There is a fair amount of fluff before the smut. Sorry too long. Also not beta read, cant read my stuff.
Trigger: Smut, nipple play, implied age gap, needy, big cock bucky, minor body insecurities by the reader.
Summary: Reader and Bucky have been friends since she joined the new avengers. Really good friends. Good enough for reader to hate herself everytime she catches herself thinking of Bucky touching her. As they lay together, these thoughts become unavoidable. For both.
One thing you love about being an avenger is the bed. Your bed is the best thimg in your life at this point (no exaggeration), it is big, soft, and cushions you in just the right fashion. The thick pink blanket of yours is like silk: soft, and brushes on your skin deliciously.
This is what you are thinking about intently to avoid thoughts of the man lying next to you, James Bucky Barnes. Your trusted friend, the de-facto dad of the new avengers, the congressman (somehow), and right now someone ranting about THE captain america, like a bromance gone wrong.
"I just do not understand why he refuses to acknowledge our circumstances with Valentina. Like he would be able to achieve any other outcome in her game." Bucky sighs, fingers clutching the bridge of his nose to deal with the onslaught of an incoming migraine. He continues "If he would agree to combine his avengers with ours, everything would be solved. But no, the idiot wants to sue us." You can hear the frustration in his voice. His eyes are closed as he leans against your headboard.
You can't help but let your eyes wander. While you are concerned about his fight with Sam, you also cannot ignore being distracted by his exposed throat as he leans back. From your angle as you lie on the pillow, he looks like a mountain; a tired, pretty, big mountain. As someone pretty sizeable yourself, its rare that you see someone who looks huge from your height, and somehow this size difference makes your thoughts run impure.
"What do you think, you always know how to deal with people, what should I do?" he looks at you and asks. It shakes you out of the smut you started writing in your head about him.
"Uhhhhhh, okay, so to me, it seems like his anger is more about the betrayal than the actual competition or whatever. Maybe showing a token of trust would be a good sign. It could be actually seeking him out aa a friend, not just people on the opposite sides of a legal battle. From what I know, his sister is holding a block party this weekend. I am sure she would be happy to see you. Go, meet him, do not talk about this stuff. Be his friend sargeant."
He watches you. You watch him watch you. You wonder what he sees. Someone who has been alive for a quarter of his time, bundled in pink blankets, looking up at him, and giving him bad advice. Whatever he sees makes him sigh, "you are right, I do miss that idiot, why are you so smart, arent you like 12?" You laugh and swat his arm, "22! I am 22, you are 100 billion gazillion."
He laughs while sliding down into your blanket, lying beside you properly. Knees brushing yours as he turns to face you, "Thank you y/n, you are the best. Maybe you come to the party? Sarah would love to see you, and he maybe wont punch me and break his arm with you around." He jokes, but you can see the fear in his eyes. Fear of losing Sam, one of the few remaining people he loves.
"Ofcourse. I will be there, who else will record your fight for youtube, "CAPTAIN AMERICA PUNCHES SENIOR CITIZEN', it will make me a millionaire buck." You say, laughing at this face changing from relief and gratitude, to exhasperation and joy.
"I can give you a million dollars y/n, you know. My mass of wealth cause i am a 100 billion gazillion years old." He says, "where is this mass of wealth, why is it not stopping you from straling my blanket." You say, each word punctuated by an attempt to pull more blanket towards you.
While he humors your attempt, not even clutching the blanket with more than a hand, all you manage to do is pull yourself closer to him. With no bundle of blanket between you, you and him are in direct contact with each other. In your shared laughing fit over your blanket battles, you are basically pressed to his side. Legs almost tangled with his. Head on his shoulder as you laugh. Hands still clutching the blanket. His arm is between you two, the crook of his elbow brushing your stomach. The other hand holding the blanket as you continue pulling yourself further into him.
As both of your laughters subside. You realise how much of him you can feels. All his hard angles against your soft self. Your face against his shoulder, inches away from the throat you were just admiring. You look up to him, he is still smiling at you, all smug and sexy. You wish he would pull your hand to his shoulders, press you further against him, as his hands find your waist and he kisses you. You snap yourself out of such thoughts, and turn around from him. Internally freaking out about him being your friend, and how sexualising him is betraying him.
But you keep the thoughts within. With him against your back, you say "okay old man, you won the blanket battle because of your freaking METAL ARM, now let me get my beauty sleep. Solving your bromance makes me tired." He huffs out a laughter, and you feel him settle further into your pillows.
This is a norm since both of you are terrible at sleeping, with nightmares common to both. You sleep, he reads and vice versa. He grabs a book as always and reads. You fall asleep to sounds of his breath and pages turning.
You wake up a few hours later, its what, 2 AM. You are facing bucky as he is engrossed in the book. Everything is soft, comfortable. He switched off the overhead lights, now the golden lamp washes everything. In the golden light, he looks like a prince. Nothing like the scary congressman, or the winter solider. As your heart fills with warmt, you see the book he is holding. As you realise its one of your ADULT fiction books, with um erotica and such, you leap at him and try to snatch it our of his hands.
Ofcourse years of being on guard allows him to twist the book out of your reach, as you land on top of him. "GIVE me my boook, where did you find that omg." You shriek.
He laughs as his grabs your wrists, dropping the book to the bed. "I had no idea you were reading these all night y/n. No wondee you cannot sleep." You groan "shut up shut up shut up" your face warming up. "You know I was just at the climax, the main characters climax as her lover was doing this thing to her, like he was-" you drag your wrist free to shut his mouth as he laughs against your palm.
As he pulls your wrist away from his mouth, you both realise the compromising position your are in. Your nightgown crumpled up as you straddle his waist. Your wrists, still in his hands are near his head. You are leaving over him, your neckline dripping down to expose more of your chest than normal. You see him clench his jaw and swallow as he realises how much of you he can feel. You yourself take a shallow breath as you imagine riding him in this exact manner.
His eyes seek yours, his mouth parts. You feel HIM twitch beneath your ass. He watches as you as your breathing becomes faster, your heart beats faster, and pupils dilate. He knows whats happening. He can see the signs. You watch him become pink as your physical reactions become apparent.
You both break apart. He lets go of your wrists. You turn around from him after getting off him. You lie facing away from him, your heart beating faster and faster. You are overthinking. He knows, surely he knows what I thought. He is gonna be so disgusted. Fcuk fuck fickckfkdkdk.
As he hears you heart beating fast. He knows what would you be thinking. You suddenly feel movement behind you, as he surely gets up to leave. You have an apology on your tongue when you feel his arm come around your waist. And the rest of him crowd your back. You stoo breathing. "Its okay y/n, dont overthink. I am here. I hope i didnt make you uncomfortable. Its just biology right? Its okay. I am sorry for putting you in that position." He whispers against your neck. You feel his breath, his arm clutching you softly.
"I am sorry too buck, its okay yes, i am here too." You whisper. You feel him relax against your back. His arm holding you more solidly. His thumb starts drawing circles on you, just underneath your sternum. Hand splayed on you. You bring your fingers to his forearm. Its his flesh arm, you will the muscles underneath strong, the arm hair soft. You reach his hand, long and thick fingers on your body. You feeling him breathe a bit hard at your neck. You want him to hold you tighter, to decimate the space between you two.
As if reading youe thoughts, he asks "what are you thinking?" Your breath stutters. "I was thinking of the book, is it strange for you to read about sex, i mean in your time things were much more hidden no"
"No actually. I mean i had my exposure to all this surely, but it is surprising to read it from the woman's perspective. Knowledge of what you see, what you like, especially when its not for a man's benefit, it is very um insightful" he replies. You feel him hold a breath, "is the book accurate.. to um what you like?" You realise that he is not asking for women in general. No he is asking your preferences, you.
You reply, "i mean um what I like is kbviously different based on the context. What was my day like, who is my um partner, where are we. What am i wearing. How close are we. How sexually frustrated I am, etc uk."
"Oh yeah?" He whispers. Seeming entertained. "So how was your day today y/n?"
You realise where this is going. What questions he is gonna ask you. You press your thighs together. "My day was boring, didnt have much to do besides a blanket battle with an ogre. I think i am not tired enough." You say. You feel him huff a laugh at the blanket. His arm tighten across you. "So i would be your partner for today lets say, for the purposes of this investigation, is that okay?" He asks. You know if you say no, he will drop this and just go back to talking about otber stuff. Not awkward. But u are too into this. "Yes" you say, fast.
"Okay, we are in your room, you are wearing this night gown" he speaks as his brushes the nightgown material. You press your thighs more and shift more into him. "We are obviously emotionally very close" you say, "and physically close enough-" he drags you much more close to him. Your back strongly against his chest, he knee between your knees. "Okay. Physically also very close" you whisper, breath hitching. You can even press your knees togrther anymore with him there. You clutch his arm as your guts twist with lust. You feel his heartbeat fast. Yours faster.
"And how sexually freustrated are you?" He whispers against your ear. You close your eyes and tilt your head back, his lips brushing you ear as you do that. You are panting now almost. Yyi twist your head, to look at him as much as you can. You hold his gaze "Very" you say. Wondering if you fucked up the friendship or what. But his reaction says otherwise. His hand slides up closer to your chest. His knee between his legs slides up closer to your core. He presses you deepr into him. You feel him growing harder against your back.
"Y/n" he whispers "tell me, if this is not okay, please." Before you lose your confidence, you turn tilt your head back, your bring your hands behind and bring his head to your exposed shoulder. While your other hand grabs his hand on you up, to your chest. He immediately gets the message, as he kisses up and down and shoulder. Then neck, then ears. Nipping. Sucking. Biting occassionally. Your hand fists his hair, pulling on him, trying to keep your noises low. He groans against your neck as you pull his hair.
His other hand needs no further guidance. He touches your breast softly, massaging it likes it is precious goods. His thumb finds your nipple hardening under your gown, circling it gently in rythm with his suckles in the crook of your neck.
You grind against his knee. He pushes it up towards your warmth, loving the feel of all your softness surronding him. "Buck, please" you whine, that really makes him realise that this is not just someone he finds attractive, no its his friend that he loves. Its you, who hold him after nightmares and trusts him to hold you through yours. He needs to see it is you.
He distances from you, giving you space to turn and face him. You do, you cant believe this is Bucky, he is so much better than you, in all matters. But he wants you. Despite all he has been through, he wants you. He is thinking things along the same lines.
You hold his face, eyes flitting down to his lips, he whispers "Y/N, I want you. Have wanted you, for so long. Please tell me if you will regret this and we will go back to before."
"I want this buck, i want you so much, i couldnt think of much of anything else. I think of you all the time. How much you care for me. How strong your arms are. How good your heart is. I dont know why you want me, but I dont want you at the cost of our friendship too. Please tell me if you wanna stop at anytime, no offense taken." You confess
He looks at you with confusion. He comes close to you, almost kissing you. He whispers agaisnt your lips, "I want you y/n because you are my best friend. You are the first person from this century to care for me without expectations. You are the sun in everyone's life." He leans back, looks into your eyes "it also helps that you are so fucking hot and exactly what I want " you giggle and grab his face, kissing him aa you wanted for so long.
He is in heaven. You kiss like you are, intense, fiery and passionate. His hands slip dowm to your hips, he turns to his back, bringing you on top of him. Straddling him as you were a little whole back. You break the kiss, to laugh at the symmetry of circumstances. But his hands slip past your gown, and you moan. You feel him hard beneth you, against your core. You try grinding on him, "fuck y/n, dont finish this before it has started" he groans. He holds your hips, guiding you to grind on him softly. You feel him rub against your clit, your panties ruined already. He kisses your neck again, down to your collarbones.
He looks at you for permission as he pulls at your nightgown, you feel the urge to turn off the lamp. "Can we, can we turn off the light, if thats okay?" You ask timidly.
He sits up, you are straddling him still. He leans against the headboard and says "we can do whatever you want baby, but i want to see you. And make the woman who has meant so much to me realise what she does to me."
You are afraid, but this is Bucky, you trust him to not hate you for what you look like. You nod. He looks proud and you hate how much that turns you on. He pulls you by your ass to him. Kissing you deeply again, he holds the edge of your gown and pulls it above your head.
And his eyes, they are full of hunger. He looks at you like he wants to eat you. He flips you both, you are lying under him now, he kisses down to your chest. He brushes your nipples with his fingers gently. You grab his metal arm instead, and bring it to your chest. He smirks at you, "always knew you had a thing for the arm baby."
"Shut up bucky, please touch me" you whine. He obliges, his metal arms pinch your nipples till its just too painful. He looks at your face, seeing what makes you lose yourself the most. He then procees to use his mouth to soothe the ache left behind by his fingers. He licks your nipples one at a time. Then blow cool air on them. "Buck pleaseee" you grab his hair and pull him closer. His knee slips back between your legs. He sucks at your nipples in earnest. His fingers tugging at the neglected one. While you grind on his knee.
He sucks your nipples, leaves marks on your breasts. You can tell he is a boobs man. When you can tell your nipples will be sore for days after this. You pull his shirt up, he kneels back and takes of his shirt, god, to see himw ith his dog tages. His muscles. His scars. You could just eat him alive.
You kiss along his necks and shoulders. Touching his scares and back. "Fuck y/n, touch me more" you kneel up. Pushing him back to the headboard. Straddling him again. Leaving your own marks now, as your grind on him again. He grabs at your ass. Your hair. Helping you grind all along.
When he looks properly debauched, marks all over. You step back. But he is a man with a mission now, he wants to see you finish. He flips you back again. His hands rubbing your clit over your panties. Your soaked panties.
He kisses down to your sensitive chest. Your stomach and lands between your legs. He looks at you as he takes off your panties. His first lick sets you on fire. He is a man here to ruin you. He is kissing your cunt like its his last meal. His tongue starts at your entrance, fucking you. He then gently kisses your clit. You grab his hair. Begging him for more. He suck your clit into his mouth. Licking it as roughly as he was your nipples.
You screech and try to scramble back, but his metal arm holds you in place. His other hand comes up to pinch and tweak your nipples again. Your legs wrap around his head. You are almost trying to pull his hair out. "Bucky, you metal fingers, in me, please." He looks up at you like you are his dream woman.
His finger edge into you while he keeps torturing your slit. He curls two of his finger in your ans thats it. Its your spot. His other hand has to leave your chest to hold you in the spot. You are so close omg. "Bucky bucky bucky fuck please right there." You whine
No more attempts to be quiet, he does not relent and then soon you qre at the crest. Back arching. Pulling his hair. Pulling your own abused nipples. Wrapping your legs around his head. You squirt on him. And he keeps going till you cant anymore. He kisses his way up your body, still gently fingering you. " I didnt know you were a squirter baby, it was so hot."
You thought he would be upset. This si the first time you have squirted with someone. Normally you force them and even yourself to stop before it gets to that point. "I always stop before i reach here, i now realise that i was always one step before a true orgasm, never at it" you exhale.
He looks so proud to be the one to bring you here. His fingers leave you. You push the waistband of his sweats down. He leans up to take them off. His dick is pretty, it shouldnt be. The serum clearly made it much more than formidable. You look at it like a challenge to conquer.
You push him on his back. You kiss him as hour let him fuck your hand. You go down to taste him. Taste the prettiest dick you have ever seen. As you take it into your mouth, "fuck y/n", he was not expecting you to push him to the back of your throat from the get go.
You are voracious. Your gag reflex controlled. He can see himself in your throat. You swallow around him. His precum all over your face. He cant. He needs to have you now. He pulls you up. You straddling him again. "Do you have a condom y/n?"
You lean over him, into your drawer. An extra condom for him. You flush "I told you, i thought about you a lot" as he rolls down the condom on him and situates you on top, he asks, whst you thougjt. "I thought of riding you, of you being a little mean to me, of being a little mean to you" you groan as he slowly enters your.
Bucky wants to be mean. He slides his hand to your throat and literally feels you leak more around his cock. You grip him so tightly, he could die right here.
He pulls you ahead, your breasts above his face, you kisses and suckles them. While you finally slam down on him. You grind in the figures of 8. He groans are muffled in your chest. Yours are loud.
He fucks your from below. But he wants more. He sits up. Deeper in you. Holding you against him as he fucks into you. You cling to him "bucky please harder more, i want to feel you for weeks. Please."
He lays you on you back. One leg on his shoulder as he then fucks as hard as you want him to. Your breasts bouncing deliciously. Your words broken. You will probably be bruised tomorrow, but who cares. He watches as your pull your own chest. As your nails scratch at his arms holding you open.
He rubs your clit and you reach your secind peak of the night. He fucks you clean through it. You turn over. Kneeling and bent over. He fucks you hard, pulling your hair. "Fuck y/n, i thought of you all the time too" he pulls you up. Holding you to his front. Pounding into you continuously. "I thought of you everytime i wad alone, i didnt touch myself cause i couldnt betray yoir trust. But i wanted to. Every night i thought of exactly this." You groan and pull his hand to your throat. He chokes you till you are fuzzy. Then lets go. Then again. A few more then you rrach the crest again. You turn and slam your lips against him. That takes him. He bites your lips as he finishes in you. Still pounding into you.
Eventually you both come down. You have tears down your eyes, your bedsheets soaked.
"Go to the washroom baby." You preen at how out of breath he sounds. "Okay okay gloat later baby. Washroom first."
You laugh and head to the washroom. While you do your business. You see yourself in the mirror. Covered in his marks. It makes heat curl in your gut.
You come out to him having had changed your sheets and thrown the dirty ones in the laundry. "This is exactly why old men are the best." You say, planting q kiss to his lips"
He lies down. Laughing. Holds you. And you fall asleep teasing each other again.
Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission
Warnings: 18+ content
The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.
“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”
Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”
“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”
“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”
Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”
Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”
“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”
He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.
“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”
“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”
“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”
“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”
“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”
They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.
Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.
Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”
“Who?” Tucker asks.
“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”
Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.
“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”
“Yeah?” The other guy asks.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”
Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.
McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”
Dean stops walking completely.
Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”
“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.
“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”
“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”
“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”
“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”
“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”
Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.
Something must genuinely be wrong with her.
No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.
“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”
Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.
Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”
Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”
McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”
“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”
Beau winces. “Dean.”
McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”
“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”
For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.
But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.
McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”
Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.
McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.
Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.
“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”
“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”
“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”
They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.
But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.
It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.
He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.
Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.
“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”
He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.
“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.
Beau glances over. “Yeah?”
“Who did McMahon just break up with?”
Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.
“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”
“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”
“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.
“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”
“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.
“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”
Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”
“I am absolutely going to track her down.”
“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.
Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”
“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”
“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”
“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.
“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.
He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.
He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.
***
The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.
“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.
“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”
“I’m open!”
“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”
“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”
“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.
On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.
He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.
It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.
“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”
“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.
“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”
“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”
Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”
“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.
“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”
Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”
“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”
The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.
“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.
“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”
Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”
Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”
“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”
Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”
“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”
Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”
Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.
Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”
“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”
Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”
Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.
“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”
Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.
“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”
The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”
“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.
“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”
Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.
He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.
It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.
“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”
“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”
“No,” Dean says immediately.
“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”
“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”
“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.
“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”
“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.
“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”
Beau sighs. “Dean-”
“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”
The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.
“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”
He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.
“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”
“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.
“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”
“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”
Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.
Right now, Dean is dead serious.
“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”
Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”
“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.
“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”
Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.
Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”
“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.
“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”
“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”
“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”
“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.
“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”
“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”
“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.
“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”
Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”
Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.
He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.
And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.
Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.
He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”
Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”
“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”
“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.
“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”
“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”
“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”
He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?
He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.
Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?
That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.
***
Dean does not usually require props.
In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.
But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.
Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.
So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.
He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.
“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.
“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”
“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.
Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”
He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.
The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.
He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.
Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
And Dean completely forgets how to speak.
You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.
You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”
Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.
“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.
“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”
Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.
You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”
The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.
Before he can even register the hit, you step back.
“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.
Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.
“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”
He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.
“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”
“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”
“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.
“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”
The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”
Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”
“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”
“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”
You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”
The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.
“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”
“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”
You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”
“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”
You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.
“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”
“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.
Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.
You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”
“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”
You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.
For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.
“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”
Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.
The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.
You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.
“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”
“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.
“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”
“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”
You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”
Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”
Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”
Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.
“Y/N,” he starts softly.
“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”
You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.
“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”
You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.
“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.
He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.
This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.
“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.
You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”
“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”
You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”
“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”
“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”
“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”
“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”
“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.
You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.
“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”
You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.
But then the wall goes back up.
“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”
Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.
He needs leverage. What does he know about you?
Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.
“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.
You stop. “What?”
“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”
You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”
“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”
You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”
“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”
“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.
Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.
“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”
You stare at him.
“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”
Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.
The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.
“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.
“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”
You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”
“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”
“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.
“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”
You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.
The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.
Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.
“Shirtless,” you say softly.
“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”
The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.
You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.
“When?” You ask.
“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”
You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.
“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.
He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.
Now, he just has to do the impossible.
***
The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.
Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.
He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.
“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.
“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”
He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”
“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.
“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”
You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.
On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.
You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.
Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”
“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”
“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”
You do. He is staring at your lips.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”
He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.
The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”
He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.
You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.
“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”
“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.
He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.
He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.
You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.
“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?
“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”
The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.
Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”
He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.
He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.
It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.
Dean feels it. He stops immediately.
“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.
You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.
“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”
“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”
“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”
He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.
“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.
“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”
“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.
The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.
“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.
The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.
“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”
He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.
The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.
The coiled spring snaps.
A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.
Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.
When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.
You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.
Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.
He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”
You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”
You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.
Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”
Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”
“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”
He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.
You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.
Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.
But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.
You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.
It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.
You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.
“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”
It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.
Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.
He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.
You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.
Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
You meet his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.
And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.
You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.
He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.
It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.
“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”
“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.
The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.
“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”
You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.
Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.
He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.
You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.
He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.
“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”
You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.
The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.
But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.
And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.
***
The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.
The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.
“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”
You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”
“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”
You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.
“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”
“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.
You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.
Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.
And leading the pack is Dean.
He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.
A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.
You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.
“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”
“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”
Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.
“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”
“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”
“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”
You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”
Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.
Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.
“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.
“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”
“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”
Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”
“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”
You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”
“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.
You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.
“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”
“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” you agree.
“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”
“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”
Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.
You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.
“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.
“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.
The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.
Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.
And Dean.
Dean is putting on a show.
You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.
Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.
He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.
Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”
“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.
“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”
You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”
Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”
“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.
“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”
You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.
You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.
Your heart does that stupid flip again.
He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.
“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.
Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”
“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”
You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”
The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.
You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.
You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon.
He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.
“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”
A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.
Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.
But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.
He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.
All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.
“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.
McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”
Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.
Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.
“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”
McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”
“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”
McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.
“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.
“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”
McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”
The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.
“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”
McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.
Dean isn’t finished.
He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.
“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”
McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.
The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.
Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.
You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.
Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.
“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”
You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.
It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.
The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.
You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.
“That was perfect,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.
“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”
“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”
You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”
Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”
“You love it,” you remind him.
“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”
He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.
You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.
You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.
And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.
You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.
Hey everyone, just sort of shooting a shot here. Not really a fanfic, more personal and depressing haha. Please feel free to skip.
I am currently a final year international student in economics in Singapore. Looking for a full time role in strategy, research, or mangement.
I have a pretty high GPA and 3 strategy internships with MNCs, but the visa sponsorship is making things challenging. Honestly, the amount of energy that is being drained into job search is exhausting. I have been on a scholarship here where if I do not get a job then I have to pay it back, so very unwilling to leave.
So if anyone has any tips, recommendations, etc. Please feel free to reach out!
Welcome to my Masterlist! Here you can find all of my works.
disclaimer: some of my posts are 18+ and contain explicit content, MDNI. Please read at your own risk and If you feel uncomfortable just stop reading. You have been warned. divider credit @cafekitsune (edited template).
⋆⁺₊✧ NAVIGATION: ♡ smut | ❀ fluff | ☾ angst | 𖦹 dark themes | ᯓ★ fan favorite
⋆⁺₊✧ ONE SHOTS
A Night from the Past ⇢ bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ᯓ★ ❀ ♡
summary: you take bucky to 40s’ themed bar
Yearning ⇢ bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ᯓ★ ❀ ♡
summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…
ghosted ⇢ bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ❀ ♡
summary: who says Halloween night has to feel lonely? your super soldier boyfriend might be “on a mission,” but that doesn’t mean you can’t haunt his inbox… just make sure not to ghost him, he gets impatient very easily. featuring some of the avengers… 👀
bad idea ⇢ bucky barnes x avenger!reader ⇢ ♡
summary: Bucky can’t keep his eyes off you all mission and when you catch him moaning your name back at the safe house, you make sure to give him exactly what he’s been craving.
Unspoken ⇢ bucky barnes x avenger!reader ⇢ ♡ ☾
summary: You and Steve share a steady, unshakeable friendship — nothing more, nothing less. But Bucky’s feelings for you have been quietly growing since Germany, and a mission where you and Steve get a little too close sparks something he can’t ignore.
Bambi ⇢ dad!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ❀
summary: yours and bucky’s toddler daughter visits avengers tower for the first time and immediately becomes everyone’s favorite. alexei is obsessed. yelena is chaotic aunt. bob is shy. bucky comes back from a mission and goes full soft dad mode. chaos and fluff ensue!!
Miss Rabbit ⇢ congressman!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ♡
summary: Congressman Barnes always finds the little bunny you hide in his suit. This time, he finds it mid-meeting, right before a big vote. When he calls you to his office that night, you know you’re in trouble… 🐰💼💋
National Anthem ⇢ congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader ⇢ ♡ ☾
summary: Your first days as Congressman James Barnes’ assistant are supposed to be all work, schedules, and meetings—but nothing prepares you for the tension simmering beneath his professional exterior.
lust for life ⇢ congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader ⇢ ♡
summary: you knew working for a congressman would involve long hours, fancy events, and lots of stress. what you didn’t know? that you’d end up tucked away at the gala, trying and failing to stay quiet while your boss fucks the shit out of you.
merry christmess ⇢ ceo!bucky barnes x assistant!reader ⇢ ♡
summary: you’re working late, trying to get the end-year reports done by Christmas but your boss has a different idea.
Five-Oh! ⇢ cop!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ 𖦹 ♡
summary: small town life always felt suffocating, but nothing could prepare you for sheriff james buchanan barnes showing up at your door. everyone in town knows he owns it—owns you, too, if he decides to.
Days of Silence ⇢ boyfriend!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ☾
summary: Bucky’s the best boyfriend — sweet, gentle, trying so hard to be good. But sometimes his trauma speaks louder than he does, and he snaps without meaning to. You’ve always been understanding. you know it’s not really him but this time, it hits too close to old wounds.
First Time ⇢ boyfriend!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ᯓ★ ❀ ♡
summary: you tell Bucky you’ve never had sex before and he makes it his mission to show you what it means to feel safe, wanted, and loved.
guns and roses ⇢ boyfriend!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ♡
sumamry: you should’ve known better than to bet against a century-old assassin at the shooting range. but your ego said “no way i’ll lose” and now here you are… paying up in a way bucky couldn’t be more happy about.
Night Ride ⇢ possessive!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ♡
summary: you’re being a brat on a car ride so you leave bucky no choice but to put you back in your place.
Obsession ⇢ possessive!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ♡
summary: You don’t even really like Bucky Barnes — he’s grumpy, kinda mean, and totally clueless about how you feel. But damn, he’s so hot it’s driving you crazy. Every time he walks in, all you can think about is what it’d be like if he just took you right there. You try to play it cool… but yeah, that’s not happening.
Teasing ⇢ possessive!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ♡
summary: there’s non. this fic is pure, filthy porn. look at the warnings!
Round Two ⇢ possessive!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ᯓ★ ♡
summary: Tension explodes in the training room when Bucky walks in on you sparring a little too close with Walker. He doesn’t say much but when he takes over the session… well. Jealous!Bucky Barnes it is.
Half-return ⇢ dad!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ related to “forwards beckon rebound”, ☾
summary: your daughter skips school to visit Bucky’s — her father’s — grave.
forwards beckon rebound ⇢ 40’s!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ related to “Half-return”, ♡ ☾
summary: You finally found love. Found your place in the world, as your brother’s best friend fell for you with a kind of devotion that made life feel safe for once. But everything changed when he got drafted to war and you refused to be left behind.
✧ BLURBS ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
.𖥔 ݁ ˖༘⋆ DRABBLES:
Bear Hug dad!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ❀
Warrior ⇢ dad!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ❀
Birthday Moon ⇢ boyfriend!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ❀
Heart Monitor ⇢ husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader ⇢ ᯓ★ ❀
Unboxing ⇢ roommate!bucky x reader ⇢
Touch-Starved ⇢ grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader ⇢ ♡
Sink In ⇢ grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader ⇢ ♡ ☾
summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.
Little Dove ⇢ winter soldier x empath!reader ⇢ 𖦹 ❀ ♡ ☾
summary: Hydra sends you—a broken empath—into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.
Lust ⇢ professor!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ᯓ★ ♡ ☾
summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor—brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.
⋆⁺₊✧ MINI-SERIES
Serial Killer ⇢ steve kemp x reader ⇢ 𖦹 ♡
summary: you shouldn’t want this. shouldn’t crave his hands, his mouth, the way he worships you like you’re something holy. he’s dangerous. wrong. but he makes you feel things—in his own twisted, obsessive way.
go go dancer! ⇢ congressman!bucky barnes x stripper!reader ⇢ ♡ | Part Two
summary: out of all the possible places in the world, the congressman ends up in a strip club. he tries… really tries to stay composed, yet the moment his eyes land on you… it’s over. but one private dance cannot cause any harm… right?
Crimson Hearts ⇢ vampire!bucky x reader ⇢ 𖦹 ❀ ♡ ☾
summary: At a grand ball, looking for a husband, you meet James Barnes—a mysterious and handsome stranger. One dance is all it takes for him to capture your innocent heart and vow to win you over. Shortly after you find out the truth about who he really is.
⋆⁺₊✧ COLLABS AND EVENTS...
buckyverse ⇢ welcome to the buckyverse—a collection of bucky barnes au fics written by insane fucking idiots that spent the past two+ weeks gooning in a discord chat. please enjoy! @firingstars
bwatober ⇢ one, two, bwa is coming for you… what’s scarier than one bwa collab? another bwa collab! welcome to our rendition of kinktober/flufftober, a collection of 17 bucky fics featuring select prompts. the only thing more terrifying than our deadlines is the emotional coin-toss you’ll be playing with each fic… so what will it be: dick or sweet? @houseofhyde
kinktober ⇢ it’s that magical time of year where the leaves are crunchy, the lattes are pumpkiny, and apparently my brain thinks bucky barnes deserves to be put through different kinds of filth. welcome to my kinktober—aka four excuses to thirst publicly over a fictional man.
once upon a time... ⏾⋆.˚ ⇢ “Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a man named Bucky Barnes. Some say he was a devoted prince, others whispered of a pirate adrift on wild seas, and others claimed he was an ugly beast cursed by ruin. Yet no two tales of him were ever the same, for not every story follows the path as old as time.” @superbassbuck
⋆⁺₊✧ OTHERS...
from behind ⇢ bob reynolds x reader ⇢ ♡
god complex ⇢ bob reynolds x reader ⇢ ♡
Prize ⇢ bob reynolds x john walker x reader ⇢ ♡
Hatred ⇢ john walker x reader ⇢ ☾ ♡
summary: You hated John Walker. You fought him before, nearly killed him for carrying the shield. Years later, you’re forced to work with him again—and when he saved your life, the hatred cracked.
the chains of eywa ⇢ varang x reader ⇢ ♡
summary: you have never felt like you belonged to this body. trapped by eywa, you find your way to salvation—fire and it’s leader.
Burning Desire ⇢ baelor targaryen x reader ⇢ ❀♡
summary: your husband finally comes back home, and you’re more than delighted to see him.
I truly did not expect anyone to read or like my post about Patrick Jane, I feel all warm inside now. So will give in to my years long desires of officially writing fanfiction.
So. Officially, hi everyone!!!!
Abit about me. I am a uni student abroad right now (21 yrs old), about to graduate soon (hence you will often see me talk about applying for jobs in this horrendous market).
I will write fics about Patrick Jane and Bucky Barnes with plus size and female-leaning OCs, so let me know if you have any specific asks!!
You've found the body of a serial killer's latest target. A friendly neighborhood Old Man. You're more honest than most of the kids that have run through the CBI offices. And you're a fortune teller. Alright, so Jane's found the honey pot in you. Now where's the hatchet?
Pairing: Patrick Jane x Original Female Character
Overall Rating: A (adult content)
Warnings: gun violence, murder scene, blood, mention of gore, kidnapping, implied sexual assault, gunshot wounds, panic attacks, dissociation, OFC goes through it tbh, reader is a fortune teller and vaguely clairsentient, alcohol consumption, probably unrealistic car traveling times (I'm sorry I'm Canadian), light dom/sub, Jane likes saying Good Girl, trauma and traumatic reactions, oral sex, sir kink, fingering, squirting, will update this when I remember what I have inevitably forgotten
Never really posted any fanfic but I am so desperate for Jane content that I need to get this out. All the amazing writers here, please do with this what you will.
How Jane would want you depends on the phase obviously, I will go for the mid seasons. At this point he still cant believe he deserves to be with anyone, and he for sure is getting a bit unhinged.
Patrick Jane x F!reader, Original Character, Age Gap Implied, Suggestive, Borderline Smut
Should be applying for jobs but lets just do this instead
He would try to resist you for so long, telling hinself that you are too young, that he does not deserve you, that you deserve someone who is not as broken as him, that you are just friends. But, he would be so attracted to how you see through him, calling him on his bullshit, engaging him in talks of the world, allowing him to forget how loud his own thoughts are. He would know he does the same for you.
The first time he cracks would likely be after you accidentally admit to thinking of him. He would always know that you found him attractive, hard to ignore the way your heart rate would increase. Hard to ignore how you avert your eyes everytime he is taking off his jacket and folding his sleeves. He would do it slower every time, and with more intention, hands moving surely and slowly, knowing what it does to you.
The day of the first break would be when you seem to be more flustered than usual, he would keep asking you whats wrong, and you wouldnt be able to say anything. He would lean close, talk in the soft and slow way he does to suspects. Get them comfortable, to trust him. He would murmur so you feel the vibrations of his words, instead of just hearing him. Standing in the middle of your room, he would be holding your wrists, feeling your pulse fasten. His eyes looking deep in yours, breath mingling with yours. Persuading you to tell him.
You would admit to having a wet dream about him. Such blatant acknowledgement of your mutual attraction would leave him breatheless. He knows he shouldnt ask more, but god he would be so curious, as always. He would ask what you dreamt about. Watching you go breathless, biting your lips. You would think back to today morning.
You dreamt of him hovering over you, crowding you against the bed. He would murmur how much he wants you, how pretty you are, how he wants to please you, lose control. Him holding your wrists down to the bed. Running his nose along your jaw, your neck, then placing small kisses across your neck, trying to find what makes you shiver. His hands leaving your wrists, to run over your body. His knee prodding your legs open, slowly and so insistently grinding against you. Him whispering to ask if it was okay. You being so out of breath, feeling how wet you are, grabbing his hair and pushing his face against your chest. Him pulling your shirt down to leave marks all over your breasts. Burying his face. Using his teeth.
Then you woke up. The mornimg light soft. Wet and grinding against a pillow, imagining it to be him. You couldnt help but touch youself. Finding your clit. Back against the wall. Imaging him holding your legs apart from behind. Touching you all over, from youe chest, to your nipples, to your sides, your thighs, hooking your leg over his hips. Making you finish. You would imagine him saying how he wants you to lose control, him touching you with control and precision, you would finish with his name on your mouth.
He sees your pupils dilate, your mind going back to whatever affected you so much, your lower lip slipping between your teeth, your pulse becoming faster. He has been your friend for months, yet he never saw your eyes look so hungry, hungry for him. He brings you back by dipping his head close to your ears, his hands pulling your wrists closer to his shoulders. Your hands grabbing his shoulders in a way you only ever imagined. He would whisper "tell me, what is making you clench your thighs so hard, you can trust me." He would brush his lips against your ears, hearing your breath hitch. You would step closer to him. Hands slipping up his shoulders, behind his neck, pressing yourself to him. You would confess, "I dreamt of you, of your hands, your mouth, you, all over me."
You feel his breath rush out. A groan escaping against your ear. Your face in the space between his neck and shoulder heating up. He would press you against your closet. Back to the wood, front to him. He would ask you, "Tell me, what exactly did you see."
You would grab his hair, close your eyes, feel his pulse against your lips as you talk, "I saw you want me, felt you against my neck, my chest, felt your knee between my legs, fuck even in my dream you were annoying and teasing", he would groan and huff a laugh. He would pull back to look at your face, see you eyes closed, feel you hold your breath as he takes away the comfort of being buried against his shoulder. He would ask you softly, "so how was my performance, did I make you finish?"
You would laugh and shake your head and lean back your head against the closet, "no, you didnt, not in my dream". He would catch the phrasing, "not in your dream, then when?". You would take a deep breath. His hands still on your wrist, slipping down your arm, down your sides, at your waist, slipping to your back, pressing you to him, aiding you to talk.
"When I woke up, i..i wanted to finish. I could still hear you. Feel you. I thought of you, using your hands, holding me open, making me finish. And i..i touched myself. I finished. To you. I..i am sorry. Its disgusting, i didnt mean to. But i felt so much. So so much and i couldnt stop. "
He would groan. Louder. Deeper. Pressing against you even harder, making you whine as you feel him hard against your stomach. His hands slipping down to you thigh, the other one slipping up to your jaw, holding your face gently.
"Nothing disgusting about it, god this is more than I ever imagined. You want me. Despite all. You want me so much, its so ungentlemanly of me to not make you finish in the dream, to let you take things in your hands, to stand here, not doing anything when all I want is to hear how you took my name when you finished. God how can you think its disgusting when you feel what it does to me." He feels you breathe harder, clench your thighs. He holds your thigh, pulls it away from the other, pulling it against his hip. His hold bruising, holding himself back from finding the wetness between. He presses the proof of his want, against where you need him. You moan, your hand grabbing his hair and shoulder hard. You push against him. You arch your back, pushing into his chest. Feeling his heart beat against yours. He kisses your neck. Groaning as you grind against him. His hands slip to your waist. Touching under your shirt. You open your eyes, he pulls back and looks in them. The want clear.
But you both know you wont take the next step, valuing the friendship too much. Jane wont let himself have you till he has avenges Angela. You wont let him have you till you are sure this wont fuck up the friendship.
He would pull back, still close, but not pressing against you anymore. He holds your face, "You deserve so much better than what I can give you, so I will leave, and we wont talk of this. Not until I can be better for you. But before I leave, i wouldnt wanna be ungentlemanly and leave you without telling you what I have dreamt of doing to you." You would take a deep breath, hands softly against his shoulders. He would continue whispering, "I want to leave marks. All over this pretty neck. Watch the bruises appear. I can tell you are quite sensitive on your chest arent you? You need to lose control, i would ensure that happens. I would be glad to lose hours buried in your chest. Using my mouth to make you tender. To leave marks. You would want me to use my teeth right, i would do it. I would bring you to the brink with just my mouth on your chest and my knee between your legs." You feel like he is hynotising you as he talks, his hands slowly slipping down to your waist, fingera almost reaching the underside of your breasts. He continues, "I would find you between your legs, would feel you dripping, would use my fingers, till I hear you say my name, till you grab my hair just like you did now". "God i would drag it for hours, bringing you to the edge, telling you how well you are doing. How it would be better the longer you wait. And when i let you finish, i will watch how you look like when you arent planning or thinking for the first time. And only then would i allow myself to take off your clothes, worship you, wrap you legs around me, take me in, feel you around me."
You moan and push your hand against his mouth. You cant take it anymore. Out of breath. Wet. You feel him smile, entertained at how responsive you are. You drag your other hand from his shoulders, to his chest, to the waistband of his trousers. His stops smiling. You lean and whisper, "if you say anything more, then I will have to watch you have a heart attack you old man. Not enough of your blood is in your brain right now."
You smile, and continue, "I want you to touch yourself when you go back home, i want you to remember how fast my heart is beating, how close my hand is to you. I want you to imagine me gasping against your neck, as you would fuck me against this closet. I want you to imagine me pulling your hair, biting your shoulder, forgetting how to breathe, taking your name, crying for you. Only you. Do this, and when you finish, i want you to remember that it was me who made you finish. I want you to think of me touching myself to you at the same time. And next when we meet, we wont talk of any of this. But we will know that just the though of us is better than anyone else we will ever have."
You gently push him back. He is red. Breathing hard. He closes his eyes, tilts his head back and groans, trying to bring himself in control. He opens his eyes, amused, challenged, and so fucking hard. He laughs, kisses your cheek, grabs his jacket, runs his hands through his hair, hair that you now know feels soft to pull. "You are gonna kill this old man, and i will die happily. I will be seeing you soon, and next time. Friends." he says.
You nod. Smile. And see as he leaves. Heading to a cold shower, letting yourself experience the delayed gratification that he would like.
btw i want to say that the entire tumblr community banding together is what got these changes reversed so i hope u all realise the power of a reblog and start reblogging posts instead of just liking them this is the reblog website so hit that button right now
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus-size female character (unnamed)
The Bet - Bucky’s girlfriend thinks she can stay quiet during sex - Bucky’s more than happy to prove her wrong.
Confidence, Part 1 - AU Bucky is a full-service sex worker who enjoys helping women become more confident in their sexuality.
Breathe - During a wedding reception, Bucky and his fiancée sneak off to have some fun.
Confidence, Part 2 - AU Bucky is a full-service sex worker who enjoys helping women become more confident in their sexuality.
Sunshine, Part 1 - Ramblings of the first few months of having Bucky as a roommate. Slow burn. Grumpy/Sunshine.
Roommate!Bucky is the happy one, she's the 'grump' (with the nickname Sunshine).
Sunshine, Part 2 - After a night out with Bucky's friends, things will never be the same.
Sunshine, Part 3 - While still dealing with the events of their drunken night out, Bucky helps Sunshine with a problem.
Sunshine, Part 4 - 7/26/24
Sunshine, Part 5 - 8/2/24
Sunshine, Part 6 - 8/9/24
Part 2 of The Bet - 8/16/24
Sunshine, Part 7 - 8/23/24
Confidence, Part 3 - 8/30/24
Thank you @buckybarnesevents for creating this event!
Summary: All your life you have wanted to be loved by someone. But when you don’t look like most “beautiful” women, you learn to stop wanting. You’d never expect someone like the amazing, kind, ridiculously handsome Bucky Barnes would desire someone like you.
Summary: Despite his reputation as both terrifyingly lethal and legendarily surly, you know an entirely different Bucky Barnes. One lazy afternoon, after you’d been separated for a while, things get steamy while cuddled up in your bed.
A/N: This was a request in my ask box oh so many months ago. I think @-hiddlesdweeb- was looking for a cute little drabble, but the plot bunny ran away with me and it turned into a full on smutty one-shot. I hope that’s okay? :D
Dating Bucky Barnes left you privy to all sorts of secrets. Some of them were serious, like when he’d confided in you about the things he’d done when held captive by HYDRA. Most were harmless, like you knew that Captain America was the messiest human being you’d ever met who was not actively trying to breed a new form of mold (college friend, weird dude). You knew that Falcon tended to anthropomorphize things and loved it that you went along with him on it, petting any number of objects at his request. You also knew that if the Black Widow could be coaxed into over imbibing, she could also be coaxed into singing, in a surprisingly sweet voice, old Russian folk songs (and Bucky could be coaxed with cuddles into translating for you).
Because that was the biggest secret, though it was undoubtedly the least dangerous secret of all time: Bucky Barnes was a champion cuddler.
