That's just who I am this week

Scar, She/Her, 22, bi, autistic mess of a fangirl, totally not a vampire...

[chemical-killjoy]

Mandatory Pinned Post

Hey! I go by Scarlet/Scar and my pronouns are she/her (probably?). I'm a 22 yo Aussie writer. I write fanfics, poems, I occasionally make art, and I scream about my hyperfixations a lot. This blog is mostly just my hyperfixations and fandom stuff, with a little mental health mixed in.

Here's a link to my MASTERLIST (requests are OPEN and encourage)

Here's a link if you really love my stuff and want to buy me a ko-fi

<333

[homunculus-argument]

I think it would be funny to write a murder mystery where not only did every single character involved have an obvious motive to kill this mf, they were actually all attempting to murder him first, but the murder attempts all cancelled each other out all except for one. Two people tried to poison him but the poisons just happen to work as antidotes for each other, and instead of killing him only gave him the shits, and due to having the shits he couldn't go hunting that day like he had planned, foiling the plans of the one who had conditioned his favourite hunting horse to panic and bolt at the cue of a whistle, and the other murder attempt of tampering with his gun so that it would have exploded his whole face off.

The whole mystery isn't about who could have done it or how, but who was the one who got lucky and actually succeeded.

[terriwriting]

Sherlock Holmes and The Case of Perhaps We'd Best Leave This One Alone, Watson. There Appears To Be An Excess Of Armed Maniacs In The Vicinity.

[copperbadge]

When I was in high school a friend of mine would host murder mystery dinners once or twice a year. They were the kind you could buy as a kit -- I don't even know if they exist anymore -- and everyone was assigned (or chose) a character, then received a booklet of clues to share. The idea was to spend an evening in a one-shot LARP designed like an Agatha Christie novel.

I was a year above most of them at school so they threw a "goodbye" murder mystery for me just before graduation, and about 2/3 of the way through the game we all realized that everyone had at least attempted to kill the victim. The game then shifted from "whodunnit" to "who succeeded in dunninit" which we all felt was not only super fun but above the usual level of narrative complexity for those games.

After we solved it, we discovered that the game wasn't from a kit -- the host had written it herself and meticulously printed out the booklets in replica style of the kits. It was the best going-away party I think I could possibly have had.

[nickyandmikey]

when two musicians sing into the same microphone and lean in very close to each other… like omg are you guys gonna kiss now to relieve the homoerotic tension?😳

[nickyandmikey]

THIS IS NOT ABOUT ONE DIRECTION I DON’T KNOW WHO THIS “HARRY” PERSON IS GO WATCH BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN AND CLARENCE CLEMONS KISS ON STAGE RIGHT NOW

[irrelevantlyvalid]

op is the only valid person i’ve ever met. everyone else needs to come to the light

[chokolattejedi]

Okay, but this is really important: Bruce Springsteen occupied this really weird place in music history. His songs were all from this pessimistic, nihilistic view of an America that had let him down:

Just like the anti-Vietnam War protest songs that we associate with the 1960s, or the early nihilism that spawned punk music in the 1970s. But he didn’t *sound* like a punk anarchist; he sounded like a country rock singer. When he released Born in the U.S.A. people completely misinterpreted (or possibly ignored) the lyrics in favor of the tone of the music.

Politicians used his music to promote their ‘Murica Yes! brand, and he had to literally explain that that was not what he was about. He’s over here asking when we’re going to have jobs and heathcare, not stanning the politicians who weren’t helping the people.

It was also kind of a big deal that he had an integrated band, because even as late as the 1980s music was still kind of segregated and MTV was straight up racist. They refused to play and promote black artists and then claimed that were no black artists in the first place. Michael Jackson’s record company had to threaten a boycott of their white artists to get MTV to play his Thriller video.

Plus, the first black/white interracial kiss on TV was in 1968 (OG Star Trek). Also it took us until the 70s to get sympathetic gay characters on screen, and the 90s to get gay characters to kiss onscreen. And all of those firsts were met with outrage.

So keep that in mind when you see Bruce Springsteen not just playing with an interracial band, but engaging in an interracial, gay kiss on stage repeatedly.

Passages from American Popular Music by Larry Starr and Christopher Waterman

[executeness]

I used to think that Bruce and Clarence kissing onstage was exuberance, showmanship, and telling racist homophobes to fuck off. Like, they picked up a certain kind of audience and went “Racist homophobes? Not in our house!” And started the kissing then but then I actually looked it up and

https://www.gq.com/story/this-fucked-me-up-bruce-springsteen-singing-about-clarence-clemons

It was a story where… we remade the city. We remade the city, shaping it into the kind of place where our friendship and our love for one another wouldn’t have been such an exceptional thing. - Bruce Springsteen

It wasn’t about showmanship or rejecting bigots or anything it was just. Damn right that was one of the loves of his life and damn right he was going to kiss him onstage

It gets me a little that Bruce has had a divorce, that he’s been married twice, but he loved Clarence for the rest of Clarence’s life and will presumably love him the rest of his own

Clemons said in one interview. “Bruce and I looked at each other and didn’t say anything, we just knew. We knew we were the missing links in each other’s lives. He was what I’d been searching for.” In another version of the story, Clemons says “He looked at me, and I looked at him, and we fell in love.”

I’m having some emotions about it!

“He was elemental in my life,“ Springsteen adds, “and losing him was like losing the rain.”

Not just! I love you pure and deep and true but! I am going to love you like that in front of the whole damn world!

We have fewer narratives about taking risks and making statements for platonic love rather than romantic and supposedly it would be easier to downplay this onstage than romance and! They refused! They fucking refused! In front of hundreds of thousands of people, over the course of years! In the spotlight, in word and deed, I love you!

God I’m not okay about it

[ramshacklefey]

Now I’m mad that this is not among any of the things I was ever told about this artist.

[jbbartram-illu]

I knew about this in general (& via all those fabulous photos), but this just adds even more beautiful context <3

[eregyrn-falls]

Just to add to the pile: this was the cover of Springsteen’s break-through album Born to Run, in 1975:

I mean, will you LOOK at this:

This was the pic chosen for the album cover from an extensive photoshoot, too. A few others:

There’s a lot more online if you search. They’re all pretty amazing. But the photographer is right, the one chosen for the album cover just pops.

[byjove]

I never thought I would be siding with the pope’s involvement in politics and cheering him on. I will say that.

[byjove]

[prodigallson]

I have two (2) moods

[elder-dwarf]

HUNTR/X outfits

I love the attention to detail in the outfits for Golden and What It Sounds Like.

The outfits are a representation of what they are feeling. For example:

When Golden is first released Rumi has the most black on her outfit. It’s a physical representation of the shame she has. Zoey and Mira have less shame than Rumi, therefore less black.

But…

As the movie continues the more shame everyone starts to have. HUNTR/X is being torn apart and we see how that is affecting each of them through the amount of black in their clothing.

But that all changes at the end.

When Rumi, Zoey and Mira finally accept their faults and let go of their shame they didn’t have any black clothing, despite wearing it moments ago.

And that also explains why the Demons always wear black. Just like Jinu said, all they feel is their shame.

[bruisedfig]

[ random sam and dean headcanons ]

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

⭑ — sam winchester has an emotional support water bottle. probably one of the big 2L ones. dean often threatens to hit him with it.

⭑ — dean winchester hates the taste of toothpaste. but loves peppermint gum. sam prefers spearmint.

⭑ — dean winchester uses his brother’s toothbrush from time to time. he doesn’t care. but sam does. a lot.

⭑ — sam winchester prefers his hair long because he likes the motion of tucking it behind his ears.

⭑ — dean winchester once tried wearing eyeliner. john winchester hated it.

⭑ — sam winchester has never smoked a cigarette.

⭑ — sam and dean winchester are both right-handed, although both ambidextrous when it comes to handling weaponry. dean sometimes wishes he was left-handed.

⭑ — dean winchester thinks his nose is funny-looking. it’s the first thing he sees in the mirror.

⭑ — sam winchester loves tofu. dean hates it with a fiery passion.

⭑ — dean winchester never replaces the toilet paper when he finishes the roll.

⭑ — sam winchester used to collect bugs as a kid. his favourite bug is still a stick insect.

⭑ — dean winchester hates beanies.

⭑ — sam winchester often absentmindedly cracks his fingers. dean tells him it’s disgusting, that it’s unnatural.

⭑ — sam winchester was going to get a tattoo during his time at stanford, but decided against it when he saw the needle.

⭑ — dean winchester likes people laying on top of him.

A/N: these are the most stupid and random headcanons i could come up with LOL i love making stupid posts like this

[little-rose-big-writing]

Just So Sad

***GIF IS NOT MINE***

Rating: Mature (possible **TW**)

Pairings: Sam Winchester x reader

Summary: After a nightmares wakes you, your emotions overpower yo and you feel like you’re drowning. Sam is there to support you and help you through it.

Warnings: Depiction of depression, past self-harm scars, emotional breakdown - handled with care

Also any mistakes are my own, please do not repost my work anywhere however reblogs are fine and welcome :) 

If you love it, please comment and/or reblog. Let me know your thoughts! :)

A/N: if you ever do or ever have felt like this I’m so sorry. Please know you are not alone.

I wrote this during a really hard night, I had recently. It helped me. I hope it can help someone else too.

The nightmare clung like cobwebs—something about drowning in black water while hands grabbed from below. You bolted upright, gasping, the bunker's familiar darkness suddenly suffocating. Beside you, Sam slept deeply, his breathing slow and even, one arm flung protectively across your waist. The tenderness of it cracked something brittle inside you. Carefully, you slid out from under his arm, the cool air hitting your sweat-dampened skin like a shock.

Silence pressed in as you padded down the hallway, the concrete floor chilling your bare feet. The weight settled heavier, a familiar, leaden despair seeping into your bones. Why? The question echoed uselessly. There was no why, just the suffocating is. You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door softly, needing the illusion of containment.

The shower hissed to life, steam quickly fogging the tiles. You stepped under the scalding spray, hoping it would burn away the numbness, the hollow ache behind your ribs. It didn't. It just made the tears come faster, hot tracks mingling with the hot water. You slumped against the slick wall, sliding down until you were curled on the floor of the stall, knees pulled tight to your chest. The water beat down on your back, a relentless percussion to your silent sobs.

Then you saw them. Old, faded silvery lines crisscrossing the inside of your left forearm, barely visible unless you looked closely. Tonight, under the harsh bathroom light filtering through the steam, they seemed to glow.

Ghosts of a desperate, hurting teenager you thought you’d buried. A choked sob ripped from your throat. Stupid. Weak. Still broken. The thoughts hissed, venomous and familiar. You traced a finger over the smoothest scar, the memory of that sharp, clarifying pain a stark contrast to the messy, undefined agony filling you now. You pressed your forehead hard against your knees, shoulders shaking violently as silent cries turned into ragged, gasping ones. The water drowned out the sound, or so you thought.

The bathroom door handle rattled softly. "Sweetheart?" Sam's voice, thick with sleep but edged with immediate concern, cut through the roar of the shower. "You okay?"

Panic seized you. Hide. Fix your face. You scrambled, trying to stand, wiping furiously at your eyes. "Y-yeah!" you called, forcing brightness into your voice. It cracked horribly. "Just... just showering! Fine!"

The lock clicked – he must have picked it effortlessly. The shower curtain scraped back a few inches.

Sam stood there, hair tousled, wearing only his sleep pants, his face etched with worry that deepened into profound alarm as he took you in: crumpled on the wet floor, naked, shivering violently despite the hot water, eyes red-raw and overflowing, tear tracks stark against your flushed skin.

"Hey... hey, no," he breathed, the sound barely audible over the water. He didn't hesitate. He stepped into the shower fully clothed, the water instantly soaking his pants and plastering his hair to his forehead. He knelt beside you, ignoring the deluge.

You flinched, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself, trying to shield your scars, shield yourself. "Sam, no, go away! I'm fine, really, I just—"

He reached out, gentle but firm, pulling your hands away from your body. His large, warm hands enveloped yours. "Look at me," he murmured, his voice impossibly soft yet commanding. Reluctantly, you lifted your gaze. His hazel eyes held yours, filled with such raw understanding and pain for you that it shattered the last remnants of your composure.

A fresh wave of sobs wracked you. "I'm s-sorry," you choked out, trembling uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry, Sam. It's... it's not you. I promise, it's not you. You're perfect. Everything is... is good. I just..." You gulped air, the words tumbling out brokenly. "I'm just so sad. All the time, lately. And I don't even know why! I just... I feel so heavy and empty and... and I see these..." You gestured weakly towards your arm, fresh tears spilling. "...and I feel like that scared kid again, and I hate it! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Sam didn't speak. He simply gathered you into his arms, pulling you onto his lap right there on the wet floor. He cradled you against his soaked chest, one hand splayed protectively across your bare back, the other cradling your head, fingers tangling gently in your wet hair. He held you tightly, anchoring you as your body convulsed with the force of your weeping. The hot water cascaded over both of you, mingling with your tears.

"Shhh," he murmured against your temple, his lips warm against your wet skin. "It's okay. Let it out. Just let it out, sweetheart. I've got you." His voice was a low rumble, vibrating through his chest and into yours. "You don't have to know why. You don't have to apologize for feeling this."

He rocked you gently. "It's okay to be sad. It's okay to not be okay. Especially after everything we've seen... everything you've been through." His thumb brushed tenderly over the old scars on your arm, not with pity, but with aching recognition.

"These are part of your story. A hard part. But they don't define you now. This," he squeezed you tighter, "this strength it took to survive, to be here now, even when it hurts this much... that defines you."

You buried your face deeper into the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him mixed with steam and soap. The dam had broken completely, and you cried until your throat was raw and your body felt limp. Through it all, Sam held you, his embrace unwavering, his murmurs a constant, soothing litany against the roar of the water and the storm inside you.

"It's okay," he repeated, pressing a kiss to your hairline. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. We'll get through this fog, together. One step, one breath at a time. Just breathe with me, okay? Just breathe." He took a slow, deep breath, encouraging you to match it. "That's it. Just feel me here. You're safe. You're loved. So deeply loved."

Exhaustion washed over you, a different kind of heaviness replacing the sharp despair. The tears slowed to hiccups. Sam shifted slightly, reaching up to turn off the pounding water. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by your shaky breaths and the drip of water from his clothes and your hair. He didn't loosen his hold.

"Can I get you out of here?" he asked softly, looking down at you. His eyes were still pools of worry, but also filled with a fierce, protective tenderness. "Get you dry? Warm?"

You nodded weakly against his chest, too spent to speak. Sam moved carefully, supporting your weight as he stood, water sluicing off both of you. He grabbed a large, soft towel and wrapped it around you, rubbing your arms gently before bundling you tightly. He grabbed another towel for himself, quickly drying his face and hair, his soaked clothes clinging uncomfortably, but his focus remained entirely on you.

He guided you back to your shared room, away from the steam and the ghosts in the bathroom. The quiet darkness felt safer now, with him beside you. He sat you on the edge of the bed and knelt before you, using the towel to gently pat your face dry, his touch infinitely careful.

"Sam..." you whispered, your voice raspy. "Thank you. For... for coming in. For... not being scared off."

A soft, sad smile touched his lips. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away lingering moisture. "Scared off?" He shook his head, his gaze unwavering. "Never. Seeing you hurt tears me apart, but hiding it... that would hurt worse. You don't ever have to hide this from me. The sadness, the scars... all of it. It's you. And I love every part of you." He leaned forward, pressing a long, tender kiss to your forehead. "Now, let's get you warm. And then... we just rest. However you need. I'm right here."

He helped you into dry pajamas, his movements efficient and gentle. Then he stripped off his own soaked clothes, pulling on dry sweatpants before climbing into bed beside you. Immediately, he opened his arms. You curled into him, your head finding its place on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. His arms encircled you, strong and secure, one hand resting protectively over the towel-dried skin where your scars lay hidden beneath your sleeve.

The crushing weight hadn't vanished, but it felt... shared. Held. The profound darkness of the night receded, just a little, replaced by the warmth of his body, the solidity of his presence, and the quiet, unconditional promise whispered against your hair as his breathing slowly deepened: "I've got you. Always."

[rvllybllply2014]

So do we eat the machine if we don’t get what we want or?

[mysharona1987]

[pearlstonefortress]

[crabussy]

what even is a hamster. that can't be real. no wonder they're illegal where I live. unauthorised fucking thing

[crabussy]

seriously

[laceandlipstick]

contact high | s.w

high!sam winchester x f!reader

MDNI

word count: 4k

summary: catching sam getting high in the bunker basement wasn’t on your to-do list—but neither was him being horny, needy, and way too handsy for your self-control. one hit turns into two, and before you know it, sam’s got you in his lap, calling you ‘baby’ and trying real hard not to break you in half.

warnings: SMUTTT, size kink, sam winchester is huge like HUGE, dubcon (both are high), weed use, soft dom!sam, whiny sam, dirty talk, use of pet names, lots of praise, unprotected p in v, multiple orgasms f!recieving, fingering, mention of masturbation, aftercare, love confession, allusions to future smut, let me know if i missed any

a/n: i wrote this while ovulating that’s all u need to know

The bunker was too quiet.

You padded barefoot through the living room, still tugging your oversized hoodie down over your thighs. Dean was out—some vague excuse about needing a beer and a break. You hadn’t asked questions. You were honestly enjoying the silence, up until the second you caught a whiff of something unexpected.

Not smoke, exactly. Not like burning toast or gunpowder. It was sweet. Earthy. Warm.

Weed.

You frowned. The scent was subtle but unmistakable—and the bunker’s ventilation system wasn’t exactly known for being discreet. You followed the trail on instinct, curiosity piqued, past the kitchen, down the hallway toward the basement level where Sam had disappeared earlier that evening.

The air grew denser as you reached the stairwell. Definitely not your imagination.

You took the steps slowly, the chilled tile giving way to the low hum of an old radio playing somewhere below. The basement wasn’t exactly cozy—it was mostly used for storage and training—but the flickering glow you saw from the crack under the lounge door was warm, almost inviting.

You opened it without knocking.

And there he was.

Sam Winchester, shirtless and slouched like melted wax on the ratty leather couch, long legs sprawled open, one arm slung behind his head—and a very clearly still-lit joint pinched between two long fingers.

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

Sam turned his head toward you with the slow grace of someone who had just fully detached from the worries of the world. His eyes were half-lidded and glassy, his jaw slack with the laziest smirk you’d ever seen on him.

“Hey,” he drawled, voice sticky-smooth and warm like honey. “You’re back.”

You crossed your arms, arching a brow. “You’re smoking? In the bunker?”

He shrugged one huge shoulder. “Ventilation’s fine down here. No one’s gonna know.”

“I knew.”

“And yet,” he said, raising the joint with a little flourish, “you came down anyway.”

Your mouth opened—and then closed again. Because now that you were fully inside the room, the scent hit you hard. Sweet, musky, warm. So did the sight of him—bare chest freckled and flushed, hair tousled, sweatpants low on his hips. Your eyes betrayed you with a not-so-subtle flick downward.

Sam’s grin widened.

“See something you like?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to steady the flutter in your chest. “You’re so annoying when you’re high.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You’re definitely flustered.”

He patted the cushion beside him. “Come sit. It’s just weed. Won’t bite.”

You hesitated—not because you didn’t want to, but because this felt… loaded. Sam wasn’t just high. He was soft. Loose. Less guarded. And that made this whole vibe dangerous in a way you hadn’t prepared for tonight.

Still, you crossed the room and sat beside him.

His thigh pressed against yours immediately. Warm. Solid. Freakishly big. Sam’s body always managed to make you feel small—and right now, with the hazy air swirling around you, it made your skin hum.

He handed you the joint. You stared at it a second, then took a slow drag.

“See?” he murmured. “Not so bad.”

You exhaled, letting the warmth roll down your spine. “You gonna tell me what brought this on?”

He shrugged. “Just… needed to shut my brain off for a while.”

“You could’ve watched a movie like a normal person.”

He looked over at you, eyes softer than you expected. “Didn’t want to feel alone.”

Your throat caught a little at that, and not from the smoke.

You passed the joint back. “You’re not alone.”

Sam’s lips curled at the corners. “No. Not right now.”

He leaned back again, letting his head loll toward you, curls brushing your shoulder. His body was so close now, and the contact felt intentional. His arm came up to rest along the back of the couch, and his hand brushed lightly against the nape of your neck.

Every inch of you was suddenly aware of how very little you were wearing.

You shifted, crossing one leg over the other—and Sam’s gaze dropped immediately.

“Y’know,” he said slowly, voice dropping a note lower, “I always thought you liked teasing me.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You come into the kitchen in those little sleep shorts. Always grabbing things from the top shelf just so I have to reach over you. And now…” His eyes raked over your bare legs, slow and greedy. “This hoodie. It’s practically a dress on you.”

You swallowed. Hard. “I didn’t put this on for you, Sam.”

“But you’re not exactly rushing to leave, are you?”

He reached over and took the joint back from your fingers, his fingertips grazing yours—sending a jolt straight to your stomach.

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Then, because you hated how breathless you already felt, you scoffed: “You’re high. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Sam gave a lazy grin. “Oh, I definitely do. I’ve just never had the guts to say it out loud.”

That shut you up.

He turned toward you fully now, elbow on the couch back, his huge hand cradling the side of your neck lightly. Not possessive—just there, spreading heat like fire against your pulse.

“I think about you more than I should,” he murmured. “About touching you. About how small you’d feel under me. How much you could take.”

Your thighs pressed together automatically.

“Sam…”

His eyes searched yours, half-lidded but earnest. “You want this too. Don’t lie to me.”

You didn’t lie.

Not even a little.

Your breath hitched. “So what now?”

Sam leaned in, voice barely above a whisper, lips ghosting over your jaw.

“Now,” he said, “I make you feel really, really good.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not with the way his breath skimmed your cheek, his mouth just shy of kissing you.

You expected him to lean in and take what he wanted. Sam was big and strong and capable of it. But instead, he hovered—barely touching, letting the moment stretch like a rubber band pulled tight.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he murmured, voice so deep and slow it felt like it rattled inside your chest. “But if you want me to stop…”

You turned toward him before he could finish, your nose brushing his. “I don’t want you to stop.”

And that was all he needed.

Sam kissed you.

It wasn’t rough, or hurried—it was full. Warm. Intentional. His lips were soft but sure, moving against yours with a sweetness that betrayed just how long he’d been thinking about this.

You moaned before you even realized it, and the sound made Sam growl softly in return, his hand sliding from the back of your neck to cup your jaw.

God, his hands. They were massive. One palm covered half your cheek and then some, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he couldn’t get enough of touching you.

“I knew you’d taste good,” he muttered into your lips, just before sucking your bottom one gently between his.

You whimpered, hands fisting into his sweatpants where they sat low on his hips. His hips. Jesus, the man was carved out of marble. Heat radiated off of him, and he shifted forward slightly, guiding you so you were turned toward him more fully—knee to knee now.

“Let me touch you?” he asked, breathless already, voice pitched low and needy.

You nodded, but he just raised an eyebrow.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Touch me.”

He kissed you again, this time deeper, needier—his tongue sliding against yours with just enough pressure to make you squirm. You could feel his other hand grazing down your side now, over the fabric of your hoodie, teasing the hem where it barely covered your thighs.

“Fuck,” he breathed as his palm found your bare skin. “You’re not wearing anything under this, are you?”

You shook your head, eyes fluttering as his fingertips slid along your thigh.

“You trying to kill me?” he groaned.

“You’re the one who lit the joint, Winchester.”

He chuckled—a rough, breathy sound that quickly turned into a low moan as his hand found the inside of your thigh and stayed there.

Your breath caught.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“I’m not used to you being this…” You couldn’t finish. His fingers had begun tracing lazy circles along the sensitive skin, moving higher, higher, until they brushed just barely against the heat between your legs.

“Gentle?” he offered.

“Hot.”

That pulled a laugh out of him—and then a quiet, wrecked little whine as he cupped your pussy with his whole hand, palm warm and fingers splaying wide. He was so big. The size of his hand alone made you feel embarrassingly small.

“You’re so wet already,” he groaned, rubbing slow, steady circles over your clit with two fingers. “You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

“Sam—”

“Tell me,” he said, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Tell me how long you’ve wanted this.”

You tried to steady your breathing, hips already rocking gently against his touch.

“Since you walked in shirtless that one night,” you confessed, voice barely a whisper.

He growled.

“Jesus, you remember that night?”

“I remember everything.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his fingers down to slip between your folds. “I’ve been jerking off thinking about you in that damn hoodie for months.”

You let out a shaky gasp as one long finger circled your entrance—teasing, not entering. He was so close.

“Sam,” you whispered, “please.”

“Please what?” His lips brushed your ear now, his breath hot and unsteady. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

“I need your fingers.”

And just like that, he gave them to you.

One thick finger slid into you slow and steady, pressing deep, and your eyes fluttered shut at the stretch.

“God,” you gasped. “You’re…”

“Big?” he offered with a grin, kissing your jaw as he pumped gently.

You moaned your agreement.

He added a second finger after a few strokes, his other hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. The way he watched you—as if every twitch of your muscles was a personal reward—made your skin burn hotter.

“So tight,” he murmured. “So fucking tight around just my fingers. How the hell are you gonna take my cock?”

Your head fell back against the couch, hips moving with his rhythm.

“You’ll make it fit,” you breathed.

Sam let out a long, broken groan and pressed his forehead to yours.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispered.

His fingers curled just right—there, again, and again—and your moans spilled out faster, breath hitching each time he pressed against that perfect spot.

“You’re close already, huh?” he teased, voice thick with want. “I can feel you clenching. So needy for me.”

“Sam, please…”

“Look at me when you come,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your nose. “Wanna see it.”

You did—eyes locking with his, wide and dark and hungry—as your body tensed, pleasure spiraling out in white-hot waves. His name spilled from your lips like a prayer as you came around his fingers, shaking against him, thighs trembling.

He held you through it, kissing you softly, sweetly, while his fingers kept moving just enough to let you ride it out.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “So good for me. So fucking pretty when you fall apart.”

You collapsed against his chest, still trembling.

And Sam? Sam looked like a man on the edge.

His cock strained visibly against his sweatpants, a dark spot blooming at the tip. His lips were parted, breath ragged, eyes full of need.

“You okay?” he asked, hand still resting between your legs.

You gave him a dazed nod, nuzzling into his chest. “Better than okay.”

He kissed your temple, voice rough with restraint. “Because I need you to know… I’m not done with you yet.

Sam’s chest rose and fell beneath you, sweat already starting to bead at his temple. He was so warm—inside and out—like every part of him had been stoked by fire.

And yet, he hadn’t even gotten what he wanted yet.

You could feel it. His cock, heavy and hard beneath his sweats, pressed against your thigh. He hadn’t so much as adjusted himself, and it looked like it was hurting him.

Still, his hands stayed gentle.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured again, brushing his knuckles over your jaw. “I didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” you breathed. “You were perfect.”

Sam let out a breath, relieved and wrecked at once. He pulled back slightly to look at you, pupils still blown wide, curls damp and clinging to his forehead. His voice was quieter now—sweet, ragged. Whiny.

“Can I… fuck, I need to be inside you.”

You pressed your forehead to his, lips brushing his as you whispered, “Then do it.”

He let out a sharp breath, but didn’t move—just searched your face with eyes full of something too deep to name. And then, barely audible:

“You’re sure?”

You smiled. “You made me come with just your fingers. I think I’m a little past sure.”

His eyes fluttered shut like he was praying.

You leaned in, voice teasing. “Or are you nervous, Winchester?”

He chuckled, breathless. “I’m nervous I’ll break you.”

You kissed his cheek. “Maybe I want to see you try.”

That pulled a low groan from deep in his throat.

He finally pushed his sweatpants down just enough to free himself—and you actually gasped.

You’d felt it through his pants, but seeing him now?

He was… huge.

Thick, flushed red at the tip, already leaking. He was hard in a way that looked like it hurt, twitching slightly against his stomach. You stared, lips parted—and Sam just watched you watch him, cheeks flushed, breathing uneven.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“I… yeah.” Your voice cracked. “You’re just—Sam. That’s not fair.”

He laughed, the sound shaking with restraint.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised, gripping your thighs and guiding you gently to straddle him.

You settled over his lap, knees spread, your soaked core hovering over his cock—but he didn’t push up into you. Not yet. His hands slid up your bare thighs, over your waist, under the hoodie, until they were splayed wide on your back, keeping you close.

His voice turned low, reverent. “You’re so fucking small like this.”

You blushed, heartbeat pounding in your throat.

He lifted one hand and compared it to yours—his palm dwarfed yours. He held your wrist up next to his, watched you watch the size difference, and moaned like that alone was enough to unravel him.

“You really want all of this?” he murmured, brushing the head of his cock through your folds.

“Yes,” you whispered, gripping his shoulders. “I want to feel every inch.”

Sam choked on a moan and kissed you again, one hand gripping your hip as he guided you down slowly—inch by inch, letting you sink onto him with maddening control.

And god.

The stretch.

It burned—but in the best, most intoxicating way.

“Fuck,” Sam gasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’re so tight. Jesus, baby—”

Your fingernails dug into his shoulders as you tried to breathe through it. He was so deep, filling you in a way no one ever had before, your walls fluttering around him helplessly.

“Is this too much?” he asked, voice high and wrecked. “You can tell me to stop—”

“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathed.

That did it.

Sam lifted his head and kissed you hard this time, his hands guiding your hips up, then pulling them back down again in a slow, deliberate grind that made your whole body spark.

You cried out, clinging to him as the pressure hit that spot deep inside you.

“Yeah?” he asked, breathless. “Right there?”

You nodded furiously, and he did it again—slow, deep, overwhelming.

Each thrust made your body jolt slightly from the force of it, even as he held back.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” Sam moaned, voice breaking with every roll of his hips. “Can’t believe I get to do this with you—can’t believe you’re letting me—”

“Sam, please—”

He pulled back to look at you—eyes wild, lips swollen, chest heaving.

“Gonna come already,” he admitted, like it was the worst thing in the world. “You feel so fucking good, I—shit—I’m trying to be good, I swear—”

You cupped his face, kissed him hard. “You are good.”

He whimpered—whimpered—into your mouth, like that was the final straw.

And then he was moving faster, harder, dragging you down onto him over and over with a desperation that bordered on holy.

The sound of skin slapping, your slickness, his gasping moans—everything blurred together into heat and friction and need.

Your nails raked down his back, and he hissed through his teeth, voice cracking.

“You gonna come for me again?” he begged. “Wanna feel you fall apart—wanna feel you squeeze my cock while I’m inside you—”

“Sam—”

“I’ll come with you, I will—just please—”

The knot in your stomach snapped again, blinding and overwhelming. You cried out, thighs shaking, head thrown back as your second orgasm ripped through you—tight, fast, explosive.

Sam shouted, grabbed your hips and held you down on him as he came hard inside you, warmth flooding deep. His whole body trembled under yours, jaw slack, breath ragged.

“Holy fuck,” he panted. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You collapsed into his chest, both of you sweaty, trembling, gasping for air.

And for a long, blissed-out minute, neither of you spoke.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed there, wrapped around him, still joined, his cock softening slowly inside you.

The world felt soft around the edges—like the weed, the sex, the intensity had all blurred together into something warm and weightless.

Sam cradled you like you were made of glass. One massive hand splayed against your back, the other stroking your hair with such careful tenderness it made your throat ache.

“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice rasping.

You nodded against his chest, the thud of his heartbeat still pounding beneath your cheek.

“That was…” You didn’t have the word. You felt wrecked. But in the best way. Every muscle in your body felt like it had turned to syrup.

“I know,” Sam whispered. “Same here.”

He finally shifted you—slowly, carefully—and guided you off his lap, gently as if worried you might break. His hands stayed steady on your waist, holding you like you were something precious. You winced slightly at the loss of him, at the tender ache between your thighs.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, instantly tense.

“No,” you said quickly. “I just… feel you. In the best way.”

His shoulders relaxed—just barely—but his eyes still scanned your body, checking, double-checking.

“You sure?” he murmured, brushing a hand down your thigh. “I get carried away sometimes.”

You huffed a breath. “Sam, you spent the entire time making sure I was okay. You asked before every single thing.”

He looked down, a little shy. “Still. I always worry.”

You leaned into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle. “I like how you make me feel when you’re on top of me.”

He groaned, face buried in your hair. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled against his chest, fingertips brushing the bare skin beneath his hoodie.

“I’m serious,” you said. “I love how big you are. I want to feel wrecked after. That’s the point.”

Sam made a soft, strangled noise.

“I swear, you say stuff like that and I start getting hard again.”

You giggled. “Already?”

He looked down at you with the laziest, softest grin.

“You’re wrapped up in my arms, all flushed and fucked out, wearing my hoodie and nothing else—of course I’m hard again.”

Your breath caught. His voice had gone lower again. That sweet, soft-dom tension creeping back in.

“You gonna be a problem all night now?” you teased, nuzzling under his jaw.

He tilted your chin up gently. “Only if you want me to be.”

You could feel him again—semi-hard beneath his sweats, pressing against your hip.

“I do want you,” you murmured. “All the time, apparently.”

Sam groaned again and kissed you—slow and deep, his tongue curling against yours with the lazy intensity of someone who wasn’t done worshiping you.

Then he scooped you up, bridal-style, without warning.

You gasped. “Sam!”

“You shouldn’t be walking yet,” he said seriously. “Not with how hard you were shaking.”

Your face went hot. “You’re not helping my recovery with that mouth.”

“I’m trying to be good,” he muttered as he carried you over to the blanket-strewn couch and laid you down gently. “But you keep making that impossible.”

He stretched out beside you, pulling your back to his chest, spooning you while pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your neck.

You melted into him instantly.

His big arm came around your waist, fingers lacing with yours.

“I can’t stop touching you,” he admitted, nuzzling behind your ear. “Is that weird?”

“No,” you whispered. “I feel the same way.”

He sighed, so content it made your chest ache.

The basement was quiet now—only the sound of your breathing, and the soft hum of some classic rock vinyl you hadn’t noticed playing earlier. It smelled like weed, sweat, and sex. And somehow, all of it just… fit.

Sam nosed into your shoulder, voice low.

“I’ve thought about this for so long.”

“Me too,” you whispered.

“I used to wake up in the middle of the night so hard just from dreaming about you. Thought I was gonna go crazy.”

You smiled into the blanket. “And now?”

“Now I am crazy. Just for a different reason.”

You turned to look at him.

He reached out and brushed your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Now I’ve had you, and I’m already greedy for more.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You can have me,” you whispered. “Whenever you want.”

He let out a choked sound and buried his face in your neck again. “Sweetheart, don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I mean it,” you breathed, rolling slightly so you could kiss him.

The kiss was slower this time, deeper—less urgent, but no less intense. It was full of everything you hadn’t said yet, everything he hadn’t said either.

When he pulled back, his voice was soft.

“You know this wasn’t just sex for me, right?”

“I know,” you said, curling your fingers around his wrist. “Me either.”

His hand slipped down to your stomach, then lower, fingers grazing the inside of your thigh again like he was reminding himself you were real.

You looked up at him, still flushed and pink-mouthed, hair messy from where his fingers had tangled in it earlier.

And Sam looked at you like he’d won something.

“You’re not sleeping in your room tonight,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He kissed the tip of your nose. “You’re staying with me.”

“You don’t want your space?”

“Are you kidding?” he said, eyebrows raised. “I just got you in my arms. You think I’m letting you go back down the hall? I’ll handcuff you to the bed before I let that happen.”

You laughed, face warm and body sore and heart full.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m huge and ridiculous,” he corrected. “You said so yourself.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Well. You are huge.”

His smile turned wolfish. “Say that again.”

You leaned in close, lips to his ear. “You’re huge, Sam.”

He groaned like he was dying, then pulled you tight against him again.

“God, I love you like this.”

You froze.

So did he.

The words had slipped out—and for a second, neither of you moved.

Then you said, quietly, “You love me?”

Sam’s eyes searched yours. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I think I always have.”

You reached up, brushed your fingers through his hair.

“I think I love you too.”

His breath caught. Then he kissed you—longer, slower this time, like he was breathing you in.

And later, when he finally carried you to his room—his arms around you, your legs still shaky, his hoodie still hanging loose off your shoulders—he tucked you into his bed like you were the most precious thing he’d ever had.

You didn’t leave his room for the rest of the weekend.

And he didn’t stop touching you the whole time.

[angelicdewdrop]

[calidotgov-deactivated20240108]

congratulations piracy

[livefromtheloam]

Ad agency: Please don't steal the King's potatoes, no matter how easy it is.

Regular people: Wait, the King has easily stolen potatoes? How do I get in on this?

Internet users who have been stealing potatoes for years: We made a machine that picks so many potatoes and also that machine is free. Enjoy!

[commandtower-solring-go]

Ad agency: you wouldn't steal a movie?

10 year old me with 0 income and no movie: YOU CAN STEAL MOVIES????

[can-i-make-image-descriptions]

[Image ID: Headline from IFLScience reading: "You Wouldn't Steal a Movie" Advert May Have Led To More People Stealing Movies /End ID]

[geekysteven]

[teaboot]

Fun fact! Both the music and the font in that ad were incorrectly sourced and did not provide compensation to the creators

[standandwatchshitburn]

why so silent good messieurs

[nsfwitchy2]

I’m SEVERELY disappointed this post didn’t include the eye witness statement of the mirror crash incident in question

[transthatmasc]

Dean smoking is canon to me because you’re telling me the guy who thought he’d die hunting long before old age or any real consequences for poor choices doesn’t take every vice he can get? Just like with the drinking, he’s micro-dosing self harm and visually indicating his passive suicidality. A tacit acceptance of his death as an inevitability.

Castiel lighting up a cigarette for Dean in an alley while they lean up against a wall. Saying “I rebuilt this body for you as clean as I possible. Do you not feel the clearness in your lungs for the first time in a decade? What do you get from this that’s worth the damage?” And Dean having to admit that he doesn’t think the damage matters when it’s all incidental in the end. “I’m not gonna die of lung cancer. I’m not even gonna make it long enough that I’ll be out of breath running. Why not take the moment of calm I get right now when there’s no way I’ll see the other end of this deal?”

And how can Cas tell him off when Dean is meant to be a sacrifice. He was born to be a sacrifice for the war of heaven and what will a cigarette do that Michael’s grace won’t burn through. How can he deny Dean the quiet comfort of a cigarette when eternity awaits him as a passenger in his own body?