what the hell
Lesson: I should not be allowed to watch season finales and then start typing without a clear idea of where the fuck I'm headed.
( You want to see if what's under your feet is really concrete and if she'll gasp as you slam her down into it. )
( You want to see if what's under your feet is really concrete and if she'll gasp as you slam her down into it. )
Yeah, that's it. It's fucked up and perfect and FLAIL.
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You should read Spider Bites On All My Lovers.
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Even if this has given me ideas of my own. Not for SPN, but Once Upon a Time in Mexico *points at icon* like so.
...ooh, I think I just might.
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I am now in a mood to write something twisted and beautiful and fucked up and sadistic, and I blame you and your ficlet and your link of brilliance.
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You piece together the clues and you drink coffee and run over the facts, you look people in the eye and just lie, lie, lie so that when you grab the torch and the gun you know what to do. You look evil in the eye and pull the trigger and laugh off the shakes.
On her first hunt, Jo had screamed with fear.
On her first night back home, she found herself craving it.
And that's what Ellen never understood. Jo that left wasn't the same as the Jo who came back. The boys had rescued her, not saved her. Joanna Beth Harvelle came out of the murderer's box with a piece of darkness in her soul.
And this is the thing of the dark, it's seductive. It lies there and whispers and goes that felt good, didn't it? you felt alive, yes, heart beating harder than sex, fear like liquid fire and you were alive. She would serve the hunters and listen to their stories and her heart would beat alive, even shouting in bravado and it felt good to stab him, didn't it? It felt so fucking good c'mon, girl,She would clean the ( ... )
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I hate you.
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