#hunting chupacabras

[xlr8nrg]

One of my favourite SPN blooper

Season 12

[mlp-natural]

I need someone to tell me my writing is good right now please please please

currently writing a cool and epic ponynatural fic for my own enjoyment based within the comic bits I have drawn but I also desire to be seen and acknowledged thanks!!

[drkmatt3rstudio]

Commission | Atlas Games Cryptid Hunt Pt 4

At the beginning of last year I was contacted by a publishing company and contracted to make all the art for an upcoming puzzle book they were making. I spent 5 months working on this, and I have so many pieces it’ll be broken up into multiple parts! This was the second half of Batch B.

So many cryptids! My personal favorite of this project is the Hidebehind reaching out for you from the shadows of the forest, ugh love it 💖

The kickstarter has officially ended, and I found the link to the publishers listing, Cryptid Hunt releases for both digital and physical sale in July!

If you like my work and would like to support me, check out my links to my social media

instagram | facebook | shop website | buy me a ko-fi

[crowscadence]

Put some new pins on my bag (two red buttons on the right)

[songstone]

So yeah anyway who wants me to write about Quincey P. Morris surviving and coming back to Texas with some newfound monster hunting skills?

[maythearo]

" Welcome back to Night Raven College's 'Ghostly Gossip'! The school's unofficial main online source for the latest news, articles and trending topics circulating around campus! "

" Your eyes don't deceive you. He really is real. And an actual monster too, not just a 'weird looking dog', as those funny human legends say... "

Navigation:

R. Rosehearts - T. Clover - C. Diamond - A. Trappola - D. Spade - L. Kingscholar - R. Bucchi - J. Howl - A. Ashengrotto - J. Leech - F. Leech - K. Al Asim - J. Viper - V. Schoenheit - R. Hunt - E. Felmier - I. Shroud - O. Shroud - M. Draconia - L. Vanrouge - S. Zigvolt - Silver

Messy design notes:

I have mixed feelings over his design. On one hand, the outfit itself looks cool... and on the other hand it turned out to be nothing like what I had envisioned in the beggining 😭 I wanted to stick with muted colors, in the vibes of that pic next to howleen's I guess, but it's like Ruggie's design had a mind of its own, and would always lean to more punk-looking no matter how hard I tried to avoid it, which don't get me wrong- punk style does fit him well, the problem is that I had it reserved for another character already, and I wanted to repeat themes as little as possible between entries of this project.. that just may be my perfectionist side speaking though, and there is no reason why I shouldn't post this version here for the time being! If I don't get tired of working on this series by the time I finish all the main cast's designs, then I suppose I could try to make an alternative version of Ruggie with a slightly different theme! I'd do the same with Jamil's entry since he is yet another character I have mixed feelings about the design lol

Aaaanyway, the mood for chupacabra Ruggie is grunge/thrifted fashion with diy details he would add to make his looks feel unique to him I think? The spikes on his skin, although he can partially control (?) them, still get stuck on cloth every now and then. Nearly all items of his closet are a bit torn from it, but he doesn't mind all that much. I got no particular designs for the pins and badges he wears, maybe except for the brazilian flag and the trans pin which I rlly wanted to include somewhere on his clothes whsdbdshewbdi

The chupacabra's appearance vary from place to place, but for this, I based his looks on how I personally grew up hearing and imagining this creature to be like! Baisically a fucked up looking dog, sometimes with spikes and scales on its body? Yeah 👍

And he remains the same personality-wise in the AU, pretty much! At the moment I can't think of many fun facts or character quirks for him, aside from how impossible it is to take a selfie with him, much to Cater's dismay. He swears he doesn't do it on purpose! The moment the camera clicks his body moves on its own to be out of frame. Ruggie's entire instagram (or whatever the monster high equivalent of that may be) account are either pictures of a moving blur or a vaguely distinguishable sillouette of him, taken from far away and zoomed in 10x

I think that's all I remembered to say? Here's a Ruggie core meme I found on reels as extra content lol

[haveyouplayedthisttrpg]

Have you played MONSTER OF THE WEEK ?

By Michael Sands

Most people don’t believe in monsters, but you know the truth. They’re real, and it’s your task to bring them down.

Monster of the Week is a standalone action-horror RPG for 3-5 people. Hunt high school beasties a la Buffy the Vampire Slayer, travel the country to bring down unnatural creatures like the Winchester brothers of Supernatural, or head up the government investigation like Mulder and Scully. This book contains everything you need to tackle Bigfoot, collar a chupacabra, and drive away demons.

A Powered by the Apocalypse game

[nalyra-dreaming]

I can't wait to see how they adapt Rockstar Lestat's arc to the modern era!

Social media wasn't a thing when Anne first wrote it but the show can have so much fun with it

Imagine Armand trying to cancel Lestat on twitter

Pages and pages of Reddit conspiracies about how Pulitzer winner Daniel Molloy is a vampire, no really, stop laughing

Found footage of "a werewolf killing a hiker on the woods" on YouTube and it's a blurry shot of Gabrielle hunting, the top comments are people trying to decide if it's really the chupacabras or big foot

Book Tok going crazy about Interview with the Vampire by Daniel Molloy and how cool is it that an autor who was previously know for very serious non fiction has decided to dedicate his twilight years to write about gay vampires, good for him

Someone asks him about a sequel and he replies "I thought about it but I need to convince Louis first" and they laugh, how funny, Molloy talks about his characters like they are his friends, he keeps telling everyone Armand is his favourite

There's people in Tumblr writing rpf about Daniel meeting his characters and getting turned into a vampire, and guys have you seen this guy who cosplays the vampire Lestat? He looks just like the character description, it's crazy, here is a link to his Instagram I think he has a band

Can I just say: yes please. To all of this 🥰

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Goofing Off

Pairing: Jared Padalecki x Puerto Rican!Fem!Reader

Word Count: ~900

Warnings: fluff

Request by anon: Hola so i was watching the episode where Arthur is talking with the Winchester about the chupacabras so can i request a one shot where the reader is a actress a Jensen or Jared girlfriend who is Puerto Rican and is the one who is teaching David (Arthur actor) who to said Chupacabras?  With a lot of funny

Summary: You love pulling pranks and making people laugh. Whenever someone new comes onto the show, you make your mission to pull as many pranks as you can on them.

Square Filled: woke up married (2020) for @spnfluffbingo

Author’s Note: i didn't really go into the details of a reader that is puerto rican because i didn't want to get anything wrong, so i tried to keep it really vague here.

x

Out of all of the seasons you’ve worked on, your favorite has to be the current one: season twelve. One of the newest cast members, David Haydn-Jones, has been such an incredible addition to the show even if his character isn’t well-liked. Recently, David loves to have fun and joke around, and you just so happen to be one of the best pranksters on set.

Even before you met Jared, you were always looking to make your family smile and laugh with small pranks that didn’t do any harm to anyone. Jared happened to like that about you when you started dating, and it only got worse the more time went on.

The very first prank you ever pulled on Jared was putting a bunch of Ken Dolls on your car and calling him to tell him that there were men on your car and you were scared. He came out with a towel on his head like how a woman would wrap her hair after a shower and your bathrobe on. It was so funny you almost peed your pants.

The longer you two dated, the more he got into your pranks. Now, he almost expects them whenever he comes home from a long day of filming or doing a convention. Then, you two got married, and the first thing you did when you woke up as a married woman was pull a prank on him.

His life would never be boring from that on, and would always be filled with laughter and joy.

He got you a part on Supernatural for a few years now which you have loved doing. Being around Jensen, Jared, and Misha have been nothing short of amazing. Your pranks actually doubled in size when you teamed up with Jensen to take on Jared or Misha.

The newest person to suffer your wrath is David who plays Arthur Ketch on the show. He is more of a serious actor than the ones you usually work with but after a while, he got used to your pranks and lightened up a lot more.

Jensen and Jared are finishing up a scene while you and David are off to the side going over your plan. The plan is that you told David you two were going to get Jensen and Jared when in reality, you were turning the tables so that Jensen and Jared are going to get David.

“I got it, I got it,” he nods.

“Okay,” you smile.

David walks on set when he is needed, and the scene with Ketch, Sam, and Dean is ready to be put into motion.

Sam and Dean are seated in the Bunker’s library and Sam calls Mick over the phone to which Ketch answers.

“Hello, Winchester,” David says in his posh Ketch accent.

“Ketch? Where’s Mick?” Dean asks.

“He didn’t tell you? He flew back to London last night after all the unpleasantness with Dagon. Well, Mick has a lot to answer for. For the time being, you will report to me.”

“Seriously?” Dean rolls his eyes.

“I don’t like it any more than you do. I’d much rather be with your mother… hunting… for Chupacabras in Texas.”

It’s the way he said Chupacabras that has everyone confused. You know how to say it very well since you have the accent for it, but you told David how to say it the American way which Jensen and Jared picked up on easily.

“A what, Ketch?” Jared asks, still in character.

“Chupacabra.”

“What was that?”

“Chupacabra,” Jensen says in a deep voice while rolling his R’s.

Jared snickers but tries to stay in character. He takes out his phone and makes Google pronounce the word, and the entire crew starts laughing.

“Chupacabra,” Jensen says again.

“Chupacabra,” Jensen tries again, rolling his R’s.

“Chupacabra,” David says in the same accent as before.

Jensen looks at the phone weirdly as if David is right there in front of him.

“He doesn’t know how to say Chupacabra,” Jared says.

Jared plays the Google pronunciation of the word again loudly.

“Chupacabra,” David says.

“It’s like a brrra,” Jensen rolls his R’s. “Then Chupa. So it’s like Chupa, chupa, chupa--”

“Chupacabra,” David says over the phone in the same tone he’s been in since the scene started.

He’s trying so hard not to break character even though Jensen and Jared have already done so. You’re going to pee your pants from laughing so hard.

“Chupacabra,” Jensen rolls his R’s with a bit of an accent.

At this point, Jensen and Jared start talking gibberish and rolling their R’s and just having a good time while David is trying to stay in character. You can see him scrunch his nose up as if it itches, but that’s a ploy to hide the smile trying to break through.

“Chupacabra,” Davis says, causing Jared and Jensen to break out in giggles. “I don’t like it any more than you do but for now, I’m what you’ve got. So, Wisconsin…”

David can hear everyone laughing through the phone as he tries so hard to stay in character.

“Ketch? What was that?” Jared giggles. “He doesn’t know how to say Chupacabra.”

David hangs up the phone just as the director calls, “CUT!” David breaks out into laughter and looks right at you who can’t hold it in anymore.

“I’m not trusting you ever again!”

God, you love working on this show.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[ffxivxd]

The chupacabra is a vile creature with a taste for vital fluids. The name for it comes from sailors who knew of a bloodsucker across the ocean that attacked other beasts. However, the creature that terrorizes Tural is not the original-- this monster hunts people specifically.

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

More fantasy whump lol

Human finds tiny, bloody footprints on their bathroom counter, that lead to a fae, curled up behind a tissue box, using kleenex for bandages

Human finds a mermaid unconscious in the water and rehabilitates them in their swimming pool or bathtub; bonus points if it’s actually a kelpie and shapeshifts so it can hunt Human for sport

Whumper forcibly giving Gorgon Whumpee a “haircut” (AKA: decapitating all their little snakes)

Angel painfully sewing, or making wings grow on Human Whumpee so they can “ascend” to godhood

Shapeshifter who isn’t a fluid being; but instead grows and loses body parts (through necrosis) every time they change form

Vampire gets violently attacked by a chupacabra for trying to feed on their goat herd of choice

[drkmatt3rstudio]

Commission | Atlas Games Cryptid Hunt Pt 6

At the beginning of last year I was contacted by a publishing company and contracted to make all the art for an upcoming puzzle book they were making. I spent 5 months working on this, and I have so many pieces it’ll be broken up into multiple parts! This was the second half of Batch C

In addition to the sketch portraits, I also drew up some scenes like the cryptid track drawings, and this image of the Chupacabra stalking a goat pasture~

I am also proud to now say I have drawn up a map! Several maps, each a puzzle for the book that follows the cryptid hunt journey of the author

The kickstarter has officially ended, and I found the link to the publishers listing, Cryptid Hunt releases for both digital and physical sale in July!

If you like my work and would like to support me, check out my links to my social media

instagram | facebook | shop website | buy me a ko-fi

[nightowl33art]

MONOLOGUE!!!

Presenting THE BOY I've been working on for the last several months on-and-off. He was designed with the special help of @crystalkleure and Sodalighter!

Once a human who perished while hunting the chupacabra, he rose again after some Substance seeped into his resting place.

And here's his pattern for Shenanigans (the image is a white pattern on a transparent bg so if you click you should see it sorry lol)

I'm SUPER happy with how he turned out and I want to share him with the world!

[silverryu25]

for the Kustard week prompt combo thingy how about

DAY 3: El Chupacabra + “Stop looking at me.” “I can’t. And I don’t think you want me to either.”

Ohhhhh! A very very lovely combo Anjel >:3c

I went with the myth of El Chupacabra, but only partially~. There is no worldbuilding or this would be a long fic, so you gotta make your own theories about what Red is exactly XD

DAY 3 - El Chupacabra + “Stop looking at me.” “I can’t. And I don’t think you want me to either.”

--------------------------

The night was quiet.

Almost too quiet.

The quiet had spread through the forest that surrounded his tent in the last hour or so. All the noises of the night critters and predators that hunt them slowly, almost unnoticeably died down, leaving behind them a heavy silence. Comforting for any fool that didn’t know better.

But Sans knew better, this wasn’t his first night in this forest.

The first few nights, he’d caught glimpses of something darting through the dense undergrowth that surrounded the little clearing he decided to camp. A human would have probably been terrified and fled from that place during the night, but Sans wasn’t scared. He could feel the intent in the air and there wasn’t any violence in it, only mischief and a deep hunger that felt like it could never truly be satiated. 

Slowly, as nights passed and Sans didn’t leave, the intent started to change. Annoyance at first, mixed with a little determination. The glimpses he saw then were more frequent and closer. Whatever was trying to scare him away was determined to do it, and was becoming bolder and bolder. He almost caught sight of it a few times, but didn’t really have much luck.

A few days after that, the annoyance morphed into curiosity and even a little mirth. Sans not showing any kind of fear and openly trying to see what was stalking his little camp started to intrigue his nightly visitor. It was then that Sans started seeing glimpses of it that were in the corner of his eyesight. He couldn’t exactly make out what the visitor looked like, but he did catch a glimpse of bones. And red.

Now, his visitor’s intent felt muffled and confused. Different emotions darted through it, with frustration taking over as the main one occasionally, only to quickly be drowned into a cacophony of other unrecognizable emotions. Sans wasn’t sure what caused such an emotional mess, but he knew there was no ill intent in it. It almost felt like his visitor wanted something from him but at the same time they were fighting against it.

Sans didn’t want to provoke and spook them away so he decided to play it safe today.

He got up from his sleeping bag and exited the tent slowly. Instead of taking a little walk around the campsite like he usually would, darting his eyelights everywhere to try and catch a glimpse of the visitor, he took a few steps forward and sat on the damp grass, then leaned back on his hands.

He relaxed and let his intent of laziness and curiosity spread through his little camp, hoping it could help calm his late night visitor.

Minutes passed as he sat there, eyesockets half lidded as his years worth of lazybone practice kicked in. He was still paying attention to the intent in the air, and his eyelights darted towards any movement in his line of sight, but he didn’t move. He just sat there and waited.

It seemed his visitor didn’t have Sans’ patience, because he could feel the frustration in their intent slowly take over more and more. It was reaching a new high when Sans gave into the need for a nice long yawn, the night slowly catching up to him as he sat in the quiet.

Before he even finished exhaling, while his sockets were closed, something incredibly fast jumped him and knocked him back into the ground.

He let out a startled umph as unneeded air rushed out of his non-existent lungs and he froze.

Something hard, boney, pressed over his eyesockets making it impossible to see. Another boney appendage pressed his chest down and another two pressed his hands to the ground besides him. He was stuck in place, unable to move or open his eyes.

But the intent that flooded over him was still only full of frustration, and now that it’s source was closer, he could also feel… longing? Want? Need? Something deep and lonely.

So he stayed still, even when the one pinning him down let out a guttural growl, trying to intimidate him.

Instead of fighting, or screaming, or crying, or any sort of distress his captor thought Sans would make, he just laid there and let his intent show nothing but curiosity and calmness.

The growling grew confused and a little desperate, almost like his visitor didn’t know what to do now. Lost in a completely unknown situation. Something they never knew or could imagine happening. Then, as if the frustration and desperation finally broke them, they spoke.

“‘s’op look’n’ a’ me!” The words were broken, the voice sounded like it hadn’t spoken in years. 

But it was enough for Sans to piece together what they meant, ‘stop looking at me’. He could tell that the words and the intent that followed them didn’t match, so he stayed calm and in the gentlest voice he could muster, he spoke back.

“i can’t.” He filled his words with the gentlest intent he could, determined to get his visitor to trust him, to let him finally see them.

Gently, oh so gently, he freed one of his hands as his visitor deflated above him. With slow and deliberate movements, he grabbed onto the hand that was covering his eyesockets. He didn’t pull on it, instead he entangled their fingers and let his intent wash over his visitor's bones, asking permission to pull the hand away. When the hand went limp, he carefully moved it aside and slowly opened his eyesockets.

“and I don’t think you want me to either.”

A beautiful red magic dusting scarred bones greeted his words.

--------------------------

Done! XD

I know this is a real tease and not much kustard happened but El Chupacabra is a very shy and elusive creature so Red is being a super shy bean here. Only Sans gets to see him >:3

Basically this was the start of a beautiful romance UwU❤

Hope you liked :D

[francixoxoxo]

Let’s discuss vampire Billy 🦇

He tries to take out a vampire who’s been terrorizing a town (there’s actually an old movie called “Billy the Kid vs Dracula”) but instead is turned himself. He feeds off the many cattle available in the West so that he doesn’t need to hunt people. Or, if he can’t survive without human blood, he wanders the countryside at night, feeding off campers he finds, being careful only to take a little from them. Maybe another vampire shows him a bordello where women are ready and willing to feed vampires. Weirdly enough, I think being a vampire would make him less dangerous. He’d be nearly impossible to kill so he wouldn’t have to fight for his life so much. He’d be stronger and faster than any human. He couldn’t be locked up because he can just disappear and reappear and walk through walls.

What do you think? And what do you think he’d look like as a vampire?

oh my God this is all so well said idek what to add lmfao

The feeding off cattle bit is interesting to me, because I feel like he'd be reading the paper or a friend would tell him about this mysterious animal killing the livestock but not eating their flesh, just sucking them dry of blood, and this man is sweating bullets like "Oh that's so weird wtf"

And with feeding off campers and wanderers, he'd feel so guilty. Like, awful. He'd sit down with them, chat a while, just try and be as friendly as possible and tell them he's also just passing through. And its plausible, his horse is tied up to a nearby tree, because no matter how fast he is, he'd still prefer a slow, scenic ride. He'd wait until they fell asleep, off of drinking or off of exhaustion, and take absolutely as little as possible, just enough to get him through the next day, just until he finds the next town.

I feel like he'd look about the same as a vampire? paler, obviously, but I do think his eyes would be that much bluer. Just absolutely striking, dare say inhuman, but he shrugs off each compliment with a shy smile.

How I think him and you'd meet is a farmer's daughter situation. You're sitting on the porch, you can't sleep well, it's perhaps midnight when you see a figure moving towards the pen your father lets the cattle and sheep graze in. Of course you've heard of the thing that's been sucking cattle dry, a chupacabra, a chimera, something evil. And, being a farm a ways away from town in the deep west, you rush inside for the shotgun, finding your way out to the barn with your chemise and bloomers, confronting the man as he jumps the fence. His blue eyes are literally inhumanely beautiful, especially so wide with surprise at a girl pointing a shotgun at him. He isn't afraid. But he's absolutely intrigued.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. bloody mary, rough draft.

read it on ao3.

words: 6k notes: hi y'all! yes, you read that chapter title right - this is a little unconventional, but since I've unfortunately shifted hyperfixations and have drifted away from SPN, I thought I would post what I have for the next part of pythia. since I'm moving into resident evil land, I'm not sure if I'm going to come back to this fic—but I absolutely didn't want to leave you guys empty-handed!! I'm so so sorry that this fic will go unfinished (for now), and I'm so grateful to those who were along for the ride with me. I have so much love for all the people who motivated me through writing this fic. all of you are beyond kind!! and I hope you enjoy this dose of pythia content, featuring some of my notes and process-work, lol. I only had a few heavy chunks of the beginning written, but the prose for this chap (ironically) started to get into the meat of what I really wrote this fic for—psychic bullshit between reader and Sam. It was just too plain juicy to not share!! All of my spn fics will remain up, but if you keep up with me, expect lots of Leon Kennedy bullshit and tomfoolery. Again - thank you so much for your endless love and support, I had so much fun writing what I could of season one!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this unfinished chunk of silly/ansty Christmas drama :)

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - Dec 21st, evening.

Sam drops the stack of glossy, brand-new legal pads into his lap, and flashes his brother a plain smile. “Thanks, Dean. I needed more of these.” From your spot seated on the living room rug, you twist your rings and wait for Dean’s witty reply. With all those notes you’re always makin', Sammy, I’ll hafta buy you some for New Years, too. You wait for him to make a crack about the gift he got Sam, something about diaries or his brother’s girly handwriting.

Instead, Dean shrugs, “Well, then there ya go.”

Voila. And with that, the feeble threads you’d tried to braid into a proper Christmas are cut. Without a word, your Mom picks up the little wooden jewelry case the three of you had thrifted her and recedes into the dark hallways of the house. Dean peels himself out of his seat to clean up. Sam sighs, picking at the plastic seal around his legal pads. Hilariously, this all plays out while Paul McCartney chimes about what wonderful Christmastime he’s been having from the radio in your kitchen.

Technically, you hadn’t just been celebrating Christmas. No, you managed to completely bomb both Christmas and the sacred Winter Solstice sabbat that the Proctors had been celebrating for a bajillion fucking years. The special sabbat that would have a real spiritual effect on you for the next couple months.

You’d given it a good ol’ college try. First, you’d painstakingly picked out gifts for the boys and your Mom. Good ass gifts, too, that you’d been hiding in your duffle since summertime. Hell, you’d been looking for the Eagles album you bought for Dean in tape form for at least two years. (Cool, Dean had said, half alive in his armchair after your chupacabra hunt in Illinois. He was at the ugly front end of a cold. He’d sniffled, Don’t have this one.) And knowing that this would be Sam’s first Christmas without Jess—the one person who had given him any kind of good holiday when he was away from home—you’d poured extra love into his gift, too.

He’d been begging you to read Frankenstein since high school, and you’d dodged it because sometimes books that pushed too far into the “classics” category could lose you. Mary Shelley got a little wordy at times. But you were a big girl with a big brain, so you’d read the whole thing for Sam… and annotated the whole thing for Sam…

He’d taken one look at your labor of love and murmured, “Good. Glad you read it.”

…Yeah. You had half a mind to check if he’d been replaced by a clone, hearing that. Fifteen-year-old Sam would have melted into a babbling, ecstatic mess if someone had carefully combed through one of his favorite books and shared their thoughts on it with him. Bare minimum, you figured he’d at least enjoy having his own copy of Shelley’s work. All his other books had been lost in the fire.

But you’d given the book to a Sam who was twenty-two, not fifteen. Fine. People changed.

The boys being a collective bummer was something you could deal with. Sam was always sullen around the holidays, and you couldn’t exactly be mad at Dean for being exhausted after a stressful hunt. But your Mom…

Beth used to make Yule her bitch. When you were a kid, come December 1st, the Proctor House could easily have been the center of all Wicca celebrations in the world. If working retail during the holidays tested one’s love for festive music, then the non-stop winter songs bouncing off Beth’s vinyl player would’ve made Santa beg to hear something else. Every room would gush with the smell of evergreen branches and holly. Your family’s altar, the home of all the love and joy for the season, would be lush with offerings and presents. The candles you lit as a family to welcome the light of the new year would glow in a neat row—your little silver candle, your mother’s tall red one… and the biggest. Your Dad’s.

Now, your Dad’s candle was tucked away with the rest of the unused decorations in the attic. From your spot on the floor, you couldn’t help but stare at your piss-poor excuse for a family altar. Beth hadn’t “had the time” to find the table runner your great-grandmother had embroidered just for that space. The small bouquet of mistletoe you’d brought sat pathetically on the wide, barren surface, framed by your family’s dollar-store candles: silver for you, red for Mom, and twin green candles for the boys. 

It was stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have cared so much. You were almost twenty-five, and the older you got the less people cared about silly, trivial things like a single holiday out of the year. That was just a fact of life.

Still, an ugly ball of bitterness sat in your gut. She couldn’t have tried to decorate? Even out on the road, you’d still found ways to make today a little special for the people you loved. Did she really have such little strength left in her? You’d dragged the boys up to Wisconsin with you so your Mom didn’t have to be alone. Was it really that impossible, after eleven whole years without your Dad, to try and be happy?

Fuck this. Yule isn’t over yet. There’s still time for you to squeeze some life out of today, and you’re going to start straight at the source. You find your Mom in the kitchen, mindlessly swiping invisible crumbs off pristine counters. When she senses you paused behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching in both hands the gift she got you this year, the radio suddenly needs to be toyed with. Then cleaned. There are gray strands in her hair that shine like tinsel in the low kitchen light.

“Hey,” you say, your voice bright and christmas-card perfect. “I don’t think I got to say thank you for the gift.” (You did. More than once already.) “It’s been a bit since I read this one.” The gift in question is your Dad’s second edition print of The Shining. It’s even older than you are, with soft, petal-thin pages that reek of that wonderful old book musk. Rolling the flexed and cracked paperback between your hands, your Gift automatically picks up the distant echo of the hands that had touched these pages when they were new.

When you were little, you’d always found it kind of strange that your Dad considered this book his favorite. He was a sweet, soft-spoken person, and the mental image of him indulging in uncensored horror novels didn’t mesh with the Ray preserved in your head. Having since grown up and read it for yourself, you understood that it was less about the gore of the Overlook and more about “the shine;” the array of psychic abilities that kept five-year-old Danny Torrance alive through the book.

Years of having book-club with Sam had trained you to form cultivated opinions about the stuff you read, but The Shining existed in a realm that made it hard for you to describe how you felt about it. See, you had Danny Torrance’s shine—on the same level, too, enough shine to power the decades of ghostly ballroom parties and mob conspiracies inside the Overlook for a century. Seeing your Gift put onto a page so nakedly and cinematically made you uncomfortable. Yet, feeling the weight of your father’s book in your hands, standing in the kitchen he hasn’t touched in a decade, you know that it must’ve comforted him. Back then, surrounded by a psychic mother-in-law, girlfriend, and daughter, it would've been impossible to survive without a little shine of his own. You’re sure that your Dad's Gift was faint and unimpressive next to the psychic blackholes of your Mom and Grandma. Just enough to know if you’d skinned your elbow or had a nightmare. On the days that you came home from school tear-streaked and ruddy-faced, Dad would be waiting on the porch with soup.

You can still feel the faint psychic imprint of one of his whiskery kisses on your face. You don’t have many vivid impressions of him left to feel; none that haven’t been rubbed again and again, like the hollow of a fingerprint smoothed into the face of a rock over time.

Your Mom gives a non-committal hum at your attempt at conversation. Not because she doesn’t care—you can feel how much she cares from across the room—but because she’s tired. Adult Tired, like when she’d turn down your pleas to play together as a kid. Not tonight, baby. Momma’s exhausted.

“Mom,” you say, sounding as glossy and clean as a brand-new cookie tin. You open your mouth to say more, maybe to start in on one of your long-winded book-rants that had everyone wondering where Sam had suddenly appeared from. You know the answer, but you ask anyway, “This was one of Dad’s favorite books, right? I vaguely remember him talking about the hedge animals.” Beth accidentally hits a button as she’s dragging a rag over the shiny front of the radio, forcing Paul McCartney to have yet another wonderful Christmastime. She doesn’t look at you.

“Yup. But you knew that already, honey.”

C’mon. Nothing? She won’t even throw you the smallest, most pathetic olive branch? A psychic battle occurs. You get so frustrated all at once that your throat closes up, and that frustration balloons out into your family kitchen like the expansion of a bomb. You push. There is no give. The bubbling stormcloud of grief and loss hanging around Mom is there, then it’s not. The side of the kitchen your mother stands on is suddenly a void of absolute nothingness, empty of any feeling whatsoever, good or bad. She’s cutting you off from reading her—and protecting herself from your explosive emotions, as per usual.

Beth keeps cleaning the radio, her back to you.

Your rage bubbles out of you all at once. One day! One day out of the entire fucking year, the day your Dad always made special, and she can’t even pull herself together for that. You know you should be a good daughter and empathize with the woman who made you, but you’ve been a good daughter about this since you were twelve years old. Eleven Yules have gone by since your Dad passed. Just for one measly moment, you want to talk about him like he’s not a corpse rotting in the living room.

And the worst part is that Mom knows that. She’s known you’ve felt that way all day, a slow-bubbling pot building to a boil across the room. The two of you can always feel each other. You’re the only two who can; she’s the only other radio tower that can receive your station in its purest quality, and yet she has the gall to shut all her signals down.

“Fine!” You burst out, making the conversation physical.

It should feel good to yell, really. After the slow, ungratifying day you’ve had, you’ve been a shaken soda bottle waiting to implode. Instead, since you’re the crazy person yelling at nothing for no reason in the kitchen, your anger booms out of you and fizzes out in the same breath like a faulty firework. Fine. Fuck all of this. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. If everyone’s determined to rot the day away, then you’ll go wallow in self-pity the Proctor-Winchester way, too. Merry fucking Christmas, and a happy fucking Yule.

There is no satisfying door to slam on your way out of the kitchen. You take a sharp right down the front hall, hoping to veer up the stairs and slam your feet down on every single step up to your room. If your Mom wants to live forever in the year your Dad died, by all means—you’ll even bring home your thirteen-year-old self and her childish tantrums, just for time-accurate ambiance. Sam’s standing frozen just outside the kitchen archway, and you catch his deer-in-headlights look as you go peeling around the corner. You’re still keyed up with enough lashing rage to spare, so seeing him, just as hollowed-out and not there as your Mom, only feeds your pyre.

As you get to work thoroughly stomping the staircase to death, you hear him go into the kitchen and ask Beth about soup for Dean’s sore throat.

Upstairs is even more painfully quiet. Through the floor, Paul McCartney muffles down to a cheery mumble. All old houses shift around a little, but yours settles like it's alive, clicking, creaking, swaying. You don’t look at the portraits of Proctor women up the stairwell. The dusty grandfather clock in the hall watches you with its stained glass face, and you’re so lost in your own head—

—and Dad’d be so pissed we didn’t decorate the altar or listen to the Tull Christmas album, he’d riot, he’d talk some sense into her—wouldn’t think any of this is stupid— —that you don’t hear it when it chimes. Muscle memory plants you right in front of your bedroom door. Having a good cry under the covers sounds like a perfect end to the night, right? And yet you stop. Your hand drops on the knob and stays there, unmoving. Maybe it’s your Gift, or good old-fashioned human instinct knowing when something in the home has been nudged two inches to the left, but the air in the hall tastes staler than usual. A draft? Your gaze is pulled all the way down to the opposite end of the hall, where the untouched, stately storage room door is ajar.

Your Mom probably left it open. Maybe she’d gone in there to hunt around for all the heirloom Yule decorations, only to rediscover Dad’s football memorabilia or Dad’s engraved cigarette case and go bolting out of the room. —everything’s different without him, Sam and Mom and Dean too. So am I. Everything’s twisted—without him— Still riding the whirlwind, you stomp from one end of the yellowing, starry zodiac carpet (Aries) to the other (Pisces), the floorboards squeaking under your weight. You push the door and it goes shuddering into the darkness. This was one of many rooms in the house that Mom had banished you from as a kid, mostly as a way to shoo you away from the hunting world. It’d given you this insatiable fascination with it as a result, but when you tug the chain to turn on the closest lamp, what it illuminates doesn’t come close to the spectacular stories you’d made up in your head.

It’s just a room. It has windows and shelves and old things, some from your childhood, some from your Mom’s. Some from even further back than that. The closest fascinating thing is a shiny gold blob poking out of your baby things, which turns out to be Sam’s eighth-grade mathlete trophy. You had no idea what possessed Mom to come up here so often. There was no way she wasn’t in here at least a couple times a week; the tall metal storage shelf where she immortalized your Dad’s things was never dusty, and yet the whole room reeked of rotting books and insulation. You shove the box with Sam’s trophy aside with your foot until it skids out of your way, and then send the heavy door shut behind you with a wall-shaking bang.

A flurry of dust hails down from the ceiling. You cough through the cloud, wandering in your blindness towards the neat row of plastic storage tubs labeled with your Dad’s name. Clothes. Misc. Books. Maybe that’s where Mom had gotten your new copy of The Shining from, halfway through one of her sacred meditations over Dad’s things. You drop a hand onto the cold lid of the tub. Nothing, not even the slightest psychic imprint, reaches back.

What is she even holding onto anymore? You try the clothes next. The rounded corners of this bin have been scuffed gray from how many times it’s been pulled off and then pushed back on its shelf, again and again. The case feels as lifeless to you as it would for anyone else, but you try your luck and slide it out onto the floor. It comes loose with a solid thud.

When you were old enough, Beth would sometimes send you up into this room to grab things (spell ingredients, books you didn’t keep downstairs). You would run full-tilt right up until you hit the storage room door, then pass inside like a stranger in a dangerous realm, watching where you stepped and always, always keeping your Dad’s shelf in the corner of your eye. On brave days you would pick up his silvery cigarette case and roll it between your palms. It grew harder and harder to feel him each time, the ghost of him whittled down like a rock made round by the current of a river.

When you crack off the lid, you expect some kind of smell. You don’t remember what he smelled like, but you have a few guesses—cheap, vanilla-sweet aftershave, or maybe the woody stale smell of cigarette smoke you know you shouldn’t love. Maybe both. It doesn’t really matter. The neatly folded stacks of your Dad’s old shirts and jackets don’t smell like a damn thing. You dip your face into a holey band-shirt with the sleeves scissored off, but all that comes back to you is the rotten smell of dusty insulation. He’s here—he’s right here in front of you, right in your fucking hands, and yet the whole world is dead of him. You can’t sense even a sliver of him left.

The same old reservoir of despair pushes and pushes at your composure, wiggling through your cracks, widening them with a hundred thousand tons of pressure bearing down on you a minute. It is a day by day task to handle the reservoir. You like to think you’re good at handling it, at patching the cracks as they come and letting them breathe when the moment calls for it. But when you lift your face from the bin, the leak springs—really, genuinely springs, like it hasn’t in years.

You fall back onto your haunches, swallowing back sudden stinging tears. The bin and its askew lid go shrieking back onto the shelf with a lash of your foot.

-

The music downstairs stops. You can’t tell how long it’s been.

When his death was fresh, and you were stuck deep, deep within the reservoir, you’d wondered if it would always feel this way. It got easier, right? And in many ways it had—on most days you could talk about your Dad without it hurting, letting the dam’s water run. The battle was still there, but it was a burden you were proud to carry if it meant his memory lived on in you. He would want you to be happy, your Mom used to urge. So you gave being happy your best shot, loving and giving as much as you could.

That’s what frustrated you so endlessly about your Mom. She’d been right; your Dad would’ve wanted the two of you to move on, and yet she still entombed herself in the bottom of her reservoir far too often. There was no release, no acceptance with her. The dark part of you that wanted to pass blame wondered if this was all because of John, and how well Winchester grief happened to mingle with a Proctor’s. How would your mother’s life be different, if the evil that’d taken Dad hadn’t been put down a week later? Would she be just as hellbent? With your knees sore from pressing into the floor, you knew the answer. You knew if the thing that’d taken Sam or Dean from you was right in front of you, you’d chase it until you were in your own grave. You knew that even after it was dead, you would be digging your nails into the backseat of the Impala and clawing for every psychic molecule of them left in the leather.

And that’s what scared you—was she just going to be chasing Dad forever, til’ there wasn’t a wisp of him left in the world to feel? 

Something dawns on you, thudding through your mind like a rock dropped down a chute. With limp hands, you slide The Shining towards you on the worn wood floor, part the pages with your thumbs, and press your nose into the binding. There’s the smoky, earthy scent of old paper first… then something just underneath the surface that no one but you and your Mom can pick up.

Old books. Yes. Yes, that’s what Dad had smelled like.

-

You’re seated on the floor of the storage room, back pressed to one of the ancient metal shelves holding up your gramma’s VCR collection, when a blot of the future is tossed at you. Cheap deodorant and lemon cough drops.

Around a minute later, the stairs beyond the door squeak under someone’s weight. Even without the roulette glimpse of the future, you can tell by the footfalls who it is. Heavy knuckles rap the door and come straight in without waiting for an answer. Behind him, the silence of the rest of the house is even heavier.

You try to sound like a reasonable adult, but the mopey teenager slips out anyway. “Thought you were sick, Dean.”

He artfully dodges your point. (Dean is, after all, a master of the craft.) You don’t look back at him, but the lemon cough-drops glimpse you got of him creates a clear picture: Dean’s whole body listing into the door frame, one hand on the knob, his face lacking its usual color. His cheeks have graduated from stubbly to scruffy, neglected. “Hey,” he says. It’s the, okay, you’re done cooling down, let’s have a grown-up conversation kind of hello.

You don’t know what to say back. You’re not sure if you can have any kind of conversation right now.

Dean rolls with it, trying to decide if this silence is begging for a subject change or a heart-to-heart. You’re not sure what he goes for when he says, “I had an idea.” “Did it hurt?” You joke. Jokes you can do.

There’s his opening. After a beat, you’re—

—fucking lobbed with a foam football. Like you’re fucking twelve. Dean’s throw arcs straight towards your head and bounces clean off the top, a perfect spiral. You yelp in outrage, and before you can think you’re following where the stupid ball went so you can clock him right in the face with it. Asshole. It loop-de-loops on the floor around an old dining chair, and you clamber on your knees to fish for it.

Just when you get the toy in your hands and you’re about to demolish him with it, Dean ducks behind the doorway, chuckling, “Woah! No face shots! You wouldn’t bash a poor, sick guy’s face in, would’ja?”

God. You can’t fucking believe him. If anyone else did that…

You lower your hackles and drop the foam toy into a basket, far out of reach of congested troublemakers. When his shining eyes appear in the slit of the doorway again, your cheeks are aching with an impossible smile. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, loser. What is it?”

Dean hesitates a moment more, just in case you’ve got something else to throw at him, then joins you in the storage room with the evil little oily smile you love. The same dust cloud that got you earlier descends on him in a rough coughing fit, but this lets him get a good look at the little mess you’ve made: the book on the floor, your Dad’s things open and askew. When he clears his throat for the last time, he looks pained.

For your sake, you pretend it’s an empathetic kind of pained. And you know that’s a part of it—Dean doesn’t enjoy seeing you and your Mom like this. But it’s an unfortunate fact of your life that you will have four times as much context for him than he will ever have for you. Just breathing the same dusty air as him, you know he’s been nursing a sinus headache since Monday, one that’s made his head feel like it’s chock-full of stuffing, and that Sam made him canned chicken noodle soup—and at first he felt a little smug making Sam play nurse, until he stewed on it more and—

—hate it when he gives me that dead-eyed look, like he can’t even pretend to care anymore. Like he’s just dragging himself through this for our sake. Poor kid scares the shit outta me. Is this how it’s always gonna be? Sammy aching over her, night after night after night—

You know just touching the bins holding your Dad’s things that on a icy February afternoon in 1994, fifteen-year-old Dean had picked up the plastic tubs for your Mom from the store.

So when he gives you that pained look, you know it’s part-concern, part-fear. If this is what you look like eleven years after your Dad’s passing… if John never comes home from his hunting trip, is this what Dean will become? The loyal son, waiting and waiting on that porch for a man who would never come home? 

Your whole life, you’ve felt like you were becoming more and more like Dean; lately, it feels like he’s becoming so much like you. Your last four years on the road together had slowly but surely melded you together.

“Okay, so, Yule’s a fire festival, right?” Dean grasps around in his memory for the yearly history lesson your Mom gives about the Wicca calendar. “Uh, we lit candles… I thought about burning Beth’s Muppet Christmas CD with my lighter a couple times. That’s about all the fiery, burny-stuff we did today.”

“I love the Muppets Christmas album,” you pout.

“After the millionth partridge in John Denver’s goddamn pear tree, you’d change your mind,” Dean swears. “But I was thinkin’—we got the firepit in the backyard, marshmallows, and I think I could put together some vodka shots. Then we can blow em' out and eat em' with the s'mores.” Your eyebrows raise. Only he, of all people, could take your sacred family traditions and twist them into such a wonderful, stupid-ass thing. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but… there is chocolate and graham crackers downstairs… and with how cold it is outside, a fire would be perfect… It’s the best blend of weird Proctor-Winchester traditions you need to save Christmas and Yule. Dean takes your silence as glowing awe. “Exactly. I told you, I'm a fuckin' genius. Helluva way to start the wiccan year, right? You in?”

You’re well aware that this is an elaborate plan to coax you away from your moping. Still, it’s just too Dean to turn down. “...Hell yeah.”

At first R hopes that it’s just her and Dean, and that Sam and Beth keep their grief to themselves. But then she realizes how cruel and selfish she’s been—everyone grieves in their own way, and just because she works through it by talking about it doesn’t mean it will work for everyone. It’s not good that Beth is holding on so tightly to her loss, but that doesn’t mean R wants to leave them out.

Lead this into a touch of psychic!Dean and how he has a teeny tiny second sense for what she needs, just like her Dad did. Just enough shine to get by.

R and Dean come downstairs and invite Sam and Beth to their campfire 😀

Or, at the very least, all the psychic happenings in the house echoing between them; if Dean's sharper instincts were as psychically heavy as a shadow falling on grass, then Sam's Static was six feet of snow in an arctic blizzard.

It tingles all the way up to your shoulder when Sam touches you. And that, oh, that was a whole new can of worms. As they get dressed for the snow outside and assemble the s'mores and flaming shots, you try not to head down that train of thought again.

Every time you’ve glanced at Sam these past few weeks, you’d been unable to hide from what you’d sensed there—from what you’d seen in the demon, and what you now knew to be completely and utterly true after reading its mind.

Sam had It. The Gift, the Shining, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Not the vague imprint of psychic-ness from loving one or sharing the Impala with one for four years; full-on, unlatched, REDRUM, I-saw-it-before-it-happened psychic abilities. In the weeks you'd had to sit with that revelation, you'd poked carefully at Sam from afar. Obviously, you knew what a fucking psychic felt like. The five-year-old Sam who'd cut Dean's gum out of your hair had not been psychic. Yet this Sam, twenty-two with three-fourths of an ivy league law degree under his belt, was as psychic as a fucking—well. You. He was just as psychic as you.

Without even a sliver of the same control or even understanding of—of what he had, yes, but you were confident that if Sam was pushed, he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could reach into his. There had been a shift, then. At six, having gum cut out of your hair, you had been decidedly less psychic than you were at twenty-four. So Sam had gone through the Proctor Rite Of Passage; some terrible moment had cut him deep, deep enough to pull a new kind of blood to the surface. After Jessica, he had been... yeah.

It was fucking crazy. And yet it also slotted perfectly into some of the weirder things you understood about Sam; about who he was now and the vague, strobing flashes you got of his future. It freaked you the fuck out. Did Sam know? Did anyone know, besides you? Had your Mom recognized that spark in Sam, the same way she'd seen it in you? Had John?

And the plain existence of the Gift in Sam begged the question—why? Had he just happened to drop from the tree as a different kind of apple? Or was this something you could trace back to his mother, the same way it traced back to yours? Had Mary…?

The implications of that took pretty much everything you understood about Sam and Dean’s life, lined it up on the chopping block, and cleaved it in two. Needless to say, thinking about it made you sick. How could you even begin to bring this up to them?

You cursed your abilities with all you had. There were nights when you sat on the bathroom floor, wishing you could dig in with your nails and rip out whatever had put It in your head. Never in a billion fucking years would you have wished It upon anyone else; especially not Sam, good, selfless, wonderful Sam, who already ached so deeply for other people. Seeing their future, too? And even more often, seeing it and being helpless to change it?

He used to cry over squashed spiders as a kid. You'd felt a whole lot more than just spiders die.

…Beside that shuddering horror was another, far more selfish feeling. As scary as the implications could be, when you thought less about the Winchester family and more about your relationship with Sam, you were… excited. Relieved, even.

There were only four people in the entire world that you could share your Gift with. One of them has been six feet under for over a decade. Your Gift was a clingy, possessive creature, too. It was maybe two steps shy of being an eldritch horror. It poked through Dean’s dreams when you slept beside him, sucking them up like cigarette smoke. It breathed down Sam’s neck wherever he went. If you wanted, no one could lie to you—all punchlines and stories were spoiled for you, you knew when people found you annoying or pretty or stupid. If that particular Proctor gene had skipped you, then maybe you’d be able to form relationships with people where you didn’t immediately, intrinsically understand who they were and why. Dean would say, You need a drink. You would know without asking that he meant, You scare the ever-living hell out of me n’ I know I can’t hide it from you. Fucking hell, kid, I wish I could.

You knew you were a freak. The tiny human vessel for the lashing, bubbling, soul-melting, cosmic weight of a star about to bloom into a black hole. Only your mom would ever understand what it felt like to exist on the fringe of time, between the exhaustive influence of the past and the vast, spotty expanse of the future. You were a tool to men like John; an anomaly for men like Bobby; and a responsibility to men like Dean. 

But Sam… Your best friend Sam, he’d always tried to understand. Maybe he’d never fully get it, but the point was that he tried to. You remembered sitting with him on the curb outside your old high school, the concrete thrumming with music from the junior prom you’d both left behind inside.

How either of you had gotten dates was a miracle. You, the class weird-freak-emo punchline, and Sam, on his fourth round being the new kid that year, were two peas in a pod. Your date had never picked you up; Sam’s had escaped with her friends long before their first dance. Neither of you were very broken up about it.

The future had sprawled in front of you that night as clear as could be. You must've sat and talked on the curb for three straight hours, pressed together at the hip with Sam’s blazer around your shivering arms.

He was always beautiful in the boy-next-door kind of way, dimples popping with every good smile and freckles rising out of the too-short sleeves of his button-up. But that night he’d been fucking Helen of Troy, and the roar of the past and future slowed to a halt around him. 

Do you really see the future all the time? Every second? Sam had curiously tilted his head, sending a gleaming swish of chocolatey hair out of his eyes.

Swallowing hard, you’d hesitated, Not every second. But a lot, yes.

Again, the head tilt, then the swish. His gaze was innocent and intrigued. No existential dread, no sweeping sense of fear. Just plain curiosity. Not even morbid curiosity. Sam had asked, What about right now?

Sam’s cologne—oh god, his cologne—was steaming off his borrowed jacket and floating around your head in a wonderful rosy fog. You’d poked at the future. Sometimes things came back, sometimes they didn’t. That night, the future had come back tasting like Sam’s vanilla chapstick and junior prom punch, and your face had gone up in flames just sensing it. He’d waited for an answer. You’d blurted out the plain truth: In a minute or two, you’re gonna kiss me.

This kind of absolute, unshakable certainty about the future had made other hunters’ blood run cold. You’d braced yourself for Sam’s displeasure or worse, his fear. But instead, there were those dimples again, and Sam had the gall to bat his lashes at you and delightedly ask, Really? That’s what the magic eight ball has to say?

His big hand had dropped onto your knee and you’d squeaked out a shrill, Signs point to yes!

Sam loved the stupid magic eight-ball joke. You could feel him smiling about it as he kissed you, kissed you, hand-on-knee, his face tipping down to yours, the shitty school punch staining his lips as the two of you connected. At fifteen and sixteen respectively, this was the first kissing that either of you had ever done. It’d been wetter and warmer than you’d expected, and Sam’s vanilla chapstick had left the slightest print on your mouth, one that your tongue swiped over obsessively for the next month. Your Gift had chased him for weeks after that, silently and invisibly swarming him every time he entered a room.

Back then, your mind had been on the Curse. But now, you thought about what had led to the kiss in the first place. Sam hadn’t kissed you on a night when your Gift had been crammed down deep where it could bother nobody but you. He’d instead chosen the precise moment where your Gift was most raw, one of Its fingers coming down from the sky to press against the pulse of the future. It was small, but at a time in your life when you’d wanted to claw your Gift out with your bare hands, Sam had gotten the smallest glimpse of It and had fallen in love.

You couldn’t help but see this thing inside him, his Static, and feel the exact same way. His powers were twisted and unavoidably demonic, and yet you kind of loved them. It made perfect sense to you. No one really understood you like Sam did. Now, it's clear why.

-

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan @notanotherthembo