[dolcefloral]

𓈒 ✿ㅤ ⠀⠀ׄ⠀ ⠀ ⣴⠟⠉⠉⠛⢦ ⣴⠟⠉⠉⠛⢦ ͏ ⠀ׄ ✿ 𓈒 

it's a girl thing

‎

.⠀⠀﹡ doll face honey voice fairy mind angel heart ‎ ‎ ‎․⠀⠀* ‎‎ ‎ ‎♥︎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ brazilian brunette ε❤︎з musicaholic / earth sign. occasional writer 一 bookshelf 'n markers . ＊ .

‎ ‎

blue my hydrangeas. ♥︎ through the raindrops. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ recent work inbox open ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓈒 ゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂅 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

‎

© dolcefloral 一 minors do not interact 𒀭 ֹ.

[dolcefloral]

Hii, did your Johnny storm bots get taken down?

hm, no baby. they are still active, i just changed their names to "Jonathan" because of the copyright.

[dolcefloral]

SENSITIVE MUCH ❔

pairing : agent!leon x redviper!reader

summary : a drunken version of leon where he's a completely needy guy, and easily aroused by his girl's care . . .

cw : caregiving kink. (sub!leon x dom!reader). drunk!leon. handjob. dirty talk / mild humiliation kink / praise kink / light edging / overstimulation. sweet pillow talk at the end. petnames ("pretty boy" , "slut boy" , "love" , "ma'am", etc). no use of y/n. reader has emetophobia.

wc : 1.7k

‎

‎

Leon Kennedy didn’t get drunk. Not the way rookies did after their first real mission, not the way Hunnigan sometimes did when he thought no one was watching him knock back vodka tonics like they were water. He drank because it was there—because the burn was familiar, because it dulled the edges of memories that still liked to crawl up his throat at three in the morning. Moderation had always been his rule.

Tonight the rule could go fuck itself.

The bar had been one of those hole-in-the-wall joints near the old D.S.O. training grounds: dim lights, sticky tables, the kind of place where no one asked questions and everyone pretended they weren’t carrying ghosts in their jackets. Chris Redfield had bought the first round. Jill Valentine the second. Claire had matched them shot for shot until she started laughing too loud at things that weren’t funny. And Leon—Leon had kept pace because saying no felt like admitting something he wasn’t ready to admit.

Now the apartment was spinning in slow, nauseating circles.

He sat on the edge of their bed like a man waiting for execution, elbows on knees, head hanging. The room smelled faintly of you (something soft and floral that always made the back of his neck relax) and underneath it, the sharp stink of bourbon sweat clinging to his shirt. His tie was long gone. Somewhere between the third bar and the Uber ride home it had disappeared, probably sacrificed to Claire’s ongoing war against “government choke chains.”

You knelt in front of him, patient as ever.

You were still in the black jeans and fitted baby tee you’d worn to the bar. You looked like you belonged in a briefing room or a gun range. Not here, playing nursemaid to your idiot boyfriend who couldn’t handle his liquor anymore.

“Shoes first,” you murmured, fingers already working the laces of his combat boots.

Leon tried to help. His hands felt like they belonged to someone else—clumsy and pathetically slow. He fumbled once, twice, then gave up and let his palms rest on your shoulders instead. The warmth of your skin bled through the cotton. Grounded him. Made the room tilt less violently.

“You’re pathetic tonight, Kennedy,” you said, not unkindly. One boot came free with a dull thud against the hardwood. You tugged the second one off more gently, like you were afraid of jarring him.

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know, love,” he slurred. His voice sounded wrecked and with something embarrassingly needy underneath it all.

You snorted softly. “You’re lucky I like pathetic man.”

Your fingers moved to his belt next. Metal clinked. Leather whispered through the loops. You didn’t rush, didn’t tease the way you sometimes did when you were both sober, horny and playing games. Tonight you were careful. Methodical. Like you were disarming a live explosive.

Which, in a way, you kind of were. The, Leon Kennedy, live explosive.

Leon’s breath hitched when your knuckles grazed the front of his jeans—purely accidental—and his cock gave an immediate, traitorous twitch. Heat crawled up his neck. He was half-hard in seconds, aching in a way that had nothing to do with dignity and everything to do with the fact that you were touching him. Taking care of him. Undressing him like he was something precious instead of the walking disaster he knew he was.

He should’ve been embarrassed. But unfortunately, he wasn't at all. He was fucking hard for it.

And had you noticed that, your eyes flicked up to his face, one brow arching in that way that always made his stomach flip. “Seriously? Right now?”

“Please, don't...” he muttered, closing his eyes, feeling the tips of his ears instantly getting a few degrees warmer. “... don’t fuckin’ say it, love.”

“Say what?” Your voice had gone lower, velvet-edged. Teasing him even now. “That you’re sitting here drunk off your ass with a boner because I’m taking your shoes off?”

“Christ, babe.... That sounds worse when said out loud." he murmurs, a somewhat pathetic smile trying to find its way across the corner of his mouth. Even he was finding it a little bit amusing now.

You laughed softly and tugged the belt free completely, dropping it onto the floor with the rest of his dignity. Then your hands were on his thighs, steadying yourself as you rose to your knees between his spread legs. He could smell the faint tequila on your breath.

“You’re such a slut when you’re wasted,” you whispered, almost fond. But he knew better.

Leon groaned and dropped his forehead against yours. “Yeah. I know. Heard that from you before.”

Your fingers slid up, slow, tracing the line of buttons on his shirt. One by one you worked them open, exposing skin still damp with sweat. When you reached the last one you didn’t pull the fabric apart right away. You just rested your palms flat against his chest, feeling the unsteady thud of his heart.

“You scared me for a second back there,” you admitted, softer now. Then you lets out a little amused laugh. “Thought you were gonna puke in the hallway.”

“Still might.”

“Don’t you dare, Leon Kennedy.” you exclaim, pinching his cheeks to emphasize the reprimand. (You've always had this "phobia" of people vomiting, and Leon knew it. You told him about it on your first real date; he initially found it a little funny but also... endearing? In a weird way. Nowadays you just joke around about it. It wasn't a big deal, for you, anyway.)

He huffed a laugh that turned into a wince when the room lurched again. “Sorry. ’M sorry, love.”

“Hey.” you cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble under his lip. “Stop apologizing. You’re allowed to get drunk once in a while. You’re allowed to be a mess. Humans do that."

“Not like this. 'M feel so dumb right now. Like a fucking drunken clown.”

"That's just bullshit, and you know, Kennedy."

Leon opened his eyes. Your face was inches from his—pupils blown wide. You looked at him the way you looked at targets through a scope: focused, unflinching, a little hungry but also with that tenderness that still got him, everytime.

He swallowed hard, adam's apple working overtime now that alcohol is in his system. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“For Christ sake! Stop whining, you bitch.” you kissed him before he could finish the sentence. Because that was the only truly effective move to silence a drunk Leon Kennedy.

It wasn’t gentle. It was teeth and tongue and the faint burn of liquor still on both your mouths. Leon made a broken noise into it and his hands finally moved, clumsy fingers sinking into your hair. He kissed you like a drowning man, desperate and messy and so fucking grateful you were here.

When you pulled back you were both breathing hard.

“Bed,” you ordered, already getting up to push him onto the bed.

He looked at you, still a little confused from the kiss. Puppy dog eyes kicking in. “I can’t—”

You rolled your eyes. Zero patience. “You can and you will. Lie down on the damn bed, slut boy.”

You pushed him backward—gently, but firm enough that he didn’t fight it. He landed on his back among the pillows, shirt hanging open, jeans still on, cock straining painfully against denim. You climbed over him, straddling his hips without putting any real weight down. Just enough pressure to make him hiss through his teeth.

“Look at you,” you purred, running your hands down his bare chest, nails dragging lightly enough to leave faint red lines. And the smile on your face was pure mockery. Yes, you loved being on top. “All fucked up and needy. Such a pathetic boyfriend I have. Fortunately, all mine.”

“Fuck you,” he rasped, but there was no real heat in it. Only want. And a bit of embarrassment too, in the way he immediately looked away when you said that in that tone. Somewhere deep down in his mind, he was absolutely loving all this.

You grinned—like the wicked thing you can be when you want. “Another day, baby. When you can actually stand up without falling over.”

Leon laughed despite himself. It came out ragged and with a new wave of nausea as a bonus. “You're such a bully, love... You're lucky i love you too much."

You leaned down again, slower this time and kissed the corner of his mouth... then his jaw. The pulse hammering under his ear. Every place you touched felt like a live wire. When your lips brushed the hollow of his throat he arched hips jerking up instinctively. So eager.

You pressed a hand to his stomach, pinning him down. “Easy, tiger. You’re gonna come in your pants if you keep that up.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered, resting his hands around your waist, thumbs pressing against the flesh there.

You laughed against his skin. “Yeah, I know.”

That night in Madrid after the cathedral op—both of you covered in blood, adrenaline still screaming through your veins. You’d barely made it inside the safehouse before he’d had you against the wall, jeans shoved down just enough, your legs wrapped around his waist while he fucked into you like the world was ending. Again. It had become kind of a routine for you two, like taking medicine for a headache.

He’d come embarrassingly fast that time too. You never let him live it down.

Now your fingers dipped lower, palming him through the denim. Just enough friction to make his vision white out for a second and his fingers gripped the flesh of your hips, discounting in one place what ached in the other. “Motherfucker..."

“Shhh.” you kissed him quiet. “Let me take care of you. 'kay?”

He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell you he wasn’t some damsel, that he could handle himself, that you didn’t have to— But the words died when you popped the button of his jeans and dragged the zipper down. And what he was thinking again? Pff. He don't even remember anymore.

Cool air hit overheated skin. He groaned when you wrapped your hand around him. No teasing this time. Just firm, perfect pressure. Your thumb circled the head once, smearing precome, and Leon’s hips punched up again before he could stop them.

“Jesus fucking Christ, love,” he breathed, feeling the shiver run down his spine to the tip of his cock.

“Language, agent Kennedy,” you teased, stroking him slow, His eyes never left his face because that was the best part of provoking a drunk Leon Kennedy: seeing his expressions. When he was normal? He has little to no facial expressions during sex. But when he's drunk like this? Hmm, he makes these delicious little noises and expressions that are worth more than five orgasms to you. better than the actual sex.

“Fuck language. I can't think of manners when your hand is circling my cock like this, baby.”

You laughed again and sped up just enough to make his toes curl.

He was going to come embarrassingly fast again. He could feel it building already, that tight, electric coil low in his gut. Too much whiskey, too much want, too much of your looking at him like he was worth taking care of.

“Babe... I really think I'm gonna—”

“I know.” you kissed his temple, his cheek, the corner of his eye where dampness had gathered without him realizing. All this, as gently as possible. That was his weak point. “Let go. I’ve got you, pretty boy.”

He was already almost coming when you started your little show of sweet kisses... with your simple confirmation he was one foot to explode completely.

He broke on a choked sound; back arching, thighs trembling, spilling hot over your fingers and his own stomach. Wave after wave until he was shaking, oversensitive, gasping into your hair. Easy like that.

You didn’t stop right away. Kept stroking him through it until the last tremor left him boneless against the sheets. When he finally opened his eyes again you were watching him, expression soft in a way that made his chest ache worse than the hangover already brewing.

“You’re a goddamn menace,” he mumbled.

“Takes one to know one, apparently.” you wiped your hand on his ruined pants and leaned down to kiss him slow again. Lazy make out. A reward for your work here tonight. “Now, you'll go to sleep, Kennedy,” you whispered against his lips, firm but still gentle tone.

“Yes, ma'am. As my pretty girlfriend wishes.” He dragged, a silly little smile on his lips, voice already slowing to a sleep tone. He was already fading—whiskey and orgasm dragging him under. But before the world of dreams took him completely he managed one last slurred sentence. His hand lift from your waist to caress your cheek with such a sweet tenderness, normally uncommon for a man who endured so much hardship in life.

“Love you, gorgeous.”

Your fingers carded through his dirty blonde hair, and you leaned in again, this time to place a kiss on his forehead. Innocent, yet full of meaning. “Love you too, pretty boy. Have sweet dreams.”

‎

ׄ 　۪ 𓂃 taglist : @chloeee20 , @mayanqueenxx , @cassieforu , @delightfulgardencat , @userhotd , @werevvulf @typical-ukraine , @heldbycas ‎ | if you want to join my taglist or don't wanna be tagged anymore click ( here ) ‎ ‎♥︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 2026 , ‎ ‎dolcefloral 𓂃　۪ ׄ

‎

[angeldolette]

⸝⸝ bambi!reader wearing dean’s flannel .ᐟ

⚠︎ fluff, pet names, english is not my 1st language

dean came back to his cave already talking, because apparently, ever since you got way too comfortable with each other, his mouth didn’t come with an off switch. “guess who owes me twenty buckssss,” he started, singing. “sam winchester. can you believe that?” he closed the door behind him. “told him the sweet old lady was a witch, and guess what? i was r-“ he stops when he sees you.

you were in his cave. standing by his chair, like you belonged there. like you’d always belonged there.

your hair was damp, still darkened from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. your cheeks were warm, skin clean and soft-looking, and you were barefoot on the cold floor like you always were. but it wasn’t that that made him freeze. it was what you were wearing. his flannel.

the sleeves hung past your hands, swallowing your fingers. the hem brushed your thighs. the collar sat loose at your throat, slightly crooked like you’d pulled it on quickly and hadn’t bothered to fix it.

you looked up at him as soon he stopped talking and noticed his face. it looked like his brain had short-circuited. for a second he couldn’t breathe. “dean,” you said quietly, just to see if he was alive.

he blinked once, finally moving, remembering how to exist. “what’re you…” he gestured vaguely in your direction. you thought maybe he was talking about the flannel. “i… just showered and i forgot to take my clothes to the bathroom and this was the first thing i saw.” you explained.

dean stepped inside and shut the door behind him, quieter this time, like he was afraid a loud sound would shatter whatever this was. he stared at you again, his eyes flicking over you like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t seeing it. his flannel. on you.

you paused, confused by his reaction. “i can take it off if you want,” and as your hands moved to the buttons, dean’s eyes widened. “no,” he said immediately. “no- don’t.” you froze, fingers hovering.

dean took a breath, forcing himself to soften. “i mean… don’t do that,” he repeated, quieter. “you don’t have to.” you looked up at him, confused, cautious.

“looks good.” he murmured. you tilted your head, waiting for him to elaborate. and he took a few steps closer to you. “the flannel. looks good on you.”

your gaze softened as you looked up at him when he was close enough. your fingers tightened around the fabric and he noticed. he also noticed how you looked smaller than usual in his flannel.

“you can keep it.” he said. your eyes widened. “i can?” dean nodded. “yeah. i got others.” he liked the way you looked in it way too much. you hesitated. but then, you asked.

“you’re not mad?” he furrowed his eyebrows. “mad?” he asked. “bambi. this is the best thing i’ve seen all week.” and your cheeks warmed at his words.

dean winchester didn’t mind if someone wore his clothes without asking first. he didn’t mind you wearing his clothes without asking. and the fact that seeing you wearing his flannel made his week, that made your whole day.

a/n : oml. thinking about them everyday.

taglist: @pepsipoet @courta13 @lyingonchris @slvvticzz @s0ullesslullab1es

[pittsick]

ִ ࣪ ⋆ 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍 headcanons.

( +18 ) mdni / fluff, slice-of-life, suggestive.

reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!

Logan has a habit of looking for you the second he walks into a room; it doesn't matter if it's a crowded party, the hockey arena, or a lecture hall. His eyes automatically scan the space until they find you and the moment they do, his entire posture relaxes.

He is constantly finding reasons to be near you without realizing he's doing it. You'll be sitting on the couch and somehow he'll end up right beside you, one arm stretched behind your shoulders, his knee pressed against yours. If someone points it out, he'll look genuinely confused and mumble something about there not being enough room elsewhere.

He grew up learning how to fix things, so whenever you mention even the smallest inconvenience, he's already figuring out a solution. A squeaky door, a broken lamp, a loose shelf—he treats every problem like a personal mission. You once joked that he was your handyman and he spent the next week pretending to be offended while secretly loving the title.

He’s a sucker for hair pulling and when you force him to look at you while riding him. Logan is always focused on your face, taking all the expressions you make as he pulls you down on his member. He also loves calling you petnames like baby, angel, sunflower.

Logan absolutely melts when you're proud of him: he'll brush off compliments from teammates, coaches, and professors, but if you tell him you noticed how hard he's been working, he gets all quiet. His ears turn red and he suddenly becomes very interested in whatever is happening across the room.

He's big into praise when you both are having sex too, either it's receiving or giving: you'll never hear him degrade you, even if you beg for it. No, he wants to tell you how good you are being, how well you did.

Logan is surprisingly affectionate when he's tired. His usual confidence disappears completely and he'll drape himself over you, tuck his face into your neck, and grumble every time you try to get up. If you tell him you need to do something important, he'll mumble, "Five more minutes," like a giant overgrown puppy.

He gets ridiculously protective when you're sick. The second you mention feeling unwell, he's showing up with medicine, blankets, soup, and enough supplies to survive a natural disaster. He'll spend the entire day hovering around you asking if you need anything, even when the answer is always no.

He loves seeing you in his clothes; his hoodies, his shirts, even his pajamas pants either they fit you or not. He acts like it's a bother, like he wants to complaint about it, but it's all fake. He tells you that you can keep it and that he will buy more and he secretly hopes you will steal the new ones too.

Will definitely make love to you while you are wearing his hoodies; it's all soft, tender sex while whispering into your ears how pretty you are. You are his partner, he loves you so much, he wants to stay in your warmth forever. He can smell you everywhere and it drives him crazy in the softest way possible.

Logan likes listening to you talk, even about things he knows nothing about. You could spend twenty minutes explaining a hobby, a TV show, or college drama, and he'll pay attention the entire time. Not because he's interested in the topic itself, but because he loves the way your face lights up when you're excited.

He loves seeing you at his hockey matches; either you like it or not, he knows you will always be here to support him in his hobby. He's also glad that you get along with his friends, because to him, they are his second family after Jules and you are a part of it too.

taglist ﹏ @ravensreadingrecs @nuitts @filthgf @avasarchve @girldisrupted @userhotd @wiishies @cheriedove @corvusmorte @purplerainx1 ( to be added )

[pittsick]

SAM WINCHESTER ﹏ BETWEEN CLASSES.

ft. babydoll!reader.

summary ﹏ History professor Sam Winchester and his sweet, soft-hearted student have perfected the art of loving each other in secret—hidden in stolen office kisses, quiet afternoon visits, and tender moments between classes. What starts as quick check-ins slowly becomes the favorite part of Sam’s day: listening to you ramble while holding you close in the privacy of his office.

cw ﹏ fluff / slice-of-life fic. fem!reader. college au & professor!sam. established secret relationship. age gap (20s & late 30s). soft intimacy. praise. soft petnames (sweetheart, baby). lovesick behavior. gentle touches.

reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!

By the middle of October, you’ve developed a routine so dangerous in its softness that Sam sometimes catches himself thinking about it during lectures.

It starts after your morning classes, usually sometime between eleven and noon, when the history building fills with the sound of students shuffling through hallways carrying coffee cups and half-finished assignments. The campus always feels busiest then, voices echoing off old brick walls, backpacks bumping into doorframes, professors trying to navigate crowds with stacks of papers balanced in their arms. 

And somewhere in the middle of all of it is you—moving through the chaos in oversized knit sweaters and soft skirts that brush your knees, your bag slipping down your shoulder because it’s always too full of notebooks, lip balm, pens with little flowers glued onto them.

Sam notices you before you even reach his office most days. He hears your laugh in the hallway or catches the soft sound of your voice drifting through the partially opened door while he’s pretending to grade papers.

The first time you stopped by his office just to see him, he thought it would be quick.

A hello, maybe a kiss; a few stolen minutes before one of you had to leave again.

But then you sat cross-legged in the chair across from his desk while telling him about a girl in your literature class who cried because she spilled coffee on her laptop, and Sam found himself listening so carefully that he completely forgot he was supposed to be answering emails. After that, it became routine. Yours.

Now you show up between classes with sleepy smiles and stories about your day, and Sam—despite being a respected history professor with a terrifying amount of grading to do—starts unconsciously waiting for it.

“You’re late,” he says one afternoon, though his voice carries none of the sharpness the words should have. You pause in the doorway dramatically, one hand clutching your chest. “I was gone for six minutes longer than usual.”

Sam leans back slightly in his chair, trying and failing to suppress the smile tugging at his mouth. “Exactly. I was beginning to think you found another history professor.” You gasp softly, scandalized in the prettiest way possible. “Never. You’re my favorite one.”

His eyes flick briefly toward the open office door at that, instinctively cautious, before settling back on you again. “Careful,” he murmurs, lowering his voice slightly. “You keep saying things like that out loud, people are gonna start getting suspicious.”

You soften immediately at his tone, stepping fully inside before gently nudging the office door mostly shut behind you; not closed enough to look strange, but enough to give you a little privacy. “Sorry,” you murmur automatically, moving closer to his desk. “I forgot.” Sam’s expression changes instantly at the apology, warmth replacing the teasing almost immediately. “Hey.” His voice drops softer. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“That.” He sets his pen down fully now, attention completely shifting to you. “Apologizing every time you say something sweet.”

Your cheeks warm up faintly at that, and God, he loves when you do that. Loves how easy it is to make you fuzzy, how your softness never feels performative or calculated. You’re just… genuinely sweet. Warm in a way that catches him off guard even now.

“I can’t help it,” you admit quietly, coming around the side of his desk until you’re standing close enough for his knee to brush your thigh. “You make me nervous sometimes.” Sam lets out a quiet breath through his nose, amused and fond all at once. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, tilting his head up to look at you properly, “you’ve been dating me for six months.”

“I know.” Your voice turns smaller somehow, shy despite yourself. “You still make me nervous.”

That does something unfair to him.

Sam reaches for you instinctively then, one hand settling gently around your wrist before sliding down until his fingers lace loosely through yours. “C’mere,” he says softly.

You go immediately, stepping between his knees without hesitation, your skirt brushing lightly against his legs. Sam’s hands settle carefully at your waist, familiar and warm, and the second he pulls you just slightly closer, your whole body relaxes. He notices that every single time; that unconscious softening whenever he touches you, like your body trusts him before your mind can even think about it.

“You have class in ten minutes,” he murmurs, though he makes absolutely no move to let you go. “Mhm.” You nod at his words.

“And you walked all the way over here just to see me.”

“Mhm.” His mouth twitches. “You’re clingy.” You blink down at him innocently, a ghost of a smile on your face. “You like it.” Sam actually laughs quietly at that, low and warm enough to make your chest tighten pleasantly. “Yeah,” he admits, fingers pressing slightly against your waist. “Yeah, I do.”

The relationship is ridiculous, honestly. Not the feelings: ever the feelings but just… the logistics of it.

The sneaking around, the stolen moments, the way Sam has to carefully school his expression during lectures whenever you walk in wearing soft pink sweaters and glossy lips and looking entirely too pretty for his own sanity or the way you have to pretend you aren’t completely in love with the man discussing nineteenth-century warfare while students around you struggle to stay awake.

And God, the office visits; those are the worst or the best part.

Sam still hasn’t decided.

Because every time you wander into his office between classes, carrying iced coffee or pastries or some tiny story you absolutely need to tell him, he forgets how to act normal for a few minutes. He stops being Professor Winchester and just becomes Sam again—your Sam, the one who kisses your forehead while reading essays, who keeps strawberry candies in his desk drawer because you like them, who listens with complete seriousness when you ramble about café playlists or pretty bookstores you found downtown.

Today, you’re talking animatedly about a tiny bakery near campus while perched on the edge of his desk, your legs swinging lightly as Sam pretends to organize papers beside you. “And they put little heart shapes in the whipped cream,” you’re saying earnestly. “Like actual little hearts. It was so cute.”

Sam hums like this is the most important information he’s heard all day. “Sounds life-changing.”

“It kind of was.”

“There she is,” he murmurs dryly. “The dramatic side finally comes out.” You nudge his shoulder lightly with your knee. “You’re mean.”

“I’m realistic.”

“You kissed me goodbye this morning and said my sweater made me look ‘dangerously adorable.’” Sam freezes for half a second, then slowly looks up at you. “You remember everything I say, huh?”

“Yes.” Your answer comes instantly, soft and honest. “Especially the sweet things.” Something in his chest pulls tight. You do that to him constantly without even realizing.

Sam steps closer before he can think too hard about it, one hand settling automatically against your thigh where it rests near the edge of the desk. There’s nothing sexual about it, no; it’s warm and lovely and sweet. His thumb strokes once through the soft fabric there, absentminded and affectionate, and your voice falters immediately.

His eyes flick up to yours, catching the way your lashes lower slightly, the way your fingers tighten faintly around the edge of the desk.

“You okay there, baby?” he asks quietly. You nod too quickly. “Mhm.” Sam smiles a little because you always do that when he affects you more than you expect. “You sure?” Your cheeks warm. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” You trail off helplessly, your expression growing more flustered under his attention. “Like you know things.”

“Oh, lovely.” His voice lowers, gentler now. “I do know things.” You duck your head slightly at that, and Sam feels unbearably fond all at once. He steps between your knees carefully, his hand sliding from your thigh to your waist instead. “You’re cute when you get shy,” he murmurs.

“You make me shy.”

“Good.” Your eyes widen slightly. “Sam!”

“What?” he asks innocently, though his hands are pulling you closer now, guiding you carefully toward the edge of the desk. “I like knowing I can still do that to you.” You let out the softest little laugh then, warm and breathy and embarrassed all at once, and Sam swears he could live inside that sound. “You’re impossible,” you whisper.

“And you still came all the way over here just to kiss me and tell me about your day.”

“…Maybe.”

“Maybe?” His eyebrows lift. You try to hold onto your dignity for approximately three seconds before failing completely. “Okay, yes,” you admit softly. “I missed you.”

God. Sam’s entire expression softens instantly. There’s something almost unfair about how openly you love him sometimes. How easily you say things like that. No games, no hesitation, just warmth offered so freely it leaves him a little stunned every time.

“C’mere,” he murmurs again, quieter this time. His hand slides gently up your side before settling against your jaw, thumb brushing softly along your cheek, and then he kisses you. It’s slowly and carefully like he’s savoring it.

You melt immediately, your hands finding his shoulders without thinking, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his button-up shirt. Sam kisses like he does most things—with intention. Just steady warmth and quiet affection that builds slowly until your heart feels too full to hold it all. You sigh softly against his mouth, and Sam feels it everywhere.

“Missed you too,” he murmurs when he finally pulls back slightly, his forehead resting briefly against yours. Your eyes stay half-lidded for a second longer before you smile, small and dreamy. “You’re supposed to be grading papers.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“You let me.”

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, brushing another kiss against the corner of your mouth, “I practically encourage it.”

You laugh quietly then, your hands smoothing absentmindedly over his shoulders while he keeps you tucked close between his arms. Outside the office, students continue moving through the hallways, voices drifting faintly past the door, the normal rhythm of campus life carrying on around your secret little world.

But in here, tucked into the warm quiet of Sam’s office with his hands steady on your waist and his mouth still lingering close enough to kiss again, everything feels softer somehow.

Safer.

Like love folded carefully into stolen afternoons between classes.

taglist ﹏ @userhotd @stargral @nekkiotine @fawnettewinchester @grimsonandclover @ravensreadingrecs @elenacarey @prismozo @kathh01 @dumbbandpoetic @hisfavoriteweepingangel @bluestrd @coochiemama3000 @eepwtf @domingodeaan @jiminie-08 @stqrfirez @pervyangelz @cxlt-lamb1 @dolcefloral @heldbycas @amourflores @avasarchve @chronic-fangirl-222 @nerdypinupcrystal @filthgf @blessorte @blushhbambi @flwer555 @qardasngan @aerangi @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @agustd202204 @leonsbrat @deansdeer @rafs127 @tealee @dreamersentity @cup1dssorrow @mimisitaugu @bitemysin @cloudsincalifornia @s4yuriii @lover-of-books-and-tea @puppyinlace @m-angelou @doll2kiss @nr1-apple-lover @esmeraldalopez0 ( to be added )

[dolcefloral]

hi!! i absolutely love your off campus dean bots! i'm curious if you plan on making more? hope you have a wonderful day!!

hii precious ! 💕

thankoo for the sweet feedback!! i have some wips in my docs right now, but i don't have a specific date to post them.

but if you want new things right now, head over to my j.ai account, i've posted exclusive content there! 🫂

[dolcefloral]

HA(PU)PPY DAY

pairing : richboy!rafe x pinkdiamond!reader

summary : he would do anything for you, even hide a puppy in his closet to surprise you on their anniversary . . .

cw : domestic fluffy. rafe being soft(ish).

wc : 2.3k

‎

‎

Rafe Cameron was fucked.

Not in the dramatic, world-ending way he usually invited—like when he’d snort too much, punch the wrong guy, or crash one of Ward’s boats just to feel something—but in the stupid, domestic way that made his skin crawl. The kind of fuck-up that came with trying to be… good. Or at least good-adjacent. For you.

He was sprawled across the foot of his bed in nothing but black boxer-briefs and a thin silver chain that always got caught in his chest when he got sweaty, one arm flung over his eyes, the other lazily scratching at the faint trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. The AC was blasting, but the room still felt thick, humid, like the Outer Banks never really let go of summer even when October tried to creep in. His buzzed scalp prickled with the cold air; he liked it that way. Kept him sharp. Kept the thoughts from getting too soft.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor near his dresser, barefoot, wearing one of his sweatshirts that swallowed you whole. The hem pooled around your thighs, the sleeves bunched at your elbows because you’d pushed them up to scroll through your phone. Your hair was loose today, falling in soft, messy waves over one shoulder. You looked small. Fragile in a way that made something ugly twist in Rafe’s gut every time he noticed it—because he knew exactly how breakable you really weren’t. You just carried it like you were.

He’d been watching you for the last ten minutes without saying anything. Just letting his gaze drag over the curve of your neck, the way your collarbone peeked out from the stretched-out neckline, the soft freckles scattered across the bridge of your nose like someone had flicked cinnamon on your skin. You were humming under your breath—some Sabrina Carpenter song he pretended to hate—and every once in a while your eyes flicked up to him, shy and bright, like you were checking if he was still looking.

Four days. Four fucking days he’d kept the secret.

The puppy (a fluffy gray-and-white Husky with blue eyes, all needle teeth and clumsy paws) had been living in the walk-in closet like some kind of furry hostage. Rafe had lined the floor with old beach towels, set up a water bowl, tossed in a couple of chew toys he’d panic-bought from the pet store in Chapel Hill two towns over. He’d even started leaving the door cracked at night so the little shit could breathe fresh air, but during the day? Door shut and locked. Silence all day.

Except it wasn’t silent anymore.

It started as a whine. The kind of sound that could almost pass for the wind rattling the old window frames. Your head tilted, eyebrows furrowing in slight confusion at the sudden small noise. “Rafey.... did you hear that?”

Rafe’s stomach dropped like he’d just missed a step on the stairs. He didn’t move his arm from his face, trying to sound casual even though his heart was beating at 100 km/h right now. “Hear what?”

Another whine. Longer this time. Needier. You frowned, pushing yourself up onto your knees. “That. It sounded like… I don’t know. A baby? Or a cat maybe?”

He forced a laugh. “Babe, we don’t have a cat. And there sure as shit ain’t a baby in here.”

You gave him that look. The one where your brows pinched together and your lips pressed into a little line, like you were trying to decide whether he was lying or just being an asshole for fun. Usually it was the second one.

“I swear I heard something,” you murmured, already turning toward the closet.

Rafe sat up fast—too fast, that his blood pressure even dropped a little. The mattress creaked under him. “Hey. C’mere.”

You paused, glancing back over your shoulder. “What?”

He patted the bed beside him, trying to look casual, like his heart wasn’t slamming against the back of his ribs. “Just come here for a sec.”

You hesitated for maybe twenty seconds, then you crawled up onto the mattress, knees sinking into the comforter. When you got close enough he hooked two fingers in the front of his sweatshirt and tugged you forward until you half-fell against his chest. Your palms flattened on his pecs for balance.

He wrapped one arm around your lower back, fingers splaying wide over the dip of your spine, thumb brushing the elastic of your underwear through the thick cotton. He buried his nose in your hair for a second, just breathing you in, trying to buy time.

The closet was quiet again. Maybe the puppy had gone back to sleep. Maybe it was fine. Maybe—

A sharp, high-pitched yip. You stiffened in his arms. Rafe’s grip tightened involuntarily, the moment of relief quickly broken again by the puppy's treacherous pleas.

“What the hell was that?” you whispered, pulling back just enough to look at his face. Your eyes were wide, pupils blown in the dim light. “Rafe. That was not the wind.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. His brain short-circuited for a second—every lie he could think of sounded dumber than the last. “I… uh…”

Another yip. Then a soft, frantic scratching against the inside of the door. Tiny claws on wood. The unmistakable sound of a tail thumping against the frame.

Your gaze snapped toward the closet. “There’s something in there.”

Rafe scrubbed a hand over his buzz cut, the short hairs rasping against his palm. “It’s nothing.”

“Rafe.”

“It’s not—”

“Rafe Cameron, open that door right now or I’m doing it myself.”

Fuck.

He exhaled hard through his nose. “Fine. But don’t freak out, okay?”

Your brows shot up. “Why would I freak out?”

Because I’m an idiot who thought he could surprise you and instead I’m about to look like a lunatic who’s been hiding a live animal in this closet for four days like some kind of psychopath.

He didn’t say that. Instead he slid off the bed, every muscle in his back flexing under the low light as he crossed the room. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet. He could feel your eyes on him the whole way. He stopped in front of the door. Hand on the knob. Heart in his fucking throat.

One last glance back at you. You had slid to the edge of the bed, legs dangling, hands gripping the mattress on either side of you thighs. You looked both nervous and excited.

He twisted the knob and the door swung open.

And there, sitting in the middle of a nest of crumpled towels, was the fluffiest, bluest-eyed little monster you had ever seen. Its tail wagged so hard its whole back end wiggled. It let out one more excited yip, then launched itself forward—straight at Rafe’s shins.

He caught it on instinct, scooping the squirming ball of fur up against his bare chest. Cold nose pressed to his throat. Tiny paws scrabbling against his skin. Wet tongue swiping across his jaw in one long, sloppy stripe.

You gasped. Rafe looked up at you through his lashes, smirking, but still a little terrified of your reaction. “Surprise,” he muttered. “Happy early fuckin’ anniversary, baby.”

You didn’t move at first. You just stared.

The puppy was still wriggling in Rafe’s arms, tiny paws slipping against the sweat-slick skin of his chest, tail whipping back and forth so fast it blurred. A soft, excited whimper bubbled out of its throat every few seconds—like it couldn’t decide whether to bark or cry from happiness. Its blue eyes locked onto you immediately, like it already knew you were the one it had been waiting for.

Rafe shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the floor creaking under him. He was trying to look chill, but the way his jaw ticked and the faint flush creeping up the side of his neck gave him away. He wasn’t used to this—giving something real, something vulnerable, and then having to stand there and wait for the verdict.

Your lips parted. No sound came out. Your hands were still fisted in the comforter on either side of your hips, knuckles pale. You blinked once. Twice. Then your eyes filled up. Not dramatic, movie-style tears. Just… water. Slow and quiet, gathering at the lash line until one slipped free and tracked down the curve of your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t even seem to notice.

“Rafe…” Your voice cracked on his name, barely above a whisper.

He swallowed hard. The puppy nosed under his chin, and Rafe absently scratched behind its floppy ear while keeping his gaze locked on you. “You said you wanted one,” he muttered, rougher than he meant to. “Back when you were talking to Rose. About that dream you had. The one where you had a dog that slept at the foot of your bed and followed you everywhere. I… I remembered.”

Your throat worked. You pressed your lips together like you were trying to hold everything inside, but it wasn’t working. Another tear slid down, then another. Your bottom lip trembled and it hit Rafe square in the solar plexus.

He wasn’t good at this shit. He wasn’t good at softness. He was good at breaking things, at yelling, at taking what he wanted and leaving wreckage behind. But this? This quiet, trembling girl looking at him like he’d just handed her the moon?

It fucking terrified him.

“You’ve had it… here?” you asked, voice small and thick. But there was amusement too, as if the idea of Rafe hiding a puppy in his closet was funny and kind of impossible to imagine. “In your closet?”

“Four days,” he admitted, grimacing. “Thought I could pull off the big romantic surprise tomorrow. Anniversary and all that. But the little asshole decided to start serenading us early.”

The puppy chose that exact second to let out a tiny, indignant yip, like it was offended by the nickname. Rafe huffed a laugh despite himself.

Your eyes flicked from the puppy to Rafe’s face and back again. You slid off the bed slowly, bare feet silent on the hardwood. Every step you took toward them made Rafe’s pulse kick harder. When you were close enough you reached out, fingertips brushing the soft fur along the puppy’s back. The Husky immediately twisted in Rafe’s hold, stretching toward you with a desperate whine. Its pink tongue darted out, swiping at the air inches from your hand.

You let out a shaky laugh and cupped the puppy’s face with both palms. The fur was baby-soft, like velvet, still smelling faintly of the pet store shampoo and the newness of life. The puppy’s eyes half-closed in bliss as you scratched gently under its chin, right where the fluff was thickest.

“Oh my God,” you breathed. “He’s… he’s so little.”

“She,” Rafe corrected, voice low and affectionate. “Little girl. Figured you’d want one that’d grow up mean enough to keep the Pogues away from you.”

Your laugh bubbled up again, wet and bright. You looked up at him through damp lashes, cheeks flushed, eyes shining like sea glass after a storm. “You got me a girl?” you whispered, like that detail alone was enough to unravel you.

“Yeah.” Rafe’s throat felt tight. “Thought… maybe she could be yours. Ours. Whatever. I don’t fuckin’ know. I just—” He broke off, jaw working. “I wanted you to have something good. Something that wasn’t… me being a dick all the time.”

Your hands stilled on the puppy’s face. You stared at him for a long beat—long enough that Rafe started to feel exposed, raw, like you could see straight through the bullshit armor he wore every day. Then you stepped even closer. Your body brushed his—soft curves against the hard planes of his chest, the puppy squished gently between you two. You had to tip your head back to meet his eyes, and when you did, the look on your face made something inside Rafe crack wide open.

You rose onto your tiptoes, one hand still cradling the puppy’s head, the other sliding up to curl around the back of Rafe’s neck. Your fingers threaded into the short hairs at his nape, nails grazing his scalp in that gentle way you sometimes did when he was spiraling.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his mouth. Not quite a kiss; just your lips touching, breathing each other in. “Thank you, Rafe.”

He closed his eyes. Exhaled hard through his nose. The puppy wriggled happily, licking at both your chins in sloppy alternation.

You pulled back just enough to look at the little gray-and-white face between you two. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of the puppy’s head—right between the ears—then looked back up at Rafe with that same trembling smile.

“What’s her name again?”

Rafe’s mouth twitched. “Was kinda hoping you’d pick. I’ve just been calling her ‘Trouble’ in my head.”

You laughed again and the sound loosened something in his chest he hadn’t even realized was knotted.

“Trouble,” you repeated, testing it. Your gaze dropped back to the puppy, who was now trying to climb Rafe’s shoulder like it was a mountain. “I think… maybe Luna? Like the moon. Because of her eyes. It's so pale, like moonlight.”

Rafe considered it, looking down at the squirming bundle currently attempting to chew on his earlobe. “Luna,” he said slowly, tasting the word. “Yeah. Luna fits.”

You beamed and it was like the whole damn room got brighter. You leaned in again, this time pressing your forehead to his. Their noses brushed. Your breath fanned warm across his lips.

“I love her,” you murmured. “And I love you too, Rafe Cameron.”

Rafe froze instantly.

You said it sometimes, but he never said it back. Not because he didn’t feel it. Because the words felt too big, too dangerous, like if he let them out they might burn everything down.

But right now, with your body pressed to his and Luna’s tiny heart beating frantically against his sternum, with you looking at him like he was something worth keeping…

He swallowed once. Then, voice so low it was almost lost in the hum of the AC— “Love you too, baby.”

‎

ׄ 　۪ 𓂃 final notes : Luna, welcome to the Cameron family! 😭🤲🏻 taglist : @userhotd , @pittsick , @coochiemama3000 , @ssugartalkin , @obxobsessedbitch1 , @strkycrnswt , @kild4re , @mydarlinggardenia , @mayanqueenxx , @blessorte , @rafedeer ‎ ‎ ‎| ‎ ‎ if you want to join my taglist or don't wanna be tagged anymore click ( here ) ♥︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 2026 , ‎ ‎dolcefloral 𓂃　۪ ׄ

‎

[dolcefloral]

why are there so many ai photos of jensen ackles on pinterest???🫪 like... he has millions of (real!!) photos out there, why do you feel the need to use ai to create new ones?? dumb shit

[dolcefloral]

HA(PU)PPY DAY

pairing : richboy!rafe x pinkdiamond!reader

summary : he would do anything for you, even hide a puppy in his closet to surprise you on their anniversary . . .

cw : domestic fluffy. rafe being soft(ish).

wc : 2.3k

‎

‎

Rafe Cameron was fucked.

Not in the dramatic, world-ending way he usually invited—like when he’d snort too much, punch the wrong guy, or crash one of Ward’s boats just to feel something—but in the stupid, domestic way that made his skin crawl. The kind of fuck-up that came with trying to be… good. Or at least good-adjacent. For you.

He was sprawled across the foot of his bed in nothing but black boxer-briefs and a thin silver chain that always got caught in his chest when he got sweaty, one arm flung over his eyes, the other lazily scratching at the faint trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. The AC was blasting, but the room still felt thick, humid, like the Outer Banks never really let go of summer even when October tried to creep in. His buzzed scalp prickled with the cold air; he liked it that way. Kept him sharp. Kept the thoughts from getting too soft.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor near his dresser, barefoot, wearing one of his sweatshirts that swallowed you whole. The hem pooled around your thighs, the sleeves bunched at your elbows because you’d pushed them up to scroll through your phone. Your hair was loose today, falling in soft, messy waves over one shoulder. You looked small. Fragile in a way that made something ugly twist in Rafe’s gut every time he noticed it—because he knew exactly how breakable you really weren’t. You just carried it like you were.

He’d been watching you for the last ten minutes without saying anything. Just letting his gaze drag over the curve of your neck, the way your collarbone peeked out from the stretched-out neckline, the soft freckles scattered across the bridge of your nose like someone had flicked cinnamon on your skin. You were humming under your breath—some Sabrina Carpenter song he pretended to hate—and every once in a while your eyes flicked up to him, shy and bright, like you were checking if he was still looking.

Four days. Four fucking days he’d kept the secret.

The puppy (a fluffy gray-and-white Husky with blue eyes, all needle teeth and clumsy paws) had been living in the walk-in closet like some kind of furry hostage. Rafe had lined the floor with old beach towels, set up a water bowl, tossed in a couple of chew toys he’d panic-bought from the pet store in Chapel Hill two towns over. He’d even started leaving the door cracked at night so the little shit could breathe fresh air, but during the day? Door shut and locked. Silence all day.

Except it wasn’t silent anymore.

It started as a whine. The kind of sound that could almost pass for the wind rattling the old window frames. Your head tilted, eyebrows furrowing in slight confusion at the sudden small noise. “Rafey.... did you hear that?”

Rafe’s stomach dropped like he’d just missed a step on the stairs. He didn’t move his arm from his face, trying to sound casual even though his heart was beating at 100 km/h right now. “Hear what?”

Another whine. Longer this time. Needier. You frowned, pushing yourself up onto your knees. “That. It sounded like… I don’t know. A baby? Or a cat maybe?”

He forced a laugh. “Babe, we don’t have a cat. And there sure as shit ain’t a baby in here.”

You gave him that look. The one where your brows pinched together and your lips pressed into a little line, like you were trying to decide whether he was lying or just being an asshole for fun. Usually it was the second one.

“I swear I heard something,” you murmured, already turning toward the closet.

Rafe sat up fast—too fast, that his blood pressure even dropped a little. The mattress creaked under him. “Hey. C’mere.”

You paused, glancing back over your shoulder. “What?”

He patted the bed beside him, trying to look casual, like his heart wasn’t slamming against the back of his ribs. “Just come here for a sec.”

You hesitated for maybe twenty seconds, then you crawled up onto the mattress, knees sinking into the comforter. When you got close enough he hooked two fingers in the front of his sweatshirt and tugged you forward until you half-fell against his chest. Your palms flattened on his pecs for balance.

He wrapped one arm around your lower back, fingers splaying wide over the dip of your spine, thumb brushing the elastic of your underwear through the thick cotton. He buried his nose in your hair for a second, just breathing you in, trying to buy time.

The closet was quiet again. Maybe the puppy had gone back to sleep. Maybe it was fine. Maybe—

A sharp, high-pitched yip. You stiffened in his arms. Rafe’s grip tightened involuntarily, the moment of relief quickly broken again by the puppy's treacherous pleas.

“What the hell was that?” you whispered, pulling back just enough to look at his face. Your eyes were wide, pupils blown in the dim light. “Rafe. That was not the wind.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. His brain short-circuited for a second—every lie he could think of sounded dumber than the last. “I… uh…”

Another yip. Then a soft, frantic scratching against the inside of the door. Tiny claws on wood. The unmistakable sound of a tail thumping against the frame.

Your gaze snapped toward the closet. “There’s something in there.”

Rafe scrubbed a hand over his buzz cut, the short hairs rasping against his palm. “It’s nothing.”

“Rafe.”

“It’s not—”

“Rafe Cameron, open that door right now or I’m doing it myself.”

Fuck.

He exhaled hard through his nose. “Fine. But don’t freak out, okay?”

Your brows shot up. “Why would I freak out?”

Because I’m an idiot who thought he could surprise you and instead I’m about to look like a lunatic who’s been hiding a live animal in this closet for four days like some kind of psychopath.

He didn’t say that. Instead he slid off the bed, every muscle in his back flexing under the low light as he crossed the room. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet. He could feel your eyes on him the whole way. He stopped in front of the door. Hand on the knob. Heart in his fucking throat.

One last glance back at you. You had slid to the edge of the bed, legs dangling, hands gripping the mattress on either side of you thighs. You looked both nervous and excited.

He twisted the knob and the door swung open.

And there, sitting in the middle of a nest of crumpled towels, was the fluffiest, bluest-eyed little monster you had ever seen. Its tail wagged so hard its whole back end wiggled. It let out one more excited yip, then launched itself forward—straight at Rafe’s shins.

He caught it on instinct, scooping the squirming ball of fur up against his bare chest. Cold nose pressed to his throat. Tiny paws scrabbling against his skin. Wet tongue swiping across his jaw in one long, sloppy stripe.

You gasped. Rafe looked up at you through his lashes, smirking, but still a little terrified of your reaction. “Surprise,” he muttered. “Happy early fuckin’ anniversary, baby.”

You didn’t move at first. You just stared.

The puppy was still wriggling in Rafe’s arms, tiny paws slipping against the sweat-slick skin of his chest, tail whipping back and forth so fast it blurred. A soft, excited whimper bubbled out of its throat every few seconds—like it couldn’t decide whether to bark or cry from happiness. Its blue eyes locked onto you immediately, like it already knew you were the one it had been waiting for.

Rafe shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the floor creaking under him. He was trying to look chill, but the way his jaw ticked and the faint flush creeping up the side of his neck gave him away. He wasn’t used to this—giving something real, something vulnerable, and then having to stand there and wait for the verdict.

Your lips parted. No sound came out. Your hands were still fisted in the comforter on either side of your hips, knuckles pale. You blinked once. Twice. Then your eyes filled up. Not dramatic, movie-style tears. Just… water. Slow and quiet, gathering at the lash line until one slipped free and tracked down the curve of your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t even seem to notice.

“Rafe…” Your voice cracked on his name, barely above a whisper.

He swallowed hard. The puppy nosed under his chin, and Rafe absently scratched behind its floppy ear while keeping his gaze locked on you. “You said you wanted one,” he muttered, rougher than he meant to. “Back when you were talking to Rose. About that dream you had. The one where you had a dog that slept at the foot of your bed and followed you everywhere. I… I remembered.”

Your throat worked. You pressed your lips together like you were trying to hold everything inside, but it wasn’t working. Another tear slid down, then another. Your bottom lip trembled and it hit Rafe square in the solar plexus.

He wasn’t good at this shit. He wasn’t good at softness. He was good at breaking things, at yelling, at taking what he wanted and leaving wreckage behind. But this? This quiet, trembling girl looking at him like he’d just handed her the moon?

It fucking terrified him.

“You’ve had it… here?” you asked, voice small and thick. But there was amusement too, as if the idea of Rafe hiding a puppy in his closet was funny and kind of impossible to imagine. “In your closet?”

“Four days,” he admitted, grimacing. “Thought I could pull off the big romantic surprise tomorrow. Anniversary and all that. But the little asshole decided to start serenading us early.”

The puppy chose that exact second to let out a tiny, indignant yip, like it was offended by the nickname. Rafe huffed a laugh despite himself.

Your eyes flicked from the puppy to Rafe’s face and back again. You slid off the bed slowly, bare feet silent on the hardwood. Every step you took toward them made Rafe’s pulse kick harder. When you were close enough you reached out, fingertips brushing the soft fur along the puppy’s back. The Husky immediately twisted in Rafe’s hold, stretching toward you with a desperate whine. Its pink tongue darted out, swiping at the air inches from your hand.

You let out a shaky laugh and cupped the puppy’s face with both palms. The fur was baby-soft, like velvet, still smelling faintly of the pet store shampoo and the newness of life. The puppy’s eyes half-closed in bliss as you scratched gently under its chin, right where the fluff was thickest.

“Oh my God,” you breathed. “He’s… he’s so little.”

“She,” Rafe corrected, voice low and affectionate. “Little girl. Figured you’d want one that’d grow up mean enough to keep the Pogues away from you.”

Your laugh bubbled up again, wet and bright. You looked up at him through damp lashes, cheeks flushed, eyes shining like sea glass after a storm. “You got me a girl?” you whispered, like that detail alone was enough to unravel you.

“Yeah.” Rafe’s throat felt tight. “Thought… maybe she could be yours. Ours. Whatever. I don’t fuckin’ know. I just—” He broke off, jaw working. “I wanted you to have something good. Something that wasn’t… me being a dick all the time.”

Your hands stilled on the puppy’s face. You stared at him for a long beat—long enough that Rafe started to feel exposed, raw, like you could see straight through the bullshit armor he wore every day. Then you stepped even closer. Your body brushed his—soft curves against the hard planes of his chest, the puppy squished gently between you two. You had to tip your head back to meet his eyes, and when you did, the look on your face made something inside Rafe crack wide open.

You rose onto your tiptoes, one hand still cradling the puppy’s head, the other sliding up to curl around the back of Rafe’s neck. Your fingers threaded into the short hairs at his nape, nails grazing his scalp in that gentle way you sometimes did when he was spiraling.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his mouth. Not quite a kiss; just your lips touching, breathing each other in. “Thank you, Rafe.”

He closed his eyes. Exhaled hard through his nose. The puppy wriggled happily, licking at both your chins in sloppy alternation.

You pulled back just enough to look at the little gray-and-white face between you two. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of the puppy’s head—right between the ears—then looked back up at Rafe with that same trembling smile.

“What’s her name again?”

Rafe’s mouth twitched. “Was kinda hoping you’d pick. I’ve just been calling her ‘Trouble’ in my head.”

You laughed again and the sound loosened something in his chest he hadn’t even realized was knotted.

“Trouble,” you repeated, testing it. Your gaze dropped back to the puppy, who was now trying to climb Rafe’s shoulder like it was a mountain. “I think… maybe Luna? Like the moon. Because of her eyes. It's so pale, like moonlight.”

Rafe considered it, looking down at the squirming bundle currently attempting to chew on his earlobe. “Luna,” he said slowly, tasting the word. “Yeah. Luna fits.”

You beamed and it was like the whole damn room got brighter. You leaned in again, this time pressing your forehead to his. Their noses brushed. Your breath fanned warm across his lips.

“I love her,” you murmured. “And I love you too, Rafe Cameron.”

Rafe froze instantly.

You said it sometimes, but he never said it back. Not because he didn’t feel it. Because the words felt too big, too dangerous, like if he let them out they might burn everything down.

But right now, with your body pressed to his and Luna’s tiny heart beating frantically against his sternum, with you looking at him like he was something worth keeping…

He swallowed once. Then, voice so low it was almost lost in the hum of the AC— “Love you too, baby.”

‎

ׄ 　۪ 𓂃 final notes : Luna, welcome to the Cameron family! 😭🤲🏻 taglist : @userhotd , @pittsick , @coochiemama3000 , @ssugartalkin , @obxobsessedbitch1 , @strkycrnswt , @kild4re , @mydarlinggardenia , @mayanqueenxx , @blessorte , @rafedeer ‎ ‎ ‎| ‎ ‎ if you want to join my taglist or don't wanna be tagged anymore click ( here ) ♥︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 2026 , ‎ ‎dolcefloral 𓂃　۪ ׄ

‎

[dolcefloral]

hiii andiebear it’s been a while <3 what’s up how’ve u been! loveee the new theme change as always

hii pumpkin-pie !! <3 it's been sooo long :(

i'm good, just a little sick these days but nothing to despair about. hope you're good 2! also happy that you're backkkk 💌 (i really love all your rafe works!)

[dolcefloral]

now i'll return to my cave. bye-bye

[pittsick]

BUCKY BARNES ﹏ LINGERIE.

kinktober 2025.

cw ﹏ ( +18 ) mdni / small smut blurb. afab!reader. lingerie. praise. mention of fingering, oral sex and breast play.

reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!

The door slams harder than it should, the sound rattling through the apartment and making you jolt on the bed. Bucky’s boots are heavy against the hardwood, each step clipped and impatient. You know that sound: his bad days always announce themselves before you even see the storm brewing in his jaw.

“Fucking Sam,” he mutters under his breath, tossing his jacket to the couch like it’s done him wrong, metal fingers clinking against the leather. He doesn’t even bother turning on the light as he stomps toward the bedroom.

You swallow, tugging at the strap of the lingerie you’ve been waiting in all evening. Black lace, sheer in all the places that matter, hugging your skin in a way that makes you feel both dangerous and soft. You’d bought it on a whim, imagining the way his eyes might go wide, imagining how quickly that scowl would drop once he laid eyes on you.

“Doll, you wouldn’t believe—” He cuts himself off the second he pushes open the bedroom door.

His whole body stills, shoulders tense but not with anger this time. His hand remains frozen on the doorframe. Blue eyes, sharp and dark with leftover frustration, snap to you on the bed. He takes in the sight of you sitting there, lingerie stretched over your curves, thighs pressed together, trying to look casual but already giving yourself away with the heat in your gaze.

The change in him is instant. The edge in his breathing softens, the harsh lines of his frown smoothing out until there’s only hunger left.

“Well, shit,” Bucky exhales, voice rough like gravel. He runs a hand over his face, then through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly to his side. “You were waiting for me in that?” You bite your lip, shifting just slightly so the lace rides up your thigh. “I thought you might need a distraction.”

He laughs, low and humorless, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, you’re more than a distraction. You’re a goddamn miracle.”

Before you can even respond, he’s already moving toward you, slow and deliberate. The kind of slow that makes every nerve in your body light up in anticipation. He’s not stomping anymore. No, this is something else entirely—prowl-like, focused.

Bucky kneels at the edge of the bed, his metal hand brushing along your knee, then sliding upward with sinful patience. The coolness of the metal against your bare skin makes you shiver. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?” he murmurs, eyes dragging over every inch of you. “You think I can come home all wound up and not lose my mind when you’re sittin’ here like this?”

Your breath hitches, and you shake your head just enough to make his smirk deepen.

“Impure thoughts, doll,” he admits, thumb grazing over the lace covering your hip. “So many of ’em. And every single one’s about you.”

You whimper at the honesty in his tone, at the way he looks at you like he’s already imagining a dozen filthy scenarios he’ll drag you into before the night is over. His hand slides higher, fingertips teasing along the waistband of the lingerie. “Bought this for me?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Good girl.” The words are soft, but they hit you hard, straight to your core.

Bucky leans forward, pressing his lips just above your knee, trailing kisses up your thigh. His stubble scratches against your skin, a reminder that this is him; raw, real, unpolished. He pauses when he reaches the hem of the lace, pulling back only enough to look you in the eyes.

“Doll, you’re so beautiful it hurts,” he says, and you can hear the sincerity under the grit of his voice. “I came home pissed as hell, but now? All I can think about is tearing this little piece of lace right off you.”

Your cheeks burn at his words, and you shift closer, legs parting in silent invitation. His grin is sharp, wicked, the kind of grin that promises you won’t be sleeping much tonight. “You want me to behave?” he teases, tugging lightly at the strap of your lingerie.

“No,” you breathe.

“Good,” he growls, before kissing you hard.

The frustration he brought home is gone now, replaced with desperate hunger, poured into the press of his mouth against yours. His hands—warm flesh and cool metal—grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel him already, hard through his pants, and it makes you gasp into the kiss.

He pulls back just enough to smirk at your reaction. “Yeah, that’s right. You feel what you do to me?” You nod, lips swollen, heart racing.

“Lemme tell you somethin’, sweetheart,” he whispers, mouth brushing yours as he speaks. “The minute I saw you sittin’ there in this little outfit, I knew I wasn’t gonna let you outta this bed tonight. Not ‘til I’ve had you in every damn way I’m thinking about.”

Your thighs press together at his words, and he notices, of course he notices. His laugh is cocky, pleased. “Don’t hide from me,” Bucky says, prying your knees apart with gentle insistence. “Show me how much you want it.” When you obey, spreading open for him, his eyes darken even more. He runs his metal fingers slowly over the lace between your thighs, the cool pressure making you moan softly.

“Pretty little thing,” he praises, rubbing just enough to make you writhe. “You put this on for me, but all I can think about is what’s underneath.”

You whine, hips bucking, and he grins like he’s got you exactly where he wants you. “That’s it, doll. Let me take care of you,” he says, voice low and steady, though the way his breathing hitches tells you he’s barely holding himself together. “Bad day’s over. All that’s left is you.”

His lips find yours again, softer this time, but no less desperate. Hands roaming, exploring, claiming every inch of you. The lingerie doesn’t last long; Bucky’s patience snaps, and with one sharp tug, he tears it open, the sound making your pulse race.

“You’ll get another,” he promises against your neck, kissing down your collarbone as his hands slide between your thighs. “But right now, I need you.”

And when his fingers finally slip past the ruined lace, when he touches you in the way only he knows how, you realize he wasn’t exaggerating earlier. He really does have ideas—ideas he fully intends to act on until neither of you can remember anything but the feel of each other.

Because for Bucky Barnes, there’s no better cure for a bad day than you, waiting for him in lingerie and ready to be undone.

And all night, you felt his hands onto your body, the cool of the metal between your thighs as he fingered your cunt. Or his warm fingers, pinching and rolling your nipples, groping your breasts. The wetness of his tongue between your folds, into your mouth. Bucky didn’t stop until all his ideas had been executed, leaving you trembling and half-asleep in the bed.

taglist ﹏ @userhotd @sunlightkent @nekkiotine @222col @fawnettewinchester @grimsonandclover @irysque @clementinestars @ravensreadingrecs @elenacarey @nomajdetective @prismozo @lvve-talks @kathh01 @jclolz22 @dumbbandpoetic @hisfavoriteweepingangel @i-cant-stfu @bluestrd @coochiemama3000 @eepwtf @peachyparkerr @jiminie-08 @stqrfirez @i-t0ld-ya @cxlt-lamb1 @kill3ill @dolcefloral @heldbycas @amourflores @chronic-fangirl-222 @nerdypinupcrystal @filthgf @blushhbambi @antlerlove @aconstructofamind @flwer555 @voidsuites @qardasngan @aerangi @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @agustd202204 @archxve @rafs127 @cup1dssorrow @mimisitaugu @cloudsincalifornia @priyesstuff @beaufire ( to be added )

[pittsick]

ִ ࣪ ⋆ 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐑 warm mouth.

( +18 ) mdni / suggestive short blurb. fem!reader. oral fixation (finger sucking). praise. mocking&slight degradation. dirty-talk. intense eye contact. heavy sexual tension. petnames (baby, sweetheart). blowjob implied.

reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!

Dex’s hazel eyes are locked onto your face and you feel yourself warming up beneath his focused gaze.

It’s not unusual for him to look at you like that, like a hunter and its prey, but it’s more heated when you’re in this position. He has you on your knees between his spread legs, his breathing heavy as you wrap your lips around his thumb. His eyes squint, half-lidded as he swipes his tongue across his own lips, exhaling through his nose. 

“That’s a good girl, yeah, just like that.” You hear him say, voice rough with want as your lips tighten around his digit, tongue against the pad of his finger. Your cheeks hollow, a sigh escapes from Dex’s mouth as his hazel orbs run over your expression and the sparkling of your own eyes. He loves seeing you like that, looking all pretty and ready to please him.

Your tongue rolls around his thumb, wetting it with your saliva, teeth nibbling at the skin ever so gently. 

You can hear another sigh leaving Dex’s mouth before he speaks once more. “Y’like having my fingers in your mouth, don’t you? Such a pretty girl.” You can feel the rest of his digits touching your jaw, tilting your head up so he can take a better look at the expression on your face. You hum around his thumb, nodding your head at his question. His eyes sparkle with mockery for a second or so, and then, you feel his digit pushing onto your tongue, Dex rubs the pad of his thumb against the roughness of it.

A sigh leaves your nose as you suck on his finger harder, your cheeks hollowing even more, your eyes half-lidded. “You’re imagining my cock, aren’t you?” The words are said with mockery and teasing, making you whine.

The noise is muffled but loud enough for Dex to hear it, and chuckle right afterwards. “Of course you are, because you’re such a good girl.” He adds, making you look up at him. You move your head, his thumb on the edge of your lips now, wetting them with your own saliva before you take it back inside your mouth. Just like you’d do with his cock inside your mouth.

Dex grunts at the view, letting himself rest inside the couch, hazel eyes locked on you. His legs are spread wide, his position suggestive as it makes you able to see the bulge hiding in his grey sweatpants. Your hands rests on the top of his thighs, making him shift toward you.

“Something else you want in your mouth, sweetheart?” You know he’s only teasing now, but the way he looks at you makes your stomach all warm and your brain fuzzy. Dex has this kind of power over you, which is totally unfair. 

Your teeth close slowly onto his thumb and you end up nibbling on it again, tongue rolling around the digit before pushing against the pad of it. You watch as Dex’s free hand gropes at his crotch, adjusting his boxers. You whine around his finger again, he looks at you with a smirk and you can’t help but think about how hot he is with the scar on his face.

Once more, he starts to push his thumb against your tongue, wetting his finger with all the saliva pooling inside your mouth. “You’re such a good girl, aren’t you?” He asks but it’s more for himself than anything else.

He pulls his thumb until it’s on the edge of your lips again before pushing it back inside your mouth. He does that multiple times, as if he was fucking your mouth with his digit and you can only whine around it. “Yeah, I know, baby. You want something bigger, don’t you?” Dex asks, your sparkling eyes look at him before he grunts, pulling his thumb out of your mouth completely.

“Fuck, come here baby, I’ll give you what you want.” He says, hand crawling to the back of your head while his other one pulls on his sweatpants, freeing his hard cock.

“Suck on it like a good girl.”

taglist ﹏ @userhotd @sunlightkent @nekkiotine @222col @fawnettewinchester @grimsonandclover @irysque @clementinestars @ravensreadingrecs @elenacarey @nomajdetective @prismozo @lvve-talks @kathh01 @jclolz22 @dumbbandpoetic @hisfavoriteweepingangel @i-cant-stfu @bluestrd @coochiemama3000 @eepwtf @peachyparkerr @jiminie-08 @stqrfirez @i-t0ld-ya @cxlt-lamb1 @kill3ill @dolcefloral @heldbycas @amourflores @chronic-fangirl-222 @nerdypinupcrystal @filthgf @blushhbambi @antlerlove @aconstructofamind @flwer555 @voidsuites @qardasngan @aerangi @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @agustd202204 @archxve @rafs127 @cup1dssorrow @mimisitaugu @cloudsincalifornia @priyesstuff @beaufire ( to be added )

[pittsick]

RAFE CAMERON ﹏ AMNESIA.

summary ﹏ After losing the only person who ever believed in him, Rafe is left haunted by memories of a love he took for granted. Now, everything reminds him of the girl who once made him feel like he could be better—but who had to leave to save herself. Alone with his regrets, Rafe realizes that forgetting would be easier but remembering is all he has left.

cw ﹏ angst fic. mention of ex-fem!girlfriend!reader. emotional hurt, drug&alcohol mentions, heartbreak, toxic behavior (past), implied emotional neglect.

reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!

Rafe woke up alone again.

The sunlight bled through the blinds in streaks, slicing across his face like a punishment. His head throbbed, the remnants of a bad night clinging to him like smoke. The half-empty bottle of bourbon on the floor reflected the morning in warped golden hues and his shirt was twisted, a reminder that he’d passed out on the couch again, not even bothering to make it to bed.

You used to wake him up gently; your hand would brush over his jaw, thumb trailing that one spot he was too proud to admit he liked. You'd say his name soft like a prayer. “Rafe…” But that voice was long gone.

He dragged himself up, ran a hand through the mess of his hair, and stared blankly at the TV that was still playing some show neither of you would’ve ever watched together. The apartment felt too big; it was too clean, too silent. No coffee brewing, no feet padding across hardwood, no you humming under your breath.

Just the echo of everything he lost.

He never thought about mornings before. They were nothing to him. Just hours he had to suffer through to get to the high, the rush, the crash. But with you… mornings became sacred, you made them feel like a beginning, not an aftermath. You made everything feel like it could be new.

He remembered the way you made space for him, even when he didn’t deserve it: how you’d reach for his hand under the table when his father was too loud, too cruel, how you always left your side of the bed unmade because you said it was like an invitation for him to come back or how you let him cry into your collarbone when things got too heavy, when he was too ashamed to be Rafe Cameron.

You never judged him, not even once. And maybe that’s why it hurts now, because he never deserved that kind of softness.

You didn’t leave because of a single mistake. It was the slow wear of a thousand little things—nights he didn’t call, mornings he left you alone, promises he made with a silver tongue and forgot before sunrise. You said you loved him, but you couldn’t love him into becoming someone better. He had to choose that himself.

And he didn’t, not when it mattered. Now? All he could think about was you.

He saw you everywhere.

In the record store downtown—where the guy behind the counter still asked how his girl was. In the street where you once danced barefoot in the rain because you said nobody else would and you wanted to feel alive. In his closet, where your favorite hoodie still hung, the one he couldn’t bring himself to wash.

It didn’t even smell like you anymore, that was the part that wrecked him.

He opened his phone for the fifth time that morning. Still no messages. Still no sign that you were thinking about him. You’d blocked him on everything. At first, it made him furious. How dare you cut him off? How could you pretend it didn’t mean anything? But now… he understood. You had to survive and loving Rafe Cameron? That was something no one survived without scars.

So you left. And maybe that was the most powerful thing you’d ever done. He scrolled through old photos like a masochist and there you were—wrapped up in his hoodie, sun kissing your cheeks, smiling up at him like he hung the moon.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why hadn’t he fought harder?

You’d begged him. Talk to me, Rafe, please. Just let me in. And he’d shut down, pushed you away, told you it wasn’t your problem, that he was fine. Now he’d kill to hear your voice ask just one more time.

Sometimes, late at night, when everything slowed and he was too tired to lie to himself, he whispered your name into the dark. Like maybe it would summon you back, but you weren’t coming back. Not now and maybe not ever.

He imagined you moving on; laughing at someone else's jokes, holding someone else's hand, kissing someone who didn’t flinch at tenderness. Someone who didn’t need fixing. The thought made his throat close up and he slammed his fist into the couch cushion beside him, breathing hard like the loss was physical.

It was physical.

His body remembered the way you touched him; how your fingertips traced his ribs when you thought he was asleep, how you kissed the bruises on his knuckles after fights you told him not to start or how you clung to him like maybe, just maybe, he could still be saved.

You were the only one who ever believed in him, the only one who ever saw the boy under the armor, under the rage and the name and the weight of being Ward Cameron’s son. And he repaid you with silence, with slammed doors, with nights spent out, high and unreachable.

God, he wished he could forget.

He wished he had amnesia, wished he couldn’t remember the way you cried the night you packed your bag and wished he didn’t remember how you kissed his forehead and told him you loved him anyway—because that was worse than if you’d screamed. Worse than if you’d said nothing. You loved him and you still left because love wasn’t enough anymore. He stumbled into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water but didn’t drink it. Just stared at it like it might offer him clarity.

You used to leave notes on the fridge.

Don’t forget to eat today.", "You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you.", "I love you." Now there was only a stain where the tape had been.

He leaned against the counter and shut his eyes.

He remembered the way you looked that day at the beach. Hair a mess, feet buried in sand, laughing like nothing in the world could touch you. And you let him hold you, let him press his forehead to yours and breathe you in when he said something stupid like I could stay in this moment forever. He meant it, he still means it. But forever doesn’t wait around for men like him. And you? You deserved a forever that didn’t leave bruises.

He thought about calling your best friend, just to ask how you were. To hear your name said out loud but he didn’t. Because some things weren’t his anymore; he wasn’t yours, not your boyfriend, not your secret keeper and not your broken thing to love back to life. You belonged to someone else now—maybe not another person, but a different version of yourself. One that didn’t look back, one that no longer stood in the ashes of what you two used to be.

He got in his car and drove with no music, no destination. Just movement, just the illusion that he was getting somewhere. But it didn’t matter where he went—every road looked like a place you used to be.

The bridge where you first told him you loved him, the old diner you swore made the best milkshakes, that gas station where you danced with him to a pop song just because it was playing too loud.

He pulled over and pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, biting back a scream. He used to think pain made him strong, that burying everything made him invincible. But this kind of pain? This quiet, invisible heartbreak? It made him human.

Later, he walked the shoreline of your favorite beach. You weren’t there, but he swore he could still feel your presence in the wind. He sat in the sand and pulled his hoodie tighter: yours. Still yours, with your smell and the memories.

He buried his hands in the sand, just like you used to do, digging like you’d find something precious underneath. Rafe didn’t cry often, not where anyone could see, but he cried now. For the things he said; the things he didn’t. For the way you always smiled; even when you were hurting. For the way you loved him when no one else did.

For the fact that, no matter how hard he wished—no matter how deep the ache—you weren’t coming back. He didn’t blame you.

Not anymore.

He blamed himself; for not listening, for letting his demons win, for thinking you’d always be there. And maybe that’s what stung the most. You were never supposed to become a memory, you were supposed to be his future. Now, you were just a ghost he carried everywhere.

And if he could forget? If he could wipe his mind clean of every touch, every whisper, every time you looked at him like he was more than his worst choices? He wouldn’t, because pain was the only thing he had left of you.

And he’d rather hurt forever than forget you ever loved him at all.

taglist ﹏ @userhotd @angeldoll1e @nekkiotine @222col @fawnettewinchester @ravensreadingrecs @prismozo @lvve-talks @kathh01 @dumbbandpoetic @hisfavoriteweepingangel @i-cant-stfu @bluestrd @coochiemama3000 @eepwtf @domingodeaan @peachyparkerr @jiminie-08 @stqrfirez @iheartrosalia @cxlt-lamb1 @kill3ill @dolcefloral @avasarchve @chronic-fangirl-222 @filthgf @blessorte @blushhbambi @voidsuites @aerangi @agustd202204 @cup1dssorrow @mimisitaugu @bitemysin @s4yuriii @puppyinlace @doll2kiss @m4rk-ofcain @beausling @digitalhoe @nuitts ( to be added )

[dolcefloral]

i really don't like reading angst, but i'll repost it because it's written by my dear mika 🤚🏻

[pittsick]

ִ ࣪ ⋆ 𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 & 𝐒𝐀𝐌 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐒𝐎𝐍

their dynamic with eater!reader headcanons.

how would eater!reader fit in the universe of falcon and the winter soldier? what would be her dynamics with bucky and sam?

( +18 ) emotional hurt/comfort headcanons. fem!reader. psychological angst&dark character study. found family dynamics. implied cannibalism. self-loathing. mentions of violence and death. trauma and PTSD themes. panic attacks / emotional breakdowns. graphic intrusive thoughts. internalized shame. recovery themes.

reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!

eater!reader would fit into the world of the falcon and the winter soldier in such a painfully natural way because the entire universe already revolves around people trying to survive what was done to them. people carrying monstrous things inside themselves and reader would be one more secret hidden under human skin.

the difference is that her monstrosity isn’t super-soldier serum or programming or alien power. it’s hunger. old, ugly, deeply human hunger.

sam and bucky would react to that in very different ways.

bucky notices something is wrong with you before sam does. not because sam is oblivious, but because bucky recognizes the look immediately. he knows what it’s like to carry violence in your body like it belongs there. he notices the way your eyes linger too long on injuries after missions, the way you avoid crowded rooms because too many heartbeats make your breathing uneven or the way your hands shake after going too long without eating, not weak but tense, like your body is actively fighting itself. he doesn’t say anything at first because bucky understands silence better than anyone.

sam, meanwhile, treats you normally from the beginning and somehow that almost makes it worse. he teases you during missions, sits too close to you, hands you snacks constantly without realizing how complicated food is for you. he thinks your distance is trust issues, maybe trauma, maybe just personality. he has no idea you’re terrified of yourself around him. because sam feels alive; warm blood, steady pulse, glowing skin, all bright and human and good in ways that make your hunger ache.

you would disappear for days sometimes after missions and sam hates it but bucky understands it immediately. because bucky knows what it means to isolate yourself before you become dangerous. there would be this horrible unspoken pattern where you vanish right after particularly violent fights because blood makes the hunger unbearable. sam would get angry the first few times, thinking you’re running from the team or refusing help, until bucky quietly tells him: “she’s trying not to hurt anybody.” and sam goes very still after that.

bucky would be the first person you tell; not willingly but he catches you. probably after a mission gone wrong where someone is bleeding too much and the hunger snaps hard enough that you stop acting human for a second. maybe your pupils blow wide, maybe your teeth are bloodied and maybe your hands are shaking so violently you can barely breathe. and bucky looks at you with recognition instead of fear: that’s the worst part. because he knows, not specifically, not fully, but enough. enough to see the self-hatred immediately.

bucky never calls you a monster, not once even when you call yourself one. he’d understand the guilt in ways nobody else really could. he knows what it’s like to look at your own hands and remember terrible things attached to them. he knows what it’s like to wonder if violence has rooted itself too deeply inside you to ever fully leave. there would be quiet late-night conversations between you two that feel less like talking and more like confession: him sitting beside you somewhere dark, metal hand resting against his knee while you avoid looking at him. “you ever think it’s all you are?” you’d ask quietly. and bucky, after a very long silence, would answer: “every day.”

sam takes longer to understand and honestly? sam struggles with it more. not because he hates you, but because sam believes deeply in accountability and choice. he sees the humanity in everyone, sometimes to a fault, and the idea of someone needing cannibalism horrifies him in a way he can’t immediately reconcile. especially because he cares about you, especially because part of him still sees you as gentle which makes it scarier.

sam would ask hard questions: “did they deserve it?”, “how many people?”, “do you enjoy it?” and those questions would hurt because he asks them softly, not cruelly like he genuinely wants to understand.

the first time sam sees you during a hunger episode would genuinely shake him, not because you attacked him but because of how terrified you are. you try to claw away from everyone, locking yourself in bathrooms or abandoned rooms, hands covered in blood from digging your nails into your own skin trying to redirect the hunger somewhere else. breathing ragged, crying from shame more than pain and sam realizing this isn’t someone gleefully monstrous. this is someone starving.

sam becomes gentler after that: still cautious. still worried but gentler. he starts checking in quietly after missions, starts noticing your triggers, he stops touching you unexpectedly after seeing how reactive your body becomes when the hunger spikes and he starts leaving food beside your door even though he knows it doesn’t really help. small things. human things.

your dynamic with both of them together would be fascinating because bucky enables your isolation while sam fights against it constantly. bucky understands the instinct to disappear and sam refuses to let you. so you get caught between them constantly: bucky sitting silently beside you while you unravel and sam dragging you back into the world before you can completely drown in guilt.

there would absolutely be tension whenever you get injured because blood affects both you and bucky differently. bucky becomes hypervigilant, you become hungry and sam becomes the only stable person in the room which would terrify him because suddenly he’s responsible for grounding two people who both carry violent compulsions in different ways.

sam would eventually become the person you trust most emotionally, though. because unlike bucky, sam genuinely believes people can heal; not perfectly, not completely but enough to keep going. and you desperately need someone who believes that. bucky understands the darkness in you, but sam is the one who reminds you that darkness is not the entirety of who you are.

and honestly? the three of you together would feel deeply lonely in the same way. three people shaped by violence trying very hard to still be human afterward. bucky with his programming and guilt, sam with the weight of constantly having to be good for everyone else, you with the hunger clawing beneath your ribs every second of every day. none of you fully believing you deserve softness anymore which means the softness you do give each other becomes devastatingly important.

taglist ﹏ @userhotd @sunlightkent @nekkiotine @222col @fawnettewinchester @grimsonandclover @irysque @clementinestars @ravensreadingrecs @elenacarey @nomajdetective @prismozo @lvve-talks @kathh01 @jclolz22 @dumbbandpoetic @hisfavoriteweepingangel @i-cant-stfu @bluestrd @coochiemama3000 @eepwtf @peachyparkerr @jiminie-08 @stqrfirez @i-t0ld-ya @cxlt-lamb1 @kill3ill @dolcefloral @heldbycas @amourflores @chronic-fangirl-222 @nerdypinupcrystal @filthgf @blushhbambi @antlerlove @aconstructofamind @flwer555 @voidsuites @qardasngan @aerangi @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @agustd202204 @archxve @rafs127 @cup1dssorrow @mimisitaugu @cloudsincalifornia @priyesstuff @beaufire @s4yuriii ( to be added )

[pittsick]

DEAN WINCHESTER ﹏ IN THE CLOUDS.

summary ﹏ Even thirty thousand feet in the air with panic clawing at your chest, Dean keeps you grounded with gentle hands tangled in yours, soft kisses pressed into your head, and a voice so steady it quiets the storm in your mind. Curled against his side while turbulence rattles the plane around you, you realize there’s nowhere safer than in Dean's arms.

cw ﹏ fluff&hurt/comfort!!! gn!reader ft. soft!dean. established relationship. fear of flying. gentle intimacy: cuddling, hand holding, hair stroking. praise&reassurance. petnames (baby, sweetheart). emotional vulnerability&support.

reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!

The first warning sign is how tightly Dean’s hand is wrapped around yours before the plane has even left the ground.

Not enough to hurt, not enough to trap you there, but enough that you notice it when you glance down at your joined hands resting between the seats. His thumb drags slowly over your knuckles, rough skin catching slightly against yours, and when you look at him he’s already watching you from behind the edge of his pretty eyelashes. “You’re nervous, sweetheart.” You hear him say, slowly.

“I’m always nervous.” Dean snorts softly at those words, hazel eyes all tender. “Not like this.”

The inside of the airplane feels too small; it’s too crowded and too loud. The constant hum of the engines vibrates through the floor beneath your shoes and up your spine until it settles somewhere ugly in your chest. You hate flying. Hate it in a way that feels irrational even to you, because logically you know this is safer than half the hunts you and Dean have stumbled through over the years, but logic has never done much for fear. Especially not this kind, especially not when you’re trapped thirty thousand feet in the air inside a metal tube with no way out.

Dean had noticed the moment you boarded, of course he had. Dean notices everything about you even when he pretends not to, and after years together he can read your moods before you even speak. He noticed how stiff your shoulders got walking down the aisle, how your breathing shortened when the doors of the plane shut and how you kept glancing toward the windows like you were already calculating escape routes.

Now the plane begins to move backward from the gate and your stomach immediately twists. Dean sighs quietly beside you. “C’mere, baby.”

Before you can ask what he means, he lifts the armrest between you and tugs you closer against his side with one arm. The familiar smell of leather jacket, coffee, and Dean wraps around you instantly, grounding in a way nothing else really can. He presses a kiss into the crown of your head without embarrassment despite the crowded cabin around you.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “I got you.” You try to answer, but your throat already feels tight.

Outside the window the runway lights blur together while the plane turns into position. Every sound suddenly feels magnified: the whine of the engines increasing, the rattling overhead compartments, the sharp click of seatbelts. Your hands start sweating inside Dean’s grip. “You wanna talk to me?” he asks gently, hazel eyes glowing with tenderness as he looks at your face, like you’re the only thing that matters in this plane.

“I’m fine.” You try to shrug but it’s more nervous than anything. “Yeah, that’s crap.” Normally his teasing tone would pull a smile out of you, but right now your pulse is hammering too hard behind your ribs. The plane pauses for one terrible moment before accelerating, engines roaring louder and louder until the force pushes you back into the seat.

Your stomach drops violently and your breathing goes uneven almost immediately. Dean notices before the plane is even fully airborne. He shifts toward you fast, one large hand cupping the side of your face while the other keeps hold of your fingers. “Hey? Eyes on me, baby.”

You try, you really do.

But the second the plane tilts upward your entire body tenses so hard it hurts. The city below shrinks rapidly through the tiny window and suddenly all you can think about is how high you are. How impossible it would be to survive if something happened, how every bump in the air feels catastrophic and your chest tightens further at the thoughts. “Oh god—”

“Hey, hey, no.” Dean’s voice drops immediately into something softer, warmer. The tone he only uses with you when he thinks you’re about to fall apart. “Don’t do that to yourself, ‘kay? Breathe for me.” You shake your head hard, staring down at your lap. Your fingers are trembling uncontrollably now. “Dean, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He says it firmly but gently, shifting even closer until his knee presses against yours. “C’mon, sweetheart. Look at me.” You finally drag your eyes toward him.

Dean’s expression softens instantly the second he sees how panicked you are. Concern flickers across his face, quick and genuine, before he smooths it away into something calmer for your sake. His thumb strokes slowly beneath your eye. “There you are,” he murmurs. “Stay with me.” The plane jolts lightly and your breath catches sharply once more. Dean reacts immediately, turning your joined hands so he can press your palm flat against his chest. Beneath it, his heartbeat is steady, slow and solid.

“Feel that?” he asks quietly. “You match my breathing, okay?” You try to focus on it instead of the turbulence beginning around you; his heart, the warmth of him, the way his thumb keeps tracing lazy circles into your wrist. But another bump hits. Not huge, just enough and your vision blurs suddenly with panic. “Dean—”

“I know.” He slides his hand against your forehead then, fingers slowly brushing away some baby hair, it’s all gentle and soothing. “I know, honey.” You lean toward him without meaning to, and he immediately pulls you fully against his side, uncaring that the seats are cramped or that he’s practically folded around you now. “There we go,” he whispers into your hair. “That’s my baby.” The petname nearly undoes you completely.

Your breathing comes too fast, chest tight and painful, while the plane rattles again through another pocket of turbulence. Somewhere nearby a passenger laughs casually and you genuinely don’t understand how anyone could possibly be calm right now. Dean notices you spiraling again before you even speak. “Listen to me,” he says softly, nudging your chin upward. “It’s just rough air. That’s all turbulence is. Plane’s built for this.”

You swallow hard. “You don’t know that.” He gives you a tiny smile. “Sweetheart, I’ve fought ghosts, demons, vampires, and one very angry and creepy clown thing. I promise you this crappy little turbulence isn’t taking us out.” A startled laugh escapes you despite everything. “There it is,” Dean says warmly, clearly relieved to hear it. “Knew I could get one out of you.”

Your eyes close briefly while he keeps petting your baby hair and crown of the head, fingertips scratching lightly against your scalp in slow motions that make some of the tension ease from your shoulders little by little. Dean has always been good with touch when it comes to you, all careful and intentional. Like he knows exactly how to hold you together when you’re cracking apart.

The plane shakes harder this time and you flinch violently. Instantly Dean’s arms tighten around you. “Hey,” he says again, voice low and steady beside your ear. “Stay here with me. Don’t start thinking ahead.”

“I hate this,” you whisper shakily. “I know you do.”

“I really, really hate this.” Dean presses another kiss against your temple. “I know, sweetheart.” You can hear the smile in his voice now even though he’s still holding you carefully, like something fragile. “Tell you what,” he murmurs. “Soon as we land, I’ll buy you the biggest damn cheeseburger I can find. Pie too.”

You sniff weakly. “You just want pie.”

“Can you blame me?” Another shaky laugh leaves you. Smaller this time, but real. Dean grins immediately like he’s won something important. “There you go.”

His fingers slide from your hair down along your neck, rubbing gently at the tense muscles there. The touch sends warmth spreading slowly through your body, grounding you back into the present instead of the panic clawing at your mind. “You wanna know a secret?” he asks quietly. You nod against his shoulder. “I’m also scared out of my mind right now, I hate flying.” You pull back enough to stare at him skeptically. “Dean Winchester is scared?”

“I am sometimes,” he admits easily. “Just better at hiding it.” That surprises you enough that your breathing slows slightly. Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Control thing, I guess. Hate sittin’ still while somebody else is drivin’.”

“That actually sounds exactly like you.” You joke quietly, eyes softening as you look at his face. “Right?” His mouth curves softly. “Difference is, sweetheart, you don’t gotta pretend with me.” The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache for a completely different reason.

The turbulence starts easing after a few more minutes, but Dean doesn’t let go of you even then. He keeps his hand tenderly onto your nape while the other rubs slow circles into your back beneath your jacket. Every now and then he kisses the top of your head absentmindedly like he can’t help himself. “You doing any better?” he asks eventually.

“A little.”

“Little’s good.” You glance up at him. “You don’t think I’m ridiculous?” Dean’s expression changes instantly. “Hey.” His hand cups your jaw gently until you’re forced to meet his eyes fully. “Don’t say that.”

“But—”

“No.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “You’re scared. That’s not ridiculous.” Something painfully tender settles in his features then, softening every sharp edge Dean usually keeps hidden from the world. “You spend your whole life acting tough,” he says quietly. “You really think I’m not gonna take care of you when you need it?” Emotion catches suddenly in your throat.

Dean notices immediately, because of course he does. “It’s okay, baby.” He smiles softly. “C’mere.” He pulls you back against him again, tucking your head beneath his chin this time. You can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through his shirt while his fingers continue moving lazily through your hair.

The plane hums steadily around you now. Still unpleasant, still cramped but more manageable now.

Mostly because Dean keeps talking quietly the entire time, distracting you on purpose. He tells you about a terrible motel from years ago where Sam found a snake in the toilet. He complains about airplane coffee with exaggerated offense. He debates whether airport burgers are legally considered real meat. Anything to keep your mind from drifting back toward panic.

At one point you realize your breathing has finally matched his and Dean notices too. “There’s my baby,” he says softly, sounding absurdly proud of you for something so small. You tilt your head up just enough to look at him. “You’re being really sweet right now.”

“Don’t spread it around.” A smile finally pulls fully at your mouth and Dean’s face softens immediately at the sight of it, relief obvious in his eyes. He brushes his thumb over your cheekbone slowly. “Better?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He leans down to press a lingering kiss against your forehead. “Scared me there for a minute.”

“I scared myself.”

“You don’t gotta go through it alone though.” The simplicity of it hits harder than you expect.

Because Dean Winchester loves loudly in private moments like this. Not always with words; sometimes with hands caressing at the softness of your skin, sometimes with stupid jokes told at the exact right moment and sometimes with the unwavering steadiness of his voice when the world feels like it’s tilting sideways beneath you. Right now it’s all of those things at once.

The seatbelt sign eventually switches off with a soft ding overhead, but Dean still doesn’t move away from you. If anything, he settles more comfortably into the seat beside you and pulls your intertwined hands into his lap. “You should try sleeping,” he murmurs. “I don’t think I can.” You voice back at him.

“You can.” His fingers squeeze yours lightly. “I’ll wake you if anything happens.” You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly comforting on a plane.” Dean laughs quietly, the sound warm and low against your forehead where he rests his cheek for a moment. “Okay, fair.” He kisses your temple again. “Nothing’s gonna happen. Better?”

“Much.”

“That’s what I’m here for, sweetheart.”

And somehow, wrapped up against Dean with his fingers carding gently through your hair while the plane drones steadily around you, you finally start believing it.

taglist ﹏ @userhotd @stargral @nekkiotine @fawnettewinchester @grimsonandclover @ravensreadingrecs @elenacarey @prismozo @kathh01 @dumbbandpoetic @hisfavoriteweepingangel @bluestrd @coochiemama3000 @eepwtf @domingodeaan @jiminie-08 @stqrfirez @pervyangelz @cxlt-lamb1 @dolcefloral @heldbycas @amourflores @avasarchve @chronic-fangirl-222 @nerdypinupcrystal @filthgf @blessorte @blushhbambi @flwer555 @qardasngan @aerangi @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @agustd202204 @leonsbrat @deansdeer @rafs127 @tealee @dreamersentity @cup1dssorrow @mimisitaugu @bitemysin @cloudsincalifornia @s4yuriii @lover-of-books-and-tea @puppyinlace @m-angelou @doll2kiss @nr1-apple-lover @esmeraldalopez0 @m4rk-ofcain ( to be added )