Hello There :)

ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴘʟᴀʏɢɪʀʟ

Summary: Paul might just have developed an obsession with the camera that you let him have.

Warnings: 18+ MDI

(just a quick little blurb. this is just filth honestly)

You hadn't thought much of it when you had lifted the camera - one of those instant ones that spits out a laminated card of film that you have to shake.

It had caught your attention, because, in a certain way, it seemed important. The man who you had stolen it from, slipping the dark strap from around his limp, bloodied neck and over his head, had come all the way out in the middle of the night to take pictures. Trekking up the high hills that crest high along the ocean just to be able to stand on the edge.

All so he'd be able to take picture after picture of the town glittering in the close distance; the shimmer of the amusement park rides glimmering on the reflection of the water. Not that you could blame him, the view from up there is stunning.

You took the camera fully with the intention of using it, but somewhere along the span of a few weeks, it had wound up forgotten on the old dresser beside your bed. Hidden away amongst all the other tchotchkes and random trinkets that you've stolen throughout the last couple of years.

You didn't think much of it when Paul had asked if he could have it one night, nosily browsing through your stuff like he usually does. Always sticking his fingers where they don't belong.

You had hardly bothered looking up at him from your hand, carefully focusing as you glided a brush, damp with cherry red polish over your nails.

You remember giving a light hum of affirmation, nodding your chin stiffly from where you had it pressed against your knee.

You had hardly heard the delighted, "Hell, yeah," that he had whispered. But even while you idlily flipped through a dated issue of Vogue in between the application of the polish, you could hear the way his voice had gone all somewhere between husky but also light. Pitched with something downright sleazy. You could practically hear all the perverted thoughts rolling around in his head as he plucked up the camera from the dresser.

In hindsight, you should have expected the monster that you had unintentionally created. He's always been a pervert and giving him access to this type of thing was bound to unless a completely new side.

He has a whole stash of photos now. They're all of you, naturally. Sweet candid's that catch you in all the ways he'd like to remember. Immortalizations of your smile; sincere moments that he can tuck inside the inner pocket of his coat and keep held to his chest.

One in particular is always kept there. Hidden and safe like a cherished icon tucked away from unworthy, prying eyes. It's somewhat blurred. Distorted from when the lens had caught you in motion. It smeared around the edges of your hair; the lights of the carousel behind you create a sort of halo effect.

But he likes the carefree expression on your face the most. Bright and free, eyes glittering from when he had caught you in the middle of a fit of laughter. Courtesy of some joke he said - one that he can't really remember now, vague and miles away.

As much as he loves that little candid in his pocket - how casual and content it is, with you clutching onto a half-eaten funnel cake and laughing - he'd be a liar if he didn't love all his other pictures just as much.

He's become a bit of a photographer in the past month, and his portfolio is already packed. Filled to the brim with images that all focus around you in all the best ways possible.

He'd probably be able to make an entire magazine at this point. One that would put Playgirl to shame. All with you on each and every page, centerfold and cover.

God, he'd actually pay money to see that.

The pictures he has are all crammed into rusted toolbox that he keeps hidden away in a narrow crevice split inside one of the cave walls. It's close enough to the floor that he's able to block it from sight with a wooden pallet.

Maybe it's sort of overkill, but the last thing he needs is for someone to go snooping and find something that they don't need to see.

Yeah, he'd either die on the spot or kill someone if that happened, but he's pretty sure that you'd be more than happy to do the killing. You'd probably just end up wringing his neck though, and he'd be more than willing to let you.

The collection that he's got going on is easily one of his most prized possessions, and he's not guilty to admit it. Even if it is a little shameful how many times he's found himself looking back over them.

Shuffling back through the stack of pictures as though they're a deck of cards. But he swears that he notices something new about them each time. They somehow manage to look better and better when that probably shouldn't be possible.

He's jacked off more times that he should admit to the one that he has of you bent over his bike but fuck it's hot.

Between the dark cover of the night and flash of the camera, the background is a void of black. It makes you look as though you've been encased in satin.

There's a glimpse of the bike's handlebars peeking into the shot, a peek of chrome reflecting bright in the image. And yeah, he's not really paying attention to all of that, but he can't pretend that the sight of you bent over his bike doesn't do something for him.

Your skirt is all rucked up in the image, the tight slip of dark fabric bunched over the shape of your hips to shamelessly brandish the flash of your panties. The noticeable wet spot between your thighs, dark against the white material gets him hard every time, and his hand always manages to slip inside of his pants whenever he comes across it in the pile.

Just a small glance at the photo is able to take him back to that night, immersing him in that specific moment, with the warm air brushing over his skin and the sound of your cries melodic and mindless in his ears. You sounded like a pornstar.

His hand is pathetic in comparison to how you had gripped him. It's too rough, too cool. Nowhere close to the way your cunt had clenched around his cock like it was trying to keep him locked inside, stretched and wet and tight on him.

It makes it difficult to narrow down a possible favorite from the pile. There's somehow too many and not enough, and each specific photo has something that he loves, no matter how simple the subject matter might be.

Like the picture he has of your tits. Your bra isn't even completely off in the photo, just slipped down around your ribs just enough to free your breasts. The red lace cupped beneath them, nearly brushing over your nipples. They're perky in the photo, hard from the chill of the cave, glittering softly from the spit he had left behind with his mouth.

He can't count how many times he's fucked his fist to that one. Tracing over the marks he had left behind, the blotches of cherry and plum he'd made with his teeth and tongue; sucked into your skin.

He's held that very picture in his left hand, satiating himself as best as he could while you went off with Star to have a night out on the town - 'girl's night.'

They happen every week and he looks forward to them with all the enthusiasm of someone who's scheduled to get teeth pulled. The pictures almost make it tolerable. Like chasing tequila with a swig of Coke.

But the image of you all splayed out on your bed is a close contender for the number one spot. It was one of those lucky nights where everyone else was out in town, giving the both of you the freedom to actually indulge in each other on an actual bed for the few hours you were afforded.

There's a dreamy quality that had been caught in your eyes while you watched the camera. That dazed, fucked out look that makes him feel just as ruined.

You were completely naked, flat on your back with the sheets and blankets all messy around you; rumpled in a way that seems like a current shifting over water. Your spine was a little arched, pushing your breasts out, making them more pronounced.

You were all kiss swollen lips and ruined hair. He can practically hear the soft little moans that you had been letting out, bouncing off of the stone and back over onto his skin.

But the best thing about it might be how your legs were held wide open, fingers between your thighs to spread yourself open for the camera. For him.

He remembers kneeling down at the foot of the bed and aiming the camera directly at you. It had taken everything to speak, mumbling out a husky, "Smile for the camera, baby." But just that had taken a effort to say, his throat tight, words snagging like he'd been punched in the chest.

Despite it being more of a joke, a mindless ramble really - because he can't think straight whenever he's got you like that - you did as he asked. Your lips had perked up in a smile, just as dazed as the clouded glint in your eyes. Looking all gentle and angelic while you showed him your pussy, so wet and soaked that it caught the fucking reflection of the fires burning around inside the cave.

It was filthy. Depraved. He's never seen anything more beautiful. It almost feels religious sometimes, as crude as it is, to touch himself to all the pictures he has - photos that you trusted him enough to take.

He doesn't think that he's ever going to be able to stop. He has twenty-one of them already (but who's counting), and it's lead him to become a regular at one of the shops downtown. Visiting as soon as the sun will allow. Just narrowly making it through the door just as it's light safely settles past the horizon around 8:30, always giving him about half an hour to punch it before the store can close.

The owner recognizes him by now. Some innocent looking old man, with a gentle, wrinkled smile who always offers him a Tootsie Roll from the tiny candy dish on the front counter while he rings up the total.

The old man - Ron? Robert? - would probably have a stroke if he knew just why Paul is constantly coming in to purchase film. But then again, there's a lot of things about Paul that would give him a stroke if he knew.

The fact that he's become a regular should be a little telling. Some might call it an obsession, but that's pretty much what a hobby is anyway, right?

He thinks that shitty little camera might be one of the best gifts he's ever received. It's nearly painful how stunning you are in each picture. How hot you always are.

So honestly, he can't pick a favorite at all. Because somehow, it's not the photo of you sucking his cock. Lips glossy with spit and precum, stretched wide in a mouthful with your nose nuzzled all the way down to his pelvis, the point of it pressed into the thatch of hair at the base. Not even with the wide-eyed way you gaze up at the camera, watching him like you were greedy; unshed tears threatening to spill.

He can still practically feel that way your throat had flexed around him then. The soft warmth of your palms massaging his balls while you sucked and licked up the length of his cock until he had cum in your mouth with a ragged groan.

But it's not that one.

And it's not the picture of your riding him, bare chested with your face slightly scrunched, jaw dropped in pleasure from the thumb that he had on your clit. His hand was in frame, just barely visible, but the clumsy grip he had on the camera was just secure enough for him to snap the shot, and it caught the curl of his knuckle on your stuffed cunt.

That still wasn't his favorite either.

It's a shame that he doesn't have one yet. But he guesses that you'll both just have to keep trying until he does. Until he gets that perfect shot. He'd maybe feel bad, but you don't seem to mind in the slightest.

There's something knowing and hungry in your gaze when notice him from where he's sitting off on the couch. He's already holding the old Kodiak in his hands, tracing his fingertips over the corners of the cold plastic while he watches from your place across the cave.

The fire catches in your eyes. It makes you wild looking, like you could eat him alive. Fire lights up in his veins because damn, he really wants you to until he's only bones. He knows that he doesn't even need to ask, but he does it anyway:

"In the mood for a photoshoot?"

Your smile is answer enough.

Okay okay hear me out Rain: reader watching Sanji cook, just sitting, waiting, maybe reading a book but catching glances at him every so often and he knows they're looking at him and just smiles....sorry I love that man

accidentally in love

opla!sanji; 2,569 words; fluff, banter so much banter, flirting, flustered!sanji, whipped!sanji, no "y/n", confessions, "sweetheart", fem!reader, straw hat"!reader

summary: in which sanji is trying to cook dinner but you're very, very distracting. or, sanji finally meets his match.

a/n: i know i said i might not write for anyone other than zoro but i lied. i guess i'm a sanji bitch now too. fuck.

Sanji’s always liked to say that he can cook anywhere, anytime, given that he’s got something that resembles heat and a smattering of ingredients — like any great artist, he knows how to make do. But, he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t enjoy this — the quiet of a ship’s kitchen, the gentle sway of the ocean, the simmer and pop of fat on a pan, the soft bubbling of boiling water — and you.

You, perched on the counter with your legs hanging off the side, hair piled up and pinned with a chopstick, a book in your hands or on your lap, the early afternoon sun spilling in to caress your skin like so many loving fingers. Sometimes, he’ll glance over while chopping onions or mincing garlic to catch a glimpse of you, and he’d find himself stilling, his fingers slowing, his breath suspended in his chest, caught like an insect in amber: held weightless and perfect.

“You’re staring,” you say, flipping a page without looking up, a smile twitching at your lips.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve found that admiring beautiful things helps me in my creative process,” he says, his grin going lopsided as he lowers his eyes to the ingredients on the cutting board — tiny, plump cherry tomatoes ripe to bursting. He resumes slicing each in half with swift, decisive cuts and relishes in the sound of your laughter.

“Careful with that mouth of yours — someone might accidentally fall in love with you,” you flip another page.

Sanji slides the cut tomatoes into a bowl and wipes a hand on the towel slung over his shoulder.

“Accidentally? C’mon, you gotta gimme some more credit. But if anyone’s fallin’ in love, it’s gonna be with you.”

Another page. Sanji plucks a few zucchini from a large bag and starts to julienne them into thin strips.

“What are you making?” you ask, finally setting the book down in favor of peering at all the ingredients he’s got laid out. He quirks an eyebrow, glancing up.

“What, finished with that book already?”

“Nope — just found something more interesting to look at, that’s all.”

Sanji blushes.

Let it never be said that Vinsmoke Sanji can’t take as good as he gives but by all the gods and monsters and sea kings — you’re a damn good flirt. Almost as good as he is, he used to think. Now, as he covers up his rapidly darkening cheeks with a chuckle, turning away to grab a potato for skinning, he wonders if you might just be better.

“You never answered my question, y’know.”

He looks up again, his tongue feeling strangely swollen and uncoordinated in his mouth. You’re grinning at him, your legs still swinging, but in the few seconds he’d looked away, you’ve inched closer, your outer thigh now almost pressing against the edge of his cutting board.

The first time he’d found you perched up on his long work table with a book in your lap, he’d blinked, crossed his arms, and debated on asking what on earth you thought you were doing. Chefs generally do not take kindly to their prep spaces being treated like free real estate for sitting, but he’d never been able to say no to a beautiful woman, now has he? And least of all you.

“Thought you could use the company,” was your answer to his then-unasked question. He’d laughed, nodded, and gotten on with his breakfast prep. But that was months ago and since then, it’s become something of a habit; a ritual, almost.

“What question was that? I was —” he asks, clearing his throat, his fingers almost slipping on the freshly peeled potato, “distracted by your —”

“What are you making?”

“Oh —” Sanji returns his gaze to the cutting board, now acutely aware of the smell of your skin, creamy and warm. He swallows, trying to focus on slicing the potato.

“Just a cherry tomato and zucchini noodle pasta — not often that we get such fresh produce. But Luffy’d asked if I can make chips from scratch the other day so that’s what this bad boy’s for,” he says, holding up half the potato.

“You sure one potato’s gonna be enough?” you shift your leg to cross one above the other, and Sanji has to swallow passed the thickness building up in the back of his throat at the sight of your soft, smooth thighs.

“Good point,” he says, laughing as he bends down to grab a few more.

You fall into a companionable silence, the quiet only punctuated by the tack-tack-tack of his knife on the cutting board and the occasionally shunk-thump of ingredients being swept into a metal prep bowl.

“You’re staring,” he says. And this time, it’s Sanji who grins, keeping his eyes fixed on the remainder of the herb mix he’s chopping up.

“Yeah, I know. I’m making a habit of admiring beautiful things. I’ve heard that it’s good for me.”

Heat bursts in Sanji’s chest as if he’d swallowed a shot of whiskey or gin or perhaps something even more potent. His head spins, but he steadies himself before letting out a soft, low whistle. He fights the urge to look up just to check if you’re as affected as he is.

“Keep talkin’ like that and falling in love with you’s not gonna be an accident.”

When he finally looks up to shoot you a flirty smile, he finds himself faltering as he meets your eyes.

“Who said I wanted it to be an accident?”

The knife in Sanji’s hand slips and he swears as it knicks the skin of his forefinger.

“Ah, shit —”

“Oops.” You have the decency to look sheepish as he shoots you a mildly reproachful look. But you shift your legs and tug open a drawer that had been tucked beneath where your knee had been, pulling out a small bandage.

“Come here,” you offer, reaching out as he stares at you for a second before moving forward to give you his hand. You gently wipe away the blood before pressing the bandage to the small cut, running a thumb over the edges to make sure it’s sealed.

The air hangs between you like dust motes trapped in sunlight, like first snow caught in the silvery breaths of awestruck children.

“There,” you say, the word no more than a whisper. Your hands linger over his, his skin burning where you’d touched him. Shivers skitter down the length of his spine as he gulps in a breath of air that tastes faintly of fairytale endings and happily-ever-afters.

“Thanks.”

He doesn't pull away. Neither do you.

Like this, he can count every single lash that frames your doe-wide eyes. Like this, he can feel the static thrum of electricity threatening to jump from his body to yours, and all at once, he understands why lightning always tries to reach for the closest thing to its storm-ridden skies.

Perhaps it, too, yearns for closeness — for that infinitesimal moment of connection.

He wants to reach for you.

Your lips hover a kiss’s-breadth away.

An alarm goes off.

“Oh fuck —”

He jerks away from you, the world clanging rudely back into focus as he reaches for the lid of a large pot, his heart hammering something fierce inside his ribcage. He nearly burns himself on the thick fog of steam rising from inside the pot to reveal six flat-face crabs, freshly caught that morning.

Behind him, he hears the distinct sounds of you slipping from the long work table.

“Leaving already?” he asks as he turns back around with a stab at his usual light-hearted cheek.

You lick your lips, grinning, “I feel like I’ve caused enough damage for one dinner service. If I keep hanging around, you might lose a finger next.”

“Small price to pay for the company of a beautiful woman,” but there’s a gravel and grit to his voice that wasn’t there before, and he looks away first when this time your eyes catch. He tries to busy himself with prepping the pan sauce for the crabs.

“I’ll let Nami know that the next time she wants to peek in on you cooking.”

“Hey —”

You pause at the sound of his voice just as you reach the door. You turn.

Sanji’s expression flickers between caution and anticipation as he opens his mouth, his eyes somehow sharper and darker than they usually are.

“We’re not done talking about this.”

You cock your head, “About what?”

But there’s a smile teasing at the corner of your lips and Sanji lets out a good-humored sigh.

“Alright, go. Or else I might lose more than a finger.”

Like a heart, he thinks as you close the door behind you with a soft click.

Dinner is an appetizer of cold zucchini pasta followed by a warm, tangy tomato veloute. Then come the crabs — freshly steamed over a bed of risotto and served with a lemon and rosemary pan sauce so delicious it has even Zoro sighing with satisfaction.

“Wow, special occasion?” Nami asks, looking up as Sanji comes around with a tray full of cocktails, complete with blood orange slices garnishing the lip of each glass.

“Ain’t every day a special one with this crew?” he asks, winking at Nami as she takes her drink.

Everyone laughs, but as he sets down your drink, you notice a tiny note tucked beneath the base of your glass.

You take a sip of your drink, glancing down at the note. It has three simple words written in Sanji’s unmistakable, slanted handwriting:

Kitchen — after dinner.

You tuck the note away in your pocket with a secret grin, taking another long sip of the cold, refreshing drink.

The final course is a heaping pile of home-made potato chips with garlic and cheese dip, and Luffy wastes no time in shoveling half the batch into his mouth, crunching loudly over a series of vague, animalistic hums and grunts that all seem to denote happiness.

You finish your drink and slip away under the guise of going for another.

When you get to the kitchen, it's to find Sanji already cleaning up.

“Need a hand?” you ask, setting your empty glass on the counter before lightly hoisting yourself up onto it.

Sanji shakes his head, turning off the water and wiping down his hands. He pours you another drink from a large pitcher before setting it down and pursing his lips.

“This afternoon —”

“I meant what I said —” you say, cutting him off as you look away, eyes fixed on your knees as you swing your feet away from the table’s edge, “if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sanji clears his throat, reaching into his pocket to grab a cigarette and a lighter, if only to keep his hands busy. The thing in his chest that he’d been so convinced was his heart for most of his life now feels very much like a ticking time bomb. Or perhaps a hand grenade, with the pin held precariously between your teeth.

One word from you and —

“So? What about you?” you ask.

Sanji sucks in a long breath of smoke, holding it in his lungs before letting it out. The familiar sting grounds him as he looks at you and wonders if you know all the things he’d do for you. All the things he’s already done.

“Me?” he asks.

“Yeah — did you mean it?” And for the first time since he’s known you, you sound uncertain, “All… all those things you said? All the things you’ve been saying?”

He takes a few steps forward, finally allowing himself to breach the delicate circle of your personal space, his free hand coming to rest on the counter next to your thigh, his palm pressing flat to keep himself from going too far, too fast.

“Three guesses,” he says, letting his eyes flicker down to your lips and linger there, “You guess right… and there might be a prize involved, hm?”

A small, knowing grin spreads across your lips even as you quirk an eyebrow.

“Three guesses to a yes or no question? C’mon, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re losing your touch.”

Sanji leans in and you can almost taste the smoke on your tongue.

“But you do know better, don’t you, sweetheart?”

You suck in a breath, reaching up to tug the cigarette from his lips.

“Yes.”

You catch a flash of his smile a second before his lips find yours. He tastes of salt and tobacco and lemon-rosemary sauce.

“That’s one,” he says as the pair of you break apart. The cigarette lies forgotten on the counter.

Somehow, his hands have found their way to the bend of your waist, settling there as naturally as the tide might settle against its favorite stretch of forgotten beach.

You smile as you reach up to tug him closer, “Yes.”

Another kiss.

Sanji notes with a satisfied grin that your cheeks are just as flushed as his feels when he pulls away this time. He nods, trailing long fingers up your side, one hand reaching up to cup your cheek, the other pressing at the small of your back.

“That’s two.”

You nudge his nose with yours and he feels his hand-grenade heart leap into his throat.

“And…” you hum, letting your head lilt to one side as you ghost your lips over his, “Hm, lemme think about this one…”

Sanji rolls his eyes, tugging you forward by the back of your neck, crushing your mouth to his. It’s more insistent this time — the kiss, the breath, his fingers, your hands — more desperate and fumbling, fueled by the ever-growing heat bubbling at the base of his spine.

“Yes —” you hiss, panting as the pair of you pull apart, your pupils blown wide and dark in the dim kitchen light.

“And that’s all three,” he says, his smile going wide with warmth, “See? You’ve got it. Knew you’d get there.”

“Did you ever doubt?”

Sanji shrugs, taking half a step back to admire the sight of you, with kiss-swollen lips and heat-flushed skin. Perfect might not be strong enough a word.

“There was a moment here or there,” he says, to which you respond with a light shove to his shoulder as you hop off the table.

“Oh, I meant to ask you — what’s for dessert?”

Sanji laughs, “What? Did my garlic-cheddar chips not satisfy?”

“Really? Chips for dessert? And here I was hoping for something sweet.”

You make to leave the kitchen but Sanji reaches forward, pulling you back all too easily, spinning you around and pinning you against the door. His eyes are soft with mirth but as he leans down, you can’t help but shiver at the promise of something more lingering beneath the smoke of his breath.

“Well then, sweetheart, I think I’ve got my dessert picked out already now, don’t I?”

recs r technically closed, but... if you have an opla!sanji one... send it here.

Supernatural Masterlist

So… Deja Vu?

— Sam and Dean have to watch their best friend die over and over again everyday.

Tell me a story 

— Dean has trouble sleeping at night

My wife, even better

— Dean can’t stop talking about you, his wife.

Better than nothing 

— You and Castiel work together to help make Deans birthday cake.

Strange human emotions 

— Castiel has been experiencing some rather strange emotions, especially ones that revolve around you.

Said, I was sorry

— You’re pissed at Dean, and Sam and Bobby find it amusing.

Five more minutes 

— Dean gets to spend the morning with you

It’s a scream, baby

— Dean and you discuss what the best Horror film is

Privacy privilege

— Dean had started to invade your privacy more often after a hunt

Baby face

— You start to get upset when Dean decides to shave off his beard

It’s scented… right?

— The boys help shop for all you feminine products while you are away

Tell me a story

Summary: Dean has trouble sleeping at night

Word count: 0.5k

A/n: I don’t use Y/n at all in this fic, and I am just trying to practice writing. So leave criticism if you want :)

༺═────────────═༻

He felt restless. 

He was always moving, always hunting, always fixing something in this messed up world that he lived in. And boy did it tire him out. 

Dean was currently sitting in the ‘Dean cave’, an old Adam Sandler movie playing in the background as he tried to doze off. But sleep seemed to drift away from him every time he came close to the internal peace. 

He didn’t know what it was that kept him from this nights sleep. He tried all the tricks in the book to help him; warm milk, reading for five minutes an hour, and even shutting off all electronics so that his eyes wouldn’t burn from the blue light. But none of it seemed to work. 

Glancing at his watch, he read the time. 2:47am. “God.” Dean muttered to himself, he’d been trying to sleep since 10, and now four hours later he had yet to even come close to sleeping. 

A small knock came from the entrance to the cave, facing the noise he saw you standing beside the door frame. An old band T-shirt of Deans and a pair of your shorts were used for your PJs tonight, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes as you slowly walked into the room. 

“Dean?” You questioned, coming to stand in front of him as he never once moved from his spot on the couch. 

“Yes, princess?” He asked, sitting up. The blanket he had been using sliding down to the floor, chills slowly creeping up the back of his neck. 

“Why are you still up?”

Dean didn’t know if he should sugarcoat his answer or just tell you flat out, because either way he’d know that you’d ask questions either way. He let out a tired sigh, his hand rubbing his face before he answered you. “I couldn’t sleep, haven’t been able to for a couple of hours.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, you’d seen him go to bed hours ago. You’d honestly thought he was well into sleep by the time you had retired to your own room. You’d only been up because you were thirsty, and when you walked past the ‘Dean cave’ you were confused why the TV was on. 

Looking over your shoulder at the TV, you saw Happy Gilmore playing. The volume down low enough to not bother the only other sleeping resident in the bunker. You then faced Dean again a tired pout gracing your lips as you stepped in between Deans legs. Both your hands coming to rest in his hair. 

“Can I watch the movie with you?” You asked, giving him the best puppy eyes that you could muster. 

Dean let out a breathy laugh, his own hands coming to rest on your waist as he pulled you closer to him.  “Course, princess.”

Laying back down on the couch, Dean pulled you on top of him, your head resting on his chest as you listened to his steady heart breathing. A deep sigh fell from Deans lips as he pulled you closer to his body, if possible. 

With the warm body now on top of him, and light chatter from the TV, Dean slowly felt sleep seeping into his body. That’s all he needed, Dean thought to himself as he listened to your slow breathing. He didn’t need warm milk, or a book to help him fall asleep.

Instead all he needed was his favorite movie and his favorite girl to do the trick. 

They just had the most bodacious thought

80s AU quotes

(All my 80s AU things like this where there’s not a specific pairing will be posting in my misc masterlist)

David: “We’re vampires, aren’t you freaked out?”

Y/N, points to Bill and Ted: “Took me time traveling”

Y/N, points to Hawkins Crew: “Made me fight demons in another dimension”

Y/N: “Honestly my standard for ‘normal’ is pretty low”

******

Eddie: “You didn’t tell me you were dating these guys”

*Y/N, Bill and Ted, cuddled up all over each other*

Y/N: “What do you mean? We’re not dating”

*****

Paul: “So wait, are any of you sleeping with her?”

Eddie: “You’re gonna need to choose your next words very carefully”

****

David: “You’re eating maggots, Eddie”

Eddie, trying to assert dominance: “I’ve had worse” *continues eating*

*****

*David and Y/N looking at Marko, Paul, Bill and Ted*

Y/N: “Oh god, there’s four of them”

*****

Ted: “You dudes should come with us to the beach tomorrow”

Y/N: “Ted, the sun kills them, and they sleep during the day”

Ted: “Bogus”

*****

David: “I want to turn her but she’s too sweet”

Eddie: “Y/N is not sweet, she is an awful gremlin person!”

Marko: “That sounds a little harsh”

Bill: “No it’s true. While y/n is our friend and we love her, she is also a gremlin”

Ted: “One time she bit someone who was laughing at Bill”

Dwayne: “That just sounds like a sweet kid”

Bill: “It was last year”

Eddie: “Chaotic good kinda gremlin but still a gremlin”

Steve: “Also if you try to turn her we’ll slit your throats”

Five more minutes

Summary: Dean gets to spend the morning with you

Word count: 0.4k

A/n: Lowkey, I love this one, hope you guys enjoy ;)

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Sun filtered through the cheap motel curtains, filling the room with its earthy glow. Dean had been up for hours. Basking in the feel of your body pulled tightly against his own. It was almost heavenly. 

God, you were so pretty. He would think to himself, arms ever so slightly tightening themselves around your waist. You looked so young when you were relaxed, so innocent. It made Dean just want to protect you from the outside world. 

But he knew he couldn’t do that. He knew that when you’d wake up, you’d go back to be in the badass hunter that you were. The one who pretended to not be afraid of anything and tried to protect the ones you loved.

And Dean loved that side of you, he’d cherish it every time he saw it. But, when you relax and let the world and all its bullshit problems escape from you, that’s when Dean would step in. That’s when Dean would protect you like he does Sam, he would worry and shield you away from danger if he could. If that meant you would be sweet and innocent as you were now. 

He lifted a hand, tugging it up to pull a few pieces of stray hairs from your face. Fingers gracing the your soft skin gently before he retracted his hand. You slowly rustled against his touch, eyes squinting against the gently lit room before nuzzling back into your previous position. 

The sound of his brother slowly waking caught his attention, Dean knew that he’d have to wake you up as well. Force you out of bed and out into the world of hunting. So, he pulled you closer, his head coming to rest on top of yours as he just listened to you breath for now. 

Happy and content that you were at peace for just a little while longer. That he would get to have this moment with you for just a couple more seconds. 

“Dean?” Sam’s voice called from his bed, voice groggy and ruff from just waking up. 

“Yeah?”

“We gotta get up.” He told him, the sound of covers being thrown meeting Deans ears. 

He just hummed in acknowledgment, allowing him a few more seconds to soak in your unaware presence. The smell of your body wash and old perfume, consuming his senses as he laid there. “Just give me five more minutes.”

Five more minutes, to take in the feel of your skin against his own. 

Five more minutes, to bask in your beauty. 

Five more minutes, to feel like he can actually protect you from the world that they live in. 

Five more minutes, to for him to realize that he can’t live without you beside him. 

Five more minutes, to realize just how much he truly loved you. 

I DONT KNOW WHO NEEDS TO SEE THIS BUT HERE ARE SOME LOST BOYS (1987) PFP’s

I have no idea who the artist is, if you know PLEASE tell me. BUT, LOOK HOW CUTE THEY ALL ARE 😭