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mildly-incoherent-ramblings · 3 years

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A Breakup And A Party (Writing Prompt)

Friendships at the punk house were always strained to some extent. When you have a bunch of dysfunctional people with fucked up backgrounds all crammed in a space together living in squalor, conflict is inevitable, and as normal as taking a shit once a day. There was a party, and bands were set up in the living room. Alcohol was brought and supplied in surplus by the many attendees, to the point where there were just unopened fifths of booze laying around you could pick up and take a swig of and no one would fuck with you. There wouldn't be any running out that night. This was pre-covid times, so people didn’t care about sharing drinks or being close. Taking a swig meant having the courage to down a good 2% backwash-to-alcohol content from about 20 or so other people as well as the gunk left on the lip of the bottle from the last guy, but these kids had more important things to worry about.

The space was crammed, poorly vented, disgusting. Everyone loved it. Bands played for about 15 minutes at a time with a few people out front watching for cops who would rotate between sets. On a busy street like that one, noise complaints were not common, so there was truthfully little to be worried about. In the backyard, two girls were making out passionately on a half busted wooden bench, trying to avoid getting splinters in their asses, and a dbeat kid studded head to toe keeled over the side of the back fence to vomit, a romantic backdrop for their little moment. A circle of stoner kids that had no affiliation with punk but kind of just showed up wherever the drugs were sat and passed around a suspiciously funny smelling joint, remarking on how they didn't know about all this “heavy shit” but liked the general vibe.

Nearby, Henry, double fisting two bottles of store-brand ripoff Jack belched as he attempted to utter the question “So when is our set?” only realizing after that he was, in fact, talking to a fence. He stumbled up the dangerously busted stairs and swung open the back door violently proclaiming that he was ready to party as if he hadn't already been for the last several hours. Henry was sauced constantly, to the point where a lot of his intoxicated tendencies were just seen as part of his natural demeanor. You generally could not tell when he was drunk or not because he was always drunk.

In the back room several kids piled on a stinky old leather couch just barely supporting their weight, ready to bust. In the middle of them was one kid in a thrasher vest trying to brush his long hair out of the way with his elbow as he attempted to cut several lines of coke on a busted DVD copy of Videodrome. The kid next to him sneezed, and the powder flew like a sad little cloud, and instantly he was shoved from the couch and told to leave, booted out by the other couch kids with great aggression and narrowly escaping an ass kicking through the kitchen door. Thankfully they were all already way too wasted to get up, so when he left the room, it was as though he had not existed. They licked their fingers and wiped the coke residue from the DVD and dabbed it on their tongues fiendishly hoping to get every last little bit. A crusty kid knelt on the floor and tried to sweep up what was left and snorted it, with all the grime and debris it had mixed with. Realistically, he had consumed worse before. His friends laughed.

The last band had finished their set and Henry had set aside his two bottle friends to plug in his amp when Nelson walked in wondering loudly where the fuck their drummer was. Stink wasn’t even a punk kid, he was a DJ and fucked with the electronic scene, who just so happened to really like drumming on the side. Speaking personally as the narrator removed from this situation, I would argue that his insistence in being there while also taking no interest in the music or community whatsoever was the most punk thing anyone present was doing.

But, where was he?

As Nelson hurried to set up the mics and get things in order, Hackney arrived with his bass set up, ready to play within seconds. He always had his shit together. His eyes were red from the 100g edible he had just eaten (the thc content in legally sold edibles was not as heavily regulated at that time so these things were easy to access in the city.) Yet somehow he was clear and present, and immediately irritated that even though they were supposed to start their set right now, their drummer was not even present, and the other two members were wasted beyond belief, even for them.

Just up the stairs however, a frustrated Stink and his girlfriend Melody were amidst a heated quarrel over several unresolved relationship issues that really could have been discussed at another time. But, as alcohol has a tendency to inhibit judgement and heighten a certain sense of impulse, one or the other, it was unclear who, thought it to be the best time to try to have a discussion. Not just thought so, they felt it had to happen NOW, or their fun time for the night would be ruined with no chance of salvation.

Stink was not exactly emotionally present, or competent, and communicated poorly. He was also a notorious cheater, an aspect Melody would frequently be in denial of in despite of his repeated offenses, sometimes in full view of her and her friends. He truthfully was not the type to be able to have a girlfriend, but was also unfortunately passive to a fault, and could not stand to end a relationship with someone as lovely and admittedly clingily as Melody. She adored him maybe a bit too much, and had this hope that she could change him somehow.

A side-note, from your very gay little narrator here: Please, women of the world, understand. You cannot change your dirtbag boyfriend. Leave Him, Honey. You will be so glad you did. I promise you that. You deserve better. You really do.

They were fully engaged in an aggressive back-and-forth complete with insults and counter-accusations fit for an episode of Jerry Springer. Melody was clutching a broken red solo cup in her left fist she had crushed in frustration, the remaining beer inside it dripping on the wooden floor. Stink was guzzling a pint of Ancient Age between cruel remarks. After a particularly sour comment, that red solo cup collided with his crooked face, and he returned fire with the nearly empty bottle of Ancient Age. Just then, Henry came storming into the room, grabbed Stink by the collar and dragged him out, leaving Melody to sit and sob on the bed for a little while before composing herself and venturing down the stairs to fix her makeup. Not a single person in this situation even once considered that this was not their room to begin with. The gentleman who lived there would soon come home to discover that his space was briefly a theater for domestic violence in his absence, a discovery that enraged him to say the least.

Having dragged him down the steps the way a fed up mother would drag a misbehaving child by the ear, Henry shoved Stink behind his drum kit which some well-to-do hipsters took upon themselves to set up for him so the time wasted would not eat into their experimental shoegaze/normcore set, scheduled for immediately after. Seemingly not phased by the last hour or so of nonsense, the band immediately started to go through their setlist. In all fairness, they had a reputation for some level of inconsistency, so when they missed their own cues or played in a tempo different from what was intended for the song no one really noticed it. The whole time, Melody stood amidst the crowd of crust punks, dbeat kids and preppy art school kids, glaring at Stink from behind his drum kit. He however seemed indifferent to the whole situation, and avoided looking her direction for the entire set.

They would not speak for the rest of the night, he sequestering himself off with his bandmates who went to have a smoke out front and then wandered down the street to the bodega for even more booze they definitely did not need; her nestling herself in the comfort of a small group of queer and trans kids who in despite of being welcomed by this “progressive” community felt as isolated and excluded as ever. They fixed her eyeliner and complimented her outfit while giving her some much needed space to vent, and the rest of the night she spent enjoying the company of her new friends. She would not speak to him again for weeks. Conversely, he would act as though none of it happened and wondered with emotive confusion to his friends why she was upset in despite of her having told him very clearly why. The relationship eventually ended, but not before several attempts at resurrection much to the distaste of their friends on either side who could see what neither was able to; that the combination of the two together was like mixing bleach and ammonia. A very bad idea.

Upon their return, Henry stayed behind outside, lit another Marlboro, and looked up at the sky. The fog loomed over the distant hills. The occasional car on the nearby overpass zoomed by. He found a moment of peace there. He was the eye of the storm, the settling of the dust before it would be kicked up again. On the horizon, the faintest hint of the morning light began to glow over the city, and the night finally ended.

Semi-Fictional. The people existed, only some of this actually happened.

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foramomentonly · 4 years

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Nail In My Coffin, Part Four

Part One Part Two Part Three

Summary: Alex and Kyle are fashion designers on a Next In Fashion style reality show. Michael is their model. Dom/sub elements. Prompt courtesy of @signoraviolettavalery .

Author’s Note: This takes place between Parts Two and Three, but they don’t have to be read chronologically. I’m certainly not writing them that way! Hope you enjoy! I’m tagging these under Malex fashion au.

TW for discussion of chronic pain and loss of limb/amputation (but in absolutely no detail)

Read on AO3

It's a bad day. Alex knows it the second he opens his eyes. He tries to sit up in bed and feels his hip seize and a shooting, all-encompassing pain travel from the hinge of his joint all the way down his stump and into the empty space that still aches like it remembers what it felt like to be whole. He suffers through his morning exercises that do jack shit on days like this and showers. His crutch is leaning against the dresser as he searches a drawer for clean clothes, and even though he longs to say fuck it and take it with him, he steels himself and instead digs out his prescription painkillers—the ones you absolutely do not fuck around with—and swallows a single pill dry, stuffing the bottle in his pocket in preparation for a long, agonizing day in the studio.

When he and Kyle were first selected for the show, Alex requested a sit-down with the producers. He got fifteen minutes. He used them to explain, in no uncertain terms, that he would not be talking on camera about his prosthesis or his partial loss of limb in the line of duty. His feelings about his military service are ambivalent. It’s shaped who he has become in ways Alex both values and, on days when he disassociates and feels his grasp on his own humanity go slippery and loose, fears. But he would not allow himself to become a sympathetic poster child on a potentially global scale for streaming’s brand of heartwarming American nationalism—a decorated vet, a queer, Indigenous man who put his body on the line for a country that really does love and respect him after all. The producers played dumb at first, but in the face of Alex’s commanding insistence, they agreed Alex will never be asked directly about his time in the Air Force and, at his discretion, he will only be filmed from the waist up.

The moment they arrive at the studio, driven in from their hotel at an ungodly hour, Alex finds the producer on set and lets them know today is one of those days. When he meets Kyle at their work station he’s touched, but not surprised to find a low stool with a thin seat cushion waiting for him. He and Kyle have shared space for so long—and shared confidences for even longer—that his partner could no doubt tell Alex is in pain simply from the tight line of his mouth and the twitch of his brow when he hefted himself in and out of the large studio van.

“Thank you,” Alex murmurs, sliding onto the stool and adjusting himself so the pain radiating down his thigh is at a dull, insistent ache rather than a sharp, agonizing jolt. Kyle, a master class in discretion, barely spares him a glance.

“You let them know?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ve got a lot of hem work to do, before and after Michael gets here,” he warns.

“I know.”

“I can take the bulk of it-”

“No,” Alex says, shutting him down swiftly.

Kyle purses his lips, but doesn’t argue.

***

Michael ambles into the studio with the other models a little after midday. He forces himself to play it casual, wandering over to craft services and making small talk with a designer taking a quick coffee break. But his gaze seeks out Alex across the room, and he grounds himself with deep breaths and the bite of his own nails against his palm to keep from dropping to his knees on the spot. Alex is working with a garment on their dress form, intent and focused, all broad shoulders and perfect posture. He runs a hand across the chest, smoothing the fabric in wide, sure strokes, and Michael licks his lips, misses whatever inane comment was just made in his direction, and he knows he isn’t going to last long.

The first time he’d seen Alex, Michael had assumed he was looking at a fellow professional. Alex’s dark features, his dramatic cheekbones and brow, and the toned body evident underneath an unassuming t-shirt all screamed model. Not to mention those lips. When he was introduced as a designer, one half of a buzz-worthy menswear brand made up of a former Air Force captain and a med school graduate, Michael secretly hoped he’d get a chance to work with them. He loves modeling for so many reasons. He craves the positive attention his looks and swagger bring him—nothing wrong with that—and he finds creative expression in being part of realizing an artist’s vision on the runway or in front of a camera. But the first time an impatient and harried designer had used Michael’s body like a life-size doll, manhandling him into positions and movements with little more than a gruff “up,” he had experienced a bone-deep satisfaction in relinquishing his body and his agency to another person that brought a whole new level of fulfillment to his work. It’s comforting and secure and, on occasion, incredibly erotic. He starts identifying parallel dynamics in his personal life—Isobel basically doms him into doing stupid shit every other week—and seeking it out in his sex life. Still, no professional experience or carefully-planned scene had ever felt like the toe-curling, mind-melting experience of receiving a command or a touch from Alex Manes.

Michael manages to idle a few more minutes for appearance’s sake before heading over for his consult. Alex and Kyle stand side to side, dark heads drawn together over a what appears to be a task list at the same table Michael had found himself bent over just last week, surrendering completely to Alex’s precise, wicked whims. Just the memory excites him, and Michael practically skips up to his designers’ station. He reaches out a hand and raps his knuckles on the thick tabletop for attention.

“Knock, knock,” he drawls, grinning cheekily at Alex. Alex barely cracks a smile, but that’s hardly unusual. The more stoic Alex is, Michael’s coming to realize, and the more brusque his commands, the more gorgeous it is when he inevitably comes apart.

Kyle smiles affably.

“Hi, Guerin,” he says, moving to take their garments off the dress form, and Michael lets his smile fall slightly when Alex keeps his back to him at the table, knuckles white as he grips the edge almost as if for balance.

“So, for now we’ll just ask you to try on the skirt-pants,” Kyle explains, leading him up onto the base, “but could you also take off your shirt? It’ll just be in Alex’s way while he’s making adjustments.”

Michael watches Kyle return to Alex’s side and speak low into his ear, a hand hovering over the small of Alex’s back. He knows better than to be suspicious of Alex and Kyle’s relationship—it’s clearly a deep, brotherly bond—but Kyle almost seems to be taking care of Alex and, well, Michael wants to be the one to do that.

“I’ll bring you a water,” Kyle says in a louder voice, heading off towards the back of the studio, and Michael fumbles to get changed as Alex turns abruptly towards him, supplies in hand.

“I could have brought you something,” Michael says, “I was over there.”

“It’s fine,” Alex answers briskly, setting his materials on the edge of the base and lowering himself slowly into a squat. He glances up at Michael and maybe he senses Michael’s anxiety or maybe he’d just been preoccupied before, but his face softens and he offers a warm, soothing smile.

“I”m sorry, beautiful,” he murmurs, and Michael feels like his body and mind are sinking slowly into a warm, sweet-smelling pool. “Step forward for me.”

Michael steps closer and Alex’s fingers immediately curl around his ankle, squeezing lightly.

“I’m gonna be down here for awhile,” Alex says, voice clear, but a tad strained. “Stay still for me, sweetheart.”

Michael breathes deep, lets the weight of the command sit heavy on his shoulders, straighten his spine, anchor his feet to the ground. And then he lets himself float, mind clear and body featherlight, Alex’s touch guiding his movements and keeping him grounded. Maybe ten minutes pass, maybe an hour. Michael is only sure of the light press of Alex’s grip on his ankle and the brush of his fingertips across a shin or up his thigh. Alex is quiet, diligent as he works, but the occasional gentle squeeze and soft, “There you go.” is all Michael needs to know he’s done good.

At some point, Alex’s hand slides up his leg, gripping tight on his calf. Michael expects to be guided into a different position or angle, but instead, Alex groans and adjusts his own stance, cupping the back of his right thigh and glowering when he briefly loses his balance and digs blunt fingernails into Michael’s calf to steady himself.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his palm over the crescent moons indented in Michael’s skin.

“It’s okay,” Michael replies, looking down assuringly at Alex.

Alex begins to rise slowly, his mouth a tight grimace, and Michael realizes he’s sweating lightly. He lets his arm jut out subtly, bending slightly at the elbow, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as Alex grips his forearm tightly to pull himself the rest of the way to standing. Circling Michael slowly, Alex slips behind him and grasps Michael’s hips. He could be checking the fit of the garment’s waist, but his usually busy fingers are still and he’s pressing into Michael where they’re connected, shifting his body weight from his right side to his left and using his grip on Michael for balance. In the silence between them, Michael hears his labored breathing, feels the heavy puffs on his naked back.

“Rest for a minute, Captain,” he says softly, “no one’s gonna see.”

Alex squeezes Michael’s hips and Michael feels the damp press of Alex’s forehead between the blades of his shoulders. Scanning the room, he checks that no one is paying them any attention; between the countdown to runway and the minor disaster happening with a team’s dress across the studio they aren’t on anyone’s radar.

“Take your time,” Michael whispers, “no one’s looking.”

Alex’s breathing steadies after another minute, falling in sync with Michael’s own. The rustle of a pill bottle is loud to Michael’s ear after the stillness of their shared moment; he hears the pop of a cap and feels Alex lift and tilt his head back, then more rustling as the bottle is capped and goes back into, Michael assumes, Alex’s pocket. He waits. Alex chances a soft kiss to the back of Michael’s neck, then appears in front of him looking rumpled and tired, but steady.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says.

He looks down, fixing his attention on the front clasp of the garment, and Michael wonders if that’s the most Alex is going to say. Michael’s already decided he’s not going to press him. But after a beat Alex begins to speak.

“I lost a quarter of my right leg, amputated just under the knee on my last tour,” he says, voice pitched low, tone detached and clinical. “That was a little over a year ago. I have a prosthesis and some days I use a crutch. I do physical therapy, but it only takes you so far.” He adjusts his shoulders, takes a quick look around, and continues. “There’s pain. Some days it’s manageable. Others…” He breathes out. “I’m private. I don’t want my personal business turned into some kind of after-school special.” Alex raises his head and fixes Michael with an intense, searching gaze. “This is a lot. You can take your time to process everything, and if you don’t want to continue our— as we’ve been, I understand. But I’m asking for your discretion either way.”

Michael meets his gaze openly, steadily.

“I’ll do anything you ask me to,” he says. “I don’t need time. I want you. I want to be what you need.”

Alex smiles and his hand twitches at Michael’s waist. His let the back of his fingers brush against Michael’s abdomen, a gentle caress that’s all warmth and no heat.

Michael tilts his head closer and whispers, “What do you need, Alex?”

“I need fifteen minutes,” he answers, “and I need a reason to sit down.”

Michael grins, cocky and sure and drawing attention to himself as he rears back and says loudly, “I just don’t get this look, man. Maybe if I could see the sketches? You could give me some insight?”

Smirking privately at Michael, Alex lets a well-practiced annoyance pull at his features as he rolls his eyes dramatically and turn away.

“Over here,” he snaps, gesturing to his work station. Michael leans on the table next to Alex’s stool as he slides onto it, breathing a quiet, grateful sigh and taking a long swig of the water Kyle had left for him, subtly massaging his thigh.

“I’d do that for you, you know, if I could,” Michael murmurs, shifting closer under the guise of examining a sketch and letting his fingers dance over Alex’s knee. “I can promise a very happy ending.”

Alex snorts, pressing the back of his hand to his lips and swallowing a mouthful of water with a gasp, shoulders shaking with laughter. Michael shoots him a dirty grin.

From his place behind the dress form, Kyle makes a face like a carp and a noise like an offended bull.

He glares at them from around his work and says, “This is why I take so many damn coffee breaks.”

#malex fashion au #malex #rnm #malex fic #rnm fic #dom/sub elements #alex manes #michael guerin #kyle valenti #my fic #kylex brotp

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smol-and-grumpy · 5 years

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Dear Dean (Chapter 8)

Re-post

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC (Jamie Blum)

WC: 5.4k

Summary: After taking Saint Lo, by sheer dumb luck, Lieutenant Dean Winchester from the 29th Infantry Division, Baker Company, received a truckload of replacements for his platoon that was falling apart. Little did he know, that one recruit would change his life forever.

Chapter Warnings: Fluff and there’s some adult things in it but I don’t wanna give too away too much

SERIES MASTERLIST

August 14th, 1944

Dean was whistling as his platoon stood at attention. He hadn’t been in this good spirit in what seemed like months, but today was a good day. Maybe because he finally found some time to meet Bambi after dinner.

“Sir.” Bambi looked up at him through her thick eyelashes, her large brown eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “Can I help you with something?”

“Actually, you can.” He shifted his weight awkwardly, trying to keep his stomach from doing summer salts. What was he, fourteen? He’d been with women before, just not like that. None like her.

“Care to elaborate, Lieutenant?” Her smile grew, challenging him.

“I need your assistance at Twenty-one hundred hours, Bambi. Needs to sort through ammo supplies. See if we still have enough.”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant. I may be busy. That’s around the time that Trenton tells his wild tales about his newest love interest. I can’t miss that, sir.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow, as if to ask her ‘seriously’?

She smirked in response. “But I guess I can do it for our fearless leader. Since you’re asking so nicely.”

They’d been tip toeing around each other, unconsciously and consciously touching when their hands would meet, and Dean felt himself blushing every damn time. They’d sit across from each other during meals, their eyes meeting, and toes brushing under the table. It was like there was a magnet pulling them together by their chests. He ached to kiss her again.

She would ask him questions, even when she knew the answer, just to get him to come closer.

“Where does this piece go on the rifle again, sir? The bolt, isn’t it? I never can quite get it right.”

“Just takes practice, Bambi.” He said with fake annoyance. “Let me show you.”

He’d lean over, pressing his palm to her back.

She’d sit up a little straighter and bat his hand away. There were eyes everywhere, and just because she was a woman didn’t mean that it was any less dangerous for them to be together.

“Don’t tell them, Dean. You have to promise me. I can’t go home, not now.” Her fingers were laced with his. “Not while my brothers are out here somewhere. I just can’t sit alone doing nothing.”

They’d stand too close. He’d feel her breath on his skin, and he would jump in the opposite direction. Tension was high, to say the least. He couldn’t wait to get her alone, even to just talk. When he was with her he wasn’t a superior officer talking to his private. He was just Dean, and she was Jamie. There was something unbelievably peaceful about that.

But it was only Oh-nine-hundred, so it was still a damn long way to go, but Dean couldn’t help feeling giddy.

Right then, Dean was trying his best not to think about her soft lips on his. Not to think about how she tasted on the tip of his tongue and how his name sounded whispered, breathless on her lips.

She’d got under his skin, snuck up on him and crawled inside. She was a spitfire and Dean was glad that he she wouldn’t let herself be tamed. Not by him, or anyone else. Somehow it made him worry about her a little less. There was no question that Jamie Blum could take care of herself.

“Physical training at Eleven-hundred-hours. You’re dismissed.” Dean shouted and his men walked away with some yes sirs.

Bambi looked back to him, her nose wrinkling with the smallest smile. If he hadn’t been staring so hard he wouldn’t have seen it. She turned her head and went with Trenton. Dean really couldn’t wait for the evening to arrive. He’ll be meeting Bambi at Twenty-one-hundred hours at their spot which Dean scouted over and over to see if it really was safe. He was thankful that he was her platoon leader so it made it less suspicious. Maybe he was wrong, but Dean liked to believe it. It made him a little less sick to his stomach at the thought of getting caught. Worst case scenario they’d think they were queer, shoot first and ask questions later. Best case scenario, they’d find out she was a girl, and they’d send her home. Neither were options that Dean wanted to explore.

Of course his plans would get thrown out of the window when Castiel called for an emergency briefing at Twenty-thirty-hours. They would move out in less than 48 hours toward Brest. Another combat. Another city to capture and it was a big one. They talked about what would happen and Castiel gave them the little intel he had. Telling them that they would notify their men tomorrow after the morning briefing. It was just informal for now. The meeting was long for an informal one, though, and Dean flipped his wrist to look at his watch. It was Twenty-one-oh-two. He was already two minutes late. Dean turned his attention back to listen to Castiel, but shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

“Winchester, somewhere you need to be?” Castiel asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, sir.”

The answer was good enough for Cas. He asked if they had more questions, and Dean hoped that Gabe would shut his mouth. He was always the goody-good boy. Trying to crawl up the ass of whoever was CO.

Castiel looked at their faces and when no question came, he dismissed them and Dean let out an exhale.

Dean walked with the others to their billets, then excused himself, saying that he had to check the latrines because his platoon had latrine duty. He looked at his watch when he stood outside of his billet building. It was now Twenty-one-twelve. He was already 12 minutes late. She was probably gone. He started to run then, as good as his healed up ankle would let him.

He was out of breath when he arrived in front of the supply room and looked around to see if someone was following him. When the coast was clear, he pushed the door open just enough to wedge his body inside and closed it behind him carefully.

It was dark already, only the faint light from the night sky shimmered through the windows and his eyes needed time to adjust to the darkness.

Dean didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know if she was still there or if she was already gone. He took a tentative step into the room and was about to call out for her when he was thrown off his balance by her body. Jamie jumped on him with a faint shriek and a huffed giggle. She hooked her legs around his waist, still laughing as she rested her forehead on his. “You’re late, sir.” She whispered against his mouth before she kissed him. He could still taste the coffee on her lips as he smiled into the kiss. He held onto her thighs to keep her up.

He paused the kiss to let out a breathy, “Sorry,” before he walked her further into the room, with one hand secured around her waist and one hand at the back of her neck. He pulled her closer, to the back of the room where the darkness would swallow them whole.

Dean pressed her back against the far wall, kissing himself stupid on her taste. He smiled as he felt her cheeks heat up against his. She held his face between her hands, letting her fingertips brush against his heated skin before she went further down, unzipping his jacket. Her fingers danced along his suspenders. She pushed them down on either side. Dean gladly let her. He shrugged his combat jacket off one arm after another and pinned her back against the wall when he was freed of the fabric.

He was busy with her intoxicating kisses, the way she pushed her tongue into his mouth without any preamble, the way the tip of her tongue tickled the underside of his. He felt how his dick started to swell at the new found excitement. It had been too long since the last time he did this very thing. He rolled his hips up, this time fully aware that there was no friction to be met, but she moved down a bit, grinding down on his bulge. Dean breathed out a strangled moan into her mouth.

She tapped on his arm, and he let her down. She leaned her back against the wall standing on her toes, as Dean continued to kiss her. It was all tongue and teeth, too fast and probably clumsy. She was inexperienced, but hell, if it wasn’t perfect. Dean’s heart was thumping hard and he couldn’t remember when he’d ever been that excited. He recalled that it was probably never.

Bambi’s hand were on the front of his pants, the pressure of it made his dick twitch and Dean jerked a little as she ran her fingers over the length of him through the fabric. He bit down on her bottom lip in the process; the friction was too sudden and fuck, he wasn’t prepare of how good it would feel. “Shit, sorry,” He whispered, his forehead on hers and she giggled, looking up to mold her lips back to his again.

Her small hands were quick on his belt working it open, the clink of metal echoing in the tiny space. She loosened his buttons with deft fingers, and Dean tried to do the same but immediately abandoned his mission, because he was way too impatient to work them open. He wanted to feel her. To connect. His hand squeezed it’s way past the buttons of her combats, and then he pushed past the elastic of her cotton army underwear and cupped at her sex with the heel of his palm, his fingers threaded through her slick. She bit down on her already red and swollen bottom lip, and Dean could even see in the dim lighting, that she was flushed. Her cheeks were burning up and Dean almost forgot his ministration from how cute she looked.

His fingers parted her folds and Dean held in his breath when he felt her getting wetter. He lowered his head to hers, kissing her again, his nose bumping against hers clumsily, and he smiled against the corner of her mouth. His fingers worked her open while he circled her clit with his thumb. He groaned into her mouth when she pushed her hand into his underwear and he jerked his hips away from her touch a little. Her hands were damn cold, and Dean needed a second to compose himself. Jamie was grinning cheekily and he kissed it away like he had always wanted to the past few weeks.

His hard cock was twitching and throbbing in her small hands and she worked his shaft, rubbing him the right way along his lengths, the pressure was perfect. Dean had a lot to compare her to, but he didn’t want to. If he was being honest, he couldn’t remember anyone but her in that moment. It was more than he thought it would be. She slipped her other hand into his underwear too, cupping his sac and twirled his balls in her palm, and he thrusted his cock into her fist gently. When she thumbed his slit and let her fingertip that was coated in precum brush over his sensitive string of nerves, Dean almost lost it and he had to stop with his ministration, taking his hand out of her pants to brace himself against the wall, mumbling curses to himself. He was not going to last with the build up. It’d been too long, and she was too fucking perfect. His elbows were resting on either side of her head as he kissed her again, breathing unevenly in to the kiss and his heart was pounding out of his chest. He kissed her again and again. All over. And still it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

“Fuck.” Dean let out another hot breath, as he rest his forehead on her shoulder, his nose bumping against her throat.

“What?” She whispered, breathless.

She looked up with a glint in her eyes and Dean chuckled softly. Not the good kind of chuckle, it was a chuckle that said I’m a stupid fuck and I can’t believe that I came here without a solid plan.

“I wish I still had the condoms they gave us for waterproofing when we crossed the channel. Fuck…” Dean buried his head in the crook of her neck, smelling the familiar smell of soap and camouflage cream. Both of her hands now worked his dick and shit, if she didn’t stop, he won’t be able to hold it in any longer.

“You used them all?” If he wasn’t mistaken, she looked a little jealous.

Dean could almost hear the sinking of her heart and he felt her releasing the grip around his cock. Actually, he was glad about that because it gave him a breather.

“No.. oh no, no. I abandoned them at the bottom of the sea when I got rid of my haversack.”

“Oh..”

She smiled, and laced her arms around his neck to scratch at the short hair at the base of it. Dean closed his eyes, it felt great.

“We still could, you know…” She stood on her tip toes and whispered against the shell of his ear. Dean looked down to her, his eyebrows raised.

“What do you mean?”

“I want to, Dean.” Her large brown eyes bore into his. “I haven’t had my period, since before I was drafted. You could pull out.”

He frowned at that, the lines on his forehead showing. Then she smiled again, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumbs brushing along the scruff before she spoke. “I want you to.”

“I..I –”

It was probably not the best thing Dean could do, but god knows how much he wanted it too.

“Sir, if you don’t do it, I swear I’ll–”

Dean kissed her, cutting her off and he murmured a, “Yes, Ma’am” into her mouth.

She toed off her boots and it left Dean stunned because they were already unlaced. “Always be prepared, Lieutenant.” She said with a wink and if Dean didn’t feel anything for her before, he sure as hell would then. But that was irrelevant because he was head over heels smitten with her.

Bambi pushed him away to shimmy herself out of her combat pants and rid herself of her jacket when Dean watched her. He put his palm to his mouth and spit on it before he took his cock in his hand, fisting it up and down as he waited for her to finish getting out of her clothes.

She wiggled out of her pants, and lost balance. She slipped on the pant leg and fell on her face clumsily and Dean didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help the laugh that threw his whole body back and logged itself in his throat. He composed himself quickly, though. Remembering that they needed to stay quiet and almost kicked himself in the ass for not being more careful.

She stood up again soon after, hitting him across his chest for laughing at her, and it hurt, but Dean totally deserved it. She met his eyes and swatted his hand away from his dick and grabbed it roughly, tightening her grip around his length and squeezed a little too tightly. Dean hitched his breathing and he guessed that he also deserved that.

He looked down to see her grinning at him.

“Jump,” He whispered holding his arms out, ready to catch her.

“How high, Lieutenant?” She giggled as she jumped up into his arms. Dean wrapped his arms around her tightly, pinning her back against the wall.

“You sure about this?” He asked her again, lowly, because if she wouldn’t be, he was ready to back out of it. But she nodded and Dean pressed his lips to hers slowly in response, drinking her in. Bambi, the one he could never have. The kisses were demanding and all want, weeks of pent up energy. She tugged on his hair, proving that she needed him just as much as he needed her. He licked her bottom lip as he lined up his cock at her entrance, brushing the tip through her slick before he pushed his hips forward, sinking himself into her hot heat. She hitched her breathing and tensed a little from the pressure, but she didn’t tell him to stop. He stalled for a moment, resting his forehead on hers, their breathing mingled. “You okay?” He asked her and waited for her okay, before he pushed himself in another inch.

Dean worked his hips forward gently, sinking into her tight pussy, inch by inch, and fuck, it felt so fucking good that he had to stall when his pelvis was flushed to hers. They were there, connected on the inside, skin on skin with no space in between. An inaudible moan rolled off her tongue and the sound alone almost made him lose his shit. It was a moan that got under his skin and paired with the stimulation, it felt like heaven and beyond.

She was crawling at his back, holding herself up. “Dean?”

“Huh?”

“I won’t break, you know.” Her eyes were alert, bright and expecting. Those fucking eyes.

“Yeah.. uh.. I know.” He said, his heart was pounding fast and he was sure that she could feel it through the fabric of their shirts. “I… just… fuck, Bambi, I won’t last long.” He ran his fingers through her short hair.

She laughed at that and Dean should’ve maybe felt embarrassed but, he didn’t. Instead he listened to the sound of her laugh, drinking it in, memorizing it to keep it in his mind forever.

Dean moved, thrusting his hips forward into her and she kissed him, her breathing ragged with each thrust. She squeezed her hand between the two of them as she began to rub at herself while he fucked into her.

Jamie left open mouthed kisses on the corner of his mouth, sucking at his jaw, dragging her teeth along his throat, and Dean moaned at the sensation overload.

“Shit, Dean.. I.. ah..” Jamie came with a whimper and his name that rolled off her lips like the sweetest melody Dean’d ever heard. He couldn’t count how many times he’d imagined hearing her say his name like that. Wrecked and breathy, her lips still smelling of his skin. Her thighs pressed against his waist, squeezing it hard in between as her walls cramped down on his dick, holding it captive and fuck, it was all too much. Too tight, too good, too damn perfect.

“Shit..fuck,” Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he moaned and pulled out, but it wasn’t fast enough. He had already spilled half of it inside of her and the rest was visibly on her inner thighs and the floor. He let her down quickly and took a step back before running his fingers through his hair, his eyes wide. “Shit, Bambi. Fuck, I’m sorry. Shit. It shouldn’t have happened. I fuck.. I shouldn’t. Shit!” Dean lowered himself onto his knees, his legs felt wobbly all of a sudden.

He’d fucked up.

He put his dick back into his pants and buttoned it up before he sat himself against the wall some inches away from the spilled cum. Jamie got dressed quickly and came to sit beside him quietly.

Dean clasped his head in his hand and rubbed through his hair. Back and forth, back and forth. “Shit, Bambi. I’m sorry…” He sounded like an old record. Repeating himself over and over.

“Shhh..” She moved closer, hushing him as she laid her head on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

“I.. I, just.. really haven’t done it for a very long time and I guess, I miscalculated. You were so fucking tight too and it.. fuck, you were perfect, alright.”

Dean didn’t lie. Last time he hooked up with someone it was back in England and he was drunk then, didn’t even really remember what happened when he woke next to a broad in the middle of the night. He jumped out of the bed, scrambled around the floor for his clothes and was glad that he found a used condom near the bed, so at least he still had enough common sense to use one. Unlike now; and he knew that it’s also on him.

She smirked at that. “Dean, really. It’s ok.” She repeated again and Dean frowned at first but he spread his arm for her to curl close to his body. Dean kissed the top of her head, his lips lingered there. Her short hair pricking him a little, but he didn’t complain.

“Thanks.” She said then and Dean looked down at her. Her doe eyes looking back at him.

“For what?”

“It was nice Lieutenant. I’d love to do it again sometime.” She was smiling cheekily.

Dean blushed at that and he hoped that she didn’t see it. “Yes, Ma’am. Come here.” He maneuvered her over his leg to sit between his thighs and he let her lean the back of her head on his chest.

“Do you know that you’re less grumpy nowadays?” She asked out of the blue and tilted her head to look up at him.

“What’s that?”

“Yeah, the men said that they don’t know what happened to you but apparently you got soft and you smile more.” She giggled and shifted herself to her side, so her face was resting in the crook of his neck and he was holding her with both arms.

“Is that so?”

“Haha.. yeah.” She laughed. “Did you know that they used to call you Grumpy?”

He’d been called many things in the past and he knew that his platoon had a nickname for him, but he didn’t know what it was. When he heard the name, he frowned down at her. “What?”

“Grumpy. I mean, you gave them the name Dopey and Sneezy. So…”

“Who said that? It’s Tran isn’t it?” Dean murmured and she just shrugged.

“Not going to kiss and tell, Lieutenant.”

“Remind me to put his name in for latrine duty from here on out until we get Hitler’s head on a stick, will ya?”

“Oh, come on, cut him some slack,” She punched him in the chest playfully. “And in his defense. You were really grumpy.”

That was probably true. Dean has no valid explanation for why he was such a stick in the mud, and he was not going to deny it.

They stayed a little while longer, sitting there in the comforting dark silence. Jamie fell asleep in his arms, listening to his heartbeat against her ear. Dean really didn’t want to wake her, she looked peaceful. He’d seen her sleep before, but never quite like that. Her lips were parted slightly, and her eyes were completely at rest. Her face looked relaxed, beautiful even. He smiled down at her, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. He had to be the bad guy, and wake sleeping beauty, because at Twenty-three-thirty-hours he had to check their billets.

“Hey.” He mumbled, kissing her awake.

“Shit, what time is it? I should be heading back.” Jamie jolted up when he kissed her.

“So soon?” He joked, but he knew that their time was up. There was never enough time.

She stood up and held out a hand for him to take. “Yeah, my platoon leader is really strict. He’ll come by every night at the same time and if someone’s not in their bed, he tends to be dramatic and raises hell. You know, being all tough and puffing out his chest, hanging out his alpha male behaviour and all.”

Dean got on his feet and hugged her around her waist. He lowered his head to whisper in her ears. “He sounds like an asshole.”

“Ugh.. he is. But I like him.”

“I bet he’s a handsome asshole.” Dean kissed her lips one last time before he let her go out first. He stayed behind a couple of minutes longer, just to be safe.

Before he went for inspection, he read Sam’s letter that he didn’t have the time to read earlier. He tore up the dirty envelope and took out the pages. There was dried blood on it too and shit, he hoped that Sam took care of himself.

Dear Dean,

Never fucking joke like that ever again, alright? You know that you’re not funny and the fact that you almost died is even less funny. I should court-martial you. Fucking jerk! I bet I would find a good reason to do it, too. Especially after you said that you did something stupid. What did you do? Steal Cas’ socks? I know what a goody soldier you are, and I can’t say that I’m not worried when you, of all people, tell me that you did something stupid.

Dean, please don’t do anything stupid, alright? I have my hands full here. I can’t come and get you out of military jail. They won’t even let me. I’m begging you. Don’t do anything stupid. We want to get out of the war alive, remember?.

But honestly, even if it was something stupid, I still believe that it’s something that could be fixed. You could always fix things, Dean. Remember how you keep fixing my bike? I kept breaking it, thinking I could do stunts with it. Thankfully I never broke more than my leg. How could you not have told me to stop?

I’m good, though. Jess wrote to me. She’ll keep waiting for me to come home. Shit, Dean, I wanna go back home. Wanna see Jess again. I think I’m going to ask her to marry me. You think it’s too soon? Or stupid? I know that you’ve kept mom’s jewelry in your desk drawer at home. I know that her wedding and engagement rings are in there and I also know that you’re the older brother and you can call dibs on it but since you have no one to propose to - and don’t take it as an offense, alright, because you and me both know that I don’t mean it like that - would you mind.. I mean, would it be okay for me to propose to Jess with it? I know mom would have wanted it to, I just wanted to double check with you, is all.

By the way, Anna wrote to me, too. She said that you were not writing back to her. Now, I know that it’s not my place, but maybe you should tell her that you don’t feel anything for her, because even though I love you brother, but I’m not doing the dirty work for you. I have to clean up other people’s messes on a daily basis and I have got no patience left for your mess.

Keep yourself alive, jerk!

Sergeant Sam Winchester

August 17th, 1944

The back of the deuce-and-a-half was uncomfortable to say the least. One and Two platoons were cramped in narrow spaces, and Tran just fell asleep on Jamie’s shoulder. She let him sleep, though. Even though she felt his saliva wetting her jacket. They didn’t get to sleep a lot, and she could hear all the whimpers at night when the men would jerk awake with nightmares. They usually were not able to go back to sleep because they wanted to escape the faces of fallen friends and gaping bullet wounds. War did that, it invaded even the quietest places of your mind, nestled in, and stayed with you.

Jamie didn’t really get a lot of sleep herself, but apart from the dark bags under her eyes, her spirits were still high. She scanned the men around her, looking for the familiar face of Dean and there he was, laughing and joking with Harvelle. When he saw her looking, he grinned.

“Tran!” Dean shouted from across. “Hey! Corporal Tran!”

Jamie shot Dean a look that said so much as it’s ok, let him sleep.

“Tran!” Dean shouted again, waking him up and Tran jerked, slurping up a string of saliva.

“Sorry.” Tran mumbled and she smirked at him, telling him that it was alright. “What’s up, sir?” He shouted to Dean, his hand wiping away the sleep from his eyes.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re not soiling all of Bambi’s shoulder, is all.” Dean replied with a cheeky grin, thinking that he’d done her a favor, but Jamie was having none of it.

“Sir, I can speak for myself, and Tran clearly needed the nap. I haven’t seen him sleeping so peacefully in days.”

She could see that Dean wasn’t impressed with her talking back at him like that in front of his men, but he said nothing. Just curled and uncurled his fingers into fists before he took out the tin of cigarettes and lit up one.

“Bambi, I need to see you when we get off.”

“Shit.” Tran murmured to her. “I’m sorry, Blum. You didn’t have to stand up for me.”

“It’s fine. I’ll be alright.” She said, dismissively, her eyes never leaving Deans.

***

They’ve been waiting for orders as they stopped short of a tiny village. “We’ll be pairing with Easy company.” Dean said calmly as he took a knee to show them the map that was propped on it.

Someone was shouting from the back. “Thank god not Dog!”

“Shut your mouth, private.” Dean growled before he went on. “We’ll be clearing these houses on the west before meeting the rest of the convoy here.” He pointed at the red dot where the trucks would be waiting for them to take them further towards Brest. “Any questions?”

When none was forthcoming, Dean folded the map and put it back into his webbing before he nodded at his men.

“Bambi, I still need to talk to you.” He singled her out and they fell back as Baker and Easy company marched towards their objectives.

“What is it?” She asked him bluntly, even though she probably knew what he’s going to say.

Dean fell into step beside her, his breathing was heavy. “About Tran. Listen, I was just trying to help.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I didn’t need your help.”

“Just thought that you’d be annoyed that he was drooling all over you, is all.”

She stalled. “Really? Is this what it’s all about? Or are you jealous?”

“No.” It came shooting out of Dean like a bullet. Which, Jamie thought, meant that he probably was. She didn’t get it. They weren’t like that yet, were they?

“It’s fine, Dean. I can take care of myself. Hell, I went through Basic and Saint Lo without your damn help. You even made my life miserable, but I’m still here.” She walked again, faster this time, intending to leave Dean behind. She didn’t have time for this bullshit.

There was the sound of shells up front and they all crouched down. The platoons seeking out their leaders to go over strategy. “Rifle squad, move in on the left flank. The others, move right, prepare to lay down base of fire to support Easy company.”

Jamie was about to jog up to catch up on the rifle squad when Dean held her back. “What now?” She hoped that Dean could hear the annoyance in her voice.

“I don’t want you there.” He just replied, as he pushed her towards the other squad and they move up right.

“Where do you want me, sir?” She made it clear that he couldn’t overhear the annoyance in the tone of her voice.

“No further than five feet away from me.” He said as he stomped away, leaving Jamie to catch up on him and she ran, breathing hard as she finally reached him. “And that’s not negotiable.” He was hissing at her before he crouched down and pulled her with him, their rifle pulled up to their shoulders, as they waited to give fire support.

A mortar hit a couple of feet behind them and Dean shouted “Run!” before he sprinted across the street, his rifle pulled up to fire in the direction of the source. She tagged along and was never more than five feet away from him, as she’d been ordered.

There was another loud hissing, and there it was. She could see the mortar shell that flew high above, as if it was in slow motion. Jame stopped firing and looked at the shell and how it was flying directly at her. Of course that couldn’t happen, but in that moment, it did. Everything moved too slowly, but she couldn’t move. She stood there, frozen in space. All she could hear was a scream, and suddenly, everything went black.

CHAPTER 9

#dear dean #dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester fan fiction #dean winchester x oc #dean winchester x ofc #dean x oc #dean x ofc #nathalie writes

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