Stardew Valley Fic - Tumblr Posts
I just saw a really good sdv fanfiction where there’s a cult in the valley,Sam and Sebastian escape from said cult,Robin is fearless and it has very much inspired me to write some au’s 👀
(It’s called Stardew Valley Oneshots by @audioaujom ,I definitely recommend it!)
cliff talk | sebastian x reader
word count: 2.1k
summary: sebastian brings you on a ride.
tags: emotional hurt/comfort, slight angst, dialogue heavy, sebastian and reader have a heart to heart
a/n: i never thought i'd be writing for the emo boy but here i am. hope you guys liked this as much as i liked writing this! :D
Like the green rain phenomenon or the cute little junimo creatures that live in the community center, there’s always something new to experience in the valley. As odd as it might be.
Hunched over, tending to your crops—is like living in wait, the calm before the storm, the thrum of anticipation as you await the next exciting thing.
Like today—now.
“Ah, there you are.”
The garden shears in your hands are dropped into the thick down crawl of growing fruit. You look up, squinting your eyes due to the warm beat of dying sunlight.
“Sebastian?” you pause, looking up at him from your spot amongst growing melon vines. Your overalls smeared with dirt and damp with sweat—this is the last state you’d want to be seen in.
“Hey farmer,” The keys dangling from his index finger jingle as he gives you a close-lipped smile. “Wanna go for a ride?”
—
The place Sebastian stops at is quiet.
But not in the way most people think—the valley is never quiet, birds chirping, the breeze singing through tall grass and the rustle of branches swaying slowly. You’re aware of the sounds in the recesses of your mind.
The view is breath-taking.
The sun set long before you arrived on Sebastian’s cliff side spot. It’s cool and grassy, ticking your ankles as you walk through the field. The air, no longer warm but a cool breeze that you greedily inhale.
You stop right before the edge, there’s a big drop that you'd rather not slip and fall into. Zuzu city lay just under the horizon, a smatter of light in the otherwise now-dark forest. A cluster of flashing lights that remind you of stars—that have fallen and gathered from the night sky.
“Amazing, I know.” Sebastian says, a few steps behind you. He’s leaning against his bike, staring at the same view as you. “Zuzu city is miles from here, but there’s so much light—you can see it even from high up.”
You fold your arms, turning your back at the view—facing him. “Well, it is nicer from afar.”
Sebastian gives you a look, then nods his head to the grassy patch behind him. “Mhm. Let’s sit?”
You settle down together, side by side. You, him, and his motorbike beside him—there’s barely any space between your legs. You feel the warmth of proximity—so close. What you’d give to bridge that gap once and for all.
“Want a drink?” he asks, pulling out a beer bottle from his hoodie pocket—your brow raises, a miracle it didn’t break on the way. “Only got one though.”
You shrug, taking the bottle. It’s warm—warmed by his body heat. “S’okay with me. We’ll just have’ta share.”
He looks at you, eyes momentarily flickering to your lips as you use your teeth to pop the bottle cap off. “I guess we do.”
—
The beer is settling warmly low in your stomach, loosening every tightly wound muscle in your body. You feel weightless, the edges of your mind made fuzzy.
“I’ve been savin’ up a lot,” he suddenly says, picking absentmindedly at the blades of grass underneath him. “Almost have enough too. Once I do, I’m skipping outta this town on my bike.”
You nod your head. “It is a pretty cool bike.”
“Mhm,” he drawls, patting the side of his motorcycle—almost lovingly. “It’s gonna take me all the way to Zuzu city.”
“Zuzu city,” you repeat slowly, feeling the sound of the words in your mouth. It’s unpleasant, Zuzu city is a place you’d rather leave behind. You look down at the view of it, squinting. “Why go there?”
He pauses, inhaling the cool night air deeply. His fingers itch—like they’re searching for the comforting hold of cigarettes he so enjoys.
A part of you wishes you didn’t ask. Difficult conversations and cliff sides don’t mesh well together, you think. You don’t dare move a muscle as you wait for him, your eyes drifting back to the glittering light-filled view of Zuzu city.
“It’s suffocating here—everything about the valley,” he replies mirthlessly. “I live in the basement of my mom’s house for fuck’s sake. I know how she looks at me, like she could’ve done so much more to make me less of a shitbag. Maybe she could’ve, I don’t care. It’s way too late now.”
A low whistle escapes past your lips. You swirl the beer bottle loosely in your grip. “I see…”
Sebastian narrows his eyes at you, scoffing. “You’re pretty shit at comforting words, y’know that?”
“Harsh,” you look at him quizzically, shoving the beer bottle into his hands. He accepts it immediately. “What do you want me to say, Seb?”
“Nothing,” he smirks, downing a generous gulp of beer, the bottle is a little less than half full now. “‘m just teasing. Don’t gimme that look. I didn’t want comfort anyway, I’ve had enough of that. I want you to tell me the stone cold truth.”
“Promise not to get pissed off?”
Sebastian clicks his tongue against his teeth, then smiles. “Depends on what you say.”
“Wow, guess I’ll have to lie.” you joke.
“Hey—”
“Kidding.” You laugh softly at his pinched expression. His eyes narrowed—lacking any real aggression—at you as you poke harmless fun.
You grin, slowly turning back to the view. “You won’t find yourself there,” you say simply, taking a slow sip of beer, the smoothness of it running smoothly down your throat. “Believe me, I’d know.”
Sebastian turns to face you, irritation spelled out in every feature of his face.
“Smartass…”
“Hey, you asked for the stone cold truth,” you lift your fingers into air quotations to emphasize your point.
“Tch. Tell me this then. If I can’t find myself there, or here in the valley. Where the hell do I go?”
You pause, clicking the bottle with your nails idly. He’s irritated obviously. But you think more frustrated and confused than anything.
You sigh, then smile. The valley hasn’t been the kindest to its resident shut-in.
“Mid-life crisis at 24,” you tease gently, poking at his side. Sebastian shoots you a heatless glare. “Don’t worry too much Seb, your hair is gonna turn gray.”
“Ha-ha,” he replies sourly. “You talk as if that isn’t the same reason you moved to the valley.”
“Hey, I gave a generous amount of my life to Joja,” you snort, shifting your feet into a better resting position. “I paid my dues over there before I found some semblance of peace here.”
“I can’t just sit around and wait my whole life.”
“Then don’t,” you reply simply. “God knows I wish I followed my dear old gramps’ footsteps sooner.”
“It isn’t that simple.”
“Yep. It isn’t. It does get easier though.”
“You say it so easily.”
“Sometimes, it just is.” you reply. “Only sometimes, though.”
For all you remember, your grandfather absolutely adored the valley, though he couldn’t convince you in the height of your angsty teenage phase to do the same. You’re long past that now, life didn’t go as planned and you ended up right where your grandfather said you would be.
Funny, how fate works so mysteriously, so weirdly.
You shake that thought away, turning to Sebastian—who has the same contemplative expression as you.
He’s silent, thinking. His fingers grasping and twirling the drawstrings of his hoodie. “You never told me the story.”
“Well,” you purse your lips, handing him the bottle. He drops the drawstrings to grab it. A wordless agreement between the two of you to share what remains of the liquid. “You n’ver asked.”
“I wanna hear it,” he says, looking at you at the corner of his glittering obsidian eyes. “please?”
“How polite,” you laugh, he lightly hits you on the back of your head with his palm. “Ouch. No need to be rough w’me, I’ll tell you.”
You clear your throat with an obnoxious ahem. “Once upon a time…”
“—C’mon farmer, stop messing around. I wanna know your story,” he interjects, and it almost sounds like a plea. “No theatrics.”
Your lips flatten into a grim line. He’s being unusually insistent on the topic. But now that you think about it, you haven’t told anyone why you moved into the farm. Not your mother, not your father, and definitely not anyone else in Pelican Town.
Sebastian may be your first, you think to yourself—innuendo unintended.
You hug your arms closer to your chest, the cool draft sliding over your skin—making you shiver. No better way to battle the uncomfortable situation with an even more uncomfortable conversation. You take a deep breath.
“I was a fresh graduate when I started working at Joja—worked my way up from customer service to marketing. Crazy, right?” you chuckle, though it sounds hollow even to you. “All the pretentious proposals I would write and those useless meetings that’d take forever. There wasn’t a day where I didn’t hate my 20 year old self for starting at Joja. 5 years down the fucking drain when I quit. Let me tell you, it’s the best decision I made in my stupid corporate slave life.”
Sebastian says nothing, he hands the bottle back to you, which you take a generous swig of. You grip the bottle tightly around its neck, the warm feeling of alcohol loosening your tongue.
You exhale deeply through your nose. “I was in my cubicle when I just ‘bout had enough—by the way, I hate that they’re called cubicles, I felt like a number in some executive’s spreadsheets instead of a living breathing person.” all that talking and your throat itches for more of the sweet burn of alcohol—you oblige it with another weighty gulp. “Grandpa left me this letter, told lil’ old me not to open it until I really, really needed to. Now that I think of it, he knew.”
Your voice cracks by the end of it. Your tongue feels way too thick for your mouth. And your eyes blur—there seems to be twice as many stars as usual.
Sebastian stays quiet, reflective even. Though his hands have stilled, and he feels closer than he was earlier. It’s warmer, you think.
If he asks, you’ve decided you’ll blame it on the alcohol.
—
You and Sebastian talk for hours after, the bottle of beer being passed between the both of you too often. You feel a tad tipsy—having drank the lion’s share of beer. Your head lolls onto your arms as you talk about everything then nothing.
There’s a fair moment of silence that blankets the two of you after—certainly not uncomfortable. You feel Sebastain knows the fact more than anyone. He seems to thrive in the quiet moments.
“I don’t think I’m leaving the valley any time soon, though,” he says softly, breaking the tranquil silence.
So he’s been thinking. “Why so?”
He shrugs his shoulders, taking the final sip of beer that finishes the bottle. “Something’s makin’ it worth staying a little longer.” His eyes meet yours, albeit for a second—before he refocuses on the cliff side view.
Ah, you understand.
Suddenly, alcohol isn’t the only thing making you feel so warm. You thank the stars for the dark, for hiding any warm pinkness in your expression. You smile, more to yourself than anything. Taking the bottle from him, brushing your fingers over his perpetually cold ones.
The bottle is lighter than it was at the beginning of the night—your shoulders too, less achy, less stiff. With all that weight off of them, you can afford to be less wound up.
You tip the bottle over the grass, nothing but a single drop comes out. You watch it fall and drop into the grass. “Good. This something thinks you’ll come to like it even.”
Sebastian tilts his head, a tentative smile playing on his lips. “That’s presumptive.”
You shrug, smirking. “I have a sense for this type of stuff.”
“Really now?”
“Mhm. I don’t just lie for no reason. And my senses are telling me you’ll be alright.”
You hear the silent hitch of his breath, the momental widening of his eyes and the tremble in his jaw. It saddens you slightly, no one has probably reassured him of it before.
God knows you needed some while working at Joja, you’re just returning your dues to the universe—and to him.
He laughs softly, and bitterly. His fingers twitch again—for that darn cigarette. “God, I sure hope so.”
Sebastian will be just fine, you know that. And it’s about time he knew it too.
homecoming | sam x reader
word count: 3.2k
tags: hurt/comfort , family struggles , reader and sam are married , set somewhere in year 2 (kent is back) , oneshot , intimacy
synopsis: Sleep evades you on nights like these, without Sam by your side.
a/n: i love sam but the allure of angst is too hard to resist!!! sorry babe i still love you 😔
Sleep evades you on nights like these, without Sam by your side.
Your feet are bare as you linger at the entrance of your room. The dimmed light of the living room washes away the darkness of the hour. It's late, the air is cool and damp smelling of night dew—you take a deep inhale. It feels thick as you breathe it in, like smoke is clouding around the room, restricting your breaths.
Sleepless nights were not unusual in your household. Before you married Sam, you hardly slept—the satisfying ache of collapsing into your sheets after a day at the mines was an addiction you couldn’t get enough of.
Now, you earn enough to afford coming home before sunset. No longer having to worry about how you’d afford the next day. And if you are being completely honest, evenings spent with Sam are far more addicting than the sting of a day’s work.
The ache is still there. It comes with the profession. Though not anymore the dull humming ache in the muscles and joints of your arms and legs, but a bone deep ache settled deeply curling around your chest.
Somehow, it stings even more.
It is as if it drags over your heart, catching on every ridge and edge of your bones. Daring to fill your lungs with ichor—hardening like stone around your ribs. No amount of stardrop you swallow can ever relieve the stinging soreness.
The cushions of the old second-hand couch groan and squeak as you twist and turn atop of them. Perhaps as restless as you are. The light flickers—on, off, on.
It doesn’t scare you, but it makes you uneasy. You’re long over the notion the farmhouse was haunted, but nights like these make that conviction waver. The nape of your neck prickles—like a person is staring from behind. Sam isn’t here to tease you about ghosts nor curl his arms around you in mock protection.
He hasn’t been here in hours, hasn’t been present in so long. It feels wrong. It feels like an omen. Your fingers find the back of your neck, brushing over the vulnerable skin.
You hold a tassel cushion tightly to your chest. Your knuckles whitening with the strength of your grip on it. The strength of your heartbeat is so loud you’re convinced it would be heard without the pillow to muffle the sound.
Little Vincent is sound asleep, snoring softly away in his dreamland. He looks like the epitome of innocence under the quilted blankets of your bed. It's soft, worn and covered in stitched cartoon-y lions and tigers. A temporary parting gift bundled up in his dinosaur backpack from jodi. Before he came to live with you and his older brother.
The separation was painful. there were tears—for both him and for his mother.
(Sam stood next to you then, gripping at your hand so hard you felt it prickling with numbness. You didn’t dare look up to see the tears you know are there, the crystalline tears dripping down his lash line.
It would’ve made the teardrops in yours fall over too. You’d stay strong for the both of you.)
The entrance door to the farmhouse creaks open and you immediately know it’s him. Relief floods your whole body—to your fingertips to your toes. He's safe, and home at last. You stand up and hurry to him, throwing the pillow to the ground, before the door creaks shut.
The air goes still, calm before the storm. The anticipation before potential terrible news.
(You expect there will be. You can tell by the way Sam slumps, like the weight is physically bearing down on his shoulders.)
Sam is still at the doorway, slumping over you when you wrap your arms around him. He smells of sweat and the cloying scent of rubbing alcohol—something must’ve happened, you think. It smells like the clinic.
The paper bag in his hand loses from his grip, it falls unceremoniously to the ground with a dull thump. You pay it no heed, mentally accounting to pick it up later. Though you note that it lands right over your ‘home sweet home’ doormat. Fitting.
“Sammy.” you greet him with a chaste peck on the cheek. He barely has the energy to hug back, more so stay steadily upright on his feet. you both sway slightly, suspended in the tranquility of the moment.
You try again, slowing the movement of your lips. “Welcome home, my love. you there?”
His lips move against the skin of your neck, a whisper of a greeting. It is enough for you.
Sam retracts his face from your jaw. There are blue-purple eye bags under his eyes, like bruises. The trademark twinkle in his brilliant green irises have dulled to nothingness. He looks so unlike himself like this, older than his years and so unbearably tired.
And you wish, with all your heart, to take his aches away. To wash them away like ink in water.
You pull him into the living room with you, the skin of his wrist enclosed in the firm guiding grip of your fingers. He's fragile like this, this sunshine of a man reduced to a shell of his usual demeanor.
He trails slowly behind you, silent. You say nothing, either; choosing to focus on the rhythmic sounds of your footsteps padding against the floor. In the living room, you dim the lights to a mere whisper of light.
These days, when he comes home, you’ve built some sort of routine.
You drag him down to you, spread lying down on the length of the couch. Your thighs frame his hips as he melts into the warmth of body. He lays on top of you, his cheekbone against your chest. You watch as his eyes flutter shut, as he presses his ear to the epicenter of your chest—the sound of your heartbeat quieting the swirl of thoughts in his mind.
You gently remove the woolen beanie nestled on his head—revealing the stringy oily mess of hair under. A sign of how little care he has been sparing himself after his father’s homecoming. You feel your lips downturn into a frown. He hasn’t even been using that hair gel you like to tease and groan about.
(You lied when you’d say you hated it. You don’t, never did.
You miss it. You miss the things that make him, him.)
You don’t hesitate in running your hands through the softness of his hair. Your fingers scratch gently on his scalp, eliciting a soft sigh from your weary husband. Eyes watch raptly as his shoulders unwind and ripple. The tension in them melts away with the deft caress of your hands.
Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. Like a knife twisting. You love him, you love him.
Moments pass, the silence is almost comfortable when you ask, speaking it to the silence of the room. There’s a wavering lilt in your voice reassuring him. You aren’t going to push him for an answer. He doesn’t need to respond. Him being safe, home and warm in your arms is all you ever want. All you’ll ever need.
“How are they?”
(The first night, you and Sam stayed the night in his family home. squeezed in his twin bed with Vincent curled up by his ribs. The little boy couldn’t bear sleeping alone that night, not with the anxiety of his father being back making him pace a mile a minute.
The air in the household had shifted that day.
In the dead of the night, the fire alarm went off—a blaring loud beeping sound from the kitchen. Totally harmless, a malfunction. A disturbance to sleep more than anything.
Except it was not.
You still remember the blood-curdling scream that came from Jodi and Kent's room. The panicked sobs of Jodi as she tried to calm her terror stricken husband.
You remember the way Vincent clung onto you, like a koala to a tree. You cupped your hands tightly over his ears—he didn’t need to suffer the consequence of it.
Sam removed the fire alarm and Vincent from the house the next morning.)
His voice is hushed when he speaks. A pin could drop and be more clearly heard. “Mom's… getting better.”
Not getting worse than she already is.
You plant a kiss on the crown of his head, lips soft and adoring on his skin. You ache to take his burden, to take his share of suffering.
It hurts sometimes, to be right beside him but feel so faraway. Yet like this, feeling every curve and edge of his body—you can convince yourself that it doesn’t.
“Is Vince asleep?”
“Yes,” you reply, tucking a blond curl behind his ear. His head unconsciously tilts to the room where his younger brother rests. Ever so protective of him even like this.
Continuing you say, “He was looking for you,” you thread your fingers through the short blond strands at his neck. Sam untenses slightly in your arms, his arms going limp at your sides. “He's been fidgety lately. Restless.”
“He usually is.” his feeble attempt at a joke. Though the rasp in his voice only makes it sound resigned. You purse your lips, eyes tracking back to the cedar wood of your bedroom door on the other side of the room—and the sleeping child behind it.
You stroke Sam's hair, thinking. “More so than usual.”
(You know why. He knows too. Kent wasn’t the same when he returned from the war. He was vulnerable, not the fragile type but vulnerable in the way a ignited bomb threatened an explosion.
Vincent wasn’t either—grown much more from that thumb suckling toddler when he left.
“My dad is coming home soon,” Sam confides in you on that day on that day on the beach. Him standing a few feet away from the shore line, and you; next to him.
“This isn’t how I wanted him to grow up,” his voice cracks with vulnerability. “I—I want him to have a better childhood than I did.”
“He will, Sam. He will.” I know you’ll make sure of it.
His eyes are red-rimmed and raw when he looks at you. All you wanted was to wipe that anguished expression off his face.)
He is silent. All is silent. Tranquility is like a honey thick syrup poured over your chest, smeared all over the expanse of your body. The soft sounds of your synchronized breathing is the only sound you can bear to hear. It makes your eyes droop, the lethargic feeling dulling your senses.
Your hand reaches for his, intertwining your palm with his long-fingered one. You relish in the familiar feeling of his calloused fingertips, earned from afternoons spent with his guitar. His skin is warm, warmer than yours. You give his hand a tentative squeeze, he squeezes back.
“Mom told me to say hi to you both for her,” he tells you, his breathing slow and deep. “She misses him, and you. She’s coming to visit as soon as she can.”
“Vince misses her too,” you sigh, craning your head forward to peek at the top of his head. “It's affecting him, I can tell. Penny's getting worried. She tells me he hasn’t been himself at school.”
All that Sam can manage is a deep intake of breath, then a softer resigned exhale. There isn’t much nor enough for him to say. Your free hand goes to smooth down his back. The muscles there are tough—bunched up and tense.
He shifts between your thighs, baring down heavier on your pelvis. Even as tired as he is, Sam is restless. Always has been, whether it be on his skateboard or with his guitar. You ignore the growing ache in your lower back—it is not your moment, but his. The warmth of his weight on top of you overpower any discomfort you have.
Twirling the stray curl at his neck, you finally ask. Fingers featherlight against his shoulder. “How… is he?”
Sam stiffens above you, the lean line of his body rigid. He’s clearly distressed with talking about his father. You suck a breath through your teeth, knocking your leg gently against his, giving your silent push for him to continue.
“I can't even lie,” he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face away. “It isn't good, Doc Harvey says dad’s got PTSD from the war. It's triggered by loud sounds. Remember the time he woke up because of the fire alarm?”
You nod, curling your fingers around his. You try to provide him any semblance of comfort—to reassure him. You love him, always.
It's painful to see, to watch what he’s going through only by the sidelines.
Sam looks up at you from your chest, eyes blurry with exhaustion. His jaw tensing ever so slightly, you see the patchy blonde stubble starting at the jut of his jaw. The wrinkle in his brow growing more prominent at the mention of his father. It's a fresh type of wound, raw and open. You dance around the topic, like poking a sleeping lion that threatens to attack at any given moment.
“We’ve transferred him to stay in my old room. He’s been holed up there most of the time. The nightmares are keeping mom up. He wakes up screaming most nights." Sam rasps, squeezing your fingers. He speaks lowly against the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, the heat of his body bleeding through it and into you.
His voice dissolves into a pained crack when he speaks. “It sucks.”
“It will get better, we can get through it,” you sit up slightly, elbows bent behind you. Sam's been out the whole day. You assume he must be starving and tired. “Do you need anything?”
Sam doesn’t let you up, though. He tugs you back down under him with the gentle pull of his arm. You still in his arms, looking down at him.
“No,” he pleads. “just… stay with me, okay? Let's stay like this, please.”
You swallow, nodding. “Yes, of course.”
You wish you could ease his worries. You wish you could tell him that it’ll be alright and he would believe it.
You love him, more than life itself. Like you are a planet that orbits around him, the sun. You show him so everyday—and will continue to do so with everyday that will come.
You just wish he’d be more selfish with you.
If he falls, you’ll piece him back together. Glue his bones together with your hands, relying on the familiarity of his being. Anything, you’d do anything.
The matching mermaid pendants resting over his and your collarbone symbolizes that.
“I want to help you, sam. You take all this burden up on your own. please?”
He sits up, back hunched over you. A dim shadow of him filtered over you. You follow him, like you can’t bear to be apart from him.
“You are, you always have,” Sam softens, gazing at you so reverently you could sob. He looks at you as one gazes at master paintings, like he is in wordless awe of you.
The room is dark with night. If you strain your ears hard enough, the cooing of the owls filter through the cracks of your windows. The moonlight is scarce, you can barely see the expressions painting his face. Though, you’re sure your expression is as lovesick as his. Practical hearts in your eyes as you stare.
“Looking after Vince is more than I could ever ask for, honey.” he whispers, pinching the hem of your sleep shirt between his thumb and pointer finger.
“No Sam,” you murmur, taking his face into your hands. your hands frame his face, warming the cool skin of his cheeks. Desperation fills every movement in a plea for him to understand. “I meant you.”
You inhale, relishing the smell of sweat, mint and rubbing alcohol on his skin. The scent smells so comforting, and so familiar.
You hope he finds that same solace in you as you do with him.
“I want to take care of you,” you say more firmly, stroking him on the skin of his brow bone. “Won’t you let me?”
He stares at you, enveloping your hands with warmer ones. You sigh contentedly at the feeling. They sear into your skin, warming you with the righteous heat of his devotion.
To you, he is the sun and you have the sun right in the palm of your hands. You know he won’t ever burn you, nor leave your skin red and raw from his intensity. His rays are gentle, a featherlight whisper of a kiss on the expanse of your body.
But the sun never stops shining. It is steadfast in its duty to provide. You worry, will he explode in a grand supernova or crumple into a black hole?
Either way, you will never allow it. You’d rather douse the sun in the water of the ocean to hold him in your arms. Maybe then, he can finally rest soundly.
You feel his thumb rub back and forth on the back of your palm, silent and considering. The brush of it melting you against him like a contented cat. A smile graces your lips, you can wait.
Though you do not need to. Sam turns his head and kisses your wrist. His nose bumping into the crease of your thumb. You feel honeyed warmth drip down your heart, collecting in the cavern of your chest.
That's all the confirmation you need.
(There are some days his words fail him. The days his mind is bursting with ideas, so much so it’s difficult for him to convey a singular thought.
That's alright. Perfect, even. Sam has always been better at expressing himself through actions.)
“I love you,” you kiss his forehead, then over each of his eyelids. You want to kiss every inch of his skin until there is nothing left to cover. “so, so much.”
You press your lips to the corner of his. Opting to speak your promise against his skin, to tattoo your undying love into the smooth expanse of it.
Sam tilts his head, causing his lips to brush completely against yours. He presses them firmer against yours, the taste of spearmint gum heavy on his tongue. You lick the seam of his lips—let me in, let me in.
“I love you too. more than you know,” he gasps, tearing his lips away. His breath puffing warmly against the skin of your cheek. He declares it as if he’s running out of breath, and it is his final words. A willing sailor drowning in the deep ocean that is you. “More than anything, more than life itself.”
You press your forehead against his. Your eyes meet the depthless green of his. The twinkle is there; flickering and faint but present.
Love is what brought him to you. It’s what keeps bringing him home to you every night. You want to be his refuge, his comfort, his partner for life.
Your eyes shut, eyelashes fluttering against your cheekbones. “Share the burden with me, Sammy. I can take it.”
At the end of the day, he is all you want. All that you need. If it takes him time, you won’t mind. even if it takes centuries.
Sam captures your lips again. Murmuring his agreement greedily against you. You love him, you love him and he loves you.
You are the one he comes back to, his spouse. The greatest love of his life. Home isn’t the farmhouse you’ve built a life in—
It’s you, always has been you.
super graphic ultra-modern girl like me!
pairing: haley x reader
wc: 2k
tags: mature (NOT explicit) , closeted lesbian haley , both of you are drunk , making out
synopsis: where sharing lipstick with your best friend haley makes you feel… things.
a/n: reader: oh ho ho, i sure hope kissing my bff doesnt awaken anything in me! (it did)
i wrote this listening to super graphic ultra modern girl by chappel roan! haley fits so many of her songs its insane
your head is aching, spinning like you were sent to another dimension that consists of disco flashing lights and the nauseating smell of spilt vodka—all thanks to the sheer amount of alcohol you consumed in the past 5 hours. it’s pushing 3 AM—the strappy 4 inch heels are chafing your feet, the skimpy skirt clinging to your hips ride up in a way that would scandalize the small village mothers, and body glitter covering every inch of your skin.
you feel light, weightless as you flutter and float through the rhythmic bass engulfing the club. you nod your head to the beat of the music, swaying your hips that loosen with every sip of the sweet alcoholic drink in your hand.
you’re bouncing up and down to party rock anthem when your phone buzzes. fishing it out of your pocket, you squint your eyes to make out the notification. you bow your head, trying to make out the message over the flashing lights.
an amused laugh bubbles out of you. haley.
—> go 2 thr bathroon rn
—> hurry or else
you turn and wobble out of the middle of the dance floor, swaying to the beat while maneuvering the sea of sweaty bodies. the bathroom is in an isolated corner by the entrance of the club. you push the door open, stumbling slightly when it takes a little less effort than you expect.
you enter the club bathroom, shutting the ornate door behind you. it slams with a resounding slam, dampening the loud candy pop songs blaring through the party outside.
your heels click against cool marble as you saunter to the long, seemingly endless, stretch of mirrors and faucets. twisting the knob, a rush of tap water flows freely; it contrasts satisfyingly with the heated skin of your hands. you wet your fingers, dabbing your cheeks and neck with cool water. you sigh, shivering with the instant relief it brings.
as you cool yourself off, you think—you do wonder what haley’s predicament is, she texted you with much urgency.
perhaps she fell into the toilet—or maybe she’s drunk herself to the point of spewing her guts out in one of these very cubicles. the latter though makes you giggle. a notification buzzes from your phone, as if the sound of your laughter summoned it.
—> idiot
—> i can hear u laughing from here
you snort.
suddenly, without warning, you feel a warm hand pull you into a stall. it’s a sudden jerking motion, and you almost lose your balance to fall flat on your face. a gasp rips out of you as you clutch on to the very warm, very soft thing that keeps you from falling and twisting your ankle. before you even register the situation, you’re being dragged in to sit on the closed lid of the toilet.
you’re frazzled, knocked off balance by a rude and very disrespectful stranger who obviously has no morals. you feel your blood boil, ruthless insults ready at the tip of your tongue—
—then you look up, and that feeling dissipates. instead, a cheshire grin splits your face, “haley.”
she’s the living breathing stereotype of a wild party girl like this; blonde hair in waves down her back that smells sweetly of strawberries, nails buffed and painted a pretty baby blue, and make-up done up to the absolute nines. her sequin skirt sparkles and winks as she shifts. pretty, you’ll ask if you could borrow it next time—
manicured fingers snap and you’re pushed out of your own thoughts. haley crosses her arms, standing in between your thighs, looking down at you with a displeased expression. “took you long enough.”
you offer a sheepish smile. “i was busy.”
“yeah,” she sneers, locking the stall door behind her. “busy shaking your ass to trashy zuzu club songs.”
you ignore the sharp jab with a roll of your eyes. “what’s up?” you ask, your words slur slightly, almost tapering off into incomprehensible gibberish. “didya you puke or something?”
“ew. no,”the loud is just making my head hurt,” she replies, massaging her temples. “stick your legs together, i’m gonna sit on your lap.”
she knocks your thighs together with her knee. haley maneuvers you to her liking, your bare thighs pressing together when she spins and sits perpendicular to your lap.
“hm.” you feel the weight of her settle on top of your thighs. the warmth of her skin meeting yours under the cut of her skirt. you barely repress a shiver at the heat radiating off her skin. “woah! okay now you really have to tell me what’s going on.”
you're met with a faceful of strawberry-scented blonde hair when she shifts away—ignoring you. good news for her, your drink-addled brain doesn’t seem to care. in fact, your drunk brain figures it is a perfect time to shamelessly flirt. your tongue is loose enough, and your brain has completely thrown away its filter. as friends, of course; building camaraderie as people say.
“you smell nice, did you use that strawberry shampoo i gave?” you murmur, brushing the locks away from your face. you feel haley squirm in your lap. you know she used it, the pride bubbles up in you at the thought.
it’s overly warm, that plus the buttloads of alcohol brewing in your gut makes your skin feel on fire.
haley growls. “stop talking, dumbass.”
you roll your eyes, pinching her thigh. she yelps, high and breathy, swatting your hand away. she meets your eyes, her blonde brows furrowed.
“geez…” a lazy smile playing on your lips. “just take the compliment, hales.”
a ghost of a smirk appears on her cherry colored lips. glossy and pink. you wonder if they taste as sweet and tart as real cherries do—
you wince internally. thinking like that is not a good idea. damn your alcohol foggy brain, making you think of the inane idea of lusting after your best friend.
you knock your forehead into her shoulder. “so are we just going to sit here all day?”
“i just need to touch up my lipstick,” she says. facing you with an expectant look. “then we can go back.”
“and that’s why you called me,” you raise a brow. your gaze trails to the cherry coat on her lips—it looks perfectly fine to you. in fact, she looks absolutely darling like this.
“you need some?”
“…are you offering?”
“why not? we share all my shit anyway,” you shrug. “i think it’s somewhere in my purse—”
“where’s your purse?”
“i left it with the others, i think it’s with abby, i'll text her.” you say. fumbling for your phone, you reach in the hidden pocket of your skirt. the walls enclosing the cubicle restrict your movements; you bump your elbow against the flimsy wood as you dig deeper into the flimsy pocket. your skirt is skin-tight against your hips, you feel the woman above becoming increasingly agitated as your attempts to fish out your phone come out fruitless.
haley huffs above you, shifting; making your wary gaze snap back to her. she looks down at you with a pout—you’re damn sure she’s just as hammered as you.
“too far,” she whines, taking a firm grip of your jaw. your cheeks puff with the force of her squishing them, you feel the pointed tips of her nails digging into the fat there. she swings a leg over you, her hips bracketing your waist as she sits atop you.
this position feels strangely intimate; like all your senses are overwhelmed with only haley. the heady scent of her skin, the short sounds of her breathing in your ears, the burning feeling wherever she touches—it’s all her, her, her.
which shouldn’t make you feel the way it’s making you feel; like you're buzzing with adrenaline. you feel the blood coursing through your veins at race car speeds—spreading all throughout your body. your cheeks feel hot, you feel dizzy with all your senses stimulated by your best friend.
the reverberating bass from the music outside shakes the walls; like some sort of finality as it thumps, thumps, thumps.
“hales,” you start, your mouth dry. “what—”
she stares at you, her crystalline eyes shining in the dim light of the bathroom. a pretty pink flush paints her cheeks til the tips of her pearl-adorned ears. you feel her breaths against your cheek—short and warm. “stay still, the gloss you have on your lips will do.”
your ears have to be fucking with you… your eyes widen and you swear you feel your heart jump up into your throat. “huh—”
“what?” she says in response to your wide-eyed expression. her tone drops to something akin to a purr. “your lipstick is such a pretty shade.”
helping is what friends are for, right? maybe this is merely the alcohol talking; because she doesn’t like you like that, totally—and the disappointment you feel is not because of that either.
you swallow the heavy lump in your throat; your voice is strangled and stuttery when you speak. “f—fine.”
“perfect,” she grins. “hold still.”
this is the least you were expecting when you walked into the club bathroom; who knew you’d end up with haley in your lap and hovering over for what is technically a kiss. you will your eyes not to close, burning the view of her leaning over you into your brain. you shudder; this is not a sight that will leave you for months to come.
you squeeze her hip as her face hovers closer, palm lingering at her scratchy sequin miniskirt. you crane your neck, anticipating the brush of her lips against yours. your other hand travels to her upper back, stroking her locks of golden hair; under your ministrations, you feel her tremor slightly.
it feels like eternity when you finally connect.
sparks fly the moment you feel the plush softness of her mouth against yours, moving in a salacious rhythm that you doubt is for only sharing lipstick.
her lips are sticky with what remains of that cherry lip gloss; it smears all over your own lips, spreading your deep red lipstick everywhere; at the corner of your lips, at your chin. your eyes flutter shut, a contented sigh escapes your mouth and haley uses that as an opportunity to deepen the kiss. she drags her hand up and up, curling her fingers into the base of your neck.
you jolt, the pleasure fogs your mind; your thoughts are muddy, the only coherent thing is of haley.
your tongue swipes at her bottom lip, chasing the fruity flavor of cherry cola on her lips. it’s sweet, she’s sweet. you feel lightheaded with the overwhelming sensations of it. sure, you’ve kissed once or twice—but it never felt like this; soft and desperate and hot and tingly, affecting you all throughout your body.
your breaths are labored when she pulls away and you feel it's too soon. a clicking wet sound when her mouth disconnects from yours that makes you shiver. you feel dizzy with warmth; heat is pooling low in your belly, a low buzzing sensation overwhelms everywhere haley touches.
her lips as wine-red as yours. the same color lipstick smeared messily on her lips. haley wipes the corner of your cupid’s bow, where some of the color had smudged, her breathing heavy and pupils dilated as you stare. her hands feel delightfully warm and soft against your skin. golden strands of hair brush against your cheeks, making you squirm in your seat.
you can barely restrain your delighted giggle, in awe of the absurdity of the situation. haley laughs too, a light sound like a tinkling bell. you slump against the cold tile wall behind you, boneless and in disbelief— did you really just make out with your best friend? and at a grimy club bathroom no less.
time seems suspended here, cramped in a stall with only the sound of heavy breathing. there will be a lot more questions when you leave, lingering glances at your pleasure-pulled hair and smeared lipstick.
this is what friends do, what you and haley do. your eyes track her every move, unabashedly staring as she readjusts her top. haley catches your eye, smiling like the cat that got all the cream.
she cranes her face to your ear, whispering. “thanks for the touch up, babe.”
i like to think that ppl come to farmer for comfort or jst to genuinely hangout... requesting sam coming to farmer's house in the middle of the night as he confides in them w hot chocolate / coffee / tea 👉🏻👈🏻
apple cider
pairing: sam x reader
wc: 1.6k
tags: MILD hurt/comfort, pre-relationship, they are friends here!!
synopsis: sticky summer nights always make you feel a little restless.
a/n: its been 2 months with no sam fic!!!! here is my sincere apology hehe. title from apple cider by beabadoobee. this ask is so cute anon mwa mwa
Nothing ever truly rests during the summer; not even during the night.
Fireflies flicker and fly, weaving through the sparse grass beds sprouting from under your porch. The dark is hardly dark, your eyes have adjusted to the sparse light emanating from your dingy porch light. Your cardigan is haphazardly thrown off, draped over the hand-carved trellis. Bare feet meet the grass; damp and cool against your heated skin.
Energy thrums through the air, electrifying it with the undercutting buzz that leaves you wide awake. The season leaves the nights tepid, leaving your skin sticky.
You can’t sleep; not one bit tuckered out after a whole day toiling the fields. Though your mind is blissfully blank, your hands are preoccupied with bringing your mug to your lips.
The cacophony of crickets chirping echo through the flat farmlands of your property. It’s quiet, peaceful. Yet you are wide-eyed and awake, sipping on herbal tea—a mixture of herbs from your crop beds—in the hopes you can knock yourself out.
You are hyper aware of your surroundings, unable to pull yourself into the sleepy state you want. You feel the sheen of sweat drying on your skin, the warm summer breeze tickling the nape of your neck, the sweet smell of almost-ripe melons growing on your farm. The rhythmic sound of trees swaying with the wind.
The odd sound of a twig snapping is enough to pull you out of your reverie.
Your gaze snaps to the side, past your mailbox and to the dark path leading to town. Eyes adjusted to the dark, you see vague impressions of familiar surroundings. You drag your eyes to and fro, scanning.
A head of blond hair flashes through the otherwise dark veil of night, lamplight catching the brilliant golden hues of it. Doubting your eyes you furrow your brow; squinting your eyes, shifting on the porch steps, aiming to get a clearer look. Your mug is forgotten on your lap.
The figure shifts, tilting their head upwards and towards your direction. Then blue eyes lock with yours, the warm light of your porch lantern illuminating his expression. Recognition dawns on your face—
“Sam?”
Sam stops mid-step, face contorting into shock that outdoes your own. He flails, struggling with his words as to why in the world he’s caught on your farm in the wee hours of the night.
Both of you freeze, staring at each other in silence. Your fingers tighten then loosen around your mug. A tight line is made out of your lips.
“What are you doing?” you ask, tilting your head in confusion.
“It’s not what you think!” he holds his hands up in immediate surrender. “I was walking, and—and, my mind was blank. I just followed the path, I swear.”
You blink, once then twice. “Sam—”
“And–and,” he blabbers, “I guess… your farm was the best bet… The safest.”
That eases the nervous pitter-patter of your heart. It’s rare you get anyone on the farm aside from Lewis this late. You’re relieved, perplexed by his skittish behavior. It goes against what you already know about him.
Your eyes crinkle whilst you squint up at him, giving him a once-over. Like this, he reminds you of a teenager caught red-handed, eyes practically bulging out of his head with anxiousness.
An amused chuckle slips past your lips before you register it, smiling. “Sam. Can I speak?”
Sam turns back to face you, finally still. It gives you a clearer look at his appearance. Wild flaxen locks are tapered down by the beanie shoved over his head. His shirt is inside out, hanging awkwardly on his frame. He looks like he just rolled out of bed.
“Oh—oh yeah… my bad.”
A hand goes to pick back up your mug. “You’re good.” You take a sip of your tea. “Plus, I’m not bothered.”
“Oh…” Relief lets his shoulders go lax with a puffed breath. Then he looks back at you, conflicted on his face. “Hang on...You think me walking into your private property is—nothing?”
You snort. “You’re the last person I’d think would be worried about that.”
Sam paces, rocking back and forth on his heels, sporting a grim frown on his face. His gaze drops back down to the path, kicking at the pebbles. You wince internally; he doesn’t seem in good enough shape for jokes. It tugs at your heartstrings, a deep sigh pulled from your mouth and out into the humid air.
“Kidding. But it’s really no biggie.” you wave off. “Come by whenever. I’m always restless during the summer.”
He stares, breathing uneven and nervous. “Seriously?”
You nod, unusually calm in the face of his supposed trespassing. “It’s a me problem. It’s too humid to sleep comfortably. I even get more tired once I wake—”
“No, I mean,” he interjects, eyes wide. “I can come over? Anytime?”
“Yeah,” you shrug, rolling the muscles in your shoulders. “I’d love your company.”
“But what if you’re busy?”
“You’ll have to help me in the fields, then.” you tease, eyes crinkling. “You’ve got good legs for it already.”
A grin cuts through the grim lines of his face, “Are you 100% sure?”
You nod, eagerly. “Mhm.”
“Ah,” he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “That’s good. Super good. I wanted… well, I was kinda hoping to see you too.”
“Well now you’ve seen me.”
“Yeah, I’m glad. But ugh—I dunno, I guess my head’s a little messed up right now.” He runs a hand over his face, a frustrated groan along with it.
You watch him. There is never a part of him that keeps still, even now.
Maybe that’s why the words seem to come out so naturally when you’re with Sam. The restlessness—always grasping, bouncing, and shifting. “D’ya wanna come inside? Maybe it could help.”
“Yes, yeah. I want to.” he replies, instantly but then he double takes, checking in with you. “Can I?”
“I invited you too,” you laugh, pulling yourself up. “Calm down Sam, you’re fine.”
“Come in,” you call, pushing open your door. You do not turn and wait for him, traveling through the dark with the familiarity one has only in their own home.
You hear him pulling off his shoes by the doorway, then the padding of his feet trailing after yours.
Humming, you switch on your lamplight, propping it up on your kitchen table, pulling the chair back for Sam to sit in. You set your mug down on the opposite side.
The cabinet creaks when you swing it open, revealing your countless containers of seasonings and spices collected over the seasons. The rich smell of all of it mingling together wafts through your nose.
A pack of apple cider bottles stands by the cinnamon sticks, a welcome gift from months ago you haven’t gotten into yet.
You tilt your head back to glance at him, finding him sitting statue-still in your chair, then turn back to your cabinet.
“I have some apple cider, you want some?”
His eyes snap to yours, “Oh, yeah.”
Nodding, you tiptoe, grasping the glass bottle by the neck from the far end of the cabinet.
You sit the bottle down on the counter, popping off the cap with the flat edge of a knife. The cider fizzes, bubbling up until the neck then reducing. The sharp fruity scent of carbonation and apple mingles with the humid air. Sam takes it from your outstretched hand with a murmured ‘thanks’.
You sit opposite him. With your legs pulled up to your chest, you wiggle in your seat, leaning your cheek against your knees. Your eyes low as you cradle your own drink in your hands. Sam takes slow sips of the cider, the bubbles painting the edges of his lips then fizzing away.
It feels natural to watch him like this, like all normal neighborly decorum has flown out the window, making room for this—whatever this silent companionship may bring.
Curious, you break the veil of silence. “So what brings you here?”
Sam runs his tongue over his bottom lip, catching the stray drop of apple cider by the corner. His gaze goes faraway, eyebrows furrowing automatically without him aware. He’s silent as he thinks over your question, face contorting.
“Just—something at home, I guess. I wanted a breather.”
You swirl the string of your teabag, looking up from under your lashes. “Family stuff?”
“...Yeah, family stuff.”
You hum, voice low. You have a faint idea on what he’s talking about. Sam’s father, Kent, has been having a difficult time adjusting back to civilian life after being discharged—you heard.
Your eyes track over his form, his shoulder hunched and lower than you’ve ever seen them. Under the low light of your kitchen table, you pinpoint the signs of weariness marking his face—eye bags under his eyes and a perpetual wrinkle in his brow deep enough you see the shadow of it under his mess of hair.
“You don’t need to tell me if you don’t feel like it,” you simply say.
You look out the windows, eyes tracking the swirling the flickering lights of lightning bugs outside. Gaze low as you stew in silence. Your fingers tap idly at the table. You feel calmer, sleepier. That persistent buzzing under your skin dissipating into the boneless way you sit.
There will be more sticky summer nights like these, you’re sure. Maybe he’ll share what’s on his mind then but right now, you’re quite content with the silence. It cradles you like a refreshingly cool gust of air, tapering the heated expanse of your skin.
“Maybe next time,” Sam murmurs, staring into the steaming cup. “When I come over again.”
A smile unfurls on your lips when he raises his head to look at you. “When you come over again.”