#im so down bad CARNALLY

[pulptv]

⠀⠀𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗣𝘛𝘝₁₉₉₉ ) :⠀ CHRIST, LOOK WHO'S WANDERED IN ! thank you for applying cris. vanessa kirby as the owner of hotel calgarie is all yours. you have twenty four hours to send in an account and read over the checklist. get ready, new york is one hell of a city . . .

*  \̲\̲  vanessa kirby,  genderfluid +  she/them/occasionally him ] ⠀★ ,   no   way,   haven’t   you   ever   heard   of   katya michailov?   perhaps   you   know   them   best   as   aphrodite.  spotted   under   new   york's   city   lights,   i’ve   heard   they’re   a   hotel calgarie owner   that’s   protected   by   all,   spilled   blood   for   loyalty   is   thicker   than   water.   the   rumour   goes   that   the   thirty three years old   is   known   to   be   manipulative   and   extravagant,   yet   charming   and   intelligent.   it’s   pride   that’s   their   biggest   vice,   but   hey,   what   do   i   fuckin’   know?   their   favourite   song   on   the   job   is   killer queen   by   queen  and   are   never   seen   without   their family ring,   hard   to   believe   in   superstition   in   such   a   godless   city.   ask   the   right   people   and   they’ll   tell   you   that   they   remind   them   of:   the sound of heels clicking against sterile floors announcing their arrival, expensive perfume carefully applied so one would never forget their scent, blood stained white collars proudly displayed on sharp shirts with the buttons open / shiv roy (succession), Elizabeth sloane (miss sloane), lorraine broughton (atomic blonde). so   whatever   you   do,   and   may   vengeance   have   mercy   on   you,   do   not   fuck   with   them.    ⸻    cris,  26,  they/them,  gmt + 3.

[lullalbee]

✰ Shared Thoughts ✰

A Francis Mosses x GN!reader, chapter 1

Warnings: Gets steamy but no smut, no pronouns for reader but afab anatomy is used, francis calls reader ‘darling’, he also pleads for like one sentence ik you guys like that, not proofread <3 this is so bad and so self-indulgent i'm so sorry

Word Count: 1.7k

The tenant grumbled, barely keeping open your tired eyes, latching onto your ID and entry request as you waited for your turn to be interrogated just so you could be let into your own home. For a while, you thought the precaution was stupid until you experienced a “code red” for yourself. Typically, you were amongst the last to arrive at the apartment building, considering you worked late nights, almost every night. You didn’t mind it, really, as you had lots of free time living alone, so that meant you were home during the early hours of the day when most tenants had left and wouldn’t return home for a few more hours, and by that time, you’d be gone yourself.

You knew today would be especially tough entering the building, as you were called in to work suddenly, so you couldn’t put in a request in time to be put onto the list for today. Once it was your turn, your trudged along to the window, passing in your papers through the metal slit.

“Why aren’t you on the list?” The doorman asked, brows furrowed, clearing searching for any signs the tenant was a doppelgänger. “Got called into work suddenly, wasn’t able to put my name on the list.” You explained, voice as monotone as ever. The doorman nodded, checking over a few things and making a phone call, before finally letting the tenant in.  You gave a small thanks, grabbed your papers back, and walked through the door. Sighing, you stepped into the elevator, ready to press the “four” button.  As you stepped back against the elevator, all your thoughts and anxieties began surfacing, most of them being of doppelgängers. What if the doorman let in one, killing us all? You didn’t doubt their abilities, but the thought always crossed your mind, with how often the alarm went off.  The elevator stopped with a ding! on the second floor, letting in another tenant of the building, Francis Mosses. 

You thought of yourself as fairly close with Francis. A lot closer than the typical tenants are with the others. You two enjoyed each other's company, giving small hello’s as you passed by, small talk exchanged whenever he’d deliver the milk you’d ordered. There were a few times, as well, where you hung out at the other’s place, your shared exhaustion over your careers being a driving factor in the start of your friendship.  Now and then, in the pits of night, you found your mind drifting to the thoughts of Francis. How his bicep flexed as he lifted up the milk carrier, his button-up shirt tightening ever so slightly around his arms and elbow, leaving little to the imagination. Or how his sensual, monotone voice sent shivers down your spine.  But your relationship was purely platonic of course. These feelings would never be acted upon nor would they be reciprocated… “Hello…? Earth to Y/N?” You were snapped out of your thoughts as the familiar voice filled your ears.   “Huh? Oh, sorry…” You mumbled, chuckling awkwardly. “Just.. tired from work.” I was totally not thinking about you… You could feel the blood rushing to your cheeks, both out of embarrassment and just from him looking at you.

“Mmm… Okay…” Francis nodded, albeit suspiciously. You prayed he didn’t notice the blush, and if he did, won’t say anything about it. Hopefully, he was up for as much conversation as you were at the moment… God knows what you would do to just lay down and take a nap right here. You both stood in awkward silence, avoiding eye contact before Francis got off on the next floor. You breathed a sigh of relief, mentally berating yourself for allowing that to happen. Once the elevator stopped on your floor, you bolted out and headed immediately to your apartment. There was always something so eerie about the hallways that made you want to be in them as little as possible. You struggled a bit with inserting your keys into the keyhole, but eventually, they implied and allowed you in. Closing, and locking, the door behind you, you breathed out, not even aware you were holding your breath.  You looked around your apartment, everything in the same place as it was before. Good. No doppelgängers have been in your home. The apartment was rather small, but that’s alright since you were the only person here. It was cozy that way. Trudging through the tiny hallway, you made it to your room, changing out of your work clothes and into some more comfortable ones. Immediately, you plopped down onto the bed and began drifting off to a dreamless sleep.  …Was that the sound of the phone? Well, it’ll be alright…

After what felt like only a few minutes, you heard someone knocking at your door, rather quickly. Begrudgingly, you sat up and got out of your bed, combing through your hair with your fingers to try to smooth down any bed head that developed in the small frame of time you were sleeping. You stood up, attempting to make yourself slightly presentable. Making your way to the door, you glanced at your rotary phone which sat on a small table next to the couch. You paused for a moment, wondering if the ringing you heard was real, but shrugged, assuming it was nothing.  You looked through the peephole of your door, spying the one and only Francis Mosses, at your door. He wasn’t in his usual milkman garb, but rather some common, everyday clothes. Quickly, you unlocked your door, opening it to greet Francis. “Oh, hello.” You gave him a soft smile, cocking your head slightly. “Are you off the clock?” “Yeah, my uh- my shift ended not too long ago.” He swallowed, nodding. “Wanted to check on you, you seemed real exhausted earlier.” “Well, you did just wake me from a life-saving nap, but that's alright.” You quip, giving him a smirk as you move out of the doorway, allowing him in.

“Oh, I’m- I’m sorry, I can go–” “No, no.” You shake your head, furrowing your brows. “Stay, please.”  He smiled at you, seemingly relieved you didn’t let him go. Internally, you were screaming, he never showed up to your apartment unless you had a pre-planned hang-out session, or he was doing his rounds, delivering the milk.  “Do you want anything? A snack, or…” You ask him, walking towards your tiny kitchen.  “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary.” He said in that monotone voice that made your knees turn to jelly. Francis went and sat on the couch, you following close behind. “I, uhm.” He began, looking away. “I wanted to talk to you… I’ve been, thinking a lot. Since we talked in the elevator.”  Oh fuck, he’s so creeped out by me, isn’t he, you panic internally, but barely manage to scrape together your composure. “Oh- I’m sorry, about that I–” You started before he interrupted you.  “I’ve been thinking about… you specifically.” He gulped, causing your heart to race. “Now, you can slap me if you think I’m creepy or anything, but I’ve thought about just us in general for a while, long before the elevator. Y/N, I–” He grabbed your hand, looking you in the eyes, his own clouded with infatuation and something else you couldn’t quite make out. Before he could finish his sentence, you cupped his cheek with your free hand and kissed him with so much desperation your teeth clinked together. He was taken aback by this, not reciprocating, causing you to panic and think you misread the situation so you pulled back, breathing heavily. “Fuck, did I- Did I fuck that up? Oh my god, I’m so–” He cut you off with a kiss of his own, holding the back of your head with his hand, keeping his grasp on you as he kissed you with a lot more passion and less desperation than the first. Immediately, you kissed back, snaking your arms around his neck, smiling into the kiss.  He broke the kiss first, to catch his breath. You smiled at him, letting out a small laugh. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for that.”  “Oh, but, I think I do,” Francis smirked, eyes darkening. “I’m a lot more perceptive than I think you realize. I’ve seen the glances you’ve stolen.” This caused you to blush and cover your face, burrowing into the crook of his neck. He maneuvered his head to give you a small kiss on your own, still smiling. “It’s cute, ‘loved knowing at least one person was paying attention to me.” He chuckled as you raised your head, still blushing fervently. He leaned in for another kiss, but this time it was much more needy, resting one hand on the nape of your neck and the other on your hip. Your hands entangled themselves in his hair, pulling your bodies as close together as possible. 

“I’ve thought of you, so many nights.” You whispered between kisses. “Trust me, me too, darling.” Francis groaned, biting down on your lip. You decided to tease him and keep your mouth closed. In turn, Francis snaked the hand on your hip up under your shirt, causing shivers to be sent up your spine, as you moaned into the kiss, which Francis took as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, exploring every crevice he could, mapping and memorized the sensation.  You tugged on his hair, causing a moan from him to vibrate through you as he explored the inside of your mouth, your arousal growing further in your core. He cupped your breast through your bra, causing you to break from the kiss for a moment and moan his name, him looking at you, pleadingly, for consent to go further. You gave him an over-enthusiastic “yes” just before you kissed him again, but before either of you could continue further on, a loud ring ran through your house, coming from the doorbell. Whimpering a little, disappointed you had to pause your wonderful makeout session with Francis Mosses, you stood up, smoothing out any wrinkles on your clothes. Heading towards the door, you ponder over who it could be. You knew you shouldn’t have any visitors today, and you certainly weren’t close enough with your other neighbors for a surprise one. As you leaned up to peek through the peephole, all you were met with were eyes just like your own, a face sculpted just like yours, with the most sinister smile plastered on. It was your doppelgänger.

[minotaurs-my-beloved]

google, show me this mans balls

[raptorladylover6969]

oh my lord treat me like one of your raptors pls Raptor Lady. I can cook and clean. I can provide. I AM ON MY HANDS AND KNEES PLEEEEEEEASSSSEEEEUHHHHHHH 🙁🙁🙁🙁

[estrellum]

Lesbians LOVE this guy (it's me. I'm lesbians.)

[6okuto]

in awe of everybody w actual self-ship lore because mine is i want him so bad but he'd want me even more Trust and that's it

[valentinoappreciator]

Darkstalker, fear not, I will come to your rescue! I will aid you! you can kill me afterwards that's cool too <3

[jvten]

hhkfmgbfb,,, hhrGGRHJFGFJKDJHKFGJ

HGGGHGRJDHKHRRRGJHGFGHDKHGVHJDSKJH

[kalashtars]

sorry for being horny for astarion on main. it will happen again.

[itoshi-s]

does ur boyfie know that rin is your true love HELOKZNAJSBZSKSHDJ /pos

😭😭😭 lmaooooo the way i forgot abt tone indicators for a sec and went owo ahshdhdj but no he has a gut feeling i think LOL

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

YEYYYT UR REQUESTS ARE OPENNN

pls bucky barnes w angry/jealous sex

btw so sad we are not matching profiles anymore aaaaa

I KNOW YAAY!!? love your brain sm omg!! im gonna do the same format as the moonboys one you sent in- just my thots and brainrot. thank you for requesting, hope you like it💌 and ah I know:( matching green was so cute but im on here all the time and get bored of my theme so quickly😭

JEALOUSY SEX W/ BUCKY.

bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings. 18+ only!! pinv, creampie, little bit of manhandling but it’s very light - all kinda lovey dovey. mdni

I feel like with bucky, sex isn't hateful, nor is it bitter. I think it's something that is often passionate and slow, sometimes rough, but for the most part, it's very loving. so, I think anger sex is a no no. but jealousy sex??? a big yes yes

right, so.. im thinking that he is still coming to terms with having a voice and being in control of his own thoughts etc etc, and that makes him feel a little insecure sometimes?? he often feels like you deserve someone who is more open/ straightforward and in tune with things, someone who is also closer to your age

so so so, one night when you come over to his after work, you have a lingering smell of another man's cologne (not bucky's oops - just someone you shared an elevator ride with) and instead of him moping over it, he decides against it 

you'd be on his bed, you flat to the mattress, completely bare with bucky hovering atop, his thick cock gliding into you so SO so slowly. almost teasingly!! he'd have your hands held above your head, his left, metal arm securing them tightly, his other hand lovingly cupped around your cheek - keeping your face still, making you keep your eyes on him. his strokes would be very consuming! with his leisure thrusts you're able to feel EVERYTHING!! every vein on his cock, every twitch when his tip kisses at your cervix, every ridge when he brushes against your walls

he'd wind into you slowly, making you feel it all. every. single. millimetre. of. his. pretty. dick. he'd be very teasing with it, almost cooing at you when you make those pretty sounds he loves so much. he'd thumb over your cheek, eyes locked on yours, softly nodding down at you when your lips part and head falls back. he'd tell you how he's never felt a pussy as good as yours, and how no one can ever and will ever fuck you and love you and look after you as good as he does (he always gets a little ego boost when he fucks you, so woo, yay! go you) might I add, he whispers it against your lips, just saying. just him muttering praise in a hoarse, strained tone on your lips???? goodbye

he won't kiss you yet, just lips shadowing yours, swallowing your gentle whines and whimpers as he fucks into you - keeping that same slow, tedious pace. your legs would wrap around his middle tighter, keeping him glued to you as you reach your high. you'd tell him how he's the only man you want, the only person you want inside of you and that'll make him cum IMMEDIATELY!! just him being reassured and comforted??? makes him jizz on command

he'd fuck his cum into you, slowly and sloppily as you kiss. all very carnal and desperate!! lots of muffled whispers and heavy breaths as you both even out. ALSO!! he'd kiss your wrists if his metal arm made a mark, replacing the cold with warmth

gonna go cry now bc I want him so bad

[murdrdocs]

OMG IM HERE. lukey pookie with a corruption kink is very obvious in ur writing and i love u So Bad for that

i feel like this stems from a superiority/inferiority complex he gets from being under the gods’ thumb his whole life, being told he’s just a demigod. no, he’s worse than a demigod, he’s one of those monsters that hunts demigods down, that wants to make gods bleed.

he is depraved, he is wicked, he joined kronos to prove a point about himself— but before he leaves camp he wants to make sure r is willing to sink down to the depths with him in the most carnal way he knows how, with the nastiest sex possible !!!!!!!!

whyd i get into the lore im crying but yeah he likes humiliating and teasing r and likes the way it makes her double take but ultimately succumb to his fantasies <3

and he needs to prove himself. he needs someone to see how wicked he can be. he's not the golden child he's painted himself to be and he's eager to rid himself of that image, to wash off the paint and clear the ichor from his blood as best as he can.

he values your perception of him. he needs you to see him down to his core. he needs you to understand exactly who luke castellan is.

talking doesn't do it for you. just using his words doesn't work so he has a hand slung around the back of your neck and he's pressing his lips to yours so tightly that he actually considers if he could bruise them like this. and if he can't, he'll just overcompensate with his lips on your neck and shoulders and his hands gripping your body like he owns it. like you're his.

it's how he treats you the entire time.

he reassures you that, no, he isn't here to hurt you. you aren't the first body he plans to claim from the hit list. you're his first recruit. he needs you, his pretty, pliant girlfriend by his side if he's going to do this.

but there's not much of an option given to you. he tells you the plans, constantly saying "we" and "our" like you're guaranteed to agree.

which, you likely are. because no one treats you as good as luke does. even though he's a little weird and freaky, he's your luke. the same guy that's expertly massaging your insides. yeah he's being mean about it, laughing in your face when you moan as he spits on your cunt, speaking to you like you're nothing while he asks if you want him to spit in your mouth again, too. tapping your cheek aggressively harder when you start to go nonverbal, making you look at him and asking if "it's that good".

he dumbs you down, makes you see his pretty face through rose tinted glasses.

[venusandsaturnsrings]

Okay lemme just

I have jjk brainrot and lemme just try to categorise my thoughts instead of letting them go !!!!!!!!

GOJO:

-Special grade teaser, this man will have you begging and edging you till you're crying

-def into letting you wear his blindfold, bonus if you're tied up

GETO

Pet play, corruption kink, need i go on- also if going with bottom Geto, def whimpers if you tug on his hair

MEGUMI

Purely basing this on an rp i had with a friend- lactation kink. Absolutely down for 3 somes with his SO + Yuji, we stan a bi king

SUKUNA

Blood kink, marking, anyway he can show off that you're his. Prolly bites you on the darn daily

MAHITO (making this extra long for you <3)

Hear me out- virgin but freaky AF

Watersports, spit, blood, cum, he's down for anything

Def has fantasies about carving his name into his fav human toy (you <3) preferably on the chest for all to see

Wil push you to your limits, prolly sucks at aftercare but can be bribed ibto beibg the best with it jn return for some new games and toys *nudge nudge wink wink*

Bonus-

Geeting double penetrated by Mahito and Foul Legacy Taru <3

IM LISTENING IM HEARING U OUT IM BRAINROTTING WITH U!! i’m crafting up a silly au where everyone lives and no one suffers and everyone gets to be happy and go to uni together and and and… so given that, i’m writing gumi n junpei as over 18!! crazy to think about but in canon time im younger than all of them… fucked up how time works huh… ANYWAYS…

includes: this is just general headcanons building off what you said my dearest + adding a couple of my own thoughts!! has Gojo, Geto, Megumi, Sukuna, Mahito, and Junpei bc he is so special to me <3 i am one of 3 Junpei kinnies on this planet i swear…

i’m not a major Gojo fucker, if anything we have hate sex that is fuelled by pent up arousal and being big time touch starved… but the idea of him using his blindfold on you?? oh dear oh my… it’s both a big step in trust and vulnerability. given that he finds not having his eyes covered to be immensely overwhelming, i imagine there’d be a strong bond between him and his partner to do this. he’s used to seeing you through the way he detects energy, it’s second nature to him, but he’ll never quite get over what it’s like to actually see you with his real eyes. his fingertips are shaking and he can’t seem to look at anything other than your face twisted in pleasure as he denies you your nth release of the day; it’s a carnal satisfaction. he tends to be very mouthy and loud whenever you’re going at it but with you splayed out in front of him like this, your body shielded by absolutely nothing, he’s rather quiet as he takes in every inch of you. it’s a form of depraved worship, in a way, that he feels so compelled to hardly even breathe to appreciate you and only you as much as he possibly can.

i’d be a liar if i said i wasn’t terribly down bad for Geto. long-haired men get me good and he’s no exception… he’s 100% into pet play and corruption you hit the nail on the head!! it’s half a control thing and half a desire to please, he doesn’t feel a lot of power over his life and being able to get some of that from what you two do together his cathartic. he’s partial to cat girls, having a little kitty for him to play with and to kneel at his feet brings him satisfaction like nothing else. Geto is also the best at aftercare!! he’s very tender in how he treats you, already having a nice warm bath and a glass of water ready… anything you need, just ask, he’d give the world to stay by your side as long as he possibly can.

prior to this ask, i’d never actually thought of Megumi before… but, hear me out, going off of his thing of sharing you with Yuji, i think he’s into being cucked. i’m sorry to be the one to say it but to my core i believe this is true and canon… when it’s just the two of you, Gumi has the tendency to get a bit nervous and lost at times so seeing someone he trusts so deeply take the reigns and really work to make you feel good without hesitation gets him going. sometimes he does get a bit jealous of the way Yuji palms at your tits or the way he gets you to squeal so loud but ultimately he knows you’re his. even if Yuji offered to snag you away, you wouldn’t accept because Gumi is the one you want (reassure him from time to time though). plus, after watching so many times, he gains a better grasp on what to do!! i think he also likes letting Yuji instruct him on just how to fuck you proper. <3

Sukuna… you are a man of many wonders and arms. he is absolutely the biggest biter of them all!! will use his normal mouth most of the time but really enjoys using his stomach mouth to nip at your ass when he’s plowing you from behind as the way you yelp in surprise never fails to get him going. he loves that having four arms means he can keep your hips still, choke you, and grope at whatever skin he wants all at the same time; there’s never a part of your body that goes missed. despite his claims of not caring about humans, there’s nothing that he loves more than having you dangle off his arm and getting to touch you in a way nobody else ever could. also, two cocks absolutely. prepare yourself to be stuffed full, he’s partial to having them both balls deep in your pussy.

FREAKY VIRGIN MAHITO IS REAL!! he’s all about experimenting so there’s really nothing he wouldn’t try honestly, it’s more of a challenge to convince him to not do certain things *shivers*… but that does come with a lot of bonuses seeing that he won’t write off anything so it’s free game for you!! odds are he’ll enjoy anything so long as he learns something from it, if it gets him off then even better. he’s naturally most interested in anything that’ll induce pain, emotional or physical, and things that allow him to be in complete control (submitting to a human? fat chance). Depending on how exactly he sees you, and how ooc you’re willing to take, you’re either going to be a good ol fashion pump n dump that he brutally slaughters OR you’ll end up being his forever pet that he won’t let out of his sight for more than fifteen seconds… both are a unique form of suffering but it’s Mahito, so there’s really no white picket fence ending option… regardless, prepare yourself to be used in the grossest ways. he’s got a particular fondness for watersports and anything that results in blood, with a preference for knife play and good ol aggressive biting, simply because he likes seeing you become a filthy depraved mess even when he’s being so cruel. i have a vague concept for a human au but even then he’s a nasty freak with no boundaries!!

adding Junpei onto this because he’s so dear to my heart and also the biggest incel. affection doesn’t come easy to him especially when it’s sexual, he finds being on the receiving end to feel as though it’s only because you pity him. try as you might, convincing him otherwise is going to take some time but he has no problem understanding his own feelings to be true although he’s shy… major panty sniffer alert, he’s too scared to actually try anything with you but he’s got his needs!! stealing a cute white cotton pair from your hamper is the next best thing to him and he’ll spend the next week with them pressed to his face whenever he’s alone, dick rutting into his hand messily. it’s subconscious but he also has a habit of stalking you around a little bit when he’s too nervous to actually talk to you but he swears it’s an accident!! he didn’t mean to learn your whole schedule it’s just that he sees you doing certain things more often!! he’s supposed to be on the other side of the city at that time for work?? you’re delusional, he was just… sent there for some sort of project, nothing weird at all he’d never!! huge whiner btw, babbles a lot when he’s finally fucking you.

[hobiespick]

Heya! I was wondering if you got any headcanons for Sam Winchester x werewolf! Reader, except, reader can actually turn whenever she (or gn if you want) wants, and the only real thing a full moon does is force her to be in her werewolf form (aka force her to keep the wolf teeth and claws out for no reason)

The thing that should not be

Pairings : Sam Winchester x reader

a/n : FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HI, HELLO, IM SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG I SUCK SO BAD, IM SO SORRY. My requests aren't open (yet) but its not even your fault I should have 100% specified that, but this is my first ever ask and ur also one of my favourite moots and I didn't want to dissapoint so here are some fuckinf cute Sam x Werewolf!Reader. I felt the carnal need to write a metric fuckton of context before getting into the actual headcanons (which are very long I have no idea if they can be considered as hcs) so the reader gets beaten up by earth-shattering plot purposes :3. Sammy juicy headcanons start when you see the '🧿' emoji if you don't wanna read the context (melodramatic sigh). And yes the title of the fic is based on the metallica song :). as always, enjoy my shitty thoughts <3

Warnings: angst with comfort (no don't clap it's fine, omg ur makin me blush); guess who joined the cool kids club and uses "____." instead of "Y/n"; literally a flash of gore, shitty dad(s), fake death, mentions of suicide, Sam looks at you and goes DO YOU WANT M-; Dean being himself; reader is also a hunter and has been raised like that (fml); Dean makes a twillight refrence; reader is frankenstein coded in the most nuanced way, Mary Shelley please don't haunt me; Dean is very happy to have a bestfriend/sister :)

word count: 8,102

- Okay, so for starters, the fact that you aren't actually a monster (you don't get the urge to kill or wreak havoc) is actually a supernatural miracle.

Your parents haven't talked to you since you called them the night you were hunting a werewolf and told them, horror-struck between sniffles and voice cracks, that it bit you, and you’re going to turn, and you’re horrified, and you’re going to drive home to put a pistol in your father's hand and hopefully stop you from turning in the thing you shouldn't be.

Your father replied, after successfully not saying a word besides "Hey, kid-" before getting cut off by you and your hiccups. He sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek, enough to draw blood.

"You are not to come home; your mother won't bear to see you like this."

Your father objected before telling you you can finish the job by yourself; you always have.

He abruptly ended the phonecall like you weren't his daughter, more like an annoying salesman. You don't know what he'll say to your mother after that call; that was the hospital, and you tragically died? "Died a hero.." Your father would say when he described another hunter's tragic passing at the dinner table—paranormal tragic passing. So paranormal that your mother had knocked on wood and prayed it wouldn't get you or your family.

So you don't call, It's really me, dad. I'm fine, I figured it out by myself. How could you? after him suggesting it's better to kill yourself than take a shot at finding a solution together? You would rather have him believe you're dead. Or at least cry with you; it's okay, honey. come home; it'll be okay, spend the last days at home, please-

The last word you get from him is a text message you are too quick to open on your flip-phone to see the next day. When you rub at your eyebags after tracking down a witch, the witch. It was the second day when everything about you felt off; you were squemish, anxious, and haven't left your motel room all day. if you get this—the message read, "if you get this?!" if you get this, if you get this, if you get this—your brain repeats it over and over, taking the words apart and tattooing itself that phrase, because it held much more meaning to it than your father probably didn't intend; he would hear it if he read it before sending, you thought, that little 'if' haunting and tormenting like a damn demon. if you haven't already killed yourself; if you haven't already turned into something that took my daughter, my pride and joy, away from me; if you haven't already died–

- speaking to you like he's directly referring to the disease in your veins. Your brain moves on and reads the next ridiculous waste of your attention. I wanted you to know I told your mother that it was the hospital I was talking to yesterday, calling that you’re dead, house fire, so no remains to pick up—Damn, you know him or what? Even your fake death is stripped away from it's respect—"no remains to pick up"—like a toppled statue, a monument of what was once a hero (in dad's old-fashioned monster-hunting world), shattered and insignificant, no longer breathing or living, if you ever even had. Or a tree struck by lighting, again, "no remains to pick up" no meaningful remains or genuinely nothing, just a memory of another young hunter who died 'tragically'. You could imagine your tombstone with an even dumber epitaph to match it and an empty or nonexistent grave lying six feet underneath for closure. Your eyes move on, there will be a funeral with no grave, of course, I just wanted you to know that your mother and everyone else is devastated, we miss you, sugar. I love you, kid. Your father had overestimated your suicidal tendencies, and the way he didn't try to save his daughter in order to not go against the rules and possibilities of hunting only showed you how much he loves you.

So you track down the witch. You barely make it to her doorstep when she opens it with a too reassuring smile, saying your name and that she expected you, even going as far as offering you tea after opening the door and letting you in, to which you declined. You're not an idiot. But you do sit down, forced, when she, Willow Thorne, won't have you, a guest, standing up, a whole damn hunter being forced to sit down and accept being treated kindly like you deserve. When you walked in, the entire image of a satanic worshipper who sold her soul to demons and hexed everybody—that you betted all your life savings fitted the description of Willow shattered and laughed in your face.

Her home was filled with plants hanging and resting in every corner she could place; various crystals were sitting in cute porcelain plates like candy, candles of different colors on a bookshelf filled with books like The Language of Flowers, Astronomy for Beginners, and Sigils. Even more crystals, bigger and taller ones on a purple tablecloth. The house is adorned in shades of dark purple, violet, green, and warm colors. This home was a whimsigothic musem that would send your thirteen-year-old self into a shrieking, excited mess. Your parents never let you own crystals or a tarot deck; they were too afraid you'd turn darkside one way or another. well, mommy, daddy, if you could see me right now with lycanthrope blood pumping through my veins.

Willow Thorne is a wiccan type of witch; she does not receive her power from demons; she receives her magic from nature and probably practices her witchcraft the way she sees fit. This doesn't help build back the distrust you were trained to have in her. You flinch when you feel a tail curling around your bouncing leg; you glance down, and your eyes are met with a black cat's green ones—this must be her familiar—the little words on his purple collar reading 'Creek'. She gives you another flash of her warm smile and starts talking about her cat. This can't be real. Your every instinct screams that you should take her down or that she will take you down. Your options shrink the longer you stay. You keep a hand anxiously fiddling with your belt, thinking about the gun in your waistband. She's deceiving you with honeyed words and unassuming appearance; who the fuck knows, maybe the cat is manipulating you too. Throwing up would be the calmest reaction you could have right now, because the thoughts in your head started going at each other's throats and doubting in this situation could get you killed. Thoughts like, fuck her, her cozy house with purple witchy twitchy girl interior, and her affectionate black cat she mentioned she rescued when nobody would because of superstitions—you curse in your head, you're not actually upset at her although you do not let your guard down, you're upset at yourself for being so easily coaxed into trusting her, it's all too easy, and it is intimidating you.

You're pretty sure you're gonna rip your vocal cords out of frustration and an overall feeling of overwhelmingness; everything seems to piss you off today, even more than usual. How are you good?! All bright and beaming with nothing but positivity. You're not supposed to be good! I have believed all my life you aren't!..are you like me too? A thing that should not be? Before breaking down and crying about your situation, and if you did, she would make you that tea and rub your back with her hand that radiated ease and made you slump your shoulders with relief.

Before you get other fun thoughts like Am I on the wrong side of the war? You start discussing bussiness since you forgot that's what your here for. Even if your eyes water like a little kid after being scolded for something they didn't do, your voice is nowhere near close to sounding like one. You demand a cure, bargaining for a deal to stop the lycanthropy metamorphosis you feel taking over little by little and make you human again. If she can't, you have a gun with silver bullets in your trunk and your will written out, but by now it probably has no significance.

Much to your disappointment, she—Willow—insisted you called her, tells you she cannot take away your curse, but she can soothe it a little, keep it in a cage locked deep into your subconscious. In exchange, she could ask for fucking anything in the world, but she wants loyalty.

"Define, loyalty." You ask through gritted teeth, yeah, that will stop the tears, definitely, great intimidation skills, _____ .

"I'm talking about respect, mutual aid, when it all comes down for me, when I get threatened by a hunter, I want you to be there. I need you to have my back." She admitted, studying your eyes trying to reslove the conflict in them, anything that could give her hope. You couldn't explain this to anyone, ever, Yeah I almost turned into a werewolf once but my witch friend did a ritual on me, so i'm all good now.

Willow is now sitting on an ottoman facing her couch, where you're sitting. Her hands fidget with her bracelets until she clasps them together, and she is leaning towards you. Her gentle tone is imbued with gentle authority that commands her mutual respect without making her overbearing. Keeping steady eye contact, she is discussing serious matters with a serious tone like she should. You can't lie, it catches you off-guard, it herds you in the corner and softly shakes your shoulders, forcing you to listen.

You'd be every synonym in the dictionary for the word 'idiot' if you hadn't accepted this deal. You shake hands, and the warm smile she wears causes a domino effect, making you do the same, even if you had been crying.

It's a funky ritual. She makes you lay on the couch while she lights all sorts of candles; she closes the curtains even though it's already dark so light cannot come in. The only light present is the salt lamp in the far corner and the numeruous lighted candles. She even has to kick Creek out of the room, much to the cat's protests outside the door. They slowly come to a stop as he finds something that's more interesting than whatever ritual his owner is cooking up with a guest—that he feels drawn to for whatever reason. You feel nervous, and she feels nervous too, because you are. Willow reassures you and tells you that after it ends you will pass out for a while, but that's fine because she says you can spend the night if she isn't pushing it.

The celling becomes your newest fascination, and you study every small bump and gray spot in order to distract your mind from... well, thinking. Not for the ritual, but for reassurance, she lies and says you have to hold her hand. Her warm hand against yours seems to punch out of your lungs every doubt whether this will work or not and the sadness your father produced with an unfatherly amount of bluntness and cold parenting that was the verbal equivalent of stabbing your spine and twisting the knife, but you can't pull out the knife, well, you can try, but it will hurt even worse and it will infect spreading yellow or purple marks around it–. She—her hand—has the ability to make you breathe again without feeling like you have leg irons around your neck dragging it down and hands squashing your lungs to bits. She speaks incantations in what you know is latin and instructs you to close your eyes. You swear you hear a candle stop burning in the process—something you can't physically hear, but you had. You can make out a few words (your ears keep ringing and something is happening because you hear her voice; it's distorted and weird, but she told you, strictly, not to open your eyes, so you don't). Words like: lupus-wolf, tollere-take away? You're not sure on that one; that's what three straight days of crying might do to one, mutare- which means change. Okay, that was a nice distraction now what el–

You feel the imprint of a huge dog-like paw pressing into your Adam's apple and cutting off your breath. She obviously takes notice by the way you're writhing and choking and swatting away at nothing—something you're trying to fight even with closed eyes, but there is nothing there. Your palm doesn't make contact with anything. Quickly, Willow chants something you're too busy choking to catch. The pressure on your throat dissolves, and you can breathe again. She calms her own breath and squeezes your hand. When she doesn't feel you squeeze back, she remembers that you're supposed to pass out after the spell. Willow drapes a blanket on you and goes off to order something to eat. When she opens the living room door, Creek doesn't hesitate to run in and settle on your chest. The cat purrs as he patiently waits for you to wake up.

You wake up fifteen minutes later with the smell of food flooding your nostrils, stronger than it has ever been before. It's almost like it's sitting right under your nose. You open your eyes, and the smell has a color, and you can clearly see how it snakes its way in from the kitchen into the half-open door. Your nails feel heavier than usual. This is hopefully a fever dream. But the food isn't here, nor is Willow; you can hear her humming a song in the kitchen, Voodoo Chile by Jimi Hendrix.

The weight of the shadow on your chest brings you back to earth, and you run your hands through his black fur with closed eyes as your head falls back onto the couch. The feeling of fur on your fingertips feeding to your serotonin levels rising. Creek seems to know what it's like to be disowned by your own father and forced to have a fake death in order to 'die' in a way that won't make your mother think you were cursed, or worse, that the whole family is now. Creek notices you're awake and gets off you, but not before making biscuits.

"Thanks, Creek." You mumble before pushing yourself up in a sitting position with a groan.

You can feel the rich, velvety, dark green rug beneath your socks; you would have appreciated it properly if you could actually see the details woven into it. Your eyes keep focusing and unfocusing like they're getting adjusted, and the room doesn't seem so dark anymore. God, how long did you pass out? As you tried to gather your thoughts (if the spell was easy on you enough to actually leave some), memories of the ritual came flooding back—the chanting in latin, the flickering candle(s), the punching smell of herbs, the murder attempt from a wolf spirit/ghost?! who the hell knows anymore? Now you were wide awake, and everything felt different. If it weren't for the fucking ritual that was just performed on you, you would've blamed the faint ringing in your years, shitty eyesight, and banging headache on a terrible hangover or a cold so bad it would make your throat ache for the tea your mom would make you when your immune system failed you. She promised she would teach me how to make it. Your grief echoed to you.

You rub at your temples at thats when you notice why did your nails feel heavier than usual. You had fucking claws, well, not animal claws, but they are honorably elongated and sharper than they had ever been. As you looked up from your lap, your eyes fell on a mirror.

A tall mirror leaning on its back legs, with black edges and details on the rim, you would again appreciate if you had the ability to see a single thing in the distance.

Your eyes widened, mortified, seeing yourself. It looked like one of your parents's worst nightmares. Something out of a dream your mom would have—a nightmare so nasty and vivid she would be forced by her paranoia to get up and check that you're still in bed sleeping soundly.

Your eyes were no longer the familiar color you have seen in the mirror or in old photos of your family members you've grown to love. The shade wasn't even close to yours; crazy how one small change made such a big difference in your appearance. Your pupils were slitted vertically, shrinking only to dilate a little once again, getting adjusted. You slowly got up on foal legs and fell on your knees in front of the mirror. Even if you didn't think it was night because you weren't seeing darkness, the light of the moon shone down on the mirror and floor thanks to the now open curtains. That's when your vision stopped unfocusing and finally cleared.

You were now looking at yourself. It felt incredibly alien and familiar at the same time; you looked at yourself every day, whether it was the mirror in your bathroom at home, a crappy motel one that faced the bed (which you cover up with a scoff each time), or a reflection in the car of your vanity mirror checking yourself before going in a precinct, pretending to be a reporter (the things middle-aged pigs would confess to a doe-eyed girl from the press..).

You gently pulled the corner of your upper lip only to reveal your enlarged and sharpened front canines. Your hand fell and instead went to cover your mouth in order to muffle your sobs. You must have done a horrible job because the second you slapped the hand over your mouth, you heard Willlow gasp as if she felt it too.

She drops the food she was unpacking and runs in, taking a moment to calm her heaving chest in the doorway; her hands were holding it like an earthquake had shaked her up; even her round glasses had slipped and rested on the tip of her nose.

"_______, you woke up!" she exclaims cheerfully. "I was just—how do you fee-?"

She kept stuttering and cutting herself off. Willow didn't need to say anything else; she saw the tears welling up in your eyes and felt the same shock you did from the kitchen.

🧿🧿🧿- later on, you have to bump into the Winchesters one way or another

- and it's exactly on a full moon when this time the ball isn't in your court and you don't get to decide whether you turn or not.

- your claws are sharp, your eyes have changed their original color completely with your pupils vertically slit, and your teeth (conveniently) remain the same; only a few of your front canines are enlarged and sharpened.

- as for senses, it's downright spectacular.

- you can hear deer stepping on tree branches, foxes running, and owls hooting when you're driving by the forest

- you smell how many people are in a room

- you have night vision (yes, your eyes to the flashy thingamajiggy when someone blinds you with their flashlight).

- as a hunter, you already know that your claws and fangs can rip out a human heart.

- ironically, as this whole situation is, you hunt alone on the principle that you don't long for companionship as some lycanthropes do.

- you've turned into a literal killing machine with no instinct to kill, so hunting with others is off the table since at the first sign of a threat (they think you are one, but you really aren't), a hunter exterminates.

- you meet the Winchesters on a ghoul hunt

- you have taken the case before them, but when you couldn't get anywhere with identifying whatever evil being was tormenting the locals with their mere presence, you thought about ditching it since it doesn't look like your type of thing and took the consideration that maybe humans were fucking around this time.

- so when you heard the FBI are in town investigating the case (detective Page and Plant), you placed that town in your rear view mirror; they got it covered..right?

- but something didn't feel right- it wasn't the shame of leaving a case with your tail between your legs (pun intended) with the weak motive, 'Maybe humans are really fucking around this time.'

- something wasn't right, so even if you were tired, you abruptly stopped the car and went over your research spread out on the flat of your closed trunk

- the slits of your eyes dance over the words on your laptop, your papers, and an old lore book you fought tooth and nail for. When you realized it's a ghoul you're dealing with, you turned the car around and went over every speed limit like hellhounds were scratching at your tires. It was your job to not let anybody else get hurt or someone else's grave be violated

- as the light of the moon shined down on you and your wild eyes looked back at you from the rear view mirror, you knew you couldn't have anyone see you, you had to be invisible

- *time skip* (as much as it pains me 'cause i am a sucker for details :))- you swoop in time to save the Winchesters

- and if they weren't tied up, they would've started fighting you too, because why was there a whole ass werewolf fist fighting a ghoul?? John trained them like Spartan warriors, but nothing prepared them for something like this.

- so they sit there like:??????

- they watch you take out a fucking ghoul all by yourself

- the head of the ghoul's person they're impersonating rolls onto the floor. You have to remind yourself it's not a real person; it's an evil spirit who kills to feed

- by the time you wipe the blood off your face, smearing it a bit in the process, and cut the ties holding the hunters loose, Sam is unnable to look away from your slit eyes adorned by a strange color that strangely suits you

- literally hearts in his fawn brown eyes like you still don't have blood on your face and you aren't trying to catch your breath; also, you took a nasty punch to your cheek, and he's pretty sure it's gonna leave a bruise, but he totally doesn't care, why? why do you ask?

- by the way Sam is scrunitizing you, and oh yeah, Sam is scrunitizing you, you're sure you're gonna have to ditch since you've been in this situation before and you know how it always ends

- there was no 'explaining yourself' to hunters when they saw you under the full moon or when they saw you change because you had to.

Before you can even open your mouth they have their methaphorical pitchforks sharpened and torches lit up, prepared to slaughter you, and if you're honest, you can't even blame them for it because you would've done the same.

- Dean rubs his wrist with his right hand; the imprint of the rope is still fresh on his skin like a tattoo. Sam focuses on not choking when you catch him staring.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean thinks out loud. You take a big lungs-exploding sigh and give a shot at introducing yourself since they seem more civilized than most hunters are

- Sam geeks out about you

He doesn't question you because he is suspicious (he has the right to be but surprisingly isn't). He has to feed his noisy, information-hungry brain or he will spontaneously combust

- "Are your senses even more enhanced during the full moon, or are they the same?"

- "Can you smell when somebody is afraid? Like the hormones from their pores?"

- "Is it annoying to always have super hearing? Like has it ever caused you to be..I don't know.. Anxious? It did?" He mourns over you, trying to imagine himself in your situation but possibly can't.

- "I'm really sorry you had to go through a whole..change all by yourself, but it just shows how strong you are, some don't even make it 'til the end."

- After you were done explaining to Sam (to which he gladly sat himself down and listened) how sometimes you genuinely consider you're inevitably going to become what you hunt and how in the beginning you and your senses have butted heads, how you had no idea how to go through it without having panic attacks because the click of a doorknob was sensitive to your hearing like a veteran was scared of fireworks, how you accidentally ripped a motel door off its hinges, a result of you being slightly irritated, still getting acoustumed to your abilities. Dean would go.

"..Do dog whistles work on y–" Before getting an elbow in the ribs by a glaring Sam.

- more shit Dean would ask you for the sake of his own little curiosity

- "Is 'bitch' even more offensive now?"

- "Who do you think would win in a fight? You or Jacob Black?"

- "What do I smell like? Y'know, since you can pick up on scents and alldat."

- Dean calls you Cujo

- It's the one nickname you can get behind, asking him what he thought about the book, and he's like, "Oh, I watched the movie, but i know a little. Sammy used to rattle on and on about his books when he was younger."

- if you think about it, an alais doesn't sound so bad in theory or practice while hunting.

- it's secretive, the boys don't need to divulge your real name, and it's actually high-key kickass (I literally watched Cujo just so I know what I'm talking about, a.k.a. the second reason why it took a millenium and a half for me to post these; the first reason is that i suck)

- Dean is thrilled to get to call you that- he gets this fucking smirk, like a dad about to drop the worst joke ever made on everyone, you and Sam brace yourselves for what's coming with matching eyerolls-

"Let's fuck em' up, Cujo."

- "Cujo, dude, you're just itching to raise a little hell right now, aren't you?"

- "Uh- a bacon cheeseburger, soda, yo, Cujo whaddya want? My treat >:]."

- "Cujo, put on that song you were listening to; I had it in my head the entire hunt." (I didn't mention the genre or artist bc I like to imagine Dean listening to everyone's fav category; ex. I imagine Dean screaming bikini kill lyrics whenever i'm sad)

- if you thought the 'canine/wolf' teasing stopped here, you're so painfully wrong

- Dean made you a mixtape, because that's his love language apparently, with only songs that are about werewolves

- I feel like it took him a longer time to find a suitable title than the songs themselves

- he has all of the possible picks on a piece of paper that stays in the pocket of his fifty pound leather jacket.

- the titles are: Songs to transform into; The howlin' hits; Songs that will make you wag your tail—that one is crossed out because he knows you will make him eat the tape if he does settle on it; Love at first bite; and finally the one he settled for is Songs you can sink your teeth into. Dean smiled at his work, it didn't feel like a prank anymore it was more like a gift and he didn't feel any ugly emotion or insecurity try to pull him back into not getting attached to you.

The final touch was a note saying

"Hey, Cujo, thought you might want these howlin' hits whenever you need to tune the world out.

P.S. : Sam told me to add one of the songs, it's that punk stuff you like - Dean"

- The songs he prudently picked out are these : Of Wolf and Man by Metallica; Bark at the Moon by Ozzy Osbourne; I Was A Teenage Werewolf by The Cramps; Wolf Moon by Type O Negative; Witch Wolf by STYX; Run with the Wolf by Rainbow; Lycanthropy by G.B.H and others.

- you accidentally made a kid cry once- a ball was literally flying towards you and you caught it just in time, thanks to your reflexes

- instinctively, you turned around in time and caught the ball as your claws grew and sank into the inanimate object

- it's all "Nice relfexes, _____" praise from Dean and proud and shy smiles from Sam until the owner of the ball starts sobbing in front of you

- it's a kid, a boy with red hair, no older than six years of age

- but we all know Dean's charm is basically made for this

- so he handles both the kid and his mom (flirting with a milf all day, poor Dean)

- you keep apologizing to the kid and the mom, but Dean just waves you off; you don't understand his generosity until Sam tells you that you accidentally secured Dean's hookup for tonight.

- Since Dean is not coming, not until early morning, nor is he there to call you and Sam 'dorks', you and his younger brother take advantage of it.

- you guys have a movie night with the most random movies ever

- it is chaotic

- from rom-coms you switch to a world war II documentary, then you watch re-runs of House MD on tv.

- Dean stumbles in at like five something a.m. and takes a picture of you and Sam snuggling under a blanket while the tv light casts shadows of orange and cold colors on your defenseless expressions.

- but can somebody actually blame you? Or Sam, for that matter?

- honorably want to mention your body heat is also enhanced

- You and Sam were sitting with your sides pressed into each other

- you were radiating pure furnace body heat, how could he not be sleepy??

- but that's not the only reason Sam knocks out so heavily

- it's you he's sitting down with (relaxing for once in his life) watching a ridiculous episode of House with thirteen ads rolling every ten minutes accompanied by lazy talking as if you're not debating books only you and morally grey forty-year-olds read (where that Kansas drawl of his is much more audible and pretty), after a marathon of fatally random movies

- younger Sam who had trouble going to sleep/getting some shut-eye because Dean and John are out late on a hunt.

- Sam especially couldn't fall asleep because Dean wasn't there

- it was a different story when Dean was at the age where he couldn't hunt but he could use a pistol and take care of his little brother

- both of them in a relatively warm motel room, alone (since John fucked off to god-knows-where, to hunt a monster they are never to breathe in the direction of as a conversation subject.)

- little Sammy (age where he believed nothing could beat his older brother) could peacefully fall asleep knowing Dean stays up and watches over him like a hawke, reading comic books by the tv light

- where little Dean keeps chanting in his head what Sammy is supposed to do after eating his dinner.

- Watch tv or look at the comic with me (Sammy can't read yet), brush his teeth, then tuck him in bed.

- now pre-teen Sam can hardly sleep

- he is plagued/tormented by flashing images his overthinking big brain mades of a thousand situations where his family got hurt, if not even killed

- Sam's grip on the shotgun is shaking; it shakes even harder when John's bark booms over his shoulder, right into his ear.

- "Sammy, dammit, what are you going to do when a demon breaks through the door and me and your brother aren't there to protect you?!"

- but Sam isn't twelve anymore

- he's a responsible adult

- snuggled beside you and denying any eepy allegations you decide to accuse him of

- so, the heat you contribute, the soft speaking on the tv, the darkness of the room, you being there is enough to lull Sam to sleep

- studies show you feel sleepy around the people you trust ;)

- the position you two fell asleep in cannot be described in any other word than childish

- somehow you would catch two kids, sleeping over at one of the other's houses, knocked out, and snoring in the same bed after watching a horror movie

- on one of the two queens the motel room contributes (the one closest to the tv) you and Sam have made this fluffy nest full of pillows, a huge blanket, plus a random quilt Bobby pulled out of thin air and gave it to you when he heard you complaining about the petal-thin blankets motels have during cold ass weather.

- When you both lied down on the bed with your legs greedily streched out, backs pressed against the headboard, and your head is resting on the wall while Sam, magically, was still able to hold his up after the very long day all of you endured. You predicted one of you wouldn't survive being in each other's presence and make it out not asleep, and god, you hoped it was you.

- Sam's breathing slows down after a while of comfortable silence, and you’re sure he's dying until you spare one quick glance and see him, downright snoozing with his lips parted without a care in the world, ghosts and eerie phenomenons weren't bothering or needing him now.

- during all of the movies and documentary and fuckin lazy intellectual commentary nobody else would have the patience to discuss with you or Sam, he somehow migrated on the bed/nest with his side flush against yours, like a magnet to another; it was inevitable not to stick together, literally.

- your shoulder was now pressed into his forearm, your head no longer resting uncomfortably, and his temple is resting on the top of your head.

- but (unfortunately) you weren't hugging or anything- like a mirror or a copycat, Sam has his arms crossed, just like you, so maybe that's why you didn't wake up full on cuddling, that does sound good though your brain mourns

- When you do wake up, the only slight change you notice is that you're sleeping on your side..so is Sam. You're facing Sam's neck and chin, and up close and personal, you can actually count the too-sexy amount of moles he modestly posesses. His arm serves the role of a pillow underneath his head, and the other is resting with his palm down facing the mattress.

- with Sam taking up the entire attention of your senses, it takes an emmbarassing while for you to hear the shower running, Dean; did he see you both like this? Was he going to mention it? Your gut fills with a small dose of embarrassement, preparing you for what's yet to come, and it protests at that.

- much displeasure from your senses to your brain and your heart that wanted to breathe Sam in more as he (hopefully) breathes you out, you turn on your other side, unconsciously careful not to disturb Clifford over here, and you try to determine what time it is from your surroundings alone.

- the light blue sneaking its way through the dark closed curtains and the slight chill in the air points all arrows to seven or eight in the morning, you could go back to sleep.

- Dean wasn't just feeling gracious; he didn't and wasn't even planning on sparing you or Sam

- that day, when he separately gets the both of you alone, he has the exact same conversation with different but not so different people.

-"You should've seen the two of you this morning when I came in, two kittens snoring together, it was fuckin' adorable." Dean teased–

—Monday, 13:34 p.m. — as he tossed his clothes into one of the laundromat's washing machines, making Sam paralyze in his seat as his fingers started fidgeting with the edges of his hoodie.

"You did?.." He inquires, not knowing what exactly Dean saw just this morning. Sam only woke up a little after you went back to sleep. He swore his cheek must have burned a hole through the pillow with how hard he was blushing. You were so close. There was a good distance between the edge of the bed and you. So your back was flush against his chest. If you're wondering where his arm went, it was around your waist. Sam—your own personal seatbelt. He probably thinks it's his fault too. Dean never ceased to describe Sam as a 'cuddlebug'.

"Uh-huh" Dean hums a confirmation, acting casual, scarily casual. Sam feels the teasing in Dean's tone; it's there, but Dean is not fully teasing yet, like he wants Sam to confess something first after boiling in his embarrassement for long enough.

—Monday, 20:02 p.m. — as he pulled the Impala into the driveway of a fast-food place you were so invested in you even forgot the name of; you froze and looked at him, searching for any emotion that might give him away, but Dean was a brick wall, a slight very Dean siginificant parted lips smirk paired with squinted eyes over the wheel, carefully driving into the driveway. Even the car seemed to betray you in your moment of weakness because you swear the volume is lower than it was a few seconds ago. Ozzy Osbourne's laugh can still be heard from the speakers, even if it's barely audible over your racing thoughts or your hearing trying its hardest to pick up on Dean's thoughts. The rythym of the drums seems to sync up with your heartbeat, or the other way around, you're not sure. Over every little sound, there still seems to be a little silence to fit in. You swallow a lump in your throat.

"..We had a movie night, we just fell asleep like that, that's all." You mumble, and Dean starts to feel a little bad for letting you be a victim to his spotlight-teasing and giving you no shade to reprieve to or show his undying approval.

Somehow, you still worry if Dean believes you have ruined the dynamic, and now he's cornering you to tell you to stop it or something (overthinking anxiety worms are eating away at your critical thinking skills). You just worry about what he thinks of this. You still worry about the Dean who doesn't correct random people on cases who mistake you and Sam for a couple; the Dean who just has to leave some arsenal or luggage in the front, just so you are forced to share the backseat with Sam; the Dean who always has to group you and Sam in a category when he teases you both (Geeks, nerds, smartasses, etc.). Cupid works hard, but Dean Winchester works harder.

"Hey-, Cuj- Doll." Dean sputters, switching glances between you and the wheel.

This didn't go as he planned it would, and now he is facing the consequences. The way you shrink in your seat and the way you avoid catching his eye makes Dean feel like a douchebag. If he didn't know any better he would thinks he is, but then you would actually be able to read him like a book and tell him otherwise. You hear the desperation in his voice; your candle of hope comes back to life and lights up. Your head turns to look at him with pleading eyes. Please don't be angry, please don't kick me to the curb, let me stay in the backseat a little more. Dean lets out a shaky exhale that turns into a laugh; he runs a hand down his face. You've watched him do that every time he got jumpscared by the monthly spirit with unfinished business. It was something you imagined Dean picked up from John, the picture in your head so clear (at least from the pictures you saw)— a tired dad in an old squeaky motel chair with a whiskey glass in his hand doing the same motion Dean was doing right now. Dean would mimic his father's gestures to try to look more like him; he didn't have his brunette curly hair, his dark brown eyes, Sam did.

Dean never had his voice either; he only perfected his bark to match his dad's. Sam hated the way his reflection resembled his father, Dean was either jealous of him for it or couldn't wrap his head around as to why his brother hated being their dad, probably the latter. Dad, at least in Dean's eyes, was a hero, a figure to be admired and emulated. But Sam? He didn't even have to try. Sam and John were so alike that they clashed constantly like two stubborn stags locking antlers in a duel.

"..Dean?" You call him out; you had no idea what was going on in his head; it would be pretty damn nice if you could know. Dean shots his head up at the mention of his name.

"Yeah?—sorry, I just, you and Sam are just so—" He sighs. "it's about time you two crazy kids broke that touch barrier." He guffaws, slowly pulling up to the ordering kiosk.

A new song starts playing on Dean's "hot summa' nights driving" mixtape, Emmit Remmus by The Red Hot Chili Peppers, he added it when Sam said that's one of his favorites.

- do I need to talk about how much of an immense help you have been on hunts?

- you don't need to help out on every hunt despite Sam's disappointment and Dean's kid-like joy to have their friend help them out who is a professional/werewolf/hunter/geek, who kind of gets his references?? But you are geniunely so good it's funny to have the boys call you up and be like "..so we need help". They're happy you'll show up but there is still that lick of shame that taunts the Winchesters whenever they are forced to call for aid.

- this one time, you wanted to hug them after not seeing them for two weeks, and when you went to attack Sam, you heard his bones crack.

- your strength still surprises you and knocks other people off their feet

- it was so loud (atleast for you), you were sure you broke something

- Sam did nothing but give you his (killer) dimply smile and reassure you didn't do anything (even if he slightly grunted); while Dean whined like a kid saying (lying) he doesn't want a hug (you coaxed him into it eventually)

- Sam feels like he's not allowed to call you by your nickname, like he fears it's Dean's thing and not his

- so when he finally puts on his big boy pants, he's like, "Uhh–Cujo- 🧍‍♂️so get this.."

- all red and shy, trying to act casual, as if he doesn't wonder about the reaction you might have if he calls you other nicknames, like honey, sweetheart, even baby, or if he had the excuse to hold your hand, how would you hold it? Fingers interlocked or palms flat?

- Sam would also love to just marvel at your slit eyes; if he could he would take a picture and put it in his wallet; don't get me wrong if he had one where you were normal, he would cherish it just as much.

- Sam thinks your nickname is actually really cool (probably because it's a Stephen King reference, nerd), and you take that as a compliment. Sam is hard to entertain or please by his brother's antics.

- But he prefers saying your name

- there's something so intimate about the syllables rolling off his tongue so easily

- "_____, Are you okay? What is it? The soundproof earmuffs? I'll go get them." When everything, and I mean when every sound is just too much.

- Sam got them for you; he couldn't handle seeing you wince one more time whenever a car with a bad engine would pass by the motel (during a stressful hunt); its tires squealing under the concrete, making a faint sound for the boys, but for you so much louder.

- you know how pathethic it is to be affected by such small things when you're blessed with such powers? How can you call yourself a hunter when decibels, frequencies, and fucking tire squeals make you their bitch? You wish you could train yourself in a way that would make you less sensitive to certain sounds. It just adds to the reasons why hunters have the excuse or classify you as "the frail one" not only because you're a girl. When you used to hunt with your dad and sometimes mom, the amount of dog-shit comments from other hunters who had sons, were nothing but mysogynistic, curlish, and ruthless. "Are you sure the riffle isn't too heavy?", "Does she even know how to kill this thing?", "She's going to drag us down, do you want us to die?"— the type of comments that would make your dad shoot daggers into them, defend you "She's a goddamn ______, what do you think?", and whisper into your ear "Show em' what you're made of." and you would (stubbornly) listen to his advice to the damn letter after you almost mouthed them off.

Your dad believed in "Actions are sometimes louder than words." and all that adult crap, you were not as zen.

Your mom actually encouraged the sarcasm you have replied with in the past. The funniest memory your mother can recall is a story she tells at every gathering and every chance she gets to everyone, she praised you like crazy. When another hunter's son had the nerve to fuck with a twelve-year-old you. "Aren't you afraid of breaking a nail out there?" The boy sneered, puffing out his chest like a peacock. You stared at him with pure disbelief. "The only way I'm breaking a nail tonight is by kicking your ass, you cocky brainless jerk." You spat back, your mother and father were there and so was the boy's father; the gravity of the situation was on your shoulders, and their stares felt even heavier in comparison; intimidating him was 100% on the table. You felt like everyone had the same exact thought occuring them, an unspoken demand passed everyone there, even you: Do something. And you did. Your mother's jaw went slack; she doubled over, gripping whatever surface was near her and she started to chortle, with her shoulders shaking like never before. Your father was holding in a chuckle while massaging the bridge of his nose.

- Sam has to disagree with you whenever you complain about how your senses make you look or about the way you underestimate yourself. "What?! You can't be serious. _____, It doesn't mean you're weak. In fact, it makes you even more interesting. Everyone has an Achilles heel; yours is stronger because you're an amazing hunter who figured a way out. It makes you even stronger, I have no idea how you deal with this crap! Dean and I would've gone insane if we were in your shoes for more than a day."

- he is also forcing back his infamous (spectacular) bitchface

- he doesn't 'hold back' actually

- he geniunely cannot glare at you, not when you're like this. He can make a few exceptions, like when you join in Dean's teasing/joking (the silly rambunctious energy Dean carries around had, unfortunately, contiminated you or awakened yours)

- or when you start teasing Sam yourself, he shoots you a glare that classifies as nothing but hot (in your book at least), the kind of Sam glare that makes you flush knowing he doesn't mean it at all.

- Dean making you those fake ass I.D's like "Joan Jett", "Stevie Nicks", "Kathleen Hanna" and when you asked him to make more subtle ones he was like, bet. "Kelly Hammer", "Diana Bowie", "Laura Ulrich".

a/n: I wanted to apologize again for taking so long and for the unnecessary amount of context that literally nobody asked for. Uhh yeah and feedback would be very much appreciated<3, sava out *mic drop*

[spidergutz-writes]

Miguel O'hara thoughts/Hc's

my friend recently got me into Miguel, and now im hooked.

that man has me in a chokehold, and i dont plan on ever getting out. i cannot describe how carnally i need him, so instead, im making this little thing :3.

please give me feedback and such, as I've never watched ATSV (ooooh but i want to, so bad), so my portrayal of Miguel and his abilities could be severely wrong.

18+ themes ahead, written with fem reader/insert in mind, but can be portrayed as different if you so wish, as I don't put any pronouns in there, or any explicit female bodily descriptions.

MIGUEL O'HARA- who always has his hands on you in some way or another, whether it be on your waist, hips, back, shoulder, or even your ass. he just needs to be touching you.

MIGUEL O'HARA- who has some major issues, losing his kid, so now he's so protective of you, watching you at all times and making sure your safe.

MIGUEL O'HARA- who would kill so many for you, because your his redemption, his salvation, his rescue. you've saved him, and he will do anything in his power to make sure nothing happens to you.

MIGUEL O'HARA- who loves how you smell. it may sound weird, but when your scent fills his overly sensitive nose, his shoulders always relax a little. he's grown so used to the pungent and tangy smell of blood, sweat, and other not so good scents. but, when he smells you? his racing mind calms a bit. he breathes a little easier, and his mind becomes addled with your intoxicating scent.

MIGUEL O'HARA- who loves playing with your hair, the repetitive hand movements calming him down as he continuously combs his hand through your hair, talons softly scratching your scalp.

MIGUEL O'HARA- who want's to be by your side all the time. he never wants to leave you. he wants to be attached to you by the hip, following you around like a lost puppy.

MIGUEL O'HARA- who is haunted by his past, but he so desperately wants to have a child with you, adopted or not. he knows you would make an amazing spouse. He wants to have a family with you so badly :((((

----------

this is all i have for now! if you have any requests, drop on by!

[glossysoap]

pls you cant just say sub soap and leave us drooling for this guy

sub soap is NOT delved into enough! he's 100% a man who whines and cries prettilywhen youre cockwarming him or have him wait to ride you while you call him needy for his cock twitching whenever you run a finger down his chest, all the way down

i need this man carnally, violently omg im so normal about subby soap, i wanna bite him so bad dont look at me i warned you about being unHINGED

-🌻

sub soap headcanons #1

oh he FOR SURE whines and whimpers and even cries when you tease him!!

when you’re walking by his and purposefully rub against his bulge :((

when he’s cooking and you hug him from behind and let ur hands wander down to his cock :((

when you grab him by his jaw and pull him down into a kiss :((

when he’s in full gear and you yank him by his mic collar into a kiss???????

when you don’t even mean to get him worked up and you cup his cheek and call him pretty :(( you meant it as a pure, sweet compliment but he loves being praised and it all goes straight to his dick :((

when you wear revealing clothing and he can’t touch you :( whether it be from you explicitly telling him to behave and keep his hands to himself, or if it’s because you’re on a mission together,, he pouts his pretty little lips when he can’t touch you :((

oh and he one hundred percent has an oral fixation

ur sucking on a lollipop?? he just remembers all of the times you made him cum by sucking on his tip just like that :(

when you mark up his neck?? :((( he’ll literally grind his hips into the air when you’re biting his neck, licking a stripe down the span of his neck and sucking purple marks on his jugular :(

when you hold his neck :( not even choking, just literally,, holding his neck :( using your hand as a necklace :(

oh and the cockwarming? oh i swear !!!!!!

now for this specific case, i’m gonna have it be wear you’re wearing a strap (or you have a cock, either way) and he has to sit on it and stay still hehehehehehe

he would just have to squirm and whine when you hold his hips down and keeping him still onto your cock :(

if you wanted to be mean you’d jerk him off while he sat on your cock m enjoying his cries echoing throughout your room :((

you’d stroke up and down his thick shaft, rubbing your thumb on his tip whenever you got to the head, before squeezing at the base whenever you reached his pubic bone :(

you would use ur other hand to gather up any precum from the head of his cock and lick that hand clean, all while holding eye contact :(( he would blush even more at that sight

he would whine and cry and beg to be able to bounce or grind on your cock, and when you did finally say yes, he would babble mindlessly, “thank you, thank you, thank you!” :((

he would sound damn near pornographic with how he was moaning and crying in pleasure, shouting your name when you bucked your hips and hit a particularly sensitive spot :((

when he came, you would grab his face and swallow his moans in your mouth as you kissed the breath out of him. he would whine into your mouth, all keened and high pitched and delicious :((

he would spurt white ropes onto his stomach, load after load, chest heaving as his release rocked through his sensitive body :((

you would tell him how cute he looks and how he did so good for you, ur pretty boy :((

i won’t him :(

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.