I am fairly new to writing fanfic and still getting the hang of it, but if you have any ideas for one shots, imagines, headcannons, etc, feel free to request in my inbox :)
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Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, friends to lovers, humor, forced proximity, fluff, smut (oral f and m receiving, p in v sex,), light angst, love confessions
Summary/Warnings: Dean is your best friend, and nothing more, no matter how much you want that to be different.
But he's trying to tell you something. And when you get trapped together for a week, he finally gets the chance.
Author's Note: Request from an anon! I lost my goddamn mind.
Word Count: 17.7k
“Are you smelling this, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” you sigh, wrinkling your nose as another blob of something drifts past your feet. “We’re standing next to each other, Dean.”
Dean points his flashlight up, enough for you to see his grin in the dark. “You remember when Sammy farted last month, then pretended it was my Baby leaking something?”
You snort, kicking away something strangely hard that you don’t want to think about. “Yeah?”
“Least this still isn’t that bad.”
You look up to give him a flat, amused look, and freeze.
“Dean-“
“C’mon, he’s not here-“
“No, Dean, fuck-“
You grab out your gun, aim it right over his shoulder, and shoot.
The last swamp monster thuds into the water, and Dean stares at you with wide eyes.
“Uh, how close was I to bein’ a swap snack?”
You shrug, giving him a small smile. “Don’t undervalue yourself, dude. You would have been swamp dinner.”
Dean snorts, wading through the water to your side, and rests his hand on your back. There’s no real reason for him to do that. You’re standing up just fine. No serious injuries. No panic.
He’s just touching you. Casually. The way he always has, without thought, because he trusts you enough not to turn around and try to cut off his hand.
And it’s always driven you out of your mind.
Dean’s casually put his hand on your body since you met him. Since the first hunt, where he and Sam saved the helpless little vampire victim, and you tried to shoot them because you didn’t know that the people carrying machetes were the good guys. Dean had put his hand on your upper arm and lower back, helped you to your feet, and been the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.
You can still feel where he touched you, all those years ago. It’s branded a level right under your skin, the lightening and fire sensation of a broad, rough hand being so gentle on your skin. And every time he’s touched you since, you’ve still been able to feel it. Sinking deeper and deeper, spreading and growing with every accidental brush of his hand and shoulder bump and time you’ve been pressed right against him on a hunt. It’s going to burn forever. You don’t want it to go out, even if it drives you out of your mind.
Days the bunker is empty, and you lock the door to your room with your legs spread. Whenever he makes you—and Sam, but that’s not important—breakfast. If you’re watching a movie, and he puts his arm over your shoulder because he’s comfortable. Every time he whispers a joke in your ear, grins so wide when you laugh. Every fucking night you have to spend in the same room with him, pretending you don’t feel like you’re burning alive with a light that won’t flicker out.
Most motels don’t offer three beds. So there are times where the couch fits Dean—never Sam, and you’re not allowed to sleep on the couch because they’re dumbasses who think they’re gentlemen—and times where you just have to suck it up and share.
Sharing with Sam is fine. You can’t grind into the sheets as the fire sweeps into your core—Dean likes to walk out of the shower without a shirt, and he might hate you—because fucking Sam is right on the other side of the bed.
When you share with Dean, it’s… different.
You can’t fuck yourself then, either. But it becomes unbearable. Your body seems to ache, just to touch him. Sometimes the light will be angled just right through the window, and you’ll be able to watch the passing headlights of the cars drift over his pretty face.
Because Dean’s face is still so fucking beautiful. It’s one of those few things you know will never change.
But you don’t want anything to change. Change is the thing that leaves you alone, dead in the water, trying to use the stars to guide yourself when the sky is pitch black. You’ve never been good at it. When you joined hunting, it took months for you to fully adjust just to living in the bunker.
Dean had gotten you through that. Made you comfortable. Taught you how to hold a gun, and throw a punch, and made you waffles when you’d finally managed to knock him on his ass.
“I know you went easy on me,” you’d told him, spraying the whip cream on your plate, and he’d chuckled.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”
“It’s okay,” you’d shrugged. “Next time you can go all out, and I’ll still win.”
Dean had grinned at you, and you’d felt that heat rising to your cheeks. It wasn’t fair how he could do that. How you’d gotten so good at being around him and not acting like just one word in your direction made you feel high. At this point it had just been a crush, on the big handsome man who saved your life.
Even then, it had still felt like a massive, consuming type of crush. The kind like a tree, that wouldn’t stop rooting into your heart and growing. The kind that you’d known would get you in trouble, if you weren’t careful.
“Sure you will.” Dean had reached for the whipped cream can, and you’d whacked his hand with it. “Hey, c’mon-“
“I’m not done.” You’d finished the pile with a little swirl, and passed him the can with a smile.
He’d stared at you, then the whipped cream mountain. “You trying to drown yourself?”
“Maybe.”
Dean had reached forward, taken some on his finger—ruining the artwork, but it had been Dean, so you were never mad—and dabbed it on your nose. He’d laughed at your glare, and you’d tried to bite his finger.
It had just made him laugh harder.
“You look cute.” He’d said, lookin back to his own waffle, and it had been like being shot up with fire.
He thought you were cute. Dean thought you were cute. And he’d touched you again. And maybe if you’d asked him to, he could have kissed you and you could run your hand through his hair and taste the salt of his sweat, and he could show you how to do a few other moves, right here at the table, and-
“You good?” He’d asked you, and he’d sounded concerned. Not starved for you, just worried. Like a friend would be.
And you didn’t want anything to change. This was already better than you could have dared to ask for.
So you’d smiled at him, and nodded.
And nothing ever had to be different.
Friends.
You were so fucking lucky just to be his friend. The one-night stands came and went, and you were still here, with Dean. You could take that.
Take it, and use it to kindle all that heat in your body. Burn it and burn it until it was ash.
Keep pretending that your hunger and fever for Dean would ever go out, when you know that this is forever.
You’ve known it was love since you were in a diner, almost a year ago, and he made the waitress get you the children’s coloring mat, because it had crossword puzzles and you didn’t want to ask.
“Don’t bother her, Dean
“I’m not bothering her, sweetheart, it’s asking her to carry freakin’ paper-“
“No, it’s stupid, I’ll get a newspaper-“
“We’ll get you a newspaper after.” He shrugged, giving you a shockingly serious look. “But it’s not stupid. You’re not stupid. We’re getting that kids mat.”
You’d flushed, and nodded. And you loved him.
Love him.
Now, even in the swamp monster mess, his touch and attention do the exact same thing to you. It’s going to drive you out of your mind, one day. But you don’t want to try and stop it.
That would mean moving yourself away from Dean, where he couldn’t touch you. And it might not even do anything, but make you miss him. Make things change.
So you’ll lean slightly into his touch—just in case—and smile at him in the dark.
When he smiles back, it’s like the whole world lights up.
And you never want that to change either.
“You think we need to clean this shit up?” He nods around you, making a face as a fresh wave of swamp-stench drifts through the air, and you shake your head.
“Can I suggest an alternate plan?”
Dean nods. “You know I love a backup, sweetheart.”
You flush again, bowing your head to make sure he won’t see. “I vote we just blow it up.”
“That’s a plan.” He bumps your shoulder, and you can hear the joy in his voice. “I’m team blow it up.” He pauses. “Can I-“
“Yeah.” You smile at your feet. “You can do the work.”
“Awesome.” He starts to walk towards the exit, and all you can do is follow him. “Then we’ll get all this shit off us.”
You hum an agreement, and try not to pick apart his happiness too much. It’s always good when Dean is happy, but you’ve developed a bad habit of trying to pinpoint why. If he gets excited when you buy him pie because you bought him pie, or it’s pie. If he grins at you when he sees you because he’s happy to see you, or just to see a friend.
If he just wants to use his grenade launcher, or if he’s happy you gave him a reason to.
It never gets you anywhere, to think of that. And no matter what conclusion you draw, it’s never going to change anything.
But it’s still a fun way to torture yourself. Watching him with a smile as he blasts the old cabin, and the whole thing goes crashing down. Returning his thumbs up with a smile, and giving him a high five when he walks back to the car.
“Another monster, ganked.” He puts the launcher back in the truck, and you hum.
“And it’s a swamp monster. Big day for you.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, guess it is. Didn’t really think about that.”
You blink at him. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, giving you an odd smile you don’t really understand. “Guess I was worrying about other shit.”
“Other-“
“C’mon.” He raises his voice over yours, grabbing your arms and starting to herd you towards the passenger’s seat. “We gotta get you back to the motel. You’re gonna catch a cold.”
“Me?” You frown at him. “You’ll get one too, Winchester-“
“Nah. I don’t catch colds.”
You snort as he closes the door behind you. You wait for him to get behind the wheel before you’re leaning forward, raising your brows.
“Everyone gets colds, Dean.”
“Not me.” He winks at you, turning on the engine. “I run hot, baby.”
Jesus.
That’s like being doused in gasoline and struck with a match. It is freezing outside—swamp monsters somehow ended up in Montana—and you are drenched in something worse than water, but all you can feel is the wired heat under your skin, as you play that over and over in your head.
It’s just another moment, that means nothing to Dean and everything to you.
But there are so many of them. They make up the tapestry of Dean, that lines your ribs. Remind you over and over that you love him, and every bit of his happiness—whether you’re the direct cause or not—is a rare, priceless gift he gives to so few people.
Dean does love you.
As a best friend.
You really can pretend that’s enough, just as long as it never has to change.
Dean opens the door to the motel room for you, with a wide, smug grin. “You want first shower?”
“Sure, but-“ You flick a chuck of Swamp Monster off his shoulder with a pointed look. “I think you need it more.”
“I’ve been covered in worse.” He shrugs. “You go, I gotta call Sammy and give him the update.”
“Dean, he’s on vacation, don’t bother him-“
“He can pick up the damn phone at the beach.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Eileen won’t care. Go shower, sweetheart.”
You sigh, but give in. Once Dean decides something like that—you aren’t holding your pee for the rest of the drive, they will find a diner that serves Sam’s stupid rabbit food, this place does have a broken heater and Dean’s going to goddamn fix it—there’s no talking him out of it.
And the shower is nice. Warm. The motel shampoo actually smells like something for once—flowers, nice, sweet flowers—and they water is loud enough that, if you lean against the wall and let your hand wander between your legs, Dean won’t be able to hear it.
He never hears it. He doesn’t know that you’d get on your knees for him, if he ever asked. That you’d sleep in his bed and hold him through every nightmare, if he let you.
Dean doesn’t know that you have to bite your tongue to swallow moans, as you think of his hands so easily on your body, and the deep sound of his voice as he said baby, and his eyes, shining on yours. You’ve pictured them above you too many times. Glinting and blown out, as he unravels you below him. Or under you, fluttering and squeezing tight as you ride him. And he’d buck his hips up into you, driving deeper and deeper, and when you moan his name he’d drag you down into a kiss, and all this heat would finally burst into a firework-
You shake, tossing your head back as your release hits. It’s a small one. You’re too tired to do anything properly, and even angling your clit under the water didn’t do as much as you wanted it to. You don’t manage to swallow the squeak of Dean, but the water is still running. You barely heard it. ‘
And as you walk out of the bathroom, Dean’s still on the phone.
You’re in the clear.
He scans over you with a tight frown, and you raise your brows. He just shakes his head, pointing to the phone, and you nod, shuffling over to the bed.
“Listen, uh- Sammy. Sam.” Dean shoots you another look. “I gotta go, man, shower is open- No, I’m not gonna- Sam.” His voice lowers to a hiss, and you smile to yourself. That’s the shut your face voice. Sam’s probably trying to convince him to do something. “No, I ain’t calling you after, bitch, I don’t- Fucking Christ. Yeah. I know.”
He hangs up, and you glance at him, having settled on your bed with a book.
“Not saying bye?”
“He doesn’t deserve it.” Dean grumbles, moving to his feet.
“What did he do-“
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Well,” you wrinkle your nose, leaning forward. “Now I am worried.”
He sighs, running a hand over his face. “It’s not a big thing, sweetheart. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Or, you could tell me now.”
“I, uh- gotta shower.” He makes for the bathroom, and you raise your voice after him.
“Dean-“
“Tomorrow!” He calls over his shoulder, and closes the door behind him.
You sigh, looking back to your book. It’s probably nothing. Dean doesn’t keep big secrets, not from you. If it was something for you to be worried about, he’d probably have told you already, to try and convince you to lay low at the bunker while he and Sam handled it. Your bet is on another hunt, that Sam’s trying to send you on.
Nothing big.
Just more time you get to spend, only you and Dean.
Dean mutters your name from the doorway, and when you look up, your breath hitches in your throat.
There’s steam, billowing out of the bathroom and casting in a halo-like light. His hair is damp and spikey and soft looking, his bare chest looking almost golden—you don’t know how he tans, when you all live in a fucking basement—and water running over his muscles. And you’ve dreamed about pressing your face into his pecs, or scratching at his abs while he kisses you, or kissing over that V before he grabs your hair and pulls you back and stuffs your mouth with-
You cough, and force your attention back to your book. You can’t look at him too long, or you’ll do something really stupid like beg him to fuck you stupid.
“Yeah, Dean?” Your voice isn’t steady, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I, uh-“ Dean coughs, and you risk a glance up to see him scratching the back of his neck. “You know we ganked those gross assholes real fast. Thought we’d be here longer. And Sam says there’s a story coming, tomorrow, so we’re gonna have to hit the road in the morning.”
“Storm? What storm?” You frown at him, and he gives you an oddly sheepish grin.
“Snow-storm. Supposed to be bordering on a blizzard or something. ‘Less we wanna be stuck here for least a week, we should haul ass soon.”
“Oh.” A week stuck in a motel with Dean doesn’t sound that bad. It would be torture, but the kind of torture that you’d get a thrill out of. The kind that could fuel a lot of dreams for months to come.
Or everything could get fucked up. He’d get sick of you. You’d moan his name in your sleep. Too many things could change, if you were stuck together.
It’s best if you go in the morning.
“I, um-“ You bite on your inner cheek, watching him carefully. “Is that was you were talking to Sam about?”
Dean blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “That’s what we talking about, sweetheart. The storm.”
You narrow your eyes at him—he’s being weird, and you don’t believe him—but Dean only clears his throat and gives you another grin.
“And since we gotta go in the morning, I was ho- Uh, wondering. If you’d wanna get a drink.”
You frown at him again. “We have beers in the fridge, Dean.”
“Yeah. We do.” He mutters, throat bobbing, and you’ve never seen him like this. Looking at the floor a lot. Not walking around with a puffed-out chest and mastered, cowboy swagger. Like he knows how pretty he is, and he’s using it as a shield. Trying to flash bright enough that people won’t see anything but that smooth voice and boyish, charming grin.
You’ve been allowed to see beneath it. Because he’s your friend. Because he’s not trying to impress or trick you. Not trying to sell himself to you, even though you’re kind of already his. He doesn’t care if he gets your love or affection. Some part of you always wonders if he knows he already has it, and that’s why you get to know Dean, the perfect, sweet, broken but strong man, instead of Dean, the sex-god and hunter legend.
And you don’t want to go out drinking with him. You love him. But if you have to watch him flirt with someone else the whole night, you’re going to go find another swamp monster and let it eat you.
You don’t get to open your mouth and tell him that, before he’s continuing on.
“There’s kinda this bar I’ve been dying to check out, since we pulled into down.” His gaze feels like it’s buzzing over your skin. “And we should celebrate. So. Drinks.”
“Drinks.” You repeat, tilting your head at him. He gives you a crooked half-grin and nod, and you pull your lip between your teeth.
He’s being so fucking weird.
“You can go yourself, Dean-“
“No.” He shakes his head, standing up a little taller. “You saved my life tonight. I’m getting you a drink.”
“You’ve saved my life more. And I never buy you a drink.”
“That’s different.” He dismisses you quickly, and you frown.
“How-“
“C’mon,” he drawls your name, his tone almost challenging. “One drink.”
Fuck.
He’s got you. He must know he’s got you, otherwise he wouldn’t have pushed it. All he has to do is poke you, and you cave. Give a mumbled nod and agreement, and trying not to burn from within at his happy grin.
And you don’t know if he’s happy because you said yes to getting drinks, or because he’s getting drinks.
It doesn’t matter.
He’s still happy.
It’s a quick drive, from the motel to the bar. And it’s nice, but not the kind of place you think Dean would be dying to see. It’s just like all other bars you’ve seen, in every corner and county of America. Posters on the walls, dartboards and pool tables, and jukebox that really should be out of commission by now, and dirty, chipping wood tables. The drinks are strong, but no stronger than any other drinks. They’ve got pretty good maraschino cherries, and the bartender doesn’t seem to judge you when you ask for them—which is a plus—but there’s also a gaggle of girls in cowboy hats at the other end of the bar, and you know how this night is going to end.
Or you thought you did.
But they’ve been giggling and shooting looks at Dean all night, and he hasn’t so much as turned around.
“What else do you have on your list?” You ask him, playing with the stem of a cherry, and he frowns at you.
“My list.”
“Your bucket list.”
“I don’t have a bucket-“
“Don’t lie to me, Winchester.” You kick his shin lightly, with a small grin. “It’s not befitting of a lady.”
He snorts. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“I’m not the one being questioned.”
“Oh, I’m bein’ questioned?” He grins, leaning a little closer, and he smells like pine trees. You never should have gotten him that body wash, but you’d also found out he hadn’t been using body wash, and you couldn’t just let that slide. “What’re the charges, sweetheart?”
You shrug. “Lying about your bucket list.”
He opens his mouth, and you give him a flat look.
“I saw it, Dean. You keep it at the bottom of your bag.”
“You-“ He shakes his head. “Why the hell were you looking in my bag?”
You flush, staring down at the cherry stem. The knot won’t stick. “You said I could use your shirt. When mine got vamp blood on it.”
“Right.” He gives you an odd look. “Y’know, I never got that shirt back.”
“Sorry. Forgot.”
You didn’t forget. You keep it in your drawer and sleep in it when you haven’t seen him in a few days. He doesn’t need to know that.
Dean shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “It’s whatever. I got other shirts.” He gives you a small grin. “You remember what else was on that list?”
“Um,” you wrinkle your nose at the air, biting on your lower lip. “Meet Burt Reynolds, save his life. Give Baby guns. Try an Oreo pizza.” You swallow, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on your hands. “Have the sex.” You can’t look at him. Not right now. “Dean, I’m pretty sure you’ve had sex before.”
“Yeah. But this is, uh-“ He coughs. “Special sex.”
That makes you look at him. He’s picking at the label of his beer, a deep frown on his face. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not with you.
“Well,” you mumble, tugging on your cherry stem. “I think you’ve got three options, if you want to go for that one.”
He glances at you, brow drawn. “What?”
“The cowgirls behind you.” You’re going to rip the stem in half. “I think they’d be down to have the sex with you.”
It’s meant to come out as a joke, but you mostly sound bitter. It’s sour on your tongue, because you hate being jealous. It’s not Dean’s fault he doesn’t see you like that. And you can’t place any claim over him, or even blame the cowgirls for taking him away from you. If you saw Dean in a bar, you’d do the exact same thing. And maybe then he’d give you the lazy, hungry smirk he always gives everyone else. If you could just be a pretty face.
There’s a hollow, vile sneer in the back of your head that reminds you he might not even think you’re pretty, and that’s why you never stood a chance. You’ll drink it away, when he leaves you at the bar.
But he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t even look at them.
He just keeps watching you.
“Nah.” He shrugs, and you blink at him.
“Nah?”
“I got better things to do, sweetheart.”
You stare at him. “Like?”
Dean just grins at you, and that’s not fair. It’s making you feel molten and important, and he doesn’t even mean it like that.
“Alright.” You let out a soft laugh, and that sounds bitter too. “Who even are you?”
“I dunno, sweetheart.” He shrugs. “You tell me.”
“I- I’m-“ You take a sharp drink of your own, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “So you’re not going to flirt with them.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not going to flirt with the dudes watching you.”
You snort. “There are no dudes watching me-“
“Yeah.” His tone has changed. Gotten firmer. Deeper. “There always are.”
“Dean.”
“It’s true. You just never freakin’ see it.”
“What, and you do?”
His jaw tics. “Yeah. I do. Beard and flannel, 2 o’clock.”
You look before you can stop yourself, and he’s right. Over your shoulder is a broad, bearded man, wearing a green flannel and looking right at you. He winks, when you meet his gaze, and you swallow.
“I, um-“ You look back to Dean, who looks oddly annoyed for having pointed the guy out to you. “That’s different.”
Dean let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”
“It is. I don’t do… that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah-“
“So what do I do, sweetheart?”
He’s staring at you, something behind his voice that sounds like it’s important. It’s written all over his face, as well. He still hasn’t looked at the cowgirls. You’re not sure what the fuck is happening.
“I don’t know, Dean.” You murmur, wrapping the stem around your finger like a ring. “What do you do?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. And when you look back up at him, that strange expression has returned. You wait. You’d wait forever.
And you don’t want to say the wrong thing and fuck this—whatever the hell this is, because he’s never looked at you like that before, but it feels like you’re being turned into starlight—up.
“We, uh-“ He cuts himself off with a frown. “You and me. We’ve known each other a while.”
You’ve felt like you’ve known him your whole fucking life. You felt like that almost the first time you saw him. Sort of like you’d looked at him, and known that this always ends with you falling in love.
Another thing he doesn’t need to know.
So you just nod.
“Right.” He glares at the bottle, like it’s personally responsible for something bad happening to him. “And we’ve been through some shit together. I mean, mostly me. Causing you problems-“
“You don’t cause me problems.” You say before you can stop yourself, and he chuckles.
“I know. You always say that. But, uh- I got news for you, sweetheart. I cause you a lot of problems. And,” he raises his voice before you can protest again. “You never give up on me. Shit, I might of given up on me, but you didn’t. You’re always- No matter how shit this gets, it feels alright long as I got you.”
He’s looking at you like you’re supposed to know what that means. When you stare at him back, he just clears his throat.
“You mean a lot to me.” He mutters. “You- Your trust means a lot. More than anyone.”
“Oh- okay.” You feel kind of dizzy. “Cool.”
He swallows. “Yeah. And I know I do go home with other chicks, uh, I- It’s not. It never means anything. They know that. And a lot of them have been in…” His ears go slightly red, his voice dropping lower. “Situations. And that ain’t for to them, or- Yeah. And I always go back in the morning.”
You’re lost. “What?”
He sighs. “I always head back to you, sweetheart.”
“I know, Dean, we live together-“
“No- I mean, yeah, but-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “You’re kinda the best friend I’ve ever had,” he grunts your name, and you sit a little taller. “I don’t tell you that enough. And I was- Uh, I’ve been thinking- A lot.”
You’re going to chew through your tongue. “About?”
He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and you wait.
Dean takes a deep breath, his gaze darting over your shoulder, and he shakes his head.
“Nothing, sweetheart. Never mind.”
You frown. This doesn’t feel like a never mind. “Dean-“
“You want some help with that?” He nods to your cherry stem, giving you a bright grin. “I can do it with my tongue.”
His tongue. He can do things with his tongue. And it’s flicking out over his lips, and he’s grinning at you, and you’re the best friend he’s ever had.
Friend.
Best friend.
“I’m okay.” You mumble, fiddling with the stem and dropping it in your glass. “Thank you, though.”
His jaw twitches again, and he opens his mouth, then closes it. The cowgirls seen to have wandered off to another corner of the bar. The music is playing quietly in the background, and it’s not a bad song, but it feels like nail scratching your ears. You just don’t want to hear anything right now, other than what Dean decided not to tell you.
You know he wasn’t building up to the fucking cherry stem. But if you ask, that would be pushing it. And it might not be something you want to hear.
So you let it go, and give Dean a small smile as you stand up.
He frowns. “Where’re you-“
“Bathroom.” You shrug. “Be right back.”
Dean’s hand flexes, like he’s going to try and reach for you. But he doesn’t. So you walk away.
But you smile at him, because you’re pathetic. Smile and squeeze his bicep.
You’d like to run your hand through his hair.
That’s not a friend thing.
The bathroom of the bar is just what you’d expect. Flickering lights, cheap looking stalls, a toilet seat that you’re careful to wipe down, because you really don’t want to round all of this off with an infection.
It hasn’t been the most shit week. You got the monster. Hung out with Dean. Broke your own heart over it, almost every second, but that’s nothing you haven’t been doing for years. And maybe he’s not going to tell you whatever the hell he was building up to, but maybe it’s another thing that’s just not about you. Dean’s being weird because he and Sam are fighting about something stupid. Dean had sounded tense on the phone, earlier.
So it’s not about you. Tomorrow, Sam will probably call you bitching about Dean, and ask you to talk some sense into him. Sam seems to be under the impression that you’re the only person in the world that Dean listens to without question, but you’ve been in multiple situations where that proved not to be true. The time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone, when you asked him to borrow the car to go into the city—which is something he lets Sam do all the time—the kitchen indecent, when he wouldn’t let you help him figure out how to bake a cake for your birthday, the other time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone-
“You should totally go talk to him!” A girl’s voice cuts through the air, and you freeze.
You’d sort of forgotten other people could, hypothetically, use the bathroom.
“No, it’s okay. There are plenty of hot guys in the world, right?” Second voice. Different girl.
“Not hot like that.” The first girl says again. “I mean. He looks like he fell right out of the fucking sky. That’s once in a lifetime hotness.”
Dean. They’re talking about Dean.
Fuck.
You should make your presence known. You should just cough, or say yeah, he’s hot, but he’s got a weird penis. Which would just be possessive—which you’re not doing, you’re not—and a straight up lie. You’ve heard the reviews, from girls in the morning. You’ve heard the sounds, when he used to get separate rooms just to rail women in. Sam would put in headphones with a sigh, and you’d try to pretend it wasn’t happening until you’d heard screams of Dean, and you’d decided to find whatever bar was closest and had the highest cut off.
These girls could be the ones screaming, tonight.
Unless you embraced the jealousy thing, and told them he has a weird penis-
“Yeah, he’s hot, but the woman he was with,” the second girl sighs, and you freeze. Too late to make yourself known. “I think she’s like his girlfriend or something.”
You gape at nothing, and third girl pipes up.
“No, actually, I agree with that. Don’t talk to him, he’s got a girlfriend.”
“Are you kidding me?” The first girl scoffs. “That was not his girlfriend.”
You scowl. She didn’t have to say it like that. She’s right, but she might not have been, and She didn’t have to be rude about it-
“Why not?”
“Because if that’s your boyfriend, you don’t leave him alone in a bar.”
The other two girls make sounds of disagreement, and that shouldn’t make you feel as good as it does.
“No,” the third one says. “Maybe he’s just like, a loyal guy. And she trusts him.”
“Please,” girl two laughs. “Men who look like that aren’t loyal.”
That almost makes you stand up. Dean’s loyal. Arguably, it’s his worst quality, because it’s nearly given both you and Sam multiple aneurysms. You manage only to curl your fists, though. And the second girl continues.
“Like yes, she was really pretty too. And they looked to be having a serious conversation-“
“Which isn’t what people just hooking up do-“
“I know that. But like, he wasn’t touching her. Maybe they were sitting really closer together, and he ordered her those cherries before she asked-“
“That was really cute-“
“Yeah, but, maybe they’re just like friends!”
“Kaylee.” The third girl says, voice flat. “Did you see how he looked at her?”
“No. You’re the one who pretended to go the jukebox.”
“Well, it was like a puppy dog face. He love loves her.”
You feel like you’re being shot. The girls don’t stop talking.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yeah, just pretend to walk past them later. It’s super obvious.”
They leave a few minutes after that. And you have to remember how to move your legs, but a lot of things are crashing around in your brain. You’re pretty. You and Dean look cute together.
Dean looks at you like he loves you.
It feels like you’re floating, when you make your way back to the bar. Dean’s fidgeting with his sleeves, mostly staring at his bottle, and when you tap his shoulder, he looks up at you with a frown.
It quickly turns into a grin. And he holds up your folded cherry stem with a proud grin, puffing out his chest.
“Did it while you were gone. In one shot, by the way. You can, uh- Keep it? I dunno. Didn’t think past doin’ it, I guess.”
You give him a softer smile, and tuck the cherry stem into your pants. “I’ll keep it. Thank you.”
“Course.” He shrugs, glancing around the mostly empty bar.
The cowgirls are watching you.
Dean’s hand is resting on your wrist. You’re not sure if he knows he’s doing it, but it’s warm and electric over your whole body.
And when you scan over his face, there’s nothing on it that screams he loves you. That’s just Dean’s face. Maybe the third girl just had too much to drink, or is rooting for him to be in love with you, which is very sweet but overall useless to you-
“You wanna head back?” Dean squeezes your wrist, giving you another easy, causal grin. “We should get our three hours, before we beat the storm.”
You sigh, giving him a tight smile. “It’s eight hours.”
“Yeah, if you’re a health nerd.”
“Dean-“
“It’ll be six hours, if we go now.”
You wrinkle your nose at him, and he just grins back. It really is the same grin he’s always given you. But you hear the cowgirls giggling, when you pass them. They’re probably reading into Dean’s hand, on your back, way too much. You know you have.
But reading too deep into things is what you’re best at.
And now that they’ve mentioned how Dean looks at you, it’s impossible stop.
You’re picking it apart, for the rest of the night. For the entirety of the drive, as you analyze every shift in his face, when he glances your way. How he smirks at you, when he opens your door with a dramatic, sweeping gesture. How he laughs when you roll your eyes, and the face he makes when you mumble that you’re getting changed. Then the face when you come back, and he looks up from the TV.
“Dean.” You lean over the back of the couch, making your voice as firm as possible. “Six hours. You promised.”
He groans, but turns off the TV, and flicks your nose. “After all I do for you, sweetheart, you’re gonna make me sleep?”
“Yep.” He’s so close. You can see every handsome feature of his face. “Go to bed, Dean.”
He grunts and his gaze is trapped right on yours. His eyes are so fucking green, and they’re shining on yours. His breath is warm on your face, and in the cold of the night, it’s impossible to ignore. How all the heat is coming from Dean. You could move. Just an inch. Press your lips against his, and see what it does. Maybe he’d pull you over the couch and into his lap, kiss you until he’s all that you can feel. Until you’re burning alive, but he’s burning with you.
Or it could change everything. And you’d lose your best friend.
You pull back. And don’t look at Dean again, as you go to bed. You need to stop torturing yourself. You’ll do it enough on the car ride tomorrow.
Dean’s true to his word. He goes to the bathroom, takes another shower, then gets into bed right after you. Enough for six hours, even if he’s up first.
He doesn’t wake you up, as he gets ready to go. Packing his bag, then yours, then the remaining supplies. You mostly just drift in and out, listening to him shuffle around the room, pause, then move again. At one point, after you hadn’t shifted around in a while, his hand rests on your brow. And because he thinks you’re just sleeping, you nuzzle into it.
He lingers.
Fingers trace over your face. Your cheeks and nose and eyebrows, then up into your hair.
He sighs, and moves away, and there’s another thing to over think. He could be disappointed in you. Annoyed with you. Tired of you. Just tired overall, and that was a yawn. But Dean doesn’t really yawn.
He also doesn’t just touch people’s faces.
But-
“Son of a bitch?”
Your eyes shoot open, and you sit up in a second, reaching for your gun. No one seems to be in danger. Dean’s glaring out the window.
You rub your eyes, pushing up to your knees. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
“Come look.” He mutters, and you shuffle to your feet, peering out the window.
“Oh.” You whisper, and he chuckles.
“Yep.”
You didn’t beat the storm.
The storm beat you. The world is all gray and white, falling snow and sheets of white over the whole world.
So you’re trapped in the motel. With Dean
———
“We did try to leave early.” Dean grunts into the phone and you sigh, holding your knees to your chest on the bed.
It took five hours for the storm to clear enough that Dean could call Sam. Another hour for Sam to pick up, because he is on vacation.
And you’re not sure how you’re going to survive this.
Not the storm. The storm will be easy. You’re what Dean’s called paranoid—but is proving itself to just be prepared—and there’s no possible way you’re going to run out of food. The water is still running, as it electricity. The heater did break again, but Dean’s spent the last two hours on his knees, trying to fix it.
Most of his tools are both for cars, and in the car.
He’s improvised.
And he’d given you this big, boyish and proud grin, when he’d realized he could use the wire hooks without being electrocuted. And that’s why you’re not going to survive this.
You’re trapped with Dean. And his smiles and voice and body and general everything. It’s one room—two if you count the bathroom—and it’s just you and Dean. No buffer to stop you from saying something stupid, like how you love him. No distractions, because the electricity is working but this motel only has cable, and that’s down. Just you and Dean.
“Fuckin’ Christ.” Dean mutters under his breath, shooting you an odd look.
You mouth what back at him.
He rolls his eyes, and mouths back Sam, before speaking aloud. “Yeah, I know how waitin’ out storms works, Sam, I freakin’ taught you- We ain’t gonna run out of water, this isn’t a drought, we can drink the snow- I’m not drinking it right now.”
You giggle, and Dean gives you a flat look. You only shrug in return, and that eye roll is for you, but you don’t really care. At least it’s for you.
“No.” Dean turns back to the heater, his voice having dropped. “I ain’t doing that. No- Sam. Shut your face or I’m calling Eileen and telling her she’s got a funeral to attend. Not mine-“
Dean groans, running a hand over his face, and you climb out of the bed. The blankets have to stay wrapped around you—it’s fucking freezing—but you can still help. You kneel down at his side, holding out your hand and nodding to the hanger. Dean frowns at you and shakes his head, and you flex your fingers, giving him a pointed look.
He pulls the phone away, covering the speaker—Sam’s voice muffled through his hand—and grunts, “I got it, sweetheart. Go back to bed.”
“Dean.” You sigh, just grabbing it out of his hand. He doesn’t fight you, just staring as you shift on your knees. “Finish your phone call.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then sighs, and nods. He squeezes your shoulder, as he moves to his feet, and you watch him walk to the other side of the room.
You’ve been studying his face all morning. The cowgirl’s words haven’t stopped replaying. He looks at you like he loves you.
But you really don’t think he does.
He’d given you tight smiles all morning, until you’d finished sorting the supplies and decided that you’d easily survive this without eating each other.
“If we don’t have enough,” he’d said, hanging over your shoulder. “I want you to eat me.”
You’d sighed, and whacked his thigh. Better not think about how firm it had been. How if you turned your head, you would have been at perfect eye level with his bulge. And it had been freezing, but that was the kind of heat that was going to kill you just as much as it made you come alive. Now, trapped in a motel during a blizzard, was not the time to test the waters of how much Dean would want you. You’d rather turn to ice than have to spend a whole week, awkwardly pretending you hadn’t come onto Dean and gotten rejected.
“I’m not going to eat you, Dean.” You’d muttered, and he’d shaken his head.
“I’m telling you to eat me, sweetheart.” He’d dropped at your side, and you’d focused on your sorting. If you looked at Dean, you’d stare and try to figure out if he loved you. “It’s my last wish. You not gonna honor a dying man’s last wish.”
“No.”
“That’s pretty damn rude-“
“You’re not dying.” You’d looked at him, because you’re weak. No promise you ever made yourself about Dean lasted more than about twenty minutes, because most of them were don’t look at him or don’t talk to him, and actually committing to that would mean more change.
He hadn’t been looking at you like he loved you.
It had just been the same way he always looks at you. Open, handsome, with a small grin and light in his eyes.
That’s just his stupid, pretty face. And it had been hard to keep pretending to be annoyed with him, when this was the first real smile he’d given you all morning.
“We’ve got enough.” You mumbled, your eyes seemingly trapped on his. “I- I won’t need to eat you.”
“Awesome.” He’d grinned at you, and you’d swallowed, and nodded.
That was just another expression he always made. It didn’t mean anything.
He is scowling at the air, now that he’s focused on his phone call. He hasn’t looked at you like that, ever. But you also haven’t been saying anything to piss him off.
It’s very rare, that you actually do piss Dean off.
But you’re his best friend, so that can’t mean much.
You have to drag your gaze back to the heater. You’re going to drive yourself out of your mind, before you even hit day five.
Dean keeps talking, and it sounds like a serious conversation—serious enough that you’re not allowed to hear it, which you’re trying and failing not to read into, but it can just be another way to fucking torture yourself—when you hear the rattling buzz from the heater that means it’s working.
You turn to Dean with a wide grin, sitting up straight and making a ta da gesture to your work, and he grins at you again. Gives you a thumbs up, even his brows remain furrowed at whatever Sam is saying.
“Sam.” He grunts, walking towards you. “I’m going.”
There’s a sound of protest from the other end of the line, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing again.
“I know how rationing works, Sam, I taught you that shit, too- No, we’re not fuckin’ talking about that- Bye.”
Dean hangs up, Sam’s voice dying mid-sentence, and you give him a curious look.
“Not talking about what?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dean mutters your name, crouching down at your side and scanning over the heater. “Nice work.”
That shouldn’t make you flush as much as it does. But Dean’s really close, and he’s praising you, and suddenly the room has spiked from freezing cold to almost insufferably hot.
“Thanks,” you mumble, and Dean just shrugs, clapping you on the shoulder. The way he would a friend.
“No problem. So.” He scans around the room, and his brow pinches together the moment he’s not looking at you.
He’s thinking. That’s all it means.
“We got food, water, heat, shelter.” Dean says, mostly to himself. “Overall we’re not half fucked.”
“Only a quarter.”
Dean snorts, and his brows un-pinch as he looks at you.
Which still probably means nothing.
“What do you think that quarter fucked is, sweetheart?”
Him. Being trapped with him. Already starting to spiral about what everything he does and says means, if this is going to make things change, if he’s going to get sick of you, if he does look at you different. You really can’t tell anymore. You might have already gone mad, or the heat is just getting to your brain.
Making you hallucinate how close he is. How his attention on you is undivided, how his thumb is rubbing small circles where it’s still resting on your shoulder.
That’s your quarter fucked.
But you also know what Dean’s is, so you say that instead.
“No TV.” You give him a mock pout, and he lets out a dramatic groan.
“It’s not funny, sweetheart-“
“Yeah, it is.”
“You’re saying that now, but what are you gonna do when you get sick of talking to me?”
You frown at him. “I won’t get sick of talking to you.”
He scoffs. “Sure-“
“I’m serious, Dean.” You lean forward, which is a mistake. He steadies you with a hand on your knee. He’s still like a furnace. You’re going to catch his heat and melt into nothing. “I won’t get sick of you. Are-“ You swallow. You shouldn’t ask it. “Will you-“
“No.” He mutters, scanning over your face. “But I still miss TV.”
You give him a small smile, a weightlifting off your chest. “It’s been like, twelve hours.”
“Fifteen.”
You laugh at his grumpy face, and his lips twitch.
“We’ll find something to do, Dean.” You cup his face as you move to your feet. He might have leaned into your touch. Another thing to pretend not to think about. “I promise.”
———
“Checkmate.”
Dean groans, leaning over the board with a glare. “No, that’s- Son of a bitch.” He looks up at you with wide eyes. “I fuckin’ had it, sweetheart, what the hell.”
You shrug, starting to reset the pieces. “You never had it, Mr. Winchester. You’re a fool and your knowledge of the gentleman’s game is weak.”
He snorts. “I think you’re just cheating.”
“Maybe.” You grin at him. “But if I am, you haven’t caught me.”
“So you have been-“
“Do you have proof?”
Dean sighs, and grumbles, “No.”
You hum. “Innocent until proven guilty.”
“Or until you admit it.”
“I’ve never admitted anything. In my life.”
Dean raises his brows. “Half an hour ago, you told me you used to sing lyrics to classical music.”
You flush, and throw a pawn at his face. “That was a secret-“
“I haven’t told anyone! I’m just sayin’ back to you what you said to me-“
“Well, you used to name your toy cars after different cartoon characters-“
“Hey.” Dean wields the pawn at you like a knife, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t bring She-Ra the Pontiac into this.”
He glares at you, you glare right back, and there’s only a beat of silence before you both burst out laughing.
This has been most of the last two days. You’d raided the entire room, to see exactly what type of amenities were provided, and found mostly paper, meaning that you and Dean spent most of last night playing drawing games. He drew genuinely the worst tiger you’ve ever seen, and you drew a snake so worm-like he spent twenty minutes laughing on the ground. This morning—before you got up—he went outside during a brief lull in the storm, grabbed your playing cards from the trunk of Baby, and raided the lobby for board games.
He beat you at two-person poker, twice. You won gin rummy, and cribbage, so he insisted on a third poker round. You know he just wanted it to win again. But you love him—and his stupid, dopey grin whenever he does something well—so you let him have it. And he did win. But you kicked his ass in Candyland.
Dean said this one was a kid’s game, so it didn’t count.
You’d pulled out the chess, after that.
This is your fifth win in a row. And you’re not cheating.
But Dean is adorable when he’s grumpy. And just for now, you’re giving up on trying not to look at him too long. You won’t mess up, because this is already such a fragile situation. You’re on a high alert to not do anything too obviously in love with him. And already spent all of last night with the sheets tangled between your legs, looping over and over how Dean had made you dinner. Stared at you when you’d come out of the bathroom in a towel and coughed. Talked to you until two in the morning, because for once neither of you had anywhere to be in the morning.
In a very, very strange way, this feels like a vacation. A precarious one, where you’ve sealed over half the things you want to say to him—I love you, Dean, I want you, I spent that whole shower thinking about what it would feel like if you were with me, on your knees or behind me or anything, I’d take anything—and allowed yourself to look at him to keep it together. To keep him from noticing.
It would be suspicious, if you didn’t look at him. And it’s quelling that unending heat, in your body.
You’re going to get through this. Walk out the other side, with only good memories, and nothing changed.
You’re probably going to be trying to figure out how Dean looks at you forever, but that’s only hurting you, so it’s fine.
It’s all just fine.
“No more chess.” Dean grumbles, grabbing a rook out of your hands and bumping it on your nose. You blink at him kind of stupidly. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go back to cards.”
You take the rook back, poking it into his chest. “Why, so you can win poker?”
He shrugs with a grin, and you sigh.
“How about war? No skill. Just luck.”
Dean frowns. “I got shit luck, sweetheart.”
“And I don’t?”
“Better than mine.” He mutters under his breath, and you frown.
There’s something heavy to his tone that you don’t understand. But before you can try and find the words to ask him about it, he’s moving on.
“One poker game, just to level out the field. C’mon. I’ll make you lunch?”
“And- Do I not get lunch if I say no?”
“No, but this doesn’t work if you keep bringin’ reason into it, sweetheart.”
“Sorry.” You pick at your nails, giving him a small smile, and he sighs.
“It’s alright, sweetheart. But if we play war, I’m shuffling.”
You nod, giving him a wider smile, and his jaw twitches. It’s been doing that a lot, today. You spent most of breakfast staring at it, trying to figure out what it meant. Probably just that he’s tense, from the stress of the situation. Even though it started last night. And overall, the situation hasn’t been all that stressful.
Again. Trying not to think about it.
“Deal.” You hold out your hand, and Dean shakes it. His hand fits perfectly, in yours. It always has. You’ve had a lot of fantasies about just Dean’s hands, alone.
And it’s impossible not to stare, as he shuffles. His fingers have always moved so deliberately, with such exact, measured movements, and they’re big and thick and rough, and when you passed him the cards, he’d touch your forearm and you felt like you were going to fly out of your skin-
“Ready?” Dean nods to the pile of cards in front of you, and you blink.
Right.
The game.
“Ready.” You mutter, sounding breathier than you meant to, but you’d also worked yourself into a small frenzy, thinking about his hands. His smirk isn’t helping.
You really don’t think he knows, exactly what he does to you.
But if he does, this is downright cruel.
“Alright,” he drawls your name, picking up his own deck with a dramatic roll of his shoulders. “Let’s skirmish.”
You laugh—it’s stupid, but you always laugh—and Dean’s grin widens.
It’s not clear if he’s smiling because you laughed, or just he got a laugh.
You really have to stop picking yourself apart like this.
The first few flips run by, and soon you’re not even counting down to flip anymore. You and Dean have gotten somehow merged your game brains, and you’re flipping in perfect sync. You’re winning most of them. Dean hasn’t seemed to notice yet.
“Would you rather be attacked by a duck, or a hippo.”
You blink at him, flipping over another card. “What kind of question is that, obviously-“
“Wait.” He grins at you. “The duck has a gun, and the hippo is a baby.”
“Oh.” You tilt your head at the air. “Does the duck know how to use the gun?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, and is the hippos mom around?”
Dean frowns. “Why does that matter.”
“Mothers are incredibly aggressive when their babies are threatened, Dean. A grown mom hippo kill me.”
“Huh. Well, we don’t want that.” His brow furrows, and you try not to let that make you feel too gooey. “Let’s call it that the mom hippo is around, but far enough that she won’t know if you’re careful.”
“Careful? The hippo is attacking me-“
“So you gotta kill it.”
You gape at him. “I’m not killing a baby hippo, Dean.”
“Fair.” He nods, flipping over a nod. “So you’re going Gun Duck.”
“Do I get a gun?”
“If you can take his.”
“I can do that.” You watch him grab the cards he won. He’s rolled up his sleeves, so you can see his forearms. It’s distracting. “What would you choose?”
“Gun Duck.” Dean shrugs. “I think I could take that mama hippo, though.”
You snort. “No, you couldn’t.”
He gives you a mock look of offense. “Sweetheart, I’ve fought the Devil-“
“Hippos kill 500 people a year, Dean.”
He scoffs. “So?”
“So there are about 180 plane crashes a year.” You give him pointed a look and he gulps, going a little pale.
“Good point. No hippos.”
You hum, pulling more of your own cards forward. “Would you rather live on the moon, or underwater?”
Dean pauses, thinking about it as you both flip. “The moon. Space would be pretty awesome. Can I guess your answer?”
You nod, a little desperate to know what he thinks you’re going to say, and he grins at you.
“Underwater.”
You keep your face perfectly neutral. “Why?”
“Because you think space is scary.”
“The bottom of the ocean is scarier.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t live at the bottom of the ocean.” He gives you a look like that’s obvious, and sighs when you just stare at him. “I think you’d be like, a lady of the lake or whatever.”
“A-“ You blink at him. “Like in King Arthur?”
“Yeah.” He grins at you, wide and toothy. “I’d be a pretty awesome King, right. I’d get to sit at the round table.”
“Sure,” you return his grin, setting out three cards. “What are your stances on tithes and feudalism?”
“Uh.” He makes his tight, adorable thinking expression—the one where he’s really trying, but doesn’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about—and you want to kiss him all over his stupid face. “Anti?”
You hum and nod, and he raises his brows.
“Was that right?”
“I don’t know, you’re the King.”
“Yeah, but you’re my- Lady advisor.”
You snort. “Lady Advisor?”
“The- Guinevere lady-“
“That was Arthur’s wife.” You say, and it’s really hard to sound causal about that. “And she cheated on him with his best friend.”
Dean recoils slightly, shaking his head. “Okay, so you ain’t that.”
You give him a cautious look. “Do I have to be something, in your fantasy land?”
“Course you do, sweetheart.” He says that like it’s obvious, too. “It ain’t a fantasy land if you’re not there.”
You flush, and Dean sits a little taller, clearing his throat. You don’t know if he meant it like that. He probably didn’t. But now he’s not looking you in the eyes, and he probably thinks he’s leading you on—even if he doesn’t know he doesn’t need to put you on a leash or offer you a reward, you’d follow him to the end of the earth no matter what—and things are going to change-
“I’m the Lady of the Lake.” You mumble, folding a card between your finger and giving him a small smile. “Of course I’m in your fantasy.”
He coughs, but grins at you, and he’s ears are red again.
Don’t think too much into it.
“Awesome.”
———
It’s only been three days.
You’re falling into a far too comfortable pattern.
Dean makes you breakfast, you do lunch, he does dinner. You play card games and talk, Dean goes out to check that nobody’s stolen Baby—it doesn’t matter how many times you tell him that won’t happen, he has to do it anyway—and you make him hot chocolate for when he gets back. You spent most of today talking about superheroes, Dean hanging your paper stars on the ceiling because he’s perfect, and you don’t know how you were ever supposed to not fall in love with him.
“Can I have the purple?” You ask, and he passes the marker to you with a small grin.
“I still don’t understand why you these in the car, sweetheart.”
“For organizing. Duh.”
“Right. Duh.” He chuckles, nudging your side with his foot, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“Sorry.” He laughs above you, and he kind of looks like a God. Big and strong and handsome, so far above you, so untouchable, but offering you more with his joy than you can understand.
Because you haven’t seen Dean this happy in years. He’s fully relaxed, he’s not scanning around every few seconds to check that everyone is safe, and he’s still sleeping with his gun under his pillow—that’s never going to change—but when you woke him up this morning, you didn’t end up with the barrel in your face.
It’s probably because there are no threats.
It’s getting harder and harder to think it’s not about you.
“Can you pass me my book?”
“Sure.” He shuffles away, and your body seems to want to follow him, which isn’t fair. “What, you gonna use the pages to make more stars?”
“Don’t joke about that.” You mutter, frowning at the star in your hands. “I just want to use this one as a bookmark.”
Dean just hums, and the book is passed into your hands as he sits at your side. “You, uh- Liking it?”
You angle your head to see him, and he’d grabbed a beer while he was getting your book. He’s picking at the label again. His jaw is ticking.
You really don’t know how to ask him what that’s about.
“The book.” He adds—after you’re quiet for a beat too long—giving you a sheepish grin. “How are you liking the book.”
“Oh. It’s- Good. I’ve always wanted to read it, and I- yeah.” He’s sitting too close. It’s making you short circuit.
Dean just nods, turning the bottle in his hands. “So it’s on your bucket list?”
He gives you a half-grin, and that makes you almost go limp. He’s smiling at you like it’s a secret. Like it’s something only you get to know about, even if it was because you accidentally snooped.
You smile back. It always makes his grin wider, and his shoulders relax, and that could be about you-
No.
You’re not doing that.
“Maybe.” You shrug, and he raises his brows.
“You gonna tell me what else is on there?”
You sit up, holding his gaze. Your knees are bumping together. You could swear his eyes widen slightly.
“The sex.” You whisper, and he groans, shaking his head and looking back to his bottle with a tight smile as you giggle.
“Bet you’re proud of that one.”
“I am.” You poke his thigh, lying back down as his nostrils flare, and he gives you an odd look.
“You should write one.” He says suddenly. “We got a shit ton of paper. Sammy says they’re good for you to do. Reckon with your own mortality or something.”
You snort, fiddling with one of the stars. “Like you’ve ever reckoned with your mortality-“
“I’m serious,” he says, and when you look back up, he’s staring right into you. “It’s useful. Sammy’s usually out of his freakin’ mind, with that therapy bullshit, but-“ He sighs, tipping his head back to rest against the bed. “It’s not half bad.”
He glares at the ceiling, as if he can’t believe what he’s saying, and you take a risk. It won’t change anything. You’ve comforted him before, and he’s comforted you, so this won’t change anything.
“Dean.” You murmur, resting your hand on his thigh. “I believe you, I just- I don’t want that many things.”
“Everyone wants things.” He mutters, and you shake your head.
“Not me.”
He finally looks at you, and that strange expression has returned. His eyes lock onto yours, and there seems to be a heaviness to him that you’ve never really seen before. You smile at him gently, and his lips only twitch. He’s looked at you like this before, as well. In the dead of night, when he woke up shouting and you were the only one who heard.
But you’ve never seen it in the light before.
And it’s the way he always looks at you, but more. His eyes are softer, but his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried he’ll hurt himself. There are deep lines on his face that you want to trace with your fingers, and his lips are in a tight line you want to pry open with your tongue.
“Nothin’ you want, huh.” his voice is deeper than only a moment before, almost a little hoarse.
You sigh, your eyes darting to your hand, still resting against him. “Nothing I can have.”
He gives you a curious look. “What, going back to civilian life?”
“No. Never.” You bite on your inner cheek, playing with the fabric of his jeans. “You’re stuck with me, Winchester. Sorry.”
He lets out a low laugh, leaning back once more. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I think I’ll live.”
———
Dean taps on the top of your head, and you look up to find him grinning down at you, holding your book.
“What-“
“I read it.” He stands a little taller, seeming to puff out his chest. “You were right, sweetheart, it’s pretty good.”
“It’s- The book?” You blink at him. “You read the book?”
“All of it. Except the acknowledgments.”
“Yeah, you don’t really have to read the acknowledgments-“ You shake your head, chewing on your tongue. “Why did you read the book.”
“I dunno. You,” he gently bops your head with the book. “Fell asleep early. And you didn’t stop reading it yesterday, so- I dunno. Wanted to see what the big deal was.”
You nod, watching him carefully. “And you liked it?”
“Sure.” He pauses. “Did you like it?”
“Yes.” You whisper, and you’re not sure why this is hitting you in the chest so hard. It’s just a book.
But he read it for you.
And he’s been looking at you all week. Laughing with you. Not pushing you away or shutting you out when the conversations get too serious. Acting like you’re the only two people in the word, which is what it feels like.
It’s just you and Dean. In this room, and—even though you know that it’s not true, that he’ll probably turn around and walk right into another bed when you’re free—in the whole fucking universe.
It’s really impossible to think that none of this is about you, now. It probably isn’t, but playing pretend is getting easier and easier. You’re not getting sick of him. He’s not getting sick of you.
And if you never had to leave, you might ask him. If he’s happy here with you, or just happy here. If he thinks he looks at you differently, if there was any truth to what the cowgirls said.
If he really was never going to go home with them.
What the hell he was going to tell you, at the bar.
If he can feel how humid it is, here. How outside, the storm is still raging, but in here your skin is hot and sweaty because Dean’s been pulling your legs over his lap when you’re on the couch. And the steam keeps following him out of the shower and into your dreams.
Last night you had to take an emergency shower, because you’d had a fucking wet dream. It had been all hands and lips, everywhere over your body at once. Soft on sensitive skin and rough on your neck and tits and between your legs. You’ll woken up with your hair stuck to your brow, and your hips grinding into the mattress. Chasing release in nothing, until you’d scrambled into the bathroom, turned on the water, and finished where he wouldn’t hear you.
Couldn’t hear you.
Didn’t hear you.
Dean couldn’t have heard you. If he had, he wouldn’t be looking at you right now. He’s been trying to let you down gently, instead of sitting right next to you. Waiting for your attention. Pressing his thigh into yours.
Best friend.
He’s comfortable with you because you’re his best friend. And you’re getting really, really bad at remembering that.
But he’s really not making it easy.
“You- Uh-“ He clears his throat. “You ever think about how Sammy’s doing?”
“Like- Emotionally?”
“No, like-“ Dean lets out a slow breath, watching you so carefully it feels like he’s pulling you apart. “With this life he’s got goin’ for himself. Less hunting, more time with the missus. Thinking about that white picket fence, payin’ taxes, apple pie shit. You ever think about that?”
You swallow, and speak slowly. This sort of feels like a warzone. You don’t want to misstep.
“Sometimes.” With you. “I- I mean, I have the dream.”
“The dream?”
You nod, and he frowns.
“I thought you didn’t want things.”
“I don’t want things I can have.” You correct, and Dean raises his brows.
“It’s a dream, sweetheart. Doesn’t gotta be something you can have, think that’s the whole freakin’ point.” He pauses. “I’ve told you about my dreams.”
Fuck.
“I- Don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your hands, but Dean’s gaze keeps searing over your skin. “It’s dumb.”
“Nah. You’re never dumb.”
Fuck. “Dean-“
“You don’t have to tell me.” He mutters, something oddly edged in his tone. “But I’m here. If you wanna-“
“I’d like it.” You cut him off softly, and he stills at your side. “What Sam’s doing. I mean- Not exactly that. But we- I would kind of want both, I think. Keep helping, even if it’s mostly research. Having something good, my way.”
You give Dean a small, nervous smile, and his mouth is hanging open. He’s closer than he was, only a second ago. You could lean forward and bump your noses together, if you tried.
And you want to.
But Dean’s just staring at you, and your knees are starting to feel weak, despite sitting down.
“Why isn’t that something you can have?” Dean’s voice is so low you can almost feel it in your chest, and he only seems to be getting closer.
“Because there’s no one I can do that with.” You say, before you can think about it, and Dean’s jaw twitches.
He’s so fucking close. You can really smell that pine tree wash. Your heartbeat is in your ears, along with a strange rattle that’s bouncing around your skull with every heated thought—his hand wandering up your leg and between your thighs, his body covering yourself, his lips wherever the hell he wants them, as long as it’s on your skin—and most of your brain is just a haze of Dean.
But you can’t move first. Things can’t change, when this inevitably ends.
The rattling sound is getting too loud to just be the hunger, bouncing around your ribs.
“The heater is making noise again.” You whisper, and Dean licks his lips, his voice still low and hoarse.
“It’ll be fine,” he mutters. “You fixed it.”
That is not a good enough reason for it to be fine, no matter how confident and smooth Dean says it. Even if it ignites in your lower gut, and spreads humid between your thighs. “But-“
“You want dinner?”
You frown. “It’s my night-“
“It’s fine.” He moves to his feet suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh- Pasta. And those frozen meatballs, we haven’t used them yet.”
“At least let me help.” You try to stand up, but Dean just blocks you, shaking his head. “Dean-“
“I got it, baby. Don’t worry about it.”
You don’t argue with him after that. Not because he’s right—he’s not—but because you’ve forgotten how to walk. Or talk. Or do anything at all.
Baby.
Dean called you baby.
———
He doesn’t do it again. Not for the rest of the night, or in the morning. The next day is mostly spent making up a new card game, that’s mostly based on you and Dean yelling at each other, and trying to steal cards. At one point he tackles you, starting a mock wrestling match, and it’s like being tossed into a wildfire. You giggle too much. Give in too fast.
Dean stands abruptly, and goes to the bathroom for twenty minutes after that.
You don’t think that’s about you. Not when he immediately drags you to your feet and announces that he’s ready to learn how Zodiac signs work. If he was pissed at you—if something had changed—he wouldn’t be talking to you at all. But he doesn’t move from your side for the rest of the day.
So the heat doesn’t die.
Not until you crawl into bed, and the heater stops rattling.
Stops all together.
And everything starts to freeze.
For the first hour, you try to just bundle yourself as tight as you can, burrowing yourself in the blankets and curling up in a ball. But the temperature drops faster and faster, and these are motel sheets. Thinner than they should be, a little itchy, and not made to withstand the cold of a blizzard. Your fingertips start to go numb, and you can feel the cold almost in your bones, until you have to clench your jaw to stop your teeth from chattering.
Dean’s snoring soundly, in his own bed. You don’t even think he’s realized how cold it’s gotten.
But the man runs like a furnace. A warm, big furnace that could wrap around you, and make you warm, so fucking warm-
You sit up, and stare at him in the dark. Just as handsome as always, with all the panes of his face cast in sharp long shadows that only make him more beautiful. You could easily lose yourself kissing along his jawline or running your finger through his hair. Sitting in his lap and pressing your face into his chest, just feeling him until the whole world is lighter.
And this isn’t about that.
It can’t be. You roll out of bed—keeping the blankets wrapped around you—and this isn’t about how you’re in love with Dean. If it becomes that, you’ll spiral into what every single brush of his skin and breath means. You’ll stare at him all night instead of sleeping, and he’ll notice, and you’ll ruin everything.
So it’s just about heat.
You nudge his arm, and drop your voice to a loud whisper. “Dean.”
He grunts, and you sigh, poking him again.
“Dean.”
He rolls over, making a low sound like your name, and his hand rests over yours as his eyes flutter. He looks so comfortable. Peaceful. At complete ease, in a way you’ve almost never seen.
It’s so fucking selfish to wake him up, just for you.
But another chill runs through your body, and you don’t have another choice.
“Dean.” You shove him gently, and he makes an adorable grumbling sound, slowly opening his eyes.
“What- What’s’a matter.” He frowns around the dark, then up at you. His hand over yours tugs you a little closer.
It doesn’t mean anything.
“I’m cold.” You whisper, he frowns, and this was stupid. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I just- I’ll go back to bed-“
“Wait, just-“ Dean pulls you back with a small yelp, and his hand rests over your brow. “Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you’re freezing.”
“I- I know.”
“Well, we gotta-“ He cuts himself off, scanning over you carefully as his nostrils flare.
You just stare at him back, and whatever he can see on your face, it’s what he wants.
Dean gives you a tight nod, and throws open his blanket. “C’mere.”
“No- It’s okay- I’ll be fine-“
“You’re already not fine-“
“But you don’t have to-“Dean grunts your name, and it’s a good thing he can’t see the flush of your cheeks. “Get in the fuckin’ bed. Please.”
Please.
He did say please.
You crawl onto the mattress, and before you can build any sort of safety barrier between your bodies, Dean’s pulling you right into his chest. And that’s enough to make the heat spike and return, stronger than before. But then he bows his head so his lips brush over your hairline, and his hands dive just under your shirt to rub your skin, and his legs tangled with yours until all you can feel is Dean.
Hot.
So fucking hot, you’re worried you’re going to evaporate and turn into nothing but steam.
“Relax.” He mutters, deep and right in your ear, and you almost go limp in his arms. “There you go. Warmer?”
You hum—speaking feels like a taller order right now—nodding against his shoulder, and Dean lets out a slow breath.
“Good. Go to sleep, sweetheart, I’ll fix it for you in the morning.”
He’ll fix it. For you. Dean will fix it for you.
That’s about you.
And he’s fixing it now. But not in the way he probably thinks.
You’re warm, but you can’t fall asleep. Also you can think about his Dean’s fingers, brushing over your spine and spending smaller, pleasurable shivers through your body. His knee is pressed far too close to the painful ache between your legs. His breath his fanning over your brow, and he’s wrapped an arm around you to pin you right against him. Every inch of your body feels alight, just in his presence. The heat between your legs is almost painful, and when you rub your thighs together, you can feel your arousal.
You’ve never been hotter in your life. You’re on fucking fire, trapped in Dean’s everything, and there’s no fucking way you’re going to do anything but memorize him. The way his body shifts, how it feels to be swimming in him, and the feel of his strength keeping you so tight.
You can hear his heartbeat.
It’s faster than you thought it would be.
And when you wiggle in his arms a little, trying to get more comfortable, his fingers curl on your back and he holds you tighter.
“Don’t move.” He almost growls in your ear, and you swallow.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he grunts, the sound vibrating through your whole body. “My leg is falling asleep.”
He moves you without another word, but the friction just makes you hornier. And now his lips are pressed against your neck, making your core molten and forcing a soft, high sound from your throat.
Dean tenses around you, immediately pulling away and readjusting you again, but you don’t get the chance to over think it.
Because you feel it, first.
His erect cock, pressed right over your pussy.
You lean back to stare at him, your mouth hanging open, and Dean looks at you like he’s looking at the sun. His jaw is clenches, his features blown out with hunger, and his fingers on your spine have started a soft, slow dance that makes you arch into his touch.
His eyes flick down to your lips, and then expression he gives you is almost pleading. His thumb traces over the shape of your lower lip as you try to remember how to speak, or move, or do anything.
Then he mutters your name, dropping his brow against yours, and you grind fully into his knee.
“God, fuckin’-“ Dean groans, his lips so close you can almost feel them. “Tell me I can, baby. Please. Let me- Fuck-“
You can’t remember how to speak.
But Dean’s knee pressed right against your clit, and it jumpstarts your memory of how to move.
You grab his face, and slam your lips over his. He responds in a second, flipping you flat on your back and dropping his hips, keeping you pinned beneath him. He’s rough, hot and wet and desperate, with grabbing your jaw and angling it back, using his tongue and lips and teeth until you’re slack in his hands.
He pulls back suddenly, examining you for a second before starting to kiss on your neck. Sucking small spots that feel like flares, sparking through your body and making you squirm with a desperation for more.
“Dean-“ You gasp, tugging at his hair as you try to spread your legs. “I- I need- Dean-“
“I know.” He growls against you, his teeth grazing over a soft spot, and you arch off the bed with a high whine. His free hand finds its way between your legs, cupping your pussy over your clothing, and you gasp, wiggling until his palm is pressed against your clit. “Heard you callin’ for me last night, baby. Christ, you have no goddamn idea how much I- Fuck-“
You start to grind into him, and Dean rises over you, something like awe written all over his face.
“That bad, huh.” He mutters, and you nod weakly. “You want me? Gonna let me warm you up?”
You don’t know why he’s doing this. Don’t know what it will bring in the morning.
All you know right now is that Dean’s pulled your pants down, and is teasing your slit over your underwear with two broad fingers. That he’s above you, and looking at you like he wants to eat you alive.
So you nod, letting your brain turn into only a fog of Dean and good, so fucking good.
And Dean grins.
A sharp, almost predatory grin that makes your breath hitch in your throat, and your hips jolt as he flicks your clit. He gives you a deep, heavy kiss, pressing his tongue between your lips and down your throat, all while circling his thumb right around your clit, and you’re melted within seconds.
“Can you say it?” He drawls, his lips still brushing right over yours, and you just blink at him through the daze. “Say it, baby. Tell me what you want.”
He rests his thumb right over your clit, his fingers playing with the wet spot on your panties, and you just manage to whine out what he wants to hear.
“Touch me.” You gasp, and he chuckles, giving you a soft, rewarding kiss.
“Good girl.” He hums, and you don’t even have time to register how that makes your moan before Dean’s moving.
Your shirt gets pulled over your head, as he kisses down your neck and over your shoulders. Dean makes a small stop at your tits, taking one in his hand to palm and knead, the other being almost attacked by his mouth. Licking and sucking and kissing everywhere he can reach, before pulling your nipple between his teeth. He groans as you shiver and writhe below him, switching his attentions until you’re flushed and tugging at his hair, silently pleading for more.
He hums, kissing over the curve of your breast before continuing down. Under the covers where you can’t see him, making every single touch even more electric. Your eyes close as he gently works over your stomach abdomen, gasp when he nips at your inner thigh, and fist the sheets as you try to guess where he’s going to be next.
Dean kisses your clit softly, over your panties, and he squeezes your ass as he slowly pulls your hips off the mattress.
You hold your breath, when you feel the cool air hit your dripping cunt.
And Dean doesn’t move right away.
His breath is warm over your pussy, his stubble brushing sensitive skin as he kisses your thigh, but he’s not touching you. All you’re getting is his hands on your ass, the phantom feelings when he’d been before, and it’s starting to make you go cold again. He could not like what he sees. You might have pushed this—whatever the hell this is—too far, and he’s going to come up and tell you this was a mistake-
Dean licks a rough stripe up your pussy, and you almost fly off the bed. His arm plants over your lower stomach, pinning you to the bed as he swirls his tongue around your clit, and pinches your ass gently. You flop back down with a deep breath, shooting a hand under the covers to tug at his hair—unsure if you’re trying to move him away or urge him on—and Dean moans against your pussy as he starts to eat you out like a man starved. Sucking your clit and rapidly flicking his tongue until you’re panting, before starting to lick your pussy as a feverish speed.
You never know where he’s going to be next, and it’s driving you out of your mind. It doesn’t take long for you to feel that coil in your gut tightening, set to snap any second, and Dean seems to know that. His hand on your ass rolls and squeezes as he tongue fucks and licks you, his arms holding you firm against his mouth. Every yank of his hair only makes him groan, and the sound vibrates in your pussy, making your eyes roll back in your head.
“Dean.” Your voice is high, almost whiny, and Dean hums. “Please, I- I’m going to-“
He presses his tongue flat over your clit, shoves two fingers into your pussy, starting to pump them at a brutal, rapid pace, and your mouth falls open as the heat flood through you. You see white, your thighs clenching around Dean’s head and toes curling as he eats you out through the orgasm.
Dean gently pries your legs away, as you float back down, and presses an almost mockingly sweet kiss over your clit—making you shudder in his hands, and earning you a second one—before shuffling up your body.
You stare at him, as he reappears from under the covers. His chin is shining with the wetness from your pussy, and you take a ragged breath as he wipes it with his thumb, and hold your gaze as he sucks it clean.
“I-“ You take another breath, almost grabbing at the air to try and get him up, with you. “Dean, Dean-“
He crashes up, angling his lips over yours for a sloppy, open-mouth kiss, and you moan, tangling your fingers in his hair. You can taste yourself, on his tongue, and just like that you need more.
You need to taste him.
Dean pulls away first, resting his brow against yours with a wide grin.
“Hi.” He mutters, and there’s something soft in his voice you didn’t expect. “Anyone ever told you how good you taste, sweetheart?”
You flush, fingers curling on the nape of his neck. “No.”
He hums, giving you another soft kiss on the nose. “Well, you do. Taste like fuckin’ heaven, make so many pretty sounds.” He rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and grins when you squeak. “So sensitive, baby. Even better than I imagined.”
You blink at him, your sex-addled brain not really able to understand what he meant by that, so you just say the only thing you can think of.
“You’re really good at that.”
He gives you a look that’s awfully close to pride, and kisses up your neck, stopping to whisper in your ear.
“Easy when I got such a pretty fuckin’ pussy to worship.”
You take a sharp breath, and Dean trades it with his own, almost pushing his tongue fully down your throat. He keeps kissing you like he’s trying to mark you, or maybe just fuse you together.
You really wouldn’t mind that.
But you have something else to do first.
“Dean,” you whisper, and he pulls back with a tight expression.
“What’s-“
“I wanna put it in my mouth.”
You say it fast, before you can lose confidence. Dean stares at you for a long beat after, his eyes dark and jaw clenched, and you suck on your lower lip, trying not to focus on how his cock is pressed against you. It feels thick. Big. You need it.
“Please.” You add, and Dean’s eyes flash, his voice hoarse.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to-“
“I want to.” You manage to push up on your elbows, and Dean swallows. “Please, Dean, I- I want it so bad-“
He slams you back down into the bed with a kiss, and you grab his face between your hands. You want to feel him. Have this passion branded into you, until you can feel it forever.
“Fuck,” he grunts, pressing a softer kiss to the side of your mouth. “You wanna suck my cock, baby?”
You nod, and Dean hums, leaning back to give you an almost strict look, after.
“I’m not comin’ in your mouth. If I finish, it’s in you.” He pauses, then adds. “Long as that’s- I don’t wanna make it something you gotta give me, just like- Head would be awesome-“
You rise up to meet him this time, hooking your arm fully around his neck and cutting him off with another kiss.
“I’m on the pill.” You say, nipping at his lower lip. “And I- I’d like you to- Do that.”
Dean looks like he just won the lottery. You even get one last kiss, before he’s flipping you over and helping you settle between his legs. He is big. Mostly thick, but still big. And pretty.
You want to choke on him.
Dean smirks at you as he lazily strokes himself. “Like what you’re looking at, sweetheart?”
Somehow, that gives you whatever little jump you needed to move. You roll your eyes, swat his hand away, and take him into your mouth in one, quick movement. Dean grabs your hair with a grunt, as his cock bumps against the back of your throat, and you take what you can’t fit in your free hand. It’s easy to set a pace, rubbing his cock as your tongue swirls and you suck him off like he’s candy. He’s heavy and perfect on your tongue, and even moan of your name only makes you speed up. You hum around him, grinding your hips into the sheets, and Dean makes the most animalistic sound you’ve ever heard.
His hips jerk, making you gag, and he tries to pull back.
You squeeze his leg, and go faster. Faster. He’s twitching in your mouth and saying your name like a prayer, and-
Dean yanks you off with a grunt, and you giggle as he drags you up his chest, glaring at you with a lustful, dark expression.
“You think this is funny, baby?” He mutters, and you smile at him, nodding.
His lips twitch, and he reaches up to grab one of your breasts, smirking when your breath catches in your throat.
“You want to fuck you?”
“Yes.” You whisper, and Dean hums.
“Gonna be a good girl for me?”
You nod, and Dean’s hand trails between your thighs, slowly circling your clit until you’re grinding on his abs, nails digging into his chest.
“Felt how tight you were.” He says under his breath. “But you’re fucking soaked, sweetheart. Think you can take it?”
A whine leaves you, and Dean chuckles, the sound rolling through your cunt.
“Yeah. You can take it.”
He picks you up, and your mouth falls open as you’re driven slowly down onto his cock. The stretch burns, but it’s so good. Dean lets out a deep moan as he bottoms out, and he doesn’t waste any time. He guides you up and down, helping you bounce on his dick, and you try to roll to meet him but you’re alight, high on the feeling of him dragging every needy spot inside of you, gasping whenever he slams you down and you feel fuller than even in your life. Dean slams up to meet you, every time, and you arch in his hands, starting to set your own, desperate pace of grinding on his dick.
Dean groans, and he looks at you under hooded eyes, hands starting to roam and grope anywhere they can find. You roll your hips and he grabs your throat, hissing when you clench around him. Dean starts to jackhammer up into you, and you whimper as he hits impossibly deep, squeezing hard. He sits up, taking your breast back into his mouth, and you yank on his hair, trying to warn him that you’re close. You can’t remeber how to do anything but whimper his name, though, and he somehow understands.
Dean sucks on your neck as he starts to tap on your clit, and you go slack in his arms, trying to fight it off.
“Come on,” He growls, pressing down hard as he slams up. “Give it to me baby, fucking cum on my cock-“
You gasp, as your orgasm crashes into you. Stars dance behind your eyes as white-hot pleasure washes through your body, and Dean gives you one last, bruising kiss as he groans your name with his own release. It paints inside of you and sends you over the edge one last, shivering time, and you whine as he stills inside of you.
And this doesn’t feel real.
It’s the type of heat that feels like steam. Like a drug. As if, when Dean kisses your brow and pulls out, it could only be a dream.
You’re too fucked out to think about it. You can only let Dean move you around—clean up, bathroom, back to bed—in a trace like state, before you’re tucked back into his chest. In his bed.
Warm.
You drift easily off into sleep with your body spent, and you’re so easily, happily, perfectly warm.
———
The world is slow, when you open your eyes. There’s a deep comfort you haven’t felt in a while, a comfortable warmth settled in your body—not wired, not goin to burn you, but just peaceful—and you take a deep breath, settling into the covers.
Dean groans, and his lips brush over your ears. He shifts behind you, tugging a little tighter against his chest.
You still.
His chest. His arm, wrapped over your stomach. Because you slept with him.
You fucking slept with him.
And he’s still here, in the morning. Still holding onto you. When you roll over, his features are relaxed, and his mouth is hanging open as he snores. His chest rumbles with each breath, and his fingers trail over your waist in his sleep, and you slept with him.
You can’t stay here. In his arms. You don’t want to sit in it too long, let yourself get too high on the smell and feel of him around you, then have him wake up. Stare at you, then jump away. Tell you this was just a casual thing, you’d just been stuck together too long, and this doesn’t change that you’re just friends. You’ll have to pinch yourself, to stop from crying. And then the car ride back will suck, and Sam will come home and notice things are weird, and you’ll have to stop yourself from crying again.
It’s easier, if you just pretend nothing happened. Nothing will actually change. Your heart will remain in its fragile shape—made like glass, so fucking easy for Dean to shatter—and Dean won’t have to go to the trouble of rejecting you.
So you, very slowly shift your way out of his arms. It takes longer than you thought it would. Dean keeps pulling you back, and grumbling in his sleep, and at one point his morning wood ends up pressed right against your bare ass, and you have to take about fifty deep breaths.
But you manage. With a lot of help from the sheets, stuffed into his arms as you move away, you get out of the bed.
Take a shower. Wrap yourself in blankets and layers, because the heater is still broken. Make coffee.
Drift through the early morning, trying to think about anything but the thing. If you think about it, you’ll start crying all by yourself.
And when you look out the door, it’s a small blessing.
You won’t have to think about this at all. The storm has stopped. Someone cleared the roads, last night.
You and Dean can leave.
Dean groans your name, a few hours later, when he wakes up. Shoots upright with his gun, when he realizes you’re not in bed with him.
“Over here.” You say, rubbing your hands against the quickly cooling coffee, and Dean grunts.
His eyes still aren’t in total focus. He’s rubbing his face, his hair spiky and the sheets pooling around his lap. You have to stare at your coffee mug, because now all you can think about is how those abs had felt flexing under your fingers, how his chest had looked above you, heaving as you sucked his cock-
“What’re doin’ over there?” He mutters your name, and the heat isn’t need anymore. It’s prickling. Sore. You just want to leave this behind. To give him the out he’s probably looking for, and not think about how it’s not you. Dean doesn’t regret sex with you.
He just doesn’t want to do any sex that leads to expectations in the morning.
“It’s safe to drive.” You mutter, glaring at a carving of a flower Dean did on the table. It’s making you think about his hands. On your tits, holding your neck, inside of you. Focus. “Heater’s broken. We should probably go.”
Dean stares at you. You can feel it. And when you look up, there’s an expression you’ve never seen before. You don’t even know how to read it. His face is tight, but his brows are relaxed, and his mouth is open. It’s not even there long enough for you to analyze it. Dean just shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair, and stands up.
You flush, biting your lip and looking back to the table. His cock is hanging between his legs, and you can still taste him, still feel him when you shift in the chair, and it’s going to maybe haunt you for the rest of your life.
“Right.” Dean mutters—not seeming to notice how you’re squirming in the chair—and you can see him pulling on his boxers in your periphery. “We should. I’ll start packing-“
“I already did everything.” You tilt your head to the couch, where you’d hauled the bags. “You just- Have the keys. And I need your help carrying them.”
He snorts, voice dry. “What, you gonna take off with the money?”
You frown at him. “We don’t have any money.”
“It’s- Never mind.” Dean shuffles to the bathroom. “Gonna take a leak. Get dressed. Then we’ll leave.”
You don’t know why he’s saying it like that. He wanted to leave. He wanted to beat the storm in the first place. And this has been perfect, this feeling of peace with him you haven’t known in years, but if you were still stuck here that would have to change. He wouldn’t have this clean, neat out.
But it feels like he’s pissed at you. You’re not trying to talk to him, but he’s not trying to talk to you. Dean almost stomps out of the bathroom, grabs the bags, and hauls them outside without a glance in your direction. While you go to the front to turn in your key, he walks a pace behind you. When you grab a blanket from the trunk and slide into shotgun, he doesn’t tease you about being cold.
Dean glances at you, his jaw ticks, and he starts the engine. It warms up quickly, but you can’t really feel it. Your fingers are still numb. Your heart feels like it’s going too fast and too slow, all at once.
There’s only that hot, uncomfortable prickling sensation, and pure fucking cold.
Dean’s not moving at all. Not driving away, and leaving this all in the dust. He’s just drumming on the wheel, glaring out the windshield, and pressing his lips tight together.
He’s going to tell you no anyway. You did so much to avoid it, to get out before the change could sink and stick, but he’s just going to do it here-
“I just-“ He takes a long breath, and you swallow. “Before we go, you gotta tell me, sweetheart. Are we locking it?”
“Are we-“ You blink at him. “What.”
“Locking it.” He grunts, giving you firm, almost heavy look. “This. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
Oh.
You don’t want to lock it. You don’t want to trap it and push it down, because it’s just going to bubble up and you’re going to explode.
But you don’t want things to change.
“If that’s what you want.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low, dry laugh.
“Yeah. Alright.”
It doesn’t sound alright. He sounds pissed, and tired, and he’s still not looking at you, but he usually looks at you all the time. Maybe he’s never going to look at you again, maybe your friendship is going to melt away with the storm if you don’t-
“Is that what you want?”
You speak before you can think. But it gets Dean to look at you.
Stare at you.
With that same strange expression from before. Seeing it closer, for longer—his breathing heavier than it should be, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled—it looks almost broken.
Almost as cold as you feel.
And you shouldn’t speak again. You should just let it go. Speaking it will change everything, without any way to stop it. The water will run, and you’ll either be smoothed out and locked into the riverbed, or you’ll be swept away with the current.
But everything has already changed. Dean’s never not looked at you for so long. You’ve never felt this hot discomfort around him.
So you take the leap.
“I- I don’t want it.” You whisper, and his jaw ticks. “I want it to be more. I want to go back to bed, and I want to wake up next to you, and I want you to pee with the door open and make up stupid games together and order me cherries- Everything else we’ve always done but you kiss me after. Like- I cut out paper stars and give them to you and you kiss me, and you take a shower, and I kiss you, and you keep making me breakfast but now it’s just me-“
“It’s always just you.” Dean grunts, and you blink.
“What?”
“Breakfast.” He mutters, still staring at you. “I don’t really make Sam breakfast.”
Oh. “Oh.”
Your voice is barely a breath, and Dean chuckles.
“Yeah, and, uh-“ He clears his throat, his ears going red again. “You’re the sex. The one I’ve kinda- Since I freakin’ met you, I- Yeah. So, guess I got two bucket lists this week.”
He gives you a small, crooked grin, and it’s like a spark in your chest. Warm. Bright.
Maybe guiding you to something really, really good.
“You know the bar we went to?” You say carefully, just because you have to be sure. “The girls who tried to flirt with you?”
“Not really.” Dean shrugs, and that just makes the spark start to catch fire. “What about them?”
“In the bathroom, I heard them talking, and-“ You give him a tight, nervous smile. “They thought you were my boyfriend. Because of how you look at me. Like you- As if you love me.”
You expect him to dismiss it. To say he has feelings you, but avoid the L word. To awkwardly tell you he just wants to keep having sex, and the cowgirls were just drunk.
But he doesn’t.
Dean just grins at you.
The exact way he always has.
“Y’know, Sammy says I do that.” He twists to fully face you, his fingers still drumming on the wheel. “Said it was obvious. So obvious I needed to man up and tell you out loud. But you never acted like you could see it, so I guessed he was just being a bitch. But I guess that’s kinda the only face I make, when I’m looking at you. Guess I can’t blame you for that one.”
He gives you a smaller grin, raising his brow, and you breathing heavy through your nose.
Obvious.
It’s been obvious.
And he’s- He’s not say-
“Dean.” You whisper, leaning forward until your hand is braced on his knee. “Do you-“
“Yeah.” His voice is low, but not like it’s secret. Like he’s telling you something so critically important, it has to be said slow and deep, just to make sure you understand. “You?”
“Yeah.”
Dean’s jaw twitches, and his eyes flick down to your lips. “Can I kiss you, then? Whenever I want?”
You nod, and Dean crashes forward. It’s slow, this time. With music in your chest and a high feeling in your head, as Dean pulls you closer and hold your face like it’s something priceless. There’s no rush, to try and imprint yourself upon each other. You’re already molded into him, and he’s already branded all over you.
And things have changed.
But you’re never going to go back.
End Note: Thank god for that snowstorm. I choose to believe Sam summoned it to trap them together.
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Absolutely hammered Bradley getting brought home by hangman to his wife and Bradley’s just like ‘no no I have a wife pls off’ and she’s just like :0 this is why I married this man, hes so getting lucky tomorrow morning
"'M just so fucking whipped," When you swing the door open, the first sound you're greeted with is Bradley's drunken drawl, "And- and I love it, I swear she could-"
"Evenin', darlin'." Jake grimaces at you, Bradley's bicep pinched in his grip.
"Hi," You croon at Bradley, watching his eyes slide in and out of focus from beneath his askew aviators, "Ready for bed?"
He stands straighter, brow furrowed, suddenly alert, or at least wanting to be, "No- no!" When you reach for him anyways he stumbles back, and Jake has to compensate for the momentum, nearly tripping himself, "Unhand me, woman!"
You step back, and a laugh tumbles from Jake's lips, loud and hearty.
"You- Don't you dare touch me, Y/N," He warns, crossing his arms haphazardly over his chest, "'Cause I have a-" His voice wavers, and his chest rumbles with a belch, "Wife, and her name's Y/N, and- and so don't touch me!"
All you can do is laugh, the shake of your shoulders mirrored in Jake's own, but Bradley isn't perceptive enough to pick up on it, so he considers the battle won.
"Now if you'll excuse me," He gloats, striding clumsily over to the couch, "I'm going to sleep on my couch for the night."
He collapses without another word, and you only know he's alive when he removes his sunglasses, tossing them with drunken carelessness onto the floor. You bend to pick them up, tucking them into your shirt and giving Jake a wide-eyed, amused glance.
"If he knows it's his couch," Jake reasons, smirk on his face, "And he knows you're Y/N, then..."
"I don't know." You shrug, hands slapping your sides exasperatedly, "All I do know, is that the man's getting real lucky tomorrow for pitching that fit."
Just imagine Dean Winchester stumbling into the life of a religious!reader —
a sweet, soft girl from some forgotten town, raised on scriptures and shame. She carries her guilt like a rosary, and he, all leather and sin, finds himself drawn to her like a moth to stained glass.
He knows he shouldn’t want her. She prays for forgiveness, and he aches to be the reason she needs it.
I’m too much of a coward to write it, but God, this idea haunts me in the best possible way.
Its been a HOT minute since I've written on here, but I'm finally out of school so maybe I'll try to post more. Anyways heres a little drabble based off the post above :)
The first time Dean met religious!reader, he was absolutely entranced. By her soft beauty, her quiet devotion, her kind heart.
He loves the way she reads her Bible in the bunker library. Notes and other books scattered all over the table. Some sort of soft music floating in the air.
He loves how late at night he can hear her across the motel room praying the rosary to herself. Voice soft and low, the sacramental to her heart, beads held reverently between her fingers.
He loves how she wakes him up from his nightmares and holds him. Running her fingers through his hair, praying to St. Michael or St. Raphael to protect him. Talking with him about anything and everything until sleep finds them again.
A lot of the time he thinks he doesnt deserve her. That there's no way she'd ever truly love a man like him. But he holds her close anyway. Because any man would be crazy not to.
a/n i know i said i would be posting very very soon 3 weeks ago but in my defense i was busy with idk... this is my apology guys
notices contains cute ass dean and spicy ahh dean. for my bbg again @iris-w1nchester
┃dean didn't believe in "forever" until you.
he’s lived in motel rooms and warzones his entire life. permanence, something that would last felt like a myth for him. but it started creeping in slowly, quietly. it was the way he kept a toothbrush for you at the bunker. the way he started planning hunts around your schedule. the way your name came up when he talked about the future, without him realizing it.
it scared the hell out of him. love, to dean, had always been something that ended, violently. but with you? it felt… durable. and that was both terrifying and holy.
┃he realized he wanted to marry you while watching you fold laundry.
nothing dramatic. you were in one of his flannel shirts, standing barefoot, maybe listening to faint music playing in the background, folding his socks with that little quirk you do. and something in his chest just clicked. he sat back on the bed, eyes a little distant, hands stilled, and thought: “this is it. this is what I’ve been chasing.”
just this. the stillness. the safety. the ordinary, and how beautiful you made it feel.
┃when things started getting serious, he waited for the shoe to drop.
he started second-guessing everything: am I good enough? am I dragging her into a grave? what if I screw this up?
so he got distant. not because he didn’t want you, but because he did, too much. so much, it felt like loving you might kill him.
you didn’t force him to open up, you just stayed, kept being gentle, patient. and eventually, the walls cracked. he told you clumsily that he didn’t think he deserved something good. and you told him he did. he didn’t believe it. not at first. but you made him believe he did. and that made all the difference.
┃the ring wasn't something luxurious, it was personal, specific, chosen with care.
dean may seem rough-edged, but he’s sentimental. the ring? not flashy. maybe it had a stone in your birth color. maybe it was your mom’s ring he quietly got fixed. maybe it was a simple gold band engraved with something only you two understand. he spent hours figuring it out. weeks, even. we wanted it to feel like you. not just for it to be pretty.
┃the proposal wasn't grand, it was sacred.
he didn’t get down on one knee in a crowded restaurant, that’s not dean. it happened at the kitchen table at 2 am, half-drunk on cheap whiskey and pie, after a long hunt. you were wearing his hoodie, feet in his lap. you were talking about something silly, maybe a movie, maybe what color to paint the spare room.
he was staring at you like you hung the stars. and when you paused and looked at him, he just said: “marry me.”
soft. steady. with that haunted look in his eyes, like he couldn’t believe he was asking. like he half-expected you to say no. but also, deep down, desperately hoped you’d say yes.
┃after you said yes, he cried, but didn't want you to see.
dean feels everything, but buries it. after you said yes, he grinned. god, that grin, but when you went to grab your phone to call someone, he turned away, just for a second. but you caught the shake in his shoulders, the way he blinked up toward the ceiling. it wasn’t sadness, it was release. for the first time, maybe ever, he let himself believe in something that wouldn’t be ripped away.
┃he didn’t want a big wedding, but he did want you to have everything you deserved.
he said, “let’s just hit a courthouse and grab burgers after,” half-joking but totally serious. you saw it in his eyes, he didn’t want to waste time or money on something “fancy” for him. but when he saw how your eyes lit up talking about vows, music, food, he caved instantly. the way he always does when it’s about you. he didn’t fight you on any of it. not because he cared about flowers or cake, but because he cared that you cared. that was enough.
"if it makes you happy, I'm there, tux and all. hell, I'll even dance."
┃he was lowkey panicking the entire morning.
he didn’t sleep the night before. you’d never seen him that nervous, not even before a leviathan hunt. he paced the bunker kitchen, cracked half a dozen beers, muttered to himself. he was just terrified of screwing up something that mattered. so the moment before the ceremony? he was staring at himself in the mirror, whispering: "don't mess this up. she’s your home now. she’s your damn home.”
┃his vows were short, but they wrecked everyone.
you expected dean to grumble through his vows or quote some old rock song. but what came out of him was pure, raw, stripped-down truth. the kind of thing you only say when your heart is burning a hole in your chest. “I never thought I’d live this long. I never thought I’d find something that didn’t come with blood or pain. and then you walked in. and I didn’t know I was allowed to have peace. but I want it now. I want you. always." direct. intense. vulnerable.
┃the first dance? he dreaded it, until he saw your face.
dean’s not the “let’s slow dance in front of people” type. he groaned, tried to get out of it. but you talked him into it, and he gave in, because he always does, for you. and the second he pulled you close, everything else disappeared. he pressed his forehead to yours, murmured lyrics softly in your ear, totally off-key, and held you like he never wanted to let go. you felt his heart, beating loud enough to count.
“this ain’t so bad,” he whispered.
“yeah?”
“yeah. might even like it… if it means I get to hold you like this forever.
bonus: "can't help falling in love" was definitely playing in the background
┃the reception was messy, loud and filled with love.
he made damn sure there was pie. more than cake. sam gave a speech that had everyone in tears. cas stood awkwardly in the corner and made a comment about “the sanctity of human bonds,” which made dean laugh harder than you’d heard in weeks.
and at some point, around midnight, dean pulled you into his lap, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder, murmuring “I can’t believe this is real” into your hair over and over again.
┃he didn’t care about the honeymoon details, he just wanted you.
you could’ve picked a beach, a cabin, even just stayed in bed at the bunker for a week straight. he didn’t give a damn where it was. his only request? “somewhere quiet. just us.”
┃during honeymoon, he plans nothing. except sex.
dean’s like, “sightseeing? that’s what I’m doing right now,” while watching you walk out of the shower, towel barely hanging on. lazy mornings become intense make-out sessions. afternoons are for naked naps and cuddles. nights? he turns the lights off just to feel every part of you without distractions.
“you wanna go out for dinner or… stay in and let me eat something else?”
┃he’s obsessed with “making memories.”
dean insists on taking polaroids or saving mementos: the cork from a bottle of wine, a seashell from your walk, a napkin from the hotel bar with a stupid doodle of you on it. he hides them in his duffel. one day, years later, you’ll find them and cry.
┃the mornings are slow, sacred, and full of sleepy affection.
dean’s a light sleeper (years of hunting will do that), but when he’s with you? he lets himself sleep deeper. he wakes up early, usually before you, but he never gets up right away. not when he’s got you curled into his chest, your breath warm on his neck, your hand draped over his stomach. he runs his fingers down your back, presses a kiss to your shoulder, and lets himself pretend, for five more minutes, that the world outside your bedroom doesn’t exist.
“mornin’, sweetheart. you staying here forever, or am I gonna have to trap you under the blankets?”
┃he always makes breakfast. always.
dean’s love language? acts of service. he won’t always say the soft things, but he’ll flip pancakes, fry bacon, and make you coffee or tea just the way you like it every damn morning. he hums classic rock while he cooks, occasionally turning around to flash you that smug little grin when he catches you staring.
if you ever cook for him? he teases you, “not bad, chef”, but his eyes are so soft, because he’s never had someone want to take care of him before.
┃hunts feel different now. he’s more careful, more deliberate.
dean still hunts. he probably always will. but since you, he doesn’t throw himself into danger the way he used to. he isn't so reckless anymore. not because he’s scared of death, he’s scared of leaving you. of becoming another ghost in your story. you’re his anchor now. so he double-checks salt lines. he calls you before and after hunts. and if you hunt too? oh, he’s protective, sometimes annoyingly so.
“you go left, I go right. watch your corners. and if anything touches you, I’m burning this whole damn house down.”
┃he has his hobbies, but now he wants to share them with you.
he still works on baby religiously, but now you’re invited. he’ll pass you tools and give you grease-smudged kisses like it’s nothing. movie nights? mandatory. he needs you to watch all his favorite old horror movies, even if you think they suck, because he wants to see your reactions more than the movie itself. and when he finds out you have a hobby, painting, knitting, whatever, he watches you do it like it’s magic. and he brags about it constantly.
“my girl made that. yeah, she’s kinda a genius, no big deal.”
┃vulnerable moments come in waves, but he shows up every time.
dean has trouble talking about his feelings, but when he opens up, it guts you. it happens in small moments: in bed after a nightmare, during a car ride after a hunt, or when a random song hits too hard.
“you know I never thought I’d have this, right? you, a home, peace. I still don’t know if I deserve it. but I’m not letting it go.”
he’s always there for your vulnerable moments too. if you cry? he doesn’t try to fix it. he just pulls you close, strokes your hair, and tells you everything’s okay.
┃cuddles are an every night thing.
dean needs physical affection like oxygen but pretends he doesn’t, that mf is so touch deprived. you’ll be watching tv and he’ll grumble, “come here,” before pulling you into his lap like a teddy bear. he wraps his arms around your waist, buries his face in your neck, and just breathes you in. you end up tangled under blankets, legs wrapped around each other, his hand under your shirt, resting on your skin just to know you’re real.
┃he has quiet “I love you” habits.
dean doesn’t say “I love you” every five minutes. but you feel it in a hundred tiny ways:
he keeps your chapstick in the glovebox.
he brings you pie when you’ve had a rough day.
he texts you dumb memes he doesn’t understand, just to make you smile.
he runs you a bath when he knows your back hurts.
he always sleeps on the side of the bed closest to the door, because if something ever came through it, he’d be the first line of defense.
he fixes things before you even know they’re broken.
he always walks on the side closest to the road.
he saves the last bite for you, even if it’s his favorite.
he checks the locks every night. twice.
┃fights aren’t explosive, they’re quiet and aching.
dean gets cold when he’s upset, emotionally, not cruelly. he’ll shut down, go quiet, avoid eye contact. but he never walks away. he stays. he sits with his feelings. and once he’s ready, he comes back to you.
“I don’t wanna fight you. I’m just… scared. I don’t wanna lose this. I don’t wanna lose you.”
and you always end up wrapped in each other again, tears drying between kisses, your forehead pressed to his like you’re both breathing the same apology.
┃sunday morning sex is sacred.
no alarms. no monsters. just the two of you tangled in warm sheets, half-asleep and already wrapped around each other. dean’s hand is under your shirt, thumb tracing soft circles on your waist before you even wake up. he kisses the back of your neck, breath warm, voice low and sleepy:
“mornin’, mrs. winchester… still sore from last night, or can I make you sore again?”
he’s slow and sweet on sundays. gentle rocking. lazy kisses. the kind of lovemaking that doesn’t end in a rush, but in laughter and quiet “I love you”s into each other’s skin.
┃he lives to undress you after a long day.
you walk in the door, bloodied, bruised, tired from a hunt and dean’s already helping you out of your jacket. boots off. weapons on the table. but then he’s unbuttoning your jeans, peeling off your shirt, fingertips ghosting over every scrape and mark with reverence.
“lemme take care of you, baby. you carried us out there… now let me carry you here.”
and sometimes that turns into a warm bath. sometimes a massage. And sometimes? he’s kneeling in front of you before you can even breathe, mouth on your skin like you’re holy.
┃he has a “kitchen counter” weakness.
something about seeing you barefoot, in one of his flannels, sipping coffee while leaning against the counter? it wrecks him.
next thing you know, he’s pinning you against the edge, mug gently set aside, his hands under your thighs.
sex in the kitchen becomes a regular occurrence. bacon sizzling in the background. your laughter echoing off the tile. his hips snapping into yours while the sun pours through the window.
┃ his pillow talk turns domestic and filthy.
aftercare is very real with husband dean. he’s all about the cuddles, stroking your hair, making sure you’re hydrated and fed. but once your breathing’s evened out and the room is quiet? he starts whispering filthy little plans for the future into your ear.
“you ever think about what you’ll look like with my kid in you?”
“wanna get a place with a big porch. I’ll take you every night in the rocking chair.”
“let’s grow old together, baby… but I’ll still have you screaming my name in every room.”
┃angry sex after arguments is a whole thing.
married life isn’t always smooth and dean can be stubborn. but when the two of you argue? it builds up into something hot and dangerous. he’ll slam the door, pace around, clench his jaw, but he always comes back.
“Still mad?”
“Shut up and bend over.”
it’s raw, fast, breathless. teeth on your neck. hands gripping tight. but after? he cradles your face, whispers apologies into your skin, and kisses you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.
┃he gets weirdly emotional during soft, slow sex.
when it’s just the two of you, no distractions, nothing but skin and breath and whispered I love you’s, he sometimes gets quiet. eyes locked. hands holding your face. that single tear-thing he hates happens more than he admits.
“you don’t know what you do to me, sweetheart… I never thought I’d get this. you. this life.”
he holds you for hours afterward. like if he lets go, the dream might end.
┃he buys lingerie “for you”… but it’s totally for him.
every few months, you’ll find something new on the bed. a lacy thing in your favorite color, folded neatly with a note: “try it on. I’ll be waiting.” and dean? he sits at the foot of the bed, jaw dropped, eyes burning with adoration and lust.
“fuckin’ hell… my wife.”
“you married me just for this, huh?”
“damn right I did.”
┃your wedding ring drives him wild in bed.
he never says it, but every time your hand wraps around him and that ring catches the light? he goes feral. it’s visual proof that you’re his. that you chose him. and when he finishes? he presses his forehead to yours, rubs your ring with his thumb, and just breathes you in.
┃thinking about having a kid? he thinks about it way before you or before he'll admit it out loud
he watches you from across the kitchen, still in a tee shirt, humming to yourself, hair messy and his chest aches. he doesn’t mean to imagine it… but suddenly you’ve got a baby on your hip. or a little kid sitting at the table coloring while you make lunch. and he wants it, badly, but pushes the thought down.
“no way. not with this life. it’d be selfish.”
but it keeps creeping in. every time you yawn and curl into his chest. every time he sees a dad holding a toddler at a diner. it’s not a fantasy, it’s a craving. one he’s terrified to say out loud.
┃he wrestles HARD with guilt and fear.
the idea of bringing a kid into this world, especially his world, makes his stomach churn.
“what if they turn out like me?”
“what if I can’t protect them?”
“what if they lose me too young?”
but the more you two build a home, the harder it is for him to ignore that aching hope.
“you’d be an amazing mom,” he says one night, quietly, when he thinks you’re asleep.
and when you whisper back, “you’d be an amazing dad,” he just clutches you tighter.
┃ he absolutely short-circuits when you tell him you're pregnant.
you show him the test and for a few seconds he just… stares. blinking. jaw on the floor. processing.
“that’s… that’s real? you’re sure?”
“shit, sweetheart, you’re really pregnant?”
then it hits him all at once, his hands fly to your stomach even if there’s no bump yet, and his eyes get glassy.
“we’re gonna have a baby?”
“you’re gonna be the mother of my kid.”
he kisses you like you’re made of starlight and then sits on the bed in silence for like 10 minutes trying not to cry.
┃he immediately throws himself into dad Mode.
day one: he’s googling vitamins, rubbing your back, reorganizing the pantry, and drawing up baby name lists he’ll pretend are “just for fun.” by week six: he’s installed a baby app, banned you from lifting heavy boxes, and is holding your hand during every appointment.
┃he handles your mood swings like a champion.
he’s SO gentle with you. if you cry at a commercial? you’re in his lap with a blanket and your favorite snack. if you snap at him for no reason? he just nods and says, “you want space or a cuddle, sweetheart?”
┃when the baby kicks for the first time, he breaks.
literally tears up. presses his hand to your belly like it’s holy.
“holy shit. that’s our kid.”
he talks to the bump every night after that. tells it stories. asks it what music it likes. says he hopes they get your eyes and your laugh.
┃he won’t let you lift a damn finger, he adores doing everything for you.
laundry? he’s on it. grocery runs? cavings at 2 am? he’s in the car before you finish your sentence.
“you’re growin’ a whole person. least I can do is keep you fed.”
and at night, he holds you so gently, hand spread over your belly, whispering,
“I’m scared, sweetheart… but I’ve never wanted anything this bad in my whole life.”
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Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, friends with benefits to lovers, light fluff, light angst, lotta smut (oral f! receiving, p in v, cockwarming), humor, love confessions
Summary/Warnings: Friends with benefits doesn't work. You fall out of line and fall in love, trapped in Dean with no hope of escaping.
But he might never want you to leave.
Author's Note: Request from an anon! This one was very fun. All time favorite hobby, giving men emotions.
Word Count: 5.4k
The room is dark.
You never let Dean turn on the overheads, there are no windows in the bunker, and you angle yourself to stay away from the hallway light—leaking under the door—so it’s as dark as you can possibly make it.
It’s still not enough.
Your eyes aren’t your friend, and they adjust. You can still hear your skin slapping against Dean’s as he guides you up and down his cock, and his groans of your name whenever you squeeze around him or scratch at his chest. You can feel him, everywhere, and it’s the best, cruelest thing in the world.
He’s deep inside of you, pressed right on that spot no one else can ever it, and you can feel it lighting up in every nerve of your body. He keeps trying to grab your hand, and you don’t know what that’s supposed to help with, but you can’t let him. But there’s not winning, because the only way to avoid it is planting your palms flat on his chest and feeling the firm muscle shift and flex whenever he ruts up into you. He’s got a hand secured on your hip to keep you above him and the other playing with your tits. Flicking at your nipple and palming at them more for himself than you, but it still feels good. Then his hand will shift down to flick at your clit, and you’ll arch your back with a high gasp, and it’s too much and never enough.
It really doesn’t matter if Dean is doing this for you, or for himself. You’ll give him whatever he wants.
But it’s not dark enough.
So you keep your eyes squeezed shut, and try not to think about who’s below you. It’s an impossible task, when nobody else is a good as he is. Nobody fits into you like Dean, no one else has that deep, gravelly voice and says your name like it’s a baseline in their favorite song, no one else knows that if they grab you by your neck and press their thumb into your mouth, right as they slam up into you, you’ll make that stupid, high, breathy sound and your pussy will flutter around them.
And Dean always laughs to himself after, and the sound rumbles in his chest and vibrates against your clit, and then you let out the loud moan of his name that means you lost.
You know it’s Dean below you. It’s always going to be Dean below you, until he kicks you out to the curb. And even then, you’ll just sit in the gutter and hope he comes back.
You love him. You’d never want anyone else but him.
But Dean doesn’t do love.
And you knew that, the first time he kissed you after a bad hunt, right after yelling at you for ten straight minutes about trying to get yourself killed. You knew it when cornered you in the hallway with a hungry expression, licking his lips and muttering that he didn’t mean to yell, but he needed to be able to touch you. You’ve known it, every time you’ve fallen back into bed with him—only more and more as the months pass, until it’s more of a routine than an itch being scratched—and he’s pulled you apart, and you’ve failed to find a room that’s dark enough.
Because this is the part that you always try so hard to avoid, and never can. Dean moans your name and tries to pull you down into a kiss, and you can’t stop him—you don’t hate yourself that much, or enough—but you still can’t look at him. And then you can taste the cherry and whiskey from dinner on his lips, and feel him a little more than everywhere, and he mutters your name again.
You push up. You always sit right back up, even when Dean tries to trap you against his chest.
But you also fail again.
Your eyes open.
And he’s art. Looking up at you will the sex-addled expression you only see half shrouded in shadows, where his eyes are hooded and he’s licking his lips. And he looks like he was carved from marble rather than just made, and his chest is heaving as he fucks up into you at a brutal pace, and when your mouth falls open in a silent scream he pushes up and kisses you again.
You manage to close your eyes.
The damage is already done.
You love him. You love his face, and how he never stops you from digging your nails into his chest until it’s littered with small marks, and how when he cums in you he moans your name in the only way you’ve ever wanted to hear it. You love how he always stays in you for another moment after, and buries his face in your breasts like he can’t bear to move—even though he always does, and you know he just likes boobs—before kissing your neck and going to clean you up.
The cleaning you up is the worst part. You have to wait for him, because whenever you try to leave after that he just picks you up and tosses you back onto the bed. And your heart won’t be able to take that, right now. The way he’ll just wrap his arms around your stomach and carry you to the mattress, pinning you down and grumbling that you’re like a stray cat sometimes, just taking his food and running away before he can take care of you.
And you always tell him he doesn’t even like cats, and he just laughs, shrugs, and pushes your legs apart to clean the mess between them.
Today, you don’t try to run. It’s already too much to have him watching you so carefully as he works, and leaving soft kisses on your knees and thighs. You have just stare at the ceiling and take it, trying to fight down the soft sob rising in your throat.
This isn’t fair. You love him, and he’s just doing this to you like it’s not breaking and remaking you every single fucking moment, and you want to hit him then climb right into his chest forever.
And you know Dean cares about you. He’s your friend, and that’s probably why you’re allowed to stay in his bed after. Why he always brings you water and food to get your energy back. Friends is still a part of the arrangement. Even with benefits.
But it’s been too much, today. So before Dean can even grab the box of your favorite snack he keeps in his mini fridge—just for you, which is even crueler—you’re running. Grabbing your clothing and scrambling into it, then slipping out the door before he can stop you.
It’s fucking cowardly.
But you need a shower so you stop feeling his phantom warmth on your body. To wash away the smell of him all over your hair, and give you a safe place to cry on the floor until it feels a little better. And if you’d told Dean you needed a shower, he’d just try to shower together.
It’s so mean. How he does sweet things like that and expects you not to fall for him, to keep the line between sex and friendship so firm.
You can’t even tell him he’s being mean. He doesn’t know you love him. He has no way to know.
You still need to curl up in the corner of the shower and cry, though. Where the soft sobs that shake your body are drowned in the water, and the tears are washed away the same second they fall. Then you can pick yourself up, drag yourself back together where Dean had unraveled you, and just keep moving.
It’s not good form, to ignore him. You have to smile at Dean when he walks into the kitchen the next morning, and not start crying when all you get is an odd frown in return. You just drop your gaze back to your cereal, and bite your lip to keep it from wobbling. And when you go to town with Sam you can feel him staring at your back as you leave, and when you’re putting away the groceries and talking to Sam about something stupid, Dean won’t stop walking in and out of the room without saying a single word.
He’s still your friend. You smile at him every time, but wait for him to speak first, and he never does. He just frowns and grumbles something at Sam, then fucking walks away.
He’s ignoring you.
Maybe he’s done with you. Maybe he called it, last night, and now he’s trying to figure out how to tell you. And that fractures at your heart all day, right until you’re curled up in the library, trying to think about anything but Dean, and failing just as drastically as you always do.
Or maybe Dean’s just Dean. Grumpy and bad at talking about anything.
Because he doesn’t seem done with you when he leans over your chair and starts to kiss along your neck.
You shouldn’t let him. Not when he’s barely said a word to you all day.
But you love him. And he hasn’t been angry or rude. He might have just had a bad day.
So you angle your head a little to the side to grant him further access, and let out a long sigh.
He bites and sucks a deep mark against your skin.
You’re going to fall apart again, and he’s barely even touched you.
“Dean,” you mumble, trying to keep your attention on your book. “Sam’s in the other room.”
He grunts, big hands brushing your hair to the side. “So? He’s seen me do a hell of a lot worse than kiss a pretty girl.”
“But- It’s-“ Your breath hitches as he nips at your throat, and you shake your head weakly. “Dean- I can’t.”
He freezes. “Can’t what.”
“Have sex.” You mumble, turning another page, having not read a single word on the first one. “I- I’m busy.”
“That’s fine, sweetheart, we can just sit.”
“But- I- I’m busy-“
“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” He sighs, right in your ear, and it sends a shiver up your spine. Then he says your name, and you have to just keep fucking looking at your book.
He repeats it. You just hum. You can’t-
“Look at me.” He grunts, and you swallow.
All the words on the page look more like scratching marks. All you can really see is Dean in your periphery, moving to kneel before you and taking your face between his hands.
You still can’t look. Even as he tilts your head up, you keep your eyes fixed down.
You don’t know what he’s trying to do, when he grunts your name again.
You know it’s mean.
“Son of a bitch,” He mutters, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, and you almost start crying again. “Fucking- Just look at me-“
You shake your head weakly. “I- I’m busy-“
“Too damn busy to look at me?”
There’s no good answer to that. And Dean know is, because he lets out a long, slow breath, and shakes his head.
“C’mon, baby, I- I know you’re pissed at me, but-“
That gets your gaze to snap up to his. And he looks devastated. Like you’ve been kicking him on the ground, with a deep frown and furrowed brow and open expression of strain over his handsome features.
You really don’t know what’s happening. At all.
“What?”
Dean clears his throat, and suddenly you can hear how hoarse his voice is. “You’ve been ignoring me all day-“
“You’ve been ignoring me-“
“I’ve been giving you space.” He grunts. “And don’t try and tell me something isn’t wrong. You fuckin’ bolted last night, so I know something’s wrong.”
Fuck. “I- I’m not-“
“Yeah, you are. And I know I fucked something up, and I’m gonna fix it-“
“You can’t fix it, Dean.”
His brows raise. “So there is something.”
Fuck. “You- Uh-“
“Doesn’t matter.” He mutters, tracing his thumb slowly over your cheekbone. “I’ll fix it, baby. Promise.”
“I-“ You let out a long, slow sigh. Too late to go back now. “Dean, I told you, you can’t.”
“Not if you don’t tell me.” He grumbles, holding your gaze. “Did I forget something? Say something? Was- Uh- Was it bad last time-“
“It’s never bad.” You say quickly, and his frown twitches. “And you- this isn’t your fault-“
“It sure goddamn feels like it’s my fault.” He snaps. “And you just need tell me what to do. I’ll do it. Swear I will, I’ll do anything, just tell me how to fix it.”
You need to look away from him. He’s on his knees and begging you, and it hurts. He’s pressing on a raw, open wound in your heart and he doesn’t even know it, and you’re confused and trapped in him, and he doesn’t know. He can’t know. He’s never known. And you have to look away but you can’t. You’ve never been able to. To look away, or walk away, or stop loving him.
And Dean looks like he’s in pain, and that should make you mad, but it just breaks your heart even more.
“Dean.” You hold his hands against your face, giving him a small, sad smile. “It’s not your fault. I promise.”
His eyes narrow. “Alright, then tells me whose fault it is, and I’ll kick their ass-“
“It’s my fault.” You whisper, your voice already cracking. “I- I know you don’t do relationships, Dean, and I’m not trying to like, give you an ultimatum or something, but I can’t- I can’t keep-“
You take a shaking breath, and Dean mutters your name, but you just squeeze your eyes shut and keep pushing.
“I- I love you, and this,” you gesture between your bodies. “It’s hurting me, Dean. It really hurts. And that’s not your fault. But it still hurts. That’s it.”
He’s not saying anything. And you’re still not looking at him, so you can’t work out if he’s pissed, or annoyed, or indifferent.
Pissed you can take. At least you can try and let him fully break your heart, so you’re cured of him. Annoyed you can handle too. You’reannoyed with yourself too.
But indifferent might break you. The idea that Dean simply doesn’t give a shit that you love him, and he’s willing to keep fucking you as long as you don’t expect more-
That will slam you into the dirt, and you’re not sure you’ll be able to drag yourself back up.
He says your name, and you can’t read that tone. “Open your eyes.”
You shake your head. He’s still touching you. Rough, warms hands so gentle on your face. Maybe he knows he’s about to shatter your heart, so he’s trying to be careful with the rest of you.
“Baby, I need you to look at me.”
Baby.
That’s not fair.
Your eyes drag open, and Dean’s frowning at you. But it’s not his angry frown, where he looks like he’s gunning to rip something in half. It’s not his bored frown either.
It’s just that hurt look. Like a kicked dog, wet from the rain and whimpering to be let inside.
You were wrong about the indifference.
This hurts more.
“You love me?” He whispers, and it’s hard to talk through the lump in your throat.
“I- I’m-“
He mutters your name, firm and demanding, and you nod.
“Yeah. I do. I’m sorry.”
His jaw clenches. “You- You’re fucking sorry?”
You blink. “I-“
“And you think I don’t love you?” His voice is raising. Not to a shout, but still something angry. “You- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you’re-“
“Dean-“
“Of course I fucking love you!” He snaps, and you might be floating out of your body. “I- Goddamnit, I’ve been- I thought you just- Fuck-“
“Dean.” You try to make your voice sound firm, but it just comes out a plea. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“I know you don’t, babygirl.” He mutters, shaking his head, and you bite on your lower lip until you taste blood. “Shit, I’ve been such a dumbass-“
You frown. “No you haven’t-“
“Yeah, I have. I didn’t know this wasn’t a-“ He swallows, scanning over you with a broken expression, his voice almost a rasp. “I thought we were dating.”
You might be drowning. Or dead. Maybe Sam crashed the car on the way back from town, and this is just hell or heaven or limbo. The world is blurry, but you can see Dean clearly. There’s a ringing in your ears, but you still heard him.
You think you heard him. You’re really not sure.
“What?”
“You’ve been it for me,” Dean says your name, and your grips tightens on his hands. “For a goddamn year, you’ve been everything. And I- I thought I told you. We- we go to bar together, and we sleep in the same bed on hunts, and I- Son of a bitch, we’ve gone on dates-“
“No, we haven’t-“
“We go to the movies all the goddamn time-“
“As friends.” You protest, and Dean snorts.
“Friends don’t give each other hand jobs in the theater, sweetheart.”
You flush, but still shake your head. “But you- You never told me-“
“Yeah, I did.”
“Dean-“
“I said I had to have you.” He mutters. “That I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t need you.”
Your eyes widen. “I- I thought you meant my body.”
He sighs. “Yeah, I figured that out myself.”
“It’s- You’ve just always said you don’t do relationships-“
“I didn’t. Before you.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He pauses, scanning over you carefully, his voice still a rasp. “Do you- do you want that?”
You frown. “Want-“
“Me.”
You can’t stop your mouth from falling open. “Of course I fucking want you, dumbass, I just said I loved you.”
Something flashes over Dean’s face, and he nods slowly. “Good. That’s- Good. C’mon.”
He starts to tug you to your feet, and you just stare at him. “Dean, what-“
“Move, sweetheart, I’m trying to fuck you properly-“
“You always fuck me properly-“
“Apparently not, if you thought I didn’t love you-“
Your heart does a little stutter stop. “You really love me?”
“Course I fuckin’ love you. More than anything. But you didn’t know, so I gotta fix that- Son of a bitch.”
He’s staring at you, and you blink up at him in open confusion. “What?”
“That’s why you always make me turn off the lights.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “And why you’re always on top, and you never hold my hand, and- Fuck, baby, I thought you were just shy-“
“Dean, I-“
“No.” His hand moves to cover your mouth, his eyes narrowed on yours. “We’re doin’ this right, this time. I’m gonna fuck you with the lights on, and you’re gonna look at me and take everything I give you. Blink twice if you’ve got it.”
You’re only staring at him, something dying then rebooting in your brain. He loves you. Dean loves you. And he’s looking at you as if you’re all he’s ever wanted, and you need him, and you can’t remember how to do anything but look at him-
“I need you to blink, sweetheart.” He mutters. “I’m not doing anything until you’re good with it.”
That’s the reset. You need him, now, and you can move again.
You pull his hand down slowly, holding his gaze as you speak. “I’m good with it. Please.”
His throat bobs, and you get a tight nod in return. “Good. Hold on.”
“Hold- Dean!”
At the very least, Dean moved your book out of your lap before he tossed you over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. He’s walking before you even get a chance to wiggle, and the moment you try, a sharp slap lands on your ass.
You squeak, twisting and pushing on his back to glare at him, and you don’t have to see his face to know he’s wearing a shit-eating grin.
“Dean Winchester, I’m gonna kick your ass-“
“You’re cute when you threaten me.” He turns to nip at the exposed skin of your thigh, and a moan escapes your throat. “C’mon, baby. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”
You frown, but still slump into his hold. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“I- I dunno-“
“You better not be talking about what we’re about to do.” He hums, and you go almost boneless as one of his hands trails right between your thighs, rubbing your pussy over your shorts.
“Dean-“
“Trust me, baby.” He shoulders open the door to his room, and lowering you down to sit on the edge of the mattress and settling between your legs. “This is about me.”
You swallow, nod, and Dean’s smirk splits into a full, wide grin. He holds your face so carefully, as he pulls you into a kiss. Trailing his tongue over your lips and nipping at the corner of your mouth, chuckling as your arms wrap around his neck and you must be dreaming. You’ve had this dream. The one where you bite his lower lip right back and he growls, deepening the kiss until melted against him and clinging to his as tight as you can, pulled entirely apart from only a kiss. The dream where you’re still Dean’s to do whatever he wants with, but all he wants is you.
It hits you fully, when he helps you out of your shorts without ever fully breaking the kiss, presses his hand against your clothed pussy, and groans into your mouth.
All Dean wants is you.
“So fucking wet,” he mutters your name, rubbing his palm in a slow circle. “You ever get this wet for anyone else, sweetheart?”
You shake your head, your fingers curling on his neck. “N- No, Dean-“
“I know,” he coos, almost teasing, and you start to grind into him. “You need it bad, don’t you-“
“Yes-“ You gasp as the heel of his palm starts to rub over your clit. “Feels so good-“
“Yeah, it does.” He mutters, and you buck into his touch. “Jesus, baby, someone would think I’ve been neglecting you-“
“Dean-“
“Sorta have, I guess. Need to fix that.” His fingers drift up, playing with the band of your panties. “You like these?”
“No-“
“I’ll buy you new ones anyway.”
You hear the rip of the fabric, but a weak protest barely leaves your throat before Dean’s diving down, and everything narrows to heaven. It’s always heaven, when Dean licks a firm stripe your pussy and sucks your clit between his lips, giving it just enough attention drive you insane before he moves away. Dragging down and tasting every bit of your pleasure, groaning against you when your thighs squeeze his head, the sound vibrating through your body and making you fall flat back on the bed.
Your hands fly into his hair, as he pushes his tongue into your entrance and lets his nose rub on your clit. His stubble is tickling at your inner thighs, and he keeps moaning into you, and whenever you gasp his name, it only seems to spur him on.
“Shit- I-“ You take a sharp breath when his teeth scrape against you, and his hands squeeze your ass, angling you a little higher. “Dean-“
He groans, and when you angle your head up, he’s fucking rutting against the edge of the bed.
He’s getting off on it. On eating you out like he’s been starved of you.
And you’re seconds from toppling over the edge when he pulls away, and a high whine leaves your throat.
“Taste so good,” He mutters, kissing right over your clit and sending a shiver of pleasure through your body. “Son of a bitch, baby, the sounds you make-“
His thumb presses on your clit, a loud moan pushes itself out of your throat, and Dean chuckles.
“Yeah, just like that.”
“Dean,” you mumble, tugging at his hair. “I was so close-“
“I know, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, dragging your hand away before kissing over your knuckles as well. “But want you to cum on my cock. You think you can do that?”
You nod frantically, and Dean grins.
“Good girl.”
He rises up, shedding his clothing like it’s coated with toxins, and crawls over you with an almost feral grin. You can see how hard he is, thick and long and all yours, and your legs spread wide to let him settle between them.
This is usually the part where you make him flip you over, and you fix your gaze anywhere but his face. But tonight, it’s all Dean. And he’s keeping you right below him, twinging his fingers in yours and squeezing your hand with a wide grin.
You don’t know how you ever lived without this. Without your eyes wide on Dean’s as he pushes into you, watching his nostrils flare, and mouth fall open in pleasure. You’re never going to be able to not have it, now. But that was always the fear.
Now you get to have Dean bottom out, lean down to give you a heavy, hot kiss as he lets you adjust, and fall apart from only the adoration in his gaze.
“Ready?” He mutters, his voice a deep, gravely sound that makes you clench around him, and he groans. “Goddamnit, sweetheart-“
“Sorry,” you whisper, and he laughs.
“No, you’re not.”
You’re really not.
Because Dean starts to fuck you.
He’s everywhere. Drilling into you until your right back on the edge, his lips attacking every bit of bare skin he can find. One hand stays in yours as the other angles you up to drive himself impossibly deeper, until he’s hitting a deep and needy spot that makes stars cloud your vision. Every time you roll to meet him, he moans your name and captures your lips back against his, and your arms wrap around his neck to keep him a close as possible. So his body is molding into yours, and there’s no clear line between you, and every time you plead for more he just swallows it with a kiss, and throws it right back to you.
The hand on your hip moves without warning, pressing right over your clit, and you fly apart. Warmth washing over you like a wave as your scream, and Dean just eats that sound too.
He’s not stopping. His cock slams right back against that spot, and you’re thrown even higher up. But Dean just keeps catching you—fucking you into oblivion and rubbing your clit until you’re a messy, whining frenzy—and when you sense him reaching the edge, you hook your legs around his waist to try and keep him.
You know you have him.
But you don’t want to miss a single thing.
Dean slams home with another moan and pinch of your clit, and you cling to him as tight as you can. You’re a boneless, heated mess of want, but you’re Dean’s. And he’s still rutting into you as your last orgasm shivers up your spine, and he collapses over you with a grunt.
“Can I-“ Dean clears his throat, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. “I’ll clean you up later, promise, but I kinda wanna-“
“Stay?” You whisper, your voice a little hoarse from the everything, and Dean chuckles.
“Yeah. That.”
“Okay.”
He pushes up on his palms, remaining sheathed inside of you as he gives you a pointed look. “That easy, huh?”
You flush, your fingers curling on his neck. “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“I’ve been wanting to do this,” he rolls his hips, already semi-hard again, and your lips part in a sharp gasp. “For months. Thought you just didn’t like, y’know-“ He nods down between your bodies. “This.”
“Cuddling?”
“Yeah. And if I knew all I had to do was ask-“ He frowns to himself. “Would you have said yes?”
“To you?” Your voice is still soft, and Dean only gives you a small nod in return. “Yeah.”
“Even though you thought we weren’t together?”
You sigh. “I still loved you, Dean.”
He nods slowly. “And now?”
“Wha-“
“You love me now, right.”
You giggle, tugging him down into a long, slow kiss before humming against his lips. “Now, I’m never letting you go.”
“Good.” He mumbles, twitching inside of you and making your hips jerk. “Not gonna go anywhere. I’ll latch onto you like, uh- What’s something that sticks-“
“Velcro?”
“Sure.” He kisses and sucks a path down your neck, finally stopping to bury his face in your breasts, his words muffled against your skin. “Long as I get to hold you, babygirl, ‘m good.”
You tangle your fingers in his hair, and it’s impossibly good to be able to touch him like this. Like he’s yours, and if you so much as try to blow away in the wind, Dean with launch up and catch you. If you start to drift, he’ll tug you right back. And you can see now, all the moments he’s been doing that before—kiss you with too many teeth to not want to leave a mark, holding you to his chest like you’re a lifeline—and it breaks your heart, but it’s already mending. You’ll make it up to him.
And he must be reading your mind, because he props his chin up with a deep furrow in his brow, grunting your name like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Dean.” You mimic back to him, and his lips twitch.
“You’re getting sassy, sweetheart.” He nips at your skin, and you squeal, whacking his shoulder. “I like it.”
You swallow, holding his gaze. “Nobody says sassy-“
“I said it-“
“Because you have the heart of a ninety-year-old, my love.” You boop his nose with a soft smile—now that you’re allowed to do this, you don’t think a gun to your head would stop you—and his eyes widen into a look of what might be awe.
“Marry me.” He whispers, and you blink.
“Dean, we’ve been dating for an hour-“
“Been four months for me. And I meant it, you’re everything for me, I- I gotta-“ He’s pushing up to hang back over you, framing your face with one hand and almost a frantic look in his eyes. “I love you, babygirl, and if I know I’m not gonna be good at telling you that, but you need to know-“
“I know.” You smile up at him, wiggling slightly around his cock, and he grunts. Given the surprise over his face, he might have forgotten he was in there. “I do, Dean. I only didn’t because I was- I dunno- I just didn’t. But I know now. So let’s give it at least another four months before that.”
“Four months.” He mutters, nodding. “What day is it.”
“Uh- I’m not-“ Your eyes narrow. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I don’t know shit, sweetheart.” Dean rolls you over without warning, pinning you to his chest above him and looking up at you like you’re the final answer to every question in the universe. “We’re gonna go on some real dates, and I’ll sleep in your bed and make out with you in front of everyone-“
“You already try to do that-“
“Yeah, but I’m gonna do it more. Everyone will know that you’re my girl.” He kisses to corner of your mouth, and you giggle again.
You sound sort of like an idiot. You’re certainly smiling like one.
You really don’t care.
“I’m gonna make you fall in love with me so hard.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“I am in love with you-“
“Then more. You’re gonna love me more.”
You shake your head, giving him a soft smile. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
His eyes flash again, and get a deep, heavy kiss before he speaks again. It’s all exploration and time, because Dean knows you, but he seems to want more, and you have all time in the world.
And he tucks the hair behind your ears when he pulls away, his touch so soft, and his smirk dangerous as he thrusts up into you, and your breath hitches in your throat.
“Never cared about possible, sweetheart.” He drawls. “You’re mine, and I’m never gonna give you a reason to leave.”
End Note: Thinking about Dean going to the movies like "this date is going great!" and she's just straight sweating.
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“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You say, dropping your sea bag by the door as you walk in.
You and Rooster had agreed to drive home together from California to Texas. The last deployment had you on a carrier for eight months and you needed some time in your own bed, without anyone banging on your door.
On the way home, you both needed to sleep and the Navy had regulations in place saying you could only drive for a total of 10 hours per day (safety reasons and all that), so you stopped at a motel.
This motel, unfortunately, seemed to be a by-the-hour motel.
“What’s up? Oh.” Rooster was right behind you and you mindlessly side stepped to allow him a better view of the room.
It wasn’t necessary bad but it wasn’t good either. One queen sized bed with a mirror on the opposite wall and suspiciously placed chair in the corner. The bedding was a deep red and you didn’t want to think about what you’d find if you ran a black light over the duvet.
“This was the last room.” Rooster says, at least having the decency to seem slightly embarrassed by the situation.
You nod, swallowing hard. “Of course it was.”
It could be worse. You could be back on the boat and underneath your last rack mate, Circus, who would toss and turn and repeat drills in her sleep. Still, this wasn’t an ideal situation.
“I’m gonna brush my teeth.” You say, completely forgetting your toothbrush as you make your way to the bathroom.
Christ, the bathroom was even worse.
There was a large bath tub which did look surprisingly clean and double vanity sink. Heart shaped mirrors reflected your eye bags and all you wanted was to go to sleep. It was like exhaustion waited until you were comfortable to finally hit you like a truck.
There were candles on every open surface. God, this place was the worst.
“I left my fucking toothbrush.” You grumble, walking out of the bathroom.
Rooster was in the main room, shirt off and facing towards the door. Still, his back muscles were a thing of glory. It was hard not to stare. This man preened like a peacock, sometimes even more than Hangman, and you’d seen him shirtless many times but something about the soft lights of the room and the fact you hadn’t been touched in over a year left your mouth dry.
“How many sinks are there? I’m just trying to brush mine and go to bed.” He bends down, grabbing a small toiletry bag, before turning to you.
“Two.” Your heart was racing and if someone looked up the Genius lyrics to Take My Breath Away, it would just be photos of him.
He walks past and you can smell his cologne.
This was going to be a long night.
You pad in slowly after him, keeping your eyes fixed on your reflection in the mirror rather than his golden, tan skin.
He spits into the sink, wiping a hand over his mouth. It was borderline pornagraphic the way this man looked.
“You ever been to a place like this before?” He asks before bending down to swish water in his mouth.
You nearly choke on your toothpaste. You quickly spit it out, doing a rinse with water before responding. “God, no, I have much higher standards than this.”
“You’re a material girl?” He jokes.
“Obviously. I need something high end like a Four Seasons.” You say, pressing your hip to the side of the counter.
You finally looked at him. Really looked at him and drank him in. He was gorgeous. Maybe it was the strange mix of the baby powder scent from the candles and something that was so distinctly him. Maybe it was the post deployment glasses. Maybe it was something, anything other than your rational mind, but you were drooling.
“That makes sense.” He muses. “That’s pricey though. You’re worth Four Seasons?”
You snort. “I’m worth a week at the Four Seasons.”
He cocks a brow and looks you up and down. Heat washes through you and you have to pull yourself away from the counter and back into the main room.
You can hear him following after you and it would have made your heart flutter except you knew he wasn’t following you in pursuit but simply because he also needed to go to sleep.
You went to the far side, closest to the door, while he took the side near the bathroom. You were tempted to smash the mirror on the wall but that would probably cause about 14 years of bad luck and that’s the last thing you needed at this point.
“I’ve never seen a room with a mirror like that.” Rooster hums. “You?”
“I just told you I only go to the Four Seasons, you think they have mirrors like that and cuck chairs?” You point towards the lone chair in the corner. The sheets were silk and as you sank into them, you realized how many people had been in them before you. You suddenly wanted to just sleep in the tub.
“I used to have a mirror like that when I was in college.” He says. “At Virginia Tech.”
“Oh yeah? You had a corner chair, too?”
He laughs and you want to crawl closer to him.
“God, no. I had some standards.” He sighs, adjusting himself so he’s sitting with his back against the headboard. “It was kinda fun having a mirror. You should try it sometime.”
“Try it with you?” You tease. “When Bob learns to fly.”
He laughs again. “Try it when you’re alone. Watching yourself can heighten feelings.”
“I don’t think that’s true. I gotta see the sighted source for that one.”
He shrugs. “Works for me.”
“Yeah? You watch yourself? Little voyeur. Is it still voyeurism if it’s yourself?”
You were glad he was so easy to talk to. There was nothing you could say that could weird him out, in fact, he could probably out weird you. As much as you loved Phoenix, she was such a private person that you didn’t even know she was engaged until her fiancée brought her lunch one day.
Maybe this wasn’t the worst hotel room in the world.
“I think it’s just voyeurism if you’re watching someone else.” He explains.
“You’re still a little freak.”
“Yeah, that’s what the girls would always say until they tried it.”
Now it was your turn to raise a brow.
“Bring ‘em back to my room, have them get off in the mirror and then fuck them from behind.” He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like everyone did this on an average Tuesday.
“So you are a voyeur!” You say, swatting at his bicep. Before you can pull your hand back, he places his on top of yours, successfully holding it down.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t.” His grin was sinful.
He probably does this to every girl he has in his bed, you tell yourself. You’re not special, he’s just getting his rocks off.
“When’s the last time you got off?”
Your mind stopped. When was the last time you got off? Had to have been before deployment, that’s for sure. You rarely had time for yourself and when you did, you used it to sleep and catch up on trashy reality TV shows.
“I don’t know.” Came your meek reply.
“Maybe you should try it.” His voice was hot against your ear. An inch closer and he’d be biting it. Christ.
Your hand slowly pulls from under his, moving towards your leggings. You keep your eyes on him, waiting for him to retract his statement, telling you he’s only joking. But he doesn’t.
Your leggings go down to your knees but you kept your panties on. He swallows hard, glancing between your eyes and your now barren thighs. His pupils dilate and you slowly allow your gaze to travel down to his chest.
Rooster had been your work husband ever since you were first lieutenants. You’d done everything together. But this.
This was different.
Your hand slowly drifts downwards, passing across the soft fabric of your t-shirt. It had been so long since the last time you’d done this, you jerked slightly at the initial contact.
“That’s it.” He mumbles, more to himself than anyone else.
You spread your legs even farther, still keeping your eyes focused on his chest. His breathing was getting even heavier and you knew yours was too.
Slipping your fingers underneath the fabric, you fully gasp. It dawns on you exactly what is going on. You’re getting off in front of Bradley Bradshaw. And he likes it. And you like it too.
“Watch yourself.” He says, eyes flicking towards the mirror.
You do as told and your initial reaction is to shy away. You turn your head to the side, forehead pressing against his shoulder, fingers still working yourself slowly.
He makes as tsk-ing sound, grabbing your head and forcing it to look back at the mirror.
“I said watch yourself.”
You were soaking.
Once your fingers touched your clit, it was almost over before it even started. Your thighs clenched, pressing firmly against each other as you tried to stop yourself from cumming like a horny teenager.
“I just have to do everything myself, don’t I?” He muses. In a swift motion, he had grabbed your hips and positioned you so you were sitting in between his legs. His large hands were holding your legs apart and you could see the wet stain in your panties.
“Roos…” you groan, leaning your head back against his chest. Your hand slowly went back down to touch yourself, still feeling like you were just a moment away from finishing.
“That’s it, good girl.”
Looking at yourself was both the most embarrassing and sexy thing. Rooster was breathing heavily down your neck and you could feel him pressing against your lower back.
Bradley was watching you intensely in the mirror, eyes flitting between your expressions to your hand. His head dipped down closer to your ear and you could hear a soft hum come from him. “You like that?”
You didn’t know how to respond. You didn’t know if you could respond. Your mouth couldn’t form words and it felt like all thoughts were leaving your brain.
You move your panties to the side, fully exposing yourself. The cold air brought you back slightly but the moment your fingers touched your clit, you were back to floating in bliss. You’d never watched yourself before, never seen what your fingers looked like as you were working yourself open but seeing it live and in person was a different experience.
Bradley’s hands made their way to your chest, gripping firmly. It felt so good to be touched and you were clenching around nothing.
Finally, you slowly dipped one finger in, surprised to feel just how wet you were. You were sure you’d be soaking onto the bedspread.
“Just like that, keep going.” His hot breath against your neck sent shivers down your spine. You arched against him and he gripped your chest even tighter to keep you from going anywhere.
“Bradley…” You weren’t quite sure where you had wanted to go with that sentence but you knew you needed to say his name.
He hums again, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Add another.”
You don’t need to be told twice. You press another finger inside you, stretching yourself out. It was such a lewd image and you were sure it’d be burned inside your mind for the rest of your days to come. Maybe when you finally burned out this would be what greeted you on the other side.
His hands began to rub circles over your nipples and your hips were moving on their own accord. Your thumb found your clit again and you knew you were about to cum in an embarrassingly short time.
“Puh-please.” You groan, head falling to the side. You were panting against his bicep, mouth open and tongue dropping out.
“You don’t gotta beg, sweet darlin’.” He muses. “I wanna watch you fall apart.”
You don’t think anything could have stopped you from cumming once he said that. Even your Chief of Naval Operations entering the room couldn’t have stopped you from falling apart from his words. You bit down on his bicep to stop yourself from getting too loud.
Once you had finally finished and came down from your high, you found you were shaking. Shivers racked your body and Rooster was doing his best to run his hands up and down your arms. He was murmuring kind words in your ear as he did so, trying to help ground you.
“You got one more in you, pretty girl?” He asks as he presses another kiss to your throat.
You nod fervently. You needed another one before you went insane.
He nudged you off him, onto your back as he quickly got off the bed. You were confused for a moment before he repositioned himself on the foot of the bed. He gripped both of your legs, pulling you towards him.
Half expecting him to stand up, you were shocked when you realized he wasn’t standing. He was throwing your legs over his shoulders and kissing your inner thighs. He was about to -
Oh, Christ.
His tongue was like nothing you’d ever felt before. It was probably one of the best things in your entire life and it had just begun.
You were still shaking from your previous orgasm so his lips on your clit had you crying out louder than ever before. One of your hands found his hair while the other was gripping the sheets. His large hands over your thighs were warm and grounding as he continued to fuck his tongue into your hole.
All your bones had turned to jelly and you couldn’t do anything more than lay there, taking all that he was giving you. And he was giving you everything.
“Keep your eyes on me.” He says while coming up for a breath of air.
It was a struggle to lift yourself, propping on an elbow. His mustache was soaked and lips glistening. His eyes were dark and it was intimidating to look at him for longer than a few seconds.
“In the mirror.” He finishes before diving back down.
His back muscles were tensing and it was gorgeous. All you could see was your head over his as his large wingspan covered your body. He really was sculpted like a Greek god.
He ate it messy. Not in a bad way, just messy. The sounds would usually have been a turn off but from him, you wish you could have recorded them to play on repeat. You hadn’t realized when he had removed on of his hands but you did realize when he inserted two fingers inside you.
Your toes curl, back arching. He lets out a low moan as your hips jerk. His lips were sucking your clit while his fingers pumped in and out. You dropped your eyes from the mirror and onto his face.
He looked completely fucked out despite you being the one receiving. His eyes were closed but the look on his face was pure bliss. He licked you up and down, swallowing everything.
When his fingers curled, you were done for. Both your hands gripped his hair, pulling him impossibly closer to you as you came. He lets out a shuddering breath as you cum across his fingers and tongue. Despite his eyes still remaining closed, he slowly cleaned you up, careful to not cause too much overstimulation.
His eyes flutter open and you can feel his eye lashes against your thighs. You were panting, completely a wreck.
“Fuck.” He mumbles, gently removing your legs from his shoulders. A brief moment of panic shoots through you. Was he regretting what he’d just done?
You pull yourself back up to the pillows, bringing your knees to your chest in attempt to cover up.
Rooster stood up and you put two and two together. A small wet spot in his crotch made you cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. He’d cum just from eating you out.
“Do you, uh, do you have a change of sweatpants?” You ask slowly.
“No.” He groans, wiping a hand over his face which was still covered in you.
Now you really wanted to laugh. “This ever happen before?”
He lets out a small laugh. “No.”
“You can just take them off.” You offer, slowly uncurling yourself. If you were pantless, it would only be fair for him to be too.
He thinks about it for a moment before slowly stripping.
He was big. You’d always assumed it but seeing it in person was so much different. He was nearly trimmed and part of you wanted to question when he had time for grooming on a carrier but the other part was just happy to see it.
“Stop staring.” He says with a grin as he gets into the bed.
“What? You want me to stare into the mirror some more then?” You tease.
He quickly grabs the bottom of your shirt, pulling it off, no bra underneath, and covers his body with yours.
Notes: Sequel to "Mr. CHiPs." Fluff, flirting. 2.5k words.
You grin widely in triumph when you notice his face heat up but he’s all confidence when he responds, “I’ve just made up my mind.”
“What’s that?”
“You can call me whatever the fuck you want.”
Strolling into the bar, Bradley can’t help but glance around the room to check for you, despite knowing he was earlier than the time he gave you. The building was mostly empty, and he decided that none of the patrons were nearly beautiful enough to have been you.
Behind the counter, cleaning glasses, Penny calls him over, “You’re here early.”
“I’m meeting someone.”
“Ahhh yeah,” she nods “that girl that told you to get lost last night?”
“That’s the one. And she didn’t tell me to get lost,” he gives her a pointed look.
Bradley pulls out a barstool and as soon as he’s settled, glues his eyes to the door. Penny smirks, shaking her head at his expense. Bradley’s sweet and he means the world to Pete. She wants the best for him. She likes seeing him act a little lovesick, but she just hopes the girl is worth it.
“Can I get you anything while you wait?” She offers.
His eyes don’t leave the door while he answers, “Yeah, sure. Wouldn’t hurt to take the edge off.”
“And might as well start now, you know, in case she doesn’t show.”
Bradley faces her, utterly sure of himself. “Oh, she’ll show.”
But when he looks back at the door, his face falters, revealing just a little of the insecurity that hides beneath. This is unusual for him, asking a girl out on a real date. Even though he told you that wasn’t what it was, well… that was really just as much of an excuse for him as it was for you. If he didn’t think of tonight as a real date, maybe his nerves would calm down. The minutes tick by and eventually his heart stops beating so hard as his attention is drawn to the little tv in the corner, playing the game.
Then he hears the door creak open followed by a warm gust of air. Being reminded why he’s there again, Bradley jerks his head away from the TV to see you standing in the doorway.
There you are. He can’t believe you came. You’re wearing the same jeans as you were last night, and you’ve got a light flannel-type overshirt to protect against the evening air as it quickly cools down outside. You looked cute. And you seem confident as you make eye contact with him across the bar.
“She came,” the surprise slips from his voice.
“I thought you knew she was coming,” Penny pokes fun at him, but Bradley‘s already left his chair to greet you at the door.
You pull your sunglasses off and smile at him. He’s enamored by your wide smile and the way your eyes crinkle. He also can’t help a self satisfied smirk when he catches you raking your eyes up and down his body. You’re halted in place and a little short-breathed watching him saunter confidently towards you. He doesn’t stop until he’s close enough that your hips are just a hand’s width away. Bradley’s itching to rest his hands over your hips but decides against it. The smell of his cologne is making you just a little light-headed.
He gazes down at you. “You came.”
Was that sultry voice really talking to you? You can feel heat creeping up your neck.
Stay strong.
Despite your best efforts, your voice cracks slightly when you reply, “I guess your pitch worked.”
Bradley lets his hand just barely graze your hip, though you catch the hesitance in it when he quickly pulls it away.
“Good.” He clears his throat and backs up a step, just now noticing how close he’s really standing to you. “Can I get you a drink?” He asks in a normal tone, snapping you out of your mustache induced daze, reminding you that you’re in a public place.
“You promised this wouldn’t be a date.”
He playfully rolls his eyes at you. “It’s just a curtesy, sweetheart.”
You purse your lips in an effort not to smile at the nickname he’s quickly adopted for you. You concede and he leads you up to the bar. He looks back at you. “What are we drinking?”
“Heineken.”
There’s a glint in his eye and he openly smiles at the realization that he was right - you were perfect.
“Two Heinekens, please, Penny.”
A dark-haired woman serving the bar gives a shit-eating grin to Bradley.
“Sure thing, Rooster.” She pries the tops off and hands them over and leans across the counter. “So, you gonna introduce me to your friend here?”
“Penny, this is y/n. Y/n, Penny,” he says while handing you your drink.
“Nice to meet you, y/n. And don’t worry about Rooster, he’ll treat you right.” You laugh and look over at Bradley, his embarrassment made evident by his quickly reddening face. Penny leans closer to you, conspiratorially, “And if he doesn’t, you let me know. I’ll take care of him for you.” She winks.
You’re smiling and laughing as you thank her for her offer and the beer.
Bradley gently grabs your hand to pull you away as he sarcastically replies, “Yeah, thanks a lot, Pen. We’re gonna go over there now.”
You can’t stop giggling as he leads you to a table in the corner. “Okay, I’d keep coming here just for her.”
He laughs, shrugging, “Hey, as long as you keep coming back.”
Bradley can’t get enough of your laughter. He’s never had a hard time getting girls to laugh, but it was never nearly this satisfying. He’d tell flirty jokes, keeping some girl giggly and flirty, while knowing full well that he could probably say just about anything, and they’d happily drag him home. Tag chasers would clock the uniform, and the rest was too easy. And he’s not naïve, Bradley knows being 6’3” and fit helps. He’s amusingly learned that the mustache doesn’t hurt either. But right now, there are no hidden intentions. He wants to keep you laughing because every time you flash him that grin, he gets giddy inside. He thinks that adorable laugh might just be music to his ears.
“So, why was she calling you Rooster?”
“It’s my callsign.”
“Callsign? What do you do that you have a callsign?”
Not trying at all to hide his smirk, he takes a sip of his beer. “I’m a fighter pilot.”
And obviously aware of the affect that information has on women, you think to yourself.
“You must be very disciplined.”
Bradley thinks for a moment. No one’s said that to him yet. At least not a pretty girl. He quickly thinks through all the ways it could be taken as flirtatious. But you’re not looking at him like that, like there’s an innuendo behind your words. You look interested.
“Because I’m in the Navy?”
“Well, yeah. But also, because you don’t just get that job on a whim. How long have you wanted to be a pilot?”
He smiles, and it’s one of the most genuine smiles you’ve seen. He’s looking right at you, but for a moment his eyes drift behind you, nostalgia written all over his face, before coming back to rest on yours. There’s a tension that leaves his body. You knew from your first meeting that he liked to show off, but your question seems to have grabbed him by the hand and pulled him down to a settle into a place more comfortable. More familiar.
“My whole life. My dad was one”
“That’s amazing. I think it’s so cool when people know their whole life what they want to do. And then do it.”
“It took a lot of work, I won’t lie.” You laugh with him.
“I admire that.” You’re glowing at him and Bradley can’t help but bask in it.
You scrunch your face slightly, thinking of something. “What should I call you?” He grins at you.
“What sounds better to you?”
You lean over the table, resting your head on your fist, contemplating. Slowly and purposefully, you pronounce his name. “Bradley.” He waits patiently for the next one. “Rooster.” Then, with a smirk that you’re honestly trying really hard to hide, you carefully say, in your best bedroom voice, “Lieutenant.”
You grin widely in triumph when you notice his face heat up but he’s all confidence when he responds, “I’ve just made up my mind.”
“What’s that?”
“You can call me whatever the fuck you want.”
…
The rest of the evening could be considered a perfect date. Sure, a few more beers helped to loosen you both up, but they couldn’t take all the credit for the giddiness you felt every time his mustache twitched over his little all-knowing smirk, or the comfortability between you as you shared about yourselves, and the warmth that spread through your whole body once he got more confident resting an arm around your shoulder.
You asked him about his dad and listened to Bradley admiringly talk about his father. You got the impression they must be very close. It wasn’t until after Bradley pointed behind you to a wall filled with pictures of Navalmen saying, “In Memorium” that you realized he had died. And then it clicked that that’s where he had looked when you first asked him about being a pilot.
“How old were you?”
“Six.”
So young. You barely even remember middle school.
“You really kept him alive.”
“No, my mom did. And all his buddies.”
Naturally, you asked about his mother. This time, he told you right away that she had passed from cancer shortly after he graduated college. You did your best to hide most of the sympathy you felt, not wanting to make him feel pitied.
The mood lightened when he noticed a crew of people walk in, obviously recognizing them, and called them over. You were glad for it. Not that you didn’t want to talk about his parents, but you felt bad making him relive both of their deaths right after each other.
You couldn’t help but be shy as he introduced you to people he was so clearly close with. You can’t say you’ve ever gotten so familiar with someone’s personal life on a first date- sorry, wait – before even having a first date. You shoved Bradley playfully and laughed out loud when one of his friends asked about who his date was.
“She’s just a friend, Hangman. We haven’t started dating yet.”
Hangman gave you a smirk, though you knew he wasn’t being serious. “So, it’s alright then if I ask her out?”
“No!”
The evening comfortably moved from your more serious topics to easy sarcasm and banter while you watched Bradley play pool with his friends. Not just banter with him, but all of them. It was nice to experience both his fun side and his ability to have a serious conversation. It was also encouraging to know he seemed to have stand-up friends. Between those encouraging signs and the sight of his very nicely fitting jeans when he leaned over the pool table, these thoughts were making you mushier and mushier every time he looked at you. You had to remind yourself you just met this man. Who knew who he could turn out to be. But then he offered you the pool cue, and when you said you weren’t very good, he said, “That’s alright sweetheart, I’ll help you.” And when he wrapped his arms around to help steady your aim, your mind was too fuzzy to remember anything about being cautious.
…
Smiling and giggling, Bradley leads you out of the bar. You don’t know what time it is, and you don’t remember where you parked. You’re really not that tipsy, but you just can’t pull yourself away from leaning on him. He’s looking down at you, enamored with how you wrapped your arms around his, fully leaning into him; at your hair, scratching his cheek; at your fingers interlaced so tightly with his.
“Oh shit! I almost forgot!”
“What?” You turn to look up at him, confused at his outburst.
“To ask you out!”
“Hah!” you laugh, playfully shove him away. “You’re serious!”
“Of course I am, honey. Did you doubt me?” He clears his throat, taking a step back from you, before holding out his hand. “Excuse me, ma’am,”
You have to turn away for a moment from embarrassment and laughter. Regaining yourself, you hold out your hand to him. Just like the night before, his hand encompasses yours entirely. It's warm and a little sweaty and you find yourself wanting it all over you.
“I’m Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, and I was watching you in the bar all night,” he continues, “and I just had to tell you, I’m real hung up on you.” You’re blushing harder than you think you ever have in your life.
“Could I take you out to dinner sometime? Maybe get your number?”
You light up in excitement as you remember something. Yes, you came prepared. Reaching into your pocket, you triumphantly pull out a sharpie, leaving Bradley to look at you in confusion.
“Lieutenant, I would love to give you my number.” You gesture for his hand. Realization hits him and he lets out a laugh but gives you his hand without hesitation.
“Old school, huh?”
You smirk. “Here’s the secret,” you explain, “every day you’re gonna look at this and remember me writing it on you.”
“That’s a good tactic.”
“Mhm.”
He steps closer to you and reaches his other hand around your hips while you uncap the Sharpie.
Suddenly you stop right before the marker makes contact with the back of his hand.
“Will you get in trouble for having marker on your hand?”
You’re adorable. And practical.
“Maybe you should write it on my arm.”
You nod seriously, and get back to the very important task at hand, afterwards, gently patting his hand and giving it back to him. He doesn’t know why, but Bradley’s enthralled by the action. You stand in silence for a moment, content in just taking each other’s presence in.
“Can I walk you to your car?”
You sigh dramatically at having to tear your eyes away from him, earning a laugh from Bradley. Once you find and reach your car, you make no moves to grab your keys. You can’t stop looking at the smile on his face.
“You need help there, sweetheart?”
“No,” you roll your eyes, finally unclipping your keys from your belt loop. But you still hesitate to unlock your car. You turn to face him where he’s patiently waiting for you. All of a sudden, you feel shy, but you grab his hands anyways. Biting your lip, you slowly pull him into you, pressing yourself against your car. Bradley dips his head down, stopping just before reaching your lips. You’re waiting. Holding your breath. Feeling every bit of pressure of his fingers gently pressed into your sides. Then he smiles.
“Sorry honey, that’s a first date activity.” He leans away, though still holding you to your car. Your head falls back with a groan and your knees go weak, forcing him to hold you up, making Bradley laugh at your exasperation.
“Some might even say a second date activity.” You glare at him, he just keeps giving you that shit-eating grin.
“You know, if I remember correctly, last night you thought I was a Navy skeeze.” You gasp out loud, laughing at his words, but you can’t deny, he wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Fine,” you give in, fingers hooked through his belt loops, trying to pull him even closer, “You proved yourself very nicely tonight, Rooster.” He smirks at your use of his callsign. It was cute coming from your lips.
He takes a step back when you gently push him away. “Let’s see if you can keep it up.”
Summary: Bradley does a whole lap around the house trying to find his bronco keys... they were in his hand the whole time.
pairing: wife! reader x husband! Bradley Bradshaw
word count: 900
warning: fluff
You were mean to Bradley but in a playful loving way of course. Sometimes you tell him to throw himself off of a cliff breaking every bone in his muscular body possible. Other time your arms were thrown around him, as soon as he stepped through the door. Yes both can exist at the same time.
"Shit where are my keys?" Bradley frantically searched through the cluttered bowl by the front door, his fingers rummaging through the pile of keys, receipts, and other miscellaneous items meanwhile he held his car keys in his hand. "Are you gonna help me or just stand there like a princess?"
"I told you we can take my car." Your crossed your arms, you were already running late to Mav and penny's wedding party, because you had snuck into the shower with Bradley to have some fun. "Your not gonna die if you don't use your hideous bronco once in your life."
Bradley's head snapped at you, his expression incredulous. "It's not hideous, your car is a real piece of shit compared to mine and you know it." His words had a hint of annoyance. He went to the living room to check on the couch, when you glanced at the car keys in his hand. He dug his fingers into the couch crevices, feeling nothing. He furrowed his brows while looking at the coffee table. "Hey where's the salt shaker?" You played this game with Bradley were you hide the salt shaker around the house, moving it to random spots for the other to find and moving it again when you finally found it. It was a never ending game of Where's Waldow or Elf on the shelf. Bradley hasn't found the salt shaker for three days now.
"Bradley were not doing this right now, they were already late." You popped your hip out impatiently. The sun was starting to set making the house look darker. "Plus I put it in a really good spot so you wont be able to find it."
Bradley scoffed moving out the living room. He held the record for having it hidden for 4 days hidden in the living room mantel and he wasn't gonna let you beat him. "I bet I could find it right now, since I'm looking for my keys." Bradley moved into the dark kitchen opening the fridge to find the salt shaker while the florescent light bulb illuminated his frame and the kitchen floor. "What? You went to the grocery store without? I thought we were gonna go together." He frowned getting distracted, bending down to grab a strawberry from the fridge.
"We were but every time you come home, you fall asleep on top of me and you don't want to do anything." You moved closer to him looking at the stocked fridge. Bradley He held a ripe strawberry between his thumb and forefinger, pressing the red fruit gently against your lips, their plumpness begging to taste the sweetness. You gazed up at him impatiently. "Bradley were late." He huffed popping the whole strawberry in his mouth enjoying the sweet and cold taste on his tongue. His eye wandered to a can of whipped cream, reaching for the cold can. "Bradley." You said more sternly.
He took the red cap off tilting it op again his mouth before squirting the white foam into his mouth with a smile. You bit the inside of your cheeks choosing not to smile at how he easily he got entertained. "Open." He demand through mouthful of whipped cream holding it to your lips. You mustered up the most annoyed look so he'd feel bad. He huffed once you denied his request squirting a dot of cream onto your nose.
"Bradley!" You squealed out. His lips quirked up, kissing the cream off your nose. Bradley got turned mad when you got annoyed with him. You looked so sexy with you hand on your hip, trying to tell him what to do. He grabbed you face with both his hands, smashing his lips onto yours. Your eyes automatically closed, your bottom lip between his, leaning into him. His hand trailed down your biceps down to your sides, and on your ass giving it a squeeze through your satin dress. It brought you back to reality pushing at bradley chest to get some distance. "No, Bradley, no! Not now." You shook your head sternly causing him to grin.
"Honey I can't find my keys how are we suppose to g-"
"There in your hand idiot!" You snapped back, and he looked at his hand and then he realized he was holding it the whole time. He erupted in a fit of laughter, you bit the inside of your cheek resisting the desire to laugh with him.
"Okay baby, okay no need to yell." He wrapped a Strong arm around your waist, pressing a gentle kiss on your lips. You looked up at him, wiping your lip gloss of his face. "I'm sorry baby, i didn't mean to make you mad." He kissed the crown of my head.
"I didn't mean to snap." You kissed his cheek as well. "I love you, you know that?" His gaze softened at you as a smile tugged at his lips.
"Mh I still got to find the salt shaker though."
"Uh uh, your done." You pulled him along by the loop of his dress pants, making him laugh.
Summary: Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.
Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader
Length: 7.7k
Warnings: fluff, so much flirting, and an italicized oh
Going on a first date on Valentine’s Day is unarguably the worst possible idea that anyone has ever had.And while the sure to be terrible, no good, horribly bad idea hadn’t been yours, you weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking when you’d even agreed to it in the first place.
The guy you were planning to meet tonight was cute enough, even if you were still undecided about the mustache. And while the chats between the two of you had been pretty good as far as it goes getting to know a literal stranger, you were hopeful that it could be even better in person. The fact he was in the Navy was still a bit of a consideration for you, but not a deal breaker.
In retrospect, the name of the bar should have been your first clue and the location paired with the causal beachy exterior covered in planes should have been the second.
You had been expecting to see more than one girl all done up in pinks and reds tonight, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. And you swear to god, somewhere you hear a record scratch as you step into the Hard Deck, because you are surrounded by nothing but a sea of olive green and khaki and denim.
And you have never been so clearly out of place in your entire life.
There was nothing about your ensemble that was even remotely fitting for the literal Navy bar you’d found yourself in.
The ice pink mini slip dress you’d dug out of your closet was admittedly a little much for a first date, but since it was Valentine’s Day you figured why not lean into it a bit. And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.
Or so you’d thought at the time, because now it was a decidedly you problem.
The silhouette was simple enough, with the gentle drape of the cowl neck and the barely-there spaghetti straps, but the shiny sheen of the fabric made a statement of its own. It wasn’t something you got to wear very often for as much as you loved it.
But then you’d gone ahead and paired it with the tallest, most ostentation heels you had. The effort had been worth it though because the pearl encrusted block heels made your legs look like they went on for days. Even if it had been a feat trying to get the dainty buckle done with the way you’d been rushing out of the house with your beaded bag in tow.
The whole look was something you’d sure would come with Cher Horowitz’s seal of approval. However, the patrons of the Hard Deck you were less sure about. And even though there were civilians- like yourself- scattered about the bar, none were anywhere near as dressed up as you.
There are more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you stand there with your feet glued to the uneven wooden floors, as the door with its porthole-shaped window slowly closes behind you with a squeaky creak. The twinkle lights above your head felt more like a spotlight, illuminating how out of place you are in this moment.
Your hand is still clutched on the handle unsure whether you’re going to make a run for it or not. You are more than a little tempted to hightail it back to the parking lot and text your date to claim a bout of food poisoning from the safety of the driver’s seat in your car.
But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.
“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, trying not to panic. Officially a victim of your own bad decision making.
You take a quick scan of the room, trying to decide what your next move should be. There’s a woman behind the bar with kind but clearly inquisitive eyes. A blonde with a wolfish smile eyes you from where he stands next to a man with broad shoulders bent over what must be the pool table, hidden behind the paneled half wall. By a dart board, there are a couple men with their heads turned towards you, the game seemingly forgotten as they discuss the spectacle that is you.
There are hundreds of planes dangling over the bar, patches and plaques littering the walls and rafters, rounders suspended from the ceiling laden with too many ceramic mugs to count. It was all done with a heavy-handed, maximalistic approach that you’d take a moment to appreciate under any other given circumstances.
When you spot an open table tucked away in the corner of the room it feels like life raft to the iceberg of a situation you’ve put yourself in. Mindful of the scuffed, uneven floors- because the last thing you need is to eat shit or twist an ankle in front of room full of curious onlookers- you hustle over to the spot in hopes of having a moment to regroup.
Once you’re situated- shrugging off the ivory cardigan you’d topped your outfit, trying to keep the nervous sweat that wanted to break out over your body at bay- you pull out your phone and check the time only to realize you’re devastatingly on time. Five minutes early, to be specific.
So you wait.
And check your phone again and the notifications in the dating app, just in case you missed something.
And wait.
You try to play it cool, skimming posts on Instagram and replying to some overdue texts. Finding anything you can to keep yourself occupied to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach the longer you sit there. Alone.
Now you’re not just simply embarrassed, you’re mortified.
You can still feel the eyes, the energy steadily shifting from curiosity to sympathy over the last thirty minutes you’ve been waiting all alone in the corner of a Navy bar you had no business being in for a man who clearly wasn’t going to show.
So much for doing it for the plot, you think to yourself with a shake of your head.
Another minute ticks by with no message and you decide you’re more than ready to hightail it out of there. Fully aware that you’re about to become a topic of conversation that won’t have to be restricted to only covert glances and muffled whispers. But hopefully, they’ll at least wait until the door closes behind you before the chatter starts up for real.
With a sigh, you reach for your beaded bag, just as a large body slips into the chair across from you, with an ease that is in contrast to the bulk of muscles you catch in your peripheral vision.
“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.
It’s the smile that you catch first. Not quite a grin, but something familiar and friendly and charming in the way it crookedly pulled to the left. Followed closely by the rich chocolate brown eyes that were squarely trained on you with a look that was just as earnest as it was playful. But what surprised you the most was the way he was sitting in the stool across from you just as comfortably as if he was supposed to be there all along.
There was no way you could have prepared yourself for the sheer level of attractiveness of this man.
He was in a league of his own with those curls and wide shoulders. The white and olive green stripped crochet shirt he was wearing didn’t hurt either, especially the way the top buttons were undone giving you glimpse of a chain around his neck and the chest underneath it. He didn’t need to be in uniform- or even in a Navy bar- for you to tell he was a military man. Not with the confident way he held himself.
Even if the mustache he was sporting made it feel like the universe was playing tricks on you, but he more than wore it well.
You huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “What gave it away?” you ask. “The way I’ve been watching the door? Or just the general look of regret and embarrassment?”
“Embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about?” His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. He shakes his head like he disagrees with even the suggestion of it. “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is the guy who is missing out on sitting across from you right now.”
You give him a soft smile of your own in return for the cinnamon sweet words. There’s a genuineness in his tone that makes some of the tightness that had settled in your shoulders from the moment you’d walked in release.
“That’s kind of you, but I think I’m going to head out,” you say, nodding to the door you never should have stepped through in the first place.
He gives you a teasing tsk. “And let a dress like that go to waste? Now that would be a shame.”
The appreciative look in his gaze that sets off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. And then his eyebrow ticks up, just a little. Part invitation, part dare. And you can’t say you’re not intrigued.
There’s a decision to make.
You could leave now and cut your losses. There was a reason you had a back-up pizza in the fridge and had left you well-loved copy of You’ve Got Mail sitting out on your coffee table.
Or you could stick around and see what happens next.
You tilt your head at him, just as teasing. “Would it now?”
“It would,” he states, sincerely.
Before you can reply, your phone lights up with a new notification, pulling you out of the whisky haze you’d found yourself in.
His eyes dip down to your illuminated screen. “Is that him?”
“It is,” you confirm, almost regretfully. You open the app and skim the message. And then read it again.
There’s no sorry, no apology for cancelling a half an hour after the time for the date that had been his idea in the first place. And then he’d even had the audacity to tack on a cavalier maybe another time at the end.
Unbelievable.
He lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”
“Apparently, I should have been the one to remind him that the fourteenth of February is a calendar holiday and a fan favorite day of the greeting card companies.” It’s so ridiculous you’d laugh if you weren’t so annoyed by the lack of consideration and the not-so-subtle blame he’d tried to shift on you. “Even though I did double check if he was sure about meeting up today, I guess I didn’t realize I actually needed to spell out ‘Valentine’s Day’ for him.”
The man across from you doesn’t bother holding back the less than impressed look on his face. And you decide you like that about him, that he wears his thoughts so openly. It’s refreshing.
“Do you mind if I take a look at his profile?”
You shrug and pass your phone over. You were planning on blocking West the second you had a moment anyways. You see him roll his eyes and guess it has something to do with the amount of shirtless gym selfies.
He snorts as he scrolls, “Please, his mustache has nothing on mine.”
An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”
“Fair enough,” he concedes good-naturedly, as he hands you back your phone. “But am I at least a close second?” There’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice.
You hum and take full advantage of the opportunity to look at him unabashedly, mapping the contours of his face because you can.
To simply call him handsome would be an understatement.
The way the golden light of the sunset is hitting him you catch some sunkissed strands in those soft looking waves of his hair. There’s the beginning of some crinkles around the edges of his eyes. You notice the scars on his face, some that look long healed and others that are still a light pink- like the one on the side of his neck and beneath is ear. And that mustache on him worked for you, one hundred percent.
There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he lets you assess him that leaves no question as to whether or not he’s been flirting with you. You like the way he’s looking at you and the way he’s easily made you forget about being overdressed and how uncomfortable you were even just five minutes ago. You’re having fun. And while you still haven’t answered his question from earlier, you have no doubt that he’d show you a good time if you let him.
“Maybe not a close second, but yours is certainly up there,” you tease.
He grins. “I can work with that.” There’s something about the way he adds on for now that has a spark dancing up along your spine. And then he sticks out his hand, “I’m Bradley.”
It’s a good name. It suits him. It’s one you think you’ll enjoy the way your tongue will curl around the letters of it in your mouth.
When you give him yours in return, he sits up straighter in his seat, like he’s won a small victory.
You don’t doubt that he’s the chivalrous type, the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come over to try and turn this evening around for you says more about him than any dating profile with nonsense questions and overthought answers ever could. But with a man like him, one who’d swoop in to save the night of a stranger because she looks like a damsel in distress, there’s an answer to a question you need to hear first.
“Bradley, this isn’t a pity thing, is it?” You were right, you like the way saying his name feels. You drop your hands into your lap, as you search his eyes. “Because if it is, that’ll make me feel worse than being stood up did.”
The way the words were sitting out and open on the table between the two of you made you feel vulnerable in a way you didn’t like. But you’d rather know now before anything goes further. Doing it for the plot or not, your ego could only take so much bruising in one evening.
He pins you with a look so serious that you feel it down to your toes. “Trust me, this is furthest thing from a ‘pity thing’, as you put it,” Bradley says, his tone slipping down a few gravelly notes. “Because if I’m being honest, if that asshole had actually shown up, I don’t know if I would have played fair.”
Oh.
A thrilling rush of warmth courses through you as your cheeks heat up.
You nod, trying to not look as affected as you feel. “Ok, I believe you.”
“Good,” he smirks, his gaze dropping down and lingering on your lips. You didn’t realize you’d trapped your lower lip between your teeth, you release it immediately. “Because you should know, I would have come over sooner- the second I saw you, actually- if I’d known. That’s some dress, sweetheart,” Bradley continues, “Plus, you’d be doing me a favor.”
You couldn’t help but be curious, so you lean in closer. “Oh, how so?”
Bradley mirrors you, crossing his thick forearms over each other and leans in that much closer. “I haven’t had a Valentine in years,” he says it like he’s letting you in on a secret.
For the first time all night, you don’t regret wearing the dress. You don’t regret the ostentatious shoes or the glimmering beaded bag. You don’t regret walking through that creaky door. You don’t regret showing up tonight.
How could you when you’ve just been served the best plot twist you’ve possibly ever experienced? A meetcute you never could have seen coming.
You realize just how close your faces have gotten and lean back in your seat, from fear of thinking you might do something stupid, like kiss him. “Will you stop with the big cow eyes, if I agree?”
Those crinkles around his eyes deepen, “Good to know they still work, I wasn’t sure if I still had it.”
You press your lips together trying to hide your smile, all too thoroughly charmed, but the corners of your mouth curl up all the same.
“Trust me, you have plenty.”
And Bradley’s own smile gets even wider.
Anyone in the bar can see how pleased with himself he is at your words. It rolls off of him in steady waves and swirls around your shins and ankles.
He makes a show of settling further into his seat, now that it is officially his seat. “What’re we thinking? One milkshake, two straws?”
You play along and pretend to ponder the offer for a moment. “That seems more like a second date type of activity, does it not?”
“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?”
“I’ll allow it.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
There wasn’t a menu or anything on the table when you sat down, so you aren’t sure what all is offered here. You thought you might have caught a glimpse of a laminated stack near register when you’d first walked in, but you hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to yourself at the time by getting up again and wandering around and reminding people just how out of place you’d been.
You look around and see a mix of ceramic steins, pint glasses, beer bottles, and a few stems of wine on tabletops and in the hands of the other patrons.
The noise of the bar had become a faint white noise in your ears as the two of you talked, but it comes back in full force now.
“If they have rosé, I’d take a glass of that.” It isn’t hard to miss the hesitation in your voice, feeling a little silly defaulting to your usual go-to. You don’t imagine they go through a ton of pink wine here. “But, uhm, anything on tap would be fine too, if they don’t.”
Bradley’s lips twitch up. Not in a smirk, but something caught between amused and something else you can’t quite describe.
You try not to fidget under his warm gaze, “What?”
He slides out of his stool and rounds the table, setting a big hand on the armrest near your elbow, “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart.”
“And what’s that?” you ask, more than a little breathlessly. Feeling a little high off of the smell of his leather and vanilla cologne, and something underneath that that reminds you of kerosene in a way that makes you want to breathe him in even more.
Bradley dips down close, his lips just a whisper from your ear, and murmurs, “Pink is my favorite color.”
Your head tips back on its own as you laugh. Its unabashedly loud and bright and delighted thing that fills the nooks and crannies of the corner you’d tucked yourself away into. And if a few heads turn your way because of it, that’s alright with you.
You don’t believe him, not one little bit. But that’s part of the fun. The back and forth, the flirting, the banter, the teasing. He’s so quickly turned this night around for you, you already know your cheeks are going to hurt by the end of it.
The sound of Bradley’s own laughter chases after yours. It’s warm and raspy and boyish, and you like the sound of it. You like him.
“One rosé, coming up,” he says, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he steps out of your space. “There’s nothing I like more than a girl who commits to a theme.”
You catch his wrist, his skin warm under your palm. “Wait, what’s it really?”
“Red,” Bradley says, then gives you a slow once over, making your pulse spark in your veins. “But you’ve got me second guessing myself now.” He gives you a wink and then heads towards the bar.
You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.
When he comes back, only a few minutes later, he has glass of familiar pink wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And oddly enough, a straw tucked into the pocket on his shirt.
“It’s almost a perfect match,” he notes, when he sets it in front of you.
“At least I won’t have to worry about staining if I end up spilling on myself.”
Bradley chuckles and moves his stool in closer to yours, sitting back down with more smooth grace than a man with his build has any right to move. He tips the neck of his beer towards you, and you lightly tap your wine glass against it.
You take a sweet sip. “So.”
“So,” he repeats, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.
“What’s your move?” you ask, running a glossy tipped finger around the rim of your wineglass.
“My move?” And there’s that grin again, one he doesn’t try to hide as he takes a sip of his own. “‘m pretty sure I’ve been showing you my moves since I sat down. I’ve never been good at being subtle.”
Bradley pulls the straw from his pocket and taps it a few times against the shellacked woodgrain table top. He takes the flimsy wrapper carefully starts twisting it, a little furrow of concentration forms between his brows, spiraling it until it’s pulled taut against itself.
You set an elbow on the edge, resting your chin on your hand as you study him. “But what’s the big move? I know you have one,” you press further.
His hands are big, calloused and rough, but capable. You want to know the story behind the scar that’s near the base of his thumb. You note that he wears his watch on the right instead of the left, and you pocket that new discovery for yourself the way a kid enthusiastically collects rocks in a park.
Bradley takes that piece of paper and folds it in half before twisting it again.
You watch in fascination as that pleased grin transforms into a confident smirk, like he’s enjoying even just the thought of showing you his big move. He looks like good trouble.
Bradley’s eyes slowly lift to yours, his hands pausing whatever he’s doing with that wrapper. He shoots a thumb to the left towards the end of the oval shaped bar. “You see that piano over there?”
“Mhm.” It’s an almost purr.
“That’s my big move.”
You feel your eyebrows lift in surprise. Bradley gave off such hometown golden boy vibes, you’d never have expected that he’d be the musical type too. The idea of seeing those hands fly over a set of black and white piano keys made your stomach tighten deliciously in anticipation.
“Am I going to get to see it?”
His gaze is steady on you when he replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll show you my move.”
A grin stretches across your face and you feel downright giddy, as you wiggle your shoulders in triumph.
Bradley shakes his head amused, and then refocuses his efforts on the task he’d started with the straw wrapper. He struggles only for a moment- those large fingers getting in the way- as he tries to open the end just enough to slip the tail though. He gives it one more final twist, securing the loop, before inspecting his handiwork.
“Now, since we’re valentines and all, it seemed only fitting that I get you- well, make you- a little something.” Bradley gives you a soft, boyish smile as he holds out his palm towards you, and in the center of it is a perfectly crafted paper ring. “Sorry, I couldn’t find you a Ring Pop on short notice.”
The words escape you for a moment at the sheer sweetness of the gesture.
Gently, you take it from his outstretched hand, and slip it onto the pointer finger of your right hand, adjusting it with care until you have it situated just right.
“I usually wouldn’t be able to accept something so grand on a first date. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” you say, liltingly. “Thank you, Bradley.”
You look down to appreciate it again, more than a little tempted to take it off and tuck it securely into your purse for safekeeping. For as much as you liked your dress and bag and your shoes, that little paper ring was now your favorite piece of the outfit you were wearing.
When you glance back up at him, his cheeks have the faintest pink hue to them. The little nonchalant shrug he tries to give you does nothing to hide how pleased he looks. “I make a mean daisy chain too. We might have to wait a couple months for Spring, but I’m good for it.”
Your mind flashes with an image of you and him in a park with a picnic basket sat between the two of you, and those large hands of his threading celery green stems together. It’s a pretty picture.
“Well, aren’t you just a regular modern day Renaissance man.”
“I’m a man of many talents,” he rasps, silky smooth. It makes goosebumps raise along your arms. “Now, I’ve told you mine. Can’t say I’m not dying to know what your big move is. Am I going to get to see it, sweetheart?”
“Maybe,” you muse, lifting your glass to take another sip, “If you’re good.”
Bradley hooks a foot under you stool and tugs you just a few inches closer. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your position on kissing on a first date?”
You bend forward towards him and think you hear his breath hitch, you smile. “I’ll keep you posted.”
You’re still looking at his lips when a shout from across the bar startles you both.
“Bradshaw!”
Bradley mutters a string of curses and then blows out a breath, giving you a smoldering look that tells you that the conversation is far from over. You’re more than willing to let him try and change your mind about where he lands in the mustache rankings.
You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?”
“Unfortunately.” A mischievous look coasts over his face. “But I’ll get you all the Ring Pops you could ever want if you say that to his face.”
You laugh. “I’m holding out for that daisy chain.”
Another holler rings out from across the room, the same Southern drawl as before.
“Seems like he wants your attention. Is he a Leo?”
He snorts. “You know what, he just might be. But more like he’s been waiting for the right moment to annoy me since I ditched him to come talk to a pretty girl instead.”
You try not to preen at the compliment.
“The relentless type, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it. I think I’m about thirty seconds from him queuing up “You Make Me Feel So Young” on repeat just to fuck with me,” Bradley explains. There’s a story there and you want to know more. “I know I still owe you the big move, but is it alright if I try to show off a little for you now? Just to get off my back for the rest of the night, then I’m all yours.”
You feel like you’ve just pulled an ace from your pocket.
“What are the stakes?” you ask, intrigued.
“Two hundred dollars and a whiskey,” Bradley replies.
You let out a low whistle, trying to school the catlike grin that wants to overtake your face. “That’s a lot of Ring Pops.”
The corners of his mouth curl up. “I was thinking dinner for our third date,” he says. “I’m buying for our second, of course. But it’s only right that we split the spoils of war.”
The sound of a brass band rings out over the staticky speakers and Bradley hangs his head down and lets out a long-suffering groan. You playfully pat his shoulder in faux commiseration.
You pretend to consider it for a moment, but you already know your answer. “Okay,” you agree, “Just as long as you’re okay with a little respectful ogling. You like my dress, and I like those jeans you’re wearing.”
He laughs, it’s a throaty rich sound. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”
You gather for you purse and sweater as Bradley stands. His hands come to your waist, helping you off the chair, your bodies closer than close. It’s a forward move- he knows it, you know it- but with him, you don’t mind at all.
Bradley offers you his hand and you take it in yours; his fingers slip between yours easily like the two of you have already done this before.
The two of you only make it a few steps before you tug on his hand, waiting until he looks at you from over his shoulder before asking, with a lifted brow, “Bradley Bradshaw?”
He huffs out a not-so-exasperated sigh, “I blame it on the 80’s.”
“Whatever you say, Brad-Brad.” It’s the one and only time you’re ever going to say it, you decide. You like saying his name too much to shorten it. And his back may be turned to you now, but that now familiar chuckle still makes its way to your ears.
Bradley leads you to the bar first, where he buys another glass of rosé and a beer for himself. When you try to pass your credit card to the woman behind the counter, he takes it, and rasps into your ear, “Let me.”
He tucks it right back into your purse as the sound of brass instruments starts up yet again.
“Like a dog with a goddamn bone,” you hear him mumble. And you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Sure, you’d rather be seeing his big move, but you can’t claim not to be amused by all of this.
He nods to a group of people in the corner near the popcorn machine when the two of you enter the alcove with pool table. Some of his other friends of his you assume.
You send them a little wave, one that they return in greeting. You can tell they’re curious, but you’re grateful when they resume their conversation instead of making you feel like your date with Bradley had become a spectator sport for their viewing entertainment.
The first thing Bradley does is introduce you to his friend. It’s a little thing, but he does it without prompt or awkwardly leaving you to take the initiative yourself. You appreciate the way he is still prioritizing your comfort the way he’s been doing it since he first sat down across from you.
The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is.
Jake rests a hip against the table. “Sorry to interrupt your date, but Bradshaw and I had some unfinished business.”
You wave him off, it’s not a big deal. Not when you’ll have the rest of the night with Bradley. Plus, you’re eager to watch this play out between them, curious about their gameplay.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with,” Bradley rumbles, as he arranges the balls in the rack. And you wonder if he lost the lag before he’d made his way over to your table for one.
He comes back over to you, and leans on the ledge next to you as he chalks his cue. You’d thought about slipping your sweater back on, with the outside chill pressing against the line of glass windows at your back, but Bradley had more than enough warmth radiating off of him that you didn’t need to.
“You that eager to be out a couple hundred, Bradshaw?” Jake grins, as he leans over the side of the table. He turns his gaze to you and sends you a wink right before he breaks, sending the cue ball barreling into the others with a resounding clack, scattering them across the table.
And then they’re off.
It’s a rapid fire of back-and-forth banter between the men as they take their shots. Mostly good natured, but undeniably competitive. Smirking when they land their shots, and snarking over fouls. Clear that neither of them wants to lose.
Jake is all confident posturing, playing low over the cue with a lightly too tight grip. It’s the only thing that gives him away that he’s not the easygoing player as he wants people to think he is. Choosing higher risk shots that would highlight his ability versus some of the more straightforward options laid out for him, and skilled enough that it pays off most of the time. But after a couple rounds you note he’s too quick to stand up after taking his shot, not enough follow through because he’s too eager to see if his gamble pays off.
Bradley is all loose-limbed ease, clearly comfortable in both his skin and at the table. You can tell he’s probably playing quicker than he normally does, clearly trying to hurry up the game for your sake, even though he doesn’t need to. Although he does take his time as he positions himself around the table, only adjusting his bridge every now and then. Always with a 1-2 shot, a warm-up stroke followed by a steady hit. Watching him you catch his tendency to throw out his elbow of the follow through.
The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.
When Bradley’s not up to play, he’s by your side, right at your elbow. And when he is, it’s your eyes he’s looking into the moment he stands back up, seeking out your reaction. But more than once you feel his eyes on you as you watch them play.
True to your word, you to admire him in those snug fitting jeans. And when he catches your appreciative gaze, he sends you a wink before lining up his next shot.
Jake sinks another solid into the pocket he’d called only moments ago, and turns his dimpled smile at you, “You still sure about your date with the old man, chickadee? I bet I could show him up in that department too.”
The way he says it, you know he’s just teasing, probably just to rile you date up and get a reaction from him.
“Unfortunately for you, I think I have a thing for mustaches now,” you toss back, unbothered. And Bradley smiles into his drink.
You watch as Jake lines up his next shot and hits the white with a compact stroke.
“Double hit,” you declare.
“Dammit,” Jake curses.
You look over to see Bradley looking at you with a focused look on his face. Like there’s a theory clicking into place, one he needs the answer to. Wordlessly, he hands you the cue.
“You sure?” you ask.
“Two hundred dollars sure,” he states.
You take it from him with a sly grin.
Bradley’s thighs brush against the front of your knees, you know if you parted them even a couple inches, that he’d fit just right between them. His hands landing on your waist again as he assists you off the stool you’ve been perched on. And you’re starting to think he just likes an excuse to touch you, not that he needs one because you already more than like the feel of his hands on your body.
You walk the pool table, running a finger around the rails as you do. Evaluating the balls on the table like they’re chess pieces. The slow clip of your heels on the floor like the tick of a clock as you take your time deciding your approach.
“You’re the stripes,” Jake offers helpfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you have a free shot.”
And you can’t help but laugh because this is going to be fun.
“Bradley?” you ask, leisurely chalking your cue.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Do you mind?” You gesture to the spot behind you, and he catches on quick with a not-so-subtle glance at the short hem of your skirt.
He sets his beer down and comes to stand behind you, there’s just enough space between the two of you that you don’t have to worry about hitting him with the cue, his broad from proving you the coverage you needed to bend over the table. While you don’t think you’d mind Bradley seeing the silk thong you had on underneath your dress, you weren’t exactly up for flashing the whole bar.
You haven’t played in a while, but it’s a muscle memory at this point, as you map out your moves. Seeing the lines and angles and arcs in your mind’s eye before anchoring your bridge.
You look at Bradley from over your shoulder, only to see his eyes are trained on the ceiling with his tongue pressed against his cheek. A gentleman, albeit not an unaffected one. A tendril of smokey gratification curls its way along your spine. You turn your head back to the pool table looking between the cue, target, cue ball, target.
It’s a smooth stroke with a satisfying crack. A clean three-rail shot that lands the striped five into the pock you’d intended for it.
“Damn” is all Jake says. His eyes you up, clearly impressed.
“You sure about that free shot, Jake?” You stand up and smooth out your dress, just for the show of it. “Or do you want to make it double or nothing instead, Malibu Ken?” You hear Bradley snort from behind you.
And just like you thought, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, “Deal.” Jake turns to Bradley. “I just let your girl hustle me, didn’t I?”
“You sure did,” Bradley says with a grin, but his eyes are on you.
Neither are surprised when you sink your next shot too. The six sailing into the left corner pocket.
On your next shot, you may or may not deliberately foul. A tactical choice that sets Jake up with a less than ideal position on the table, knowing it’ll be a difficult shot for him to make.
“Now you’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Jake grouses.
You just smile and take a sip of the rosé that Bradley hands you, neither confirming or denying.
Surprisingly, he banks it. But his good luck only lasting through that one play. Because on his next, the ball glances off the side rail at too acute an angle to reach the intended pocket and he groans.
Not quite ready to be done, you ease off a little. Enough that they both know you’re going easy on him to extend the game longer, just so that he can catch up to you.
But soon enough, soon there’s only your eight ball left on the table.
“Looks like you’re about to be out four hundred dollars, Jake,” you say with a self-satisfied smirk.
“Just put me out of my misery already.”
You turn to Bradley, who has been carefully positioning himself behind you the whole time. You hold out the cue to him and ask, “Do you want the honors?”
He shakes his head. “Go on, finish him off, sweetheart. I’m enjoying the show.”
And when your final ball tips into the side pocket, Jakes resounding groan is drown out by the whistle Bradley lets loose between his thumb and pointer finger, as you turn towards him beaming.
“The atm’s by the restroom.” Bradley sounds only too happy to remind Jake as he closes the gap between the two of you.
You look over his wide shoulder, “As for the whiskey, something expensive please, Malibu Ken.”
Jake huffs a grumble but nods all the same as he goes to round up your winnings.
“Scored four hundred dollars and a valentine, that’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” you preen to Bradley.
“Think that might have been the best thing I’ve seen all year,” Bradley announces. “The hottest too, if I’m being honest.” You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. His finger slips under the thin strap of your dress that had fallen off your shoulder somewhere along the way. He slides it back up and into place, treating it like some delicate thing the same way he did that paper wrapper. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”
Normally, this is when you’d rerack, but you’ve never had a Bradley Bradshaw looking at you before.
“I took a class in college over the summer as an elective credit, and it turns out I had a knack for it,” you explain with a playful little shrug.
“I’ll say.” He takes another step closer. “Did you just show me your move, sweetheart?”
“One of them,” you grin.
You don’t have to press up to his height, not with your pearly heels.
You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours for a kiss. A sound of surprise escapes from his throat. You feel the curve of a smile before his hands slide around your waist to pull you closer.
The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected.
“Think you just snagged that number one spot of my list of favorite mustached men,” you say against his lips.
“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps.
You inhale the amusement of his light chuckle, letting it go to your head like champagne bubbles, before he slips a hand around the base of your neck and pulling you in close once again.
A couple hours later, you find yourself at home on the couch. Your cheeks a little sore from how much smiling you’d done tonight, as Tom and Meg trade words over a plate of caviar on screen.
It was only much later that night you’d gotten to see Bradley’s big move.
He’d surprised you with his voice and the talented way his fingers glided over the white and black keys. An expensive glass of amber colored liquor sitting atop the old piano as he played, and four hundred dollars tucked safely away in your purse.
You’d given him your number when he’d walked you to your car, only distracting you for a few extra minutes with his mouth, before you’d left for the night, hoping that you’d hear from him soon.
A notification lights up your phone, and a ribbon of thrill unspools through you.
You sigh when you see that it’s a notification from your dating app. You’re wary to open it, not wanting anything to color your night, but you figure now is as good of time as any to block the guy who had nothing on the one you’d spent your evening with.
When you see the name of the person who’d sent you a message, you click into his profile with lightning-fast fingers, skimming all the details to things you hadn’t had a chance to learn yet.
𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰
𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟓
𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭
𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥: 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚
𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥
𝐙𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫
There is a picture of him in uniform, grinning to someone out of the frame. And another one of him shirtless on the beach, surrounded by some of the faces you’d seen tonight at the Hard Deck.
But it’s the answers to the prompts that he’d picked, that set your heart fluttering.
And you can’t help but grin to yourself as look at that paper ring still on your finger. Because you know, this app won’t be on your phone for much longer.
Not now that you’ve met him.
Happy Hearts Day, friends! Thank you for reading!
And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!
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He loves your thighs. He touches them any chance he gets. When he sets you on the counter, he rubs them up and down as he kisses your face and neck. Bradley occasionally gives them soft squeezes. He loves that they don’t fit in his hand and that the extra skin and fat spill out between his fingers.
He loves laying his head on your lap, an arm wrapped around your leg. If you’re wearing shorts, he kisses your skin and traces your thighs with his fingers.
He LOVES when you wear a big baggy shirt with either short shorts that ride up or just underwear. The way the hem of the shirt brushes your thighs and hides nothing? He’s a goner. Done. Dead. Deceased.
When he’s sitting next to you, his hand is on your thigh or he has one of your legs draped over his. His fingers trace random shapes inside your thighs. Gentle but slow and lazy squeezes to the top meaty portions.
And don’t get started on how his loves your wide hips.
He loves to squish your love handles and grip your hips when his kisses you. He uses them to forcefully push you back against the counter.
Bradley loves to watch the natural sway when you wear a pair of tight jeans. He walks a few steps behind you to unshamfully watch you walk. Bradley loves to grab your belt loop to pull you back. Sticking his middle fingers in the middle loop in the back. His thumb slips under your shirt to rub you skin.
And in dresses? Tight ones? Loose and flowy? He loves how wide they look in them.
Coming up behind you, his rough hands grab your hips pulling you back against him. He will tuck his face I to your neck and sigh contentment as his hands explore your hips.
When you are changing for bed, he pulls you close and pushes your shirt up. His lips litter them with kisses. You just giggle and blush covering your face with your hands. Bradley’s hands find their spot right under your butt where it meets your thighs. His hands squeeze you with a hum.
Your chest?
Yep. Loves it.
You’ll wake up in the morning with an arm under your head and his hand in the neck hole of your bed shirt. Bradley’s calloused hand holds your boob as he sleeps. His other hand holds the bottom part of your belly, that little ledge he loves to grab. His thumb is mostly in your belly button as the other fingers grip that bit of fat.
When not grabbing your hips, he slides his hands up your front to casually hold your chest.
Laying on the couch, he pushes his face between them while pushing a hand up your shirt to hold one.
All you can do is roll your eyes and run your fingers through his hair.
It's the soft tickling on your bare shoulder that disturbs your sleep. You try to ignore it, focusing on not losing the deliciously good dream you were having, but the feeling intensifies. You swat your shoulder with your arm, pushing away the object of your growing annoyance.
A low chuckle fills the room as your skin makes contact with skin. The culprit of this crime—the crime being you losing grasp of your dream—sneaks his hand under the blanket, laying it on your stomach, which is bare, for your shirt has risen. The palm touching you isn't cold, but it disturbs the warmth of your skin, making you jolt.
You groan and bury your face deeper in your pillow as the evil man behind you chuckles louder now. You whine for him to stop, but he ignores you, kissing your neck and shoulder blade again.
The tickling resumes, but the kisses are feather-soft, and you're sure he's smiling by the way his moustache and lips feel on your skin.
"Fuck off, Roos," you mumbled sleepily.
"But you look so cute like this," he murmured in your skin.
You could feel his smile widening. "Tickles." you roll your shoulder, and he finally moves away, burying his face in your hair instead.
"I'm goin' for a run," he says quietly and you hum. "I'll be back with breakfast." You hum again.
"And coffee," you mumble with your eyes closed.
Bradley kisses your head. "Whatever my girl wants."
A faint smile graces your lips at the words. Bradley gets off the bed, and you hear him shuffling around the room. Soon, he's ready, grabbing his phone from the nightstand.
You're awake enough to say a thankful goodbye. "You're the best, Brad."
Rooster chuckles at the change of attitude. Not long ago, you were telling him to fuck off. Nevertheless, he moves to your side of the bed, pushing a strand of hair away from your face and kissing your forehead.
Rooster wasn't for you. You were opposites in so many ways - he was an extrovert to your introvert. The center of attention to your wallflower. You weren't interested in a one night stand, and he couldn't offer more. So his volunteering to help with Friendsgiving was just a friendly gesture after you returned from a deployment...right?
“Just a minute!” you called, swiping a strand of hair from your face. The knocking stopped, and you quickly washed the flour from your hands, drying them on the towel thrown over your shoulder while heading to the door.
And there, standing on your front step as the sun started to rise, was Bradley. His normally styled curls were sleep-mussed, his grey t-shirt clinging to his arms and untucked from his Navy PT sweatpants. The smile on his face grew as he took you in - sweatpants, a baggy sweatshirt dotted with flour, fuzzy socks, and not a stitch of makeup. The difference from your normally put-together appearance was stark. “Morning, Duch.”
“You’re late.” Laughing, he held up a bag of microwavable frozen corn.
“Had to turn around when I forgot my contribution.” Rolling your eyes, you stepped back to let him in, watching to ensure he removed his shoes before following you into the kitchen.
“The turkey’s already thawed and in the sink. I just need you to clean it out, and I can take it from there.” Bradley nodded, tossing you the corn before going to the kitchen. You put it in the freezer and walked to the downstairs bathroom to wash your hands before resuming your spot at the counter, picking up your bread lame and staring at the unbaked loaf. A part of you wanted to do a simple score, knowing that it would just be eaten, but the hostess in you demanded a more intricate design. The indecision tore at you. To buy time, you sprinkled the top with more rice flour.
“Can you get me the trashcan?” Bradley asked, and you nodded, quickly abandoning your project. After you set it beside him and pulled off the cover, he tossed the netting and plastic. You couldn’t help but notice his biceps flex as he shifted the turkey. But you shrunk back when he reached into the cavity and pulled out the giblets and gravy package, shaking your head at his raised eyebrow. He discarded them as you braced yourself, nose scrunching when he removed the neck. “You alright there, Duch?” he teased.
“Gross.”
“It’s just a turkey neck,” he said, holding it closer to you. You jumped back.
“I will throat punch you if you touch me with that.” He laughed, edging it closer, and you raised a fist. There was a reason a condition of you hosting everyone for Friendsgiving was someone else cleaning the turkey.
“Didn’t take you for being squeamish.”
“You would be, too, if your grandpa chased you around the house with it when you were a kid, and you had to lock yourself in a bathroom to escape.” At his barked laugh, you shook your head. “I told that to my ex, and he thought it was funny to put it in his zipper and chase me around the house with it. If floppy dick isn’t attractive, a turkey neck sure as shit isn’t.”
Bradley choked on a laugh. For as prim and proper as you were at times - hence the callsign Duchess - you sometimes reminded everyone that you also had a military sense of humor. “Maybe you just haven’t seen the right ‘floppy dick,’” he smirked, dropping the neck into the trash.
Shrugging, you glanced away from him when the oven beeped, alerting that it was preheated. “You’re right. Bob probably has a pretty one.” A rosy flush crept up his cheeks as he turned back to the turkey and forced a laugh. Bradley didn’t want to hear that you were thinking about Bob’s dick. “Put it in this afterward, and I’ll dry it.” After dropping the roasting pan beside him, you rewashed your hands.
Standing in front of your bread, you bit your lip to keep from giggling as you contemplated scoring a dick into the dough but decided to go with a traditional wheat stalk. To your surprise, he grabbed the roll of paper towels by the sink and patted the turkey dry, even the cavity. As you removed the Dutch oven from the preheated oven, he tied up the trash bag and took it out. After putting the bread into the oven, you set the timer and moved to the sink, glancing at Bradley when he came back in. Standing beside you, he reached for the soap and lowered the water temperature before scrubbing his hands. Removing the hand towel from your shoulder, you draped it over his after drying your hands. “Thanks,” he murmured.
“Thanks for taking care of the turkey.” Standing by the island, you crouched to retrieve a cutting board. The sound of other cabinets closing made you peek over the countertop to see him rooting through the overhead storage. “Are you looking for something?”
“Coffee mugs.” Biting back a retort about making himself comfortable, you pointed to the right of the stove. You bit your tongue when he grabbed two mugs - including your favorite - and went to the wet bar where the full pot was finished brewing. Placing the cutting board on the counter, you grabbed a knife from the block and were surprised to see a mug of coffee beside your workstation. Murmuring your thanks, you grabbed the creamer from the fridge along with packages of herbs and butter. “What are you making?” Bradley asked.
“A marinade since I didn’t brine the turkey.”
“You want a hand?”
“I’ve got it,” you said automatically. “I’ve got a schedule.” He didn’t need to know that you were already behind after falling asleep on the couch early last night and forgetting to set your alarm. And he definitely didn’t need to know that you’d only been awake for 20 minutes before he arrived. If you put your head down and focused, everything would still be ready to eat at the agreed-upon 3:00 PM. Some of your time to get yourself ready would just have to be sacrificed. For some reason, you’d insisted that everyone dress nicely for Friendsgiving. Wearing a uniform almost every day didn’t give you any opportunities to dress up, and sometimes it felt nice to wear something other than jeans and a t-shirt.
Setting your tablet up, you navigated through the bookmarked recipes and rinsed the herbs before pulling them from the stems. Bradley leaned against the counter beside you and sipped his coffee while glancing around the kitchen. Seeing him relaxing there, one leg crossed over the other and looking like he’d just rolled out of bed, made something flutter in your chest.
“You know, you could have saved a lot of time if you’d just agreed to let Hangman fry the turkey.”
That made you snort. “I just finished my renovations - the last thing I want is for my house to burn down.” It had taken months to get your home exactly how you wanted it. After twelve years in the Navy, you were ready to put down some roots, and buying a home had seemed like the smart thing to do. Living in a construction zone for the last year hadn’t been fun, but a well-timed deployment meant you weren’t there for the worst of it. The results were worth the pain, and you’d jumped at the chance to host when you got back and realized most of the squad had no plans for Thanksgiving. You couldn’t wait for them to see the changes in the Craftsman that had been a definite fixer-upper when you purchased it. The kitchen had been completely gutted and replaced with double ovens and quartz countertops, and the smaller kitchen island had been moved and changed to a wet bar with a wine fridge, replaced with an oversized one. The popcorn texture was scraped from the ceiling throughout the house, the floors redone, and the walls painted. The primary bath had been updated with a large soaker tub and walk-in shower, and you loved the giant closet. The guest bathrooms still needed work, as did the yard, but those were projects for later.
“It looks good, Duch,” he said softly, gaze holding yours for a long moment. You felt those inconvenient butterflies again and shoved them aside, dropping your eyes to the cutting board. Bradley wasn’t for you. You were too different - he enjoyed nights out at the bar, while you liked to spend time at home. He liked being the center of attention while you preferred to blend into the background. Besides, he didn’t seem much like a relationship guy, given the number of flings he had at the Hard Deck, while the idea of casual dating gave you hives. Pushing away from the counter, Bradley reached under the sink for a trashbag, putting it into the can before washing his hands. He moved closer, nose twitching slightly at the scent of rosemary, and braced his big hands on the countertop beside you. “Alright, what can I do?”
“You don’t - ”
“Lemme help.” His eyes met yours, smiling when you sighed.
“Fine. The meat injector is in here,” you said, bumping one of the drawer handles with your hip. “And I’ll need the chicken stock from the pantry.” Pouring the stock, herbs, and a couple of sticks of butter into a stockpan, you handed Bradley a silicone spatula and told him to stir. You rolled your lips together to keep from smiling when he pulled his phone from his pocket and watched videos of turkey injections before declaring he would be in charge of it. Reluctantly, you agreed. Once the marinade had cooled, the bird was given a second drying, you had finished the coffee, and Bradley had rewatched the video three times, it was time. He studied the turkey through narrowed eyes as you tried not to laugh. “You want to - ”
“Ah!”
“The breast and thighs - ”
“I’m doing it, Duch,” he cut you off.
“Well, remember that if it turns out dry.” The unimpressed look Bradley shot you made you grin as you put your chin in your hand and motioned for him to proceed. The tip of his tongue poked through his lips as he filled the injector and hovered the needle over the turkey. His eyes darted to you, and you raised an eyebrow. “You can tap out at any time, Rooster.” Instead of replying, he pierced the meat and pushed down on the plunger. You couldn’t help but laugh when he yelped, marinade spraying in his face after pushing too hard. But when he reached to wipe it away, you caught his hands. “Don’t put turkey germs all over your face,” you scoffed, towing him toward the sink. You held his chin while cleaning his face with wet paper towels.
“Now you’re just messing with me,” he chuckled when you scrubbed his mustache, but he didn’t pull away. His breath was hot on your hand, and his smile soft when you reached up to dab away a speck of garlic in his eyebrow. Balling up the paper towel, you shook your head.
“Wash your face with soap to make sure you don’t get salmonella. Cyclone’ll kill me if you’re out with food poisoning.” Turning on the water, you ensured it was warm before getting a clean washcloth. The oven timer beeped as you dug through the linen closet, and you hurried back into the kitchen, throwing the towel on the sink beside him and grabbing the pot holders to take out your bread. Once it was on the wire rack to cool, you moved to the turkey.
“What’re you doing?” Bradley demanded, turning while drying his face.
“Taking over.” You gasped when he closed the space between you in a few strides, wrapped his arm around your waist, and lifted you away from the counter. “Bradshaw! What the hell?”
“Told you I’m doing it,” he chuckled in your ear. Once back on your feet, you spun in his hold and stared at him. Butterflies erupted in your stomach at his cocky smirk.
“Fine, but if you waste more of my marinade, you’re out of my kitchen.”
“Deal.”
Thankfully, there were no further incidents, but you kept a close eye on him while slicing up a loaf of bread you’d baked two days before and let go stale for stuffing. After covering the roasting tray with tin foil, the bird went back into the fridge to rest for a few hours. “Thanks, Rooster. I guess I’ll see you later?”
“What else can I do?”
“You don’t - ”
“I want to help. I haven’t…” his eyes dropped to the floor as he shrugged. “I never got to do this before. My mom and I would always go to my cousin’s for Thanksgiving before she died, and it always seemed kinda fun.”
Everyone on the squad knew that Bradley’s parents had passed when he was young. He didn’t mention them often, but you noticed he’d get quiet sometimes when people talked about their families. So his volunteering the information felt important, and glancing at the clock showed that you were still behind schedule. “Fine.”
“Yeah?” he asked, excitement flashing in his eyes.
“Don’t look so happy - you’re doing prep work. You can peel potatoes, assemble the veggie tray, and roast the garlic. I need to work on sides and desserts.”
And he did. Bradley followed your instructions, grimacing while peeling potatoes over the trash can until you took out a plastic bag and put it in the sink for him to do it there. You kept an eye on him as he cut the spuds into uniform pieces after explaining that they wouldn’t cook evenly for the mashed potatoes, somewhat worried that he would cut himself. Rather than deal with the onions, you delegated the task and tried not to laugh at his near-constant sniffles and swipes at his watery eyes as you diced peppers. Once you dug out the hand-me-down crystal platters, he arranged the veggies you’d prepped the night before while making pies. Dips were mixed, and cans of olives and bottles of pickles were opened and drained before being plated.
Other than bumping into one another when going for the fridge at the same time, it wasn’t too bad sharing the kitchen. The coffee pot was quickly emptied, and Bradley brewed another between shredding blocks of cheese. You sang along with your playlists, his deep voice joining on a few songs while teasing you about others. When you sang about karma being a kink, he watched your hips sway at the sink, clenching his jaw when you sang a breathy ‘oh god.’
He slid the roasting tray into the oven when the turkey was rested and ready to cook. “Now what?” he asked, turning to look at you.
“Now we keep an eye on it for about four hours. Baste and re-inject it every hour or so,” you shrugged. A glance at his watch showed it would be almost 2:00 PM by the time it was ready. As though realizing it would still be hours before eating, his stomach grumbled its discontent. He blushed when you smirked. “I guess the least I can do is make my sous chef breakfast. Get the muffins and butter from the fridge for me.”
“Did you make these?” he asked, setting the containers beside you as you heated a skillet on the stove.
“I did - family tradition is grilled muffins on Thanksgiving morning. You okay with blueberry?” At his nod, you started slicing muffins in half. Rather than giving you space, Bradley stayed at your elbow. A comfortable silence fell, broken only by sizzling butter. His gaze met yours when you glanced up at him, and a smile tugged at his mouth.
An image of reaching up to bury your fingers in his messy curls and tugging his mouth down to meet yours flashed through your mind. Your fingers twitched with the urge to do it, eyes drifting to his mouth and lingering there for a moment too long. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you forced yourself to look away, heat creeping into your face.
You nearly jumped out of your skin when he reached up to shift a strand of hair that had fallen from your messy bun. “I’m glad you're back, Duch,” he said, voice slightly raspy.
Forcing a laugh, you plated two muffins and handed them to him. “Everyone misses the mom friend of the group when she’s deployed.” Your eyes darted to his stomach when it growled again, just in time to see the front of his sweats twitch. Pretending you didn’t see it, you nodded to the living room. “The parade is recording if you want to watch it.”
Bradley opened his mouth as though he would say something before taking the apparent dismissal. Alone in the kitchen, you touched your cheek and felt warm skin. With a deep breath, you grilled yourself a muffin as the sound of the broadcasters came from the living room. After topping up your coffee, you joined him. He sprawled on one end of the couch, plate balanced on a thigh as he sipped his coffee. Sitting on the opposite side, you crossed your legs and let out a soft groan. Only a couple of hours standing in the kitchen and your back was already starting to protest. “What else do you have to do this morning?” he asked after a moment.
Mentally running through your list, you sighed. “I need to do some cleaning and get into the attic. I’ll start cooking a bit closer to noon, so things just have to be warmed up.”
“What do you need from the attic?”
“My nice china. My parents bought my sister and I sets for our hope chests when we were kids.”
“What’s a hope chest?”
“You know, stuff you’d need once you get married?” When his eyebrows shot up, you shrugged. “They weren’t really serious about it - it was more of a joke. But, every once in a while, they’d buy something for us and put it away for when we were older and say it was for our hope chest.” Taking a bite of muffin, you gave him a sad smile, “Mine’s more of a ‘hopeless’ chest,’ though. I guess they finally gave up on me getting married because they gave it to me when they sold their house and moved closer to the grandkids. I figured I’d get it out and use it instead of having it sit in the cardboard boxes it’s been in for over two decades.” Something passed over Bradley’s face but disappeared in an instant. Wanting to change the subject, you asked, “What do you usually do for Thanksgiving?”
“Nothing. It’s just another Thursday.” When you frowned, he lifted a shoulder. “A couple of times, I went to the Officer’s Club, or someone would invite me over. But most of the time, I just make myself a turkey sandwich and catch up on sleep. What about you?”
“If I’m not with my family, then this. When I first commissioned, I went to the O-Club with some friends but missed cooking and hanging out. And you know how hard it is to go home for the holidays.” He nodded even though he didn’t. Bradley never asked for the time off unless he was dating someone who insisted on it. With no family to visit, he was happy to volunteer when there was reduced manning and allow others to take leave. “So I invited a couple of people from my squad over, and that was that.”
“It’s a lot of work.”
“It is,” you agreed. “But it’s worth it.” Bradley’s fingers curled around his plate and in his sweatpants, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath. When he shifted forward, you quickly stood and reached out your hand for his empty plate. “Do you want another one?” Shaking his head, he stood and took your plate.
“Do you?” Swallowing hard, you shook your head and watched him walk back into the kitchen. Biting back a groan, you gave yourself a moment to collect yourself. Things had been…different… since you’d gotten home. And as much as you enjoyed these quiet moments alone with Bradley, it also stung. You’d thought the time away would help, but as soon as you were back, it was like no time had passed. He was still there, partnering for foosball in the Ready Room and coaxing you to go to the Hard Deck. Making sure that you sat next to him in briefings. Offering to look at your car when it made a noise.
Friends. That’s what friends do for each other. After all, he did the same for Nat.
Collecting the empty coffee mugs, you followed him to the kitchen and watched as Bradley cleaned up the mess and set it in the sink. “Don’t feel like you have to stick around, Rooster. I can handle getting everything ready.”
“I’m happy to help if you want me here. I’d just sit at my house watching TV and wait to come back if I went home.”
Chewing the inside of your lip, you bit back a wave of want. “Don’t think this gets you out of the dress code,” you replied, forcing your voice to be cool while allowing your eyes to run the length of him. “I’m serious - slacks and button-downs, not sweats.”
Laughing, he snapped a salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll make sure I run home and change to pass your inspection.”
The rest of the morning was a blur, punctuated by moments of stark clarity.
Bradley’s hands on your waist as you climbed down the attic stairs.
Biceps flexing as he carried your Christmas tree to a spare bedroom to set up tomorrow.
His elbow bumping yours as he dried the china and set it aside.
The look of concentration on his face when he basted and injected the turkey again.
His body passing close to yours as he emptied the dishwasher and you assembled dishes.
Just after noon, he went home to get ready while you showered. People were due to arrive around 1:30 PM, and you were back on schedule with your unexpected assistant.
Sooner than you expected, there was a knock at the door. Groaning, you capped your mascara, shimmied into your black sheath cocktail dress, and went to answer it. Bradley stood on the porch, having changed into a pair of slacks and one of his nicer Hawaiian shirts, hands in his pockets. Folded over his arm was a coat, and he grinned at you when he caught you looking at it. “Wasn’t sure if I would pass inspection without a sports coat,” he chuckled, allowing his gaze to rake over you. A flush rose on your cheeks as you reached behind yourself to pull up the dress zipper. It caught just above the top of your thong. “You look… you’re fine.” Chuckling, he shook his head.
“Turn around, Duch.” After a beat, you stepped back to allow him inside and did as he said.
“There’s a hook and eye at the top,” you said and inhaled sharply when you felt his fingers brush the back of your neck. The smell of his cologne enveloped you, and you bit back a moan when his hand moved to your lower back and tugged the zipper up. After a beat, you turned to face him and were surprised by how close he was. His mouth curved into a smile as he looked down at you, hand resting on your waist.
“You look fine, too,” he said softly. Your hands itchied to move to his chest. Bradley’s eyes drifted to your lips, and your breath caught as his fingers flexed around you. If asked, you would have sworn you felt the lightest pressure pulling you closer - but then someone knocked on the door. Stepping out of his hold, you smoothed your hair down and ignored the brief moment his hands hung in suspension before being shoved back into his pockets.
“I came early to see if you needed a hand,” Phoenix said when you opened the door. In her hands was a tray, and she’d also chosen a cocktail dress for the occasion. Her normally tied-back hair was loose around her shoulders.
“Hey,” you smiled, hoping that you weren’t blushing. Nat’s eyes shifted over your shoulders and narrowed slightly.
“What are you doing here?”
“Same as you - seeing of Duch needed help.”
“He’s been here all morning,” you blurted out, flushing when both sets of eyes landed on you. “He’s taking care of the turkey.”
“The guy who hates cooking is in charge of the main dish?” Nat smirked. “Probably would have been better letting Hangman fry it.”
“He’s being supervised,” you assured, glancing over your shoulder to see him rolling his eyes. Stepping back to let Nat into the house, you accidentally bumped into Bradley, who held your hips to steady you. Quickly moving away from his touch, you took the tray from her and motioned for them to follow you into the kitchen. “I haven’t had a chance to put any drinks out, but there’s some coffee left and wine chilling. I still need to make the cocktails, but there’s also soda and flavored water.” The two followed you, exchanging a look that you missed.
As soon as he entered the kitchen, Bradley tossed his coat onto the wet bar and moved to the oven, flipping on the light to check the turkey before glancing at his watch. “I need to do the last basting, right?”
“It’s about that time,” you agreed, glancing at the clock. Digging through a drawer, you pulled out an apron and put it on, crossing the strings behind your back before tying them in a bow across your stomach. You thought you heard a murmured ‘Jesus Christ’ when you turned around to see him holding the pot holders.
You could feel Nat watching as you worked together to remove the turkey and then return it to the oven, popping olives into her mouth and smirking. “Looks like you guys have it down,” she said. “Don’t need my help at all.”
“Nope,” Bradley said, drowning out your, “You can feel free to relax.”
“Might as well do something since I’m here,” she shrugged, pushing off her elbows. “What can I do?”
And so, with a third set of hands, you set them to making large batches of seasonal cocktails while you cut the bread you’d made that morning, covering it with slices of brie and dried cranberries before drizzling it with honey. A quick scroll through your schedule gave you the times to start cooking, and you preheated the second oven.
The house slowly filled as more of the squad arrived. Countertops were quickly covered with their contributions - thankfully, more than beer and wine, and only a few sides repeated - and you mentally shifted your schedule to accommodate the additional dishes.
Mav, Penny, and Amelia were the last to arrive, with her new bartender, Georgia, in tow. Penny had asked you if she could invite her, given that the woman was new to the area and didn’t have anywhere else to spend the holiday. You’d replied with, “The more, the merrier,” just like you had for everyone else’s requests to bring a guest.
But you regretted that sentiment when you saw how she zeroed in on Bradley, staying close to him while you worked in the kitchen. The few times you broke away to mingle - showing off your renovated home, making sure that everyone’s glasses were topped off and that they didn’t need anything - you saw her hanging off his arm, giving him a simpering smile that set your teeth on edge. And, while she’d adhered to the dress code, you weren’t exactly thrilled to see that her breasts were nearly spilling out of her low-cut dress.
“You need anything, Duchess?” Payback asked, setting down the pitcher of spiced ginger pear and bourbon.
“I’m good,” you replied, wiping your hands on the dish rag thrown over your shoulder and blowing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Turkey should be done in a few minutes; once it rests, we can eat.”
“Thanks for doing this,” he said, glancing over at your full house. Aviators were sprawled across your living room and spilled out into the backyard. It was exactly what you’d hoped for when redesigning the house - plenty of space to comfortably entertain.
“I’m happy to, Payback,” you smiled, allowing him to pull you in for a hug. “Beats having a quiet house for the holidays.”
“Want me to get the turkey out for you?”
“I’ve got it covered,” a voice said behind you, and you couldn’t help but wonder about Bradley's slightly sharp tone as you pulled away from the hug.
“Got it,” Payback replied, raising an eyebrow and lifting his hands. “Let me know if you need anything, Duch.” Squaring your shoulders, you turned to face the man behind you and forced a smile.
“I’ll clear off a spot on the stove for you to put the pan, and then we’ll let it sit for half an hour.”
“Then it’ll be done?”
“Then you’ll have officially made your first turkey,” you nodded. When the timer went off, Bradley quickly pulled the bird from the oven and set it on the stove, closely inspecting his work.
“Does it look right?”
“Yes, relax.”
“Did you make it?” a smokey voice asked, and you felt your shoulders rise. Glancing at Georgia, you saw Bradley’s eyes dart between you.
“He did,” you answered, smiling at the woman.
“I just followed her directions,” he replied.
“It looks great!” Georgia giggled. Forcing a smile, you undid the apron strings and pulled it off before excusing yourself. You could feel eyes on you as you walked down the hallway to your bedroom and shut the door, retreating to your en suite.
After washing your hands for the millionth time, you quickly applied lotion while examining your appearance in the mirror. Compared to Georgia, you looked matronly with your hair pulled back and a higher neckline. Sure, your dress was classy - somewhat tight and falling just above your knees - but not attention-grabbing.
Not that you were trying to grab anyone’s attention.
A knock on your bedroom door startled you, and you peeked out to call, “Who is it?”
“Rooster.” Glancing back in the mirror, you saw your cheeks were slightly pink and scowled at your reflection.
“Get it together,” you hissed before turning off the light and going to open the door. And there he was, smiling down at you.
“Your phone was going off,” he said, holding up your cell. When your eyes flitted toward it, the device unlocked to show your family group chat was going off. Taking it from him, you swiped up to see videos and pictures. A smile crept onto your mouth as you clicked the first and heard your older sister’s voice.
“Guess what?” she said before tossing a card down and throwing her hands up. Cheers and laughs broke out, and you could hear your nephew complaining as your grandmother said, “Looks like Mom won!”
The camera panned to show your other nephew licking whipped cream off his pie, utterly unfazed by the family now pounding on the table in a drumroll. Catching Bradley’s interested expression, you moved so he could see the screen. Scrolling through the other videos, you watched your mom roll down a hill with the boys and your dad holding a glass of wine with your brother-in-law. The sight made your heart clench, and you sighed. Being away from family on the holidays was the worst. Thankfully, they all understood that your job didn’t always give you the flexibility to be with them.
“Looks like a fun group.”
“They are. I’m glad I get to spend Christmas with them.” He nodded, a flicker of sadness and something else in his eyes. “What are you doing for Christmas?”
“Mav’s already told me I’m spending it with him and Penny.”
“Sounds like fun.” You knew a complicated dynamic existed there but didn’t want to pry. His shoulder lifted, eyes drifting to your now dark phone. And that’s when you recognized the look on his face - longing. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” When he saw your unconvinced expression, he sighed. “Holidays kind of suck when you don’t have family.”
“I’m sorry, Bradley.” Something in his expression changed when you said his name and reached out to touch his arm. His eyes darted from your hand to your face, and you quickly pulled away. But he was faster, catching your fingers and holding tightly. Your breath caught with the intensity of his gaze, and he stepped into your room. His breath was warm on your face when you refused to retreat. Lifting your chin, you saw his throat bob when he swallowed.
“Hey, there’s a timer going off,” Bob called down the hall.
“Be right there,” you yelled back, pushing lightly against Bradley’s chest and forcing space between you. But when you tried to shake off his hand, he held fast. “I need to go, or something will burn,” you breathed. Reluctantly, he nodded and released you.
You’d already removed the green bean casserole and macaroni and cheese from the oven when Bradley reappeared. Unsurprisingly, Georgia glued herself to his side as he sipped his drink. Though you could feel him looking at you, you refused to meet his gaze.
When everything was ready, you looked over your kitchen and nodded approvingly. When the guys offered to carve the turkey, you turned them all down and delegated that task to Bradley. “He earned it,” you said, glancing at him before busying yourself with opening another bottle of wine. With Coyote and Fanboy at his elbows critiquing his cuts, you steered clear of that part of the kitchen and chatted with Penny while pulling out silverware.
Hangman refused to let you go around the room and tell people that food was ready, instead pulling out a chair and helping you stand on it before whistling loudly to get everyone’s attention. “Dinner’s served!” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder, his arm around your hips to keep you steady. “Thank you for bringing something, and please help yourself. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone - I’m glad I get to spend it with you.” Lifting your wine glass, you took a quick sip and laughed when Hangman lifted you off the chair to set you back on the floor.
Choosing to wait until your guests had a plate, you leaned against the wet bar and smiled tiredly, watching your hard work be devoured. There weren’t enough chairs for everyone at the table, so the group spread into the living room. You took a few pictures and sent them to your family.
Someone stepped in front of you, pulling your attention from your phone. “You’re not gonna eat?” Bradley asked.
“Just waiting for the line to clear,” you replied, forcing a nonchalant tone. The corner of his mouth twitched as he shook his head.
“Come on, Duch.” His fingers curled around yours, drawing you from the counter and into the line. Grabbing one of the smaller salad plates, you let him push you in front of him, taking small amounts of almost every dish while he served himself larger portions. After topping up your wine, you walked to the living room and felt him behind you, ignoring Georgia's attempt to get his attention. He motioned for you to take the last spot on the couch and sat on the floor. “Jesus,” he moaned after taking the first bite of turkey.
“Mmmm,” you agreed. “You did a good job.”
“Who would have thought the guy who made the barracks evacuate after he burned ramen would make a good turkey,” Nat smirked. Bradley flipped her off, unable to keep the proud grin off his face.
Dessert was eaten, and the last bottle of wine finished before 7:00 PM. The house felt quiet as it slowly emptied, and you hugged everyone goodbye. Already, tentative plans for a Christmas party formed even as you fought off a yawn. After assuring Penny that you were fine cleaning up, she left with Mav and Amelia in tow.
Which left only Bradley.
The sound of running water drew you back into the kitchen, and you paused in the doorway at the sight of him rinsing silverware and loading the dishwasher, a hand towel thrown over his shoulder. “I can take care of that,” you said quickly. Bradley glanced at you and shook his head.
“Relax, I’ve got it. Can the plates go in here, or do they need to be hand-washed?”
“They can go in there.” Ignoring the order, you walked around the house, picked up empty glasses and forgotten dishes, and set them by the sink. Donning your apron, you surveyed the leftovers, “Did you want any of this?”
“Yeah, I’ll take a plate.” Nodding, you started to put the food away. Thankfully, there wasn’t a lot left. Everyone had been happy to take leftovers, and you were glad you’d had the forethought to buy containers for them to keep.
The silence was comfortable, and you were stifling yawns with the back of your hand. Between the turkey, wine, and lack of sleep the night before, you were ready to change back into comfy clothes and pass out. Without prompting, Bradley started to cut up what was left of the turkey, placing some in the containers you’d portioned for him before putting the rest in the fridge. You started the dishwasher when it was full and wiped down counters. After tossing the rest of the turkey, he took the trash out.
When the door swung shut, you took the opportunity to stretch, moaning when your back popped before bending at the waist and letting your arms dangle. As much as you enjoyed hosting, your body took a beating, being on your feet all day. You would definitely need to invest in some mats to make the kitchen floor more comfortable before your next full day of cooking.
Even when the door opened, you felt too good stretching to stand up straight. You heard Bradley chuckle and then the sound of water running, followed by the snap of a trashbag being shaken out. Finally, you stood and threw out a hand to steady yourself when the world spun. Hands wrapped around your hips and drew you closer. “You okay, honey?”
The term of endearment caught you off-guard and had clearly slipped out by the flush on Bradley’s cheeks. “Honey?” you echoed, quirking a brow.
“Duchess,” he corrected.
“Rooster.” Your hands rested on his forearms, feeling the muscles flex as his fingers clenched around your hips. Taking a deep breath, you felt your chest brush his. His lips quirked into a wry smile. “What?”
“Just waiting for something to interrupt.” At your questioning look, he chuckled. “Been trying to kiss you all day, and something always gets in the way.”
“What?” you breathed, shock written across your face.
“Been thinkin’ about kissing you since that night at the Hard Deck, actually.”
“T-the Hard Deck?”
“Yup. Before you deployed.” Heat rushed to your face at the memory - or lack thereof - of your going away party. There had been one too many shots, and you had a vague recollection of Bradley driving the Bronco. Of him telling you not to throw up while he helped Nat into her apartment before taking you home. Half carrying you to bed and making sure you had water and medicine - warm hands on your face and a raspy laugh.
“When I was drunk?”
“When you told me you liked me.” Mortified, you felt a sudden flush of heat and tried to pull away, but he held firm. “But that you didn’t think I was a relationship guy.”
“Roo - ”
“I am. A relationship guy,” he clarified, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “For the right woman.” Your mouth was dry, unable to force out a single word. “I was gonna say something before you left, but you avoided me. And then you were gone for three months.”
“I… you messaged me.”
“Wasn’t exactly something I wanted to say over email,” Bradley chuckled. “I like you too.”
“What about Georgia?”
That drew him up short, and a confused look crossed his face. “The bartender?”
“Yeah. She… I mean, she’s clearly interested. And more your type.” Groaning, he leaned down to rest his forehead on yours.
“Honey, I’m not interested in her. And she’s not… ask Nat. She’s been on my case about my” - he lifted a hand to make air quotes - “‘hoe phase’ since I got out here.” That drew a snort from you, and Bradley pulled away to smile at you bashfully. “Gimme a chance, Duch.”
Hesitating a moment, you took another deep breath and gave the butterflies in your stomach free rein. Hands shaking, you wrapped your arms around his neck and nodded, unable to keep from matching his smile.
Moving slowly, as though afraid to spook you, Bradley leaned down and brushed his nose to yours. “As much as this is doin’ things for me,” he said softly, pulling at the apron strings tied at your stomach, “I think we’re done in the kitchen tonight.” Biting your lip, you could only nod, leaning away as he tugged it over your head, balled the apron up, and tossed it behind you. With his hands back on your hips, he walked you backward and lifted you onto the counter, stepping between your knees. “This alright?”
“Yeah,” you whispered, allowing yourself to reach out and run a hand through his curls. Bradley's eyes closed when you lightly scratched his scalp, and he swayed closer. His breath ghosted over your lips and -
“Fucking Christ,” he groaned when his phone started to buzz. You jumped, feeling the vibration against your shin, and laughed as he dropped his head into the crook of your neck. Your breath caught, feeling his lips on your throat. When he reached into his pocket and scowled down at the screen, you saw Nat’s name before he sent the call to voicemail.
Leaving the phone on the counter, he smirked and guided your legs around his waist as your arms went around his neck. His hands cupped your ass as he lifted you. In the doorway to the kitchen, he paused long enough for you to slap the walls until the lights turned off before walking toward the couch and lowering himself onto it. Your knees dug into the cushion on either side of him, forcing the hem of your dress higher.
From this angle, he had to look up at you. Hands migrated from your ass to thighs, callouses lightly scraping and fingertips darting under the fabric to trace shapes on your skin and drag the hem higher. Lightly, you ran your thumb along the scars on his chin before ghosting over the ones on his cheek that had always intrigued you. A moan rumbled from his throat as he followed your touch, mustache tickling the delicate skin of your wrist. Blushing, you wondered how it would feel on your inner thighs. He chuckled, kissing your cheek, “What’re you thinking that’s got you red?”
Rather than answer, you turned and kissed him - just a light brush of your lips against his that seemed to catch him off-guard. You stared at one another for a long moment until he guided you closer. His mustache prickled, not unpleasantly but different, when he kissed you again. It was sweet and unhurried, a direct contradiction to the hardness you felt straining against his zipper.
Pulling away, you smiled tentatively down at him, seeing the remnants of your lipstick on his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and you leaned forward to press your lips to them. “Hi,” you said softly.
“Hey.”
“You like me?”
“Yeah. You like me?”
Rather than reply, you captured his lips again. “Drunk words,” you said between kisses, “are sober thoughts.” He barked a laugh before tugging you closer and licking into your mouth.
“Shoulda said something earlier,” he chided, gripping your ass tightly. “Coulda been doing this for a long time.”
“Blame the tequila.” The word came out as a moan when he trailed kisses down your neck, and you felt him smile.
“Thank god for tequila,” he mumbled, nuzzling your breasts and making you grind down on him. Bradley caught your hands when your fingers trailed down his chest to tug at his shirt. “Nuh-uh, honey. Gonna take you on a couple of dates before we get to that.”
“What?”
“No more ‘hoe phase.’”
“Maybe just one more night?” That made him laugh again as he shook his head.
“No, Duch. Wanna do this right with you.”
“I’ve heard the stories. I know you would.” When you rocked against him, he pinned your hand at your lower back and stilled you with a hand on your hip. He growled your name and smirked when your thighs clenched.
“Liked that, huh?” he teased. “Ms. Prim and Proper Duchess likes to be bossed around?” Heat flooded your face, and he chuckled again. Without warning, he stood, and you squeaked, trying to keep from falling. But he held you steady and set you on your feet, towering over you. “Can I stay over?” You didn’t hesitate in nodding, and his kiss was rough before he pulled away and swatted your ass. “Go get ready for bed while I lock up.”
When you emerged from the bathroom, face cleaned and in your panties and a tank top, Bradley was lying in the middle of your bed in just his boxers. Groaning, he looked at you and shook his head. “Where are those sweats from this morning?”
“You want me to wear sweats to bed?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe and raising an eyebrow. His hand drifted down to his hard cock, squeezing lightly. “You’ve seen me in less at the beach.”
“Trying to do this right, honey.” Rolling your eyes, you walked to your dresser and pulled on sweatpants before digging out a pair of fuzzy socks. He laughed when you tossed them at his head, setting them aside as you circled the bed to lie beside him. Quickly, he pinned you beneath him, settling in the cradle of your thighs. As he licked into your mouth, you felt his hips rolling against yours. “Still too damn sexy,” he murmured against your lips.
“Housewife lingerie does it for you?” you teased, running your hands through his hair. Rather than answer, he looped an arm under your knee and drew it up, allowing you to feel him better. “Fuck.”
“Not tonight.”
And, unfortunately, he was true to his word. Anytime your hands strayed to his boxers, he pinned them over your head, seemingly content to tease and kiss all night.
Eventually, though, you could no longer keep from yawning. After setting his alarm - Bradley was on duty in the morning while you’d taken the day off - he tucked you against him, your back to his chest. His cock pressed against your ass as he kissed your shoulder, hand slipping under your shirt to brush the underside of your breast. Sighing, he murmered, “Best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a long time.”
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Currently crying over the contrast of “my dad says I have trouble making eye contact” to then the final scene being Andrew having direct eye contact with fletcher eagerly waiting for approval
He really just wants to be understood and praised he couldn’t even get that from his family wth man I’m crying
Warnings: implied smut, Hangman being himself, love sick Rooster
A/N: Just a little something I thought of awhile ago for Rooster🩷
If there was one thing about Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw was that he loved you more then he loved flying.
Rooster and you had just got engaged and the two of you could not be happier, that was until he got his orders to return to top gun. Bradley having to return for a mission did put a damper in the wedding plans but thats what you signed up when you said yes to marry a Naval fighter pilot right?
"How would you feel if I came with you" you ask while eating dinner one night
"You mean to San Diego" he looks up from his plate asking
"Yeah why not as long as I have wifi and my laptop i can work from anywhere"
"Baby that would be amazing" he said with a big smile grabbing your hand
"It's settled then after dinner I'll look for flights"
"Why not drive out have a little impromptu road trip, we'll take the bronco" Rooster says
"Even better" you reply
After dinner you begin packing and making preparations for your trip seeing how you only have a few days to get things in order.
3 days later the Bronco is packed, Playlist is made and you and Bradley are on the road heading west to San Diego!
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After a great yet tiring trip you make it! You were able to find housing right off a base that offered short term stays. You pull up to the little house and start to unload your things.
"What do say we go to hard decks for a drink tonight baby" Bradley says wrapping his arms around you "wanna see who else was called for this mission"
"Sounds great hopefully Nat did I miss her" you tell him "let me shower the rest of the road trip off" you say walking down the hall before pausing taking your shirt off you turn to Rooster "you gonna join me fly boy or..." before you could finish your sentence Rooster is already down the all throwing you over his shoulder "have I ever turned you down"
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An hour later you and Bradley are pulling into the parking lot of hard deck. He jumps out and jogs over to open your door and help you out and you both walk in.
"Baby I'm gonna go bathroom then I'll get us a few beers" you tell him "ok baby heres my card" he replied with a kiss and handing you his card
"Bradshaw, is that you? Is this how I find out your state side" Rooster hears Phoenix say while she's playing pool
"Yeah well thought I'd surprise you" He says with a cocky smirk. She then takes her shot and hits him right in the stomach with the pool stick "guess I surprised you back, it's good to see you"
"Its good to see you too" he says then gives her a hug
"How's that girlfriend of yours" Phoenix ask
"Well she's not my girlfriend anymore, She's my fiancé and she's great she's in the bathroom right now, she'll be so happy to see you" he tells her
"No shit you popped the question congratulations"
"Thank you..."
Before Rooster could say anything else another voice from his past comes to his ears
"Bradshaw, as I live and breathe"
"Hangman, you look...good" Rooster says
"Well I am good Rooster I'm very good, in fact I am to good to be true" the cocky pilot says taking a shot at the pool table eyes never leaving Roosters
Rooster just rolls his eyes at the cockiness of his fellow pilot, as the group starts talking about the mission they will all soon be on.
Meanwhile you walk out of the bathroom and over to the bar and wait your turn to order. You look over your shoulder and see your fiancé and he sends you a wink.
It still amazes you that after all this time he still gives you the same butterflies as he did the night you met.
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As Rooster is still talking to his friends he see y/n at the bar and sends her a wink, little did he know Hangman also saw y/n at the bar and wanted to prove how good he was. The problem was he didn't know who she was but he was about to find out...
"Well look what just walked in" Hangman says and everyone looks over to the bar
"Yeah thats..." Phoenix starts to say but is stopped by Rooster
"Damn that girl is fine" "look at that ass" Rooster hears Cody and Fanboy say. Rooster just smiles to himself. Nobody had ever met Y/n or even knew about her but Phoenix
"And Rooster I'm about to show you just how good I am. If you'll excuse me I'm bout to go by a beautiful lady a drink and get a number" Hangman says walking away towards the bar
"Aren't you gonna stop him" Phoenix ask
"Nope he'll find out real fast that my girl can take care of herself" Rooster says with a smirk.
Back at the bar you are still waiting for the bartender when you hear a voice beside you
"Well what brings a gorgeous woman like you in a navy bar" you turn and look and see it's one of the pilots Bradley was just talking to.
You shoot Rooster a look and he just winks and that let's you know you can have some fun.
"What can I say I love a man in uniform" you say in a flirty voice. "So you gotta name mr navy"
"Jake but my callsigns Hangman"
"So a pilot even better" just then the bartender makes it your way
"What can I get you ma'am" he says
"2 coronas with lime please" you go to give him the card Bradley gave you when a hand stops you "I'll take care of it" jake says handing the man his card.
"Well thank you flyboy" you say
Hangman continues to flirt and throw his best pick up lines your way, you are trying hard not to laugh. The bartender comes back with your beers and you pick them up but not before Jake throws his arm around you.
"So what about you give me your number" he says "we can go out one night what do you"
Neither you or Jake saw but that was it for Rooster it was funny but he isn't gonna let any guy touch his girl
"You know..." you start to say as you try to move his arm when you hear Roosters voice behind you
"Hangman"
"Can we help you Rooster" Hangman says again in a cocky voice with a smirk
"Yes you can get your arm off my fiancé" He says with a cocky smile while Jake's smile falls from his face
"No way Rooster this girl is to hot for you" jake says laughing til he finally looks and sees the ring and the dog tags around your neck how did he not see any of that before he thinks to himself then pulls his arm off you.
"Yeah but thanks for the beer man, come on baby Nat is dying to see you" Rooster says grabbing your hand and tipping his beer bottle to Jake
"It was nice meeting you" you say hopping down off the bar stoll with a wave leaving Jake standing there speechless.
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"Nat I'm happy to see you I missed you" you say hugging Phoenix
"I missed you too I can't believe you didn't tell me you got engaged to this man"
"Its been less then a month I haven't told many people yet plus I never know how to get ahold of you"
"Baby let me introduce you to everyone this is Coyote, Payback, Fanboy, Bob," just as Rooster is introducing you to everyone Jake walks over "and you met Hangman" he says with a laugh
"Nice to meet you all and Hangman thanks for beers" you laugh and everyone joins in
"That was a mean joke" Hangman says
"Sorry how bout next round on Bradley and me" you say as a peace offering
"Deal" he says
A few minutes later you are getting another round for everyone when you hear the sound of a piano. You don't even have to turn round to know who's playing it
"You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain
Too much love drives a man insane
You broke my will, but what a thrill
Goodness gracious, great balls of fire
I laughed at love 'cause I thought it was funny
You came along and you moved me honey
I've changed my mind, this love is fine
Goodness gracious, great balls of fire"
You walk over and sit on Roosters lap while he sings.
Kiss me, baby, you kiss his cheek
Ohhh the feels good
Hold me, baby
Well, I'll still love you like a lover should
You're fine, so kind
Got to tell this world that you're mine, mine, mine, mine"
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You get home that night a little tipsy and very touchy
"So wanna have some fun Lieutenant Bradshaw" you say stripping your clothes off
" I love when you call me Lieutenant" Bradley says running his hands down your hips to your ass
"Well Lieutenant have your way with me"
" On one condition...you leave the dog tags on" he says kissing down your neck
