🌻Mrs. Pondwater🌻

💚We're just here to be hoes and vibe💚 💢Minors DNI💢

[mrs-pondwater19]

•🍄🌻 Hey There🌻🍄•

~•°Ash, 25, here for the whimsy vibes and daydreaming•°~

Not much here other than some fics, a few art pieces, and headcanons. No particular genre as far as my work goes. Anything that catches my attention.

If you're someone who enjoys some cringe and spice, feel free to come and vibe for a while ✧⁠*⁠。

—•MASTERLIST•—

• Miguel O'Hara - °ATSV°

• The Winchester Brothers - °Supernatural°

• Din Djarin - °The Mandolorian°

!There is a good portion of NSFW / 18+ Content on this blog. Minors DNI!

💚💛Have a wonderful day my hunnies💛💚

[madsama]

wedding night

din djarin x wife!reader

the wedding ceremony was magical. taken place upon a mountain overlooking the sea. it was intimate. a few close friends joined and grogu was the ring bearer of course.

peli had offered to sit your son for some nights while the two of you enjoyed being freshly married. you sat in the passenger seat next to your now husband with his hand in yours. a smile plastered across your face. the moon lit up the sky as the razor crest made its way to the ground.

after landing, you stood up and bunched up the sides of your dress to prevent it from dragging. getting only a few steps away before din’s arm wrapped around your waist and the other hooked underneath your legs. you yelped at the sudden action and you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck.

he carried you bridal style into the house. giggles escaping your mouth as the front door shut behind you. he set you down gently. you turned your body towards him. he looked down at you. your doe eyes dancing around his dark visor.

he took your hand and brought it up to his helmet where his mouth is. your heart fluttered at the thought of the events that happen at night for newly weds. you had not given yourself to anyone else, and you knew that din was not experienced either.

you didn’t let him release his grip on your hand. instead, you tightened it and started to walk towards the bedroom. he followed your lead without hesitation, metal clanking filled the silence.

you made your way to the foot of the bed where you turned your body back towards him. he was close to you, the heat of his body radiating. beskar covered chest rising up and down. you knew he was nervous, as were you.

a hand reached to take a hold of his shoulder piece. your eyes looked for his for permission. he replied with a small nod. with that, you removed the cool armored parts that kept him safe. the armor that was his whole persona. the armor that made criminals shiver. and here you were, getting the honor of letting him come apart in front of you.

he stood in only his flight suit and helmet. a hand came up to the zipper close to his neck, pulling it down. his bare chest heaved up and down. you could practically hear his heart beating as you finished removing the fabric from his body.

you had never seen him like this before. never had seen the flesh of the man you loved so deeply. his body was of one crafted by his hard work. his breath shuttered as your hands gently touched his exposed skin.

he moved in closer to you. your cheeks turning pink as it was now your turn. he looped his fingers around the shoulder straps of your dress. as his pulled them down, more of your soft skin was exposed bit by bit. you looked away as he reached your chest.

you nipped at your lip as he continued to undress you. when he got to your hips, he dropped to his knees. the white dress now pooled at your feet. you looked down at him worried that you were not what he had expected. this negative thoughts vanished as he said;

“mesh’la, you are beautiful. the most beautiful thing i have ever seen”

“i feel like i am undeserving of your presence”

tears welled up in your eyes and you shook your head at his words. a finger hooked underneath his chin, gesturing him to rise up off the ground. hands caressed the jawline of his helmet. your lips yearned for his. he knew what you wanted and he wanted it just as much.

he placed his hands on your hips and guided you to the bed where you lied on your back. he down looked at you, so precious and vulnerable. he turned off the lamp that was the last source of light in the room. it was now pitch black. a hissing noise filled the silence and a clank of his helmet being set aside.

the mattress dipped down as he crawled on top of you. your hands reached up in desperation to feel his face. he grabbed your hand and placed it on his cheek. your breath was shaky at the touch. fingertips lingered, feeling the stubble on his face. a hand snaked around the back of his neck to feel his thick curls.

he leaned in closer to you, his lips just inches away from yours. dipping down, he kissed you for the very first time. butterflies filled your stomach. a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. you pulled him in by the back of his head, depending the kiss.

he released himself from you, catching his breath. moving back down, he placed his lips on your cheek and made his way to your collarbone. sucking at your skin, causing you to let out a moan. he kissed the middle of your breasts where your heart beat uncontrollably.

“i love you, cyar’ika” he whispered.

“i love you too, din” you replied.

✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩

apologies for not posting in a minute. i hope this makes up for it 🤍

- m

[mrs-pondwater19]

~Jolly Sailor Bold²~

-Pirate Miguel O'Hara x Fem Mermaid Reader

-Synopsis: After a month or so of your initial meeting with Miguel. He's been spending his free time studying the ways of merfolk and uncovered a dark secret. A secret you've been warned about before, advised to stay away and not give in to you curiosity despite your longing for something more than life in the sea.

-Word Count: 2,502

-C/W: Enchantment, pining for a mythical creature, reunion, usage of Spanish, longing, hints at depression and isolation, talk of dark magic, angst, depictions of blood bonds and ritualistic magic, mentions of blood, depictions of violent transformation, depictions of souls bonds, vulnerability, trust between human and mythical creature, affirmations. No use of Y/N

-T/W: Depictions of Dark/Ritualistic magic, mentions of Blood, depictions of violent transformation.

-Part 1

-A/N: Hey, so I had this idea for a while and I finally got it written down, a little darker for what I was originally planning but I like me a romantasy with some dark themes. Didn't know if I was actually gonna make a part 2, but here we are lol. I'd like to make a part 3 and progress the story some. But we'll see. @lazyjellyfish300 and @miguelandjayce4ever this is for you guys. Know you've been waiting awhile, Enjoy my dears 🫶🏻💖

•Credit for the artwork goes to the lovely @shuploc

A full moon cycle or moon since you and Miguel met that night on the beach. Days and nights passed like a blur on the ship. But you were never far from his thoughts as the days passed. He found himself seeing your face in the most unassuming places. 

In the clouds that formed before the storm. 

In the early morning wisps of sea mist. 

In the swirling tide pools of the harbors they docked in. 

He was completely, utterly, and hopelessly smitten. 

Enchanted.

Every moment of free time he had he was desperately hoping to see you once again or reading up on whatever lore he could get his hands on. Raiding libraries or shops for manuscripts, storybooks and whatever writings he could find during their short stays in ports of their shipment routes. Hiding away in his quarters after a day's work and learning every bit of information he could with the hope of understanding you better the next time your paths crossed. 

Which he seemed to be getting a bit desperate for as the days and nights dragged on without so much as a hint of your presence. 

Searching from the bowsprit or the stern, scanning over each horizon for the familiar, gentle eyes or shimmering scales to emerge from the deep blue depths. 

Every night he searched, only to be met with silence and darkness.

And with the silence, the longing seemed to intensify, like a pit being dug deeper and deeper in his soul. 

That was, until the night of the new moon when they arrived back in that same harbor where you two met. 

That somber, oceanside village. 

Another shipment was delivered, another night of their celebration at some local tavern, his crew members forgetting their worries and cares like clockwork. That was the routine, and that would continue to be the routine.

But not for him. 

Not tonight. 

Instead he found himself sat on the worn, almost splintered wood of the pier under a lamp post. Back hunched over a manuscript and his legs crossed, engrossed in the weathered text as the low light of the oil lamp illuminated his concentrated features. Taking in ancient rituals and forbidden magic of merfolk. 

Writings of a graphic transformation, an almost forgotten Latin tongue, and a blood bond that was almost impossible to break.

Upon reading the text, he felt his stomach lurch in discomfort before he saw you peak your head up just past the edge of the pier. 

He knew those eyes anywhere. 

The ones he was hoping so desperately to see again. 

His heart betrayed his stoic features, jolting slightly as he stood from his spot at the lamp post. His manuscript fell out of his lap, the disturbing text quickly forgotten, wanting nothing but to be close to you again. 

He knelt down on the edge of the pier, a softened expression on his face, a hint of a smile even. 

“It's you, sirenita.”

A simple statement, the nickname rolling off his tongue so naturally as if that was the way it was supposed to be. But the weight behind it was very apparent. Not shy or hesitant like before. 

It was more comfortable, a sign of letting you know he was happy to see you again. 

You smiled brightly back up at him, crossing your arms against the pier, resting your chin on your elbow in a relaxed state.

Allowing yourself to trust him just a little.

“Of course it's me. I was hoping you'd come back again. Although I'm surprised you didn't make your way to the bluffs like the last time.”

A gentle huff escaped his nose. 

“Makes it difficult when there's no moon to light the way.”

You giggled at his rebuttal.

“Well, I suppose you're right. But it's good to see you again all the same, Miguel.”

“Same to you, mi amiga.”

‘My Friend’.

He whispered, as if whispering a secret before he let a full smile spread across his face. Adjusting his position on the pier so his legs dangled off the edge and one of his hands rested dangerously close to your own. The soles of his feet skimming the inky black water, your tail hidden beneath the surface.

The low flames of the oil lamp reflected off the freckle like scales on your cheeks. Casting a dreamy haze in your eyes as Miguel took in the vision that was entirely you. 

Breathtaking even in the darkness. 

He wasted no time catching up with you. Sharing what new adventures he had been on, his pursuits of learning about merfolk, and what he had learned so far before inviting you to share as well. 

Not that much ever changed for you, it was a quiet, simple life. Watching ships come and go, the townsfolk go about their lives, and envy the freedom they had. Of the kinship between them. Of the love they shared amongst themselves. 

All the while you were chained to a life below the surface. 

You weren't unhappy per se. 

You just wanted a little more. 

To be a part of something meaningful.

To be loved even. 

As you vented your troubles to him, he felt his heart uncharacteristically crack in sympathy for you. Hearing the genuine sadness in your voice, the loneliness you endured, it stirred thoughts in his head of what could never be. 

To whisk you away. 

To give you the life you very clearly wished for.

To show you what it meant to be human. 

But within those thoughts, it reminded him of something he read. Something scribbled on yellowed pages in faded ink from generations ago. 

The manuscript. 

A flicker of hope bubbled in his chest as he stared at you, but it was just for a moment. 

He remembered what the pages entailed. How gruesome the ritual appeared to be on paper, he couldn't even imagine how it would be if it were carried out. He knew he couldn't do that to you, it wouldn't be fair to ask for you to change either. 

But he was curious, he wanted to know from the source that faced him on that pier. 

He wanted to know the truth. 

“... Forgive me if what I'm about to ask is inappropriate, but I'm curious.”

He started hesitantly.

“Not long ago I found an old manuscript, no dates, no names. Just…instructions. A ritual that is said to turn merfolk into humans. Is that something that can be done? ¿Es verdad?”

The silence of the night consumed you both as he uttered what the text contained alongside his curious inquiry of you. The air thickened into an uncomfortable atmosphere. He knew the moment your eyes lost their soft edge that you heard of this ritual before. An expression of unease replaced the previous one of comfortability as you broke the silence. 

“There's a legend that long ago, long before you or I, there was an elder siren and a fisherman who fell deeply in love with one another. She was infatuated with him, and with human lives in general. So much so that she was willing to give up her life in the sea to be with him.”

You paused, unsure if you should even be speaking.

“Somehow, some way, using the power of the moon and the tides, she was able to shed her tail she was born with. To turn herself into a human.”

You paused, setting a slightly dramatic tone. 

“It's said she lived out the rest of her days with that man. That she never returned to the sea. But the elders speak of it as a tale of warning, saying the magic she used is best left alone.”

But even as the words fell from your tongue, you didn't heed them. If anything, the idea of such magic existing had you buzzing in the dark, salty water. 

The ability to leave your isolated life in the sea.

To have the human experience.

You always assumed the story was a wives tale. A lesson for merfolk to stay away from humans. To resist the temptation of what was considered “forbidden” knowledge.

That temptation was winning. 

Miguel, eyes wide with intrigue as well as concern for your shared infatuation as the elder siren in the story she spun, leaned in. 

“You say it's a tale of warning, but you don't seem wary, pequeña. If anything, you seem enthralled at the idea of such magic truly existing.”

You chuckled bashfully. 

“Am I that easy to read?”

“I'm afraid so.”

He could see the gleam in your eyes despite the darkness that swallowed you both.

The thirst for knowledge.

It created an unsettling sensation in the pit of his gut. 

“It's unlike any ritual I've come across,”

A hint of hesitation in his tone once again as he looked away from you to the dark depths of the skyline. Watching where the stars met the sea. 

“You were right about that usage of the moon and the tides, but…it's so much more than that. So much darker.”

“...Please, tell me.”

You quietly coaxed, placing your webbed hand over his. The contact of the wet, cold skin sent a jolt straight to his chest. His brownish crimson eyes met your own with a clear sense of caution at your persistence.

“Mi amiga, I understand your curiosity, I do. But this, this ritual. It's…violent. Tan muy violenta. There's a reason the elders advised that you leave it alone.”

A bitter frustration crept in your chest.

“How can I believe it's as bad as you say if you won't tell? If you explain it, perhaps I can better understand.”

You persisted.

And he caved with a defeated sigh. 

"It's a blood bond, mi sirenita.”

He paused, letting the statement settle in the thin air between you.

“It's a blood bond that takes place on a full blue moon when the tide is low and there's a pool big enough for the mermaid to settle herself in. The mermaid exchanges a vial of thirteen scales and thirteen drops of blood from her hand. The man must exchange the same amount of his blood and a lock of hair to her in return. A symbol of each other's...devotion.”

He saw the curiosity on your face twist and morph into one of fear and disgust as he painted you a mental picture.

But he wasn't even close to the worst part.

“When the moon reaches its peak, they intertwine the hands that have been sliced open. Allowing their blood to combine while the man recites an incantation that bonds the mermaid to him. Allowing himself to give up a part of his human attributes to her in exchange for her soul… to be tied to one another. To become one.”

A moment of silence, the air thicker than oil before he described the finisher. 

“When the incantation is finished and the hands pull away. With the lunar magic and the combined blood spilled in the tide pool. The mermaid begins an agonizing transformation. She sheds her scales first, then her bones begin to shift under her skin. The one tail splits in two, the skin ripping, tearing, and then bones reshaping into human legs. When all is done, the mermaid is left bloodied and incapacitated for days, even weeks after the ritual is finished. Her soul belongs to the man, she cannot return to the sea unless they perform the ritual again. And as you know, there's a reason it's called a blue moon.”

There were no more words to be said after that. 

Only the suffocating silence of the truth. 

You didn't realize it was that intense.

That it was that…gruesome. 

And the worst part of it all, even after hearing how awful of an experience it would be. 

You still wanted to go through with it. 

You were willing to put yourself through hell, to experience the agony of the transformation, and to bind yourself to him as long as it meant you could leave the sea.

“I-”

You stuttered before finding your footing as you placed your palms down on the edge of the pier.

Locking eyes will him.

“I'd still go through with it.”

A quiet admission, but a firm one all the same.

Miguel just shook his head in disbelief.

“Don't be foolish. You'd really go through that kind of pain, that agony, give up your very soul to a man just to be human?”

His eyes searched your own, seeing a flicker of the gleam in them from before.

“If you were the man I'd give it to, I'd do it in a heartbeat.”

He wasn't ready for that.

Not at all.

As the words registered in his mind, he felt the flush creep up his face. His serious expression wiped right off his face from how blunt you were.

It wasn't fair.

Here you were, the creature that had been haunting his thoughts since the day he met you. Wanting nothing more than to be with you in every sense of the word.

You were willing to give that to him.

To bind your soul to his without hesitation.

Foolishness, he thought.

“You shouldn't say things like that, sirenita. Not when you don't mean them.”

Trying to convince himself you didn't mean it. That you were acting brazenly.

He knew you weren't.

“I do mean it. I meant it with every atom of my being. Can you even fathom how long I've dreamed of being able to leave the sea? How I've longed for something more than the isolation of the deep? To have connections with people? To dance with someone I love? Can you comprehend how much I want to actually live and not just exist?”

Your voice cracked with emotion and your eyes shimmered with unshed tears. It made Miguel's heart wrench down at the sight. His large, calloused hand found yours. Trying to loosen your vice like grip from the edge as he leaned in closer, close enough that his forehead brushed against yours.

“I know, mi amiga. I know, and I'm sorry you've lived with those sorrows for so long. But I don't want you to jump into something that you'll later regret. If this is really what you want, just know it's not all love and joy. There will be moments of pain, moments of sadness, and moments where it feels like it's all too much.”

His hand moving from yours to your face, tilting your jaw so you were looking at him. Looking for any hesitation, any kind of sign that you weren't sure of what you were asking for.

But he didn't find any at all.

This was what you wanted.

“But why me?”

“Because I trust you.”

Vulnerability laced in your answer.

“No te dejaré. Lo prometo, mi amiga.”

'I won't leave you. I promise, my friend.'

You allowed a few tears to fall down your scaly cheeks and a smile to spread on your lips.

“You really promise?”

You whispered.

“With all my soul.”

[lonelyspect12]

[dorarakei]

author's note: slight nfsw? writing this in a little hurry and english is not my first language. just needed to get this out of my head!

⋆˚꩜⋆˚⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆𖦹⋆ˎˊ˗⋆˚꩜⋆˚⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆𖦹⋆ˎˊ˗⋆˚꩜⋆˚⋆｡⋆𖦹⋆ˎˊ˗

hear me out.. din djarin is touch-starved and you can't convince me otherwise. i really can't imagine this man being overpowering in his cot, not when how he practically shudders when grogu gently holds his face.

if anything i'm sure he's gonna take his time reallllll slow just to convince himself that it's you- a real, breathing, warm, supple human being laying together with him.

i just knew he'll worship every inch of you, not one inch of your skin forgotten to be caressed (either with his padded palms, the bridge of his aquiline nose, or his plump, slightly chapped lips).

how long has he not felt another one's warmth, he had no idea. all he know for now is that you're here- sprawled in his cot, his ship- with your arms agape to welcome him to his home, you.

[mrs-pondwater19]

[wendichester]

hey sexy girl, it’s only me 😘😘

could u write smth for me sam x reader (obvi), where the reader expresses how much she loves sunflowers, and every time he’s out for a run or a walk or whatever, he takes a certain route to make sure he can pick her a sunflower from a field so he can take it home to her?

thank you!!! 💘💘

⋆｡ ˚ the long way home

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you mention loving sunflowers once, and sam quietly builds a whole ritual around bringing them back to you pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x reader ( f ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 638 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ extra fluff warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ friends to lovers tension, shy sam, emotional pining

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

it starts because you say it once. barely even a confession, really. just a small thing slipped into the middle of a long afternoon, while you’re leaning against the bunker’s kitchen counter with your hands wrapped around a mug, watching dust float through a stripe of sunlight.

“sunflowers are my favorite,” you say, mostly to yourself. “they always look so happy.”

sam looks up from the newspaper he’s pretending to read. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you say, smiling into your coffee. “big faces. tall stems. they’re basically the golden retrievers of flowers.”

he laughs under his breath, soft enough that you almost miss it. “that makes sense,” he says.

you narrow your eyes. “what does that mean?”

“nothing,” he says too quickly, which means something, obviously.

you throw a sugar packet at him. he catches it without looking proud, because he’s sam, and that’s somehow worse.

you don’t think about it again. sam does.

the first time he brings one home, you’re elbow-deep in laundry, trying to figure out if dean’s socks are cursed or just naturally horrible, when sam walks into the room sweaty from his run, hair damp at his temples, cheeks pink from the cold.

there’s a sunflower in his hand.

not a bouquet. not anything polished or planned. just one sunflower, bright and uneven, its stem wrapped in a napkin from some gas station.

you stare at it. then at him.

“i saw it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “on the way back. figured you’d, uh… want it.”

your chest does this embarrassing little thing. “you figured right,” you say, taking it carefully.

his fingers brush yours. barely. still, you feel it.

after that, it becomes a habit he never announces. every couple of days, when he goes out for a run or a walk to clear his head, he comes back with another one. sometimes fresh and huge, sometimes a little crooked, sometimes missing a petal or two because the wind got to it first.

he always acts casual, like he didn’t clearly change his route just to pass that field outside town. you know, because one morning you watch from the garage as he takes the left road instead of the shorter one. the long way. for you.

stupidly, it makes you want to cry. just in the way soft things can sneak up and knock the air out of you.

one evening, he finds you in the library, sliding the newest sunflower into an old glass bottle you’ve stolen from the kitchen. there are five now, lined up along the table, gold heads tilted in different directions.

“you’re keeping all of them?” he asks, voice gentle.

“of course i am.”

he looks down, smiling at the floor. shy. too shy for someone so tall. “they don’t last forever.”

“neither do most good things,” you say, then immediately regret how honest it sounds.

sam’s smile fades into something quieter.

you look at the flowers instead of him. “but i still want them.”

there’s a pause. then he steps closer—slow and careful—the same way he handles everything he’s afraid to break. “i can keep bringing them,” he says.

your fingers tighten around the bottle. “yeah?”

“yeah.” his voice dips. “if you want.”

you turn toward him, heart doing too much, hands smelling faintly green from the stem. “i do,” you say.

sam’s eyes flick to your mouth for half a second, then back up, and the room feels suddenly too quiet, too full of everything neither of you has been brave enough to touch.

he doesn’t kiss you. not yet. but his hand brushes yours again, warm and nervous and real, and this time neither of you moves away. the sunflower leans between you, bright and ridiculous, while sam looks at you like he’d take the long way home forever for you.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[llumetrii]

holding

Just a little bit of Miguel O'Hara x reader fluff

Miguel had arrived home just a minute ago. You'd felt the tell-tale prickle on your skin—the soft whoosh in the air that signaled a portal opening somewhere nearby. Then the bed creaked and groaned in the bedroom as a familiar weight settled onto it. Silence fell over the apartment again.

You finished up in the bathroom and stepped out, flipping off the light. Miguel was there, stretched out on the bed in the soft lamplight. He lay on his back, His arm draped over his eyes and his foot propped up on the comforter. The other leg still hung over the edge like he couldn't be bothered to drag the rest of himself onto it.

"Hey, baby." You greeted softly. He hadn't moved or acknowledged you just yet, even though you knew he would have heard you in the house as soon as he stepped in—enhanced senses and all that. But even those senses got tired some days.

You crawled onto the bed and gently settled yourself against his side. The warmth of his body seeped into yours as you lay an arm across his middle, loosely hugging him. Miguel dragged his arm down from his eyes to rest it around your back, his fingers brushing your side like a feather.

"Work pretty busy today?" You murmured, tilting your head to prop your chin on his chest.

His responding hum was so deep that it rumbled against your chin. "Yeah." He mumbled roughly, like just speaking took effort.

Your lips turned down in a sympathetic pout. "I'm sorry, baby."

You slid your hand up across his chest and to his tight, muscular shoulders. You delicately squeezed and rubbed the muscle, attempting to massage away the stress he held there.

A soft noise of contentment emitted from his throat. Miguel's hand slid up your spine and stroked your hair, carding through the strands. "It helps coming back home to you." He said softly.

You shivered as his fingers brushed your scalp. A fond smile spread on your lips. "That's all I want for you." You whispered. "To make your days better."

His eyes cracked open finally, the sliver of deep red irises meeting your gaze. "You do."

His hand slipped from your hair so his thumb could stroke your cheek, lightly caressing the corner of your lips. You turned your head just enough to catch the pad of his thumb against the center of your lips, and you held his gaze as you kissed it gently.

His eyes softened, the lingering tension in his face finally draining away. His arms encircled you with a new strength, and he drew you up even closer against him, rolling onto his side as he curled you into his embrace.

Miguel's face buried into your neck and his whole chest swelled as he inhaled deeply. His fingers tightened briefly as if he was trying to cling to your form and drink in your very essence.

"Te amo." He murmured against the steady pulse in your neck. Your eyes fluttered closed, and your own arms wrapped around his broad back, holding him tighter than before.

"I love you, too, Migs."

A/N: Miguel just seems like the type to really need a good, tight hug and that would be enough to satisfy him

[tintedstar]

older!bf sam winchester headcanons that i believe is so him. i should make one about de too. ♡ 18+

older!bf sam winchester—is a type of man who melts into your arms. see, you are way shorter than him, right? whenever you raise your arms to reach and hug him, he turns pliant, like clay which is completely under your mercy. to shape him as you please, to make him completely yours.

older!bf sam winchester—is a type of man who believes in act of service. he would wake before you everyday, not even missing a day to make you breakfast, make you coffee exactly the same way you are doing. you need to clean up some space? already done. you need to sort out something? already done. he believes into being useful to you, like you are the center of his world and anything he does, does to please you.

older!bf sam winchester—is a type of man who will explain things to you without being overwhelming. he would just go through the lore with you and throw light on anything, even simple thing with love and genuine emotion. and you see how he enjoys it, being useful for you once again. and he is so gullible and does not understand that sometimes, you do it on purpose to listen to him. the way his eyes light up even talking about the most hideous creatures.

older!bf sam winchester—is a type of a man who is gentle. even when he is touching you, it feels like he is touching something carved out from marble. this 6 foot something man is under your control, his tongue stealing whimpers and moans, hums lowly alongside with you. he knows he is doing a good job, he knows and all these sweet sounds you make it is because of him. and god that makes him so feral and so possessive over you.

older!bf sam winchester—loves to read. especially in the mornings. while you are sleeping beside him, early morning sunlight splashing like a golden shower on your skin. he would take a book from his nightstand, put a glasses on his nose and get lost in the words. that’s how you liked him, relaxed, in his state. so, you would climb on his lap and curl like a little rabbit, while his big, big hand rest on your ass, slowly squeezing it. Going up and down on your spine, reminding you that he was still there. with you.

[wendichester]

hey my love!

i wanted to request a sam x f!reader where sam and reader are in an established relationship but reader can’t/doesn’t want kids but hasn’t told sam that yet. but she does tell him and how that conversation kinda goes down. lots of angst and fluff if possible ❤️

⋆｡ ˚ not the life you pictured

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you finally tell sam the truth you’ve been holding back and brace for what it might cost you. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x reader ( f ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 744 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty fluff warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ discussion of not wanting children, fear of incompatibility, emotional vulnerability

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

The moment when you decide to tell him it’s terrifying.

No fight. No trigger. No sudden realization.

Just a quiet evening in the bunker, Sam at the table with a book he’s pretending to read and you across from him, pretending not to watch the way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating. It’s normal. Too normal. And maybe that’s what makes it worse—because you know this kind of peace makes people start thinking about the future.

And you don’t fit into the version of it he might want.

“Sam,” you say, before you can talk yourself out of it.

He looks up immediately. “Yeah?”

Your chest tightens. You hadn’t planned how to say it. You probably should have.

“I need to tell you something.” Your fingers curl together on the table, nails pressing lightly into your skin. “And I don’t want you to—I don’t want you to answer right away, okay? Just… listen first.”

That gets his full attention. The book closes softly.

“Okay,” he says, slower now. Careful.

You nod once, staring at your hands because it’s easier than looking at him. “I don’t want kids.”

There it is.

Out. Solid. Unchangeable.

The silence that follows feels heavy, settling into your ribs, pressing in from all sides.

You push through before it can swallow you. “And it’s not a ‘not right now’ thing. It’s not something I think I’ll change my mind about later. I’ve thought about it a lot, and it’s just—” You shake your head, words catching slightly. “It’s not something I want for my life.”

You finally look up.

Sam isn’t angry. He isn’t upset in any obvious way.

He’s just… still.

Processing.

That somehow makes it worse.

“I know that might be a dealbreaker for you,” you add quickly, the words rushing now, uneven. “And I get that, I do. You want a normal life, or something close to it, and that usually includes—you know. A family. And I just—I can’t give you that.” Your throat tightens, but you keep going anyway, because you’ve already started. “So if this changes things, I’d rather you tell me now than later.”

Your voice dips on the last part, quieter than you meant it to be.

Sam exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his mouth before leaning back in his chair, eyes dropping for a second.

You hate the wait. You hate it.

“Hey,” he says finally.

You brace yourself.

“Look at me.”

You do.

There’s something complicated in his expression—not distant, not cold. But for the first time, you can’t exactly put a finger on it.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asks gently.

You blink, thrown off. “I—” You swallow. “Because I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of this,” you admit, gesturing vaguely between you. “Of you deciding it’s not enough. That I’m not enough.”

Something in his face shifts immediately at that, softer, almost pained.

“Hey,” he repeats, quieter now. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, closer to you without touching yet. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Decide what I feel before I get to say it.”

You hesitate.

He holds your gaze, steady, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache. “Yeah, I’ve thought about having kids before,” he admits, not avoiding it, not brushing it off. “I won’t lie to you about that. But that’s not the only version of a future I can see.”

You search his face, trying to read past the words. “Sam…”

“I’m serious.” His voice is firmer now, more certain. “What I want—what matters—is you. Us. The life part? We figure that out together. It doesn’t have to look like anything we thought it would.”

Your breath catches slightly. “And you won’t… resent me for it?”

“No.” He shakes his head without hesitation, reaching out this time, his hand covering yours where it rests on the table. Warm. Steady. “Not for being honest about what you want. Not for knowing yourself.”

Your shoulders loosen just a little, tension you hadn’t even realized you were holding beginning to slip away.

“I just needed you to know,” you murmur.

“I’m glad you told me.”

There’s a quiet beat, softer now, less heavy.

Then Sam squeezes your hand gently, a small, reassuring pressure. “We hunt monsters for a living. ‘Normal’ was never really on the table anyway.”

A breath of a laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Yeah,” you agree, voice still a little fragile but warmer now. “I guess not.”

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[wendichester]

Hello lovely, how are you???

I saw that your requests are open, so I'll jump in to make a requests if it's ok with you!!

It's pretty simple, just some good ol' mundane domestic routine where reader is in a relationship with the brothers ( sam + reader + dean ), I would love to know how you think they would be like in a normal day where they don't have a hunt/work to do.

It's totally ok if you don't like the idea, no pressure love!!!

⋆｡ ˚ the days that don’t end in blood

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ when there’s no hunt, no monsters, it’s just the three of you learning how to exist quietly together pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn ) x sam winchester wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 522 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ polyamorous relationship (dean x reader x sam but no wincest), domestic fluff, light teasing, physical affection

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

Mornings in the bunker unfold.

You wake up first, not because you mean to, but because the silence is different on days without a hunt. No alarms, no rushed footsteps, no tension already sitting in your chest before your eyes even open. Just the low hum of the place and the slow, steady rhythm of two different breaths around you.

Dean’s arm is thrown over your waist, heavy and warm, his grip loose in sleep but still there, like some part of him refuses to fully let go even unconscious. Sam’s on the other side, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting somewhere near your shoulder, not quite touching but close enough that you feel it.

You don’t move right away. You just lie there for a second, letting yourself exist in it.

Then Dean stirs, shifting slightly behind you, his grip tightening for a brief second before he exhales and buries his face closer into your shoulder. “Too early,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.

“It’s not early,” you whisper back. “You just hate mornings.”

“Same thing.”

Sam huffs a quiet laugh from the other side, already more awake than he pretends to be. “It’s almost ten.”

Dean goes still. “Disgusting.”

You smile, small and easy, and finally shift, carefully untangling yourself enough to sit up. Dean groans in protest, his hand catching your wrist like he might drag you back down.

“No,” you say softly, nudging him. “Coffee.”

That gets him to release you. Barely.

The kitchen becomes the next orbit point, the three of you moving through it without needing to say much. You start the coffee, Sam leans against the counter flipping through some book he brought with him out of habit, and Dean eventually stumbles in, hair a mess, t-shirt half twisted, looking like he’s personally offended by being conscious.

“Smells good,” he mutters, pressing a quick, absent kiss to your temple as he passes.

Sam doesn’t even look up when he reaches out, tugging you gently by the sleeve just enough to steal a softer, slower kiss of his own.

Later, it’s the library. Of course it is.

Sam spreads out his research like there’s a case to solve even when there isn’t, Dean pretends to complain about it while still sitting down across from him anyway, and you end up sideways in your chair, legs draped over Dean’s lap without asking. He just rests a hand there, thumb tracing idle patterns against your leg.

“Y’know,” Dean says after a while, glancing between you and Sam, “normal people probably go outside on their days off.”

Sam hums. “We could.”

You don’t move.

Dean doesn’t either.

There’s a beat.

“Or,” he adds, leaning back in his chair, hand still warm against you, “we could not.”

You smile, closing your eyes for a second, letting the quiet settle around you again. No urgency. No fear. Just the soft, steady presence of them—one grounded, one restless, both somehow meeting you right in the middle.

Sam turns a page.

Dean’s thumb keeps moving.

And the day stretches out, simple and unremarkable in all the ways that matter most.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[wendichester]

Hii!! I love ur work :-) I’d love if you did a chubby!reader x Sam who is a little insecure about their body and face :-P and also a huge nerd

⋆｡ ˚ soft places sharp minds

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you think sam is the pretty one. he’s too busy thinking the same about you. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x reader ( gn ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 805 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ body insecurity, self-esteem issues, gentle reassurance

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

Sam is staring at you.

You don’t notice it at first, too focused on your book, legs tucked under you on the couch, one hand absently resting over your stomach as you flip a page. The bunker is quiet except for the soft hum of the lamps and the occasional rustle of paper from Sam’s side of the table.

It’s peaceful. Comfortable. The kind of quiet you’ve grown into.

Then you feel it—that subtle awareness of being watched.

You glance up. “What?”

Sam startles slightly, like he didn’t expect to get caught, eyes darting back down to the lore book in front of him. “Nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “You were staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You so were.”

A pause. Then, quieter, “I wasn’t trying to.”

That gets your attention.

You close your book slowly, setting it aside, studying him now. He’s hunched forward more than usual, shoulders slightly drawn in, fingers tapping faintly against the edge of the page without actually reading it. There’s something off in the way he’s avoiding looking at you.

“Sam,” you say, softer this time. “What’s going on?”

He hesitates, jaw tightening just a little before he exhales through his nose. “Do you ever just… notice things?” he asks, vague and frustrating.

You blink. “That’s not an answer.”

“I mean—” He gestures vaguely at himself, still not meeting your eyes. “About how you look.”

Oh.

You sit up a little straighter, something in your chest pulling tight. “Sam…”

He huffs a quiet, self-conscious laugh, finally glancing up at you for half a second before looking away again. “It’s stupid. I just—sometimes I think about it. About how I look next to you, or—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

“No,” you say immediately, leaning forward. “Don’t do that. Don’t just drop it like it doesn’t matter.”

He goes still.

You soften your voice, reaching out and nudging his knee lightly with yours. “Talk to me.”

Sam exhales slowly, like he’s weighing whether it’s worth saying out loud. Then, quieter, “You’re… you, and I’m just—” He shrugs, frustration flickering across his face. “I don’t know. Too much in some places, not enough in others. It’s—”

“Hey.” You cut him off gently but firmly, shifting closer until your knee presses against his properly this time. “You don’t get to do that.”

His brows knit. “Do what?”

“Talk about yourself like that.” You reach for his hand, prying it away from the edge of the table where his fingers had been fidgeting, holding it between both of yours. “Not when I’m sitting right here.”

He blinks at you, caught off guard. “Why?”

“Because I like what I’m looking at,” you say simply.

Sam lets out a soft, disbelieving breath. “You’re biased.”

“So are you,” you shoot back, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me sometimes? Like I hung the stars or something?”

His ears go pink. “I don’t—”

“You do,” you insist, squeezing his hand lightly. “And for the record? I don’t get it either. I mean—” You gesture vaguely at yourself, self-aware but not unkind. “I’m not exactly built like a hunter fantasy.”

Sam’s expression shifts immediately, something protective sparking in his eyes. “Don’t.”

You raise a brow. “See? That. That’s exactly what you’re doing to yourself.”

He falters, the realization settling in slowly.

You soften, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “I like you,” you say, quieter now, more honest. “Not in spite of anything. Just… as you are. All of it. The height, the hair, the ridiculous amount of research notes you leave everywhere—”

He huffs a small laugh at that.

“And yeah,” you add, nudging his knee again, gentler this time, “the whole giant, broody, secretly-soft thing you’ve got going on.”

Sam shakes his head, but there’s a faint smile breaking through now, hesitant but real. “That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

He finally looks at you properly then, something warmer in his expression, something a little less guarded. “You’re unbelievable.”

You grin. “And you’re a nerd.”

“Wow.”

“Don’t act surprised,” you tease, giving his hand another squeeze. “You literally research monsters for fun.”

“For work,” he corrects automatically.

You lean in just slightly, bumping your shoulder against his. “Still counts.”

Sam exhales, the tension in him easing as he lets himself relax into the contact, his hand tightening around yours in return. “You’re… really okay with me?”

The question is softer than everything else he’s said, quieter, almost careful.

You don’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” you say, steady and certain. “I really am.”

He studies you for a second longer, then nods once, something settling in his chest as he shifts closer, your shoulders brushing now, your hands still tangled together between you.

“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.

But he doesn’t let go.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[midnightfragment]

Hiiii hope your well!

If your requests are open… maybe you could write something with size difference with Sam Winchester..? A smut ofc.. Size difference with his hands against yours.. Females pov if possible💕

I'm 5’5 with the smallest hands in the business… so I always think about how big Sams hands really are..

Oki thank youuu byeee

𝜗ৎ Size kink with sam (headcanons)

warnings: smutt!!, size kink (obviously lol), manhandling / light restraint, those hands deserve their own warning label

a/n: girll i have 5'0🫠🫠 Can totaly relate lol and YES THIS MANN IS A MONUMENT, had to write about it at some point!!! tysm for this request hope u like it, rlly!!

the way his palm completely engulfs yours when he laces your fingers together — like your hand just disappears into his, fingers so much longer and thicker they curl over your knuckles twice. he does it casually in the motel parking lot and you have to fight not to whimper right there

him wrapping one massive hand around both of your wrists and pinning them above your head with zero effort. your arms look so tiny trapped in that single grip, and he knows it — smirks down at you like “look how easy you are to hold”

he can lift you one-handed. like actually picks you up by the waist/hips and drops you onto his cock while standing — your legs dangling uselessly because you can’t even touch the floor anymore, just clinging to those broad shoulders while he fucks up into you slow and deep

his fingers inside you — christ. two of them already stretch you stupid, curling right against that spot that makes your eyes roll back, and when he adds a third you’re gasping, clawing at his forearm because it feels like too much and perfect at the same time. he shushes you with that low “shh, you can take it, baby”

when he spoons you from behind his whole body swallows yours. chest to your back, one long leg thrown over both of yours to lock you in place, huge hand splayed possessively over your stomach / ribs / throat — whichever he feels like claiming tonight. you feel tiny and safe and so fucking owned

blowjob logistics are a problem (the good kind). you have to tilt your head way back just to take more of him, jaw aching because he’s so thick, and his hand cups the entire back of your skull like it’s nothing — gentle but guiding, thumb stroking your cheek while you drool and struggle

post-sex cuddling where he just engulfs you. pulls you half on top of his chest so your much smaller frame fits perfectly in the dip between his pecs and shoulder, one giant hand stroking up and down your spine, the other still loosely curled around your thigh like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go

post-sex cuddling where he just… engulfs you. pulls you half on top of his chest so your much smaller frame fits perfectly in the dip between his pecs and shoulder, one giant hand stroking up and down your spine, the other still loosely curled around your thigh like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go

some fluffs 'cause i cant help it ⁠♡

when you’re cold he doesn’t even ask — just shrugs out of his giant flannel, drapes it over your shoulders, and it hangs past your fingertips and almost to your knees. he rolls the sleeves up for you with this focused little frown, then pulls the collar up around your neck like a makeshift scarf and kisses the tip of your nose

movie nights where you try to sit next to him on the couch but end up basically in his lap anyway because there’s just… so much of him. he wraps one arm around your waist, tucks your head under his chin, and your whole body fits against his chest like the last piece of a puzzle. his heartbeat thumps steady under your ear and you fall asleep faster than the movie even start

you’re rambling about something unimportant and he just listens, chin resting on top of your head, one hand playing absently with your fingers — his are so much longer he can fold them over yours completely. every once in a while he murmurs a quiet “yeah?” or “mhm” against your hair and it vibrates through you

the way he carries you bridal-style when your feet hurt after a long hunt — doesn’t even break a sweat, just scoops you up like you weigh nothing, your head tucked into the crook of his neck. he presses little absent kisses to your temple the whole walk back to the car, murmuring “I got you” every few steps

⁠♡ a/n again lol: this headcanons made me think about do a "big dick energy" one for him🫠 Already noted some ideas let me know if you would like itt :)

[wendichester]

Sam x soft spoken reader? Just thinking of him leaning down during a conversation just to hear better and not thinking anything odd of it, while reader is just scrambling to get their words out without stuttering while their eyes flick anywhere but him lol. And maybe when they have sex they aren’t as vocal but then Sam coaxes it out of them? Love your stuff!!

⋆｡ ˚ the quiet ones break the loudest

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you’ve always been soft-spoken, especially around sam—stumbling over words when he leans in close to hear you, eyes darting away—until he finally shows you how vocal you can. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x reader ( f ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1012 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ smut!! warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ explicit sexual content, soft-spoken/shy reader, size difference, gentle dom!sam vibes, coaxing/encouragement, praise kink, voice kink (sam coaxing sounds out of quiet reader), p in v, emotional intimacy

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

The library in the bunker is dim, just the desk lamp and the faint glow from Sam’s laptop screen. You’re tucked into the corner armchair with a lore book open on your lap, legs folded under you, voice barely above a whisper as you read him the passage about the djinn variant you’re hunting.

Sam’s sitting on the floor in front of you—back against the ottoman, long legs stretched out—head tilted back so he can look up at you while you talk.

He’s close. Too close.

His shoulder brushes your knee every time he shifts.

You get to the part about the venom dosage and your voice drops even lower, automatic, like you’re afraid of disturbing the silence.

He turns fully toward you then. Leans in. His face is suddenly inches from yours—ear tilted toward your mouth so he can catch every murmured word. His hair brushes your cheek. You smell cedar and coffee and the faint trace of gun oil on his skin.

Your sentence dies halfway.

“…and the—the antidote needs to uhm be administered within—” You swallow. Blink fast. Eyes flick to his mouth, then the bookshelf behind him, then the ceiling. Anywhere but the warm hazel staring at you like you’re the only thing in the room. “Within, um. Forty minutes.”

Sam doesn’t move back. Just stays there, patient, waiting for the rest.

You try again. “It—it has to be—” Your voice cracks. Tiny. Barely audible.

He smiles—small, soft, the kind that makes your stomach flip—and murmurs, “You can talk quieter. I’ll hear you.”

That’s the problem. You know he will.

You nod jerkily. Finish the sentence in fragments. He nods along, serious, focused, like this is normal. Like leaning in so close your breaths mingle is just practical.

It’s not practical.

It’s devastating.

Later—hours later, after the hunt’s done, after showers and takeout and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that makes everything feel slow—the motel room is dark except for the bathroom light you left on. One bed. Always one bed lately.

You’re already under the covers when Sam climbs in behind you. Big spoon by default. His chest presses to your back, arm sliding around your waist, hand splaying wide over your stomach.

He kisses the nape of your neck. Soft. Once. Then again.

You shiver.

“Still thinking about that djinn?” he asks, voice low against your ear.

You shake your head. Barely.

“Good.” His hand drifts lower. Slips under the hem of your sleep shirt. Fingers trace lazy circles over your hipbone. “Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

Your breath hitches—quiet, but he hears it.

He always hears.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers.

You bite your lip. Shake your head again.

Sam chuckles—soft, fond. “Can’t hear you, sweetheart.”

His fingers dip between your thighs. Find you already wet. He groans against your shoulder. “Fuck. You’re soaked.”

You whimper—tiny, almost silent.

He circles your clit slow. Teasing. “Use your words. Tell me.”

“I—” Your voice is threadbare. “Want… you.”

“Louder.”

You try. “Want you inside me.”

He rewards you—slides one finger in, then two. Crooks them just right. You arch, mouth open on a soundless gasp.

“More,” he coaxes. “Let me hear you.”

You shake your head—habit. Too shy. Too much.

Sam pulls his fingers out. You whine—small, pitiful.

He rolls you onto your back. Settles between your thighs. Big hands push your knees wide. He’s already hard, heavy against your stomach. “Look at me.”

You do. Barely. Eyes flicking to his, then away.

He notches himself at your entrance. Doesn’t push in yet.

“Say my name.”

“Sam…”

“Louder.”

“Sam.”

He sinks in—slow, inch by inch, stretching you open. Your head tips back. Mouth falls open. No sound.

He bottoms out. Stays there. Lets you feel every thick inch. “Tell me how it feels.”

You swallow. Try. “Full.”

“Not enough.” He rolls his hips—just enough to drag against that spot. “Tell me.”

You gasp. “So full—Sam—please—”

“Please what?”

“Move.”

He does. Slow, deep thrusts that make the bed creak softly. Every time he bottoms out you make a tiny, choked sound—barely there.

He leans down. Lips at your ear again—just like in the library. “Louder, baby. I want to hear every little noise you make when I’m fucking you.”

Your hands fly to his shoulders. Nails digging in. He picks up the pace. Deeper. Harder. Precise. You’re trembling now. Trying to stay quiet. Failing.

A real moan slips out—high, broken.

“There it is,” he breathes. “That’s my girl.”

He hooks one of your legs over his elbow. Changes the angle. Hits deeper.

You cry out—sharp, surprised.

He groans. “Fuck yes. Again.”

You can’t stop now. Every thrust pulls another sound from you—whimpers, gasps, his name over and over, getting louder each time. “Sam—Sam—oh god—”

He kisses you—messy, deep—swallowing the noises. Then pulls back. “Let me hear. Don’t hide.”

You don’t. Can’t.

The sounds spill out—desperate, wrecked. “Please—harder—Sam—don’t stop—”

He gives you what you need. Pounds into you. Hand sliding between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit.

You’re loud now. Unrecognizable. Moaning his name like a chant. Begging. Crying out when he hits that spot again and again.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Let me hear you come.”

You shatter.

Back arching. Thighs shaking. A long, broken cry ripping out of you—his name, garbled, loud enough the walls probably hear it. He follows right after—deep, grinding thrusts as he spills inside you, groaning low against your throat.

You’re both panting. Shaking.

He doesn’t pull out yet. Just stays buried, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “So fucking good for me.”

You’re still trembling. You hide your face in his neck. Embarrassed. Pleased.

He chuckles. Soft. Wraps both arms around you.

“Next time,” he whispers, “I’m leaning in close again. Just to hear you try to talk.”

You groan—half mortified, half already aching at the thought.

He kisses the top of your head. “Get used to it, sweetheart.”

You don’t answer.

You just hold him tighter.

And hope he never stops making you break the quiet.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[wendichester]

Sam x reader and they’re roommates that do all the couple things without noticing? Cuddling, sharing each other’s clothes, doing chores together, etc. Maybe a fluffy ending or smutty ending, like the other dropping a totally not platonic nickname OR one having a sex dream of the other and saying the other’s name in their sleep while the other is laying next to them awake? You choose!!

Lots of love, anon 💕

⋆｡ ˚ roommate rules

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you and sam have been sharing a tiny off-campus apartment for months—cuddling on the couch, stealing each other’s hoodies, folding laundry together like an old married couple—until one night you wake up to him whimpering your name in his sleep, and everything you’ve both pretended was platonic unravels in the dark. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ stanford!sam winchester x reader ( f ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 917 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ smut!! warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ explicit sexual content, wet dream, accidental grinding/cuddling with erection, sam being adorably flustered and overwhelmed, clueless mutual pining, best-friends-to-lovers vibes, mild embarrassment, coming in pants, soft aftercare-ish ending

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

The apartment is small enough that the living room couch doubles as your movie-night nest, your study spot, and—more nights than not—your shared bed when one of you falls asleep mid-Netflix and the other is too comfortable (or too lazy) to move.

Tonight it’s you who dozed off first, head tucked under Sam’s chin, legs tangled with his long ones, his Stanford hoodie swallowing your frame because you’d complained about being cold and he’d just peeled it off without a word.

He smells like coffee and that cheap cedar body wash he buys in bulk. You’ve stopped noticing how good it smells on him. Or maybe yuo’ve just stopped admitting it.

You wake slow. The TV is off. Moonlight cuts sharp stripes through the blinds. Sam’s breathing is uneven against your hair—short, ragged hitches that don’t match the steady rise and fall of sleep.

His arm is still slung heavy over your waist. His thigh slotted between yours. And—

Oh.

He’s hard.

Thick, insistent pressure against the soft inside of your thigh, twitching every few seconds like it’s got its own heartbeat. You freeze. Heart slamming so loud you’re sure he’ll hear it.

Then he moves.

Just a tiny rock of his hips—instinctive, unconscious. The drag of him against your leg makes your breath catch. Heat floods low in your belly before you can talk yourself out of it.

“Sweetheart,” he mumbles. Voice wrecked. Sleep-rough. “Please—”

Your name follows. Soft. Desperate. “Please… fuck—let me—”

You should wake him. You know you should. Shake his shoulder. Laugh it off. Pretend you didn’t hear.

Instead you stay perfectly still, pulse roaring in your ears, and listen.

He rocks again—slow, shallow. The ridge of him catches right where your sleep shorts have ridden up. You bite your lip so hard you taste copper.

“Wanted this… so long,” he breathes. Face bureid in your neck now. Lips brushing skin with every word.

Another grind. Harder this time. A low, broken whimper slips out of him.

Your own thighs clench involuntarily. You’re wet—have been since you registered how hard he is. The realization makes your face burn.

He’s dreaming about you.

Sam Winchester—six-foot-four, gentle giant, your best friend who folds your laundry and makes you coffee exactly how you like it and never once looked at you like anything more—is having a sex dream about you.

And he’s calling you sweetheart.

You shift—just a fraction. Enough to press your thigh firmer against him. His whole body jerks. A choked sound tears out of his throat. “Fuck—yes—” He’s rutting now. Small, helpless thrusts. Forehead pressed to your shoulder. Breathing so fast it’s almost sobs.

You can’t help it. Your hand finds his hip—light, testing. He keens at the contact.

That’s when his eyes snap open. Dark. Wide. Horrified. He freezes mid-thrust. Chest heaving. Cock still throbbing against you through thin layers of cotton.

“Oh god,” he rasps. Voice cracking. “I—shit, I’m so sorry—”

He tries to pull away. You don’t let him. Your fingers dig into his hip. Keep him pinned. “Don’t.”

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “What?”

Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You were saying my name.”

His face flames red—even in the dark you can see it. “I didn’t—I mean—I was asleep, I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” You slide your hand up under the hem of his t-shirt. Palm flat against the warm, trembling plane of his stomach. “I heard everything.”

He swallows so hard his throat clicks. “Everything?”

“Sweetheart.” You repeat it soft. “Please. Wanted this so long.”

Sam makes a sound like he’s been punched. Eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck.”

You rock your hips—just once. Slow. Letting him feel how slick you are through your shorts.

His head drops forward. Forehead against yours. “You’re… you’re wet.”

“Yeah.” You brush your lips along his jaw. “Been wet since I woke up to you grinding on me like that.”

He shudders. Full-body. “I’m gonna—shit, I’m gonna come if you keep talking like that.”

“Good.” You slide your hand down. Cup him through his boxers. He’s so hard it has to hurt. “Come for me, Sam.”

His hips jerk into your grip. You settle into a rhythm. Then he’s spilling—hot pulses soaking through the fabric, body shaking like he’s coming apart at the seams. A long, broken moan spills out of him. Your name again. Over and over. Like a prayer he’s finally allowed to say out loud.

When it’s over he’s trembling. Face buried in your neck. Breathing ragged.

You stroke his back. Slow circles. Let him come down.

After a minute he mumbles, voice small, “I’ve been trying not to… for months.”

You kiss his temple. “Me too.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Eyes glassy. Cheeks still flushed. “You mean…?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

A beat. Then the softest, shyest smile you’ve ever seen on him.

“So… roommates who cuddle. And share clothes. And do each other’s laundry.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “And apparently have really vivid sex dreams about each other.”

You laugh—quiet, breathless. “Apparently.”

He leans in. Kisses you slow. Careful. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. When he pulls back his forehead rests against yours again.

“I guess now we have an extra bed, huh?” he whispers.

You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug him closer.

“We’re definitely sleeping together forever.”

He exhales—shaky, relieved.

And for the first time in months, the tiny apartment doesn’t feel too small. It feels exactly right.

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[wendichester]

hi sweetheart🫶🏼 im truly in love with your work, its so good!! i cant stop thinking about late seasons Sam realizing he's in love with younger hunter f!reader🫩 and i was wondering if you could write some head canons about it? thanks love🫶🏼🫶🏼

⋆˚꩜｡ s14-15!sam winchester realizing he’s in love with a younger!f!hunter!reader,

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the slow, quiet kind of realization that sneaks up on him… and then absolutely wrecks him.

𓂃 the moment he realizes

it’s not dramatic. no lightning bolt moment.

you’re laughing in the bunker kitchen about something stupid dean said, and sam’s halfway through making coffee when it hits him.

the sound of you laughing makes something in his chest ache.

and sam just… pauses. mug halfway to the counter. staring for a second too long.

oh.

oh no.

𓂃 his first reaction: denial

sam immediately starts doing mental math.

you’re younger. smart. capable. still new enough to hunting that the world hasn’t hardened you yet.

he tells himself it’s protective instinct. that’s all.

he’s always protective of younger hunters.

except… he’s not usually this distracted by them.

𓂃 the way he looks at you changes

softer. more careful.

sam starts watching you during hunts more closely—not because he doubts you, but because the idea of you getting hurt suddenly feels unbearable.

when you walk into a room, he notices immediately.

it becomes automatic.

𓂃 he tries to create distance

sam gives you more independence on hunts.

fewer shared motel rooms. more “you take that lead.”

he tells himself he’s mentoring you. helping you grow.

but really, he’s trying to keep his feelings under control.

𓂃 it doesn’t work

you still come to him with questions.

still sit next to him at the bunker table when researching.

still steal his coffee when he’s not looking.

sam pretends to be annoyed.

he is absolutely not annoyed.

𓂃 little moments that undo him

you falling asleep on the library couch while researching.

the way you look proud when you solve a case.

how you always check on him after tough hunts.

one night you touch his arm while thanking him for teaching you something and sam forgets what he was about to say.

𓂃 dean absolutely notices

dean clocks it before sam does.

the longer glances. the protective hovering.

dean just smirks one day and says: “you’re in trouble, man.”

sam denies it immediately.

dean laughs because wow, that’s the most obvious lie he’s heard all week.

𓂃 sam’s biggest fear

that he’ll ruin something.

you trust him. look up to him.

the idea of crossing that line makes him nervous in a way sam winchester hasn’t felt in years.

he never wants you to feel pressured or cornered.

𓂃 when it finally shows

it’s subtle.

someone flirts with you during a hunt briefing and sam’s jaw tightens before he even realizes why.

or you get injured and sam’s voice goes dangerously soft when he asks if you’re okay.

the kind of softness that gives everything away.

𓂃 the truth

sam falls in love slowly.

quietly.

through a hundred tiny moments.

and by the time he accepts it, it’s already too late to pretend it’s anything else.

you’ve become part of his world without him noticing.

✦ the way sam loves

patient

protective without being suffocating

deeply respectful of your independence

and a little awestruck that someone like you would ever choose him

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[aweirdwriter]

sam winchester loves your naked body in any way he can get it.

he loves watching you walk around after the two of you have fucked. the room illuminated by a few candles and the faintness of the tv, and it highlights your curves. he watches as you look at the few vinyls he's got in his room. ones you've bought him on previous occasions. you want something gentle after the heated sex between you and sammy, but he can't help the way he's half-hard again under the thin sheet. he shifts a little on the bed and you look over at him, eyes a little heavy and lidded, with a loving smile on your lips. he's looking right back at you, eyes trailing over your bare flesh and frame. your chest heaves softly and he watches as your plump breasts subtly bounce with each shift of your arms. your body is just so pretty and soft and small, beautiful in the way that makes a big man like him dream of getting lost between your thick thighs and soft fat.

but it's not just when you two are thinking about sex.

he loves watching you change into comfortable clothes after a hot shower with him. he'd washed your hair for you, and you'd done the same for him, washing the long hunt away from your energies. he took the time to wash your body, and the mix of sams big hands on you, and the hot water? well, you melted into the feeling as he worshipped your strength and beauty, all while washing you clean. and after, when you two had dried off and you were changing into a hoodie, he watched with a gentle smile. your beautiful body was covered up by one of his hoodies, a sign of trust and comfort. a symbol of him somehow, against your bare skin, keeping you warm in the safety of the bunker. of your home, here, with him.

it's not just about sex. it never was.

it's about you the two of you trusting each other with something as vulnerable as your bodies, after everything hunters go through. it's about the love you have for one another despite everything, and the way you'll worship each other when there's no god left to believe in.

it's about loving you while you love him, unconditionally, in every way.

let me know if you guys would like to hear more/have suggestions on what to write! :)

[wendichester]

you can’t tell me sam wouldn’t grip your hips tight AF while you’re riding him

⋆˚꩜｡ grip of the giant,

summary. sam can’t keep his huge hands off your thighs while you ride him.

pairing. sam winchester x reader (f)

wordcount. 698 genre. smut !!

warnings. explicit sexual content, rough penetrative sex (p in v), riding/cowgirl position, bruising grip/manhandling, size kink, obsessive dirty talk about thighs, overstimulation, praise

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The motel mattress groans under Sam’s weight as you straddle him, knees sinking deep into the cheap foam. He’s already inside you—thick, hot, stretching you open in that perfect, aching way that makes your breath hitch every time you sink down another inch.

You’re not even fully seated yet when his hands clamp onto your hips.

Not gentle. Not tentative.

Sam’s palms are massive—long fingers splaying wide, fingertips digging into the soft flesh just above your hip bones like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His thumbs press hard into the crease where thigh meets pelvis, anchoring you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked and low. “Look at these thighs.”

You roll your hips experimentally, grinding down until he’s buried to the hilt. A sharp gasp escapes you; he groans—deep, guttural, almost pained.

His grip tightens. Hard enough that you know you’ll have fingerprints tomorrow—ten perfect purple ovals you’ll trace in the mirror and smile about.

“Sam—”

“Shh.” One hand slides up, cups the back of your neck, pulls you down so your forehead rests against his. “Just—let me feel you. Let me watch.”

You start moving—slow at first, lifting and sinking, savoring the drag of him inside you. Every time you rise his hands tighten, like he’s physically fighting the urge to slam you back down. Veins stand out on his forearms; knuckles bleach white.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, eyes glued to where your thighs flex and tremble around his hips. “These fucking thighs. So strong. So soft. Look how they shake when you take me.”

You speed up—can’t help it. The stretch, the fullness, the way his cock hits that spot deep inside—it’s too good. Your rhythm turns desperate, hips snapping down harder, wet sounds filling the room.

Sam’s head falls back against the pillow, throat working. A long, broken groan rips out of him.

“Fuck—yeah—like that. Ride me harder. Use me.”

His hands slide down again—both palms clamping onto the thickest part of your thighs now, fingers wrapping almost completely around the outside curve. He squeezes—hard—lifting you slightly, then slamming you back down onto his cock in time with your next drop.

You cry out—sharp, overwhelmed. The force of it punches the air from your lungs.

“Again,” he growls. “Do it again. Let me feel how tight you get when I manhandle you.”

You obey—riding him faster, thighs burning, muscles quivering under his bruising grip. Every time you bottom out he grunts—animal, primal—thumbs digging crescents into the sensitive skin just above your knees.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Thighs shaking. Pussy dripping. Taking every fucking inch like you were made for it. These legs—” He squeezes again, hard enough you gasp. “—wrapped around me. Fuck. Gonna bruise you so pretty. Gonna make sure you feel my hands every time you walk tomorrow.”

The thought sends heat spiraling through you. You clench around him—hard—and Sam’s hips buck up involuntarily, driving deeper.

“Shit—do that again. Squeeze me. Fuck—gonna come if you keep doing that.”

You do. Over and over. Riding him relentlessly while his hands stay locked on your thighs—holding, guiding, bruising, worshipping.

When you finally shatter—back arching, thighs trembling violently around him, a broken moan tearing from your throat—Sam follows right after. His grip turns punishing, fingers digging so deep you’ll feel it for days. He comes with a long, shuddering groan—hips jerking up, spilling hot and deep inside you.

For a long moment neither of you moves.

His hands stay right where they are—still clamped tight around your thighs, thumbs stroking gently now over the red marks he left.

You collapse forward onto his chest, panting. His heartbeat thunders under your ear.

Sam exhales—slow, shaky—and finally loosens his hold. Just enough to slide his palms up your back, wrap his long arms around you completely.

“Fuck,” he murmurs into your hair. “Sorry if I… held on too tight.”

You smile against his collarbone.

“Don’t be.” You shift—just enough to feel the delicious ache between your legs and the faint throb of his fingerprints on your skin. “I want the bruises.”

A low, satisfied rumble vibrates through his chest.

“Good,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head. “Because I’m nowhere near done with these thighs.”

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