imagine your f/o maintaining an extremely threatening aura right up until you do something endearing and then they have to turn away so no one sees their face
is my f/o fictional? of course. is he real to me deep down? also yes. do I value him as much as I'd value a real person a real person? definitely. is that wrong? I don't know.
๐๐ง๐ ๐๐ฅ ๐ข๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐ง๐จ๐ฐ ๊ฐ dean winchester ๊ฑ
๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐๐ซ๐ฒ: "don't you know that i love you?"
๐๐จ๐ง๐ญ๐๐ง๐ญ: gn!reader. fluff. friends to lovers. dean is sickeningly in love with reader. pining - yearner!dean. use of pet names (sweetheart, baby, angel). i implore you to listen to "angel in the snow" by elliott smith whilst reading <3
masterlist โก
Dean wonders - more than he thinks he should - if his sole purpose in this universe is to love you. It surely feels like he was made to, because the love that he feels is natural and real and all-consuming.
Sometimes, it makes him dizzy.
He protects you, lays beside you, follows you with no hesitance. Smiles when you laugh. When you do anything, he supposes. But he loves your laugh more than any other sound, the way it blooms and your honey-sweet cadence.
January is one of his favorite times of year, because you love the snow and glow amidst it's flurries. He likes when you put on your wool mittens, because he gets to take them off when you've had enough fun pelting him with snowballs.
He gets to fix you a mug of hot chocolate, too. He gets to wrap a blanket around your shoulders, he gets to watch as whipped cream crowns your cupids bow. If he's lucky, he even gets to take your hands and tuck them between his to warm them.
He gets, he gets, he gets.
Though he doesn't think he deserves so much of you.
It's easy to indulge when you're pulling him out of a motel room and past the awning, to look up at the stars.
You shine brighter than them all.
His warm hand settles on the small of your back when your boots slip on the thin sheet of ice that blankets the concrete. A part of him worries that love may seep through his fingertips and stain the fabric of your coat.
That you'll figure him out. He can't have that.
Can't have you.
Though secretly, he pretends that he's yours.
When you point up at a string of white, blinking stars, he glances up for just a few moments. Long enough for you to catch and know that he cares endlessly, that he's listening and would like to forever. But his eyes flit down from the sky and towards you inevitably.
You say something about Andromeda.
"That's real cool, sweetheart."
Something about Orion, and how you think you see Venus.
"Keep talking, baby. M'listening."
He watches the way your eyes reflect the sparkling cosmos, how your lips quirk at the corners as you explain. When you begin to shiver - he'd told you that coat was too thin - you're tugged into his side.
You smell of something soothingly fragrant. He'd like to bottle it.
"Dean," you breathe, turning towards him. "you're not bored?"
He shakes his head. "Hell no. Come on, tell me more."
You don't. He tilts his head when your silence stretches and watches the way you pull your lip between two teeth. You look pretty when you're thinking of what to say. He can be as patient as a saint as long as it's you he's waiting for. No matter the ache of his chest.
But you're taking too long to speak, and a nervous weed curls around his heart because of it.
"Angel?"
You blink. Twice. "Why d'you always call me that?"
Snow passes down from the clouds. His heart squeezes and loops in a strange, nervous way. You've caught him maybe, finally heard the reverence in which he calls you by it. The easy breath it takes. The love within the letters.
"Don't you know?" Is all he can reply. Defense takes too much effort.
"Know what?"
That I love you.
He swallows down the words and shoves his free hand deep into the pocket of his jeans. "Just... it suits you. You don't like it?"
You smile, hands reaching out and up slowly to hold his cheeks with your soft palms. He isn't quite sure what's happening, if he's imagining things again. He doesn't really mind if he is, because this is just lovely.
Beautiful, to be touched like this by the person who already has his heart in a vice.
"I like it," you whisper, nose brushing his. "keep saying it."
He'll do anything.
"Angel. Angel, angel. You're an angel, angel."
That night, a kiss is bestowed to his cheek. Then his lips. A gentle press that nearly takes his soul from his body, one that he could die happily from. One that he would like to feel everyday, from you.
Kisses are all the more better from angels in the snow.
notes : i'm probably going to be posting fics few and far between from now on <3 whenever i catch a whim of inspiration i will whip something up and post, but i don't want to write when i'm not motivated to :)
requests are most likely closed indefinitely, but i will slowly work on the ones that i have!
for any selfshippers who wear glasses, imagine your f/o leaning in close and gently pushing them up back into place whenever they slump down, and giving you a quick kiss after doing so.
Yumeshipping is so fun and healing. Like FUCK YEAH my favorite character WOULD love me!!! Yeah they WOULD shower me with love and attention!!! Like, FUCK YEAH, I DO deserve all the love and care in the world!!!
prguitarman
snowghoul
pixelskylines
titsay
