the college life town

Fifteen Hundred Miles (Burr x Reader)

Words: 2700+

Warnings: A small bit of cursing

A/N: I have decided that there aren’t enough burr imagines out there, so i made one! i am proud of this, so enjoy!

You’ve checked your wrist hundreds of times, seeing if your soulmate would get any closer to you. But since you were born, your wrist read 1500 miles, 1500 miles away from the one you were meant to be with, 1500 miles away from seeing their face.

It was strange, sometimes you thought that your clock was broken. It hasn’t changed in miles, so either you haven’t gone anywhere in ages, or the person didn’t move out of their one-mile radius.

Most of your friends found their soulmates, they were lucky enough to live within a hundred-mile radius of one another. But you, you weren’t so fortunate. You had states to travel, hundreds of dollars to spend to see them. You wondered whether it was worth it. But you saw the happiness on Elizabeth’s face when she met Alexander and their immediate connection that you continued to think otherwise.

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un-chuchoter  asked:

Hi~ I've been rereading all of my favorite ereri fanfics lately but was hoping that you'd have something new to recommend for me! I only read fics that are in third person and the storyline doesn't matter to me although I really enjoy Slow Build AU's (a few favs are Street Brat, The Minutes of the Red People, 006, Tentative Bliss). Thank you for all of the hard work that you do!

Hmm… I’m thinking you may have read these, but if not then great!

Art Of War
Summary: Noisy neighbors, nursling dinosaurs, satanic box cutters, shitty convenience store management, the word ‘fuck’, hereditary (but not really) homosexuality, beer and ramen, pennies, truckstops, strippers, closets, semi-public defacing, rings, house parties, “recreational” drug use, accidental rendezvous, toxic stew (don’t eat the stew), nice abs, housewives–batteries not included, over-educational movie sessions, copious domesticity, kittens named after landlords, a shit joke at participating locations, and many, many happy endings.

An Unlikely Alliance
Summary: When Scouting Legions main trading partner, Wall Maria, is experiencing economic strain from constant attacks by the neighboring kingdom Titan, the leaders of the two nations come to an agreement: Scouting Legion will provide military protection in exchange for land and financial aid for the still growing nation.
      Their new alliance will be sealed with the union of King Jaegar’s son Eren to the Scouting legions strongest soldier, Lance Corporal Levi. But how will the cold, impassive soldier warm to his new husband, who is far from the weak, spoiled princess he was expecting?

Summary: Eren Jeager has been stuck in the same town all his life, from birth to college, and he is afraid that he will never get out. Then something of a miracle occurs; he stumbles across an ad for an all-expense paid trip to France as a travel partner. He expects it to be a prank, he doesn’t expect to find himself flying to a foreign country with a grumpy (though very attractive) man with piercing grey eyes.

The 6th Ward
Summary: Levi is finally returning to work as a nurse after recovering from a car crash that nearly killed him. Nothing says “welcome back” like realizing he’s lost his marbles and can see the disembodied spirits of the comatose patients in the 6th ward. He begrudgingly helps them learn how to be dead. Eren, the newest coma patient in the 6th ward, has six months to learn how to be dead. Good luck, kid.


What they don’t tell you you’ll need in college (but you totally do)
  1. Tupperware
  2. A good laptop case
  3. Materials for whatever craft/hobby you enjoy
  4. A mattress heater
  5. A backpack for school AND a cute purse for going out
  6. Office supplies (like scissors, glue, tape, post it notes)
  7. Quaters
  8. A mug (or a few)
  9. Paper towels for your room
  10. A really good pair of headphones (I promise its worth the money)
  11. Copies (or originals) of all of your important documents… birth certificate, passport, social security card, bank account info
  12. Gym shoes
  13. Skype and a good webcam
  14. Extra chargers for everything
  15. A keychain/lanyard/things to carry your key and OneCard in
  16. Closet and drawer organizer
  17. A big wall calendar
  18. Device to play video games
  19. At least one fancy(ish) outfit
  20. Your favorite candy/food/thing you can only get in your home town
Tabula Rasa (reader x Bucky) [Accidents Happen pt 7]

Hey, peeps! I skipped out early from a family gathering so I could finish this and post tonight. Whew, this part was difficult to write! I hope I was able to shape it into what I had in mind. And hey, I’m only posting at 10:30pm MST which is early for me! ;) Words are hard, man. Let me know your thoughts whether it be likes, asks, or messages! I love to hear from you all. :)

Thought I’d put the music link at the beginning so you can listen as you read. 

Push by Sarah McLachlan

Tags are at the end. 


Originally posted by sssmcdlove

Tabula Rasa (reader x Bucky) [Accidents Happen pt 7]

Characters: Reader x Bucky, Natasha

Summary: The two of you get caught so you ask for one more day before sharing with the team. 

Warnings: none, just sexy fluff, maybe sad Bucky? Slight cliffhanger?

  Part Six   Part Seven   Part Eight 


“Well, this is interesting.” said the voice behind you.

With your hands still on either side of his face, you kept your eyes on Bucky. You could feel the tension rising in him for being caught with you and during such a vulnerable moment. His eyes wide, you slid your hand to the back of his neck, massaging it, and wove your fingers into his hair. You gave a small smile and he started to relax. Still keeping your gaze on Bucky, you finally responded.

“Hi, Nat.”

You finally looked her way once you were sure Bucky was calm. The redhead stood with her arms folded, one cynical eyebrow sky high. She took slow steps toward you, coming to the side of the chair a few feet away. Bucky was resting his forehead on your shoulder, avoiding her gaze.

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Magnetic Chapter 7: Hunting Together

Dean Winchester

1200 Words

Chapter Summary: After a drive that went surprisingly well, you and Dean get ready to start up the hunt. 

Story Summary:  After your Dad was killed, you were shocked to learn all about his hidden life. Deciding to follow in his footsteps, you turn to a life of hunting, surprised at how well you adapted. Then comes along Sam and Dean Winchester, turning your life upside down. You and Dean don’t get along at first, but then things soon start to change.

Catch Up Here: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

Author’s Notes: As always, thank you so much for checking out my story!! I’m always interested in hearing comments and suggestions.

The rest of the road trip went by smoothly, with only a couple of colorful comments exchanged between you and Dean. Even you were surprised at how smoothly it went. How you and Dean ended up singing along to most of the songs on his cassette’s, and how surprised Sam seemed to be when the two of you hadn’t killed each other by the time you were pulling in to the small town in Colorado.

When you weren’t singing along with Dean, you enjoyed the scenery outside your window. Only driving through the state a handful of times, you had always thought it could be a place to settle down in. This town was located high in the mountains,  big pine trees crowding the side of the road, blocking your view of anything else. Aspen trees interspersed with the pine trees were beginning to turn a brilliant shade of yellow, with the oak brush below  turning a vibrant shade of red. Feeling the air grow cooler outside, you were grateful you had packed your heavier wear. Old, one story clapboard houses lined the streets, and if you blinked you would have missed main street, with his handful of small, colorful buildings. “This is a college town?” You asked, amazed that this small and quaint town could support college life.

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my dad telling me the facts of life when i was 11: see, the thing about ginger mojitos is, if you make too many of them, you have to move away from your fun-filled life in a small college town in the midwest and end up friendless on the west coast experiencing withdrawal from SSRIs and stuck in a dead-end job where you have to be there at 5 am 6 days a week
me now: dang i shoulda listened :/

Appalachian Subculture: On being gay and Appalachian, by Jeff Mann

Jeff Mann is a widely published essayist and poet from West Virginia. This piece was published in Gay & Lesbian Review Worldwide, September/October 2003, Vol. 10 Issue 5, page 19. 

Appalachia has a bad reputation, especially West Virginia, the only state whose borders lie entirely within anyone’s definition of the Appalachian Mountains. Moonshine swillers and feuding hicks—these are the images that most people hold. “Hillbillies,” despite today’s politically correct climate, are still regular objects of mockery. City dwellers have been alternately romanticizing and demonizing country dwellers since Greek and Roman times, and American popular culture’s relation to Appalachia is our version of it.
    Several summers ago, some friends and I walked into a Mexican restaurant in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. The young man who escorted us to our table, noticing my West Virginia Writer’s Workshop T-shirt, asked if we still slept with our siblings back in the hollers. My Appalachian Studies students have heard many a thoughtless comment, to wit: “You’re from West Virginia? But you have teeth! You wear shoes?!” One young woman told me that an acquaintance had been so amazed by her accent that he asked permission to audiotape her speech for the amusement of friends!
    Queer folk and mountain folk have something very important in common: both are frequent objects of satire, hostility, and contempt. Both feel the pressure to assimilate, to blend in “for their own well-being.” Voices from the Hills: Selected Readings of Southern Appalachia (1975), edited by Robert Higgs and Ambrose Manning, is a seminal work in the field of Appalachian Studies, and a quick browse through that volume provides a neat historical overview of attitudes toward the region. The early travel narratives depict violence and hospitality, laziness and industriousness—but it’s the negative qualities that outsiders tend to linger over. From the “local color” writers of the late 19th century to the well-intentioned “War on Poverty” literature of the 1960’s, all the observers have emphasized the exoticism, the otherness of the Appalachian people, as if the region were almost a foreign country or some remnant of frontier society frozen in time. Today’s attitudes continue to be shaped by such media depictions as The Beverly Hillbillies or the infamous film Deliverance, with its inbred banjo-player and toothless rapists.
    ”Hillbilly” and “queer” are two words that oppressed groups have tried to reclaim. They are words that I may apply to myself but that outsiders had better not use to refer to me unless they want an argument. Being a member of both subcultures is often a double burden, one that many mountain people are eager to escape. Gay culture is still primarily an urban phenomenon, while Appalachia, despite its many cities, is primarily a rural region. Making a life as a gay man or lesbian in the countryside or in a small town can be tough; not surprisingly, many young Appalachian gays and lesbians hightail it to the nearest city as soon as possible.
    I certainly did. It was in 1976, when I was sixteen, that I read Patricia Nell Warren’s novel The Front Runner and realized that I was gay. Unlike gay and lesbian youths of today, who have the Internet with its many resources to inform them that they’re not the only ones with same-sex desires, my generation had books, and I devoured them during my high school days in the small town of Hinton, West Virginia, and later at West Virginia University, where I read novels by the Violet Quill writers and relished the luxury of college-town gay life. Appalachia was, at that point in my development, a place from which to flee. With delicious images of Greenwich Village and Fire Island in my head (but not ready for New York), I found part-time work in Washington, D.C., in the summer of 1985 and prepared myself for a new life filled with romantic and erotic adventure.
    Misery is often the stimulus to self-awareness, and I was miserable during that long autumn in Washington. A polite Southerner who hadn’t mastered the fine arts of cruising, anonymous sex, and emotional manipulation, I found myself as unhappy and celibate in the big city as I’d been in West Virginia. I felt like Tantalus, surrounded by inaccessible savories. On top of that, I missed the mountains and my family, and I began to realize how many of my values were thoroughly shaped by rural living and out of step with urban life. For someone accustomed to forests, pastures, and vegetable gardens, D.C.’s traffic, noise, and urban pace were abrasive and often maddening. In the midst of the city I came to realize that I was, inescapably, a country boy.
    Proximity to gay bars and bookstores was not worth the price, I decided, and by year’s end I returned to West Virginia, filled with a new appreciation for my native region. By the time I began teaching Appalachian Studies at Virginia Tech in the early 1990’s, I had changed from a young gay man eager to escape the mountains to a not-so-young gay man proud to be a member of both the Appalachian and gay subcultures. Living in a liberal university town in the hills of southwest Virginia allowed me the best of both worlds.
    For many people, however, claiming and retaining both identities is almost impossible. It’s so much easier to choose one subculture over the other than to deal with the confusions and complexities of balancing both. Those who remain in the mountains often feel compelled to hide or minimize their gayness, while those who leave for the cities try to erase their accents and assimilate into urban culture. The latter escapees face a particular difficulty. In an essay in his book, Appalachian Values, Loyal Jones discusses mountain people’s fervent attachment to place and to family. Gay hill folk are like their straight brethren: they display an inordinate affection for their native places, and they often suffer a bitter homesickness when they flee to big cities.
    Rob is a good example. A bear buddy of mine who had spent all of his life in West Virginia, he recently moved to Washington for the same reasons that I did over fifteen years ago, yearning for a rich and varied gay culture that was hard to find in the mountains. He’s had better luck on the romantic front—his handsome face, friendly smile, and well-built body are useful currency—but whenever I talk to him, whenever he returns to the mountains for holidays, I can hear the wistfulness in his voice. Everything’s so expensive in D.C., he complains. The commutes are long, the apartments small, the sound of traffic ceaseless. Maybe he’ll return to West Virginia and enter a graduate school program.
    I understand. As much as I love to visit D.C.—the Lambda Rising bookstore, the leather and bear bars, the innumerable gayfriendly restaurants along 17th Street—I’m always glad to escape the Beltway chaos and begin my retreat down the Shenandoah Valley. When I exit truck-crowded Interstate 81 at Ironto, Virginia, and wend my way along the tortuous back roads between hillsides of redbud, tulip tree, and sugar maple, I’m always gripped by the peace and beauty of the landscape. It is a loveliness I never take for granted. Perhaps it’s because my father (another literate West Virginian) raised me to be a romantic in the tradition of Emerson and Thoreau. Perhaps it’s because I’m in my mid-forties, happily coupled, and no longer delighted by late-night gay bar culture. Whatever the reason, these days the company of trees, creeks, and hills feels just as necessary for my spiritual health as relationships with other human beings.
    Many gay people continue to migrate out of Appalachia, but more and more I meet gay men and lesbians who are determined to remain in the mountains. Some are natives, while some are urbanites who’ve had more than enough stress and have decided to try something new. Harry is an example of the latter phenomenon. Originally from Staten Island, he’s lived in my little hometown of Hinton for twenty years. How does he manage to live a full gay life in an isolated town of 3,500? He does occasionally make the hour-and-a-half drive to the bear bar in Charleston, and he also attends Radical Faerie gatherings several times a year in Virginia and Tennessee. He always talks up Hinton to the people he meets, telling them of its beautiful mountains and river, its incredibly cheap property. And his strategy has worked. At this point, so many gay men, both Appalachians and outsiders, have bought property in Harry’s neighborhood that it has come to be known as “Harry’s Heights.” I’ve met more gay men in Harry’s kitchen—smack dab in the middle of Summers County, West Virginia, an area rife with religious fundamentalism—than I have in any gay bar.
    One reason that gay mountaineers flee to cities is, of course, to avoid homophobia. Though hatred of homosexuals is found everywhere, it’s sometimes more vocal here in Appalachia, where fundamentalist Christians usually assume that they’re the majority. In the Charleston Gazette, West Virginia’s most prestigious newspaper, the letters to the editor are often lousy with biblical quotations. One Kanawha Valley minister regularly harps on the sinfulness of gays and their supposed predatory pedophilia.
    However, despite this hostility, gay life in West Virginia has expanded and deepened in the last two decades. I imagine many citizens of Greenwich Village, Dupont Circle, or the Castro would be surprised to hear that Charleston, West Virginia, hosts four gay bars, a Mountain State Bear Contest, a Pride Parade, a Mr. Leather Contest, and an assortment of political and social organizations for gays, lesbians, and bisexuals. For those who live in the many tiny towns of Appalachia, fear and isolation are still likely to warp their lives, but in West Virginia cities like Charleston, Morgantown, and Huntington—and their equivalents in other Appalachian states—living a gay or lesbian existence is becoming in many cases much more comfortable than I could ever have imagined during my lonely high school days in Hinton in the mid-1970’s.
    My friendship with Alan reminds me, however, of the restrictions that can still make Appalachian gay and lesbian lives lonely and unfulfilling. Alan is very handsome, lean and muscular, sweet-tempered, intelligent, and gainfully employed. Despite this, he is unhappily single. Yes, Charleston has a gay community, but it’s too small. Only a few weeks in the bar scene and you know everyone, he complains. Disillusioned and bored by the social opportunities the Kanawha Valley offers, he spends his evenings renovating his house or going to the gym. He dreams of better romantic opportunities in Washington or New York or San Francisco, but he never quite seems to go. He reminds me of the many poverty-stricken inhabitants of the central Appalachian coalfields, whose attachment to place keeps them in a region where economic possibilities have dwindled along with the coal industry itself. (Alan also reminds me of how lucky I am to have my lover John. After years of romantic debacles, I’ve been in a healthy relationship for six years, and I’m no longer prowling for erotic outlets or looking for love. It’s easy for me, a homebody who can take or leave gay society, not to resent Appalachia’s restrictions.)
    Loneliness is everywhere, of course, from the Castro to the most isolated hillside hamlet. Much to my surprise, my D.C. friends sometimes register the same complaints that Alan does about Charleston: the gay social world is too hermetic; it’s hard to find someone interested in more than an overnight frolic. But for mountain gays and lesbians who are comfortably coupled, for those who have come to terms with solitude, or those who’ve resisted the media stereotypes that encourage “hillbillies” to hold their own heritage in contempt, Appalachia possesses a rich regional culture that remains distinctive even as many other sections of America have become blandly homogenized.
    The scholar Helen Lewis once claimed that most Appalachians are bicultural, able to operate in both mainstream American culture and their own mountain subculture. That would make “mountaineer queers” tricultural, I suppose, if they are strong enough to wrestle with the apparent contradictions in their identity. That there are tensions and contradictions I was reminded a few years ago when teaching courses on gay and lesbian literature and Appalachian Studies in the same semester. The gay and lesbian students at first regarded me as a “Bubba” or redneck (I drive a pickup truck, have a mountain accent, sport a beard, wear cowboy boots and jeans, and listen to country music), while the locals in my Appalachian Studies class regarded me as one of them until I came out as gay near semester’s end, giving rise to a good deal of cognitive dissonance. I was tempted to quote Walt Whitman: “Do I contradict myself?/Very well then I contradict myself,/ (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”
    The longer I live in the mountains and the more Appalachian gays and lesbians I meet, the more I realize how fortunate are those who master the complex art of balancing several subcultures. I’m also beginning to believe that future generations will more easily work their way through the stigmas and contradictions and will not feel the need to renounce one identity in favor of another.
    My ex-student Kaye is a fine example of the new breed of queer youth. She was raised in a coal-mining family in the small town of Fayetteville, West Virginia. Entirely comfortable with her lesbian identity, she is happily coupled and has little interest in leaving the region. “I like Appalachian gay bars,” Kaye admits. “Folk are pretty friendly around here, and, unlike the bars in cities, which often cater to a specific group of queers, West Virginia’s gay bars, since they’re so few, combine all the gay subcultures: men and women, younger and older, leather guys, dykes-on-bikes, and drag queens. It’s a rich mix.” Kaye also tells an unforgettable story about her years living outside the region. When she and her girlfriend moved to Florida and began socializing in a nearby lesbian bar, they were shunned as soon as the locals found out that they were from West Virginia. It turns out the other patrons took mountain incest jokes very seriously. Since Kaye and her lover were both tall and dark-haired, it was assumed that they were sisters as well as lovers! Unlike many gay people of my generation, Kaye is deeply interested in the traditions of mountain culture. As a student in my Appalachian Studies class, she recognized a kindred soul and gave me such local treats as home-canned corn relish, wild ramps, and creecy greens. Kaye is also passionately involved in such Appalachian controversies as the environmental effects of mountaintop mining and acid mine drainage.
    Everett and Glenn also come to mind. This spring John and I visited the young couple in their log cabin in southwest Virginia, which is set so high on a mountain that it’s only accessible via four-wheel-drive vehicles. Everett grilled steaks, Glenn poured iced tea, and the four of us shared a late lunch on the front porch of the cabin. Far below, the north fork of the Roanoke River rushed along. Across the valley, the fog that forms after a spring rain rubbed its belly along the ridges. Just over the fence, a neighbor’s herd of fat cattle grazed amidst buttercups. A mockingbird chattered somewhere, the porch wind chimes sounded. The rest was countryside silence.
    Everett and Glenn are both Southwest Virginia locals, one from Patrick County, the other from Alleghany County. They like their native mountains, and they intend to stay. They’re part of a widely scattered circle of bear buddies who’ve met on the Internet, friends with whom they exchange infrequent visits. Their families have adopted a “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy and officially regard them as roommates. What cravings they have for big-city gay adventure they defuse with several yearly trips to bear or leather busts in Orlando, Atlanta, and New Orleans. In between those jaunts, they have that quiet mountainside to come home to. “One colleague says I have two lives,” joked Everett as he doled out slices of his homemade pie. “I’m equally comfortable at wine tastings and Wal-Mart.”
    It’s that juxtaposition of the popular and the sophisticated, the wild and the groomed, the country and the queer, that gives one the sense of living between two worlds. John is due home soon, and I’m about to mix martinis. Some collard greens have been simmering most of the afternoon, and the barbecued ribs are almost done. Tonight we’re going to check our calendar—we have trips to San Francisco, Key West, and Lost River to plan—then watch a DVD of Puccini’s Tosca. Right now, however, I’m peeved, because the radio has just announced that the country music star Tim McGraw is performing at the nearby civic center this coming Saturday, but the event is sold out. The mountaineer in me loves McGraw’s music; the gay man loves his broad shoulders, furry cleavage, and handsome goatee. This double vision is the greatest gift of straddling two subcultures: the world shimmers with twice the meaning, twice the beauty.

You're A Winchester

Warnings: blood, death

Word Count: 2445

Summary: The reader escapes from the orphanage she has grown up in, to find her mother. There she finds out about her biological father, John Winchester.

A/N: I am super excited to share this with you all, as I am hoping to make this into a series, so please let me know what you think and if I should write another part!

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8Part 9 |

Silence swept through the building, as one by one each light switched out. You lay in your bed, carefully listening for the usual clicks of locks on the doors, reminding you of the prison that you had become so familiar with.

You let out a heavy sigh, before slowly sitting upright, and slinking each limb out from the covers of the blanket to the cold floor beneath you. You were already fully dressed: a faded-blue tank top underneath your favourite hazel-brown leather jacket, which you accompanied with a simple pair of dark-blue jeans, and worn out converse shoes. Sneaking over to your wardrobe, you slung a duffel bag over your shoulder, which you had already packed with a few essentials.

Creeping back over across the room to access the window, you pulled a paperclip out of your jean pocket, and proceeded to pick the lock on the window.

Within a few minutes of fidgeting with the lock, a soft click signaled that this task had been completed.

Bringing your hands to the window frame, you slowly pushed it open, until it was wide enough for a person to slip through. That person being you.

Luckily, because of your age, you didn’t share a room with anyone else in the orphanage, which made your secret mission of escaping a whole lot easier.

You began to climb out of the window, before getting a firm grip on the drain-pipe that elongated itself all the way to the ground (your room was on the second-storey). Once you felt as safe as possible in your grip, your descent of the pipe was underway. You were about halfway down when you felt your fingers slowly begin to slide, and before you could do anything, you were falling.

With a big thud, you landed on the large strip of grass beneath you, shooting a sharp pain through your back. You lay motionless on your back for several moments, just groaning through the passing pain. Pulling yourself to your feet, you brushed off any blades of grass and dirt that clung to your jeans.

You did it. You had escaped from the place you had grown up your entire life. You could only call it ‘a place’, because it never earned the title as your home. You didn’t have a home.

Walking with a sense of victory along the quiet and dimly-lit streets, you headed towards the nearest bus station, to sit yourself down on the seat, buzzing with adrenalin from your escapade.

You shuffled the duffel off your shoulder, into your lap, before zipping it agape to all the contents inside. Pulling out a folded piece of paper, you opened it to read the contents that you had read over and over again for the past few months, and knew off by heart.

In your peripherals, you saw the approaching brightness of a pair of headlights. Zipping your bag closed, you stood up, still clutching the piece of paper in your hands.

“Happy 18th birthday,” you muttered to yourself with a smile, as you boarded the bus that had stopped before you.

It had been three days since your successful escape mission. You had travelled through day and night, only sleeping on public transport or in the back of a stranger’s car while hitch-hiking. You hadn’t had a whole lot to eat, besides a bacon and egg sandwich from a cheap diner, and some fruit that you stole from the market.

The driver of the pickup truck, that you were catching a lift with, gave you a small shake to wake you from your nap. You let out a loud yawn, as you stretched over to the back seat for your bag. Hopping out of the vehicle, you shut the door, giving the driver a thankful nod, and watched him drive off down the road.

You slowly turned around, to face a small house with a letterbox out the front. You didn’t even need to read the numbers carefully painted on it, to know what address you were at. How could you? The address had been etched into your mind from re-reading it on that piece of paper every day for several months.

Hesitantly, you made your way up to the front door. You waited there in front of it for what feel like forever. Scenarios of what could follow your knock at the door began to whizz through your mind. Ever since you retrieved that address at the orphanage, you constantly thought of every single thing that could go right or wrong.

But you were here now.

With a loud sigh, you finally raised your clenched fist upright to the door, giving a few definite knocks, before quickly returning it to your side.

You heard silence for a few moments, before hearing the sound of soft footsteps slowly approaching the door. You held your breath as the door opened.

It revealed a middle-aged woman, with piercing stormy-blue eyes, and strawberry-blonde hair tied up messily into a bun. She looked at your figure, glancing up and down with intrigue, while keeping the majority of her body guarded behind the door.

“Um, hello,” she asked softly, before clearing her throat, “Can I help you with something?”

You shifted your stance nervously as you responded, “Uh, no. Not quite.” You let out a heavy sigh before continuing, “My name is Y/N Fulligan. I’m your daughter.”

Your mother stayed in the kitchen the entire time she prepared the tea. You on the other hand, sat awkwardly on the couch in the living room, taking in your surroundings of the place. It was a quaint house that would usually feel quite warm and homely. But under the circumstances, the place felt foreign and somewhat uninviting.

She returned with two steaming mugs, placing both on the coffee table in front of you, before sitting herself down on the other end of the couch.

The room was filled with a deafening silence for several uncomfortable moments. You knew your mother wasn’t going to break the silence anytime soon.

“Why?” you asked, not looking at her, but instead focusing on your mug. She didn’t seem to understand, as you could see her confused expression in your peripheral vision. You turned both your body and your gaze towards her before asking again, with a firmer tone.

“Why?! Why did you give me up? Why did you let me rot 18 years away in an orphanage? Why did you never even bother to contact me at all?!” You didn’t realise until you were finished, that tears were rolling down your cheeks.

Your mother sighed as she dropped her head.

“It is not so black and white, Y/N,” she began, “I was just starting to figure out my life; early 20s, studying at college. And then he came to town.”

Even at that mention, you knew who the ‘he’ was that she was referring to. Your father. You leant forward with intrigue, silently begging to hear more.

“It was May 17th, and his name was John Winchester. I met him when I was working my night-shift at the bar. He sat himself down, and ordered some pretty heavy liquor. He looked absolutely exhausted, so I decided to start a conversation with him. It turned out that it was his wedding anniversary with his wife, who had passed away quite a number of years ago. Apparently, every year was the same: drowning out his sorrows till his liver almost exploded.”

“Hours went by and the bar began to empty. When I finished my shift, he was still there, draining the contents of his flask. I told him that I had to close up shop, and he would need to head home. And that’s when it all happened. With a drunken passion he began to kiss me, and being the naïve person that I was, I didn’t resist. And, I’m guessing you can understand where that led.”

You shifted uncomfortably, as your mother slightly smirked.

“But when I woke up the next morning in my apartment, he was gone. There was nothing to even suggest that he was ever there in the first place. Weeks went past till I found out I was pregnant with you. Abortion was never an option, because of my upbringing, so I knew giving you up was the next best thing.”

Your eyes were becoming watery again, just at the thought that you were just an accident and a problem in your mother’s life that needed to be gotten rid of at the earliest opportunity. “Did you ever regret it?” you murmured.

She gave a sad smile before replying, “No. I was young. I had a future to focus on. I was studying. And I wanted a future with someone. None of that could have truly happened if I kept you around.”

A single tear escaped your eyes, but you brushed it away as quickly as it fell. Not being wanted was nothing new for you. But to hear your own mother verbally say that she couldn’t have you around to succeed in life, was a difficult truth to stomach.

Still, your mind was blurring with information about your father. John Winchester. You had to find out more. When you found the address of your mother in your file at the orphanage, you couldn’t find any trace of information about your father. So maybe your mother was the key.

Pushing any oncoming sobs back down your throat, you asked, “What about John? What about my father?”

Your mother reached over to the coffee table, taking a small sip of her tea before responding, “I don’t know where he is. As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I tried to contact him somehow. I searched phonebooks, records, the entire internet you name it. But nothing. So I left it, because what more could I do?”

Cupping your tea mug in your hands, you sighed with disappointment. You took a large gulp of your tea, feeling the burning sensation run down your throat. Your mother saw your disappointment, and quickly began to speak again.

“But like I said, we talked for hours at the bar. I did learn a great deal about him, whether it was from his honest nature or the alcohol. He told me about the type of job he does for a living. He’s a hunter.”

You took a small sip of your tea, looking on with great interest, as she continued, “And no, not a regular run-of-the-mill deer-shooting hunter. I’m talking hunter of the supernatural. Werewolves, vampires, demons. Shall I continue?”

Slightly choking on the tea in your mouth, you shook your head in disagreement. “That’s not possible. Those types of creatures are not even real!”

Smirking, your mother answered, “Oh well, starting believing it. Because it is real. John’s job as a hunter is a tough gig, because I mean, they kill the evil in the world that we don’t even know about! And he’s not alone. Apparently the world is full of hunters, fighting off evil on a daily basis. Since that night, I’ve done some research about all this mythical crap; actually quite a fair bit of research that I could actually become a hunter if I wanted to, which I obviously never did.”

With wide eyes, you put down your mug, taking a few deep breaths, trying to comprehend what your mother was saying. The kind of monsters and creatures you were told weren’t real, the ones only the result of special effects in the movies, were actually roaming the earth.

Your mother smiled, and let out a small laugh when she saw you trying to process everything. She reached over to your arm, and placed her hand on top, as you looked up at her. “Look I can see you’re having a hard time coming to terms with it all, so how about you run to the market just up the street and grab us some ingredients for dinner tonight. We can discuss it all then, and I’ll answer any questions you have. I’ll fetch you some money, and I’ll write you a list of things that we need. Okay?“

You nodded as she rose up from the couch and wandered over to the kitchen, leaving you behind on the couch, still trying to comprehend that Dracula was most likely real.

Stalking each aisle, you tried your best to find where the tinned tomatoes were located. Finally finding them, you placed them in your basket, before proceeding to the checkout with all of the groceries on the list that your mother had given you.

It felt weird to be doing something as normal as getting the groceries for dinner. Nothing in your life had ever been normal. So doing this one normal thing at the age of 18 just felt bizarre. But in a strange way, it almost felt right. This was the life that you were supposed to have, instead of spending every night for dinner at a table by yourself in a dingy cafeteria.

Giving the cashier a beaming smile, you walked with a newfound joy in each step you took.

Of course you knew that you obviously couldn’t have a regular mother-daughter relationship together, but you could still maintain a friendship. Despite her giving you away, you began to realise that you probably would have done the same. You just wished you could have had more contact with her during the years.

Finally arriving at the house, you found yourself beaming from ear to ear as you approached the door. You were just about to knock, when you saw that the door was already slightly ajar.

Confused, you slowly pushed open the door, enough to squeeze through, before closing the door once more.

You just stood in the small hallway, with a feeling in your gut that something was wrong. You creeped your way to the kitchen with hesitation. And you had a right to, with the sight you saw as you entered the kitchen.

Your mother lay on ground, surrounded by a large pool of crimson. Blood was irregularly splattered in small dots all around her. Her left arm was splayed lifeless, next to her, with three words etched into her flesh. It wasn’t the neatest writing, but it was legible.

Gaining all the strength you had not to fall to your knees, you took a deep breath before collecting your duffel bag from the living room.

You knew what you needed to do.

Walking towards the front door, you caught a glimpse of your dead mother, and the words on her arm that would haunt your every step.

You’re next Winchester’

Hi Taylor !! Just want to update you on my life. I’m currently a sophomore in college (crazy town I know lol) in a 5 year education program. Yes I want to be a elementary special education teacher. Today I just started my 2 week student teaching and it’s already one of the best experiences of my life.
Just wanna say thank you for teaching me to go after my dreams and never give up on something you love!! I love you so much and one day I hope I can thank you in person !! 
Xoxo Jacqulyn 

Request: Here for the party

Request: Are you willing to write a story about Juice and his girlfriend when he wants to introduce her to the club but is afraid because she is well-educated and likes to dress herself in elegant clothes? And Juice is afraid she won’t feel comfortable but it turns out she is the life and soul of a party.

Yeah, the title is inspired in a song, you can hear it HERE.

Originally posted by dennissevers

You left college, found a job and moved to another town, a completely life change. You were living in Charming for a few weeks now and you missed your friends. The only people you knew where from work and it was hard to be alone at your house, watching movies on TV. It didn’t take long to change that though, in the next morning you met someone who would change your life forever.

Your car was working, but it seemed strange. Not wanting to have any more troubles, you drove to a place in town called Teller-Morrow Automotive. You parked the car and walked towards the garage, but a guy came running to meet you half way.

“Hi! Can I help you?”, he said. He was cute and had a mohawk, tattoos on his head and this goofy smile. You couldn’t resist and smiled too.

“Yes”, you said. “My car seems strange, I don’t know… Can you look at it?”

“Sure”, he said, taking his pen to write in a clipboard. You said your name, address and phone, handing him the car’s keys. “How long it’s gonna take?”

“I don’t know”, he shrugged, biting his low lip which dragged your attention. “We’ll call you to talk about it okay?”

“Oh, okay”, you sighed and looked inside your purse for your phone. “I’ll call a cab”

“I could give you a ride to your work”, he said, pointing at his bike. You looked at it and smiled. “But…”, he pointed at your clothes and blushed. You looked at yourself, smiling. Yes, you weren’t in the right clothes to ride a bike. High heels and pencil skirt didn’t work on a bike.

“Yeah, that would be a problem”, you grinned. “Thanks….?”, you left the question in the air.

“Juice”, he said. “I mean, it’s Juan, but everybody calls me Juice and probably will be the…”

“Thanks Juice”, you laughed at his embarrassment for being rambling. “Call me… I mean, when the car is ready”


He called you to talk, not only about the car, but about other things and finally to invited you to a dinner and a movie. Juice was a funny and a cute guy, you never would thought he was a member of Samcro. Live in Charming meant you had to know them, and after your first visit at the TM you finally were aware about the famous MC.

Juice seemed pretty shy going out with you in the first times and he confessed to be a little intimidated, since you looked so smart, educated and well dressed with your skirts, heels and silk button shirts. You found it cute, but he shouldn’t be acting like that. You weren’t that serious.

You spent months having dinner together, going to the movies or having sex and it was a good relationship, but the MC was a part of his life and you wanted to know it too. Juice promised he would think about it, but days passed and he didn’t say anything about. You decided to confront him.

“Juice”, you asked when he brought the popcorn to the living room, getting ready for the movie night. “When are you going to take me to the clubhouse?”

“Oh, I… I don’t know”, he stuttered. You sighed and grabbed his chin, making him look at you.

“Juice…You promised”, you said. “Are you ashamed of me?”

“NO! Not at all baby”, he put the bowl aside and leaned to kiss you, but you turned your face away. He sighed and took you hands between his. “I’m not ashamed, I’m worried you won’t feel comfortable around there”

“Why?”, you narrowed your eyes.

“Baby, you are so different…So smart, serious…”, he said.

“Serious?”, you laughed. “That is good Juice, really good. I already told you baby, this is for work. I can hang around your MC just fine”

“Still…”, you held a hand up to make him stop talking.

“I’ll go with you to the next party”, you said, grabbing the bowl. “If you don’t pick me up, I’ll go by myself. Your choice”


You really could hang around the MC. You rescued some clothes from the deep of your closet and smiled seeing them again. On Friday night you got ready for the party while you listened to your 80’s rock playlist, Whitesnake making you dance when you left the shower. When Juice knocked on your door you were ready. You looked again at the mirror, seeing how good you looked in the dark jeans. The thuds of your boots followed you until the door and you opened it, holding your leather jacket for Juice to help you put it on. He wasn’t moving though, mouth hanging open.

“Juice”, you snapped your fingers. “A little help here baby”

“Of course”, he blinked and you smiled, turning your back to him. “You…You look amazing baby”

“Thank you”, you kissed him and walked to his bike. Juice was standing on your door, looking at you walking. “Come on Juice!”, you called without turning around and smirked hearing his boots running to meet you.


The clubhouse was full and all those bikes were a powerful sight. You smiled and Juice held your hand tight as you walked inside. He looked around and walked through the crowd to meet a grey haired man who was talking to a blond one.

“Hey guys”, he said. “This is Y/n, my girl. Y/n these are Clay, our Pres and Jax, the VP”

“You finally brought the girl”, Jax smiled and took off the cigar from his mouth to hug you. “Nice to meet you darling”

“Nice to meet you too”, you smiled as a woman came closer, wrapping her arm around Clay.

“Gem, I want you to met someone”, Juice said and introduced you to the bikers’ Queen. You already had heard about her, but Gemma didn’t seemed so intimidating. She welcomed you and Juice took you to the bar, to meet his brothers. He introduced you to everyone, Tig, Bobby, Opie, Chibs, Happy, Kozik… All of them looked so nice and now you had met the family, you were more than ready for a beer. Juice was trying to take you to the couch, quiet corner. Luckily, Bobby came to the rescue.

“Go play pool boy”, he said, shoving Juice at Chibs’ direction. “We can take care of your girl”

“But…”, he whined and Chibs dragged him away. You smiled and asked Chuck a beer, stting next to Bobby and Kozik. Soon you were really having fun, hearing their funny stories and telling yours. Bobby took you to met other people and you saw Juice at the pool table, playing but his eyes never leaving you. At some point, you were back at the bar, this time behind it, teaching Chuck to prepare different drinks. Bobby, Kozik and Tig were watching you, everybody laughing and asking for different drinks.

“Who knew you were such a great bartender”, Kozik said tasting the last drink you had prepared.

“Well, I learnt a few things in college”, you smirked.

“Yeah, Juice boy told us you were a smart girl”, Tig grinned. “Actually, he was a little afraid to bring you to the Zoo”

“Zoo?”, you laughed. “You are not that bad. I’m having fun and Juice is a silly boy”

“Who is silly?”, Juice himself asked, coming closer to the bar.

“You”, Tig said. “I would said dumbass or…”

“Shut up”, Bobby said and turned to Juice. “We were talking about how stupid you were for not bringing her before. See? She is having fun…By the way, make me another one of these sweetie, please?”

“Right away”, you winked and started to prepare another drink for Bobby.

“Hey, you can’t tell my girl to make your drinks”, Juice whined.

“It’s fine”, you rolled your eyes. “I’m having fun with the guys, I told you…you were afraid for nothing”

Juice pouted a little and sat by the bar, enjoying a few drinks prepare by you. He had to watch you play pool too, laughing with Lyla, Opie and Bobby, finally admitting you were comfortable there, having fun and that his fears came from nowhere. It was late and the party was still loud, but he was tired, wanting to go home. He was seeing you walk around with your boots and jeans, being sexy in this ‘old lady’ look and that was turning him on. Juice pulled you closer and whispered in your ear.

“Let’s go home”, he held you tight. You smiled and turned around, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“It’s still early”, you smiled.

“It’s not”, he laughed. “I get it, you are having fun and I’m a stupid, but please…Can we go home now?”

He slid his fingers under your shirt to make his point. You got the hint and smirked. “Okay, lets go”, you said your goodbyes and walked with Juice to his bike. “I can’t wait to come back”, you said as you hugged him, feeling Juice laugh as you went back home.