SUMMARY: Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking dead—not in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him. 9.7k
WARNINGS: best friend!reader. friends to lovers. suggestive language. pining. fluff. humor. dean's self-deprecating shenanigans. masturbation. implied smut. dry humping. breeding kink if you squint really hard. this was very random but i ended up loving it. set somewhere mid s2.
Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.
He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake.
But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him.
The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words.
But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.
It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation.
He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.
Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid.
The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.
You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.
He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back.
Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only.
His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.
He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top.
“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”
“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”
Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.
That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.
“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”
“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”
“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”
“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”
“No, you may not.”
You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?
“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”
Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head.
“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”
You’re such a fucking idiot.
How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.”
God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.
“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease.
Just once, just one time.
I need you so bad, it’s killing me.
Please.
“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”
Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke.
“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”
“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”
Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”
“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”
“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile.
He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you.
“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He didn’t get it the second time either.
Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable.
Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets.
But Dean missed every time.
You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind.
Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all.
Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.
He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.
But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.
Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side.
Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.
No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you.
It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.
He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.
At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.
All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him.
Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98.
Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.
That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident.
You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him.
Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble.
It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.
Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.
You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911.
His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you.
You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment.
At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him.
“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.
“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”
“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”
“You do? Woah, news to me.”
“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”
You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.
“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this.
“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”
A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”
The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.
“What?”
“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”
A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud.
You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”
No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine.
“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy.
There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”
His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining.
All of his defenses started to crack.
“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.”
You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting.
“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”
“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”
He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose.
“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”
Well, he knows now.
He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human.
You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”
This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.
He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.
He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.
“I wish you’d put them out on me.”
The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then.
Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true.
If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.
But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia.
You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break.
He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head.
“You’re the prettiest, De.”
Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time.
He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.
But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra.
Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.
He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction.
There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden.
Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.
But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven.
He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake.
Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened.
“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”
“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall.
You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt.
“What are you working on, anyway?”
He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions.
“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more.
The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station.
If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates.
Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.
A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.
Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.
Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.
“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”
Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed.
“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”
Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go.
“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”
Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?
This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit.
“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”
For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted.
His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you.
There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.
“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years.
“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”
You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen.
He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak.
“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.”
Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.”
His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled.
"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”
Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable.
This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.
Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene.
With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head.
Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.
There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place.
He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.
That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.
“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight.
“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.”
“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.
You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink.
He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires.
He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands.
He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened.
His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible.
He’s doomed, even more than before.
Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything.
Oh, what have you done?
It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting.
He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize.
The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.
Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you.
He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all.
Just to what extent do you want him?
At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around.
Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa.
Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand.
Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin.
So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes.
Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list.
If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him.
If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.
If only you could love him, the way he loves you.
That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
But then, incident four happened.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was struggling with his necktie.
He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping.
He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it.
But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week.
Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror.
“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”
He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.
He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in.
“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen.
“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”
You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late.
You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him.
“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie.
“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”
You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now.
Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.
You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart.
“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less.
It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now.
You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil.
“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”
Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left.
If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to.
“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”
You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes.
“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine.
He whispered your name, pained.
“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”
Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look.
Dean was just as lost.
But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes.
He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you.
He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth.
“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time.
He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever.
If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.
With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed.
His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot.
He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth.
The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.
The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges.
He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat.
“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”
“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”
“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.”
With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago.
“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”
His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his.
“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness.
“Why do you think?”
He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again.
“Because you want me dead?”
You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time.
“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.
In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close.
“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”
He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences.
But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide.
You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage.
“How do you love me?”
He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”
“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”
Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.
“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.”
Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together.
“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”
Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters.
“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.”
Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming.
“What changed your mind?”
You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him.
“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”
He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.
“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”
“How?”
It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving.
“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?”
Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out.
So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.
Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.
“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”
“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”
The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss.
“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”
Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”
“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”
He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”
“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”
Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”
You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay.
“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”
You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”
“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”
“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”
“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”
“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”
“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”
“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”
Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his.
“You’re really obsessed with that.”
Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”
Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you.
“That’s it.”
With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.
Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue.
Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon.
Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long.
Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore.
The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.
NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.
my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!
anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3
pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader
summary – four attempts, four interruptions, one very cursed hockey house, and garrett learning that privacy might be the real fantasy.
warnings – 18+, smut, interrupted sex, semi-public sex, car sex, use of vibrator, hickeys, dirty talk, praise, jealousy/possessive behaviour, strong language
notes from me – THIS WAS SO FUN i love kitty!! based on this ask, thank u so much babe!!!
word count – 8.2k
navigation – masterlist |
The first time, Garrett genuinely thinks he might die in his own bedroom, which feels dramatic until she rolls her hips down again and his entire nervous system gives up on dignity.
She’s in his lap with one knee planted on either side of him, skirt shoved high around her thighs, one hand fisted in the front of his shirt and the other buried in his hair like she’s not kissing him so much as trying to make a point with her mouth.
His room is dark except for the lamp on his desk, this warm, lazy spill of gold catching on the damp shine of her lips every time she pulls back to breathe.
Somewhere downstairs, the house is being stupid in the way the hockey house is always stupid after midnight – doors slamming, Logan laughing too loudly, Dean yelling something that sounds legal in no state, Tucker probably trying and failing to impose order – but Garrett can barely hear any of it through the blood thudding in his ears.
He has one hand locked around her waist and the other flattened low on her back, guiding her down against him, not that she needs much guidance. She’s doing it on purpose now. Slow, mean little grinds that drag the seam of her panties over him through his sweats and make him lose a bit more of his mind every time.
He’s hard enough that it’s almost painful, hot and trapped and pressed right up against her. Her mouth curves against his when he groans, like she’s won something.
“You’re so loud,” she murmurs, nipping at his bottom lip.
Garrett’s fingers dig into her hip. “You’re sitting on my dick.”
“Barely.”
“You want me to apologise?”
“I want you to do something useful.”
He huffs a laugh, except it comes out rougher than he means it to because she grinds down again at the same time, and his head knocks back against the wall behind his bed. “Jesus Christ.”
She leans forward and kisses the sound out of him, messy and open-mouthed, teeth catching, tongue sliding over his like she’s trying to shut him up and make him worse at the same time.
It’s very effective. Annoyingly effective. Everything with her is like that. A fight. A dare. A little bit of blood under the nail. She kisses him like she’s still pissed about something he said three hours ago and intends to take payment directly out of his spine.
Her mouth leaves his and drags down his jaw. Garrett feels her smile against his skin right before her teeth sink into the side of his throat.
“Hey.” His hand tightens at her waist. “Don’t.”
She hums, entirely unbothered, and sucks harder.
“Seriously?” he says, voice strained because it’s difficult to sound authoritative when her hips are still moving and her mouth is hot on his neck. “You’re gonna make me look like I got attacked.”
She pulls back just enough to look at the mark blooming under his jaw, pleased with herself in a way that makes his stomach go tight. “You did.”
“By a girl who keeps saying she’s not my girlfriend.”
Her eyes flick to his. “You keep saying that.”
Garrett’s mouth opens, then closes, because he hates when she does that. He hates it even more because she doesn’t look hurt. She looks smug and hot and a little too bright around the eyes, like she’s waiting to see if he’ll flinch first.
So he does what he always does when she gets too close to the thing under the thing. He smirks.
“Yeah, well,” he says, sliding both hands under her skirt now, palms spreading over the backs of her thighs. “You keep leaving claw marks on my back, Kitty.”
Her whole face changes.
Garrett feels the satisfaction of it before she even speaks, because she goes still over him for one sharp second, mouth parting in outrage, eyes narrowing. “Don’t call me that.”
He grins. “What? Thought Dean said it was cute.”
She punishes him immediately by grinding down harder. His fingers flex, dragging her closer, and her expression tips from smug to hungry so fast it almost makes him dizzy.
“Yeah,” she whispers, mouth brushing his. “That shut you up.”
“You’re such a brat.”
“You love it.”
Garrett wants to deny it. It’s sitting right there, easy and obvious, the kind of thing he could toss back without thinking. Except her nails scrape lightly down the back of his neck, enough to remind him she could, and the truth moves through him in a warm, humiliating rush.
He does. He loves the mouth on her. Loves the attitude. Loves that she’ll glare at him from across a room like she wants to throw something at his head and then end up in his bed twenty minutes later making that soft, ruined little sound into his mouth.
He settles for kissing her again, because that feels safer than saying any of it. She melts for about half a second before biting his lip.
“Fuck,” he mutters, laughing into the kiss. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re slow.”
“I’m trying to be nice.”
“Don’t.”
His hand slides between them then, and that finally steals the next smart thing out of her mouth. Her breath catches against his cheek as his fingers find the damp heat of her through her panties, and Garrett goes a little quiet.
For all his cocky bullshit, for all the easy flirting and the grin that gets him out of most trouble he doesn’t deserve to escape, there’s a second when he touches her like this where the performance drops clean off his face. Like the fact that she wants him still catches somewhere under his ribs.
Her hips twitch into his hand.
“Oh,” he says, low, smugness returning because he’s Garrett and therefore deeply committed to being unbearable. “That’s why you’re being mean.”
She grabs his jaw. “I’m always mean.”
“Not like this.”
“Garrett.”
“Yeah?”
Her voice thins at the edges, but her glare stays intact, which is honestly impressive. “If you tease me right now, I’ll kill you.”
His thumb presses in a slow circle that makes her lashes flutter. “You say that a lot for someone currently trying to fuck me.”
“Trying,” she repeats, breathless and furious. “Exactly. And yet here we are. Discussing.”
Garrett’s mouth twitches. “Fair.”
He hooks his fingers into the edge of her panties and tugs them aside, and the room seems to shrink down to the tiny space between their bodies. Her hands slip from his jaw to his shoulders.
Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. He can feel how wet she is, how hot, how close she already is to losing patience completely, and it does something stupid to him. Something possessive and bright and not casual at all.
She lifts on her knees when he guides her up, one hand braced against the wall beside his head, the other still on his shoulder, nails biting. He shifts beneath her, pushing his sweats down just enough, breath already jagged.
“C’mon,” he murmurs. “There you go.”
Her chin drops, her forehead nearly touching his. “Garrett.”
“I’ve got you.”
Her mouth twists like she wants to say something bitchy and can’t quite find it. That gets him more than anything. Her quiet. Her body trembling over his. The scrape of her nails at his shoulder, the hickey pulsing warm under his jaw, her skirt bunched around her hips, his name barely holding itself together in her mouth.
He lines himself up, one hand gripping her thigh, the other holding her panties aside, and she starts to sink down.
The fire alarm screams.
For one whole second, they both freeze in absolute, biblical disbelief.
Then Garrett flinches so hard his head smacks the wall. She jerks over him with a gasp, grabbing his face like she can hold the moment in place with both hands and sheer fucking will.
“No,” she says.
Garrett blinks at her through the shriek of the alarm. “What?”
“No.” Her grip tightens on his jaw, eyes wide and glassy and furious, her whole body still hovering right above him. “No, Garrett. Please. Please, ignore it.”
He stares at her. “Ignore the fire alarm?”
She nods eagerly. “Yes.”
Downstairs, Tucker yells, “OH, FUCK!”
Garrett’s eyes close.
She immediately shakes his face. “No. Look at me. Tucker says that when he finds expired hummus.”
“Baby.”
She whines softly. “Don’t baby me. We’re busy.”
“Someone might be on fire.”
From below them comes Logan’s voice, ragged with panic and laughter. “WHY IS THERE A PLATE IN THE OVEN?”
Then Tucker again, louder and more horrified. “WHO PUT A PLASTIC PLATE IN THE OVEN?”
Garrett exhales through his nose like he’s trying to summon a version of himself with morals. Unfortunately, the version of himself under her right now is hard, half-undressed, and seriously considering whether smoke inhalation is that bad.
She makes a wounded sound and drops her forehead to his shoulder. “I hate this house.”
“I know.”
“I hate your friends.”
“I know.”
Downstairs, Dean screams, “IT’S NOT MY PLATE!”
That finally does it. Garrett groans, deeply and from the soul, and helps her off his lap before one or both of them dies in the least sexy way possible.
She climbs off him with all the grace of a furious cat, yanking her skirt down, hair wrecked, mouth swollen, and Garrett nearly walks into his dresser trying to pull his sweats up over an erection that has every right to file a formal complaint.
She points at him with one trembling finger. “If this is Logan’s fault, I’m putting his head in the oven.”
“Maybe don’t threaten murder while the fire alarm’s going off.”
“I’ll be quick.”
They make it to the hallway half-dressed and murderous. Smoke curls faintly up the stairs. Dean’s halfway up already, looking delighted until he sees her crooked skirt, Garrett’s flushed face, the hickey darkening under Garrett’s jaw, and the general aura of interrupted sex radiating off both of them like a gas leak.
Dean’s mouth opens. Garrett points at him. “Don’t.”
Dean looks at the hickey. Then at her nails. Then at Garrett’s sweats. His whole face lights with reverent horror. “Oh my God.”
She points at him. “I will push you down these fucking stairs.”
Dean steps aside immediately. “Understood.”
The second time, Garrett locks the bathroom door with such focus that she almost feels bad for him.
Almost.
He twists the little button on the knob, tests it once, then tests it again, jaw set like he’s securing a submarine hatch instead of the upstairs bathroom in a house where the towel rack’s been broken since October.
She stands near the sink in one of his Briar shirts and nothing else, watching him with her arms crossed and her mouth doing the thing it does when she’s trying not to laugh at him and failing beautifully.
“Wow,” she says. “You’ve grown so much.”
Garrett turns. “I’m being proactive.”
“You’re being traumatised.”
“By your inability to finish a sentence without insulting me?”
“By your idiot roommates.”
He points at her. “You like them.”
“I like Tucker. Logan’s useful for entertainment. Dean’s a cautionary tale with hair product.”
Garrett tries not to laugh and loses. “That’s mean.”
The bathroom is full of steam, the mirror fogged at the edges, the bathwater high and hot and carrying the faint clean smell of whatever body wash she stole from him because, according to her, his was annoyingly good and therefore community property.
Garrett’s gone a little overboard, which she will absolutely make fun of him for later if she survives the night with any dignity left. Candles on the sink. Towels stacked near the tub. His phone facedown on the counter like he doesn’t trust it not to ruin his life.
It is, despite everything, kind of sweet.
Which is dangerous. Sweetness always is with him. It sneaks up under the banter and the hooking up and the stupid public insistence that they’re not dating, and then suddenly he’s making a bath, checking the lock twice, putting her water bottle on the sink, and setting Douglas on the folded towel beside the tub like that’s not the most damning piece of evidence in the entire room.
Garrett’s busy pretending to adjust the temperature of the water, one hand under the tap, jaw set in that deeply masculine way men get when they’re doing something domestic and hoping no one points it out.
So she leans her hip against the sink, arms crossed, and says, “This is a lot of effort for a girl you’re not dating.”
Garrett stills. Barely. The tiniest pause of his hand under the water, the flicker of his eyes toward Douglas on the towel, then to her, then away again like that tiny purple traitor has exposed him.
“That’s not effort,” he says, turning the tap off. “That’s preparation.”
She raises an eyebrow. “For the girl you’re not dating.”
“For the girl who keeps complaining that my house is ruining her life.”
“It is ruining my life.”
“You’re welcome to leave.”
She lifts her brows.
Garrett looks at her, at the shirt falling high on her thighs, at her bare legs, at the mouth he’s already kissed swollen twice tonight, and immediately seems to regret giving her any kind of exit option. His jaw shifts. “Just… not right now.”
A smile pulls at her mouth. “Use your brain next time.”
“Bossy.”
“Proactive.”
His mouth curves despite himself as he steps into her space, hands finding her hips under the shirt like they belong there, like they’ve mapped the exact place his thumbs should sit and neither of them is going to talk about what that means. “You gonna keep running your mouth, or are you getting in?”
“You made a whole setup. I’m appreciating the ambience.”
He tilts his head. “You’re mocking me.”
“I’m moved.”
“You’re a liar.”
She grins, and he kisses it off her before it can get any worse, mouth warm and open against hers, one hand sliding up the side of her waist. For a second the room narrows to steam and skin and the soft press of his thumbs beneath her ribs. Then her nails drift down his back, slow and deliberate, catching over the raised scratches she left there last time. Garrett’s whole body gives one sharp, quiet reaction against hers.
“Careful,” he says, voice lower.
She smiles into his mouth. “Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
“Good.”
“Jesus.” He pulls back just enough to look at her, incredulous and turned on and visibly annoyed about both. “You’re insane.”
“You keep inviting me over.”
“Yeah, well.” His eyes drop to her mouth. “I’m stupid.”
“Finally, common ground.”
He mutters something under his breath that she doesn’t catch before he kisses her again, rougher this time, like he’s punishing her for being right. His hands slip under the hem of the shirt and drag it up her body, and the second it’s over her head, Garrett forgets how to finish whatever insult he’d clearly been building toward.
It happens so plainly she almost laughs. His eyes drop, throat working once, hands settling at her waist like he needs somewhere safe to put them before they get him into trouble.
She tilts her head. “You okay?”
His eyes flick up. “Fine.”
“You look pained.”
“Because you’re naked and still talking.”
“That usually upsets you?”
“It does when the talking is happening instead of the bath.”
She glances toward the tub, then to Douglas, still waiting innocently on the towel. “You brought him out and everything.”
Garrett’s face tightens in immediate betrayal. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Weird?” She looks offended. “That’s Douglas.”
“I know his name.”
She grins. “You should. You helped name him.”
“I said it as a joke.”
“And then it stuck. That’s how naming works.”
“I didn’t think I’d be standing in my bathroom months later listening to you talk about him like he’s a close personal friend.”
“He’s been very supportive.”
Garrett gives her a flat look. “He has a charging cable.”
“He has stamina.”
“I have stamina.”
She lets her eyes drag over him, slow and deeply unfair, until his expression shifts by a fraction. “Do you?”
Garrett’s hands tighten on her waist. “Get in the bath.”
She laughs, and he guides her in with both hands like he knows full well she might climb right back out just to spite him. The water closes around her hot enough to pull a sigh out of her, and a second later Garrett is sliding in behind her, knees bracketing her hips, chest warm against her back.
For a second, she lets herself settle. Lets her head tip back onto his shoulder. Lets his hands move over her stomach under the water, slow and broad, like he’s smoothing out every sharp edge she keeps trying to put between them.
Then he reaches past her for Douglas. She opens one eye. “Be respectful.”
Garrett’s mouth brushes the side of her neck. “I’m always respectful to Douglas.”
“You called him a tiny homewrecker last time.”
“He knows what he did.”
“You were jealous.”
He scoffs. “I was not jealous of a vibrator.”
“You sulked.”
“I was catching my breath.”
“You glared at him.”
“He was smug.”
She laughs, and Garrett bites gently at her shoulder, enough to make the laugh catch. The vibrator hums to life in his hand, a low, familiar buzz that has heat pulling through her before he even touches her with it. She knows he feels the shift in her body, because his arm slips across her waist and his mouth settles at her ear.
“Still talking?” he murmurs.
She swallows, already hating how much rougher her voice sounds. “Still waiting.”
His smile presses into the side of her throat. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Poor baby.”
She turns her head just enough to glare at him. “Don’t start.”
Garrett drags Douglas slowly up the inside of her thigh, nowhere near where she wants him, the absolute bastard. “Thought you wanted me to use my brain.”
“I want you to use your hand.”
“That’s demanding.”
“That’s proactive.”
His laugh is low against her ear, and then his mouth drops to her shoulder, open and warm, as he finally guides the vibrator higher.
“Fine,” he murmurs, voice gone rough in that way that makes her thighs want to part before she’s decided to let them. “But if you’re gonna keep defending him, I’m making him earn his place in this relationship.”
She goes still against him. Garrett goes still too, just for a second. The word hangs there in the steam, soft and stupid and too close to something neither of them has agreed to say out loud.
Then she clears her throat, eyes fixed very hard on the fogged mirror. “That what we’re calling it?”
His mouth brushes her shoulder again, slower this time. “Don’t get cocky.”
“I think Douglas should know where he stands.”
Garrett exhales a laugh against her skin, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, threaded through with heat. “Right now? Between your legs, if you stop arguing with me.”
The words skim hot along her wet skin, and the laugh she tries for comes out smaller than planned, caught somewhere between her throat and his mouth on her shoulder.
His arm slides across her middle, dragging her back more firmly against him, the hard line of his chest pressed to her spine, his thighs bracketing hers under the water while Douglas traces a slow, maddening path up the inside of her leg.
He’s being awful about it, of course. Deliberate. Patient in a way that feels less like restraint and more like cruelty, brushing close and then away, letting the vibration skim over places that make her stomach tighten before he eases off again.
His mouth keeps moving along her neck, open and lazy, kissing beneath her ear, then the hinge of her jaw, then the spot just below it he knows makes her lose half a thought if he gets his teeth there.
She tries very hard not to squirm, because letting Garrett Graham know he’s getting to her is basically handing a loaded weapon to a man who already thinks he’s hot shit with a sniper rifle.
Unfortunately, her body has no loyalty. Her thighs shift under the water. Her fingers curl against his forearm where it’s locked across her stomach. Garrett feels both. His mouth curves against her neck.
“Garrett.”
“Mm?”
“Stop playing.”
“I thought you liked playing.”
“I like finishing.”
His breath catches against her ear in a laugh, low and rough enough to make her toes curl beneath the water. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’ve heard.”
She reaches back to smack his thigh, but he moves Douglas exactly where she needs it and her hand clenches instead, nails scraping into his skin beneath the water.
The sound that leaves her is immediate and humiliatingly soft, and Garrett goes still for half a second behind her, like he wants to feel it all the way through. Like he wants to press pause on the exact moment she stops being difficult and starts melting.
“There,” he says, lips brushing her ear. “That what you wanted?”
She refuses to answer, mostly because she can’t.
Garrett’s free hand drifts up her stomach, slow and wet and broad, palm sliding over her ribs like he has all the time in the world.
She feels the shape of his fingers before he reaches her chest, the heat of his hand closing over her, and her head tips back against his shoulder before she can stop it. His thumb brushes once, almost lazy, and her whole body answers so sharply that water laps over the edge of the tub.
“Oh,” he murmurs, much too pleased. “There too?”
“Shut up.”
His mouth presses to her temple, soft enough to be insulting under the circumstances. “You’re so easy to annoy.”
“You’re so easy to hate.”
“Yeah?” His hand tightens over her breast, enough to make her breath hitch. “This feel like hate?”
She would love to say something devastating. She has, in theory, a whole personality built around saying something devastating. But Douglas is buzzing steadily between her thighs, Garrett’s hand is warm and sure on her chest, and his mouth is at her ear, and the only thing her body manages is a thin little sound that makes him groan like it’s done something to him too.
He turns the setting up one notch. Her hips jerk. Water spills over the side again, hitting the tile in a soft slap. Garrett’s arm tightens across her waist, holding her there against him, not forcing, just grounding, making it impossible for her to arch away from the pressure even when it starts to burn low and bright through her stomach.
His fingers knead at her chest, thumb dragging in a rhythm that has her eyes rolling back before she can even pretend she’s above it.
He notices immediately, because he notices everything when it comes to getting under her skin. “Oh, you liked that.”
“Don’t.”
“You did.” His mouth brushes the shell of her ear, smug and breathless at once. “Fuck, baby, you really liked that.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He shifts Douglas slightly, pressing it in tighter, and her whole body jolts against him. His hand slides from her breast to her throat for half a second, just holding her there, tipping her face back enough that his mouth can drag over her jaw. “You’re dripping all over my hand.”
The sound she makes would be embarrassing if she had enough air left to care. The steam has gone thick around them, clinging to her skin, turning the mirror to a blur.
Her body feels loose and tight at the same time, everything warm and wet and pulled so sharply toward the ache between her thighs that she can barely keep track of where she ends and Garrett starts.
His chest is hard behind her. His breath is hot against her ear. His hand returns to her chest, greedy now, less patient, fingers squeezing and stroking like he’s finally losing the thread of his own control.
“Garrett,” she whimpers, and hates him a little for the way his breath catches when she does.
“Yeah, baby.” His voice drops even lower, rough enough to scrape. “I know. I’ve got you.”
“No, you don’t.”
A laugh breaks out of him, bitten off and dark. “You’re arguing with me right now?”
“You’re being smug.”
“I’m being useful.”
She tries to glare at him over her shoulder, but he presses Douglas just right and her face crumples before she can get the look properly arranged. Garrett’s mouth catches at her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, kissing whatever broken little sounds spill out of her as her thighs start to tremble under the water.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Let me have it.”
Her fingers claw at his thigh. His breath hitches hard.
“Careful,” he grits out, and she can feel exactly how much he means it by the way his hips shift behind her, the hard press of him against her lower back, his control fraying in quiet, satisfying little pieces.
She would absolutely mock him for that if her body didn’t choose that exact moment to climb right to the edge. Everything narrows. The bath, the steam, his mouth, his hands, the buzz pressed exactly where she needs it.
Heat coils so tight in her stomach it almost hurts, her back arching against him, chest pushing into his palm as her head falls to his shoulder. She hears herself moan, high and helpless, and Garrett makes this ruined sound against her neck like it’s taken something out of him.
“Oh, baby,” she gasps, the words slipping out before pride can catch them.
Garrett’s hand tightens on her breast. “Fuck. Say that again.”
“No.”
“Brat.”
“Garrett–”
“I know.” He kisses beneath her ear, voice low and filthy-soft, all smugness burned down to want. “I know. You’re right there, aren’t you?”
She nods because words have become unreasonable.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing Douglas in that tiny, perfect angle that makes her whole body go taut. “There you go. Come on. I’ve got you. Just like that.”
Her nails dig into his thigh hard enough that he swears under his breath, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he holds her closer, mouth at her ear, hand on her chest, the other steady between her thighs, dragging her right up to the edge with a patience that feels like punishment and devotion at the same time.
“Garrett,” she gasps.
“I know. I know. There you go–”
A knock hits the door once, and the handle turns, and then Dean walks in.
The scream she lets out isn’t human.
Garrett shouts at the same time, jerking so hard the vibrator slips from his hand and disappears into the bath with a traitorous buzzing splash.
She lunges upright, foot sliding, hair going completely under for half a second before Garrett grabs her around the waist and hauls her back against him.
Water sloshes everywhere. The candles flicker. Dean stands in the doorway with one hand over his eyes, which would be more useful if he had done it before seeing both of them naked and morally compromised.
“OH FUCK– I’M SORRY, DUDE– AH– FUCK!”
“DEAN!” Garrett roars.
She spits bathwater out of her mouth and whips around with her hair plastered over one eye. “WHY WOULD YOU WALK IN?”
“I KNOCKED!”
“YOU OPENED WHILE KNOCKING!”
“I THOUGHT IT WAS EMPTY!”
“THE DOOR WAS LOCKED,” Garrett yells, voice cracking with the kind of rage that only comes from a man interrupted twice in one night.
Dean’s hand remains over his eyes. His entire body is angled away from them in a panic. “IT WASN’T!”
Garrett looks at the lock. The little button has popped out. For a second, the three of them stare at it.
Dean backs up, shoulder hitting the doorframe. “I didn’t see anything.”
“You screamed ah fuck,” she snaps.
“I saw movement!”
“You saw tits, Dean.”
“I saw–” Dean stops himself, visibly choosing life. “I saw nothing. I’m blind. I have never had eyes.”
“GET OUT,” Garrett and she yell together.
Dean slams the door behind him.
The bathroom goes silent except for the steady drip of water onto the tile and Douglas buzzing somewhere under the surface like the last surviving member of a shipwreck.
She sits upright between Garrett’s legs, soaked, furious, hair in her face, chest heaving. Her skin is hot from the bath and hotter from embarrassment, every inch of her buzzing with a need that has nowhere to go now except rage.
Garrett’s arm is still locked around her waist. His other hand is braced on the tub like he’s trying not to lose his mind. Then she feels his shoulders shake. Slowly, she turns her head.
Garrett presses his lips together.
“Don’t,” she hisses.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re laughing with your whole stupid body!”
That does it. One laugh gets out of him, low and helpless, and she stares at him with the flat, dead-eyed fury of a woman who has been edged and then waterboarded by bathwater in front of Dean Di Laurentis.
Garrett tries to kiss her shoulder. “Baby–”
“No.”
He attempts another kiss. “I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“I’ll kill him.”
She glares at him. “That doesn’t help me now.”
His mouth twitches again.
She points toward the door, hair dripping onto his arm. “I hate this fucking house.”
The third time, they try the porch because both of them have started confusing desperation with creativity.
The house is quiet behind them for once, and that should be the first warning. Nothing good ever comes out of the hockey house being quiet. It means someone is dead, asleep, or about to emerge at the exact wrong time with cereal.
But the back porch has the fire pit going, the night air is cool, and she’s tucked sideways against Garrett on the outdoor couch wearing his sweatshirt and a little skirt because she decided to wear it specifically to make his life worse.
Now the firelight is moving over her bare thighs, over the cuffs of his sweatshirt swallowed around her hands, over the dark mark on his jaw that he’s already checked twice in his phone camera and complained about three times.
Complained is maybe generous. He keeps touching it like he’s annoyed, then glancing at her like he wants her to do it again.
So she does. She leans in while he’s mid-sentence about practice and puts her mouth under his jaw. Garrett stops talking immediately.
Her lips curve. “What were you saying?”
“Nothing.”
“No, keep going. I’m listening.”
“You’re not listening.”
“I’m multitasking.”
He tilts his head back despite himself when she kisses lower, teeth grazing his throat. His hand slides from the back of the couch to her thigh, warm palm settling under the hem of the sweatshirt where it’s ridden up. “Don’t leave another one.”
She sucks at the skin just beside the first mark.
“Jesus.” His fingers dig into her thigh. “You’re doing it on purpose.”
“Obviously.”
“Why?”
She pulls back, eyes flicking over the fresh bloom of colour. Possessive satisfaction warms under her ribs, sharp and embarrassing, so she hides it behind a shrug. “You’re pretty when you’re marked up.”
Garrett stares at her. “That might be the most concerning compliment I’ve ever gotten.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I have a game this week.”
“Wear a turtleneck.”
“I’m a hockey player.”
She laughs and kisses him properly, swallowing whatever else he was going to say. His mouth opens under hers instantly, because for all his complaining, Garrett kisses her back like an addict with a grudge.
One hand hooks around her waist and pulls her closer until she’s half in his lap, her thigh over his, her body angled toward him in the warm orange spill of the fire.
It had started innocent. They were supposed to be sitting outside because she’d dramatically announced she needed air that didn’t contain Dean.
Garrett had brought her his sweatshirt without saying anything, which was annoying because it made her chest feel soft in a way she didn’t want to examine. They’d been fine for maybe ten minutes. Fifteen, if she was generous.
Then he’d stretched his arm behind her, all broad shoulders and lazy mouth and stupid sweatpants, and she’d remembered she had hands. Now one of those hands is slipping down his stomach.
Garrett catches her wrist before she reaches the waistband. “Here?”
She blinks at him. “You shy?”
“No.”
“Private?”
He gives her a look.
“Right.” Her mouth twitches. “Stupid question.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m coping.”
“You’re coping by jerking me off on the porch?”
“I’m resilient.”
Garrett’s laugh breaks when she twists her wrist out of his grip and palms him through his sweats. His head falls back against the couch, jaw going tight, and the sight of him like that – exposed throat marked up by her mouth, hair messy, lips parted around a breath he clearly doesn’t want to give her – makes her feel a little vicious. A little drunk, even though she isn’t.
“There he is,” she murmurs, kissing the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
“You’re such a brat.”
“You keep saying that like it’s going to hurt my feelings.”
“It’s not supposed to hurt your feelings.” His voice drops as her hand slips under his waistband. “It’s supposed to make you behave.”
She wraps her hand around him properly, and Garrett’s hips lift a fraction into her palm before he can stop himself. She smiles. “How’s that going?”
“Fuck.”
“Not well?”
“Shut up.”
She kisses his neck again, softer this time, then ruins the softness by dragging her teeth over the mark she made. Garrett’s hand flies to her hip, gripping hard enough to pull a pleased little sound out of her. He hears it. His eyes open, dark and focused.
“Come here,” he says.
“I am here.”
“No.” His hand slides to the back of her thigh. “Here.”
She lets him drag her into his lap because she’s generous and because her patience has been burned down to ash by this house. Her knees bracket his hips, skirt riding up, the fire hot at her back and Garrett hotter under her.
His hands shove beneath the sweatshirt, finding bare skin, and his mouth catches hers with none of the carefulness he sometimes tries to pretend he has.
They kiss hard and messy, the kind of kiss that tastes like irritation and wanting and the leftover sweetness of the soda she stole from him earlier. She strokes him slow just to hear the way his breath catches, and Garrett bites gently at her bottom lip in retaliation.
“Inside,” he mutters against her mouth.
“No.”
His brows pull together. “No?”
“We go inside, someone walks in.”
“We stay outside, someone walks out.”
“Then be quick.”
Garrett makes a sound like that suggestion has physically hurt him. “You’re killing me.”
“You’ll live.”
“Barely.”
“Good.”
He laughs, rough and gone, and his hand slides higher under her skirt. She shivers so hard he feels it. The cocky look on his face softens for half a second, not into anything sweet exactly, but something lower, warmer, more dangerous to her than smugness.
Then the sliding door opens.
“Ugh,” Tucker says from behind them. “Are you kidding?”
They freeze. Tucker is standing in the doorway in sweatpants and a hoodie, holding a bowl of cereal like a man who’s walked into war with Cheerios as his only weapon. His face isn’t shocked, it’s tired. Deeply, spiritually tired.
Garrett’s eyes shut. Her hand is still down his pants. Tucker looks at it.
She removes it very slowly, with as much dignity as a person can have while straddling a not-boyfriend on patio furniture.
“Tuck,” Garrett says, voice strangled.
Tucker points his spoon at them. “No.”
“Go away,” she says.
“This is a communal space.”
“It’s currently occupied.”
Tucker gestures with his spoon. “It’s the porch.”
“Then close your eyes on your way through.”
“I live here.”
“So do I,” Garrett snaps.
Tucker looks at Garrett’s lap, then at her skirt, then at Garrett’s neck, where the hickeys are now definitely visible in the firelight. His expression goes flatter. She reaches for the nearest cushion and throws it at him. Tucker dodges it with annoying ease.
“I’m just trying to eat cereal,” Tucker says.
“And I’m trying to get laid,” she fires back. “We all have dreams.”
Garrett makes a choked sound that might be a laugh and might be him giving up on life.
Tucker blinks at her. Then, because he’s Tucker, he actually considers this with more empathy than the situation deserves. “Yeah, okay. But maybe not where we keep the grill.”
“It’s off.”
“That is not the point.”
Garrett drags a hand over his face. “Can you just go inside?”
“I came outside because Logan fell asleep on the couch with a plate of nachos on his chest and Dean is trying to convince him it’s a weighted blanket.”
She stares. “I’m moving out of this house and I don’t even live here.”
Tucker nods once, like this is fair. “Valid.”
Garrett looks murderous. “Tuck.”
“I’m going.” Tucker lifts the cereal bowl in surrender. “I’m going. I’m just saying, there are other locations.”
“We tried the bathroom,” she says sweetly.
Tucker winces. “Right.”
“And the bedroom.”
“Also right.”
“And now, apparently, the porch is under federal protection.”
Tucker pauses at the doorway, thinking. Then he says, “Car?”
Garrett goes still. She turns her head toward him.
Tucker shrugs. “What? I’m problem-solving.”
The fourth time, Garrett parks at the back of the west lot behind the rink, under a dead light near the far fence where nobody has any reason to be unless they’re committing a crime, hiding a body, or making the sort of sexual decision that can only come after being interrupted three times by men with no respect for romance.
Garrett cuts the engine. The car settles into darkness. For a second, neither of them moves.
Then she starts laughing. It comes out half-hysterical, half-furious, her head tipping back against the passenger seat while Garrett sits behind the wheel with one hand still on the keys and the other over his mouth like he’s trying not to join her.
The rink’s dark behind them, the lot mostly empty, rain shining faintly on the blacktop. It smells like cold air and leather and the faint mint of the gum Garrett had been chewing before she leaned across the console at a red light and ruined it for him.
“This is insane,” she says.
Garrett looks at her. “We can go back.”
She stops laughing immediately. “Don’t be stupid.”
His mouth curves. “There she is.”
“I swear to God, Garrett, if you call me Kitty right now, I’ll leave.”
“No, you won’t.”
She glares at him.
He grins wider, because he’s very brave for a man one wrong word away from dying in his own car. “You’re too horny to leave.”
Her mouth drops open. “I’m too horny?”
“Yeah.”
“You dragged me to a parking lot like a criminal.”
“At Tucker’s suggestion.”
She gestures vaguely. “Which makes this worse.”
“You got in the car.”
“You said please.”
“I said please once.”
“You said it twice.”
His expression shifts, smile sharpening. “You counting?”
She unbuckles her seatbelt. “I’m about to start counting how many times you don’t make me come tonight.”
Garrett’s face changes so fast it’s almost worth the entire miserable evening. The grin drops. His eyes go darker, mouth parting around a breath he doesn’t quite take, and then his hand’s on her thigh, tugging. “Come here.”
She makes him wait three seconds purely because she can.
His jaw ticks. “Baby.”
“Oh, now you’re polite?”
“Now I’m desperate.”
That does something terrible to her stomach. She climbs over the console and knees him in the thigh, because his car isn’t designed for dignity and neither of them has any left anyway.
Garrett catches her with both hands around her waist, laughing into her mouth until she bites his lip and he groans, the sound low and immediate and so satisfying she almost forgets to be mad.
“Back seat,” he says.
“If you make me climb again–”
“I’ll do the work.”
“You better. Captain.”
His eyes flash at that, because she knows exactly what she’s doing, and he does too. He gets them into the back with slightly more athleticism than the situation deserves and significantly less grace. His shoulder hits the door. Her boot catches on the seatbelt. She laughs breathlessly and calls his car a hostile environment. He tells her she’s the hostile environment. She tells him he loves it. He doesn’t answer quickly enough.
That silence is loud. She looks at him in the dim.
Garrett looks back, his face close, one hand braced beside her head and the other on her waist, thumb slipped under the hem of her shirt. His hickey-dark throat moves when he swallows. There are faint red marks at the side of his neck where her nails had caught earlier, and the sight of them makes something low in her go hot and possessive.
“Don’t look so proud,” he mutters.
“I made those.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
She bites her lip. “They look good.”
“I look like I fought a raccoon.”
“A hot raccoon.”
Garrett stares at her. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“I’m under pressure.”
He laughs, and she kisses him before it can turn into another thing, because if they start bantering too long, something will explode. Possibly her. Possibly him. Possibly the car.
His mouth opens under hers, and suddenly all of it comes rushing back: his bedroom, the fire alarm, the bath, Dean’s scream, the porch, Tucker’s spoon, every almost, every ruined edge, every time she had been right there and yanked back by this stupid house and its stupid men and their stupid timing.
She pulls at his shirt. Garrett helps, yanking it over his head and tossing it somewhere near the front seat. Her hands are on him immediately, palms over his shoulders, down his chest, nails scraping just enough to make his breath catch.
“Careful,” he says, but it comes out weak.
She kisses beneath his jaw. “You keep saying that.”
“You keep not listening.”
“You keep liking it.”
His hand tightens on her thigh. “You’re gonna be impossible after this.”
“After what?”
He drops his forehead to hers, breathing hard. “After I finally fuck the attitude out of you.”
For once, she has no immediate comeback.
Garrett notices. His mouth curves, slow and devastating. “Oh?”
“Don’t look smug.”
“You got quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“No, you’re not.”
She kisses him hard enough to knock his head back against the seat. It turns rougher after that, hotter, both of them finally too impatient to make a performance out of pretending they’re not. Clothes get pushed aside instead of properly removed. Her hand slips between them, his fingers dig into her hips, the windows fogging at the edges while the cold presses black and distant outside.
Garrett keeps kissing her like the world might interrupt again if he lets go for even a second. She keeps marking whatever skin she can reach – his jaw, his throat, the hinge of his shoulder – because some ugly, honest part of her wants evidence. Wants him walking into that locker room tomorrow with her mouth on him whether he calls her his girl or not.
He hisses when her nails drag down his back. “Fuck, baby.”
She stills, looking at him through the dark. “Too much?”
His hands pause on her waist. It’s the first real pause of the night, the first careful thing either of them has done since he locked the bathroom door. His breathing is uneven, eyes searching her face.
“No,” he says, quieter. “Just– fuck.”
Her mouth softens before she can stop it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His thumb strokes once along her hip, almost absent. “You’re good.”
The tenderness of it is so rude she has to kiss him again. Garrett pulls her closer, and this time, when he shifts beneath her, when he guides her hips and she sinks down onto him at last, the sound that leaves both of them is wrecked enough to fog the whole car.
For a second, neither of them moves. She stays braced over him, forehead pressed to his, mouth open around a breath she can’t seem to finish. Garrett’s completely still underneath her, every muscle locked, hands gripping her like he’s afraid the universe is going to reach through the roof and drag her away.
“Oh,” she whispers, and then hates herself for how small it sounds.
Garrett’s eyes shut. “Yeah.”
“Garrett,” she whimpers.
“I know.” His voice is rough, almost unrecognisable. “I know, baby. Fuck, I know.”
She starts to move and his head tips back against the seat, throat exposed, all those marks dark against his skin. It makes her dizzy. Or maybe that’s him. The heat of him. The fullness. The way his hands guide her down into the rhythm like he’s been thinking about it all night because he has, because they both have, because every interrupted moment is suddenly living under her skin at once.
“Finally,” she breathes, half laugh, half moan. “Holy fuck.”
Garrett laughs too, but it breaks when she rolls her hips. “Yeah. Finally.”
“You feel–” She cuts herself off, nails digging into his shoulders.
He lifts his head, eyes dark and focused. “Say it.”
“No.”
“Brat.”
“Don’t call me–”
“Wasn’t gonna.” His mouth brushes hers. “Not this time.”
That lands somewhere stupid and soft in her chest, which is inconvenient, so she moves harder. Garrett groans, low and filthy, hands sliding down to grip her ass and pull her into him. The car rocks faintly.
Her palm slaps against the fogged window for balance, leaving a streak through the condensation. He kisses her neck, then her jaw, then her mouth, swallowing the sounds she doesn’t bother holding back anymore.
“God, I missed you,” he says, like it slips out before he can check it.
Her hips falter for half a beat. He looks up at her, breathing hard, hair messed by her hands, mouth swollen, hickeys blooming along his throat like a confession neither of them has to make out loud.
She swallows. “You saw me two hours ago.”
“Not like this.”
The answer moves through her like heat. She kisses him because she doesn’t know what else to do with it, and Garrett kisses her back with both hands pulling her down, his body meeting hers in this desperate, perfect rhythm that makes the whole night narrow to his mouth and his hands and the slick slide of them finally, finally getting what they want.
“Come on,” he murmurs against her lips, voice ragged. “That’s it. Take it.”
Her fingers twist in his hair. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
His laugh turns into a groan when she clenches around him. “You sure?”
“Garrett.”
“Yeah, baby.” His hand slides up her back, holding her close. “I’ve got you.”
She’s so close it’s almost mean. Her body tightens around it, breath breaking, forehead falling to his shoulder. Garrett’s hand presses at the base of her spine. His mouth is at her ear, saying things too low and filthy and soft to survive outside the car, and her nails rake down his back hard enough that he swears.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “There’s my girl.”
The words hang there between them, fogging up the windows, pressed into the leather, warm and reckless and absolutely not casual. Then she lifts her head, eyes narrowed even though her mouth is swollen and her breathing is ruined. “Your girl?”
Garrett stares at her.
She can feel him still inside her. Can feel the tremor in his hands where they hold her. Can see him deciding, right in front of her, whether to deflect or deny or be brave for once in his stupid life. His jaw shifts.
Then someone knocks on the window, three sharp taps. Everything in the car dies. Her whole body locks on top of him. Garrett’s eyes close like he’s been abandoned by God.
Through the fogged glass, a flashlight cuts white across the back seat. Another knock.
A muffled voice says, “Campus police.”
She drops her forehead onto his shoulder. Garrett’s hands are still on her hips. His breathing is still rough. The car is still hot and fogged and full of every terrible, unfinished thing between them.
For one long, awful second, there’s only the sound of rain dripping off the roof and the distant electrical buzz of the dead parking lot light.
Then she lifts her head just enough to look at him, hair falling around her face, cheeks flushed, mouth swollen, eyes wide with disbelief and the last remaining thread of her patience snapping clean in half.
Garrett swallows.
She whispers, very softly, “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
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the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
maybe something about sid accidentally finishing inside younger reader and then freaking out??
nsfw content below, some breeding stuff
The first time it happens, it’s an accident, an indulgence that slips past Sidney’s ironclad control because the moment feels too good, too raw to break. You’re beneath him, your knees hooked over his forearms as he folds you in half, thrusts hitting deep enough to drag whimpers out of your throat. The room smells like sweat and sex and the faint vanilla lotion you slathered on after your shower. Your nails score his shoulder blades, urging him deeper, and something cracks in him—decades of discipline fraying under the way you look up at him, pupils blown, mouth slack, pleading quietly, “Please don’t stop, daddy, please—”
He doesn’t. He chases it blindly, hips snapping with a force that rattles the headboard against the wall. You clamp down around him, tight as a fist, and he feels his resolve go molten. He’s supposed to pull out. He always pulls out. Condoms, pills, barriers, precautions stacked like sandbags against disaster, knows your cycles, keeps track more carefully than you do because he has to—because he’s the adult, the one with everything to lose. He whispers it every time, “Tell me when you’re close, baby… I’ve got to—” and you nod, promise, because you’re sweet and eager and want to be good for him.
But tonight you’re gone, pleasure-drunk, giggling breathlessly as you cup his face in your little hands and breathe, “Feels so good, Sidney, I love you,” and he breaks. He slams home, holds there, buries his face in your neck, and empties himself inside you with a guttural groan that vibrates through your whole body. It’s hot, flooding, spreading through you like molten honey, and you choke on a gasp, thighs trembling. He stays deep, grinding as if he can get further, his muscles locking, spine arched, every vein in his neck standing out. He hasn’t come inside anyone raw since before you were legal. The feeling is dizzying—silken walls milking him, no latex dulling the wet heat. He feels your pulse against him, feels your cunt flutter as you follow him over the edge, clinging and gasping his name.
Now his breath shudders. His pulse roars. He feels the reality of it in the way his cock throbs inside your tight channel, in the warm flood still pulsing out of him. He’s still inside you, softening slowly, and he knows he should pull out, knows he should reach for a towel, for anything, but he’s transfixed.
“Oh my god,” he mutters, voice ragged, forehead dropping to yours. “Baby, what did I just— fuck— what did we just do?”
You stare up at him, pupils blown wide, lips parted in that blissed-out smile he’s obsessed with. You’re flushed, skin glowing, hair wild across the pillow. You blink, hazy, a dreamy giggle bubbling up. “You came,” you say, stating the obvious like it’s the funniest thing in the world, your voice a breathy lilt. “Inside me. It was so warm.”
Your words punch the air from his lungs. He braces his hands on either side of your head, trying to steady himself. “Yeah. I did. I—” The panic shivers through him cold and sharp, cutting through the fading pleasure. You’re young and so damn fertile he’s seen you get flushed and needy just from ovulation. He shouldn’t have let himself slip. He’s the careful one.
He pulls out slowly, groaning as your walls cling to him, and both of you hiss at the wet stretch. The moment the tip leaves you, his cum spills out in a milky rush, pooling between your thighs, and that’s when he loses his composure. He can’t look away. The sight of his release dripping from your pink slit captivates him in a way that’s part terror, part savage hunger.
“Jesus,” he breathes, eyes locked on the slow roll of white sliding down to your ass. “Look at that.”
You lift your head, peering down your body, then flop back onto the pillow with a little squeal, covering your face with your hands. “It feels so weird,” you giggle, voice tinged with fascination. “Like… like it’s still throbbing?”
“That’s me,” he says hoarsely, fingers trembling as he spreads your folds to watch more of his cum seep out in thick, pearly strands. “That’s all me. God, baby.” He runs his thumb gently over your slick entrance, smearing his release across your swollen lips. You gasp, hips twitching, and he feels another pulse of lust kick despite the dread coiling in his gut.
He reaches for a towel, hesitates. He can’t bring himself to wipe it away yet. Instead he cups your pussy with his palm, pressing lightly to feel the warmth, the way you flutter against his hand. “We need to get Plan B,” he says, voice steady even though his mind is racing. “Right now. I don’t care that it’s midnight.”
You peek at him through your fingers, eyes glassy and soft. “Do we have to?”
“Yes.” The word is a command, firm, but tinged with something else—fear, protectiveness, self-reproach. “You know how easily— baby, your hormones are everywhere. I shouldn’t have—” He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his beard. “I got caught up. You make me crazy.”
You lower your hands, tracing the line of his jaw with gentle fingertips. “I liked it,” you whisper, the honesty in your voice gutting him. “Liked feeling you inside me like that. All warm. Felt like you were everywhere.”
His nostrils flare. The temptation to push back in, to plug you up with his cock and keep his cum inside you, surges hard enough to make him sway. Instead he breathes through it, reminding himself who he has to be for you. “Don’t tempt me,” he mutters, but his thumb is already rubbing slow circles around your clit, spreading his spend over your skin like he can’t help himself.
You moan, soft and floaty, your hips rolling. “Sidney…”
“Yeah, baby?” He can’t stop staring at your drenched slit, at the obscene glisten. He dips a finger inside, shallow, scooping up a mixture of you and him, and you whimper, lashes fluttering. He pulls his finger out and watches another line of cum follow, dripping onto the sheets, and he almost loses his mind. “You feel that?”
Your giggle turns into a sigh. “You’re obsessed.”
“With keeping you safe,” he says automatically, snapping back to his senses, though it comes out rougher than intended. He drags the sticky finger up to your mouth, strokes your lower lip. “Open.”
You obey, still dazed, and he slides his finger between your lips. You suck lazily, tasting the mix of both of you, and his cock twitches, half-hard again already.
He shakes himself, forces focus. “Stay right there. Don’t move. I’m gonna clean you up, then we’re hitting the pharmacy.”
You pout, the motion adorable and infuriating. “Can’t we stay like this for a minute? It feels… kinda nice.”
“Of course it does,” he growls, grabbing his phone from the nightstand to check the time. “That’s how nature tricks you. Your body’s like, ‘oh wow, this feels good, let’s make a baby.’ Yeah, no. Not tonight.”
You collapse into giggles, delirious. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Damn right I am.” He tosses the phone aside, leans down to kiss you, slow and deep, the taste of you and him still on your tongue. “I just creampied the most perfect girl on planet Earth. I’ve earned the right to be dramatic.”
You hum into the kiss. “You called it a creampie.” You sound delighted. “You’re so filthy.”
“I’m being clinical,” he lies, and slides off the bed, reluctantly stepping away from the enticing sight of your thighs slick with his cum. He grabs a clean towel, tosses it over his shoulder, then pauses to admire you one more time—sprawled on the sheets, hair fanned out, belly flushed, the open, trusting smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth.
He sits beside you again, raising your hips gently to slide a pillow under your lower back to stop gravity from doing too much damage while he wipes you. He knows it’s counterproductive, but part of him can’t stand the idea of his cum dripping onto the sheets instead of staying with you.
“Hold this,” he says, pressing the towel between your thighs, firm enough to catch the mess but gentle enough that you sigh instead of flinch.
You obey, pressing the towel tight, biting your lip, still dreamy. He strokes your hair back from your face, eyes soft despite the nerves jittering through him. “We’re gonna get dressed,” he says quietly. “We’ll get Plan B. Then I’ll tuck you back in, Okay?”
You nod, that same sparkling trust lighting your features. “Okay. Whatever you say.”
He kisses your forehead, then stands, gathering discarded clothes. He catches sight of the ruined condom still in the wrapper on the nightstand and swears under his breath. Lesson learned. Never again, he vows. No matter how sweet you moan, no matter how tight you clamp around him, no matter how badly his instincts scream to fill you up and watch it spill out. He’ll protect you, even from himself.
Still, as you sit up, towel slipping, another ribbon of cum sliding down your inner thigh, he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a second, battling the dark, possessive part of him that thrills at the sight. You look down, giggle, and swipe it with your fingers, bringing them to your mouth without thinking. He groans, half horrified, half aroused.
“We’re leaving,” he says, grabbing his keys. “Right now.”
You hop off the bed, still lost in the moment, still giggling, wrapping his oversized sweatshirt around your bare body. “I love you,” you sing, leaning up to kiss his cheek.
He swallows the panic, the hunger, the awe. “I love you too,” he whispers, guiding you toward the door, still half in shock at what he’s done even as he knows he’d do it again if you begged the right way.
Series Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.
Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x supe!Reader
Warnings: 18+ due to language and mature themes, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), a lot of time travel talk, set partially in 1942 and the present (alternate S3 ending), PTSD, Soldier Boy before Soldier Boy (aka no powers yet, plus meet his childhood home and parents), slight Beauty/Beast vibes, enemies to lovers, slow burn, smut, fluff, humor, angst
A/N: Been wanting to write about time travel again since this fun one-shot. Got the idea while writing Bad Reputation years ago but never got to it. Felt challenged again after rewatching the Community episode where Dean Pelton whines, "Time travel is really hard to write about." Welp, challenge accepted 😂🤍
Main Masterlist || Soldier Boy Masterlist || Tag List
Chapter 1: Of All the Gin Joints…
Chapter 2: Is This the 40s?
Chapter 3: I’m Going To Be a Lady If It Kills Me
Chapter 4: After All, Tomorrow Is Another Day
Chapter 5: We'll Always Have Paris
Chapter 6: I Don't Mind a Reasonable Amount of Trouble
Chapter 7: Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!
Chapter 8: Frankly, My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn
Chapter 9: As Time Goes By
Chapter 10: Here's Looking at You, Kid
Chapter 11: When You’re Slapped, You’ll Take It and Like It
Chapter 12: You’re Not Just a Man, You’re a Monument!
Chapter 13: It's Alive! It's Alive!
Chapter 14: I'm Going to Have a Lot of Drinks
Chapter 15: I May Be a Thief, but I Am Not a Cheat
Chapter 16: I Don’t Care What the Papers Say!
Chapter 17: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made of
Chapter 18: Love Means Never Having to Say You’re Sorry
Chapter 19: You’re Gonna Need a Bigger Boat
Chapter 20: What We’ve Got Here Is Failure to Communicate
Chapter 21: Round Up the Usual Suspects
Chapter 22: There’s No Place Like Home
Chapter 23: The World Is Not a Pleasant Place to Be…
Chapter 24 – …Without Someone to Love
Epilogue: Until It Ends, There Is No End
|| SERIES COMPLETE ||
One-Shots & Drabbles:
A Study in Emerald
Le Miracle de la Rue Grenelle
Headcanons, Imagines & Other:
💌 15 Questions about creating TAT
💌 Headcanon: Would Ben sacrifice himself for you in a worst case scenario?
I finished this whole series in one night even though I promised myself I would take my sweet time and savour it because from the first interaction between Ben and the reader I knew that this story is IT. But I couldn't put my damn phone down.
This is amazing. Like I have no fucking words. The way every interaction was so intentional, the way you dived into every miniscule detail that connected '42 to the present. Take a bow author I'm so in awe. I was genuinely in tears towards the end because I was so scared that they wouldn't get their happy ending, but hey I should've had more faith in them right? They rewrote their timeline, they passed through time and space to find their way back to each other, what's a little supe like Homelander gonna do? I can't wait you read all the other stuff you've got (I genuinely did a happy dance when I looked at your master list and saw more soldier boy series!!!!)
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
having your own money is fucking dangerous because the only person stopping me from buying whatever I want is myself. and myself has bad judgment sometimes
baratheonpilled
stormborns
jacobvanloon
yousharknotpass
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