#huffy!sam

[bodypillowsam]

[all-4-wincest]

I was talking to someone on Twitter, and I thought I should share here too. Have some “huffy chest” Sam Fucking Winchester, for your viewing pleasure.

Yes, I’m a Dean!girl, but I’m also an equal opportunity, Winchester brother appreciator!!

Love them both, so sooo much!

[wehaveagathering]

taps and bonks 4.11.24

[buckyalpine]

Just a fluffy little thought. A grumpy, moody, broody Bucky, moping and grumbling through the compound with a scowl on his face. He was restless and annoyed the whole jet ride home. He tosses his bags off to the side, throwing off his tactical gear without a care in the world and Sam and Nat are utterly baffled because the mission was a complete success. Bucky's plan worked perfectly, his strategies were what got them in and out, he'd even saved a group of civilians that were unexpected.

Why was he grumpier than usual?

Because something is not right.

Everyone gathers for dinner and he barely takes a bite. He's shifting his food around his a fork before getting up and sitting on the couch instead with his arms across his chest and shoulders tensed. No one breathes a word, letting him storm to himself. Except you. You'd noticed Bucky's less than pleasant attitude but it doesn't scare you and you felt bad seeing him sitting by himself clearly stewing over something.

Maybe you had a crush on the soldier too. Maybe.

"Hey" You give him a soft smile as you take a seat beside him, still giving him space, "You okay?"

He gives you a shrug in response but that was normal with Bucky. You'd check in again and if he still didn't want to talk, you'd leave him alone.

"What's wrong"

Usually his standard answer of telling people to fuck off was easy but not with you. Never with you. Not when you turn him into a pile of mush and fluff. Bucky's grumpy face turns more into a pout as he contemplates telling you what's been making him so mad.

"My tummy hurts" he mumbles and you have to hold every fiber of your body together to keep from melting into a puddle because he could have said he felt unwell. Stomach pain. Stomach ache.Felt sick. Felt off. He could have said absolutely any other variation of what he was feeling but no.

The poor, grumpy, angry soldier was huffy and puffy because of a tummy ache.

"I'm sorry bub" you coo, not even realizing what you'd called him,"What would make you feel better?" You ask but Bucky doesn't actually know the answer. When he usually felt queasy he'd just grit it out until it went away.

"When I was little, my ma would make me some soup" He wasn't sure if it actually cured anything but he remembered it always being the yummiest thing he'd tasted and the one thing that made him feel all better. "But that was for when I had a cold"

"What about for tummy aches" You asked, noting the way the soldiers cheeks turned pink, his fingers fidgeting with each other. Of course he knew what his ma would do for his little achy belly but it's not like you could help...

"Um, sometimes she'd tuck me in bed and then.."

"Then?" You cock your head in curiosity while Bucky's voice dies on his tongue.

"Then she'd rub my tummy till I went to sleep" He rushes out with a small voice while keeping his eyes trained on his hands. His eyes grow wide at the giggle you let out, worried he'd made a complete idiot of himself, what were you to do with that information, it's not like you'd-

"C'mere" You take his hand gently in yours, gauging his reaction before moving him to lay his head on your lap. Bucky's stomach is now a mess of butterflies and whatever was upsetting him, his muscles melting into Jello as soon as you'd touched him. "Is this okay?" Your hand rests closer to his hip than right on his stomach and Bucky is barely able to squeak out a yes along with a quick nod.

You hum, moving your hand to rub soft circles around his tummy, his firm muscles under making you giddy on the inside. You recollect your nerves, focused on soothing motions, your other hand moving to play with Bucky's hair. You card your fingers through his short chestnut locks, smiling at the way he closes his eyes, his breathing starting to slow, muscles releasing their tenison.

"Better?" You whisper, giggling to yourself at the deep purr he made in response, relaxing with your gentle ministrations. He rolls over, smushing his face against your stomach, far too relaxed to care. The soft snores that follow after let you know the remedy certainly worked. As soon as you move your hand away, he blindly reaches out, placing it right back where it belongs and going back to sleep immediately after, tummy ache all gone, flutterly little butterflies replacing them. He's already dreaming of all the ways he could return the favour.

Isn't he an absolute precious baby.

So cute.

Bonus scene:

Of course the team gawk at what they see; the grumpy soldier now happy as a clam on your lap.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Bucky's tummy hurts" You reply with a smile and honestly the answer sends everyone into chaos.

"Awww Buckyyyy"

"So that's why he was so grumpy. Should've known when he kept pouting everytime we had turbulence"

"AWWWW The winter soldier as a widdle tummy ache?" Sam coos, only to silence his cackles when Bucky's eyes shoot open, staring daggers at him. "Don't give me that look when you're curled up on y/n's lap like a cat"

"Does rubbing it help ya feel all better-oh fuck"

Bucky's glare sends everyone scrambling right out, the empty room leaving him all content again.

Yes.

Rubbing his tummy made him feel all better.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

Hi bunny hihi 🔥🔥🔥 Imagine teenage mom!reader crocheting or knitting some clothes for teenage dad!sam and vinnie for fun since she likes giving gifts to the people she loves, and with them accompanying her to shop for yarn or materials for her various hobbies from time to time 😭😭❤️❤️❤️

(I just need some fluff rn 💔💔💔)

- 💀

PAIRING: sam monroe x pregnant!reader

FLUFF ❦

author's note: awwwww missed you 💀 nonnie!! Hope you like it :)

SAM MONROE. A teenage dad who had never thought he’d know the different types of yarn. He always thought they were the same. But since dating you, his very skilled girlfriend, yeah...he suddenly found out some yarns are more fluffy, some arent good enough to knitt them, some are just ugly cheap. Never thought he’d stand in a craft store, rocking a sleepy Vinnie strapped to his chest in the baby carrier, while you debated the exact shade of “buttermilk yellow” or “eggshell cream.” to pick

Yet here he was.

“Babe,” he muttered, leaning over to whisper in your ear like he was kind of afraid of people listening to whatever he would say “they all look the same.”

You rolled your eyes and held up two nearly identical skeins. “They’re not. This one’s softer. Feel it.”

Sam blinked. “It’s yarn.”

“Just feel it, Monroe.”

He groaned but reached out and pet the skein like it was a small animal. And yeah… okay. It was kinda soft. Maybe even nice. Vinnie made a small huffy sound in his sleep. Chubbt cheek squishing even more into his father's chest. Sam automatically bounced him a little. “He’s gonna end up wrapped in a whole-ass blanket, huh?”

“No,” you smiled, holding up another ball of blue yarn. “He’s getting a little bear hat. You are getting a scarf. And maybe socks. If you behave.” a smirk tugged at your lips

Sam’s cheeks flushed faintly at the words hitting his ears. He swallowed hard, almost feeling exposed, emotionally naked before you as he let his hard mask slip off. But he tried to play it cool. “Whatever. I guess I could wear your weird yarn stuff. For the baby. Or..whatever.”

———

Vinnie’s all cute and giggly. It was all full-body, snorty little baby giggles that made his round cheeks puff and his eyes squeeze shut, tiny legs go kick-kick-kick like he couldn't physically contain the joy he felt right now.

And all because of the dumbest, cutest thing.

His little knitted bear hat.

You’d spent hours on it. Picked the softest brown yarn, stitched two tiny ears that stuck up just a little crooked, and sewed on a little face with sleepy eyes and a stitched nose. It was barely holding together, kinda lopsided, but God did Vinnie love it. His pudgy hands clapped against each other, proudly showing off his positive emotions.

Sam was sitting on the floor, leaning back on his palms, watching it all go down with that look. The one he swears isn’t a smile but totally is. You knew him too well. And well, you caught him too easily.

“You’re not safe,” you whispered as you crept behind him.

“What?”

You plopped the matching hat right onto his head.

He froze. “What is this.”

You bit your lip. “A matching bear hat. For the big bear.”

Sam groaned. “No. Absolutely not. I am not—”

“BAHH!!” Vinnie squealed, spotting Sam’s headgear. The baby waddled straight to him, arms in the air out of pure excitement, before collapsing on Sam’s lap with a breathless laugh. Those pudgy fingers clutched at the edge of his hat like it was the best thing he’d ever gotten. Which, for you, was the truth

“Okay. Fine,” he muttered, fingers adjusting the ear flap so it sat more even. “But no one better see this.”

You didn’t care, really. Quickly your hands grabbed your phone, unlocking it, before snapping at least ten pictures and sending it to Sam's mother

Vinnie babbled happily against Sam’s chest, still clutching the matching bear hat like it was gold. Sam rolled his eyes. “He likes it too much. You’re setting him up to be weird, y’know that?”

You kissed Sam's cheek, your arm wrapping over his shoulder. “He’s got you as a dad. I think I’ve already accepted his fate.”

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake @skywalkerssgirl

[buckets-and-trees]

Red, White & True: Boston & New York [14/17]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 9.1k (yes, another long one!) Summary: On the eve of the election, nerves and emotions are high, but so are your hopes for the future as a tight race becomes impossibly tighter when so many people doubted a third candidate could make a deep run. Regardless of how things turn out, you're ready to face the fact that your life will never be the same again.

Content/Warnings: political/campaign policy and discussions, marriage of political convenience, slow burn, really the slowest burn, strangers to lovers, EXPLICIT SMUT finally (vaginal fingering, cock stroking, breast play, vaginal intercourse)

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Author Notes: I missed getting a Friday posting out, but that's because these two had a lot to do and say in this chapter. To be honest, if I cut out all of the side characters and political plot, we'd shave down significantly, but that's part of your story with Steve, too.

Previous Chapter | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[NOVEMBER 1 - LATE EVENING - COLUMBUS TO BOSTON]

The campaign plane hums around you, a cocoon of noise both soothing and maddening. You've been staring at the same paragraph in your briefing notes for ten minutes, the words blurring together as exhaustion tugs at the edges of your consciousness. Fourteen states in thirteen days. It shouldn't be possible, and yet here you are, somehow still standing—or rather, sitting—in the final stretch of the most grueling marathon of your life.

Two weeks. Two weeks of campaign schedules that have kept you and Steve apart more than together, crisscrossing the country like stars with intersecting orbits—occasionally aligning for campaign appearances together before spinning away again to cover more territory. 

You glance at your watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Your motorcade was delayed in traffic, so you didn’t make it to the tarmac to board the plane to see Steve before his intelligence briefing started, and now it has already run twenty minutes longer than scheduled. The private meeting area at the front of the plane has been sealed off, transformed into a temporary SCIF—Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—for the classified briefing, with Secret Service agents positioned like sentinels outside the door.

You make a conscious effort not to glare at the agents - it’s not their fault, they’re only doing their job. But inside you feel very huffy, knowing the precious hours together before landing in Boston are dwindling by the second.

You return your gaze to the briefing book in your lap, silently mouthing the words to force your tired brain to absorb them. Tomorrow's schedule in Boston includes a visit to a community health center in Roxbury, followed by meetings with healthcare advocates—you need to know these statistics cold. But the numbers swim before your eyes as the plane encounters a pocket of turbulence, jostling you in your seat.

Across the aisle, Sam catches your eye. He's been watching you fidget for the past half hour, his expression knowing as always.

"He'll be out soon," Sam says, his voice low enough that only you can hear it over the drone of the engines.

You sigh, closing the briefing book. "How can you tell?"

“I can’t, I’m just trying to make you feel better,” he replies with a wink. 

“It’s only working a little bit,” you say. 

Sophia is on his other side, and you smile a little, seeing that she’s managed to nod off, her head resting on Sam’s shoulder. She’s worked herself to the bone every day of the campaign, and she’s become such a rock to you. A rock and a trusted friend. 

So has Sam. So have so many of the campaign staff, the lot of you walking through fire day in and day out together for this brilliantly mad quest to try and get Steve elected. 

"Speaking of making me feel better," you say, suddenly struck by something you've been meaning to say for weeks, "I never properly thanked you." 

Sam raises an eyebrow. "For what?" 

"For all the interference you ran with my mom while she was on the campaign trail with us a couple of weeks ago." You lean forward slightly, lowering your voice even more. "You and Sophia did a lot to make her feel comfortable in this whole scene. She adored you, but I know you also took advantage of opportunities to shift her perspective on Steve and our whole arrangement.”

Sam's expression softens, a smile warming his features. "Your mom's great. She cares about you a lot - her worries were normal." 

You smile wider. “You did the same with me, too, the day before I married Steve. And you did it with Steve and Bucky for me back in September. You see people and you build bridges between people.”

Sam's smile turns slightly embarrassed, but his eyes hold yours steadily. "Just part of the service," he jokes, but then grows more serious. "Everyone deserves a chance to understand each other. Especially people who matter to each other." 

"Well, thank you," you say simply. 

"You're welcome." Sam shifts, careful not to disturb Sophia. "Besides, your mom was right about some things. This whole arrangement was crazy." 

You laugh softly. "Was?" 

"Is," he corrects with a grin. "But it's working out better than any of us could have predicted, isn't it?" 

Before you can answer, the door at the front of the plane opens. Steve emerges, followed by a somber-looking woman in a dark suit whom you recognize as Maria Hill. 

You straighten in your seat, drinking in the sight of Steve after three days apart. He looks tired—more than tired, something about his expression unsettles you immediately. There's a tightness around his eyes, a gravity to his movements that wasn't there when you spoke over FaceTime this morning. 

Steve's gaze finds yours immediately. His expression softens, but the tension doesn't fully leave his features. He exchanges a few final words with Maria, their heads bent close together, her voice too low for you to hear over the drone of the engines. 

You watch as Steve nods once, decisively, before Maria turns and heads toward the rear of the plane where some of the intelligence staff are seated. Steve makes his way down the aisle toward you, stopping briefly to speak with Jake and Elspeth. 

When he finally reaches you, the knot of concern in your chest tightens. Up close, the strain around his eyes is more pronounced, the set of his jaw rigid.

"Hi," you say softly as he slides into the seat beside you. 

"Hi," Steve replies, his voice low and slightly rough, as if he's been talking for hours. His hand finds yours immediately, fingers interlacing with a gentle pressure that feels almost desperate in its need for connection. 

You search his face. "What's wrong?" 

Most of the staff are either working, sleeping, or wearing noise-canceling headphones, but he still lowers his voice to a near whisper. "Nothing immediate. Just... concerning intelligence." 

The muscles in your stomach tighten. Since Steve became a serious contender in the presidential race, he's been receiving regular intelligence briefings—a tradition for major party candidates to ensure a smooth transition should they win. You've grown accustomed to the routine, to the way he emerges from these meetings with a thoughtful, typically troubled expression. Most of the information he’s given in those meetings is also highly sensitive if not outright classified. 

You take his hand in both of yours, bringing it to rest in your lap. "Is it something you can talk about?" you ask, keeping your voice equally low.

Steve lets out a long, slow breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as you hold his hand. His thumb traces gentle circles on your skin, a grounding gesture that seems as much for his benefit as for yours. 

"I can't discuss the details," he says after a moment, his voice barely audible over the engines. "But there are situations developing that will need immediate attention after the election." His eyes meet yours, troubled and deep. "No matter who wins."

You nod, understanding the weight behind his words. Steve has always carried the burdens of leadership differently than others—not as opportunities or challenges, but as sacred obligations to the people counting on him.

"Is there anything I can do?" you ask, knowing there likely isn't but needing to offer anyway. 

"There is," Steve says, his voice softening as he shifts closer to you. "Just be here." 

He leans back in his seat, his eyes closing briefly as he draws a deep breath. When they open again, there's something vulnerable in his gaze that makes your chest ache. 

"I've missed you," he admits quietly. "These past three days felt like three weeks." 

"I know," you whisper, squeezing his hand. "The swing through Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana was productive, but every event I kept thinking of what you would say, how you would handle it."

A small smile touches his lips. "And how did hypothetical me do?" 

"Not nearly as well as real me," you tease, drawing the laugh from him you'd hoped for. "But you would have been proud. Polling suggests we gained ground with suburban women in all three states."

Steve's smile broadens, some of the tension leaving his face. "I am proud. Especially of that interview you did in Indianapolis." His hand finds the nape of your neck, fingers gently massaging the tension there. 

You lean into his touch, your eyes briefly closing at the relief his fingers bring to muscles knotted from days of campaign stress. 

"I just answered honestly," you say, remembering the local news interview that had unexpectedly gone viral after you'd spoken candidly about healthcare access in rural communities. 

"That's what made it powerful," Steve says. His voice drops even lower, meant only for you. "Two days left. Can you believe it?"

You shake your head, still processing the whirlwind that has been your life since that fateful meeting with Pepper Potts in May. "Sometimes it feels like we've been campaigning forever. Other times, I can't believe how quickly it's all happened." 

Steve's eyes hold yours, something profound shifting in their blue depths. "I keep thinking about where we were six months ago. How impossible this all seemed." His voice is a gentle rumble that vibrates through you. "Now we're two days from potentially—" 

"Don't," you whisper, pressing a finger lightly to his lips. "No jinxing it." 

He smiles against your finger, then captures your hand and kisses your palm. "Superstitious now?" 

"Cautiously optimistic," you correct, feeling the familiar flutter in your chest that his touch evokes. 

The plane encounters another patch of turbulence, more pronounced this time. Steve's arm instinctively wraps around your shoulders, steadying you as the aircraft shudders. You lean into him, and the turbulence settles. 

"That's what I like to hear," Steve murmurs, his arm remaining around you even after the turbulence passes. "Cautiously optimistic is exactly where we need to be." 

You rest your head against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him—that perfect blend of clean cotton, subtle cologne, and something that is uniquely Steve. Despite the exhaustion dragging at your limbs, despite the worry you'd seen etched in his features moments ago, this closeness grounds you in a way nothing else can. And once again, as the two of you quietly converse, tucked comfortably into one another, you fight but are unable to keep from falling asleep in his arms. 

You wake to gentle pressure against your temple—Steve's lips brushing a kiss there, his breath warm against your skin. 

"We're starting our descent," he murmurs. "You've been out for about an hour." 

Blinking away sleep, you straighten in your seat, embarrassed. "I didn't mean to—" 

"You needed it," Steve says, his hand still resting comfortably on your knee. Through the window, you can see the scattered constellation of Boston's lights growing larger below. 

"Did you sleep at all?" you ask, noting the lingering tension around his eyes. 

He shakes his head. "Too much on my mind." 

You reach up to smooth a strand of hair that's fallen across his forehead. "The briefing?" 

"That. The polls. Tomorrow's schedule.”

"The usual campaign insomnia," you say with understanding, your fingers lingering at his temple where you can feel the tension gathered there. 

"Something like that," he agrees, but there's a note in his voice that tells you it's more than just pre-election jitters. 

The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing your imminent arrival. Around you, the campaign staff begin to stir, gathering materials, checking phones that had been silenced during the flight. You deplane and the team piles into a dozen vehicles waiting on the tarmac to take you all directly to the hotel to catch the limited amount of sleep you’ll be afforded before things start back up in the morning. 

[NOVEMBER 2 - BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS]

Morning arrives too soon, the pale November light filtering through the hotel curtains you forgot to fully close. For a moment, you lie perfectly still, orienting yourself in yet another unfamiliar room. Boston. The final day before the election.

The other side of the bed is empty. Though everything between you and Steve has changed, deepened, and grown, you are still dancing around sharing a room and a bed. After that night you asked him to stay with you in Tucson, your mom had come for those next few days on the campaign, and then your itineraries had split you up geographically, but even on the nights of overlap, there seemed to be this half-spoken avoidance. You have been hesitant of exploring the intimacy and domesticity of sleeping together routinely in this environment. There are so many things you and Steve have said to each other and about each other, but there are still things that have been left unsaid, and the endless circuit of the campaign cycle didn’t seem like the place to say any of it. 

The digital clock reads 5:47, and though you’re annoyed you’ve woken up before your scheduled 6am start to the day, you are glad for the precious few minutes of sleepy solitude you still have. You allow yourself the luxury of stretching, muscles protesting after weeks of constant movement and too little rest. The sheets smell of hotel laundry—a scent that has become almost as familiar as your old home.

Your phone vibrates on the nightstand. A text from Steve: Good morning. Couldn't sleep, went for a run. Briefing and breakfast at 7?

You smile at his predictability—yo’ve heard about his runs, and even on the precipice of potentially becoming the next president, Steve Rogers seeks clarity in the rhythm of his feet against pavement. You don’t expect it to change, regardless of how the election results go. You type back: Yes to breakfast. Coffee already necessary. Be safe.

The three dots appear immediately, then: Always am. Sleep well?

Better than expected, but not long enough, you reply honestly. Hotel pillows are growing on me.

Dangerous adaptation, he responds with a laughing emoji. Then, a moment later: Going to catch sunrise over Boston Harbor. Wish you were here.

The simple sentiment warms you more than it should. Six months ago, such casual intimacy between you would have been unimaginable. Now it feels as natural as breathing. 

Bed better than running, you send back.

His response is immediate: Debatable. Will bring you coffee when I get back.

You smile, setting your phone down and pulling yourself reluctantly from the warmth of the bed. The hotel room is elegant but impersonal, like all the others you've occupied during this campaign—luxury without personality, comfort without home. You've become an expert at navigating unfamiliar bathrooms in the dark, at finding the light switches and remembering which side of the bed you chose the night before. 

The shower helps clear the fog of too little sleep. As the hot water cascades over your shoulders, you mentally rehearse today's schedule: the community health center visit, lunch with healthcare advocates, an afternoon rally at Boston University, and then the massive evening event at Faneuil Hall. The final push before Election Day. 

By the time you emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in the hotel's plush robe, your phone is lighting up with notifications. Campaign updates, news alerts, text messages from Sam about last-minute scheduling changes. The bubble of morning solitude pops, reality rushing in with the force of a breaking dam. 

You dress quickly in the outfit laid out the night before—a carefully selected ensemble that projects both approachability and professionalism. The campaign's messaging team has fine-tuned every visual element of these final appearances, down to the color of your scarf, which matches the campaign's signature blue. 

A soft knock at the door comes just as you're fastening your watch. Through the peephole, you see Steve, looking refreshed despite the early hour, a cardboard tray holding two coffee cups in one hand. 

"Morning," he says when you open the door, his smile warming his tired eyes. He's showered and changed since his run, dressed in a navy suit that makes his eyes even more blue. "Coffee as promised."

"You're a lifesaver," you murmur, accepting the cup he offers. "How was the harbor?" you ask, stepping out into the hall to walk down to breakfast with him.

"Peaceful. Water was like glass. Sun coming up behind the city." He pauses, something wistful crossing his features. "Made me wish I had my sketchbook."

You take a long sip of coffee, savoring the perfect blend—he remembers exactly how you like it. "When this is all over, we should come back. You can sketch all day if you want." 

Steve's smile deepens, creating those little crinkles around his eyes that you've grown to love. "I'll hold you to that." 

The two of you walk in comfortable silence down the rest of the hallway to the elevator, Secret Service agents quietly flanking you. Steve's presence beside you is solid, reassuring. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, you catch glimpses of yourselves—a little tired, a little worn, but standing tall. The potential First Couple. The thought still feels surreal.

"Sleep well?" he asks softly as the elevator descends. 

"You already asked me that," you remind him with a smile. 

"I know. Just checking if your answer changes in person." His hand finds the small of your back as the doors open, a gentle, protective gesture that's become second nature. 

Another hotel conference room has been transformed into another campaign outpost, screens displaying polling data and schedules lining the walls. Campaign staff mill about, some already deep in conversation, others nursing coffee with the glazed look of people running on fumes and determination. 

Sam spots you first, raising his coffee cup in greeting from where he's huddled with Sophia, Bucky and Jake. You're about to head their way when you notice a familiar figure standing near the breakfast buffet—Maria Hill, the same intelligence officer from the plane. She's not alone. A man in an impeccable dark suit stands beside her, his posture military-straight, his expression grave as he surveys the room with calculated precision.

Steve's hand tenses almost imperceptibly against your back. You glance up at him, catching the slight hardening of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. 

"What is it?" you ask quietly. 

"Agent Calloway," Steve acknowledges with a slight nod, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension you feel radiating through his palm against your back. "I wasn't expecting to see you in Boston." 

The man—Agent Calloway—turns toward you both, his weathered face revealing nothing as he approaches with measured steps. He's older than Maria, perhaps in his mid-fifties, with close-cropped greying hair and eyes that seem to catalog every detail of the room in continuous sweeps. 

"Captain Rogers," he says, extending a hand to Steve. "I’ve been assigned to personally oversee the enhanced security protocols for these final campaign events." His handshake is brief, then his attention shifts to you with professional efficiency. "Ma'am," he says with a respectful nod.

You return the greeting, a sense of unease creeping up your spine. Enhanced security protocols. The words are heavy, unexpected. Should you be more worried?

You offer what you hope is a polite smile, but Calloway's steel-gray eyes catch the flicker of worry that crosses your face. His expression softens marginally—the change so subtle you might have missed it if you weren't studying him so intently. 

"Please don't be concerned, ma'am," he says, his voice dropping to a more conversational tone. "Enhanced protocols are standard procedure for the final days before an election. The heightened visibility, larger crowds—it's all part of the calculus." 

You nod, attempting to look reassured, but you can feel Steve's body beside yours, taut as a bowstring. 

"Standard procedure," Steve repeats, the words measured and careful. His face maintains the pleasant, diplomatic expression he's perfected during the campaign, but you know the mask. “It seems a bit unnece–”

“Captain Rogers,” Calloway interrupts, “sir, let me stop you right there. My men and women and I are more than aware of your capability to defend yourself. They assigned me because I’m the one who will take the least amount of pushback from you. We know you’re an Avenger. Should anything happen, we would not be surprised to have you fighting and defending alongside us.” 

You don’t even have to look, you can feel the frown emanating from Steve. You keep your eyes on Calloway’s face. 

“Our responsibility is to keep an eye on everyone and everything to keep you and the public safe. Your responsibility right now is to campaign. If elected, it will be to lead the American people. That’s why we’re here. Let us do our job so you can do yours.”

“This old man is retired anyway,” Sam chimes in, stepping up next to Steve and clapping him on the back, jostling him on purpose to loosen him up. 

The tension in Steve's shoulders doesn't fully dissipate, but his expression softens at Sam's intervention. He nods once at Calloway, conceding the point without quite relinquishing his concern. 

"I appreciate the dedication," Steve says, his voice measured. "Just make sure your team keeps my staff safe - I’m no more important than them."

"Consider it done," Calloway responds with crisp efficiency. "We've been briefed on all locations and have advance teams in place. They will monitor and update throughout the day.”

Maria Hill approaches, tablet in hand. "If you have a moment, Captain, there are some logistics we should review before your first event." Her tone is professional, but you catch the subtle urgency beneath. 

Steve's eyes meet yours, a silent communication passing between you. "I'll catch up with you," he says, his hand squeezing yours briefly before following Maria and Calloway to a quieter corner of the room. 

Sam stays beside you, his presence steady and reassuring. "Don't worry," he says quietly as you both watch Steve step away. "Extra security is normal for the final push." 

"Is it?" you ask, unable to keep the doubt from your voice. 

"Yes," Sam insists, then adds with a half-smile, "though having Hill still on site for national security and intelligence updates is... possibly not."

You turn to face him fully. "Sam." 

He meets your gaze, “I’m genuinely not concerned yet - I’m alert, but not concerned. Bucky agrees, he thinks whatever situation is developing is probably serious, but that Maria’s staying close more out of a personal sense of duty than any real safety concern.”

You frown. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“No. I’ve been around these heroes for years, and I know sometimes they try and save us regular folk from bad news, but in the end that never helps. I don’t think Bucky will hold back with you, and I don’t think Steve would intentionally either, but I can definitely promise I’ll bullshit you now and then, but I’ll always be straight with you when it matters.”

You nod, finding comfort in Sam's directness. "Thank you. I appreciate that." 

"Come on," Sam says, guiding you toward the breakfast buffet. "You need to eat something. Big day ahead." 

You follow him, but your eyes drift back to Steve, who's now leaning over a tablet with Maria and Calloway, his brow furrowed in concentration. The three of them speak in low voices, their expressions grave. The knot of unease in your stomach tightens. 

"He's concerned," you murmur, more to yourself than to Sam. 

"He's always concerned," Sam counters gently. "It's his default setting. Has been since I met him." 

You smile despite yourself. "I've noticed." 

Sophia waves you over to a table where she's sitting with Bucky and Jake, campaign materials spread between their plates. As you approach, you notice the dark circles under Sophia's eyes, the slight tremor in Jake's hand as he lifts his coffee cup. Everyone is feeling the weight of these final hours.

"Morning," Jake greets you, sliding a folder across the table. "Final numbers from last night's polling.”

"How's it looking?" you ask, opening the folder as you settle into a chair next to Sophia. 

"It's tight," Jake says. "The national polls still have Monroe up by two, but within the margin of error." 

"The battleground states are where it matters," Sophia adds, tapping a spreadsheet with her pen. "Pennsylvania and Michigan are looking good, but Wisconsin and Arizona are razor-thin with Steve biting on both their heels." 

You nod, scanning the numbers. Your stomach churns with a familiar mixture of hope and anxiety that has become your constant companion these last weeks. The race is close—closer than any of you had anticipated when this journey began. 

"Florida's polling is all over the place," Bucky says, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Depending on which poll you believe, Steve, Monroe, or Peterson take the sunshine state, and it skews the board no matter which way it goes.”

“So, basically, we’re doing well, but no one knows how well?” you ask.

"It's an election," Jake says with a wry smile. "No one ever really knows until the votes are counted." 

Bucky leans forward, his metal hand tapping lightly on the table. "What matters is that we're competitive everywhere we need to be. Six months ago, no one thought an independent candidate could seriously contend. Now..." His voice trails off as his eyes drift to where Steve is still deep in conversation with Maria and Calloway. 

"Now we've got them scared," Sophia finishes, a fierce pride in her voice.

[NOVEMBER 2 - EVENING - NEW YORK CITY]

You and Steve are put into a car with Jake and Lisa once you touchdown in New York, getting off the campaign plane for the final time. Your campaign manager and press secretary want to use the short ride from La Guardia to the hotel in Midtown Manhattan to review final notes before the morning. 

"The itinerary is straightforward," Jake says, scrolling through his tablet. "Early breakfast with the New York campaign volunteers at 6 AM, radio morning shows from 6:30 to 7, then straight to your polling place in Brooklyn by 7:30. We want the images of you two voting to hit the morning news cycles."

"After that," Lisa continues, "it's a series of get-out-the-vote stops across the city. We'll hit all five boroughs by mid-afternoon.”

“Then we have a break for the two of you until dinner and a final event in Central Park at 7 PM, which should give us prime placement for the evening news for all time zones," Jake says. “It should hopefully pull in some undecided voters - the ones who are debating whether to go home after work or go to the polls, and those are the voters likely to sway to you.”

Steve nods, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand where it rests between you on the seat. "And the rest of the night?"

"We've secured the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza for the watch party," Lisa says. "Doors open to supporters at seven, but we don't expect either of you to make an appearance until at least nine, when the first results start coming in."

“This is why we’ve got the afternoon siesta for the two of you,” Jake says, his tone straightforward, logical, leaving no space to argue, “you’ll both need to be public-ready.”

"And if it's a long night?" you ask, voicing the question that's been weighing on all of you. With such a tight race, a definitive result by the end of the night is far from guaranteed. 

Jake and Lisa exchange glances. "We have contingency plans," Lisa answers. “The event in Central Park will continue through the night as long as it’s viable. If there’s any need for a public address, we want you to make it to the crowd outdoors in the park.”

“Absolutely,” Steve nods, “it’ll be a cold, long night for them, and if there’s something to be said, I want to be able to show them how much they’re appreciated.” 

The car glides through late-night New York traffic, the city lights reflecting off rain-slicked streets. You feel the weight of tomorrow pressing down—the culmination of months of exhausting work, of speeches and handshakes and strategy sessions. Of a marriage that began as strategy and transformed into something neither of you could have predicted. 

"What about security?" Steve asks, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. 

Jake nods, his expression serious. "Calloway's team has coordinated with NYPD, FBI, and Homeland. The security presence will be significant but as unobtrusive as possible. We don't want to alarm voters or create bottlenecks at polling places."

The car slows as it approaches The Plaza Hotel, the familiar choreography of arrival unfolding once more. Secret Service agents radio ahead, confirming positions. 

Even though your home is in New York - the new home you have yet to truly live in yet with Steve in Brooklyn - you’re staying at The Plaza Hotel since it will be campaign headquarters for the next 36 hours, ready to go in the morning immediately with the campaign staff. 

The SUV pulls to a stop under the elegant awning of The Plaza, its golden lights glowing against the darkness. Immediately, the flurry of your arrival begins—Secret Service agents materializing from seemingly nowhere, forming a protective perimeter as hotel staff stand at attention near the entrance. Despite the late hour, a small crowd of reporters and curious onlookers has gathered behind barricades, camera flashes punctuating the darkness like artificial lightning.

"Ready?" Steve asks quietly.

“Let’s do this.” You nod, summoning a smile that feels genuine despite your exhaustion. This is the final push—one more night, one more day, and then whatever comes next. 

The moment the car door opens, the world rushes in—the cool November air carrying the scent of rain and the city, the sounds of late night traffic, the frenzied murmur of voices. Steve exits first, turning to offer you his hand. Camera flashes explode like silent lightning around you and Steve.

"Captain Rogers! How are you feeling about tomorrow?" "Any response to Senator Monroe's latest polling numbers?" "Are you confident about your chances?"

Steve offers a practiced wave and a warm smile that somehow manages to convey both confidence and humility. "We're focused on getting out the vote tomorrow," he calls to the reporters, his voice carrying just enough to be heard without seeming to shout. "Every American deserves to have their voice heard in this election."

His hand finds the small of your back, guiding you forward with practiced ease as the two of you navigate the gauntlet of questions and flashing cameras. The Secret Service forms a protective bubble around you, not pushing or shoving but somehow creating space through sheer presence. You've become accustomed to this dance—the careful balance of accessibility and security, of warmth and vigilance. 

The Plaza's ornate lobby envelops you in sudden quiet, the thick carpets and soaring ceilings absorbing the chaos that swirls just outside its revolving doors. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over marble floors, transforming the space into something from another era—a pocket of gilded elegance that has somehow survived the city's constant reinvention. 

The advance campaign staff move with practiced efficiency, checking in with each other in hushed tones. Several nod respectfully as you and Steve pass, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and determination. These are the people who have sacrificed sleep, stability, and sometimes sanity to bring this improbable campaign to the precipice of possible victory. 

Amidst the quiet bustle, you spot Eric, your logistics coordinator. When she sees you, Eric breaks away from the hotel staff, his efficiency on display even at this late hour. He's been with the campaign since June, and his ability to coordinate the movement of hundreds of people across the country with military precision has been invaluable. 

"Captain Rogers, Mrs. Rogers," he greets you both with a quick nod. "Everything's set for tomorrow. Your rooms are ready—you’re on the fifteenth floor. The campaign staff is distributed across the fourteenth and fifteenth."

He hands each of you a key card in a small Plaza-emblazoned envelope. "I've had your luggage sent up. The 6 AM breakfast meeting will be in the Grand Ballroom. We've converted the Edwardian Room into our command center—all the polling data will be coming in there throughout the day tomorrow." 

"Thank you, Eric. For everything." The simple words feel inadequate for the months of meticulous planning he's orchestrated, transforming the logistical nightmare of a presidential campaign into something almost manageable.

"Just doing my job," he replies with characteristic modesty, but his tired eyes brighten at the recognition. "Oh, and Mrs. Potts called. She's arriving early tomorrow morning. She'll meet you directly at the breakfast event."

Steve nods, his hand still resting gently at the small of your back, like it’s always belonged there. "Perfect.”

Jake checks his watch and stifles a yawn. "It's almost eleven. We made good time. You two head up, Lisa and I will help Eric marshal the rest of the troops as they arrive.”

You suspect Steve agrees because then he can hold you to going up as well, and he always tries to take care of you and the rest of his team. The two of you cross the lobby to the elevators, and it’s only a few moments before one arrives. Two Secret Service agents file in with you. As the lift ascends, the subtle vibration beneath your feet seems to harmonize with the nervous flutter in your chest.

Your fingers fidget with the edge of your sleeve, a small tell that you've never quite managed to control when anticipation takes hold. Steve notices—of course he notices. Those observant blue eyes miss nothing, especially when it comes to you. 

"Hey," Steve's voice is gentle as his hand covers yours, stilling the restless movement. "You okay?"

You look up to find his eyes studying you with that particular intensity that always makes your heart skip—the look that sees past practiced smiles and campaign-ready expressions to the truth underneath.

"I'm fine," you say automatically, then catch yourself. After everything you've been through together, the practiced deflections feel wrong. "Actually, I'm a little nervous." 

His brow furrows slightly, concern deepening the blue of his eyes. "About tomorrow?" 

"No. Well, yes, of course about tomorrow, but that's not—" You pause as the elevator slows, the display indicating you've reached the fifteenth floor. The doors slide open to reveal an elegantly appointed hallway, its rich carpeting muffling the sound as the Secret Service agents step out first, performing their customary sweep.

"All clear, sir," one of them says, positioning himself discreetly near the elevator bank while the other advances down the hallway, you and Steve following behind. 

You watch the numbers of the doors as you pass, then stop when you get to room 1518. “This is me,” you say. 

He frowns briefly, looking at the number on his key card envelope. “Mine says 1518, too.”

“Mhmm,” you nod, looking up at him through your lashes.

The realization settles over Steve's face, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding. "Oh," he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I see." 

You hand your key card to the agent, who taps it to the door and enters to do a security sweep. 

"I asked Sophia to arrange it with Eric," you admit, heat rising to your cheeks despite your best efforts. "I thought… for our last night before everything changes one way or another, I just want to be with you."

Steve's expression softens and he steps closer, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"That’s what you were nervous about?" he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "Asking me to stay with you tonight?"

You nod, feeling shy despite the months of growing intimacy between you. "We've been dancing around it. But tonight..."

Steve's hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. He doesn’t say anything, the way he looks at your face, you don’t need him to. Reassurance and longing are written and reflected there. 

A moment later, the agent steps out of the room. “All clear. We’ll be monitoring the floor.”

“Thank you, Roberts,” Steve says without looking away from you. 

You enter first, and the door swings open to reveal a spacious suite, elegantly appointed in the Plaza's signature style—cream walls, gold accents, plush furnishings in muted tones. Your luggage sits neatly arranged near the closet, and a small bouquet of fresh flowers brightens the writing desk.

Steve follows right behind you, the door closing behind him with a gentle thud that seems to seal you both away from the world outside. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the sudden privacy after days of constant company and scrutiny creating a bubble of stillness around you.

"So," Steve says.

The word hangs between you, heavy with unspoken anticipation. You turn to face him fully, taking in the sight of him—this man who has somehow become the center of your universe in the span of a few tumultuous months. The lines of fatigue around his eyes only enhance the intensity of his gaze as it locks with yours.

"So," you echo, a small smile playing at your lips. "Here we are." 

"Here we are," he agrees, his voice a low rumble that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance until mere inches separate you. "The night before everything changes." 

You reach up, fingers gently tugging to loosen his tie. "Everything's already changed, Steve. Whatever happens tomorrow..."

"We face it together," he finishes, capturing your hand where it rests against his chest. His fingers envelop yours, warm and steady. "Just like we promised."

The weight of tomorrow presses against the edges of your consciousness, but here, in this moment, there is only Steve—his presence solid and real before you. The campaign, the election, the world waiting beyond these walls—all of it recedes as you lean into him. 

"I'm glad you arranged this," he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Us tonight." 

"I've wanted to for weeks," you admit. "But everything's been so intense, and there never seemed to be the right moment to..." 

"I know." His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, his touch gentle yet grounding. "And I’ve never wanted to assume or rush, but I've wanted it too." 

Your eyes drift closed as he leans forward, his breath warm against your lips just before they meet yours. The kiss is gentle at first, but as his arms encircle you, drawing you closer against the solid warmth of his chest, something shifts—urgency bleeding into tenderness, months of carefully banked desire kindling into something more demanding. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, fusing him to you as the kiss deepens. His hands span your waist, lifting you effortlessly until your feet barely touch the ground. The sensation of being suspended, weightless in his embrace, sends a thrill through you that has nothing to do with the campaign or tomorrow's uncertainties.

When you finally break apart, both breathless, Steve rests his forehead against yours. His eyes, when they open, are darkened with desire but still impossibly blue. His eyes hold yours, a universe of emotion swirling in their blue depths. He shrugs off his suit coat, you slip out of your coat, and Steve takes both and drapes them over a nearby armchair. Then Steve steps close to you again, his hands moving to frame your face, his touch reverent as his thumbs trace the curve of your cheekbones.

"I've been hungry for this moment," he confesses, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you where your bodies press together. "Being alone with you. Really alone."

"Me, too," you confess, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw and his well-trimmed beard. 

His smile in response is both tender and knowing, a silent acknowledgment of the journey that brought you here—from strangers to hesitant allies to something neither of you could have anticipated. His hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer as his lips find yours again.

This kiss is different—deeper, unhurried yet purposeful. The careful restraint that's defined so much of your relationship begins to unravel with each passing second. His lips move against yours with increasing urgency, and you respond in kind, your body arching into his as if drawn by some invisible force.

Steve guides you backward through the suite with what feels like a dancer's grace, each step purposeful yet fluid. The world narrows to the points where your bodies connect—his hand at the small of your back, his chest against yours, his lips moving with increasing urgency against your own. The sitting room passes in a blur of cream and gold, furniture mere obstacles to navigate around as you drift through the space in this intimate waltz.

Your fingers work at his tie again, tugging the knot loose with fumbling eagerness. The silk slides free with a whisper against cotton, and you let it fall, forgotten, somewhere behind you. His mouth never leaves yours as you move together, his breath mingling with your own in the narrow space between kisses. Your shoulder bumps gently against a doorframe—the threshold to the bedroom—and Steve's arm tightens around you, steadying you against him.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips, the words more breath than sound. 

You feel the familiar pressure of his hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the doorway and into the bedroom. The soft glow of city lights filters through the sheer curtains, painting the room in muted blues and golds. 

Your fingers, trembling slightly with anticipation, move to the buttons of his crisp white shirt. The first button slips free easily, revealing a triangle of warm skin at his throat that you caress briefly before continuing your task. The second proves more challenging as Steve's kisses grow more insistent, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes focusing on anything else nearly impossible. You manage the third button just as the back of your knees meet the edge of the bed. 

At some point between the sitting room and the bedroom, Steve had evidently unzipped your dress, because now he quickly pushes the fabric down over your shoulders, and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet. He turns you around in his arms, pulling you flush against him. Without missing a beat, his left hand comes up to collar your throat and turn your head to the side so he can continue devouring your lips with his own. His other hand slides over the roundness of your stomach and down into your panties, no hesitation

His fingers slide against you, finding you already wet and ready for him. You gasp against his mouth at the contact, your body arching into his touch. Steve's lips trail from yours to the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath hot on your skin, and his beard scratching pleasantly against your neck.

"I've wanted this for so long," he whispers, his voice rough with desire. "Wanted you." 

You reach back, fingers threading through his hair as his thumb circles your most sensitive spot with exquisite precision. Your legs tremble, and he tightens his arm across your chest, supporting your weight as pleasure builds with each deliberate stroke.

"Steve," you breathe, the word half plea, half prayer. 

He turns you in his arms once more, then pushes you back onto the mattress. He’s quick to follow, hovering over you as you both slither further up the bed, capturing your mouth in that kiss that's constant hunger and heat. 

His shirt hangs open now, and you push it from his shoulders, murmuring, “Too many clothes,” desperate to feel his skin against yours. He shrugs it off, chuckling against your lips. 

"I agree," he murmurs, his hands moving to unclasp your bra with surprising dexterity. As he tosses it aside, his eyes darken with appreciation, taking in the sight of you beneath him. "God, you're beautiful." 

His palm cups your breast, thumb brushing across the sensitive peak as he lowers his head to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. You arch into his touch, fingers working at his belt buckle with growing urgency. The metal clinks as it comes free, and Steve shifts to help you push his pants down his hips. 

The bed cradles you as Steve's weight settles over you, his body a perfect counterbalance of power and restraint. Every touch feels like a revelation, each kiss deeper than the last. His hands trace the curves of your body with reverence, as if mapping territories both familiar and new. 

"You're beautiful," he whispers against your collarbone, his lips tracking a slow path downward. "So beautiful." 

Your fingers explore the broad expanse of his shoulders, feeling the play of muscles beneath warm skin as he moves. When his mouth closes over your breast, a soft gasp escapes you, your back arching into the sensation. His beard creates a delicious friction against your sensitive skin, the contrast between softness and roughness heightening every sensation. 

He sucks and lavishes your nipple with attention that makes your head spin before moving his mouth to your other breast and delivering more of the dizzying pleasure. Only when he has you squirming beneath him is he satisfied. He moves back up your body, and his mouth captures yours again.

Your hands slide over the muscled planes of his chest, marveling at the contrast between the softness of his skin and the hardness of the body beneath. When your fingers trace the defined ridges of his abdomen, following the trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Steve shivers beneath your touch, his breath catching as your fingers dip below the elastic of his boxers. The hardness of him strains against the fabric, his physical desire for you manifested plainly. You trace the length of him through the cotton, reveling in the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes darken to midnight as they hold yours.

"I need you," you whisper, emboldened by the naked want in his gaze. "All of you." 

The words act like a catalyst. Steve moves with sudden purpose, stripping away the last barriers between you until there's nothing but skin against skin, heat against heat. His weight settles partially on you, one strong thigh slipping between yours as he claims your mouth again. You’re sure you’re going to forget to breathe, the way this man - your husband - kisses you in this moment. 

His hand skims down your side, tracing the curve of your hip before sliding between your bodies. When his fingers find your folds again, you gasp against his mouth, your body arching into his touch. He explores you with gentle thoroughness, learning what makes your breath catch, what draws those soft moans from deep in your throat.

"Steve," you breathe, his name a plea as tension coils tighter within you. "Please." 

He understands what you're asking for, positioning himself between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance. His eyes find yours, intense and questioning even now. 

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice rough with need but still so careful, so considerate. 

In answer, you wrap your legs around his hips, drawing him closer. The first slow push of him entering you draws a moan from both your lips, the sensation of fullness, of completeness, overwhelming in its intensity. He moves with deliberate control, giving you time to adjust to him, his forehead pressed against yours. 

"Yes," you whisper, tracing his cheekbone with trembling fingers. "I've never been more sure of anything." 

Steve's eyes hold yours as he begins to move, setting a rhythm that quickly has you both breathing hard. The world narrows to this—to the perfect friction where your bodies join, to the sound of his breath against your ear, to the weight of him above you, anchoring you against the rising tide of pleasure. 

His pace quickens, driven by your encouraging moans and the way your hips rise to meet each thrust. One of his hands slides beneath you, tilting your hips at an angle that has you gasping his name, your nails digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders. 

"Steve," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips as pleasure builds within you, coiling tighter with each movement of his hips against yours.

"Let go," he murmurs against your throat, his voice strained with the effort of control. "I've got you." 

His mouth captures yours again and again, each kiss deeper than the last, as if he's trying to memorize the taste of you. 

The exquisite tension builds and builds until it finally breaks like a wave crashing against shore, pleasure radiating outward from where your bodies join. Your back arches off the bed as you cry out, fingers gripping Steve's shoulders as if he's the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned liquid with sensation. He follows you moments later, his rhythm faltering as his release claims him, your name a reverent whisper against your throat. 

For several heartbeats, neither of you moves, bodies still joined, breaths mingling in the narrow space between your faces. Steve's weight is carefully balanced on his forearms, his body a warm shelter above yours. When he lifts his head to look at you, the tenderness in his gaze makes your chest ache with an emotion too vast to name. 

"Hey," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead with gentle fingers. 

"Hey yourself," you reply, voice slightly hoarse. 

As the aftershocks subside, Steve gathers you close, rolling to his side and bringing you with him. Your head finds the perfect resting place against his chest, where you can hear the gradual slowing of his heartbeat. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine as the world slowly expands beyond the two of you once more.

"That was..." you begin, struggling to find words adequate for what just transpired between you.

"Worth waiting for," Steve finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Though I've been thinking about it since that night in Tucson."

You smile against his skin. "Only since Tucson?”

His chuckle vibrates through his chest and into yours, a warm sound that wraps around you like a blanket. "Maybe before," he admits, his fingers still tracing gentle patterns on your skin. "Maybe since that day in the garden at the DAR headquarters when you told me what you really thought about my speech."

"That long?" you ask, tilting your head to look up at him, finding his expression soft with memory. That had been a sweltering hot afternoon in mid-July - long before you thought he viewed you as more than an ally. 

"You surprised me," Steve says simply. "Not many people do that anymore." 

You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him properly, drinking in the sight of him relaxed and unguarded in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. "For me it was the hospital visit in Chicago."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Really? That early?"

"Not consciously," you admit, tracing the line of his collarbone with your fingertip. Chicago had been the very tail end of June. "But looking back, that's when everything started to shift. You were so you, even when no one was watching."

Steve captures your wandering hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to your palm. “I love you,” he declares for the first time, no restraint, voice firm and warm. 

Your heart skips a beat, but you’re quick to respond in kind, grinning when you say, “I love you, too,” your face splitting into a wide grin. 

The moment hangs between you, weightless and perfect. Steve's smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in that way that makes your heart flutter. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across your skin.

“I love you,” he says again.

You settle back against him, content in the circle of his arms as the sounds of the city filter in through the windows—distant sirens, the occasional car horn, the ambient hum that is uniquely New York. Tomorrow looms beyond this moment, with all its uncertainties and possibilities, but here, now, there is only this—the steady rhythm of Steve's heart beneath your ear, the warmth of his body, the love you’ve been building together finally spoken aloud. 

"I've been thinking about this," he confesses, his voice still thick with emotion. "About tonight. About us. About what happens after tomorrow."

You flatten your palm over his chest, anchoring yourself against the tide of feelings his words evoke. "What do you think happens? After tomorrow?"

He’s quiet for a moment, and you wait. "I don't know what happens with the election. But I know what I want to happen with us."

Your heart beats faster, a flutter of anticipation rising in your chest. "Tell me."

Steve takes a breath, his hands sliding up and down your back, caressing your body with gentle reverence. "I want us to continue building our life together. The real one I feel like we’ve been nurturing—not just for the cameras or the campaign. I want mornings and evenings and all the moments in between."

The raw honesty in his voice catches at something deep inside you. This is Steve—the man beneath the mantle. 

"I want that too," you whisper, the words feeling like a promise. "All of it." 

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer against the solid warmth of his chest. Outside, the city continues its nighttime symphony, but in this room, in this bed, time seems suspended—a perfect bubble of peace before tomorrow's storm. 

"No matter what happens with the election," Steve murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "this—us—is real. It's the most real thing in my life." 

You lift your head to look at him, taking in the sincerity etched across his features, the vulnerability in his eyes that he shows to so few. "Mine too." 

His smile in response warms you from the inside out. His hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw with tender precision. "Get some sleep," he whispers. 

“You first,” you tease. 

He laughs softly before kissing you once more before you both drift off. 

next part: Election Day in New York, part 1

Did I include links for rooms at The Plaza, including the room type I decided I wanted you and Steve to spend the night together in? Yes. Yes, I did.

DID YOU ALSO GET TO FINALLY HAVE SEX WITH YOUR FANTASTIC HUSBAND? YES! THE THING WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! SLOWEST BURN OF ALL TIME, but I knew from the very beginning that I wanted your first time to be on the eve of the election, and even as the story gained more plot and put more and more chapters and developments between where we started and getting to this night, I'm so glad I stuck to that part of the original plan.

....can you believe I thought this story was only going to be six or seven chapters? 🤣

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[sashiavi]

Thirst idea:

Shane catching you and Sam fucking in the Joja Mart Storage. At first, he's disgusted. At work, seriously? Have some decency. But as Sam pauses his thrusts, Shane decides fuck it, he doesn't get paid enough anyways.

This results in Shane pulling Sam out of you and taking his place from behind, groaning at the feeling of your sweet heat around him. He wastes no time in setting a steady pace, all while mocking Sam for how amateur he is. See how he's making you feel? How his hands pinch and twist your nipples, drawing such sweet sounds out of you? How his cock hits the perfect spot inside of you, making you squirm and clench around him?

Sam better get his act together. Otherwise, Shane just might take his place, and all he'll get is his sloppy seconds. Would that really be such a bad thing though?

Sam and Shane are my absolute favourite poly pair and I will die on this hill </3 I need to write a nice yummy fic for them-

Ty for inspiring me ♡♡ drabble ahead

Joja backroom endeavours with Sammy were always a little tricky.

His cock is thick, bullyingly so; With an impressive length to pair, Yoba its hard to take him easily sometimes.

You whine and keen, your pitiful sounds echoing around the back room, uncomfy with the chilly fridge air biting at your skin and the achy stretch of Sam's cock making an attempt at a quickie.

Of course Shane hears it- He always fucken' does. Those whimpery whines and huffy little begs for Sam to settle down, gasps and choked up hiccups chirped out with each rough fuck of the blonde’s hips.

Always so annoying- Sam being that dirty little exhibitionist that can't keep it wrapped up in his pants, practically dragging Shane into your shared shenanigans.

Of course, you can't blame him for it. For huffing a curse and barking a rough insult towards the blonde, curses dribbling off of his tongue while his lips twitch into an unimpressed scowl.

Look at how he has you.

Bent over a frosty box of product, pathetically clinging to the edges while Sam rails you from behind, large and long fingers twisted into your hair, purposely pressing your face into the cardboard. It's uninspiring if you ask Shane. No wonder you're struggling to take the younger man, heck, you're probably dryer than the fucken' Calico Desert. Boys and their eagerness, right? Skipping all the Prep to get to the goods.

You can't blame him for rolling his eyes and pulling Sam off by the scruff like a mutt, situating himself against your bare ass all while Sam watches with an obedient gulp.

Shane easily leans over you, soft tummy pressing into your back, all warm compared to the chilly fridge air. His hand soothes between your legs, two fingers easily slipping between the wet of your folds, circling that sweet bud of yours, smearing the growing mess of slick all over your cunt. He barks a soft grumble in your ear, filthy words shaming Sam, praising you for being so kind to even help the boy in the first place.

"Sucha' Good n' helpful girl aren'tcha? Hmm? Takin' that idiot all sweet like that-" His prickly jaw grazes the back of your neck, teasing at your ear causing a hot shiver to run down your spine. His thick fingers dare to sink into your supple hole, more than wet than before, practically drooling for the other man. "S'okay.. Gonan make you nice n' ready f'him.. Yeah?" Mockingly soft and yet laced in truth.

Poor Sammy has to watch from the side- See you take the fat of Shane's Cock, a little shorter but far thicker than his own, stretching the taught walls of your cunt wide. That paw of his finds itself cupping the supple mound of your cunt, wet fingers toying and circling the bud of your clit while his hips begin their rolling fucks.

Your sounds are something else- Less of a whining choke, strung along and keening, bottom lip bitten by your teeth stuck in a horny frown. Yoba, the gasp of your throat and roll of your eyes when Shane dares to manhandle you.

His other hand weasels its way between the valley of your breasts, palm laying flat to pull you in, forcing you to half stand while the older man snaps his hips in mean little fucks. He fiddles with your chest, groping and teasing, twisting your pert nipples between his fingers in tandem with the circling of your sticky clit.

You hold yourself up with your hands, back arched perfectly, taking Shane from behind, pushing yourself back into the girth of his cock. Sam can only stare, eyes coming in contact with Shane's, feeling blood rush to his cock with the quirk of the older man's eyebrow, with the insults he throws at the Blonde.

"Can only dream of takin' her like this hmm? Listen- Fuck.. Listen to her-" Was he talking about those moany chirps from your throat or the gush of your cunt- Yoba, Sam didn't care. Not when you looked so good like this.

Nor when you finally cream, stuttering a hiccup while your milky cunt finished Shane off, suckling the man until he spurt his last thick rope of cum into your cunt.

Sam should be embarrassed, beat red in the face for being so put down, feeble in the eyes of the older man- Unable to properly ready his girl and please you like he needed to- But how could he care?

Despite it all, Sammy loves his sloppy seconds.

•·············°·············•♡•·············°·············•

Whoops I wrote a drabble

[shallowseeker]

I do love the first "shop-talk" scene in 4x02:

and not just because it effortlessly, primally occurs in THE KITCHEN MY SPECIAL INTEREST (and it's a late-night kitchen-talk at that... how intimate!) There's just... so much more to this scene that I want to ramble about!

First, there's something so adorably "big brother" about Dean taking the floor while Sam gets the couch:

But in terms of symbols...

In this dreamscape, the living room represents a known place. It’s a familiar territory, a space shaped by childhood and the daily rhythms of a little brother Dean knows like his own heartbeat.

In this shot with Sam, we see "an open window" and the clearly lit figure of the kid Dean grew up with—(well raised, really).

Here, Dean knows the rules. He knows how to move, how to deflect, how to care. He knows his mission. His role. His scripted lines.

BUT

Here, the kitchen is different. Murkier. It’s not representing the known rhythms of childhood. It's an emerging, liminal, domestic space.

The windows are flanked by shutters, filtering the light. There’s no clear view to be had... only silhouettes and suggestion. (This is the space of adulthood. Of individuation. Rawness, fear, and confusion abound!)

Unlike their first meeting, Cas doesn’t burst in with wings and thunder. He stands still. Quiet. Mysterious. Secretive? A stranger, yes—but one who already sees Dean in ways that unsettle him.

And ofc, this isn’t just a conversation. It’s a visitation—a mythic moment that happens while Dean is vulnerably caught between states: sleep and waking, safety and fear, childhood and transformation.

Cas is imposing, a low-level threat presence, but he waits for Dean to approach.

Aaaaaaaaaand

CAS: Excellent job with the witnesses.

Cas opens with shop talk. It’s clinical. Detached. The tone is 10000% at odds with the intimate motif of the dark kitchen. We've somehow launched straight into the "We raised you out of Hell for work," vibes, like Dean is a mission parameter, not a person.

But it’s not cruelty—it’s just his angelic default. It’s how Cas knows how to speak. Orders. Objectives.

War room briefings.

And Dean seems… strangely betrayed by this.

Not because Cas has done something obviously cruel, but because of what’s missing—human warmth, care, acknowledgment. (You were hip to all this? You did nothing? You?)

Dean is offended, even affronted—but beneath that, he’s clearly craving some kind of warmth.

Who knows why he expects it?

And then—Cas fidgets. Just barely. A shift. A pause.

There's this little "uh" that slips out in his answer. It's such a small thing, but in context, it's HUGE. Dean asked something direct—accusatory, maybe even vulnerable—and Cas can't seem to give a clean answer:

CAS: I was, uh, made aware.

Dean reacts bigly.

What’s endlessly fascinating about this moment to me is that his sense of betrayal seems soooo genuinely emotional. His pivot to sarcasm—"Well, thanks a lot for the angelic assistance"—quickly escalates into something almost childlike: "I almost got my heart ripped out of my chest!"

First, the line reads like an appeal: "Don’t you care that I was in danger? *I* was in danger!" It reads like he's low-key fishing for a reaction, testing whether Cas felt any way about that fact.

Second, his body language zeroes in on his own chest—his heart. He gestures forcefully, repeatedly. It’s not just verbal—it’s visceral, almost like his body is trying to say what his words can’t: Don't you care? Don’t you feel? I'm hurt. Worry about me!!!!

And Cas?

Cas answers with a flat, "But you didn't."

It’s even. Unbothered. It lands like a brush-off, like he’s reducing Dean’s very real, very human fear to a statistical non-event.

You’re overreacting. That’s the subtext Dean picks up here.

Which of course causes Dean to get even more huffy:

DEAN: "I thought angels were supposed to be guardians—fluffy wings, halos—you know, Michael Landon. Not dicks."

And well. It's another appeal, really. Dean's saying, "I thought you were supposed to protect us. Protect me."

But also it's so funny because Dean is low-key insulting him. He's of course testing Cas—feeling him out, trying to see if Cas even CARES, but it's so hilarious, too. They're already sniping!

Cas remains stubbornly even. Stoic. Hard.

CAS: "Read the bible. I'm a soldier."

(It reads like: "So what if I AM a dick, Dean? What then? Beware. I'm cruel. I'm warning you. THIS is what I am.")

But I love how Dean remains obstinate nevertheless. ("Yeah? A soldier, huh? Why didn’t you fight?") And Cas doesn't give. ("I’m not here to perch on your shoulder.")

Their attitudes clash, beat for fucking beat!!!! Cas sways forward aggressively, squaring up like he's starting to get a bit ruffled by Dean’s testing: "We had larger concerns."

Excuses, excuses.

It spirals further as Dean starts mining for more—emotional—information. "Concerns? There were people getting torn to shreds down here!”

Again, he's in a coded way feeling out if Cas cares about PEOPLE: "Don't you care?"

(Don't you care don't you care don't you CARE?)

Because here's the kicker: There’s something about Cas that makes Dean suspect he does.

Maybe it’s the way Cas holds himself. Or when he chooses to look away—shame, maybe?—or maybe just how Cas settles his breathing when challenged. (Cas stiffens and digests things in ways that read like guilt.)

Whatever it is, Dean picks up on those small signs and it TOTALLY emboldens him to keep hurling his emotions at him!

The conversation goes even deeper after that, lurching into dangerous territory for both, territory about values and Faith.

DEAN: “And by the way, while all this is going on, where the hell is your boss, huh? If there is a God? ... I’m not convinced. Because if there is a God, what the hell is he waiting for, huh?”

And throughout this entire exchange, Cas’s doubts are visible in his body language.

Frankly, I think that’s what gives Dean the courage to push so hard. It’s like he sees through the armor, maybe thinking to himself: "Jeez, maybe this angel doubts all this bullshit, too."

Unfortunately for Dean, when Dean breaks, he breaks wide open.

DEAN: "What the hell is he waiting for, huh? Genocide? Monsters roaming the earth?" This is very raw. "The freaking apocalypse? At what point does he lift a damn finger? And help the poor bastards that are stuck down here?"

For some reason—some maddening, magnetic reason, whether it’s the nonverbal cues or recently dying and going to Hell or whatever—it just cracks Dean apart. Even as he’s trying to get Cas to break, to flinch, to feel, it’s Dean who’s unraveling.

Of course it’s also: At what point do YOU lift a finger? Why didn’t you help ME? I almost died. Other people DID. That’s the real question pulsing underneath Dean’s rant. He’s not just condemning Heaven. He’s confronting Cas the individual as much as his own crisis of faith and disappointment.

And Cas... Cas breaks eye contact. He has to.

Not arguing. Just… withdrawing. Retreating into formality. He defaults to a scripted line... doctrine:

At that—Dean explodes.

Why won’t Cas meet him halfway? They’re not on the same emotional wavelength at all. Dean is so frustrated!

And yet, with Dean's "So help me, I will kick your ass!" comes a turning point. Cas literally throws up his hands, and it’s beautiful because it also shows a yielding.

It's a small, rare sign that Cas is finally letting Dean’s truth reach him.

An "Okay, fine."

Dean breathes a beautiful little sigh of relief at that yielding. His shoulders relax. It felt good to get all that out.

Like maybe he feels like—oh my God, hey—maybe they actually got somewhere. Maybe now they can finally really talk.

But then!

Then, adorably, Dean’s eyes dart around in a panic.

Because Dean’s brave to a fault—but even he’s thinking, WHAT THE FUUUUUCK AM I DOING? WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SAY????

When Dean peeks at Cas again, it’s different.

The air between them has cleared a little bit. There’s a new kind of honesty between them now: raw, foundational, and open.

Dean feels it, and he tentatively broaches that new space. (Because Cas yields, softening just a bit nonverbally, Dean feels comfortable enough to try.)

So he moves a little closer to Cas, mirrors his body language, and speaks to him like a fellow soldier...

This shoptalk too is yet another coded appeal. It's a: "Please talk to me. Tell me something."

Cas shifts uneasily, throwing out another clipped company line: "big things afoot."

But then!!!!

Then Cas decides to tell him... what he can.

"But you need to know," is code for, "I'll tell you what I can." It functions as a bit of rationalized logic. You NEED to know, so it's okay if I tell you.

And so, they fall easily into what will become their infamous rhythm. As Dean moves forward to tentatively join Cas by the sink, Cas can’t help but lean in just a little—another subtle fidget.

They're swaying into each other's space.

As they inch closer, testing one another, the light from the blinds slices across their faces, casting all these sharp lines and shadows.

And as they test each other and throw their frustrations and emotions at one another, they see each other a little more clearly.

[mellowyellowdaydream]

Study Break

A/N: here’s a quick little thang 😉 not proofread cause I don’t have the time lol but hope y’all enjoy! I’ve been busy moving with my little fam up into the mountain!

Word count: just over 3k

Rating: mature audiences only because of mature themes! 18+!!!!

Warnings: smut(obviously), readers in control, so sub!dean?????, p in v, sorry if I missed anything

Summary: Y/N Singer helps Dean take his studying more seriously, hopefully

It was a humid summer day in Sioux Falls, almost all the windows were open to help pull in the breeze from outside. Minimal clothing was worn because well it was too hot and humid.

Bobby was out on a one of his rare cases, probably helping Rufus is a state not too far from here. Never being too far from home base.

Sam was sprawled out on the couch,his long legs dangling off the couch because of his size, with a book covering his eyes. Snores spilling from his mouth. He must have been up all night going through lore books. Y/N thought looking at the Sasquatch of a man.

Y/N and Dean were seated side by side at the big desk in the room. Surprisingly Dean was stripped down to just a plain black tshirt and his jeans. Y/N was in a pair of black torn up short shorts and fishnets, as well as a black cami top with the little lace edging and small rose in the center of the hem by her breasts. Y/N was always surprised that Dean was still somehow cool enough in a thick pair of denim. But then again it would be really weird to see him in shorts.

Dean was flipping through the book in front of him. Starting to get huffy because unlike Sam or Y/N he didn’t like to fill his free time with lore or research. He huffed one more time and then slammed the book shut. Resting his face into his palms, them rubbing soothingly over his eyes.

“What’s wrong Dean?” Y/N asked, her eyes not leaving her book, every once in a while scribbling something into her notebook.

“This is boring. Can’t we go out to the shop, I’m sure you could use some help on your truck.” Dean offered hoping they could sneak away.

“Dean, my garage would be an oven right now, maybe later once it’s cooled off.” Y/N answered, still flipping and scribbling away.

“Fine.” Dean said leaning back in his chair, taking a look at Y/N.

Mhhhmmmm that shirt does wonders for her, and those shorts-fuck. Don’t even get my started on her tights-what I would give to just rip through em here an- no Dean no dirty thoughts. Dean said admiring her but then stopping himself because he didn’t want to cross an unvoiced boundary of his.

Don’t fuck Y/N under her fathers roof. Because for some reason it felt like Bobby would find out and then once again it would be Dean’s ass.

“Why are you staring at me?” Y/N asked, feeling the weight of Dean's gaze.

“I’m not staring, I’m admiring sweetheart. There's a difference.” Dean said trying to justify his actions, adjusting himself in his chair.

“Ok Dean, sure.” Y/N said, pushing hair back and off her face. The little stray hairs sticking to her forehead.

“Why don’t we try something? Hmm, you trust me?” Y/N offered to Dean, finally looking up at him. Meeting his playful gaze.

“What do you have in mind?” Dean teased.

“Get a room!” Was grumbled from the book over Sam’s face.

“With pleasure!” Y/N said, getting up and stretching her body. The small pops and cracks making her release a small moan.

Which didn’t go unnoticed by Dean, him squirming in his seat. Y/N grabbed her notebook and started to exit the library area of the house, stopping in the doorway waiting for Dean to follow. She simply turned to look at him and just raised an eyebrow.

And when he realized she wanted him to follow her, he scrambled to get up, his chair doing an awkward scrap against the floor in his rush to stand. He met her at the doorway while she led him up the staircase, it shifting under their weight as they ascended.

Her room was at the top of the stairs and to the right. Posters of her favorite bands were taped to the door(think Siouxsie Sioux, Duran Duran, Korn, Slipknot), with the obvious angsty ‘keep out’ sign. She kicked open the door for them, and waited to close it after Dean. Flipping on the ceiling fan to help circulate the air, opening the one window that was by her door. A small breeze hitting her in her face.

He obviously made a beeline for her bed because it was not only inviting but it was like heaven on earth with how comfortable it was and that it smelt like Y/N. Which was dried roses, tobacco and something musky. He loved it, and wanted to just choke on the smell if it meant he would die happy.

Dean flopped down into the fluffy comforter face first so he could nuzzle to the pillows and blankets. He was too distracted to notice Y/N walk over to her small stereo in the corner to pop in one of her many cassette tapes. The soft melody of Dark side of the Moon by Pink Floyd filled the room as she crept over to her bed. Tripping on a pair of her forgotten platforms making her stumble and hit her toe on the bed frame.

“Son of a bitch!” Y/N said hobbling over to her bedside, sitting down to run her exposed toe.

“You ok?” Dean mumbled from the pillows.

“I’m fine, it doesn’t need to be amputated.” Y/N joked, climbing on the bed. She walked on her knees until she was straddling his waist from behind. Her journal still in her hand, that was now resting on his back.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked, wanting to flip over to look up at her.

“Well you need to learn more about what’s out there so I thought I could help you.” Y/N said matter of factually, poking her finger into his back muscle.

“And how are you gonna do that?” Dean asked, shifting under her slightly.

“I have my ways, now what do you want to learn about? I think Sirens would be interesting.” Y/N said starting to flip through her journal until she found the page she wanted.

“Fine, can I at least turn over?” Dean sighed, pushing up slightly. Y/N slipped off and let him turn over.

Once he was laying one his back Y/N swung her leg back over his waist, noticing a slight bulge starting to make its presence known. Deans hands found her thighs to rest on, his fingers picking slightly at her tights and loose strings from her jeans edge. She rested her hands back on his chest with her open journal.

“Alright sweetheart. How are you gonna help me remember Sirens?” Dean asked, his eyes drawing lines up and down her body. Admiring the position they were in. His hips making a quick roll to get closer and more comfortable under her

“Well it’s a surprise, but first I gotta do something.” Y/N said, a little smirk gracing her face. She gave her hips a testing roll, raising her eyebrow at Dean.

He just looked at her in awe-because no matter how hot or humid it was here he wanted to be closer to her. He wanted their skin to stick together, all sweaty. She looked like a work of art from his point of view. Her hair somewhat messy and thrown up on her head, random pieces of hair sticking out and falling from her bun. She had no makeup on, not wanting to fuss with the extra layer in this heat. But there were remnants of some black rubbed around her eyes making them pop from her paled skin.

Dean traced his hand from her thigh up her side, tickling slightly as a small smile graced her face. His hand didn’t stop when his finger felt all of her necklaces, different charms and gems dangling from different length chains. He finally stopped when his fingers started to brush her jaw and face.

She just smiled and rolled her hips again, looking deeply into his eyes and she bit her lip. “Little” Dean making himself very well know-even though he was anything but little.

“I think we have too many layers on for what I want to accomplish here.” Y/N said starting to unbutton her shorts hoping Dean would get the hint.

He caught on quite quick and reached for his own jeans, Y/N climbed off so she could wiggle the shorts down her body. Dean wiggled his jeans and boxers off while he laid down, very eager for what was gonna happen. Kicking them somewhere into her room. His member flopped onto his upper thigh, resting in all its thick veiny glory.

Y/N reached to take her tights off next but stopped when Dean's hand grabbed hers.

“What?” Y/N asked very confused.

Dean just smirked and grabbed her hand to bring her back on to his lap. She settled over him, her core brushing against his sensitive member as she straddled him again. She found her journal in the bed covers before proceeding. His hands finding her hips to pull her closer to him.

He noticed how her panties somehow matched the lace and little rose of her tank top. His fingers tracing along the pattern of the fishnets up to her panties, his finger coming up to the edges on her panties. While she was distracted he took his pointer and middle fingers on both hands to pull the tights apart, causing them to rip open at her crotch.

“Hey! I liked these!” Y/N exclaimed, slapping one hand onto his chest playfully.

“Well you can wear it as a shirt then. I know you alternative people love making shit your own way.” Dean said, his fingers starting to stroke at her pussy through the soft fabric of her panties, feeling a small wet spot forming.

“Fine, now before we get started. Are you ok with me being in charge? I remember you wanting to try it out sometime.” Y/N asked, starting to fidget with her journal that was still splayed out on dean's chest.

“Say less sweetheart.” Dean confirmed, letting his arms fall back to around his head.

Y/N just smiled at him brightly, reaching down between them finding her panties. She slid them to the side and stood up on her knees to readjust. She grabbed Dean's cock and sank down on him.

They both gasped, he was buried to the hilt, pelvises resting together. Y/N just took a deep breath to steady herself and picked up her journal. Ignoring the look on dean's face, him being utterly confused as to what they were actually about to do.

“Now sirens are tricky creatures. They usually never leave Greece. So if you encounter one it’s pretty rare. What’s hard is that they can read you mind and take a form that would appeal to you.” Y/N said, giving a small roll of her hips.

“What do you think Dean?” She added, making sure he paid attention to the lesson.

“Yeah, super rare.” Dean said, struggling to ignore the way her tight, warm pussy around his cock.

“Dean. Pay attention or I’m getting myself off and gonna make you suffer.” Y/N said, stopping her hip rolls and adjusting herself on top of him.

Dean just shut his mouth and nodded. He made his hands grasp the headboard above him, trying to ground himself.

“Good boy. Now while yes a siren could come to you as something you are attracted to it can also come to you as someone you care about. Whatever it can do to trick you into doing its bidding.” Y/N continued, started to roll her hips again. Dean gasped because he loved the praise and when she adjusted them, it created a new and deeper angle.

“Repeat Dean.” Y/N said, trying to get him to focus on what they were trying to learn.

“They can be an attractive person or resemble someone you know. They want to use you.” Dean said between gasps because while Y/N stopped reading out loud she didn’t stop the tortuous drag and fall of her hips against his thus creating a fire to form in both their bellies.

“Good, now once they have targeted you they are gonna do anything to get you in contact with their spit. It holds a venom that will make you so devoted you forget yourself as a person and just want to do what they want you to do.” Y/N kept reading, and riding Dean.

Her hips nor knees getting tired whatsoever because the fire in her belly was spurring her on. The power she held over Dean made her feel magical. A gasp left her lips at the thought of holding the power of orgasm over Dean and him just letting her do it adding to her fire.

“So don’t share drinks with strangers? Or kiss strangers?” Dean said, his grip tightening on the headboard.

“Correct, now there is one true way to kill a siren. And that’s to take a bronze dagger dipped in their affected victims blood.” Y/N finished with the page, flipping it to the next.

“Got it, bronze dagger, active victims blood. What else?” Dean said, getting impatient that he couldn’t just grab her hips and fuck up into her to bring them both to ecstasy. He could tell it was taking both of them a lot of strength to not do just that.

“Well that’s more modern lore. The older lore is that of legends from lost ships.” Y/N gasped, rolling her hips until he hit that spongey spot inside her. Them both gasping at the electric contact.

“Can I fuck you yet?” Dean asked very obviously impatient. “I’ve been a good boy so to speak.” He added hoping that would make her say yes.

“No I want you to repeat it all back to me first then you can fuck me.” Y/N said matter of factly.

“Fine. Sirenscanappearasanattraxtivepersonorsomeoneclosetoyoutogetclosetoyou. Youwannaavoidtheirspitorelsetheycontrolyou. Inordertokillthemyouneedabronzedaggerdippedintheafflictedsblood. Now can I fuck you?” Dean spit out so fast it took a second for Y/N to register the words flying out of his mouth. His hips bucking up into her, hitting her g-spot again. Making her gasp and stop herself, throwing her journal off the bed. Putting her hands on his chest to steady herself.

“Ok Dean, go ahead.” Y/N said, relinquishing her control of this whole situation to him.

Dean didn’t waste any time, his hands released the headboard and quickly grabbed her hips. He planted his feet and started to piston his hips up into her pussy. Them both way too worked up from all the teasing she’s been doing while he “learned”.

Y/N leaned down to bring her face into the crook of his neck, her hands wandering over anything she could reach-his face, hair, or chest. Her gasps muffled into his neck and shoulder. Her pussy squelching with each thrust because she got incredibly turned on having him at her will.

“Fuck sweetheart. I think we need to do these types of lessons more often.” Dean said panting between thrusts. He worked his hand between the two of them and helped move her panties aside so he could find her clit.

His thumb started to circle the sensitive piece of soft flesh. Making Y/N moan into his neck, she started to kiss where she could wanting to show her appreciation for the attention to her clit. Dean continued to circle, changing speed and how he circled her clit. Knowing if he didn’t change it up she would become too oversensitive.

His face found her neck as well and whispered sweet nothings to her. -Such a good girl, and fuck I love how you keep squeezing me! She would just gasp and clench, a flood of arousal adding to the mess they were making.

Deans hips started to stutter, not being able to hold back much longer. He quickened his pace of thrusts as well as the strokes of his thumb, wanting to bring you to orgasmic relief first. He hit a spot deep inside her, and circled her clit just right to do so, making her gasp and choke a moan out. Y/N pressed her face further into his neck, her hands finding purchase in deans hair.

Dean gave a few shallow thrusts, chasing his high. He let out a deep groan and spilled his hot cum deep into Y/Ns fluttering pussy, the wetness almost pushing Dean out completely.

“Fuck. Definitely how we’ll learn from now on.” Y/N said, panting into his neck. Her hands cradling his face, leaving small kisses on the skin she could reach.

“Definitely.” Was all Dean could say, completely blissed out.

“Bobby’ll be home in an hour you two!” Sam called out from downstairs. The reality setting back in.

“Oh fuck he’s gonna kill me.” Dean said pulling out and trying to scramble off the bed.

“What? Sam?” Y/N asked, resting back against her headboard, her face completely blissed out and flushed.

“No your dad. He’s gonna beat my ass and then mount it in the den.” Dean said scrambling around half naked. Y/N just pointed to the opposite side of where he was looking to show him where his pants landed.

He scurried over and quickly shimmied them back on.

“Now would love nothing more than to hangout casually in here but I just feel like he knows I desecrated his own daughter in his home. So I’ll be right back.” Dean said quickly exiting the room.

He came back shortly with a towel to wipe Y/N’s pussy clean. She simply hissed at the coarse texture to her soft folds. Dean tossed the towel into her laundry hamper and gave her a quick kiss on the lips and hurried out of the room.

He peaked his head in quickly, “I'm gonna shower, you should probably change.” Was all he said before making his final exit to down stairs.

Y/N just smiled, blissful with how things were turning out.

[forthewomenonly]

You Belong to Me

Warnings: NSFW, smut, Sam Carpenter x reader, Sam Carpenter x Fem Reader (implied, no pronouns used), choking, semi exhibitionism, fingering (R receiving), oral (R receiving) , Top!Sam, jealous Sam, R’s really a pillow princess in this one (Sam gets nothing)  a/n: Lowkey hated on Ethan this entire fic sorry guys. Made him sound like a bitchy pervert...he is.

Sam was jealous. This isn’t a surprise Sam is always jealous, but she’s seething watching him shamelessly flirt with you in the comfort of her own home. Him being Ethan Landry. Sam hates Ethan Landry and his feigned innocence, she sees the way he looks at you. Of course she sees it, Sam looks at you the exact same way. He’s not the innocent virgin angel he claims to be, and the thought of him thinking of you in anyway other than platonically makes Sam feel violently nauseous. Ethan comes over twice a week to study with Tara, meaning that twice a week he gets to see you. How could he be so blind? Obviously you were Sam’s, everyone knew that. Yet it doesn’t stop him from throwing an arm over your shoulder, or complimenting your outfits in ways that are far too descriptive to be seen as friendly. Sam wants Ethan out of her home, and she briefly considers asking Tara if they would relocate their study sessions elsewhere. She quickly dismisses that thought as she realizes she doesn’t want her baby sister anywhere alone with that perv. She narrows her eyes, grimacing as she notices Ethan lean over and whisper something in your ear. The fit of giggles that you erupt into is more than enough to soften her gaze. But how dare he. How dare he make you laugh like that, that was Sam’s job. You aren’t Ethan’s. You belong to her. You belong to Sam. She grips the kitchen counter tightly, knuckles turning white and her hand veins bulging. Sam’s huffy and irritant, counting down the seconds until Ethan leaves her apartment. Her ears perk up as she hears Ethan finally begin to pack up his belongings, she walks up to the front door in long strides, opening the door to speed up the process of his departure. After hugging you for much longer than necessary he meets the angry Carpenter at the door. “Bye Sam!” he waves. Sam grumbles some distasteful words under her breath in annoyance. Not that he could hear her anyways as she slammed the door in his face the second he stepped out of the apartment.   --- The next time Ethan comes over, Sam is prepared. He doesn’t get a chance to say hello to either of you as Sam drags you into your shared bedroom the very moment Ethan walks in. You laugh as she shuts the room door in haste turning to face you. “What’s got you all riled up today” you say playfully poking at her chest. “You.” She growls. Your teasing grin wiped off your face instantly. Sam lunges forward capturing your lips in a heated kiss, moving downwards to kiss and suck at your throat. She all but tears your clothes off leaving you naked in front of her. “Sam- slow down.” you gasp out. You’re unsure of what has her so excited at the moment but you welcome the lustful attention, reaching your hands down to the hem of her shirt, lifting it over her head. You stop briefly taking a moment to gawk at Sam’s shirtless body. God she looks so hot. Her arm muscles are so defined and her forearm veins are so attractively visible, blood pulsing through her hand and arm veins from how hard she’s gripping your hips. She removes herself from you, settling down on the bed and propping herself up on her elbows. Immediately you follow her to the bed climbing on her stomach. Sam inhales sharply when she feels your wet cunt against her skin. Placing your hands on her chest, you rock yourself against the ridges of her abs. You let out a loud moan rolling your hips faster against her, Sam’s hands guide your hips in a steady rhythm. She flexes her abdomen and quickens pace making your body shudder, your moans increasing in volume. Usually Sam would have slapped her hand over your mouth by now to keep you quiet, but when you look down at her she just smirks at you, moving your hips faster against her. “Sam I c-can’t” you whine out desperately. The corners of her lips quirk up into a smile and she flips you onto your back. Sam knew that you wouldn’t be able to cum just from grinding on her stomach, you needed her help. You always do. You need Sam to make you cum, not Ethan, not anyone else. Sam. She prides herself in the fact that you’re no longer able to get yourself off properly. You can’t make yourself cum anymore, your own fingers incomparable to Sam’s fingers, tongue, or strap. Moving her hand down, Sam harshly presses her thumb against your puffy clit and you cry out loudly. Since she has decided against quieting you, you reach your hand up to cover your mouth yourself as Sam continues playing with your sensitive bundle of nerves. She can see you biting your hand and is not at all impressed. Sam grabs both of your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, while using the other to roughly shove two fingers inside your dripping cunt. The muscular girl removes her hand from your wrists and uses it to squeeze your throat, she feels your pussy flutter against her fingers as she drags them through your gummy inner walls. Your moans are loud and frequent, making Sam quicken her pace and curl her fingers, massaging your g-spot with each thrust. You cum with an obscenely loud pornographic moan, soaking Sam’s fingers and grinding into her hand. Sam moves down the bed, using her strength to pry your legs wider open. Opening her mouth to messily lick up all of your juices, she has a mix of her saliva and your wetness dripping down her chin and onto the bedsheets. Licking wide stripes through your folds and up to your clit. She takes the pulsing nub between her lips, sucking vigorously. You’re close to orgasm again and you buck your hips up trying to press yourself harder against Sam’s tongue. “Gonna cum Sam, gonna c-cum so hard.” you whine. Her fingers press harder into your thighs and you’re sure they’ll bruise. She lifts her head up looking you in the eye before pushing her fingers back inside of you, in place of her tongue. “Say my name.” “ W-what?” “Say. my. name.” she repeats. “Sam. Feels so good Sammy.” you moan breathlessly. You clench impossibly tight around her long, thick fingers and Sam knows you’re about to cum. “My name, say it again when you cum. I want to hear it.” “Fuck Sam! I’m cumming!” you scream out, rolling your hips out in time with her slowing thrusts. She pulls her fingers out, pushing them into your mouth making you taste yourself. Sam stands up brushing your damp hair out of your face delicately and  kisses the tip of your nose. She pulls a shirt on before exiting the room to grab you water. Walking up to the fridge she can see her younger sister’s disgusted expression and has to fight the urge to snicker. Turning her head she sees Ethan. It was her name you moaned, not Ethan’s. He’ll never get to have you like this because you’re all Sam’s. His jaw is slack, eyes wide, and his gaze flitters everywhere in the room except for Sam, he avoids eye contact with her desperately. Clearing his throat he packs up his belongings and gives Tara a meek “goodbye”. Sam smirks in victory, before turning to walk back into your room, water bottle in hand.

Tara rolls her eyes exasperated, now she has to study all alone just because her sister got jealous. Sam can be a real dick sometimes. 

[babybearnation]

mclaren boys x tsundere!reader!! :D

plot twist: me & vinnie aren't just talking mclaren f1 here 😼

gn!tsundere!reader

lando norris:

the first time you glared at him, lando ignored it but then he saw you acting all sunshine-y and nice around others and got confused

he muses over it before assuming you had met the other people already, prompting him to make a mental plan on how to get you to warm up to him

the first time you blush around him, lando celebrates it excitedly by kissing your cheek without thinking about it, which only makes your blush worse

lando gets very excited whenever he peels back another of your layers, revealing a softer side to you - he also greatly adores the way you act all huffy with him like you did before he cracked your cold outer shell because the act doesn't work on him anymore

oscar piastri:

oscar was a bit confused when he first met you because lando had described you as friendly and kind but now you were glaring at him

once you're gone, oscar asks lando if you were having a bad day or something because you seemed so nice to lando but you were cold and distant with oscar, but lando was just as confused as he was

when oscar catches you trying to hide a smile after he cracked a joke, he perks up and immediately makes it his mission to make you laugh and smile without covering it up or hiding it

oscar always appreciates each and every shy smile or pink cheeked look he receives from you and he's glad he managed to wiggle his way into your tender heart, especially when you shyly open up to him about your life and everything

pato o'ward:

immediately disheartened when you treat him so coldly because you're so stunning and he wanted to be your friend so badly!

he decides he's gotta try and convince you to be his friend because he doesn't wanna let such a golden opportunity slip through his fingers, especially if a friendship could turn into something more

the first whiff of a blush caused by him on your cheeks and pato will coo and aww over you, immediately making you go cold with him again which only makes pato desire you even more, tbh

the first time you initiate affection with pato, he'll celebrate so loudly, cheering and whooping and hollering before picking you up in his arms and spinning you around - it makes you go bright red but pato loves that so you don't really complain

taylor barnard:

his heart is absolutely broken the second you start being cold with him because you seemed so kind and sweet from afar

when he realises it's just him you're cold towards, he isn't sure what to do, but he decides to try and be sweet towards you in spite of that because he's not horrible

when you grumpily congratulated him after his first podium, your cheeks a soft pink, taylor perked up and immediately pulled you into a hug, excited that you two seemed to be going somewhere

each step you two take in your relationship brings taylor closer and closer to that sweet, kind-hearted person he saw on that very first day he met you and he loves finding out more and more about you every single day

sam bird:

lowkey pissed off with you for being so rude to him because you two don't even know each other so what the actual fuck?

and then he sees you interacting with other people and its like you are a whole other person - you're smiling and laughing and talking freely and sam is so confused and even more pissed off now

you two mostly avoid each other until he makes a joke one day that has you trying to hide your laughter and your pink cheeks in your hand - sam starts to take interest in you after that

it takes a while for your relationship to build and sometimes sam gets agitated with you seemingly fighting him every step of the way but as he slowly learns more about you and your feelings, you two manage to develop a better understanding of each other

© all rights to babybearnation 2025.

[bubblergoespop]

some rambles abt the patreon bonus scene of sam and porter <3 i was gonna wait until the audio released publicly to post this but idk when that's gonna happen so ta daaaa yes ik the audio came out like half a month ago shushhh

okie so first of all, i'm so happy we got another bonus scene like the first one with lasko, huxley and damien and the one with sam NAME DROPPING porter. they've always been fun and exciting and OHHH I LOVE just having audios that are structured slightly differently and these kinds of audios aren't always necessary for understanding the main plot but they reveal so much more about characters, i love them. erik please make this one public so the people can hear it, i'm begging you.

OH EM GEE i love porter and sam's dynamic so much! they're not blood related, not even vampirically, but you can't deny that they're literally family. porter making the classic old man jabs at sam and acknowledging that people always make those jokes towards sam, oh they're brothers.

porter saying "apparently i've become predictable in my old age" just has me questioning how old he is again. i mean, i've always assumed he was AT LEAST vincent and sam's ages but i've never really thought of him as a proper old vamp. just because his personality is youthfully mischievous and he's often just straight up immature in my opinion. was this just an exaggeration or is porter much older than sam? i doubt he's much older to be honest. hearing what went on in his life so far, i don't think there's enough there to make the assumption that he's got that many years behind him.

oh and porter also saying that the solaire clan is an institution that has kept sam and vincent "comfortable, satisfied and most of all SAFE" HAS GOT ME THINKING AHHH!! i hadn't considered that leaving the house would make sam and vincent vulnerable to enemies of the house and now i'm thinking back to the summit when deon wright mentioned that quinn must have come from somewhere, with possible allies that are still yet to appear. even if sam and vincent leave the house and do their best to distance themselves from william, they're still of emotional value to will and therefore are still a weakness of the house OHHH IM GETTING EXCITED

oh and porter's inability to hold in a scoff at samuel HE'S SO SASSY I LOVE HIM especially when he's all huffy and puffy.

"i am a vampire but that doesn't make them my people. i'm a healer. i'm a mate. i'm a friend. i'm a hellion when i wanna be. i'm a lot of things but i'm not that kind of person." sam i'm gonna sob into my pillow.

i adore how erik shows that despite all their bickering and downright mean attitudes towards each other, sam still cares deeply about porter - "you gotta live your own life the best way you see fit, porter. and i wish you well in it. i really do." oh and porter definitely also cares deeply about sam and vincent. i've said before that they're the closest thing he has to a family and i think porter mentioning that leaving the house not only endangers sam and vincent but also the people they care about shows that porter cares not just about sam and vincent's physical wellbeings but also their mental wellbeings. he cares about sam and vincent and by extension those they care about as well.

i like to think vincent attempting to call porter in porter's hbs is also a sign that somewhere in his heart, vincent cares for porter too. especially after learning a bit more about porter at the summit. hence why he wants to talk to porter about everything that's going on now.

"there's a place for you on this side of the table, if you want it. we just wanted you to know that." SEEEEEE SAM CARES HE REALLY DOES DESPITE IT ALL

sam acknowledging that porter's habit of constantly fighting anyone and everyone he encounters is a self destructive one and is NOT going to end well if he continues just leads me to believe that erik has something up his sleeve for this. either porter's relationship with treasure (arguably the healthiest one he's currently got) is going to help him heal from that constant need to fight or this addiction is going to lead to something horrible (but entirely avoidable if porter would just leave it be). oh what fun!!

[raz-writes-the-thing]

Polish and Shine (Supernatural One-Shot)

Sam Winchester x GN!Reader / requests are open

Summary: Sam chews on his nails a lot. Too much. You come up with a plan to break the habit.

Fic type: comfort, fluff

CW: this lil fic contains mentions of Sam wanting to explore his gender : ) not much, just mentions of him enjoying feeling feminine (please be gentle with me, this one has a lil piece of me in it).

SPN: @wereallbrokenangels @nervoussystemss (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It's not something you noticed a lot at first. To be quite honest, your social awareness wasn't the best, and looking at people head-on was something you struggled with even after you got to know someone.

But you did start noticing it. It seemed that he did it more at night when it was just him and his thoughts and the big dark room lit up only by his laptop at the table. On a side note, he was going to ruin his eyesight if he kept that up.

But he also did it in the Impala, or after a disturbing interview, or even just when Dean was late back from some girl or guy's place he picked up at the bar.

Chewing his nails... Sam was always chewing on his nails. You understood why, of course. It was an anxiety thing. A stress thing. You'd be lying if you said you didn't fall victim to the same impulse sometimes, but the amount of nail-chewing was starting to worry you.

It had gotten so bad that Dean had started slapping at Sam's hand if he noticed him raising it towards his mouth, one hand on the wheel and his eyes piercing warning daggers into Sam's soul as he pointed at him accusatorially. A silent "stop it right now before I turn Baby around."

It only stopped him from doing it so much on the road. Less so anywhere else. You'd been keeping a quiet eye on Sam the last few days, watching him chew his nails back to the skin. Irritating the skin and the keratin so much that it was probably hurting him. You weren't even sure what was worrying him so much.

You'd been brainstorming ideas to help him with the impulse for a few days until it finally came to you one morning when you were making a med-kit run- stocking up on all the things you all would definitely need at one point or another.

Nail polish. Of course! You'd picked up a couple different colours- given they were all out of transparent along with your bandages, iodine and Betadine and headed back to the motel of the day.

Sam had looked at the bottles in your hand with a raised brow when you brandished them. He picked one up, twirled it around and set it down on the counter.

"Do you want me to paint your nails for you or something?" He asked. Now, you couldn't say that wasn't appealing and that you weren't keen on that idea, because you were, but that was not the purpose of this little exercise.

"Maybe later, Sam. I got them for you-"

"For me?" He cut you off with one of those little huffy laughs he was so good at. You pulled a chair out and sat down, setting the bag on the counter and grabbing one of the bottles.

"Yes, for you," you reiterated, reaching for one of his hands. Sam allowed you to take it and take a look at the abused fingers. "Look, I- I've noticed you chew your nails a lot- and this looks like it hurts. I know Dean wants you to stop, and I imagine you'd also like to break the habit, yes?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, averting his eyes from your warm gaze.

"Yes," was his soft reply. You nodded, giving his hand a squeeze.

"This might help you break the habit. Plus, you'll look super pretty."

Sam snorted. His eyes darted back to look at you, and you really saw how shy and vulnerable he was feeling at that moment. It made you want to wrap him up and keep him safe.

"So, they didn't have clear," you explained, voice soft as if trying not to spook a deer. Or a moose, you supposed, in this case. "But I got you a few colours to choose from. Which one takes your fancy?"

You know exactly what he's going to pick before he does it. The forest-green. He hands you the vial and you let go of his hand to shake it up and unscrew the cap.

Sam sits patiently for you while you work, occasionally clearing his throat or giving you a quick smile. It doesn't take long, only a few minutes. Let it dry, then another coat. Let that dry. Done.

"There, all done," you exclaim, leaning back and stretching your back so it pops nicely. "Very nice, very nice," you approve. Sam fans his fingers out and juts his lower lip out thoughtfully.

"You know- I kinda like it," he blinked as though the discovery shocked him. "Can I do yours next?"

And so began a tradition. Once a fortnight you'd both paint each other's nails. Dean even got into it after a few weeks, getting his own done, too. Sam had been worried at first that Dean would make fun of him for his nails, but the only thing Dean had said after he returned toting beer and Chinese food was "nice choice, Sammy" as he cracked a beer and propped his feet up.

Sam continued to chew on his nails for a bit. It was a learning curve, after all, but he did end up slowing down and eventually stopping completely. You hadn't mentioned to Sam that he'd stopped just in case he hadn't realised, but you and Dean had shared a beer over the silent victory. And when Sam brought the victory to you both a few days after that, all three of you shared a beer then, too.

You and Sam continued to wear different shades and Sam even learned to put the polish on himself, though he vastly preferred you to put it on for him. Considered a bonding moment, which was cute. Dean would participate occasionally, and eventually, Sam admitted that he liked how feminine the polish made him feel.

After that- things sort of migrated from just nail polish to brushing his hair and experimenting with colour in his wardrobe. That was all he was really comfortable with for now, but that wasn't a problem. You were just glad he felt comfortable enough to share such personal information with you.

You both loved each other so much, and one of the best things about found family was that you knew you would be pillars of support for each other.

No matter what.

[spn-fangirl-fiction]

Supernatural Preferences: Ice Cream

Dean: The morning after a hunt was always bittersweet; sweet because nine times out of ten you and the boys managed to send yet another “big bad” that wanted to make a human their new chew toy back to hell, but bitter because of how battered, bruised and exhausted it left you all, not to mention the come down hangover from hell you always had due to all the whiskey it took for the “Dutch Courage” to kick in before the big showdown. You were in one of these states, zombie watching the TV, trying to disassociate from every inch of pain radiating throughout your body when you heard a shuffling limp coming down the hallway to your bedroom, you figured it was Dean as he took a nasty swipe to the knee that would take a few days to straighten out again. Sure enough a war wounded Dean appeared in your doorway wearing his boxers and Led Zeppelin hoodie (which you would steal first chance you got) with a catering sized tub of chocolate fudge brownie ice cream and two long handled titanium camping spoons that you and Dean had previously both agreed upon were the superior choice for ice cream due to their strength not to bend in frozen ice and their ability to get to the bottom of the ginormous tub you always kept in stock for mornings such as these when sugar and carbs were the only logical food groups to indulge in. After you snuggle in together and get comfy under your mountain of blankets, you move onto demolishing an unholy amount of ice cream together, soon falling asleep wrapped up in each other until it was time to order pizza for dinner. Days like these, although rough physically, were so recharging mentally and emotionally that it took you to a place of pure bliss and you knew Dean was a big part of that.

Sam: Although junk food was one of your many guilty pleasures; eating burgers, fries and pizza everyday did give you a hankering for some fresh greens every now and again and no-one was more apt for this mission than Sam. Every fortnight without fail, Sam took you out to a posh restaurant complete with crisp white linen table clothes and crystal cut glassware - not red chequered paper sheets to hide the sticky tables and disposable cups that no matter how fast you drank from, the paper straw always disintegrated into. And after a meal fit for a vegan queen that included every veggie item on the menu, Sam always ordered two Ice Cream Sundaes complete with Neapolitan ice cream, chocolate sauce, wafer fan, sugar sprinkles and a ruby red glace cherry on top, because in your mind he knew that if he ordered dessert and had one too, the calories didn’t count which made you extra happy. You never failed to be amazed at the fanciness of such a simple dessert when they served them at these up-market places and you always had a problem with which part to eat first until eventually you stopped being polite and ate it just as you always had; cherry first followed by the wafer fan that you used as more of a shovel for the ice cream rather than figure out which piece of fancy silverware to use. Sam didn’t mind your lack of table manners and would even follow your lead if the place was particularly snobby just for the devilment of it. But he always made sure to save his cherry for you as he knew that was your favourite part, his only rule was that he had to give it to you via a kiss, much to the disapproval of the other diners in close proximity as evidenced by their huffy “tuts” which only made you both lean in more and linger a little too long across the table as you savoured every last moment together.

Cas: During a painkiller induced post-hunt stupor you embarrassingly told Cas about a randomly unlocked childhood memory of “A Little Taste of Heaven Ice Cream Kiosk” that was situated on a beachfront in San Diego. This kiosk beat all others for the simple fact that its signature cone was an oversized Belgium chocolate waffle cone called “Fruits of Eden”, so named because of its bright palette of colour due to containing every delicious flavour they sold. So imagine your glee when Cas surprised you for a date one rare free Saturday afternoon and literally transported you “angel style” to the very kiosk you blathered on about that one hazy night. And whenever you were feeling blue he whisked you back there for a short mental health break whilst you watched the world go by and ate your favourite childhood ice cream cone with not a care in the world, just like all those years ago. You once asked why he bothers with the rainbow of ice cream flavours if it all just tastes like molecules to him anyway and he confirmed that although it does still taste like molecules, he couldn’t think of anything more enjoyable than the simple ritual of eating ice cream looking out over God’s perfect creation with the warm sun, salty sea breeze and sounds of the lapping waves surrounding you both. But more sincerely, he said he hadn’t experienced anything more enjoyable, on earth or in heaven, than sharing this special nostalgic moment with his soul mate.

[tareqsfamilygaza]

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is (#286)✅️

Thank You, Sam Ta! ❤️🙏

From the depths of our hearts, we thank Sam Ta for her generous support. Your kindness is a light in our darkest days, bringing hope to my family and Gaza.

May your compassion return to you in endless blessings! 🌟✨

@clementineskesh @gracelandmp3 @ebenrosetaylor @stoptheantisemitism @marbirds @ghostofanonpast @lillybean730 @theonsetpoet @danitheforeverdm @wolf-tail @sirpuddingcup @marthamaxing @huffy-the-bicycle-slayer @ayoungparent @goblinswamp @pickledangel @anarcho-gamerist @merl-out @halorvic @kibumkim @stuckinapril @mavigator @lacecap @aristotels @jonpertwee @flipton @bell-bones @ragingbullmode @envytherose @rodent178 @tangledinourstrings @kraigerzz-blog @frogbrainedfool @somethingaboutsomethingelse @opencommunion @vague-humanoid @time-being @gwynndolin @q8p @tortiefrancis @wellwaterhysteria @mahoushojoe @ankle-beez @dykesbat @kyra45-helping-others @asynca @reaperlight @redsavesquare @northgazaupdates2

[sashiavi]

Dog tongues are one of my biggest sensory icks. When I was a kid it didn’t bother me at all, but now that I’ve gotten so used to my cat giving me licks, dog licks are just too slimy.

However,, the thought of puppy!sam lapping at farmer’s pussy like a bavarian cream malasada with his slick tongue, panting and whining like the dog he is with his hands groping their bum and thighs desperately trying to be good and not touch his poor swollen cock just *slams fist on counter*

No so true.. I don't like any dog but my own lmao and even then.. She's small and isn't stinky smelly- but big dogs and their licking? naur.. naur thanks

HOWEVER

Yes. Yes yes. Puppy!Sam just can't help himself! More than eager to please and just give and give and give!! He gets lost in the sauce- Hiccupping as he slobbers all over your clit, breath huffy as he licks and sniffles, working himself up, so needy for some friction on his leaky puppy cock but ah! Just too tied up between your legs!

You're bot gone- Overstimulated with the lap of his tongue and the sweet desperation of Sammy just wanting more, more, more!!