your version of your f/o, and it’s okay to feel protective over it. Remember that being open with yourself about those feelings even if they feel a little messy, is the first step to finding peace with them. There is nothing wrong with being like that as long as you don't hurt others over it.

[lottee-e]

Feelings and Flowers 💕

[cherry-pop-elf]

Kiss it Better Pt:2

Curly x Reader

AN: Holy shit I did NOT expect all the love and support from the original like god damn! People begging for a part 2 and everything (I’ll make sure to tag those who asked for one at the bottom) Like oh my god thank you guys so much! This means the WORLD to me! As a disabled person trying to make his medical issues more accurate it means so much that yall love it and how I write in general! Thank you!

SUM: You and Anya were busy dealing with changing Curly’s wrappings together. Sharing stories, and just trying to stay positive. That’s when you just had to ask. What’s going on between her and Jimmy?

Warnings: Jimmy, sexual assault, Anya sharing her trauma so pls take care of yourself, medical gore, medical situations, light violence,

“Thank you again for handling Curly’s medication. I’m sorry I just-“ Anya would try to explain again how sorry she was that she was struggling to do her job. A job you could never blame her for. She’s been through a traumatic event of the ship crashing, and already had to try and save a near corpse. She deserves to breathe.

“Anya it’s fine, really. I’m his romantic partner as well. It be weird if I didn’t pick up some responsibility and tried to take care of him. You also deserve time to rest. You’ve done so much for him, and saved his life. Give yourself more credit. It’s not a sin to ask for help.” You would try and comfort her, as you would grab the fresh bandages for Curly.

He needed a lot of them, and they had to be changed out relatively often. He’s basically just exposed meat after all. The risk of infection was high, which you were wondering how he didn’t even catch any yet, so he needed alot of attention and care.

If only Pony Express had packed more, because the med bay was running out of them fast. Very very fast. Might be only able to maybe re wrap him a few more times now. Had you terrified because as much as you wanted to take care of him you had to leave some bandages for the rest of the crew. In case of another emergency.

You wish you could be doing more.

“We’re going to undress you. Is that alright?” Anya would ask Curly, who in return would give two blinks to indicate that he consented to being stripped. Was gonna have to be done but it was still so kind of Anya to still ask before hand.

The two of you would soon get to work on changing out his bandages. A very slow, careful, tedious job. One that normally took over a hour to do properly. So it’s time to kill some of that empty space.

“Ya know, this isn’t the first time over had to wrap up a certain someone because they got hurt. I remember a time when we were at a Ski resort with his family. Someone wanted to try a path that was meant for experts and before you know it someone’s returning to the lodge with his leg bone sticking out of his pants.”

Anya gave a little ‘oh my’ as you just laughed at the memory. Curly just adored sports. Especially the winter variety. You felt so blessed that he had a job that paid so well. Well enough that the two of you, and his own family sometimes, could go and enjoy vacations like that.

You wonder if the two of you will ever see the snow again.

“That sounds rather nice, minus the whole breaking his leg. To share a cabin together with someone. Cuddle for warmth together by the fire place. Sounds really nice.” She would speak dreamily. As if she knew it was simply that. A dream. Something that will never happen again. No matter how hard she tried.

Like something was wrong with her.

“I bet you’ll get that moment. When we escape here you’ll have a flooding of men and women coming your way. The brilliant woman who managed to fight death and win. Again and again. The most brilliant woman to ever live.” You would praise her, as you were very mindful of Curly’s catheter. As if that needed to be messed with.

“Yeah…..Maybe……” Anya didn’t really seem to actually respond. Was like she was just saying words for the sake of words. Had you wondering.

Even before the crash she had just started acting off one day. From being a cheerful woman who was gentle and full of smiles, to being so quiet and scared by the littlest of sounds. Like she expected someone to jump from around the corner and attack her. Any feeling of safety and comfort vanished.

You were worried.

“Say, Anya-“ You began to speak, while disposing the bandages safely into the bio hazard bag. “-Is everything ok? I mean duh we’re not doing to hot with being, ya know, crashed and all. But besides that. You just seem…..different.”

Anya seemed to not hear you. She simply worked on checking over Curly’s body. Hunting down any infections, looking for possible bed sores, monitoring his healing, and getting ready to do the ever so gentlest of sponge baths.

Anya did always get in the zone whenever someone was hurt. You figured she didn’t catch what you said because of it.

So repeated yourself, as you stood next to her. Impossible to miss what you were asking, as you would help Curly sit up and just move his joints to better reach with the sponge.

The only sounds in that room were Curly’s whines of discomfort. Whines to indicate truly how much pain he was in when even the pain killers can numb it.

“Anya….I know you can hear me. Is everything alright? Not to be rude but I’m kinda asking you a question.” You would be gentle, but she still couldn’t help but looked distressed.

“Anya what’s-“ You would reach a hand out, to comfort her, but the second it was raised towards her she would immediately flinch. Her startled reaction ended up even making her drop Curly’s leg on the table.

Oh that’s gotta hurt.

For a fleeting moment you put Anya on the back burner, and just focused your attention on comforting Curly. How he gave a weak sob from the intense pain.

“Shhhh I know Curly Fry. I know. It’s gonna be ok. It was an accident. You know she didn’t mean it. Shhh.” You would kiss his forehead, as Curly had a muscle spasm through his body from the intense shock to his system. So exhausted and in so much pain.

“It’s gonna be ok. I promise. I love you so much. Just think about our future. How we will get off this ship, and have that family. Have our own baby-“

The moment you said baby, that’s when Anya finally cracked.

Her hands were now covering her face, as she just broke down into sobs. Sobs that sounded so hoarse. Like she’s done it so many times that her body was just abused from it. Left you so worried and confused.

What the hell is going on here?

“Anya, what’s wrong? What did I say?” You would gently guide her to a chair, and worked on stroking her hair. Giving her as much comfort as you would to Curly. The same gentle love as he would get. Love she deserved.

It took a while for her to catch her breathe, and you didn’t rush it because it really seemed she needed it, but her own trembling body was finally able to quite down.

“I need to tell you something. I need to tell you something about Jimmy-“

You were quick to kneel down infront of her, and was ready to take in every last word she was going to say. Maybe what secrets she held could finally explain why the hell you all were crashed here. Why Jimmy crashed you all.

“Jimmy ra-“

That’s when the door opened.

As if that bastard had a sixth sense for whenever people were talking about him. That same annoyed expression, same sneer, same empty eyes.

All three of you kinda froze in time now. Looking at him, as he looked back at you all. Scanning you. As if judging to figure out what was being said before entering.

“Hey….Captain….” You swallowed, as you would return to standing. Anya herself remained in her chair, with her head down. Didn’t seem she trusted herself in showing any expressions right now.

“What were you guys talking about?” He asked, as he seemed slightly on edge. Like he hasn’t been sleeping well or had too much caffeine. Just this tension of paranoia was in the air. Like he was worried about something.

“Just about the bandages. We’re starting to run low, and Anya is just getting worried about having enough.” Wasn’t a complete lie. The best lies were the ones with truth sprinkled in.

“Of course he’s wasting our supplies.” He scoffed, before walking over to the table. You were trying to give Curly some respect with grabbing something to cover him up with, but it was like Jimmy wouldn’t let you. The stare he gave you, when you grabbed the clean hospital gown, made you just freeze in place.

It was just so full of hate.

It was just so full of disgust.

It was just cruelty in dark eyes.

It was just focused on you. As if Anya didn’t even exist right now. Like she meant nothing to him. Nothing but the wind in the air. Something you don’t even bother in registering every day. Like how you breathe in air in your lungs.

You don’t notice until it’s gone.

“Has he been given his medication?” He would ask you, as his hands would be firm on the bed side. Just seeming to assert his dominance with standing over the man. Like some got over the little people.

“Yes Jimmy. He’s been medicated. We are actually in the middle of washing him. It would be nice if there was some privacy-“ You tried to gently hint at, only for it yo fall on deaf ears.

"The crash really did do a number on you. You don’t even have a dick anymore. Just holes huh-?” Jimmy would scoff, as that was your final straw. You would give Jimmy a hard hip bump, and quickly covered Curly up. To give him dignity and respect.

“Hey-! Watch it! Don’t think because you are Curly’s little eye candy doesn’t mean you can go pushing people around-“ Jimmy would bark at you.

You didn’t feel fear.

Jimmy was messing with YOUR man now. Curly deserved dignity and respect. He doesn’t deserve to be called a ‘set of holes’ no way in hell. No one deserved that and ESPECIALLY not Curly.

“Will you just shut up?! What the hell are you even doing here?! Aren’t you the Captain now? Captains are suppose to be doing whatever it takes to help the crew. All you’ve been doing is walking around and insulting everyone! It’s like you don’t want us to be saved. Be a Captain and take some responsibility already-!”

The anger that he had for you was terrifying. You swore it was like a switch. He suddenly seemed taller, bigger, angrier, more intense. You felt like you were shrinking more and more. Like you would melt into a puddle under that heated stare.

But you refused to.

For Curly.

“Listen here you-“

SLAP

You smacked him across the face. Was like the world went mute. No one was so much as breathing. Just the stares of shock from Anya and Curly.

“Get. Back. To. WORK.”

You ordered, and he listened.

He would hold his red cheek, and walked away like a dog with its tail between its legs. As if he was all talk and no bite. That he couldn’t bring himself to be more than an angry voice.

Someone needed to keep him in his place.

“Can this damn ship get any more hectic?” You sighed with your fingers to the bridge of your nose. Just trying to think clearly.

That’s when Anya found her voice.

“I’m pregnant.”

You opened your eyes wide, and was frozen in place.

Did you hear that right? No no. No way. Why would she be pregnant? How would she get pregnant? Who would get her…

“Oh my god.”

You slowly turned around to Anya with the puzzle pieces falling into place. You finally realized what had happened.

Jimmy never was a responsible man.

@meheheasasa @letmebedelutional @trashcansally @balanahala562

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THE AUDIBLE GASP I JUST LET OUT

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(It took me like less than 2 hours to make this little thing but 6 hours to render it 👍 )

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Happy trio ~ Art by the adorable @maxbruiser Template @HL0428

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preview~ I wanted to do the Halsin and Clover sleep meme but I just got sentimental thinking about how Clover habitually sleeps curled up as tightly as possible to make himself unseen. He's getting better.

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Welcome to the new home of my spicy art :)

My nonspicy art will still be free on my socials! Many of you have generously asked how you can support my work over the years which has been so encouraging. The goal is to become more financially stable while allowing myself to continue dedicating time to making and sharing what I love.

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Ahh, you’re so sweet, I’m so glad you’re enjoying it! 🥹

The Great Invasion: Chapter 3

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In a world turned upside down, where monsters hunt and hunters are the prey, Y/N must choose: follow the new rules to stay alive or join a rogue band of hunters determined to reclaim power and change the game for good.

General series warnings: dark themes, gore, kind of apocalyptic vibes, language

Chapter warnings: character death, grief and loss, mild sexual innuendo, nightmares/flashbacks, panic attack, emotional trauma

Series set after Season 15.

Somewhat canon-divergent.

Theme song of the chapter: Medicine Man by Dorothy

Catch up on Chapter 2 here

Series Masterlist

Chapter 3: I Can't Live Like This No More

The night sky was a sight you always found mesmerizing. The stars had always fascinated you more than you'd ever care to admit. When you were little, you used to sit either on the roof of your dad’s house or on the grass of the backyard, knees tucked to your chest, and stare up at the stars. You’d name the brightest ones after the things you loved — your dad, your best friend, your dog, your latest favorite cartoon character.

But tonight, when your teary eyes shot up to the heavens, there were no stars. No glimmer of hope. Only the darkness of the velvety blanket stretching across the sky. 

A groan pulled you back to the harsh reality beside you. Your father. His face, once so full of life and strength, was pale now, almost gray under the flickering light of the lantern you'd managed to scrounge. His breaths were shallow, uneven, and every time he exhaled, it felt like a countdown you couldn't stop. The wound in his side was deep, and no matter how much pressure you applied, no matter how tightly you bound it, the blood just wouldn’t stop. Your hands were slick with it, trembling as you worked frantically. It was warm when it soaked through the bandages, but the sight of it chilled you to your core.

"Dad" you whispered, voice breaking, though you tried desperately to hold it together. You couldn’t cry. Not yet. Not when there was still a chance. "Please, stay with me."

His eyes fluttered open, heavy and clouded with pain, but they found yours. He managed a faint smile, the corners of his lips trembling with effort. “Kiddo” he rasped, his voice barely audible.

“Shh, don’t talk,” you pleaded, your hands pressing harder against the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding. “Save your strength, okay? I’ll find help. I promise. Just hold on. Please, just hold on.”

But even as you spoke the words, they felt hollow, a weak attempt to hold back the tide that was crashing over you. His hand moved slowly, weakly, brushing against your wrist. The grip was faint, but you could feel his intent — a silent assurance that it was okay to let go.

But it wasn’t. Not for you. Not yet.

The hunters’ code was simple: fight and survive. But what do you do when there’s no fight left? When survival feels like a fading dream? You looked down at the blood-soaked fabric in your hands, bile rising in your throat. You couldn’t let him die. Not like this. Not here. Not now.

"Dad, you're gonna get through this" you said, your voice trembling but resolute, as if saying it enough times could make it true. “You have to.”

You had been running for what felt like hours, the echo of distant explosions shaking the earth beneath your feet. You barely even remembered how you’d gotten to this place, some abandoned stable in the middle of nowhere. 

Demons had invaded the state, and the gates of Hell were flung wide open. Every step you’d taken to get here felt like it brought you closer to an abyss you couldn’t escape.

He coughed, the sound wet and ragged, and you flinched as you felt him shudder beneath your touch. His lips moved again, and you leaned closer to catch his words.

“You… you remember…” he started, pausing to catch what little breath he could, “how I used to tell you… stories about the sky?”

You nodded, even though your throat felt like it was closing. The memories were distant now, almost too painful to recall. But you remembered the nights he’d pull you into his lap, his arms wrapped around you, pointing to the constellations. His voice had always been so calming as he spun stories about the stars. How no matter how many fell, they’d always come back, shining just as bright as before.

"Yeah” you whispered, even though your voice shook. “You used to say the stars were always watching, even when we couldn’t see them.”

Your father’s hand tightened on your wrist, his fingers trembling as he struggled to keep his grip. His breathing was slower now, labored, and you felt the weight of the finality settling in.

“That’s right” he managed to say, his lips twitching tino something like a smile. “Told you… they never really leave. Just hiding… waiting for the right time to shine again.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a tidal wave. “You always said they were brave” you murmured, the memory softening your voice. “That they didn’t care about the dark. They knew they’d come back.”

His fingers curled weakly around yours, his grip feather-light. “That’s you” he said, his lips barely moving. “You’re… my star.”

Tears blurred your vision, and you felt like you were suffocating. You weren’t ready to let go of him. You couldn’t be. There had to be more time, more chances. You had to make sure he was okay. He was your dad. You needed him.

“You can’t leave me” you whispered, your voice breaking as you clung to him. “You can’t. I need you, Dad. Please.”

His hand twitched against yours, a final, fleeting motion, and his lips parted one last time. “Don’t… be afraid of the dark, Y/N.”

And then, his hand went limp in yours.

For a moment, it was as if everything had gone silent, the noise of the outside world muted by the weight of what had just happened.

You stared at him, willing him to take another breath, to open his eyes, to say something — anything. But he didn’t. He was gone.

A star had fallen, and the sky would never look the same again.

Your eyes shot open as your heart pounded harshly against your chest. The dream was still lingering in your mind, like smoke curling around your thoughts, and your breathing came in uneven, jagged gasps. It was suffocating. You felt like you couldn't breathe.

A voice next to you bolted, too, the scratching of a chair’s legs against the floor ear-cutting.

If the dream itself wasn’t enough to make you scream, the male shouting next to you sure as hell was.

“Flannel Casper?!” You gasped, your hand flying to your chest as if trying to keep your heart from escaping your ribcage. 

He was now standing next to your bed, his own face covered with surprise. 

“I swear I start to think you have a kink for sleeping women” you muttered, but your voice lacked any venom. It was clear you were more rattled by the dream than you cared to admit. “Were you watching me this whole time?”

Dean grinned sheepishly, clearly realizing that he’d crossed a line between awkwardness and boundary-breaking.

Great. I’m just like Cas now, he thought.

He glanced at the room around him and shrugged, his posture somehow relaxed despite the situation.

“Yeah, sorry. Still gettin’ used to this whole spectral existence thing.” He gestured around the room, his stuff now neatly unpacked and organized around the space, as if he’d moved in permanently. “I don’t really have a place to hang out when everyone else is sleeping, so…” He tilted his head toward the neatly arranged piles of things he’d apparently been busy with — his old stuff, his tapes, and, oddly enough, a stack of very questionable magazines. “… I figured I’d make myself busy. Hope you don’t mind… but, uh, you didn’t seem to have much stuff” 

He picked up the silky fabric that you immediately recognized as your pajama top from earlier. “Except for this. Didn’t take you for a fancy PJ girl… But I gotta admit, this looks nice.”

But my shirt looks better on you, he thought, as he placed the black satin on the chair next to you.

“Dean… I swear, if you don’t get the hell out of here—”

Instinctively, your hand shot under the bed, grabbing the box of rock salt you’d stashed there for just such occasions. 

“Woah, no need to get antsy.” he said, moving his hands up in surrender.

You chuckled, glancing at the salt in your hand with a wicked smirk. “Wait, does this really work on you?” You raised an eyebrow. “I just thought I’d give it a shot. You might not be a ghost, but I guess no matter how fancy you get brought back, rock salt is rock salt.”

“How about we don’t test it, huh?” Dean asked, now looking a little less confident. His grin had faded, and a note of caution settled into his voice. “Look…” He sighed, shifting slightly as he stood there. “Cas told me about you. The Hunter Games.” He winced, as though he couldn’t quite get the name out without it sounding ridiculous. “However cheesy and tacky the name sounds… I get it. You must’ve been through a hell of a lot. Enduring demons for that long…”

You furrowed your brows, the words catching you off guard at first. Then you rolled your eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure you know all about it, huh?”

“I actually do” Dean said, his voice softer than before. He moved toward the bed slowly. He nodded at the space beside you, almost asking permission, and after a long pause, you reluctantly let him sit. 

He let out a sigh before he continued.

“I’ve been to Hell” he said quietly, like it wasn’t something he could just shrug off. “For forty years, once. And then… then I visited a couple more times.” He chuckled dryly, though it was clear there was no humor behind it.

You stared at him, words stuck somewhere between disbelief and curiosity. Forty years in Hell. Forty. How is that even possible? This guy didn’t look old enough to spend so much time down there… Was there some kind of time loophole down there? You really didn’t want to know, but the curiosity was eating you alive.

But you decided not to ask. Some things, you figured, were better left buried.

 "My brother, Sam, he’s just as lucky as me to have taken a few scenic tours of Hell’s finest pits” Dean added, the words slipping out as if they were nothing.

You narrowed your eyes, your brain doing the math. Long brown hair, towering over everyone like a slightly less terrifying Sasquatch. "That Sasquatch’s your brother?"

"Yeah" he replied with a faint smile. "Though if you’re going to keep using the ghost terminology, he’s officially Casper Sasquatch now."

"The point is…" Dean continued, leaning back like this was some kind of casual Monday morning chat. Maybe it was a Monday morning. You weren’t sure what day it was, honestly. "What I learned is that no matter how much pain and suffering you’ve seen, you can’t save everyone. Survival changes you. But that doesn’t make you a bad person."

And damn, if that didn’t hit you like a brick to the face.

You thought of the demons, the fights, the endless struggle for survival in the games. You thought of your father. The guilt. The scars, both physical and emotional, that you carried with you. The feeling that you hadn’t done enough.

You swallowed hard as you met his gaze. “You really think that? That we’re not bad for just trying to survive? Even if it… cost more than we ever wanted to admit?”

Dean nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. “Yeah. I do. You did what you had to. We all do. It doesn’t make us monsters, even if it feels like it sometimes.”

For a split second, the room didn’t feel like it was closing in on you. It felt lighter. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel completely alone.

He could sense the slight shift in you, and he couldn’t help, but smile faintly to himself.

“I think I've heard that name before” you broke the silence. 

Your words earned a confused expression from Dean. 

“Malgathor” you clarified, then sighed. “I just… I just don’t remember where or when.”

Dean thought for a moment and then said.

“Well, I know someone who might be able to help you remember.”

“Wait, what?”

Castiel glanced over at Dean, who was sitting across the room, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table like he was trying to think through a riddle.

"She seems to be asking this a lot" he observed, his tone just shy of confused.

Dean shot you a look. "How come you hadn’t realized this sooner?"

“How come you hadn’t realized before?” Dean asked you. 

"I dunno” you shrugged. “I mean, the guy seemed weird… but I wasn’t gonna point that out. I was just trying to be polite. But, of course, he's an angel!" you added, gesturing vaguely at Castiel, who was still standing there like a celestial vending machine with a perplexed expression.

“I am standing right here” the angel deadpanned.

You blinked and turned to him. "Yeah, sorry, totally forgot. My bad." You paused. "So… how many other celestial or demonic beings do we have here? We've got an angel, two flannel ghosts, the big G.O.D., a witch who once ruled Hell… a normal Tuesday for you guys, huh?"

“We actually have a few of my brothers and sisters here” Castiel replied, then motioning to each angel. ”And we also have some demons who are loyal to Rowena. Like Gregor there.”

Gregor, who had been sitting across from you and tried his hardest to pretend he didn’t notice you, gave you an awkward half-wave.

You shook your head in disbelief and then refocused on Castiel. "So…” you started. “How can you help me remember? Hypnosis? Some weird Freudian method? Or maybe an angel mind-meld? You know, the whole psychic healing touch thing you guys are good at?"

Castiel tilted his head, his trademark "I'm trying to decipher your odd human behavior" look in full effect. "An 'angel mind-meld' is not exactly how I would describe it”  he said, his voice dry but patient. "However, I can attempt to access your memories directly. It may be uncomfortable, though."

"Yeah, no thanks" you shot back, crossing your arms. "Last time I went down memory lane, it came with a side of traumatic nightmares. I’m not exactly itching to repeat that."

“Well… I don’t have many options” Castiel said.

You rolled your eyes and sighed. “So long for angels.”

“If you have a better suggestion, I’m open to hearing it. Otherwise, I would recommend we proceed.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Look, Cas… Can I call you Cas? Well, I will… it’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer. I just… I don’t exactly love the idea of someone rooting around in my head like it’s an old attic full of cobwebs.”

“I won’t force you to do it… But it’s our best chance so far at finding Malgathor and trying to end this.”

You crossed your arms, leaning back in your chair as you considered Castiel's words. 

"Our best chance, huh? Great. No pressure or anything."

Dean, who had been watching the exchange with a smirk, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "C'mon, it’s not like Cas is gonna redecorate in there. He’s just gonna dig up whatever’s buried, and hopefully, it leads us to something useful."

You shot him a glare. "Yeah, sure, because having an angel sift through my brain is totally on my bucket list."

Castiel, ever the patient one, waited until your attention returned to him. "I understand your hesitation" he said evenly. "But the memories you’ve locked away may hold the key to stopping Malgathor. If we don’t act, more lives will be lost."

You sighed, the weight of his words settling heavily on your shoulders. He wasn’t wrong. If there was even a chance that this could help, you had to take it. The alternative (doing nothing) wasn’t an option.

"Fine" you said finally, your voice laced with reluctant resolve. 

An angel poking around in your brain wasn’t exactly at the top of your Things I’m Excited About list. Hell, it wasn’t even on the Things I’ll Tolerate for the Sake of Survival list. But here you were.

Castiel guided you back into your room and gestured for you to sit in the one rickety chair that had definitely seen better days. Dean was in your trail, leaning casually against the doorframe. You weren’t sure if he was genuinely concerned or just tagging along to see if this all went up in flames. Either way, you appreciated the backup. 

You sat down, steeling yourself for the inevitable weirdness of whatever angelic brain surgery Cas was about to perform. But then you felt the gentle pull of fabric brushing over your arm. You turned your head and saw Castiel looping a tie around your shoulder, threading it through the back of the chair.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” you exclaimed, your voice cracking as you shoved the tie off and bolted upright. Your heart thudded in your chest, and your pulse roared in your ears. “What the hell are you doing?” You glared at Castiel, the panic clawing its way up your throat.

Dean raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly at your reaction. “Relax, Y/N. It’s just to keep you from flailing around when things get… messy.”

“Messy?” you snapped, shooting daggers at him before looking back at Castiel.

“I told you this would be uncomfortable” Castiel said, his tone calm but unyielding. “Restraining you will reduce your movements… and, in turn, your pain.”

“There was no mention of tying me down!” you hissed, your irritation boiling over.

Dean’s smirk faded as he took a closer look at you. Your breathing was shallow and ragged, your eyes wide and glassy. You weren’t just annoyed. 

You were terrified.

“Hey, take it easy” Dean said, his voice softer now, the teasing edge gone. But it was too late. The walls were closing in, and your mind had taken you somewhere else entirely.

“Alright, you know what? No. This isn’t gonna work” you said quickly, bolting for the door before either of them could stop you. 

Dean and Castiel exchanged a look. Dean sighed, running a hand down his face. “Great idea, Dean” he muttered to himself before pushing off the wall to follow you.

You were halfway down the hall, your heart thundering in your ears. Panic buzzed under your skin, rising in waves that you couldn’t control. You hated this feeling, the helplessness, the vulnerability. It made you feel small. Weak.

Then, without warning, you collided with something solid. You stumbled back and looked up, only to find yourself staring into the face of a giant in flannel. Casper Sasquatch. His brow furrowed as he caught you, concern spreading across his face like wildfire.

“Hey, hey — are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle, almost like he wasn’t sure if you were about to break down or punch him in the face.

If you were anywhere near your right mind, you would’ve tossed out a casual “Yeah, I’m cool. Totally fine. Why, what’s up?” but your body wasn’t cooperating. Your breath was uneven, and you could feel that you were seconds away from delivering a full-blown panic attack. So, rather than answering him with anything even remotely reasonable, you did the only thing that made sense in that moment: You stormed off.

You found a storage room and ducked inside, slamming the door shut behind you. The sound echoed in the small space, and you leaned against the door, struggling to steady your breathing.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

But the more you tried to calm yourself, the more your mind rebelled. The fluorescent lighting in the storage room blurred, shifting into the dim, flickering glow of another room.

A familiar scene began to claw its way into focus — the one you saw at the war room yesterday.

You were back in that chair. The ropes bit into your skin, your wrists raw from struggling. 

“Where’s the fight from the Games now, little hunter?” a voice sneered.

You couldn’t see his face, but you remembered the voice. Barbas.

You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His voice had imprinted itself on your mind like a scar that wouldn’t heal. His silhouette loomed closer, shadows shifting unnaturally around him. You could feel his presence, the oppressive heat, the stench of sulfur and something metallic curling into your nose.

“You know…” he began, his voice taking on a mocking lilt. “You could make this so much easier for yourself. But every time I bring you down here…” He chuckled, a sound so cold it made your blood freeze. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? You just have to put up a fight. Every goddamn time.”

His footsteps grew louder as he circled you, the sound blood-freezing.

“But I know” he continued, his tone almost casual now, as if this were a friendly chat and not a nightmarish interrogation in a hellish made-up dungeon in a five star hotel. “It’s probably instinct, isn’t it? No matter how many times I wipe that fragile little memory of yours clean… there’s a part of you that just knows.” He paused, his voice dipping lower, softer. “Still feels something's missing, huh? And it's always happenin' here.”

He leaned closer, his shadow enveloping you, and for a moment, you thought you might suffocate from the weight of his presence. 

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to stay still, to fight against the rising tide of panic. But then his tone shifted again, an almost mocking warmth seeping into his words, like a twisted parody of kindness.

“You should be grateful, you know” he said, his breath curling around you like chains. “No other hunter has the life you do. All thanks to me. And my little help in those fights…Not many contestants get the green light to bring in holy water, you know? Or a silver blade sharpened just so. But you? Oh, you’ve had a golden ticket. My golden ticket.”

He stepped closer, his shadow looming large and cold over you. “But golden tickets don’t come cheap, do they?” 

He crouched down, his face just out of view in the dim light, but you could feel his smirk like a blade against your skin. “You don’t get all that without giving something in exchange. And you know it damn well.”

Your stomach twisted as the words were rattling against the fragile walls of your mind. Memories scratched at the surface, desperate to escape, but something held them back. 

Your knees buckled, but you caught yourself on a shelf. Sweat dripped down your temple, your chest heaving as the visions began to fade, leaving only fragments behind.

You could hear a muffled “Sam, where’d she go?”

And then came the knocking.

It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t patient. It was loud, urgent, and relentless.

“Y/N?” Dean’s voice cut through the muffled haze in your head. “Y/N, please open up. I know you’re in there.”

You didn’t move, still struggling to regulate your breathing.

There was a beat of silence, then you heard his voice again. “I can ghost myself in, but I know you’re not a fan of that, so please, just… open the damn door!”

You grimaced, your fingers gripping the shelf tightly. The last thing you wanted was to face him or anyone right now. But you also took that Dean Winchester wasn’t the type to take “leave me alone” as an answer, especially when he thought something was wrong.

Dragging in a shaky breath, you pushed yourself upright. Your legs trembled like a newborn fawn’s, but they seemed steady enough to get you to the door. You shuffled toward it and cracked it ajar just a couple inches.

But Dean didn’t wait for an invitation. He pushed the door open further, stepping inside. His eyes roved over you, taking in your disheveled state, the sheen of sweat on your brow, and the hollow look in your eyes.

“What the hell happened in here?”

You shrugged, your throat still too tight to form proper words.

“Don’t give me that” Dean said, his tone hovering between exasperation and care. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost — scratch that. Worse than a ghost.”

You glanced away, suddenly finding the floorboards fascinating.

“Please, Y/N… Just… talk to me.”

You inhaled shakily, wrapping your arms around yourself like they might hold you together. 

You closed your eyes shut, letting yourself seem fragile for once. You couldn’t help, but feel the weight of the vision — memory, more like. You exhaled, and decided to admit.

“I—" you started, taking a shaky breath" I think everything I was led to believe was a lie.”

Next on The Great Invasion (Sneak Peek from Chapter 4):

You swallowed, suddenly regretting every decision that had led you to this moment. “I just thought.... you’ll already sneak back into my room–”

“My room” he corrected automatically, his lips curling into the kind of smirk that could either infuriate or disarm you, depending on the mood. Tonight, it did a little of both.

You rolled your eyes, more out of habit than annoyance and then continued. “–so I figured… maybe you could just… stay.”

Dean blinked, his eyebrows climbing just a fraction higher and for a second you could tell he was debating whether to make a joke or take you seriously. “You want me to stay? While you’re asleep?”

Shit's gettin' intense, but don’t worry, it’s only going to get wilder from here! 🤭

Can't wait to read your thoughts on this.

xx Pam

Chapter 4 coming soon...

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[mokimo-art]

I CANNOT THANK YOU GUYS ENOUTH

I manage to sell enough comms to pay this month bills and rent. thank you all for the amazing support. I wasnt sure how things were gonna go since 99% of my comms were sold on Xwitter, but its amazing to know people here are just as interested in my work. also thanks for all the new people on patreon, im gonna make sure you guys are well fed with tons of spicy Efah and Mako art

[elmushterri]

2K followers on tumblr and 30K subscribers on YouTube! In celebration, here’s my story. Not a rewrite. This is all a work in progress and subject to change.

Being a HEMA fencer, I’ve wanted a story semi-based on actual swordsmanship and actual fencing techniques.. but fantasy.

It’s a story like… Spiderverse meets Steven Universe meets Owl House meets She-Ra.

It’s called

The Knight’s Handbook

——————

It’s modern Earth but there are supernatural people who protect it like guardian angels called Knights: Humans who’ve died via sacrificing themselves for someone else, and have been revived (not by choice). They protect humans from things as small as tripping over to protecting them from demons, dragons and other dangerous entities.

A Knight can pull their weapon from a magical, glowing scar called their Mortal Wound, the injury they acquired and a sign of the end of their mortality, like how SU Gems can pull their weapons from their gems. A Knight’s weapon can be anything including guns and crossbows, but these shoot magic/energy bullets or arrows.

Knights have their own realm to go to just for each other, (Gallantia) but can live on Earth hiding as normal humans if they wish (so long as they hide the magic scar!)

They function a bit like bees in that there is a Queen, chosen instantly when someone dies by sacrifice according to ‘qualifications of their soul’ (So not completely random like other Knights). Of course, this only happens when the former Queen is killed. Never have there been two Queen Knights at once, so written history goes. Like bees, that would create a huge issue!

Here is the main character and the main antagonist. For the first time apparently ever, there are Two Queen Knights. A mistake of nature, perhaps?

Sidra Saiffudeen

Our main enby is Sidra, she/they. A normal teen turned Queen Knight chosen right after her death, impaled through the chest (where you can see her Mortal Wound symbol) by saving her father. Her design is based on a bee! Not all Knights’ designs are, but I thought I’d lean into Queen Bee stuff.

She’s the ‘Acknowledged’ Queen. Most Knights, ones in support of the past Queen who just died (it’s a mournful period), back Sidra, but think she’s a bit immature. Sidra adores her new people though and vows to be a good Queen. Knight Queens don’t just sit back like Earth Royalty, they’re the most powerful and therefore in battle a lot. The past Queens tended to be adults (The Captain of the Royal Guard was in love with the past Queen (sapphics >:) ) and so having Sidra around is painful but they do their best to teach her.

Then there’s Juliana Fontana, always called Jules. She… is also a Queen Knight. You can tell this because a Queen’s mortal wound symbol is always the same as the Knight Symbol, a sword. Some Knights went traitor to back Jules rather than Sidra. Jules is a very very tired and sneaky girl, but more academically intelligent than Sidra. She’d be a very different Queen, and that’s why the Knights that took her side did so! She hasn’t figured out how to access her weapon or knight form.

The twist? They haven’t seen each other for a long long time… but Sidra and Jules know each other.

Info on Weapons, Mortal Wounds and Knight Forms.

Lastly, The Title’s “The Knight’s Handbook”… what are Knight Handbooks?

Well, for Knights, along with a weapon you can pull from your Mortal Wound, you also have your Handbook! Every Knight has a Handbook with their symbol on it. Like I said, Queen Knights don’t get their own unique personalised symbol, rather they get the default symbol representing all Knights as a species (unfortunate!).

Every Handbook is personalised except for the first couple pages and chapters. The first few pages *always* contain The Rules of Knighthood. One of which is that there Cannot Be Two Queens. But… have these Handbooks with their strict rules on who your friends and enemies are and what you can or cannot do always been a part of the Knights? Or did someone *write* these books for their own purposes? Control?

Handbooks also contain info on how to fight/fence, how to defeat certain entities, anatomy, etc (I’ll figure out more). But, Handbooks also serve as phones! You write something in your handbook for someone else and your writings will appear in *their* handbook! Not sure, but I imagine handbooks can also be used as little sketch hologram projectors (you sketch a map for example or a plan and project it into the air using your book.)

Sidra and Jules may have this giant plot going on around them because they happen to be Queens, but that doesn’t mean they’re not teenagers who want to have fun. A lot of Knights are kids and teenagers and still have their senses of fun, much to the dismay of the serious adult Knights. But they’re all immortal so they’ve got plenty of time to grow up before they hit an age to stop. Being a Knight is tough and scary cause you *could* die at any time in a fight, so adult Knights tend to protect the teens from going out before they’ve trained properly. Queens are not afforded such a luxury and besides, a lot of teen Knights are totally reckless regardless of what the adults say!

So yeah!

That’s an intro to The Knight’s Handbook. I’d love for people to join in like they did with GunnTech and make their own Knights for this, if you feel inspired. It’s kinda like a DTIYS but instead of Draw This In Your Style, it’s… Draw Your Sona for this concept? Working title… /j If you wanna do something, I suppose tag it with “The Knight’s Handbook” with the apostrophe and whatnot, but I do not expect anything, you guys already do so so much 🧡.

Any art or ocs of The Knight’s Handbook will definitely be featured on my next YT vid and I’ll be reblogging (Plus I would love to draw you guys’ ocs, and basically consider them canon since there’s an infinite number of Knights in TKH!)

Thank you for all your support, guys!