#notromantic

[eric-sadahire]

Neither romantic nor platonic but a secret fourth thing

(Bonded like stray cats who cannot be adopted separately)

[baylorhound]

These things annoy the crap out of me. It is not romantic. It is vandalism. It is no better than tagging. And those that use combination locks are the stupidest vandals because they miss the whole point of this idiotic eyesore. #stopthelocks #vadalism #notromantic #eyesore (at Charles Bridge, Old Town, Prague)

[waywardsons-imagines]

FBI...?

Gif isn't mine, it just fits! Also, beware! Story plot as thin as a Listerine! Just a little funny idea provided by @imnoaingeal!

~Grace

“Damn vampires,” Dean muttered more to himself than Sam. Nevertheless, his brother responded, muttering back, “Let’s just wrap this one up quick, yeah?”

Dean couldn’t agree more, but unfortunately, they had come across a cunning pack. Not even a day into the case and an obvious trace was nowhere to be seen. Just impressive trails of bodies. Trails… plural. All dead ends, despite the messy bodies and despite the fact that there were too many kills to be inconspicuous… these attacks were still branded “animal attacks”. They had their FBI getups on as they rolled up to the hospital. It was their standard procedure, even if it didn’t seem to ever usually turn anything up in cases like these. Looking for clues was better than reading up on abandoned real estate, Dean vouched. The only reason Sam turned a blind eye to this flawless logic, was simply because he, too, was sick of research.

They entered the building after double checking that they had their badges (FBI Agents Delroy and Eucie), and came upon you -- the hospital receptionist. Now, you were neither plain nor gorgeous (especially in your scrubs), but you certainly grabbed the attention of the shorter of the two men. He had grabbed your attention too, but perhaps not for the same reason. “Hello,” he practically purred, leaning against the counter slightly and smiling down at you. You gave a small, and what possibly looked like a dazed smile in return. Before you could speak, the two of them displayed their badges, charmingly asking for the directions to the mortuary. Furrowing your brows, however, you swiftly and firmly, yet gently held the badges still in their hands between your index and thumb, looking between the two ID’s. “FBI” the words spelled out, and looked all official-like. The men above you shared a wide side-glance, but thinking that you hadn’t seen, their faces were suddenly cool masks, eyebrows up and teasing. Dare question them? Read it and weep! is what their expressions read. You felt a grin pull at your lips, and you laughed -- a quick breath through your nose. Releasing the badges, you smugly crossed your arms and leaned casually on your counter desk. “Last time you two were here, you were U.S. Marshals,” you quipped lightly, your grin turning to a smirk as their eyes went wide again, confused and searching. The tallest one’s -- Noah Hill, as he was last time, you remembered -- eyes suddenly widened in recognition, and he slowly brought a hand up, firmly rubbing down his mouth and chin. “Now, I’m not stupid,” you continued, hushed now and staring intently at the men before you, your eyes conveying your seriousness. “I know whatever the hell was going on last time wasn’t some bullshit animal attacks, just how I know these aren’t either.” They didn’t speak, so you continued. “Our mort’s good with faces,” you said, sitting back in your comfortable swivel chair. “I’d bet my ass he’d remember you two. I’d head back to that sexy car of yours,” you nodded the way of the parking lot, “and grab those other ID’s for this one, yeah?” The shorter one -- “Paul Torres” -- shook his head out of his daze. “How the hell did you remember us, huh?” His tone was neither serious nor teasing, so you didn’t know how else to take the question… You simply answered, “With a face like yours and a partner the size of a small building, you’re hard to forget, hon.” You internally blushed. You were never this bold or flippant with pet names… Ugh.

Blinking, and without saying another word, “Paul” backtracked straight out of the hospital and to the Impala, leaving Noah to swiftly follow him.

“More like, with asses like that, you’re hard to forget,” you hear one of your co-receptionists murmur into her book. “Shut the hell up, Karen,” you guffaw.

[littlehorriblecutiepie-blog]

Holding hands will not be the same >.< @soulcam

[myboyfriendsaidthis-blog]

Good morning smelly cat :)

-bf