You were in the shower, Sam and Dean were out investigating a case. There was a string of murders happened, slit throats and a sigil on the chest. You finished up your shower and brushed your hair and teeth. You threw on one of Sam's flannels and a pair of shorts. You fell down on the motel bed and pulled the laptop onto my lap. Started pulling up info on the case, everything you could find, writing notes. After 20 minutes of not finding anything, you closed the laptop and put it aside. you went to the fridge and opened a beer. Going through all the paper and books. Sighing in frustration. Sam walked into the motel, threw the keys on the table and then took his jacket off
“Hey” he kissed your cheek and slapped your ass
“Hey” I said back “any leads?”
“So the sigil is a symbol for a pagen god, but no idea who”
He walked into the bathroom and turned the water on “Where’s dean?”
“With some chick from the bar” He pulled you in for a kiss. God did I miss his lips today, the soft feeling against yours. He pulled away and kissed your forehead.
“Imma go hope in the shower”
“K” You kissed his chin
20 minutes later, all cleaned up and shaven, he comes out with a towel wrapped around his hips, showing his v-line. you looked up and took in a good look at him. Your tummy started to flutter, You rubbed your legs together, trying to create friction. That didn’t go unnoticed by Sam, he smirked down at you. He dropped the towel. You gawked at him, looking at his hard dick. The tip was rosy pink. His wet hair falling in his lustful eyes. He grabbed you by your ankles and pulled you to the edge of the bed, he then dropped down on his knees. He started kissing up your legs, taking his sweet time. He never broke eye contact. You got impatient and started moaning, you whispered Sam’s name. He bit your inner thigh. You reached for his hair and pulled at it, begging him to do something. He pushed up the flannel then pulled off your shorts. You weren’t wearing underwear, so your pussy was exposed.
“God you're so wet” His hot breath makes you squirm under him. He dragged his tongue between your slits a few times. He then attacked your clit. Sucking and licking, playing with it. You moaned out his name and bucked your hips. He kept going, you were squirming now, squeezing his head with your legs. He pushed 2 fingers in, slowly pumping them in and out. Adding to the pleasure building up in your stomach. He picked up the pace, curling his fingers. He lifted his head and looked up at you “come for me, baby” He sucked your clit and pumped his fingers. You came seconds, creaming on Sam’s hand. You scream his name, legs shaking from the pleasure. You were panting, Sam gave you a second to catch your breath. After a min, Sam started to unbutton his flannel you were wearing, he groped your left tit “I love it when you were my flannel, you look so hot in them” He whispered raspily in your ear. God you loved his raspy voice. Squirming under him, feeling his hard dick on your thigh. He kissed you hard, pinning your hands above your head with one hand, while the other played with your right tit. He licked your bottom lip, you opened your mouth to let his tongue in. Your tongues fought for dominance, him winning. He groaned into the kiss, sending shivers down your spine. You wrapped your legs around his waist pulling him in closer. He grinded against you, whispering your name against your lips. He let go of your tit, moved it to your clit and slowly circled it. You gasped, bucking your hips into his hand, trying to wiggle your hands free. You wanted to feel him, run your hands all over him. “Please” you begged. He sat back on his knees and looked down at you. You were a mess under him, hair fanning on the pillow, the way you looked at him, in nothing but his flannel, you begging for him. It made him hard, Sam was tempted to take his sweet time, but he knew you wouldn’t last, so he gave you what you wanted. Sam put your legs on his shoulders, lining his dick with with your entrance. He leaned down to kiss you and pushed in, giving you a minute to adjust. He started moving, a slow pace, making you burn for him. Sam wrapped his arms around your legs and picked up his pace, hitting your sweet spot. You moaned his name and arched your back. He looked into your eyes while slamming into you. Sam grunted your name in pure bliss, you felt so good. He wrapped a hand around your throat, making your head spin in. He picked up the pace, pounding into you faster and harder, he moved his hand from your throat to your cilt, making the knot of pleasure start to grow. You knew he was reaching his climax, his strokes got slopplier and harder. He grabbed your throat to look in your eyes as you both came. You screamed his name, as you came on his dick. A few more hard strokes and Sam came inside of you, dragging your name between his lips. After filling you up with his cum, he pulled out and the cum spilled out of your pussy. He got up and grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom, cleaning you up and kissing your forehead.
He threw the towel aside and crawled into bed, wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close.
“What’d you say we ditch Dean tomorrow and get breakfast” Sam whispered in your ear. “Hmm, sure” You hum back at him. You snuggle into his neck. He kissed the top of your head. “Goodnight, Love”
“Goodnight” you mumbled back and drifted back to sleep.
Warnings: suggestive material, murder, violence (he's an outlaw, what do you expect?)
She didn’t have a rational thought in her head. All of it was miles away. She didn’t feel scared or feel like running for help. All she felt was safe and secure.
Like she did when she was young.
She would remember her and him running through the dirt streets after curfew. The coyotes and horses were the only ones to know what they were doing. Only the stars would witness their proclamations of love. Only their bodies would know what it felt like to experience real love.
They were addicted to each another.
No brandy or scotch would be as addictive as one another.
Her heart would only beat for him, and that is why she didn’t believe the sheriff when he said Jason was a robber. She didn’t believe her parents when they said he was a murderer. She didn’t believe her friends when they said he was now a wanted man throughout the West.
All she did believe was his letters. His letters rung with honesty and truth. All of his words conveyed his devotion and yearning for her. They made her heart beat faster and her body feel alight with love.
But, all good things have to come to an end.
The letters soon became confessions of not love, but confessions of sin.
He stole, he murdered, he broke every law there was.
Jason was no longer the ranch hand she fell in love with, but an outlaw.
Maybe that is why there was another spark between them. Maybe that was the reason why she left the window unlocked. Maybe that is why she wore her sheerest nightgown.
Maybe that is why his mouth was on hers, hot and fiery.
They held each other close as their mouths moved in sync. His hands gripped her tighter and her arms around his neck pulled him closer. Her body responded to every touch he gave her, it left her breathless and wanting more. Nothing else in the world would feel this perfect. Nothing else would feel this divine.
Jason Todd was an outlaw through and through, but she held his heart. . . through and through.
What’s better— the thread is filled with people giving some good advice on how to respect a woman’s boundaries and how to ask what she would be okay with, publicly. Lots of trans girls thanking him for being so patient and thoughtful with his words, and lots of people cautioning him that his purpose as a boyfriend would be to keep her safe, even from his own friends and family if need be. A+ shit right here.
hey, trans girls who are into guys? THIS is what you deserve. don’t you ever believe that you have to bend over backwards for men to like you, that you have to accept being disrespected and mistreated, that you’re something to hide or be ashamed of. you’re beautiful, you’re a fucking princess, and you deserve someone who sees that and loves you deeply and unconditionally, who will choose you over the world and fight the world for you. THIS is the kind of guy.
Warnings: ANGST, Dean’s a tiny bit of a dick, Depression, Thoughts of Suicide, Anxiety, Panic Attack, Self- Esteem Issues, Self- Depreciation, Lots More Angst, Mentions of Torture, Minor Fluff
Summary: After being captured by a demon and tortured for a couple of weeks, you were having trouble healing from the aftermath. The physical wounds may have healed but it doesn’t mean the ones on the inside had. The ones telling you that you’re never going to be enough. That you’re better off gone.
Square Filled: Hurt/ Comfort ( @spnfluffbingo)
A/N: For the haters and the ones who gave up on me. For the ones that made me feel like I wasn’t enough. For the ones who hurt me so bad that I wanted to disappear. For the ones who claimed to be my friend and proved themselves otherwise. This one is for you.
You stood in the kitchen, dipping your tea bag into your favourite mug that you had picked up from the gas n’ sip somewhere in Portland a few years ago. It was close to midnight when you last checked your phone. It was hard to tell these days since the bunker had no windows. No natural sunlight got in. You were clad in one of your favourite oversized sweaters and a pair of plaid shorts that barely covered your ass, and a pair of knee high socks. Your typical bed attire for the most part. When you were on the road it was a little different. At home, you were more comfortable.
i think it is very depressing that like every aesthetic people try to emulate are of people doing things but they themselves are incapable of being somebody that does things… the mall goth 2005 aesthetic revived in 2022 but nobody goes to the mall to be annoying and weird and nobody lets themselves be cringe… the cottagecore aesthetic but nobody knows how to raise gardens or live self sufficiently … the dark academia aesthetic but nobody actually reads books…. The obsession of looking like you are a type of person who does something without actually doing anything … the Instagram effect
I apologize for the lack of updates, but this update has us to the present finally!
We have a schedule. Both our lives have been ABSURD over the duration of this story, and there's a lot of me and him in here.
A lot of folks seem to think that this is a romantic date? Pretty early on, Naz said that he wasn't looking for romance. And I am VERY Polyamorous, but not really looking for new folks right now.
Still! We're going to do this thing! We're going to meet, and we're going to take pictures (maybe even a video or two?) And you'll get to see it!
Gotta be honest, I wish I had done a "Tap To See More" on this post all those months ago, scrolling is a pain.
There's a girl outside having an ANIMATED conversation about someone who wronged her friend and she is big mad. I am living for her. I want the best for her life. I will never speak to her.
btw being excessively nonconfrontational is NOT a positive trait. it does not mean u are “too nice” or just too kind to hurt people, it means u have a problem communicating and you need to work on it.
Yesssss as someone who is terrified of conflict due to child abuse, I've become passive aggressive and non-confrontational and it sucks, bc I have to deal with ppl who are mean bc I'm too scared to get screamed at. I'm working on my passive aggressive and non-confrontational behaviors with my counselor and so should you.
One of the things that’s already begun to happen is the mass exodus of white people from affluent cities and neighborhoods into the hood due to covid unemployment. And thus the mass gentrification process has begun.
And it is gentrification by the way. Y’all have to kill this idea that white people who’ve fallen on harder times aren’t gentrifiers. They absolutely are.
Look at the asks I’m getting. You can litterally see where the gentrification starts.
The framing of everything is “why are you being mean to these poor, sad, destitute, white people!? They have no choice but to move into these poor neighborhoods!” The expectation is for me to feel sorry for white people who are coming to live....in a place I already live.
Once again, the neighborhoods y’all move into when you struggle are the neighborhoods we grow up in. My neighborhood is so black, dominoes won’t deliver after the sun goes down. But you know what? We’re happy and feel lucky to be here. You know why? Because we know what you don’t know and that’s that 2 streets down is the hood. And 4 streets down from that is the projects. So we’re happy to be in our little black neighborhood.
But you? You move in full of despair. You hate being here. You feel at a disadvantage to be here. You hate our culture. You hate our cookouts, our loud music, the bass at 4 am rolling through, the weed smell, the fact that we leave our dogs chained up outside, the fact that we have pitbulls, the fact that we don’t really cut the grass like that, you bemoan everything about us.
And as more of your cracker friends move in you cling together. You don’t know our names but you look at us like we’re the intruders in our own neighborhoods, you start talking shit, you start wanting to “make improvements”, and worst of all you start calling the fucking police.
So we start getting arrested, assaulted, more of you move in, our rent goes up, we move out, you’re building a “home owners association,” you’ve got us all too scared to listen to our music or cook out anymore, the rent goes up some more, we leave, more of you move in, and suddenly our little black neighborhood that wasn’t the nicest but not the worst is full of white faces. White faces that peer at the few black people left. You make them so miserable they’ll leave anyway.
And all of this? Big money hasn’t even touched it yet. You bring gentrification with you as a poor white because you bring racism with you. You bring your privilege and upwards mobility with you. You bring your “improvement” mindset with you.
So no. I don’t feel sorry for poor white people at all.
Fuck y’all. Stay out of my neighborhood and go live with the white trash.
Wow white gentrification tumblr is really upset about this. This is why I don’t believe in this “anti-racist” movement because y’all want to say blm but not examine the ways you participate in structural racism.
Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.
Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.
She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.
So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.
“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”
She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”
“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”
“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”
“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”
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