passion embodied. @embodies - Tumblr Blog

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✧ . * #𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐒. independent and selective multi - muse for characters from a selection of media ( mostly torn out of their respective canons ). usually focused on horror / suspense settings with a side of fluff to soften the tone. fandoms include but are not limited to : supernatural, breaking bad, buffy the vampire slayer, resident evil, the witcher, & many more. currently more active on @astrophager (sideblog).

CARRD. ASK PROMPTS. INTEREST TRACKER. PLEASE FILL OUT MY INTEREST TRACKER!

current highest muse for : amélie lacroix, mike munroe, maelle, elizabeth march, jesse pinkman. updated jul. 2026.

drafts / inbox tracker under read more.

#JAM | TWENTY8 | UK | HE / SHE / THEY.#SEMI HIATUS. MORE ACTIVE ON @ASTROPHAGER.

HIIII i would Like to lock in today (saturday is usually when i have a big chunk of time) however i have plans to prep for and not all that much time at all.... so i'll probably be more on space man! but i will make time to chunk some drafts here soon <3

#OOC.

sweeetestcurse

Deacon St. John 48/??

#DEACON : ID.#╰ ✧ . * D. ST. JOHN. / you drive down a winding road. an echo of her in your soul.#QUEUE.

croftborn

so she's not dreaming, she's really back at o'leary, back in her bed. her bed, her cabin, her home. it'd been a long, long time since she'd had any place to call home. deek had readily given her one. he offered home and food and shelter in exchange for ... what ? he could handle himself. hell, he does it perhaps better than she ever has. even if his rants worry her, the bouts of frustration raise a brow or two, he handles all this better than she ever has. he takes to it even. is she really envious of a man for coming undone more gracefully than she has ?

days. she nearly balks, falls back into bed, but instead she steels onto elbows and finally rears herself upright, somewhat turned so her shoulders press back into the wooden walls of the cabin they'd put together, together. jokes about escaping their stench and her lack of gratefulness that he's even doing this at all, ' we're makin' a lotta noise for this, you know ' it seems so distant now, draped in a veil. a world away, their world is something else entirely now. somehow, the apocalypse is not the worst thing that's happened to this place. maybe it is to deacon, after all, he got his sarah back. ah, the bitterness is not gone. her face falls into her palms.

he mentions water and immediately her throat runs dry, she doesn't remember the last time anything's gone down the gullet, water or otherwise. somewhere on the hike back to o'leary she'd forgotten to keep track, keep rations. she'd forgotten to step right, avoid the traps they'd set up for future meals to save time and ammunition on hunting. it's a good thing she'd only gone mentally mute, a good thing at all she's somehow made it back. is it a good thing she's made it back ? does she really have a place here any more ? ever since she caught him sneaking to bear creek, she'd been the only one who believed, furthured his dream into reality. she'd promised him he'd find sarah and now he did. her debt is paid. maybe it's time to move on.

❝ water's fine. ❞ she finally manages to croak out as she runs a hand through her hair, grimacing at the crunch of it. someone tried to clean it but opted to let her sleep for two days instead. she's sure she must have been woken and fed too, but her mouth feels tacky and grainy like arid grounds. she thinks that's the end of it but her brows furrow when the thuds don't stop. she thought they were in her head, thud, thud, thud. they're not, the wooden panels creak under deacon's boots. slowly she lifts her head, her eyes follow him as he bounces off one side of the room to another. she thinks something will happen, he would stop, match point, and say something. he doesn't, so she has to. something's not right.

❝ can you stop ? ❞ lara whispers, a bit shorter than she intends as she forces her tired gaze up at his to face. ❝ what's going on with you ? ❞ there is a little accusation there. what could he possibly have to worry about, present circumstances aside ?

embodies

sarah sees through him like a veil, has already pinned him down and interrogated the reason for his stony silences, the tread of his boots never stilling, the more frequent excursions on his bike despite no urgent need for supplies. freakers seem more and more like a hydra : he kills one and three take their place, and he wonders every day when they might face this newly evolved strain, when freakers might become indistinguishable from humans who live and breathe. he wonders when nero will come for their sanctuary. it had torn him in two to lie to his old lady, or at the very least to omit truths — she knows it, he knows it, and finally she had relinquished him to his harboured secret with one final question he could not avoid the pin - sharp light of. is it bad ?

yeah. yeah, it's— it's real bad.

deacon faces the same awkward dance now, retrieves her water all too dutifully, eager to have a purpose he knows how to follow through on. his gait stops abruptly at her request, a diligent soldier after all, even now. the laugh he responds with is light, airy, too much of each, cloying and forced in his throat. ❛ what's going on with me ? you come in here looking like death walkin', but what's going on with me ? els, what the hell happened out there ? you gotta death wish, some kind of go out with a bang situation you got going on ? ❜ he is not infuriated, squints to understand but equally finds it all too easy a deviation, a rigid excuse to turn the lens away from him and onto lara, lara where she lies a corpse fresh out of the grave and shakily sipping water like she's a newborn foal, knees knocking.

❛ you're lucky they didn't mow you down where you stood. you know how twitchy they get at the perimeter. ❜ riddled with bites or bullets, lara had certainly committed some sort of marvel to come out unscathed from both freaker and human. lucky, indeed. he needs a little bit of that good fortune, the ability to twist the odds in his favour just one more goddamn time. he had thought finding sarah would be enough. o'brian had proven him sorely, sorely wrong.

#croftborn #croftborn02.#don't worry lara everything! is FINE you should worry about yourself actually!#what was that haha! nearly died! everything is fine btw!!!#DEACON : WRITING.#╰ ✧ . * D. ST. JOHN. / you drive down a winding road. an echo of her in your soul.#QUEUE.

claudia-kishi

requested by anon ♡ thomas magnum’s hair curl 🥺

#DEAN : ID.#╰ ✧ . * D. WINCHESTER. / your chest is a wall of fire. your soul is borne of thorns.#QUEUE.

5urvive

NEW RULE: THERE WOULD BE NO TUSSLES. it wasn't a hope, nor was it a dream, nor an assumption ; it was a fact which rogue would have bet her life on. why? because she wouldn't be allowing any tussles ( involving herself ) to occur. it would be a good night. a fun night, even ! and nothing more. was that so hard to believe ... ?

yes, the answer was yes, and she knew why the answer was yes ── rogue was rogue, and being rogue meant that said question would always have YES as an answer : but for the night, if someone was going to have a problem it wouldn't be her. if dean felt the need to bust someone out of something he'd have to look elsewhere -- and knowing the company she kept, lucky for him he wouldn't need to look far.

the sound of wheels on asphalt had a calming quality, and in the moment of near silence which followed ( humming not included ) rogue knew that there was room enough to be serious. maybe she could have offered an in-advance apology for the behavior she was sure to display later on despite having promised herself to keep calm. maybe a thank you could have been issued because, fuck it, she wanted to go but would never have gone alone. there were a multitude of things which she could have said, but why purposefully ruin the sanctity of the road with a level of honesty neither of them were comfortable with.

" if we get there and it sucks, we should dip out and get ribs somewhere instead. " there, that was more like it. the perfect amount of bullshittery to keep things cozy.

embodies

maybe he's the one that will need breaking out of trouble. he is no angry drunk, tends to brood to himself while the action unfolds around him, but his mouth has always been a loose cannon, his face a delectable target for a right hook should he come out with something uncouth. it is not an intentional diversion into debauchery, rather the consequence of a boy grown into his own with little to no tutelage, a cockiness and swagger that fits him about as well as his papá's leather jacket, which is to say too big, too loose, too high a standard.

❛ oh, hell, yes. rib me up, scotty. ❜ the non - committal hunter will be the first to close up shop if the general vibe of the night isn't up to par, and knowing this feeling is mutual leaves him chirpy with enthusiasm for the party that he might not have had before. not so much the party, as the options. he has already staked out nearby motels ( sammy had been adamant that he shan't drive back ) but the option of never getting that hammered at all hadn't crossed his mind. maybe they can get ribs and get wasted. ❛ you think it will ? suck, i mean. ❜ barely a glance over from the road, hands on the wheel and focus in a thousand places — it is about as close as he gets to sincerity, his brother typically toeing the line far better than he, forcing tough conversations when all dean would rather do is speak to a bottle, a mixtape, a monster to gank.

#5urvive #5urvive01.#the way ur talkin about pitiful reply speeds when i have this bad boy finally done KLSDFLDKFK #no pressure ever if we move like molasses that's ay okay <3 #DEAN : WRITING.#╰ ✧ . * D. WINCHESTER. / your chest is a wall of fire. your soul is borne of thorns.#QUEUE.

as a reminder, i am heaps more active on @astrophager right now but as he's (currently) a sideblog i can't follow from there! i won't assume us as mutuals unless you of course follow him, i do have plans to move him to his own blog soon hehe <3

i am HOPING to write here tomorrow however! but if you want something more prompt i'm afraid that this blog is essentially in semi-hiatus atm and you WILL have more luck with the space man guaranteed.

#i've had a few new followers recently and generally just #activity update for you all new and old so <3 #OOC.

gamersdaily

widowmaker in “alive”

#AMÉLIE : ID.#╰ ✧ . * A. LACROIX. / there is something i deeply miss that i cannot remember.#QUEUE.

maurilyan

she has the scent of iron. and everytime leitha walks past her they smell it. it mixes with the flames of a fire, embers weak on the tips of her hair: it raptures them into a trance. as she, bare and spotless, moves as though she is levitating, and they are fleeting, always running, as though they are witnessing a miracle. the long night has been filled with dancing, the clinking of glasses, all champagne tongues and whiskey neats. their collar, once stifling, has been loosened with inhibitions, unbuttoned and dangling. they are leaning against the window sill of this high rise, this apartment under their name in the belly of a city they have learned to tango with, in a suit that cost vanishes without a showing of pain. and the spider has been waiting for their return, and she slinks and slows, and she asks them about their night over their shoulder.

@embodies , [ TOY ] sender fidgets with something receiver is wearing while receiver talks to them (widow)

her nails grapple against the base of their throat. it finds the knot of their tie and tugs, begins to pull it apart. leitha holds out their hand to touch her, seeking even the slightest contact. it is practically instinctual, the way their elbow bows and bends inwards, how they look at her through the veil between them that makes it hard to breathe. there is a tether that pulls, and pushes further still, like an invisible burden. it proceeds to ask what they are willing to sacrifice, and how far they are willing to bleed to get what they want. she rolls the fabric between her fingers, again and again, breathing the hot particles that slip off their neck slick. she is lightning held tight by a blackened sky, a beautified catastrophe.

the humidity in the room is thickened, and with the terminality of a disease, their hands find the slope of her hips. they hold her between their legs, and they look up at her, and she still plays with the silk of their tie. fingers begin to clench, and they pull her down into them, and they kiss her. it is rhythmic, deliberate. it is as if their kiss was apart of an endless howl, all habitual and routine. they covered their mouth with her own as if they were on the verge of a nightmare, in the center of a predators nest. they can hardly bring themselves to touch her, but the blinding night never cared for their submission. they inhaled her sweet smell, swallowed it into their lungs.

they say ( whisper ) it into her mouth: ❝ do you truly wish to hear more about my night? is that why you waited for me here? ❞

embodies

widow's reports back had been light work, another request fulfilled with little hitch, although her return to base forever delayed with justifications of remaining on the field. they know of leitha : talon know everything after all, would not have allowed these curious departures if it weren't for the fruitious bounty it could promise to bring. of course the sniper is bound to them, must return frequently for medical check - ins and would not survive long without moira's transfusions and procedures to keep her sustained. her spare time, however, is spent here. she wonders idly what will happen when they deem the investigator no longer useful. she wonders despite knowing what they do with long since discarded toys, knows that even her own existence is a ticking timebomb prolonged by every kill she undertakes, a life for a life.

she knows and ignores it, remains present in favour of the swing of a door noting the other's return ( lacroix had known sooner, heard the telltale clack of footsteps long before any entry was made, could have scoured with infrared if she found herself dedicated enough — she's not ) and is quick to fit herself into the slots of space that are allowed, even some that aren't. she is not one for boundaries, not unless she is pushing them, which she finds is less and less the case as she is welcomed further. dutifully she listens, eyes never leaving the countenance of the other despite her hands working deftly at first the knot to loosen it, a hanging noose, then the shirt collar underneath, only a button or two popped to reveal their pulse. she wants to bite it. she gets something close to that satisfaction when she is tugged inward, thinks about how she could just as easily push them both out of this windowpane as she could lean into it, succumb.

it feels like another life stolen, like every breath captured between their merged mouths is one that the widow greedily claims as her own, like if she went on for long enough she would leave the other desiccated, a corpse. it feels like something she had long left behind, barely wisps of secondhand smoke she inhales voraciously in a long since empty room. when her tryst speaks it warrants a small and dry laugh, alien territory for a woman of such stoicism, such threat. ❛ intel is always good, non ? ❜ she teases gingerly, unwilling to snap the strand of saliva between their lips, wanting to lick and suck and bite, that incessant need to bite rearing its head enough for her to dare a sharp nip to their lower lip. ❛ it sounds more interesting than mine. comment on dit, all work and no play ? ❜

she thinks back to the fire hours earlier, to the shadow of her sneaking out of it mostly uncharred. the smell sticks to her like a second skin, and in the papers tomorrow there will certainly be talk of the cauchemar that may have had some involvement in the chaos. she thinks of the elites burned to a crisp, a sacrifice by immolation. she has never taken issue with playing dirty. her hand wraps the loop of leitha's tie once, twice around her own wrist, tugs her in for another crushing kiss, tongue seeking the faintest trace of blood with interest. a life for a life. parting is made with some reluctance, an attempt at words, impish and devious. ❛ i suppose it can't have been that exhilarating. because you're here. ❜

#maurilyan #maurilyan07.#'sorry about the length' you said to THE ultimate yapper #as always u can ABSOLUTELY half this i can't shut up <3 #just girly things is getting cuteness aggression shortly before thinking about how u can throw them out a window... she's Sick #AMÉLIE : WRITING.#╰ ✧ . * A. LACROIX. / there is something i deeply miss that i cannot remember.#QUEUE.

satvojihusana

~ Thomas Magnum in Magnum P. I. 3x05 - The Day Danger Walked In (aka “That rain look tho…” :-D )

#DEAN : ID.#╰ ✧ . * D. WINCHESTER. / your chest is a wall of fire. your soul is borne of thorns.#QUEUE.

croftborn

lara's got numerous constellations sketched, she remembers them like the back of her hand, grateful for that one semester she dutifully studied precession and the movement of navigational stars in the sky. when she looks up again, she stands, holds up the journal to compare. she knows what she's looking at but she's askew, and dares a step east to watch the points of light meeting suddenly connect. ❝ ursa major .. big dipper. ❞ lara muses out loud, curious as she notes the step taken, takes it back, the constellation falters again. degrees ? what's the scale here ? she returns to where the broken ladle comes to focus and her eyes narrow as they linger on one point, shining bright at the extension of the handle. not part of the big dipper, never was. ❝ what are you doing here ? ❞

she circles to the next column east, her eyes don't leave her bright companion, like many years ago, a navigator's best friend. she arrives and the dipper's gone, but polaris shines ever bright. never part of the dipper, but part of ursa minor. she holds a deep breath inside her chest and walks back to the first column, her eyes take in the entire display of light once more and the dipper reappears. six columns. six constellations ? six coordinates ? a disquieted hum settles in the back of her throat as the effort stretches, taunts her, but she arrives at opposite column, establishes direction. and wills her eyes to unfocus from polaris. ever bright, the center of these puzzles somehow. a theory she needs to confirm. her hand fingers at the journal, she remembers exactly which constellation is hastily sketched into which page.

the lattice reshapes again. this time it’s sharper, more jagged. a zigzag crown etched in light. cassiopeia. the 'w' tilts depending on where she stands, but its curve always bends around the same fixed star. polaris again, the queen of stars, the constellations bow to it. lara keeps going, gathers more constellations as they wrap around polaris. cepheus challenges her, barely appearing if she's not standing at the right angle, immediately breaking when she so much as turns her head. not the constellation that matters then. onto the next one.

draco's chains wrap around polaris in warning, tread lightly, traveler. the intricacy deepens the frown on her features as she slows her note taking to absorb the sky shifting before her eyes. she almost loses heart when cygnus' cross bears down on her and conceals polaris in a divine guard, but when she crouches it splits. polaris again. six constellations ... not six puzzles, but six clues to on one very intricate puzzle. lara looks down at her journal and her eyes become distant, her mind works the math faster than her hands would ever catch up as she returns to main column and faces true north once more. when her vision goes out of focus, she remembers where dean is, only because he interrupts her. and at the perfect time too. her lips curl up in an awestruck, cocksure grin.

❝ the lights form constellations. six. most used for navigation, and in the center of each one is polaris. the north star. ❞ lara goes on as she takes one step east of north, ❝ it's not part of all of them. but it's there at every angle. because this ... ❞ and step east, ❝ is a compass. and the aqueduct is a calibration tool. ❞ one sharp step west. ❝ and i've just calibrated it. ❞

a beat, lara looks ahead, beyond the rocky walls. ❝ i know where the temple is. ❞

embodies

dean's lack of familiarity doesn't mean he pays any less attention to her explanation, mahogany gaze wandering skyward, taking in the lights in a new focal lens now that lara has tuned it for him. it is like one of those optical illusions, impossible to parse until you strain your eyes just right, and while he won't pretend to have figured out all the details ( mostly because his constellation knowledge isn't all that savvy ) he sees the core idea she's getting at. ❛ these guys were astrology nuts, then. ❜ he offers bluntly, a coarse summary compared to her detailed workings out. he briefly wonders what they'd have to say about him being an aquarius, figures that anyone who put this much work into a stars puzzle will certainly have something to remark upon when it comes to birth dates and fates aligning.

❛ so. you gonna . . . share with the class ? we're going, right ? we've come this far ? ❜ it is little less focused on the notion of pursuing it but rather that he's along for the ride, knows that she's gone to a plane he can't follow but will do regardless. the rasp and burn of water in his vocal cords is all he has to show for it, but he's always known two to be better than one. there is danger in going it alone, perhaps also danger in his less experienced footing in these tunnels and caverns she lives and breathes, but he's seen how voracious she gets, how her mind tunnel visions and steps become too sure. he knows something of overconfidence himself. ❛ c'mon, lar. lead the way — but you better be sure. i don't wanna be scooping up croft pancake batter on the way outta here. ❜ truth be told, he's not sure he would make it out of here without her in tow. trust runs both ways.

#croftborn #croftborn03.#dean like riiiiiight... stars....#DEAN : WRITING.#╰ ✧ . * D. WINCHESTER. / your chest is a wall of fire. your soul is borne of thorns.#QUEUE.

likeafantasy

BREAKING BAD (2008-2013) 3x10 ⌁ Fly

#shoutout cherryproduct THE original url <333 #JESSE : ID.#╰ ✧ . * J. PINKMAN. / the traumatised are unpredictable. they know they can survive.#QUEUE.

maurilyan

the cigarette is replacement, for the hesitation on their tongue. the smoke is comfort for both, and for leitha, it is reminder and caution wrapped around their lungs. whether or not their belief in him, and subsequently his words, are bounded by their instinct to mistrust, sometimes, it does not matter. ❝ i'm sorry. about your aunt. any loss is difficult to live through. ❞ their hand over his, briefly, a passing moment. then another drag, longer and ingested as he does. ❝ ━and about your boss. although i'm sure that they do love you. it'll be hard not to. ❞ a smile for the moms. and their prodding continues, a prattle onto a seemingly different subject, or, an opposing line of the same subject with different meaning behind their questioning. a gentle pry. ❝ i don't think i could work for anyone. i have always been my own boss━ have you ever considered it? do you not wish to do something you truly enjoy? ❞

then fluttering gaze to their surroundings once more. their cheek rests against the ledge of the couch and stays there, fingers playing with its frayed edges. ❝ it's nice. ❞ they deal in half truths, and trade in half lies. it is nice, to them. well, perhaps nice was where the middle ground of their words lay, considering no, the place itself was a 'shithole'. messy, dirty, all the same. but there is life in the crinkled wrappers that line the floor, the smell of cologne lining the furniture, the dishes haphazardly put away. proof of life. the sterileness of their apartment, a hidden high rise in the city, and the fallow feeling of their office is left at that: neglected, dormant. life is inert in the places they spend the most time within. pictures lining their office walls of brutalization, and the dense smell of disinfectant from the cleaners at their flat━ money has left them the privilege of remaining indifferent to a home. impassive at best.

but the problem always arises when they enter another's abode: that within the cracks of the walls and the folds of the carpet, there is warmth. a palpable heat that you can touch, that you can feel and smell and see when you are within its space. and so you overlook the mess and the dust, because it is something you have never been around before. ❝ very homey. truly, i like it here. it's better than my office. i barely see the sun whenever i'm there. plus the company is quite nice. ❞

embodies

leitha's touch is gone before he can dwell on it, like a butterfly landing for rest before continuing its fluttering journey far, far away. it is as mythical as a fairy tale and not spoken of, but its intended comfort is taken like a small pill and goes down smoothly. he feels guilty about involving aunt ginny in his web of lies, even just by association, but it is a life he has lived just long enough for it to start losing its emotional toll. ❛ yeah. well, you haven't met the boss. ❜ it is not so much a discrediting of their compliment ( although that is also easily done ) but rather a reflection on mr. white and all he stands for, a pillar of encouragement and deprecation and discouragement all in one. sometimes jesse wonders why he sticks around, other times he wants to thank his former and current teacher for everything he has, everything he's learned. then he remembers what he's lost. suddenly booze and smokes don't feel strong enough, but he merely tugs at the ring of his shirt neck with an index finger and breathes fumes in deeper, as if they could become a part of him entirely.

❛ ooh, yeah. look at me, i have an office. ❜ he says the word with such grandiosity, something nigh incomprehensible to him, blue eyes gleaming and brows high up on his forehead in cheerful mockery. his legs come up until a socked foot gives them a teasing half - kick, half - nudge, then stay there in an awkward but somehow comfortable pretzel. his elbow takes turns resting on his knee and stretching toward the table to flick ash into tray respectively. ❛ what do you do, freelance freddie over here ? and how do i not know the deets by now ? ❜ he says this as if he hadn't just revealed his rather anticlimactic laundromat job, sold it as truth easier than crystal is distributed in albuquerque's alleyways. ❛ you like, one of those editors an' shit ? gettin' paid to tell people how ass their work is ? ❜ he is most cheerful out of the limelight, in pockets of playfulness and friendship however forced or artificial. somehow, he doesn't get the feeling this one is, though.

#maurilyan #maurilyan03.#a smile for the moms!!!#JESSE : WRITING.#╰ ✧ . * J. PINKMAN. / the traumatised are unpredictable. they know they can survive.#QUEUE.

gifsbystar

jay hernandez as thomas magnum in magnum p.i. 03x05 sneak peek 1

#DEAN : ID.#╰ ✧ . * D. WINCHESTER. / your chest is a wall of fire. your soul is borne of thorns.#QUEUE.

stormlit

the joke is both terrible and overdone; fred snorts at it anyway. she'd have been a terrible archaeologist anyway, she's sure, but she really did want to be a physicist. and sure, she still writes papers, sometimes, she still gets to apply her knowledge in more practical, supernatural-ly applications, but this isn't what she thought her life would be. this isn't who she thought she would be. but there's no other version of herself but this one, now; pylea chewed her up and spat her out, did all kinds of screwy things to her brain, and it's only thanks to angel and the rest of her friends that she's even approaching normal, now. fred knows she wasn't, for a while. she knows she was a mess.

❝ oh, it was jealousy. he was threatened by his grad students, the promising ones, so he got rid of us. there were four others, and me. i was the only one to come back. ❞ what else? there are two reasons people do awful, murderous things, most of the time: jealousy and power. often both at once. the fact that seidel resorted to magic over just killing them was probably more due to the fact that he thought nobody would ever know. he'd not counted on her, and her instinct for survival. ❝ i mean, i dunno if he knew about magic and portals anyway, or if he did his research to find a way to get rid of supposed competition, but i wasn't really in the mood to ask. ❞

embodies

❛ if it's not money, it's power. ❜ dean speaks solemnly into the breeze by way of commentary, knows of many a sacrifice made in honor of reputation, promises of immortality and wishes made real and greed fulfilled. it's always too good to be true. the white picket fence life is almost untouchable, and even then it has its limits. still, he knows a thing or two about being the only one to make it out of something alive : he has sammy, sure, but how many lives have been lost along the way ? he remembers them all, like an unspoken tally that carves into the inside of his beer bottles and accumulates like sand in the bottom of his whiskey tumblers. he swallows past the grit, keeps going. it's all he can do.

❛ all my science teach did was tell me to apply myself. huh. guess some 'uv us really do have it easier. ❜ dean flicks the stub of his cigarette and presses the heel of his boot into asphalt to extinguish the last dregs of smoke. while that fix may be taken care of, there's nothing like a near miss bullet dodge demon hunting situation to make a grumbling hole in his stomach. he has a feeling the candies he stocked up on won't be the most fulfilling of meals.

❛ —you hungry ? ❜

#stormlit #stormlit06.#DEAN : WRITING.#╰ ✧ . * D. WINCHESTER. / your chest is a wall of fire. your soul is borne of thorns.#QUEUE.

darthvaders

Jay Hernandez on shaving his eyebrows for his role in Suicide Squad.

#DEAN : ID.#╰ ✧ . * D. WINCHESTER. / your chest is a wall of fire. your soul is borne of thorns.#QUEUE.

atundeyth

[ I 'UNNO IF YOU WANT ME TO ANSWER THAT ONE. ] theodora’s head tilted a fraction and her eyes narrowed. it was no secret that dean winchester had a sense of humor, but unfortunately for him, she didn’t take kindly to insults about her appearance. after all, it had taken her a long time to get over people depicting her as some sort of skeletal figure dressed in a hooded cloak. and a fucking man, at that. “ you think i’m ugly? ” her arms folded across her chest and if she hadn’t considered killing him before, she was absolutely contemplating it now. thinking of all the ways she could attempt to permanently damn him to some hellish afterlife. “ maybe you're the ugly one, stupid. ” a beat. “ rashes have cures, all i've gotta do is find the right antidote. whatdoyasay, dean? for old time's sake. let's see which one sticks. ”

embodies

stupid. wow. she really got him there. he has to actively hold in his wisecracks before they get him in more trouble than it's worth, but rest assured he has another one locked and loaded on his palate, held back at the roof of his mouth like a dissolving piece of communion bread. ❛ 's not what the ladies tell me, but you know best. ❜ his restraint lasted about as long as a nine days' wonder, but he's getting as tired of this little game as she : the foreplay gets old fast when it's with death incarnate. ❛ are you just here to pull my chain, or is there something you want ? 'cause i can't imagine you wanna throw me back into the pit just for kicks. but i mean, by all means, correct me if i'm wrong. i'm open to criticism. ❜

#undeyth #undeyth01.#he's so annoying smite him <3 #jay hernandez propaganda unite!#DEAN : WRITING.#╰ ✧ . * D. WINCHESTER. / your chest is a wall of fire. your soul is borne of thorns.#QUEUE.

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