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#btw no i did not drop off the face of the earth

oetscop · 11 months

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anyway never post about it here ever because im cringe but fuckin uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

woe, cringe be upon ye

#tongue #eyes #if youre suicidal the cure is to dress up like a stupid coyote #im so serious #this is arlo btw #i did not make him and his maker has like dropped off the face of da earth

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juleswrites223 · 2 months

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Desi Girl

Pairing: Carlos Sainz jr x indian!reader

Context: Attending a desi wedding with bae

ps: No specific faceclaim, i got every image from pinterest. Desi girls need some love too and i love carlos so i thought he would be the perfect fit for this.

yourusername

yourusername shaadi (wedding) time!!

ps; not my shaadi, my sister's

tagged: carlossainz55

landonorris where's my invite

yourusername remember the time we invited you for diwali and you almost burned yourself bc YOU INSISTED TO LIGHT FIRECRACKERS WITH MY BROTHER landonorris no regrets yourusername you almost died dummy landonorris like i said no regrets carlossainz55 .... ynloversz i love how carlos is so used to their banter that he stays out of it lest he too face the wrath of y/n yncarlos tired older sister and annoying younger brother dynamic ynmylove the fact that she already has a younger brother who annoys tf outta her and now she gotta deal with lando and her lil bro mywifeyn my girl cant catch a break😭

charlesleclerc i wanted to come too...

yourusername you can come when we get married carlossainz55 what she said^^^

yummyyn they’re so in love😩😩😩

carlitoyn mother is mothering; daddy is daddying

ynwifey shes so so mommy😩

randohater yeah must be fun mooching off your millionaire bf

ynloversz oh someone hold me back im boutta get violent

mywifeyn its always these ignorant americans smh 🤦

ynmyqueen her family is hella rich and practically run almost everything in India so before hating on someone who is way richer and prettier than you, do your research cuz this is embarrassing for you.

f1wags

f1wags Carlos Sainz and his girlfriend Y/n Y/l/n in Jaipur, Rajasthan at her cousin sister's wedding. Both looking quite good in traditional indian outfit.

carlito55 OMG CARLOS IN A KURTA. THIS IS NOT A DRILL I REPEAT CARLOS IN A KURTA

carlyn MY JAW DROPPED. THEY LOOK SO GORGGGGG

Ynfanacc mother slaying as usual

yourusername

youusername with meri jaan (my life)🫶

tagged: carlossainz55

ynloversz “meri jaan”🥹

carlitoyn tell me why I’m crying

carlyn they love each other so much I’m crying

carlossainz55 tum meri jaan ho ❤️ (you are my life)

ynwifey Carlos replied in Hindi Oml I’m boutta cry

landonorris did yn help you type this or did you use google translate??😑

yourusername I may have helped a bit

carlossainz55 tu gadha hai (you’re an idiot) landonorris

yourusername now that’s all him, I’m so proud that he’s learning hindi 🥹 (btw my brother taught him that)

yourbrother roasteddd

Ynnnn55 they visited a temple together omlll

ynpyaar (pyaar means love) I literally met them today and they are even cuter and down to earth in real life.

yncarlos I love that even though both of them are really rich they’re still so down to earth which honestly makes them even more attractive

carlitoyn it’s not even just yn, but her entire family is also like that, honestly love her family, they’re such kind souls, it’s no surprise yn is too

carlossainz55

carlossainz55 with mi amor ❤️(my love)

yourusername I love you ❤️

carlossainz55 I love you more baby landonorris i see you have no shame yourusername what is our crime?? landonorris having fun without me yourusername 😐 carlossainz55 😐

yncarlos THE IT COUPLE!!!!

carlitoyn MISS MAAM YOUR OUTFIT!!!! THE HENNA ON YOUR FEET!!! THE FIRST PIC SO CUTE IM GONNA PASS OUT

liked by yourusername and carlossainz55

ynwifey THEM DANCING IS SO ADORABLE

carlossainz55 posted a story

caption: everyone is tired 🫨

yourusername

caption: 🥳🥳

yourusername

caption: Congratulations didi (older sister) and jiju (brother in law)

carlossainz55

carlossainz55 fun couple of days with mi amor

tagged: yourusername

yourusername carlos drank so much chai, he has become a certified indian now🫡

carlossainz55 mazaa aaya (had fun) yourusername Im glad 😘

landonorris better get an invite to y'all's wedding

yourusername of course lando carlossainz55 could be any day now so you better check your mail ynloversz WHAT

carlitoyn always eating with the looks queen 😍

f1wags you guys are a beautiful couple truly ❤️

comments have been limited on this post...

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author's note: Y'all would not believe how much i enjoyed this. Ive been super inactive because ive been super busy with stuff plus with not wanting to write but hopefully im back and will be writing more stuff, a lot F1 related bc im into F1 rn.

#f1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz jr #f1 imagine #f1 x you #f1 smau #f1 social media au #formula one imagine #lando norris #charles leclerc

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uncouth-the-fifth · 10 months

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click, p.2 - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

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

FIVE YEARS LATER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat locks up with tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re really not saying yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay. Weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help?” Sam asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You squint at him. Liar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop.

This is. This is new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sammy,” you sob out.

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

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

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

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

“Take it off,” he rasps.

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

“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then don’t.” He begs.

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

You’ve never seen him take this way before.

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

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

“God,” Sam utters, spellbound.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, doctor,” you tease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God, I love you,” he moans.

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

…Wait.

“What?” You register, slow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sammy!” You choke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me you love me again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lie to me, you’d begged him.

…And Sam had.

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

Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…That’s not what the note says.

You read it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

#uncouthspn #spn #supernatural #sam winchester #user uncouth #sam winchester x reader

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shanastoryteller · 1 year

Note

Do you think you'll tackle Serene and Endymion in your Greek Myths? They are gorgeous btw. ;)

Not all titans were subdued. Not all were lost, or chained, or changed.

Some simply endured, too large and distant to be concerned with matters of titles and thrones.

Helios raged. Even bound within Tartarus, his sun burned brighter and angrier with each day, feeding off the hatred of the cursed titan. Seas turned to deserts as water was baked out of the earth. Apollo scooped up Helios’s chariot, bringing the sun to bear and returning a normal rhythm to the days and nights. Helios’s rage burns him even still, but the chariot has at least accepted its new master.

Artemis becomes associated with the moon because she is her brother’s other half in all things. But she constructs her chariot herself and it is used for races and to transport huntresses and little else.

The moon’s first goddess has never left. She has dragged the moon across the sky in her chariot of starlight uninterrupted for over a millennia.

The titan Selene did not join the fight of the new gods and the titans. She did not defend her brother nor did she attempt to save him.

But neither has she acknowledged the new pantheon. Zeus rules the sky and has demanded an audience with her many times, but she has never granted it. Zeus chases her chariot, but even riding lightning he can’t catch it when she unhooks the moon and no longer has its weight slowing her down.

Poseidon shakes his head and says, “Leave her be. I am the master of the sea and yet if I suddenly had to push forward every inch of the tide myself, I wouldn’t be left with much power to do anything else. All you’re doing is causing problems for the rest of us. Leave Selene to her work.”

Artemis agrees. If even Poseidon thinks bothering the moon titan is a bad idea, then they should listen. Usually he can’t be bothered to have opinions about anyone outside of his own wife, and even that’s rare.

Zeus gives up. Time passes, as it does, and no matter how the sun bucks and fights against her brother’s grip, sometimes going too quick and then too slow, the moon continues at the same steady pace.

Artemis grows stronger beneath moonlight. This must be because of her worshippers, or perhaps her brother’s. She never answers any prayers for tides or from people lost in the darkness, refusing every attempt to give her a power not her own, but her silence doesn’t seem to discourage anyone. Under the night sky her chariot moves impossibly fast and moonlight seems to always find her through the trees, which makes hunting difficult, but she doesn’t dare complain.

She does not want to earn Selene’s ire.

But despite her best efforts, Artemis does not manage to avoid her attention.

She is separated from her huntresses, spending the third night in a row tracking down a leopard that Demeter claims she drove mad on accident. Artemis doesn’t believe her, but the truth is irrelevant. This creature stalks and kills with Demeter’s blessing upon it, taking down all manor of creature and person.

Her temples have been filled with those begging for her aid. She’s blessed many spears, but her blessing doesn’t seem to be able to outweigh Demeter’s.

That irritates her enough that she’s seeing to this personally. She’s going to skin that damn leopard and wear it’s pelt to the next meeting of the pantheon.

One moment she’s skulking beneath a canopy of leaves, following several drops of blood she’s convinced will lead her to her prey, and the next the hair of her arms is standing on end and her heart is beating fast enough to make her light headed.

She swings around, spear raised, convinced that the damn leopard has found her first.

It’s not the leopard.

“You are the one they are praying too,” says a woman, her body soft with roundness and with the palest skin Artemis has seen on a living person. The extra skin beneath her chin gives her a perfectly circular face and the pockmarks across her face and body are a perfect echo of the moon’s many craters.

Selene tucks her ink black hair behind her ear and looks at her with equally dark eyes.

Artemis was born long after the war with the titans and she’s never ventured into Tartarus. She had assumed their presence felt much the same as other gods, that perhaps it was similar to the feeling of getting caught up in Hera’s rage.

It’s nothing like that.

Selene’s power is like a physical weight, as if they’re suddenly underwater and it’s surrounding them everywhere. Artemis lets it push her to her knees, bowing her head and trying to force her heart to calm. “Titan Selene. I swear that I did nothing to encourage them. I have not claimed any of your power.”

She should have done more than ignore them. She should have toppled temples and killed dissenters. She should have redirected their prayers. Anything to prevent what’s happening now.

“Would you like to?”

Artemis risks raising her head. Selene doesn’t sound angry and she doesn’t look it either. “I don’t understand.”

Selene gestures to the sky. “The moon is different from the sun. The sun pushes forward on its own and must be restrained and goaded in equal measure. Untethered, it will still rise and set. The moon must be pulled. It wants nothing more than to rest and unprompted it will stay motionless. If I step from my chariot for even a moment, the moon halts. It is unmoving now, as we speak.”

Artemis looks up. The moon always looks still to her. She wonders if the tides have noticed the difference.

“I have not been able to walk among earth for more than a few moments since I forged my chariot, lest all that follow the moon also go still and silent. They call you a moon goddess.”

“Please don’t make me take your place,” she says, not above begging. If the goddess traps her on her chariot, Artemis won’t have a choice.

Selene smiles, amusement making her eyes sparkle like distant stars. “You are young. You could not survive the chill or the weight for long. But perhaps you could endure for an hour or two.”

“I don’t understand,” she repeats, but some of her fear is starting to recede. Selene is not speaking like she’s going to strike her or curse her.

“There is a man,” she says, then pauses.

“Oh,” Artemis blinks, then, “Um, that’s not really my area. I could ask my brother?”

Selene laughs. “No, that is not necessary. I just need time. Will you steer my chariot each night so that I may walk across the earth unworried? Then you shall be a moon goddess in more than name.”

A titan, offering to share power for so little a reward? There has to be a catch. “Aren’t you worried that I’ll take too much?”

“I am not a goddess as you are a goddess,” she says, her derision light enough that Artemis can choose not to take offense to it. “My power neither grows nor dwindles based on the opinions of mortals. If you gain more, I do not have less.”

It shouldn’t be that surprising. All gods have some level of innate power. But not like this, not something that could alter the course of a planet, not this large and this terrifying.

Artemis decides then that Selene must be the most powerful of the titans. Anything else is too much to think about.

“I accept,” she says.

Selene reaches out, wrapping her thick fingers around her wrist, and then Artemis is somewhere else and she’s freezing.

“You get used to the cold,” Selene says, nudging her to the front of her chariot. The starlight glitters beneath her, driving home how her own silver chariot is nothing more than a pale imitation, no matter how it shines. “I drive the chariot forward with own will.”

Artemis’s works similarly. She focuses, and the chariot lurches forward, but then it jerks backwards. She glances behind, seeing the massive moon attached to the chariot with pulsing, heavy black chains. She tries again, slower, but no matter how much power she puts behind it, the moon won’t move forward a single inch.

“It’s alright,” Selene says. “I’ll help. You’ll grow stronger.”

She leans forward and spits out into space. Her saliva splits into two and then grows, until two massive, pearly white great wolves are standing at attention. Selene summons more of that strange black chain, looping it around the wolves’ chest and forming a hook to pull it through the front of the chariot before handing the ends to Artemis.

They’re heavy enough that she can feel the weight dragging her arms down. “What do I–”

Selene whistles and then wolves bound forward. For a moment they just strain against their chains, but then Artemis adds her own power to push the chariot, and then slowly, painfully, the moon is dragged forward.

“Good,” Selene says, the word settling into Artemis’s bones. “Stop when you must, but not before. I will feel the moon’s stillness and return.”

Her disappearance leaves the air surrounding Artemis even colder, but she refuses to shiver and instead urges the wolves faster with a snap of the celestial chains.

Endymion spends most of his nights on the tallest mountain within walking distance of the city, tracking the stars’ movements so that his fellow astronomers can check their equations against the realities of the heavens.

It takes him much longer than his colleagues and he blames it on an unsteady hand.

The truth is that his hands are perfectly steady. He has a one tablet of star positions and several rolls of linens with paintings of the moon. He’s not a very good artist, but something about it compels him, and so he spends hours each night determined to capture ever crevice and angle.

“Why are you always looking at me?”

He startles, dropping his brush, and turns on his heel to see who on earth is up here with him.

It’s a woman, with long black hair and a large body. There’s a puckered line along her cheek and he resists the urge to press his fingers against it, to follow it’s path until his fingers reach her lips. The soft pink of her plush mouth is the only bit of color on her.

Her question catches up with him and he sputters, “I’ve never seen you before!”

He would remember.

“You are always looking,” she insists, walking towards him. “What do you see?”

“I really haven’t seen you before,” he says, but doesn’t move away when she comes right up next to him. This close, he can see some faint color in her cheeks. He wonders if there are any other parts of her that tinge from pale to pink.

He feels heat rush to his own face at the thought. The bright moonlight that lets him see her so clearly is the same moonlight that’s going to give away his indecent thoughts.

But she doesn’t call him on it, instead pointing down at the crumpled linen. “Why?”

“Oh,” he flushes even more. “I don’t know. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? That’s reason enough.”

Endymion waits for her derision, the same that he’s received every time he’s gotten caught, but instead she curls her hands into the material of his shirt and says, “I agree,” and then she’s yanking him down to press her lips into his.

He tries to convince her to follow him home, but instead she disrobes right there and he can’t argue with that.

“Be here again tomorrow night,” she orders when the sweat is cooling on their bodies.

She likes to order him around. He doesn’t mind. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

“I will not answer questions that you already know the answer to,” she says, and then kisses him again before he can argue.

He means to walk down with her, to escort her home at least, but the moment he turns his back on her, she’s gone.

It takes him seven more nights with her for him to work up the courage to call her Selene.

She smiles and bites his shoulder, the imprints of her teeth a perfect circle.

gods and monsters series, part xxxiii

read more of the gods and monsters series here

#gods and monsters series #selene #artemis #endymion #greek mythology #asks #BEING-ELSPETH

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meshlasolus · 6 months

Text

Tw: suicidal thoughts (don't be alarmed I'm just venting)

I am so tired. I am so worn out. It doesn't matter what I say. It doesn't matter what I do. I have been financially and physically giving to Palestinians and Israelis who have been injured and were innocent victims through this war. The organization my family and I are working with has done so much to try and save lives. I have done all I can possibly do, but it's not enough. Those of you who drop in my dms or my asks to call me a 'genocidal colonizer' are so truly lost. I hope you all get help, because the amount of hate I've seen against not only myself but against literally every Jew I know is absolutely abominable. Don't say 'from the river from the sea' unless you know what it means, and if you say it, don't say it to a jew. You may hate Israel, and you may even think that all the people there deserve to die, but have you ever taken into consideration that the innocent Jews of either Israel or the rest of the world have nothing to do with their government or the mistreatment of Palestinians? Did you ever once think before you commented on a Jews post to 'wipe Israel off the face of the earth'? Chances are you did not. Chances are also that if you did, you probably just hate jews. Don't comment any bullshit on this post, I'll just remove it. I'm not here to fight anymore, I'm just here to say a few words, and give a perspective to those who think I'm some devil worshipping satanist just because I'm jewish.

These are the asks in my inbox on the daily:

Do you have any idea how this mentally affects a person? Do you even know how horrifying it is to know that so many people want you dead? I've had run ins with depression and suicidal attempts and thoughts my entire life, but never have I been this influenced by outer forces into thinking that I should be dead. Never once has anyone encouraged me to pull a trigger or off myself. Not until this has happened.

The comments and reblogs on posts about my best friend who lived in Israel, and her mother (who is arab, btw) that was killed in the October 7th attack are beyond wild. I can't even imagine how crazy it must be to live in the middle east as a jew. This is only a fraction of the hate that I experience in my day to day life, now.

The middle fingers I get from pissed off passersby at Walmart because I wear a star of david, or the slurs I get called because I told someone I had to leave an event early for Shabbat. It's all hatred, and it all sucks.

The violence, and the aggression that innocent jews are getting from random people who hate them. The little old man who stood on a street corner and held a sign in protest of Jewish hate that was killed today by a pro-hamas protestor. Its all too overwhelming. Why? Because even if you choose not to see it, or even if you condone it and think its 'not that bad', Jewish hate is getting dangerously close to what it was during the time of the holocaust. What's worse? It's being praised. Not just accepted, but encouraged. I posted on my instagram asking for prayers over my friend who's having to hide in a bomb shelter because of the war. The amount of comments saying 'just let her die' were astounding.

I have to ask you, where is your humanity? When jews can not only feel compassion but openly support Palestinians and try and give their services to save their innocent women and children from dying in the war, where is your compassion for innocent jews? Where is your willingness to feel an ounce of sadness for the loss of a life? Are you so hateful that you will condemn a teenage girl to die because of the violence her government commits? And if it happens, will you be so heartless that you will praise the notion that she is dead?

A common phrase used when I ask pro-hamas bloggers what their stance is on the beheading of children or the raping of women is, it usually comes out as: "well what do you think declonization looked like?"

I am always shocked. Every. Single. Time... why? Because I hope with every shred of naivete i have in me that people who have lost so much will understand the pain of those who are also losing so much. When you condemn one government for killing your children, and bringing a genocide upon Palestinians, why do you not also condemn the murdering of children and innocent Jews? Is it because 'that's not your team?' Is it because you want to win so badly that you don't care what the cost is? Do you think that turning into the thing that killed your people will make you a hero? The only thing I can possibly think of that would make a person respond that way is bloodlust. When you condemn an entire nation (including the innocent people) of killing your own, then turn around and do the same thing to their innocents, do you think you've proved something?

Whenever I address these things I'm usually met with the same stuff about how I'm a Jew so I'm biased and I don't get to have an opinion... but I don't think it's fair to say that to someone who's literally living with the repercussions that your hate is causing. Don't tell me to be quiet if you're spreading nazi rhetoric about jews and telling people to kill us.

Again, don't bring any bullshit on here. It will be deleted, and you will be blocked. I've spoken my piece. If anyone is interested in learning more about the organization I work with and donating to help Palestinian and Israeli families getting caught in the crossfire, please drop me a message, I'd be glad to give you more information.

#israel #palestine #fuck hamas #antisemitism #stop jewish hate

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mikeyss1ut · 1 year

Note

I have a idea for Amber and fem reader. They have been dating for two years and everything that happens in scream 5 but everyone suspects reader is the killer because she has not been attacked by ghostface. And before they found of ghostface they accuse reader saying that she’s ghostface because she hasn’t been attacked. And Amber goes I know after you said that and shoots Liv. Then I’m the kitchen scene Sam Gale and Sidney try to attack Amber but reader steps in front to protect her. They are all shocked but reader says oh no I’m not part of this I knew what they were doing but I don’t want you hurting my gf. Reader knows about Amber being ghostface and her plan with Richie but Amber wants her gf to stay out of it. And can you make reader Sam and Tara’s younger sister a few months younger then Tara? And go from there? You can change it up if you need! :) love your stories btw

“WE CANT HAVE IT ALL NOT ANYMORE”

“Ok! So , y/n just expose yourself and say it’s you because we all know it’s you!” Mindy says

“Mindy cut the shit , it’s not her. Amber hadn’t been attacked or Liv so fuck off.” Tara replies

“So? Livs to dumb to kill anyone. And Amber well.. actually?” They all turn to Amber.

“Oh my god, are you kidding me? It’s obviously liv!! Why the fuck does she have blood on her hands!” Amber yells

“fuck you Amber! I’m not the fucking killer ! It’s your fucking girlfriend!!” Liv screams

“I know it’s not you. But I know it’s not her either.” Amber pulls a gun and shoots her right in the head.

You knew. You did but it still hurt.

Everyone ran.

“Y/n! Let’s go!” Tara said

You weren’t ghost face you didn’t hurt anyone but your weren’t leaving. You just gave her a sad look.

“Oh god” Tara cries and runs away.

Amber had practiced with you that when she revealed herself you were to go hide behind her. You did just that.

But then Sidney started beating your girlfriends ass and you didn’t like that.

You wanted her to stop , so you don’t know why you did it . You went in front of her.

“Stop! Please stop!” You yell at Gale. Amber pushes you out of the way to make sure your safe.

And you don’t know why you did it . It’s not like you were gonna actually do it. But you grabbed the gun Amber dropped and pointed it to Gale.

“It’s you? The other one?” Gale said confused

“N- n- no! I it’s not me! But just please stop !” You cried just then Sam must have came up behind you because you fell , you must have hit your head to. Because you woke up in the back of the car. Ambers car.

“We did it! We killed everyone! You distracted them! “ Amber said.

“Tara? Sam?” You whispered loud enough for her to hear it.

She went quiet.

“Sams dead. Tara’s not.” She moves and you see Tara in the back with you she’s not taped up or anything, she’s bawling her eyes out but she doesn’t seem like she’s really scared either.

“Figured you could keep this sister, but if she does something stupid I will have to kill her.” Amber says

You shook her head and went over to her.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” You asked Tara. You weren’t mad you didn’t want her to do anything you wanted it to be you and Amber till the ends of the earth you were just confused.

“I already lost Sam, I get to keep you. I don’t want to lose myself . So I’m just gonna listen. “ she says blankly.

THIS HAS BEEN IN MY DRAFTS FOR DAYS I WILL PROBABLY RE DO IT LATER BECAUSE ITS TERRIBLE BUT I DONT REALLY CARE ITS NOT FINISHED EITHER I DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO WRAP IT UP BUT I FIGURED YALL CAN FEED OFF THIS FOR A MINUTE ITS ALSO POOR WRITING BUT I HAVE BEEN IN A WRITING SLUMP SO IDC

#amber freeman fluff #amber freeman angst #amber freeman x tara carpenter #amber freeman x reader #mikey madison #Mikey Madison fluff #horror #scream 5

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villainessxassassin · 2 years

Note

Hello and how are y'all doing? If the requests are still open for me, I was hoping to ask for a similar request as a previously written one about Grim pushing an easygoing and patient fem s/o to the point of grounding him in front of Lilia, Riddle, Epel and Jade? Figured that'd be fine. If not, then that's okay too. I can only imagine Riddle being surprised because s/o is normally the calmest and most down-to-earth out of the two. Not today, Grim. Idk thought it'd be cute. Please and thank you :)

Seperate! Riddle, Lilia, Epel and jade x reader

Part 1 here -> ft Malleus, Ruggie, Kalim, Vil, Leona

warnings: none unless you count grim abuse, cough.

Riddle always saw you as the calm and collected one out of the group, so imagine his suprise when he saw grim almost cowering in a corner after he just witnessed your sweet smile disappear after what seemed to be the final straw for you.

You'd expect him to be disappointed that he saw you in such an indecent state, but what came was the opposite. If anything, he was nothing but impressed you were even able to hold out that long with such a troublemaker like grim as your companion.

Grim crossed the line resulting in you giving him the consequences of his actions so he had it coming, a very valid response in Riddle's eyes (his eyes are sparkling btw). He might also even take turns in giving grim some well needed discipline.

Will encourage you to show this side of you more but only when necessary because he doesn't want you too keep all that pent up frustration to yourself, no matter how easy going or calm you are.

And he'll surely collar grim the next time he makes your calm exterior break.

He'll be making the 😶☺️ face if he catches you breaking off from the calm y/n you portray infront of others.

You sound angry, so it's only reasonable he waits until you finish, but if he's feeling in the mood he might discreetly add more fuel to the fire just to see what more reactions he's able to pull out of you.

Curious, a word he finds himself associating with you often. What else are you hiding? Which emotions are how you truly feel? Have you been suppressing them all this time for it to all just finally break?

All he had to do was use his unique magic and he can get the answers directly from you if he wanted, but that wouldn't be fun, so why not poke you a few more times and see how you'll react to his different schemes.

Overall, he doesn't really mind that you have this side to you. As entertaining as it is he also knows when not to cross the line. He'll indulge himself whenever the time comes, just as much as he enjoys the sweet, sweet calm y/n that he knows and loves.

He's kinda scared but at the same time he really can't decide if he should interfere before things escalate more quickly or just stand there in awe while he applauds you a thousand times over in his head. (he actually did the latter first before going onto the former😭)

In fact he doesn't even know why he should be amazed at all when grim already looked like he was about to pass out.

He just thinks you look and sound so cool right now? The way you switched up from all gentle smiles to the fed up look you had on right now just has his blood pumping.

Has newfound respect for you. I mean he already respected you alot before but it's just more different, even more meaningful now you can say.

Epel is a very (in some cases it's not there but in most cases yes) gentle person too, so seeing you have this side to yourself eases his spirits since he atleast now knows he doesn't have to be all dainty and charming all the time.

Just watches the scene unfold, doesn't do anything, doesn't plan on doing anything, he just wants to watch honestly.

He'll feign a Suprise look at your sudden outburst when grim finally dropped your last cup of patience. I really just see him standing there trying to contain the small smile that's creeping up his face.

Whether he's smiling at grim's despair or this new side of you it all really depends, but you can be positive that he's happy your getting it off your chest instead of extending whatever's left of your spilled patience.

Humans really are quite the spectacle and fascination, so he will observe a little while longer before deciding when grim has had enough. He'll give little words of comfort to grim but they are nothing compared to the intense gaze you had, but it was the least he could do.

And now he shall indulge himself in teasing you for the rest of the day, mentioning how cute you looked akin to a little kid loosing it's temper.

✧

covering up for Guinevere until she finishes the request she's working on ehe- kishira

what I write is quite long guys that’s why its taking so long TT- Guinevere

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Twisted wonderland x yuu #twisted wonderland x you #twst headcanons #riddle rosehearts x reader #Lilia vanrouge x reader #Jade leech x reader #epel felmier x reader

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kairiscorner · 9 months

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(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

to my filipino and tiktokerist gangs, remember when this song and its dance trend was extremely popular? well, imagine

making miggy dance the wet the bed dance trend

when you introduced to miguel the whole idea of tiktok dance trends, he was never really a fan of it, nor was he intrigued about it in the slightest. you would try to rope him into dances you wanted to do with him, but no matter how sly your approach was, he always shut you down, not once giving in to what you wanted. though fortunately for you, lyla was on your side in trying to see miguel dance, just a little bit. hence, this happened.

miguel had asked for a private briefing between you two in his office, and you could not have rejoiced any greater than you did internally when you realized this was the perfect occasion to initiate the plan you and lyla hatched. you came into his office, seeming weirdly excited for something. miguel didn't question it, you were weirdly excited for a lot of things he didn't particularly have the time to figure out or even care about in the first place. he soon began to speak to you about the draft of a plan he was working on. he went on and on about it, his back turned to you all the while, which worked in your favor because when lyla soon progressed the plan behind his back... "and then, you come up from behind, and--"

"i don't want to be a minute man..." played on the speakers in his office, which caused him to jolt and for his eyes to widen. he scanned the room for whatever was causing it, and when he saw the grin on your face from stifling laughter... oh, was he angry. he breathed in heavily as he brought his eyebrows together in an agitated manner. "...why are you like this?" he asked in a genuinely befuddled tone, asking himself how you--a very capable and powerful spider person--still refuses to acknowledge him not ever planning on dancing this... whatever this is! "lyla, quit it." he said to the AI assistant, who seemingly logged herself offline. she left a notice on his monitor saying, 'i'll be offline for a bit, computer girl tingz. anyway, either you dance so it stops or have fun with an eternal earworm (✿◕‿◕✿)' and on the bottom, there was a P.S. sign that read, 'btw you need video evidence you danced it, you turned cctv cams here off so guess you gotta have someone film it on their phone.........'

miguel grumbled and clung on to the sides of his table in front of the monitors before he turned to you with darkened eyes. you tilted your head in mock confusion. "what's wrong, mr. o'hara?" you asked him in a tone of faux concern, your laugh almost slipping out of your mouth when you put emphasis on 'mr. o'hara'. he exhaled as he rubbed the temples on his forehead. "y'got a phone on you right now?" he asked you in a quiet voice, almost a whisper. you nodded profusely as you pulled out your phone and already had it on the camera ever since you walked in here. "it's got a lot of space, too. miraculously." you rambled, which miguel grumbled at yet again.

he scratched the back of his head, and for the third time, sighed deeply and asked if he looked good in the shot. "you look amazing in every shot, miggy." you teased him. you could've sworn he flipped you off before you started filming, but when the beat dropped and the tiktok audio part played again... he looked like his dance could kill you, and in the best way possible. he grinded his hips in the air, better than how those dancers you've shown him have. he seemed to put his miggussy in that dance, he put 110% in that performance, you felt like your already open mouth at him agreeing the first time had dropped to the earth's inner core. "i wish i was the air right now," you murmured as you watched him grind against the air.

after he did the dance perfectly, as if he practiced it in his free time, he placed his hands on his hips and scowled at you. "what, i did the stupid dance, why isn't the music stopping?" he asked as you went over and clicked pause on the music player on your end. miguel witnessed you effortlessly end the music and felt like... creating craters in the walls of his office. lyla reappeared after being offline for a little while, her legs crossed as she sat on nothing and her arms crossed on her chest, with a wide smirk on her face. "you're too gullible, miguel." she said as she disappeared and moved to the monitors to forward the footage you had and sent it to every contact he had.

but surprisingly, miguel wasn't mad. he smiled as he looked at you, and as he came down from his platform... he got on all fours and chased you down. but hey, even as you're running for you life, it was worth it; as much as miguel would wanna get rid of that video and erase it from the face of the multiverse, you and lyla have it backed up on 20 different hard drives 🫶

a/n: i want miggy to wet the bed now.

tags !! @thecoolerdor @miguelswifey04 @binibinileonara

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x filipino reader #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara fluff #atsv #atsv imagines #atsv fluff #atsv x reader #atsv x you #atsv x y/n #atsv miguel #spiderman 2099 #miguel spiderman #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse x reader

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beesmygod · 6 months

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serious answer: ostensibly, they were supposed to manage your kickstarters and they did manage the store so i didnt have to deal with storing, shipping, purchasing merch and figuring out what to do with merch that doesnt sell.

the problem:

-no one with extra income is chomping at the bit to spend it on webcomic merch. moreso the older they get and they are less inclined to spend if the merch is embarrassing.

-covid happened, and the prices of raw materials AND shipping skyrocketed. not their problem but it made everything less useful.

-when kickstarter ate total shit on the stupid web3 shit (hey wheres that white paper btw. any news from their useless union that dropped off the face of the earth after that announcement) they made their own inhouse fundraiser. which was a good idea except they would set a fundraising goal and if you weren't projected to meet it, they would just lower the goal at the end? why even have a goal lol. whats the purpose of that except to emotionally obliterate someone.

-this service was weighted by your relative importance to the company

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veintrry · 1 year

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Yoo can you make a scaramouche x reader angst?? Where scara snapped at reader ofc like reader won't tolerate the fact they got yelled by the the sixth harbinger so they made a comeback which resulted to an argument then scaramouche slapped reader something like that and the others are up to u :))

Btw can I be ☆ anon??

And it's alright if you won't make this no need to rush

scaramouche x gn!reader, angst, violence, complicated relationship, reader doesnt know about the whole puppet thing just to be clear, what is love??? crisis + baby don't hurt me for emotional neglect pewpew

cw: this work contains physical violence, cursing, and degradation (being seen as lesser than).

an: MY FIRST OFFICIAL REQUEST KM SO HAPPY thank you for submitting your request ☆ anon!!! I had to rewrite this one a couple of times because I wrote a whole backstory and felt like it was too much BUT SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG and I'm not exactly the most proud of this;;

AC: @/6ta6tam on twt

The Balladeer was a difficult man, this came as no surprise to you. You bore witness to many of his cruel, rash and harsh acts that he openly displayed onto his agents --or anyone he viewed as below him -- seeing them as trash, no, even lesser than that. Yet, never did you even dare think that he would turn his scrutinising gaze onto you.

You and The Balladeer had a long history together, mostly due to your associations with the harbingers. Unlike Scaramouche, you weren't a harbinger, let alone a fatuu, at least not at first... You two started off rough, you didn't like him, big whoop. It was mutual, at first. However, let's say that circumstances happened. Ones that neither you or he delved into, but was the reason for him offering you a position by his side. You frankly were disgusted at the idea, but the opportunity to actually escape the ruins of your life, you needed it.

That somehow ended up "blossoming" to be more than either of you intended it to be. Downside of having to be together 24/7 you assumed. Though you were given an opening, a peek into The Balladeer beneath the veil. You're somewhat ashamed to say you were charmed by his depth. You think that he likes you because of your interest in him, in his words, he's merely "intrigued by your naiveté", whatever that means...

You had returned to your tent at the stationed camp, obviously set up by the agents, ones that had suffered an intense course of yelling and degrading, finished off with the scent of burning skin lingering in the air. Scaramouche had entered prior to you, rushing in hurriedly, and with each step of his feet you swore you felt the earth shake a little from a strike of lightning.

"Don't you dare call me that." His words came in sharp, such did the glare he gave you as he turned to face you with a striking amount of ferocity. You noticed how his face seemingly scrunched up further than it already had prior and at this you attempted to speak again before you were shut down. "-And please, drop the formalities. It's pathetic at this point." By that you assumed he meant it was futile, and that was something you had thought a lot around him, honestly.

You were usually tasked with dealing with whatever aftermath occurred. Was it an easy job? No. But you've managed to keep your position in this damn havoc of a 'workplace' for a reason. "My lord," You began, and it wasn't the usual way you'd address him, however even you took caution around the fearsome Sixth Harbinger.

"Scaramouche," You started again, this time with his correction in mind. "I believe that your behaviour and... methods of punishing our squad is putting much strain on them and lowering their performance." There was no 'I believe' it was the reality but you had to make it sound better, professionalism was still something you had to pretend you somewhat cared about around him. "Frankly, if you are upset, don't strike them without warning. That would be very helpful." Sarcasm was also in your blood. Family genes.

He didn't hide the distaste he felt at his words. "Don't speak like that with me. And if you're so concerned about their performance how about you go and lecture them, hm? Oh, or you perhaps too busy running papers errands with your pen stuck between your fingers?" Archons help the sigh you had to hold back up. You still rolled your eyes though. It was too bothersome having to listen to him avoid blame whilst you have to attempt to level with him. "I am actually. Thanks for asking." Maybe you really were naive to like someone such as him.

"Don't question the way I do things. I don't need to remind you of your position, do I?" Now that had certainly caught your attention, and with a raise of your brow you urged him to go onwards, "What do you mean by that?" It sounded less like a question and more like you had been offended by what he said. Because you were. He had practically put you down and yes your rank as his assistant is obviously lower but you were together, as a person, as someone he is with, he sure as hell shouldn't get to tell you where you are ranked.

"I mean that you are still below me."

"You might not be as irrelevant as those vermin, but you and I are not the same." Oh, so that's how it is.

"Ha, you're damn right we aren't. One of us has an ounce of fucking humanity in them and the other lacks any heart." Maybe it wasn't your place to say that, considering you were the one who still chose to be by his side? But now you were rethinking things, was it really you choosing to be by his side. If you had left wouldn't he just chase you down? Or maybe you meant so little he'd let you go? When he said he was intrigued by you, did you misinterpret it, did he perhaps just mean that you were a different, amusing toy for him to play around with? You were starting to think way deeper about everything in your relationship.

The expression the Harbingers face warps to was something difficult to put into words, but he gave you this look, this glare, as if you had said something that you'd regret for the rest of your life, as if you had overstepped the line of your position and attempted to go against him one-on-one. It was as though you not only questioned his authority, but as well as something underlying. You struck a nerve.

It took less than a second for the man that was once opposite you to no longer be there, and for your view of sight to be turned towards the left side of the tent. A stinging feeling resurfacing over and over on the cheek of your face. He had slapped you. He had the nerve- the gall - to slap you. You wanted to stay like that for a moment, to simply not avert your gaze from the dark coloured fabric, but the anger that fueled you, the flames that lit within you at the idea that this man who you even dared to even like had disrespected you made you face him again.

And there his facial muscles didn't budge, not even an inch, as he glared you down as if you were something abnormal. It hit you then the realisation, with Scaramouche it was always alright, it was tolerable. But you failed to notice the unspoken rule between you two. 'Don't question me, and we'll be fine.' There was always a limit to how close you can get to him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you." You knew he could be physically violent, you've seen it. But to think he'd do it to you. No, not just that, but the fact that he fucking tinged the slap with electro. He didn't just strike you like he did with others, no, he physically put his skin onto yours. And somehow it felt more degrading than if he had just let a bolt of light tear through you. It felt as if he thought you weren't even worth something horrendously painful. Only something minor, something small, to keep you in your place.

For what felt like hours you two merely scowled at one another, and it was the first time you'd say you both wore your emotions on your sleeves so boldly.

He bites the bottom of his lip before muttering out one word, "Leave."

And you want to say that his indigo eyes betray what he orders, you really want to. Though, you don't know if you're right or just fooling yourself in this "naiveté" of yours again. Was what made you intriguing how long you managed to last?

In front of you, was the Balladeer, The Sixth Fatui Harbinger, and his expression almost felt human.

#- my ☆ anon #THANK YOU ANON!!!#scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche #genshin scaramouche

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makriiii · 11 months

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Caught Ⅲ (Arthur Morgan × f!reader)

Word count: 3.1k

Authors notes: Sorry for the slow uploads. Btw, when I copy-paste this from my notes app, tumblr double spaces my paragraphs and I'm too lazy to change it. 😭

Warnings: 18+, angst, & cursing.

Pt1! Or pt4

Wattpad or Ao3

♡

Caught Ⅲ

The land around you briskly faced a blanket of darkness as the sun had just set, the colors had kept you busy for just a stint, longing for them as they faded into deep shades of gray and blue.

People were now rekindling their fires from the night previous, preparing for dinner, a preparation you didn't need to worry yourself with, as much as you wished you did.

Keiran was across from you, and despite being part of your gang, you hadn't exchanged many words. He never did seem too fond of the gang.

Neither of you conversed, not only due to the fact that he tried desperately to distance himself from being an O'Driscoll, but because everyone in camp would also be part of the conversation.

With Keiran ignoring you, and Dutch's gang shunning you, you may as well have been the naughty kid who sat in the corner with a dunce cap on.

The only thing that kept your sanity was finding out that, Arthur, so you came to know, had taken your horse with him that day.

With nothing to do but sit defeated, you zoned out, staring at your horse. The thoughts of escaping with her danced around in your head.

Revenge didn't even cross your mind, in fact, at this point you were willing to let it all go, so long as you had your horse.

Rival gang members came and went, gawking at both of you like zoo animals. At one point, a lady who seemed personally victimized by Keiran had come and dropped food on him.

You were slightly taken aback by her actions, you were hoping it wasn't just for the fact he's an O'Driscoll, otherwise you felt you'd be next.

It was clear you weren't welcome despite being forced to stay and by all means you were happy to leave if they'd allow it. You'd even take Keiran along as well, but they had no such plans.

Out of all the people who roamed before you, your eyes met with one, much to your despair.

You had had enough of the man over these past days when he would check on you, once or twice each day, occasionally giving you water but only teasing you with food.

He kept to asking you and Keiran both, where on earth Colm was, and on that earth, you couldn't give him the darndest of answers.

Each time threatening to rid of both of you right here and there every time you gave him the same answer.

He was no man to play games with, but you still played them. He threatened it but never did actually point the barrel of his gun at you again. You shivered as a small ache crept from your arm just thinking about it.

With the eye contact you regrettably made, Arthur finally decided he'd saunter over and have a friendly little chat with you.

You shifted your weight uncomfortably, your arms and shoulders hurting with every second you didn't stay still.

He seemed to have this look in his eye that you couldn't quite place.

"I reckon it's time to change that bandage of yours." He commented, half gesturing for your arm before looking down and reaching into his satchel.

You didn't want him to touch you, hell, you didn't even want that stinking man anywhere in your sights.

"No, please. I'd rather it get infected so god can take care of it instead." You dismissed, kicking out your leg in an attempt to wave him off since you couldn't use your arm to do so.

He snickered as he crouched down beside you, moving for his knife, and to your surprise, he started cutting at the ropes that kept you tethered to the tree.

"That'd be a good few weeks of worse pain before it finally took you, pain I can just save you from now."

"There's a lot you could've saved me from, not being a poor aim on the day you shot me would've been it." Jeering at him with sass.

Any relief you would have felt from the breakage of your bounds was cut short as you hissed out a gasp of pain.

His large, calloused hand wrapped and dug in just above your wound.

Your instinctual reaction had your right hand balled into a fist and swinging around into a hook that landed sweetly on the side of his face before you could do anything about it, or so that's what you claimed.

It caught him off-guard, taking him a second to react, by which he squeezed your arm even harder and reached for your other wrist in a tight, abrasive grasp.

You cried out while he manhandled you. "Fuck- quit grabbin' me like that, you big brute!" You stirred under him, but he kept you still in an almost a perfect manner.

The whole commotion caught everyone's attention, their turned heads held looks of confusion and surprise.

"Im tryna help your ass, woman." He snarled, keeping you from jerking around. "Hold damn still before I save myself the trouble instead."

You looked away, mumbling a curse under your breath. By no means did you relax, but you stopped fidgeting, he cautiously let go. His eyes burned holes through you as he did.

Suddenly, he reached for your buttoned shirt, you flinched back in befuddled surprise.

"Just what the hell do you think this is?" You demanded, fully desiring to line up another fist to his face, if it wasn't for the control he had over you with clasping your arm.

"Your sleeve doesn't roll up that far. Didn't I tell you to hold still?"

You felt overwhelmed with rage, and worst yet, you couldn't do anything about it.

"Don't look at me like that, how else do you think I took care of this for you before?" He adds, leaving you in silence.

A man undoing your shirt wasn't the problem. The man doing it, was.

"I was hoping you had left me in the care of one of the more dignified ladies here."

"You wandered off so far from where we camped, you would've died before then." He counters, shaking his head.

"And I would have thanked you, if you left it at that." You stayed arguing, but slighted your head up, giving him easier access to your buttons.

His eyes flickered from your face and to your shirt for a moment at your small gesture.

"Left it at that? Nah, I couldn't let you get away with all that money." He takes a moment, unbuttoning your shirt half way, exposing most of your bra.

It was enough to get your arm out but not leave much to the imagination.

"I was hopin you'd know more than your buddy, yet, neither of you annoying shits seem to recall jack all." He nagged, giving you a stern look before returning his gaze to your arm.

You couldn't say much in return when you felt him pinch and prod at your arm, needles running through your body.

You groaned your hurt, though he didn't seem to care much.

"Don't punch me again, y/n. I ain't beyond hittin' a lady like you."

You gave him a dismissive, smug look, shrugging your shoulder through the aching and burning he inflicted on you.

"I'll just skip that part and put a bullet through your other arm instead," he halts his medical measures and grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks in a firm grip. "You understand me?"

You shook your head away from his grasp, a small, childlike and petty desire to jab at him grew inside you.

"You sure feel me up a lot for someone who hates O'Driscolls so much." Your lips curl upward into a mischievous smile.

He raises a brow, leaning away from you, scoffing in disbelief.

"I'd prefer much anything over you, O'Driscoll." He gripes, returning back to your wound, unraveling the old bandage.

"Yeah, I can see that, considering you have me almost half undressed." You did your utmost to keep from looking at your wound, instead keeping your eyes on Arthur's face. His eyes kept strictly at your arm, never faltering as he lazily slathered on some sort of ointment.

"You're full of yourself. I wouldn't be doin' this if I didn't need to." He shakes his head.

As he finished with the fresh bandage, his hands finally had stopped poking you, leaving your arm in peace and an onset of relief.

"You know, I was thinkin' bout feedin you tonight," his words brought you back to how starving you were.

"Can't say I'm feelin' so kind now." His hand found the side of his face, his fingers inspecting the welt you had inflicted on his cheek.

Your stomach found his words utterly strangling, but begging him was out of the question.

"Dead people can't tell you where Colm is."

"So, the answer comes to you if you're fed?" His eyebrow shoots up, sarcasm plastered all over his freshly punched face.

"I can give you my best guess if you feed me." You explained, irritation being the entire undertone of your statement.

"You think guesses are gonna get you fed? Huh, girl?"

"That, or I simply wont have enough energy to think much on Colm." You cajoled, your smirk slowly returned.

"Careful with that mouth of yours, it's gettin' real tiresome." He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Yours reached that point way long ago." You fired back, his face now full of frustration.

"Glad to hear you're not hungry, O'Driscoll." He griped, returning rope to your wrists.

You full well expected it, but having them back on so soon displeased you beyond words.

Once he tied you up good, he got back up without a word and promptly left back to camp, leaving you alone on your tree once more.

You leaned your head back, wondering just how much longer they'd leave you tied up before they acted on their word of killing you both.

Minutes passed as you felt your eyelids get heavy, you didn't want to sleep, not until at least everyone else, but being tired, starving and having been shot only a few days ago left you exhausted.

"Don't you fall asleep yet, y/n." That man's voice chimed. You grimaced at his return.

The front of him was shadowed in contrast to his backside, which faced the camps fire light. You couldn't quite see what he held as he made for you.

"Couldn't get enough of me, huh?" You teased with a straight face, irritation filling you once more.

"You would like if I couldn't, wouldn't you?" A shit eating grin spread across his face at his own comeback.

You scoffed in response, staring him up and down as he got closer and to your surprise - the smell of food wafted into your nose.

Your whole body jolted with excitement, though, you couldn't tell just why he decided on feeding you.

He unties your wound-free arm, but hesitates when handing you the bowl in his hand.

"What?" You ask, looking up at him, his large frame towering over you.

"Say please." He demands, an evil look on his face.

"You're crazy. Now hand it here."

You reach for it but he pulls it away.

"Just say please, O'Driscoll." He laughs, taking a step back to avoid your waving arm.

"Quite actin' a fool and just give it to me." Your voice tightened with anger, your hunger almost possessed you into fighting him for it.

"Didn't anyone teach you manners? Please aint that hard to say."

"It is when the man you're saying it to is the same one that shot you. Now-" You reach again, your hand finally collecting the soup filled bowl.

You glanced back up at him, almost in shock that he actually let you grab it.

"Alright, alright, but next time, I expect some manners, O'Driscoll." He grins, knowing this set you off.

Next time? Next time, really? Your face furrowed with disbelief. "I'm happy you're an optimistic man, Arthur, but next time'll be in your dreams."

"Don't get too cocksure, darlin'."

"You know, you look pretty good when your face has a big red mark on it from my fist." You commented, shuffling in bites as you spoke.

"Really? Well, I think you also looked pretty good tied up all these days." He countered, the smile he had on his face ever growing.

That smile, on that nasty man. You hated it.

"Leave me to finish my food in peace."

He hums in consideration. "As much as I'd like to, you aint tied back to the tree."

You glower at him, desiring to eat slower so you could spend more time to rest your rope burned wrists, but ridding yourself of his presence felt more important.

You stayed silent as you finished the rest of your food, which didn't take long, tossing the dish to his feet and laying back on the tree so he could re rope you.

"That's what I like to see from you, O'Driscoll." He nods with approval.

You ignore him, your pride hurt with every moment more you had to give into this man and his crook gang.

He ties you back up and returns to the heart of camp.

It wasnt long before you finally dozed off.

(Set after the scene when Keiran gets interrogated.)

You sat petrified, still as the tree behind you, gelding tongs. They pulled down his pants for it too, if Keiran hadn't spoken up, you feared you'd be subject to it as well.

Goosebumps had crept up your back just thinking about those searing hot metal peices anywhere near your barren skin.

Keiran had finally come up with something.

Six point cabin.

You recalled having been there a few times, but was Colm up there? Your guess was as good as Keirans unless he actually was sure of it.

Arthur finally released Keiran from the tree, pushing him to the direction of the horses, then he came to you.

"You get to join us too, O'Driscoll." A small sinister smile creeps on his face, cutting through your ropes. "You better hope he's not trickin' us."

"Either way, if I'm rid of you, it's fine with me." He finishes, pulling you to your feet, guiding you to his mount.

"I'll get the most joy out of that, I reckon." You affirmed, somewhat stumbling as he releases you.

"Whatever you say, princess." He chuckles, closely following you.

Arthur calls out to a John and Bill, telling them just what's about to happen.

Keiran and a man with a nasty scar on his face were mounting, if you had to assume, the name John seemed best to suit him.

The other - Bill who had to be the man that threatened to 'geld' Keiran, coincidentally the one who also ratted on you that not so faithful day.

As you reluctantly walked along, you passed your steed you so woefully desired to mount instead, your ticket out of here. But Arthur quickly dismissed the thought for you, pushing you to his horse instead.

You gave him a hard stare in return, frustrated with his shoving.

"We're gonna pay your buddies our respects." He announces, entirely unconcerned.

"They taking us to Colm?" Questions John, steering his horse away.

"That's what he says." Arthur attempted to lift you up but you wave away his hands and pull yourself up instead, as much as your arm protested in agony.

Keiran stuttered out his assumption on where the cabin and Colm was, they pushed their horses in the opposite direction of camp.

Arthur mounted on after you, and for the first few moments you chose to hang on to nothing, however as if he knew, he kicked his horse to a trot, prompting you to grab at his sides.

Even underneath his layer of clothing, you could feel his heavyset build that helped keep you steady. Looking him up and down, a shiny metal caught your eye.

You were captivated at the sight of your revolver, missing the feel of it at your side and in your palm whenever you saw fit.

He had taken your gun as if you weren't still alive to be the owner of it.

You clenched your jaw, angry at everything and now finally riding to your more likely than not demise, worse yet, possibly executed with your own gun.

He kicked his horse into a lope, leaving you clinging to his sides firmly.

He turned to look over his shoulder at you, clearly in response to your tightened grip.

A small smirk crossed his lips before peering back to the trail up ahead.

The rest of the entire ride consisted of Keiran condemning O'Driscolls, bickering and directions shouted from you and Keiran.

It didn't take very long at the speed in which you rode, though you feared slipping off everytime you didn't have a good hold on Arthur.

You approached a small hill, Keiran confirmed the destination upon arrival.

"Okay, off your horses." Arthur draws back the reins. "Let's go." His voice now low in tone.

He jumps off and you follow suit shortly after, sliding off the back of his horse.

John reminded you and Keiran as you snuck forward, that he was keepijg his eye on you. Although you felt Arthur had beat him to it, he stared daggers at you as you crept along with the rest of them.

"I ain't gonna shop you now, come on." Keiran assures. "That'd be suicide."

"You'll die, boy. But you'll lose your balls first." Warned Bill, his gravelly voice blunt as could be.

Bill wasn't a man you wanted to be too close to with threats like that, so you kept closer to Arthur.

"Jesus christ…" Keiran murmured under his breath.

The lot of you kept low as you came to a ridge overlooking the cabin.

Keiran gave the rundown, confirming they were in fact armed, drunk and not fond of strangers.

Colm would be in the same way, just in the comfort of the cabin, which you agreed on.

Unlike Keiran's declared opposition, the O'Driscolls were a gang you rode with for a good while and despite Colm's nasty behavior, you felt a large sense of betrayal. Betrayal or your life, as it was now.

Your thoughts interrupted by three men emerging from the small cover of young trees, conversing about something miniscule and not far from earshot.

Suddenly Keiran was grabbed by John, a gun to his head and a hand over his mouth.

Arthur followed suit, pulling you into him, losing your balance with his sudden pull, your own gun held to your head and any potential cries for help blocked by his rough hand.

The now non existent barrier betwen your back and his chest was closed, you could feel each breath and each nervous heart beat agaisnt you.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #lemon fanfic #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption arthur #red dead redemption two #red dead fanfic #enemies to lovers #rdr2arthur #rdr2 #arthur morgan fanfiction

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leewritestoomuch · 3 months

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so here's my Request:Senku(Superhero from another planet) Saves Reader but some lil fluff and...more angst!

btw do you making headcanon?

Hi! Yes, I do write headcanons. If you’ve got any, you can send them in. And thank you for the request.

Superhero!Senku x gender neutral!Reader

If y’all have ever seen Big Hero 6, y’all know how they aren’t actually superhuman but they’re geniuses who created crazy tech and became “super” heroes. That’s how I’m handling this.

I don’t this is exactly what you were thinking, but I felt this might write better. I hope you don’t mind.

WARNINGS: Ryusui. (Also death, but not him)

“What do they call them again?” Your roommate asks from the kitchen as she coats all the dishes oil to clean them. As you watch her pick up a strangely shaped sponge she’d made herself, soaking it in the oil, and and washing the dishes over, you click your tongue and sit up a bit.

“Humans.” You chime. “And did you know they wash their dishes in something they call soap? I hear it’s less greasy.”

“And how do you know this?” She asks, throwing the dishes in a basket that sits on the table in front of you.

“I got into contact with one.” You say, shrugging, but she drops the dish she’s washing. You flinch when it slams down onto and shatters against the metallic floor, knowing she’ll reprimand you like a mother. Here mothers leave their child when they’re young, so sometimes the less mature ones get mothered by an older friend. At least, that was your case, and to your understanding, it’s not uncommon.

“They’re real?” She asks, turning around to face you. “I thought they were some sort of long tale our mothers tell us when we’re 6 before they leave.”

“Nope, they’re real.”

“Are you getting bullied by those kids down the street again? You know they’re in 3rd school. They’re just bored. Probably have nothing better to do that humiliate you by pretending to be some human.” She sighs, rolling her eyes as she begins to pick up the shards of the plate.

“They’re not nearly smart enough to be him.” You chuckle, shaking your head. From her perspective, you look like some lovesick fool as you smile and stare off.

“He’s smart? Hmm, I heard the humans weren’t all that smart. Is he cute?” She snorts, finishing up the dishes.

“I haven’t ever seen him.”

“Then how do you know he’s real?”

“Those neighborhood brats don’t know the theory of relativity from a Hargaw.” You shake your head, looking out the window.

“They know what a Hargaw is, so I think they would. You can’t mistake a theory for a rodent.” She raises an eyebrow as she walks over to pick up the basket and put it outside to dry quicker.

“You get my point.” You groan, laying your head on the table below you.

“I don’t see the point you were trying to make, no.”

…

You had never thought you’d meet the human you fell hopelessly in love with, if you were being honest. Now, as you run onto a spaceship meant for anybody below the age of 40, you think about how wishing to meet him might have doomed your planet. They always told you to be careful what you wish for. It was a superstition, you knew that.

And even now, you could call it a coincidence, but you can’t help but feel guilty. You get what you wanted, but lots of people will die. The meteors in the area break through the barrier your friend had told you about, which Senku called an atmosphere. Now you understand meteors and comets are the name for those rocks. He said they’re debris from space, and they do damage.

When one big enough to destroy a planet is hurling towards your home planet, you can’t help but remind yourself of the terms. You like what he taught you, but you wish his teachings could save people, but you, nor him, even knew this was coming.

When the spaceship got to the infamous planet called Earth, yours crashed in the middle of a freezing forest. It was colder than you’ve ever felt and the forest seemed nearly endless. It seemed hopeless, but your phone had even better service to contact Senku.

You were cold, wet from the snow, and everybody on your ship had died from the impact. How you were alive, you didn’t know.

It took about a day or so, you think since you’re not too familiar with Earth days, but Senku showed up in a small plane.

“You look different than I imagined.” You say chuckling, still shivering violently.

“We can talk later, you’re gonna freeze out here.” He says quickly, gesturing for you to get in the plane. Just then, you notice a man behind the wheel in the front. He looks back and meets eyes with you, winking at you from below his unnecessarily large hat. You don’t give much of a reaction, just a small wave as you hop up into the plane.

When the plane takes off, Senku begins to talk. “So Y/N, why are you here? You didn’t fill me in.”

“You remember those things you talked about. Uh… metaphors?”

“Meteors, but yes.”

“A giant one hit my planet.”

…

Time passes and Senku has been helping you deal with guilt. And he even told you about how his planet, some years ago, was turned to stone. And how they lost a lot. It’s been helping, but you think about your friend often, since you don’t know where she is.

He’s been trying to convince you to help him build a Time Machine, despite your lack of knowledge over that kind of thing. You convince him to build a suit like iron man, however. And eventually he perfects it.

He doesn’t understand your fascination with Iron Man, but he doesn’t mind the attention. And the challenge was fun, anyways.

Somehow you convince him to go hiking. How? He doesn’t know.

“We didn’t have mountains on my planet.” You say, watching your steps in your new hiking boots he got you as you step on dirt and rock.

“This isn’t a mountain, it’s a hill.” He corrects flatly.

“Oh, it’s a big hill.” You say, looking around, fascinated.

“Yeah, hills can get pretty big,” He says, “but to be a mountain, the landform has to reach 1,000 feet.”

You nod, a little lost because you barely understand what a feet is. You begin to hum as you look around at your surroundings before you gasp.

“Did you bring the iron man suit?”

“Sort of. I have Friday on like speed dial practically. Her device is attached to my wrist.” He says, holding up his wrist to show the black bracelet, the red dot glowing. “The suit is nearby.”

“So it’s in the… car?” You say, forgetting the word for a moment but getting it within mere seconds. He smiles.

Neither of you are paying attention, but the ground below you both cracks. And soon, your conversation is cut short by a free fall. You can’t look back to see it, but you know soon you’ll hit the ground below. And you can’t find him, though you hope he didn’t fall. It all happened so quick, you don’t know.

The wind whistles loudly, roaring in your ears as it pushes at you. Then, instead of ground, you feel cold metal grab you from the air, landing back on the ground safely.

“I told you hiking was a bad idea.” He says as he puts you done. He doesn’t say much, or cling to you out of relief that he saved you, but you can tell by his eyes he’s relieved. And he was definitely scared. He quickly decides you’re both going home.

I feel like the writing got worse as I went, but I really hope you liked it. It’s a different take on the request, so I hope you didn’t mind!

#Senku x reader #senku ishigami x reader #dr stone #dr stone x reader #dr stone x you #Senku x you #Ishigami Senku #Ryusui #Ryusui Nanami #Nanami Ryusui #dcst #drst #gen dr stone

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spurgie-cousin · 7 months

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Hi Spurgie,

I was wondering if you know something about this: I follow SO many fundie blogs, but none of them show up in my dashboard anymore. Does Tumblr use some kind of algorithm like Facebook where I have to like posts to see the blogs on my timeline? Or did the blogs really just stop posting and dropped off the face of the earth? I’m confused 🫤 and I would really love some more fundie content like yours in my dashboard again. Oh, btw: I turned on the posting notifications for some blogs, but I’d just like to scroll through the posts on my dashboard without needing to access the notifications.

Am I making any sense here? Is this a common Tumblr problem or am I the only one having this issue?

Thank you so much in advance for reading my question.

That has been a problem for me since I made this blog tbh, I've messed with my dashboard settings, I've tried to engage with posts from blogs I like when I see them, and still I can't really get much fundie content on my dashboard, even back when it was busier around here 🫤

I'll get stuff in my "for you" recommendations sometimes, but for the most part I've just gotten in the habit of going to a few blogs I like every once and a while and just going through their new posts that way. Which is not ideal bc my memory only stores like, 3 to 4 urls at a time lol.

So idk tumblr just has a grudge I guess it I've just been missing something. If you follow a lot of different blogs that could be it too, but truly dunno.

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apollotronica · 8 months

Note

MEEE!!!!!!!

OKAYOKAY

^ this is nobuyuki btw or just nobu for short

story contains HEAVY heavy religious themes and implied child abuse also Again it is Not finished

I suppose I will preface this by stating that there were no real motives behind my actions. I faced little adversity and devoted my life to my mother’s work, who devoted hers to the Lord. Nothing prompted my decision, and though I have little belief in free will—everything we do, as people on Earth, is carefully crafted and decided by the Lord—I presume this was the result of my own. Perhaps I’ve sinned myself to the edge, and my mind is developing some form of hysteria (my mother once told me, when I’m to reach a certain age, Sin will attempt to make his way into my head. She also told me that other girls at this age will have a substantial amount more difficulty in fighting these temptations, as they are not protected as I am), for my thoughts have never betrayed me in ways such as this, nevertheless my actions. Sincerely and wholeheartedly, I do hope He will forgive me.

The stench of cleaning products and water that hadn’t been properly filtered filled every square inch of the church, and as I made my way to my mother’s office, the smell hadn’t faltered in any noticeable way. My nose stung with familiarity as the click of my heels against the floor echoed throughout the church. Every breath I took seemed to repeat itself back to me, saying the worst of my mind—and my life, no doubt—and I willed myself to hear none of it. It was a Saturday, and I had been assigned the task of preparing for the gathering tomorrow while my mother deep cleaned the whole building. My mother never let me see what she did with the materials I brought her. She only told me that they were crucial for the morning to come, and I believed her with no second thought.

In my hand was a very carefully crafted dagger and the corresponding box, which was decorated and engraved with the religious imagery my mother and I so carefully pulled from His text. One of many memories involving her, though it holds a different atmosphere inside my head than others stored. She was enraptured with the details—not that I minded, of course. Lord knows what would become of me if I did; we sat quietly and decorated the box. The dagger was away at the time, being polished by the hands of a friend of a friend. I was to bring this, a rosary, and my mother’s personal copy of His text—annotated and highlighted—to the altar that stood so tall and so beautiful in front of the gathering. I stood next to the carefully carved altar like a puppet on Sundays, moving only on the subtle, yet countless cues my mother threw at me. On weekdays we practiced my performance.

I dusted off the box and wrapped the rosary around my wrist, and I could hear the clacking of the beads as I strode towards the gathering room. My mother stood with her back towards the entrance; she hadn’t turned when I opened the door. Instead, she sighed—something she did often—and raised an arm towards the window she faced. Summer had started, but that day was cold. Her warm palm fogged the glass as she laid it against the window.

With God in her voice (He seemed to speak in a hiss), she dismissed me to my room upstairs with the objects still in my hands. It was a dismissal laced in poison and concealed with concise words, but having been born from her matter, I tasted the poisons as soon as she spoke them to me. I suppose I had dropped the rosary in my haste towards my room, as I did not hear the click-clacking of the beads as I traversed the church, but I did hear the soft fallings of tears and barely-concealed sniffles on the way. I recall I wiped my heated face and was met with tear-stained sleeves. I cared little. My mother’s dismissal was my first priority.

I clenched the dagger’s box with my back against my bedroom door. I could hear my breathing reverberating and reflecting off of the thin walls that stood only because they had nothing else to do, the thin walls that stood with nails hammered into them. These walls of mine had heard countless prayers, countless pleads, countless laughs and sobs and shudders. In a way, they are similar to me. Foolish, isn’t it? Finding yourself represented by the walls surrounding you. Perhaps the floor would make more sense, I do not have items hanging off of my body.

I am sure, if the Lord took the care to observe the current me from my room, He would be astonishingly disappointed. My room was messy—messier than it had been before I had been assigned my task. I could not remember how my belongings ended up strewn across the hardwood floor, nor how my blinds hung by a mere thread with my only window, circular and illuminated by the setting sun on the outside, behind them. The crucifix on my wall stared crooked at the box that I held in my sweaty hands, and my unmade bed seemed to repel any essence of comfort. I remember I was once told to ignore the temptations of sleep, lest I dream and have my mind filled with new desires hidden deep, deep within my subconscious. Though, if they were in my subconscious in the first place, those desires aren’t exactly new, no?

With shaking hands, I rested the dagger’s box on my dresser. The dagger itself, however, found its way in between my fingers. Upon further examination of the blade, it was slightly rusted where the end of the steel met the wood handle. Indented in the handle was a red oval stone of some sort, and though I would never doubt my mother, some part of myself believed the gem to be a farce. The carvings on the handle were intricate and precise, as if the woodworker handling it held as much love for his craft as the Lord does for His. Floral patterns and no conservative use of the Cross were hand-carved with love into the handle of this blade my family regards so highly. Truly, in every possible meaning of the word, it was beautiful.

#apollos ocs #☆ apollo answers #hi lyria #artpollo #nobuyuki kenshin #fare thee well my faith #<- title pending ? these girls have been w/o a name for Years

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