easytiger-xo

[easytiger-xo]

motel moodboard

sex⭑.ᐟ trash tv⭑.ᐟ research⭑.ᐟ 4 hrs of sleep⭑.ᐟ late night snacks

radiohead ⭑.ᐟ let down ♬⋆.˚

credit & links:

⟡ more dean winchester.

⟡ pngs free to use ♡ tag to credit!

⟡ pics from pinterest, edited by me.

⟡ dividers, pngs, and gif by @easytiger-xo.

[easytiger-xo]

Supernatural Magazine

✦ Issue 1 ✦ Dec. 2007 ⟡ Jan. 2008 Alt Cover ⟡ Newsstand Cover ⟡ Pages 1-9

credit & links:

⟡ more Supernatural Magazines.

⟡ scans from Internet Archive - The Magazine Rack

⟡ dividers by @easytiger-xo.

[easytiger-xo]

hey 😏 i love you

careful... i'm clingy, bbgrl.

[easytiger-xo]

please don't let my boss ask me why I needed a new keyboard

✦ Keyboard > Akko 5098B જ⁀➴

[easytiger-xo]

texting dean winchester

Dean <3: whats wrong? Y/N: rough day. Y/N: rly wish u were here. Y/N: need a Dean Winchester hug. Dean <3: do me a favor? Dean <3: check the back of ur closet. Y/N: why? Dean <3: dont ask questions Dean <3: just do it. Y/N: u left this for me? Y/N:

Dean <3: knew id be gone a while on this case Dean <3: and u like wearing them. Y/N: this is perfect. Y/N: still smells like u :) Dean <3: sorry u had a rough day baby. Y/N: feels dumb complaining when ur out there risking ur life. Dean <3: u can complain to me anytime. Dean <3: u know i dont mind sweetheart. Dean <3: when i get back Dean <3: ill kiss it better. Y/N: promise? Dean <3: cross my heart Dean <3: hope to die. Dean <3: again... Y/N: not funny! Y/N: dont joke about that Y/N: okay? Dean <3: sorry Dean <3: ill make it up to u ;) Y/N: i know u will. Y/N: softie. Dean <3: dont tell anyone. Y/N: secrets safe with me Winchester Y/N: but only if u come back soon. Y/N: i miss ur stupid face. Dean <3: miss urs more Dean <3: hey... Dean <3: can u do me another favor? Y/N: u want me to send u a dirty pic wearing ur shirt dont u? Dean <3: uh... Dean <3: didnt know that was on the table Dean <3: and yes Dean <3: but that wasnt what i was gonna ask. Y/N: LOL Y/N: what then? Dean <3: come downstairs and let me in?

❤︎ i know these are usually a little smutty but i'm feeling more needy than horny today.. so its sap. sorry.

credit & links:

✦ read more leaked text here. ⟡ more dean winchester.

⟡ pics from pinterest, edited by me.

⟡ dividers by @easytiger-xo.

[easytiger-xo]

soldier boy: i'm just gonna use you as a human shield. k, doll?

me: sure sweetie, sounds nice. whatever you need.

[easytiger-xo]

♡ i got a tattoo ♡

this is the moment i fell in love with Dean & my favorite line of his so i thought.. why not? ♡

(it's speckley because it's a single needle stick and poke)

[easytiger-xo]

✦ Supernatural Season One Vinyl ⟡ Djinn Variant ✦ Includes:

⟡ 4 LP Featuring Music from the CW's hit show, Supernatural, Season Two. ⟡ Bonus 7" Deans Dream Vinyl with two additional songs. ⟡ "You're Not Real" poster and Family Polaroids.

𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝑺𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝑻𝒘𝒐 𝑶𝑺𝑻 (spotify) ♬⋆.˚

welcome to another installment! ♡ Season Two OST is here! starting off with a Djinn variant cause that episode makes my heart hurt. (look, i wanted to use "djinn blue" for the font/divider colors on this post but it was really hard to see. don't hate me for using the sage green from the dream album, ok?)

credit & links:

✦ more vinyl mockups here.

⟡ dividers by @easytiger-xo.

[easytiger-xo]

soldier boy's favorite call girl

he calls—she comes.

credit & links:

⟡ more soldier boy.

⟡ pics & gif from pinterest, edited by me.

⟡ dividers by @easytiger-xo.

[easytiger-xo]

Just Checking

pairing: dean winchester x fem!reader ❤︎

✦18+ (MDNI)✦

summary: Years of tension finally snaps—all it takes is one tick and Dean Winchester on his knees.

cw: smut, cursing, dirty talk, oral (female receiving), unprotected p in v, soft sub/dom vibes kinda, mention of ticks (i hate them), mutual pining turned smut, praise (for like a split second).

wordcount: 1,833

✦ a/n: Oh my god, it’s so hot out. Do any of my moots have a pool I can dive into? Anyway, it’s officially tick season, which means this smut basically wrote itself. Fun Fact: I do have a real fear of ticks, thanks to one traumatic summer...age eight, deer tick in my ear. They say write what you know, right? ❤︎

“Dean, seriously,” you groan, brushing a bug off your arm for what feels like the hundredth time. You’ve been trudging through the Kentucky woods for an hour—thick summer air, dripping sweat, everything sticky and green. “There’s nothing out here. Those kids probably made it up cause they got caught smoking weed or somethin’.”

“Shhh…” He hushes you, eyes scanning the trees. “We’re not leaving till we’re sure.”

You sigh, shoulders sagging as you catch up to him in the tall grass.

Five years hunting, and you still hate this part. But five years with the man who saved you from a nest of vampires—who hasn’t let you leave his side since? That part you don’t hate.

You had no one when he found you. Nowhere to call home. You think that’s why he lets you tag along. He understands what that feels like.

Your eyes are closed in the dingy motel bathroom, splashing cold water on your flushed face. “Told you it was nothing,” you call out, shutting off the faucet. You reach for a towel to dry your face…

“OH MY GOD! Oh my GOD—Dean! Dean!”

You hear him drop something heavy before the door slams open. “What?! What is it? Are you—”

Your arm is already out, shaking like a leaf. “Is that a tick? Dean, is that a tick?” You caught a glimpse of it in the mirror. Tiny, dark, right above your elbow.

He pauses, exhales hard, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “Jesus, woman, I thought you were dying.”

“I might be,” you snap, breath coming fast. “You know I don’t do ticks—”

“I know,” he says gently, stepping closer, voice low and calming. “Let me see.” He angles your arm toward the yellow light, brows furrowed. “Where’re your tweezers?”

“Velvet bag. Duffle.”

He doesn’t tease you—though he should. You’ve beheaded vamps and salted bones, but a tick sends you spiraling. Why? One traumatic summer. You, age eight. A deer tick stuck in your ear.

He knows the story. He knows all your stories.

He’s gone and back in seconds. “Deep breath,” he murmurs as you suck in a shaky inhale. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches—for a different reason entirely. You pray he didn’t notice.

The smirk tugging at his lips tells you you’re not that lucky.

He makes quick work of it. Plucks the thing off with clinical precision while you stand there trembling. Pulls out his Zippo, burns the wretched thing pinched in the tweezers, then washes it down the sink.

“I hate to say it,” he says slowly, watching your face, “but if there’s one…”

“Don’t.”

He shrugs. “Might be more.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

Then, softly:

“I could help you. Check.”

You know his offer is innocent. You think. But it feels like a step in a direction you've both been avoiding. Years of dancing around each other. Late nights. Long hunts. Shared motel beds—but never crossing the line. Keeping it clean. Easy.

You think about it for a long moment. Your fear of ticks is louder than your fear of getting in too deep.

“…Okay.”

His eyes flick over you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Dean takes your hand and leads you out into the open room, flipping on the overhead light. The walls look worse in full brightness—cracks, stains, cobwebs. You’re reminded why you usually leave that light off in these places.

He drops the tweezers and Zippo onto the bedside table. “C’mere.”

You step into his space, your pulse thudding in your throat.

“Don’t worry,” he says, voice like honey. “I’ll be gentle.”

“Not funny, Dean.”

He grins, then steps behind you. His hands are warm as they slide over your shoulders, brushing your hair aside. His breath ghosts over your neck.

“No tick here,” he murmurs, voice rough.

“Arms up.”

You obey, slowly. He lifts your tank top, eyes dark as they trace the newly exposed skin. His fingers skim your back, light and searching—too gentle to be clinical. You shiver. He turns you to face him.

He doesn’t try to hide where he’s looking. His gaze drops—your chest rising and falling beneath the white lace of your bra. His fingers slide along your collarbone, brushing the strap, trailing heat wherever they touch.

“No tick here.”

You look up at him. Really look. And something shifts.

He drops down to his knees in front of you, never breaking eye contact. Your breath hitches. Then his fingers find your belt. He moves slowly, deliberately, giving you time to stop him. But you don’t. Can’t.

The leather slips open. Button. Zipper. His hands slide inside the waistband of your jeans and he tugs them down, slow, like he’s unwrapping a gift. You brace yourself on his shoulders, lifting one foot, then the other. When he looks up again, his expression is reverent. His hands skim your thighs, gaze trailing behind.

And when he leans in—nose brushing your inner thigh—your knees almost buckle.

“Dean?” It comes out a moan.

He smiles against your skin. “Still lookin’ for ticks.”

“Liar.”

“Yeah.” His voice drops. “But you’re lettin’ me.”

And you are. God, you are.

Your fingers slide into his hair before you even realize it, and he groans at the touch—low and needy. His hands run up your outer thighs, then grip your ass, pulling you closer to his mouth.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Just feel—every warm breath, every brush of lips, every teasing drag of his fingers higher.

You know this is reckless. Know there’s no going back. But one more second without his mouth on you might break you. And from the way Dean is looking at you—like he’s been starving for years. You’re sure he feels the exact same way.

His hands slip higher, fingers hooking into the sides of your panties now. He looks up, waiting—giving you that one last chance.

You nod.

They slide down. Soft cotton against your thighs. He helps you step out of them, then tosses them aside. And then he’s just looking. Eyes locked between your legs. Hands smoothing up your thighs again.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, sweetheart…”

You gasp as his fingers brush your inner thigh, then trail up, teasing just around the spot you need him most. Then he leans in and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss just beside your center. Then another. Just above.

Your hips twitch. His hands grip tighter, grounding you. He lifts one leg to open you up, rests it over his shoulder.

And then—finally—his mouth finds you.

You choke on a breath, head falling back as his tongue drags through your folds—slow and unrelenting. Dean fucking Winchester, the man you’ve fought beside, bled beside, slept two feet away from for years—on his knees, mouth on you like he’s been waiting for this forever.

Maybe he has.

He groans against you. His tongue flicks over your clit, then sucks it into his mouth, and you damn near lose your balance. “Easy,” he murmurs, voice dark and thick. “I got you.”

Your hands fist in his hair. You try not to grind against his face, but he encourages it—hands moving to your ass, dragging you closer, holding you right where he wants you. “Dean—fuck, Dean—” You can’t help the moans. Breathless. Broken.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling, your stomach coiling tight, and that knot in your gut is about to snap. He can feel it. He wants it.

“Come on, baby,” he rasps, mouth slick, voice wrecked. “Let me have it.”

You do—with a cry that breaks into a moan, your whole body shaking as pleasure tears through you like lightning. Dean holds you through it, hands steady, mouth relentless. Only when you’re gasping and sagging against him does he finally pull back, lips red and glistening, eyes dark with hunger.

“Fuck,” he breathes, letting your leg down and standing. His hands are all over you now—gripping your waist, sliding up your back, burying into your hair as he kisses you.

And God, you can taste yourself on his tongue.

You moan into his mouth, clawing at his shirt, tugging it up and off. He helps you, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside, pressing you back toward the bed.

“Get up there,” he says, voice low and rough.

You climb onto the mattress, pulse still hammering as he follows, kneeling between your legs. He pops the button on his jeans, eyes on you the whole time. When he shoves them down with his boxers, your breath catches. It might be the prettiest cock you’ve ever seen.

“Dean…”

He crawls over you, bracing himself on his forearms, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “You sure?”

You nod, breathless. “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

He reaches between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance, teasing the tip through your folds. “You’re so wet for me,” he rasps.

And then—he pushes in.

You gasp, one hand digging into his bicep, the other fisting the sheets as he stretches you open. Inch by inch. Slow. Steady. Giving you time to feel every damn part of him. He’s big. Thick. And you feel full in the best possible way.

“Shit,” he growls, jaw tight.

When he bottoms out, you’re panting beneath him—overwhelmed, on fire.

Then he starts to move.

Slow at first. Grinding deep with every thrust. Hips rolling. Like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you from the inside out. He kisses your neck, your shoulder, your mouth. Holds your hips so tight you think he might never let go.

“Been wantin’ to do this,” he mutters into your skin. “For years…”

You whimper. Wrap your legs around his waist. Pull him deeper. “Then don't. Don't.. stop.”

That does it.

His rhythm picks up—rougher now. Desperate. Each snap of his hips draws a moan from your lips, your nails digging into his back, leaving red lines behind.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. The sounds he makes as he fucks you make your head spin. The grunts. The whimpers.

You clench around him just to hear more.

“Jesus Christ,” he bites out—and fucks you harder. The bed creaks under you. You’re gone. Both of you.

“Gonna come again,” you gasp, body wound tight. “Dean, please—”

“Come with me, baby,” he growls, thumb finding your clit. “Come on, I wanna feel it.”

You shatter.

Second orgasm hitting you like a freight train. Your whole body arches. Clenches down around him. You cry out his name. Dean follows with a guttural moan, hips stuttering, spilling deep inside you. You feel every pulse of it. Every twitch of his cock.

He collapses against you, breath hot on your neck. Both of you panting, slick with sweat, tangled together. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Just the sound of your breaths and heartbeats.

Then—

“Well,” he mutters into your hair, smug as hell, “pretty sure there’s no more ticks.”

You smack his shoulder, breathless, still trembling. “Asshole.”

credit & links:

⟡ more dean winchester.

⟡ pics & gif from pinterest, edited by me.

⟡ dividers by @easytiger-xo.

[easytiger-xo]

[easytiger-xo]

dean winchester's siren

he looks for her in every body of water.

she waits for him, always. ⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

credit & links:

⟡ more dean winchester.

⟡ pics & gif from pinterest, edited by me.

⟡ dividers by @easytiger-xo.

[easytiger-xo]

soldier boy ✦ masterlist

♡ fics

✦ loading...

♡ smut

✦ Handler ₁₈+

♡ one-shots

✦ loading...

♡ headcanons

✦ loading...

♡ moodboards

✦ soldier boy's favorite call girl

♡ soldier boy things

[easytiger-xo]

Handler

pairing: soldier boy x fem!reader ❤︎

✦18+ (MDNI)✦

summary: You’re Soldier Boy’s handler—on paper. In reality? His babysitter, his anchor, maybe something else entirely. Everyone else washed out. You didn’t. Now you’re the only one he listens to, the only one who can keep the chaos at bay—even if it means letting things get a little… unorthodox.

cw: smut, power imbalance, dubcon, ptsd/mental health themes, oral (female receiving), pet names (doll, dollface), language, substance use (weed/alcohol), toxic dynamics, Soldier Boy as his own warning. (lmk if i missed any.)

wordcount: 2,125

✦ a/n: I’ve been sitting on this one for a while and finally got around to finishing it. I’m kind of obsessed with the idea of a woman who can hold her own with Soldier Boy. Their dynamic isn’t exactly healthy, but there’s a mutual respect there… in a twisted sort of way. Not sure if this’ll turn into a full series, but I’ll definitely be revisiting these two. ❤︎

P.S. The script pitches are intentionally ridiculous. Let’s be real, Vought would totally approve that kind of garbage.

Handler—that’s your official title.

In practice? More like assistant.

In reality? Babysitter.

Who's your asset?

Soldier Boy—America’s first superhero, presumed dead for decades, until he clawed his way out of some Russian hellhole. He came back meaner, angrier, and with a vendetta. Payback, his old team, didn’t stand a chance. He wiped them out without blinking.

Vought, ever the master of spin, welcomed him home like a prodigal son. New narrative, same suit, same brute underneath. His face plastered on every screen, his sins scrubbed clean with a PR firehose.

Since then, he’s burned through handlers—ten, maybe fifteen. You're number sixteen. The only one who's lasted. The only one he listens to. Somehow, you’ve managed to hold the leash no one else could. For some reason, he lets you.

You remember the first time you met—how he looked at you. Eyes sharp and unreadable, like he was sizing you up for a fight... or something else. A year later, that look hasn’t gone away. You still don’t know what it means. Maybe you do. Maybe it’s safer not to think about it too hard.

The bond you’ve built with him is… unorthodox. Not quite handler and asset. Not exactly friends. Definitely not what Vought had in mind. It doesn’t have a name, but it’s there—shaped in the silences between The Seven meetings, PR stunts, quiet limo rides to bullshit charity galas. Drunken elevator trips up to his penthouse in Vought Tower.

There were nights—when he’d had one too many—where he let pieces of himself slip. Russia. His father. Things no one else got to hear. You’d be on the floor in a silk gown, wrestling with the laces of his boots while he sprawled across the bed like a fallen statue, mumbling through the haze.

“How fucked up is it,” he said once, voice slurred, “that the gentlest hands that’ve ever touched me… are on Vought’s payroll?”

You dropped his boot with a sigh. “Maybe if you turned down the whole ‘I fought the Nazis’ routine and actually let someone in—”

“Fuck you, dollface.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me,” you muttered, flicking off the lights and shutting the door behind you.

You never talked about those nights. You think he appreciates that—how you don’t bring it up, don’t push. How you let him keep his armor on, even when it’s cracked and slipping.

Now? You're here. Just another day on the job.

“Hey? Hello…?” You snap your fingers in his face. “Can I get your attention, please? We really need to go over these.”

“Goddamn, doll,” he mutters, dragging his gaze up to you. “Let me breathe for a fucking second, would ya? You’ve been yappin’ that pretty mouth all morning.”

You slap the papers you were reading from down on the glass coffee table.

“If I don’t get your okay on one of these scripts today, it’s gonna be my ass, SB.”

He leans forward, the leather groaning under his weight. Flicks his blunt over the ashtray. His eyes drift—predictably—to the curve of your hips in that pencil skirt.

“And what a fine ass it is,” he smirks.

You roll your eyes, hand planting firmly on your hip. “Seriously?” You snatch the blunt from his fingers like a pissed-off teacher.

“What?” he says, holding his hands up, unbothered. “I’m trying, I swear. You know it gets loud in here.” He taps two fingers against his temple. “Hard to focus. Especially when it's this bullshit.”

You want to stay mad. Really, you do. But you can see it—the way he’s barely holding the noise back—you can’t help the way your anger fizzles out.

Your shoulders drop. A sigh. “If I let you do the thing… will you check in here so we can finish this?”

It’s an arrangement. One that’s never talked about once it’s done. But for some reason, it helps him quiet the chaos in his head. You don’t even know how it started—no, that’s a lie. You do know. Just like you know exactly why you keep letting it happen.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just nods and stands.

You reach across him to stub out the blunt, then sink into the warm space he left behind on the couch. He scoops up the scripts you’d flung and hands them back to you without a word.

You start with the one on top. “Okay, so this one’s called Red Blood, White Stripes…”

As you speak, he rolls up his sleeves, the fabric stretching over his forearms.

“It’s a war drama,” you continue. He undoes the top two buttons of his shirt.

“Think Saving Private Ryan,” you say as he slides the coffee table back to make room. “Except you’re the guy doing the saving—and the killing.”

“Yeah… don’t know about that,” he mutters as he nudges your heels apart with his boot.

“Says you’re sent behind enemy lines—” He drops to his knees, grips your legs at the bend, and yanks you down so your ass is perched on the edge of the couch. “—to extract a rogue American agent.”

You lift your hips automatically as he pushes your skirt up, panties dragged down and off in one fluid motion.

“Don’t think I’m feelin’ this one,” he huffs, eyes locked on the wet heat between your thighs. His tongue flicks out, wetting his bottom lip.

You toss the pitch to the floor. He leans in, kisses the inside of your thigh—slow, deliberate.

“Okay… Homeland Security. Action thriller.” You grip the stack of pages a little tighter as his breath ghosts over your core.

“Yeah? What’s it about?” he asks, hands sliding up your legs, thumbs parting your lips right before pressing a kiss to your clit.

You take a shaky breath. “Like Die Hard in the suburbs.”

He swipes his tongue between your folds, firm and hot. You make a small sound in the back of your throat but force yourself to stay focused.

“Terrorists take over a small American town on the Fourth of July…” you begin, voice wavering.

His hands move. He grips your thighs tight, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he spreads you open wider. His mouth is relentless—tongue gliding, teasing, claiming. Hot, wet, precise. His beard scratches against your skin, leaving a burn that makes your toes curl—the kind of pain that makes you ache for more.

You try not to react, to hold on to the professional thread of this bizarre little ritual, but he knows your body too well by now. Knows exactly where to circle, where to flick, where to suck until your knees start to tremble.

You clear your throat, determined. “You’re on leave… drinking in a dive bar…”

He groans low against you, the vibration lighting you up from the inside. His hands slide beneath your thighs, hooking them over his broad shoulders as he dives in deeper. His tongue drags slow and flat, then fast and pointed, alternating like he’s conducting an interrogation with his mouth.

“You sober up just in time to—ah… ah, f-fuck…”

His mouth seals around your clit, tongue swirling the swollen bud. He gets you. Hits that spot with precision, curling his tongue just right, and you nearly lose your grip on the scripts in your hand. He’s breaking your composure and he knows it. It’s a mission to him now—and he never leaves a mission unfinished.

“To kill them with fireworks,” you finish on a shaky breath, your voice barely a whisper.

He pulls back just enough to glance up at you, chin glistening, eyes burning with amusement and hunger.

“Who the fuck comes up with this shit?” he mutters, shaking his head before diving right back in.

You arch off the couch, a soft whine escaping before you can stop it, the script forgotten as you toss it blindly to the floor.

“Captain of the Stars. Sci-fi epic,” you breathe, trying to keep it together.

He answers by slipping his tongue inside you, slow and deep. Your free hand flies to his hair, threading through the thick, messy strands. You tug gently, and he groans into you—a low, filthy sound that vibrates straight through your core.

He fucking loves when you grab his hair. Loves it rough. Loves your loss of control disguised as dominance.

“You’re cryo—" you start, then stop. Cryogenically frozen. That’s what the pitch says.

Without thinking, you toss the script to the floor.

No. Not this one.

Something twists in your gut. That strange, protective instinct you have for Soldier Boy swims to the surface. Fuck them—the suits, the assholes upstairs, whoever thought it was a good idea to pitch a story where he willingly steps into another glass coffin. Even for a movie.

You blink down at him—between your thighs, his eyes closed, mouth worshipping you.

Your chest tightens.

Though you'd never say it out loud, this man—who drives you up the wall and makes you want to rip your hair out—is one of the closest things you have to a… you don’t even know. But it’ll be over your dead body before you let Vought put him in another box.

It's that thought that drags your fingers tighter against his scalp—grounding yourself in him as much as he’s grounding himself in you.

He pulls away, sensing the shift. His brows knit, breath ragged, eyes flicking up to yours. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing… get back to it.” You lean forward, grab his collar, and pull him back in. He smirks.

You let your head fall back, lifting the next script to your line of sight.

“Justice Boot. Buddy cop comedy… fuuuck.”

He does that thing you like—God, you don’t even know how to describe it.

“You’re paired with a rookie female supe for PR reasons,” you breathe out.

Your back arches.

“Chaos ensues when you refuse sensitivity training and instead teach her…” A shaky inhale. “That real justice involves a baseball bat and bear traps…”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t slow. You set the script on the couch next to you. A maybe.

His hand reaches around your thigh, tugging your blouse loose from your skirt, sliding beneath to trace the line of your stomach, then higher—to palm your breast through lace.

You’re spiraling.

“Fuck… just one more,” you whimper, unintentionally.

He could finish you right now—he knows it. But he waits.

“Victory Squad: The Musical,” you try, breath catching. “You sing, you dance, you kill Nazis—yeah… yeah, right there…”

He slips a thick finger inside you. Your thighs clamp closed around him. He yanks you back open.

Another deep breath. Just get through the pitch. Just one more—

“You sing, you dance, you kill—”

You give up.

The last script hits the floor with a soft thud.

Both hands tangle in his hair. Your eyes close.

He’s won the battle. You’re not sure but you think you can feel him smirk between your thighs. He adds another finger, curls them just right, does the thing with his tongue.

“Fuck…fuck…ye…yes...” you come hard. Legs shaking on his shoulders. Walls fluttering and pulling him in. He works you through it with that same relentless focus, mouth and hands steady.

You go limp against the couch, head spinning, nerves humming under your skin. He finally slows, easing off. He knows exactly when too much becomes too much. His mouth lingers on your thigh, one last kiss before he sits back on his heels.

No words.

He doesn’t toss your panties at you like he used to, doesn’t bark out some crude one-liner and walk off. Instead, he finds them on the floor and eases them back up your legs with surprising care. Smooths your skirt down over your hips. Adjusts the hem.

Your eyes meet. There’s a pause. A beat where neither of you speaks, if you do, it might ruin whatever fragile, unspoken thing is sitting heavy between you.

You rise, standing over him. One hand under his chin, tilting it up. The other wipes his mouth with the edge of your blouse before tucking it back into your skirt.

You bend, gathering the discarded scripts into a messy pile. He watches, still kneeling like a soldier waiting on orders.

“I’ll tell the team we’re going with the buddy cop comedy,” you say, voice rough.

He grins, slow and lazy. “Tell ’em my co-star better be hot.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the tug of a smile that pulls at your mouth.

You turn to leave, then stop. Glance back over your shoulder.

“Get cleaned up. You’ve got an interview in an hour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, mock salute and all—but his tone is softer now. His head clearer.

You leave the penthouse with his heat still lingering between your thighs and the sound of him lighting another blunt behind you.

credit & links:

⟡ more soldier boy.

⟡ gif & pics from pinterest, edited by me.

⟡ dividers by @easytiger-xo.

[easytiger-xo]

[easytiger-xo]

just here to say i'm still thinking about demi & you and sending you lots of love!! 🤍

can't wait for when you're fully back hehe

thank you so much, Tina! ♡ this means a lot.

it's been really tough. unfortunately, i have a bad habit of shutting everyone and everything out when i'm not okay. but i'm slowly coming to terms with the reality of the situation and distracting myself with some projects—when i have the drive.

demi is okay at the moment, spirit-wise, but the short road ahead unfortunately leads to.. well, we all know. i just hope, i have the strength to know when it's time and to make the call.

i know most of us have experienced loss. it's never easy. i'm just trying to enjoy the time i have left with her and not dwell on what's to come.

i'm srry, i didn't mean to make this such a downer answer.. but this is where i'm at.

i ♡ u for reaching out!

obligatory photo of Demi (right) and her brother Reach (left) ♡

[easytiger-xo]

i had so much fun making these graphics for @that-stanford-girlie's blog makeover! ♡ if any of my mooties want help curating a vibe or with graphics, let's hold hands and giggle over ideas!