#cursedhunting

[bloodsalted]

tasha vc: the audacity of that dumb slutty strand of hair.

dean vc: who knew a strand of hair could be slutty? but that's a burden this guy's willing to bear.

[qapsiel]

@cursedhunting ;; some meme somewhere Natasha said: "Don't you shush me."

                                "FINE. Then keep talking and let the demons know we're here." If he sounds slightly pissed off, well, it's because he is. You could say that they didn't meet under the best circumstances. Castiel isn't per se resentful, but getting trapped in a circle of holy fire and then threatened is hard to forget. Their relationship is more of an alliance of convenience, and Castiel would think it more convenient if Natasha wasn't here right now. "One of us can easily smite them. The other will flick salt at them." Oh, that's one cranky angel right there.

[ripbleakfated]

@cursedhunting asked: sometimes it feels like the rules are only there to stop me from doing my work. from the garrus vakarian meme

he could understand that sentiment. most hunters found themselves on the wrong side of the law a few times in their career. definitely put a damper on the feeling of saving people when local law enforcement caught onto the cover story before there was time to skip town. he wondered if that was why over time hunters seemed to get a bit more trigger happy and less likely to question what side of the blurred line of justice a supernatural being really fell on. then again, he had met dozens of hunters over the years and it seemed most of them that were like that had always been that way. ❝ sometimes i wonder how different it would be if more people knew about what we do. maybe less road blocks for us, but a descension into madness akin to the witch hysteria in the 1600s when the right paranoid blabbermouths caught wind. ❞

he scratched the back of his neck while his mind ran rampant with that version of reality. yeah, probably for the best most people knew the creatures of horror media and folktales walked among them. ❝ but hey, if you ever catch yourself behind bars. i have the number of a sheriff that knows about all this. she'd happily be your one phone call. ❞

[bloodsalted]

@cursedhunting || inbox meme reply || inbox temp. closed!

how'd they get that idea? (early seasons!)

gotta see this to believe it.

standing in the middle of a cornfield with the heebie jeebies is one thing. cause, no matter how to look at it, rows and rows of corn veiling anything that might be lurking feet away from you is always kinda creepy. thanks children of the corn on television when he was a kid. didn't matter that he already knew how to shoot a gun by then and was in charge of protecting sammy and shooting said gun at monsters should they threaten them in their little room--that movie freaked him out a little. now he watches it for nostalgia.

okay so. they're doing that. thing is--what's above them--is what makes dean stand there. staring. with a look of sheer disbelief written upon his face. birds. crows, actually. dead. limp. some up so long, it looks like they lost feathers. others fresh enough that the faint smell of blood lurks in the damp, earthen air. strung together like christmas lights and draped between the trees in long ropes.

nat's question hangs there for a second as dean follows each drape and counts them. one. two. three. four. crisscrossed like one might do for an outdoor wedding or party with twinkling bulbs. couple'a blinks later, he scratches the back of his head and squints unable to look away. mental filing cabinet flips through journal pages, clips of old newspapers he's committed to memory, tales of folklore--you name it, it's being dug through as he tries to give her an answer. "uhhh.... no fuckin' idea. thing is? m'not sure we should stick around here until we find out. cause this? looks like straight hoodoo or, nah, worse..." finding out the hard way how worse? doesn't sound too great!

[mischieflawed]

[ @cursedhunting liked for a starter: xxxx]]

❝ Everything about this place is giving me bad vibes on a Friday night.❞ Stiles replied as he smacked the flashlight against the palm of his hand, as it went out for the sixth time in a row, watching as it flicked back to life. ❝ What the hell is wrong with this thing? It has brand new batteries in it.❞

[bloodsalted]

@cursedhunting || random inbox reply || gah!!!

[TEXT] - wanna bang? [TEXT] - hang* [TEXT] - whatever

[ text: nat ] you sure you meant to send this to me? [ text: nat ] what would dan or mark or whatever your guy's name is say? [ text: nat ] 😉

[malumxsubest]

continued from here @cursedhunting

a diminutive smile curls at the edges of her lips, finding natasha's assumption humorously inaccurate. and quite honestly? a bit fuckin' rude. and there's that blasted crux of the matter: her little hunter has been harmed. and it surely isn't because of amelia. she wonders if there's a little cretin amongst them, hoping to tarnish whatever delicate business relationship that she and natasha have between them. and one thing is for certain, amelia doesn't fare well when someone meddles with her affairs, especially harming her business partners.

the void in flesh appears right before natasha and goes to snatch her wounded arm within her firm grasp, the tips of her claws threatening to puncture her flesh. " do not assume what i am, darling. i may be a monster to all hunters, however, my word has always been true. i am not like lucifer nor crowley. or those oversized feathered rats. " she hisses in displeasure of the situation. " now, tell me everything. start to finish. what have you noticed? what haven't you. " her dual inflection leaves no room for natasha to withhold essential information and preventing her from leaving from her grasp.

[bloodsalted]

@cursedhunting || 100 non-verbal prompts || accepting!

∗ 9o﹕ sender helps receiver patch up a wound .

the needle presses into his skin with a deft, expert precision.

white teeth clench together behind pulled back lips. dean hisses in a breath. just once. before his head drops down to rest upon forearms crisscrossed over the top of a dining room chair. forehead pressed in tight--he aims his glare at the dark shadow between his body and the back of the seat. her fingers are light upon his shoulder. careful. knowing. a trickle of blood seeps from the wound. dark red and angry against freckled and inked skin. luckily, the bastard that sliced him up with gross, black claws didn't rip through the art. always a bitch when that happens.

blindly, he shifts only slightly to reach between his thighs and pull out the whiskey bottle that's staring up at him. liquid relief. his shoulder doesn't move when the other does. been here, done this too many times. his body damn near's trained to stay put. tune out. deal with every little sting of the needle. a couple of swallows down--he's back to his original position. oak barrel breathed and a little closer to the good, numb side of drunk.

maybe once the booze mixes with the vicodin enough--he can drift off and just let her work. for now? she's gotta deal with him trying to strike up conversation about anything to get his mind off how bad those rips really are. natasha's got her work cut out for her. the freaking douchebag with fur wasn't kind. "i'd offer to buy ya dinner after this.. but m'sure what you're doing doesn't create the most appetizing mood." for her maybe? him? he can eat any time. "how bout enough to drink that we both forget i just bled all over your rug?"