⤿ synopsis : your husband has been working nonstop, but he makes it up to you after a particularly long day. . .
⤿ contents : afab wife!reader , mentions of injuries , praise , masturbation (f!receiving) , patrick is a hopeless romantic , slight voice kink ! 18+ MDNI
w.c. 2.3k
⩩ author notes : new character unlocked: patrick sumner! one of my favourites ♡ i’m lowkey in that part of the writing stage where i’m not sure what i’m writing anymore, i’m just typing words out and praying it fits. please enjoy this little one-shot!
┇likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! ❤︎
the rain came down hard against the glass pane of patrick sumners’ dimly lit office. heavy like hail, hurling itself down from the dark clouds that hung above the english sky. patrick stood at his desk as he urgently packed up all his necessary items, impatient to get home to you—his wife. patrick had usually been less busy, however his office had experienced quite an influx in patients over the last several days due to changing seasons. the common colds, the allergies, the injuries sustained from slipping on ice, you name it. it wasn’t uncommon for patrick to be on his feet all day, but this day in particular had him counting down the minutes until he could run out the door. he made sure everything was arranged correctly for the next day, but not as neatly as it normally was, there just wasn’t time for that. he had spent the last few days overworking himself, to the point where the few times he saw you was when he came home to you sleeping, or woke up to you sleeping. the candles were blown out, and the office was locked up. he walked down the darkened hallway of the building, passing by the offices of other specialists housed within the miniature medical clinic, all of them empty by now leaving patrick the last man out. he had meant to be home an hour ago, but patrick found it quite difficult to decline his services, especially when he knew it was an urgent matter. you were probably worried sick about him. he imagined you hopelessly staring out the window at the rain, an endless list of what could’ve happened to him warping around your mind and leaving you unsettled. in reality, you were waiting for him but not as worried as he thought you up to be. you had decided to spend your time waiting for him in the bathtub, a ritual you performed on certain nights when the home felt too cold without patrick’s presence. you stepped into the warm basin of water and held the sides to ease yourself in, letting your back rest against the cool porcelain. you tipped your head back and sighed, finally feeling soothed, although it would’ve been much better if your husband could join you. nonetheless, you let yourself get comfortable in the warm tub, scooting down slightly to cover more of your body. you reached over the side and grabbed a small bar soap and a coarse washing brush, lifting one leg out of the water to begin gently cleansing yourself. the water became considerably cloudy as a result of the soapy suds, shielding the view of your body under. your eyes were closed until you heard the unmistakable noise of the front door opening and shutting. patrick was home. heavy boots thumped up the stairway in an attempt to be gentle, patrick assumed you were already in the bed asleep until he saw the only lit room on the floor; the bathroom. the door was barely ajar, only a small sliver of light poked through from the bottom. patrick walked over to the door and slowly opened it, revealing you in the bathtub. his gaze landed on you and stayed there, not wanting to look at anything but his wife.
“aw patrick, i’ve missed you. please, sit” you smile gently at him, and gesture towards the small wooden stool beside the tub.
he walks forwards and makes himself comfortable on the stool. one wet hand reaches out from the water to tenderly caress his beard, small droplets of water dripping down his neck and to his knee. he holds your hand in place with his, and you wince at how cold he is.
“i apologize for my timing, it was not on purpose that i come home to you this late” his tone is gentle and soothing to your ears. the kind of voice you could fall asleep to. his tired eyes scanned over the barely visible figure of your body beneath the water, and then back up to your face.
“it is not your fault, my love. it is merely what you signed up for.”
“i never wish to have another day as long as this one. i thought of you the entire time i worked” he quietly admits.
“really?”
“you plague my every waking moment, my darling” he says it as if it were obvious.
his words never failed to make you feel special. patrick had a habit of talking with formalities, even with you, but he meant every word he said to you. he treasured you like no other person could.
you leaned upwards nearing his face before he got the hint that you wanted a kiss. he bent his head down slightly and pressed his lips against yours softly, careful not to ruin the moment. you let your lips linger near his before leaning back down, your eyes never leaving his.
“would you tell me about your day?” you ask him sincerely, but not wanting to press him incase he didn’t wish to debrief.
“you truly want to hear about it? it’ll bore you to sleep, i’m sure” patrick huffs a small laugh.
“please do, i have not heard the sound of your voice in what has felt like ages,” and it was true; patrick had been working a little more than he usually did, and you could see the exhaustion in his face. “and please come closer, put your hands in the water, my love” you grab his hand, signaling him to scoot forward, his abdomen pressed up against the side of the basin. you pull one hand against your collarbone, and he immediately feels the difference in body temperature. you roll up the sleeve of his white dress shirt.
patrick relaxes against your touch, finding comfort when in contact with your body. he begins, “as you know, i started my day early. my walk towards the office was dreary, but that is to be expected at this time. as soon as my doors were open, my practice became flooded with patients. all different types of cases and such,” patrick talked with a smallness in his voice, some words whispered and others softly spoken. during his talking, you would slowly drag his hand beneath the foggy water, closer to your breasts. he noticed you were moving his hand, but he refused to do anything about it just yet.
“it becomes difficult to distinguish the differences between common illnesses, all of them seemingly blending into each other. at the end of the day, i can only believe i have made the most correct decision for each patient,” you continue to pull his hand lower before placing his hand on one of your breasts. patrick doesn’t seem to falter in his speech as he lightly squeezed the fat of your breast, cupping them and smoothing a thumb over your nipple. you continued to stare at him as he talked, admiring him with a heavy lidded gaze. what were the odds that you would end up married to a man so easy on the eyes? he carried on with his talking with his hand simultaneously moving lower and lower, finger tips scraping over your midriff delicately. his profession consisted of touching the skin of many people, however your skin was much different to him, he could touch it all day without getting tired of it.
“i treated a young patient who had fractured his elbow after sliding on ice, it is certainly a painful area to injure but he was a strong boy, barely shedding a tear. then a woman came in claiming she may have contracted chickenpox” his hand was at your navel now, rubbing back and forth to the sides of your waist. you whined quietly at the ticklish sensation, and it made patrick’s eyes move to meet yours, already understanding what it is that you wanted. normally, he would’ve asked you outright what you desired, but this time he was going to let something happen without involving words. his gaze flicked back down to where his hand was, and brushed his fingers against your mound.
“are you sure you want to hear all the details of my day? you don’t seem to-” he began to speak again but you interrupt him, holding his hand under yours.
“keep talking. all i want is your voice” you say with lust practically dripping from your lips, pushing his hand down all the way to where you want it to be. you feel his hand freeze against you, breath hitching, but quickly relaxes. the pads of his fingertips dusted over your nakedness. you moan quietly and lean your head back, closing your eyes in the process.
“very well then, my dear. as i was saying, the woman had chickenpox. she was inconsolable over it, but i assured her that it would clear up over the course of a few days. then i sutured a man’s gash closed,” his fingers slowly ran up and down your slit, collecting whatever slick liquid that was beginning to seep out. every time his fingers moved upwards, he would press down slightly on your clit, eliciting a shaky breath from you.
“it was a deep cut. he had told me he sustained it from a rough night out, he couldn’t quite remember how it happened but judging by the look of it, it must’ve been done by a perpetrator with a blade” now he was rubbing small circles over your clit, and little noises were starting to break out of you. he wondered how you could get off to his gruesome stories, but you weren’t exactly listening to his words, more so his voice. the way it rumbled and rasped when he spoke quietly, aware of how loud his voice sounded when speaking full volume in a small echoey bathroom. patrick was not the type of man to raise his voice, he was quite a soft speaker, never really projecting his voice unless he wasn’t heard the first time. this translated into the bedroom as well. he was vocal enough to let you know it felt good, but he stayed quiet as he much preferred to listen to yours over his.
“the rest of my day became a blur, i believe i may have overworked myself. i spent more time thinking of you than my patients, which i assume must make me irresponsible. it is something i cannot help. i will indulge in my thoughts of you if my mind so pleases” you whimpered both at his words and his fingertips pressing harder against you, his pace unchanging. you open your eyes, and examine his starved expression. this is what he had been waiting to do all day.
“talk about me, now” you mumbled.
“i may not tell you very often, but you are one of the only things that keep me going in this life. i have no purpose if i cannot serve you.”
you bucked your hips into his hand, a clear indication his words were getting you off.
“o-oh patrick mmph” your words made him go faster, the water around his arm creating small ripples.
patrick watched how your chest rose in and out of the water every time you breathed, a tiny portion of your breasts poking out beneath the clouded water, wet skin shining against the candle light.
“i remember, the day i met you, that you would be the death of me. i never believed i would’ve been able to find someone after my time india, but you changed everything.”
the sensitivity in your core had you clenching around nothing. he knew exactly how to stimulate you and he wasn’t wasting any time with it. his fingers were now rubbing your clit at a moderate speed, and you could feel that euphoric sensation building up. your hips continued to jerk forward every time he became a little more rough.
“it’s so good—please—patrick”
“please what, angel?”
“g-god…please continue!”
“you want me to tell you more? how your mere existence consumes every part of me? how i cannot stand when you are not by my side? how i wish to touch as i am now every time i see you?” he was flustered from how much was spilling out of him, how vulnerable he was being. he couldn’t help himself if he tried, his feelings just tumbled out of him. he held your eye contact as slowly watched you nearing your finish. at this point, you could only nod and whimper at everything he said, words becoming too difficult to form. you reached out to grip patrick’s shoulder, but he grabbed your hand instead with his other free arm and held it to his chest.
“you’re close, aren’t you?”
“mhm! v-very..”
“come for me, my darling.”
you closed your eyes to help yourself focus, every rough drag of his fingers pushing you closer towards the finish line. you took a few deep, ragged breaths before it all came out. you finished with a loud whine and a buck of your hips up into his hand, chasing more friction. patrick watched the way your face contorted in pleasure, the way your eyebrows furrowed, your tongue when your lips parted and the sounds that would fall from them. god—it was such a beautiful sight.
“that’s it, thaatts itt. there you are. so good for me” he said, almost whispering to himself. he continued to circle your clit but very slowly and lightly now, pulling small aftershocks out of you. then he leaned down once again, lips locking against yours. one wet hand came up to caress the back of his head, dampening his hair slightly. you kissed him deeply as a thank you.
“patrick..” you pull away, lips mere centimetres from his.
summary dean is with you always. especially when you can't sleep after a hunt !
content gn!reader, fluff, quiet comfort, unestablished relationship but dean and reader are very in love, dean is yearning badly, use of sweetheart and angel !
masterlist ♡ requested
wc 469
⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Dean doesn't mean to wake you. He only wants to keep you warm, crouching low to the couch, admiring you in a way he hopes isn't creepy or unwanted. Eyes gentle, adjusting to the dark shroud of the room, he blinks and pulls a knit blanket over your body.
You're pretty in the dark. Pretty in the light.
He can barely see you. Soft puffs of your breath pillow the silence and turn it soothing. He could sleep on the floor. Stretch along the scratched, motel rug and ignore the dusty smell and ensure you're okay all night long.
"Dean," you murmur. He squints. You look dead asleep still.
"...How d'you know I'm here?"
You rustle, and tiny crescent gleams make up your eyes. His chest does something funny, patters light and sweet when you reach a hand out to his shoulder. Your thumb kisses his neck. He's glad the lights are out.
"You make noise," you whisper succinctly.
His lips tug and he smiles mild, fond, and brings your hand to slip down into his palm. He squeezes twice. Your voice snags on his ear, just subtly tense. Maybe he's imagining it, too attentive. But when has he ever let details fall to chance? He can handle being called annoying, overbearing. A small chip to take for worrying over you.
"Have you been sleeping at all?"
"...A little. My brain won't shut off."
He feels that like a velvet thud of knuckle to his heart. Familiar. You sit up and back against paled cushions, hand still caught in his.
"I'll listen, sweetheart. If you wanna talk."
You nod slow and look so far away. He'd like bring you back but feels a little out of his depth. What can he offer that isn't among the secret, tender things he wants so badly with you?
I love you. You can come to my bed and stay there forever and sink deep into the mattress springs with me.
"Wanna take a drive?" he asks instead.
Your hands together are melding heat. He watches as you lean close and his lungs hiccup when your forehead plants lightly to his. He doesn't know if he's allowed to move. Frozen as a statue, he thinks you'd be one of those smooth, marble ones in museums.
"That would be nice," you say. "Please. Thank you."
He's the only one in the world who can hear you right now. Sweetness fills every inch of his chest, it overflows in a big rise to his face, and stains your nose where the tip of his nudges.
"Yeah, angel. Anytime, c'mon."
There's a tingling to his lashes, eyelids leathery. Doesn't matter. He pulls you from the couch and isn't sure which fingers are his or yours anymore. He will drive on and on and ache.
happy pride month fellow queer lovelies !! extremely friendly reminder that i love you all, and that this blog is a safe space for you to be completely who you are, unapologetically and proudly ♡
you are loved and seen and i am so proud of you. you belong here, in this universe, just as much as everybody else. you deserve to be happy and to breathe and love and thrive and laugh and smile!
people can be awful and life can feel dark. it won't be forever. so fuck the people who tell you who you're "supposed to be" and go on to live limitlessly, believe in yourself wholeheartedly. you're beautiful, and special, and you belong everywhere.
and a big big hug to my other aromantics and asexuals, who sometimes face a lot of exclusion during this month, you belong in this space just as much as everyone else! so take up said space! you are not lacking anything, you are perfect entirely as you are !! ♡
*for all of these, i am especially open to vampire/ghost and historical aus, as those are my personal favorites!
& i don't have any particular request for anyone within these aus, but i'd LOVE to see what you could cook up for something like that! you pick the characters and write whatever you want!!
thank youu!
daisy you are so sweet and i thank you for being so supportive!!
i have a few ideas for some fics/drabbles that will hopefully be more fleshed out in the future, so i’ll list them here:
one that i will be posting is for roy goode, where he’ll be a folklore legend of a fictional town prior to the events of the show. i don’t want to explicitly have him be a vampire, but he’ll have some of the qualities along with some others i still have to finalize—i’m excited to work on it regardless 😛 i think it’ll be fun to write!
i think for sam & dean (or either or), it’d be fun to write them as monster hunters in a more gothic style! if this is already something in the show, i haven’t gotten that far unforch (#poser), but i think it’d be fun nonetheless and would love to try to scrap something together. maybe the reader makes/offers some of the stuff they use, like weapons or blessed items, or they are simply passing through and the reader offers advice, maybe the reader was the victim of a monster/spirit and got away/survived. of course if any of y’all have some ideas, i am all ears 🙂↕️
extras: no use of y/n or she/her pronouns, reader is called ‘ma’am’ once but can be changed for whatever term is preferred; first meeting (reader is a tailor/seamstress); mentions of drinking; everyone wants roy but who’s surprised!
/ set before this blurb, but can be read as a standalone
Though the doors remained shut, the heat settled upon the quiet was an incessant customer. Outside, there were few who wanted to sit with its company; you moved about as it let itself in.
Fabric at your legs and your arms were firm on the skin despite its barely-there weight. Rolling the sleeves and undoing buttons did little to calm the warmth embedded in the air, resting on exposed forearm or sternum, so you took to organizing the counter so as to not grow agitated and dizzy. What silver lay there, a few scissors, dull and sharp, and needles of differing lengths, kissed your palms with their welcome chill. The sound, tinny and clanging against the wood, a melody for the weather’s lazy rhythm.
A thud of leather from dust, grating, to a creak atop the wooden steps brought your attention to the doors. He stood not like a cowboy, not like a man on the run with the phantom shadow of a pistol at his hip, but simply as someone with an inquiry resting behind their teeth.
Alice had told him to come by. That you would do a much better job at mending the gash that wanted to reveal tanned skin from his shoulder to elbow; she didn’t have the right thread, anyway, and had some tending to do around the ranch. Some blood leftover in dots were a red nearing a brown from the sun’s drying watch, not much but enough to notice—he didn’t mind the mess, just wanted it fixed up.
“No need to get rid of such a nice thing,” he argued lightheartedly when he caught the quick raise of your brows. You shrugged in silent agreement—it would give you something to do in the balmy afternoon.
He followed as you made the way to a larger table towards the farthest wall, albeit with almost careful steps, like he was afraid to intrude even with there being no one else around. Above the table was a singular shelf with spools of thread in a uniform line, some fairly new and others nearly spun to their wooden cores. Ribbon curled with marks for measurements like old peels of fruits. A tin can held dull pencils.
You didn’t know much about Roy. The last time he had come into town, you were busy with an order: some dress with far too many ruffles and bows, darling but tedious in its creation from its bare beginnings. What you did learn was influenced through warmed blood outside the shop, both of drink and clothes muggy from heat: unabashed phrases that brought a flush to anyone untouched, a roll of your eyes and a wave of your hand when recited from your friend’s giddy hiccups. Talk of his manners and pointed teeth and wind-swept hair amateurly cut was strung along by anyone else who had caught your conversation—though the chatter became overwhelming with your drink sitting idly in your head, it provided a low eagerness in your limbs now.
“I’m tellin’ ya, I would not mind seein’ him one more time. Might even turn inta some gun-slingin’ bandit just so he can stop by,” one of the ladies in the bar had admitted, raising their glass.
You had laughed behind your palm; someone else standing a few feet away scoffed, pouring themselves another drink.
“Oh, please, you wouldn’t steal somethin’ if it had your name on it all pretty. And you can’t even read.”
As you sat down atop your stool, you turned to eye his figure. Watched his calm and still slightly unsure gait carry muted blue to everything that hung at the walls or succumbed to folds in shelves, not through some sort of distaste or boredom at needing you to fix something of his—as was usually the case in the past—but from a distant curiosity. Of course, there was nothing to be deemed inherently luxurious, so the act made a small smile tug at your lips. He looked almost like a child eyeing what sweet he would like to tuck into his pocket for later.
You waited a moment, reaching over the table for the smallest set of scissors to fiddle with. “Give it here,” you muttered with a jut of your head to where the article would lay, subject to your hand.
Taken out of his stupor, he nodded and handed the shirt over like an envelope to a stranger, or, more fittingly, a pistol in need of shining he knew he would get back.
The thread like a snake coiling to then disappear, its hiss shriveled by the pull of it taut in your fingers, you worked in quiet. Disjointed talk and hooves delicately pluming dust came in with a gentle breeze. His own boots shifted along the floor as he leaned his weight on one leg, then the other.
His shirt was warmer in your hands than you had expected, though maybe the air was to blame; it had a nasty habit of making everything it touched an unbearable extension of itself. The fabric was beaten in to take the shape of muscle at his arms, back, the nape of his neck. The blood stains looked harmless now that you were able to fold them out of view.
Without lifting your head, you glanced over at where he stood, just shy of pressing his hip to the table’s edge and hands clasped in front of him. “Can I ask what happened?” you asked.
He took his bottom lip between his teeth. “Just caught it on an old nail. Wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin’.”
You hummed. A third of the gash was sutured shut. “And the blood?”
“Oh, you don’t hafta worry none. ’S old.” His response was quick, quiet, as if you’d be afraid you would need to sow his wound next.
A thought flickered in your mind of if the blood was even his, given the word of mouth about his past. The ladies gushed over the mystery he brought on horseback, welcomed it with batting eyelashes and pet names. Too early to pry, you told yourself as you strung the thread along.
There was a part of you that was glad he did not talk much. The few men that would come in in place of their wives used to peer over your shoulder, throats coarse with voices worse, and spit something about your working too slow or a flat croon about not ruining whatever it was they handed over. They would leave with an unappreciative thanks and a shove of the doors.
But Roy did not hover. Even with his standing near, he waited patiently, only glancing every once in a while at your hands, which he would look away from if you focused your eyes on him at the sound of him shifting about.
It only took a few minutes. You cut the excess thread, running a thumb along the stitching. The line was raised like a new scratch.
You hummed and turned your body so you faced him, the stool creaking under the movement; he took the few steps to stand in front of you at the sound. Looking down, he took the shirt in his hands, putting a palm down in the same manner you had done. The imitation raised a certain tension in your being strangers—here was this simple thing you both cared for and would refer to the other if anyone asked. A part of you would now always trace the line of shoulder to elbow in all hours and every hour—you usually didn’t mind, but today there was a dwelling of pride lodged somewhere in your ribs, your wrists.
“Thank you.” He spoke with such a tenderness in his drawl, you thought that perhaps this was his only shirt. “Looks as good as new.” You caught the tick in his lip—which your own mirrored just briefly—as both of your eyes wandered to the blood as if it grew in mockery of his words.
You muttered under your breath that it was no bother as you got up and walked to the counter, him following behind and admiring the stitching as if it held threaded jewels. You reached for your catalog of customers, a piece of paper with names, the work you had done, the date, any other necessary information, when he cleared his throat.
He reached into his pocket, fishing for a bundle of coins set at the seam. “How much do I owe ya?”
You opened your mouth to object—it hadn’t been a hard job—but it was like he knew you would and shook his head. Dust blown in from outside fluttered about his mussed hair.
“I insist,” he said. He set down a handful on the counter. “How’s that?”
You slid them to the edge and took them in your palm, counting—it was more like the amount you charged for a basic shirt tailoring, which wasn’t much, but definitely more than necessary for a simple stitch: you never charged anything at all, unless you had to sow more fabric in or fetch another spool of thread.
“I ’ppreciate it.” The cluster grew warm in your hand and the smell was sure to stick in the lines. He gave you a curt nod, folding the shirt over his forearm.
“You be careful now, Goode,” you added, looking down briefly to write his name, looping the ‘o’s, feeling like a schoolgirl jotting down hearts in the margin of her paper.
He cocked his head in a slow nod, eyes cast on your own, a cool blue beneath eyelashes too delicate for a man of his nature.
“Yes, ma’am.”
That night, you were over at a friend’s for dinner. The candlelight spread across the soup she set in front of you like a finishing garnish.
“Isn’t he somethin’?” she fawned when you mentioned who came into the shop after she asked how your day had been.
She pointed her spoon in your direction, droplets falling to her dull tablecloth much like the blood that stained his shirt. “Next time, you should ask ’im to take his shirt off, just ta make sure nothin’ else needs fixin’.”
You snorted, chuckling. “I am not doin’ that.”
“Oh, c’mon, I bet he’d do it if you smiled all nice! Everyone else in this damn town does.”
You told her she was welcome to go find him and ruin another shirt of his.
She shrugged. “Any business is good business,” she smiled, and, ever an infectious woman, you did the same.
opening requests for the time being while i finish up a few in my drafts; i need those creative juices to start flowing 💆♀️ anyone below is welcome!
dean & sam winchester, michael bluth, roy goode, lion kaminski, and the gals from a league of their own (take a shot for everytime i’ve said that and have never written anything for them)
*i am obligated to declining requests, but do not take it personally if i do!
basketballplayer!dean again 🫣 listennn, i'm taking this right from the orig. post bc i ate it up then and need more of it now!
🎙️: “they look oddly familiar, don’t they?” (in regards to the scratches he sometimes gets from a game)
ahh! thank you!!
extras: suggestive: implied sexual content but no actual smut; kissing; no use of y/n; pet names ‘sweetheart’ & ‘honey’
NOTES: daisy i could never get tired of you nor your ideas, so here’s two scenarios!
/ original post
- -✁- - -
during & after a game
He doesn’t flinch. Lets the whistle cut across the court and goes to stand at the line. His arms shake a bit, taking a shine with them as they shift. He nods to someone at his right, purses his lips, laughs at something they say over the talk from the crowd and the referee passing the ball over with a thunk to the court floor.
The red lines come from the meat of his shoulder to the point of his elbow, and they turn as if made of the blood in his veins, akin to the scribbling on the coach’s board at the bench. There is a sting when he runs his hand over his bicep, but the feeling is lost to the adrenaline picking at his limbs. If anything, they prove he’s been working on his footwork, angling himself past greedy hands.
He wonders if you can see them from where you sit. The lighting overhead catches more sweat than skin; the color of his jersey might bare all the attention. Are they more visible when his arms are low—he throws the ball, watches as it clangs against the rim and falls through the netting—or when they are poised upwards? Does the red and pink of them look more purple when the ball is in his hands, pumping it to the floor one, two times before tossing it in the same arc?
After the two points are punctuated by whatever sound cue is muffled by the cheer of the audience, his sneakers squeak against the court as he jogs backwards. The heat along his body, pulsing more so in his arms, makes him hope you’ll kiss them better, the thought like the ball passed back to him: gone from his mind, his hands, before it can properly mold.
And you do. He’ll watch with half-lidded eyes as you lay your lips along the length of his elbow to the shoulder, quick-placed kisses to the skin that smells like sweat and the faint rubber of the ball and whatever cologne he put on. It is a warm amalgamation that sinks into the sheets as he lowers himself with every press of your lips, as if weighed down by the number of them. He can only describe himself as dizzy when his head meets the mattress, and disappointed when you lean back; his body follows your own as you pull away as if tended to on a string between your teeth, and he will eagerly await the push back down.
at home
You wake to his figure not in the bed beside you, but in front of his mirror. He stands with his back to you, the muscle shifting as he gathers his clothes: an old shirt and shorts from the dresser. Early morning shade pools into the dents of the skin, the movements quiet as both you and the sun rise.
The sheets rustle in time with you, the sound making him turn his head to where you lay.
“You’re gonna give them a run for their money, honey.” His voice is like the old asphalt court he would practice on: rough in the cooler, quiet hours, practically softened by midday under summer heat and flattened soles of sneakers. He raises his brows as he meets your sleep-laden gaze, sucking his teeth in mock worry; he thinks he can taste the remnants of your chapstick sunken in.
At the slight furrow of your brows, he glances at the expanse of his back, the junction to his shoulders, then focuses again on you. There is a glint hidden in his eyes, darker without the sun, unnoticeable without you closer.
He lets out a boyish laugh when you roll your eyes, shoving your hands to your face with a groan. The lack of sunlight makes the lines blend into the natural dips of muscle, obscured in curved shadow, but the look on his features is enough of a reminder.
“Shut up.” The words are muffled by your palms; his laughter only sharpens past his teeth.
Loose cotton covers whatever marks you left; some still poke out under the sleeves. He steps to the edge of the bed, slow and with a sly smile on his lips as he gently eases your fingers to split; a kiss to whatever skin you let him pry open.
His words are hushed, only for the two of you in the walls beginning to warm with the morning sun. “Nothing I haven’t felt before, sweetheart.”
thank you @aseafullofstars for the tag!!
rules : when you get this, make a new post, list 5 of your favorite songs, publish, and tag some of your mutuals!
a few random mindless questions, just for fun <3 no pressure ofc :)
⟢ if you could magically know how to play an instrument, which one would you choose?
⟡ probably the piano
⟢ if you could have only one superpower, which one would it be?
⟡ teleportation, 1000% it would be so convenient (no side effects tho)
⟢ what's the earliest movie you remember seeing?
⟡ happy feet !! 🐧 I vaguely remember them dancing/stomping
⟢ what's a food you won't ever get tired of eating?
⟡ potatoessss <3 like just about every kind of potato honestly (within reason)
⟢ would you rather explore space or explore the ocean?
⟡ both make me nervous, but probably space bc I love the stars
⟢ do you have a dream car?
⟡ no specific one in mind to be honest (i'm blanking out rn) but I love older cars for the nostalgia and lack of built in technology :-)
⟢ what's your favorite letter in the alphabet?
⟡ I have a soft spot for J ofc but my favorite is probably the lowercase i (anyone else go through a phase where they dotted them with hearts and/or stars?)
⟢ gold jewelry or silver jewelry?
⟡ i'm a silver girly 🩶 but I will switch to my gold septum ring every now and then just to change it up :]
⋆˙⟡ no pressure tags; @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @chevroletdean @zepskies @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @jensensswthrt @b-eees-world @bettystonewell @the-wind-around-the-willow @ackles-pleaser @waynes-multiverse + anyone who'd like to join !! <3
Dad!Lion Kaminski who’s a single father. He enrolls his kid into daycare and your the kids teacher. You have the hots for him omfgggg.
Like he calls you sweetheart teasingly, praises the work you do with his kid, brings whatever materials you need— you genuinely believe your inlove …only he’s super oblivious to it all and sucks at romance.
izzy806
gummygunk
annaxmalina
jacobvanloon
