#and I don't want to get sucked into anything sorry

[millers-angel]

patrol!joel x female reader

summary: joel scolds you because you messed up a patrol, until he makes you cry and realizes he crossed the line. warnings: scolding, mean joel, thumb sucking, smut ig, they get caught by tommy.

“are you stupid? you wanna die?” he grunted, clearly upset with you.

ha had been upset for a while, lecturing you on how you have to be more careful, but as he did, you both kept walking till you got inside the safe place—an abandoned house in the middle of the woods.

“i always have to repeat myself every goddamn time. stay quiet, do what i say, and most importantly, don't do anything stupid," he said, dropping his gear onto a table. "and that's exactly what you do."

you stayed quiet, holding back tears. you liked coming on patrols with him, except this time tommy came with you, but you fucked up. you didn’t listen, you put yourself in danger, and joel had to come find you—again.

he scoffed, shaking his head. “should’ve just left you out there. maybe then you’d finally learn.”

his words hit hard, and you felt your throat tighten, your vision blurring.

“you don’t listen, you never fucking listen,” he went on, voice rough with frustration. “i tell you to stay close, i tell you to stay quiet, and what do you do? the exact opposite. every goddamn time.”

he ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “you think this is a game? you think i like risking my ass for you every time you decide to be reckless?”

you bit your lip, trying to keep it together, but the lump in your throat only grew. he was mad—really mad. you were looking at your boots wipping your tears away, you didn't want him to see you like this.

he exhaled hard through his nose, his breath heavy with frustration. his hands were on his hips, fingers digging into his belt as he tried to calm down. but when he looked down, he saw you sitting there on a worn couch, head bowed, your pants dotted with tiny dark spots.

tears.

his jaw clenched. maybe he’d been too harsh. maybe he’d gone too far.

“you good?” his voice was still rough, but quieter now.

you nodded quickly, wiping at your face.

“use your words,” he muttered. “now you're quiet, huh?”

you swallowed thickly, voice barely above a whisper. “i’m fine.”

he huffed, unconvinced. “look at me.”

you shook your head.

joel sighed, deep and slow, forcing himself to be patient. then, with a gentleness that didn’t match his earlier anger, he reached out, fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face up.

watercolor eyes. tear-streaked cheeks. swollen lips.

his grip tightened just slightly, his own frustration shifting into something else.

you sniffled, wiping at your nose with your sleeve, but it didn’t do much to stop the way your shoulders shook. joel exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard. without a word, he grabbed you and pulled you onto his lap, his arms firm around you as he sat.

you didn’t resist. you never did.

“i’m sorry,” you murmured, voice unsteady. “i didn’t mean to put you at risk. or tommy. i won’t do it again.” you swallowed, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. “i get it if you don’t want me on patrols with you anymore. or if you just want to give me the easy routes.”

joel sighed, his chest rising and falling against your back.

“i tell you this shit for a reason,” he said, voice quieter now. “it’s dangerous out here. you keep acting like this, and it’s gonna catch up to you. and i don’t want that. i don’t want anything happening to you.”

you hesitated, then whispered, “really?”

“yeah, really.” his grip on you tightened just slightly. “i get so goddamn mad ‘cause you’re stubborn. you don’t listen. you scare the hell outta me.”

you were still new to patrols, still learning the way things worked out here. and you liked going with joel for two reasons—because you wanted to learn from him, to be as capable as he was, and because no matter how bad things got, no matter how much he yelled, it always ended the same way. with him pulling you close, keeping you safe... and his cock deep down inside you.

you loved being with joel on patrol, the way he moved with such ease, like he was made for this. every step was calculated, every decision precise. the way he handled the knife, the rifle—how it all seemed so natural to him, like he was in complete control. when danger came, he didn’t hesitate. he knew exactly what to do, and you couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly he commanded the situation.

and when things got tough, when he needed to push you out of harm’s way or pull you into cover, there was something about the way he manhandled you that drove you crazy. it was rough, but it was him taking control, keeping you safe. and in those moments, with his hands on you, you felt safe. you felt protected—like now.

you hiccupped, the sound shaky from how much you’d cried. joel’s thumb brushed your cheek, his hands gentle as he lifted your face to meet his eyes.

“i’m not gonna put you with anyone else,” he said softly. “we’re gonna keep going together, on patrols.”

you looked up at him, surprised. “really?”

“yeah, really,” he muttered, his voice a little rough. “i wouldn’t leave you with anyone else, not when you’re putting yourself at risk every damn minute. no one else is gonna risk their ass for you like i do.” he paused, a flash of frustration in his eyes before he noticed your lip trembling.

he softened, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, trying to calm you. “you’re damn stubborn, you know that?”

he pressed his thumb on your lips, parting them, so you sucked him. "that it," he said softly—too softly. "that's gonna calm you down."

you closed your eyes, holding his hand close to you, sucking his thumb as if your life depends on it, you pressed your tongue on it, lips tight around him. he loved the sensation, he loved when you sucked on his fingers just as you suck on his cock.

you opened your eyes when you felt a growing bulge beneath your thighs, meeting his gaze, all dark. nothing but desire behind them. he could yell at you all he wants—make you cry even, but you'll always end up like this.

his other hand made its way under your shirt, the feeling made you squirm. he played with the tip, squeezing it between his fingers, pulling it gently, getting muffled moans on his thumb in response.

and that was enough for him, he needed to fuck you now. he took his thumb out your mouth to tug your shirt over your head, your skin prickled when the breeze hit your bare breasts. he loved seeing thoes perky tips all hard for him. he got rid of your jeans too, throwing them somewhere in the dusty cabin.

"joel... we should go looking for tommy," you mumbled between gasps.

"he can take care of himself, i'm taking care of you."

he loved having you like this, all naked and vulnerable. he had fucked you behind a tree, over a rock, on the grass, in old cabins like this one, even in the back of an abandoned jeep, its wheels long deflated and covered in dust. he knows he's the only one who got to see you like this, back in jackson you're all shy with everyone, they don't know you're his personal little sex toy.

he made you stand up for him to unzip his jeans and then, he made you lean over the coach, while you positioned yourself on your hands and knees, you knew the drill, you knew what he liked. what he liked to see.

by god he loved the view.

all you felt then, was his dick trailing your slit, you were wet, and he can tell you got a while like that. you love being scolded, the tone of his voice, the way his eyes gets dark, the way you know it's because he wants to protect you. yeah, it got you wet.

he slammed his cock in you, you let out a gasp and gripped to the backrest of the couch. he dug his fingers on your hips when he thrusted. you were warm, too warm and soft inside, always making him feel like he's about to come as soon as he gets in, like a goddamn teenager.

"you take this cock so good," he muttered.

you were biting your lip to not moan, cause you had to be careful, right? he said it. you must be careful from now on.

"lemme hear you, baby," he grunted, fingers going white from his grip on you.

your grip on the couch loosened. "b-but you said we must be quiet and careful—"

he almost chuckled, you're adorable. "i don't want you quiet when i'm fucking you"

and his approval was all you need to let those breathy little moans bubble up from your mouth. he went harder, couldn’t stop once he saw how your skin jiggled with every thrust. he loved that.

he was leaving his fingerprints on your skin. one of his hands slipped between your thighs, making its way to your clit. you held your breath. he could feel it, swollen, probably aching and needy. he drew circles around it.

“poor baby,” he cooed, your legs trembled cause it was too much, he was too thick, and his fingers stroking your most sensitive spot, you went weak. “you like causing trouble?”

he pressed his fingers on your clit, feeling how it throbs. “no—“

he slapped it. “be fucking honest.”

you squirmed, it felt too good. “i do.” you admitted in a moan. “i like causing trouble.”

he rubbed the little button harder. “i know," of course he does, weird thing you always do the same to end up with his cock buried deep inside you. you love being trouble so he can fuck you right after. "stubborn as hell."

you curl your toes, his fingers worked so good, he sent you to a bliss, your walls choking him. he wasn't being gentle. he loved seeing you falling apart, seeing your legs get weak.

"joel, please—" you cried out.

"this mine, yeah?" you. you're his. "you ain't goin' on patrols with anyone but me, understood?"

you whimpered. "ah—yes."

he let out a chuckle, delighted to see you like this. he knows you're his, but he likes to remind you.

"i'm gonna get you all round so everyone in town knows you're mine too." his hand drifted to your belly. "right here."

he moved his hand a little lower just enough to feel himself, stretching you out. "attagirl," he cooed. "come f'me."

you fell apart beneath him, your body squirming, trembling legs, spasming walls that milked him out, but he didn't stop thrusting, not until he was sure you were filled up.

the cabin was a bunch of whimpering from both of you.

until…

the door swung open. you’ve been caught.

by tommy.

he had been looking for you since you didn’t show up to the meeting point they have in case something happened—so he came looking for you, thinking the worst, it’s been a while and he’s exhausted, sweating. he should be upset because you made him worry and waste his time when all you were doing was fucking.

but more than upset he was… aroused. the quiet girl he knew back in town wasn’t being that quiet and shy right now. the quiet girl loved having a cock buried inside her.

he had to adjust his jeans before coming further. “what the fuck is this?” he asked.

your face went pale and you tried to cover yourself but it was pointless—joel didn’t let you. he knew his brother well enough.

“‘s this what you’ve been doing? you have an idea how many time i’ve been looking for you? you—“

“cut the shit tommy,” joel growled.

“so this is the quiet girl from jackson, huh?” he leaned, fingers on your jaw, making you look at him. your lip was trembling.

joel pulled out with a loud pop sound, his cum dripping from your cunt, your thighs all sticky with the mess you made.

"you're gonna explain?" tommy asked to his brother, but not letting go his grip on your jaw, you were curling your toes, being in the middle of the miller brothers always got you nervous. "is she your

"she's mine," joel said firmly. "but i'm sure she wants you to fill her up, don't you sweetheart?"

you nodded, holding eye contact with tommy, then your eyes drifted to the bulge on his pants.

"she can be our secret."

[littelovelunette]

Hi!! I just read someone’s short little blurb and I’ve been obsessssed

can I request a best friend!sevika x reader and like everyone (including reader’s friends) thinks they’re dating because they’re soooo close to eachother

More Than Just Friends

You and your best friend Sevika were at a restaurant for your birthday. It was Sevika's treat. Of course, it was.

Your other friends were here too, it was pretty much a huge friend group.

She was that one shady senior student of the class, it was funny— nobody could really look her in the eye and say shit, but then there you and her were. Sevika was scrutinising the menu with the most judgemental face ever.

"Does she look like a college student to you?" Your friend, Priscilla, asked you.

"I'd think she were a professor if I didn't already know her since highschool." You laughed, fingers tracing the edge of the menu.

Sevika scoffed a little at that but chuckled eitherway as she looked up from the menu, "What do y'all want?"

"Steak."

"Yeah, steak sounds good."

"And to drink?"

"Whiskey!"

"Well, since it's your birthday, we should get dessert, too!" Priscilla said happily, clapping her hands together.

Instantly, a few in the group chimed in but you? You were looking for the price of steak on the menu.

Your eyes widened.

Goodness. It was expensive.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you crunched the numbers. With the steak and whiskey they were ordering...

That would be about over eight-hundred dollars. OVER eight-hundred dollars.

Not to mention, they were also discussing dessert which would be an additional charge.

"Sevika, the pri—" Sevika slapped her card down making you sigh a little. She was as reckless as ever.

"It's your birthday." Sevika said as if that was enough reason for her to pay for everyone.

The waiter came and took the finalised orders before leaving with a polite smile.

"Someone has money to burn." One of the girls spoke up with a giggle.

"She might as well be your sugar mommy now." Priscilla teased and laughed along, nudging you with her elbow.

You flushed a little, "Oh, shut it." You said and crossed your hands on your lap.

Sevika, however, didn't deny anything or react, a slow smirk spreading over her dark lips. Oh, those dark lips... Accentuated by the dimmed light of the restaurant.

It was almost a romantic setting, had there not been Priscilla and your other friends chattering loudly in the background.

You continued staring at Sevika, lost in the world of your dreams as you made out the little tooth gap she had, it was so cute. You wondered what it would be like, tracing it with your tongue, kissing those asymmetrical lips slowly in the candlelight.

Just then, Priscilla's hand on your shoulder made you break out of your trance. "You're staring." Sevika's voice rumbled, soft and deep.

"Sorry, I just zoned out." You said but Sevika saw right through you. She knew exactly what you were thinking. Because she was thinking the exact same thing.

Priscilla laughed watching the awkwardness between the both of you now, saying, "I'd think you both were dating already."

That made Sevika's ears turn slightly red but she played it cool, "Oh, yeah? Why is that?"

"Y'know, you were there for her when she had her first lesbian breakup and you know those suck ass." Priscilla said matter-of-factly, wrapping an arm around you in a friendly gesture. "And you were also there for her all throughout highschool, helped her in chemistry and you both are roomies, too!" Priscilla then looked at you. "You always carry a lighter though you don't spoke. You carry it because Sevika can't give up smoking if her life depended on it—"

Sevika snorted. "That's not true—"

"—Shut up." Priscilla continued. "And you both have ditched prom together and got the same classes even in college. Let's be real, you both would've have significant others if it weren't the fact you both like each other like that."

Another girl, Sara, also joined in the teasing and reasoning. "That's true. We all know Sevika was changing the girls she dated more than the bedsheets she slept with them on."

Sevika flushed, "Hey!—"

"Shut up." Priscilla and Sara said in unison before looking at each other and giggling.

"Okay, okay, girls, what's your point?" You asked as the food arrived. The waiter, sensing the anticipation, quickly served the table and left with a polite "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Our point is," Priscilla sighed. "Date Sevika already."

"Better yet, marry her." Sara said making the both of you (Sevika and you) sputter.

"You're dead meat." Sevika said, cheeks tinged red. You giggled a little and looked at Sevika. "Sev, maybe they do got a point."

"You think so? Or do you simply want to give your chances with me a shot?" Sevika winked making you pretend-gag.

"No, I'm serious." You said after a while of laughing. Sevika didn't say anything for a bit, taking her time to think it through before the rest of your friend group began slowly picking up their cutlery and eating.

After everyone finished eating, they slowly started getting up and saying their goodbyes until it was just you and Sevika left.

"So?" Sevika got up slowly, letting a hand out to help you up.

"So what?" You grabbed her hand and gave her a brief smile of appreciation.

"What's on your mind, pretty?" Sevika grabbed you by the waist and held you close to her own self, guiding you out of the restaurant.

"Just thinking of what Priscilla and Sara said." You said as your heels clicked through the concrete, you both walking in the breezy night.

"You seriously wanna marry me?" Sevika joked making you roll your eyes.

"Look at the bigger picture, Sev!" You squeezed her hand a little. "We would be great together. We've known each other for so long and should've given a shot at 'us' sooner!"

Sevika ruffled your hair, "Just say it, you want me to kiss you."

"This is the point when I deny everything I just said and stutter." You stopped walking as did Sevika.

The next actions didn't even feel voluntary as Sevika's hand slowly traced into your hair, lips inches apart until they weren't.

Her lips on yours felt like heaven. Your lips cold against her warm breath. As you kissed her, Sevika's tongue swiped against your bottom lip lovingly.

Your eyes slowly closed as Sevika's lips roamed over yours. As the two of you parted slowly, you could see the love in her eyes.

And you knew, this was the correct path.

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Monster Movie | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader ( :0 ? )

Warnings: all of 'em. put 'em all here. mentions of disordered eating, descriptions of severe anxiety, dean is lowkey being the worst, burns, injuries, canon violence, canon gore

Word Count: 3587

A/N: I'm gonna keep it very real with y'all. Please heed the warnings about anxiety and disordered eating. If I am honest, I kinda got triggered writing it as I pulled the experience of my character from my own experience in a previous relationship. Obviously, the circumstances were very different, but I used to get tonnnssss of anxiety specifically while eating that ended in me becoming malnourished because the person I was dating was so horrible to me. Dean isn't like that, though, and I guess I kind of used this chapter and this part of the character's arc to heal that pain still within me, even after years.

Please know I understand if you have to skip out on this chapter for the reasons above. The beginning of season 4 is going to be very rocky as Dean and (Y/N) continue to learn to trust each other again, but I hope to see you in the coming weeks as the storm begins to calm. Much love to you, as always.

-m

“Dean,” you breathed out, eyes filling with tears. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” He sat in the chair across from the bed that he’d undoubtedly put you in.

“Dean, I’m so sorry—” 

That seemed to send a ping of anger through him, but he suppressed it. “We can talk about that later. Are you okay?” 

“I think so,” you said. You pushed yourself up with a wince and noticed the gauze around your left forearm and right calf. “You did this?” 

He nodded. 

You smiled lopsidedly, cheeks heating. “Thank you.” You tried to joke lightheartedly. “You’re finally getting a hang of the right way to dress a burn.”

“Eh, I had a good teacher,” he shrugged. 

You’d missed this so much; the comfort in the mundane moments with him. 

Both of you seemed a little too scared to say anything, and you stared at your scraped up hands instead of at him. 

“I’m still pissed at you,” he stated.

You nodded. “I figured.”

Another moment of tense silence passed between you.

“Once you’re healed, I still want you gone,” Dean said. His blunt tone felt like a sucker punch to the gut.

Even still, you nodded. “That’s fair.”

Dean nodded sharply and got to his feet. When he’d nearly left the room, he turned around again. “Why aren’t you fighting me on this?”

You threw your hands up in defeat. “What do you want me to say, Dean?”

He approached the bed you were in once more. “Something. Anything. Be mad. Yell at me. Call me an asshole. Dammit, tell me what happened. Explain it all away. Just something!” 

You used the side of your thumb to apply pressure to the bridge of your nose. “Well, you pretty definitively told me to leave and not to come back at Bobby’s.”

“I gave you a choice!”

“A choice you couldn’t even begin to understand the difficulty of!” you shouted back. 

“Okay, so tell me!” he yelled. “Help me understand! Because you’re not making sense to me, (Y/N)!”

You huffed, going quiet for a moment. “I can’t,” you finally breathed out, hiding your face from him. 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Of course, you can’t,” he muttered angrily. He started back for the door. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him hesitate while he grabbed the door handle. When the door shut behind him, you felt your heart sink.

****

Being in the backseat of the Impala again was an amazing feeling. You were tired of going it alone. However, the tense atmosphere was something you could do without.

“The radio around here sucks,” Dean grumbled. He turned it off, briefly stealing a glance at his skulking brother. “Come on, man. Jobs don't get much sweeter than this, you know? Dead vic with a gnawed-on neck, body drained of blood, and a witness who swears up and down that it was a vampire.” He was making it clear he was going the route of ignoring you and only addressing you with a sharp comment when absolutely necessary.

“No, I- I agree,” Sam said half-heartedly. “It’s a hell of a case.” “A little more gusto, please.”

“It's just... the world is coming to an end. Things are a little complicated, you know?”

“C’mon, man, it's like the good old days, an honest-to-goodness monster hunt. It's about time we got back to tackling a straightforward, black and white case.”

****

“Oktoberfest 2008” was painted on a sign Dean drove past, and you watched people celebrating in tacky Lederhosen and barmaid costumes. 

“You stay,” Dean told you gruffly when he parked the car. 

You crossed your arms and stared out the window. 

“We still got to see the new Raiders movie,” Dean pointed at his brother as he got out of the car. 

“Saw it,” Sam replied monotonously. 

“Without me?” 

Their voices became distant as they shut the doors and walked away. 

You felt sick to your stomach. Everything you wanted to say to Dean— the things that had happened since he went to Hell, Uriel, Castiel, the things you’d done— they were all on the tip of your tongue. But then, he’d glare at you. Your heart would sink, and you’d retreat right back into yourself.

Marissa Wright was a young girl who’d been visiting the town for Oktoberfest. Strangely, she had two dark marks on her neck like a cartoonish vampire bite. At least, that was what you gathered from the pictures you’d snagged a peek at over Sam’s shoulder on the ride from the morgue to the bar Dean and Sam had left you outside of.

Frankly, Marissa Wright wasn’t interesting to you. At the moment, you were too concerned with your angel business. Uriel’s words about killing Sam loomed over you, and you felt like you couldn’t leave the Winchesters even once you were healed because of what Uriel was making you do.

Somehow, you needed to regain Dean’s trust. The idea of trying to manipulate him made you sick, but maybe it was what you needed to do to protect him. Even if he never understood why you did the things you did, at least he’d still be alive to wonder.

****

That night, you were unable to sleep. That, unfortunately, was not unusual. Yet again, you were alone in a motel room wishing to be next to Dean. 

The mirror had become your worst enemy. Shirts you’d stolen from Steven when he was a teenager hung even more loosely off you than they did before Dean died. Your arms lacked the muscle tone they once had, and you felt weaker and sicker with each passing day.

An anxiety was beginning to form within you that you’d become unhealthily dependent on Dean. You never wanted that for yourself; men had always been an accessory to you before Dean. You were complete on your own. Now, you weren’t sure what was wrong with you.

Was it that you missed Dean that much? Was it the angels? Was it the things you’d done? You supposed it was a combination of all of the above. 

****

The next morning, you opened the door to your room to see Sam. Your heart sank a bit that it wasn’t Dean, and it seemed like that much was evident based on your facial expression.

“Good to see you, too,” Sam chuckled.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “Good morning, by the way.”

The brunet nodded, still seeming not to feel sure where he stood between you and his brother at the moment. “We’re leaving in five. Headed to the morgue, I think.”

“Another attack?” you asked.

Sam nodded. “Doesn’t sound anything like the last one, though.”

“Fun stuff,” you replied, pulling your boots on. “You think he’s gonna put me in the timeout chair again?”

The younger brother looked at the ground bashfully, and you sighed. “Yeah, I thought so, too.” 

****

Sure enough, Dean made you stay in the car again. It seemed he was deriving some strange satisfaction from keeping you separated from the case. Or maybe his joy came from the fact that it very visibly pissed you off.

When the boys returned to the car, you didn’t ask any questions about the case. Frankly, you weren’t interested. However, Sam was adamant about getting your input. 

“Wolf Man?” you scoffed. “Are you sure?”

“What, do you think we’re idiots?” Dean snapped.

You took a deep breath and nearly bit your tongue to keep yourself quiet. “It’s not that, Dean,” you said lowly. “It’s that it’s just sort of implausible to have found a wolf hair next to a body with its heart still intact and Dracula-accurate fang marks in that girl’s neck.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Dean snapped.

“Dean! Cut it out, man,” Sam warned. 

Dean seemed taken aback by Sam, but he didn’t press the issue. 

The ride remained silent until the three of you arrived at the bar Dean had left you outside the day before. 

Sam opened the door for you, encouraging you to get out despite the very obvious glares from his brother. 

Once inside the bar, you sat on the same side of the booth as Sam. Dean grumpily chomped on his burger, and Sam ate his meal silently. You didn’t even order anything; your stomach was too upset and tied in knots to properly digest anything. As soon as you tried, you knew you’d be in the bathroom puking your guts up. 

“Aren’t you gonna eat something?” Sam asked you.

You shook your head. 

“C’mon, not even a bite of mine?” he tried again.

You shook your head once more, feeling too shaky to say anything.

Dean looked up from his burger momentarily to address you. “C’mon, (Y/N), you gotta eat something.” His tone was still guarded, but it was nowhere near as harsh as it had been in the car.

“I’m fine,” you mustered out. 

You could feel Dean’s eyes on you, but you just stared down at the table in front of you and took a sip of your water.

The pretty blonde waitress, Jamie, bounded up to the table with two more beers for Sam and Dean. 

“Looks like you guys are staying a while. I heard about Rick Deacon,” she said, referencing the most recent victim. 

Dean nodded. “Yeah, this case just got weird enough for our department.”

“Well, beers are on me,” she replied with a smile. Then, she turned to Dean confidently. “And, just so you know, I get off at midnight tonight.”

“Oh, it's not another, uh, girls' night out?” Dean smirked up at her.

Your stomach fell to your shoes, and rage bubbled in your chest. However, you knew your anger was misplaced. He wasn’t yours anymore, and you needed to accept that.

Jamie returned his playful smile. “Doesn't have to be.”

“Okay, then. I'll see you tonight.”

“Okay, then.” And, with that, she left.

Sam noticed your discomfort, but he couldn’t offer you anything more than an empathetic look.

Without even noticing you, Dean said, “Hey, you think this Dracula could turn into a bat? That would be cool.”

**** Another murder, except this time, committed by a mummy. However, you and the brothers determined the “mummy” was using special effects from a prop house in Philadelphia to enhance his monstrous performance. You were either dealing with a Silence-of-the-Lamb-level psychopath, or… you weren’t really sure. Truth be told, you weren’t devoting even a half of your attention to this case. That seemed to put Dean off, slightly, and it made him even more sure you should be kept in the car. Secretly, you thought it was because he was worried about your wounds, but you also knew there was a really strong chance he just did not want to see you.

When Dean realized he’d be late for his date with Jamie, your heart sank. Still, Dean ran off and left you and Sam behind to investigate.

“(Y/N),” Sam said, turning to you. “You have got to eat something. You look like hell.”

“Don’t worry about me, Sam,” you responded absently. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Talk to me.”

You continued to poke around the sarcophagus. “No,” you snapped. You realized how harsh you sounded. “I’m sorry, that was mean. I just— I can’t. I’m sorry.”

You could feel Sam scanning your face, but he just nodded slowly.

“I really am sorry, Sam,” you said sincerely.

His tone was soft and understanding. “I know you are.” 

As much as you didn’t really trust him as a result of the whole “Ruby” ordeal, Sam had a way of making you feel seen. He really was an incredible friend to you, and you hated what you felt your relationship was turning into. 

Not even ten minutes later, Sam got a call from Dean. With a panicked expression on his face, Sam gave you a look that meant the two of you needed to leave at that moment. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked. “Is Dean okay?” Your heart pounded in your throat.

“Dracula attacked,” Sam replied as he tried to hail a cab. 

“What?!” 

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s all I know right now.”

As soon as you made it to the bar, you burst through the doors. When you saw Dean sitting at a table with Jamie, your heart sank in the midst of your relief.

“Hey,” Sam called out, trailing behind you. “You guys all right?” Dean sighed. “Yeah, I think so. And I think I know what's going on.” He put a folded towel down on the table.

“Yeah?” his brother replied.

“Part of it, at least.”

You hesitantly reached out to the towel, trying to keep your distance from Jamie and Dean. He eyed you curiously while you opened the towel. An ear was inside. You lightly touched it; immediately recoiling as you realized what it was. 

“Shifter,” you stated, keeping your eyes anywhere but on Dean’s.

“Oh, man,” Sam huffed.

Dean nodded. “Just like St. Louis and just like Milwaukee. Of course this one's all holding buckets of crazy. Oh, and, uh—” he took a medallion out of his pocket and tossed it to Sam. “This, I uh, pulled it off during the fight. Look at the label on the ribbon.”

Sam scoffed when he read it. “It's a costume rental.”

“All three monsters— the Dracula, Wolf Man, and the mummy— all the same critter; which means we need to catch this freak before he Creature From the Black Lagoons somebody.”

Jamie’s voice broke in. “So, you guys are like Mulder and Scully or something, and The X-Files are real?”

You didn’t miss how Jamie failed to include you in the analogy.

“No, The X-Files is a TV show. This is real,” Dean replied.

“Oh.” The blonde looked down at the table in front of her.

“Okay, so, the stagecraft, the costuming—” Sam pointed out, “it's like he's trying to re-enact his favorite monster movie moments, right down to the bloody murders.”

Jamie furrowed her eyebrows. “Wait a second. Who the hell is Mina?”

“Mina?” Sam questioned. 

“Yeah. That's what he called Jamie,” Dean nodded. “And he called me Mr. Harker.”

You bit the inside of your lip. “Characters from the original Drac movies and novels. Harker’s Mina’s fiancé. Dracula’s obsessed with Mina. Seems he fixated on you, darlin’,” you nodded at Jamie, pushing down your jealousy.

You knew it was twisted to be jealous of a girl getting stalked, but it was just solidifying in your mind that Dean wasn’t yours anymore. And it was all your fault.

“Wow. Lucky me,” Jamie groaned.

“But to fixate on you, my guess is that the shifter has to have seen you before or been around you,” Sam added.

Dean turned to the blonde. “Jamie, has anybody strange come to town, somebody that has taken a specific notice of you?”

“I don't know, Dean. It's Oktoberfest. I'm a bartender. There's lots of people. I... wait a second. There is Ed.”

“ ‘Ed Brewer’ Ed?” Sam asked. You assumed it was someone they’d met earlier on the hunt; possibly while you were confined to the car.

“Yeah. He moved here about a month ago. Lucy swears he has a crush on me. He comes in almost every night. But, you know, I don't think he's the type of guy—”

“Where does Ed live?” Dean asked, cutting her off.

“I don't know. But he works at the old movie theater. I think he's the projectionist there.”

Sam looked to you and jerked his head toward the door. You turned on your heel, hearing Sam ask Dean to take care of “Mina” before he followed behind you. Anger bubbled in your chest, but you were trying to keep your feelings from seeping out.

****

You cocked your gun against the back of the head of Mr. Ed Brewer. 

“Whoa!” Brewer asked, holding his hands up in surrender. “W-Wait just one second, okay?” He tried to turn around to face you.

“Don’t move,” you commanded, voice eerily cold.

“W-What do you want?”

“You know what you did, Ed,” you replied.

“What?”

“I know what you are.”

“I'm not anything. I just like to play the Casio,” the man pleaded.

Sam nodded at Ed’s skull. “Had time to grow the ear back, huh?”

“What?!” He tried to turn around again.

“I said don’t fucking move,” you sneered.

Brewer froze again.

Sam tugged on Ed’s ear, but it wouldn’t budge. “It's supposed to come off.”

“No, it’s not!” he replied.

“You’re right,” you stated evenly. “I’m gonna walk away now. You don’t move until exactly two minutes after you hear the last of my footsteps, okay?”

“Okay, okay—”

You cut Ed off by pistol whipping him on the back of the head. He slumped to the floor, and you quickly rushed out of the room.

You caught Sam giving you strange looks, but you completely ignored them. “What did we miss, Sam?”

“Uh—”

“Sam! What did we miss?”

“Give me a second, (Y/N)!”

"We may not have ‘a second’!”

“The fuck are you in such a rush for?” he asked. 

“We don’t have time to talk about this, Sam,” you replied, voice becoming even again. “We gotta find this fucker, so I can—” you cut yourself off, nearly biting your tongue to avoid bringing up the angels and your “mission.” First and foremost, you were supposed to be keeping them safe. If you weren’t with Dean, you had no assurance that you were doing your job. 

“So you can what, (Y/N)?” Sam asked.

“I can’t tell you,” you answered sharply.

Thankfully, Sam just huffed and shook his head. 

****

When you got back to the bar, you strutted through the front doors that were surprisingly unlocked. As soon as you entered the bar, you felt uneasy. 

“Dean?” you called hesitantly. 

Sam just chuckled and took out his phone. “Dean, hey listen. Uh, Ed is not our guy. Um, I'm guessing you're at home with Jamie, so just give me a call, okay?”

While he left his voicemail, you walked over to the table Dean and Jamie had been sitting at. You stopped short at a broken bottle on the floor, and a napkin had a lipstick color on it you hadn’t seen Jamie wearing.

“Sam,” you said, feeling slightly choked.

He walked over to you and looked down at the napkin. “Lucy,” he murmured.

“Wait, Jamie’s friend?” you asked.

Sam nodded. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” you sighed heavily. 

****

Sam tracked Dean’s cell phone as you sped to the house the signal pinged at. As soon as the car was parked, you were sprinting up the stairs to the door of the house. Sam picked the lock, and you burst in, sneaking around with your gun drawn. 

You nodded for Sam to check upstairs while you went to check downstairs. Quietly, you slinked down the stairs with cat-like grace. Silently, you were hoping you’d be finding Jamie instead of Dean to avoid the awkward rescue scenario. 

Alas, your prayers were not answered. You entered the dark basement and saw a large, medieval looking torture device in the center of the room. Dean grunted while he tried to make it out of his chains, muttering the odd, “Dammit!” 

You lowered your gun as you rounded the device. “Dean?” You came to a stop in front of him, feeling everything in you wanting to run right out of the room.

“Get me outta here, would ya?” His tone was harsh.

You nodded obediently, wanting to avoid fighting with him as much as possible. It upset you that Dean could make the Lederhosen Dracula had dressed him in work. 

“Where’s Sam?” he asked.

You nodded at the stairs. 

“Silent treatment?” Dean scoffed. “Mature.”

“Stop, Dean, please,” you begged quietly. You hated that your voice came out as more of a whine than anything. Then, you rushed out of the room in an attempt to avoid any further conflict. 

When you heard a loud crash upstairs, you ran up the steps to the second floor. Dean followed close behind and burst into the room the scuffling sounds seemed to be coming from. 

Immediately, Dracula tackled Dean. “And you, Harker, now you die.” Dean choked out, “How 'bout now you shut the fuck up?”

With Dean trying to shield himself on the floor, you waited for Dracula to raise his sternum up enough for you to fire. Just as the monster was about to finish Dean off, you shot him once in the chest.

“Silver?” the monster said, seeming mystified. He looked up at you menacingly holding your gun. “It was beauty that killed the beast. No, Mina, do not weep.” He dramatically collapsed into a chair. “Perhaps this is how the movie should end.”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, immediately turning on your heels to walk out of the room.

****

The next day, you slumped down in the back seat of the Impala while Dean and Jamie made out just outside the passenger’s side window. 

Faintly, you heard Jamie say, “Well, thank you, G-Man. You have been a great service to your country.” “Oh, yes, I'm very, very patriotic,” he responded flirtatiously.

You scoffed, pulling your gun out of the bag on the seat next to you to clean it. 

When the two brothers finally bid Jamie goodbye and got down into the car, Dean turned his eyes to you in the rearview mirror. “Jamie said to thank you.” He stared at you in the rearview mirror waiting for you to respond.

You never answered, and Dean just shook his head and started driving.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-nesmith @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[hughesmuse86]

https://www.tumblr.com/hughesmuse86/776509950480564224/jack-hughes-coded these pics make me crazy are u kidding me🫦🫦

Anyways how have you been sweetheart?🥝🩷 i got sick so i haven’t been very active but i can only blame the school stress hahah

I dream of this relationship dynamic with jack where both of us have busy schedules and stressful jobs so we know when the other needs to blow off some steam and just give them head until their brain is numb without asking for anything back

I just wanna feel like i’m floating above clouds, like u know u get after like 3-4 orgasms🤣

But sub jack is secretly my favourite of them all🤭

+18

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚋!𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎-𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕, 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖., + 𝚞𝚗𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚟

RIGHT! It even looks like his little button nose. I don't know if you would call it that, lmao, but I would 100% bring it to a plastic surgeon because the envy is real.

But yes, anytime I can find pictures like that, it just fuels the fantasy for me 🤭🤭🤭

I’ve been great just working and writing. I’m working on my SMAU for the other fandom I’m in, and it’s so much work 😭 but I love it. This is my first one, and you're creating this storyline while also creating the media for it so it's definitely a challenge.

Oh, you were sick! I’m sorry, bb! I hope you're feeling better!!

Ahhh, thank you for filling my brain with these thoughts. THISSSSS 🔥🔥

Lots of free use and late-night sex. Jack shows up for his flight out with a big smile because you snuck in a quickie before he left—and it’s pretty much the only thing he’s thinking about on the plane. Also, imagine you, mid-meeting, having to shut off your audio and camera because his tongue was too good.

I feel like he’d be a big orgasm counter. Does that make sense? It’s almost like he’s in a competition with himself. Like, “fuck, I only have ten minutes. How many do you think I can get in, bunny?” Or, “Last time, I got you off 4 times. Do you think I can do it again?” And, you’re so blissed-out and cock-drunk, and he loves to hear it, so he’s making you count out loud, mocking you teasingly, but he’s so proud of himself and smug as fuck 🤭🤭.

You both are overworked, so when you get to relax, you just want to be close to each other and help one another, so just space out. Jack will be between your legs, pulling out orgasm after orgasm from you until you’re a trembling mess, ears ringing, thighs shaking. And when it’s his turn, you’ll be sucking him off with his hands in your hair, using your mouth to stroke his cock as he watches you work.

Sub!Jack oooohhh how I love you. He’s so eager to please, and he loves praise. I like the idea of him not even considering being submissive for anyone until you came around, and then everything shifted. But even more than Sub!Jack is going to be Switch!Jack, for me, because the idea of you teasing him shamelessly and him being really into it until he gets so frustrated and snaps and takes complete control scratches my brain just right.

I hope you have the best night bb!!!! Thank you for your ask as always.

𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

[my85volvo]

Prompt!

Thanks for the inspo @sunnyhopeworld !

...

I was just a little rebellion, that's all. Just a little escape from the ever-present weight of the Hale name. Always shaved, always neat, clothes pressed, shoes shined. Keep your back straight but always look relaxed, Derek. Make your voice deep yet never booming, Derek. Be generous but ignore the undeserving, Derek.

He stood outside a run-down strip mall, with a laundromat, nail salon, tax office, and... Red Spark Tattoos and Piercings. It stood out with an artfully designed banner of large, red letters painted in calligraphy, and the windows were plastered with a collage of stickers, posters, and what looked like doodles made with a sharpie. Derek's hands were slightly shaking as he pushed the dingey glass door open. The smell of cleaning supplies greeted him as he stepped into a small room, populated by a large reception desk, a few rolling chairs, something that looked like a massage table, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling cabinets. There was only one person there, a 20-something man with shaggy brown hair relaxing behind the desk with an open book in his hand. Derek cleared his throat to get his attention.

"Woah!" The man exclaimed, nearly falling out of his seat. "Ah, um, sorry man, lemme just--one second."

The man tossed his book somewhere behind the desk, then picked up a fountain soda with one hand while pushing away the remains of his lunch with the other. When the desk looked sufficiently tidy to his liking, he took a breath and stood up straight, looking Derek straight in the eyes and smiling wide.

"Welcome to Red Spark! How may I poke you today?"

Derek was a little taken aback, both by the man's greeting and his appearance. His eyes were a gorgeous, honey brown, highlighted by pale skin and a few tiny moles dotting his jaw. He was full of piercings; two in his left brow, one under his lip, 5 in one ear and 3 in the other. Derek saw the hint of a tattoo peeking out from the collar of his shirt, and another that started on his right hand and disappeared under his cuff. Somehow, the man looked like a rock star, rather than the dilenquient that Derek expexted.

It took a moment before he regained his composure.

"I, um...piercing?"

The man's smile grew a bit wider.

"First time?"

Derek gave a curt nod.

"No problem at all. How about we talk for a few minutes in my office?"

Derek glanced toward a door in the corner of the room, thinking they would go somewhere private. But the man just stood and gestured for Derek to follow him 4 steps away while he plopped down in a rolling chair. Derek followed suit, cautiously taking another chair for himself.

"So, welcome, like I said before. My name is Stiles, and this is my little shop. I can pierce pretty much anything--" Derek didn't miss the way the man's eyes drifted down his body when he said that, "--and we have plenty of hoops and studs to go with your style. But before we get into that, how about you tell me your name?"

"...Derek."

"Derek," Stiles said warmly. "Good to meet you. Thanks for coming in today. Want to tell me a bit about what you're looking for?"

Derek sucked in a breath, preparing to recite the short speech he had practiced a dozen times on the way over. I'd like a nose piercing, right nostril. Nose piercing, right nostril. Nose piercing--

But instead, he said--

"I want to be different."

He felt his cheeks growing hot in embarrassment. Why the hell did that come out of his mouth? He expected Stiles to give him a questioning look, or roll his eyes, or pretend to think that what he just said was a great idea. Instead, the man's smile grew soft, and he nodded his head in understanding.

"Yeah, I get that. And I've got good news for you--you're already different. You've lived your life in such a fantastically specific way that no one else ever could, just because you're you. You don't need a piercing to be different; all that can do is give you a reminder of who you were when you decided to get it.

No one had ever said anything like that to him before. It felt like...somehow this man could see right through him. It put Derek on edge, for some reason.

"You're not a very good salesman."

Stiles laughed and looked down, as if Derek wasn't the first to tell him that.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But it helps me sleep at night," he replied. "You still want to take the plunge?"

"Yes...I already decided to go through with it. I don't want to back down now."

"Okay!" Stiles clapped his hands together once, slightly startling Derek. "That settles that, then. Where were you thinking of getting pierced?"

"Nose piercing. Right nostril."

"Yep, yep, solid choice. Do you have any allergies? Any alcohol or drugs consumed in the last 24 hours? Are you an avid nose-picker? Because that can mess with the healing process."

"...No, no, and I always use a tissue."

Stiles seemed a bit too amused by his answer, flashing a bright smile once again.

"Excellent. That'll be $80 and an ID for the piercing, which includes the jewelery. Cash or card?"

"Cash," Derek said, reaching for his wallet. No way was he going to let this place show up in a paper trail.

Stiles checked his ID, took the cash, and wrote out a reciept. Derek noticed that his fingers were long and graceful, and his handwriting was hurried and terribly sloppy.

"Alright, that takes care of that! Now let me grab these--" he reached toward a shelf behind him to grab a flat display box full of studs and tiny hoops. "You can take a look at what you want while I prep."

Stiles stood and walked back to the desk. Derek heard him shuffling through some papers while he examined the studs in the case. He wanted something subtle yet visible. Something his mother wouldn't notice because she barely looked at him unless he was doing something wrong, but still stood out among his clean-cut peers. He ended up choosing a small, sterling silver stud. It wasn't the boldest choice, but he was okay sticking to the classics when it came to middle-child rebellion.

When Derek looked up again, Stiles was sitting across from him fiddling with a few items placed on a small tray resting on the table beside them. There was a clipboard next to the tray, which looked like a contract that had been copied from a copy many times.

"Liability release. Read and sign, if you please." Stiles said. "And have you picked a piercing you like?"

"Yes. This one," Derek pointed to the silver stud.

Stiles nodded and put the box back on the shelf, then opened a tiny drawer in one of those big, plastic organizational cases. He pulled out a small baggy of identical studs, shook one into his hand, then set it on the tray.

Derek read the liability release while Stiles started sterilizing his equipment and readying his tools. The contract was pretty standard, though Derek could already tell there were some pretty glaring loopholes. This must have been written at least 20 years ago, based on the language. Derek was no lawyer, but having poured through hundreds of contracts while managing the Beacon Hills branch of his mother's business, he had seen his fair share of liability agreements. This guy definitely needed a new one.

He signed the contract without much fuss and turned towards Stiles. The man was waiting patiently, alcohol swab in hand.

"Ready?" He asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Derek nodded.

"Alright. I'm going to wipe down your nose first. Then I'll put on some gloves and open a new needle. The piercing will take less than a minute, and then I'll slip on your stud. We'll talk about care afterwards. Sound good?"

Derek nodded again, feeling his heartbeat increasing and his lungs slightly tightening.

"Alright, excuse my reach--"

Stiles rolled forward, slotting his knee between Derek's legs while he reached for his face. It was... a lot more intimate than he expected. The cool press of the alcohol swab caused him to tense, but Stiles just placed his other hand on Derek's jaw while he cleaned. It was warm and surprisingly comforting.

"Alright, step two! So tell me, what do you do, Derek?"

Derek watched as Stiles started pulling on gloves.

"I work for my parents. It's boring."

"Hmm," was all Stiles said in response. He was peeling open a paper holder, revealing a new needle inside. "Alright, ready to take the plunge?"

Derek took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. "Yes," he replied.

He felt Stiles move in closer, his knee coming dangerously close to Derek's crotch, and with a gentle hand the man held Derek's chin and tilted his head to the left. Then he felt something push inside his nose, which wasn't particularly pleasant, before a moderate burning pain burst from his nostril.

"You're doing great, Derek. Almost there."

His eyes were still closed, and a moment later, he felt something slide into his new piercing. Stiles fiddled with it for a moment, then pulled away completely. Derek sort of missed the heat of their bodies touching, however brief it may have been.

"Alright! You are now the proud owner on one extra hole in your body. How do you feel?"

Derek opened his eyes and instinctively reached up to touch his new piercing, but Stiles quickly grabbed his hand to stop him.

"Don't touch," Stiles warned. "Let me put a bit of ointment on first."

His hand lingered for that extra two seconds, which made Derek start to feel hopeful. They separated, and he watched as Stiles opened a tube of... something and squeezed a bit out on a q-tip.

"Hold still one more time for me," he asked.

Derek watched the top of his head while Stiles deftly swabbed his piercing. His hair looked soft, touchable, and Derek was beginning to realize the feelings that this man was stirring in him. He blinked rapidly and tried to clear his head.

"Okay, you're gonna wanna put this on twice a day," he said, handing the tube over. "Try to twist the stud a little bit to make sure it's not healing over. If you want to change it out, come back and I'll do it for you. Otherwise, wait 6 months before removing it. Sound good?"

Stiles started cleaning up the tray of supplies, and Derek wasn't sure what to say. Was it over already? Did he really have to leave so soon? He knew why he wanted to stay.

"Is that...it?"

"Oh! Almost forgot. here--" Stiles pulled out a pamphlet from the shelf behind him. "In case you forget anything I just told you."

Derek stared at the pamphlet, reading the same list of instructions over and over again. Stiles finished cleaning up, then sat back down beside him. Derek could feel Stiles staring, and when he looked up, he was met with another one of those warm, inviting smiles.

"Want to rest here for a bit while you get used to it? you're free to lay on the table and have an existential crisis, too. Comes with the piercing package." Stiles winked.

"No, I should go. Thank you." Derek stood abruptly and walked away, cursing himself for the awkward goodbye.

"Thanks! Come back any ti--"

The door closed with a thud, cutting off the end of Stiles's sentence. Derek really didn't mean to be so rude, but if he stayed in that little shop much longer, he feared that he would make an even bigger fool of himself.

Of course, that didn't stop him from planning his next vist. Maybe he could ask Stiles to pick a new stud out for him and change it out. Derek smiled to himself, already looking forward to returning to Red Spark.

Daydreamed of Derek Hale with a nose piercing today at work. Now I can't get it out of my head

[lookmomitsmytmblr]

Hey guys remember how like four hours ago I RBed something and talked about how I had a canon ship that I love (Peter Quill & Gamora)? I also have a deep love and appreciation for a "successor ship" of Nebula/Peter (following the tragic yet bittersweet end of P/G) that is currently non-canon but has incredible potential for the characters and narrative and had some fantastic chemistry in GoTG3.

I tend to look at things from the writing perspective, and honestly P/G had such a fantastic complete arc (despite some issues, as always) and the way they left the characters felt respectful of the depth and importance of their connection without making their lives about each other. And that's what I loved about the pairing in the first place, I adore pairings where their lives ARENT about each other, but their goals and values align in such a way that they partner together and support one another.

I actually super love when stories are willing to tackle that sometimes people who love each other are separated for various reasons and then the characters are allowed to love again. Like, we get to see a whole new dynamic that is no less real or special than the past relationships. This is getting really ramble-y, but basically I feel like shipping and plot are two very different things. When I'm shipping I want the characters to be happy (some people don't and they write angst that makes me cry lol). When I'm writing or plotting I'm thinking about what makes the best story, and sometimes that doesn't align with the ship that I loved first. But its actually so beautiful and thematically sound to have a couple who very much loves each other and ultimately are separated and then have this new, very different but very beautiful relationship that comes from the loss. Like that's so. Ugh. I love it.

Sometimes breaking up a great pairing can be really thematically sound. Sometimes introducing a new relationship, or potential relationship can elevate a story and characters.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is I am very bad at sticking to canon pairings lol. I'm actually really sorry for showing up on the starbula tag and talking so much about P/G I'm sure y'all are probably sick of it. 😅

[kittyscabin]

shows up to give you the coffinchain challenge

Please be more careful when you cross the road You’re a perfect arrangement of rickety bones

Stray cats.

Peter had always likened the apprentices to a group of stray cats, in his mind.

At first it was out of distaste. They were a nuisance; a band of drifters slinking around the alleyways, catching their quarries unaware. The quick, sharp jab of a hypodermic needle might as well have been the efficient killing bite that a cat might deliver to the throat of its prey. They worked in the shadows, occupying all of those lonely abandoned buildings and reworking them for a new, twisted purpose. 

Then, begrudgingly, he’d found himself wrapped up in Mark Hoffman. Chasing him, hunting him, hellbent on bringing him to justice, then on killing him, then on understanding him, then…

Well, Peter didn’t know what he was doing now. 

All he knew was that sitting in his apartment, in varying states of composure, were three of Jigsaw’s disciples. 

Dr. Gordon sat on his couch, eyes trained down as his hands worked on bandaging a fresh wound on the arm of his younger accomplice. Stanheight sat quietly and allowed for the medical attention with little fight. Hoffman himself sat on the floor, back leaned against the couch close to the other two. 

Peter remained standing, trying not to buckle at the absurdity of his situation. In true stray-animal nature, he had made the mistake of allowing Hoffman into his home once, twice, thrice, and now he’d come back with friends. 

‘Don’t feed the strays’, indeed. 

Accept that he did know the other two, at this point. The polite Dr. Gordon was well-spoken and direct; Peter had found him infuriating in the beginning. He was a hard man to interrogate and an even harder man to intimidate, as level and unflinching as he was. Unlike Peter, he never seemed to let his anger get the best of him, and he seemed to know that. Dr. Gordon was a man who always seemed very aware of how much more control he had in the conversation. It was enviable. 

Then there was Adam Faulkner-Stanheight. Mouthful of a name. It was strange enough for Peter to wrap his head around the fact that the kid was alive, let alone working with Jigsaw. He was angry- had more rage in his scrawny little body than what felt possible. Stupid and impulsive, Peter had found him annoying. Just a petulant adolescent who had gotten himself into bigger trouble than he yet realized. 

They’ve come a long way since then. Both apprentices had grown on him, maybe because they reminded him of himself in their amalgamate qualities. The cold, callous bluntness of the doctor. The white-hot temper of the kid. The way he had never seen the former so gentle nor the latter so complacent until now, as they patched themselves together on his bloodied furniture. 

Peter had been reluctant to welcome them all inside. It was bad enough to shelter one serial killer, but now three? It reminded him that everything he’s been doing as of late is against what he once stood for. Fuck, it would solve a hell of a lot of his own problems if he didn't care. If he’d let them all rot, make them regret thinking that Peter would risk his own hide just because he's been friendly with them. Dr. Gordon and Stanheight had seemed to understand this too. Their expressions had been apprehensive, looking ready to flee like the animals they were. Peter wonders how long ago he would have given chase. 

Hoffman had spoken, then. 

“I didn’t-” His voice was shot and exhausted. “I didn’t know where else to go, Strahm.” 

And just like that, Peter took them in. Those words were all it took. Hoffman limped inside on a bad leg and described some sort of police-raid, premature. John Kramer and Amanda Young hadn’t even been there, so it had just been the trio, and they were forced to flee. Unable to go far on foot in their current state, Hoffman had brought his injured companions here. To Peter. 

Why did that make something strange stir within him? 

The three of them were soaked to the bone from the rain. Peter watched Hoffman sluggishly attempt to remain alert, but every so often his head would lull and come to rest against the soft thigh of Dr. Gordon. If the doctor noticed it, he didn't say a word as he continued to diligently work. He looked tired. Stanheight was putting on the best brave face he could manage, but Peter’s keen eyes caught his shoulders trembling, only eased when Gordon’s hand came to rest on one and rubbed gently. They all looked so tired. 

Unable to watch any longer, Peter finally broke the silence. 

“So why are you still doing this?” It took everything in him to not fidget idly as he spoke, brows furrowed at the three men. 

All eyes were on him quite suddenly, sharp as they regarded him. Three clever pairs of observant eyes that all screamed out ‘I know more than I’m letting on' to Peter. He held their gazes, muscled arms crossed over his chest. 

“You know what I’m talking about.” He scoffed, lip curling. “What’s the point of doing the old man's dirty work when he just lets things like this happen to you?” 

Silence.

Hoffman broke first. He laughed, eyes closing as he rested more fully against the couch. It was good-natured but ultimately dismissive. 

Dr. Gordon frowned at Peter, one brow quirked as if he had asked them something incredibly naive. Like he expected Peter to know already. 

Stanheight didn't react. Not outwardly, anyways. He only stared, something new and strange glittering in his eyes that Peter couldn't place.

“What,” Peter grit his teeth, an edge to his voice. Less of a question and more of a prompt. 

“Nothing, nothing. Apologies, Mr. Strahm.” Gordon sighed, turning his attention back to his handiwork. He appeared to nearly be done with the worst of Stanheight’s injuries now. “It’s just… not that simple.”

“Not exactly the kinda job you can put your two weeks in for.” Hoffman corroborated, a smirk tugging at his full lips. 

Peter felt his face burn hot, and he huffed in frustration. “You fucking- Don’t play dumb. Don’t act like it’s a stupid question. I’ll throw you back out onto the fucking curb.” He jabbed a finger at Hoffman in particular, who for his part did indeed shut his mouth. “You listening? Good. What I’m saying is that John Kramer is one demented old man. What is actually stopping you?” 

This time, the quiet was punctuated by Hoffman and Gordon exchanging an uncomfortable glance. After a moment, Hoffman shrugged and ran one hand through his damp, messy hair. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of, uh, checks ‘n balances.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow skeptically. Hoffman continued. 

“Information is power, etcetera. Kramer keeps basically everything on a need-to-know basis. Including, I dunno, who you’re workin’ with half the time. Hell,” He rolled his eyes, and lazily raised a hand behind his head to pat Gordon’s arm. The doctor made an annoyed noise in response, shifting away from him. “He only told me about these lovebirds when he needed help lookin’ after ‘em.” 

“I’m still mad about missing out on a trip to Mexico.” Stanheight quipped. His voice was softer than normal, but Peter supposed it was a good sign that he was speaking at all. He wasn’t used to the younger man being so quiet. 

Gordon straightened up a moment later, gently patting down the new bandages and brushing some of the hair from Stanheight’s face. “There you go.” He sighed. The warmth in his tone was so palpable that Peter had the distinct feeling it wasn’t meant for his ears. Despite being in his own apartment, he somehow felt he was intruding. “Get comfortable, alright?” 

Peter watched as Stanheight pulled himself to his feet, stopping short just a little ways away from him with an awkward shuffle. Gordon patted his thigh and spoke his next words like they took all of his energy to say. 

“Your turn.” He didn’t even bother to look at Hoffman. The detective grinned anyways, wasting no time in clamoring up into Gordon’s personal space and slinging his leg across the man’s lap. Gordon shook his head disdainfully, but carefully began rolling back Hoffman’s torn pant leg anyways. 

Peter guessed he wasn’t the only one that Hoffman lived to irritate.

“Christ, Mark.” Gordon sucked in a sharp breath, and Peter’s shoulders stiffened as he took a step forward to look. His stomach sank despite himself; from where he was standing Hoffman’s calf looked like a bloody mess. Peter’s a man who’s seen more gore in his line of work than anyone should hope to see in their lifetime, and yet here he is, staring in alarm. It was unlike him, and woefully he could only attribute his own uneasiness to the owner of the calf. 

As if he could read his mind, Hoffman looked up towards Peter. “Hey, it’s just-” He winced, hissing in pain as Gordon began to clean the wound. “It’s no big deal- no bullet inside. Just grazed me.” 

“You were shot?” Peter balked.

“Grazed,” Hoffman corrected. 

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose in a quick-rising frustration. Hoffman was impossible. 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Gordon’s voice was little more than a growl as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You took an unnecessary risk. Do you think I enjoy patching you back together? Honestly, if I didn't know any better I’d assume you were trying to get your sorry self killed.” 

Dr. Gordon’s tone left the detective bristling. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” He scoffed. “Hell, I don’t bother you when you’re workin’ in the sickbay. Why don't you just- fuck!” 

Hoffman yelped at the unceremonious splash of disinfectant. Gordon gave him the sort of well-practiced fake smile that only a doctor could.

“My bad,” he murmured, unapologetic. 

Peter decided he’d seen enough. He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen, telling himself that he was just stepping aside to get ice in case the doctor needed some. He knew it wasn't the truth, though; he scolded himself quietly as he leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his graying hair. 

The truth was that he couldn't keep standing there, staring at Hoffman’s leg injury. 

It’s ironic, because it feels like not too long ago that Peter would have done anything to put a bullet in Hoffman. Now the thought makes him feel… queasy. And a bit confused. 

Peter found himself comparing the apprentices to strays again.

He couldn’t get the image of roadkill splattered on the side of the highway out of his head. 

From what he knew of John Kramer and his cult, the apprentices were expendable parts. It doesn't even sound like they can trust each other half the time. One wrong move or fatal mistake would be all it took. Peter wasn't even sure how long it would take him to know something had happened. 

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps so quiet that he knew exactly who they belonged to before turning around. Stanheight stood at the entryway of his bare-bones kitchen, watching him. He’s probably spent the least amount of time alone with him. 

“What is it?” Peter’s frown deepened.

The kid didn't answer immediately, instead coming to lean against the wall beside him. He was quiet for a moment, and then shrugged. 

“Wanted to check on you, I guess.” He answered simply. 

“Check on me? In what way do I need checking on?” Raising a brow, Peter gestured towards the living room. “Look at you three, for fuck’s sake.” 

Stanheight held his hands up defensively. “Hey, hey, I just- I get it, alright?”

Peter didn't know what that meant. He stared down at the shorter man, scowl ever-present, silently prodding him to elaborate. Stanheight’s expression was… almost sympathetic, but his eyes had that same strange look from before: the one that Peter couldn't place. 

The kid was easy to underestimate, Peter knew it from his file and from his current involvement. He wasn't about to make that mistake with him. 

“Sucks, doesn't it?” Stanheight finally said. He was muttering now, glancing once over his shoulder to ensure they were still alone. “One thing to know what they're doing and another to see them come back with blood and bits of their skin hanging off.”

Peter felt his stomach turn. “No,” he lied. “If Hoffman’s gonna be reckless and get himself killed then so be it.” 

“No matter what you or anyone else thinks, I’m not stupid.” Stanheight laughed dryly. “You don't gotta lie to me, okay? I’m on team Peter here.” 

“Are we forgetting that you’re one of ‘them’ too?” Peter steeled his gaze, unamused. 

Stanheight grimaced. “I mean- kind of. Not really.”

“‘Not really?’ What’s that mean?” 

“I- like- like I’m with them but I’m not one of them. Old Johnny-boy has never and will never give a shit about me. Not exactly in the running to be his heir or whatever the others think will happen.” Stanheight huffed, rolling his eyes as he explained. “Pretty sure he wouldn't even notice if I went missing if it weren't for the pictures ‘n schedules I go and get for him.”

Peter is quiet for a moment. 

“Why stick around?” He asked softly, already knowing the answer. 

The kid just snorted in lieu of answering, and the two fell into silence once more for a couple of seconds. 

“Glad that Mark has you.” Stanheight suddenly murmured, thoughtful. 

“He does not ‘have me’.” 

“Maybe you can knock some sense into him.” 

Peter scoffed, looking elsewhere. “You’re frustrating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” Stanheight laughed, “I’m not kidding, though. It always freaks me out how Mark gets when he’s like…” 

Raising a brow, Peter waited for him to sort out his thoughts. 

“Like, when he gets hurt, right? He just- just runs off. Or he’ll go and get hammered on the other side of town and when we find him he’s a mess.” 

At that, Peter’s shoulders went rigid. He was aware of Mark’s habits, his unhealthy coping mechanism. He hadn't thought about who else might know, how deeply it might run. He hadn't thought about how often Mark must be alone. 

When he looked back at Stanheight, he realized the kid was staring at him intently. There was concern in his expression, but also something fierce. 

“John’s really messed him up. Worse than he was before all of this.” His voice was low, almost cautious. “All of them. Lawrence, Mark, Mandy, none of them deserve this. You know that, right?”

Peter’s mouth felt dry. “I…” 

Straightening up again, Stanheight stepped closer to Peter. Before he could see it coming, a smaller hand took his own and held it, inspecting it. “I think Mark needs you.” He said, “maybe all of us do. So you gotta take care of yourself too.” 

Something confused seemed to bloom in his chest then, an uncertain warmth that he could feel rise up to his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when he couldn't decide on anything to say. 

“Just think about it, ‘kay?” Stanheight let go of his hand again and started to leave the kitchen, pausing for just a moment to look back at him. “Oh, one more thing.” 

“What is it?” Peter’s voice was hoarse. 

Stanheight gave him a grin that didn't meet his eyes. “Welcome to the family.” 

Then he was gone, Peter’s protest to that statement dying on his lips, and Peter was left to think on everything he said. 

Hoffman needing him. Hoffman hiding himself away in dark corners to nurse his wounds. Improperly set bones and too much bandage. 

Stray cats.

Peter’s family used to have cats. His sister’s cat had been an old, white, raggedy thing that she named Alfredo. When Alfredo passed away, he had hidden under the bed and refused to come out. Peter thinks he remembers reading somewhere that pets do that on purpose, so their humans don't have to see them die, but it's been years and his animal knowledge is limited. 

Peter wondered how hard it is to socialize a stray cat. To reintroduce it to domesticity. 

He stepped out of the kitchen, lingering at the entryway, and watched the apprentices from where he stood. Gordon seemed to have finished with Hoffman’s leg, speaking to him in a quieter tone than before. To his surprise, Hoffman looked like he was listening. Stanheight was on the couch with them now, leaning his head onto Gordon’s shoulder. 

Peter found that he wished he could freeze this moment with the three of them in it. The bubble of safety that was his living room felt far away from everything Jigsaw. Maybe they were always meant to be here, on soft furniture, and not crouching amongst rusted pipes and jagged metal. 

Tamed. Domesticated. 

He sighed through his nose and walked around the couch, three sets of clever eyes on him again as he caught their attention. Now that he was there, he could see that Dr. Gordon had just begun to wrap up Hoffman’s leg and he silently motioned to ask for the gauze, kneeling down between them.

Understanding the gesture, Gordon handed it over, smiling at Peter warmly enough to raise his body temperature by a degree. 

“Strahm-” Hoffman started, bewildered, but Peter simply began wrapping his leg neatly. 

“Shut up.” He grunted. “Let me help you, stupid.”

[northern-passage]

i've been thinking a lot about the word "representation" and what it means and how it's changed over the last few years, particularly when it comes to the writing/publishing landscape but also in movies and tv shows… and i really don't like it anymore. to be clear, of course i think it's important to have diversity in your work, i'm not saying i hate the concept of representation. but i do really dislike the way it's used now, and i really just hate the word itself

in a broader sense it's just become a marketing tool. i'm not impressed by any publisher or author who just describes their book by listing all of the minorities/identities the characters represent as if that should be enough. it feels very gross, very exploitative and disingenuous. it also really bothers me because it's always marginalized identities- which i understand Why, but it feels very othering to me (and again. Very exploitative as an advertisement). you would never list out "cishet able-bodied white man" as a character description to pat yourself on the back over. so why do it to everyone else? why insinuate that one is the "default" and the other one is "special"? (and when i say this i'm mainly talking about advertisements/marketing. i understand why people would specify about characters in descriptions with the plot, but i don't like to see an ad that's just "this book has gay people!" with nothing else)

which then leads me to my other point, which is that a lot of people treat "representation" as if it's "too hard." like "oh i don't know enough to write about that, i don't have that experience, etc" which is a fair way to feel! however… it's weird that people only say this about writing trans characters or characters of color. i'm writing a story right now with a character who is really into motorcycles. i personally do not know that much about motorcycles, so i researched what parts are what & what different kinds of models there are & what basic bike care looks like. i guarantee Most people will have to google something at some point in their writing process. so what's the problem? it also, again, feels very othering when authors treat certain groups of people as "impossible" to write, "too hard" to understand. they are just.. people. you write them as a person. and then you figure out the rest later.

and i think part of the refusal or fear to write something outside of your experience is because of the way representation is treated as So Special. these characters are So Special that they aren't allowed to be anything other than "representation." they're Not allowed to be characters with complex emotions and interesting motivations, they have to just be Trans or Gay or Disabled or whatever. they're not allowed to be people. which means, at the end of the day, we loop right back around to where we were at the start….

there is bad representation. there are depictions of certain marginalized people that are harmful and that are damaging, i'm not trying to minimize that or argue against it at all, in fact we should all be mindful of that while writing and reading. but i also think it's possible to swing too far in the opposite direction as well and put certain groups of people on a pedestal and not allow them to do anything at all but be Perfect Representation, if that makes sense.

[chronurgy]

I'd probably be less annoyed by bioware's choice to focus so heavily on a specific subsection of lore if it was a subsection of lore I actually liked

[wildflowercryptid]

something that's been weighing on my mind ever since learning about the situation with ezra / toonimal is seeing how these predators will take the active hostility that is frequently directed towards minors in online spaces to their advantage and use it to prey on vulnerable children. i think that we as adults in online fandom should probably come together and maybe rethink the language / manner we go about interacting with kids bc clearly the way things are rn is causing active harm.

like obviously, if you're an adult and aren't comfortable with minors interacting with you or your content, you should be allowed to set that boundary and should be vocal about it, ( especially if the content you create isn't safe for them to consume. ) but i don't think talking to them like they're a blight on all that is good and holy is the way to go about it. maybe just saying you're an 18 plus account will suffice, you don't have to tell them to fuck off.

[dentist-brainsurgeon]

Long Vent under read more

TLDR: Tired, Lonely, unhappy with living situation

These past 2 and a half years, especially these past six months have really nailed in just how stifled and suffocated I feel, there was a point where living with my aunt and grandma felt good, I felt loved and comfortable for once, I've lived with them for 8 years of my adult life, but the older I get, the more I realized this is just another restrictive household where I have to walk on eggshells. I have to pretend to be Christian, I have to pretend to be cis and straight, have to pretend I don't have mental problems, and when I'm angry, its always chalked up to be my period, and they always treat me like a child, and its getting more and more obvious as the years go by. I don't get to go out much, in the past two years, the only times I was out of the house for days, was when I was in the hospital, and despite the pain I endured there, I felt sad to leave, and I cried when I was given the OK to go back to work, I hated going back to normal. And the other time, very recently, was when I got to hang out with my best friend for a few days, and it was great! I loved it!! But it was so short lived, it was the only time I was comfortable being myself in public. and I hated going back to normal again. I don't really get to partake in hobbies until maybe when my aunt and grandma fall asleep, and even then I'm too tired to do much of anything. My time is never considered, scheduled for my first PT session? Oh family is coming over and they're going to borrow the car, work? Oh we're going to go eat out with a friend at the Cheesecake Factory, final doctors appointment? Oh I'm getting my hair dyed, Hang out with my friend that was planned for months that I made sure they knew about? we're going on a cruise!!! and many such cases, doesn't matter if I tell them, and put it on the calendar. Sure the house they live in is pretty nice and its good to actually have AC, wifi and my own room for the first time in a long time but, I really only get to exist in my room, if I'm lucky, and they're out of town for a few days, I can finally exist in the living room and I actually don't mind cleaning and I'm able to cook! When my grandma and aunt can't criticize every little thing. I wouldn't mind living by myself, with friends, or even the small chance of having decent roommates, I want to be around people I actually like being around, I want to partake in hobbies at any hour of the day, I just want out, I want to be able to live my life

[abrahamvanhelsings]

re-entering my daniel brühl era remembering too late that his filmography is strangely shit for an actor of his caliber

[naomiknight-17]

My brother said something the other day about how no-one could prove if the current anti-Israel boycotts are actually making an impact cuz there could be other reasons people aren't eating at McDonald's or whatever

But besides the fact that there are many articles easily find-able online saying that the companies are aware of and feeling the impact of such protests, and some are even making some changes, I needed to make a point to him about why I participate in boycotts whether they're successful or not

But my brother tends to get annoyed and stop listening whenever I talk real politics, so I tried to make a really simple analogy

Let's say there's a man outside our house, and he is just beating people to death with sticks. Not people from our neighborhood, but still, people. We can't call the cops to stop him, because they think he's doing a great job. And we can close the blinds and ignore him, but he's still there and we know it.

And he has a big pile of sticks, so when one breaks he can get another to beat the next person to death with

So one day you have to go outside and the man turns to you and says, "Hey. Can you pass me a stick?"

And maybe it doesn't matter if you do or not. Maybe someone else will give him a stick anyway, or he'll get one on his own, or he'll start punching people

But I don't want to give him a stick.

And maybe I can't stop him, but I at least don't want to help him

At this point my brother tried to make a joke (because that's what he always does in every conversation) and he said something like "What if you don't give him the stick and then he beats YOU to death"

And I was like, "That's a great point, actually, because the Yemeni wouldn't let weapons shipments through their waterways so Israel bombed them."

And the analogy was broken but. I hope I made my point

Maybe I don't have the power as an individual half a world away to stop a genocide. But I at least want to not contribute to it

[adore-gregor]

Yeah whatever but you're still my goat 🐐 either way Gregor 😌