dedicated to sam :)

Don’t Leave Me

Request: Brad angst please / Do you think you could do a fluffy Brad smut?

Ask and you shall receive 

Warnings: Smut, A lot of angsty Brad, (Fluff)
Words: 2.8k

Brad is a little short on temper, and in a place where the stress of being in a band, touring the world, and writing music can be a little too overwhelming at times; He’s glad he has you to rely on.

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[ Klapollo
// Narumitsu ]

“Two boys trying to find their place in the world, and with each other.”
a.k.a. Songs that Klavier would totally sing to/about Apollo
(Cover art made by me)

[ Listen to it on Playmoss ]

Morning Revelations

Happy birthday to the lovely and beautiful @casandsip! Here’s a lil’ Sabriel something for you, and I hope you enjoyed your special day! ♥

… .

Gabriel was always awake before Sam.

It was something that Sam came to realize more clearly once Gabriel moved into his room. He remembered how he had blearily opened his eyes the first morning after, body lax and sated, and discovered a pair of amber orbs staring at him with drowsy adoration. Sam had shifted onto his side and smiled, raising a calloused hand to stroke at Gabriel’s cheek. Sam could recall with perfect clarity the way Gabriel’s eyes had fluttered shut and the soft groan that emitted from the archangel’s throat as he leaned greedily into the contact. Sam remembered leaning forward for a kiss, how he sighed in pure bliss at the slow, addicting movement of Gabriel’s lips beneath his.

Sam hadn’t yet been aware that morning of Gabriel’s persistence to awaken before Sam did. He hadn’t even truly known it the first week. It came as a gradual realization, and an endearing one at that; there was no other way Sam would rather wake up than to amber eyes shining with affection.

Angels didn’t need to sleep, but Sam knew that Gabriel indulged in the human activity despite not actually catching the archangel in the act. It was implied in the thick gloss of Gabriel’s eyes in the mornings, the heavy droop of his eyelids, the slow stretch of his lips as Gabriel smiled when Sam finally roused himself awake.

Soon enough it became expected for Gabriel to be awake before Sam was. Sam never truly thought about it, sort of tucking that acceptance away in the back of his mind.

He didn’t think about it until the one early morning that Sam woke up before Gabriel. The navy sky of night was barely seeping orange with the approaching dawn. Sam nodded into his pillow, his mind involuntarily shaking away the cloud of sleep, and he opened his eyes.

Gabriel was on his side, back facing Sam. Sam pinched his brows together as he adjusted to the darkness of the bedroom. He moved forward in gentle movements, chasing the warmth radiating from Gabriel’s body. Once he was pressed up against Gabriel, Sam wrapped an arm securely around Gabriel’s torso. He came to the realization that it was gonna take a while to get back to sleep now that he was more or less wide awake, and he dipped his head and just took the time to observe Gabriel.

Gabriel was sleeping. Sam’s arm over Gabriel’s chest rose and fell with every breath the angel took, air softly blowing past thin lips. Golden brown fringe swept across Gabriel’s forehead, unruly and tousled from his slumber. Laugh and frown lines were mildly smoothed down, creased into Gabriel’s expression. The archangel’s eyes flitted rapidly underneath veined eyelids, lost in whatever dream was filling the archangel’s mind.

It was quite a surreal experience, watching an archangel sleep. And as Sam stared down at Gabriel, observing him with stunned fascination, he found himself enraptured and understanding the appeal of why Gabriel watched him sleep every morning previous.

Gabriel was beautiful.

One of the oldest of God’s children, the most powerful of any entity created second to God, and he was embodied in a human vessel that fit so perfectly in Sam’s arms, snoozing away the early hours of the morning without a worry in the world.

The glorious, intelligent, witty, infuriating, loveable archangel was entrusting himself to Sam, and it hit the hunter with a hard jolt that not only was Gabriel trusting him with his security but with his heart as well.

Gabriel was his. Gabriel was Sam’s.

Sam grinned, warmth flooding through his core and spreading through his limbs. He tightened his arm around Gabriel and leaned down to press a series of small kisses to Gabriel’s hair, neck, and shoulder. The archangel sighed in his sleep and murmured something incoherent but didn’t wake up. Sam smiled wider and kissed the end of Gabriel’s jawline, his heart throbbing and pulsing hot blood through his veins.

“I love you,” Sam breathed, lips grazing up to Gabriel’s ear. “I love you, I love you.”

Because he did. So, so much.

Gabriel was still. Sam’s smile softened and he kissed the shell, giving Gabriel’s torso one last squeeze before relinquishing his grip. He laid onto his back with a reluctant departure of Gabriel’s body heat and fixed the blanket over the two of them.

A keening whine cut through the air just then, and Sam’s brows raised in slight surprised as Gabriel suddenly came to life, the archangel shifting and rolling until he was plastered against Sam’s side, his cheek pressed against Sam’s chest and an arm wrapped around Sam’s middle. Gabriel’s eyes remained closed.

Sam stretched his neck a bit to stare down at Gabriel properly, lightly perplexed by Gabriel’s abrupt change of position. He hardly had a moment to process much before Gabriel spoke, his voice raspy and thick with sleep.

“You sap. I love you, too.”

Sam’s heart fluttered wildly at the declaration and he hummed, resituating his arm around Gabriel’s back and pulling him close. The archangel purred and snuggled into Sam, nuzzling his face into Sam’s neck. Sam’s lips pulled into a content smile and he closed his eyes, falling asleep and falling in love with Gabriel all over again.

anonymous asked:

Maybe Sam x Kendrick going on a hunt together? Talking abt lucifer? And maybe some of that "seduction" if you're comfortable with it?

It stands to reason that they’d run into the witch twins relatively close to when they’d met them — after all, hunters usually ended up on the same track, following the signs of the freshest hunt on the map. Sam’s not sure when he and Dean became reluctant when it came to teaming up with others — y’know, watching so many friends die around you usually’ll do it — but they weren’t given much option. Max and Alicia slide into the booth and that’s that, they’re in the middle of a wendigo hunt.

Dedicated to Asa, of course. And perhaps even to John Winchester, who guided them through many similar hunts of their own. They trudge through heavy brush on a hunch; missing teens, shredded campsite, looked to be pretty solid, even if the weather patterns weren’t exactly perfectly aligned. Sam figured it was worth a romp and a couple of flare guns. 

Dean and Alicia hit the families for information, and he and the witch have merely decided to play guard to the chirping green canopy stretched out before them. Dean of course was hesitant, always hesitant, because leaving him with what was nearly a stranger wasn’t great. But Sam didn’t mind. It was good for them to branch out a little.

Truth be told, he saw something beneficial, in that wake. 

Unified community. People watching each other’s backs. 

Maybe they need a little bit of that. What was it he said to Dean, before? Looking for someone to be with, who would understand the life? Yeah. Maybe they just need a few helping hands to guide them through their bitter, aged isolation. Or maybe Sam just feels that odd, seasonal burst of neediness, of a desire for companionship. He may be far more withdrawn from societal norms than he’s ever been before, but it didn’t mean he always enjoyed being alone.

“You know,” Max says in a low, smooth sound, passing Sam a cold beer from that old familiar green cooler. “My sister is probably seducing your brother. She’s got a real thing for freckles. We could end up abandoned.”

He grins, and Sam rolls his eyes at the thought.

“Well, at least someone’ll be happy tonight.” A record in his head skips when he remembers they’re talking about each other’s siblings — even worse, he’s talking about his brother having sex with this guy’s sister (younger? older? by how much? how old are they, again?). He flusters, waving a hand. “I mean, sorry, that’s — brain bleach. I shouldn’t — ”

“Talk about my sister in post-coital bliss with your functionally alcoholic stud of a brother?” Max grins around the rim of the beer bottle, gulping. “It’s fine, man. We’re not exactly a conventional family. We’re both massive perverts and we know it.”

Sam snorts, and though still mildly ashamed, they sit in relatively restful silence. It’s still bright out, and they’re still comfortably in their wards with flare guns rested in their laps. Max’s smile is still there when Sam glances at him, a sort of mischievous twist that reminds him of Dean in their high school years. 

“I mean,” Max says, “We could always steal their thunder.”

He says it so easily, like it’s breathing, or something. Sam chokes on his drink, hair flopping a bit. Looking at this guy — not a kid, he reminds himself, because sometimes everyone looks like a kid to his old soul — he flounders a bit for an answer. It’s not the first time he’s been hit on by guys. But the dangerous and seductive Sam that didn’t give two shits and dove into rough kissing and heavy touches had died twice: once when he caused a fucking Apocalypse, and once when his soul was unceremoniously shoved back in like a man into an iron maiden. 

So. Still awkward territory. He clears his throat.

“Uh, pass. I don’t think that’s really my thing.”

“Never been with a guy before?” Max asks, humored. Sam’s always been terrible at being anything but honest, when it comes to matters of the heart. And bedfellow. 

“… Not exactly. It’s been…. a long time.” He laughs, flustered, pressing his cold beer to his temple. “You’re kind of young for me, aren’t you?”

“I’m a hunter in my mid-twenties. It makes me at least forty in experience.” He nudges Sam with an easy aura about him. “In hunting in a forest and in a bedroom.” And Sam just shakes his head, because at this guy’s age, he was mourning the loss of his fiance. Max is definitely more of a Dean Winchester build than him. 

He blinks and the man is leaning in close, breath hot and eyes translucent green in the sunshine that perforates the treetops. “Maybe I could give you a lesson or two on those seduction techniques I learned, old man.”

And for a moment, Sam nearly leans right into it at first go, like he’d be rude not to — that’d be him, too polite to decline when an attractive and decent person actually gives him a chance to say no. It’s Piper all over again, with her easy smile and her earnest question — You wanna go have a night of it, just you and me? And he had been so fucking relieved to actually get a say in it, he left his jacket in the diner. Now there’s a hesitancy, and the other man sees it easily — and in a move fifty times more sexy than the actual flirting, he leans away with some level of concern in his brow to give Sam space. 

Fuck it.

Max seems surprised when Sam’s lips hit his first, like his whole routine had been jarred and taken right out of his hands and into Sam’s, who is apparently more capable than he’d bet on; he kisses back after a moment of Sam’s expert tongue probing, his confusion sparking into genuinely impressed amusement. Sam’s not really into guys as much as girls; he’s got his exceptions, lord knows he does, but this is a road less traveled. He’s more familiar with softer curves and less angled jawlines. But hell, it’s nice, and Max is entirely pleased with the state of things. Sam, too, really. It’s good. It’s good to feel fingers slide under layers of plaid to massage the skin beneath. It’s good, it’s good, it’s good. And it’s not in his head; that much he’s sure about. His back hurts from being thrown into bookshelves, bruised to hell and stiff. This is reality. And reality smells nice, like carefully selected cologne from some mid-tier clothing store.

It’s nice.

… Until they accidentally set off the flare gun being manhandled between them and it goes spiraling off into the sky.

When Dean and Alicia return, no clear traces of debauchery in the states of their hair or clothes, they find Sam sitting red-faced with his shirt askew and Max — Belle of the Ball — grinning and twirling the spent flare-gun on his index finger. 

(feel free to drop in and request a prompt here)

(EDIT: fixed for Max’s name)

Both Winchester boys are incredible lays.  |  06.03  |  10.01

mysticalmagicalmasterpiece-deac  asked:

Imagine if Steve met Chris Evans omfg

Steve’s halfway through his second burger when Sam asks “You do realize that the dude that came up to you a few minutes ago is like crazy famous, right?”

Steve shrugs. “Guess not?”

“Yeah, he was the flame guy in those superhero movies? My mom loves him. What’d he say, anyway?”

“He just said he really admired everything that I’ve done and asked if he could get a picture with me to show his family. Seemed kinda nervous?”

Two hours later, Chris Evans tweets a blurry photo with the caption “Just met Cap. Damn do I feel inadequate!” 

The next day, Steve follows him back. 

“okay, mom.”

Dean has now affectionately called Sam “mom” in two back-to-back episodes, and I can’t help but hope that it becomes A Thing. obviously it’s a term that they will never toss around lightly, but I am convinced that Dean calling Sam “mom” whenever Sam fusses over his wellbeing is actually a Very Good Thing. bittersweet, for sure. but in the best possible way.

the concept of Mary Winchester, Mother and Wife is something that Sam has never been fully privy to. what fleeting moments he spent with her ghost and in 1978 can’t begin to make up for that; although he grew up in the shadow of her death he will never be able to grieve for her in the same way that John and Dean do, because she died before he was able to form any memories with her. and if Heaven is still structured as a best-of reel with your happiest memories, then Sam will never, ever be able to meet her, even in his own Heaven. but Dean calling him “mom” now — likening Sam to the woman whose photograph sits at Dean’s bedside in the bunker (after surviving a lifetime of hunting and living on the road and every single big bad they’ve ever faced), the woman Sam has always literally dreamed of meeting — it’s a way to fill that motherless hole that Sam’s been carrying in him his entire life. to bring Sam closer to his mother, and allow him to honor her memory in his own way. to remind them both that the parts of her that Dean loves and misses most aren’t gone at all, because she lives on through Sam. through both of her boys.

and this is something that we’ve all known for years now, but it’s not something that was ever made clear to Sam. I’m not sure he’s even aware of it or has given it much thought (to him, it might feel a bit too much like wishful thinking). but Dean recognizes his mother when he sees Sam caring for him. and for Dean to verbalize that connection to Sam is huge, for the both of them. Dean is in a place where he can finally come to terms with his mother’s death by recognizing that Mary Winchester will never truly be gone, so long as he and Sam are still around. saving people, hunting things. fighting the good fight. Sam, for his part, feels validated as his mother’s son for possibly the first time in his life, independent of Mary’s deal with YED and subsequent death, or the Campell hunter legacy, or the Campell-Winchester Bloodline of Apocalyptic Doom. those things never defined Sam as a person, and they sure as hell don’t define his relationship with his mother.

the darkest parts of Mary’s life have always managed to bleed over into her boys’. but the brightest parts of her being are there, too: her tenacity, her kindness, the fierceness of her love. even her favorite songs. they’ve always been there, even before the darkness set in — and they’ll continue to be there, until the very end.

andhumanslovedstories  asked:

Please write me a fic where Sam and T'Challa meet while playing WoW

Okay. So. All those times T'challa said he couldn’t go to a meeting because of crucially important business? He was totally playing WoW. You know he’s in the top guild on the server, has all the best gear, his alts in heirlooms; God, he even bought the fancy novelty pets and mounts. They don’t do anything but look pretty. T'challa has more money than you can probably imagine.

Sam, on the other hand, is a casual player by necessity. Riley got him into it way back in the air force days; it was nice to come home after fighting bad guys and be someone totally different for a while: specifically, an undead rogue. Sam generally considers himself to be a good person in real life, and so in Azeroth he’s going to allow himself to be a bit of a dick.

(He got Clint to sign up too—he plays a hunter. Yes, it’s a bit of a stereotype. Clint doesn’t care.)

Sam doesn’t get much time to play, but there’s not much else to do when laying low between missions. Honestly, there have been a couple times (literally twice, Steve, there’s no need to keep bringing it up all the damn time) when he’s been a slow to roll out for their latest bout of heroism because he was in the middle of a boss battle.

(“Why can’t you just pause it next time?”

“…It doesn’t work that way, Steve.”)

As it turns out, Sam and T’challa are both on the same PvP server.

The first time they meet, T'challa kills Sam. Over, and over, and over.

It’s not like Sam is a bad player or anything, but this douchebag has all the best gear and an apparent wish to drive Sam to literal, actual murder. It’s 1 in the morning, he just wants to finish his damn dailies, but apparently someone has nothing better to do than make Sam’s virtual reality a literal hell.

(It’s 8 in the morning in Wakanda. T’challa’s “something better to do” is a very dry meeting that he called in sick for the morning to avoid.)

For hours Sam runs his tired ass back to his body, waits the allotted time to resurrect, and then makes it about five paces before a certain night elf druid pops out of the shadows to maul him in the back. And Sam generally considers himself a pretty even tempered person, and he doesn’t take a computer game all that seriously, but it gets to the point where Sam is literally ready to put the suit on and go knocking on some doors—and then T'challa kills him again. With a /silly thrown in to boot. Sam is reasonably certain he’s being mashed into the poorly-rendered ground by a literal twelve-year old.

(“Should we be concerned about that?” Wanda asks. Sam’s most recent scream of rage has only just finished echoing through the shitty apartment they’re renting.

“He’s probably getting farmed again,” Steve says. “It’s when someone kills your character over and over. Sam told me all about it. In great detail.”

From the chattering sounds coming from Sam’s room, he’s either typing with gusto or dying of hypothermia.)

It’s only a matter of time before Sam and T’challa realize the other plays. The expression that spreads over T’challa’s face when he realizes exactly who he had been killing all those times can best be described, by Sam, as a shit-eating grin. When Sam finds out, he plays it cool—and silently resolves to drop T’challa off the nearest rooftop as soon as there are no witnesses.

He’ll catch him, though.


Caitriona definitely does, because she spent quite a bit of time in Paris, and Sam is learning French. I just heard him at the table read the other day, and I was pretty surprised. He did quite well.

Do you ever think about Sam Wilson and Helen Cho, sitting together and talking about how you can get put back together, maybe even stronger and healthier than ever before, but you can never be the same as you were before, there’s no science or magic strong enough to do that.

Things can be repaired or recreated but they can’t be undone.