˚౨ৎ ⋆stelle. fanfiction writer. 7teen. aquarius. sleep overs. anti-ai. lipgloss&glitter. stolen kisses. holland marchs' babydoll. raised on pretty girl avenue. pink. italian girlie. a girl trying to find her place in this world. multi-fandom. adhd princess. future lawyer. sabrina's version. poet. lace&&ribbons. records. angel.
˚౨ৎ ⋆currently reading: project hail mary by andy weir
˚౨ৎ ⋆currently watching: spn. the pitt. the nanny. friends. house. smallville. new girl. the rookie. the boys.
i love how you characterize holland march he's literally my wife :( can you write something small about holland and reader calling him out whenever he's a mess? like reader is nice and sweet and normal! but when it counts they're just like "holland. you stink. take a shower :/" he needs someone to just tell him to lock in
first, this is such a high compliment, thank you so much, hun!
I really loved this request. It took me down a few rabbit holes (I was very happy to go down, by the way) to bring you this! And I know you asked for something small, and I tried.. really, I did. But then somehow I ended up with something not small.
˚౨ৎ ⋆ the two times you tell holland to lock in— and the one time you kiss it better
h.march x fem!reader ⋮ mentions of drinking ⋮ allusions of alcoholism ⋮ un-labled relationship dynamics ⋮ coworkers to lovers ⋮ fluff and angst ⋮ misplaced weapons ⋮ Holland just needs some love and reassurance ⋮ reader being a mature queen
ONE - The Time You Were On A Case Together
"It's better to split up." You say, gently tugging on the sleeve of Holland's blazer to get his attention.
The house you're in is alive with bustling movement. Drunk and drugged bodies are grooving to disco music, base thumping loud enough to be felt in your chest. If Holland could smell the weed permitting the place, he'd be horrified.
He looks over at you, eyes squinting as if that would make it easier to hear you. "What?"
You cup your hands over the sides of your mouth. "Find more clues. Talk to more people. Split up!"
Holland finally understands. His mouth opens into an 'o' shape, a hum falling from his mouth. He nods. "We can do that. I'll, uh, go over there!"
When you follow the direction he jutted his chin in, your eyes fall to the bar and woman dancing on the counter top. She was wearing next to nothing. but you knew she wasn't who Holland was looking at.
You look back at him, brows furrowed. You weren't surprised. "Focus on the case. Don't drink too much."
Holland rolls his eyes, moving his hand to pat your shoulder. "I won't. This is detective work, sweetheart. You know I'm good for it!"
You weren't sure.
But he's an adult. One who has a steady job, so, it would be rude of you not to believe him. You offer a nod before walking in the opposite direction.
While you were gone, you'd been able to talk to three people. Two girls and a guy. They were all related to Victoria Shnaps, the daughter of a dangerously wealthy local politician, who's recently gone missing. The girls were her sisters while the guy was her cousin. Two days before she went missing. None of them gave you viable information— except for her youngest sister, Jazalyn. She's seen her sister talking to some guy called Steve.
You only knew she was being honest because she's got quiet after she said that. Like she wasn't allowed to. Her words had faltered, mouth hanging open, before closing and forcibly clearing her throat. She wasn't media trained. And that was a slip up if you've ever seen one.
When walking through the throng of bodies, your eyes glaze over the room in search of your partner. It doesn't take you long to find his dirty blonde mop of hair.
He's not at the bar.
But even from a distance, you can see him swaying on his feet. It looked like he was being subjected to a gentle breeze like a hung up piece of linen. He's talking to someone. That's good.
When you walk up behind him, your fingers graze his back. Just a gentle way to announce your presence. A soft smile captures your lips when you gaze up at him and glance to the woman he's talking to.
Holland startles, looking down at you with hazy eyes. It takes a minute for him to realize who's touching him and to feel comfortable. His eyes light up when he recognizes you.
"Oh!" His voice sounds like water running over rock. He motions to the woman standing in front of him, amber liquid sloshing out of the rim of his glass. "T—This is her! My partner.. in detective work. Told you 'bout her, yeah? Best—" Holland cuts himself off with a hiccup. "In the country, no, world."
The woman glances down at you, utterly perplexed.
You offer a tight smile.
The woman standing in front of you both was Cassandra Nettles. Long blonde hair, silk wrapped body, and a string of pearls around her neck that costs more than the budget for a presidential campaign. She's a person of interest.
And he's talking to her about things that don't matter— even if they are sweet.
"Okay." You splutter, taking the glass from his hand so he wouldn't spill any more of it. "My apologies, ma'am, it's been a long night."
Holland huffs. "We got here an hour ago." He looks back at the woman, eyes narrowing. "Wait, do I know you?"
Your hands fall to the small of his back and onto his bicep. The hand on his arm squeezes hard enough to shake him, not to be painful. "No you don't. You're drunk as a skunk— and you need to rest."
Holland relents, tearing his gaze from the woman fully. He looks down at you. Red-rimmed blue puppy eyes. Just a single look at the slight frustration in your eyes makes him quiet.
After an apology is given to Cassandra, you practically guide him by the scruff like a mama cat towards the door.
"M'sorry." He murmurs on to way to the car.
"We were here for Intel." You sigh, pointing in the direction of the car. "Not to drink."
"I know." He murmurs quieter this time, like those words coming from you hit harder.
TWO - The Time Holland Lost His Gun
"We'll be back later tonight." You're crouched on the ground, speaking to Holly with a soft smile on your face. "I left twenty bucks for pizza and cookies— don't tell your dad about the sweets."
Holly rolls her eyes. "He won't care. He doesn't."
You frown down at her. "He does care, kid. I promise. He'll be sad if he knows you got cookies without him."
She shrugs, standing from her criss-crossed position on the rug and walking away from you. She turns the corner down the hall towards her room.
A sigh leaves your lips, chest feeling the dull ache from the implications of her words. She didn't think Holland cared. You knew it wasn't your place to say anything more than 'he does'— but gosh, you really wanted to.
But you'd only joined the Nice Guys Agency a few months ago. You weren't enough of a permanent person to have any precedent in their lives.
So, you force yourself to stand up and walk towards Holland's room.
He'd been in there for the past twenty minutes, supposedly getting ready for a stake out. But he'd been in there for a little too long. Your knuckles wrap against his half-opened door to push it open further.
Holland is pacing around the room, dirty-blonde hair mussed and shirt half unbuttoned. His fingers rake through his hair. When he sees you, he stops in his tracks. An annoyed huff leaves his lips.
"I can't find it!" He grunts.
"What?" Your hands fall to your sides, head tilting slightly.
"My gun." Holland turns around, hands jutting out to rip the comforter half-off his bed. There's nothing there. So he moves on to demolishing the pillows.
"Your gun?" Your voice rises, unable to curb the surprise that gets frayed with panic. Your throat works around a swallow. Then, softer. "You lost your gun?"
"Lost?" He breathes, turning to look at you. "Misplaced. It's just... not here."
A silent curse falls from your lips. Your hands find purchase on your hips. "Where'd you leave it?"
Holland shrugs his shoulders, a frustrated noise leaving his mouth. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be looking for it. Would I?"
His words land harder than they should. You physically recoil, taking a step back to look at him with widened eyes. There was no reason for him to have been rude.
"Shit— I— sorry." His voice quiets, head dipping down. "I'm frustrated. I can't— I can't just have a gun laying around the house."
You nod. Being sensitive was something you understood. Especially when you were on a time crunch and lost something important. "I know. I'll go look— just, please, lets find this quickly. Healy's gonna be pissed if we're late. We'll find it."
Holland runs his palm down over his mouth. He hums.
On a whim, you turn to walk down the hall. The bathroom was just a few doors down. You'd seen him go in there a few times in the mornings you came by to pick him up for work. Maybe, if you were lucky, you'd find it in there.
The bathroom light is turned off, the room bathed in darkness. It takes a few seconds of whacking your hand on the wall to find the switch. When the room is emerged in golden overhead light, the first thing you notice is the Jack Daniels.
It's practically empty— say for the sliver of brown liquid barely coating the bottom of the bottle. There's an empty glass next to it.
Walking into the room, you step on a balled up towel. The sudden change in flooring startles you, almost taking a tumble. A ghost of a smile twitched at your mouth. Getting scared over a towel. Yep, seemed like you.
You bend down to grab it when you see it. The glinting metal. Half shoved under the bathroom sink, like it had been kicked by accident. It was Holland's gun. You could tell by the 'H' poorly etched into the handle.
The towel drops to the floor. You grab the weapon and stand back up.
Your eyes once again drop to the empty bottle of booze. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together. As much as you adored March— he had a problem. Enough of one to make him forget where he 'placed' his killing machines.
"Hey, March." You call his name, trying to keep the frustration in your chest from fraying your words. "Come here for a second?"
There's a moment of silence.
Then, his feet pattering down the hall.
He slides into the door frame, hand grabbing at the wall to stop himself from tumbling. He looks at you with big, hopeful eyes. "Did you—"
"It was kicked under the sink." You say softly, trying to keep your voice down. So Holly wouldn't hear you and he didn't think you were accusing him of anything.
Holland pauses. His brows furrow like he was confused— he raked his brain for the memory of even bringing his gun into the bathroom. Just to come up empty.
"How the.." His gaze drops to the empty bottle.
Oh. That.
Holland's cheeks heat up. His arm bends to scratch the back of his neck, chuckling softly. "Guess I must have had a bit too much last night."
"I can't believe you're legally allowed to carry this." You sigh, looking at him with a disappointed expression.
Your words sink into his skin. His mind immediately puts him on the defense, arm dropping back to his side. "Christ, c'mon now—"
"Holland." You whisper-shout his name, shaking your head. Your voice stays a fevorent whisper. "You can't leave this for Holly to find."
Holland gapes at you, trying to find some way to come back to that. There wasn't much. He puts his hands on his hips, grasping at straws. "She knows how to handle a gun."
You stare at him.
He looks at you.
Holland wants to flinch. It sounded terrible to admit out loud. What other twelve year old little girl knows her way around a gun? Most girls were probably drawing rainbows in their notebooks and listening to the beetles.
You just keep looking, waiting for something. Like he'd take back his words. But he doesn't.
You inhale a deep breath to keep yourself grounded. "That doesn't matter. She shouldn't be around this stuff— you know that."
Your voice is quiet, almost a plea.
Holland's lips press into a line. He glances down at the floor, like the tiles turned into the most interesting thing in the world.
He's quiet for a minute.
"I'm a good dad." He says quietly.
Your guard falls at his words. The gun gets placed onto the counter, your arms falling to your sides.
"Of course you are." Your voice is gentle, filled with conviction. "I never said you weren't. This—this is an accident. It happens. It doesn't mean I'm calling you a bad dad—I'm telling you to be more careful."
Holland absorbs your words, sniffling.
He nods.
"You're a great dad, Holland. Okay?"
"Yeah."
THREE - The Crisis That Leads To Cuddles
The more time you spent with the March's, the more glaringly obvious it became that Holland had no idea how to handle a teenage girl.
His approach to more sensitive topics was that of a man's: meaning, if Holly was upset about something, he'd ask her if she was getting her period. He'd have such a straight face when he did it too. Then, of course, he'd wonder why she got even angrier.
Holland tried. Don't get him wrong. He'd bend over backwards for his daughter in a heartbeat, no matter how he acts. Being in any kind of argument with Holly felt like his chest was being ripped apart.
That leads you to tonight.
You came over to make them dinner— something you did on Friday nights. It started a few months ago when you joined the Nice Guys Agency. Holland made a passing comment about not having a real home cooked meal since his wife passed, and you decided then to make sure he and his daughter had a slice of familiar domesticity. Even if it was once a week.
Over those few months, you and Holland got closer. There would be laughter drifting through the kitchen, the occasional mini-food fight, and even, if he was feeling bold, hands trying to take bites of the food before it was set. That always got him a chaste whack to the hand.
For a while, Healy would come too. It would be all of you sharing a meal after work. Eventually Healy didn't come as often. He had other arrangements on Fridays. So, it would just be you, Holly, and Holland.
Tonight was different. Holly was sitting at the counter, swiveling in her chair. The two of you were talking about school and whether or not she was excited about the next year. Her answers were less vague than they used to be— she was coming out of her shell around you.
When Holland came into the kitchen, he'd have to swear his brain turned off. There was just something about seeing his daughter comfortable with you. It was a glimpse back in time to what used to be. His heart broke a little when you told her a story about your 8th grade graduation. Holly threw her head back like a little kid and let out a big belly laugh.
He hadn't heard that laugh in over a year.
He walked up behind Holly, palm pressing against her back. He leaned over himself to press a kiss to the top of her head. "Hey, ladies."
Holland made his way around the counter top, acting on pure instinct. The floral pattered button up he was sporting was less buttoned than usual— with no glinting ring strung around his neck.
You look over to watch him advance towards you. The scent of aftershave and pine filled your senses. It was unmistakably Holland, earthy and cozy. His hair was damp like he'd just gotten out of the shower.
"Hey, dad." She muses, leaning over to grab a piece of pepper you'd cut up.
Holland wraps his arm around your shoulders like he'd done it a hundred times. The warmth of him instantly bleeds into your skin. The proximity makes your pulse jump, throat working around a swallow. You fit perfectly against his side when he pulls you into his side.
Then, he presses his lips to your temple.
It's gentle. Loving.
Holly watches the interaction, expression falling. She blinks. Almost like she couldn't even begin to believe what she'd just witnessed.
"How are my girls?" He questions as he pulls back, a genuine smile gracing his face.
You look up at him in disbelief. Holland had never been so affectionate— especially in front of Holly. You were used to winks and side hugs when leaving. Or the occasional thumb swiping across your cheek if you'd wiped flour on yourself by accident. This was uncharted territory.
"We're fine." Your voice comes out heavier than you intended it to. "Uh, tacos are almost ready."
"Smells good." He nods, thumb rubbing a circle into your shoulder. When he finally drops his arm away, he looks over the both of you with a small smile on his face.
The smile doesn't last long.
Holly stands from the chair, offense clear in her eyes. "Where's your ring?"
Holland's head snaps to his daughter, her harsh tone startling him. His ring? His hand goes to his neck, finding only the neckline of his undershirt. He wasn't wearing his ring.
He splutters for a second. "Honey, it's just upstairs. I took it off to shower—"
"You're never supposed to take it off!" Her voice rises, hurt fraying her tone. It sounds like there's something in her throat. Like the words are physically painful for her to speak.
She turns and stomps off, her hands going to her face before turning the corner.
Holland stands there absolutely stunned. His jaw is hanging open, eyes wide, and palms facing upward like he'd just gotten smacked.
You didn't even need to be observant to know what that was about. A dull ache forms in your chest for Holly. She must feel betrayed— like her father was replacing her mother with you. And that's not your intention at all.
With a flick of your wrist, you turn the stove knob down.
"What the hell was that about?" He questions, turning to look at you.
"Go talk to her." You breathe, glancing in the direction she ran off in.
Holland bites his lower lip, hands taking purchase on his hips. "I don't understand. I just forgot to—"
"Holland."
He quiets at the serious tone of your voice.
You watch as his shoulders deflate, slouching in on himself. A somber expression takes over his face. You can see the gears turning in his mind, replaying exactly what happened.
"She's sad." Your words come out soft. Almost gentle. Like he's fragile and you're horrified of breaking him. "You should go talk to her."
Holland absorbs your words.
He lets them sink into his skin and roll around in his mind. Finally, he nods.
"Alright." He shakes his head, reluctantly turning on his heel and following in Holly's footsteps.
Your palm flattens over your chest, trying to soothe the ruminating ache. There was no way you could imagine just what she was feeling. You weren't in her mind.
Minutes pass.
Or, what feels like minutes.
Your fingers drum against the counter top. Anxiety starts to creep up your throat. There's a second where you think it would be best to leave.
Then you hear it.
The unmistakable muffled sound of Holly shouting 'I hate you'. You flinch. Your eyes close and a sigh leaves your lips, head dipping down. This was not how you envisioned your Friday night going.
Glancing at the half prepared chicken tacos, you give leaving some extra thought. That's what's probably best. To do it quietly, maybe make up their plates before you do so. But you were probably the last person Holly wanted to be near.
You're about to grab your purse. It's hanging right on the edge of the counter chair. It almost glows like an exit sign.
Holland sulks back into the kitchen. He looks like a smaller version of himself. Slouched shoulders, trudging steps, and gaze tilted to the floor. Your name falls from his lips like a plea.
A curse enters your mind.
Then, you get a good look at him. His eyes are glassy like he's about to cry.
One thing about Holland that most people don't know: he values his daughter's opinion more than anyone. Losing his wife was terrible. But if he even thought Holly had a negative view of him? His whole world shattered.
"I don't understand." His voice sounds paper-thin. There's a lost look in his eyes, like he was a second away from falling off a cliff. It broke your heart.
"Hey." You murmur, motioning for him to come over. Moving around the counter, you tentatively step towards him.
"She... she.." He clears his throat, head turning away to blink roughly. Try to stop the tears that threatened to fall. "Am I bad dad?"
A frown tugs at your mouth.
"No." You say quickly, shaking your head. Certainty drips from your lips like honeysuckle. "She doesn't mean that, March."
His gaze stays on the ground.
He blinks hardly.
"She does." He whispers.
You want to hug him and slap him at the same time. Once he gets an idea into his head—good or bad—he's a damn bull. Too stubborn to avoid tunnel vision.
Is this even your place?
It's not like he's your boyfriend or anything— though those professional lines have been blurring. And that kiss definitely meant something. But do you even have any place here? If anything aren't you just his kinda-situationship?
Maybe it was best to have left.
But now you're here.
And you feel like you're being ripped in half knowing some of your favorite people in the world are hurting.
So, you outstretch your arms and motion for him to come in.
Holland accepts. He walks slowly towards you, arms snaking around your waist. His nose gets buried into the crook of your neck. Little droplets land on your skin. Your arms wraparound his back and give him a gentle squeeze.
Silence envelopes the two of you.
There's a moment where you just let Holland soak up your embrace. He shakes a little, sniffling to hold back the mess of tears that threatened to fall.
"You're doing your best." You whisper, voice barely audible. "Kids don't come with manuals, right? Even the best of the best make mistakes."
Holland slumps against you. Like a giant dog jumping onto your lap, thinking he's smaller than he actually is.
"Mhm." He mumbles, pulling away from you to wipe at his face. His movements were quick— like you'd suddenly burned him. Or he realized he was leaning on you and got embarrassed.
"You're a good dad." Veneration wraps your words. "Say it."
Holland huffs. "I'm a good dad."
"Little louder. Like you mean it." You offer a gentle smile, rubbing at his arms for motivation.
Despite his saddened expression, the ghost of a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. "I'm a good dad."
"There he is." You murmur, chest warming a little.
Holland wipes at his eyes with his wrist. He blinks and gazes down at you. Eyes hazy, he looks like a kicked puppy.
"I still don't know what I did to make her..." He trails off, cutting himself off with a sigh.
There's a moment of silence as you try to gather your thoughts.
There wasn't any good way to say this. Especially since you and Holland weren't together.
"I think she's feeling a little betrayed." There's a softness to your words. "You usually wear your ring. Tonight, you didn't. And these past few weeks I've been coming over to cook for guy—"
"I don't see why that means—"
"Let me finish." Your correction is gentle, keeping your voice calm.
Holland closes his mouth. He nods and mumbles an apology.
"She might think you're replacing her mother." You opt to get straight to your point, trying to cushion the blow with your tone. "Having me here, cooking for you guys. You even kissed me tonight, Holland."
For the first time ever, he's quiet.
"I know that's not your intention." You watch for his response, trying to see how he was taking your words. "But she doesn't. She sees me doing things her mom did— and that makes her feel some kind of way."
Holland darts his tongue out to wet his lower lip. His head twitches in a half-nod, like he's barely able to move anything. Like he's frozen.
Silence settles.
It's the uncomfortable kind of silence. The kind that worms into your ribs and presses against the walls of your bones, stabbing at your lungs when it tries to make space for itself.
Holland sighs.
"What should I do?" He asks gently, puppy eyes boring into yours.
"Give her some space. Then listen to her." You raise a brow at him. "Really listen to her. Then talk with her."
"Okay."
You tuck some of your hair behind your ear. "I'm gonna.. uh, get out of your hair. I feel like I've outstayed my welcome." A soft chuckle leaves your lips. "Dinner's ready. All you've gotta do is assemble the tacos."
Holland's brows furrow, taking in your words. "No." It tumbles from his mouth quickly, hands jutting out to grasp at your wrist. But he drops his hands, teeth sinking into his lips. "You... you could never overstay your welcome here."
Your heart flutters at his words. "I know." You offer a smile to reassure him. "But I think it's best for Holly to be alone with just you."
Holland eventually accepts it. That was what was logical, after all. You were always right about things like this.
"Okay." He scratches the back of his neck. "Thank you... for everything tonight. I'll see you in the office tomorrow?"
You nod, turning to collect your purse. "You will."
Holland follows after, gingerly grabbing your coat and handing it over to you. He watches you slip yourself into it. There's something stirring in his chest. Something he hadn't given much thought to.
He did kiss you. Pressed his lips to your temple like it was nothing. Called you his. He wasn't sure what that meant. Though, he knew he'd have to dissect it to know.
The two of you walk towards the front door. He opens it for you, standing at the threshold to make sure you get to your car okay.
"Have a good night, March." You say with a small smile, waving your fingers at him.
He does the same. "Yeah. You too."
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⋆˚꩜｡ ryland grace who has an insatiable sweet tooth. he's got a candy draw stocked full of gummies, twizzlers, skittles, and sour patch kids in his class room. throughout the day, he's snacking on one of them. usually, it's the twizzlers. they're his favorite. but he keeps the others in stock in case one of his students or fellow faculty members' needs something sweet. he also pours an ungodly amount of sugar into his coffee. he's standing in the teachers lounge, head angled down as he uses at least six sugar packets. his coffee tastes like liquid diabetes and that's exactly how he likes it.
⋆˚꩜｡ ryland grace who leaves his door open to students during lunch period, which also happens to be his prep period. the door stays propped open with one of his boxes of rocks. sometimes, there are a few kids that come in. they talk about science, his class, what homework is gonna look like next week, and whether or not he has any M&Ms in his candy drawer.
⋆˚꩜｡ ryland grace who stays late most nights so he can grade papers. he knows that as soon as he walks through his front door, and his bag clatters to the floor, and his butt hits the sofa or his bed, there's no work getting done whatsoever. so he has to do it at school after hours or during one of his prep periods. his stickers are in his classroom, anyways. and ryland is notorious for putting a sticker on each kids' worksheets.
⋆˚꩜｡ ryland grace who argues with the printing and copy machine. his arms are crossed over his chest, looking down at the machine like it personally offended him. and it had. all of his work needed to be printed out before the next period started. "you," he speaks in hushed tones. "you have been a very bad copy machine."
⋆˚꩜｡ ryland grace who loves snooping on his students. if one of the kids' has a book on their desk, his eyes practically bug out of his head as he makes a beeline for it. he's turning it over and reading the back to himself. usually, he approves of the kids' picks. if he knows the student well, he reads the last page, then threatens the kid with spoiling the ending if they don't do their work. he finds it very funny.
⋆˚꩜｡ ryland grace who cries every year when his students go onto high school. he feels like a mama bird watching the baby birds get pushed from the nest, holding bated breath as he waits for them to either fly or... not. and he tries his best to stay strong on the last day. he really does! but he always gets misty eyed. if any of the kids hug him before they leave? he's a big ball of tears and well wishes.
sabrina carpenter nsfw headcannons - 17+, discretion is advised!
s.carpenter x fem!reader ⋮ dom!sabrina ⋮ switch!sabrina ⋮ straps ⋮ semi-public sex ⋮ ass slapping ⋮ oral ⋮ mention of sex toys ⋮ soft sex ⋮ sex positions ⋮ overstimulation ⋮ fingering ⋮ reader's apperence is not detailed ⋮ no use of y/n
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ foreplay is her favorite thing in the world. she loves watching the way you react to her lips pressing against your skin, how you shiver beneath her touch, how your voice gets all breathy when you beg for her to touch you. it's a sight she's enamored with. she'd swear its like being a kid on christmas.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ when she's in a committed relationship, she's sending her girl random erotic pictures throughout the day. if you gone off to work before she wakes up, there's an image of her in bed waiting for you on break. sometimes she's in new lingerie brands have sent her. sometimes it's just her arm across her chest, very distracting messages beneath the photos. you get videos too. usually her breathy voice drifting through the speaker, telling you how you should come to her and take care of the mess between her legs.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's a switch.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ if she sweeps at an award event, you're getting spoiled. usually on the way back to the hotel. she's got you holding her awards as her fingers drag through your slick folds, fingering you to the brink of your life. her free hand holds you open for her. if you even twitch to close your legs, she lands a little love tap to your thigh.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's condescending. "look how needy you are for me." or "is this all for me?" or "look at the way you take my fingers. bucking your hips... it feels that good huh, baby?"
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ sabrina absolutely slaps your ass when she walks behind you. the blow gets softened by her laughter, big and loud and music to your ears.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she gives head like a pro. if she could, she's live between your legs. just slurping up your essence and letting it drip down her chin.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she has a drawer full of toys. vibrators, dildos, anything the heart could want.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's open minded! if you want to try something, she's open to it. her philosophy is to try anything once. sometimes she finds things she really likes, while other times she finds things she doesn't.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she owns a strap. it's a light pink color and glittery.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's okay with using the strap on you or letting you use the strap on her.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ her favorite position with the strap is prone bone!
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ her favorite kind of sex is when it happens early in the morning, when you're both still sleepy. and the sun is creeping in through the windows, bathing you in a soft golden light. it's magical.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's into mirror sex. seeing the way you ruin her always turns her on. seeing herself, flushed cheeks and teary eyes, makes something in her mind switch off.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ when she eats you out, she spits onto your clit !!
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she'll add your moans into a song
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ if you can squirt, she makes it a mission to make it happen. she'll spend hours down between your legs if you let her. even if your legs are trembling, cunt puffy and overworked, she'll coo at you asking you to make a mess.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's into overstim !
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she stuffs her fingers in your mouth. to keep you quiet, give you something to chuck on, or just because she wants to. it turns into a game seeing how far she can stick them down your throat.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ tribbing game is insane.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she'd put you in a collar. preferably something leather or gentle on the skin. the last thing she wants to do is to hurt her baby- well, not too much.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she loves her hair being pulled.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ when she's feeling submissive, she loves being bossed around. in any fashion.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she likes to watch. she'll sit herself in a chair or on the opposite side of h=the bed to watch you play with yourself. even from where she is, not touching you, she's in control. she can tell you when to stop. or where to rub and for how long.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's an edger.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's into bondage ! handcuffs, ropes, spreader bars. the works. the deprivation of being able to run away or push something away is euphoric to her.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ would make a sex tape on one of those mini cameron cameras from the 2000s.
If ur still taking requests can u write one about Sabrina where she's dating a masc and people usually think the masc girlie is super dom but in reality she gets wayyyyy too flustered and Sabrina gets to take charge and she also likes to see how fast she can make y/n blush!! Also can you make y/n shorter? Like Sabrina is still 5'0 but y/n is like 4'10 maybe :3 (y/n being a short tiny little baby masc would be so CUTEEEEEEE!!)
hey, honey!
I'm still taking requests but I'm a rather slow writer (wait for me to go on summer break, trust!!), so things are taking a minute to come out.
I love this idea AHH! Tiny baby masc who gets flushed easily is so perfect. Anyways, I hope I did this request justice! mwah!
˚౨ৎ ⋆ Hotheads Burn Fast
s.carpenter x fem!reader ⋮ cocky!sabrina ⋮ suggestive content (16+?) ⋮ no use of y/n ⋮ reader's appearance is not detailed aside from the fact she is 4'10 and blushes
When people see you—the dangling chain, cropped tees, and jeans—most of them believe you're the one 'in charge'. You're a stark difference standing next to Sabrina. She's always adorned in lace and pastel colors while you live your days in black or muted. Once, you'd joked about how you both represented the sun and moon.
It didn't matter that Sabrina was taller than you.
You were the more masculine one in the relationship. The one who'd stand next to Sabrina, arms crossed over your chest, ready to leap over a counter to gut anyone who dared look at your girl wrong.
Well, that's what people thought.
It was true to an extent. You would go to war for your girlfriend. That's a fact. She's the human version of sunshine, practically leaving a trail of flowers in her wake. But... you're not in 'charge'. You get too flustered.
Maybe it could be something to be ashamed of. Though, when it's just you and Sabrina, any creeping thought of shame is tossed directly out the window. Anyone lucky enough to be with her would melt beneath her touch. They could be made of steel and they'd still turn to a puddle. So, there was nothing to be ashamed of.
Especially tonight.
You're standing in Sabrina's dressing room, facing her vanity mirror. Tonight was the last night of Sabchella— as the fans were calling it. She'd spent nights working herself to the bone to prepare to put on an extravagant show. To say you were proud would certainly be an understatement.
Everything the woman touches is magic.
"Baby." Sabrina's voice drifts into your ears, soft like silk.
When your gaze flickers up to meet hers through the mirror, you almost choke. The air in your lungs gets knocked out. It's like getting hulk smashed—fast and harsh. Your pulse skips a beat, diverting from its natural rhythm. She looks like an angel.
She's wrapped in lace. White lace hugs her curves, soft skin on display. She looks like the prettiest flower in the garden. Elegant and ethereal.
Your jaw drops open. Though you're not in a cartoon, your sure your eyes bugged out of your head and they turned into heart shapes. A chuckle leaves her lips when you spin on your heel.
"Holy shit." You breathe out the curse, gaze raking over her outfit.
Your gaze isn't heavy. There's no discomfort that comes with it— quite the opposite, really. Sabrina's chest fills with adoration. You're looking at her like she'd taken the time to hang each star in the sky.
"You like it?" She grins, dimples popping.
She gives a little twirl, slowly turning to show off the back of the outfit. The fabric is cut for just enough of a tantalizing view of the curve of her bum. She leans her weight onto each foot separately, glancing over her shoulder. A mental note gets added to her mind to wear it in a different setting.
"I.." Your voice trails off, the sound of it paper-thin. It feels like you're standing on a mountain. The air was suddenly thin. It was almost painful trying to get a good gulp of air. "Sab, you look..."
Sabrina turns back around, eating up the space between you. She's across the room in three strides. For some reason, you back away. The sheer beauty before you was almost intimidating. But it's short-lived. Her vanity's wooden lip digs into your back, trapping you right where you are.
She's just a few inches in front of you. The scent of marshmallows invades your senses, the smell invading your mind like a delicious poison. It curls around your brain and makes you feel dizzy. There was no way you could make good decisions with her smelling so pretty. Looking it, too.
Especially when she's looking down at you.
The height difference is small—maybe two inches. But it seems astronomical in these moments. When her eyes are sparkling, she smells like a dream, and looks like an angel who's just descended from the Heavens. You feel dwarfed. That feeling only amplified your immediate reaction; to turn to putty in her hands.
"Sorry, hun. I couldn't hear you." She makes a fake pout, corners of her mouth dipping down. The gloss she's wearing shimmers. Her lips look so soft and inviting— like she's daring you to press yours against hers. "Wanna speak up for me?"
She's an evil woman.
Your hands scatter to the back of you, grasping at the wooden lip like an anchor. There wasn't any certainty your legs would be able to keep you upright if you let go.
Heat rushes up the base of your neck. There's no way your cheeks weren't beginning to dust a rosy hue. You were easy to crumble around her.
"Uh," A soft laugh leaves your throat, barely audible. "You look good, Sab."
She cocks an eyebrow.
"No!" You splutter immediately, shaking your head to correct yourself. "Great. I mean you look great— like a dream." Your voice drops an octave lower, gaze flickering around her face.
"I know." She grins, glancing down at your lips. "You gonna let me kiss you?"
It wasn't really a question.
Not one that needed to be asked, anyway. Her kisses were just a small fraction of things about her you'd drop everything for.
When you try to say yes, you find your tongue to be a lump in your mouth. Like it was so heavy you couldn't even open up. The dusty rose quickly goes through the color spectrum, from pink to a deep crimson.
Sabrina watches as you nod your head.
"That's my girl." She muses, moving her hand to cup your jaw.
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˚౨ৎ ⋆ IT TAKES ME BACK TO THE COLOR WE PAINTED OUR WALL - 900 words
t.swift x fem!reader ⋮ fluff ⋮ taylor being the sweetest girlfriend ⋮ reader's appearance is not detailed ⋮ no use of y/n ⋮ reader gets called 'baby' ⋮ inspired by this prompt
Taylor stands glaring at the wall like it owes her money.
Her hands take purchase on her hips, fingertips dipping into the loops of her jeans. There's a straightness to her back that conveys her budding frustration. Only you can tell what she's feeling without seeing the expression on her face.
You walk into the room, plastic tarps crinkling beneath your feet. A gentle gaze sweeps over Taylor's form. The buckets of paint hanging from your hands make a thump as they hit the covered floor.
Taylor turns then, hands still posed on her hips. Your arrival had somewhat knocked her from her thoughts. Though, her brows are still pinched together. Worry lines etched themselves into her pale skin.
"You okay, Tay?" You ask, your own brows furrowing.
Taylor softens when she sees your worried expression. A tender smile creeps up her face. "I'm fine, baby. Just figuring out how long the couch is going to live in the hallway."
You turn your gaze to look over your shoulder, peering at the gray couch pieces you'd spent an hour shoving out of the room. They decorated the hallway and made for an obstacle course to get back into this room. A laugh bubbles up in your throat.
"Probably not until tomorrow." You grin, walking over to stand next to her.
She moves her arm to wrap around your waist. Gives your hip a gentle squeeze, touch featherlight. "I figured." A sigh leaves her.
She smells like lavender and something softer. The scent that seeps into the sheets and caresses your skin when you go to sleep each night. It feels like her embrace, careful and rich. You'd be able to go the rest of your life only smelling her. And you'd be happy.
"Maybe sooner if we get started now." The offer comes out, your shoulders shrugging.
Taylor peers down at your sarcastic tone, ghost of a smile twitching at her lips. Her gaze is filled with affection as she looks at you. "Alright."
The two of you break apart after a moment, stepping into a work mode. It was time to paint the walls of one of the living rooms. Taylor pulls her hair into a low ponytail, elastic slipping from her wrist and twisting to tie off.
She walks over to open the cans, popping the tops off with a screwdriver. Silence envelopes you both as you pour the grayish-blue liquid into the canisters. You grab a paint roller and dip it in, giddily walking over to the far wall.
Soft laughter starts to fill the room as you work. Stories on tour, wild tales of cats jumping off ledges, and throwing dad jokes around pass your lips. Doing anything with Taylor always felt easy. Even if it was a lot of work bending down and working muscles you hadn't for a while.
You're crouched on the floor, tongue poking out in concentration, trying to not go over the baseboard when you feel it.
Taylor's finger running down your cheek.
Normally, this wouldn't break your focus. Sometimes Taylor just liked to poke at you then smile like a goof. But this felt wrong.
Taylor's finger was wet.
The brush drops from your hand, clattering against the tarp. Droplets of paint splatter against your jeans. A hand comes up to wipe at the substance on your cheek, reeling back to find a streak of paint on your fingers.
Your jaw drops. You look up at her with an expression that's part shock and offense.
Taylor looks down at you with a wicked grin. Her shoulders are shaking—obviously trying to hold back a bark of laughter.
"You did not." Your voice comes out gobsmacked, smile twitching at your lips.
A crude sound leaves her. It's kind of like a snort—the sound someone makes when they're trying not to laugh and failing miserably. It's cute coming from her. The grin cracks across her face, twisting up her cheeks and squinting her eyes. Her shoulders shake with fervor.
"Oh," she chortles. "I did."
There's a second where you just look at her.
She looks at you.
You look back at her.
Then, in an instant, you're on your feet and grabbing the brush that fell to the floor. A mischievous grin brightens your expression. Taylor realizes that this has unfolded into a game of tag and her eyes widen. But there's nothing about your expression to give the impression of mercy.
She turns and bolts around the room, you on her heel.
Laughter bellows around the four corners. It sounds like love and a little bit like insanity.
It takes about a minute of stand-off swaying before you jump at her. The two of you clatter to the ground. She groans as her back hits the floor, laughter spilling from her throat like music. You're laughing right along with her.
Then, when the laughter slowly trickles away, your hand moves up to swipe some paint on her nose.
"That's what 'ya get."
There's paint in her hair. It's a little droplet right near her bangs, drying slowly. Her cheeks are tinted with a rosy hue. She looks beautiful—sparkling eyes and all.
"Guess so." She murmurs, letting her hands find your hips.
"Don't do that." You protest.
"Do what?"
"Try and make me forget about the betrayal you've just done."
hi ! angel anon here, lol. AHH I’M IN LOVE WITH THE HEADCANONS U DID !! (would be very proud to claim 🪽 as an anon btw…) and it got me thinking of just like heaven by the cure 🥹 only if you’re down to write more jo ofc ! keep up the amazing work gorgeous mwah ! 💞
-🪽
hey, sweetie!
love love love 🪽 as an anon, it's so cutesy! jo and the cure make so much sense omg— and i'm guessing you'd like angel!reader for this request. hopefully you like it!
˚౨ৎ ⋆ I promise that I'll run away with you - j.harvelle x fem!reader
You're not sure when she became your religion.
Maybe it was when her lips pressed against yours. Maybe when each time her name was breathed past your lips like a prayer. Or, perhaps, you'd already been slipping from the fingers of Heaven before you met her.
Maybe, just maybe, she was supposed to be yours all this time.
Because she had grace not even the stars could conjure. A laugh that spilled from her mouth like wind chimes, twinkling in the air. Flowers practically bloomed wherever she went. They would be different hues of bright colors. All beautiful. Just like her.
Jo carried herself in a way that was fluid. Gliding across a floor, gentle in each movement. She was fascinating. You'd spent countless hours observing her. The way she'd smile at customers as she poured a drink, squared her shoulders whenever they got 'smart', and when her eyes would soften when they met yours.
She was the closest to Heaven you'd been since the fall.
Your finger brushes against the plasticky feeling photo. The white border around it made it a polaroid. Well, that's what Jo said made it a polaroid.
It's an image you'd taken of her last night. Her hair is wild, flipped half over the side of her head. There's this radiant smile adorning her expression. It reaches beyond her eyes— like her whole face could be hurting from how much joy she's exuberating.
She looks free.
Only you get that smile. It's dizzying. The heart beating in your chest stutters, pulse skipping whenever she gives it to you. Her smile is like the sun— blinding and warm. Perfect.
Arms wrap around your waist. The touch is caring, pulling you gently against her chest. Her scent envelopes your senses. Eucalyptus and lilacs. It's a smell you'd found yourself longing for whenever you were away from it.
Jo's chin rests against your shoulder, looking down to see what you're holding. Her head turns to press into the crook of your neck. A kiss is placed to your cheek, sparkling warmth beneath your skin.
"Hey, angel." Jo's breath ghosts over your skin. Her voice is soft and breathy. "Still looking at that picture?"
You'd been around long enough to recognize the tease in her tone.
It's like her words are italicized, lilting brightly with a silent chuckle. You've come to find her teasing comes from somewhere loving.
Still, you can't help but feel the little tickle in your chest.
The photo gets placed face down against the bar counter— fast enough for it to seem like you even having it was inappropriate. It brings a laugh near your ear.
"I haven't just started at it." You refute, words coming out quickly. "I just picked it back up. There's been a lot to do around the—"
You get cut off.
Jo's fingers guide your chin to turn your head towards her. Her mouth presses against the side seam of yours, a smile adorning her lips.
"I know." She murmurs. "I just like teasing you."
"I know." You mumble back, grin creeping across your expression.
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ᥫ᭡ breaking news... scandalscontained has her June fanfics release scheduled!
some of these fics have been requested by the beautiful people following this blog! I thank each and every one of you who are requesting. a little something to keep in mind, not everything is set in stone. some of the dates or fics can be subject to change. check back to see what will be posted when! (and if any additions have been made!)
01.01.2026: it takes me back to the color we painted our wall - taylor swift x fem!reader
It's time for one of the rooms in your house to get a revamp. Of course, because she can't help herself, taylor creates paint-splattered chaos.
What is sabrina like when she's in a relationship? is she an adventurous soul in the bedroom or someone quiet? here are my (very dirty) thoughts!
06.06.2026: crazy, stupid, flirt (17+) - holland march x fem!reader
req. holland march is an injury magnet. fortunately, you're always there to fix him up. he needs you in more than one way tonight.
06.09.2026: make it up nice - taylor swift x fem!reader
it's been months since you've seen your best friend— today, that changes!
06.12.2026: big guy (17+) - clark kent x fem!reader
clark tries his best to be quiet for you!
06.15.2026: spn character headcannons; nicknames they call their gf - dean winchester, sam winchester, castiel, ruby, bella talbot, jo harvelle x fem!reader
What kind of nicknames / pet names do the characters of supernatural give their girlfriends? here are my thoughts!
06.18.2026: mornin' lovin' - ryland grace x chubby!fem!reader
Just a small slice of what life is like on Erid after the hail mary mission. spoiler: ryland can't keep his loving hands away from you.
06.21.2026: rekindle - dean winchester x fem!reader
dean still remembers everything. even if you don't.
06.24.2026: holland march kink headcannons (17+) - holland march x fem!reader
all my nasty thoughts about the prettiest loser detective.
06.27.2026: sierra six x bimbo!reader headcannons - sierra six / court gentry x fem!reader
big, tough, murdering CIA agent man? yeah, he's with a sweet, kinda ditsy girl. welcome bimbo!reader !
06.29.2026: girl dad!dean headcannons - dean winchester
from newborn to about five, here are my thoughts about dean with a little girl!
06.30.2026: make me the happiest man on erid - ryland grace x fem!reader
It's a beautiful morning on erid. the water temperature is perfect and it's the right amount of foggy. prime atmosphere for a proposal, right?
ᥫ᭡ not all my writings throughout the month is included. check out the hashtags to see them all .ᐟ
d.winchester x fem!reader ⋮ suggestive content, 16+ ⋮ mention of (off-page) injury ⋮ enemy!reader ⋮ swearing ⋮ non-sexual nudity ⋮ hurt/comfort ⋮ dean low-key being a grumpy asshole ⋮ reader's appearance is not detailed ⋮ no use of y/n
req: can we pretty please have reader getting some sort of shoulder/arm/back injury during a fight and she goes to take a shower afterwards and can’t take off her own clothes. naturally dean is the only one available and she swallows her pride and asks for his help and dean begrudgingly agrees. mostly just yearning and allusions to the fact they both find each other attractive but also can’t stand each other
The tension between you and Dean is thick enough to cut through with a knife.
"Maybe if you weren't such a self-centered asshole," You grit, letting the motel door slam back in his face. "This wouldn't have happened."
Of course, you're referring to the ache settling in your muscles. There wasn't any pain anymore. Just that weird throb found in the absence of pain. It was from a ghost tossing you down the stairs— like some doggy chew toy. Not your favorite moment on a hunt.
Dean's ring clad hand catches the door before it can whack him, his teeth bearing. A snarl pulls at his lower lip. Anger boils beneath his skin, itching under his knuckles. He's stepping over the threshold of the door and tossing his keys onto the table with straight shoulders.
"Listen, sweetheart." Condescension wraps around his words, dripping from his lips like venom. "I ain't the one who got themselves thrown down the friggin' stairs."
The sound of your feet against the carpeted floor covers your frustration. They were muffled. Despite the pure rage stirring in your gut. Hell, you probably had a big bruise because of this idiot.
"Yeah, and I'm not the one who left even though they were supposed to be back up." The words are grumbled out under your breath.
Dean has no response to that. Just a sharp intake of breath, lodging halfway down his throat. His jaw clenches hard enough to crack bone. Bleached knuckles make fists at his sides. A twitch of his head allows him to hold his tongue.
"Whatever."
Your hands go to your jacket, pulling it off your arms. The action is slow. Your shoulder blades are screaming at you, begging you to stop the agonizing motion. Your eyes pinch in pain. A groan bubbles up in your throat that you will away. It was soreness that would hopefully ebb away after a shower.
The ache lessens when you stop bending the way you had been. Miraculous.
When you pad across the room, Dean glances over to track where you were going. Annoyance flares in his chest when he realizes you're headed to the bathroom.
"Not gonna ask if I have to piss?"
You don't miss a beat. "Nope."
Dean curses you under his breath.
The door shuts, clicking softly. There's an obvious atmosphere change. The bathroom didn't hold the charged energy the rest of the motel room held. Now, it was just you and peace.
Normally, you'd be privy to a bath that's been installed into the floor. This hunt you don't have that luxury. It's an old white basin above ground, rusting at the bottom and creeping up the sides like vines. A maroon curtain hangs over the edge, pushed to the left side of the tub.
It wasn't the worst conditions you've had to shower in.
At least it wasn't a hose.
You inwardly cringe remembering that terrible hunt. The motel's water had been cut off—and a hose turned into a shower. It was cold and.. just terrible. Shaking the memory off, you try and focus on the task at hand.
Showering. Replaying the argument and thinking up things you should have said. Then bed.
Easy.
Well, it should be easy. But your aching body had some better ideas.
Turning the shower on was a breeze. It was just a gentle flick of your wrist, fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the faucet. Adjusting the temperture was just as easy.
The challenge came as a shock.
It burned to raise your arms above your naval. Whenever you raised them any higher, it felt like fire was licking up your extremities. A dagger to the thigh hurt less than this.
Your breath catches in your lungs, a low groan escaping your throat. A curse falls from your lips.
There weren't any scissors in the bathroom. So, cutting your clothes off wasn't an option. Not that you had enough outfits to be ruining clothes. The other option was to just not shower. But you were pretty sure there were monster guts congeiling in your hair. Only one option remained.
You needed help.
The next problem reared its head: Dean was the only one out the door.
You didn't even have the option to (sweetly) force Sam to do it for you. For a second, you turn into a toddler having a tantrum, stomping your foot with a huff. This was the worst day of your life!
Would Dean even help? Did you want Dean taking off your clothes?
Heat rises in your chest. Embarrassment. Yeah, that's what that heat was from. You're stuck in a compromising position. No wonder you feel a little shy. It had absolutely nothing to do with the concept of Dean peeling off your clothes for you.
This sucked.
Like.. a lot.
Your fingers tap at your denim-clad thighs. The idea mulls around in your mind for another few moments. A bruised dignity for thirty minutes of warm happiness… or be deprived from the warmth. The decision was already made.
Turning on your heel, you reach out for the doorknob. There's a moment where you pause. The reason for it was lost on you—but your pulse sped up. You could feel the way it jumped in your throat. The door opened smoothly after that.
When your head pokes out from the door, you see Dean laying outstretched on his bed. One arm behind his head while the other was clutching a beer in hand. He was looking up at the ceiling like something interesting was on it.
"Hey." Your voice wavers at the start, quickly schooling itself.
He glances over at you. Dean's brows furrow, confusion blanketing his expression.
"I need help." Your throat works around a swallow.
"With what? Figuring out the water controls?" He snorts, rolling his eyes.
"No." The word comes out sharp, edged by the concoction of annoyance and fluster in your chest. "I can't… I can't get my clothes off. It hurts."
Dean looks at you like you have six heads.
His head even tilts a little like a dog would when they get confused. Viridian eyes survey your face. He's trying to analyze your micro expressions to see if you were screwing with him. But he doesn't find any artifice. Just a girl grimicing. Truth.
A stuttering noise leaves his mouth, it's throaty and baffled. Dean's mouth opens and closes. His throat works around a swallow.
"Then don't shower."
"Dean."
"Can't you wait for Sam?"
"Dean."
There's something in your voice that makes him soften slightly. Because this is a woman who would first die before asking him for anything. You'd never just ask him for something. Especially when it involved such an intimate setting.
The way your brows furrowed made him crumble. You were desperate.
He couldn't even refute the feeling. Showers were his holy grail after a hunt.
Fuck.
"Alright." He grunts, forcing himself to sit up. "Fine. FIne. Lets go."
His legs swing over the bed, feet falling to the carpeted floor. He walks over avoiding your eyeline the entire time.
Stepping from the threshold of the door, you give him room to come in. Steam is slowly filling the room. It was getting humid. The atmosphere was tight, and the impending actions about to be taken somehow made it worse.
It was getting harder to breathe.
Dean notices that your shoes and socks had already been kicked off. Good. Al least he didn't need to be anywhere near your feet.
"Turn around." He says gruffly, stepping behind you.
The scent of pine infiltrates your lungs. He smelled like the woods, earthy and entirely too strong for your liking. Dean's a damn heater too. His body head radiates from him and bleeds through your clothing.
You almost jump when his skin makes contact with yours.
His fingertips slide beneath the band of your shirt, fingers cool against your hip. Dean pauses for just a second. Just enough time for a breath to release from his lungs. His fingers curl around the fabric before slowly tugging it upwards.
It feels like the air had been punched out of your chest.
This was somewhere you'd never imagine you'd ever be.
Dean, the man who you thought would leave you for dead given the chance, undressing you because of an injury. This was no man's land.
He helps work the fabric over your head. Gently, he shushes you when it's time for your arms to come out from the confines. The fabric snaggs as it gets bunched up and pulled over your head.
It gets over your head and he tosses it to the floor. The shirt ends up in a ball on the floor.
Standing in front of him with just your bra on, it's easy to feel exposed.
His gaze is on you. Despite himself, he can't help but trace the way your shoulders slope. How your hair falls over your neck, soft strands grazing your skin. It hyptnotizes him. You just look so soft—despite his knowledge of how rough you can fight.
"The water's only getting colder." Your voice comes out tighter than you wish it had, frayed at the edges.
But you can feel his gaze on you.
He clears his throat, nodding to himself. "I know." He grumbles. "Makin' sure I don't hurt you, sweetheart."
The nickname surprises the both of you.
There's a moment where you both freeze.
Just listening to the whizzing of the running water.
Your fingertips tap against the tops of your thighs. "Uh… thanks."
Dean shakes it off. "Yeah."
His fingers go to your bra strap, gaze following. You'd be fully exposed once the article drops. Dean blinks, trying to avoid the weird feeling itching beneath his skin.
There's a softness in his movements. He unclips the bra with ease, letting the backs of it unfurl like a flower. His fingers slip the straps down next. You can feel his breath against your shoulder as he focuses on one strap at a time. There's a split second where you swear you can feel hesitancy.
Your back teeth grind. The tendon in your jaw works, being an easy physical tick to keep your anxiety at bay. Your gaze is trained on the curtain in front of you. Maybe if you stare at it hard enough, you can forget the fact that Dean freaking Winchester is taking off your bra. Leaving you bare boobs to the world.
Once it falls to the floor, your arms come up and cross over your chest. Having Dean in here was already overwhelming. Then adding on the fact he was the one who had to take off your clothes, you felt like a bug beneath a microscope.
"You got your jeans?" He asks after a minute, voice low.
His voice is next to your ear. If you focused hard enough, you'd probably be able to feel the vibrations of his chest.
"I'm fine. Thanks."
He nods at your words. Then after realizing you can't see him, he clears his throat. "Alright. Uh.. have a nice shower, then."
"Yep."
He stays rooted to the spot.
But then the motel door opens.
Dean gets brought back to the present, shaking his head and all but running to the door. It clicks softly as it closes.
Leaving just you inside.
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d.winchester x possessive!fem!reader ⋮ suggestive content ⋮ (slightly) toxic behavior from reader ⋮ subby!dean ⋮ hickeys ⋮ no use of y/n ⋮ reader's appearance is not detailed
"I don't see why you have to do this." Dean mumbles, words barely audible.
He sits down on the edge of the motel bed as you had just instructed. The mattress dips beneath his weight, creaking softly as he gets himself comfortable. The collar of his jacket was already being moved by his fingers for you.
For someone protesting against it, he's quick to do as you say.
"You know why." Your words are tinged with a hint of annoyance. It was the same conversation each time you went out to a bar with him. "Some girls just can't keep their eyes to themselves."
Dean should have half a mind to find your jealousy seeped words to be off-putting. But, for whatever twisted reason, he can't. It's attractive. For someone to be so protective of him— ready to fight for him in the same way he would for anyone else. He liked being wanted.
His breath catches in his throat, Your fingers grasp onto his jaw, thumb and pointer digging into the soft flesh of his cheeks. His gaze snaps up to watch you leaning down. A haze glosses over his eyes. It's the same look he gets when he's beneath you, withering against your loving hands.
"You know I don't like to share." Your voice has dropped an octave, barely a whisper.
A shiver runs down Dean's spine. Being yours. Something you didn't want to share— to have all to yourself. Dean revealed in it.
A hum is muffled by your tight grip on his cheeks.
He lets you guide his head to the side, exposing the expanse of his neck. Soft skin that was littered with fading marks. Marks you had taken delicate time to leave on him. The fading purple mark against his pulse point was shaped like a heart. You'd have to renew that one. It was the prettiest.
"Please." Dean's muffled whine spills from his mouth, the word sounding slurred.
A smirk fights to tug the corner of your mouth upwards. From protesting to begging for it. Dean really was a walking contradiction— not that you'd ever complain. Watching him squirm for you was a Heavenly sight.
"Stay still f'me, baby."
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