ＤＥＡＤＭＹＴＨ [ ．．． ] @wihnchester - Tumblr Blog

@bluemocn // : 76﹕ sender is caught snooping in receiver’s things

It hadn’t taken the whole night, but he’d lined some places far beyond the town’s limits with salt. One fat devil’s circle, something to keep all the demons at bay. Or at least keep them in one pasture so he can snuff them out one by one. The symbolism of cattle and the approaching rapture isn’t spoken about, nor is he prodding at the meaning. John will continue living with the blind belief that there’s no strings attached to his arms and no goddamn rocks in his throat that keeps causing him to drown in the rivers that are meant to wash him clean. The truck’s engine cut off and heavy boots hit the ground as he climbed out of the driver’s side. It was a little before six in the morning and his bones ached with fatigue, but the door was ajar. He slows his walk, jaw clenching a few times as he positions his gun in front of him before kicking the door completely open. The woman is petite and timid, a doe-like quality to her that just made him all the more cynical. A gruff demand, ‘ Don’t you know there’s killers in this town? Should make you want to stay clear of motel rooms and the random shit they hide. Who the hell are you? ‘

#GENERAL: CHATS.#&. GENERAL: PANDORA DAWSON.

&. ＡＩＮ＇ＴＮＯＧＲＡＶＥ

#*I AM A HOUSE SWOLLEN WITH THE DEAD.

roadmotel

#*I AM A HOUSE SWOLLEN WITH THE DEAD.#C: DEAN WINCHESTER.

captainheroism

#*I AM A HOUSE SWOLLEN WITH THE DEAD.

ohisms

𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 . ( a collection of 100 nonverbal action prompts . mature and potentially triggering themes are present . add “ + reverse ” to swap assigned roles . )

∗ o1﹕ sender tucks hair out of receiver’s face . ∗ o2﹕ sender offers receiver a bite from their fork . ∗ o3﹕ sender places their feet / legs in receiver's lap . ∗ o4﹕ sender offers receiver an earbud to share their music . ∗ o5﹕ sender comforts receiver in the aftermath of a nightmare . ∗ o6﹕ sender gives receiver company in the hospital . ∗ o7﹕ sender wraps their arms around a hysterical receiver to calm them . ∗ o8﹕ sender shows up at receiver’s home late at night . ∗ o9﹕ sender falls asleep leaning against receiver . ∗ 1o﹕ sender wields a [ gun / knife ] at receiver . ∗ 11﹕ sender runs their fingers through receiver’s hair . ∗ 12﹕ sender invites receiver to dance . ∗ 13﹕ sender takes a [ picture / video ] of receiver . ∗ 14﹕ sender places their head in receiver’s lap . ∗ 15﹕ sender and receiver make eye contact across a busy room . ∗ 16﹕ sender pushes receiver against a wall to kiss them . ∗ 17﹕ sender and receiver cook together . ∗ 18﹕ sender comes to receiver after being injured . ∗ 19﹕ sender sits in receiver’s lap . ∗ 2o﹕ sender lifts receiver's chin , invoking eye contact . ∗ 21﹕ sender overtakes receiver in combat . ∗ 22﹕ sender finds receiver [ injured / bloodied ] . ∗ 23﹕ sender straightens an article of receiver’s clothes . ∗ 24﹕ sender crawls into bed with receiver . ∗ 25﹕ sender rolls their eyes at receiver . ∗ 26﹕ sender lights receiver’s [ cigarette / joint ] . ∗ 27﹕ sender is caught wearing receiver's clothes . ∗ 28﹕ sender strikes receiver with a pillow . ∗ 29﹕ sender writes a note on receiver’s skin : [ note ] . ∗ 3o﹕ sender wraps a blanket around receiver’s shoulders . ∗ 31﹕ sender runs and jumps into receiver’s arms . ∗ 32﹕ sender shoves receiver out of anger . ∗ 33﹕ sender hovers over receiver’s shoulder as they complete a task . ∗ 34﹕ sender is found by receiver somewhere they shouldn’t be . ∗ 35﹕ sender curls up against receiver in their sleep . ∗ 36﹕ sender is found drunk by receiver . ∗ 37﹕ sender throws an item of sentiment bitterly at receiver . ∗ 38﹕ sender joins receiver in the shower . ∗ 39﹕ sender is caught following receiver . ∗ 4o﹕ sender traces one of receiver’s [ scars / bruises ] . ∗ 41﹕ sender twines their fingers with receiver’s . ∗ 42﹕ sender barges into receiver’s home unannounced . ∗ 43﹕ sender kicks receiver’s shin beneath a table . ∗ 44﹕ sender aggressively shoves past receiver . ∗ 45﹕ sender kisses receiver’s [ forehead / cheek ] . ∗ 46﹕ sender pulls receiver out of harm’s way . ∗ 47﹕ sender is found sobbing by receiver . ∗ 48﹕ sender locks receiver out of their room . ∗ 49﹕ sender brings receiver [ coffee / tea ] in the morning . ∗ 5o﹕ sender rests their forehead against receiver’s . ∗ 51﹕ sender plays a song for receiver that reminds them of them : [ song ] . ∗ 52﹕ sender takes a [ punch / stab / bullet ] meant for receiver . ∗ 53﹕ sender buys receiver a drink at a bar . ∗ 54﹕ sender needs receiver’s help getting in the bath . ∗ 55﹕ sender and receiver cross paths in the kitchen late at night . ∗ 56﹕ sender twists receiver’s arm behind their back . ∗ 57﹕ sender winks at receiver . ∗ 58﹕ sender is found collapsed by receiver . ∗ 59﹕ sender prevents an injured receiver from getting up . ∗ 6o﹕ sender claps a hand over receiver’s mouth to silence them . ∗ 61﹕ sender cages receiver against a [ wall / the floor ] with their arms . ∗ 62﹕ sender storms away from receiver during an argument . ∗ 63﹕ sender is found by receiver sleeping in receiver’s bed . ∗ 64﹕ sender [ applies / touches up ] receiver’s makeup . ∗ 65﹕ sender throws receiver into a wall during combat . ∗ 66﹕ sender dances sensually with receiver . ∗ 67﹕ sender strikes receiver across the face . ∗ 68﹕ sender places their hand on receiver’s leg while driving . ∗ 69﹕ sender pulls a chair out from under receiver . ∗ 7o﹕ sender catches receiver’s wrist when they turn to leave . ∗ 71﹕ sender leaves an intimate mark on receiver . ∗ 72﹕ sender beats receiver in a video game . ∗ 73﹕ sender and receiver stand in stunned silence after a fight . ∗ 74﹕ sender cares for receiver while they’re sick . ∗ 75﹕ sender and receiver go on a hike . ∗ 76﹕ sender is caught snooping in receiver’s things . ∗ 77﹕ sender and receiver cuddle while watching television . ∗ 78﹕ sender throws something aggressively at receiver . ∗ 79﹕ sender creeps up behind receiver to scare them . ∗ 8o﹕ sender and receiver go shopping together . ∗ 81﹕ sender helps receiver [ dye / style ] their hair . ∗ 82﹕ sender draws receiver into a kiss by the back of their neck . ∗ 83﹕ sender is discovered having a panic attack by receiver . ∗ 84﹕ sender accidentally injures receiver during sparring . ∗ 85﹕ sender grabs receiver roughly by the hair . ∗ 86﹕ sender brings receiver to their knees during combat . ∗ 87﹕ sender shows receiver evidence of a lie they told . ∗ 88﹕ sender winks [ seductively / mockingly ] at receiver . ∗ 89﹕ sender yells at receiver to put their hands in the air . ∗ 9o﹕ sender helps receiver patch up a wound . ∗ 91﹕ sender holds receiver as they cry . ∗ 92﹕ sender silently and angrily points receiver towards the door . ∗ 93﹕ sender gestures for receiver to sit down . ∗ 94﹕ sender pulls receiver into their lap . ∗ 95﹕ sender cradles receiver’s face . ∗ 96﹕ sender tackles receiver out of the way of danger . ∗ 97﹕ sender has hidden an injury from receiver , and receiver finds out . ∗ 98﹕ sender confronts receiver about their unhealthy behavior . ∗ 99﹕ sender proposes to receiver . ∗ 1oo﹕ sender has just died , receiver finds out .

#again i'm accepting these on all my accounts !!!! xooxoxox

culpatus:

YOU’D MADE FRIEND WITH THE GRAVE GIRL , A MARTYR KNOWS THEIR PLACE . wrought bones are already marked , seared and smoldering from the lickings of dante’s inferno , salvation will not find her , a foolish sentiment to cling to . how many more hours do you have left ? the reaper watches his clock , ready to set his hellhounds on you . offering of damnation has been bestowed upon her in deranged parting gift , IS IT NOT HOW A FATHER SHOWS HIS LOVE ?by poisoning the fruits of his family tree , filling head with such nonsense and terror . 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 , a parting reminder that one will forever be marred , a kind of tainting unable to be washed clean . revelation of her eternal resting place had come from the mouth of a demon , 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 , she reacts with clenched maw , EMOTION IS WEAKNESS GIRL ! you must swallow acidity down velveteen trachea , 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 . after all , you would do well to remember , you are a poisoned fruit and they do not get to weep . the hands of john remind her that fleeting instances of bliss can be found even for the cursed . ❝ by all means , keep touchin’ me . ❞ announced admittance that she prefers graze of his hands , 𝐴 𝐷𝐸𝑆𝑃𝐸𝑅𝐴𝑇𝐸 𝑁𝐸𝐸𝐷 𝑇𝑂 𝐹𝐸𝐸𝐿 𝑆𝑂𝑀𝐸𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐺 , anything . belly is the home to an insatiable hunger , albeit for both violence and lust alike . familiarity of his warm frame garners a hushed hum of approval , mind wandering to how good it’d felt to be pressed against him in heated exchange . proximity means head lulls back slightly , head tilted upwards to 𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 . smirk accompanies the lifted brow when he vocalises his request so blasely . ❝ you want me to be the WELCOME WAGON ? well , only ‘cause you asked so nicely . but s’gonna cost ya . ❞ hues shamelessly flit to his mouth , reminiscing over how he tasted like ɢᴜɴᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ sᴛᴀʟᴇ ᴡʜɪsᴋᴇʏ , intoxicated by the thought . ❝ i’m sure you’ll come up with somethin’ i could want . ❞

⸻

The catalyst isn’t made to be one, but the flesh of the son is created in the image of the father. This is not to say that god had a hand in any of this, but there’s certainly fate that churns their clumsy lives into thick despair. He’s the grave-digger, after all, he lines the coffins with bodies and expects nothing less of the world than widows mourning. Except he’s the one dressed in black, cut and sliced open and observed in front of those very entities he denies. The buck with his crooked antlers finally captured and shown a mirror: here is the earth and below it is destiny. One must grin and bear it when the devil calls the name. Who else led that poor soul there? Who else pulled the trigger? Who else found himself with two boys and an obsession that lodged itself in his throat? John Winchester isn’t a legacy, he’s the offering. To what he’s not sure, but he feels the cold blade of a knife against his neck when he sleeps - knows that the owl outside his window sees more than field mice. Paranoia is prominent in the long days, the humidity draws out the poison to the surface. It makes him aggressive, prone to bursts of irritation and impulses requiring blood and more blood. This evening was cooler, a chilled north wind blowing occasionally and causing the crickets to chirp out complaints. He simmers here, a mirage of twisted roots and dead sins, a preacher man that carries guns and holy water. No bibles to be found. No worshiped saints. Nothing but sweat and that endless guzzling of unrequited faith. Maggie stands firm on the ground. She knew what the earth was and she knew how to make herself rough like gravel, and smooth like silk. She knew how she tasted to him, like red clay and ripened strawberries. Fingers dig into the curve of her flesh, filling his palms with her. Lips press together lazily, tongue clicking the roof of his mouth before he parts them again. ‘ That’s my girl. ‘ White teeth shown with the voiced out praise, a roughness to it that’s more excitement than anything. An ooze of old charisma pulls the grin wider, ‘ Could think of a few things already, Maggie. Shit, you got too many clothes on for all of them. ‘ Hands cup further down to her thighs, lifting her easily, gaze dropped to her mouth. ‘ Don’t know if we can afford a distraction like that. ‘

#GENERAL: CHATS.#C: MAGGIE FUSILIER.

mortalrot:

𝚂𝙷𝙴𝙴𝚁 , 𝙳𝚄𝙼𝙱 𝙻𝚄𝙲𝙺 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙾𝙽𝙻𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙷𝙰𝚂 𝙷𝙸𝙼 𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳 ; the sight of a sleek black truck ringing all too familiar as his dad’s new chosen ride. replacement is an ugly word for what he considers home , but he never quite manages to escape the curdling in his stomach when forced to acknowledge his dad’s outgrowing of the impala ⸻ of him. he HATES the damn truck , but it still has him scanning the area around it for traces of his dad , for any sort of recognition from the darkened back alley.

the scene that greets him almost makes him wish he hadn’t , the squeal from the brakes causing him to wince in apology to baby even as he’s throwing himself out the door. ❛ DAD ⸻ ? ❜ a blood soaked broken body , and underneath the gore of it all : his father. he hits the ground hard enough to jolt hit knees , but the pain barely registers through the shock of panicpanicpanic. hands everywhere and nowhere all at once as he tried to prop his dad up without truly touching , out of fear of further hurting. ❛ dad we gotta ⸻ we gotta get you to a hospital. ❜ they’ve seen their fair share of hunts gone wrong , the blood of the father and the blood of the son , but this is worse , this is so much worse.

⸻

There’s no shape of the god in the child’s eye, nor is there a biblical stance on who is the righteous saviour. Dean had, however, clung to John’s legs for a month after the fire. This has nothing to do with god, and everything to do with god. A different belief in John was shown than Dean had before. This was raw, disfigured fear - a panic that his father was bound to burst into flames as well. He doubts he ever grew out of that. Does one simply leave that terror behind them? Do they step out of it like overgrown skin? Is that what trauma is? Something sticky enough to keep the skin on them, loose and ragged as it hangs off the jawbone? There wasn’t anything beautiful in that reverence of his son, it was desperation, and sorely misguided. John knew there was nothing ethereal inside him, certainly knew that his bones were only bones and not meant to be any shelter of sort. Mary had always been the foundation. She laid the brick of the house, she kept the mortar and pestle moving, continuously blending their warmth and faults into an infant to nurture in the womb. Now here their baby has had twenty six years out in the world, not really with any experience of being in a war, no umbilical cord, no goddamn haystack of a hut to protect him. The baby wailed when he was born and he was nothing like John, and yet, everything like him. The shadow moves with the father, after all, even at night - especially at night. Had John truly given him nothing? Was he unprepared? Did he fail them both? Mary’s oldest son is grown now, wealthy in knowledge, but all he had inherited were the clothes on his back and the lessons he learned - and god, he learned them all. Every single one of them. Bright eyed and eager, it didn't matter if he was about to kill a hare or a vampire, he was just content to sit wearing John’s old plaid and polish a knife. Suppose it’s odd to think back to that when his body is misshapen into a crooked weapon, half-dead, half-rage. The king turns to the knight on the board and wonders what happened to that little rook sometimes. Instances like this he realizes that his small boy hadn’t ever left. He still has a son clinging to his legs, following him into the deep dark woods. There’s a lump in his throat and he’s swallowing the heavy metallic taste of his own blood, although he knows that the newly swelling emotion that joins the anger in his stomach is sweeter. Brown sugar coating of the love of a father, albeit a bit sour in taste, certainly doesn’t hold the ordinary shape of love. This isn’t shown in the words, but the tone is aimed for only his son’s eardrums. A whispered out order, mouth twitching with ghosts of pain rippling through him. ‘ No [. . .] no hospital. No time. Gotta’ get Sammy. ‘ Hand with the knuckles scraped to the pink tissue below moves to grab onto Dean’s shoulder, an animal-like grunt as he pulls himself to a sitting position. Breath wheezing and the nausea in his belly almost dizzying, an urge to spill his guts is bitten down on until it quells. He moves robotically to a kneel, dead arm dangling by his side like a boar tied up to drain. ‘ Help me to the car, Dean. ‘

#GENERAL: CHATS.#C: DEAN WINCHESTER.#hi !!!! brb jumping off a cliff !!! THIS IS FINE !!!! WE'RE FINE !!!! WE'RE ALL MAD HERE !!!!!!

mortalrot:

@wihnchester : ❛ 52 , sender takes a [ punch / stab / bullet ] meant for receiver . ↳ ⸻ kate &. john [ prompt ]

𝙷𝙴'𝚂 𝙰 𝚂𝚃𝚄𝙿𝙸𝙳 𝚂𝙾𝙽𝚄𝚅𝙰 𝙱𝙸𝚃𝙲𝙷 , 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙴. stupid and chivalrous ⸻ and bleeding like a damn stuck pig from the hole in his arm. while the bullet itself had been a thankful through and through , it doesn’t get past her , where the shot had originally been aimed. ( a skilful maneuver : with his arm where her head had been , pulling her out of harm’s way , and his free hand already moving to hit bullseye on the return fire. ) it nearly causes her mouth to go dry , to reminisce on it for too long ; a rather fitting accompaniment to the sharp flutter of want it tugs forth. still : bleeding’s only sexy until they skirt on the edge of losing too much blood , and so she focuses up on the wound itself. ❛ you know … when i said chivalry’s sweet ⸻ that wasn’t a green light for you to eat a bullet for me , john. ❜

⸻

It had only been instinctive. He hadn’t processed it, hadn’t thought of it, hadn’t allowed his muscles a moment before they jerked his body towards the bullet. The father had spent so long protecting two small boys, he’d never found the need to retire that involuntary demand. Kate was just a replacement of some dependants he was used to having alongside him on hunts. He had grown so used to the dangers of fangs and claws, that he’d forgotten how much of a bitch a bullet feels like. A piercing white-hot heat, an ache that doesn’t lull to sleep, nor does it sharpen with pain. A consistent drag of mediocre pain followed by crashing waves of burning. Nothing different than his day-to-day life, right? A groaned out swear, inhales hissing in between teeth as he presses his palm against the rawly shaped hole. The wound capsizes in a sea of red, the form is lost as it pumps out sticky blood, the coating of the warm liquid causing his jacket to stain, as well as the ground he’s dripping on. A wince as he rolls his head back, eyes shutting for a moment to get control of the situation, breaths becoming shallow, but consistent. ‘ Yeah. Kate? I think the cute lecture is meant for a time when I ain’t bleeding out. ‘ A muttered out feigned suggestion, a forceful blink or two as he opens his eyes. Arm straight by his side as he’s winding up his shirt underneath his plaid, a rip as he tears out a long piece and offers it to her. ‘ Mind doing me a favour, sweetheart? ‘

#GENERAL: CHATS.#C: KATE ARGENT.

tenebrcrum:

if adelaide were truly bothered by his prescence , he’d not be sitting here . nestled safely within her confinements , tucked away from the rest of the world . she will turn her nose and show disdain , but it is all to appease hid mood , his ego . could he not tell how hollow she truly was ? how deep this well ran ? if john winchester crossed this treshhold , it is because she willed it so . this is her domain , and no soul , dead or alive , crosses it without an invitation . she has stood still against time , ruins of girlhood untamed . waiting . she has waited for him crawl through these walls like serpentine , each step of his own volition , into the open maw of her chambers . he’d accepted this invitation all on his own , wheather from an innate desire to flirt with death or pure rightenousness , she did not care which . he had arrived , and she’d be waiting like a princess in a tower.

she saunters like a haunting to occupy the space between them . ❛ that’s just your own reflection , darling . ❜ damp eyed she looks nearly breakable : a beautiful thing held together by insatiable cravings , whispering in his ear like a saint doused in ivory and gold , those doll lashes feathering down his cheek like new snow . ❛ that is why you’ll never be able to stand the sight of it . ❜ she tastes the loss of her softness , the way it’d been wrung out like death to survive winter . adelaide understood cruelty as most priests understood the holy book, with devotion and intimacy —- she studied it, figured out its knots and hidden crevices. she would not spare him. she would slice him open with cutting vulnerability . there is no solace in mercy for either of them . ❛ what am i, john? tell me . why am i such a monstrous thing? ❜ softness ensues , — imploring . her eyes are glazed in pale melancholy, and the words are low , near dissolved into a full whisper .

⸻

The entirety of his life is god-written, he is the subject that flails in between drowning and dehydration. He is the character with the knife and the dying wife, the burnt wife, the wife that brings along the benign tumors of sons. Not that they’re meant to kill him, but there’s a death that follows them - a reminder that the time is ticking and the days have turned to months. He had left Dean behind on purpose. Kept him out of the loop. Kept him from prying into the endless research of a madman. Someone desperate to find out that this is all a lie and the fantasy had faded in the distance, this is only the presence of the cold war. The nuclear fields of waste and destruction are in front of them, in the mirror, in the face of the child, in the faces of the fully grown children. He had waited too late to be a different father. He had waited too long to be different from his own father, and should have cut the seeds out of him when he had the chance. Should have drank the poisoned water with all the other soldiers when they were deep in the jungle. Death as the final sleep, the eternal resting. John is speaking in the past, but that’s where he’s most present. His history is a clogged drain that has become rusted shut, no use in tugging at the soggy hair, no use in trying to loosen it up a bit. The viper of a woman uncoils and leans towards him, says words that a priestess would in light of the resurrection of newborn immortality. The devil speaks and the hound listens, black fur matted with age, but eyes as bright as the day he had slipped out from the womb. The truth of her spilling tongue is haunting, but it encircles his belly and twists. Leaves him nauseous and rolling his spit in his mouth with the appetite for destruction. Hand proves there’s little restraint with some analyses of the unnatural, fingers digging into the crevices of her throat - still as primal as his ancestors, still as starved for violence as he had been as a young soldier. ‘ If I wanted a cheap tricked up fortune, I would have gone to a goddamn circus. ‘ The voice isn’t his own, but it’s released with a lazed out drawl of a colder killer. This time there’s no attempt at making conversation, no warm tea and biscuit talk alongside the slow-setting sun. This is midnight and the dogs have already been barking at that empty-faced moon. Head tilting upwards while eyes study her own, a mockery of those interested in understanding anything that craves an endless cycle of life. Sure, he could be reaching for his gun and showing her that all things bleed, but goddamn there was a thirst for his own pain. Suffering of the self as sedation, emotional ignorance is physical bliss. Jaw working with found tension as breath is shallow and sweetened by the innate influx of his anger. ‘ You ain’t human, sweetheart. Your existence belongs to whatever hell is below us. That’s it. Nothing personal. ‘

#GENERAL: CHATS.#&. GENERAL: ADELAIDE MONTSERRAT.#JOHN says he ain't a book so to stop READING HIM !!!!!

culpatus:

REFUSAL GARNERS A TWIST OF MARBLED FEATURES , UNIMPRESSED WITH HIS BLUNT DENIAL . no blame can be pointed , narcissus had made allies out of them both . far too prideful to willingly accept the aid of another , 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 . by john winchester’s standards she supposes she falls flat , he didn’t portray the same sexist behaviours as other hunting counterparts which only left room for two things . EGO AND EXPERIENCE . though he didn’t outwardly seemed to be consumed by the whisperings of narcissus it begged the question , did he doubt her because of her age ?expertly placed hand tugs her from thought , a gesture used clearly to invoke her willingness to help , by reminding her of his strong grip . it’s a smart move , physicality something maggie also traded in for information , both akin to the same techniques . ❝ and you think this sᴜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴄᴇ will help get what you want ? ❞ she raises brow , challenging him oh so boldly , timbre is more jesting than annoyed . ❝ 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚓𝚘𝚑𝚗 . ❞ gaze narrows slightly , studying him for a moment before returning to smirk . ❝ but just so you know whether you need my help out there or not I’M GOIN’ . ❞

⸻

Cruelty is only another level of survival, although it depends on whether one is the battering ram or the barricaded door. Does it matter in the end? John supposes he could drag this lifeless corpse around with him wherever he goes, it doesn’t weigh much, barely looks like a human anymore. The body being himself, the decomposition by the worms and the maggots in the ground are only really the hands of fate digging through his throat until a name comes rolling out. A name similar to the son-blood, Cain and Abel, but there’s a blur of truth mixing with an eternal itch to salvage whatever he could from them. He is saying he’s no puppet, but there’s strings he keeps finding in the smallest of spaces. Behind his ears, underneath his tongue, in between his fingers. Something is trying to get its claws in him and he’s unsure if it's part of his descent into madness, or simply what happens to all husbands who lose sight of their wives in the middle of a war. Maybe this is why he’s trying to focus on the femininity inside her breath, the waves of melon and pear as she speaks. The slickness of her mouth is a memory of the night before, drawing a temporary reprieve from whatever hell is awaiting on the other side of the door. Hand slides nearer to her lower back, absently and listlessly, as though he were merely half-present. One foot in the grave, one hand on the damned. Figures it’d come back to this: death, blood, sulfur. He’s a walking billboard for a matchstick man. Meant to go up in flames eventually, she knew it too. Maggie wouldn’t have kissed him back if she hadn’t. Hunters are drawn to the unnatural. Dead men walking seemed to fit into that category. ‘ I think I just like touching you. Wasn’t planning on it being suave, but I’ll take that as a compliment. ‘ Not quite a lie, but he avoids the sharper blade of her question. He watches her with a slow reverence, overt in the heated desire that still crawls between them - a twitching carcass in the ditch by a busy highway. It’s all his love would ever be. Somewhere in between dying and dead. ‘ It’s not about that. ‘ Head shakes sternly, eyes darkening and lips wetted by the slip of his tongue. A step closer, a gentle pull of her body to press against his so he is glancing down at her, scent of her citrus mixing with his musk blooming around him. ‘ I want you to keep an eye on someone for me. Another hunter [...] goes by the name Gordon Walker. Old friend. Wanna’ make sure he’s settling in okay. ‘

#GENERAL: CHATS.#C: MAGGIE FUSILIER.

mortalrot:

𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝙽𝚈 𝚂𝙾𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙶𝚄𝙴 𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁 𝚃𝚁𝙰𝚅𝙴𝙻𝚂 is to be considered as a rare blessing. after all : with eons of a lifetime lived and lived and lived again , what could possibly rouse interest within a being that’s seen it all ? ( a mere man , a mortal man , and it has her chasing a trail of hunger like a dog with a bone. ) red strings of fate like a spiderweb , and famine continues to spin and spin and spin. the man tastes of deceit , of rage like a hurricane. trailing in his footsteps , leading her like a beacon ⸻ she steps into one such ‘ sheriff’s office ’ unplanned and unassuming. curiosity like a new flavour on her tongue , in the tilt of her head. ❛ you’re not him , either. ❜ the statement holds no accusations , and instead comes out blasé. she’s seen the sheriff , stinking of grief and lustful guilt , and he’s nowhere near as appetizing as the man before her. ❛ you’re not supposed to be here , are you ? ❜

⸻

The slow drip of a leak, although he can barely begin to decipher where the hole is. Or if he even cares about it. The ship is going down either way, no use in clogging whatever welcomes in the water. Besides, there’s something routinely about how he welcomes death. The faint dreams of a pale white horse, the venom he drinks while in the company of a beautiful woman, the gasoline-laced lies he spews in front of his sons. There’s poison on every route John takes, why not take the one paved with the worst intentions? Especially considering this town has eaten away at the very last of his patience, nerves threaded unruly with straw and mud - one more heavy rainfall and he’d be nothing left. The gaze of the other is not piercing, but it does devour. Takes apart his chin and his eyes, leaves the hair and teeth alone. She’s watching for something, the doe quiet and hungrier for something more than berries and leaves. But aren’t they all? The smile is loose on his mouth, devilish in the way the glance slides down the curve of her hips before they snap back to her face. ‘ Thank god for that! That man just doesn’t know when to retire. ‘ A feigned chastising tone as he shakes his head sombrely, fingers trailing along the edge of the desk as he walks around it before placing a palm flat on the surface and leaning with a casual flair. Hand stretched out in a slow point, teasing and flirtatious with his turn of questioning despite the velvet lies tangling themselves in the otherwise stale air. ‘ Don’t tell me you’re the party-planner. I want his birthday to be a surprise, can’t have you showing up unannounced like this. Important information is stored here, sweetheart. ‘

#GENERAL: CHATS.#C: FAMINE.#i hate him !!!! i hate him !!!! eat him whole like a snake !!!!! don't let him escape !!

&. ＤＵＳＴＢＯＷＬＤＡＮＣＥ @mortalrot

#just to get us amped for our painful deanjohn thread !!! it's fine !!!!#C: DEAN WINCHESTER.#*I AM A HOUSE SWOLLEN WITH THE DEAD.

facinaoris

#*I AM A HOUSE SWOLLEN WITH THE DEAD.

raylansgivens-deactivated202212

#*I AM A HOUSE SWOLLEN WITH THE DEAD.

tenebrcrum:

it takes very little to put her in a disagreeable mood , and something about that particular rebuttal strikes a nerve . though adelaide does her best to conceal it under wave of casual dismissal , a trained eye might easily spot the displeasure tugged at the corner of her mouth , in the knot of her brows , in the very way her nails will dig into her own flesh , pleading softly for a little restraint : an early developed mechanism that came with adolenscence . some days she’d fantasize about his bones twisting and breaking under moving flesh ; or maybe his skin would bubble and burst like a blister , and she’d be left with his cranium : john winchester’s bony remains on a pretty frame . she’d set up as a prop somewhere in these lavish walls ; he’s much rarer than a deer , and sure make for a far less corny decoration .

exhaling sharpily through her rabbited nose , upturned and prideful , adelaide’s lovely , heart-shaped mouth is reeled into a begrunging pout . ❛ is there a problem ? ❜ ever so slightly , she folds her arms and recoils into the nearest wall with the strained tolerance of a feral cat . petulence has always dressed women better than rage , hadn’t it ? petulance is cute , digestable , harmless at its core . a petulant woman must only be tamed . and so they are taught to craddle their rage like an infant in their chest , hold it tight until it feasters like a wound untreated . ❛ last that I remember , you did me a favor and to show my gratitude , I let you go . ❜

⸻

It’s not quite here yet, but it’s approaching slowly. The rapture has perfect timing. Can uproot an entire village and destroy all the lakes in the world within a day. He’s seen it through the lenses of war and greed, but certainly more so in the forest at night when all the cicadas have opened their throats. Killing is different from hunting, except both have stained his hands with a much blacker blood than any animal-blood would have. He supposes there were times when his sons had seen him slit a man’s neck, tissue and bone fragments making a snapping sound in the quiet evening. It was a shapeshifter. Or something otherworldly. Something destined to die, he said to them as they drove onto the next town. Destiny as an excuse, but as the lone goal he had subconsciously been driving towards. Even his limbs feel weighed down by something other than age. A sluggish spell cast onto him from grave dirt and corpses he had stumbled upon during late stakeouts. The face always looks peaceful when it's dead, although he very rarely thinks too much about it - avoids the way the cheeks deflate as he shoves the form into a shallow hole, avoids the way there’s always an owl watching him with big pale eyes similar to that of his demon’s. Fear was never his teacher. He had never been taught. He simply was born into the world with fists and a rage that swelled up inside of him. The womb made him cruel, or perhaps it was the birthing experience. A mother being a mother, a father being a blank painting on the wall. This story is old. Old and doomed to be repeated. So yes, maybe the paranoia has allowed his view on the world to be distorted and tradition. Malicious in his intents on cutting down all inhuman things while being a legendary survivor of his own inhuman heart. Death is not worrisome for him, but the lack of vengeance is. He shifts softly in his seat as head follows her movements, amused in the way she tries to control her temper when he knows how sharp that wound’s teeth are. She’s an alligator, queen of the swamplands and determined to reveal to him that she could be just as sadistic as any haunted beast. She’d be right to. She’d be right to show him her stomach and how quickly it can digest an insect. He’s eager for it, almost bites down on his tongue in preparation for the future bloodletting. ‘That was sweet of you[...]but naive. I couldn’t just let you go on down the road like that. Not with you being what you are and me being what I am.’ The smack of his lips that follows is loud, obnoxiously so, and he does this on purpose. He wants the wallpaper to crawl with the arrogance of his presence. He wants the skies to part and the rivers to drown the town. Fingers pinch at the fabric of the lounge chair, pulling at a loose thread with the dedication of a bored child. Gaze snaps back to her, jaw working in a half-circle before continuing - head briefly nodding towards the mirror. ‘Always hated mirrors[...]stare at your face too long and it gets further away from reality.’

#why must he always be insane and rigorous in his beliefs. can't he just be a monsterf*cker like his sons : /#GENERAL: CHATS.#&. GENERAL: ADELAIDE MONTSERRAT.#don't trust him he's stalling !!! it's a gaME !!

mortalrot:

𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚂𝙸𝙶𝙽𝚂 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙰 𝚂𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙽 𝚂𝙾𝙽𝙶 𝙱𝙴𝙲𝙺𝙾𝙽 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝚃𝙷 , and all they ask of her is this : will she be the one to lead astray , or is she trapped already ⸻ unbeknownst in her own bewitchment ? with her eyes tracking the movement of his tongue slicking lips , she thinks she knows , and the answer tilts dangerously into uncharted waters. ❛ chivalry's sweet and all ⸻ ❜ but an unwitting gasp is what interrupts her words ; his prying fingers a welcome interruption. brazen of him as it may be : it only serves to stoke the embers at the core of her , furthering the urge to rock back onto the stretch of them ; to fall right back into his oh ⁠— so skilful hands. ( greedy in their grasp of her , telling in the way he pulls her close. )

❛ but this is … so much more fun. ❜ with a gentle swivel of her hips to further emphasize the slow and sticky words , her smile turned all too pleased at the ever growing swell to be found beneath her. ( play at restrained all he liked , but the body just couldn’t lie. ) brutal in its honesty , but encouraging where she started up a steady rocking of figure eights against him. ❛ looks like i’m not the only one who’s waking up , john. ❜ arching into the fit of him , filling all the spaces between hands and hardness , her own fingers were insistent wherever they touched. trailing up his jawline , running through hair ; a slow tease of her thumb at his bottom lip turned into a weight at his throat. offering ⸻ challenging. ❛ think you can keep up for another round , handsome ? ❜

⸻

The appetite is not sated, but this to be expected in men that stand with a foot in the grave and a foot on the road to hell. Some bigger meaning might have been apparent to some lone soul who wore a black hat and a priest robe, but to John Winchester his hunger simply was a backbone to him. It helped the rage find a home and it certainly gave him more ambitions to leech onto. Not that he wasn’t prone to fits of doubt and disintegration like any ghost destined to follow that burning path down below. Whatever collection he’s gained of hollowed out bones and rituals that include night terrors and temptations of wrapping his hands around a throat until the pulse bleeds to a halt has been discarded temporarily. Replaced by something much sweeter, a thick honey coating that lingers underneath his tongue from his previous taste of her thighs and what blossoms between them. Kate’s brazen here, filled to the brim of small delights as she moves and speaks with the power of a goddess. He doesn’t stray too far from being a feverish worshiper either as his fingers push deeper, a persistent routine of movement beginning while his smug smile remains crooked on his mouth. ‘Don’t insult me[...]I can get you saying my name like you were last night if that’s what you’re really worried about.’ Tongue slides along his front teeth with a slow hum of appreciation echoing the gesture. Expression remained neutral, but his free hand jerks out to unbuckle his belt - an urgency to the movement unlike the smooth tease of a show he had put on for her the night before. An exhale rushes out, chest rising and falling with overt effort as he struggles to control the tension of desire that was knotting itself around the room. Dark eyes watching her carefully, allowing his neck to be gripped by her hand only. Belt is finally snaked through the loopholes and tossed aside. The taunt in his grin is clear as his fingers continue their task and his other hand slides down his zipper. ‘Coffee’s gonna’ get cold, Kate.’

#GENERAL: CHATS.#C: KATE ARGENT.#NSFW #they're so annoyingggggggggg like at this point it's like ???? do yall do anything else besides tease eo like omg ???? someone help them

mortalrot:

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴'𝚂 𝙰 𝙱𝙴𝙰𝚄𝚃𝚈 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙸𝚃𝙰𝙱𝙻𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙼𝙰𝙽𝚈 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝙰𝙿𝙿𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴. falling forlorn to fate , playing right into the hands of destiny. mankind especially tends to sink into their sorrows , with eventual acceptance as their only reward ⸻ cold and comfortless though it may be. ( to hear : ’ no matter what you do , you will always end up here. ’ ) while a horrifying decree to many , for an agent of assured ruination such as he , no sweeter words would ever be spoken. not when he himself laid down the groundwork that would set such grand plans in motion. over a millennium of lying in wait , but here they finally stood , their predestined two. his righteous man with the impossible odds , and his damnation that called forth for their chosen offering.

❛ what'cha gettin at , johnny boy ? ❜ like a calling card , like god given commandment. watching the other watch him , the knowledge of drawing ever closer to collision sat cozy in his chest. ( and why not give away to revelation ? why not dangle the carrot further down ? ) here he stood with the utter assurance of plans that could not be led astray , and was it not time for him to have a bit of fun ? taking in the radiating anger , the furious heat ⸻ the desires to follow were purely animal in their longing. ( to sink teeth , to taste blood. ) a flicker of his tongue over his lips , and he made certain to keep their eyes level as they slow seeped to yellow yellow yellow. ❛ boo. ❜ allowing for the moment’s pause , for the dramatic revelation to sink into his bones , it’s barely a breath between the next before he has their positions flipped. not a hand upon him , and yet with all the powers of hell , and john winchester was well and truly pinned. ❛ ya caught me , john , ya caught me ! you’re just gonna wish you didn’t. ❜

⸻

The death march plays on throughout the night. It doesn’t matter how tall the grass is that they walk through, or how the waves swell in the ocean until they loom ahead like skyscrapers. The gods are hungry and he’s unsure if this means the ones in his stomach or the ones in the graves. Either way, something is hunting him just as he hunts it. No sign of redemption on the horizon, and it’s better this way - John knows that to slice a blade down an obsession’s neck one must have sacrifices. Fleshy sacrifices, spiritual ones too. No longer will he hold a soul in his palms and watch as it levitates with hopefulness. He is heavy like a pile of rocks tossed into the current of an angry river. He is thinking of disappearing into a roaring wall of water, to devour the undivine with the ability of resurgence and dominance. He is thinking that perhaps his bones are old enough to make this a slow leak instead of a flood. All methodical thoughts are forgotten about at a blink of an eye, quite literally - it began with a small fleck of gold and then the gold turned sickly yellow, blinding him with the version of history that eats at him each night. He wouldn’t say anything, he couldn’t. The literate man was gone and in his place stood a drooling lion, ribs showing and belly growling. He is thick in the stage of infancy, the primitive form he was before any sense of evolution came over him. Then he’s flying backwards until his spine hits the wooden siding of the bar, the physical pain blooming out from him in a ragged grunt. The body is stiff and ridged, a doll shaped only to one power. A strangled out swear leaves his mouth as he struggles against the invisible pressure, limbs refusing to budge and only his neck loosened enough to roll it to the left, jaw working in a circle with the strength to cut steel. Still, he remains silent - lets the rage sit inside of him for a bit longer before it bursts like a blister, words pus-lined and extraordinarily bitter. ‘I’m gonna’ fucking kill you. ’

#GENERAL: CHATS.#C: AZAZEL.#i hate all of this right now i HATE IT ALLL !!!

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