#I’m dropping my old call btw .

[brutalage]

inbox call ! like for an IC ask , and I’ll send this dangerous tyrant in your character’s vicinity !

[bugmistake]

ive gotta. get it together a little bit i think. holy shit i really did not mean for the tags to get THAT long

[fingertipsmp3]

Just remembered another fucked up paint story (will put in tags because idk I like talking in tags more than actually in the post)

[binders-and-beanies]

Fucking loses my job for the second time in a month I guess

[hvlplvss]

| still around

summary: in which colby manages to communicate to his childhood best friend through cody and satori.

warnings: angsty tbh, this is a best!friend!colby x reader btw, mentions of death

authors note: kinda short and i lowkey don’t like this

hell week had just begun for sam and colby. not even fifteen minutes ago, cody and satori had explained and begun to showcase their methods of communicating to spirits. which immediately baffled the duo.

a spirit named abigail arnold, had come through. she was called a friendly spirit, the matriarch of the conjuring house. she’d also managed to bring sam’s grandma through, libby golbach. this of course, freaked sam and the boys took a break, to which the spirits agreed.

as sam had recovered from the contact with his late grandma. the two walked back into the living room of the house. cody and satori checked in on sam, before continuing once again.

the workers connected their hands, by holding one another’s wrists. “hi,” satori began, footsteps echoed a moment after, “is this abigail i’m talking to?” the spirit responded with one step. “great! thank you abigail. is there anything else you need to tell me, or tell sam and colby?”

the ghost responded with two footsteps, satori nodded, beginning to spell out the alphabet. it began to spell out your name.

colby’s eyes widened and his hands dropped to his sides. sam recognised the name from when colby first spoke about the loss of his childhood friend at only 14 years old. sam immediately panned the camera towards colby.

eventually, satori had spelt out your entire name. y/n y/l/n. satori and cody turned to look at the boys and noticed colby’s watery eyes. “does that name mean something..?” satori asked carefully.

colby nodded slowly, trying to take a calming breath, “she’s was my bestfriend. uh- she passed when i was fourteen,” colby explained a slight pause between words, reminiscing the thought of the girl.

satori nodded, turning back to cody and grabbing onto him, “abigail, is there anything y/n wants colby to know?” there was silence for a few moments, colby looking up with hopeful eyes, while sam and the camera watched him.

there were five footsteps around the living room. cody and satori nodded, sharing one glance as satori began saying the alphabet.

always watching

the sentence began with. colby’s hand reached up to wipe away the stray tears that seeped from his eyes.

and loving you.

colby stood up and let a few more tears leak from his eyes. satori noticed this and asked abigail for a break, checking that it was okay with y/n as well, who agreed.

colby walked outside with colby following after him, just like they had already done not long ago after they got through to libby.

“dude, how you feeling?” sam asked, turning the camera light on.

colby stood there, wiping both his eyes with one hand. “it’s… it’s just pretty crazy. like we spoke to your grandma, and now y/n?” colby whispered, his voice hoarse. “and i’ve never spoke about her. anywhere. she’s always been apart of my like private life and i’ve only really told you about her, so it’s just crazy to think that she’s there and she’s safe,” colby explained.

sam agreed, turning the camera so he was now also in frame with colby, “and just to think that my grandma and y/n, who are some of the most important people in our lives, are together. it’s sad but so nice to think and know,”

throughout the week, when satori and cody communicated with abigail, y/n was always there. when satori would ask if any other spirits were there, y/n’s name always popped up.

usually, she didn’t have another message for sam or colby. by every so often, she’d warn the boys about what lurks in the house, wanting to keep the boys safe. but sam and colby being sam and colby of course ignored the warning signs from both abigail and y/n.

ever since the first interaction with y/n, colby had begun opening up to the viewers about y/n and her passing. he’d mentioned her on his social media, sharing that she was the one who gave him the idea to create a channel in the future. she never specified what, but she’d put the idea in his head and he’d forever be grateful for the girl he once knew.

when entering places as the basement and they’d ask for abigail’s protection, he’d quietly mutter to y/n, praying for her to stay by his side.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

click, p.2 - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (late s5) Tags/Warnings: angst, love confessions, romantic sex, oral sex/cunnilingus, (aka, Sam pussy addiction: the shequel), Sam is Lucifer's vessel, reader is AFAB. Word Count: ~11k. Notes: i was commissioned for the second time by the lovely @daffodil-mania, who wanted a continuation of her last fic set during the "say yes" era of s5. (sooooo dangerous to let me put my grubby hands on this version of Sam, btw). i cannot express how BUCK FUCKING WILD uncouth-nation went for the first part of this fic, so this is for all the wonderful people who gushed over click, commented, threw me some kudos, or even just read it and liked it. lots of love, and i hope you enjoy <3 i did my best to rip out your soul as best i could. THIS CAN STAND ON IT'S OWNNN AHHH. i mean. if u wanna read it <3 Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

FIVE YEARS LATER

The walk from the bus stop to your apartment is a safe and easy seven minutes. If you were any other person in any other world, you’d glide onto the bus after your night shift at the university, hop off at your stop, and bumble toward your apartment without a single care in the world. Maybe stare at your phone the whole walk back. Text a hot guy who isn’t the physical manifestation of the devil on earth. Normal stuff.

But this is your life, so you sit front seat on the bus, hands in your lap, tapping a nervous beat against the angel blade hidden in your book bag. The windows rattle in their frames and gleam with rain. You could get off at your stop and take those easy seven minutes home—but the bus driver could also be a demon, so.

Since you aren’t in the mood to die a slow death tonight, walking a few extra blocks to keep anybody from knowing where you live will have to work.

On day two of this, you’d called Dean and asked if you were being extra paranoid. He’d kindly pointed out: Extra-paranoid is just extra-survival. I dunno about you, but survivin’ a lil’ extra sounds fan-fuckin-tastic to me right about now.

He’s right. You know he’s right. But it still doesn’t feel like a good answer, and that makes you picture Sam, twenty-three and still bright-eyed, running his fingers down your bare back and scowling. I’m sick of surviving. One of these days, I want to actually live my life.

But that had been before the apocalypse, before Dean’s deal, before everything. Sam was a different man now. Hunting had reached into all three of you and ripped all sorts of things out, but you would never forgive it for taking Sam’s hope for something better. God, you missed that Sam. You missed him more than anything.

The city bus lumbers up to the curb and spits you out onto the sidewalk, where you superstitiously hover, waiting for the other passengers crawling away from their night shifts to scatter. It’s only when the bus is a dark spot in the mist down the street that you start to walk, your whole body caked head to toe with oily rain. 

This time, you take a random left toward your apartment and serpentine street-to-street, never walking the exact same way the same week. By the time you’re closer to where the bus could’ve actually dropped you off, the lingering smell of old research books has been practically power-washed out of your clothes. You try to think of anything but the freezing, biting, face-stinging rain… and, like a moth to a flame, your mind floats back to Sam.

It’s been over two weeks since he dropped the nuclear option. Over two weeks ago, Sam wanted to say yes to Lucifer, and over two weeks have passed since the massive, unstoppable-force-meets-immovable-object fight that’d erupted as a result.

Dean had blown up. Sam had pushed. You’d burst into tears and clawed into Sam just as deep, because why, why would he ever go there—why would that even be a fathomable possibility in his mind? Did he really think so low of himself? How could he ever give up like that? How could he leave you—?

The worst part was easily the way Sam had reacted. With Dean or John, he could yell himself hoarse, but when it came to fighting you all he could do was sit and take it. He put his head down and nodded at everything you said, even the cruel things. In some ways it made you angrier, but also inconceivably, cosmically guilty. This was Sam’s choice. And of course, because this was Sam, his choice was to save the whole goddamn world. Not a single bone in your body carried that level of selflessness, yet Sam bled the stuff.

You were still furious with him, but only because being mad at him was the only option you had left. The right thing to do would be to tell Sam, I trust you to make this decision, this is your life, and let him take that jump… But you didn’t have it in you. Saying that felt like pushing him over the ledge yourself, or telling him you’d never cared about him in the first place. If you were angry at least you were still fighting for him in some way.

You’d been on board for everything—trying to find a way out of Dean’s deal, trying to kill Lilith, everything. But the argument with Sam had torn out the final piece of you that could stand this, so you packed a bag, told Dean you’d be in a strict research-only role, and booked it back to your hometown. It was cowardly and stupid and beyond selfish, but you knew your stance. The hunt had taken everything from you. You refused to let it take Sam, too.

Maybe, Sam would take you stepping away as a serious sign to change his mind. You couldn’t imagine a world where Sam and his Winchester stubbornness would ever do that, but. It was a nice wish to hold onto.

By the time you make it up the steps to your apartment building, you’re soaked to the bone and audibly making pathetic shivering sounds. Your bookbag feels heavier than ever, digging a trench into your shoulder as you fish around for your keys. The second your apartment door is open the true weight of your exhaustion hits you—

—and then utterly disappears, replaced by a shock of pure adrenaline.

There’s a new pair of boots by your front door.

You catch the heavy door before it goes swinging against the doorjamb, straining your ears against the ringing silence. The bedside lamp is on in your room.

On dead-quiet feet, you slip in, click the door shut behind you, and slip off your bookbag. Your angel blade is in your hand in a second, but you risk a few extra steps toward your kitchen table to wiggle loose the pistol you taped underneath. Just the weight of your weapons in your hands flicks the hunter muscle memory back on in your body, and before you can think you’re hiding in the shadow beside your bedroom door. Listening.

Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.

You know, instinctively, who it is—you would know him dumb and blind and dead. But these days, anybody could be piloting his body around.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, heart throbbing in your ears. You wait until the fingers on your gun aren’t shaking anymore, then burst inside the room, slamming the door into the wall and whipping your pistol up to eye level.

Sam’s head flinches towards you. He is exactly as you saw him two weeks ago; solemn, determined, and open, the air around him practically steaming with safety and goodness. He’s sat comfortably on your bed, reading a book he brought with him. Despite everything, your belly still curls with butterflies when you lay eyes on him. Sam. Definitely Sam, and no one else.

Still, your paranoia has gotten you this far. You both stare at each other for a beat, equal parts scared out of your minds and relieved. Without a word, you keep your gun trained on him, and Sam lets you, his eyes big and understanding. You shuffle sideways to your dresser, and without turning away from him, pop open the top drawer and toss him the silver flask of holy water you keep hidden inside. 

He catches it. So, not a shapeshifter, then. Sam takes a drink of the holy water, even turning to the side so you can see the water go into his mouth. (A demon in Missouri had slipped past the three of you by pretending to sip—only Sam would know that.) You’re still a little terrified, but you manage to pull your weapons back down to your sides. You still don’t know what to say.

He’s really here. The part of you that had worried the argument with Sam would be your last wails with joy. He’s here, alive and in front of you. No matter how awkward you feel you can’t bring yourself to stop staring at him. By the buttery light of your bedside lamp, he literally glows with beauty, and you realize he’d scrubbed his boots off on your welcome mat to not track mud in, and he’d hung up his rain-soaked jacket in your shower to dry. Stupid polite Sam things.

You dare to glance back at your kitchen, then swivel to squint at him. “Did you… do my dishes?”

Sam lets his hands relax into his lap and nods, shy. He’s looking at you in a way he never really has before, eyes big and soul-rending. “…Yeah. I used the key you gave me to get in… Hope that’s okay.”

There’s another long pause. Usually when you stare at Sam, he doesn’t stare so intensely back, but you share a weird mutual moment where you just stand there and take each other in. It’s so obvious it’s painful, but if he’s doing it then you feel entitled to devour him with your eyes too.

“I got, uh, bored. Waiting for you,” Sam clarifies. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”

Sam stands from the bed. For a second you think he’s heading straight for you, but he moves toward the dresser behind you, kindly tucking the holy water back where it was stowed. You flit out of his way as fast as you can and set your weapons down on the closest available surface, feeling off-kilter. Why would he come here? Is he going to tell you that he changed his mind?

You hold onto the question, but you know it’s too out of character to hope for. Despair sinks into your gut like a rock in a pond. You know why Sam’s here. He would never make this decision without telling you first—without at least saying goodbye in person.

Your throat locks up with tears.

Behind you, Sam hums, “You changed your hair.”

Right. You’d altered it to be more undercover. You resist the urge to reach up and play with your hair, or give in to any of the fluttery feelings you always feel around Sam. “It’s safer.” Tightly, you ask him, “What are you doing here?”

Sam drags a long breath through his nose. You clutch the end of your bookshelf, your chest crumpling with misery. Please don’t say it. Please, please, lie to me if you have to.

“...I’m not taking the jump,” Sam breathes.

There’s more that he says after that. He talks about how you and Dean are right, and how, surely, after everything that the three of you have been through, there’s got to be another way to end this. You’ve always found another way in the past. Sam explains all this to you in a sure, quiet voice, like this is something he’s thought about for a long time, but you barely hear him after those first words. There’s this persistent tension in your chest that’s telling you that there’s something wrong here, but you don’t care—you don’t give a single fucking shit, because Sam—Sam isn’t saying yes. Sam’s staying.

“…are other ways I can make up for the mistakes I made,” he’s telling you, scrambling to fill the nagging silence.

You take a moment to force back your tears, and Sam, nervously, keeps talking.

He swallows, trying to smile. “I-I would’ve called and told you, but something tells me you wouldn’t have picked up.”

When you’ve got your bearings back, you push away from your bookshelf and turn to face him. Your legs are so leaden that you feel as if you have to physically pick up your body and drop it down the other direction, but you manage it. “What… what made you change your mind?”

Sam gets one look at your face and wilts with guilt. He doesn’t answer your question in words—just shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at his feet, then around your room, as if his reason was in the air with the two of you. In the apartment. His eyes flicker over you just once, and you understand. Seeing you leave really had scared him.

“Be careful,” you start to joke with him, “you start validating my childish reactions and we’re gonna have a whole new set of problems on our hands.”

Sam scoffs. “It wasn’t childish to run away.”

You raise an eyebrow at his word choice, which gets an honest-to-god laugh out of him. A real good Sam Winchester laugh, dimples and all. The last dregs of anxiety in your gut melt at the sound, and Sam reassures you, shrugging, “You needed to get out. In case you forgot, I kind of invented wanting to get out. I understand. I really do.”

You know that he does. That’s not exactly going to stop you from feeling guilty about ditching them, but at least it kicked some sense into him. God. For the last five or six years, your every moment had been spent with Sam and his brother. Even just a couple weeks without him had drained you, and having him back only makes those feelings more clear. Sam’s presence commands the space in a way that turns your shitty, undecorated bedroom into someplace magical, someplace good and safe and warm, and just seeing him standing there draws the ache out of your spine.

Your reach out for his sleeve. Somehow, he’s more real than ever, a tangible person instead of the memory you’ve chased for so long.

“You’re really not saying yes?”

Sam unwinds your hand from the fabric so he can hold it instead, your fingers scooped in his fingers. You’re given a firm squeeze and are hypnotized by him in an instant, the world narrowing down to this moment between just him and just you.

Sam looks into your eyes when he promises, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The tears you’d resisted before return in one big, merciless wave. You’re so tired and the rain was so fucking cold and you’re so sick of being scared that Sam, thank god, Sam, is everything you could possibly need. He’s not going anywhere. Before you can stop yourself you’re clutching him for dear life, shoving your face in his shirt and crushing his body against yours. These last few weeks have submerged you in survival mode, and you don’t realize how deep until Sam pulls you out of the current. He’s warm and dry, and when you inhale to sob he smells like a 24-hour-laundromat, the Impala, and home home home. You could’ve lost that. You could’ve lost him.

“Th-thank you,” you choke out at nothing in particular, “thank you.”

You’ve cried a lot this week, so there are not many tears left to shed. Still, Sam holds you through all of them, swaying back and forth with you and cooing in your ear. You hear him sniffling too. When you’re both all sobbed out, you pull back to tell him you love him, to remind him of all the things he needs to hear, but Sam strangely doesn’t let you. The second he feels you pull away he clutches you back against him, and you get the uneasy impression that you’ve been comforting him more than he’s been comforting you. His whole body’s shaking.

Sam hugs you for longer than he ever has before. It’s a little worrying, but you’ve both needed it so much that you don’t even complain.

After a while, Sam slips back, and in traditional Winchester fashion tries to play off his vulnerability. He’s always been a dead-silent crier, so you have zero way to gauge how bad things are until you see his face. He looks like he’d sobbed his heart out. Your shirt is still wet from the rain, but even then you can feel Sam’s tears soaking your shoulder. Saying anything about it will just embarrass him, though.

“...I-I, uh,” you lick the tears off your lips, mumbling, “I don’t know bout’ you, but I’m beat. Do you have somewhere you gotta be, or,” you add hopefully, “or can you stick around?”

This is the part where Sam will start coaxing you to drive back with him to where he and Dean are holed up, you’re sure of it. You’re already plotting in your head what to pack and what to take, but Sam never brings it up. He doesn’t worry about tomorrow yet.

He presses his lips together. “I was hoping I could stay here tonight, actually.”

This is an even better answer. You’re nodding before he’s even finished the thought, stroking your hand down his chest. It twists your gut in knots to see him like this, so you start to steer the conversation toward something more playful, something less daunting to think about.

“You’re lucky I like you then,” you smirk. Somehow, you manage to peel yourself out of his bubble and teeter toward your dresser, scrubbing the tears off your face. “Make yourself comfortable. I dunno about you, but I’m getting the fuck out of these work clothes, I’m freezing. Do you need anything to sleep in? I’ve got at least five years of your stolen shirts in here.”

You hear him ease himself down on the end of your bed again, but there’s no sassy retort, sly comment, or any sort of line about you and your stealing habits. Instead, sweet and simple, he says, “I’ll just sleep in this. You can have them.”

Okay. Weird.

Since he didn’t take the bait, you throw out another line and try again. This time, you kick off your shoes, open a drawer, and turn back to him with two of his shirts in hand. “Really?” You wave them teasingly in the air. “You sure?”

They are some of his best shirts, easy. You’re not a cheap thief. The first is a holey, feather-soft Red Hot Chili Peppers tee, and the second is a deep maroon Stanford sweater. He has so few artifacts from that time in his life that there’s no way he won’t want this one back. Right?

But Sam just gazes at you, his whole face soft and loving as he says, “You should wear the Stanford one. It looks good on you.”

Those old hot-shivery feelings for him seep down your spine, and you feel in real-time how your cheeks flood with heat. Damn, okay. Consider yourself wooed.

You’ve been down this road with Sam many, many times—enough to know when he’s flirting with you. The forbidden labels had never been thrown around, but. Well. Sam had been your first time, as well as the many other times after that.

He’s usually leagues more subtle than his brother, but for whatever reason he’s pouring it on by the truckload tonight. When you turn around he’s nothing but big, happy puppy eyes, waiting patiently for you at the end of the bed. (Like you’re his girlfriend. Like anything about this is normal at all, and you and Sam are going to tuck into bed together like it’s any other night). Fuck, you missed him.

The bathroom is only a few steps away, but this is Sam, so you decide to just throw on your pajamas right here. Your shirt is so wet that it hits the floor with a slap. It also takes some experience to wring yourself out of your denim-turned-cement jeans, so it’s not the sexiest show in the entire world. Still, Sam’s gaze traces sensual lines down your back. You would rather go to literal, actual hell than wear your bra for a minute longer, so the second you’re free of its death grip, a long happy sigh drains out of you. A similar dreamy sigh drains out of Sam. Dork.

“I will never get tired of that,” Sam murmurs. You expect to hear some kind of hunger there, but the timber of his voice bleeds with admiration and fondness.

There are very few ways to be a normal human being while Sam Winchester adores your nude body with his eyes. The best you can do is burst into flustered, giggly laughter and give him a good eyeroll, your entire face cooking like a stove burner.

“Alright, loverboy,” you scoff, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and take my makeup off—”

“Can I help?” Sam asks.

You sputter out another laugh, confused. “You wanna brush my teeth for me?”

“No,” Sam shakes his head, smiling big, “Lemme take your makeup off for you.”

Okay. Weirder. But it’s sweet, and you like this side of him, so you decide to indulge his mood. “...Sure.”

You go about your night-time routine. Sam continues to be a weirdo, trailing you into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, and blinking slow endearing blinks at you as he… watches you brush your teeth. Just. Stands there, watching, utterly enamored with this little moment of domesticity with you. On the surface level you’re a little thrown off, but it falls under the category of Freaky Sam Things that made you catch feelings for him in the first place, so. You grin into your toothbrush the whole time.

When he’s satisfied by his little ogling fest, he drifts off to hunt around for your makeup wipes. Either you’re predictable or he knows you too well, because he finds them within seconds, and patiently sits back as you finish up your routine, watching you like you’ll disappear on him the moment he turns away. Click click, you feel inside you.

“Okay,” he says when you’re done. “Close your eyes.”

You do. You wait for the cool touch of the wipe on your face, but instead, Sam’s big, rough fingers find your chin and hold you still. It takes conscience effort to not melt into his touch like a cat in a square of sunlight. Your willpower is nothing on Sam’s, though, so you give in quickly, sinking into his hand and sighing through your nose. In gentle swipes, he cleans your face. It must be a nightmare of smeared mascara considering how you’d cried earlier… And yet Sam had still been so transfixed by you. He’s the fucking best.

Sam’s hand tilts your head from side to side to survey his handiwork. Pleased, he tosses the wipe in the trash and says, “There you go.”

You open your eyes and go to double-check his work in the mirror, but Sam hasn’t removed his hand from your chin, and you really, really don’t want him to. His thick thumb comes up and caresses under your lips. He looks at you like he loves you, and with all the honesty in the world, he utters, “...You are so pretty.”

…The only way for you to survive this is by throwing him a dry look. “You’re full of shit. What’s your game, Winchester?”

That earns you another authentic Sam laugh, along with a handsome boyish smile. “There’s no game. What are you talking about?”

You squint at him. Liar.

“This.” You gestured between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re mooning over me. Why are you mooning? Are you planning something?”

A ripple of discomfort rolls across Sam’s face, but it passes too fast for you to read. His hands go right back in his pockets and he leans into the doorframe again. “I’m just… happy we’re not fighting,” he confesses.

Oh. That makes sense. Sam hasn’t exactly made up with you like that before, but. These times change everyone. You ease up on your teasing and admit, “Me too.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you away,” Sam says, and far, far too seriously for your liking, he whispers, “I’m sorry for everything.”

Your answer slips right out of your mouth without hesitation. “I forgive you, stupid,” your brows furrow together. “And I’m sorry, too. I said some pretty shitty stuff back there.”

Sam wilts against the doorframe a little. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”

A dull pulse of anger flares in your chest, which flickers out and dies not a second later. There’s so much you want to say to that.

It is so fucking unfair—biblically, cosmically unfair—that Sam, the good guy to end all good guys, thinks of himself this way. He is the kind of righteous they make saints out of. And yet he sits in your silly little bathroom in your shitty little apartment and gives you that look, the look that says, I deserve this and so much more. I deserve to rot in hell for all eternity. He gave you that exact look when he brought up saying yes. He gives it to you now, because Sam sees everything as a sin to serve penance for—freeing Lucifer from the cage and making you a little worried. He thinks he’s so evil, so beyond saving. It makes you want to get your fists in your shirt and just shake him. 

You’re good! You want to scream. Just for once in your life, listen to me! None of this is your fault!

There’s nothing you could say to him that would ever make him let go of his guilt. But, at the very least, you could help him forget about it for a while.

“You beat yourself up too much,” you scold. Then, softer, you add, “C’mere, Sammy.”

Sam does as told, planting himself right in front of you. God, he’s changed. You look him over with a bittersweet smile. He used to be so spindly. The last few years have filled him out, forcing his body into something ready for war. The hunt reached in and tore all sorts of things out of people, but you’d been wrong about what it’d ripped out of Sam. His optimism was still there, warm and humming in the tissue of his body, and just seeing it fills you with hope. He looks so different from the man you’d had all to yourself in that cabin, but you can feel that he’s still in there. He’s still your Sam.

You take his face in your hands, smoothing your thumbs into his dimples and quietly, needily rasping, “...Can I take care of you?”

Sam’s whole body shudders with relief. “Please, yes.”

The next few beats of this dance haven’t changed. Like always, Sam comes flying in with a big, smashing kiss that shatters any leftover barriers between you. You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and he’s not your boyfriend, but Sam makes you his with this kiss. (If only for a little while). Your noses mash together and his eyes squeeze shut and then everything is just Sam, Sam, Sam at every angle. His hands are at his sides then suddenly they’re all over you, taking two greedy handfuls of your waist under the Stanford sweater. He jams your hips against his and kisses you senseless, towering over you, surrounding you, so that when you pull back to gasp for breath your lungs are flooded with his familiar heady love potion.

Either he’s giving off some Poison Ivy-level pheromones, or your body is so familiar with these steps that it knows what comes after this kiss… because you’re instantly wet.

You realized a long time ago that you and Sam have sex a bit too often for it to be considered “casual,” but even if it was, Sam is not a casual kind of lay. After that first soul-stealing kiss, Sam stares you down like a four-course meal, spins you around, pushes you down chest-first onto the bathroom counter, drops to his knees—

—and shoves his face between your legs like it’s his goddamn job.

In the middle of all your surprised shrieking and squirming, Sam nuzzles his face into your panties and moans deep and bassy in his throat, “Yes.”

Like he’s won something. Like he’s been waiting weeks to do this. Holy fuck, you’ll never get tired of that.

The second you have even an atom of your reason back, you slap a hand over your mouth. Neighbors! Sam has already forgotten what neighbors are, and is holy-mission-from-god-determined to make you noisy. He’s extra hungry for it tonight, too. You squeak out his name, not so much in shock, but more because having those huge hands squeezing where your ass starts to round out tends to produce a reaction, and Sam rumbles like a lawnmower in approval. Holy fuck.

He doesn’t have to ask you to spread your legs. One of the hands appreciating your ass slides between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear, and you have to try not to squeal when the meaty pad of Sam’s thumb swipes across your clothed folds. He presses a big kiss in that exact spot as he drags your panties down your legs, and it’s a weirdly sweet gesture that makes your heart and your belly flutter with shivery heat. Fuck. Fuck, you missed him so much.

The first few times Sam had sprung this move on you, you hadn’t exactly had enough time to fully rev up. But Sam is deadly efficient in and out of the bedroom, so he makes a point to get you extra wet (for him) with his spit, laving his hot, slippery tongue over you in one long swipe. He eats you out with all the obscene, noisy enjoyment of somebody gorging on the juiciest fruit they’ve ever tasted. Even you are scandalized.

It becomes embarrassingly clear that covering your mouth isn’t going to keep Sam from what he wants. The high, desperate moan you try to stifle only makes him work harder. You press an arm flat to the counter and bury your face in it for strength, since you’re weak and whimpering for him already. 

Sam was good in bed when you met him. But, by nature, he is a relentless and avid learner, and it’s been five whole years since he put his mouth on you for the first time. Now, Sam is a certified pussy-eating weapon. He knows your body better than anyone possibly could. You’re over the edge in a minute flat.

Your climax flies through you in one whizzing, sparking rush, then keeps flying, until your body’s squeezing out little squeaky pleas for mercy of its own accord. This is his favorite part. You claw into the countertop and wail for it, pushing at the floor in your socks to gain any sort of leverage. To press closer? To squirm away? You have zero fucking clue, since the thought part of your brain has been blasted into a smoking crater. Sam wraps a big arm around your spasming thigh to pin you open, and holy fucking shit, could that man suck the chrome off a tailpipe. His mouth is a whirlwind of licking and suction just on the right side of oh fuck too much that makes your skin feel like it’s fizzing. You are a thread that he’s just pulling and pulling until you’re so thin you could snap into nothing—

You wait for the moment when Sam pops off you, stands up, and goes for his zipper, but he never does. He remains on the floor, determined to lick you through overstimulation and straight into round two. But that’s a whole minute you could spend with his dick inside you instead, and there’s no fucking way you’re wasting that. Not when he’s here and real and not going to say yes. Sam’s not going anywhere. He’s staying, he’s alive, and the world isn’t going to end tomorrow.

“No no no,” you bite out in one short, rattling breath. “S-Suh—Sam, please please—” An unexpected sob shreds out of you. “Miss you. Need you.”

You’re actually, genuinely crying, and not entirely in the fun sexed-out way. Sam backs up. He’s not even halfway standing when you wrench him up the rest of the way, straight into a desperate, maddening kiss. It’s a brutal cross of teeth and tongue. The need for body heat and skin and him burns through you like genuine bloodlust, so you cram yourself up against him with life-or-death urgency. You get your nails into him until you feel something like shirt fabric and viciously yank it over his head, waiting for the moment when he grabs your wrists or shoves you onto the bed o-or—or starts to blow off steam. Cause’ that’s what this is all about, right?

He drags your mouths apart. Sam pants, “Slow down.”

You stop.

This is. This is new.

There’s no slowing, with this. You both go and you keep going until there’s no more fuel in your tanks, and you crawl out of bed the next day feeling like you’ve beaten the rot out of each other. You’ve never once slowed down during this before, and as your wheels spin to a halt for the first time, reality filters back in around you.

Sam stares at you. His hair is all over the place. A patchy blush speckles up his heaving chest, burning in his ears and in his cheeks. Your slick shines on his lips and the bulb of his nose. He’s just standing there and fucking looking at you, but for whatever reason it feels like the color has seeped back into the world.

“S’okay. Gonna be okay,” Sam hushes, bleeding with sweetness.

He picks up your hands, moving you as if you were a delicate glass he was turning over in each palm. Each of your hands are kissed in the center (oh my fucking god) then wrapped around his neck, and when he has you in his bubble he scoops up your face and kisses you.

It’s a boyfriend kiss. Not a blowing off steam thing, or any other excuse the two of you have used to feel each other. A genuine, I’m your boyfriend and I love you sort of kiss, foreheads pressed together, noses touching, the whole nine yards. It’s the kind of kiss that’s meant to say something. Every inch of what he’s trying to tell you echoes through your body in one ringing smash, like you’re a big cymbal he’s taken a mallet to. 

He slips off your lips and hovers, bracing himself for impact. You suck in a rattling breath.

…Then you press up onto your tiptoes to give him a kiss of your own, just pressing your lips against his, unmoving. It’s undemanding; an answer. You try to find the words to describe the shift that’s occurred between you, and end up feeling stuttery and shivery and fucking elated. Romantic. It’s fucking romantic.

“Sammy,” you sob out.

“Shhh. C’mere,” Sam whispers, his voice throaty and whiskey smooth. “Lemme make it better.”

He tries to walk you straight back out of the bathroom and towards the bed, he really does, but you stop Sam every other step to overwhelm him with obsessed, affectionate kisses. God. His chapstick is all over your fucking mouth (along with your slick) and his hands are everywhere else, feeling instead of grabbing.

“You always do,” you breathe, and that might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him in bed.

Sam gets this quiet, pleased smile on his face. No matter how naked and turned-on you are, you’ve always got a snappy reply ready, and you’re about to throw one at him—until you’re fucking obliterated. He smoothes his palms down your arms. Your wrists are scooped up again. With all the tenderness on the planet, Sam slides in close, kisses your throat, and places both of your hands firmly on his belt.

“Take it off,” he rasps.

This. This isn’t the first time he’s given you that order. But knowing, feeling that he’s playing this all out like it’s more than a fling to him… that Sam’s gonna fuck you like you’re someone special to him… sweet jesus, it makes you lightheaded.

“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.

You’re downright feverish going in to kiss him next. Sam parts your lips with a slow, sinful swipe of his tongue, and there must be a drop of psychic still in him, because suddenly you’re flooded with visions of that filthy mouth between your legs. You can still feel the ghost of him there, keeping you open with his thumbs as the blunt tip of his tongue pushes you somewhere vast and sparkly and wonderful. This is going to be even better.

He sounds like he’s praying when he says, “I just like to watch you.”

Muscle memory serves. You work his clasp open without peeking down and let it hang in his belt loops, mostly because it lets his jeans sling low on his hips in the most enticing way. His belly twitches at even the slightest touch of your hands; always so responsive. Sam drops his forehead on your shoulder to watch you work, and you take the rare opportunity to kiss the top of his head. This is one of your favorite parts. When his button is undone and his zipper’s down, you’re free to smooth your hand under his waistband and take a big handful of him.

You reach in and—squeeze. Sam’s hand snaps up to clutch your arm. His nails dig in, and he rocks forward onto his tiptoes to really dig into your touch. “Yes.”

It’s the kind of soft, needy sound that makes you want to smother him with kisses and hug him until he suffocates. Instead, you cooly purr into his hair, “So sensitive, Sammy.”

A hoarse, sharp laugh snaps out of him, which dissolves into a shuddering groan. You tug at his jeans until they’re somewhere you don’t care about anymore, and forget about everything else entirely at the sight of his cock. All these years of sneaking around with him have conditioned you. Just seeing the pretty speckling of dark hair that leads to it, then the real deal, hanging blood-hot and heavy between his legs, makes your tummy flip and your mouth water. One of a million embarrassing Sam-reactions you’ll have to bring to your grave.

You take his cock in your hand, trying to swallow back the slutty amount of saliva in your mouth. Sam whimpers. A real, desperate sound, with his nails stinging down your arms and everything.

“Know you wanted to slow down,” you struggle between open-mouthed pants, “b-but—can’t—don’t wanna wait—”

Sam physically curls towards you, his hips seizing into your hand and his arms hooking around your shoulders. You’re dragged in for a sloppy kiss so deep you swear it melds your souls together. Sam is just as affected, rumbling like a racecar in approval.

“Then don’t.” He begs.

If this was any other night, Sam would just take. You’d be face down and drilled halfway through the mattress by now, no preamble, all business. He got off and you got off and everyone was happy that way. Sam would want the room dark and you would hide your face in the bedding, the two of you eager to touch and experience but terrified of breaking the illusion. He’s so generous that you suppose he’s got to have at least one place in life where he’s selfish, and you’re happy to be his outlet for it, but.

You’ve never seen him take this way before.

He looks at you and he never really stops, transfixed. You don’t doubt you could walk in a circle around him and Sam’s eyes would follow you the whole way, his gaze oozing with longing and something else—resolution? Faith? You push him onto the bed, and he drops down as if hobbling into a pew for the first time, unsure how to clasp his hands in prayer because it’s only ever been something done in his head before.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

“God,” Sam utters, spellbound. 

You’re blushing so hard that you forget to be sexy as you crawl into his lap, but Sam doesn’t care, still giving you those big slow doe blinks to express his love. It’s so different from the Sam you know (yet also so deeply, deeply him) that you forget what it means to be sexy entirely. He coaxes you closer to plant tender kisses under your chin, and the plan to seductively peel off your sweater for him and flash him your tits blips out of existence.

You wait for the moment when Sam shreds the Stanford sweater off you. Instead, those wonderful fucking hands tease under the hem to squeeze your waist, and Sam croaks out between kisses, “Should wear this all the time. You’re beautiful in anything, but this… you’re… mmn.”

Your heart gives a pathetic flutter. You press mindless kisses against his mouth and rock your bare core down on his lap, because he’s never acted this way before and you don’t know how else to return the favor. “Not nearly as beautiful as you, Sammy.”

The only reaction you get from him is a single huff out of his nose, like it’s something he can’t commit a whole laugh to. Like none of that matters anymore, like it would never matter for Sam, because his body may be beautiful, but it hardly belongs to him anymore. God, you’re shitty at compliments.

You’re fucking wonderful, you suddenly want to tell him. A whole swarm of little truths and sweet nothings roars straight up to the surface of your mind, a whole sea of better things you could say to him, but then one of those perfect hands is slipping between your legs and Sam’s asking you in that perfect, tinted glass voice, “You still on the pill?”

“Yes, doctor,” you tease.

Another flood of sticky heat rushes between your legs, because that question is always a precursor to being pressed into and filled and stuffed end-to-end by Sam’s dick. The one barrier that doesn’t—didn’t exist between you.

“Good,” Sam sighs, relieved, grateful. He never turned down going raw in the past, but he’s downright starved for it right now. Closer closer closer, his whole body begs.

You’re tugged in by a big hand hooked around your back, and you fall right into Sam’s summer-warm, sweat-sticky chest, giggling. He loops both arms around your middle and teddy-bear squeezes even more laughter out of you. The only way to hold yourself up is by planting two hands on his shoulders… which turns into his cupping his neck… then caressing his face, because it’s impossible to be witness to that quiet boyish grin and not shower him in affection. There’s all these little freckles on him that you can only see up close. He feels good, mystical good, prophetic-chosen-one type good.

This is the moment. You can feel the blood in your body pounding between your legs, and Sam’s cock bumps not-so-innocently against your core as you kiss one another. Every shift of his hands sends your muscles clenching tight, bracing for impact, but Sam doesn’t push into you just yet.

Your confusion must be clear on your face, because he says, “Just let me feel you for a second.”

And, obviously, you’re not an idiot, so you let Sam feel you for as long as he pleases. For the next ten uninterrupted minutes, you makeout like lovesick teenagers, whimpering and sighing and swallowing every sound the other makes. You’d always pegged him as a romantic. But seeing it, feeling it, adds a whole new dimension to him you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.

By the time the pool of need in your gut has opened up into a blackhole, Sam has caressed or squeezed or kissed every part of you ten times over. He continues to be weird and obsessed with you. (So still in character, then). Sam even pinches the ends of your ears and smooths his thumbs over the bumps of your ankles, being sexy about it but also a little terrifying. He touches you like he’s never gonna see you again.

Around the time that Sam starts suckling marks into your neck and trying to tickle you under your arms, you giggle out, “O-Okay—okay! Enough—!”

“Enough what?” Sam cocks his head. His hand makes another dive for your belly, making you shriek and squirm with more giggles. You try to wriggle away to protect your tickling sides, but Sam’s too strong and you’re a little in love with him, so it’s easy for him to pull you flush against him and blow tingly-warm breaths beside your ear. He purrs, “You need it that badly?”

“Fucking yes! So quit torturing me,” you pant, and you’re pretty sure this grin is going to get stuck on your face.

Sam’s smile gets even bigger. “Only if you say please.”

Your attitude slips from your grip like water. Next time, you’ll play push and pull with him, but right now there needs to be a lot more pushing and pulling in a different context.

The words are out of your mouth in an instant. “Please, Sam.”

As reluctant as he is to stop teasing you, Sam’s a little in love, too. He leans back enough to fist his cock in one hand, and you can’t help how your breath hitches when Sam’s touch follows the curve of your ass to where you’re soaked and sensitive for him. Those thick, maddening fingers spread you open. The velvety tip of his cock finds your hole right away, and your legs nearly give out when Sam starts to swipe himself up and down your folds one dizzying stroke at a time. Back…. and forth. Up… and down. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay, fine…” He concedes, his eyes glittering with joy. “You’re just so cute when you act all tough.”

Maybe not all of your attitude is gone. You bark out a laugh, telling him, “I hate you.”

Sam presses down for the last time, then presses in. You don’t mean to look into his eyes when he fills you up, and that’s probably what does you in. Sam’s rosy face flutters and twists with pleasure, but he never stops looking at you, not even once, terrified to miss even a small moment. The long hitching moan that slips out of you makes his whole face darken with desire. You’re pulled onto him deeper and deeper and deeper until—click. Cue the angel choir.

Your fingers dig desperately into his hair. Sam curls into you in one slow pulling movement, a thread pulled taut, until his face is stuffed in your neck and his hands are mindlessly scrabbling down your back.

“God, I love you,” he moans.

Soon your pussy feels achy and hair-trigger-sensitive and beyond full, which could mean that you’re all the way on him. It’s impossible to tell, since the first full minute of having Sam’s dick inside you sends you straight to the moon every time, where everything falls in peaceful slow-motion and the whole world hums with cosmic, sparkling pressure. You shove your face into him and nuzzle in a daze, little ripples of electricity sparking up your spine.

…Wait.

“What?” You register, slow.

Sam is still clutching you for dear life, even if the moment’s slowed and you’re both comfortable. He hugs you full-bodied, nose in your neck, tilted forward, the kind of hug where he sways you side to side with joy. Sam sucks in a harsh breath. Can’t hold back anymore.

“I love you,” he gushes. The words burn out of him, declarative, overjoyed.

There’s so much you want to say to that. But then Sam digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you off his lap, only to gloriously sink you down the rest of the way, and. Fuck fuck fuck. His cock drags thick and hot against the pliant walls of your pussy. You couldn’t be any more full if you tried, clamping down on him with long, silky ripples of pressure that outline the shape of him inside you in obscene detail. It’s the kind of mind-blowing that’s beyond comprehension, beyond feeble human understanding. Your eyes squeeze shut and you whimper into his hair.

“God, I love you,” he chants again through grit teeth. “So much. So fucking much.”

You find his face with your hands and kiss him quiet, tasting the promise in his mouth. When you part and the two of you really start to move, you kiss him again, and again, whispering where only he can hear, “I-I love you too.”

It should scare you how easily the confession slips out. You should be terrified, because even if you live to see next week, or next month, or next year, even if Sam isn’t saying yes to Lucifer, those words are a death sentence. And yet.

“I-I miss you,” you choke out, “I need you.”

“Me too. So much,” Sam soothes, his voice tight and sharp with restraint. You know his instinct is to jackhammer up into you and never stop, but he puts in effort to resist, letting you both marinate in the wonderful, glistening, twitchy feeling of each other. His hands are rubbing your back and he is so fucking warm, turning the rain outside to steam.

He doesn’t bounce you on his dick. It’s more of a slow, cresting drag, waves stroking a beach. You don’t think you could handle much more than that, anyway—sometimes these positions make him feel big enough to pop you like a balloon. What you can’t fit on your own, your weight pushes you down onto anyway, turning your whole body into a big expanding bubble of pressure ready to burst at any moment. You clutch at his shoulders and just throb around him for a second.

“Nuh-uh,” Sam leans away, not letting you shove your face in him like you want. Instead, a big hand cups one side of your neck and keeps you in front of him. “Wanna see your face. Look at me. Look at me,” he insists, genuinely pleading.

When your eyes find his, that’s when he decides to snap up into you for real. You don’t even get a full look at him. The arm slung around your waist drags you up off your wobbling knees, then slams you down into a beautiful, endless white space popping with color.

“Sammy!” You choke.

That’s the magic word. You’re instantly thrust up into four more lightning-fast times, one-two-three-four, and hitch out four squeaky gasps to match. Sam’s eyes bore into yours with every beat, blazing with liquid love. For a second you wonder if you’ve fallen back into your rough routine again. But then words and thoughts melt out of your brain altogether, because Sam draws you into the tenderest, sweetest kiss human beings are capable of, fucking into you deep and smooth with that deeper, smoother voice, “Keep saying that.”

Sammy Sammy Sammy, you rattle out under your breath. Sam hisses out your name the exact same way.

You do your best to help him out a little, bobbing up and down in his lap, but’s a drop of water in the ocean for him. All Sam cares about is seeing your reaction. He soaks up everything you do like a sponge, moaning when you moan, gritting his teeth when you bite your lip, grinding up as you stir down. The weight of his eyes on you is so heavy that your skin stings in its wake. Again, it’s Sam’s brand of freak-sweetness that makes you get stupid notions in your head about wedding rings and anniversary presents. But that’s—

…something he knows about. Something he just said to you five minutes ago. Above the haze of bouncing, rhythmic pleasure, you’re flooded with relief. You can tell him! Holy fuck, you can tell him!

“I love you,” you gasp out again, and just saying it feels like it could save the world. “O-oh, god, Sam—”

The breath you have left is stolen from you by another fierce kiss from him, so passionate it lets you taste the bassy, happy hum that rumbles in Sam’s throat. You’re devoured by feverish kisses for a full minute, then Sam pops off you to sob, “So much—so fucking much, yes.”

He slips a hand between the two of you to thumb your clit, stirring in and never once stopping. Every so often he’ll brush up against where you’re hot and filled to the hilt with him, your bodies sliding together with slick, filthy noises that are so—so fucking much that your thighs cramp up, protesting the constant pistoning. But the pleasure is easily worth the burn. Your core booms with long echoes of pleasure that shudder through the trembling spiderwebs that make up your nerves. You make a move to lean back on your hands and switch up the angle, (since you’re a damn good cowgirl, thank you very much), but Sam refuses to stop kissing you. He physically pulls you back in with a hand fished around your neck and kisses you breathless, determined to pound you to your climax one thorough snap of his hips at a time.

“So beautiful,” Sam gushes. His voice is hoarse and thready, like he’s moments away from bursting into tears of pure desire.

You smooth your hands down his flushed cheeks, telling him between huffy moans, “It’s okay, s’ okay, Sammy… so pretty… love you so much…”

You feel him pull the Stanford sweater up over your ass and out of his way, exposing more, more, more of your bare skin for him to touch. Sam palms the slope of your back and your belly in a daze, but that’s still not enough—he’ll never be satisfied with how little of you he’s had. He wants more. He wants forever. You embrace each other to the fullest, cheeks smushed together, chests flush, his parted lips claiming your throat, making you his—but. Sam’s breath ratchets up. Not enough not enough not enough—

In one ragged motion, Sam rolls you both over, tossing you back-first onto the bedding and smothering you with his weight.

A squeal of delight jumps out of you. “Hey!”

If Sam wasn’t all over you before, then he literally is now, dropping onto his elbows so he can cup your face in both hands and surround you completely. “Sorry,” he croaks, “need you. Need to fill you up.”

You whisper against his lips, “Then fill me up already.”

His thumbs press into your cheeks a little. Sam’s breath fans across your face, throttled by the lump in his throat.

“Tell me you love me again.”

Um. You don’t exactly have the sexy heat of the moment to hide behind this time, but you still want to say it for him. His eyes swim with something unreadable. Desire and love, enough love to put a lump in your throat too, but a third thing also. It worries you.

You bring your hands up to stroke his wrists, and give a bit too much of your soul to him when you promise, “...I love you, Sam.”

The words hit him like a bullet. Sam shudders from head to toe, unable to reign himself in any longer, and plants a long, surging kiss on your mouth that makes your belly flash with nuclear levels of lust. He squirms his hands underneath your body so he can cradle you against him—genuinely cradling, one palm cupping the back of your neck—and then burrows into you face-first, groaning your name as his cock nestles itself as deep as it can go.

With all of his weight on top of you, you couldn’t move if you wanted to. You caress and kiss and dig your nails into him, and somewhere along the way you’re given a dose of whatever has made him fucking insane for you right now. It fogs your head and turns your reason to ash, so when Sam returns to ruining you for any other man, you whimper, “Please don’t leave me.”

“Oh, baby,” Sam hiccups out, and something strange hangs in his voice.

You would ask him what’s wrong, but the shuddering, flimsy scraps left of your brain are busy being blasted all over by white-hot pleasure. Everything scorches. Sam’s bare skin and his breath and his hands feel fucking molten, melting you down like hot glass. You’re pinned down in every possible way, and it pushes the sinking, gorgeous pressure inside you all over your body, like it’s not just Sam’s cock filling you up, but him, just him, the source of all good in the world. Holy fucking fuck. His hips glide back and then thud back into you again and again and again. You get why it’s called making love, now. You can taste your love for him in the back of your throat, feel it sitting in a sticky film on your skin. It hangs like humidity in the air of your apartment. And jesus christ, it bleeds from Sam, glowing off him like fucking radiation.

When you’re shamelessly wailing gut-deep in ecstasy, Sam peels himself off you. He forces himself to sit up. His chest putters up and down with desperate little breaths, and a gloriously big hand scoops under your thigh and welds it against your chest. Whatever he sees from this new angle—probably your wet, abused pussy stretched tight around the full base of his cock—makes Sam gape, utterly transfixed. You watch as his mouth falls open, and then those dark, soul-swallowing eyes crawl up your body to meet yours.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.

Even if he doesn’t sway your opinion with a few dizzying, stomach-deep drags of his cock, (which he does), you’re convinced. You lock eyes with him—and then suddenly feel stupid for not watching him the whole time. A long curl of hair hangs in his eyes and sways as he fucks into you. His expression flutters with these sinful little giveaways, exposing just how starved he is for you, how in love. Maybe if you’d looked back sometime in the past five years, that’s what you would’ve seen: how much this has always meant to him. He searches your face for the same pleasure, obsessed with his effect on you. 

“Fuck,” you shudder out. “C-could cum just watchin’ you, Sammy.”

“That’s right,” he hisses, and you’ve never heard him sound so damn happy. “Cum for me. Please. Look so pretty when you do.”

Usually, when he makes you cum, it’s the roughest part of the whole act. He’d get both your wrists pretzeled behind your back and pinned viciously in one of his hands, and that’s when you’d know the big finish was coming. His pace would go from bouncing to bruising. But this Sam, your Sam, would stop time if he could, so he slows down even further, winding you closer and closer to the top of the mountain with little figure-eights of his hips. He gazes down at you the same way you’re sure you must gaze up at him. Beautiful, he murmurs under his breath.

You utter another, tight, almost-sob of, “love you so much, Sammy,” and his dick twitches wildly shoved in you to the hilt.

“Ohh—shit,” he chokes out, and his other hand snaps desperately towards yours on the bed. They find each other easily, and you squeeze his hand with everything you’ve got, infusing in him all the love he’s infused in you.

The slow, mounting tsunami of perfection you’ve been moving towards finally overcomes you, and in one long gorgeous slippery rush you cum for Sam. And because your life is a movie—he cums for you too. He rocks faster and falls forward to kiss you, your faces pressed together, your mouths slotting against each other, your pussy squeezing down on him in golden rippling strokes. Sam hisses your name out between his teeth as he cums. You’re lanced straight through by a whole fucking universe of fluttering, flickering pleasure. To be honest, you’re a little pissed about it—because it’s the best fucking orgasm you’ve had in your entire life, and it’s all because Sam raggedly chants those words to you again and again, laying sloppy, obsessive, head-over-heel kisses all over your face. Love you love you so much baby you feel so good squeezin’ down on me.

You could’ve had this ages ago. How much more time could you have had with him, if you had just stopped being stupid?

Sam’s crazed, sobbing, hitching I love yous somehow become, in true Sam fashion, a low spiral of thank yous. He lays there and clutches you until there’s a Sam-shaped imprint in your body. You’re pretty sure he would stay inside you all night if he could, but you coax him into some cuddling instead, since you both are in desperate need. It’s. It’s new, but it feels cleansing in the holy way.

What feels like hours later, your brain dimly connects to the rest of your body. You’re halfway through detangling Sam’s hair with your fingers as he hides face-first in your chest, pretending he’s not embarrassed that he cried. At least, that’s what you assume. The Winchester mind is a mysterious one, and as much as you would hope to know what Sam’s thinking, the slow hand drawing circles on your hip tells you nothing. Is he shy that he got emotional? That seems silly, since you both sobbed into each other earlier. Is he embarrassed about everything he confessed? Does he regret it?

Just when your train of thought really starts to take the curves of your spiral hard, Sam tiredly croaks into your neck, “I meant what I said, y’know.”

He draws in a lungful of your perfume through his nose, soaking up as much of you as he can possibly get. His hands smooth over your body, innocent and loving, caressing you, memorizing you, begging silently for forgiveness. 

Sam is a dead-silent crier. But you hear him sniffle as he gushes, “God, I love you.”

Maybe if you hadn’t been so tired, you would’ve picked up on it. Or maybe you’d heard it in his voice, seen it, something, and ignored it, hoping it was something else. Everything he felt, he put into a teeny, unmarked box that he’d bury god knows where, far from where anybody could be hurt by it. Sam didn’t—he wouldn’t say that to you. Not unless it was the last time he ever could. He would feel it, but it’d go right into that box where it couldn’t hurt you. You should’ve known.

Lie to me, you’d begged him. 

…And Sam had.

_

The dull realization that you are awake sets in around noon. Noon as in after-noon, well past when you’re normally up and at em’. When you wonder why the hell you slept in so late, you remember last night’s rain, thrashing against the windows all night, and Sam, his face haloed by lamplight and bleeding with quiet resolution.

Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.

He’d been the one to keep you up all night. With his mouth and his hands, yes, but then afterward he’d been hellbent on talking. Just… talking. You’d been sluggish and cozy and sated after having sex, but no matter how close you came to falling asleep, Sam wouldn’t let it happen. For two straight hours he asked you every question he could come up with to keep you up with him.

Do you remember when we met? Cause’ I do. Do you remember what I said to you? Do you remember what you thought about me? I remember thinking how similar we were, y’know, how much we’d get along. You were so pretty… my whole face went red every time you looked at me. Do you remember…?

Being cuddled, kissed, and protected by the man you love really tempts a girl to doze off, too, so this was not an easy battle. But Sam persisted. He studied your face intently, uttering I love yous even when sleep started to pull you under. Hearing any Winchester drop those words on you still blew your fucking mind, to be honest. Sam especially. But it was romantic as it was worrying, so you’d shut him up with a kiss goodnight and echoed it back to him. Love you, Sammy. It was probably just an anxiety thing, you assumed—Sam, for some fucking reason, was a pretty insecure guy, so you imagined that was his way of making sure you wanted all of this. He seemed… scared. He wasn’t used to being wanted.

The apocalypse was still on. Maybe the world would end tomorrow, or maybe you’d get lucky and live a whole lifetime with Sam. Regardless, he’s never saying yes to Lucifer, and that alone means that there’s still hope for the future. You’re going to spend every second of it making Sam feel wanted.

Sitting up in bed, you scrubbed at your sleepy face with the heel of your hand and stared around the room. Sam was physically incapable of staying asleep after five in the morning, so the familiar evidence of his military-efficient morning routine was all over the place. You smiled to yourself. He’d picked up after the two of you, and had tucked another blanket over you in your sleep. Stupid chivalrous dumbass.

To think, you’d been terrified you’d never see him again just last night.

You push out of bed, only to almost buckle onto the carpet rag-doll style. Even being torturously gentle, that man manages to make you sore. With a very, very happy groan, you hop (and wince) into some clean underwear, then traipse out into your kitchen to show that dork who’s boss.

“Dammit, Samuel, you’re not my maid—” you start to say, but of course, this is Sam, who wouldn’t miss a morning run for anything. Right. That explains your empty kitchen.

…But it’s afternoon. Sam would be back by now. Your gut prickles with a bad feeling, and you superstitiously sweep your apartment, looking for him. His clothes from last night are still sitting in your hamper, his shirt folded neatly in your dresser and his watch on your nightstand. A spike of nausea rolls through you seeing that his jacket is gone—and his boots. But his duffle—it’s. It’s still on your kitchen table. It looks a little smaller than usual, but his books and his laptop are still inside. He probably just ran out to run some silly errand for you, determined to make up for worrying you so much. Yeah.

You force your hunter’s paranoia down to a simmer, padding over to your breakfast table. There’s a big ol’ note smack dab in the center of it, perched on his half-open duffle bag, and you start to play with one of the bracelets Sam left behind as you pick it up.

You cross your fingers, smiling ear-to-ear. “C’mon. All bets on breakfast. Please be getting me breakfast, please be getting me breakfast—”

…That’s not what the note says.

You read it.

Then you read it again, and the hammer falls, crushing the breath out of you and doubling you over the kitchen table. You read the note for the third time, needing to be sure, and the thin sliver of hope you had—maybe you’d just read it wrong, m-maybe he was fine—turns to ash. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

You’re fighting back a surge of ugly, choking tears in an instant. He’s… Sam… he…

Your whole apartment lingers with the heat and goodness of him, like he’d been here just minutes ago. Just seconds. Even your clothes still smell like Sam. Just inhaling it tears chunks out of your reason, like—like you’d just missed him. Clawing around for something to do, you pace in a daze between your bedroom and the front door, desperate to recreate the moment you realized he was gone. You’re still just in the Stanford sweater and your underwear, but you don’t give a single shit and go careening out into the hall, stalking up and down your floor for him—because, b-because Sam wouldn’t, he wouldn’t do that to you—he would tell you first, he would never leave you in the dark like this—

…But you know Sam. And if it meant fixing his mistakes, saving you, saving everyone… Then he’d say yes in a heartbeat.

“These belong to you. You deserve a world to live in. I’m sorry - Sam.”

- tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1@lacilou@cevans-winchester @leigh70@ seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1

[dilfl0v3rss]

this just came to me because I was arguing with my man but..

what about reader who has a problem with calling people all types of bitches; finally meets her match and he show her who the bitch really is !

(this my first ask btw🌸)

hey boooo!! so glad you sent a requesttttt. since you didn’t say who you wanted me to write for i felt like it was the perfect time to pull this out. i now bring forth………the baldiessss!!!

calling them a b*tch

𝑜𝑛𝑦

the two of you were going back and forth. it seemed like every time you got excited to be somewhere or do something, here come ony hating ass telling you you’re not allowed.

“i really don’t care ma. if i say you not going then you not going, so take allat shit off, put on your pjs and go study. got an exam on monday and you tryna party.”

you rolled your eyes while sucking your teeth. he wasn’t even your boyfriend and he damn sure wasn’t your daddy so you seen no need to be listening to this man. continuing your journey to the door as ony watched you with a keen eye. “you not even my nigga. you just a nigga i like to fuck, so you can take your bitch ass on somewhere tryna be somebody daddy” with that you turned around to grab your shoes that were at the door, only getting to put one foot in before you were snatched up and put against the wall. “we gon see about that”

it only took ony about ten minutes to have you screaming and crying in the middle of your bed. legs held high in the air as you grabbed tightly on the arm connected to the hand around your neck.

“o-ohh my goddd why a-are you fucking me like thisss” your whines went in one ear and out of the other while ony kept his brutal pace on your bruised pussy. “you know damn well why i got you like this. you may get away wit that shit when talking to your little friends, but over here we don’t use that bitch word y’hear me?” he took advantage of your parted lips, giving you a sloppy kiss before letting his warm saliva trickle down your tongue. you eagerly swallowed him, the action bringing the both of you closer to the edge.

“i hear you daddy….i hear you”

𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑒

“and oneeeeee!! y’all not fuckin wit me mann!” connie yelled as he won another game of 2k. y’all were at ony’s house chilling. well no….CONNIE was at ony’s house chilling. you were there against your will, tired, and in dire need of some entertainment since your man and his “brothers” left you out completely. “i’m ready to go con” you mumbled for what felt like the a hundredth time tonight, but of course connie gave you the same old excuse.

“ten more minutes”

he didn’t even look away from the screen as he spoke. you rolled your eyes before getting up and walking to the dining room where you sat down and called your group chat. “what it do bitchesss!” your friend eboni yelled as she watched the rest of your friends begin to pop up in the call. “heyy” you said with as much energy as you could, but they could all tell you were as dry as ever. “what he do now?” your other friend erika said as she looked at the tired look on your face. you sighed, dropping your shoulders as you turned the camera around towards the back of the guys heads and back towards your face. “been on that game wit them for like two hours while i’m just sitting here”

mumbles of irritation could be heard throughout the call as your friends grew almost as upset as you. “you told him you wanna leave?” eboni asked. you gave her a “duhh” look before replying. you didn’t notice that connie finished his game, getting up as he let ony and eren play while he went to the kitchen for a snack. he was within arm’s reach of you before you started talking your shit. “like why the fuck would you bring me here if you was gon be up in your friend’s faces the whole time? if i did that to him he would be whining to me like a little bitch saying he wanna go home.”

his eyes widened in surprise as your words. anger quickly running through his veins as he snatched your phone from your hands and hung up on your friends. “bring your ass up stairs, now” you rolled your eyes at him, earning you a hard slap in your ass before he lightly pushed you upstairs and towards the bathroom. “i be whining like a little bitch? you don’t get your way and now you think it’s okay to call me out my name?” you looked up at him, arms crossed as you leaned on the sink. your attitude was still very much there so connie decided to stop with the talking. turning you around and bending you over the sink. “turn the water on. if i hear your voice over it ima really embarrass you aight? don’t test me.”

he left you no time to answer before burying two of his fingers deep into your pussy, stretching you out so good you had to quickly cover your mouth to keep from screaming. “unt uh mama, this ain’t nothing. i’m a bitch right? this should be light work for you” he taunted you, inked hand yanking yours off your mouth while his eyes dared you to make a sound. your release was coming quickly and connie knew it by the way your eyes rolled in the mirror. he took this as an opportunity to move quicker into you. his gaze never leaving your face as he watched you open your mouth to scream. thankfully it was quickly muffled by by his strong hand, while you shook and came all over his inked fingers, but you weren’t finish yet. your eyes widened in surprise as you felt connie’s fat tip prodding your entrance.

“we gon see which one of us is really a bitch in here. and you bet not run”

𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑛

as the girlfriend of one of the most popular ace’s in the country, there were things you had to go through that regular women didn’t. not a day went by where there wasn’t a crazy girl trying to throw themselves onto your man, regardless if you were there or not. that wasn’t really an issue to you though since it was bound to happen given his talent. the real issue was that aran’s peanut headed ass never really dealt with that behavior the way he should.

“oh my goddd arannnn!!! please please please can i get a picture wit youuuu.”

“your muscles are so much bigger in person”

“you’re so strong i wonder how your body looks under the jersey”

you were thrown to the side once again after a game, the girls basically shoving you out the way before snatching your boyfriends attention from you.

“f’course i could take a picture wit y’all. cmon everybody get in!” he said, letting the swarm of women stand around him as he flexed for the camera. you didn’t even wait to let him finish, walking right out of the gym and towards his car. it took over half an hour for this man to finally get to the car before he looked at you leaning on the passenger side door. “why you ain’t wait f’me? s’mad dark out here and you all alone.” he said, looking around at the almost empty parking lot before looking at you.

“you looked a little busy entertaining bitches fantasies and ian wanna interrupt” you spit before turning around to open your door. of course his fast ass locked it before you could even touch the handle, waiting patiently for you to turn back around before he spoke. “you mad at me for taking pictures?” his confusion made you scoff. was he playing or was he really that dumb? regardless you were over it. “knew your bitch ass wouldn’t get it. got so many different girls heads up your ass you don’t got time to think about your girlfriend” aran leaned down towards you face, putting his ear closer to your lips so he could “hear you better”

“my what?” you looked up at him, challenging him as you repeated yourself. “your bitch ass. cant hear or sum?” a small smirk made its way to his lips before he unlocked the car doors. “nah i just needed to make sure”

you didn’t even make it to the front seat before aran yanked your ass up and threw you in the back. crawling in right behind you before teaching you your lesson.

“there you go ma, keep ridin that dick” aran groaned as he watched your ass bounce repeatedly in front of him. legs burning as you gripped the center console for support. “i l-learned my lesson pa pleaseee” you whimpered as you felt his large hand land a heavy smack on your ass, the skin already hot and aching from the previous slaps. “nah…nah ion think you leaned shit. we have this conversation almost every other week. these lil girls out here don’t mean shit t’me. they can take as many pictures they want because at the end of the day who do i go home wit?”

you mindlessly kept bouncing on his dick, too fucked out to even respond properly. “y’go home wimme daddy” a smirk made its way to his face as he listened to your slurred speech. you were fucked dumb. “that’s right mama. daddy goes home wit you…daddy only ever gon go home wit you” you nodded along to his words, feeling your release on the tip of your tongue as he continued to speak. “now apologize t’me for being mean. you know how i feel about that bitch word”

aran quickly pulled your back to his sweaty chest, kissing up and down your neck as he quickly fucked into you from the bottom.

“m’sorryyyy. won’t happen againnn”

𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑘𝑎

“fuckkk. you always suck me so well mama” he groaned as he watched you work between his thighs. two hands stroking his shaft as you quickly moved your mouth all over his tip. there was spit all over your face and hands, but that only turned tanaka on even more. it’s been weeks since the two of you got to have sex since your boyfriend is always out and about being the best personal trainer he could be.

you looked up at his toned body in adoration as you began to suck him sloppier, slapping his pink tip on your tongue before taking him fully down your throat. *ring ring* the sound of his phone snatched him out of his lustfull trance. you were too busy hard at work so you didn’t notice, but when you glanced up at him the sight made your blood boil. this nigga was on the phone.

“hello?….yea f’course….nah that’s not a problem at all. would the gym by mall work for you?….aight coo, see you then”

you let go of his dick with a pop, giving him a confused look as you waited for him to explain what the fuck just happened. “client just called. said they wanted an extra work out” your jaw was on the floor. there was no way he was serious. “and you took it?” tanaka looked at you with a blank look, as if you should already know his answer. “duhh i took it. he’s been making good progress and ion wanna mess that up for him now.” you scoffed, standing up from the floor before walking towards the bathroom to clean yourself up. tanaka followed you, looking dumb as ever with his dick still out of his pants. “you not gon help me finish?”

you gave him a death stare before pushing past him and making your way to your side of the bed. “go have your fucking client suck it. since you running to his beck and call like you his bitch or sum” as soon as the words left your lips you felt a strong hand wrap around your throat. tanaka kept his voice steady, but by the grip he had on your neck you could tell he was pissed. “don’t say that shit again.” he said quietly, using his other inked hand to lift your chin up towards his face. tanaka leaned down, lips almost touching yours before he spoke again. “where you learn that at huh? ‘cause i know i never let you talk to me like that and i still don’t. you forgot where you at ma?”

he spoke lowly to you, making a shiver run down your spine as well as wetness rush through your panties. you didn’t say a word, pretty doe eyes looking up at him as you waited for his next move. “spread your legs f’me ‘kay?” you obeyed him without question. fear coursing through your veins as you watched your man angrily rip your panties in the middle. you eagerly waited for him to fuck you, little whines leaving your mouth as you watched tanaka tease your clit with his tip. “say you sorry first mama. ion play that disrespectful shit and you know that.”

“m’sorryyyy” you dragged your voice out to show extra remorse as you kept your legs wide for him to take you. a small smirk crept on tanaka’s face as he watched you listen to each of his commands without hesitation.

“just made you listen to my every word all for some forgiveness” he mumbled as he sunk half of his long dick into you.

“so who’s really the bitch?”

[yournowheregirl]

my mind’s been stuck on secret dolly parton fan southern!eddie and suddenly it sprouted 2k of fic so uhhh here ya go? more to follow! (unbeta’d btw) [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6 + complete on ao3]

part 1: jolene

He might not look it, but deep down, hidden beneath the leather jackets and silver chains, Eddie Munson is a good old-fashioned southern boy. If you heard his uncle talk, you’d know he’s not from around Hawkins, but Eddie has mostly hidden his roots over the years. He had traded in his faded blue jeans for ripped black ones, his momma’s country vinyls were hidden away and replaced by heavy metal tapes and his drawl only comes out when he’s drunk out of his mind, calling everyone darlin’ and sweet pea. 

He misses Tennessee sometimes, though he doesn’t remember much. He misses the warmth of the people and the sunshine, he misses the cornbread his old neighbor Mrs. Carter used to make, but he mostly misses his mom. Misses her laugh and the way she tucked him into bed with a song every night, always with the same Dolly Parton song. 

Maybe that’s why he always reaches out to Dolly when he’s feeling down in the dumps. 

And all because of Steve motherfuckin’ Harrington.

He doesn’t really know when it started exactly. Maybe it was back in high school, when Steve just filled out those gym shorts way too nicely. Maybe it was that summer when Eddie kept wandering through Starcourt Mall, hoping to catch a glimpse of Steve in that damn sailor outfit. Maybe it was going through hell and back and somehow coming out alive, matching demobat scars and all. 

He doesn’t know when, all he knows he’s halfway in love with Steve and it’s frustrating to say the least.

Frustrating because he and Steve are somehow friends now and friends apparently talk each other’s ears off about their respective love lives. Including Steve’s endless supply of flirtations with girls at Family Video, just like today.

Steve’s been sweet talking some girl named Emily for the past twenty minutes now, really laying it on thick. Telling her how nice this shirt looks on her, how pretty her eyes look, how she really should find someone to watch Sixteen Candles with. Eddie turns away so that Steve won’t see the way his eyes roll at yet another one of Emily’s adorable little giggles. 

It’s not even justified, the nasty feeling in his stomach, the green snake of jealousy that slithers around his throat. It’s not like Steve is actually his. He’s just Eddie's friend. Eddie’s great, very straight, very much ladies’ man, friend. So Eddie keeps his mouth shut, grips his copy of The Thing a little tighter and pushes that feeling way deep down as the bell dings and Emily disappears through the door.

“Ha! Harrington’s back, baby!” Steve exclaims, pumping his fist in the air.

“What are we celebrating?” Eddie asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“Got a date this Friday.” Steve grins. He wiggles a piece of paper in between his fingers, probably with Emily’s phone number scribbled on it. 

“Nice.” Eddie says with a tight smile, hoping to God that Steve’s still too smitten to notice the way his body has gone all rigid. 

“Yeah, she’s pretty nice isn’t she?” Steve sighs happily. “Just hope she’s the one, y’know? I’m so tired of all those first dates, asking about each other’s siblings and favorite colors and I just… yeah, I just hope she’ll be the one.”

“Rooting for you, man.” Eddie says and oh my God, what kind of bro talk is that? Eddie wants to kick himself, but he just looks away instead, dropping the VHS on the counter.

“Thanks!” 

And he just looks so happy. His eyes glistening with hope, his lips (oh god his lips) turned into a victorious smile, his entire body just exuding confidence. Eddie really shouldn’t be mad at him, not when he looks like that.

Instead Eddie spends the entire drive back to the trailer park fuming and thinking of little miss ‘I-Hope-She’s-The-One’ Emily. Now, his momma raised him to be a gentleman but that vicious snake that made itself home in his stomach makes him want set fire to Emily’s stupidly perfect pleaded skirts. 

He’s so pissed off that he misses the exit that leads to Forest Hill, and instead he just keeps on driving. Past the luxurious villas, past the wide open fields, past the Leaving Hawkins sign. He doesn’t know where he’s going exactly, he just knows he has to leave. 

He only stops when it starts to turn dark outside and he spots a few warm lamps just on the side of the road. After closer inspection, it turns out to be a roadside bar, hidden away beneath some trees. Eddie’s stomach rumbles and he realizes that he hadn’t eaten since noon, so he parks the van and walks towards the bar, aptly named Off-Road.

Once Eddie steps inside, it’s like he’s suddenly back in Tennessee. He’s seeing men in flannel, shooting whiskey at the bar. Women in plaid dresses, dancing along to some honky-tonk song that’s playing on the radio. The wall decorated with all kinds of things that just scream Americana, old-faded photos of farms, a row of cowboy hats, an acoustic guitar on the wall.

He can’t believe what he's seeing, so he almost stumbles over his own feet as he makes his way to the bar.

“Hiya kid. What can I get ya?”

Eddie looks up to see a small, but buff woman standing behind the bar. Her silver hair is cropped short and pulled back by a red bandana and the tassels on her leather vest swivel as she cleans a glass with a dishrag.

“Uh, just a Coke, I guess?” Eddie says. “Do you also serve food?”

“Yeah, mac ’n cheese’s on the menu today.” The woman smiles, busying herself with finding a bottle of coke beneath the counter. “What’s your name kid? I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Eddie.”

“Nice to meet ya, Eddie. My name’s Pat.” Her voice is low and silky smooth, with the southern twang Eddie only hears when his uncle talks. “You from around here?”

“Hawkins.” Eddie nods. “But originally from Tennessee.”

Pat’s face lights up. “No way! Me too! Small world.”

“Yeah, it really is.” Eddie says. “Pat, can I ask… what is this place?”

“Oh this ol’ place?” Pat laughs. “This is just a lil’ home away from home. I’ve moved here for Tish, she’s the one in the green dress over there.” She waves towards the other side of the bar, where a woman with dark curls is scrubbing one of the tables. “But I’ve always missed home, y’know? So, we started this place a couple of years ago, 

“You and Tish are…” Eddie trails off, not sure if he’s put the right puzzle pieces together.

“Tish is my partner, yes.” Pat’s smile fades and gets replaced with a stern look. “You got a problem with that kid?”

“No!” Eddie says quickly, waving his hands in protest. “No, not at all. I’m… I’m also gay, y’know.”

“Tish!” Pat calls out, smiling when Tish looks up. “We got another one!”

“Stop adopting gay kids, Pat!” Tish calls back. “We’re running out of rooms!”

Eddie laughs. He’s gonna like it here.

-xxx-

After Pat’s absolutely heavenly mac ’n cheese, Eddie finds himself relax more and more and for the first time, he lets out his accent without any alcohol in his system. It’s not like anyone will make fun of him for it here, he thinks that Pat probably would encourage him to be as southern as he can be.

He chats with Pat and Tish and some of the other patrons as the time ticks by. Swapping stories about back down south, laughing at things the people here in Indiana just don’t understand, Eddie’s never felt more at home. 

Tish suddenly excuses herself as the bluegrass music on the speakers fades away. Eddie watches as she walks to the little podium in the far back of the bar and announces that the open mic night has begun and that anyone can join. An older man immediately jumps up and grabs the guitar off the wall and starts playing a song that Eddie vaguely remembers from back home.

“D’you play, kid?” Pat asks. “You look like you play.”

“Yeah, guitar.” Eddie replies. “Not like this though.”

“I figured.” Pat snorts. “You don’t really seem like the Willie Nelson type. But you’re welcome to step up and play us something.”

Eddie hesitates. Pat’s right, the music he normally plays doesn’t really fit in here. This is not the Hideout, this is not the place for screaming bloody murder about the injustices of the world and headbang while Gareth smashes the drums. 

Still, he’s feeling strangely drawn to the podium, especially when his mind provides him with a reminder why he drove away from Hawkins in the first place: Steve and perfect little Emily. And suddenly, he knows exactly what song to play. 

“Wish me luck.” Eddie grins at Pat as he stands up from his seat.

“Break a leg, Eddie.” Pat winks and shoots him an encouraging smile.

Eddie makes his way to the other side of the bar, patiently waiting until the older man finishes his song and whooping with excitement once he plays the final chord. The older man smiles at him, grateful, and hands the guitar over to him as Eddie sits down on the stool in front of the microphone.

“Uh, good evenin’ everyone.” Eddie says into the microphone. “It’s my first time here, actually and I, uh, I don’t even know if I can play this song, but let’s try, shall we?”

The room is eerily quiet as Eddie tries to remember the chords from so long ago, the chords his momma used to play on warm summer days in their backyard. 

“Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene… I’m beggin’ of ya, please don’t take my man.” 

The words feel foreign and yet strangely familiar in his mouth. It’s been so long since he heard this song, but the words just flow out of him easily

“He talks about you in his sleep and there’s nothing I can do to keep from cryin’ when he calls your name, Jolene.” Eddie’s voice is soft, softer than it’s ever been as he tries so hard to push away the images of Steve and Emily, happily together. “And I can easily understand how you could easily take my man. But you don’t know what he means to me, Jolene.”

It feels good, cathartic even, to sing this song. Maybe even better than screaming along to Metallica’s latest album. Not that he’ll ever admit that to anyone, but it’s the truth. There’s no other song right now that understands exactly what he’s going through, that says the things that he wants to say but can’t, not out loud anyway. 

“Please don’t take him even though you can…”

Eddie plays a few more chords until he finally lets the song fade out and the bar burst out into the applause. It’s not the biggest applause he’s ever had (apparently murder charges does wonders for forming a crowd at the Hideout), but it’s definitely in the top three of best post-performance feelings of his life. Maybe because these people just get him, maybe because he can just sing about his feelings for Steve out in the open and no one will judge him or ask any questions about it.

“You got some real talent, kid.” Pat nods as Eddie slides back onto his bar stool.“You’re welcome to come back and sing a little Dolly for us anytime.”

Eddie’s certain that he will.

[ivysoul]

CHERRY *ੈ✩‧˚ LEON SCOTT KENNEDY — PART I. [3.3k]

༊*·˚ in which your dad leaves you under the watchful eye of his best friend, leon kennedy, when he’s away on vacation.

[♱] series warnings — age gap (38 & 20), sexual themes, arguing, cheating, overbearing father, angst. more warnings to be added.

[♱] individual chapter warnings — afab!reader, leon’s a bit of a perv, smut, dub-con, oral (m), unprotected p n v, rough sex, one spank, praise, creampie, reader has a serious attitude problem lmfao, + might be some i’m missing, so lmk if there is.

[♱] notes — this is my first ever series i am shitting my pants stop. i’m excited tho !!! smut galore btw bc i am a fucking whore !! like i’m talkin smut every chapter type beat. anyways, please give me feedback, i desire it carnally. also not proofread. special dt @ouchvns bc they were probably more excited abt this than i was LMAO.

series masterlist. ୨୧ next.

༊*·˚ You could feel the anger bubbling in your chest as you looked back and forth at your father and his friend, who you knew, of course. Leave it to your dad to get you a babysitter at your grand old age of twenty years old while he’s out on vacation. When he offered to let you stay at the house while he was away, you had no idea it would come with its own terms and conditions—those being Leon Kennedy himself.

You sighed deeply through your nose as your dad went on and on about rules. You were zoning out through the entire thing, utterly wishing you could just go back up to your room and avoid Leon as a whole (and saying goodbye to your dad. Call it petty, you didn’t care. Petty is what you were).

“Oh, and curfew is 12AM.”

Your eyes shot open so fast you were surprised they didn’t end up on the floor. Mouth falling agape, you just stared blankly at him, hoping it was just some joke and he would take it back. But nope! Classic ol’ dad!

“Are you serious? A curfew?” What you hated the most was that he looked confused as to why you were so upset. “Dad, I’m twenty years old. I don’t need a curfew or a damn babysitter,” you groaned, pointing to Leon. To which he muttered a quiet ‘ouch’.

Your dad shook his head and pursed his lips. “I’m not gonna argue with you about this. Leon’s gonna watch you for the three weeks that I’m gone, and I trust that he’ll take good care of you,” he looked to Leon, “right, Leon?”

Leon smiled at the man as he spoke. “Of course,” and then turned his head to you, his smile falling into a small smirk without even meaning to. “I’ll take very good care of her.”

Leon would be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to you, at least a little bit. The way your hair was long enough to frame your face perfectly, or the way your lips looked when you put your favourite gloss on them. Your clothes always seemed to fit and frame your body perfectly, allowing every curve and dip to be beautifully accentuated. But physical looks aside, Leon also loved how intelligent yet carefree you were. He loved how your personality reminded him so much of the sun—if you weren’t angry, that is. But he also loved your anger. How you made your feelings known and always spoke about what had made you so angry. Everything about you screamed to Leon that you were the most perfect person he’s ever laid his eyes upon, and every time he was around you, it only further proved to be true.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed, looking anywhere but the two men in front of you. Your dad smiled and patted Leon on his shoulder before walking up to you, giving you a peck on the cheek, and bidding his farewells. As soon as the door closed behind him, the air grew thick with awkward tension. Your eyes just stared at where his body had disappeared behind the door, as if attempting to summon lasers that drop onto him from above. Leon chuckled airily and shook his head as he looked to the ground.

Your head snapped towards him, eyebrows furrowed and still angry. “What’s so funny?” you asked through gritted teeth.

“Oh, nothing, y’know…” Leon looked at you and saw what type of look you had in your eye. He shouldn’t have found it amusing, really, but he did. And he laughed again.

“Yeah, I’m sure you have soooo much to laugh about, Scott,” he cringed at the use of his middle name. “I bet this whole situation is just so funny to you.”

He nodded and puckered his lips, pretending to think for a moment. “It is, yeah. And don’t call me “Scott,” it’s weird.”

“Sure thing, Scott,” you mumbled loud enough for him to hear as you walked away, heading upstairs to do god-knows-what in your room.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

A few days went by and Leon’s babysitting was still just as unbearable as the first.

Every time you’d go to leave the house, he’d interrogate you on where you were going, who you were going with, when you’d be back (because you had to be back), and if the place you were going to was known to be a safe area. The treatment made you feel like a kid again. You shouldn’t be mad at Leon for it, as he was just following the orders your dad had given him, but you were.

Today though, you had managed to slip out of the house without Leon noticing. Sure he had called you about ten times and left you numerous texts and voicemails, but you weren’t answering any of them. You’d even opted to turn your phone completely off.

Though you could barely even focus on what your friends were saying. Your mind was on you dad and why he would even do this. You knew he was protective of you, but when you turned twenty this year, he calmed down a bit. This was like a whole setback of six years.

“Babe? You okay?”

You turned to your boyfriend, Oliver, who had his arm securely wrapped around your waist, rubbing up and down your side. He had a look of concern on his face.

You smiled sweetly and placed a soft kiss to his lips. “‘Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

One of your friends, Maeve, placed a french fry in her mouth and hummed at your question. “You looked kind of… zoned out. Like, you’re not really here right now.”

“Yeah, are you alright?” Cora, your other friend since elementary school, asked. Her brows were furrowed and she was looking across your face as if to see any hidden confessions lying underneath. She was always able to, the best out of anyone in your life.

You nodded. Sighed. And then confessed.

“Y’know that guy that my dad hired to look after me while he’s away? Well he’s been like, super overbearing. And I know it’s just because my dad told him what to do and all, but it’s still so fucking annoying. Can’t even leave the house without getting attacked with questions. And it’s—”

“Well isn’t this a surprise.”

You didn’t even have to look behind you to know who it was. Unfortunately, you were pretty well acquainted with the voice by now. How in the hell did he find you? Did he put a damn tracker on you that you were unaware of or something?

“Your dad wants you back home. C’mon.”

Your friends all sighed, Oliver squeezed your waist tighter as if to keep you seated. You turned your head to look at Leon. He had an irritated glint in his eyes, yet his kept his voice surprisingly calm.

“Are you serious? You’re taking me away from my friends now?” You complained, placing a hand on your boyfriend’s one on your side. Leon noticed it and almost let out a laugh.

“It’s not me, it’s your dad,” he said simply. “Now let’s go.”

Groaning, you looked to your friends and apologized. They all looked at you with their own apologetic gazes but said their goodbyes. And you took Oliver’s face in your hands and kissed him warmly. “Love you.”

He smiled. “I love you, too.”

As soon as you got inside the house, with Leon not too far behind you, you kicked your shoes off and headed for the stairs. However, his voice sternly called you back down.

“D’you know how worried he was?” His angry glare had stayed since you got into the car with him. Etched onto his face like a tattoo the entire time. “How worried I was?”

“Do you know how annoying it is to have you practically sit on me every damn day?! To have you watch my every move?”

“I’m following orders.”

“I’m so fucking sick of that excuse.”

Leon scoffed and shook his head, averting his gaze to the ground as he placed his hands on his hips. He honestly didn’t know what to say. And neither did you. You two had argued about this every day since he first arrived. And every time it would end the same way: you storming up to your room after yelling your throat raw, not to be heard or seen of again until you need to be let out of the house.

Let out. Like you were a fucking dog.

With a roll of your eyes, you turned on your heels and headed up the stairs, making sure to have your frustration shown through your heavy steps.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Hours went by as you scrolled aimlessly on your phone. You had already finished a book and got caught up on your favourite show, and you were now realizing just how thirsty you were. You checked the time on your phone, the big white numbers that read 3:27AM stared back at you. You weren’t even sure how you weren’t tired yet.

With a sigh, you rolled from your bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor with little pit-pats every time you took a step. The hallways were dark and quiet, the only light was from your phone’s flashlight as you made your way around the very familiar corners of the house. Being out of the comfort of your warm blankets made you realize just how cold you were in only an oversized t-shirt and a pair of your favourite wine coloured lacy underwear. But you didn’t care much to make your way back to your room as you were now approaching the kitchen.

The kitchen that you noticed was lit up. Turning off your mobile flashlight, you stepped closer to the kitchen cautiously and slowly. Once you saw Leon leaning against the counter, you calmed down, but your anger started to bubble up again at the same time. You weren’t sure how that was possible. He looked up at you, eyes lifting from the glass he had in his hands, and then he tilted his entire head up to look at you properly.

His eyes nearly widen when he takes in your clothes—or lack thereof. Your plush thighs on full display and your obvious lack of a bra had his head spinning. God, he was so weird. For imagining what your tits would look like out of the confines of your shirt, but at the same time he didn’t have to do much thinking. The cold made your nipples hard, and they poked through the shirt. He had to look away and hope that you didn’t notice his lingering gaze.

He cleared his throat. “What’re you doin’ up?”

You dismissed his question entirely, taking note of his glass and the liquid in it. Alcohol, of course. You reached into the cabinet to grab a glass, causing your shirt to rise up to your lower belly. Leon blinked. “Isn’t it bad to drink on the job?”

“Honestly, I think a drink or two kinda helps with your attitude.”

Again, you dismissed him. Leon knew now was probably the best time to say what he had been thinking since your last argument, the words he had been trying to come up with since getting the anger out of him. But even then, he’s not great at this. So it’s not going to be ideal.

He sighed through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Look, I’m uh— I’m sorry about earlier,” you stopped breathing. “But you have to understand that I’m just doing what your dad told me to do—”

“—Bullshit.”

Leon blinked, unintentionally giving you the silence you needed to continue.

“Last time I checked, my dad’s not even here. You don’t have to do everything he says because he’s not here to reprimand you if you don’t. So I like I said earlier, when you were giving that same, shitty excuse, I’m sick of hearing it.”

Maybe he hadn’t chosen the best words to say, and maybe he shouldn’t be the judge of his own character in this situation, but fuck, he didn’t think he was being that much of an asshole. He could be, but he wasn’t.

“I’m trying to apologize here could you—”

“—No, because it’s just gonna be that same stupid excuse—”

Leon stopped listening then. You rambled on and on and perhaps it may have felt good for you to get things off your chest, and you probably did need it considering who your father was, it’s just that Leon couldn’t, for the life of him, get the image of your pretty lips wrapped around his cock out of his head. No matter how hard he tried.

Leon was a man of self-control. He prided himself on that, in fact. He was able to remain calm in tough situations, he kept his cool when someone was pissing him off. But you. You were a whole other story. A walking pile of anger that wouldn’t dissipate. Your attitude was sickening and the thought of being in a room with you for more than ten minutes was repugnant to him. Yet all he was thinking about right now was stuffing your mouth full. Keeping you from talking for two fucking seconds.

He couldn’t stand it anymore. The echoey sound of your voice raging on as he zoned out with the vulgar image in his mind, the vulgar image being just that; an image.

He wanted it to be a reality.

He needed it to be.

Within seconds Leon was in front of you, roughly grabbing your waist with one hand and a fistful of your hair in the other. His lips were on yours before you could even comprehend what was going on. The taste of alcohol on his tongue and the overwhelming feeling of him took over your mind. Like a dark storm that hovered over the bright fields of good decisions and common sense. It rained down faster than it ever had, and now, all you could think about was Leon.

All the anger, all the detest, it lingered and mixed with need. For Leon, it was the same. The feeling of your chest pressed against his upper abdomen drove him insane. He could feel your pert nipples through both your shirts. He wanted to ravish you right then and there.

His hand on your waist travelled lower to your ass, groping the flesh harshly.

“‘M so—fucking—tired—of—your—attitude,” his sentence was broken into single words because neither of you could keep your mouths apart for long.

Until he finally managed to part from you. Your mouth, at least. Because your neck was the next place to get attacked. He placed wet, open-mouthed kisses from your pulse point to the base of your neck and trailed his tongue across your jawline.

“Leon,” he ignored you. “Leon—”

“—Shut up.” With two of his hands on your shoulders, you were on your knees within a blink of an eye, looking up at him as he looked down at you. The cold smirk he held on his face sent shivers up your spine. “Gonna fill your mouth, fuck the attitude outta you.”

Leon pushed down his sweatpants and boxers swiftly, revealing his hard cock. He grabbed it at the base, tapping his red, leaky tip on your lips, prompting you to open your mouth. Once you did, he didn’t give you time to take things slow as he shoved his cock into your mouth all at once. His tip hit the back of your throat and made you gag momentarily.

He groaned loudly at the feeling and made a makeshift ponytail with his hand at the back of your head, moving your head and using your mouth to his liking.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Y’got such a perfect little mouth. Shame you use more to talk than to do this.”

Tears brimmed your eyes, falling over and running down your flushed cheeks. The noises that were made were obscene but it only spurred you on. You could feel the wetness pooling in your panties pretty quickly.

You could tell Leon was getting close eventually. His breaths picked up and small little whimpers fell over his lips. His cock twitched in your mouth and you prepared yourself to take his cum down your throat, but he pulled you off of him before that could happen.

“‘M gonna fuck you now,” he groaned. “Gonna ruin this little cunt, yeah?”

He lifted you up off your knees before bending you over the counter. You heard a ripping noise and you knew he just ripped your damn underwear off. You wanted to be mad at him for that, but you found the words you were going to say leaving your head when he ran his cock up and down your slit, rubbing briefly against your clit.

Then he pushed in, fully sheathing himself within you in one thrust. You screamed out, the pain and the pleasure mixing together to create something so intoxicating. He was kind this time though, and stayed still so you could adjust to his thick size.

Before long, you were pushing back against him as a way to signal him to move, and of course he obliged. He began a brutal pace right away, completely forgetting to build up to it.

“You feel so good, baby. So fucking good f’me,” he breathed, delivering a hard smack to your ass and watching the red hand print form in its wake. You yelped at the action.

You loved how he was rougher with you. It’s what you wanted from Oliver in bed, and you’d even brought it up to him, but he was heavily against it. He was too soft with you, but Leon, the only thing soft about him were his words. It was a good balance that had you reeling.

Moan after moan and whine after whine left your mouth as you neared your release embarrassingly quickly. It was almost like Leon knew (he did), because his thrusts got deeper, rougher. The tip of cock reached your cervix and within seconds you were clamping down on him, walls spasming and body shaking uncontrollably.

“There y’go, sweets. Feels good, huh?” He was after his own release now, which wasn’t that far behind. His hips moved quickly and his hands were harshly gripping your hips, sure to leave bruises there by the morning. “I’m so close, baby. Gonna milk me dry, huh? Gonna have me cum in you? Fill you up? Yeah. Yeah, ‘m gonna fill you up nice and full. Send you t’bed with my cum still dripping outta you.”

“Please! P-Please, Leon. Need it s’bad.”

He stayed true to his word. His orgasm crashed through him like a wave, he spilled into you as he shoved himself as deep as he could go. He’s never came as much as he did then, or moaned the way he did. When he pulled out, hissing from the sensitivity, his spend mixed with yours pooled out of you almost immediately, dripping onto the floor.

With a soft chuckle and a shake of his head, he grabbed some paper towel and wet it to clean you up. When he ran it over your cunt, you jolted slightly.

“Just cleanin’ you up, hun. Don’t worry,” he grimaced at your ripped underwear on the floor, now puzzled as to what to put on you, before his mind went to his boxers that sat next to the ripped underwear.

He carried you back to your bed after he got you cleaned up, redressed, and gave you some water. You sleepily smiled up at him with your head on your pillow. “For an asshole, you really know how to make a woman feel good.”

He reciprocated your smile, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear and placing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Get some sleep, angel.”

☆ — © saintlulls, 2023 - don’t repost, translate, copy, or claim.

[novacqnes]

newlywed bliss // ellie williams

warning: oral, fingering, tribbing (top!ellie)

pairing: ellie williams x fem reader

a/n: i posted this earlier but this app hates me so i’m doing it again (btw this made my day, thank you so much & here you go 🫶🏾)

“i can feel you staring.”

a small grin spread across ellie’s lips as she laid beside you in the cozy bed you shared together. a blissful silence filled the air, the sun beamed through the flimsy curtains, casting rays of shadows across the bedroom.

it was the morning after the both of you had made a lifelong commitment to each other— and ellie couldn’t take her eyes off of you.

“it’s called admiring and i kinda have the right to do that now.”

slowly, you peeled your eyes open meeting ellie’s heavy gaze. her short auburn hair fell beautifully on her face splaying across her cheeks. through them you saw slivers of light pink color splotches on her face.

you brushed the hair out of her face as ellie’s hands trailed up the small of your back, drawing light shapes onto skin.

“you know, we still have the whole day to ourselves…” ellie whispered, her right hand slowly crawling the backside of your thigh.

“i do.”

she smirked, “then we should make the most of it.”

her soft touch on your upper thigh now turned into a firm grasp as she cupped the skin in her palm, bringing you closer to her warm body. your nose brushed over hers, closing the gap between the two of you.

ellie shifted so that she was on top of you pressing down against your body, desperately. the slow sensual kiss quickly turned more passionate and aggressive as you slipped your tongue over hers. her calloused hands made their way down your body hungrily caressing each and every part.

you went to deepen the kiss when a loud growl escaped from your stomach— and then ellie’s.

“but first breakfast.”

ellie began, “but—“

“after.”

hesitantly she rolled off your body watching you reach for your robe before heading into the kitchen.

“so what’ll it be, pancakes or waffles?”

you sauntered into the kitchen as ellie trailed behind pouting.

“pancakes,” she mumbled, taking a seat on the opposite side of the counter.

despite the obnoxious growls of hunger coming from her stomach ellie couldn’t be bothered. she silently watched as you placed the materials on the counter, the silk robe just barely covering your body. the belt was loosely tied causing one side of it to slip revealing just a portion of your shoulder but that was enough to set ellie off.

the sunlight escaping through the curtains perfectly hit your skin, making it seem as if you were glowing and her gaze quickly became blurred with arousal. she watched as you mixed the ingredients, the sleeve sliding down even further igniting a fire within her.

she got up from her seat walking over to your side of the wooden counter but you hadn’t noticed. you poured the mix into the pan when you felt a long set of arms wrap around your waist.

“thought we agreed to wait till after breakfast…” ellie’s breath began to fan you as she needily nipped at your neck.

“you agreed to that,” she purred, pressing you up against the counter with her own body weight.

you quickly became distracted as ellie began to kiss up and down your neck targeting your most sensitive spots. instinctively you clutched onto ellie, dropping the bowl of pancake mix into the counter.

“wait el, just give me a sec they’ll burn if i don’t—fuck.”

her hand slid under your robe, lightly brushing over your clit as she pressed her body closer to you.

“turn around.”

without hesitation you slipped the rope off, whipping back around. a forceful push of ellie’s hand bent you over the counter, giving her the perfect view of your dripping pussy. she sunk down to her knees spitting into your core, deriving her own pleasure from seeing you splayed out like this.

“god, this’ll never get old.”

slowly she sunk her tongue into your walls licking up and down, paying extra attention to your clit. she hummed as your taste lingered on her tongue the longer she remained there, hungrily lapping up your wetness.

“fuck, yes— more please,” you cried.

her tongue sent a wave of pleasure, your body causing your legs to shake against the wood. you clutched onto the edges of the table, your nails scraping them as you fought to contain yourself.

ellie wrapped her warm mouth around your clit, sliding one digit into your pussy. she craned her finger upwards pressing up to meet your g-spot.

“how does that feel?” she teased with an almost taunting tone that sent you over the edge.

“so—so good, ellie.”

she trailed her tongue up and down your arousal sinking it further into you as you hungrily wrapped around her finger, ellie couldn’t get enough of the sight. she slipped another finger in, and then another, and then another, until she only had her thumb left.

rapidly you became a moaning mess, white hot fire and gushes of pleasure surge through your body from your pussy. you could hardly think straight and your vision was beyond blurred with tears clouding them. you jerked forward, the pleasure becoming almost too much as ellie brought you to a high.

“don’t run, baby, take it.” her pace sped up and she tasted you with much more intent and purpose.

she wanted you to see stars.

“fuck ellie— i’m gonna cum,” you whimpered.

you squeezed your legs together as massive waves of euphoria shot through your body leaving you almost paralyzed on the table. ellie arose from your legs with a smug look and idea, observing you bent over the counter.

she lifted you up onto the table and then herself before laying flat on her back, spreading her legs just a bit to make enough room for you.

“come here.”

weakly, you crawled over to her, settling in between her legs so that your core was right over hers.

“move.” she demanded, leaning back to watch you take the lead.

she propped herself up on her elbows, moaning at the feeling of your wet pussy pressed against hers. you started off slow still reeling from your first orgasm but that wasn’t enough for ellie.

“you can give me more than that.”

she smirked causing your pace to falter. your cheeks began to heat up and under close gaze, she refused to take her eyes off of you. she wanted you to work for it.you placed your hands on either side of ellie, snapping your hips up against her.

“shit.” she gasped, her eyes rolling further back into her head.

you took the opportunity to move faster rubbing your clit perfectly against ellie’s sensitive one. crude sounds of your moans mixed with ellie’s escaped into the room, a pleasure built inside both of you. desperate for more, ellie hitched her hips upwards meeting you halfway as you moved against her.

“just like that baby— fuck, faster.”

you began to move as one chasing after your orgasms. beads of sweat formed around ellie’s hair plastering it to her face. the sight left you craving for more despite the sensitivity lingering behind.

ellie leaned upwards so that your bodies were leveled with one another. she cupped your face in her hands sloppily kissing you. she clutched onto your back taking the lead as she moved her pussy fiercely.

“ellie— i can’t i’m gonna—“

she whimpered back, ”me too.”

your voice becomes caught as you cling onto ellie. soft praises fell from her lips as you reached the brink of pleasure taking her along with you. waves pulsed through your body leaving you speechless and sweaty. ellie left breathless kisses on your neck before rolling onto her back.

the two of you laid there speechless allowing your senses to slowly find their way back to you. feeling from the marriage ceremony began to creep back in, this was who you chose to spend the rest of your life with. and your heart began to swell at the thought, a gleeful spreading across your lips.

ellie turned over to you, trailing her thumb across the side of your face as she left a small kiss on your temple.

“y/n?” she asked.

“yea?”

“what was that line the marriage officiant said about marriage? something about sickness and health.”

“in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.” you recited, the fond memory still seared into your brain.

“yeah that, i love you till death does us part.”

“i love you too, but why are you bringing that up now?” you faltered, looking at her with a furrowed brow.

“because the pancakes are on fire.”

you hoped off of the counter quickly noticing the cloud of black smoke surrounding the stove and the burnt smell filling the entire house. you shut the stove off throwing the now black pan into the sink dousing it with water.

ellie then slid off the counter, ambling along the wood as she wrapped you in her arms, burying her face in your neck.

you took one glance at the mess plaguing your kitchen before looking back at ellie, playfully throwing your hands up in defeat.

“to the rest of our lives together.”

[ranger-elizabeth]

“I’m fine. This just happens sometimes. It’s normal for me.”

Hey! I just saw your prompt post and this one reminded me so bad of like something Gale totally had thought was normal (be it like a childhood trauma result or smth) and then John just going “uhhh… no.”

Love your blog btw !

Hi anon! Thanks so much for the ask and for saying you love my blog! @joeyalohadream requested the same prompt (tysm for the ask as well!!) and I had this almost completely finished before I got yours. I'm glad we had the same idea! This is set a couple of weeks after Gale and John first meet as flying cadets at Randolph Field, TX.

Prompt: "I'm fine. This just happens sometimes. It's normal for me."

Word count: 1081

Despite the sun having already dipped behind the horizon, the darkness does nothing to relieve the sweltering heat of the Texas summer as their small group makes the short walk to the bar off-base. With the day off tomorrow, Bucky had managed to convince several of the men to accompany him in letting loose tonight.

Most impressively, Bucky had managed to convince his straight-laced, new roommate Gale Cleven, or Buck, as Bucky had taken to calling him. The minute Bucky had laid eyes on the gorgeous, golden wonder that was Gale Cleven, he knew he had to stake his claim before it was too late. And so, he’d slung an arm around his shoulders and fumbled out some story about Gale looking just like “his old friend Buck, from Manitowoc, Wisconsin.” 

As it turned out, not only was Gale the most beautiful person he’d ever laid eyes on, he was also a damn good pilot, surprisingly shy for his looks and skill, and somehow impenetrable to any of the vices that regular people fall victim to. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t dance. And yet, here he is, braving the stifling Texas heat with the rest of them only to inevitably stay seated quietly for the evening, likely nursing a ginger beer.

It had taken surprisingly little pleading from Bucky to get him to agree to come. While they’ve only known each other for the couple of weeks they’ve been flying cadets, their status as roommates means that they’ve been living out of each other's pockets for that time, and Bucky already knows he’s found a best friend for life in Gale.

He can be happy with that—a best friend—despite the way his heart pounds in his chest everytime he so much as looks at Gale. He knows he has to be happy with that, unless he wants a one way blue ticket home before he barely even gets started. Yet, he can’t help but wonder if Gale would have still agreed to come out tonight if anyone other than Bucky had been asking.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Bucky realizes they’ve reached their destination. After ordering their first round of drinks—several whiskeys, and, as Bucky predicted, a ginger beer for Gale—the men scatter around the bar. 

Bucky stays with Gale for a while, chatting aimlessly about everything and nothing, before deciding it’s time to take to the dance floor. Despite Bucky’s best efforts, Gale refuses to join him. Bucky figures he ought to cut his losses and just be grateful that Gale came out with them at all, so he leaves him be. He finds a beautiful blonde to dance with who looks a little too much like Gale to be a coincidence, and they have fun together for a few songs before Bucky finds himself longing to get back to his friend.

He slides into the booth next to Gale, knocking his shoulder against his friend’s. Two other guys from their program sit on the other side of Gale, but they’re engaged in some sort of animated debate and seemingly don’t notice Bucky’s approach.

“You having fun?” Bucky asks.

Gale shrugs. “I reckon you’re having enough fun for the both of us,” he says teasingly, a small smile gracing his lips.

Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but he’s cut off by the sound of a glass shattering across the bar. Some idiot must’ve dropped their drink, he thinks, not yet noticing the way Gale is tensed beside him. But then, the man on Gale’s other side tosses his hands up in the air in whatever conversation they’re having, and Gale flinches hard. 

“Hey, you okay?” Bucky questions worriedly, trying to catch Gale’s eyes. When he looks into them, they’re glassy and despondent. Bucky notices the way Gale’s breaths are coming shallower, his hands shaking where they rest on the table. “Buck?” Bucky tries again, with no luck. 

“Okay,” Bucky breathes out, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, come on.” Slowly, so as not to startle him further, he wraps an arm around Gale’s shoulders and encourages him out of the booth, guiding him outside into the fresh air. There, they sit on the curb of the sidewalk, Gale seemingly still lost in his head, if his unsteady breathing and faraway gaze are anything to go by. Bucky strokes a hand gently up and down his back and waits. 

Finally, Gale lets out a shaky exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly before speaking. He doesn’t look Bucky in the eyes, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the street in front of them. “Sorry about that.” 

Bucky drops his hand from Gale’s back, not wanting to push his luck. “No, don’t apologize,” he says, shaking his head. “What was that about?”

“I’m fine. This just happens sometimes. It’s normal for me,” Gale responds casually, brushing off Bucky’s concerns. “We can go back in, if you want.”

Bucky stares at him incredulously. Not two minutes ago, Gale had been shaking and unresponsive despite Bucky’s best efforts, and now he’s suggesting they go back into the bar like nothing happened? “Do you want to go back in?”

Gale looks sheepish. “Well, no, not really. But I don’t want to ruin your guys’ night.”

“You’re not ruining anything. You’re the one I wanted to hang out with anyways,” Bucky says, trying to ignore the faint blush rising on Gale’s cheeks at his admission. Though it makes Bucky’s heart flutter with hope, now is clearly not the time to dwell on it. “Seriously, though, are you alright?”

“Yeah, it’s just… My dad liked to drink,” Gale starts hesitantly, wringing his hands in his lap. “And when he drank he got mean. Violent. Sometimes, things remind me of it, I guess.”

Bucky’s stomach drops at the implication in Gale’s words. The thought of anyone, especially Gale’s own father, intentionally hurting the kind, thoughtful man in front of him is enough to have him seeing red. Gale’s father better hope Bucky never crosses paths with him or he’ll have another thing coming. But, for now, Gale needs him, so Bucky pushes his anger down.

“C’mon, let's get you back to the bunks,” Bucky says softly, standing and offering a hand to Gale to help him up. Gale takes it, allowing Bucky to pull him up from the curb.

And if they stay there a little longer than necessary before letting go to start their walk back to base, well, that’s no one’s business but theirs.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for fake dating my friend in order to prank someone I don’t like?

🧡💛🤍🩷❤️ to find

I (17F) have a friend “Hope” (17F) who I am very close with. We met about a year ago through a mutual best friend of ours, “Lily”(18F). The three of us have become extremely close with each other over the course of the last six/seven months, and hang out pretty much every week. We are also all gay (I’m a lesbian and Hope and Lily are bi) and we're all very comfortable with platonically flirting with each other to the point where people often think we're dating.

Recently, Lily and I invited Hope to our school’s prom (Hope goes to a different school), and we all wanted to take some cute pictures of us in our dresses. The grounds of where the prom was are absolutely stunning, so we, along with our friend group, went to go take some pictures a little bit away from the prom building. While we were taking photos, Hope and I started ironically flirting, saying stuff like “I wonder if anyone’s gonna kiss at prom” and “this prom isn’t gay enough yet”. Our friends then jokingly said we should kiss, and we went “why not” and did. Our friends took a couple pictures, and later that night we added them to a shared album of all our prom photos.

In the days after prom, we all planned what pictures we wanted to post on Instagram together. We all posted on our main accounts, but Lily and I decided we wanted to make funny/casual posts on our private spam accounts along with the posts on our main ones. Lily’s spam post ended up containing the picture of me and Hope kissing (with our permission ofc), and I decided that I wanted to post it on my spam too (again with permission). However, I was a bit worried about posting it solely because I have a couple people added on my spam that Hope dislikes.

Specifically, I am “friends” with a guy from Hope’s old school who was a toxic friend to her. I met him a while before I met her, so I didn’t know he was awful until many months into mine and Hope’s friendship. I don't really want to be friends with him anymore after everything Hope told me, but I have no way to drop him because we have a lot of mutual friends. We also share a lot of common interests and frequent the same places in town, so we run into each other at stores or events sometimes. However, Hope told me not to worry about it and that it’d be funny for him to see someone who he considers a friend be kissing someone he hates.

We then decided on a phone call that I would post the photo as its own post with the caption “is it gay to kiss your friends”, and put a popular lesbian song on the post, then refuse to give context to anyone asking. About an hour after making the post, however, the guy messaged me in shock asking when I’d gotten a girlfriend and asking who she was. (This wasn't asked out of him having an interest in me btw, he is gay and has a boyfriend). I told Hope and Lily, and we decided that Hope and I were going to keep up a fake dating bit in order to lie to him.

We have since made a fake anniversary post on our stories and have been planning out a whole backstory for our “relationship” to make it sound believable. We plan to keep this bit up for as long as possible solely for the point of pranking this guy, which we all think is a little bit mean, but he was a horrible friend to her and we don’t really feel bad for lying.

AITA?

[fandomwritingbit]

hi!! would like to req a priest william smut with a fem sub reader :>> the events taking place at night would be great since it’s hotter that way lmao but the plot can be abt anything! tysm and super love ur work btw <3

Hiya, thank you so much for this request, I just love playing with religion, you and my pfp make eye contact like that one monkey meme. That being said, I’m gonna warn you, I’m Church of England, I only know basic things about Catholicism from studying history. But I done some research, and I think it’s decent- feel free to correct me though if something is grossly wrong.

Again, thank you!

Priest William x (fem) sub reader

Warnings: smut, inappropriate relationships, corruption, guilt.

A little over thirty minutes ago, you’d thrown yourself through the wooden doors of the church, the pouring rain making your clothes cling to your body and your hair stick to your forehead. The stormy weather perfectly summed up the torrential feelings, it was like a bomb exploded inside you and shattered any illusion of control or power you thought you had in your life. Your life, that notion is almost ridiculous. You hate it, and everyone, and everything. Your overbearing mother who demanded perfection, forced you to smile even though it killed a part of you to do so. Your father, god, if you could even call him that. Your work, the stress it caused you. All of it.

The emotions were so strong you couldn’t stay in your room and push past them. You were drowning in them and the only way to feel any semblance of sanity was to kneel in a pew and pray for some miracle to help you overcome your troubles. So you replaced your nightclothes with something more acceptable and fled your house, not even noticing the rain until you’re halfway to the church with a rosary painfully clutched in your hand, the beads pressing indents into your palms.

You don’t know what time it is when you arrive and enter the old building, the steeple silver-lined by the light of the moon looking like the cover of a horror story. Gothic and dark but strangely beautiful.

Inside a sudden calm came over you, the stained glass window over the altar casting stunning colours across the floor, intense twists of blue and purple swirling together and diluting the image of Jesus it portrayed. You drop to your knees before it, pressing your eyes shut and trying to ignore the warm tears that seeped between them. You shiver when you clasp your hands together, beginning to mouth your words of prayer.

You’re so lost in your worship, you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you, seeking to investigate the source of the doors banging open then shut again at this time of night. The church didn’t 'close', but a responsibility lies on the clergy to make sure people coming in so late are legitimate and not youths after a laugh.

The priest moves near silently, watching your figure before him. He recognises you from service, how could he not, sometimes he spoke directly to you, mesmerised by how you slung on to his every word. And now, the arch of your back is so pretty as you kneel there praying. A rhythmic sniffling makes him realise that you’re crying, a thought crossing him mind that whoever could make a sweet thing like you cry, deserves more than hell.

You pause in between prayers, needing a moment to catch your breath as your sobbing finally begins to subside. You knew this would work, something about the calmness of a place of worship settling your bones and making you realise your problems weren’t as massive as they seemed. Inhaling through your nose, you hold it for a few seconds to force your body to adjust to a more peaceful state. But a hand landing on your shoulder causes the breath to tear from you in a shuddered gasp.

“Ah-” you turn to the man standing beside you, your eyes moving from his hand on your skin to his face looking down at you with a small smile, “God, you scared me… father.” It takes you a moment to take notice of his collar, obviously there’s someone here, you feel like an idiot.

He chuckles, shaking his head with an almost mocking expression. “Blasphemy will add another Hail Mary to your list.” The words are professional but that hand on your shoulder didn’t feel so.

“Yes- I’m sorry.”

“Apologies mean nothing," The smile on his face grew wider, becoming a smirk that wouldn't have looked out of place on the devil himself. He pauses briefly, his fingers rising from your skin and catching a loose strand of hair, beginning to twirl it around his finger, the action making your browns furrow instantly. “You have to… demonstrate your repentance.” The way he plays with those words gives you goosebumps and you look up to the priest with a growing knowledge spreading across your face.

How you found yourself here is a mystery. A dark, twisted and sinful mystery. It’s almost an out of body experience, the rain bouncing off the stone building not helping to ground you but rather pulling you further and further from your senses. This is nothing like you, you wouldn’t dream of doing anything like this, or anyone like this.

A large hand traces over your naked breast, your nipples hard in the cold air making them achingly sensitive to the touch of this man. You couldn’t think for how wrong this was, your mind clouded by a guilty need spreading through your core. You don’t know how he got you here, laid back on a sheet of fabric draped across the floor, your skin prickling with anticipation, it’s sheer madness. You’re bare before him, completely naked but not freezing because the arousal kept you warm. And his touch dragging down to your stomach and then between your legs was more than enough to distract you from any thought of the cold night air.

The father kneels between your legs toying with the desperation there, your slick quickly coating his fingers. You don’t even realise what you’re doing until his lips are against yours, your hands around his neck pulling his body on top of you, letting him feel the gasp he elicits when he begins playing with your clit. He grins at your instant reaction, your hips rising to meet his touch and trembling at the patterns he draws on your sensitive nerves.

You felt so perfect underneath him, your smooth skin and the curves of your body reminding him of all the things he was supposed to give up under his occupation. He slowly moved his long middle finger down through your folds savouring the delicious heat of your need, before pressing it inside you, joining it with his index finger he pushed them both down to the knuckle, the most lascivious moan escaping you. Then he settled at a torturously slow and deep pace of fucking his fingers in and out of you. Each time his fingers curl inside you forces you to become more of a moaning mess, your hand grabbing his wrist as you get closer to reaching your peak.

You’re so close already, needily grinding your hips up against his hand, all sensible thoughts of caution or regret long lost in favour for feeling good. His pace adjusts like he can read your mind, now pressing his digits in and out of you faster, how deep it felt coupled with him brushing against your g-spot so perfectly brings you to the height. Your back arching and walls clamping down around his fingers tight whilst you ride out the waves of unreal pleasure. You can feel him hard against your thigh, eager to feel how good your fluttering walls feel squeezing around him, silently asking for him to fill you up.

The priest kisses you again, a firm hand on the back of your neck holding your position while the other raises your left leg to tilt your slick hold towards him. You smirk breathlessly as he positions himself, cock brushing achingly against your entrance, his head teasing you as it rubbed through the hot wetness there. A sudden feeling of nervousness spreads through you, he’s still dressed, his clerical collar a glaring reminder of what this was, but instead of having second thoughts all you want is to see just what celibacy does to a man.

He has to force his eyes from your face as he presses the tip of his cock into your heat, ducking his head into your shoulder so you didn’t see the shameful snarl on his face as he pushed inside, your blissful walls making room for him. He makes it halfway inside you before you reach out to still him for a moment, he’s big, stretching you open so much you almost cry. It feels good, almost ruthlessly so, but once he starts to shallowly move in and out, still not fully inside, you realise that the slight burn was more than worth it. There’s little patience left in him and so, with a cast iron grip on the plush of your arse he lifts you against him and fully sheathes himself. God, you nearly scream, falling instead to a breathless groan into the crook of his neck.

It’s crazy how good it feels, your body taking charge of itself and rutting into his movements hooked on the delightful feeling of corruption, though who is corrupting the other more, you don’t know. He doesn’t fuck you rough, the steady pace is more than enough to make you come undone, but there’s a selfishness to it and it get’s you off that he needs this, needs what your sweet little cunt can give him. These words in your internal monologue shock you, that kind of language feeling unnatural from you but so right simultaneously.

He brings you impossibly closer to him, bodies completely flush, his head buried in your neck, breathing you in and it’s perfect for hearing him grunting as he thrusts in and out of your pussy. He can hardly bear it, your walls wrapped around him harshly, stuck in that state of wanting to go slow to keep himself under control and wanting to push himself to climax all at once. But you feel too good. His pace grows quicker, a desperate edge to it and this change makes another climax raise its head, gaining on you so quickly it’s frightening. He could tell you were close, your fingernails digging into his arms and the prettiest of moans fleeing your lips.

At that point he's greedy, wanting more than anything to feel you clamp around him, to see your eyes roll back as he fills you with his release. That when you cum, pussy clenching tight as a vice around him, fluttering with the waves of your pleasure, he reaches his end, his thrusts becoming harder as he grunts, that warm feeling of his cum inside you apparent even as you twitch through your climax.

He groans before pulling away from you, quickly fixing himself, leaving you laid back to watch him whilst the knowledge of what you've just done trickles between your legs.

[divineei]

modern!atwow x musician!reader

modern avatar mlist!

desc. headcanons for modern avatar: the way of water teens with a musician significant other who’s in a band. reader plays a different instrument for each character.

a/n. if this flops i’m retiring. real shit.

— neteyam. ( guitarist s/o ♪! )

he sleeps with a t-shirt of your band every. goddamn. night.

gives it back to you once a week so you can spray your perfume on it. you ended up bringing him a bottle of ur fave brand and he sprays the cologne on it every time he washes it (aka ever fucking week)

mans hooked. to both you and your music

listens to your band’s songs at least once a day. either w/ headphones or on full blast it doesn’t matter

his whole family knows all the lyrics

sometimes tuk comes to his room and jumps on his bed while playing air guitar and he absolutely joins

other times tho he closes his eyes to focus and pays special attention to the guitar while having your smile in mind

he once spent like 2 weeks watching youtube tutorials to (kinda) learn one song so he could play for you

was it good? no it was fucking hideous. was it the sweetest fucking thing ever tho? absolutely it was

always tries to pick you up after band practice

my boy would rather miss his basketball competitions than miss one of your concerts

this one time he actually tried to skip a match bc your performance was at the same time and the mf showed up backstage like “hEy🙂”

you had to call his mom for him to leave (u snitch that was kinda foul)

definitely knows abt “the rockstar’s girlfriend” aesthetic and makes it his personality. like he’s so into it

you got him a t-shirt that said “im with the band” as a joke but he actually wears it and its hilarious

— kiri. ( keyboard s/o ♪! )

comes to your house just to hear you play

she brings a book and lays down on your bed while you make new music

ADORES watching you come up with new tunes!!!!!!

you always have that focused look on your face as you move your fingers over the keys at makes her want to take a picture (she actually has a few ngl)

always goes back home humming your new melody

you record covers of her favorite songs on your keyboard and give her a cd that she listens to on her discman (she defo owns old gadgets like that)

sometimes puts her phone down on her window stool, where she has her favorite plants, and leaves it there with your music playing. she likes to think it help her plants grow

lowkey gatekeeps your songs

there was this one time you couldn’t sleep bc she kept appearing on your mind, so you connected your headphones and made your “ode to kiri”

it was 2am when you vídeocalled her to play for her what you just wrote

and kiri being the sensitive person she is, swore she could feel your affection through the music, little tears threatening to fall from her pretty eyes

it was truly a treasured memory in your relationship

until a loud ass knock on your door and an equally loud “FFS ITS 2AM!!!!!” almost made you drop dead

she absolutely laughed at you btw

— lo’ak. ( bassist s/o ♪! )

brings you stickers so you can decorate your bass w/ them

“aye babe i got a new sticker for your guitar” “for the hundredth time lo’ak, its a BASS!!!”

yeah he knows it annoys you and no he’s not gonna stop

his lockscreen is a picture of you on stage with a bunch of lil hearts he drew around you

when he goes to your concerts he tells everyone you two are dating

“you see that one over there bro? pfft yeah, we’re together” “do i know you man????” 💀

when you told him your band didnt have a logo yet he showed up at your door 3 days after, super excited and with a bunch of sketches to show you

i also think lo’ak would be really into graffiti art

so he goes around the neighborhood spray painting your band’s logo on the streets walls

“lo’ak you’re gonna get us in trouble” “oh cmon, its good promo!!”

he messes up with your amplifier when you practice, turning up and down the volume, the treble, etc. until you throw your pick right into his fucking forehead and he’s like:

“ma fault 😨”

the moment he (finally) sits still he actually pays really close attention to how your hands move

“damn, you make it look so easy” “im just good with my fingers ig”

cue the dumbest smirk you’ve ever seen

— ao’nung. ( drummer s/o ♪! )

imma just say it; he is popular. by that i mean ma boy has hella contacts

AND by that i mean he makes sure your band always has a venue to perform at. always first on every list fr

“ao’ stay the fuck away from my drums”

actually a fucking menace. tries to impress you by smashing the drumsticks everywhere.

“nah babe check me out i got it this time srsly”

rhythm left the room the moment he sat down

he even attempts some tricks he seen you pull off during your concerts, like throwing the sticks up or rolling them between his fingers.

they always end up either on the floor or hitting his dumbass head. it’s cool tho, u kiss it better (after a well deserved smack bc what did i tell u)

he’d still insist on learning so you two end up having a chick flick moment where you guide him by putting your hands on his

boy actually blushes. just a smidge

“your ears are red” “stfu no they’re not”

might not know shit abt making music but seeing the look on your face when you play is enough to make him see how passionate you are

loves being alone with you in your band’s backstage lounge

he’s so fucking extra he got his friend outside the door like some whack ass bodyguards. they’re so into it too bro

“aye keep walking man🕴️” “move along bitch aint nothing to see here🕴️”

whenever you’re about to go on stage he stays with you in your band’s room and massages your hands

makes sure you always put some baby powder on your palms before you perform in case you start sweating so you dont drop your drumsticks

— tsireya. ( vocalist s/o ♪! )

she sings along to your songs whenever they play

ao’nung is sick and tired of listening to her and uses ear plugs all the time bc he once told her to stfu and got smacked

you two even make your own carpool karaoke and scream the lyrics together on the parking lot

and she NAILS IT!!!!!

like my girl can sing fr

in fact you’ve asked her to help in a few songs for harmonies and second voices

she helps you out a lot with your vocal practice and your breathing exercises

she sits down with you and counts each second with her fingers when hold your breath and when you try your best to hold a specific note

let’s be honest here. A LOT of your songs are abt her

you really don’t have to tell her, she knows they are. bc when you’re up on stage singing abt the perfect girl, you look right at her. and her heart beats faster every time

sometimes you send her your lyrics like “what do u think of this??” and it’d be a full on poem abt her that makes her smile so goofy. kicking feet and everything

every time you get in the shower and start humming/singing her phone is ready

actually has a video of you freaking tf out bc you had an idea for a new song while showering and you stormed your way out the bathroom, wet and hair full off shampoo

“REYA PASS ME A PEN QUICK” “NAH WHY ARE YOU BOOTY NAKED PLEASEHAhH”

you had to mop the floor after that

— rotxo. ( acoustic guitarist s/o ♪! )

makes sure you are never out of strings to change

but since the strings are heavier from an electric guitar, he knows you sometimes hurt your fingers playing

so he bought you a bunch of finger protectors.

he’s a sweetheart, but those whack ass things he got you looked like this

yeaaah…. no. 💀

actually offensive he’d think you need that shit but you let it go bc he really just wanna be there for you

the actual definition of #1 fan

he’s on every concert

and i mean EVERY. CONCERT. front row, backstage, glowing sticks on one hand, phone on the other and zooming on you and only you

he goes to your house more than you go to his, just bc he always wants you to play smthn. and this way you dont gotta bring your guitar back and forth

when you’re together in your room, you get your guitar and he asks you to play some lofi style tunes

especially loves it when it’s summer and the both of you just lay down with the windows wide open and the breeze goes in and out. has a cool glass of your fave drink with a straw and he holds it up to you while you play

one thing ik for sure is rotxo is lowkey good at making beats/bases

the two of you have definitely made a few tracks purely for your enjoyment (like this)

many many many beach dates where you bring your guitar and he lays his head on your lap while the sun sets

taglist. — @rainbowsocks, @dearstell, @erenjaegerwifee, @neteyamyam, @lvrcpid, @grierpilots, @littlexscarletxwitch, @elegantkidfansoul, @anm3mi, @kachowness, @boilingpots , @lagoonabluebabe, @lethalvenus, @casiia, @liluvtojineteyam, @inluvwithneteyam, @syulangg, @junnniiieee07, @drugs-for-memes, @ilovejakesullysdick, @lovelyygirl8, @neqeyam, @ak-aaa-li, @sakura-onesan, @babyymeme, @gender3nvyy,

© to @divineei on tumblr; do not repost or steal

[valentine67272]

TRUTH

FIZZAROLLI X F!READER X ASMODEUS

a/n:MY FIRST HELLUVA BOSS STORY!! EEEE!!! anyways! hope you enjoy <3

TW:A LOT OF FLUFF, violence, swear words, mentions of sex, etc! SFW!

Yet another boring day in hell, but this time you had a little meetup with an old friend, Blitzø. Basically you, fizz and blitzø were a friend group, your father was way worse than blitzøs though. your name was already famous around hell, a performer and a singer! your manager is just a rude old man who always bosses you around. BTW YOUR 8’11 FT!! TALL AF.

i was walking down the sidewalks of the Lust ring, i had my headphones on so ididn’t hear what was happening around me. i felt hands on your shoulders, i jumped slightly, looking back to see it was just fizzarolli.

“you scared me!” i said, pinning your ears. fizz just laughed. “sorry!” he said, a smile krept onto my face as i saw his cute little face. my ears flicked as they pointed up.

I then heard Laughing and screaming? you looked back to see Blitzø fighting with some dude. i sighed in disappointment. He was surprisingly winning. but then slowly after started loosing. fizz just watched.

i was about to run over there, and i did. i stopped the dude from punching blitzø again. “what the fuck? who the hell are you?” the dude said. “(Readers 1 name). why the FUCK would you fight someone that’s smaller than you. to scared your going to loose to someone your own size?” i glared, the dude laughed. “He challenged me actually, and i’m not afraid. i have defeated many of people that are my size, little girl.” that named triggered me. i punched him and he fell. “DONT ever call me that again.” i said in a threatening tone.

fizz got worried and ran towards the scene. pushing through the crowd of people. the dude and me started to fist fight, fizz wondered where Asmodeus was to come and protect You, but you were actually winning the fight.

the guy then elbowed my stomach, making me fall. i was bleeding from my nose and a little from my mouth. blitzø was obviously drunk and went away from the scene. the guy had now pulled out a large knife. my eyes widened as i tried backing away.

“(READER)!” fizz said loudly, quickly trying to push pass the other people that now came. Finally, Asmodeus came. “DONT YOU DARE THINK ABOUT THAT!” Asmodeus yelled angrily at the dude, picking me up. the dude had dropped his knife and stared in utter shock and fear.

“s-sorry sir..won’t happen a-agin..” the dude said, running off. fizz sighed in relief. the crowd of people was no where to be seen. asmodeus calmed down seeing me hurt. “thanks.” i smiled gently at him, his expression changed from anger to worry.

“i’m fine” i said to Asmodeus. “No you are not babe!..” Said asmodeus. Asmodeus gently grabbed fizz and started walking to your guys mansion.

(TIMESKIP!!)

you sat in the medical room as Asmodeus grabbed the med kit for you, fizz stayed by your side.

[chokedonaturtle]

my humanized cars headcanons

Cal Weathers Edition

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- Cal went to a private school in California and when his parents died he moved in with Strip and Lynda at like 12-15

so that’s why his accent ain’t as pronounced as Strip’s but it’s still there

bro definitely got called a city slicker by Tex

- Tex loves him sm he does anything and everything for him, he’s def the cool uncle that says yes just because Strip said no

- 100000% a mamas boy and is glued to Lynda’s hip most of the time

- insanely good at math he does that thing with the mental abacus russian children learn in school

honestly he’s just good at school in general that boy can WRITE an essay

- is right handed but holds the wii remote in his left hand and nunchuck in his right WHICH IS WRONG BTW 😡😡😡

- can and will play the most depressing country music on guitar and has the most perfect country boy voice with the cracks and all (think brad paisley (my love))

- he has low self confidence because he feels the need to be just as good as Strip if not better and feels like he’ll never step outside Strip’s shadow and make a name for himself

and Tex makes jokes like “yeah you better win this season or i’ll drop you” but then he sees cal sad and he’s like “thou shalt not compare thineself to thine predecessor”

- thinks he’s sponsored by dinoco ONLY because he’s Strip’s nephew

“you just sponsored me bc i’m strip’s nephew 😔”

“i sponsored you bc you’re a great racer with potential not bc of strip 😡🥺”

- bro cried when he retired (i did too)

- when Tex was updating the racing suits for safety standards or something he had a new design drawn up and Cal was like “no i wanna race with my old design 🥺🥺🥺”

- Tex thinks it’s adorable that he wants to race in that outfit bc it hasn’t been updated since strip started racing and it’s like a legacy passed down !! aw !!

- whenever he’s in the same room as Tex he plucks off Tex’s hat and wears it like he used to when he was a young whippersnapper

and Tex is like “gotdam!!! that hat looks just like mine !!!!” and Cal is like 😐😑😐 “y’aint funny tex”

- says the weird country stuff like

“that boy’s cornbread ain’t done in the middle”

“nervous as a cat in a room full o’ rocking chairs”

“if the good lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise”

“i’m fixin to (insert perfectly normal errand nobody announces)”

“they was bangin’ like a screen door in a tornado.” (he got that one from Tex and only says it when he ain’t isn’t around Strip and Lynda)

- says “git” instead of “get” bc of Strip and yall’d’ve bc of Tex and then everyone makes fun of him

Strip: “where you git that 🤨” “git over ‘ere” aka “CMERE BOY”

Tex: “yall’d’ve” “y’aint” “yall done got them good”Cal: yeah that’s mine now

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

yeah that’s it for NOW i will make more !! later mayhaps!!

- he says mayhaps and perchance NO I DIDNT BASE HIM OFF ME

ok bye <3