too big for your britches

things eric “bitty” bittle has said at some point
“and people in hell want ice water. quit complaining.”“poor girl cant tell her ass from a hole in the ground”“doohickey”“aint got the good sense god gave a rock”“they could start an argument in a empty house”“if brains were leather, he wouldnt have enough to saddle a june bug”
“youre barking up the wrong tree, sweetheart”
“looks like you got your feathers ruffled”
“shes too big for her own britches”
“ill be done in two shakes of a sheeps tail”

these are all taken from conversations between my aunt and mom. thanks ma

anonymous asked:

not to offend you but do you only hate larries because you picture yourself with harry? and i scrolled through your page and it literally seems like you have this whole idea that you and harry are gonna end up together and i dont care about that but how come larries are delusional for thinking larry might be together but its totally normal for you to think that harry is gonna end up with you. sounds a bit homophobic if you ask me .

I really tried to ignore this, simply because I’m trying my absolute hardest not to give shits like you the attention you so desperately crave. But wow, I really, really could not ignore this one.

1. To insinuate that I only hate Larries because I picture myself is comical and completely delusional in the following ways:

  • I hate Larries because they stomp around with their big bad blogs and their screenshots from seven years ago, thinking that they can treat people like utter shit because they swear up and down Harry and Louis still wear certain colors because they’re closeted.
  • I hate Larries because they have accused a young mother of faking the pregnancy of her child, the birth of her child, and the existence of her child and have tortured her to no end about the subject. 
  • I hate Larries because they have invaded the privacy of the Tomlinson family (and any extensions thereof) and the Styles family (and any extensions thereof) innumerable times over the past seven years and have not felt one drop of remorse for it.
  • I hate Larries because they think they love Louis and Harry more than anyone in the fandom, when if they actually loved either one of them, they would leave them the fuck alone and not spread their malevolent propaganda whenever they saw fit. You have damn near ruined the lives of everyone associated to them. You have pushed people away from them. You have made them explain why their friend of a friend of a friend may be getting “LARRY IS REAL!” comments on their picture of a dinner they had in 2013. You have embarrassed them. You have made them apologize for something they want nothing to be apart of.
  • I hate Larries because well, fuck, how many times does Louis himself have to say that Larry isn’t real and it’s not okay for Larries to act the way they do. How. many. times? He’s not saying it because management told him to - he’s not saying it because he’s being forced into a contract he can’t get out of - he’s saying it because it’s not fucking real and it’s not fucking okay.
  • I hate Larries because of messages like this. Messages that insinuate that I’m homophobic for running a blog about Harry that has nothing to do with him ending up with Louis. You would love if I were homophobic, wouldn’t you? I have never, ever - not once - said anything remotely homophobic, and you can search my blog with a goddamn microscope. Which I’m sure you will, because you dedicate your life to blowing up the tiniest nuance and disgustingly spin it into your own alternative truth. I think you’re getting too big for your britches there, babe. And no, didn’t “ask you” - nobody did. Why would we?

2. When have I ever - and I truly mean ever - said with any seriousness that I will end up with Harry? Unlike you, I am under no illusion about who Harry will end up with. I know he will not end up with me, and I have never been shy about saying it. I will joke around, just like everyone else does on this site, about being with him. That’s the fun part of it all. Until, of course, trash bags like you come from whichever part of the internet you’ve crawled out from beneath to ruffle the feathers of the sane ones by insinuating we’re anything but.

3. And, not to offend you, but remove yourself from my blog. Immediately. You are a cretin and you need to fuck off.

More musings on writing advice:

Honestly, I think “yes, you are allowed” is something a lot of fandom needs to hear right now. We had, what, a decade of “what not to do” writing advice, starting with anti-Mary-Sue campaigns and on through sporking and fanficrants and RaceFail, and now everything is this cracked parody of social justice and ~this is problematic~ is the ultimate “what not to do.” And just look at the messages we’ve taken to heart: don’t get too big for your britches, everything has to be accurate and realistic, no one the reader is supposed to sympathize with should be within shouting distance of “problematic.” We’re writing about these larger-than-life characters whose lives are full of over-the-top, implausible events, and it’s like we're afraid that if we handwave or take narrative shortcuts or spin crazy yarns about their adventures or don’t treat Bad Shit Happening with the expected amount of solemnity, somebody’s going to call us out for not doing our due diligence.

In fact, the one “yes, you are allowed” message we’ve taken to heart is that we’re not beholden to the original canon, which is a phenomenon I… have mixed feelings about. But the point is, that message combined with the fear of fucking up, of writing “unrealistic” or “problematic” stories about monsters and aliens and superheroes, means that mundane AUs and domestic fic are the path of least resistance. And not only is fic being pushed towards the generic, the moral pressure that drives fandom SJ makes it feel almost… risky?… to stray from the fanon status quo. Breaking the mold, instead of being a sign of creativity, increasingly feels like a sign that you’re Doing It Wrong and may in fact be a bad person. I have seen people say that they want to write about post-CA:TWS Bucky but don’t, because they don’t want to slog through dealing with the “obligatory” recovery issues. Or that they’d feel guilty, like they were committing some sort of erasure, if they wrote pre-war fic without Queer Brooklyn and The Docks a bunch of romanticized-poverty porn.

For the love of God, fandom. You are allowed to come up with whatever fictional means you feel like to undo the Winter Soldier’s fictional (and almost totally unspecified) brainwashing. He’s an amnesiac cyborg assassin hopped up on a knockoff version of the super-serum that lets Steve Rogers get flung off a freeway overpass hard enough to overturn a bus and get up with barely a scratch. He starts getting memories back whenever they leave him out of cryo long enough. If you want the serum to heal his brain damage and leave him twitchy, angry, and guilt-ridden, but more-or-less compos mentis, so that he can go face down his demons without spending months on Steve’s couch eating soup and relearning how to be a human? YOU CAN. YOU ARE ALLOWED. THAT IS A STORY YOU ARE ALLOWED TO TELL. The “it was the super-healing” handwaving already puts you about fifteen realism steps ahead of the comics, where Steve used a magic monkey’s paw ex machina to bring back Bucky’s memories with the power of his love. And then a bunch of stuff happened and Bucky wrestled a bear in a Siberian gulag, okay, and this is the level of Srs Bsns we’re starting from.

You can do whatever the fuck you want. If you want to dwell lovingly on all the interpersonal issues and mental scarring that resulted from that time aliens made them do it because they got fake married in space, go for it. But do not pull out the DSM and start checking off PTSD symptoms out of a sense of duty if what you actually want to write is banter, UST, sarcasm about absurd situations, reckless displays of loyalty, and porn where they realize the depth and true nature of their feeeeeelings about each other. Both of those things are okay things to want.

tl;dr Internal story logic > realism. Write whatever ridiculous tropey or out-there shit you want, and use exactly as much judiciously-applied realism as you need to sell the story.

twilicat24  asked:

Hi!!!! I just wanted to say how much I love your writing!! Don't Forget the Sun is absolutely adorable and awkward and amazing, and I'm getting ready to start on Despite What You've Been Told. I was wondering if you have any plans (however far ahead in the future they may be) to return to Repeated Measures? I just finished reading what you have so far a couple days ago, and it is just plain fantastic! I don't mind waiting for a while, but I would hate to see it never get finished!

thank you i’m glad you like my fics! :D oh gosh, i haven’t thought about that fic in a while. I think if i do go back to it it’ll be a rewrite from the beginning, part of the reason i stopped was because the chapters were just way too long to manage, so I’d want to structure it a bit different to make easier to update. 

I might consider doing that when i finish up with godhood isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. i did have a lot i wanted to do with that fic, it’d be a shame to let all those ideas go to waste

It’s late and I don’t want to call anyone out or shit on opinions but I want to rationalize something:

anonymous: I cannot stand Liet///Bel. It makes no sense to me whatsoever, yes, Toris may have a crush on her but she hates him!

I got a message before about whether or not someone should ship lietbel because they already ship lietpol so here is my reply:

1. It is canon that Lithuania likes her.

2. Belarus and him used to be friends as children.

3. Lithuanian–Byelorussian Soviet Socialist Republic ( or LBSSR) was actually something that existed for five months in 1919 so technically they were married in Hetalia terms.

4. In my opinion the only reason she broke his fingers is because she does it accidentally. Natalya is nervous around some people.

5. Also in my opinion, Natalya is only so defensive of herself because she doesn’t want to let anybody in. She is honestly pretty broken that Ivan denies her.

6. In many fan works, a recurring idea depicts Lithuania as the person who comforts Belarus after having been rejected by Russia over and over again.

She does not hate him. Yeah, she broke his fingers, but need I remind you of the numerous things other countries have done to each other? Russia giving Lithuania the scars on him back and making Latvia stay at such a small size? England killing Joan of Arc? 

Upon searching Lietbel on Google I stumble upon a poll on dA saying you can choose either Lietpol or Lietbel. As you could guess, I chose Lietbel. When I scrolled down I find this lovely comment:

Talk about too big for your britches. Does it really matter what people ship? Yes, you like Lietpol more, but does this mean you need to take a massive shit on other ships?

Of course, you just completely forget this:

She’s not that bad for fucks sake. This is just a pissed off rant at 3:17 AM. I apologize.

Monday is a monster and he treats you like a ghost. “What do you think you’re doing, girl?” he says. “I could love you but it would be a waste of time.”
Monday comes when you have nowhere to run, he says, “Get your hands dirty in me. Call my name, I’ll send you home nothing but a pile of bones.”
Monday is hungry, only kisses with teeth.

Tuesday tries to be gentle but has hands like your father’s.
Tuesday is getting too big for its britches, wants you to stop seeing those other boys. You tell Tuesday that you wish they wouldn’t scream, but all at once you’re out the door and the windows shatter.
Tuesday is saying that you can’t come back, but you know they’ll be there again, always, bringing you roses that still have their thorns.

Wednesday is a tough guy, something out of Hollywood sweatshops. You ride on the back of his motorcycle and tell him to tattoo your name on his thigh; he agrees, says he’ll show you next week. It’s what he said the week before — Wednesday can never keep his promises, but you love that worn-out Harley and the way your mother won’t speak to you anymore.
Useless Wednesday, all big-talk, loud-mouth, love-hard leather.
All aching-jaw, split-lip accident.

Thursday is your neighbor, bakes a pie for your parents the day before prom. Little boy with bow-tie dreams — you kiss him outside when he doesn’t ask to come in, let him pretend not to want you.
Thursday won’t touch you without permission, tucks you into bed at night. Thursday breaks down when he tries to drive you home, tells horror stories about his time in San Francisco.
Thursday doesn’t call you again, Christ,
you can’t even remember his name.

Friday gets you drunk, finds you reeling. You and Friday cut off your hair in a stranger’s bathroom, play battleships with your hearts. You sink her submarine, but she’s already got a hand on your thigh driving you crazy.
Friday only lies to you, leaves during the night to let you wake up alone, but she puts water and an Advil on the bedside table, and that’s all you can ask for after puking red on her best blouse last night.
Friday disappears so kindly from your life.
Friday wears a new face every time.

Saturday is lazy, wears your underwear and won’t wash the dishes. Your friends say that you could do so much better, but you don’t want to. You hide under dirty sheets, fall asleep and wake up ravenous. Nobody knows you as well as Saturday, knows how you nurse the wounds that Tuesday left.
Saturday never shaves, never worries about you leaving because you cling like moss to that monochrome evening of Jack Daniels and ripped Band Aids.
Saturday is a touchstone, even though she isn’t safe.

Sunday was a virgin when you started seeing them. They still wear white and their chastity ring, fold your name up between hymnal sheets and then kiss you in the confessional booth — Sunday likes to think there are times God isn’t looking.
Sunday hefts a casket on one broad shoulder and slips you the freshest lily, meets you in the pews at noon to make fake love, to finger the bruises and say they’ll always be with you.
Sunday leaves an aching hole when they walk out the door.
Sunday hurts the worst of all.

—  For the Seven Lovers Who Left Me | d.a.s

anonymous asked:

What happened to you wasn't a "call-out," it was a vicious fucking gang up that was done to publicly knock you down a few pegs because someone thought your were getting too big for your britches. Take it from people who have gone what you have gone through, what was done was not okay. It was done to embarrass and intimidate you - it's bullying. Do not cover for them, or mistake it as part of "call out," culture. It was petty and you didn't deserve it. Period.

Thanks. The only thing that bothers me about it, is that I’m nothing but nice and respectful to the whole damn community. I had talked with a few people and even shared personal stories about my self last year. Some of which were sent to them, by people I trusted. THAT is what I’m mad about.

Fancy a Roll in the Hay? (Pt 8)

BIG REVEALS!!! You’re finally learning what’s going on guys! Questions are being answered. Hurrah! It’s slightly earlier than normal because it’s a weekend and I am doing fuck all today, so enjoy! xox

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Part 15
Part 16
Part 17
Part 18
Part 19
Part 20
Alternate Ending

“Oh THAT’S the confusing part?” You say sarcastically. “Never mind the fact my mum worked for you lot. Does this mean you all know who my mum is?”

“We were actually never told who your mum was.” Steve pipes up. “We know everything else though but the identity of your mother never seemed to be that important.”

“But…my mum worked for the phone company?! She was just a happy little old lady who liked hats and red lipstick!”

Keep reading

Just Like Persephone

Title: Just Like Persephone (Persephone Part 8)
Summary: The continuation of my shameless AU trash of Y/N & Casifer. Reader tries to convince Lucifer to speak to Chuck and he agrees with strings attached.
Words: 3,071
Warnings: Smut. Smut everywhere.

Prologue, Part 1, Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4 , Part 5 , Part 6, Part 7, Part 9Part 10Part 11

Keep reading

donkeylover101  asked:

Hi there! Can i have a blockage reading? My initials are SR

hello! as you may know, i am an empath, so when i refer to myself in the reading, its because i can feel each sensation! just a heads up haha 

starting at your feet, it feels as if i am wearing really tight boots. the ‘boots’ come up to about mid calf, and they squeeze my legs. the first thing that pops into my head is the phrase, “if the shoe fits,” and clearly, the shoe does not. it feels as if i forced myself into the shoes of another, someone who i am not supposed to be. 

continuing up, nothing catches my attention until i reach the thighs. they feel like they have cuffs around them, maybe a tight pair of shorts? im not sure but the first thing that pops into my head is once again another phrase: too big for your britches. this saying refers to one putting oneself in a position higher than they should be in. have you taken on too much responsibility somewhere? 

moving on up, i reach your base energy point. a subtle ache is there along with a more prevalent ache in your stomach. it seems that you hunger for something. maybe food, a person, a job, an item, something, anything, i don’t know. the pain swirls up from the base energy point towards the solar plexus energy point, where it strikes hard. while the ache seems to avoid the sacral energy point, it strikes sharply at the solar plexus. i want to rush to examine the solar plexus energy point, but i need to focus on the base right now. 

the base energy point seems to be a tad bit crumbly. rather than the solid foundation it should be, i find that it is crummy and dilapidated. it needs to be tended to and strengthened, for this energy point is the foundation for all the ones higher than it. 

i then go on to the sacral energy point. this energy point seems to be avoided by the swirls of pain, but it does have some subtle pain anyway. rather than being shaped similar to a sphere as i usually see them, the sacral energy point is shaped differently. its shaped like the pupil of a cat, oval-like and comes to a point on either side. the energy from this point seems to flow out towards the base and solar plexus energy points as if it were in a hypertonic solution. it leaves this energy point dry and overexerted. 

moving onto the solar plexus energy point, i find that it looks as if there is a knife sticking out of it. a knife with a black blade and handle. i don’t want to pull it out for i know that the energy will go rushing out if i do. i ready a bandaid of sorts and yank out the knife, quickly stopping the flow with the cloth. i mend the wound underneath it and pull away the cloth. the solar plexus energy point goes from looking like a full water balloon, to normal size. as this happens, i watch as the excess energy that it had goes into the sacral energy point, the sacral energy point begins to go back to its normal spherical shape, and i understand that once the base energy is restored as well, the sacral will be back to normal. the sacral was sending all of its energy to the surrounding points trying to restore them, which left it sucked dry.

continuing on, i reach the heart energy point. it seems to be beating healthily, but has a film around it. almost like ink. as i try to wash it off, i find that it cannot be washed off by me. when i try to wash it, it reacts like water and oil. 

reaching the throat energy point, i find that it is sore like a sore throat. it is raw and looks like someone had scrubbed it was sandpaper. i don’t want to touch it in fear of causing more pain. it needs to be healed with healthy words that flow like water. 

there seems to be a fog around the minds eye and crown energy points, but i know that the majority of the fog will dissipate with the revival of the other energy points. on top of that though, there need to be some practices dedicated to strengthening these points and breaking up the fog. 

all in all, some time needs to be devoted to each and every energy point. strengthen them, shield them, use them. best of luck, my friend

please leave a review!
energy readings are OPEN

  • Soujiro: I always forget how big taiko drums are.
  • Hajime: But they're not as heavy as they look.
  • Soujiro: Bigger isn't always better, you know.
  • Hajime: Small things please small minds!
  • Soujiro: The best things come in small packages!
  • Hajime: So do small potatoes!
  • Soujiro: Great oaks from little acorns grow!
  • Hajime: I'm...large and in charge?
  • Soujiro: You're too big for your britches!
  • Hajime: A bird in the hand will keep the doctor away?
  • Soujiro: What?
  • Hajime: The squeaky wheel gets the worm!
  • Soujiro: Nope. Stop.
Hotel Motel Holiday Inn

Dean Ambrose smut @hardcorewwetrash @welshwitch5 @squirrel666 “Damn it!!!” I yelled slamming my fists on the wall of the divas changing room. I lost my title match. The other divas already avoided me, now they will do so more. “I need to cool off..” I thought as I packed my bags. “Now to see if anyone will room with me” I mumbled as I noticed all the girls were in conversation with each other.

“Hey Becky!” I walked up to the Irish lass kicker, “would you wanna room with me? I haven’t been able to get a riding buddy either.”

“Uh sorry, I’m rooming with Nattie already” she never looked up from her bag.

“Oh that’s ok… I’ll probably just go on and drive to the next town. It’s no big deal.” I faked a smile and waved it off.

The other divas had already shuffled out of the locker room and where all headed to their cars. Everyone had a buddy except me. “God I don’t fit in. This is going to be such a long drive!” I didn’t realize i was thinking out loud while gathering my final things. Suddenly i felt a chill run down my spine. Someone was watching me way too closely. Jerking my head to the doorway I see Dean Ambrose standing there eyeing me. “See something you like ass hole?” I snarled at him.

He let out a deep laugh. “See doll that’s why no one wants to ride or room with ya. That attitude makes ya too big for your britches.” He never moved his gaze. “ Do you really plan on driving 5 hours to the next stop on your own?” He finally asked slight concern in his voice.

“What’s it matter to you?” I mumbled throwing my bag over my shoulder. “ You won your match. Everyone likes you. The lunatic fringe.” I forced a laugh.

He shook his head and moved aside for me to leave the locker room. Following closely to the parking lot where my rental was.

“I’ll make a deal with ya doll,” he finally broke the silence between us, “you can room with me if I can ride with ya in the morning in ya rental car.” He half smirked at me.

I think he knew I was way too tired to drive that whole way. “Fine. Two beds though. I don’t want people getting any weird ideas about us.” I practically whispered

A smile crept along his scruffy face. He hasn’t been shaving like he used to when he was in the shield. Dean gently took my bag off my shoulder and tossed it over his. “ Which car is yours doll? You want me to drive?” He practically skipped to the car I pointed at.

After about a 30 minute ride to the hotel Dean had already booked I slumped out of the passenger side. Dean jumped out of the driver’s seat and darted to the trunk grabbing both of our bags. I silently stood next to his arms crossed as he checked us into our room.

I didn’t hear anything about the room, what floor, what number, nothing. I was too focused on the group of divas in the hotel bar laughing with one another ,drinking, having so much fun. Finally Dean grabbed my arm pulling me out of my own mental battle.

He opened the door to our shared room. All I wanted was to take a shower and sleep. Fall asleep in a big queen sized bed and hog it all to myself. Turning the corner in the room I noticed one bed not two.

“The fuck is this Ambrose?” I snapped pointing to the king sized bed. “We agreed to two beds!”

“Well doll while ya where in la la land they told the both of us that all they had available was a honeymoon suite. So here we are princess.” He bowed and pointed to the bed.

I stood in total shock. Could this day get any worse? “I’m gonna go have a drink in the bar. When I come back I’m going to get a shower and then go to sleep. I’ll sleep on the sofa over there.” I pointed to the sofa Dean had thrown our bags on.

Dean furrowed his brow. “I’ll sleep on the sofa doll. I didn’t have my ass handed to me tonight.” he didn’t even try to cover up the fact he felt bad for me. My loss was a big one. This was my one and only title shot.

My face reddened. I could feel the heat from it. My stomach was in knots. How many people felt bad for me? How many were nice to me because they felt bad? How many people avoided me because they knew they would pity me to my face? Without a word I stomped out of the room slamming the door.

I sat at the bar sipping on fireball and coke. My go to drink. All the divas were still sitting there laughing amongst themselves. A couple of the super stars sat with the girls flirting and getting chummy with one another. I groaned and kept sipping. Aj styles kept side eyeing me from the other side of the bar.I nodded my head at him finally and he came and sat next to me.

“So how sore are ya?” He asked as he sat down.

“I’m not.” I mumbled into my drink.

“Why aren’t ya over there with the girls doll face?”

Shrugging I tipped my glass to the bartender requesting a fresh drink.

He smiled at me and put his hand on my leg. “Well if ya ain’t too sore doll face…” his hand started guiding up my leg.

I swatted his hand away. “What the fuck are you thinking Aj???” I snapped at him.

“Don’t mean any hard doll, just figured I could help get your mind off that loss.” He promptly put his hand back on my thigh. Pushing his hair back with his free hand. “Let me buy ya a couple rounds good lookin.” He mumbled to the bartender who quickly made a much stronger drink for me.

After around 5 of these stronger drinks I started feeling the effects. “Uh Aj I need to go to bed. It’s a lot later then I wanted to be out.” I slurred. What is the world was I even drinking?

All the roster that was in the bar had already left a while ago. It was just Aj and I. Aj smiled at me saying something that didn’t register until he was pushing me to the wall in the elevator intruding my mouth with his tongue. He was taking me to his room.

“No Aj!” I managed to finally get out from his grip. “I want to go to my room!” I crossed my arms. “God I’m drunk” I kept repeating in my mind.

Aj finally agreed to taking me to my room after he tried kissing me a few more times. The elevator dinged at my floor and I swiftly escaped Aj still trying to talk me into going to his room.

I arrived at mine and Dean’s hotel room door after what feels like a 30 minute walk in the hall. “Fuck! I didn’t get a key from Dean…” I slurred. “Uhhhh…. I guess I’ll just knock.”

After knocking about 10 times Dean answered the door in nothing but his boxers. Rubbing his eyes he looked at me. My lipstick was a mess from AJs drunk kisses. My face was red from a mix of embarrassment and the amount of alcohol I’ve consumed.

“You have a fling or something? You look a mess.” He said sleepy

“Uh no Aj got me at the bar and bought me some drinks then uh…” my face reddened even more “he well tried to take me to his room” I twisted my hands at the end of my tee shirt.

Dean moved so I could get into the room. I stumbled around for a moment before he was in front of me. I couldn’t stop looking at his bare chest. He looks great. So toned. I shook my head to remove the thoughts of me kissing all over him.

“I’m gonna take a shower to sober up.” I mumbled gathering my things to shower. “Shit.” I had forgot my PJs were a very sheer very short baby doll night gown.

“I’m gonna go back to bed” Dean said still stretching and rubbing his eyes. “And because ya were out so late and woke me up ya can either sleep on the sofa or in the bed but I’m sleeping in the bed for sure.” He walked over and flopped back down.

I didn’t say anything I swiftly went to the bathroom and started the shower. Looking into the mirror I gave myself a pep talk. “ That’s Ambrose, the lunatic fringe, you know the rumors of before he came to the WWE. Don’t forget the hurts people for fun.” Or at least that’s what I’ve heard through the grapevine. Peeling off my clothes and tossing them on the floor, I gently crawled into the shower.

For a long time I just stood under the water soaking my sore muscles. Images of Dean’s chest and body kept creeping into my mind. I tried shaking them but couldn’t. I felt a throbbing down in my pussy. Well he is very attractive I’ll admit that. I closed my eyes and let my imagination run wild. What if Dean woke up and came into the bathroom. What would he do to my naked body. His chest pressed to mine kissing all over me rubbing my clit invading my mouth with his. I’d grab his thick cock and stroke him until he couldn’t take anymore and him pick me up and slam me against the wall while slamming into my pussy over and over again. These images were enough to cause me to please myself. I felt the pit of my stomach coil and finally I released with a too audible moan.

“God I hope he is asleep.” I thought as I got out of the shower.

Tip toeing out of the bathroom it seemed he hadn’t moved other than to get under the covers on the bed. I slowly slumped into the bed as well. I practically was hanging off the edge.

After a few moments of silence I started to get cozy. Suddenly a huge arm flew over me pulling me close. Dean and pulled my body flush against his. He was hard. I blushed and tried to scoot away but his arm was hooked.

“Dean please let me go” I whispered softly wishing he didn’t listen. He didn’t in fact he grabbed my hips and slammed my rear into his bulge. I released a whimper.

He was still again after a few minutes of him grumbling. I could feel him getting harder against my back. Oh that throbbing was back. I could feel all his muscles as he took deep breaths. Slowly and silently I slid my hand down to my pussy and realized how wet I was. I began to work my clit. “God Dean don’t wake up” I kept thinking while images of what I wanted this lunatic to do to me.

I was so close to the edge when suddenly Dean’s strong hand grabbed my busy hand. With a gasp I jerked my head to see him staring at me.

“Oh my god Dean! I’m sorry oh my god!” I tried getting out of the bed but he had a strong grip on my arm. I couldn’t help but blush and look at him in horror. “What have I done?” I kept thinking. Dean didn’t say a word. He just kept his eyes locked on mine.

“When’s the last time you done this?” He finally asked. “When’s the last time ya had sex doll?”

“It’s been a while.” I whimpered still trying to break his grip.

“Hmmmm” Dean propped himself up with his free arm. “I heard ya moanin in the shower. It seems ya can go a few rounds fine.”

“Dean I’m so sorry. I’ll sleep on the sofa…”he cut me off with a wet kiss. I sat there in disbelief. “He isn’t mad?” I thought as he sat up kissing me hard.

His free hand made its way to my clit and my breath hitched. “Yer already wet I see.” He mumbled his lips hardly leaving mine. “So this’ll be easy.” He slipped his fingers into my throbbing pussy still working my clit with his thumb. My whole body shook and ached for his cock to replace his fingers.

I ran my hands across his chest. He stopped suddenly and I took my hands off his chest. “Is that ok?” I said breathless. His fingers still in me. Swiftly he removed them and I let out another moan.

Dean slowly slipped my nightgown off never breaking eye contact with me. He began placing kisses all over my body. Staring at me jaw nipping sloppy kisses, then my neck, collarbone, breasts, taking his time kissing and nipping at my nipples treating each just the same working one with his hand while kissing the other. He continued down my body my stomach my hips until he was finally level with my pussy. He never broke eye contact even with me wiggling under his touch. Now a smile is on his face. Slowly he sticks his tongue out and makes contact with my slit. I arched my back with pleasure.

Dean held my legs tight as he began an assault on my pussy with his tongue. I wiggled under his touch. His assault was relentless. I felt a tightness building in my stomach.

“Dean….” I moaned breathless “I'm… Dean…I’m gonna come….” I grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled as I reached my climax but that made Dean suck on my clit even harder than before which made my orgasm that more intense.

Before I could even gather my thoughts he was back kissing me. I could taste myself on him. I’ve never came from something so intense before.

“Dean….” I moaned into his kiss

“Oh this is just the start doll” he said gruffly kissing my neck as he slipped his boxers off and tossing them onto the floor. “Are ya ready?” He asked as I felt a hot throbbing pressure at my entrance.

“Dean I don’t know about this.” I said as he sunk into me bottoming out all too quickly “ahhh…. fuck!!!” I moaned into his shoulder biting down.

He seemed to be into that because he slowly pulled out of me and slammed into me harder this time. Each time I moaned his name louder trying desperately to muffle myself by biting his shoulder and collarbone. He relentlessly assaulted my pussy, I could feel my orgasm building again.

“Dean….fuck… Dean…I’m gonna… I’m gonna come again” I moaned arching my back as he kept bottoming out. He never let up as my orgasm washed over me more intense than the last. I began to see spots as he kept going.

“Fucking shit” he moaned as he gripped my his hard slamming into me so hard I felt like I was going to break. “Fuuuuck!!” He finally pulled out and came all over my stomach.

He rolled off the bed leaving me there to catch my breath. “Oh my god… I just fucked Dean Ambrose” I kept repeating the same thought as he clanked around in the bathroom.

Dean promptly returned with a towel and tossed it on my stomach. “Sorry for the sloppiness, it’s been a while.” He finally broke the silence.

“Dean that wasn’t sloppy… that was… was… incredible!!!” I huffed cleaning myself off.

“If ya think that slop was incredible wait until I get my flow back.” He said kissing me hard.

“So this whole riding together rooming together will be a thing now? I looked at him puzzled.

“Well you riding something will be a regular thing. He grabbed his still hard cock and stroked it a few times smiling a crazy lunatic smile.

“Oh I can’t wait” I smiled back at him

Originally posted by dean-ambroselover

At nineteen, it seems to me, one has a right to be arrogant; time has usually not begun its stealthy and rotten subtractions. It takes away your hair and your jump-shot, according to a popular country song, but in truth it takes away a lot more than that. I didn’t know it in 1966 and ’67, and if I had, I wouldn’t have cared. I could imagine—barely—being forty, but fifty? No. Sixty? Never! Sixty was out of the question. And at nineteen, that’s just the way to be. Nineteen is the age where you say Look out, world, I’m smokin’ TNT and I’m drinkin’ dynamite, so if you know what’s good for ya, get out of my way […]

The compromises of middle age were distant, the insults of old age over the horizon. […] The world eventually sends out a mean-ass Patrol Boy to slow your progress and show you who’s boss. You reading this have undoubtedly met yours (or will); I met mine, and I’m sure he’ll be back. He’s got my address. He’s a mean guy, a Bad Lieutenant, the sworn enemy of goofery, fuckery, pride, ambition, loud music, and all things nineteen.

But I still think that’s a pretty fine age. Maybe the best age. You can rock and roll all night, but when the music dies out and the beer wears off, you’re able to think. And dream big dreams. The mean Patrol Boy cuts you down to size eventually, and if you start out small, why, there’s almost nothing left but the cuffs of your pants when he’s done with you. “Got another one!” he shouts, and strides on with his citation book in his hand. So a little arrogance (or even a lot) isn’t such a bad thing […].

If you don’t start out too big for your britches, how are you gonna fill ’em when you grow up? Let it rip regardless of what anybody tells you, that’s my idea; sit down and smoke that baby.
—  Stephen King, On Being Nineteen
At nineteen they can card you in the bars and tell you to get the fuck out, put your sorry act (and even sorrier ass) back on the street, but they can’t card you when you sit down to paint a picture, write a poem, or tell a story, by God, and if you reading this happen to be very young, don’t let your elders and supposed betters tell you any different. Sure, you’ve never been to Paris. No, you’ve never ran with the bulls at Pamplona. Yes, you’re a pissant who had no hair in your armpits until three years ago- but so what? If you don’t start out too big for your britches, how are you gonna fill ‘em when you grow up? Let it rip regardless of what anybody tells you, that’s my idea; sit down and smoke that baby up.
—  Stephen King, “On Being Nineteen (And a Few Other Things)”
You gettin too big for your britches
—  said to a growing child that may be overstepping their boundaries of respect or responsibility based on their age- said to one that is trying to mature too quickly

anonymous asked:

Ah, I love that interview with Cait's Mam. It's SO Irish. Like, just the fact that local radio station got her Mam on to talk about it is already peak Ireland and then her mother being full on Irish Mammy saying they're "thrilled" but didn't expect it and not going any further because there will be no notions but also making the point that she works very hard, subtly letting people know she deserves it. I swear, Irish Mammying is an art form.

Irish mammying is definitely an art form! Trust me I know that first hand. Cait’s mam sounds just like my own mam used to sound . It made me a little teary to listen to her . A true Irish mammy is understated and doesn’t let you get too big for your britches , she knows the perfect balance of pride, praise and reminder of your roots and when all else fails she’s got the ultimate weapons up her cardigan sleeve , guilt and a wooden spoon along with the requisite hanky. If by chance her wooden spoon has been broken reminding you of something and she’s had no time to replace it a rolled up tea towel will do. The strongest weapon in her arsenal is the guilt though, any mammy worth her apron will be able to make you feel the guilt even when no longer with you. Through it all though is the strongest unconditional love you will ever know.