Hunters are never kids.
I never was.

ratherbe-dead-thanbe-cool:

It happens like this. One day you meet someone and for some inexplicable reason, you feel more connected to this stranger than anyone else—closer to them than your closest family. Perhaps this person carries within them an angel—one sent to you for some higher purpose; to teach you an important lesson or to keep you safe during a perilous time. What you must do is trust in them—even if they come hand in hand with pain or suffering—the reason for their presence will become clear in due time.

Though here is a word of warning—you may grow to love this person but remember they are not yours to keep. Their purpose isn’t to save you but to show you how to save yourself. And once this is fulfilled; the halo lifts and the angel leaves their body as the person exits your life. They will be a stranger to you once more.

-Lang Leav

This god damn bus shakes like it’s getting brutally fucked by a demon lord CHILL OUT BUS. Before you dislocate my ass or something. :|



Supernatural S9 Unaired Scene: 9.18 Meta Fiction [x]


In my improve class, one of the participants there looks exactly like Alistair it’s… seriously awesome. Wonder if he’d take it as a compliment if I told him or if he’d get who I was talking about. And in my singing class there’s a girl who reminds me a lot of thenovakmartyr and she’s so sweet.



abaddang:

sam winchester meme; ♫ Sam!centric fanmix [1/1]

THE PASSENGER [ listen ]


kai-art:


Cops & Robbers.

thenovakmartyr:

whiskey-whispered-prayers:

      So what if Jimmy’s got him? Pinned — on his stomach — with little to nothing in terms of being able to move away. Dean grunts his displeasure at being caught (neglects to mention the little voice in the back of his head that whispers sweet and mirthful, all the fun that could be had; that it’s not so bad, Dean, as if he hasn’t been fascinated by the gleam of being held down) He masks the quickened pulse of his heart quite well. 

     That was a dirty, dirty move, completely disregarding that Dean just tried to dupe Jimmy less than fifteen seconds ago. Dean remains undisturbed, will still strong and alive, and goes for testing where his limitations lie and how far he can bend them. Knees shuck up as if to lift Jimmy off his ass; make him lose his balance and give Dean the upper hand, but that’s — his fixes to be futile.

     The front of his legs hit the mattress again. But luckily, he can hide his shame from prying eyes — warm in more than a few places at all that’s being said and what’s happening and shit, maybe he does deserve being arrested!

     ——- Nah.

     Jimmy puts all of his weight and strength into keeping him stock-still against the springy mattress. Hands press into his shoulder blades as his weight shifts, the very same ones that pry his arms behind his back. The hairs at the back of his neck rise near the placement of Jimmy’s mouth, all deep and rightfully cocky.

     ”You callin’ this fair?” He huffs, turns his cheek to the man and tries to buck him off again, grinning. If Jimmy feels better knowing he’s had to earn this — accomplish what many don’t, somehow — then by all means, he won’t be easy. Sir, I swear on my brother’s sideburns, that I’m tellin’ you — I’m innocent. I’ve been good, honest.”

     “Fair is fair,” he muses as he winds the tie around Dean’s wrists. Jimmy flows with Dean’s buck, traveling with the strength beneath him but still weighing just enough not to be knocked over by a move that he readily ignores as rubbing against— sensitive areas.

     Even as the honorific pulses need in that same area, Jimmy can’t help laughing at Dean’s swear. “Your brother’s sideburns? Seriously? Are you sure you don’t want to swear on something a little more… substantial?”

     As he speaks, he keeps winding his tie until the wrists are tightly bound. Then he knots them in a way he was taught by an old Boy Scout friend. Never did he think something so innocent would be used in a situation like this. Apparently, he and Dean were simply masters at twisting seemingly childish things into adult entertainment territory. It felt a bit like those cheesy pornos, but Jimmy couldn’t deny he’d enjoyed it.

     Tugging on the binds and satisfied when they didn’t immediately unwind, Jimmy eased himself off the Winchester and stood beside the bed, hands on his hips and a proud smirk on his face.

     “There we go. I should just leave you like this. Bet Sam and his sideburns would get a kick out of it.”

     ”Fair is fair,” He repeats, with a roll of his forest green eyes, finding it to be the most insane notion in… the universe. ”My ass." He ends that with another buck — and grunt — of his hips. The extra weight doesn’t discourage Dean, as Jimmy had probably hoped for, because all it ends up doing is cause delightfully, accidental friction.

     Dean’s a pretty hardcore skeptic about most things, but he’s pretty sure that wasn’t just Jimmy’s zipper digging between the cheeks of his ass.

     ”His ridiculous sideburns—-” He makes a show of considerable, believable struggle. Dean’s not too concerned about escaping, or that Jimmy’s imperative boy scout knots could truly hinder his freedom, but he tugs on them and the tie is tight around his wrists. The harder he pulls against them, the worse they tighten, with little room to remind him how useless his arms are right now. “But if I sworn on anythin’ else, Mr. Novak, you might find yourself embarrassed.”

     ”After all the ruckus you made about arrestin’ me? That might not be to bright of an idea,” The arrested rumbles, rolls onto his side — shirt riding up as he does so — and makes to sit upright on the edge of the bed.. His hair is ruffled on the top, mostly, and his shirt is wrinkled in odd places; collar of his button up laying wrong and exposing more than it’s intended modesty. “But by all means, go ahead. Can’t promise I’ll be here when you get back, though, or that I won’t come after you as payback.”

     His voice is heavy; heady undercurrents that layer his speech, full of coyly kept double meanings. Being bound won’t prevent him from pushing. If Jimmy wants to celebrate his victory, as if it protects him from everything that comes after, he’s wrong. Essentially, he’s testing him, seeing how much it takes before he throws in the towel — all hot eared and averted — with Jimmy’s tail between his nicely shaped legs.

     ”So, what’re you gonna do with me?”


thenovakmartyr | jimmy can’t keep his hands to himself aka jimmy’s a snoop.

thenovakmartyr:

whiskey-whispered-prayers:

    The hunter hums a breathy laugh at the force — the passion — Jimmy lavishes against his mouth; perfect hands holding his hips to the dull edge of the counter. His ass is gonna bruise, and he can’t move (not that he’d want to) and he sure as hell won’t argue. Dean shows him just how much he appreciates — loves — this approach of action by sliding his hand up the back of Jimmy’s neck, running his fingers through his soft, dark hair, and grinning against the man’s ushering lips.

     ”You gotta, uh — kiss like that more often,” He mumbles, followed by a throaty curse under his breath when his jaw, and then the thrumming pulse of his neck is attacked. Suckled. Bitten. Marked. He keens immediately, and his hips jar forward, seeking friction, touch — anything to quell the kindling fire in his belly. 

     His neck’s gonna bruise like the finger shaped imprints against his hips and he entertains — licks his lips in a silent thought — at how that makes his blood spike. Sam would see if he didn’t hide it well enough. Would he ask? Guess? Or would he already know?

     Anyone would see. What they wouldn’t see, couldn’t ever imagine, is how Jimmy kissed him. Like Dean had somehow released the top of his filter and it all came coming out; pouring into Dean all the things he couldn’t possibly tell him, and for good reason.

He goes about his life pretending he’s not afraid of anything, but he is. He’s frightened by it all — that he wants so much, that he loses so much — and he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he expresses it in the only way he knows how; with the only thing of worth he has: his body.

     He wets those pretty chapped lips with the dampness of his mouth, the sliver of his silver tongue asking for permission to venture inside, to claim, to make his as much as he’s allowed too, because if Jimmy wanted to have him, he can have him, all of him, as long as Jimmy doesn’t mind the mess that he is, the mistakes he’s ashamed of.

     Dean shuts his eyes and loses himself in Jimmy. Jimmy’s hands, his mouth - god, his mouth - and his body, everything. Cranes his neck for the sharp nip of almost pain when white teeth pinch sunny skin, welcomes it, and bucks his hips against imprisoned palms; lace stretching over his cock and making him moan, half in delight (feels too good - so soft and teasing)  and half needy frustration, but he won’t admit it. “Sure you don’t wanna take ‘em off for me, Jimmy?” The hunter asks, hand still in Jimmy’s hair — the other holding onto the man’s hip and belt. There’s nothing better, in this entire world, than how Jimmy lost it and kissed him, went for him. “Not the panties s’course. Thought you’d like to keep me in ‘em a —- while.”

     I will, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t reveal what made this kiss any different than the others, doesn’t differentiate how the others were just as passionate and lustful, but this was the only one that held his desperate plea for the Winchester to understand his affections. He wonders, if he ever idly mentioned how he never just slept with anyone and always did it with purpose of emotion, if, perhaps, Dean would understand his hidden words.

     I love you. Silent. Still unspoken.

     Jimmy’s hips move away when they feel Dean canting his own forward and he shoves his hands against them, forcing them back, denying the hunter friction for the time being. Jimmy knows when he wants to touch that red laced skin, but the instant isn’t then.

     He doesn’t stop his suckling until he knows Dean’s flesh is a striking dark red, throbbing with the pulse of blood beneath, trying to mend splintered blood vessels beneath sun-tanned freckled skin.

     Pulling his head back, he hums in response to Dean’s question, wondering why he would ever think Jimmy would want the stark contrast of red lace off of him. Jimmy plans to keep those on for as long as he can, simply pushing them aside while he fucks into him. Crude as Jimmy doesn’t believe he is, he does want to get inside of Dean while he’s still wearing them. He wants to see his skin flushed until they’re almost a near match, arousal purple and pulsing between his legs.

     “Oh.” Then Jimmy realizes he means the jeans. They’re still in the way. Dilated eyes flicker to land on Dean’s and Jimmy gives a small grin, mischief hinted in his eyes as he presses his lips once to Dean’s and replies a low, “Of course.”

     He’s slow in his decent, smooths palms and long fingers down and up the hunter’s thighs, squeezing muscle before he takes the already slipping fabric and pulls them down, taking care to help the hunter out of them one foot at a time. But before he stands once again, he pauses and huffs a warm breath against Dean’s straining erection. The flat of his tongue drags against the thick outline, but that’s all he gives. He’s quicker now, standing and providing Dean with nothing more but a hand through his hair.

     Licking his lips, Jimmy tilts his head and leans forward, brushing the side of his jaw to the hunter’s as he speaks clearly, “Turn around and put your hands flat against the counter. I’ll be right back.”

     Jimmy kisses him as if he loves him. He kisses like all the women who have ever claimed to love him; with biting mouths and ardent passions strewn against him, and he can’t possibly believe that with a confident heart and a mind free of doubt — because it’s too good to be true, but if it were, how divine would that be? How lucky.

     To be loved. It’s all he’s ever wanted.

     So he can’t help it. His hearts too weak, his skin too scarred and fragile. Easily broken and worn down by a lifetimes hardships. He touches Jimmy’s arms — the tight muscle that lays artfully beneath his flesh — and revels in how different it is from his own, but all the same. He doesn’t bear the same weight in his skin. Not yet. But someday, they will know what it’s like. And his hand threads through his hair, and settles on his hips, and Dean throws himself into it; holds nothing back, because when Dean Winchester kisses, it’s to leave an everlasting impression.

     Marks fade. Kisses all the same. So if he wants to remain consistent, he has to make the effort often to renew those very passions. Temporary landmarks that say I was here, and I’ve claimed it. 

     He cants his hips, seeking to brush against the very real evidence of Jimmy’s desire for him, and he does not know why he’d expect anything other than to be pushed back — denied — with a carnal whimper released with half a breath. He’s been denied, is being denied and though he doesn’t quite approve of it, his dick does.

     It gives a valiant twitch of approval at it - at Jimmy lowing himself on his knees - but he won’t do it; he won’t give Dean what they both know he would like, because that would be too immediate, too sweet, and Jimmy’s a cruel man in that respect and Dean loves it. The bite mark on his neck throbs. The pulsing of his heart feels like it climbed up his throat and took residence there.

    It’s best that he keeps his hands on the counter. Jimmy’s made it very clear he’s going to go at his pace, not Dean’s, but maybe if he follows, he’ll be —— rewarded for his efforts. It also gives him a surface to squeeze when Jimmy blows hot, hot air against red lace and flushed skin and mouths at it, but only barely. Not enough to give him any kind of relief. All it serves to do is rile him up even further, and god damn the man, he thinks he can just come back up, all mischief and flair, and slide his hand through his short hair? Make him want? 

    “Yes,” The moment skips a beat, but he does as he’s requested. Told. He can’t tell the difference anymore, just that it makes him curious, and that he just wants to be touched. He rests his hands on the cool counter, bent slightly and his feet parted a few harrowing inches. “Sir."

    He teases. It’s only fair, after all. 



prettygayboys:

similar posts: here

cavycas:

dean sucking cock like his life depends on it. 

dean just loving and savoring the weight on his tongue, loving how his lips stretch around the girth of it. 

loving the sensation of long fingers carding through his hair in silent praise and the way his partner’s cock pulses and throbs in his mouth while he gazes up at him shamelessly, cheeks hallowing with every eager suck. 

loving the feeling of tensing thighs beneath his loose grip after each deliberate bob of his head and the musky scent that fills his nostrils when he bottoms out over his partner’s dick and inhales deep.

loving the way saliva and precome dribble out over his chin, the deep-rooted soreness in his jaw, and the bruises in his knees that he’s sure he’ll feel the next day. 

dean gritting absolute filth when he pulls off to stroke his partner’s wet cock in his fist, warm breath washing over the slick member in his hand with every harsh whisper of fuck yeah, love this fucking big cock, want you to fuck my throat raw, can’t wait to drink your come. 

dean loving how his partner face fucks him, how the intensity behind each buck has him gagging and his eyes watering. loving the feeling of a fat cock slamming into the back of his throat, only satisfied when his partner peaks, releasing hot, white spurts of come over his face and smearing it against his swollen, pink lips for a taste.

[response to x ]



A Study in Silhouettes
↳ 2.08 Crossroad Blues

thefoxtailed:

whiskey-whispered-prayers:

image

       At first, the hunter thinks it’s a coincidence. The second time, it’s an awkward meeting of the eyes. Dean gives a fraction of a smile — polite as customary — and turns his attention elsewhere. He forgets about it. But then it’s like he can feel the energy of this guy’s stare — and he is staring, as Dean pretends not to notice —  and now he’s got no choice but to address the issue, because obviously this guy isn’t going to stop until he does. He clears his throat, then speaks.

      “—-There somethin’ you want?”

image

       after living in some distant, secluded forest deep in the heartland of japan, you begin to lose the base social instincts you formerly possessed before seclusion. he hasn’t spoken to a mortal in centuries, has barely set foot into this blaring cacophony of a society, and thusly flounders at every opportunity for floundering.

       however, even with his lack of societal knowledge, even he knew he was staring. the guy had looked uncomfortable — - it’s a trickster spirit’s nature to feed off rising opportunities.

                     ❝ no. why would i want something? ❞

      Staring’s an uncomfortable thing to do. Or be subjected too. With it rises a feeling of — uneasiness. You shift in your seat. You become painfully aware of your existence, and an others, and how they are thrusting their existence upon yours without — with? the meaning too — but to put it in simpler words, it’s weird and that’s exactly what he thinks this person is. A weirdo.

       If he didn’t want anything — doesn’t want anything — then why stare? Is he just that bad at social interaction with other human being? Perhaps he’s painfully inept at what’s considered normal, well-to-do manners.

       ”Because you’ve been starin’ at me for the past two minutes. Do I know you?”


♫ What If
by: Safetysuit played 1057 times
Album: Life Left To Go


What if it makes you lose faith in me
What if it makes you question every moment you cannot see
And what if it makes you crash and you can’t find the key
What if it makes you ask how you could let it all go

What if what I want makes you sad at me
And is it all my fault or can I fix it please
Cause you know that I’m always all for you


thefoxtailed:

image

          uncomfortably prolonged staring.

image

       At first, the hunter thinks it’s a coincidence. The second time, it’s an awkward meeting of the eyes. Dean gives a fraction of a smile — polite as customary — and turns his attention elsewhere. He forgets about it. But then it’s like he can feel the energy of this guy’s stare — and he is staring, as Dean pretends not to notice —  and now he’s got no choice but to address the issue, because obviously this guy isn’t going to stop until he does. He clears his throat, then speaks.

      “—-There somethin’ you want?”


padgono:

thenovakmartyr replied to your post “whiskey-whispered-prayers replied to your…”

he definitely has more on his phone. don’t let him lie to you

image

Called it.

I DO NOT.


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