#I made you something to read when you wake up

[nightplvmes]

pregnancy cravings (fluff)

sylus one shot (love and deepspace) sylus would spoil his wife, even if she weren't pregnant with twins⋆｡° | pairing : sylus x fem!reader ⋆｡° | word count : 1.5k (1,500) ⋆｡° | fluff, pregnant reader, husband sylus, twin pregnancy ⋆｡° | autor note: hi, i wrote this a long time ago and honestly i feel sylus would just take the damn car (spoiler) to not worry his wife and that's it, but i wrote this months ago and i didn't want to not post it, especially with all the time it takes me to write, edit and translate, so… you can read it with that in mind just as entertainment :) likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

you carefully slid to the other side of the bed. Sylus had fallen asleep again while reading, or so you thought because his glasses were still on the bridge of his nose.

"Sy…" you murmured softly but he continued sleeping. you knew your voice hadn't been audible enough to wake him anyway. "Sylus!" you touched his shoulder this time and although you had raised your voice slightly it had perhaps been too much.

Sylus opened his eyes immediately. he turned to look at you almost without blinking and quickly straightened up. it had all happened in a matter of seconds, was it just his reflexes that were stupidly fast? "what's wrong? is it the baby?" you pressed your lips together and nodded, somewhat embarrassed. "what happened? we're going to the hospital. get up."

"what? no! I'm fine." you shook your head, settling back down on the bed. "I'm just hungry."

Sylus raised an eyebrow in confusion and stood still. it took him a couple of seconds to understand what was happening around him and that his wife was not about to give birth. "you woke me up because you were hungry?" you nodded. it wasn't that Sylus would mind but he had gotten scared. "why didn't you just go to the kitchen?"

Sylus put one of his arms around your hips and gently pulled you towards him. you looked at your baby belly where their twins were growing. it seemed like yesterday the pregnancy test had come out positive and now you could give birth at any moment.

"remember that cafe that's open 24 hours and sells desserts?" Sylus nodded, his face buried in your neck, smelling his wife's scent. "well… I'm craving that amazing red velvet cake." you felt your mouth water just thinking about it.

Sylus sighed and lifted his face. he would fulfill any craving his wife had even if she wasn't pregnant. he had told you that you were doing enough carrying their twins.

"okay, I'll get your cake." he sighed, rubbing his eyes. he was still a little sleepy, although he had to admit that hearing his wife wake him up made him think you were about to go into labor, and that scare had helped wake him up.

Sylus moved around the room, grabbing something to protect himself from the cold while his wife watched his every move. it was cold, and more than once you had made it clear that he needed to stay warm; you didn't want him to get sick.

"where's my helmet?" he asked, looking around the room.

"your helmet? will you use your bike?" you quickly sat down on the bed and pulled the covers off you. your face was now utterly worried, and Sylus quickly noticed.

"I'll go faster that way," he nodded. he knew you hated when he used the bike. ever since you found out you were pregnant, you'd practically forced him to stay off his motorcycle unless absolutely necessary and to use a car like a normal person. you were afraid something might happen to him, especially since they were expecting twins. Sylus had seen how worried you were that he'd agreed.

"Sy…" you got up quickly, and he smiled at you. you were wearing one of his favorite sweatshirts that you'd stolen from his closet, but he loved seeing your baby bump even when the sweatshirt was too big for you. "you said you wouldn't do it anymore."

"I'll be okay. I'll be right back," he murmured, letting you wrap your arms around him. he closed his eyes for a few seconds, thinking that after all, you didn't need that cake so badly and could survive one more night.

"I don't want the cake anymore. you don't have to go."

Sylus laughed, knowing you were lying, especially because you loved that cake. "you don't know how to lie." he placed a kiss on your forehead and finally pulled away. he felt a little guilty about leaving you worried like that, but he knew it wouldn't take long.

you followed him through the house, down the stairs, and to the front door, following his every step like a duckling.

"you still have time to change your mind and go by car. there's no traffic at this hour." Sylus stopped when he heard her words, turned to look at her, smiled, and then shook his head.

"it'll take less than ten minutes." you nodded, still unsure. your eyes drifted to the helmet in his hand. you didn't know when you'd become so paranoid, maybe the moment you'd realized you were actually in love with him.

"be careful, okay? you can't leave me alone with two twins!" Sylus nodded, though he tried to hide the fact that it hurt him to think of leaving you alone. He would never leave you alone.

he leaned down to place a kiss on your forehead, his fingers brushing your belly as a silent farewell. he turned to walk to the door and glanced over his shoulder one last time before leaving.

you started counting the seconds the moment Sylus stepped outside the house. why were you so nervous? he'd been riding his bike for many years and wasn't a beginner; nothing bad was going to happen to him.

you sighed and headed to the kitchen, trying to distract yourself. you began to make some tea in silence while your thoughts wandered, and you made a short mental list of things you had to do.

you needed to go to the doctor to make sure everything was in order with the twins. you needed to buy more clothes. you needed to prepare the bag you would take to the hospital on the day of delivery. there was still a crib to be assembled, but Sylus said he would take care of that himself.

you smiled as you remembered how you had tried to get the pieces out of one of the cribs, but it hadn't been more than five minutes before Sylus entered the room and forced you to stop. he hadn't let you do much of anything since you found out you were pregnant.

when you came out of your thoughts, several minutes had passed, and you were holding a cup of hot tea. you looked at the clock on one of the walls and felt your heart sink when you noticed that almost 20 minutes had passed. the cafe was close; it usually didn't take more than ten minutes, what was happening?

you felt a lump in your throat as you walked to the living room. you looked out the window hoping to see some light in the distance from Sylus' bike, but everything was too quiet. too quiet.

you walked back to the bedroom and rummaged through the pillows, looking for your phone. when you found it, you looked for your husband's number and pressed "call" but your hopes crumbled when you heard Sylus' phone ringing in the room. you sighed, trying to calm down. you was too paranoid, and the doctor had already told you a million times that you needed to relax.

but… what if something had happened to him? what if you were right? you sank down onto the bed and suddenly felt short of breath and like crying. you couldn't raise twins alone. the only reason you were calm now was because Sylus was by your side. he had taken it upon himself to reassure you when they found out their babies were twins.

one of each, he'd said. you covered your face as a sad smile formed on your lips. what would you do without the father of your babies? most importantly… what would you do without the love of your life? the only person you'd ever felt comfortable with, the only person who—

"sweetie?" you quickly looked up and rubbed one of your eyes to wipe away the tears that had begun to form. your whole body relaxed when you saw him standing in front of you with a box in one hand and a bag in the other. had you been so lost in your thoughts that you hadn't even heard him come in?

"Sy…" he quickly put everything aside and sat down next to you. he let you wrap her arms around him, and you were soon clinging to him. you'd been overthinking again. "it took you longer than ten minutes."

"I stopped by to get you some things you like," he murmured, kissing your head. he'd accidentally gotten too distracted, and now his pregnant wife was on the verge of a mental breakdown; he'd noticed it because of the way your eyes were watering. "I'm sorry."

you shook your head; you couldn't be bothered when he'd woken up to get your favorite cake and had stopped by to buy some of your favorite things.

"was there still cake?" you asked, trying to change the subject.

"I bought two." he nodded looking at your slightly red nose. you smiled excitedly and kissed his cheek; you'd have enough cake leftover for a while longer.

Sylus couldn't sleep again the rest of the night but that wasn't new to him, seeing his pregnant wife happy eating her cake was better than anything.

[women-are-hot]

I can make a wish where the reader always has insomnia so she always holds on to Alexia in the middle of the night and when Alexia wakes up she finds the reader clinging to her very cute���🥺.

LITTLE DREAMING • A. PUTELLAS

pairing: alexia putellas x female!reader

summary: read the request just up there ↑

warnings: insomnia. just cuteness alr

a/n: an old request i decided to write quickly. hope you enjoy!

the clock on the nightstand showed 3:47 am.

alexia moved a little under the blanket, slowly waking up. the room was quiet, dark, and peaceful. outside, the world was still sleeping. nothing made a sound except the soft hum of the heater and a small creak in the walls.

she felt something warm and soft pressed against her side.

again.

she looked down and saw you there, holding her. your arms were wrapped around her waist, and your face was resting gently against her shoulder. you were asleep now, but she knew it hadn’t been easy. you always had trouble sleeping at night.

you never told alexia with words, but she could see it every time. the way you moved under the blanket, the long quiet moments when you were just staring at the ceiling, the deep sighs that came when sleep refused to arrive.

then, slowly and carefully, you would come even closer. you always tried not to wake her. you would quietly hold her, as if just being close could help you rest. as if her presence made you feel calm.

alexia smiled softly, her heart full of something warm. she moved her hand and gently touched your arm. you didn’t wake up. you were finally sleeping peacefully now. your body had relaxed, your breathing was slow. being close to her had helped, like it always did.

she wrapped her arm around you too, holding you in return. your head moved slightly and your nose touched her skin. she closed her eyes for a moment, just enjoying the feeling of you there.

then she whispered, her voice soft and full of love, “you’re so cute when you do this.”

you didn’t answer. you were already sleeping, safe in her arms, holding her like she was something important to you.

alexia leaned her head against yours and smiled again.

“i’ve got you,” she whispered. “sleep well mi amor.”

and with you close beside her, warm and quiet and safe, she slowly fell back to sleep too. holding you gently like she always would.

[sturniolobliss]

⌗ . . . ❛ 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬 ❜ christopher sturniolo.

warnings ◞ ˚˖ ࣪ ex!chris, light angst, emotional vulnerability, drunk calling, explicit and suggestive content, heartbreak, longing, mentions of masturbation, guilt . . . etc.

note ◞ ˚˖ ࣪ bow divider by @/bernardsbendystraws · · ୨୧

read part two next!

you miss the first call. then the second. by the time your phone lights up for the third time—chris, glowing across the screen—your chest tightens with that old, unwelcome ache you've spent weeks trying to forget.

you don't answer.

not the fourth time. not the fifth.

by the seventh, he stops calling. starts leaving voicemails instead.

you stare at the notifications for a while, thumb hovering. you know better. you know exactly what this will do to you.

still, you press play.

voicemail one — 2:06am

0:47

"hey. s'me. i mean… obviously s'me, right?"

he laughs, light and bitter. you can already tell he's been drinking. his voice is thick, a little slower than usual.

"i don't even know why m'calling. i shouldn't be. i just—fuck. i miss you. i know m'not supposed to say that. i swore i wouldn't say that.”

a pause. you can hear him breathing.

"i think you'd be proud, though. i've been really good at pretendin'. like you don't come up when someone mentions that movie we loved or when i see someone with that hairstyle you always got or hear a song that sounds like you. i jus' swallow it. every time. like s'nothin'. but tonight i guess i forgot how to do that."

beep.

voicemail two — 2:11am

1:28

"you remember that playlist you made me? the one with all the dumb transitions? i listened to it tonight."

a quiet sound, maybe the shuffle of him sitting down.

"it still smells like you in my hoodie. i don't even wear it anymore. jus'—jus' leave it folded. fuck, i sound pathetic."

another pause. longer this time. then:

"i keep dreamin' 'bout you. about your hands. about the way you used to look at me when y'wanted somethin'. i wake up hard and aching and still smelling you in the sheets, even though you're not there. even though s'jus' me."

his voice drops, softer now, tired.

"you ruined me, y'know that?"

beep.

voicemail three — 2:18am

2:14

"i keep tryin' to find pieces of you in other people."

the silence on this one stretches. you hear the drag of a sigh, like he's trying not to cry.

"but they don't laugh like you. they don't kiss like you. they don't know how to touch me the way you did. no one ever fuckin' knew like you did."

his voice breaks on that last part. your throat goes tight.

"and i hate it. i hate you for it. for knowin' me that well. for leavin' anyway."

then quieter, like it slips out without permission—

"i'd let you wreck me again if it meant you'd come back."

beep.

voicemail four — 2:24am

3:09

he's whispering now. and you realize, with a jolt, he's not alone in his bed.

he's talking to you like you are.

"you used to say my name so sweet, remember? chris. chris. chris—like it was yours."

a rustle of blankets, maybe skin.

"sometimes i touch myself to the sound of your voice. not even dirty shit—jus' the way you'd say good morning. or fuck off. or i love you."

your breath catches.

"m'hard right now. been hard since the second ring."

you freeze.

"i don't care if you listen to this. i want you to. i want you to know you still do this to me. that no one's ever made me fall apart jus' by existing."

he groans softly.

"you always knew how to break me. and you always loved it."

beep.

voicemail five — 2:32am

4:11

"y'said no one else would understand me the way you did."

he's breathless now. slower. like he's working through something, deep in it.

"you were right. they don't."

a low noise—his throat, a choked-off moan.

"i was gonna call someone else tonight. someone easy. but it didn't feel right. because she's not you. her hands aren't yours. her mouth doesn't taste like fire and vanilla chapstick and every fuckin' thing i ever needed."

you close your eyes, biting your lip.

"if you were here right now, i'd get on my knees. tell you m'sorry. beg. let you sit on my face until i couldn't breathe. jus' to feel useful again."

his breathing is louder now. uneven.

"you always made me feel owned. and i fuckin' loved it."

beep.

voicemail six — 2:38am

1:59

"i came," he says, and it's so quiet, so wrecked, your heart nearly caves in.

"i came thinkin' about you. still holdin' my phone. still waitin' for you to pick up."

he laughs, but it's hollow.

"you didn't. you won't. i know.”

a pause.

"but fuck, i needed you to hear it. needed you to know i still think about you. every time. every fuckin' time."

another pause. longer. heavier.

"god, m'so tired. i miss your voice. i miss your laugh. i miss your mouth and the way you used to pull my hair and tell me to be quiet."

you can hear it again in his voice—the unspoken thing underneath.

"you always ruined me in the best ways. i think you still are."

beep.

voicemail seven — 2:43am

0:22

"delete these," he says, voice almost clear this time.

"or don't. i don't care. jus'… don't hate me more than you already do."

a soft inhale.

"i meant all of it."

click.

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ : @sturniolo-szn2 / @mattscoquette / @sturnsflirt / @tezzzzzzzz . . . .ᐟ

comment or message to get added · · ୨୧

[buckysleftbicep]

letters through time (2) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!reader

warnings: bucky being an absolute flirt, some angst

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.8k

author's note: chapter 2 is here!! i love this chapter so, so much and i hope you do too! thank you for stopping by my loves! i miss 40s!bucky so much.

series masterlist

It became a ritual.

Each morning, before brushing your teeth or even checking your phone, you opened the drawer.

Sometimes the letter was already waiting—tucked beneath the linen cloth like it had grown there overnight, the envelope still warm from some invisible warmth. Other times, you had to wait. Hours. A day. But it always came.

And with every letter, Bucky Barnes became less of a ghost and more of a person.

You learned the rhythm of his days. The sharp whistle that pulled him from his bunk before sunrise. The sound of boots slamming against pavement during drills. The warmth of the boys in his unit, the fear of the war hidden behind their jokes, the quiet way Steve carried the weight of the world on his shoulders without complaint.

You told him about your own days. The museum. The cataloging. How every box of artefacts made you feel like you were touching echoes of a time you now saw through his eyes.

You joked about your coffee addiction, the neighbour’s cat who acted like it owned the hallway, and the fact that you were talking to a man who was born before sliced bread became a thing.

He told you he found that hilarious.

March 19th, 1944 Sweetheart, You said people in the future are obsessed with their coffee, right? I’m starting to think I was born in the wrong era. But you wanna know the real reason I wake up smiling lately? It’s you. Your words. Your voice in my head when I read your letters. I never thought paper and ink could feel like a heartbeat. I asked Steve what he thinks about writing letters to a girl from the future. He laughed and told me if anyone could charm a girl, it’d be me. So. Here I am. Trying. Yours, Bucky

Somewhere between shared stories and inside jokes, your letters turned soft.

You told him about your favourite books. The first time you got your heart broken. That sometimes you felt a little lost, like you were floating through life without knowing where to land. You asked if he ever felt the same.

He did.

You asked what scared him most.

Not coming home. Forgetting who I am, maybe. Being forgotten. Losing people I love. Losing myself. Does that count?

You wrote back that of course it counts. That he wouldn’t be forgotten. Not by history. Not by you.

He sent a dried daisy once. Pressed between the pages of his letter. He picked it, he said, from a patch behind his barracks, just for you. It arrived crisp and pale, as if time hadn’t dared touch it.

You said you like soft things, doll. Thought you deserved something pretty. Hope the flower’s not too crushed, I’m better at shooting targets than pressing petals. I like thinking of you with something I held in my hands. Makes this whole crazy thing feel real. You feel real to me, (Y/N).

You read that line more times than you meant to.

And then one night, after a long shift at the museum and the kind of quiet that makes you feel a little too alone, you sat down at your desk with a pen in your hand and a question you weren’t sure you should ask.

You asked him for a photo.

It felt like you were crossing some invisible line. But the way your chest fluttered when you read his letters, the way your cheeks warmed at his teasing, it made you want to see him. Not the black-and-white image in a museum. Not the name in a textbook.

Him.

You folded the letter before you could change your mind and tucked in a polaroid, nothing dramatic. Just you in the corner of your room, soft light spilling across your face, your favourite sweater slipping off one shoulder as you smiled, small and uncertain, into the lens.

You slid it into the drawer and closed it gently. You didn’t expect anything to happen.

But the next morning, when you opened it again and there it was.

March 24th, 1944 Hey there, gorgeous. Is it allowed for a guy to be knocked breathless by a picture? ‘Cause I think I forgot how to breathe the second I saw you. You're beautiful, (Y/N). There’s this look in your eyes, like you already know me. Like you’ve been waiting for me. You asked for a photo, so I’m sending one. Just me, back behind base, jacket half-off because Steve said I look less like a “buttoned-up cadet” that way. Punk said I should look like the guy writing love letters to a girl in the future. He’s not wrong. Thought you should see the face that’s been stealing your time, sweetheart. Do I get another photo in return? Maybe one where you’re smiling that secret little smile you keep mentioning in your letters? Always yours, Bucky

You pressed the photo to your chest the moment you saw it.

He was handsome, of course, broad shoulders, a strong jaw, that soft curve of a smile. But it was his eyes that got you. Cerulean-blue and impossibly warm. Kind in a way photographs rarely captured. Like they weren’t just looking out, but looking at you. Through paper. Through time. Through everything.

You wrote back with shaking fingers and told him he wasn’t playing fair.

I don’t think you know what you’re doing to me, Bucky Barnes. Your letters make my heart race. And yes, I’ll send another picture. But only if you promise not to fall in love with me too fast. Kidding. (Sort of.) Yours always, (Y/N)

After that, the letters got flirtier.

You called him trouble. He called you trouble he’d gladly ruin himself for.

You teased him about the way he laced his boots after he sent a picture of himself leaning against a wall behind base, jacket slung over one shoulder, boots perfectly tied like he’d stepped out of a training manual.

You really lace them like that every day? you wrote back. No wonder Steve calls you a tightass. You joked after he had complained in the last letter about how Steve comments about his boots and how he laced them.

He replied that a man needed to be ready for anything. Especially if he was trying to impress a girl from the future.

He teased you in return about your obsession with peanut butter and how it came up in almost every letter, how he still couldn’t wrap his head around it being spread on toast.

Can’t wait to try it, he wrote, especially if you’re the one handing me the spoon.

You asked about his childhood.

He told you about Coney Island. Stealing candy from the corner store. Watching fireworks with Steve every Fourth of July. His first kiss at sixteen that made him laugh afterward because he sneezed mid-way through.

You told him about your favourite street vendor, how you always bought two hotdogs and left one for the homeless man at the subway entrance. You said it reminded you that kindness still existed in the world, even when everything felt overwhelming.

Bucky’s reply came back with a line that made your breath catch.

You're the kind of person I fought this war for. You make me believe there’s still good waiting for us on the other side.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

Just reread the letters under your covers like a lovesick teenager. Smiling into your pillow. Laughing softly at his dumb jokes. Heart aching at his soft words. And slowly, slowly, something bloomed.

You were falling for Bucky.

A man eighty years out of reach. A soldier caught in the pages of history. And yet, the way he wrote to you… the way his words wrapped around your heart like warmth in the cold.

It felt real.

And terrifying.

But you didn’t stop writing.

One night, you asked him a dangerous question.

If we could meet one day, if somehow the world let us, what would you want to do first?

His answer came in the next letter, scribbled quickly, like he couldn’t get the words down fast enough.

I’d want to touch your face. Just to make sure you're real. Then I’d probably kiss you. Slow. Like I’ve been waiting lifetimes. We could walk through Brooklyn, hand in hand. You could show me the future, and I’d show you the places where I left pieces of myself. I don’t know how this happened, doll. But I think I’m falling for you. Hell. I know I am.

You pressed your fingers to your lips as you read, like it might soften the ache building in your chest.

He was falling for you.

And god help you because you were falling too.

March 28th, 2020 Dear Bucky, I find myself thinking about you all the time. When I pass old brick buildings. When jazz plays from passing bars. You’ve become a part of my days without me even realising it. I fall asleep thinking about your words. I wake up hoping for another letter from you. And when everything around me feels too loud, it’s your voice in my head that quiets it. There’s something about the way you write, the way you talk to me like I matter, that stays with me through my day. It lingers and it reminds me of the warmth left behind after a fire. I keep your daisy tucked in my favourite book, it's delicate and a little crushed, but I love it because it came from you, because you thought of me. Maybe this is fragile and maybe it’s impossible too. But it feels real. And I don’t want to let it go. I don’t know what this is, not exactly. But I know how I feel when I read your letters. And Bucky… I think I’m falling for you too. Yours, (Y/N)

The reply didn’t come the next morning.

Nor the day after that.

Your heart twisted with worry. Every moment without a letter felt like a thread unraveling from your chest. But then—on the third day, you opened the drawer and found an envelope.

Thicker than usual.

And when you unfolded the pages, your heart nearly burst.

March 31st, 1944 Sweetheart, I’m being deployed. Steve and I are heading to Austria. Orders just came in. We leave in a week. I didn’t want to tell you at first. Didn’t want to break what we’ve built. But I can’t lie to you, I don't want to. You asked what I’d do if I could meet you? Well, I’ve started asking around, talking to Howard. He’s the smartest guy I know. He thinks that maybe there’s a way. A way for me to get to you. He said he’d help me, when we make it back. So, I’m writing this with hope, (Y/N). Hope that when this war ends, when I’ve done what I have to do, I’ll find you. Please wait for me. Yours, always, James

James.

You clutched the letter to your chest, tears stinging your eyes.

You whispered his name like a prayer.

And wrote back with your heart in your throat.

taglist: @ndanddnd @darling-eos @alikkatz @creepybake

[nightcourtnovels]

Little Matchmaker

Azriel x reader (part 4.5)

Summary: reader gets a birthday gift and her friend can’t help but push her to go big or go home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was dreaming.

She knew it even as she felt the soft weight of a blanket draped over her bare shoulders, Azriel’s callused fingers brushed her cheek, just as his arm curled tighter around her waist. They were still wet from the pool, skin warm and tangled beneath one of her spare blankets. The sun was rising above her balcony doors, the city waking while they started to rest. His voice, low and scratchy, murmured something against her hair.

“Stay,” she whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.

But he always did…

~

Y/N blinked awake as the sun crept through her curtains due to the blowing wind. Her bed was cold, and empty, and her heart gave a small, traitorous ache.

She groaned, covering her face with a pillow.

“Snap out of it,” she muttered to herself.

Today was her birthday. But, she had scrolls to read, enchantments to translate, and the library wouldn’t run itself. Just because she’d spent the last few nights dreaming of Azriel’s smile or the way his fingers lingered a little too long on her back, or the kiss he left her with that still made her stomach flip, didn’t mean she had time to daydream today.

The date was two weeks ago, but it still felt like yesterday. She really needed to stop thinking about it; they lived completely different lives and it was only a one time thing.

Yet, she couldn’t help but remember how beautiful the night was, no male had ever treated her like he did.

With a sigh, Y/N got ready for work.

~

The library was quiet as always, the scent of old paper and ink calming her nerves. She’d settled into a rhythm, nose deep in a scroll on ancient Day Court magic, when someone cleared their throat beside her desk.

She looked up to see a young messenger, wide-eyed and clearly in awe of the massive collection around him.

“Delivery,” he said, holding out a wrapped box and a bouquet of various white flowers speckled with silver.

Y/N blinked, stunned. “Uh… for me?”

He nodded, handed them over, and quickly scurried away.

She stared at the package and bouquet wondering if the messenger perhaps got the wrong female.

No one sent her gifts. Especially not ones wrapped in delicate paper and tied with navy ribbon. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled the small envelope off the flowers.

In neat, precise handwriting, she read:

Happy 250th, Bright One.

For someone who claims no one would want her at this age, I thought I’d take the chance before the line forms. I haven’t forgotten that you owe me a book recommendation.

— A.

She stared at the note, cheeks warming so fast it felt like she’d swallowed sunlight.

“Oh goodness,” came her friend Selene’s voice from behind. “Who are those from?”

“Ummm no one.”

Giggling, Selene reached around her in a flash and snatched the card from her hand.

“Oooooohhhhhhh,” she sung. “Definitely not a one-time thing, then.”

“It’s not like that,” Y/N said quickly, her blush deepening. “He’s just being—nice.”

“Nice? You can’t find these flowers everywhere, babe.” Selene said.

Her friend then stared at the box in wonder. “You should definitely open the box.”

“What do you think it is?” Y/N asked.

“Probably a dagger, he seems to like those things.”

Y/N squawked, “A dagger?? Are you insane? Why would he give me one of those?”

Selene chuckled, “Umm, so you can defend yourself while he’s not here to be your knight in shining armor?”

Trying to believe her own words, Selene playfully practiced her fighting moves with a nonexistent dagger. “Yeah definitely that!”

Y/N shook her head. “As much as I love how your brain works, it can’t be dagger. There’s no way.”

Her friend only raised her brows and pointed to the box. Sighing, Y/N tentatively unwrapped the present.

Inside, nestled in black velvet, sat a delicate necklace with a deep blue stone and matching earrings, shaped like falling stars. Ethereal. Night Court craftsmanship, undoubtedly.

The two of them sat in silence for a minute. Selene wasn’t sure if Y/N was breathing.

“Sweet Mother,” Selene breathed. “These are gorgeous. How will you ever thank him? Since, you know, it was just a ‘one-time thing’.”

Snapping out of her thoughts, Y/N reminded herself to breathe and rolled her eyes at her friend. “I don’t know. Maybe next time he’s in Day.”

“You are telling me that you’ll just thank him next time he’s here?”

“What am I supposed to do? Sprout wings and fly to the Night Court immediately?”

Selene giggled, “I mean it’s not a bad idea. That way you could thank him properly.” Wiggling her eyebrows for dramatic effect.

Y/N gasped, hitting her friend playfully. “Absolutely not. You are so vulgar. I would never do that.”

The two stared at each other before falling into a fit of laughter.

“Okay mayyybe. Perhaps if the appropriate moment, you know, happened to happen. I would gracefully get on my knees…”

Before Y/N could finish her sentence, Selene slapped a hand over Y/N’s mouth. “And you say I’m vulgar! Does he know about these naughty things you say!?!”

“Of course not, he thinks I’m a perfect angel,” Y/N smirked.

“Hmm then you must have not talked very much on that date because you my friend are far from an angel.”

Y/N mockingly gasped and gestured to the jewelry that seemed to sparkle as if they too couldn’t hold in their laughter. “Then explain these gifts!”

“Wellllll hear me out,” her friend drawled, wiggling her brows. “I think I have the perfect way to thank him. There is a thing called Starfall next week in the Night Court…”

“We can’t just invite ourselves!” Y/N protested. “He probably already has a date.”

“Why not? When’s the last time we’ve been on vacation? You’re working on your birthday. Come on Y/N. You’re in desperate need of a break. I’m in desperate need of a scandal. And you—” she pointed at her with a smirk, “—have been gifted jewelry and flowers by the shadowsinger of the Night Court. I can promise you, he doesn’t already have a date.”

Y/N glanced down at the necklace again, fingers ghosting over the silver chain. “We don’t have dresses. Or a place to stay.”

“Pfft,” her friend scoffed. “Leave that to me. Dresses, done. Place to stay—handled. Not that you need one, I’m sure the Shadowsinger has a big enough bed. All you need to do is pack your bag and maybe think about what book you’re going to show him next. You know, to repay him.”

Her mouth twitched. “You're relentless.”

“It's why you love me. And besides… tell me you don't want to see him again.”

She didn’t answer. Just glanced at the card again. The way his inked scrawl curved her nickname. The way the bouquet shimmered under the library’s lights.

After a long moment, Y/N murmured, “Okay. Fine. I guess it has been a while.”

Her friend squealed, clapping. “Starfall, here we come!”

Y/N tried to fight her smile. Really, she did. But it was hopeless. The glow from the flowers mirrored the glow in her chest as she turned back to her desk—her mind already drifting far, far from the scrolls in front of her.

To the stars.

To a Night Court male who remembered her birthday.

“Okay let’s do it!”

[lilhughesy]

Falling Into You | Matthew Knies x Fem!Reader

warnings! slow burn ish, mainly fluff, mentions of weed, slightly suggestive, and secret dating

word count: 7.1k

summary: You love your job as the athletic therapist for the Toronto Maple Leafs but you also seem to start falling for one of the players on said team. You swore to not catch feelings for him since it puts your job at risk but what if the risk is worth it?

a/n: first kniesy fic for my beloved @lovesickhughes !! I enjoyed writing this so I hope you guys enjoy reading it! (ps the title actually doesn't have any correlation to the fic itself lol)

You were the few rare people who could say that they loved their job. You loved every aspect of your job as the athletic therapist for the Toronto Maple Leafs. Since the start of your career, where your professor during your graduate studies somehow made a few calls to get you your job, you’ve been so thrilled to go to work every day. Your colleagues were a pleasure to work with, your job had you on your feet — a feature which you loved, and the players you worked with were always very nice.

A part of you adored the part where you got to wear your Toronto blue scrubs with a team logo clad zip up fleece and your fun sneakers every shift. The other part loved being able to meet so many different people while you worked. And obviously, being an athletic therapist in itself was a joy.

You walked in the brisk November breeze in Toronto, with a thin down jacket protecting you from the cold that’d been building up lately. You clutched the straps of your work purse closer to your body as you crossed the street towards the arena. It was nearly 6:45 AM and the city was already waking up with the occasional car horns and the shouts from down the street.

The warmth of Scotiabank Arena greeted you as you carefully closed the door behind you. You scanned your ID to enter down the long hallway where you said a quick ‘good morning’ to others who were also just starting work. You turned the corner to the large blue-painted double doors, you fished out the keys to unlock them and pushed the two open.

Your foot kicked the door stop to wedge at the bottom to keep them open before settling your purse on the nearby table. The bright fluorescent lights flickered on as you peeled off your coat, your scarf, and your purse to shove into your small designated locker. You started to get the small clinic ready for the long day ahead of you, first by checking the stock of supplies currently in the room. You mumbled to yourself a list of things to grab from storage,

“Okay, need white tape, pre-wrap,” You sighed, rubbing your temple in slight annoyance that your colleagues hadn’t stocked up the night before, “And maybe some extra electrodes and gel-”

“Hope I’m not bothering you,” A voice spoke up from behind you and you jumped slightly from being startled, your hand was pressed against your chest to soothe your racing heart when you spun around,

“Good morning,” You chuckled with a low shake of your head, “You scared me.”

He laughed lightly before offering you a to-go cup, “Sorry sweetheart, just thought I’d drop off a coffee for you since I know you’re in for a long day.”

You smiled as you took the drink from him, “Thank you Auston, that’s very sweet of you.”

Auston shrugged, “Working the game too right?”

You nodded as you sipped at the hot liquid, feeling the bitter taste run over your tastebuds and down your throat, “Yeah, going to be needing a few more of these later on.”

He chuckled as he patted your shoulder, “I’ll see you later, I think something’s up with my wrist again that I need you to check out.”

You hummed while he pulled away to head down the hallway, “I’ll see you later then.”

You watched the captain walk away before turning your attention back to your mental list. You braced yourself for another day of treating hamstring pain, sore wrists, ankle taping, and telling each player to stop training themselves to the point of injury. They never listened to you, only a nod and uh-huh yeah got it, before they got off the treatment bed and to their next stop.

The coffee from Auston was saving you, whether it was from keeping you warm in the chilly hallways to and from the supply stock or just keeping you awake in general. You worked through your several emails and the stack of paperwork that’d been sitting on your desk in the corner of the treatment room. The paperwork was definitely your least favourite part of the job, along with updating your notes on each player. You liked to keep track of small things they’ve mentioned in sessions, just so you could monitor them even when they say that everything feels fine. It was excessive, but it was important to you.

You hummed to yourself quietly as you opened the hydrocollator heat unit, to be greeted by a wall of steam — indicating that the heat packs were ready for the day.

“Morning!” You turned around to see Mitch Marner and Auston Matthews both entering the treatment room in their athletic wear. You checked the time to see that their morning skate must’ve ended, meaning the flood of hockey players was just beginning.

“Good morning, gentlemen. How’s that quad feeling, Matthews?” You asked the team captain as he sat down on one of the beds.

You continued to have your typical conversations with the different hockey players as you treated them. Often giving them a heat pack to help with blood circulation and muscle recovery, or providing them with deep tissue therapy with electrodes being placed on their point of injury. They often told you about their weekend plans or their most recent trip, all which you enjoyed hearing since a part of you lived through them as you never really left the city.

However, there was one hockey player who never seemed to make conversation with you — not that you would force them to, but rather because the rest were always social. Matthew Knies, one of the younger guys on the team, was always quiet when receiving treatment from you. 

Every time he comes in ten minutes early, always — he’s got his AirPods jammed in and that distracted, somewhere-else look in his eyes. He lowers himself onto the treatment table like he’s thinking about the next game or the one after that, gaze fixed on some point just beyond your shoulder. He gives a flat, “Morning,” if he remembers, and holds out his ankle like it’s a business transaction.

You tape him in silence. Efficient, practiced movements. Over, under, pull, press. He thanks you in a tone that might as well be pre-recorded. Then he’s gone.

You never pressured the guys to talk, if they didn’t want to then they didn’t have to. You don’t take it personally. Some players are chatty, some aren’t. Some want to talk about recovery protocols and shoulder mobility; others just want to get in and out. He’s young, focused, intense in that way rookies often are. You just did your job and what you’re being paid to do, which is treating them and assisting their recovery since their job as professional athletes takes a toll on their bodies physically. Although you noticed it was odd since you’d seen Knies outside of the treatment centre where he was loud, rowdy, and constantly joking around with his teammates. But then again, he could just be one of those people who open up to people that they’re comfortable with. You didn’t blame him, besides it wasn’t your job to psychoanalyze him.

So you continued to work the way you typically did, never minding the quiet when Knies was on the bed, “This okay?” You asked him as you attached the final electrode to his lateral ankle while your other hand started the IFC machine, “Not too high? I can adjust it if it’s uncomfortable.”

He shook his head, not looking up from his phone as his thumbs typed away, “No, you’re good.”

You nodded as you pulled away and started to clean up some of your supplies that were left on the table. You kept track of the time on your Apple Watch for Knies’ electrode treatment as you dropped some white towels into the used bin and reorganized the tape into their designated spot.

“Hey,” Mitch said to you as he poked his head in, “Just wanted to say that those stretched your prescribed for my wrist last week have been working wonders! It’s been feeling great and I didn’t notice any pain during practice today.”

You smiled at him, “I’m glad! I still want to check up on it later though.”

He nodded as he leaned against the doorframe, “Also, that Italian restaurant on Bloor St is fantastic — Steph and I stopped by to get a bite and the food was amazing.”

“The place you’ve been meaning to try?” You asked, to which he hummed an agreeing response, “I’ll definitely check it out with a few of my girls sometime soon.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Mitch chuckled before noticing the younger player on the bed, “Is he always this quiet?”

You glanced over to Knies, seeing him still focused on his phone, “Yeah, he’s typically like this but I don’t mind.”

Mitch shrugged, “He’s always a big yapper so I’m surprised Kniesy can actually shut up for once. Anyway, I’m heading out for a bit before the game, catch you later.”

“Bye Mitch,” You laughed to yourself as he waltzed away.

The guys were playing some sewer ball before their game with some music playing off of one of their blue tooth speakers. It echoed the concrete walls and floors along with their laughter and occasional chirps. Matthew was chatting with Willy while clutching onto his plastic water bottle,

“Yeah man, I dunno,” Matthew shrugged, “Just hoping they’d stop calling me about it, it’s just a pain in the ass.”

Willy barked a laugh before looking past Matthew’s shoulder to wave a small hello to whoever was behind him. He didn’t care to check, assuming it was another one of the guys or something. It wasn’t until Willy pulled away from their makeshift circle to grab the extra iced coffee that stood on a box and jogged in that same direction.

Matthew turned around to see Willy handing the drink to you, and watched as a large smile drew upon your face as you took the drink from him. He assumed you were thanking Willy as your hand placed onto his forearm before you pulled away and disappeared down the hall.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Willy said to Matthew as he returned, “What were you saying?”

Matthew furrowed his brows as he also tried to recall the conversation between the two of them, “Fuck, I can’t remember- Who was that?”

His eyes widened, “You joking right?”

Matthew only rolled his eyes, “No dude, who is she?”

“No fucking way, man!” Mitch laughed from the other side of Matthew, “Are you for real, Kniesy?”

“That’s Y/N, our AT,” Auston told Matthew with a mocking smile on his face, “I thought you went to get treated for that ankle pain today”

Mitch lowly shook his head in somewhat disbelief, “He did, I saw him there but he was so focused on his phone the entire time. Didn’t realize he didn’t even know who our AT was.”

A chorus of laughter filled the area as Matthew scoffed, “Alright, alright knock it off. So what if I don’t know Y/N, I’m sure Joey doesn’t know her either.”

“They’re actually really tight,” Willy told Matthew, “They grab coffee and chat pretty often outside of here.”

“So, you’re saying that I’m seriously the only one who didn’t know her name?” Matthew repeated as he watched all his teammates nod their heads and stifle their laughter, “She’s so quiet, it’s legit not even my fault.”

Auston rolled his eyes in amusement, “She’s the opposite, that girl is so chatty. You just ignore her when you’re getting treated.”

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

It was before their game and you were preparing for the multiple tape jobs that you need to do for each of the players. You noticed it immediately, the no AirPods. It’s the first thing you clocked when Knies stepped into the room. He paused just inside the door, glancing around like he’s not quite sure where to stand. You’re restocking the tape tower, kneeling beside a cart with a roll of white in one hand and your clipboard in the other.

“Hey,” He said with his voice low.

You looked up at him, noting his voice, the direct eye contact, and no earbuds.

“Hi,” You replied with your friendly tone as always.

He walked over and sat on the treatment table. You rose to your feet and grabbed the pre-wrap, keeping an eye on him as you approached. 

“Same ankle?” You asked as you crouched down.

“Yeah.”

You start wrapping, muscle memory taking over. It’s quiet for a beat, a little too quiet. He’s not scrolling his phone nor zoning out, he was just watching you work.

“This song’s new,” He spoke up, catching your attention away from his ankle.

You glanced up with a confused expression written across your face, “Sorry?”

“The playlist,” He clarified, “I haven’t heard this one before.”

You arched a brow, “You’ve been coming in here with your AirPods in for three months and now you’re commenting on my music?”

He flushed as he looked away, “I was… focused.”

“Uh-huh,” You said with the corner of your mouth twitching, “Well, thanks for noticing. It’s a new mix.”

He nodded like he’s not sure what to say next while you finish taping and pat his ankle lightly.

“All set.”

Knies doesn’t move right away, “You, uh… ever go out with the team after games?”

Your eyes narrowed just a little, “Not usually.”

He nodded again as he pushed himself off the table, “Cool, just wondering.”

You blinked as he left the room, leaving you confused as ever with his change of behaviour. But you didn’t let it bother you too much since you still had to treat all the other players before their game against the Kings, as you heard Mitch’s loud voice from down the hallway that snapped you out of your trance. 

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The next few days brought more of the same. Knies kept showing up without his AirPods. You caught him hovering a bit longer after his treatments. He asked if your sneakers were new. Another time, he pointed at your coffee mug and said, “That quote’s funny,” even though it wasn’t particularly as it was just another cheesy mug you had grabbed in the check out line at Winners a few weeks ago. It was like watching a large dog try to act like a cat — awkward but kind of endearing.

He still didn’t talk much, but he was trying and you could tell. He'd meet your eye more often. Occasionally he'd mirror your small talk with asking if you had plans for the weekend, if you liked Italian food, if you’d ever tried paddleboarding of all things. Each time, it felt like he was pushing himself just a centimetre or two out of his comfort zone.

“You don’t have to make conversation, you know,” You said to him one morning while wrapping his wrist, “I’m not taking attendance.”

He gave you a small sheepish smile, “I know, I just feel like I should’ve learned your name from you and not from the guys.”

“You’re only the last one to do it, no big deal,” You teased with eyes twinkling in amusement.

He groaned, “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

A few weeks later, it was a back-to-back game weekend. You were exhausted, your lower back aching from leaning over treatment tables for too long. You had just finished setting up post-game recovery stations when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You turned, and there was Knies and he was holding a smoothie.

“You looked dead on your feet,” He said awkwardly, holding out the drink towards you, “This one’s supposed to help with muscle soreness. I think… or maybe it’s gut health. Either way, it’s not poisoned.”

You blinked, as you slowly reached out for the plastic cup, “Did you get this for me?”

He shrugged, “Figured it was the least I could do.”

You took it slowly, unsure if this was a prank, “Thanks, that’s really thoughtful.”

He shoved his hands into his hoodie, “You uh, do a lot for us. Most of the guys don’t really say it, but I noticed.”

Something about his tone caught you off guard. It wasn’t smooth or rehearsed. It was genuine.

“Thanks, Knies,” You said to him with a warm smile, trying not to stare too hard at his dark lashes or the faint pink on his cheeks, “I’ll take gut health over muscle soreness any day.”

He chuckled, “You’re welcome, and you can call me Matthew by the way.” 

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You started to notice his presence around you more when you were hauling a bulky crate of foam rollers and resistance bands from the storage room. The wheels on the crate had been jammed for weeks, and dragging it across the hallway carpet was like shovelling the March time sludge off of the longest driveway. You were bracing yourself for the familiar strain in your shoulders when a quiet voice piped up behind you.

“Need a hand?”

You turned, eyebrows already lifting in surprise.

Matthew stood there and out of his training jersey, fresh from a shower, curls still damp and sticking to his forehead as he held a protein shake and eyeing the crate. You’d almost said no, but instead you stepped aside.

He grabbed the other end with ease, hauling it down the hall like it weighed nothing, and didn’t say another word until you both reached the clinic treatment room and dropped it with a dull thud by the back shelf.

“Thanks,” You said to him, still slightly bewildered.

“No problem,” He replied casually, like he did this kind of thing every day.

Except he didn’t, not until recently.

After that, it became a pattern. He was suddenly everywhere but not in an annoying way, not in a suffocating way, just present. One morning you caught him restocking the tape tower while you were juggling a phone call and trying to log a player’s treatment report. He didn’t ask, he just saw you struggling and silently stepped in, peeling the shrink wrap off the white rolls and sliding them into place, one after another like how you always had them shelved. 

You had paused, still cradling your phone between your cheek and shoulder, to glance at him.

“You volunteering as an intern now?” You joked as you entered the treatment report into the system on your laptop.

He smiled without looking at you, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, “Figured I’d start pulling my weight.”

Professional boundaries, you reminded yourself. You weren’t here to flirt or banter or let one of your clients, no matter how good his jawline looked under the soft lights of the clinic or how his compression shirts made his shoulders and biceps look delicious, get too close.

But he, Matthew Knies, made it so damn hard.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

It became even harder after the coffee.

One morning, your name was called from the hallway just as you were rubbing the sleep out of your eyes in the supply room. You stepped out, brows raised, only to find Matthew standing awkwardly with a cardboard drink tray in hand.

“I uh, this one’s yours. No cream, just one sugar, oat milk, extra hot, right?”

You blinked twice, trying to understand the situation in front of you, “That’s… yes.”

He looked visibly proud of himself as he handed it over with a smile growing on his face.

“I saw the look you gave Auston last week when he brought you a hazelnut latte thing with soy milk,” He admitted with a slight grin, “Figured I’d pay more attention.”

You were too stunned to answer right away. Your heart did this little somersault in your chest, a gentle flutter of surprise that threw your entire day off-balance. You wrapped your hands around the warm cup, letting the steam hit your nose.

“Thanks, Matthew,” You mumbled with a small smile tugging at your lips.

And maybe he noticed because the next time, it was banana bread and then a small paper bag of roasted almonds, then a Tupperware container of pasta salad which he responded with a sheepish, “My sister makes too much and makes me take leftovers,”

You told yourself it was just friendly. A rookie trying to be nice. A player making an effort. How it was no different from you and Joey grabbing a coffee on Thursday mornings at the local coffee shop, or how Mitch would ask for your input when he was buying a gift for Steph, or how you would go shopping with Auston because he liked hearing your take on his fashion style. Even then, something about Matthew felt much more different than any of that.

It had been a long double-practice day and your feet were sore even with your new orthopaedic approved sneakers. Your hair was shoved into a claw clip that you only ever used when you were too tired to bother styling it. Your voice was dry and hoarse from repeating the same instructions to four different defensemen who didn’t know how to foam roll properly. You were exhausted beyond belief, and it didn’t help that Toronto was getting so cold with winter settling into the city.

The final lights in the arena clicked off behind you, and you wrapped your fleece jacket tighter around yourself as you stepped out into the early night. The snow fell softly down, glazing the sidewalk in a thin layer of white. You adjusted your toque and scarf and turned toward the TTC stop when you heard a car honk.

A sleek black SUV idled near the curb as the driver’s side window rolled down, and there he was, yet again.

“You’re not seriously walking to the subway in this,” Matthew called out to you, noticing how your nose was turning red from the windchill.

You tilted your head at him, amusement threading into your voice, “What, worried I’ll freeze into an ice cube? Don’t worry the station is just another block away,”

He shrugged, clearly not hearing you out,  “I’m not letting you take the train, Y/N, get in.”

You hesitated then stepped off the curb and headed to his luxury vehicle.

Inside the SUV, it smelled faintly of eucalyptus and leather and the faint residue of a vanilla air freshener clipped to the vent. Warmth blasted from the heater vents, fogging the windows slightly.

He didn’t make a move, didn’t say anything cocky or smug. Just kept his eyes on the road, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the indie playlist you’d always had on in the clinic.

You turned your head slowly to look at him, the city lights passing in golden streaks outside the passenger window.

“You really pay attention to things, huh?”

He glanced at you, then smiled, “Only the important ones.”

Your stomach flipped, goddamn it.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

And you don’t know when it started. Not really.

There wasn’t a single moment, there was no sudden cinematic shift where everything changed at once. It was slow and gradual. A soft, barely noticeable tilt. Like the way shadows stretch longer as the sun sinks lower — inevitable but subtle, until suddenly the whole world looks different.

Late-night texts that used to be about injury updates or recovery times quietly shifted into something else. “Let me know you got home safe” turned into “Wish I was driving with you again.” Quick check-ins became inside jokes. He started lingering after treatments, offering to help you close up by reorganizing the Theraband drawer, restocking the massage oil cabinet, just anything to stay a little longer.

Sometimes, he didn’t even say anything and he’d just be there. Sitting on the edge of the treatment table, head tilted, a lazy smile on his face while you moved around the room like a storm on legs. Watching you, he was always watching.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything more than being friends, that he was just friendly and that it was harmless – until the one night where you let him kiss you.

It was after an away game and the team was exhausted, the bus ride quiet, the locker room half-empty. You were restocking bandages behind the clinic curtain when he found you — just appeared, like he had a radar for when you were alone. Matthew said your name softly, and when you turned around, his eyes were warm and uncertain.

“Don’t yell at me,” He murmured, “I know I’m pushing my luck.”

You didn’t yell, you actually didn’t say anything at all. You let him take a step closer and let his hands hover near your waist, you let your forehead press against his chest for a heartbeat. You felt his heart speed up at the close proximities of your bodies, and then you let him kiss you — soft and slow, like he had been planning for this moment, and you kissed him back.

Now it’s a secret because it has to be.

You have rules, both personal and professional, and this breaks nearly all of them. He gets it and he understood where you were coming from. It was against the policies at work for both of you. You talked about it once, when you were curled up in the back of his car at 1 AM, headlights from passing traffic slipping like ghosts across the ceiling. You told him you weren’t ready to risk everything you worked for.

He nodded, “Then we don’t risk it.”

You’re not dating, not officially but the lines blur anyway.

There are late-night drives and kisses stolen in utility closets and locker room back corridors. His hoodie smells like cedarwood and worn leather, and you start keeping it in your office, telling yourself it’s for emergencies but wearing it when you stay too late. He picks up your coffee order without being asked. He knows the way your eyes dart when you’re overstimulated, how you braid your hair tighter when you’re stressed. He doesn’t say much, just appears when you need him — with food, or a smoothie, or his knuckles gently brushing yours like an unspoken “I see you.”

You think you’re being subtle when in reality you’re not.

Auston Matthews noticed, of course he did.

It starts innocently enough, during post-practice cooldowns, when guys are distracted and the room is buzzing but he sees the way Matthew’s eyes flickered over to you as you entered the space with various resistance bands. 

One day, he side-eyed Matthew during stretches and mutters, “Someone’s chipper today, you finally get a new mattress or what?”

Matthew just grunted, brushing off his captain, “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”

“Mmhmm,” Auston hummed as he grinned, “Weird. You’ve just been very smiley lately.”

Matthew doesn’t respond and doesn’t even look at him, but you saw the way he tightened his grip on the resistance band in his hands.

Then Auston turns his attention to you, it was slow, at first. Barely-there comments dropped into casual conversation.

“Is it just me or do you look extra glowy today?” He asked as you passed by during the gear check.

You snorted with a shake of your head, “It’s sweat, Auston.”

“Still works for you,” He told you with a wink.

Matthew was across the room, watching and you could feel it. That simmering weight of his gaze, the way it darkened and sharpened, as Auston continued his not-so-subtle comments on you.

The next time Auston made a cheeky comment was with a, “You ever think about being a model instead of a therapist?” Followed by a knowing look, “Because you’d kill it.”

You nearly dropped the ice pack in your hands and your face immediately heated up and flushed pink, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” Auston grinned, folding his arms behind his head as he laid on the table, “You’re wasted in this job, too pretty to be patching up sweaty hockey players all day.”

The room got too warm and too quickly, you cleared your throat and turned away, fumbling with your clipboard.

Later, when you slip into the staff hallway, you feel a presence behind you, big and familiar and silent. Then a hand slides along your wrist and tugs you into a quiet alcove between two supply closets. A familiar scent of cedar, winter air, and his warmth.

He’s already kissing you before you can say a word. It’s rougher this time. A little desperate. His hands bracket your hips and his mouth is all heat and frustration, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead dropped to yours.

“You okay?” You whispered out as your hands landed on his broad muscular shoulders.

He doesn’t answer right away and his breath fanned across your cheek.

“You’re mine,” He told you quietly yet possessively, “Even if no one knows it.”

Your heart stuttered, warmth filling your chest and abdomen at his tone and his words.

“Someone’s jealous,” You said with a half-teasing voice.

“I’m not jealous,” He mumbled, though the heat in his voice betrayed him, “I just don’t like hearing someone else flirt with you.”

You look up at him, “Technically, I’m not yours.”

His jaw clenched as he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, “We both know that you’re lying right now.”

The words hang in the air between you, unspoken and dangerous and too, too tempting.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

It’s nearly midnight in New Jersey.

The hotel hallway is hushed, the kind of quiet that hummed with sleeping bodies and the occasional distant whirr of the elevator. A storm rolled through earlier, leaving a cushion of snow on the ground. You should be in your room, replying to emails or icing the bruised winger who swore he didn’t need treatment but would absolutely complain tomorrow morning.

But your feet moved before logic could catch up. Down the carpeted corridor, past the ice machine still rumbling in the corner room. Your hoodie was zipped up to your chin and you didn’t bother brushing your hair. You clutched a bag of ice packs against your chest like some excuse to be here.

Room 427.

You hesitated just outside the door, heart beating too loud in your chest.

Then you knock softly, just once.

The door opens almost instantly as if he’d been standing on the other side, waiting for you.

Matthew looked like he hadn't slept either. His hair is tousled, damp around the edges like he just ran his hands through it under the sink. He wore grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips and no shirt, a lazy crease down the middle of his chest where he must’ve been lying down. The lamp on the nightstand behind him casted a low golden glow across the room, warm and sleepy and intimate.

You don’t say anything and neither does he. He just stepped back, letting you in.

You move on instinct both quietly and cautiously — as if even the walls might be listening. The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that settled like a stone in your stomach.

“This is a bad idea,” You murmured, still not looking at him.

“Probably,” He agreed, with his voice just as soft, “But you’re here anyway.”

You glanced up.

He’s watching you the way he always does like you’re something fragile, something sacred, something he’s scared to touch too much for fear of breaking it.

The bed is unmade with the blankets scrunched up. The television is off. There’s a protein bar wrapper on the desk and his phone charging by the lamp. It’s all painfully ordinary, except for the tension stringing between your bodies, pulled so tight it might snap at the slightest move.

You dropped the ice pack bag on the chair, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

He takes a slow step toward you, by the time he’s close enough to touch, your breath has already hitched in your throat.

“You can still go,” He said almost like he meant it, “I won’t stop you.”

But when you don’t move and you don’t even blink, his hand rises, curling gently around your wrist. You feel the anchor of him, the warmth and steadiness that he always seemed to provide.

Then he kissed you.

It’s not urgent, not this time. It’s slow and meaningful. Like he’s memorizing the feel of your mouth, your breath, the curve of your jaw under his fingertips. 

You end up on the bed, tangled limbs and quiet sighs, your hoodie halfway off, your body pressed to his like you’ve been waiting your whole life to breathe in this exact air. He pulled you against him afterward, arms wrapped around your back, his chest warm and flushed against yours. There’s no words being exchanged, just the rhythmic lull of his heartbeat against yours.

You're curled up against him with your fingers grazing the soft line of his ribs,

A knock.

You jolted, immediately sitting up with his strong arms still across your thighs.

Then a voice, “Yo Knies? You up?”

Your body goes rigid as every nerve in your body catches fire.

It was Auston.

Knies sits up, already grabbing a hoodie from the chair to pull over his naked torso.

You’re flying off the bed before he can say anything, grabbing your melted ice bag, heart hammering.

“Bathroom,” He whispered, “Now.”

You darted across the room and slipped inside just as the lock clicked open. The bathroom is cold and silent. You press your back to the door, hands shaking. Your breath comes in quick, clipped bursts.

You can hear them on the other side of the door.

“Didn’t mean to barge in,” Auston said, his voice casual and slightly amused, “Saw your light was on. Got anything to eat?”

You imagined Matthew plastering on that half-lazy smile he wears when he’s trying to look unbothered.

“I dunno. Check the desk.”

There’s a pause before the unmistakable rustle of wrappers, then,

“Your room smells like vanilla,” Auston commented.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

“And... is that menthol?” Another pause, “You hiding your favourite therapist in here or what?”

The silence after that stretched for long, too long.

Then Matthew laughed low and easy, like it was all a joke, “You high or something?”

Another pause, then the shuffles of feet.

“Whatever, I’m taking your last protein bar.”

The door shuts again and you don’t move. At least not until Matthew opened the bathroom door, his face pale with adrenaline, hair a mess from dragging his hand through it a hundred times.

“I’m so sorry,” You said to him instantly, the words cracking out of you, “That was so fucking stupid, I shouldn’t have-”

“Stop,” He told you, gentler this time.

You meet his eyes. He’s still looking at you like you matter. Like you didn’t almost ruin everything and like you’re worth the risk.

But suddenly all the guilt, all the pressure, all the hiding — it swells up inside you like a flood.

“I don’t think I can keep doing this,” You mumbled quietly, “This sneaking around, it’s not just about me anymore, Matt. If anyone finds out, it’s your career too. Your team. I’ve worked too hard to be respected here. And now I’m scared every time someone looks at me too long.”

He nodded and he didn't interrupt, he just let you talk.

“I told myself I could handle it and that whatever this is would be temporary. But then you do shit like text me when I haven’t eaten, or notice how I wear my hair when I’m stressed, or memorize my coffee order like it matters,” Your voice cracked, “And suddenly I’m not just scared of getting caught. I’m scared of what it’ll feel like when this ends.”

His hand finds yours, squeezing it reassuringly.

“You think this is temporary?”

You opened your mouth, but the lie died before it could even take shape, so you closed your eyes instead.

“I don’t want it to be,” You admitted to the hockey player, “I think I’ve been pretending I don’t care because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And if it’s real... I don’t know how to protect myself anymore.”

Matthew took a breath before he took a step closer, “You don’t have to protect yourself from me.”

And something inside you finally comes loose. You fall into him, arms around his neck, face pressed to his chest, and you let yourself believe it. You want more. Not just the touches in the dark. Not just the late-night kisses and whispered hellos in empty hallways.

You want him fully, loudly, and messily – and maybe it’s time to stop hiding that.

The next evening, the air in the practice facility feels thick but not with humidity, but with tension you couldn’t shake. You kept your head down, hyper-focused on stretching routines and inventory counts, acting like you didn't notice the way Matthew kept orbiting near you. Like you can’t feel his eyes grazing your skin like a touch he’s not allowed to give.

But you feel it, every time. The looks, the brushes, and the silent pleas hidden in those ocean-blue eyes when he caught you biting the inside of your cheek or fiddling with the lanyard hanging around your neck.

And worst of all, you feel Auston watching everything with a smirk he’s not even trying to hide.

You're helping Willy with a resistance band when you hear it.

Low. Casual. Razor-sharp.

"Didn’t know you were so hands-on with the team,” Auston said from across the room, his voice just loud enough to carry, "Guess I should fake an injury, see what I get."

Your throat tightened and you glanced up, and he's looking right at you, wearing that boyish grin that means trouble.

Next to him, Matthew stiffened – it was subtle, but unmistakable. He was leaning against the treatment table, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The flicker in his eyes wasn't amusement, it contained fury.

“Knock it off,” He said to his captain through gritted teeth.

Auston raised his brows, amused, “What? I’m just saying she’s good at her job.”

You cleared your throat, “I’m right here, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Auston grinned even wider, “Trust me.”

You feel the heat rise in your face before you can stop it and that’s the worst part – that your body always reacts before your brain does, and that Auston and Matthew both saw it.

He turned away abruptly, you could practically feel the anger rolling off him in waves.

You fled to the supply room, with heart pounding in your ears, and hands shaking as you started reorganizing the tape shelf for the fourth time today. It was stupid, and you knew it, but it’s easier than facing the fact that maybe you’ve lost control of this. Of yourself.

The door opened behind you, softly with no knock. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“You can’t keep doing that,” You said, without looking up from the various rolls in front of you.

“Doing what?”

“Letting it show. You think no one notices, but they do. Auston definitely does.” You explained with a slight scoff in your voice.

“He’s a jackass.”

“He’s perceptive.”

You hear him exhale – low, frustrated, and then the room gets smaller and warmer. You felt him step closer, and then he's there, behind you, not touching, just existing too loudly in your space.

You turned, and his eyes locked on yours immediately.

“You’re shaking,” He told you softly.

“No, I’m not.”

He reached down and gently pressed his fingers against your hand. You hate how steady he feels, and how steady he makes you.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” He mumbled out, “Not with me.”

Your laugh comes out brittle, “Matt, you don’t get it. I can’t afford to mess this up. If anyone higher up finds out-”

“So let them, let them find out.”

Your chest tightened, “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I’ve never meant anything more.”

There’s silence for a moment. You could hear the hum of the vending machine outside the room, the dull thud of a puck dropping to the floor in the hall.

“I’m so tired of hiding,” He confessed with his voice low and almost hoarse, “I’m tired of pretending that you’re not the only thing I think about every fucking day. That I don’t look for you in every room. That I don’t get pissed off when I see someone else making you smile.”

You blinked and your breath caught in your throat.

“I want to show you off,” Matthew continued, stepping closer, “I want to take you out. Sit next to you on the plane and not pretend it’s a coincidence. I want people to look at us and know, I want them to know you’re mine.”

The door opened behind him before you could speak.

Mitch.

He stopped mid-step, Gatorade bottle in hand. His eyes instantly widened, comically wide, as he took in the scene – your flushed cheeks, Matthew standing too close, both of you frozen like teenagers caught by a parent.

Auston appeared right behind him now also seeing the same thing, and grinned like a devil who just won a bet.

“Well, well, well,” Mitch said slowly as he dragged the words out like he’s savoring them, “That explains helluva a lot.”

Matthew doesn’t flinch. He turns his body halfway, planting himself in front of you protectively like it’s instinct, like shielding you is second nature.

Without hesitation, he said, “Yeah. She’s with me.”

You inhaled sharply.

Mitch blinked twice while Auston looked like Christmas came early for him, 

“Okay, okay, Kniesy. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“No shit,” Mitch told Matthew while shaking his head, “Okay, I owe Willy fifty bucks.”

Auston cackled, clapping Mitch on the back as they walked away allowing the door to shut again.

Silence.

You couldn’t speak and you couldn’t move. You just stared at Matthew, who looked more grounded now than he had in weeks. Like the dam finally broke and it didn’t ruin him, rather it freed him.

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” He admitted, eyes softer now as they searched yours, “But I don’t regret it.”

You swallowed hard, “Matt…”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just please, stop pretending you don’t feel it too.”

He looked at you like he already knew the answer. Like he’s not afraid of the risks anymore and in that moment, neither were you.

Your lips met his immediately, as if they sealed the deal to the question he was asking. He melted into you, his arms pulling you by your waist closer to his chest as he felt your body relax at his touch.

"You already know what I'm going to say to that," You teased before pecking his lips lightly to which he responded with a large boyish grin.

[heavenlybodies333]

Mile High Club -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader | fwb |

The jet was obscene. A floating mansion in the sky.

You gaped as the BAU team boarded the aircraft parked on a private tarmac in D.C., your heels hitting the polished wood floor with a hesitant tap. Leather seating, marble bar, private suites. An attendant handed you a glass of champagne before you even made it down the aisle.

“What the hell is this?” you muttered, spinning in place to take in the sheer scope of it. “Is this what profiling gets us now?”

Hotch gave you a rare smirk as he passed, briefcase in hand. “No. It’s what tracking a fugitive across thirty states and two continents gets us.”

The team had been summoned by the American embassy in Dubai. The unsub they’d been chasing for months—one who’d left thirty-two bodies and three different crime scene signatures in his wake—had been identified on surveillance across multiple embassies in the UAE. A rare international assignment, fully funded and far from home.

The suspect vanished two days ago. Now intel pointed to him hiding out, most likely going to kill again.

And someone—likely someone very powerful—had arranged this flight.

"Still feels like overkill," you muttered, slipping into the seat beside Reid. "We're profilers, not diplomats."

He gave you a small smile. “Well, if the killer fled to an oil-rich nation that wanted to avoid an international scandal, they might be motivated to… expedite things. Quietly.”

“Expedite,” you echoed. “Right. With lobster rolls and Egyptian cotton.”

Reid’s hand brushed yours where it rested on the seat between you. His pinky hooked around yours for just a second—barely noticeable. But you noticed. And so did Morgan.

“Damn,” Derek said, appearing out of nowhere with a bourbon in hand, eyeing the two of you with a smirk. “Either this plane’s making everyone real friendly, or I’ve missed something.”

Reid’s hand snapped back like he’d touched fire. You rolled your eyes and took a sip of champagne to hide your smile.

“Missed what, exactly?” JJ asked, raising a perfectly arched brow as she slid into the seat opposite yours with Emily.

“I think Morgan’s bored,” you said smoothly. “He’s making up romance novels in his head again.”

Emily grinned. “As long as it doesn’t end with someone getting murdered, I’m in.”

The banter helped. It always did. You’d needed it this time—God, had you needed it—because this case had been a living hell. But Spencer had been your quiet anchor the entire time. Late-night reports shared in silence.

An hour later, most of the team had dispersed. JJ and Emily had locked themselves into the in-flight spa shower suite, probably out of sheer curiosity. Rossi was drinking brandy and reading a dossier. Morgan was in the gaming lounge—yes, the gaming lounge—trying to beat a VR flight simulator and laughing too loudly. Hotch had disappeared in the private meeting suite at the front of the jet, reviewing files.

And you were standing at the open door of the bedroom in the back of the plane, staring at the bed. Plush, king-sized, with crisp sheets and ambient lighting that looked entirely too romantic for an FBI-sanctioned flight.

You didn’t turn around when you heard him step in behind you.

“I’m going to hell for what I want to do to you in there,” you said softly.

“I think about you like this,” he whispered hoarsely. “On planes. In cars. In the fucking briefing room. I think about your legs around my shoulders while Hotch is assigning tasks.”

Spencer moved fast. Faster than you thought he would—quicker than he ever did in public. One hand gripped your waist, the other tangled in your hair, and his mouth was on yours with a force that stole the breath right out of your lungs.

God, you loved it when he stopped pretending.

You kissed him hard, fingers twisting into his shirt, until the press of your bodies wasn't enough. His hand slid beneath your blouse, up your spine, over the lace clasp of your bra, and you moaned into his mouth—quiet, but not that quiet.

“Shh,” he whispered, grinning against your lips.

“I hate when you do that.”

“No you don’t,” he murmured, pushing you back onto the edge of the bed. “You love when I tell you to be quiet.”

That made you whimper. Loudly.

He hovered over you, hips pressed between your knees, and you felt the hard line of his cock against your thigh. God, he was already so worked up. For you.

“Spence,” you breathed, nails biting into his shoulders. “We shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

“They could hear.”

“I know.”

You dragged him down again, desperate. His hands roamed everywhere—over your breasts, your stomach, under your skirt. You rolled your hips and ground against him, hungry now. He groaned like you’d short-circuited him, fingers sliding your panties to the side, and the moment he touched you, everything else disappeared.

He dropped to his knees, pulled you to the edge of the bed, and buried his face between your thighs like it was the last thing he’d ever do. You had to bite your wrist to keep from screaming his name. His tongue was unrelenting—years of theoretical knowledge applied in all the right places, all at once. When he slid two fingers inside you and curled them just right, your whole body tightened.

“Spence—Spencer, I’m gonna—”

He groaned low, desperate, then licked a slow, torturous path along your inner thigh, teasing the wetness already dripping down your legs. “You’re soaked.”

“Maybe I like planes,” you said, voice shaking as his tongue flicked over your clit.

He laughed against your skin. “Or maybe you like me like this.”

And when he stood, eyes wild and lips glistening, he didn’t ask. He just kissed you again, harder this time—messy, filthy—before turning you around, bending you over the silk-covered mattress, and pulling himself free from his pants.

The first push of him inside you knocked the breath from your lungs.

You both gasped.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead pressed to your shoulder. Thrusting into you over and over, hand tangled in your hair, the other pressed flat over your mouth when you got too loud.

His hand muffled the broken moan that ripped from your throat as he snapped his hips harder—deeper—each thrust shaking the frame of the bed beneath you. You were gripping the silk sheets so tightly they might rip, your knuckles white, your legs trembling.

You whimpered, hips rocking back into his.

“Spencer,” you cried out, muffled by his palm. “Oh my God, I—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His fingers dug into your hips as he snapped into you harder. You were shaking, sweat slicking your skin, and when he moved his hand to your throat, gently tilting your head back so he could kiss your jaw, you came, moaning as he thrusted you full of warm cum making your eyes roll back.

The only sound in the room was the distant hum of the engines and the obscene panting of your wrecked lungs. Spencer’s weight slumped against your back, his arms wrapped around your waist, still inside you.

Then he kissed the base of your neck. Soft. Gentle. Too intimate for something that was supposed to be casual.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. His curls were a mess, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide. You’d never seen him like this. You’d never seen him more beautiful.

And it hit you like a punch to the gut.

This wasn’t casual. It hadn’t been casual for a long time.

“Spence…” you whispered, suddenly breathless for a different reason.

He brushed your hair away from your face, brow furrowing like he’d heard it in your tone.

But then—like a cruel twist of fate—the door handle rattled.

Both of you froze.

“Yo, Pretty Boy?” came Morgan’s voice, way too close. “You in there? I need your brain. JJ says I can’t bet on whether or not Rossi’s gonna fall asleep with the brandy still in his hand, but I need the odds anyway.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Spencer’s eyes went wide, then narrowed, then he slowly—very slowly—pulled out of you and reached for his pants.

“I’m—uh—give me two minutes!” Spencer called, voice cracking like a damn teenager. You shoved him off with a panicked squeak. He caught himself on the coffee table, grinning like a lunatic.

You scrambled to fix your dress. He tried to tuck in his shirt.

“I swear he has a sixth sense,” you said, cheeks still flushed.

Spencer exhaled through a laugh, brushing his fingers over your thigh, then your waist, lingering like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

“This thing between us…” you started, hesitant.

He looked at you, all trace of laughter gone. “I know,” he said softly. “It’s not nothing.”

You nodded, throat tight. “But it can’t be something.”

His jaw flexed. “Not yet.”

You looked at each other for a long time. Words unsaid crackled in the air. This was dangerous. It had been dangerous from the beginning. But now it was more than just lust in conference rooms and stolen moments in hotel elevators.

You weren’t sure what it was becoming. But you knew it wasn’t casual anymore.

a/n: FBI stands for Fucking Barely Incognito

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[jan-likes-jam]

Hc's of One Piece Men as dad's / having a pregnant S/O pt. 2

Reader could be any pov, we support M!preg ♡

List of characters: Shanks, Buggy, Mihawk, Crocodile, Doflamingo.

Tw: Pregnancy.

Fluff, perhaps angst. A tiny bit of suggestive with Doflamingo.

Second post. I saw my first had more attention than I expected it to (I trully expected it to flop)

Pls vote if you like it, it will keep encouraging me to post. I TAKE SUGGESTIONS.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Red hair Shanks:

★ Shanks was probably drunk when you broke the news to him.

★ Thought it was a joke. Refused to believe you for a whole while until you either cried or showed him a valid proof.

★ After that he tried to recompose himself, said he needed time, and locked himself in his quarters for hours on end, almost entire days.

★ Wondered everything after that. He got some close calls before, but it seems he took life for granted and now he had to assume the consequences of his actions.

★ By this he meant adhere to whatever choice you made without complaint.

★ As if resignated to his destiny, he went to look for you.

★ Finding out you were heartbroken, already having him read like a book and knowing what was going on on his mind.

★ Guilt striked. He was as guilty in this situation but left the burden 100% in your shoulders.

★ He sat by your side, his arm hugging your shoulder.

★ "I know I'm an asshole" he chucked. "Can we try our bests?"

★ Naturally bad at baby stuff, doing things with one hand is harder.

★ This man sleeps like a log. Could sleep through the baby crying the whole night. You have to probably kick him to wake him up.

★ Brings A LOT of gifts after each adventure. Toys, tales, clothes, exotic souveniers from his journeys. And of course, some gifts to you too.

★ Refused to take you on his ship. Basically pays child support for you and the baby and visits whenever he can.

Buggy The Clown:

★ He basically drained all the color from his painted face. Became a mime.

★ Couldn't process it. Face contorted in shock, as if Gold D. Roger's ghost was standing behind you.

★ Took you in his ship while he decided what to do about it. Nobody in his crew could agree on something, so he had to actually think himself.

★ "I should leave them on a island.... perhaps I should pay child support." ... "Like hell I'm paying for that child!" ... "But well, I'm already an emperor, nobody would dare to bother us." ... "NO, DEFFINETLY NOT."

★ In the end you had to calm him down, he tried to pretend nothing was wrong, and that he had everything under control. But you knew how anxious he really was.

★ In the end, you both decided to try it out.

★ He actually was insanely anxious about how that baby would look. He hoped it looked like you, he couldn't forgive himself if it was born with that ugly red nose and ridicule blue hair.

★ Somehow, he is good with children. Knows how to make them stop crying, would make your baby laugh a lot.

★ His devil fruit let's him multitask and take care of the baby even if he is not actually present in the room. Usually uses it to tend the crying child while he can still be the little spoon in bed with you.

★ That baby is absolutely everyone's problem. Everybody just knows it has the recipe of trouble. It has Buggy's genes.

★ Probably pannicked even more than you during the delivery.

★ Proceeded to parade his new born like it was the Lion King.

★ Would actually get jelous from his own child due to how many attention it demands from you. "Hey. You seem to forget someone here." He says as he basically climbs to your side in the bed to seek your affection.

Dracule Mihawk:

★ He looked puzzled.

★ He didn't demand, but asked for a pregnancy test. Believed it inmmediatly when it came out possitive.

★ He didn't say anything, you just noticed him start to slowly baby proof the entire castle. It started off slow, but now it seems almost excesive.

★ He started locking doors leading to dangerous rooms, keeping everything clean and tidy. Even putting potential sharp things away, like edges of tables, and floor level mirrors. He even made sure not to leave Yoru around anymore.

★ He worked extra hard to get the necessities needed. A beautiful, carved crib by his own hand. It was simple, but it was honest. Toys, baby clothes he even made himself. Mihawk intended his newborn to feel it's parent's love even if he didn't know how to verbally or phisically express it.

★ He noticed you having trouble, symptoms were killing you. And despite not saying nothing his hand always reached for yours in the worst momments, the world's best swordsman feared your situation, calling you a warrior for putting through this.

★ One particular bad night where you were sleep deprived, with nausea, and body soreness. He held you and craddled you, as if he shared your pain. He continued even when you were asleep.

★ One day you were cooking, he silently appeared from behind you lifting your heavy belly. You almost moaned with relief.

★ "I read this brings you satisfaction." He cassually commented, revealing he's been reading parenting books. That made you melt. Does it every once in a while to soothe you while being sore.

★ Once the child is born, Mihawk would almost take care of it every night, he is already awake.

★ You wake up sometimes to go to the bathroom and see him in the baby's room reading, sewing, even working in the dim candle light.

★ Wouldn't outright admit it, but Whenever he has to leave, he is yearning to return home. To his love, and his baby.

★ Would outright dissapear anyone who even dares to say your name or your child's. Since your family expanded, you became sacred territory in his heart.

Sir Crocodile:

★ Not particularly amused by the idea.

★ Thought of multiple times of just sending you away with enough money to do well.

★ However, that would've been inconvenient.

★ Crocodile is not a sensitive man. Never touched or moved by the idea of a family, of someone to inherit his power and fame and wealth.

★ However, seing his adored partner swelling with child made something stir inside him. Like he needed to provide, to protect.

★ He just appeared, knocked the first wooden surface abvailable and called your attention.

★ "Perhaps you'll wanna take a look on the new... accomodations."

★ He suggested as he walked away. You had to wobble to where he guided you, full nursery set up next to your shared bedroom.

★ He never stopped smoking around you. However, he didn't allow you to drink any liquor, have a cigarette, or even force a poor muscle in your body.

★ Once the baby arrived, he would catch himself checking the crib chronologically.

★ Would pretend to be annoyed when you forced him to hold it. "I do not have time for this." He gruffed and groaned every single time.

★ Nobody should find out how bewitched he was for that child. He couldn't allow himself to have more weaknesses.

★ Would have memmorized your guy's child medical information, as well as yours. Always prepared for any type of emergency.

★ Actually hired babysitter and body guards to look after the baby for a night to take you out for dinner.

★ He spent every second of that dinner fidgeting with his hook, an uneasy frown on his face.

★ It was you who had to hold his hand. "What if we go back home?" You tried to hide the warm smile. Willing to appear the desesperate one.

★ He nodded, already reaching for the door. "If you insist." He didn't even finish his wine, nor let you finish yours. At the end, a quiet dinner at home was enough, because the three of you were together.

Donquixote Doflamingo:

★ Would be so happy it's unsettling.

★ Started bragging about the news to everybody who had ears. People were really freaked out about it.

★ The truth is that he had high hopes, his own blood seemed to dissapoint him before. But perhaps this time would be different.

★ He actually made sure you were well taken care of during the pregnancy. The best doctors, chefs and fashionable clothes that suited yout state.

★ He is not good at supporting you, or helping you with your self steem issues, he might just give you something nice to eat or wear and tell you to "stop crying all the time".

★ Probably would stand by during the delivery, actually amused by it. Sitting next to you during the whole ordeal, but not really saying much.

★ If, by any chance you health got at high risk during delivery, he would inmmediatly switch his mood from the usually fun Doflamingo to a dead serious Doflamingo.

★ "What are you doing? Save them." He would say, after seeing your pulse get weaker. How you were almost passed out on that bed. "But the child is almost here." Tried to explain the doctor. "Do I look like I give a single fuck? I don't care about the brat, save my partner or else." He threats with his strings, already reaching for the doctor's throat.

★ Whenever you breastfed, he forbid people to interrupt, comment or even look at you as you share these intimate momments with HIS child.

★ "Look at you little bird, so full of vitality. It suits you good." Murmurs against your ear as he massaged your shoulders. Child heavy asleep on your chest.

★ Wouldn't interrupt for the first days, almost as if leaving the baby to it's luck and you to take care of it by yourself.

★ When he saw you around 3 or 4 days later, a sleep deprived mess, with dirty clothes, and unwashed hair, he felt disgusted. Perhaps not with you, but with himself for not taking proper care of his partner.

★ After that hired someone qualified to babysit while you were busy, and checked regularly that you slept, bathed and were properly fed.

★ Would enjoy to sleep hugging you from behind, resting his inmmense hands on your stomach. "You looked beautiful while pregnant" he whispered once. Not sure if you were awake or not. "Perhaps I should knock you up again". He kissed your head.

★ Now you live terrified of having a Doflamingo army.

[urmommysfavkisserrr]

Is This Our Final Goodbye?

°•☆•° - Paige Bueckers x Fem Reader

°•☆•° - hey so um I just wrote this in an hour while actually sobbing so hard I threw up so...enjoy! It’s more of a letter than a story? But I had an idea and ran with it so.

°•☆•° - 1063 words.

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

It started slowly, subtly.

Your daily calls switching to every other day, then every two days, then once a week, up until they just stopped all together.

Then it spread to your texts.

They’d go unanswered for a day or two, then you’d get a big apology text back after it hit the 24-hour mark.

You knew college took most of her time, the blend of classes and practice, plus the games, home and away, that you were the least of her worries to think about, so at first, you didn’t question it. 

At first.

Then the unanswered texts stretched out to three days or even four, then after that, it had gone up to a week. Then it had jumped to three weeks at a time, sometimes four.

You’d send her texts every day. Little updates about things that had happened, or when you had seen something that reminded you of her. At times, you’d even send them once an hour, but they’d never get a response, never get read, acknowledged.

When you did get an answer, it was just some half-assed apology paragraph that had things repeated from the last time you had gotten one, along with the complaint of how much she had to get done. 

Sometimes you’d even get a story of something she had gone out and done with her friends over the weekend, or super late at night, things you knew she would have never done with you if you asked. 

Like the time her roommate had gotten so high and was craving four different fast food places, so she stopped what she was doing and went out to get it. If you had asked her to do that, she’d laugh and say something about how her parents didn’t want her taking the car out and wasting gas.

Or the time you had been trying to get a hold of her all day, because you just needed the support of your best fucking friend, and all you got was the notification that she had left her dorm from Life360, then a picture around midnight of her holding a bunch of books in a bookstore.

Things she had time to put her school work aside and go out to do, but not enough time to text you back, even though the drive would last over an hour. She admitted that one time in one of her rants.

Then she went radio silent. Completely no contact. No matter what you texted her.

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

By the time it hit the two-month mark, you lost hope. Completely. 

Your best friend, whom you had known since fourth grade and spent so much time together that people thought you were related, was gone. Just…gone. And that was it.

You had made yourself sick spending every waking hour trying to figure out what you had done wrong. What you had said, did, seen, commented on, anything that would give you an answer.

You never got one.

Not after you found out things, like that her old babysitter died, from her little brother, while you both happened to be up late one night playing Roblox and joined the same game. 

Not after you met up with an old mutual friend from middle and high school, and found out she’s still talking to him every time he texts or calls her while she’s actively ignoring you. 

Not after you cried the entire way home from that hangout with him, then cried yourself to sleep. For the sixth time that week.

By now, you had resorted to blaming it all on yourself. 

Maybe you had blacked out and said something mean, and you don’t remember. 

Maybe you had been too greedy, too overbearing. 

Maybe she just finally got sick of you. 

Maybe you had just always been a god awful friend, and the second she got the chance to get away from you, she took it. 

Maybe she’s scared of how you’ll react. 

Maybe, maybe all the years of being attached at the hip, being so close with her family that you went to family events with them, even doctors' appointments, she was done with it.

Maybe, just fucking maybe, all those time’s she called you her sister, and her soulmate, were just lies to keep you around so she could suck every inch of your fucking soul dry, then just leave when you have nothing left to give.

You’d spend nights curled up on the floor in her hoodie and holding the ‘Best Friends’ stuffed wolf she had gotten you one year for Valentine's Day, just crying. Cursing out the wolf even though he had done nothing, because it was supposed to symbolize your friendship. To be the one to comfort and hold you when she couldn’t.

Sometimes you’d have music playing, sad and slow songs, songs you had dedicated to each other. Repeating the same words over and over, feeling the same twist in your gut every time the words matched up perfectly to something in your friendship.

Sometimes you’d scroll through old texts and messages, still trying to figure out what you had done wrong. Thinking about how maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all. Or way’s you could have worded the text differently to sound nicer. Ways you could have been more supportive and just agreed with whatever shit she had said just to make her happy.

Other times, you’d just stare at the wall. Your tears blurring the lines between what was actually in front of you and what was swimming around in your head. The lies, the memories, the laughter, the heartbreak. The promises you had made that you always swore would last a lifetime, the plans you had made for your future, for your kids.

Then sometimes, just sometimes, you’d sit down in front of your laptop and type out the story. Type out the words and thoughts in your head, to take them from your brain and put them out on paper, because you can’t say them to her yourself.

Just like you are right now.

[papervenom]

cedric diggory and all the ways he quietly loves you... (a habits list, and probably not the last one i’ll make)

hi! omg this is my first headcanon (blurb?? one-shot??) whatever it is I've had so much fun writing it!!! it’s been a busy few days and I promise that I’m still working on the next chapter but i wanted to get this out because it made me so soft 🥹 thank you so much to the sweet soul who requested this, it genuinely filled my heart up putting it together. here are some of the little things cedric diggory does when he’s in love with you. habits, quirks, tiny rituals. the kind of stuff that piles up over time and makes you realize just how much someone sees you. feel free to imagine them as canon in the insatiable universe (because honestly, they are)

★ he always waits outside your classes — and outside the entrance of your common room in the mornings!! even if you’re running late, even if he’s drenched from practice. he’ll lean against the wall with his arms crossed, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds, and the moment you appear? he lights up like you’re the only person who exists.

☆ he compliments you so genuinely it makes your chest ache — not just your looks, though he tells you you’re beautiful constantly, like he’s never gotten over the sight of you. one afternoon, you’re mid-ramble about something completely ridiculous (a dream you had, a weird bug you saw, whatever) and he’s just staring, all soft-eyed and smitten. then, without even thinking, he says, “i swear, i could listen to you forever. doesn’t even matter what you’re on about. your voice is my favorite sound.” it’s so simple, so achingly sincere, you forget how to breathe for a second.

★ he kisses your forehead twice — always twice. even if he’s in a rush, even if your friends are around and it’ll definitely earn you a round of teasing. one kiss for hello, one just because. it’s instinct at this point, something he does without thinking. soft and automatic, like he’s pressing a little promise into your skin. two smooches, always.

☆ he tidies up for you when you’re not looking — he doesn’t say anything, just stacks the piles books you left out in the library, folds your laundry into neat little piles, quills tucked back into their case. he never mentions it. just blushes when you catch him in the act. “you always do it for me,” he mumbles, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

★ he keeps little pieces of you tucked away like they’re lucky charms — a hair tie, a scribbled note, your lip balm, the lighter you left in his pocket. once, it was a folded napkin with your lipstick mark on it. you don’t even know half the things he’s saved. he just likes having bits of you close, like tiny proofs that you’re real and his.

☆ he whispers that he loves you when he’s half asleep — you’re beside him reading, trying not to wake him, but his hand finds your waist and his eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep. “i love you,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with drowsiness, before pressing a slow, sleepy kiss to your shoulder. then he’s out again, like he just needed to say it, like it couldn’t wait.

★ he’s quietly obsessed with touching you — not in a flashy or obnoxious way, just enough that everyone knows you’re his. sometimes, when he sees you after a long day, or just when he’s overwhelmed with how much he’s missed you, he lifts you up in a tight hug the same way he did the first time he saw you at the yule ball, like the rest of the world falls away and it’s just you. he wraps his arms around you so tight it knocks the breath from your lungs, sways you a little like he can’t believe you’re real. in the hallways, he threads his fingers through yours like it’s second nature. under tables, it’s his hand on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles it’s never excessive. never overdone. it’s just cedric — quietly, constantly marking the fact that you’re his favorite person in any room.

☆ he talks about you like you’re already his family — he’ll say “we” when making plans. tells his mum about your favorite meals so she can make them whenever you visit. he’s already talking about bringing you to christmas next year. and when he’s home visiting, his parents hear about you constantly. stories about what you did that made him laugh, how you did on your last assignment, just proudly gushing about you. back at school, you slip into most conversations with his friends even when he doesn’t realize it. “(Y/N) said that yesterday,” he’ll murmur, or “she actually read that book, said it was brilliant.” he thinks he’s being casual, but he’s so transparent. the boys tease him constantly, but he just grins and shrugs because he can’t help it. you’re always on his mind. always the first thing he wants to talk about. it’s like loving you changed his whole vocabulary.

★ he pays attention to everything — how you take your tea, the way you hum when you’re deep in thought, how you always tap your quill twice before writing. he catalogs you like he’s afraid of forgetting all the little things, the soft details, the throwaway comments. he picks things up for you without you asking. if you mention needing more ink, he’s already got your favorite shade tucked into his bag. if you say you liked the apple tarts at breakfast, he starts sneaking one into his pocket every morning. he reads whatever you’re reading, too. your favorite books, old essays, reading assignments. he reads it all just so he can talk to you about them. it’s not performative. it’s not a show. he’s just genuinely curious. about you, your thoughts, your world. he wants to know everything you know.

☆ he’s always calling you sweet nicknames — darling, dove, love, baby, sweetheart, flower, angel. he cycles through them like he’s trying to find the one that suits you best. once, you teased him for it and he just shrugged, grinning. “you’re too many lovely things to choose just one.”

★ he seeks you out at parties — if you’re not arriving together, you can bet he’s scanning the room the second he walks in. it doesn’t matter who he’s talking to, or what kind of crowd he’s in the middle of. the moment he spots you, he’s weaving through the noise like nothing else matters. “there you are,” he always says, smiling like the night couldn’t properly begin until he found you. sometimes he’ll kiss your cheek without thinking, or slip his hand into yours so casually it makes your heart skip a beat. it’s like his whole body sighs in relief just from being near you again.

☆ he stares when he thinks you’re not looking — you’ve caught him across the room, in the mirror, from your periphery, just watching you with this enamored look in his eyes. and then you both just… laugh. quiet, giddy little giggles like neither of you can help it. it’s your thing now, that shared glance that says we’ve done this before. because you have. that first night at the feast, evenings at the library when you were strangers across the room, something magnetic pulling your eyes back to each other again and again. like you already knew. like you were remembering, not meeting.

★ he listens so intently it makes you nervous — like he’s absorbing every word, every shift in your tone, every pause you take to catch your breath. his grey eyes soften when you speak, stormy but warm, like they’re made to reflect you. when you tell stories, he watches your mouth more than he should, totally entranced, smiling a little when you get excited and trip over your words. when you cry, he doesn’t rush to fix it. he just holds your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, and listens. not because he’s waiting to respond, because he wants to understand. because whatever hurts you, he wants to carry some of it too.

☆ he mouths “i love you” when he’s too far to say it — from the field during a match, where his hair’s a mess and his cheeks are flushed and he finds you in the crowd like it’s second nature. across the great hall, when he’s seated too far to reach you but can’t stop looking anyway. through the library shelves, when you catch each other in passing and he just stops, smiles, and mouths it, soft and sure, like it’s a secret just for you. it’s quiet. subtle. not meant for anyone else. but he says it like a promise, every single time. and you always say it back, even if it’s just in your smile.

★ he tucks your hair behind your ear when you're nervous — gently, like he's grounding you with the smallest touch. he knows you get anxious sometimes, knows the signs without needing to be told: the way your fingers fidget, your breathing shifts, how you stare a little too hard at nothing. so he leans in close and murmurs, “you’re okay. you’ve got this. i’ve got you.” his voice is soft, steady, certain. like a lifeline. even if you don’t believe it yet, he always does. and he’ll keep saying it until you do.

☆ he still gets flustered when you call him handsome — every single time. you’ll say it offhandedly, in the hallway, at breakfast, when he’s stretching before a match, and without fail, he ducks his head with a shy little smile, ears going pink. “you’re just saying that,” he’ll mumble, but he can’t quite stop the way his mouth curves or how he reaches for your hand after. sometimes he tries to play it cool, but he always ends up grinning like you’ve made his whole day. and the truth is, you have.

★ he gets visibly sulky when you’re upset — he wears your emotions like weather. if someone’s rude to you, if your insecurities start creeping in, if you just look a little too quiet for too long… he notices. he goes broody and still, tight-jawed, barely blinking as he mutters, “who do I have to kill?” and even if you laugh, he means it just enough to make your heart flutter and your anger soften. later, when things calm down, he pulls you in without a word, tucks you against him like he can shield you from the world. “you shouldn’t ever have to feel like this,” he murmurs into your hair. and you believe him, because somehow, with him, it feels true.

☆ he touches you absentmindedly when he’s studying — parchment spread out, ink smudged on his fingers, brow furrowed in focus. but even then, his body finds yours. his thumb draws slow circles on your thigh. your pinkies are hooked beneath the table like a quiet promise. his foot nudges yours every so often, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t drifted too far. he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it half the time, but you do. and it always makes your chest feel full. like even when he’s buried in notes and diagrams, you’re still the grounding point. always his center of gravity.

♱ 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ♱

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[wvyik]

paws and promises ᝰ ‧₊ ᵎᵎ

sam winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: a rainstorm brings an unexpected guest into your life, but it’s the way sam cares for her that makes you fall even harder for him.

♯ warnings: extreme fluff, cat dad sam supremacy, nurturing! reader, kitten cuddles, pre established relationship, bunker life but make it dreamy, you’re in love and it’s soo obvious, peach the cat is the third main character actually, don’t read while ovulating.

♯ notes: hi my lil lovebugs… did u miss me?? because I’ve been GONE for like 10 whole days (insane) and yes it was because of stardew valley. but i’m back now with fluffy sam content to heal us all. love u. missed u. pls enjoy sam being the softest cat dad alive.

The rain had been coming down in sheets by the time he got back. Loud, unrelenting, like the sky was trying to wash the world clean. You’d been curled up on the couch in your favorite sweater, blanket pulled over your knees, the bunker feeling oddly hollow without Sam there.

He was only supposed to run out for a quick supply run, but of course, things never stayed simple for long when you were a Winchester. Still, you didn’t expect to see him burst through the door, dripping wet, carrying the grocery bags in one arm and something small, shivering, and wrapped in his flannel in the other.

You blinked, confused for a second; until the flannel moved and you heard the softest mew you’d ever heard in your life, “She was in the middle of the road,” he said, like it explained everything. And maybe it did. Because Sam couldn’t not care.

He couldn’t look at something tiny and helpless and keep walking. That’s just who he was— someone whose heart broke open for things that needed gentleness. “I didn’t even think about it. I just… I couldn’t leave her.”

And that was it. She was in your home. In your lives. In your hearts within minutes. You named her Peach, because of how fuzzy and small and soft she was. She took to Sam immediately, climbing his sweatshirt, curling into his chest like she knew exactly who had saved her.

But she didn’t avoid you— she liked curling up in your lap when you were journaling or napping with her cheek pressed to your neck when Sam carried both of you to bed. She had a favorite nap spot on top of the laundry you always forgot to fold. She started kneading on Sam’s pillow. And she had this tiny little purr that only started when you were all three together, like she knew she belonged.

Sam turned into a full-on cat dad overnight, without even realizing it. You’d wake up some mornings to find him lying flat on his stomach, using his phone light to peer under the couch because she’d chased a toy under there and refused to move. He talked to her constantly. Sometimes when he thought you were asleep, you’d hear him whispering to her in that low, careful voice, telling her stories or just… rambling softly like she was a baby in his arms.

You caught him once reading from an old lore book, letting her fall asleep on his chest while his fingers absently traced little circles behind her ears. You didn’t say anything, you just stood in the doorway, watching, your heart feeling like it could hardly hold all the love inside it.

It made you fall for him all over again, seeing that side of him. Not the hunter. Not the protector. But the caretaker. The nurturer. The boy who had once been expected to carry the world and still managed to find space for something so small. You’d be doing dishes, and he’d wander up behind you with Peach perched on his shoulder, her tiny paws settled like she was born to live there.

You’d be mid-book and he’d gently place her in your lap like a warm little offering, her purring a rhythm against your thighs. He bought her toys, a miniature bed, even little bow collars; one in soft pink that matched your favorite mug. When she scratched him once while playing, he didn’t even flinch. Just looked down at the mark and said, “She’s got your spirit,” with a soft smile.

Nights became your favorite. After lights-out, Peach would usually find her way to the foot of the bed, curling herself into the warm pocket between you two. Sam would always pull you closer, arm slipping around your waist, lips brushing the shell of your ear with a soft, “Goodnight, baby,” before everything went quiet. You’d lie there, cocooned in warmth, one of his hands resting against your back and the faint sound of Peach’s purring in the dark. And sometimes, when sleep didn’t come fast enough, you’d whisper to him about how lucky you felt. About how it felt like having a family. Even if it was just the three of you.

He’d kiss the tip of your nose and say, “It is a family,” without hesitation. And that would be enough to make your eyes sting a little.

You’d never thought a stray kitten in the rain could change so much. But now, every morning felt a little lighter. Every evening felt a little softer. You had your person. You had your home. And somehow, against all odds, you had this tiny heartbeat that reminded you to slow down, breathe deeper, and love harder.

And when you caught Sam on the floor one afternoon, curled up with Peach nestled in the crook of his arm, both of them fast asleep in a patch of sunlight, you swore you could actually feel your heart stretch with how much you loved them.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep there too. The plan was to just sit with them a little, maybe rest your eyes while the kettle boiled. But when you saw them on the floor, both of them breathing slow, wrapped in each other like they’d always belonged— you couldn’t help yourself. You laid down behind him, one hand on his back, cheek resting between his shoulder blades. And then… everything just drifted.

When you woke up, the sun had dipped lower, throwing soft gold light across the floor. The room smelled faintly like the herbal tea you never finished and the warmth of clean laundry. Sam stirred first, shifting just enough that Peach flopped gently off his bicep and into the blanket beside her like a princess tossed from her throne. She made a soft noise of protest, then curled right back into his chest like nothing ever happened. He smiled when he felt you move behind him.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, breath brushing your jaw. “Did we nap through the whole afternoon?”

“Almost,” you whispered, nuzzling against his shirt. “It was nice.”

“Peach snores,” he said quietly, like it was a secret only the two of you should know.

You giggled, fingers brushing over the edge of his hoodie sleeve. “You do too sometimes.”

He groaned softly, burying his face into your arm. “Don’t expose me like that.”

You reached up, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. “It’s cute. Everything you do is cute.”

“Yeah?” he said, lifting his head, eyes heavy and soft. “That’s dangerous information to give me.”

You smiled shyly, tucking your face into his shoulder again, feeling that warm flutter in your chest that only he ever managed to stir. You always felt like this with Sam— safe. Held. Like the world outside could be falling apart and it wouldn’t matter, because in here it was always quiet and warm and yours.

Peach chose that moment to stretch across both of your legs, her little paws flexing in her sleep like she was dreaming of chasing something. Sam watched her for a second, then looked at you with that look. The one where his eyes get soft at the edges and his lips part like he wants to say something, but he’s scared it’ll make him feel too much all at once. You knew that look by heart.

“You think she knows?” he asked quietly.

“Knows what?”

“That she owns us.”

You blinked, then smiled so softly it barely made it to your lips. “Yeah. I think she knew from the minute you picked her up.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just leaned in, brushing his nose against your cheek, thumb stroking across the back of your hand where it was tucked into his. You felt him breathe in, like he was holding something sacred inside his chest. And maybe he was.

“I like it like this,” you said eventually, voice barely a whisper. “You. Me. Her. It feels like… a little life. Not a big one. Just a soft, slow, quiet one.”

Sam closed his eyes and pulled you even closer, Peach still snoozing peacefully at your legs. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he said. “Just… this. Something that doesn’t hurt. Something warm.”

You didn’t need to say anything. You just pressed your forehead to his and let yourself sink into the moment. The golden light. The hush of the room. The sound of Peach’s tiny breathing and Sam’s thumb tracing your knuckles. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t thinking about what came next. There was no monster to fight, no crisis to solve. Just a boy, a girl, and a kitten who made everything softer.

And God, if that wasn’t enough to make you believe in a little bit of magic.

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[vanillefawnn]

Like real people do

ᯓᡣ𐭩

Dean winchester x reader

Warnings: Slightly suggestive content, fluff, language, angst(?)

Song 𖹭.ᐟ

Authors note: this man deserved his happy ending holy shittt (also didn't proof read thissss because im too fcking lazy so have fun)

Dean winchester is not what you'd call "civilized."

He eats with his hands, curses at the television, and thinks throw pillows are some kind of cruel joke. He's got scars on top of scars, trauma buried under charm, and the emotional range of a brick wall wrapped in flannel.

But he's yours.

And God, he's trying.

It starts with a house.

A real one. With walls that don't smell like mildew or gun oil. A porch with actual flowers you planted. A backyard big enough for a dog and a busted up grill Dean found on the side of the road and claimed like it was some precious artifact.

"You sure it's okay?" He'd asked you when you showed him the place. "Like... I don't wanna ruin it."

You kissed him slow. "You can't ruin something you belong in, Dean"

Mornings are his new battlefield.

The enemy; a sleepy, pre-coffee version of himself and a mischievous labrador retriever named bruno who refuses to go potty unless Dean stands outside with him like a canine security escort.

“Seriously?” Dean grumbles at 6:15 a.m., standing barefoot in the dewy grass in pajama pants and a robe he swears he didn’t steal from a motel in Kansas.

Bruno stares at him.

Dean stares back.

“Do your business, man. I got eggs on the stove.”

Bruno takes a majestic dump. Dean mutters a reverent, “Atta boy,” and heads back inside, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

You’re waiting in the kitchen in one of his old tees, leaning on the counter with that slow smile he’d kill for.

“Coffee’s hot,” you say, handing him a mug. “Eggs probably aren’t.”

He sips and grunts appreciatively. “You know I’m still not convinced people actually do this every day.”

“What, make breakfast?”

“Wake up. Be normal. Function before noon.”

You snort. “Welcome to real life, Winchester.”

He kisses your cheek, pulls you close. “Real life with you doesn’t suck.”

Dean's idea of breakfast was chaotic.

Eggs? Sure. Bacon? Absolutely. But the toaster is his nemesis, and one time he put syrup on scrambled eggs because he got distracted by your legs.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, mouth full of syrupy egg. "You walk into my kitchen like a damn dream and expect me to focus?"

"I walked in for juice."

"And I saw God."

He doesn't always win against the kitchen. But he always feeds you. Even if it burnt. Even if the smoke alarm screams like a banshee. You once caught him using a spatula as a fly swatter and then still flipped pancakes with it.

"They're crispy, baby." He said with a wink.

"They're biohazards."

But you ate them. Because they were made with so much love, it was practically oozing out of the batter.

He's still learning the rhythm of normal.

He does laundry, but he forgets to separate the whites. He mows the lawn shirtless because he says, "It feels better," and then accuses you of ogling him when you watch from the porch with an iced tea and zero shame.

He gets home from his job at the auto shop every day at 5:30 p.m. on the dot. You swear it's muscle memory–like the hunter in him still treats routine like armor.

You hear the impala pull up, and your heart skips every time. Still. Always.

He walks in, a little greasy, a little tired, smelling like motor oil and sun. He drops his keys in the bowl by the door and finds you instantly, like he's magnetized.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Then it's arms around your waist, nose in your neck, lips grazing yours like he's never known anything softer.

The evenings are slower now.

You used to think Dean would always live fast–bleed fast, love fast, die fast. That he'd never learn how to slow down.

But he has. For you.

Now, he eats dinner at the table. Rubs your feet on the couch. Watches reruns of jeopardy with an intense competitiveness that is both alarming and endearing.

"You'd make a great contestant," you say one night.

"Hell yeah," he grins. "As long as none of the categories are French food or 18th century poetry."

"Or basic geography."

"Low blow."

And the nights?

Dean makes love like it's the first and last time every time.

Slow. Reverent. Like you're something holy and he's the last sinner on earth.

He's not rough anymore–he doesn't have to be. The urgency is gone. He knows he has time. Knows you're not running. Knows he's safe here, in your arms.

He undresses you like a man learning a new language. Touches you like you're the first soft thing he's ever been allowed to hold.

"I didn't know it could feel like this," he whispers one night, your bodies tangled in sheets and moonlight. "Like I'm not pretending. Like, I'm just... me."

You cradle his face. "You are. You're exactly who you're supposed to be."

He kisses you like a thank‐you.

Like a prayer.

But it's not all serious.

He tries to act like the tough guy still, but you've caught him slow dancing with bruno in the living room to some scratchy Fleetwood Mac vinyl. You said nothing. Just watched.

He secretly likes candle stores. Like, really likes them.

You once found a yankee candle receipt in his jacket. He blamed a coworker, but now your house smells like cedarwood and vanilla, and someone is definitely lighting them when you're not looking.

And don't get started on the "Honey Do list."

"I fixed the leaky sink," he announces one Saturday.

"It's still dripping."

He pauses. "I distracted it."

"By duct taping it?"

"Its emotional stable now."

And every now and then.

He still wakes up from nightmares.

Sometimes shaking. Sometimes quiet and still as death.

You never ask. You just pull him into you. Let him bury his face in your chest. Stroke his hair until he exhales.

"You okay?" You whisper.

He always nods. "Yeah. Just... glad I'm here. With you. Not anywhere else."

Dean winchester isn't normal.

He's a mess of instincts and damage, of snarky jokes and quiet tenderness. He's clumsy with his feelings and forgets trash day and once got stung by a bee because he tried to smell a rose just to see what the hype was about.

But he loves you with everything he has.

And for you? He tries.

He lets the dog out every morning. Kisses you like a promise. Works a normal job and comes home to the only kind of heaven he ever believed; you.

He builds crooked bookshelves and burns the pancakes, but he holds your hand through all of it, and tries

Tries to be soft.

Tries to be real.

Like real people do.

[moonstruckme]

face masks - send me a character + an au for a drabble

I'd LOVE to see your take on a college AU - maybe a meet cute? - with Lily?? no pressure at all, I just love your style and scenery so it feels like a cozy prompt! congratulations on 10k - I'm NOT surprised at all!

Thank you so much angel <3

Lily Evans x fem!reader ♡ 526 words

The pretty redhead who sits in front of you is wilting over her desk. Her cheek lays atop her notebook, uncapped pen still in hand and eyes closed. It’s the day of your exam review, but you don’t blame her for falling asleep when she did. Conjugating in the pluperfect is dreadfully boring. 

She doesn’t wake until class is dismissed and the students around her stand, all in a hurry to get to their next class or to the library to study or outside to enjoy the sunny day. She sits up with smudged ink on her cheek (adorable) and a dazed look that quickly turns to alarm as she realizes what’s happened. 

“Bollocks,” you hear her whisper. You have to bite down on a smile as you lean forward to tap her shoulder. 

“Hi,” you say, your voice softening with apology. Her eyes landing on yours feels like pop rocks fizzling in your middle. You rip a page from your notebook and hold it out to her. “Here. I made a copy.” 

Those eyes, still bleary but sharpening down by the second, fall to your notebook. “You…took two sets of notes?” she asks. 

“He speaks so slowly.” You give an awkward little laugh. “Leaves lots of time for writing, and I know you’d usually take your own, but…” 

“Thank you.” The girl finally grasps your outheld page. Her gaze lifts to yours again, brilliant green eyes framed by lashes tinted auburn. Her lips tilt in a tentative smile. “That’s really kind. I don’t know what happened, honestly, I’ve never napped in class before. I knew I should have stopped for coffee.” 

“I still have some left,” you say, before realizing how ridiculous this is. Why on earth would your pretty classmate want the watered-down dregs of your half finished iced latte? But you offered it to her without thinking, because you really don’t think there’s anything you wouldn’t gift her to keep her looking at you like that. 

And maybe it’s charity in the face of your heart-shuddering awkwardness, but she takes the cup you hold out, sipping from the same straw your lips had touched. 

She sighs in blissful relief. “I have to be going through withdrawal or something. This is so good. Thank you, really.” 

The smile she sends you now is bigger than the last, more awake and more sure and all the lovelier for it. Your cheeks tingle warmly. “It’s no problem,” you say. 

“No, you’ve given me your notes and now I’ve just stolen your coffee,” she laughs. “You have to let me pay you back. Can I buy you another?” 

You blink. “Oh, you really don’t have to—” 

“No, I want to, please. Unless you have another class?” 

You press your lips together, shaking your head. She smiles. 

“Perfect. I know a place just around the corner.” 

While you start to gather your things, she turns your cup in her hand, reading the scrawl of black sharpie on the side. “Y/n?” She says your name like she’s testing the feel of it in her mouth, giving it a taste. Her eyes flit up to yours again. “I’m Lily.”

[ladsrlife]

What are you doing step brother???!!!

Caleb x Reader

Where you start living with your step-brother for uni and the relationship starts to take an interesting turn...

Chapter 1💗

Chapter 2💗

Chapter 3💗

(I don't proof read so pls excuse me if there are some awkward sentences!!)

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Chapter 4

Something within you has changed.

Ever since the two of you made up, Caleb has returned to his confident, playful self, teasing you every chance he gets.

The problem is, you don’t know how to react anymore.

It’s like you’re broken.

When he headlocks you, the old you would’ve been half annoyed and push him away without much thought Now, all you can focus on is his warmth, his scent, and how thick and hard his biceps are around your neck.

When you lock eyes with him, you wonder how much eye contact you should be making with him, before looking away with your heart beating inside your throat.

Did he always stare at you like that? like the gentle warmth of twilight? Enough to make your insides swirl?

Even his aura seems to have changed. The way he carries himself draws you in like a fly trap. It’s like the air around him is sweeter, deeper, thicker. Like flowers that bloom first in spring, his existence is vivid and beautiful and makes everything else seem grey and bleak.

And images - explicit images that you shouldn’t be thinking about Caleb - especially that dream (you’ve decided that it was a dream) of Caleb moaning against your feet and touching himself - intrude your mind no matter how much you try to fight it.

The more it calls to you, the more you realize that your love for Caleb has distorted into something so shameful you can’t dare admit, not even to yourself.

But despite the shame gnawing at your insides every waking second, you just don’t have it in you too pull away from him.

So you subconsciously draw closer to him - just enough to placate the gnawing desires and keep you sane - like a droplet of water offered to a thirsting man - but not enough to completely cross the line.

On Sunday, the second day after movie night, Caleb shows you around downtown.

You walk past skyscrapers and stroll along the beachside piers, the salt-kissed breeze tangling your hair, and soft early-spring sunlight on your skin. You stay close - close enough that your arm brushes against his every chance you get. Caleb doesn’t pull away.

And when he laughs at something you say and casually drapes an arm around your shoulder, just like he often does, you take the opportunity to lean in and press your side firmly against his. For a moment, he goes still - just a flicker of hesitation - before pulling you in tighter.

What would’ve been the usual fleeting touch stretches into something lasting - his arm returns to your shoulder, and the entirety of his torso, hips, and thighs press into yours again and again, like it’s normal. Like the two of you have been glued to each other your whole life.

And you’re swept along with it - with the ease of his touch, the way it feels so natural, so thoughtless, like this is just how it’s supposed to be.

The way his palm covers yours completely when he leans in to steal a bite of your lobster hotdog.

The way he tucks away the strands of hair the sea breeze displaces, his fingers brushing your skin without pause.

The way he gently grabs your wrist to guide you through a crowded area.

You wonder whether his touches always lingered this much, or you’re just noticing it now.

By the end of the day, your skin feels electric. You’re buzzing from having felt too much for too long.

It’s like you’re on a high. You catch a glimpse of yourself in a passing mirror and notice that your cheeks are flushed like a little baby.

And when you’re sitting beside Caleb on the tram ride back, trading lazy chatter with your knee touching his, you notice the slight glow in his expression. He looks a little elated and a little more jittery than usual. You wonder whether he feels the same.

You unwind after arriving home. After changing into your pajamas, you lay on your bed and try to distract yourself from your jittery insides. You open your journal, scribble some mindless notes, try to focus on social media content, scribble some more, reply to some texts, try meditation… you’re nearly losing it when Caleb knocks on your door.

“Hey pips. You wanna watch something together?” He asks with a hand on his neck.

There’s no way you could say no. All your efforts of calming yourself go down the drain as you join him on the couch for a show.

You try to sit far away from him, but he gives you a look with an eyebrow raised and you cave in like a paper in the wind. Grinning like an idiot, you scoot closer, leaving just enough space for your conscience.

“What do you wanna watch?” His asks, voice a perfect mix of light and low. It sounds almost… lewd. “What about this one? I heard the actors actually started dating after filming this.”

“Sure.” You say, barely registering his words. You’re too focused on the rise and fall of his chest with every syllable.

Not long after the show starts, Caleb’s arm finds his way around your shoulder again. You’re not too sure if he pulls you in, or if you lean in. You rest your head against his shoulder, and hear a shaky sigh from above.

You lazily play with his fingers that hang around your shoulder.

Suddenly wet, sticky noises and breathless gasps fill the room as the actors on screen start making out like the world is ending. You blink, trying to piece together what you missed. But you’ve been too focused on… other things.

You try to suppress the vulgar thoughts that pop into your head - the images that swap the actors with you and a certain someone - when you hear a frustrated breath above your head.

The next thing you know, Caleb is pulling you into a hug.

You bite your lip to stop a sound from escaping - why does your body feel so hypersensitive? As you wrap your arms around his waist, he lets out a low, hoarse voice, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You’re driving me crazy, pips…”

His voice shoots straight down your stomach and heat pools where you don’t want to admit.

A quiet whimper slips out.

His hand finds its way from the base of your neck to your cheek, and he leans back enough to meet your gaze.

His eyes are dark, and hungry.

You’ve never seen them like this.

It scares you as much as it excites you.

His eyes shift lower to your lips. You know exactly what he’s thinking. You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. But your mind goes blank. All you can stare at are his pink ones.

But then he swallows, hard. And averts his gaze. The palpable tension between the two of you dissipate, and he lets out a low sigh before pulling you in again, rubbing his cheek against yours.

You release the tension you weren’t so aware of, and lean into his embrace. All the while, you convince yourself, your stupid, stupid self,

that this is perfectly,

what normal step siblings do.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Hope you guys enjoyed this!!!

Will try to update at least once a week :D (I'm actually on vacation now and have tons of time. Maybe I'll just speed through it while I have the chance)

Likes and comments are life <3

[mortic2n]

MILK, HONEY AND METAPHORS. • S.REID

─── IN WHICH Spencer has always believed that some things are best left unwritten, but with you, every glance, every touch feels like poetry, and for once, he doesn’t mind reading between the lines.

Spencer Reid 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!reader 1.6K ⋆ fluff ⋆ comfort ⋆ established relationship ⋆ awkward Spencer ⋆ soft moments ⋆ book nerds/breakfast

The kitchen is quiet, save for the steady drip of coffee into the pot and the faint rustle of pages as Spencer flips absently through a book.

He’s perched at your counter, long fingers resting in the middle of chapter six but his eyes skimming past the words, unseeing. The coffee he poured for himself sits lukewarm beside him, untouched. The toast he began five minutes ago remains unfinished on the counter, the butter knife laid precisely parallel to the plate, as if the geometry might settle his nerves.

Statistically speaking, breakfast should only take a few minutes to prepare—two to four minutes to toast bread, twenty seconds to spread butter evenly, an additional five for honey, depending on its viscosity and ambient temperature.

And yet, he hesitates.

There’s something sacred in the stillness of your apartment. The curtains are half-drawn, letting in the pale glow of early morning. Dust dances lazily in the light, swirling in golds and creams. Your cat sleeps curled in a sunbeam on the windowsill, tail twitching in the cadence of dreams. Somewhere in the next room, you sleep with the door cracked open and one arm slung over the side of the bed, as if even in sleep you’re reaching for him.

He’s not used to mornings like this.

Spencer glances toward the hallway like a teenager caught in someone else’s kitchen. His curls are still messy from sleep, and the sleeves of his sweater bunch awkwardly at his elbows. He pushes one up again, only for it to slip down as soon as his hand moves.

The quiet feels too loud all of a sudden.

He clears his throat and turns back to the task at hand, trying to focus on the toast. Butter first, then honey. He spreads it carefully—precise, even strokes, like he’s painting something delicate—and adds just enough honey to form a thin amber sheen. He presses the halves together with the gentlest pressure, as if anything more might ruin it.

Your kitchen smells like sleep and sugar and coffee.

He takes a breath.

Spencer isn’t quite sure how to move in spaces like this—spaces not meant for profiling or statistics or the sterile click of FBI pens on laminate desks. Here, the math doesn’t help. There’s no algorithm for how to make someone feel loved at eight in the morning while wearing their hoodie and standing barefoot on their tile floor.

He wants to do it right.

Wants you to wake to something good. Something soft. Something simple.

But he's never been good at simple.

He startles when he hears the soft shuffle of your feet behind him. Turning slightly, he catches you leaning against the doorframe, sleep-warm and blinking slowly at the morning light. Your hair’s a little tousled, cheek marked faintly by the pillow, and Spencer thinks—statistically speaking—this might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Morning,” you say, voice still hoarse with sleep.

Spencer smiles, quick and awkward. “Morning. I—uh—made toast. Well, I’m in the process of making toast. I got distracted.”

You pad toward him, barefoot and comfortable in the quiet, and he watches the way you move—soft, easy, like you belong here. Like he belongs here.

You peer at the plate, then glance at the untouched coffee.

“You got distracted reading a book and forgot your coffee?” you tease lightly. “Are you okay? Who are you and what have you done with Spencer Reid?”

“I was thinking,” he says defensively, but there’s a blush creeping up his neck. “And I didn’t forget. I just... didn’t want to disturb anything.”

You blink, confused. “Disturb what?”

He gestures vaguely around the kitchen. “This. You. The morning.”

You soften instantly. Moving toward him, you slip your arms around his waist and rest your cheek against his shoulder. He stills like he always does—tense, almost startled—and then melts, carefully, into the contact.

“You could never disturb this,” you murmur.

He wraps one arm around your back, the other coming up to rest tentatively at your waist.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he admits quietly, lips brushing the top of your hair. “I know how to recite The Waste Land from memory, but I don’t know how to... be here. With someone. Without messing it up.”

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “You’re here. You made toast. You’re wearing my hoodie.” A soft smile plays on your lips. “That sounds pretty perfect to me.”

He huffs a laugh. “I analyzed the honey-to-butter ratio for eight minutes.”

“And that’s why I love you.”

Spencer’s breath catches in his chest. You’ve said it before—many times, in fact—but it always feels like it’s the first time. Like his brain still doesn’t know how to compute being loved so openly, so without condition.

“I used to think some things were better left unsaid,” he says, voice quieter now. “That putting them into words made them... real. Vulnerable. That if I didn’t say how much I wanted this, it wouldn’t hurt if it went away.”

You reach up and touch his cheek, gentle.

“And now?”

He leans into your hand.

“Now I think you’re the exception to every theory I’ve ever had.”

You grin. “That might be the nerdiest way anyone’s ever told me they’re in love with me.”

“I am, though,” he says, earnest and breathless. “In love with you. Completely. Quietly. Constantly.”

You press your lips to his, soft and slow, like you’re underlining something important. And when you pull away, you rest your forehead against his and whisper, “Then say it out loud. Write it on toast. Read it in the morning light. I’ll keep reading, Spencer. As long as you’ll let me.”

He smiles—truly, fully smiles—and you watch as the tension in his shoulders unwinds just a little.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

And somewhere between the soft light, the forgotten coffee, and the still-warm toast, Spencer Reid learns that not everything has to be calculated.

Some things can just be.

And with you, he doesn’t mind reading between the lines.

[actuallybean]

Truth Hurts* | Part Five

When a witch curses you to spill the truth and nothing but the truth, your biggest secret slips—you're hopelessly, shamelessly into both Winchesters. Good news? They’re just as into sharing as you are. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, threesome between brothers Part Six Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader x Sam Winchester Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl @hail-brod @s1mplyl0vely @ladykitana90 @bitchyfestivalbouquet @jenniferpendragon @just-a-blue-nerd @candy-coated-misery0731 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @bitchykittenconnoisseur Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The morning after is soft.

Not quiet—because Dean’s already humming some classic rock song in the kitchen, and you hear a pan sizzle—but soft in the way your bones feel like water and your skin still smells like sweat and men and sex.

Your body aches. Deliciously.

You stretch under the sheets and wince a little, the soreness deep in your thighs a warm reminder that last night wasn’t a dream. That you actually told them. That they admitted it back. That they stayed. All of you, tangled like a knot that no one wanted to untie.

Sam is still in bed, reading with his glasses perched on his nose, bare chest kissed by golden morning light. He looks peaceful in a way you don’t often see. And you don’t realize you’re staring until he speaks.

“You okay?”

You nod slowly. “Didn’t think I’d wake up like this.”

Sam sets the book down. “You mean with us?”

You blink, heart skipping. “Yeah. Together.”

He leans over, fingers brushing your temple.

“You okay with it?”

You hesitate—not because you don’t know the answer, but because you can’t lie. The curse still lingers like honey on your tongue, warm and sticky and impossible to deny.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper. “I’m happy. A little scared. But mostly… safe.”

Sam smiles. He kisses your forehead.

“I’m glad. Dean is, too. Even if he’s pretending not to be losing his damn mind over eggs.”

You laugh softly, and it’s genuine.

Dean strolls in a moment later with a plate and that cocky little smile that you now know hides a lot more softness than he lets on.

“Mornin’, sweetheart. Made you something,” he says, sliding the plate in front of you with a wink. “Don’t ask what it is. Just eat it.”

You glance up and grin. “You cooked for me?”

Sam snorts. “She can’t lie, Dean.”

Dean throws a dish towel at his brother, then flops into bed beside you. “Yeah, yeah. Let me pretend I’m a good guy for five minutes.”

You take a bite. It’s not bad. It’s actually good.

“So,” Dean says after a minute, voice casual. “Since we’re all still cursed and everything…”

You narrow your eyes.

“Oh no.”

He smirks. “Just a few questions.”

Sam groans behind you. “Dean.”

“C’mon. It’s for science.”

You laugh into your fork. “Fine. Shoot.”

Dean shifts, voice all syrup and mischief.

“Who’s the better kisser?”

You open your mouth, pause… and then wince. “Shit.”

Both brothers lean forward.

“Well?” Sam prompts.

You bite your lip. “You’re both good, but… Sam’s deeper. Slower. Makes me feel like I’m unraveling. Dean’s rougher, hungrier. Makes me forget my name.”

Dean grins. “So… tied?”

“Sure,” you mumble.

He leans in close. “Okay, princess. Who makes you come harder?”

You gasp.

And then moan.

“Dean,” you say breathlessly, like the name was pulled from your lungs.

Sam raises a brow, clearly amused.

Dean looks victorious for all of three seconds.

“But—” you add quickly, “—Sam makes me fall apart slower. Longer. Like I’m melting.”

Dean frowns. “So… he’s the scenic route and I’m the crash?”

“Exactly.”

Sam chuckles.

Dean grunts. “I’ll take it.”

Then his eyes narrow, thoughtful.

“One more.”

You raise a brow. “Dean…”

He slides closer, eyes darkening.

“Who do you think about more when you touch yourself?”

Your stomach drops. Heat floods you.

“Dean,” you gasp, unthinking.

He looks stunned.

Sam stills.

“But—” you say quickly, “—I think about you both. But Dean’s the one who usually starts it. The voice. The rough hands. The smirk.”

Dean’s staring at you like he’s going to devour you.

Sam’s breath is heavy.

And the room shifts.

Soft morning light becomes heat, tension, fire.

“You still sore?” Sam asks, suddenly right behind you, his voice low and dark.

You nod.

“Yes.”

“You want more?”

“…Yes.”

Dean strokes your thigh, hand sliding up under the sheet.

“Be honest with us, baby,” he whispers. “You ever had both at the same time?”

“No,” you breathe, trembling. “I’ve dreamed about it. Wanted it. But never—never—”

Dean kisses your throat.

Sam pulls the sheets away, exposing your bare body to both their hungry eyes.

“Then let’s give you everything.”

They take their time.

Dean kisses his way down your front, mouthing at your breasts, your ribs, your hips. Sam holds you from behind, hands firm but reverent, his lips brushing your neck, your shoulder. The two of them whisper to you—filthy things, sweet things, truths you’re no longer afraid to hear.

“You’re ours.”

“You’re perfect.”

“You take us so well.”

“You’ll be so full, sweetheart.”

Sam is the first to stretch you open. He’s slow, careful, pushing into your pussy from behind as Dean kneels in front of you, stroking your cheek, watching every twitch of your mouth as Sam fills you.

“Still okay?” Sam asks, barely inside.

“Yes,” you whimper. “More.”

He groans and thrusts deeper.

Dean watches, stroking his cock with slow, lazy movements.

Then—when you’re gasping, moaning, trembling—Dean shifts behind you and positions himself lower.

He meets Sam’s eyes over your shoulder.

“You ready for this?”

Sam nods.

Dean spits into his hand, slicks himself up, and nudges at your ass.

You tense.

And then he pushes in.

It’s a stretch. A burn. Overwhelming.

You cry out, voice cracking.

But then—

“Fuck—yes—Dean—Sam—don’t stop—please—”

They still once they’re both fully inside, giving you time.

“Breathe,” Sam whispers. “You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

Dean presses a kiss to your spine. “You’re so fucking tight. So full. Look at you.”

Then they start to move.

Sam rocks forward.

Dean rocks back.

You’re caught between them, stuffed full, broken open, and completely, utterly theirs.

Every thrust sends stars across your vision.

Every word they whisper feels like worship.

You lose count of your orgasms.

Dean comes first, moaning into your neck, his hands gripping your hips like you’ll disappear.

Sam follows a moment later, grunting your name into your shoulder as he spills inside you.

They don’t pull out right away.

They just hold you.

Breathing. Kissing. Repeating your name like a prayer.

✦

The quiet after is warm and thick, like a soft blanket pulled over your skin.

Dean’s fingers trace lazy patterns on your bare back, Sam’s steady hands cradle your waist, and somewhere in the background the faint hum of the Impala’s engine idling pulls you back toward reality.

You sigh, eyes fluttering open just enough to catch Dean’s crooked smile and Sam’s calm, steady gaze. No words are needed to say everything: you’re safe. You’re home. Together.

Dean grins, voice low and teasing. “Still sore, princess?”

You groan and roll your eyes. “Yeah. Don’t think I’m moving anytime soon.”

Sam chuckles softly. “Lucky for you, we’ve got time. But not too much. That witch isn’t gonna wait.”

Dean gets up, stretching out with a satisfied groan. “Alright, love. Time to put on your big girl boots.”

You sit up, muscles still humming but your heart steady and full. You catch Sam’s eyes, and the unspoken word between you is clear—no matter what’s coming, you’re stronger together. The curse might force truth, but it can’t fake the bond you’ve built.

Dean pulls the blanket around his waist and grabs his jacket, slipping it on as he paces the room. “So, any bright ideas on how to track this witch down? I say we hit her hard and fast—make sure she regrets ever setting that curse.”

Sam pulls his phone out, flipping through notes and research. “She’s likely holed up near the old mill. There’s a pattern—she’s drawn power from ley lines intersecting there. If we can disrupt the source, we can break the curse.”

You lean against the doorframe, watching them work, loving how natural this all feels. No jealousy. No awkward pauses. Just the three of you, a team in every sense of the word.

Dean smirks, shooting a glance your way. “You think that truth spell’s gonna keep you from lying to us on the hunt?”

You grin back, raising an eyebrow. “Only if you can handle hearing the truth.”

Sam laughs softly. “I’m ready. Besides, if anyone’s going to tell us what’s really going on, it’s you.”

Dean pulls you into a quick, rough kiss. “Truth or lies, baby, we’ve got your back.”

You lean into the warmth of them both, letting their strength seep into your bones. This—this is the kind of fight you’re ready for.

Minutes later, the three of you pile into the Impala. Dean’s already got the music going, classic rock blaring, filling the car with energy.

Sam slides behind the wheel, eyes sharp. You settle in between them, hand in each of theirs, the simple connection grounding you.

“Ready?” Dean asks, eyes flicking to yours in the rearview mirror.

You nod, voice steady. “Let’s end this.”

Sam turns onto the dark road toward the mill, the engine growling like a beast ready to hunt.

Dean leans back, a cocky smile on his lips. “This witch won’t know what hit her.”

You smile too—soft, sure, fierce.

Together, you’re unstoppable.