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sweetness47 · 4 years

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Seriously? Wow!

Pairing Sam x reader x Dean

@deanandsambingo – boys buy a house

@spndeanbingo – road trip

@samwinchesterbingo – honeymoon

WARNINGS: MATURE 18+ READERS ONLY!!!! Smut, threesome, established relationship, slight angst, fingering, oral, etc…

FINAL WORD COUNT: 1568

The front passenger seat hardly got used anymore since you’d hooked up with not one but both of the hottest guys on the fucking planet. While one drove, the other would be in the back seat with you, doing whatever they or you wanted, sometimes both. Finally, they had proposed to you, and with a resounding YES you had gotten married.

You bit the inside of your cheek as you studied your husbands. You had discovered something recently, and weren’t sure how to tell them. It wasn’t something you’d ever discussed, no one had ever brought it up, but now, since your discovery, you really had no choice. They had a right to know.

Who specifically was responsible, you couldn’t say for sure. And that was part of the problem. Would they be angry? Jealous? It worried you, a lot. While you didn’t want to cause a rift, especially not after finally getting to marry both of them, and yeah it takes two to tango, well three in this case, you knew they’d be more upset if you didn’t tell them.

She heaved a heavy sigh, one that didn’t go unnoticed.

“Hey YN,” Sam nuzzled your neck as he whispered in your ear, “you aren’t still upset about us not telling you where we’re going, are you?”

You looked at the younger brother. “No. I do like surprises, and I trust you two.”

“Perhaps then, you need a little relaxation time?” Sam ran his hand under your shirt, kneading the soft mounds that lay beneath. You moaned and your head fell back as you let your mind wander.

Sam took that as a yes, kissing your soft lips, groaning as you responded, turning now to him. He was already undoing your jeans, skirting his large hand beneath your undies, eager to find the buried treasure beneath.

“Fuck!” Dean commented as he watched the review mirror. “You two keep that up, and we won’t reach our destination on time, cuz I’ll be joining.”

You and Sam giggled, his hands continuing to seek your moist center, then he slid two fingers inside your wet hole, moaning. “You’re so wet baby girl.”

Yeah, you were, your husbands both kinda had that effect on you. You couldn’t get your jeans and panties down fast enough, kicking them off with gusto, then pivoting on the seat to accommodate your husband. Sam freed his cock, plunging into your sopping wet pussy with a satisfied moan. “So, fucking, perfect!” he said, bottoming out.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Dean swore now, his own cock growing painfully erect in his jeans.

Sam began fucking into you hard, and you welcomed it. You cried out as orgasm after orgasm tore through you, pulsing, throbbing, pushing the need further. You didn’t even notice Dean pulling Baby over, and opening the back door where your head lay.

“Turn her over Sammy, I’m jumping in.”

Your heart did flip flops because you knew what was coming. Sam positioned you on hands and knees, and you came face to face with Dean’s pulsing erection. You took him in your mouth, humming because you knew he liked it, and you moved your mouth up and down his long length while Sam bucked his cock into you like a stud in heat.

Sam neared his release, pulling out and shooting cum over your back, while Dean joined a few minutes later, filling your mouth, and you greedily swallowed every drop. Dean fixed his jeans, then got a towel for you. Sam helped you clean up while Dean got back into the driver seat, continuing to drive to your surprise honeymoon destination.

Two hours later, Baby pulls up in front of a large two storey house, almost like a cottage setting, no neighbours close by. There was a lake and a dock for a boat, or for fishing.

Your jaw dropped. “This is one hell of a B&B.”

Dean and Sam exchanged glances. You glared at both of them. “What?”

“Uh, this isn’t a B&B YN, this is our new home.”

“You’re shitting me.”

Dean shook his head. “Nope, let’s go take a look.”

Stunned by the sheer beauty of the location, and by the love you felt for these two men, you forced your feet to walk up the steps. The inside was huge, a generous foyer opening up to living and dining room areas. Down the hall was a kitchen you’d only dreamt of in fairy tales. Rich cherry cupboards and wood flooring adorned the cooking area, contrasted by a sunny yellow on the walls.

“Fuck!” was all you could say as you took in the bay window in the living room, a large seating area built in around the window. Furniture had already been moved in, the stunning cream colored leather a gorgeous addition to the dark flooring.

Upstairs were four bedrooms, all large, all fully furnished. There was an ensuite in the master bedroom, and another regular 4 piece bath in the hall.

The basement was fully developed, and sported a pool table, a large screen tv, black leather couches, and cream carpeting. Another two bedrooms and a bar area completed the floor.

“There’s one more surprise YN,” Sam said. You had no idea what else they could have to give, especially since they’d already given you their hearts, and now this house. They took you back up to the top floor, to one room that had the door closed the first trip up. Dean walked through first, Sam guiding you while covering your eyes.

He took his hands away, and you cried, seeing the room decorated in baby toys, a crib, stickers adorning the walls, and a bouquet of flowers and a card saying ‘CONGRATULATIONS MOM’.

You turned to your husbands, stunned. “How…?”

Sam chuckled. “You think we wouldn’t notice the difference? We know your body really well, and knew something had changed. It was Dean who actually noticed you hadn’t had a period for a while, so we counted back. Once we’d made the connection, we added this room to the house.”

You threw yourself into their strong embraces. “I love you guys! I was afraid you’d be angry, or jealous? I’m not sure who’s it actually is.”

The brothers exchanged glances. “Why would we be angry? We will love it, because it’s part of us, and part of you. It’s a miracle we made, together. It doesn’t get any better than that!”

Your face visibly flooded with relief as you melted into them. They surrounded you with their love and strength, just as they always did, and always would.

The unsure part of you still had to be sure. “So, you don’t care who’s it is?”

They shook their heads.

And just to make sure you knew how much they loved you, Dean picked you up, kissing you deeply, walking with Sam to the room they would share with you. Laying you gently on the soft king sized bed, the brothers undressed their wife, then themselves, and joined you there. Dean began kissing you, trailing down the soft skin of your neck, the soft tissue around your ear lobe. Sam focussed on the other end, his lips making their way down your stomach, over their precious bundle you now carried, then settling between your legs.

Any doubt you still had melted away under their loving.

Dean’s lips moved to your nipples, growing hard now under his expert touch, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. You arched into his mouth, silently pleading for more, while Sam set about fucking you with his tongue, diving into your wet folds with gusto. A cry of pleasure escaped you as his masterful skills sent you over the edge, juices coating his tongue, causing him to moan in delight as he greedily slurped every drop.

Then they were switching positions, Dean moving you over him, guiding his erect cock into your aching hole. You threw your head back as pure bliss overrode any senses that remained, heightened when Sam snuggled his own hard erection in to join with his brother’s. Double the pleasure, double the fun, and then they moved as one, the first thrust sending you spiraling toward the stars, shockwaves riding you to the end, if there was one.

Sam brought his mouth down to claim yours, sharing the earthy taste of you on his tongue, revelling in the sheer delight it brought. Dean nibbled on the back of your neck and shoulders, while his hand travelled to your clit, rubbing small circles. Just when you thought you were all tapped out, another orgasm exploded out of you, your body spasming, humming with the force of it.

The walls clenching around their massive cocks had both brothers coming together, a simultaneous release that you only got once in a while. Not that you minded at all. They eased out of you, cradling your frame between theirs, one on each side, keeping you safe and close as they always did.

Sam reached to pull a sheet up over the three of you, and kissed your forehead as all of you drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the future, and the family you all would have together.

@legion1993 @akshi8278

#deanandsambingo #samwinchesterbingo #spndeanbingo

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jawnjendes · 5 years

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the fog will clear up | shawn mendes

chapter 13/?, university au, shawn x goth oc

AN: sry its short and definitely a filler im sry its boring but it helps build up stuff thatll happen next ok ok im sry

*let me know if u wanna be added/removed from the taglist

masterlist | playlist

Annalise woke with a start. She was wide awake immediately. There was no room for sleepily rolling around the sheets, her eyes weren't heavy like always. She didn't know what dying and coming back to life felt like, but she was pretty sure it felt something like that. She had a weird urge to go for a jog.

Staring at the ceiling, Annalise reached towards the nightstand next to her, intending to grab her phone. Her hand touched the bottle, and she picked it up anyway, reading the prescription label.

Annalise Flores SERTRALINE 50MG TABLET Brand name: Zoloft

"You don't waste anytime, huh?" she murmured before setting it back down. Then, she grabbed her phone and checked the time.

8:47am. A new fucking record. Annalise rolled out of bed, unable to stay still.

In the 2 hours she had to kill before work, she tidied up the dorm, ate a decent breakfast, took a shower, and got started on the course work she had to make up. The energy levels were through the roof, she had never been so on edge and productive at the same time. Why wasn't she put on sertraline sooner? Sure, she felt hyperaware and borderline anxious, but that was apart of the process of getting on a new antidepressant. She was getting things done this way. Sure, she jumped when the lock on the door jiggled, but she was up and running anyway!

If she wasn't, she wouldn't have seen Stella entering the dorm. She was surprised to see Annalise on the couch, looking like a deer in headlights.

"Oh… I thought you were asleep. I'll, uh, I'll come back."

"No, wait!" Annalise sounded a little too frantic, but it did stop Stella from leaving. "Uh, come sit down! Please!"

Stella narrowed her eyes slightly as she went to the couch. At least she was willing to listen.

"I, uh, I'm sorry," Annalise began, rubbing the back of her neck. "I'm sorry for what I said. A stupid guy isn't the only good in my life. I have you. You matter to me, and I'm sorry for making you feel like you don't." She really couldn't stop herself from rambling. "I miss you. I miss seeing you here between classes, and I miss your optimism because a bitch could use some of that. And, and I'm sorry for the negativity I've brought in here. I'm working on it now, I swear. Just… come back. Come home… because bro, you're my wife, dude."

It could have been funny, but there was nothing funny about the way she said it. Her eyes were wide and pleading, and she was rubbing her hands together. Stella merely blinked her hazel eyes, nearly overwhelmed by that string of words.

"Look at you, expressing your emotions," she said after a while. "I can see why you hold it back."

Annalise nodded rapidly. "It's my first day on a new medication. Got me all sorts of hyped up, but I'll mellow out in a couple of weeks. And I'm taking therapy seriously again!"

Stella was surprised. "Oh, I see. Well… I've missed you too. Bro…"

"Bro?"

"I'll come home too. Camila's bed is too small for the two of us."

"Bro…"

"I know. I have to update you on all that."

"Br-"

"Okay!" Stella broke out a smile and stood up. "Dame un abrazo, puta."

That was much easier than Annalise had anticipated. She stood up and hugged her best friend, relieved. Stella wasn't one to hold a grudge, nor was she as stubborn as her roommate. It was another person to cross off the list.

Shawn had social media mainly to get his music out there. Yes, he interacted with his friends on Snapchat, and some fans on Twitter. Most of the time, Shawn just tweeted when he had new music coming out. He didn't check any of his social media very often, not even to stalk Ann's accounts because she was rarely on her's. He didn't even have his notifications on, purely to keep himself from the possibility of getting too attached to the opinions of random strangers online.

That was why he woke up that morning to a number of texts from Camila.

"SHAAWWNWNN"

"SHAWN IM LKTERSLLY BALD RN"

"CHEKC UR TWITTER RIGHT NOW!!!!!!"

"YOIR FOLLOWERS!!! AAHSKSKSK"

"SKSKSK SHAWNMM IM SCRAMING"

So to Twitter he went. Shawn rubbed sleep out of his eye as he went to his profile. He had around 10k to begin with, that he built up on his own over the last couple of years. He nearly dropped his phone on his face as he read the new number.

50.2k

"What… the fuck?" he breathed out as he sat up in his bed. He scrolled through the list, making sure this wasn't a series of spam bots.

His mentions were just as wild, and it explained the sudden blow up.

@hollaestor: @shawnmendes hiii bella told me to follow you

@samxriv: @shawnmendes i am free to hang out on tuesday to hang out when i am free

@gisellenjh: @shawnmendes bella sent me here and im glad she did! loving your music!

And there were plenty more like that. There were so many tweets, Shawn couldn't even get through all of them. It was making his head spin. There was only one Bella he knew about too… He just couldn't spell her last name. Thankfully, her handle was just @bellasanti, and it was the first one to pop up when he typed it in the search bar.

Right under Bella Santiago's name and the blue checkmark were the two little words: Follows you. Shawn refreshed the page ten times before it sank in. This YouTuber, who has over 2 million followers, somehow found Shawn's music… and she liked it. She liked it enough to tweet about it… 3 days ago.

@bellasanti: underrated spotify artists: @shawnmendes. give him a listen. send him some love. truly talented guy💖

Shawn had only overheard Bella's videos when Ann was watching them in the other room. He never really watched any of her content. But he wanted to pass out at the fact that she took the time to listen to his music and tweet about him. He wanted to jump on the bed. He wanted to call-

He texted Camila back. "Wtf why did no one tell me sooner?? This is so crazy!!!!!"

"We thought you knew and you were keeping it from us!! LMAO congrats rockstar!"

He couldn't believe it. His follower count was rising. He was getting emails from Spotify saying his songs were being added to many different playlists.

@shawnmendes: @bellasanti wow thank you so much! Love you bella❤

He deleted the last bit before tweeting it. Holy shit. Shawn lied back down on the mattress, completely breathless.

How does someone like Bella Santiago find Shawn out in cyberspace? What Spotify rabbit hole did she go down that led her to him? How many of his songs did she listen to? How many songs did she save to her library? How many of those playlist emails were from her? Shawn had so many questions.

There were two things Annalise noticed when she was out on the courtyard after Biology. The first thing was a table on the side of the walkway, with a handmade banner hanging off the front. It read in big letters: Shawn Mendes: Live at The Cameron House. Brian, Alessia. and Camila were all sat on the same side at this table, talking to a student who was interested in the little display.

"The lounge called back," Annalise muttered to herself.

The other thing Annalise noticed was Patrick sitting under a tree nearby, reading a book. She went to him first.

The last time she had spoken to Patrick was when they cut up flowers together. He was never one to explicitly state when something has upset him, and he has seen Annalise in a depressive episode before. Annalise knew him well. Patrick kept his distance because he didn't like the negativity around her, and he couldn't afford any more of it himself.

"Hey," she greeted.

His blue eyes tore away from his book to meet her gaze. "'Sup?"

"Trying to be less fucked in the head," she told him.

Patrick nodded in approval. "Cool."

That was all that was needed for the two of them. Content, Annalise turned and went for the table. A small line had formed when she wasn't looking, so she waited behind the last person. However, with three people running the thing, Annalise got to the front fairly quick.

"Oh, she actually showed up," Brian chimed, amused.

"Meaning?" Annalise asked.

"Thought you were too pissed at Shawn to care about his show, that's all."

She swallowed the pit of annoyance, discovering that even more people knew about that. Brian is his friend, though, of course he'd know.

"Selling tickets or something?" Annalise turned her attention to the two girls.

"Yeah! Ten dollars a piece!" Alessia explained.

"Cool, I'll take one."

Just as she opened the flap on her book bag, Camila spoke up.

"Wait. I'm pretty sure Shawn said he wanted to buy you your ticket himself."

Annalise rolled her eyes. "Well, he's not here and I can do things for myself." She pulled out her wallet and paid her own goddamn ticket.

Camila breathed out a laugh. "Are you ever gonna let him do anything nice for you?"

None of your fucking business.

A new thought occurred to Annalise. "Why are tickets being sold for this show? Aren't his gigs usually free?"

"There's more production going into this one," Brian told her. "The lounge gave him the option to make it a ticketed event, and we need to make back what we already put into it. So now, it won't be a performance, it'll be Shawn's performance."

Shawn already knew how to make an audience his bitch, but…

"Alright then." Annalise shrugged and then accepted her ticket and receipt from Alessia.

The ticket alone was already quite extravagant. There were little red roses designed around the edges. This boy really loved his fucking flowers.

"I'm guessing rose petals will fall from the ceiling or something?" she guessed with a chuckle.

"I was given strict orders to not spoil anything," Brian told her, folding his arms.

The two had a mini staredown until Annalise shrugged again. "Whatever."

Then, Camila piped up again, suddenly excited. "Ooh, Ann did you hear? Bella Santiago followed Shawn on Twitter!"

"She what?" Annalise stupidly replied.

Camila practically squealed. "She gave him a shoutout too! He's blowing up on Spotify! Isn't that awesome?"

Annalise wanted to say something, but her brain wasn't quite caught up yet. So she just walked away.

The other three students watched her leave. Needless to say, they were confused.

"Is she ever gonna be happy for him?" Alessia wondered.

"I think she was excited?" Camila said tilting her head.

"I can't believe Shawn is going through all this trouble for that," Brian said with a scoff.

"I can still hear you!" Annalise called over her shoulder as she kept walking.

All three of them went red in the face, embarrassed. Brian would have made a comment about her being a vampire with supersonic hearing, but he didn't want to be called out again.

_______

taglist: @normalcyisoverrated-beyou @ilsolee @mendesromano @1-800-khalid-mendussy @kitykatnumber @strangerliaa @iloveshawnieboi @goldenmndes @shawnvvmendes @shawnsunflower @shawmndes @ruinhoney @someoneunimportantxx @calyumthomas @yourdeflightfullyleft @havethetimeeofyourlifee @wronglanemendes @chillingbythesea @softmendesss @mutuallynotmutual

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes smut #shawn x goth gf #aahhhh its so short n boring im so srryyy

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stevemoffett · 4 years

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Pandemics Don’t Get a Cute Pun

Being Afraid

It’s been twenty-one days since I’ve spoken to another person in the flesh. Before that, I had gone for seventeen days. And before that, a week.

The first week of no contact began when I said goodbye-for-now to my co-workers. I decided to wait to go to the grocery store until that first wave of people had passed before I tried going. On my last grocery trip, I had decided to “stock up” in case I had to isolate for a little while, and so, having no idea how disruptive the situation would become, I bought a whopping three boxes of spaghetti and one big jar of sauce.

My all-spaghetti diet ran out by Monday, March 23rd, and I had nothing else edible in the apartment. So, even though it wasn’t cold, I put on my jacket (to limit my skin-to-air exposure), a baseball cap (to stop myself from scratching my head, a nervous habit), and my glasses (I stopped wearing contacts to avoid touching my eyes). By March 23rd, the CDC and WHO had not yet recommended wearing gloves or masks in public. But I already had gloves at home (you never know when you’ll need nitrile gloves), and I had two masks that I had to wear when I was around someone who was immunocompromised earlier this year, so I put one of the masks and a pair of gloves on. Then I drove to the store.

The local store was letting about twenty people in at a time. There was already a line forming, just five minutes past opening. I walked to the end and we all stood waiting about six or so feet apart from one another.

Nobody made conversation. In people-watching moments like these, I associate whatever behavior I see with the general attitude of wherever I am, even if there is no such stereotype: Ah yes, that reserved Texas stoicism I’ve heard so much about.

When I got into the store I pulled out a cart and walked stiffly. The night before, I had gone on the store’s website and written a list of the items I needed, grouping them by what aisle they were in. I was going to snake my way through the store one time, get in line, and leave.

A complicating factor of doing it live was that there were lots of people to avoid. During an ordinary cold season, I usually watch out for people near me who might be sick. If they look like they may possibly be sniffling or flushed, I take a breath, hold it, and let it out through my nose slowly as I pass them. Here in the grocery store, I did this every time I walked past people in the aisles, and for extra protection, I scrunched my eyes shut.

There were signs posted limiting the amount of each product you could buy. No more than four boxes of pasta at once, for example. The pasta shelf was totally cleared out except for whole wheat pasta, so I took four boxes of that. I bought three eight-pound bags of dried pinto beans, a couple of bags of rice (I’d heard that beans and rice together make some kind of magical combination where you can avoid protein deficiencies even if you don’t have any meat), a big bottle of canola oil, butter, four big jars of spaghetti sauce, a bunch of hot sauce, ketchup, tofu, and frozen vegetables. The meat aisle was almost completely picked over—I managed to get two pounds of ground turkey from there, though. I didn’t get any eggs because I enjoy them too much; I knew that it would be better to make a clean break from them until after things got back to normal than to agonize over eating the last of them.

In line, I had an extremely full cart. By contrast, an old man in shorts behind me had about four things in his, and he wasn’t wearing gloves or a mask.

I heard him say, in a very low voice, “Stupid motherfucker.” Maybe he said, “Stupid motherfuckers,” plural, but I felt like it had to be at least be partially directed at me.

The teenager who rang me up seemed relaxed. I felt demographically exposed. Now that I am middle-aged, I am very aware of my interactions with teenagers. If movies are any lesson, there are about six million ways that I can make an encounter with one of them a) awkward, b) creepy, or c) both.

“Have you seen many other insane people dressed like me?” I asked, cringing behind the mask since I had already failed point a).

“Not many,” she replied.

“Well, thanks for being here,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem! I’m getting paid a lot to be here!” She said.

When I got home, I decided to take everything up to my place in multiple trips. Climbing up and down the stairs for each trip, though, I started to sweat. When I came in with the last of the bags, I set them on the floor and took my gloves off. I could feel a bead of sweat dripping down my forehead. If it got past my eyebrow and went into my eye, then maybe some of the virus that had landed on me from contaminated grocery store air would be carried into my eye, and that would be Game Over.

I hurried to the sink, tossing the gloves into the trash and ripping a paper towel off the roll. I crumpled it and pressed the part of the wadded-up towel that hadn’t touched either hand over my closed eye.

As the sweat was wicked away from my eyebrow, I felt my fingers moisten and I thought, Could any germs from my hand travel back through this sweat bridge and into my eye? It was true that I had been wearing gloves, but maybe I hadn’t taken them off carefully enough and I’d touched my wrist, or the outside of one of the gloves, and not noticed. I had also grasped the side of the roll to rip the paper towel off. Had I contaminated the edges of a bunch of sheets farther into the roll, too? Could I even be sure I’d properly bunched the paper towel I was holding to my eye without having touched the eye-facing part?

I decided to text all of this uncertainty in a big run-on paragraph to my brother. He responded, “I think you’re fine.”

After blotting the sweat, I got the bright idea to sanitize the frozen vegetable bags I’d bought before putting them in the freezer by spraying them with bleach. I brought them out to my balcony so that I could spray everything down indiscriminately. I sprayed all the bags, waited a couple of minutes, then started wiping them off with a fresh paper towel.

As I wiped the bags, I noticed that they were not airtight; there was a series of little pinholes all over the bags in what seemed like regular intervals. I assume that this was a design feature of the bags. But I could see that the bleach spray was disappearing into the holes, which meant the cauliflower and broccoli inside were absorbing it.

I realized then that I had inadvertently poisoned all of my vegetables. I tossed them in the garbage and thought again of what the old man behind me in line had said.

Now I had no source of vitamin C. I’d thought that there might be vitamin C in meat, but there is not. You get it mostly from leafy greens, a few fortified foods, and citrus fruits. I checked online and found that if I got zero vitamin C, I had at least four weeks until I got scurvy. This meant that I couldn’t go longer than four weeks before my next grocery trip. It was a relief to know that I had a date where re-stocking was mandatory, because if there wasn’t one, I might have felt overly cautious, enough to start rationing my food so that it lasted as long as humanly possible, and I’d lose an unhealthy amount of weight by cutting my calorie intake down to the minimum 1200 a day.

But without a vitamin C source, that wasn’t necessary. I certainly had enough food to last me for four weeks, as long as I was strict. I wouldn’t be able to have any cheat nights, but I also wouldn’t go hungry.

I sprayed the bleach on the faucet handle and the soap dispenser, and left the non-perishable food—Sriracha sauce, ketchup bottles, mustard, oatmeal, spaghetti sauce, and boxes of spaghetti, all standing upright—out on the floor between my refrigerator and the front door. I’d wait another 72 hours before handling them, and even after that, I would wash them with soap before use (except for the cardboard spaghetti package).

Those first few days were extra paranoid because I knew that it was possible I had already been infected. A few nights, I woke up around 3 to use the bathroom, and as I passed my upward-pointing non-perishables there on the floor, they looked less like food items and more like a bed of nails, or like stalagmites deep in a cave: hostile, and waiting for me to trip.

If I cleared my throat several times within a couple of minutes during the day, I got worried. If I sneezed or felt congestion when I woke up, the anxiety would percolate in the background until the symptom went away. I began sniffing my toothpaste to make sure I could still detect mint, since the news had come that smell loss was a common symptom.

But all of this was a distraction from the real sources of my dread: my parents and sister. My parents are old and my younger sister is frail. Each of them has at least one comorbidity waiting to gang up on them if they were infected. They all live together, and my sister requires enough close monitoring that if one of them gets it, they will all get it.

My father has had a particularly distressing habit that he likes to trot out from time to time over the last decade, but since his stroke, he’s doubled his efforts. What he does is personify the small voice in my mind that prevents me from getting back to sleep at 3 AM.

He called me the other day, just to talk. And mostly, the conversation went as normal: I tore my hair out at his and my mother’s relative (to me) disregard for proper exposure limiting, and he gave me his latest movie or TV show recommendations.

After I tut-tutted over another unnecessary trip somewhere both he and my mother had taken recently, he responded, “Yeah, that’s true, it is a risk. Well, you know, if one of us gets this, then all of us will. And we might all die.”

He let the words hang there until I responded, with as little emotion as possible to show him that he wasn’t winding me up, “Sounds like it’s a good idea to be even more careful, then.”

As I said, he’s made a habit of nihilistic portending for the last ten years. The problem is that I am always trying to banish those thoughts when they’re still merely thoughts, but then he just blurts them out, which makes them real. Does he not understand after almost forty years that no matter how irrational, uninformed, or biased a father’s words can be, they are still taken to heart by the son?

And he says these things, but then he doesn’t change his actions in kind. If he believed that the situation were that serious, wouldn’t he be battening down the hatches instead of making flimsy excuses to go to the grocery store? Does he really need to get that steak because he has a coupon? Does he really have to go there for Kandy Kakes because they’re buy two, get one free? Is it really worth rolling the dice each time?

I did ask him this directly, and he replied, “Well, we have to live.”

He meant “live” figuratively—I knew that they had enough bland food there to last them a long time. I asked him, “So the difference between ‘living’ and ‘not living’ is going to the grocery store?”

The frustrating contradiction is that for a generation so insistent on austerity being the “tough love” that the world requires, my parents sure don’t want to be austere. When I had trouble getting a job just out of undergrad, I was told to “pound the pavement,” carrying my resume with a suit on and applying to places in person, because it would be “more impressive” than applying online. The most frequent criticism of theirs was that people my age are lazy softies who can’t do anything for themselves. My dad, who had been a mechanic in his adolescence, liked to repeat a joke about my and my brother’s lack of mechanical knowledge: “If Steve had a nut, and [my brother] had a bolt, the two of ‘em wouldn’t be able to figure out how to get them together.”

Yet, if anything ever has been, this is the time for austerity: you shouldn’t make any unnecessary trips for indulgent foods. Instead, stick with the bland, nutritious diet that will last a long time, and stay away from public places. You can truly turn the risk almost down to zero that way, by being austere.

I think that my parents (I can’t speak for their entire generation, just them) have two aversions to properly responding to the virus. The first is that hiding inside one’s house is not what courage looks like. Courage is going out and showing the virus that they won’t be cowed so easily! Staying in, by contrast, is living in fear and surrendering. But it’s not true. The virus can’t be “shown” anything because it is a cell-invading machine. It isn’t trying to cow them, or “try” anything at all, for that matter. It is only spreading. It’s also confusing because the other great fear of our time is terrorism, and in cases of terrorism, that is the right attitude to react with.

To explain their second aversion to responding prudently to the virus, I believe that at a certain age, you just feel entitled. If you’ve had a life like most people’s then you’ve had your share of happy times, but you’ve also had your share of awful ones. And at this point, almost seventy years in, you probably think, the painful parts ought to be mostly over. You don’t deserve to be cooped up in the house right when retirement, really the only good part of senior citizenship, is beginning. Therefore, you deserve to be able to go out and do things. Unlike the timid young, you simply don’t have the time to waste inside.

While I can understand both aversions (as well as a younger person is able to, that is), I can still disagree with them. And I can still get extremely angry when my parents show this behavior.

For that reason, I am not without my own nastiness. I’m sure my mother didn’t appreciate the time I said to her on the phone, “I want you to remember you said that when they’re hooking you up to a ventilator,” after she told me she’d gone to the Starbucks drive-thru that morning. I mean, yes, what I said was truly ghoulish, but I said it out of love. And, desperation.

Because the 3 AM nightmare that I have lately is the one where I send my usual text to my mom asking how they’re all doing, and she texts me back, “Well, [my younger sister] woke up with a little fever, but she’s fine, she’s fine…”

I hear the horror stories. Funerals that have to be attended via the Zoom app. Final goodbyes said over Skype or FaceTime. People dying at the hospital, all alone. I know that it is naive to hope for this, but I still want to be one of those families that just dodges it entirely, you know? Just completely lucks out.

Even though I know those horror stories I keep reading are a textbook case of selection bias (you don’t hear about the vast majority of cases, where a person gets kind of sick but then recovers and is fine), if I want to do some simple panic math, here are the numbers.

-A reasonable infection rate over the whole US population, based on the R0 value: 50%.

-The chances that if one of the three vulnerable people in my family gets it, all three will end up infected: nearly 100%.

-The chances of them dying, given their ages/comorbidities (I’ll be more optimistic with this statistic): 15%, for each person.

Here are the likelihoods for the optimistic scenarios:

-None of them get it. That’s 50% x 50% x 50%, which equals 12.5%.

-They all get it, but they all survive: ~87.5% x 85% x 85% x 85%, which equals about 53%.

That doesn’t represent complete coverage of the probability space, since there are minor variations in what could happen, like each of them could theoretically be infected from an outside source and then give it to only one of the others. But as an estimation, it covers the most major scenarios decently.

So then, to get the probability of the “bad scenarios,” in which at least one person dies, you take the complementary percentage: 100% - (53% + 12.5%) = 34.5%.

Am I really looking at about a one in three chance that one of my immediate family members will die, to say nothing of my grandmother, sister, brother, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew? Hopefully not. The more time that goes by with them not getting infected, the more information healthcare workers and scientists can get about proper treatment courses and possible new medications. And if we go long enough (over a year) without getting infected, we might be able to be vaccinated.

In addition to the nasty pictures I paint for them over the phone if they don’t properly isolate themselves, I have also tried to exploit the older generation’s defensiveness. With a relish that was all part of the act, I told them that there was an alternate name for the disease floating around online, “The Boomer Remover.”

The other term I’d heard, The Boomer Doomer, I refrained from telling them about. My reasoning was this: while The Boomer Doomer is flippant and insensitive, the word “doom” is still scary. So, the phrase “Boomer Doomer” admits some of the disease’s weight and suggests a small amount of seriousness in the mentality of millennial-and-younger generations. That wasn’t good enough.

No, The Boomer Remover was the one I told them about because in addition to being disrespectful, it is downright adversarial. “The Boomer Remover” sounds like a cleaning product. It casts the virus as part of the young’s artillery in the culture war. And it casts the boomer generation as vermin. The name brings to mind fears that older generations must all share since the beginning of time: you will soon be gone, and your absence will be celebrated. Maybe, I thought, their defensive attitudes could be redirected to something more constructive, like making the effort to keep themselves healthy.

It seemed to do the trick. They were more conscious of avoiding exposure to infection after I said it. I don’t know if they really were persuaded by The Boomer Remover—it’s possible that they just got more information from the news around the same time—but they did cut out more unnecessary trips, which relieved me. Not down to zero, but fewer than before. I still don’t accept the unnecessary trips they take, though, and I spare no opportunity to remind them of that.

Coping, Sub-Optimally

I am lucky in my personal situation. To some extent, I can work from home. I have joined the legions of Zoom users. Keeping rigidly to a telework schedule, I have made sure that my sleep schedule hasn’t changed by more than a half hour, and I still look forward to the weekend, even though I don’t go anywhere Saturday or Sunday. The library is closed, and most of my attendees don’t have the Internet, so I can’t run my book club. I can exercise, but after hearing my downstairs neighbors furiously pound on their ceiling during one of my workouts, I’ve had to figure out how to do silent cardio so I don’t have to run through the neighborhood every other day.

One thing that I’m experiencing seems to be something that a lot of others are, too: an unfortunate confrontation with my previous excuse-making. If I had an hour extra in the day, I used to say, I would cultivate a new skill and get really good at it.

After a reliable isolation routine had been set here in my apartment, I found that I did have an extra hour each day, since I didn’t have to commute. I could wake up a half hour later because I didn’t have to drive to work, and when I stopped working for the day, all I had to do was sign out. I could still exercise, still make dinner, and still unwind before bed, so my post-work day was similar, but I gained one more hour I could use as I pleased. What have I done with it?

I am not a gamer. After about six years of not playing any games at all, I bought myself a Nintendo Switch and the newest Zelda game when I graduated in 2018 as a self-gift. I played Zelda over eighteen months. It’s a long game, but the average time you’d have to spend per day to finish the game with only moderate quest completion over that many months is low.

Playing Zelda was like a being able to eat a filling meal whenever I happened to crave it. In-game, I found the environment to be so pleasant that when people in real life asked me if I’d done any hiking lately, I’d almost respond, “Well, no, but I have done a fair bit of hiking and mountain climbing in Zelda.” If I went a couple of weeks without playing, it would take only a minute or two to remember what I’d been doing when I turned it on again. Overall, it might be the best game I have ever played. And it seems like it would be the perfect game for these times, if I were playing it anew.

But lately, the game-playing I’ve been doing over the past few weeks shows a much different mindset—one I haven’t really experienced since I was an undergrad student.

When I was in college, the adjustment to living away from home took a long time, and as a result, freshman year was sort of a wash. I didn’t do well in my classes, my suitemates were all upperclassmen I couldn’t really relate to, and it was hard to make friends in the huge introductory lectures with no assigned seating. I spent nearly the whole year playing video games in my room every evening, ordering pizza after pizza after pizza.

The game I remember playing most was a first-person shooter called Quake 2. I had tried the original Quake when it came out in 1996, but at that time it was too graphics-intensive for the family computer to run. Now, though, Quake 2 was the cooler-looking game, and my new laptop could have run either one easily, so I got Quake 2.

If I could sum up the highlight of freshman year, 2003, it would be: It is 10 PM. It is Friday night. There is a pizza on my desk, only two slices eaten so far. There is me, twenty-five pounds heavier than I am now. I am listening to Zwan, the short-lived Smashing Pumpkins-led supergroup. Quake 2 is blasting on my laptop. Somewhere far away, my future wife shivers for seemingly no reason.

After freshman year, I made a bunch of friends, and some of them became my closest friends, and from that happy vantage point, freshman year looked even more bleak. I resolved that I wouldn’t play Quake 2 ever again. In fact, I decided that from then on, I would think of the intense urge to game, especially first-person shooter games, as a kind of emotional canary in the coal mine.

But now in 2020, stuck in the relative comfort of my nice apartment and isolated from my family, and with the extra time that isolation was granting me, I started looking online for a new game to play.

My computer is fine but is also nothing impressive, processor-wise, so I can’t run a modern game on it. I felt too intimidated to play one anyway, having been out of the loop for so long. So, I searched for “retro FPS games,” and found a game called Dusk. Dusk, the game’s description said, was made in 2018, but was “meant to look like a shooter from 1996.”

I bought it and did nothing else outside of work except eat, squeeze in workouts, and play the game. It only took four evenings, but I finished it. And after that, the gaming urge from freshman year was fully back.

Similar circumstances, similar results. If I didn’t dig up Quake 2, it was only out of a pitiful sense of pride; re-downloading it would mean that symbolically, I hadn’t changed at all since freshman year. So instead, I bought Quake 1, and I’ve been playing that ever since I finished Dusk.

It turns out that since 1996, there has been an online Quake 1 fan community that regularly cranks out game modifications, so there are literally thousands of user-made levels to play in addition to the original game. And the mod levels are all free, as long as you’ve paid for the original game, which costs only five dollars. As a result, nearly every night after work, exercise, and dinner, I turn on a 24-year-old video game (with a fan-made mod that sleekens those chunky graphics up a little bit) and play it until bedtime.

First, I played through the game at normal difficulty, saving after every tough set of enemies (this practice is called “save scumming,” and is frowned upon in the Quake community). Not wanting to be bogus, after I finished it that way, I immediately started replaying the game, this time on Hard difficulty and only saving one time per level. I haven’t made it through the entire game again this way yet, but I’ve also played a bunch of fan-made levels to see what the tinkerers have come up with in the last couple of decades.

Have you ever been so completely uninterested while listening to someone explain their hobby to you that you felt a little bit guilty, but you also felt bad for the person, for being so lame? That’s how I feel right now, re-reading what I’ve just written. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t one of those I-am-quitting-my-addiction-through-the-healing-power-of-writing entries—in fact, I stopped writing this several times to play Quake, even looking up strategy videos on YouTube when I got stuck—but I acknowledge that this is not a good use of my time.

Right now, I could finally be getting those guitar skill fundamentals I’ve always wanted. I could be (getting closer to) finishing all songs I’ve written, or writing new ones. I could be working on an actual short story, or a novel, or something, to point to as a positive thing that came out of this whole crisis, and yet, all of those roads end up in the same place: worry town.

In another way, my laser-focus on playing a game like Quake makes perfect sense. It is similar to a game I already know how to play—it’s not one of the new shooters my computer couldn’t run and I probably couldn’t understand. And it lacks any need for deep thinking. Your goal in Quake is to get to the other end of the level, and if you could try to kill everything you see on your way there, that would be cool too.

If I were playing Zelda, I’d be all the way inside my head thinking about my family as my character’s horse galloped past waterfalls, sunsets, and windblown grassy fields. But in Quake, I don’t have to keep track of my inventory, my life meter, my resources, experience points, magic spells, stamina, side-quests—anything. If I’m still shooting and moving, I can still win. There’s no time for my mind to wander because there are monsters around every corner. And at the end of the level, nothing needs to be committed to memory.

Is it weird that I can’t remember anything about the actual game Quake 2, which I spent months playing as a freshman, except for how it felt to play it? Well, that, and the sparse game dialogue: some enemies would call you “trespasser” or “intruder” just before they tried to stab or shoot you, and there’s a level about midway into the game where you make your way through an elaborate torture factory and you see your comrades all being sawed to pieces, but the only thing they cry out is “It hurts,” “Let me out,” “Make it stop,” or “Kill me now.”

The time I spent playing Quake 2 and the time I’m now spending playing Quake 1 almost seem like one of those cheesy explanations of wormholes you see in science fiction movies. What’s the shortest way between these two points on this piece of paper? someone asks. A straight line, someone answers, and the person who asked the question shakes their head and folds the paper so the two points meet.

Life at thirty-five still feels young—I don’t have that fear of replacement yet. But I do have a new awareness of how dangerous it is to get stuck in a rut. Talking with my family over the phone in the past few weeks, I said that I was afraid that I had become “complacent enough that I could wake up one day and realize that I’m forty-five, with nothing new to show for it.” There are plenty of things I know I’m now too old for, ways of acting, ways of dressing. And my life so far is starting to have a true feeling of accumulation to it. Thinking back on it is like looking down a mountain hiking trail, with confusing turns, switchbacks, and even blind offshoots. Some of it is obscured by the trees, lost from memory. It all seems impressively far. Looking forward again, the mountaintop is still in the distance, but now it looms.

In between the previous paragraph and the one before it, I found out that my high school film teacher, Mr. Truitt, passed away. I had mentioned him in my entry about starting a book club, and in it I’d said that I’d modeled my method of discussion on the one from his film class. I now seriously regret that after all of this time since high school, I never used the very small amount of time it would have taken to tell him how much his class and influence meant to me. And, it is an embarrassing kind of regret—an obnoxious feeling, having taken him so much for granted. I’d always meant to contact him some day, but ordinary life took the foreground, and if I spent twenty minutes thinking of what I would write in a letter to him, I’d forget about it twenty minutes after that.

Just as indecent is my poring over his obituary with the obvious question on my mind that anyone has about any death in the past two months.

If something can be drawn from this entry, I hope it would be this: don’t forget to let people know how much you appreciate them. Life is long, but it never feels long enough. And the absoluteness of death is one of the scariest things about it.

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alleiradayne · 5 years

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Sex and Candy

Summary: Natalie returns from a resource run with a surprise for Sam. Square Filled: Sex toys Warnings/Tags: Pegging, teasing, bodily fluids, subtle delayed orgasm Characters/Pairings: Sam Winchester/Natalie Murphy Word Count: 2,401 A/N: For @spnkinkbingo this fills the Sex Toys square. And as always, thank you @atc74 for your wonderful beta’ing. Also, I give 0 fucks about how NSFW that aesthetic is, I fucking love it. Song: Sex and Candy by Marcy Playground

Chuck bless the knock at his door, for if Sam read one more sentence on the many uses of sage, he would pass out. The soft knock repeated as he rolled from his bed, the ancient tome tossed aside, and a tentative voice filtered through his door.

“Sam? It’s Natalie. Can I come in?”

He grasped the handle and pulled the door aside to reveal Natalie, clad in her leather jacket against which she clutched a plastic bag. Blue eyes drank him in from his bare feet and sweatpants all the way up to his ruffled hair. When she said nothing, Sam stepped aside and gestured her in.

She checked the hall once more before darting in and said, “Close the door. Lock it.”

Sam did as she said, but a myriad of questions bubbled up at her intense secrecy. “You okay, Talie?”

On the edge of his bed she sat, the small plastic bag in her lap. “I am. But I may have jumped the gun on an impulse buy.”

The small silver bag crinkled between her nervous fingers as Natalie fidgeted. Then Sam saw it. Black and red vines twisted in a tangled heart to brand the bag that of the sex shop in town. And not just any sex shop. The sex shop. Their favorite.

“Oh,” Sam started as he smiled at his feet. With his hands in his pockets, he shrugged, and a familiar sting raced across his cheeks as her eyes fell to his hips. Damn t-shirts. He had too few long enough, and the old rag he had grabbed earlier that morning had seen better years. Particularly short, the cool air of his bedroom pebbled the skin of his exposed waist.

Sure, he had done it on purpose. But he knew Natalie reveled in his coy smiles and innocent shrugs and shy, averted eyes. At least to start. She enjoyed his sweet awkwardness. But over the last year, they had learned much about one another, the little things. While Natalie loved his acute emotional awareness, she never orgasmed better than when Sam dominated the hell out of her. And Sam never came as hard as he did when she, in turn, abused the fuck out of him in bed.

He wouldn’t go so far as to say he was a masochist. But pain and pleasure danced along a fine, thin line for he and Natalie.

“Stop that,” she muttered. Her tone, deep in her throat, drew his attention, and Sam found himself staring at the plunging collar of her t-shirt.

“Stop what?”

Natalie shook her head as if to clear it. “That. Everything. I can’t think straight around you and your…” She waved a flippant hand at his crotch as she palmed her forehead.

“What, this?” Sam asked as he smoothed his palm down the length of his stiffening cock, clearly visible through his sweatpants. “Not my fault. You’re the one teasing me with some new toy.”

“I hate you,” Natalie hissed through her crooked smile as she stood. “Here.”

The bag dangled in her hand as she brandished it, and Sam took it as he grasped by the wrist and pulled her flush to his chest. Heat radiated from her as he slipped her jacket from her shoulders and his fingertips teased at her collar bone.

“Sam,” Natalie started, “Please look in the bag.”

Sam laughed at that. “I’m sorry, I like seeing you squirm,” he said as he pried apart the bag.

He fell silent then, and when he remained so for too long, Natalie asked, “Well?”

His jaw dropped in disbelief. There at the bottom of the bag lay a set of black straps attached to a belt. Atop it sat a new dildo, comparable in length and girth to his erect self. Last, a bottle of lube sat beside it, and Sam sighed as his cock twitched.

“How did you know?”

Natalie raised a brow at that. “I mean, it’s going to be different than my finger but, I’m guessing it’ll feel just as good.”

“But how did you know I’d even want to try pegging?” Sam asked, breathless as the words quivered on his lips.

“Because,” Natalie whispered as she stroked his length with delicate fingers. “You come way more when I finger you.”

The sting of embarrassment heated his cheeks. “I do?”

“I don’t usually need to swallow twice,” she said with a wink. “Imagine what this thing might do for you.”

Imagine he did. And not just a cock the size of himself buried in his ass. No, he imagined Natalie behind him, fucking him, slamming that dildo into him as he jerked his cock and Sam nearly came in his pants at the thought.

And in the next heartbeat, he grasped Natalie by her ass and carried her onto the bed with him. There he set the bag aside as he planted a rough kiss on her lips, and she moaned into him. Greedy fingers grasped at her breasts as she writhed with him, her own hands finding his cock again. There, she gripped him with a long, hard stroke, and he whimpered an uncontrollable sigh into her lips.

She parted from him with a gasp as she gathered the hem of his shirt. With neither of them no longer interested in words, she tore the fabric over his head and tossed it aside. And Sam followed her lead, her shirt discarded and forgotten along with her bra. Taut nipples begged for his lips and he obliged without hesitation.

Natalie gasped as her back arched, pressing more of her into his mouth. Though eager to please her, Sam hoped she might forgive him later for skipping ahead, and he released one breast for the other. Again, Natalie moaned as her fingers carded through his hair and grasped to wrench him from her flesh.

Sam stared into her fiery blue eyes alight with lust and another heavy flex of his cock left him dizzy. When Natalie spoke, his eyes fell to her lips.

“I want to fuck you, Sam.”

His eyes rolled back as he moaned, “Then do it.”

She eased the grip on his hair as she slipped from his bed and stood. Sam followed and stripped from his sweatpants, erection sticking straight out from his groin. Natalie froze with her pants at her knees, jaw hanging as she stared at him again.

Sam grabbed himself by the base with his left hand, then stroked his length with the other. Beads of precum gathered at the tip and with one swipe of his index finger, he brought it to his mouth and licked it clean.

“Tease,” Natalie taunted.

“I try.”

With another shake of her head, Natalie kicked her boots aside and rid herself of her pants. And faster than he had anticipated, she had donned the belt and dildo, the sight of which left Sam weak in the knees. There in all her five-foot glory, Natalie stood with her hands on her hips and a ten-inch dildo hanging from her crotch.

“God, you are so fucking hot,” he sighed as he knelt on the bed. “I want you so bad it hurts.”

Her eyes drifted to his cock as she raised an inquisitive brow. “You do look like you could use a little relief,” she cooed as she knelt on the bed beside him and grasped the dildo at its base. The tip raised to meet his and Sam flinched at the sudden contact. “So sensitive,” she teased. “Now, turn around. I want you to present yourself to me and beg for it.”

Christ, but Sam nearly melted at her command. Her whip like tongue and filthy words fueled his lust further, another heavy flex of his cock spinning the entire room. But he obeyed, turning and bending over as his hands gripped his sheets.

A pleased hum sang through her nose as Natalie smoothed one cheek, her fingers dangerously close to his hole. “Look at you,” she whispered, “Sam, honey, you’re shaking. Do you want it that bad?”

“I want you,” he moaned, a little more desperate than he had wanted to sound. But it was true. Natalie had worked him up to a fever pitch; he wouldn’t shy away from begging for her.

A high whimper burst from his chest as warm lube coated his flesh and dripped down his taint to his sac, then ran the length of his cock. More of the thin liquid spread as Natalie’s delicate fingers rubbed, then slipped in her finger.

Sam moaned a long, low groan as he arched his back and his head hung between his shoulders.

“Oh, my sweet Sam, just wait,” Natalie sighed as she slipped in another finger. “There’s so much more for you.”

Fuck, he did not deserve her. Nothing he had ever done in his life had owed him a woman such as Natalie, one as perverted and willing as himself. And Sam moaned again at the thought, emotions on edge as he tried and failed to keep his arousal in check.

“Ready?”

The soft silicone tip teased his hole as Natalie grasped his hips, waiting. “Yes, do it, fuck me. Fuck my ass.”

Time slowed, stretched with every inch of penetration that filled him until it froze as her hips met his ass. So full, his eyes rolled back as they closed, and his jaw fell slack. Nothing compared to that full sensation, penetrated so completely and at the mercy of the woman in whom he had found such profound love.

“I don’t hear anything…”

“I…” Sam stuttered, “No human sound will do this justice.”

Another pleased hum filled his room as Natalie withdrew. Despite his best efforts, Sam howled a moan so depraved he hardly recognized his own voice.

“I figured the cock with all the ridges and nubs would do something for you,” Natalie giggled. “More?”

Sam nodded as he grasped his cock once more. “Fuck yes, more. Pound my ass, Talie.”

He might have used a different word knowing how eager Natalie could be. But regret never occurred to Sam, and so, when her hips slammed into his ass, he moaned a long high whine and begged for more. And Natalie obliged. Furious thrusts pumped her cock into his ass until the ache in his sac swelled so painfully, his orgasm threatened to take control.

“Keep going,” he insisted, “I’m… I’m so close.”

“That was fast,” she breathed as she stroked her fingertips along his spine. “You gonna come already?”

When he reached for himself, Natalie grasped his wrist and wrenched it to the small of his back. “Son of a bitch, it… I can’t stand it, I have to.”

She slowed her thrusting hips to long, lurid drags. “But we only just started,” she pouted. “I like seeing my cock in your ass. Wish you could see it. But I guess you get to see yours in my pussy all the time.”

“God—fuck, that’s hot,” he sighed, “Please, honey, I have to come, I can’t… I can’t hold out any longer.”

A snap of her hips withdrew her from him, and Sam cried out a pathetic whimper at the empty sensation, so void, so lacking. She released his wrist with a flippant toss, then shoved his hip. “Get on your back.”

He needn’t be told twice. Sam rolled to his back and lifted his legs for her. “Like this?”

“Aren’t you a little slut for me?” she taunted as she grasped his thighs and settled between them.

“Your slut,” he moaned as she pressed the cock against his hole. “Do I get to come now?”

As she filled him once more, Natalie grasped his cock and cupped his swollen balls. “Maybe. I might want to hear you beg for it a little longer.”

Oh, did he ever beg. Whimpers and moans full of nonsense ran like a river from his mouth, delirious and desperate. Natalie’s thrusts returned to her eager pace, and Sam ogled everything about her, from her undulating tits, to her rolling hips, to her deft hand stroking his cock. As hard as he tried, Sam lasted mere moments under her control. That impending release raced through his veins and culminated in a prolonged flex as he came. Hard. So hard, his vision blurred, and the room spun. Indeterminate seconds passed where Sam drifted, suspended in that ephemeral space between his body and his mind as his orgasm rampaged through him, only to relinquish its hold of him in a hazy cloud of euphoria.

When his vision focused, the cooling wet of his cum on his chest drew his gaze downward where he witnessed the virile mess of his orgasm. The sting in his cheeks flushed through to his navel, and when he looked to Natalie with a worried grimace, she laughed as she said, “Told you.”

In a fit of need, Sam reached between his legs and grasped Natalie by the shoulders to haul her atop him. She squealed in protest but settled atop when his massive arms squeezed her tight. “You like it,” he retorted.

Natalie squirmed in the wet stickiness between them as her lips found on his for a long kiss that Sam had craved since the moment she had walked into his room. Pliable, her lips parted for his tongue and he devoured her, the subtle sweetness of her mouth overwhelming his senses. The longer he kissed her, the more he wanted her, wanted to feel her wrapped around him again. Just the thought of being inside her renewed that aching swell in his balls, and it wasn’t long before his cock stroked against the leather of her strap-on.

Sam tore the bindings from her hips and tossed the belt to the bed before Natalie could protest. When he shoved her from his lap and to the bed, however, she glared over her shoulder with a questioning furrow of her brow. She was about to open her mouth when Sam pinned her hips to the bed with one hand and pressed his entire body atop hers. His cock teased her drenched pussy, gliding between her lips, then slipped inside with the slightest roll of his hips. She cried out a wild moan as her hips arched to present herself to him. But then she quieted, and so, Sam placed his lips to her ear and whispered.

“Your turn.”

Reblogs and feedback are awesome. If you want in on the tags, send me an ask or a DM!

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN KINK BINGO MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

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d20owlbear-deactivated · 4 years

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The Mathematical Improbability of Reaching the Stars Ch 2

By cassieoh and D20Owlbear

Ch Summary And finally, the twain shall meet. We learn more of Crowley and Aziraphale and something more of Eve and Doctor Haistwell.

The walk across campus was a pleasant one when he wasn’t rushing to avoid being late or hauling far too many books or dodging undergraduates. He paused to adjust his satchel, hiking the aging leather strap higher on his shoulder; it liked to slip down as he walked, especially when he was distracted by something (as he often was). He patted the side of the bag, checking that everything he expected to feel was there and then started up the short flight of stairs that lead towards the courtyard in front of the Athenaeum, pulling out his phone as he went.

He clicked the little button on the side to check the time, suddenly nervous that he’d forgotten something and was actually terribly late to an appointment. It was an old fear, one he struggled with often, but not one he needed to worry about just now as he had nearly a full half-hour before his next lecture.

Just as he moved to slip the phone in his pocket there was a little flash of bright green. He paused, turning the phone so he could see the screen. The little, flashing LED light lit up again, indicating he had a notification. Paranoid about disturbing a class or drawing attention to himself, he usually kept his phone on silent at all times (and triple checked it hadn’t somehow changed status spontaneously), so the light was all he used to mark that he ought to pay attention. The thing was Aziraphale rarely got notifications; his most-used programs were offline games like sudoku or word puzzles and reading apps (though he still greatly preferred the feel of something old and real in his hands). Really, the only ones that deviated from that were the food delivery apps (for when he was too busy to go out to eat, of course). He also rarely got messages at all, so it took him a few moments to place why the light might be green instead of blue as usual.

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmured to himself, surprised at the very notion of being messaged on his phone, “Oh!” He exclaimed half a second later and pulled the phone up close to his face, scrambling to turn on the screen again without dropping it as the phone had nearly jumped from his hands when he remembered he’d sent a reply to the silly astronomy pun from 2am! His tutor!

[Anthony Thursday 2:13 am] Your eyes are like black holes, I can’t seem to escape them. But that’s alright, because I like astronomy.

[Azira Thursday 7:56 am] Oh very good! I’m looking for help with astronomy!

[Anthony Thursday 9:28 am] I’m always happy to lend a *helping hand*, if you know what I mean. ;)

Aziraphale grinned at the last message, now certain that he hadn’t been overconfident when he told Doctor Haistwell that he’d found a tutor. This Anthony fellow certainly seemed like he was chuffed about it. Sure, he’d used asterisks incorrectly and Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he’d been trying to accomplish with them in the first place, but that was alright, Aziraphale wasn’t in need of grammar or sentence structure help. In fact, he’d always rather excelled at that portion of his studies.

[Azira Thursday 10:01 am] Then should we set up a meeting? Maybe coffee? Just to see if we mesh well.

He pocketed his phone with that and hummed a slow tune with Latin lyrics he’d always liked from the days he participated in choirs as an extracurricular, making his way across the small lawn. By the time he reached the doors he was certain he would be receiving another message soon, would meet his tutor tonight, understand astronomy by tomorrow, and there would be nothing at all for Doctor Avgerinós to complain about.

All he had to do was be normal for the time it took to drink one coffee and all his problems would be solved.

He grinned.

The little shed at the back of the garden center wasn’t especially comfortable, though Crowley had plans to change all that. He had big dreams of using his first paycheck (a real, honest to fuck, paycheck that was all his, that he could use to buy food and fill the aching cavern of his belly without standing in the long lines at the local soup kitchen) to buy a blanket that was soft and warm and a little area rug because his toes got so cold in the mornings. He wanted to find lights that he could hang around to make it bright and cozy and maybe a walkman to play the tapes he’d shoved in the bottom of his ratty backpack before– well, before.

But, those were all plans for another day. Right now, he could just see the early dawn light peeking over the buildings through the thick windows on the eastern wall of the shed. He needed to be dressed and in the main building by sunrise. The idea had been easier to contemplate yesterday, when the old lady first proposed it. But then again, yesterday he’d been hungry and more than a little afraid and before Crowley knew it he’d been bundled up and presented with a large sandwich and a glass of milk and, most alarmingly, a job and a home.

The shafts of light shifted, arcing further across the corrugated metal wall, dipping and curving in ways he thought he might grow to love. He needed to get up. He stuck a hand out of the meagre warmth the sheet provided and shivered as chilled air rushed in.

It was just... The little futon was so much more comfortable than the hard-packed earth.

He allowed himself another thirty-count of comfort before throwing off the thin sheet and surging to his feet, throwing himself into the discomfort as quickly as he could.

An extended groan tore its way from his throat as he stretched his arms above his head and arched his back, listening as his spine cracked and popped. Then he twisted around, angling his hips to try and shake the ache from them.

After another few minutes spent greeting the day (which included brushing his teeth and oh how he’d forgotten what a pleasure that was), he emerged from the shed and made his way quickly across the garden center towards the small building at the front. Being that it was located in the middle of London proper, Eve’s Eden was compact, with only two true greenhouses and a small outdoor stand of fruit trees. At the center of the outdoor space was a large pear tree, currently laden down with fruit. He realized just after passing it that he didn’t have to refrain any longer and doubled back to pick three pears, immediately biting into the first and holding it between his teeth as he shoved the other two in the overwrought pockets of the trousers he’d been obliged to borrow from the shelter last week after his last pair had finally fallen to little more than threads.

That was another thing he was going to buy, he thought, trousers. Trousers that fit him and didn’t feel like he was wearing a tent. He never felt quite like himself when his legs weren’t free to move and bulky, cargo monstrosities made his skin itch and his hands dance and his chest feel tighter than he thought clothing probably should do and so he was going to buy a good pair and if that meant the blanket and the area rug had to wait then that was alright.

Crowley frowned to himself as he mentally calculated what would cost what and adding it up in his head, no matter how he spun it, food would be the most important - he could buy a water bottle to keep filling up and a couple of gallons of water on the side for cooking would be cheap as well. Hell, he could probably use water from the hose if it came to that. A blanket would be good and likely doable if he went second-hand shopping instead of buying new, and if he couldn’t get a proper rug that way then he would at least be able to splurge on some of those mass-produced packs of socks from Tesco when he went for cheap groceries. A thought interrupted his happy musings of warm toes, stopping him in his tracks.

Eve– Eve might not mind if customers couldn’t necessarily tell–if he got a sufficiently baggy sweater from somewhere and grew out his hair a little more–he could wear a skirt. They wouldn’t be as cumbersome as the damned cargos he wore currently or grate on his skin. Long skirts would probably be just as comfortable as the tight jeans he preferred. Cooler too, he thought, the greenhouses were comfortable now, but he knew they would be unbearable in the summer. A breeze on his legs would be a welcome change.

He realized that he’d been dithering outside the main building for quite some time and took a deep breath to calm himself.

Eve wasn’t going to throw him out, he thought. She’d seemed tough, but not cruel, not someone who would give him hope that he might have any sort of future at all only to snatch it away.

She wasn’t like that, wasn’t like-

She was different. He just knew it.

So, he straightened the hem of his threadbare t-shirt, quickly giving up on seeming any more presentable than he had yesterday in it, and strode in as if he were the picture of confidence. Eve raised an eyebrow at him from behind her cuppa, slow and still a little sleepy from the morning haze that settles down habitually over cool London mornings.

“Mornin’.” Crowley sketched a sheepish wave, unsure exactly where he was supposed to fit here (other than beneath the Ailanthus tree where Eve had found him sleeping last night). Nothing else seemed like it would know what to do with a Crowley-shaped person next to it, none of the other rows of plants and flowers looked like they could handle his bumbling hands sitting next to their pristine plots. He didn’t know what to–

Crowley was shocked out of his inward spiral by Eve’s hand on his bicep, squeezing just tightly enough to be reassuring instead of scolding. She smiled at him like someone might smile at a dog on the side of the road, bleeding from where it was hit and left for dead. Crowley grimaced in his head, the metaphor was more apt than he’d wanted to admit.

“You know what weeds look like?” Eve asked him, all her pretenses of grumpiness up front at full force, though to Crowley it felt like a welcome, somehow.

“Y-yeah, of course I know what weeds look like!” Crowley stuttered, what little pride she’d let him scrounge up the night before when he’d gathered up his bag and stood to leave when she’d found him curled up behind the roots of the tree furthest from the door was coated his tongue like lead. Heavy and tripping. It dripped down the back of his throat and the molten, toxic metal burnt on its way down, churning his stomach until he was nauseous and coated his heart so that it felt like bands wrapped around it and every beat and every breath pressed uncomfortably tight.

Ping!

Crowley’s phone chimed and he sucked in a surprised breath, tearing himself from his uncomfortable recollections on how he came to be here, nearly a decade ago. It would be nine-and-a-half years soon. And almost ten years exactly from when he’d been kicked out in the first place as a teen.

Crowley blinked at his messages unseeing, lost in his thoughts of Eve and her garden center. And then he blinked some more after he set the phone down, dazed with a stupid grin threatening to overtake his face. How bold! And not in a disgusting way like some people were on dating apps. “To see if we mesh well, ” Crowley’s grin ticked up a bit further at the thought. Posh and poncy, but not in a holier-and-richer-than-thou way, and he could already tell he’d like this Azira guy. Quickly he typed out another reply.

[Anthony Thursday 12:05 pm] I’m certainly interested in meshing with you.

[[Full Chapter]]

#AO3 link #good omens #azcrow #gomens #The Mathematical Improbability of Reaching the Stars #Tinderfic #Tinder fic #My writing #help i'm lost in good omens and can't get out #good omens fanfic #good omens fic #crowley #Crowley and Aziraphale #aziraphale/crowley #crowley good omens #Aziraphale #Find On AO3 #Read in Full on AO3

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spider-bih · 7 years

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I Fall Apart [Peter Parker]

[Trust Issues Series P.1]

Pairing: Peter Parker x Female!Reader [past] [3rd person] Peter’s in his early 20′s here.

Warnings: Much angst babes, cursing, mentions of drinking and hurt etc

Based off of this song. It gave me feels. This has potential to be a series in which a new reader tries to fix his broken pieces?? Maybe??

Masterlist, Part 2

“Sʜᴇ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ I’ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ..”

He still remembered the day she’d said those words. The day had started off so well. He’d sold some photos to the Daily Bugle, aced that one exam he’d been stressing over, and crime had been at an all time low for the moment. He had extra cash in his pocket and a skip in his step. All he had thought of was her- he’d thought about buying her some flowers or maybe some chocolates. He’d been skipping on dates far too much and she didn’t know why. He couldn’t tell her just yet. He would never get to tell her anyway.

He swore his heart shattered the minute the words left her mouth. She’d said it so simply- so easily. It was as if their time together had meant nothing. As if they hadn’t spent late nights talking about what their future might hold- like he hadn’t given her every single last bit of him.

“You’re just not enough for me anymore, Peter. I don’t want this anymore.”

“What?”, was all he’d been able to respond with as he watched the world as he knew it, fall apart.

“Aɴᴅ sʜᴇ ʟᴇғᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ��ʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ..”

He wasn’t sure what to do- what to make of this. What was this? What was it that she didn’t want? Was it him- it had to be didn’t it? Where had he gone wrong with this- with her? He loved with all he had- with all his heart. He always made up for his missed dates and broken promises. He had good intentions- juggling his hero life and normal life was sometimes a little difficult. When crime picked up, he was all scrambled. He couldn’t help it- and he couldn’t just let people get hurt or die because his love life was in the way. He just couldn’t, it would be selfish of him- but oh how he wished he’d been a little selfish. Maybe all this wouldn’t have happened. Or maybe he could’ve seen the signs and could’ve pulled himself away before he got burned.

“I’m cheating on you.”, she’d said. There was no emotion in her voice, no regret or mercy.

A nervous laugh left him, “You’re what- no. No you’re- you’re joking..right?”

All she had to do was shake her head and he swore he broke more. It wasn’t just his world that was breaking, it was him. He was falling apart.

“Sʜᴇ ғᴏᴏʟᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴡɪᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ’s ᴀʟʟ ᴍʏ ғᴀᴜʟᴛ...”

How could she say that so easily? How could she tear him apart and not feel a damn thing?

“I am.”, she said it with ease. Still no emotion. No regret.

“For..for how long?”, it was the worst question to ask, he knew this- but he had to ask it.

“A few months.” A simple enough answer, but it didn’t hurt any less. In fact- it hurt more. It wasn’t a short term thing- it’d been happening for awhile. There were nights he’d spent thinking of her- meanwhile she was with someone else. There were days when he’d kissed her with all the passion in his heart- and she’d leave him to go kiss another. Oh god- it burned. Why wasn’t he enough?

“Sʜᴇ ᴄᴜᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ, ɴᴏᴡ sʜᴇ ʟᴇғᴛ ᴍᴇ sᴄᴀʀʀᴇᴅ..”

He didn’t understand it- how could anyone knowingly hurt another like this? How could she string him along- take his heart and soul and go off with another while his back was turned.

“I-I don’t..why?”, he’d asked.

“I told you. I don’t want this anymore. I haven’t wanted it for months. We’re just not working out.”, she said it with a wave of her hand- like he was burdening her with his questions and very presence. Where had the love gone? Was there any to begin with? Just weeks ago, she’d told him of how she imagined them moving in together. She spoke on how life together like that would be- making him dinner or baking with him.

What happened?

“Nᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ’s sᴏ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛs ɢᴏɪɴ’ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴍʏ ʙʀᴀɪɴ, ᴀɴᴅ I’ᴍ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ sʜᴏᴛs ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ’s ɴᴏᴠᴀᴄᴀɴᴇ, ʏᴇᴀʜ..”

Who knew this would end up hurting this bad? He guessed this was the part of love he had to learn about one way or another. This was the ache everyone warned him about. The burn- the pain. Nothing was enough to mask it, really. He’d rather be beaten down by every criminal he’s ever faced in New York than feel this. He’d slam himself into every single damned billboard if it made this go away. He’d drink until he dropped if it brought her back- if it made all this reverse itself and never happen.

Life didn’t work that way though. Life was far from fair- and it seemed like it loved to taunt him. It loved to give him happiness and love- and then rip it from him. It enjoyed leaving him to bleed out from the hole in his chest.

Maybe he was an awful person in some other life..

“Oᴏᴏʜ, I ғᴀʟʟ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ, ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴄᴏʀᴇ..”

She was gone. She tore him limb from limb with no emotion on her face. She left him to fall apart and cave in on himself. She never gave him a proper reason- never explained in detail why she went from loving him so dearly to ripping his heart out from his chest. She took everything he had to offer and left him all by his lonesome. She brought him to his knees, pointed a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. No remorse, no mercy.

No apology. She wasn’t sorry- she didn’t care. He’d sold his soul to the devil- to her, and there were no returns. She was off with another, happy as ever.

He wasn’t sure what to do with himself- what to make of this. How do you come back from this- from the dead? Without becoming a zombie or trapped in the shell of your former self? Who was he before her- what was life like before her? He couldn’t recall- but now he’d have to learn what life was like after her. He’d have to figure out who he was without her. He had to do it all alone.

“Tᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴍᴇ ɴᴏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ I ᴄᴀɴ’ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ɢᴏ..”

Let go let go- why was that so hard? She wasn’t here anymore- he hadn’t seen her in months- but yet he could remember every detail of her like he’d seen her just moments ago. Her scent still lingered in his freshly washed sheets. He could still feel her soft skin beneath his fingertips- her head pressed against his chest. It was all still there. He couldn’t forget- and damn he tried. He tried so fucking hard. He thought that- maybe if he let some criminals land a few good hits, it’d cause enough hurt to make her memory fade away. Maybe if he took enough shots, he’d forget- but none of it worked.

He didn’t realize it wasn’t working until he landed face down on the concrete, blood in his mouth and her memory still playing in his head, smiling at him.

“I love you, Peter..”

Bullshit-

“Yᴏᴜ sᴀɪᴅ ɪᴛ. Nᴏ, ʏᴏᴜ sᴀɪᴅ ɪᴛ. Nᴏ, ʏᴏᴜ sᴀɪᴅ ɪᴛ, ᴡᴇ’ᴅ ʙᴇ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ..”

He stared down at his desk, trying to piece himself together- at least enough to focus on what the professor was saying. He wasn’t sure how he was managing to stay afloat in his studies- hell, he wasn’t even sure how he was still breathing. Months and months and still, he wasn’t okay. He was still on his knees, begging the world for mercy. It was pathetic- he told himself that over and over again, but it didn’t fix anything. Nothing was fixing this. Nothing was fixing him- he was a shell of his former self..

Pathetic..

“Yᴏᴜ ᴡᴀs ᴍʏ sʜᴏʀᴛʏ, I ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ..”

Focus- please focus. He needed to focus- he needed to. The professor was still talking to the class. He only heard bits and pieces though. Something about a project? Hopefully not a group one-

“Peter Parker, you’re paired up with [Y/n]...”, the professor went on to name more pairs, but he only heard that. It was all he needed to hear, really. He would pull himself together enough to finish this project with you- and then let himself fall when you were gone. You didn’t deserve to fail because he’d let his love break him.

Oh- but that name of yours. That face of yours- you.

You would change him..

Permanent Tags: @o-brienwrites, @spidergirlwanab, @thumper-darling, @mydearestsammy , @bagginsofbagend, @hofsten, @spidey-spooked [Hope I didn’t forget anyone :/]

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choisgirls · 7 years

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wassup I need some saeran, V, and RFA hcs for how they would react if them and the MC were having sex and the MC starts crying because they ripped her favorite underwear

A/N: i think id bemore pissed than crying if im honest with ya ~Admin 404

Is this NSFW? I don’t know. I don’t think so, it’s mainly just talking about underwear. I promise I don’t say Cockasaurus Rex in this one. But this is here, just in case you don’t want to read about underwear and almost doing it

*YOOSUNG:

Oh god the poor baby thought hedid something wrong and hurt you. He didn’t even get that far with you yet, andyou were already crying!! Was he that terrible, did you really not want to dothis? You could just tell him, MC! If there’s something wrong just tell himplease, he’ll do anything to fix it. As he was freaking out, through your softcries you told him that you weren’t hurt, he just ripped your favouriteunderwear when he took them off of you. His face completely dropped when heheard this. Turning bright red, he hid his face behind his hands and mumbled anapology, stumbling over his words. He’s crying, you’re crying, there’s no sexhappening tonight my friends. Just a lot of cuddling and tears over someunderwear.

*ZEN:

He /warned/ you about the beast.He could be gentle, or he could go into beast mode like a werewolf. You hadchosen to provoke the beast this time, and now you were to pay theconsequences. In the heat of the moment, he had attempted to pull yourunderwear off, tearing the side of them in the process. You heard the fabricrip and you immediately sit up, catching him off guard. With wide eyes, he lookedat you, watching as your eyes started to tear up. “MC? MC what’s wrong?Did I scare you? I didn’t mean to, I um-” he was cut off when tearsstarted to roll down your cheeks. Freaking out, he’s trying to see if there wasany indication of him hurting you, heart pounding and tears threatened his owneyes until you started to mutter about your underwear over and over again. Hesat up, carefully just patting your head as he felt bad about ripping yourunderwear, but he also had to try and hold in his laughter because you wereridulous…ly cute!

*JAEHEE:

Listen, she didn’t expect herring to catch onto your underwear, it just… happened. MC, it was just a smalllittle hole, why are you crying?? It happens!! She’s done it very often on herown, she’ll just go with you to pick out some new ones *wink wonk*. But shecouldn’t help but feel bad about the tears in your eyes, so she kissed yousoftly and just held you instead. She thought you were ridiculous for cryingover /underwear/ but she does know the feeling of losing your favourite undies-the ones that are so comfortable and they felt like you weren’t even wearingthem. Okay, she understands why you’re crying now MC, she wants to cry too-y'all just need new undies;;

*JUMIN:

Papers practically flying to thefloor, you’re up on his desk and he’s pressed against you, capturing you in aheated kiss. There isn’t much time before someone called him or Assistant Kangcame (hopefully) knocking on the door. But you were teasing him, obviouslywanting to ignite something, and he would give you exactly what you wanted. Hejust had to be quick about it, meaning these undies were coming off quickly.With a quick tug on both sides of the clothing, he had the sides rippedimmediately and they were thrown into the trash under his desk. As he wasleaning in to kiss your neck, he felt tears hit his face and he pulled back tolook at your face in an instant. Through your tears, you told him those wereyour favourite pair of underwear and he straight ripped them practically inhalf and you started to cry a little more and pout angrily at him. He justshook his head before leaning in to kiss away your tears before kissing yourlips softly. “I’ll buy you new ones,” he muttered before pressing fora harder kiss, attempting to get back to previous activities.

*SAEYOUNG:

THIS ASSHOLE HAS RIPPED A FEWPAIRS OF YOUR UNDERWEAR BEFORE JUST BECAUSE HE WANTED TO PUT THEM ON AND MAKEYOU LAUGH. But there was a pair that was absolutely your favourite, and yourefused to let him anywhere near them, because? He was Mr. Destructo™ withyour underwear and you knew it. But one night, you weren’t thinking and youwere ready for anything he had to throw at you. Well, apparently he was readytoo, because in the heat of the moment, he was having issues pulling them down andhe was impatient, so he just tore them at the seams, throwing them over hisshoulder. You called his name, pouting with angry tears threatening to leaveyour eyes. When he looked up at you, his eyes shot open wide to look at you,frantically wiping your tears. “MC! MC don’t cry! Those… those were yourfavourite ones, weren’t they? I can get you more! Um, uuumm… here! These aremy favourites, go ahead and rip them too!!!”

*DADDV:

Angel in the Streets, Freak inthe Sheets™. There were times where he is a beast in the bedroom, or in theliving room… or in the kitchen….. Throwing you onto the kitchen counter,your giggles only fueled his fire as he smiled up at you, leaning in so hismouth could pay good attention to your pulse line. He started to want you moreand more, his need for you growing and his patience running out. With a grip onyour hips, he pulled you closer to the edge of the counter, not realizing thatyou were sitting on the edge of a picture frame. The corner ripped a hole intoyour underwear, and your hand untangled itself from his hair to feel the hole.He watched your face as it sank in that now your favourite underwear were nowruined, and tears pricked at your eyes. His heart dropped and he buried hishead against your chest after wiping away your tears. He kept mutteringapologies, and how he should have paid attention instead. Hearing him so sadactually made you feel worse than your underwear did??? The poor man feltterrible and there was no way he could have sex now

*SAERAN:

He didn’t even feel likebothering with your underwear when the two of you were in the heat of themoment. They were an inconvenience and they were pissing him off. Did he wantto take the time to take them off? No, no he didn’t. So with his tongue on yourmouth and a pocket knife previously located on the nightstand, your undies werecut cleanly down the sides and tossed out of his way. He pulled away for someair before diving back in for another kiss, but you pushed him away. Lookingconfused, slightly annoyed, and overall just sexually /needy/ he noticed youreyebrows were knit together, and tears threatened to pour down your face. Hestared at you with his own eyebrows drawing together, waiting for yourexplanation, and when you said you were upset at him for literally cutting yourundies off, he actually laughed? You just got more and more angry, and he hadto stop laughing and he placed a small kiss on your forehead, leaning down sohis lips could travel back down your body. “They’re just underwear, MC. Ifyou want, I can get you new ones, don’t be an idiot. Just have a little funwith me, princess~”

Masterlist

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sleepy-skeletonsblog-blog · 7 years

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HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

Also posted on Reddit in r/nosleep

We had recently moved to a new town. My mother, father, and I.

I got accepted into the college of my dreams; however, the college was across the country, and my parents didn't want to leave me alone.

They loved me very much.

They loved me as if they were my actual parents. I was orphaned at the age of seven due to my actual parents' deaths. My adoptive parents said that my father, a drunk, wrapped our car around a tree one night, killing off both himself and my mother. I couldn't really remember much, though. My doctor said that my memories were repressed due to trauma and it would take a lot for them to resurface.

Now, we didn't live together. Hell no. I was twenty years old for Christ's sake. As much as I loved my parents to death, I needed my own space.

So with the money I saved from many summer jobs and part time jobs, I rented out a shitty apartment not far from my university. I already owned my own car, so it wasn't as bad as it seemed. It wasn't like I was coming from a poor family, either. My parents were rich from some sort of ridiculous invention my father came up with. They always tried to slip me money, but I refused nearly ninety-five percent of the time because I wanted to try and make it on my own in the world.

It wasn't like they'd be there forever, anyways.

I finally finished taking all of my belongings out of the many boxes that took up way too much space in the small two bedroom apartment about a week after we moved. One of the rooms turned into a study and held the many books I collected over the years.

I decided that I wanted to celebrate. I called up my parents and they arrived within ten short minutes, having lived not too far from my apartment. I ushered them in. I was excited to show them my new home.

"Welcome to my humble abode!" I said at the time while raising my arms with a huge grin on my face. I gave them the short grand tour and they seemed pleased with how I set up my living space, but I knew something was off as they enhanced glances. "Like it?" I asked.

My mother hesitated before saying, "It's lovely, sweetie." I noticed how she played with the ring on her finger; that was a nervous habit she had.

I left them in the study to go grab drinks for the two, but I hovered next to the door as I heard them whisper.

"Do... Do you think he'll remember- or- or worse, do you think she will find him?" My mother worried. I pictured her spinning her wedding ring on her finger.

I bit my lip as I leaned in closer.

"Hush Martha! No one will find out anything!" My father scolded. I pictured a deep frown on his face as he looked down at her.

I stepped into the room and cleared my throat, "What're we whispering about?" My mother smiled nervously and my father chuckled, looking anywhere but me as he said, "Ohh, nothing." I clicked my tongue.

That's when my suspicions began to creep up from the back of my mind.

My parents were always sort of odd and overly protective.

As I settled into my new home, I needed to buy myself food, of course, and needed to apply for a job somewhere. There was also my wandering thoughts. I wondered about what they were talking about and who She was.

I needed to stretch my mile long legs for once and get a little exercise, so the grocery store seemed like a good start.

I made my way through the aisles and thought to myself about just what exactly did I need when shopping for myself. While searching the racks of food aimlessly, I noticed a shorter, older lady struggling to reach for a can on the top self.

Being a generally tall (and nice) guy, I decided to grab it for her.

"Oh, thank you so mu-" She began but froze mid sentence as she peered up at me. Shock was etched into her features as she gazed at me.

I smiled nervously as she looked me up and down with eyes the size of saucers.

"You're- You're-" She stuttered out as I dropped the can gently into her basket before backing away slowly.

I shuddered; I wasn't expecting that at the time.

As I made my way through the store, the strange lady followed me. I could feel her eyes burn holes into my back and it made me squirm slightly. The way her eyes widened upon seeing me made me feel extremely uncomfortable.

I set my full basket down at the self checkout before peering behind my shoulder for a moment. My eyes caught hers and she froze. I furrowed my eyebrows down into a scowl as if saying "Leave me the hell alone" and then proceeded to check out.

As I grabbed my receipt she called out, "Jackson! Is-Is that your name?"

I froze. My hairs on my arms stood up as I turned slowly. "Do... Do I know you?" I asked, tilting my head slightly at the woman.

Her eyes poured tears over her cheeks and she jumped onto me. She wrapped her arms around me tightly as I let out a shriek.

She hiccuped through tears, "Jackson! Oh, Jackie!"

"Get off me!" I screamed as I shoved her off myself, my breath ragged.

That nickname made me shiver.

I backed away and stuttered out, "Stay the hell away from me, lady. I don't know you!"

I then ran to my car. I jammed my keys into the ignition and peeled out of the parking lot. The lady ran after me, yelling words that I didn't bother to process as I drove away.

When I was a good couple of blocks away I stopped my car to catch my breath. My heart was racing within my chest and I wheezed quietly as I rested my head against the steering wheel.

"What the hell?" I whispered between breaths.

I was always scared easily as a child and still easily get freaked out. Even though I was a grown man who towered over nearly every person I'd meet, I still got the chills from uncomfortable situations.

My anxiety didn't help matters much, either. My doctor said it was a side effect of my parents deaths.

After that event I did some research late at night, my mind racing. The town's crime rate wasn't high, but it wasn't low either.

I started to have nightmares.

Very lifelike nightmares.

I was running on under four hours of sleep a day.

I decided that it was time to learn how to use a gun. I needed to protect myself.

I never told my parents about it, though. They would of told me I was being far too paranoid.

I took a class and surprisingly I was great at it. It gave me a thrill I wasn't used to.

It made me feel safe knowing I could use a gun. All I needed was my permit and an actual weapon.

My hands shook slightly from the copious amounts of caffeinated beverages I put into my body, but I learned to work around that.

So, I worked very hard to correct my sleeping pattern and towards my permit and licence to carry. My grades were exceptional so a little bit of slacking wouldn't hurt.

Finally, I had gotten my permit and licence after a while. Then I made my way down to the small gun shop in the not-so safe part of town that sort of gave me the creeps, but it was the only gun store around for miles.

I was so very excited as I peered through the glass casing, having done my research on the multiple handguns a person could own and what would be the best for self defense.

The owner of the store watched me with curious eyes as I pointed out the multiple guns. I didn't feel the slightest anxiety as I peered through the glass.

I had found a new hobby. The very first gun I settled with was a basic 9mm pistol. I wasn't sure if I should get it despite having been a very good shot in the class and the research I did on other guns.

"Do you want to hold it?" The store owner asked, a smile stretched across his wrinkled face.

"Could I?" I asked after a moment of thought. My hands started to sweat lightly as he pressed the gun into my open hand. I allowed my fingers to wrap around it, avoiding the trigger.

I eyed it carefully, taking in all the details of the pistol before turning and holding it out. I squinted slightly as I looked at the back of the gun. Then my eyes focused on the corkboard I was aiming at.

My whole body froze and my blood ran cool.

"Sir?" The store owner asked.

I dropped my arms, turning back to the store owner murmuring, "I'll take it." I paid and then walked over to the corkboard. Missing persons' photos were pinned all over the board.

What had caught my attention was a picture I'd seen many times. It was in both of my parents wallets. There I sat, young with a huge grin on my face. It was a simple school picture that was taken years ago.

My fingers shook as I tore the old sheet of paper from the board.

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

JACKSON EVANS

AGE: 7

EYE COLOR: BLUE

HAIR COLOR: DARK BROWN

I blinked down at it with confusion as I read through the information.

I silently folded the paper, my mind crowded with thoughts as I exited the store.

What the hell? I'm not a missing person.

That night I paced my apartment, my mind sorting through possibilities.

The next morning I skipped university and went to the library. I asked for the newspapers or any information from thirteen years ago.

The librarian watched me sip from my coffee as I looked through the scans, my knee shaking constantly. At first I found nothing.

I spent an hour looking through the papers before finding an article the made me choke on my own spit.

MAN MURDERED, WOMAN SURVIVES GUN WOUND, AND YOUNG BOY KIDNAPPED

I read through the article, my hands shaking and my mouth dry as I scrolled through the pages.

My eyes were fixed on the photograph of a young woman. She looked like the one in the store.

Then it hit me. The vivid memories.

I remembered how my parents car was rear ended and my body was violently jerked forward, causing me to squeak slightly.

I remembered my father getting out of the car, anger written all over his face as he grumbled something about exchanging information.

I remembered the gunshot ringing through my ears and my mother screaming as she scrambled out of the car and how my eyes trailed after her. I remembered the second gun shot and my mother's body falling to the ground.

I remembered the way my hands gripped at the chair as I watched the strangers walk towards the car.

I remembered the back door being opened by a middle aged woman and being dragged out of the car. I put up quite a fight but was later hit with the butt of a gun.

I rubbed my forehead, feeling the scar on the edge of my hairline. That scar was supposed to be from falling off a trampoline.

I slammed my hands onto the table, earning shocked stares from the people around me.

I ran out of the library, tears burning in my eyes as I tried to think through what I just read. My hands shook and my heart raced.

I was lied to for basically my whole entire life.

I bit my lip when I finally laid in bed. My blood ran hot as I dug my nails into my skin. I felt the warm blood trickle down my palm and drip onto the sheets.

I felt the cool metal of my gun as I rested the back of the barrel against my forehead, tapping my forehead lightly as I scrunched my eyes shut, breathing heavily, feeling betrayed. I sat up, gingerly feeling the gun up and down with my forefinger.

I remembered hearing about my "mother's" previous miscarriages.

I screamed into the dark as I pulled at my hair and then curled up in my bed for a short period of time.

After laying in bed for two days, I shot out of bed, having made a decision.

I grabbed my keys with haste.

They were monsters. Killers.

I decided to visit my parents and then I took them on a very long drive up to a lake deep in the woods that was said to have beautiful scenery. Also, it was pretty much uncharted and bears were common.

My body shook with rage as I gripped at the steering wheel, muttering to myself as the skin around my knuckles turned white.

My parents weren't very fond of the idea of a sudden road trip. They didn't appreciate the tall trees that loomed over us as I had them kneel in the dirt in a dark corner of the woods.

The next day, I stayed home. My ears rang slightly and I had a headache, but my racing heart had finally calmed down.

I slept all day after a long shower that cooled me down from my previous hot rage.

The day after that, I called the police and filed a missing persons case. I explained how my parents haven't called in a few days.

After a week of searching and being interviewed countless times, I finally was able to walk back into that shitty gun store. I walked over to the corkboard with an eerie smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

I took the pins and pinned downed two separate sheets of paper that showed pictures of my adoptive mother and father.

On both they read in large bold letters,

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

(Sleepy Skeletons Club)

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itsfinancethings · 4 years

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In the mid-1960s, Greta Arceneaux was a young mother of two in the midst of a divorce with a low-paying secretarial job and an old house in Los Angeles. Dreaming of a better life for her family, she took out a loan, tore down the aging home and used the land to build a five-unit rental complex that, she hoped, would serve both as a home for her and her children and a ticket to the middle-class.

“I was a clerk with very little means, but a whole lot of guts,” recalls Arceneaux, now 81. Her plan worked. Over the years, income from that modest rental complex enabled Arceneaux to help put her children and grandchildren through college, purchase a separate home for herself, and save for her retirement.

Then the coronavirus pandemic upended it all. When COVID-19 reached U.S. soil, killing tens of thousands of Americans and squeezing the economy, the federal government, states and municipalities issued a raft of rent protections, including months-long eviction moratoriums. While such policies were issued in good faith—they were designed to protect renters who have lost their incomes from losing the roofs over their heads, too—they have leveled a crushing blow to small, independent landlords, like Arceneaux, who rely on a handful of rental units for their livelihoods.

Though the protections are dictated by local officials and vary by area, many are long-term: In the city of Los Angeles, where Arceneaux’s property is, tenants who have been impacted by the virus will have up to 12 months from the end of the city’s emergency declaration to repay their back-rent without late fees. In New York state, eviction protections last until the end of August, and in Pennsylvania, renters are shielded from evictions until mid-July.

For Arceneaux the city’s order has resulted in $15,000 in unpaid rent and $0 in government assistance to help her pay for maintenance expenses and other bills, including her personal mortgage. New California building codes also require her to pay at least $60,000, she says, for earthquake prevention reinforcement in one of her units by the end of the year. “My retirement is going down the tubes because of this,” she says.

The complexity of the broader economic crisis and its impact on renters is not lost on Arceneaux. “I feel sorry for him,” she says, describing one of her tenants who lost his job and stopped paying rent. “He’s caught in a situation just like I am. But why are they throwing me under the bus? Why am I responsible for him?”

Problems with eviction moratorium policies are twofold. First, not all landlords are alike. Large, wealthy real estate firms and development conglomerates don’t control the entire market: In fact, just over half of the U.S. rental supply, about 25.8 million units, are owned by business entities, according to the 2015 American Housing Survey. The other 22.7 million rental units are owned by individuals, who are more likely to own single units, homes and duplexes, and are often called “mom-and-pop” landlords.

The second issue is that while wealthy hedge fund investors and real estate firms, who are represented by powerful Washington lobbyists, will benefit from over $100 billion in tax breaks buried in the $2 trillion CARES Act, mom-and-pop landlords, for the most part get nothing. (The CARES Act tax provisions remove caps on individuals’ and businesses’ ability to write off significant net operating losses, so the benefits go almost entirely to millionaires and billionaires who tend to have the largest balance sheets.)

“I don’t understand how they can come up with all of this financial aid for the homeless, for renters, for agriculture, for big business, for airplanes,” says Arceneaux, who is a black member of the Coalition of Small Rental Property Owners, a California-based advocacy group that mostly represents black and Latinx landlords. “And they’re forgetting about the small mom-and-pop people that have two units or four units and serve such a great need in the community.”

Terri Lacy, a 55-year-old former interior designer with an autoimmune deficiency, says she also feels abandoned. Local and federal government programs seem to be offering bailouts to every other group, while imposing rules that increase the burden on people like her.

When Lacy’s children moved out of the inexpensive condos she purchased to help them start their adult lives in California and Nevada, she converted them into rental units. One tenant paid three-fifths of his rent in April, nothing in May, then moved out mid-month. Lacy says the tenant broke his lease four months early, and left her with unpaid utility bills and holes in the wall. Now she has to rehabilitate the apartment and re-list it while taking care not to contract the very virus that created her rental woes. “Who wants to rent a unit in the middle of the pandemic?” she asks, rhetorically. “Nobody.”

Lacy says another of her tenants has paid partial rent since she was laid off from her Las Vegas waitressing job, but not enough to cover Lacy’s property taxes or homeowners association dues. Without full rent checks coming in, Lacy’s personal savings account has taken a hit. Even if she wanted to evict and re-list, she wouldn’t be able to until after June 30, when Nevada’s eviction moratorium expires.

“Here I am expected to absorb everybody else’s heartaches,” she says, “and nobody’s there to resolve my heartache.”

The mom-and-pop landlords who are able to draw on their own savings to make it through the eviction moratoriums imposed by their local governments may struggle to recoup their losses when it’s all over. It’s unlikely that renters who have struggled to pay rent over the last few months will have lump-sums of cash available when their rent is due, and the job market may continue to be sluggish for months or years. Eviction courts may also be backed up in major metropolitan areas once they finally re-open. And even court rulings that come down in landlords’ favor aren’t absolute: Evicted tenants sometimes get away with not paying their debts by changing bank accounts, ignoring collections agencies, working cash-only jobs, filing for bankruptcy, or fleeing the state.

Those who aren’t able to make ends meet without collecting rent checks are likely to sell, says Jenny Schuetz of the Brookings Metropolitan Policy Program. And that’s bad news for low-income renters. Individual property owners are likely to sell to families who will convert their rentals to personal housing, or to large investment groups—which, in turn, are much more likely to renovate, rebuild, and increase the rent. “I think we are going to see some smaller landlords who have to sell their buildings because they just can’t cover the costs,” Schuetz says. “We know from the Great Recession that the people who can afford to buy real estate in a down market are large-scale investors [who] aren’t necessarily likely to keep rents low in existing buildings.”

The large-scale real estate firms that are left tend to build luxury mega-compounds with amenities such as floor-to-ceiling windows, marble countertops and state-of-the-art fitness studios that cater mostly to upper-middle class and wealthy people: Of the 371,000 new rental units expected to hit the market this year, as much as 80% the supply be part of luxury developments, according to real-estate analytics firm RealPage.

But those luxury offerings were out of reach for millions of Americans even before the virus hit. In 2016, nearly half of all renter households were spending at least 30% of their incomes on rent, according to Harvard’s Joint Center for Housing Studies. Now, with more than 20 million people still out of work, the proportion of people struggling to pay each month is almost certainly higher—especially among lower-income earners, who have disproportionately been affected by recent layoffs. While only 13% of people in households who made over $100,000 experienced employment disruption in March, 39% of working individuals in households with annual incomes less than $40,000 were laid off or furloughed, according to the Federal Reserve.

As tens of thousands of protesters flood the streets demanding an end to police brutality and systemic racism in the wake of George Floyd’s killing by a Minneapolis police officer in late May, it’s important to note that punting the rent burden to small landlords during this recession could also have a disproportionate effect on people of color if individual landlords abandon their real estate investments in droves. Due in part to discriminatory federal housing policies legal through the 1960s that blocked many people of color from home ownership—and therefore from amassing wealth that could be passed down to the next generation—black and Hispanic households are about twice as likely as white households to rent rather than own their homes, according to Pew Research Center.

A swift and systematic loss of affordable rental units available on the market would especially hurt those with low incomes. Eviction moratoriums aren’t “going to affect people in middle class housing, particularly. They’re paying the rent, their rental units will still be there,” explains Michael Tanner, a senior fellow at the libertarian Cato Institute. “This is for people at the bottom end of the ladder who are going to find it harder to get affordable and habitable housing. They’re going to end up with expensive, lousy housing.”

Harvard Joint Center for Housing Studies research associate Whitney Airgood-Obrycki argues the best solution to the nuanced problem would be the distribution of government-funded direct rental assistance payments that benefit impacted families. “That’s going to protect renter households, and that’s also going to protect small landlords from economic hardship,” she says.

The Democrat-led House of Representatives has already passed a version of this suggestion in its omnibus HEROES Act, which calls for $100 billion in rental assistance to families with incomes below average earnings in their areas. But the measure is moribund in the Republican-led Senate. A version sponsored by Democratic Senator Sherrod Brown has just 37 co-sponsors, none of whom are Republicans.

In the absence of a Congressional compromise, Arceneaux is weighing her options. She’d love to continue to offer affordable rental units to her community, but she has her own bills to pay. In the meantime, real estate firms have already attempted to take advantage of her predicament. Almost daily, she finds notices in her mailbox from prospective buyers expressing interest in the property she’s owned and maintained for over 50 years.

“It’s almost like the vultures are standing around waiting for something to happen,” she says, “so they can pounce.”

#IFTTT #Blogger

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trendingnewsb · 7 years

Text

I Live In Centralia, PA: It’s America’s Creepiest Ghost Town

Get intimate with our new podcast Cracked Gets Personal. Subscribe for fascinating episodes like My Job Was Killing People: 3 Soldiers Tell Us Everything and Behind Every War News Story Is A 20-Something College Kid.

In 1962, there was a trash fire in a strip mine beneath Centralia, Pennsylvania. Well, we say “was” — there still is. That unassuming little fire ignited an eternal hellish blaze which burns underground to this day. Centralia is one of the most famous ghost towns on earth, but the term “ghost town” is not perfectly accurate, because a handful of people still live there. We spoke with a few former residents, Jack and Becky, as well as one current resident, Jack’s dad, “Guy.” They told us …

The Earth Literally Eats People And Animals

Centralia was a thriving mining town right up until that whole “perpetual hellfire” thing. The land beneath it is honeycombed with mines and tunnels, and the fires have spread all through them. Sometimes the ground up and collapses, devouring whatever surface life lies above with its terrible burning maw. Jack explained: “The scariest things are the sinkholes. You need to watch your step in the woods, because the ground can give way. The fire might have burnt through a foot of coal, but the ground looks like it’s at the level it’s always been. So you step out there and you have some people coming back with broken ankles.”

Really, broken ankles aren’t all that bad compared to some of the things people in other towns face. But Centralia’s sinkholes are more ambitious than that: “The incident that told everyone ‘Maybe we should move’ was when a young kid down the street had a sinkhole collapse around him, and he was sucked down. His mother was watching him, turned around, and when she looked back, he was gone into the pit. This pit went 100 feet down, and looked like a cone if you looked down. He would have died if his arms weren’t stretched out. When they pulled him out, a huge plume of smoke came out, and you could just see the fire at the bottom of the hole.”

That boy, Todd Domboski, survived and presumably went on to write a bestselling book about his escape from the bowels of Hell. Other human-sized creatures in Centralia have not been as lucky.

PBS We keep waiting for glowing eyes to appear.

“Every once in a while, you would come across a deer sticking out vertically with steam billowing out. They looked like they were crawling out. The poor deer had fallen into a sinkhole and had either starved to death or suffocated to death from the fumes. My friends would claim to see smoke coming out of its mouth, like it had been burnt alive, but it was just the way the smoke came out.”

This means the kids who grew up in Centralia before it was completely abandoned had to deal with death on a pretty regular basis. Becky told us about watching the violent death of a neighbor’s cat: “We were swinging in the backyard, and this patch of grass suddenly turned brown. Their cat was standing there, and it suddenly became brown. It didn’t make any noise, and we thought she had done something to make it all suddenly brown, like flipping a sheet over. But it was just another hole, and the cat went down. We didn’t say anything until we jumped off and went over to the fence to see that it was another sinkhole, and we called out to our neighbor, but after some light digging (NEVER go into a sinkhole by yourself), her cat was gone.”

Asphalt Films

Sinkholes even caused an entire stretch of highway to be rerouted after holes and gas buckled parts of it back in 1994. The state did its best to hide the old highway, but because of the dangers lurking beneath, they never got rid of it. And it’s still there, waiting for George Miller to make a much more colorful Mad Max sequel.

Life In A Ghost Town Is … Interesting

Underneath Centralia, the endless fire has created an environment as deadly as the surface of Saturn. While the gases aren’t lethal up above, they still play hell with the resident’s health. Poison gas has even built up in some citizens’ basements. Guy explained how that all simply became part of the weather in Centralia. “We always had the smoke, and my wife felt sick if she was near it. We stay away from it. It’s bad news. Only the tourists go into the damn thing.”

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And Becky elaborated: “There was a lot of coughing. If you know what black lung is [this], it’s what the coughing sounded like. It’s this cough where you can hear the mucus. Worse than what smokers have. If you spent enough time near the smoke, you got a cough like that. And if you were a miner developing black lung, who smoked and spent time near the smoke, like my dad, then you knew when they were home, because you heard the worst cough in the world. If you went to a nearby store and you heard the cough, odds are they were from Centralia.”

This isn’t all in the past. Toxic gases still billow from burnt-out places, and that poses a major threat. Vents were built to pipe the steam away from town into areas of eminent domain where no one lives anymore.

Due to all the underground damage, many homes need additional supports (especially if the former houses next door were means of support for them), so they look like they have six or seven chimneys.

Becky points out that the fame of Centralia also means a lot of tourism. She lived there until her 20s, and while she was in grade school, her dying town became a Halloween vacation destination: “Everyone wanted to trick or treat near me. They didn’t care that they got less candy. They wanted to be scared. A few years some of that steam would rise, or it would be foggy. With all the abandoned houses, it was better than a haunted house. To them. Me, it was another day.”

Even outside of Halloween, tourists would come by just to take in the poisonous “atmosphere” in Centralia. “Whenever people visited from, say, Harrisburg or Lancaster, they would get scared easily. The ground would give out from under them and they’d fall in to their knees, and they’d go ‘Oh my God!’ I was so used to it that I said, ‘Sometimes it does that,’ and went on. This wasn’t unusual. My mom or dad would say not to go into the steam and to stay away from the ‘openings,’ and they always asked what that was. When they found out, they asked if they were going to die, and my dad, eloquent as ever, would say, ‘Oh, probably not.’ Not to be funny, but actually being serious about it.”

People Just … Didn’t Care About The Danger

People are remarkably good at ignoring imminent doom. For evidence of this, read absolutely any newspaper in the world today. It wasn’t until 1984, after several kids were sucked into sinkholes and the underground tanks at a local gas station nearly exploded, that the U.S. government ordered a total evacuation of the town. People still stayed behind, so in 1992, the governor put the entire town under eminent domain. In 2002, the state took their zip code away, and in 2009, the governor announced that all holdouts would be evacuated for their own good.

There are still seven people living in Centralia.

Jack explains why many of those residents ignored the government back then, even when it was doing something as reasonable as evacuating Toxic Firetown, USA. “We had meetings with scientists explaining what was happening. They were talking to miners, some of whom had degrees, so they didn’t have to go layman.” The denizens of Centralia understood coal and the mines, but they still weren’t able to accept that their hometown was now the abode of Satan himself. “The scientists, and even other miners, were telling them that the town could fall in piece by piece or get toxic gas, but they denied it, and said they’d continue to live here because they didn’t see it. These were after pits started opening up, but they STILL said no.”

Jack’s father, Guy, isn’t exactly on the same page. He’s one of the few that stayed behind. And he did it largely to spite those damned scientists and government officials who rolled into town to talk down to him and his neighbors. “They thought they knew more than us, but they were wrong. How come the town hasn’t collapsed like they said? It’s not as bad as they said, and you see that now.”

Jack and Guy’s disagreement is nothing new. Back when the evacuation efforts started, Centralia itself was bitterly divided over whether the fire was a threat or not. Becky remembers: “My parents stayed, because they didn’t think they could afford to move. But then they got an offer for double the value of their home, and they took it. My neighbor ([the one] who owned the cat), she stayed. She had seen the danger firsthand, and lost something she loved to it, but she wasn’t budging. The last time I was there, she was shouting from her porch at some men in suits who obviously wanted her house.”

In 2013, after a battle lasting over 20 years, the remaining ten residents were allowed to stay, but once they’re gone, their homes go to the public domain. Guy sums it neatly: “It’s my home. That’s all there is to it.”

Becky thinks that for some of those last remaining residents, staying in Centralia may be less about spite and more about living in a place so dangerous it’s effectively off the grid: “My old neighbor, until the day she died, would chase off journalists with a broom and hide sprinklers in her lawn to turn them on when people got near. I know before she died, she said she was ‘in talks’ to buy a cellphone jammer, which seems incredibly illegal, but this woman was also fine with threatening to spray bug spray at tourist’s dogs.”

The Government Is Trying to Erase Centralia

Jack pointed out that 20 years ago, while Centralia was emptying out, the town still looked more or less like it always had. But over the last two decades, the state government has been doing its damnedest to wipe the town away. “As soon as they bought houses, they tore them down and covered them with plants. Then they took out as much of the foundations as they could. Then they removed the lip in the curb. They don’t exist, and it looks like they never did.”

We took a picture of Becky’s old house:

“See that? You can kinda tell where a driveway was. But that’s it. No sign of the huge gate we had, or of the stairs, or anything.”

Jack continues: “They took away the name. One day, all the signs were gone. All the signs showing nearby towns had been replaced, with ‘Centralia’ [left] off. They even later covered up an arrow showing a way to get to another city through Centralia, so people passing through can’t get here.”

They removed Centralia’s name from the city municipal building:

The county records office is slowly removing the town from history, which has made life tough on Jack’s dad: “When my father went in to check his property lines, it took almost half a day to find a copy, because they had trashed so much of Centralia.”

The county has also cut back on basic services for the seven people who still live there. Says Jack: “My father doesn’t get mail. Officially, Centralia has no zip code, so nothing can be sent there. Everybody needs a PO box in another town, or need their family to collect it. All of my father’s mail is sent to me. He also stopped using checks. You can’t put Centralia down anymore, due to the zip code, and he didn’t want to ‘burden’ me with putting my address down as his. He went full cash and debit.”

Becky points out that the lack of a PO box has an even more disastrous consequence: It’s made pizza delivery much more difficult. “My parents, after they took away the zip code, couldn’t just give directions to people. If they didn’t know about Centralia, they needed to be specific. I overheard my parents say to pizza guys on the phone ‘Go to Aristes. Then head south on 42. Third little street you see, halfway turn right. We’re the only house on the street.'”

Tourists Are Destroying The Town

Centralia had 1,000 residents in 1980. It was down to 63 in 1990, and ten in 2010. The coal industry left after the whole, uh, giant apocalyptic coal fire thing. But even with all that, Centralia could’ve survived. There’s the tourism aspect, and the fact that it’s kind of an ideal filming location.

Unfortunately, tourism’s mostly benefited neighboring towns, since the state won’t issue new business permits in Centralia. The places selling souvenirs, gasoline, and lodgings are all outside Centralia’s old borders. Since the tourists don’t bring money into town, residents have come to hate them. Jack explained: “They’ll walk on lawns and property freely, thinking it’s abandoned. They’ll always be asking, ‘Why do you live here?’ They dump trash everywhere … The worst are the tourists who leave graffiti.”

Guy has some even more complaints: “They chipped at my house. For a souvenir, like they wanted a piece of the Lord’s cross. Chip chip chip, and they took a part of my stairs. Then they wrote ‘Let it burn’ on it. Why would they do that?”

So what can he do about it? Basically nothing. Jack explains that staying in Centralia means living beyond a lot of modern conveniences … like law enforcement. “We have no police anymore. [State and county] police come through town, of course, but for something routine, it’s not a big deal.”

The town has been beaten up so badly by these visitors that, according to Jack, Hollywood doesn’t really have any interest in filming there anymore. He told us about one time that several location scouts came through town (likely working on The Road), but decided they just couldn’t work there. “The movie people came here, looked around, decided it had too much graffiti, and shot on another abandoned highway out near Pittsburgh. Other Hollywood people talked to my father quickly (Centralia residents don’t like the press), and they liked the look, but they said ‘It might be too much graffiti,’ and since they never came back, it probably was.”

weible1980/iStock Unless Bansky was directing, then yeah.

Becky adds: “For the last five years or so, [tourists have] been way more destructive than the fire.”

Despite intermittent police crackdowns, trespassing has been on the upswing. A lot of that probably has to do with the fact that so many articles on the internet have spread the story of Centralia. So, uh, sorry about that?

Readers, trust us here: Don’t visit Centralia. And if you do, don’t draw on anything. And super duper don’t break pieces off of people’s houses. That’s just messed up. Residents have enough problems.

Evan V. Symon is a journalist and interviewer for Cracked, who was on location in Centralia and didn’t die. Have an awesome job/experience you’d like to see here? Hit us up at [email protected] today!

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