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#in the future if it will work out and I can have my cake and eat it too but I genuinely don’t know how realistic that is to achieve

crookedkryptonitebeliever · 15 hours

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Ok regarding that “can i make Yves do my homework if I give him my childhood pictures” ask, exactly how much access does Yves have to our lives? Does he have images or videos from when we were still a baby or would they be new information to him?

A bunch of my baby pictures and videos are lost because my dad lost the computer that had them but we recently found my aunt’s old camera filled with our childhood pictures, it was a pleasant surprise for us but would it be for Yves too?

It absolutely is. If Yves was there with you while your aunt showed you the photo gallery of her old camera, Yves would momentarily lose a bit of inhibition and let his pupils dilate to a maddening degree before instantly constricting it back to appear normal. It's a rare, super deluxe edition photos of you, there isn't anything else like it out there as they're most likely not uploaded to the internet or a cloud based service, where he could easily hack.

Him coming across media from your childhood or at least during those early days where people still go to and get their photos developed, is like winning the lottery for him. Because, although he tries to collect everything relating to your existence, there is only so much he can do in a day. He rather prioritizes the present and the future, as the past is the past; neither you nor him can change it, he can only understand or connect it to your current behaviours or thought patterns.

He does have some information about you as a baby or a child, but that is if they're "readily available" to him. (I.e., it can be found in predictable places like in your childhood home.), that is why, Yves would try to build a good relationship with people you grew up with, to extract information.

Despite being reclusive as he is, Yves would never fail to attend every and any family gathering he is invited to or expected to come. Encouraging that drunk uncle to drink more if he knew he has something to say about you, bribing your relatives with gifts and career opportunities, perhaps even drugging that really difficult and combative cousin to make them more bearable to interrogate.

As soon as he knew your aunt could be another goldmine of your data, he would get to work. Wasting no time building a rapport with her, it's a piece of cake given how obsessive and manipulative his nature is.

Inevitably, your aunt will come to love him and see Yves as family. By extension, her relationship with you will skyrocket too, she will invite you to her place much more often even though she might not be the most sociable person in the first place. Yves will find a way to make her bend to his whims.

The majority of their conversations would be about you, only sometimes Yves would talk about something else if it meant he could keep the drive to spill more about your lore going. His sharp ears and mind will pick up on clues as to where he might find more pictures or writings about you. He would then break into your aunt's home to give it a thorough shakedown and leave without a trace. Yves would repeat this process until he's positive that she has nothing left to offer. That camera is getting fucking stolen and replaced with a duplicate.

It didn't matter if your aunt was a minimalist or a severe hoarder, he would go through all her things just to try and find pieces of your puzzle. He would wade through cobwebs, dust piles, rat droppings and mould if he had to, Yves isn't scared to get dirty to obtain what he wants, "squeamish" isn't in his vocabulary.

When she is robbed of all your essence, Yves would become distant. Not hostile towards her, just cold and indifferent. He would still maintain some sort of relationship with her though, in case she becomes useful again later. As of now, he either puts his entire focus on your current peripheral and direct life, or start to hunt other members down- from his snooping, he had learned of other people who may have valuable input about your childhood.

All of this is happening in the background. You wouldn't suspect a thing, there wasn't a dip in his attention for you. In fact, he may have gotten a lot more smothering, as Yves would be shaking at the thought of testing out his new theories and hypothesis that were birthed from his new knowledge.

He just loves you so much that he couldn't help himself but to get greedy. Yves wants all of you; past, present and future. And any version of you that could have been.

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere male #oc yves #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere x you #male yandere oc x reader

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robbybirdy · 2 days

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Boston Cream Cake Pt II

Hey, every birdy. Now that you have seen the original recipe for the Boston Cream Cake. You will understand that I can’t replicate it. I was talking to Pop (my dad) about what I should do as a milestone marker for 1K followers, and he suggested that I share this recipe with you all and then do the math. For those of you who don’t know, math has never really been my strong suit.

So I have no idea how this is going to go. I am doing this post a bit differently. I am going to write up my equation and measurements that I got, and then I am going to bake the cake with the measurements and see if it is right.

Another reason why I needed to do this was because I didn't want to use a lot of eggs. In the whole recipe that I converted I am only going to be using 9 eggs, which seems like a lot but in contrast, really isn’t.

The equation that I came up with was:

Lbs = cups/ 100 = measurement then convert to grams = grams / 2 = measurement needed

This makes no sense written like this. But let me show you how I figured it out with the first ingredient of the cake shortening.

The original recipe calls for 21 lbs of shortening.

21 lbs of shortening are 43.81 cups. 43.81/100 equals 0.43 cups. 0.43 cups is equal to 93 grams. 93 grams divided by 2 is 46.5 grams or 3 Tablespoons. So it is a bit complicated but I want to see if my math works.

I hope you all are still with me, and didn’t fall asleep with all the numbers.

So with that being said. For the cake this is my number and for the simplicity of everything. I am going to keep the ingredients in grams.

47 grams shortening

136 grams of cake flour (All Purpose minus 1 tablespoon. And add 1 tablespoon of cornstarch)

84 grams sugar

1 tsp baking powder

½ tsp salt

1 tsp milk

4 eggs

43 grams water

½ vanilla

½ tsp butter

The directions for the recipe will be the same. Put the cake shorting, flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and milk powder in a large bowl.

Add water, vanilla, and butter slowly until ingredients come together, making sure to scrape down the sides.

Next, you are going to add the eggs and mix for 3 minutes.

Scrape down the bowl and continue until well mixed.

This is where it is going to be different.

Instead of using the 1-pound 8 oz pans. I am going to be using 9-inch cake pans. Because I don’t want to slice the cake in half horizontally. I think and hope that it will work. Only future Robby will know that information.

Now onto the filling. Using the same equation for the cake recipe.

390 grams of milk

102 grams of sugar

2 Tbsps Cornstarch

5 eggs

½ tsp vanilla

Put all the ingredients in a pan and cook until thickened. Ice the cake with frosting.

The frosting, using the same equation

113 grams sugar

½ Tbsp Karo syrup

3 teaspoons water

½ Tablespoon Shortening

6 Tablespoons Cocoa Powder

¼ tsp vanilla

Put all ingredients in a pan. Heat until smooth. Ice the cake on top only. Hopefully, my math is correct and it makes only one cake.

Prediction: I think it is going to be a balanced dessert if nothing else. Because from the looks of it, the cake itself isn’t extremely sweet. It’s the filling and the frosting that is sweet. And I hope that it comes out looking and tasting good. I will always have my parent’s voice in my head “it doesn’t matter what it looks like, as long as it tastes good!”

Result:

MY MATH WAS CORRECT.

I am so excited that it came out, and was edible. I can’t believe it. I mean I can, but I am a bit shocked. Because again math was never really my strong suit back in school. Even with saying that though one math class that I took in college was literally a math class called “Math of Cooking.”

Everyone told me that it tasted really good. My only criticism about this particular cake and my measurements would be to add a little bit more flour to the cake recipe. And maybe even a little bit more milk. Because when I took the cakes out of the oven they kinda looked like pancakes rather than cakes. So if I were to make the recipe again (which I think I might because it was fun to make. )

As we were going to bed, my mom told me that her only criticism was that she needed more custard in the middle. She said that it was good and she just needed a bit more. This was nice to hear. I had forgotten how to make a custard because I didn't temper the eggs before putting them on the stove. So there was a little part of me that was afraid that I was putting sweet scrambled eggs on my cake.

My dad told me that he really liked the frosting and how I put it together. You should have seen us at Walmart the three of us (Mom, Pop, and I) trying to figure out what in the world “royal fudge” was and he was the one who ended up figuring it out.

The moments when I am cutting the cake are sometimes the longest. Because some people have the dessert and they don’t want to say anything until I am in the room. To give me the results. Sometimes I don’t know if they are quiet because they are stifling a laugh about how weird it tastes, or if they are quiet because of how good it is. Thankfully with this cake, it was the latter. And I am so grateful. They all said that it was really good.

It wasn’t overly sweet. This is something that I strive for when baking because a dessert that is too sweet is not something that I want to give my family. I don’t know. It’s just a personal thing. I just don’t like overly, sickeningly sweet desserts.

I am so over the moon that this worked. Thank you all for your likes, comments reblogs, and follows. You have helped me in more ways than one. And I hope that you continue to follow my journey.

Thank you once again for helping me get to 1000 followers. I love each and every one of you, and I hope to see you in the next post.

Oh my gosh this was a long one. But, I had such a fun time putting this post together. I hope you liked it as much as I did.

Here is the condensed version of the recipe. Without the equation.

Boston Cream Cake

47 g shortening

136 g Cake Flour (I used all-purpose flour + 1 Tbsp of Cornstarch)

84 g sugar

1 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp milk

4 eggs

43 g water

1/2 tsp vanilla

1/2 tsp butter

Put cake shortening, flour, sugar baking powder, salt, and milk powder in a very large bowl. Add water, vanilla, and butter flavor slowly until the ingredients come together. Scrape down the bowl. Next, add eggs, slowly mix for 3 minutes, scrape the bowl, and continue until well mixed. I used 2 - 9-inch cake pans, (if you want them to come out more like cake and less like pancakes,) I suggest using 2 8-inch cake pans. Bake at 350 for 25 minutes. Spread with cream filling (recipe Follows)

Boston Cream Filling :

390 g milk

102 g sugar

2 Tbsp Cornstarch

5 eggs

1/2 tsp vanilla

1/4 tsp salt

Put all ingredients in a pan and cook until thickened. The next time I make this recipe I will do this part differently. I will heat up the milk and sugar first. And when it gets to simmer I will temper my eggs and cornstarch. and I will add the vanilla and salt when it is all done. Ice the cake with frosting

Chocolate frosting for Boston Cream Cake:

113 g sugar

1/2 Tbsp Karo Syrup

3 teaspoons water

1/2 Tablespoon shortening

6 Tbsps cocoa powder

2 Tbsps milk

1/4 tsp vanilla

1/8 tsp salt

Put all ingredients in a pan, and heat until smooth. Ice the cake on the top only. Or where it wants to go. And enjoy

#baking #baking therapy #long post #Boston Cream Cake #Cake #West Point Women's Club Cookbook #Good To the Corps #Thank you again #for 1k followers #once i started typing i couldnt stop #cw long post

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gaythreadrunner · 5 months

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so you're taking care of your computer's software health. NICE! but what about its physical health?

because yes, computers do need the occasional real-world checkup to make sure that they're running well. but what exactly does that entail? i see many posts about maintaining software health: limit your browser tabs, ensure your antiviruses are working properly, so on and so forth, but checking the physical components is something i sparsely see discussed here.

so what's the deal with physical maintenance? well, have you ever had your computer hack and wheeze trying to keep up even if your OS and all your drivers are up to date and functioning? if you've never opened up your computer before, you may be shocked to find just how FILTHY it can get in there:

take a closer look at that snout dust! PTOOEY .. BLECKH

computers are much more likely to accumulate internal dust if they're sitting on the floor, and especially if they're near any vents and/or if you have pets.

ok, you've figured out how to open your device and now you're staring at the second coming of the dust bowl in your gaming rig. what now? let's explore some basic cleaning tips, deep cleaning pointers for your CPU/GPU, and tips to help keep maintain your computer's physical health in the future.

first of all, turn off your computer and unplug it (for my computer, i turn it off, turn off the PSU switch, unplug it, and then press the power button for about 30 seconds to drain the capacitors and minimize static risk)

generally, you're gonna want to have THESE items:

some sort of face mask (dust masks are best, but anything that'll help keep the harmful dust out of your lungs will generally work)

a can of compressed air (or an electric duster if you're ~fancy~. they look and function like turbo blowdryers)

a vacuum will be useful if there's a LOT of dust, best to use in combination with an anti-static cleaning kit

if you ARE gonna use a vacuum, spray every attachment you use with an anti-static spray. disturbing large amounts of dust creates a lot of static, and electronics are very sensitive to that.

it's never a bad idea to grab an grounding wristband as well, but as long as you wear loose clothes and always keep some part of your skin in contact with the case, you should be ok. (i don't know how much this applies to laptops and smaller devices, since the cases for those are typically plastic)

if there's staining (like from smoke) or there's more gunk caked on than you thought, you can gently clean electronic components with a brush/paper towel/microfiber and medical-grade isopropyl alcohol ONLY. do not use any other cleaning alcohols for this task.

before you do anything, TAKE THAT FUCKER OUTSIDE! always clean a dusty device where the wind can carry that shit away, because oh my GOD will it fuck up your lungs like crazy. (that, and compressed air cans have fluorocarbons in them, which isn't great to breathe in either)

most of the time, you'll probably be fine just using an air duster. for compressed air cans, spray the dirty surfaces in short bursts. an electric duster can be constantly blown. when dusting fans, make sure that you're holding the blades still as to not accidentally make them spin too fast (ESPECIALLY with an electric duster!), since that can damage the mechanism that makes them spin.

however, if there's a lot of dust, it may be better to give it a vacuuming first. anything from a handheld to a shop vac will work, and attachments with brushes on the end will help tons with loosening up even more dust. and of course ALWAYS make sure that you're spraying any attachments with anti-static spray, and keep a hand on the case of the computer to electrically ground yourself since the hose will be in contact with the internals.

if there's any left over, give it a blast with the duster.

in some rare cases, there may be some extra gunk caked onto the internals, and you may have to really get your hands in there or take components out individually. if you don't have an anti static wristband (the ones with an alligator clip) do your best to ALWAYS keep your skin in contact with the case as you're finagling around in there.

it's probably a good idea to have disposable gloves on for this. grab your isopropyl and towel of choice (microfiber is ideal, but dirtier PCs may need disposable paper/shop towels), soak it a little bit, and gently scrub off the gunk n' grime as needed.

with heat sinks specifically, since they're just big blocks of metal, they're the one part of a component that can be cleaned under water. if a dusting doesn't suffice, gently scrub it with a brush under warm, soapy water, rinse thoroughly, and let it dry on a towel for a few hours before reassembling it into the electronic components.

if there's still little bits stuck in the radiator fins, stick an isopropyl-soaked q-tip in there to push it out.

the dust settles, everything's put back together, and it's all clean in there again. YAY!!!!! but what if you're still experiencing temperature problems? well, it typically comes down to either the CPU or GPU:

IF ITS THE CPU: if you took off the cooler to clean it, then i hope you remembered to dab some fresh thermal paste on there. you should be replacing thermal paste few years, otherwise it dries out and loses its effectiveness.

the type you use makes a huge difference too; i like to use arctic's mx-4, it has excellent thermal conductivity while still being an electrical insulator, so spillover isn't a problem. if you go for a liquid metal compound, please do your research first, since some of them can run the risk of corroding the cooler pipes and/or the CPU's outer casing.

to replace thermal paste, make sure that the crusty old paste is sufficiently scrubbed off the contact points of both the CPU and cooler. again, use isopropyl for this. once it's all cleaned off, put about a pea-sized amount of paste on the CPU and carefully lower the cooler onto the mounting bracket before fastening it in place. (also it really doesn't matter how you put the paste on, as long as it ends up covering most of the contact area)

also if you're still using the cooler your CPU came with, you should probably get a better cooler. especially if you're doing gaming or using graphically/mathematically intensive software. sorry. the stock coolers that most CPUs come with are mid as hell. you can get a nice ARGB one for less than 20 USD i promise its worth it

IF ITS THE GPU: like CPUs, your graphics card also needs to have its thermal paste cleaned out and replaced every so often. but they also utilize a second thermal material called thermal pads. these are usually made of either silica gel or a very thick clay-like grease, and come in different thicknesses. my favoured pads are owltree's 12.8w grease pads, the assorted pack comes with enough for about 4-5 GPUs.

taking apart a GPU seems scary, and understandably so; they're incredibly expensive and hard-working pieces of technology! but i've done it twice now, and it's actually surprisingly simple (as long as you keep track of all the damn screws... im lucky there's a magnetized screw mat in the house i can use)

i recommend watching a deep clean/teardown video of the GPU model you have before digging into it yourself. generally, they separate into 4 distinct portions: the outer shell, the heatsink, the board, and the backplate.

the shell contains the fans and any possible RGB elements. it'll have 1-2 controllers plugged into the board, one for the fans and one for the lighting elements if there are any. once the case is unscrewed, unplug these connectors with a firm squeeze and tug.

these tend to be surprisingly dusty on the inside, so it's probably a good idea to blast it with a duster. again, make sure to hold the fans so they don't overspin. you can also remove the fans from the shell and clean them individually if you'd like.

the heatsink is BIG and heavy, and you can do all the same stuff here that you would with a CPU cooler heatsink. it may take a bit of effort to tug off if the thermal materials are really making it stick to the board. once it's off, scrub the old thermal paste, blast it with a duster, and wash under soapy water if needed before rinsing thoroughly and leaving it to dry for a while.

the backplate is just a flat piece of metal that protects the back side of the board. usually all this will need is a simple wipedown.

the board is where all the magic happens, and will usually have a layout that's something like this:

clean up as needed; gently scrub off old thermal paste, scrape off the old thermal pads (but take close note of how thick they are so you can replace them with the correct pads), and brush/wipe down the dust and grease on each side as needed. take care to avoid touching the PCIe connector too much (the bar of golden pins that juts out from the bottom)

thermal padding varies from card to card (i recommend checking thermal pad placements for your gpu in water cooling guides, even if you're not doing water cooling) but it's typically gonna be on THESE spots:

the VRAM chips surrounding the die (main chip) along with the small black chips next to the capacitors will require thermal pads the most. cut each one to size, carefully peel off the plastic films, and press each piece onto the chips.

now you can grab your thermal paste and put some on that big shiny die. now take your freshly pasted/padded board and CAREFULLY lower it back onto the heatsink. i highly suggest having a good source of lightning for this, since shifting around the pieces too much trying to get them to align properly can displace the thermal pads and mess with how the paste spreads.

screw the heatsink tight to the board, and double check to make sure that the pads and paste are snug against the heat sink. now put the backplate and shell back on and BAM YOU'RE DONE! with the paste and pads i used, i was able to bring down the temperature of my cards by a good 10-15 °C.

ok you've done all this deep cleaning shit and your computer is happy and healthy. what can you do for your computer's health in the future?

DUST AT LEAST ONCE A YEAR. haul that thang outside and spray that shit out to stop it from building up for too long.

KEEP IT OFF THE FLOOR. if you can, of course, not everyone has the desk room for it. computers accumulate dust easier when they're close to the floor. if you do need to keep it on the floor, you might have to dust it every 6-8 months rather than once a year.

AND STOP PUTTING YOUR LAPTOPS ON SOFT SURFACES I SWEAR TO GOD

GET A FAN CONTROLLER. motherboards are DOGSHIT at maintaining fan speeds!!!! there are physical fan hubs that use controller software, but if you can't afford that, fancontrol by rem0o is a stellar software-only option.

IF YOU DON'T ALREADY HAVE CASE FANS, GET THEM. the number of fans depends on the motherboard form factor your case can accommodate (ATX cases typically have 6-8), but having that air circulation is very important to maintaining ideal temperatures. arctic makes fantastic budget-friendly fans.

IF YOU HAVE AN NVMe HARD DRIVE: please put an aluminum heat sink on that thang. they get toasty :(

OK THATS IT I THINK. if anyone else has tips they wanna add, go right on ahead. ok thank you bye your computer will love you

#sprite.exe

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thatgirlonstage · 1 year

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Re: whether or not Miles actually has the real Mona Lisa: while it being the real thing does provide greater commentary I propose to you that the painting being fake unlocks the potential for a short film about the horrified and pissed off Louvre employees who can’t believe they’ve been asked to turn over The Mona Lisa to this guy scrambling to put together a fake and hide the real one. In terms of the commentary, you can even have your cake and eat it too, if the French government agrees to loan it out bc billionaire corruption and so it’s the average museum employees lying through their teeth to the government and risking felony offenses to protect the art.

My proposed cast of characters:

1. The elderly curator who’s forgotten more about da Vinci and renaissance art than most people learn in a lifetime, was mentored by a dude who smuggled art out of France to hide it from the Nazis and the second he sees the request from miles is like “M. Laurent did not get shot in the leg by a Nazi shithead for me to simply hand over Joconde to this idiot, he would crawl out of his grave and murder me himself and he would be right to do so”

2. The art conservation and repair expert who has worked on the Mona Lisa personally for the past decade, knows her better than just about anyone else in the world, one of probably like three people alive who’s allowed to actually touch her, comes across as high strung and business like but has the deepest and most genuine love for the art pieces and is fiercely dedicated above all else to the idea that art belongs to EVERYBODY, that her job is not the preservation of art for art’s sake but the preservation of art for future generations to see and fall in love with just like she did

3. The 18-year-old who was supposed to be here on an internship except The Covids Happened and now they’re in a bizarre employment limbo where they are sort of still interning but the actual job is not at all what it was supposed to be. Enthusiastically anarchic and socialist and almost concerningly Down For Crime

Together they have to team up for a mini heist-like adventure to convince Miles Bron and the French government that they are handing over the real Mona Lisa while engaging in shenanigans to keep the real thing safe and hidden

#knives out #glass onion #glass onion spoilers

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morganski-19 · 2 months

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The One with the Gossip

The group is hanging out at the café, all in different conversations when Jonathan comes into the bar and flops down on the couch. Camera bag sliding off his shoulders.

“When does this place start serving alcohol?” he groans.

“In about thirty minutes,” Nancy starts, “are you ok?”

Argyle trades places with Robin, sitting next Jonathan. “That bad?”

Jonathan nods, widening his eyes. “Messiest wedding I have worked months. There were so many things and they just piled on top of each other. The amount of bridesmaids and groomsmen that had previously slept together and didn’t know about it was insane.”

Steve and Eddie turn their heads at the same time. “What now,” Eddie says intrigued.

“I love messy shit I’m not apart of,” Steve mutters under his breath.

“It was crazy,” Jonathan sits up, turning toward Steve and Eddie at the side table. “And it all started for the most stupid reason. The guys apparently had a bet when to see how many of the bridesmaids they could sleep with. And the girls didn’t know about it, and a few of them fell with their ‘charms’ and were none the wiser. Until, one of the groomsmen said who won in their speech.”

“Holy shit,” Robin says with a sip of her tea.

Eddie winces. “That is such a dick move.”

“How likely was it that they were part of those fraternities that just liked to terrorize people,” Steve asks. Having almost accidently joined one of these fraternities when he was in college.

Jonathan nods with disgust. “That only scratches the surface. The best man had won, having slept with six out of the seven bridesmaids, and he was engaged to the maid of honor.”

Everyone winces with disgust.

“Not cool, dude,” Argyle says with disappointment. “So not cool. How can people do this to other people. And think that they can get away with it.”

“Because they’re inconsiderate assholes,” Steve says at the same the same time Eddie says “They’re disgusting bags of shit.” They high five each other.

Jonathan lets out a long breath. “And I’m not done yet. It gets worse.”

“Oh my god, how,” Nancy questions.

Argyle stands. “I’ll be right back, continue without me.” He walks over to the bar and starts to talk to the barista.

“He got bonus points for sleeping with the bride. And the second-place winner, was the groom.”

“Holy shit,” everyone says in unison.

Jonathan nods with wide eyes. “And the groom got a bonus point for sleeping with his future mother in law.”

They were too stunned to speak, just letting the silence fill that moment. Argyle returns with a cup of something and places it in Jonathan’s hands.

“What did I miss?” he asks, looking at them all super confused. “Are you guys broken?”

Steve shakes his head, trying to wrap his head around what was just said. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.”

“And this is coming from someone who has actually slept with one of his frat bro’s moms,” Robin interjects.

“On accident. And she was his stepmom, that was much younger than his dad, well after I was in college. He doesn’t know, it’s fine.”

“Did that cause another sex ban?” Eddie asks.

Steve laughs. “No, that’s when the figured out that the previous sex ban wasn’t working.”

Jonathan takes a sip of the drink Argyle gave him. “Jesus, that’s strong. Did you bribe them or something?”

“Something like that. Seriously though, what did I miss?”

“Groom slept with the future mother-in-law,” Robin fills in, Argyle winces. “What is with people?”

Jonathan shrugs. “Don’t know. But it was a big wedding that they are not getting a refund for. And I still got cake, well what was left of it.”

Eddie leans forward. “What was left of it?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan nods. “Speeches were right before cake, so the bride took the entire top layer and slammed it over the groom’s head. Followed by the maid of honor taking two giant handfuls and shoving it into the best man’s face. Arguments broke out and all that shit. I stayed back to help clean up.”

“Had they signed the marriage certificate yet?” Nancy asks.

Jonathan sighs. “No clue, don’t care. It’s over and I got paid. A lot. This was not a cheap wedding. Oh right,” Jonathan reaches down into his bag and grabs a takeout container, handing it to Argyle. “Saved you a piece of cake.”

Argyle takes it, opening it and starting to eat it. Nodding his head in appreciation.

The rest of the group looks at Jonathan. “Where’s our cake?” Robin asks, a little hurt.

“You don’t live with me, you don’t get cake.”

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or taken off) @slowandsteddie, @annieofhearts, @cacdyke, @ubpd, @captain--low, @thespaceantwhowrites, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @anne-bennett-cosplayer, @lunaticparisianlady, @apomaro-mellow, @dolphincliffs, @dragonmama76, @maggiebug417, @stevesbipanic, @fearieshadow, @mentallyundone, @eightpackdiaz, @au79burger @bookworm0690 , @practicallybegging, @potato-of-the-lord, @autumncrocusandladybug

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vivwritesfics · 2 months

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Hooked On A Feeling

Chapter Fifteen - Olivia's Better Birthday

Daniel is a Formula One driver, but, more importantly, he was a single dad to a wonderful little girl. He wants her to be a normal little girl, to have a normal social life, so he sends her to daycare. That was where she met Milo, her future best friend.

Milo's mother was incredibly stressed. She worked so hard to provide a good life for her son. But then he makes a new friend, a friend who has a hot dad (ofc they fall in love)

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Single Dad!Daniel x Single Mum!Reader

Series Masterlist

Daniels backyard was transformed. It was every little girls dream. There was a huge banner tied to the fence which read 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY BADGER' in big bubbly letters.

Daniel had everything. There were two ponies in the corner, giving kids rides across the garden. There was a bouncy castle, a ball pit, one of those inflatable slides, every kind of food you could imagine and balloons everywhere.

"Wow," Y/N gasped as she put Milo on the floor. He immediately took off, running towards Olivia.

"You made it!" Called Daniel as he strode towards her, arms out stretched.

She fell into them. "I wouldn't miss it for the world," she said as Daniel squeezed her.

"Come on," he said as he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the house. Y/N looked around for Milo as she allowed herself to be pulled along, but he was too busy playing with Olivia.

Daniel pulled her into the kitchen. On top of the kitchen counter was a wide yet not very tall box. Unable to keep the grin from his face, Daniel pulled open the box, revealing Olivia's birthday cake. "Holy shit," she couldn't stop herself from whispering as she looked at the cake.

It was a Red Bull F1 car, that much was clear. It had the normal sponsors and a red number six on it. Smaller sponsors were things like Olivia's name and 'Olivia's sixth birthday' in small, golden writing. Inside of the F1 car, in the drivers seat, was a badger.

Y/N looked at Daniel. "She's gonna love it," she said as he placed the lid back onto the box, keeping it safe.

"This might be my proudest moment as a dad," he said and walked with her back out to the garden. "Now that you guys are here, we can actually start," he said as he opened the door for her.

"You waited for us?" She asked, unable to stop smiling. "You really didn't have to."

"Oh, I did," Daniel said. He led her to the other adults in the garden and abandoned her to go and stand in front of everybody. He clapped his hands and most eyes turned to him. "Hi everybody," Daniel called, his voice booming across the garden. "Thank you all for coming to Olivia's birthday party. We have games and pony rides and feel free to help yourselves to drinks. Parents we have drinks in the kitchen," he said and stepped away.

He made his way back over to the parents and joined Y/N at her side. "Can I get you something to drink?" He offered her.

"Danny, I need to drive Milo and I home," she said as he placed his arms around her.

But he shook his head. "Stay here with me," he said. "Milo and Olivia can have a sleepover and you and I can have a sleepover," he said quietly.

That was just a little too tempting. "One, just one," she said to him and Daniel disappeared back into the house.

Y/N looked around at the other parents and adults. Most of them she recognised from the daycare car park, some of them she recognised as Daniel's friend. "Hey!" Somebody called as they walked towards her. "Y/N, right?"

It took her a moment to recognise who was talking to her. "Hey Max!" She called as they greeted each other with a friendly, welcoming hug. "How have you been?"

When Daniel came out of the kitchen with drinks for him and Y/N in hand, she was talking to Max, who was introducing her to those she hadn't met yet. Almost all of the grid was there, introducing themselves and chatting animatedly. The only one missing was Charles, but Olivia was forcing him down the slide with her.

Lando spotted Daniel. He grinned at him and Y/N turned around. "Thank you, Danny," she said and took the drink from him. Daniel immediately put his arms over her shoulders pulling her into him as they continued to chat with his friends.

The other drivers smirked at each other. They already looked like a couple, and they all knew it wouldn't be long until were one.

A few hours into the party, it was time to bring out the cake. Max held Olivia on his hip as Daniel brought out the cake. "Uncle Max it looks like your car!" She called while everybody sang happy birthday to her.

She blew out the candles on the cake and a few of the drivers, including Daniel, formed an assembly line to get a piece of cake to everybody. Whatever was left over went into party bags, with Daniel leaving a wheel aside.

Music played and the kids danced around. Parents still stood and chatted, but Y/N and Daniel were behind them, gently swaying. Nobody could see them, they thought. But they wouldn't have cared if they could.

"Olivia made this playlist," Daniel said, Y/N tucked against his chest as a song from a disney movie came to an end. "She pretty much planned this entire party."

She looked up, not moving her head from his chest. "She's done brilliantly," she said as she looked around. It really was a spectacular party. She only wished she could give Milo something this grand.

Suddenly, a Taylor Swift song began playing. Y/N's eyebrows were furrowed as she looked up at a grinning Daniel. "This one isn't Olivia's music, is it?"

Daniel couldn't stop himself from laughing as he and Y/N began moving faster. "I'm a swifty," he confessed and Y/N just laughed with him.

"So, if I was in a room with Taylor, who are you choosing?" She asked, but the grin on her face showed she wasn't serious.

Daniel grabbed a hold of her chin and tipped her face towards his. "You every time," he said and kissed her.

After the cake the party was only an hour longer. He passed party bags out to parents as they grabbed their kids and started making their way out.

Y/N began clearing things up as Daniel said goodbye to everyone. He took a little bit longer saying goodbye to his fellow drivers, who wanted a moment to ask about Y/N. But he waved them off, wanting them to leave so he could have time with her.

As the slide, bouncy castle and ball pit were packed up, the ponies were put back into the trailer. Before the owner put them away, he gave Milo and Olivia a treat each to give to the horses. They were squealing as they walked away.

Once she had picked up as much rubbish as she could, Y/N started salvaging what food was leftover. She brought it into the kitchen as Daniel brought Milo and Olivia inside.

As soon as the party was cleaned up Y/N and Daniel worked on getting the kids ready for bed. Milo wore the clothes he had from the last time he had slept over. Olivia still wore her birthday crown once she was ready for bed.

But they didn't go to bed right away. Putting a few snacks from the party into a bowl, Y/N and Daniel sat with in the living room with the kids. Olivia and Milo shared the food, eyes fixed on the television, as Y/N cuddled up to Daniel.

"Today was amazing," she whispered as she laid against his chest. "You're a brilliant dad."

Daniel kissed the top of her head.

As soon as the movie was finished, they got the kids up to bed. Y/N kissed the top of Milo's head and tucked him in. He and Olivia were exhausted after the party. They were so happy, but so exhausted. "Momma," Milo said through a yawn. "Do you think I can have a party like Olivia's?"

Y/N stroked through Milo's hair. "I'll try, Munchkin," she whispered. They said a final good night and Y/N walked out of the room, leaving him to get some sleep.

She showered and got changed into the oversized shirt Daniel had provided for her. When she was done she returned to Daniels bedroom, where he was already ready for bed. She grinned as she wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek. "We haven't even had our third date yet. Are you sure this is appropriate?"

Daniel pretended to think about it. His hand was on her arm, finding any excuse to touch her. "Want to debate it over cake?"

That was how they found themselves in the kitchen, once again sat on the floor as they shared the circular piece of cake between them. "It's a soft tyre," Daniel explained as Y/N dug her fork into the black fondant. "You can tell by the red on it," he said.

Y/N licked her fork. "So what does a soft tyre mean?" She asked, and Daniel was only too happy to explain.

Taglist (CLOSED): @biancathecool @rewmuslupin @prettiest-at-the-party @hellowgoodbye @cassie0sstuff @spideybv28 @andydrysdalerogers @aundercover @lou-bean28 @landossainz @purplephantomwolf @ggaslyp1 @layazul @phantomxoxo @minkyungseokie @gills-lounge @hollie911 @annispamz @lillians-world-is-f1 @cixrosie @notyouraveragemochii @charli123456789 @amalialeclerc @teamnovalak @tallrock35 @teenwolf01 @chiliwhore @darleneslane @sava207 @thatsusbitch @formulaal @leptitlu @angiesw0rld @yunakynn @landosgirlxoxo @msolbesg @cherry-piee @catmouseggy @bathedinheat @chanshintien @ilove-tswizzle @woozarts @evie-119 @trouble-sistar @mysticalnightenthusiast @lewisvinga @spilled-coffee-cup @starkeyellow @fxrmuladaydreams @viennakarma @radiator101 @lightdragonrayne @angelxxrose @millinorrizz @xemiefx @ellies-world61 @the-depressed-fellow

#daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo fluff #daniel ricciardo smut #daniel ricciardo x reader smut #daniel ricciardo x you #f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula one #formula one imagine #formula one x reader #formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #dr3 #dr3 imagine #dr3 x reader

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show-your-fangs · 9 months

Note

omg omg omg can I pls request hotch genuinely being the most clueless, dumb-and-in-love individual?

Basically the team has to point it out to him for him to see how soft he is for reader and how differently he treats them 💗😩 he’s in love, your honour 🤭

i love our stupid man in love, he's so cute i can't.

this is part two of this blurb from my moments au

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x f!Reader

Words: 1.7k

CW: nothing, just fluff.

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.

He didn’t ask you out that night. Neither Morgan or Rossi won the bet, the unfortunate draw making them only want to try harder to win over the other.

That had been a week ago, the pool only growing as more agents got in on it and it had somehow gotten out of hand really quickly. Penelope had been tasked with keeping track of the bets, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her mouth shut about it, especially when she was around you.

The team had left for a case earlier in the week which meant you were spending a lot of time with her. From helping with research, running point from the office, making calls and setting up permits, warrants, everything and anything they needed, you were practically tied at the hip as per usual when the team was away. The only problem? Penelope Garcia could not keep a secret to save her life, and the more time she spent with you, the more she almost slipped and told you what was going on.

You had closed the case earlier that night after five days of grueling work. You were exhausted, more so emotionally than physically, so you’d invited Penelope to dinner as way to celebrate the little victory. But what had started as a simple night out had quickly turned wild as the waiter had taken a liking to her and kept the cocktails coming throughout your entire meal. You were on dessert, a forgettable chocolate lava cake with ice cream when she finally slipped.

“I just think it’s so silly,” she giggled in between sips of her drink and scoops of dessert.

“What’s silly?” you egged her on, whatever this secret was had eluded you for the entire week and you just needed to know.

“How much Hotch likes you,” her cheeks flushed pink but her brain didn’t realize what’d she’d admitted to yet, allowing her to continue. “The team has a bet going on when he’s going to ask you out and everything.”

“Huh,” you mused. “That is silly.”

That’s when her brain snapped, dread and realization washing over her all at once. Her eyes widened, her spoon fell from her hand and onto the plate.

“Oh my gosh, do you not like Hotch back? I could’ve sworn— I am mortified! Forget I told you, please I am begging you—”

You reached over and placed your hand over hers, gently soothing her out of her panic as a mischievous smile curled on your lips.

“Can you get me on the board, Pen?”

Apparently they were all convinced it wasn’t happening for a while. They had decided to overcorrect their previous assumptions, placing bets that were days if not weeks in the future. Penelope had added you to the bet list that same night, promising to keep the secret until the next morning.

You knew the clock was ticking, knew that once you started the countdown, you had no business losing your courage. It was now or never, and the reminder that soon the rest of the team would be shuffling into the bullpen to start their day, that they’d know someone else had made a risky bet — it only got your adrenaline pumping even more.

You poured his coffee as you watched him enter the office, gaze on his phone, powerful and confident strides leading him towards his office. He turned and waved from the top of the stairs once he finally noticed you, a small smile on his lips. You smiled back, your cheeks reddening slightly as you finished getting your own coffee in order, the pale tan a contrast to his straight black.

You made your way to his office a minute after he’d settled, placing his cup on his desk and taking a seat across from him. This had been your routine for months now, you’d bring him his coffee in the morning and the two of you would fill each other in on your lives.

Aaron had been dealing with his divorce, the guilt of having to split Jack’s time between him and his mom, the added stress of finding a new place and moving, of finding himself alone when he’d been used to always having someone to come home to after a tough case. And you? You had just started going to therapy after he’d encouraged you to. It had been a rocky adjustment to the job, and you were glad that you could confide in him as your boss but also as your friend.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, pulling out the case files he’d taken back home the night before.

You shot him a look, the look, and he couldn’t help but sigh deeply. You weren’t angry, you were simply disappointed, and he knew that. It had been hard, harder now that he had to force himself back out there if he wanted to actually have a life. But even after months of this new normal, the idea of dating made him even more exhausted than he’d like to admit.

Because while Morgan or Emily thrived meeting new people, Aaron had met Haley in high school. He’d been with one woman his entire life, one woman for more than twenty years. He was rusty to say the least, the insecurity of it only growing the more he refused to take the leap, the more he refused to feel his feelings, the more he fell in love with you.

“Haley had Jack last night—” he started but you were quick to interrupt him.

“That’s a terrible excuse,” you chided. “There’s a million things you could’ve done instead.”

“Oh yeah?” the mischief was back in his eyes, making you gulp visibly. “What did you do last night?”

Your mouth opened in mock annoyance, he couldn’t possibly know—

“For your information, sir,” you mocked. “I went out with Penelope last night.”

Whatever glimmer of hope Aaron had cultivated to tease you about taking work back home was extinguished in a second. He sat back in his chair, inaudibly admitting defeat.

“Maybe that’s what you need too,” you started, your heart racing once more. His eyebrows shot up and you could tell his blood had also gotten to his head. “Ask someone out, go on a date, get laid.”

That caught him off guard completely. If he had been sipping on his coffee he would’ve choked, made an even bigger fool of himself. But instead his cheeks just reddened, his ears quickly following suit, a detail he knew you knew about him as you’d pointed it out many times in the past.

But you didn’t today, you didn’t say anything about his reaction but he was too hot to notice it right away.

“It’s what I have to do too, honestly,” you shrugged, faux confidence somehow allowing you to not combust right then and there.

“Do you now?” he managed through gritted teeth, the idea of you dating something that he made sure never to think about because it always led him down a dark path of rage and an ungodly desire to ravage you to the point where you belonged to him and no one else.

“Yeah,” you drawled on, almost sighing dramatically. That’s when he caught on, when his brain finally reconnected to his body and his heart only sped up even more. “But I don’t know…I’m not really into any of the guys Penelope or Emily have tried to set me up with, they’re not really my type.”

God, this was not actually happening. “What is your type?”

“Crime fighting single dads who adore their kids and participate in triathlons for fun,” there was no misinterpreting it now.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” the words flew out of his mouth before either of you could register them.

A bright smile took over your lips, your eyes sparkling with happiness. A shy smile slowly started to turn adorably embarrassed on his, his gaze tentatively raising to meet yours, eyebrows raised almost pleading, his eyes round and hopeful.

“I would love to,” you said and he graced you with the most beautiful full smile you’d ever seen from him. It was unrestricted, genuine, life giving.

“Great,” he cleared his throat as the clock struck eight, the reality of the world outside of your little office bubble a reminder of where you were. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Can’t wait,” you reassured him, standing up with your own untouched coffee mug and making your way downstairs. “Oh, and it’s my treat. Trust me.”

You were gone before he could argue, but you knew that he couldn’t stop smiling, the warmth radiating from him was enough for you know it deep in your bones.

“Babygirl,” Morgan asked aloud, holding up the list of bets that Penelope had left on his desk earlier as the blonde returned to the bullpen from her office. “What’s this?”

He tapped on the bet you’d written down, the other agents gathering to inspect the new addition.

“Proof of my victory, Derek,” you said cockily as Penelope handed you the envelope full of cash.

The entire team turned to you, eyes wide and anger slowly boiling. But none of them let it out, instead they all looked impressed, they respected the move, the hustle, the boldness. Morgan scoffed in proud defeat as he held out his fist for you to bump, and you did, excitedly.

It had finally happened, the start of something that had been brewing for months, and you couldn’t be happier. While the girls walked up to you to get all the details you shot Aaron a cheeky glance as Penelope filled Emily and JJ in on your conversation the night before, and for the first time ever, Aaron allowed himself to meet your glance, unashamed to be caught staring at you.

i've been smiling like an idiot all day

taglist: @ssamorganhotchner, @canuck-eh, @cr1minalskies, @xladyxdreamer, @mrs-ssa-hotch

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fluff #hotch x you #hotch x reader #show your fangs writes #moments on ao3 #show your fangs hotch blurbs #show your fangs moments au

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hellfire--cult · 2 months

Text

💗 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚 - 𝙧𝙤𝙚'𝙨 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣

eddie munson x fem!reader

wc: 2.2k

For @carolmunson's eddie munson event that you can find here!

Prompt and plot: A romantic night at the trailer that holds a twist at the end of the story that seals the fate and future of you two - filled with fluff, yearning, established relationship and eddie munson shenanigans

a/n: it doesn't really have the stranger things lore, but this is just Eddie, normal goofy Eddie. taggin people here if they are interested to participate @andvys @lofaewrites @taintedcigs

THE BOY IS MINE

You were whistling while moving around in the small kitchen, the water already boiling for the pasta you were going to make for today’s dinner. You were finishing off the cake on the counter, tongue poking out as you squeezed the piping bag to create swirls with the vanilla frosting oozing out.

It wasn’t the best, but it was something. Tomorrow was Wayne’s birthday after all, and you wanted everything to be perfect when he returns from work in the morning. You finished, not noticing a bit of frosting was on your nose, and you dragged the cake into the fridge. The sounds around Forest Hills were the same as always, someone laughing at a sitcom on the TV, teenagers laughing in the back, but then at one point, the park became silent at night.

It was bliss compared to your life before meeting Eddie.

That comedic charismatic boy back in high school who got on the cafeteria tables to state the most mundane things, catching everyone’s attention, including yours. Fate brought you two together, and you found out he was not… as charismatic as you first believed he was. At least not entirely natural.

But that made you stick to him like glue, and he always reminded you that he couldn’t believe you paid attention to him. That was five years ago, and now, leaving your messy luxurious life behind, you are happily dancing in the kitchen to the sound of Rock the Casbah. At the same time, you throw the pasta in the boiling water and grab the can of prepared marinara sauce so that you can heat it in a pan.

The door slowly opened and you turned to see Eddie walking in with a tired look on his face, your heart skipped a beat but you decided to keep dancing, turning the sound up. His eyes meet your face and you smile at him and his dimples start to form, his bright teeth shine through, his eyebrows perking up as he rushes towards you to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you close, swaying his hips with yours, greeting you with a shower of kisses all over your face, successfully cleaning your nose.

“How is my queen doing?” He asked with a huge smile after he left saliva all over your face. His hair was messy, and it was pretty noticeable that he wore your scrunchie at work because of the dents here and there. He had a bit of dirt on his nose so you licked your thumb and softly wiped it away and he hummed in approval.

“Making dinner… How was work?” And at your question, he rolled his head in a circle while groaning loudly.

“If I have to explain to Eugene how to change oil one more time, I will commit arson darling– Seriously, you will have to help me hide a body with the way things are going.” He sighed while pulling away from you so you could swirl the pasta in the pot and mix a little bit of spices into the sauce.

“You know I would completely do it, you just tell me when to buy the acid.” A giggle escaped your lips and he smiled while approaching you from behind, pressing a kiss on the back of your exposed neck. You sighed in delight and then you turned your head with a smile on your face, receiving a kiss on the lips from him. Soft, tender, caring, just like he always does with you, your heart soaring towards the roof of the trailer, and if it could, it would go towards the moon.

“This is why I love you.” You gave him another soft peck, turning back towards the food. He kept the kisses, one after the other on the skin of your neck, a shiver running down your spine as your body started to rise in temperature. He always riled you up whenever he could, and now more so than before.

“Eddie, baby, I love you too but if you don’t stop we’re gonna have a problem… and I’m hungry.” You heard him chuckle as he let go of you, going towards the fridge and opening it to gasp in surprise.

“HOLY SHIT! Look at that darling! Wayne is gonna go crazy with this.” He was giddy, doing a little jump in his place and you giggled at his childish act, yet so endearing. Your eyes widened when you saw him already poking his hand in.

“Don’t mess up my frosting! It took a while!” He shook his head with a pout as he closed the fridge’s door, rushing towards you to grab onto your free hand and raise your arm up as he started kissing from wrist to shoulder, making you laugh in your place, wiggling with his touch.

“You are the best thing, a gift from above, how lucky it is I for having thee in my life!” His voice was squeaky, high pitched, yet adorable in every way possible, that comedic side of him that never left him, despite it all. Despite adulthood, despite the hard times the two of you are going through.

“Shut up! Prepare the table and get the fancy glasses my liege.” You joked as he let go of your arm, squinting at you, a soft ‘ha ha’ leaving his mouth.

“I ran out of those, are cups of your interest your majesty?” He mimicked and you straightened up while taking the sauce out of the stove so it wouldn’t overboil.

“I guess I can be flexible. Just for now.” He smiled, reaching out on his cupboards to start preparing the coffee table for your dinner. Your stomach growled and growled in desperate need of substance and you were getting irritated at the damn noodles in the pot that just needed two more minutes. You bent down with a groan as you opened the cabinet under the sink to take the colander out.

Eddie walked back into the kitchen in two steps and looked into the pot. With a fork he fetched one single noodle out and held it in between his fingers, slamming it against his wall and seeing it stick, a proud smile on his face while you were already glaring at him. The back of the stove is definitely filled with noodles that fell after Eddie’s test.

“What? I checked and they are done!” He gave your forehead a kiss and grabbed the colander out of your hands and put it on the sink. You whined as you looked at your empty hands and back at him.

“I can–”

“Put the drinks on the table baby.” You sighed and rolled your eyes as you opened the fridge to take the Pepsi and water out. You walked towards the living room and placed the bottles on the coffee table where Eddie already placed two cups and two forks.

You looked towards your boyfriend who was cursing under his breath while moving the pot with worn-out kitchen gloves towards the colander and you couldn’t help but giggle when you saw all the steam engulf him as he strained the noodles. Your boyfriend that sometimes works on weekends in order to make a few more extra dollars. Your boyfriend who stays extra hours for a little more in his paycheck, and all you do is make dinner for him and breakfast for Wayne, making you feel a little… useless. But Eddie wouldn’t let you help with work at all, not for now.

You walked back towards him to prepare the plates filled with pasta, your mouth salivating even more as Eddie did small jumps next to you with excitement. You were laughing at him, handing him his plate as you two walked towards the couch and finally sat down to have your peaceful dinner.

You devoured your plate in one second almost, and Eddie often told you to slow down with a laugh on his lips as he wiped the sauce off the corners of your mouth. You were smiling as you talked to him about your day, which wasn’t much, but it was something. You met with Robin, bought a few things you needed, bought the ingredients for the cake, and returned home to clean the house.

“And that is how I want you. Calm, at least for now.” He said with a fond smile as he finished his plate of food, you frowned at him and then looked at your plate and then back at him.

“Eds… Am I getting fat? Like too fat? More than what it should be?” The question was out of nowhere, yet it was always in the back of your mind, nagging like a needle in the middle of your nape. Always finishing your plates at record speed, eating more than usual… His eyebrows went downwards into a frown as he shook his head.

“What? Don’t say that, you know it’s not even true.” He replied with a soft tone in his voice and a fond look in his eyes that always sparkled whenever he looked at you… even after all these years.

“So, you like me like this?” You asked with a bit of shyness and he wiggled his eyebrows at you in a playful manner, and you already knew that he was going to say something ‘Eddie’.

“Well I prefer no clothes, but this is fine too–” And you threw a cushion up his head, making his head bob to the side, his mop of curls bouncing as he laughed, putting the cushion on his other side before looking back at you again. “I love you baby, in your entirety. I’m yours and always will be.”

You smiled at him, and your worries vanished in a second, leaning over to place a kiss on his lips, electricity flowing through the both of you as if it were the first time you ever kissed. That kiss that happened after graduation, behind the bleachers, the two of you finally leaving the games behind and falling blindly into one another.

Eddie pulled away with a big smack of the lips and you giggled at him as you turned to take a sip of your Pepsi while Eddie glanced at the small notebook on the corner of the table. He grinned widely an ‘OH’ escaping his lips, as if he remembered something, making you raise an eyebrow at him.

“What is that smile for?”

“I almost forgot, damn– Lemme– Cause I was talking to Henderson on the phone at work today cause I had THE BIGGEST idea for next campaign…” He reached out for the notebook and the pen, opening it, a list of names filling the small pages and he went to the very last one and wrote the name down, making you peek, a scrunch of your nose immediately happening on your face with disgust.

“Killiath!? What kind of name is that!?”

“The name of a warrior babe!” He smiled at you, teeth showing, dimples forming as he pointed at the name he wrote, curls bobbing up and down as he explained with dramatic hands. “It is fantastic, imagine, it’s the perfect name because who would mess with someone named Killiath!?”

“We don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl yet, Eds!” You whined at him and he laughed, putting the notebook on the table again. A notebook that is filled with a bunch of names that the two of you have been writing down for the arrival of a new Munson in the family. It wasn’t planned, but not unwelcome.

Nothing is unwelcome with Eddie and he feels the same about you.

Eddie has been working his ass off since he graduated so he could buy a new place for the two of you, but now he worked even harder with the extra hours and shifts to reach that goal before the baby is born… and he is extremely close.

“It can be neutral! Killiath sounds pretty badass, you can’t deny that.” You giggled at his childishness, shaking your head at him.

“Did Dustin talk you into this?”

“You know, Harrington asked me the same thing. I don’t know what’s wrong with Killiath.”

You shook your head as you rubbed your belly, but a fond smile of pure happiness was on your lips. The trailer was already a bit messy with all the baby things you started buying, everything that you could find on sale, and stuff that was donated from from Karen Wheeler and Claudia Henderson. Joyce Byers cooperated with an old strolled that was still sturdy even after so many years.

Even Gareth, Jeff, and Grant bought things for the baby, lots of ‘Rock n Roll’ clothes. They said they couldn’t wait to see if the child would turn out to be a musician like his father or a writer like yourself. You worked at the Hawkin’s Post before getting pregnant, and Eddie immediately told you to quit because that place, misogynistic as fuck, stressed you to levels you’ve never felt before, and the obstetrician advised to avoid any kind of stress for the baby.

Ever since then, you had time to write a lot, and having Eddie Munson as a boyfriend helped your imagination flow like water. Hopefully, when the baby is born, you can finally put out your very first book, and Eddie said he would be right next to you every step of the way, just like he always promised you. Life was sweet, even with the unexpected turn, and you wouldn’t change it for anything in the entire world.

“Everything Eds… Every fucking thing.” And your boyfriend pouted as he cursed under his breath in a small voice and a stomp of his boot.

“You’re no fun.”

end.

a/n: i just know eddie would be the happiest to have a kid, and try to give him everything he couldn't have when growing up.

#anyways im yearning #i love him so much #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fics #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfiction #fanfiction #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson ficlet

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kissitbttr · 5 months

Note

Hi lovely! Your cake tasting fic was literally immaculate. I was just thinking about how r and miguel met, and how cute it would be to see a blurb where he gets all flustered when he sees her for the first time? You are amazing! Xoxo

sending u lots and lots of kisses MWAH MWAH thank u baby😚😚😚 anyHOWWWW i’m so glad someone asked for this! I’ve been waiting for it TEEHEE! now i did mention a little bit on the cake testing fic how they first met, sooo i might just have to expand from there yuhyuh!

this turned out a bit onger than i expected lol but I hope you'd enjoy it regardless!

miguel masterlist

—

miguel meeting his wife for the first time

“the laboratory is 80% damaged, miguel. we need to get it fixed or else we can no longer continue our work.”

miguel sighs deeply, pinching his eyebrows with his index finger and thumb. the ungodly amount of research papers stacked neatly in the corner of his working desk, along with bunch of scrunched papers on top.

“jessica, no ahora”

she rolls her eyes at his stubbornness, arms crossed over her chest. his eyes glued on the monitor, framed glasses perched on the bridge of his thick nose bone

“you need a break.”

“I don’t” he disagrees. if anything, he needs to put on more hours of work. “i can’t leave before everything is done. we’ll get it fixed next week.”

“that’s what you said last week, miguel” jessica points out, eyes scanning around the room. “look at this mess! the HQ haven’t got fixed in months! if you want this building to be safely secured and leave no casualties in the future, you have to do what i say.”

again, miguel disagrees. shaking his head without looking up. “and i said, no.”

but jessica refuses to be told like that, shrugging her shoulders like it’s nothing. “well too bad, because i already found someone who’s willing to work on it and you’re meeting them”

that seems to catch his attention, his pen dropping off between his finger as his head whips towards jessica’s direction.

“you—what?!”

“i’m not going to be responsible for many injured people in the future. not when we have too much enemies coming to bite our asses so i suggest you get down from there and come here”

miguel has a temper. a very short one, and it’s not easy to control it when he’s surrounded by people who’s trying to tell him what to do. it’s supposed to be the other way around.

but miguel has no energy to fight back, so instead of telling her to fuck off, he just nods his head.

“alright fine” an upset mutter falls from his lips before he makes his way down the stairs. hands on his hips. “where is he?”

jessica scoffs, “why do you always assume everyone is a he?” she chuckles lightly at miguel’s quirk eyebrow. “you can come in now, ms. y/l/n”

the sound of his office door clicks after that, and miguel seems to be less than impressed because he has no energy in him to talk to people other than himself,

yet, his jaw drops instantly soon as he sees the person who walks through it,

a woman—a very gorgeous one—who looks like to be in her mid twenties makes an entrance as her heels click against the marble floor, carrying what seems to be a tablet and folders. she’s dressed in a grey long tight fitting dress that falls down to her ankles with a cropped beige colored cardigan completing the whole look as an outer, leaving only the left shoulder exposed. a smile appears on her face as she fixes the frame of her black reading glasses.

miguel has never seen a more beautiful woman than the one he’s staring at right now,

“ms. y/l/n, this is miguel o’hara. the head of Alchemax and leader of Spider Society.” jessica smirks at the way miguel is gaping right now, as he makes no intention in hiding it away.

guess, her 70% of her plan is slowly working.

“ugh! come on, jessica you’ve known me long enough to stop saying my last name” she giggles, “mr. o’hara. my name is y/n. it is very nice to meet you. jessica had told me many things about you. i am so impressed with everything you had done”

‘fuck, even her voice is pretty’ he thinks

he regains his composure, clearing his throat before taking off his glasses. “thank you, y/n. you and jessica are close?”

with a nod, she responds, “we go way back. haven’t been off each other’s arms for a long time. hard to keep me away from this woman”

so jessica had been hiding her away from him? that’s rude.

“oh hush. always with the sweet talk” jessica waves her off with a smile. “miguel, y/n has plans on remodeling the hq for us. i’ve told her about what needs to be done and so forth. she has already inspected the lab, cafetería, training rooms. this smart woman right here came with conclusions in just five minutes.”

a blush creeping into y/n’s cheeks, shyly tucking a loose hair behind her ear which makes miguel’s heart warms at the sight,

“i’ve seen her work and i wouldn’t just bring anyone when it comes to our matter. she’s the perfect person for this. now since i have so many things to catch up on, i hope it’s okay for me to leave you two and have her explain it all—“

“yes” miguel replies a bit too quickly, causing the two women to raise their eyebrows. this makes him slightly bit embarrassed at how eager he might have come off. “i mean-yeah, of course. it’s not like i was doing anything. have a bit of a time off.”

“i though you said—“

“that’s enough jessica. thank you” he nods at her, shooting her a tight smile. “i would love to hear it.”

a giddiness blooms in his chest when y/n gives him a toothy grin. and it may become his favorite thing to look at,

“alright then. i’ll see you later. bye, sweetheart” jessica waves at her friend before walking out of miguel’s office and shutting the door behind her,

now it’s just them,

y/n’s gaze averts back to his tall figure. she had heard stories about miguel o’hara. jessica loves to spill teas about her partner and had showed pictures of him when y/n was curious on how he look like. he is indeed handsome.

but now, looking at him in person? fuck, even the greek gods are no match to him

beautiful bronze skinned, broad shoulders, high cheekbones with sharp jawlines. she glances a bit at his toned chest then down to his torso for a bit. abs rock hard enough to be seen through the working shirt he’s wearing. this man built like he contains zero body fat.

however, his mesmerizing red eyes are what got her hooked.

“it’s very nice of you to make the time for this, mr. o’hara. i know you are a very busy man and i hate to be the one who’s preventing you from your work.”

miguel’s head shakes, giving her a small genuine smile. “no apologies necessary. and please, call me miguel”

“okay then, miguel” she nods, returning his smile. “may i begin showing you what i’ve been working on?”

miguel’s arm extends towards a large wooden table, allowing her to walk first. “by all means” he folds his arms behind his back, following her from behind.

he’s very much struggling not to look at her ass while she moves,

“okay, so” she lays her things flat on the table, getting to work quickly. “i’ve planned a pre-design for your laboratory, given that the lab is one that needs extra precautions and highly detailed instructions, i’ve figured i should get that one done first. and here” she unlocks her tablet before tapping one app, showing the minimum design. “there are important keys that needs to be highlighted. i need exact measurements of how many people will be coming in and out of your lab, objects you’re thinking of storing, etc. because it will determine the amount of space i’ll be working on”

miguel doesn’t know jack shit about what she’s talking about but fuck, it sounds incredibly sexy to his ears,

“jessica had explained to me before that there will be less than fifteen people working in there. i would advise to create a fingerprint for entry. and it will require more space, more equipment and materials for me and my team to be able to carry on with our tasks. but i need you to not worry, miguel. i’ve done the trials and errors to limit the damage that might occur with the calculations.” she pushes her tablet for him to see clearly, colorful scribbles of geometry with shapes and patterns,

not only that, but she has a few mockups too. giving him a small vision on how the area would look like once it’s done.

miguel’s eyebrows raise, moving a bit closer to where she stands. “christ. this is amazing. you did that in…?”

“a week” she finishes with a smile, nails tapping against the table. watching how his eyes amazed at her small simple work “some would take more than that but, i take my work seriously, i don’t like postponing.”

his eyes move upwards to look at her, impressed by the details and efforts she had done with it. one thing about miguel, is that he is very much attracted to people who are putting their careers above anything,

and she has ticked that box,

“indeed” he lets out a breathe, nodding. “does that mean you don’t have a lot of free time?”

she thinks for a while. “not much definitely. but it’s not like i’m missing out on anything. what do people do nowadays? partying and gossiping? i rather not.”

he chuckles in amusement, “understandable. i thought that you might be into those kind of stuff.”

“and what gave you the assumption?”

he raises his shoulders. “you look young. young people like to have fun.”

“and how old do you think i am?” she asks with arms crossed,

he pinches his eyebrows. “28?”

she hums with a small laugh. “i’m 26”

miguel’a eyes widen slightly, “makes me older than you, then”

“how old are you?”

“32”

“really?” she asks in disbelief. “i thought older.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. around 40ish maybe.”

“that’s quite offensive, love” he fakes a gasp, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watches her scramble through more papers,

her heart skips a beat at the nickname, though she doesn’t think much of it. “it’s a compliment. the older the better, i’d say”

miguel smiles at that, walking around the table so now he stands across from her. “what did you and jessica talk about?”

“hm?”

“about me” he confirms. “you said that the two of you had talking about me.”

“oh, well” she begins, standing up straight to look into his eyes and miguel swears his knees almost give up. “she told me how much she admires you. your intelligence, bravery. your work ethic. told me all about the good things you had done for the people—“

“i don’t know about that”

“which” she cuts him off. “i am so, undeniably impressed by. keeping the universe intact while trying not to lose your fucking mind is hard, i could tell. I don’t know how you do it. makes me admire you too”

he stares at her as if he’s searching for a trace of doubt or a lie on her face. when he finds none, his heart softens. never in his life had someone come up to him and say how he’s doing a great job. let alone being impressed.

“thank you— i needed that actually” he laughs a bit. “wish people could say the same.”

“in my opinion, i don’t think you need to know about what other people think or say. you’re a grown man, correct?” she taps the eraser of her pencil on one of her sketchbook, eyeing any misguided lines she needs to work on. “if they don’t appreciate that, might as well kick their asses into a new universe”

a genuine chuckle escapes him, nodding in agreement. “i keep that in mind” he clears his throat, thinking about whether or not to make a small talk,

she notices the long pause between them before speaking up, “please, i hate awkward silence. you can talk to me, if you want to, miguel” her head shoots up at him with a playful tone,

“is architectural the only thing you’re doing?” he finds himself curious at her line of work,

“apart from this, i do a little bit of interior design. not too far off from architectural but not exactly the same either. i love anything that goes from there. putting ideas in my head before making it into a reality. also, it’s warming to see how i can help my clients dream come true” she responds simply, a small smile engraves on her pretty features.

“i also am studying in biochemistry at the moment. having a bit fun with molecular study.”

that perks his interest. “biochemistry?” he asks in a surprise tone. “i’m no expert in architectural but i don’t think it has anything to do with that.”

“it doesn’t” she confirms, picking a ruler before sketching out more details on the design. “i do it for fun.”

“for fun?” again, his question comes out in surprise, “why’s that?”

“i just think that learning shouldn’t be limited to one, you know? i like knowing about things. doing more things. the more knowledge, the more you have room to grow. plus, learning about molecules is interesting. might take it seriously on that one”

‘holy fuck, she’s perfect’

“that’s a— wow—“ he huffs out a heavy breath, can’t exactly tell if he’s impressed or intimidated. earning a soft giggle from her.

so, she’s gorgeous, brilliant and ambitious.

“how about you? jessica mentioned about you specializing in genetics. is that some sort of science thingy? because it sounds pretty fucking cool”

miguel scratches the back of his head. “something like that. i more focused on DNA’s, genetics pairings, human genome. all sorts of that. pretty boring if you ask me”

“doesn’t sound boring” she scoffs. “if anything, i find it very attractive when men are willing to learn about science. and i’m not just talking about the glasses, but the brains as well. you ticked every single quota, miguel”

she points at the working glasses he has on, causing his eyes to bug out at her boldness. y/n watches how he shyly takes it off, flustered at the compliment. she smirks as if she keeps trying to keep score on how many times she’s succeeded,

“okay, so” she continues, palms resting on the table before shifting the tablet. “let’s talk about your office. is there something you’re willing to change? because, not to be rude but your infrastructure is quite—shit. keep this up in two months then the apocalypse might have come early”

miguel bites back a laugh at her choice of words, scanning over his office walls, ceilings and monitors. “what do you suggest?”

she pauses, biting the end of her pencil before her eyes begin to do a 360 walkthrough. the sight is almost too perfect for miguel.

“we could do something about elevating the ceilings. make it a bit higher. and i see you have lesser—safety features? which could be quite concerning. we need to install biosafety cabinets, more detection systems and fire protection. I know you’re no ordinary man and could probably handle all the damage that might happen in the future but, it is my responsibility to ensure my client’s safety.”

miguel feels like a lovesick fool right now. and an asshole. he hadn't been listening a lot to what she had to say, merely focused on the way her pink glossed lips moving and how her fingers would occasionally fiddle against one another,

he imagines how her mouth would feel like, molding against his. there is no doubt in his mind that he would immediately be entranced with it.

"miguel? you listening?"

her sweet voice pulls him out of his train of thought, eyes blinking rapidly before meeting y/n's confused gaze,

"oh--y-yeah! yeah uhm.. that sounds great, would love that” his nervous chuckles makes her smile. “you’re really quick with it, aren’t you?”

“just doing my job, mr.o’hara” her tone is professional and prideful. “i’ll work quickly on the building designs, exploring more concepts for it and run a few test drives. however this might steal a bit of your time, from your job. weekly meetings are needed during this process. i’ll bring the mockups, sketches, models and everything. your inputs and feedbacks are required since this is your building after all. would that work?”

spending more time with her? oh, absolutely. he’d make it work,

he gives her a nod. “of course. i’ll clear my schedule off for it, just let me know when”

“excellent!” she exclaims with a bright smile, clapping her hands. “i will do my best to get it done as quickly as possible for you, miguel. i made a promise to jessica and i intend to keep that promise. it’s a long process but i need your full trust on me, okay? do you trust me?”

“yes” he answers without hesitation. “i trust you.”

“great! okay, that is all i have for you today. do you have any questions?”

miguel doesn’t like the idea of it ending here. not seeing her again until next week? that doesn’t feel right.

“you have a boyfriend?”

y/n halts at his question, looking at him with a confused yet amused expression. lip quirking in curiosity. “getting personal, aren’t we?”

“fuck, sorry, hermosa. you don’t have to answer that”

her heart skips a beat at the nickname. he just called her beautiful?

she eyes at how his gaze cast down the floor, head shaking. probably mentally kicking himself at the bold question he had thrown at her,

but she finds it adorable,

tilting her head to the side, she responds. “no. i don’t have a boyfriend. they are not quite up the standards i’m looking for.”

“yeah?” miguel takes a step forward, eyebrow raising. “and what are they?”

“my standards”

he finds it attractive at how she doesn’t like settling for less. she knows her worth without coming off too cocky nor bitchy about it,

“am i not allowed to know?”

“you can fuck around and find out” she smirks, pushing her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “i like to see them try.”

“you like seeing men on their knees begging for your time?”

she nods. “i live for it.”

he feels his cock growing hard at that,

“are you free, this friday?”

she bites down on her lower lip, watching how his biceps almost ripping his shirt off when he crossed his arms,

“i’m a busy woman, miguel”

“so am i” he responds quickly. “say dinner or a drink, anything. an hour or two tops, how about it?”

the way he’s looking at her should be illegal. he has this glint in his eyes. primal, confident. and it’s extremely charming in her own opinion,

she hates how it makes her heat rises,

with a hum, she slowly gather up her things, stacking the compiling files on the tablet. tucking them against her left breast.

“pick me up at 7. don’t be late. and i’m choosing where we should go. it was nice meeting you, mr. o’hara. i will see you then” with that she gives him a smile and a subtle wink before turning around to exit out of his office. leaving miguel completely speechless but enamored.

“fuck. i’m in love” he exhales a dreamy sigh

#miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara blurbs #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o’hara imagines

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 26 days

Text

The Quiet Ones 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: don’t ask me why I did this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You watch as the man looks along the door frame; back and forth, up and down. He knocks again and you flinch. You back up as you push on the door, as if it can make the barrier thicker.

“Come on, baby cakes, I know you’re in there,” he says, “I just brought you a treat. It’s Wednesday... hump day, some call it.”

You step back and hit the table. You squeak and wince away from it, rubbing your forearm where it met the corner. This can’t be happening. He can’t be there. How did he find you?

“London fog, or whatever? It’s the one you like,” he calls, a taunting tinge in his voice.

“Go away,” you force out.

You hear a snort and a softer tap on the wood, “come on, jelly bean, I know you’re a sweet girl. Don’t be like that. It’s a nice gesture so don’t be rude.”

You shake your head and turn, rushing away to grab your phone from your desk. You fumble to unlock it and come back to hover, just a few feet from the door. You can see his shadow underneath, seeping in through the crack.

“I’m...” you gulp dryly, “I’ll call the police.”

“Go ahead,” he sneers as the door shifts. He must be leaning on it.

You don’t say anything else. There’s not point arguing with this man and no point calling the police. They don’t come when your neighbours scream all night long. You just go back to your desk and sit.

You look at the monitor and skim the document, trying to refocus. Where were you? You can’t remember.

“You’re really gonna hang me out to dry?” He raises his voice so you can hear.

You just shake your head and type. He’s not there. The door is locked and you’re all alone. This is your apartment. Your life. It’s Wednesday and you already have your tea. Your tea!

You get up and go to the kitchen to retrieve the lukewarm Earl Grey. Oh well. Just means you don’t need milk. You take it back to your desk.

“It’s the quiet ones you gotta look out for,” the man says as the floor creaks and betrays your movement, “not as nice as they look.”

You stop just at the end of the entryway and look over. His shadow shifts and retreats. You listen to his footsteps recede. You should go over and make sure he’s gone but you’re too afraid to go anywhere near the door. It’s like those recurring dreams where the door is always unlocked and you just can’t twist it back into place.

You stand there for a while before you can make yourself move again. You return to your desk again. You clasp your hands in your lap to keep them from shaking as the screen blurs in your vision.

Should you call the police anyway?

You grab the mouse and swirl it around. You open the notes app and type in last Wednesday’s date.

‘Man approached me at cafe. Grabbed my order. Followed me out and down the street.’

Your hands shake over the keys before you enter that day’s date.

‘Same man appeared at my apartment. Did not let him in. Left after several minutes.’

You check the autosave and click out. You watched too many shows with similar scenarios. There wasn’t much to do but to keep track. The police won’t listen if you have no record. Even then, it’s not likely. This is why you hide from the world. It’s too dangerous.

You bring your last task back up and squint at the handwritten notes scanned crookedly. It’s difficult to fall into your usual process. You’re typically a quick worker but you have to think of every word. You can’t focus past that man’s spectre.

Your nape itches as if he’s still looming right outside your door. As if you might look over and he’ll be standing right there. That thought has you sitting back, recoiling from the computer as you make yourself look at the doorway. Empty.

You get up and approach the entryway. You have to urge yourself forward, “it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay...” you whisper to yourself. You clutch the seams of your pants as you near the door. You turn and stand on your toe. You close one eye and press it to the hole. It's black. You can’t see a thing.

Oh no.

That’s not good.

You get down on your knees and hands and been to see beneath the door. You only see a narrow little shadow. It could be nothing at all.

You sit back on your heels and your heart pounds. You shouldn’t look but you have to. You can’t function no knowing for sure.

You stand and check that the chain is in place. You turn the lock back and slowly twist the handle. You inch it open, a hand flat on the wood, your shoulder braced, ready to push back against any force. You peer around and find the hallways empty.

All except the pink cup at the threshold. Just standing there. Taunting you.

You shut the door, nearly slamming it, and lock it once more. You turn and put your back to it. You exhale and shake out your fingers, the crescents of your nails imprinted in your palm.

He’s gone, but you’re not to certain he won’t be back.

👄

You submit your last task for the day, an hour later than usual. You shouldn’t be this far behind. You didn’t even go to the cafe. You should be sixty minutes in the other direction.

You shut off the computer and stand. The stiff wooden chair always leaves you numb but achy. The cushion you put on the seat doesn’t help very much either. What’s especially agitating is the tension locked between your vertebrae.

That man. You haven’t stopped thinking of him. Not just today, but really all week. Since that first time you saw him. He was easier to deny then, but now... he could just be waiting for you on the other side of those walls.

You shudder and carry your untouched tea into the kitchen and dump it. You hadn’t drank a single sip, you haven’t even eaten. You’re not hungry. Your sick to your stomach.

Restless, riled, and rigid. You don’t know what to do with yourself. Usually, you’d read for a while, or watch TV, those old forgotten 70s shows that other people call boring. Yet you know, you can’t find comfort in any of that.

Even behind closed doors and drawn curtains, you can’t feel safe. The thought of making the phone call flickers again but you know better than that. You’ve peeked through the windows as the sirens flash, watched as the police offered nothing more than dismissals and remonstrances not to waste their time to the woman with the bruised cheekbone. It’s just the same as it was when you were a kid. That makes you still feel like one.

Are you talking yourself out of it because you’re scared or stupid or because it’s the truth? It’s hard to know. You never go out of you way to talk to anyone if you can help it. It’s always of utmost necessity. This might be one of those moments but you’re embarrassed. You don’t want to let anyone into the life and if you call someone, you have to do just that. You have let them in. You can’t.

So you won’t.

You sit on the sofa and cross your arms. You won’t let anyone in and you won’t go out. You’ll stay here. Maybe he’ll think he got the wrong place. Maybe he’ll give up. You can outlast him, right?

👄

There’s a rattle in the window. It keeps you awake. You fixate on it. You blame the knot in your chest on it.

Not on the memory, the persistent chill rolling up and down your spine. It’s the window not him. Not that stranger. He’s gone so why are you still thinking of him.

You keep the lamp on. The darkness is too much. You lay staring at the the refraction circle interspliced with the metal frame on the ceiling. The curve is slightly skewed by the angle. The window rattles again.

You huff. You’ll put a book against it to hold it steady. You go to the shelf on the wall and take the heaviest hardcover you can find. You take it to the window and curl your fingers around the edge of the curtain. It feels like stone. You can’t make yourself move it.

You take a breath and pull it away from the frame but don’t look outside. You lean the book on the frame, pushing it snug until you’re sure. You pause, a glint gleaming off the pane. You let go of the book and stare at the brief spark of light, an odd glare.

You inch close to the frame and peek around. You search the sky, a few stars glimmering through the city haze, the moon in a crescent. You search the silhouette of the city and the flicker comes again, this time directly in your eye. You’re drawn to the movement.

You back up and look down at you rub your eyelid. What was that? The curtain fall back into place but the light pierces through. You follow the odd laserlike beam centered on your chest. You put your hand over the green dot there and it shines on your skin. What the hell?

You dodge out of the way in disbelief and stare at the laser at it hits the wall instead. It’s bold, even in the hue of the lamp. It moves up, then down, side to side, then stops. You hold your breath. This isn’t some strange phenomenon. There’s someone out there, doing this. You know who.

You watch the beam terrified. You’ve only ever seen something like that in movies. It’s more than those little red lights you buy for cats. It’s strong, thick. That’s a target and it had just been right on you.

You rub your chest subconsciously and suddenly, the lightly moves. You watch as it swerves around so fast to make a precise shape. A shape you can’t believe. A shape you must be imagining. It stops, centered again on the wall, then retraces the same figure.

A heart.

That can’t be. It’s not real. Your dreaming.

You close your eyes and cover your ears, bending your legs as your curl your shoulders over your knees. You fall onto your side, balled into a fetal position as you shake your head. It’s a dream! Wake up, wake up, wake up...

👄

The morning rises to a thumping in your temples. You don’t know if it’s the lack off food or sleep. You’re wrought and worn from a night spent hiding from reality.

Water. Your mouth is dry. You��re dehydrated. You haven’t been paying attention to the cues. You haven’t wanted to be in this body.

You unfold yourself and sit up. You stare at the wall. The dot is gone. Is he?

You hang one leg over the edge, then the other. You nearly retract them. Like a child, you could believe in a monster under the bed. You push yourself to your feet and stagger forward.

You nearly fall through the open door into the main room of your apartment. You shuffle forward, rubbing your forehead as a sandy fog clings to your lashes. You stumble into the kitchen and lean on the counter as you fill a glass with water. You gulp until you feel queasy.

You put the glass down and flinch at your own force. You back away and wipe the stray droplets from your fingertips. You turn and teeter back into the front room. You need to get your head on straight, you have a full day of work ahead of you still.

You look towards the front door. You cross your arms protectively. You inch forward and turn to face it. You bring yourself to your toes and lean in. You still can’t see through the peep hole. You stand flat again and frown.

You go back to the kitchen and turn the kettle on. You have instant coffee in the mornings. It’s fast and efficient. No clunky machine or ridiculous press. You just need the boost.

You open the cupboard and take down the box of single packets. You slip one out and count the rest. It’s a newer box. There’s ten left. You look up and consider the bag of minute-oats. If you parse back your typical serving, that can last a little longer. You don’t need sugar in it either, that you can spare. The pasta you can ration as well. The sauce has a shelf-life once open.

You put down the packet and set the box back on the shelf. You leave the cupboard door open and go to the fridge. The eggs won’t expire for two weeks but you only have half a dozen left. The milk will go quicker. The butter... that never runs out very quickly, it hardly matters.

Are you really meting out how to wait out this man? Are you really stooping to this? Your defense is no defense. You’re just going to hunk down and hope he goes away. What else can you do?

You can’t go anywhere. You can’t even see out to make sure he’s not waiting for you. You could order groceries but that means also opening the door. How would you know it wasn’t him knocking?

He’ll get bored. He has to. It’s your only hope.

#the quiet ones #lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #the gray man

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uncouth-the-fifth · 9 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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mangekyuou · 6 months

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If you are up to it and haven’t already done it. Could you pretty please write head cannons of the kid, heart, and straw hat pirates as parents. My favorite one is killer.

★ THEM AS PARENTS! headcanons ★

── featuring. sanji. zoro. kid. killer.

── cw. gn!reader. no pronouns used. no mentions of pregnancy. whole cake island and wano spoilers. me rambling again. not proofread.

── notepad. usually my limit is 3 but i added one more bcuz i felt inspired. it’s been awhile since ive written so i feel out of practice and these feel all over the place im so sorry. but i will say, i love you girl dad zoro and killer. i could talk about them forever

★ VINSMOKE SANJI ★

── unlike everyone else, sanji HAS thought about settling down and having kids. he thinks about it at least twenty times a day. every time he looks at you, he’s always thinking about your future together

── so when your twin boy and girl show up in your lives, he couldn’t be happier. he’s never been happier. life is finally coming together the both of you

── he loves your twins with all of his heart, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t want any more children. he’s already dreamed of having a big family that he can share all of his love and care with. and because he already had at least four baby names picked out

── given his own upbringing that he never ever plans to tell your children about, sanji takes his fatherly role very seriously. he does everything in his power to be better than his own father

── never will he allow any of his children to take his surname. he would prefer if they took yours or even adopted a new one altogether

── never will there be any middle child syndrome or favoritism between your kids. he loves each of them equally and does pretty well at spreading out his time with each of them, making all of them feel loved and cared for

── every night he gives everyone a long tearful good night before sending them all their separate ways like he’s never going to see them again….they’re just down the hall

── he is a very emotional father. no matter what your children do, milestone or not, he will sob. first words and steps, sobbing. finally being able to dress themselves, sobbing. nearly setting the kitchen on fire attempting to make him a birthday cake, he sobbed all day and tried to eat the inedible cake despite you telling him NOT to

── he was sick for a few weeks after that. how the cake was both overcooked and undercooked at the same time, neither of you could ever figure it out

── his favorite family activity is cooking together. he loves cooking for each of you, but there’s something about teaching your little ones all of his favorite recipes, or even learning how to make a whole new dish altogether, that warms his heart. plus seeing them all get along and work together as a team brings joyful tears to his eyes

── but he can definitely be the indulgent parent. all his kids have to do is flash him the puppy eyes and a pout and he’s a goner, leaving you to play the authoritative parent and say no

── he is also the affectionate, embarrassing, and petty dad, always smothering the little ones in hugs no matter how old they get

── they could be in their late teens and he’ll still hug them the same as he did when they were small. or he’ll embarrass them in front of their friends by yelling how much he loves them and expects them to say ‘i love you’ back OR he’s not going to let them go anywhere

★ RORONOA ZORO ★

── girl dad

── the thought of being a dad never crossed his mind. he was focused on his goal at hand, becoming the greatest swordsman. he wasn’t exactly sure having a kid would fit in that

── but he was going to have to figure it out because resting in his arms was an infant girl with the most precious cheeks

── you don’t have to worry much about your daughter, even in infancy your daughter adopted your husband’s calm and quiet nature. she even adopted his napping habits

── if he’s asleep out on the deck in the sun, she’s asleep out on the deck, either in his chest or in his lap. and no one dares to wake them, especially not after that time when usopp and sanji were arguing too loud, causing your daughter to stir in her sleep, alerting zoro immediately. in a matter of seconds, he held your baby in one hand and his unsheathed sword in the other

── nap time is a VERY serious thing

── though your daughter’s favorite place to rest is on his back. no matter how awake she may seem, the minute he wraps her in the baby wrap, she’s suddenly very sleepy

── if you’re looking for your daughter and you don’t immediately see her, don’t panic. nine times out of ten, she’s on zoro’s back napping

── she is always present during his training sessions in a little swing franky made and surprised you both with that way he can train and keep an eye on her at the same time. maybe that’s why your little girl ended up showing so much interest in swords as she grew up

── like father, like daughter. your daughter began her road to being a swordsman with zoro as her teacher. he learns from his own past failures, in guiding her to be an even better swordsman than him

── not only giving her the skills she needs to wield a blade, but also skills she will need to grow as a person

── when he is sure he has trained her well enough for them to spar, he will do so without mercy. she may lose a number of times, but to never give up is a skill he instilled in her since the beginning of her training

── and when she finally does best her father, he cannot hide just how proud he is. he’s in all dad mode

★ EUSTASS KID ★

── kid never pictured being in a stable relationship, let alone settling down and having children. he didn’t have much experience with children

── in reality, being a father scared him. it was uncharted waters. he didn’t know the first thing about being a good dad. he knew kids were a lot of work, and he didn’t know if he could handle it

── more importantly, he was worried he was going to let both you and your child down. and he couldn’t live with that

── but here he was now struggling his way through the baby and toddler stages. but through his mistakes and errors, as opposed to getting angry and giving up, like he usually does, he’s gaining patience and trying his best. that’s all anyone could ever ask for

── he becomes a natural over time. no longer needing you to intervene to keep your son from crying up a storm. if it’s taking a little longer than usual to put your son to sleep, and you offer to help, he will decline. his stubbornness and pride won’t allow him to accept your help

── if there’s one thing kid hates more than anything, it’s anyone thinking he can’t take care of his son

── it’s not uncommon to see the captain of the kid pirates to be seen around the victoria punk your son strapped to his chest

── it’s hard to take him seriously when he’s barking out orders to the crew and your excitable little one is reaching up to pinch and pull at his father’s cheeks and nose

── kid claims to not be a dad who cries, but he definitely does cry, oftentimes more than you do

── your son’s first word is definitely a swear word. kid thinks it’s hilarious seeing your son scream fuck

── as your son ages, the more he becomes just like his father. and with age comes the attitude, which does not mesh well with kid’s attitude

── never in a million years would you think you would find kid losing a loud argument to your fussy toddler son about nothing

── and it does not change. it continues to get worse as your son begins to form his own opinions. your son and kid clash even more, leading you to be the mediator between their arguments

── or at points when they stop talking altogether, you have to relay messages to the other because they refuse to be in the same room with each other

── kid wants to start your son off young when it comes to training him, wanting the little one to be hell just like him. if your son expresses interest in learning how to fight, kid is overjoyed but does not plan to take it easy on him just because they’re blood

── if your son has no interest in fighting and wants to lead a peaceful life, kid will be disappointed and it will take some time for it to get out of his system. but he ultimately will support his son’s decisions

── kid has a habit of ruffling your son’s hair or knocking heads as his way of showing affection. that’s just how it has always been since he was born. but the day your son decides to leave the ship to start the new chapter of his life is the first time they share a real hug

★ KILLER ★

── killer is prime girl dad material. king of girl dads, if you will. he’s a natural. well, he becomes a natural after he gets over his fear of holding your daughter

── he has led a complicated life up to this point. it is not something he regrets, but it is something that he worries could affect his family

── these calloused hands have killed, been stained with the blood of dozens, he had lost count. these were not the hands that should hold such a pure soul

── the first time he actually held her was in the middle of the night when she woke up crying in the middle of the night. he pondered on waking you but decided against it seeing you sound asleep. it has been a while since you had gotten a good sleep. you deserved your rest

── he had watched you countless times lull your little one back to sleep. he remembered how you did it, trying his best to keep his shaky hands still, reaching into your little’s crib, gently taking her into his arms

── who knew saying “please don’t cry” in a sweet low voice would be enough to calm her ??

── quite a sight you awoke to, seeing your husband passed out in a chair with your daughter still asleep in his arms

── it became part of his routine, every time she woke up in the middle of the night, he was going to take care of it. when she was old enough to sleep in the bed with the two of you, you better believe she took her place in the middle and kept it well into her late childhood, early teens

── they are attached at the hip. wherever she is, he is and vice versa, no matter the situation

── like the one time the kid called for an emergency meeting and killer could not find you in time so he just took your daughter with him

── everyone was on their best behavior because you had already warned them that if her first word was a swear word you would murder each of them and spread their body parts across the grand line for the sea king to feast upon

── ….they were not going to take the chances

── just your luck, your daughter inherited killer’s luscious hair. no matter what you do to it, no matter how hard you attempt to gel it down, it shoots right back up

── but killer’s got it. he does her hair most days because she prefers it that way they end up matching

── there are two things about killer that he is still very sensitive about. his appearance and his laugh, both things he tries to hide from your daughter. though it is easier to hide his appearance than his laugh

── after everything happened in wano, he was ashamed. he couldn’t bear letting her see him like this. he wanted her to remember him the way he used to look. he wasn’t ready to show her, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready.

── until he was ready, he allows her to place her hands on his mask and put together what she thinks he looks like.

── currently, she envisions him to be a snake monster under his mask

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