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lydiimae · 2 months

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Infatuation

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

MDI!! 18+

Part 2 <3

Warnings: Heavy drinking, mentions of opium use, mentions of prostitution, rough sex, fingering, oral sex, semi-public sex, squirting, marking, thigh riding, vaginal sex, dom benedict and sub reader, brief spanking, possessive benedict, LOTS of dirty talk

A.N: hi again, i'm back on my bullshit <3 first of all, thank you so very much for the love on my first Benny fic AND my first fic ever. liiiiike seriously, that was so sweet <3 T-T. anyway, this fic is another Benny fic- a smutty one at that. it is vaguely based off of the infamous party where Ben has his threesome, however, i changed it up quite a bit so take it at face value hehe. i am planning on making an Anthony one next, probably some more filth so I can practice getting my wording to a place i am proud of. also, i think i will maybe make this into a series??? so do let me know if you like it so i can get an idea >.< enjoy, ily, and THANK YOU AGAIN <3 ^-^

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You were never one to go to parties, especially the ones your dear friend Genevieve Delacroix invited you to. She had a knack for finding the most raunchy, wanton, artists who would throw parties full of courtesans, sex, opium, alcohol... the whole of it.

Being a maid for such a wealthy and well-known family, the Featherington's to be exact, meant you knew the secret lives that many lords and ladies lead outside of the stuffy confines of the ballrooms.

You were lucky to be the lady's maid of the sweetest Featherington, Penelope, and therefore you were even luckier to hear about the Bridgerton family. From what she told you, they were all kind and polite, just like anyone else. She had also hinted, quite shyly, to the men of the family being gorgeous. The third born being her favorite.

You had seen glimpses of pearly white teeth, dark blue tailcoats, and their chestnut brown hair but were never lucky enough to see a full image of any of them but Eloise and her sister, Daphne.

When Genevieve insisted on you tagging along with her and a friend from a higher-up place, you begrudgingly accepted. It was lucky that the young debutante you worked for insisted on having something important to do, so you snuck out and walked through the streets of London to the modiest's shop.

Genevieve dressed you in a tight but, incredibly beautiful, dark blue corset and a pair of black pants, to which you raised an eyebrow. "I look as if I am soliciting, not as if I am curious about this party you have been nagging me to go to." You comment, looking in the mirror.

"What if you solicit, hm? Where is the harm in spending a night with a lord or even another servant?" She returns, tightening up the laces on the corset before stepping back and looking over her work. "Besides, look at yourself. You have a body that would make any one of those silly debutantes jealous, why not show it?" She grins.

You sigh and turn to her, a small cheeky smile on your face as a result of her teasing. "You owe me for this, Viv." You tease and she laughs, putting on her cloak as she hands you your own. "There she is. The Y/N I know. We will have fun, I swear it." She says. Once your cloak is tugged over your shoulders, the both of you make your way out of the shop and towards the house where the party is being held.

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Benedict never snuck out, not before he got invited to Lord Granville's house. The man was nice enough about him completely insulting his art to his face, nice enough to recognize an artistic eye and even the hint of talent that Benedict possessed through merely speaking about art. He thought the gathering was going to be one where he would meet artists and practice his craft. He was wrong.

Of course, he was experienced in the world of sex, drugs, and drinking. He attended the gentleman's club with his brothers after almost every ball he attended, much like every other lord in the ton. He has shared his number of passion-filled nights with nameless women, some of which he cannot remember. The only remenice being the ache of a hangover, and the taste of expensive whiskey still lingering on his tongue.

He would have never thought that the artist had such a scene hiding behind such an unassuming townhouse.

He followed the artist in and was met with quite the scene. The room was hazy with the smoke of expensive cigars, the candlelight casting a low gold hue on the entire house. He followed the artist deeper and was met with courtesans soliciting men at every turn, to which he grinned.

Even further and he was led into a room where women were posed naked, in quite compromising positions, for eager artists who were trying to master the anatomy of a naked woman. Or so that is what Granville claimed.

He grins crookedly at the sight. "Quite the room, is it not?" Lord Granville piques up from behind him. He turns to face the man and nods. "Quite. Might I stay here? I have found myself needing practice of anatomy as of late and this is the perfect place to do so." He says, a playful glint in his eye.

Granville, of course, picks up on it and nods. "Of course, Lord Bridgerton. Do enjoy yourself." He returns with a knowing smile and a wink before exiting the room. Benedict sits at one of the free easles, one of the other men lighting a cigar and offering it to him. He accepts, and puffs on it as he begins to work.

He could get used to this.

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Genevieve leads you through the party, grabbing two glasses of what looks like scotch off of a passing servant's tray. She settles for meeting her friend, who you quickly learn is the wife of said artist who is throwing the party, on the stairs.

After a while of chatting you learn that the young woman's name is Lucy and her husband is Henry Granville, an artist whose work you always found interesting. You also are clued into the fact that their marriage is one of convenience, rather than love, as Lord Granville has no romantic nor sexual interest towards the opposite sex. You find no issue in what the young couple has, after all, you have seen much worse when it comes to marriages in the ton.

"Viv, might I go explore, or am I to only solicit?" You tease as you push off the wall. She laughs and shakes her head. "I am not your keeper, Y/N. Go and do as you wish, just be careful." She says, a hint of genuine protectiveness seeping through her tone of voice. "I promise. I will find my way back to your shop if anything goes awry." You assure before walking down the steps with a quick wave to both of the women.

You duck into a small room with a door that leads to a balcony after grabbing another glass of scotch from a passing servant. However fun it is coming to these things with Viv, you find them quite overwhelming. You are more attuned to the quietness of your servant's quarters, spending countless hours curled up with a good book that your young mistress so generously gifts you from time to time.

You walk out on the balcony, leaning heavily on the metal railing as you look up at the stars. The scotch, and the fact that you get much drunker much quicker than most, is making a delightfully warm feeling bloom in your chest. You take a deep breath of the fresh air to calm your senses before ducking back into the party.

You make it all of two steps before colliding into a broad chest, which sends your alcohol down the front of your torso.

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He was in that hazy, alcohol-filled room, long enough to get just drunk enough to where he was clumsy. He catches the woman he so foolishly clambered into on his way out of the room he was painting in by the waist, which sends her drink out of her hand and down her front.

"My God, I am so incredibly sorry my lady." He rushes, gazing down at the mess he made. His eyes widen at the sight that lies in front of him.

She's a young woman, young enough that she can not be past the age of two and twenty, in a very revealing corset top and black pants. Her hair is tucked up elegantly, yet a few unruly waves have fallen as a result of the night's activities. Her cheeks are pink, probably from the embarrassment or perhaps even the anger, of getting drenched in scotch.

The liquid drips down her neck, and he follows a drop from her neck to where it travels right between her breasts. The tops are peaking out from being hugged so tight. They are full, so very full. He wonders what it would feel like to run his tongue over the smooth skin, what it would feel like to roll her nipple between his teeth and suck.

He shakes himself out of it and meets her eyes once more before he gets any more aroused than he already is.

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You recognize him immediately as a Bridgerton, though you have no idea which one. He has a silly crooked smile on his face that you cannot seem to draw your eyes from, he also sports the undoubtedly Bridgerton chestnut brown hair.

He has longer hair than the one Penelope speaks of, but only just. Your eyes roam from his face to his chest, where he is wearing only a loose undershirt, his waistcoat long forgotten in drunken activities you're sure. His suspenders hang loose on his shoulders, just barely hanging onto his black trousers.

"You're a Bridgerton." It slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, the effects of three glasses of scotch. He grins wider, chuckling a bit. The noise makes your entire body heat up. "I am. Benedict Bridgerton in fact." He says, his eyes never straying from yours.

"And you are?" He ponders after a moment of silence from you. You jump at the question, having been too distracted by the look of his lips to even notice he was speaking. You clear your throat and adjust your posture. "Y/N L/N." You answer shyly.

"Well, Y/N L/N, can I take you to a room and clean up the mess I made of your top, or is that entirely too forward for a gentleman to ask within mere moments of meeting?" He grins, the alcohol he consumed only ebbing on his already large confidence when it comes to women. You only nod shyly, afraid that if you speak you will make a stuttering fool of yourself.

He offers an arm, which you take happily, and begins to lead you through the party.

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He pulls you into a room and, almost immediately, his hands encompass your waist. "You... are the most stunning woman I have ever had the pleasure of looking at." He murmurs, sending your heart soaring. You rest your hand on his chest, newly emboldened by the liquid courage you have been sipping on the entire night, returning his cheeky smile. "Is it too forward for a lady to say the same within mere moments of meeting?" You return.

He lets out a chuckle when you parrot his past words and he leans down. "A witty woman as well as a beautiful one, what else do you have up your sleeve Miss L/N?" He purrs, running a flattened hand up your back until it meets your hair. He tugs it down from its pins, sending it tumbling over your shoulders.

"Perhaps, if you are lucky Mister Bridgerton, I shall show you." You whisper, leaning in so your lips are but a hair's width away from his. Something dangerous and incredibly intoxicating passes over his features as he lets out a noise, a growl, that causes your core to dampen.

"You are a very forward woman, Y/N. I find it quite... infatuating to say the very least." He whispers before capturing your lips. You close your eyes and tangle one of your hands in his thick hair, the other finding his collar and giving it a slight tug.

He groans into your mouth, his hands enveloping your bum cheeks and pulling you even closer. He wants to feel the rise and fall of your breasts as he makes you pant. And by god does he.

You moan into his mouth as his hands squeeze the soft skin of your ass through your trousers, which gives him the perfect chance to slip his tongue into your mouth. He tastes smoky, like cigars and whiskey. It makes your clit throb painfully.

As if reading your mind, and body, he spreads your legs with his knee and slides his leg between them. His thigh presses against your closed cunt and you gasp, breaking the kiss to throw your head back. He smirks and holds you right where you are by moving his hands to your hips.

"So sensitive." He whispers and groans as you begin to move your hips back and forth against his thigh, chasing the feeling it gives you. "Fuck, you are just full of surprises aren't you darling? I did not even have to tell you what to do, you just did it," He praises, his eyes locked on the place where your clothed core meets his leg.

"Riding my thigh like a bitch in heat. I might have to keep you." He gusts over your shoulder as he begins to kiss the exposed skin there. Oh God, how you would love that. To be able to fuck him whenever you saw fit, yes please Mister Bridgerton. "Please." Is all you manage to strangle out as you begin to grind down on him harder.

He bites down on your shoulder, leaving a bright red mark there, which he smirks at before he slowly guides you to the dark red chaise that lies in the corner of the room. He lays you back, slowly unlacing your corset with his slender fingers. He throws it across the room when it is off, his mouth immediately taking in one of your hardened nipples.

You cry out when he sucks, watching him look up at you with a shit-eating grin that makes your cunt even more soaked than it already is. He sucks and bites your bud before turning his attention to the other, giving it just as much attention. "The least I can do is clean up the mess I made." He whispers over your nipple, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure straight down to your core. Cocky bastard, you think to yourself as you grip his hair.

You are a whimpering, moaning mess by the time his face returns over yours. He presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to your lips before sitting up and stripping himself of his suspenders and his shirt before returning his attention to you. He takes off your shoes and then unbuttons your trousers, slowly sliding them down your legs.

He groans lewdly at the sight. Genevieve had insisted quite heavily when she was dressing you up that you forgo panties. She said it made trousers more comfortable, less tight, so of course you agreed. You decide tonight, that if wearing no underwear will illicit that pretty noise from his lips, you will never wear them again.

"God you are soaked. Drenched from riding my thigh and a quick suck to your nipples." He whispers as he kisses the insides of your thighs. You whine and buck your hips up toward his face, which results in him quickly grabbing your hips with one of his hands and pressing you down into the cushion so you are unable to buck and writhe. "Perhaps I was right in my assessment of you, Miss Y/N. You really are just a bitch in heat. So desperate to be full of my cock, painted with my seed." He murmurs before licking a stripe up your slit.

You cry out and grip his hair with both hands, needing something to ground yourself as his tongue swirls around your clit. He lets out a growl at the taste of your dripping cunt, so sweet and yet so tart. Utter perfection. The noise you make in return has him wishing he could drink from your body for the rest of his days, die with you sat atop his face. Riding his mouth to oblivion.

He moves his hand down to his trousers, fumbling with the buttons to free his aching cock. He slides two fingers into your body without warning and you keen, your eyes rolling back as he collects your juices. He pulls his fingers out just as quick as they went in, and spreads your wetness on his length, stroking himself hard as he drinks from you.

"Ben... oh fuck.... so close." You babble as his tongue presses inside your hole, drawing the most heavenly noises from your body. He pulls away just as you start to see stars and you grasp at his hands, tears forming in your eyes from your denied release. "Please... Please..." You sob, desperate for the feeling to come back.

He chuckles deeply, hooking your knees over his shoulders. "I've got you, love." He assures, kissing away your tears before pulling back with a cocky grin that sends your heart fluttering. "You look like a masterpiece, crying for my cock. All flushed and swollen." He murmurs. You do not know if he is talking about you or your pussy, but you never wish for him to stop.

"Please, my lord. Please, please... I need you. I need..." You babble, completely free of any thought other than his pretty dick plunging inside of you. He curses and bends down, claiming your lips with his before thrusting into you without warning. He bottoms out, and both of you moan, the kiss becoming a mess of tongue and tooth alike.

He begins at a brutal pace, slamming into you so hard that the chaise creeks against the hardwood floor. You scream at the heavenly feeling of pain and pleasure, the sound muffled over his lips. Sweat splashes from his collarbone to yours as the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, the sickly sweet smell of sex enveloping your senses.

He grunts and breaks the kiss, holding one of your legs by the calf, his other hand cupping your jaw. Your mouth falls open as soon as his lips are gone, a loud moan coming from somewhere deep within slipping out before you can try and stop it. He grunts and sticks his thumb past your lips, afraid that someone will hear from outside the thin walls.

You happily oblige and close your lips around his digit, swirling your tongue around him to the rhythm of his thrusts. He moans at the sight of you sucking on his thumb like it's a cock, as his cock slams into your pretty pussy. "Fuck. I am keeping you. You are mine," He accentuates the word with a slap to your ass cheek, causing you to cry out over his finger and clench down on his cock. "Forever. No one else will ever-fuck.-be able to fill this sweet hole of yours. It is all mine. You are all mine." He grunts as his thrusts become sloppy.

He yanks his thumb from your mouth and attacks your swollen, throbbing, clit. He rubs it hard and fast, to match the rhythm of his thrusts and you cry out. He quickly intuits that you are as close to climax as he is and bends down, covering your lips with his own so that you can scream freely.

You do as he expected, letting out a long scream into his mouth as stars rush over your vision and your body burns hot. Your juices soak both his pant-covered leg and the velvety fabric of the chaise below. The feeling of your fluttering cunt tightening even further sends him over and he releases deep inside you before he goes limp over your body.

He pushes himself up after a moment, relishing in the sight below him. Your cheeks are flushed, lips swollen and bruised. You have a bite mark on your shoulder, your hair surrounding your head like a messy halo. Perfection. A ruined, beautiful, masterpiece made solely by him.

He brushes the hair out of your face and presses a sweet kiss to your brow. "Might I be privy to those many secrets you were so keen on hiding, Miss L/N?" He teases softly, grabbing a handkerchief from his pocket and beginning to clean the mess of mixed juices on your thighs.

You giggle. "The next time we meet, I promise to tell at least one." You return, your heart fluttering at the way he so delicately slides your trousers back over your legs after cleaning you up. He grins as he buttons them up, his hands encompassing your waist to pull you up to a sitting position.

You use the opportunity to wrap your arms around his neck, and it is his turn to laugh. "Next time, then. I will wait with held breath until then, I assure you." He whispers, helping you into your corset. "But for now, I owe you a lovely night, hm?" He murmurs as he pulls the laces of your corset tight. You sigh and nod. "I would like that very much." You whisper back, resting your head on his shoulder.

He smiles cheekily, "Is it entirely too forward for a gentleman to say he would like to do this every night from now on, mere hours after meeting?" He whispers in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

No, Mister Bridgerton, it is not.

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strangersmunsons · 1 year

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alien life form

you spend the night at Eddie's for the first time.

Contains: Eddie x Reader, shy!fem!reader, first relationship, Eddie is a sweetheart with the inexperienced girlies because I said so, pizza, movies, cuddling, ALF. No mention of reader's physical appearance, no use of y/n. Warnings: None! Word Count: 1,400-ish I started writing this because I've not seen like anyone talk about the ALF costume in the Munson trailer, can we please talk about the ALF costume? I need to talk about the ALF costume. this is my first fanfiction in like 10 years that's how badly i needed to address this

You and Eddie haven't been together very long. Officially, that is.

In truth, he'd been yours from the moment he saw you. But it had taken some time to work up the courage to actually say hello to you, and then, well, some more time to ask you if you wanted to study together for the class you shared, and then just a little bit more time to ask you, bashfully, if you wanted to get dinner with him at Benny's.

"Like...as a date? If you want to, I mean. If not that's totally fine, I underst-"

You'd cut him off with an equally shy, but emphatic, yes.

Eddie was sweet, and silly, and you grew to hate being apart from him. You suspected he felt the same.

You walked side by side through the halls at school, your knuckles brushing against his, both of you hoping that the other would be brave enough to finally take hold. You spent nights huddled around your kitchen table, patiently guiding him through chapters of his biology textbook. There were arcade dates where he kicked your ass at Pac-Man and you kicked his ass at Centipede. You met him for milkshakes at Benny's after Hellfire...and there was that one rollerskating venture that left his elbows and knees black and blue for a week. (You have not been back to the roller rink since.)

But tonight you were entering uncharted territory.

You told your parents that you were having a girls night at the Wheelers' house. As far as they knew, you were ordering takeout and watching Sixteen Candles with Nancy and Robin. But when you arrived at the school parking lot that morning, it had been Eddie's van that you tossed your overnight bag into.

He'd greeted and kissed you enthusiastically, cheerful at the prospect of getting to spend an entire night with you uninterrupted. Wayne wouldn't be home from work til next morning and your parents were none the wiser. No curfew to be home by, no keep-that-door-open-three-inches-please-young-lady, just you. All to himself.

You, on the other hand, were nervous. You'd never dated anyone before, and you wanted to take things slow. You trusted Eddie to respect your boundaries, but a small part of you couldn't help but worry. What if he was expecting something of you that you weren't ready to give him?

When school ended that afternoon, he opened the passenger door of his van for you to climb in. "Change your mind yet?" he teased.

You flushed a little, but you were determined not to let your hesitation show. "Nope!"

He seated himself and began the drive to Forest Hills, throwing glances your way the whole time. You were quieter than usual. When you slowed to a stop in front of the Munson trailer, he turned to you.

"Hey," he said gently, "it's okay." He reached over and placed a calloused hand on your knee. "I can tell that you're nervous, but you don't have to be. I'm not gonna pressure you into anything. I'm just really excited to spend time with you." He cringed inwardly. Be cool, Munson. "I mean, without having Wayne or your dad breathing down my neck, y'know?" No need to mention that the thought of merely sleeping next to you was making him weak at the knees.

Your lips curved upwards in a smile. He wondered if you could see right through him.

Of course, Eddie stayed true to his word.

Amusingly, the evening he had planned wasn't all that different from many of your actual girls' nights. You'd talked and laughed about anything and everything. You'd changed into comfortable clothes. There was pizza and a movie, except you'd watched The Shining instead of the latest John Hughes flick, and you'd watched it while bundled up in your favorite boy's arms.

Eddie was very warm, and his skin smelled like soap, laced with a bite of cheap cologne. An air of tobacco still clung faintly to his worn Hellfire shirt, even though he'd promised himself he wouldn't smoke any cigarettes before seeing you tonight, and he hadn't. And he was very proud of himself for that, thank you very much.

You were cuddled up together on Wayne's little couch. He kept his arms wrapped around your middle and rested his chin on your shoulder, cheek pressed against yours. Every so often he would turn his head to give you soft kisses, to hide his face in your hair, to breathe you in, content like he's never, ever been before.

You wondered at your earlier fear. His adoration was tangible. As you settled back against him, you felt that yours must be too.

As Jack Nicholson wandered through a snowy maze on the television screen, you started to drift off. Eddie lovingly stroked your hair while your eyelids grew heavier and heavier. When the credits started to roll, he roused you as gently as he could, and lead you to the bathroom to wash up. He all but carried you to his bed.

Which is how you ended up here.

Eddie's asleep and he's sleeping heavily - deep, REM sleep, with his cheek mashed into the pillow and a thin stream of saliva creeping out of his mouth. Even like this, he looks precious. You can't even be mad at him for letting out the guttural snore that just yanked you from your own slumber. Aren't you only supposed to snore like that when you're on your back?

You glance blearily around the room from underneath his arm. You're taking in the posters on the walls, the piled-up trinkets, his beloved guitar ("I used to call her Sweetheart, but not anymore. Since I'm a one-woman man an' all," he'd said, flashing you a cheesy grin). You're taking in all these little pieces of Eddie scattered around the room, when your eyes wander to his closet, and your heart nearly stops.

Maybe it's nothing, maybe it's your tired brain swirling the shadows around the room into shapes that aren't there, but you're almost positive someone is standing in Eddie's closet. A misshapen, vaguely human figure pushed up against his clothing, right next to the ratty Metallica and Megadeth t-shirts.

There's a beat of silence, and then -

"Eddie!" it comes out in a dry whisper, and you struggle to turn under the the combined weight of him and the blanket. You wrench your arm free to poke him frantically in the cheek with your finger, startling him awake.

"Huh?" His voice is groggy. "S'mthing wrong, sweetheart? What's the matter?" He forces himself to sit up and squints, peering down at you in concern. He cups your face in his hand. "Bad dream?"

"There's something - I mean, I think - there's somebody, s-something in your closet! W-what is that?" You stumble through the sentence, too frightened to be embarrassed.

Eddie turns his head to where you're pointing, unsure. He drags himself away from you and walks to his closet, fumbling blindly for the little chain, while you clutch at the blanket and cower from the safety of his bed.

When the light switches on, he lets out a loud laugh - the only kind of laugh Eddie has. He turns back to you, grinning now, and gestures to the object in question with a little flourish of his arms. "This what you were looking at?"

In the dim light, you can see that it's a costume. A fuzzy, zip-up body suit with a shapeless sort of mask hanging limply over the front. You flood with relief, feeling silly.

You sit up in bed, eyeing the brown fur at the top. "Is that supposed to be a lion?"

"No!" He almost sounds offended. "It's ALF," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

You look at him dumbly. "ALF? Like from the TV show, ALF?"

"Of course. It's my Halloween costume."

"...why?"

"I like him. He's funny."

You gawp at him, and he looks right back at you. His eyes are red and puffy, his hair's a total mess, but he's smiling lightly and sweetly as ever.

A few seconds go by and you can't help it. A burst of giggles escape from behind your pursed lips.

Eddie cocks his head to the side, and places a hand on his hip, his expression that of mock-outrage.

"Now, just why is that so funny?"

You continue to laugh, positively overwhelmed with affection for him. It occurs to you that maybe you don't want to take things as slowly with Eddie as you previously thought...

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x shy!reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson drabble

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pullhisteeth · 7 months

Text

worry lines | eddie munson

requested here -`♡´- your ex turns up and Eddie gets jealous. idiots in love! 4.7k

cw !!! for a borderline abusive (ex-)boyfriend. 18+ please and thank you x

contains hurt/comfort, fluff, jealous!Eddie, fem!reader, conflict, shitty ex-boyfriend. everyone’s in their early 20s

He was cruel, Eddie knows that much. Cruel enough that it took weeks and lots of gentle handling to coax it out of you.

You were a shell of yourself until you weren’t. Eddie doesn’t know the details, because who would he be to make you relive it if you didn’t want to? But he knows enough to sear a tar-black scorch mark in his gut, a branding, a fury reserved only for him.

And he’s perhaps a little oblivious to it, but Eddie’s patience never went unnoticed by you. The two of you might be like parallel lines - apparently doomed to just miss one another forever - but you’re still filled to the brim with giddy love for him. The fact he stuck around through it all only adds fuel to the fire. Something unruly burns behind your eyes every time you think about him.

“What about this one?”

You hold up a record and show him the front while you peer at the back. Eddie looks up from the stack he’s been flipping through for the past three minutes.

“Garbage,” he mutters, eyes back on his busy fingers.

“What?!” you exclaim, mouth wide and attempting to hide a grin. You’re fighting him for fun, really; you’re already putting the record back where you found it. “It came out, like, a month ago! How’ve you heard it already?”

“Gareth’s mom got it for him for his birthday,” he tells you without looking at you, side stepping only slightly to move onto the next box of albums. He’s close enough now that you could lean over and bump his shoulder with your own. You don’t.

You sigh, though it’s bright with amusement. You go back to your own shelf, eyeing up the scarce new releases stock that Trax only manages to update every few months.

“No shit,” you whisper, grabbing with greedy hands at the record you’ve spotted. You catch Eddie’s attention, his own hands stopping as he looks over. “I’ve been looking for this everywhere!”

He smiles, not because he likes the album - it’s The Cure, and they’re far too British, even for him - but because he likes your smile. Sometimes you make a face, with your mouth twisted to the right, because you’re holding it back. You told him once that you don’t like your smile very much, that it’s too wide, too toothy. He couldn’t disagree more, and when he catches you in these moments, the ones just before you realise you’re grinning and close your mouth, he cherishes it.

“You want it?” he asks, tone nothing but genuine.

“Fuck off, Eds,” you say anyway, still smiling. He’s lapping it up. “I can buy it myself now, don’t need your filthy drug money.”

He elbows you softly with an expression of faux offence. “Hey, y’didn’t mind my filthy money all those times it got you food at Benny’s.”

This makes you giggle, and Eddie is on cloud nine.

You tear your eyes away from the cover to meet his and he damn near keels over; it’s like a mallet on his temple, a slap across the cheek. He could look at your eyes forever and it’d never not hurt.

“Can I buy you one?” you ask him, adding “please?” when he gives you a look like he’s about to tell you no.

“Absolutely not,” he says, still grinning.

“But you’ve bought me so many!” You’re closer now, toe to toe with him, beaming back at him and gripping the record between clenched fingers. “I make my own money now. Consider it me payin’ you back, or at least starting to.”

“You don’t have to pay me back,” he mutters, “I like buyin’ you records. At least it meant you listened to somethin’ other than this shit.” He bumps the bottom of the cardboard sleeve with his fist.

“Hey,” you bite, pulling it out of his reach. “I like The Cure.”

“I know y’do, that’s the problem.”

You look at him for a beat, one so brief he only just gets a chance to take in your pensive face - adorable - before you scrunch your eyes and stick your tongue out at him.

“Suit yourself,” you say, turning on your heels and marching down the aisle, heading for the cash register.

He watches you cross the store, the way your walk shifts from comical to confident. This walk is familiar to him; it’s your I’m-nervous-because-I’m-in-public walk.

His eyes are still on you when you take your change from the girl behind the desk. He watches you pocket it, and catches your self-satisfied smile as you turn. And then he watches as it falters, and your face drains of colour, and he feels himself walking over to you before he has time to think about it.

You’re looking at the door, where the bell’s just chimed, and the bottom of your stomach’s fallen away. Heart in your throat, you stare blankly at the man who just walked in.

“Oh, hey,” he says, though he may as well be on the other side of the glass for the way he sounds so distant. He shakes snow off his hair and you feel the ghost of it between your fingers. “Fancy seein’ you here.”

You feel Eddie before you can muster up a response. He stands behind you, just close enough that, if you wanted to, you could reach behind and take his hand.

“Hey,” he says lowly, just by your ear, words for you alone. “Who’s this?”

There’s something simmering in his voice, something defensive. He knows.

“Uh, hi,” you squeak, fingers clutching the plastic bag you’re holding to keep them from shaking. “Hi- uh, Eds, this is, uh-”

“Tom,” the man says, sticking a gloved hand out to Eddie. You feel him shift slowly behind you; his eyes move between the back of your head and the man in front of you a few times before he returns the gesture.

He’s handsome, Eddie thinks. Better looking than he is, anyway. Cleaner, softer; none of the hard edges Eddie harbours that he doesn’t know you think are soft as anything.

“We used to go out,” you say quickly, before Tom tries to explain it himself and makes you feel smaller than you already do. You hope Eddie gets the hint.

He does. The burning in his gut flares and his hands clench into fists without him meaning them to.

“Eddie,” he states, sharp and blunt.

“We were just, uh- We’re headed out,” you say, and the way you’ve come over all nervous and quiet is almost enough to make Eddie’s heart split right down the middle. He hovers a hand over the small of your back and steps around you, around Tom, until you follow him.

“Well, see you around,” he says as the bell chimes again and Eddie damn near pulls you out into the snow.

The cold, damp flakes that land on your flushed cheeks are a sweet relief. So are Eddie’s hands, which wrap around yours to take the bag from you. He doesn’t miss how they shake.

“Fuck,” you breathe. The air escapes your lungs and doesn’t return for a second, long enough that you have to think to inhale. Eddie looks you over, desperate to pat you, fawn over you, kiss the snowflake off the bridge of your nose.

He opts for something safer. “You alright?”

The busy Indianapolis sidewalk doesn’t allow for too much fussing, and you’re quietly grateful for the bustling Saturday afternoon crowd pushing the two of you along and away from Trax.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, breathless again, trudging through stomped-over snow. “Just took me by surprise.”

“Yeah, no shit. When’d you last see him?”

“When I picked up my stuff from his place.”

“Shit.”

You walk aimlessly around the corner, until Eddie begins to lead the way. Wordlessly you follow him for six blocks, and think to yourself that maybe he’s getting you as far away as he can.

He knows a coffee place, apparently, one so much better than any of the ones around Trax that you know are just as good. He ushers you into the warmth and buys three pastries - one each and one to share - and you eat until you’re not thinking about Tom anymore.

Robin sidles into the booth beside you, the familiar shape of her slotting into your side without care. She nudges her hip into yours, a wordless signal for you to move around and make more space.

The six of you squeeze around the tiny table as Eddie and Steve place drinks down across it. Pints of beer, far too big glasses of wine and six sickly coloured shots decorate it and all of a sudden you’re counting to five and banging a tiny glass on the varnished wood.

It tastes of sour apple and coats your lips with a shiny, sugary lacquer. Eddie sits opposite you harbouring a fiery urge to lean over and kiss you clean.

You grin at him, missing the flicker of affection in his tipsy eyes, and lean into Robin, who takes a swig from one of the pint glasses.

“Rob!” Steve shouts, reaching over and grasping at the glass. “You asshole, that’s mine-”

“What’s yours is mine, dingus,” she slurs, her dopey smile met not by something frosty but by Steve’s own grin. The tenderness inside your stomach is just as sickly as the shot; you’re drunk on sugary liquor and an unbridled love for your friends.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The bickering stops as Eddie raises his glass from the table.

“A toast,” he says, “to the newly-weds.”

You grasp your own pint and raise it too, along with everyone else, as Nancy and Jonathan beam back at you. They’re the picture of happiness, her rosy cheeks blooming from joy and champagne, his smile so wide you’re scared he might split in two. Nancy’s so pretty in a simple, short dress, Mrs Wheeler’s pearls around her neck, and Jonathan looks so smart in his suit, fresh from the dry cleaners courtesy of Joyce. A long day of family celebrations ends here, in this bar on the east end of Indianapolis, four walls that have seen the six of you grow up and into yourselves.

Nancy and Jonathan thank everybody, and Steve disappears without a single one of you noticing, reappearing with a new round of shots. Robin takes your hand in hers and squeezes, which tells you that she’s putting off crying. You’ve already covered the shoulder of her new shirt in tears. Happy tears.

If some benevolent force happened to be looking down and caught a glimpse of your happy little table, they’d find that your mind and Eddie’s look very much alike right now. Dizzy daydreams of a future neither of you are confident in, that neither of you think the other would ever even dare to consider.

The distant call of your name pulls you up off Robin’s shoulder. You hear it again, and the voice it’s called in sends your blood running cold. Regardless it beckons you and you turn to look, seeing him approaching like a fucking stalking lion.

“Oh,” you breathe, “hi.”

His unwelcome hands spread over the back of the booth, his fingers brushing the back of your neck. You bristle.

He grins down at you and then looks up and around at everybody else. “Hey, guys. I guess these are your friends?”

All you can do is look up at him. Eddie can see you recoiling and his stomach churns.

“Oh, hi again,” Tom says, spotting Eddie. This is your nightmare situation, frankly, and you’re afraid of where Tom might take it.

“Hey, man,” Steve says. His words are lopsided because he’s three pints and four shots in and too giddy to recognise this for what it is.

“Steve, right?” Tom asks. His knuckles whiten as he grips harder.

“Mm-hm,” Steve hums, leaning just enough to the left that Eddie has to push him upright. In the brief moment he’s preoccupied with his untrustworthy friend, he doesn’t see the way Tom dips his head to meet yours, or the attempt at a kiss on the cheek that you dodge, or even the quick words whispered in your ear. He does see you flush, your face, already warmed by wine, becoming even brighter. Before he can ask what’s happening, Robin’s scooting out to let you stand, and Tom’s hand’s on your waist and you’re off to the bar together.

Nancy shifts uncomfortably beside Jonathan, her hands on the table. “Is that…”

“Yeah,” Eddie says.

“Fuck,” Jonathan breathes.

“No way,” Robin barks, almost loud enough for Eddie to chastise her; you’re only twenty feet away.

Despite the stretch of time separating this moment from your last one with him, Tom’s hands haven’t become any less curious. They paw at you, never settling but instead trying each possessive spot he loved to frequent before you left him. Your waist was his favourite, but you’ve felt the unwelcome impression of his palm on each arm, your shoulder, the small of your back, and when he goes for your hip you twist just enough that he’s forced to drop it.

He’s telling you about his promotion. When you left, he’d been clamouring for it, doing everything he’d once confessed to hating: sucking up to his boss, shmoozing, working late. It pays well, apparently; well enough that he’s got his own place. It’s a five minute cab ride away. Want to come see it?

“Why would I want to do that?” you ask him, emboldened by the fiery rage his wandering hands are reigniting within you.

“Oh, c’mon,” he says, cooing your name with a sincerity so false that you taste the saccharine flavour of it on your gums, “you’re not telling me you haven’t missed me, huh?”

“No,” you tell him honestly, “I haven’t.”

“What, you with that metalhead or something?”

“Eddie is just a friend”, you bite.

“Yeah, right,” Tom scoffs, slamming his glass on the bar. He’s leaning closer, crowding you, and there are too many people behind him and all of a sudden you’ve lost sight of your table. “Knew I was right to put a stop to that.”

“Fuck you, Tom,” you spit, trying desperately to wriggle free. “I want to get back to my friends now, please.”

“Had his fuckin’ hands all over you the other day,” he continues, ignoring you. “Bet he tried it on when we were together, didn’t he?”

“No, he- Fuck, Tom, will you please just let me out-”

Eddie catches glimpses of you between passing bodies. He sees the way Tom’s crowding you and how you’re squirming and, honestly, he wants to walk into the sea.

Tom was never introduced to your friends. It was mostly his own choice, but Eddie and Robin and everyone else saw it for what it was. You just managed to get out before he cut you off from them all completely.

Now, in the low light of the bar, he’s not so certain that you’re done with him. Sure, you seemed unnerved when you bumped into him at the record store, but he begins to wonder if maybe you’d just been caught off guard, and if you’d thought about him since then. Had you called him?

“Hey,” Robin mutters, leaning over the table to Eddie with her eyes on you, “I think- I don’t know, she looks annoyed.”

Finally, there’s a gap in the crowd, and he sees it too. The pinch of your brow, and the squirming that isn’t squirming. You’re scared.

He stands so quickly that his head spins. He sees Nancy in his peripheral vision standing too, though she’s penned in by Jonathan and Steve. Eddie’s heavy footsteps take too long, he’s too slow; Tom’s hand is around your arm and he’s leaving, taking you with him, willingly or not.

He follows the silhouette of Tom, dark against the brash streetlamp light coming in through the glass doors. He can see the top of your head and feels himself pulled to you like a fish on a line.

He catches up just as Tom pushes the door open and stumbles into the snow, blinded by the fluorescent bulb in the lamp above. You feel the inebriation seep out of you with every second spent in the cold, your bare arms covered in goosebumps.

“Tom, what the fuck?” you spit, finally separating yourself from him. You feel the burn left by his tough grip on your upper arm. He’s still close, close enough that he can take your head in one firm hand.

“Just wanted to see your pretty face,” he says, his voice suddenly softer, his breath too hot on your face, “couldn’t see you properly in-”

“Hey.”

You turn just as Tom does to find Eddie in the doorway. His fists are clenched again and so is his jaw; you know him well enough to see your own anger reflected back at you.

“You okay?” he asks, looking at you, tender as always and it does something to dampen the fiery rage you’re keeping at bay. You nod as Tom drops his hand and scoffs.

“See,” he spits, “loverboy won’t leave you the fuck alone.”

You take three steps back. Eddie comes closer.

“Go home,” he says to Tom as you reach out and take his fist into both hands. He relaxes, and you wind your fingers together.

“Oh, c’mon,” Tom says, “you can’t be serious? Look at him, babe, he’s…”

“Can we go back in?” you whisper to Eddie, whose stern face is beginning to worry you. He says nothing but tugs on your hand and, to your relief, Tom seems to back away around the corner as you retreat indoors.

The door shuts and Eddie turns, but before he can say anything you throw your arms around him and push your face into his neck. He’s startled, but not so much that he can’t return it, his own arms around your back, the pressure a welcome thing.

“Hey,” he coos, “are you sure you’re okay?”

“Thank you,” you say, muffled by his shirt. “Thank you.”

He pulls back, too worried to care to hug you any longer. Instead he lets himself fuss over you, a tentative hand at your jaw as he looks you in the eye.

“I’m okay,” you finally say, sighing. “I hate him.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh. “I do too.”

“Thank you for not hitting him,” you murmur.

His fingers hover by your ear and just as you think he’s going to touch you, he lowers his hand.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I knew you’d hate that.”

He takes your hand again, a gesture which sends both of you independently loopy, and returns with you to the table, where Nancy nearly falls over Robin to get to you. As you reassure her and take your seat again, sandwiched between the two girls, Eddie takes a long swig of beer.

“Hey,” Steve slurs, leaning over to you. “Did y’know Eddie’s ears go red when he’s jealous?”

You look back at him with wide eyes as Eddie gives him a swift thwack to the arm, telling him to fuck off.

“It’s true!” Steve assures you. “I saw it with my own eyes! Like, five minutes ago, I-”

He’s stopped by more of Eddie’s playful hitting.

Quietly, just to you, Nancy says, “It’s true.”

You turn to look at her. She’s got that sparkle in her eye. It appears when she’s got a plan, or an idea, or knows something.

“For a minute, it looked like you were enjoying it,” she continues. “I bet he could’ve burned this place to the ground with how jealous he was getting.”

She nods to her left, where Eddie is dealing with a still restless Steve. He senses you looking and meets your eye, and the pretty pink blush that covers his cheeks is enough to make you look away.

The coffee machine pings just as the doorbell goes.

You jump, startled by both noises. Leaving the coffee to stew you pad through the apartment and open the door slowly, making sure to hide behind it to save the postman seeing you in your pyjama shorts.

When you pull it back, you’re surprised by the sight of your best friend, standing at your door in his own pyjamas.

“Morning,” he says, chuckling lowly.

“What are you doing here?” you ask as you let him inside. “Did you- Did you walk here in that?”

“God no,” he says, “have you seen it out there?”

Truthfully, you haven’t dared pull the curtains back yet. “No,” you admit, locking the door again and wishing you’d had the sense even in your drunken stupor to put your good pyjamas on. You pat the front of the crinkled cotton at the top of your thighs, smoothing it down to no avail.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” you tell him as you step over to the living room window and pull back the blind to reveal what can only be described as a blizzard.

Eddie comes in behind you with two steaming mugs. “Slept on Steve’s fucking couch,” he says, laughing again. “Dimwit couldn’t get himself into bed and then the weather got too bad for me to get a cab home.”

Steve lives two floors above you, in an apartment much the same as your own. His couch is small. Eddie’s back must hurt.

“How is he?”

“Steve?”

“Hm.”

“He’ll be fine,” Eddie sighs, throwing himself onto your couch and kicking his feet up, socked toes just missing the side of your bare thigh. “Probably regrets the fourth round of shots, but at least he had fun.”

“Did you have fun?” you ask softly.

“Yeah, I mean- Of course.” He reaches over to pick up your coffee and leans over to pass it to you. “Didn’t you?”

You take it from him and sit back, sighing. “Yeah, yeah, just…”

Your throat is suddenly too thick to drink the coffee. You stare at it, the deep mahogany liquid pouring steam into the tepid room.

“How does he still manage to ruin everything?” you ask, the question more an abstract frustration than anything aimed directly at Eddie.

He stiffens on the other end of the couch. He knows you don’t mean Steve, that your mind is elsewhere, on the impatient hands that couldn’t keep themselves from pressing painfully into your arm or the coddling of his hot breath on your face out in the snow.

“Hey,” Eddie coos, softening when he notices your hands shaking. He takes the mug, his own hands gentle on you to save from startling you, and replaces it on the table. “Here, c’mere-”

You lean into him, pushing your face into the softness of Steve’s sweater that he’s wearing. You keep apologising - variations of I’m sorry spat out between quiet sobs - and he keeps telling you it’s okay. One hand holds your elbow while the other smooths up and down your back, his cheek pressed to the top of your head.

“Thank you for saving me,” you say, and he exhales when he hears the smile in your words.

“Y’don’t have to thank me again,” he says. You lean back and the two of you sit as mirror images of one another, one knee up on the couch and the other foot on the floor. You wipe your eye with the back of your wrist. Eddie yearns to knock your hand away and do it himself, to clean you up and kiss you when he’s done. He keeps his hands to himself instead.

“I dunno what I’d have done,” you whisper, “I mean, I don’t think he’d have done anything, but I still don’t wanna think about it.”

“I don’t either,” Eddie agrees before he can stop himself.

You look at him. There are deepening shadows beneath his eyes that you’re sure the couch is to blame for, and his hair’s unruly, matted from what you can only imagine was an useless night’s sleep, but your favourite thing - the mellow brown of his eyes - is just as pretty as ever. So’s his skin, pale and imperfect where he’s inked the left side of his neck and you can see the very top of the scar that stretches over his collarbone. He broke it when you were both ten, and he still teases you about how quick you were to run from him when you saw the bone and the broken flesh. You’re desperate to know if it’d be warm under your fingertips, your lips, your tongue.

“Do your ears really get red when you’re jealous?” you ask him. You see him stiffen at the question, his eyes narrowing just so, as his hands flex over his knees.

“Steve’s an asshole,” Eddie says.

“I know-”

“But yeah,” he says, the corner of his mouth breaking loose into a smile, “He’s right. It’s stupid.”

You kick his foot with your own softly and laugh.

“Why were you jealous?”

“Oh, seriously?”

“Yes! Why were you jealous?!” you repeat, grinning.

“You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“Yes.”

He sighs, all dramatic and silly and you laugh until his restless hand lands on your knee instead of his own.

“I thought you were glad to see him,” he admits.

“I don’t know how you got that impression,” you say. You’re trying to ignore the soft rumbling in your chest, lest it take your breath away.

“Dunno,” he says, and suddenly he reminds you of sixteen-year-old Eddie, awkward and goofy, the boy you fell for.

“Well,” you say, “I’m very glad you came to my rescue.”

“I didn’t rescue you, you’re perfectly capable of doing that yourself,” he says, laughing. His knee knocks yours and his fingers spread until the tips of them are meeting the middle of your thigh.

“Still, it was a nice thing to do.”

He hums and you inhale as you place your hand on his. He looks up at you and the contact seems to provide some courage.

He says your name, and it’s softer than ever in the quiet of your living room. As far as the two of you are aware, there’s nothing beyond here; no blizzard, no hungover Steve two floors up, no shitty ex-boyfriends. Just you and Eddie and the string of starlight pulling you together.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks in a whisper, leaning in, already resting more weight on the hand on your thigh. Somehow, it feels like the most natural question in the world.

You nod. “Yeah, please.”

He closes the gap with his forehead to yours, tilting his head enough that his nose slots beside yours as he kisses you. You expected a peck, something nervous, but that’s impossible when there’s a decade of want behind it. He’s firm and certain as his hands finally take grateful handfuls of your hips, and your mouth burns as you kiss him back. He worries he’s being too handsy, especially after last night, but when you feel him retreating you take his larger hands in yours and keep them there.

This morning, as his tongue moves past yours, Eddie tastes like spearmint, coffee and tobacco. You miss the taste as soon as his lips paint tender kisses at the corner of your mouth and over the hill of your jaw, but you keen at the sensation anyway, arching into him.

“This okay?” he asks in a pant, pulling back and hiding a smile as he hears you whine.

“Yeah,” you breathe. You use shaky fingers to push curls back so you can see his face and, holding him in both hands, kiss the swell of his cheek followed by the other. “Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me,” he says, chuckling.

“What do we do now?” you ask him.

He looks back at you, feeling more whole than ever, and notices the creeping worry lines between your brows. Pushing against your hold, he leans forward and kisses you there. The satisfaction of feeling you relax is enough to keep him going for a thousand years.

“Well,” he whispers, and his breath isn’t too hot like Tom’s. It’s warm and friendly where it blooms over your closed eyes. “Go take care of Steve, probably.”

“Kiss me again?”

He does, wordlessly, softer than before, once on your mouth and another on your forehead. You wind your arms around his back, and with cheek resting on the top of your head, he says those fateful words into your hair:

“Love you.”

You squeeze without thinking, smiling into his chest.

“Love you too.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #stranger things #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson x you #stranger things 4 #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x y/n #eddie imagine #eddie fanfic #eddie fic #eddie #eddie munson angst #stranger things au

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tiredofthehumanlife · 22 days

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY EKKO

Go give them love NOW

@ekkoscavern

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zepskies · 8 months

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Smoke Eater - Part 3

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real.

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.

AN: Ready for some more ridiculous flirting? lol

🔥 Series Masterlist

Song Inspo: “Got a Hold on Me” by Christine McVie (of Fleetwood Mac) Word Count: 5,800 Tags/Warnings: Mutual pining, fluff, first encounters and first dates

Part 3: “Got a Hold on Me”

Your gaze drew a path onwards, eventually reaching the other end of the bar.

There you caught sight of red flannel over a black undershirt, familiar broad shoulders, and an even more familiar face. Your eyes widened a fraction as his met yours, gleaming with recognition…and interest.

That slow smile of his was familiar too. It made a lance of heat run down your spine. You gripped the counter, mostly to steady yourself as you let out a breath.

Lieutenant Winchester.

You couldn’t help but smile back as you met the man’s gaze across the bar.

You recognized his bearded friend, Benny, who leaned over and said something to Dean. You couldn’t hear him, of course, but maybe he was asking a question. Because Dean nodded and said something in reply before he picked up his glass of what looked like whiskey. And he smoothly got up out of his seat.

Anticipation and nerves coiled together in your lower belly. You turned to your friend, who was already sipping at her vodka cranberry.

“Dre, help me,” you pleaded.

Andréa discreetly followed the path of your gaze, and her brows raised. A smirk curved her lips.

“Oh, babe. You need to help yourself,” she replied.

“I haven’t done that in a while,” you admitted. Your dating life had been sorely lacking, between the demands of your job and taking care of things at home. “I’m gonna say something demented.”

Andréa huffed in amusement.

“So? That’s half the fun,” she said. A smile curved her lips. “I think I’m going to go play some pool.”

And with that, your friend abandoned you. She slid off her seat and patted your ass on her way over to one of the pool tables. You watched her go with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

“There you go, hun,” said Jo. She slid your drink in front of you. It came in a deep round glass on a stem, with a straw on the side.

“Thanks,” you replied.

You opened the straw and took a small sip to steady yourself, as you saw Dean coming out of the corner of your eye.

You even pretended not to notice the handsome man sliding into the seat next to you. His elbows rested on the counter next to yours, and you finally glanced over at him.

“Can I help you, sir?” you asked. A coquettish smile played at your lips, but you even surprised yourself with your smooth delivery. Inside, you had butterflies.

You didn’t notice the way Jo’s gaze lingered on you and Dean, a frown marring her features. Though she soon moved on to another patron.

And Dean’s attention was solely on you. He gave you a handsome smile, full of charm. You gave him expectant brows.

“Well, we’ll see. I’ve got a question for you,” he said.

You indulged him with a nod. “Okay. What’s your question, Lieutenant?”

“Why Girl Scout cookies?” he asked, speaking of the baked goods you’d brought by the firehouse yesterday. “I mean, we’ve gotten cakes, muffins, Krispy Kreme donuts. But I gotta say, we’ve never gotten some bakery-style Trefoils.”

Your smile brightened a bit.

“Who doesn’t like ‘em?” you asked. “I mean, you can walk by their table and be all coy and pretend you’re not going to buy anything, but then you walk away with half a dozen boxes of Thin Mints.”

Dean chuckled, and you enjoyed the way it crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Or is that just me?” you added, and once again sipped at your drink.

Meanwhile, Andréa felt a hot gaze on her as she set up the cue balls on the pool table. She allowed it with a subtle smile. If it was the same one she’d crossed paths with earlier when she walked in with you, then she didn’t mind.

She was, however, getting impatient.

“Mind if I join you?”

The pleasant drawl of the man’s voice licked up her spine. When she glanced over her shoulder, her smile widened a fraction. Finally.

“For a game?” she asked. She straightened, brushing a smooth wave of dark hair off her shoulder.

And she turned to meet the bearded man standing casually behind her, resting his glass on the edge of the pool table. The gray of his rolled up, buttoned-down shirt brought out the vivid blue of his eyes. But even though he was tall and broad, he didn’t seem intimidating.

“To start with,” he said. His lips quirked at a smile. “But first, I think it’d be a damn shame if I didn’t ask for your name.”

Andréa’s head tipped to one side as she considered him. She picked up the second pool stick and handed it to him.

“Are you going to ask?” she replied. Her fingers curled around her own stick as she leaned a hip against the table.

It made him smile. Those eyes of his considered her dress, an earthy green that brought out the hazel in her eyes, warm against her tan skin. But he lingered on her face, full lips and long, dark lashes.

“What’s your name, beautiful?” he asked.

“Andréa,” she answered, and gestured to the pyramid of cue balls. “I’ll even let you go first, if I get your name.”

His smile deepened, and he leaned over beside her to line up his shot. He glanced over and found the challenge in her eyes was more than welcome.

“I’m Benny,” he said. He took the shot without looking at his target, breaking the pyramid and scattering cue balls across the table.

Back at the bar, your drink and your conversation were both bringing a pleasant buzz to your brain. You nodded along with the music when “Got a Hold on Me” by Christine McVie replaced Boston.

“You’re liftin’ me up,” she sang through the speakers. “Never let me down…and I smile whenever you’re around.”

Dean glanced at you with a small grin, shaking his head.

You couldn’t help but smile back. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he said. “I just didn’t expect to see someone like you here.”

Your brows furrowed. “Someone like me?”

He caught the look on your face, and his turned apologetic.

“Nah, I just mean…this doesn’t seem like your usual vibe,” he said.

You weren’t quite sure how to take that, but you eventually shrugged.

“To be honest, I don’t go out all that much,” you replied. “I like it here though. Good music, good drinks—”

“And good company, I hope,” Dean added in. You allowed that with a smile.

All the while, Christine kept singing.

“I’ve been down. I’ve been used. Now I know, I know, I know, I just can’t lose…”

“So did you guys like the cookies? Or did the Girl Scout thing put you off,” you teased. Dean’s lips quirked.

“Sweetheart, those delectables were gone by end of shift. I’m talking that afternoon. They were easily some of the best cookies I’ve ever tasted…I’m serious,” he said, when you became a bit bashful, and maybe disbelieving.

“I’m tellin’ you, if you had your own bakery, I’d be lining up every damn day,” he said. He then sent you a playfully suspicious look. “Matter of fact, you didn’t just buy those, did you?”

Your smiled warmed as you considered your half-empty glass. Your fingers traced the rim.

“Well, don’t laugh but…I actually went to culinary school,” you said. Dean’s brows rose high at the confession.

“Why would I laugh about that? That’s awesome!” he said. “Why didn’t you become a chef or something?”

Your gaze drifted downwards. “Well…let’s just say, life got in the way.”

His face dimmed a little at that. But you noticed, and you tried to perk up.

“So yes, sir. I baked all five dozen of those cookies with my own two hands,” you said more cheerfully. You raised waving fingers. “I’ve got the burns to prove it.”

You’d actually made a rookie move, trying to move one of the trays before it had sufficiently cooled down. It was bad enough that you had to apply some aloe last night.

Dean made a show of furrowing his brows, with playful concern.

“Let me see,” he said. He straightened in his seat, acting more “Lieutenant Winchester” as he took your hands and examined your palms and fingers. You blushed, and you bit your lip against a smile as his larger hands handled yours with care.

He did notice the redness on your fingertips, and part of your right palm. He glanced up at you.

“Do they hurt?” he asked.

You blinked at the genuine note in his question.

“Oh, not really,” you said. But you smiled at the fractional raise of his brows. “Well, maybe they still sting a bit, but it’s nothing. I had worse in school, believe me.”

Dean hummed as he considered your hands. Your face heated up further as you tried to get a read on what he was thinking. Was he about to do the cheesy thing and kiss it better? (Though you probably wouldn’t mind, even if he did.)

Instead, Dean reached into his own glass and grabbed an ice cube. After shaking off some excess water droplets, he moved the ice against the pads of your fingers, then down the fading red mark on your palm.

“That feel better?” he asked.

If possible, your blush intensified as your insides warmed and melted like hot butter. It was a sweet, and seemingly earnest gesture that plucked at your heartstrings.

And that was how Dean Winchester got your number before “Got a Hold on Me” ended.

Andréa was still chatting away at the bar with Benny by the time you decided to call it a night. She understood why you wanted to get home, to check on your grandfather.

You saw a bit of disappointment in Dean’s eyes when you said you needed to go, but he graciously offered to walk you to your car. It was pretty late, after all, and you had more than one reason to agree as he stepped out with you into the night.

You didn’t know if it was the evening chill, or his presence burning beside you that made a small shiver run through you. But once the two of you reached your car, you hesitated and looked up at Dean. You realized that you were reluctant to end this, whatever it was.

He quirked a smile down at you and tucked a wily strand of hair behind your ear.

“It was good to see you,” he said.

“Likewise, Lieutenant,” you replied, with a teasing gleam in your eyes. His were drawn to your face, lowering to your lips.

“Can I see you again?” he asked.

Again, your face warmed. “I think I’d be okay with that.”

His smile grew with his huff of amusement.

“Okay, how about I pick you up tomorrow night?” he offered. “That’s, uh…if you don’t got any plans.”

Your heart was hammering in your chest. Play it cool, for the love of God. Just say yes.

You didn’t usually agree to let a man pick you up on the first date, but something about Dean felt intrinsically trustworthy. Maybe it was the fact that he’d already saved you once this week.

“Sure,” you agreed, sounding more casual than you felt. “What did you have in mind?”

Dean considered that with a thoughtful look.

“Tell you what, let me take you to dinner. Somewhere nice,” he said. His hand raised to thumb at your warm cheek. He couldn’t see your blush, but you were sure he could feel it.

“I like dinner,” you admitted. Though you immediately wanted to slap yourself. Idiot!

Dean just laughed, and your blush turned to one of embarrassment.

“All right. Something we can agree on,” he said in amusement. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Get home safe, okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded, though you paused, looking up at the indecision on his face. His gaze roamed your face, once again falling to your lips. Nervousness trilled down your spine, though you didn’t know why.

Maybe you were just a coward, but you didn’t wait for him to decide. You just gave him one last smile before you turned from him, unlocking your car with a press of a button on your keys.

“Well, goodnight,” you told him. “See you tomorrow.”

He nodded, stepping back from you. “See you soon.”

Well, it was tomorrow. And you were trying not to freak the hell out.

“That’s it,” Andréa said. “That’s the one.”

You had her on FaceTime, with your phone propped up on your dresser as you raided your closet.

Your hair was pinned up, your makeup done, and now, she’d helped you find the right outfit—a dress in vibrant emerald green that hugged your curves and fell to about mid-thigh. You smoothed out the straps and twisted to see yourself in the mirror.

“Why’re you frowning. This is perfect!” Andréa said.

“I just…” You sighed, once again trying to tug up the neckline. It was a bit lower than you preferred, but if you remembered right, your friend had encouraged this purchase a while back.

“It isn’t too much, is it?” you asked.

“Not for a first date with a smokin’ hot firefighter, mind the pun,” Andréa teased. “You’re a knockout, babe. He won’t be able to pick up his tongue off the floor…but I’m sure you can find a place for him to put it.”

You spluttered laughing, even after you made a scandalized sound. “You’re ridiculous.”

Still, you knew you could always count on Andréa to hype you up. You appreciated that about her; she was confident without being petty or prideful. And while she never begrudged you for your more cautious approach to things, she did try to get you out of your comfortable shell when you needed it. This, apparently, was one of those times.

You chose a pair of black suede heels Dean hadn’t seen before, along with a few spritzes of perfume in strategic locations on your body.

“Okay, Dean’s supposed to get here at 8:00. Until then, regale me with more about your night with Captain Benjamin Lafitte,” you said, drawing out each word of the man’s name with a suggestive flourish.

Andréa gave a dreamy sigh. She smiled as she sat back against her headboard in bed.

“He was just so…” she trailed, like she was sorting through a collection of memories, savoring each one, all while trying to find a way to distill it all into a simple sentence. She had an artist’s mind, and so tended to romanticize. But you enjoyed the way she spun her stories.

“Earthy, and real, while still being charming,” she said. “I’m pretty sure he let me win the pool game. Which ordinarily would annoy the shit out of me, but when he offered to buy me another drink, I couldn’t say no, and…we talked until the bar closed.”

“Wow.” Your eyes widened as you made the finishing touches on your clipped up hair.

“Right? I’ve never had an experience like that with a perfect stranger,” she said. “I think…I think it was like, one of those connections you hear about, see on TV but never think it happens in real life. I’ll tell you, when we walked into the bar, his eyes were the first thing I saw. And they were the last thing I remember from that night, after he kissed me goodnight…well, more like made out against my car, but you get the idea.”

She smiled as her face became lost in thought. Meanwhile, you tried not to be envious that she’d had more courage than you.

“Are you going to see him again soon?” you asked. Andréa seemed to come back down to Earth at the question, meeting your gaze.

“I think so,” she said. “We’re trying to plan something for next week. He’s also a construction contractor.”

You nodded. “Yeah, Dean was telling me that a lot of them have part-time jobs when they’re not on shift.”

“Does he do anything on the side?” she asked.

“If I remember right, he said he fixes cars sometimes, but I’m not sure if he’s a certified mechanic,” you replied.

“Well, maybe he can spruce up your old-ass Toyota Camry. How long have you had that thing?” she asked.

You scoffed. “Since college. And it was old then, since I got it used…I think I’ve racked up about 200,000 miles on it.”

Andréa grimaced. “Oh God. You really need a new car, before that thing breaks down on you.”

“That’s what I keep tellin’ her,” said Grandpa George. He appeared in the doorway with a mug of tea. He waved at Andréa on your phone screen. “Hey there, sweetheart.”

“Hey, George. What’re your plans this evening? Go-karting or roller blading?” she teased with a grin.

George matched it with a hearty laugh. Andréa was his favorite.

“Well, I think I’ll start at the roller disco and see where my heart takes me,” he replied. Though he had fond stars in his eyes, and you smiled, knowing what memory he was about to recall.

“Ah, my wife and I met at one of those cheesy-ass places in the ‘70s,” he said. “She was a regular there, had the knee-high socks, the shiny skirt, her long hair whipping around like a rope… I remember she skated past me and knocked me clean onto my ass. I watched her skate away, that little skirt swishing. I think I was half in love right there.”

Your heart twinged, both for yourself and for him, as you could see the sting of melancholy in his eyes. Your grandmother had passed away a few years ago, but it was still deeply painful for both of you.

George shook his head, as if clearing the ghosts of memory from his mind. He looked over at you with a fond smile.

“Well, don’t you look beautiful?” he said. And he reached out for your hand, playfully raising it above your head and twirling you around as you smiled. “Reminds me of when your grandma helped you get ready for the senior prom.”

You snorted at that. “You mean when she almost glued my eyes shut, trying to get those fake lashes on?”

You’d rather pluck out your own eyes than have to ever again go through the “de-gluing process,” as she’d called it.

“It’s a shame we don’t have any pictures of you that night,” George considered. A knowing smile crossed his face. “You looked adorable.”

“I looked like I had a wonky eye,” you retorted. “Why do you think I burned all the evidence?”

Andréa tried not to, but she chortled at your expense. You shot her a narrowed look.

“Careful,” she teased. “Don’t strain yourself, Wonky. You’ve got a better night than prom ahead of you.”

“Speaking of, when’s that boy supposed to pick you up?” George asked.

You let out a breath, slightly nervous as you checked the time on your phone.

“In about ten minutes.”

“Okay, for the third time,” Sam said, trying his best to be patient. He sat on Dean’s bed while the man stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He was debating the age-old question: tie, or no tie?

“Red wine goes with red meat. White wine goes with chicken and fish,” Sam reminded him. “If you get red, you want to order a bottle of merlot. It’s full bodied without being dry as hell.”

“Yeah, merlot with meat. Got it,” Dean nodded. “What’s white again?”

“Everything else,” Sam said, once again. “If you order white, I’d say go with a pinot grigio. It’s light, can be dry or can be fruity. It all depends on personal preference, but I really like—”

“Well, I’m probably getting steak, so no to pinot,” Dean said. He finally decided on no tie, just a black suit jacket over the dark blue shirt, with a couple of buttons left open at the top.

Sam sighed and gestured at his brother. “And what if she wants fish? What if she hates red wine?”

Dean frowned. “Right. Okay. Pinot or merlot, got it.”

“Always ask to try it first,” Sam added. “Or here’s a thought. You could just be yourself. Order a beer and let her get whatever she wants.”

His frown deepening, Dean shook his head and left his bathroom. He crossed his bedroom to find his shoes—the nice black ones he only wore for weddings and funerals.

“Nah. This girl’s classy, Sam. Can’t half-ass this,” he said. A bit of unease coiled in his stomach, but he tried his best to ignore it.

He couldn’t remember the last time he got nervous to meet a girl…maybe because he hadn’t gone out on an actual “dinner and conversation” date in a while.

Or at least, he didn’t think he could count his dates as real ones.

“You’ll be fine,” Sam said. He could see plainly what his brother didn’t want to admit, only because they knew each other so well.

Dean glanced over at Sam and flickered at a smile. He grabbed his keys, his wallet, and didn’t think he was missing anything…

“Dean,” Sam said. He nodded over at the bundle on the dresser. Dean reached for it and shot his brother a wink.

“Hold the fort, Sammy.”

His car rumbled to a stop in front of your house just a few minutes late. Dean took a moment to admire the nice-looking beige house with its dark trim, old but still in good condition. And he wondered if you had roommates, or if you lived alone. Maybe you even owned this place.

He wasn’t sure, as he could only see one car in the driveway (your car, he recognized). He knew he’d need about two or three other roommates to be able to afford this two-story house.

He straightened his collar and blew out a breath. Get it together, asshole. You’re going on a date, not running into a burning building.

Funny, he’d probably be less nervous with the latter.

You’re not nervous, he reminded himself. You like her, that’s all…yeah.

Rolling his eyes at himself, Dean turned off the car and grabbed his key out of the ignition on his way out. He walked up the red brick path up to the porch and knocked on your door.

His pulse picked up a bit when he heard a pair of heels approaching the door. Soon enough, it opened, and Dean was greeted with a sight. Namely your face, and a smile spreading across it.

Beautiful, he couldn’t help but think, as his gaze dipped to take in the rest of you. He liked the color of your pretty green dress, the soft and classy makeup, the goddamn sexy heels, and the way your hair was pinned up. (Even though it looked so soft, he wanted to see it loose.)

He liked it all, especially that you seemed happy to see him.

“Hey there,” you said, a little breathy, like you’d been hastening down the stairs.

Dean gave you a smile, along with the small bouquet of flowers he’d been hiding behind his back.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. His smile deepened when you uttered a gasp at the modest bundle of red tulips. “Feel like I should’a gone with something more impressive to match you. You look beautiful.”

You glanced up at him with a sweet smile, but you took the flowers and shook your head.

“No, these are gorgeous. I…can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers,” you admitted.

It was a bit old-fashioned, but one of Dean’s earliest memories as a kid was seeing his dad come home, late from work as he so often was. But he’d stopped along the way at his mom’s favorite flower shop. He brought her red tulips rather than red roses.

Dean didn’t know why. Maybe that was her favorite flower, or maybe the roses were all out. In his memory though, his mom’s upset faded whenever she saw those flowers.

“Thank you,” you said warmly, taking Dean out of his thoughts. He flashed you a smile touched with slight embarrassment. He drew a hand through his short hair at the back of his head.

“Well, uh, are you ready?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yep! Just need to grab my purse and put these in some water.”

You welcomed him inside the house while he waited for you to find a vase. Dean took the opportunity to look around from where he stood in the hall. It looked big on the outside, but inside, it looked like a cozy family home. He took in the wood furniture, a paisley couch in the living room, family pictures on the wall and in a China cabinet rather than actual fine China.

It didn’t exactly scream high-powered saleswoman, but maybe you’d inherited it from your family. Or you were going to have it fixed up before you sold it, like some Property Brothers-type action. Or he was reading too much into it entirely, and should just focus on the fact that you’d agreed to go out with him to begin with.

Dean perked up when you returned with your purse on your shoulder and the tulips in a vase, which you set down on the living room coffee table for now. You greeted him again with smile.

“I’ll find a better place for those later, just didn’t want to keep you waiting,” you said.

“You’re good,” he said. He offered you his hand, along with a grin. “I hope you’re hungry though. I know how much you like dinner.”

You giggled, ducking your head in embarrassment. You followed him out the front door.

“If we can forget about that tipsy foot-in-mouth moment, that’d be great,” you said. Dean shook his head.

“Sorry, my mind’s like a steel trap,” he teased, even as he led you down the few steps of your porch in your heels.

“Oh, really?” Your brow raised. “Okay, I’ll remember you said that.”

Dean smirked. “Uh oh. Why do I feel like that one’s gonna bite me in the ass someday?”

“We’ll see,” you replied in amusement. “Future dinners might be on the line here.”

Your eyes widened when you finally saw his car parked behind yours in the driveway. Big and black and sleek and Chevrolet.

“Wow. That’s your car?”

Dean shot you a grin that was somehow proud without being smug.

“You like her?” he asked. He unlocked the car and even opened the passenger side door for you.

Wow again. A rare gentleman. You smiled and obliged him by climbing in.

“I think I do,” you said. Dean got in on his side after closing your door. The doors creaked and the engine rumbled when he turned the ignition. He looked over at you in a way that made your insides both flutter and melt. Anticipation and warmth.

“Think she likes you too,” he said.

Shit, what did Sam say? Dean stared down the wine menu, which may as well have been a Chinese grocery list, for all he knew.

Red was what? What the hell is a Malbec? Sounds like a kind of fish. That can’t be red wine.

He discreetly raised his gaze above the menu. You were sitting there, pretty much perfect while you looked over the appetizer menu. This was an Italian restaurant. A nice one, and a cut above Dean’s usual dining spots. Neither of you had eaten here before, but you looked vastly more comfortable than he felt.

“What sounds better to you, clams or bruschetta?” you asked. Your eyes flicked up to his thoughtfully. “You don’t strike me as a clammy kinda guy.”

A smile tugged at his lips. There was a “clam” joke in there somewhere, but he wasn’t sure you’d appreciate it.

“Bruschetta is the toast with little tomatoes, right?” he asked.

“Yep,” you nodded, but then your head tilted as you looked down at the menu again. “Or we could do meatballs. Comes with two—a ball each.”

You bit your lip over a smile, tinged with embarrassment, like you didn't realize what you were saying until you said it.

Dean smirked. Maybe your sense of humor was more in line with his than he expected.

“Well, I don’t typically go for balls, meaty or otherwise. But whatever you want, sweetheart,” he teased. Truth be told, he loved Italian meatballs, but right now, he liked your snort of amusement even more.

By the time the server, Liam, came to the table, you seemed to know what you wanted, while Dean was still looking over the wine list like it was Calculus homework.

“Would you like something to drink?” Liam asked.

Dean paused, unsure of how to respond. He glanced at you on reflex. You were waiting for him to say something, he knew. He just wasn’t sure what he could say that didn’t make him look like an idiot.

“I’ll have a glass of this Cabernet Sauvignon,” you replied to the server, and pointed out the name of the wine on the list. He nodded and wrote that down, then turned to Dean next.

“And for you, sir?” Liam asked.

Again, Dean had a conundrum.

He decided to play it safe. “I’ll have the same.”

You eyed him a moment, before you turned back to Liam.

“Can we try it first? See if we like it,” you said.

“Certainly,” he nodded. “Do you want to start with an appetizer?”

“Yes. The meatballs, please,” you replied, glancing at Dean with secret amusement. His lips hinted at a smirk.

When the server left to put in the order, you rested your elbows on the table and folded your hands under your chin.

“Something tells me you’re not big on wine,” you said.

Dean’s smile became more self-deprecating as he tapped a finger on the table.

“That obvious, huh? …Well, can’t say I didn’t try.”

“Dean Winchester.” Your head tilted as you considered him. “Are you trying to impress me?”

“Trying, maybe. Doubt I’m succeeding,” he admitted with a short laugh.

You let out a small sigh, but you didn’t look disappointed.

“I just want to get to know you,” you said. “You don’t have to woo me or anything.”

His brow rose in a subtle challenge. “What if you deserve a bit of wooing?”

You glanced down then, with a pretty blush beginning to dust your cheeks. He could still spot it in the dim lamplight, and it made him smile.

“I get what you’re saying,” he inclined his head. “I just have a feeling the guys you go out with know how to order a bottle of wine, at least.”

You met his gaze at that. Your brows drew together, and it wasn’t until that that you realized what Dean seemed to be thinking. Like you were somehow better than him, or out of his league. While that was incredibly flattering (and downright surprising), it just wasn’t true, you felt.

You’d been nervous as hell up until this point, convinced that this man’s interest was half because he’d saved you. Because really, between the cut of that jaw, that smile, and those eyes, he could have anyone. And yet, he’d noticed you.

So now, you gained enough courage to reach across the table and rest your hand over his. It earned his attention.

“Look, Dean,” you said. “You don’t know anything about the kind of guys I go out with, so why don’t you just try to get to know me, instead of being whatever you think I want?”

There was a challenge in your eyes, but your smile softened it, along with your hand in his. Dean curled his fingers around your hand, and he nodded.

“That’s fair,” he said. His thumb drew across the back of your hand as he considered what you’d said. He realized he wasn’t being fair…

“See, women tend to like the firefighter thing, until they don’t,” he said.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Well, after a little while, it’s like the shine wears off,” Dean admitted. “Between the long, sometimes inconsistent hours, the weight of the job… It’s either too much, or not enough, you know?”

As much as that disheartened you to hear, you kind of understood what he was saying. First responders led challenging lives, and you could imagine how hard it would be to maintain relationships—from family and friends to lovers. And when he met your eyes, you had a feeling you knew what he was really saying underneath.

It’s not enough…or he’s not enough?

You frowned and squeezed his hand.

“That must make it hard to find a real connection with someone,” you said.

Dean read the look in your eyes: sympathetic, but not pitying. He appreciated that, and you right now. But he was also getting a bit embarrassed. Good job, Mr. Overshare.

He let go of your hand just to lean back in his seat and card his fingers through his hair. He blew out a breath.

“Sorry. Don’t know why I’m saying all this crap,” he said with a chuckle.

You smiled and crossed your arms on the table. “It’s not crap.”

He gave you a wry smile.

This Dean is not what I expected, you thought. He was all panty-dropping smiles and one-liners, until he wasn’t. Behold, the softie underneath.

Liam soon returned with two glasses with a sample of the wine you’d requested. Dean took his glass, but waited a moment to watch you bring yours up to your face. You inhaled first before you took an experimental sip. You smiled and hummed at the taste. It led Dean to sip his as well.

He immediately made a face at the bitter, strong taste that razed across his tastebuds. He was used to the burn of alcohol, but this was just gross.

That’s when he caught that look on your face—a small smile as you gauged his reaction.

“Refreshing,” Dean quipped. And dry as hell.

“You want a beer instead?” you asked.

“Definitely,” Dean nodded, looking up at Liam. “Heineken, if you please.”

“That I can do.” The other man quirked a smile. “And for you, miss?”

You tapped on the rim of your wine glass. “A glass of this please. Thank you.”

“Absolutely,” Liam replied. “I’ll bring those shortly.”

Dean watched you with a smile. You caught him at it and smiled back questioningly.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Nothin’.”

He liked the way you carried yourself. Smart and classy, without being a snob. Confident and sexy at times, while shy and freakin’ adorable at others…

Damn, Dean thought. He liked you. He did.

And he didn’t want to admit it, but that kind of scared him.

AN: Hohoo, so believe it or not, this is just part 1 of the first date! The rest is to come in the next chapter. But how did you like this so far?

Next Time:

You watched him curiously as he shrugged out of his jacket. He wrapped it around your shoulders, like this was some kind of Hallmark moment.

Heh. Can’t believe Meg had it right, he thought, as he caught your blush.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

“Can’t let you catch cold in this little dress,” Dean reasoned.

He gently tugged you in closer by the ends of his jacket. Once again, his gaze was drawn to your face, your eyes, and finally your lips. You still held both ice cream cones between you two, but he could be careful enough to sample something else.

He started to lean in…

Keep Reading: PART 4

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pilotispunk · 9 months

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it's always the quiet ones (frankie morales x reader)

Masterlist | Ko-Fi | Commissions

Summary: you thought Frankie Morales was shy when you first met him. when he decided to take you on a date, you were pleasantly surprised. when he ate you out against an alley wall, you were even more surprised.

Rating: M, 18+

Word count: 2.5K

Content: explicit smut, public sex, dirty talk, fingering, oral (f receiving), frankie being soft but surprisingly dirty

When Santiago first told you that Frankie was interested in you knew that there was no doubt that he was fucking with you. Frankie Morales? The man whose said maybe 20 words total to you when you’ve spent time with him?

After work you liked to tag along with your fun coworker Santi to grab drinks and blow off some steam. More times than not, his military buddies would tag along with you - grinning, boisterous and ready to have fun. They would talk about their gory stores in the Army or listen to your gory stories of modern dating. And then...there was Frankie.

Your eyes immediately went to him when you first spotted him in the room. His large, strong frame was visible under a light grey t-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders and chest perfectly. His face was strong with a sharp defined nose and deep brown eyes that seemed to pierce your soul. Dark curls hung out from underneath a tattered baseball cap.

Frankie was quiet. He was always taking in everything around him without saying a word. He had an ability to see things that others couldn't even imagine.

After you'd met him for the first time, you tried to approach him. You introduced yourself with what you thought was a sweet smile, and all he did was give you a long look and nod at you. You excused yourself and ﬂed to the bathroom to collect your embarrassment.

To say he was difficult to get to know would be an understatement. He was nothing like Benny, who was chatty, silly and easy-going. He was nothing like Will who even though stoic and reserved, would talk to you about his fiance at any chance he got.

But Frankie?

When you asked him about his week, he always offered the same non-descriptive response, "fine," and took a sip of beer in an attempt to end the conversation.

Pool or darts were both suggested, yet both were rebuked with a simple reply of "I'm no good at it." Shots were never attempted; only beers. It seemed the two of you just didn't click. And then Santi declared one night after drinks that Frankie Morales had a crush on you.

"Why couldn't he just tell me himself?" You asked.

Santi shrugged. "You've got to work harder to get someone like that to open up. But I promise, he likes you. Give him a chance. Even if it's just for a free dinner."

What the hell at this point, right? Santiago gave you Frankie's phone number and the texts started out cordial. It was more conversation than the two of you had ever had, coordinating on when and where to meet.

As you got ready for your dinner with Frankie, you couldn't help but feel a sense of nervousness. You wanted to make a good impression, but you didn't know what to expect from someone who you hadn't talked to very much. Santiago wasn't a great help either, merely telling you to be yourself and see where the night takes you.

You had dressed up in a simple black dress that hugged your curves perfectly, paired with some strappy heels. You made sure that every strand of your hair was in place before heading to the restaurant.

When you arrived, Frankie was already there, sitting at a small table in the corner. He looked up as you approached, and for a moment, you almost didn't recognize him. This wasn't the same guy who would grunt and grumble at you at the bar. His curls were brushed out and he had left behind his trusted hat. He was wearing a nice button down shirt, a few buttons undone to expose his tan chest. He looked good. When he smiled at you, his dimples exposed, you realized this was the first time he'd really ever smiled at you.

You felt a flicker when you approached him. An all too familiar feeling with an unfamiliar person. You could feel a new energy emanating from him, a sense of confidence that you hadn't seen before.

"Hi," he said, his voice softer than usual. "You look nice tonight."

You returned the compliment as he pulled your chair to sit. Your hands briefly touched and you felt the hairs on the back of your arm stand up.

"So what brings you here tonight?" he asked, cooly sitting down and taking a sip of his drink. Was Frankie actually trying to banter with you?

You shrugged, trying to play it cool and ignore the growing feeling. "Just wanted to get out of the house, you know?"

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'm glad you did. I was hoping I'd see you tonight."

You couldn't believe the thought that had crossed your mind about possibly calling off the date.

-----------------

Had you predicted how your date with Frankie would go at the start of the day, you'd never have imagined it going so well. Yet here the two of you were, bantering like old friends sharing a bottle of wine. The conversation flowed. There was so much you didn't know about this man. He was a pilot. He has a daughter. He was sharp with wit. He had a gentle demeanor that felt like a breath of fresh air. You've finally gotten to the other side of the coin of this man.

Once the bill came and the server came to get Frankie's card for the check, there was a brief silence after shared smiles and laughter. It started to hit you that dinner was over and you weren't ready for the night to end. But is this something he wanted to? Maybe he wanted to take you out to see if there was something and he was being cordial?

As if he was reading your thoughts, Frankie spoke up. "Do you wanna go for a walk? There's a gelato place near by, I think you'd really like it."

You smiled from ear to ear at the suggestion. "I'd love that."

Frankie paid the bill and you both left the restaurant, walking side by side down the street. The two of you strolled through the empty streets, sharing a double scoop of gelato on a stick. How was it possible that you couldn't read him less than 12 hours ago but now you were talking as if you'd known him for a lifetime?

"I have to be honest...I was really surprised when Santiago said you wanted to go out with me." You said, stopping by a lamp post.

Frankie looked over at you, his eyes softening. "Really? Why's that?"

You shrugged, feeling a little bit embarrassed. "I don't know. I just didn't think you were interested in me."

Frankie squeezed your hand gently, you felt the callouses on his hands and they soothed you. "I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean to come off as rude or uninterested. Truth is, I was intimidated by you."

"Me? Intimidating?" you laughed, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

Frankie nodded, his eyes serious. "Yeah. You're beautiful, smart, and confident. I didn't know how to handle that at first. I was just so terrified that if I said something awkward, there was no turning back."

He paused, roaming his hand through his hair, his curls coming back to life from the humid air. He licked his lips. "I've liked you for awhile. I'm just...not good at this."

"By the way tonight is going you could've fooled me." You smirked.

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" He asked.

You leaned in and pressed your mouth against his. His lips were plush and they had a hint of sweetness from the gelato. You pulled away, and he gazed down at you, his mouth turned upwards in a smirk.

"Does that answer your question?" You teased.

"Not even a bit," He chuckled, as he came crashing onto your lips again. You stumbled back, trying to stay in the kiss for as long as possible, and felt the chill of the lightpost behind you. Frankie cupped the nape of your neck, initially to make sure you were alright, but when your lips parted to deepen into it, he didn't resist. His hands ran down your back as his tongue explored every inch of your mouth with his tongue.

You let out a soft moan that made him pull you closer, making your kiss wilder. All you wanted in that moment was to press up against him, feel the heat from his body against your own. You couldn't help but run your hands down the front of his shirt, feeling the welcoming softness of his body. His hands slid down to the curves of your ass and you felt the heat emanating from you.

The piercing wolf whistle coming from someone on the street made the two of you break apart. You pulled away, feeling your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Do you wanna get out of here?" You asked.

Frankie ran his fingers through your hair, looking at you with eyes that were dazed. "Yeah."

The two of you walked quickly, hand in hand, until he led you to a back alley that was shielded from public view.

The side street is dark and the cold air makes it feel like you are underwater. Frankie's touch is warm and makes you feel as if you are floating out of water instead.

Frankie kisses you deep and slow, allowing you to taste his lips as he draws you deeper into the kiss.

You pull him in closer, pressing your hips against his, feeling the unmistakable bulge between his thighs.

You moan softly when he lifts you up, bracing your back against the wall and running his hands along your curves.

"Baby..." He groans against your ear.

You rub yourself against him, feeling the heat growing from the center of your stomach.

"Can I touch you?" He whispers.

"Please."You whimper softly as he runs his hand up your inner thigh, feeling higher and higher up your dress. Reveling in the softness of your skin. He brushes the fabric against your clit and just his touch makes your knees go weak.

He moves his fingers in circles around the outside of your entrance. You arch your back, pressing your hips against his hand, silently begging for him to slip his fingers inside. He moves closer to you, pushing your dress up higher, and finally he slides your underwear to the side and you feel his thick finger slide inside of you.

"Frankie..." You cry out.

"Fuck," he mutters, pulling his hand away from you and sliding his fingers in his mouth. "You're so fucking wet."

You pull him in for another kiss, messy and wanting, feeling his fingers move in slow, sensual motions into your entrance. You bite down on your lower lip, trying to keep quiet while his hand explores the soft wet folds of your pussy.

He inserts another finger, pushing them deeper inside you and you gasp. He's already making you feel so full with just his fingers, savoring every single movement he makes.

"Does that feel good?" He whispers into your ear.

"It feels so fucking good." You moan softly, rolling your hips against his hand.

"I can't wait until I'm deep inside of you. Until I can fill you up so good..." he growls.

You moan, your knees weakening as you feel him slide in deeper. His pace quickens as he adds a thumb to your clit. Your head hits the back of the wall and Frankie cradles the back of your head, tilting it slightly so he can kiss your neck.

You roll your hips faster against his hand, feeling your core begin to build. You grip tightly on his shoulders, biting down on your lower lip to keep quiet but the sounds of your wetness are starting to fill the area.

Frankie himself is getting swept up in kissing your neck and your chest, peppering kisses and what you can only assume are filthy words in Spanish as he moves lower and lower to lower the strap on your dress.

He lifts you up higher, making it easier for you to move on his fingers as he sucks the bud of your nipple. Your hands go to the nape of his neck as you try to steady yourself, trying to stifle your moans as best you can. You grind your hips harder against him, feeling the growing pleasure pool at your core.

You hear the wet pop of him removing his mouth from your nipple and feel the cool air on your chest. He removes his fingers from you, and you feel that maybe he thinks the two of you got carried away even though it feels so right.

He positions himself lower, between the entrance of your legs that are hoisted on his broad shoulders and pulls your panties down. He spreads you open with his fingers, admiring your wet folds.

"Look at this pretty pussy." He murmurs. "This tight wet hole. It's all mine isn't it?"

He runs his tongue along your strip and you involuntarily let out a cry. He shushes you.

"You have to be quiet for me, baby." Frankie says, kissing at your inner thigh. "Can you do that? So I can make you cum?"

You nod feverishly, your mouth pursed shut as if it's the hardest thing you've ever had to do and he begins to run his tongue over your entrance again.

His tongue circles your clit, slow and teasing and then he takes it between his lips to suck. You rock your hips against his face, your hands on his curls as he slides one hand under your ass to lift you. He slides two fingers into you, pumping faster as you whine.

The pleasure is too much and you dig your nails into his scalp, muffling your cries into his hair. He picks up his pace, his tongue moving faster and faster as he thrusts his fingers deeper and deeper.

You feel yourself coming undone, your muscles contracting around his fingers as you scream into your mouth, back arching from the wall. He pulls his fingers out of you as his tongue circles your clit one last time and your body relaxes.

He kisses your thigh and pulls your panties back up, pressing his forehead against your stomach. "You're so fucking beautiful," he whispers.

He comes back up to pull the top of your dress back up, shielding you as he looks around for anyone else to walk by.

"Oh, now you're checking to see if anyone is around?" You grin. He takes your hand, kissing the top of it as he leads you back out to the street.

"I couldn't help myself. I promise on our next date I won't get so...carried away." Frankie blushes.

You smile, blushing slightly yourself. You can't believe what just happened.

"I think I like getting carried away with you."

Frankie Morales was a man of many mysteries. He was quiet, caring, sweet, sensual and filthy. You thought you knew him and here was this completely other side. You had a feeling he had more up his sleeve, but you were more than willing to find out more.

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