daisy

she/her reblog warrior bisexual 18

[mariasont]

BRACHYURA ⋆˚࿔

langdon discovers your weakness: being correct. you discover his: needing to argue with you about it

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted

PAIRING: frank langdon x nerd!reader WARNINGS: fluffity fluff, nerd!reader, sunshine!reader, intern!reader, pre-relationship pining, academic flirting, shirtless langdon, reader is clumsy, langdon manhandling once again, beach setting, slow burn as always PROMPT: here! WC: 0.9k

You’re crouched by the rocks, thinking (maybe overthinking, definitely overthinking) about how tides are basically nature’s very slow, very patient way of rearranging furniture, nudging the shoreline grain by grain. Erosion as decoration, oceanic feng shui.

Your toes, lacking imagination or enthusiasm for your existential oceanic musings, wriggle unhappily in gritty sand, damp and insistent, like the world’s least appealing exfoliation treatment. 

But you’re stubborn, and stubborn means you’ll ignore discomfort if there’s something captivating enough to distract you. And just ahead, caught in the safe anonymity of shadow, is a small crab. It skitters sideways, freezes mid-motion, as though playing the world’s tensest, tiniest game of red light, green light. 

You’ve never really gotten the hang of “enjoying” the beach like a normal person, have you?

Even as a kid, your beach trips meant scraped knees and awkward contortions above tiny tide pools. Scientist postures adopted decades too early. Your mind always running away from you, darting through an endless maze of questions that refused resolution.

Once you tried to smuggle an entire jar of seawater home, insisting it was important, vital even, despite overwhelming visual evidence that it was just… salty water with a few grains of drifting sand. 

“Brachyura,” a voice says from behind you, abrupt and far too close to your ear to belong to a stranger. Your breath hitches and your foot slides ineptly in the damp sand.

Gravity lurches enthusiastically toward public embarrassment, already whispering promises of sandy humiliation, but a pair of hands find your shoulders, tugging you gently upright like an oversized marionette whose strings they’ve begrudgingly learned to untangle.

You crane your neck up, blinking upward through eyelashes clumped from salt air.

Langdon. 

Fresh from the water, apparently. Incarnation of stern practicality wrapped in saltwater shine. Hair dripping small rivulets of ocean down his neck, skin glistening damply, sunlight skittering over his features as if it, too, is uncertain it will find a kinder place to rest. 

“I — uh, well yes, that’s — technically that’s just the infraorder,”  you stumble hurriedly, words tumbling like dominoes, trying desperately not to acknowledge the persistent warmth of his hands still bracing your shoulders. You straighten your spine, awkwardly graceful (okay, mostly awkward), as your mouth rushes ahead without permission from your brain — “Which is good, infraorders are perfectly good places to start, broad strokes and all that, but, if you want specificity, which I assume you do, since you’re you and everything, accuracy-wise, I’d guess Grapsidae? Because of, um, the carapace? Although I realize that’s probably not visible from your angle, which makes this an educated guess — or maybe an overly ambitious one? Anyway, I might be wrong — though, honestly, I don’t really think I am.”

Langdon’s eyebrows lift fractionally, and without explicitly calling out your obvious spiral into nervousness (small mercies), he simply crouches next to you, hands moving from your shoulders to his knees, leaning forward into your shared fixation on the tiny creature.

“Carpace shape would definitely clarify,” he agrees softly, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Of course, if accuracy’s our goal — and you’re right, that’s very much my thing — we could always catch it and verify. Or is speculation more your comfort zone?”

“Catch it?” You practically squeak, eyes wide, picturing your clumsy human hands accidentally crushing something so small and helpless, immediately spiraling into guilty imagined apologies and crab funerals (poorly attended, perhaps only yourself, a few baffled seagulls, and the soundless waves). “No, no, speculation is good. Excellent, actually. Much safer for everyone involved, particularly tiny, defenseless beach residents.”

“Probably wise,” he murmurs, his voice barely louder than the tide hushing at your feet. “Better not to risk it. I suppose some things are best left unconfirmed.”

You shift infinitesimally closer, almost involuntarily, and find your voice tumbling out again before you can reconsider, earnestness coloring each syllable: “I'm still inclined to think it's Grapsidae, though.”

Langdon hums in soft acknowledgment, a small sound that vibrates through him into you, startlingly intimate in its resonance.

“Confidence is appealing, even misplaced confidence,” he remarks casually. “Though I’d argue it looks more Portunidae.”

“No — no, see, Portunidae is — well, not impossible exactly, but definitely unlikely, because the back legs on Portunidae are paddle-shaped, distinctly modified for swimming, right? And this crab, if you look closely, has pointy, ordinary walking legs, which —” Your eyes flicker upward, catching the small, barely-there curve of his mouth. “Oh. You’re… you're totally messing with me right now, aren’t you?”

Langdon’s smile broadens just enough to confirm your suspicion, eyes glinting. He lifts one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, lightly apologetic in theory, not remotely in reality.

“Guilty. Sorry,” he admits. “I have this innate desire to contradict you. Consider it a character flaw.”

You tilt your head slightly, making an unsuccessful attempt at hiding your grin, cheeks undeniably warm. Purely sun-induced warmth, naturally (or at least that’s what you tell yourself).

“That explains everything,” you say, affecting an exaggerated, mock-serious air. “Honestly, this puts your whole personality into clearer perspective.”

Langdon chuckles quietly under his breath, the sound rare and low enough to draw your eyes back to his face. “Well, now you know. Incurably flawed, I'm afraid.”

“Deeply incurable.”

He holds your gaze for a second longer, a quiet smile playing softly at the corners of his mouth, before turning toward the distant line of waves. 

“Come on,” he says, voice gentle, almost affectionate. “Let's walk. We'll leave our mysterious friend to its existential privacy.”

You follow, still smiling, sand soft beneath your feet and heart inexplicably lighter.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

FIND YOUR SUITCASE HERE!

MARIA'S SUMMER IN SANTORINI MASTERLIST

[mariasont]

MISSED OPPORTUNITIES ⋆˚࿔

you're oblivious; jack's permanently flirting. turns out all you needed was a nudge (and a kiss).

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted

PAIRING: jack abbot x bimbo!reader WARNINGS: fluffity fluff, bimbo!reader, mutual pining, idiots in love, friends to lovers trope PROMPT: here! WC: 0.5k

“Deep thoughts?” Jack drawls, resting an ankle across his knee.

He watches as you blink back to reality. Your cheek is smushed against your palm, eyes glassy and distant, maybe seeing galaxies or shopping lists, Jack’s never quite sure.

The sun slips golden fingers through your damp curls, threading droplets like tears down your shoulders, staining the pale fabric of your sundress in fading watercolor trails.

“Only the deepest,” you assure him, offering a pout. More theater than truth. You lift your head. “Mostly about what kind of ice cream we’re getting later. You have important input here, Jack, don’t disappoint me.”

“You trust me with a choice like that?” Jack teases, eyes glinting.

But his palms go slick with something like anxiety beneath your expectant gaze.

He’s aware of every tiny sensation now, like the fresh scratch he’s nursing on the roof of his mouth.

Where did that come from, anyway? 

His tongue pushes at the raw little wound compulsively, over and over, sabotaging his already precious facade of laid-back, casual disinterest.

Cool and detached is apparently harder than advertised; imagine that.

“I trust you with everything, silly,” you tell him earnestly, eyes sparkling in the last slivers of the sun’s dying glow sprinkling freckles of warmth across your skin.

He nudges you with his shoulder. “Everything’s a big word. Care to elaborate?”

You nudge him back, giggling, blissfully unaware of the slow dread pooling through his chest, or the faint pressure of obligation suddenly crowding his throat.

“Oh, you know, the big, meaningful stuff. Restaurant decisions, purse-holding emergencies, spinach-in-teeth protocol. Seriously important matters. You’re at peak trustworthiness now, Jack. Consider yourself honored.”

He gives a low whistle. “Wow, purse-holding status already? I didn’t realize we’d gotten that far. Next you’ll be asking me to meet your parents.”

“That’s actually a really good idea! My parents love meeting my friends — my mom always does that embarrassing baby picture thing, but you’d totally survive.”

Friends. 

He turns the word over mentally, sour and mocking like spoiled milk, bitter on the tongue. It feels painfully inadequate, wildly inaccurate.

Friends don’t stumble bleary-eyed out the door at midnight, half-dressed, heart thudding with adrenaline because you thought you heard an intruder outside your window — only to discover a raccoon rummaging through your garbage.

Friends don't obsessively check menus for allergens, driven by irrational visions of accidentally killing you at dinner, or carry spare hair ties like some reluctant, lovesick Boy Scout prepared for oddly specific emergencies.

Jack's running out of ways to make himself clearer.

“Kid, you really make it hard to flirt with you.”

For a second, your face becomes an open book, cycling rapidly through shock, amusement, disbelief, realization, puzzlement, wonder, mild panic, bashfulness, hopefulness, and then back to sheer confusion. 

It's like a rapid-fire slideshow of everything he finds endearing and frustrating about you, distilled down into a few frantic heartbeats.

Finally, you settle on a stunned blink, eyes wide and brows knitted.

“Wait, what? You mean...right now? Or before now?”

Jack chuckles under his breath, something strained in it, hand dragging over the back of his neck like he can physically scrub away the corner he’s just backed himself into.

“Always. Constantly. I basically live in a perpetual state of flirtation-induced existential crisis with you. Frankly, it’s wearing me out.”

You hesitate, searching his face like the answer might be written there if you just look hard enough.

“Why?”

Jack nearly groans aloud, hand pressing harder against his neck, feeling an embarrassment akin to adolescence flooding his chest.

“Why?” he repeats, incredulous and mildly despairing. “Because I like you, okay? Because apparently my sense of self-preservation is broken, and being around you turns me into a masochist who enjoys embarrassment and rejection. Because you're the only person who's ever made me genuinely nervous, and I've survived literal explosions.”

He mentally braces himself, prepared for confusion at best, rejection at worst, anxiety drumming through him like a high schooler waiting for a prom date’s answer.

Instead, you crash into him, all vibrant disbelief, knocking him mentally, and somewhat physically, off balance.

“Jack!” you squeak, body pressed close enough that he can feel the flutter of your heartbeat. “Are you serious right now? You’ve liked me this whole time? Why wouldn’t you just say something? We could’ve been kissing — like, a lot.”

“Whoa, easy there,” Jack laughs, hands quickly finding your waist to stabilize the pandemonium of your limbs, half-laughing and half-alarmed by the tidal wave of enthusiasm colliding against him. “Believe me, if I’d known that kissing was on the table, I would’ve spoken up months ago.”

“So many missed opportunities,”  you lament, tipping your head to consider him, eyes wide.

Jack grins despite himself, gently teasing, “To be fair, I tried repeatedly. You're remarkably hard to communicate romantic interest to.”

"Guess I'll have to make it up to you, then.”

"And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

"Like this," you whisper softly, closing the distance with careful deliberation, your mouth touching his so sweetly that it mends every fractured moment of miscommunication.

And perhaps all his fumbling signals and hesitant gestures weren't really missed opportunities after all, but merely necessary stepping-stones, quietly guiding him home to exactly this moment, to exactly you.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

MARIA'S SUMMER IN SANTORINI MASTERLIST

[mariasont]

HELIOPHILIA ⋆˚࿔

one flimsy bikini, twelve ignored sun lectures, and robby decides to turn preventative medicine into a hands-on experience

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted

PAIRING: michael 'robby' robinavitch x sunshine!reader WARNINGS: fluffity fluff, sexual tension, pre-relationship pining, power imbalance as always (intern/supervisor), descriptions of swimwear (minimal coverage), touching without explicit consent?, mateo lowkey shooting his shot, possessive robby, sunscreen application, no explicit mentions of skin color, redness, or burning, abbot being a smartass PROMPT: here! WC: 0.9k

Robby decides this entire trip was a poorly conceived idea. A massive misstep. A lapse in sanity. The ER provided more than enough mandatory proximity to his coworkers within a carefully designated bubble of sterility and professionalism. Everyone fully clothed, protected by the sturdy layers of scrubs that render everyone nearly anonymous.

Here, anonymity is laughably. Especially yours, a certain intern whose bikini could probably be folded up and stashed comfortably in his wallet. It does nothing but give him heart palpitations and guilt.

Guilt because tries not to look, he swears he tries, but you’ve made yourself impossible to avoid, stretched out obliviously in his direct line of sight.

He feels like a creep. He is a creep.

Watching you, counting the number of hours you’ve been roasting under a Mediterranean sun despite twelve explicit, detailed warnings about UV exposure.

Usually, you practically hang onto his every word like gospel, eyes wide with an adoration that inflates his ego more than he'd ever admit.

Now he’s suddenly irrelevant, and your bikini strings are distressingly thin, and he’s certain this must constitute workplace harassment somehow.

But he’s not entirely sure who’s harassing whom.

Robby rolls his head slowly to one side, neck cracking in a futile attempt at releasing the growing tension gathering behind his eyes.

It worsens considerably when you choose that instant to lift yourself onto your forearms, your bikini top predictably ill-suited for its one simple job.

Robby’s gaze snaps down to the patio concrete, determinedly studying the cracks and imperfections. 

He hears your voice drift toward Javadi: “Should I reapply sunscreen, do you think?”

Javadi offers a halfhearted, distracted “maybe?” in return.

Robby presses two fingers against his temples, ignoring the urge to snap, Yes of course you fucking should.

From somewhere off to the side, Mateo perks up at your question, practically spring-loaded in his chair, face lit like a puppy hearing his leash rattle. “I can help —”

You blink slowly, lips parted slightly as you start to agree, but Robby’s mouth moves entirely without his permission: “I’ve got it covered.”

He’s already moving toward you, steps quick and decisive, not entirely sure when his limbs became independent of his brain.

Mateo pauses, halfway risen, looking baffled but fortunately silent, and Robby ignores the little stab of satisfaction that gives him.

You tilt your head up at him, eyes soft, confused in that way that usually leads to more questions, more talking, more things he’ll have to justify.

So Robby doesn’t give you the chance. He just plucks the sunscreen from your outstretched fingers, heart hammering unpleasantly against his chest.

He’ll justify this later. Maybe. Realistically, he’s going to gaslight everyone into thinking it made perfect sense and move on.

“Oh, thank you — um, I didn’t even realize you were still out here,” you murmur, ducking your head a little. “I mean, not in a bad way! I just thought you might’ve gone inside to — um, cool off, or something.”

“I considered it,” Robby says dryly, rubbing sunscreen briskly between his palms as you sit up fully. “But I figured if I left you unattended, you’d somehow manage to get sun poisoning.”

He tries very hard to not stare as you sweep your hair forward over your shoulder, exposing the curve of your neck and the slope of your shoulders, skin warm from the afternoon sun. But the image is already burned into his retinas.

“Sun poisoning is an inflammatory reaction,” you say quickly, tone climbing in mild protest, “and I don’t think —”

Your voice stutters sharply into silence as Robby’s palms press firmly onto your back, smoothing sunscreen into your skin.

“Whether you think so or not isn’t particularly relevant,” Robby says as his hands move in steady, overlapping strokes, making sure there isn’t a single missed spot. “Your skin is already overheated.” His fingers spread at your sides, thumbs dragging slightly upward as he reworks an area he already covered. “And if you’re going to insist on ignoring basic preventative care,” he adds, almost under this breath, “then I’m going to compensate for it.”

“I genuinely didn’t mean to be out this long. I was actually planning to come find you — eventually — just to, um, avoid this conversation. But clearly you got to me first, so… thank you.”

“You know, one ‘thank you’ per application is probably sufficient,” Robby says dryly, fingers deftly slipping beneath the delicate strings of your bikini. “But I won’t discourage you if you’re after extra credit.”

The thin fabric barely provides resistance, slipping easily against his knuckles as he spreads sunscreen across the untouched strip of skin it had been covering. His movements slow with conscious intention, thumb brushing along the sensitive hollow just between your shoulder blade.

He finds himself aware of every shift of your breath beneath his touch. The slight tremor that ripples through you, the almost imperceptible arch into his palm. 

“I’m very susceptible to extra credit opportunities,” you say, warmth brightening your voice as you glance back over your shoulder at him. 

His hand tightens without permission at your waist, fingers pressing into the soft curve before he catches himself, pulling away, flexing his hands like he’s shaking something off. A slow breath in, out.

“I’m giving you thirty more minutes,” he orders firmly. “Then I’ll drag you inside myself, if necessary.”

You tilt your head back. “Yes, sir.”

Jesus.

He turns on his heel before that can show anywhere on his face, heat climbing fast up his neck.

Robby stalks toward the house. As he passes Abbot, lounging casually near the sliding doors, he hears a low, sarcastic chuckle.

“Don’t suppose you’re offering sunscreen services across the board, Robby,” Abbot murmurs lazily, smirk evident in his voice. “Or is it a one-patient-only special?”

Robby pauses just long enough to extend one decisive middle finger over his shoulder, not bothering to turn or slow his stride.

“Not covered by your insurance,” Robby mutters flatly, disappearing inside.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

MARIA'S SUMMER IN SANTORINI MASTERLIST

[mariasont]

VACAY-YOU ⋆˚࿔

on vacation, abbot realizes the version of you from the er isn't the only one that exists

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted

PAIRING: jack abbot x sweetheart!reader WARNINGS: fluffity fluff, workplace power dynamics (mentioned), reader is canonly a people pleaser, mutual teasing, reader has a complex with authority figures, sexual tension, mention of cleavage, er barbie reader mention!!!, garsantos mention!!! PROMPT: here! WC: 0.6k

“I feel like we should’ve given her a time limit,” you’re saying, elbows hooked over the railing while the boat rocks slow and easy beneath you. Music drifts across the deck behind you both, something bright and beachy, but you’re too busy squinting into the water where Garcia has vanished again. Third time in ten minutes. “Like if she’s under there longer than five minutes we have to assume she’s joined the fish.”

Abbot follows your gaze out to the flat, empty stretch of sea before looking back at your face.

“Did you just make a joke?”

You glance back over at him over your shoulder, sunlight catching in the loose strands of your hair. Your sunglasses have slid halfway down your nose, and you peer over them at him like a teacher catching a student talking.

“I know, shocking,” you say, nudging them back into place with one finger. “It’s rare, but it happens.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You shrug one shoulder.

“That’s because you only see work-me,” you quip. “I have a reputation to maintain. Vacation-me is far more interesting.”

It’s a good reputation, to be fair. He’d back it without hesitation, and so would anyone else on the team. Dedicated. Reliable. Someone who cares more than the situation probably requires and does it anyway, every time.

That’s also the problem, though. You hold yourself to a standard nobody set for you, always running a little too hot, a little too eager to prove something.

High-strung is probably the honest description. 

So this relaxed, humor-prone version of you appearing in small flashes out here on the sparkling water is new. To say the very least.

Jack finds he likes it quite a bit.

“I’m aware.” He leans one shoulder against the railing beside you. “You’ve worked pretty hard for that image.” 

You wrinkle your nose. “Yeah, well, please don’t ruin it.”

“Secret’s safe with me.”

You smile at that. You have a really pretty smile, he realizes. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t noticed before.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

He looks sideways at you.

“I can think of a couple other reasons,” he says. “Top of the list being I hold a position of authority over you.”

You reach for your water bottle, unscrewing the cap and taking a long sip, staring determinedly out on the horizon.

Jack recognizes the move.

It’s the same one you use in meetings when someone says something that makes you flustered. Keeps your mouth occupied so you don’t say something that might implicate you further. Buys you a second to recover.

The heat climbing up your neck suggests you need one.

The towel slips off your shoulder as you tip forward, just enough to flash a strip of bright blue bikini strap and the cleavage that comes with it.

Jack does the respectable thing and averts his gaze to the back of the boat instead, landing on Langdon and the admin assistant standing closer than strictly necessary.

He's maybe not in a position to judge.

You clear your throat, finally lowering the bottle. “First of all, that’s not — that’s not true.”

“Of course not,” he agrees. 

He’d enjoy poking at it further, given the evidence written all over your face, but he reins it in. He’s not about to spook you back into the version of yourself that triple checks charts and apologizes for things that aren’t your fault.

You tip your head at him.

“See, this is why I don’t give compliments,” you say. “People start getting ideas.”

He opens his mouth. The ocean beats him to it.

Garcia erupts from the surface in a burst of white water, seashell first, triumphant.

“Trinity! Come see this one!”

He watches as Garcia splashes her way towards Santos.

“Crisis averted,” you say.

“Was there ever really a crisis?”

“With me there’s always a crisis.”

“Good thing vacation-you is better at handling them.”

You smile once again, small and a little pleased, trying to smother it into your shoulder, turning back toward the water.

Six days of this might not be enough.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

FIND OUT WHERE YOU’RE STAYING: HERE!

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MARIA'S SUMMER IN SANTORINI MASTERLIST

[mariasont]

PHTHONUS ⋆˚࿔

during a midnight swim, robby watches you laughing in the water with whitaker and realizes just how ugly his jealousy can get.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted

PAIRING: michael robinavitch x princess!reader WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, suggestive-ish content, not full smut, jealous robby, territorial behavior, fwb, brother's best friend, age gap, secret relationship, mutual pining if u squint, mentions of oral sex (male receiving AND female receiving, double whammy), alcohol consumption, robby being kinda dick-ish per usual, borrowing clothes PROMPT: here! WC: 0.8k

Robby is capable of admitting that he is not, has never been, and probably never will be an easy man to love. Or like. Or spend more than ten minutes with on a bad day.

For a long time, he preferred a more flattering explanation for himself, one where his sharp edges meant he was discerning, where the distance meant he was disciplined, where every nasty impulse came dressed as practicality. 

Easier to live with that version. Shame it was complete bullshit.

The truth simply isn’t as nice.

He can be mean when he feels cornered, petty when his pride gets nicked, suspicious of people who haven’t earned his trust and sometimes even of those who have. He can take the worst parts of himself and hang them around someone else’s neck like they belong there instead. 

Jealousy sits near the top of that list. Primitive, embarrassing, unbecoming of a man of his age, and currently burning neon-green behind his eyes as he watches you in the water with Whitaker.

You are all moonlight and sparkling skin out there, laughing when his fresh resident splashes you hard enough to catch you straight across the chest, and then you are laughing harder, shoving him back with both hands. 

Careless and so fucking pretty Robby has half a mind to grind his teeth down to dust.

Everyone is a little drunk. Loose, noisy, stupid. At some point one of them had the bright idea to turn the evening into a midnight swim, and Robby, in a moment of weakness, did not object strongly enough. 

He honestly can’t recall who suggested it, which is lucky, because right now he’d be tempted to hold them underwater. 

He considers doing himself the favor of going back inside. There’s a whole house behind him. Walls. Doors. Actual barriers between him and whatever the hell this is.

He could pour another drink. Claim exhaustion. Remove himself like an adult. 

But then you duck under again, vanish for a second into the black-silver water, and when you resurface it’s closer to shore, hair slicked back, shoulders gleaming, water streaming down your body in thin shining paths as you make your way out of the surf.

You hurry toward him, arms crossed over your chest, shivering, and you smile so warmly when your eyes meet his that Robby feels an uncomfortable twist in his stomach. It isn’t deserved.

He gives you a slight smile back, because anything else would be unnecessarily mean, and he’s trying, at least in this moment, not to be. 

“You didn’t come in,” you say, stopping in front of him while water drips from your calves into the sand. 

There’s mascara smudged under your eyes, and instantly he’s back in last night whether he wants to be or not.

Back to you kneeling between his legs, tears and mascara mixed together in inky tracks down your cheeks, mouth doing a number on his cock that he still hasn’t fully recovered from. 

You had appeared at his door after everyone else was asleep, slipping inside the second he cracked it open as if there had ever been any real chance he was going to stop you. Even with his best friend and your brother sleeping in the room next door.

He rubs a hand over his jaw, as if friction alone could scour the image out of his memory. It can’t.

“Figured someone had to play lifeguard.” 

“Lifeguard,” you echo, teeth catching on your lower lip as your eyes narrow in exaggerated appreciation. “That’s hot. Do you wanna practice mouth-to-mouth now?” 

He should laugh. He should say something easy. Instead: “You seemed to be doing just fine with Whitaker out there. Maybe let him handle it.” 

He hates the sound of it. That needless little cut.

Robby has always been talented at that particular failure mode, lash out first, feel bad second, act like remorse counts as repair. It’s another one of the worst things about him, the way the venom always seems to land on the people closest.

You most of all. You, over and over. 

But you don’t look bothered in the slightest, stepping closer until you’re nearly between his feet, close enough that he can feel the chill lifting off your skin and the heat of his own body reaching for it. 

You smell like coconut sunscreen and salty ocean air, and he catches himself breathing in deeper. 

“Oh, wow, are you jealous right now?” you ask, laughing under your breath. “That’s adorable. Kind of bitchy, but adorable. Do you want me to go flirt a little more with Whitaker until you fully process these complicated emotions, or have you punished yourself enough?” 

Robby doesn't bother denying it — wouldn't insult either of you like that. He just shakes his head, a reluctant half-smile tugging at his lips. 

“Think I've punished myself plenty tonight.” He pauses, voice softening. “Stay here?” He tacks on, a little more earnest, “please.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” you tease, the words nearly catching between your teeth. 

Robby doesn’t pause to consider the wisdom (or lack thereof) of taking off his jacket and draping it across your chilled skin. Not with half the group still probably watching. But you’re clearly cold and there is a clear and obvious solution to that.

You give a soft, satisfied sigh, holding the fabric snug against your chest. 

“Look at you, Robinavitch, all gentlemanly.” 

“Don’t get used to it.” 

That only makes you smile wider.

“What if I already am?” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

His hands linger on your shoulders just a second too long, fingertips hesitating against the fabric before finally letting go.

He knows better. He should move back, redraw a line, remind himself that the house behind him is crowded, that your brother is inside that same crowded house, a dangerous fact he’s becoming increasingly careless about.

“Well, if you’re done being mean for tonight, maybe you can start making it up to me. Preferably inside.”

And he does. Until jealousy is replaced entirely by the taste of you. Over and over again, until neither of you remembers what he was supposed to be making up for. 

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

MARIA'S SUMMER IN SANTORINI MASTERLIST

[mariasont]

IF SELENE IS LISTENING ⋆˚࿔

frank coaxes an overtired tired, tipsy you into his lap and takes over the job of caring for you

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted

PAIRING: frank langdon x er!barbie reader WARNINGS: fluff, tipsy!reader, au where they are together and in love already!!!!!!, little PDA, lots of yearning, established relationship, protective frank langdon!, kissing, lap sitting, sleeping/passing out PROMPT: here! WC: 1.1k

Sometimes Frank thinks he should put you on a leash.

Get one of those toddler backpack rigs with the little animal character on it and clip you in. Maybe that would preserve what remains of his peace.

Morifying for you, humiliating for him, definitely probably a terrible look in public, but at least you’d stay within a five-foot radius and he could stop living in this permanent state of low-grade vigilance you seem to provoke as casually as breathing. 

And he loves you. Deeply. Completely.

That’s the problem. Love, with you, is surveillance. It is anticipatory. It is watching for the exact point at which your glittering, social, I’m-fine performance starts to come apart at the seams while you insist it isn’t happening.

You just never seem to know when to stop. 

And tonight you are all over the pool patio with a mojito slicking one hand cold and damp, dribbling little sacrificial offerings of rum and mint over the stone, while the other hand keeps straying to the bikini strap at your hip. 

Restless. Fidgety. Smiling at everyone. Talking too loudly. 

A little drunk, a little sleepy, and, as ever, too stubborn to concede either.

The moment you glance his way, Frank tilts his chin and crooks two fingers in a come here.

A gesture that should not, by any reasonable standard, contain so much possession in it, and yet your expression changes all at once, brightening with buzzed delight as you cross toward him.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite person to be bossed around by,” you say when you reach him, voice dipped in honey. You stop beside his lounger, smiling down at him. It’s such a pretty smile. “Did you miss me terribly?”

“I usually do.” 

There’s no point in pretending otherwise.

That gets you. 

“Yeah?” You tip forward a little, closing the distance with shameless interest. “Can I get a kiss, then?”

Frank’s mouth twitches. “You can get whatever you want, sweetheart.”

He lifts a hand to your jaw and draws you down, sealing his mouth over yours in a kiss that has to be brief by sheer circumstance, though not so brief he misses the cool, fizzy ghost of lime on your lips. 

Sugary and faintly effervescent, the taste of it lingering for one extra second after he pulls back, temptation rendered in citrus. 

Frank has never been especially talented at self-control where you are concerned.

It’s why he’s not a fan of PDA. Public affection is never only that. It is a beginning. A permission slip.

One kiss and suddenly he is keenly aware of all the ones he is not having, all the ways he would rather be kissing you if the two of you were alone.

So he stops there, because he has to, and leaves your hand at your jaw instead, thumb brushing once over your cheek.

“What do you say we go find you something to eat?”

You make a face immediately, lower lip pushing out in a sulky little pout. “‘M not hungry.”

“That’s fascinating, because you look like you’re about two minutes from falling asleep standing up.”

“You make everything sound so dire.”

Frank snorts. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Then, in a flawless little proof-of-concept, you sway backward with all the structural integrity of a wilting palm tree. 

Frank moves before the thought fully forms, hands shooting out to catch the back of your thigh, fingers splaying over the soft curve just beneath your ass as he drags your forward. One quick tug and there you are, neatly slotted between his legs. 

Your hands land on his shoulders and you giggle, as if nearly toppling over into a concussion is somehow charming rather than precisely the kind of thing that keeps shaving years off his life.

He squeezes once, firm and corrective. 

“Okay, well, what do you say you keep me company for a while?”

He could tell you to sit down. You might even listen, eventually, but not without first delivering a brief theatrical monologue on authoritarianism and oppression and how cruel it is to stifle your sparkle.

So. Better not make it about obedience. Frank has learned this the hard way, or at least the repetitive way.

There are only so many reliable methods of keeping you where he can see you, and most of them depend on reframing the situation until it no longer sounds like containment.

You resent being managed. You respond beautifully to being needed. Especially by him. 

“Mm, okay,” you murmur at once, whatever resistance you had dissolving on contact. 

Before Frank can offer any further guidance, you’re already hauling yourself into his lap with spectacularly poor mechanics, all grabby hands and misfiring limbs, nudging him backward against the lounger.

And after a moment of awkward shifting and a fair amount of readjusting, you finally settle into him in a drowsy little heap, half draped across his lap and half tucked into his side. 

Frank extracts the mojito from your hand just before the remainder can go down the front of his shirt, though not before a bright cold splash hits his chest anyway.

He puts the glass aside and looks back at you.

Brushes your hair off your face. Once, twice, again, until there you are properly visible beneath it.

You blink up at him, visibly straining to keep your eyes open, lashes heavy with the effort. “You know what Parker told me earlier?”

“Hmm?”

“That you’re not supposed to compliment the moon here.”

Frank’s fingers drift through your hair again. “And why’s that?”

“Apparently,” you say, lowering your voice, “it’s bad luck. Like if you say it’s pretty, then something in your life gets ruined out of jealousy.”

Your finger wanders over his shirt, drawing something looping into the cotton, your nail a shiny petal-pink that matches the sparkle dusted over your eyes. 

He asks, “Should I be concerned you’ve already told it how pretty it is?” 

A tiny crease appears between your brows. 

“Maybe a little.” Your nail catches on his shift before drifting on again. “But it kind of makes sense, doesn’t it? Because Selene is the moon, and Helios is the sun, and they’re siblings, I think, so maybe he gets weird about it… because if everyone keeps talking about how beautiful the moon is, and nobody’s complimenting the sun, that could create resentment. Familial resentment. Which is, like, one of the oldest forces in mythology.”

Frank opens his mouth, halfway to saying that while the ancient Greeks certainly contained enough familial instability to support the theory, he strongly suspects Parker is still just screwing with you, and then he looks down. 

You are asleep. 

He huffs a laugh through his nose, quiet enough not to disturb you, and shifts his hand higher along your back, settling you more securely against him. 

This, too, is part of loving you, he thinks. The rare and fragile privilege of being where you land when the night catches up to you.

Around you, the patio goes on glowing. Voices blur. Glass clinks somewhere in the distance. Water shifts blue-black under the moonlight. 

He leans his head back against the lounger and lets himself look out at it for a second. It is a pretty moon.

If Selene is listening, she can be flattered. He’ll take the risk.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

MARIA'S SUMMER IN SANTORINI MASTERLIST

[mariasont]

A VERY PUBLIC OFFERING ⋆˚࿔

you and jack finally get a second alone on vacation, so he bends you over the balcony and fucks you while everyone else drinks downstairs.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted

PAIRING: jack abbot x fem!reader WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, smut, PWP-ish elements, unprotected sex??? kinda it's just not mentioned if there's a condom involved or not, praise kink, slight degradation, semi-public sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism (potential), one brain cell between this two tbh PROMPT: here! WC: 0.8k

Jack makes a conscious effort not to dwell on the consequences of what, in hindsight, had been a truly abysmal series of decisions.

Best case scenario he’d be labeled as a pervert. Worse case, he’d lose his job and spend the rest of his life unable to show his face anywhere in the city of Pittsburgh without wanting to walk in traffic. 

And honestly, it would all be deserving. There are very few respectable interpretations of having his subordinate bent over the balcony railing where anyone with functioning eyesight could look up and catch them in the act. 

It’s made worse by the fact that every time his cock drives into you, another sweet little mewl spills out, each one louder than the next. It leaves him with a brutal urge to hear it again, makes him less careful than he ought to be. Makes the risk feel secondary.

He tells himself his coworkers on the patio are too drunk to notice. Most of them seem to be. They’d all been generously overserved at dinner, then even more generously self-served once they stumbled back to the Airbnb.

So drunk that he’s pretty sure Santos had Whitaker by the shirt at one point and shoved him straight into the shrubs bordering the patio while yelling something about George?

He hadn’t caught the rest. Hard to focus on much of anything when you’re clenching around him like the way you are now.

“Poor thing,” he says, leaning down close enough that his mouth brushes the soft shell of your ear. “You must’ve been so desperate for it to let me have you out here like this.” 

You let out a weak little whine, head lolling against his shoulder.

“S’your fault.” Then, more broken on the next thrust. “Y-You made me like this.”

He has no rebuttal for that. He is responsible for the behavior you’ve displayed on this trip. 

Desperate. Pent up, restless, a little spoiled from how thoroughly he tends to you when you’re home and no one else is around to interrupt. Usually, if you want him, you get him. In the kitchen. In the shower. Half asleep in his bed with his hand already between your legs before either of you say a word. 

But this trip has been one long exercise in frustration. Coworkers roaming in packs. Thin walls. Doors opening without warning. Someone always needing something stupid, always shouting down the hall, always appearing right when he gets his hands under your dress.

So when you finally get him alone on the balcony, all it takes is one look. One kiss. You settling into his lap while he sprawls back in the chair, drink loose in one hand, the other already sliding up your thigh. After that, there’s no stopping it. 

Now your panties are tugged aside, your dress bunched at your waist, and the obscene little sounds of him pushing into your soaked cunt disappear beneath the music and laughter below.

“Yeah,” he mutters. Soothing something he has no intention of fixing. “Know I did. Sorry, baby.”

Your fingers reach behind you for him, interlacing with the hand he has on your hip. 

“Jack… please, ‘m so close.” 

He reaches down through the slick heat between your thighs and presses two fingers to your clit, working you harder.

“That’s it. My good girl.” His voice drops lower. “Better be quiet unless you want everyone downstairs finding out just how good you take my cock. ”

And you do try. He feels it in the way your body tightens against him, in the way you bite down on the sound for half a second too long. 

But then your pussy clenches hard around him and whatever noise you were trying to swallow slips free anyway. Such a pretty sound it nearly takes his knees out from under him. 

Jack’s hand stays at the swollen bundle of nerves at your clit, working you through it because he’s selfish enough to want every shudder of your orgasm, every pulse.

He gives two more rough thrusts, maybe three, and then he’s done for too, climax hitting him hard and mean, his jaw going slack as he presses deep and rides it out inside you.

He stays folded over you after, chest heaving against your back, lips finding the strip of skin where your dress has slipped off one shoulder.

He tastes the coconut lotion there. Hint of tiare flower, half faded now beneath sweat and night air and sex. Summer in a bottle. It makes his head feel pleasantly blank all over again.

So he presses slow kisses there, then more, then drags them up toward the strap of your dress like he can’t quite stop.

His voice is still rough when he mutters sweet-nothings into your skin: Sweet girl. So good for me. Knew you could do it.

Then you’re turning in his arms as much as the angle allows, all wobbly and sweet, reaching back for his face. Your kiss lands crooked at first, more smile than anything, but he kisses you anyway, like he’s got all the time in the world. 

It is, briefly, a perfect moment.

Then he opens his eyes.

Robby, down on the patio, tips his glass toward him.

Jack closes his eyes once.

Fuck.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

MARIA'S SUMMER IN SANTORINI MASTERLIST

[s-writing-s]

𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝? 𝐗𝐗 ⚕ 𝐉.𝐀.

summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?

tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, 18+ smut, fluff

word count: 7.6k

a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently!! i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33

i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!

Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist

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The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.

Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.

The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.

"Don't."

You'd frozen mid-motion.

"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".

That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.

But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.

One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.

The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.

"I can carry—" you start to say.

"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.

You press your lips together, then follow him.

The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.

Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."

You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.

With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.

Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.

"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.

He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.

It's the longest elevator ride of your life.

Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.

You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.

Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."

"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.

Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.

Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.

"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.

"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."

You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.

Two more days and he's free.

Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.

"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.

"What?"

He shrugs stiffly.

"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"

Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.

The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.

Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.

Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.

Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.

Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.

And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.

The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.

The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.

By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.

He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.

You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.

You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.

It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.

This couldn't be farther from that.

Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.

"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"

Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.

"Jack!"

His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.

"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"

She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."

Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."

Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.

"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"

"Jeremy?"

"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.

"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.

Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.

Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?

"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"

"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."

"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."

You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—

He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.

"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.

But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.

Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.

"Yeah, we met in med school."

"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."

Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.

"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.

"I did."

"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."

"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.

You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.

And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.

"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.

"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.

Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.

Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.

"Oh, I've already been there."

Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."

Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"

Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.

"Uh—"

"We dated," Turner says.

Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.

"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."

"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.

You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."

Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.

You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.

"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.

"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.

Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"

He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.

"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."

You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"

Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."

"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.

Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."

Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."

"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.

"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."

"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.

"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.

You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.

For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.

Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."

"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.

Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.

He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.

The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.

When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.

You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.

By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.

You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.

A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—

A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.

Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.

"Oh my god," you whisper.

Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"

Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."

You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."

Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."

You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"

He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."

"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.

Jack stills next to you.

Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."

"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."

He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."

He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.

"...Goodnight, Jack."

Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.

How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—

God.

The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.

You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.

Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.

The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.

Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.

Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.

Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.

He doesn't.

A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"

Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.

You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.

"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.

But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"

You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.

He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.

Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.

You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.

"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.

"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.

Jack frowns. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.

The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.

You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.

You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.

When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.

The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.

You stride over to him.

"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.

You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."

Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.

He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."

Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."

"What—"

You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."

Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.

Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.

It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.

Your words replay in his head.

Text me if you need the room.

Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—

His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.

As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.

He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"

You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.

"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.

"To Warren. Or whoever."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."

Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."

"I told you. Nothing."

"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.

"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"

Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."

"No," he says. "I really don't."

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."

Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."

Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"

Your expression twists instantly. "What?"

"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.

Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."

Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?

Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"

You shrug.

"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.

"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."

Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"

You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."

You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.

"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."

"What?"

"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."

"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.

"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."

"Pretend what?" He steps closer.

"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."

"What are you talking about?"

"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"

"That's not true!"

You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"

There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.

"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.

You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."

The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"

You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."

His brows pinch together. "Who?"

"Lily."

Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"

You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't pretend you don’t know."

"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"

"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."

His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"

"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"

"Yes, because that's insane."

"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."

"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"

Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."

Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."

His mind is spinning. You love him.

"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.

"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.

You love him.

"Jack," you interject.

He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“

"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.

His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"

You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."

"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?

"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."

"You think this is pity? After everything?"

"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."

"No."

"Jack—"

"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.

You hesitate.

His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.

You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.

"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.

"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.

"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."

"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."

Your breath hitches in your throat.

"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."

Doubt still flickers across your face.

"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."

You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."

"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.

You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."

"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."

You still look doubtful.

Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.

You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.

His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.

All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.

You love him.

It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.

Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.

"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."

Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.

Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.

"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.

His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.

"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."

He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.

You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.

"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.

"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.

He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.

He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."

It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.

He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.

You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.

"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.

You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"

"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."

"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.

"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.

"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."

"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.

"You sure?"

"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.

He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.

"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."

Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.

You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.

Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.

"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.

He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.

What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?

You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.

You don't regret it.

"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.

"For what?"

"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."

You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."

Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"

"In the hallway. With Robby..."

He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."

"I do—"

"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."

He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."

He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.

"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.

He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."

You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."

Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."

"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.

"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.

"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.

He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.

a/n: aaahhhh!! they finally confessed!!! it's been a long (and painful) journey but we're finally here <33333

[g0ldendesiree]

Problem | Garrett Graham

summary: when garrett finds out about a problem you’ve been having,what kind of friend would he be to not help you?

request: yes/no

warnings: sexual themes, pinv, oral (fem receiving!), swearing, mentions of drinking.

word count: 4.82k

authors note: hi party people! I have been so beyond keen to get out some off campus content and this idea had been lingering in my head since the start of the first episode so hope you enjoy, haven’t written anything since like January so I wanted to get the cobwebs out before I went onto requests that you guys made so obviously hope you enjoy and requests are open so we can get more off campus content out there ASAP because I have been through the content tag twice now in fact 🤍

next part

To say that you were annoyed was the understatement of the summer.

You spent the summer in Massachusetts after picking up an internship and now the boys were back for preseason training, so with the year just about to start again the parties were in full swing. Which for most was just a week of fun, but for you it was a scheduled event that you couldn’t get out of. Dean expected you to be at his side, it’s where you had been since you were kids, so this week was no different.

So, as you watched drunken college kids making out, it was sufficient to say that you were feeling a little jealous. Not because you lacked attention, but because the guy from the football team that you were currently hooking up with was not someone to write home about, and that was putting it nicely. And you knew that you could move on to someone else, but when he had a reputation of being good in bed, you were concerned it was a you issue.

That’s how you ended up standing in the kitchen with a beer and an irritated look on your face “you okay squeak?” Dean snapped his fingers in front of you, bringing you back down to earth.

The nickname came when you were kids and had a massive fear of mice “yeah I’m just thinking.” You nodded, sending him a forced smile “you sure you’re not-” Dean followed your line of sight to the football team. He cut himself off, knowing exactly what the answer was.

You both knew you were in for another night of inevitable disappointment “what’s up with this one?” Garrett came over to both of you, the way you were in some corner like you were plotting something “nothing!”

Your eyes were wide as you shook your head, answering far too fast “she’s having relationship issues.” Deans confession made you glare at the blonde.

“I’ll kill you.”

The warning landed on deaf ears as the boys continued “don’t tell me you’re still on that boy.” Garrett shook his head as Dean nodded.

It made you hide your head in Deans shoulder “she still hasn’t dumped him.” The blonde sighed making his team captain laugh “I can’t dump someone I’m not dating!” You whined crossing your arms in the process.

They looked between each other with this weird glance “don’t even dare.” You warned sending them both a glare.

The sound of Dean’s name came from the living room “don’t let her go anywhere.” Dean pointed at you “and convince her that she should get rid of that man.” The comment came with a grin from Dean when you reached out to hit him.

As it was now just the two of you Garrett moved closer, letting the gap close between you, “don’t even.” You warned, pointing your finger at the brunette, “what makes you think I was going to?” Garrett feigned offence as he placed his hand on his chest.

You rolled your eyes letting out a laugh, “you are literally the worst person alive.” You sipped your beer shaking your head in the process

Garrett couldn’t help it when he chuckled “based on your little problem I highly doubt that.” His breath was warm against the shell of your ear, as your throat tightened over an embarrassed gulp.

that it didn’t let your warmed cheeks show through “it’s not a problem if I have my own solutions.” You waved your hands around defensively.

The boy nodded as he sipped at his beer “pretty sure it’s a problem when your boy toy isn’t good in bed.” The captain shrugged watching your brows furrow “but hey, if you want to go back to another night with having to use these at the end of it.” His fingers danced over yours.

Garrett tilted his head, eyes dragging over your face with something dangerously amused sitting behind them “maybe because it sounds like a fixable problem.”

Your stomach tightened as your cheeks grew warm “you volunteering?” The quick response came faster than you could stop it.

For a split second, he looked almost surprised. Then his mouth curved slowly into something smug enough to make you regret opening yours “careful now, someone might think you’re serious.” There had been this long game of cat and mouse between the two of you since you met, and it wasn’t going to end yet.

But that certainly didn’t mean that you weren’t going to sit there and at least think about it “Squeakers there you are!” Beau’s drunken voice was slurred as he grinned. Much like your friendship with Dean, Beau was also always around and what was why he wanted his own version of Squeak “well I’m gonna steal this one away so go find someone else to talk to flirt with?” Beau didn’t let the brunette respond as he pulled you away. The comment should have just been a teasing joke by a drunken friend, but in reality, it felt a little more on the nose than either of you wanted to admit.

Your laugh echoed through the wave of the crowd “Jesus Christ.” The boy grumbled to himself, watching you turn back to wink at him, like that whole conversation meant nothing.

Over the next few weeks it seemed that your sex problem only got worse, you had learnt how to fake an orgasm so well now that you actually wondered if you could be capable of doing the real thing. Garrett’s offer still lingered in your mind, you couldn’t take it.

Despite him and Hannah not being exclusive, you weren’t up for sharing someone. Even if you were known for your lack of a serious relationships “alright I’m coming!” You groaned hearing the sound of a fist against your door.

It was 9pm on a random Wednesday where rain was coming down, so nobody was meant to be knocking on your door. That’s why you were in nothing but one of Deans old training camp shirts that you stole. And if it had been half an hour later, you would have had a face mask on and a bag of hot Cheetos open as you were intending on watching Survivor.

Part of you assumed it was Dean or Beau wanting food “Garrett?” His soaked shirt clung to his body as he stood at your door.

The boy smiled seeing you, his curls dripping when he shook his head “hey you.” His voice was sweet as he took in the sight of you.

It made your legs feel like jelly “you gonna let me in or should I stand out here all night?” The teasing comment made you roll your eyes letting out a soft laugh, pushing the door open further to let him in.

Moments like these made you glad you had your own place “haven’t seen you in a while.” He didn’t say it in way to make you feel bad, he said it in this obvious way that somehow made you feel even worse.

You let the door to then apartment shut softly “I’ve been busy with the start of semester.” That part was somewhat true, but still everyone else in the house seemed to see you every other day, but him.

Garrett slipped his feet out of his shoes knowing how you didn’t like shoes on your carpets “you didn’t even come to Dean and Beau’s birthday.” Now that was one you had an actual excuse for, “I was sick.’

But the Graham boy knew you “last Frozen Four you came and had food poisoning all while cheering for all of us.” He was the one who held your hair when you threw up.

You knew you had been caught at that point “okay I can’t stop thinking about that damn conversation we had at the party.” The confession lingered in the air “I haven’t been able to cum and can’t even fucking make myself do it.” You pressed your hands into your head in annoyance.

Garrett had to admit that he wasn’t all that surprised about that. He had heard from Dean all about how there were different guys you were talking to “you know you could have told me if you wanted.” He spoke truthfully, “promise I wouldn’t leave ya standing alone.” Garrett leaned forward, ducking his head until his lips were inches away from yours.

You placed your hand on his torso pushing him back slightly “what about Wellsy?” Your tone was bitter, making him raise his eyebrows in surprise “what about her?” The response was quick and short, as if your question was borderline preposterous.

You couldn’t help it when you sucked at your teeth “you seemed pretty close to her on that fifth line post.” You didn’t notice how your eyebrows furrowed and your eyes sharpened.

It made him laugh “didn’t chalk you up to be jealous.” His fingers ran through the ends of your hair as he smiled “I am not jealous.” You snapped back as you shook your head.

He crossed his arms as he raised his eyebrows “mhm.”

“don’t mm me.”

You sent him a glare as you grew annoyed, “nah I gotta say it’s kind of sweet Squeaker.” He teased letting his fingers catch the ends of your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world

A smile softly broke through your gaze “god you are annoying.” You grumbled feeling his hand grip at the fabric of your shirt, bringing you closer to him.

Garrett nodded licking his lips in the process, “yeah like you give a shit.” His tone matched yours.

Your breath hitched before you could stop it “and for the record, she is only really a thing because I needed a distraction from you.” Part of the reason he was down to help Hannah get Justin was the fact that he thought that if he could get your attention. It might be more than just an added bonus.

As your eyes went wide he realised how that probably sounded bad “look I needed a good grade and she wants this guy so-” Garrett rambled finally getting cut off as you kissed him.

The kiss was needy as his tongue swiped across your lower lip, your hands came under his shirt as he let out a grunt, feeling your cold fingers against his skin. It was hot as you moaned into his mouth, the boy was quick to pick you up wanting more of you, if that was even possible.

Your legs were wrapped around Garretts torso as you pulled away from him “he can never find out about this.” You announced knowing just how Dean would react.

The blonde never evoked any kind of hands off laws around you but anyone close to him knew you were off limits. You were like a twin sister to him so if he wasn’t going to have both your heads on sticks after this. The requests to be the godfather of your nonexistent hypothetical children would be what would come next.

Garrett nodded agreeing completely “to our graves.” He knew the way he was agreeing made it sound like this was going to be a one time thing, but if he could get his way. This was going to be the start of a whole load of fun for the both of you.

If you weren’t ready to get the boys clothes off in front of you, you would have been impressed that he knew the path to your room “god Gar.” You breathed out as the boy lay you onto your bed.

Your body felt warm as he grinned, “think you’re wearing too much.” His fingers ran along the hem of your shirt “so what are you gonna do about that?” The game you were playing was dangerous, and luckily for you, he was all for it.

Garrett sucked at his teeth, “god you’re lucky that I need ya.” His confession came as he pulled your shirt over your head, leaving the sight of you in nothing but your thong.

The lacy black number made him swear that this was going to be in his dreams for the rest of his life “lay back.” His voice was soft while his hands ran over breasts, the thought of everything he could do to you was consuming his mind “don’t you want them off too?” You motioned to your panties frowning as you listened to him.

He pulled his own shirt off as he laughed “last time I checked I am here to help you cum?” The hockey player let his knee settle between your legs.

The reminder was the truth, you were beyond sexually frustrated and needed something to change “so how about.” Garrett kissed your lips “you let me do what I know I can do well.” It came from his lips like an order.

And you weren’t in any position to be told twice “okay.” You nodded watching how he turned his attention further down your body.

Sloppy kisses formed a trail down your neck making you gasp. The boys hands ran over your body as if he was worried you’d slip out from under him “Garrett please.” You gasped watching his eyes come back to yours.

He hovered over you, his legs settling with one of your legs between him “such a pretty thing.” Garrett cooed, running his thumb over your breast. Causing your nipple to form a stiff peak “you know we can stop at any time right?” Of course he didn’t want to.

But if he was going to piss Dean off, he certainly wasn’t going to hurt you in the process, “you fucking leave me high and dry and so help me go-” Garrett cut you off as he wrapped his lips around your nipple, his free hand made sure that the other side was equally paid attention to.

You were embarrassed to admit how good it felt. His tongue flicked over your nipple as the other rolled between his fingertips “please.” You moaned, nodding along as your back arched, trying to get more of him.

It made his cock strain in his pants, the sight of you desperate beneath him was so much better than he had ever imagined. For weeks this had been what he imagined when he had his hand wrapped around his cock, your hands gripped at the sheets beneath you as you drove your hips against his thigh in an attempt to relieve the tension in your core.

Garrett let your breast go from his mouth with a pop, a trail of spit went with it as he clicked his tongue “you trying to go against our rules now?” He shook his head, tapping your hips motioning to you to lift them.

His fingers were rough against your sides watching how your now bare cunt stared back at him. Garrett smirked, pressing a kiss against the inside of your knee “how am I the only one naked?” You whined as your hands came down to your breasts, cupping them in a lousy attempt to provide some minimal coverage.

The way your teeth caught your lips made the boy grin “cause you are gonna cum before I even fuck you.” Garrett spoke in this duh tone that would have made you roll your eyes, but in that moment, you just wanted his ego to be right.

The boy let his fingers run over your clit, collecting your wetness on his fingers “god you’re already soaked.” Garrett wrapped his fingers around his digits, allowing himself to taste how sweet you were.

The sight made you moan, going to shut your thighs before he stopped them “none of that tonight, princess.” He clicked his tongue pressing a kiss to your inner thighs on either side, before he let his face hover over your cunt.

You looked up at your ceiling, convinced that if Garrett couldn’t make you cum then you were destined to be the old cat lady above someone’s apartment “think you can watch me?” The words were innocent as he wanted to gauge where you were at in your head.

He watched you swallow hard before you turned your head down to face him “I’ll be good.” The promise came as he wrapped one arm around your leg and let the other rest on your stomach for you to grab.

You didn’t think you were nervous but you didn’t hesitate to lock your fingers into his. Your legs settled against his back as he smirked. At first he was gentle, placing a kiss on your clit, not letting his eyes leave yours.

But when you squeezed his hand he took it as the green light to continue, letting his tongue focus on your aching hole. It felt good as his nose hit your clit making you moan.

Garrett was moving like he couldn’t get enough of you, his tongue going in and out letting the squelching noises of your cunt echo in his ears. The boy groaned when you pressed your heels into his lower back, sending shivers all throughout your body “fuck.” You groaned rolling your hips into him instinctively as you needed more.

It made him grind his body into your bed as he let his tongue recoil from your cunt “open.” He tapped your knee, sticking two of his fingers out for you as his eyes never left your mouth.

You nodded, quick to listen as you followed his instructions, allowing him to slot his fingers into your mouth. Your lips wrapped around them as he slowly began to thrust them, allowing them to get slick with your spit. The whole thing felt weirdly domestic when he kissed your knee, still having your hand locked into his. The way he watched you made your skin feel warm, as if you could be any more naked than you already were.

He felt his mouth go dry when a trail of your spit broke from his fingers, landing right of your boob. Garrett could over think about how he wished his fingers were his cock as he thrusted them into your cunt. His lips latched onto your clit and as he sucked at the sensitive nub, it finally hit.

This raw and shaky moan left your lips, letting him know that he hit the perfect spot “shit Gar.” You let your free hand lock into his hair, slightly tugging as your eyes screwed shut.

His fingers pushed these obscene strokes into your cunt, arching at the perfect spot to hit the points that made your body shake “don’t stop please.” You begged, desperation oozing from your voice refusing to let this be a repeat of all those other hookups.

The boy nodded continuing his movements as if they were from a recipe book, feeling his cock throb each time your cunt clenched around him.

Your eyes had long left his as you were left shaking for the man that was between your legs, waves of pleasure that your body had been missing for so long were now practically drowning you.

Garrett’s skilled tongue and relentless strokes caused your moans to grow louder and more reckless. Your knuckles turned white each time he’d hit the perfect spot, sucking on your clit as if you were a lollipop.

You were lost in a haze of whimpering and moaning as Garrett hit all the spots you needed, when all of a sudden the coil in your stomach snapped. Your eyes screwed shut as stars painted your vision and your body convulsed, legs tightening around his head “fuck I’m cumming!” You chanted those words as your cunt clenched around his fingers.

The boy didn’t let up as he continued to suck at your clit through every little aftershock that made your body shake. Your body swore it would lose control if he didn’t slow down.

He felt you press your hands on either side of his temples to help pull him away from your cunt “fuck you taste so good.” He pressed a kiss against your pubic bone before finally looking at you.

It felt like a sight for sore eyes when you bit the your lip as your body felt on fire “holy shit you did it.” Your eyes were wide as the boy grinned, “you say that like it was hard.” He wanted to tease you about it, but in that moment, all he wanted to enjoy was the fact that he did what you thought he couldn’t.

And it meant he could let his shit talking of the football players, be fair “well thank you.” You sat up, bringing your knees to your chest.

The boy smiled as he ran his fingers through his hair “if that’s what’s gonna happen every time I could get used to you thanking me.” Your cheeks grew warm at the statement, your body felt like jelly on the inside.

The captains hand wrapped around your leg pulling you closer to him “please.” You begged feeling his knee against your thigh. Slowly moving your hips to try to help relieve the tension between your legs that was already forming again.

The plead made the boy smirk “you still want more huh?” Garrett laughed letting his lips hover over yours when he stood up.

His eyes scanned your face only to realise that your eyes hadn’t left his. So rather than responding you opted to kiss him, letting out a whine when you realised you could taste your release on his tongue “as much as I’m enjoying this.” He brought his hand up to cup your cheek when he smiled “I’m gonna fucking combust if I don’t fuck ya.” Your eyes went to his hardon and you weren’t surprise. The grey fabric strained over his body, making it look like the pants that fit him when he arrived were now sizes too small.

He pulled his boxers and sweats off, letting his cock spring against his pubic bone. Garrett looked sculpted by the Greek Gods and that was the man you got to enjoy in your bed, “taken you long enough.” The comment was meant to stay inside your head but when it came out your eyes went wide, immediately feeling embarrassed.

But it made the boy laugh “hey when you do little work, you don’t get to make requests.” The brunette teased as he settled back onto your bed, letting the mattress dip with his weight.

The head of his cock ran over your slit a few times up and down, teasing your clit “asshole.” You whined, still feeling sensitive from your first orgasm.

It made the boy smile, lifting your thighs to pull you closer to him “now is that any way to talk to the man that just made you cum?” Garrett clicked his tongue as he bent down to peck your lips before you could respond.

He knew he was big, and the fact that his cock had been straining in his sweats since he got to yours didn’t make him feel less like he was about to explode “I’ll take it slow, okay?” His words were sweet, reminding you that he had your best interests above all else tonight.

The tenderness wasn’t something you were used to “I promise you, Garrett, I can handle-” he cut you off, allowing his cock to slot into your cunt.

Its walls stretched around him as your eyes screwed shut, “thought you said you could handle it, huh?” He teased, pressing his hands onto the back of your thigh to help ease the burn.

If you didn’t feel so full, you would have glared, “gimme a sec.” Your teeth gritted, slowly beginning to roll your hips as you grew used to his size.

In that moment, you understood why girls enjoyed him in bed so much because you swore he felt better than most toys you had tried. Not that you’d ever let him or anyone else, for that matter, get to know that one.

Garrett placed a string of kisses against your jaw, taking in the sweet scent of your perfume, “not in any rush doll.” He promised letting his eyes screw shut as your cunt clenched around him.

Your hand reached for his bicep as your eyes opened “glad to have you back with us.” He teased sending you a smile as you nodded “I’m ready.” It was a comment that came off as if you were in fact not sure of yourself. Yet somehow the two of you managed to move together like clockwork.

Garrett watched as your eyes stared back into his, sending him a smile as he pecked your lips “move quicker, please.” The request was soft and innocent, almost making Garrett feel protective as he obliged.

Your hair was slick with sweat against the back of your neck but somehow the boy still made you feel like the hottest person in the world, “can’t believe we’ve waited.” Now, he wasn’t a religious man, but in that moment, he believed that whatever god there was made you for him.

You nodded in agreement, raking your fingers through his hair “almost let those little football boys think they could ruin his pretty pussy.” He placed an open kiss on your neck, causing a moan to vibrate through your throat.

Your hips met his in this hungry race that somehow had perfect rhythm “gonna let me ruin you for all those shitty little boys?” His cock throbbed, feeling you clench around him at the threat of him being possessive.

In that moment you swore you were about to combust, tits bouncing with every thrust that he made “I know your pussy agrees with me.” His thumb circled your clit making you catch your lower lip between your teeth “now I need your mouth to as well.” You knew what he was asking but the head of his cock grazed a part of your cunt that had you swearing you forgot the English language.

His free hand rested around the base of your neck “suggest you answer me pretty girl or else next time is gonna be a lot more fun for me.” The warning should have had you squirming, but instead, you were just excited at the concept of getting to do this again with him.

If it was something that Dean wasn’t allowed to find out about, the two of you may as well get your use out of it “I’m yours cap.” It was the name you used the entire preseason mockingly after finding out what his new role was going to be. Of course Garrett sometimes pictured it coming from your lips when he had his hand around his cock. But in that moment, he swore he was a dead man walking as he could have finished right on the spot.

The sound of skin slapping echoed off your walls, the apartment probably feeling happy that it was finally getting to hear the sounds of genuine moans from your lips “fuck you feel perfect.” Garrett sucked at your earlobe as he felt your thighs tense around him.

Warmth ran through your body as the boy kept on hitting spots that made you swear you were seeing stars “please.” The word came out so softly that if Garrett hadn’t been right by your lips he wouldn’t have heard you.

Your eyes fluttered as the brunette kissed your lips “let it go.” His words came out soft, like it was permission rather than asking you as he too was hanging on a thread and refused to contemplate screwing up by finishing first. His thumb circled your clit as your cunt spasmed around his cock.

Waves of pleasure crashed over you causing your toes to curl. Loose flurries of his name left your lips sending him over the edge as well. Garrett let his teeth sink into the crook of your neck as he groaned, sending shivers through your body as you came down from your highs.

Garrett pulled out letting his cock slip from your soaked cunt “you good in there pretty girl?” He asked, pressing a kiss against your temple before he got up.

It was as if you had forgotten how to speak, instead opting to just nod, giving him an exhausted thumbs up in the process, which made him laugh as he headed into your bathroom “holy shit Gar.” You mustered out the words, looking down at your legs.

The captain grew concerned at your tone “what?” He called out trying to figure out if there was any kind of urgency in your voice.

Your head felt heavy against your mattress again “I think that’s the hardest I’ve like ever cum in my life.” The confession made him laugh, taking in the sight of you in your fucked out state.

He used the damp towel to wipe at your thighs and slit “told you I’d be able to sort out your little problem.”

[alierecss]

I can see you | John Logan

summary: Three months ago, you and Logan quietly became something. You forgot to tell anyone. That was fine, it was yours, and you liked it that way. Then you found out your friends had started a betting pool on when you'd finally get together, and suddenly keeping the secret became a lot more fun.

or: four times someone almost caught you, and one time someone did.

notes: hii i'm back!! okay so this one is a little different from my usual so no angst, no parking lot confessions, no rain. also this pic of antonio is just so boyfriend that i had to write something. thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think!!

warnings: swearing, implied intimacy, a missing bra, hannah being a terrible secret keeper and fluff.

word count: 6k

You and Hannah were not often scheduled to work the same shift at Malone's, for the simple reason that you two were dangerously prone to a severe case of the giggles that management had clocked early and worked around. But today was different, another server had called in sick and your manager had called you in a tone that left very little room for negotiation. You said yes, of course. You always said yes.

Arriving, you spotted Hannah immediately, weaving between tables with three plates balanced on her arm. You passed her on your way to the staff locker room and gave her arm a quick squeeze. She grinned at you over her shoulder.

The lunch rush was the particular kind of brutal that didn't leave room for anything except moving, table to table, order to order, the focused blur of a busy service. By the time it slowed down your feet ached and your ponytail had developed a life of its own.

Hannah found you at the counter, mechanically polishing glasses.

"So busy we couldn't even talk today," she said, sliding in beside you and stealing a glass to polish.

"It was genuinely awful," you agreed. "My feet are going to file a formal complaint."

Hannah laughed. And then the door opened.

Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Dean came in with the energy of people who had just finished practice and were extremely confident about their right to exist in any space they chose. Garrett made a beeline for Hannah with the focused intention of a man who had one priority. Behind him, Logan drifted toward the counter, casually, like he just happened to end up there, and leaned against it, watching you serve a customer with an expression that was doing nothing for your professional composure.

You almost dropped the bag the customer was reaching for.

"Hi, Logan." You kept your voice completely neutral. "Do you mind not staring at me? I'm working, you know."

He laughed, low and unhurried. "No, I don't think I can manage that."

"You could try."

"Not when you look this pretty."

"This pretty?" You gestured at yourself. "My hair is dirty and I didn't even have time to put on makeup."

"Still the prettiest," he said, and winked, and wandered back to the table where his friends had settled in like they owned the place.

You looked back at the counter. The glass you had been polishing was now somehow less clean than when you started.

Hannah had materialized at your elbow with the expression of someone watching something inevitable unfold.

"When," she said reverently, "are you two just going to date like normal people?" She sighed. "I hope it's soon. I kind of want to win that betting pool Tucker made."

You put the glass down. "What betting pool?"

Hannah's expression cycled through several things in rapid succession.

"No betting pool," she said. "I meant a real pool. Tucker said something about you guys and a real pool. Can't think of what it actually was. Because it was so long ago."

You looked at her.

"Hannah Marie Wells."

"That's not my middle name."

"Tell me the truth right now."

She looked left. She looked right. She found no exits. She exhaled.

"All right. Tucker organized a bet where everyone has to guess when you two will finally become a couple. I said three weeks from the day the bet was made, which is actually — tomorrow — so if you two could maybe just —"

"I cannot believe you guys would bet on something like that." You shook your head. "Actually, I can believe them. But you, Hannah. I expected better."

"Allie too," Hannah offered, as though this was helpful.

"What does the winner get?"

"Pride and glory. Also we each put in twenty dollars."

You set down the glass and made a direct line for the boys' table. Logan spotted you coming and started to smile, that smile, the one that was specifically for you.

"Logan," you said pleasantly, "can you help me with something? The door on one of the staff lockers is jammed. Do you mind taking a look? Your bill will be on the house if you fix it."

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, sure." He pushed back from the table, nodded to the others, and followed you toward the back.

Dean watched you go with an expression of mild suspicion. Tucker didn't look up from his menu.

The staff locker room smelled like industrial cleaner and someone's forgotten lunch, which was not exactly the atmosphere you would have chosen, but it would do.

"So where's the door?" Logan said, looking around.

"There's no door."

He turned. "What?"

"There's no door. I needed to get you alone." You crossed your arms. "Your friends are running a betting pool on us."

"What do you mean there's no door?" He looked genuinely betrayed by the architecture. Then: "And they're your friends too."

"Not when they're betting on us. There's no door, Logan, I made it up. Focus."

He laughed and crossed the small room toward you, his hands finding your waist and pulling you in with the unhurried ease of someone who had been doing it for a while, not long enough that it felt ordinary, long enough that it felt inevitable.

"It's not a big deal, you know," he said. "The bet. They're just nosy."

"I know." He was very close, which made it difficult to maintain the appropriate level of outrage. You found yourself pressing small kisses to his lips almost without deciding to, punctuating your words between them. "I just — don't want — to make it — a whole thing yet."

Logan pulled back far enough to look at you properly.

"Yeah?" he said. Not pushing. Just asking.

"It's ours," you said, which came out simpler and more honest than you had intended. "For a little while longer. I just want it to be ours."

Something in his expression settled, warm and unhurried, the specific look of someone who understood completely and wasn't going anywhere.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?"

"Yeah." He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. "Okay."

You pulled him in by the front of his shirt and kissed him properly this time, the locker room and the betting pool and Hannah's guilty face all receding into irrelevance.

Logan pulled back.

"Wait," he said. "So no bill on the house, then?"

one — tucker

The thing about Logan's shirts was that they were extremely comfortable.

This was not a controversial observation. They were soft and worn-in and smelled like him which was a feature rather than a bug on cold Sunday mornings when getting dressed felt like an unnecessary commitment.

You had not planned to be at the house on a Sunday morning. You had planned to be at your own place, in your own bed, wearing your own clothes, like a person who had their life together. What had actually happened was that Saturday night had turned into Sunday morning in the way that it sometimes did around Logan, and now it was nine-fifteen and you were in his kitchen in his grey shirt making coffee while he was still asleep upstairs.

Which was fine. Which was completely normal and fine.

The house was quiet. Tucker's door had been closed when you passed it. Dean and Garrett weren't home, Logan had said. You were alone with the coffee machine and a comfortable Sunday silence and absolutely no reason to think anyone was going to come downstairs for at least another hour.

You had just found the good mugs when you heard footsteps on the stairs.

Tucker appeared in the kitchen doorway in a hoodie and the expression of someone who had not yet fully committed to being awake. He was looking at his phone. He walked to the refrigerator. He opened it. He stared into it with the vacant focus of someone hoping food would appear through willpower alone.

Then he turned around and saw you.

The silence that followed had a very specific quality.

Tucker looked at you. He looked at the shirt. He looked at the coffee you were making, looked at the two mugs, and something moved across his face that went through approximately six stages before landing on stunned comprehension.

"Hey," you said, with the casual energy of someone who was not wearing their boyfriend's shirt in his kitchen on a Sunday morning. "Coffee?"

Tucker opened his mouth.

"I stayed over," you said pleasantly. "The couch is really comfortable actually."

Tucker looked at the shirt. He looked at the mugs. He looked at the shirt again.

"...Right," he said slowly.

"He let me borrow this because my top had a thing. A stain. From last night." You gestured vaguely. "Very embarrassing, actually. Pasta related."

Tucker was still looking at the mugs.

You picked up both mugs, tucked them against your chest in what you hoped was a casual gesture rather than an incriminating one, and smiled at him.

"I'm just going to bring this up," you said. "You should have some. There's plenty."

You walked past him and up the stairs before he could say anything else.

Logan was sitting up in bed when you came back, hair doing something architecturally ambitious, squinting at the light.

"Tucker's awake," you said, handing him his coffee and sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed.

Logan processed this. "And?"

"And I told him I slept on the couch because my shirt had a pasta stain."

Logan looked at you for a long moment.

"Did he believe you?"

"Absolutely not," you said cheerfully, and drank your coffee.

Downstairs, Tucker stood in the kitchen for another full minute. Then he took out his phone.

tucker: i just saw (Y/N) in the kitchen wearing logan's shirt

tucker: making TWO coffees

tucker: and she said she slept on the couch because of a pasta stain

dean: WHAT

garrett: what

tucker: I THINK I JUST WON THE BET

hannah: you didn't win the bet tucker. it was clearly just a pasta stain situation

tucker: HANNAH

allie: omg omg omg

tucker: do i win?? does the pasta stain story count as them getting together???

dean: i don't think pasta counts as confirmation tucker

tucker: I WILL NEVER FINANCIALLY RECOVER FROM THIS

two — hannah

The thing about Malone's on a Friday night was that it had exactly one staff bathroom and one customer bathroom, and the customer bathroom had been out of order since Wednesday, which meant that the staff bathroom had become public property by necessity, which meant the line for it snaked along the back wall and required a wait time that was genuinely unreasonable.

You had been waiting for four minutes when you remembered that you knew where the staff entrance was.

The staff hallway was quiet and dim, the sounds of the bar muffled behind the door. You had worked here long enough to know the code, and the bathroom was unlocked, and you were inside and washing your hands within ninety seconds, feeling extremely smug about the whole thing.

You were just reaching for a paper towel when the door opened.

Logan slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him, and looked at you with the expression of someone who had just made the same efficient calculation.

"Oh," he said. "You had the same idea."

"Staff entrance," you confirmed.

"Smart."

"I know."

He crossed to the sink beside yours and turned on the tap, and for a moment you were just two people washing their hands in a small staff bathroom, which was either extremely romantic or extremely unromantic depending on how you looked at it. His shoulder was warm against yours in the small space. You handed him a paper towel.

"Tucker's texts have been unhinged this week," you said.

"The pasta shirt thing really broke him," Logan agreed, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"He texted me three times yesterday asking if I wanted to talk about my feelings."

Logan laughed. You loved the sound of it in small spaces, the way it filled them. You turned toward him and he turned toward you and you were very close, and he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with the absent, habitual tenderness of someone who had been doing it long enough that he didn't think about it anymore, and you went up on your toes and kissed him quickly.

"Separate," you said against his mouth. "We should go back separately."

"Separate," he agreed, not moving.

You kissed him again, less quickly this time, his hands finding your waist, the paper towel entirely abandoned.

The door opened.

Hannah stood in the doorway.

The three of you looked at each other.

"The customer bathroom is out of order," Hannah said, very carefully, "so I used the staff code."

"Same," you said. You and Logan had separated with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before. "Just washing our hands."

"Both of you."

"It's a two sink bathroom," Logan said.

Hannah looked at the two of you. She looked at the very small bathroom. She looked at the single paper towel that was inexplicably on the floor.

"Right," she said. "Of course. I'll just —" she pointed at the toilet. "I'll just use this."

"We were just leaving," you said.

You and Logan filed past her. You did not look at each other in the hallway.

Behind you, you heard Hannah take out her phone.

hannah: ok so i just walked into the staff bathroom at malone's and (Y/N) and logan were BOTH in there

allie: WHAT

tucker: I TOLD YOU ABOUT THE PASTA SHIRT

hannah: they said they were just washing their hands

dean: both of them. in the staff bathroom. together.

hannah: there were two sinks

garrett: hannah

hannah: i mean it's a completely reasonable explanation!!

tucker: HANNAH YOU ARE LITERALLY DATING GARRETT YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS

hannah: i mean. yes. but also. two sinks.

allie: hannah i love you but two sinks is not an explanation

hannah: i just think we should give them the benefit of the doubt!!

tucker: hannah you literally have twenty dollars on this

hannah: ...i said three weeks

hannah: from a month ago

hannah: i may have already lost

three — allie

Allie considered herself an observant person.

This was not arrogance, it was simply a fact, documented over years of being the person in any given group who noticed things. Who left early. Who had argued with whom. Who liked whom. The small social architecture of any room was, to Allie, essentially readable at a glance.

Which was why she could not understand why no one else was seeing what she was seeing.

It was a random week night, the kind that had somehow evolved from a study session into a full group hangout without anyone formally announcing it, and now there were seven of them spread across the living room , Logan and Dean on the floor with Tucker's terrible taste in television providing background noise, Garrett and Hannah on the armchair that was technically too small for two people but they had been making work for months, and you and Allie on the big couch with your respective laptops.

Normal. Fine. A completely normal Tuesday.

Except.

Allie had been reaching for her water bottle when she saw it.

Logan had said something to Tucker, something quiet, barely audible over the television, and Tucker had responded, and then Logan had looked across the room at you. Just looked. For maybe two seconds.

And you had looked back.

It wasn't a loaded look, exactly. It wasn't the dramatic eye contact of a romantic comedy. It was quieter than that, it was the almost imperceptible look of two people who were sharing a private thought from across a room. Easy. Habitual. Like a conversation conducted entirely without words by people who had been having it for a long time.

Allie's water bottle missed the table entirely.

"You okay?" you asked, looking at her.

"Fine," Allie said. "Totally fine."

She looked at Logan. He had gone back to whatever Tucker was saying. Completely normal. Nothing to see.

Allie looked back at you. You were typing something on your laptop. Also completely normal.

I saw that, Allie thought. I absolutely saw that.

She leaned over to you. "Hey," she said, very casually. "What was that?"

You looked up from your laptop. "What was what?"

"That —" she gestured vaguely between you and Logan. "That look."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You and Logan just —" she did the gesture again, which in retrospect was not a very descriptive gesture.

"Allie," you said pleasantly, "I genuinely don't know what you're referring to."

You went back to your laptop. Allie stared at the side of your head.

I saw it, she thought. I definitely saw it.

She turned to the room. She needed a witness.

"Dean," she said.

Dean looked up from the floor. "What."

"Did you just see —" she started. But Dean had already looked back at the television. Tucker was saying something about the episode. Logan was responding. You were typing. Nothing was happening. The moment was completely gone, absorbed back into the ordinary texture of a Tuesday night, leaving absolutely no evidence.

Allie sat back on the couch.

I know what I saw, she thought.

Twenty minutes passed.

And then Logan got up to refill his water bottle in the kitchen, and on his way back he passed the couch, and his hand dropped briefly to your shoulder, barely a touch, a graze really, the kind that lasted less than a second and you didn't even look up from your laptop, just tilted your head toward it slightly, like a plant toward light, like the most natural thing in the world.

Allie's laptop slid off her knees.

"I SAW THAT," she said.

Everyone looked at her.

"Saw what?" Tucker said.

"Logan's hand — and her shoulder — they just —" she pointed. Logan was back on the floor. You were looking at Allie with an expression of polite confusion. "He touched her shoulder and she —"

"Are you okay?" Dean said.

"I'm fine, I just —" Allie looked around the room. Six faces looked back at her with varying degrees of concern. "Did anyone else see that?"

"See what?" Logan said.

"You touched her shoulder," Allie said, pointing at him.

"I was just walking past," Logan said.

"She leaned into it!"

"I have a stiff neck," you said.

"YOU HAVE A STIFF —" Allie stopped. Took a breath. "I know what I saw," she said, with dignity.

"Allie," Dean said carefully. "Have you had enough water today?"

"I've had plenty of water, Dean, I'm not —"

"Sometimes dehydration causes —"

"I am not dehydrated!" Allie said. "I know what I saw and what I saw was —" she looked at you. You were looking back at her with an expression of patient concern. She looked at Logan. He was also looking at her with patient concern. Both of you at the same time, with the same expression. "— you know what, never mind," she said. "Never mind. I'm fine."

She picked up her laptop.

Across the room, completely undetected, Logan looked at you.

You looked back.

The corner of your mouth moved. His did too.

Allie, who had her eyes fixed resolutely on her screen, did not see this.

She was choosing not to look anymore. For her own mental health.

allie: OKAY SO

allie: I JUST SAW SOMETHING

tucker: WHAT

allie: logan touched (Y/N)'s shoulder while walking past and she LEANED INTO IT

allie: and before that there was A LOOK

dean: allie we were all in the same room

allie: YOU WEREN'T PAYING ATTENTION DEAN

hannah: what kind of look

allie: the kind that MEANS SOMETHING

garrett: i mean they're friends

allie: garrett

garrett: what

allie: i love you but you have the observational skills of a golden retriever

garrett: ...fair

tucker: ALLIE YOU MIGHT HAVE JUST WON THE BET

allie: i can't win on a shoulder touch and a look tucker i need more evidence

tucker: THE PASTA SHIRT WAS EVIDENCE

allie: the pasta shirt was circumstantial

dean: none of us are going to win this bet are we

three and a half — garrett

It was a Wednesday afternoon, the house quiet in the way it got between practice and evening, and you had let yourself in with the key Logan had given you two weeks ago, casually, like it was nothing, tucked it into your palm and gone back to whatever he had been saying, and you had put it on your keychain without making a thing of it either.

You were in the kitchen making tea when Garrett came downstairs.

He was in sweats, hair still damp from the shower, moving with the unhurried ease of someone with nowhere to be. He went to the refrigerator, opened it, considered it, closed it. Then he leaned against the counter across from you and looked at the mug situation with the mild, unreadable expression that was, you had come to understand, just his face.

"Logan's still at the rink," he said. "Film session ran over."

"I know," you said. "He texted."

Garrett nodded. He picked up an apple from the fruit bowl. He looked at it. He looked at you.

"You should tell him about the Boston thing," he said.

You looked up. "What?"

"The conference. The one your professor forwarded you." He bit into the apple with the casual certainty of someone stating something obvious. "You've been sitting on it for two weeks. You should just tell him."

You stared at him.

The Boston conference was something you had mentioned exactly once, in passing, weeks ago, in the middle of a conversation about something else entirely. You had said three sentences about it and then moved on. You had not mentioned it since. You had not mentioned it to Logan because you hadn't figured out how yet because Boston was four days in February and it was a good opportunity and you didn't know what it meant for the thing that was still, technically, just yours.

"How did you —" you started.

Garrett shrugged. "You got quiet when someone mentioned February plans at dinner last week." He took another bite of the apple. "Logan noticed too. He just didn't want to push."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"He'll be fine with it," Garrett said, simply, like that was the part you needed to hear. "He's not going anywhere." He pushed off the counter and headed toward the living room. "Tell him about Boston."

He disappeared around the corner.

You stood in the kitchen holding your mug, looking at the space he had just occupied.

You had not told anyone about Boston. You had not told Hannah, who told you everything. You had not told Allie, who noticed everything. You had mentioned it once, in passing, and Garrett who had the observational skills of a golden retriever, according to Allie, according to everyone had filed it away and waited until you were alone to say the thing you needed to hear.

You looked down at your mug.

Then you took out your phone and texted Logan.

can we talk tonight? nothing bad. just something i've been sitting on.

His response came back in under a minute.

yeah. i'll bring food. what do you want?

You smiled at your phone in the empty kitchen.

surprise me.

four — dean

You weren't really supposed to be there.

You had come over earlier in the afternoon with the genuine intention of spending a couple of hours with Logan and then going home like a responsible person. What had actually happened was that Logan had been very convincing about the staying part convincing in the specific way that involved kissing you before you could finish your sentence and pulling you back against the mattress until leaving felt like a genuinely unreasonable idea.

So now it was late, and you were sprawled across his bed while he kissed your neck, his hands finding the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head.

"I missed them," he said, with complete sincerity, cupping your chest in both hands, unclasping your bra with an easiness that frankly made you jealous.

You giggled and pushed his shoulders. "You idiot."

He kissed you again slow and soft, his tongue lazy against yours, the unhurried quality of someone with absolutely nowhere to be. You were certainly not going home now. You reached up and pulled his shirt over his head, and your fingers found a purple mark spreading across his stomach.

"What's this?" you said, tracing it gently.

"Practice got tough."

"Oh, my poor baby." You shifted, pressing a line of soft kisses across his stomach. You felt him shiver underneath you. "My poor, poor baby —"

The knock on the door made you both freeze.

"Logan?" Dean's voice, from the other side. Another knock. The sound of the handle being tried. "You in there, man?"

You and Logan looked at each other with the wide-eyed, frantic energy of two people who had absolutely no good explanation for the current state of the room.

Logan started moving toward the door.

"No," you whisper-screamed.

"Hide," he said, at the same volume.

"Where?"

You looked around the room in rapid, increasingly desperate assessment. The bathroom — no, what if Dean needed it. The wardrobe what if Logan opened it. The only viable option was under the bed, the duvet long enough to reach the floor and conceal the gap completely.

You rolled off the mattress and slid underneath it in one graceless motion. You heard Logan muffle a laugh by converting it unconvincingly into a cough. In your frantic scramble you had grabbed your shirt, clutched against your chest, but your bra was somewhere out there discarded, incriminating, absolutely in the middle of the room.

Fuck, you thought.

Logan opened the door.

Dean walked in. There was a brief silence of the kind that meant someone had immediately spotted something they were not expecting to see. From your position on the floor you had a very clear view of Dean's socks stopping in the middle of the room.

Then not moving.

You watched Dean's socks stand very still for approximately eight seconds.

"I need to borrow your charger," Dean said.

His voice was extremely, carefully normal. The voice of a man making a decision in real time.

Logan turned and retrieved the charger from the bedside table. "Here."

A pause. Dean's socks did not move.

"Leave, Dean," Logan said.

Another pause.

Dean's socks backed slowly toward the door.

He stood in the hallway for a moment, you could hear him through the door, just standing there, processing, and then his footsteps retreated down the hall. You waited until you heard his door close before sliding out from under the bed, pulling your shirt back on and looking at Logan, who was leaning against the wall with his hand over his mouth doing an extremely poor job of not laughing.

"Your bra," he managed.

"I know."

"It was just — right there —"

"I know, Logan."

He was fully laughing now, silent and shaking, and you threw a pillow at him, which did nothing to help.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

dean: dude…

logan: say nothing

You watched him type it, one eyebrow raised. His phone buzzed back almost immediately.

dean: i have twenty dollars on the line

logan: dean

dean: i'm just saying

logan: goodnight dean

dean: does tucker know

logan: GOODNIGHT DEAN

Logan put his phone down. You looked at him. He looked at you.

"He's not going to say anything," Logan said, with the confidence of a man who was not entirely sure of this.

His phone buzzed again.

dean: for what it's worth i called it from the beginning

Logan turned his phone face down.

You looked at him for a moment longer.

Then you retrieved your bra from the corner of the room where it had been sitting like evidence at a crime scene, and you got back into bed, and Logan pulled you against him with the easy, unhurried certainty of someone who had won the argument about staying a long time ago.

Down the hall, Dean lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, charger plugged in, feeling extremely vindicated about everything.

He did not tell Tucker.

He did not tell Garrett.

He did not tell Allie, who sent him three texts the following morning about the shoulder touch that he left on read.

He did not tell Hannah, which was the hardest one, because Hannah asked him directly at breakfast if he had noticed anything and Dean had looked her in the eye and said no.

He was, he decided, a good friend.

He was also, he decided, definitely going to win that bet.

five — garrett

The hit happened in the second period.

It wasn't malicious, just the particular physics of two large bodies in a confined space moving fast, the kind of collision that happened in every game, that everyone who had ever watched hockey understood to be part of it. Logan went into the boards hard and stayed down for a moment longer than usual, and the arena went quiet in a collective way that meant everyone was holding the same breath.

You were on your feet before you had decided to stand up.

"He's fine," Allie said, grabbing your arm. "He's moving, look, he's moving."

He was moving. He was getting up, slowly, with assistance from a teammate, skating to the bench under his own power. The arena exhaled. You sat back down.

Your heart was doing something extremely inconvenient.

"You okay?" Hannah said, from your other side.

"Fine," you said. "Totally fine."

She looked at you for a moment. You looked at the ice.

Logan was on the bench. The trainer was with him. He was talking, responding, doing all the things that meant he was okay, and you sat in the stands and watched with the stillness of someone who was doing a very good impression of a person who was just watching a hockey game and not mentally composing hospital directions.

He came back in the third period.

You exhaled properly for the first time in forty minutes.

After the game the group filtered down to the corridor outside the locker room the way they always did. You went because you always went, because it was a group thing, because it meant nothing in particular.

The players came out in ones and twos. Garrett first, immediately absorbed by Hannah. Tucker departing with a couple of the other guys. Dean getting into a conversation with someone near the exit.

Logan came out last.

He had a bruise forming along his jaw and he was walking with the slightly careful gait of someone who had taken a hit, and when he saw you he smiled, that specific smile, the one that was yours, and something in your chest did the thing it always did, except louder tonight, turned up by forty minutes of sitting in the stands holding your breath.

You crossed the corridor and hugged him, which was normal, everyone hugged after games, that was a completely normal thing to do.

Except then you pulled back and looked at him, at the bruise, at the careful way he was holding himself, and you said his name, quietly, in the way that was only for him, and he looked back at you in the way that was only for you, and the thing you had been keeping quietly for months was right there at the surface, obvious and warm and entirely done being kept.

You kissed him.

Not a quick kiss. Not an ambiguous one. A real one, his hand coming up to your jaw, yours finding the front of his jacket, the kind that had three months of ordinary Tuesday nights and Sunday mornings and staff bathroom detours in it.

The corridor went quiet.

You pulled back.

The group was looking at you.

Tucker's mouth was open.

Garrett had an expression cycling through several things very quickly , and then it landed on something that looked, more than anything, like quiet relief. Like someone who had been waiting for a particular thing to resolve and was glad it finally had.

Hannah was smiling in the particular way of someone who had known something for a while and was very glad to finally be allowed to show it.

Dean looked, more than anything, deeply smug.

"Wait," Tucker said. "Are you two — have you been —"

"Three months," Logan said, still looking at you, the corner of his mouth doing the thing.

"THREE MONTHS?"

"We forgot to mention it," you said.

"YOU FORGOT TO —"

"Tucker," Logan said.

"I HAD TWENTY DOLLARS ON THIS." Tucker pointed at you both. "I HAD — the pasta shirt! I KNEW about the pasta shirt! Does the pasta shirt count? When was the pasta shirt? If the pasta shirt counts then I —"

"Who won?" Allie said. "Technically who —"

Everyone looked at each other. A rapid, chaotic calculation passed through the group.

"Garrett," Hannah said slowly. "Garrett said —"

"After a game," Garrett said, with the equanimity of someone who had never been particularly worried about it. "I said after a game."

"You said after a game," Dean confirmed.

Tucker made a sound that had no letters in it.

"So Garrett wins?" Allie said.

"Garrett wins," Hannah confirmed, and immediately turned to Garrett with an expression of pure delight. "You won, baby."

Garrett looked at Logan. Logan looked back at him.

"You've been together for three months," Garrett said.

"About that," Logan confirmed.

"And you didn't tell anyone."

"We wanted to keep it for a while," you said, which was the simplest and most accurate version of it. "It was ours. We just wanted it to be ours for a bit."

Garrett looked at you for a moment. Something in his expression was entirely unsurprised. He nodded once, like a thing confirmed, and then looked at Logan with the small, easy smile of someone who had never doubted the outcome.

"Okay," he said. "Good."

Tucker pointed at both of you. "I want my twenty dollars back."

"You didn't win," Dean said.

"I KNEW ABOUT THE PASTA SHIRT."

"Tucker —"

"THE PASTA SHIRT WAS EVIDENCE AND NO ONE LISTENED TO ME —"

Logan looked at you. You looked back at him.

"Worth it?" he said quietly.

You looked at Tucker, who was now gesturing with both hands. You looked at Allie, who was consoling him with the resigned energy of someone who had expected this outcome. You looked at Hannah, who was collecting twenty dollars from Dean with the serene satisfaction of a person who had always known. You looked at Garrett, who was watching all of it with the calm, unhurried expression of a man who had called it months ago in a quiet kitchen on a Wednesday afternoon and had simply waited.

"Completely worth it," you said.

Logan kissed your temple.

Tucker made the sound with no letters in it again.

tucker: I WANT IT ON THE RECORD THAT I KNEW

tucker: THE PASTA SHIRT WAS REAL EVIDENCE

tucker: I CALLED IT FROM DAY ONE

dean: garrett won tucker

tucker: GARRETT WASNT EVEN PAYING ATTENTION

garrett: i was paying attention

tucker: YOU HAVE THE OBSERVATIONAL SKILLS OF A GOLDEN RETRIEVER

garrett: allie said that first

allie: it's true both times

allie: okay fine. garrett wins. i respect it.

tucker: I DO NOT RESPECT IT

tucker: TWENTY DOLLARS. GONE.

garrett: worth every penny honestly

allie: okay fine it was very cute

allie: i still saw the look though

allie: i want that acknowledged

dean: acknowledged allie

allie: thank you

tucker: I WILL NEVER FINANCIALLY RECOVER FROM THIS

[sc3ptre]

I absolutely loved your last Dean story!! I was wondering if you would be able to write about a reader who has never been able to finish, with herself or anyone else, and dean helps her learn.

Beautiful writing!

I would've done that sober

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x childhood best friend!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66

a/n: Well that was long, but such a delight to write and soooo so sexy

Classification: Smut +18 | Talks of ex's and sexual dysfunction/insecurity, emotional vulnerability, recreational drug use (NOT DURING SEX), dry humping/grinding, getting caught, fingering, tension and arousal descriptions, orgasm, praise and partial undressing/lingerie.

Word count: 12k

Divider by me ;)

You sat across from the fire pit in the boys’ backyard, elbows resting on the armrests of your chair while the flames cracked softly in front of you both. The night air had turned colder hours ago, but neither of you had gone inside. Dean kept talking and you kept letting him or trying to.

Every time he opened his mouth, you exhaled slowly through your nose as if physically releasing air might stop you from interrupting him.

“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Dean repeated for probably the fifth time that night. He took another drag from the blunt before passing it toward you, smoke curling past his lips as he leaned back deeper into the chair.

“That’s what pisses me off the most,” he continued, staring hard into the fire like your ex-boyfriend personally offended him. “He had no clue what he was doing in the relationship from day one and still had the confidence to ask you out.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Usually I respect delusion like that, but that guy’s a fucking disaster.”

You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.

Dean had been ranting for nearly a week straight now. Anyone overhearing him would’ve assumed he’d been the one publicly dumped in the cafeteria instead of you but he’d been there when it happened, front row seats to your ex fumbling through excuses while half your friends sat frozen around the table pretending not to listen. Maybe that was enough for Dean.

Now, instead of being out partying with the rest of the team, he sat outside with you night after night, sharing weed and acting personally victimized by your breakup.

“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.

He stopped talking immediately.

You inhaled slowly before looking over at him through the smoke, holding his gaze while you exhaled. “It’s okay.”

Dean’s expression flattened instantly. “We have very different definitions of okay.”

His eyes drifted back toward the fire for a second, replaying the memory again. You could practically see it happening behind his eyes, the cafeteria, your expression and your ex stumbling through his speech.

“You should’ve let me talk to him,” he muttered.

“What good would that have done?” You brought the blunt back to your lips, inhaling before handing it over again. “It’s not his fault.”

Dean’s head snapped toward you so fast he nearly dropped the thing. “The fuck does that mean?”

You almost rolled your eyes at the offense in his tone. Instead, you looked away toward the fire again, watching orange light flicker against the patio stones.

“I’m lost here,” he scoffed. “Is being wrapped around another girl at a party three hours after dumping you not a dick move now?”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Dean,” you said gently, finally turning your head toward him again. “I think I’m the only person who wasn’t surprised by the breakup.”

His brows furrowed.

You shrugged one shoulder lightly. “He just beat me to it.”

“Oh.” The word left him quietly. Dean looked away immediately afterward, dragging a hand over his mouth while he gathered his thoughts before glancing back at you. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about that.”

He passed the blunt over again.

You took it carefully, staring down at it between your fingers for a second before answering.

“Yeah, well...” You inhaled deeply, smoke burning pleasantly in your lungs before you let it back out slowly. “You’ve got other business to worry about.”

Dean huffed out a laugh instantly. “You are my business.” The certainty in his voice made your lips curl before you could stop them. “So start talking.”

He always did that. Dean had this way of making honesty feel inevitable. The two of you talked about everything, always had. He knew things about you your closest friends didn’t. Hell, he’d bought condoms for you the first time you planned on sleeping with someone because you’d been too embarrassed to walk into the store yourself.

You moved deeper into the chair, pulling one leg beneath you while you searched carefully for the right words. “Um…” You inhaled again, then blurted it out before your brain could stop you. “I suck at the sex thing.”

Dean’s face twisted immediately in disagreement as you passed the blunt. “Bullshit.”

You laughed softly. “No, seriously. I do.” You rubbed awkwardly at your neck before continuing. “Turns out not being able to cum eventually becomes an issue when your partner realizes you never actually have with them.”

Dean’s expression changed instantly. Every conversation you’d ever had about sex clearly started replaying in his head at once because confusion hit him violently.

“But you told me–”

“I lied.” The words came out easier than expected. You shrugged lightly, though your stomach still tightened. “I’ve been lying for years...Faking it until I got tired of faking it and started bruising egos.” A humorless smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Including mine.”

Dean stayed quiet now so you stared into the fire instead.

“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think sex is really my thing.” Your shoulders lifted. “I like the idea of it. I enjoy parts of it…but everyone talks about this huge explosive ending and I just…” You shook your head. “Don’t get there…naturally people stop believing you when you say it was still good.”

Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”

“The sex?” You let the silence drag for a second before shrugging again. “I think so.” Your lips twitched faintly. “It was good enough to build better stories around afterward.”

Dean stopped smoking entirely after that. The blunt burned slowly between his fingers while he stared down at it, suddenly looking far more sober than either of you probably were. He looked like he was trying to organize his thoughts before speaking again.

“How about alone?” The question came softly, carefully.

If you didn’t know him so well, you might’ve mistaken the look on his face for pity. Thankfully, you did know him, which meant you recognized concern immediately.

You shook your head slowly. “That’s why I’m saying it’s not his fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” Dean argued as he flicked the rest of the blunt into the fire pit before continuing. “It just hasn’t happened yet.” His voice softened further. “Doesn’t mean it never will.”

You let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as the weed finally started loosening the tension sitting on your shoulders. “It’s definitely not from lack of trying.”

You could feel him staring at you even with your eyes closed.

The silence stretched comfortably after your confession, softened by the crackling fire and the distant chorus of crickets surrounding the backyard. The flames had started dying down, wood collapsing inward with quiet snaps while smoke drifted lazily into the cold night air.

Dean still hadn’t looked away from you. “So what now?” he asked finally.

You swallowed slowly, still keeping your eyes shut. For a second or maybe an entire minute, Dean genuinely thought you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.

Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”

The offended sound that tore out of him made your smile widen. You heard him trying to hold it back too, which honestly made it funnier but this was Dean. Subtle outrage had never once existed in his body.

“Think I’d look hot as a nun?” you asked lazily.

“You’d look hot in a banana costume wearing clown shoes six sizes too big,” he replied instantly. “And you’re absolutely not dropping out of Briar to become a nun. End of discussion.”

His tone came out firm enough to sound ridiculous considering he had absolutely no authority over your life whatsoever.

You finally peeled your eyes open to look at him. The weed had settled into your bones now, leaving you heavy and relaxed against the chair. Dean looked hazy too, hair falling perfectly while the firelight flickered warm across his face.

“You’re not giving up because some five-eleven idiot couldn’t be patient long enough to figure you out.”

You grinned. “He’s six-one.”

Dean scoffed. “He tried out for the Hawks freshman year. Trust me, he’s five-eleven.”

Your brows lifted. Dean kept going without needing encouragement, already slipping into that protective streak he pretended wasn’t there. He always collected information about people around you, quietly filing it away for future use whenever he deemed necessary.

“He was wearing lifts during tryouts,” Dean added smugly. “One bad pivot and the guy almost snapped an ankle.”

A laugh escaped you softly.

“If you wanna stop having sex altogether, God forbid–”

“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.

Dean barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’d probably take a year and a half to cleanse my sins.” He pointed toward himself loosely. “And that’s assuming I don’t burst into flames the second I walk into a church.” His eyes drifted back to you. “Can I continue now?”

“Yes, Father,” you replied through a chuckle.

Dean shook his head, smiling despite himself before settling deeper into his chair again.

“If you really wanna do the celibacy thing, fine.” He shrugged dramatically. “I’ll support you. We’ll find support groups together and hold hands through the trauma.” His mouth twitched. “Though personally, I’d go through withdrawals first.”

“How solidary of you.”

He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Plus I can probably add it to my extracurriculars somehow.”

You laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly as you leaned back into the chair. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

Dean watched you carefully while you laughed. The sound came out lighter than anything he’d heard from you all week, chest rising and falling unevenly while your eyes squeezed shut again for a second and suddenly the conversation stopped feeling funny to him.

Because underneath the jokes, underneath the weed and the teasing, he kept thinking about what you’d actually said earlier. About you trying and nothing happening.

Dean loved sex. Everyone knew that much about him but you did too or at least you loved wanting it, loved feeling desired, loved the intimacy, the heat and everything wrapped around it and now all he could think about was how frustrating that must’ve been for you. Wanting something everyone else talked about so easily only for your body not to cooperate no matter how hard you tried.

The thought sat badly in his chest. Dean looked down at the dying fire for a second before his eyes lifted back to you.

“Use me,” he blurted out.

Your laughter faded gradually after his words, the smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth while your eyes settled back on him even more carefully this time. 

“What do you mean?”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be your last resort,” he repeated easily, like he’d already thought this through far more than he probably had. “Aren’t you always telling me to make myself useful?”

You narrowed your eyes, blinking slowly through the haze settling heavier behind them.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand. “Because I’m starting to think I hallucinated that sentence.”

“I hold my weed better than you,” he reminded you smugly.

That part, unfortunately, was true. Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees now, all lazy amusement gone strangely sincere beneath the teasing.

“You wanna quit? Fine.” He shrugged. “Quit when you’re actually out of options.”

A quiet huff left you, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Didn’t realize Six Flags counted as an option.” Your lips twitched faintly. “I hate rollercoasters.”

Dean nodded decisively. “Then I’ll go out of business.”

“You’ll close the park?”

“I’ll shut the whole thing down,” he promised solemnly. “Just so you can ride the teacups.” The grin spreading across his face warned you half a second too late. “Remember when you threw up on the–”

“Yes,” you cut him off immediately, flat and horrified. “I remember.”

Dean laughed anyway. Full-bodied, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as he pointed at you. “You were crying,” he accused through the laughter. “You kept saying your stomach hated you–”

“I was fifteen.”

“And dramatic.” He added. “But so cute…less mouthy too.”

“You held my hair while I threw up into a trash can behind the funnel cake stand.”

Dean’s laughter softened slightly at that memory. Back then he’d been genuinely terrified something was wrong with you. He’d hovered beside you the entire night looking pale enough to pass out himself while you recovered on a bench wrapped in his sweatshirt. Now he just looked fond.

You glanced away first, eyes dropping back toward the dying fire while your thoughts started turning over his earlier suggestion again despite yourself.

It could go horribly. Actually, no, it would go horribly. There were at least seventeen reasons this crossed every boundary imaginable. You already hated rollercoasters, hated fast turns and hated giving up control over literally anything involving your body and Dean…Well, Dean was Dean.

Confident, experienced, annoyingly good-looking and unarguably good at sex if campus rumors counted for anything and unfortunately they definitely did. You hadn’t exactly conducted research firsthand but after years of hearing stories from girls around campus, the reviews were embarrassingly consistent.

“You really think that highly of your dick?” you asked finally.

Dean shrugged lazily against the chair. “Nobody said anything about using it.”

That made your eyes snap back to him fully. “And if nothing works?” you asked quieter this time.

The question slipped out more honestly than intended because suddenly you weren’t thinking about sex anymore. You were thinking about aftermaths, about what happened if this ruined things between you. Dean had woven himself into your life years ago so naturally that imagining him gone felt impossible now.

You genuinely didn’t know how you’d survive losing him too.

Dean studied you for a second and for once the confidence in his face softened into something steadier. “Then we fail,” he decided.

You swallowed.

His grin returned slowly afterward, softer around the edges. “Fail with me,” he corrected. “Fail better.” He pointed between you both lazily. “Fail together.”

A laugh escaped you despite every effort not to give him one.

You rolled your eyes hard enough to make him grin wider, shaking your head while the weed continued smoothing the sharp corners off your thoughts. The night air no longer felt cold against your skin and embarrassment had slowly stopped existing somewhere during the conversation. Maybe that was the dangerous part and not Dean’s suggestion but how easy it suddenly felt to consider it.

You didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night and neither did Dean.

When the rest of the guys stumbled back into the house loud and half-drunk sometime after midnight, he changed back into normal so smoothly it almost irritated you. He made sure you had food, water, your charger and then bullied one of the sober freshmen into driving you home while standing outside by the car until you pulled away like he always did.

You slept absurdly well afterward.

A heavy sleep and dreamless night, the type that glued you to the mattress the next morning until sunlight was already cutting aggressively through your blinds. By the time you shuffled out with an oversized hoodie you were certain was your ex’s, your phone was buzzing with unread texts from Dean sent hours earlier, probably before morning practice.

You ignored every single one and it wasn’t because of regret. Embarrassment simply crawled into your chest somewhere between the first and third spoonful of cereal and decided to settle there permanently.

The entire conversation replayed so clearly now that you were sober. “Use me,” You nearly groaned into the bowl.

Three hours of class helped, at least temporarily. You sat near the back of the massive amphitheater classroom while your professor rambled enthusiastically about the new book he’d conveniently written himself and would definitely require students to purchase before midterms. You probably would’ve absorbed more information if you weren’t scrolling mindlessly through Instagram the entire lecture.

The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.

You barely paid attention at first since nobody descended the stairs toward the lower rows and a second later the seat beside you groaned softly under someone’s weight.

You recognized the cologne immediately.

“How hard do you think you need to scrub for that scent to leave your skin?” you whispered without looking up.

Dean grinned beside you, leaning closer enough for warmth to brush your shoulder as his eyes dropped toward your phone screen.

You locked it quickly and finally looked at him. “You’re not in this class.”

“I see your phone works perfectly fine,” he replied.

The professor thankfully dismissed class early before you could answer, students immediately growing louder as backpacks zipped and people exited the space.

You stood quickly and started gathering your things. “Did you need something, Di Laurentis?” you asked flatly.

Dean remained seated on purpose, forcing you to awkwardly climb past him to leave the row. The asshole looked entirely too pleased with himself while you muttered under your breath and stepped over his legs.

The second you reached the aisle, he stood and followed.

You walked fast, actually, aggressively fast. Dean almost struggled to keep up at first, his legs clearly still wrecked from morning practice while you marched out of the building like escape itself was the objective. He finally caught you outside near the steps leading toward the quad.

“We need to talk.”

You slowed at last before turning toward him. “What we need is space,” you corrected, motioning firmly between your bodies.

Dean looked down between you both thoughtfully, then took exactly one step backward.

You almost laughed, especially because he looked unbearably smug afterward, standing there grinning in the middle of campus like he deserved a reward for basic listening skills.

“You’ve gone to New York with me enough times to know I don’t need more space,” he pointed out. “But fine.” His expression softened slightly afterward, amusement fading as he studied your face more carefully. “What’s going on?”

Of course, he was right. Dean practically crawled into people’s personal bubbles recreationally, so the fact he’d backed off at all made it harder to flee the conversation entirely.

You exhaled slowly. “We said stuff last night.”

He nodded once, blinking at the tension written all over your face. “Yeah. That’s usually how conversations work.”

“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.

Dean’s brows lifted before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Regret?” He pointed toward himself loosely. “C’mon. It’s me.”

His voice gentled slightly after and the worst part was he looked relieved, because apparently the phrase ‘stuff you might regret’ translated in Dean’s brain to ‘good, she’s not upset’.

“I would’ve said that sober,” he assured you.

His eyes stayed fixed on yours while your attention darted briefly around campus before returning to him again exactly like he knew it would. Dean stepped closer instinctively, lowering his voice enough that the passing students around you blurred into background noise.

“You want me to repeat it?” he asked quietly. “Let me help you cum.”

Your stomach tightened at his tone of voice. “It might not work,” you reminded him softly.

You hoped your face conveyed the actual problem because this had never been about his ego. Dean could survive failure, he’d probably laugh through it, so that wasn’t what scared you.

Dean shrugged anyway, maddeningly calm. “What if it does?”

“And what if it doesn’t?” Frustration finally slipped into your voice. “Dean, I don’t want us to get weird.” You shook your head hard once. “I don’t need ‘optimistic Dean’ right now,” you muttered. “I need ‘realistic Dean’, so pull him out of your ass.”

“You already are weird,” Dean corrected easily, smiling down at you. “I accepted that years ago.” His grin widened then. “Actually, I encourage it.”

You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

“Let me try,” he insisted again, the confidence in his voice should’ve irritated you more than it did.

Instead, you found yourself studying him in silence, searching for something off in his expression. Some sign this was ego, curiosity or boredom disguised as concern but he just looked…earnest. Enthusiastic, sure, because he was Dean and apparently incapable of approaching anything halfway but not creepy about it and maybe this was partially your own fault.

You’d spent years talking openly with him about sex, relationships and attraction. About wanting something good someday instead of tolerable, about how when you were old and exhausted with kids running around, you still wanted a partner who looked at you and wanted you back because you were almost certain you’d still want them too.

Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.

You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”

“Fine.” He agreed so fast it almost startled you. Dean straightened afterward, nodding once with ridiculous seriousness like the two of you were entering business negotiations instead of whatever disaster this actually was.

You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.

“No kissing.”

Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”

“Because!” you hissed. “And if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question the rules.”

His face twisted in disbelief. “We’ve kissed before.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “That was different.”

Dean scoffed softly. “We were literally each other’s first kiss.”

Again, he was right. You weren’t just each other’s first kiss either, a few firsts existed between you both scattered through years of friendship and growing up side by side, all except for sex. There was awkward teenage curiosity, truth or dare disasters and one regrettable spin-the-bottle incident Garrett still occasionally referenced against your will.

Which was exactly why kissing now felt dangerous. This couldn’t spiral into some ‘why didn’t we do this sooner’ conversation. It needed boundaries and structure, something detached enough that neither of you accidentally ruined the friendship orbiting underneath all this and selflessly, you also didn’t want the group dragged into the fallout if things exploded.

“We’re adults now,” you said firmly. “So no kissing.”

Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically. 

“Okay,” he relented…Too easily, which immediately made you suspicious he’d already started planning arguments against it for later.

“I’ve also thought about what you said last night,” you continued carefully. “About Six Flags.”

Dean’s brows lifted.

“And shutting down the entire park feels unfair to you,” you explained. “Potentially devastating, honestly.” Your lips twitched slightly. “So you can still hook up with other people if you want. I genuinely don’t care.”

Dean actually looked offended. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” His voice sharpened for the first time since the conversation started. “But no thanks.” He shrugged once. “It makes this more exciting anyway.” A grin tugged briefly at his mouth again. “I’ve got one ride right now and that’s all I need.”

Your face scrunched at his words. “Does weed somehow make you an even bigger asshole?”

Dean ignored that completely. “I’m not doing anything with anyone else until we’re done here,” he repeated firmly. The teasing disappeared entirely from his voice that time and there was no smugness either, just certainty.

You quieted automatically when a group of students passed nearby, a few of them recognizing Dean instantly and greeting him as they crossed the quad. He responded absentmindedly without taking his eyes off you once.

The second they moved far enough away, you continued. “Why?”

Dean’s expression softened at the question. “Because I need you comfortable,” he answered simply. “And I need you to trust me more than you already do.”

You groaned. “Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re making this weird.”

He grinned at your reaction while you grabbed his sleeve and started pulling him further across campus before more people stopped to talk to him. Dean let you drag him along without resistance, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.

“We don’t even know how long this will take,” you pointed out.

“My fist works perfectly fine in the meantime,” Dean decided easily.

You looked up at him so fast your neck almost hurt.

Dean pressed his lips together, visibly trying not to laugh at the pure disbelief written across your face. His head tilted slightly, hair strands falling over his forehead while he watched you stare at him like he’d just confessed to tax fraud.

Your gaze dropped away first.

Contrary to what everyone on campus believed, Dean didn’t actually need constant hookups to survive. He liked the reputation, liked exaggerating it even more whenever it annoyed you enough to argue back or laugh at him but underneath all that, he could handle himself perfectly fine.

Unfortunately for you, he seemed almost smug about proving that now.

“Can I add rules too?” he asked.

You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”

The two of you kept walking through campus side by side, your pace slower now that the conversation had moved on from terrifying to merely humiliating.

“No scheduling things specifically for this,” Dean decided. “If it happens, it happens.”

You blinked once before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Relief actually loosened something in your chest at that. “That’s good. I’ll stress less.”

Dean glanced sideways at you, probably pleased you agreed so quickly…Except his rule immediately created entirely new problems.

“Uh…” Your steps slowed slightly. “How do you…” You scratched awkwardly at your eyebrow. “Take it?”

Dean stopped walking altogether. “How do I take what?” he asked carefully. “My coffee?”

You groaned. “No.” Your hand motioned vaguely between the two of you in a series of gestures that explained absolutely nothing. “Like…how do you like it?”

Dean’s brows lifted as realization hit him almost visibly.

You looked away at once. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. “Do I need to be clean shaven constantly or not?” Your voice lowered progressively through the sentence while your eyes darted around campus to make sure nobody nearby overheard you discussing grooming preferences in broad daylight.

Dean stared at you for half a second too long before answering.

“Y/n.” The seriousness in his tone made your eyes flicker back toward him. “The day I tell you what to do with your body, you better knock me unconscious.”

Your mouth parted slightly.

“I’ll literally kneel for it if that makes it easier,” he continued firmly. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”

And he meant it. Dean would enjoy it either way, obviously, but that wasn’t what mattered to him here. What mattered was getting you out of your own head long enough to actually enjoy yourself instead of performing comfort for someone else.

You blinked slowly at him because suddenly your ex’s comments replayed in your head with uncomfortable clarity. Little preferences disguised as jokes and suggestions repeated enough times to become expectations and judging by the expression tightening briefly across Dean’s face, he’d realized exactly where your question came from too.

That only made you feel worse somehow. Your attention drifted toward the students moving around campus nearby.

You suddenly wondered if people would notice eventually. The same way older women always claimed they somehow knew when girls became sexually active. Weird comments about posture and confidence, wider hips and glowing skin that sounded fake until suddenly you became the target of them too.

Your stomach tightened faintly. “What are we supposed to tell people?”

Dean barely hesitated. “To mind their own fucking business.”

You snorted softly.

He looked over at you again, entirely serious despite the amusement still lingering around his mouth. “Just like I’m doing mine.”

The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.

There were parties, late-night food runs, afternoons sprawled around the boys’ house while someone yelled at a video game in the background and hockey games while Dean acted exactly the same as always. You spent time with Hannah and Allie between classes and after them, listened to Garrett complain dramatically about assignments he’d started twelve hours before they were due, watched Tucker cook enough food for six grown men while Logan disappeared upstairs with company more often than not.

Nothing changed.

Dean still touched your shoulder when he walked past you, still stole fries off your plate and still looked at you too long whenever you laughed at something stupid and somehow that made the entire thing worse because half the time you genuinely convinced yourself you’d imagined the whole conversation by the fire pit entirely.

Maybe the weed had made you both insane and none of it was real.

You sat curled up on the floor of the boys’ living room later that week with your knees tucked to your chest, a notebook balanced across your thighs while formulas blurred together across the page. Your back rested against the couch and the TV played quietly in the background though neither of you actually paid attention to it.

Dean sat opposite you in the armchair, long legs spread comfortably while he hunched over his own notebook with far more concentration than anyone would expect from him or maybe not because he took hockey so seriously. He took school seriously too, despite pretending otherwise whenever possible but unfortunately for you, he also looked unfairly good doing homework.

You tried focusing on your own work, tried hard. Instead, your eyes kept lifting toward him between equations, your brain repeatedly snagging on the memory of everything he’d said days earlier and the fact neither of you had taken any of it back…or done a single thing about it.

“What’d you get for number three?” Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts but still didn’t look up from his notebook.

You blinked down at your own page, trying to remember where your brain had abandoned the assignment entirely.

“C,” you answered eventually. “But I’m not confident about it.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve done the math twice and I keep getting B.”

You reread the problem slowly, trying to force your attention into place. “Then it’s probably B.”

Dean finally looked up at that, one brow lifting. “You’re admitting you’re wrong?”

You snorted softly. Honestly, it was extremely possible. Your brain hadn’t functioned properly all week because you kept thinking about him offering himself up like some absurdly confident science experiment. 

“Don’t need to dig through my family tree to know I’m not descended from Isaac Newton.”

A smile tugged slowly across Dean’s mouth as he leaned back in the armchair. “If you are,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “I’m glad the ugly recessive genes skipped you.”

Your nose scrunched instantly. “What kind of compliment is that?”

“The kind I’m hoping gets you over here to help me.” He motioned you closer lazily with his pointer and middle fingers.

You sighed before setting your notebook on the coffee table and padding across the room toward him. The house was quieter this late afternoon, though not empty. Hannah was upstairs with Garrett, Logan had disappeared into his room hours ago and Tucker was outside training.

“Let’s see,” you murmured.

You bent slightly over Dean and the notebook resting on the armrest, attention dropping fully to the equations scattered across the page. The movement loosened the collar of your shirt enough for cool air to brush your skin.

Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.

Your attention remained on the notebook while his eyes betrayed him completely, dropping for one dangerous second to the visible lace of your bra before forcing themselves back upward toward your face instead.

Dean had promised himself he’d take this slow and naturally because the second he acted weird about it, you would too. You’d overthink every movement, every look and accidental touch and unfortunately for him, you’d always been terrifyingly good at reading him.

He moved the notebook slightly farther from you as one hand settled carefully against your hip, guiding you.

You reached automatically for the notebook before he moved it entirely out of reach, successfully grabbing it just as he tugged you forward enough for your balance to tip. A second later you settled directly onto his lap, knees falling naturally to either side of his thighs.

You blinked once. “Smooth,” you muttered, adjusting yourself carefully without looking at him. “I’ll give you that.”

Dean grinned openly now. You balanced the notebook against his chest like it was a table and reached backward for the pen loosely held in his free hand. His fingers brushed yours before letting go.

“Should be a five,” you corrected while marking over the equation. “Not a seven.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “Your handwriting’s gotten worse over the years.”

“You still read it.”

“I’m not the one grading you.” Your eyes lifted straight into his.

You’d sat on Dean’s lap before, during packed car rides, group trips and random stupid moments over the years where proximity stopped mattering because he was just Dean. This didn’t feel like that, not even close.

“Not in math,” he said quietly.

Only one of his hands touched you still, resting warm and steady against your hip like he was making a conscious effort not to overwhelm you. Whether it was intentional or not, it worked. His eyes drifted downward slowly toward your mouth.

“You should be rating everything else though.” A grin ghosted briefly across his lips. “Pretty sure Six Flags has customer surveys.”

You shook your head once, slow enough that your hair brushed lightly against your cheek. “No ride, no survey.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. His legs spread slightly wider underneath you then, subtle enough that you still felt the change as the apex of your thighs aligned more directly with his. The hand on your hip tightened enough for you to notice. “Go on then,” he murmured.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, down to the visible tent pressing insistently against the front of his sweats. Heat climbed your throat immediately.

“Interesting moment you picked,” you muttered softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the house.

You felt comfortable there. Comfortable enough to leave clothes behind, to wander into the kitchen without asking and to nap on the couch when you got tired during movie nights but knowing the others were still around somewhere made your pulse jump harder instead of calming it.

Dean noticed. “Just focus on me,” he instructed quietly.

Not ‘look at me’, just ‘focus’ which you could do.

You looked at him, seeing the genuine curiosity and lack of judgment in his eyes and for the first time, the wall you'd built around your sexuality felt more like a shield and less like a cage.

Slowly, tentatively, you moved as the gravity of the moment pulled you toward him. You settled your weight directly onto him, feeling the distinct, blunt shape of his cock through the layers of your clothes. He wasn't fully hard yet, just a semi-firm pressure against your clothed pussy but it didn't make you recoil. In fact, it sent a low thrum of anticipation through your nerves.

The air between you grew thick, charged with a tension that felt heavy enough to touch. You remembered your own rule: no kissing. So, you kept your face inches from his but you didn't close the gap. Instead, you focused on the sound of his breathing, which had hitched the moment you sat down. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing, invisible touch that made your skin prickle.

Dean’s hand still hovered near your waist, trembling slightly but he didn't grip you. He seemed to be fighting every instinct to pull you closer, respecting the fragile boundary you had set.

"I'm gonna keep my hands off," he whispered, his voice strained and rough. "You just keep moving. Take whatever you're comfortable with."

He pulled his arms back, resting them flat against the seat beside him, leaving you in complete control. The sudden lack of physical contact made the friction between your pelvises feel even more intense. You knew what you were doing, you had enough experience to know how your body worked, even if the 'explosive ending' always eluded you. You began to rock, a slow, tentative grind that pressed your pussy firmly against the length of him as a sharp, jagged exhale escaped his lungs. 

You felt him react instantly, the semi-firmness beneath you surged, his cock thickening and hardening rapidly against your center. You rolled your hips in a circular motion, aiming for the sweet spot, feeling the dampness beginning to soak into your underwear. You were getting wetter, the friction creating a sliding, sensual heat that radiated upward into your stomach.

"You still okay?" he breathed out, voice barely a murmur.

You simply nodded and tried to focus entirely on him, wanting to give him something perfect, something that would leave him breathless. You pushed down harder, grinding your clit against the hard ridge of his dick. You watched his face, head falling back against the headrest, leaving his throat exposed and pulsing but he forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see you. He wanted to witness the way your expression changed as you found a rhythm that worked.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. There was no kissing to distract you and no wandering hands to break the spell, just the raw, rhythmic pressure of friction. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs, the way his chest heaved in time with your movements as your own breathing became ragged, mirroring his, the sound of your synchronized gasps filling the quiet space.

You felt a small, involuntary moan escape your throat, a soft sound of pleasure that made Dean’s hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to meet your descent. You pressed closer, your mind racing, trying to synchronize your pleasure with his but as the tension built, a familiar frustration began to creep in. You were so close to that peak, that elusive edge but the more you focused on his perfection, the more you felt yourself slipping away from your own. You wanted it, you wanted to break through the ceiling you'd lived under for years and the frustration made you grind harder, more desperately.

You were just beginning to lose yourself in the friction, your body humming with a desperate, electric need, when the spell was shattered.

The heavy thud of footsteps hit the wooden porch outside, then came muffled voices.

Tucker.

The sound slammed into you like ice water dumped straight down your spine.

You jolted backward instantly, panic snapping through your body so violently that your balance disappeared completely. The friction, the heat, the dizzy haze clouding your brain shattered in one humiliating second as you scrambled away from Dean in pure instinct.

Dean’s hands had actually stayed off, so when you lurched backward, there was nothing anchoring you in place, no arm catching your waist or grip steadying you. You slipped right off his lap in a graceless tangle of limbs and landed hard beside the chair with a muffled curse, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs.

Dean moved at the same time you did. One hand grabbed the nearest couch pillow and yanked it straight into his lap while the other instinctively reached toward you, fingers brushing empty air because you were already halfway onto your feet.

The front door opened and you froze.

Your breathing came embarrassingly uneven as you tried forcing your body back under control, thighs trembling faintly from the abrupt stop, nerves buzzing so hard beneath your skin it almost hurt. Dean leaned back into the chair with his head tipped toward the ceiling for one brief second, chest rising sharply beneath his t-shirt while tortured frustration flashed openly across his face before he forced himself together enough to look toward the entryway.

Tucker walked in distractedly, phone pressed to his ear while he kicked the door shut behind him with his shoe.

“–No, because that’s not what I said,” he argued into the phone before finally glancing up.

Dean’s voice came out rough and annoyed. “Can't you knock?”

The irritation in it made your eyes widen and before thinking better of it, you reached over and smacked lightly at his arm which made him look offended for half a second.

Tucker’s brows pulled together slowly as his gaze moved between the two of you…You standing there awkwardly and Dean spread out in the armchair with a pillow aggressively covering his lap.

The TV was still playing, forgotten in the background too.

“Wait,” Tucker muttered into the phone, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hold on.” He lowered the phone away from his ear and motioned vaguely around the living room. “I live here,” he pointed out flatly. “If you two wanna study in complete silence maybe turn the TV down or go to the library.”

Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.

“Hey, Y/n.” he greeted, much more gently.

“Hi,” you replied weakly with an awkward nod.

Tucker gave you one more lingering look before wandering toward the kitchen, already returning to his phone conversation while opening the fridge like absolutely nothing life-altering had just occurred in his living room.

The second he was no longer looking, your eyes snapped back toward Dean, his were already on you, wide and still dark with frustration and lingering heat and approximately ten other emotions you absolutely did not have time to unpack right now.

You hurried toward where you’d abandoned your bag near the couch and started shoving your things inside far too quickly.

Dean muttered a curse under his breath behind you as the fridge door opened again. “Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered urgently.

You ignored him completely, nearly dropping your belongings while trying to zip your bag shut.

“You don’t have to leave,” he continued quietly, unable to stand for reasons both of you were painfully aware of. The pillow remained trapped over his lap while he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Stay for dinner.” Then louder, “Right, Tucker?”

From the kitchen, still mid-conversation, Tucker lifted a distracted thumbs up without even looking over. Of course you could stay, you were always welcome there and it somehow made this infinitely worse.

“Y/n, c’mon,” Dean tried again, even softer this time.

You finally looked at him, at his flushed face and the way he still looked wrecked from you despite the interruption.

Your stomach flipped painfully. “You can text me that survey of yours,” you muttered.

Dean groaned quietly at the reminder, watching as you grabbed your bag and headed straight for the front door before your embarrassment could physically consume you alive.

You didn’t say goodbye or looked back. You slipped outside into the cold early evening air and shut the door behind you, immediately dragging in one huge breath like you’d been underwater too long.

Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.

Your legs felt weird as you walked down the porch steps and somewhere beneath the embarrassment sat an even more irritating realization. You needed to change your panties and somehow, you still hadn’t come.

For the first time in your academic career, you were thankful exam week existed.

The chaos of midterms had given you and Dean something else to focus on besides the fact you’d nearly climbed him in the middle of his living room while Tucker casually walked through the front door. Between study sessions, essays, last-minute cramming and the general emotional collapse that overtook Briar every semester, things had settled back into something manageable.

You and Dean had talked afterward, though absolutely not alone.

He’d insisted on meeting in a crowded coffee shop near campus where old women typed aggressively on laptops and students cried quietly over textbooks in the corner booths. Dean had spent most of the conversation reassuring you Tucker didn’t know anything, swearing repeatedly that if Tucker had known, the entire hockey house would’ve heard about it within twelve minutes. More importantly, he’d made sure you still wanted this and despite the embarrassment, the frustration and how badly your body still reacted whenever he looked at you too long, you did.

“Are you seriously not coming?” Allie paced dramatically across the apartment while speaking, changing outfits for what had to be the fourth time in under an hour. Both you and Hannah tracked her movements from the couch like spectators at a tennis match while she disappeared into her room only to emerge seconds later wearing something slightly tighter each time.

Hannah finally peeled her attention away from Allie to look at you instead.

“She’s right,” she agreed. “Exams are over. Maybe partying would actually help.”

You smiled lazily from your spot curled into the couch cushions, blanket draped across your legs while exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes.

“What’ll help me is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep,” you informed them. “Which I plan on pursuing aggressively the second both of you leave.” Your mouth twitched slightly. “Now see some boys and make questionable use of your mouths elsewhere.”

Allie barked out a laugh loud enough to echo while Hannah groaned.

“When are we finding your rebound?” Allie asked as she finally settled on an outfit and bent down to tug on her boots.

“It’s too soon,” you decided immediately.

“It is,” Hannah agreed with a firm nod. “She doesn’t wanna think about men right now and we’re respecting that.”

You pointed gratefully toward her. “See? Emotional maturity.”

“Sure,” Allie snorted. “I’m still passing your Instagram around tonight though.” She grinned wickedly while crossing toward the couch. “You can decide what to do with the options later.” Before you could answer, she leaned down and squeezed you tightly against her side. “Don’t wait up for us.”

You watched them drag out the goodbye process intentionally, moving toward the door with exaggerated slowness like they expected you to suddenly change your mind and throw on heels at the last second.

You sighed and stood from the couch, physically herding them toward the exit. “Just go,” you laughed while they protested loudly.

“We tried,” Hannah reminded you with a smile while Allie opened the apartment door. “We’ll send you the address anyway.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“You say that now...”

You waved them off anyway and finally shut the door behind them once they disappeared down the hallway already talking excitedly about shots and music and whatever terrible decisions the night would inevitably produce.

Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.

You exhaled slowly…now what? You considered your options while wandering aimlessly through the living space. You could curl up on the couch with your laptop and a movie or crawl into bed and disappear beneath blankets for twelve straight hours like a Victorian woman with mysterious exhaustion. Or…Your thoughts drifted elsewhere automatically, toward your room and the drawer beside your bed.

You grimaced slightly. Maybe tonight was the night you tried again, actually committed to figuring yourself out instead of giving up midway through frustration like usual. You’d bought enough toys over the years based entirely on optimistic reviews and late-night curiosity alone.

Were they even charged? You were approximately two steps away from your bedroom when knocking sounded at the front door.

You groaned at the sound. “Did you guys forget your condoms again?” you called out while turning toward the entrance. Honestly, it happened often enough that the assumption came naturally now.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then blinked at who you saw. “Dean.”

Dean stood casually in the hallway wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses despite the fact it was nighttime indoors, which might’ve worked better if he wasn’t also carrying an enormous black bag beside him.

“I always carry condoms,” he informed you smugly.

Your face scrunched instantly as his answer only emphasized how thin the apartment walls actually were. You narrowed your eyes at him while glancing suspiciously down the hallway. 

“Why aren’t you at the party?”

Dean lowered the sunglasses enough to properly look at you over the frames.

You looked soft tonight, comfortable. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized shirt, hair messier than usual from lying around all day. The sight quickly made something warm settle low in his chest.

“Because I’m here with you.”

“No,” you corrected. “You wanted to be here with me.” You pointed vaguely toward campus. “Past tense…You should currently be at that party.”

“No can do.” Dean slipped smoothly past you before you could stop him, nudging the apartment door shut behind him with his foot.

Only then did you fully notice the bag. It was large, rectangular, black and rigid with no visible branding whatsoever. It completely ruined the whole incognito outfit.

Your eyes narrowed harder while Dean looked far too pleased with himself.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, then he walked straight toward your bedroom like he paid rent there.

“How did you know I didn’t go to the party?” you asked while following him toward your bedroom.

Dean set the bag carefully onto your bed before finally turning around, fingers hooking beneath the brim of his cap as he pulled it off. The sunglasses followed next, revealing eyes already fixed on you with far too much satisfaction.

“I have my sources.”

You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“Hannah asked me the other day to convince you to come out tonight.” He shrugged casually. “I didn’t.”

You crossed your arms. “Who says I would’ve agreed anyway?”

Dean smiled instantly. “Me.” The confidence in his answer came without hesitation. “I’m very persuasive.”

You rolled your eyes before your attention dragged back toward the massive black bag sitting suspiciously at the foot of your bed. “What is that?”

Dean glanced over his shoulder toward it. “Our entertainment for tonight.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Well…mine.”

You narrowed your eyes harder at him before stepping around him toward the bed. The bag gave nothing away from the outside, rigid and sleek and annoyingly mysterious.

Cautiously, you reached inside and your fingers brushed lace first. You blinked then slowly pulled the item free into the light between you both, pinching it delicately between two fingers like it might suddenly attack you.

“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Dean nodded once. “I had to get rid of the boxes,” he explained. “Turns out Agent Provocateur packaging isn’t exactly subtle.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “Agent Provocateur?” You stared at him in disbelief before looking back into the bag. “Are you insane?”

One by one, you started pulling more pieces out. Black lace…cream silk and tiny straps. Things so soft they barely felt real against your fingertips.

Dean watched your growing expression carefully and only then seemed to realize he may have gone slightly overboard. “I got lost on the website,” he admitted. “And then there was free shipping after a certain amount which felt financially irresponsible to ignore.”

You straightened slowly, still clutching one lace bodysuit in your hands while looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.

“Explain to me,” you said carefully, “how exactly this counts as entertainment.”

“Besides the obvious?”

Your stare sharpened. Dean exhaled quietly before answering, his tone softening as the teasing faded from his expression.

“When you were on my lap the other day…” His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor before returning to you. “You stopped focusing on yourself after a while.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.

“You started trying to get me there instead,” he continued gently. “Like you were more worried about proving something than actually feeling good.”

Heat crept onto the nape of your neck because he was right. Dean noticed everything.

“And I get it,” he added quickly, voice staying careful. “Probably instinct. You wanted me to enjoy it.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Which I definitely did, by the way. Don’t start doubting that part.”

You stayed quiet while watching him and actually listened instead of acting on your urge to flee.

“Tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding lightly toward the lingerie scattered across your bed, “the lingerie can be for me.” His eyes moved back to yours. “So the rest can just be yours.”

The room went quiet afterward. The plan had probably sounded more coherent in Dean’s head at one in the morning while online shopping half-awake with his laptop balanced on his stomach but somewhere beneath the absurdity of it, you understood what he meant.

Lingerie wasn’t only about someone else seeing you in it, women bought it for themselves too, to feel pretty, desired and confident. Sometimes just to stand in front of the mirror and reclaim something private but eventually, with partners, it often became performative too, something shared and visual. Dean was trying to remove that pressure from everything else.

Your gaze drifted slowly back down toward the pile of lace but you still weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You tried things on and then, what?

Your voice lowered slightly. “What kind of mind games are you playing?”

You hoped it didn’t sound accusing because it wasn’t meant to. You were just struggling to process the fact Dean had seen through you so clearly after one failed attempt, that he’d gone and actually thought about it, considered it and returned with something tangible instead of empty reassurance and blind confidence.

Dean shook his head immediately. “No games.” His voice stayed soft and patient, ready to leave the second you told him this was too much. “Let’s just give it a shot.”

Silence stretched again before you finally reached for a pair of panties instead. The lace slid smoothly through your fingers as you lifted the panties between you both for further inspection.

Dean’s eyes dropped instantly and despite himself, one very clear thought crossed his mind.

‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’

“How do you even know these will fit?” you asked honestly. The fabric looked expensive enough to disintegrate if handled incorrectly, soft lace brushing against your fingertips while you inspected the tiny details stitched into it.

Dean opened his mouth…closed it and opened it again. “I’m…observant?”

Even he sounded unsure of the answer.

Your lips twitched as you bit back a laugh while digging through the pile until you found the matching bra, then gathered both pieces in your hands.

“Observant and persuasive,” you mused while backing toward the bathroom. “Let me know when there’s something substantial to add to that list.”

Dean nodded solemnly like you’d given him serious criticism to reflect on. “Will do.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and the second it did, Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at himself...for fuck’s sake.

He adjusted himself miserably through his pants while staring at your closed bathroom door in defeat. Lately everything about you affected him differently, your voice, your teasing and the way you looked at him for half a second too long depending on the day.

It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.

Dean barely moved from the spot you’d left him in.

He stayed planted near the foot of your bed, one hand dragging occasionally through his hair while his eyes remained fixed on the bathroom door like staring hard enough would somehow let him see through it. Every few seconds he twitched awkwardly in his pants, dealing unsuccessfully with the consequences of occasionally hearing your hums through the thin wall while knowing exactly what you were changing into behind it.

Inside the bathroom, you stood frozen in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary.

You tried very hard not to think about how closely Dean must’ve paid attention to you over the years to somehow get the sizing exactly right because it fit perfectly.

The lace sat snug against your skin without pinching anywhere, soft black patterns curling over your chest and hugging your hips beautifully. The bra lifted your breasts enough to make your posture straighten instinctively while the matching panties rested low against your hips, delicate enough to feel expensive but comfortable enough not to make you tug at them every two seconds.

You looked good, not just tolerable under dim lights or acceptable after strategic positioning and reassurance and maybe that was what scared you most because now you had to walk back out there and let someone else see it too.

With one last glance toward your reflection, you finally reached for the doorknob and stepped back into your room.

Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.

He stopped breathing for half a second entirely, eyes dragging over you slowly enough to make heat climb straight into your throat. He barely blinked while following your movement across the room as you drifted toward your full-length mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the lace resting over your shoulders before moving lower toward the small details connecting the cups together.

The silence stretched thickly.

You kept looking at yourself mostly because looking directly at him felt dangerous right now, even as he moved behind you slowly without touching. He was just standing there close enough for warmth to gather along your back while his eyes followed yours through the reflection. Wherever you looked, he looked too, until eventually your gazes met in the mirror.

You swallowed. “What do you think?”

Dean inhaled deeply through his nose. “I think,” he said slowly, “Six Flags might be going out of business soon.”

Your brows lifted immediately before a quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.

You turned around to face him fully then, stepping closer until only inches separated you both. Your hands settled carefully against the center of his chest, fingertips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt while you looked up at him.

Dean held your gaze steadily, too steadily, sometimes it genuinely felt like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough. “What do you think?” he echoed softly.

You hummed quietly, eyes flickering downward toward his mouth before lifting back up again.

“I think…” Your hands began sliding slowly down his chest, fingertips grazing over the hard planes beneath his shirt one inch at a time. “Maybe…” Your voice softened further as your palms drifted lower. “I could show you something I actually know how to do.”

Dean’s jaw tightened as your fingers brushed the bulge straining against his pants.

“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.

You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.

In your head, the logic made sense. Dean already thought you were beautiful, so you didn’t need him witnessing your frustration firsthand too. You could give him something good instead, something you knew how to control.

For one dangerous second, he looked like he was genuinely considering it. Then Dean exhaled sharply and turned you around instead, guiding you gently back toward the mirror until your back rested against his chest.

A startled breath caught in your throat as your ass pressed unintentionally against the hard outline of his erection.

Your eyes met his again through the reflection.

“I don’t doubt you can do those things,” he murmured near your ear. “All of them.”

One of his hands settled carefully against your waist while the other slid slowly downward, fingertips brushing beneath the waistband of your panties enough to make your stomach tighten. 

His eyes never once left yours in the mirror. “So why do you?”

The reflection showed the two of you, a study in tension and longing. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he watched you not just with desire but with a focused, intentional kind of devotion.

His hand didn't push further, he stopped before his fingertips brushed the outer lips of your pussy, leaving a teasing spark of contact. He held himself there, gaze locking onto yours in the mirror, waiting. He wasn't going to take a single inch more without your explicit permission.

You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, chest heaving. You looked into his eyes and gave a small, shaky nod.

The moment you did, he slid deeper. His fingers glided through the slick already gathering between your thighs, parting you with a gentle pressure that could’ve made your toes curl. He didn't rush, he navigated the wet lips until his fingertip found the small, swollen bud of your clit. He began to circle it slowly with agonizingly steady rotations that sent ripples of electricity shooting straight to your core.

"Tell me what you see," he whispered, voice a low and gravelly vibration against your ear.

You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you focused on the reflection. "You...you touching me," you breathed.

As you spoke, you watched your own body react. Your breathing picked up, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. In the mirror, you saw your breasts heaving, the nipples peaking and hardening into tight, sensitive points through the lace of your bra. As if reading your thoughts, Dean’s other hand reached around, his fingers finding one breast and gripping it. He massaged the hardened peak, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and you let out a sharp, involuntary swallow, head tilting back slightly.

"And what's at the end of me?" he asked, voice humming with a dark, sensual curiosity.

"Me," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips.

"What else?" he pressed, fingers continuing that relentless, circling motion. He was forcing you to stay present, stripping away your ability to hide in your head or focus on his pleasure. He wanted you trapped in your own skin.

You stared at yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of your anatomy. "Beauty marks," you murmured, noticing the small moles on your thighs and torso that you usually ignored.

"And here?" he asked, his thumb flicking the tip of your nipple.

"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.

"And on your skin..." he prompted, his fingers quickening their pace, the friction against your clit becoming more insistent and demanding.

"Goosebumps," you whimpered. You could see them breaking out across your shoulders and arms, a physical manifestation of the arousal peaking within you.

The sensory overload was dizzying. Every time you named a part of yourself, the pleasure seemed to intensify, as if acknowledging your own body was unlocking a door you'd kept bolted shut. Dean’s fingers were no longer just circling, they were fluttering, vibrating against your most sensitive spot with a precision that made your hips instinctively buck back against him. You felt the wetness flooding out of you and coating his fingers, making the sounds of his touch wet and explicit in the quiet room.

You tried desperately to keep your eyes locked on his in the mirror but as the pleasure climbed, the world began to blur. Your eyelids grew heavy, the edges of your vision darkening as the sensation centered entirely on the point where he was rubbing you. You started to moan, the sounds raw but still shy, escaping your throat without your permission. You pushed your backside harder against the rigid length of his erection, craving the friction, the completion.

The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding up to the point of snapping. You were right there, on the precipice, the beginning of an orgasm shimmering just out of reach. Your breath became a series of broken sobs as your body trembled in anticipation. Was this it?

"I think...I–" you started, voice breaking as the first wave of a climax seemed to form but just before it solidified, just as you were about to believe it would, Dean abruptly pulled his hand away.

The sudden void was shocking. You gasped, body jolting from the abrupt loss of stimulation, the orgasm denied at the very last second of creation. You were left vibrating, aching and halfway undone but before you could process the frustration, he gripped your waist and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. 

Your eyes were wide, glazed with lust and confusion, chest heaving as you looked up at him.

"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, voice a breathless wreck.

Dean didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, taking in the desperate hunger in your eyes. He gripped your hips firmly, knuckles white and began backing up toward the bed, pulling you with him.

"Trusting you to do it first," he murmured.

As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back, laying flat on his back and spreading his arms wide, leaving himself completely open and vulnerable to you.

You climbed over him, your movements determined, fueled by a desperate, humming need that had been wound tight in the mirror. You braced your knees against his sides, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath you and planted one hand firmly on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, a mirror to your own. With a renewed sense of determination, you slipped your other hand beneath the fabric of your panties, your fingers finding the slick, swollen heat of your pussy.

As you began to touch yourself, you closed your eyes for a moment, repeating the litany he had forced you to acknowledge in the mirror. You focused on the hyper-awareness he had instilled in you, turning that mental lens inward. You found your clit, already engorged and sensitive and began to circle it. Your breathing became ragged, each exhale a shaky shudder that vibrated through your entire frame.

You opened your eyes and looked down at your hand on his chest. You watched the way his pectorals heaved under your touch, his skin flushed and warm. Then, you felt his hands slide up your legs, his large palms gripping your thighs firmly. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the way he watched your every movement with a hunger that felt almost tangible, made a low moan escape your throat.

You had never reached this point before, never felt this close to the edge of something so profound. The pleasure was a rising tide, threatening to pull you under.

"Be patient," Dean breathed, his voice a low, grounding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. "Listen to your body."

You nodded, eyes locked onto his and focused entirely on the sensation. You ignored the noise in your head, everything except the friction of your own fingers. You kept your hand working at a speed you liked, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a coil of tension in your lower belly. You began to squirm, hips rocking in a slow, undulating motion against your own hand, chasing the spark.

In your haze of arousal, you shifted, pressing your soaking wet clothed cunt directly onto the rigid length of his erection through his pants. The sudden, blunt pressure against your clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through you and you let out a loud, uncontrolled moan. Dean groaned in response, a sound of pure, tortured restraint as he kept his hips from jerking upward to meet you.

You quickly lifted your hips again, holding them high in the air, body arching as you fought to maintain the rhythm.

“Holy fuck,” You were so close now, the world was narrowing down to the point where your fingers met your flesh.

"Attagirl. That's it," Dean whispered, voice thick with praise. "You're doing so good. Just like that...look at you, taking it all in. So fucking worth it."

His words were like fuel to the fire. The praise made you bolder and movements more frantic. You pressed harder, your fingers fluttering with an urgency that bordered on desperation until the tension reached a breaking point, a white-hot spark that suddenly ignited into a roaring flame.

The orgasm hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped back, your spine arching as the first wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your lips parted and an unreal, unabashed sound, a high, keening cry of release slipped out of you, echoing through the room. It was your first time ever coming and the sensation was overwhelming. It didn't just peak and fade, it rolled through you in long, rhythmic pulses that seemed to last forever, shaking your entire body, leaving your muscles twitching and your mind a complete blank.

Dean didn't move. He looked at you, completely mesmerized, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched the way your throat worked as you gasped for air, the way your breasts heaved and the way your body shuddered under the aftershocks. Beneath you, his cock throbbed and twitched painfully against the constraint of his pants, a visible manifestation of the agony and ecstasy of watching you shatter.

As the waves finally subsided, leaving you limp and floating, you collapsed onto his chest with a sultry whine, skin damp with sweat and breathing heavy and synchronized with his as you caught your breath.

The silence of the room was thick, charged with the lingering electricity of the moment.

You swallowed hard while still catching your breath, voice a mere whisper against his skin. "Is it too soon to say that was the best orgasm I've ever had?"

Dean let out a heavy, uneven breath beneath you, the sound shuddering straight through his chest and into yours. Only then did his hands finally leave your thighs. Slowly, almost cautiously, they slid upward along your sides until his palms settled against your back.

Gone was the restraint that had kept his fingers tense and controlled earlier. Now he touched you lightly, almost reverently, fingertips drifting along the curve of your spine over the lace while he tried to steady his breathing. Every few seconds his hands flexed against you instinctively, like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

“Definitely the best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.

His voice sounded wrecked, dizzy, like simply watching you come apart on top of him had pushed him somewhere dangerously close to losing it himself.

You lifted your head slowly from where it rested against his chest, pushing up enough to properly look at him.

Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.

You swallowed once. “Did you…?”

The question barely finished forming before Dean’s expression morphed into something sheepish and amused all at once. He swallowed too before nodding once against the mattress.

Your eyes widened slightly as his hand slid upward from your back, fingertips brushing softly along your jaw while he looked at you with an expression so openly fond it almost hurt to hold eye contact with him.

“Am I still not deserving of a kiss?” he asked quietly. Half joking, half absolutely not.

You hummed thoughtfully like you were genuinely considering it. “You want a cookie and a gold star too?”

Dean’s grin spread slowly across his face, matching yours instantly despite the pleasure still weighing down his features. “Better than the survey.”

You laughed softly through your nose before finally leaning down the rest of the way.

The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.

Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.

You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.

Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.

His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.

The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.

So much for rules.

Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.

a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍

[puckingcuckbunny]

𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭 ✪

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x sports med! fem!reader 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : suggestive content [making out, mild mild PDA], not secret but private relationship, hockey frat boys, probably alot of inaccuracies 𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : The Briar hockey team treats the sports medicine clinic like their personal emergency room, Logan Tucker treats it like a second home. But the team can't confirm nor deny your relationship... well until now 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 3.8k words 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : Might not be my best work! but I am just getting used to the sports fandom in general. Also still deciding whether im leaning more towards book or show Logan, so I hope you enjoy my attempt at feeling out his character. diver credit : @cafekitsune

The sports medicine clinic at Briar somehow always smells the same no matter what time of year it is. Hockey gear, melting ice packs, and disinfectant.

And is technically supposed to close at six.

Technically.

In reality, it closes whenever the hockey team finally stops wandering in with mystery bruises, split knuckles, sore shoulders, or dramatic declarations that they’re "probably dying" before immediately asking for snacks five minutes later.

Which is why you’re still here. Somewhere along the line, what started as a second-year sports medicine placement had turned into unofficial emotional support for the entire Briar hockey team, half the roster had your number for “emergencies,” which unfortunately ranged anywhere from actual injuries to Garrett once texting you a photo of a bruise shaped vaguely like Abraham Lincoln at two in the morning.

The fluorescent lights hum quietly overhead while you reorganise rolls of athletic tape for the third time that evening, one AirPod in, paperwork half-finished beside you, when the clinic door swings open.

You don’t even look up immediately.

“You’re late,” you say automatically.

“Mrs Logaaaan,” Garrett sings back.

Tucker’s voice follows before you can respond. “Oh thank god, my favourite healthcare professional.”

“Can you legally prescribe me a girlfriend?” Dean winks at you, messing with his hair- spraying sweat onto the other players around him. 

That makes you glance up and grimace.

“You need deodorant first,” you reply flatly.

Your comment earns a loud chorus of offended reactions.

“You’re so mean to us.” One of them whines

“You guys make it incredibly easy.”

Hockey players file into the clinic grinning like idiots, damp hair from practice still sticking up in random directions, one drags himself dramatically toward one of the beds clutching his shoulder like he’s been mortally wounded.

“See? I told you guys that Logan’s her favourite. She hates the rest of us.”

“That’s not true,” you say automatically.

It kind of is, though.

You’d known all of them for years at this point - through playoffs and fractured fingers and Dean getting banned from intramural basketball for “excessive dramatics” - but Logan had somehow become something else entirely before you even realised it was happening.

“Logan’s my favourite because he knows how to fill out injury forms without drawing smiley faces.” You snort quietly and reach for a fresh pair of gloves. 

“That was one time,” Dean argues.

“It was four times. It doesn't get funnier the more you do it.”

The boys continue arguing over each other while you start sorting through who actually needs treatment and who’s just here for attention.

And from behind all of them, Logan steps into the room, looking unfairly good for someone who just spent two hours getting bodychecked into plexiglass.

His practice jersey is half untucked, curls damp at the edges from sweat, hockey bag hanging from one shoulder while he watches the entire scene unfold with the long-suffering expression of a man who absolutely could stop his teammates and simply chooses not to.

Your mouth twitches on instinct.

“Not a single one of you knows how to act in medical facilities.”

“We’re athletes,” one of them replies solemnly. “We’re fragile.”

“You’re twenty.”

“Exactly.”

His eyes find you. It’s subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice unless they were specifically looking for it, but you do. The way his expression shifts slightly the second he sees you, shoulders loosening a little like he’s finally somewhere he actually wants to be.

Unfortunately, the team notices too.

“There he goes,” Garrett says loudly to the room. “Looking at her like she personally invented happiness.”

“Actually disgusting,” another adds.

You shake your head under your breath, trying not to smile as you move toward the nearest bed.

“Alright, what happened?”

“Practice injury,” the player says dramatically.

“You got hit with a foam roller.”

“It was aggressive.”

From behind him, Logan laughs quietly.

The sound pulls your attention toward him automatically.

He’s already looking at you.

He always is, it started sometime last winter, subtle enough neither of you acknowledged it at first, until suddenly Logan had become this fixed point in your day without either of you meaning for him to.

And then, because apparently he enjoys making your job harder, he drops onto the stool closest to your station while the rest of the boys continue causing problems in the background.

You narrow your eyes slightly.

“You injured too?”

He shrugs once and glances at your clipboard.

“Are you busy?” he asks.

You look down at him. “No actually, this is all for fun.”

His mouth twitches.

Behind him, one of the guys points accusingly. “See that? Flirting.”

“We’re literally talking,” you say.

Which, admittedly, had become a problem sometime around November. Because Logan looked at you during conversations like every sentence mattered more than it probably did.

“That’s how it starts.”

Logan ignores them entirely.

“You look tired,” he says instead, quieter now.

You blink at him once, slightly thrown by the softness of it in the middle of all the noise, mostly because Logan only really sounded like that with you. Everyone else got easygoing sarcasm and dry one-liners. You got this version of him instead.

“Your team is exhausting.”

“That’s fair.”

“You included.”

“Less than the others.”

“Debatable.”

That finally gets a proper smile out of him, small but real, and it sits annoyingly well on his face.

You gesture toward the treatment beds with your pen. “Okay, which one of you is actually injured and which one of you just wants free medical attention?”

“My knee-”

“My wrist-”

“Emotionally, mostly-”

“Shocking,” you mutter, already beginning to inspect somebody’s wrist.

And through all of it, Logan stays where he is.

Closest to you.

Which, unfortunately, only makes the entire situation infinitely worse.. Because now he’s just sitting there. Watching you work.

You move from player to player while the clinic slowly dissolves into complete nonsense around you, someone stealing gloves from a supply drawer while another dramatically asks if bruising counts as a life-threatening condition.

“You’re literally holding an ice pack shaped like a cartoon penguin,” you deadpan, “meant for the kids who come for weekend lessons by the way.”

“It’s emotionally devastating.”

“You’ll survive.”

“That’s what they said about the Titanic.”

“Get out.”

Laughter breaks across the room in an undignified uproar.

Logan stays focussed on you with that same quiet gaze he always gets whenever you’re concentrating on something. One foot hooked loosely against the stool rung while he  absentmindedly spun the little keychain attached to the back pocket of your scrub bottoms. 

You glance back over your shoulder briefly.

He doesn’t even look guilty.

If anything, the corner of his mouth lifts slightly when he realises you noticed.

“You’re annoying,” you murmur quietly while digging through the drawer for bandages.

“Thought I was hot.”

You try to stay unimpressed, but your mouth still betrays you by twitching slightly while you go back to work, “You can be both.”

That earns the smallest laugh out of him.

Across the room, Garrett notices immediately, pausing mid-sentence and looking between the two of you suspiciously.

“Why are you looking at him like that?”

You don’t even blink.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to put him down.”

“Because he’s touching my keychain.”

“That’s weirdly domestic.”

“It’s literally a keychain.”

“Yeah,” Dean cuts in, grinning now. “A married couple keychain.”

Logan finally speaks again from beside you.

“Pretty sure married people have bigger problems.”

Dean chirps back, “Like taxes and children.”

Garrett points at Logan. “That man would thrive as a girl dad.”

Logan doesn’t even look embarrassed. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed at being interrupted.

You throw a roll of tape at them without looking.

The room erupts instantly.

“Okay,” you say over the noise, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. “Everybody either sit down properly or leave.”

Shockingly, they obey.

You finish checking a plethora of oddly shaped bruises and superficial cuts while the clinic finally settles into a moderate calm around you, the post-practice energy finally starting to wear off.

The entire time, Logan stays close. Close enough that every now and then your thigh brushes his knee when you walk past, close enough that he occasionally reaches out to tug lightly on the edge of your hoodie sleeve just to get your attention for absolutely no reason.

Especially when Dean starts dramatically fake-flirting with you while you’re checking his wrist, only for Logan to look up from where he’s sitting and say,

“Relax.” Which is unfortunately the exact tone he uses whenever he’s jealous but is trying to pretend he isn’t.

Dean sharply bursts out laughing.

“OH MY GOD THERE IT IS, you’re actually possessive!”

“I’m not possessive,” Logan lies.

“You looked ready to fight me.”

“You’re annoying me.”

“That’s even worse!”

You shake your head, trying to hide your smile while Logan leans against the counter behind him, completely unbothered by the fact that the entire room is basically accusing him of being in love.

Eventually, when the bulk of the man-toddlers have left the clinic and you’ve handed out enough ice packs to survive a small natural disaster. You finally make your way back over to Logan, picking up the 100th incident form to fill out for the stragglers left behind, 

“You sure you’re fine?” you ask eventually without looking directly at him.

“Mostly.”

That makes you glance up, you click your pen and drop it into your pocket,

“Mostly?”

He finally shifts slightly on the stool.

“My shoulder’s stiff.”

You stare at him.

“You waited until after I treated everyone else to tell me that?”

A shrug.

“You were busy.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

His mouth twitches again.

“You like me anyway.”

The worst part was that he said things like that with complete certainty now, like somewhere over the past few months he’d stopped questioning whether you’d stay.

One of the teammates gags dramatically somewhere behind him.

“There it is.”

“Shut up,” Logan says immediately.

You’re already moving toward the storage cabinet before the teasing can escalate further, only to realise halfway there that the tape drawer is nearly empty.

You stop.

Then sigh.

“Great.”

“What?” Logan asks.

“Your idiot teammates used the last of my shoulder tape.”

A couple guys cheer from across the room, “LET’S GO.”

Logan rolls his eyes at them, “That sounds like a team problem.”

“That sounds like your problem,” you huff.

He looks entirely unbothered.

“So,” you continue, ignoring them completely, “I need to go grab more from storage.”

Logan nods once.

“You can come back after your shower and I’ll tape it for you properly.”

He pauses.

“You want me to leave?”

“You smell like a locker room.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“And yet,” Garrett says from the hallway without even looking back, “she keeps letting you come over.”

Logan doesn’t miss a beat.

“That’s because she looooves me.”

“Disgusting,” Dean mutters.

You point toward the hallway.

“Go shower or change or whatever the hell you hockey people do after practice and come back in twenty minutes. I’ll restock from the storage room.”

One teammate gasps dramatically.

“She’s asking him to come back.”

“She asks all injured athletes to come back,” you say flatly.

“Yeah, but not like that.”

Logan looks up at you with the faintest grin tugging at his mouth, then he stands, tall enough that suddenly the tiny clinic space feels much smaller than it did thirty seconds ago.

He grabs his bag from the floor without taking his eyes off you properly.

“I’ll be back,” he says.

One of the players makes kissing noises immediately.

You throw a roll of bandage backing at them.

This time Logan laughs properly.

The rest of them filter out behind him in a mess of noise and complaints, leaving the clinic suddenly, almost suspiciously, quiet.

You thank the gods and take advantage of whatever time they've mercifully gifted you. Taking the minutes to do small tasks like restocking tape from the back storage room, reorganising supplies and finishing the paperwork you abandoned earlier.

By the time the clinic door opens again, barely fifteen minutes later, the noise of the team has completely faded into the distance.

You look up from where you’re reorganising a tray of supplies with immediate suspicion.

“You showered fast,” you say lightly.

Logan closes the door behind him with his elbow before answering, hair still damp around the edges like he’d towel-dried it in under thirty seconds and called it a day. He’s swapped into grey sweats and a dark Briar hoodie, duffel bag hanging lazily from one hand, and he looks far too pleased with himself for someone supposedly recovering from an injury.

“Yeah,” he says easily, walking toward you. “Wanted to see you.”

There was a time that line would’ve completely short-circuited your nervous system. Now it just settled warm somewhere beneath your ribs because Logan said things like that all the time.

You roll your eyes automatically even though warmth blooms under your skin anyway.

The corner of your mouth twitches before you can stop it.

“Wow,” you deadpan. “Romantic.”

“I know.”

“You’re laying it on thick today.”

He drops his bag by the wall with a heavy thud and sits himself up on the treatment bed while you grab the fresh tape you’d dragged out from storage, and hold it out toward him

“There,” you say. “Knock yourself out.”

Logan stares down at the tape for a second like you’ve personally betrayed him, then his mouth pulls into the most ridiculous pout you’ve ever seen on a grown man.

“…Baby.”

“What?” you ask.

“You’re just handing it to me?”

“You have hands.”

“But you do it better.”

The thing about Logan was that he got clingier when he was tired. Post-practice Logan in particular operated almost exclusively on physical contact and opportunistic whining.

You choke out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“But you do it better,” he complains, looking up at you from where he’s sitting. “You literally study this stuff. It’s like having a personal private healthcare system.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

You fold your arms, trying very hard not to smile while he keeps looking at you like a neglected house cat.

You stare at him for a second, then laugh softly under your breath despite yourself.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m injured.”

“You are literally sitting upright.”

“My shoulder hurts.”

“You survived practice.”

“Barely.”

He says it completely deadpan too, which somehow makes it worse.

You step closer eventually, taking the tape back out of his hand with a dramatic sigh.

“I cannot believe this works on me.”

“It does though.”

You roll your eyes, lean down, and kiss the pout right off his mouth.

It’s quick, barely more than a soft press of your lips against his, but it instantly wipes the smug suffering expression off his face.

“There,” you murmur against him. “Better?”

“Much.”

“you're so manipulative.”

“You love it.”

Unfortunately, he isn’t wrong.

Still shaking your head, you begin to pick at the tape, searching for a start, a grin breaks across his face.

“There she is.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

He leans back slightly while you move closer, between his parted knees, 

“Take your shirt off.”

Logan’s eyebrows lift with mock dignity,

“Wow.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying, very forward of you.”

You point the tape threateningly.

“I can and will mess this up on purpose.”

That finally earns a laugh out of him before he grabs the bottom of the shirt and peels it up slowly over his stomach and chest before pulling it fully off. The movement flexes the muscles across his shoulders and arms in a way that makes your hands pause for just a second too long before continuing.

The first time you’d seen Logan shirtless, you’d nearly walked face-first into a supply cart. Now you liked to think that you mostly handled it with dignity. 

But even though you have seen him shirtless before, plenty of times, your brain still stalls for a second. Of course he notices, a Cheshire smirk spreading across his face.

“Are you checking me out right now?”

You snap your eyes back up to his. “Relax.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’ve literally taken your shirt off in front of me like a hundred times.”

“Exactly,” he says, leaning back on one hand. “So why are you acting shy now?”

“I’m not acting shy.”

“You stopped moving.”

“I was thinking medically.”

That gets a laugh out of him, low and warm and entirely too satisfied.

“Sure you were.”

You shove lightly at his shoulder. “Sit properly before I ruin your tape on purpose.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He straightens up obediently, but the second you lean closer to inspect the swelling, his hands settle automatically on your hips, warm and familiar through the fabric of your leggings. Logan constantly touched you in ways so absentminded, they almost felt instinctive - a hand at your back, fingers catching your sleeve, knees knocking together under tables. 

You glance down at them while peeling the backing off the tape.

“That’s not very professional of you.”

Logan looks at you innocently. “Neither is ogling your patient.”

You snort despite yourself and press your palm flat against his chest to push him back slightly so you can work properly.

“Shut up unless you want me to tape your arm to your torso.”

“Bit kinky for a medical facility.”

“John.”

You press the tape down slightly harder against his shoulder, he laughs quietly through the wince, shoulders shaking beneath your hands before finally relaxing when you glare at him.

“Abuse of power.”

“Keep talking and I’ll make it asymmetrical.”

That finally shuts him up.

The room settles into something quieter after that, the air hums softly around the two of you, close and warm and familiar in a way that makes the rest of campus feel very far away. You focus on the tape, fingers smoothing it across the curve of his shoulder and down his arm while Logan watches you with that same soft, steady attention he always gets when he thinks you aren’t noticing.

“You concentrate really hard,” he murmurs eventually.

“I’m trying to stop you from destroying your rotator cuff.”

“Hot.”

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says lightly, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your hips, “you keep me around.”

You finish the final strip and smooth your hand over it one last time, making sure it’s fully adhered before tossing the empty backing aside.

“There,” you murmur, “Done.”

The clinic suddenly feels too quiet without the team in it.

Just the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint smell of your strawberry chapstick, and Logan looking at you like he has absolutely nowhere else he’d rather be.

You don’t step away and his hands tighten slightly at your hips while you’re still leaning forward over him, palms braced against the crinkling paper beside him on the treatment bed. Suddenly you’re very aware of how close your faces are.

You can feel his breathe against your parted lips, warm and steady

“You’re staring again,” he says quietly.

“You’re shirtless in a medical facility.”

“You invited me.”

Your eyes flick down to his mouth first and you lean in to kiss him before he can say something smug about it.

The first kiss is soft, more amused than anything, except Logan enthusiastically kisses you back. It’s not so chaste anymore.

His hand slides from your hip up along your waist while your fingers instinctively catch against the back of his neck, and the second you kiss him deeper, he exhales softly against your mouth like it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath your hands, nails digging into his shoulder.

His mouth stays slow at first, then the kiss deepens steadily until your breathing catches halfway through it, a small involuntary sound escaping you before you can stop it, and Logan takes the opportunity to tilt his head and kiss you deeper like he’s been waiting for permission.

One of his hands slides into your hair, the other stays firm at your waist.

The new angle arches you against him properly now, your chest pressed lightly to his as he kisses you harder this time, slower and warmer and very deliberately not innocent.

His mouth is still curved faintly like he’s enjoying the fact that you started this, but the smugness fades quickly when your fingers slide into the damp hair at the base of his head and tug lightly.

The sound he makes against your mouth is quiet, but enough to make heat rush straight through you.

“Oh, you liked that,” you murmur before kissing him again. Logan’s hand tightens instinctively at your waist like he’s annoyed you noticed, which only makes you want to tease him more.

“Don’t get cocky,” he says, voice lower now.

“You literally started pouting for attention five minutes ago.”

“And it worked.”

He kisses you again before you can answer, his fingers creep below the hem of your scrubs and his palm flattens up on your spine, against your bare skin. The other slides down from your hair to your neck, guiding you harder into his lips, mouth parting to swallow your shallow breaths.

The paper beneath him crinkles loudly when he shifts forward toward the edge of the bed, and you can’t help laughing softly into the kiss at how absurdly obvious the sound is.

“You’re so clingy,” you whisper.

“Mm,” he hums against your mouth. “You love it.”

You pull away from him, chest heaving as you make room for his hands to skate up your sides, your scrub top going with them, "Actually...", his hands pause against you. You grin, going to press hot kisses to his neck, "I love you."

He groans at that, blunt nails digging into your ribs, just below your bra- itching to take it off.

You’re about to help him peel off your layers, when the clinic door suddenly slams open hard enough to hit the stopper behind it.

“YO LOGAN-”

You jerk back just enough to look toward the doorway while complete silence takes over the room.

You and Logan freeze for approximately half a second while the entire hockey team stands in the doorway staring in collective disbelief.

One teammate points aggressively.

“I KNEW IT.”

Another gasps dramatically.

“MRS. LOGAN CONFIRMED IN REAL LIFE.”

You bury your face briefly in Logan’s shoulder, mortified and laughing at the same time, meanwhile, Logan looks ready to commit murder.

He reaches blindly for the tape roll beside him and chucks it directly at them.

“Get out, you perverts.”

The tape bounces uselessly off one guy’s chest and nobody leaves.

If anything, they move further inside.

“HE’S DEFENSIVE!” someone yells.

“BRO WE INTERRUPTED FOREPLAY.”

“You guys are so annoying,” you groan, face burning.

Logan just watches you laugh for a second, despite the fact his teammates are actively ruining his life in real time, something in his expression softens completely.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he mutters quietly.

You look back at him with teary eyes.

“You threw tape at them.”

“They interrupted me.”

“That sounded possessive. Maybe Dean was right?”

“It was, can't believe I'm proving him correct.”

"YES MRS. LOGAN" Dean cheers from within the pack.

That makes you laugh all over again.

Logan, meanwhile, tightens an arm around your waist and glares at them with absolutely zero shame. He doesn’t even bother to move away from you anymore, which is probably the most embarrassing part.

“Door,” he says flatly.

The boys finally retreat, still yelling over each other, and the second the door slams shut again, the clinic falls back into silence.

You look down at Logan. He looks up at you.

“They absolutely ruined the mood.”

[folkloure]

⭑.ᐟ as long as you want

john logan x reader

summary: the first time you stay with him until the morning. short fic, smut-implied but mostly fluff. inspired by one of @rebelfell's headcanons, thank you! <3

Logan shifts in his sleep once he feels you trying to slip out the bed. 

“Don’t.” He says, voice hoarse from waking up in the middle of the night and arm stretching out to find you. “Don’t move.”

You have been on this same bed before, multiple times. First after one of his team’s winning games, two beers in, both giggling on the stools at Malone’s. Then again the next night, then the next week, always a fun fling before kissing goodbye and each going their own way. You and Logan have never had a talk about how things were moving, but oh, they were moving. 

You turn around to face him, his pretty eyes still closed, chest going up and down in a steady rhythm. He looks so… peaceful.

“I think I should go,” you whisper. Logan’s eyes open slightly, eyebrows furrowing before he starts shaking his head, and you giggle, “Before it gets too late.”

“Just stay the night,” he says, like it’s the obvious thing to do, “I’ll take you home in the morning.”

Thing is, John Logan might not reach the same level of whorish fame of his teammates, but you know the guy. Before this all started, you’ve heard through the grapevine of different girls (puckbunnies, if you will) who were once in your position: between his sheets after a good night — but never the morning. 

Guys like John Logan don’t do mornings. 

Your hands move to his head, fingers fixing his hair off his face. His eyes flutter closed from the tender touch, “Logan…”

“I know. I know, just–” he stops for a yawn, half his face squished on his pillow again while his hand pulls you gently, “Just stay, please?”

You stare at his sleepy face for a second, taking a deep breath before you answer, “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Logan’s mouth splits in a tired smile, “Cool. C’mere then.” 

—

He wakes up before you, nose pressed on the corner between your neck and shoulder, the soft reminiscence of perfume you were wearing last night the very first thing he acknowledges. Then, the morning light, and that’s where it hits him. 

You stayed the night.

Logan doesn’t want to wake you, but he can’t help himself. He presses his lips to your shoulder, voice muttering so low, “You’re here.”

“I am.” you mutter back, almost refusing to move and disturb the quietness. Actually, all you do is pull the bedsheets — his bedsheets — closer, bundling yourself under the comfiness of his blankets. Logan lets out a small chuckle, despite feeling the cold reaching his legs. He moves an inch closer, following you under the covers.

Logan moves his lips slowly from your shoulder up to your jaw, placing soft kisses. His arms move around your torso, bringing you closer to his chest. “You’re warm,” he says in a low voice, the low stubble on his face slightly tickling you, “And you’re so soft.”

His lips keep moving over to your behind your ear, then back to your neck, kissing and nibbling. Logan shifts, swiftly pining you to bed and astriding you. His arms are on each side of your body and your hands are moving, fingers brushing his forearms like you’re trying to memorize the shivers on his skin, nails scratching the back of his neck as he kisses you deeply.

It’s all so agonizingly slow — the way he moves, the sun peeking through the white curtains casting a glow over the room, his naked back looking golden under the haze. You close your eyes, and all you hear is a soft chuckle leaving Logan’s lips, trailing down your body again. He presses a kiss on your sternum, “So, so pretty.”

There’s no rush to it, and still, you can’t pinpoint when one movement changes to another, your limbs tangled with his, hips moving together and your quiet moans muffled by his lips. It’s different from all the frantic nights you’ve shared together until now. 

Slower, quieter, lovelier. 

Logan’s voice whispers soft words in your ear as your chest finds a rhythm again, “You’re good, honey. You’re perfect.”

You open your eyes and find he’s intently watching you, and you press a quick kiss on his lips, then a couple more over his nose and face. He relaxes his body, arms faltering beside you, whole weight now resting on top of you. 

“I’m assuming you’re not taking me home now, are you?”

Logan lets out an amused chuckle, “No, you stay as long as you want.” 

You don’t see yourself leaving his bed anytime soon.

notes: thank you for reading! first time writing for off campus <3 requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated!

[rr-after-dark]

Hi James I think that Park is your icky step dad who starts by telling you to stop vaping and eat well and sleep 8 hours a night. Obvs he a surgeon he’s in the know! He then gets more and more controlling eventually telling you what you should and shouldn’t do for you sexual health wink wink

"Take Care & Listen" - Brendon Park x Reader

Summary: When you go back home to your stepdad, he guides you through taking better care of yourself.

Tags/Notes: stepdad!brendon, controlling behavior disguised as concern, masturbation, fingering, oral (f), squirting

Content: stepcest

A/N: good anon have a full fic you did a good job also WAY TMI HERE but i actually made myself like properly for real squirt a few days ago after thinking i had before (i was just pissing turns out but god bless) but now my eyes are Open To The Real Thing and now im just gonna have to put it in every fic bc its fucking crazy iykyk sorry guys use an air pulse to get yourself off once then turn it to the lowest setting and force yourself into overstim <3

Word Count: 4.9k

You show up back at home a few months after your mom dies, knocking on the door in the middle of the night during a rainstorm after finally leaving your shit boyfriend. It’s just Brendon in that big old house now. When he answers the door, eyes heavy with exhaustion, wearing only gray sweatpants, you half expect him to turn you away. It’s not like you’re his real kid; he doesn’t have any real obligation to you without your mom in his life.

But he just sighs.

Shakes his head.

Opens the door.

He takes you by the hand and pulls you into the house, not saying anything about how you drip water on the floor or how you can’t stop crying. “Come on, princess, let’s get you into some dry clothes.”

He stands dutifully outside of the bathroom while you shower and emerge wrapped in a fluffy white towel that you know his housekeeper washes and folds. He’s never been good at the homemaking side of things; that was all your mom’s job.

Holding out a pair of his boxers, sweats, and a tee, Brendon tells you, “Sorry I don’t have any of your mom’s old clothes to give you.”

“That’s alright,” you reply, voice bashful and innocent as you take the clothes from him. “I wasn’t sure you’d even let me in, so this is better than I expected.”

His face falls at that. “Why wouldn’t I let you in?”

“Well, I dunno, mom’s not around anymore,” you reason, sounding so pathetic it takes you by surprise, “so I figured you’d just want to move on with your life or something.”

Brendon’s heart breaks and he immediately pulls you into a tight hug. He kisses your temple and tells you seriously, “Sweetheart, be serious now. I’ve been in your life since you were little, even if I’m not your sperm donor. You’re my kid, plain and simple. I’m never gonna let you stay out in the cold.”

Your lip wobbles as you search his devastatingly blue eyes. “But I’ve been so bad.”

“What, because you disappeared before your frontal lobe developed? Because you shacked up with some shithead who didn’t deserve you?” Brendon shakes his head and shrugs. “None of that matters. You’ll always be my baby girl. Get changed and get some sleep; we can talk tomorrow.”

–

“If you’re going to stay here with me, there have to be some rules,” Brendon starts as he cooks you breakfast. He took the day off work to reconnect with you, which you know is a big deal for someone with an important job like him.

You nod seriously, hoping he understands just how much this means to you. “I know I’ll need to pay rent and buy my own groceries and-”

“What? Rent?” Like the idea’s ridiculous, Brendon scoffs, “No, you don’t have to pay rent, angel. You don’t have to pay for anything. The asshole made you quit your job anyway, didn’t he?”

You can’t bear to look at him as you admit it with a nod. He pushes a plate of eggs, sausage, biscuits, and fruit in front of you before pouring a tall glass of orange juice as well. Beginning to pick around the plate, you ask, “So what are the rules, then?”

“You have to fix your lifestyle,” he replies, vague but firm. Then he clarifies some, “You can’t go partying like you have been. You’re getting eye bags from drinking and caffeine and sleep deprivation and you’re way too young for that.”

Your fingers fly up to your cheeks. “Am I really?”

“Yeah, you are,” he sighs, reaching out to cup your face, brushing his thumb over your skin. “You’re a beautiful girl; you shouldn’t be wasting your youth and your mind and your beauty on the bullshit you have been. If you’re in my house, you take care of yourself. And you listen to me. Got it?”

Biting your lip, you nod gently. “I can try.”

He touches your chin affectionately and says, “Good girl.”

Something deep inside of you stirs when he says that. And he notices. Your pupils dilate slightly, your lips part a bit, and you draw in a tiny sharp breath. He withdraws his hand, painfully aware of whatever’s just passed between you.

“We’ll eat breakfast and dinner together every day. I’m not a great cook, but I can make do or we can order in.”

“I can cook,” you tell him, perking up a bit at the idea that there’s something you can do to be helpful. “You have such a nice kitchen here – way better than the one I had with Tyler – it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Let me make us meals; you’re way too busy to worry about that. It’ll give me something to do.”

“Great. You can take the Audi for grocery runs; I’ll leave my card here for you. Or you can use one of those delivery services, whatever.” He starts in on his own breakfast and smiles. “See? We’ll figure this thing out in no time.”

–

Brendon’s heart nearly stops when he gets home from work his first day back. You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, fresh-faced from the shower, wearing nothing but panties and one of his shirts; he’s promised to go to your ex’s place to collect your things this weekend, but the sight of you like that makes him reluctant. For a second, he’s so happy that his heart could burst. He knows how gross it sounds, but he’s missed having a woman in the kitchen, some pretty thing swaying along to music while stirring a pot on the stove.

There’s a sudden flash in his mind of you standing there with a heavy baby bump, humming, happy and held and perfectly safe under his protection. He can’t shake it from his head as he kicks off his shoes, quickly showers, and changes.

Then, as he heads to the kitchen but before you notice his presence, you take out a slim vape pen and take a long breath, blowing out the cloud with an ease that makes it clear this is a long-term habit for you. Before you can take another hit, Brendon storms forward and snatches it from your hand. You stare at him, wide-eyed like a caught toddler, as he hisses, “Do you have any idea how bad for you these things are?”

You throw your hands up and reply defensively, “I’m using it to quit smoking!”

“Swapping one addiction for another,” he sighs as he slips the pen into his back pocket. “Just because it’s not as bad for you doesn’t mean it’s good. You don’t need nicotine – you need a healthy diet, sleep, exercise, and routine. I’m a doctor, sweetheart, you can talk to me about things like quitting smoking.”

You nod and sigh, “I know, daddy. You’re right.”

It slips from your lips so effortlessly that it’s like syrup running down his spine. God, he loves how it sounds in your honey-smooth voice, tumbling from your sweet lips, 

When you see how his eyes widen, you immediately turn back to the stove and stammer, “Sorry, I- I’m too old to call you that. It won’t happen again.”

“No, no, c’mon,” he coos. He stands behind you and wraps you in a hug. You swear you can feel the outline of his cock pressing against your ass, but you write it off as nothing. “I don’t mind at all. You don’t care if I call you princess or sweetheart or angel, right?”

“Of course not,” you giggle, all sweet and feminine. “It’s nice.”

“That’s how I feel, too,” he assures you. The way his rough, masculine voice breathes down your neck makes you a little dizzy. “Just because you’re grown up doesn’t mean you can’t be my little girl; why shouldn’t you call me what you want?”

You turn around and plant a warm kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, daddy. I’m gonna work on the vaping, okay? I really want you to be proud of me. To show you how good I can be.”

He kisses your forehead. “You’re so special, baby. I just want to make sure you’re treating yourself as well as you should be.”

–

After you’ve cleaned up dinner side by side, you put on a movie and convince Brendon to watch it with you even though he insists he has paperwork to do for the hospital. You have your feet in his lap and he rubs them absently, no thought behind his touch, more like he’s using you as a stressball.

When the credits roll and you go to search for something else to watch, Brendon clicks his tongue, takes the remote from you, and turns the TV off.  “You should get to bed, sweetheart.”

“What?” You almost laugh as your eyes flick over to the clock on the wall. “It’s not even ten.”

He gives you a stern, knowing look. One of those looks where you always fold to whatever he wants you to do. He explains, “I don’t want you going back to bed after breakfast and sleeping until noon just because you aren’t working or in school. You need to get out of the cycle of being reliant on coffee to wake up; that means you need to get enough sleep to start with.”

You pout and reply, “But I’m not tired.”

He stands up and helps you to your feet, slinging an arm around your waist and guiding you toward the stairs. “You will be if you relax in bed for a while – no TV, no distractions. Just quiet and dark. You have to retrain your body with a good schedule.”

You walk up the steps ahead of him, fully aware that your ass is bouncing in his face in your tiny panties. Teasing him is just a part of your fun these days. You love to catch him staring and making him blush when you make fun of him.

In your childhood bedroom, which he’s promised to let you remodel however you want once you have your things again, Brendon watches as you wash your face and brush your face in the en suite bathroom. He likes to watch you. Likes having your pretty form filling his house with your light and life.

After you slip beneath the covers, he plugs your phone in across the room so you won’t reach for it while you’re trying to sleep, kisses you tenderly on the forehead, and shuts your light off. “Goodnight, princess. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You lean up again and go to kiss him on the cheek, half-missing and catching the corner of his lips. “Night, daddy. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

–

The more comfortable you get living at home with Brendon, the more reliant you are on him. It feels so natural to you both. He’s big and strong and successful; you’re sweet and needy and helpful. You want to make him happy however you can and he wants to keep you safe and healthy the same way.

For a while, you can both write it off as finding a father/daughter relationship again in adulthood. But it’s becoming increasingly obvious that there’s more. When you go shopping on his credit card, you send him pictures of the cute little outfits you buy and he jerks off to them late at night, his hand made of white-hot shame and pleasure mixing in equal parts. When he rearranges furniture for you while shirtless, taking orders to make sure you’re happy with your space, you can’t help staring at his biceps, his back, and his chest, pathetically whimpering and trying to get yourself off but not quite able to after.

You just can’t take it anymore one night after spending a full hour trying to hit that spot in your pussy by yourself, your much shorter fingers not able to reach it. So you stand up in a huff, don’t bother tugging your underwear back on, and stomp down the hall to the room Brendon once slept in with your mother.”

Taking a deep breath, you knock tentatively and crack the door open. You’re a mix of giddy and nervous when you see he’s still awake, leaning back on the headboard with a thick hook in his lap.

When he hears the door squeak open, he looks up, slips the ribbon bookmark back in place, and asks with such a tender concern in his voice that you feel loved right away, “You alright, sweetheart?”

“I can’t sleep, daddy,” you reply, a bit of a bratty, desperate whine in your tone that makes his cock chub up. Padding into the room, he realizes you aren’t wearing bottoms and sits up straighter as you go on needle, “You’ve been so smart with everything since I’ve been here; I think I need your help.”

He pats the spot on the bed next to him. Setting his book down and shifting to the side as you crawl into his bed, Brendon prods, “Tell me what’s going on.”

When he lifts his arm, you snuggle underneath it and bury your face in his softly worn tee. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“C’mon, do you have any reason to be embarrassed with me ever?” Brendon lifts your chin with his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to make eye contact. All lilting and teasing, he nudges, “I’m a doctor. I’m your dad.”

“That’s the problem,” you groan, eyes flicking away from his once more. “I don’t think I’m supposed to talk to you about stuff like this.”

He chuckles now, clearly amused by your bashfulness, “What stuff would that be? Baby, you know as well as I do that you can talk to me about anything in the whole world that you need.”

You nod and quickly whine out, “I haven’t been able to make myself cum since the breakup and it’s driving me crazy.”

Brendon swallows thickly, his mouth going dry at just how pathetically needy you look right now, eyes watery, thighs pinched together, teeth pushing into your soft lower lip. He knows this is a crossroads for both of you. A moment where boundaries will blur or harden, where trust will be built or broken, based on how he responds.

So he’s careful at first. With blue eyes that brim with love, he cups your cheek and confirms, “Most importantly, that’s definitely nothing to be embarrassed about, honey, and you can always talk to me about your sexual health – whether that’s birth control or relationships or whatever. You’re safe with me.”

You melt under his touch. “Thank you, daddy.”

“Here, let’s get you comfy,” Brendon murmurs, maneuvering you onto your back, head on his pillow, legs spread just a bit. With his heart hammering in his throat, he does his best to keep his voice level as he offers, “Why don’t you show me what you do when you’re alone? Maybe that’ll help me figure out what you can be doing better. Does that sound okay?”

“Mhmm,” you reply, a little too eager, spreading your legs apart and squirming in a way that drives him clinically insane.

You go to put your hand between your legs the way you usually do, but Brendon catches your wrist and asks, “First of all, why are you still wearing your shirt? You usually stay partly clothed when you touch yourself?”

“Yeah, usually.”

“Why?”

“I dunno.” You shrug as your cheeks burn from a mix of nerves and arousal. “Just easier, I guess.”

“Well, you don’t want to rush things, even with yourself. Going slow and not skipping any steps just to get there faster will help,” he says. His fingers go to the hem of your small tee and he starts to lift it, ordering quietly, “Sit up a little for a second, princess.”

You help him shimmy your top off, leaving you completely naked save your frilled socks. He can see your breaths coming faster now as you feel exposed in front of him for the first time. With your breasts out on full display, Brendon can feel himself starting to lose control. You’re just so fucking perfect, every inch of you, and he has to let out a slow, controlled breath to avoid moaning and taking you the way he wants.

With a mix of eagerness and innocence, you check, “You’re sure it’s okay for you to help with this?”

“It’s my job to help you with this,” he clarifies, serious, like a teacher giving an important lesson. “Clearly, you’ve wasted time with stupid boys who didn’t do a good job and now you can’t even help yourself. All I want is to make sure you’re happy and healthy. This is another part of that. I’ve helped you make your tummy feel better with your diet and your skin get better with your sleep and your water. Why shouldn’t I make your little pussy feel better, too?”

“That makes sense, daddy,” you coo, on the verge of giggling from the way your brain is buzzing. “Okay, so I usually start by just kinda rubbing circles on my clit.”

He orders firmly, “Show me.”

You lick your two middle fingers and snake them between your legs, parting your lips a bit and finding your clit. Brendon sits back on the bed and watches you collect wetness from lower down before spreading it over your clit. He tsks sympathetically and asks, “You were trying for a while, huh? All wet and swollen.”

With a sad nod, you reply, “I just can’t read that special place inside me.”

“You try to just use your fingers? How?”

Easily obeying as your brain starts to go fuzzy, you reach your other hand down and curl the fingertips of your middle two fingers inside your needy hole.

Eyes trained on your perfect cunt he asks roughly, “You don’t use a toy or anything? A dildo?”

You protest right away, “Ew, no, of course not!”

Brendon smacks your thigh – the gesture shocks you to your core, even the lightest slightest pain making your nerves sing – and reprimands, “Who made you think it’s not okay to use toys?”

“Well, I dunno, my ex, I guess,” you explain. Your voice is getting breathier now as your fingers speed up. Brendon’s attention is a lot hotter than any of the thoughts you can conjure up behind your eyelids. “I thought- thought that made me slutty. If I needed something like that.”

“God, that boy,” Brendon nearly growls. “Honey, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with using the things that were designed to make your pussy feel good. Boys say that when they don’t want their girl to know what ‘good’ is because if you can get yourself off with a vibrator, why would you keep a shitty boyfriend around?”

A conspiratorial giggle escapes your lips. “Will you get me some toys daddy?”

“Of course I will, angel,” he assures. “You should have whatever you need to feel good. I’ll show you how to use them and everything, make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Suddenly, your eyes sting with tears, lip wobbling as you look up at this man who’s made your life so much better for no reason except how he loves you. “You’re so good to me.”

“That’s because you’re mine,” he soothes, rubbing his hand over your calf. Then his hand moves – slowly, like he’s trying not to spook you – up your inner thigh. He carefully removes the hand that’s desperately trying to get deeper into your pussy and squeezes it a couple times. “For now, though, you definitely need something nice and thick in there to hit that special spot. You really want me to help?”

Your eyes snap up to his and you nod. “Please, daddy, I’m so achy. I need it really bad.”

“Good girl. I’m so proud of you for telling me that,” he praises as two of his fingertips brush your pussy’s entrance. You suck in a sharp breath at the feeling and then stop breathing altogether when he begins to push them inside. The stretch is so good, stingy and bright, and you already know he’s gonna be able to help exactly how you need. Once you’ve taken him to the second knuckle, feeling like you couldn’t possibly be stretched any more, Brendon reminds you with a hand on your lower tummy, “Breathe, honey. You’ve gotta breathe.”

Your mouth falls open and a breath rattles in. Your back arches and you let out an angelic moan.

At your intense reaction, Brendon pushes his fingers the rest of the way in and asks you quietly, “Has anyone ever touched you like this?”

Shaking your head as he begins to move his fingers inside of your cunt, you admit, “My ex only ever- Fuck, daddy, that’s the spot right there.”

“I know, sweet girl, I can feel it,” he says. He curls his fingers back toward himself, right against that perfect textured spot that makes your toes tense. “What were you saying?”

Trying hard to focus, you tell him, “He only ever put his dick down there.”

Brendon groans, almost like a growl, as if that response causes him physical pain. “Did he ever eat you out?”

Your face wrinkles up and you look down at him, giving up rubbing your clit because you’re so distracted. “Like use his mouth on me? Why would he do that?”

“Alright, this is officially fucking unacceptable,” Brendon announces. He pulls his fingers from your pussy despite your pathetic, begging whines and stands up. You watch with a curious expression as he strips his own clothes off. You’ve never seen his cock before and your eyes widen; it’s gotta be twice the size of the only other one you’ve ever seen in person. Brendon climbs on top of you, caging you between his strong arms, and says, “I’m gonna show you how a man is supposed to treat his woman. You can’t go out in the world thinking it’s okay for a guy to just get his dick wet and move on. If you’re gonna be someone’s girl, they need to treat you right in life and in bed.”

Tentatively, you reach up and touch his harsh jawline. Your voice is an anxious whisper as you ask him, “What if I don’t wanna go back out in the world?”

Hopeful but not quite ready to let himself think it, Brendon pushes, “What do you mean, princess?”

“Maybe I just wanna be your girl now,” you say softly. Eyes averted, you murmur quickly, “I like being home with you. Like when you come home and tell me about your day while I make you dinner. Like when we go shopping together and when you make sure I brushed my teeth good enough. I wanna be yours. I don’t wanna go back out there and try to be with anyone else.”

He can tell it’s taking all your bravery to say it and you’re terrified of being rejected by him, so he doesn’t bother with collecting his thoughts. He crushes you into a kiss that’s claiming and rough and so much more intense than any you’ve felt before. You whimper into it and he swallows the sound down, cupping the back of your head and grabbing your waist and grinding down against your thigh.

When he pulls back, your pupils are blown wide and your breaths are fast. He drags his lips up your neck and purrs against your ear, “Then I’m gonna show you how I treat my woman so you never want anyone else again.”

You’re totally unable to speak as he trails kisses down your body, between your breasts, over your stomach, along your hips, up your thighs. Worshipping every inch he can reach without getting out of the position he needs to be in. As he bends to hover his lips above your clit, he looks up at you and orders, “Now I’m gonna eat you out and I want you to play with your nipples, baby. Just figure out how you like it. I want you to have fun with them because sex is supposed to be fun, not some chore. I’ll take care of this pretty pussy. That sound good?”

You squirm, skeptical, and ask, “You’re really gonna put your mouth on me? What if it tastes bad? What if-”

“Good girls don’t argue with their daddies,” he cuts you off, shoving his two fingers back into your cunt without preamble, stealing your breath away as he does. It reminds you how much pleasure you think Brendon could give you that nobody else could. “Are you going to be good or are you going to be a brat?”

“Good,” you squeak out, suddenly desperate to know what he wants to show you. “I trust you, daddy, I promise.”

“That’s my girl. You just keep on trusting me and you’re gonna have the best life in the world. Gonna make you feel so good. Treat you like the princess you are every fucking day.”

Then he descends on your clit. He’s slow and purposeful at first, letting you get used to the new sensation, which is soft and wet and nice, even if it’s a little strange at first. Combined with his fingers inside of you, it definitely feels good. When his tongue gets firmer and more urgent, almost mimicking the way you play with your clit, a moan like you’ve never heard from yourself busts out of your throat. He groans in response and the vibration makes your head spin.

Because you promised to be good and listen to him, your hands travel up to cup your breasts. You try out massaging them, rubbing your nipples, rolling them, whatever you can think of that might feel good. Having that to focus on lets you completely relax, not in your head with Brendon between your legs. He’s so smart; he must’ve known you’d be nervous to have him down there, smelling you and tasting you and seeing everything from that angle. He gave you something else to toy with so you wouldn’t get insecure.

With gratitude bubbling up, you start to moan more and more. You’ve never liked your own sounds during sex, but that’s because they’ve always been forced to some degree. These ones just tumble out constantly, breathless and sing-song and honest. He seems to like them, too, because he’s rutting down against the mattress like a teen humping the pillow. The sight makes you burn down to the wick with lust because you realize he wants you bad.

Suddenly you start to feel a tingly, bright sparkly something in your lower stomach, connected to your pussy by a thread that’s being wound tighter and tighter by Brendon’s fingers inside of you. He doesn’t rush you through the feeling, lets it grow and build, setting a steady course that you know you can trust completely.

When you cum, it’s with a loud cry and shaking legs. You’ve never felt something so strong; your own fingers could never make you feel this good. You feel a flood of your wetness pulsing from your cunt and you feel so fucking embarrassed at the idea that you’re going pee on Brendon’s face that you try to wriggle away.

But he won’t let you. He growls and shoves you into overstimulation, lapping up your juices, not relenting until you’re crying and thrashing. His hands keep you tight against his face even as he lightens up, kissing your clit, sweetly nibbling your thighs, letting you come back down to earth.

“I’m sorry, daddy,” you whimper as you start to catch your breath. “I don’t know what happened. I’ve never peed like that before and I couldn’t control it and-”

“What?” Brendon laughs hard as he pulls back to look at you incredulously. “Baby girl, you did so good. Sometimes when a girl cums extra hard, she does that. There can be a whole rush of liquid; it’s not the same thing as peeing.”

“It’s not?” You tilt your head to the side, relief filling your shaky body as Brendon grabs a towel from his en suite bathroom and starts to clean you and the sheet up. “What is it then?”

“Well, the research isn’t great right now because we’ve always under-studied women’s bodies,” he explains as he tenderly rubs the towel over your pussy and your thighs, “but most people think it’s a mix of liquids. Some of it comes from the bladder, yes, but it’s diluted by fluids from this special gland you have called the Skene’s gland, which is sort of like a man’s prostate.” Then he chuckles and shakes his head, cheeks a bit pink, as he adds, “Trust me: I’ve tasted both, and they’re not the same thing.”

You smack him on the arm and fall into a fit of laughter. “Ew, daddy, gross!”

Brendon shakes his head and gets into the bed next to you, holding you close. “It’s easy to think that, but I promise that all sorts of stuff you think is weird or gross can actually feel really, really good when you’re with the right person.”

You nuzzle into his chest and say dreamily, “And I’m with the right person now.”

[jacksabbotts]

. ⋆ ⁺₊ ❅ .   NO HOCKEY PLAYERS

━━ john logan x graham!reader ; wc 3.5k tw ; mention of parental abuse ( phil graham ) , secret relationship/brothers best friend , kissing , unedited part one \ part two \ part three

You should have been asleep. 

Honestly, you had every intention of staying asleep.

You'd barely stirred when Logan carefully untangled himself from around you a few hours earlier. The second Logan's warmth disappeared from around you, sleep had abandoned you completely. You remembered the sleepy press of lips against your temple, remembered him whispering something about emergency practice before disappearing back through the bathroom with more effort than a six foot hockey player should have needed to move quietly. 

You had laid there for nearly twenty minutes staring at the ceiling while cold air slowly replaced the heat his body had left behind. That had been the end of sleep.

Eventually, you gave up and grabbed your laptop instead. 

Which was how you ended up cross legged in the middle of your unmade bed at six in the morning, drowning in English literature notes while wearing one of Logan's old briar jerseys like a sleep shirt. 

The sleeves hung past your wrist, and the stitched hem brushed against your thighs whenever you shifted beneath the blankets. Your laptop sat balanced on your knees in front of you while color coded note card littered the comforter around your legs in chaotic little piles. 

The room smelled faintly like vanilla coffee creamer and Logan's cologne. The thought probably should have bothered you more than it did. Garrett would lose his fucking mind if he saw this. 

The thought flickered through your head so automatically it barely registered anymore. By now sneaking around with Logan had become muscle memory. You were half way through rereading your notes on gothic symbolism when the bathroom door connecting your room to his clicked softly. 

You barely looked up. That alone probably should have been alarming. But the only people who used that bathroom were you and Logan.

He paused halfway through the doorway, one hand still resting against the door knob as surprise crossed his face. His dark hair was damp from a rushed shower after practice, curling slightly at the ends, and he’d traded his gear for gray sweatpants and a black Briar Hockey hoodie that looked like he’d pulled it on without fully drying off first.

“You’re awake?" His hockey bag hit the bathroom floor softly behind him as he nudged the door shut with his foot.

You hummed absently, eyes still scanning the highlighted paragraph glowing on your laptop screen.

A beat of silence passed.

“Tell me I didn’t wake you when I left.”

That finally dragged your attention toward him.

You scrunched your nose automatically, guilt flashing across his face the second he saw it.

“Oh, baby,” he groaned quietly. 

You shrugged one shoulder, trying to dismiss it, but Logan already looked annoyed with himself as he crossed the room.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight when he dropped onto the bed beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours immediately. Warmth radiated off him in sleepy waves, carrying traces of cold winter air, clean soap, and lingering hockey equipment beneath it all.

“I’m sorry.”

"You're loud," you mumbled, teasingly. 

"I was not loud."

"You're, like, genetically incapable of being quiet."

"That is offensive."

“What’d they drag you guys in so early for anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting back toward your screen.

Logan rested his chin against your shoulder, close enough that his voice vibrated lightly through your skin when he answered.

“Cody got drunk at a frat and fell off a table. Dislocated his shoulder.”

You snorted softly.

“And you have a game tomorrow,” you murmured, piecing it together out loud. “Hence the emergency practice.”

He hummed against your shoulder in confirmation, the vibration making you shiver slightly before his mouth followed after it, pressing a lazy kiss against the fabric stretched over it.

Then another.

Then another higher up near your neck where the oversized collar slipped low against your skin.

Your fingers paused over the keyboard.

“Come on,” Logan mumbled against your throat. “Take a break?”

You ignored him on purpose.

It was almost impossible to study with Logan around. Not because he was obnoxious about it but mostly because he wanted your attention with the same attention he wanted ice time, and when John Logan wanted something, he tened to throw his whole body at it. 

Which, unfortunately for your GPA, usually worked. 

He sighed dramatically.

“Baby.”

“Logan.”

His mouth curved against your skin at the warning in your voice.

Logan lifted his head just enough to pout at you, and unfortunately for your concentration, he looked unfairly good like this—fresh from practice, slightly sleepy, soft around the edges in a way nobody else ever got to see.

He knew it too.

“I missed you,” he added, pouting still. You laughed quietly before you could stop yourself, turning your head enough to look at him properly. Logan immediately brightened like he’d won something. “You were at practice for like two hours.”

“Hey,” he said, nudging your knee with his. “Don’t be mean just because I like you.” The teasing grin lingered for only a second before something softer settled over his face.

His hand slid over your thigh absentmindedly, thumb brushing against the bare skin beneath the hem of his jersey. “I’m serious, though,” he said quietly. “I really like you.”

The words still did strange things to your chest no matter how many times he said them. Not because you doubted him. But because part of you still wasn’t entirely used to being wanted this gently.

You looked at him fully. “I know,” you said softly. “I like you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His entire face changed.

It hit you suddenly sometimes, how different he was with you compared to everybody else downstairs. The version of Logan most people got was loud laughter, easy flirting, cocky one-liners, and chaotic energy spilling into every room he entered.

With you, he was soft in a way nobody would believe if they only knew him from hockey games and party stories and whispered puck bunny gossip around campus.

This version belonged only to you.

Before you could process the thought too deeply, Logan reached over and closed your laptop. “Hey,” you protested immediately. “I’m studying.”

“Nuh uh.” He grabbed the laptop before you could reclaim it and set it carefully on the nightstand. “Break time.”

“Logan.”

But he was already gathering your note cards into one messy stack, ignoring your increasingly offended expression entirely.

“You are the worst,” you informed him.

“Mm. Keep talking. Gets me all hot.” He tossed the final stack of cards aside before turning back toward you fully. Your pout barely lasted two seconds before he kissed you.

Heat crept into your face immediately. You hated how easily he could still do that to you. Logan was your first relationship.

Briar had been your first real school, your first time living around people your age instead of watching normal life through windows and secondhand stories from Garrett. 

Your first sememster had felt like everybody else had recived some invisible handbook you'd somehow missed entirely. Parties, flirting, hookups, dorm drama, it all seemed to come naturally to everyone exept you. 

Especially hockey culture. 

You still remember Garrett standing in the kitchen before the semester started, arms crossed while Dean snickered into a beer beside him. "No hockey players," Garrett had said flatly. 

You remember rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. Dean had immediately pointed at himself and Tucker. "What about us?"

"You especially," Garrett had laid the law. At the time, you'd thought it was stupid, embarrassing overprotective older brother bullshit. You'd assumed Garrett simply didn't want to hear locker room stories about his little sister from his teammates. 

Now, with Logan's mouth brushing yours softly while morning light spilled gold across your tangled bedsheets, it almost felt funny. 

Logans kisses were slow, not rushed the way your kisses sometimes became when you were sneaking around the house trying not to get caught.

This kiss felt like exactly what he’d said earlier.

I missed you.

Your fingers curled automatically into the front of his hoodie as he kissed you deeper, patient and unhurried as he pulled you closer across the mattress. 

Even now, months into sneaking around, it still caught you off guard sometimes—the way he touched you carefully without making you feel fragile, the way he held your waist like it belonged beneath his hands naturally, the way he kissed you like he genuinely missed you after only a few hours apart.

Your hands slid into his damp hair as he shifted closer, and suddenly your laptop and exam and notecards felt impossibly far away. “Missed you so much,” he mumbled again against your mouth.

You smiled helplessly into the kiss. “Needy.”

“For you? Yeah.”

Somewhere between one kiss and the next, you ended up in his lap.

One second he was beside you and the next his hands were spread warm against your waist, guiding you over his thighs while your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him. The position pulled a quiet sound from him, one that made your pulse jump embarrassingly fast.

The jersey had ridden dangerously high up your legs by now.

Logan noticed. His hands slid carefully from your waist to your hips, fingertips brushing beneath the hem just enough to make your breath catch against his mouth.

The look he gave you afterward nearly unraveled you completely.

Your heart hammered hard enough to make your chest ache. Maybe this would be the moment. The thought arrived suddenly and stayed there.

Heat bloomed low in your stomach when Logan kissed you again, slower this time, one hand slipping up your spine while the other settled low against your hip.

The knock at your bedroom door barely registered. You froze. Neither of you had time to move before the door opened.

Garrett stepped inside.

For one horrible second, nobody moved.

His gaze swept across the room slowly. The abandoned study notes, Logan’s practice bag at the foot of the bed, your bare legs over Logan’s lap, his jersey hanging off your body, Logan’s hands still spread across your body.

The silence turned suffocating.

You scrambled off Logan immediately, yanking the jersey down your thighs as heat flooded your face. Garrett looked stunned until his expression twisted. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

The words cracked through the room so sharply that it felt like the temperature dropped with them.

Garrett stood frozen in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame completely, hockey hoodie half-zipped. His eyes moved once more across the scene in front of him like he still couldn’t quite make sense of it.

You in Logan’s jersey.

Logan sitting on your bed.

His practice bag on your floor.

Your flushed face.

The way Logan’s hands had only just left your body.

You and Logan began speaking at the same time. "Garrett—"

"G—"

"No," Garrett snapped immediately, voice rough enough to cut skin. "Don't 'Garrett' me right now." Logan stood slowly from the bed to stand beside you. 

Garrett laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about. "How long?" The question was simple enough but neither of you answered fast enough. 

Garrett looked at you then. Anyone else might have mistaken his expression for just pure rage, but you could see the fear in his eyes. "You promised me."

Your stomach twisted. Because you remembered it. You remember Garrett standing in this exact house, telling every guy under this roof to stay away from you and more importantly you had promised, no hockey players. 

"G, listen, man—"

"Do not call me that right now!" Garrett barked. The force of it made silence slam back into the room. Then Garrett looked at Logan fully for the first time since walking in, betrayal twisting ugly across his face. 

"Out of every girl at Briar," he started harshly, "you just had to pick my baby sister to get you fucking dick wet?"

"What the fuck, bro?" And again, you and Logan spoke simultaneously. "Garrett, back off!"

The second the words left your mouth, Garrett went still. Something flickered across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn't have caught it, but you knew Garrett too well not to. 

It was shock. Not because you had yelled but because you had defended Logan. And suddenly Garrett was looking at the two of you like a pissed off older brother anymore. 

Logan stepped forward slightly. "I swear it's not like that, man," his voice was strained now, confused and defensive all at once, "we haven't had sex."

You actually thought, for one horrible second, that maybe that would help. Maybe if Garrett understood that this wasn't just some reckless hookup, he'd calm down. Maybe if he understood that Logan cared about you, really cared about you, the situation would stop spiraling so fast. 

Instead Garrett covered his whole face with both hands. "Jesus fucking Christ."

You chest tightened, you hated what this secret had done. "I really care about her, G," Logan confessed. 

Garrett dropped his hands slowly, then he laughed. Not because anything was particularly funny, but because he knew he was on the brink of loosing control. The sound had come jagged and breathless and it had made a knot form in your throat. 

"You care about her?"

Logan frowned immediately, he was really trying to not get worked up. But his defensiveness got the better of him as he yelled, "Yeah," he shot back. "I really fucking do."

The volume of it bounced off the bedroom walls. You recoiled, but the only person who saw was Garrett because Logan stood in front of you. The motion had practically confirmed every fear that Garrett was trying to prevent. 

And then suddenly he wasn’t standing in your bedroom anymore.

You could see it happen in real time.

His eyes stopped focusing properly. His jaw locked so tightly a muscle ticked there. Whatever Garrett was seeing now wasn’t you and Logan anymore—it was memory layered over reality until he couldn’t separate the two.

“What happens after a bad game?”

“Garrett—”

“What happens when your pissed off and she the only one home?”

Your blood ran cold. Logan's brows furrowed in confusion. “Garrett.” You try to pull his attention to you, anything to get him to stop talking, but his sights are solely set on Logan. “What happens when you start drinking too much and she says the wrong thing—”

“Garrett!”

The shout ripped out of you loud enough to sting your throat.

Garrett sucked his top teeth with his tongue hard enough for you to hear it. It took him a second to drag his glare away from Logan and back toward you.

Beside you, Logan had gone very still.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

But Garrett wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

Your palms were slick with sweat now. Your heart hammered so violently it made your ribs ache. Logan was standing right there. Right there. And Garrett was too angry to stop talking and Logan was far too smart not to put the pieces together eventually.

One more sentence.

That was all it would take and the one person in the entire world you tried to shield this from, would know everything. 

“You think dad walked around acting like a monster all the time?” Your stomach dropped. “Stop it, Garrett!” You stepped forward until you were standing in front of Logan, closer to Garrett. You don't know what you were going to do, but some insane part of you wanted to shield Logan even though he probably already understood what was happening. 

“You think mom didn’t love dad once too?” 

The room tilted. You made the mistake of glancing toward Logan and immediately regretted it because there it was.

That look.

Your entire body flushed hot with humiliation so intense it almost made you dizzy.

“Fuck you, Garrett!”

“Woah, baby—” Logan started but he was quickly cut off by Garrett.

“Fuck me?” Garrett snapped, pointing at himself before swinging that same finger toward Logan. “No, fuck him!” If not for pointing at Logan, you might have thought the him he was refering to was your father. 

Your chest hurt.

You suddenly couldn’t stand the way Logan was looking at you. Couldn’t stand the fact that he knew now. Maybe not every detail, maybe not every ugly memory, but enough.

Enough to understand.

“I watched mom make excuses for him for years—”

“I know,” you fired back instantly, voice shaking now. “I was there too.”

Garrett’s expression cracked for half a second. Then hardened again. “Then why are you making the same mistakes she did?”

“Shut up!” The words tore out of you so violently they almost sounded broken. Silence crashed over the room. Nobody moved. Your breathing sounded too loud. So did Logan’s.

Garrett stared at you like he wanted to say more and knew he shouldn’t. Logan looked like somebody had knocked the air out of him entirely. You suddenly felt sick standing in Logan’s jersey.

Like your own skin didn’t fit correctly anymore. “Get out,” you whispered. Garrett hesitated.

“Get out!”

The shout echoed off the walls.

Something ugly flashed across Garrett’s face then, anger winning over reason for one disastrous second. He slammed his fist into the hallway wall hard enough to shake the framed picture hanging beside your bedroom door.

The sound cracked through you instantly. You flinched before you could stop yourself. Tears burned your eyes immediately afterward, humiliation following close behind them. Because Garrett saw it. You knew he saw it.

Garrett looked horrified for exactly half a heartbeat. Then he walked out. The bedroom door stayed open behind him. Silence swallowed the room again. 

Logan moved first, slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. “Baby—” You stepped backward immediately.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, shaking your head before he could touch you. “Just please get out.”

He stopped a few feet away from you, chest still rising hard from everything that had just happened. His eyes flickered over your face quickly, like he was trying to figure out which version of this situation he was standing in now.

The girl he’d been kissing five minutes ago.

Or this one.

The one standing barefoot in the middle of her bedroom looking like the floor had dropped out from beneath her.

“Baby,” he said carefully, voice quieter than you had ever heard it. “Please just let me—”

“Get out!” Your breathing shook. Logan froze completely.

Heat crawled viciously up your throat. You suddenly couldn’t stand the feeling of the jersey against your skin anymore. Couldn’t stand standing there wrapped in something that belonged to him while he looked at you like that.

Before you could stop yourself, your fingers hooked beneath the hem of the oversized Briar jersey and yanked it harshly over your head.

Logan’s eyes widened instantly.

The cold air hit your skin all at once, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and underwear, chest heaving unevenly.

For one horrible second, nobody moved. Then you threw the jersey at him.

The fabric smacked against his chest before falling halfway down his arm, and Logan caught it automatically out of reflex more than anything else.

The expression on his face wrecked something inside you further. He was in complete and utter shock. Not because you were half-dressed, he’d seen you in less before.

Shock because he understood what you were doing.

Your eyes burned. “Take it,” you snapped, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “Take your shit and just go.”

“Baby—”

“No!”

Your gaze caught on the hockey bag sitting at the foot of your bed. Still sitting exactly where he'd dropped it after practice because he had come straight here. Like this room had become home to him too. 

The thought made something sharp twist painfully in your chest. Before you could think better of it, you grabbed the strap and hurled the bag toward him. It hit the floor beside his feet heavily with a dull thud, one skate shifting loudly inside the bag from the force.

Logan stared at it for half a second.

Then at you.

You hated how careful he looked now, how cautious. That look was exactly what you had spent your entire relationship terrified of.

Your throat tightened painfully. “Please,” you whispered this time, weaker now. “Just leave.”

Something else flickered across his face but it wasn't pity like you expected. God, somehow that would have been easier, you think. 

It was the look of pure heartbreak. Which was way way worse. Logan swallowed hard once before bending slowly to pick up his bag. He gathered the jersey after it, fingers tightening around the crumpled fabric for a brief second.

At the bathroom door, he hesitated but you couldn’t look at him anymore so you kept your gaze on the floor. 

A second later, the door shut softly behind him.

[sc3ptre]

Terms and conditions

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x exchange student!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66

a/n: Let me know if you want more of this! Requests are open and I’m also totally down to make a masterlist for him bc this might be the only acceptable place to be head over heels for a blonde man

Summary: Back home, no one ever looked at you twice. So when you arrived at Briar as an inexperienced exchange student, you decided to seize the opportunity and let the campus playboy teach you everything about casual sex. What could possibly go wrong?

Classification: Smut +18 | Nipple play, bathtub sex, use of a vibrator, orgasm control/denial, casual sex / FWB conversation

Word count: 2k

Divider by me ;)

You still couldn’t understand what had possessed you to agree to this in the first place, getting completely naked in a shared house and climbing into the bathtub with a guy you were barely starting to know, all because you were determined to stop being so uptight now that you were away from home. 

You also didn’t know when you’d started thinking out loud or why you’d picked this exact moment to bring it up in conversation anew.

"Explain it to me again," he murmured, flicking the vibrator to life, one he’d stolen from your dorm, making a point to drag the buzzing tip in a feather-light path along the sensitive skin of your neck, letting the vibrations sink in slowly to relax you and hopefully distract you.

A shiver raced down your spine even though the bathwater stayed hot, bubbles cresting just below your collarbones as you leaned back against the solid wall of his chest.

"What part? The ‘casual is all we’ll be’ speech or the part where I told you not to snoop in my drawers?" Your words came out clipped but your body betrayed you by melting further into him. 

He continued trailing the vibrator lower, now submerging it underwater and tracing lazy circles around each nipple, the low hum making the peaks tighten and ache. His mouth followed, pressing open kisses along your throat, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just below your ear while one hand cupped the weight of your breast, squeezing the soft mound.

"Couldn't hear your rant about the drawer mid-sex," he whispered against your damp skin. "Your moans took over and I'm pretty sure you stopped speaking English at some point. So...the former." 

You let out a soft, humorless chuckle that dissolved into a moan when he focused the vibrator on one nipple, buzzing toy tormenting the peak with relentless and slow circles, while he pinched the other between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it with firm pressure and tugging just enough to draw a helpless gasp from your lips.

"I'm not sure what there's to explain," you managed, squirming as he guided the toy lower, skimming it over your stomach now. Bubbles hid everything below the surface, but you felt every inch of its progress. Your thighs parted on instinct when the vibrator finally reached between your legs but instead of pressing where you needed it most, he teased along the inner skin of your thighs, drawing slow lines that made your hips twitch.

"Humor me," he insisted, voice low and calm.

You looked to the water even though the bubbles didn’t allow any visibility and swallowed, trying to gather your thoughts. "Guys don't look at me in my country–"

"You should check the blindness statistics then," he cut in, a mix of seriousness and dry humor in his tone as his free hand moved to cup both breasts fully, squeezing with just enough force to make the flesh spill between his fingers. "I know you're not worried about it, but someone should be." 

The vibrator hovered near your pussy now, the steady vibrations a maddening promise just out of reach.

He’d decided so the moment he first saw you on campus, because the second you stepped into his line of sight, his eyes had locked onto you. He still couldn’t believe an entire country had somehow overlooked your beauty.

"Hilarious," you replied flatly, though your breath hitched hard as the toy brushed your outer lips. He circled without touching your clit, keeping the pressure light and teasing. "Uh...this is merely me learning how to be okay with being seen, touched…and... and–"

Your words fractured when the vibrator edged closer to your swollen bud. Dean's grip tightened on your breasts again, kneading slowly while he waited.

"Go on," he prompted.

"And getting to do what all of my friends got to do in high school," you finished, voice breathy. "This isn't a relationship…or fuck forbid, a situationship."

"Right," he agreed easily, no trace of resentment in his words. He lowered his hand to your stomach and pressed you back against him as he finally settled the vibrator's tip directly on your clit. The sudden focused buzz made you whimper and drop your head to his shoulder as water rippled around your spread thighs. "Because you're only here for a total of ten months," he continued, voice steady. "You wouldn't want to waste your time with me."

"Fuck...yes," you moaned, hips rolling instinctively toward the toy. "Yeah…yeah–that’s it." He pulled it away at once, tracing your pussy lips with maddening patience instead. "Please, Dean–"

"I'm trying to focus," he said, a grin audible in his voice. One hand shamelessly claimed your breast again, squeezing and lifting the weight while his thumb brushed the stiff nipple. "This is a serious conversation...can't have you moaning and ditching English altogether."

"The conversation's over. Get back to work," you demanded, though the words shook despite your best effort. “Isn’t this what you’re good for?”

“So bossy,” He chuckled behind you, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back as the vibrator hovered once more, circling just outside your clit without granting full contact. “I’m sure there’s more to this conversation, considering how eager you were to bring it up again.”

The warm water sloshed softly against the sides of the tub as Dean's fingers adjusted the vibrator once more, the low buzz sending ripples straight through your swollen folds. 

"Um…" You blinked hard, struggling to focus while the vibrations teased the edges of your puffy clit without granting any real relief. "Uh okay, yeah…the second I catch feelings I’m out. We’re done."

"Oh really?" His voice stayed calm, almost conversational but he pressed the buzzing head firmly against your clit this time. The sudden pressure made your hips jerk forward, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as you nodded against his shoulder. Your eyelids fluttered shut, lashes damp from the steam.

"I need to…learn how to be casual about things," you managed between shaky breaths. The denial from earlier still throbbed through you, leaving your body hypersensitive and desperate.

"This having an expiration date should already make it casual," he noted, thumb circling the stiff nipple in slow strokes that matched the vibrator's teasing pace. He obviously didn’t mention how often the thought of your eventual departure slipped into his mind or how frustrating it was that you refused to let yourself get used to his attention, too afraid of missing it once you left the country.

"'S not enough," you shivered, a whimper escaping as your thighs tensed around his wrist. Your pussy clenched around nothing, aching for more at the thought of what his dick could offer.

Dean clicked the vibrator up to the next speed. The stronger pulses dragged a broken mewl from you that went straight to his hardening cock pressed against your lower back. "Better?"

"Didn’t mean that, fuck…" Your voice cracked, hips rolling instinctively toward the toy as your hands gripped the edge of the tub for leverage.

"What did you mean then?" He pressed the question while dragging the vibrator in tight circles over your clit, never letting it settle long enough for you to build real momentum.

"I need to see other guys," you admitted, voice breathy and strained. “...and sleep with them casually.”

He immediately slowed the vibration back to the previous setting, the sudden drop in intensity making you whine in frustration. 

"But not on the hockey team."

You shook your head, fingers digging into his thigh. "Dean, we can talk about this later…just let me come."

He ignored the plea entirely, instead kneading your breast harder, pinching the nipple between his fingers until it ached. "Actually, it’s even better if he’s not a hockey player at all."

"Fuck…okay! Dean. Can you–" You tried to ask for steady pressure, anything to push you over but he kept the toy moving in lazy patterns across your clit and down your slick lips, denying you the focus you craved.

He shook his head. "I can’t know who he is. I can’t vouch for what I’ll do if I see you with some–"

"Nobody knows about me and you. I can keep a fucking secret," you gasped between moans, grinding your hips upward in a futile attempt to chase more friction. Water splashed over the edge as your movements grew frantic. “Dean, come on.”

You felt his gaze burning into you as he pulled the vibrator away again and a needy whine slipped out of you. "No dates."

"Why would I–?I don’t even have dates with you." you replied flatly, arching your back away from his chest in protest. The moment you did, he brought the toy right back to your clit with perfect pressure and your body melted instantly with a shuddering sigh, thighs spreading wider under the water.

"No talking about them either when we’re together."

You moaned louder, head tipping back as your body began tensing, preparing for its release. "I won’t moan their names during sex, don’t worry."

"I’m serious. Not even as a joke…you can badmouth them, sure." He felt you nod but from the way you bit down on your lip to hold in the sounds, he knew he had room for one more demand. His hand left your breast only to return with a firmer grip, lifting and massaging the weight while the vibrator circled your swollen bud. "But I do wanna know about the sex."

"Why?" The word came out as a drawn-out moan, your pussy fluttering with every denied pulse.

"I wanna know how I can make it better for you."

"That won’t keep me from looking elsewhere." Your eyes snapped open as he removed the vibrator completely. Your hand shot out to catch his wrist, desperation clear in your grip. "Okay okay!…you arrogant prick."

Your breath hitched sharply as he pressed the vibrator back on your clit again, harder this time. 

"Did I make myself clear?" He watched your chest heave, lips parted and glistening, your hand tightening on his wrist as he ramped up the speed once, then twice. Your breath hitched sharply with each increase, body trembling on the edge.

"Crystal," you breathed, voice breaking. Your body tensed hard, back arching as the orgasm finally crashed through you. A raw cry escaped your lips while your pussy clenched and pulsed rhythmically against the buzzing toy. Dean kept it pressed firmly against your clit through every wave, drawing out every last shudder until you finally sagged boneless against his chest, your grip on his wrist going slack.

"That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?" he grinned, switching the toy off at last.

“No, but I’m sure you are...” You breathed heavily, chest rising and falling, body still trembling from the intense orgasm. "Asshole," you panted, sliding down and fully submerging yourself beneath the bubbles.

He let out a slow breath, trying to push down the frustration tightening in his chest because…he was good at casual. 

He only did casual, so why the hell was this getting under his skin so easily?

Dean kept one arm draped over the edge of the bathtub, gripping the vibrator tightly in his fist as if it could anchor him. His other arm rested along the opposite rim, fingers clenched white-knuckled against the porcelain. He was trying, really fucking trying, not to reach for you, not to pull you up and bury himself inside you.

Still, restraint be damned. His free hand slipped beneath the water, fingers slowly gliding over your submerged shoulder and along your collarbone, savoring the warm, slippery skin. 

Just as he forced himself to pull back, your fingers wrapped firmly around his throbbing cock forcing a low, involuntary groan to tear from deep in his chest.

His head dropped back, eyes squeezing shut in anticipatory pleasure.

Oh, he was so fucked.

a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! My inbox is open if you want to chat or request something. Thank you so much for reading!

[superhoeva]

jack abbot doing that thing where he’s shushing you even he’s the reason you’re making all that noise. like he’s got you pinned to the bed on your side, curling his body over you to keep reaching that spot. asking “what’s all the fuss about, hm?” and holding your face with fake concern while railing you to literal pleased tears.

you’re grabbing onto whatever part of him you can, tugging the freckled skin as the thick of him splits you open with rough strokes. unraveling you thrust by thrust.

“j…jack,” is all your voice can bunch out of your damp-with-sweat, bouncing figure. the rest of what you say just spills into loud, melty, fucked-out noises.

“that’s my name, don’t wear it out,” he mumbles, lips against your ear. they peck a quick kiss along the shell before he grins at your loud pants—which is exactly how he wants them… wants you. loud and crying (good tears, of course) and stuffed full of him. you cry out his name again, and he just bucks into you harder. feeling a little light headed himself. “shh, baby, i know. we’ll getcha there.”