Guess who has two thumbs and is still super bitter about Eileen? Sam and Jody talk. 1k
Sam takes her
The Men of
Letters have one on each of them. Jody
plucks hers out of the filing cabinet, smiles in satisfaction when she sees Alex Jones and Claire Novak marked as
her family, and then tosses it over her shoulder. Sam’s file is twice as thick as anyone else’s,
but he doesn’t even bothering opening it.
Two of the
remaining hunters—one of them Walt, which amuses Sam more than he’d care to
admit—scurry off, obeying his orders. It’s
a little intimidating, knowing that they trust him this fully, but there’s also
something right about it.
Once they deal
with the Nephilim, maybe it’ll be worth setting up a hunters’ network. Be the Man of Letters he’s meant to be.
He and Jody
clamber into her truck. Sam accidentally
knocks the file sideways as he seats himself in the too-small cab. It only takes Jody a sideways glance at the
name to realize.
“Oh.” She goes
quiet as she starts the engine and stays so as they pull out on to the gravel
road. Then, “I didn’t realize you were
friends. Otherwise I would have gone to
the morgue myself. You didn’t need to
Sam snaps the
file shut as he pulls it on to his lap, tugging it out of Jody’s grasp.
Also this is probably gonna be the end of my habit of only sharing Slime Rancher posts. A few more games are gonna get added to this blogs list of shit to post. Don’t worry, this won’t be my last SR post, it’ll just be the end of an old era.
Okaaay, so this is my first Crowley fic. If it isn’t great, I apologize. I’d LOVE some tips on how to make it better. This is just a little fluffy something that came to me while I was in the car, so it isn’t all that long or in-depth. Still, I hope you enjoy.
Pairing: Crowley X Reader
Warnings: Uh, drinking, teasing, nothing really past that.
Word Count: ~1400
Summary: Crowley finds the reader while she’s drinking after a hunt and the two basically talk and hang out. Like I said, not really all that in-depth.
The room is all but spinning around you. Four shots of tequila and three glasses of cherry vodka in, you can’t even remember how you’d made it to the bar. You can vaguely recall that it had something to do with a particularly bad case, and something else about Sam and Dean deciding to nurse their wounds back at the Bunker.
But who cared about that right now? The D.J. turns on your of your favorite tunes and you laugh, pulling away from the bar and wading to the middle of the dance floor. You lose yourself to the music, arms thrown carelessly into the air as you twirl and sway along with the beat. By the time the song ends and you stumble back to the bar, you’re breathing hard, a stupid grin plastered on your face.
Someone bumps into you and you stumble forward, letting out a yelp as the floor rushes up to meet you. But rather than colliding with the slick, wooden floor, you feel yourself being supported by a pair of strong arms. A deep voice spoke from above you, the thick accent striking a chord even through the haze of the alcohol.
I would like an AU where Stiles and his dad never lived in Beacon Hills.
Instead, the Sheriff is the enforcer for the Old Houses - the shady, international conglomerate under which all werewolf hunters operate. He’s called in when hunters go off reservation - start killing outside of the code. The lines between the supernatural and the human worlds are shaky enough, you see, the Old Houses know better than to kill indiscriminately.
No one wants all out war.
Which is why, when Laura Hale returns to Beacon Hills and shows up dead two days later, the Sheriff and his son are sent in to investigate. Nothing good comes of Hales and Argents in the same vicinity.
The Sheriff goes undercover at the police station, something Stiles will never not roll his eyes over because, “God, it’s bad enough your moniker is The Sheriff, dad, do you have to milk this?”
Stiles, meanwhile, is sent into the school, because it becomes very clear that there’s an alpha on the loose and everyone knows where there’s an alpha, there’s teenagers (they turn easier, bla bla SCIENCE). Stiles doesn’t know what he hates more about the set up, that he still has baby-face enough to pass for sixteen or that he has to leave his nine mil at home.
Thus: season 1 AU where Stiles works the werewolf angle by trying to get close to Scott (“He’s such a newly-bitten cliche I’m amazed he doesn’t have his own tv show.” “You like him.” “Of course I like him. Not liking Scott is like not liking rainbows. The kid’s ridiculous.”) while his dad makes overly complicated crime boards and side-eyes the fuck out of Chris Argent (“Think he knows something?” “I think he’s trying not to know something.” “Well done, dad - this is why they pay you the big untraceable bucks.”)
Added points for Stiles finding himself getting tangled up with Derek Hale (“Really, Stiles? Really?” “Have you seen the guy?!”) only of course Derek thinks he’s sixteen and won’t touch him with a ten foot pole (“Life isn’t fair.” “There’s an alpha murdering people, Stiles.” “I can care about murder and my lack of sex life at the same time.” *parental groaning*)
I basically just need all of the BAMF!undercover!Stilinskis with bonus weapons kink and slow burn, misunderstandings!Sterek. Thanks.
Okay, so, I’m jumping on the bandwagon and I wrote some Outsider POV from 12x06. The scene between Max, Alicia, Sam and Elvis on the couch fascinated me, so I wrote it from Max’s POV. It kinda turned into one-sided Max/Sam. There is an intentional undercurrent with Max that echoes back to certain events in 12x02. Let me know what you think.
Summary: Max is fascinated by the hunter sitting in front of him and he thinks he’s got Sam all figured out. 12x06 coda. Outsider POV.
With the beer finally starting to work its magic, Max let himself ooze into the couch cushions. He was tipsy and relaxed and he fingered his half empty bottle absent-mindedly. The crowd of hunters around him had proved largely uninteresting- an unwashed drunken rabble that had failed to hold his attention. Alicia remained close, which told him she felt the same. No matter. Hunters rarely proved to be people of depth or intellect. Max and Alicia had crossed paths with a few of the people in the room prior to the wake, and with cursory ‘hellos’ over and done with, it was time to sample as many beers as politely possible and let the evening pass in relaxed enjoyment with his sister. They would pay their respects to their father when things quieted down.
He took another sip of the beer and let his head loll backwards, Alicia a warm presence next to him. He didn’t need her comfort, but it was nice to know he had it all the same. The rhythmic tones of 90s drumlines pounded away in the background and the warmth of the fire and the sweat-stink of too many people made the air close. It was all surprisingly pleasant.
His eyes were closed, but he felt a new presence close-by as someone occupied the chair next to them, and he felt Alicia straighten up beside him.
“Mind if I sit here?” A low, hesitant baritone Max didn’t recognize made him open his eyes.
Oh. A tall stranger had eased himself onto the arm of the chair, overly long legs jutting into the space between the chair and couch. He was hunching his shoulders a little, perhaps in an effort to make himself seem smaller, perhaps because he was nervous in the crowd. He had an air of uneasiness about him, and his eyes kept flitting about the room, as if he was expecting to be terrorized by an unknown assailant. That told Max many things- this man was a hunter, for one, and an experienced one. It was common hunter know-how: never let your guard down around people you don’t know, especially ones that are armed. Something told Max that the man wasn’t used to hunter gatherings such as this one. Hunters were generally good people, but they all had their baggage and could be unpredictable.