#love of my life fire of my loins etc etc

[townofcrosshollow]

I love you like a deer loves headlights. I need you like a dying animal needs its throat slit. I want you to take this me I am, and kill it, and kill it, and make it something new. I want to grow flowers from the soil where your vultures picked apart my bones.

[peppermintquartz]

i've gone too long without drawing him and now i can't remember how to draw his stupid hair

also what is outfit

[crazykuri]

i’ll write this in tagalog since wala naman makaka-relate pero na-realize ko lang na instead of her nickname, “kathryn” ang tawag ni daniel kay kath. And mas sanay kasi siyang tawagin na mahal, love, bal, tangi, etc. si ategurl. ganun din nga siguro si tom 🥲 kaya “zendaya” instead of z kasi mas sanay siya sa babe or love or light of my life, fire of my loins jk 🥲🥲 pero ayun. random stuff i think about habang naghihintay ng 5PM sa office haha bye

[parasocialitevn]

hi. i love eden. she's the light of my life, fire of my loins—but i have to ask... how much would it take for her to detest the mc? can eden handle a 'misbehaving' mc (lashing out because they feel unsafe around her, noticing her obsessive behavior and telling her to cut it out, mayhaps even going out of their way to threaten to file a restraining order against her, etc.)? would she even consider them to be misbehaving? is she even capable of forming a single negative opinion about mc? just some food for thought :3c

Well, she's only human. She has her limits and her triggers, you know? What would really get to her, and get under her skin... would be treating her like nothing she does is good enough. Consistently rejecting her and showing such animosity (despite it being because of her own behavior) would feel like that to her as well.

(Drabble under the read more, TW for self harm and crazed, manipulative rambling)

"I'm t-trying so h-hard... Can't you see that...? I've done so much... I just want to make you happy... and... to be happy... w-with you...! I'll do anything! I'll give you everything! H-How is that still not enough?! You're not supposed to be like this! You're different! You're not like them! Not you! Not you! Not you...!"

Eden mutters to herself in between hysterical sobs, pulling at her hair and clutching her head because she's already bitten all her fingers raw with the stress of things going so poorly. Her grip so harsh, her fingers start to bleed again underneath the bandages. Trembling with tears streaming down her face, staring through you at nothing. She pleads with you once again, her voice soft, and expression lifeless... as though her spirit is broken.

"Please... Just let me be happy... even if it's just pretend... even if you're just stringing me along... I promise to give, and not take... I'll be good... I'll be whatever you want me to be... b-but... please don't leave me alone again..."

[mattelektras]

he's an assassin.

so am i.

he's good.

i'm better.

[exlibrisfangirl]

RATE CHRIS ARGENT

ALWAYS A PLEASURE DOING BUSINESS WITH YOU.

How attractive do you find them?

not my type | meh | somewhat attractive | gorgeous | lord have mercy | TAKE ME NOW

HE IS THE EPITOME OF MY "TYPE", AND HE MAKES ME SO WEAK, ANNA.

Can you relate to this character on a personal level?

noup | not really | kind of | definitely | they are me

Sadistic, sociopathic younger sibling? Abusive parent/upbringing? Emotionally constipated, but soft af? Ravenclaw who spends most of the time in silent sleuthing mode (observing everyone and everything, picking up on all the subtle cues and clues), but then info-dumps on obscure topics out of the blue and surprises everyone? Stays cool as a cucumber in a crisis, but goes ballistic if you threaten/hurt those he loves? (etc. etc.) There are certainly countless ways we are different, but I can truly relate to his character on SO many levels. I even dress like him, lol.

If they were real, what sort of relationship would you have?

enemies | frenemies | friends | besties | lovebirds | (frenemies to lovers 100k)

Okay, if Chris Argent were real, he wouldn't give me the time of day, lol, but y'know... a girl can dream, right? We'd be morally at odds in the earlier seasons, but Season 3b (and onward) Chris? I'd be ALL ABOUT IT. I'm basically an amalgamation of Deaton, Chris, and Melissa, so the angsty, slow-burn, (fr)enemies-to-lovers flavor would be strong with this one.

Character Rate Meme

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. phantom traveler, p.1

read it on Ao3. masterlist.

words: 11,491

notes: hi ;) how are you ;) i'm great ;). my new job is mf awesome but it also takes up ALL of my time, so enjoy a very late, but (imo), very interesting edition of pythia. i'm marking this as part one bc this is when all the sexy plot things happen. what to expect: light sam angst, light dean angst, some Gift trouble, and generational family curses that cause you to fall!! in love!! woo! this part goes out to @daiziesssart bc she is the owner of my heart, fire of my loins, etc. you know the drill.

PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA - DEC. 2, midday.

By the time you’d found a change of clothes and properly sunk into your shame, Dean had packed your entire life back into the Impala. A vision, to him, was synonymous with a hunt elsewhere, and this time he happened to be right. You managed to choke something out about Pittsburgh. Without hesitating, Dean had the three of you on the road in fifteen minutes.

The drive to Pittsburgh was a little over an hour, which gave you plenty of time to simmer in how stupid you felt. Half the time you were on the road was spent in a car stifled with awkward, worried tension, all of it aimed at you, and all of it doing an awful job at being casual. Dean’s eyes caught yours twice in the rear-view. Sam’s pointedly did not. Dean chattered idly about nothing for twenty whole minutes on his own, then gave up and tried to drown the silence with the Eagles. Somehow, this failed to work. You appreciated that Sam was giving you room, but it was also an excuse for him to ignore you even more, for absolutely no reason. They were both itching to know what was in Pittsburgh, yet all you could do was curl up under your bomber jacket in the backseat and forget what you’d felt.

The answer and the hunt found you anyway. Twenty minutes into snowy Pittsburgh traffic, Dean got a call.

He fought with his jacket to fish out his phone. “Hello?”

You pulled your ear off the thrumming backseat just enough to listen. Even in the city, surrounded by cars on all sides, the snow made everything dead silent. On the other end of the line, a man clenched his teeth. “Dean. It’s Jerry Panowski.”

You sat up. Dean was slower to place the name, “Jerry…?”

He put the phone on speaker for the three of you, and Sam shot you a brief, confused look from beneath his bangs that made your Gift swarm him like a cloud of moths. His nose twitched like he could feel them on his face. You psychically ripped your Gift back where it belonged, scolding yourself for letting it off its leash. Potential hunt, you reminded yourself. Focus!

Jerry cleared his throat, sounding urgent. “You, your Dad, and your friend helped me out a couple of years back.”

At this, Dean perked up, but your memory was faster than his. Over the years, you’d done so many salt n’ burns that a lot of them blurred together in your mind, but Jerry’s was clearer because it’d been when you’d hunted with Dean and John. Your Gift had finally found its legs. Because of this, it was one of the first hunts you remembered being truly useful on—that was the word John had used. Useful. You’d only fainted once and you found them the grave of the spirit right away. It was one of the few times you hadn’t been bothered sharing your Gift with a stranger; Jerry’s daughter had been sobbing through every breath, alone and petrified at the feet of her sundering and swaying house while you, John, and Dean fought the spirit. Afterward, she’d clung to your jacket like a lifeline. For an instant it was natural to reach out with your Gift and give her fun little fortunes to calm her down—to share It with someone else. Things had changed. But you still thought about her, and the word John had used. Useful.

You clambered over the seat to lean where Dean’s phone would hear you. “Kittanning, Pennsylvania with the poltergeist, right?” You said, and Dean’s lips parted in an oh. “How are you, Jerry? It’s been… a while. Your daughter get that scholarship?”

Jerry sputtered, apparently surprised that you remembered. “____, hey. Yes, yes she did. She’s graduating next year, thank you. Um, but… something’s happened.”

Dean paused a beat, concerned. “It’s not back, is it? The poltergeist.”

“No, no—thank god. But it’s something else and…” Jerry hesitated, sounding grave. You and Dean shared a look; something else was usually right up your alley. Jerry swallowed. “Well, it could be a lot worse.”

Dean held your gaze as he asked, “What is it?”

Jerry winced. “Can we talk in person?”

_

PITTSBURGH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, PENNSYLVANIA - Dec. 2nd, midday.

There was an unspoken rule among hunters that as soon as you cleared a job, you never touched it again.

This was one of the few hunting rules you didn’t try to push. Since your family had a home base that anybody could chase you back to, it was riskier for you than it was for vagabonds like Dean and John. But leaving a job felt the same way, every single time—like scrambling out of a burning house the second it starts to crumble. More often than not, you were ducking for cover just as the people behind you, civilians you’d saved or victims you’d left, were hit by The Truth. You’d grown up knowing evil had a hundred physical forms and how to kill each one, but you were a lucky (some could argue unlucky) minority in a big world. Sometimes you had the time to pass on shitty advice or say a comforting word. But there was no easy way to find out the Truth, and not once had you had the opportunity to really help someone who had. That was the big reason why you wished you could revisit certain hunts. All in all, though, Jerry Panowski looked to be handling it well.

He seemed like he’d wised up since the last time you’d seen him. Jerry was an avuncular sort of guy, with a smart wristwatch on one arm and oil stains on the other—the kind of guy you can’t really picture as being shaken. But today that’s all he was.

When the front desk of the airport had called him down to retrieve the three of you, Jerry had swept over, brows high. “That was fast. I just called you maybe twenty minutes ago. How far away were you?”

He shook each of your hands, first Dean’s, sturdy yet charming, then Sam’s, professional but friendly. Jerry got to you just as Dean explained, “We were headed your way anyway,” and understanding passed through him as you briefly clasped hands.

A vision, he guessed. Smart guy. He squirreled away from you quick, fingers twitching like you could read his mind through the contact. You failed to not let it bother you.

“Ah,” Jerry said, avoiding your eyes. He gravitated to Dean and Sam for smalltalk, so you faded into the safe background, keeping the muddy heels of Dean’s boots in front of you. Your painkillers were starting to wear off, making your whole abdomen itch and seize with pain—something all three of them shouldn’t see.

They talked at random about the drive and the weather, probably because the airport was stuffed with listening ears. The day was overcast and frigid, so the hangar was the same, filled with the whizzing and snapping of hard-at-work engineers. The rhythm of working noise reminded you of your dad’s autoshop on busy fall days, the air rich and dark with the smell of gasoline that Ray always brought home with him. Thinking about him didn’t cool you down like it usually did. Every time you’d start to find a normal thought, it’d come back again. That leeching, violating, throat-closing feeling from your vision. Having some distance from when you’d fainted wasn’t helping either. The mental images from your breakdown only sharpened, flashing through your mind in erratic, unbridled bursts, like the brief flashes of awareness you got in a strobing horror scene. A plane. The veins in a hand resting on some kind of handle. A body flung out into the sun, feet of aluminum alloy in the wings shredded off like paper, the whole plane listing then jerking to one side, hundreds of little blood-and-bone bodies crying out, ramped and ramped and ramped with terror and panic—and eyes, black eyes…

“____?”

You whipped up your head and collided face-first with Dean’s back. Or you would’ve, if he hadn’t stopped you by the shoulder. You with me? His waiting eyes asked. On autopilot, you flashed him a warm and distracted smile, like all he’d done was catch you daydreaming. Dean hovered there for a moment more. Nothing in his face changed, but he made a point to keep you in front of him—to keep an eye on you—and you knew that you’d been found out. Embarrassed heat crawled up your neck. Now that Sam was here, the sole focus of Dean’s babysitting vision, you figured his protective streak would break. Or at the very least shift. You’d tried hard to keep up a glamor of faultlessness for him. It was why your instinct was to ask for Sam when you were embarrassed, because the two of you always fell behind, tripped, and messed up together. Dean was the paragon of a hunting attitude; you wanted to be the same for him.

Even though you failed spectacularly at it.

“Well, thanks for making the trip so quick. I oughta be doin’ you guys a favor, not the other way around.” Jerry glanced at Sam, nodding behind him, “These two and your Dad really helped me out.”

“You mentioned it—a poltergeist?” Sam filled in.

Jerry hunched at the shoulders, hushing his voice, and you remembered suddenly that you were in public and poltergeist to anyone else was just a movie. “Damn right. Thing tore our house apart…” he turned, expecting Dean and getting you instead. “If it wasn’t for you guys, we probably wouldn’t be here right now.”

Dean knocked you on the arm with his fist, shocking a proud smile out of you. “Anytime,” you said, and he agreed, “All in a day’s work, man.”

Jerry hesitated, lingering in his own memories. You wondered if that’s what you looked like to Dean, someone so caught up in the evils they’d seen that they could hardly breathe around it. Jerry cleared his throat, leading you down another aisle of machinery and hurried workers. You tried harder to follow the conversation this time.

“Your dad said you were off to college,” he mentioned to Sam, “that right?”

Sam squirmed. “I was. I’m… taking some time off.”

“Well, he was real proud of you, I could tell,” Jerry said, with unbothered ease. “Talked about you all the time.”

You resisted the urge to bite the inside of your wounded cheek. Dean shot a look at Sam, but his brother didn’t look at him or you. Just the back of Jerry’s head. “...He did,” he repeated, a question.

“You bet,” Jerry chimed. He angled toward Dean, “Speaking of—I tried to get a’hold of him, but couldn’t. How’s he doing?”

Dean and Sam blanched. You scrambled for an answer in case their pause dragged on too long, but even you, with your distance, were unsure what to say. Dean went with his instinct: “He’s been, uh, wrapped up in a job.”

Jerry spun to face Sam, walking backward to throw him the teasing Uncle smile you recognized from your Dad’s biking buddies. “Well, we’re missing the old man—we get Sam. Sounds like an even trade to me.”

Sam made an amused hum that his heart wasn’t quite in.

“There’s something I want you guys to hear…”

You were led into Jerry’s office, which was as much a piece of the machine floor as everywhere else. He graciously hustled a toolbox off one of the chairs in front of his desk, making room for Dean to sit, who gave it up to you instead. As soon as you were teetered down in the seat, one of Dean’s palms pat the collar of your jacket. Just a little reminder he was there.

It bothered you how you were suddenly on edge around him again, and seeking his approval like you had the first few times you’d hunted alone together. Sewing shut the hole Sam’s absence had burned between you had taken time. Dean was gone for the first few weeks—off with his Dad, you supposed, recuperating the family he had left. You threw all the things Sam had left at home (woody-smelling band tees and books in languages only he knew) in a box you didn’t have to look at, talking yourself out of calling him but unable to avoid the phone when it rang. Dean came back. He fixed your mom’s car and helped her set up raspberry trellises in the garden. Dean started to slink around the store again, catching you every once in a while on the days you worked. One time he’d bought one of the ratty cowboy paperbacks spilling from the back-bins, and you’d rung him up like he was a stranger to you. It’d been surreal. This man, your brother, and you couldn’t even look at him. You don’t gotta buy it, y-you know you can just take it—you’d cursed, and Dean had dropped a ten on the counter. M’ not robbin’ you, he’d chuffed. He’d hung there for a moment, like there was any will left in him to sidle up to the counter and gossip with you like he used to, then he’d slipped out the door and that had been that. You’d taken the box full of Sam’s remains (his shirts, his books, his life there) with you to your new apartment, where Dean couldn’t come and remind you of his brother.

But Dean did. Around Halloween the year Sam left, Dean squeezed in through your fire escape while you were at work, made dinner in your kitchen, fixed the ratty hinge on your bedroom door, and unpacked the last of your living room. Most of it was the bookshelf. When you’d come home, Sam’s books were alphabetized among yours.

You’d sat on the cold fire escape, a blanket between you, forgetting in fractions why you were pissed with each other. Dean forced a bowl of homemade macaroni on you, then dropped a newspaper in your lap. A job.

Look at you, he’d smirked, the first candid thing either of you had said in ages. You’re just itching to slay some evil, aren’t you?

You were hesitant. But he was right: bashing some heads had sounded more than good. You finished the job and that turned into two, then three, Dean coming and going from your apartment. Hunting was cyclical. But Dean was random, good, adding suspense and vigor to your resigned life. You rebuilt the Chief together and Dean taught you how to replace exhaust tips. The first months were fueled by his approval and your own eagerness to learn; Dean was missing something to hold up and you were missing a crucial support beam, so it only made sense.

The days had crawled. You were home less and less, devouring distance with Dean, and quietly you stopped worrying about whether you were a good hunter or not. What mattered was what kind of partner you were. Dean learned to sense your oncoming visions and you stole sips of his beer, catching Sam at payphones all around the country, your hair windblown and fists scarring over in your jacket sleeves. You taking care of yourself? Of my brother? Sam would ask. Four years passed in the passenger’s seat of the Impala that way, until you knew to trust Dean better than you trusted your own skin. It betrayed you so often when talking to Sam, anyway.

Dean is my partner, you reminded yourself. I don’t have to be ashamed for messing up around him. He gets it.

You sat up straighter in your seat and shook off your sense of dread.

Jerry held up a CD-ROM, the disk making deep colors by the dim office light. “Normally I wouldn’t have access to this—it’s the cockpit voice record from United Britannia flight 2485,” he read from the sharpie on one side, then hit the button on his computer tower to open the tray. “It was one of ours,” he said, gravely, and dropped the disk in.

While Jerry loaded up the audio program, Sam spoke, inspecting a line of model airplanes among the office’s clutter. “That plane went down a few months ago, right?”

“Yeah,” Jerry worked his jaw. “It took off from here, crashed about a hundred miles south. They’re saying mechanical failure, of course… apparently, the cabin depressurized mid-flight, killing over two hundred people on board—”

“Someone opened it,” you said. This wasn’t a guess. Again, the flashing pieces of your vision came back to you, including the hand tensed on an emergency handle.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. If you were as certain as you sounded, then Jerry was right on the money: this could be a lot worse than a poltergeist.

“Maybe.” Jerry’s hands moved anxiously across the back of his desk chair. “But in the air, that’d take more than a thousand pounds to open. And something… evil. Only seven people got out. The pilot was one of them. His name’s Chuck Lambert, a good friend of mine.” He slouched, eyes burning into his keyboard. “Chuck… he’s pretty broken up about this… like it was his fault. But with this recording, a-and the door, then. Well. Just listen.”

After a deep breath, Jerry tapped his spacebar and floated away from his computer, waiting on stilts like the rest of you.

There was a lot of racket at first, staccato voices over the hum of the plane, but the audio was distant, like you were watching the events play out through a mesh screen. It was uncomfortably cinematic. Airline pilots chattered back and forth between sharp bursts of pins-and-needles static. You never heard the cabin door being torn open, or the wing shredding, but it must’ve happened because the alarm began to shriek. All at once the professional, snappish conversation roared into terror as the flight crew fought to control the plane on one wing and little air. A deadly whine started up on the tape.

“Turn it down,” you murmured, building with panic, but Jerry was slow to hear it amid the sound of the destruction. “Turn—you gotta—”

Air seemed to whistle past your ears. You whipped up and lurched to turn down the volume, but you were a moment too late—the whine built and built into a blazing, sizzling roar, and the speakers on Jerry’s computer exploded.

It took a long time for the ringing in your ears to clear. Pain tingled strangely in your hand, like you’d scratched it raw and dunked it in hot water. You didn’t think much about being electrocuted and whirled around to look at the wreckage: Jerry’s tiny twin speakers were smoking, Dean was bent up and searing his palms over his ears, and Jerry himself was just prying his from his face, where his nose had been bloodied. Sam was the only one still standing after the demonic noise. He helped Jerry off the floor, unharmed, so you offered Dean a hand and rubbed his shoulder when he was on his feet.

One by one, you felt their eyes settle on you.

You tried to string together the words to explain what you’d felt, what you’d seen, what you’d heard, but thinking about it at all turned you back into the seizing, writhing husk you’d been in the bathtub. It was that invading presence from your vision on tape. You could feel it under your skin, like the boiling water from that morning, like the arms and hair of the co-pilot bubbling in the cockpit explosion, like the shrapnel peppered in the bodies… You’d been fighting evil all your life, but jesus—

“That,” you panted, stabbing a finger at the smoking speakers, “that is evil.”

_

You left the airport with everything that Jerry could equip you with: the passenger manifest for the downed flight and a list of survivors. What he couldn’t get you was access to the plane’s wreckage, which, according to him, was on NTSB lockdown and therefore well above his paygrade. Dean was confident that you could find a work-around. Sam knew that Dean’s “workarounds” usually translated to “illegal activity,” and he’d already been starting and erasing emails to his councilors at Stanford all week, spurring another argument in the car. I don’t need a criminal record, Dean! You were pretty sure he’d been put on academic probation for leaving in the middle of term, so you’d tried to reassure him—Sam had snapped at you before you could even get the words out.

He was grieving in an impossible situation. It was fine, you told yourself, and let it go, the bruise in your cheek going green at the edges.

Dean did not. Don’t you be a dick to her when she’s been nothing but good to you, he’d snapped. More than two hundred fuckin’ people died on that plane, Sam—that’s bigger than your high school graduating class. Us getting caught by the Feds isn’t the worst price to pay for helping two hundred more people, right?

Sam had opened his mouth to spit back when you finally found the energy to peacekeep.

Sam does care. He’s just trying to watch our backs, too, you’d balmed, exhausted. This ID thing might not even pan out. Just… everybody cool down and I’ll call Bobby, alright?

The boys managed to secure a motel room and not kill each other at the same time, which was a blessing. It took a lot of terse coordinating and some huffing and puffing, but soon you had a place to put down your head and vending machines to escape to. You’d rather eat metal than get between them again. A wounded Winchester was also a lonely one, so if you even looked at one of the brothers, the other would decide that you’d betrayed him and abandoned him forever. This was how it’d been since you were nine and it was toys that Sam and Dean were fighting over, so you’d learned it was best to give them their space. You got yourself a snack and rang Bobby.

“There’s a fella I know just a stone’s throw from you. He’s a bit of a slimeball, but he could make you some authentic FBI IDs,” he told you, (after thirty minutes of your venting). “Let me call em’.”

Bobby’s slimeball was named Otto, the first hunter you’d met who lived in a suburb. His house was of the square and uncreative variety. It was more unassuming than the haunted Proctor House or Bobby’s sketchy salvage yard, you’d give him that, but the setting didn’t exactly put you at ease. The foundation was rubbed raw by the weather and spiders grew in the skeletal chain fence. Parked, the Impala took up the house’s whole curb, which was so high that you had to shimmy to the other door to step out.

You followed the boys up Otto’s pathway and suppressed your assumptions; hunters could live anywhere, even quaint suburbia. Regardless, the setting gave you the feeling that you were dealing with an amateur. Sam’s nervous shuffling and unshuffling of his hands in his pockets seemed to guess the same. Dean rapped on the door with both hands, and upstairs a shadow crossed the rippling curtain. Yep. Amateur.

After ten minutes of fussing with his door locks and banging around his living room, Otto answered. Only his face jut out through the gap between the door and the frame, innocent and unsuspecting, perhaps waiting for the mail. The eerie synth notes of a horror game on an idle menu floated out from over his head, along with a smell like wet denim. He scrutinized the boys for an instant.

Dean gave him a disarming, yet wolfish smile. “Silent Hill 2?” He nodded inside.

He followed Otto’s face to his shoulder, then his arm bracing a pistol against the other side of the door, and together you gave the guy a bit more credit. He wasn’t a total beginner. Otto adjusted his grip on the pistol. You heard it scrape against the wood. “...Yeah,” he said. “You Bobby’s?”

After five whole minutes of proving that everyone was who they said they were, Otto invited the boys inside. They hauled themselves up the teetering stoop one after the other, shaking hands as they went. Otto apparently hadn’t noticed you. He was about to close the door on you when Sam stopped it with a short bang of his hand on the wood, and you squirmed out from under his arm, awkwardly offering a hand to your host.

“Oh,” he said, noticing you, the new species in the room. “...Otto,” he introduced.

“____,” you shook his hand. Sam’s arm was still keeping the door open overhead, and Otto stared at it, then you, then between you at your palm, before whipping around into his cramped house.

You shut the door on the afternoon chill, and against your better judgment shared an eye roll with Sam. That was another thing that hadn’t changed in the four years you’d been apart: male hunters still got their feathers ruffled when you walked in, and Sam was still your buffer against the extra skittish ones. The boys always got a kick out of how nervous you made them. You’d always assumed it was because of your Gift, but the one time you’d brought it up, the boys had scoffed into their collars. You’re… pretty intimidating, Sam had bristled, dancing around it—Dean had been a bit more direct. Emphasis on pretty. You’re a smokeshow.

Sam let you stay in his shadow in peace, where you remained comfortably for the next twenty minutes you were in the house. Otto beleaguered the three of you into his main hallway, where a temporary studio was shoulder-to-shoulder with old suitcases, books, and more clutter. You needed to get a good picture for the ID; the Feds he “worked with” had high-quality photos. Otto rattled off instructions, how to use the IDs, how updated they were, shoving Dean into a collared shirt and tie like a cat into a no-slip leash. You and Sam stifled smug grins as Dean was wrestled into position in front of a backdrop, seething behind a plastic grin for his picture. Sam made sure to glide through his turn without complaint so no one could laugh at him. You ended up teasing him anyway, since no matter how hard he tried his photos always came out dorky.

“I think he looks cute,” you cooed, glancing over Otto’s shoulder to see the photos.

Dean snorted at it. “Maybe after a haircut, yeah.”

Then it was your turn, and the unease you’d felt looking up at Otto’s windows came to fruition.

You finished buttoning the shirt Otto had lent you for the photo over your own clothes. It had fit both Sam and Dean for their fake IDs, so there was a lot of wiggle-room in the shoulders and collar when you put it on. You’d worn ties for other disguises, but other people always tied them for you, so there was a lull in the already stilted conversation as Sam bent to help you with yours. His hands worked on muscle memory, which was apparently limited because Sam was slow to make the knot. It occurred to you how few people had ever been trusted to come this close to you before; Sam most often, doing little things like this.

Sam’s fingers glimpsed your throat as he worked, so he felt you stiffen with Otto blurted: “Is that tattoo real?”

Otto was pointing to your hands relaxed in your lap. On instinct, you brought your right one against your middle and felt your mouth go dry, glued to your stool.

Bobby had vouched for this stranger, and the three of you trusted Bobby to find you somebody who could help you. That was the thin strand of faith that your conversation had stood on before. It broke the second Otto spoke.

Since Sam was bent to help you and Dean was leaning against the far wall, out of the three hunters, yours was the only face Otto could see. This was probably for his own good. In the same breath, in the same way, both Winchester boys clenched their teeth.

Sam had finished the tie, but he froze purposefully in front of you. One of his hands eased protectively around your shoulder.

Dean took one heavy boot-step away from the hallway wall.

“No,” he said, at the same time you uttered, “...It is.”

Dean snapped to look at you in disapproval. Otto apparently didn’t care, because a huff of disbelief welled out of him. “I-I saw the Proctor eye mark when we shook hands, y’know, and I thought,” he rambled, “it’s, um—sorry. I just don’t believe it.” His eyes gleamed strangely, “You’re real. Right? A real prophet?”

Sam was still hovering in front of you, a breath held in his chest. You gave his arm a squeeze and he hesitated, staring at you for confirmation, brow furrowed, all in the space of a second with a few inches between your faces. You squeezed his hand again, higher and insistent this time, at the bend of his wrist. He relented and gave you the room to stand up.

“Just a seer.” You pressed your lips together. “But, yeah. S’ my family’s… mark.”

Otto went through the motions to make your ID, just as he’d done with Sam and Dean, but this time with awe glowing behind his square glasses. “Wow. Just—holy shit.” He rushed over and pushed you back into your seat, oblivious to both Sam and Dean flinching closer when he touched you. “It’s an honor. Your family… I mean, I read a lot of hunter history, y’know? And just, Jesus, nothing is more fascinating. My dad hunted and so did my grandfather and my great-grandfather—he used to get fortunes from a Proctor, isn’t that funny? Your great-grandma Daphne, I think? Or maybe your great-aunt Sybil?”

“...Maybe,” you said, swallowing.

Otto positioned himself behind the camera, gestured for you to get professional for the picture, and started taking a few. “There’s this, uh, old story about the Proctor prophetess my great-grandpa had met, actually. It’s funny!” The camera flashed. You winced a smile. “He used to say they were the most beautiful women he’d ever met—even the younger daughter. Your grandma Morgan, right? He told me once that they could only have girls in their family. Is that true?”

“Yeah,” you said, quickly, since Dean’s fists had closed at his sides.

“Wow. That’s crazy. Some kind of curse?” Otto joked. He turned to his laptop and began to process the pictures, plucking up the best one and editing it onto an FBI badge.

“Yes,” you said, plainly. He didn’t seem to pick that up. “Runs in my family.”

“Huh. Weird,” Otto replied, only half-focussed on his task. “But you guys have, like, an actual curse, right? Something with men…?” This time, Otto actually met your eye, standing curiously and unbothered at his counter.

“...Uh,” you blanked, and instantly your throat closed, trying to force the information under.

“Oh, oh, I remember, sorry—” He punched a button on his laptop and your IDs began to print. “The men they fall in love with, they’re cursed too, right? That was in my great-grandfather’s story. A price for their Gift, or whatever?” Otto addressed you, hands hovering over his keyboard as if to document the claim. “I don’t mean to pry, but… is that true? S’ gotta be terrible. How does that—”

Whatever chord was holding Dean and Sam back snapped at the exact same time. There was a harsh metal sound, like iron shredding into wood, and suddenly Dean wasn’t seething in the corner but towering over Otto, his arm raised over his head. It took you a second to register what had happened because Sam had slid in front of you, a hand braced on your shoulder and the muscles in his back raking up and down. You managed to detangle the knotted hands in your lap and stood, fighting around Sam to look.

One of Dean’s butterfly knives was jammed more than an inch into the doorframe next to Otto’s face. Dean’s knuckles were a blistering white around the handle, lips curled in a snarl, his arm sturdy and unmoving.

He hung there for a moment. A deadly, breathless moment. His glare seared into Otto’s face until the other man turned his away, flushed with terror. Dean ripped the knife out of the wall so hard that Otto choked, ducking his head, and you watched it happen with a strange sense of detachment. There were splinters in his hair and on Dean’s sleeve. This wasn’t new to you.

“It’s… it’s fine. They’re just stories to him,” you defended, pathetically. You weren’t sure why you wanted to make a case for Otto, but the need was there, like you were making a case for yourself. Embarrassment crawled across your face on spider’s legs. “Dean… c’mon. Thank you. Now, let it go.”

Dean held the knife loosely in his other hand. His eyes never left Otto’s, so you didn’t see his face when he ordered: “Otto will finish our ID’s. I’ll get em’. Sammy, go wait with her in the car.”

You lifted your chin. “I want to wait in here.”

Dean worked his jaw. “Alright,” he said, and pointed Otto toward the card printer, knife-point first.

Your host resumed his work without any further direction, but each card took more than three minutes to get out, so you waited in the pipe-bomb-pressure silence for all of a second before escaping into the living room. Naturally, Sam followed you. You wrestled the tie off and almost popped the buttons off your shirt in your haste to get back into your own clothes. He folded the shirt and threw it over the back of a chair for you, waiting.

You were so sick of crying. You waited at Otto’s window, staring out at the street, intent on keeping your tears in. Some hunter you were; it was startling, sure, and unnerving, to hear your family history and your family curses repeated like folk tales by other people. But you were getting fake Fed badges, for god’s sake. You couldn’t even keep it together for just that. Over some creepy guy. You’d been gutting vampires with your bare hands since you were seventeen, and a reminder of the truth rattled you so hard you needed Dean to defend your honor. It was just the truth. A plain, uncomplicated truth that you’d heard all throughout your life. It’s what had killed your Dad and made your Mom miscarry every boy she’d had and what hurt Sam—what hurt Sam every day, and what had been trying to get him in its grasp for years and years. You knew it was there. Somebody else throwing it in your face shouldn’t warrant all this.

You stared at the street until your eyes unfocussed on the glass, pressing your knuckles into your lip. Sam perched on the arm of the closest armchair, his hands in his pockets, listening with you to the k-chk k-chk k-chk of the printer and staring.

“Man,” you murmured, shaking your head and laughing mirthlessly. “I-I’m losing my game, Sammy. I swear I’m not always this soft.”

“Don’t do the Dean thing.” Sam’s pleaded.

You looked at him, jaw aching from the effort it took to stifle your tears. He took the silent invitation for what it was and stood from his spot, slow and curled in on himself, even though he should know better than to think you’d ever be intimidated by him. The hand he brushed down your back felt far too good to be cursed. You crossed your arms, a wealth of unwelcome emotion squeezing its way through your ribs, and pushed back into Sam’s hand until you felt him draw you under his arm. He kept his voice quiet so only you could hear it.

“C’mon. Don’t beat yourself up. You’re tough as nails—this day’s just been rough on you,” Sam swore into your hair. He risked a glance behind you at the scene in the hallway, rubbing slowly at your arm. “Anyone would be messed up at that.”

You sputtered out an argument that Sam was already shaking his head at, and he repeated himself, certain and angry. “Anybody. Why do you think me and Dean are acting like this? That’s our family he was talking about, too. We’re all cursed—”

“Because of me,” you swallowed. If you weren’t going to cry, then those feelings were going to forcibly spill out whatever way they could. “Because of my curse. That I gave you. It’s… different. Don’t claim that, Sam.”

Sam scoffed. “Me and my brother were cursed a long time before we met you,” his lip curled with real bitterness, and you got the feeling he wasn’t talking so much about Dean. “I promise.”

“You say that every time. Even when we were little you were scaring me with that talk.”

Sam just shook his head. “S’ true.”

Testing the bandages under your shirt with your nail, you thought about apologizing to him. For being so weird and clingy, for needing him all the time, for being so bad at this grief thing. There was so much death in your life, but you knew next to nothing about helping someone through it. Maybe things were worse because you’d never known Jess. But you’d wanted to know her, and you wanted above everything else for Sam to be happy—you just wish you had any clue how to get him there. It scared you that this kind of thing could change him forever.

“I think we do have your curse,” Sam told you, plainly, sliding a knife neatly and quietly through your throat with just his words. You were rooted to the spot so fast that one angry tear burned down your face without your permission. He didn’t see it, yet soothed, “but I think you’ve got ours, too.”

You simmered. It was a lot of truth to admit all at once, and in such a strange place, but Sam was really the only one who was brave enough to say it. Even you didn’t allow yourself to think about it much. There was your Gift because there was the Curse, which had been in your family for so long that you had to wonder if it was an even bigger trap than it seemed. The Curse rooted out any man who’d come into a Proctor’s life. But you were here, your mom was here, so that meant every woman in your family had loved a man once. Your mom had loved your dad enough to push him away and never marry him. There was never a grandfather for you to meet. You had no cousins, no second-cousins, because your grandma’s sister had lost him young.

The Curse was unavoidable. But everyone around you still tried; Dean decided that nothing could happen if he didn’t talk about it; Bobby dodged your questions; John pointed you off his doorstep and said, If they’re too damn stupid to listen to me and stay the hell away from you, then you’ll listen instead. Turn your back on Sam. Forget him, and go home.

You’d tried, too. You’d rotted away in your room. You asked to homeschool, dodging Dean when he came by the store and ignoring Sam’s calls. You let it kill you for a long time, but Beth had already lived that lifeless existence and wouldn’t let you finish it. When it’d all come apart and you were curled up on the bathroom tile, heaving around your own sobs, your mom had cooed softly through the door. There’s nothing you can do to stop it, she’d whispered. It’s too late. It was too late the moment you met Sam. So there’s no use runnin’. Don’t you dare waste your damn time with him, ____. Not like I did. He might be dead already but he’s still living now.

Strangely, Sam was the only one who seemed to truly understand that. Everyone else shut up about it and didn’t remind you, but Sam had the gall to talk about it anywhere, anytime. He’d made peace with it. He knew it was him. He used words like we and dropped Dean’s name, but… You didn’t explain yourself and Sam never asked why, because both of you were on a timer that neither of you could see. On the days when it ruled over you again and you avoided Sam’s calls, John’s words rolling through your head, Sam hammered his way back into your life regardless of what it took. He threw pebbles at your window and flashed morse-code with a flashlight until you let him in. He flipped through your vinyls and explained something he’d read. He stood on the asphalt by his car and said, Come with me. Run away with me. A beautiful, breathing death omen.

Sam was right. You knew that. Sometime in between playing house and chasing frogs as kids, you’d given the Proctor curse to him and the Winchester curse had latched onto you. You wondered which came first—who damned who first? Somewhere on high, somebody was clapping their hands at the irony. Your dad was a scar on your hand-me-down motorcycle and Sam’s mom was a trick of the light on the ceiling of every room he slept in. It was eerie, how your family scars mirrored each other.

You had no idea how much time you had left. Standing there, you absorbed what Sam had said, thinking. Maybe his curse would get you first. Was it weird that, of all things, that comforted you? That maybe you’d be the next one in the house fire? On the ceiling?

“I think you’re right,” you admitted, voice hoarse.

Sam didn’t know how to respond to that. After a long pause, he humored, “It probably cancels out.”

You dropped your face into your hand, and despite the awful day you’d had, a wet laugh startled out of you. “God,” you smiled, swiping your cheek on your wrist, “I hate you.”

Sam gave your closest lock of hair a little tug. “I know.”

_

PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA - Dec. 2nd, evening.

With your stupid Fed badges done and over with, there was investigating to be done. You filled a journal page with observations about this hunt on the ride back, and in the car, the three of you put down your gameplan. All of you were getting low on cash. Dean needed his last good credit card for gas money, so if the three of you wanted to look like credible Feds, you’d need to raise some shopping funds. You were going to throw in your paycheck for your suit and the boys’ shoes, but everything else was going to come from the closest barfly you could swindle. Sam didn’t want to risk his laptop examining the audio file from the crash, so you dropped him off to explode some computers at the local library instead. That left you, Dean, and the local bar scene.

Past seven, Dean drifted the Impala up to a sludgy street corner and peered into the second dive bar you’d found together. He jut his chin at the doors. “What’dya think? Are the pickings slim?”

You squinted. Long, crisscrossing tire tracks weaved through the wet snow lot. Yellow and blue neon signs seeped their light into the sludge. The bar was packed tight for the freezing Friday night, and based on the millions of dives you’d seen in your life, the vanity plates hung in the rafters inside were a green flag. Something else was not. “Wait a second. Look at those bikes parked out front—choppers, cruisers. And all the symbols on their fenders…”

Dean hummed, enthusiastic, and nodded a lot more than he needed to. You raised an eyebrow at him, and he dropped the act with a sigh: “...Yeah, I have no idea what any of those words mean. They’re cool?” He winced.

“Skinheads,” you deadpanned.

“...Perfect. Then we won’t feel guilty robbin’ em’ blind,” Dean chirped, and gunned it to find a spot. The curb space of a Midwestern watering hole was the Impala’s element in a nutshell. Dean shut off the car, twisted out the key, and bounced his eyebrows at you. “Look at us. Being all moral.”

“Yeah. You’ve only threatened someone with a knife once today,” you jabbed, smirking, and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Movin’ up in the world.”

He was quiet for a minute. You might’ve hit a nerve. If you did, Dean let it roll right off him, and you hopped out of the car together. In the passenger’s side glass you arranged your reflection, combing your hair as best you could with your fingers, checking your teeth, and making certain your bruise was covered. You tried to rein yourself in. Once in a while the frames of your vision would drop into your lap, and you’d be forced to sit there with them, choking down the suffocating feeling. Every time you thought about them it felt like you were giving… this thing another inch of rope to string you up with. The details grew clearer and more grotesque every time. It felt impossible to remain in your own head. The burns on your abdomen hurt like a motherfucker too, but at least the shock you got every time your belly shifted would keep you awake. You were alive. You were on a case with Dean and Sam, and after years of yearning for just that, you shouldn’t have anything else to complain about.

“Thank you,” you spun to him. Dean’s square silhouette was waiting for you by the trunk, and though he was much bigger and war-hardened than your younger self could ever picture, his jacket never failed to make him look tiny. “For that. I know you hate it when I thank you, but, really. You always stand up for me, even if you’re dumb and don’t think about it first… Makes me happy.”

Dean scratched his jaw. His eyes followed anything but yours, chasing cars down the street. “Usually you swing at slimy guys like that,” his shoulders shyly rolled. “I was closer to ‘em. Figured I’d do it for you, that’s all.”

Alright. That was enough emotional button-pushing for one day. You got in front of Dean, and a decade of running cons like this kept him still while you ironed him out too, tugging down his sleeves and fixing his collar.

Failing to keep your competitiveness in check, you grinned, hoping it was stronger than you felt. “Wanna make bets to see who’ll rake in more tonight?”

“Oh, c’mon,” Dean scoff-laughed. As soon as you’d sorted him, he headed for the entrance at a saunter. “You’re a pretty biker girl in a biker bar. We’ll afford those suits n’ next week’s dinner.”

“Don’t be so sure. You’re way prettier than me, Dean,” you said.

According to ancient friend law, for every good action in nature there was an equal and opposite reaction, so you punctuated your compliment by budging your shoulder against his. Bobby always used to say that the two of you rough-housed like bucks, clattering your antlers together.

“You think I don’t know?” Dean smirked. “Something tells me that a bunch of old dudes playing poker aren’t gonna fork over all their money on that alone, though.”

He knocked you right back, throwing you sideways a good foot like he always did, and for the moment you’d allow him to think he won. When his guard was down later, you’d have your revenge. His pride could handle a full judo-takedown. Maybe you could even recruit Sam to help.

You held the door open for him, smiling. “Tragically.”

“Tragically,” he agreed.

After a few minutes of poking around the billiard racks and asking loudly where the “chalk-stuff for the pointy part” was, a few kind gentlemen arrived to help you, and the rest is history. It didn’t take long for Dean to get into the illegal poker game going in the back. (He’d tell you later that, apparently, their bouncer was a psychic, and could always tell when people were real trouble. Ha). You kept him in the corner of your Gift like always, but otherwise didn’t use it much on your victims. If you were going to cheat, you were gonna earn it, and your powers tended to cough up things too far in the future for you to work with anyway. You really only cheated in games with the boys. Reading them was child’s play, but the hundredth round of Future Chess got boring fast. Sam was really the only person who was impressed by that kind of thing.

Four hours and several mind-numbing rounds of pool later, you’d made a little under two-hundred bucks. Misogyny alone won you a fistful of twenties, since it took a group of dudes three whole games to realize it was you slaughtering them, not a third invisible player. After failing to hook another game from the strangers around you (who’d wizened up), Dean caught your eye through the crowd. You met him outside, where he was leaning against the Impala with his phone to his ear. The first thing you did was put a styrofoam cup in his hand. Dean sniffed at it, realized it was a strawberry daiquiri, made a face, then decided to drink it, since he was never one to waste free alcohol. You didn’t drink. It meshed poorly with your powers and you were Dean’s permanent DD regardless, so he always ended up with all the free liquor strangers sent your way in bars.

My lucky charm, Dean mouthed at you around a grin.

He tossed you the keys and you snatched them from the air one-handed, sidling up to unlock the driver’s seat. Dean opened his phone between you, letting Sam’s voice flutter through the weak speaker as he rattled off what he’d found.

“—and once I isolated the audio I got this insane EVP,” Sam said in a rush. It sounded like he was walking home. “Busted up two sets of headphones trying to hear it, but when it came through, it was the clearest I’ve ever heard. Don’t think I can play it for you, but through all that noise on the flight, it said two words—‘no survivors’.”

“No survivors? What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean repeated. You frowned at each other, then clarified at the same time: “There were seven survivors.”

“Exactl—hi, ____,” Sam interrupted himself, “that’s what I’m saying. I don’t know.”

You pulled open the Impala’s door, slid in, and unlocked the passenger’s side for Dean. He bumbled in while you fought to get the heater going. Baby couldn’t warm up to save her life, so you shared a tartan blanket with Dean and his spilling daiquiri. Sam’s soft thinking silence and the legos rattling in Baby’s vents pressed your exhaustion, so you dragged the Impala out of park even though the wheel was cold enough to make your fingers numb. The LEDs behind the speedometer were dying (Dean had been meaning to replace them for months), but you’d driven the Impala so often that you didn’t need to look to tell what speed you were going.

“So, what do you think?” Dean asked his brother. “Haunted flight?”

Sam sounded unsure. “EVP can be a sign… There’s a long history of spirits or death omens on planes. Ships too.”

Dean scratched his stubble with his cup-hand, humming yes. You could feel how sleepy he was through a foot of metal, so having him next to you made it even more palpable. It bothered you that you couldn’t remember the last time Dean had grabbed a good night’s sleep, so you exercised your powers as the driver and ordered your shotgun to retrieve the cassette bin.

“Or, you remember Flight 401?” Sam suggested.

“Right, the one that crashed.” Dean begrudgingly dropped your gift to him in a cupholder, then hefted himself up to get the tapes from the back, taking Sam’s voice with him. “The airline salvaged some of its parts, put it in other planes, then the spirit of the pilot and copilot haunted those flights. Ya think we got a similar deal?”

“Maybe,” Sam thought. “____? What do you think? Did it feel like a spirit to you?”

“If it is a spirit, it’s…” you paused, swallowing against a scratchy throat. “It’s crazy powerful. You’d have to be powerful period to fuck with a plane like that, but… the speakers, this EVP, everything… I’ve never felt a-anything that evil before. But the weirdest part is that it still seems familiar somehow. Like, really familiar. So maybe it is a spirit.”

The unease in your voice must’ve been obvious, because Dean assured in a tired mumble, “Could just mean we’ve hunted it before.”

You had him play the first track on Cream’s 1968 album, Wheels of Fire, since he never failed to knock out when White Room was put on low. Dean shot you an impressed look at your request, forgetting every time you drove that you’d stolen his music taste at age ten. True to form, you spun the dial down and Dean yawned.

“Alright, so, survivors.” Dean rubbed his eyes with the flat of his wrist. “Which are we gonna talk to first?”

Sam had apparently reached your motel room, because the murmur of his voice was followed closely by a door banging and clothes rustling. “Third on the list: Max Jaffey. His mother told me where to find him…”

_

RIVERFRONT PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL, PENNSYLVANIA - Dec. 3rd, midday.

Though you didn’t bring it up, worried about adding to Sam’s tense energy, just feeling the badge in your pocket made you twitch.

It felt like it was burning a hole straight through your skin—and given yesterday’s circumstances, you could imagine that pretty vividly. Posing as Wildlife Service or a journalist was your nine-to-five. But an FBI agent? Like, the real, not-on-TV deal? That was big, even for a psychic hunter of evil. Your throat might’ve locked up presenting your badge to the front desk.

Once you’d been waved through, Sam and Dean at your six, the tension in your ribs relaxed. The walk from the Impala had been short but ruthless, so all three of you were swiping off snow and skittishly trying to follow an employee through the snaking hallways. A fine layer of white dusted Sam’s hair and Dean’s lashes. You’d been to a few psychiatric hospitals on cases with Dean before, but never during the holidays. Riverfront’s main floor was decorated for wintertime in at least three battling color schemes, each lining the rooms as little dreidel lights or Christmas knick-knacks. You found it sweet that they’d go all out for their patients like this. The Proctor House was permanently decorated for Halloween, what with the animal skulls, creepy portraits and creaky stairs, so you’d always been charmed by the opposite.

“Wait here, please,” your temporary guide requested. They evaporated down a sidehall, leaving the three of you to linger to one side of the day-room. Patients milled in every direction, reading, chatting, or participating in a group activity by the hearth.

“It’s cozy here,” you hummed. “Maybe we should decorate the Impala for the holidays, huh?”

“With what?” Sam drawled. “A christmas tree air freshener?”

You shrugged. It’s not like there were many other ways they could be festive. You turned to aim your next light conversation attempt at Dean, but the idea of adding anything to Baby had apparently made him nauseous. “You put anything like that in my car,” he steadied himself on the wall, grumbling, “n’ I’m leavin’ you out of my will.”

Naturally, you sunk into Dean’s shadow while you and the boys waited. Oh, if your mother could see you now. She had stopped at nothing to try and shove you all into matching clothes as kids—bribery, theft, and kidnapping, to name a few of Beth’s crimes. Only once had she ever succeeded. She’d crocheted each of you a holiday sweater with painstaking care, hauled you into them, then crammed you together for as many pictures as your younger selves could stand. Her favorite was on the mantle in her reading parlor, you cheek-to-cheek with a toothy tween Dean and a deeply shy Sam. It would kill her now to see you in your matching suits.

Thinking back, it’d been an eternity since you’d seen either of the boys in a suit. Sam for… junior prom, maybe? Rented. And there’d been the too-big button-down Dean had worn to your dad’s funeral as a kid, if that counted. It was probably for the better. Standing next to him now, you could time when Dean would start writhing in his suit, force himself still, then shuffle around again, tugging on his collar even if he wore the same amount of layers every day. It was a bit of a shame, too. Dean looked really nice in a suit. And Sam. Sam looked… he looked…

You probably shouldn’t have stared, but every time you glanced away the universe offered you another opportunity to look unheeded. None of the suits you’d bought with him that morning were tailored, so Sam’s jacket was a bit too tight, the seams stretching at the shoulders and the ends riding up his hips. The fabric hugged his waist just right. He’d ironed everything before you left, so the straight cut of his pantlegs just made his legs go on endlessly. You’d been surrounded by the Winchesters and their ridiculously good genes all your life. That was 24 insufferable years of girl’s numbers scribbled on lunch reciepts, assumptions about who’s arm you were on, and friends at school giggling about those boys that hang around you, ____, the pretty ones… It felt like once a day someone pulled you aside, crossed their fingers and begged you: please tell me he has a brother. You’d grown used to the joke. But sometimes you’d step back from it all and, just…

Sam took the wind out of you. It was a wonder anyone in a ten-mile radius could get anything done, he was so beautiful. His eyes were this soft fawn brown and he had all these pretty moles, like the speckling on bird’s wings, beautiful in ways that made you grateful you had no one to talk about it with. Because if you did, you wouldn’t shut up about Sam.

Your Gift gave a tug and you flinched your gaze away, just in time for him to glance over at you. The crawling sting of the burns on your belly seeped back to the front of your mind, and scratching your bandages through your shirt, you realized you’d inched out from behind Dean without even thinking about it. Just to admire his brother.

Christ. You moved out of the way of the foot traffic, scolding yourself.

Just as you did, your guide from before appeared with Mr. Jaffey in tow. A familiar sense of déjà vu ruled over your senses at the sight of him. The difference between present Max and the man from your vision was night and day, which only made the oily feeling in your chest spread faster. You knew your visions were real—that was something you’d made peace with a long time ago—but the filter your unconscious mind put over them sometimes made understanding them a struggle. There was this film over each mental picture, making it hard to fully grasp things like exploding planes and screaming civilians. Max was a real person who’d really been on that flight. Over two hundred dead people had settled into the lines of his face and the creases under his eyes.

He put his cane in front of him, drawing a line between the three of you and himself. “How may I help you?”

“We’re sorry to bother you, Mr. Jaffey,” Sam said, smoothly. “I’m Agent Kelley with the FBI. This is my partner, Agent Nimoy,” Dean flipped open his badge, “and our psychiatrics specialist, Agent Shatner,” you gave Max a solid handshake, keeping your smile professional. “We’re here about United Britannia flight 2485, if that’s alright—”

Your hand hadn’t even hit your side before a coughing fit punched up your throat, forcing you to twist away. You did everything to force it down, searing your face into the crook of your arm and anchoring yourself to the spot, but it all jolted out at once, hoarse and stinging. Max’s memories were potent enough to make your whole body lurch, desperate to reject the invasive feeling from your vision. The roar of the wind and the screaming, Jesus, fuck, the screaming, came back in full, mirroring your vision exactly. Your Gift sizzled like burnt flesh where you’d shaken hands with him. It bubbled up your arm, spreading like an infection, rippling and charring under your flesh—

Sam’s cold hand curled around your shoulder. It was a tidal wave of arctic water on a stove fire, washing even the debris away in one great sweep. Where you were and what you were wearing and how you must’ve looked dropped on you all at once, and not for the first time you wanted to rip out your Gift with your nails. You coughed, rubbing your sore throat. Everyone was staring at you.

“She’s, um, got this allergy thing goin’ on…” Dean explained.

Max’s knuckles whitened around the handle of his cane. Your eyes dropped to the floor, but you knew he was shooting you a strange look. “...I don't understand. I already spoke with Homeland Security—is it really necessary to send three agents?”

Dean teetered on his heels, fists in the pockets of his slacks. “Yeah. Some new information has come up. So if you could just answer a couple questions…”

Max paused. He nodded. Then, he turned on his heel, expecting you to follow him.

The two brothers hovered around you, both owl-eyed on braced legs. It took you a moment to get a hold of your unresponsive body, but when you did, raw, blatant embarrassment was waiting for you between Sam and Dean. You squirmed out from under Sam’s hand and cursed yourself the second he released you. The effect of his touch off your shoulder was instant. Your vision’s feeling seethed under your skin all over again, piercing through your pulse with every jagged breath and aching uncomfortably under your tongue. You felt pathetic wanting to reach out for him again, and rushed to follow after Max.

Your name drained out of Sam and Dean in unison. “____…”

“I’m good, boys,” you swore, and prayed they left it at that.

It took a moment for them to catch up, no doubt because they were abusing their sibling telepathy to worry over you. They never left shit like this alone. After the last two days you’d had, your Gift felt more disgusting than ever, so you weren’t sure you could handle either of them walking on eggshells over it. You knew that sometime later today Dean was going to awkwardly float up behind you and drop a vulnerable, hey, sweetheart, in case you needed to talk. Sam might drag himself out of his head just to check on you. It was sweet—more than sweet, more than anything you deserved—but none of it would fix it, so why try? What use was there in making a fuss over it? You had the Gift and there was no ripping it out or scrubbing it clean. Any extra attention on it was just useless.

You fell into step with Max and honed back in on the case.

A notepad apparated into Sam’s hand, and as you shuffled together toward one of the open tables, he began to scribble in tight doctor’s script. “...Mr. Jaffey. Just before the plane went down, did you notice anything… unusual?”

Dean offered, “Strange lights, weird noises, maybe. Voices.”

“No,” Max shook his head. “Nothing.”

He gestured you all to a table on the main floor, decorated with a festive runner and little Pittsburgh snowglobes. You squeezed in across from Max and felt awkward regret stew in your gut. All these people poking questions out of him must’ve been nerve-wracking, on top of Dean looming over the guy just to play with the table trinkets. He tossed a silver skyline globe from hand to hand just inches from Max’s face. Sam was still taking up your entire end of the table with his elbow.

You caught the funny look Max was giving the two of them and jumped at the chance. While Sam and Dean were occupied, you flashed him an annoyed, playful look that you hoped was authentic, jabbing your thumb between the boys. Bureaucrats, you rolled your eyes. Max suppressed a smile.

“Mr. Joffey—” Dean began.

Max cleared his throat. Glanced at you. “Jaffey,” he corrected.

“Jaffey,” Dean said. “You checked yourself in here, right? Can I ask why?”

Max folded his hands on the table, his knee bouncing hard. “I was a little stressed,” he stiffened, “I survived a plane crash.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but Dean was already there. “Uh huh,” he agreed. “And that's what terrified you? That's what you were afraid of?”

Beside you, Sam side-eyed his brother, and collectively you knew that Max wasn’t giving the full truth.

You couldn’t find a single way to blame him. He had no idea what the real context to any of this was, so if he had seen anything valuable, he probably didn’t trust himself to know it was real. Just feeling this thing’s presence in a dream had rearranged your mind for the month. Max had seen it in person. He must have, because there was fear in him like the fear that’d been following you for days now. You winced hearing Dean lay into him, trying to remind yourself how much his input could help.

A cold flurry of air rolled out from the hallway, buffetting through the room and making Max shiver in his seat.

“I...I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

You cringed. Dean wet his lip. “See, I think maybe you did see something up there.” He leaned a fist on the table, “We need to know what.”

Max sealed his lips together and sunk further in his seat. “No. No, I was delusional. Seeing things. Anything I tell you, even i-if I think it’s true… Look. I don’t know.”

You glanced at Sam, wondering if you were the only one who didn’t like how this felt, and weren’t surprised to see gears rotating intently in his mind. He closed his pen in his fist. “It’s okay. Even knowing about what you believed you saw would help immensely.”

Max fidgetted, unsure how that was possible. He kept his eyes on his hands, folding and unfolding them on the plastic tabletop, leaving his response in the open air. Years of questioning witnesses on hunts had sharpened your instincts for this exactly, but today those instincts sat pathetically where you couldn’t find them. Both of the boys were waiting for you to make your signature move. They would push and push, leaving you the room to give that last convincing tap. But the words stuck in your throat.

“...Please, Mr. Jaffey,” Sam pleaded again. “Though we may not have been in your situation before, we’re only here to help you. Your discomfort or embarrassment is the last thing we’d ever want.”

The light bled from Max in one leaching pull. A hesitant breath wuffed out of him, and you realized Max was mad at himself—for being so afraid. You wish he understood just how natural that was.

“There was… this—man. And, uh, he had these… eyes—these, uh… black eyes. And I saw him—or I thought I saw him…”

Vicious heat tore up your neck and seethed across your chest. Your breath stalled.

“What?”

Max couldn’t get the words out, so they were forced free in gradual pieces. “He opened the emergency exit. But that's… that's impossible, right? I mean, I looked it up. There's something like two tons of pressure on that door.”

When you looked up, Max’s eyes were boring right into yours, hoping one of you would brush off what he thought was make-believe.

“Yeah,” Dean shrugged, “you’d have’ta be superhuman.”

Sam jumped in, pen in hand. “This man, uhm, did he seem to appear and disappear? Rapidly. It would look something like a mirage?”

Max’s face fixed up. “What are you, nuts?”

Sam restrained a full recoil, so his head just did a little jerk instead.

“He was a passenger,” Max insisted, as if you, Sam, and Dean were aliens. “...He was sitting right in front of me.”

-

tags: @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-loou @dakota-dream

NEXT PART: phantom traveler, p.2

[cosmictulips]

♥️♥️ Your Heart... It Sings..(PAC) ♥️♥️

Follow me! for more free readings! Check out my carrd

So this isn't so much about your love language more so than how I see your feelings toward love. your love story essentially. the kind of love you attract and want. what your heart yearns for. it'll make sense when we get into it. so Pick a song, and I'll tell you the story of your... love.

1, 2, 3

Pile 1!

I don't wanna live for nothing, just wanna be something, I never knew what it took to win. Don't wanna live for nothing, just wanna be something, I never knew we'd be more then friends. do you hear me now?

ahhh what a beautiful song haha. so you chose the song Hear Me Now by Bad Wolves. honestly, I'd give it a listen it's very beautiful haha.

the songs meaning talks about a couple really trying to understand their emotions for one another. perhaps they met when they were younger or during a rougher time. they separated and then came back.

some other songs this reminds me of:: 1. If I'm James Dean, You're Audrey Hepburn by Sleeping with Sirens 2. Gravity of You by Stars Set 3. C'est Pas Si Loin by The Bunny the Bear 4. Poison and Wine by Civil Wars 5. Good Enough --- Evanescence 6. This Love by Taylor Swift 7. Rain by Breaking Benjamin

Your cards! :: knight of Cups, Knight of Wands, 03 of Swords, the World, the Fool, Queen of Pentacles, 9 of pentacles, 02 of Pentacles

so to me, your love story is that of lovers turned distant and back to lovers lmao. you both present as this 3 of swords energy. hardended and wounded from past loves. and hell you may thought you could have loved this person as well.

but whether due to life, poor choices etc, you left this person. but they never fully leave you. and it could be years from now. when you both have lived a full life, or it could be a couple of months and you two run into each other, but you two find each other again.

and this could also be said about being with this person. the relationship got rough, and you two started feeling distant from one another. but something brought you two back together. just when you two were about to end it, you kept fighting.

and to me, this is your love story. the themes to your love life. you want something substantial and long lasting. but you are terrified that the other person has given up because so many have before.

the love that you seek, and your happily ever after, will lie with someone you didn't expect to hold on just as strongly as you. this love will always be there. when it rains, or snows. and you two find comfort in each other. especially once that fire dies and you realize that they never wanted to let you go.

be weary of miscommunication. always be straight forward about what you want. this love is something slow and will bloom in time. something maybe you both take for granted. but at the end of the day, you are each others rocks. there is no giving up.

pile 2

I don't wanna sleep, I don't wanna dream, 'Cause my dreams don't comfort me -- The way you make me feel -- Waking up to you never felt so real

The song you chose is Comatose by skillet. this makes me think of the more intense love. dare I ask if you have scorpio, capricorn or maybe even taurus energy lol.

some other songs this makes me think of::

1. Eternally Yours --- Motionless in White 2. Starlight --- Starset 3. Everglow --- Starset 4. Earthrise --- Starset lmao a lot of starset I know but it works. 5. If I was your Vampire -- Marilyn Manson 6. Fire Meet Gasoline --- Sia 7. Born to die --- Lana Del Rey

the cards! :: the Wheel of Fortune, Death, The Tower, the Fool, the Empress, 09 of Pentacles, 09 of Cups, Queen of Swords, 10 of Swords

yea, this love is intense. powerful lessons. I feel like for some of you, it's learning how to be more open with this person. I don't want to say jealousy or anything like that. but the love you have for one another is just.. all consuming.

you may not be able to express it with words. I'm seeing a lot of like... cliche kind of things ya know. the constant staring, the poems, giving each other space but never leaving the minds of one another. you don't really know what to do so you hold each other.

you've been searching for so long to give or to find someone who will match that intensity that you do. people will say it's toxic or codependent. but the thing is, it's not. it's mutual. you both understand the silent squeezing of each others hands in public. you don't have to say very many words to one another. your conversations are intense and deep.

You both are naked with each other. you both are .. not necessarily slaves but vulnerable. there is something so raw to this connection that it both scares you, and changes you. this is the kind of connection where you both will be different people if it ever ends. even as you grow old together you look back and notice that you are not the same person.

You both give each other the world. you go through the harshest storms to yield the riches of the earth. traveling together, fine dining, movies. you both go all out. you two are the center of the world, and not anyone else. very protective as well.

it's soft but only in private. you two are fiercely independent but when the quiet hours dawn, you come together. and simply let the world pass.

Pile 3!

Fill my heart with song and let me sing forevermore, You are all I long for, All I worship and adore --- In other words, please be true, In other words, I love you

songs that make me think of this pile lol 1. Lost in You --- 3 Days Grace 2. When you look me in the eyes --- Jonas Brothers 3. When I look at you --- Miley Cyrus 4. Venus -- Sleeping at Last 5. Love Me Tender --- Elvis Presley 6. Put your Head on My Shoulder -- Paul 7. Electric Love --- Borns

the cards:: temperance, the world, the hermit, the hierophant, page of pentacles, ace of pentacles, 08 of swords, 10 of wands, 10 of swords, 04 of cups, 02 of pentacles

there is something so old fashioned but loving and fun about this pile. You have fun with love, and you want to have it even with someone you adore. when you are with someone you want to have those fun amusement park dates, but also something steady and true.

I feel like some of you may have committment fears or issues. you keep people at a certain level. and so I feel very strongly, if you are to fall for anyone, it is going to be someone you have known for a long time. I feel like you want to have all these happy memories but you're afraid of them leaving. so if you keep it casual, they can't hurt you when they ultimately leave.

so I feel like your story starts of slow, and patient. you both will work with one another, afraid to speak up about how much you have fallen. perhaps you have concluded that it's better to be friends because you have hurt them or vice versa. but you can't stop the slow fall.

and before you know it, you both have opened up with each other. you both fight the same fears together and you realize you have more with each other than you realize. and that happily ever after may not be perfect, but you still will enjoy each others company.

you want that stable sturdy love. and you'll get that from them when you both are ready. I feel like it'll be over dinner or something quiet. and you both may just spring it on to one another but it's not a surprise. this is a love that slowly builds, and works through the fears.

and at the end of your lives together, you'll look back and realize you had fun. and it felt very caring and strong. your fears weren't ignored. you simply just kept spending more and more time. it's gentle, and balanced. always listening and helping to heal and overcome burdens.

I hope I'm putting this in a good way. there's something old school about it, and surprising. fearing the worst but learning to release it because this person just wants to dance with you. and make you laugh. and never leave.

[muscledemon666]

PREPARE FOR THE RISE OF SATAN

Each day more and more come to me asking what is happening to them. They don’t understand their reactions to hearing my voice. They virtually all say the same thing. “ I hear your voice and I get so hard. My cock won’t go down. I cum without touching myself. It is as if SATAN were speaking directly to me. Calling me. I’m hard 24/7...etc etc.”. So why is this? What does it mean? I will explain and hopefully prepare you as best I can. You can choose to believe me or not. When Satan’s warrior’s reached out to me in June of 2015... I had no idea of the journey I was about to embark on. Yes I knew long before that I was very different. That I had certain gifts that we NOT usual. As my education ( training and testing began ) there were moments of great fear. Literal threats to my life...but no matter what , nothing could deter me. I was on a course that I knew not where it would lead me. Test after test I was given...even though at times I thought I was failing, that was all part of HIS plan. Many of HIS WARRIORS came into my life. Men of such power, strength and beauty, it was beyond human concept. After I had been tested or they had been empowered by my gifts they left. Certain physical senses developed in me. Almost like an animal or best I can sense things about others. Even some famous people. Still I moved on. Now we are in the FINAL STAGES of HIS RISING and the awakening of HIS LEGIONS. WITHIN THE LAST SIX MONTHS major events have taken place around the world and with those I have guided. Some so EXTREME and SEVERE , that if I posted them on here my account would be banned. Within the last sixty days Priests & Ministers for many denominations ( Catholic, Anglican, S. Baptist, Assembly of God, Sect of Friars) have all come to me. From Chicago, DC, NYC, New England, Rome, Romania asking me to guide them in the love for Satan. Asking me to empower them. Free them. Why is this happening? Because my voice is not my own. My words are not from this meager man. When I speak you are hearing THE VOICE OF SATAN. MY WORDS ARE HIS MESSAGE TO EACH AND EVERYONE OF YOU. I am no more than a Lighthouse guiding ships home in the night. All of you have longed and hungered for so long. Been search for the truth. HIS TRUTH! The Fires in CA In 2018, The city of Paradise burning to the ground, the mass shootings shortly after that. Holy Week of 2019 The fire of Notre Dame in Paris, the Virus in 2020 with the Church’s closed for Easter. The Comet of July 23, 2020, the December Christmas Star on 21st. These are HIS TRUMPETS calling you to awaken. Soon the fires will come in CA, they will be more powerful than ever before. As your lust grows the energy in your cock and balls will feed the fires. So now I tell you. Listen to my voice. Draw upon my energies, drink them up in the loins of your lust and the sacs of your manhood. Soon the COCK will be the true God and power of mankind. None will be able to resist it or us. Your seed will flow like mighty rivers renewing the earth. Look to Romania, for it is there that HE will start HIS RISE in the Sacred Valley. My next video will be FEED THE FIRE IN YOUR COCK. Say this prayer after you read this. “OH SACRED ONE...SATAN I BID YOU ENTER ME IN THE NAME OF DAR. AWAKEN ME TO THE POWER OF MY COCK AND BALLS. LET MY SEED SPEW FORTH EMPOWERING ALL WHO SEEK YOU. AWAKENING ALL WHO HUNGER. FOR IT IS OF SEED THAT MAN WAS BORN AND SEED HE MUST RETURN TOO. TO LIVE MAN MUST FEED OF SEED AND BE REBORN. IN THE NAME OF DAR I BOND AND BIND MYSELF ETERNALLY UNTO YOU. HAIL DAR, HAIL ALMIGHTY SATAN!” I remain here for all of you my brothers. Feel free to contact me on Wickr. I am demondar666 on that site. I ask that when you contact me you tell me your First name, age and location. Hail the power off Cock, Lust & Perversions!

[noodledragon]

I’ve overrun the drakyn tag with my boys now have drakyn headcanons:

Drakyns are innately sentimental about material things as well as places and memories. Some will avoid going to a beloved place so its memory is not tainted.

The hoarding instinct manifests in small, often niche ways. One can’t sleep unless *they* possess all the blankets and pillows in the inn room. Another buys a bag of holding just to hold all the dandelion fluff he collects. Another will stab all the corpses following a battle to add them to her overinflated kill count.

In some areas, drakyn will wear gloves and (ill-fitting) human boots to appear more tiefling-like. Hammertoes are imminent.

Their breath weapons are always generating fire/acid/lightning etc in their throats, but like a burp, they only build up enough to do damage twice a day.

Silver/white drakyn are refrigerators, cold on the inside, roaring hot on the outside.

There’s a harmful stereotype that black and green drakyn smell bad, but their acid and poison are completely odorless. Most drakyn defend their brethren to fight these sorts of stigma.

There are two types of horns: smooth and ridged. Smooth (while not totally smooth) are very slow growing after puberty and take on a color exact or similar to their skin. Ridged grow faster their whole life, are usually darker in color, can form unique shapes/curls, and are more prone to itching. Oil those horns!

Though drakyn are often isolated as individuals or family units, existing clans and large, sustaining groups often speak a dialect called Common Draconic. There is little mutual intelligibility between it and its parent languages.

Drakyn are DENSE and can weigh up to 50 pounds more than one would suspect.

Baby drakyn have triangle tails.

Some drakyn emote strongly with their tails, a select few consequently develop stronger prehensile capabilities.

Most have some scales but they take decades to develop. The elderly show off their matured scale patches with pride as a sign of a long, successful life. Where society and climate allows, the elderly might wear only a skirt or loin cloth to showcase them.

They grow more virile with age, and age is considered a traditional standard of beauty. Drakyns say gilf rights.

All genders can grow beards, but hair growth anywhere is very slow.

I just love these little guys so much y’all—

[microsuedemouse]

Ok, since I have horrible luck and forced yet another sad Abedison on the world because of Spotify... can I ask for another prompt? How about a song ending in a multiple of 5? (5,15, 25, etc). I am an absolute sucker for bittersweet but maybe there's a happy one in there! :D <3

(send me a ship and a number from 1-100; I'll write a short scene inspired by the corresponding song from my Spotify top songs this year)

here's a happy one for ya! <3 since you gave me some freedom with the numbers, I spent a few minutes deciding which song I thought worked best for them. this one is a pretty good fit, I think! :) number 65 on my playlist:

a rly sweet song about the little things that make you fall in love with someone. feels very right for Annie and Abed.

All Night | 1 290 words | G

discount cigarillos in the parking lot dancing in the kitchen to country songs a million little pieces of a perfect life I want it to last all night

Annie used to think love happened all in one fell swoop. A spark, or an explosion of butterflies, or, hell, even a fire in the loins. Like in all those romance novels she discovered in the library shelves at age thirteen and used to read under the covers after her mother thought she’d gone to sleep. Whether it happened the moment the leads locked eyes, or not until the climax of the story when one of them narrowly escaped disaster and they had to acknowledge suddenly that the fear they’d felt was the result of a passion undeclared… that realization always came all at once, thunderously, like an epiphany. The heroine and her hero would just Know. That, Annie thought, was what real love must be like.

Back in high school, she thought she Knew, with Troy. He was handsome, and he was actually very nice to her that one time she collided with him in the hallway, and if movies had taught her anything it was that the shy, nerdy grade-grubber and the popular-but-actually-sweet jock absolutely could be soulmates. But then time went on, and she became friends with him instead, and those feelings just sort of… faded away. Then she thought she’d Known with Vaughn, who was kind and wholesome and made her feel pretty, but when the time came to test her commitment, she realized she couldn’t leave her friends just to stay with him. She’d thought, very briefly, that she Knew when she befriended Rich, who seemed in every way to be her ideal: smart, open-hearted, compassionate, outgoing, well-rounded. Even when he rejected her, he did it so gently and thoughtfully that she almost adored him more for it. Eventually, though, she’d come to see that she was a lot younger than him, and that he’d been right when he told her they weren’t standing on even ground.

Most embarrassingly of all, she thought several times that she Knew she was in love with Jeff. But when it really came down to it, she also Knew that she wasn’t, really. Whenever one of their bizarre, too-charged sort of phases wound back down, she found herself relieved. Every time he dated someone new (or not-so-new, when it came to Britta), she’d get all up in arms, and then a couple days later she’d realise it was actually a weight off her psyche. Anytime she started to trick herself into believing again that it really was Jeff all along, for her, she tried to remember the things she’d said when Abed pushed her to the very edge of her patience, that day years ago in the Dreamatorium: she loved the idea of being loved. She loved the idea that if she could make a man as cynical as Jeff love her, she’d never had to worry again about being left alone. She’d said a lot of very rash things that afternoon, and this had been one of them, but that was how she knew it was true. It had come up from her gut, instinctively, the moment that Abed-as-Annie had claimed that she was (they were) in love with Jeff. It wasn’t the healthiest conversation she’d ever had with herself – there was way too much to sort through, there – but it had, undoubtedly, been furiously honest.

Abed did have a strange way of always being just what she needed. And she tried her best to be the same for him. It wasn’t always pretty, but they were working on that. They were both kind of messy, mixed-up people, but they cared enough about one another to want to be better. That was why living together worked so well for them, even if they still made each other crazy once in a while: after all, who better to understand you than someone just as nuts as you are?

And it was because they knew each other so well that Annie knew, when she got the text that said gonna be home late again :/, exactly what their evening would look like. Normally it would’ve been his turn to make dinner, but sometimes work schedules and home schedules just didn’t cooperate. So she turned on the radio to motivate her through the little tasks that would make the rest of the evening smooth and easy: she made sure the couch was clear of clutter, and she pulled five DVDs from the shelf that she’d be willing to watch. Abed could choose his favourite from her selection, and that way they wouldn’t argue or spend an hour just trying to pick something. Then she preheated the oven and fished a frozen pizza out of the freezer. She wasn’t really up to cooking any more than Abed would be by the time he got in.

She heard him come in while she was getting the pizza into the oven, and as she stood up and pulled off the oven mitts, he stepped into the kitchen. He was smiling a bit, but he looked tired, pulling a lunchbag out of his backpack and going to the sink to rinse out his thermos.

“Long day?” Annie asked, leaning back against the edge of the counter.

“Long week,” he answered, shrugging one shoulder.

“Yeah. No kidding.” They’d both been busy, lately. She gave a small sigh, then smiled again when he turned back towards her. “At least it’s the weekend. How’re you holding up?”

Abed’s eyes crinkled as his own smile grew a little, like it heartened him just to be home with her. “Getting better, now,” he answered, and there was a trace of play in him. Though only a few minutes ago Annie had been thinking about how much she looked forward to settling into her spot on the couch and not moving again for hours, his attitude was as contagious as ever, and she found a little energy in herself somewhere.

“Yeah. Me too.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder towards the oven. “Pizza’s in. Already dug out a few movies for you to pick from. I figure it’s a good night just to veg out.”

“Sounds good to me.” Then he cocked his head, eyes going off to one side, and after a second she realised he was listening to the radio, playing quietly in its place atop the fridge. “Is this Country Roads?”

Annie paused, listening, then grinned. “Yes it is.”

“Been in quite a few movies,” he commented, almost absently. “Alien: Covenant, which probably could’ve been better. Kingsman 2, which got mixed reviews, but honestly I thought it was a lot of fun.”

“Don’t forget Whisper of the Heart,” she reminded him, a little amused.

Abed straightened up, his eyes coming back into focus on her face, and he beamed at her. “How could I ever forget Whisper of the Heart?” he asked. “That’s the best one.”

She bit down on her smile for a second before, impulsively, starting to sing along softly. “Country roads, take me home…”

“To the place I belong,” Abed continued, reaching out one hand. With a laugh, she accepted, and he pulled her gently into the middle of the kitchen and into a very loose hold, smiling his silly smile, eyes sparkling as he swayed side to side and spun her slowly.

So they danced, giggling at each other, half-singing along with John Denver, waiting for their pizza to cook. Annie didn’t think much about it in the moment. When she caught the way Abed was watching her, equal parts fond and entertained, she didn’t Know anything at all. But one day, looking back, she’d remember little things like this, and she’d Know. Even without ever being able to put a finger on when or how things changed, she’d Know, with absolute certainty.

[bookofmirth]

It's 500 years and not 2 years.

I think Az has the brains to see that Mor didn't want to without needing her, try to talk or not need to be direct.

I'm always in favor of dialogue, but I believe it needs to be both on the same page and ready for it.

But Az has clung to someone he knew was impossible to have and he keeps targeting someone who can create obstacles.

For me Mor at first was the first love and then it stopped being, and she wanted to save and protect what he couldn't with her mother.

And I think he doesn't think he's worthy of Amar either, and he uses Mor's rejection to keep convincing himself that he'll never have what Feysand has.

No wonder he switched his attention to someone who can use the Bond to create an obstacle.

Because if he really liked it, he'd have more action because he himself knows Elain won't reject his attention.

Maybe I'm not entirely right in all these analyses.

Yeah, Az's issues with Mor are definitely a lot deeper if just for the fact that it's been going on wayyyyy longer than whatever he has with Elain. And he isn't just "over it", he still can't talk to Rhys or Cassian about what he feels for Mor. In acosf. In the current moment of the series. Still can't say what exactly he feels for Mor. And he failed to say it at a crucial moment that could have paved the way for him to be with the current fire of his loins.

I'm always in favor of dialogue, but I believe it needs to be both on the same page and ready for it.

Totally, the tension between Az and Mor needs to be addressed because it's causing problems for both of them. But it's an Azriel problem, so it's really on him to use his Big Boy Words. If he just could deal with his crap, then it would free Mor from this obligation she feels to change her behavior - to hide parts of her life - for his benefit.

And I think he doesn't think he's worthy of Amar either, and he uses Mor's rejection to keep convincing himself that he'll never have what Feysand has.

Yep yep! He definitely has issues with feeling like he belongs or like he deserves love etc. and I think he doesn't actually deserve to be with Elain, it was bravado. His question about the Cauldron wasn't genuine. A lot of his behavior towards Mor and Elain feels like a smokescreen, to me, like he's just pretending.

No wonder he switched his attention to someone who can use the Bond to create an obstacle.

Yep! Elain can obviously reject the mating bond, but she hasn't. It's flimsy excuse, but so is "maybe if I wait five hundred and one years then it will be my moment!" with Mor.

It's all just an excuse! I can't wait til Az has to get real with himself.

I agree with your analysis! I think that he cares about Mor and Elain, but mainly he's using them as an excuse, to cover other issues.

[boymeetsmxm]

June 2020 | #1

Every month, we ask our reader members to rec us some BTS works they’ve enjoyed. The works can come from any source (AO3, Tumblr, Twitter, Wattpad, etc.), can be either a fanfic or a SM AUs, and doesn’t have to be from our own writer members. We’ve compiled this month’s recs in this list; Happy browsing!

SFW | Fanfic

Pull me under by Oh_Hey_Tae (AO3)

 Fluff | Pining, E2L | Oneshot

Summary: Hoseok works at a summer resort and Namjoon is the newest lifeguard. Chaos ensues.

@galaxiejoon​​ said: this is one of my favorite Hoseok/Namjoon fics, its very cute, funny, and sweet. 

How to get away with blind dates by Tsoookie (AO3)

Fluff | Fake dating, College Au | Oneshot

Summary: Kim Seokjin is already at that age where he probably should get rid of his single since birth status. His roommates, Namjoon and Yoongi wants to help him but Seokjin refuses to accept it. After all, why would he agree to date someone he doesn't even know?

@tigertaehyunq​ said: just a cute little fic on Taejin that warms my heart. I love the characters, the way the story is written and how it progresses. The plot twists are fun too. 

Coalescing Memories by @dawndrms​

Fluff | Mutual pining | Oneshot

Summary: Taehyung and Hoseok have always been close, closer than close but they never seem to get that their feelings for each other are mutual despite already acting like boyfriends.

@bangtiddies​​ said: ah this fic was so sweet and cute!! the domestic simplicity between hobi and tae, annoyed yoongi just wanting them to finally admit their feelings for each other, hoo boi i'm soft.

NSFW | Fanfic

Glass Diamonds by Ginforink (AO3)

Smut, Angst | Pining, Denial of feelings | Oneshot

Summary: Jungkook accidentally fires his skateboard through the window of a dance studio.

@joopiterjoon​​ said:  I liked this because it was tropey: Skaterboy Jungkook falls for Dancer Jimin. I don't read this kinda Jungkook often but this couple and their interactions felt real while also having 90s movie vibes.

Sweeter than sweet by @j-sope​ (Tumblr)

Angst, Fluff | Pining, College Au | WIP

Summary: In his second year, Hoseok discovers dance, befriends Jungkook and his silly friends — and makes the mistake of falling head over heels for Park Jimin’s boyfriend.

@hobiance​​ said: i love this fic for many reasons! it's wonderfully paced, and although sometimes you feel like you just want to throttle sope because they're being such emotionally constipated boys in denial, it's the perfect balance of angst and fluff. it's never so sad you're heartbroken, but it keeps you on the edge of your seat-- and there's some amazing comedic relief tucked into the story as well. genuinely one of my favorite fics of all time!

Got a kiss (with your name on it) by Orphan_account (AO3, account required)

Fluff, Smut | Oneshot

Summary: “I just—I just thought, like. Maybe I wouldn’t be so horrible if someone more experienced than me taught me what to do.”

@megahwn​​ said: I'm reccing this work because it's one of the first Taekook fics I ever read, and it holds a special place in my heart for that reason. The smut is sweet and gentle and their relationship is so believable in its evolution. I definitely reccommend it! 

Fake sugar by Minverse (AO3, @park-loins​ on Tumblr)

Crack, Angst, Fluff | Fake sugar daddy au | Completed Series

Summary: Hedge Fund wunderkind and Certified Awkward Gay Jungkook needs a sugar baby to show off at work, and Professional Competitive Eater and Objectively Beautiful Human Jin just wants to stop working shitty side-jobs. Fake Sugar Daddy AU. A trope and a half.

@joonsrack​ said: Jinkook was never on my radar until I read this masterpiece. I didn’t think they would work but it did, so much. The author brought to life the characters so vividly, I kind of miss them ever since I finished this masterpiece. The humor is grad A worthy of its own award, the plot is hilarious and original and everything you need to keep warm at night. The relationships in this (be it the platonic ones or the romantic ones) are just so well mapped out. Minverse is honestly the best writer I’ve ever read, be it from fanfic or published book.

A Sociolinguistic Analysis of Epenthesis in Academic Convergence by Bazooka (AO3, account required)

Angst, Fluff, Humour, Smut | College au, Teacher au, E2L | Completed series

Summary:  Epenthesis; A phonological phenomenon in which two disparate sounds meet, creating a third sound between them which wasn't there before.

There were a lot of jobs worse than being partnered with world-renowned Absent-Minded Professor Kim Namjoon, but Professor Kim Seokjin couldn't think of what any of them were at the moment.

@joonsrack​ said:  Im reccing this fic because the namjin in this gives me life. They're just two dumbass perfect for each other if they could just stop being dense for like, one second. I also love the format the writer used, with the hilarious teacher/course rating. It sets the tone perfectly for the story. 

Same damn hunger by Orphan_account (AO3, account required)

Angst, Smut | College au, FWB, Slow burn | Oneshot

Summary: When it comes to fucking around with his best friend, Yoongi follows two rules:

1. They must be inebriated.

2. They must not kiss.

@j-sope​​ said: I will never shut up about this fic. this fic is brilliant. both yoongi and hobi are so well written, their relationship is beautiful and it's definitely the sope fic. who knew a kiss could be so important? it's funny, full of feelings, there's the perfect amount of angst to balance everything. the dialogue and writing style were amazing, everything about this fic is amazing, tbh you don't even have to stan sope to have a good time with this. it's the sope bible. idk what else to say i just love it, nothing will ever top this ever 2145145/10 

SFW | SM AUS

None this month

NSFW | SM AUS

None this month

[lady-dimitrescus-loving-wife]

Desna x Reader || I Want You

So I made another ao3 for different fandoms and I want to write for Legend of Korra sometimes lol. It’s at OhImJustACreature on archive of our own.

Includes: Smut, slight marking, impregnation, rough sex, pining, etc. just one of my more soft smuts.

Enjoy!

-

Arms wrapped around her waist, warm furs draped over each other as the grip was set. A head sliding it’s way in the valley of her shoulder and her neck, long dark hairs laying lazily against her as a chilled but smooth pair of lips dusted her skin.

The girl would’ve jumped straight out of her skin if it wasn’t for his grip. She was warm against him, something he wasn’t used to at first but had grown to after a while and just couldn’t get enough of. Her voice coming out a little shaky as she pulled the spoon from the soup to sit it on the counter.

“D-Desna? When did you get home my love, you should have announced yourself!”

She scolded lightly only getting him to bury his head in her furs more kissing the exposed skin that the slipping fabric couldn’t hide. It made her shiver and she tilted her head in the opposite direction to give him room.

Desna was a little surprised that she moved so easily, his hands moving a little; thumbs rubbing circles in her hips feeling her as she swayed against him. Sure he had never done this before but he didn’t mind taking his time, holding her firmly against him as though he wanted to mend them.

And mend he shall.

She gave a small moan as he nibbles on her flesh and he stopped for a second. His head moving, tilting.. to look at her. She blushed and huffed as her (e/c) eyes connected with his own before she casted them away and shockingly a smile danced into his lips making him look soft. (Even if that wasn’t what he was to look like about an hour from now...)

His naked hand had moved up her body, slowly but surely until he reached her flustered face. Calmly he cupped her chin feeling her jump a little before making her look at him once more. His eyes bright clashing with her own and for a second they stood like that, breaths mingled, her lip trembling thirsty for his touch until a smell started to scent to room.

“Oh my! The soup!”

She yelped remembering what she had been doing before her significant other had came. She wiggled away from him taking the pot off the fire and set it aside to cool down. Desna watched her with sharp eyes, a light blush on his cheeks as Eska peeked inside catching the male’s attention.

She gave him a thumbs up to which he looked away from with more of a blush, his brown skin growing red. He almost hated how onboard his sister was with his love life. Almost.

-

Once again his eyes were on her and finally picked up on it after five minutes of the assault. Slowly she looked up at him and he blinked. She had then lifted a brow.

“Desna?”

She asked in the fire lit room, the bed warm as they sat across from each other, empty bowls on the dresser and needless shoes, coats and any thing else settled in their respected areas as she scooted closer to him result in him tending up.

“Yes my love?”

He spoke simply looking down at her, he seemed so calm, of course she couldn’t notice how sweaty his palms had gotten or how hard his heart beated in his chest. Of course she couldn’t tell how his loins started to burn or how dry his throat had gotten. Of course she didn’t know how much he wanted her. How much he longed for her touch, for her body, for her.

“Is something the matter?”

She giggled scooting up more until their knees touched, he looked down and hum softly not expecting how she climbed into his lap sitting on top of him. His eyes wide and body frozen as her soft hand came up to press against his forehead as though checking his temperature. She hummed and leaned down shuffling her head close to his ear before kissing it. A whisper leaving her teasing warm lips.

“Because you’re look rather...hot, to me.~”

She grinned and suddenly the fire went out and a startled yelp left her as he launched at her. Her body bouncing on the warm blankets and furs before he laced his naked hands against her own. He held her down as his hair hung like a curtain around their faces, his silver-ish eyes seeming to glow as they pressed firmly against each other.

He scooted even closer, his hips against hers as her thighs laid over his own, his chest heaving with every breath as he loomed over her. He didn’t move until she whines lightly biting her lip.

“Y-You-“

”Yes, me.”

He was honestly shocked, he was flustered, and he was weirdly hot all over.

The twin leaned down and kissed her, the first being soft. Like a kiss you’d give your childhood crush, only a kiss of innocence to test the waters.

The second being longer and more passionate, a kiss that should the importance of each other. A living jester. She happily returned it, pressing her lips against him biting her lip when he slowly pulled away huffing as he loomed close enough to press a kiss to her nose.

The third coming from the depths of hell, it was hot, so hot that she could have mistaken him for the devil or perhaps simply as a fire bender. Her eyes wide for a second as a deep blush covered her cheeks, his tongue pricking her lips knowing she’d give it to him anyway.

His tongue dancing over her own as her hips accidentally bucked causing him to groan lowly into her mouth. He stayed on her ignoring the occasional bucks and gasps kissing her until she begged for air. He definitely would love to hear her beg. A shudder ran harshly down his back at a couple rather indecent ideas shot into his head.

He’d save those for later.

He only pulled away when she really started to wiggling around, arching and twitching for air. He pulled away slowly, saliva being the only thing connecting them as she leaned her head back chest heaving as she took in the air she needed.

His own breathing filling the dark room as well. He immediately went after her neck, the fire in him getting worse as he kissed over her skin. Bites and sucking creating dark hues as she gave a breathless moan whimpering against him, her hands gripping his a bit tighter.

“D-Desna~”

She purred only for him to growl against her lowly, his teeth baring against her flesh, eyebrows furrowing.

“Shush now (y/n), I’ll take care of you.”

She didn’t doubt that either especially not after how roughly he grounded his hips against her answering her previous bucks. The motion firm and slow, she felt her legs twitch a little, the thin clothes in her obviously allowing her to feel his excitement in his pants. She wanted more of that.

Desna suddenly pulled away freeing her hands and in the haze and darkness of the room it took her a minute to focus on him. Her senses highly sensitive now so he hummed lightly at how he out of nowhere cupped her crotch and she gasped loudly.

He watched as her hands dig into the sheets because even though he didn’t say she could touch him just yet. He smirked a little actually.

His hands found her hips and he gripped them before pulling down her outerwear showing her (s/c) hips and the silky underwear that hugged her a bit too nicely. He looked at them, a calm look on his face as he suddenly yanked on them literally ripping them off her before he grabbed her thighs pulling them open.

She gasped shuddering as the cool air of the room tickled her wetness. Her folds soaked and hole trembling wanting more.

How could he not put his mouth on her..

He was between her thighs kissing her navel, biting as the hips squeezing and humming against her before moving kissing her inner thigh. Her whimpers getting louder until he pressed a wide open mouth kiss against her sex sucking holding her as she arched and rolled her hips firmly against his face.

She tasted sweet to him. Like tarts and usually he didn’t like such things but he’d count this as an exception.

She’d never seen him like this, aggressive yes but she’d never thought he’d actually do this. Would actually go down on her and hold her. She’d thought about it many times but each of her advances only ever even got a look of curiosity from the other. Desna was nervous at first, sex wasn’t something he expected in his life so of course he held back.

No need for that now.

His hair tickled her over her stomach and her hips as he sucked on her clit, granted he didn’t necessarily know how she’d react but he had a good feeling. She let out a loud cry arching heavily as her legs twitched and her hands shot down to his hair grabbing a couple locks whimpering his name.

His eyes looked up at her through the dark strands before he slowly closed them. He gave a low sigh before licking a fine line from her asshole to her clit before moving and grabbing her wrist making her let go of his hair as he sat back up.

He licked his lips before looking down at her. She was a mess and he hummed as he reached for his pants. He tugged them down revealing the bulge in his boxers. He was large, well rounded and precum stained the fabric, a shiver tickling his back as the cool air of the room kissed him.

Desna grabbed his boxers pulling down down as his cock flopped out, bouncing in joy standing proudly as a blush colored his cheeks.

Y/n wiggled impatiently before reaching forward gripping his cock giving it right but loving strokes, a surprisingly loud groan slipping from his lips before he could stop it. They both froze this time as he blushed and she grinned squeezing the meaty organ another tight squeeze.

Desna gave another low groan before gripping her wrist tightly pulling it until he pinned it back to the soft bed, his hips firmly against hers as his cock slid between her soaking wet folds, whimpers and gasps leaving her throat as she tried to wiggle with him to get him to slide in her.

“C-Come in Desna- I please..I ah!”

She cut herself off as he thrusted in tossing her head back as she felt the stretch and slight burn as he slowly pushed all the way to the hilt. Her pussy spasmed around his cock as he leaned down, hair tickling her shoulders as he looked at her face. A blush over his cheeks as he panted above her before pulling his hips back and sending another thrust in her.

Y/n arched, their chest against each other as he held her hand in one hand and his other wrapping around her waist as she bucked against him. Her free hand in his dark long locks tugging as he sped up his pace until the bed was rocking.

Loud slapping and wet noises filling the room as she called out his name like a prayer. His own loud groans filling the room as he fucked her abused pussy shuddering at each quench he heard.

“I-I love you y/n..”

He spoke softly, almost too softly she almost didn’t hear him. However she did and it caught her attention, her fingers lacing in his hair tugging his head back as the twin let out grunt biting his lip as his pace slowed a little. She purred leaning up and kissing his neck, sucking and nipping the flesh until he was shaking at until a hickie form on that beautiful dark skin. A soft pop coming from her as she pulled away to moan softly against his form.

“I love you too Desna. Always have and always will.”

She admitted before letting out and startled noise as his arms moved to under her thighs before pulling her up, him sitting back on his legs. She cried out at the new position, his cock pressing deeper into her as she wrapped her arms around his neck, hair bobbing as he bounced her brutally listening to the loud claps their bodies made together.

Later she’d be absolutely flustered, no doubt everyone could hear them and she knew they wouldn’t let her live it down... poor thing.

She screamed his name one last time, digging her nails into his flesh as she threw her head back once more, hips trembling terribly as her orgasm crashed over her turning her limp as Desna held her close growling into her chest as he buried himself deep in her. His thick stick cum coating her slippery pink walls before they both collapsed on the bed in a messy, blushy, sweaty heap.

Yes, they’d definitely get teased for this later..but right now she loved how he lazily pulled her into his chest and kissed along her wet skin. She loved how he allowed her to kiss his head and run her fingers through his long dark hair, loved how perfectly they fitted together and how he gently whispered-

I love you.

Before falling asleep on top of her protectively.

[disneylanddirectioner123]

Heart-In-A-Box

I could get used to this, instead of saying hello, i just AHOY here and AHOY there. ANYWAYS. This is for  everyone who didn’t get a Valentines Day gift or don’t have a Valentine AT ALL. Don’t worry though, I have some Spidey Spice Doritios and a small thing of Ben & Jerrys if you wanna share with me. I KNOW, I WAS ALONE ON VALENTINES DAY. (Don’t rub it in, I’m emotional :( I’ll change my mind.)

However, I did get a nice smelling bottle of Sea Scrub peel off mask. Now I’ll smell like Ariel!!! :D

I also got a red Birds Of Prey shirt and some small cookie biscuits. BUT. 

I just wanted to make this imagine for everyone who didn’t get the Valentines Day that they wanted, and of course because of the title: IT’S A DADDY PATRICK IMAGINE!!! Brace yourselves! This may get a little bit spoopy!!!

—

IMAGINE #2

Title: Heart-In-A-Box

Pairing: Patrick Hockstetter x Reader

Word Count: 

Theme: Valentine’s Day.

For: Anyone who had a sucky Valentine’s Day, but for this imagine, I’ll put my name: Jae. (You don’t have to put up with my name :) Do what you want! You do you honey!!)

Warnings(?): Anatomy (guts, body parts, blood, etc.) A butchery, Just blood. IMAGINE WILL PROBABLY BE THE CRINGIEST YOU’VE EVER READ IN YOUR LIFE.

Scene: Reader is having a terrible Valentine’s Day. Nobody has given them a Valentine so they’re feeling left out, resulting in them to focus on schoolwork. On a field trip to the local museum for a science class, Reader slowly starts receiving Valentine’s gifts from a green eyed admirer. 

PLAYLIST: 

1. Love Hurts by Nazareth

2. Every Breath You Take by The Police

3. Black Hole Sun by Soundgarden

—

The sound of other students in the hallways of Derry High annoyed Jae.

It was the dreaded day; Valentine's Day.

Pink, white and red littered the entire school and it made her sick. What a way to rub in the pain that she was gonna be YET AGAIN alone on Valentine's Day.

Students, mostly pathetic little middle schoolers wore dumb pink and red outfits as they scurried around, giving each other bouquets of flowers, boxes of chocolates, and cringeworthy love letters.It seemed that someone, probably someone from the student body or arts committee wanted to make Valentine's Day this year special, hence why everyone was wearing either pink or red. Some idiots even came dressed as angels, pretending to shoot people with arrows.

It was disgusting.

Jae was probably the only girl wearing a different colour. As she walked over to her locker, students stared at her and snickered.

"Looks like she has no Valentine." "She'll be a loner forever!" "Happy Valentine's Day Jae!" "What a LOSER." "Don't you mean LOVER?"

She barged through the laughing students, shoving a making out couple off her locker. After opening her locker and scrunching up some hurtful Valentine's Day cards from some neanderthal jocks and prissy skanks, Jae grabbed what she needed for the field trip to the museum. Her anatomy class was going to the museum as a part of an assignment on individual parts of the body.

Jae couldn't wait to get to the museum. As well as getting away from all these morons, it was no secret that Jae took a close interest into anatomy class. Her father was a butcher and her mother was a nurse so it wasn't her first time seeing blood and guts, whether it was a bonus help that she learnt about the nifty things that went on inside the human body, much to the other students' horror and disgust.

"So," An obnoxious voice rang in her ear followed by a loud POP!, "who ripped your heart out?" Greta smirked as she leaned against Jae's locker. Jae rolled her eyes, out of all the days that she didn't want to be tormented, today took the angel cake.

Enough was enough. Jae turned to Greta with a fake sad expression.

"You. When I saw you making out with Sally Mueller in the bathroom," she fake sobbed, "it broke my heart in two. How could you Greta?!"

Gasps erupted throughout the hallway followed by mean and taunting chants of "Greta likes girls." With an angry huff, Greta stormed off with all the attention now focused on her.

Jae's anatomy classmate, Beverly Marsh approached her locker in the direction of where Greta charged from. "Jeez, didn't know you and Greta were-"

"I'm not. I just got sick of her. Thought I might do some rumour spreading of my own. Anyways," Jae changed the subject onto the exciting excursion ahead, "what's your project about?"

"Feet and legs and what makes them work."

Jae nodded, not wanting to continue the discussion, due to her bored and slightly irritated tone. "You?"

"The heart." Jae responds, rolling her eyes at the ironic theme. Beverly gave a small smile before looking behind her. Her face dropped, scurrying off with a quick; "See you on the bus."

Instead of the cliche turn around, Jae shrugged before following Bev out to the bus where her anatomy class were waiting.

If only she did turn would she have met her green eyed admirer that would soon spoil her silly in the weirdest of ways.

---

After the lame presentation which was both interesting yet extremely irrelevant to Jae, the anatomy teacher granted the class permission to do individual exploring, where the students could either get something to eat or explore other parts of the exhibit.

Jae had her eye on the heart exhibit; it was a maze where there were info cards, hanging and touchable props and video diagrams on all walls. It looked like fun.

So, being a lone ranger, Jae headed directly to the heart maze. But she wasn't the only one.

It seemed that a certain someone had his green predatory eyes for Jae. Patrick Hockstetter was fascinated by her. He followed her around town and the idea that she was working on the anatomy of the heart made him fall for her. He loved that she liked what people would call macabre, he loved that she had an IDGAF attitude yet how devoted she was to her anatomy class. He loved that she was an all out badass.

And don't get him started on her beauty. She was SO MUCH prettier than the other girls of Derry. Her hair was so shiny and when he sometimes stepped behind her at the cafeteria and managed to smell her hair, her hair smelt like strawberries and cream and her skin smelt like the seaside.

He always thought of himself as a smooth operator, yet when it came to Jae, he couldn't muster up the balls to ask her out.

Patrick Hockstetter the chicken.

He didn't like the idea of that going around especially in front of his crush.

So since Valentine's Day was today, it was his chance.

He stood a decent feet away and got out the crumpled love note he was gonna pass to her on the bus. In his neatest writing, which was still messy, he wrote;

"WILL YOU BE THE FIRE TO MY LOINS? LOVE P.H"

As disgusting and cringy as it sounded, Patrick tried to be poetic and literate as he had caught Jae reading the novel "Lolita" on regular basis when the teacher forced him to go into the library instead of loitering with the other members of the Bowers Gang behind the gym. Wrapped in the paper was a small animal heart; in particular a chicken heart.

He clenched the paper, trying not to rip it or squish the heart. Patrick wasn't gonna chicken out now.

He scrunched it up and flung it at her. It hit her, the heart fell out of the paper and splatted on the floor and as she turned around, he disappeared into the other entry of the maze.

---

When she got to the heart of the maze, her eyes bulged as she saw a giant squishy heart in the centre that could be touched. She loved the idea of an interactive model. She pulled out her polaroid camera and took a photo of the model as she had been doing so through the maze.

When she checked the picture she noticed a tall figure in the background but it was blurry so she couldn't determine who it was. Right next to the model was an info card, basically explaining the model was a photo opportunity and that it instructed kids to not climb on the model. There were two small plates; one with another heart; this time a dog heart and the other plate with a small heart cake, there was a note attached that said; "Dissect me? P.H"

This was the second note that she had received from 'P.H'. It was probably some stupid jock playing a prank on her. She knelt down at the little block with the info card nailed to it, grabbing her pocket knife and visciously stabbed it, noticing jam bleeding out of it. There was no way she wasn't ruining the dog heart.

"What is it with people today?" She yells, "Why me of all people to prank on Valentine's Day?! I bet you this is how you're gonna get me! You're gonna jump out and say; 'Ha Ha! Just kidding ya!' Well i'm not as dumb as you think, so knock it off!!!"

Patrick was watching the whole sight, obviously amused and a little hurt that she thought he was messing her over. Patrick crouched down next to her, coughing to get her attention. As soon as she looked at him, she pieced everything together;

PH=Patrick Hockstetter. The hearts= Rumors of him kidnapping and killing animals.

When she turned to him, he sat down beside her and pulled out a small heart shaped box. He really wanted to give her this gift but wasn't sure how she'd react to seeing the gift. "I got this," He rasped as he held out the box, "for you."

Cautiously, she took the red box and lifted the lid. Inside was a heart. She picked it up to check if it was real. It was. It was bigger than the dog heart. His next two words made her slightly shudder.

"It's Human."

"Patrick, How'd you get it?" Jae asked, raising an eyebrow. On the inside she felt weak.

Instead of answering her, he lunged at her, planting his lips on hers. His lips were a bit slimy and chapped and although he did have a bit of bad breath but it didn't matter. Jae may or may not have had an attraction to him due to his mystery. She really liked him but everyone always kept her away from him. This was a dream come true.

"Pat," She asked when they departed from their soft kiss,

"Where'd the human heart come from?”

[exlibrisfangirl]

Chris argent fan mutual

UWU

GOOD. THAT'S WHAT I LIKE TO HEAR. 😈

What mutual am I?