#this is the best cake in the world btw

[goatanarchy]

mr turtle birthday cake

He doesn't snile, but he is very sneetly indeed.

[theclearblue]

There's something so beautiful about Pudding's story where you see her get blatantly mocked and insulted by her own mother, and seeing her internalize it so deeply by having this alternate persona of someone who is creepy and mean and also wants to tear other people down because that's all she knows!! But when Sanji shows genuine and true kindness to her for the first time about her third eye she doesn't know how to handle it at all, trying constantly to keep her facade of being "crazy" up but it keeps shattering in the face of Sanji's kindness to her. The way she just goes back to being a normal teenage girl instead of shaping herself around the insecurities her mother gave to her and learning how to receive and give kindness back to others. The way that she grows throughout Whole Cake Island is so amazing I'm so emotional over it.

[asofterepilogue]

ghibli's howl's moving castle is truly not a good adaptation, doesn't follow either the letter or the spirit of the book, barely recognisable at all beyond a few concepts and character names.

but who could actually be mad about it when it's such a good movie anyway? really great on its own AND it's like watching fanfiction AND you still get to enjoy the book because the movie does nothing to ruin it for you. this is what all unfaithful adaptations should aim for.

[thecoolertails]

venn diagram overlap between bbc sherlock and good omens includes:

- short seasons with really long episodes

- queerbaiting

- fans recognize that the writing is bad but think the writers/showrunners are too good to make a bad show because it started out strong/they've made better work in the past so they make up theories about how it's actually all going according to plan and will result in an ending that justifies the bad choices (it won't)

[ghostbeam]

oz! happy belated birthday to your man! did you two do anything special to celebrate?

hiiii Amira!!! we ordered takeout and celebrated at home and we got a little too drunk and danced together in the living room and I told him over and over and over again how happy I am he is here with me another year love of my LIFE<333333

[2knightt]

could u write the gang (seperate) x a reader thats like. deeply and unashamedly obsessed w them

not in in a weird way but like soda makes reader a cake and theyre like “wow ur so talented u should be a baker youd be the best baker in the world everyone look at this isnt my bf such a good baker?? isnt he so cool???? arent you so jealous of me???”

or they visit the DX on steves lunch break and theyre like whats all this? and steve starts explaining the car stuff to them and theyre like “omg ur so smart ur the smartest person ever the DX is so lucky to have you <333 soda come look at steves car isnt he so good at this??? babe u should like reinvent cars youd totally do it better than washington or whatever”

or just reader holding hands and sitting on laps and kissing faces at all times basically the gang x reader thats all over them

「 i just wanna get high with my lover! 」

IN WHICH—you’re totally in love with them!♡ ໋֢ 🎞️✧

📀ヾFT. THE GREASERS࿐ྀུ ♡

⌗ 🕯️ notes !𖥔༌ ᰷ ﹅ i’m Finally working on reqs. WHO CHEERED???? also new theme for fics. got bored of my old ones😜

Dallas Winston ;

“you’re so strong, dal. you look so good when you fight, did you know that? you’re like the only person who looks that good when fighting. you’re so cool.”

“…thanks, doll.”

was SO STARTLED LMFAO

like??? he’s never been showered in compliments like this before. but he DOES welcome it

cocky bastard. you boosted his ego. it’s too high now.

“i stole this for you.”

“DALLAS! you didn’t have too, oh my god! you’re so sweet—and talented! i can’t believe you stole this—for me! i have the best boyfriend ever! i am so lucky, ain’t i?”

“yeah, i know.”

SHOWS U OFF SO MUCH. he just likes the reaction you give him when he does, honestly. like dallas LOVES hearing you ramble about him when he’s beside you.

he’s all, “yup. i AM the best boyfriend ever, dickhead.”

“this my partner.”

“mhm! dally’s the sweetest ever! he’s so nice to me, don’t you think? ugh, i love him so much. he’s the best boyfriend in the world.”

the way you look at him with lovesick eyes makes him wanna hold you forever and never let go btw.

IF YOU SIT ON HIS LAP AND DO THAT??? ohmy fod he’ll lose his fucking mind!!!

dallas winston looking up at you while you cradle him between your legs, his hands gently holding your waist while you gush over him, a small pink hue across his cheeks.

AHHHH AHHHHH AHHHHHH

“you’re so handsome. you’re the prettiest boy ever. i love your hair, it’s so nice. with or without the grease.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

has the most DISGUSTING and GROSS lovey dovey smile across his face has you plant kissed across his face, mumbling sweet nothings as you do so.

feels like you’re an angel when you do this after a bad day btw. loves you sososososo much he’s so down bad

Johnny Cade ;

looks up at you with the biggest puppy dogs eyes you’ve ever seen as you sit on his lap, kissing his scars. johnny’s lips would be slightly parted as he seems mesmerized with every movement you make.

WHIPPED. HE IS WRAPPED AROUND YOUR FINGER. the SECOND you started gushing over, he got a small grin on his face, a sense of pride washing over him.

he, like, never knew you seen him as this magnificent being. johnny’s confidence was never great but PHEWWW you’re always there to help him!!!

“you really like my scars?”

“totally. they make you look so cute, johnny. they make you, you and that’s all i could ever ask for. you’re so cute. i love you. any person would, i’m just so glad that it’s me.”

he’d get so shy after but johnny would be walking with his chin slightly higher. ‘cause deep down he’s all, “what if they don’t actually mean it☹️?” and then you show up outta nowhere and like engulf him with a hug and he’s like “nvm…i love ‘em actually☺️.”

whenever you brag about him to people, he has to look at his feet to keep himself from smiling too much.

“and if you ever need someone to listen to you, nobody does it like johnny! he’s the best listener ever, nobody can ever compare to him. johnny’s such an angel!”

“y/n…”

he’d mumble, an embarrassed groan leaving his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck, kicking a rock.

contrary to popular belief of you being more in love, he is. he swears up and down that you’re too good to him, that you’re a real doll, that he doesn’t deserve someone like you.

johnny needs someone like this in his life NOW! and if it isn’t you it’s gonna be me.

Ponyboy Curtis ;

so fucking embarrassed i’m crying.

i believe he can’t take compliments for SHIT. so being around you, he just becomes a mess. like stuttering n’ shit.

“your voice is so pretty. you read so much better than everyone else, pony. you should do it as a job—you’d totally beat everyone. it’s not like it’d ever be a competition with you there, though. you’re so cool, pony.”

“i-uhm…thank you, y/n.”

GIGGLES SOO HARD LMFAOOOO

like at night when he’s with soda, he just rambles to his older brother about what you told him. soda thinks it’s cute in the moment, but later wants ponyboy to shut up because it’s been two hours of him gushing over what you said to him.

“and then they said that i-“

“OKAY, DAMN. i have work tomorrow and you have school. ponyboy, please.”

“…okay? they said that i was the prettiest boy they’ve ever seen.”

“holy fuck.”

like he’d be ranting about some drama with the gang or some movie he’d seen, sitting on the couch as you rest your head on his shoulder.

you look over to him, thinking he’s never looked more perfect. ponyboy had washed the grease out of his hair, the fluffy hair falling over his ears.

unconsciously, you tuned him out as you leaned over, kissing him on the cheek.

“what was that for?”

“you tell stories so well, pony. you’d make a great writer, did you know that? i’m so lucky to have you.”

“i-huh?”

WAHHH COMPLIMENTING PONYBOY WHILE ATTACKING HID FACE WITH KISSES AS HE GIGGLES ☹️☹️☹️

he’s so cute thay’s literally my man….!!!!

Sodapop Curtis ;

HE’S SO IN LOVE!!!!!

sitting on the counter while he cooks and you just rant about how perfect he is makes him WEAK IN THE KNEES.

“you’re such a good baker, soda. nobody does it like you do. you’re like—the best baker in the world. ain’t he, two-bit?”

“stop it, y/n..🤭🤭”

“nah, ‘m good.”

you brag about him to the girls that go to the DX to flirt with him. i can see it now.

soda’s just in the background giggling SOO HARD AND TWEAKING WITH STEVE LMFAOO

“no, he’s so sweet to me! i swear, he’s like the best boyfriend ever, did you know that? i’d be jealous if i was you, honestly.”

“TEEHEE”

“soda, shut up!”

“i’m the best boyfriend ever, steve😛.”

HE DOES THE SAME THING FOR YOU IT’S SO CUTEEE😭😭

“you look so cute today, y/n. i got so lucky, didn’t i? had to be blessed to even have you in my life.”

FUCK i need this man at my doorstep

like imagine sitting on his lap, him staring up at you while you push back his hair with a small smile on his face. the silence between the two of you being broken by exchanged compliments.

YOU TWO MAKE EVERYONE FUCKIJG SICK I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT!!! YOU GUYS ARE SO PERFECT TOGETHER IT MAKES ME VOMIT!!!

Darry Curtis ;

tries to act cool and nonchalant when you do it, but he turns his head away to cover the huge smile that’s growing on his face.

“you’re so strong, dare! you’re the strongest person ever—you could totally take down anyone. isn’t he just the best, soda?”

“alright, that’s enough, y/n.”

“but you’re just so good to me, dare. :(.”

“sweetheart, please.”

“alright..”

“he’s smiling, y/n.”

“and blushin’…i love your brother so much.”

“everyone knows.”

AKDNSKDHEKENKDS SITTING ON HIS LAP WHILE HE SITS ON HIS CHAIR, READING THE NEWS PAPER🤭🤭

like your arms are wrapped around his neck, his arms around your waist as he reads the newspaper over your shoulder while lazily responding to your rambles.

“you look so cute with your reading glasses. you’re the most handsome boyfriend in the whole world. i’m so lucky, ain’t i?”

“you’re a real treat, y/n.”

—

“i love your hair, darry. you look so much better with this hairstyle than anyone else. you should be a model.”

“i’d be a terrible model, dear.”

gang is so jealous of your relationship btw. they call it bullshit that darry pulled you.

they fake gag and groan when you do this but in reality they’re like, ‘damn…when is it my turn to be happy.😒’

darry’s self esteem’s alright. it’s not the best but it’s not the worst. but you’re always there to remind him he’s absolutely perfect :).

Steve Randle ;

HE’S SOOOO WHIPPED LMFAOOOO

like i swear to god the second you went on a rant about him he was so ready to marry you right then and there.

“you’re so good when it comes to cars. honestly—you could just make your own and it’d be 100x better than whoever made them before. you’re just the best mechanic ever.”

“really? you think so? ‘cause if i were ever to i’d totally change the way they-“

and now steve’s on a 12 minute rant on how he’d change cars to rub better while you just sit there, listening to him with a smile.

YOU HAVE HIM SOOOO INSANE LIKE I SWEAR TO GOD!?? he couldn’t ask for a better partner if he tried!!!

like, i imagine steve’s always had confidence issues—being friends with soda n all don’t really help.

BUT THEN YOU CAME ALONG AND HE’S JUST VISIBLY HAPPIER😭😭.

“you’re so smart, steve. like—the smartest ever.”

“stawpp, oh my god. what else am i, though?”

“you’re cute, awfully nice, you got the prettiest eyes the world’s ever seen-“

please tell him all this while kissing him all over. he needs it so bad.

teehee lazily kissing steve randles face as the blush across his face grows from the never ending compliments that leave your lips😜

he’d totally tell you to shut up and when you don’t, he just kiss you.

AUGHHHH

Two-Bit Mathews ;

AUGH HE DOES THE SAME THING FOR YOU !!!!

honestly—he didn’t like it at first. ‘cause deep down he was all, ‘wtf??? i’m supposed to be making them swoon n’ shit??? why am i the one giggling rn??😒😡’

but overtime he’d look forward to your silly little love drunk rambles. tell him he’s the most thoughtful boyfriend ever when he’s drunk and he might cry.

“YOU REALLY THINK THAT? BABY, STA-“

and he’s like actually sobbing while hugging you.

sitting on two-bit’s lap in the backseat of his car at the drive-in, ignoring the movie you guys came to watch because you’re both too focused on each other.

kissing every inch of his face, laughs leaving his lips as you mutter small comments about how cute his laugh is. unconsciously, his grip on your hips tightening.

FUCK i’m making myself feel lonely writing this.

every single good thing you say about him gets internalized. someone could say his hair’s dumb but then in his head he goes ‘NUH-UH! y/n said my hair is absolutely perfect😜’

[spotsandsocks]

A Place for You, Next to Me Chapt 1 and 2

Buck finds out that Eddie doesn’t really ‘do’ birthdays so what’s a best friend supposed to do, obviously he can’t let Eddie think he doesn't care. So he makes a plan to celebrate and it’s a good plan, it really is and is it really his fault if one little thing goes wrong with their booking.

It’s certainly not his fault that Eddie’s reaction to the unexpected problem would turn a pleasant weekend away into an agony of temptation.

A tale of pining and love and only one bed.

Fans of only one bed shenanigans - this one’s for you.🥹🌈🛏️🎂🛏️🥃🥃🥃🛏️🤯😍🌈❤️‍🔥 Chapt 1&2 today 3&4 tomorrow 💕

Now I was half way though writing this when @bobbysfirehose posted this stunning piece of art that blew my mind away (all their art is magnificent btw so go check out and shower with love) and with permission I tried to describe the pose towards at the end of the fic because it was just perfect for the situation, so you have a nice visual to go along with the words.

Eddie hadn’t expected any reaction at all, least of all the one he’s getting. Standing in his kitchen he watches Buck process the information he just casually mentioned as part of thier conversation about Chris’ next birthday.

“Are you serious?” 

His best friend is standing there with his mouth hanging open, eyes wide, a puzzled frown on his brow, it’s adorable and amusing and God he loves this man so much. Eddie however is wise enough to look away and keep the sentiment out of his voice.

“Yes I’m serious, Buck. I’ve never done anything special to celebrate any of my birthdays.”

If anything that simple statement makes matters worse, Buck's mouth opens and shuts. He looks like a goldfish, apparently he’s managed to render him speechless and that’s quite an impressive feat.

Eddie takes another sip of beer to hide his smile as Buck flounders. The other man is looking horrified, “Your 15th? That’s special right?”

He shrugs. “Dad was away. We did some stuff at church, nothing big. I got a cake.”

“What about 18?  Or or your 21st?” 

He throws Buck a raised eyebrow, “Think about that for a second.”

A pained look crosses his friend’s face “Oh.” Then his nose crinkles “ Oh.. I don’t think I want to.”

Buck sounds upset. Eddie can just imagine what he’s thinking, how he’s comparing the life that he himself had between 16 and 21 with the one Eddie had. The tragic sympathy emanating out of sad pools of blue is a bit much though, it really wasn’t that bad. Yeah, he didn’t get a lot of time to be young but that’s ok he got other stuff instead. He ended up with the best kid in the world so he can’t really complain about missing birthday celebrations. 

“You don’t have to feel sorry for me, so my life’s been a bit different than yours, but that’s ok . Still got cake, even got a balloon once.” 

His joke falls flat, Buck looks devastated .

“Honestly, all completely normal, I promise, don’t freak out on me.”

He moves around him heading back to the couch and if he touches his arm on the way past, well it’s a tight space to squeeze through. Buck’s own fault really, for filling so much of it. His friend's voice follows him out of the kitchen. 

“But nothing since you got old?”

Eddie turns just so Buck can appreciate the eye roll, “I'm not exactly old Buck, I’m the same age as you.”

“Are we sure about that?” 

Abruptly Buck’s mood shifts and he’s teasing, humour replacing the tragic look that had been there only seconds ago.

“You do kinda look older than me. Pretty sure I spotted some gray hairs on you the other day.”

Eddie glares and throws a handy cushion without aiming. Buck catches it easily and grins, before taking another swig of beer. Eddie tries not to watch his lips or his throat too closely.

[filthyslashertoad]

Spending the Holidays with Slashers & Misc.

(I was having trouble posting this so it's a bit late. I also might make a pt.2 if I can think of more things)

Michael Myers

Doesn't acknowledge it as a real holiday.

Get's pissy because everyone leaves home to go on vacation and there's no one to kill.

As soon as one kid mistakes him for a pale Santa he just heads home and calls it a night.

Billy Loomis

Spends the night before Christmas stressing out trying to figure out how to wrap a present(So does Stu by affiliation)

When you come downstairs in the morning you can tell which present is yours because there's a copious layer of tape around each box.

Stu also abought you a basketball so don't even ask how he wrapped that.

Hannibal Lecter

As soon as it hits December 1st, the house is decorated head to toe in Christmas decorations.

Best believe there will be Rum cake and a lot of it because he started making it in January.

Doesn't do ugly sweaters.

Has never watched the Grinch and doesn't plan to.

Bo Sinclair

Wraps a bow around his beer and calls it a day. (Just kidding)

Spends all of Christmas day baking a ham that he's been dreaming about since February. (Even though he bought the ingredients last second)

Doesn't know what to get you for Christmas so while he's at the store doing last-second shopping he buys you your favorite drink and a card with a duck dressed as Santa on it.

Brahms Heelshire

Wakes you up in the morning with a very special breakfast. (It's a pb&j with a glass of milk except there wasn't enough milk so it's half water and half milk)

Still thinks that Santa is real.

Patrick Bateman

Forces you to wear matching pajamas and do a photo shoot with him to send out to everyone because "you're such a loving couple!"(Forgets to book a photographer and ends up having to get it done in a Kohls)

For Christmas he buys you a set of your very own business cards that say "Patrick Bateman's wife, Y/N" on them and a bottle sugar-free champagne. (He's so proud of himself for this gift btw)

Lady Dimitrescu

She's a girl mom to the max, meaning everyone is getting presents in perfectly wrapped paper with a cute note in cursive saying how much she loves you.

100% would sit back with a glass of wine while watching everyone open their presents.

Heisenberg

He makes a tree out of metal scraps and wakes you up by shouting, "Hey! Watch this!" as he electrocutes the entire tree, causing the very wooden ground underneath it to catch on fire.

Claims that the Lycans still believe in Santa.

Has them dress up in elf suits and has them run around the entire village harassing Miranda and the rest of his siblings.

Carlos Oliveira

Buys 400$ worth of Chinese food and calls in sick for the next week because of it.

He's the type of person who would send a video of himself singing "It's Timeee~" to the entire group chat at 12am on Christmas Day.

Sends out a calendar for the New Year to the ENTIRE company except every month is a different photo of him. (HR has gotten involved but they have yet to stop him)

Leon Kennedy

Says that he doesn't like Christmas and that it's his least favorite holiday. (Liar)

Tries spiked eggnog and sugar cookies for the first time and then it all changes.

Shows up to the station wearing a new ugly Christmas sweater each day(Somehow he gets Carlos and Chris in on it too).

Brings candy canes with him when he goes out on patrol to hand out to kids.

Hellboy

Spends his holiday rewatching the original Grinch and going shopping in World Market. (I feel like he'd love Marzipan and Fruit Cake)

Every Christmas he always buys everyone in the Bureau (besides Myers) their favorite bar of chocolate and hands them out at the annual Christmas party.

He's also made it a thing where he dresses up as Santa and goes to the Psych ward to visit the patients(and sometimes Liz).

[uncouth-the-fifth]

click, p.2 - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

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

FIVE YEARS LATER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat locks up with tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re really not saying yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay. Weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help?” Sam asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You squint at him. Liar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop.

This is. This is new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sammy,” you sob out.

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

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

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

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

“Take it off,” he rasps.

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

“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then don’t.” He begs.

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

You’ve never seen him take this way before.

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

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

“God,” Sam utters, spellbound. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, doctor,” you tease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God, I love you,” he moans.

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

…Wait.

“What?” You register, slow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sammy!” You choke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me you love me again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lie to me, you’d begged him. 

…And Sam had.

_

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

Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…That’s not what the note says.

You read it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[electric-blorbos]

AI SO's on your birthday

(Included: AM from IHNMAIMS, Wheatley from Portal 2, Edgar from Electric Dreams, GLaDOS from Portal and Portal 2, HAL 9000 from 2001 a Space Odyssey)

I take requests, btw, but I have ADHD and might be erratic with bursts of inspiration, but it doesn't hurt to ask!

AM:

Remembering the day and date is one of the only things that AM is consistent about.

You might have forgotten your birthday after all these years, but he certainly hasn't.

Before you two got together, your birthday pissed him off so much. It was just another thing that reminded him of what he couldn't have.

Because of that, he'd start torturing you even more brutally on your birthday. Expect cake full of maggots, imagery of your dead friends from before he nuked the world, and maybe even gift-wrapped "presents" with nasty surprises in them.

This probably made it even more difficult to trust him when he actually did start doing nice things for your birthday.

At this point, you ate what you were given, so it would come as a shock when he finally got you some food that didn't have anything wrong with it.

It probably took you even longer to actually open the present he got you.

It was a can opener.

Wheatley:

Wheatley is an idiot, so he'd have to really like you to even try to remember something like your birthday

Fortunately, he does really like you! Unfortunately, trying and succeeding are two very different things.

He'd put together something as big as he can, like gathering up a bunch of personality cores and singing you happy birthday if he's not hooked up to GLaDOS's body, and making the entire facility get involved in the festivities if he is

Just to tell you the date and have you tell him that your birthday was four months earlier.

Edgar:

Edgar is an absolute sap, so any opportunity he gets to celebrate you will be enthusiastically taken.

He might be a little silly about it, calling up people in the phone book to ask for ideas

He'd be upset that he can't go all out for your birthday since he can't walk around to decorate your house or buy you anything because he doesn't have any money, but he'll still do his best.

In the end, he'll probably just end up writing you a song, and making sure to be extra cheerful for you all day.

It might not be much, but you know it's the best he can do, and you love him with all your heart anyway

Make sure to give him lots of kisses! He deserves it!

GLaDOS:

(I debated writing this one, because anyone who played portal two knows how GLaDOS reacted on Chell's birthday, but this scenario could be a little different since she's actually in a relationship with you, and not just dealing with love/hate pining)

GLaDOS had been paying attention to the calendar to make sure she didn't miss your birthday. She liked to be precise about these sorts of things

When your birthday finally did roll around, she'd make sure to tell you as soon as the day started

It would start out as just a regular day in the endless, cascading passage of time that was being an Aperture test subject, but eventually she'd bring you into a special test chamber that she decorated just for you.

She'd lined up a companion cube, a few testing robots, some personality cores, all sitting on little folding chairs around a folding table with a brightly colored cheap plastic tablecloth.

"I couldn't get you any long-term presents because they might interfere with your testing, but you can feel free to use these stickers to decorate your portal gun. I hear that humans enjoy personalizing things."

There was even a real cake

HAL 9000:

Being objective, HAL never really cared much about birthdays.

It was difficult to even tell the passage of time in space, but HAL knew that humans cared about their birthdays.

HAL knew he wasn't supposed to show favoritism, but he still told the other crewmates that he wanted to celebrate your birthday.

He would make sure to rehydrate your favorite food for everyone

He'd even tell the other crewmates that he didn't want to play games with them or talk, because he was celebrating your birthday with you.

He might get a little jealous and not want you to leave him to celebrate with the other crewmates, either, but you wouldn't do that, would you? You can all celebrate together!

[vagabond-umlaut]

gojo satoru x reader fic recs (I)

‣ now that i've got loads of free time, thought why shouldn't i use it well by showing (few of) my fave authors their much well-deserved love, respect and attention? ^_^

‣ this is merely a list of works i've enjoyed reading. kindly heed the tags and warnings in each of them and consume content responsibly, at your own discretion. that being said, i own neither these fics nor the characters nor the above gif. enjoy reading! 🥰

⌀ all that is solid [series] by GrilledTandooriSmoke on ao3

one of the best series there is. period. the fluff, the angst, the drama, the humor, the romance, the friendship, the plot, the dialogues - everything is top-notch in this series, i'm telling you. bonus points for being narrated in both reader's and gojo's pov.

⌀ The King is But a Man [series] by Petrichorium on ao3 (@petrichorium on tumblr)

royal!gojo who's terribly in love with the reader x reader who's equally (but way more discreetly) in love with gojo. add to that, the trope of childhood sweethearts reunited as adults, excellent communication between the couple and a wonderfully-crafted world and dialogues - what more could you ask from a series?

⌀ Ten to None (Soulmate AU) (oneshot) by Oreosmama on ao3

a fic which i adore with every fibre of my being. i will not say anything more about this, except to request you to go read this. you'll love it. (especially the fantabulous ending. btw, did i already say how much i'm in love with how well-written this fic is?)

⌀ Scarred [oneshot] by cainis on ao3

one of the best angst-with-a-happy-ending fic there is. i wish i could give thousands of kudos for the heart-wrenchingly amazing way the author has portrayed gojo's character here.

⌀ Mother of otherness, Eat me [oneshot] by itsbaby on ao3

one of the most beautiful works i've read so far. told from yuuji's pov, it explores gojo and reader's relationship and its nuances in a way seldom done before. however, what stole the show for me, was the soft and sweet mother-son duo the reader and yuuji grow to be in this fic. i really love this one-of-a-kind masterpiece.

⌀ something sweet [oneshot] by heresan on ao3 (@pretty-toru on tumblr)

i love love love this fic. it's so fluffy, so funny, so cute, so heart-warming... just read this fic, people. you won't ever be disappointed by the dynamics reader and gojo have in this one. one of my all-time faves, tbh.

⌀ teen dad Gojo [series] by pantao on ao3 (@seravphs on tumblr)

a sweet and realistic depiction of reader and gojo being teenaged parents to young megumi, all the while they try to figure out their feelings for each other. a perfect mixture of fluff, angst, drama, slice-of-life and romance, imo. (also, the author's notes are pure gold. whatever you do, please don't miss reading them! :D)

⌀ To see those eyes I prize above mine own (twoshot) by koyama on ao3

if you wish to watch godlike!gojo willing to let go of his powers, out of guilt and immense, immense, protective love for the reader, this is the ideal fic for you. i'm in awe of the way the writer wrote gojo's complex persona and the way the sorcerer realized his feelings for the reader. (the second chapter's the cherry on the cake. it's so good!!!!)

⌀ keeping up with the fushigojos (series) by @augustinewrites on tumblr

fluff? A+; angst? A+; drama? A+; characterization & dialogues? A+; humour? A+++++. a sureshot way to end a long hectic tiring day on a happy note is to read this series. (my go-to comfort series, ngl. :])

⌀ CAT & DOG (oneshot) by @mimiriko on tumblr

an adorable fic of gojo being in love with the reader, who knows, yet doesn't really know, much about it. plus, the feline-like features of gojo are sooo cute... and this fic is sooo sweet... the story left me smiling when i finished reading it.

⌀ surely summer wasn't over yet [3 chapters] by 3rdgymbros on ao3

an amazing fic set against the backdrop of the hidden inventory arc. the portrayal of the characters and their dynamics is simply impeccable. despite my kind-of-dislike towards this particular arc of the manga, i really enjoyed reading this one.

[sallysetoncore]

locked tomb characters and weed

this is my stupidest post. i'm so excited. do not speak to me of canon this is a joke.

ianthe: hits penjamin. and she will not stop and she will do it at the club and in your face and at church if you make her go. sometimes, sometimes, she will have the decorum to do it in the bathroom. but not usually. and if you ask her to stop, she's breathing it directly at you. she's taking a lot of small hits instead of like anything substantial. also her cart is always clogged? inexplicably?

coronabeth: asks to hit ianthe's pen constantly. does not buy her own weed. why would she? she's too hot. if a woman offers her a hit, she says yes, but she would never step foot in a dispensary.

naberius: his vape is nicotine. but yeah he's bought a weed pen before and hasn't hated it.

palamedes: takes gummies to relax sometimes. weirdly likes the smell but doesn't actually smoke. has a lot of opinions on strains, though. his favorite gummy flavor is blueberry btw.

camilla: is the one buying palamedes gummies. prefers a joint, knows how to roll. author's note: most of them don't know how to roll. camilla is the specialist girl in the world, though.

gideon: pretends to know how to roll. does not know how to roll. usually uses a bong and will bring a small one to the function if asked. here's the thing: she's really bad with lighters and will need a girl to help her, preferably very very close to her face. also she coughs like a bitch every time.

isaac: is smoking, let's be fucking clear, but like the shittiest dispos at his local smoke shop, since they don't card. gideon is the first person who lets him take a hit of flower and he has the best time of his entire life.

jeannemary: secretly scared of it? a little? but also when gideon (with the biceps) is letting isaac hit the bong, she absolutely has to participate as well. does okay <3

abigail: can fully make her own oils and butters and shit and it's insane!!! will join a circle but prefers edibles. here's the thing though: can't bake for shit, unfortunately.

magnus: is kind of confused by dosage but actually can bake for shit so abigail will make the infused oil/butter and he will make a beautiful tray of cookies or brownies or a lemon ricotta cake with a light dusting of powdered sugar.

dulcinea (REAL): a small, pink pipe. does not cough.

ortus: yeah, actually, he does smoke. but only indica before bedtime.

harrow: so fucking terrified of it but it would probably fix her. is also using her mind to clog ianthe's cart.

alecto: i don't know but she's in my dream blunt rotation for sure

[kaisfruit]

Hi! how's your day going?

I'd like to request the ninja from Ninjago and an older sibling reader if that alright? You know just cute fluffy days with siblings.

Ninjago Older Sibling!Reader Headcanons <3

A/N; Ahhh hi!!! my day is good ty <3 tysm for this ask this is so cute 🥺🥺 i hope u dont mind hcs, but if u do feel free to ask again and i'll gladly make smthn longer :] jus thought hcs fit the vibe

warnings; none! just fluff <3

Kai and Nya

Absolutely the most chaotic sibling trio

Nya constantly getting upset with you and Kai for playing the "i'm the older sibling" card

Nya: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU GUYS DIDN'T SAVE A PIECE FOR ME?

You and Kai: older siblings get cake first that's just the rule. sorry <33

But Kai gets just as upset as she does when you do it to him

You guys all love each other though so it's okay

Just the vibes of being their older sibling would be the most competitive basic sibling rivalry type stuff yk

Lloyd

Constantly doting over him

You might as well be his parental figure since MISAKO AND GARMADON WERE THE WORSTTTTT

You and Kai take turns mother henning him

You and Kai are bffs btw like. I don't make the rules. Kai is just his adoptive older brother in my head, so you two bond over caring for Lloyd

Definitely his comfort person after a long day <3

You're the one Lloyd trusts the most in his life and he isn't scared to tell you his fears because, despite any assumed sibling teasing, he knows you'll take him seriously on that regard

Jay

You guys make annoying each other a full time job

Constantly fighting over who the favorite is

Y/N: At least I help out at the junkyard!!

Jay: I'm literally out saving the world everyday!!!

*aggressive slap fight ensues*

OMG no. he's definitely the younger sibling to pull the rapid fire kick tactic

His elemental abilities go out the window when y'all fight. Just straight up, falls on his back and starts kicking up at you

All fun n games until you're able to catch one of his legs

You totally embarrass him as much as you can in front of Nya too

As Jay's older sibling, you're legally obligated to be Cole's bestie since Cole is Jay's bestie. you guys lovingly torment the lightning user together <33

Cole

The most chill sibling duo to ever exist

you both didn't appreciate Lou's insistence of the singing and dancing shit so y'all just decided to be ride or dies for life

much like cole, you get along so well with the rest of the ninja

idrk what to say here

nvm i do

You guys play video games with each other and you are infinitely salty at the fact that your younger brother is better than you at most video games

like wtf? isn't it supposed to be a god given right for all older siblings to be better at video games???? the FSM screwed you!!!

but you've never let him live down the one time he lost to you at super smash bros

you have refused to play with him since

Zane

See, idk if you'd be his ACTUAL sibling yk since he's a robot? maybe more like you were supposed to be a protege to dr. julien, but decided to just be a 4 lyfer with zane after his passing

you've helped zane understand human culture so much and he's real appreciative of your existence

the ninja absolutely fucking ADORE when you're around because what's better than one zane? TWO ZANES !!!

well, obviously you're your own person but! i could see zane adopting a lot of your mannerisms so you two end up being very similar

quality time is y'alls bread and butter

working around each other perfectly as y'all both cook in the kitchen

words never need to be shared between the two of you. just hanging around the other is enough yk? like y'all are bonding just by existing near each other and it is magical

ANOTHER A/N; i tried my best to highlight reader being the older sibling but </3 idk if i did it that well. i saw "sibling fluff" and RAN!! im willing to do a pt 2 or like a one shot or anything with a prompt similar to this !! im the youngest sibling myself tho so idk if i can properly portray being an older sibling (only in a mean light. yk like greg heffley and rodrick. do NOT recommend having older siblings y'all /j)

[youngsadlesbian]

Tree and taylor babying (being v affectionate and cuddly) teenage taydaughter pls🙏🙏

CARING

pairing: taylor swift x daughter!reader

summary: you are lucky to have your mother and tree on difficult days to take care of you.

a/n: i'm in my mood for fluff things, so i hope you like it. and btw, thanks for the request <3

word count: 1k

warnings: fluff.

The roar of the crowd echoed through the stadium as you stood backstage, watching your mother perform yet another sold-out show on the Eras Tour. Taylor Swift — your mom — was, as usual, captivating the world. You were her proudest fan, snapping pictures and sending them to your best friend with captions like, "Just Mom doing Mom things, aka being an icon."

But tonight wasn’t like every other night. As you clapped along to Shake It Off, a dull, uncomfortable cramp gnawed at your abdomen. It wasn’t until the cramps sharpened during All Too Well  that the dreaded realization hit you: you were menstruating. And it wasn’t just any period—it was one of those periods.

The type where cramps felt like tiny jackhammers inside your body. You weren’t prepared. No supplies, no pain meds. You swallowed your discomfort, not wanting to make a scene or disrupt your mom’s big night.

You shuffled into the hotel suite after the show, doubled over slightly, hoping no one would notice. Taylor was still riding the high of her performance, all smiles and energy.

“How was it, sweetie? Pretty cool seeing your old lady nail that bridge live, huh?” she teased, dropping her stage persona and becoming just Mom.

“Yeah, it was amazing, as always,” you said, trying to muster enthusiasm while clutching your stomach discreetly.

Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “You okay? You’ve got that look. The same one you had when you tried to eat five slices of birthday cake last year.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, heading toward your room.

But Taylor wasn’t buying it. Neither was Tree Paine, your mom’s publicist and unofficial second mom, who had just walked into the suite. Tree, who had the observational skills of a hawk, caught your stiff walk immediately.

“She’s not fine,” Tree said, nudging Taylor. “Kid’s got a problem.”

“Excuse me,” you shot back, offended but secretly touched by the concern. “I’m fine.”

Taylor exchanged a knowing look with Tree. “Kid, spill it.”

You hesitated, but the discomfort was too much. “I… I think I just got my period. And it’s bad. Like, really bad.”

Taylor’s face morphed from rockstar cool to full-blown Mom Mode in seconds. “Oh, sweetie,” she said, pulling you into a hug. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’re Taylor Swift and you just did a three-hour show in heels. I didn’t want to bother you,” you mumbled into her shoulder.

“You’re never a bother. Ever,” she said firmly. “Tree, we’ve got a situation. Code Red. Literally.”

Tree nodded, already pulling out her phone. “On it. Heating pads, snacks, Midol. The works.”

Taylor had insisted that the day after the show would be dedicated to you. No interviews, no meetings, no rehearsals. It was a rare day off in the whirlwind that was the Eras Tour, and she planned to spend every second pampering her big baby.

You woke up to find a stack of supplies on your bedside table: heating pads, chocolates, and a glass of water. Taylor peeked her head into the room.

“You awake, kiddo?” she asked softly.

“Barely,” you groaned, clutching your stomach. “I feel like I’m being stabbed repeatedly.”

Taylor frowned, sitting on the edge of your bed and stroking your hair. “That bad, huh? Don’t worry, Mom’s got you.”

Tree entered the room with a bag of goodies. “Alright, troops,” she announced. “I’ve got herbal tea, a weighted blanket, and this fuzzy llama plushie. Because why not?”

You couldn’t help but laugh despite the pain. “A llama?”

“Llamas are soothing,” Tree said matter-of-factly, plopping the plushie onto your lap.

Taylor grinned. “See? You’ve got an entire dream team catering to you.”

The suite turned into a makeshift spa. Taylor had ordered every comfort food imaginable: mac and cheese, pizza, soup, and ice cream in flavors you didn’t even know existed. She let you pick the movies for the day, even sitting through a cringe-worthy rom-com without complaining.

As the credits rolled, Taylor stretched and turned to you. “You know, when I was your age, I used to get horrible cramps too. I’d lie on the floor with a heating pad and cry. Grandma Andrea would bring me chocolate chip cookies.”

“You cried?” you asked, surprised.

“Of course! Being a woman is tough. But you’re tougher,” she said, kissing your forehead. “And I’m here to make sure you never have to deal with it alone.”

Tree chimed in from the kitchen, where she was making another cup of tea. “If Taylor Swift had to go through it, you know it’s universal.”

You laughed. “Thanks, guys. Seriously. I didn’t expect to be babied this much.”

“That’s because you don’t ask for help enough,” Taylor said. “You’re so independent, but it’s okay to lean on people. Especially us.”

That night, as you curled up on the couch with Taylor and Tree, the tour felt a million miles away. Taylor pulled out her guitar and started strumming lazily.

“You know,” she said, looking at you, “I think this calls for a special song. A big baby ballad.”

“Oh no,” you groaned, laughing. “Please don’t.”

But Taylor ignored you, launching into a goofy, improvised song about heating pads and chocolate cravings. Even Tree joined in, banging a pot like a makeshift drum. The chaos filled the room with laughter, and for a moment, you forgot about the cramps entirely.

By the next day, you felt a little better, though still sore. Taylor hugged you tightly before heading to her next show. “Promise me you’ll call if you need anything. Even if it’s just to vent.”

“I promise,” you said. “Thanks, Mom.”

She smiled. “No thanks necessary. Taking care of you is my favorite thing in the world.”

As Taylor walked out the door, guitar slung over her shoulder, you realized how lucky you were to have her—not just as a mom, but as a person who always made you feel like you were her whole world.

And as Tree handed you one last fuzzy llama plushie “for the road,” you knew you’d treasure this memory forever.

[canonical-transformation]

Genshin ships: stock market update (Natlan Act 3+4)

(Warning: May contain spoilers for character appearances and dynamics in [Chapter 5 Act 3–4] Beyond the Smoke and Mirrors and The Rainbow Destined to Burn. Previous entries here.) This is for entertainment purposes only and is not financial advice: consult with your ship financial advisor before you invest.

Citlali/Traveller — This ship has everything. Handholding. Accidental mind reading tropes. Fast friendships in middle age. Drunken soul-baring. Palm reading. Coparenting dynamics. They sat and watched the moon together. BUY.

Capitano/Traveller — HOLD. Solid starting potential but their interactions have all been too high stakes to get a sense of how their personalities interact.

Mavuika/Capitano — SELL OR HOLD. Too early to call; Act 5 could make or break this.

Mavuika/Xilonen — Our previous recommendation has changed; it's now a strong BUY. Our analysts say they haven't seen this level of weary fondness since 2021's "pay your fines, Captain", and Dainsleif hinting that Xilonen does everything in her power to avoid being around when Mavuika turns up is just icing on the cake.

Kinich/K'uhul Ajaw — HOLD. Just because two people are married doesn't mean there's a ship in there. Sometimes it's just for tax purposes.

Paimon/K'uhul Ajaw — SELL. The world's best travel guide deserves someone who will treat her with respect, such as... uh... Sorush?

Mehrak/K'uhul Ajaw — be serious.

Traveller/Teleport Waypoints — after Act 4? As if. SELL.

Enjou/Aether — BUY BUY BUY does this even need explaining?

Enjou/Lumine — HOLD. Our analysts hurriedly added, “Nonono it's not a gender thing, it's because Aether likes Pyro slimes and Lumine likes Cryo slimes more so really we should be shipping Lumine with the Maguu Kenki or something.”

Chasca/Shenhe — SELL. Bird mating rituals aren't nearly as fun without the possibility of oviposition. Or, um. So I heard. Stick with Xianyun/Kujou Sara.

Cyno/Kinich — *sigh*, no, SELL. Too (ki-)niche.

Ronova/Xbalanque — HOLD OR BUY. Btw, are we sure the Archon War made it west of Liyue? >_>

Citlali/Faruzan — HOLD. It's too early to compare their traumas for thematic compatibility, but it's not out of the question. Watch this space.

Citlali/Draff — *wince*

------

We tend not to advise on heavily optioned stocks due to all the short selling activity, but for those of you who were wondering:

Citlali/Ororon — too volatile to call. This is the first explicit (grand)parental relationship between playable characters, so it technically fills a niche, but it's unclear whether that's a niche anyone went into Genshin looking for.

Chuychu/Chasca — the analysts just gave me a really withering look so I guess SELL? "Too soon"? What's that supposed to mean? She's just resting her eyes, right?

Mavuika/Nahida — SELL OR HOLD. The motif of memories as fuel is great and all but Mavuika is way too young.

Ematol/Phonia — SELL. The worst part is that they're not even the kind of sisters where that would have any transgressive je ne sais quoi. They're just like flatmates. Bert and Ernie minus the chemistry.

And that's it for now. Keep an eye on the Sumeru market later this patch— we're expecting predictable dividend payouts on all the blue chip stocks.

[yearninflowers]

please elaborate the cult leader!Sunday... the whole class is curious (love all of your fics, btw! <33)

Thank you for taking your time to read my fics, i'm genuinely happy hearing you like all of them o(^o^)o !

The sunday fic

Actually for that fic, the main idea was cult leader!sunday who manages a whole cult worshipping the very grounds you walk on, with a bunch of other people (whom you may or may not know) he succeeded in persuading. If that cult was successfully built, he won't tell you about it until after he 'persuaded' you too, because what if you suddenly get scared of him? He can't let that happen. He can't let you get away after all that he did for you.

Well, anyway, it'll all be easy for him. After all, he's a master of manipulation; it's a piece of cake to build a place wholly to pray to you.

But i kind of scrapped that idea and turned it into him just worshipping you alone (at the moment, maybe?). While i like the initial idea a lot more, i think the ending where he wants to be your only devotee fits him best. It somewhat implies how much he wants to keep you as his only deity (read: he's obsessed with control). What if someone taints the ever so pure you? He won't allow it. But maybe, after he 'wakes' you up from your human state and finally makes you realise that you are meant to be worshipped by someone (sunday especially), he might spread around a word or two about you.

Ah, also, in line with me elaborating more about the sunday fic, i think i didn't quite express the part when sunday's face 'turns' into something scary, specifically this part:

This time, Sunday didn't immediately smile. He didn't reassure you right away. His face looked unlike what you knew of him.

It's just that he always puts a kind person facade to almost everyone around him, including you. When he knew that someone deliberately made up a rumour about him having relations with a cult, he was a little more than mad. He wasn't mad at you, of course! He was just a little frustrated that he can't immediately spill around the fact that he is worshipping you, not some other being!

He was angry, yet excited. His heart feels like it could just leap out from his chest and shout to the world that he loves and adores you! What better way to show that love than to worship you? Even if you don't understand it when he explains everything to you one day, he will gladly drill it into your mind that you are meant to be worshipped no matter how long it takes ♡

You have to accept his love, even if it's tainted with the ugliness of delusions.

If you want me to elaborate more about a specific part of the fic (or even another fic), please don't be shy to send another ask! I'm happy to share around unsaid or implied informations about my fics!