Playing House
Anon request. Shawn x reader. Prompt: “We’re best friends, we made out…we’re practically married.”
Notes: Another request that took me too long to write! Idk who you are, anon, but I hope you like it. I hope you all like it! 💗
Warnings: None. Pretty much all fluff. Hot make-out, leading to smut, but no actual smut. Sorry, lovies. Don't hate me.
You close the door behind you, making sure the lock engages, and set your clutch on the entryway console table, sighing deeply. Tarzan sprints toward you in greeting and looking for scratches. You oblige and ask, “Is Daddy still up?” He chuffs. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He shoots back off to Shawn’s room.
After changing into your pajamas, washing your face, and brushing your teeth, you make your way to Shawn’s bedroom. He is leaning back against a mound of pillows, in only pajama pants and his wire-framed glasses, MacBook open on his lap, tousled curls falling in his eyes. You lean your shoulder against the doorframe, tender smile on your lips. You always breathe easier in his presence.
Shawn closes his laptop and turns to look at you, removing his glasses and reaching over to set them on the night table. “You’re home early. What, no fireworks?” He had tried not to think about you being on a date, it had made his stomach sour. But still, you’re his best friend and he wanted to be supportive. He taps the bed beside him.
“No fireworks.” He hands you his laptop and you set it on his dresser before crawling into his bed and snuggling into his side. “Not even a spark. It was just...weird.”
“What was? Your date or your date?” he chortles.
You gently thump his stomach. “He was attractive, charming, genuine, a perfect gentleman.”
“Well, then what was the problem?”
You sigh and sit up again, crisscrossing your legs, facing him. He does the same. Your knees are touching. “You.”
“You’re crimping my style,” you mutter.
He snorts. “I am not taking the blame for whatever was weird about your date.”
“I guess I’m just used to being around you, and out with you, where everything is comfortable and easy and fun. We’re best friends, we made out...we’re practically married. You know all my quirks and insecurities; I don’t have to hide those with you.”
He snickers. “How did we go from best friends who make out to practically married?”
“I’m not opposed to doing that again, you know.” He places his hands on the outsides of your thighs and starts to stroke your skin with the pads of his thumbs. “I like the way you kiss.”
“Do you even remember what it was like to kiss me?” you giggle.
“I remember,” he declares.
You raise an eyebrow, smirk on your lips. “You were pretty wasted, bub.”
“I’m pretty sure I liked it.”
“Mmhm. I don’t even know what possessed me to let you kiss me in the first place.”
“I’m irresistible,” he grins.
“That’s open to debate,” you snark.
“Ha ha,” he scowls. “So, let me try again. Sober this time.”
“No.” You drop your eyes. “It took me a week to even get past that.”
“Nothing,” you say quickly. “Never mind.”
“We’ll circle back to that.”
You wish that hadn’t slipped out. He absolutely would circle back to that; he wasn’t just going to let it go. You think, maybe subconsciously, you wanted to say it, that you actually meant to.
He taps beneath your chin, effectively drawing your eyes back to his. “Tell me how we’re practically married,” he chuckles.
“We live together and are constantly in each other’s space. Sometimes annoyingly so. I have meals ready for you when you get home from meetings or the studio. Truthfully, I do most of the cooking. And why do I do most of the cooking?”
“Because I can’t be trusted alone in the kitchen,” he mumbles, rolling his eyes.
“But you clear the table and run the dishwasher, bub. You also carry heavy grocery bags, kill all the spiders, investigate odd noises, and try to fix things that get broken.”
“Name one time we haven’t had to call maintenance or a repairman.”
He tries, nose scrunched, eyes showing the thoughts tumbling in his mind.
“I also take out the trash.”
“And who takes Tarzan for walks on the coldest days of the year?” Tarzan’s head cocks and ears perk up from the foot of the bed. Shawn chuckles. “Sorry boy,” he says, placing a hand on his rump. “Settle.”
He puts his hand over his heart and gasps. “If we’re practically married, he’s our dog.”
“I take care of our dog when you’re on business trips. I keep the house nice for when my bub comes home from appearances, events, and tour.” His cheeks pink when you say, ‘my bub’. “I even keep track of your schedule,” you continue. “You’re lucky you have me as your faux-wife. No one else could keep you on task or generally put up with your shit or your moods.”
“You’re not being a very nice faux-wife right now,” he pouts.
“I’m about to not be very nice again,” you caution. “It’s your weekend to do laundry.”
He groans dramatically. “You know how much I hate doing laundry.”
“What chores are on your list that you still have yet to do?” he asks.
“Changing the sheets and making the beds-”
“I’ll do that!” he interrupts before you can add anything more.
“That’s not a fair trade because stripping the beds creates more laundry.” To be honest, you don’t mind doing laundry, you just get a giggle out of his moaning and grumbling on his laundry weeks. He always sulks and complains like a petulant child. It amuses you.
“Cleaning your bathroom.”
He smirks. “And why is my bathroom on your chore list?”
You wrinkle your nose. “Because I use it more than you do.”
“I like your tub better,” you say, with a slight shrug.
“And who runs your baths for you?”
“Who never complains about your lotions and scrubs and creams all over every available surface of his bathroom?”
“Who goes to the store at odd hours to get you whatever you’re craving when you’re on your period?”
“Who packs your lunch for you every night so all you have to do is grab it and go in the morning?” By now it’s all rhetorical. “Who reminds you to eat and hydrate in the evenings or on weekends when you’re working towards a deadline? Who always gives you the bigger half, the last bite, or the better piece of anything we share? Who leaves little notes all over the house with words of affirmation on them?”
“Are you done?” you huff. He can see the little smile you’re trying not to let show. He truly is the best boyfriend you’ve ever had and he isn’t even your boyfriend.
“You’re lucky you have me,” he parrots back at you, immensely pleased with himself.
“If I agree, will you stop?” you grumble.
“Agree to what?” he teases.
“Agree that I’m the best faux-husband ever and you’re lucky to have me.”
“You’re a good faux-hubby,” you concede.
“Not just good.” A swift maneuver puts you on your back on the bed and he is suddenly hovering over you, smirking. “Come on, wife.”
You know if you don’t say what he wants to hear he’ll tickle you mercilessly. “Fine!” You attempt to push him off of you, laughing, but he’s strong and stubborn. “You’re the best faux-husband ever.”
“And I’m lucky to have you.” You are. Shawn falls onto his back, pulling you on top of him across his chest. “You take good care of me,” you breathe.
He places a kiss on top of your head. “We take care of each other,” he says softly. He absentmindedly traces shapes against the strip of bare skin at the small of your back.
After a few silent moments, he asks, “Can we at least have a conversation about it?”
“About what?” you wonder quietly, content as you are. Shawn is always so warm and smells so good.
You start to push out of his arms. “Can we not?”
“Let it go, bub,” you exhale, sitting up, turning your back on him.
You make a move to leave his bed but before you can, he encircles your wrist with his large hand. “What did you mean?”
You glance at his hand around your wrist. “Shawn...”
“You said it took you a week to get past it... Am I really to blame for how your date went?”
“Don’t worry about it,” you try to assure him, briefly meeting his eyes. He’s propped himself up on his side.
He gives your wrist a little tug. “Talk to me.”
Your eyes close. “He wasn’t you,” you whisper. “No one is ever you.”
“Babe,” he breathes, sitting up against the pillows again. You allow him to pull you back into bed. “Look at me.” You try, cheeks bright red from your admission. “Why do you think it’s been so long since I’ve been on a date of my own? My darling, no one is ever you.”
Your heart starts thumping wildly and finally you’re able to meet his eyes again.
“I want to remember what it was like to kiss you,” he murmurs, brushing the pad of his thumb along your bottom lip. “We’re practically married, after all,” he smirks, breaking the awkward anticipation.
You snort and he laughs, which makes you laugh.
“What do you say? Come on, honey.” He pulls you closer to him. “Make out with me.” He continues to draw you nearer still, until you’re almost in his lap.
“It’s going to change everything,” you express, thoughtfully. Yet you move to straddle him, which you can tell he likes with the little growl at the back of his throat and shift of his hips. You drape your arms over his shoulders and wrap your hands around his neck.
He grips your hips and tugs you even closer. “Let it,” he hums.
He brushes his lips across yours. You gently capture his lower lip between yours. You kiss him, tentatively at first, reveling in how it feels to have his mouth fully under yours. Drunk and messy had been enough to make you lightheaded. This is something else entirely.
The tip of his tongue nudges the seam of your lips, encouraging them to part. Sparks of fire race and settle in stomach and inguen as tongues touch and explore and kisses turn deep and hungry. The mint of your mouths dissipates until all you can taste is each other.
You break apart only enough to breathe, hearts thudding, bodies buzzing, throbbing where you are pressed closest together.
“Yep. I knew I liked it,” he mumbles through a dopey grin against your lips.
You giggle. “No babe...” You inhale. “This is different,” you breathe on the exhale.
“We should’ve done this a long time ago,” he whispers.
Your lips touch again and you lose yourselves in one another until he hears the little moan you hadn’t meant to express.
“Yep,” he shudders, affected more than he ever imagined he could be from such a small sound. “We’re gonna have sex now.”
“Are we?” you hum, dragging fingernails lightly across his upper back.
“Mmhm.” He gives a sharp whistle and points to the bedroom door. The golden retriever jumps off the bed and leaves the room.
He pulls your camisole up, over your head, and off, tossing it aside. “You know, like married couples are prone to do...” His eyes fall on bare breasts he’d only imagined ever seeing. He cups one and lowers his mouth to its pink-tipped peak. He focuses his attention on your breasts until you’re whimpering.
“And then I’ll change the sheets and make the beds.” He flips you over and settles himself between your legs. You impatiently push his pajama bottoms down and he wriggles out of them, throwing them aside as well. “Maybe I’ll even clean my bathroom.”
You laugh throatily, which turns him up another notch. He eagerly slips your panties over your hips, down, and off, dropping them over the side of the bed. Hands on either side of you to support his weight, he lowers his lips to yours again.
Between licks and tugs, he murmurs against your mouth, “But you have to do the laundry.”
